lenitriedtowritestuff

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Hello everyone, these two are back again. And the weird homages too.

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Project: Silencer

Summary: The Avengers thought they knew every threat.

Then you walked into their compound, coffee in hand and a flash drive full of vulnerabilities. No name, no history, no allegiance — just a sharp smile and the promise of secrets they weren’t ready to hear. But cooperation has a price, and working with the Avengers? That means facing questions, tension, and one particular red-haired assassin who sees more than she lets on.

Word count: 8660

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 28

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Warnings: Trauma-based conditioning, psychological manipulation, Implied past torture and brainwashing, Emotional repression, survivor’s guilt, Canon-typical violence and action sequences, captivity and identity loss

| Main Masterlist |

The compound shakes with urgency. Sirens howl. Lights flash red, drenching the steel walls in warning. Somewhere overhead, the thunder of boots pounds across the upper levels. You sit, calm, your legs crossed at the head of the Avengers' conference table.

Their table.

You lean back in the chair with a smirk playing on your lips, swirling the lukewarm black coffee in Tony’s obnoxiously branded mug. The compound had been child’s play. Entry points were mapped, countermeasures neutralized, and security? An outdated joke. You didn’t just get in.

You walked in.

A heavy door swings open with a hiss of compressed air. Steve Rogers enters first, shield already slung forward, followed by Sam and Pietro flanking his six. Wanda slips in behind them like a ripple in silk, her eyes glowing faint red. Bruce is on edge, even in human form. Tony strides in last, hand already halfway to the arc reactor on his chest.

And her.

Natasha Romanoff.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just narrows those sharp green eyes and studies you like a puzzle she’s already halfway solved.

"Who the hell are you?" Tony demands, raising a repulsor toward your face.

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “You really want to fry your own coffee mug?”

He glances down, notices it for the first time. His lips purse. “Okay, rude.”

"How did you get in here?" Steve barks, stepping forward, all Captain America and justice and jaw tension.

You tap your fingers against the table slowly, deliberately. “That’s the part you should be asking after you figure out how to get me out.”

And with that, the room explodes into motion.

Steve lunges first. Predictable. He leads with the shield—like always. You twist out of your seat, hook your foot under the chair and slam it into his knees. He stumbles, just long enough for you to press a small button on your wristband.

Electromagnetic pulse. Low range. Just enough to kill the tech.

Tony's suit flickers, whines, and drops from active mode like a dying bug.

“Cheap trick,” he growls.

“Effective,” you counter, sidestepping Wanda’s first wave of red tendrils and tossing a reflective disk from your belt. Her chaos magic hits it and ricochets—straight into the far wall.

Pietro’s blur appears to your right, a gust of wind following. But you've studied him. You know how he moves—where he moves. You duck, hook your arm out, and clothesline him hard enough to send him tumbling into a glass panel. He groans.

“Okay,” he coughs. “That was rude.”

“Call it a lesson in humility.”

You’re moving again before Sam can deploy his wings. A quick flip onto the table, vaulting past him. Natasha’s waiting on the far side. She hasn’t moved. That’s what tells you she’s the real threat.

“You’ve done your homework,” she says evenly.

You tilt your head, that half-smile still present. “Is that admiration I hear?”

Her lip twitches—almost a smirk. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

“She’s testing us,” Bruce says from the back. “This was a message.”

You step back, now behind the head chair again, perfectly centered. “Not a threat. Not yet. Just a proof of concept.”

Tony mutters, “Oh, I hate those words.”

You place your hands flat on the table. “The point is, I got in. I got past all of you. I had access to your entire defense grid for six and a half minutes before you noticed anything was wrong.”

Wanda’s still breathing hard. “Who are you?”

Your gaze finally settles back on Natasha, slow and deliberate.

“A shadow. One you missed.”

Steve folds his arms. “You here for something, or just flexing?”

“Oh, I’m here to offer... insight. I’m part of an organization that watches the watchers. The ones who keep the world safe but forget to look behind them.”

You reach into your jacket. Instantly, five weapons are raised.

You smirk and slowly pull out a small black flash drive, placing it in the center of the table.

“This is your audit.”

You turn to leave. But not before you pause beside Natasha.

“You’ve got a blind spot,” you murmur low, just for her. “Want me to help you find it?”

And then you're gone.

Not running. Not rushing. Just walking out like you own the place.

Because, for a moment there—you kind of did.

The flash drive sits in the middle of the table like a bomb with no ticking clock — silent, harmless in appearance, but loaded with implications. No one reaches for it immediately. Not out of fear, but out of pride.

“She could’ve uploaded a virus,” Bruce warns, arms crossed, though his curiosity is already betraying him.

Tony scoffs. “Please. If I can’t contain a basic drive with Stark-level isolation protocols, I deserve to be roasted in whatever evil PowerPoint she’s packing.”

He snatches it, plugs it into the isolated tablet in the center of the table, and begins tapping through firewalls and sandbox environments until the screen blinks.

A single file.

“Avengers Vulnerabilities – Compiled: Y/N Y/L/N”

Steve frowns. “She used her real name?”

“She used a name,” Natasha corrects quietly, leaning forward.

Tony clicks the file open.

The screen goes black for a second — then a sleek, minimalist interface fades in. Clean. Professional. It looks like something pulled from a high-end military op, not some rogue hacker’s garage setup.

Line One Appears:

"Steve Rogers: Predictable in formation, reliant on linear tactics. Easily baited. Uses shield as crutch — target knees to compromise stance. Not invincible. Just stubborn."

“Ouch,” Sam mutters.

Next Line:

"Tony Stark: Ego is both weapon and weakness. Will chase bait if it insults his intelligence. Arc reactor shielding is incomplete after Mark 45 — EMP works. Has no off-switch when cornered. Talk him into a corner and let him self-destruct."

“I like her,” Bruce says, smirking.

Tony glares.

Another Line:

"Wanda Maximoff: Magic has an emotional trigger. Calm mind is her leash. Unsettle her — results become chaotic and self-harming. Mirrors disorient her due to reflective psychic feedback."

Wanda stiffens in her chair. “She studied me like a test subject.”

“You okay?” Pietro asks gently.

Wanda nods. Barely.

Next:

"Sam Wilson: Combat capable but aerial dependent. Close quarters reduces effectiveness. Wingpack has delay post-deployment — half a second window for ground control."

Sam lets out a breath. “Alright, now I’m officially creeped out.”

But the file continues. Each Avenger picked apart with brutal precision. Combat footage, security feeds, voice patterns. Even behavioral patterns — how often Steve patrols the perimeter, what time Tony’s most distracted, the hour Bruce prefers for meditation.

And then the final entry loads.

A pause.

Natasha leans closer.

"Natasha Romanoff: Unreadable surface. Most dangerous asset. Highly adaptive. Seduction and manipulation are tools — and armor. Makes herself unknowable by becoming what you expect. But beneath it: tired. Cautious. Watching. And alone.”

The room falls quiet.

No diagrams. No attack plan. No weakness.

Just that.

Natasha blinks once. Then again, slower.

“That’s it?” Tony asks. “No weak points? No maps? No DNA-activated smart bullets?”

Natasha shakes her head. “No. She didn’t need them.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “She’s not just observing us. She’s profiling us. Personally.”

“And she wants us to know it,” Steve mutters. “This isn’t an attack. It’s a chess move.”

Tony leans back, arms folded. “What’s her endgame?”

Natasha doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looks at the empty chair at the head of the table. Where you sat, smug and silent, like the queen in a game they didn’t even realize had started.

Then finally, she murmurs: “She wants us to come find her.”

The ride back is silent.

Not because there’s no one to talk to — the encrypted comms crackle with updates, agents check in from the field, data flows into your network like a bloodstream of secrets — but because you told them not to speak unless necessary.

You sit in the back of a matte black SUV, one-way glass, no plates, no records. You’re already halfway to nowhere by the time the sun begins to rise.

The compound fades in the distance. But the feeling doesn’t.

That room. That stare.

Her.

Romanoff.

For someone so famously unreadable, she’d looked at you like she was reading the last chapter of a familiar book. And for a second — just a second — you wanted to be read.

That was dangerous.

And you liked it.

The vehicle descends into the access tunnel, headlights flickering briefly before infrared strips pick up the switchback route. You flash your ID against the scanner — not because you have to, but because protocols are habit. Discipline is survival.

The gate opens with a hiss.

Your headquarters isn’t flashy. It’s buried, quiet, intentional. Half intelligence hub, half sanctuary. The kind of place you designed to be forgotten by time.

Concrete walls. Touchscreen interfaces. A small team, scattered across glowing monitors and tactical maps, nods as you walk through.

“Status?” you ask, pulling your gloves off and heading toward the central briefing table.

Your second-in-command, a woman named Kiera with a shaved head and a venomous efficiency streak, taps a few keys.

“Operation Specter complete. You tripped the emergency alert exactly on the 90-second mark. Total infiltration time: six minutes, twenty-eight seconds. Full extraction clean. No tail.”

You nod. “Good. And the drive?”

Kiera smirks. “Triggered as expected. Romanoff read her file. She didn’t flinch.”

You allow yourself a breath of amusement. “Of course she didn’t.”

“She was the only one you didn’t offer a tactical weakness.”

“She didn’t have one.”

Kiera raises an eyebrow. “That... sounds like admiration.”

You glance up at the monitor, where paused footage from the compound still lingers. Natasha, her eyes on you. Watching. Calculating.

“I’d be more worried if she didn’t impress me,” you say smoothly.

Kiera folds her arms. “So what now? You proved your point. The Avengers are breachable. Your message is sent.”

You tilt your head. “They think it’s the message. It’s not.”

Kiera frowns. “Then what is it?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you walk into your private quarters — a spartan room with a desk, a weapons locker, and a small bar cart you never use. You tap the wall once. A hidden panel slides open, revealing a screen with a direct feed.

The Avengers compound.

Still accessible.

Still open.

You zoom in on the conference room.

She’s not there.

You don’t bother to hide the smile that tugs at your lips.

“She’s coming,” you murmur.

Because this isn’t over. It’s only the first spark in the dark.

The bell above the café door gives a soft chime as Natasha steps inside, quiet as a shadow slipping across the floor.

It’s not fancy — one of those in-between places tucked into a quiet street, the kind that people either overlook or choose to overlook. But the coffee's strong, the crowd’s nonexistent, and the lighting is just soft enough to blur the edges of tension.

You’re already seated.

Back corner. View of the door. Exit to your left. Steam curling from a mug between your hands.

You don’t stand when she approaches. You just glance up, chin tilting in greeting.

There’s a second cup across from you.

Double shot. No cream. No sugar.

She doesn’t touch it immediately.

“You been watching me?” she asks, voice low, smooth.

You lift your cup, take a sip. “That’d be a waste of good surveillance. I listen. Watching would feel... intrusive.”

She huffs a humorless breath. “And this isn’t?”

You gesture at the cup. “You’re standing. That’s more rude than the tracking, Romanoff.”

Natasha’s lips twitch — a flicker of amusement or calculation, hard to tell. Still, she sits. Doesn’t touch the drink yet.

“How long?” she asks.

You lean back in your chair, eyes fixed on hers. “Since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., your footprint got sloppier. Not bad, but a little more emotional. Like you started to feel when you moved.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Before that?” she asks.

You give her a slow, wolfish smile. “Budapest.”

She doesn’t blink. But her fingers curl slightly around the edge of the table.

“Bullshit.”

You shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe I was the shadow in the second window, two floors up. Maybe I watched you dismantle six armed men with a broken bottle and a busted radio and wondered why no one ever saw you flinch.”

A pause.

She finally picks up the coffee. Takes a slow sip.

You watch her like she watched you in that conference room — closely. Not to measure threats. To understand weight.

“I don’t like games,” she says.

“I know.”

“And I really don’t like being toyed with.”

“Not my goal.” You tilt your head. “If I were toying with you, you'd still be chasing my ghost through back-alley firewalls and ghost routes in Prague.”

“And what is this, then?”

“A conversation,” you say softly.

She watches you.

Silence stretches between you both. Not tense — not yet. But tight. Like a wire strung just above a fire.

Natasha breaks it.

“You left that drive for us. Told us how to beat ourselves. You don't do that unless you’re trying to provoke something.”

“I’m not trying to provoke the Avengers.”

“No?” she asks, arching a brow.

Your voice lowers.

“I was trying to provoke you.”

Another pause. Another heartbeat.

Natasha’s eyes flicker to the window. To the civilians. To the empty street.

And then, back to you.

She sets the coffee cup down, deliberate.

“You’re playing a long game.”

You nod.

She leans in, and her voice dips into that silken threat she wears like perfume. “Careful. You might get burned.”

You smile — not coy, not flirty, but reckless. Like you know exactly what kind of fire you’re stepping into.

“Maybe I’m counting on it.”

You watch her drink the coffee.

You don’t rush. You don’t speak.

You let her sit in the silence you created — the silence that always seems to form around people like the two of you. The ones who have too many memories and too few soft places to put them.

Then, calmly, you reach into your coat and pull out a second flash drive.

Black. Unlabeled.

This one, you don’t slide into the center of the table.

This one, you place closer. Right between her coffee and her fingers. A line in the sand.

Her gaze lowers to it, then lifts again. Sharper now. No more amusement. The air changes. Tightens.

“What is it?” she asks.

You hold her stare.

“My real mission.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where most people would fill the space with excuses or theatrics or disclaimers. You don’t.

She doesn’t pick it up. Not yet. She doesn’t need to — not when she can already feel the weight of it pressing down on the table.

Natasha’s voice is cool. Controlled. But under that calm, you hear the strain. The knowing.

“What’s on it?”

You answer without blinking.

“Proof that whatever you want to believe... the Red Room is still alive.”

She freezes.

The words hang there like smoke from a long-forgotten fire. Her fingers twitch slightly, just once. You see it. She knows you see it.

She swallows hard, and when she speaks again, it’s lower. The kind of voice people use when they’re trying not to fall apart in public.

“That’s impossible.”

You lean forward.

“No,” you say gently. “That’s what they want you to think.”

She stares at you. No mask this time. No sly retort. You’ve cracked something beneath that assassin calm.

“You’re lying,” she says, but it’s half-hearted. Reflex.

You just look at her. Quiet. Unmoving. The kind of stillness that speaks truth without needing to scream it.

Then you rise.

No dramatic exit. No final smirk or lingering look.

You just say, “Check the last folder.”

You step past her, toward the door, and pause only once, taking a final look at her.

And then you’re gone.

Out the door, into the soft morning light. Leaving behind a cup of half-drunk coffee, a woman haunted by too many ghosts, and a flash drive that might burn her whole world down.

She doesn’t leave the café right away.

Natasha stays seated. Elbows on the table. Staring at the flash drive like it might bite.

She knows how this goes. You don’t just pick up an unmarked drive from someone who infiltrated the most secure compound on Earth like it’s a goddamn souvenir.

But this isn’t strategy anymore.

This is personal.

She closes her eyes for a breath. Then pockets it, finishes the coffee — cold now — and walks out into the street, not bothering to look for you.

Because she knows better than waste her time.

She loads the drive at a secure drop-point six blocks away — an abandoned safe house wired with too many protocols, one of the few places she still trusts.

No internet connection. No cloud bleed. Just a black monitor and the hum of ghosts.

The screen flashes.

A single directory.

/REDROOM_REMAINS/

She clicks.

Subfolders open one by one:

CURRENT OPS

SAFEHOUSE NETWORKS

HANDLERS

ACTIVE ASSETS

DECEASED (FALSE)

PROJECT: SILENCER

OPERATIVE RECORDS

Each folder stamped with timestamps no later than two weeks old. Fresh. Active. Real.

Her stomach knots.

She clicks OPERATIVE RECORDS.

Dozens of profiles. Old aliases. File numbers. And hers.

She stares at her own name like it doesn’t belong to her.

Agent: Black Widow / Natalia Alianovna Romanova

Status: Compromised

Result: Repurposed — Failure to Eliminate

Handler Notes: Emotional volatility preserved. Useful for projection purposes. Long-term reprogramming is deemed ineffective. Surveillance suspended after SHIELD collapse.

They didn’t erase her.

They studied her.

She’s not free. She’s written off.

She opens DECEASED (FALSE).

Names. So many names. Ones she thought long dead — or had to believe were dead to sleep at night.

And then:

Belova, Yelena.

Her breath catches.

She clicks. The file opens.

YELENA BELOVA

Status: Alive

Location: Black Site: Sector 3 / Kemerovo, Russia

Last Ping: Four days ago

Asset use: Conditioned Assassin / Psychological Leverage

She plays it.

There’s a small subfolder marked: CCTV FEED / OP 47

A video.

Yelena. Blonde hair longer than before. Muffled resistance. Eyes blank.

Training simulation. Hand-to-hand. Brutal, efficient. But something in her movements hesitant. Like muscle memory trying to unlearn itself.

Natasha swallows hard. Her hand curls into a fist.

You weren’t bluffing.

You weren’t posturing.

You handed her a piece of herself she thought buried in rubble and smoke.

Hidden deep within the flash drive Natasha accessed, Project: Silencer is the most sensitive and encrypted folder — its contents not just dangerous, but deeply personal. It connects you, the Red Room, and something Natasha was never supposed to remember.

PROJECT: SILENCER

Overview:

File Classification: OMEGA BLACK

Access Level: Handler-Only

Initiated: 6 months before SHIELD's collapse

Objective: Asset Generation via Trauma-Based Conditioning

Asset Profile: "Y/N Y/L/N" [Codename: Silencer]

Project Silencer was the Red Room’s contingency plan — an experimental program designed to create a “ghost-level” operative: untraceable, ungovernable, and unstoppable. Where traditional Widows were built from brutal efficiency and loyalty conditioning, Silencer was meant to go deeper:

"Not to control memory. To weaponize it."

Where Natasha was programmed, you were refined. You weren’t a blank slate. You were an original masterpiece — trained to remember everything, feel everything, and then use that emotional intelligence to dismantle any target from the inside out.

Silencer didn’t just kill. Silencer destabilized.

Key Characteristics:

No formal allegiance. Designed to embed in enemy cells, ally organizations, or global powers.

Operates under false moral autonomy. Appears independent but follows subliminal missions triggered by specific data phrases.

Capable of resisting interrogation, psychic tampering, telepathic scans.

Anti-Widow Protocols. Trained specifically to counter Red Room operatives — including Black Widow.

Natasha's Connection:

One hidden memo timestamped 8 years ago.

“Subject Silencer’s cognitive development is exceeding thresholds. If left unchecked, she may begin to form attachments. Particularly problematic: brief but significant contact observed between Silencer and Romanoff during overlapping missions in Hungary. No direct engagement. But Romanoff hesitated. Silencer noticed.”

“Recommend geographical separation. Recommend memory suppression for both parties.”

Status:

Project Silencer was marked as "Abandoned / Failed" after the Red Room's supposed dismantling. But the logs tell a different story. It didn’t fail.

And you've been choosing your own missions ever since.

It walked away.

You walked away.

Hidden Note (Encrypted, Only Visible to Natasha):

“They made me from the gaps in your story, Natasha. From the silences you buried. I’m not here to be your enemy.”

“I’m here to be the end of theirs.”

And then she sees it. One more folder.

FOR N

She clicks.

A message opens.

No video. Just text.

“I know what they did to you. What they’re still doing to others like you. This isn’t justice. This is a slow death with clean headlines. I thought you deserved to know. But I didn’t just give this to you to break your heart, Natasha.”

“I gave it to you to light the fuse.”

“—Y/N”

One final line blinks at the bottom:

“I’ll find you when you finish reading this.”

The cursor flickers.

Natasha leans back in the chair.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

She feels the old fire again.

You don’t knock.

By the time she senses you, you’re already inside the safehouse.

It’s clean, utilitarian — stripped-down like everything she builds around herself. A fortress of function with no softness, except maybe the dent in the armchair she’s currently in.

She doesn’t turn around. Just sits there, one hand resting on the table near her holstered pistol. Not touching it.

“I thought it’d take you longer,” she says quietly.

“I gave you time,” you reply, stepping into the light.

She still doesn’t look at you. But her breath changes.

“I read it all,” Natasha says. Voice steady, but softer than usual. “Every file. Every name.”

There’s a silence between you both.

Then, finally, she turns — slowly, like she’s afraid of what she might see in your eyes.

But you’re not here to gloat. You’re not even here to push.

You’re just here, steady and solid, carrying truth like a second skin.

“What do you want from me?” she asks.

You meet her gaze.

“I want what they took from you.”

She blinks.

“I want the Red Room gone. For good. I want the ghosts burned, the files destroyed, the handlers hunted. I want Yelena free. I want you free.”

A breath catches in her throat. She swallows it like a blade.

“You could’ve done this alone,” she says. “You almost did.”

You nod. “I could have. But I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the right to end what you started. And because I was built to counter you, Natasha. Not just to kill you — to understand you. Every move. Every weakness.”

A pause.

“And that includes your guilt.”

That gets her. You see it in the way her shoulders tense. How her jaw locks. Her defenses flare out like they’re begging for a fight.

But then she exhales.

Tired. Real.

“What if I don’t know how to be anything but angry?” she asks, voice low.

You step closer.

“Then let’s start there.”

She looks up at you — finally, truly looks.

And in that moment, you’re not Silencer. She’s not Black Widow.

You’re just two broken girls trained to burn down the world — now standing side by side, aiming that fire at the people who lit it.

After a beat, she nods once.

Sharp. Precise.

“Where do we start?”

You smile — not soft, not kind. Dangerous.

She stands, pulling her pistol from the table with a grace that’s muscle-deep.

And for the first time, you fight with her.

Codename: ONYX VEIL

They arrive at the rendezvous point at 0300 hours: a decommissioned Soviet bunker in the Carpathians, repurposed with cutting-edge surveillance tech and not a single chair that doesn’t double as a weapon.

A non-governmental shadow unit specializing in infiltration, asset recovery, and psychological warfare. Former spies. Burned agents. Ghosts who refused to stay dead.

Operates in silos. No centralized command. You? You’re the closest thing to a constant. Field leader, strategist, and the only one who can stand toe-to-toe with the Avengers — and not blink.

The Avengers walk in expecting secrets.

What they get is a reception committee.

Three operatives stand waiting — masked, armed, precise. They don’t offer names, just nods.

Ghost glances over the Avengers.

One steps forward. Broad-shouldered, cybernetic prosthetic, calm but volatile. Codename: GHOST.

Another, wiry and sharp-eyed, perched like a sniper even off-duty. Codename: SALT.

And the third — the tech brain, silent until absolutely necessary. Codename: IVORY.

“Well. Shiny."

Steve steps forward. “We didn’t come here to play intimidation games.”

“Good,” Ghost replies. “Neither did we. We came to win.”

You appear then, behind them, voice cool.

“They’re with me.”

The team visibly shifts. Even Tony straightens a little. The air changes.

Bruce looks around. “This is your… organization?”

“Part of it,” you say. “We operate decentralized. No names. No tags. No mess to clean up after.”

Wanda narrows her eyes. “And we’re supposed to trust them?”

You meet her gaze. Calm. Certain.

“No. You trust me.”

Silence. Then Natasha speaks up.

“She’s earned that much.”

That settles it. Enough for now.

You pull up the map — projected between the cold bunker walls. Stark tech meets Onyx Veil encryption.

🔺 Red Room Black Site – Kemerovo Sector

Outer perimeter: high voltage grid

Inner: reconditioned Widows

Command floor: Handler Mikhail Durov — last known overseer of Project: Silencer

Sublevel: Containment — Yelena Belova

The Plan:

Team One (You, Natasha, Ghost): Infiltrate from below. Sublevel access. Secure and extract Yelena.

Team Two (Steve, Sam, Wanda, Salt): Create surface-level distraction. Draw Widow defenses outward.

Team Three (Tony, Ivory, Bruce): Disable security grid, surveillance, and remote triggers.

You look around the room.

“This is not a mission we walk away from clean. They don’t believe in surrender. They’ll use our weaknesses against us — emotionally, physically, psychologically. That’s the point of their design.”

Natasha adds quietly, “That’s what they did to us.”

Tony smirks. “Well, I’m not really the emotionally available type.”

You glance at him. “Good. You’re bait.”

Sam snorts. Even Steve cracks a dry smile.

Before they move out, Ghost stops you. Quietly. Privately.

“You sure about this alliance?”

You nod.

“Avengers bring force. We bring precision. Together? We’re what they never expected.”

He leans back. “Just don’t forget who you are, Silencer.”

You pause.

“I haven’t been her in a long time.”

Then you slip your earpiece in, adjust your gear, and fall into step beside Natasha.

She doesn’t speak. But her hand brushes yours for half a second as you walk.

And that’s all the clarity you need.

Night falls like a bruise over Kemerovo.

Snow clings to the trees in thick silence, softening the sound of movement. Even the wind knows better than to whistle here.

Three figures move through the frost-bitten forest — your squad.

No voices. Just breath. Just the soft mechanical whir of Ghost’s arm as he signals another perimeter camera. Your fingers tap the countercode into the shared HUD system, one frame ahead of the motion sensor sweep.

You,

Natasha,

Ghost.

You move like wolves. Efficient. Shadow-sworn.

Above, higher on the ridge — a flicker of red sparks across the darkness. Wanda and Salt are in position. You catch the shimmer of Wanda’s chaos magic bleeding around her fingers as she whispers through the earpiece.

“Visual confirmed. Widow patrol—six bodies. They're fast, but they're not us.”

Farther back, in a secure transport zone cloaked under tech veils, Tony, Bruce, and Ivory begin the grid scramble.

“Ten seconds to breach comm net,” Tony whispers through. “No one's calling mommy after this.”

Below ground, the entrance is a steel hatch hidden beneath what looks like abandoned industrial pipework.

Your hands pause for a beat. This door… you’ve opened it before.

You reach it first. Drop to one knee.

Pull the lock unit off in a single movement.

Two wires. One memory.

Back when you were a ghost they sent in to clean up other ghosts.

Natasha kneels beside you, watching your face.

“You alright?” she asks, low.

You don’t answer right away.

Then: “I left something behind here.”

She nods once. “Let’s go find it.”

Click. The hatch opens.

Cold air spills up from the dark.

Sublevel One

The hallway is narrow. Lit by pale, flickering fluorescents. You count the motion detectors without even trying. Five ahead. Two above. All camera-blind for seven seconds between each sweep.

You and Natasha slide through like liquid.

Ghost peels off, silent, clearing corners behind you.

At the final turn, you stop her with one hand.

“I go first,” you whisper.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You breach the doorway with surgical precision.

She’s inside.

One second: empty hallway.

Two seconds: retinal scanner. Spoofed.

Three seconds: internal gas trigger—deactivated.

Four seconds: two guards. Neutralized.

Five seconds: the cell.

Yelena Belova.

Strapped to a cold cot, IVs in both arms, eyes glassy — but still there. Alive.

Natasha gasps softly behind you.

You move forward, fingers already flying over the biometric lock.

She twitches at your presence. Her eyes focus—barely. Then widen.

“…N—Natasha?”

Her voice is cracked. Raw. Not broken. Wired.

Natasha drops to her knees beside her, cradling her face. She doesn’t cry. She just whispers something in Russian that sounds like both a lullaby and a curse.

You don’t listen. You’re already scanning for the trigger phrases etched into the IV coding. They’ve hardwired control scripts into the serum.

You yank the line out.

Yelena jerks — but stays conscious.

“Will she be okay?” Natasha asks.

“If we get her out now.”

Behind you, Ghost checks the line. “Security just rebooted. We’ve got five minutes before they know we’re not dead yet.”

You lift Yelena. Natasha supports her weight.

The three of you retreat into the dark corridor as the alarms begin to howl.

Above ground, the Widow units swarm.

Wanda is already lighting the night on fire.

Sam drops into combat from the sky like a blade.

Steve meets his own ghosts head-on — not backing down.

And you — your eyes are locked on Natasha as she moves ahead of you, one hand still gripping her sister’s wrist.

Because this mission wasn’t just about breaking in.

It’s about breaking them.

And this?

This is only the beginning.

The sky’s gone red. Wanda’s chaos magic dances like blood-stained aurora above the trees, casting wild shadows over the battlefield.

Eight Widows spill from the compound — elite, armed, conditioned.

But you step forward, calm.

One earpiece tap: “Avengers — don’t kill. They're not the enemy. Not really.”

Natasha’s voice follows. “Just ghosts.”

Steve’s about to give the order when you’re already gone.

First Widow – Fast, small frame, signature twin-dagger style.

“One.” Ghost grins. “That’s the Silencer I know.”

You intercept her mid-lunge, sidestepping clean, disarming her with a flick of your wrist.

Your knee catches her in the diaphragm, not enough to break ribs, just enough to make her see stars.

You press a shock-pin to her neck — frequency set to interrupt, not harm.

She slumps.

Second and Third Widows – Coordinated assault. Tactical. Predictable to anyone else. Not to you.

You spin low, sweeping one at the knee while launching yourself onto the second’s shoulders. A short, static-charged cuff snaps to her temple — neurological desync. The first gets a palm strike to the side of her neck — enough to drop her without bruising the bone.

“Three.”

Above, Salt pins another Widow with tranquilizer-threaded netting, her motion frozen like a statue mid-strike.

Tony watches this with open disbelief. “Okay. Is anyone else slightly aroused or—?”

“Focus, Stark,” Steve barks.

“I am focused. On whatever the hell she is.”

Fourth Widow – older, sharper. She recognizes you.

“Silencer,” she breathes.

You don’t answer. Just lock eyes, lower your weapon, and step into her guard. She hesitates.

That’s all it takes.

You grip her wrist, twist the blade from her hand, then deliver a pressure-point strike that shuts down her motor control temporarily.

She lands, blinking. Not unconscious. Just… confused.

Natasha sees it. Says nothing — but her expression shifts. Something between pride and pain.

That one?

You leave awake.

Fifth and Sixth – try to flank Wanda.

You intercept mid-air, using one Widow’s momentum to throw her into the other. A sonic pulse from Ivory's drone disrupts their balance.

You drop in, land between them, and slam twin flash-tags to the backs of their necks — memory flood devices.

They’ll wake up remembering everything the Red Room made them forget.

They’ll hate you for it at first.

Sam hovers overhead. “You seeing this, Cap?”

But that’s the point.

You’re breathing harder now — but still not a scratch.

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah. She wasn’t bluffing.”

Seventh Widow – younger. Shaky. Not ready.

You don’t touch her.

_You’re not theirs anymore._

You walk toward her, calm, no weapon in hand.

She freezes. Blade in mid-grip.

You just whisper: “Ты не их больше.”

She drops the knife.

You catch it before it hits the ground.

“Seven.”

Last Widow.

This one lunges for Natasha.

A mistake.

Natasha’s hands shake.

Nat grabs her wrist — just like they taught her — and holds it long enough for you to circle behind and jab the disruptor needle into her spine.

No pain. Just stillness.

Her eyes go wide. Her body shudders once, then drops.

You put a hand on her shoulder.

She doesn’t shrug it off.

When the smoke clears, the field is quiet.

There are seventeen widows, alive. Unconscious or dazed. Free.

The Avengers gather around, watching your team regroup.

Salt is sharpening his blade with a grin. Ivory’s typing out memory anchor programs. Ghost just nods at you. Steve looks at the bodies. Then you.

“…That was surgical.”

Tony steps closer, eyeing you like something both terrifying and beautiful.

You glance at Natasha.

She just says, “Now we finish it.”

Because the Red Room didn’t just survive — it ascended. Floating above consequences. Above justice.

You’ve seen war from below.

Now you bring it to the sky.

But tonight, you drag it back to Earth.

The quinjet cuts through the night sky like a blade through fog. Outside the windows, clouds churn in silence, their edges painted in pale moonlight. The world below is distant — a memory beneath your boots.

Inside, no one talks much.

You sit at the back, fully geared, boots planted, spine straight — listening to a signal only you seem to recognize.

Sam pilots with steady hands, his jaw tight, eyes locked ahead.

Tony stands near the rear console, calibrating the last of the EMP bursts, fidgeting with wires more out of nerves than need.

Wanda sits with her hands folded, fingers twitching faintly as she listens in on frequencies you can’t hear, her brow furrowed in quiet focus.

Natasha and Yelena are across from each other. One battle-worn, the other still healing. Their hands are laced together, as if the silence between them is safer than words.

The Red Room’s neural beacon hums faintly across your comms, pulsing like a phantom heartbeat. That same frequency from long ago. A sound buried under your skin. The one you memorized when you were theirs.

Ghost leans in beside you, close but respectful.

“You sure about this?”

You keep your eyes forward. “It’s time.”

You nod. “We liberate. Not destroy.”

There’s a quiet tension before Natasha speaks, voice low but clear.

“We do this clean. Quiet. No blood unless there’s no other choice.”

She looks over at you. Her expression is unreadable, but the nod she gives is sharp. Meaningful.

They trust you to lead. Because you’ve been here before — not just in places like this, but this exact place. The Aerial Red Room. A ghost ship floating above the clouds. A nightmare with steel walls.

They think they know it. They don’t.

Not like you do.

The descent begins in silence.

Salt and Ivory drop first — their forms blurred under photonic scramblers. Two shadows on the wind. They move like specters down the undercarriage, slicing into the station’s lower struts and cutting power feeds to the outer sensor grid.

Seconds later, the second wave follows.

You rappel silently through a maintenance shaft, your body pressed tight against the interior wall. Natasha’s behind you, followed by Ghost, and Yelena. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You know the layout.

You know the cameras’ blind angles, the vent routes, the guards’ patterns. The way the air stales at the corners of the station. The scent of recycled control. You feel it all again like muscle memory that never asked to return.

Above, the distraction begins. Steve, Sam, and Tony breach the east hangar with deliberate force — not reckless, but loud. The alarm system screams to life, just as planned. A hundred footsteps rush toward the echo of battle.

Which means the artery routes — the paths to the heart — are left exposed.

Exactly as you predicted.

You reach the lower levels in ten minutes. The walls here are older — less steel, more bone. A relic of Soviet design retrofitted for science without conscience.

No words.

Ghost peels off down a side corridor, sweeping for secondary access points.

Natasha leads Yelena forward with practiced steps, tension etched in her shoulders.

You follow close, HUD scanning for biometric locks and traps that aren’t traps — psychological layers embedded in the architecture itself.

Only movement.

Only mission.

And yet, you feel it — under your gloves, in your chest, behind your eyes.

You feel him.

He’s here.

Dreykov.

The one who built this hell, and filled it with daughters he never intended to love. The one Natasha has spent her life trying to forget. The one she’s crossed oceans to end.

And now, she’s close.

Closer than ever before.

The central cryo chamber is colder than the rest of the facility — even colder than you remembered. The temperature is kept unnaturally low to stabilize neural stasis. It seeps through your tactical suit and sinks into your spine.

You breach the door with a single override. No alarms. No resistance.

They didn’t expect anyone to come here.

Mind-blank, chemically looped, waiting for Dreykov’s final sequence to bring them online.

Fifty cryopods line the room — cylindrical, upright, humming softly. Each one cradles a woman, their expressions serene, as if sleeping.

But you know better. These aren’t dreams they’re caught in. It’s programming.

The next generation of Widows.

You approach the command terminal. A faint flicker of reflection catches your eye in the screen — your own face, harder than it used to be.

From a thigh pouch, you pull the flash drive.

You still remember where you got it: that café in Prague. Wanda slipped it to you beneath a napkin. A neural disruptor coded in old languages, buried beneath a veil of memories and music.

You insert the drive.

A recording. Your voice. Russian. Calm.

The system resists at first — but Ivory’s ghost-code embedded in the data starts to eat through their firewall like acid.

You don’t speak, but your voice echoes out anyway.

"Вы не оружие. Вы не инструмент. Вы свободны." You are not weapons. You are not tools. You are free.

The lights inside each pod flicker. A low hum vibrates through the chamber. For a breath, nothing happens.

You step back.

Then one pod opens.

Then another.

Then five.

Yelena enters quietly, halting at the threshold. She grips your arm tightly.

One Widow falls to her knees. Another screams. A third stands without a sound — her eyes clear, glassy, but aware.

They are waking up.

“You did it.”

You shake your head.

“Not yet.”

There’s a pressure building beneath the floor — the kind you feel in your lungs before a storm.

It’s coming.

The control bridge is near the reactor core. All reinforced glass and arrogance.

He’s already waiting.

He claps once.

General Dreykov.

Larger now. Older. But untouched by regret.

His uniform is tailored, his stance indulgent. And his smile — when he sees Natasha — is the same one you saw the day she was broken.

“Well. The prodigal daughters return.”

Natasha says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

Dreykov continues, almost amused.

“You think this ends with a speech? With a flash drive? You freed fifty girls — I have five hundred more across the globe. This is an empire. You’re just ghosts in the hallway.”

He waves his hand casually — and the floor splits.

You step forward.

“No. You’re just a man hiding behind children.”

Taskmaster drops in from above.

Black armor. Blade drawn. Helmet reflecting light like a mirror.

You step instinctively in front of the others, HUD scanning. Neural feedback spike. Combat-readiness: red.

Dreykov clicks his tongue. “Oh, this isn’t fear. It’s inevitability.”

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“I’ve seen your tricks. I’m not scared of your puppet.”

Taskmaster launches — not at Natasha, but at you.

You absorb the hit, boots skidding against the reinforced floor, momentum slamming you into the bulkhead.

She’s stronger than you expected. Faster too. Every move is mimicry, calculated, unrelenting.

She’s learning in real time.

You draw your stun baton and block a second strike — barely.

She counters with a Black Panther claw swipe.

Then Cap’s shield feint.

Then something you recognize as your own movement, mirrored back at you.

The others don’t interfere. Natasha’s already circling Dreykov, dragging his attention, his wrath. Yelena is moving for the data cores, clearing escape paths for the freed Widows.

You lock eyes with Taskmaster behind her visor.

"You're not a weapon either," you say quietly.

She doesn't respond. She can’t — not yet.

The fight turns.

You flip her with redirected momentum and slam a pulse-disk onto her back. Red Dust variant. Modified to target synaptic relay clusters — not to kill. To interrupt.

You drop low. Slide under her lunge. Disrupt her stance with a magnetic mine that temporarily short-circuits her balance module.

She stumbles. Reacts. Comes back harder.

It hits.

Taskmaster stiffens. Shudders violently. Her arm twitches, then drops.

Breathing.

She doesn't fall.

She just stands.

Still. Silent.

You don’t move either.

She looks at you. Not like an attacker. Like someone waking up.

“I see you,” you murmur. “Whoever you are under there… you’re not his anymore.”

Her blade lowers.

You let her go.

Across the chamber, Natasha moves with terrifying clarity.

Dreykov is armed — but clumsy. She’s not. He draws a pistol. She doesn’t flinch.

She’s past flinching.

She disarms him in three moves, drives him backward through the control glass.

She shoots him point-blank. Once.

He tries to beg.

He tries to say he’s important.

That he’s bigger than her.

Right between the eyes.

No flair. No vengeance speech. Just an ending.

You meet her eyes as the silence settles.

She breathes.

And for the first time in years, she looks free.

The shot echoes longer than it should.

When Dreykov drops, something inside the room shifts — like the station itself exhales. The control screens flicker. The neural grid stutters. Everything he built was wired through his command. And now, that command is gone.

You step beside her.

Natasha stands over his body, eyes unreadable.

Not victorious.

Not relieved.

Just… finished.

“He’s dead,” you say quietly.

She nods once. “Then it’s over.”

But you both know that’s only partially true.

A high-pitched whine cuts through your comms. Tony’s voice snaps in:

“We’ve got a reactor instability building. Chain reaction’s kicking in fast. No countdown — just boom.”

“How long?” you ask.

“Six minutes. Maybe less. And gravity is going to get real opinionated once the turbines blow.”

There’s no time to waste.

You and Natasha run.

In the cryo-chamber corridor, the freed Widows move in silence. Some still disoriented, others already forming protective lines to help the weaker ones. Yelena coordinates them with calm efficiency, guiding them toward the evac hangar. Salt and Ivory flank her sides, providing cover where needed.

Wanda holds the corridor near the western wing. Her hands glow red, her face pale with focus. Every piece of infrastructure she touches collapses into nothing. Controlled chaos. Destruction without a single wasted movement.

Ghost and Sam set timed charges along the eastern wing. Measured. Precise.

The station groans. The kind of sound steel makes when it knows it’s about to fall.

You help two young Widows reach the ramp, one limping, the other still bleeding from where a harness dug too deep during stasis.

Taskmaster stands off to the side, unmoving.

You approach her slowly.

She doesn’t raise her weapon.

“I won’t stop you,” you say. “If you want to stay.”

She tilts her head. Voice soft. Broken.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay,” you reply. “Start with getting out of here.”

She hesitates. Then follows.

Small steps. But hers.

In the evac bay, Tony and Bruce are loading the last pod of escapees into a Quinjet. Steve stands at the edge, watching the sky flicker with fire. The Red Room’s upper towers are already crumbling, one wing at a time.

Natasha walks toward you, quiet, steady.

Her face is calm.

“I thought it would feel like revenge,” she murmurs.

You stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder, watching the facility tear itself apart from within.

“It’s not revenge,” you answer. “It’s reclamation.”

She looks over at you, searching. “Of what?”

You glance at the young women now boarding the jet. At Yelena, who gives you a nod. At the room that held you. Held them. And finally, at Natasha.

“Ourselves.”

She breathes in, slow.

She doesn’t smile — not exactly. But something eases.

Something that had been clenched for too long.

Then she takes your hand.

Six Minutes Later

The Red Room doesn’t explode like the movies.

Metal groans, beams twist, engines falter — and the whole facility breaks apart, falling in silence, swallowed by clouds and distance. A floating empire undone not with rage, but with resolve.

There’s no fireball, no melodramatic crescendo.

It collapses.

It falls like a crown knocked from a head.

You stand near a half-collapsed barn on the outskirts of nowhere. A temporary safehouse, far from satellites and agendas.

The Red Room is gone.

Wreckage still smokes in the horizon like the ghost of a monster that took too long to die.

Natasha sits on the porch rail, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of black coffee. She’s in a hoodie too big for her frame, legs drawn up like she's trying to stay small.

After a long pause, she murmurs, “You didn’t hesitate. Up there. With the Widows. With him.”

You approach but don’t speak.

Instead, you sit beside her, just far enough to give her space, just close enough to remind her you’re still there.

You shrug gently. “I did. You just didn’t see it.”

She huffs a dry sound — could’ve been a laugh. “Does it ever go away? The guilt?”

You rest your arms on your knees, watching the sky turn lavender. “No. But it gets… softer. When you're not holding it alone.”

Natasha doesn’t look at you, but you feel her gaze drift toward your hands, your wrist where old scars still live. Then, after a beat, she says quietly:

“You were never part of their program. But you understand it. More than anyone.”

You glance at her. “Because they tried to make me like you.”

She does look at you now.

Eyes sharp. Green. Haunted.

You offer her a faint smile.

“But they failed. Because I already knew who I was.”

“And who is that?”

You let the question hang in the air. The answer isn’t for tonight. Not yet.

Instead, you nudge her mug with your finger. “You drink that stuff willingly?”

She chuckles, small and real. “Double shot, no cream, no sugar.”

Your smile widens. “I remember.”

Another silence.

And then she says it. Soft. Careful.

“You know... I keep thinking about that day in the conference room. When you sat at the head of the table like you belonged there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t I?”

“That’s what scared me,” she admits.

You both laugh quietly.

And there’s something softer in the air now.

Something shifting.

You lean back. “I’m going to check the perimeter in ten. You coming?”

Not romance, not yet. Not touch.

But trust.

Opening, piece by piece.

She finishes her coffee and stands, brushing off her hands. “Always.”

And when she falls into step beside you, shoulders almost brushing, neither of you pull away.

In near future.

The next mission ends quieter than expected.

No explosions. No Hydra tech rigged to blow the moment you touch it. No last-minute betrayal.

Just a clean extraction of a rogue AI from a half-dead facility in the Ardennes, a few skirmishes in the snow, and a shared extraction back to a safehouse ONYX set up months ago.

You and Natasha don’t talk much on the ride there.

The safehouse is underground. Clean, minimal. Concrete and quiet.

But you’re near her.

And she’s near you.

And lately, that’s been enough.

Tony complains that it smells like “a fridge full of secrets,” and Salt mutters something about soundproofing the walls better this time.

You smirk at that, dropping your gear and stretching your shoulders until something cracks.

Across the room, Natasha mirrors you — not the cracking, but the stillness that comes after. She leans against the wall with one knee bent and a hand brushing her hair back.

There’s dust in her curls. A scratch on her cheek. But her eyes?

They’re steady. On you.

“Debrief in thirty,” Steve announces, ever the team dad. “No disappearing.”

You’re already halfway to the weapons table when Natasha intercepts you. Her fingers brush yours — casual, maybe, maybe not — as she lifts your tactical belt from your hands.

“I’ve got this,” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “I can clean my own weapons.”

“I know,” she says. “But you’re bad at it when you’re tired.”

A beat.

“You noticed that, huh?”

Her mouth curves. “I notice a lot.”

Later, the debrief happens in pieces — sprawled across couches, chairs, and the arm of a beat-up leather recliner that looks like it’s survived multiple wars. Ghost and Sam argue over infiltration methods. Steve takes notes. Yelena interrupts everything with casual chaos. Salt sleeps with one eye open. Darcy’s hacking something, probably unethically.

And Natasha?

She’s sitting next to you.

Close, but not touching.

Her thigh presses against yours when she shifts, just for a second. You feel it like a power surge.

When the meeting dissolves, people drift away. Lights dim. Conversations quiet.

You stay seated.

So does she.

“Do you miss it?” she asks eventually, voice low. “Being part of something that wasn’t… this.”

You turn slightly. She’s not looking at you. Not directly.

You think before answering.

“I think I don’t know what it means to be part of something yet. Not really. I spent so long surviving what I was built to be… that I never figured out what I wanted to be.”

She’s quiet.

Then: “Maybe this is what it looks like. Figuring it out.”

You tilt your head toward her. “You figuring it out too?”

She finally looks at you.

“Yes.”

That night, you can’t sleep.

You end up back at the cargo ramp — not of a quinjet this time, but the open metal back of a transport truck still parked at the safehouse. The air is crisp. The sky is almost too quiet.

She finds you again.

Of course she does.

“You’re starting to make this a habit,” you murmur.

Natasha joins you without a word. She doesn’t stand next to you — she leans back against the truck, head tilted toward the stars.

“I used to be afraid of this,” she says after a while. “Stillness.”

You glance at her.

She continues, “Back in the Red Room… stillness meant something was coming. Pain. Correction. You learn to always be moving.”

You say nothing.

She looks over at you, her expression unreadable. “But this stillness… with you… doesn’t feel like waiting for something bad.”

Your heart does that thing again — that stupid, hopeful lurch.

You hold her gaze. “It’s not.”

A long pause.

Then she steps closer. Just enough.

Her voice is barely a breath. “Don’t move.”

You don’t.

Still not touching lips. Not yet.

Not when her hand grazes yours.

Not when her fingers lace through.

Not when she rests her forehead gently against yours.

But it's more than orbiting now.

It’s gravity.

And she says, softly, as if speaking the answer to a question neither of you dared ask:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It starts with a pen.

Wanda groans so loudly it startles Steve mid-sentence.

A simple, innocent pen on the strategy table that you — Y/N — casually offer to Natasha during a debrief.

She reaches for it.

Your fingers brush.

You both freeze.

You both look away like someone just fired a nuke across the table.

“Everything okay, Wanda?” he asks.

She forces a smile. “Oh, yeah. Just...love the sound of two emotionally stunted assassins denying basic chemistry.”

Steve blinks.

Bucky mutters, “...Same.”

Later, in the training hall.

Wanda leans against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching as Natasha runs through combat drills. Focused. Deadly. Sweating slightly.

You are across the room, sharpening knives with unnecessary concentration.

Wanda finally has enough.

“Romanoff. A word.”

Natasha looks up, guarded.

Wanda gestures sharply. “Now.”

Wanda drags her to a supply closet, because Wanda's drama needs acoustics.

Nat crosses her arms. “What’s this about?”

Wanda stares her down like a judge.

“You’re driving me insane. Both of you.”

Nat blinks. “Me and—?”

Nat’s jaw tightens. “She could.”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

Wanda steps closer, magic simmering faintly in her fingertips, not threatening — just emotional leakage. “You’re both impossible. You hover, you linger, you bring her coffee exactly how she likes it, you watch her like she might disappear—”

“That’s the point!” Wanda snaps. “You’ve both lost everything. And now you’ve found someone who actually gets it. And instead of leaning in, you do this... Cold War courtship dance.”

Nat says nothing.

So Wanda lowers her voice. Quieter. But raw.

“She’s not a mission, Natasha. She’s a chance.”

And then, even softer.

“You don’t get many of those.”

A long silence.

Natasha doesn’t move. Her eyes are distant, calculating, terrified.

And then…

“I don’t know how to ask.”

Wanda exhales but she id not irritated anymore. Just kind.

“Then start with something simple.”

Later that night You’re on the rooftop. Quiet. Watching the city lights below.

Footsteps behind you. You don’t turn.

“Didn’t peg you as a rooftop brooder,” you say.

“I could say the same,” Natasha replies.

You smile faintly.

She steps beside you. Close but not touching. Not yet.

“Wanda yelled at me today.”

You smirk. “I’m shocked. She’s usually so reserved.”

“She told me to stop pretending I don’t want something.”

You go still. The air shifts.

Natasha breathes in — like it’s the first honest breath in weeks.

You look at her. And for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

“So… here I am.

Trying.

To ask.”

“Y/N,” she says.

“Would you stay for once? With me?”

You don’t answer.

“No more running,” you whisper.

You just lean in — forehead to forehead.

Quiet. Solid. Real.

And this time, you don’t pull away first.

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Perfectly Made

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 5k

.

Perfect, technically means to be without flaws. But, the thing about flaws is that they’re subjective.

When you looked at the bullet wound scar on Natasha’s abdomen, you felt like your chest was being crushed. It hurt because she had been hurt. Every time your lips passed over it, you made a point to kiss the marked skin.

Because, Natasha was still perfect.

.

Everyone at Shield thought that Agent Romanoff was flawless. You’d spent your time with the agency hearing stories of missions. The tales were half legend, but the biggest rumour was that all the stories were true.

You pretended it was professional jealousy that left you breathless when you passed her in the corridors. You were rising fast at Shield, but Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff walked through the base like they owned it. Deep down you liked her confidence, she’d earned it.

Then, there was the accident. A broken wrist, Fury had told you. Someone had known exactly how to remove Agent Barton from action. Files were slid across the desk to you, Avengers Initiative, Temporary Placement.

There’d been briefings after briefings. You didn’t need hours of discussion to understand their point. Agent Romanoff couldn’t lose mission preparedness. You were going to be the knock off Clint, the stand in for training and any standard missions until his return.

Your heart thumped with anticipation and fear as you were led through the Avengers Training Facility. Agent Hill’s hand had pressed lightly between your shoulder blades as she nudged you forwards into the gym.

You’d stumbled slightly before catching your stride. You felt like a kid at the playpark, told to go and make a new friend. You walked over to the treadmill hesitantly. You didn’t announce your presence, you knew she could hear your footsteps. She didn’t stop running, she didn’t even glance over.

‘Agent Romanoff.’ You tried after a moment. Her eyes moved across to you but her pace didn’t lessen.

‘Yes?’ The single word had bite. You only felt the sting of it until you noticed her eyes. Wariness filled them, unadulterated in a way that surprised you.

The silence lingered as you suddenly understood the real mission. Agent Barton wasn’t just the best partner for Agent Romanoff at Shield, he was also the only one she’d ever had.

You were both awkward kids pushed together at the playpark. You’d seen the apprehension in her eyes, and now, you could see right through the rest of the mask.

She wanted you to like her too.

You hopped onto the neighbouring treadmill and got started.

.

There was something about walking back to your new apartment suite with Natasha that settled the pair of you. Maybe it was being exhausted and sweaty in front of your hero and secret crush. Or, it was the smile that had crept onto Natasha’s face as you’d asked her about some of the missions you’d heard so many stories about.

When you turned to enter your apartment, Natasha touched your shoulder briefly. You startled, her fingers feeling pleasantly cool on your skin, still hot from the workout.

‘I’m the next door on the right.’ She informed you and, again, you saw the tentativeness radiating from her. ‘Let’s talk later?’

.

You ended up spending the evening sitting together on her sofa. The conversation flowed well but you were definitely making an effort. You posed each question gently, unsure which one might be too intrusive. Natasha answered everything with a raised eyebrow, as if she couldn’t believe you cared enough to ask. Her hesitations and careful answers were endearing. Sometimes, in the brief pauses, you saw her eyes flicker over you. You knew she was waiting for the interest to die down, trying to assess what part of her you were really interested in.

.

It took most of the evening until you even thought to ask for something to drink. It was the first time that Natasha had looked really flummoxed by a question.

‘Check the fridge.’ She said, like the contents were as much a mystery to her as to you. You got up to check and found an empty appliance, save for two water bottles and a bag of apples. Uncertainty swung like a pendulum inside you.

You took a water bottle and sat back down next to her. Real Housewives of Somewhere played needlessly on the television.

‘Are you not hungry?’ You asked your most tentative question as you unscrewed the bottle cap.

‘I’ll pick something up later.’ Natasha had replied with a perfectly timed yawn and a sudden reason to say goodnight. As you walked back to your room, you knew one more unsaid thing about Natasha.

Agent Barton had been doing the cooking.

.

The next morning when you met Natasha at the gym, you brought reinforcements. You waved at her with a friendliness that was still a little preemptive. Her returning smile was careful.

You held her gaze when you thrust the energy bar into her hand without a word - too busy chewing on one of your own.

You’d bought apple flavoured. You hated apples, but Natasha had given few context clues and the bag of fruit you’d found in her fridge was all you had.

Natasha’s smile widened when she took a bite.

. »

You were part of the Avengers Initiative for exactly three months.

Each day for exactly three months, you accidentally made too much dinner. Each evening, for exactly three months, you had to knock on your neighbour's door and offer her some leftovers.

It took the full 12 weeks for you to become remotely accustomed to the taste of apple oat bars.

You became accustomed to a lot of things.

The quiet focus of Natasha in the morning training sessions. The way that her hair curled slightly when you sparred well enough for her to sweat in the hot gym.

The way her head rested on your shoulder as you watched TV. Placed lightly at first, as if the gesture always needed your permission to continue. Then, heavier and heavier as you both sank together into a comfortable position on the sofa.

You were even used to her texts now. Ones that referenced American pop culture so adeptly that, sometimes, you’d have to use Google to understand them. The way she mentioned your private jokes over the comms at the worst points on missions, reminding you that she knew you and that she had your back.

When you first met Clint, he shook your hand like an old friend.

When he caught sight of Natasha coming along the corridor, you watched his shoulders loosen with the release of tension. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting it go.

If you hadn’t known Natasha like you did, you’d have felt like a cat sitter who’d done a good job.

You turned away for their reunion, leaving to pack up the best 12 weeks of your life and return to a normal life that would always feel disappointing now.

Half an hour later, there was a knock at your door. You opened it, wondering if this was going to be like a moment in a movie.

Your heart leapt automatically, Natasha was standing in the doorway. Then you felt the confusion spread through you as you took in the large cardboard box, balanced against her waist. The branding on the side was familiar.

‘The largest I could find was a box of 200.’ Natasha told you succinctly. Your head tilted in confusion and she continued promptly.

‘For all those breakfasts.’ Natasha thrust the box out towards you. ‘Thanks for always offering me your second energy bar.’

Natasha’s smile was genuine, her eyes were oblivious. You didn’t move to take the box.

‘I don’t even like apples.’ You said stupidly. Natasha’s lips parted in shock, you saw confusion cross her face.

You leaned over the cardboard box. You felt her breath against your face when she huffed out in surprise. You were impossibly close.

Your lips found hers, feeling the same tenderness in your stomach as you did with every touch she’d ever given you.

She was soft, warm and perfect.

‘I just like you.’ You told her, finally.

.

You never moved out of that apartment. Temporary placement became Avenger In Training.

You never stopped cooking for Natasha either. Except, now you didn’t have to pretend it was all accidental leftovers. Now, you planned for dinner every night. You weren’t an expert cook by any means. For the first few months, you worried more than anything that she’d get sick of the repetitiveness of your recipes. You could only make so much spaghetti.

But, there was something about the days when you’d get word of Natasha returning from a mission. When she’d open her own front door with a nervous expectation that maybe this time you wouldn’t be waiting for her.

The way your eyes would lock onto each other and she’d take the few steps across the room, burying her face into the crook of her neck and letting your arms wrap around her.

‘It’s good to be home.’ Natasha would mumble, and you’d feel a swoop at her words because you knew she didn’t mean her apartment.

‘What smells so good?’ She’d ask, and you’d feel her lips moving against your skin more than you could hear the words.

Then, you’d grin and say, like always.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’

Natasha would kiss your collarbone and you’d kiss her hair.

Even when she fell asleep on the sofa before the food was ready, it still felt perfect.

.

It was Clint who must have spilled the secret about your cooking. Soon, the Avengers - who you’d barely even been in a room with before - began dropping by Natasha’s apartment every evening. It felt like adopting a group of appreciative strays.

Sometimes, you remembered how untouchable Natasha and Clint had seemed when you’d first joined Shield. Now you sat alongside superheroes at the dinner table and saw how much they all longed for company and home cooked food.

You didn’t complain about it, but the effort required for cooking also increased significantly. Soon, the dread of making dinner filled you up more than food ever could. You adapted the recipes you knew, adding x10 to most of the ingredients. Every evening, your kitchen felt more like a school cafeteria than it had the night before.

The only part you loved was Natasha’s quiet enjoyment of your company. Each night, Natasha returned from training earlier than the night before. Soon, her reasons for being early became less and less thought out. Soon, she didn’t bother with an excuse at all.

You’d hear the front door shut, and feel her arms snake around your front as she pressed against you, barely hindering your chopping or dicing. Her breath would tickle your neck as she rested her chin on your shoulder peacefully, watching you work.

.

Your comment that night had been offhanded, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it.

Tony had brought you a cooking apron with the Iron Chef America logo emblazoned on the front. Stark Industries had taken to sponsoring most ‘Iron’ themed things and this had clearly been part of the latest promotional campaign. He smirked as you put it on good naturedly.

‘Perfect.’ He declared. You made an ironic model’s pose with a pair of oven gloves already on your hands. Tony laughed loudly.

‘You’ll never leave the kitchen again.’ He declared.

You rolled your eyes in playful frustration.

‘I never do as it is.’

Tony turned then, spotting Natasha as she leaned against the bedroom door frame. You glanced at the ground, feeling a wave of shyness as you realised Natasha’s attention had been openly on you.

‘You’d better start pulling your weight, Nat.’ He warned with a tease.

Only you saw the flicker of uncertainty in Natasha’s eyes.

.

You didn’t think any more of it until the next evening. Natasha arrived at her apartment with a smug grin on her face and a paper bag in her hand.

‘Takeout.’ She announced, placing the bag unceremoniously on the coffee table, before throwing herself down next to you on the sofa.

‘I gave Clint the rest, the vultures can circle his apartment for once.’

She grinned at you, obviously pleased with her solution. You threw your head back against the sofa dramatically, surprised at the relief you felt. You’d never been a regular cook. But, it’d been six months since you’d started dating Natasha and, apart from a handful of dates when you’d both found time to leave the Avengers facility, you’d cooked dinner every day.

A sigh left your mouth and you closed your eyes for a second, revelling in the moment. Then, you turned your head to the side, catching Natasha’s eyes and reaching out a hand to hold hers.

‘Thank you.’ You told her, voice laced with obvious gratitude.

Natasha’s expression looked suddenly conflicted.

‘Do you like cooking?’ She asked quietly, her face consciously wiped clean of any hints of her own emotion. An awkward tension filled the room at once. You rubbed your thumb in circles on the back of her hand.

‘I don’t mind.’ You answered after a moment, trying for something close to the truth, though the words still tasted like a lie on your tongue.

.

After you’d eaten your fill of the takeout. Natasha put her hand on your thigh.

‘I’ll take care of tomorrow’s dinner.’ She informed you, matter of factly. You grinned, feeling seen and loved all in one heady rush.

‘What time should I come over?’ You asked with excitement.

‘Maybe you should just stop leaving.’ She mumbled, crawling onto your lap and tilting your chin up towards her with a single finger.

You stayed that night at her place and every night after.

.

You thought the repeat of takeout the next night was only because you’d both spent most of the day packing up your stuff. Then, before you knew it, a week had passed and you’d tried cuisine from seven different countries already.

You didn’t know how to tell Natasha that, for you, ‘taking care of dinner’ didn’t equate to ‘ordering in some food’.

The other Avengers took the change of circumstances with limited annoyance, returning without complaint to their past diet of food from the staff cafeteria and their own takeout preferences.

.

It took two more weeks before you brought it up to Natasha. There was a new pride in her demeanour and you knew how entangled her happiness was with your own.

You had moved in. Now, she was keeping you fed.

You loved her for the way she cared about you. It made you feel safe and whole.

Every night, Natasha took you into the bed that was now yours to share. She touched you reverently, her fingers slow and lingering. Each brush of her lips thanking you for staying another night with her.

.

‘I know you’re busy.’ You started nervously, picking the rushed morning as your best moment to bring up the conversation you’d been nervous about.

Natasha’s back was facing you, but she slowed her movements immediately. Her head tilted as she waited for your next words, fingers still dragging her tank top past her midriff.

‘I don’t want to be an inconvenience.’ You tried again, losing your train of thought at the most inopportune time when you caught sight of her fingers trailing slowly down her bare waist.

‘You want to leave.’ Natasha answered for you. Her tone was neutral but her voice cracked. ‘You can just say so. It’s not been working out.’

There was a pause as her words registered.

‘Oh, Natasha.’ You murmured at the realisation of what she’d been expecting from you.

Natasha turned around then, eyes bright with tears that she was too proud to let fall.

‘It’s okay.’ She told you, even though her mouth was twisting with hurt. ‘I know I’m not easy to live with.’

You moved around the bed, the tiny tremble in her lower lip compelling you closer to her.

‘It’s okay.’ She repeated. ‘It’s okay.’ Her voice broke again but she kept repeating the words, mumbling more each time.

Your hand pressed slowly against her abdomen, calling her back to you. Natasha stopped speaking abruptly, avoiding your eye contact determinedly.

‘You are perfect.’ You told her seriously, Natasha’s eyes closed at your words and you could feel how much she wanted to believe you.

You kissed her carefully and lightly, trying to tell her how much you wanted her all the time. Your fingers trailed up the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.

‘How could I not want to live with you?’ You murmured against her lips. Natasha kissed you fervently, her hand on your waist holding on just a little too tight.

.

‘I just had an idea.’ You told her as you headed to the elevator a few minutes later, both feeling late enough to hurry your matching strides.

‘Maybe next week, we could take turns cooking?’ You suggested hesitantly. ‘If you don't have time though, I don't mind -’

You watched many emotions slide across Natasha’s face, reflected on the elevator doors that faced you.

‘Let me start.’ Natasha told you a moment later, voice full of resolve. ‘I’ll make you something special on Monday night.’

You couldn’t help but beam at her offer, interlacing your fingers with hers.

‘I’m planning on going grocery shopping on Sunday.’ You started to say, playing at shy. ‘Want to carpool?’

Natasha’s returning smile was small but genuine.

.

You’d anticipated no more than an hour at the grocery store. You walked separately to Natasha, at her own insistence. Still, before you headed to the checkout, you sought her out. You spotted her, still near the front of the store, head bent as she stood, engrossed in her phone screen.

You stilled when you noticed the tell tale markers that she normally never displayed in public. The piece of hair she was twisting between her thumb and forefinger. The furrowed brow, her jaw clenched with silent frustration.

You watched silently as she turned to another customer, showing them something on her phone. They gestured to the products on the shelf, clearly explaining something. Natasha nodded and, for once, you saw the clear exhaustion that she usually kept so well hidden.

It was the same tiredness you’d occasionally seen in the lines of her more careful smiles; a painful self awareness that she didn’t fit quite right in a situation. You hoped desperately that being with you didn’t feel like another role she had to play.

.

It was rare for you to return to the apartment after Natasha. But, on Monday, when you opened the door, it seemed like she might have been there all day.

The dishes stacked in the sink were almost comical. Natasha’s hair was tied up, strands falling out of the messy bun. The heat of the kitchen seemed to have made her more dishevelled than any workout ever had. Natasha still looked perfect.

‘You’re back.’ She called out softly as she spotted you hovering. Any nervousness you had, slipped away at the ease of Natasha’s smile.

‘I’m back.’ You confirmed brightly, heading around the kitchen island. ‘What smells so good?’ Now, Natasha’s smile really went wide.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’ She told you with mock solemnity, holding her serious expression until you’d thoroughly kissed it from her face.

‘I love you.’ You told her.

Natasha’s expression stumbled in surprise, her hand reached out to your chest as if bracing from the shock. Then, she regained herself. Her fingers slipped under your shirt and she pulled you closer with a tug on the fabric.

‘Yeah?’ Natasha teased, a blinding brightness to her smile. ‘Well, maybe I love you too.’

.

You felt like you were flying. You didn’t come down to Earth until long after you’d finished the meal. The lasagne was delicious. Natasha smiled gently at your praise, quieter than usual. You loved her distractedness, knowing her mind was still focused on your earlier words. Her hand rested on your thigh whilst you ate.

Natasha moved to deal with the stack of dishes as soon as you’d finished eating. You decided to take the plentiful leftovers over to Clint’s. It was still early, and you thought you might catch the others before they called in their takeout orders.

Clint answered his door with his usual smile. You held out the dish, letting it speak for itself. Clint’s eyes lit up immediately.

‘I love your lasagne.’ He told you seriously. You smirked, wondering if you’d ever hear the word ‘love’ again without feeling at least a small jolt of joy.

‘It’s Natasha’s actually.’ You informed him. Clint laughed.

‘No, it’s not.’ He dismissed you with certainty.

‘Yes.’ You insisted, feeling suddenly defensive of your girlfriend.

‘Jarvis.’ Clint called to the ceiling, knowing how to prove his case. ‘Did anyone receive a food delivery today?’

.

You walked back to your apartment, a little shell shocked. You caught sight of Natasha from the doorway, cleaning the last of the dishes. She rolled her eyes playfully at you, glancing down at the large plate in her hands.

Dishes she hadn’t even used.

The meal had been delivered twenty minutes before you’d arrived home. Natasha had barely kept it warm in the oven.

.

You couldn’t tell her you knew. You tried not to dwell on the lie. More than anything, you were confused.

You took her up to the roof, hoping that seeing the stars together would keep the night as special as it had felt before you spoke to Clint.

Natasha wore your sweater. Her eyes seemed so large when they faced the night’s sky.

She was extra quiet, sensing your mood and trying to match it, even if she didn’t understand what was wrong.

Her smile was nervous when she dragged her eyes away from the stars and back to you. She played with the sleeve of the sweater.

Natasha was still perfect. She always would be.

You remembered your faith in her. You realised that you’d accidentally built the role that she’d started to play. You wanted to tell her that she was perfect for who she was, not who she was trying to be.

Instead, you found a piece of the lightness that you knew Natasha was trying so hard to have.

‘I love you to the stars and back.’ You told her, letting your easy smile wash away the doubts in her eyes.

.

The consequences of small lies really begin when they start to spiral. You promised Natasha that you wanted to get back into cooking again. You knew she didn’t believe you, you knew she saw through it. Still, she nodded neutrally at your words.

You both pretended that the meal times felt the same as they had before. You were overcompensating, playing music as you cooked and trying out new recipes.

Natasha was retreating. Her hands barely brushed your shoulders each evening when she returned to find you cooking.

You’d never been inauthentic with her. But now there was a falseness at the dinner table that you couldn’t control. Natasha started coming home later.

Worse were the days when she’d text you, telling you she was going to eat something with Clint instead. She didn’t invite you and you didn’t assume an invitation. Natasha was pulling away, and neither of you addressed the weird elephant in the room.

How can you tell someone they're perfect, when they’ve tried so hard to hide their flaws from you.

.

Natasha’s discomfort was obvious from the way she stood in the bedroom doorway. Not entering or leaving. You were already in bed, she’d stayed late at Clint’s. Things felt lonely.

‘Thursday is Thanksgiving.’ She told you.

‘Yes, it is.’ You said, looking up from your laptop. You wondered if Natasha felt the same awful anticipation in her stomach. The lingering fear that your relationship couldn’t sustain itself much longer, the inability to divert the train from its tracks.

‘Clint wants you to meet his family.’ Her words were unexpected. You wondered if her wording had been intentional or accidental.

‘And, what do you want?’ You clarified, your voice filled with the caution that you’d never had with Natasha until recently.

‘We should go.’ She answered indirectly, leaving to get ready in the bathroom. You lay your head back against your pillow. You saw the writing on the wall, this wasn’t going to last the holidays.

On Wednesday night, you came back to the messiest apartment you’d ever seen. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight of Natasha in the kitchen. The facade of the last meal she’d ‘cooked’ was obvious in comparison to this.

‘Laura asked us to make brownies.’ Natasha told you briefly, meeting your curious expression with a flat one of her own. There was a tray of batter in her hand. The slight burning smell in the room told you it wasn’t her first attempt.

‘I can-’ You started, taking a step forward.

‘No.’ Natasha told you, with a bite that her words rarely had with you. Her expression was miserable and fierce all at once. ‘It’s fine.’

You retreated to the bedroom. You pretended to be asleep when Natasha finally came to bed. You waited until her breathing had evened out before you snuck back through to the kitchen.

You found the brownies still in their tray. Your nose wrinkled automatically at the smell.

2 hours later and you’d made a decent batch. You took Natasha’s attempt out to the trash.

You hated yourself in that moment.

It didn’t matter to you, and yet, you knew it mattered to her. You were helping to cover up the flaws that you didn’t even see.

You left the kitchen exactly as you found it and went back to bed.

.

The next morning, with both of you dressed and ready, you stood with your heart in your mouth as Natasha took out the tray of brownies.

With one cursory glance at the tray, Natasha slammed it down on the counter, making you jump.

‘I’m sorry.’ You started, but your words were lost to Natasha’s.

‘I’m not fucking stupid.’ She told you and you saw her hands clench.

‘I never said you were.’ You retorted, feeling your own frustration bubble up.

‘Well, you obviously think so.’ Natasha's voice rose in volume but the vulnerability in it made her sound small.

‘I’m not stupid.’ She said again, and you saw the tears filling her eyes. ‘I can learn a language in less than a week. I have perfect fucking aim. But no-one taught me how to do this.’

Her arm raised to gesture at the tray of brownies.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ You murmured quietly. ‘How can you think that it matters to me?’

You caught that secret exhaustion of hers in the resigned sigh that came before her words.

‘How can I not?’ Natasha muttered, avoiding your eyes and picking up the tray. ‘It’s just another piece of me that doesn’t fit.’

She moved towards the door and your hand caught her arm. Her eyes met your own and it stung like electricity.

‘We should talk about this.’ You said, voice cracking. Your eyes burned with tears.

‘You should stay.’ Natasha told you, and just like that, you realised she was really saying goodbye. You watched the door close behind her, standing there dumbly.

.

Clint texted you when Natasha left their house.

Foul mood unless the kids were there, was his glowing review of her visit.

You were too nervous to sit down. You shifted from foot to foot, wondering if you should have just packed up your belongings and left. You knew that’s what she was expecting.

You tried to reassure yourself with the memory of Natasha and the box of cereal bars. You glanced at the kitchen counter, wishing you’d cleaned it up properly. You picked up the apron that was strewn across the island in the middle.

Your heart stopped when you heard her unlock the door.

At first, when Natasha saw you standing there, her face held the same expression as it did when she returned from missions. Hopeful and relieved. Something settled automatically in your chest.

Then, her gaze dropped to the apron and you saw her mouth twist with the repressed hurt. The memory of the morning.

‘Oh, no.’ You mumbled immediately, feeling hurried by the strange embarrassment you felt. ‘Obviously, this isn’t for you.’

Natasha’s hand stopped you in your tracks. You froze at her expression and realised she’d heard an insult not a clarification.

‘Why?’ Natasha asked, voice rasping. ‘Are you trying to make a fucking point?’

‘No.’ You tried to assure her, crumpling the fabric in your hand, wishing you’d planned this better. ‘I heard what you said earlier.’

Natasha’s head tilted and you knew she didn’t believe you. You stopped trying to say the right thing and, instead, all the words you felt fell from your mouth.

‘I never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.’ You blurted out. Now, Natasha’s expression froze, leaving only the wariness in her eyes as she waited for you to continue.

‘I don’t care if you can cook.’ You started. ‘Do you really think I’m here, measuring you against some secret expectations?’ Natasha looked confused. You dropped the apron and took her hands instead.

‘The more of you that I get to see, the more you stand there waiting for me to leave. But, that’s not what I want.’ You mumbled, looking away for the first time as you tried to fight tears. Everything you cared about hung in the balance. ‘You said that you don’t fit sometimes. But you do. You fit. We fit.’

There was a moment, as Natasha registered your words.

.

Carefully, Natasha moved forwards. She buried her face in the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped around her like so many times before. The sudden relief burned in your chest. This was still familiar. You were still her home.

‘I’ll always think you’re perfect, Natasha.’ You whispered as your lips kissed her hair.

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

silly

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Hint: We're Together, Genius (Daisy Johnson x Fem!Reader)

Daisy Johnson Masterlist

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Anonymous asked: hi! i saw your requests are open and you also write for daisy. could you possibly write a daisy johnson x fem!reader based on the scene in agents of shield season 5 when deke was going to tell daisy about his crush on her? basically daisy and R (who's also part of coulson's team) have been dating for a while but the team doesn't know yet, and then when deke is about to confess his crush on daisy, she just casually mentions that she has a gf. just something fluffy with a little bit of humour. you can decide what happens next :)

Deke finds Daisy alone, leaning against the railing overlooking the lower levels of the Lighthouse, arms crossed, brow furrowed like she’s trying to wrestle the mission debrief into submission with sheer willpower. He fidgets, rehearsing the words in his head one more time before stepping forward.

“Hey,” he starts, trying to be casual. It comes out slightly too loud.

Daisy turns, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Hey. What’s up?” She’s calm. Friendly. Which somehow makes it worse.

Deke shifts on his feet. “Nothing, I just—uh, wanted to talk. About something. You got a sec?”

Daisy raises a brow. “Sure.” She turns fully to face him, arms resting loosely on the railing now. “You okay?”

He laughs—nervous, high-pitched. “Yeah, yeah, just, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “So, I’ve been thinking. And I know we’ve had some weird moments—”

“Wow, really starting strong,” Daisy mutters, but she’s smiling. Sort of.

“—and I just thought, maybe, I don’t know, we’ve got this vibe, right? And it’s been a long few weeks and I think you’re awesome and badass and scary in a good way—”

“Deke,” Daisy says, a warning tone sliding into her voice like she already knows where this is going.

He powers through anyway. “—so what I’m trying to say is, I think I have a crush on you. Like, real feelings. And I was wondering if maybe you wanted to, you know . . . go out sometime. With me.”

Silence. For one glorious second, he thinks maybe it didn’t come out like a train wreck.

Then Daisy exhales slowly. “Deke . . .”

“Oh god,” he blurts, eyes widening. “You’re going to say no.”

“I am,” she says gently. “I like you, Deke, I do. Just . . . not that way.”

He freezes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Makes sense.”

“I’m flattered,” she continues, voice soft and sincere. “But I have a girlfriend.”

Deke blinks. “Wait—you what?”

“I’m dating someone,” Daisy says, a faint grin pulling at the corners of her mouth like this whole conversation is a ticking bomb she just disarmed.

“A girlfriend?” he echoes, completely stunned.

She nods.

“Since when?!”

Daisy shrugs. “A while.”

He looks like his brain is rebooting in real time. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t feel like broadcasting it. And it’s been . . . complicated. End-of-the-world, post-apocalyptic kind of complicated.”

Deke raises both eyebrows. “Okay, yeah, fair.”

She pats his arm. “You’re sweet, Deke. And weird. But not my type.”

He smiles, but it’s more of a grimace. “Cool. Coolcoolcool. I’m gonna . . . go drink something. Or run into a wall. Something manly.”

She chuckles. “Try not to walk into any explosive hallways on the way.”

As he turns to leave, thoroughly crushed but trying not to show it, he throws a look over his shoulder. “I’m happy for you, though. Whoever she is.”

Daisy leans back against the railing, her smirk returning. “Thanks. She’s a handful.”

Off in the shadows above, perched casually on the metal catwalk, (Y/n) grins like a shark and whispers under her breath, “Damn right I am.”

. . .

Phil Coulson prides himself on timing.

Not just in the director sense—missions, deployment, backup, all that jazz—but in life. In entering a room at the exact right moment to defuse tension, deliver a quip, or drop just enough mystery to make people rethink their life choices.

Today, however, his timing is shit.

The door to the analysis room hisses open with a soft pneumatic sigh. Coulson strides in, datapad in one hand, coffee in the other, already mid-sentence to no one. “Hey, have either of you seen the new data pull from—”

He stops.

Dead.

Because Daisy Johnson—his field commander, SHIELD’s top Inhuman asset, queen of sass and bad ideas—and (Y/n) (L/n), resident genius and part-time menace, are very much not reviewing seismic data.

They’re in the corner, tangled up like horny teenagers behind a bleachers rack, Daisy pinned halfway to the wall, and (Y/n)’s hand suspiciously low on her thigh.

For half a second, no one moves.

Then (Y/n) turns, sees him, and—of course—grins.

“Well, hey Coulson,” she drawls, not even flinching. “Come to supervise our team-building exercise?”

Coulson blinks. “I—was—just—"

Daisy makes a noise that could either be a groan or a death threat. Her face is redder than a mission-critical alert.

(Y/n) reaches casually behind her, presses a button on the console, and flips the screen from the paused video feed of a simulation to a very convincing static-filled diagnostic screen. “See? Training.”

“You were kissing her neck,” Coulson points out, voice high and tight like a man who has walked in on just enough of this.

“Neck targeting,” (Y/n) says seriously. “Vital vulnerability. I’m thorough.”

Daisy finally buries her face in her hands. “I told you we shouldn’t have stayed in here . . .”

“Correction,” (Y/n) says, smug as ever. “You said that before you climbed me like a rock wall. I’d call that implied consent.”

“I hate everything,” Daisy mutters.

Coulson clears his throat, then clears it again louder, like that will unburn the image from his retinas. “Okay. I’m going to rewind ten seconds and pretend I walked in before this started.”

“You sure you don’t want to stay for the bonus round?” (Y/n) teases, hooking a thumb toward Daisy. “She was just about to interrogate me with her tongue.”

“(Y/n), I swear to god,” Daisy growls.

“I’m good!” Coulson calls over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “Yep! Leaving now! Not writing this in the log!”

The door hisses closed behind him.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Daisy turns to (Y/n), scowling.

“You said this room was clear.”

“It was!” (Y/n) protests, though not very convincingly. “Until Old Man Stealth decided to check in early.”

Daisy sighs and rests her forehead against (Y/n)’s chest. “We’re so getting a lecture about professionalism.”

(Y/n) chuckles and wraps her arms around her again. “If it helps, I was gonna try and bribe him with coffee.”

“Pretty sure you traumatized him past the point of caffeine.”

They stand there for another minute, tangled up in each other, waiting for the humiliation to fade. It doesn’t. But Daisy’s heartbeat slows back to something steady, and (Y/n)’s fingertips draw soothing circles into her back.

Daisy sighs again, quieter this time. “You’re lucky I like you.”

(Y/n) grins into her hair. “I know. I’d date me, too.”

. . .

Melinda May doesn’t eavesdrop. She just happens to have exceptionally good hearing and little tolerance for whispers in the hallway during weapons maintenance hours.

Daisy’s voice floats down from the upper level of the Lighthouse’s training deck—light, teasing, followed by the low murmur of someone else responding.

Then a laugh. Not a casual chuckle, but that specific laugh—the one Daisy had only ever used around Lincoln.

May pauses mid-disassembly of her sidearm.

She listens for a moment longer. Hushed tones, quiet giggles, a faint, metallic thump like someone being gently shoved against the wall.

Her eyes narrow.

She reassembles the pistol, loads it in record time, and heads toward the stairs.

By the time she makes it to the observation deck overlooking the gym, Daisy is alone, pretending to stretch like she’s ever cared about warm-ups. Her jacket is on inside out, and her hair is just the wrong kind of tousled to be natural.

May stops at the top of the stairs and stares down at her.

Daisy freezes mid-stretch like she’s just been spotted stealing nuclear codes.

“ . . . Hey,” she offers.

May folds her arms. “You’re late for combat review.”

“Right! Yeah, sorry—I got, uh, distracted. Was helping Simmons—”

“You’re lying.”

Daisy winces. “Okay, not Simmons.”

May walks down one step. “You’re smiling.”

Daisy blinks. “So?”

“You don’t smile during warm-ups. You glare. You scowl. Once, you bit a punching bag.”

“It was a bad day,” Daisy mutters.

“You’re seeing someone,” May says flatly.

Daisy stiffens. “What? No. That’s—why would you even—”

“Your hair’s messed up, your shirt’s wrinkled, and you’re glowing. It’s either love or radiation poisoning.”

Daisy sighs in defeat and drops onto the nearest bench. “Please don’t kill me.”

May blinks slowly. “That depends. Who is it?”

Daisy mumbles something.

“Speak up.”

“. . . It’s (Y/n).”

May stares. Then: “I see.”

“You’re not mad?” Daisy asks, a little surprised.

“I didn’t say that.”

Daisy sits straighter. “It’s not a thing, okay? We’ve been careful. Mostly. Very careful. Except that one time with the coffee table, but that was—”

May holds up a hand. “I don’t need details.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They sit in silence for a beat.

May studies her. “Does she make you lose focus?”

Daisy shakes her head immediately. “No. Well. Sometimes. But not in the field.”

May raises one eyebrow. “You sure? Because if you freeze mid-firefight to make out with your girlfriend, I will personally break every bone in your body and hers.”

“Understood.”

May’s expression softens by an almost imperceptible margin. “Is she good to you?”

Daisy looks away, biting back a smile. “Yeah. She really is.”

“She’s trouble.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says, smiling now. “I like that about her.”

May turns to leave, boots echoing softly down the metal stairs. At the bottom, she glances over her shoulder.

“Tell (Y/n) to wear less lipstick when she’s sneaking out of training rooms.”

Daisy goes crimson. “Oh my god.”

May’s already gone.

. . .

Fitz is balancing two mugs of tea, his datapad, and exactly zero patience when he steps into the lab.

It’s been a long morning already. Something about a rift in the graviton field, Simmons disappearing for three hours to “borrow” equipment, and Deke getting his fingers stuck in the food replicator again. All Fitz wants now is ten minutes of peace in the lab before anyone breaks time and space again.

He pushes the door open with his elbow.

“Okay,” he mutters, “no fires, no broken tech, no—”

Then he sees them.

Daisy’s perched on the edge of the central worktable, and (Y/n) is standing between her legs, both of them in a bubble of laughter and . . . kissing.

Very distracted, not-at-all-lab-appropriate kissing.

Fitz freezes like he’s walked into Medusa’s closet.

“OH—OH NO—bloody hell!”

The mugs crash to the floor.

Daisy jumps three feet. (Y/n), to her credit (or lack thereof), simply turns and raises one eyebrow like this is his fault.

“Fitz!” Daisy blurts. “Wha—what are you doing?!”

“This is my lab!” he shrieks, eyes shut tight. “I came in for tea and science, not romantic entanglement contamination!”

(Y/n) sighs and pats Daisy’s shoulder. “I told you locking the door was an option. And hey, this is my lab too.”

Daisy is bright red. “We weren’t—we weren’t doing anything weird!”

“You were practically on top of the particle scanner!” Fitz says, still shielding his eyes like a kid watching a horror movie. “People touch that!”

“It’s not like we were—you know—rolling around on it,” Daisy mutters, adjusting her jacket.

“That’s not comforting!”

(Y/n) picks up one of the fallen mugs and dusts it off casually. “Honestly, this is probably the least chaotic thing that’s happened in this lab all week.”

“Not the point!”

Daisy steps between them, trying to play diplomat. “Okay, okay, let’s all take a deep breath. Nobody’s dying. Fitz just… found out a little early.”

“A little early?!” he squawks. “This is something you tell people! In a controlled setting! Preferably with a slideshow and non-touching examples!”

(Y/n) crosses her arms. “If it helps, we were going to tell everyone eventually.”

“Before or after I had to call in trauma counseling?!”

“Before,” she says smoothly. “Probably.”

Daisy sighs and elbows (Y/n). “Okay, enough. Fitz? I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Fitz lowers his hand and finally opens one eye. They’re standing apart now, at least. He’s still pink in the face, but no longer vibrating.

“. . . So you two are . . . a thing?��

“Yes,” Daisy says.

“Unfortunately for her,” (Y/n) adds teasingly.

“She’s not kidding,” Daisy mutters.

Fitz groans and sinks into a chair. “You realize this means Simmons is going to lose her mind.”

“Oh yeah,” (Y/n) says, grinning. “She’s going to Pinterest an entire dossier about it.”

Daisy covers her face with her hands. “We’re doomed.”

“Emotionally and professionally,” Fitz agrees. “Now please—go be gross somewhere else. This is a sacred scientific space.”

(Y/n) shoots him finger guns. “You got it, Dr. Romance.”

They leave the lab—Daisy shuffling with embarrassment, (Y/n) whistling cheerfully. Fitz stares at the tea puddle on the floor and sighs deeply.

. . . 

Simmons isn’t trying to eavesdrop. Really.

She’s just walking past the auxiliary comms room when she hears Daisy laughing. Not the dry, sarcastic laugh she gives Deke when he misuses a touchscreen, or the clipped, tired one she saves for post-mission debriefs.

No—this is soft. Giddy. Practically glowing.

Simmons freezes just outside the doorway.

The door’s mostly closed, but not fully latched. And through the small crack, she hears it:

“Your hair’s a mess, babydoll,” (Y/n) says, and her voice is gentle, teasing.

Daisy snorts. “You’re the one who tackled me during training. Pretty sure I have a bruise shaped like your ego.”

“Impossible,” (Y/n) replies with a laugh. “My ego’s much too large to leave just one bruise.”

There’s a pause. The kind filled with that invisible electricity people only emit when they’re looking at each other like the rest of the world has faded away.

Then Daisy, quietly: “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet strangely irresistible,” (Y/n) murmurs. “It’s a problem. For you.”

There’s a soft rustling sound—Simmons recognizes it instantly as someone brushing fingers through hair, a touch so casual and intimate she almost forgets how to breathe.

“I still can’t believe this is real sometimes,” Daisy admits, voice hushed.

(Y/n) answers without hesitation. “It’s real. You’re real. And I’m going to keep reminding you until you get sick of me.”

“Never gonna happen.”

Simmons slaps a hand over her mouth before a squeal escapes.

She backs up half a step—only to trip over a utility case and go sprawling into the hallway.

The crash is loud. Unmistakable.

Inside, a pair of voices shout in sync: “What was that?!”

“False alarm!” Simmons blurts, scrambling to her feet like a toddler caught stealing cookies. “Totally fine! Just—dropped a—thing! Not spying!”

The door swings open.

(Y/n) appears, arms crossed, brow raised. “Jemma.”

“Yes?”

“Enjoy the show?”

“No! No! I mean—I didn’t see anything! I just—heard . . . everything,” she admits, redder than a Level 10 alert.

Daisy appears behind her, face a mix of panic and resignation. “So . . . you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Simmons says, hands clasped to her chest. “You two are—adorable.”

Daisy groans. “Please don’t start.”

“I mean it!” Simmons insists, beaming. “I’ve been rooting for you both for months.”

(Y/n) tilts her head. “You knew?”

“I had my suspicions,” Simmons says, eyes practically sparkling. “The extra coffee mugs. The matching bruises. Daisy humming love songs while inventorying explosive devices—”

“I did not,” Daisy hisses.

“You did,” Simmons says brightly. “It was One Direction.”

Daisy slaps her forehead.

Simmons continues, dreamy. “I just love love. And after everything you’ve been through? It’s just so . . . soft. And healing. And romantic! Like a secret base rom-com.”

“We’re not a rom-com,” Daisy mutters.

“Speak for yourself,” (Y/n) says, tossing an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders. “I’ve been workshopping our tagline: ‘Two Agents, One Heartbeat. Also Several Guns.’”

Simmons gasps. “I would watch that.”

“You’re dangerously supportive,” Daisy tells her.

“Of course I am!” Simmons says, glowing. “But I’ll keep your secret, if that’s what you want.”

“Thanks,” Daisy says, clearly touched. “We’re just . . . not ready for the whole team to know.”

“Don’t worry,” Simmons says with a wink. “Your romance is safe with me.”

She turns to go—then pauses, pointing a finger at (Y/n).

“But if I ever hear you call her babydoll again, I’m going to implode from secondhand embarrassment.”

(Y/n) shrugs. “Then maybe don’t linger outside the comms rooms next time.”

Simmons squeaks and flees down the hallway.

(Y/n) shuts the door behind her, laughing. Daisy groans and hides her face in (Y/n)’s shoulder.

“She’s going to write fanfiction about us, isn’t she?”

(Y/n) grins. “Bet it’s already drafted.”

. . .

Elena grips the small package in her hand, mentally rehearsing her quick in-and-out plan. She just needs to drop off the new comms module to Daisy and be on her way — no fuss, no drama.

The door to Daisy’s room stands slightly ajar.

Elena sighs. It’s late, she’s tired, and the door’s open. She’ll just—

She pushes the door open without knocking.

What greets her is the exact opposite of ‘no fuss.’

(Y/n) lies curled up on the couch, asleep like a cat on Daisy’s chest. Daisy’s fingers are lazily stroking (Y/n)’s hair, and her eyes are closed too, but there’s a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Elena freezes mid-step, the package halfway raised.

“Oh.”

She clears her throat.

Daisy’s eyes snap open. “Elena. You forgot to knock.”

(Y/n) stirs, blinking up at Elena with heavy-lidded confusion, then burrows closer into Daisy.

“Yeah,” Elena says, voice carefully neutral, though her eyes are sparkling with something dangerous. “You two . . . are just . . . wow.”

Daisy flushes. “It’s not what it looks like.”

(Y/n) mumbles sleepily. “Unless you think this looks like an elaborate hostage situation, we’re good.”

Elena steps fully inside, lowering the package onto the desk with exaggerated care. “I’m not sure what I’m more impressed by—your ability to nap anywhere or the sheer audacity of being this cute when you’re supposed to be prepping for the mission tomorrow.”

(Y/n) looks up, stretching like a contented cat, and shoots Elena a mock glare. “We’re professionals. We rest efficiently.”

“Sure you do,” Elena says, crossing her arms.

Daisy groans, rubbing the back of her neck. “Elena, please don’t pretend you’re not secretly thrilled we’re dating.”

Elena arches one eyebrow. “Me? Thrilled? I’m the last person who’d give you two a free pass.”

(Y/n) chuckles. “Yeah, but you’re also the person who threatens to throw a grenade at anyone who breaks our hearts.”

Elena’s eyes soften just a fraction. “I’m just protective.”

“Because you care,” Daisy says softly.

Elena clears her throat again. “Alright, alright, fine. You two are officially allowed to be this adorable. But only if you keep it off the mission floor.”

“Deal,” (Y/n) says, leaning in to kiss Daisy’s temple.

Elena grins. “Now, can I get my comms module back? I’ve got about five minutes before I have to pretend I’m not daydreaming about how cute you two are.”

Daisy laughs. “Coming right up.”

Elena winks at (Y/n) on the way out. “And you? Try not to steal the captain’s heart too much.”

(Y/n) grins. “No promises.”

The door clicks shut behind Elena, leaving a trail of affectionate teasing and something warmer hanging in the air.

Daisy shakes her head with a smile. “You realize that’s a ‘you’re going to get punched’ warning, right?”

(Y/n) shrugs. “Bring it.”

. . .

The hum of the base fades into the background as Daisy pulls (Y/n) close in the dim light of her room.

(Y/n) smirks, head resting against Daisy’s chest. “You’re going to regret bringing me here when I start making bad jokes.”

Daisy chuckles softly, fingers tracing lazy circles on (Y/n)’s back. “You say that like it’s not my favorite part.”

(Y/n) tilts her head up to catch Daisy’s eyes. “You really have a thing for sarcasm wrapped in a snarky grin, huh?”

Daisy grins. “Well, it’s better than the brooding lone wolf act. Though you do that pretty well too.”

(Y/n) nudges her playfully. “Lone wolf? Please. I’m more like a sarcastic poodle with a bad attitude.”

Daisy laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “That’s . . . oddly accurate.”

They fall into comfortable silence, just the two of them. Daisy’s hand finds (Y/n)’s, fingers intertwining naturally.

“You know,” Daisy says quietly, “I’m glad you’re here. That you’re this — smart, sarcastic, impossible—”

(Y/n) cuts her off with a grin. “Impossibly amazing? I like where this is going.”

Daisy laughs and squeezes her hand. “Exactly.”

(Y/n) leans in, voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. “I was worried for a second. About telling people. About how this would change things.”

Daisy presses a kiss to her forehead. “I get it. But you’re not just my girlfriend. You’re my partner. No matter what.”

(Y/n) closes her eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Let’s make a deal.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow.

“No matter what happens. No matter who finds out first, or how messy it gets . . . we’re in this together.”

Daisy smiles, nodding. “Together.”

(Y/n) snorts. “And if anyone messes with that . . . well, they’ll have me to deal with.”

Daisy smirks. “I’m counting on it.”

They share a soft laugh before settling back into the couch, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

For a little while, it’s just them — no secrets, no confusion, just quiet and the steady beat of two hearts syncing perfectly.

. . . 

Mack rounds the corner into the common area, where the familiar figure of (Y/n) lounges comfortably on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, scrolling through her datapad. Daisy sits next to her, close enough that their shoulders brush, fingers lightly intertwined.

Mack freezes mid-step.

He blinks, then clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice casual but eyes sharp. “I knew you two were close. But I didn’t realize ‘close’ meant this close.”

(Y/n) glances up, smirking. “You’re slow on the uptake, Mack.”

Daisy smiles softly, squeezing (Y/n)’s hand. “We’re . . . dating.”

Mack raises his eyebrows, a grin slowly spreading. “You could’ve said so.”

(Y/n) shrugs. “We wanted to tell you all at the right time. Guess that time’s now.”

Mack shakes his head, chuckling. “Alright, I’m happy for you both. But you do realize this changes the team dynamic, right?”

Daisy laughs. “How so?”

“Well,” Mack says, leaning against the table, “you’re officially ‘that couple.’ Which means I get to be the overprotective big brother and call out anyone who steps out of line.”

(Y/n) grins wickedly. “Sounds like a plan.”

Mack nods, eyes twinkling. “Good. Because if anyone messes with you two, they’ve got me to answer to.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Mack claps his hands together. “Alright then, consider me fully on board. Just promise me you’ll keep the PDA to a minimum on mission days.”

(Y/n) winks. “No guarantees.”

They all laugh, the easy rhythm of the team settling comfortably around them.

Mack glances at Daisy and (Y/n) again, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Seriously though,” he says, “you two make a good team — on and off the field.”

(Y/n) leans back with a satisfied smirk. “Told you I’m good at multitasking.”

. . . 

Deke shifts nervously on his feet, eyes flicking between Daisy and (Y/n) like he’s trying to decode some secret message only they know.

“Look, Deke,” Daisy says, voice calm but firm. “I told you I have a girlfriend, right?”

Deke nods quickly, a little too eagerly. “Yeah! You said that. But, uh . . . you didn’t say who.”

(Y/n) smirks, arms crossed, clearly amused. “Yeah, Deke. It’s me. We’re dating.”

Deke blinks. Then blinks again.

“You and you?” he asks, clearly confused.

Daisy laughs softly. “No, no. Me and (Y/n).”

Deke looks from Daisy to (Y/n), then back again, eyebrows furrowed. “You mean, like, both of you?” he asks, voice hopeful.

(Y/n) raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no, just the two of us.”

Deke’s eyes widen.

“So, wait . . .” he starts slowly, “you’re like . . . best friends or something?”

Daisy groans, running a hand through her hair.

“No, Deke. Wait, well, yeah. Kinda,” Daisy says, trying to keep her patience. “We’re dating. Like, boyfriend-girlfriend, except I guess . . . girlfriend-girlfriend.”

Deke blinks. “Girlfriend-girlfriend? Like a superhero team-up?”

(Y/n) bursts out laughing. “Sure, Deke. Superhero team-up. That’s one way to put it.”

Deke grins, oblivious. “Cool! So, I can be your sidekick, right?”

Daisy and (Y/n) exchange a look and shake their heads.

“Deke,” Daisy says, voice gentle now, “you are part of the team. But this? This is something special between me and (Y/n).”

Deke’s grin falters, but then he brightens again.

“Okay! Got it. You two are super close, like a secret mission squad. I’m honored to be your sidekick.”

(Y/n) chuckles. “You’re something else, Deke.”

Daisy pulls (Y/n) close, and they share a quiet smile.

“Well, Deke,” Daisy says, “thanks for being so awesome. And for finally hearing us out.”

Deke salutes with a goofy grin.

“Always, boss.”

. . .

The soft glow of the evening lights casts a warm haze over Daisy’s room. (Y/n) sits curled up on the couch, fingers tangled in Daisy’s hair, eyes half-closed. Daisy’s arms are wrapped securely around her, the steady beat of her heart a comforting rhythm against (Y/n)’s temple.

“You know,” (Y/n) murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “for someone who saves the world on a daily basis, you sure get flustered when it comes to telling people you’re dating me.”

Daisy smiles, brushing a stray curl from (Y/n)’s forehead. “Well, it’s different. It’s personal. And, honestly? I didn’t want to make it weird with Deke.”

(Y/n) snorts softly. “Weird? Daisy, you’ve known Deke what, like a month? He’s so oblivious he thinks ‘dating’ is a secret code word for ‘partner-in-crime.’”

Daisy laughs, a sound that always makes (Y/n)’s heart skip. “Yeah. That. I just want him to understand without feeling like we’re pulling the rug out from under him.”

(Y/n) shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look Daisy in the eye. “He’ll get it. Eventually. And if he doesn’t, well . . . we’ll just have to keep annoying him until he does.”

Daisy smirks. “Good plan. You’re the expert in annoying.”

(Y/n) grins, nudging Daisy’s side. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

They lapse into comfortable silence, hands still intertwined.

“You ready?” Daisy asks after a moment, voice soft but determined.

(Y/n) nods, resting her forehead against Daisy’s. “Yeah. Together.”

Daisy presses a gentle kiss to (Y/n)’s lips, slow and reassuring.

“Together,” she echoes.

. . . 

Deke slumps into the common room couch, looking both hopeful and utterly confused. Around him, the whole team is gathered: Coulson, May, Fitz, Simmons, Elena, Mack, and of course Daisy and (Y/n). 

“So,” Coulson begins, folding his hands on the table. “We’re here because it seems like you’re still a bit . . . unclear about something.”

Deke shrugs, eyes darting nervously. “Hey, I’m trying, okay?”

May raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Trying isn’t quite cutting it.”

(Y/n) smirks from her seat next to Daisy. “Deke, we’ve been dropping hints like we’re in a bomb range, and you’re still missing them.”

Deke rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not the best at . . . subtext.”

Elena leans forward, voice gentle. “We just want to make sure you know that Daisy and (Y/n) are dating. Like, officially.”

Fitz holds up a whiteboard with a diagram titled “How Relationships Work,” complete with stick figures, arrows, and hearts. “We thought a visual aid might help.”

Deke blinks at the complicated doodles. “Uh . . . that helps? Sort of?”

Simmons adds, “It’s okay, Deke.”

Mack grins. “And you’re stuck with us all, so you might as well get used to it.”

Deke finally chuckles. “Okay, so… you’re serious. Like, in love?”

Daisy nods, reaching over to squeeze (Y/n)’s hand. “Yeah. And we want you to be part of it — just not the . . .  you know, third wheel part.”

(Y/n) smirks. “Unless you want to be. I mean, we could use a good sidekick.” Daisy kicks her under the table—though not hard enough to do any real damage. 

Deke throws his hands up. “I’m trying to keep up here!”

Everyone laughs, the tension breaking like a wave.

After another hour of questions, clarifications, and more bad jokes from (Y/n), Deke finally leans back, a wide smile on his face.

“I get it. You two are . . . amazing. And I’m happy for you.”

Coulson claps him on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it, Deke.”

May smirks. “See? Not so hard.”

Deke grins. “Now, how do I get one of those cool ‘team’ T-shirts?”

(Y/n) raises an eyebrow. “Only if you promise to keep up next time.”

“Deal,” he says, laughing.

Daisy leans into (Y/n), and they share a quiet smile, surrounded by their team — their family.

Because sometimes, even when it takes a little longer, the people who matter most come through.

Word Count: 4794 words

Skye / Daisy Johnson x Fem!Reader:

@imapotato

@confusinggemini612

@marie45019

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

"mirror mirror on my phone, who's the baddest?

✨ us, hello? ✨"

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Fracture

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Rating: Mature

Tags: Ambush, Blood, Injuries, CPR, Near Character Death, Field Medicine, Guns, Shooting, Hydra, Crying, Kissing, Snuggling, Hospitals. Let me know if I missed one.

Word Count: 1000+

Written For: @badthingshappenbingo @whumpmasinjuly-archive

Squares/Prompts Filled: I4 - Ambush for BTHB | Day 6 - Field Medicine for Whumpmas In July

Dividers By: DNC and Support Dividers - @saradika-graphics | Black Widow Divider - @super-marvel-dc

“Negative. The Quinjet stays airborne. This is a solo recon mission. Do not engage.”

Fury’s voice crackled through Natasha’s comm, firm and cold as always.

She stared at the monitor, where your vitals had just vanished.

One second, steady heart rate and biometric data, and the next second, gone. Black screen. Silence.

Her heart stopped.

“I’m going in,” she snapped, hands already working the controls.

“Romanoff, stand down! We have assets en route. Extraction team-”

“I’m not waiting,” she growled, already plunging the Quinjet down through the clouds. “You can lecture me later.”

And with that, she cut the line.

The Hydra base loomed beneath her. Half-collapsed and flanked by jagged cliffs, quiet in the way that danger always is before it explodes.

She landed the jet hard and left it idling as her boots slammed against the ground one after the other. She sprinted through the rotting corridors, your last coordinates burned into her brain. The metallic scent of blood hit her before she found you.

You were crumpled against a rusted support beam, unconscious, your gear shredded, wounds soaked through with blood. The floor beneath you was dark and sticky. Your skin was so pale and dread seeped into her veins like ice.

“Y/N!” Her voice broke as she dropped to her knees, pressing fingers to your throat. “No, no, no… come on.”

Your faint, thready pulse fluttered against the pads of her fingers, barely there.

She touched your face, her gloves now slick with your blood. “Baby, can you hear me?”

You groaned faintly, your eyes trying to open.

“I got ambushed,” you rasped, barely audible. “There were more...trap…”

“Shh,” she breathed, tearing open your vest to check the wound on your side. It was deep, too deep. “Save your energy. I’ve got you now.”

She opened her field kit with trembling hands, applying a coagulant to slow the bleeding, tying another wound on your upper thigh with pressure bandages, whispering reassurances through gritted teeth.

And then, your breathing faltered. Your chest stilled.

“No.” Her voice cracked. “No, no, no, please…”

Your eyes slowly shut and then...nothing.

She stared in frozen horror for one heartbeat, then launched into action. The heel of her right hand pressed repeatedly against your chest, counting compressions, desperate breaths between each cycle. “Don’t you do this to me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

“Come back to me,” she whispered again and again. “I can’t...I can't do this without you.”

You didn’t respond.

But she didn’t stop.

Until finally...finally, you gasped, choking on air, eyes flying open in panic before collapsing back.

“Oh god,” she sobbed, her forehead pressed against yours, her tears mixing with your blood. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

A familiar voice sounded in her comm as her earpiece crackled back to life.

“Romanoff, it's Rogers. Fury said you went off-script. We’re two minutes out. Bucky’s with me. Where are you?”

Natasha exhaled a shaky breath, cradling your head in her lap. “Sublevel three. She's hurt...badly. I need evac.”

“Sit tight. We’ve got your back,” Steve replied.

A moment later, she heard the distant echo of boots. Gunfire. Metal groaning. Hydra was still crawling in the dark like rats.

She tightened her grip around your body.

“You stay awake, okay?” she whispered. “Help’s coming.”

Steve and Bucky crashed into the hallway moments later, Steve’s shield reflecting light like a beacon of hope. Bucky panted as his eyes darted around to stay vigilant.

“Nat-” Steve’s eyes locked on the two of you. “Oh my god.”

“She’s lost too much blood,” Natasha said quickly, her voice steel even though her hands were shaking. “I lost her briefly...I got her back...barely.”

“I'll take her,” Bucky said, moving to scoop you into his arms.

“No,” Natasha snapped. “You cover us. I’m not letting go.”

Bucky nodded silently, stepping forward to clear the corridor ahead with his rifle. Steve took the rear, shield raised as Hydra agents began pouring in behind them.

Natasha carried you in her arms, blood soaking through her suit, her face set in grim determination.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered again and again. “I’m right here.”

They made it to the Quinjet under fire. Steve held the ramp, deflecting bullets. Bucky mowed down the last squad as Natasha brought you in and laid you down gently on the floor.

You were unconscious again. Breathing shallow. But alive.

“Get us out of here!” Steve shouted, jumping aboard as the hatch slammed shut.

The Quinjet roared into the sky.

Natasha sank to her knees beside you, gripping your hand like it was the only thing anchoring her to this earth.

“She stopped breathing,” she whispered to Steve, barely able to get the words out. “I had to bring her back. I-”

“You did,” Steve said gently, crouching beside her. “You saved her.”

Hours later, you lay in the med bay, patched and stabilized, heart monitor beeping softly in the background.

Natasha hadn’t left your side once.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, her head was resting against your chest, her hand gripping yours.

“…Nat?”

She jerked up. “Hey...hey, I’m here. You’re okay.”

You gave her a faint smile. “You cried.”

She laughed through the tears, pressing her forehead to yours. “Yeah. I did.”

“Guess I’m special.”

“The most special,” she whispered, cupping your face. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

She leaned in, kissing you softly, like she was afraid you’d break. Her lips trembled against yours.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“I love you more,” she said, voice thick. “You have no idea how close I came to losing you.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered. “You came for me.”

“Always.”

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

you know it’s bad when you start missing a fictional character. like please come home, the kids miss you..

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

GUYS WAIT I CAME UP WITH AN IDEA FOR A PART TWO TO DRUNKEN AFFECTION LET’S GOOOOOOO

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Trial by Fire (2)

Part 2 to "The Run and Go"

Natasha RomanoffxEx-Widow!Reader // Enemies to Lovers(ish), Series

*Images are not mine, credit to its creators and sources

Summary: Natasha is figuring out why you were at the Triskellion. Something about your past mission doesn’t sit well with you. You’re not sure you’re willing to find out why.

Trigger Warning:  Nightmares, Fire, Death, Dead Bodies, Burns, poor understanding of computers and coding, physical/emotional abuse, The Red Room, not proofread, I think that's it?

They/Them pronouns used for the reader*

Word Count: 3,714

A/N: Kinda rushed but if I'm not made to feel like I'm on a time crunch, I won't post, so, here we are

Let me know if anything needs to be fixed!

← Part 1 // Part 3 → 

Main Masterlist | MCU Fics | Recced Fics

After the Battle of New York, any agent that had not known of Natasha Romanoff’s reputation most certainly knew about it now. It didn’t matter if they knew her as the Avenger, the former KGB assassin or even the Red Room graduate, there was usually some form of respect, fear or mistrust from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she worked with, day in and day out.

This was accentuated by the way the same agents were subtly moving out of the Widow’s way as she strode purposefully through the Triskelion’s halls, determined to reach Fury’s office as quickly as possible.

“The Red Room still exists, Natasha. Dreykov isn’t dead.”

Her jaw clenched tightly, her shoulders wound up tensely. She doesn’t want to believe you. Blowing up that building, killing an innocent child for the life of her father could not have been for nothing. Dreykov was dead. The Red Room was destroyed. Not only had she cut off its head, she had burned him to the ground. 

But if you were right…

“Dreykov’s daughter,” Loki’s chilling voice echoes in her head and she can’t help the ice that settles within her. She had figured Clint would involuntarily spill her past to the norse god once she had learned of Loki’s mind control. Not only did she know he would try to manipulate her emotions, she was counting on it. She had had her fill of egotistical and arrogant men, and every single one would always give away their hand. 

Yet being reminded of the young girl that had been sacrificed–that she had sacrificed– for the sins of her father, for the price of liberation–of her freedom– had made it feel like a bucket of ice cold water had been dropped on her. For a split second, she had not been the fearless, Black Widow assassin, but the young, recently defected woman with no footing in the world. 

If Dreykov was truly not dead… No. His daughter was not murdered in vain. The Red Room was destroyed. 

But then why would you lie?

She’s storming into Fury’s office before she could even begin to ponder the question. 

“We need to talk.” The Widow’s tone left no room for argument. 

“I’m in a meeting.” Fury levels an unimpressed look at the agent. 

“Someone just slipped in and out, undetected, with what is most definitely sensitive intel. I think that takes precedence,” she challenges, crossing her arms over her chest while glaring at the man in front of her. 

“Hence the meeting,” he responds, his tone equally as flat and unimpressed as before.

Silence stretched on between them for a few beats, their eyes narrowed, challenging the other to back down. 

Fury sighed in defeat, leaning back on his chair before glancing back at his screen. It was pointless to wait for her to back down. They both knew the Widow would not be leaving until she got her answers. 

“I’ll call you back,” Fury announces to the screen before turning it off. 

But Natasha does not feel victorious. 

“What do we know?” Natasha asks pointedly. 

“I already have ECT investigating what was stolen. SCR is working on taking down the bug, and COS is looking through our systems to find our thief.”

“I already know who you’re looking for,” she supplied, crossing her eyes over her chest. 

“You fought them, if that lip of yours is of any indication. Tell me, Romanoff, any old contacts we should know about?” Fury asks, eyebrows raised, and Natasha couldn’t help but stiffen. 

The jab was not an implication of mistrust, nor distrust for that matter. It wasn’t even a provocation. This was more so conjuncture, a subtle reminder that they’re both on the same side.

And yet, the comment made her take a pause. It had made her think of the last time she had seen you. She was seventeen and about to go through her graduation ceremony, while you were about to be recycled again. You were made to spar, and the match lasted less than five minutes. Natasha had you in a headlock when the Madame’s chilling lilt reached her ears, a simple command to let you go. 

You fell forward, catching your fall with your hands. The Madame approached you, an unnerving smile set on her lips, before she ordered you to stand. You had barely made it to your feet before she slammed against you, pushing you back until your back hit the wall.

“Break out of my hold,” she instructed plainly in flawless russian. 

And you tried, but she would slam against you everytime you escaped, her grip around your neck getting stronger and stronger, while your counter attacks were getting weaker and weaker. 

She let go and you collapsed to your knees, gasping and coughing for air. The Madame turned towards Natasha before slipping another command. “Again.”

“Call them a childhood friend,” Natasha replied, her shoulders tense. 

“A Widow, then.”

“Ex-Widow.”

“Ex-Widow,” Fury corrected. “And did this childhood friend happen to mention why they were here?”

“They said Dreykov isn’t dead.” 

She watches Fury’s reaction attentively. His expression was as stoic as ever, his features unmoving. Except that there was something in his eyes, almost a flicker of surprise. 

She knew the man carried many secrets, too many for his own good, yet it seemed like the news was something he genuinely did not know if. 

The realization made the heaviness in her chest feel lighter. That one of the very few people she had learned to trust had not betrayed her yet.

“As far as we are aware, the Red Room fell after you killed Dreykov in your defection to S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Fury answered as if he were choosing his words cafefully. 

“‘As far as you’re aware’? That’s not good enough, Nick. Either it was destroyed or it wasn’t. Either he’s dead, or he’s’ still out there. Which is it?” Natasha presses, anger bubbling beneath the surface.

And then, a thought occurred to her. One that made her blood run cold and her shoulders to tense. 

“What exactly happened after I killed Dreykov?”

She had never asked. Why would she? She had been conditioned since childhood to simply follow orders, no questions asked. It was all she’d ever known. It had taken years for her to truly grasp the concept that she had gained the freedom of choice and autonomy. 

But now she’s questioning why she never followed up on it. Had S.H.I.E.L.D. raided any known Red Room locations? Had any of the girls been rescued after Dreykov’s death? Had S.H.I.E.L.D. had any leads to begin with? If they had the resources to find him, to assassinate him, they surely had the resources to fully shut down the Red Room and crush any whisper that tried to get away. 

But If S.H.I.E.L.D. had left the Red Room to crumble on its own, what was stopping some other power to take over the vacuum of Dreykov’s absence? That is if he’s even dead in the first place

“That would be classified,” Fury’s voice was almost avoidant. 

And the words simply threw an accelerator over the fire of Natasha’s anger.

“What happened to the Red Room after I killed Dreykov, Nick?” Her voice was sharp enough to cut through steel.

“I can’t tell you, Natasha,” Fury repeated, but his tone was different, more resolved. Yet, there was something in his eye, a subtle regret lingering in his gaze.

Natasha clenched her jaw tightly, feeling her mask of indifference slipping away from her. 

“What’s the plan?” She changes the topic, her tone even and steady.

“We’re waiting on ECT’s report before we move forward,” Fury answered smoothly. 

“Call me when there’s more,” Nat says shortly, before turning to leave.

“I do believe,” he begins, making Natasha stop in her tracks, “those mission files haven’t been transcribed yet.” 

Anyone who wasn’t paying attention may have disregarded it as an offhand comment. But she recognized it for the lifeline it was, no matter how thin it was. 

Those files must still be in the archives somewhere. Anyone level 6 or above could access it easily, a level 7 agent would have no problem. 

Natasha sent him a stiff nod in acknowledgement. She walks towards the door again, until his voice pierces the silence once more.

“You let them go, didn’t you?”

Natasha froze at the door’s entrance for just a second, and that second was one too long.

Natasha Romanoff figured she would never see you again. That you would be nothing more than a ghost of her past. Yet she found herself saying your name out loud for the first time in years, “that’s who you’re looking for.”

~~~

You couldn’t breathe. Smoke was choking out what little air was in your lungs. Hot flames surrounded you, licking at your skin and burning the material of your suit. Metal groaned from above you, the structure’s steel beams threatening to give to the power of the fire that consumed it. Tears escaped your eyes, but they did not roll down your cheeks, the heat that surrounded you being intense enough to make them evaporate in an instant.

Something warm and viscous clings your hands. It wasn’t until you looked down that you realized it was blood and you innately know that it is not your own. Your heart began pounding loudly in your chest, the red fluid that clung to your skin simply smearing over the palms of your hands, slicking your ash covered pants.

A scream rings over the thunder of crackling fire. It was pained, and loud, and shill, and unending, and panic climbs up your throat, your hands stilling instantly, because you recognized it. You’ve heard it before, you’ve been here before and that realization makes your heart roar in your ears, your breaths coming in short and ragged. 

You tried to move, you’re not sure if it's away or towards it, but  you couldn’t. Your muscles were locked in place, your feet glued to the floor. 

You left them, a loud, booming voice filled your ears, You let them die. A cold shudder rips through you, despite the overwhelming heat. The voice sounds familiar, but there’s something in the back of your mind that won’t let you recognize it.

But it was enough to break you from your frozen state. Your legs move before your brain could ever tell them to do so and suddenly you’re running through piles of rubble and wreckage. Flames and smoke cloud your vision, making it impossible to know what’s in the way or where you’re going, but you still run.

A loud metallic groan comes from somewhere above you again, and something large breaks away from the ceiling. You looked up. Maybe you shouldn’t have, but you catch a glimpse of the steel beam threatening to crush you under its weight. You lunge out of its way on instinct, pain exploding in your chest and stomach the moment you meet the ground. 

The smoke is thicker now, coating your throat and lungs in soot and ash, making you cough  out what little air you could breathe. Your limbs feel heavy, almost as if pins and needles were pricking into your skin. You had to leave, you had to get out. You tried to stand, but the soles of your boots kept slipping on grit and gravel. 

Running is pointless. 

The edges of your vision are darkening, a hazy feeling taking over your mind.

And then the outline of a figure to your right catches your eye. You thought it was nothing more than rubble and flame, but the longer you stared, the more starkly, undoubtedly, human it became. A scream gets caught in your throat when you recognize who it is. 

Her body is permanently still, the fire that surrounds you singeing the edges of her black tactical suit and slowly eating away at her skin. But that’s not what struck you. It was the look of pain and fear etched onto her features, her gaze glassy, and cold and dead.

The flames danced in her eyes, making it seem like her pupils had moved. 

Except that it wasn’t the fire. Her stare bore into you with unfiltered anger, the look she leveled at you scrutinizing and accusing. She shifted away from the pile of rubble to look directly at your frozen figure. 

You left us, the same voice from earlier comes out her mouth, loud and accusing, you let us die.

Guilt seized your heart as you screamed without realizing it. You tried backing away from her, only for something, someone, to grab ahold of your wrist, their grip tight and unwavering. You turned to see another girl in a similar state, flames crawling up her skin. You try to wrench yourself free, but her grip was ironclad. 

The fire climbed up her arms, curving through her fingertips, before reaching your wrists, burning the fabric of your black suit and the edges of your skin. 

You are a coward, the same voice came from the girl who held you tightly, her tone equally cold and accusing. 

The girl in front of you grabs ahold of your foot and fear squeezes your heart impossibly tight, your lungs choking on ash. Fire crawled along her arms too, before the material of your boot was encased in it. You try kicking her hand away to no avail. Her grip was made of iron, just as the girl’s behind you. Movement from both sides of your peripheral catches your attention, two other familiar faces crawling towards you before they grab at you. 

They were dragging you with them, the way it was supposed to be. 

“I’m sorry,” your words were whispered and broken and not enough. Sorry would not reverse what happened, it would not bring them back.

A loud metallic groan rings all around you and a hard, white light shines from above you. The roof directly above you gives away, caving in over you as the flames consume everything around you.

You sat bolt right on the bed, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs, you think they might break. Your lungs choke on ash and smoke, leaving you gasping desperately for clean air. Screams echoing loudly in your ears, and you’re not sure if it's theirs or if they were your own. The air felt cold and frigid despite the sweat that rolled down your back and clung to your skin.

There was a heavy weight on your chest as your heart continued to drum at its quickened pace. The thin linen blanket that clung to your body felt restricting, threatening to wrap you up and never letting you go, prompting you to rip it off of you.

Your fingers grip onto the fabric of your night shirt, your other hand gets tangled in the bed’s comforter in a desperate attempt at grounding yourself. You close your eyes tightly, forcing yourself to breathe through the fug that clouded your senses.

Until piercing eyes stab you with a look of pure hatred and heavy with blame. 

Your heart felt like lead in your chest, sinking you deeper and deeper into the bed that suddenly felt too soft beneath you. 

The bed creaks under you when you swing your legs over to sit at the edge. Your leg bounces off the ground at a quickened pace, keeping up with your beating heart.

The room you're in is dark, save for the few streaks of light from the parking lot street lamp that streamed in through the motel’s curtains.  

Silence gives way to the sound of a passing car with loud, blaring music, despite the hour, and you could not be more grateful for it. But it had left as quickly as it came, leaving you with only the rustling of the bedsheets from under you.

You rub your hands over your face, wiping away the thin sheet of perspiration that clings to your skin. The feeling grounds you, a subtle reminder that you are awake despite your mind still wandering through your nightmare. Slowly, the pounding in your chest slows to a steady rhythm. The air is no longer smokey, replaced by a faint, artificial lemon detergent and the usual motel musk. It’s only now that you become aware of how dry your mouth felt and how scratchy your throat was. 

It would be a lost cause to try to go back to sleep. Your heart was still beating hard in your chest. Any semblance of exhaustion was chased away by your adrenaline infused nightmare.

The carpet flooring feels scratchy under your feet as you shuffle towards the bathroom. You didn’t bother turning the light on. 

Instead your hand finds the faucet handle in the dark, and you listen to the water run for a minute. An odd sense of calm floods your senses when you feel the cool liquid make contact with your skin. Water pools up within your cupped hands before you bring it up towards your face, as if hoping the liquid would wash away any lingering remnants of your nightmare.

Small droplets run down your face and you let out a small puff of air, blowing away any of the water that had clung to your lips, before finally turning off the faucet. 

You take a drink from your cupped hands. Maybe it was gross, but you don’t care.The water soothed the scratchiness of your throat and made your heart beat at a reasonable pace. 

You shut the water off, standing in front of the sink for a few minutes. You catch the outline of yourself in the mirror, though you can’t make out any of your features in the darkness.

You preferred it that way.

With a deep breath, you leave the bathroom in search of the small, red pen drive with the stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. information.

Something about the Triskelion’s infiltration mission had been bothering you from the moment you stepped inside the cheap motel a state over. There was a terrible, sinking feeling gnawing at your stomach, screaming at you that something was horribly, terribly wrong. The information that you had stolen was begging you to look into it, to read over the files that had been completely erased from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. 

To do so would be completely unprofessional, not to mention that it would most likely get you killed if anyone were to find out you went through it. Part of the job was to never ask questions, you simply get the job done. You do not open the package, you do not speak to the target, you do not get involved. So what is it about that stupid flash drive that was making you want to break the number one rule of your job?

Your hand reaches over to the nightstand, your finger wrapping around the small piece of technology. You fidget with it, turning and twisting the metal piece in your hands as you continue to contemplate what you should do with it. 

The sinking feeling in your stomach was telling you to read through them. Hell, it was telling you to destroy it. The thought wasn’t what scared you, it was the why.

What are you thinking? The mere fact that you’re even considering opening it baffles you. 

But that nagging feeling was too adamant to ignore. 

A sigh escapes you, but you reach for your laptop anyways. There was a slight hesitation in your movements. Surely, the files are about some weapons deal or the tracking of an international drug trade. Perhaps it is a list of corrupt government officials or of recovered contraband. 

You finally stuck the pen drive in the USB port, the piece of metal putting up slight resistance before sliding in. The drives’ window popped up immediately, all the stolen folders names on display before you. 

The titles give away no hint about what the information is. Some were just a series of numbers, others held dates of no significant importance. Your hands twitch slightly, the cursor hovering over the unopened documents. Your heart roars in your ears for reasons you can’t explain.

You do not read the files. Instead, you select every single folder and download a copy of every single one of them into your personal laptop, hiding them behind heavy encryption codes for good measure. 

The nagging feeling had still not gone away. An intuitive part of you kept yelling at you to look through it, that whatever that drive contains is important and dangerous. Yet there was another unnamed voice in the back of your mind whispering that it was none of your business, that you should not concern yourself with its contents. 

Exhaustion was nipping at your body, your movements somewhat sluggish, but your mind was wide awake. A groan slips past your lips and you rub away at the stinging sensation in your eyes. There would be no rest for you, no matter how much you wanted it. 

After ejecting the drive from your laptop, you throw all of your belongings into your travel bag. Having access to the stolen information calmed the sinking feeling in your stomach, despite the tension that had settled into your shoulders. 

Not finishing the mission was not an option, you justified. You needed to get paid, after all. 

The vibrations of your phone ringing against the nightstand startle you away from your thoughts. You take a quick glance outside, seeing the telltale signs of dawn streaking through the blinds. 

You scowled, knowing exactly who’s calling and wanting nothing more than to ignore him. 

But you can’t. It’s something you can’t afford to do.

“Hello?” you answer, your voice sounding lower than usual.

“Oh good, you’re alive. I have a mission for you,” a gravelly voice crackled through the phone.

“I’m still sort of caught up in the last one you gave me,” you suppress the groan threatening to let your exasperation known.

“So?”

 you roll your eyes and bite your tongue. You’re not allowed to refuse.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to smuggle something for me.”

← Part 1 // Part 3 → 

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

hate when I'm trying to just take a normal drink but it turns out I'm thirstier than I thought so I end up gulping it down like a goddamn cartoon characer. the indignity of water lust.

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

i let him hit cause. uh. well i’m gonna be honest it’s cause i fucked up my parry timing

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

Trial by Fire (2)

Part 2 to "The Run and Go"

Natasha RomanoffxEx-Widow!Reader // Enemies to Lovers(ish), Series

*Images are not mine, credit to its creators and sources

Summary: Natasha is figuring out why you were at the Triskellion. Something about your past mission doesn’t sit well with you. You’re not sure you’re willing to find out why.

Trigger Warning:  Nightmares, Fire, Death, Dead Bodies, Burns, poor understanding of computers and coding, physical/emotional abuse, The Red Room, not proofread, I think that's it?

They/Them pronouns used for the reader*

Word Count: 3,714

A/N: Kinda rushed but if I'm not made to feel like I'm on a time crunch, I won't post, so, here we are

Let me know if anything needs to be fixed!

← Part 1 // Part 3 → 

Main Masterlist | MCU Fics | Recced Fics

After the Battle of New York, any agent that had not known of Natasha Romanoff’s reputation most certainly knew about it now. It didn’t matter if they knew her as the Avenger, the former KGB assassin or even the Red Room graduate, there was usually some form of respect, fear or mistrust from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she worked with, day in and day out.

This was accentuated by the way the same agents were subtly moving out of the Widow’s way as she strode purposefully through the Triskelion’s halls, determined to reach Fury’s office as quickly as possible.

“The Red Room still exists, Natasha. Dreykov isn’t dead.”

Her jaw clenched tightly, her shoulders wound up tensely. She doesn’t want to believe you. Blowing up that building, killing an innocent child for the life of her father could not have been for nothing. Dreykov was dead. The Red Room was destroyed. Not only had she cut off its head, she had burned him to the ground. 

But if you were right…

“Dreykov’s daughter,” Loki’s chilling voice echoes in her head and she can’t help the ice that settles within her. She had figured Clint would involuntarily spill her past to the norse god once she had learned of Loki’s mind control. Not only did she know he would try to manipulate her emotions, she was counting on it. She had had her fill of egotistical and arrogant men, and every single one would always give away their hand. 

Yet being reminded of the young girl that had been sacrificed–that she had sacrificed– for the sins of her father, for the price of liberation–of her freedom– had made it feel like a bucket of ice cold water had been dropped on her. For a split second, she had not been the fearless, Black Widow assassin, but the young, recently defected woman with no footing in the world. 

If Dreykov was truly not dead… No. His daughter was not murdered in vain. The Red Room was destroyed. 

But then why would you lie?

She’s storming into Fury’s office before she could even begin to ponder the question. 

“We need to talk.” The Widow’s tone left no room for argument. 

“I’m in a meeting.” Fury levels an unimpressed look at the agent. 

“Someone just slipped in and out, undetected, with what is most definitely sensitive intel. I think that takes precedence,” she challenges, crossing her arms over her chest while glaring at the man in front of her. 

“Hence the meeting,” he responds, his tone equally as flat and unimpressed as before.

Silence stretched on between them for a few beats, their eyes narrowed, challenging the other to back down. 

Fury sighed in defeat, leaning back on his chair before glancing back at his screen. It was pointless to wait for her to back down. They both knew the Widow would not be leaving until she got her answers. 

“I’ll call you back,” Fury announces to the screen before turning it off. 

But Natasha does not feel victorious. 

“What do we know?” Natasha asks pointedly. 

“I already have ECT investigating what was stolen. SCR is working on taking down the bug, and COS is looking through our systems to find our thief.”

“I already know who you’re looking for,” she supplied, crossing her eyes over her chest. 

“You fought them, if that lip of yours is of any indication. Tell me, Romanoff, any old contacts we should know about?” Fury asks, eyebrows raised, and Natasha couldn’t help but stiffen. 

The jab was not an implication of mistrust, nor distrust for that matter. It wasn’t even a provocation. This was more so conjuncture, a subtle reminder that they’re both on the same side.

And yet, the comment made her take a pause. It had made her think of the last time she had seen you. She was seventeen and about to go through her graduation ceremony, while you were about to be recycled again. You were made to spar, and the match lasted less than five minutes. Natasha had you in a headlock when the Madame’s chilling lilt reached her ears, a simple command to let you go. 

You fell forward, catching your fall with your hands. The Madame approached you, an unnerving smile set on her lips, before she ordered you to stand. You had barely made it to your feet before she slammed against you, pushing you back until your back hit the wall.

“Break out of my hold,” she instructed plainly in flawless russian. 

And you tried, but she would slam against you everytime you escaped, her grip around your neck getting stronger and stronger, while your counter attacks were getting weaker and weaker. 

She let go and you collapsed to your knees, gasping and coughing for air. The Madame turned towards Natasha before slipping another command. “Again.”

“Call them a childhood friend,” Natasha replied, her shoulders tense. 

“A Widow, then.”

“Ex-Widow.”

“Ex-Widow,” Fury corrected. “And did this childhood friend happen to mention why they were here?”

“They said Dreykov isn’t dead.” 

She watches Fury’s reaction attentively. His expression was as stoic as ever, his features unmoving. Except that there was something in his eyes, almost a flicker of surprise. 

She knew the man carried many secrets, too many for his own good, yet it seemed like the news was something he genuinely did not know if. 

The realization made the heaviness in her chest feel lighter. That one of the very few people she had learned to trust had not betrayed her yet.

“As far as we are aware, the Red Room fell after you killed Dreykov in your defection to S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Fury answered as if he were choosing his words cafefully. 

“‘As far as you’re aware’? That’s not good enough, Nick. Either it was destroyed or it wasn’t. Either he’s dead, or he’s’ still out there. Which is it?” Natasha presses, anger bubbling beneath the surface.

And then, a thought occurred to her. One that made her blood run cold and her shoulders to tense. 

“What exactly happened after I killed Dreykov?”

She had never asked. Why would she? She had been conditioned since childhood to simply follow orders, no questions asked. It was all she’d ever known. It had taken years for her to truly grasp the concept that she had gained the freedom of choice and autonomy. 

But now she’s questioning why she never followed up on it. Had S.H.I.E.L.D. raided any known Red Room locations? Had any of the girls been rescued after Dreykov’s death? Had S.H.I.E.L.D. had any leads to begin with? If they had the resources to find him, to assassinate him, they surely had the resources to fully shut down the Red Room and crush any whisper that tried to get away. 

But If S.H.I.E.L.D. had left the Red Room to crumble on its own, what was stopping some other power to take over the vacuum of Dreykov’s absence? That is if he’s even dead in the first place

“That would be classified,” Fury’s voice was almost avoidant. 

And the words simply threw an accelerator over the fire of Natasha’s anger.

“What happened to the Red Room after I killed Dreykov, Nick?” Her voice was sharp enough to cut through steel.

“I can’t tell you, Natasha,” Fury repeated, but his tone was different, more resolved. Yet, there was something in his eye, a subtle regret lingering in his gaze.

Natasha clenched her jaw tightly, feeling her mask of indifference slipping away from her. 

“What’s the plan?” She changes the topic, her tone even and steady.

“We’re waiting on ECT’s report before we move forward,” Fury answered smoothly. 

“Call me when there’s more,” Nat says shortly, before turning to leave.

“I do believe,” he begins, making Natasha stop in her tracks, “those mission files haven’t been transcribed yet.” 

Anyone who wasn’t paying attention may have disregarded it as an offhand comment. But she recognized it for the lifeline it was, no matter how thin it was. 

Those files must still be in the archives somewhere. Anyone level 6 or above could access it easily, a level 7 agent would have no problem. 

Natasha sent him a stiff nod in acknowledgement. She walks towards the door again, until his voice pierces the silence once more.

“You let them go, didn’t you?”

Natasha froze at the door’s entrance for just a second, and that second was one too long.

Natasha Romanoff figured she would never see you again. That you would be nothing more than a ghost of her past. Yet she found herself saying your name out loud for the first time in years, “that’s who you’re looking for.”

~~~

You couldn’t breathe. Smoke was choking out what little air was in your lungs. Hot flames surrounded you, licking at your skin and burning the material of your suit. Metal groaned from above you, the structure’s steel beams threatening to give to the power of the fire that consumed it. Tears escaped your eyes, but they did not roll down your cheeks, the heat that surrounded you being intense enough to make them evaporate in an instant.

Something warm and viscous clings your hands. It wasn’t until you looked down that you realized it was blood and you innately know that it is not your own. Your heart began pounding loudly in your chest, the red fluid that clung to your skin simply smearing over the palms of your hands, slicking your ash covered pants.

A scream rings over the thunder of crackling fire. It was pained, and loud, and shill, and unending, and panic climbs up your throat, your hands stilling instantly, because you recognized it. You’ve heard it before, you’ve been here before and that realization makes your heart roar in your ears, your breaths coming in short and ragged. 

You tried to move, you’re not sure if it's away or towards it, but  you couldn’t. Your muscles were locked in place, your feet glued to the floor. 

You left them, a loud, booming voice filled your ears, You let them die. A cold shudder rips through you, despite the overwhelming heat. The voice sounds familiar, but there’s something in the back of your mind that won’t let you recognize it.

But it was enough to break you from your frozen state. Your legs move before your brain could ever tell them to do so and suddenly you’re running through piles of rubble and wreckage. Flames and smoke cloud your vision, making it impossible to know what’s in the way or where you’re going, but you still run.

A loud metallic groan comes from somewhere above you again, and something large breaks away from the ceiling. You looked up. Maybe you shouldn’t have, but you catch a glimpse of the steel beam threatening to crush you under its weight. You lunge out of its way on instinct, pain exploding in your chest and stomach the moment you meet the ground. 

The smoke is thicker now, coating your throat and lungs in soot and ash, making you cough  out what little air you could breathe. Your limbs feel heavy, almost as if pins and needles were pricking into your skin. You had to leave, you had to get out. You tried to stand, but the soles of your boots kept slipping on grit and gravel. 

Running is pointless. 

The edges of your vision are darkening, a hazy feeling taking over your mind.

And then the outline of a figure to your right catches your eye. You thought it was nothing more than rubble and flame, but the longer you stared, the more starkly, undoubtedly, human it became. A scream gets caught in your throat when you recognize who it is. 

Her body is permanently still, the fire that surrounds you singeing the edges of her black tactical suit and slowly eating away at her skin. But that’s not what struck you. It was the look of pain and fear etched onto her features, her gaze glassy, and cold and dead.

The flames danced in her eyes, making it seem like her pupils had moved. 

Except that it wasn’t the fire. Her stare bore into you with unfiltered anger, the look she leveled at you scrutinizing and accusing. She shifted away from the pile of rubble to look directly at your frozen figure. 

You left us, the same voice from earlier comes out her mouth, loud and accusing, you let us die.

Guilt seized your heart as you screamed without realizing it. You tried backing away from her, only for something, someone, to grab ahold of your wrist, their grip tight and unwavering. You turned to see another girl in a similar state, flames crawling up her skin. You try to wrench yourself free, but her grip was ironclad. 

The fire climbed up her arms, curving through her fingertips, before reaching your wrists, burning the fabric of your black suit and the edges of your skin. 

You are a coward, the same voice came from the girl who held you tightly, her tone equally cold and accusing. 

The girl in front of you grabs ahold of your foot and fear squeezes your heart impossibly tight, your lungs choking on ash. Fire crawled along her arms too, before the material of your boot was encased in it. You try kicking her hand away to no avail. Her grip was made of iron, just as the girl’s behind you. Movement from both sides of your peripheral catches your attention, two other familiar faces crawling towards you before they grab at you. 

They were dragging you with them, the way it was supposed to be. 

“I’m sorry,” your words were whispered and broken and not enough. Sorry would not reverse what happened, it would not bring them back.

A loud metallic groan rings all around you and a hard, white light shines from above you. The roof directly above you gives away, caving in over you as the flames consume everything around you.

You sat bolt right on the bed, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs, you think they might break. Your lungs choke on ash and smoke, leaving you gasping desperately for clean air. Screams echoing loudly in your ears, and you’re not sure if it's theirs or if they were your own. The air felt cold and frigid despite the sweat that rolled down your back and clung to your skin.

There was a heavy weight on your chest as your heart continued to drum at its quickened pace. The thin linen blanket that clung to your body felt restricting, threatening to wrap you up and never letting you go, prompting you to rip it off of you.

Your fingers grip onto the fabric of your night shirt, your other hand gets tangled in the bed’s comforter in a desperate attempt at grounding yourself. You close your eyes tightly, forcing yourself to breathe through the fug that clouded your senses.

Until piercing eyes stab you with a look of pure hatred and heavy with blame. 

Your heart felt like lead in your chest, sinking you deeper and deeper into the bed that suddenly felt too soft beneath you. 

The bed creaks under you when you swing your legs over to sit at the edge. Your leg bounces off the ground at a quickened pace, keeping up with your beating heart.

The room you're in is dark, save for the few streaks of light from the parking lot street lamp that streamed in through the motel’s curtains.  

Silence gives way to the sound of a passing car with loud, blaring music, despite the hour, and you could not be more grateful for it. But it had left as quickly as it came, leaving you with only the rustling of the bedsheets from under you.

You rub your hands over your face, wiping away the thin sheet of perspiration that clings to your skin. The feeling grounds you, a subtle reminder that you are awake despite your mind still wandering through your nightmare. Slowly, the pounding in your chest slows to a steady rhythm. The air is no longer smokey, replaced by a faint, artificial lemon detergent and the usual motel musk. It’s only now that you become aware of how dry your mouth felt and how scratchy your throat was. 

It would be a lost cause to try to go back to sleep. Your heart was still beating hard in your chest. Any semblance of exhaustion was chased away by your adrenaline infused nightmare.

The carpet flooring feels scratchy under your feet as you shuffle towards the bathroom. You didn’t bother turning the light on. 

Instead your hand finds the faucet handle in the dark, and you listen to the water run for a minute. An odd sense of calm floods your senses when you feel the cool liquid make contact with your skin. Water pools up within your cupped hands before you bring it up towards your face, as if hoping the liquid would wash away any lingering remnants of your nightmare.

Small droplets run down your face and you let out a small puff of air, blowing away any of the water that had clung to your lips, before finally turning off the faucet. 

You take a drink from your cupped hands. Maybe it was gross, but you don’t care.The water soothed the scratchiness of your throat and made your heart beat at a reasonable pace. 

You shut the water off, standing in front of the sink for a few minutes. You catch the outline of yourself in the mirror, though you can’t make out any of your features in the darkness.

You preferred it that way.

With a deep breath, you leave the bathroom in search of the small, red pen drive with the stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. information.

Something about the Triskelion’s infiltration mission had been bothering you from the moment you stepped inside the cheap motel a state over. There was a terrible, sinking feeling gnawing at your stomach, screaming at you that something was horribly, terribly wrong. The information that you had stolen was begging you to look into it, to read over the files that had been completely erased from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. 

To do so would be completely unprofessional, not to mention that it would most likely get you killed if anyone were to find out you went through it. Part of the job was to never ask questions, you simply get the job done. You do not open the package, you do not speak to the target, you do not get involved. So what is it about that stupid flash drive that was making you want to break the number one rule of your job?

Your hand reaches over to the nightstand, your finger wrapping around the small piece of technology. You fidget with it, turning and twisting the metal piece in your hands as you continue to contemplate what you should do with it. 

The sinking feeling in your stomach was telling you to read through them. Hell, it was telling you to destroy it. The thought wasn’t what scared you, it was the why.

What are you thinking? The mere fact that you’re even considering opening it baffles you. 

But that nagging feeling was too adamant to ignore. 

A sigh escapes you, but you reach for your laptop anyways. There was a slight hesitation in your movements. Surely, the files are about some weapons deal or the tracking of an international drug trade. Perhaps it is a list of corrupt government officials or of recovered contraband. 

You finally stuck the pen drive in the USB port, the piece of metal putting up slight resistance before sliding in. The drives’ window popped up immediately, all the stolen folders names on display before you. 

The titles give away no hint about what the information is. Some were just a series of numbers, others held dates of no significant importance. Your hands twitch slightly, the cursor hovering over the unopened documents. Your heart roars in your ears for reasons you can’t explain.

You do not read the files. Instead, you select every single folder and download a copy of every single one of them into your personal laptop, hiding them behind heavy encryption codes for good measure. 

The nagging feeling had still not gone away. An intuitive part of you kept yelling at you to look through it, that whatever that drive contains is important and dangerous. Yet there was another unnamed voice in the back of your mind whispering that it was none of your business, that you should not concern yourself with its contents. 

Exhaustion was nipping at your body, your movements somewhat sluggish, but your mind was wide awake. A groan slips past your lips and you rub away at the stinging sensation in your eyes. There would be no rest for you, no matter how much you wanted it. 

After ejecting the drive from your laptop, you throw all of your belongings into your travel bag. Having access to the stolen information calmed the sinking feeling in your stomach, despite the tension that had settled into your shoulders. 

Not finishing the mission was not an option, you justified. You needed to get paid, after all. 

The vibrations of your phone ringing against the nightstand startle you away from your thoughts. You take a quick glance outside, seeing the telltale signs of dawn streaking through the blinds. 

You scowled, knowing exactly who’s calling and wanting nothing more than to ignore him. 

But you can’t. It’s something you can’t afford to do.

“Hello?” you answer, your voice sounding lower than usual.

“Oh good, you’re alive. I have a mission for you,” a gravelly voice crackled through the phone.

“I’m still sort of caught up in the last one you gave me,” you suppress the groan threatening to let your exasperation known.

“So?”

 you roll your eyes and bite your tongue. You’re not allowed to refuse.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to smuggle something for me.”

← Part 1 // Part 3 → 

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

hey uh new type of ao3 spam comment just dropped. (I know it's spam because the fic they left this comment on . doesn't have chapters. lmfao). Report this kinda comment as spam and don't take it personally it is literally recycled bullshit

[lenitriedtowritestuff]

has this been done