#natasha romanoff

[dailymarvelstudios]

Avengers: Endgame (2019), dir. Russo brothers

[natsaffection]

weird request and it's okay if you don't do it.

but can you do like how Natasha is more confident and dominate at work, not letting anyone get to close to her personally but when she comes home she changes and her walls come down - she's more needy and touchy, she's much more caring but still has a dominate side.. but can you write like soft smut because Natasha is drained from all her work but reader tries to make her feel better with sex??

with a lot of praises, maybe a strap and also Natasha being called daddy maybeeeeee

Only with you. | N.R

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Strap on use (r receiving) Daddy kink, kinda possessive Natasha, holding hands while sex, much praising, Cute cute cute

Word count: 5,3k

A/N: First time writing a Daddy kink…definitely an experience. Some of you probably know exactly who I had in mind while writing this (politely, without the kink involved, but, no kink shaming here!☝🏻)

The glass interrogation room was silent, except for the steady buzz of overhead lights and the subtle ticking of a clock on the wall. From the observation deck, Maria leaned against the panel with her arms crossed, watching the figure seated inside, male, mid-30s, cocky on the surface but trembling underneath.

Across from him sat Natasha. She didn’t say much. She never started the conversation. She just looked at him, eyes unreadable, like she was dissecting him from the inside out. She let the silence stretch long and heavy, suffocating.

Eventually, they always cracked. Fury stepped up beside Maria, glancing through the glass.

“He’s not talking?”

“Not yet.” Maria said. “But she hasn’t really started.”

Fury gave a small grunt. “How long?”

“She asked for ten minutes.”

“She’s had seven.”

They both watched as Natasha finally leaned forward, her posture still relaxed, too relaxed. She tilted her head slowly, hands steepled beneath her chin.

“I know what you did.” she said softly. “And more importantly…I know what you were told not to do. So why don’t we make this easy?”

The man tried to smile. “You think I’m scared of a pretty face?”

Maria almost felt sorry for him.

30 minutes later:

The faucet ran hot over Natasha’s hands, steam curling up around her face as she scrubbed at the blood staining her knuckles. She moved calmly, methodically, like this was routine. Because it was.

The bruises blooming along her fingers didn’t faze her. If anything, they felt grounding. Like confirmation that it was done.

Steve stepped into the doorway, arms crossed. “He gave up the location. Shields moving in tonight.”

Natasha nodded once, still drying her hands. There was a beat of silence before Steve added “we’re having Game night today..” Steve asked, stepping beside her, “You should come. Cool off a little.”

She didn’t even look at him. “I don’t play with children.”

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

“You used to team up with Clint.”

“That was target practice.”

Steve chuckled. “You’ve changed.”

Natasha turned her head then, that slow, deliberate glance, the glint of playfulness in her eyes, but it didn’t reach her heart. “Have I?”

He studied her for a beat. “You’re leaving soon, huh?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“To them? No.” He gave a small shrug. “To me? You’re checking the clock like someone’s waiting.”

Natasha gave a faint scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself, Rogers. You’re not that insightful.”

“Right..” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You just ditch game night every week because you’re scared to lose.”

“Mm.” She looked away again. “Let’s pretend that’s it.”

But he caught it, just that slight softness in her voice. A drop in the mask. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Steve wasn’t anyone else.

“You’re good for her, Nat.”

Natasha paused. Her jaw tightened just slightly. “Yeah..” she said under her breath. “I know.”

The room was quiet, bathed in the golden hue of lamp light. A movie played softly in the background, the volume low, more for atmosphere than attention. You sat cross-legged on the couch, lost in whatever book you’d started, a loose hoodie slipping down one shoulder, the smell of fresh tea wafting from the nearby table.

You didn’t hear the door. Didn’t hear the soundless steps behind you. But you felt it, warm arms sliding around your waist from behind, firm and steady, the telltale press of leather and that familiar scent of smoke and wind and something sharper, danger, wrapped in safety.

You startled slightly, gasping just as Natasha’s voice brushed your ear, “It’s just me.”

“Jesus, Nat..” you breathed, half-laughing, hand pressed to your chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Good.” Natasha murmured, her lips already brushing the curve of your neck. “Means you’re alive.”

You melted back into her immediately, reaching up to curl your fingers over Natasha’s forearm. “Rough day?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She was breathing slowly now, as if trying to push out the day, replacing the noise with this..this silence, this safe.

“Messy.” she murmured. You turned in her arms slightly, catching the faded red stains still lingering at her wrist, the faint bruising along her knuckles.

“You’re hurt…”

“I’ve had worse.” Natasha’s voice dropped, suddenly softer. She climbed onto the couch and pulled you into her lap like it was instinct, like she needed to feel your weight there, feel your warmth.

You blinked. “You’re clingy tonight.”

“Not clingy..” Natasha murmured, wrapping both arms around you and burying her face into your shoulder. “Just missed you so bad it’s physically uncomfortable.”

Her hands didn’t stop moving, one resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing small circles; the other lightly brushing up your side under the hoodie. She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to. This was hers. You were hers.

And here..only here, Natasha let herself soften, her mask slipping off piece by piece. “They wanted me to go for game night.” she murmured, her voice muffled into your collarbone. “Said I should cool off..”

You gently combed your fingers through Natasha’s red hair. “So why didn’t you?”

Natasha looked up then, eyes half-lidded but honest, open in a way she wasn’t for anyone else. “Because I don’t want noise. Or crowds. Or fake laughs. I want you. I wanted this.”

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Natasha’s temple. “You’ve got it.”

Natasha exhaled, like she’d been holding that breath since she walked out of SHIELD. She tucked her head back into your neck, the strong, composed assassin melting into something achingly human.

“Just let me stay like this tonight.”

You curled your arms around her. “Then stay.”

Natasha hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Not really. Just lay behind you on the couch, arms around your waist, face buried in your neck, holding you like she needed you to breathe.

But something in the air had shifted. It was in the way her fingers dragged slower across your stomach. The way her nose nudged into the slope of your shoulder. The quiet little sigh she gave as her lips brushed the shell of your ear.

You could feel it. The drain of the mission. The weight of being who she had to be all day, calculating, cold, unstoppable. She didn’t complain. She never did. But you could read her like no one else.

And she needed something now. Not just comfort. You tilted your head slightly, giving her more room, more skin. “Nat…”

Her arms tightened around you, and when she spoke, her voice was low, warm, rough with need.

“Can I take you to bed?”

Not a demand. Not an order. A plea.. dressed in velvet. You turned in her arms, meeting her gaze. Her pupils were blown, lips already parted. The tension she carried like a second skeleton had cracked just enough to let you in.

You smiled, hand brushing her jaw. “You don’t even have to ask..”

Something lit behind her eyes. The faintest sparkle..rare and raw. She grinned. Grinned, like the weight of the world had finally slipped off her shoulders. Then she leaned in, kissed you hard, full of relief, need, love, and picked you up in one smooth, effortless motion.

You gasped, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Show-off.”

“I needed you all day.” she whispered, lips brushing yours as she carried you through the hallway, step by slow step. “Thought about you between shots. Between breaths. Couldn’t let it show. But I needed you so bad, baby…”

The bedroom was dim, sheets still messy from the morning. She set you down gently, like you were glass, then leaned over you, kissing you again, this time softer. Slower.

Then her lips trailed lower. Down your jaw. To the corner of your neck. Her hands slipped under your shirt, pushing the fabric up just enough to feel your skin under her palms.

She kissed the side of your throat. Then sucked. You let out a sharp breath. “Nat…”

“Mmh.” Her voice was muffled against your skin. “You always taste better when I’m like this.”

She dragged her teeth along your neck, sucking deep, not to mark you once, but over and over. Each time just a little lower. Each time followed by another kiss. A nip. A lazy drag of her tongue.

You started giggling, soft, helpless, already flushed. “You’re going to cover me in bruises.”

“Good.” she purred, lifting her head just long enough to smirk. “Then I get to remember this tomorrow when they start talking politics and intel reports.”

You tried to speak, tried to tease her back, but she dipped down again and stole your breath with another wet kiss at the base of your throat.

Then lower. She kissed down your chest, your stomach, slow and worshipful, until her fingers found the waistband of your panties. She looked up at you, dark eyes hungry but gentle.

“You okay?” she asked, even now.

You nodded, breathless. “More than.”

She slid your panties down inch by inch, kissing the inside of your thigh as she went, soft at first, then open-mouthed and slow. Her hands caressed, not just touched. She took her time, spreading your legs carefully, reverently, like this was the only thing in the world that mattered now.

And for her, it was. Because here, with you, she didn’t have to be Black Widow. Didn’t have to be on guard. She could be selfish. Needy. Gentle and hungry all at once.

She lifted her head slowly, looking up at you with something vulnerable in her smile. “Do you have any idea..” she said softly, brushing your cheek with her knuckles, “how fucking lucky I am to have you?”

You blinked up at her, cheeks flushed, lips parted, completely open under her touch.

“I’m serious.” she continued, her voice low and full of warmth, but there was that steel edge too, the kind only she had. “The things I’ve done…the places I’ve been… I never thought I’d get to feel like this. Like I could come home and be seen.”

You reached up, brushing her wrist. “Nat…”

But she shook her head slowly, smile softening. “No, baby. Let me say it. Let me tell you.” Her hand slipped down to your chest, right over your heart. “You make me feel like I’m still human. Like I’m allowed to love. And I will never stop showing you how much you mean to me.”

She leaned down, kissing you slow. Then she pulled back with a whisper. “I’ll be right back.”

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to. The tone of her voice, the flicker in her eyes.. you already knew what was coming. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched her stand, tall, composed, and absolutely glowing. Her eyes never left yours, even as she crossed the room and disappeared into the closet.

Your heart thudded with every second she was gone. When she returned, your breath hitched. The strap was already buckled to her hips, sleek black, firm, heavy between her thighs. Her body moved with complete confidence, the outline of control.

But her eyes? Still full of adoration. Still yours. She stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at you with a slow smile.

“Do you remember the safe word, baby?” she asked, voice low and even.

You nodded quickly. “Yes.”

She raised a brow. “Say it.”

“Widow.”

“Good girl.” Her smile deepened. “And you remember what to call me now?”

You swallowed, already trembling under her gaze. “Yes, Daddy.”

There was a pause. Then her chest rose, proud and slow, like hearing you say it lit something deep inside her. She crawled onto the bed with all the grace of a predator, slow, sure, towering over you on her hands and knees.

“That’s my good girl.” she murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then another just below your jaw. “So polite for me.”

You were already squirming, thighs tense, your fingers fisting the sheets as you felt the press of the toy, just the tip, brush against your inner thigh. She didn’t even move it, didn’t thrust. Just let you feel the weight of it there. Present. Waiting.

You tensed automatically, back arching the moment it nudged just slightly closer. She noticed. Of course she did.

“Hey…” she cooed, voice dropping. “Relax for me. You’re okay, baby.”

She leaned down again, kissing your cheek, your neck, the corner of your mouth, all while her hips stilled, giving you time, grounding you. Her lips brushed yours and you started giggling, high and breathy, the tension cracking under her warmth.

“There she is.” Natasha smiled against your skin, kissing your grin. “That’s my girl.”

Her hand slid up your side, resting right under your breast as she nuzzled into your throat, sucking again, slower this time. Claiming you all over again.

“You’re gonna take me so good, aren’t you?” she whispered. “Like you always do.”

Your breath was warm against her lips, that giggle still echoing quietly between you as she smiled down at you, eyes soft, lashes heavy.

“You’re so cute when you get shy like that.” she whispered, her thumb brushing your bottom lip. “All nervous for me…when you know I’d never hurt you.”

“I know..” you breathed, nodding.

She dipped lower again, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose, and then another to your cheek, her body staying perfectly still above yours, but you could still feel her, the strap pressing just gently against your core. Waiting. Teasing.

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was when she got like this. “This is my favorite version of you.” she murmured against your skin. “Soft. Giggly. Mine.”

Your hands slid over her hips, fingers curling around the base of the harness, tentative, needy, and she shivered.

“You want Daddy to take care of you, baby?” she asked, lips against your ear now.

You nodded again, breath stuttering. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Mmm, good girl.” she whispered, and her praise felt like warm honey pouring into your chest. “So polite. You always know just what to say.”

She leaned back slightly, guiding the toy down between your legs with one hand, her other arm wrapping behind your back to pull you gently into her. The slow press of it against your folds made you inhale sharply, but she stilled again.

“Shh, easy. We’ve got all the time in the world.” she said softly. “Look at me.”

You blinked up at her, already glossy-eyed.

“Breathe..” she reminded you, kissing your forehead. “You don’t have to be strong with me, baby. You don’t have to pretend. I’ll do everything. You just have to be mine.”

Your heart fluttered so hard it almost hurt. She started rocking her hips, the tip gliding through your slick folds, just enough friction to make your back arch, but she kept her motions lazy, unhurried.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” she whispered, kissing the corner of your lips. “That’s how wet you are for me. Always so ready for Daddy.”

You whimpered, hands clutching her biceps, grounding yourself.

“I love when you get like this..” Natasha continued, her voice thick with warmth. “All needy and sweet. Letting me in like I’m the only thing that matters. Like I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

“You are..” you whispered.

That stopped her for a beat. Her eyes flicked over your face, so full of love it made your chest ache, and then she kissed you, hard, cupping the back of your head with her palm. Not possessive, just full. Like she wanted to pour herself into you with nothing held back.

“God, you’re perfect.” she breathed against your lips. “And you’re mine.”

Then, slowly, so slowly,, she pushed in. You gasped, back arching, but her arms were already around you, holding you tight. Her lips peppered kisses along your jaw, down your throat, murmuring through every inch she gave you.

“That’s it. That’s it, baby. Taking me so good.” she whispered. “Look at how well you’re doing.”

You moaned softly, overwhelmed by the stretch, the warmth, the way she watched you, like you were holy.

“I’ve got you.” she promised. “Daddy’s got you. Always.”

And as her hips stilled, buried deep inside you, she didn’t move right away. She just held you. Pressed her forehead to yours. Let you breathe. Let you feel everything.

Her hips rocked, slow, rhythmic, dragging the strap in and out with steady control. Not rushing. Never rushing. Just feeling.

And listening. Each soft whimper that spilled from your lips made her chest rise a little harder, her eyes fluttering shut as she nuzzled her face deeper into your neck.

You felt her lips brush your skin, not kissing now, just resting there, as if your warmth alone was enough to keep her tethered.

Then came the sound. You clenched around her. A quiet gasp broke from her throat, her rhythm hitching just once as she exhaled against your neck, eyes closing tight. “Fuck, baby…”

You whimpered again, high and needy, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, grounding yourself in the way she moved, the way she filled you just right.

“N-Natasha…!”

Her head lifted slowly. One hand slid into your hair, not rough, just firm enough to guide your eyes to hers. Her expression was soft, but there was something dark and molten underneath, something that made your stomach twist with heat.

She kissed you. Then murmured low against your lips, “That’s not my name in here, baby.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body shivering as you whispered, “S-Sorry, Daddy…”

“There you go.” She smiled. “That’s my good girl.”

Her hips kept moving, slow, controlled thrusts, the toy stroking against that perfect spot inside you every time. It was dizzying. Hypnotic. Your bodies slick with heat and sweat, breaths tangled together, hearts thudding in unison.

And Natasha was feeling everything. Your sounds. Your breath catching in your throat. Your fingers clawing gently at her back. Your legs shaking, trying to stay open for her.

She kissed your shoulder, her lips trembling just barely as she exhaled. “I can feel you getting close..” she whispered. “You’re so tight around me, baby…”

You moaned, broken, almost sobbing, and she shuddered, her own body trembling against yours.

“You sound so beautiful..” she murmured. “You always do right before you cum…”

Natasha rocked her hips in that same perfect rhythm, slow, steady, deep, and every motion had your breath stuttering, your body curling tighter into hers. The toy filled you with a fullness that made your thighs tremble, but it was her body, her voice, her that was unraveling you.

You couldn’t stop clinging to her. One arm wrapped tightly around her neck, your face buried in the crook of it, breath warm and shaky against her skin. The other hand reached for her thigh, gripping there, desperate for something solid, something grounding as your pleasure began to crest.

“Daddy…” you whispered against her skin, breath catching. And she melted. Her voice dropped into something low and so full of love, it was barely a whisper. “Hold on, baby. I’ve got you.”

She shifted just slightly, her thighs steady, her body completely surrounding yours. Then she took your hand, the one clutching at her thigh, and gently laced her fingers through it, pressing it down to the bed.

Not pinning you, but holding you. Letting you know she was right there, that she wasn’t letting go.

“You’re so good for me, Y/n..” she murmured, lips brushing against your ear. “So pretty like this. My perfect girl.”

Then her free hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease. She rubbed in soft, firm circles, matching the slow thrust of her hips. The pressure was just right, not overwhelming, but enough to send a pulse of heat spiraling through your core.

You whimpered hard, eyes squeezing shut, your whole body trembling. Natasha kissed your jaw, your temple, her fingers tightening just slightly around yours.

“You’re getting so close, baby.”

“Y-Yeah..!” you gasped, hips twitching, legs beginning to shake. “I- I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” Her voice was soft but firm, right in your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Cum for me, sweetheart. Let go.”

And with her voice holding you, her body wrapped around you, her fingers coaxing you just right-

You broke. The orgasm crashed over you, full and hot and deep. Your moan spilled into her neck as your whole body shook, clenching around her with wave after wave of pleasure. You gripped her hand tight, your voice cracking, eyes wet with the sheer intensity of how deeply you felt everything.

Natasha stayed right there, moving you through it, never letting go. Kissing your cheek as she whispered, “That’s it, baby…that’s my girl… so proud of you…”

And when your body finally stilled, when the trembles slowed, she didn’t pull away. She just stayed. Pressed against you, forehead to forehead, still holding your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Because to her..it was.

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[mohish-ko]

★ meet my watchdog ★

[amethystarachnid]

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

[coffeeandjuice]

APPRECIATION POST FOR ALL OF NAT’S DIFFERENT HAIR STYLES CAUSE GOD DAMN

(Her curly hair moments will always be my favs)

[grezzirossi]

100% certified fresh beans (aka me n frens going insane when a Jeff is on the team lmao)

[asherashedwings]

This is how the first Avengers went, right?

[natromilf]

"she killed people!" so? that's my baby girl

[05112005]

on the run

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 21 | END

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Dark, Mystery, Betrayal.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

By the way, my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

You can’t leave. Not when he’s already found you. And now… you have no choice but to play Bucky’s game.

You force a smile, even though your hands are trembling. Your heart races, thudding against your chest like it’s trying to escape. Bucky steps closer and shrugs off his jacket, placing it gently around your shoulders like it’s nothing—like he didn’t just appear out of nowhere in the dead of night.

“You must be freezing,” he says softly. His voice is full of fake concern, the kind that would melt anyone else. “Where are you going this late?”

His eyes are too kind. Too knowing. His tone might fool another woman—but not you.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “My dad’s doctor just called. The surgery’s happening sooner than expected, so I was going to check in.”

Bucky exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “I knew it. I had this feeling something would happen tonight. I’m glad I followed my instincts.”

Bullshit.

You glance at your phone, trying to pretend everything’s normal. “Mind if I join you guys back to the hotel?”

Bucky smiles again, that warm, practiced smile that’s all mask and no soul. He pats Thor’s shoulder. “Of course. Let’s go.”

Inside the car, you sit in the back, clutching the jacket tighter around you even though it makes your skin crawl. Bucky slides into the passenger seat like a king reclaiming his throne. Thor starts the engine without a word.

For the first time tonight, you’re glad this town is small. Your broken-down car wasn’t that far from the hotel. Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes, you tell yourself.

To kill the silence, you blurt out, “When do you think the renovation at my house will be done?”

Bucky doesn’t turn around, but you can hear the smugness in his voice. “Probably next week.”

“Next week?” Your voice rises a little too quickly.

“Not fast enough?” he asks, amused. “I’ll tell the crew to finish in three days.”

“No—no. Next week is fast enough,” you quickly backtrack. Don’t push. Don’t make him suspicious.

You pass the new hospital under construction. The steel skeleton towers in the night, surrounded by floodlights and scaffolding. It’s quiet, too quiet—like something in a dream that doesn’t feel real.

“When it’s finished,” Bucky says with pride, “I’m bringing in the best doctors in the country. Tom won’t have to leave town again.”

You go still. He’s not just talking about your father. He’s talking about you. He’s building a town no one can escape from. A town where he decides who stays—and who belongs to him.

“That’s... great,” you say, voice thin. “No one will have to worry about their health anymore.”

The car pulls into the hotel parking lot. Relief swells in your chest like a wave—until you remember it’s only temporary. You’re still trapped.

Bucky steps out first, then circles around to open your door with exaggerated politeness. You hesitate before accepting his hand. You wish your nails were sharp enough to cut him. But now’s not the time. You have to play nice.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He studies your face. “You look pale. Want me to have dinner sent to your room?”

Your stomach twists. The last thing you want is him at your door tonight.

“No thanks,” you say quickly. “I’m not that hungry.”

He nods slowly, eyes narrowing for a split second. “Alright. But if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“All right. If you need anything, just call,” Bucky said, his voice smooth like velvet—warm on the surface, but something colder lurked underneath.

You forced a smile. A shallow curve of the lips. The kind people give in tense family dinners or awkward public events—where they have no choice but to play along. You turned from him, heels clicking against the polished tile as you walked toward the lobby.

Each step felt like walking through molasses.

You couldn’t breathe. You needed air, distance—space to think. But no matter how fast or far you tried to go, he was always one step behind. Always.

And then you heard him. The heavy footfalls. He was following.

The elevator was waiting at the end of the corridor. You tapped the call button and stared ahead, not daring to look back. You could feel him close, like a shadow stitched to your spine.

The doors slid open with a soft metallic shhhk. You stepped inside. Of course, he followed.

Now it was just the two of you in a small box of mirrors and steel. Trapped.

The hum of the elevator filled the silence. You could hear your own heartbeat. You kept your eyes trained on the digital numbers above the door. As if they were your countdown to safety.

Then his voice sliced through the stillness—calm, casual, like he was sharing a bit of gossip. “Oh, right. Since what happened to Tony… the director’s seat at the hospital is empty now.”

You blinked, confused for a second. “What?”

Bucky turned to face you slightly, his expression unreadable. “Drysdale was supposed to be the hospital’s biggest investor. But after what happened to him…” His jaw tightened just a fraction. “That’s on me.”

A chill crept up your spine.

His voice remained calm—steady—but there was something cold behind it. Like he wasn’t confessing. He was warning.

“And now that you’re here,” he continued, “it makes sense for you to take over. The hospital needs someone smart. Someone trustworthy. Someone close.”

Your throat tightened. Every alarm in your body was screaming.

You nodded quickly, trying to keep your voice level. “I’ll… think about it.”

The elevator dinged, and you didn’t wait. The doors weren’t even fully open before you slipped through the gap, striding down the hallway with quick, clipped steps. Your hands were shaking.

“Good night,” you tossed over your shoulder.

Behind you, Bucky still hadn’t moved. Still in the elevator. Still watching.

But just as you reached your room, you heard him again—so soft it sent goosebumps crawling across your skin.

“Get some rest. I have to go pick up your car.” Pause. “I’ll make sure it gets fixed properly.”

You glanced back once—just once.

He was still in the elevator. Still smiling. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just followed you, hadn’t just dropped a cryptic statement about a man who mysteriously vanished.

You swallowed the fear rising in your throat and turned away, heart hammering.

You fumbled the keycard into the slot with shaking fingers. The green light blinked. You slipped inside and slammed the door shut with your body pressed against it. You threw the bolt, locked the chain. Every click of the lock felt like placing a weak bandage over a bleeding wound.

The room was dim. Quiet. But not peaceful.

You weren’t safe here. Not anymore.

You backed away from the door, breathing hard. Your fingers trembled as you grabbed your charger, plugged in your phone, and called Jake.

No signal.

Your blood went cold.

You stared at the phone. That couldn’t be right. You’d used it here before. You called your lawyer from this room a few nights ago. Texted your lawyer. Checked your emails. There was always signal.

You stepped closer to the window, holding the phone up. Nothing.

Tried again. Nothing.

“Come on. Come on,” you muttered, biting your lip as your hands shook. You tried toggling airplane mode. Tried Wi-Fi. Tried every trick you knew.

Still nothing.

It didn’t feel like bad reception.

It felt… deliberate.

“Did he—” You couldn’t even say it aloud.

Was this part of it? Did Bucky somehow jam the signal? Cut it off? How far had he planned this?

You dropped the phone onto the bed and sat beside it, rubbing your hands over your face.

You felt sick.

Your body was trembling and your chest was too tight. This wasn’t a coincidence. Too many little things. Too many gestures that looked sweet on the outside but were twisted underneath. Too much control hidden in kindness.

The hospital. The car. The signal. Everything. Controlled.

You had to get out. You had to find a way to leave this town before it was too late.

Because now you understood— This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t affection. This was possession.

And you were already in the cage.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

You woke long before the sun rose. Not that you’d slept.

You'd laid in bed for hours, body still but mind spiraling—trapped in a loop of every unnerving detail from the day before. The silence in your room wasn’t comforting. It was thick. Suffocating. You kept glancing at the door, half-expecting it to rattle.

By the time light began to seep in through the curtains, dull and gray like an old bruise, you were already dressed and ready.

You tiptoed to the door, your fingers brushing over the chain lock before sliding it free. Quiet. Don’t wake him.

You cracked the door open and peeked into the hallway. Empty.

Still, your heart pounded as you slipped out, carefully pulling the door shut without a sound.

Bucky lived just across from you. Too close. Every creak of the hallway floor felt like a flare gun going off. But his door didn’t move.

You made it to the elevator and hit the button. The wait felt eternal. Ding.

You stepped inside. The doors closed with a soft hiss. The moment they sealed shut, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

For the first time in hours, you were alone. And for a moment—just one trembling moment—you felt safe.

At the Restaurant

The scent of coffee and baked goods drifted toward you as you stepped into the hotel’s restaurant. The soft clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations felt oddly surreal—normal, almost—like the world hadn’t shifted under your feet.

But then you saw him.

Jake had just walked in, brushing rain off his jacket. You didn’t wait. You marched straight toward him.

“Jake.”

He turned, surprised. “Hey, you called me—” You grabbed his wrist.

“Upps.” He chuckled, but you didn’t.

Without a word, you pulled him into a quiet corner of the restaurant—out of view from any guests, and more importantly, out of reach from the hotel’s security cameras.

“I called you last night,” you whispered, eyes darting around. “Because I need your help.”

Jake frowned. “What happened?”

You shivered.

Not from the cold.

From the memory. From the things you were piecing together. From the weight of knowing—really knowing—who Bucky had become.

Jake’s brow furrowed. “Y/N… are you okay?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Jake… Bucky is evil.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, I know what he did to you before. But he’s changed now. He seems—”

“No,” you cut him off. “This is different. He’s the mastermind of it all.”

Jake’s expression shifted. He was quiet. Then: “Mastermind?”

You hesitated. You had no proof. Just instincts. Fear. The way every piece of the puzzle seemed to lead back to Bucky’s hands. His watchful eyes. His reach.

“I need your help,” you said, pulling a crumpled paper from your pocket. “Call this number. When someone answers, just say: The contract has terminated. That’s it.”

Jake looked at the paper, confused but trusting. “Okay… But we might have to wait. I heard on the radio this morning—the transmission towers are down.”

Your breath caught. “So it wasn’t just my phone?”

“No. It’s town-wide. Radio, calls, internet… Everything’s messed up.”

You stared at him. Your last thread of hope thinned. “Can you do something? This is urgent, Jake. Please.”

He studied your face. Something in your eyes must’ve told him this wasn’t paranoia. This was real.

“I… I’ll try,” he promised.

You let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

Jake stepped forward, voice softer. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

Then— A voice behind you. Smooth. Inevitable.

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Turns out you’re here. I was knocking on your door.”

You froze. Your pulse jumped. Jake turned stiffly. “Oh, hi Bucky. Y/N was just helping me with… calculating my taxes.” He talked too fast, shit. He's a bad actor.

“Simple, actually,” you added, voice tight. “I’ll see you later.”

You bolted. Walked quickly into the breakfast hall. But you didn’t have to look to know—he followed.

Breakfast Hall

You filled your plate slowly, eyes focused on the scrambled eggs and toast like they held state secrets.

Bucky stood close behind. Too close. His hand brushed the small of your back as he leaned forward.

“There’s no signal,” you murmured, testing. “I can’t make any calls.”

He sighed as if it annoyed him. “Yeah. Something happened at the network tower. I don’t get the details, but the mayor issued an order to fix it fast.”

Of course he did. You nodded slowly. Pretending. Smiling. Playing the part of the patient guest. But your fists clenched around the tongs.

You sat down with your tray, picking at your food. Bucky, as expected, joined your table.

You laughed at the right moments. Asked polite questions. Let your eyes soften when he talked.

And the whole time your skin crawled. Like you were being watched by something wearing a mask.

Eventually, finally, he stood. “Duty calls. I’ll check on the staff.”

You didn’t breathe until he disappeared down the hallway.

At the Information Desk

You moved fast. Straight to the information desk. Your voice low but urgent.

“Could you call a taxi for me? I need to get to the train.”

The young man behind the desk looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The trains can’t operate either. Network’s down. Even the scheduling system is frozen.”

Your chest tightened. “The train, too?”

“Yes… Sadly, yes.”

Shit. Everything was locked. Controlled. Every way out cut off.

But then you remembered— Natasha. She mentioned heading back to the city later today. Maybe she hadn’t left yet. Perhaps she could help.

It was a long shot.

But it was the only one you had left.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The arcade reeked of sweat, old popcorn, and something faintly metallic—like rusting wires. The light inside buzzed unevenly overhead, stuttering as you stepped in. The manager sat hunched over a cracked monitor, his eyes bloodshot from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. His chair creaked as he turned slowly to face you, his face already sour with contempt.

“You,” he growled. “It was because of you she quit this morning.”

Your chest tightened. “Really?”

“Ah-ha. She came in, said she was done, and left. Packed up her locker in five damn minutes.” He tossed a grimy towel over his shoulder. “Can’t say I blame her.”

You hesitated. “Do you have her address?”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at you like he was trying to burn a hole through your skull. But eventually, maybe because he didn’t care enough to fight it—or maybe because he wanted you gone—he scribbled the address on the back of a receipt and shoved it toward you without another word.

You followed the address. The roads were quiet, too quiet, like the entire town had shrunk in on itself. When you finally reached the apartment building, the air felt different—heavy, charged. You barely raised your fist to knock before the door swung open.

There stood Natasha, her jacket half-zipped and a battered suitcase dragging behind her.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp. Defensive.

“I thought…” You swallowed hard. “I thought I could come along with you.”

Her eyes narrowed, scanning you like she expected something to explode. But then, something in her posture loosened. If you were with her, it might actually work in her favor. You were well-spoken. Clean-cut. You’d be the best walking recommendation letter she'd ever have.

She sighed. “Sure. But you’re paying for gas.”

“Of course.”

Her car was old, faded yellow paint peeling at the edges, the kind that creaked when you opened the door like it might snap in two if pushed too hard. Inside smelled like gasoline and stale fast food.

As the engine sputtered to life, Natasha grumbled, “Seems like the universe fucked me. No signal. No train. So I’m stuck driving this antique.”

“You tell me.” You looked over your shoulder again.

Natasha noticed. “Why do you keep checking behind us?” Her voice was calm but probing.

You hesitated. “Did someone chase you?”

“You have no idea,” you muttered, eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

Ten minutes out of town, the needle on the fuel gauge dropped to red. Natasha swore under her breath.

“Shit. We have to refill.”

You pulled into the nearest gas station—an old, creaky thing at the edge of nowhere. A single flickering fluorescent light buzzed above. Natasha stayed near the car, lighting a cigarette, shoulders hunched against the wind.

Inside the convenience store, the air was warm but stale. The cashier looked bored, flipping through a magazine with chipped nails. You approached the counter.

“I’d like to fill up. Can I use a card? Do you have signal here?”

The cashier looked up slowly, puzzled. “Of course. Why? You don’t have signal?”

“No. Do you?”

“I’ve got full bars. No issues.”

Your stomach twisted.

Something wasn’t adding up.

You handed her your platinum card and forced a smile. “Can I… borrow your phone for a second? I need to call someone. It’s important.”

She hesitated. Looked at the card. Platinum. Her eyes softened. “Sure.”

You took the phone in trembling hands and typed in the number. It rang. You clenched your jaw.

“Come on. Pick up. Please. Please…”

Through the window, something caught your eye.

A black SUV rolled in. Smooth. Expensive. You recognized it instantly.

Thor stepped out first.

Your blood froze.

You watched in horror as he reached for the passenger door. Natasha’s eyes went wide, but before she could react, Thor was dragging her out of the car, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other twisting her arm behind her back.

“No,” you whispered, panic crashing over you in waves.

And then— The call connected.

“Hello?” a deep voice answered on the line.

You didn’t hesitate. “The contract is terminated. The contract is terminated!” The words fell from your lips like a lifeline.

You shoved the phone back to the stunned cashier and snatched your card.

Your legs moved before you could think.

You ran for the door—

—but he was already there.

Bucky.

He stepped out from behind the SUV like a ghost, too calm, too fast. His eyes locked onto you with that unreadable expression, his mouth flat, his body blocking the exit.

You turned to bolt the other way, but his hand clamped around your wrist like iron.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, struggling, but his grip didn’t even flinch.

Customers turned. The cashier looked up, startled.

“Ssst…” The sound was soft. Almost gentle. You barely had time to register it before you felt a sharp sting in your neck.

Your eyes went wide. Your limbs jerked instinctively, a burst of adrenaline flooding your system—but it was already too late. The syringe was already in.

Bucky’s grip tightened just enough to steady you. Not enough to bruise, not enough to panic the few people watching. But firm. Practiced.

Your mouth opened in a breathless gasp. The edges of your vision blurred almost instantly, like ink spreading across paper. The world tilted.

“You always made things difficult,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low, almost fond—almost.

Your knees buckled. He caught you before you hit the floor.

He held you for a second, making sure the sedative had taken full effect. His eyes scanned your face, watching the last flicker of consciousness flicker out like a dying candle.

Only then did he exhale—slow and controlled, like a man who’d been holding his breath too long. Relief and possession curled around his expression like smoke.

He turned, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. The cashier blinked at him in confusion, the silence pressing in like thick fog. Your limp body in his arms turned a few heads. The other customers froze in that awkward half-awareness, unsure if this was an emergency or a domestic drama.

“She ran away from the hospital,” Bucky said calmly, adjusting your weight in his arms. He gave the cashier a reassuring smile, that picture-perfect charm that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s not dangerous. Just scared.”

The cashier’s brows drew together. “O-oh.”

He smoothly pulled a laminated card from his coat and handed it over. The name. The logo. The government seal.

“Here’s my card if you want to confirm anything,” he added. His voice was velvet, but underneath it was the unmistakable edge of control.

She took the card with trembling fingers, eyes flitting between the official badge and your unconscious form.

“I… okay,” she murmured, uncertainty etched into every syllable.

Before he turned to leave, he paused, still wearing that polite, terrible smile.

“Mind if I ask something?”

She nodded, slowly.

“What did she say when she called?”

The cashier swallowed. “She said… ‘The contract is terminated.’ That’s all. Just that. Nothing else.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t flicker. But something behind his eyes changed. A beat. A calculation.

“Really?” he said with a mild curiosity that didn’t match the way his jaw ticked ever so slightly. He reclaimed the ID, slipped it back into his pocket, and nodded once.

“Well. Thanks for your cooperation.” His voice was soft. Final.

He walked out with you cradled in his arms like a sleeping child, but the way he moved—sharp, focused, efficient—was the farthest thing from tender.

In the parking lot, Bucky opened the back door, laid you down gently beside Natasha, and closed it with a soft click that echoed louder than a gunshot in the still air.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, expression unreadable now.

“Contract’s terminated?” he repeated under his breath, starting the engine.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

He had no intention of letting that happen.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

You woke up slowly.

Your head throbbed, and your body felt unnaturally heavy. You blinked up at the pale ceiling, watching shadows shift as soft light filtered through drawn curtains. The air was still. Too still. There was no buzz of city traffic, no hallway chatter, no hum of a minibar. Just silence—thick, padded silence.

You sat up a little. The sheets smelled clean, unfamiliar. The bed was too soft.

Where is this?

This wasn’t a dungeon. There were no chains or stone walls. But it wasn’t your hotel room either. Not the one you remembered. The muted wallpaper, the furniture—none of it matched. For one terrifying moment, you thought: Maybe it was just a dream. Maybe you’d imagined running away, the syringe, the gas station.

You closed your eyes, trying to will the panic away.

Then came the voice.

“You’re awake.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Bucky was sitting in a chair beside your bed. Close. Too close. His posture relaxed, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting on his knee like he’d been waiting for hours.

Your heart shot up into your throat. You pushed back, inching away, your hands clutching at the blanket like it could protect you.

He saw it. The fear in your eyes.

And it hurt him.

“I would never hurt you,” he said, softly, like a promise he wished you could believe. But you didn’t. And he knew it. That terrified look on your face—it wasn’t part of the plan. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were supposed to understand. To forgive. To stay.

“The one piece missing,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “is you.”

You forced your voice out, your throat dry and scratchy. “Where is Natasha?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, like he was weighing how honest to be. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“She’s fine,” he said at last. “Unless you try to leave me. Then maybe not.”

Your breath hitched.

“I admire you, you know,” he continued, tone unnervingly gentle. “Even after everything she’s done to you… you still helped her. You still cared.” He leaned closer, voice almost reverent. “You’re different. Completely different from all of us.”

There was something too smooth in his voice now. Too careful. He was speaking sweetly, lovingly—but it tasted like poison. The tension in the air was unbearable. It coiled around your throat.

“Why… why are you doing this?” you whispered.

He blinked. Then his eyes widened, surprised you even had to ask.

“Is it not clear enough?” he said, softly.

He leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. And then—finally—he let it spill.

“I never apologized to you. Not once,” he said, eyes unfocused, voice lowering. “I made your life hell. I ruined it. Because I blamed your family for stealing my dad.”

Each word came like a confession he’d been holding for years. His face twisted, as if the weight of it all was finally too much.

“I made everyone hate you in school. Every cruel rumor, every whispered lie—I was the one pulling the strings. I was the designer of your misery.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Couldn’t.

“But then I found out it wasn’t your family’s fault.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Your mother had cut ties with Alex. Your mother never wanted anything to do with him again. It was him. My dad. He was the one who couldn’t let go.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“He listened to her wish… but he never stopped watching her. Wanting her. Imagine that—seeing the woman you love every day and knowing you can’t have her.” He looked up at you, and this time, there was something broken in his eyes. “That’s how I feel when I see you.”

You stared, frozen. It was too much. Too fast.

“After graduation, I ran. Left the town. I was ashamed. I studied overseas to get away. But I never stopped thinking about you.” He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “I lost my mind. I know that. I went too far.”

He looked back at you. “I orchestrated everything. Jake, Natasha losing his job. Thor and Steve—those accidents weren’t accidents. I’m the reason their lives fell apart.”

Your stomach dropped. “You… you’re the one who—?”

“I’m the mastermind,” he said without flinching.

You felt cold spread through your entire body.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they deserved it. I deserved it.” His voice cracked—finally cracking.

You wanted to scream. To run. But your voice caught in your throat. You stared at the man in front of you—this boy who once haunted your high school halls with smirks and whispered threats—now grown, twisted, obsessed.

He leaned forward again. “All I ever wanted to hear from you… just once… was this: ‘Thank you, Bucky, for what you’ve done. You punished everyone who made my life hell.’”

You looked at him, blinking through the disbelief.

“…No,” you said quietly. “You’ll never hear that from me. You’re not a judge. You’re just obsessed with rewriting the past.”

His face faltered. His expression cracked open like a window in a storm. Disappointment flashed like lightning across it. For a long, long second, he didn’t say anything.

Then he stood.

“Just rest,” he murmured. His tone was resigned. “Soon, you’ll appreciate what I’ve done.”

He walked to the door and closed it behind him with a heavy click.

You sat frozen for a beat, then launched yourself from the bed. Your legs trembled but you forced them to move. You ran to the window—locked. You rattled the door—also locked.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself. You finally realized. You were trapped.

Days passed.

You didn’t know how many. The room blurred into itself—same sheets, same soft lamps, same suffocating stillness. Bucky came every day. Brought food. Always calm. Always too sweet. Like this was normal. Like you belonged here.

You never ate.

Until one day, he set the tray down and said:

“Do you want me to put a strap on you so you can eat?”

That made your blood run cold.

“No,” you said quickly.

You picked up the spoon.

After that, he changed. Loosened.

You weren’t confined to the room anymore. You could walk. Breathe.

And when you finally stepped out—barefoot, heart hammering—you realized the truth.

You weren’t in a facility. You weren’t in a bunker.

You were in his home.

A beautiful, sterile house tucked away in the woods, where no one could hear you scream.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The house was quiet—too quiet. Every footstep echoed like a warning. The walls were white, sterile, with picture frames that felt too curated to be real. As you followed the faint sound of murmuring, your heart thudded louder with each step.

Then, you saw her.

Lydia sat in a dimly lit lounge, slouched in a faded armchair that had likely once been elegant. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in thin slashes of daylight that made her skin look almost translucent. Her frame had withered into itself. Collarbone sharp, wrists too delicate. A robe hung off her body like it belonged to someone else. On the table before her—dozens of pill bottles scattered like forgotten chess pieces. Half-empty. Some knocked over. Some with their labels torn off.

You froze. You didn’t mean to stare, but the shock rooted you.

She noticed. Her bloodshot eyes flicked toward you. Her voice was raspy, drained from something that went far deeper than exhaustion. “I wish I never gave birth to him,” she said, like she was coughing up venom.

You blinked, stunned—but only for a moment. “Every child is a blessing,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. “He became like this because of you. And your husband.”

The slap came in words. “You bitch!”

The hiss of her voice cut the air just as—

“Mother.” Bucky’s voice, sharp and low, sliced through the tension like a blade.

Both you and Lydia turned. His shadow filled the doorway. The moment his eyes landed on you, something in them flickered—panic, protectiveness, maybe even guilt.

“Don’t you ever speak to her like that again,” he said, jaw clenched. He stepped further inside.

Lydia didn’t flinch. She scoffed, picked up a pill bottle, turned it in her hand. “It’s not like she understands your feelings. Just like her mother. Playing every man’s heart like a toy.”

The room dropped ten degrees.

He exhaled—long and heavy. A quiet fury, tightly reined in. Then, with a hand lightly on your back, Bucky guided you out.

The hallway swallowed the confrontation behind you. He didn’t speak until you were out of sight from her door.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said quietly. “She won’t talk to you like that again.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes stayed ahead. His hand lingered on your back like it belonged there—but it didn’t.

There was a pause. Then he tried again, gentler this time. “I’ve prepared dinner. For the two of us.”

You stopped walking. His words hung in the air, brushing your skin like invisible wires.

Your stomach curled at the thought—but what were your choices? Say no and risk another version of a locked room? Say yes and play the part?

You nodded. Just once.

That was all he needed. His entire face softened with relief, lips curving in a small smile—as if your silence meant progress. As if he believed he was winning you over.

He didn’t know your silence was survival. He didn’t know every nod you gave was calculated.

Still, that smile... it chilled you more than his threats ever did.

The dining room was beautiful, and wrong.

A chandelier spilled warm light over the long table, casting soft shadows that danced on polished wood. The clink of cutlery, the glow of red wine in crystal glasses, and the soft music playing somewhere far in the background tried to sell a lie: that this was normal. That you were just another couple sharing dinner in a grand home.

The food was plated perfectly—steak, mashed potatoes, a side of greens. The wine bottle stood tall between you, uncorked. But your appetite was buried beneath nausea.

Bucky poured the wine with practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms relaxed—but his eyes never left you.

He smiled. “The mayor will retire this year.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I’ll replace him,” he said calmly, as if it were already set in stone. “You’ll be the hospital director. Both of us… ruling this town. Like it’s meant to be.”

You stared at him, fork trembling in your hand. “I don’t want to.”

He set down his glass, jaw twitching. “This is a good thing. Why do you always reject me?”

“Because you’re not giving me choices, you’re giving me cages.”

“I gave you everything!” His voice cracked against the walls. “Respect, power, a future! And you act like I’m the villain!”

“You are the villain!” you shouted, shoving your chair back. “You stalked me, drugged me, locked me up—! You think because you cooked me dinner, I’m supposed to fall in love with you?”

His face contorted. “Don’t you—don’t you dare pretend like you didn’t ever want this. That you didn’t dream of getting out of your pathetic little life and being someone.”

Your heart pounded like a war drum. “Never.”

Then silence.

Your hand moved before your thoughts caught up.

CRASH. The bottle of wine shattered against the side of his head.

Bucky staggered back, red staining his temple—wine or blood, you didn’t know. He crumpled to the floor with a groan.

You didn’t wait to see if he’d get back up.

Your breath hitched as you turned and ran.

The house twisted around you like a labyrinth. You turned corners blindly until you burst into the lounge again—and saw Lydia, still slouched on the couch.

“Lydia!” You rushed to her, shaking her gently. “We have to go!”

She didn’t move.

You leaned in—her chest didn’t rise. Her skin was pale. Eyes open, staring at nothing.

Dead.

“Kyaaaa!!” The scream ripped from your throat. You stumbled back, hitting the table, collapsing to the floor as your body curled in on itself. Your stomach turned. Did he do this? Had she overdosed? Did she… give up?

Your eyes darted. A lighter sat next to her on the side table. You grabbed it. You didn’t know why. Maybe you wanted to burn the whole damn house down.

You ran again, frantic, feet flying over hardwood.

“Natasha!” you shouted, voice cracking. “Natasha!!”

“She’s dead too.”

You skidded to a stop, turned—

Thor. He stood at the end of the hallway like a nightmare, too broad, too quiet, too solid to move past.

Your stomach dropped. No. No, not him too.

You ran. He followed.

You ducked into the study, your lungs screaming. Bookshelves loomed around you, walls of knowledge offering no safety.

You threw yourself into the wardrobe, door creaking shut behind you. You held your breath.

Darkness swallowed you. You crouched in silence, heart hammering like it might betray you. And then—something cold pressed against your back.

You reached slowly. The shape, the curve, the steel.

Footsteps creaked into the room. Thor's voice rumbled, cold and close. “Give up. You can’t run away.”

You didn’t breathe. But you whispered, just loud enough:

“Behind you.”

A pause. His boots shifted. He turned.

BANG. A sharp crack exploded in the air. Thor jerked, eyes wide in shock, as the bullet tore into his chest.

He dropped like a tree.

You stepped out of the wardrobe, hands trembling but steady enough to hold the cold weight of the shotgun. The bullet belt was slung across your shoulder, heavy against your chest, metal clinking with each slow, deliberate step.

Thor lay on the floor, still breathing—barely. Blood soaked through his shirt, seeping into the carpet, dark and thick. His broad chest rose and fell with ragged effort. His eyes met yours—wide, glassy, full of disbelief. The great enforcer of the house, brought down by you.

He choked, mouth twitching with one last breath.

“Where is she?” Your voice was ice. No fear, just fire beneath your skin.

His throat clicked as he forced out his final words.

“In the basement.”

You didn’t thank him. Didn’t hesitate.

You marched through the twisted halls, shotgun clutched in your hands, past the portraits of smiling liars and rotting love. The house felt alive now, breathing smoke and secrets with every creaking board.

The basement door was hidden behind a curtain, locked with a deadbolt. You smashed it open with the butt of the gun. The staircase creaked beneath your feet as you descended into the dark. Each step down was a step into the pit of your nightmares.

The air was damp. Cold. The hum of a single flickering bulb buzzed above you like a dying insect.

And there she was.

Natasha. Strapped to a wooden chair.

Her head slumped to the side. Her skin was pale. Lips faintly blue.

You dropped the shotgun.

“No—no, no, no…” you whispered, stumbling forward. You fell to your knees in front of her and shook her shoulders. Her arms dangled limp.

“Nat, please—” Your voice cracked into a sob. “Please wake up. Please." You cried for her. A future ahead of her was taken away. She could have started a new chapter.

You pressed your fingers to her wrist. Nothing.

You let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream, but wasn’t human either. The kind of grief that breaks something in you forever.

You stood, staggered back, fists clenching.

You hated him. This house. This bloodline. This lunatic fantasy he built on the bones of others.

Your eyes scanned the basement—rage sharpening your vision. You saw shelves of chemicals. Canisters. A broken-down workbench. Oil drums.

You grabbed one. The liquid inside sloshed like gasoline. You ripped the lid off and poured it over the floor, over the walls, over Natasha’s lifeless cage. You grabbed another. And another. Until the stench of fuel choked the air.

Your hands found the lighter in your pocket. You flicked it.

Click. Flick. Flame.

The fire danced to life—hungry, beautiful, merciless.

“You wanted an empire,” you spat through your teeth as the flames caught. “Here’s your goddamn legacy.”

The fire swallowed the basement like it had been waiting for this moment. Flames curled up the walls. Smoke billowed toward the ceiling, thick and black. The heat pulsed against your skin.

You grabbed the shotgun again and ran.

The house moaned as you sprinted through it, fire chasing your heels. Furniture cracked. Glass shattered from the heat. Flames kissed the staircase and licked the paintings off the walls.

You reached the front door, lungs burning. Just as your fingers touched the doorknob—

“Click.”

“BANG!”

The shot rang past your head, grazing the wood beside your face.

You turned—heart in your throat—and there he was.

Bucky. Blood ran down his temple, staining his white shirt crimson. His left eye was swollen, but he still held the shotgun like it was an extension of his body. His smile was twisted, more unhinged than ever.

“I see you’ve found my grandfather’s treasure.”

The fire crackled behind you. The heat rose between you both like hell itself opening wide.

The barrel of your shotgun tilted up just slightly. The smoke clawed at your throat, but you didn’t blink.

“It’s a good toy,” you said, cold and calm, voice carrying over the snapping fire.

Bucky’s face broke into a wide grin, teeth flashing like a madman’s mask. “Hahaha… this is the Y/N I remembered.” His laugh twisted into something unhinged, echoing through the burning house. Then, abruptly, his tone dropped, eerily calm again—like the switch of a broken man trying to hold on. “I won’t hurt you. Just put the gun down… and we’ll start over.” His voice softened. Hopeful. Like nothing around you was turning to ash.

Your grip tightened on the shotgun.

“We?” you whispered. “There’s no we.”

His smile faltered. And that was all it took.

Something broke behind his eyes.

“Well, since I asked nicely…” He lifted his shotgun with mechanical precision. “I’ll use the hard way.”

“Shit!” You threw yourself behind the overturned dining table as a blast ripped through the air.

The house shook as both of you started firing—BOOM! BOOM! The walls cracked, glass shattered above you, and the fire groaned like it wanted blood. You ducked behind a pillar, breath short, heat blistering.

“Who taught you how to shoot?” Bucky shouted from behind a smoky corner.

You peeked through the flames and yelled back, “Ransom’s grandfather.” Another shot. Another duck. “I spent summers with the Drysdales. Harlan taught me how to shoot wild animals.”

You could almost hear Bucky’s eye twitch.

“Tsk.”

The moment he emerged—you fired. The shot caught his shoulder.

“Arrrgh!” He screamed and crashed into the wall, gripping his bleeding arm. He looked down at the blood like it betrayed him.

His voice was hoarse now, but desperate. “Why do we have to hurt each other? Don’t you understand why I’m doing all this? It’s for you!”

You crouched low, creeping behind the smoke-thick curtains, hands slick with sweat and soot. You found a corner with partial cover and aimed again.

“Why?” you demanded, voice cutting through the chaos.

Bucky stood crookedly, one arm limp at his side. “Because I love you.” He said it like it justified everything. His voice cracked. His eyes burned more than the fire ever could.

You stared at him from across the scorched room.

Your lips parted.

Your voice dropped, quiet but lethal.

“We can’t be together. Not in this life… or another… not even in your dreams.”

The words hit him like a second bullet.

He didn’t scream.

He laughed.

But it was broken—manic—a dry, cracked hysteria. “HAHAHAHA!” Tears welled in his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, shaking with laughter that wasn’t joy. “After everything I’ve done for you…” His smile collapsed into grief. “It won’t matter. Nobody will believe you. I’ll burn it all down. I’ll frame you. I’ll make it look like you killed Lydia… Natasha… Thor. You know what I’m capable of.”

The flames hissed louder, licking the ceiling. A chandelier fell behind him, shattering into sparks.

Silence fell, thick and heavy.

Then your voice returned—low, confident, and chilling.

“Are you sure about that?”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

Then—a voice played. His voice.

From a recorder buried deep in the folds of your jacket. From somewhere you left playing just loud enough for him to hear.

“…so you’re the one who made Jake and Natasha lose their jobs, made Thor and Steve have that accident that ruined their careers?”

His voice. Calm. Boastful. Careless.

Then: “Yes. I’m the mastermind.”

Bucky’s eyes widened in horror. His mind couldn’t keep up with the trap snapping shut around him.

And then—he laughed again. Not maniacally.

This time, it was hollow. Like everything had finally cracked.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured. Almost with reverence. Even in his dying moment, he can't keep up with you.

You stood a little taller, your finger near the trigger. “You still have the chance to pay for your sins. To stop. To do one thing right.”

But the fire was already consuming the hallway. The walls behind him were collapsing.

And then he spoke.

His voice was quieter now. “It’s too late for me.” He wasn’t yelling anymore.

The world had gone quiet—but not in peace. It was the silence of something dying. The kind that came before a scream.

All around you, the fire surged higher, roaring like a beast finally let off its leash. Heat pressed in from every direction. The wallpaper curled. Beams cracked overhead, moaning as the structure gave up.

Then— CRACK—THUD!

A burning wooden beam split from the ceiling and crashed just inches from your body.

“Kyaa!” You stumbled back, shielding your face from the embers that flew like angry sparks. Your lungs choked on smoke, and your heart pounded so violently it rattled your ribs.

Then—his voice cut through the inferno like a ghost reaching out.

“Y/N.”

It wasn’t angry. Not like before. It was… still. Too calm.

“Could you look at me?” he said gently. “I won’t shoot you.”

You froze, back against the singed remains of a bookshelf. Slowly, you lifted your head.

Your eyes met his.

He stood on the staircase above you, framed by flames, his shadow long and flickering behind him. Ash clung to his hair. Blood soaked through his shirt. His shotgun hung loosely at his side.

But his eyes— They didn’t hold rage anymore. Only something final.

“You have to go out now,” he said, voice strained but firm.

Your throat tightened.

“You too.”

He shook his head once, slowly. That same soft smile lingered on his lips, cracked and bleeding.

“There’s no redemption for me.”

The floor beneath him creaked—sickening, ready to collapse. You stepped forward anyway, fists clenched.

“Y/N, listen.”

You stopped. Your eyes burned—not from the smoke.

And then he smiled. That broken, tender smile. Tear stains cut through the soot on his face, streaks of something too human for a monster.

“Remember me like this,” he said, voice trembling. “Just this last time. I love you. Even after you shot me… burned my house… my love for you never changed.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You stood in the glow of the inferno, unable to move, unable to breathe. Maybe it was the smoke. Maybe it was the heartbreak.

He sighed—a long, tired sound. Like he had hoped for something that never came.

And even now, you still wouldn’t say it.

His expression didn’t shift. Not this time. There was no anger, no madness left.

Just… surrender.

“Goodbye.”

He didn’t hesitate.

In one swift movement, Bucky brought the shotgun to his chin.

BANG!

The sound shattered the air like thunder.

“BUCKY!” you screamed, a raw, guttural sound that ripped from your throat.

His body crumpled backward—limp, weightless—before the flames swallowed the staircase whole. You ran toward him, but the fire surged up the bannister like it wanted to keep him. Keep his secrets. Keep you out.

“BUCKY!!”

But he was gone.

The smoke clawed at your lungs, the heat forced you back. You stumbled out of the collapsing house, the sky above black with ash, your scream echoing long after the fire silenced everything else.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

The house, a shell of its former self, was now nothing but a smoldering ruin. The fire had devoured everything—walls caved in, timbers fell in a fiery collapse, leaving nothing but ashes. The sirens from paramedics and police vehicles pierced the air, but even their arrival seemed distant, the weight of what had happened still pressing down on you.

They didn't even bother to check on you. The paramedics only moved in to assess the damage, eyes steely and distant. The local police moved past you with barely a glance, their focus solely on the charred remains of the house.

You stood there, isolated, the weight of the world in your chest.

Then, a voice broke through the haze. “Y/N!”

It was Jake’s voice—loud, relieved, and so familiar it almost made you crack.

You turned and saw him, rushing toward you with Ransom, Steve, and your dad right behind him. They were a shield, a reminder of something you thought you'd lost.

“Guys…” you whispered, a tremor running through your voice.

Jake’s face softened, but his brow furrowed in concern. He reached out for you, but before any of them could get too close, the local sheriff stepped forward, blocking them with a hardened stare.

“She’s the prime suspect,” the sheriff said flatly, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Ransom’s jaw tightened. His eyes, always calculating, now burned with anger.

“Prime suspect? She's a victim here! She was kidnapped! We've been looking for her!" Ransom spat, stepping forward aggressively. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

The sheriff didn’t flinch, his stance unwavering. But Ransom wasn’t done. He turned to Jake, who was still standing back, his expression a mix of disbelief and frustration.

“We’ve got a lawyer here. The Chief of Police is already on their way.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “And that’s supposed to mean something?”

Before anyone could respond, a black SUV pulled up, its tires screeching on the gravel. The door swung open, and out stepped a tall, authoritative figure in a dark suit—Chief of Police.

The sheriff’s expression shifted, uncertainty flickering for just a moment. His shoulders stiffened, a visible sign of tension as the Chief of Police approached.

The Chief of Police ignored the sheriff entirely and walked straight up to you, his eyes locking with yours for a brief moment. He gave a small nod, a silent signal that you were no longer alone in this.

“Chief…” the sheriff stammered, unsure of what to say.

The Chief of Police didn’t answer at first. Instead, he turned his gaze to Ransom, who had a smug look on his face.

“That’s enough, right?” Ransom asked, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

The Chief of Police raised a hand, signaling for quiet, then finally spoke.

The local sheriff and his deputies stood frozen, their mouths agape as they watched the Chief of Police back you up. This was clearly a scene they weren’t prepared for.

You sighed, the weight of everything slowly lifting from your shoulders. You reached into your jacket bag and pulled out the evidence—the recording.

You handed it to the Chief of Police, watching as his eyes scanned over it. Bucky’s voice crackled through the speakers, his confession echoing in the silence around you.

“This is it,” you said quietly. “He was behind it all.”

Ransom leaned in, crossing his arms, a satisfied smirk still on his face. “You know what to do next.”

The Chief of Police paused for a moment, then looked at the sheriff. “That’s enough. She’s free. You can’t touch her.”

The sheriff’s face twisted in confusion and anger, but he couldn’t do anything. Not now.

The Chief of Police turned to you, offering a rare, genuine smile. “You’re safe now.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you let out a long breath, finally feeling the release you so desperately needed. This fight—it was over.

But there was one last thing you needed to say.

You caught Ransom’s eye, and without a word, you slipped him a small nod. A code only the two of you would understand.

'The Contract Has Terminated means I’m going to die. Help.'

The remainder of those dark days, the dangerous people you’d encountered, flashed briefly through your mind. Working in investment had always meant navigating treacherous waters.

You were free. And, for once, you didn’t have to run anymore.

Finally, this nightmare of yours is over.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

Epilogue

1 Year Later

You returned to work with Ransom again. After everything he’d done to you, you felt like you owed him a lot. Yet, over time, you noticed a change in his behavior towards you. He didn’t want you to get hurt anymore. His actions were more protective now, almost as though he cared in ways he hadn’t before. And he's less of an asshole than before. Perhaps there could be romance between you two? There's a chance.

As for Tom, your dad, he had recovered from his kidney surgery. He decided to stay in the city and live with you, enjoying his retirement. He found a new community at a local golf club, which you had encouraged him to join. There, he met many new friends—surprisingly, more than you had. Living in the city seemed to suit him well.

Steve, on the other hand, had become a famous artist, just like he’d always dreamed. He traveled the world, and he made sure to pay what he owed you. He never forgot how you opened the door to him when he needed it most. Sometimes, Mr. Rogers would even travel with him, and they would share stories about their adventures.

As for Jake, with your evidence and the help of lawyers, he was able to clear his name. He got his old job back, while his mother continued her travels around the world on a cruise.

Everyone had moved on, yet you couldn’t shake the memories of what had happened in that town. The scars it left on you were deep. You still went to therapy to work through the trauma, but even now, there were nights when the haunting images resurfaced. The weight of those moments stayed with you, lingering in the corners of your mind, reminding you that some things, no matter how hard you tried, would never truly leave.

Until one day, Steve visited you and handed you a letter. It was from Bucky. You didn’t want to open it. You placed it on the table, where it remained untouched for a month. Eventually, you found the courage to open it. Taking a deep breath, you read the letter:

“I can’t think of a better way to defend what I’ve done for you. It was bad. I acted like a judge to punish people.

Still, you don’t deserve it. I robbed your childhood, your teenage years.

Every day, I thought to myself: What if I never meant to you? What if we were friends? What if you never hated me? What if we loved each other? What if you don’t hate me after I’m gone?

I write this letter to you in case I’m gone. My love for you never changed.

Hate me all you want, but I knew you would never be able to forget me. Just like the town where we grew up, the one we hated the most.”

You regretted opening the letter. You couldn’t stand reading his words anymore. Grabbing a lighter, you burned it, watching the paper curl and blacken in the flames.

How you wished you could make him see how wrong he was.

After that day, everything in the town began to change. The mayor’s corruption was exposed, the illegal casino shut down, and the bodies that Thor had buried in the forest were discovered. Bucky’s schemes, the ones that led to his own mother’s death, Natasha’s murder, and the malpractice by Dr. Stark, were all unveiled. Both he and the mayor would rot in jail for the rest of their lives.

As for Natasha, you built a grave for her. You couldn’t hold on to the past anymore because, in the end, Natasha was also a victim—just like you.

Ransom was furious and wanted to rid the town of its rotten core. He transformed the once-dying town into an exclusive area, completely changing its landscape. The Barnes residence, a symbol of Bucky’s twisted life, was turned into a flower park. No business, no reminders—just peace.

The town was unrecognizable, and the letter Bucky sent was nothing but a lie. It felt wrong in every possible way.

You realize that you've kept living and breathing since that day, and everything is different. You don't let that day make you afraid. You’re still able to go outside, meet people, and work. And that damn town has changed too.

You raised your middle finger to the ground and muttered, “Fuck you, Bucky. Rot in hell.”

-The End.-

Woohoo... finally, it's done!!!

I never thought I could complete this story. I realize that writing mystery stories is more difficult than the other stories I’ve written.

Thank you to everyone who has been following this story from the beginning.

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!

Link for Arrogant Ex-Husband

Link for Dad I Can't Let You Go

[morbidlcve]

n.r p-links

Natasha Romanoff P-Links

cw: strap-on use, cunnulingus, making out (?), oral, but plugs, car sex, kitchen sex, shower sex, overstimulation, edging, there may be more, who knows?

nat giving you head

sucking nats strap

sleepover with nat!

nat bending you over in the shower

nat edging and overstimming you

eating nat out

nat destroying your poor cunt

car sex w nat!

riding nats thigh

making out

riding nats strap

but plugging and nat fucking up into you

nat eating you out (again)

nat giving you the strap and playing with your clit

nat fucking you on the counter

ur welcome?

[frankcastler]

this one was so sad and intense omfg, amazingly written and it reminds me of that one episode of greys anatomy

Code red. pt 3 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, shooting, gun, blood, trauma, stress situation, death (?)

word count: 7,4k

A/n: 🎢🎢🎢🎢

Part 2

The hospital was humming with the usual afternoon buzz. Overhead lights flickered with a sterile glow, casting long, pale shadows across the linoleum floors. Nurses moved with purpose. Pagers beeped. Phones rang. But to you, it all faded into a low hum as you leaned against the front desk, scribbling notes into a patient’s chart.

“Are you seriously still working?” one of the other interns joked, slinging off their white coat as they passed.

“Some of us aren’t here just to flirt in the supply closet..” you muttered without looking up. The intern laughed, saluted you lazily, and disappeared around the corner. Silence settled in their wake, momentary and oddly comforting.

You flipped to the next page in the chart, pen tapping thoughtfully against your chin. Your brows furrowed in concentration. Then, heels. Sharp, unapologetic, and familiar.

Natasha appeared at your side with the casual grace of someone who knew the entire hallway was watching her. “Well, don’t you look focused.” Natasha purred, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Is it the chart, or are you just avoiding me again?”

You didn’t even glance up. “I’m working, Dr. Romanoff.”

“Ohh, the title now.” Natasha chuckled, leaning casually on the desk beside you. “I like when you call me that. Do it again.”

You finally turned to her, unimpressed. “Don’t you have an OR to seduce?”

Natasha’s grin widened. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

Before you could throw back a reply, chaos struck. A sharp, high-pitched scream cut through the corridor, followed by the sickening crack of a gunshot. Everyone froze. The sound echoed, bouncing off the sterile walls, too loud, too real.

A nurse’s tray clattered to the floor. Then another shot. Your heart seized. Your eyes locked on the source of the noise, a man at the opposite end of the hallway, arm extended, a pistol still smoking in his hand. The nurse in front of him dropped like a marionette with her strings cut, blood pooling beneath her almost instantly.

“Run!” Natasha’s voice snapped in, sharp, low, protective. She grabbed you without waiting, her arm wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close, shielding you as bodies started running, screaming, crashing into each other in blind panic. People shoved past you. Someone was crying. A wheelchair overturned. A monitor crashed from a cart.

Natasha’s hand cradled the back of your head, forcing your face into her chest as you moved quickly through the chaos.

“Don’t look. Keep moving.” Natasha murmured. You ducked into an exam room, the door clicking shut behind you. Natasha turned, bolted it with a trembling hand, then turned to you.

“Are you okay? Are you-” Then she saw it. You blinked up at her, confused, swaying slightly. “What…?”

Blood. Bright and dark, blooming fast across your scrub top. Spreading in thick, ugly circles right below your collarbone, above the ribs. A gunshot, clean, but close. You reached up with fingers that felt suddenly heavy and numb. Touched the blood. Pulled your hand back and saw red.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t need to ask.. No exit wound. Your brain supplied the rest, fast, clinical, single gunshot wound, anterior thorax, upper left quadrant. No exit. Bullet is inside. Close to the heart. Could be the lung. Could be the subclavian. Bleeding is internal and external. Fatal unless treated within minutes.

You looked up at Natasha again. “It’s…not superficial.”

“No.” Natasha said softly.

Your legs folded under you, and you sank to the floor against the wall, your breath turning shallow. Natasha dropped with you, already pulling up your shirt. Her hands didn’t shake. Not even slightly. But her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth ached.

“I need to see.” Natasha murmured, mostly to herself. You winced as your shirt was pushed aside and the cold air hit the wet warmth of the wound. The blood was darker now, thicker, pulsing slower, but still flowing. A hole, the size of a fingertip, right above the fourth rib.

Natasha pressed her hand over it without hesitation. You let out a choked cry, your back arching off the wall.

“I know..” Natasha said quietly, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

Your eyes filled with tears you didn’t mean to let fall. “I feel it..”

“That’s good. That means you’re still with me.”

The blood surged under Natasha’s palm again, slippery, thick, warm enough to feel like fire. It soaked through her hand and ran in trails down her wrist. Each pulse beneath her fingers felt weaker than the last. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. You were watching her. Reading her.

“Don’t do the voice..” you whispered. “Don’t do the calm voice. I know what that means.”

Natasha said nothing. Her hand stayed steady, pressure perfect. She reached with the other for gauze and shoved it under the pressure point, fingers slick and sure. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tremble.

But inside, she was screaming. Too high for lung access, too low for clavicle, subclavian artery? Maybe? Internal bleeding. No exit. God- “You’re bleeding fast.” she murmured. Not a lie. Just…a fact.

You swallowed. “Am I gonna pass out?”

“No.” Natasha lied. “You’re going to breathe with me.”

“I know how this works, Natasha.” You whispered. “It’s going to fill my chest. I’ll drown in my own blood-”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m scared..” you said, and it came out small.

Natasha leaned closer. “Then let me be scared for both of us, okay?”

You nodded, teeth chattering now. You were turning pale. Your lips looked faintly blue at the edges. Natasha pressed harder. And that’s when she felt it. The flutter. Not a heartbeat, something else. A vibration in the wound. A tremor from the heart that didn’t feel strong. Didn’t feel right. Like a failing engine in the dark.

Panic surged. But her hands stayed steady. Then, footsteps. Right outside the door. You tensed, whimpering softly and Natasha shifted fast, one hand never leaving the wound, the other rising to gently cover your mouth. Her eyes didn’t leave the door.

The shooter’s shadow paused beneath the crack of light. You made a sound against her palm, weak, scared. Natasha lowered her forehead to yours, not looking away from the door. “Shhh. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Not even when she felt your blood tickle between her fingers. Not even when it started to cool. She felt your pulse, what little was left of it, under her palm. Please. Walk away. I can’t keep her alive if you don’t walk away.

The footsteps lingered. Natasha pressed harder. You squirmed under the pain but didn’t cry out. Your eyes rolled slightly. And then, finally…footsteps retreated. The moment they were gone, Natasha’s mask slipped. She let out a ragged breath she’d been holding far too long. Blood still ran down her forearms, soaking into her sleeves, dripping onto her pants.

She looked down at you. Your face was slack now. Your eyelids heavy. “No, no. Hey!” Natasha shifted. “You’re staying awake, do you hear me?”

“I’m tired..” you mumbled. Your voice was barely there.

“I know. But you don’t get to sleep yet. You sleep, and you don’t wake up. I know how this works too.”

Your eyes were half-lidded now, your head slumped against the wall. Natasha didn’t have the luxury of time, she felt it, the way the blood was slowing, thickening, but still leaking. The room smelled metallic and wet. Her forearms were streaked in red to the elbows. Think. Do something!

She glanced up at the shelf above the sink, hands never leaving the wound. There, a metal supply bin. Packed with gauze, tape, something, anything.

With one hand still pressed firmly against your chest, she reached up and yanked it down, nearly knocking it off the shelf. The contents spilled across the counter. She grabbed the biggest wad of gauze she could find and shoved it into the wound.

You screamed through your teeth, your back arching. Your body jolted like you’d been shocked. “Hold it.” Natasha snapped. Her voice wasn’t calm anymore. It was sharp. Commanding. Edged with barely hidden panic.

She grabbed your trembling hand and placed it firmly over the gauze, reinforcing the pressure. “I need you to keep this pressed down. No matter what. I’m going to check the hallway, make sure it’s clear so we can move. You let go, and you will bleed out. Do you understand me?”

You nodded weakly, your hand shaking, but you pressed down. Blood welled up around your fingers immediately. Natasha crouched, wiped her own hands on the inside of her coat, and crept to the door. She cracked it open just enough to scan the corridor.

The bodies had moved, or been moved. Blood smeared the floor. Someone’s pager beeped faintly in the distance. A monitor was flatlining somewhere, forgotten. She turned back. You were still upright. Barely. She slid her arms under your legs and shoulders, and lifted. She didn’t ask if you could walk, she already knew the answer.

The second you left the floor, more blood spilled from the soaked gauze, dripped down Natasha’s arm, splattered on the tile behind you. You groaned into her chest. “N-Nat…”

“I’ve got you.” Natasha whispered, tightening her grip. “Just hold on.”

She moved down the hallway like a woman possessed. Every footstep echoed. Her boots splashed through crimson puddles.

She turned the corner sharply and shouldered open a door labeled Trauma Room C. The overhead light was already on. Someone was inside.. Natasha tensed. Her grip on you tightened, ready to pivot out-

“N-Natasha?!”

The relief that hit Natasha nearly dropped her to her knees. Maria stood at the far counter, gloves on, sleeves rolled. Her dark eyes snapped up, and widened.

“Help me.” she said immediately. “GSW, upper chest. No exit wound. Subclavian or lung, I don’t know. Bleeding out. She’s-” her voice broke “-she’s not stable.”

Maria was already moving. Natasha laid you down on the trauma table, her hands now stained in a dozen shades of red. Your eyes fluttered. You were slipping. Maria ripped open drawers. “We don’t have blood bags.. I’ve got one IV, maybe a saline-”

“Then make it count!” Natasha snapped.

Natasha peeled back the ruined gauze- blood gushed fresh. Maria flinched. “Jesus, it’s arterial.”

“I know.” Natasha clamped down hard again, gauze slipping between her fingers.

You made a strangled sound. “I’m sorry..” Natasha murmured instantly, voice raw.

Maria slammed a drawer shut. “We don’t have what we need. Barely anything. No transfusion kit. No sedatives. Maybe half a bag of saline if we’re lucky.”

“There has to be something!” Natasha snapped, her hands clamped over your wound again. The pressure wasn’t working anymore.

Maria paused. Her jaw tightened. “…We can try a thoracic drain. If the lung’s collapsed, it’ll buy you time. Relieve the pressu-“

“No.”

Both women turned toward you. “No..” you repeated, a bit stronger this time. “No. Not without anesthetic.”

Natasha crouched beside the table instantly. Her bloodied fingers curled around your hand. “Y/n-”

“I know what that is..!” you rasped. “A chest tube? You’re gonna cut between my ribs and jam a plastic straw into my lung. No meds. No numbing. I’ll feel everything..”

“You will.” Maria confirmed grimly, pulling sterile gloves over blood-slicked fingers.

“Then no.” Your voice cracked. “I’m not giving you permission.”

“Then I’m not asking for it.” Natasha said softly.

Your eyes met hers. “I’m sorry, detka..” she whispered. “But I can’t let you die for dignity.”

Your body tensed. Maria was already prepping what little equipment she had, a scalpel, an old chest tube from a dusty tray, a single glove that would double as a makeshift valve. It was barbaric. But it was all they had.

Your chest started to heave with panic. “No..No! Don’t let her-”

“Y/n, we have to..” Natasha cried out, sliding one arm under your shoulder, holding you steady. Her other hand wrapped around your wrist, pressing you flat to the table. “I’ve got you..”

“I-I can’t-”

Maria approached, scalpel in hand. Your entire body arched. “M-Maria-”

“Look at me, Y/n.” Natasha whispered, pressing her forehead against yours. “Just look at me. Just me.”

You turned your head and bit down hard, on your own sleeve. You buried the scream before it could start. Then the blade went in. A sharp slice between ribs. A scream tore out from behind your teeth, muffled by fabric. Your body thrashed on the table, muscles spasming under the fire slicing through your side.

Natasha held you. Locked around you. Whispers spilling fast and panicked into your ear, “I’m sorry..I’m so sorry..I’m here, I’ve got you, just a second more..”

Maria’s hands moved fast, slipping the tube between the ribs with a sickening pressure-pop. Your scream turned guttural, strangled by the sleeve in your mouth. Tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body convulsed.

Natasha felt every twitch. Every gasp. Her hands stayed strong, but her eyes, her eyes burned. Pass out. Please just pass out.

But you didn’t. You stayed awake through all of it. “She’s still conscious..” Maria said, her voice tight. “God, she’s still awake.”

The tube took. Air hissed out. The pressure dropped slightly, your chest shuddered, your breathing hitching and slowing. It had worked. A little.

But you were shaking like a leaf. Sweat drenched your hairline. Your lips were bloodless. And still, no transfusion. No fluids. No blood. “Her pressure’s dropping.” Maria said, voice grim. “We bought time. That’s it. She needs more than we can give.”

Natasha stayed bent over you, fingers still brushing your skin. “I’m not losing you.” she whispered. “You hear me?”

Your eyes rolled. You barely nodded. And Natasha held you tighter, tears sliding silently into your hair. You were still trembling under Natasha’s hands, the chest tube taped clumsily to your side, blood pooling slow and steady beneath the table. Your breath wheezed in uneven patterns, but you were alive. Barely.

Natasha crouched beside you, arms gently bracketing your head, one hand still loosely gripping yours. Her face was pale. There was blood under her nails, in her sleeves, in her hair. Her coat was soaked through.

Then, footsteps again. Too familiar. Natasha’s head snapped toward the door. Just outside the thin metal door, a shadow moved. She recognized the boots. The posture. The gun.

The shooter.

Her stomach dropped through the floor. She didn’t think. She moved on instinct. She dropped flat, pulling your hand down with her. Her other arm shot out, grabbing Maria and dragging her low behind the supply cart.

Natasha’s breath hitched as she crouched behind the trauma table, hand clamped over your cold fingers. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked slowly. Barely conscious. Your lips moved, but no sound came out. Maria’s hand rested on the handle of a scalpel, knuckles white. The shadow paused…then moved on. They waited. Ten long, silent, agonizing seconds.

The footsteps faded. Gone again. Natasha stayed frozen, crouched over you like a shield, heart pounding loud enough she swore it echoed off the walls. She counted to ten. Then twenty. Then slowly stood.

She looked down. Your eyes had rolled back slightly. Your breathing was too shallow. “Maria.” Natasha said, urgently now.

“I know.” Maria breathed, rushing to the table. “We don’t have time.”

She grabbed a radio, fingers slick from the blood that coated everything now. “This is Dr. Hill in Trauma C. We need O-negative. Emergency transfusion. GSW. Patient’s crashing.”

The radio crackled. No response. “Come on-” she hit the button again. Natasha moved beside her, brushing the hair from your forehead.

“I'll go get it.” Maria turned, “There's no point in waiting here.” She threw the radio down and immediately turned to the door. Scalpel still in hand.

“Maria, you can’t-“ But she was already gone. Natasha leaned in again, her bloody hand stroking over your jaw. “You’re okay..” she murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

“I’m so tired…”

“I know. But the blood’s coming. We just need to hold on a little longer.”

Natasha did nothing now, no more pressure. No more field surgery. Just stayed beside you. Just held. She didn’t need to play doctor anymore. She needed to be yours. The silence stretched. Heavy. Thick with blood and the too-quiet hum of failing vitals. The only sound in the trauma room was the soft wheeze of air moving through your throat.

You could feel Natasha staring. Watching you. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just breathing too slow. Too steady. Too controlled.

“Hey..” you rasped, voice rough like gravel.

Natasha snapped her eyes to you. “What? What is it?”

You licked your cracked lips and blinked slowly. “Stop staring at my tits.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, Natasha exhaled a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Oh my God.”

You grinned, faint and sleepy. “You’re not even subtle. We’re in a crisis, Romanoff.”

Natasha leaned in slightly, a dry chuckle catching in her throat. “We’ve been here before..” she murmured. “You half-naked. Me looking.”

You raised a brow, voice barely a whisper. “One time.”

Natasha smiled. Tight, but real. “One very memorable time.”

Despite the pain, you snorted. “Guess I make an impression..”

“You do.” Natasha said, softer now. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. You blinked slowly, chest rising in shallow, painful movements.

Natasha caught herself, cleared her throat, forced a smirk onto her lips. “And, for the record…I wasn’t staring at your tits.”

You gave her a slow, skeptical look. “I’ve seen you without a bra, detka. Very thoroughly.”

Your smile faded, but the warmth lingered in your eyes. “Your hands are shaking..” you whispered.

Natasha didn’t deny it. “I’ve got you.” she said instead, voice rough. “Even if I’m falling apart.”

Outside, a new sound finally echoed down the hallway, rushed footsteps. Blood. Help was coming. The door banged open with a force that made Natasha’s head snap up, every muscle coiled to strike, until she saw Maria step inside, a blood bag swinging from her gloved hand and another clenched between her arm and ribs.

“Blood.” she announced, breathless. “Two units. And the shooter’s been spotted on the opposite wing. We’ve got maybe five minutes to move.”

Relief cracked across Natasha’s face like a fault line. Maria was already moving to hang the first bag, attaching the line to the IV she’d placed earlier. “I called it in on the way, three interns are prepping OR 2. They’ll have it sterile by the time we get there.”

Natasha exhaled. “Thank God..” She looked down at you. The blood was already starting to drip through the line, inching toward the cannula taped to your forearm. You looked…worse. Lips pale. Breathing shallower. Sweat beading at your hairline, but your skin was ice.

Then it happened. You groaned, sharp and sudden. Your body twitched violently on the table, hands clawing weakly at your side.

“Fuck, it moved.” Maria said, rushing over. “Something shifted.”

Natasha leaned in immediately. “Hey- hey- what is it?”

Your mouth opened in a silent cry. Your back arched. And then blood poured faster. Soaking through the gauze again. Red. Bright. Fresh.

“She’s bleeding internally, faster now. The bullet moved.” Maria said. “It’s tearing something worse. We need to go.”

Natasha didn’t wait. She grabbed the side rails of the trauma table and unlatched the brakes, turning it toward the door.

“Help me push!” she barked. Maria was already there. They shoved the gurney out into the hallway, blood dripping behind you, wheels squealing against the tile. Natasha never let go of your hand.

“We’re almost there, you hear me?” she said breathlessly. “Stay awake for me!”

Your lips parted. “I c-can’t…feel my legs..”

Maria met Natasha’s eyes over the gurney. They pushed faster. “Door’s open.” an intern shouted down the hall. “OR’s ready!”

They swerved the corner, nearly colliding with a nurse backing out of a storage room. The hallway ahead was clear, lit in emergency red, glowing like a tunnel to salvation.

“We’ve got you.” Natasha said again, her voice breaking. “Just hold on. We’re almost there.”

The blood bag above you drained fast. Not fast enough. The doors of OR 2 swung open with a bang that made the interns inside jump. The table rolled in at full speed, Natasha at the head, Maria at the side, a nurse already rushing to hook up suction and monitors.

“Vitals are unstable.” Maria called. “BP dropping. Pulse thready. She’s losing blood faster than we can give it.”

Natasha barked orders as she moved- “Sterile tray. Chest opened. Crash cart nearby. Be ready to cut now.”

The nurse was already prepping anesthesia. You blinked up at the overhead light, dazed and barely conscious. Your lips moved, dry, cracked.

“..Don’t wanna die..” you whispered, voice soft and slurred. “’m scared…”

Natasha moved immediately to your side, gloves half-on, hairnet already twisted into place. She crouched at the head of the table, face close to yours, hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re not dying.” she said quietly, fiercely. “You hear me? You’re not. Not here. Not now. Not on my fucking table.”

You let out a slow, rattling breath. “H-Hurts…”

“I know..” Natasha whispered, eyes stinging. “But I’m here. Right here. I’m gonna fix it. You just have to sleep, detka. That’s all. Just let go for a little while.”

Your eyes searched hers. The fear was still there, carved deep behind the pain. Natasha leaned down, brushing your foreheads together.

“Look at me. Just me.”

You blinked. “You’re gonna wake up..” Natasha whispered, “and when you do, I’ll still be right here. I promise.”

Your lashes fluttered. The nurse turned. “We’re pushing anesthesia. She’ll be out in seconds.”

Natasha kept her hand on your cheek, voice steady even as her fingers trembled. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your lips moved again, but the sound was gone now. Your body relaxed, too fast, too loose. Then your eyes closed. The heart monitor beeped slow. The anesthetic took you under like a tide.

Natasha froze. Stared at you. Watched the rise and fall of your chest. Slower. Calmer. But still there. Then, she stood. Snapped on the rest of her gloves. The shift was immediate.

“Scalpel.” she said, voice sharp, eyes locked on the chest already stained in blood.

Maria slid it into her hand. And without hesitation, she cut. The first incision split open the soaked gauze and revealed a mess of blood, shredded tissue, and pooling darkness inside your chest cavity.

Natasha barely hesitated. “Retractors.”

Metal clicked into her gloved hand. She forced the ribs apart, opening the chest just enough to get a clear view. But there was nothing clear about it. Too much blood. Too much movement. It was like operating underwater, every shift caused a ripple of red that clouded everything. Her heart hammered behind her sternum.

“She’s still bleeding internally..” Maria said, voice steady but strained. Natasha scanned the cavity. Looking for metal. A glint. A tear. A hint of the bullet. Nothing. She reached deeper, feeling for it, fingers tracing along broken vessels and muscle, and still, nothing.

Maria suctioned, but the blood kept flooding in. Then..A flash. Metal. Near the pericardial sac. Wedged behind tissue. Nestled close to where no foreign object should be.

“I’ve got it.” Natasha breathed. “Clamp..clamp- hold suction steady.”

Natasha reached in deeper, angling around bone and flesh. That’s when it happened. The monitor let out a flat tone. A scream of static silence. Your body went still.

“No pulse!” Maria said instantly, grabbing paddles. “She’s gone into cardiac arrest!”

“No..” Natasha’s voice cracked. Not you. Not again. The smell of blood hit her harder than before. The lights overhead blurred. Her fingers froze, still inside your chest.

It was the same. The same rhythm. The same mess of anatomy soaked in blood. The same smell that had followed her home after that night weeks ago, when a patient with a nearly identical GSW bled out right here on this same table. Bullet hidden too deep. Lost too much time.

She hadn’t found it fast enough. And she watched the light fade. Her hands shook then, too. And now? You were on the table. Pale. Open. Heart stopped.

“Natasha.” Maria said, sharper. “We need to move.”

Natasha’s hands snapped into motion. “Starting internal massage.” she said hoarsely. She pressed two fingers around your heart, massaging rhythmically. One, two, three, four…Her gloves turned even darker.

“Charging defib, 150.” Maria said. “Clear.” The shock snapped through your chest. Your body jolted on the table.

Flatline.

“No, no, no, charge again! 200.”

Another jolt. Still flat. Natasha bent forward, forehead nearly touching yours as she pumped manually again.

“Come on..” she whispered. “I didn’t hold you through that just to lose you here!”

She felt the muscle under her hands, soft, slow. Still. Refusing. “Charging again, 300. Ready.”

Natasha pulled her hands away. “Clear.” The jolt arced through again. The light above flickered.

And then..Beep. A blip and another. “She’s back..” Maria said, voice softer, almost stunned. The monitor climbed, slow but steady. Your heart beat again.

And Natasha, covered in your blood, arms buried in trauma, let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding since the moment they rolled you into the OR.

She hadn’t lost you.. Not this time. The monitor let out a single shrill tone. A scream of silence. Flatline. Again. The steady rhythm they fought so hard to bring back..gone. The surgical team froze. Maria’s hands dropped from the paddles, her eyes locked on the screen.

“Natasha…” she said softly. There was no judgment in her voice. Just the sound of someone tired of watching people die.

Natasha didn’t move. “BP’s gone. Pulse gone. Pupils dilating.”

Still, Natasha didn’t speak. Maria took a step back. “There’s nothing else to do.”

It was protocol.

She was saying it like they always said it. The quiet, dignified way. And for a second, Natasha wasn’t in this OR anymore. She was weeks ago. Same sterile walls. Same too-bright light. A man on the table. The same wound. The same blood-soaked gloves. And a nurse in a pale blue mask saying, “Time of death: 03:47.”

She remembered how the silence felt after. Heavy. Hollow. Like the room had swallowed its breath and never let it go. And now…You were on this table.

You.

Not just a patient. Not just another name.

You.

The girl who cracked jokes through fear. The one who held on through a chest tube with no anesthetic. The one who smiled with blood on her teeth and said “stop staring at my tits.”

Maria reached out again. “Natasha…let her go..”

Natasha’s jaw clenched and shook her head. “No.”

“Nat-”

“I said no.”

Her voice was steel now. Cold. Final. “She’s not gone.”

“Her heart-“

“She’s not gone!”

And then she moved. She slammed her hand back onto your chest, blood squelching beneath her palm. “Suction. Now.”

“Natasha-”

“I said suction!”

The interns and Maria hesitated for half a second, then obeyed. The suction cleared the cavity, blood drawn away in hot, thick rivulets. Natasha reached inside again, direct heart massage. Her hands coated in gore.

“She’s not cold yet..” Natasha whispered, mostly to herself. “She’s not cold. She’s not blue. She’s still here.”

The monitor stayed flat. Still, Natasha pumped. One, two, three, four.

“Come on..” she hissed. “Come back.”

“You don’t get to go, Y/n! You don’t get to fucking leave me!”

The silence stretched. Another second. Beep. The tiniest sound. Soft. Fragile. Then another. A slow return of rhythm. Maria’s head snapped to the monitor. “She’s back. Sinus rhythm.”

Natasha’s body slumped. Just a little. Her hands trembled now. Truly trembled. But she kept them steady over your heart. She didn’t have time to cry. Didn’t have the right to fall apart. Her hands were still inside your chest, gently compressing, guiding the blood as your body tried to remember how to live.

And then, the OR door creaked open. Slow. Too slow. Everyone froze. It wasn’t a crash this time. No screaming. No barking orders. Just the quiet, deliberate sound of danger arriving.

Natasha’s head snapped up. The shooter stood in the doorway. No urgency now. No chaos. Just calm. He stepped inside like he was walking into a church. Quiet. Reverent. Almost…grieving.

His eyes fell on you first. Chest open. Heart exposed. Breath shallow. Something shifted in his face.

“She looks like her..He muttered. “My wife. In the ICU. Just like this. Tubes. Open. Pale.” He stepped closer. Maria held her breath.

“She was warm..” he whispered, staring at you. “I remember her hand. She was warm. And they told me she was gone. But you know what that means? They didn’t even try.”

Natasha’s body tensed as he leaned in. As his hand rose. Fingers reached for your face, blood-streaked glove hovering just inches from your cheek.

“Don’t you dare touch her.” she growled, voice feral. The room froze. Maria turned sharply. “Natasha, stop.”

“No.” Her jaw was clenched. Her chest heaved. “You don’t get to come in here and touch her like you didn’t just slaughter someone in the goddamn hallway.”

The man stared at her, stunned, but only for a moment. Then his gaze turned elsewhere. Drifted. It flicked past her. To the far corner of the OR. To a nurse. Young. Nervous. Pale as a ghost. Backed up against a medicine cabinet. Recognition hit the man like a freight train.

“I know you..” he whispered. The nurse froze.

“You were there..” the man said, louder now. “You were in that room. You lied. You said my wife coded on her own. But you let her choke! You all let her die!”

The nurse shook his head, tears already falling. “I-I didn’t- I-I wasn’t-”

The gunshot cracked like thunder. The nurse dropped instantly. Screams filled the OR. Someone dropped to their knees. A tray clattered to the floor. Blood pooled across the tile like spilled paint.

Natasha flinched violently. Even she wasn’t immune to the sudden, unrelenting violence. You were dying on her table. And now, everyone else might die too. The shooter wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t raging.

He was talking to himself. Muttering about names. About files. About how none of this was fair. About how he just wanted someone to hurt the way he hurt. Maria’s eyes flicked to the monitor. Your heartbeat was slowing again.

Too much blood lost. Too much trauma. And now this. Her mind raced. She turned to Natasha- hands still trembling, and stepped back from the table.

“Let her go.”

Natasha blinked. “What-?”

“Back off. Now.”

Confusion hit first. Then rage. Then fear. “What are you doing?” Natasha snapped. “She’s alive- she’s right here-“

“Natasha, trust me!” Maria hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a low, desperate warning. “Do it. Please..!”

No!” Natasha’s voice cracked open like a damn fault line. “Don’t do this- don’t do this! Maria, she’s right here. I can feel her, I’m still-”

“He will kill everyone in this room!” Maria hissed. “She’s already bleeding out again! If you keep fighting- he will shoot all of us, including you!”

“Good!” Natasha screamed. “Let him shoot me! I’m not letting her go!”

The shooter stepped closer again, gun raising, twitching now. Maria’s voice rose sharply. “Hands up, Nat. Now.”

“I can’t..” Natasha said, trembling, breaking. “I can’t let her die. Don’t make me-”

Natasha’s hands were still red. Her forearms were covered in blood. Your chest was still open, exposed, glistening. The last thing she’d done was press two fingers around your heart to keep it beating. She couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t.

“D-Don’t make me do this..”

“You have to.” Maria said, louder now. “He’ll kill all of us.”

Natasha stared at you. You looked so small. So pale. Still. “Goddammit!” And she raised her hands.

Tears streamed down her face as she stepped back, your blood dripping from her fingertips. Maria turned to the shooter. “If she doesn’t get blood in the next two minutes..” Maria said, “her organs will shut down. Her heart will start fibrillating. Then it’ll stop.”

She glanced back at your body, pale, carved open, barely alive. “After that,” she continued, “the brain goes. She won’t feel anything. Won’t know it’s happening.”

Her voice was quieter now. Gentle. Measured. “She’ll just…stop.”

One soft pulse. Then another. Slower. Then, Flatline. A long, unbroken shriek of sound sliced through the room.

Maria stood frozen, eyes on the monitor. When the sound didn’t stop, when the line didn’t blip, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment. To shut out the heartbreak. To hide the way her own hands were shaking.

The shooter stared at your body. Silent. He didn’t cry. But something in him broke. You could feel it in the way the gun slowly lowered. The way his breathing changed. How his shoulders sagged.

And Natasha broke. Her hands fell to her thighs, blood soaking her scrubs. Her whole body shook, shoulders hitching with grief so violent she couldn’t speak. It was like she felt it inside her own chest, the second it happened, like her own heart stuttered in sympathy. A void opened behind her ribs and swallowed her whole.

She pressed her fists to her forehead and sobbed silently. Teeth clenched. Face wet. “No..” she whispered. “No, no, no, please, no..”

The shooter lingered in the doorway. “I didn’t want this.” Then he turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. Silence. No one moved.

Maria stood frozen, then, carefully, turned back to the table. She waited. Five seconds. Ten. Then..She reconnected the ECU cable.

Beep. A single, tiny sound. Natasha didn’t hear it at first. Not until Maria turned and said, gently, “She’s not gone. Nat. Comon.”

Natasha’s head jerked up. Her eyes flew to the monitor. A heartbeat. “We’ve got a window. Do something.”

And Natasha, she surged off the floor like fire. “S-Scalpel..” she gasped, voice shredded. Her gloves slid on with a sickening squelch as she gripped your heart again, every muscle tight, every motion purposeful. Desperate. Her face soaked with tears.

She looked at Maria. Her eyes were on fire. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

Maria nodded. “I know.”

Then they got to work, elbow deep in blood, horror, and hope. Then, another gunshot outside. Everyone in the OR jumped. Had he killed someone else? Had he turned the gun on himself?

Then, Footsteps. Quick. Purposeful. Heavy. Not panicked. Disciplined. The sound grew louder, approaching fast, accompanied by the clipped mutter of radios and low commands shouted through headsets. The door burst open. Natasha turned, body rigid, ready to throw herself over your corpse again if she had to.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the shooter. It was SWAT. A line of police officers stormed into the OR in tight formation, weapons raised, but held at a cautious distance. Muzzles lowered slightly, not aiming at anyone. Not yet. Helmets. Body armor. Shields.

One officer barked, “Clear the back wall. Move away from the patient!”

A nurse cried out. Another stumbled backward. But no one moved fast. It was still an operating room. And you were still open on the table.

Maria raised her hands quickly, voice sharp. “We’re in surgery! We have a patient open, guns down!”

A second officer stepped forward, voice steadier, calmer. “Shooter is down. He’s in custody. We’ve secured the south wing. Repeat, the shooter is down.”

Maria’s knees nearly buckled. But Natasha? She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She didn’t even hear the officer say her name. Didn’t notice the way one medic gestured toward the blood pooling at her knees.

The lead officer took one step forward, his voice firm but no longer urgent. “What’s the status?”

Natasha’s hands were moving, slow, uncertain, but moving. As if by sheer force of will, she could make your heart remember how to beat. As if she could physically stop you from slipping through her fingers.

Maria stepped forward, shielding both of you from the officers like a mother lion despite the tremor in her spine.

“The patient is female.” Maria said, her voice clipped and controlled. “Mid-twenties. Gunshot, entry just beneath the clavicle. No exit. Severe thoracic trauma. We performed an emergency thoracotomy. No transfusion available during surgery.”

He glanced at Natasha again. “Doctor, do you need assistance?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Her bloodied fingers had returned to your chest, moving carefully, gently, searching. Hoping. Begging. Her hands were shaking. Her breaths were too shallow. Her lips were pressed together like if she opened them, she’d start screaming.

Maria stepped between them. “She’s not done. Don’t ask her questions. She won’t stop until she’s sure.”

The officer lowered his radio slightly, watching Natasha. “She’s in shock.”

“She’s in..something else.” Maria said softly. Then, more firmly: “Give her a second.”

And the OR fell into a delicate silence, broken only by that single, steady, heartless tone. The line that hadn’t budged. The one Natasha was fighting like hell to outrun.

Two days later.

The news anchor’s voice echoed faintly from the TV in the breakroom, but no one was really watching anymore.

“…ongoing investigation into the hospital shooting… 12 confirmed dead, multiple injured. The suspect, currently in custody, is said to have entered the OR during an active trauma surgery…“

The screen showed aerial shots of the hospital. The emergency entrance. The ambulances. A photo of the hallway with blood still staining the tile.

A nurse watching from the corner of the room sobbed quietly into her sleeve. Another sat beside her, holding her hand. A doctor passed through without speaking, his face pale, jaw tight. Somebody turned the volume down. But the silence was worse.

In the women’s changing room, everything was still. Cool fluorescent lights hummed above rows of lockers. The floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and old metal.

Natasha sat alone on a bench, still in the same pair of hospital-issued sweatpants and an undershirt. Her duffle bag sat at her feet, untouched. Her hair was damp again, she’d showered. Twice.

But the blood never really left. Not in her mind. She stared at the floor. Or maybe through it. Her elbows rested on her knees. Her hands hung limply between them, fingers twitching with phantom movement, like she could still feel your chest beneath her palms, still feel your pulse flutter and vanish.

She remembered everything. The scream. The gunshot. Your blood on her hands. Maria yelling. Her own hands shaking too hard to keep compressions going. The flatline. Your lips turning pale. That moment she’d said goodbye with her body but not her heart.

They’d sedated you after the surgery. Twice. Once for the pain. Once because you were fighting the ventilator. She hadn’t seen your eyes open since. She hadn’t heard your voice. She’d sat by your bed until they made her leave. Until they said she needed sleep. Until Maria gently took her shoulder and whispered, “Go breathe. Just for a minute.”

So she came here. But she didn’t breathe. She just stared. The door creaked open. Maria stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at her. The way her shoulders were slumped. The way her fingers twitched like they wanted to dig back into a body and fix something. Anything.

Maria crossed the room and sat beside her, slow and careful. “Don’t.” Natasha muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I brought you water.” she said gently, setting a bottle down on the bench beside her.

Natasha didn’t look at it. Or her. “I’m fine.”

Maria’s sigh was quiet but sharp. “You’re the worst liar in this hospital.”

Natasha kept staring straight ahead, like if she just kept watching the tiles long enough, they’d start making sense.

Maria crossed her arms and leaned back against the lockers. “You haven’t checked on her.”

“She’s sedated.”

“She’s awake.”

Natasha froze. Maria looked at her fully now, eyes searching. “She asked for you. She’s groggy, and sore, and confused.” Maria said. “But she said your name. First thing out of her mouth.”

Natasha’s fingers twitched again, her nails digging into the heel of her palm. And then she said the one thing she hadn’t let herself say out loud:

“I don’t know why this hurt so much.”

Maria blinked. Natasha kept going, voice quieter, like the words were dragging their way out of her throat.

“I’ve lost people before. Friends. Teammates. Strangers on the table. But this…I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I can’t breathe right. I keep thinking she’s gonna flatline again if I look away. I haven’t slept. I haven’t even let myself breathe.”

Maria watched her. Then, gently: “You love her.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp, defensive, panicked. “She doesn’t know.”

“Do you?”

She looked down. Didn’t answer. Maria leaned in a little. “You didn’t just break because she died. You broke because she’s the only one who made you believe you could have something more.”

Natasha’s hands curled in tighter. “She doesn’t know.” she said again, more fragile this time. “What if she finds out?”

“She already has.”

Natasha flinched.

“Maybe not in words,” Maria continued. “But if you think she doesn’t know what your hands feel like when they’re the only thing keeping her alive, you’re wrong.”

The silence stretched long between them. Then Maria stood, quiet and calm. “You didn’t lose her.” she whispered. “Go remind yourself.”

The hallway smelled like lemon-scented disinfectant and something warm and sterile and sad. Natasha walked slowly. Not because she was unsure.

But because every step felt like a step back toward that moment. Toward the table. The blood. The line. The silence. When she reached your room, she didn’t enter at first.

She stood outside the door, her hand braced against the frame. Through the glass, she saw you. Propped up slightly. Pale. Worn. Eyes closed. Machines humming quietly around you. Your hand resting weakly over your stomach.

But your chest rose and fell. Steady and present. She exhaled, and only then realized she’d been holding her breath since Maria spoke.

She pushed the door open slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, sluggish. You blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. Then your gaze shifted and landed on her.

“…Hi” you croaked, voice raspy.

“Hey..” she whispered back. She didn’t ask how you were. She could see it. You were weak. Worn. Still there, but fading in and out of clarity.

So she moved to your side. Sat. Reached for your hand, but waited before touching it. You lifted your fingers slightly. That was all the permission she needed.

Her fingers wrapped around yours. Firm. Present. Steady. Just like before. Except now, there was no blood. No gloves. Just skin.

“There was a shooter..” you mumbled.

She nodded. “It’s over.”

“I got hit?”

“You did.”

“And…the OR?”

She froze. Just for a second.

“I don’t remember anything..”

Natasha didn’t speak. Your eyes flicked to her. “Did something happen?”

She squeezed your hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You watched her carefully. The way her voice dipped on you. The way her shoulders looked tighter now than they did during training runs or briefings. The way her thumb kept brushing across your knuckles, back and forth, like she was trying to remind herself you were warm.

But your body was heavy. Your brain foggy. You knew there was more. But you let it go. You weren’t strong enough to carry it.

And she..she wasn’t ready to speak it. So you squeezed her hand in return. Weak. But enough. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Her eyes flicked down. And this time, her voice cracked. “So am I.”

-

-

-

-

[mohish-ko]

☆ Wait, I have more—I need to test them too

[miss-carter]

# walk walk fashion baby

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (23 - The First Days of Spring)

Chapter Summary: You spotted them a few blocks from the orphanage, just past an alleyway, Steve’s visit still hanging over your head. Wanda stood stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, her chin tilted up as she talked to her ex-boyfriend. You thought it was just Steve who came to Scotland to talk to you—it didn’t occur to you that they would try to get Wanda back too.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: fluff and minor angst, mentions of child abuse

A/N: And just like that, we’re back in the real world, closer and closer to the conclusion of Part II. Everything from here rolls downhill fast. // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Spring was a slow hatchling, taking its time to crack through winter's brittle shell. Patches of green clawed stubbornly out of the thawing earth, and somewhere in the distance, birdsong threaded through the air. You’d almost forgotten about birds. The weeks had been muddy, and today, the sky hung heavy with the promise of rain. Still, you couldn’t help but look forward to sunlit picnics with Wanda—to making her little sandwiches, spreading out a blanket, and reading to her until the light faded into soft gold.

But Wanda didn’t care about the season or the idea of picnics in the park.

She cared about a certain kid.

It was the boy from the orphanage where she volunteered. The one with the hollowed-out eyes, bruises that never seemed to fade, and a never-ending string of “accidents” from the roughest home you could imagine. Wanda had seen his mother once, yelling in the parking lot, yanking his arm hard enough that his tiny sneakers skidded on the pavement.

And now the mother was yelling again, and the child was crying, his face streaked with dirt and tears, and the woman’s grip was so tight it was leaving red marks on the kid’s pale skin. 

Somehow, Wanda had managed to track them to their home, a run-down shack on the edge of the woods, border of the city.

“Wanda!” you called, hurrying across the cracked asphalt. The second you saw her face that morning—heard her say she had something to take care of—you followed. “Hey! What’s going on?”

“She hit him,” Wanda said through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “I saw it, Y/N. She—she grabbed him so hard he screamed.”

The boy hiccupped through his sobs, shrinking back against his mother’s hip. 

“Wanda,” you tried again, taking a calculated step. “You need to breathe.”

The wind kicked up around you, whipping Wanda’s hair across her face. Her hand twitched, her fingers curling ever so slightly. You knew what that meant.

She was seconds away from doing something she wouldn’t be able to take back.

“Wanda, listen to me,” you said, stepping in front of her, blocking her line of sight to the house—of the mother. “You can’t do this. You know you can’t.”

Wanda’s eyes blazed red as she regarded you, your presence clearly not doing anything for her temper. “You want me to let her keep hurting him?” she spat. “Is that it?”

“No, of course not,” you said. “I’m saying we report her. We get someone involved who can actually do something about it.”

“You know we can’t go to the police, Y/N.”

That was true. Over a year had passed, yet your names still sat on Interpol's most-wanted list. If the authorities caught even a hint of your presence here in Scotland, it wouldn’t just be trouble for the two of you—it would put Steve and the entire group that followed him, at risk.

Time hadn’t dulled the relentless pressure of being hunted—it just gave you a breather.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said, voice lower now. “We’ve dealt with worse than this, Wanda.”

She closed her eyes, drawing in a sharp breath as her shoulders rose and fell with the effort to keep herself together. When she looked at you again, the glow in her had vanished, only to be replaced by something that broke your heart to see.

The woman clung to her child like she might never let go. Then, while you tried to calm Wanda, she seized the moment and quietly led her son away, both of them slipping off down the street, not daring to look back.

Wanda stayed rooted in place, but didn’t pull away when you stepped closer and rested your hands on her arms. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you told her quietly. “You can’t save everyone. Not like this.”

Her green eyes were glassy, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I just—he’s a kid, Y/N. He’s just… a kid.” She let herself collapse against you, her forehead pressing into your shoulder as her breathing slowed.

“I know,” you nodded, your thumbs brushing soothing circles against her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against your shirt.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft. “You care, Wanda. That’s not a bad thing. But we have to be careful. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll find a way to help.”

You felt her nod against your chest, her arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if she was afraid to let go.

The storm clouds broke overhead a few minutes later, the first raindrops pattering against the pavement as you stood there in the middle of the empty street, holding Wanda close.

The burner phone buzzed again in your pocket. Natasha had been calling for days, and you’d been ignoring every single one. You kept the phone on you anyway, unable to decide if you were ready to let go of this life with Wanda—or if you ever would be. But you weren’t about to answer now, not with Wanda falling apart in your arms.

—

The anonymous tip didn’t go the way you’d hoped.

You’d sent it carefully—no trace, no connection to you or Wanda. The police arrived at the address hours later, long after the mother and her boy had vanished. The shed was empty, save for a few discarded pieces of clothing and a broken chair. No neighbors spoke up. No one had seen anything, heard anything.

Without a witness, without evidence, the case was marked resolved. A polite way of saying nothing to see here.

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell Wanda. She would blame herself, spiral into guilt and anger for not acting when she had the chance.

The picnic was your way of distracting her, of giving her something to smile about. It was a Monday morning, your lunch break from the library unusually long thanks to a slow day and some traded shifts.

Wanda sat on the checkered blanket, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her cheeks rosy from the brisk air. She was opening a container of sandwiches you’d packed when you slid closer to her, a sly grin spreading across your face.

“You know,” you started, leaning in just enough to make her glance at you, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as good as you do holding a Tupperware lid.”

She rolled her eyes. “You might want to get your eyes checked,” she said, laughing softly as she placed the sandwiches between you.

“I’m serious,” you continued. “You look so hot doing everything and nothing.”

She shook her head, her smile growing as she pushed a sandwich toward you. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s working.”

You took the sandwich from her hands, but your appetite had waned. Wanda, bathed in sunlight, laughing softly as she brushed crumbs from her sweater—it was such a simple thing, so ordinary, yet it felt impossibly fragile. Like if you blinked too long, it would disappear.

But then Wanda looked at you, chewing thoughtfully as the corners of her mouth curled into a small smile, and you swore she looked like she belonged in a painting—like something precious and eternal that you didn’t deserve but somehow had anyway.

If you went back to your old lives—if Natasha’s calls meant what you thought they did—this fragile world you and Wanda had built could crumble. She was the one thing that made you feel whole, the only thing that mattered. And if that was ripped away...

“You know,” you said casually, as if you were discussing the weather, “I think we should get married.”

Wanda froze mid-chew, a tiny piece of lettuce still sticking out from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes widened, blinking rapidly as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard you correctly. She swallowed hard, her hand slowly setting the half-eaten sandwich down onto the Tupperware lid.

“What… what did you just say?”

You shrugged, your grin turning softer, more sincere. “I mean it. I love you, Wanda. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So, what do you say?”

She stared at you, her mouth opening and closing like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“Are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” you said, your hand finding hers on the blanket. “I didn’t bring a ring or anything. I guess I’m not that great at planning picnics. But I’m serious, Wanda.”

“You’re asking me this now? Here?” Wanda repeated, looking at you like you’d grown another three heads. 

You shrugged, feigning cool but deep inside you were panicking. “Well, the sun’s out, you’re ridiculously beautiful, and I’ve… always wanted to.”

Wanda let out an unrestrained laugh, her head tipping downward as her hands came up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders trembled, and for a second, you worried she was upset—maybe even angry. 

You worried she was going to say no.

“Did you even plan this?”  

The truth was, you had a ring. It had been sitting inside one of your socks in the cabinet drawer for weeks. You’d tucked it away, thinking you’d wait a few years before getting down on one knee. But lately, patience had been wearing thin. You’d been catching yourself imagining that moment more and more often. Timing was never your strong suit, though—and asking? You were even worse at that.

Wanda took your face in her hands, her laughter fading as she looked into your eyes earnestly. 

“Y/N, you realize we can’t even get a marriage license, right?” she began, “We’re living under false identities. We don’t exist on paper, at least not as the people we are now. And that’s just the start. We’d have to fake even more documents, find someone willing to look the other way, and don’t even get me started on what happens if someone decides to dig into our backgrounds—”

She paused to take a breath, but she wasn’t done. “It’s not like we can just waltz into city hall in our wedding gowns with flowers and sign our names on a certificate. I can’t risk that. We can’t risk that. And even if we tried, what happens when someone recognizes us? What happens when—”

“Wanda.”

You said her name softly, but it was enough to stop her in her tracks. 

“What?” she asked impatiently, and you could see her conflicted thoughts still tumbling around in her head. 

You took her hands that were cupping your face and put them on your lap, lacing your fingers with hers. “You haven’t actually said yes yet,” you murmured. “And I’m starting to think you’re looking for a way to say no.”

“Y/N—”

“I know we can’t go sign papers and flash rings in front of a government clerk, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” You swallowed hard, trying to keep the rising knot of disappointment out of your throat.

“I’m saying we don’t need them, Wanda. We don’t need papers or signatures or any of that. We don’t even need witnesses. We can just… do it. Now, or back at home, wherever you want. Say our vows—”

“You’ve written your vows?”

You could feel her eyes on you, but you were not brave enough to look back up. At least, until you’ve gotten everything out in the open.

“Uh, yeah. And I have a ring back at home,” you admitted nervously. “It’s not fancy, but if you want to make it feel more official, it’s there. But if you say ‘I do’ right now, Wanda…”

You let the words hang between you, your thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It’ll be real. For me.”

“You really are serious,” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and the blush on your cheeks deepened.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

For a moment, you thought she might start another rant, might bring up all the reasons this wasn’t practical or why you should wait. But instead, she lifted your chin and put her face close to yours, her breath warm against your lips as she whispered, “Okay then. I do.”

You finally lifted your eyes to hers. “You do?” you said, your voice breaking on a laugh.

“I do,” she repeated, her smile so wide it looked like it might split her face.

The world didn’t stop, but it might as well have. You leaned in, slow and unsure, like it really was the first time. And in a way, it was. The first kiss as people who married themselves. Her lips were soft, a little chapped, and she tasted faintly of ketchup. But the kiss remained perfect in every way.

When you opened your eyes, Wanda’s were shining, watery, like she’d been standing too close to the edge of something and didn’t know how far she might fall.

You didn’t realize you were crying too until her thumb brushed just under your eye.

“So… are we married now?” she asked softly, her nose brushing against yours.

You grinned, your chest feeling impossibly light. “I mean, yeah. In the ways that matter most, yeah.”

“Good,” she whispered, pulling you into another kiss. “Although I still want that ring and vows once we get home.”

You grinned. “As you wish, Mrs. Maximoff.”

You were married. In every way that mattered.

—

The very next thing you did after marrying Wanda in private was buy a property—well, more of a gift, really, since Wanda had no idea you were planning it. You picked New Jersey because it was close to New York without actually being New York, and that felt perfect. It’s somewhere near enough to your roots while still granting you a buffer of peace. Scotland had been beautiful and perfect for your time away, but it wasn’t truly home. It was part of the identities you’d been using to stay off the radar. Home was where you could be Y/N, and Wanda could be Wanda.

So, the day after your spontaneous wedding, you made a call to Clint. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, “What’s new?”

“For someone who’s on house arrest you sound happy.”

“I have everything I want here, kid. My family. A farm.”

“That sounds amazing, actually,” you said, into the receiver. “Anyway, I got married yesterday.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a throaty laugh. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”

“It wasn’t anything formal. It was just between me and Wanda, but it’s—it’s real.”

“I’m happy for you, kid.”

You smiled, looking down at the ring on your finger, still feeling a little lightheaded from happiness. “Thanks. Listen, I need a favor, and you’re the only one I trust. I want to buy a piece of land in Jersey. Under my real name.”

“Hang on,” Clint said, voice turning serious. “Under your real name?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. “This is for me and Wanda—for our future. No more fake names. I just want to make sure everything goes smoothly and nobody starts asking questions.”

He made a thoughtful sound, and you could practically hear him leaning back in his chair. “Alright. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do.”

True to his word, Clint came through. Within two days, he sent you a secure link to sign electronic documents for the deed of sale and the lot map. You practically hovered over the laptop, heart pounding as you set your digital signature to something you hadn’t used in what felt like lifetimes: your real name.

It made you strangely emotional to see it there, crisp and official on the deed. A document that said, for better or worse, that you existed—and you were claiming a little piece of the world as your own.

You printed the deed and the lot map, carefully rolling them up. Then you unrolled the map again, pulled out a pen, and scrawled your message in neat handwriting along the side: Where Maximoff will torment me for the rest of my days.

Your heart gave a fond lurch at the thought. Wanda’s teasing, her jokes at your expense, the way she’d get that mischievous glint in her eye. You slipped the map into an envelope, pressing down the seal firmly. 

You set the envelope aside, your mind already spinning with how you’d present it. If you made too big a deal out of it, Wanda might freeze, thinking about all the risks. But if you made it too unserious, she might not realize just how monumental this was for you. You wanted to show her you believed in a future that was truly yours. A future where you were Y/N, and she was Wanda Maximoff, and no one could take that away from you.

Taking a breath, you forced yourself to refocus. There was dinner to prepare, chores to do, excuses to be made for why you were holed up in the study all afternoon. But just for a moment, you stayed with the vision of a little house in New Jersey.

—

When Wanda brought up having kids, you were halfway through your second boba and nearly choked on a tapioca pearl. You recovered quickly, but Wanda studied you for a long moment, her gaze sharper than you were used to—like she was reading every micro-expression, searching for the truth behind your reflexive panic.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you said, but even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded.

She didn’t let it go. “Are you sure?”

You cursed yourself internally. If she could see through you this easily, what hope did you have for any real secrets?

“Yeah,” you repeated, mustering a small smile. “I’m fine, really.”

But she was already circling back to her question. “So… about having kids. Did you… want that?”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering all over again. “Wait—do you mean, like, in general? Do I like kids? Or… did you mean…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, suddenly aware of how warm your face felt. “Like, us? Having kids. Together.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. You tried to gauge her expression, but she gave nothing away—her tone could have been light, or maybe it was serious.

“Kids in general,” Wanda said, finally, her face unreadable.

You hadn’t lied to Wanda in a long time, and it felt natural—automatic, even—to give her the truth the moment you had the chance.

So you told her, “Yeah, I like kids. And they seem to like me too.” Wanda gave you a good-natured smirk at that, like she wasn’t surprised at all.

“You’re good with them,” she said, and you could hear the warmth behind it. She was probably thinking about all those afternoons you spent volunteering at the orphanage back in New York, letting the kids braid your hair or climb all over you without hesitation. 

You nodded, but after a second, your gaze drifted. “I mean, I think I am. But… I’m not sure if that’s the same as having my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I grew up in a broken family, Wanda. I don’t really know what good parenting looks like. I don’t know if I’d even know how to raise a kid right, or if I’d be able to love them the way they deserve.”

Wanda smiled at you. “You love me properly.”

You grinned, quick and crooked. “Yeah, but you can be pretty childish sometimes.”

She shook her head, pretending to be offended, but her playful warning was ruined by the way she was already laughing.

The laughter tapered off, and then you met Wanda’s eyes again. 

“So,” you asked after a beat, “why are you suddenly thinking about kids?”

She balked, rolling her straw between her fingers. “What if we adopted?” she said, almost ordinary—except her voice caught on the last syllable.

You went still. “Adopt?” A dozen thoughts went through your head before you arrived at a conclusion. “You’re thinking about that boy again, aren’t you?”

She looked away, then nodded. “Yeah.”

You reached for your words like they might keep the ground from tilting beneath you. “I don’t know, Wanda. It sounds like a beautiful idea, it really does, but… it scares me.”

The words seemed to catch her off guard—like she hadn’t expected you to be so direct, or maybe she hadn’t really considered a flat no was even possible from you.

She didn’t answer right away. And that silence was worse.

You felt yourself scramble to soften the blow, even though you knew you were just being honest. “It’s not a never. I want to have this conversation again. With you.”

Wanda nodded slowly, like she was reining something in. “Yeah. You’re right,” she murmured. “And… we’re still hiding. We’re not…” Her voice trailed off.

“Not exactly living normal lives,” you finished for her.

“Yeah,” she said again.

You didn’t regret your answer, but you hated how uncertain it made everything feel. Was she disappointed in you?

She stood a second later, the motion a little too brisk to be casual. “I, um… I should check the laundry. If I leave it too long it’ll start to smell like rain.”

You didn’t know if you’d just had your first fight, or a pre-fight, or maybe a warning shot of something more.

But whatever it was, it didn’t feel resolved.

—

You were halfway through a battered copy of East of Eden when Steve Rogers walked into the library. You weren’t supposed to be reading—not technically. Your job was to stand near the entrance, smile politely at patrons, and make sure no one smuggled an entire encyclopedia set under their coat. But slow days meant slow rules, and the library staff didn’t mind you leaning against the shelves, book in hand, as long as you did your job.

You were underlining a passage with your finger—“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”—when his footsteps reached your ears. You recognized those boots, that walk. 

Your thumb caught on the corner of the paper and when you looked up, Steve was already walking toward you, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. And though you’d braced yourself for the day someone from that life might walk through those glass doors, you weren’t prepared for the beard.

It softened him somehow, made him look less like the man you’d followed into fire and more like someone who fixed motorcycles for fun on weekends. But it was still him. And you didn’t realize until now that you kind of missed him too. 

“Steve,” you said, snapping the book shut and tucking it under your arm. “You know you could’ve just texted.”

“Would you have answered?” he asked.

Fair question.

“Come on,” you said, jerking your head toward the stacks. Somewhere private.

The two of you walked deeper into the stacks, where the tall shelves swallowed up the view from the front desk.

You stopped near the philosophy section, surrounded by musty-smelling pages and the faces of long-dead thinkers staring out from their book covers.

“So,” you said, leaning back against the shelf. “What’s the pitch?”

“It’s not a pitch,” Steve said.

“It’s always a pitch with you guys,” you said, your lips curling into a humorless smile.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. Up close, you could see the way exhaustion had settled into his features. Just what had he been doing this past year? Most importantly, you really wanted to ask him about the beard.

“Natasha thought you’d take this more seriously if I came instead of her,” he said.

“That’s because Natasha knows I’d block her number before she finished the word ‘favor.’”

Steve almost smiled at that. Almost. You glanced down, staring at the cover of the book under your arm. East of Eden. A story about choices, consequences. How fitting.

“I can’t help you,” you said finally before he could say more.

“Y/N—”

“You know,” you started, crossing your arms over your chest, “you’re the one who told us to do this. You looked us all in the eye and said, Run. Find somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Build a life. Be happy. And now you’re here, in my library, with that face—like you want to take it all back.”

“That was then,” he said quietly. “Things have changed.”

“What exactly changed?”

“We don’t have all the details, yet, but,” Steve sighed. “I wouldn’t be here if things weren’t… worse.”

You glanced away, frustration simmering. “You can’t just show up here and ask me to… what, suit up again? To leave her? To leave this life behind because the sky’s falling again?” Your voice cracked slightly, and you cursed yourself for letting him hear it.

Steve nodded empathically. You didn’t usually believe people when they said they got it—but with Steve, you knew he did. He’d been here before, more times than anyone should. He’d lost more, had things—people—ripped away from him in ways you couldn’t imagine.

You looked down at your feet, suddenly feeling guilty for saying no to him. “You gave us the order to be here, Steve. And now I’ve built something—something good, something real. I wake up next to her, and for the first time in my life, I’m happy. And you want me to trade that in?”

Steve stood there and took everything you had to give. “I don’t want you to trade anything,” he finally said after a few beats. “You’re right. I told you to run. Told all of you to find something better. You did what I asked. You did everything I asked.”

He put a hand on your shoulder. “It’s really good to see you, Y/N.” 

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the books behind him, your eyes skimming the spines of books about dead men who’d all tried their best.

“And you and Wanda,” he continued, pulling his hand back slowly, like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch, “take care of each other.”

—

You spotted them a few blocks from the orphanage, just past an alleyway, Steve’s visit still hanging over your head. Wanda stood stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, her chin tilted up as she talked to her ex-boyfriend. You thought it was just Steve who came to Scotland to talk to you—it didn’t occur to you that they would try to get Wanda back too.

You were supposed to announce yourself. Step forward, call out her name, and break up the little reunion. But instead, you hung back, hovering just out of sight like some kind of coward. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Wanda—you did, completely. But Vision wasn’t just anyone. He was… well, he was almost in your place now. If the Accords hadn’t happened, maybe it’d be him married to Wanda. Maybe they’d be the ones in Scotland, sharing that little apartment.

You hid behind some bushes, trying to make out their conversation. You couldn’t hear every word, but you caught enough.

“...It’s always been your fight. Our fight. You know that.”

“Don’t do that, Vision. Don’t make it sound like I’m running.”

“You’re choosing to look away.”

“I’ve chosen to live. That’s what this is.”

“And what happens when living isn’t enough? When the people you love are in danger?”

“You don’t get to talk about the people I love.”

That’s when you decided to come out of hiding, startling Wanda. Vision didn’t seem surprised—if you had to guess, he already knew you were there, listening in on their conversation the entire time. He just didn’t care.

“Y/N,” she said, your name falling somewhere between a sigh and an apology.

But you were more focused on Vision. “That’s enough,” you said, glaring at him. “You can’t force Wanda into anything.”

Vision regarded you with an unreadable expression. Over the past year, without the constant presence of people around him, he’d grown more machine-like, more distant, than he’d ever been back at the compound. 

“I’m not forcing her,” he said evenly. “I’m simply making my case. If it came off as otherwise, I apologize.”

Wanda pressed her lips together, torn. She looked at you, then at Vision, and you could practically see the conflicting emotions plastered across her face. You moved closer, sliding an arm around her waist, quite tempted to keep her behind you like a shield. 

“So,” you said, letting out a shaky breath, “Steve dropped by. Tried to rope me back in.”

Vision dipped his head in a small nod. “Yes. And from what I understand, you refused.” His stare was polite, but the implication stung.

Your cheeks heated. He might as well have said you’re letting the world down for how it sounded. You swallowed, trying not to let the shame bleed into your voice. “I told him no. I have a life here. So does Wanda.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped you would be more open to our situation.”

Was he trying to guilt-trip you? Your lungs felt too small for the breath you were holding. “I—” you started, then let it go, tightening your grip on Wanda’s waist.

“I have faith in Wanda,” Vision continued. “Regardless of how the world has treated her—she can still do the right thing. I believe she will do the right thing.”

You felt Wanda stiffen in your arms. You gritted your teeth. Vision knew how to play his cards around Wanda. You hate that he still knew how, after all this time.

“Vision…” Wanda murmured.

You swallowed, turning to Wanda fully. “Do you… do you want to go back?”

Wanda sucked in a breath, her gaze softening as she looked at you. “I want to stay here,” she said quietly. “I want to be with you.”

She wasn’t lying. But Wanda could want two different things at the same time—and she did. She wanted to be with you, to continue this peaceful life, but she also wanted a shot at redemption. Though Wanda’s guilt had lessened during your time together, you knew she always wanted to do something to make up for what happened in Lagos.

“Wherever you go, I’ll follow,” you assured her, reaching out to gently take her hand. “You never have to worry about losing me. You’ll never lose me.”

Just then, a low rumble crawled across the sky.

At first, you thought it was thunder—an early storm rolling in over the rooftops. But storms never formed this quickly, or with this much spectacle. 

Vision angled his head skyward, eyes reflecting the strange phenomenon. “They found us.”

[frankcastler]

was looking for some angst and this one hit hard 😔

I Know What You Are | n romanoff

Summary: The bane of Natasha’s existence had finally slipped up but when sent to eliminate her, feeling get in the way far too easily.

Warnings: blood, weapons, character death (oops), angst with no happy ending :)

wc: 5.9k (I got really carried away!)

note: this is part 2 of the ideas that were given to me by @katyaromanoffpetrova so thank you love ❤️ this was fun

-⧗-

“I’ve got your six,” a familiar voice crackled through the redhead’s earpiece. She rolled her shoulders back and adjusted her grip on her gun, eyes darting across the smoke covered landscape that loomed before her. They’d picked a good vantage point but it was far too exposed for the assassin’s liking.

Natasha turned away from the edge and nodded to Clint, who’s arrow was already strung in his bow, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Her flash of red hair was the last thing he saw before she disappeared down the dark stairwell and back out onto the street.

“How long are we going to be circling like this, Nat?” Clint asked, a little out of breath as he finally caught up to his partner. Her eyes were distant, darting between the loosened bricks of the wall they were currently hiding behind. “Are you sure she’s here?”

“She is, I can feel it.” The echoes of gunfire and explosions rattled through their skulls, although the assassins were quite deaf to it now. Clint more than Nat. They clearly weren’t the only ones disturbed by the actions of one woman and her organisation.

A particularly loud bang went off nearby and Clint winced, his hand flying up to the hearing aid in his right ear. Natasha would have sent her best friend a sympathetic look if something hadn’t caught her eye across the desolate square.

A flash of silver, glinting in the orange sunlight as golden hour descended across the war zone.

“Got her.” Natasha scrambled up from her place and raced after the dark figure, her movements as silent and deadly as the night. Frustration spurred her onwards. This woman had been the source of Shield’s stress for months, but that was all about to end.

Her target’s preferred methods rather intrigued Natasha, who was all about efficiency when it came to killing. Guns were always in her arsenal, widow bites too. Her thighs often felt empty without a full holster. But the mystery woman never touched a gun. She was a master with a blade, stabbing and slashing her enemies with a brutal grace, silently dancing across the battlefield leaving disaster in her wake.

She was a free spirit, which drove Natasha mad. No one should be allowed this amount of freedom with her track history and there was no way Natasha was going to return to Shield empty handed. Not today.

The cacophony of noise ceased suddenly and Natasha felt Clint’s presence on the rooftop to her right. The hazy air was still so Natasha stuck to the shadows, the rough brick pressing through the fabric on her suit as she skulked around a corner.

But a sharp pain struck the back of her knee and she collapsed to the ground, a grunt of pain escaping her chapped lips.

A five inch blade thrown with horrifying accuracy had lodged itself in her upper calf ,only inches away from her knee. The pain was nauseating, but Natasha barely had a chance to properly process it before two dust covered boots stepped into her eyeline. With another grunt, she looked up at the figure before her, determined not to show pain on her face.

Her icy glare was met with a mask-covered face, one she knew well. The black mask was made of hard plastic and resembled two hands that covered the wearer’s mouth and nose - basically a muzzle. But playfully glinting eyes peaked over it and it was obvious they were paired with a smirk. Gloved hands twirled a knife, almost daring Natasha to step up and attack. But the redhead had been knocked off her game by those very eyes that taunted her.

She knew them…

Too well.

She used to love them. And as those gloved hands moved to slowly lift the mask from her face, Natasha felt her heart fall into the pit of her stomach.

“Y/n?” She dared to ask, voice barely above a whisper. She got no reply, but the subtle tensing of her opponent’s muscles told her all she needed to know. Fate was laughing at her. The woman she thought had been ripped away from her when they were teenagers was now towering above her, forcing suppressed memories of the Red Room to come crashing down onto both women, leaving them breathless.

This moment of hesitation was all Clint needed to fire, but Y/n was one step ahead. She’d seen him on the roof and knew what he was waiting for, so by the time his arrow had implanted itself into the wall, she had disappeared into the smoke, leaving Natasha alone. The knife in her leg and the rubble indenting her skin did nothing to shake her from her mind, still staring into the empty space where the woman had just been.

Clint came rushing over and dropped to his knee to inspect Natasha’s wounds. He didn’t dare address how much his best friend looked like she’d seen a ghost, pale face and wide eyes and not just from blood loss.

“Cmon, we have to get out here.” He hooked his arms under hers and tried to get her to stand, but Natasha was far too spaced out too even notice what he was trying to do. But Clint’s main concern was the knife. He couldn’t pull it out lest she bled out before they made the jet, but Natasha couldn’t exactly walk far either.

He propped her up against the wall and lightly tapped her face a few times, her green eyes shooting back to his.

“Where did she go?” She asked, suddenly breathless.

“I really don’t know. But you need to get to medical, Nat. We have to let her go.”

“I knew her. Oh my god, I knew her, Clint. Why is she here?” Clint didn’t know how to answer. Part of him thought she was just rambling nonsense from the bloodloss, but a small part of him knew she was making sense. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out where they knew each other from.

“We’ll figure it out when we’re back.” His eyes widened as Natasha’s hand gravitated to the knife lodged in her calf. He reached for her hands, holding them up and away from her injury.

“Clint,” she warned, trying to pull her hands away. “Let me pull it out and we can go after her.”

Clint had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Natasha’s stubbornness was infuriating sometimes. “That’s not gonna happen. She’s gone, Nat, and you need medical attention. Fury wouldn’t be impressed if you bled out from a knife wound.”

Natasha glared at him but stopped struggling and allowed him to help her limp back to the jet. They’d parked on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, so the stairs were a killer. Natasha’s lip bled from how hard she was biting it to muffle her cries of pain.

But the moment she sank down into her seat, memories flooded her mind, both positive and negative, but all involving Y/n. She wasn’t fifteen years old anymore with eyes full of hope, but the same spark was still there, one Natasha had fallen in love with.

What had happened to her?

~~~

The low clunk of a heavy metal door echoed through the chamber, three pairs of footsteps following suit. A female assassin, flanked by two guards, made her way to the centre of the room, her mask resting loosely between her fingers as her eyes remained fixed on the cracks in the concrete floor. The lighting was harsh, yellow bulbs buzzing, making her eye twitch.

Hushed voices became silent as she was presented before them and Y/n knew what was about to happen. She’d lived this day a thousand times.

“Agent,” one of the men called out, his voice gruff. “Mission report.”

“There was an ambush. I could not complete the mission, Sir.” Her eyes remained at her feet but she felt the air in the room shift and the guards beside her tense up. No one failed a mission in Hydra.

A pair of boots approached her and stopped only inches away. A calloused hand firmly gripped her chin and tilted her head up to the light, fingers bruising the skin on her jaw. “We taught you not to fail,” he spat, jerking his hand to emphasise his words. Y/n didn’t flinch. “All of your training, everything we’ve done for you and this is how you repay us?”

“There was a complication.”

He jerked her jaw again, forcing her to look him in the eye. “What complication?”

“The Avengers were there. I couldn’t-”

The sound of a fist slamming on a metal table made her jump and her mask clattered to the ground. The Avengers were a sore spot, and judging by the amount of Russian curse words intermingled with the Avengers’ name in only a few sentences, that hadn’t changed in the three days she’d been gone.

The agent in front of her returned to the group and Y/n finally took a breath, readjusting her jaw after its rough treatment. Although she worked willingly for Hydra, Y/n wasn’t that bothered with keeping track of exactly who they hated each week. She just did as she was told and breathed through the punishments that followed after. Work was work, unfortunately for her, and Hydra provided food and a roof over her head. Luxuries, as far as she was concerned.

A door opened to her right and she watched from the corner of her eye as a figure slipped through, sticking to the shadowed walls on instinct. The glint of a metal arm gave her a weird sense of peace and she turned to meet his eyes, his gaze softening as he looked at her.

“Soldat,” Pierce called, finally rising from his chair after staying silent for so long. He smiled slyly at Y/n who only ignored him. “Take our prized possession to the training room and make sure she never fails again. Use whatever measures you have to.” He directed his orders at Bucky who clenched his metal fist and grabbed Y/n/s forearm, dragging her out of the room.

Neither spoke a word until they reached the training room, just as dark and cold as the rest of the facility. You’d think an organisation like Hydra would have the funds to buy some decent light bulbs. All this yellow light was on Y/n’s last nerve.

Bucky threw her down onto the mats and stood with his arms behind his back as he watched the woman try to get her breath back. He didn’t intend to wind her, but the cameras in every corner were monitored so he couldn’t go easy on her.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his hair swinging beside his face and hiding his lips from view. Y/n waved him off and climbed to her feet, bringing her fists up to her face and setting her feet in a fighting stance. The cameras had no audio, so as long as they fought and he got a good few punches in, no one would suspect anything different.

“Don’t. Just hit me.” They circled each a few times, blocking a couple of punches but nothing major until Bucky grabbed Y/n’s arm and trapped her in a headlock, squeezing just tight enough that her airways were constricted. She tapped out and regained her position before they fought again, this time with her sending a few hits to his stomach.

“I need to ask you about something,” Y/n said through gritted teeth, deflecting a series of punches. Bucky grunted, which was his way of saying ‘go ahead’. “You know when you saw Steve for the first time since… you know, how did you handle it?”

Something shifted behind his eyes at the mention of his old best friend and he sent a strong left hook towards Y/n’s jaw, metal colliding with the bone with a crack. Her head whipped to the side and she let out a cry of pain, palm coming up to cradle her cheek. Bucky just watched for a moment before pulling her in front of him and forcing her to fight. They both hated this, but Y/n’s punishment would be ten times worse if he didn’t get enough good hits in. And Y/n preferred to be bruised by him than some old guard with unbridled rage and unchecked anger issues. Not a good mix.

“Was that not the right thing to ask?” How she could joke with a cracked cheekbone and bruised ribs was beyond Bucky, but humour seemed to be her preferred coping mechanism so he let her at it.

“It’s fine.” His words were more of a grumble than anything, but Y/n was used to that. He wanted to help, but you had to read deep between the lines. “I smashed several helicopters and almost killed him.” Wasn’t quite the response Y/n was expecting, or needed, really. “But they did brainwash me so I don’t suppose that helps.”

“Well, kind of?” Bucky narrowed his eyes and ducked, avoiding a punch before sending a kick to the back of Y/n’s knees. She wobbled but stayed upright, kicking him in the ribs to buy herself a couple of seconds of breathing time.

“Why do you ask? Did you see him?” It wasn’t hope that interjected his words, but Y/n noticed a flicker of something she couldn’t place a finger on.

“No, but I saw someone who reminded me of the same thing. Someone I thought I’d lost.” Natasha’s eyes, full of recognition and aspiration filled her mind and for a moment she faltered, lost in the dizzying memory, encapsulated by a flaming halo of hair. The scar in her eyebrow, her full lips, the ash that had settled on her black tactical suit; all flooding back and hitting Y/n like a truck.

She barely realised she was on the ground until she felt Bucky pin her arms above her head. She just stared into his eyes, a crease between her brows, unable to shake Natasha from her mind. Bucky watched her for a second before slapping her across the face.

“I’m sorry. Again.” He helped her to her feet. “But if they find out you know someone on the other side, they’ll do it to you too.” She’d watched many of his brainwashing sessions and even supervised when he’d come out of cryofreeze and none of it looked the slightest bit appealing. “I don’t want that for you.” She was the only good thing about this place and for his own sanity, he couldn’t lose her too.

“They couldn’t do that to me,” she said with a cocky smirk, her eyebrows quirking upwards. “I’m too valuable. Besides, Natalia won’t forget me again and would probably go on a killing spree if that happened.” Bucky shot her a look. “You’re right. That’s more my style.”

Bucky rolled his eyes slightly, unable to smile at her words. He was supposed to be an emotionless killer - they couldn’t know he had a soft spot for her.

“Luckily for you, you won’t see her again,” he said, swiping her legs from underneath her and sending her crashing to the floor. She scowled and scrambled up, jumping to wrap her thighs around his head in an attempt to bring him down. “It’s better that way.”

“Who says I won’t?” Y/n used her momentum to swing herself around, feeling his hands grip her thighs. “I want- I have to see her again. So I will.”

Successfully flooring him with an ‘a-ha’, Y/n straddled his waist and held her forearm to his throat. But she didn’t expect him to suddenly flip them both and mirror her actions, pushing her down into the thin mats and letting the cold seep through her suit as he held her there.

“So what, you’re going to kidnap her?”

Unbothered by her compromised position, Y/n just smirked, relaxing her body as she accepted defeat. “Who said anything about kidnapping?”

~~~

“Natasha, it’s a trap.” Clint was trying to talk some sense into his best friend, who was clearly having none of it.

“You think I don’t know that?” She gave him a look and returned to fixing her belt. “I’m prepared for this, so please stop stressing.”

“Oh, well forgive me for being sceptical seeing as the last time you encountered her she threw a knife into your knee,” Clint remarked with his arms folded over his chest. Natasha just rolled her eyes and stood up, adjusting her collar.

“I’m going to be ok,” she reassured, although her words fell on deaf ears. “I know who I’m dealing with.”

Clint looked into her eyes for a moment, trying to find a hint of doubt behind her bright green irises. But he found nothing but confidence, as usual. “But, do you?”

Whether it was part of her plan, no one knew, but Natasha walked straight into the trap with her head held high. It was easy, too easy. Natasha knew it, Y/n knew it. Yet that changed nothing. The blindfold was tugged from her eyes and she blinked, trying to adjust the dim light above her. The bulb only cast a small pool of light that spread not far from her chair, plunging the rest of the room into an eerie darkness. There was no sound, no gunfire or wind howling, and no windows as far as she could see. But her assessment of her surroundings was cut short when a figure stepped into view.

A small woman, slim, but muscular and toned enough to make it known that she could take down anyone of any size. Her posture was impeccable and she balanced a small blade between her fingers as if it were a feather and not a deadly weapon. Her lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t all that inviting or warm. The yellowy light cast shadows across her face as she observed her hostage for a few seconds.

“I thought interrogations were supposed to be your thing, Natalia.” The way her old name dripped off her tongue was like sweet honey and Natasha clenched her jaw, eyes fixed on the woman prowling in front of her. Sure, she could get out of the ties around her wrists, but something kept her there. A desire to learn more about her. “You gave up pretty easily.”

“You know damn well I didn’t give up,” she spat, glaring up at the woman who was now standing so close their legs brushed. “I came willingly.”

“Oh I know,” the woman said with a smile, tracing the sharpness of the redhead’s jaw with her knife. “You can’t resist me.” Her Russian accent was thick and had Natasha completely transfixed. The tip of the knife trailed down to her collarbones so gently. “I didn’t think it would take years though.”

“I knew where you were.” Not exactly a lie - she’d been tracking Y/n’s work for years. She just didn’t know it was Y/n behind the killing sprees and assassinations.

“You break my heart.” There was a mischievous sparkle behind her eyes and it frustrated Natasha to no end. “Guess you thought you were too good for me now, huh? All caught up in your Avengers business and no time left for me.” She pouted like a child.

Natasha looked up at the dim light above her head before answering. It was cliche really, tied to a chair in the middle of a damp room with only a single string bulb as a light source. But the woman before her was far more calculated than she ever let on, so Natasha knew it was part of some much bigger plan.

“Well I can’t exactly have a coffee with the enemy,” she said sarcastically. “The Avengers would take you in if you stopped murdering people for no reason.”

“Ha!” She spat out, turning back around to face Natasha, her knife spinning casually between her fingers. “Avengers. What a pathetic excuse for an organisation. You think they mean well, and that’s just adorable really.”

“They’re not pathetic.” If there was one thing Natasha was protective about, it was her family. “Take a look at who you work for, you’ll find some pretty pathetic business going on there.”

Y/n’s eyes darkened. “Hydra is not stupid. At least our scientists actually do something useful instead of pottering about building metal suits.” A jab at Tony Stark. Classy.

“Yeah sure, if you call illegal human experimentation ‘useful’.”

Y/n let out a soft laugh. “Don’t get all big and bossy with me,” she replied, watching as Natasha’s stony expression cracked slightly. “The twins signed themselves up, I did nothing.”

“You lured them in.”

“What can I say, I’m irresistible.” She winked at Natasha and disappeared into the shadows, leaving a very disgruntled redhead alone.

To say she was the most annoying person Natasha had ever met was a severe understatement. That woman got under her skin and just festered there, and no amount of focus would ever make her go away.

Whether she was knocked out or drugged, Natasha didn’t know, but when she next woke the room was a lot brighter and her hands were no longer tied behind her back. Y/n sat opposite her, the same blade laying flat in her palm.

“Took you long enough.” This wasn’t the same place as before and Natasha reached for her belt, wanting to feel protected. “Don’t. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s reassuring, considering you kidnapped me.”

Y/n finally looked up and scoffed, pushing her chair back so it scraped harshly across the wooden floorboards. “I did not kidnap you. We went over this Natalia. You came willingly.”

“And then you tied me up.” Natasha gestured to her wrists, now free of course.

“What can I say, I’m into that kind of thing.”

Natasha sighed. This was her chance. She wasn’t restrained, Y/n seemed relaxed and no one else was around. She could save a lot of lives, and her own ass by killing Y/n now. But somehow she couldn’t shake the memory of all the stolen kisses and touches they’d shared within the icy confines of the Red Room. How that young girl had been through so much and yet still felt so familiar sitting in the chair opposite.

“Y/n,” she started, switching her approach completely. “What happened to you?” The woman looked up, eyes dark, scanning across every inch of the redhead’s face.

“Why would you care anyway?” Her witty sarcasm was gone, replaced by a steel wall behind her eyes that fully blocked Natasha out. The redhead plagued her mind and tugged at the knot in her stomach, but she refused to let it win.

“You were there, and then you left. And I never knew why.”

“No. I didn’t leave. You did, Natalia.” Her tone was accusatory as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You left me alone in that place and you let them take me.”

“I didn’t leave you. They told me you got out, escaped, so I asked to go on more missions. I couldn’t bear it there without you.” Natasha’s voice dropped on the last few words, almost scared to admit her feelings out loud. How could she? The woman she swore to love for the rest of her life had broken her heart to the point where she had never loved anyone since.

“And you believed what they told you?” Natasha said nothing. “Somehow you manage to escape and you don’t come looking for me. We had a promise, Natalia. No matter what, we’d find each other. What happened to that?” Y/n was no longer a deadly Hydra agent gripping the handle of her knife like she was ready to send it flying into a target. No. She was a little girl again, holding onto promises as the last sign of hope in her life. Holding onto Natasha’s pinky finger with her own like their lives depended on it.

Noticing that Natasha didn’t want to break the silence, she continued. “Do you know how hard it is to find work with our skill set? For the ‘good guys’, I mean. You got lucky.” There was a hint of resentment in her words and it hit Natasha in the stomach. “When you tell people you’re an assassin for hire, they usually want to throw you into a penitentiary or shoot you dead right there and then. I had no choice.”

“If you knew where I was, then why didn’t you come and find me?”

Y/n hesitated for a moment. “You didn’t need me ruining what you’ve already got here.” This amount of vulnerability made Y/n’s skin crawl, but all her usual standards seemed to fly out of the window when Natasha was around. It had done ever since they were barely teenagers, soft lips pressed against each other in the gentlest of kisses. The fear of getting caught was worthless when compared to the comfort they had found within each other. “Besides, if I went after an Avenger, we’d both be dead.”

“They gave me a second chance, they would give you one too. You just have to prove it.” Natasha rose from her seat and joined the other woman who had moved to look out of the water-damaged window. “I can see how much you hate it, Y/n.”

“Hate what?”

“Working for Hydra. I can see it.”

Her grip tightened around her knife and Natasha took a step back. “No, they gave me everything.” But her words weren’t as convincing as she intended them to be, her lack of will to live and keep fighting catching up with her. “I owe them everything.”

“But Shield can give you more. You deserve to have something good.” Natasha squared her shoulders and reached out to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “No more pain, no more manipulation. You get to call the shots, make your own decisions.” Y/n wasn’t convinced. “We’d get a second chance too.” Her nose scrunched slightly, unable to gauge how Y/n would respond to her last words.

Y/n looked down at her hands, avoiding Natasha’s gaze and trying not to focus on how comforting her touch felt. She stared at the blood that had dried under her fingernails. It never seemed to fade, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She wanted so desperately to run, leave her problems behind like she’d always done. But part of her clung onto the prospect of a second chance with Natalia - she’d craved her warmth for over a decade.

Natasha saw the conflict flicker behind the woman’s eyes, a stark contrast to the sarcastic and confident front she’d put on only hours before. She was exhausted, anyone could see that and Natasha knew all too well what it was like to want to stop running. To stop fighting for other people and start fighting for yourself.

“Why are you doing this? I thought you came here to kill me?” Y/n’s eyes turned icy and she pulled her body away from Natasha, distancing herself once again. But the emotion in her voice couldn’t be masked, and it made Natasha’s expression soften.

“I made a different call.”

Y/n bit her lip, the knife between her fingers spinning rapidly but controlled. “I don’t deserve this second chance, Natalia. Just do what you came to do, earn yourself some more brownie points for the boss.” Her jaw clenched and Natasha pulled her gun from the holster. But instead of firing it, she simply slid it along the dusty floorboards, along with her belt full of weapons. Y/n scoffed at her actions, holding her knife as firmly as she could, but the tremble in her fingers gave her away. She didn’t mean this. Any of it.

“Well that was stupid.”

But her movements were suddenly halted. The door to Natasha’s left crashed down and three figures burst in, firing shots at Y/n before Natasha had a chance to protest. They’d seen the knife and reacted, ignoring the way Natasha yelled at them. The women threw themselves down onto the ground, Natasha shielding Y/n’s body with her own.

“Stand down!” She yelled, holding Y/n against the floor whilst turning over her shoulder. Steve, Clint and Sam stood in the doorway, weapons aimed and pointing at the assassins on the floor. “I didn’t signal anything!”

“You’d been gone for hours Nat, we had no choice. Fury gave the order.” Natasha ignored Clint’s words as Y/n groaned beneath her. Their weapons were still aimed at the Hydra agent despite Natasha’s glare.

The redhead slowly removed her hands and went to help Y/n sit up, but then she noticed the blood. It was visible even through her dark suit and Y/n gingerly pressed her hand to her stomach before pulling it away with a frown.

“I don’t know if we’ll get that second chance, Natalia,” she whispered, looking up at terrified green eyes. “You’ll have to do it on your own.”

“No, don’t say that.” Natasha replaced Y/n’s hands and began to press down on the wound, muttering her apologies as Y/n whined in pain. “You’re going to be ok.”

‘I want to be good, Natalia. I really wanted to be good.” Her words were strained as blood continued to pour from her wounds, coating Natasha’s hands instantly.

“I know, Y/n, I know. You will be, just stay with me please.” She pressed down harder, tears blurring her vision as she felt blood pooling beneath her palms. No one was listening to her cries for help- why weren’t they listening?

Y/n weakly grabbed Natasha’s wrist and pulled her hands off her wound, shaking her head at Natasha’s protests. She could taste metal on her tongue and the redhead’s face faded in and out of focus as she tried to shakily cup her cheek.

“Natalia-”

“No!” Natasha’s lip trembled and she shook her head frantically, pulling her hand away from Y/n/s grip. “You’re not leaving me now, I swear to god. You can be good, I know you can.” Y/n smiled weakly, barely conscious now as blood trickled from her lips. “Please, I just got you back! I can’t lose you again.”

“You won’t lose me, I’ll always be here.” Her nose scrunched up at how cheesy it sounded as she reached her hand up to point to Natasha’s chest. “Right here.”

“No, no, no. Don’t talk like that! You’re not giving up on me, Y/n. Pain only makes you stronger, come on!” She was just spewing words now, her sentences all jumbled and barely making sense as she pressed down on the wound. Y/n smiled up at her and tried to squeeze her thigh where her hand rested. But the energy in her body was fading fast and she could do nothing but look Natasha in the eyes in her final moments, wanting to memorise that specific colour one last time.

When her hand slipped to the floor with a thud, Natasha’s heart stopped. An eerie silence fell across the room, the feeling of death weighted like a blanket. The redhead didn’t make a sound, her sobs silent despite the tears trickling down her flushed cheeks. A stark contrast to her pale skin.

“No,” she shakily whispered, pushing Y/n’s hair back out of her face with a bloodied hand. “I’m sorry.” She cupped her bruised cheek and brushed her thumb over it, finally feeling her skin under her hand for the first time in years. It wasn’t as soft as she remembered, years worth of scars destroying the surface, but it was still perfect to her all the same.

Tears mixed with the blood and created a watery mixture that dripped down off Y/n’s chin and into the collar of her suit. Natasha dropped her head to rest on the other woman’s chest, hands moving to grip her shoulders tightly as though she might disappear. The redhead kept muttering apologies, wanting to make up for all the time they’d lost, even if it was fruitless.

The three men in the doorway shifted uncomfortably, the scene before them an unexpected one. “Natasha-“ Clint began, taking a step towards the redhead.

“What did you do?” Her voice was dangerously low and she slowly turned around, Y/n’s hand now clasped in hers. “Look what you did!”

Sam and Steve hung their heads, not wanting to see anymore of the dead woman across the room. Clint was just focused on his distraught best friend, who’s hands now matched the colour of her hair.

“Nat, we need to go-“

“Then go,” she spat. “I’m not leaving her.”

Clint let out a sigh and slung his bow over his shoulder. He gestured to Steve to help, who looked rather uncomfortable but followed anyway. “Well bring her with us-“

“What, so you can parade her in front of Fury and show off? Yes, well done, target eliminated! You don’t touch her!” Natasha was clawing and kicking as Steve pulled her to her feet. She held onto Y/n’s hand for as long as possible before Clint gently tugged it free, triggering an outburst from Natasha.

She was a mess of limbs, uncharacteristically uncoordinated as she struggled against Steve’s body as he guided her out of the room, practically carrying her as she refused to walk. The whole time she screamed out for Y/n, her voice growing more hoarse by the second. She took no interest in her surroundings, the dimly lit stairwell not even registering in her mind. All her spy training had completely vanished.

She was placed onto one of the benches in the jet and she watched, a shaking mess, as Clint placed Y/n’s limp body on the floor opposite, blood no longer pouring from her stomach. Natasha stayed frozen in her seat, knees pulled up to her chest as a defence mechanism. She didn’t care that there was blood on her hands, nor that it transferred onto her cheek when she wiped her nose. No, she didn’t care about anything except the woman lying in front of her.

The lifeless woman.

She wanted to scream but it was as if all the emotions had drained out of her body like a flood. She was numb, just staring with empty eyes, the light behind them barely flickering now. Clint shot worried glances in her direction once the jet was in the sky, and Steve and Sam stayed well away, not wanting to fall under the wrath of an extremely angry and emotional Natasha.

Not that she cared what the others did. She just wanted the one thing she couldn’t have. Fate had shown her time and time again that it was not on her side, but this truly was her final straw. There was no fixing this.

They had found and lost each other within the space of a months. But this time there were no second chances. It was set in stone, just like Y/n’s name would be for the rest of time.

Maybe, in another lifetime, they would finally meet again.

Maybe, in another universe, Natasha Romanoff could truly be happy.