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thehoneybeestings · 1 month ago

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𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 4K

Synopsis: Your father has offered your hand in marriage to an insufferably arrogant Athenian Polemarch. To make matters worse... he's terrible in bed. What a pleasant coincidence that he's just so happened to hire a certain mercenary known for her excellence in the area?

Content/Warnings: nsfw, reader is referred to w fem pronouns/has fem anatomy, top!kass, bottom!reader, scissoring, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), jealous!kass but she won't admit it, in love!reader but she won't admit it, ambiguous ending ooooh

A/N: i am so sorry that it took me this long to post this... but it genuinely ended up being my favorite smut I've written so far. it's not even anything crazy, i just love kassandra so much and i hope this finds all my other fellow kassandra lovers out there.

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ•‧₊˚──

There's little that irritates Kassandra more than arrogance, so it's no surprise that right now, the look on her face clearly says she'd rather be anywhere else than sharing a meal with men who have heads as big as they claim their dicks to be.

At least you're there to catch her humorous expressions of reproval from across the dinner table; to respond with your own, sharing a silent conversation about how ridiculous these men sound as they decide that the next best subject to discuss over roasted quail and figs is how good they are in bed.

The only reason you're attending this glorified pissing contest is because your father had offered your hand to tonight's host, Alexandros, not too long ago. You aren't naive; you understand that in this world, women don't marry for love, but for security. Alexandros was at least a safe bet; an Athenian Polemarch with plenty of wealth to spare. He decides to chime in, raising his cup of wine in the air for dramatic effect. “One thing is for certain,” he begins with a toothy grin, “no woman has ever left my quarters unhappy…” The room explodes with cheeky laughter and hollers of praise, droplets of dark red sloshing over their cups as they toast to Alexandros’s proclaimed skills… It isn’t until their cheers die down that they realize you’ve choked on your wine.

“What’s the matter?” Alexandros asks, clearly more annoyed than concerned.

Kassandra is slouched against the backrest of her chair. She lulls her head over to Alexandros’s direction to shoot him a glare when he takes such a short tone with you.

“O-oh!” you begin, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and trying to conceal your laughter the best you can.

Kassandra’s scowl is replaced with a grin as she watches.

“I just, uh…”

Find it hilarious that you seriously believe I’ve ever left your bedroom pleased…

“...wine just went down the wrong way,” you say, finally having collected yourself enough to give him a dismissive wave. “We’re running low, anyhow.”

You stand to grab the decanter from the center of the table before excusing yourself to the kitchen to refill it.

A knowing smirk plays on Kassandra’s lips as she watches you leave, your shoulders still bouncing with giggles all the way to the kitchen.

She had become quite fond of you since taking this contract with Alexandros. The only reason she could stand to take contracts with men as insufferable as the Polemarch is that they were notoriously exuberant with their riches, offering her ludicrous amounts of drachmae, room, and board just to run simple errands that they just couldn’t be bothered with. Still, it didn’t make these men- or working for them- any less annoying, but this time, she found herself hoping Alexandros had one more request of her before she set off for the next job; something that would give her the excuse to spend more time with you.

She's standing to succumb to the pull you seem to have on her before she can help it, pardoning herself for a moment and following the path to you with a wry smile.

You turn your head toward the sound of two knocks on the open frame of the kitchen, a grin spreading across your face at the sight of the Misthios walking toward you.

“Make haste,” she playfully urges, “we’re in the middle of an incredibly insightful discussion about whether it’s better to take a woman from the front or the back. You really don’t want to miss it.”

Her feigned graveness sends you into another fit of giggles.

“And what say you, Kassandra?” you ask playfully, hopping up onto the wooden counter behind you. She leans her hip against its wooden edge and crosses her arms. “Which is better?”

You don’t expect her to give an honest response, but when she leans in and lowers her voice, you can’t help but hold your breath.

“Whatever my lover wants,” she croons. She pushes herself off of the counter, reaching for a bowl of olives and casually popping one into her mouth as if she hadn’t just been so crass.

The exhale that finally escapes you comes out as an incredulous chuckle.

“I didn’t know there were still people who cared what their lover wanted.”

“What? No… didn’t you hear Alexandros? No woman leaves his chambers unhappy, remember?”

Her words- saturated in sarcasm- are met with a playful roll of your eyes.

“Alexandros only believes that because he can’t tell the difference between real pleasure and a performance.”

Her eyes are trained on you, narrowed and contemplative.

“Then why do you sleep with him?” She finally asks.

Great question.

You sigh.

“It's in my best interest to get used to it; If I’m to be married to him, you know.”

A frown finds its way on Kassandra’s face. It’s something she’d seen too many a time: a beautiful woman with so much to offer- a woman who deserves only the best- pressured into a loveless marriage to meet some arbitrary social expectation. Many of these women would end up requesting… assistance… from her while their husbands were off at war or otherwise occupied, and as much as she loves pleasing women, Kassandra prided herself on having strong moral convictions.

She wouldn’t sleep with a married woman behind her husband’s back. It’s why she finds herself dreading the day that you do marry Alexandros, because, at this rate, she wants you for herself.

“You haven’t accepted his hand yet, have you?”

“I haven’t,” you shake your head, eyes trained on a crack in the stone floor below you. “I just need more time to consider it, is all.”

You’re lying through your teeth. You would have accepted your fate already, had it not been for the woman standing before you and the taste she’d given you of what real chemistry feels like.

Your gaze lifts to her own, sadness painting your features.

“Are you still planning to set off for Argolis tomorrow?”

She smiles softly at you. “As much as I’d like to stay… I’ve already got work lined up there.”

You nod, giving her a woeful smile of your own. A silence settles between the two of you, but your longing gazes say everything. You want to ask her not to leave, and she wants to ask you to follow. You both know that neither can happen.

But when Alexandros’s voice cuts through the silence from the dining room, calling out to ask what’s taking so long, a bolt of indignation strikes Kassandra.

“I’m going up to my room,” she begins resolutely, “and I’m going to leave the lamp on until the 12th hour.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding her message.

“If, by, then, you haven’t arrived…”

Your eyes widen. Now you understand.

“...then I’ll be off to bed tonight and on the waters to Argolis tomorrow. No hard feelings. But, if you’d like to pay me a visit before then,”

She slots herself in between your legs, hand coming up to anchor to your thigh as she leans in to purr,

“You’ll find that the door is unlocked.”

She takes a few steps backward before turning on her heel to head back to the dining room. Soon, you hear the idle chatter of everyone bidding her goodnight, and imagine her walking up the stairs wearing the wolfish grin she so often sported. You imagine her sauntering into her room- the most secluded space in the estate, back in the corner of the second floor- stripping layers of armor off to reveal chiseled muscles wrapped in bronze skin, undoing her braid and letting her chestnut waves cascade over her bare shoulders-

You're pulled out of your thoughts by the burn of your thighs pressed tightly together.

The rumors of her divinity must be true. Her allure is inhuman, and as you slide off of the counter, having long abandoned your task of refilling the decanter of wine, you realize that no human will satisfy the warmth pooling at your core.

You walk back out to the dining room, having already prepared some half-assed spiel about not feeling well and figuring that you should retire to your room for the night. Alexandros is nonethewiser; nor does he care.

Your fist is already poised in front of the door to Kassandra’s room, where lamplight spills through the gap underneath the door, and your heart flutters in your chest as you leave two gentle knocks on its surface.

Your breath is stolen from you when it opens.

You'd think she'd seem more imposing donned in golden armor, hand poised on the hilt of her blade. Somehow, her rumored divinity is harder to deny when she assumes this form: wearing only a night tunic, nimble fingers mindlessly unraveling the cord from her braid.

She opens the door wider for you to enter, keen eyes darkening as you cross the threshold to her room.

“I told you it’d be unlocked,” she muses, kicking the door closed behind her in a fluid movement.

“It was only a courtesy,” you begin, strolling toward the end of her bed, “in the case that you were… indecent.”

She chuckles, a low rumble smooth like honey.

“I don't intend on staying decent for long.”

The cord she'd been working at finally falls free from her hair, and she tosses it onto the dresser behind her, eyes glued to yours as she begins to make her way toward you.

“Alexandros allowed you to leave?” She asks, hands shaking out her braid before they settle on your hips as she takes her place in front of you.

You know she's trying her best to school her disdainful expression, but her words drip with it all the same.

“I told him I wasn't feeling well,” you shrug.

“And he let you come up to bed by yourself?”

She doesn't bother hiding it anymore.

You wrap your arms around her neck, placing a hand on the nape of her neck and pressing soothing circles into the muscle with your thumb.

“I shan’t be cross. My ruse depended on his negligence, after all.”

She sneers, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

“I don't understand why-”

“Kassandra.”

You stop her before she can begin yet another one of her rants about how insolent and incompetent your suitor is. You've heard it all, you know it well enough, and frankly, right now, you just want to be fucked.

“You've already told me what I’m missing,” you purr, your hand trailing down to trace her exposed collarbone. You lean in to whisper into her ear, your voice soft and tantalizing like the patterns you draw on her décolletage:

“Will you show me?”

You feel the tendons in her neck tense as her breath hitches, but The Eagle Bearer is never caught off guard for long.

Suddenly, her hands fly to the cord wrapped around your waist.

“Get this thing off,” she spits urgently.

You can't help but chuckle at her uncharacteristic lack of suave. Your hands get to work helping her remove the fabric draped over your body.

“Are you always this eager?”

“No,” she replies earnestly, brows raised as if in surprise of her own desperation, “I’m not; but you…”

When your dress finally hits the floor, her jaw goes slack.

“Gods, be with me.”

It takes everything within her not to fall to her knees and take you in her mouth right then and there.

You reach out to tug at her tunic with a smirk.

“Come on,” you urge, “don't leave me alone in such a state.”

She obliges, but not without the lighthearted roll of her eyes. She pulls the thin material over her head, tossing it aside with abandon. Now, you both stand before each other, bare and on fire with desire.

Her brows furrow curiously as you sink down onto the bed and begin to scoot back toward the headboard.

“You need not do anything but stand there.”

She laughs incredulously at your shamelessness, but when you spread your legs, reaching down to explore just how wet some witty banter and a few lost garments have managed to make you, she can't help but fall to her knees this time.

“You're trying to kill me,” she exhales, beginning her trail of kisses at your ankle.

Your giggle melds into a gasp as your middle finger swipes up to brush your hardened clit.

“I’m trying to fuck you,” you clarify.

“Oh, I’m fucked alright.”

She makes her way up your thigh, arms wrapping around them and hands kneading their soft flesh. Her mouth comes closer, closer, closer to your center, and when she finally hovers just above your cunt, she lets out a shaky breath.

“I’m so fucked.”

The first drag of her tongue through your slick folds already has you mewling. The warm muscle flattens to trace a long line up from your entrance, then curls to circle the swollen bundle of nerves peeking out from its hood. Your hand flies to her head, fingers anchoring themselves in her long waves, and she chuckles, the vibrations pulsing through you.

“What, does he not use his mouth like this?”

“What do you think?” you nearly seethe, pushing her head into your core in an effort to silence her and urge her to continue.

This time, she laughs fully, head moving against your grip to place an apologetic kiss on your inner thigh.

“I think I should stop teasing, lest I get my head cut off.”

Your retort dies on your tongue when she delves back in with her own. Your breath stutters with each languid stripe she draws, each tight circle she makes. It nearly stops altogether when she begins to settle into a delicious rhythm.

“Breathe, agapi,” she coos lowly, massaging the junction between your hips and your thighs, “it feels so much better when you breathe.”

You nod frantically, doing your best to follow the misthios’s directions. In through your nose, and you can feel each surge of blood that pumps through your veins, thrumming harder and racing faster as her own pace quickens. Out through your mouth- and always escaping you as a breathy moan- and you can feel yourself melt; into the soft sheets, into her firm grasp, into the pleasure that buzzes at your core.

With the sudden focus on your senses comes the realization of just how close you are, and when she circles your entrance with two of her long fingers, you're all but begging for that final push over the edge.

“Yes,” you cry out, “yes, please; want you inside…”

She removes her mouth for just long enough to ask you how many of her digits you want, but even the few seconds of lost contact are enough to make you huff out a whine.

“Mph, I don't care,” you complain, bucking your hips up. “Anything, just keep going.”

She halts all of her movements, looking up at you with wide, chiding eyes.

“You're quite demanding, hm?”

She pulls away from her place in between your thighs completely, crawling up to place a kiss on your jaw, and then, a nip on your ear.

“I could stop now,” she threatens lowly, “leave you laid out and desperate, just like he does.”

You nearly sob at the thought.

“But you don't want that, hm? You want to be a good girl for me; isn't that right?”

You shiver underneath her, clenching around nothing when her middle and ring fingers begin to spread the mixture of your slick and her spit up and around your entrance.

“Y-yes,” you beseech, “I’ll be good… want to be good for you…”

She hums as if to consider giving you what you want. When her long fingers finally plunge into you, you thank the Gods she shows mercy.

Your once airy moans are guttural now, punched out of your lungs with every stroke against your velvet walls.

She wastes no time on a useless, repetitive in-and-out motion- she’s sure you're more than used to that- and instead, curls her fingers up to skillfully locate the ridges of nerves on your front wall and begins to massage them with the pads of her fingers.

Her thumb stretches to press into your clit in tandem with the fingers hooked inside of you. You don't have to tell her not to neglect the bud of nerves; not like you constantly have to remind Alexandros, who still fails to give it attention.

You're not even sure you can look him in the face after getting fucked this good by someone else.

Gods, she’s fucking you so good.

Your stomach begins to tense, your breath sharp and shallow.

“Breathe, love. Relax and give it to me.”

One deep breath, and then another, before they're turning into heavy pants and loud cries. Your hands grab for anything they can anchor themselves to; one on the firm bicep supporting her weight, and the other around the sheets underneath you. Your trembling legs wrap around her, your chest arching up into her own, and when she leans down to request that you be a good girl and come on her fingers, you fall apart underneath her with a slew of moans and curses that you believe might have even made Aphrodite blush.

Eros would approve, at least.

Wave after wave of pleasure rouses at your core, tightening like knots before snapping and rolling out to warm the rest of your nerves. Your hand reaches down to stop her when the pleasure begins to feel too hot- icy-hot- and the roll of your hips becomes twitching and tensing.

When your eyes flutter open, she's gazing down at you with a look that can only be one of utter awe and pure adoration. She stares like you're the one who possesses divinity.

You don't know this, but she's decided that there’s no way you don’t.

“Why are you staring?” You chuckle breathlessly.

She purses her lips and shakes her head.

“You're gorgeous.”

You wave a dismissive hand in the air before letting it fall like lead onto the bed.

She leans down to place a kiss on your temple.

“You alright?” She whispers into your hairline.

You nod underneath her kiss, brushing her hair back to rest behind her shoulders.

“I’m perfect,” you croon. “But what of you? You haven't had your fill.”

She comes back up to rest on her haunches, brows raised.

“Oh, I had my fill.”

You giggle, but she's dead serious, eyes drinking in your splayed out figure.

“You know what I mean. Do you prefer not to receive?”

Your question is genuine, head tilting against the pillows underneath it.

“The that isn't necessarily the case,” she muses, “but I have enough fun getting pretty women off.”

Your eyes narrow in feigned jealousy.

You tell yourself it's only feigned, that is, but truthfully, the thought of her doing to other women what she just did to you leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“I’m just another pretty woman, hm?”

She leans back down with a playful scoff, pressing feather-light kisses to the apples of your cheeks.

“No woman is just another pretty woman. I take my craft seriously.”

You punch out a laugh.

“But I will say,” she keens in between kisses that are traveling down to your neck, “I'm afraid you've made quite an impression.”

She nips at the thin skin over your pulse before her tongue darts out to smooth over it, and when she tastes the salt of your sweat, she can’t help herself from latching on. “And you’re going to leave a mark that I’ll have to answer for in the morning.” “Hush,” she mumbles, teeth trailing over your windpipe, “don’t wanna talk about the morning. Just want you.” She sits up, leaning back on her heels again, staring down at you with a wicked grin. “Spread your legs for me?” You’re not sure what she’s planning, but at this point, you’ll do anything she asks of you. “Good girl,” she coos, hand sliding up the expanse of your thigh; and when she swings a leg over your hip, her center hovering just above your own, you gasp.

“Just need you to lie there and look pretty,” she husks, eyes trained on your fluttering cunt. “Can you do that, agapi?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, your eyes wide and bright and your hands flying out to rest on the tops of her muscular thighs.

You hiss when her center- nearly dripping- finally makes contact with your own.

“Too much?” She asks, eyes snapping up to search your face for any discomfort. “I know you’re still sensitive-” “Keep going,” you demand, fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, “I want you to get off on me.” Her eyes flutter back into her head, your words sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her throbbing core. She drops her head down to watch as she begins rocking her hips forward, then circling them back, rocking them forward, circling back. You didn’t think you’d ever see Kassandra reduced to a whining, panting mess, but as she grinds down into your cunt, chasing her own high, you’re sure you could cum just watching her. Or maybe, it’s that her swollen clit is slipping back and forth right over your own. It’s a debauched scene: bodies impossibly tangled; the room filled with the sounds of her groans, your mewls, and the squelch of her arousal mixing with your own; the smell of sex and sweat in the air. It’s a wonder Alexandros hadn’t heard anything… A knock on the door has your eyes flying wide open, and hers clenching shut. “Everything alright in there, Misthios? It sounds like you’re in pain.”

Alexandros. “Shit, shit, shit,” you mouth, sitting up; and inadvertantly positioning Kassandra in a manner that puts even more pressure on her clit. She leans down to bite your shoulder in a desperate attempt to rein herself in. “You have to answer,” you begin in a panicked whisper, “this is your room!”

She can’t help it; she’s so close that her hips move on their own accord, twitching forward to chase the feeling of your heat against hers, and if she were being honest, she quite likes the thrill of getting caught… Another two knocks on the door, and you watch in awe as she topples over the edge, hips stuttering, brows furrowed, and jaw slack. She’s still riding through her orgasm when she responds, her steady voice belying her current state. “I’m alright,” she calls out, “Just stubbed my toe.” Alexandros is nonethewiser, chuckling as he bids her goodnight and begins to walk, according to his footsteps, to his room; In the opposite direction of yours.

By the grace of the Gods, you were in the clear. Your eyes trail from the door to the woman in your lap, her chest heaving from exertion. Divine. You’re certain that she is. Now, it was her turn to ask why you were staring. You shake your head, at a loss for words. She just chuckles, placing a kiss on your forehead and dismounting from your lap. She falls on the bed beside you, and you yelp when she pulls you down with her, planting kiss after kiss on the crown of your head, the side of your face, the tip of your nose. You make the mistake of settling in beside her, placing your head on her chest. It’ll make it that much harder to leave; to go back to your room, knowing that when morning comes, she’ll be gone. You decide not to think about that now. For now, you pretend that there is no choice to be made; that there is no Alexandros to consider. That there is no other to keep you from spending the rest of your nights in Kassandra’s arms. ──˚₊୨ৎ•‧₊˚──

Her room is bare before Helios’s chariot breaks the horizon the next day. That is, save for the folded parchment resting on the nightstand. You pad across the stone floor to pick it up, thumb rubbing gingerly over your name scribbled in ink on its front side. When you open it, you read,

I think I’ll visit the bronze statue of Athena outside of the Parthenon today… I’ll be there until the 12th hour. You know the rest. -Kassandra.

𝐄𝐧𝐝 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ•‧₊˚── Taglist: @the-gender-gremlins

#kassandra #kassandra of sparta #kassandra ac odyssey #kassandra x reader #kassandra smut #kassandra of sparta x reader #kassandra of sparta imagine #kassandra imagine #ac odyssey imagine #ac odyssey #assassin's creed odyssey #wlw #sapphic #lesbian

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wolfbluebird · 26 days ago

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Where the Water Ends

Chapter Three: ‘Extract, Eliminate, Submerge.’

TW: Death, Gore, Blood, Hydrokinesis, Flashback/Nightmare.

(Under 18 dni)

The words echo in your skull like sonar pulses, steady and sharp. You’re underwater before your eyes even open, the cool weight of the ocean surrounding you like a second skin. You don’t need air. You don’t need sound. All you need is the mission.

You glide through the depths in silence, your body an extension of the water itself. Your skin is sleek, every muscle tuned for efficiency. You don’t swim—you move. Faster than anything that belongs here. You don’t disturb the current. You are the current.

Above you, the red light of the facility bleeds through reinforced glass. A research outpost, hidden in the Mariana Trench. Unauthorized. Unmonitored. Their mistake.

There are twelve operatives inside. You’ve already memorized the floor plan. You can feel the water moving through the pipes, the condensation gathering along the vents. You can hear the shift in pressure every time someone exhales. Their hearts beat like drums.

You’re already inside.

With a subtle twitch of your fingers, the water bends to your will. It slips into cracks, creeps along metal seams, gathers in rivulets, then forms something sharper. You rise silently from the moon pool, feet barely touching the slick floor. No splash. No sound. The only thing left behind is the faint steam off your skin.

Eliminate.

The first man is standing at a console, checking readings, oblivious. You flick your wrist. A thin stream of water snaps up from a nearby grate and hardens mid-air, slicing through his neck with a clean, wet hiss. Blood spills out in a beautiful red arc, dissolving into the water that cradles the floor. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t have time.

You’re already gone.

Two more down the hall. You don’t creep—you stalk. The lights overhead flicker. You step into view and let them see you, just for a second. That moment of fear is valuable.

“Who the—?”

You raise your hand, and they rise from the floor. Not your hands. Not you. The water. It grabs them by the throats like a vice, hoisting them upward. Their boots kick against the walls as the pressure increases. You narrow your eyes.

Pop.

Two broken necks. The water drops their bodies at your feet like discarded meat.

You keep moving.

Extract.

Room seventeen. Target acquired. Female, mid-thirties. Cryogenics specialist. Originally slated to join the Project, but disappeared two years ago. You open the door without touching the keypad—just enough water in the lock to short it from the inside.

She’s awake when you step inside. Of course she is. The emergency alarms are still off, but the scent of blood and brine has begun to spread.

Her eyes widen when she sees you. “Please… please, I’m not—”

You tilt your head slightly. Not interested. Not sympathetic.

Your fingers curl slowly.

The water in the pipes groans. You don’t touch her. You don’t need to. You raise your palm and she collapses, gasping, her lungs filling with saltwater from the inside. You’re precise. You don’t want her dead. Just silent.

You cross the room as she writhes on the floor, eyes bulging, arms weakly flailing. You lean down and press your hand to her forehead.

A swirl of water lifts her unconscious body, wrapping her like silk in fluid strands. She hovers behind you as you exit the room, weightless. Carried by your will alone.

Submerge.

You return to the pool. The blood-slick hallway behind you sings with silence. They never even got a signal out.

You don’t just dive—you plunge. Your body is swallowed by the water in a single smooth arc, the stolen specialist following behind like a tethered doll. You descend rapidly, past steel beams and concrete, into open blue nothingness.

And then—release.

You stop holding her. The body sinks into the depths, cradled by the ocean. Still breathing. Alive, but barely. Exactly how you want her.

You hover above her, suspended in the darkness. Alone in the silence. Your eyes open fully.

———

Your body jerks upright with a strangled cry, lungs burning, air tearing in and out of you in ragged bursts. Your throat is raw, like you’ve been screaming underwater. Sweat slicks your skin, cold and clinging, like the ocean never let go. Your chest heaves. Your hands claw at the sheets like they might still be chains.

You blink, hard—once, twice.

You’re not in the tank. You’re not in the facility.

You’re not her anymore.

But your body doesn’t know that. Your heart hammers like it’s still on mission, still running red. Your fingers curl into fists and shake. Your back aches where the scars stretch—phantom pain from the blade that took your fin. A reminder: they wanted you to pass as human. But you were never meant to be human.

You were built to kill. Built to obey.

You were never given a choice.

Eliminate. Extract. Submerge.

You hear it again—like a mantra, like a curse.

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, hard, as if that could block it all out. But it’s still there. Her face. The way her body convulsed. The silence after. Dozens of memories like it. Hundreds. Missions blurred together into a symphony of precision, of power, of obedience.

And now?

Now you’re free.

Free to make your own choices. To be something more than a weapon. But all you can feel is the weight of what you were forced to do before freedom ever touched you.

You start to cry—not loud, not dramatic. Just quietly. Shamefully. The kind of crying that comes from too much silence and too many ghosts. Your shoulders tremble. Your breath hitches. You press a hand to your chest like you’re trying to hold something inside that’s desperate to spill out.

You don’t cry because you’re scared.

You cry because you remember. Because you didn’t want to be that thing. That creature. That tool in their hands. You didn’t get to be soft, or kind, or unsure. You were designed to be perfect. Efficient. Ruthless.

You cry because they succeeded.

And now you have to carry it.

The lives you ended. The ones who never saw you coming. The people who begged. The ones who didn’t. It doesn’t matter. They’re all there, in your head, lingering just beneath the surface. Haunting you like the aftertaste of saltwater in your mouth.

You sit on the edge of the bed, curling in on yourself, face in your hands. You try to remember who you are now. You try to breathe through it.

But the guilt is a storm.

Thick and endless and drowning.

You whisper to yourself in the dark, not because anyone can hear you, but because the silence is worse. “I didn’t choose it. I didn’t choose any of it.” Your voice breaks around the edges. “I never got to choose.”

But now you do.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

Because now that the choice is yours, you don’t know what to do with it. Not when your hands still feel stained. Not when the water still listens like it remembers the weapon you were.

You lift your head, staring at the wall across from you, jaw clenched, eyes shining. The tears slow, but they don’t stop.

You whisper again. Quieter this time. “I don’t want to be her.”

But she’s in you. She is you. No matter how far you run. No matter who holds your hand now. No matter how much light you find.

The darkness still lives under your skin.

And tonight, it reminded you.

[Masterlist]

#wherethewaterends #natasha x reader #mommy wanda #wanda x reader #wandanat #wanda x natasha #trauma #panic attack #nightmares #tw death #aggressive #guilt #wlw post #slow burn #assassin #killing machine #hydrokinesis

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