@bilsova - Tumblr Blog

bilsova

Jan 5

w1dowatrace

My Angel Flung Out Of Space

Summary: Every God has its own angels. And she needs one for her own.

Pairings: Fugitive!Natasha Romanoff x Church Girl!Reader

Word count: 16.5k

Tags | Warnings: +18 blasphemous content, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, top!Natasha, bottom!r, non-consensual touching, dubious consent, strap-on, scissoring, FLUFF, angst, usage of bible verses, internalized homophobia, manipulation, abuse, emotional distress, and other triggering themes

Author's Note: This was set after the accords (Norway/Nomad Nat). I planned the ending of this story to be dark but now, I decided to post the alternative one instead to avoid being flagged, I will still see if I will be able to publish it.

NSFW Art

Navigation | Masterlist | Tip jar

⧗

The green flowy dress accentuated your waist perfectly, the messy bun with stray strands framed your face beautifully, and those glasses...they just added an unexpected touch of intelligence to your already innocent appearance. That was the first time she saw you, watching you hand out leaflets with a smile.

She watched you for a few moments more, seeing how gentle you were with the people who accepted your leaflets, and how patient you were with those who ignored you.

It was like watching a delicate flower sway in the breeze, untouched by the harsh reality of the world around it.

She could faintly hear your voice carrying through the air. It was soft and small, and it seemed to cut through the noise around her.

"Hi there...happy sunday!" you extended your hand, offering the leaflet, "I'd like to ask if you have some couple of minutes…" you're not even done yet but everyone shook their heads already or ignored you completely, passing on you like you were a ghost.

"No thanks."

"Not interested."

"I'm good."

The rejections came one after the other but your smile never faded though. "God bless, have a nice day ahead!" you'd still say softly to each person who refused and completely ignored you or those few who took the leaflets out of habit, only to crumple them up and throw them aside without even reading.

You were a rare sight in this cruel world, and it both fascinated and intrigued her. She felt an unexplainable urge. She watched your sweet smile and innocent eyes, hearing your kind and soft words. While her mind echoed with dark thoughts.

What would you look like if you cried?

If that sweet voice screamed?

If those innocent eyes were filled with fear and tears?

"Hi, would you spare a minute for a word of God?" you asked, completely oblivious to the danger standing right in front you.

"Hmm...yeah." She had a deep, husky tone that contrasted sharply with your soft, melodic one.

Your heart fluttered like a little bird as she agreed. She was the first person today to actually agree to listen to you share what you loved sharing—the word of God!

She watched your giddy expression that was almost infectious. She accepted the leaflet carefully from your fingers, noticing how neatly it was folded.

Your hands were small, soft, clean—unlike hers. Bloody and rough.

"Find your path to salvation." The leaflet says.

You two moved to the side, away from the passersby. You turned to her with a warm smile, your eyes shining with genuine interest. "What's your name?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, waiting for her response.

"Natasha."

"Natasha, I can see you're in a rush. You could've just kept walking, but you chose to stop. That means something. This is God's plan, God has given you these five minutes with me for a reason. So let me share something quick with you."

God's plan indeed...that this pure soul should cross my path today. She thought in her mind.

"Natasha, in the earlier mass I attended today the priest shared the Holy Gospel today about Romans 16:19…" you looked at her with that smile on you that seemed to never disappear. "For your obedience is known to all, so that I rejoice over you, but I want you to be wise as to what is good and innocent as to what is evil." You say, completely unaware of the irony of sharing this verse with her.

Inwardly, Natasha taunted the heavens. Isn't that sweet? The God himself watches over his angelic creature, yet little did he know, a monster stands here among his precious flock…

Does he know?

He does, right?

He's God.

You continued, "It's about being wise in discerning good from evil, but also maintaining innocence. It's a balance, you know? Being aware of the world's darkness without letting it taint your pure heart."

Natasha hummed, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she listened intently, nodding along to your explanation. She seemed genuinely intrigued, or at least pretended to be. You couldn't tell the difference, but you liked that she appeared to be hanging onto your every word.

Suddenly, a loud roar of a motorcycle engine pierced the air. Without hesitation, the womam shoved you hard to the side with surprising strength, causing you to stumble and let out a shriek. You hold on to her leather jacket. The bike zoomed past where you two had been standing just moments before, nearly clipping you.

"He must have an emergency, I hope God blesses him and keeps him safe." Your voice was filled with genuine concern, as you silently whispered the words in the air—just between you and God. But the quiet prayer didn't go unheard by the redhead.

"He's an asshole, sweetheart." She murmured, letting you go after being flushed with her and you simply shook your head gently, your smile never wavering.

"He might be rushing to the hospital to see a family member, or maybe his-his wife is…giving birth? You never know what's really going on, Natasha."

You always have to find the good in everyone, don't you?

"Would you say that would be God's plans too then? Someone running over his…angel?" her voice carried a challenging edge, paired with an almost begrudging admiration for your unwavering faith. She gestured towards you, implying that you were the angel in question.

Natasha watched as you hesitated, biting your lip in thought.

"If that were the case, then perhaps God has a greater purpose even in that tragedy. Maybe that angel is needed back home, or maybe the person rushing had a lesson to learn," you say, "I-I suppose even death serves a purpose in God's plan."

"So you're saying someone's life is more important than yours, angel?"

You were much more confident this time with your faith backing you up, your eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. "God values all lives equally. To Him, everyone's life is no less precious than the other. His love is not selfish. He doesn't play favorites. Sometimes, He asks one life to pave way for another."

"So you will you?" The redhead crosses her arms, challenging you, "Pave the way for others?"

"If that's God's plan," you repeated softly, maintaining eye contact, your expression completely serene, "Then I'm ready."

In Natasha's mind, she wanted desperately to push the question further, to try and make you falter, somehow sow a seed of doubt about God's reasons. Her lips curled into a smirk as she watched you, clearly impressed despite herself.

She took a step back, breaking the intense eye contact. "I think I should get going. As much as I want to listen to you more, angel...I have a schedule to keep."

And some plans to make…

"Oh, okay. Wait, let me just…" you turned back to the small table behind you and reached for your bag, you fished a rosary bracelet and unwrapped it, "here, to keep you safe."

She watched, almost mesmerized, as your small, delicate hands placed the bracelet in her large, rough ones. She doubted the bracelet would even fit around one of her thick wrists. Yet, here you were, giving it away.

"Sorry, I don't even think if it will fit. That's all I have left."

"Don't worry, I will make it fit."

There was a dirty undertone to her words, a hidden meaning behind the simple statement that someone like you wouldn't understand. And as what Natasha expected, you just shyly smiled, not with her kind-of-dirty reply, but with the bracelet you gave her that she tried to fit in her tree trunk wrists.

"Thank you, angel, for this." Her thumb brushed over the beads.

"No, thank you," you said earnestly, your eyes shining with sincerity, "I think you're my angel. You saved me earlier today. If not for you, who knows what would have happened to me?"

Exactly, finally, you're catching her drift. That is exactly the reason why you need to be hers, because if not for her what would happen to you?

God wouldn't mind if someone would take over to take care of one of his angels, right?

After the Accords, Natasha has been always on the run being hunted by the government. The woman who once had controlled now felt like she had no control over anything. But despite everything, just like you, Natasha learned to see the good in things. Being an Avenger trapped her. Every mission, every order—no room for... indulgence. But now? Being on the run? She feels like she's one step ahead—freedom tastes different than she expected.

She felt like God.

Natasha had no trouble finding you. Her ex-spy training meant she could locate anyone, even someone who'd gone off-grid. She knew everything—your name, where you lived, what your favorite food was...hell, she probably knew what you'd eaten the day she saw you.

She scrolled more on the accounts tagged on your Facebook, staring at every picture you're in. Out of all the pictures and people you're with in those photos, you stand out. You were glowing, untouched—like a fucking saint. And she wanted to ruin that. She wanted to break you open and crawl inside that purity. Make you dirty with her darkness.

Or maybe she could just keep you locked away in a cage. Untouched, unsoiled—but all hers.

Every God has its angels.

And she needs one of her own.

One thing that she also liked after being now an ex-Avenger, she didn't need to follow long-ass instructions, didn't need to consult anyone nor concur. The moment she saw you, it was done. The only thing she followed was her heart pounding in her chest in a wild drumbeat of excitement.

The car idled quietly as she trailed behind you on your way home. With one smooth motion, she was out of the car, moving silently behind you. The cloth over your face was quick and efficient, no struggle, no resistance. You crumpled to the ground unconscious almost instantly. She lifted you easily into her arms, carrying you back to her car like a precious cargo.

Was it impulsive? Yes. But was it complicated? No. It was so simple and quick and that's how Natasha likes her work to be done. No more dramas.

Slowly, she swiveled the creaky chair around, staring at your pale skin that seemed to glow in the faint light filtering through the tiny, reinforced window that she noted to cover later on. Natasha had you caged and naked. Her eyes were glued to the gentle rise and fall of your chest, mesmerized by the simple act of your breathing. She had brought you home, to her private hell where only she could see your divine beauty.

While waiting for you to wake up, Natasha disposed of her only link to the outside world—to your world. She had to go old school this time, buying a crappy laptop just to look for information about you. She knew the risks, it could be traceable and there was no help from Stark's technology meant she was truly alone now, but she didn't care. And now, there is no need to wait, no more searching. She had found her angel, and now she would keep you forever.

Your body ached as you slowly opened your eyes, you were curled on the floor. The room was dim, cold, and there is a curtain that connects to the other room. You shivered, realizing you were completely naked and caged. You immediately sat and pulled your knees to your chest to cover yourself. Your breaths came in short, rapid gasps as panic surged through your veins. Your chest heaved, your heart pounding wildly against your ribs. You leaned your head against the cold wall, trying to calm yourself, your hands hugging tightly your body, but the unfamiliar surroundings only amplified your fear. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

So you prayed, like you always do.

"He is my refuge and my fortress...my God, in whom I trust..." each word felt like a shield against the unknown terror surrounding you. Your voice was barely above a whisper, yet every word resonated in the empty room. "Dear Lord, please keep me strong. Please protect me from whatever..." your voice caught slightly, fear threatening to overwhelm you. "Please...please guide me through this. I feel scared, I don't know where I am, but with your name in my heart I know I am safe—"

"You are."

You paused, your eyes widening as a soft, gentle voice echoed in your mind. The words were soothing, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. You were hallucinating, weren't you? Maybe that was God, but it was most definitely a woman's voice, low and rough that tickled your ear. You felt a strange sense of comfort, but also confusion.

A figure finally materialized behind the curtains. You wanted to deny what your eyes were seeing, to cling to the hope that this was just another hallucination.

But no, you weren't. The same woman who stopped to listen to you share a word of God, the same woman you were looking forward to meeting next sunday for mass, not in this state where you were caged, naked and cold.

"N-Natasha?"

"Hey, angel."

Your pulse thrashed in your throat. You wrapped your arms tightly around your chest.

Natasha stepped closer, her silhouette sharpening as she pushed the curtain aside. She wore simple clothes—dark jeans, a loose sweater—as if she had just come from anywhere normal. As if this wasn't a nightmare. As if she had every right to be here.

As if she had every right to look at you like that.

"W-Why…how—" your voice cracked, shame and terror tangled in your words. You tried to swallow, but your throat burned. "Why am I here?"

Her smile was small. Devastatingly gentle. "Because," she said, fingertips drifting across the bars like a caress,

"I finally have you where God meant you to be."

Your heart stopped.

And the woman leaned in, her breath warm against the cold space between you.

"With me."

⧗

Days passed.

At least…you thought they did. Time felt slippery in this place—stretching, collapsing, twisting into something unrecognizable. You slept in fits, woke in panic, and drifted in and out of moments that barely felt real.

One thing did stay constant though is you still didn't understand what was happening. Not why you were here. Not why she was the one visiting you. Not why the person you trusted—someone who listened to you talk about God, someone you smiled one sunday morning—was now the same person keeping you behind iron bars.

Every time you heard her footsteps, your heart would seize. Not with relief or anger. But with a collapsing, desperate hope. Whenever she approached with food, sliding a plate or a bowl through the narrow gap of the cage, you would immediately reach out. Not to the food but to her hands. Your fingers shaking, grazing the beads of the bracelet you had given her.

"Please," you sobbed every time, your voice already hoarse from begging.

"Natasha, please just let me out. Please…I don't understand why you are doing this. I-I just want to go home."

Every time, she froze for a moment—like your touch startled her, like your tears scraped at something inside her. She'd watch your form, all fours wearing her shirt that is like a dress on you, hand gripping hers like your life depends on it. But then her expression settled into that same unreadable calm.

"Eat," was all she would say.

"Rest."

"Don't cry, angel."

And she would gently—so gently it hurt—uncurl your fingers from her hand, one by one, until you were left clutching air.

Then she will walk away.

The first days you held onto hope like it was the only thing keeping your body upright. Every morning still felt like a blessing, even in that cold, suffocating cage. Sunlight barely reached you, but if it did, you would lift your face and let it touch your skin, whispering thanks like it was a prayer that mattered.

You prayed. Always.

Softly, loudly, sometimes barely moving your lips. God, angels, saints… anyone who would listen. You asked for strength, for guidance, for the courage to survive. And sometimes, when the despair gnawed too sharply at your chest, your prayers weren't for freedom at all—they were for Natasha.

And when Natasha would slide food through the bars, your heart would lurch. You would immediately crawl to her and reach for her hands. And you'll beg like you always do but the thing is you don't even know what you are begging anymore—was it for her to let you out? Or simply to reach her, to touch her hand to feel human again, to anchor yourself to sanity amid the fear that gnawed at your mind?

Time had lost all meaning. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? You didn't know. All you knew was the rhythm of your prayers, the brief glimpse of her presence, and the aching need to feel seen—even if only through a touch, a hand, a fleeting moment of her attention.

Hope and faith have their limits, though.

One morning, Natasha placed the small plate with a pancake she had made carefully inside your cage. You didn't move. Your back was to her, your face on the wall, curled up on the thin comforter she had laid down for you. Your body felt heavier than it had in days, as if the weight of fear, despair, and hopelessness had settled into your bones.

It had been twenty-three days. Almost a month. But only she knows that.

Natasha waited patiently, expecting the familiar motion—you crawling toward her, reaching for her hand, begging, pleading for her. But you didn't move. Not an inch. Not a sound.

She let out a quiet, irritated huff when you didn't move. Fine, she seemed to think. You'll come around.

She slid the food dish farther inside the cage and left without another word.

But lunch came, then dinner. Both trays stayed exactly where she'd pushed them. Untouched and cold.

Natasha checked on you each time.

She saw your hand moving weakly, your fingertip dragging across the wall in slow, unfocused lines—shapes, letters, or prayers she couldn't decipher even being a spy. It was the only sign you were still alive. She watched for a moment, jaw tight, she will not deal with this—with you being like this, like a brat. So she simply walked away and closed her bedroom door.

Morning arrived again—day twenty‑four.

The stale pancake from yesterday sat rotting, the stroganoff for lunch and the pizza for dinner, still untouched where she left it. Natasha entered with a fresh plate, the smell of warm food filling the air…but it stopped abruptly in her throat when her eyes found you.

You were crouched in the farthest corner you could reach, knees pulled hard against your chest, your arms wrapped around your legs like you were trying to disappear into yourself. You stank, your hair was matted and oily, sticking to your hollow cheeks. Your lips were cracked, an angry red from days without drinking any liquid.

Natasha held the plate mid‑air, the faintest flicker crossing her face—annoyance? Concern? Frustration? Even she didn't seem sure.

But you didn't look at her. You didn't reach out and beg. You didn't whisper a prayer. You were just…there. Folding inward…shrinking.

Breaking.

Like something inside you had gone quiet.

The older woman clicked her tongue, the sound sharp in the silence. "Stop being a brat and eat," she murmured, shoving the plate inside the cage with more force than necessary.

You didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.

She waited a second, just one expecting the usual crawling, begging, desperate reaching. But you remained curled in the corner, eyes focused on the ground, mouth slightly parted just enough to pull in shallow breaths. Natasha's jaw tightened. Without another word, she turned and walked out.

But still, you didn't eat.

It wasn't because you'd lost your faith—you would never. But something inside you had begun to settle, like dust finally giving up and sinking to the floor.

The acceptance that you wouldn't leave this room alive. That your prayers were no longer about deliverance, but about peace.

Your mind began to slip. Whispers curled around the edges of your hearing—soft hymns from your childhood, psalms sung in distant tones. You murmured back to them. You talked to yourself, answers to questions no one asked, conversations with people who weren't there. It was easier than feeling—easier than begging, easier than hoping.

Then one night, you saw your mother, she was smiling at you with so much affection and love, whispering...

"You're home."

You smiled for the last time.

You're going home.

Day twenty‑five came.

Natasha's footsteps were brisk, impatient, echoing sharply as she approached with yet another untouched plate—your third in a row. She crouched, ready to slide it inside. And then she froze.

Your body was slumped on its side, legs awkwardly tangled in the thin comforter. Your chest, it wasn't rising, it wasn't falling either.

It wasn't moving at all.

A strange, cold expression flickered across Natasha's face—something she couldn't name, something that looked dangerously close to panic—then fear. Something she would deny feeling.

She dropped the plate, scrambled at her pocket, fingers shaking as she fumbled for the key. Metal clanged against metal as she missed the lock twice, cursing under her breath before finally jamming it in and twisting hard.

She only checked your pulse and when she felt nothing, she immediately carried your body in a bridal style and brought you to her room.

⧗

Maybe this was heaven. That was the first feeling that drifted through your barely-waking mind. There was something gentle beneath you, something warm and soft. For a moment— a single, suspended moment—your soul loosened its hold on everything it had endured and wondered, Is this what dying feels like? Softness?. Maybe God had finally taken pity.

But when your eyes fluttered open, the instinct that had always lived in you— gratitude, prayer, thankfulness for a new day, did not come. You didn't whisper a prayer of thanks for breath or waking. Instead, something sharp and hot unfurled in your chest—anger. It burned through you before you could swallow it down.

It wasn't heaven. It was a room. A soft bed, clean sheets. You were dressed in fresh clothes, a loose shirt, still no panties on. You smelled like strawberries—like someone had washed the suffering off your body and tried to pretend you were whole. Your hair was damp, brushed away from your face.

A sob ripped from your throat before you even realized you were crying. All the breath you thought you no longer had come rushing out of you in a broken, wounded sound. You scrambled backward until your spine hit the headboard, then curled yourself into the corner like a terrified animal. Your hands trembled, your fingers clawing at the blanket as if it could hide you, protect you, undo what had happened.

You cried from a place so deep inside you it felt like your soul had cracked open. You should have died. You were supposed to die. You had made peace with it. You had surrendered to the idea of rest, to the idea that God would finally catch you when you fell. But He didn't. He let you wake up here. He let you breathe again only to belong to the same nightmare.

And in that moment, for the first time in your life, you felt betrayed by Him. Truly betrayed.

Why didn't He take you?

Why let you suffer again?

Your tears soaked your shirt, your breath stuttered, and all the prayers you had whispered for all days you were taken dissolved into the air like smoke.

Then the door creaked open, your entire body went rigid. You didn't need to see her—you knew that sound now especially, knew the rhythm of her footsteps, the quiet way she pushed doors like she was afraid of waking something precious. Anger, raw and instinctive, clawed up your throat before your mind could even form words. Your hands curled into trembling fists. All the terror, all the sadness, all the exhaustion you had swallowed for all the time you were here. She stepped inside, carrying a plate of food and a glass of water as if she were entering a normal room, visiting a normal person, doing a normal thing. And that quiet ease broke something inside you.

The scream tore out of you before you even felt your mouth open.

"What do you want from me!" you screamed. Tears spilled down your face faster than you could wipe them. You barely managed to stand behind the bed, you couldn't feel your legs after all the time being folded inside the cage. "Why?! Why me?!" you sobbed, fists balled so tightly your nails dug into your palms. "I only saw you once! I trusted you!" your whole body shook with the force of your crying, the betrayal punching through every word.

Natasha didn't flinch. She didn't yell back or apologize. She just watched you with those unreadable eyes, the same calm expression that had haunted you from behind the cage bars. She set the plate of food on the bedside table, placed the water beside it with a soft clink, and moved with deliberate slowness—like approaching a scared animal she didn't want to startle. Then she began circling the bed.

You whimpered and you stepped back even though you had nowhere left to go. Your heel hit the wall. Panic crawled up your throat. You rubbed your arms in tight, frantic motions, as if trying to warm yourself, as if trying to hide. Your forearms covered the outline of your nipples from your shirt, shoulders curling inward, head shaking back and forth as tears poured down your cheeks.

"Please," you whispered through sobs you couldn't swallow, shaking your head harder and harder. "What do you want from me?"

She kept coming.

And you kept shrinking.

Until there was nothing left to fall back into except fear.

Natasha stood still for a moment, her breath steady while yours were breaking apart. Then she spoke in a low, dangerous calm that slid under your skin like cold water. She breathed in slowly, her expression softening in a way so painfully human that it made everything more frightening.

"You keep asking what I want," she murmured. Her voice wasn't angry. It wasn't mocking.

It was…tired.

Old.

Like she was carrying centuries of exhaustion in her ribs.

"The truth is…" she exhaled, rubbing her palm over her sternum as if steadying herself, "I haven't gotten what I wanted in a very, very long time."

Your breath trembled. You didn't understand—you didn't want to.

But the woman kept going.

"You know what it's like," she whispered, "to spend your entire life doing what everyone else needs from you?" she stepped closer, leveling her face with yours again, though you pressed harder into the wall, trembling. "Saving people. Fixing things. Carrying everyone's pain like it's your own."

A bitter, crooked smile tugged at her lips.

"Being the weapon. Being the answer. Being whatever they told you to be." Her voice cracked just slightly at the edges—not enough to break, but enough to reveal a fracture.

"I saved cities, strangers. This…world."

Her jaw clenched. Before letting out an airless chuckle.

"But you know what I never got to be?" Natasha's eyes softened, something raw flickering across them. "I never got to be me." Her fingers flexed slowly, like she wanted to touch you but knew it would make you bolt like a trapped animal.

So she stayed still, letting her words creep toward you instead of her hands.

"Everything I did was for someone else."

Her voice grew lower, steadier. "Every risk. Every bruise. Every sacrifice. Every life I took. Every life I saved…"

You swallowed hard, tears streaking down your cheeks—your soft heart pitying the woman.

"There was never anything that was mine."

Natasha leaned just slightly closer, her eyes searching your face with a chilling, desperate intensity.

"And then I met you."

Your breath stuttered violently.

"You weren't part of the world I had to save. You weren't a mission. You weren't a responsibility. You didn't even know me."

She chuckles, then pauses—a soft inhale.

"You were…the one thing I wanted just because I wanted it." Natasha's voice dropped into something dark, velvety, and broken at the edges. "And I'm done…" her eyes locked onto yours, "Being the person who never gets what she wants."

She tilted her head, looking at you with terrifying clarity.

"I am no longer…someone others expect me to be…I am just the woman who finally took something for herself."

Natasha's thumb smoothed over the tear tracks on your cheek, her touch unbearably gentle for someone who had stolen your entire world. Her voice dropped to a soft murmur, warm enough to bathe your skin, cold enough to chill your spine.

"Don't worry," she whispered, as if you were simply frightened of a thunderstorm and not of her. "You'll learn. You'll learn to accept this. To feel safe here. To...love it here."

You choked out a sob and pulled your face away from her hand, shaking your head so fast your teeth clattered.

"No-No! No! I would never!" you cried, voice cracking as fear drowned every syllable. "I would never love you! That is a sin! It's wrong!" your voice disappeared into a scream you swallowed back down, your hands pressing against your ears as you slid down to your knees.

Because love—love was not something you could give, not like this, not to her…

Not to a woman. A woman who broke your trust and you didn't even realize you were repeating it—your voice hoarse, frantic.

"It's a sin! it's a sin! It's a sin! You're—"

Natasha didn't flinch. She never does no matter how your shout is ringing in her ears. Not even at the word sin, the word that had shaped her life and soul.

"I never said you have to love me," she said softly.

You froze, a fresh wave of trembling overtaking you.

Because she was right. She hadn't said it. But the moment she mentioned love, your brain had spiraled, racing toward the worst, toward the only explanation you could understand. Your faith twisted with fear. Your beliefs wrapped around your terror like thorns. The idea of loving her—loving a woman—felt like falling into the deepest pit of damnation your mind could imagine.

Your faith had been the last thing left untouched, the last thread connecting you to who you were. And now even that felt violated.

Natasha slowly and deliberately, kneels in front of you. She fixed the hair that sticked to your cheek with tears and sweat. "Sinning is good," she murmured, voice warm, almost amused. "People only fear it because it feels too good to let go of." Then, her fingers slid under your chin, lifting your face so you couldn't escape her eyes. She pulled back just enough to study you—your shaking head, your refusal, your horror. "You've been taught to fear the fire, but I promise you…it burns beautifully."

⧗

Life with Natasha slowly settled into a strange rhythm. The cage is gone. You figured you were living in a trailer, she let you roam around, though you knew very well you were not allowed to leave. The place was small—just one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a cramped bathroom, and walls thin enough that you could hear every sound outside yet never reach it.

Nights were the part you dreaded the most. You had to sleep in the same bed as her. It wasn't wide, so the space between you was only a few inches, but she never touched you. She would lie down on her side, back turned, and fall asleep without a word. Her breathing was soft, steady, almost too calm for someone who had done such terrible things. She never reached for you, never moved closer, never tried to cross the invisible boundary between your bodies.

Every morning, she was gone before you woke up. Natasha would wake long before the sun rose, slipping out of the bed without disturbing you. She moved through the small trailer with a kind of practiced silence, opening cabinets and drawers carefully, never letting anything clatter. You could almost imagine she had lived her whole life learning how not to be heard.

She always cooked for both of you. Pancakes, eggs, oatmeal, sometimes fruit she must have bought the night before. She plated your food with a calm precision—not fancy, but thoughtful, as if the neatness alone proved something she didn't know how to say. She would set your plate on the table, pour you a glass of water, and then sit on the other side with her own breakfast untouched.

Then she waited.

She knew exactly when you usually woke up. She must have memorized the rhythm of your breathing, the way your body shifted under the blankets. The way you pray almost half an hour after you wake up but then some days you tried pretending to be asleep longer, but she always knew. She never knocked or called you out for it; she simply sat at the table, hands wrapped around her mug, staring at the door to the bedroom in patient silence.

And then you will finally walk out—hesitant, guarded, still unsure of your place in this strange tiny place. She watched you settle and waited for you to finish your prayer again before picking up your fork. Only after your first bite did she lift her own fork and begin to eat.

That became your routine. You ate together quietly every morning, not because she commanded you to, it's more like a rule you had to follow to avoid upsetting her.

Evenings were quieter. Sometimes the trailer grew dim as the sky darkened and still Natasha wasn't home. Those were the nights she came back past midnight, footsteps soft, the door closing with careful noise. Those nights the doors were locked like always but doubled—Natasha always made sure of that—but deep inside, you knew there were still ways to break out. The windows were small, but not impossible. The hinges on the bathroom door were a little loose. The kitchen knives were real.

It almost felt as if the Lord Himself was laying the chances right in front of you—signs, opportunities, gentle pushes toward freedom. You felt them, you recognized them. Your instincts screamed that these moments were not accidents but invitations to run. And yet…you didn't move. You'd just walk back to the bedroom, breathing slow and shallow, fingers curled in the blanket, telling yourself you were waiting for the right moment but deep inside, you feared there was no right moment at all.

Every chance slipped through your fingers, and every time you found yourself asking, Why, Lord? Why didn't I break free when I could've?

Because what you didn't realize was while you were staring at the door, you weren't waiting for the right time to escape.

You were waiting for the woman to come back.

One night, she was gone again—and you realized just how long you'd been lying awake waiting for the sound of her footsteps. Hours passed, each minute heavier than the last, until finally you heard the soft, familiar creak of the door. Your heart lurched. Relief shouldn't have hit you, but it did—briefly. Then the horror set in.

She stepped inside.

She muttered something incoherent, swaying slightly. Immediately, the sharp, intoxicating smell of alcohol hit your senses. Panic tightened around your throat. Before you could react, her arm looped around your waist, pulling you against her body. You whimpered as you tried to push her away, struggled, but she was too strong—immovable, relentless.

You pretended to be asleep, holding your breath so she wouldn't realize you were awake. Every muscle in your body was rigid, every heartbeat loud in your ears.

Then her lips pressed against your shoulder, peppering marks along your skin, leaving a burning trail. Your stomach twisted, your chest heaving as terror. You felt her teeth on your skin, it stings.

Your mind screamed. This isn't right. This can't be happening. Fear coiled tight in your stomach, turning every breath into a struggle. The warmth of her body, the intoxicated heaviness in her movements—all of it collided with the horror clawing up your throat. You wanted to run, to vanish, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to grab onto, nothing strong enough to free yourself from her grip.

Then she felt that you were awake, well, she knew, she always knew.

"Shh…it's just me." She slurred.

It didn't bring you any comfort. Your chest heaved, tears springing to your eyes as the horror and confusion collided. You sobbed quietly, trembling in her arms, praying silently for it to end.

Her rough hands slowly slid under your shirt, calloused fingers tracing patterns on your smooth skin. You squirmed instinctively, your body tense at the unwanted touch. But beneath the discomfort, there was a strange sense of…grounding, a feeling you shouldn't feel!

Your legs kicked out to push her away. Then all of a sudden, you felt her move prop herself up before a knife was pierced through your pillow making you scream.

"Don't move, angel." She said so calmly, like she didn't just almost stab your skull. She lay back down beside you again, her movements eerily calm. The knife remained lodged in the mattress, a stark warning right in front of your face.

Your tears fell silently onto the pillow, your body shaking with quiet sobs. Natasha continued to touch you, her rough fingers playing with your sensitive nipples. She kissed your shoulders, biting and licking the delicate skin. Her hands moved down to your stomach, caressing the soft flesh gently.

Eventually, your crying subsided into occasional sniffles. The last sight in your eyes was the knife that remained in the mattress, reminding you of who's in control. While Natasha continued her touches, until your breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep. She held you close, her body curved around yours protectively. She kissed your shoulder one last time before settling down, her arms wrapped tightly around you.

You woke up alone.

Just a hollow silence and the lingering echo of last night pressed into your skin. Your eyelids felt heavy, swollen, aching when you tried to open them. The world blurred for a moment, your throat was sore, scraped raw from holding back sobs.

And under it all—a numbness that frightened you more than the night itself.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, every movement stiff. That's when you saw it. Your pillow torn beside you, ripped clean open, soft stuffing scattered like snow across the sheets.

The knife was gone.

The sight made your stomach drop. The absence of the blade was somehow worse because it meant she had taken it with her. And it only reminded you how easily she could change, how quickly things could break.

You lifted a hand to your shoulder, then your arm, then your side—touching the places where she had held you too tightly, too close, too possessively. Even with her gone, your body remembered. The faint pressure. Her weight. The heat of her breath. Your lips trembled, but you didn't cry. You couldn't. It was like something inside had shut down, closed itself off. You felt nothing, just a hollow ache in your chest and a sick twist deep in your stomach.

"God…" you whispered, barely a sound. "Please…I don't know…but I know you do. I know you know what I feel and I am asking for your help to get through it."

The words came out broken, incomplete. You didn't even do the rosary. You weren't sure what you were praying for—safety, strength, escape, for her to never touch you like that again—or maybe none of it. Maybe you were just praying out of instinct because you had no idea what else to do or maybe because that's the only thing you know what to do—pray.

You stepped out of the room slowly, your heart beating fast. You weren't sure what you would see, or how she would be. Part of you was still scared, still holding onto the night like it might happen again. But when you reached the small table, Natasha was already there, sitting the way she always did, like it was just another normal morning. She looked up when you came in. She didn't look angry or drunk.

You hesitated by the chair, your fingers tight around the edge before you pulled it back. The wood scraped loudly against the floor, and the sound made you flinch. You did what you always did. You lowered your head and whispered a short prayer, even though your chest still felt empty. She stayed quiet, watching but not interrupting. When you were done and touched your food, only then did she finally start eating too.

Natasha's eyes flicked up for just a second, then stopped. Her gaze settled on your shoulder where the fabric slipped just enough to show the faint purple marks beneath. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Looks good on you," she said casually, before lowering her eyes back to her plate and continuing to eat.

Your nose flared as you pulled in a sharp breath, fighting the sudden sting behind your eyes.

Natasha felt it before she saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your breathing changed just enough to give you away. She didn't look up right away. She kept eating, slow and deliberate, as if nothing had shifted at all. But her voice dropped when she finally spoke, quiet and sharp, meant only for you.

"Don't you dare cry." She said flatly.

You froze.

Her eyes lifted then, meeting yours for the briefest moment, cold and warning. "Or I'll give you a real reason to."

The words landed heavy, sinking straight into your chest. You swallowed hard, jaw tightening as you forced everything down —the ache in your throat, the burn behind your eyes, the trembling that wanted to spill over.

Natasha went back to her food like nothing had happened. The clink of her fork against the plate filled the space between you, loud and ordinary. You stared down at your own meal, appetite gone, breath carefully controlled. You tried not to cry. You just sat there, holding yourself together, knowing she was watching even when she pretended not to be.

After eating, you stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands moving on their own as you washed the dishes. The sound of running water filled the small space, steady and ordinary, and for a moment it almost felt grounding. Almost. Then you sensed her behind you before you heard her. Your shoulders tensed, breath catching as her presence closed in, her breath brushing lightly near your ear. One of her hands came to rest at your waist, not tight, not pulling—just there—and your body stiffened on instinct.

She noticed immediately.

"Hey," she murmured, low and calm, a quiet hush meant to steady you rather than warn. She withdrew her hand, giving you space, and reached past you instead. You watched, confused, as she set something on the counter beside the sink. A rosary and a Bible, all new, all sealed. She nudged them closer to you with two fingers.

The fear you'd been holding dissolved all at once, replaced by a sharp, breathless surprise. Maybe an offering, a way of her apologizing for what she did last night.

You stared at the items, then back at the water, blinking fast as you swallowed hard. You tried to hold it back. The sudden rush in your chest, the tight flutter just beneath your ribs, the way your hands almost started to shake. You focused hard on the plate in your hands, on the warmth of the water, on breathing slowly so she wouldn't notice. Because this—this—meant more than she could ever understand. These weren't just objects on the counter. They were pieces of you. Pieces you thought were lost, taken, buried somewhere you'd never reach again.

You cleared your throat, fingers tightening around the edge of the sink as you tried to speak. "Th-Thank you," you stuttered softly, eyes fixed on the counter, on the rosary, on anything but her face.

"No kiss for it?" she said lightly, like she was joking, like it didn't matter either way.

The change of her emotions is starting to scare you at this point. Earlier, she just wants to give you a reason to cry to and now she wants a kiss?

Heat rushed to your face. For a second you considered pretending you hadn't heard, but the thought of her being mad made your chest tighten. So you rinsed your hands, turned off the tap, and took a small step toward her, just to get it over with. You leaned in and pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to her bruised cheek, careful, fast, almost clumsy. Then you pulled back immediately.

"Thank you…for this, it…it means a lot," you said again, quieter this time, still not looking at her but you tried to smile.

Natasha let out a low chuckle. As she walked away toward the room, she tossed over her shoulder, casual as anything, "This bruise I have? I got it from stealing those."

The door creaked shut a moment later, leaving you alone with the running water, the clean dishes, and the weight of what she just said settling in your chest.

After doing the dishes you stood there longer than you meant to, just staring at the rosary and the Bible on the counter. The shine on the beads, the clean edges of the pages. Stolen. That word sat heavy in your head. You haven't touched them yet. You weren't sure if you should. Your mind twisted itself into knots. Maybe you shouldn't use them. Maybe you should keep them but not open them. Or maybe…maybe God already knew how they'd end up here. Maybe He knew they'd be used for something good. That thought made you pause, unsure if it was comfort or just something you were telling yourself to survive the moment.

You didn't notice Natasha watching until she spoke. She was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp but amused. "You asking forgiveness to God on my behalf?" she said, tone lazy and teasing. "For stealing those for you?"

"You should've asked the church for it, sometimes they'd give it for free or for a very low price." You swallowed, did you just talk back? "They help people," you said quietly. "That's what churches do."

The redhead stopped short instead of leaving this time. She turned back, one brow lifting, her mouth curling into that sharp, knowing half-smile. She tapped the bruise on her cheek with two fingers, not gentle, like it didn't hurt her at all.

"Your church?" she said, voice dry. "Who did this on my face, huh?"

You flinched at the question, shoulders drawing in. You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the counter. "I…I don't know," you said quietly. "I just meant…churches help people. They don't—"

Natasha let out a short laugh. "Help people," she repeated, amused. "Yeah. Tell that to the sacristan boy who did this to my face." She leaned back against the doorway again, arms crossing loosely. "I wonder how he is in the hospital." She muttered.

You didn't ask anything else.

You looked at the rosary and the Bible on the counter and felt your chest tighten. You didn't want to know more. You didn't want to imagine what they went through before they reached you. The thought alone made you feel bad.

You woke up from your afternoon nap to the quiet and Natasha was gone again, like she usually was. You didn't need to check the door or look around to know what it meant. She wouldn't be back until late. Maybe not until midnight.

You didn't panic this time. You already knew what to do. You got up, fed yourself with whatever was easy, and cleaned the dishes right after. You moved quietly, carefully, like the walls were listening. When you were done, you went back into the room and stayed there. You didn't sit outside, you didn't wait near the door because the last time you waited for her like that, standing outside the bedroom because you were worried it ended pretty badly. The memory was enough to keep you still.

So you stayed inside the room, door closed, doing only what you had to do. When the room finally felt still enough, you took what she had left for you. The Bible and the rosary. You sat on the edge of the bed and held them like they might vanish if you didn't. Your hands trembled as you peeled away the seal on the Bible, careful not to tear anything. A small smile pulled at your lips, shaky and unsure, matching the way your mouth quivered as you breathed out slowly.

The Bible smelled new, clean, like fresh paper and something faintly sweet. You pressed it lightly to your chest for a second, eyes closing. Then you picked up the rosary. It was red, deep and warm in color, the beads smooth beneath your fingers. It smelled like oiled roses, soft and familiar in a way that made your throat tighten. You smiled anyway, even knowing how they were taken. The thought lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, but it didn't erase what they meant to you.

You turned the pages slowly, careful not to tear them. You haven't read it like this in a long time now, you don't know. Growing up, you have read it at all times, remembered a few verses by heart. Now, holding the new Bible in your hands, the verses felt alive. Some lines came back to you from memory, quiet and familiar. You traced the words with your fingers, reading slowly, feeling a peace you hadn't felt in a long time.

You read and read, completely absorbed in the words, letting them sink in like they were speaking just to you. Time slipped away without you noticing. You didn't hear the faint creak of the door opening. You were wrapped up in the pages, the verses, the quiet rhythm of reading, as if the world outside had paused and left only you and the Bible.

The sound of footsteps finally reached you, faint at first, but uneven, limping. You shot your head toward the door and froze. Her side was bleeding, a dark stain spreading through her shirt. Your chest tightened, and the Bible almost slipped from your hands.

You set the Bible down carefully and rushed to her side. Your hands grabbed the tissue from the bedside table before you even thought about it.

"Natasha!" you whispered, voice trembling. "Oh, God!" you pressed the tissue to her side as gently as you could as you guided her towards the bed.

Natasha froze, caught off guard by the intensity of your reaction. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she simply stared at you. God…you were so pure like this. So utterly unguarded, so impossibly kind. For a moment, she wanted to shrink, to pull away, to tell you it was nothing—but she couldn't. Not when your tears reflected nothing but worry for her, nothing but the kind of kindness she had long stopped believing existed.

Even after everything she'd taken from you, you were still here.

Natasha didn't feel the pain. The cut on her side was deep, a wound that should have had her gasping, trembling—but all she felt was you. She thought, this is what it felt like to be cared for—not just superficially, not just words—but completely, fully, without holding anything back. Even with the blood and the bruises, even with everything she had endured, even with everything she had done, she only felt the warmth of your touch, and it made the world feel almost bearable.

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into it, letting herself feel safe, letting herself realize how deeply someone could care for her—even after she thought she didn't deserve it.

Morning light crept across the room in thin, hesitant streaks, touching the edges of the blankets before Natasha even fully woke. She shifted slightly, wincing as the cut on her side throbbed—but that wasn't what made her eyes snap open. It was the emptiness beside her. The cold stretch of mattress where your warmth should have been. For a second she simply stared, her breath caught halfway in her chest, confusion slipping into something far harsher. And then the realization hit her all at once, a bitter, stinging rush that scorched through her veins. You were gone. You had run. She had been wounded and vulnerable last night—showed you more weakness than she had shown anyone in years—and of course, of course the first chance you got, you took it.

The betrayal felt physical, sharp enough to rival the pain in her side. Her throat tightened, her jaw locking into something hard and cold as instinct took over. Natasha practically lunged forward despite the burning in her ribs, her hand going immediately under the pillow for her gun. She didn't allow herself to think. Thinking would mean admitting it hurt. Instead she moved on adrenaline alone, pushing to her feet even though the wound protested violently. She checked the drawers of her cabinet to check if the suspicious red chemical she had to fight her life for last night was still in there, and indeed it is, with the photo of her and her sister as a kid.

She now crossed the room in harsh, determined strides. Her mind raced with possibilities, none of them good. No one would take you so one thing for sure is you had run and she would find you, and she doesn't know what she'd do once she did. She didn't want to think about how that would feel. She didn't want to think about last night—about your hands on her, the warmth of your touch, the way your voice trembled when you said her name. Fuck, you fell asleep on her shoulder! It was the first time you were that close. A fucking weakness. She had been stupid enough to let you see it. And now you are gone. She shoved the anger down like a blade she could sheath, clinging to it so she didn't have to feel everything beneath it.

Natasha slammed the door open harder than she meant to. But the sight that greeted her hit her so abruptly that it knocked the air right out of her chest. You were there, you were standing barefoot in the tiny kitchen, shoulders slightly hunched, tongue peeking from the corner of your mouth in concentration as you awkwardly set plates on the table. A small breakfast—simple, uneven, obviously rushed—was spread out in front of you.

When you heard the door shut, you jolted and turned around, eyes wide. The moment you saw her, your face broke into a relieved, little smile—like you were proud of yourself, like you were happy to see her awake. But the second your gaze dropped and noticed the gun in her hand, your expression collapsed instantly. Your shoulders lowered, your excitement drained out of you, and you instinctively stepped back, almost like a scolded child.

"I-I'm sorry," you whispered without knowing the reason why, voice small, guilt sinking into every syllable. You didn't even lift your head, scared you'd done something horribly wrong that upset her, "Please don't hurt me." You are already crying.

Natasha stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Everything inside her collided—fear, anger, relief—so tightly wound she couldn't trust her voice to speak. Her hand slid the gun behind her jeans, hiding it from your sight, hiding the instinctive panic that surged at the thought of you running.

Of losing you.

She stepped closer, each movement sharp, and yanked at your hair making you whimper. "You weren't supposed to do this," she spat, the words biting.

"You were hurt…" you cried, reaching for the hand still gripping your hair, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I just…I wanted to help. Please, I'm sorry, Natty."

For the first time in what felt like forever, something inside Natasha softened, even as her chest ached and twisted. The nickname slipped past your lips, small and tender, and it made her heart bloom with a strange, unfamiliar ache beneath her ribs. Watching you shrink under her harsh tone, she felt the impossible pull of wanting to punish you and protect you at the same time.

Suddenly, her hand came up sharply, and before you could react, it connected with your cheek. The sting burned and you flinched instinctively. She didn't wait for a response, didn't give you time to cry out.

"Go back to what you were doing."

You swallowed hard, tears threatening again and nodded, your hands trembling as you tried to focus. You lowered your head and returned to your task, your heart still hammering from the slap, the words, and the weight behind both.

After finishing everything, eating and the dishes, you reached for your Bible, expecting it to be on the counter like before. Instead, it was in Natasha's grasp. You hesitated, watching her carefully, not wanting to disturb her. You waited, patience stretching thin, but nearly thirty minutes passed and she still hadn't brought it down.

Then, almost as if she knew exactly what you were thinking, she said, "If you want it, you can get it."

"I'll just wait for you to be done," you said softly.

The redhead smirks, "So respectful, so patient. But you can still read it, you know?" she said while waving the Bible, but there was something sharper beneath it, a teasing edge you could feel even if it was subtle. You reached forward, thinking you could take it, but just as your fingers brushed the cover, she pulled it back. Your hand froze.

She looked at you, the Bible still in her hands, and gestured with a quiet insistence. "Sit on my lap," she said, voice calm but heavy with command.

You shook your head, heart pounding, uncertain, hesitant.

"No?" she smirks. Her gaze darkened, sharp and unyielding. You shook your head again and took a step back.

"Y-Your…wound…" you tried to reason.

But when she started counting, fear gripped you like ice in your chest, cold and immobilizing. Your legs shook, your hands trembled, and before you could fully think it through, your body moved on its own. You found yourself sitting on her lap, careful, tense, unsure how much of this was choice and how much was the power in her presence pushing you forward.

She hummed softly, the sound low and almost comforting, though it carried an edge that made your chest tighten. Her lips brushed the back of your head in a quick, deliberate kiss, and she murmured, "Good girl," letting the words settle over you like a strange feeling of praise and warning.

You sat in her lap, Bible in her hand, reading slowly as the words settled over you. At first, the position felt awkward, your body tense, but as minutes stretched into hours, you began to grow comfortable in her lap, feeling the steady warmth of her against you. As you turned the page, careful not to crease it, her hand moved suddenly, palming your breast, firm but not rough, and pulled you so your back rested against her front. The motion startled you, almost squirming in her grasp.

"Stay still." She just said as she lined up the Bible to your front view properly again.

As you tried your best to focus, Natasha's hand slowly slid down from your waist to your inner thighs. Without warning, she brought your legs up and out, making you straddle her thighs. The new position causes you to squirm uneasily. A strange warmth pooled in your lower belly as you felt something unfamiliar and slightly terrifying.

"Keep reading," she commanded, her hands gripping your hips to keep you in place.

Your voice cracked as you pleaded, "I'm not comfortable...please, Natty." Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Natasha's expression softened momentarily before hardening again.

"Shh...you will be."

She reached into her pocket and pulled something out, the fabric bright against her dark clothes. Before you could see what it was, she lifted it and draped it over your head, careful but firm, letting it fall until it covered your hair, your cheeks, your eyes—soft black mantilla veiling your whole face.

Your breath hitched as the cloth settled, the smell clean and faintly familiar. It made everything feel closer and quieter at the same time, like being tucked away from the room, from her gaze, from everything except the sound of her breathing behind your ear.

"Obey me, and I will be your God, and you will be my people. Do everything as I say, and all will be well." She recited slowly, like the verse was so reassuring. "What verse was that?"

"J-Jeremiah…7:23"

The woman smirks, "Good girl." Afterwards, her hand slipped inside your shirt, violating your tits without warning. You gasped softly through the mantilla veil covering your face. Then, her hand trailed down further until she reached between your legs—no underwear since the day she had taken you. Her fingers found your bare clit and began rubbing circles, you were already embarrassingly wet. A whimper slipped past your lips as an unfamiliar sensation coursed through you, muffled by the mantilla.

"Oh, Go—what...what was that?" you asked naively, not understanding the new pleasure building between your legs. Natasha's fingers continued their gentle rubbing against your sensitive clit, coaxing out more wetness and confused noises from you.

"Shh…just feel, angel."

Your head fell back against Natasha's shoulder, a desperate need to grasp onto something consuming you. But you didn't reach for her or even swat the hand that is rubbing you. Instead, you writhe, hips bucking forward involuntarily seeking for more friction.

She kept one hand on your pussy, making you whimper and buck, while her other hand remained clutching the Bible open to Jeremiah.

Your conscience finally screamed loud enough that you managed to stand on shaky legs, only to collapse onto the floor in front of the woman. As you fell to the floor, your mantilla slipped off completely, exposing your tear-streaked face and parting lips. Your mind screamed that this was wrong in so many ways, being touched like this while she held the Bible, being touched like this while not being married, and the heaviest sin of all—being touched like this by a woman.

The woman just sighed. She set the Bible down gently beside her, her eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, she unbuckled her belt, letting it fall open. A foreign red silicone shaped…like a man's genitalia came into view, attached to something she wore under her clothes—you couldn't figure out. She saw your eyes widen in shock and fear.

"Come here." Tears streamed down your cheeks as you shook your head, backing away from the red head. Natasha grabbed your mantilla off the floor and used it to pull you closer. "Stop crying," she forced you to look up at her.

"You can repent to your God later, but right now...I am your God."

She yanked your head and had you crawling through her spread thighs. She put the mantilla back over your head, but this time she folded it just above your forehead instead of covering your face completely. Natasha gently wiped the tears from your eyes with her thumbs, her touch surprisingly gentle compared to her rough handling earlier. She shushed you softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Quiet now, angel. No more crying." She tilted your head back, examining your face closely.

Without warning, Natasha grabbed your hand and forced it between her legs. She wrapped your fingers around her cock firmly, guiding your hand to stroke it slowly.

"Touch it." She pushed your head down until you were eye level with it. "Spit on it."

When you hesitated, tears still fell down your cheeks. She slapped your face lightly, "I said spit." You hesitantly leaned forward and spat on her cock twice, coating it in your spit before sucking the tip. Natasha smirked, clearly pleased by your obedience despite not giving you a direct order to put it in your mouth.

Then, the woman grabbed a handful of your hair and the mantilla, pulling your head back sharply as she pushed the dildo deeper down your throat. You gagged instantly, your eyes watering even more. She held it there, letting you feel the foreign object stretching your throat. She released your hair and pulled the dildo out of your mouth abruptly. Before you could catch a breath, she spun you around violently so that you were facing away from her. Your back slammed against her chest as she yanked you back against her lap, the mantilla falling over your face.

The warm, wet plastic of the dildo was now pressed directly against your bare pussy, coated in your own spit. Natasha wrapped her arms around your waist possessively, pulling you even closer until the toy was nestled between your folds.

"Can you feel it?" she whispered darkly in your ear.

Natasha slowly dragged the toy along your entrance, teasing your folds before abruptly pressing it against a particularly sensitive spot—the spot where she had touched you earlier. You cried this time, your legs trying to close as intense pleasure overwhelmed you.

"I'm gonna put it in." She rasps. You didn't say anything, you were trembling in her lap, your head dropped back against her shoulder. "I'm going to put it in, angel. I need you to answer me." She paused, letting the toy press against that sensitive spot.

You knew damn well that even without permission, she would have done it anyway. You whispered a trembling "yes" against her neck, your voice barely audible. She gripped the toy firmly and began to push it inside you, inch by slow inch. You moaned loudly, your hands gripping her arm tighter.

"Natty..." you cried out, feeling the toy stretch you open.

"Fuck, angel."

Your body instinctively tries to pull away from the sudden discomfort and pain. But the woman held you firmly in place, one hand gripping your hip while the other slowly pushed the toy deeper. You whimpered and adjusted, learning to bear the intrusion.

"Adjust to it, baby," Natasha whispered soothingly into your ear. Her hand moved from your hip to gently rub your stomach in comforting circles while the toy continued its slow invasion. Then, she grabbed the Bible beside her and put it in your line of view. "Continue reading."

The way you still tried reading the Bible in her hand while your face was covered with the clothed lace, while she thrusts in you was blasphemous, the way your faith didn't leave you even now.

Worshipping a God that wasn't Him. Or worse, being taught to.

Her smirk deepened, can your God see this? Can He see His angel sitting here, making scandalous sounds that can summon demons? Taken by someone like her?

She wondered how a God who was supposed to watch over the gentle could allow this kind of claiming. Her gaze dropped to you, to the way you mewled, the way you started bouncing on her lap, the way your faith hadn't saved you from her hands. You're praying, she thought, but not to Him anymore. Not really. Not when your stillness, your fear, your attention all bent toward her instead.

You passed out from the overwhelming sensation and pain sometime during it, your body finally giving in. You woke up hours later, still straddling Natasha but your front was on hers. As you tried to stand, you let out a soft whimper, your legs giving out beneath you. The pain between your legs was intense and raw, a constant reminder of what had happened.

"Shh...easy, angel."

You broke down completely, crying into her neck. Her scent surrounded you—leather, roses like the rosary she gave you. She held you tightly, one hand rubbing your back soothingly while the other pressed firmly against your lower back to keep you still.

That same night, Natasha lay still on the bed, her eyes half-closed, her breathing slow and even—just enough to make you think she was asleep. She saw a vision of you kneeling in front of the wall, clutching the rosary so tight your fingers trembled. Your whispered prayer cracked mid-sentence, swallowed by a quiet sob you tried so hard to muffle.

Natasha cannot hear every word. But she heard the guilt in your voice and the way you were begging for forgiveness. And she didn't move. She didn't reach for you. She just let you be. So she stayed still, pretending to sleep, even though your muffled crying carved its way into her chest—leaving a bruise deeper than any she came home with.

She closed her eyes tighter.

Maybe it was just a dream.

But the next morning, Natasha immediately felt it—the shift.

You didn't greet her with that soft, sleepy, awkward smile, the one that always made her pretend she wasn't secretly pleased.

And it continued like that for the next few days. You moved through the house like a shadow, soft steps, soft voice, soft everything…but never soft toward her anymore. You did your chores and you ate your meals. You now only answer with a nod and a shake of your head.

You stopped sitting beside her on the couch, choosing the farthest corner of the room instead. You didn't reach for her hand when she came home bleeding. You didn't even look at her bruises anymore. When she entered the room, you went quiet. When she left, you didn't follow her with your eyes the way you used to.

You looked at her like she was something to fear again.

When you woke up the next morning, the house was cold as usual. When you reached the kitchen, the emptiness hit you like a physical thing. Natasha wasn't there. Her seat was empty, pushed in perfectly. No breakfast waited for you, no mug of tea cooling on the counter. She hadn't waited for you to wake, hadn't hovered by the door listening to your morning prayer like she always did now. You stood in the stillness, the Bible clutched to your chest, the cross hanging loosely from your fingers.

You were praying at midday not out of routine, but out of worry—real, growing worry that had been tightening in your chest since morning. Natasha still hadn't come home. You knelt by the bed, rosary wrapped tight around your fingers, whispering every prayer you could remember just to keep from imagining the worst. You've seen her bruises, stabs, what worst can happen to her?

Then—you heard it. Heavy footsteps.

Your breath caught. Before your mind could even form a thought, your body moved on instinct. You scrambled to your feet and ran, nearly tripping over yourself as you threw the door open.

Natasha stood there, chest rising and falling from the long walk back, dust on her clothes, her wet pants, exhaustion in her eyes—but alive. Your relief was so sharp it almost hurt.

She blinked, surprised by the way you rushed toward her. For the first time again, you did that. And then she said, softly—almost like she'd been practicing the words the whole way home.

"Let's go to church."

Your lips parted, breath trembling. A tiny nod slipped out before you even realized you'd agreed. She threw you a dress and a pair of Mary Jane flats that is surprisingly your size, you wonder if those were stolen as well.

The world felt too wide after so long. Endless sky. Trees shifting in the wind. The faint hum of insects in the grass. And then—the river. Clear, moving fast over polished stones, with no bridge in sight.

So this is the view outside her trailer.

You froze at the bank, your rosary tightening painfully between your fingers. Natasha saw the way your breath faltered, the way your legs refused to step forward.

"There's no bridge," she said gently.

Your shoulders curled inward, fear creeping up despite your effort to hide it. Natasha didn't push. Instead, she took a breath, stepped in front of you, and lowered herself slightly, turning her back to you.

"Come," she murmured. "I'll carry you."

You stiffened, eyes widening. Instinct told you to refuse, to step back—but worry and relief and something softer pushed you forward. With trembling hands, you reached for her shoulders, hesitating a final heartbeat before letting your weight settle against her.

Natasha lifted you like nothing, her hands steady under your knees, your arms looped carefully around her neck. You could feel her warmth, her heartbeat, the strength in her back as she stepped into the cold river. When she set you gently down on the far bank, your face flushed hot, your heart pounding loud enough you were certain she could hear it.

The small town ahead felt impossibly real—people walking, children running, old men chatting on porches. You hadn't seen anyone but Natasha in so long. You clutched your rosary with white-knuckled hands, holding your folded mantilla close to your chest.

Natasha stayed at your side, her hand resting at the small of your back.

The parish came into view, its doors open wide, warm candlelight flickering within. As you stepped inside, the second reading was already underway. You lowered your gaze, slipping the black mantilla over your hair with trembling fingers. Natasha stood close behind, like a shadow choosing to stay near.

After mass ended, people slowly filtered out—soft chatter, shuffling feet, doors creaking as sunlight poured back into the church. You stayed kneeling, hands clutching your rosary, heart still steady in prayer. Natasha stood beside you, quiet, restless, eyes never still.

When you finally rose, you turned to her with a small, hopeful look. "Natasha…can we stay a little longer?"

"I'll be here."

You smiled at her before you went and knelt near the side altar, and let your voice fall into the familiar rhythm of the rosary. The world softened, blurred, became holy again. The beads warmed under your fingers. Your shoulders finally dropped as you whispered each mystery.

When you finished, you stood, smoothing your dress, ready to return to her side. But the pew where she sat was empty. You blinked and looked again. Then again. Your heartbeat stumbled painfully. You stepped forward, eyes scanning every passing face—families leaving, elderly women chatting, children tugging at their parents. Everyone blurred into shadows except the person you didn't see.

"Natty…?" you cried, voice cracking. People looked at you in curiosity, some were squinted for how loud you were inside the house of the Lord.

You spun toward the doors, panic rising sharp and fast in your chest. Tears welled in your eyes as you searched. Your breath hitched, your hands trembling around your rosary.

She was gone.

What you didn't know was Natasha was just about to walk out—leaving you inside. She heard the echo of her name inside the church—your call for her. When she looked behind, she saw the way you searched every corner for her instead of running, instead of escaping. Her jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists.

Because this moment was her plan.

She'd brought you here to let you go. To give you a chance to run. To free you without saying the words she couldn't bear to speak.

And yet the first thing you did when you thought she'd left was look for her.

Not escape.

Not freedom.

Her.

Natasha whispered under her breath like a prayer she didn't believe in while looking at you afar.

"Go. Just go. Run. Just fucking run. Please." She spat madly.

But you stayed exactly where she'd left you—small, trembling, eyes full of tears, calling for her.

She broke.

Her feet moved before she gave them permission, boots striking the tiled ground harder than she meant. You didn't hear her until she was right behind you. And then her arms wrapped around you from behind, warm leather and familiar scent pulling you against her chest, then guided you out of the church.

You gasped, collapsing into her hold as if your legs couldn't hold you anymore. The sob tore out of you before you could stop it.

"Where were you?" you whimpered, fingers gripping her jacket, burying your face into her shoulder. "Where did you—"

"Run," she snapped, gripping your arms hard, fingers digging in before pushing you. "Fucking go. Why don't you run?"

A few heads turned toward the sound of your crying. People nearby slowed, eyes flicking over, catching the sight of you—so small and clean compared to the tall woman who has a bruised face—clinging to her and her standing there rigid, breathing hard.

She tried to push you away again, hands coming up to your arms. She nudged you back once, then again, like she was testing how much force she was willing to use. You stumbled half a step, but before she could say anything, you went right back to her, clinging on her leather jacket as if your body had decided for you. Your grip was tight, desperate, stronger than she expected, fueled by fear and something painfully close to trust.

"Fucking go! Go away!" she now shouted, shaking you hard before shoving you with both hands. This time she didn't hold back. You stumbled and fell to the ground, palms scraping against the stone, the impact knocking the breath out of you.

For a split second, she thought that was it. That maybe being cruel enough would finally make you run. That pain would do what fear and anger couldn't.

But you didn't stay down.

You pushed yourself up almost immediately, knees shaking, face twisted with sobs, and before she could react you were back in her arms again. You hugged her tighter than before, burying your face into her clothes, crying so hard it left you gasping. Tears and snot soaked into her jacket, messy and humiliating and completely unguarded.

Her body went rigid. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to leave. You were supposed to save yourself.

Instead, you clung to her like she was the only solid thing left in the world, like being pushed away only proved how badly you needed to hold on. Her hands then stayed where they were, not pushing anymore. The difference felt thin, almost invisible, but it was there.

"It's a sin to be with me." She mumbled, jaw tight, caught between forcing you away again and holding you in place, and in the end she did neither. She just stood there and let you stay.

Then you pulled back, your face wet with tears, Natasha saw the raw fear and longing in your eyes. Then, almost instinctively, you leaned forward. Your lips pressed to hers in a trembling, messy, urgent kiss, soft but full of everything you'd been holding inside for so long—relief, fear, gratitude, and something deeper that scared you even as it burned through your chest. Your sniffles shook the brief contact, and when you broke away just enough to breathe, you pressed yourself into her again.

"Let's go back home," you whispered against her neck, voice choked with sobs. Your words were almost lost in the shivering breath, but they carried everything you felt.

When you reached home, the silence followed you inside. The door closed. The space filled with familiar stillness. She set you down gently, more carefully than before, and moved past you as if everything was the same as it had always been. You didn't mention the kiss. She didn't either. It stayed where it was, unspoken and heavy, resting in the quiet between you, as if acknowledging it might shatter whatever fragile peace had brought you back together.

But in the middle of the tense silence, Natasha suddenly turned to you. Without warning, she grabbed your face and pressed her lips to yours. You froze for a moment, but instead of pushing her away, you found yourself letting her take control.

Her hands moved swiftly, unzipping your dress with practiced ease. Before you knew it, she had scooped you up in her strong arms and carried you bridal-style over to the bed. She threw you down gently but firmly, climbing on top of you instantly. You realized you were still clutching the rosary beads tightly in your fist. The small wooden beads dug into your palm as Natasha settled between your legs, pressing you into the mattress with her body weight.

The redhead kissed along your collarbone and down your chest before suddenly switching to pepper kisses along your inner thighs. You watched through hazy eyes as she moved lower and lower, her mouth never leaving your skin.

She buried her face between your legs and started sucking your clit directly into her mouth. Her tongue dragged firmly over your sensitive spot, knowing exactly how much stimulation would make you delirious with pleasure.

"Praying to God with no panties on? Seems like mockery to me."

You let out a shaky breath as she continued her relentless assault on your clit. Your fingers tightened around the rosary beads, knuckles turning white. You tried to whisper something but your voice trailed off into a moan as she sucked harder.

She suddenly pulled away, leaving you gasping. She quickly undressed herself, tossing her clothes aside carelessly. She looked at your hands above your head and the tangled rosary in your hand before she positioned herself between your legs—her thighs pressing against yours as she rubbed her wet pussy against yours. She started grinding against you, her slick folds sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She then reached up and grabbed your hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. She intertwined her fingers with yours, trapping your hand against her chest as she continued to move against you. The beads dug into her skin, mixing with her sweat and your arousal.

After bringing you to the edge multiple times without letting you fall over, Natasha suddenly leaned down and whispered harshly into your ear.

"Cum. Now." Her command was firm and unyielding as she pressed her forehead against yours, maintaining eye contact.

You cried out loudly as you obeyed her command, your body convulsing with a powerful orgasm.

As your orgasm subsided, Natasha pressed a soft kiss to your lips then moved to your cheek, before slowly pulled away. Instead of getting up or putting space between you, Natasha surprised you by laying her head on your chest. She curled her body around yours, listening to your heartbeat slowly return to normal. You found yourself gently playing with her hair, running your fingers through the silky strands.

As a child, sin was explained to you in small, clear rules, the kind meant to shape behavior early. Don't take what isn't yours, even if it's just a coin from the table or an extra candy. Don't lie when asked who broke the glass, even if telling the truth meant punishment. Don't raise your voice when you're angry, don't roll your eyes, don't question adults who speak with authority even if you think they're wrong—because they know better than you. Keep your hands still, keep your thoughts clean, don't linger on curiosity about your own body. Don't compare your life to others who seemed more blessed, more loved, more seen. And woven quietly into all of it was another rule, treated as obvious truth—a man is for a woman, and a woman is for a man. Anything else wasn't discussed. It didn't need to be. You were simply taught it wasn't right.

When you failed, the lesson was always the same. Pray and be quiet—try harder next time. You were taught that sin wasn't something to understand, only something to control. Something you could press down with discipline, with routine, with obedience, until it stayed buried. You learned to watch yourself constantly, guarding your own heart like it was a problem waiting to happen, believing that goodness meant keeping everything contained and unseen.

But this—this wouldn't stay contained.

No matter how much you tried to deny it, it surfaced in the way your chest tightened when she was near, in the way your body relaxed when she touched you, in the way your thoughts returned to her even when you begged them not to. You tried to name it anything else, good, bad things. Anything but what it was reaching toward. You wanted to deny it because admitting it means crossing a line you were never meant to see, let alone step over.

And yet the question wouldn't leave you alone. Not whispered by father's sermon, not shouted by guilt, but asked softly from somewhere honest and afraid inside you.

Is this love you felt? Not for a man—but for a woman.

You didn't know. You only knew it refused to be hidden the way you were taught sin should be.

"You're sinning," she said—but somehow, even that sounded beautiful.

After that, you stopped running from it. You started seeking her instead. You leaned into her touch, waited for it, missed it when it wasn't there. Sometimes you were the one who moved first, closing the space between you, letting things unfold without stopping them.

What followed was never gentle or calm. It left you both breathless, tangled together, you learned about her toys, but you prefer her fingers more inside you. There were tears mixed with pleasure, relief tangled with guilt, but you kept coming back to her anyway.

You knew what you were doing. You knew what it meant.

You're sinning.

One quiet morning, you were eating breakfast together after a long, long night.

"It's tuesday," she said, she looked at you for a long moment, brow slightly raised, and then checked her watch. "Do you wanna go to church?"

You nodded, heart fluttering, "Yeah!"

"Go finish your food."

Your chest lifted with a mix of relief and excitement. You quickly got ready, folding the little things you needed into a small bag, careful not to make too much noise. She watched you from the doorway, her expression unreadable but calm, the usual weight of her presence always watching you.

When you reached the river, you froze, unsure how you'd cross without getting swept away. Natasha just smirked, bending down slightly. "You know what to do, angel," she said, and before you could argue, she lifted you effortlessly onto her back. You squealed, half in fear as she waded into the water.

The current tugged at her boots, but she didn't falter, keeping you safe above the flow. You both laughed—nervous, breathless, the sound spilling into the open air—as she steadied herself. You clutched her shoulders tightly, feeling her steady heartbeat against your hands and the world felt small and bright all at once.

Once you reached the other side, she didn't put you down. Instead, she carried you piggyback through the forest. When she finally set you down on your feet, your legs felt wobbly, almost like you'd forgotten how to stand on your own. Your heart pounded in your chest, you were nervous and excited as your eyes dragged across the town. The redhead noticed immediately and didn't let go of your hand.

"Stay close," she murmured and you nodded, squeezing her hand back without realizing it.

Together, you stepped into the bustling market, the air full of voices, clanging pots, the scent of fresh bread and spices. People jostled past, shouting prices and greetings, and your chest tightened with the unfamiliar crowd. You wandered slowly, hand still in hers, letting yourself take in the chaos without fear for the first time.

At one stall, someone offered free tastes of strawberries and you couldn't help but say no to free foods! You took one and bit into it, juice sweet on your tongue, sticky on your fingers. Excitedly, you turned to her, holding the strawberry near her mouth, eyes bright, wanting to share it with her. Instead of taking it, she leaned in and kissed you—soft, quick, unexpected. When you blinked, the moment lingered in the air between you, sweeter than any strawberry you'd ever tasted.

Your cheeks burned, a soft blush spreading across your face as you held her hand. The moment felt quiet and sweet—until a group of kids ran up behind you.

"Can we braid your hair?" they asked, they looked at Natasha like she could make their little wish come true with just a smile.

You glanced at her, unsure what she'd say, but the kids were so cute and eager it made your heart lift.

Natasha froze, glancing at you with a small frown, "Me?" she mouthed, clearly not interested in being the center of attention.

You tugged gently at her hand, whispering, coaxing her softly. "Come on…it wouldn't take long."

"Fine," she said quietly, letting the kids gather around her.

As the kids braided her hair, Natasha kept looking at you, eyes asking for help. You could only giggle, covering your mouth, feeling both amused and helpless. She just gave a small shrug and you kept laughing.

When the kids finally stepped back, brushing their hands together and admiring their work, Natasha looked at you, hair braided with little flowers tucked in between the strands.

You couldn't help but smile between laughs. This tall woman who is wearing nothing but black, had her hair braided and styled with little flowers on. "You look…cute."

She glanced at you, sighing like a kid, but the warmth in her eyes told you she liked hearing it. And in the middle of your moment one of the kids, shy but bold, looked up at you with wide eyes and asked.

"Can I get a kiss from you, ma'am?"

Natasha's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare. Where did this kid come from?! Before she could do anything, your hands shot out, tugging her gently and stepping in front of her. You pressed her behind your back, shielding her with your small frame, your own heart racing as you scolded.

"Natty…it's a kid."

You heard her grumble and that's when you faced her. "Behave." But the taller woman just scowled and it made you giggle once more, she looked like a child! "Are you jealous of the kid?"

"No, I am not!" she said, her eyes throwing daggers on the poor boy behind you.

The little boy blinked at her, but then you finally turned and as you bent down, you kissed your forefinger, then touched it to his chubby cheek before ruffling his hair gently.

Without a word, Natasha grabbed your hand and pulled you along. You ran together through the stalls, laughing breathlessly, letting her lead as the market faded behind you.

You kept running, until the streets began to open and the familiar steeple of the parish came into view. Your chest heaved, but a rush of relief washed over you as you slowed, finally letting your feet carry you to the heavy wooden doors.

"Do you…want to get inside?" you glanced up at her, heart still racing from the run.

She looked back at you for a moment, her usual sharp gaze softened and then she nodded.

You two walked in quietly and went into the nearest pew. You finally let go of your hands as you lowered yourself slowly on your knees. Your forehead touching your interlaced fingers. The quiet of the church settled over you like a blanket.

Natasha's gaze slowly lifted from you, drifting toward the altar at the front of the parish. Her eyes traced the lines of the cross, lingering on the image of Jesus, the soft light catching the edges of the carved wood. She stared at the altar, letting her thoughts drift. Is this guy even real? But she didn't question it anymore—not the stillness, not the quiet, not the way you were there, kneeling before him…not her. For a moment, she simply looked, silent, before slowly closing her eyes, letting herself pause there as if she was holding some unspoken thought or prayer between the folds of her mind.

She was so lost in her prayer—though she'd never admit it—that she didn't notice you quietly settled beside her. When she finally opened her eyes, she blinked and saw you smiling at her.

"Hi…" you grinned, nudging your shoulders to hers. "What were you doing?"

She shrugged, crossing her arms. "Nothing."

"You were praying," you teased, grinning.

"No? I'm…just resting my eyes," she murmured, trying to sound casual.

"Yes, you were," you insisted, nudging her shoulder again, and her lips twitched, betraying the smallest flicker of a smile. You tilted your head. "So… what were you praying for?" you moved closer to her as you waited for her to answer.

But the woman just looked at you—straight into your eyes, tracing the curve of your smile with that steady, unreadable gaze. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you and in that quiet, unspoken way, it was clear.

You may not know but the answer to your question was already here—you.

In fact, she didn't need to pray at all. She'd done all the work to have you—every step, every risk, every control—and in her mind, she was the one who shaped this, who held it. She didn't need God.

She is God.

But still…she prayed to Him.

She thanked Him.

She never broke eye contact with you, but then she looked at the altar then back to you. "Do you think…if I kissed you in front of Him, He'd be mad?"

"The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Psalm 145:8," your voice trembled just a little as you recited the verse, but the words carried certainty. "He doesn't get angry at love…He wants it, in all its forms."

"Then do you? Want it?" she whispered, her voice low, almost unsure, and for a heartbeat, doubt flickered in your eyes. "Aren't you afraid?"

You drew in a slow breath, letting the echo fade. Your fingers lifted on their own, brushing her cheek.

"There is no fear in love," you said softly, eyes never leaving hers. "Perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. And the one who fears is not made perfect in love."

But the moment was already moving faster than thought. Before the words could completely root in your mind, your lips met hers, soft and urgent, messy and real. When you finally pulled away, your breath was uneven, your forehead still resting against hers.

That was when you noticed it.

Her eyes kept drifting away from you, just for a second at a time, down to her watch. Each glance felt small on its own, but together they built something heavy in your chest.

"I don't wanna go home yet," you murmured, almost to yourself.

She looked at you and smiled before shaking her head, "No, baby, we're not going home. Don't worry."

There was something in the way she said it that felt off, something sharp beneath the warmth. But you didn't think much about it.

The woman reached out again, thumb brushing your cheek, warm and careful. "So…if we get married," she said quietly, nodding toward the altar, "in front of Him…do you think He'd be mad?"

You huffed a small breath, trying to lighten it. "Why do you care about what he'll think of?" you giggle that made the redhead fake a gasp, "What about you gotta have a ring for that first?"

Her smile shifted, slower and certain.

Without a word, she reached into her pocket. She took your hand gently and slid a ring onto your finger. The cool metal settled there like it had always belonged. You blinked at it, then up at her, a small laugh escaping you.

"It's too big," you whined, "And you gotta put the ring when we're together at the altar, silly," you said, half teasing, half nervous. Looking at the simple ring on your finger.

"It's the one you're going to give me," she replied simply before waving a smaller ring, "I have yours." Then she stood and tugged you up with her, already guiding you toward the aisle.

When you reached the middle, she stopped. Her hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and you leaned into her palm without thinking. Her voice softened. "Go. You go from the doors and I'll wait for you at the altar." You giggled, the sound light and breathless, and nodded before turning away. She watched you run toward the doors, your steps quick and uneven with excitement, then turned and walked the rest of the way herself.

When she reached the altar, she checked her watch one last time. Then she turned to look back.

There you were. Standing at the doors, stunning without even trying, waving at her like this was the easiest thing in the world. Her breath caught. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She smiled through it.

Then she laughed, quietly, like she couldn't believe any of this was real—and that somehow, impossibly, it was.

You were about to take your first step towards her when a voice cut through the quiet and called your name.

You turned and your breath caught when you saw them.

"Mom?"

Your feet wouldn't move. You stayed frozen as she reached you and wrapped her arms around you, holding you hard, like she was afraid you might disappear again if she let go. Your sister hovered close, eyes scanning you, relief and fear tangled together.

"W-What are you doing here?"

"We got a call from a stranger, giving us information that we will find you here." Your sister said, taking a hold of your cheek.

You tried to look back over your shoulder.

Natasha was still there, standing at the altar, exactly where she had said she'd wait. She didn't move. She just watched.

Then you saw it—her lips curved into a small, quiet smile. Seeing it made your chest tighten and the tears you'd been holding back finally slipped free, rolling down your cheeks. You couldn't stop them, and you didn't want to.

Your family hovered close, voices soft, worry in every word, hands reaching to check if you were okay. But your eyes stayed locked on her, refusing to look anywhere else.

You wanted to call her, to run to her, to close the distance in an instant. Everything just felt fast, jumbled, like the world had gone loud with your own heartbeat. Sounds were muffled, voices blending into a dull hum and every thought scrambled over the next, there were voices, cries, then there were sirens.

And the moment you finally blinked, even for that one bit second, she was gone.

Six years later...

Though it didn't feel like it. Time had a way of slipping past, unmarked, until one day you realized you were included to those who had been blipped.

Now, you were kneeling on the cool soil, hands pressed to the earth, staring at a gravestone that carried a weight your heart still struggled to hold.

The black mantilla she had given you is placed over your head draped softly around your shoulders. The fabric still carried the faint scent of her—a leather and a rose—a memory pressed into cloth. Carefully, you adjusted the small items that were left by people and the ones you'd brought.

You moved with the quiet care of someone who had done this many times in their head before ever doing it in real life. Straightening the flowers. Brushing dirt from the stone. Adjusting the veil she had given you so it didn't slip from your hair. Anyone watching would have thought you were a grieving wife, tending to the grave of the person you loved most.

And maybe, in every way that mattered, you were.

Natasha Romanoff

Daughter. Sister. Avenger.

A Wife.

bilsova

this was amazing. 10/10.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs