You’ll find all my work under each of their new sub categories. (Yes, I’ve updated it- purely because I felt like it was getting very crowded.)
I mainly write for Natasha Romanoff… sometimes Wanda Maximoff. But I am willing to write about other female characters in Marvel should someone request it!
Also, I will literally write about anything, if you couldn’t tell from my blog, a lot of my work is angst. But I dabble in fluff, smut (Sometimes). So, if you want an insanely depressing and angsty story- I’m your gal. Or if you want the sweetest most beautiful story, I can try my hardest!
Summary: You’re an orca-human hybrid, haunted by your past and struggling to trust. But Wanda and Natasha see you—really see you—and with gentle care, begin to show you what it means to feel safe, wanted, and loved.
TW: PTSD and trauma recovery, Medical experimentation, Body modification/injury, Nightmares/flashbacks, Emotional vulnerability and dissociation, Touch aversion (initially), Slow-burn romantic/sexual tension, Soft angst and hurt/comfort dynamics, Mild depictions of panic attacks or shutdowns, Blood or injury.
TW: medical trauma, child abuse, non-consensual surgery, body modification, emotional distress, panic attacks, nightmares, implied experimentation on children.
Summary: After a vivid nightmare about the traumatic loss of your dorsal fin, you’re consumed by guilt and fear. Seeking comfort, you turn to Wanda and Natasha, finding solace in their arms. For the first time, you allow yourself to be vulnerable, realizing that, maybe, you deserve the safety and love you’ve never known before.
———
You’re not in the Avengers’ compound. You’re back. Back to when you were just a little girl.
You’re six years old again, too young to fully understand the terror that’s about to consume you, but old enough to feel the panic rise in your chest as you’re dragged across the sterile floor.
The cold tiles bite into your small feet, your little sneakers not enough to shield you from the chill. Your eyes blur with tears, the salty droplets streaking down your face, but no one cares. The scientists—the ones who called themselves your caretakers—don’t care. They’re not looking at you, not speaking to you.
Their hands are rough as they grip your arms, their fingers tight around your tiny form. Their voices are muffled as they argue over something you can’t quite make out. It’s like they’re speaking through water.
But you can still hear the words that send a cold shiver up your spine.
“It’s time. We need to take it.”
You don’t understand what it means. You’re so confused. You’ve only ever known their hands on you in cold, clinical ways. You’ve only ever known pain as something that happens because they tell you it’s necessary. They take things from you. They make you hurt, and then they make you forget.
But you can’t forget. Not this time.
You reach for the pacifier in your mouth, the small plastic comfort you still cling to when you’re scared, and you press it to your lips for safety. You’re still just a little girl, not a soldier, not a weapon. You want it, need it, but they just pull it away from you like it’s nothing. Like it was never yours to begin with.
The tears come faster now, harder. But you don’t get to cry for long. They drag you down a hallway that feels like it goes on forever, your feet not even able to keep up with the force of their grip. Your body is small and fragile, but they don’t care. You’re nothing more than a tool to them, something they can break and mold at will.
The cold, metallic scent of the lab fills your nose as you’re shoved into a bright, blinding room. The lights above are too harsh, burning your retinas, and the sterile white walls close in on you like a trap. Your heart races, and the confusion swells in your chest, tighter and tighter, until you can hardly breathe.
You try to move, to scream, but the fear clogs your throat. You’re not even sure if you want to scream anymore, because it’s all too much, and you’re too small to make it stop.
A table, cold and unforgiving, is right there in front of you, and you’re forced to lie down on it. The straps around your wrists are tight, the pressure digging into your skin.
“You’re going to be okay,” one of the voices says, but there’s no kindness in it, just a sterile indifference that makes your stomach churn.
You want to scream again, but all that comes out is a choking sob. You’re not ready for this. You don’t even know what’s happening.
Your body tenses in fear, and that’s when you feel it—sharp, cold metal against your skin. It’s too much, too fast. The incision is deep, too deep. They’re not even being careful.
Your small body jerks beneath them, and you kick and scream, but they don’t stop.
“No, no! Please! I don’t want it!” you cry, voice breaking with desperation, but they don’t listen.
They never listen.
A sickening, wet sound fills the room—the cutting—and you realize, in some awful, breathless way, that they’re cutting into you.
They’re cutting away your fin.
The pain is unbearable. It’s worse than anything you could have imagined. It’s the feeling of something being ripped from you, a part of you that you never even knew you needed until it’s gone. You scream, tears flowing freely now, as the sharp, cold sensation becomes more intense, the metal pressing against you until it feels like your body is being torn apart.
They take it. They take everything.
The fin, the one thing that made you whole, that made you feel strong, is gone. The loss of it is like an empty abyss opening inside you. You feel broken.
Your tiny, trembling hands reach toward the place where it once was, but there’s nothing. The cold, slick surface of your back feels alien to you now. You’re not you anymore. You’re just a shell, empty and aching. The pain, the loss—it never stops.
“Code 47,” one of the scientists mutters to another, the words cutting through the haze of your agony. “Complete. You’re done.”
Done.
That’s what you are. That’s what they’ve made you.
And then, all at once, the nightmare starts to fragment. Your body feels disconnected from the world around you. The pain, the emptiness—it’s all too much to bear. Your cries fade into nothingness. You can’t feel the cold anymore. You can’t feel anything.
Just the weight of what they’ve taken from you.
⸻
You wake with a sharp gasp, your body soaked in sweat, every muscle trembling like it’s been ripped to shreds. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. You can still feel the phantom pain in your back, the empty spot where the fin used to be, and your mind can’t shake the memories of those hands, the sharp metal, the loss.
For a long, breathless moment, you lie there in the dark, trying to process what just happened, trying to ground yourself in reality.
But it’s impossible.
The memories, the images, the pain—they all flood back, crashing against you like an overwhelming wave. You can’t breathe. You can’t move.
The guilt comes next. The overwhelming weight of it. You were engineered for this. You were designed to be a weapon, a tool for them.
And you never had a choice.
The tears come before you even realize it, and you let them fall freely, staining the pillow beneath your face. You can’t stop crying, can’t stop feeling the loss that runs deeper than anything you’ve ever known.
You’ve never been able to forget what they took from you, but tonight, the loss is more real than ever.
⸻
Your body still trembles beneath the thin blanket. The tears have stopped, but only because you’ve run out of them. Your throat is raw. Your breath stutters.
You sit up slowly. Your room is dark, still, and cold. There’s no one here to tell you it was just a bad dream. No one here to tuck you back in, smooth down your hair, hush your cries and tell you everything’s okay.
You never had that. You were made in a lab, not born into a family.
You were taught silence, not comfort. Obedience, not safety.
But tonight… tonight, the ache in your chest is too much to bear alone.
You throw your blanket off and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet touch the cold floor and you hesitate—just for a second. But the emptiness wraps around your ribs like a vice, and you know that staying in this room, alone with your grief, will tear you apart.
So you leave.
The compound is quiet at night. No footsteps, no clatter of coffee mugs, no sparring rings echoing with laughter or grunts. Just silence and soft light pooling down sterile corridors.
Your hand is trembling when you lift it to knock on the door.
You almost don’t. You almost turn around and force yourself back into that bed to weather the storm alone, like you’ve done your entire life.
But… children run to their parents after nightmares.
And maybe—just maybe—this is the closest you’ll ever come to that.
The door creaks open before your knuckles even touch the wood. Wanda stands there in one of Natasha’s t-shirts, soft red curls falling around her sleepy face. She blinks at you, and her eyes immediately shift from confusion to concern.
“Sweetheart?” Her voice is gentle, barely a whisper. “What happened?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your lips tremble. Your throat works around a sob that doesn’t escape.
You don’t need to explain. You know it, the moment she steps aside and reaches for your hand.
Inside the room, Natasha is already sitting up in bed. Her hair is a mess, bare shoulders tense beneath the sheets, but her expression softens the moment she sees you. No questions. Just understanding.
Wanda closes the door behind you.
And then you’re pulled in—like the tide drawn to the shore.
Natasha scoots over to make room, holding the blanket open, and you crawl in without hesitation. Wanda follows a second later, curling around your back like she was made to hold broken things together.
You’re sandwiched between them, warm and safe, their hands gentle as they pull you close. Natasha presses her lips to the top of your head. Wanda wraps her arm over your waist, tucking her face into your shoulder.
No one speaks for a long time.
You just breathe.
For the first time since the nightmare started… you feel held. Not restrained. Not used. Not studied or examined or forced into silence.
Just… held.
“You’re safe now,” Natasha murmurs against your temple.
“We’ve got you,” Wanda adds softly, her hand stroking your side.
And for the first time in years, you believe it.
Maybe this is what it’s like—what it should’ve been like. To cry in the middle of the night and be met with arms instead of orders. To wake from a nightmare and not be alone. To choose comfort. To choose them.
You fall asleep between them with dried tears on your cheeks and something new in your chest. Not just safety. But love.
————
AN: This one was a long one, I feel it went in depth about the trauma and past about littlefin. (Also, that’s a sneak peak at the nickname Wanda and Natasha start calling her.)
You wake up before the sun rises. You always do. Even without the mission briefs, the tracking chips, the whispered commands through your ear, your body still runs on combat protocol.
The compound is quiet. Outside your window, the trees are still shadows. You’ve already showered, already eaten. Now you’re just existing—waiting for something to happen.
You sit on the edge of the bed in a T-shirt three sizes too big, knuckles resting against your knees, still as a statue. Your eyes track a spider crawling along the far wall.
Wanda knocks on your door exactly one minute after 6 a.m. She does this every morning now, ever since she found out you were an early riser. She never says why.
You open the door, and there she is—no makeup, hair pulled back, still in pajama pants and a hoodie. She’s holding a paper cup. “Decaf today,” she says. “You looked tense yesterday.”
You take it without a word. The heat bleeds through your fingertips. She’s studying you. She always does.
“Thanks,” you say, voice hoarse from disuse. It still feels strange, talking to someone who doesn’t want to control you.
“Training’s in an hour,” Wanda says, tilting her head. “You coming?”
You nod.
She lingers in the hallway for half a second too long. Her eyes flick to your collarbone, then back up. “Natasha’s leading today,” she adds, and something flickers in her smile. “Better stretch.”
Then she’s gone.
You close the door. Sip the coffee. Your enhanced metabolism burns through caffeine in minutes—but you drink it anyway. Because she brought it to you.
And because something inside you, something deep and cold and ocean-born, is beginning to thaw. Yet you ignore it and prepare for the inevitable training session with Natasha.
The training room smells like leather and sweat and disinfectant. It’s all matte black floors and reinforced glass, like a shark tank for superhumans. You hate how familiar it feels.
Natasha’s already there when you arrive. She’s tying her hair back, hands practiced and precise. Her eyes flick up as you enter, and something unreadable passes across her face.
“Punctual,” she says. “I like that.”
You step onto the mat, silent. Alert. Waiting.
She tosses you a pair of sparring gloves. You catch them mid-air, one-handed.
“Warm-up first. You know the drill.”
You do. You’ve done thousands of drills. Your body moves before your mind does, stretching, rolling your joints, assessing angles. But you’re aware of her the entire time—her footsteps, her gaze, the way she doesn’t look away as you move.
You catch her watching your back as you bend into a stretch. She doesn’t even pretend not to.
“Loosen your shoulders,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re coiled like a spring.”
She presses two fingers lightly to your trapezius, right where the muscle tenses beneath your skin. Her touch lingers.
You flinch before you can stop yourself.
Natasha pauses. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” Your voice is too soft. You hate how soft it is around her.
She studies you. “No one here’s going to hurt you.”
Not physically, you think, but don’t say it.
“Alright,” she says, stepping back. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
You square up. She’s smaller than you. Slower. But more experienced—deadlier in ways you can’t always predict. She feints left and you don’t fall for it, ducking low, sweeping a leg.
She blocks, counters, and then it’s fast—too fast for anything but instinct. The fight goes on for longer than it should. You’re sweating. Breathing hard.
She’s grinning.
“You’re holding back,” she says between blows. “Don’t.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
You do. You sweep her legs and pin her before she can recover, one arm against her throat, the other pressing her wrist to the mat. You’re straddling her, her chest rising beneath yours.
Neither of you moves.
Her breath fans against your jaw. Her lips are parted. Her eyes locked on yours.
You should get off her. You should. But she’s not moving either.
Finally, her voice—low, dry, amused. “Well… this is compromising.”
You pull back like you’ve been burned, scrambling to your feet. Your heart’s beating too fast.
Natasha sits up slowly. Smirking. But there’s heat in her eyes. And something else. Interest. Approval.
She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. “Good. You’re dangerous when you stop pretending you’re not.”
You don’t know what to say. You grab your towel, turning away so she doesn’t see the flush in your cheeks.
“Same time tomorrow?” she calls after you.
You nod without looking back.
But later, in your room, when you’re alone with the taste of her breath still ghosting your skin, you wonder if you imagined the way her hand had gripped your hip—just a second too long.
And you wonder what’ll happen when you stop pretending altogether.
You’re back in the tank.
The water is too clean. Too still. Not like the ocean. It tastes like chemicals and silence.
You float in it, naked but not cold. You were bred not to feel cold. Just like you were bred not to disobey.
A voice cuts through the quiet, warped by speakers.
“Subject 06. Initiate protocol seven.”
You don’t think. You just move. Muscles obey commands your brain barely registers. A pulse of electricity hums beneath your skin.
Across the glass, four men in white coats watch. One of them nods. The others take notes.
“Heart rate steady,” one says, you don’t know his name- no, your not allowed to know his name. “Stress response minimal.”
You break the dummy’s spine in one fluid motion.
They nod again. No reaction. No praise. They only speak when you fail.
You look down at the mannequin, still sinking, limbs limp. You’re not sure when they stopped using real people. You’re not sure if they ever did.
Then you feel it—that hollow throb at the base of your spine. Not pain. You weren’t allowed to feel pain. But something. A ghost in your body.
You reach back. Your fingers touch smooth, tight skin. No dorsal fin.
Just a scar.
You gasp awake in your bed, heart thundering like sonar pings in the deep. There’s sweat cooling on your chest. You sit up, pressing your palm to the scar that still runs down your back.
Summary: Your relationship with Wanda and Natasha begins to blossom in the best way possible
A/N: sorry for the long wait for this chapter, but I promise the next chapter will be worth this while.
Since that night, something shifted.
You didn’t talk about it. Not at first. There was no dramatic conversation or labels or expectations. Just a softness that lingered like a scent on your skin. A warmth that didn’t disappear when the sun came up.
Since that night, you began sleeping in Wanda and Natasha’s bed more often.
At first, it was quiet. Hesitant. You’d pause outside their door, heart thudding, waiting to be told it was okay. You always were. Wanda would answer with a gentle smile and sleepy eyes. Natasha would lift the blanket without a word, already making space for you between them.
No pressure. No conditions. Just quiet acceptance.
Wanda started keeping a spare pillow for you.
Natasha began reaching for your hand in her sleep.
⸻
This morning began like every other.
Natasha had risen early, like she always did, already dressed in a tank top and sweatpants, her hair pulled back, face flushed from a light workout. Wanda stirred only after the smell of coffee drifted through the shared space—stretching with a soft groan, her wrist blindly searching for you under the covers before she even opened her eyes.
You were tucked between them, half-awake, warmed by their presence, hair mussed and eyes still heavy from sleep.
Wanda rolled toward you and kissed your cheek. Just once. Soft. Simple. Like it was nothing new.
“Morning, littlefin,” she whispered, her voice drowsy.
Natasha leaned over from behind and pressed a kiss into the space just below your ear, warm lips brushing your pulse point. “You drooled on my shirt,” she said with a grin.
You laughed—quiet and embarrassed—but you didn’t pull away. Not this time.
You had breakfast together in the kitchen, sunlight spilling through the tower windows. Wanda sat on the counter, feet swinging slightly, stealing spoonfuls from your bowl when she thought you weren’t looking. Natasha leaned back in her chair, sipping black coffee and watching the two of you with that half-smile she always wore when she was trying not to look too fond.
They kissed you between bites.
Wanda’s was sticky with strawberry jam. Natasha’s tasted like espresso.
Neither of them made a big deal out of it.
Neither did you.
It just happened—naturally, sweetly—like it had been happening forever.
Lunch was the same. You found yourself in the kitchen again, this time squished between the two of them at the counter while something simmered on the stove. Natasha wrapped an arm around your waist while she stirred, and Wanda leaned into your shoulder, pressing soft, absent kisses to your skin like she couldn’t help herself.
The whole day felt like a heartbeat—slow and steady and close.
And then came the evening.
⸻
The sun had long set, and the rain outside had slowed to a gentle, steady hush against the tower windows. The movie flickered quietly in the background, its low sound forgotten. The real story was happening here, on the couch.
Wanda’s head was nestled against your shoulder, her hand brushing lazy circles into your thigh through the soft fabric of your sweats. Natasha was close on your other side, her arm behind you on the cushions, fingers occasionally grazing your lower back, warm and absentminded.
You couldn’t breathe right.
Not because you were uncomfortable, but because you weren’t sure how this had become your life—how you’d ended up surrounded by this much quiet affection. How their touches had stopped feeling borrowed and started feeling like they belonged.
Wanda shifted first.
She sat up slowly, her knees tucking beneath her, legs folded beside you. Her hand stayed on your thigh, grounding you.
Then she looked at you. Not just at you—into you.
Her eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips, then back again. The triangle. That unmistakable look of someone about to kiss you, but letting you know it first. Her gaze lingered just long enough to send your stomach into a slow, fluttering spin.
Your breath hitched.
And that’s when she spoke.
“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, soft and sure, like it was just a fact—not something to be argued with.
Your cheeks flushed instantly. That deep, glowing warmth bloomed beneath your skin. You didn’t know where to look. Her eyes, her mouth, her fingers now curling around your knee… it was too much and not enough all at once.
You didn’t move. Not away, not toward her. Just… still. Waiting. Floating.
Wanda leaned in—slowly, giving you time to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Her lips met yours, warm and plush, like satin and syrup all at once. The kiss was delicate at first, unhurried, a question more than an answer. Her hand moved to your waist, steadying you.
You tilted slightly into her. You couldn’t help it.
And then—just when your lips parted and you let out the smallest, breathiest sigh—
Natasha’s hand curled under your chin.
She didn’t say a word, just tilted your head gently, guiding you toward her. The loss of Wanda’s mouth made your skin ache, but then Natasha’s lips met yours, and the ache changed shape.
Her kiss was deeper. Slower. Confident.
Not possessive, but intentional.
Her fingers held your chin like she was scared you’d disappear if she let go.
Your hands had found their way onto both their thighs at some point, fingers curled into fabric for something to hold onto. You felt drunk on them—on the taste of Wanda’s cherry chapstick still lingering on your lips, on the way Natasha’s tongue just barely brushed yours before pulling away, teasing, only to kiss you again seconds later.
You were breathless.
Dizzy.
Wanda pressed closer again, her hand on the back of your neck now, her thumb stroking slow circles there. She kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw. Everywhere soft. Everywhere safe.
Then you felt Natasha’s lips return—lower, under your ear, where your pulse fluttered.
It wasn’t just kissing.
It was being held in the space between them, held so gently, like you were something breakable that they wanted to protect and worship.
Every time your breath caught, one of them would slow down. Every time your hands trembled, one of them would press a kiss to your temple or brush hair out of your eyes.
They didn’t want to rush you.
They just wanted you.
When it all slowed—when kisses turned to small touches and soft exhales, when you curled up again between them on the couch with flushed cheeks and a heart pounding like a drum—Natasha pulled a blanket over your shoulders.
Wanda leaned down and kissed your nose.
“I hope you know,” she whispered, her voice like velvet, “you’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to want us.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak.
But the way your head rested on Natasha’s shoulder, the way your fingers found Wanda’s again and didn’t let go—said enough for now.
Summary: The morning after the nightmare, you finally open up to Wanda and Natasha about the trauma of losing your dorsal fin as a child—what it felt like, how it shaped you, and the guilt that still lingers. They listen, they stay, and they hold you through it. And somewhere in the quiet, something changes. Something soft, unexpected, and deeply needed.
———
The morning light is soft. Barely a glow through the clouds beyond the compound windows. It should be peaceful. Still. But your breath is already shallow when you open your eyes, and the ache in your chest hasn’t gone away.
You’re not alone.
Wanda’s arm is draped over your waist, her hand warm and steady. Natasha is behind you, her breath slow against the back of your neck, a quiet rhythm grounding you. They haven’t moved since last night.
Your cheeks still feel dry from the tears. But your mind is heavier than it was before. The memory of the nightmare—the sterile floor, the restraints, the cold gleam of surgical light—it all lingers like a bruise beneath the skin.
You try to stay still. You try not to wake them. But you shift, just a little, and that’s all it takes.
Wanda stirs first.
Her voice is soft, rough with sleep. “You okay?”
You swallow, but there’s a knot in your throat. You nod.
A pause.
Then, “Liar.”
You exhale shakily, a quiet sound. “Sorry.”
Natasha speaks next, quieter still. “Don’t be.”
Wanda props herself up on one elbow, brushing hair from your face. She looks at you like you’re made of something breakable—but precious. Like something she wants to keep safe.
“You had a nightmare,” she says gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You hesitate. You’ve never talked about it. Not in this way. Not when it wasn’t being extracted, catalogued, studied.
But now… you choose to.
“It was about… the fin.”
Both women are silent. Not because they don’t care—because they do. And they’re giving you space to find the words.
“I was six. They took it from me. They dragged me down a hallway, I was screaming. They took away my pacifier. I remember it like it mattered.” You laugh, hollow and bitter. “It did. I think it did.”
Wanda’s hand curls around yours.
“They strapped me to a table. I didn’t understand. I thought I’d done something wrong. I just kept saying I was sorry, over and over again. I thought if I was sorry enough, they’d stop.”
You pause. Your voice cracks.
“But they didn’t. I remember the sound before anything. The metal. The way they talked like I wasn’t even in the room. Like I wasn’t a person. Just a… thing.”
Natasha reaches out, her hand resting on your leg. Solid. Steady. “You were just a child.”
“I didn’t know why they were doing it. I didn’t know what I did to make them take that piece of me.” You close your eyes. “But I still remember the pain. Every second. Like my body was being torn open. Like I was being unmade.”
Wanda’s fingers are trembling, but she doesn’t let go of your hand.
“And when it was over,” you whisper, “they said I looked human now.”
It’s silent for a long time.
Wanda shifts closer, sliding her hand up your arm. “That part of you… the part they cut away… that was never the problem. It was never something that made you less.”
“They tried to take away what made you you,” Natasha says, her voice quiet but sharp with fury. “But they didn’t win. They didn’t break you.”
You exhale shakily, your head dropping into your hands. “It still hurts. And I still feel guilty. Like… like I was created to be a monster, and every time someone’s kind to me, it feels like I don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t say that,” Wanda says, and her voice cracks. “Please don’t.”
There’s a beat. Then she whispers it—so softly, you almost don’t hear it.
“Littlefin.”
You look up.
Wanda’s eyes are glassy, but gentle. “That’s what I want to call you. Because they tried to take it from you. But they didn’t get all of it. Not really. It’s still part of you. And I think it’s beautiful.”
Your breath catches.
Natasha smiles faintly. “It suits you.”
“Littlefin,” Wanda repeats, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “Small but sharp. Brave. Loved.”
It undoes you. The name. The tone. The kindness behind it. Something inside you cracks open, and this time, it isn’t pain.
You don’t realize how close you’ve leaned in until you feel Wanda’s breath on your lips. She doesn’t move.
Neither does Natasha.
You glance between them—your heart pounding, eyes wide, unsure. But Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver. She lifts a hand to your face, fingertips soft against your jaw. And then—
She kisses you.
It’s gentle. Barely there. More a question than a statement. A choice.
Your eyes close. You breathe her in.
When she pulls back, Natasha’s hand slides over yours, grounding you again. Her expression is unreadable for a moment… and then she leans in too, pressing the lightest kiss to your temple. Not asking. Just being there.
You’re held again—between two people who see you, past everything. Through the guilt, through the history. Through the scar down your spine and the weight in your chest.
And for the first time, you let them.
You lean into Wanda’s shoulder, wrap your fingers through Natasha’s, and stay there.
Still a little broken. Still healing. But not alone. Not anymore.
The words echo in your skull like sonar pulses, steady and sharp. You’re underwater before your eyes even open, the cool weight of the ocean surrounding you like a second skin. You don’t need air. You don’t need sound. All you need is the mission.
You glide through the depths in silence, your body an extension of the water itself. Your skin is sleek, every muscle tuned for efficiency. You don’t swim—you move. Faster than anything that belongs here. You don’t disturb the current. You are the current.
Above you, the red light of the facility bleeds through reinforced glass. A research outpost, hidden in the Mariana Trench. Unauthorized. Unmonitored. Their mistake.
There are twelve operatives inside. You’ve already memorized the floor plan. You can feel the water moving through the pipes, the condensation gathering along the vents. You can hear the shift in pressure every time someone exhales. Their hearts beat like drums.
You’re already inside.
With a subtle twitch of your fingers, the water bends to your will. It slips into cracks, creeps along metal seams, gathers in rivulets, then forms something sharper. You rise silently from the moon pool, feet barely touching the slick floor. No splash. No sound. The only thing left behind is the faint steam off your skin.
Eliminate.
The first man is standing at a console, checking readings, oblivious. You flick your wrist. A thin stream of water snaps up from a nearby grate and hardens mid-air, slicing through his neck with a clean, wet hiss. Blood spills out in a beautiful red arc, dissolving into the water that cradles the floor. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t have time.
You’re already gone.
Two more down the hall. You don’t creep—you stalk. The lights overhead flicker. You step into view and let them see you, just for a second. That moment of fear is valuable.
“Who the—?”
You raise your hand, and they rise from the floor. Not your hands. Not you. The water. It grabs them by the throats like a vice, hoisting them upward. Their boots kick against the walls as the pressure increases. You narrow your eyes.
Pop.
Two broken necks. The water drops their bodies at your feet like discarded meat.
You keep moving.
Extract.
Room seventeen. Target acquired. Female, mid-thirties. Cryogenics specialist. Originally slated to join the Project, but disappeared two years ago. You open the door without touching the keypad—just enough water in the lock to short it from the inside.
She’s awake when you step inside. Of course she is. The emergency alarms are still off, but the scent of blood and brine has begun to spread.
Her eyes widen when she sees you. “Please… please, I’m not—”
You tilt your head slightly. Not interested. Not sympathetic.
Your fingers curl slowly.
The water in the pipes groans. You don’t touch her. You don’t need to. You raise your palm and she collapses, gasping, her lungs filling with saltwater from the inside. You’re precise. You don’t want her dead. Just silent.
You cross the room as she writhes on the floor, eyes bulging, arms weakly flailing. You lean down and press your hand to her forehead.
A swirl of water lifts her unconscious body, wrapping her like silk in fluid strands. She hovers behind you as you exit the room, weightless. Carried by your will alone.
Submerge.
You return to the pool. The blood-slick hallway behind you sings with silence. They never even got a signal out.
You don’t just dive—you plunge. Your body is swallowed by the water in a single smooth arc, the stolen specialist following behind like a tethered doll. You descend rapidly, past steel beams and concrete, into open blue nothingness.
And then—release.
You stop holding her. The body sinks into the depths, cradled by the ocean. Still breathing. Alive, but barely. Exactly how you want her.
You hover above her, suspended in the darkness. Alone in the silence. Your eyes open fully.
———
Your body jerks upright with a strangled cry, lungs burning, air tearing in and out of you in ragged bursts. Your throat is raw, like you’ve been screaming underwater. Sweat slicks your skin, cold and clinging, like the ocean never let go. Your chest heaves. Your hands claw at the sheets like they might still be chains.
You blink, hard—once, twice.
You’re not in the tank. You’re not in the facility.
You’re not her anymore.
But your body doesn’t know that. Your heart hammers like it’s still on mission, still running red. Your fingers curl into fists and shake. Your back aches where the scars stretch—phantom pain from the blade that took your fin. A reminder: they wanted you to pass as human. But you were never meant to be human.
You were built to kill. Built to obey.
You were never given a choice.
Eliminate. Extract. Submerge.
You hear it again—like a mantra, like a curse.
You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, hard, as if that could block it all out. But it’s still there. Her face. The way her body convulsed. The silence after. Dozens of memories like it. Hundreds. Missions blurred together into a symphony of precision, of power, of obedience.
And now?
Now you’re free.
Free to make your own choices. To be something more than a weapon. But all you can feel is the weight of what you were forced to do before freedom ever touched you.
You start to cry—not loud, not dramatic. Just quietly. Shamefully. The kind of crying that comes from too much silence and too many ghosts. Your shoulders tremble. Your breath hitches. You press a hand to your chest like you’re trying to hold something inside that’s desperate to spill out.
You don’t cry because you’re scared.
You cry because you remember. Because you didn’t want to be that thing. That creature. That tool in their hands. You didn’t get to be soft, or kind, or unsure. You were designed to be perfect. Efficient. Ruthless.
You cry because they succeeded.
And now you have to carry it.
The lives you ended. The ones who never saw you coming. The people who begged. The ones who didn’t. It doesn’t matter. They’re all there, in your head, lingering just beneath the surface. Haunting you like the aftertaste of saltwater in your mouth.
You sit on the edge of the bed, curling in on yourself, face in your hands. You try to remember who you are now. You try to breathe through it.
But the guilt is a storm.
Thick and endless and drowning.
You whisper to yourself in the dark, not because anyone can hear you, but because the silence is worse. “I didn’t choose it. I didn’t choose any of it.” Your voice breaks around the edges. “I never got to choose.”
But now you do.
And that’s the part that hurts the most.
Because now that the choice is yours, you don’t know what to do with it. Not when your hands still feel stained. Not when the water still listens like it remembers the weapon you were.
You lift your head, staring at the wall across from you, jaw clenched, eyes shining. The tears slow, but they don’t stop.
You whisper again. Quieter this time. “I don’t want to be her.”
But she’s in you. She is you. No matter how far you run. No matter who holds your hand now. No matter how much light you find.
Summary: Sparring with Sam offers a moment of levity—and a mirror. You’re getting better at fitting in with the rest of the team, but something’s still missing. Something you’re not ready to name. Sam notices it too: the way you change around Wanda and Natasha, how you shrink yourself down like you’re waiting for permission to want more. Later, curled up in the common room with them on either side of you, everything is soft and nothing is said. And yet, every brush of skin, every glance, is soaked in longing. You’re not theirs. Not yet. But it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t want to be.
———
You’re in the training bay early.
It’s mostly empty, the kind of quiet that doesn’t last long in the compound. You like it that way. The stillness. The illusion of control. You go through your warm-ups, focused and fast, letting the rhythm of movement drown out the mess in your chest.
“Someone’s being an overachiever this morning.”
Sam’s voice cuts through the quiet. You glance up, already catching the lazy grin on his face as he jogs toward you.
“Old habits,” you say, short and simple. You’re not trying to be cold—you’re just… not always good at casual.
But Sam never pushes. He just nods and drops into a stretch next to you.
“You know, you’re not so terrifying when you’re not dripping in water and death glare.”
You huff. “Don’t let the others hear that. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
He grins wider. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them you threatened to drown me if I ever spoke to you again.”
You crack a smile. Small. Almost reluctant. He notices but doesn’t say anything.
You spar with him for a while. Light stuff. Controlled. You keep your powers locked down, focus on form. He’s good—faster than he looks, but fair. There’s no edge, no fear, no tension like there was last time with Sam.
And yet—
Your eyes drift.
Across the gym, Natasha walks in. Wanda’s beside her, both dressed for training, speaking in hushed tones.
And just like that, your focus is shot.
They haven’t seen you yet. You watch the way Natasha’s hands move when she talks, the way Wanda’s expression softens when she listens. There’s a kind of intimacy between them that’s effortless. You envy it. Ache for it.
You look away before they catch you staring.
Sam drops his stance. “You good?”
You nod, but he sees through it.
“You know,” he says, casual, not looking at you, “you’re different when they’re around.”
You freeze. “What do you mean?”
“Not in a bad way. Just… quieter. Like you’re trying not to take up space.”
You don’t know how to answer that.
He shrugs. “Maybe you should stop waiting for permission to exist.”
You laugh, but it sounds hollow in your throat.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
—
Later, after a shower and a half-hearted attempt at breakfast, you’re curled into a chair in the common room, knees up, book in hand but not really reading.
Wanda enters first. No shoes. Sweater sleeves pulled over her hands.
Natasha’s behind her, towel around her neck, a bead of sweat still trailing down her temple. Training must’ve been rough. Or good.
They see you.
You try to look busy.
But Natasha walks straight past everyone else in the room and drops onto the couch beside your chair, elbow propped lazily on the armrest, her body angled toward you like it’s natural.
Wanda claims the other chair. Close. Too close. Her knee bumps yours when she sits.
“Book any good?” Natasha asks.
You hold it up so she can read the cover. “Depressing. Complicated. Slow-paced.”
Wanda smiles like that’s the most fitting answer you could’ve given.
“Sounds like your taste,” Natasha says.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. And you don’t even realize it.
You talk for a little while. Small things. Meaningless things. But the whole time, you’re aware of them. The way Natasha’s leg brushes yours when she shifts. The way Wanda’s fingers curl into her sleeve as she watches you, like she’s holding herself back from something.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
And you wonder, if you leaned just a little closer, if they’d let you stay there.
But you don’t.
Because this isn’t yours.
So you just sit in the middle of them—book unread, heart in your throat—and pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling.
