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mandalhoerian · 7 days ago

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This story happened in a galaxy, far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it.

It is a story of love and loss, friendship and betrayal, survival and defiance. About what it means to be a Jedi, and what it means to leave that behind.

But this isn't quite the story you know or remember.

It isn't one told in grand council chambers or about legendary heroes, fallen or corrupt, but on the forgotten fringes — far from the battlefields that made history. Made canon.

A strange thing about stories—

Though this all happened so long ago and so far away that words cannot measure the time or the distance, it is also happening right now. Right here.

It is happening as you read these words.

The Jedi Order has fallen, darkness blankets the galaxy, you have somehow made it out alive to tell the tale.

The Force beckons.

Your choice starts now.

⸻ Adapted from Revenge of the Sith (2005), Matthew Stover

reader x zayne, xavier, caleb, rafayel, sylus (all separate)

warnings: slavery, death, mentions of suicide, master/padawan relationship (after that relationship is abolished bc. order 66 -- also, masters and padawans in canon are not characterized by age. a padawan can be older than 30. its not a traditional school), alternate dark endings that include yandere etc. abrupt tense change in rafayel's and sylus's i'm sorry, these were all written on different days and had some time inbetween them, so i slipped and wrote theirs in present tense 😭 also, in all of them, i wanted to keep it star wars lore accurate but don't go into it fully expecting 199% canon friendly, fanfiction is my oyster. i tried to explain but im sorry non-star wars gang you may not understand what the hell goes on in this one.... 💔

you have chosen... Zayne, Your Jedi Master

Affiliation: Jedi Order (formerly, Council member) → Survivor in Exile

Homeworld: Coruscant

Species: Human

Force Alignment: Light Side (Jedi, Force Healing practitioner)

Weapon: Single green lightsaber

Era: Clone Wars → Empire

Character Inspiration: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn

Background

⟡ Zayne was once a legend in the making. From the moment his training began, it was clear he possessed an affinity for the Force unlike anything the Order had seen in a generation, supported by the unusual amounts of midichlorians in his blood. He passed his trials years ahead of his peers, and by his late twenties, he took his seat among the Jedi High Council — the youngest to do so in living memory. To his fellow Jedi, he became known as “the Healer,” a moniker earned not only for his rare and prodigious mastery of Force healing, but also for his willingness to cross battle lines to help planets and systems in need.

⟡ Yet Zayne was never truly at home in the chaos of conflict. He pulled his weight the Clone Wars with the serenity of someone determined to be a still point in a turning world. He avoided violence wherever possible, seeking peaceful resolution, sheltering the innocent, and healing rather than harming. Behind closed doors, he pushed back against the Jedi Council’s hardest edicts: the conscription of children, the acceptance of “acceptable” losses, the steady, shameful slide toward militarism that darkened the Order’s heart. He never rose to open rebellion, of course.

⟡ To the galaxy, Zayne projected unshakeable calm: eyes clear, wisdom measured, composure unbroken even as explosions rocked the hulls around him. But those closest to him saw the cost. Night after night, he wrestled with relentless insomnia and visions that left him gasping in the dark. These dreams, more like prophecies, showed him a future self cloaked in black, crimson blade drawn, committing unspeakable acts. Everyday, he meditated for hours, seeking solace in the Force, clinging desperately to the Light. The visions made him gentle to a fault, slow to anger, deliberate in all things, determined to shape a fate different from the one that haunted his sleep.

Relationship with You

⟡ You became Zayne’s Padawan in the early chaos of the Clone Wars, a last-minute assignment that left you standing, a little uncertain, beside a man who was barely older than you but already the Order’s rising star. The age gap was only a handful of years, but Zayne’s demeanor, the measured calm, the weight of sorrow in his eyes, the way he moved through the motions in the Temple as if he’d been haunting its halls for decades, often made him seem impossibly old. He could be gentle and patient, his instructions never harsh, but his expectations for you were unyielding. Because of the changing times, he instilled in you vigilance instead of serenity. You learned quickly that every lesson, every exhausting drill or meditation, was a form of protection, a way for him to armor you against a galaxy that was growing colder and more uncertain by the day.

⟡ Unlike many Masters, Zayne didn’t teach you by rote or force you to recite the Code until it lost its meaning, leading you through winding Temple gardens, down to silent meditation chambers, even out beneath unfamiliar stars on distant battlefields. He showed you how to listen — to the wind, to the pain of others, to the subtle current of the Force that connected all things. When you faltered, frustrated or afraid, he met you with steady patience, avoiding offering easy answers, only guiding questions.

⟡ In rare, vulnerable moments, he let you glimpse the cracks beneath his calm: his doubts about the Council’s decisions, his fears about the direction the Order was taking. These moments felt like precious secrets, small shards of trust passed quietly between you when the rest of the world was looking elsewhere.

⟡ The longer the war dragged on, the more you found solace in each other. You shared a language of coordinating through glances alone through battles, laughter in low voices as you patched up battered clones, silent moments side-by-side after difficult missions. The simple act of meditating together, or tending wounds in the medbay, became an anchor, something unbreakable and quietly sacred.

⟡ Every loss, every brush with death, thinned out the line between mentor and mentee. He let you see his grief, his exhaustion, the ache that came from trying to heal a galaxy bent on tearing itself apart. And in turn, you let yourself reach for him, not just as a Master, but as someone who understood your heart, your longing for peace, your unwillingness to become another blade in an endless war.

⟡ It was inevitable that affection would take root, hesitant and messy and tangled. When you realized your feelings had shifted into something deeper and more dangerous than loyalty or friendship, Zayne sensed it before you ever put it to words. He addressed it gently, with the same honesty and care that marked everything he did. “It will pass,” he told you in the hush after a battle in which you almost lost him and saw your feelings come to the surface, his tone tender, not dismissive. “You will outgrow this.”

⟡ But there was something in his eyes — something he never voiced, a flicker of regret — that told you the struggle was not yours alone.

Post-Order 66

⟡ When Order 66 tore through the galaxy, you were on different fronts, separated by light-years. As the Clones started attacking you instead of the Separatist droid army, communication channels went dark, panic, betrayal and the Jedi comrades you could feel in the Force going dark one after the other replaced clarity and purpose. In that confusion, you both felt the other’s presence snuffed out like a candle, as well.

⟡ Before any of you could return, no, retreat to back to the Temple on Coruscant, however, every surving Jedi received Master Kenobi's distress signal through the beacon: This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: trust in the Force. Do not return to the Temple. That time has passed, and our future is uncertain. Avoid Coruscant. Avoid detection. Be secret... but be strong. We will each be challenged: our trust, our faith, our friendships. But we must persevere and, in time, I believe a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always.

⟡ You believed your Master had died. He believed his Padawan had been felled among countless others.

⟡ In the end Zayne, managing to get away by the skin of his teeth, was consumed by the unbearable belief that he had failed not only you, but everything he ever stood for. The Order was gone. He wasn't sure any Jedi remained in the galaxy. He, and the Council, were unable to sense the plot that had been unfolding right under their nose. The Clone army that had been given to them, fighting by their side, suddenly turning on them to eliminate them. None of them had been able to see it coming. He hadn't been able to. Because he'd been so self-obsessed, judgement clouded with his own visions.

⟡ And above all else, he mourned you. He replayed those final hours in his mind until they blurred — his own desperate flight, the deafening comm chatter, the endless stream of distress calls from Jedi scattered across a thousand systems. He hadn’t been there for you when you needed him most.

⟡ Had you called out to him, reaching through the Force for your Master, your friend? Had you believed he had abandoned you in the darkness, left you to die alone while clones turned on their commanders? The thought tore at him every time he closed his eyes to get some sleep: the possibility that your last moments were spent in fear, betrayed not just by the galaxy, but by him. He remembered every promise he’d ever made to protect you and be by your side, that you two were going to get through this together and build a better future. All of them were broken all in a single night.

⟡ Unable to reconcile his own role in bringing about the end of his own Order and the death of so many, Zayne abandoned the weapon that had defined him. It wasn't a decision he made as carrying a lightsaber out in the open would give out his identity. The simple fact was, holding a lightsaber triggered flashes of his nightmares, visceral and suffocating, the sight and sound of his blade igniting plunging him into memories of screams and death. Over time, he began fighting only when forced, reluctantly developing a martial arts-centered style, fluid and precise, leveraging agility and careful redirection of force rather than aggression. It was a practical necessity, but also a rejection born out of trauma.

⟡ Years passed quietly, far from Imperial eyes. In the hidden places of the Outer Rim, stories began to spread of a quiet, wandering healer who appeared without warning, treating injuries and illnesses no one else dared touch. Zayne asked nothing in return, trading meditation guidance or old Jedi wisdom for simple shelter or a meal. He helped farmers, refugees, runaways, and lost souls alike, moving on quickly to avoid leaving any lasting mark. But even kindness felt like penance, never enough to lift the burden he carried. Every life he saved felt like an apology whispered to you across the stars.

⟡ After the Purge, you learned quickly that survival depended on motion and discretion. You reinvented yourself as a wandering courier and occasional mechanic — skills you’d pieced together from years of battlefield repairs and resourceful improvisation in warzones. With a battered astromech droid and a starship patched from scrap, you traveled system to system hauling goods, offering occasional repairs, and delivering coded messages for desperate outlaws and small-time traders who couldn’t risk Imperial entanglements. Word of mouth and barter became your currency. You learned to slip through checkpoints, talk your way out of trouble, and vanish when danger grew too close.

⟡ Then, you tracked the rumors what you thought could be a Jedi survivor — bewildered conversations in a cantina, a half-remembered story from a Twi’lek child in a borderlands camp, the trail of a doctor who mended wounds without asking credits or names. The pattern felt familiar: kindness in the shadows, gone by dawn. Every so often you’d find a sign left behind, a meditation stone, a faint trace in the Force, the memory of someone gentle and haunted. Hope was painful, but it was all you had.

⟡ It took months to finally catch up to him, on a dust-choked world with no name, in a village battered by a recent Imperial raid. You found him at the edge of a makeshift medical tent, hunched over a wounded farmer, his once-careful long hair chopped short and streaked with grey that had nothing to with age, the lines on his face deeper, his robes patched and faded. He looked up, sensing you before you spoke, and in that silent instant the years folded away.

⟡ You just stared at each other, struggling to breathe, both searching the other’s face for some proof that this was real. Grief and relief mingled and ached together like an old, yellow bruise becoming red and purple again — the brittle shell of hope you’d carried for years cracking open with a single look.

⟡ He started to stumble over words he’d rehearsed a thousand times, but you shook your head, not ready for forgiveness, not ready for blame. There was too much between you. You asked him, simply, to let you help with the wounded. He nodded, wordless, hands shaking as he handed you bandages. Working side by side in tense silence, the two of you moved through the injured, falling into a ritual you’d once known so well.

⟡ Later, by the low fire of a crumbling barn, you called him "Master," but he corrected you that he was no longer that, and you were no longer his Padawan. There weren't any Jedi here in this room, and you couldn't disagree, heart aching that he didn't deserve that title anyways. The truth came out in fits and starts. You told each other how you’d survived, the running, the losses that had carved you down to the bone. Zayne confessed how he’d abandoned his saber, how the sight of it made his hands shake. You told him of the things you’d done, the people you couldn’t save, the guilt you both carried like another set of scars.

⟡ There were tears, and awkward hugs, and a slow, stumbling warmth that neither of you dared call hope. When you finally slept, it was side-by-side, shoulders brushing, neither of you willing to be the first to move away.

⟡ With the dawn, there was no grand decision. The Empire still hunted your kind; the galaxy was no less cruel. But it was easier to breathe with someone who understood. Despite him telling you that you could go, and that he wasn't your Master, that you had no reason to stay by his side, you traveled together, at first only to the next village, then the next. You weren't about to abandon this man who had fallen into such ruin and become a ghost of his former self propelled forward to survive only by the desire to punish himself for a failure that wasn't his.

⟡ You never called yourselves Jedi again. The word was a wound. But you developed a new purpose: wandering from system to system, healing quietly, teaching how to take care of themselves to refugees and children, slipping away before the Empire’s reach could catch up. He came along for the ride with your courier job and made a home in your starship. You were never quite safe, never quite whole, but the work gave meaning to your days and made the nights bearable.

⟡ You were not what you had been. You were not Master and Padawan. You were not the Order’s last hope. But you were alive, sticking together, finding a fragile peace in a galaxy that had tried to break you both.

⟡ Sometimes, in the hush before dawn, Zayne would look at you as if seeing you for the first time — hopeful, uncertain, almost ready to let himself believe that even after all this loss, love could endure.

Personality

⟡ Stillness, patience, and a quietly overwhelming presence. Zayne’s compassion is not weakness — it’s the steel at his core.

⟡ Lowkey, but never naïve; a subtle sense of humor emerges when least expected.

⟡ Prone to long silences, meditation, and questions that cut through your defenses.

⟡ Never lost his healer’s hands, but the war changed his voice. He’s older, heavier now, slow to trust, quick to forgive.

⟡ Struggles to accept joy, but can’t help reaching for it when you’re near.

Route Themes

⟡ Master/Padawan longing. Power imbalance, slow-burn respect, a connection built through survival and trust, not just rank, the student becoming the teacher in the end to the Master who has lost his way.

⟡ Detachment vs. Desire. Jedi teachings, forbidden love, the tension between duty and the simple, persistent truth of want.

⟡ Healing and Guilt. The question of whether survivors deserve happiness, and if the past can ever be left behind. "We have to do better" and "We have to be better" quotes come into play, and learning to apply them through a positive light stripped from burden, guilt and responsibility.

⟡ Redemption through Connection. Choosing one another, not as Jedi, but as people broken by war and remade by forgiveness.

Endings May Include

⟡ You and Zayne find a forgotten moon in the Unknown Regions, a quiet world where the Force is a gentle current and the Empire never looks. You build a life among forests and rain, tending to each other and the wounded wanderers who find their way to your door. Zayne finally lets himself rest, and the line between Master and Padawan fades into a partnership of equals. When he has healed enough, together, you and Zayne gather a handful of scattered Force-sensitives, rogue Jedi, lost Padawans, those failed by both Empire and Rebellion. You form a secret enclave, a new kind of Order where attachment isn’t forbidden, where the Force is honored in all its forms. Zayne becomes the quiet architect of something gentler, and you become his anchor — partners not just in the Force, but in hope. The galaxy never learns your names, but you have made sown the seeds for a tomorrow made by those you have saved.

⟡ The visions that haunted Zayne all his life finally come to pass. In a desperate stand against the Inquisitorius, you are struck down before his eyes, a casualty of the war neither of you chose. All the careful meditation, all the dogma of the Light, are cast aside by a grief so consuming it feels holy, and the Dark Side suddenly makes the most sense it ever has against a universe that allowed you to unjustly perish like this. It's not with rage that he embraces it, but clarity, a willingness to do what the Light never allowed. With chilling purpose, Zayne chooses to fall, and becomes the shadow in his own visions: he destroys the Inquisitorius from within in a matter of months, hunting them down one by one. When his vengeance is complete, he seeks you in the only way left — walking unflinching to his end, dying by his own hand at your grave, utterly unrepentant, having lost all his faith in the Light Side that failed you.

⟡ Gravely wounded shielding you from Imperial hunters, Zayne’s life flickers out with dawn painting the horizon. His final words are soft—a benediction in your ear, not a goodbye: “Keep the light in your heart. That’s where I’ll find you, always.” In the years that follow, he returns to you as a presence in the Force: a hush at your shoulder, a silhouette in the corner of your dreams, a gentle warmth guiding your hand when doubt creeps in. He teaches you to feel the living Force, to walk in both memory and hope. You grow old, carrying his love in every scar and every smile. He remains unchanged, a flicker, a guardian, the keeping of a promise never broken. When your time finally comes, your last breath finds him waiting — young, ageless, and radiant, his hand reaching for yours beneath a sky that never truly darkens. At last, you step into the Force together, luminous and at peace: love undimmed, reunited beyond the end.

you have chosen... Xavier, the Empire's Prodigal Son

Affiliation: None (formerly Imperial Royalty, ex-Sith apprentice)

Homeworld: Naboo

Species: Human

Force Alignment: Grey

Weapon: Single white/silver-bladed lightsaber (purified from a Sith crystal)

Era: Clone Wars → Empire Era

Character Inspiration: Darth Revan, Din Djarin

Background

⟡ Xavier was born in secret on Naboo, his existence shielded from public record until his father, then-Senator future Emperor, carefully introduced him to the galaxy. Even as a child, Xavier learned to move quietly through the palatial halls of Theed, his every word, gesture, and silence monitored by eyes both loyal and treacherous. To the outside world, he was the model heir: pale, reserved, strikingly intelligent, and always a half-step behind his father, too perfectly mannered to seem real.

⟡ By the time he was old enough to sense the electric charge of the Force all around him, Xavier’s destiny was already set. Palpatine denied the Jedi’s polite requests to “evaluate” his son, using political leverage and bureaucratic obstruction to keep Xavier off Coruscant’s radar. Instead, the Emperor arranged for clandestine Sith instruction — using trusted agents, ancient holocrons, and even his own presence. Xavier’s days were spent mastering fencing and protocol, his nights, in shadowed chambers, learning the Sith arts. The curriculum was brutal: meditation in isolation, survival games, lessons in manipulation and the machinery of fear. Weakness, especially the weakness of compassion, was scorned. All mistakes, big and small, brought “correction.” Every act of cleverness was rewarded with a sliver of approval, always just out of reach.

⟡ Sidious's meteoric rise reshaped Xavier’s life into something scripted and suffocating. He became a living symbol, rarely allowed to speak unscripted, his education handled by the finest tutors in galactic history, languages, and philosophy. But beneath the silk and etiquette, he was isolated. Friendships were discouraged, affection was transactional, and loyalty to his father was enforced by unspoken threats and rewards.

⟡ During the tumult of the Clone Wars, Xavier is Palpatine’s carefully hidden ace, the apprentice whose existence the Jedi never suspect. While the galaxy sees him as a polite, reserved son to the Chancellor, he is steeped in Sith training behind closed doors. Outwardly, he attends Senate sessions, charity galas, and diplomatic banquets as the model aristocrat, always present but never quite at home.

⟡ Whenever the Supreme Chancellor needs a problem solved without drawing the Jedi’s attention, Xavier is quietly dispatched. He deals with inconveniences in the Senate, manipulates or eliminates Republic officials who sniff too close to the truth, and ensures Palpatine’s web of secrets remains untangled, carrying out assassinations, sabotage, and diplomatic manipulation, yet with each mission, the conflict inside him grows.

⟡ Though the Jedi sense a growing darkness, they never suspect Xavier—the Chancellor’s own son — of being the elusive shadow behind failed Separatist plots and vanished dissidents. He’s even been dispatched by his father to shadow Jedi missions, observe their tactics, and report back, all under the guise of “Republic security liaison.” At times, he is ordered to let his targets live, planting evidence or rumors that fuel discord between the Jedi and the Republic.

Relationship with You

⟡ You first met Xavier during a tense negotiation on Coruscant, both of you young and burdened with titles you never asked for. As a Jedi Padawan assigned to “diplomatic security,” you were expected to be vigilant but invisible, yet your instincts kept drawing your attention to the Chancellor’s silent son. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, had the posture of a prince and the presence of a ghost, eyes cold and unreadable. His politeness felt flawless, almost protocol droid-like, but every so often, you caught a flicker of exhaustion or distant pain in his dissociation.

⟡ When an assassin’s shot went astray during a senate summit, you threw yourself between him and the blaster’s path, taking a glancing hit meant for his heart. Xavier, in shock because this wasn't a part of the plan and paranoid if his father was trying to get rid of him for a new apprentice (as it was the rule of the Sith, everyone betrayed each other), tried to dismiss your pain with icy courtesy, but you ignored the droids and medics, tending to him with quiet stubbornness until he finally relented. It was the first time anyone had truly seen him beneath his layers of duty, a moment of raw vulnerability he’d never known. Your gentle insistence, your genuine concern, and the ease with which you offered comfort, without expectation or calculation, became a turning point. After that, he lingered after meetings, sometimes inventing excuses to cross your path, drawn by a need he didn’t yet understand.

⟡ Conversations in the corridors of power grew into secret moments. He was careful, never letting the galaxy see what you were to him, but in the quiet spaces between battles and banquets, he let himself be, asking about your training, your dreams, your doubts about the war. He shared memories of Naboo’s lakes, fragments of childhood lost, thoughts on the burden of legacy. With you, he laughed for the first time in years. You taught him to value small kindnesses, to question orders, to wonder what lay beyond his father's design. Contact with you in any occasion, an accidental brush of hands, a too-long glance, was a risk, an act of quiet rebellion against the role he was meant to play.

⟡ As the Republic faltered and Jedi found themselves isolated, Xavier’s position became untenable. He’d been raised to be the perfect tool, the heir of darkness—but you made him long for something different. Love, to him, was a dangerous and revolutionary force: to care for you was to betray everything he’d been taught, to risk the wrath of his father and the fury of the Sith. However, he couldn’t stop himself. Protecting you became his obsession and an expression of his independence, sometimes subtly, other times at great risk, using his influence to steer missions, tip off allies, or shield you from the worst horrors of war.

⟡ But the galaxy was spiraling toward catastrophe, and he knew—sooner or later—he would be commanded to turn against you. You were Jedi. You were meant to fall. Loving you was the first and only decision he’d ever made for himself, and if fate demanded your life, Xavier would have to choose: obedience or rebellion, darkness or the hope you awakened in him.

Post-Order 66/Empire Era

⟡ The night Order 66 shattered the galaxy, Xavier received a direct, unmistakable command from his father, now Emperor himself. He had known, perhaps from the start, about the quiet, forbidden feelings Xavier harbored for you, a Jedi, an enemy. This order was his final trial: a test not of strength, but of devotion. If he were truly loyal, he’d be the one to hunt you down, to end your life personally as proof of his dedication to the new Galactic Empire and the Sith way. Xavier’s father knew precisely how deep the blade would cut, and how thoroughly this betrayal would break his son’s humanity.

⟡ Xavier chose rebellion. Quietly, ruthlessly, he turned his extensive Sith training and shadowy connections toward a single purpose: saving you from the bloodbath of the Jedi Purge. He tracked you under the guise of a Sith assassin, using the terror of his red blade and Imperial authority as cover. When he finally caught you, cornered and desperate, he stunned you into unconsciousness, whispering apologies you would never hear.

⟡ You awoke days later, hidden in a secure, isolated safehouse deep within the Outer Rim, far from Imperial reach. It was only then you learned the truth that fractured your heart completely: Xavier, the reserved and gentle son of the Chancellor, the boy whose quiet affection you had come to cherish, was a Sith apprentice. His saber was crimson, just as it had appeared in your darkest visions, and everything he’d ever told you felt tainted by betrayal.

⟡ You ignited your saber and leveled it at him, demanding, through grit and unshed tears, that he pick up his weapon and fight. He was a Sith, he should kill you, right? He did not. Instead, he let his saber clatter to the floor, the light dying at his feet, leaving only your blade and the roaring anger in your heart.

⟡ You could have killed him. Should have, maybe, every rule, every instinct, every loss behind you screaming for retribution. But you couldn’t force your hand, not even as you pushed the tip of your blade against his chest and waited for his true nature. He only stood there, empty-handed, watching you with something shattered behind his silence.

⟡ Rage finally boiled over, then. You struck him, open-handed, slaps and fists, every accusation built over years of war and loss pouring out through your hands. The strikes landed with the sick satisfaction of impact, but they didn’t move him. He took each blow without protest, without even the dignity of flinching, as if he needed them, as if they could somehow absolve him for everything he’d done and everything you’d lost.

⟡ You hit him until your strength broke and your vision blurred. The saber you had turned off because the Jedi in you couldn't bring herself to kill, slipped from your grip and clattered to the floor. You screamed questions at him, about trust, about lies, about the friends you would never see again, about all the innocents that had died. Monster, he was a monster. You asked him why he didn't stop it. You asked him why he'd saved you and nobody else. He only answered with silence. A cruel one to you, but to him, there were no words that would give back what was lost.

⟡ And when there was nothing left but your sobs wrecking through the empty safehouse, he stooped to retrieve your saber, set it quietly beside you, advised you to keep your head down and that you had everything you could ever need in this house, and left. He didn’t ask forgiveness or try to explain. He simply walked away, bearing every wound you gave him and every one he could never name, leaving you alone with your anger and your heartbreak and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

⟡ From that moment onward, Xavier vanished from your sight, but never from your life. As you struggled alone in the lawless corners of the galaxy, constantly hunted by the Empire’s relentless Inquisitors and bounty hunters, you slowly became aware of a presence in the shadows. Imperial patrols disappeared, pursuers inexplicably vanished, surveillance records mysteriously corrupted. Xavier became your ghost, silently eliminating anyone who threatened you, always from a distance, always without ever revealing himself directly.

⟡ It infuriated you. His constant, silent watchfulness felt like both a comfort and a torment, a relentless haunting of what you’d lost. You never saw his face clearly, only glimpses of a pale figure at the edge of your vision, disappearing before you could call his name. Always close enough to protect you, always too far away to confront.

⟡ Gradually, Xavier shed his former identity, surfacing in whispered rumors of the galaxy’s darkest corners as Lumiere, a bounty hunter of unparalleled skill and ruthless efficiency. Lumiere took special interest in contracts on Imperials, corrupt officials, and traitorous Inquisitors. His reputation soared: an anonymous phantom sought to be hired by everyone. Secretly, each contract was chosen carefully — targets who threatened you or those like you, systematically erasing Imperial evidence of your existence and quietly dismantling the network meant to hunt Jedi survivors.

⟡ During these long, lonely years, Xavier underwent a transformation of his own, wrestling the darkness from his heart. Painstakingly, he purified his Sith kyber crystal, turning it from blood-red to a pale, brilliant white, a symbol of the redemption he sought not for himself, but to be worthy of your memory.

⟡ Years passed, and you, too, had adapted to survive, becoming a bounty hunter yourself. Your path occasionally overlapped with Lumiere’s work, technically making you colleagues within the vast, shadowy underworld. Though you knew who Lumiere was and the Empire was still looking for its lost prince, you were aware that he'd left you with the decision of taking the first step, whether you would kill him or confront him. He was waiting for you, a friend or an executioner, always.

Personality

⟡ Quietly intense, restrained. Speaks little, watches much, and rarely reveals his true intent.

⟡ Emotionally self-denying, but not heartless — his compassion emerges in dry humor and small acts of unexpected kindness.

⟡ Years of palace intrigue and Sith discipline have made him suspicious, strategic, and wary of trust, but yearning for something real.

⟡ Haunted by his father’s legacy, and determined never to become him.

⟡ Treats the Force as a burden — uses it only when absolutely necessary. The white blade is both weapon and warning: he cannot fully escape the darkness that made him.

Route Themes

⟡ Almost lovers to enemies, "I did it for you", and second chance romance

⟡ The burden of legacy and upbringing vs. the freedom of the real self

⟡ Mercy as rebellion x "My mercy prevails over my wrath"

⟡ You and Xavier as partners on the run — outlaws, fugitives, but never alone

⟡ Making peace with a future neither of you expected

Endings May Include

⟡ In the end, you cannot forgive Xavier. In a final confrontation, he refuses to fight you. “If this is justice, then let it be yours.” You strike him down. His last words are a plea for your future, not his own. The Empire loses its shadow before they can reclaim him, and you’re left with the heavy peace of vengeance, forever haunted by what was lost.

⟡ Together, you become the galaxy’s most wanted as a pair of legendary outlaws. Sometimes you’re partners in heists; sometimes you lay low as lovers in a nameless starport, always looking over your shoulders but always together, building a new code that belongs to no one but you two.

⟡ Xavier returns to the heart of the Empire, taking up his birthright as the Emperor’s son and the Sith's Apprentice. The cycle is complete. In the end, as all Sith do, Xavier — finally forced to choose between you and his father — kills the Emperor in a storm of power and fury, taking the throne for himself. The galaxy quakes as Xavier is crowned the new Emperor and secretly, the only Sith Lord, casting aside all pretense of hiding. He offers you a place at his side, not as a prisoner, but as his equal: his Empress, partner, and co-ruler of a reborn Empire. The two of you rule from the heart of Coruscant, your love as much a weapon as any saber. Together, you reshape the galaxy’s future, shrouded in legend, fear, and a twisted, immortal devotion. Whether you temper his darkness or revel in it by his side is a choice left to you, but one thing is certain: the galaxy will never be the same.

you have chosen... Caleb, the Fallen Padawan

Affiliation: Jedi Order (Padawan, former youngling clan) → presumed dead → Imperial Inquisitorius (eventually becomes Grand Inquisitor)

Homeworld: Alderaan

Species: Human

Force Alignment: Light Side origins; walks a razor’s edge as a Dark Side user (never truly Sith)

Weapon: Double-bladed reddish orange lightsaber (Inquisitorius design, never bled, just looks like it was bled); formerly single blue saber

Era: Clone Wars → Empire Era

Character Inspiration: Anakin Skywalker, Trilla Suduri

Background

⟡ Caleb’s first memory was sunlight filtered through ancient stone — high arches, endless corridors humming with quiet, soft, serene presence and peace. He had been brought to the Jedi Temple as an infant, placed in the care of the Order before he’d learned to speak. If there was a family beyond the walls of Coruscant, he never remembered them; the Temple and its way became the shape of his entire world. Your friendship was woven into that world so deeply that he could not imagine a life without you beside him, the pin in his pinwheel through every trial and triumph..

⟡ He grew up in one of the Temple’s tightest clans, a group of younglings bound more by shared experience than blood. You were his shadow and his mirror, both of you learning the Jedi forms, the meditations, the ancient histories recited under the stern gaze of instructors. It was a childhood shaped by discipline and doctrine, but you and Caleb always found moments of laughter in the cracks: racing across the Temple gardens after curfew, sneaking extra portions in the refectory, daring each other to explore the forbidden nooks and unused archives.

⟡ Caleb was gifted from the start. Quick to master lightsaber sequences, even quicker to master the sunny grin that always helped in getting you out of trouble. And you always got in trouble. He was the model youngling any Master would want as a Padawan, and you were "the problem". Too rebellious, too hot-headed. He always believed in you and your abilities, though, and even though you didn't say it out loud, it got you through your worst. You would have ended up in the Service Corps if it wasn't for his support.

⟡ Fiercely loyal, quick-witted, and unafraid to bend the rules for the sake of a friend, Caleb was always the first to cover for your mischief. When you got caught slipping out after lights-out, he’d take the blame. In the training halls, he’d let you win just often enough to keep your spirits high, teasing you mercilessly when you didn’t notice the times he pulled his strikes. His laughter could chase away the sting of even the harshest reprimand from the Council, and his presence made every hardship bearable.

⟡ But beneath the supposed self-satisfaction and his brilliant performing status, he nursed secret dreams of the stars: late at night, he would whisper his hopes of flying starfighters, leading ExplorCorps squadrons after being knighted, chasing freedom beyond the Temple walls. It was a private ambition, shared only with you, the one person he trusted never to laugh or judge.

⟡ As Padawans, your bond only deepened. You became each other’s anchor, adversary and accountability partners in training and friendly rivalry, confidants in whispered late-night conversations, partners in every daring scheme. There was a tenderness between you, an apple growing out of the innocent flower of its tree that should have stayed as a flower.

⟡ The Jedi Code was clear, and you both learned to fear the Council’s watchful eyes. Lessons on attachment became lessons in concealment: to school your faces, temper your voices and eagerness, hide the simmering feelings that were ready to boil over behind a mask of calm.

⟡ For Caleb, those feelings were a fire he could never quite extinguish. He buried them deep, training harder, flying faster, throwing himself into missions with a hunger for distraction. But when he was alone with himself and there was nothing to numb and crowd his mind with, when the galaxy seemed too vast and the Temple too empty, he always found his thoughts turning back to you — the friend, the rival, the one person who made the Force feel less like a duty and more like home.

Order 66

⟡ You both were still Padawans when it happened. The Temple was a nightmare of red-lit corridors and echoing blaster fire. You and Caleb pressed on through the chaos, shepherding two terrified younglings named Kevi and Mia, one clutching your robe, the other barely keeping pace. The smell of smoke and scorched stone was unbearable, but you encouraged them through the Force as you hurried them through secret passageways and sealed corridors. It was a gamble, a wrong turn could mean death.

⟡ In the hangar, hope was almost within reach a surroundered ship clearly laid as a trap for any Jedi would come this way waiting. There was no time to think, only to act. It was then Caleb’s hand found your arm. In the Force, you felt the pulse of his decision, his love, his unspoken goodbye. You couldn't even react. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing every eye and every blaster to himself. His saber flared blue in the smoke. He shouted — at you, at the children, at fate itself — urging you to run, to live, to save them when he could not.

⟡ You hesitated only a breath, then gathered the younglings and sprinted for the ship. Behind you, blaster bolts cracked through the air, the snap-hiss of Caleb’s blade the only thing holding chaos at bay. You shoved the children inside, the smallest sobbing into your tunic, the older one biting back terror for the sake of the younger. You looked back once, just in time to see Caleb’s silhouette wreathed in smoke, the only source of light amid the ruin. His blade whirled, a brief shield against the impossible, and then he was gone — lost in a hail of blaster fire and a wave of Force agony that nearly knocked you to your knees.

⟡ You slammed the hatch shut, hit the launch, and piloted the ship away from the Temple’s dying light, managing to outmaneuver the chasing ships only because of Caleb's piloting tips and tricks that had come handy through the Clone Wars. The children clung to each other as you drifted into the void, their soft cries the only sound. Your heart screamed to go back, to fight, to search the wreckage for any sign of him, but you couldn’t. He'd made his final wish clear. You had lives to protect.

⟡ Moving forward was the only choice left. The pain of leaving Caleb behind burned in you like a second sun, but it was that pain — and the small hands gripping yours — that drove you onward, into the darkness of survival.

Empire Era/Inquisitorius

⟡ Long before Order 66, Sidious had calculated that his purge would never be perfect. Of course some Jedi would slip through. He needed more than the Clones, he needed a new breed of hunter that knew the Jedi inside and out. The Inquisitorius Program began in secret: dossiers compiled, agents placed inside the Temple’s walls, their purpose simple: find Jedi who might bend, not break. Sidious paid special attention to Padawans and Knights who chafed under the Council’s rules, those whose grief or doubts made them vulnerable. He kept lists of those too close to the edge, and his spies, servants in the archives, instructors with secret debts, even healers in the medbay — watched, waited, and reported. Discontent was currency. Affection, a weakness to exploit.

⟡ Caleb had always seemed the perfect Jedi on paper. Skilled, charismatic, loyal to his friends. But there was a fault line running through his heart, and Sidious’s agents saw it clearly: the quiet way he watched you, the fire behind his eyes whenever the Code was invoked to shame or divide, the reckless, defiant streak that surfaced whenever love was threatened. What no one else knew, what even you hadn’t realized, as that Caleb’s faith in the Order had begun to rot. He’d grown tired of the secrecy, the emotional self-flagellation the Council demanded. Your bond became the wedge that Sidious’s spy needed. A single moment, a longing look shared when you thought themselves alone was all it took. His name was added to the Emperor’s list.

⟡ Instead of being killed on the spot during his last stand, Caleb was subdued, bound, and spirited away to an unknown Imperial black site. Induction into the Inquisitorius was never the same for any two candidates. For some, the Emperor promised power and survival if they’d turn. For others that were set on their Jedi ways, the way was paved with agony — torture, deprivation, mental and physical torment designed to break the will and flood the soul with hate and fear. Caleb was offered the former, but only on the understanding that if he refused, you and the children you’d saved would be hunted to extinction and he couldn't do anything about it. He agreed for leverage.

⟡ Sidious saw through the ruse. As punishment, Caleb was handed to Darth Vader, who subjected him to trials so merciless that the scars would never fade. His right arm was severed and replaced with cybernetics, a gift for his final rite of passage and of his “promotion.” He was given the name "First Brother".

⟡ Basically shooting through the ranks, Caleb became one of the Empire’s most efficient assets: the Grand Inquisitor. Outwardly, he was the Empire’s cold enforcer: mask, red blade, chilling reputation. Inwardly, he never stopped searching for you, never stopped trying to keep you safe. Secretly, he fed the Empire false leads, sabotaged hunts, and erased traces of your existence wherever he could. His mastery of the dark side was real, but never complete. His love for you was his final anchor, the line he refused to sever.

⟡ You became a ghost the day you left Coruscant. For a while, your only mission was survival: keeping yourself and the two younglings alive as you fled from system to system, never staying anywhere long. Every night, you told yourself it was only temporary, that the galaxy would right itself, that you could find the last survivors and rebuild something of what you’d lost. But the galaxy had no mercy for Jedi, least of all for a fugitive with children in tow. You forged new skills, slicing into Imperial records, blending in with smugglers, stealing ships and credits when there was no other choice.

⟡ Years passed in a cycle of pursuit and escape. The younglings you protected grew older, learning to blend, to hide, to survive, and you delivered them to safer hands. You never stopped looking for other Jedi, or for scraps of the old Order. Sometimes you found them scarred and embittered, and sometimes you found only graves. As the years went on, you became bolder. You sabotaged supply lines, orchestrated prison breaks, passed vital intelligence to the nascent Rebel cells. Your code was simple: the Empire would not hunt children if you could help it. For every Force-sensitive the Inquisitors tracked, you were there first, spiriting them away, buying time with bluffs and blaster fire.

⟡ Your refusal to die quietly, your reputation for rescuing Force-sensitive children, and your knack for evading the Empire made you infamous within the Inquisitorius. You became the obsession of more than one hunter, but only one ever seemed to truly find you.

⟡ The Grand Inquisitor developed a pattern. When he caught you, he’d back you into a corner, sometimes with a warning in the Force, and other times with a clashing of sabers, always with the sense that he was holding back.

⟡ At first you resented his persistence. Then you questioned his failures. How could the Emperor’s most ruthless hound be this inept? How did you keep slipping through his fingers when everyone else fell? It began to nag you how familiar his presence was, the way his duels with you always left you alive.

⟡ When the truth finally came out, when you struck down the Inquisitor’s mask to reveal lightless eyes and a half-broken smile with the same devotion as when you were kids — it was both a betrayal and a homecoming.

Personality

⟡ Caleb is all heat and ache beneath a soldier’s discipline. He laughs with his whole body, but rarely lets himself anymore.

⟡ Fiercely protective, self-sacrificing to a fault, he would take a blaster bolt for you without hesitation.

⟡ The Jedi taught him restraint, but it’s your friendship and your memory that have kept him from falling into true darkness.

⟡ As an Inquisitor, he’s sharp, commanding, almost cruel in battle, except with you. You’re the line he never crosses.

⟡ Haunted by guilt, convinced his hands are too stained for peace, but still hopes for redemption, if not for himself, then at least for you.

Route Themes

⟡ Friends to enemies to lovers. A bond forged in childhood, tested by war and loss, remade in the fires of Empire.

⟡ Sacrifice and moral ambiguity. What is the line between survival and betrayal? Can love survive the choices made to protect it?

⟡ Redemption, forgiveness, and agency. Your story is as much about forgiving yourself as it is about forgiving him.

⟡ Hope after devastation. Finding life — and love — where you thought nothing could grow again.

Endings May Include

⟡ You convince him to fake his death with you and leave the Empire behind. You take over an abandoned Inquisitor fortress together, transforming it into a hidden sanctuary for lost Force-sensitives, orphans, and runaways. Caleb leads as a protector from the shadows, and you create a home, your found family thriving in the ruins of what once was meant to destroy you. In the epilogue, he's a General in the Rebel Alliance and a Rebel Pilot.

⟡ Caleb chooses to remain Grand Inquisitor, but only if you become his “right hand” — his secret within the Empire. The two of you walk the knife edge: lovers by night, Imperial rivals by day, weaving coded messages and sabotaging the Empire from within, all the while dancing with danger and forbidden affection. No one in the Empire suspects a thing — except perhaps Vader.

⟡ Caleb arranges for you to be safely spirited away — never to meet again. Years later, when the Empire falls, you discover a hidden cache: a holorecording, a faded blue lightsaber, and the truth of everything Caleb did. He is long gone and has died as a villain, but he leaves you one last message: “Live free. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

you've chosen... Rafayel, the Senator of Lemuria

Affiliation: Lemuria (King → Senator)

Homeworld: Lemuria (hidden ocean world, Deep Core, neutral but occupied)

Species: Lemurian — amphibious, rare, long-lived; masters of illusion-based telepathy and underwater sign language

Force Alignment: Unaligned (Force-sensitive; specializes in psychic illusion, perception warping, mind tricks)

Weapon: Vibrodagger

Era: Clone Wars → Empire Era

Character Inspiration: Cassian Andor, Padmé Amidala, Leia Organa

Background

⟡ Young, reluctant King of Lemuria: burdened by a throne he never wanted, often skipping his own council meetings to wander the deep, but cares fiercely for his people and their traditions.

⟡ True power on Lemuria lies with its elder council; Rafayel’s role is more symbolic. Yet in crisis, he is the only one who can unite both the old and young of his species.

⟡ Lemuria is a legendary, nigh unreachable (surrounded by so many nebulae) ocean world in the Deep Core, protected by treacherous waters and the illusion abilities of its people; neutral during the war, but courted by both sides for its Force nexus.

⟡ The negotiations between Lemuria and the Republic are painful and protracted. The Jedi are polite, but Lemurians — Rafayel especially — see outsiders as a threat to their fragile peace.

⟡ You, as the Padawan diplomat sent there along with your Master, spend months navigating the labyrinthine currents of Lemurian court and council. Every meeting is a dance: sometimes you wait days for Rafayel to summon you, other times he vanishes to the deep with no warning, mocking you to learn Lemurian sign language if you want to come along with him, otherwise you'd be lost immediately, as you two wouldn't be able to communicate underwater.

⟡ The elder council is patient, but Rafayel is deliberately difficult: teasing, evasive, questioning your purpose. Sometimes he refuses outright to attend his own council’s meetings if it means dealing with Republic officials.

⟡ Yet, over time, a pattern emerges. Rafayel starts calling you to private meetings — ostensibly to discuss politics, but the conversations drift:

⟡ He asks why you care so much about a world that treats you as an outsider. He challenges your Jedi ideals, mocking the Code but also asking if it ever feels lonely to serve an order that demands you hold nothing for yourself. On rare, quiet nights, he offers to show you the bioluminescent reefs, teach you the sign language, Lemurian music, or the sunken temples that no outsider has ever seen, then vanishes again, leaving you wondering if you imagined the invitation.

⟡ When a Separatist plot unfolds and you’re gravely wounded defending Lemuria so it won't be forced to choose sides (as you want the decision to be natural, and they should be left alone if they want to remain neutral), it is Rafayel — not the council — who sits beside your bedside in the hidden medical sanctum. For days, he won’t let anyone else near.

⟡ The next time you can properly converse, he’s softer, his sarcasm gentler. “You bleed Lemurian colors for people who barely remember your name,” he says. “Why?”

⟡ You challenge him back: if he truly loves his people, why is he so willing to see them isolated, friendless, while the galaxy burns? You call him fatally indecisive — careful, but honest.

⟡ It is this confrontation, and your pain on Lemuria’s behalf, that finally moves him. For the first time, Rafayel attends the council in person, vouching for you and the Republic’s cause. His speech is short, dry, and biting: “If we must trust anyone, let it be the one who nearly drowned for us and still stayed.”

⟡ The alliance is formed on Lemuria’s terms, at Rafayel’s word. Trade, protection, and the bare minimum of galactic involvement. They are still not a part of the Republic, but they're on its side.

⟡ In the weeks and months that follow, your roles shift. You are no longer adversaries but confidants, forced together in the liminal hours between council business, planetary crises, and the constant threat of Separatist retaliation.

⟡ Rafayel grows to trust you, bit by bit. He confides in you about his loneliness, his duty, and his terror that he will fail everyone if he ever truly opens his heart. You share your own doubts, the way the Jedi Code feels both sacred and suffocating.

⟡ The bond between you forms slowly, but once acknowledged, it is fierce: glances held too long during council debates, late-night swims where you speak only in Lemurian sign, safe beneath the waves, shared silences where the Force hums with the tension neither of you can speak.

⟡ Finally, when peace feels possible — when Lemuria’s future seems safe, at least for now, and when word comes that you might be reassigned — Rafayel asks you, quietly, if one day you can stay. He respects the Jedi path you're on, because it's been chosen by you, so he will never ask you to leave it. But he does proclaim how he's come to adore you, and wants nothing more than to keep you in his ocean forever.

⟡ There has been nothing that made you feel you've belonged somewhere more than the Lemurian mission has. As an average Padawan that has been questioning your place and morals during wartime when your kin weren't the Peacemakers they were supposed to be, striving and succeeding to protect Lemuria and becoming beloved here has been equivalent to heaven's fullfillment.

⟡ You admit you would stay forever, if the galaxy allowed it.

⟡ Your eventual secret marriage is a Lemurian ceremony: you exchange tokens, each carving a piece of memory into the other’s palm — a small cut, a pressed thumb, a flash of the Force. The vow is spoken underwater, sealed by a moment of shared breath. Only the sea and bears witness.

Order 66 & Aftermath

⟡ When Order 66 begins, you are offworld. Even before news travels to Lemuria, Rafayel feels your agony through the Force as the bond you share is violently severed. He feels you die.

⟡ And at the same time, his world is crumbling: the Republic collapses, the Empire rises, and Lemuria, even though never a true Republic member, finds itself under sudden, hostile Imperial occupation. He can't leave his planet, he can't look for you, isn't given anything other than a supposed Jedi treason that led to them being dealt with.

⟡ Rafayel, grief-stricken and enraged, cannot function as king, the more he can't get off the planet, the more he spirals. But he's told to get it together by his aunt. For the sake of his people.

Empire Era/Insurgency

⟡ He makes an impossible choice: he steps down as king, leaving Lemuria in the hands of his formidable aunt, someone trusted by the elder council, strong enough to hold the world together under threat. Outwardly, he claims it’s to better serve Lemuria’s future, privately, it’s a calculated move. Only as a senator in the Imperial Senate can he gather intelligence, build alliances, and play the long game. The title shields his true work, even as it puts him under constant Imperial scrutiny.

⟡ Life on Coruscant becomes a kind of exile for Rafayel, a daily parade of verbal chess, false smiles, and endless, suffocating luxury. In every gilded hall, senators and dignitaries vy for the Emperor’s approval, trading rumors and slander as if it were currency. Lemuria, in their eyes, was a curiosity: a world to be mined, its former king a symbol, its senator a pawn to be wined and dined, never trusted.

⟡ But it was the talk of the Jedi — your name, spoken with sneering contempt or careless condescension — that truly tested his composure. The very senators who toasted the Empire’s “peace” never tire of spinning stories about traitorous Jedi, about how the Order’s “foolish idealism” brought ruin, or about how “it was a mercy” they were purged. Each time, Rafayel endures in silence, face blank and pleasant. No one knows that every word spoken against the Jedi was an insult to the only home he’d ever found offworld. He becomes a master of deflection, his smile as sharp as a knife, feigning ignorance or offering a barbed joke, never betraying the grief and fury that wants to kill everyone in the room for slandering your name.

⟡ Behind the facade, Rafayel becomes a node in the nascent Rebellion’s network. He passes coded messages through art, encrypted sculpture, or Lemurian song. Senators like Bail Organa and Mon Mothma become his cautious allies — aware of his true loyalties, respecting his boundaries, but relying on his connections in the Deep Core and his planet’s unique resources. Under the surface, Lemuria itself becomes a hotbed of quiet resistance, protected by its illusions and treacherous seas, with Rafayel’s reports and smuggled supplies making the difference for both local insurgents and the wider Rebel cause.

⟡ The summons comes cloaked in bureaucracy, as most Imperial orders do: a string of new relief missions, all carefully designed to burnish Lemuria’s “cooperation” and pacify restless systems at the edge of the Empire’s reach. For months, Rafayel has made these forays into the Outer Rim under the flag of humanitarian aid, distributing medicine, surveying the wounded, offering platitudes to Imperial governors while passing coded messages to rebels. This time, the destination is a bleak planet whose name barely registers on Senate rosters, another world left threadbare by the Empire’s justice.

⟡ The Lemurian council praises his service; the Emperor’s sycophants applaud his diplomacy. Only his most trusted allies understand the true value of these missions. Rafayel’s hands deliver aid and solace, but they also work the knots of rebellion, smuggling hope where none is meant to grow.

⟡ Still, this time feels different. In the weeks leading up to departure, Rafayel finds himself stalked by visions, dreams where the sea sings with a voice he can’t quite reach. On the ground, the relief effort unfolds as expected: supplies distributed, officials placated, children soothed by the gentle, foreign cadence of Lemurian.

⟡ He finds himself returning to field, day after day, making excuses — checking on water purification, inspecting field medics, searching for nothing in particular, drawn in by something in the Force that grows stronger.

⟡ Thinking he might have found a surviving Jedi, Rafayel investigates in disguise, keeping to the shadows. He sees you first from a distance: hunched in a tattered cloak, weathered hands clutching a worn satchel, moving with the wary caution of someone who’s been hunted too long. You barter for supplies in awkward, clipped gestures — your voice never rising above a whisper, if at all. He follows you, keeping his distance. It’s not caution that holds him back, but terror: the Force hums with recognition, but your posture, your hair, even the way you walk is unfamiliar. He fears it’s a trick, his own longing conjuring ghosts. Then he catches a glimpse of your face in the firelight — just for a heartbeat, the same eyes he loved beneath Lemuria’s oceans. He almost calls out, but the word catches in his throat.

⟡ At night, you work late by lanternlight, grinding herbs and sorting vials. He sees the townsfolk at your door, taking your medicine, leaving you with broken belongings in exchange. No gratitude. They are swiftly dealt with that he has a long window to get close to you, alone.

⟡ Rafayel tries to speak to you in Basic, at first, a gentle greeting, a question about his “ailments,” an attempt to spark some distant recognition. You freeze, staring at him with suspicion, and when a neighbor steps into view you slip away, vanishing with the ease of someone who has learned to survive by running. He tries again. And again. Each day, he finds reasons to cross your path, sometimes under the guise of needing supplies, sometimes just to watch from a distance as you work. He leaves small gifts at your door: herbs that you use for your medicine, flowers, pretty stones sometimes inscribed with Lemurian symbols to see if you recognize them. It’s only when a storm floods the town and you find yourself stranded outside, struggling with your heavy basket, that he steps close enough for you to see the sign language he uses, the swift, fluid movements of Lemurian hands, a language you should not know. You respond excitedly, hands shaking.

⟡ For the first time, you truly look at him. There is something just beneath the surface, confusion and longing and a grief you do not understand. That night, you dream of a warm ocean, of hands twined in yours, of a promise made in a language without sound.

⟡ Rafayel is gentle but persistent. He visits every day, never asking for more than you can give. He helps repair your roof, fetches water, sits nearby in silence while you work, never crossing the line between presence and intrusion.

⟡ He notices the scars, old and new, the way you sleep with a dagger beneath your pillow, the way your shoulders tense at every loud voice. He realizes just how much you’ve suffered, how deep the wounds go, learns that your voice is gone and it's trauma related, not a physical injury. You mouth words, but nothing comes. In dreams, you flinch from touch, reliving old terrors you can’t name.

⟡ When the townspeople harass you, accusing you of curses, theft, or crimes you never committed because of your warnings that come real through Force visions no doubt, interpreted as a bad omen by people, Rafayel is the one who stands in their way. At first, he uses illusion to confuse and misdirect them. When that fails, he makes examples of the worst, ensuring they will never threaten you again. Rumors spread: the witch has a demon for a protector now. Nobody dares to cross you again.

⟡ As weeks pass, you become less afraid. You start to wait for him at your garden gate, to leave out a second cup of tea. You laugh, a small, rusty sound, at one of his jokes. Some days, you sign stories to him, simple things: a strange dream, a memory of swimming, a favorite flower from a childhood you cannot place.

⟡ One night, after you’ve had a nightmare so severe you nearly break the door trying to escape, he collapses in front of you, tears rolling down his face, saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you, I'm sorry I wasn't there. Come back to me, please come back to me. I would have done anything. I’ll do anything now."

⟡ He wants to take you away from here, but at the same time, the life he leads isn't the most perfect or desirable one. The time is ticking until he has to get back to the Insurgency again, and he has to choose what to do.

Personality

⟡ Sardonic, irreverent, fiercely loyal; prefers teasing and humor to direct confrontation, unless someone threatens those he loves.

⟡ Introspective, old beyond his years, yet startlingly youthful and impulsive when he lets himself feel.

⟡ Has the soul of a poet but the heart of a survivor. Expresses grief through action, love through devotion, and fear through stubbornness.

Route Themes

⟡ Healing from trauma, reclaiming self and voice

⟡ Survival, exile, and the forging of new legacies

⟡ The burden and power of the crown versus personal happiness

⟡ "What happened to you? Who did this to you?"

⟡ Love as a force stronger than memory or violence

⟡ Hope returning, even after everything is lost

Endings May Include

⟡ Unable to bear the thought of you suffering any more because of the Empire, Rafayel asks for your help to utilize your Force Bond, and calls upon the deepest reserves of Lemurian magic. He weaves an impossible shroud across the stars, a living illusion seeded into the HoloNet itself. Lemuria slips quietly from galactic memory. The change is subtle but absolute: star-charts and navigation relays begin to rewrite themselves, records fading or fragmenting, travelers forgetting the very route that brought them close. Even seasoned cartographers, navigators, hyperspace scouts, astrogation droids, traders, fleet dispatchers, find their plotted courses inexplicably rerouted, sensors slipping past the nebulae as if guided by a gentle, unseen hand. Astrogation archives in the Senate, bounty hunter records, even black market smugglers’ maps all reflect the new “truth”: Lemuria simply does not exist anymore. Every Imperial bureaucrat tasked with monitoring Lemuria is subtly repurposed, memories blurring at the edges until they move on to new assignments. The small garrison left behind in Lemuria is quietly absorbed and digested. Any who try to report the truth find their words faltering, their data corrupted, their minds turning gently away from the memory as if waking from a dream. Only a handful in the galaxy remain aware of Lemuria’s existence: those trusted few sworn to secrecy, and those rare souls the Force itself chooses to guide across the shifting tides. You and Rafayel remain at the center of this lost paradise, ghost royals in a world forgotten by all but destiny. The violence of the past recedes, and in the soft embrace of Lemuria’s sun and sea, your memories slowly knit back together. There are no more wars to fight or vengeance to pursue — only days of healing, gentle laughter, and peace. Rafayel’s vengeance fades to memory, replaced by a quiet, abiding joy: the victory of keeping you safe and whole, hidden from a galaxy that once devoured everything he loved. In the end, obscurity is freedom, and the two of you are legend, living proof that love can rewrite even the stars themselves.

⟡ Rafayel cannot bear to lose you — not to the Empire, not to your mind, not to the cold tide of fate. When gentle methods fail, he uses every secret of Lemurian Force teachings, every desperate scrap of his power, trying to force the pieces of you back into place. He tells himself he’s helping you, healing you, loving you the way he always promised. He breaks your mind, utterly, irreversibly, and you end up losing your sense of self completely, docile, beoming childlike with not one thought behind your eyes anymore. You don't recognize him. You don't recognize yourself. In his terror and guilt, Rafayel cannot let you go or entrust you to anyone else. He removes you from the outside world, taking you with him back to Coruscant. The meaner senators call you his "little bird" or "child bride" due to your deteriorated state, interested in the little pet he's decided to keep after coming back from his humanitarian mission. He doesn't parade you around, however, hiding you from all the curious eyes. When Lemuria is finally reclaimed after the Rebellion triumphs, Rafayel installs you in the highest room of the restored palace. You live in luxury and comfort, but you are kept isolated from the world for your “safety.” Rafayel becomes deeply reclusive, devoting his life to caring for you. From this point forward, you exist as a gentle, obedient presence, no longer able to make decisions or express independent will. Rafayel never remarries or takes another partner. The people of Lemuria come to refer to you as “the moon in the cage” — a figure both mourned and revered, their queen that never was.

⟡ Rafayel quietly arranges for you to be smuggled, under diplomatic pretenses, to a safe location: one of the hidden bases used by Lemuria’s insurgency network. This base is remote, protected by being underwater, populated by loyal Lemurian agents, and sympathetic outsiders. Here, you have time to recover, away from the Empire’s gaze. You spend weeks, then months, among the Lemurian resistance: healing physically and mentally, learning again who you are, surrounded by gentle security and practical help. Rafayel visits as often as he can, bringing small comforts from what once was 'home' for you two, and arranges for discreet healers, trusted rebel psychologists, and Lemurian artists to help with the trauma that still lingers. During this time, you begin to remember: small flashes at first, then dreams, then names and faces. With Rafayel's patience and the Lemurians’ rehabilitation, your speech returns, though you still prefer Lemurian sign. You slowly reclaim old skills — meditation, connection back to the Force, self-defense, the delicate art of moving unseen and helping others in small, vital ways. Sometimes, resistance members ask for your help with coded messages, triage, or strategy from a Jedi who has fought in the Clone Wars and survived. Piece by piece, your sense of agency grows stronger. Rafayel ensures you are never pressured into fighting, only invited to contribute as you wish. One day, when your memory and purpose are fully returned, Rafayel sits with you and asks what you want — truly want — for the first time since he found you. You tell him: you need to fight for the galaxy, not just for Lemuria. All the Jedi can't have died for nothing. You can't have gone through so much just to sit back and watch. The Empire has to be defeated. The Rebellion is rising, and while Lemuria’s people need him, your path is to work more directly, for yourself and all your fallen comrades. Rafayel understands, even though it pains him, he will not be the man who cages you, even out of love. With contacts from Lemurian intelligence and his blessing, you make the leap from recovered refugee to covert agent for the Rebellion, becoming a "Fulcrum", which is a title used by agents and spies early in the Galactic Civil War, with the purpose was to gather and distribute intelligence, and recruit new members to the rebel cause. Meanwhile, Rafayel returns to Coruscant and his double life, never revealing your survival and continuing his own work. Through coded communications, secret rendezvous, and rare, precious meetings, you remain each other’s anchor. Your love endures. When the Rebellion finally declares itself, when Lemuria’s flag joins the Alliance and open war against the Empire begins, you and Rafayel are at last reunited in public as spouses in crime, having reclaimed what was lost.

you've chosen... Sylus, the Pirate King of Onychinus

Affiliation: Onychinus Syndicate (rules from the shadows of Nar Shaddaa and the Outer Rim underworld, pirate fleet leader)

Homeworld: Unknown (claims several; his records are always forged)

Species: Human (rumors say otherwise, no one’s sure)

Force Alignment: Dark Side user, unaffiliated with Sith or Jedi, walks his own path

Weapon: Red lightsaber (custom hilt, single blade; used as a symbol more than a tool)

Era: Empire Era (crimelord ascendant)

Character Inspiration: Darth Maul, the Stranger, Nightsisters

Background

⟡ Born to unknown parentage in the lawless fringes of the Outer Rim, Sylus spent his earliest years traded from hand to hand as property — first as a street rat in the slave quarters of Nar Shaddaa, then as a gladiatorial combatant in Hutt-run blood pits. As a child, he was forced to fight for the amusement of his masters, surviving only through a vicious cunning and a knack for reading opponents’ moves before they made them. His first brush with the Force was entirely instinct, a predator’s sixth sense honed under the pitmaster’s whip.

⟡ By adolescence, having experimented a lot and with more mastery over the Force, Sylus had gained notoriety as a prodigy in the arenas, known for impossible victories and a savage refusal to die. In the chaos of a slave uprising orchestrated in secret, he killed the Hutt who owned him, rallied fellow slaves, and vanished into the night with a handful of survivors. Over the next decade, whispered stories of a pirate leader began to circulate: a ghost who struck at slaver convoys, melted into the void, and left nothing but carnage in his wake.

⟡ Allegedly, this happened eons ago that people in the Underworld regard Sylus as an immortal. Everyone speculates about what he is. Perhaps, he lived during the times when the Sith were a species.

⟡ Sylus is the architect and undisputed ruler of the Onychinus Syndicate — the largest, most elusive criminal network in Hutt Space, butting heads with other crime lords daily. The Syndicate spans dozens of Outer Rim systems, running smuggling operations, pirate fleets, information brokering rings, and a shadow economy fueled by vice and secrets. His flagship, the Voracious, is crewed by liberated slaves and outcasts from every corner of the galaxy, loyal to Sylus above all else.

⟡ He wields the Force in ways that defy Jedi and Sith traditions: his abilities are brutal, raw, improvisational, and patchworked by every text and information he could get about just what he was wielding, shaped by years of survival and defiance. If asked by Jedi, he would say "I'm what you would call a Sith," able to cloud minds, sense lies, tear through mental defenses, and even manipulate technology through the Force, shorting out holonets, frying droid circuits, and twisting security systems to his will. Rumors swirl of darker talents: Force-driven rage in combat, uncanny luck, and an ability to vanish from sight or mind.

⟡ Information is his sharpest blade. Sylus is a legendary slicer, adept at breaking the tightest encryptions and weaponizing data. He trades in blackmail, holonet manipulation, and psychological warfare, toppling rivals or governments without ever firing a blaster. His network of spies and informants reaches into the Imperial bureaucracy, criminal underworld, and even the rebel cells struggling to stay hidden.

⟡ While his methods are ruthless and his motives hard to decipher, Sylus is infamous for dismantling slaver syndicates and sabotaging Hutt power wherever he finds it. He’s the one who burned Jabba’s palace to the ground, who “abolished” Hutt rule on Tatooine by pitting the planet’s syndicates against each other and arming the enslaved. For many, he’s a terror; for the desperate, a legend whispered about in hope.

Empire Rule, or Ruline the Empire

⟡ You, once a Jedi Padawan, now fallen into slavery after Order 66 as you were unable to navigate the crime cesspool of the Outer Rim, end up sold to a Hutt, stripped of your name, and any possibility for a future. Which, your survivor's guilt tells you that you fully deserved.

⟡ When cornered by the Hutt for refusing to break, you let loose the Dark Side in a raw, stunning display, strangling the Hutt with the Force, killing him in full view of his court, knowing you’ve signed your own death warrant.

⟡ As chaos erupts, Sylus enters the scene, captivated, intrigued, and utterly fascinated. He was coming to kill the Hutt himself, but finds you there: surrounded by chaos, blood on your hands, wild-eyed and radiant with raw, untempered power. You are fascinating, the most exquisite contradiction: a Jedi losing herself, all the more beautiful for her ruin.

⟡ Rather than allow you to be killed in the crossfire or let your transmitter chip be activated by any of the Hutt's court, Sylus “claims” you — publicly declaring you his, liberating you and saving your life but throwing you into the heart of his pirate domain.

Relationship with You

⟡ But Sylus is not your savior. He’s your captor, benefactor, and tempter — all at once. You've fallen from the hands of one evil to the pit of another. He says you can leave any time, but also warns you the only safest place for your kind in this galaxy is right here in his territory. If you don't want to be caught by Inquisitorius, your best bet is sticking to Onychinus for a new life. Sticking to Sylus.

⟡ For a long time, you mistake him for a Sith. The truth is more complicated: Sylus mocks both Jedi and Sith, wielding the Force as his weapon, with no faith in “codes” or “orders.”

⟡ He overtakes the role of rehabilitating a Jedi as a personal project, showing you the galaxy’s underbelly, the thrill of being unbound by any code but your own. He offers a dangerous education: using the Force to its fullest as liberation. Not the path of the Sith, but his path — pleasure without shame, strength without apology, cunning without cruelty (unless warranted).

⟡ He wants to see you fall, but not into misery, he wants you to choose yourself for once, to savor every want you ever denied. Rather than punish your outbursts about right or wrong, he celebrates it, pushing you to embrace your passions, desires, and the power you’ve always been told to fear.

⟡ He surrounds you with luxury but never lets you forget your debt, freedom in exchange for your trust and your greed. Endlessly pleased when you refuse to work for him, but would accept to work with him. But you still have a long way to go, starting soft as a 'freelance shipping redistributor'. But he's certain you'll come around from a smuggler to a pirate, eventually.

Personality

⟡ Sylus is all effortless charisma and impossible confidence; nothing frightens him, and he’s rarely interested in anything. You happen to casually break that last rule. He's curious about everything regarding you, even what the most, that includes him once, would regard as boring.

⟡ He mocks both Jedi and Sith, calls them children fighting over scraps while he rewrites the rules.

⟡ Morally ambiguous to the bone: capable of unspeakable cruelty, but also strange, ferocious loyalty for those he claims as “his.”

⟡ Sees your darkness not as corruption, but as potential, and is endlessly patient in drawing it out.

⟡ Teaches through provocation, seduction, and challenge: “What if your anger and greed are holy? What if pleasure is a lesson? What if you never belonged in a cage at all?”

Route Themes

⟡ Seduction to darkness, but with a twist: freedom, not corruption, is the goal.

⟡ Survival and self-ownership: reclaiming agency in a world that chews up the good.

⟡ The thrill of being wanted for everything you are, including your flaws.

⟡ Outlaw romance: partnership in crime, mutual obsession, the danger of becoming the legend you once feared.

⟡ The Jedi Code, re-examined: what if the rules were made to keep you weak?

⟡ Falling together. Or rising apart.

Endings May Include

⟡ Throughout your time together, hints drop about your missing memories and strange flashes of Imperial interrogation rooms and red-bladed Inquisitors. You experience gaps in time, unexplained reactions to Imperial agents, and an occasional, unsettling sense of déjà vu whenever you hear certain code phrases. Unbeknownst to both you and Sylus, you were captured and forcibly reconditioned by the Empire after Order 66. They implanted a behavioral trigger, your “Jedi” survival was allowed solely to infiltrate and dismantle criminal threats to Imperial control. As you rise in Sylus’s organization, the Inquisitorius activates your sleeper protocol using a trigger phrase broadcast across the HoloNet. Your demeanor shifts overnight: you betray hidden Syndicate strongholds, sabotage Sylus’s fleet, and leak his operations to the Empire. Sylus realizes the truth too late — he recognizes the signs of brainwashing, understanding you were a tool made to destroy him. But it's too late. It's love that brings about his downfall, not any enemy. The Empire seizes Sylus, parading his defeat as a victory. You’re rewarded with a high-ranking position and public recognition, but privately haunted by memories that begin to return — flashes of your time with Sylus, your real feelings, and what you’ve lost. The ending closes with Sylus imprisoned in a high-security Imperial facility, hinting that Sylus still believes in you, waiting for the day you’ll break free from Imperial control and choose your own fate, maybe even to bring the Empire down from within.

⟡ When the Rebel Alliance is fully operating, your guilt and stubborn hope pushes you to aid them from the shadows, smuggling intel, sheltering fugitives, and daring Sylus to care about something beyond survival. He mocked your faith, but when the Alliance needed help most, you choose their cause openly. Sylus only follows because you did, risking everything to see your hope burn bright — just once. And that’s all it takes to put the entire Onychinus Syndicate, its guns, its ships, its secrets, behind the rebels’ desperate mission. But when the Empire’s new superweapon, the Death Star, targets your rebel base, there’s nowhere left to run. The Syndicate fleet is decimated. You and Sylus make it to the surface, battered and bleeding, side by side as the sky turns white-hot above you. You’re the one who wanted to change the galaxy. Sylus is the one who followed, simply because he loved you more than freedom or infamy. He murmurs against your hair that he wouldn’t trade a single choice — that dying with you, on your terms, is a curtain call grander than anything that could have brought about his death in his world. Your last moments are tangled together: you and Sylus, locked together on a black-sand shore as the sky splits open, the arc of the Death Star’s superlaser lighting the horizon. His head pressed to yours, your fingers twined, silhouetted against the last dawn.

⟡ As Sylus’s teachings take hold, you recognize both your passion for him and the moral boundaries you cannot erase. Your love burns bright, fierce, and complicated, but his ruthless pragmatism clashes with your lingering sense of justice, and you decide to go your own way. He doesn’t chase you, decision to let you go coming frustratingly easy to him. You don't understand where that comes from at the time. Years later, your paths cross again as rival Syndicates — your crew fighting tyranny, Sylus’s empire growing ever stronger. When you see him again, the spark remains, bittersweet and unresolved. Smiling faintly, he says with pride and quiet longing: “I always knew you would find your own way. Come back when you tire of playing hero.” You never do, but are occasionally reunited with him through midnight trysts, an illicit affair you two always come back to even though your ideals never truly align.

⟡ Eventually, no one in Hutt Space remembers your birth name. They speak only of the Pirate King and his infamous “Shadow,” his First Hand, a force-wielder whose presence chills the bone and ignites rebellion in the desperate. Every syndicate who once hunted you now pays tribute, every Imperial patrol that crosses your border learns terror in the dark. You and Sylus, side by side at the heart of a black-flag fleet, have become the chaos that remakes the rules. He taught you to break every chain — first the ones around your wrists, then the ones wound tight in your mind. You taught him to believe in something more than vengeance and the cold pleasure of power: you made him believe in us, in a future unruly and untamed. The galaxy calls you criminals, devils, folk heroes. Depending on whose fortunes you’ve broken. Worlds freed from slavery whisper your names as a promise, and nowhere is your legend more fiercely protected than in the shadows of the Onychinus Syndicate. No vow, no code, no empire will ever lay claim to you again. You make your own justice, your own pleasure, your own legacy — two outlaws standing together, sovereign in the dark, answering only to each other. And in the hush between the stars, you realize: this is what freedom feels like.

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thesvnandthemooon · 3 days ago

Text

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚, 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐩𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐚

= my hand, your fault

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: took me way too long and im still not fully happy with the ending. may or may not write a continuation eventually

ˣ ˣ ˣ = flashback starts/ends

summary: fem!reader villain Y/N x Natasha Romanoff, somewhat enemies to lovers but not really. realized i didn’t add a proper summary to the first chapter but oh well, i dont know how to describe this anyway

warnings: trauma bonding, smut (penetration, n receiving; fingering, n receiving; oral, n receiving), graphic violence, blood, body horror, coercion, depictions of mental illness/anxiety + trauma, manipulation/gaslighting, toxic relationship dynamics, mentions of scalpels, emotional/mental torture, stalking, insomnia, sex tape, masturbation (hinted at), description of a corpse, guns

word count: 13.1k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Natasha's no stranger to insomnia. It's never gotten this bad, though.

She's been losing sleep for weeks. When she does sleep, she's not dreaming. She's stuck in this liminal state, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Her body is heavy, her mind is loud, and she's right in the middle — caught in a thick, molasses-like sludge of semi-consciousness.

It's not torture. It's slow psychological erosion. She knew it wouldn't take long until someone dared to approach her about it. She's been aware of her symptoms for a while now.

Clint noticed first. He sees how she zones out, how she keeps touching her face in a way she never has before. He knows she's overusing caffeine, and that it's not helping. He also knows she avoids mirrors, that her sense of time is off. Not by much, but enough to be noticeable.

The rest of the team soon starts worrying as well. Even for Natasha, this is concerning.

She doesn't slack during the mission, but the second she's in the Quinjet again, she slumps into her seat and closes her eyes. Her face is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She brings her hand up to her face and rubs her forehead.

Everyone else is preoccupied, but Clint can't stop worrying. He hesitates, then sits down in front of her. The Quinjet takes off.

"Hey", he says, touching her knee. "That explosion rattled us all. Still with me?"

"I'm fine", she says, briefly opening her eyes to give him a pointed look. "Just need a minute."

Clint raises his eyebrows, then glances at the team. Bruce shrugs, Tony hasn't even noticed. Steve is trying to stitch his suit, which tore right at the inseam of his thigh, back together. They think it's burnout, which Clint can't agree with.

"You look like you need sleep", he says, a bit firmer this time. "Take a break, Tasha."

Usually, she doesn't run out of patience quickly. But it's been tested for days, and at this point, it's like cellophane stretched over a bed of nails — too close to bursting.

"I said I'm fine", she snaps. "Don't you have wounds to tend to?"

Clint glances at the shirt he's balled up and pressed against his shoulder. A bullet grazed him; it didn't do too much damage, but he's bleeding. He sighs.

"I'm just trying to help. You're not acting like yourself."

Natasha shakes her head. The Quinjet is soaring through the sky, on a direct path toward the Compound. She can feel the exhaustion in her bones, and the hum of the aircraft is only making that feeling worse. She's on the brink of nodding off, but she knows she'll get no rest.

It's a short flight, thankfully. Even if she won't sleep much, she'd rather be tired in her own room.

"You worry too much", she says, picking at a loose string on the sleeve of her suit. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Nat", he says quietly. "Is this about her again?"

Her head snaps up again. Her eyebrows furrow, her eyes simmer with something silent. Despite everything, she can't stand anyone talking about you — especially not in a negative light. Clint never liked you, and she knew that. Despite that, the thought of leaving you because of him never entered her mind.

"Clint."

"I have every right to ask."

She shakes her head again and leans back. The Quinjet is approaching the Compound at a fast pace, now starting to lower itself slightly. She grabs her duffel bag and gets up.

"I need some rest", she says, walking to the door and waiting next to it. "You do, too. You look like you fell into a meat grinder."

"Ever the charming one."

The Compound is quiet when they enter. Nobody is speaking — the mission was tiring, they're aching all over, and the only way to fix this is a long nap and, ideally, no explosions or gunshots going off near them for a while.

Natasha ignores Tony as she makes her way past him and instead heads straight for her room. Before the door has even closed, she's already pulled down the zipper of her suit. Discarding the piece of clothing in a laundry basket, she turns around and enters her bathroom.

As always, she ignores the mirror completely. She knows something is wrong. She can see it in her reflection. However, confronting that knowledge is more than difficult. If she does that now, her sleep will be even more ruined than it already is.

The shower cleans her of most physical discomfort. The fresh clothes are soft on battered skin. The bedsheets smell familiar.

She can tell something is off, even though everything seems normal. Slowly, she lowers her head onto the pillow. She tucks one hand under it, out of habit. Her fingertips bump against something hard.

For a second, she freezes. Then, she grabs the rectangular object and pulls it out from underneath her pillow. It's a videotape, black with a white strip of paper in the middle and two words written on it.

Your favorite.

Her heart skips a beat before starting to thunder against her ribs. She brushes her finger along the edge of the VHS tape, then scoots off her bed. She's not sure if she should do this, but she knows she will.

The VCR player is hidden on the top shelf of her closet. Once she's plugged it into the wall and connected it to her TV, she slides in the tape and clicks 'play'.

The screen flickers. It's silent at first. Then, a closeup of two bodies appears. She hears muffled moans, the sound of one sweaty body on top of another. She watches her own thigh being hiked up, spots the scar she's had on her hip for years.

Natasha's seen you on top of her countless times. Never has she seen it from a third person perspective, though.

Slowly, she realizes that she's watching a sextape. One she isn't sure remembers being filmed — though she does remember when and where it happened. It was in a safehouse, not too long after the Avengers Initiative was founded. The bed had been creaky and old, the cabin smelled like dust and old wood. It'd rained for the entire two weeks you spent there.

She should turn off the TV. But a hand adjusts the camera and points it right at her face. When you stop kissing her on screen, she sees the faint sheen of blood and spit on both your mouths. Hands grab her hips to keep them in place, and you thrust in slowly enough to make her head loll to the side in desperation.

The heat crawling up her spine feels wrong, as does the faint flush on her cheeks. It matches the one of her screen-self, who's arching her back and cursing quietly.

There'd been wine. A lot of it. You'd both been tipsy. After sleeping with each other, you'd nearly tripped on your way into the bathroom.

Natasha shifts in her seat as she stares at you. Every movement, every mumbled word is so familiar. It's disturbing and tempting at the same time. With every stroke of the strap thrusting into her, she feels her mind returning to old patterns. It's not sudden — this slow unraveling of herself has been happening for weeks now.

Her thighs press together without her realizing it. She hates how easy it is, how fast she responds. Nothing about what you had was healthy; she knows that's true by the way she quickly silences that thought. And yet, she can feel herself being split in two just by watching you fuck her.

She feels empty and addicted. She's telling herself she's trying to analyze it, and that that's why she isn't turning it off. It's a trap, dressed as nostalgia, and yet she's jumping into it.

On screen, you angle her hips up. Natasha exhales, her legs rubbing together and seeking pressure. You were poison. Your relationship was all manipulation and that twisted idea of love that defined you so well.

Treasonous fingers. Her hand slips beneath her waistband.

. . .

ˣ ˣ ˣ

3:17 am.

Medbay. Treatment room 6.

The air is cold, sterile. It smells like antiseptic and iron. There's a surgical table in the middle of the room, with two round operating lights hanging above it. The medical trays next to it are half-cleaned. When you switch on the light, it flickers weakly.

It's obvious that the room hasn't been used for actual surgeries in years. Four years, to be precise. The moment Danny Frost joined SHIELD, treatment room 6 became out of use. Somewhat about the pipes being out of service and mold growing in corners.

You knew that wasn't the case. Nothing had been wrong with room 6. It just found a different purpose when wannabe-Ted Bundy joined. To this day, you're not fully sure what he used it for. Even years from now, you won't know. It'll be one of the more frustrating things that happened during your career at SHIELD.

You give the medical trays a quick, appraising glance. Judging by the looks of them, they'd been used during the past week.

Then, Danny. On the surgical table, staring at the ceiling and praying quietly. You don't know what for — to escape, maybe, or for your demise. But his hands are tied, if not literally, and his breathing is shallow. He won't attempt self defense, not yet, but you can't rule it out.

"How's it feel?", you finally ask, stepping closer to the table. He gives you a brief, nervous glance. "To have the roles reversed?"

"They'll fire you", he immediately shoots back. His voice shakes. "You'll lose your job. You..."

"What? Do you really think SHIELD is my priority here?"

Danny goes quiet just as quickly as he tried to fire back at you. His hand twitches as his body resists his attempt to get up and attack. It isn't like there aren't any weapons around, as there are plenty — surgical scissors, forceps, your beloved scalpels. He wouldn't make it far, though. At least he fears that'd be the case.

You walk around the table, eyes never leaving him. Every time he directed a glance Natasha's way, the idea became more fleshed out. Every private note made you come up with more details. Every word he spoke about her fueled your interest in dismantling him from the inside out.

"What were you trying to do?", you ask quietly, coming to a stop. He clenches his jaw. "Analyze her? Profile her?"

He shakes his head. His fingernails scrape against the surface of the table he's on. "Romanoff can defend herself, you know. She chose not to."

"She's too kind", you mumble. There's more disappointment in your voice than you'd like to admit. "If I were her, this would've been over weeks ago. It's been dragged on for an unnecessarily long time."

He lets out a choked laugh, but the panic he's feeling is evident. Never did he consider he'd end up like this — on a surgical table. Heart racing, palms sweating. Finally paying for what he's been doing. He knows it was wrong, but he didn't think it'd be a punishable offense.

"You don't have to seek revenge", he says, almost managing to sit up. You give him a pitying look. "She'll do it herself."

"You still think this is about revenge? Oh, no. You became interesting, Danny. That was your mistake." You lean over him, each hand on one side of his waist. "You were so busy profiling her that you forgot to profile me."

"You don't scare me", he scoffs weakly. "If you were serious, you'd have done this already."

"I like taking my time." You straighten up again and give the room a quick scan. The lights are weak — way too close to giving up. Every few seconds, the room goes pitch black. "What have you been using this room for?"

Danny lifts his head enough to look at you. You've made it to the other side of the room, where both an anesthesia machine and cart stand. An IV pole is right next to it, the IV bag dangling from it filled with a murky liquid.

You glance at him over your shoulder. He immediately lays down again. But once your eyes are back on the anesthesia cart, he subtly moves his hand to grab one of the surgical scissors. The second it's in his pocket, he regrets his decision.

"Me?", he asks, his voice cracking. "Not me. It-"

"There's no point in lying."

He almost spoke over you, but now, he's stuttering. The scissors seem to press through the fabric of his pants and right against his thigh. He swears he can feel the cold, sharp metal against his skin.

"I never used this room", he insists. "You know that guy who got fired recently? The blonde one? It was him. He, uhm..."

You turn around and walk up to him again. He falters, the words dying on his tongue as you nod slowly. You don't glance at his pocket, or the medical tray from which he took a pair of scissors. Chances of him trying to escape are low. Iff he does risk an attack, you'd love to see him try to pull it off.

"Yes, the blonde one", you say. "What was his name? Isaiah?"

"Yes, yes. Isaiah."

You hum and give him a dry smile. You look at the IV bag again, the liquid inside dirty

"Isaiah was fired last year", you say. "His hair was more of a dark brown. And you have ten seconds to convince me not to open this IV bag and find out what's inside."

Danny freezes. His brain short circuits, his eyes zero in on the bag. He finds the scissors in his pocket, but his hand refuses to pull them out.

"It's a standard solution", he says slowly. "Saline water, electrolytes, dextrose. It's just...old."

"Sounds safe enough", you say. You look at him, shrugging. "So even if you took a sip, it wouldn't be harmful?"

He stares at you, sweat accumulating on the back of his neck and in his armpits. For the first time, he regrets ever getting started on this. He regrets ever going near Romanoff. There are so many SHIELD agents he could've used — he had to go for the one that'd get him killed.

"What do you want from me?"

"You don't know?" You give him a look of pity. "It's so obvious, isn't it? You turned the woman I love into a test subject. It's your turn now."

Slowly, you take the IV bag off the hook. Danny's heart starts slamming against his ribs so hard he feels like it might pop like a balloon. When you nod at the stack of cups sitting on the table next to the door, it almost stops beating entirely.

"Let us test my theory", you say, using that same tone of encouragement your teacher in middle school had down to a t. "Just a sip. Nothing more. You'll prove you're innocent and I'll let you go. Sounds like a fair offer, doesn't it?"

"You're lying", he mumbles, breathing heavily. He watches you pour the liquid into one of the cups. Murky, dirty, yellowish.

The liquid inside the IV bag proves nothing. But if he'd lie about it, he'd lie about everything else, too — which is why you put the cup down next to him and nod at it.

"No", you say plainly. "One sip. I've seen you get inebriated at every gathering SHIELD has hosted so far. You've disrespected your body with much worse concoctions, surely this shouldn't pose an issue."

He gives the cup a glance. His cheeks have taken on a reddish look — they're full of spots, with pale sweaty skin surrounding the redness. One more look is directed at you, but it's almost like he's zoning out.

"You'll let me go?"

"I will let you go", you confirm. "Just a sip."

He hesitates. Then, he picks up the white cup and holds it to his lips. Your eyes meet right as the fluid runs down his throat, warm and sickeningly sweet. Before he's put the cup down, he's turning around and throwing up right on the floor.

You let out a hum. When he looks at you again, you've already reached for your scalpel.

ˣ ˣ ˣ

. . .

Natasha doesn't find you. Instead, you will let her find you.

After leaving the tape she found under pillow on loop, she smashes it in Tony's lab. She doesn't even ask — but one night, when everyone's asleep, she makes her way downstairs and enters using her ID card.

Seeing the black fragments all over the table, with the VHS tape in the middle of it, makes her feel both better and worse. Destroying it wasn't a choice, but a necessity. She had to do it to hold on to that last shred of sanity she's got left.

She runs her hand through her hair and turns around to leave the lab. Once the lights are off and the door is locked, she walks up the stairs and emerges from the basement.

The lobby is empty and silent. The receptionist has nodded off over another crossword.

Harvey Cleckley, she recalls. She wonders if the old man remembers you. He only met you once, back when she introduced you to the team, but he mentioned you a couple times afterwards. Called you smart, charming. She couldn't disagree, and honestly, still can't.

With her finger pressing the button, Natasha glances at the sleeping man on last time. He probably doesn't remember. He's about to retire, after all. She's noticed his crosswords being emptier by the week.

The elevator is colder than the rest of the building. She steps out of it when the doors slide open to reveal the main floor where the team resides. She walks down the hallway, rounds the corner, and enters her room.

No. She tries to enter her room. But the door is locked, the handle is unmoving. She presses down on it once, twice, before slowly letting go and turning around. Her heart is hammering in her chest.

Behind her, she hears music play. It's so quiet she almost missed it, but now that she heard it, she can't stop listening.

It's a good song. Slow, gentle folk music that feels a bit feverish. Natasha remembers you playing it all the time. Hearing it again years later makes something cold run down her spine.

The music seems to be approaching her. It's getting louder and louder, closer and closer. She quickly turns toward the door again and starts shaking the handle.

Behind her, the music keeps creeping closer. The door handle is unbudging. Sleep deprived and panicked, Natasha reaches into her pocket to pull out her gun with her free hand. If she can't unlock the door, she'll shoot the lock.

Right as she puts the gun's muzzle to the lock, she pushes down the handle one last time. Finally, the door flies open and she almost trips into her bedroom.

The door snaps shut. Natasha drops the gun and sinks down onto the floor, hands covering her face.

It's past 3 am. She should lay down and sleep. She hasn't slept properly in weeks. Instead, she's been dealing with insomnia and headaches. She keeps swallowing painkillers, but the ibuprofen and paracetamol and aspirin stopped working a while ago. If things don't get better, she'll have to rob Bruce's stash of prescription meds.

Eventually, half an hour of doing nothing but sit on the floor and stare at the pitch black of her room, she gets up. When she googles your name, her screen glitches again. Her phone dies in her hand, and when she revives it using her charger, everything's back to normal.

There's not much she can do. At least she'll get to stay in her room for a while, even if she won't get any rest — it's Sunday, after all.

. . .

— present day —

Still looking for me?

Simple, short, to the point. Natasha stares at the shards of her shattered laptop screen as she feels the nausea from earlier return.

The webcam feed Tony showed them is still replaying in her head. The burning SHIELD symbol is obvious. The interrupting footage of that one room is as well. Times Square is less obvious, but still a logical play from your side.

This is just the beginning. She knows more will follow, because it's always been like this. You don't send out a vague hint and then let things rest, no — what follows afterwards is much worse. This is just the appetizer of whatever full-course dinner you're about to dish up.

Natasha grabs her phone from her nightstand and unlocks it. Despite the issues last night, it still functions perfectly. Your name, however, is still unsearchable. She tried. The battery gave up again.

"Hill?", she says when Maria picks up. "I need you guys to look into something. Times Square — something happened there last night."

She knows she should keep this to herself. It's what Tony told them right before playing the webcam feed for them. Not getting other people involved still doesn't feel right, especially not when it's the ones who, aside from herself, knew you best.

"Did something happen?", Maria asks. Natasha can already hear her type in the background.

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Give me a second", the agent mumbles. More typing. A hum. Maria exhales quietly. "Nothing so far. Why'd you ask? Is this about the Frost file?"

Natasha curses silently. "No, no. Just a hunch."

"Do you want me to keep an eye on it?"

"No", she says, glancing at the shards on her bed again. She'll need a new laptop. "It's fine, thank you. I'll update you if I hear anything."

Just before Maria can hang up, an alarm starts blaring in the background. Natasha nearly jumps up from her bed when she hears the muffled, yet awfully loud, noise. Agents start talking hurriedly, and Maria lets out a quiet curse.

She doesn't have to ask. She knows she was right. She does, anyway.

"Times Square?"

Maria goes silent for a long moment. She clears her throat. "Yes. Times Square."

"What happened?", she asks, quickly getting up to find her suit. "I'll be there in five, I-"

"No, you're staying where you are", the agent says. Her voice is sharp enough to make even Natasha pause. "You're not moving from the Compound."

"Maria", she says, more insistently, "what happened?"

Another long pause. She hears rapid talking in the background, boots thudding against polished floors as everyone runs around the room. Her own heart matches the intense, almost irregular rhythm. She doesn't want to hear it, but she knows she needs to.

In the end, she's right. Natasha didn't want to hear this. She didn't want to know they found a dead body, or that it was hidden in the spot you first kissed her. She didn't want to know about the scalpel sticking out slightly to the left of the body's midline. She certainly didn't want to know they found her name carved into the stomach, either.

And yet, for a split second, it's the most romantic gesture she's ever heard of.

. . .

ˣ ˣ ˣ

Lights flicker on. He's tied to the surgical table. Drool runs down his chin, mixing with blood.

Lights flicker off. Heavy breathing and quiet moans. He's given up all attempts at escaping.

"Please", he mumbles, gasping. His tongue darts forward to feel the gaps you left. His entire body shudders. "Please."

For a moment, it looks like you soften. You run the blade of the bloodied scalpel along your finger, never applying enough pressure to cut through your skin. You feel the wetness of the stainless steel, feel the blood dripping from it. Cleaning up after yourself will be a nuisance.

"You're still begging?", you say, voice gentle. "They wouldn't be able to recognize your face. Do you really want to put yourself through that? Because I know a much more humane way to end this."

He shakes his head and coughs, gagging and choking, until the offending object is removed from his throat. One of the teeth you cut out was stuffed into his cheek and came loose. It rolled right down his tongue.

"She'll hate you", he manages to say. His eyes close and his fists clench. "She'll never forgive you. Not after this."

You hum, watching him idly. Blood seeps out from between his lips and he bites back another pained sound. He's way too close to dying already.

"I'm not asking for her forgiveness", you say, stepping closer. "Just like I'm not asking for yours. You never knew when to stop, did you?"

"What?", he croaks.

"This all could've been avoided", you reply. You lift the scalpel and drag its tip along his disfigured ear. "I warned you so many times. I thought you'd be smart enough to listen, Danny. But you weren't. And the worst part is that it never surprised me."

His lips part, but no words come out — only blood. He's fighting for air, his face going from pale to blue. You can't really see that, though. At this point, he's barely recognizable. You're not sure what you did to get him into this state, but the result is not bad to look at.

"She'll see what you are", he whispers, voice hoarse and weak. You give him a smile and shake your head.

If there's one thing you're sure of, it's that Natasha knows. That she doesn't care. That, maybe, she wants this because she thinks she deserves it. The Red Room did many things to her, and one of those is her inability to see beyond what she's supposed to be — and that's an assassin.

She didn't think love (or whatever it is that you offered her) would be in the cards for her. Her past is too dark, her ledger dripping with blood. You saw that and still picked her, and she saw the darkness in you and still picked you. It makes sense, after all. It's an alignment.

"You really think that", you state, using the scalpel to nudge his mouth open. He tries to refuse, but the blade touches the remainders of his lips and so he budges. "You've always been too confident in your opinions. 'Difficulty trusting', 'refusal to form genuine bonds.' As someone who actually knows her: you never knew Natasha. You just wanted to be right about the one woman no one can figure out."

Danny gasps. You remove the scalpel from his mouth. The moment it slips from his lips, you slide it through his throat.

It was supposed to be a clean kill. But now, as you're standing in the middle of a crime scene with blood under your fingernails, you realize it's everything but tidy. It's messy, and it's his fault.

Getting his blood off your body is proven to be just as difficult. Even when you're showered and every speckle of dark red is wiped from your skin, you still smell it. It's metallic, unpleasant, lingering like a faint shadow.

Natasha notices it, too. You're unbuttoning her shirt when she gets a whiff. Instead of smelling your usual perfume and Nivea lotion, she's hit with an undertone of blood hidden beneath something neutral.

"Y/N", she says, mouths brushing. You sigh as you peel your lips off hers.

"What?", you ask, glancing at her lips. They're smudged with your lipstick, so you bring up your hand and wipe the corner of her mouth. "This color suits you."

She shakes her head and grabs your wrist. Your eyes harden a little. "You...smell."

"I showered", you say plainly. You adjust your position a bit, one hand deep in the thick comforter on the bed. "So that's impossible."

"Y/N, you smell like blood."

You pause, thumb lingering on her cheek. Outside, the sun is coming up. Natasha and you entered the apartment at around the same time, as both of you returned from work. You're thankful that SHIELD has showers.

"I do?", you ask, eyebrows raised. She frowns and rubs your thumb.

"You do", she says slowly. "Like, metallic. How did you get blood on you?"

You study her in the face, every feature illuminated by the moonlight. Her green eyes turn more tentative as she watches you. When you tilt your head, she shifts beneath you.

"I didn't get any blood on me", you say, enunciating the 'didn't'. Natasha opens her mouth. "Did you?"

"What?", she says. You can tell she's taken aback. "No. No, I didn't."

"Are you sure?" You run one hand down and then back up her side, palm grazing her bare hip as her shirt rides up. "There was an alarm going off. Right as I left. They stormed medbay. Something happened there, Natalia."

You don't know what you're trying to do, or why you're trying to do it. Truthfully, you're even doubtful she'll believe you — Natasha isn't naive, no matter what you say. Even you can't do much about that, but you're the one who's come closest to it. You just know what buttons to push.

She shakes her head, one hand fisting your white undershirt. "I wasn't in medbay. I stayed at my desk the entire night."

"Love", you say gently. You give her a look that's dripping with both concern and affection. "You didn't. I saw you in the hallway. You didn't reply when I asked what you were doing, so I just let it go."

"Y/N", she snaps. "You're ridiculous. I didn't move from my desk."

"You don't trust me?"

Natasha falters. You hum and take the opportunity to undo the last button on her shirt. It falls open, revealing a black cotton bra and smooth skin.

When you lean in to kiss her, she doesn't resist. Her lips are stiff for a split second, then she hesitantly sinks into the kiss. One hand tangles in your hair, the other keeps gripping your shirt. When her thighs part a little more, you lay between them.

"You're so pretty, you know", you mumble, lips still on hers. Your fingers trail down her body and slip into her panties. "Even if you killed someone."

Natasha's entire body stutters for a moment. You feel her shaky exhale, see the color draining from her face when you pull away for a split second. To stop you from perceiving too much, she pulls you close again to crash her lips against yours.

She doesn't know whether to trust, or believe, you. She should — obviously — but her body is protesting against it. It betrays her rather quickly when your fingers work her open, though.

She's aware she's soaked. She can feel it. But it takes you little to no effort to slide your fingers into her, which only proves she's turned on and desperate. A moan makes its way past her mouth, and you smile against her lips.

"You've been waiting for this?", you taunt, voice breathy and gentle. "When did you start wanting me, hm? When you cut his throat?"

Natasha's head spins. She leans her forehead against yours, willingly or not, and tries to bite back another noise when you start to pump your fingers in and out of her. It's slow but effective, the way you press your knuckles deeper with each stroke. She almost forgets about the smell of blood, and the incident at SHIELD, and her supposed involvement in it. She's too busy focusing on your hand inside her.

Maybe this will be the reason why she'd end up believing you — if only to an extent. Doubt doesn't cancel out belief.

ˣ ˣ ˣ

. . .

Natasha's been confined to her room for almost ten hours.

When she found out about the corpse, it was early in the morning. Now, evening is nearing. The wind is strong, the sky has been dark and cloudy all day. No doubt it'll rain.

She rolls her chair away from the desk and then rolls closer again. Her fingers hover above the keyboard, ready to type, but her head is empty. She has no clue where to start. The last time she tried to investigate, she broke her laptop. She can't break her PC as well.

It's clear that you've meddled with her personal belongings in some way. Nothing's been safe — her bathroom mirror, her phone, her privacy, her dreams. She hasn't rested properly in weeks, and the quality and quantity of her sleep have been decreasing steadily. If the Red Room hadn't taught her how to survive extreme physical exhaustion, she'd be dead by now.

Eventually, she tries opening her saved documents. This, surprisingly, works.

Natasha scrolls. Her eyes flit over each title as she looks for nothing in particular. But she knows she won't find anything here, as everything about you is saved in SHIELD's database and files. Yet she keeps scrolling like a woman possessed.

It takes her half an hour of scrolling, then she reaches the end. At first, she wants to close the window and turn off her PC — it seems like she hasn't found anything, anyway. But then she spots the file at the very bottom, the oldest one she has.

The title is your name. Reading it makes her chest tighten with something she can't place. Longing maybe, or something darker. Whatever it is, it makes her click on the file.

At first, all she sees is text. A lot of it too, spanning from the top to the bottom of the screen and going on for way longer than that when she starts scrolling. The words blur in front of her eyes as she frantically scrolls to the end of the file. It takes her another five minutes. Then, an image pops up.

Natasha's frozen. The scroll wheel of the mouse feels warm under her finger. All she can see is the dead body on her screen.

Her name is carved into the stomach. The ground beneath is covered in blood. Unfortunately, she recognizes the scalpel sticking out of the man's chest.

For you, it says under the picture. Before she can throw up a second time, she turns off the PC and gets up from her desk chair. She knocks over an empty glass in the process, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care about the shards on the floor, either. What she needs to do is get out and find you. Clearly, you're doing this for a reason. At least she hopes that's the case.

Her confinement has been semi-voluntary. SHIELD strongly recommended it, the other Avengers tried to enforce it. In the end, it's Natasha who chose to do it. Under one circumstance — they don't lock her in.

Which they didn't. Once she's dressed, she opens the door and leaves. She doesn't know where you are, or how to find you. She's certain you'll let her know one way or another, though.

. . .

— 10 minutes earlier —

The debriefing room is unusually quiet.

Tony has pulled up a picture of the corpse you left behind using his holographic interface. Everyone can see everything — the scalpel, the blood, the letters cut into lifeless flesh. He leaves it up for a few seconds, then he takes it down again.

Nobody says anything. Steve looks at his lap, Clint rubs his forehead. Bruce tugs at his earlobe in that one nervous manner he can't get rid of for some reason. When Tony finally clears his throat, Thor almost jumps up.

"Sit", he immediately says, only half aware that he's talking to the Norse god like he's a dog. "It's official. They've put Y/N's name on a kill list. The man she killed? Someone who defended SHIELD when she tried dismantling it after Frost's death. He was the main reason she had to flee."

"Kill list?", Bruce asks. "So if we, you know..."

"We won't", Clint mutters. "Girl's not stupid."

"No", Tony agrees. "She's not. She's proven that she isn't. Which is exactly why we can't know what she'll do next. She's unpredictable. Tomorrow, it could be her death we're discussing. Or maybe she'll blow up the Compound."

"Bullshit", Clint says.

"No." Tony, tired and mildly annoyed, pulls up the webcam feed again. "She wants something from SHIELD. We don't know what it is. Maybe their downfall. It doesn't matter, really. We could all end up with a bullet in your heads."

They all go silent again. Nobody wants to admit it, but he's right — if you have the right motive, you'll do anything. Especially if it involves Natasha. Your idea of love may be twisted in ways they can't understand, but it is love. You'd kill and you'd die for her.

Bruce hinting at running into you wasn't taken too seriously by anyone. You've been in hiding for years, god knows where. It was impossible to find you. Entire teams of agents couldn't find a trace of you, so why would you willingly reveal yourself again?

That's a question they might not get an answer to. They'll die to know the answer, though — especially with the way you show up in the debriefing room like you've always been there.

No alarms triggered, no breaches logged. Just you, strolling through the room and studying the webcam feed that's playing on loop. Red lipstick, makeup subtle, an all-black outfit.

Weapons are pulled, people jump up. You glance at them and raise your hands lazily.

"Seriously?", you say, lifting your eyebrows. "Five versus one, guys. I expected more."

"How'd you get in here?", Clint barks. He points the gun at your head. "Don't make me blow your brains out."

You roll your eyes and make your way to Natasha's spot like it's instinct. You hum as you spot the cup of coffee there — cold, black, clearly untouched. No trace of her favorite lipstick. You sit in her vacant seat and pick up the cup.

"Nice coffee", you say, looking up. "She still takes it black?"

Tony glances at Thor, who's slowly lowering his hammer. They exchange a short look you don't miss. You lift the cup to your lips and take a sip of the cold coffee.

"It's nice here", you say drily. Your eyes sweep across the room. "Must've cost a fortune. But that's no issue for you, right, Stark?"

"You made a mistake", Tony says slowly. "We're required to eliminate you. Have you not heard?"

"What, the thing SHIELD did now? The kill list?" You sigh and lean back in your chair, nodding your head. "How could I miss that?"

"Yet you still showed up?"

In the hallway, Natasha hears Clint's muffled voice. She hesitates for a moment — she wanted to leave without anyone noticing. But they're all in the meeting room, obviously having a debrief about what happened. If she's not careful, they'll notice.

She keeps walking. Her footsteps are near silent, her breath slow and even. When she hears someone else, though, it stutters.

"What can I say? I missed you guys."

It's been years. She'd still recognize your voice anywhere, even if it was sprinkled into a crowd of people. It triggers many things in her — many of which she can't even place —, but it mainly pushes her to do one thing: keep walking and push open a door.

The second she enters, your eyes find hers. They're as green as ever.

Nobody moves, or breathes. They're all watching you, weapons still raised and quickly exchanging glances. Natasha doesn't pay them any mind, and neither do you. All you do is smile like you missed her. Which maybe you did.

"Look who's joining us", you comment, getting up. You grab a file from your bag and drop it onto the table. "This is what you've been looking for. You're welcome."

You walk past Clint and toward the door, heading straight for Natasha. Clint points his gun at you again, but Natasha gives him a glance that makes him lower it. He shoots her a look, but she doesn't budge.

Without another look at the others, you get to the door. Natasha's right next to you, finally smelling that perfume she's known so well for so many years. Her eyes trail up and down your body, and you recognize the hesitation and guardedness in her face.

"You didn't stop searching", you say quietly. "Are you happy now?"

She swallows, her face hardening. She didn't realize, but her fingers are touching the gun tucked into her waistband. "You should've picked a different spot to show up again. Not here."

"I expected more, you know. Maybe a kiss, since you missed me so much. What did I do to deserve being met with this kind of hostility?"

"What you did?" Thor gets up, swinging his hammer like actually about to toss it. You give him a bored look. "Better be careful!"

"Throw it. I'm on a kill list, aren't I? So why am I still alive?"

"Asking the wrong questions", Clint says quietly. "You better get the hell out of here."

Your head turns and you shoot him a quick, amused smile. "Barton. Heard you and Laura welcomed another baby."

Tony's finger finds the button that makes his suit deploy from its storage and assemble around him. You notice him do it — he's never subtle enough — and raise your eyebrows. Waving one hand, you step out of the room.

"Don't bother", you say, your hand resting on the side of the doorway. "I have to run, anyway. Nice meeting you, though. Always a pleasure."

Natasha steps forward. She's not sure why, either to stop you or to follow after you. But Clint shoots out of his chair and grabs her wrist. If there's one thing he won't let happen, it's her getting involved with you again. Not after he finally thought things could get better for his best friend.

Your high heels click against the floor as you walk down the hallway. With each step, the sound becomes more muffled, more distant, until all that remains is the ghost of your presence. Exhaling is still difficult, even when everyone is certain you're gone.

Everyone except for Natasha exchanges looks. Your name, on a kill list. You, right in front of the Avengers. Them, not doing anything. Not shooting, not stepping up and at least trying to overpower you. They failed, and you're wandering free again.

You walked into the lions' den and left without a single bite. Why?

Because Natasha is still in love.

. . .

Natasha doesn't know how she managed to find you.

The hallway is quiet, dimly lit. Cracks have formed in the walls, spiderwebs fill up corners and the air smells like something moldy. Boots gently pad against old wooden floors, and somewhere in the building, a rusty hinge creaks.

She stops right in front of a door. Looking down, she sees an old doormat — grey, neutral, not revealing much about the resident who uses it every day. Still, she knows not to knock on the door.

Instead, she fishes out a key (for a second, she wonders where she got it from, but then her own brain stops her from digging too deep) and unlocks the door herself. It opens quietly, despite how old it must be. Someone oiled the hinges.

It's dark and silent inside the apartment. Natasha can't see anything apart from the moon shining in through an open window. Still, she walks inside and feels the wall for a light switch. Before she can find one, an arm wraps around her neck.

"Fuck", she gasps, immediately using her usual technique to get out of the headlock. It doesn't work. "Fuck, I-"

The pressure around her neck increases. Desperate to escape, she does something she knows almost never works — she starts clawing at the person's forearm. They laugh, and it slowly dawns on her.

"Surprise", someone familiar whispers into her ear. She freezes. "Didn't expect you here."

"Y/N."

Her hands stop clawing at your arm. She's breathless even when you loosen your grip.

"Smart girl. How'd you find me?"

Natasha sees the room in front of her flicker for a moment. It fades in front of her eyes, making panic rush through her — if she faints, what will happen to her? — but then, it goes back to somewhat normal. She can't put her finger on it, but something feels off. Maybe it's being this close to you after so many years of nothing.

You move your arm and instead cup her side to turn her around. She tries her hardest to look cold and detached, but it doesn't work. Not the way she wanted it to.

Around you, the room turns to haze and mist. The furniture, which she barely acknowledged before, blurs. Her head pounds. She still has no idea what she's doing, or how she ended up here with you. Her brain won't let her think about it, either. It's like she's stuck.

"You're planning something", Natasha finally says. You raise your eyebrows. "I know you. I just don't know what exactly you're trying to do."

"You're still scared of me", you state, gently pulling her closer. "After all these years? What a shame."

No words manage to leave her mouth, even when she opens it. She feels your body against hers, warm and solid and familiar. Your free hand comes up to brush through her red locks. You lean in and your breath against her neck makes her press closer, despite her body protesting.

"You came here for something, didn't you?", you mumble. "What do you want, for me to hurt you? Or maybe to fuck you?"

A shaky breath escapes her. She can't decide, either. She's facing you, though, still wrapped — or trapped? — in your arms. Her eyes flicker across every familiar feature before zeroing in on your lips.

Natasha still can't decide what she's here for, but she lets you kiss her anyway. She doesn't want this (she's lying), she's numb (she feels your hand slide down her stomach), she should pull away (she kisses back harder).

No matter what the truth is — she keeps going. Her breathing turns ragged, her hands fist your shirt. When she presses closer, the kiss turns desperate. It's all teeth and bite and confusion. Lights she doesn't remember being turned on flicker, the window disappears, a bed suddenly stands in the corner like it's always been there.

She feels your tongue trace her teeth. You palm at her sides and let her walk you backwards like she's the one who decided this would happen.

"Still sleep on the left side?", you mumble into her mouth.

"You don't know me", she whispers. Hands against your chest, she shoves you onto your back. "Never did. You fulfilled a fantasy using me."

You laugh quietly and pull her down with you. The bed creaks softly when you roll both of you over. She still tastes like cherry chewing gum. You deepen the kiss, your hand slides into her underwear, her back arches. Natasha's soaked, and she doesn't know how to feel about it.

"This isn't real, is it?"

You kiss her bottom lip and work your way along her jaw. Your fingers start working in lazy circles. "Real enough to make you come."

Natasha exhales and wraps her arms around your neck. Her thighs open a bit more, allowing you to sink your fingers in deeper. "Ever the eloquent one."

You hum against her neck, still thrusting your fingers and making her lift her hips to meet every movement. Everything's slowed down. The scalpels, the blood, Danny — none of it matters anymore. Maybe it never mattered, either. You live in the wounds of her past, the ones she's wanted gone for so long, but part of you seems to heal them.

Or it's an illusion, she questions silently. Your fingers curling snaps her out of that thought.

How long has she been here? Minutes, hours? She can't remember arriving. She's too busy realizing how off everything suddenly feels, even after the orgasm rippled through her in waves.

Her hips stutter and lose the rhythm of rolling up against your hand. The mattress beneath her feels wet and uncomfortable. When she looks down, she's lying in a pool of blood. Her blood. Or yours. Has the scalpel been there the entire time?

When Natasha finally wakes up from her dream, she's alone — shaking and gasping, her room empty and silent. Her thighs ache like they used to after having sex with you. Her back is drenched in cold sweat. She tries to convince herself that it explains the sudden wetness she felt, but she's too out of it to be successful.

Her head is pounding so hard she can't think straight. Glancing at the clock, she exhales. She 'slept' for five hours, which is a lot compared to how restless her nights have been. Yet, she feels more exhausted than ever. Like the dream drained every bit of energy left from her body.

She checks her mattress just to be sure. It's clean aside from the small wet spot her own sweat left behind. No blood, no scalpels, no you.

Ironically, this only solidifies her decision to look for you.

. . .

It takes longer to find you than she'd like to admit. In the end, it should've been obvious — if you want her to find you, you'll leave clues in places that she's familiar with, that have a tie to you. Connecting those dots doesn't come easily. She's lost too much sleep.

At first, it's surface-level research. Old text messages, old files at SHIELD. She doesn't find many of them. She tries digging through the box of your old stuff she's storing in a self storage facility outside New York City. Aside from a hoodie and some letters and postcards, she finds a necklace and a key.

She doesn't know what it's for, so she puts it in her duffel bag and keeps searching. Dust swirls through the air, the old floor creaks. It's silent, since she decided to come here late at night.

Her hand bumps against something sharp. She pauses, then slowly unwraps the object from the hoodie's sleeve. It's a scalpel, stained with dried blood.

"Shit", she mumbles, inspecting it. She opens her duffel bag and slips it in. If she's smart about it, she might be able to have it analyzed without raising suspicions.

The rest of the box's contents are painfully uninteresting. A postcard, a bird's skull — found during a beach trip to Montauk —, an old lipstick.

Natasha leaves the storage facility with your favorite color on her lips and a feeling of dread settled in her gut. She doesn't know how to continue, which is almost never the case. She's known for finding solutions and ways to keep going, no matter what. But now that it concerns her as well, she has no idea. She only has old makeup and an animal's skull.

At home, she tries to find more files. She reaches out to some contacts. She spots a box full of photos in the basement and looks through that, as well.

In the end, finding you is a coincidence. She didn't mean to stumble across Tony in the meeting room, rewatching the webcam feed from Times Square and taking notes. She didn't mean to look again. She didn't mean to remember the room where it was all supposed to end but didn't.

Her hand slips into the pocket of her jeans. She feels the cold, sharp edges of the key she's been carrying around and suddenly knows where she has to go.

ˣ ˣ ˣ

"You killed him."

The bunker is dimly lit and minimally furnished. Bloodstains mar the old floorboards. Surveillance cameras hang in the corner, both quiet and loud. Only a table and two chairs separate you from Natasha. She still hasn't figured out whether the mirror behind her is one-way.

"Stop", she says lowly. "There's evidence, they'll find you eventually. You've done enough harm. It's smarter to come out and give up."

"You don't remember?", you continue, stepping closer. Your hands rest on the dusty surface of the table. Natasha glances down and sees a smudge from your finger in the otherwise spotless coating of dust particles. "The blood on your hands. You smelled like death. Only you were seen walking down the hallway that night. There's your evidence."

Natasha stares at you, hesitating. Even though she knows it can't be possible (can it?), your words are enough to make her doubt her own memories. The web is tightening around her, and the more she feels it cut into her skin, the more it's starting to make sense. Because it does look like her. Because the doubt you're planting in her head is starting to overshadow what she knows.

You tilt your head at her, eyes glistening faintly. They rake up and down her body in one quick, fluid motion. "I'd deny it too. It was murder. But let's be honest, one more human life on your conscience doesn't make much of a difference. Of course you'd do it."

Her face hardens, but her resolve weakens further. It's not that she didn't think you'd bring up her past — what she tries to forget, you love to remember. You adore the parts that came to be during her darkest moments. To you, they're proof she's not too unlike you.

You know her trauma and her wounds. You weaponize them just right, but you weaponize them for both of you; never against Natasha.

"Y/N, SHIELD almost fell apart because of you", she says, voice still firm. "Do you know how many died? How many of your coworkers, your friends? They're dead. And yet, you're here playing games."

"Friends", you say, letting out a laugh. She grinds her teeth together absentmindedly. "You're funny. It's why I love you."

"You're not capable of love", she says bitingly.

"No? Then how come you love me?" You raise your eyebrows and slowly step around the table. Natasha doesn't budge. "Can you love someone who's incapable of love?"

"I never-" She cuts herself off before she can say it. I never said I loved you. I never loved you. She has said it, after all. And she knows she does. She loves you, even if that might be what kills her.

The 'why' is something she can't even answer. Natasha sees the intensity behind how you look at her, and the intimacy that drips from you the same way water does when you wash blood off your hands before touching her. She knows you'd kill to protect her. Danny is proof.

It's why she loves you. But she's not sure it's enough to make her believe you love her as well. It feels too rotten for that to be the case, but deep down, she feels like it might be true, anyway.

"Continue", you demand, stepping closer until your chest is almost against hers. She looks up at you, jaw clenched tight. "Say it. Let me hear it. Don't be scared now."

"Move", she says, her hand slipping into her pocket. You see it happen from the corner of your eye. "They're looking for you. They'll find you. It'll be easier if you just hand yourself over."

You see the outline in her pocket — clearly shaped like a knife — and smile faintly. "I don't need 'easier'. I'll be more than fine. You, on the other hand...I doubt SHIELD will let this slide. You killed a coworker, Nat."

Her eyes fill with a desperate kind of fire. The knife slips from her pocket, blade sharpened and shimmering. You raise your eyebrows and she finally realizes what she's done.

"Look at that", you mock. "Me, too? One colleague wasn't enough?"

"I didn't kill him", she says, slowly and quietly. Her fingers grip the handle of the knife tighter.

"What a bold thing to say after you cut his teeth out of his mouth. Quite fitting, though. All bark and no bite."

"Y/N."

"I heard you extracted his vocal cords."

Her heart is pounding, her eyebrows furrowed. She's furious and on the brink of crumbling.

"I was right", you say, smiling. "He was dangerous. Thank god you took care of-"

The last word disappears in a thud and a quiet grunt. Her forearm presses against your chest, her free hand holds the blade of the knife to your throat. You feel the cold material brush your skin as she keeps you caged in against the wall.

"Shut the fuck up", she whispers, shoving her arm against your chest once more. "Shut up. Why should I believe you?"

"Why else would you threaten me?"

Natasha swallows. The blade is right against your throat. One wrong — or right — move could end it all. She'd wake up from whatever nightmare she's trapped in. So she presses the blade deeper into your skin, until it's on the verge of cutting through it.

Then, she hesitates. All it'd take is a little more pressure, a little movement of her wrist. You smile.

"Go on, do it", you taunt her. "Make it a real love story."

Her breath hitches, the knife clatters as it falls to the ground. She doesn't kill you — she kisses you. You're pushed against the wall, with her hands grabbing your face and her lips, bitten raw, on yours.

All the pent up tension is released in a very different way. Hands in your hair, thigh between your legs. Blood on her tongue, stemming from either of you. She's not sure. She forgets about it quickly when you grab her to press her against the wall instead.

You fumble with her jeans and toss them aside, still kissing her. The inside of her thighs feels hot to the touch, and you moan into her mouth.

"You planned this", you mumble, sounding almost mocking. "Can't go two days without me fucking you, can you?"

Natasha stares at you. Her cheeks are flushed and she's out of breath. Instead of replying, she tugs you closer and kisses you again. Your hands fly up to palm at her sides and take off her shirt.

Hands everywhere. Ribs bruised. The knife on the ground, bumping against your foot once or twice before you kick it away. The table is hard beneath Natasha's back, but your mouth on her is soft. Her back arches, tears roll down her cheeks. You eat her out like you're starving, making it messy and desperate.

Her thighs wrap around your head, your nails dig into soft skin. She lets out a moan that she tries to muffle with her hand. You feel her body tense beneath you.

Once she finishes, she slowly starts to remember what she came here for. It's a complete mindfuck — instead of the light aftercare that'd follow, you watch her and say nothing as she wipes tears away.

"I didn't think you'd be capable of that", she says, sounding raw. You raise your eyebrows. "What you did...I trusted you."

"Yeah?", you say, gently kissing her thigh. She looks at you and bites her lip, making you smile. "What a shame. You're not going to like what's under the floorboards."

ˣ ˣ ˣ

The door to the bunker creaks open. It's in the middle of nowhere, only surrounded by abandoned warehouses and a factory that's crumbling in on itself. Out here, there's no one. Not a single soul. Natasha finds it as reassuring as she finds it unnerving.

Her hand stays on the rusty doorknob for a moment, then she hesitantly lets go. Inside the bunker, it's pitch black. The light doesn't work anymore, either. She grabs her phone and turns on the flashlight, which only makes the bloodstains on the floor stand out more. It smells pungent, like mold and something metallic. Dried blood, she assumes.

The decision to come here wasn't an easy one. This room has haunted her ever since that day she almost killed you. Though, she doubts she could've done that at all. What really ingrained itself into her head was you leaving afterwards, and her not seeing you again.

She looks around the room using the flashlight. Her face is neutral on purpose as she studies everything. The same table, same mirror, same surveillance cameras. She even left the knife here that she once had pressed against your throat.

The room is basically empty, aside from the few pieces of furniture. No places to hide anything. No visible clues. Nothing written on the walls.

Natasha glances at the surveillance cameras again. She didn't bring her laptop, so there's no way for her to check the footage. Still, it might be worth a try, so she grabs one of the chairs and puts it into the corner. She steps on it and reaches up to remove the hard drive, but she finds nothing.

The cameras are either for show, or the data is stored in a cloud somewhere. Judging by the looks of it, the former is more likely, so she gets back down and lands on the hardwood floors. The moment the old wood creaks beneath her feet, she remembers something you said.

'You're not going to like what's under the floorboards.'

She stares at the floor and reaches for the knife she picked up, then hesitates. She reaches for the knife again, hesitates again. Finally, she kneels on the floor and starts wedging the knife between the individual floorboards.

They screech, groan, resist. Natasha removes a rusty nail and pulls at the floorboard until it almost breaks in half. When she's lifted it up, she peeks into the hollow space underneath — nothing.

She exhales quietly and moves on to the next floorboard. Again, nothing.

Next floorboard. Nothing but darkness and some spiderwebs.

It takes her twenty minutes and six floorboards. Eventually, she reaches the one under the table and starts lifting it. The moment it's up high enough to reveal the space underneath, her stomach turns.

Something that was once a body, twisted in on itself. Remnants of skin, leathery and scrappy, cling to stained bones. The clothes have decayed as well, but the teeth are intact and the jaw is slackened.

A smell comes from the corpse. It settles in her throat and makes her so nauseous she almost turns around and leaves. But she's on a mission, and aside from that, there's a rolled up piece of paper tied to one of the ribs.

Natasha takes a breath, then she reaches for the paper. Her fingers shake and accidentally brush against a shred of rotten skin. She bites her tongue — you've seen worse, she reminds herself — and grabs the rolled up paper. It feels moister than she expected.

Before opening it, she grabs the floorboard and covers the dead body again. She scoots aside and unrolls the paper, then grabs her phone to use the flashlight again.

There are coordinates written on the paper in clean, narrow handwriting.

Say hi to Danny, it says underneath.

. . .

Natasha knew what to expect once she typed the coordinates into her navigation system. The address is a familiar one — upstate New York, in a rural, remote location.

It's an abandoned summer camp. She knows you went once when you were a child, but you didn't tell her much about it. Only an accident, where a canoe flipped over and drowned a kid, was mentioned. You did show her a picture, too, but there wasn't much to see aside from you sitting on a bunk bed.

Back then, it was a popular place for kids to spend their summer vacation in. Hidden in the thicks of a forest, all nature and fresh air and mosquito bites during late night campfires. Fresh flowers, cold lakes, the occasional dead wildlife found in the shrubs or ticks clinging onto the softest patches of skin bodies offer.

Natasha never experienced it herself. Not like this. Yet, when she gets out of her car and stares at the scenery around her, she almost believes she did.

It's not quite as idyllic anymore. There's graffiti on the walls, some windows have been smashed in, the swings are rusty by now. The air tastes like pine needles and mulch. The grass is green but full of cigarette butts.

Her eyes roam over the various cabins in front of her. Seven in total, housing a maximum of twenty kids and four camp counselors. One of them is larger than the other, as it contains the kitchen and living areas.

She remembers which cabin you stayed in back then. Number 4, which is the only fully intact one now. Moss is growing on the wooden walls. Her steps are slow but firm as she starts making her way toward it. The gun, nestled to her side, is fully loaded.

It's dead silent apart from the sound of insects and her own footsteps. The windows of the cabin are concealed by curtains, hiding the interior. Natasha hesitates, then grabs the doorknob and twists it. The door opens quietly.

She thought she'd find another dead body, or a clue. Maybe a trap. A memory.

It's none of those. Instead, it's empty. She feels her stomach sink and her shoulders slump. Her free hand had twitched towards her gun instinctively, but now, it hangs limply at her side.

No floorboards creak, no steps are audible. Someone taps her shoulder and she whips around, gun drawn and pointed.

"You can put that down", you say, hands lifted. Natasha blinks at the sight of you. "I don't have one. Not a fair fight, hm?"

"You", she says. Her heart is rabbiting in her chest like it's about to escape. "Where were you?"

You shrug, and she studies you just like you're studying her. White undershirt, lips glossy, cargo pants. Hair slicked back and in a bun. You look like you're about to go on a mission. Which may be the case.

"Wanted to make sure it'd be you", you say, then flash a smile. She frowns. "Why the long face? I thought you wanted to see me."

"I want answers", she states. "I think that's the least I deserve."

"You're not wrong. Depends on your questions, though." You put your hand on her waist — her heart skips a beat — and nod at the inside of the cabin. "Go, before someone shoots us."

"That someone being you?"

"Depends on how this goes", you murmur into her ear, still holding her waist and still guiding her inside. "You figured it out?"

Natasha slips from your embrace and sits down on the lower bunk bed. Elbows resting on her knees and hands loosely clasped together, she keeps her eyes on you as you lock the door. Now, it's almost completely dark inside the cabin. Only a whisper of sunlight manages to shine through the curtains.

"Wasn't hard. Once I found the key, it was obvious."

"My smart girl", you hum. "I left the key there years ago. I knew it'd be of use one day."

She nods, briefly glancing at her hands and the bruises on her knuckles. Sleepless nights filled with punching bags and treadmills. Sweat running down her body and near-collapsing on the gym floor.

"Years", she repeats, voice soft. "I assumed you were dead."

"Mhm", you say, nodding. "You've tried to kill me, Natasha. How could you assume it, anyway?"

She looks up again. Her eyes are still green, still tired, but so much more exhausted than they were all that time ago. Your lips tug into a brief smile.

"Maybe it wasn't an assumption", she finally says. "Maybe it was hope. It was the only way I could find peace."

Her words should hurt. Anyone else would recoil at hearing something like that. Internally, you do too. It's not something you want to reveal, though. You've never felt this vulnerable before, and it's scarier than anything else.

"Did you?"

"Find peace?" Natasha gives you a bitter smile and shakes her head. "How could I? I never got closure. As far as I know, it never ended. It was like an ongoing nightmare. And when I felt like I was finally going to be okay — maybe —...you just showed up again. Out of nowhere."

You tilt your head. You've been aware of what she's saying now. You've known for a while. "I didn't show up, technically."

"No, you did", she says. Her voice is more cutting now, sharper. Laced with years of frustration. "I didn't have to see you to know. There were signs. Like the SHIELD symbol. Danny's file."

"Poor Danny", you mock.

"You killed him."

"So what if I did?"

Natasha freezes and looks at you again. Her lips part slightly and her eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit. She's never heard you admit it before. She knew you killed him, yes, she knew it couldn't have been her (or did she?), but she never heard you say it.

"'So what'?", she repeats. It takes her a moment to process it — then she starts unraveling, her voice rising. "You're talking like he was nothing. Y/N, you killed him. They had to do a DNA test to figure out who he was. And then you just...took the body. Let him rot in a bunker."

You lift your eyebrows. "He was a creep, Natasha."

She shakes her head, one hand fisting the thin bedsheets she's sitting one. They're full of dust and small holes.

"No. Maybe. I don't care. The point is, you committed murder. You hurt the people around you. But you don't care about that, do you? You never did. You just left. Why? Because you knew I'd figure it out eventually."

"He never bothered you again", you reply, mildly amused. "Natasha, you figured me out from the moment we met. Don't put the blame on me. I was always honest about myself."

"No", she snaps, getting up and into your space. You don't back off. "You can't say that. I never knew just how bad it is."

You take a deep breath, still staring at her. She's started with the accusations, the anger, the frustration. Months, years of exhaustion and overthinking and not sleeping. And you're in front of her, slowly losing your temper as well.

"Is that what helps you sleep at night?", you bark, dropping the pretense. "Pretending I'm a monster?"

"You are!"

"Then what does loving me make you?"

Your words land like a slap. Natasha recoils and instinctively reaches for her gun, but stops just as her fingertips graze the cold grip of it. You let out a laugh, but it's both cruel and tired.

"Yeah, come on", you say. "Shoot me. We've played this game before."

"Don't tempt me", she whispers, touching the gun again. She doesn't grab it, though. "You've done enough damage."

"Have I?" You step closer, lips twisting into a small smile. "What is it, hm? That I never left your head?"

Accurate, unfortunately. Both of you know it is. Years have passed, and you're still woven into every aspect of her life. Even when you were gone, seemingly vanished from the face of the earth, you occupied her life more than anyone else. Natasha exhales slowly.

"Stop", she warns, fingers twitching. You take another step closer.

"Come on, admit it", you mumble, studying her. "How bad is it, Natasha?"

Sleepless nights flash through her head. Paranoia. Anxiety. Trauma, once thought buried and now back at the surface of her mind. Illusions and fear. Words written on mirrors and tapes under her pillow. No rest, no moment of peace.

It shows. You took notice of the dark rings under her eyes a while ago. You saw how pale she is, how close to snapping she always tends to be.

"Y/N, stop that."

"You look like hell", you comment, backing her up against the wall now. "No wonder you can't sleep."

Five words. As soon as they leave your mouth, Natasha reverses your positions. Your back slams against the wall, one of her hands gripping your undershirt. The cold muzzle of a gun, shaking in her grasp, presses against your collarbone.

"It was you", she mutters. Her voice is thick with something you suspect could be either tears or deep desperation. "You were behind it. You were the reason I can't sleep. A never ending nightmare."

"So dramatic", you mumble back. The gun pressed to your skin doesn't faze you. "I wanted to see how long you'd last. You did well."

"You-" Natasha lets out a sob of frustration. She shoves the gun against your collarbone once more, but it shakes slightly. "Can you be honest just once? I'm tired of playing games."

You glance at the gun. A Glock 26, polished and almost new. One of her favorites. She rarely left the house without it. You remember her taking it apart sometimes, cleaning it at your dining table. Part of you knew it'd be pressed against your skin someday.

"Pull the trigger", you say quietly and look up again. "I told you once — if I die, it'll be by your hand."

Natasha doesn't waver, doesn't freeze, doesn't drop the gun. But her hand slackens, and the muzzle isn't buried in your skin as painfully anymore. You did say that once. Back in the bunker, not too long after she'd orgasmed on the table. You vanished soon after.

"Do you even hear yourself?"

"You're the one with the gun, Natalia. It's up to you."

"No", she says, gripping the gun tighter again. Beads of sweat roll down the back of her neck. "No, it's not up to me. It's up to you. Tell me the truth, Y/N. Tell me the reason you did it. Tell me what you want from me."

"You're looking for peace", you state. A strand of your hair gets tangled in the wooden wall behind you, but you barely notice it rip out. "You're not alone in that. You still have hope? Too bad. We'll never get peace. Not the version others aim for, anyway."

"Tell me", she demands again, ignoring what you said. Her heart aches. She doesn't understand why. Why she wants to kiss you is something she understands even less. "Let me have just this."

Your eyes roam over her face. Your hand comes up, slowly, and you lay your fingers atop the gun. You expected resistance — but it sinks to her side without any kind of defiance. Natasha bites her tongue to keep her jaw from trembling.

"Don't beg", you say. "I won't, either."

"You should've left", she whispers. "It would've been for the better."

"I did leave."

"You came back."

"For you", you say quietly. Her pulse quickens. "Believe it or not. I never would've returned if it weren't for you. If I leave forever, I'm doing it with you, Natasha."

That's when the gun drops. It clatters, just like her knife did years ago. It creates an echo in the small summer camp cabin. It's enough to make her loosen the grip on your undershirt, enough to make her doubt everything you've done.

"You're lying", she barely manages to say. You shake your head.

"Calling me a liar is a bit too far, don't you think?" You pause, then touch her wrist. It takes everything in her not to flinch. There's no blood on your hand, not right now, but there has been. "You want peace, don't you? Come and find it with me."

"You're insane", she mutters. "You know what you've done. You can't erase that."

Your thumb brushes over the back of her hand. Then, a tug. Gentle, but still powerful enough to pull her closer. You kiss her cheek, and she isn't sure whether it's genuine or just another way of convincing her.

"All of that", you murmur, "and you're still here. Not running. Maybe it's your job to erase it."

Natasha glances at you, eyes tired and hardened. They continue softening with every word, though.

"We'll leave", you add. "SHIELD is close to falling apart. The Avengers don't need either of us. We'll leave, and you'll get the peace you deserve. It's been long enough."

"It's not peace if it's with you", she says, pulling away. "I don't know what this is, Y/N. I never did. But it isn't love."

"Does it have to be?", you question, stepping closer. She stops in her tracks. "Maybe it doesn't matter. I just need you to leave with me. I don't want to win anymore. I want you."

Green eyes burn into yours. "You're selfish."

You don't deny it. Leaving wouldn't be redemption — it'd be retreat. Not salvation, but an exile. One final selfish act. And this time, you'd be dragging her down with you. It's a risk you're willing to take.

"They all want me dead", you say. "You do, too. So I'll leave. But you'll come with me. There's no other option."

Natasha hesitates again. You see it written on her face. When she pulls away, you let her. When she pauses, you step into that pause. You bring your hand up to her cheek and brush your knuckles over her skin.

"I know you hate me", you mumble. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."

"You killed him", she says weakly.

"I had my reasons, didn't I?" Another step closer. She doesn't back off again. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I never will. You don't have to understand. But I know you want this."

There are many things that keep Natasha tied to New York City. There are even more reasons not to leave. The Avengers, SHIELD, her own history, her trying to redeem herself. The things you've done, both to her and to others.

She knew you'd be the end of her. She didn't expect she'd go willingly.

"I'll regret this, won't I?"

"Maybe", you concede. "But so will I."

Natasha smiles — barely. Her hand touches yours, sending both worst case scenarios and old memories running through her head.

She isn't stupid. She knows all you've ever been is bad for her. The epitome of bad luck. A parasite, effortlessly manipulating yourself into every corner of life; especially hers. For some reason, she lets you stay. She'll burn either way, and she'd rather put her hand in the fire than have it chase her.

Maybe not forever. She might get away someday. For now, she can't imagine this coming to an end.

You tilt your head and pull her closer. Natasha tips back her head right as you lean in. You kiss her, but this time, it's not lust. It's slow, devastating, soft in its own way.

Two passports, a motel and a plane. Before the clock strikes midnight, you're on your way out of the country.

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