When Natasha is captured by Hydra, she expects pain, interrogation and silence. She doesn’t expect the woman assigned to break her to be just another prisoner wearing a different kind of chain. Blackmailed, controlled and forced to obey, you’re walking a razor’s edge between survival and betrayal. In a cell built for monsters, trust becomes the most dangerous weapon of all and the only way out may require destroying the man who holds both their lives in his hands.
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI!, torture, blood, Stockholm syndrome, making out, trauma
Word count: 9,5 k
A/N: Based on this request here. I’ve never written Stockholm before, so I hope it somehow makes sense. I had to split it into two parts because it’s about 20k words in total. The next part will be posted tomorrow (Monday) at the same time. Afterwards, requests will be closed so I can fully focus on my new series!
Natasha leaned back against the cold interior wall, gloved fingers drumming a soundless rhythm against her thigh holster. Below them the city sprawled dark veins of streets lit in orange. Somewhere in that maze, Hydra had a bunker full of stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. intel and a data broker who knew how to use it.
“Three minutes.” came the pilot’s voice over the comms.
Steve was going over the plan again, “Sam, rooftop sweep. Wanda, you’re with me on the entry. Natasha-”
“Ventilation shaft, east side.” she finished, pushing off the wall. “Get in, find the server, ghost out with the hard drive before anyone notices. I remember.”
Sam snorted. “She just wants the vents. Spiders and spiders.”
“Bird jokes from the man in wings.” Natasha replied. She felt the faint twitch at the corner of Steve’s mouth even through the helmet. He passed her one last look and she gave him a short nod in return and checked her gear.
The quinjet dipped and the building came into view through the hatch window, “Intel said minimal resistance.” Wanda murmured.
“Yeah, well..” Natasha said, “intel’s been wrong before.”
The hatch opened with a hiss. Cold air and the faint tang of smoke rushed in. Sam was off first, wings flaring in the night. Steve and Wanda jumped together, dropping toward the shadowed alley beside the compound.
Natasha went last, stepping cleanly out into the dark. “Widow in position.” she whispered.
“Copy.” Steve’s voice crackled in her ear. “On your mark.”
She moved low along the rooftop, hugging the shadows beyond the sweep of the security lights. Up close, the place looked wrong. The outer patrols were lazy and cameras turned on predictable arcs.
“Anyone else getting a bad feeling?” she muttered.
“Bad how?” Sam said.
“Like they cleaned the house before we got invited over.”
She found the vent near the east corner, just where the schematics said it would be. The grate was newer than the surrounding metal, almost polished. She didn’t like that either.
She popped the cover, slid into the shaft and let the darkness close around her. She moved silently, elbows and knees flowing like water, counting turns, counting moments.
Two ducts down, a left turn, and she had a perfect view of the corridor leading to the server room through a narrow slotted vent. Empty, no guards and the keypad on the reinforced door glowed a steady green.
Nope.
“Steve.” she hissed. “Change of plans. This is a setup.”
“Define setup.” Steve said.
“Define ‘no guards on the most important room in the building.’ I’m backing out.”
A faint click sounded behind her in the shaft and her body reacted before her mind finished processing: she twisted, knees bracing, hand flying to her belt. A thin mist burst into the vent from a hidden nozzle above her and a cold metallic-smelling spray that hit her face, her eyes, her throat.
Natasha held her breath instantly, lungs burning as she slammed an elbow into the side of the duct. She shoved herself forward anyway, pushing through the chemical fog, vision already starting to smear at the edges. Her head felt too light and way too heavy.
“Natasha?” Steve again, louder this time. “Natasha, talk to me.”
She couldn’t pull enough air to answer. The muscles in her chest spasmed, reflex forcing a shallow inhale. The gas scorched its way into her lungs and fireworks went off behind her eyes. She kept moving. Just a little.. but the world swayed, metal shifting under her palms like liquid.
Her hand slipped and her shoulder slammed into the vent wall. Her limbs suddenly felt far away, like they belonged to someone else. The last coherent thing Natasha registered was the faint echo of boots on metal above the shaft and the sense, distant and darkly amused, that her bad feeling had been right. Then the world dropped out from under her.
She woke to pain. Her shoulders throbbed with a bright, steady burn and her arms were stretched above her head, pulling at the sockets. Cold seeped in through the back of her suit and the air smelled like bleach, rust, and something coppery and old that she knew too well.
She cracked her eyes open and the light made halos around itself, her vision still swimming. Her boots were on, she could feel the edge of the sole scraping the floor barely.
They had her suspended, chains running from metal cuffs at her wrists up to a bracket in the ceiling. Her toes just brushed the concrete, enough to send a faint tremor up her legs as she tried to take some of the weight off her arms. They’d stripped her of her gear. No belt, no stingers, nothing. Even her earrings were gone.
She rolled her head, slow and careful, taking in the room. Four concrete walls, one heavy metal door with a bolted lock and no handle on the inside. A table along one wall with neat rows of…tools. She didn’t look too long at those. A camera in the corner, red light blinking.
She shifted her weight, testing the give in the chains. They clinked faintly but didn’t rattle in any way that said loose bolts. Her shoulders burned brighter at the movement. Behind the hum of the light and her own breathing, she could make out faint sounds through the walls. Distant footsteps, a muffled shout, too distorted to make out words.
Suddenly, metal scraped on the other side of the door and Natasha’s gaze snapped to it. Her body shifted, feet bracing as much as they could on the slick concrete. She let her face smooth out, for all that the light overhead made every line sharper.
The lock clanked and the heavy door swung inward with a slow, grating squeal. The man who stepped in first was flanked by two armed guards in black tactical gear, the stylized Hydra emblem on their shoulders. Their weapons stayed low, not quite pointed at her, but she could tell by the set of their hands: ready.
The men walked with an easy, practiced confidence, hands behind his back, dark hair combed neatly away from his forehead. His suit was too well tailored for this concrete hole, dark fabric catching just enough of the light to look expensive rather than shiny.
He stopped a few feet from her, close enough that she could smell his cologne under the bleach and rust and he smiled.
“Agent Romanoff.”
The voice hit first. It reached past the pain, past the flickering light, and grabbed at an older memory. Natasha’s lips curved, just barely. “You really need a new hobby.” she said.
Surprise flashed across his face before the smile widened. “Ah. You do remember.” He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen on a table. “I take that as a compliment. Considering how many you put in the ground.”
It came back in shards. Years ago, a Hydra facility in the Caucasus mountains. A list of names and accounts tying half a dozen senators to Hydra’s payroll. A man in a lab with a disarming smile and a mind for systems, not weapons. He’d used information like a blade, dividing and gutting organizations with a few keystrokes and one whisper in the right ear.
She’d put a bullet through his shoulder then, watched him go down bleeding, before he vanished into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. S.H.I.E.L.D., which had been riddled with Hydra like a corpse full of maggots..Of course he’d gotten out.
“Last time I saw you..” Natasha said slowly, “you were handcuffed to a hospital bed, ranting about restructuring intelligence ecosystems. I have to say, the decor hasn’t improved.”
His eyes glittered, “You should remember my name if you’re going to mock me.” he chided. “Morozov, but Hydra preferred ‘Architect.’”
“Cute.” Natasha said. “Does it come with a business card?”
One of the guards shifted, jaw tightening at her tone. Morozov noticed, but he didn’t look away from her.
“I heard you died.” she went on. “Burned facility, missing body, the usual drama. I was almost disappointed.”
Morozov stepped closer, not enough to be in reach, he knew better than that but enough that the details sharpened: the faint grey at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Time had worked on him, but not softened him.
“Hydra does many things poorly.” he said. “Recruitment, public relations, basic sanity. But we excel at survival. You should know. You survived us too.”
He let that hang there for a moment and Natasha met his gaze without flinching. “I walked out.” she said. “You crawled.”
He laughed quietly, “You always did prefer violence to conversation, Agent Romanoff.” he said. “Which is…unfortunate.”
He turned away, strolling toward the table of tools along the wall. He trailed a finger along the metal surface, not touching anything yet. “I have a problem.” he said conversationally. “You could help me solve it.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you gassed me in a ventilation shaft.” she replied.
“Your friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. what’s left of them have something I want. Access to old databases, old files, buried operations. Hydra ghosts still walking in borrowed skin. Your new family, the Avengers, built a lot of their infrastructure on the rubble. I want it all.”
Natasha went very still. “You broke into our systems before.” Morozov continued. “You know the framework. You know where the cracks are. You know the people.” He glanced up at her. “And you even volunteered your phone once, if I recall.”
Her mouth felt dry. That little piece of past resurfacing in a present she did not like. “And you think..” she said slowly, “that if you hang me from the ceiling long enough, I’ll just hand you the keys?”
His smile thinned. “I think..” he said, “that everyone breaks. The question is how much you take with you when you do.”
“You really think SHIELD’s going to leave access codes lying around in my head?” she said. “That I have Avengers fail-safes memorized like grocery lists? You’re outdated, Architect. The world moved on without you.”
Morozov watched her for a long beat, eyes searching her face. Then he sighed, as if genuinely disappointed.
“I suspected as much.” he said. “You’re not a database..You’re leverage.”
He set the tablet down again with a soft click and turned toward the door. “Bring her.” he said to someone outside.
Natasha shifted her weight again, chains jingling faintly. “What, getting your hands dirty yourself is too much effort these days?” she asked. “I thought Hydra believed in initiative.”
He paused at the threshold, half turned. “Oh, I’ve learned to delegate.” he said. “Interrogation is an art, but it’s also..exhausting. And I have much larger structures to maintain.”
The door opened wider and for a moment, all Natasha could see was the darker rectangle of the hall beyond. Then boots stepped carefully over the threshold. The person who entered was different from the guards. Leaner build, a little shorter. Dressed in black tactical gear that fit just a bit too well, like it had been adjusted and readjusted to someone who’d grown into it fast.
“Agent L/N.” Morozov said, as if introducing someone at a dinner party. “Meet Natasha Romanoff. Natasha, this is the woman who is going to ask you some very important questions.”
You didn’t flinch at the way he said it. You stood very straight, hands clasped behind your back and from this angle, Natasha could see the faint, yellowing shadow of a bruise peeking above the high collar of your suit, the edge of what looked like a metal band around your throat, mostly concealed by fabric. Some kind of restraint? Control device?
Natasha filed it away, expression giving nothing. Morozov stepped between them, turning slightly so Natasha could see both their faces. His hand settled on the younger woman’s shoulder with casual familiarity that made her shoulders pull even tighter.
“If you don’t cooperate..” he said to Natasha, voice almost gentle, “it will not be easy. For either of you.” His thumb pressed, just for a second, into muscle, a reminder. “I would strongly advise you to consider that before you get creative.”
Natasha looked from his hand to his face, then to the girl’s eyes, “Here’s a fun fact.” she said. “Threatening me with other people stopped working a long time ago.”
The lie tasted bitter in her mouth and Morozov’s smile didn’t move. “We’ll see.”
He walked to the door and the guards followed. One of them glanced at Natasha as he passed, eyes briefly meeting hers, before snapping forward again. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy clang.
Natasha and you were alone and for a moment, neither of them moved. The chain above Natasha creaked softly as her weight shifted, her muscles trembling with the effort of staying upright.
You took a slow breath and your shoulders dropped a fraction, the rigid set easing just enough to show how tense you been standing in front of Morozov.
You moved, not toward Natasha, not immediately. First, you crossed to the wall opposite the camera. You didn’t look up at it, but you angled your body just so, giving it a clear profile as you reached for the table.
Natasha watched every detail: the way your fingers curled around the edge of the metal, the slight tremor that ran through your hand before you forced it still. The way you picked up a pair of latex gloves from a box, rolling them on with practised efficiency. Then you picked up a scalpel. Its blade flashed once under the strip light, a cold, clean line and you turned.
The chain above Natasha’s head groaned again as she adjusted her stance, trying to ease the throbbing in her shoulders.
“You’re quiet.” Natasha said, voice low, conversational. “New to this? Or just shy?”
You stopped a meter away, right at the edge of Natasha’s reach. Your fingers tightened on the scalpel’s handle, just enough that the knuckles.
“Talking won’t help you.” You said.
Natasha arched a brow. “Debatable. It’s helped me plenty in the past.”
Your gaze flicked to her wrists, the red skin, the already-forming bruises. Something flashed in your eyes, anger maybe, or disgust, but it shuttered almost instantly.
You took one more step closer and Natasha rolled her shoulders as much as the chains allowed, “Okay then.” she said softly. “Let’s get this over with.”
By the fourth day, the room knew her.
It knew the pattern of Natasha’s ragged breathing, the creak of the ceiling bracket when her weight shifted, the rhythm of chains grinding in their anchor. It knew the stain her blood made when it dried and got washed away and dried again. Bleach and copper and sweat had sunk into the pores of the concrete.
And it knew the sound of your boots. You’d come in twice a day, every day, like clockwork. Each time a little more composed, a little more efficient. You spoke rarely, hands doing most of the talking, tightening restraints, checking her pulse, adjusting the angle of the chains to expose new targets and give old ones a chance to swell and bruise.
You were careful and you knew exactly how long to hold the stun baton to leave muscles twitching and useless without stopping her heart. You knew exactly where to put the blade so cuts bled just enough, shallow and ugly, never deep enough to risk losing your subject. You broke skin, not bones. You made pain, not permanent damage.
Hydra liked their assets alive and Natasha hung from the ceiling and let herself be a problem. Pain moved through her in waves: electric fire along her side where the baton had kissed ribs; a steady throb in her shoulders; the sting of thin cuts along her forearms and thighs, each one a bright little nerve buzzing under her skin. Sweat plastered red hair to her temples; her suit hung open from the sternum up, fabric peeled back so you had access to skin.
You didn’t meet her eyes much at first. You kept your gaze on your hands, on the tools, on the places your orders said to hurt. Your expression behind your eyes stayed flat, controlled, but you were too young to hide everything.
The first time you pressed the baton to her side, your hand shook. Only a little but you felt the tremor in the current. By day four, the tremor was mostly gone. You had a script, “Facility locations.” you said now, tone flat. You reached for the small bottle and cloth again, dampening it. Disinfectant dabbed carefully at the slice you’d just opened along her bicep. “Old S.H.I.E.L.D. fallback sites, anywhere that survived the purge.”
Natasha let the silence stretch and you dabbed a little harder than necessary. She hissed, a soft exhale between her teeth.
“Avengers’ secure channels.” you went on, as if ticking items off a list. “Protocols. Off-site weapon caches. Emergency extraction contacts. How you get out when you fall.”
Natasha let her head loll, eyes closing, chains creaking above. “You want my Netflix password too?” she rasped. “Maybe I’ll start with that.”
The corner of your eye twitched. It was small, but it was there and your gloved fingers pressed the cloth to the wound. “You’re not helping yourself.” you said.
“Not my habit.” she replied.
You stepped back, tossing the stained cloth into a metal bin. The scalpel returned to its spot on the table with a soft clink. You wiped the blade down with practiced motions, disinfectant pad whispering over steel. Natasha watched your shoulders as you worked. The way they hunched slightly, like you were bracing for something that never came from her.
From behind you, the lock on the door clanked and you went very still. Natasha felt the change in you like a shift in air pressure. Your spine straightened, your chin angled toward the door and the hand holding the scalpel tightened, then loosened quickly, as if you remembered the camera, remembered eyes.
The door swung open and Morozov’s silhouette filled the frame for a second before he stepped in. No guards this time, he didn’t need them with her hanging half-conscious and you between them. His gaze flicked over the room, taking in the tools, the blood, the sheen of sweat on Natasha’s skin.
“Progress?” he asked lightly.
“She’s resistant,” you said. Your voice held the same professional flatness, but Natasha heard the edges of it, the way the words ran a little too fast, like you were eager to get them out and done. “But she’s tiring. The pain will…slow her thinking.”
Morozov’s eyes slid to Natasha and she let her head stay down. He took a step closer, shoes clicking on concrete.
“Hmm.” he murmured. “She looks…impressive.”
His hand reached out and fingers brushed a line where you’d opened skin along Natasha’s forearm. Not touching the wound, he wasn’t stupid but close enough to feel the heat.
“Romanoff.” he said, almost fond. “You never disappoint. Still nothing to say?”
Natasha let a small, broken laugh escape. “You talk enough for both of us.” she whispered. “Have you considered therapy? Might help with the god complex.”
He smiled, “She’s still lucid.” he noted to you, as if she weren’t even there. “Good. Don’t break her too quickly. Valuable assets are more fun when they know what they’re losing.”
He turned his full attention to you then. Natasha watched your body react before your face did. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly and you shifted your weight like you wanted to step back and forced yourself not to.
Morozov closed the distance between you with casual familiarity. You held your ground, but Natasha could see the fight in every rigid line of you.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, tone smooth. “You’ve made impressive strides this week.”
His hand came up and without asking cupped your cheek. His fingers slid along the line of your jaw. From the camera’s angle, it probably looked affectionate. A mentor praising a promising protégé.
From where Natasha hung, she saw the way your eyelids twitched. The quick flare of your nostrils as you forced yourself to breathe slow.
“I had my doubts when they brought you to me.” Morozov went on soft and his thumb pressed a little harder against your cheekbone. “Damaged goods are…unreliable. But you learn fast and you understand consequences.”
Your gaze stayed fixed on some point just over his shoulder. Natasha tracked it: the camera.
“I understand..” you said.
“Do you?” His fingers trailed lower, briefly touching the high collar of your suit where it hid the metal band at your throat. Natasha saw the barest flicker of blue beneath the fabric, like a device light catching breath.
You froze just for a heartbeat. Then forced yourself to swallow, the movement visible against his hand. “Good.” Morozov murmured. “Because if she doesn’t start talking soon, I’ll need to make an example.” His eyes lifted and meet yours. They had gone flat and cold.
Natasha felt your reaction in the air, more than saw it. A sharp, invisible recoil and for the first time since you’d walked into this room days ago, real fear flashed across your eye.
Morozov smiled, satisfied and patted your cheek lightly, like rewarding a dog. “Keep at it.” he said, “I expect results.”
He turned and walks back toward the door without another glance at Natasha. He reached for the handle and left with a pleasant, “Carry on.” the door closing behind him with the now-familiar clang.
You didn’t move for a few seconds. You stayed exactly where he’d left you, shoulders squared toward the door, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Then, slowly, you turned back to her.
Natasha lifted her head, meeting your gaze. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been a moment ago. The mask of pain shifted into something cooler, more intent.
“He always this handsy with his employees?” she asked. “Do you all get the deluxe package, or are you special?”
You jolted, it wasn’t a big motion just a small, startled jerk like someone had snapped fingers in front of your face. Your grip tightened on the scalpel you’d almost forgotten you were still holding.
“I thought you were out.” you said, too quickly.
“Sorry to disappoint.” Natasha’s mouth tugged up at one corner. “I don’t nap well to the sound of people threatening to fry their own agents.”
A flush rose along your neck, visible just above the collar. You stepped toward her, anger flaring as a shield. “You don’t-” you started, then cut yourself off. Your eyes hardened. “You heard what you were supposed to hear.”
“Oh?” she said softly. “Because what I heard was ‘she’s damaged goods’ and ‘I can’t touch the Avenger, so I’ll hurt the girl instead.’” She rolled her wrists in the cuffs slightly, chain clinking. “That about sum it up?”
Your jaw clenched. “You should focus on yourself.” you snapped. “You’re not here to analyze me.”
“Funny.” Natasha murmured. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all week.”
Your fist moved before your brain caught up. The punch caught her in the ribs, just under one already bruised welt. She grunted, body jolting against the chains, breath hitching. Pain flared hot and bright behind her eyes, but she rode it out, sucking air through her teeth.
You stared at your own gloved hand like it had betrayed you. Then you curled it into a fist at your side.
“Keep talking..” you said, quieter now, “and it’s going to get worse.”
“You keep pretending you like this..” Natasha shot back, “and it’s going to get worse for you.”
Something went very still in your face. For a second, the mask slipped. Behind it she saw a flash of something she knew too well: bone-deep exhaustion, threaded with a kind of quiet, shaking terror that had nothing to do with the person in front of you. Then it was gone and you stepped back, turning away, busying yourself with wiping an already-clean instrument.
“I don’t care if you talk.” you said. Your voice had gone flat again. “I just care if you answer.”
You didn’t turn back around and Natasha let her head rest briefly against her raised arms, feeling her pulse hammer in her wrists against the metal.
“Yeah..” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “That’s the problem.”
You left her like that, hanging, muscles screaming, skin stinging without another word, the door slamming shut behind you, leaving only the buzzing light and the echo of your footsteps.
By the seventh day, the bruises had started to overlap. There was no more clean skin for you to work with on her torso, so you went for the legs, the arms, carefully avoiding major arteries. Electrical burns marked her side in ugly, blotched arcs. Her wrists were raw and her voice was rough from dehydration and disuse.
She still hadn’t given you anything useful.
Bits of false intel, trivial things, fragments that led nowhere. Names of defunct safe houses. Outdated codes that would set off silent alarms the second anyone tried to use them. Enough to keep you from looking completely ineffective on the camera feed. Not enough to be called cooperation. You came in that morning walking stiff, like you’d slept on concrete. There was a new bruise high on your cheekbone, someone had hit you with a ring on.
“You know..” Natasha rasped, “you’re going to run out of real estate eventually. Maybe just paint me? Save time.”
“Shut up.” you muttered.
You picked up the baton and for a second, your thumb hovered over the activation switch. Then you set it back down with more force than necessary and reached for the scalpel instead.
“I’ve been thinking.” Natasha continued, ignoring the way the blade gleamed. “Dangerous habit, I know.”
You walked toward her and the scalpel rested between your fingers. Your eyes were dark, shadowed, like you hadn’t slept.
“Maybe I misjudged you.” she said. “You’re not Hydra.”
“Excuse me?” you said slowly.
“You heard me.” Natasha said. “Hydra likes zealots. People who believe the lie so hard they’re happy to die for it. That isn’t you.”
You took the last step, as if sheer forward motion could undo the moment of hesitation. You stood close enough that she could see the faint freckles on the bridge of your nose, the tiny scar near your left brow.
“What am I then?” you asked.
She looked down deliberately at the metal band at your throat, the faint bruising where it met skin. Then at the mark on your cheek.
“Leverage.” she said. “Just like me.”
You swallowed. “The collar?” she went on, tone conversational, like they were chatting in a café instead of a cell. “That’s not Hydra fashion. That’s a control device. Probably shock-based, maybe with a tracker built in. You don’t put that on loyal agents, you put it on assets you can’t afford to lose.”
Your free hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing the collar under your suit. You caught yourself halfway and forced your hand back down.
“Stop.” you said.
“The bruise on your cheek?” Natasha continued, relentless. “That wasn’t from a fight. Wrong angle. Wrong shape. That’s a ring. Someone wanted you to remember who’s in charge. Let me guess: your ‘performance review’ didn’t go well last night?”
“Stop.” The word came out sharper, cracking.
“You flinch every time he touches you.” Natasha said. “You breathe shallow when you hear his steps in the hall. But you don’t flinch when I do this.” She shifted her weight and let her boot slide clumsily along the floor until it bumped your ankle. The touch was light, clumsy given her restraints, but deliberate.
“I’ve seen soldiers afraid for themselves.” she said. “They look at the tools, the doors, the exit routes. You..” she tilted her head, studying you, “you keep looking at the camera.” Your gaze flicked up to the blinking red light.
Got you, she thought, “Who are you really afraid he’ll hurt?”
The question hit you like a blow and for a heartbeat, all the tension in your body dropped out, leaving something raw and exposed behind your eyes.
“Don’t.” you whispered.
It wasn’t a threat, it sounded almost like a plea. Natasha went quieter. She could feel the room like a live wire, the camera a red eye in the corner, watching.
“You’re not the first person Hydra’s chained.” she said. “You won’t be the last. They took you. They strapped that thing around your neck. They’re holding something over you. Family? Someone you care about? Your own life?” She blinked, letting exhaustion seep into her voice, a crack in the armor that made her seem less like the Avenger and more like the ex-asset who’d once worn a different kind of collar. “I get it.”
“You don’t know anything about me!” you shot back, but it came out shaky.
“I know fear.” she said. “And I know the sound of someone trying to convince themselves they’re the monster so they don’t have to feel bad about what they’re made to do.”
Her words hit something and you stepped back like she’d burned you, “If you keep this up..” you hissed, “I..I will make it worse. I have to.”
“Do you?” Natasha asked softly. “Or does he?”
You stared at her and the silence stretched, pulsing between you. On the other side of the camera, Morozov would be watching and listening, evaluating every micro-expression.
“We’re done talking about me.” you said. “He wants infrastructure. Locations. Codes. That’s what we’re going to talk about.”
You moved back to the table, grabbing a strip of cloth and twisting it between your fingers to give your hands something to do. The scalpel clinked down harder than you intended and Natasha let herself sag a little, feigning more exhaustion than she felt now that adrenaline had her humming.
“You can keep doing this.” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keep hitting me, cutting me, shocking me. You might even get something he wants, eventually. But when he’s done with me…” She let the sentence trail off, heavy. “You know what happens to you, don’t you?”
You froze, it was written all over you. In the stiffness of your shoulders, in the way your fingers tightened on the cloth until the fabric creaked. In the hollow look that flashed across your eyes before you turned your head away so the camera wouldn’t see.
“He doesn’t let loose ends walk.” Natasha continued, relentless but quiet. “Not prisoners, not coerced agents or witnesses. Once I’m emptied out, you’re redundant and Hydra hates redundancies.”
“Shut up..” you said again, but it sounded like you were talking to yourself as much as to her.
“I’m not your enemy.” she said.
“You’re an Avenger.” you spat, fury finally breaking through. “You’re the Avenger. Do you have any idea what they showed me before they brought me here? What they blamed on you? On your team? Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch everything you love burn and be told it’s all because they didn’t care enough to stop it?”
Natasha’s heart stumbled. There it was.. A crack big enough to see through.
“Yeah..” she said quietly. “Actually. I do.”
You froze halfway through your next breath, eyes locked on hers and all the noise in the room, the buzzing light, the hum of distant machinery fell away for a second. There was just the two of you and the weight of too many ghosts. Natasha watched your eyes flick up to the camera again, that tiny red dot blinking in the corner. Her ribs hurt with every breath, but she still had enough air for one more push.
“He’ll never see you as anything but a tool.” she rasped. “You know that, right? The second I’m empty, you-”
The scalpel kissed her side before she finished. A clean, practiced line along an existing bruise, turning purple into red. The pain was white-hot, ripping a hiss from her throat. She jerked against the chains, metal biting raw wrists.
Your hand didn’t shake this time. “You think I don’t know what he is?” you asked quietly.
“You think I don’t know exactly what he’s capable of?” Your eyes were darker now, voice dropping low enough that the mic in the ceiling would still pick it up, but barely. “You’re famous for it, right? Reading people. Getting under their skin. But you don’t know me.”
Natasha swallowed against the taste of copper. “I know fear when I see it.”
Something in your face flinched, not physically, but behind the eyes. Then your jaw locked.
“He has my family.” you said, and there it was, dropped like a stone in a pond.
Natasha’s breath stuttered and you saw it and almost laughed humourless. “Yeah. That’s right. Not my handler. Not my boss. Some I actually chose.” The words came faster now, pressed out by pressure building under your skin. “He showed me a live feed. Showed me what he can do to them if I breathe wrong.”
Your fingers tightened on the scalpel handle. “And now you want me to risk their life?” you finished, voice gone quiet and lethal, “For a woman whose job is manipulating people?”
Natasha flinched like you’d hit her with the baton and you took the opening, stepped into it, because that’s what you’d been trained to do.
“He warned me about you.” you went on. “About all of you. The Widow, the witch, the soldier, the captain. ‘They’ll use whatever they can,’ he said. ‘Pain. Sympathy. They’ll look for cracks. You don’t have any.’”
Your mouth twisted, “But I do.” you added, almost to yourself. “I have some. And he owns them.”
Silence pooled for a second and Natasha’s shoulders ached. Blood from the new cut ticked down her side, “I’m sorry.” she said.
The words slipped out before she could stop them and for a heartbeat, you looked startled. Then your expression hardened like frost forming. “Keep it.” you said. “I don’t need your pity. I need you to talk.”
You wiped the scalpel, calm again and when you turned back, whatever crack had opened was sealed over. “If you try that again.” you added, voice low and steady, “if you try to make me doubt for even a second, I will make sure you regret it. And it won’t be because I want to. It’ll be because I don’t have a choice.”
You stepped closer, close enough that she could see her own reflection warped in the scalpel’s metal. “And I’m not risking them.” you said, each word precise, “for you.”
This time, when the baton snapped to life in your hand, there was no hesitation in the way you pressed it to her ribs.
Another week blurred by and the days fell into a jagged rhythm. Morning: footsteps in the hall, the familiar clank of the lock, your silhouette in the doorway. Always you. Never anyone else. You asked the questions Morozov wanted asked, your voice a metronome. You inflicted the pain he expected, your hands a routine. Sometimes blades. Sometimes electricity. Sometimes nothing but pressure on bruises already blooming like storm clouds under her skin.
Afternoon: silence, darkness behind her eyes as she drifted in and out, counting the cracks in the ceiling, the breaths between throbs in her shoulders. Evening: you again, or sometimes Morozov himself, to “review progress.”
The methods changed but your presence didn’t. If anything after that slip about your family, you hardened. Whatever edge of reluctant humanity Natasha thought she’d seen got buried under steel. You cut deeper. You held the baton just a second longer. You left her hanging a little higher so her toes barely brushed the floor.
Outwardly, you became exactly what Morozov wanted: effective, efficient, merciless. But you never left a mark on her face where a future camera might see. You never broke a bone. You never went for her hands, her fingers, the delicate tools of her trade. You never touched her throat.
And you always, always cleaned the wounds. It was a small thing, it shouldn’t have mattered. Alcohol burned. Disinfectant bit like fire. But your hands were careful, even when the rest of you wasn’t. You knew how to wrap a bandage too tightly to stop bleeding without cutting off circulation. You knew where to put pressure to minimize swelling.
“Wouldn’t want infection.” you said once, tone dry as you taped gauze along her ribs. “That would be…inefficient.”
“Touching concern..” Natasha rasped.
You didn’t answer but your fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary before you stepped away.
Natasha started noticing other things. How you stood between her and the door when Morozov came in, body angled just so, like a shield you weren’t even conscious of being. How you flinched, barely, when he praised you in front of the camera, his hand heavy on your shoulder.
How you never met your own reflection in the steel tray when you set tools down. The collar at your throat became an obsession for her. She watched the faint pulsing light under the fabric, the way your fingers brushed it sometimes when you thought she wasn’t looking, like a tongue prodding a sore tooth.
Once, late, when the room stank of bleach and the last of her screams had faded to ragged breathing, you stayed a little longer by the door.
“You’re quiet.” she managed, because filling the silence felt safer than the drift of her own thoughts.
“You’re tired.” you said, as if that answered anything.
Her head lolled against her raised arms. “You get paid by the scream or by the hour?”
You huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh and then flattened out. “By results.”
“Then you’re doing a shitty job.” she murmured.
Your eyes flicked to the camera. “Or a smart one,” she added. Your jaw worked and you opened your mouth like you might say something real.
Then Morozov’s footsteps echoed down the hall again. You shut down like someone flipped a switch. The door opened before you could move and he stepped in, immaculate as always, eyes sweeping the room.
“How is our guest?” he asked.
“Noncompliant.” you said, voice gone smooth and professional. “But patterns are emerging. She’s more responsive to certain topics. The Avengers. Old S.H.I.E.L.D. ops. We can use that.”
“And you?” He studied you, gaze lingering on the faint yellowed edges of old bruises. “Are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” you said. He stepped closer and Natasha watched the muscles in your back tighten.
“You’ve been very devoted.” he murmured. “Despite…earlier doubts.”
His fingers brushed your collar where it hid under your tactical gear and Natasha saw your shoulders twitch. “Good girl.” he said, hand patting your cheek with casual ownership.
Natasha’s stomach turned and you didn’t look at her as he left. You didn’t look anywhere at all until the door shuddered closed. Then your shoulders slumped, just a fraction.
She was supposed to hate you. It would’ve been much simpler. Hydra agent..torturer, Enemy. She knew what to do with that. She’d spent a lifetime compartmentalizing feelings, putting people in boxes: target, asset, obstacle, ally. But you refused to stay in the box she put you in.
The third week changed something. You pushed too far and Natasha had been hanging for hours already, muscles trembling with each breath, vision edging dark. You came in late; she could tell by the way your eyes darted to the wall clock first thing, the tightness around your mouth.
“Problem?” she croaked.
“None of yours.” you said.
You went harder that day, less precision, more force. The baton’s current arced along the line of her spine, making her teeth clench against each jolt. You asked the same questions Morozov always wanted asked, but there was a frantic undercurrent this time, a desperation that wasn’t for information.
“Old S.H.I.E.L.D. sites.” you snapped. “The ones that went dark but didn’t collapse. Where did they move the servers?”
“Burned..” Natasha gasped. “You should know. You crawled out of one.”
You hit her again and she screamed, “Quinjet call signs.” you demanded. “Overwatch patterns. How many pilots cleared for stealth insertion?”
“You wanna fly one?” she rasped. “You have the legs for it.”
Your eyes flashed and you grabbed her jaw, fingers digging into already-tender skin, forcing her to meet your gaze. “Stop.” you hissed. “Stop making this harder.”
“For who?” she whispered.
For a moment, something like panic flashed across your face. You let go of her like she burned you, stumbling back a step. You turned, shoulders heaving, fingers digging into your own scalp.
“Fuck..” you breathed quietly. “Fuck.”
Natasha hung there, chest rising and falling, chains creaking with each tiny shift of weight. She watched your back.
“What happened?” she asked hoarsely.
“Nothing!” you snapped.
“Liar.”
You whirled, eyes blazing. “You’re calling me a liar?”
“Professional opinion..” she said. “You’re terrible at it.”
Your nostrils flared and you took one step toward her, then another, until you were right in front of her again, so close she could see the fine tremors in your hands.
“They moved them!” you spat.
Natasha’s breath stilled. “I don’t know where..” you went on, words coming too fast. “I just know they moved them. New facility, new protocols. Less…friendly.” The last word twisted in your mouth. “And Morozov made it very clear that the slower you are, the worse it gets for them.”
Ah. There it was. The clock.
Natasha closed her eyes for a second, letting the room sway around her. “You think hurting me faster will help?” she managed.
“I think not giving him results will get them killed..” you shot back.
“And you think he’ll keep his promise if you do?” she whispered. “You think Hydra lets anyone walk away happy?”
You laughed sharp and broken. “Of course not. But maybe they walk away alive. That’s more than I get.”
The honesty in that sentence hit her harder than the baton. You saw it land and immediately regretted saying it. Your mouth snapped shut and you turned away again, grabbing for a roll of bandages with more force than necessary.
“Your belief in self-sacrifice is very noble.” Natasha rasped. “Very…Captain America of you.”
“Don’t.” you said, voice low. “Don’t you dare compare me to any of you.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You’re willing to die for people you love. That’s basically our brand.”
You clenched your jaw, wrapping gauze around her arm with brisk, efficient movements. “You are not going to get into my head, Romanoff. I know what you do. Turning people, Isn’t that what they trained you for? Seduction, infiltration, psychological-”
“Says the one monologuing about their tragic backstory..” she interrupted softly.
You yanked the bandage tight and she hissed. “This isn’t a story.” you snapped. “This is math. Input: your pain. Output: Their chances. I can’t afford to care if you’re scared or if you’re lonely or if you think I’m redeemable. That’s not my job.”
“What is your job?” she asked. “To survive? Because you’re doing a terrible job of that too.”
“Weren’t you listening?” you said. “I’m not the one I’m trying to save.”
You taped the bandage, fingers pressing hard enough to sting. Then you stepped back, chest rising and falling, something wild flickering behind your eyes.
For the first time, Natasha saw past the cold.
Past the technique. Past the collar. Underneath it all, you were breaking and not in the way she was.
“Get some rest.” you said abruptly, voice snapping back to something like neutral. “You’ll need it.”
“Promise me something..” she blurted.
You stopped mid-turn, hand on the door.
“No.” you said immediately.
“Promise me.” she insisted, surprising herself with the urgency in her own voice, “that if this kills you, it wasn’t for nothing.”
“How could it not be..” you whispered, “when the only choice I ever get is who it hurts?”
You didn’t wait for her answer and walked out, the door slamming behind you. Natasha hung there, pulse pounding in her ears and realized something that made her stomach lurch.
She didn’t hate you. She should. God, she should. You’d carved screams out of her throat, painted the floor with her blood. Your hands were the ones that tightened the restraints, pressed the buttons, turned pain into data. But in the sick, warped ecosystem of that room, you had become the only constant. Morozov came and went like a storm. Guards rotated. The camera’s red light blinked, unblinking, but it was an eye, not a person.
You were always there and learned her rhythms. When to push, when her body would snap, when to stop just short of irreversible damage. You adjusted the chains so her shoulders wouldn’t dislocate, not because you cared, she told herself, but because a ruined shoulder was bad for interrogation subjects. But it meant you touched the shackles, the chains, her wrists. She learned your rhythms too. The way your footsteps sounded on days you’d been punished, the tilt of your voice when you were lying for the camera. The tiny pause before you picked up an instrument you hated using.
The room did something to time. There were only two states: when you were in it and when you weren’t. When you were, all of Natasha’s nerves lit up, whether from pain or anticipation. She was hyper-aware of you: the brush of your sleeve, the warmth of you standing close, the smell of sweat and cheap soap clinging to your skin. She watched your eyes more than the blade in your hand.
When you weren’t, the silence was a physical weight. The absence of your voice, your footfalls, your breathing made the room feel bigger and emptier at once. She caught herself once, counting seconds after the door closed. Counting how long until she might hear you again. The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.
Absolutely not, she told herself. No.
She’d spent most of her life being used, shaped into a weapon by people who needed her to love them or at least depend on them to make obedience easier. She knew about trauma bonds. About Stockholm Syndrome. About the human brain’s nasty habit of clinging to the hand that fed it, even when that hand was also tearing it apart.
She had scars that spelled out those lessons. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
The next time the door opened and it wasn’t you, her heart dropped. Two guards stepped in instead, faceless behind masks, guns slung. They adjusted her chains and one of them grabbed her jaw too hard, fingers bruising, breath sour in her face as he inspected the state she was in.
“He wants her conscious.” he grunted to the other. “Don’t break the toy.” A hand cracked across her cheek and she bit the inside of her mouth until iron flooded her tongue, swallowing the sound.
When you came in that evening, late again, you froze. There was a new bruise blooming along her face, a purple-red handprint.
Your gaze snapped to the camera, then back to her.
“Who?” you asked.
She smirked, bloody mouth twisting. “Jealous?”
“Who?” you repeated. She shrugged as much as the chains allowed. “One of your friends with the guns. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him my tragic backstory.”
You moved faster than she’d seen you move yet. Your hand came up, fingers brushing carefully along the edge of the bruise without touching the center. Your thumb hovered near her cheekbone, warm and callused.
He could’ve been watching, the camera might be eating every frame but you did it anyway.
His voice echoed faintly in her memory: He warned me about you.
“Did he hit you before or after he adjusted the chains?” you asked and Natasha blinked. “After.”
“Then he was just entertaining himself.”
You went very, very still. “If anyone lays an unapproved hand on you again.” you said quietly, “Tell me.”
Natasha stared at you. “So you can…what?” she asked. “File a complaint with HR?”
Your lips twitched without humor. “So I can remind him who you belong to.”
“Possessive.” she murmured.
“Practical.” you shot back. “You’re my responsibility. His rough fun could kill you in ways I can’t explain to Morozov. He kills my asset, he risks my family. I will not let some bored bastard gamble with that.”
Her pulse did something stupid in her throat. “You are very romantic about this.” she said, because humor was easier than acknowledging the weird heat curling in her chest.
You snorted and stepping back. “You’re delirious.” But later, when you tightened the straps around her wrists, you did it with enough care that the pressure eased on the rawest patches. The way you slipped the water bottle straw between her lips at the exact angle to minimize choking, even when you could’ve just dumped it. The way you always left the room more or less the same tools lined up, drains cleaned, like control over small details was all you had.
The way, when you thought she was fully out after a session, you stood at the door and looked back at her. Not triumphant or satisfied.
Haunted.
The moment she realized she was in trouble was quiet. No screaming, no threats. Just a statement, dropped into one of the rare lulls where pain faded enough for thought.
“You keep telling yourself I’m manipulating you.” she went on. “Maybe I am. I want you alive. I want out. Our goals…for now…they line up.”
You scoffed. “I don’t like watching people be punished for me.” she said. “Never did. That’s…old wiring. If I let myself care, it’s because I can’t not. It’s not a trick. It’s a flaw.”
That did something to you. Your eyes softened, then went sharp again, like you’d remembered who you were supposed to be.
“You’re very good with words.” you said.
“Occupational hazard.”
“You’re very good at making yourself sound small and broken so people let you closer.”
“That too.”
Then, very quietly, like you couldn’t believe you were saying it, you asked, “Why do you care? About me. You don’t even know my name.”
She could have lied, she could have said: I don’t. You’re a tool.
But she didn’t. “You’re the only person who comes through that door.” Natasha said simply. “And you’re breaking yourself to keep someone else breathing. That’s…familiar.”
A beat. “It’d be easier if you were just a monster..” she added. “I’ve got enough of those.”
You exhaled, long and shaky, That’s your problem.” you muttered. “You keep looking for something worth saving.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“In this place?” You glanced around the concrete, the chains, the camera. “It’s suicidal.”
She considered that, “Maybe.” she said. “But I’ve survived worse habits.”
You stared at her a second longer, then shook your head like you were trying to rattle something loose and left without another word.
You’re in trouble, she told herself.
Because somewhere in the lines between enemy and asset, fear and fury, something else had started to root. Not love..not yet. Love was big and bright and required too much future for this concrete box.
But attachment? That lived in smaller spaces. In the hitch of her breath when she heard your footsteps and knew it wasn’t Morozov. In the way her mind, fuzzy with sleep deprivation and pain, conjured the exact pitch of your voice to fill the silence. In the sick drop of her stomach when you were late and the wrong boots passed her door.
She cared if you were alive. She cared if you were hurt. She cared enough that when she caught herself imagining putting a bullet through Morozov’s head, she saw two images: freedom and your collar unlocking.
It was irrational and dangerous. Exactly the kind of vulnerability she’d spent her whole life avoiding. And still, in the sleepless stretch of the third week’s night, hanging from the ceiling with her hands bleeding and her body one giant bruise, Natasha admitted a quiet, terrifying truth:
If it came down to it, she wasn’t sure anymore if she wanted to escape this place without you.
That was the realistic horror of it. Not that she’d “fallen” easily. But that piece by piece pain by pain, mercy by mercy you had become, in this small, ugly world, the person she couldn’t stop watching.
And that was how it started..Weeks didn’t pass in days anymore. They passed in visits. One “morning” the light never changed, but the routine said morning, you walked in to find Natasha half-conscious, lips cracked, tongue slow in her mouth. The guards on the previous shift hadn’t bothered with hydration.
You grabbed the bottle from the trolley, popped the cap with your thumb and brought the straw to her mouth. You didn’t just jam it in and dump it; you touched her chin with your gloved fingers, tilting her head just enough.
“Hey. Romanoff.” Your voice was softer than usual. “You’re not dying on me from something this stupid. Drink.”
Her eyes fluttered, focusing on you with difficulty. For a second she didn’t see the room, or the chains, or the collar at your throat.
Just you.
She sucked at the straw, greedily, water hitting her throat like glass. You drew it back, letting her breathe, then offered more. She watched your eyes the whole time. No one had ever looked at her that intently while giving her something as basic as water. Her body filed it under relief. Her brain filed it under source of relief: you.
The first time she called you anything but “Agent” was an accident. You’d just finished cleaning a long, nasty cut on her thigh. Your hands were steady. Hers weren’t. Her muscles quivered under your touch.
“You know..” she croaked, “if you’re going to keep carving me up, I should at least know what to shout when I haunt you.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Cute.”
“So?” she pushed.
You hesitated because Morozov had told you: keep it professional, keep it distant. Names were hooks. Names meant you could be called, remembered, mourned.
“I’m not-”
“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to brand the Black Widow..” Natasha rasped. “Don’t waste it.”
You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest eased just enough to let the word out.
“Y/n.”
It sounded wrong in this room, too soft for concrete and blood. It sounded like sunlight and coffee and someone saying it because they wanted you, not because they needed a report. Natasha repeated it back to you, like committing it to memory.
Natasha felt it in her chest, whatever this was that she wouldn’t name. It sat there, blooming with the warmth of your body curled around her. That day had been particularly exhausting- full of debriefs, strategy meetings, phone calls, and not enough of each other. Those evenings always felt scarily close to coming home- when you two would silently find each other and just sit. That’s how you ended up here anyway: your head on her shoulder, knees tucked against her thighs, the two of you nuzzled together on a couch that had more than enough room for the two of you. Being this close let all your senses be enveloped in her- the smell of vanilla and amber and something uniquely Natasha. And your scent, soft as ever- chamomile and honey- floated into her nose like a memory. The TV played some old cooking show that filled the space of the room like white noise. But your eyes..those big wide ones that Natasha secretly loved were looking straight up at her.
“Got a staring problem?” she teased, her signature crooked smirk showing.
“Just for you, Romanoff.”
Her soft lips gently brushed against your forehead. The rest of the world would never know that the Black Widow could be so gentle.
———————————————
If there was one thing Natasha Romanoff hated more than anything, it was being disoriented- which is exactly what she was when she woke up from that dream. No, memory. The warmth in her chest disappeared the moment the world caught up to her. It’s only been two days since she saw the footage of you in the suv, since the apartment ambush, since the explosion in her chest that meant you weren’t dead. Time felt like it didn’t move normally anymore- never with you.
Natasha wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself as she walked through the compound and down to the med bay. She hated the room you were in, hated what it symbolized- testing, poking, prodding. The glass panel in the door was fogged with condensation from how cold it was inside, but Natasha didn’t think anything could ever stop her from recognizing the shape of your body. She was right.
“You’re up early,” Sharon's voice came from behind. The widow straightened slightly, giving her a quick glance, “I could say the same to you.” Having Sharon Carter and Natasha Romanoff in the same room was like a wire waiting to snap.
“I never sleep much when I’m here, especially not now,” Sharon walked straight past her, tapping lightly on the tablet installed in the wall that was scanning your vitals. Thank you again, Stark Tech.
“How is she?” The question carried weight, more than either of them wanted to admit.
Sharon paused a beat too long, “Functioning.” She moved to stand in front of the door with her arms crossed, cleverly trying to block her view of you. “Now’s not the time, though” her voice was quiet, but there was no mistake in the firmness.
Natasha stepped forward anyway.
“Move.”
Carter's jaw clenched. “She’s probably exhausted, though her body won’t let her feel it.” There was an awkward pause as Natasha raised her brow as if to say is that really it?
“She’s not the same,” Sharon replies quietly.
“I know she’s not the same,” Natasha snaps before softening. “I mean—do you even know what they did to her?”
“I can’t imagine. She’s holding it together by a thread, you know. Somehow. But if you think she’s dangerous now?” Sharon finally meets Natasha’s eyes. “Imagine what happens when she snaps.”
“I said move,” and something in the assasins voice makes Sharon falter, just slightly. Not even a demand. Not really. But something more dangerous and so, so personal.
And there you were.
Sitting on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkled beneath you with tears in it from where you’ve been picking. Shoulders slightly hunched. Eyes staring through the wall in front of you, at something distant and invisible to everyone else. You looked… stripped. Pale. Drained. Hollow in a way Natasha Romanoff had never seen before. Your collarbones stuck out a lot more. She didn’t want to admit that it scared the shit out of her.
Your wrists were wrapped in gauze, an iv still attached to a vein in your arm. There were faint bruises on the side of your neck from when you were restrained last night after waking up from a nightmare.
Natasha stood there in the doorway for a second too long. Her heartbeat rang in her ears and her mouth ran dry. The redness of her bloodshot eyes brings out the green in her irises. Her body is tense like she hasn’t slept and her hair is messy but braided behind her.
She used to know every inch of you. The tilt of your head when you were being sarcastic. The bite of your laughter when it bubbled up unexpectedly. The feeling of your hands gripping her waist. The way your hands moved when you were trying to explain something complicated. The crinkle of your nose when you were concentrating.
But this? This wasn’t you. This wasn’t the girl she learned like the back of her hand. Or maybe it was—but it was the part of you that had been left behind. Dug out. Rewired.
And you don’t look away. Two animals seeing who will bite first.
Natasha swallowed, her voice suddenly tight and caught in her throat, “Hey.”
You said nothing. Just staring at the IV in your arm. You rip it from you without so much as a whine, throwing it to the floor and watching blood trickle down your forearm. That crimson red has become a comforting color- if you could even feel comfort, if programming would allow. It didn’t.
She walked a few paces closer.
“Y/N…”
Her training doesn’t allow the luxury of ignoring how much you’ve changed because God, have you. The spy in her notices every little detail.
Your eyes blinked slowly, as if registering her voice from somewhere underwater. You didn’t move. You just looked at her—looked through her. Unreadable. Absent.
Sharon had said she’s functioning.
Natasha now understood what that meant.
Functioning didn’t mean living. It didn’t mean healing. It meant breathing, eating (barely), blinking on cue. It meant answering questions when asked like a soldier obeying orders. It meant moving on autopilot.
And yet… when your e/c eyes finally landed on her fully, there was the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth. Not a smile. Just muscle memory, maybe. Some faint flicker of recognition that hadn’t quite been drowned.
It shattered something inside her.
“I thought I’d never see you again. When I saw you at the apartment- did you remember me? You did, didn't you?” she whispered.
Silence.
Then— “I remember a redhead who let me rot in a cell.” Your voice is so detached it scares her. The angry static in your head buzzes louder when you try to look and recall what she once was.
Your words cracked like thunder.
The air left her lungs like she’d been shot.
And still, you didn’t break. You just looked back down at your hands, like the answer was written in the lines of your palms. Blood is still dripping from where you tore the iv from yourself, warm and trickling slowly. The white tiles are so pretty when painted with crimson.
And then the door opens. Coulson walks in, followed by Fury, followed by Sharon. No Ross- smart choice.
Romanoff stands beside you. You shift away immediately.
Fury steps forward, calm and cold as always. “I know you want to walk away. But the thing in that folder Ross showed you? It’s real. And it’s happening fast. You’re the only one who’s survived exposure to A-07 and stayed human. Stayed alive.”
“You don’t know that,” you growl. “You don’t know what I am anymore. I don’t even know that. ”
Fury didn’t look up from the tablet in his hand.
“This,” he said, “could be the only way to get your life back. To get you back.”
You finally met his eyes.
“You help us. With this—” he nodded vaguely toward the security feed in the corner, where a still shot of a HYDRA base was captured—“and I give you something in return.”
You didn’t blink.
“We scrubbed Barnes. It took a while, but it worked. Wakanda had their methods, I’ve got a direct channel. It doesn’t erase what they did, and it sure as hell doesn’t take away the memories that live in your head- but we can do the same for you. Wipe the trigger words. Shut off whatever switch Hydra put in your head. You’ll be yours again. No more freezing mid-battle, no more blackouts, no more asset Nightshade.”
Natasha inhaled quietly. Your body stilled at the name. Sharon’s fingers twitched at her sleeve.
“But this doesn’t come for free.”
Your voice was raw, “Never does. What is it exactly you want from me?”
For the first time in what felt like forever, although you couldn’t remember it, he looked you straight in the eye. No bullshit.
“I want you in the field.”
“She’s not ready, Nick. You know that.”
Fury ignored Sharon. “I want you with us. Right now, you’re the sharpest weapon I’ve seen in years.”
You shifted. “So I’m an asset again, a weapon? Not a person? Great. Ready to comply.”
“No, you’re the person. The only one who can see this through without becoming exactly what they made you into. You’d be your own weapon. That’s different.”
There it was. The hook. The key. The trade wasn't just about service, but about freedom—about control over your own mind. About waking up without wondering who might’ve used your hands while you were unconscious.
Natasha looked at you from across the room. Her expression was unreadable, but you had become trained in reading people now and you saw all her tells- the slight tremor in her hands, the way her breathing had shallowed, the tight rise and fall of her chest.
“You don’t have to give him an answer,” she said softly.
But you already knew your answer.
“After this, I’m done. No more Avengers, no more SHIELD. You’re never seeing me again.”
And Fury smiled like he was victorious- like this deal was somehow rooted in joy and not a product of pain.
Summary: As a “double” agent, you’re used to keeping secrets. But when you start falling for Natasha Romanoff, a skilled and sharp assasin, the stakes get higher. And what happens when you also catch the eye of Wanda Maximoff, the elusive Sokovian witch? How much of the truth can stay hidden, how far can you go before everything unravels…and who’s really on your side?
Warnings: angst, blood, kidnapping, violence, female reader, bad decisions, betrayal, torture, smut
sometimes i wonder if im actually butch or if im a poser then i remember that sincerely the most turned on ive ever been in my entire life was the day a femme (who i always held the door for of course) was walking a few feet ahead of me, reached the doorway, then STOPPED and waited for me to open it for her like she wouldn’t be caught dead touching a door handle when i was around. like she had forgotten how to open it herself. like it would burn her if she touched it. i still think about her all the time.
i genuinely think being spoiled is the hottest thing a femme can be. this girl was seriously smart as a whip and a thousand times more competent than i could ever hope to be. she can open a damn door, but the fact that she not only LETS me make her life a little easier, but INSISTS on it? im lightheaded
and what if i said wanda leaves marks on your neck when she gets needy?
like just imagine you were occupied with work for hours on end. can you really blame her? she is affectionate by nature.
you could be busy catching up with deadlines or on the phone and she will slide up at your side, smiling innocently. you would gently kiss her, chaste and sweet but it is obviously not enough for her. her lips would then trail your jaw, then where she wanted the most— ghosting over your pulse point. she would then look up at you, eyebrows raised in a silent question, waiting for your permission
when granted she would get bold, her teeth dragging along your skin, watching as you lose focus on whatever it is that you are working on. if you are risky to be on a phone call your voice would slightly break, your words fumbling as her kisses grew firmer. eventually you would have to drop everything for her, as she wanted
or what about when she would get jealous? like let’s say you have an overly touchy coworker who makes borderline inappropriate jokes. she would remove you from them with a bright smile that just said she needed to talk to you and obviously not find a secluded place to mark your neck. or you know make you drop to your knees but that is a take for another time
do not get her wrong, she loves to receive as much as she gives. while you would try to hide her marks or get sheepish when she points them out at you, she would wear yours with pride
point is, wanda maximoff is just a beautiful princess who gets occasionally demanding. and that is okay.
"I'm aware that I'm outnumbered. Just like I'm sure you fine gentlemen are aware that, despite my disadvantage, I'm going to kill at least 8 of you before I croak. But see, I don't want all of you. I just want HIM. So, ask yourselves; do you want to risk being 1 of the lucky 8, for his sake?"
Your fellow knights question why you'd swear fealty to a witch instead of the typical lord or king. Lands and gold are nice but anyone can get those and are overrated. But runes of power on your armor and potions of strength that let you rip trees out of the ground with ease are more useful.
a/n: I posted two chapters in a row because chapter 3 felt a little bit empty of content. Comments are more than welcome! <3
The cold glow of the night's light barely illuminated the common area as you sat at the table, surrounded by piles of mission reports, data, and a stack of unfinished tasks. Your mind was miles away from the paperwork, consumed by a storm of emotions you could barely keep contained. You were used to working through the pain, but today, everything felt different.
It was a low hum of mechanical steps that drew your attention to the doorway. You didn't need to turn to know it was Vision—his presence was always a quiet storm in itself. He didn't speak at first. He just stood there, observing her as you continued to write, your fingers shaking just slightly.
"Y/N," Vision finally said, his tone cold, unyielding.
You didn't respond. You couldn't bring herself to look at him, especially not now. Not after everything that had happened. After all the things you had been running from, Vision was the last person you wanted to deal with.
"You're still here," Vision's voice was sharp, his words biting through the silence. "After everything, you're still here."
You clenched her jaw, refusing to meet his eyes. You could feel the anger rising in her chest, the burning need to defend herself—but you knew this conversation would go nowhere good. It had never been good with Vision. Not since he and Wanda became close again.
"I don't need this," you muttered, not looking up, your hand still hovering over the tablet, though your thoughts were miles away.
"Wanda doesn't need you here, either," Vision said, stepping closer, his gaze unwavering. "Not anymore."
Your heart skipped a beat. You finally looked up, meeting his cold, unfeeling gaze. "What did you say?" you asked, your voice dangerously low.
Vision's expression hardened. "I mean you've done enough. You've hurt her enough. She doesn't need to be dragged back into this." His words were deliberate, each one hitting harder than the last.
Yor heart pounded in your chest, your breath quickening. "You think I've hurt her?" you shot back, standing up abruptly, your hands curling into fists. "You think I hurt her? You think I'm the one who did that?"
"Yes," Vision's voice was sharp, each word punctuated with cold certainty. "You've broken her. She's suffered for years, waiting for you to come back. And now, all you've done is leave her questioning whether or not she should have ever believed in you. It's time you face the truth, Y/N. Wanda's moving on, and you need to leave her be. She deserves someone who can give her the future she's always wanted."
You felt the weight of his words like a stone sinking deep in your stomach. "You think she deserves you?" you snapped, your powers beginning to crackle in the air, the electricity around you flaring slightly as you fought to keep control. "You think you're better for her than I am?"
"I don't think," Vision said coldly, his voice now laced with disgust. "I know. Wanda chose me. You didn't give her the chance to choose you. You left, Y/N. You left her to pick up the pieces of herself."
Your chest tightened, the anger and hurt threatening to overwhelm you. "I never told her to wait. I never promised her I'd come back. I couldn't," you said through gritted teeth.
Vision took another step forward, his eyes narrowing with determination. "But she doesn't need you now."
The words felt like daggers, twisting in your heart. You wanted to scream at him, to lash out. But the voice in the back of your head—the one that was slowly swallowing your whole—was whispering that he was right. Maybe he was right.
"I'm not backing off, Vision," You spat, your fists trembling. "You don't get to tell me what to do. You don't get to decide who she needs. You're just afraid of me, afraid that I can still reach her, that she still wants me—"
Vision's voice sliced through you like a knife. "You're the one who's afraid. Afraid that she'll realize she's better off without you. I'm not the one who's been running. She doesn't love you anymore. She can't love you after everything you've done."
You recoiled at his words, your stomach twisting. It felt like a punch to the gut. Every word he said cut deeper than the last.
"She chose me the day she said Yes when I asked her to marry me." Vision continued, his voice steady, cold, final.
"You don't get to tell me that Wanda's better off with you." Your voice was steady, but the energy around you crackled with rage. "You don't get to tell me that I'm the one who's broken her. That's not your decision to make."
Vision's eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion, but then, without warning, he stepped toward you, his face inches from yours. "Then what will you do, Y/N? Will you continue to drag her down with you? Will you keep telling yourself that you're still what she needs, when all you've ever done is hurt her?" His voice was dangerously soft, and each word landed like a blow.
That was it.
With a guttural roar, You unleashed her powers, sending a surge of electrical energy at Vision. The blast hit him square in the chest, sending him skidding back, his synthetic body absorbing most of the force, but the sheer power of the strike left him momentarily stunned.
"You have no idea what you're talking about!" You yelled, your eyes burning with a fire you hadn't felt in so long. "You think I don't know what I did to her? You think I don't live with that every day? But you don't get to decide what's best for her, Vision."
Vision, recovering quickly, glared at you with a quiet intensity."You let her wait for you, let her believe in you. And all you've done is destroy her. Now it's my turn to protect her from you."
With that, Vision reached out, his hands glowing with a soft energy that pulsed in the air around him. He shot forward, creating a field of energy that pushed you back, but you weren't going to back down.
"You can't stop me," You growled through gritted teeth, your powers flaring once more as you reached out with both hands. A bolt of pure energy shot forward, crashing into Vision's energy field, causing an explosion of sparks that lit up the room.
The walls began to tremble from the force of their clash, and the sound of cracking metal filled the air as the two powers collided, each fighting for dominance. Your chest was heaving with every breath, your mind spinning with confusion, anger, and heartbreak. You knew you couldn't let him win this fight. You couldn't let him make you feel like you weren't worth fighting for, not again.
But Vision was relentless.
He shot a wave of force straight at you, sending you flying backward into a wall, the impact rattling your bones. The breath was knocked out of you, but before you could recover, Vision was on top of you, pinning you to the floor with a force you couldn't fight against. His eyes were filled with a cold, unfeeling determination.
"This is the reality, Y/N," Vision's voice was quiet, but each word was like a dagger. "She's chosen me. She doesn't need you. You've hurt her enough, and now it's time for you to leave her. She deserves a life without you dragging her down."
Your, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, gritted your teeth, feeling the weight of his words like a crushing blow. But you weren't going to let him break you. Not now, not when you still believed in what you once had.
With a final, furious scream, you gathered every ounce of strength left in you and forced your power out in a desperate push, knocking Vision back with a blast so intense that it shattered the nearby glass. Vision staggered, visibly shaken, but he regained his composure almost immediately, his eyes now glowing brighter, his body rigid.
"I'm not leaving, Vision," You said, your voice shaking with fury, but there was a deep pain underneath it. "And you can't make me."
That's when the team began to stir. The noise from the fight had roused the others. Tony, Steve, Sam—they all arrived in the hallway, having heard the commotion.
"What the hell is going on here?!" Tony yelled, his eyes widening at the sight of the destruction in the common area. "Y/N! Vision! Stop this, now!"
Steve stepped forward, a sense of urgency in his voice. "Y/N, stop! This isn't you!"
Your breathing was erratic, your body still trembling with the intensity of the fight. Your eyes locked onto Vision's one last time before you spoke through gritted teeth.
"You don't get to tell me what I'm worth. And you don't get to decide what Wanda deserves."
But before Vision could respond, Wanda appeared in the doorway, her face pale, eyes wide with confusion and hurt. She didn't understand what was happening—she didn't know where the girl she loved had gone, or why the man she was about to marry was fighting for her like this.
"Vision! What are you doing?!" Wanda's voice trembled, a mixture of fear and heartbreak cutting through the air. "Stop! Stop this now!"
And that's when everything froze.
You and Vision were held by the team. Tony and Sam had managed to restrain you, while Steve was doing his best to keep Vision from moving forward. But it was Wanda, standing there in the doorway, who shattered the silence.
Your eyes were wild with emotion. "What?! Are you jealous that I used to fuck your soon-to-be wife?!" you screamed at Vision, your words cutting through the room like a blade. It wasn't rational. It wasn't fair. But in that moment, the anger and the pain were overwhelming, and you didn't know how else to lash out.
Natasha, with quick reflexes, moved toward you, grabbing you and pulling you away from the chaos. She was furious, but there was something broken in her gaze as she guided you out of the room.
"What the hell, Y/N?!" Natasha hissed, her grip tightening on your arm. "You can't just say things like that. You think that's gonna fix this?"
You looked at her, your face a mask of anger and despair. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Natasha. I just—I don't know what's real."
As Natasha led you out of the room, leaving the team to deal with the aftermath of the destruction, Wanda stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes darting between the mess and Vision. Her heart ached with every word, every action, every scream.
She wanted to fix everything. She wanted to reach for you, to tell her that she still loved you. But the brokenness, the weight of everything you two had been through, felt too heavy to overcome.
And so, as the door clicked shut behind them, Wanda was left standing alone in the doorway, lost in a sea of confusion, pain, and unanswered questions.
The night dragged on, but you didn't feel it. It was as if the very passage of time had slowed, your world reduced to an aching blur of regret and loss. The bottle of whiskey in your hand had long since emptied, but the numbness it promised was elusive, leaving only raw emptiness in its wake. The thoughts spiraled, faster, deeper—tugging at you until you could barely breathe beneath their weight. The fight with Vision was still fresh, his cruel words haunting you, echoing in your mind like a broken record.
"I don’t deserve to be loved," you whispered to yourself, your voice hoarse, barely audible over the storm raging in your heart. "Wanda doesn’t deserve this... she deserves someone whole, someone strong. Not... this."
But the ache in your chest wouldn't cease. You wanted to forget. To forget everything—the missions, the lies, the pain. And most of all, you wanted to forget the woman you once loved. But that was impossible. Wanda was always there, always in the back of your mind, her image haunting every corner of your fractured soul.
Just as your thoughts began to drown you again, a soft voice cut through the darkness. "Y/N?"
Wanda's voice was gentle, barely a whisper, but it was enough to make your heart seize. Your body stiffened at the sound of it, but you didn't move, not even to look at her. You couldn't face her. Not now. Not like this.
Wanda's footsteps echoed in the stillness of the room as she approached. You could hear her breathing, could feel the concern and tenderness in the way she moved toward you. You couldn't understand it. After everything, after how you'd left, after how you'd hurt Wanda, how could she still care?
You felt Wanda’s hand on your shoulder, and despite yourself, you flinched. The touch was so familiar, so warm, but it hurt too much. Every inch of your body screamed to pull away, to hide, but Wanda was there, her voice soft, breaking through the haze that clouded your mind.
"Look at me, Y/N," Wanda said quietly, her words filled with a desperation you’d never heard from her before.
Slowly, almost painfully, you lifted your eyes, bloodshot and glazed with tears. You had never felt more broken in your life, and seeing Wanda like this only made it worse. The pain in your heart intensified as you saw the concern on Wanda’s face, the love that still lingered there despite everything.
"Wanda..." your voice cracked as you spoke, barely more than a whisper. "I’ve ruined everything. I ruined us. I’m broken. You’re better off without me."
Wanda shook her head, her face soft with the kind of sorrow that made your heart shatter. "No, Y/N. You're not broken. You’re just lost. And I know you don’t believe it, but you can find your way back."
You let out a bitter laugh, one that sounded more like a sob. "I’m beyond saving, Wanda. I’ve hurt too many people. I’ve hurt you. Just let me go."
But Wanda wasn’t listening to the words you were saying. She couldn't. Because even through the pain, through all the broken pieces of your past, there was still a part of Wanda that needed to be near you, that still loved you.
With a careful hand, Wanda helped you to your feet, steadying you when your legs nearly buckled under your weight. You barely noticed as she guided you down the hall, the only sound filling the air was the soft rhythm of her steps beside you.
She helped you into your room, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated as you fought to keep your head up. You felt the cool air of the room as she eased you onto the bed, her gentle hands stripping away your boots and slipping you into the comfortable sweatpants you'd once loved to wear after a hard day—just like when things were easier, before everything fell apart.
Her touch was gentle, soothing, as if she was still trying to protect you from the wreckage of your own mind. You could barely keep your eyes open as she tucked you into bed, the familiar scent of her lingering in the air.
As you lay there, exhausted, on the edge of consciousness, you heard Wanda’s voice again, softer this time, like a prayer.
"I missed you," she whispered, brushing a tear away from your cheek, her fingers trembling as she wiped away the traces of your pain. She leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. "I missed you so much..."
The words were whispered in a broken, aching tone, like a confession of everything left unsaid, everything left undone. And as you slipped into the dark embrace of sleep, Wanda stood there, watching you, her heart torn in two. She still loved you. But the road to fixing you, fixing what you had been, was so much harder than she ever thought.
And for a moment, as she stood there, her heart aching, Wanda wondered if she could ever let go of the love she had for you. Could she watch you destroy yourself and do nothing? Or would she always be tied to you, bound by the weight of everything that had come before?
With one last, lingering look, Wanda turned and left the room, her steps slow, hesitant. She wasn’t sure where to go from here. She wasn’t sure what was left for either of you anymore.
But one thing was clear. The woman she had once loved was breaking, and she couldn't stand to watch it any longer.
Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff
The days stretched on, each one feeling heavier than the last. Y/N had become more of a ghost than a person within the compound. She spoke only to Fury and Maria, keeping herself locked away in her room when she wasn't on mission. She had grown distant from the team, and the absence of her usual presence left a noticeable void. Where once she had been a lively part of the group, now there was only silence. She didn't talk to anyone, not even Natasha. The same quiet isolation that had taken root in her heart after that night with Wanda seemed to be consuming her completely.
And Wanda... she hadn't spoken to her either. There was no need. What was there to say? Everything had changed in a moment, and it seemed that silence was the only thing that could fill the gap between them.
That day, the team had just returned from a mission. Y/N hadn't been on it—she had "something to take care of" according to her, but no one had asked too many questions. It had become a regular excuse. Instead, she had been given a solo mission by Fury, one she completed alone, without the usual fanfare or team discussions.
Back at the compound, as everyone gathered in the common room, the conversation turned to Y/N.
"I've never seen her like this," Tony said, leaning back in his chair, a look of mild concern crossing his face. "Always with Fury, always in her room. She's a shadow of herself, and it's... unsettling."
Steve gave a quiet nod, but it was Wanda's silence that was the most telling.
Tony raised an eyebrow. "What's going on with you two? You've been kind of quiet, Wanda. You used to talk to her all the time. You think she's okay?"
Wanda just shrugged. "I don't know. I really don't. She doesn't open up to me anymore." Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of something buried beneath it—hurt, maybe? But that was impossible to tell. She had a million thoughts racing through her mind, but Vision's presence kept her from expressing any of them. He was a constant shadow, and as much as she tried to ignore it, his presence lingered.
Tony didn't seem convinced. "That's strange. She and you... you were close, right? It's just not like her to shut everyone out. I mean, I'm not exactly a shrink, but when someone starts hiding away like that... something's up."
Wanda was quiet again, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. She wanted to say something—anything—to explain her feelings. To share her concern for Y/N. But it wasn't just about Y/N anymore. Wanda had her own things to grapple with, things that had nothing to do with the team. Vision had become her anchor, but the guilt she carried about moving on from Y/N hung heavy in her heart. She couldn't shake it.
"I don't know," Steve said softly, his gaze never leaving her glass. "It's all... strange. And it feels like something's broken."
Natasha, who had been sitting in the corner of the room quietly listening, shifted in her seat. She could feel it—her instincts, sharper than most, were telling her that something was going on with Y/N. Something more than just the obvious withdrawal. And the fact that no one seemed to be pushing her for answers was only making Natasha feel more unsettled.
"I can't shake the feeling that something's going on," Natasha muttered, her voice low but intense. "She's pulling away from everyone. From me, from all of us. I just don't buy it. I don't buy that it's all just because of missions."
Tony and Steve exchanged looks, but didn't respond. They all knew that Natasha's instincts were rarely wrong.
"Maybe we should just give her space," Bucky suggested, though there was a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.
Natasha shook her head. "No. This isn't just space. This is something else."
And so, the conversation died down, the weight of their concerns hanging in the air, but unspoken. It was clear that everyone felt the change in Y/N's demeanor, but no one quite knew what to do about it.
Later that night, after the others had gone to bed, Natasha couldn't sleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. Y/N had been absent from the mission, withdrawn from the team, and she hadn't even come to talk to her about it. Natasha had always been there for her, always been able to get through to her. So why now?
She heard the soft sound of the door opening, followed by the quiet click of it shutting. Y/N had returned from her mission. Natasha didn't wait another second. She got out of bed and walked into the hallway, stopping just outside of Y/N's door.
She knocked, then opened the door slightly.
"Y/N?" Natasha's voice was gentle but firm. "We need to talk."
Y/N froze, standing just inside the room, her back to Natasha. The usual walls were in place, the ones that kept Natasha from reaching her. But Natasha wasn't about to let this go.
"What's going on with you?" Natasha asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "You've been avoiding everyone. You've been avoiding me. This isn't just about missions. It's more than that. You can't keep hiding like this."
Y/N's shoulders tensed. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to have this conversation. But Natasha's piercing eyes were too much for her to ignore.
"I'm fine," Y/N said, her voice flat. "I just needed some time to take care of things. It's nothing."
Natasha's face hardened. "Don't lie to me. Don't shut me out. I'm the last person you need to hide things from."
Y/N swallowed hard, and for a moment, she felt a pang of guilt. But it was fleeting. She wasn't ready to open up. Not yet.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark."
Natasha shook her head, frustration creeping into her voice. "You don't get to apologize like that. Not after everything. I don't care if it's about the mission, Y/N. You could've come to me. You could've told me what was really going on."
Y/N's jaw tightened. "I couldn't. You wouldn't understand."
Natasha stepped forward, her voice rising. "What do you mean I wouldn't understand? I am the person who would understand. I would've been there for you, Y/N. I always have been. But now you're just pushing me away. You can't do that. You can't just leave me behind like that."
Y/N felt the anger bubble inside her. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I wasn't here, but I'm telling you, you need to let this go. I can't risk jeopardizing my mission by getting distracted."
It hit Natasha like a punch to the gut. She could hear the finality in Y/N's tone, the cold distance in her words. She had been right all along—something was going on. But what was worse was that Y/N was pushing her away for something she wouldn't even explain.
"No," Natasha said softly but firmly. "You don't get to push me away like this. You don't get to pretend like I don't matter. I need to know what's going on, Y/N. We need to know. Don't shut us out anymore."
But Y/N just shook her head, her expression hardening. "I'm sorry, Natasha. I can't do this right now. I need to keep my focus."
With that, she turned and walked to her desk, refusing to look back. Natasha stood there for a moment, her heart heavy in her chest, before slowly retreating to the door.
As she left the room, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong—and that Y/N was too far gone to help.
But she wouldn't stop trying.
Not yet.
Two days had passed, and things had only gotten worse. You had become a shadow of yourself, even more withdrawn and distant than before. Whatever Fury was making you do was clearly taking its toll on you, both physically and mentally. Tony couldn't stand seeing you like this. It was one thing to see you isolating youself from the team, but to watch you deteriorate so completely—it was breaking him.
You hadn't smiled in days, barely spoke unless you had to, and every time Tony tried to reach out, you pulled away. He had been there for you through thick and thin, had been the closest thing to family you had. The memories of your time together felt like echoes now—memories of a time when you were whole, when you were his little sister, always ready to joke, to fight beside him, to challenge him. But now, all he saw in your eyes was an emptiness that made his chest ache.
The worst part? You eeren't talking to anyone. You had stopped talking to Natasha weeks ago, and she wouldn't even look at Wanda anymore. Her life had become a series of solo missions, ones Fury assigned her, ones that pulled her further away from everyone. Tony couldn't take it any longer. He had to find out what was going on.
It was late, and the compound was quiet. Most of the team was asleep or off on their own business, but Tony was pacing the hallway, his mind spinning. He couldn't let this go. He needed answers. And the only person who might know anything was the one pulling all the strings—Nick Fury.
Tony stormed into Fury's office without knocking, slamming the door behind him. Fury didn't even look up from his desk, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard in front of him, as though he didn't have a care in the world.
"You know, I'm getting pretty damn tired of this," Tony said, his voice sharp. Fury's calm demeanor only made him more agitated.
Fury glanced up at him briefly, his expression unreadable. "Tired of what? You've been running around with your tech, Stark. What's got your panties in a bunch now?"
"Y/N," Tony said, his voice rising. "What the hell is going on with her? She's falling apart, and you're just letting it happen. I can see it, Fury. We all can. You're dragging her down a path she doesn't need to go on. What the hell are you making her do?"
Fury's face hardened, his posture stiffening as he leaned back in his chair. "I don't know what you're talking about. She's handling things her way. She's doing what needs to be done."
Tony took a step forward, fists clenched. "No, she's not. She's not the same. She's been isolating herself, barely sleeping, barely eating. Hell, she looks like she hasn't seen the sun in days. And you're the one doing this to her. Whatever mission you've got her on, whatever you've got her wrapped up in, it's killing her."
Fury's eyes flashed with irritation, but his tone remained cold. "You don't know what's going on, Stark. So, unless you want to stay out of it, I suggest you do just that."
"Don't give me that crap, Fury," Tony shot back, the words practically flying out of his mouth. "I know you. You always have some hidden agenda, some reason for everything you do. I've seen how you work. You don't just drag people through this kind of shit without a reason. And I'm done pretending it's for the greater good."
Fury stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You better watch your mouth, Tony. You don't want to go down that road with me."
"Or what, Fury? You'll shut down the Avengers? You'll throw us all out?" Tony's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That'll work well. Maybe we can all join Y/N in isolation while you play whatever game you're playing."
Fury's lips twitched in irritation, his voice lowering to a dangerous level. "You don't know the half of it, Stark. If you want to keep pushing, I can make sure you're not around to worry about it anymore. I'll shut this whole thing down—Avengers, SHIELD, everything. You can't handle it, so I suggest you keep your mouth shut."
Tony raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming despite the tension. "Oh, I see. It's that serious, huh? For you to get this worked up? Something tells me whatever this is—it's real deep, Fury. And you don't want anyone digging too far. Well, guess what? I'm not dropping this. Not now. Not ever. You know me better than that."
Fury's gaze darkened. "I'm warning you, Stark. Don't push me. You don't want to find out what happens if you do."
Tony shook his head, his usual cocky smile still present. "Oh, I already know. You shut things down, and you lose. So, how about this: You tell me what's really going on with Y/N, and I'll stop poking around. You don't tell me—well, I'm not just gonna sit around like the rest of them. This is bigger than you're letting on, Fury. And you know it."
There was a long pause as Fury stared at him, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a heavy sigh, Fury spoke, his voice low. "You think you know it all, Stark. But you don't. I'm not telling you a damn thing."
Tony didn't flinch, but his mind was already racing. He had known Fury wouldn't give him an answer. But the fact that Fury was acting this way—defensive, angry, more so than usual—meant one thing. Something was going on that was bigger than anyone could understand.
"Fine," Tony said, turning to leave. "But mark my words, Fury. I'm not going to stop until I figure this out. Y/N deserves better than this. And I won't let you ruin her. Not this time."
As Tony walked out of the office, his mind was buzzing with questions. Fury's behavior confirmed it—something was terribly wrong. And whatever it was, Tony was determined to find out. For Y/N, and for the sake of everyone else.
He had lost her once already. He wouldn't let it happen again.
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The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft clink of glass against the counter as you poured yourself another drink. The sharp burn of alcohol helped numb the ache in your chest, though it was only temporary. You stared at the glass, the amber liquid swirling in lazy circles, your mind a thousand miles away. The lights in the compound had dimmed, and the world outside seemed to fall away with the evening, leaving you in a kind of suspended grief.
It was supposed to be temporary.
You kept repeating it to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. The mission had been long, and you'd been told it would take time. Five years wasn't supposed to be forever. But it was. And in those five years, Wanda had moved on. She was about to marry Vision.
You slammed the glass down harder than you meant to, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You thought you had a future with her. You thought you could come back and pick up where you left off. But now it was just this—her, standing next to Vision, so sure of her decision, while you were left in the dust.
The memories were still there, haunting. The way Wanda's laughter had filled every corner of your world. The feel of her hand in yours as you walked through the streets together, the warmth of her embrace that made everything else feel insignificant. You remembered how she would look at you, like you were her entire world.
But that was gone now.
As you swallowed the bitter taste of your drink, you let your mind wander back to the past, to the soft brush of her lips against yours, the way her touch had sent warmth coursing through your veins. How everything felt like it had been meant to be—until it wasn’t.
You could hear the faint echo of laughter in your mind, a ghost of a time when things had been simple, when love hadn’t been this complicated, this painful.
But now she was about to marry someone else. Vision. The thought felt like a punch to the gut, over and over again.
Your fists clenched as the anger bubbled up. How could she move on so easily? Was everything you had, everything you shared, just... erased? How could she be so sure, so certain about him? About this future that was supposed to be yours? It was like a dam breaking inside you, the fury rising and threatening to overtake everything else.
"How could you do this, Wanda?" you muttered to the empty kitchen. "How could you just forget me?"
You took another drink, the burn only slightly dulled by the alcohol. Your head was spinning, your heart aching, and all you wanted was answers—answers you weren’t sure you’d ever get.
But as you poured yourself another glass, the feeling of being watched crawled over you.
You froze.
In the doorway stood Wanda, her figure illuminated by the dim hallway light, her expression unreadable as she watched you, her eyes intense and full of something you couldn’t place. It took you a moment to register that she was standing there, and when you finally looked at her, your breath caught in your throat. The way she was looking at you—it wasn’t with warmth or comfort. It was something different. Something uncertain.
She didn’t speak at first, but the silence between you was charged, thick with unspoken words. You could feel the weight of everything—every unasked question, every lingering glance, every moment lost to time. It was all pressing on you, and it hurt more than you were ready to admit.
Finally, Wanda broke the silence. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp, almost accusing.
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The words stuck in your throat, choked by the anger and sadness you’d been bottling up ever since you saw her with Vision.
It stung.
"I came back because I was supposed to," you said, the words bitter on your tongue. You turned away from her, gripping the counter tightly. "I came back because I thought you’d be here. Thought we would be here."
Wanda stepped closer, her gaze never leaving you, her brows furrowing in confusion. "And now you’re here," she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. "But why? Why now? After all this time?"
"Because I had no choice!" you snapped, spinning to face her. "I didn’t leave because I wanted to, Wanda. I didn’t leave you because I chose to. I was gone because I was forced to be. You don’t think I wanted to be with you? To come back to you? To come home?"
Wanda winced, stepping back, as though your words had physically struck her. "You don’t understand," she said, her voice strained like she was barely holding it together. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were never coming back. I couldn’t—" She cut herself off, swallowing the rest of her words.
"You couldn’t what?" You took a step forward, the anger rising in your chest again. "You couldn’t wait for me, Wanda? You couldn’t wait for the one person who said they’d come back for you?"
The words felt harsh as they left your mouth, and you instantly regretted them. But you couldn’t stop. The grief and anger were overwhelming.
"I never moved on," Wanda whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. "I couldn’t. I—I tried, but every day, all I thought about was you. You were the one I couldn’t forget. But I didn’t know if you were still out there, Y/N. I didn’t know if you were alive."
You stared at her, your breath coming in sharp gasps. "And then what? You just... let go? You just forgot? Because I was gone?"
"I didn’t forget," Wanda whispered, her voice breaking. "But I couldn’t live in the past. I had to move forward. I had to survive. And I found comfort in Vision. I—I’m sorry, but that’s the truth."
You felt your heart shatter again, the pieces scattering across the floor. "Comfort?" You laughed bitterly, wiping at your eyes as tears you didn’t realize were there started to fall. "That’s what I was to you? A memory you could forget when things got too hard?"
Wanda flinched, her face contorting with guilt. "It wasn’t like that," she said quietly. "But you don’t understand. I needed to move on. I needed to find a way to keep going. And... and I thought you were gone forever. I thought you left me."
Your chest tightened, the hurt squeezing the air from your lungs. "I didn’t leave you, Wanda. I didn’t. I tried. I tried to come back."
The room was heavy with your words, the silence thick with all the things that had been left unsaid for too long.
Wanda’s eyes softened, and for a moment, you thought she might say something—anything—to make it better. But instead, she just looked at you, a glimmer of sadness in her eyes.
"I know," she said quietly. "I know you didn’t leave me on purpose."
"Yet, you moved on. From all the people you chose him. I guess I was too fucked up for you." The anger inside your chest started to rise, and you couldn't control the words that came from your mouth.
"Fuck you Y/N! You keep telling yourself you had no choice, but what about me?!"She said the words burning inside of her, you swear that you had never seen her like that. "What about me Y/N!? You said two goddamn weeks and you were gone for 5 whole years. Not a single call or letter, NOTHING! And what was I supposed to do? You did this to us, not me, it was all you."
You opened your mouth to say something more, but the words felt like they were too much. You were too broken, too hurt. And Wanda... Wanda was just as lost as you were.
The gap between you had only grown wider, and no amount of words would ever be able to close it.
"You don't get to judge me for trying to fix what you broke."
As you stared at each other, the reality of it all settled in—you were both so broken, so far from the people you had once been, that you weren’t sure if there was any way back. Not now. Not after everything.
"You are right. My bad."
As you turned away, the weight of everything pressed down on you with a suffocating force. Your mind screamed at you, but your body refused to move any faster as if every step you took was a betrayal. The words you had just spoken—*“You’re right. My bad”—*they felt hollow, empty like the last fragile thread of hope had snapped in an instant.
You had said them, trying to end the conversation, trying to walk away from the unbearable weight of it all. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t Wanda who had failed. It wasn’t her who had left everything to drift and rot while she fought to survive. It was you. You had been the one to vanish. You had been the one who disappeared without a word, without a promise that you could keep.
And now, standing in the hall, each step away from her felt like an assault on your very soul. You couldn't even look her in the eye anymore. How could you? How could you look at the woman you loved, the woman who had waited, and not blame yourself for everything?
You had failed her. You had failed her in the worst possible way. Not because you chose the mission over her—no, that would have been too simple. You had failed her because you never gave her the choice. You never allowed her to wait. You didn’t come back when you promised you would. You let her wonder, let her mourn, let her move on because you were too damn stubborn to admit that time had passed, that things changed.
Everything had changed, and you hadn’t been there to help her hold on to the parts of herself that had made her whole. You weren’t there for her when she needed you most. You couldn’t even give her the decency of saying goodbye before you disappeared into the abyss.
And now, five years later, you were standing in the ruins of everything you had once believed was a future. And she—she was standing with someone else, someone who had been there for her when you couldn't be. You had no right to be angry, no right to demand anything. She had every right to move on. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault that she had a life now, a life that didn’t include you.
You were broken. So utterly, completely shattered. Your heart was a crumpled, empty thing inside your chest, torn apart by guilt and regret. You didn’t know who you were anymore, not without her. And now you had to watch her be with someone else—someone who wasn’t you. It hurt more than anything else could.
The tears were hot and fierce now, and you didn’t try to stop them as they slid down your face. What right did you have to feel this way? You didn’t deserve her. You didn’t deserve to be anywhere near her, not after what you’d done.
Every step you took away from her felt like a thousand miles. Your heart ached with every movement, and the thought of turning back—to face her again—felt impossible. The pain was so much. So crushing.
"You are right," you whispered to yourself, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. My bad. You had said it in the heat of the moment, a desperate plea for the argument to end, for the situation to just stop hurting for a second. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t true. It wasn’t just your bad. It was so much worse than that.
You had taken five years of her life and thrown it all away. You had broken both of your hearts without even realizing it. And now, you were left alone in the wake of your destruction.
You reached the door to your room, but your legs were weak. It felt like the floor was moving beneath you, and you had no idea how to stay upright. It was like you were drowning in the weight of everything—everything you had lost, everything you had failed to keep.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands, and it felt like the world had fallen apart. She was gone. She had moved on. And it was your fault.
Everything was your fault.
And for the first time in five years, you didn’t know if you’d ever find your way back to your old self.
The world felt different. The air had a strange heaviness to it, thick with time and the weight of years lost. The city had changed, not just in its physical structure but in the way its people moved—like everyone was trying to adjust to something they didn’t fully understand. It had been five years. Five years since the mission. Five years since the last kiss, the last touch, the last promise whispered between you and Wanda Maximoff.
You had never imagined that you wouldn’t return to her. The mission had been long, but the time away was always supposed to be temporary. You told yourself you’d be back. You had to be back. And now you were.
Stepping into the Avengers compound for the first time in half a decade, the familiar walls seemed foreign. The faces around you were different, older, their eyes holding more secrets than when you’d left. You nodded to a few familiar faces, but nothing felt the same. Not the same as it had been when you left, when everything was easier, when you were just… together.
It was supposed to be temporary. But nothing ever is.
You had been briefed, but the words they’d said to you didn’t truly hit you until now. “She’s about to marry Vision,” Fury had said as you arrived, like it was something casual, just a fact of life. But those words were like a punch to the gut.
Wanda. About to marry Vision.
The thought clung to you, echoing in your head, refusing to leave. Your heart pounded in your chest, a rhythmic reminder that the life you thought you were coming back to didn’t exist anymore.
It was like the floor had dropped out from under you.
Your breath hitched, your hands shaking as you tried to make sense of it. Five years. Five long years of separation, and she had moved on. That reality hadn’t hit you yet—not until this moment.
You wandered the halls of the compound like a ghost trying to find the briefing room, each step carrying you deeper into a nightmare you didn’t know you were walking toward. The old familiar places—the sparring rooms, the kitchen, the common areas—felt empty like they had all been forgotten. Even the air was different, colder, somehow.
And then you saw them.
Wanda was standing in the hallway, her hair flowing like fire in the low light, her posture elegant and composed. She was talking to Vision, her fingers gently touching his arm as she spoke. The sight should have been comforting, a sign of the life she had made for herself, but it wasn’t. The way Vision stood close to her, so casual in his affection, stung in a way you didn’t expect.
You should have been prepared for this moment. After all, the mission had been long. You knew the world didn’t stop spinning while you were gone. People changed. They moved on.
But seeing them together—seeing Wanda like that, about to marry him—it shattered you in a way you hadn’t been ready for.
But they didn't saw you, and you kept it that way.
Moments later, you entered the meeting room where Fury was briefing the remaining Avengers. The room went silent the moment you entered. Eyes locked onto you, faces frozen in disbelief. Five years of absence. Five years of presumed death. You could feel the weight of their stares—their shock, their confusion. Everyone was silent.
Except for Natasha.
"Where the hell have you been?" Natasha’s voice rang out, cutting through the silence with razor-sharp accusation. "Everyone thought you were dead. Do you have any idea what we’ve been through? What she has been through?" She was seething, every word laced with hurt and frustration.
You flinched but didn’t respond. Natasha was always the first to speak her mind, but there was no mistaking the anger in her eyes. She was angry at you for abandoning them. For abandoning Wanda. And maybe she had every right to be.
“Calm down, Natasha,” Tony’s voice was much quieter but still firm, as if sensing the tension in the room. He looked at you, his face softening. “It’s good to see you back. We didn’t know what happened to you. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
"Please," Steve added with a steady voice, though there was a lingering look of concern in his eyes. “We’re just glad you’re alive.”
But the truth was, none of them knew the real reason you were back. They had no idea what you’d been through in the past five years. None of them knew the story behind your disappearance—the Hydra supersoldiers you’d discovered, the brutal battles you fought. They didn’t know what you had sacrificed just to be standing here.
None of them knew about Wanda. About the promises you’d made.
As Fury began his briefing, you barely registered the words he said. Hydra was still a major threat, you had discovered three super-soldiers they’d brainwashed, and there was more work to be done. But none of it mattered. Not when your mind kept circling back to that image of Wanda, standing next to Vision.
What did she think of you now? What had happened to the woman you loved?
Then, without warning, Wanda walked into the room "Sorry we are late." She said as she entered the room with an apologetic look on her face. But soon that face turned into a completely different thing. She was seeing a ghost, and she was not sure if everyone was seeing the same thing. You were there. The person she loved. The person she thought she had lost forever. The person she had mourned night after night for 3 whole years.
"Wanda…" you breathed, a whisper escaping your lips before you could stop yourself. Your voice cracked, betraying the grief you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel until now.
She was frozen, her eyes locking onto yours. For a split second, there was a flicker of recognition, of something unspoken. But then it faded, replaced by something else—something more distant. The familiar warmth that used to light her eyes whenever she saw you was gone.
Her lips parted, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, her gaze shifted slightly, and she gave a small, almost apologetic smile. "You’re back," she said, her voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. Relief? Guilt? Regret? She didn’t sound surprised, which only added to the pit in your stomach.
"Yeah," you replied hoarsely, trying to keep your voice steady. "I am."
There was a long silence between the two of you, an uncomfortable pause where neither of you knew how to bridge the gap that had formed. Vision stood next to her, stoic as ever, but you could see the tension in his posture. He knew. He had to know.
“Vision,” you said, turning to him with a forced smile. "It’s good to see you."
"Likewise," Vision replied with a polite nod, but you saw the way his eyes flickered toward Wanda. He didn’t say anything more, but the air between the three of you was thick with unspoken words.
Wanda’s gaze flickered back to you, and for a moment, you swore you saw something—something deep and familiar. But it was gone before you could register it fully. She smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile you give someone when you don’t want to hurt them but know that you already have.
"How’ve you been?" Wanda asked, her voice soft, though there was an edge to it. "We weren’t sure… I didn’t know when you’d be back."
"I’m still adjusting," you said, struggling to keep your emotions in check. "It’s been a long time. Five years is a long time."
Her expression faltered for a second, and you saw a flash of something—maybe guilt, maybe regret—pass through her eyes. But it was quickly masked. "I can’t imagine," she murmured. "But we all had to… adapt, didn’t we?"
You could hear the weight of those words, the implication hanging heavily in the air. We all had to adapt.
You wanted to ask her—did she miss you? Did she ever think about the life you had built together, or had she simply let go, buried you in the past like some forgotten dream? You wanted to scream at her, to demand answers. How could she just move on like this? How could she marry someone else when she had promised—
No. Don’t go there.
You shook your head slightly, the self-control slipping away.
Vision stepped forward then, his voice breaking through the tension. "Wanda, perhaps we should give her some space."
Wanda nodded softly, her eyes never leaving yours.
"Yeah, I think that’s a good idea," you said quietly. And with that, both Vision and Wanda left the room, leaving you standing there, trying to piece together the fragments of a life you had thought you could come back to. But that state of trance was broken by a harsh voice.
"What did you expect?" Natasha asked, her voice full of anger and sadness. She was happy to see you again, but a part of her felt betrayed that you were alive and you never told her. She needed to understand why you were gone for so long. Why you couldn't come back? Why this mission was so important that you kept yourself away from your family for 5 whole years? "She thought you were dead. We all did. And you just come back as if nothing had happened?"
"You have no idea what happened Nat." You said with a scared look on your face. A part of you was mad that things had not stayed as you left them. But was there really someone to blame other than you?
"Don't give me that bullshit Y/N!" She said as she grabbed her things with such fury that you swear that she could break them. "You should've stayed dead."
And with that, she left the room.
You didn’t know what you had expected to find when you returned, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. You couldn’t stomach the thought of facing Wanda, of seeing the woman who once meant everything to you standing by another man’s side. Or facing Natasha, who could even see you in the eye. From all the Avengers, you thought that maybe she could comprehend what you had done. The mission comes first, you were both taught. But, they were all hurt, and you were to blame.
"Ugh! That was hard to watch." Tony said, trying you lighten the mood. "Just give them time kid, I'm glad you are back."
Everyone left the room and you were left standing in the aftermath, wondering if there was any chance of finding your way back to your old life.
"Real love does not die; it only gets stronger through time." – Janice Markowitz
You never thought that your past could catch up with you. The idea of it was stupid. At the end, you had paid your doubts, served your time and even suffer the consequencies. But, what you had done had no forgiveness, was not something that could be errased. And here you where now facing the effects of a life time of bad desicion you had once made.
Everything was forgiven, or that was what you thought. The idea of being the person you once where was long gone. You had grown, leared from the past, but more important, you had Wanda Maximoff now. She ment evreything, she was the reason you where a better person, a better version of yourself. And without realizing it you leared that loving her was the key elements that was absent your whole life. The moment your eyes met hers everything made sense. Every bad thing was gone, every mistake was forgiven, every bad memory was forgotten and buried deep inside your mind.
But when Fury called you late at night you knew that your past was knocking at your door. And this time you couldn't escape from it, you couldn't hide. Truth to be told, every happy memory you ones made alongside Wanda was filled with this nagging feeling that something was off. That you didn't deserved the good things in life that you had. You were hunted by a ghost that you couldn't run from, and that ghost was your memories. The constant reminded that you were not worthy of her, you where not worthy of her love.
At first you suppresed it. You acted as if everything was okay, beacuse it was. You had made mistakes- evryone does it- and you were at a better place now. But when those mistakes involve killing, lying and betrying a hole nation, then thats something you could not run from. You had promised Nick Fury you'd take the mission when the day came. The debt you owed him—because of what you had been, what you had done, the secrets you'd kept, the lies you'd lived—was something you couldn't escape. Fury had given you a second chance, when others would have let you rot in a cell. Now, you had to pay it forward, and that meant taking this mission. The same mission that would tear you away from the life you had built with Wanda.
It was the soft click of the door that broke the stillness of the apartment.
Wanda Maximoff glanced up from the kitchen, where the scent of warm food filled the space. She was stirring a pot of pasta, the hum of the stove the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. She turned, her eyes locking with you for a moment before the world seemed to slow down. You were standing there, your bag slung over your shoulder, the weight of the moment hanging heavy in the air.
"Are you sure about this?" Wanda's voice was laced with a quiet uncertainty, an edge of fear creeping into her words. She wiped her hands on the towel hanging by the counter, her gaze never leaving you.
You forced a smile, though the twist of your stomach betrayed you. "It's just a mission. I'll be back before you know it."
Wanda didn't seem convinced. Her gaze dropped briefly to the floor before meeting yours again, a thousand unspoken thoughts passing between you. She stepped forward, her arms pulling you into a gentle embrace. You held her tighter than you thought you could, as though anchoring yourself to this moment. To this life.
She sighed softly against your chest, the warmth of her breath lingering against your skin. "I hate when you leave." Her voice was barely a whisper, and you could feel the tremor in her words. "Why you? Why can Steve or Bucky go?
You pulled back slightly, enough to look into her eyes. "It has to be me, Wanda. I'll be back, I promise."
"I know." She nodded, but there was still something distant in her eyes. "Two, three weeks max, right? That's what you said."
You didn't answer right away. The silence between you grew thicker, as though the weight of your promise and the truth were something you couldn't speak aloud. You hadn't told her everything. You couldn't. Not now. Not after everything.
"Yeah," you said, after a long pause. "Two, three weeks. I'll be back before you know it."
Wanda's lips parted, but she didn't say anything more. Instead, she leaned in and kissed you gently on the lips, the soft press of her mouth a promise, a reassurance, a goodbye wrapped in love.
The kiss lingered longer than it should have. You knew this would be the last time for a while—possibly the last time. And as you pulled away, the knot in your chest tightened. But you didn't let it show. Not yet.
You turned to grab your jacket from the chair, giving her one last glance. She was standing there, her expression unreadable, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"Call me when you get there?" she asked quietly.
You nodded, your throat tight. "Of course."
"Be careful. I love you." Her voice caught, and you could see the concern in her eyes, the fear. It mirrored the way you felt inside, but you couldn't show her that. Not now. Not when she needed you to be strong.
"I love you too Wanda Maximoff" you said, before you turned and walked out the door.
Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff
Wordcount: 6,858
Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.
Warnings [Please, please, please read]: Blood, cannon-typical violence, mentions of suicide and attempts, torture, vomit, werewolf transiton, and did I mention suicide? I think I did. It's not depicted, but it's pretty heavy, respect your triggers. Horrible grammar because I don't proof read.
[a/n: Mm, did I forget this existed until @thinking1bee kindly reminded me of it? Maybe. Did I spend hours writing this to make up for things? Also maybe.]
[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]
Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests
It was the copper taste of blood that registered first. The sensation was thick like cotton against your tongue and it hurt to swallow. You must have bitten down against the soft flesh at some point and swallowed the blood that weeped from it like you were made for violence.
Cold concrete under your cheek eased the throbbing pain. It was minimal, but it was something. The thought of unhinging your jaw for something as simple as coherent words was loadbearing. So, you let your eyes flutter back shut and breathe in the scent of musk and antiseptic that mingled. It was almost soothing against your bare skin.
Some faint flicker reminded you to be wary of your dignity, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. Modesty be damned. If they treated you like an animal, you might as well bare your teeth and contort your spine like one. Your ears twitched at the distant shift change that happened twice a day like clockwork. It was the only marker that existed for you to measure time in situations like this.
They had sedated you. Most of the time, you were in a limbo between ferality and forced sleep. In those moments where you were not, you had effortlessly shredded through the down mattress pad that sat on the wire frame of a bed. Feathers were often scattered about like what you recalled snow to be.
Eventually, hunger pulled you from your fugue state. There wasn’t much difference between clenching your eyes shut and the natural darkness of the cells. They’d left a metal tray filled with something that didn’t have much taste when you scarfed it down as fast as you did. Almost out of courtesy, they’d left clothes too.
Your hands shook as you pulled on the shirt and pants, shivering into the instant warmth it provided. Your hands were caked in your own blood and so were your feet as if you paced back and forth along the length of the cell. It was your blood. The guards were wise enough to stay away from you when you shifted into the creature they all feared.
A pitiful laugh escaped you, back falling against the back stone wall. You swallowed back a wince. It was almost a shame that you were still a living, breathing, thing. There was no hope of mercy. You had tried and tried again. For a time, they’d taken any sharp objects out of reach and even when you did get your hands on them, it was nothing but a temporary mess to scrub away. You were a nuisance to the custodial staff, so that meant no shoelaces either.
“Well, it seems as if you’ve inherited my cynicism.”
The words pulled your heart so high into your throat, you could choke on it. The way you flinched at a sharp voice was painful in every part of your body. It had been foolish to assume you were alone. Though, most of the time you were. There was nothing much to do with you other than watch and that grew tiresome for seasoned warriors.
This man was in the cell across from you. When days bled into weeks, into months, it remained empty. He was pushed so far back into the inky darkness that it was impossible for you to see him. Concentrating on sharpening your vision when you already had a pounding headache seemed like a lost cause.
There was sadness in his voice and it softened you. Most people spoke with you in a tone of disgust and contempt. This was something more than pity. “For what it is worth, Tyr should not have stuck his hand in your mouth in the first place. What more were you to do other than bite down?”
Your mouth already tasted of blood, but the second wave spurred on by memory and sensation alone flooded your mouth. The voice had a familiar timbre and if you weren’t so steadfast that he was dead already, you would have figured him your brother. Jormungandr and Hel were small specks in your mind, enveloped in trauma and shame and a love that you stopped chasing after long ago for your own dwindling sanity.
“You could leave this place.”
Your breath deepened, eyes following the lithe shadow as he stepped close enough to the bars to catch what little light remained here. He looked worse off than you did. Malnourished and bloodied at the knuckles. Greasy black hair hung down over startlingly green eyes. He had the cold stare of your brother and the pale complexion of your sister. You wondered if he had the sharpness of your teeth.
You had never met your father, but his rage boiled deep in the pit of your gut. His lineage had damned you and in turn, you always figured him damned. Your mother, what little you remember of her, had attested to his genuine love and care. It was the circumstances that brought the blade of the guillotine down. He’d wanted to keep you safe. Hell of a lot of good that did you.
“You are much stronger than them and this.”
“That might be true, but what is the point in ripping my way through bone and flesh only to end up in another prison of their design? They believe me vile, and I have not shown them any different.”
He hummed, something smooth, though his voice shook from hearing your own. “And why should you? They don’t underestimate you. It’s you who underestimates yourself. You fold to their torment.”
“The torment brought on by your lineage?”
This made him still, look down at the cement floor with something akin to sadness. “That was never my intention. I share the same father as the God of Thunder and yet… yet I was tainted. You could be entirely of your mothers likeness and they still would not do anything but prosecute you.”
You believed him, or the conviction in his own statement. Your head thumped against the wall, suddenly exhausted again. The sedative pulled you in and out of consciousness like a slow tide meant to keep you vulnerable and forgetful. When you surrendered to it, it wasn’t as painful.
“I thought I was good. I don’t remember much, but I knew I thought I was good. I’m sure you know, you can only take so much of people believing the worst in you before you start to believe it yourself.” you laughed softly “What scared me the most, is that it felt nice. Showing them what they feared I’d become.”
“You sound like my daughter.” he chuckled in a way that was more sorrowful than anything. “Tell me, how was Angrboda the last time you saw her?”
The sound of your mothers name shot a coldness through you that instantly pricked behind the eyes. She loved you and your siblings fully and without consequence. Perhaps, the only one who had ever shown you kindness for simply existing. She embraced the wild animal within you, the sheer size that you embodied. She would take you hunting with her own bow and arrow slung over her shoulder, your weapon your pointed teeth.
When you sidled up to her with a rabbit still caught between your jaw and its viscous blood dripping down your chin, she’d cup your cheek with her warm hand and sing your praises. Because you were her child. Of course she would. The love that was in her eyes was a stark difference from the clouded stare she had the last time you’d seen her. But, he didn’t need to know that.
“It was painless.” You wanted to choke on the lie “A sickness that allowed her to pass in her sleep.”
Loki knew you were being untruthful, but he allowed it to slip through your lips regardless, for both of your sakes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Natasha’s thoughts consisted of the mantra. Typically, as a trained agent, her mind would be flooded with procedures and points of action. The best way to neutralize a threat. Today, it skipped all of that and went straight to panic. Years of work and preparedness went right down the drain the second she saw the sparks frothing from the control panel in the basement.
Tony Stark had built the tower in a genius way, almost like the original design of the Titanic, something that functioned fairly well without the water. When there was an anomaly, the doors automatically sealed. Natasha could only hope that FRIDAY notified someone that they were down here. That you were down here.
“Fuck.” Natasha said it out loud this time. “You could have taken down Thanos by yourself, darling. How hard will a puppy be?”
Wanda winced at her wife's attempt at diffusing the situation. “That is not a puppy, Natasha. That is y/n and the last thing I want to do is hurt her. But, I’d also like to stay alive.”
Natasha could still smell the drywall that had broken so easily under the force of your body. You’d found a weak point in the holding cell and burrowed out through the closet. All of this happened less than a minute after the power went out, but the spy could taste it on her tongue. “I don’t think she’ll hurt us. She would have come straight for our throats if that’s what she wanted. She could have crushed us both between her teeth in one go. But, she ran. She’s scared.”
Wanda’s shoulders softened in a barely detectable way. Natasha knew she had been in your head, seen things that Natasha can’t even begin to understand on her own. Something was keeping her rigid despite her obvious infatuation with you. She’d also seen the softness in Wanda’s face when she threaded her fingers through your hair and hummed softly to give you the rest you so desperately deserved.
Finally, finally, Natasha got a decisive nod from her wife. Everything had gone quiet in her brain. After the initial reaction, she figured the only rational thing to do now was to find you. This floor itself was massive, the expanse of at least twelve football fields. Natasha was aware that you didn’t quite enjoy tight spaces, but when you were this size, every space was tight. She had yet to see you, not in the blazing darkness, but the rumbling sound of your breath and blazing color of your eyes had given away the sheer mass that you possessed.
There was an emergency weapon cache two hallways over. Natasha was not aiming to kill. Tony, despite his ego, stashed it with tranquilizers and low-impact rubber bullets. They were strategically placed around the compound as if they were fire extinguishers and not a means of protection.
Once they entered the main corridors, there was more light to see by. The emergency lights were shot, but the exit signs still pulses their toxic red. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Wanda followed her without question, always in situations like this. The witch packed a harder punch, but Natasha knew how to track. To hunt.
“I can feel her.” Wanda took the gun that was handed to her, checked the safety and holstered it out of practiced habit. Natasha handled her weapon like she handled breathing, with ease and automatically. “She’s scared, she’s… fuck, Natty, I think she’s in a memory.”
“Yeah, that’s not good.”
And really it wasn’t. Natasha hoped and prayed that whatever they had in the chamber was enough to take you down. Though, she highly doubted that it would be. Not with the memories of what she'd read online flitted through her head. The way that the most powerful people in Asgard had tried to fell you, and while they made a dent, it was just that. A dent.
Sweat started to drip down her collarbone, sliding between her breasts. The red light was playing tricks on her. Wanda was right behind her, their footfalls measured and quiet. Natasha wasn’t down here much, just for you. It was a maze of hallways that looked the same, not even distinguished with stock photo art.
The exit was behind her now, muzzle of her gun pointed directly at the ground. There was a creeping wave of feeling that begged to crest. It enveloped her chest. Her instincts told her that you were close. Right in front of her in the swath of darkness that plunged deep down into the stretching hallway.
“Natasha,” Wanda exhaled.
“I know. Stay behind me.”
Yellow eyes pulsed like flames that had been freshly exposed to air. They were lanterns in a desolate world. Natasha got a better gage of your bulk.. You filled out the hallway and strained against the walls, head dipped to accommodate. You did look very much like a puppy, just a lithe and hulking one all the same.
When you released a growl, the feeling hurried across every nerve ending that Natasha still had use of. Goosebumps rose against the paleness of her skin. When you snarled, it filled Natasha’s veins and clouded her lungs. She’d never heard anything quite like it. It wasn’t unpleasant, but she certainly didn’t want to be on the other end of it.
Your fur was dark, your upper-lip pulled back just enough to expose shining and sharp teeth. A pink tongue pushed past as an indicator of fear. Fear of her, and fear of her wife who lilted her head in a way that reminded Natasha just what she was trapped between. Someone dangerous and someone she didn’t know well enough to consider safe.
“She’s frightened, but she recognizes us.” Wanda said.
Okay, good. That was a start. Natasha let the edge of her gun lower minutely. People were predictable: She moved one way, they’d move the other, she kept her shoulder low, they’d go high. They’d call for a truce and she would never truly lower her weapon, waiting for the moment of betrayal to set in. But animals? She couldn’t read between the lines with animals.
Treacly drool dripped from your lower jaw, pooling on the floor with such thickness that it could fill buckets. You released another growl, this time it was deeper. One of your massive ears flickered back, the other dipping from it’s aggressive point. You took a lumbering step towards them, tongue sweeping over your exposed teeth.
“It’s okay,” Wanda soothed, so low that Natasha barely heard it, but she knew you did. “Take it easy, we don’t want to hurt you.”
She knows. Natasha wanted to say this loud and clear. She didn’t need a mind reader to tell her that’s what was going through yours. You took another step closer. A third one would close the distance entirely. The sheer size of your muzzle reminded her that you could swallow them both up.
Yet, she found herself holding her hand out, moving at a glacier place. The exhale of your breath soaked through her clothes, warmed her cold bones. When you didn’t snap, or growl, or pull away, she placed her hand on the length of your maw. You were unbelievably feverish, your fur coarse and soft all at once.
Wanda was tense behind her, shoulders pulled back. She was watching you, careful not to linger with her eyes locked onto your own for too long. That was considered a threat, Natasha figured. She shared some qualities with a wild animal, a predator, and that was one of them.
You rumbled as Natasha started to drag her fingers gently from between your eyebrows to the tip of your nose. The gesture was soothing, loving, and it seemed to do the trick. You had always been met with violence in this form. Did you even know an ounce of kindness when you were freshly in a new form?
Wanda had gained the confidence to dig her fingers into the hair right behind your nearest ear. Again, you let out a noise of content, something of a chuff. Your tail flicked in the slightest. Natasha pulled her hand back quickly, perhaps with too much haste, when you jolted with a whimper, your lumbering stature swaying back and fourth.
When Wanda moved her own hand back, she produced an empty syringe. It had been nothing but a small prick to you, the bite of a mosquito, but enough to make you dizzy and unsteady on your feet. You snarled once, a snap of your teeth, before you collapsed, still awake, still functioning, but eyes leaden all the same.
“Why did you do that?” Natasha’s voice shook. “She was fine, it was fine.”
Wanda dropped the syringe on the floor, clattering. “She asked me to. Well, not her, the bear man did.”
“The what?”
Her wife didn’t get a chance to answer before you flopped the rest of the way to the ground. A blast of warm air swept through the corridor, smelling thickly of blood and dirt. Natasha peered at you in silence, the slow steady rise and fall of your chest, the escaped whimper with each exhale. A massive paw stretched out, as if begging to be closer to them, even in spirit.
The cold alternating tile bit the skin at the bottom of your feet with each shaking step. It had been easy to let all the fight and weight drain out of your body like sand trapped in an hourglass. You weren’t light, what little muscle that clung to your bones was solid and compact. The guards each huffed at your lack of corroboration, their gloved hands tightening against your arms as they shoved you forward.
Odin sat on a throne carved from gold. The element was certainly in abundance here, or at least, one would think with all the gilded halls. Even the doorknobs held a certain glow to them that rang true of riches. Yet, the floor under your knees still felt like any other floor you’d been made to kneel on. Your shoulder hit stone hard, and they wasted no time grabbing the chain at your spine and yanking you up so you could look the king in the eye, lest you be disrespectful.
You wiggled your fingers, trying to gain the smallest bit of feeling back. At least two padlocks that you could see were holding ropes of chain meant to keep you complicit. They had enough mercy to spare you the sedative. They must need you lucid enough for this conversation to comprehend it. You sat back on your haunches, glared darkly at the king.
“Oh, no need for pouting, child.” He tsked, letting his head tilt as he studied you. “I have a proposition for you that you’d be wise to pay attention to.”
When you drew in a full breath, the bindings dug into your skin and constricted your chest painfully. You weren’t interested in what the man in front of you had to say. He was much too slumped in her seat to find any importance in the conversation. The sun that flitted through the floor to ceiling windows swam in sharp color, little ponds of red and yellow and green that shimmered like water.
What you would give to encounter the element without the cold blast of a hose, or the startling clarity of a filled bucket. Your brother was always attracted to the water, always up to his knees in the creek near the house you’d grown up in. It wasn’t too deep, but he’d found a pocket of water downstream that he used to teach you to swim. Your feet didn’t touch the mucky bottom, but with his steady hands holding you still, there was never any fear.
“Look at me when I address you, canine.”
With great effort, you lifted your gaze to his own. The way his eye lit up with pleasure at your obedience burned your insides. You could take his sight entirely and feel nothing but satisfaction. But you sat patiently and waited. Thought about breaking free of the iron chains and crashing through the window. Stained glass, unlike yourself, could shatter without consequence.
“Keeping you trapped in the dungeons hasn’t done us much good, now has it? The amount of resources I’ve expended to keep you fed and clothed and away from the world is frankly exhaustive. You’re strong-willed like your father, you know? Many would have given themselves over to my command by now. It’s a shame that no physical cage can hold you.” Odin sighed as if the mere prospect of speaking with you was taxing. “So, I’ll give you one more chance to accept my offer, mongrel. Help me protect Asgard instead of destroy it.”
You knew what that meant. Your brother had naively agreed to this condition in his blind, trusting nature that was surely swallowed up now. He was tethered to the waters of Midgard now, meant to keep visitors by sea out unless given permission to come in. He was in a prison of a different design, easily folding to the man who had their mother slaughtered.
Hel had dug her nails into the crumbling earth. The first prison they had damned her to, the dark and lifeless underworld, held her just fine. Sometimes, in your darkest dreams, you swore you heard her screaming until her throat was raw. You always woke with your mouth tasting of blood and body aching, as if you’d traveled the rings of hell just to hear her broken voice.
In response to the request, you pulled back with a nasty grunt and spit a mix of saliva and blood into the faces of one of the guards. His hands loosened right away going to wipe away the viscid concoction. He was a mouth breather and you utilized that to your advantage. Your teeth were in the other guards calf in less than a second, crunching down hard enough to feel the bone splinter at your behest.
Escape was not your goal. The halls were swarming with men ready to take you down, and quite frankly, the idea of a sword buried to the hilt in your chest was not appealing right now. Destruction was where your intention lay. You wouldn’t be able to lay a hand on Odin, but his guards were a close second.
The one you’d spit on grabbed the back of your neck and shoved your face to the ground, knee suddenly and uncomfortably shoved against your spine. Still, you reveled in the chaos, in the tinny blood that bloomed on your lips. It was fresh and warm and made Odin smell of fear.
“I’m assuming that was your untamed way of denying my offer for salvation.” He scoffed, overanimated, shaking at the edges. “Very well, then. While you’ve spent your days trying to make use of your bedsheets, I’ve been crafting a different type of prison for you. One that’s certain to hold.”
This caught your attention, yet, when you tried to lift your cheek from the tile, it was pressed back down with an urgency that made your jaw ache. When you heard the door open, you forced yourself back into a sitting position, barely sparing a glance at the pale guard that had passed out from the pain, his blood still staining your lips.
The man that had entered the great hall was one that you did not recognize, but you could smell the great power he held. He was large, a long grey beard wiring down to the center of his stomach. There was arcane clinging to his skin, eyes dull, but watching you with such ease it made you want to wiggle out of your skin.
“This is your grandchild?” He asked.
“This is an abomination.” Odin spit out. “Loki has very little of my blood, so it stands that this unwild creature holds less than that. I have no qualms about what I need done, but if you’re having second thoughts, Mimir, I can very easily have your head.”
From the pass of fear that washed over Mimir, you knew that if the blade was brought down on his neck, he simply couldn’t reattach it. As you breathed in evenly through your nose and out through your mouth, you knew that he had no other choice than to help Odin dispose of you.
Even if there was a choice, you were sure he’d make this one. The magic that stemmed from his fingertips was a volatile one, always begging for a way to escape. If you were it’s salvation, then so be it.
When law enforcement asked you about the events that transpired on the night of your brother’s death, you were convinced that your jaw had been frozen shut. A kind paramedic with soft brown eyes had wrapped a silver insulated blanket around your shoulders as she bandaged your hands up. The blood had run so pink it was almost clear, your fingers a dead type of blue that would lead to sure illness.
She was talking, you knew she was talking, and yet you stared at her blankly. It didn’t matter how many times you’d slammed your fists against the ice, watching his fuzzy body drift under the solid force was too much to bear. The culdesac was filled with people. Neighbors had lined up on the sidewalk, stopped by barricades and officers. Two more uniformed men were comforting your parents. They sobbed and shook, and tried to catch their surroundings as they sat on the curb, knees to chest.
Frozen. You were frozen.
Shock tended to do that to you, and even though you would feel better now if you just wiggled your fingers or flexed your jaw, you did nothing but open your eyes and blink until the picture became clear. You had been at the shooting range with Natasha, and then you hadn’t been yourself at all. Then you’d been more yourself than ever before.
The room you were in was dimmed. It was nondescript like most of the rooms in the compound, but it wasn’t a cage. Dreams, you’d had them before, of your brothers and sisters and family that were torn apart at the edges, but the one you’d stirred from, the memories of Asgard, were not planted or designed. They just were.
“No, I understand.” You stiffened at the voice, familiar and soft, and something you’d been longing to hear for weeks now. “Reschedule the debriefing and send an edible arrangement. No one can get mad about fruit shaped like flowers and dipped in chocolate. Thank you, Angela.”
Jenn let out a sigh as she clicked out of the call. She was dressed smartly in a pantsuit, hair clearly worked through with her fingers. It was a nervous habit she had, one that formed a pit of guilt in your stomach. You never meant to worry her. Not when you’d been struck by that car and not now.
She sensed your gaze on her, lowered herself into the chair beside your bed with delicacy. She reached to take one of your hands into both of hers, soothing her thumb over the scars on your knuckles. “Hey, kid.”
You groaned into the pillow. You hated when she called you that. “We’re the same age.”
“You died and came back to life, you’re technically like, a baby, dude.”
This got a laugh out of you, one that made you curl into yourself at the intense ache that radiated from your bones. A flicker of worry flashed across Jenn’s face, something akin to a frown. She wanted to tell you to take it easy, to rest, but instead she placated you by brushing her fingers through damp hair.
“I didn’t think they’d let anyone see me.”
“Yeah, well, it helps that I can hulk out if you get too growly.”
“Did I hurt them?”
The question came out watery, begging to break from your throat and claw its way to fresh air. Your fingers tightened slightly around Jenn’s other hand. You had told Natasha to leave, to get out while she can. There was a deep and primal feeling that overtook you that just knew you were dangerous. But, you knew Natasha was stubborn too. So was her wife. Neither of them would actually agree to leaving you.
You could still smell the bergamot attached to the witch and the clove that clung so heavily to Natasha. She’d let you bury your nose against the junction where her neck met shoulder. It was the most potent there, her scent, and it calmed you. It was something you wanted to cling onto now.
The edge of Jenn’s lip curled up, revealing just a bit of her perfectly straight teeth. She’d always had the ability to clock you and call you on it. The ease in which she looked at you gave you hope that the blood on your lips did not belong to either woman. Any outcome other than it being your own would be devastating, but manageable.
“They’re just fine. You are… massive. They had to tranquilize you with enough to take out at least six horses and one gorilla. Maybe two. If Steve allowed them in here, they would be. But he was worried that you would wake up scared and violent. I told him that you would certainly be scared and I could handle you if you were violent. I’m sure they’re just outside that door with their ears pressed against it.”
You groaned, the noise quiet and muffled in a pillow that did, in fact, smell like Wanda and Natasha. Your cheeks had been heating up steadily until the tips of your ears were flashing red. The prospect of getting up much outweighed that of Jenn’s teasing. She poked you in the side.
“Let me sleep.”
“You’ve been sleeping for three days.” This made you wrench your head from the safety of the mattress. You blinked dumbly at Jenn, holding the pillow hard enough to stretch the fabric. “Your girls are very worried about you. Nice job, by the way. I find you stupid, but that works for some women. Two women that are married to each other.”
“Oh my god, spare me. They’re my keepers. I got Stockholm syndromed.”
“That’s not an adjective, and you’re far more than their charge. You managed to get stone-cold Natasha Romanoff to show emotion that wasn’t flippant. She nearly took my head off when Steve agreed to let me in here and not her.” Jenn chuckled, but it was frayed at the edges. “Wanda has just about paced a hole in the floor. I feel like they’re watching us right now.”
“You’re being overdramatic. They’re married.”
Jenn hummed, “I could make a joke about you looking like a sad puppy right now, but that would be too easy.”
There was a polite, warning knock at the door. It was out of courtesy and gave you just enough time to shakily push yourself up against the wall behind you. The coolness of the drywall seeped through the fabric of your shirt, felt nice on your skin. Jenn stood from the chair, tucked her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. She was at ease around the two Avengers, though, you noticed the slight tensing of her shoulders as they walked in.
There was an uptick in Wanda’s stride when she realized you were awake. Worry warmed hands were suddenly on both sides of your face. Her knee was on the edge of the bed, breath splaying across your chest. Pale green eyes could swallow you whole. They were bleeding with worry. Worry that you had caused.
“Are you alright? How are you feeling?”
You held your breath, searching her furrowed features. You caught a look from Jenn right before she excused herself, giving your hand one last squeeze. Natasha was suddenly on the other side of you, the mattress dipping. Her hand was on the inside of your knee, as if stabilizing herself.
The relief that they were both okay was overwhelming. It morphed into a rush of emotion that brought a wetness to your eyes. Wanda caught you as you fell forward into her shoulder, a pained sob escaping. “Oh, honey.”
Wanda maneuvered until your sore, fragile, frame was curled into her side. Natasha slotted herself behind you, her steady, muscled figure providing stability as her arms wrapped around your center, fingers soft against your skin. Her nose pressed to the nape of your neck, breathing you in. You’d never felt safer, and more on-fire, in your life.
“I’m sorry I scared you, I scared me. Everything was just so much. It was like I was everywhere and nowhere at once. I don’t- I don’t remember what happened here.” Your words rushed out like a stream of fear, muffled against Wanda’s chest. Her thumb swept against your cheek, catching tears. “I was locked up in asgard, tortured until I lost every ounce of fight in me and when I did, when I was weak enough to trap in this otherworldly prison, Odin did it.”
You were sniffing, trying to catch your breathing, your next words broken in a pitched whine. “And on top of everything, I think I’m falling for you both. Which is fucking ridiculous because you’re married to each other.”
In the silence, your eyes clenched shut, you knew that they were peering at one another. Though, you couldn’t bring yourself to imagine if it was out of pity, desperation, or disgust. Your fingers were wicked into Wanda’s shirt, head pressed against her sternum.
“moy malen'kiy volk,” Natasha spoke close to your skin, the heat comforting. You expected her to say more, but you were engulfed in silence for what felt like an endless moment, your chest burning as you forced yourself to breathe. It seems like the feel of your chest expanding under Natasha’s fingertips was what she was looking for. “You shouldn’t have gone through that.”
“They wanted you to cease to exist on the fear that you would destroy them, alone.” Wanda’s words vibrated against your face. “Now, that’s quite unfair, don’t you think? Anyone will bite if prodded enough. But you’re here now. You’re with us. You’re safe.”
Her hand gently curled under your chin and drew your red-rimmed eyes to her own. They were resolute, hard with determination. “I want to hear you say it, moya dorogaya devochka.”
“I’m with you.” Wanda lifted a brow at you, silently pleading for you to continue. “I’m safe.”
Natasha hummed, a noise that was close to a purr as she hugged you tighter from behind. “Good girl.”
Your cheeks instantly reddened. You could feel the heat building under your skin, pulling your eyes away from Wanda to bury your face back into the safety of her embrace. A sound that was close to a whimper escaped you. The witch chuckled, running a gentle hand through your hair. Her voice was a mock coo “Nat, don’t tease her.”
“I can’t help that she’s so, so good for us. So reactive.”
Natasha’s fingers had found a way under your shirt, an expanse of skin that shivered when she dragged her nails across it. A whine pushed past your throat, one that hung in the air and made you freeze like headlights were flicked on. The deer metaphor was a little too on the nose, you figured, after a taxi killed you.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
Wanda pulled your eyes up to her own for the second time. Her lips were close. Somehow you’d ended up in a position where she could eliminate the distance between the both of you with one movement. That bergamot scent she carried wrapped a claw around your throat, soothed the tension in your shoulders. Natasha traced little patterns just above your waistband.
“Sh, sh, sh” Wanda soothed, tucking a strand of wild hair behind your ear. You licked your lips, swallowed hard. You were surrounded by them, engulfed in warmth and safety. “Little wolf, can I kiss you?”
You certainly weren’t little. But the way Wanda said it sent heat straight to your core. There was an ache between your thighs that screamed for you to close the space that stood between you and Wanda’s full attention. She was soft with her advances, mouth on yours. She tasted of mint toothpaste and something softer, like morning tea. You sighed into the touch, another placated sound muffled by her throat.
Both of you worked in synch, as if through all your lives, you were always meant to find her. Soft fingers dragged the length of your jaw, engulfed her exhale with your own mouth. When air became sparse, you pulled apart, her forehead against yours as she panted out. She wore a dazed smile and slightly-rosy cheeks, and it was an image that you never wanted to look away from.
You were certain that you wouldn’t have, but Natasha was guiding your vision to her fern-colored eyes. They were dark with lust. She practically hovered over you, silky hair curtained your face. She held herself up with ease, the muscles in her arms flexing. You could see her strength so well from your position. Your lips were pulsing from your shared kiss with Wanda but, you were more aware of the knee slotted between your legs. You had enough self control not to grind down, but that didn’t stop the way you squeezed your thighs around Natasha’s to keep her in place.
The spy smiled wolfishly, “watching you kiss my wife is one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.” Natasha was lowering herself closer, her hair tickled your collarbone. “Care to kiss me?”
“Yeah, yes, please.”
This couldn’t possibly be happening, your heart hammering in your chest reminded you that it was, in fact, real. Natasha kissed with more teeth and tongue. There was a cinnamon spice that flooded your senses. It reminded you of autumn and a crackling fire, and the deep dark red of a sweater standing out against wet snow. Natasha smelled like outside, and outside was endless. Her nose was cold on your cheek, but her movements were steady as she dragged her tongue over the seam of your lips and you happily let her in.
She was quieter than Wanda, but the combined sounds of her tongue licking into your mouth and her heavy breathing told you that she was enjoying this just as much as you were. You both sighed heavily when she pulled away, a thin silken line of saliva connecting you both like a tether. It broke when she sat back on her heels, half-straddling you. Her eyes were logy, her exhale stuttered.
Natasha blew a strand of hair from her face, making it look effortless in its messy state. “Huh, where’d you learn to kiss like that?”
“Your wife.”
Natasha frowned and pinched your side, the three of you dissolving into laughter that made your aching ribs hurt enough to wince after a few moments. The worry instantly returned to her face as she cupped your cheek, soothing her thumb over the redness there. You nuzzled into her wrist, her scent prominent there. “Are you hurting, kitten?”
“Mm, my bones turned into bigger bones and I think I lost all my teeth. The last thing I remember before… There was the taste of blood I thought-”
Your voice cracked, frayed in a way that was equally as pitiful as it was embarrassing. This time, you didn’t hide your face. You looked at them both, so kind and quiet and soft and patient with you even though a few hours ago you were sprouting fur and drooling all over the floor. It was all dark for you, except for the memories that were blazingly alive.
“But you didn’t.” Wanda silenced you. She said it with so much weight that you nearly believed her. “We can take care of ourselves. Ancient wolf God or not, I don’t have any problem putting you in your place.”
Natasha took one of your hands, giving it a squeeze. She didn’t let go, and you didn’t want her to. “We saw you, y/n. All of you, and there was not a single part of me that thought I was in danger. You knew who we were. You are good, you hear me?” She kissed the top of your hand. “You don’t deserve what’s happened to you over and over again. Let us take care of you.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“And if we want to?” Wanda asked.
Wanda was dragging her fingers against your collarbone, the sensation fluttered. Your cheeks were impossibly warm and your breath shallow. You searched their features for any mistruth, any hint of fear, but there was none. You had been regarded with so much terror in the flashing, shimmering, memory that had engulfed you. Your father. Your king. Your absolute pain, it all faded away in favor of their touch.
“I’m meant to harbor chaos and destruction, you know?”
“Yeah well,” Natasha huffed, pressing her lips right behind your ear. Shivers wracked your body. “People said the same thing about us once.”
Summary: She fought battles that shaped the world, yet no one remembers her face or her name. From the shadows of skyscrapers, Y/N watches a city that thrives without her, a ghost in the streets she once called home. Every victory, every life saved, is hers alone, and the silence of being forgotten is deafening.
A/N: Fem!Spider!Reader.
____________________________________
The city didn’t feel like home anymore.
New York had always been loud, dirty, and alive. A comfort in the way chaos could sometimes cradle you. Now it was just noise. Car horns. Sirens. People brush past without a glance. All of them breathing, talking, living in a world that had forgotten you.
The late-night rush hour hummed below you, cabs cutting off delivery vans, a guy on a bike yelling at a bus, neon bleeding against rain-slick streets. The city was still breathing, still alive, still utterly indifferent to the girl sitting thirty stories up with her knees tucked to her chest and a mask pushed halfway up her face.
Your fingers absentmindedly touched at the ring still looped on the chain under your suit, pressed cold against your sternum like a secret you couldn’t let go of.
You’d stopped talking out loud to it months ago. Stopped whispering promises into the night. The city didn’t answer anyway.
Every thread that had once tied you to the people who mattered was cut clean. Not frayed. Not burned. Just gone.
A police scanner chirped in your ear… a hold-up, three blocks over, armed, quick in and out. Easy. Your body moved before you even decided to; instinct firing faster than thought, muscle memory carrying you into motion like a spring finally released. You vaulted off the ledge, weightless for half a breath before gravity clawed you down. Then—thwip—a line shot from your wrist, the tension catching with a jolt in your shoulders that was both sharp and reassuring. The city tilted beneath you, skyscraper windows blurring into streaks of yellow and blue as you arced forward. Wind tore at your face, cool and biting, tunneling past your ears like a freight train, and if not for the mask, it would have stung your eyes, pulled tears free and left them streaking back across your cheeks. The pull of each swing yanked at your ribs, your hips, every joint humming with controlled momentum. Webbing latched onto steel and glass, anchors that flexed and held as you let go, kicked forward, and launched again, carving through the air with a precision only years of repetition could make effortless. Webbing latched itself onto steel and glass as your body glided through the night sky.
You hit the pavement in the middle of the street just as the gunmen came bursting out of the bodega. They froze; not because they didn’t know who you were, but because they did.
“Aw, hell,” one muttered, already dropping the duffel bag.
Spider-Girl.
Not the friendly neighborhood kid. Not the rookie. You’d been doing this for years, long enough that the cops gave you a wide berth, long enough that the tabloids had stopped asking if you were dangerous and settled on probably, but useful.
The responding officers didn’t even draw on you when you webbed the men to a streetlight. One of them, a young guy with a nervous jaw, gave you a stiff nod.
“Thanks for the assist,” he said, like the words cost him something.
You returned the nod and disappeared before he could finish saying your name, or what counted for your name now. Not that it mattered. No one ever asked who you were anymore. They’d all stopped remembering a long time ago.
__________________________________________
Your apartment greeted you with the same cold silence it always did.
Fourth floor. Cracked plaster. A kitchen too small to cook in, a window that rattled when the wind pushed too hard against it. No photos. No keepsakes. Nothing that could give you away. Everything that had once been you, every picture, every file, every faint trace of your life, had been erased. Doctor Strange’s spell hadn’t just made you invisible to the world; it had scrubbed every reminder that you had ever existed.
You peeled the suit off piece by piece, the fabric sticking where sweat had cooled against your skin, and tossed it over the back of the only chair you owned.
Even your old suits refused to recognize you now, patterns, functions, memories locked behind the persona you used to be. You’d had no choice but to start over, crafting new suits from scratch, stitch by stitch, as if sewing yourself back into the world one web line at a time.
A bruise bloomed across your thigh, deep purple, already aching, but you didn’t bother with ice.
You made coffee instead. Midnight, bitter, black.
The ring clinked against the mug when you wrapped your hands around it, chain slipping loose, catching the dim light from the street. One of the only pieces of your old life you were somehow able to keep. You stared at it like it might do something, glow, hum, vibrate, remember.
It didn’t.
You sat on the edge of the bed, coffee cooling untouched in your hands, and tried not to think about the way it had once been different. The way the world had known your face, your laugh, the sound of your voice. The way she had.
Wanda.
You pressed your palms to your eyes, hard, until stars burst behind them. You weren’t going to cry. Not again. Not tonight.
Another chirp from the scanner cut through the quiet. Midtown. Large-scale event. Enhanced combatants confirmed. Avengers-level threat.
There was a time when you would have been one of the first people called to join. Back when the Avengers knew who you were. Back when Tony was alive.
Now you were just a vigilante that happened to be in the right place at the right time. The Avengers, or what was left of them, wouldn’t turn down your help but they certainly wouldn’t request it.
They remembered Spider-Girl vanishing with half the universe, only to reappear on that battlefield in Wakanda like no time had passed at all. You’d swung into the chaos, no questions asked, fighting beside legends, bleeding for a world you barely had time to recognize again. They remembered how fast you moved, how hard you hit, how you didn’t hesitate even though you’d just lost five years of your life. But they didn’t remember why you fought like that, the people who mattered, the promises you were trying to keep. To them, you were a weapon that showed up when needed, then faded back into the crowd.
You stared at the device a long time before moving.
The logical thing would be to ignore it. Stay small. Stay safe.
But you were never very good at logic when people were in danger.
By the time you zipped the suit back up, the coffee had gone cold and the city had started screaming.
But the scanner chirped again, and duty, or maybe just habit, pulled you back to your feet.
You hit the streets a minute later, swinging fast, high, clean, a red-and-blue ghost heading straight for a warzone no one knew you’d fought a hundred times before.
The closer you got to Midtown, the louder it became. Panic had a sound. It wasn’t just sirens and screaming; it was the city’s heartbeat going erratic, skipping in all the wrong places. Smoke crawled between skyscrapers, car alarms bellowed, civilians scattered.
You swung down hard onto a traffic light, crouching against the glow. Below, the street was torn apart. An armored SHIELD convoy lay in ruins, metal curled back like paper, agents scrambling for cover behind flipped trucks. A massive enhanced brute, ten feet tall and glowing faintly blue through cracked, stone-like skin, swung what was left of a sedan like a bat.
Arrows whistled from a rooftop. Kate Bishop, still moving like Clint had trained her, clean, precise, efficient. You hadn’t seen her in months, not since the quiet reshuffling of what was left of the team. Back then she’d been green but hungry, desperate to prove herself after Clint introduced her to the Avengers. Now she moved like she’d been fighting in the big leagues a while.
Then another voice cut through the chaos, sharp, Russian, annoyed.
“Move your asses, amateurs!”
Your stomach dropped.
Yelena.
She vaulted off a nearby fire escape like she’d done this a thousand times, twin batons sparking at the tips. She struck the brute’s side, electricity cracking across its ribs. It staggered.
Your throat closed. For a heartbeat, the whole world folded in on itself. Not because she was here, but because of who wasn’t.
Natasha should have been here.
Yelena’s hair whipped over her shoulder as she turned, barking orders at SHIELD agents like she owned the street. It was the same fire, the same controlled chaos, the same refusal to die quietly that Natasha had carried into every fight.
And it hurt.
Not the bruise blooming across your thigh. Not the crack in your ribs from the last hit you took two nights ago. This was different. This was the sharp, breathless kind of pain that lived behind the sternum, the kind that whispered that no matter how close you stood, she wouldn’t know who you were.
You webbed the brute’s wrist mid-swing, yanking it off balance, driving a kick into its jaw hard enough to rattle your teeth.
“Acid head!” Kate shouted from above, losing an explosive arrow. “Go for the cracks!”
Yelena dove low, batons striking the glowing fissures at its knees while you vaulted over its back, webbing both arms to opposite street poles and pulling with everything you had until something deep inside it gave with a wet, horrible snap.
It roared and went down hard, shaking the pavement. SHIELD operatives surged forward to restrain it, cuffing, triaging, shouting orders.
Kate lowered her bow and exhaled, glancing your way. “Nice timing, Spider-Girl.”
Yelena barely looked up as she wiped blood from her cheek. “For once.”
Then Kate hesitated, just for a second, eyes narrowing as she slid the bow over her shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, casually, like it was just an observation. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
The kind of question that didn’t sound like a question.
You froze. You could feel the words at the back of your throat, clawing to get out, the truth like a dam about to break. But you only shrugged, light, nothing behind it, a lie that felt like sand in your mouth.
“Here and there,” you managed.
Kate nodded once, already turning away, already scanning the rooftops for her next move. “Well… glad you showed.”
And that was it.
No spark of memory. No flicker of recognition. Just another teammate on another chaotic night.
You didn’t stay to listen to the chatter, or the report, or the thank-yous that would never come.
You fired a webline and left before anyone could say anything else, lungs burning, hands shaking, heart cracking all over again.
Not from the fight.
From standing that close to Natasha’s sister, knowing everything you wanted to say would mean nothing.
Later that night, the television flickered in your small apartment, anchors recapping the Midtown chaos: traffic snarled, SHIELD agents scrambling, a towering blue-skinned brute brought down by a swift red-and-blue figure.
Spider-Girl.
You winced as you adjusted the ice over your abdomen.
The clips played over and over. The reporters never mentioned her civilian identity, and no one remembered Mysterio exposing it, just that Spider-Girl had stopped him. No one saw you in those reports. No one connected the victories, the narrow escapes, the countless times you’d saved the day.
You leaned back in your chair, sipping lukewarm coffee, letting the footage run. The city was alive and moving forward, but you weren’t part of its memory anymore. Not in any tangible way.
______________________________
The morning stretched slowly. You ate your cereal in silence, listening to the faint rumble of the city through the cracked window. You stirred the spoon around the bowl absentmindedly, eyes tracing the cracks in the wall, thinking about how long it had been since anyone had called your name.
Your studio was small, dim, and mostly empty, just enough space for a bed, a chair, and a half-packed box of instant noodles. No photos, no keepsakes, no reminders that you had ever belonged anywhere.
You grabbed your coat, slipped your mask into your pocket, and walked to the corner grocery store. It was easy to hide your suit underneath your winter clothes, making sure to keep the sleeves pulled up just enough to not peek through the arms of your sweater. The aisles smelled faintly of mildew and plastic.
A kid knocked over a display of soda cans as you passed. Reflexively, you caught a few before they could roll onto the floor. “Careful,” you said quietly. The kid mumbled thanks and ran off, leaving you alone again in the echoing aisles.
You grabbed a few packs of ramen, some bread, and a carton of milk. The cashier gave you a polite nod, but no smile, no recognition, no connection. You weren’t a person here, just another face in the crowd, a shadow moving along with the hum of a city that didn’t need you.
You paid with crumpled bills and carried your small bag back to the apartment, listening to your own footsteps on the cracked pavement. The building was quiet, empty, and waiting for you to fill it with your presence, but you knew it wouldn’t. You were alone. Always alone. No family, no friends, no one left who remembered your laugh, your voice, or even the battles you had fought.
Back in the apartment, you made a small pot of noodles and ate slowly, listening to the loud voices of your neighbors arguing. Sirens wailed in the distance, cars honked, the hum of life went on. And you sat there, invisible, unnoticed, a lone figure in the shadows of the city that had moved on without you.
Summary: Spider-Girl risks everything to protect reality. She leaps into chaos, fights through a world tearing apart, and faces forces no one else could. But a spell will erase her from everyone’s memory, leaving her to watch the city continue without her, her heroics celebrated by a world that will never know her name. She has lost Wanda, the love of her life, and Aunt May, her last family, and now must rebuild her entire life alone, carrying the weight of love, loss, and sacrifice that no one else will remember.
A/N: Fem!Spider!Reader. Loosely based on Spider-Man: No Way Home.
_____________________________________________
The world ended quietly.
No explosion. No screaming sky. Just a single breath, sharp and cold, full of goodbye.
You stood on the top of the broken statue’s torch, the sky tearing open in a purple haze, figures clawing through the rift toward your reality. Tears threatened to fall as your hand clenched around the only thing that mattered — a ring, warm against your skin, heavy with everything you were about to lose.
“This is the only way,” Strange had said. His voice carried none of the certainty you needed, only exhaustion, resignation, maybe even a trace of pity.
No one argued. Not you. Not Wong. No one had a better plan.
One spell. One perfect erasure.
Spider-Girl would remain. The world would still know her — the hero, the Avenger, the mask, the myth.
But you, the girl beneath, would vanish. Every face that had ever turned toward you in recognition would slide past like you were a stranger. Every hand that had held yours would fall away.
Even hers. Especially hers.
There wasn’t another way. And in the end, you had agreed. Because if you didn’t, more people would die. If you didn’t, the city would burn. If you didn’t, Aunt May’s death would mean nothing.
So you stood there, letting the world forget you.
Strange met your eyes one last time. For a heartbeat, the Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t a master of the mystic arts, just a man who looked guilty, who wished there’d been another way.
“It was nice knowing you, kid,” he said quietly.
You didn’t have long before the spell would take effect. You leapt off the torch, refusing to stay and watch as Strange carved symbols into the sky to erase all of your traces. Not even glancing back to see the other versions of yourself fade into their own worlds.
_____________________________________________
You’d kissed Wanda for the last time ten minutes later, in your shared apartment twenty blocks from the statue. You pulled her close, desperate and shaking, memorizing everything, the soft drag of her bottom lip against yours, the faint smell of her shampoo, the quiet gasp she tried to hide.
She cupped your face with both hands, confusion furrowing her brow, fear bleeding through the cracks of the calm she always wore for everyone else.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t tell her the truth.
“Talk to me, baby,” she pleaded, voice breaking in a way you’d only ever heard in nightmares.
All you managed was, “I love you.”
She smiled through her tears, a broken, fragile curve of her mouth, pretending everything could be okay.
And then you had to pull away.
You swallowed hard, tears stinging, and stepped back. “I… I have to go,” you whispered. “Before it happens. I don’t want you to see… what you’ll forget.”
Her brow furrowed. “Wait—”
She studied your face, too scared to ask questions.
She whispered, Come back to me, like a promise she could anchor herself to.
You hadn’t had the heart to tell her you were already slipping away.
_____________________________________________
Now the city blurred at the edges, like wet paint smeared by invisible fingers.
From your perch on the torch, you watched the people below. They ran through the streets, coats clinging to their bodies, voices carrying up in panic, fear, confusion. A few drivers abandoned cars, screaming, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked night.
The sky above had nearly closed its jagged wound, strands of gold and purple energy spilling across the clouds like molten veins. You didn’t need anyone to tell you what was coming. You could feel it in your bones.
You felt it already, like the air itself was pushing you away, like the whole world had turned its head and stopped recognizing you mid-breath.
Your name stayed. Your memories stayed. You stayed.
But everyone else, everyone you’d ever loved, fought beside, bled for, would lose every trace of you.
And then the light swallowed everything.
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