a/n: just some headcanons of what widow!reader would go through after husband!michael passes away😞 feeling angsty tonight, i'm sorry guys:((
++ i hope a writer actually writes a one-shot related to this. if you ever write one, please tag meee!!!
++ i'm not a writer and i will never claim myself as one💔 i have poor wordings n i solely rely on shit ive read before🫡 im incredibly stupid i might be wording things wronggg😭
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⏾⋆.˚ - widow!reader who, late at night, sits on the same chair in their balcony, leaving one chair empty. the one that belonged to him. the balcony they used to spend hours together in—either talking, sharing intimate moments, argue, or just sit there. enjoying each other's presence.
⏾⋆.˚ - widow!reader who turns off all the lights inside their house, to let the moon's glow hit her skin perfectly. the skin michael used to caress and give soft kisses to. it's been so long, yet, they still linger.
⏾⋆.˚ - she looks at the moon with tears forming in her eyes which her late husband used to kiss whenever he notices tears start forming. she wishes he was here to do that, whispering, "don't cry, angel. i'm here", as he continues to wipe her tears away and cupping her face with his soft hands. the same hands that would pull her closer to plant a warm, comforting kiss on her lips. the much needed warmth in this cold night.
⏾⋆.˚ - widow!reader who carries all the letters they used to send to each other back and forth, reading them all in the candlelight—searching for small details, messages, or codes she hasn't noticed before, just to feel something new. bringing them to her chest, being careful and trying not to crumple them, "why'd you have to leave, mike?", she sobbed. oh he'd hate to see her like this.
⏾⋆.˚ - widow!reader who talks to the moon, wishing it was just michael, updating him about what's been happening all while sniffling—trying not to make any loud sounds so their children wouldn't wake up. they may not have been her biological children, but she sure did love them like her own.
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a/n: lowk wrote this w a heavy heart. missing mj so much😕😕yeah, that's all for now. i know this sucks🙂↕️🙂↕️ i warned yall im not a writer!! i just felt rlly angsty tonight, n i love angst sooo😓 i hope you guys liked this!
ps. im serious about begging writers to make a one-shot about this. i love angst so muhchchchc pls tag me if u make one
Joel Miller x Brothers Widow!Reader | AU | He promised to protect her. He never promised to not fall in love with her
warnings: loss, angst, widow!reader, no outbreak au, slow burn!!!!!!!, Joel being the gentleman he is, depression, funeral </3 , those little FLUFF moments, SLOWEST burn, I JUST LOVE COMFORT JOEL SM.
word count: 3,4K
a/n: long awaited, i have such a vision for this fic, i really want it to be more wholesome and slow burn than anything i want to FEEL myself falling in love with my dead husbands brother UGH
song; nettles - ethel cain | masterlist | Chapter One: What He Left
The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the air still clung heavy with it — that damp, metallic smell settling over the rows of dark suits and black umbrellas.
Most people had already drifted away, their polite condolences fading into the hum of tires on wet pavement. You were still standing there. Hands shoved deep into the sleeves of Tommy’s old jacket — the one you refused to let go of — staring at the polished wood of the casket like if you blinked, it might vanish. You didn’t hear Joel walk up, but you felt him.
The shift in the air, the weight of someone solid at your side. He didn’t say I’m sorry. He’d said it enough in the past week while helping you plan his brothers funeral- finally- to last a lifetime.
Instead, his voice was low, rough from the cold. “Everyone’s gone.”
You swallowed. “Not everyone.”
Joel’s eyes cut to you, and for a moment, you almost wished he’d cry. He hadn’t—not once since that knock on your door from the men in uniform. He’d stood next to you like a stone through the whole service, jaw locked, shoulders squared. Sarah on the other side, fingers interlocked with yours so hard. Now, his gaze softened just enough to hurt. “You don’t have to stay here in the cold, darlin’.”
Darlin’.
Tommy used to say it with a grin, all teeth and sunshine. Joel said it like a prayer he didn’t mean to let slip. Your fingers curled tighter into the sleeves. “Feels wrong to leave him here alone.”
Joel’s throat worked, like he wanted to say something and bit it back. His hand flexed at his side— you caught the motion out of the corner of your eye— before he reached out and wrapped his fingers around yours.
It wasn’t a romantic touch. Just warm. Steady. It grounded you in a way you didn’t know you needed. A feeling you didn’t think anyone else can make you feel but of course Joel did. Because him and his brother were one in the same, those two. But all the most different. Tommy was the sun on Joel’s cloudy day. Tommy was the silence breaker, the life of the party. Joel was the calmness when everyone left and there’s only the faint smell of alcohol and perfume, the radio on low in the background, barefoot as you twirl around picking up empty cups and tossing them into the trash bag in your hand. Comfort. In their own special ways but still the same party.
“Ain’t alone,” he murmured. “I’ll be here. Long as you need.”
You almost told him you didn’t need him. That you were fine. You hated feeling like you’d crumble at any second. The truth lodged like a splinter in your chest–you did need him. The only other person in the world who loved Tommy the way you did.
The silence stretched, just the two of you standing there in the dying light. His thumb brushed over your knuckles once, slow, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
When you finally looked at him, really looked— the deep lines at his eyes, the streak of silver at his temple, the rain still caught in his beard— it hit you that this was Tommy’s brother. His blood. A piece of Tommy. The same voice, the same hands. Different man. It’ll always be a different man. Suddenly, it felt hard to even look at him a second longer. To not have those thoughts, your brother isn’t here. you are. just go away. You stepped back first, breaking the contact. His fingers lingered like they didn’t want to let go. The ghost of someone Joel can never erase from your memory. You didn’t wish it was Joel, no never that. You just feel the weight of him now. That aching feeling that it’ll never be Joel and Tommy. Just Joel.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said. Not a question. And for the first time since the world collapsed into folded flags and empty beds, you didn’t argue. Even when hearing his breathing made you think of Tommy.
𓐩 𓐩 𓐩
The drive back to your place was short, but the silence made it feel longer. Joel didn’t say much, just kept glancing every now and then at you, as if you’d break out in tears if he stopped looking at you, his hand tightening around the steering. The stretch of leather underneath his palm and the soft pitter patter of scattered rain clouds the only noise. The screech of the tires when he parked just at the sidewalk of the house that felt too big now. Too empty.
Your eyes are down, fingers fumbling with the material of Tommy’s jacket. Joel walks around the front end of his truck and opens your door. You don’t look at him as you swing your legs over the seat and hang them out of the open door. You look past joel and towards your home. Knowing Tommy wasn’t here, knowing you left him back there at the cold, wet cemetery, made the house look so far away. “I can’t do this Joel,” you said in the softest of voices. If Joel wasn’t watching you, he would have definitely missed it.
He steps closer, his hands cupping your shaking ones in your lap, “take your time, darlin’. We’ll wait out here as long as you need.”
And you do. You slouch into yourself in the passenger seat, Joel stays right where he is, standing outside the passenger door in the rain– hands over yours. Big, warm, not Tommy’s but so close to it. He watches a tear fall down the side of your cheek, eyes closed. He watches another and another and sighs softly. It hurt him to see you this way. A way he’s never ever seen you. Not since the death of your mother, which was years ago. And not only that, Tommy knew exactly what to tell you to get you to crack even the tiniest of smiles. But Joel isn’t good at that. Never has been. Always would just hold Sarah whenever she’d be sad. So he does the same for you, he says, “it’s okay kid. You’re okay.”
When you finally feel strong enough to stand up on your own, you hop out and close the door. Tugging on the cuff of Joel’s sleeve as he guides you up the front steps. He feels your tiny, cold fingers pinching the fabric tightly. When you reached the door, you fumbled with the key. Joel didn’t take it from you. Didn’t try to help. He just stood there, rainwater dripping from his coat, watching. Waiting, being patient. Your eyes brimmed red, cheeks bitten raw from the cold front and rain and from the rough fabric of your sleeve when you’d wipe away your tears with so much anger, like being mad at the moisture on your face somehow made you feel less grief. Your lips quivering, threatening to let out a scream.
“You eaten today?” he asked finally.
You shook your head, stepping inside. “Not hungry.”
He followed without asking. Joel never needed permission to step into your home—it was the same house Tommy had left for the two of you, and Joel had built half the shelves himself. Still, something about him being here tonight felt different. He was never here without his brother tossing him a water bottle from the kitchen. Or helping Tommy with the messed up water heater.
His eyes scanned the room. It was so dark in there. He hadn’t been over, was dealing with Sarah’s grief, his own grief before he realized that you needed him more. His eyes land on the sofa, blankets thrown over the back, a pillow. Sheets on the floor too, a pillow. You couldn’t bring yourself to sleep in your bed. The one Tommy would tuck you into every night he was home safe. Joel’s eyes flickered over to the clothes discarded all over the living room floor, the hallway, the armchair. You shuffle to lift a few shirts and gathered them in your hand- suddenly so embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Haven’t got the chance to wash,” you lie. Joel watches you scramble to try to tidy something, anything, up. You looked so small in the home.
He shakes his head and stops you, gently grabbing onto your elbow. “‘S’okay. Ain’t gotta clean up for me right now. Sit down. I’ll make somethin’.”
You wanted to argue, but your body was too tired for it. You drop what you had in your hands right there into the sofa. You paddle over to the kitchen table– the one Tommy and Joel sanded with their own two hands. You sank into the chair at the head of the table—the one Tommy used to take—and watched Joel move around your kitchen like he’d been rehearsing for this moment his whole life.
Two plates. Toast. Eggs. Nothing fancy, but he poured you a glass of water before you could even ask, setting it down gently in front of you. “Eat,” he murmured.
Your hands shook on the fork, suddenly feeling sick, feeling weak. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
It was the way he said it—low, firm, not a request. You forced yourself to take one bite, just one, and the next thing you knew, the plate was empty. You don’t know when the last time was that you ate something other than a casserole someone had brought you. You hadn't eaten anything warm either– never warmed up the plates of food you kept in the fridge.
Joel sat across from you, his own food untouched, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes traced your face, but not in the way people had been doing all week—not with pity. There was something heavier there. Something you couldn’t name yet. You looked down at your lap. “You don’t have to stay,” you say.
He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, sipped the whiskey, let the silence settle like a blanket between you. Then, “I told him I would.” You knew he meant Tommy. You also knew Joel didn’t make promises he didn’t intend to keep. “Told him I’d make sure you would be alright.” But Tommy meant it the same way he always meant it when he’d leave. Make sure the lawn gets cut. Make sure the mailman doesn’t linger too long. Make sure you fix that busted water heater if it acts up again. Make sure she has my favorite meal on the table when I get back. But he’d never come back. Not this time.
When you stood to take your plate to the sink, Joel was already there, taking it from you, his fingers brushing yours—just a moment, but enough to steal your breath.
“I’ll be by tomorrow,” he said quietly, like it was already decided. “We’ll go through his things… together.”
You nodded, even though the thought made your chest ache. Joel left you at the door, his coat collar turned up against the cold, but before he stepped off the porch, he glanced back. The porch light caught the sharp planes of his face, the tired set of his mouth.
“Lock your door, darlin’.”
It wasn’t until you turned the deadbolt that you realized your hands were trembling—not from the cold, but from the way you felt even more alone once Joel left. From the way you wanted him back immediately, his presence alone making the silence a little more bearable.
𓐩 𓐩 𓐩
The next day, the sky was clear but pale— that washed-out kind of Texas blue that feels empty instead of bright. Melancholy. Like it knows you’re grieving. You woke up that morning feeling worse, if possible. You’d unlocked the bolt, the door and waited just a few more minutes before Joel showed up right when he said he would. No knock. Just the sound of the door opening and closing, the faint scrape of his boots on the floor.
He brought coffee. Black, no sugar — Tommy’s way. The only way you’d drink coffee these days. Didn’t feel like you deserved anything sweet. Just felt bitter, wanted to taste that bitterness.
“We can start in the bedroom,” he said gently, his eyes flicking toward the hallway then back at you standing there staring at the coffee in your hand. “Or not at all. You just tell me.”
You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded. One foot shuffling next to the other foot as you walked into the dim hallway. The bedroom door was already cracked, like Tommy might’ve just stepped out for a smoke. His boots were still by the closet. The jacket you’d been too scared to wash hung off the chair. Joel stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping in, hands in his pockets like he was afraid to touch anything.
You set your mug atop the dresser. You started with the top drawer. T-shirts folded by your own hands months ago, a watch with an engraving on the back– time won’t ever tell how much I love you, dog tags you couldn’t look at for more than a second.
Joel stayed close, silent, taking things when your hands faltered. At one point, you pulled out a photo — Tommy at a Fourth of July barbecue, Joel beside him, both laughing at something out of frame. Your thumb brushed over the image, and that’s when the burn started behind your eyes.
“I can’t—” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Joel, I can’t do this.”
He didn’t hesitate. The photo slipped from your hands to the floor, and Joel stepped forward, wrapping his arms around you before you could fall apart alone. You buried your face in his chest, the flannel scratchy against your cheek, his smell—cedar, soap, faint smoke—so achingly familiar but not the same.
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt like you could hold yourself together that way. Joel’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his palm broad and warm. “It’s alright, darlin’. Just let it out.”
And you did. Every sob tore through you, shaking your whole body, but Joel held on like he was anchored to the floor, murmuring quiet things you couldn’t make out. He didn’t let go when the sobs slowed. Didn’t step back when your breathing evened. He just stayed, his chin resting lightly on your hair. After a long while, you felt his chest rise in a deeper breath.
“You ain’t gotta be strong for me,” he said low. “Not today. Not ever.”
You didn’t answer, because some part of you knew — if you said anything, if you moved — you might never want to step out of his arms again. It felt safe here. A different kind of safe. Familiar yet so far from what you used to identify with safe.
Your breathing had finally evened out when Joel’s arms loosened around you. Slowly, like he was afraid to make the wrong move, he stepped back just enough to reach down and pick up the photograph that had slipped from your fingers. He held it for a moment, eyes tracing over the worn edges, thumb brushing the corner. His heart sinking deeper into his chest. His only brother. Gone. The quiet stretched until he finally said,
“Y’remember this day?”
You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks with the heel of your hand. “No… I—God, I can’t place it.” You can’t remember much right now. You think it’s because your mind is so riddled with the fact that Tommy isn’t here anymore that you can’t dwell on when he was. You’re just… stuck. Stuck in this space where nothing before or nothing after exists. Just what’s true now: Tommy’s dead.
Joel’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “Fourth of July. Think it was… two, maybe three years back? Tommy had gotten it in his head he was gonna out-grill me.”
And just like that, you could see it now— the hazy summer skylight when the sky would fade to purple and pink hues, the sound of crickets, the smell of burgers and beer. Sarah talking your ear off about some boy at school. Joel kept going, voice soft like he was walking through the memory step by step.
“He was talkin’ so much shit, said all I did was throw the meat on the grill and forget about it– patties burnt to a crisp, bacon black and toasted… you ran over there tryin’ to capture the moment on that camera Tommy got you. I made some crack—hell, I don’t even remember what it was—and you… you pointed that camera at us, laughing as you said, ‘Say ‘burnt buns!’”
Your lips pulled upward before you could stop them. It wasn’t much — just a faint curl, a warm flicker in the middle of all this cold. But it was a laugh, soft and real. Joel’s eyes caught on it like he didn’t dare blink. “That’s the one,” he murmured, glancing down at the photo again. “Right there. That’s what I remember.”
You reached for the picture, fingertips brushing his as you took it. For the first time in months, the weight in your chest didn’t feel quite so crushing. Joel saw it— you could tell by the way his gaze softened even more. He didn’t push, didn’t make it bigger than it was. He just let you have that moment, standing there in yall’s old room- the one where Tommy held you closer than he’s ever held anyone, with the summer sunlight frozen forever on glossy paper.
“Still think it’s the best picture I ever took,” you whispered.
Joel’s voice was low. “I’d agree with that.”
You sat down on the edge of the bed, the photo still in your hands. Joel stayed standing, close enough that you could feel the faint weight of his presence, but not crowding you. Your thumb traced over the glossy surface— over Tommy’s grin, over the faint crease between Joel’s brows that made it look like he was trying not to laugh too hard.“I don’t…” you started, then stopped, biting at the inside of your cheek. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love like that again.”
Joel’s head tipped slightly, but he didn’t speak.
“I mean—what we had… it was big. It was… everything. And it’s gone. And I don’t think I even want to try again. Ever.” Your voice caught, but you kept going, eyes fixed on the photograph. “If I could, I’d just stay right here. In this. This stupid summer afternoon where everything was fine and I didn’t know what was coming. I’d live here forever.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… steady. Solid. Joel didn’t tell you time heals, or that you’d “find someone else.” He just stood there, listening like your words deserved space to breathe.
Finally, he said, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with holdin’ onto somethin’ like that. Some days, it’s all that gets you through.”
You looked up at him then, and for the first time you noticed how tired his eyes looked. Like he’d been carrying his own ghosts. You hadn’t forgotten he lost his only brother– no. Just forgot that Joel doesn’t know how to wear his emotions. That he’s good at hiding them, stuffing them so deep inside that it takes a big, firm tug to pull them loose. Sometimes you wish he wasn’t like that. Sometimes you wish he’d just break for a second.
He shifted his weight, glanced once more at the photo before turning toward the door. Hand on the frame, he hesitated, his voice low but sure,“Wouldn’t be so bad, though. Lovin’ again. You deserve that. World’s still out there, waitin’ on you. You just… take your time gettin’ to it.”
And with that, he left you in the quiet— the photograph warm from your hands, and his words sitting heavy in your chest.
You lingered in the bedroom for a moment after he left, listening to the faint creak of the floorboards as Joel made his way down the hall. The house felt different with him in it — not lighter, exactly, but… steadier. You stood, slipping the photograph onto the nightstand, and followed him to the front door.
Joel was already pulling on his coat, one arm sliding into the sleeve with that practiced ease. He caught your eye as he tugged the collar up, his voice low. “Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything, alright?”
You nodded, the words I will catching in your throat. “Thank you… for today.”
He gave a short nod, that almost-smile that never quite made it to his mouth, and stepped out onto the porch. The boards groaned under his weight.
Something made you call after him before he reached the bottom step. “Joel—”
He turned, one hand in his coat pocket. You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to worry so much. You’ve got… other things. Other people to think about.” Your attempt at getting the brood guy to have one less thing to worry about. (Totally failed though, he still gonna worry about you, even if you laughed and smiled every day.)
For a moment, he just looked at you — that unreadable Joel expression, somewhere between stern and soft. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, just enough to count. “Don’t forget to lock the door.”
He didn’t wait for your answer, just started down the steps again, boots thudding against the wood, fading into the quiet evening. You stood there a moment longer, watching the set of his shoulders until he disappeared from sight. The air felt cooler when you finally shut the door, turning the deadbolt like he’d told you.
I'm not over Price's Widow, so I'm subjecting you all to it as well. Continuation to this right here
"Was he alone?" She asked quietly.
"No, we were with him till the end, ma'am." Kyle says softly as he sits next to her. He's turned fully facing her. He wants to cry himself but knows that won't do her any good.
She closes her eyes, her hand clutching onto his hat. Her tears kept falling silently, and she stopped her gut-wrenching, pain filled screams and cries only twenty minutes ago. Kyle can still hear them echoing in his thoughts. Such a mournful sound, it's going to stay with him more than the echoes of gun fire and bombs. Her hand, the one trying to self soothe by rubbing her stomach, is trembling.
Simon is still as statue. He won't come further into the cozy living room. He blames himself for Captain not coming home, and he doesn't feel like he has a right to be here trying to comfort his friend's widow. It doesn't matter if he's told it's not his fault and it doesn't matter that Mrs. Price insisted he could sit down in the living room with them.
JoJo has taken a liking to Soap, and the kid is completely oblivious to the life changing news that was just dropped. Little baby keeps pulling on his mohawk and babbling nonsensical words. It then dawns on all of them, really, that Mrs. Price is going to be raising Jojo and the new baby by herself. She's going to be alone during her pregnancy and suffering through grief and post-partum, a time when she's most vulnerable by herself.
None of them can have that.
Her voice cracks, "I'm glad you were all with him. I know you three were his boys. He talked about you so much, he loved you all so much. If there's anything you need, please let me know."
And the lump in Kyle's throat feels like it's closing up because of course Mrs. Price is a good woman, a doting wife, and cares for the three men who couldn't get their Captain - her husband - help in time. She's offering to look after his team during their time of grief, too, despite being thrown head first into a reality that was talked about but never thought to be a true possibility. He briefly wonders if John told her he'd be back before she could miss him. He knows the cup cakes on the kitchen counter with the pink and blue sprinkles were supposed to be his welcome home present. Captain John Price was supposed to be surprised with news of another baby. The man was robbed of this reality, and his wife left with just his hat and dog tags and the date that his body would be at the morgue.
"Thank you for stopping by." She moves to get up, but her hand is gently grabbed by Kyle's. "Yes?"
"Would you like us to stay for a while?" He asks. He's hoping she lets them stay, even if she only wants them on the front porch the second she becomes angry that they couldn't bring her husband back safely. He doesn't want to leave her alone with Jojo, alone to grieve by herself. They promised they'd take care of her, that promise is the only thing keeping all three of them steady.
So when Mrs. Price nods her head she looks at all of them. "Stay for as long as you need."
Dont know if you are still taking requests but if you are could you please do bucky barnes with widow!reader. She trained in the red room with nat and is super badass. this can be head cannons, a drabble, etc. please and thank you 🎀🎀
Bucky being a flirt with Widow!Reader
Pairings: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger/Widow!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky likes to flirt with you.
Warnings: Fluff, language, flirting, kissing, pet names
A/N: Thank you to the lovely anonymous person who requested this🩵
A/N #2: The reader is a Black Widow like Natasha.
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.
Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier
GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creators. I found it on Pinterest.
Bucky walks in the gym to see you training with Natasha. He doesn’t know who you are, but he’s intrigued and impressed with you. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed and continues watching you. As the two of you finished training, Natasha noticed Bucky watching and smirks to herself.
“I think a certain Super Soldier is watching you.” Natasha whispers to you.
You look over at the door and seen Bucky standing there.
“Barnes, c’mere.” Natasha motions Bucky over and he happily walks over to the two of you. “This is my badass friend Y/N. Her and I trained in the red room together.” She introduces you two. “Have fun getting to know each other.” She says, winking before walking away.
Bucky held his hand out for you to shake, which you happily shook.
“I’m Sergeant James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky.” His voice sounding flirtatious. “What’s your name, doll?” He asks.
“Agent Y/N Y/L/N.” You tell him. “I’d like to show you a few moves if you’re up for it, Sarge.” You say.
“I’m up for anything, doll face.” He says with a smirk.
You and Bucky got into position before throwing punches at each other and dodging them. Bucky got even more impressed with what you were showing him.
“Is that all you can handle, Sarge?” You teasingly said.
“I can handle a lot more than you can think, babydoll.” Bucky says with a wink.
You swiped Bucky off his feet, causing him to fall to the floor, catching him off guard. He laid on his back, staring up at you. You kneeled down, gently putting your knee against his chest.
“You still think you can handle more, Sergeant?” You asked.
A surprised squeak left your lips when Bucky grabbed your arm causing you to fall on top of him. He rolled the two of you over so you were laying on the floor with your arms pinned against the floor above your head.
“Not such a badass now, huh, doll?” He teasingly said.
“That doesn’t count. You caught me off guard.” You say.
“Aww. Is Agent Badass not the badass she thinks she is?” Bucky coos in a flirty tone.
“How about we go again and you’ll find out.” You say.
“You’re on.” He says.
Bucky stands up and helps you up. You two get into position again and threw punches at each other and dodged them again. Suddenly, Bucky grabbed your wrist and pulled you against him, kissing you passionately. He pulled away from your lips, leaving you the two of you breathless.
“That was one badass kiss, Sarge.” You ran a finger across his stubble along his jawline. “That was fun. We should do that more often.” You say before walking away.
“I’ll hold you against that, doll face!” He shouts as you continued to walk away.
The Red Widow | blackwidow!reader x wintersoldier!bucky
Synopsis: Long before legends like Captain America and rumors of the Winter Soldier, Hydra was already in the process of making a weapon that would bring the governments of the world down to their knees. The first out of dozens to survive initial experimentation, Hydra came to forge a lethal weapon and The Red Room perfected her.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of child birth, blood, character death, murder, kidnapping, crude/heavy punishments, whipping, beating, fighting, injuries.
A/n: First couple of chapters will be character lore to set the stage. Our handsome hunk won’t be our handsome hunk until later but we’ll interact with him early on into the fic. This is a lot darker than anything I’ve posted but definitely not anything I’ve written. Please take the warnings very seriously, it’s going to be kinda gross and uncomfortable at some points. I’m so excited for this!!!
Word count: 2.2k 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪
Series masterlist | Main masterlist | Winter Soldier masterlist | Chapter One
Prologue
Russian based Hydra facility, May 1902
You weren’t due for another two weeks. You’d come early, into this world. The time was unknown, nobody bothering to check as the pained screams of anguish blared down the desolate halls. Guards dragged whom would have been your mother roughly by her arms as she tried desperately to clutch at her aching stomach. Blood stained her medical gown, painting her thighs red and running down her legs. A bloody trail being left in her wake.
Her legs dragged beneath her as the guards pulled her into an empty room. A worn out mat on the floor along with a pail of water and some clothes. Her screams never once dulled, pleading, begging for someone to help her. To tell her what was wrong.
“Пожалуйста! Что происходит с моим ребенком? Что-“ another spike of pain runs up her spine as she clutches her protruding stomach, guards dropping her on the mat and promptly walking out. Steal door slamming and bolted locked. Please! What's happening to my child? What-
“Помогите! Боже, пожалуйста, нет.” She felt her body start to instinctively push. The pain ripping through her like nothing she’d ever felt. Nothing she’d ever feel again. Help! God, please, no.
“Кто-нибудь, вызовите врача, ради бога! Вы ублюдки! Вы убили моего ребенка!” her voice breaks trying to breath, the smell of iron combined with the freezing temperature of the room not bringing her any solace. Somebody, call a doctor, for God's sake! You bastards! You killed my child!
“Давай, давай, давай.” She grunted as she pushed again, teeth clenched so tight she grabbed one of the rags and shoved it into her mouth to stop her from breaking them. Come one little one. Come on.
The worn cloth only did so much as her pained wails and shouts could still be heard from outside the cell. She braced herself for her final push as she felt the head of her baby. With all her might she pushed one last time, cloth falling from her mouth as drool soon followed.
It was silent for a moment, just a moment. And for what had felt like an eternity, the first scream that broke was not her own.
With shaky hands, she rushed to pick up the life she’d made from the now soaked mat, tears of pain now replaced by tears born of love as she cradled the loud infant in her arms.
A sob broke from her as she smiled down at her baby, “Вот ты где, малыш. Посмотри на себя, ты уже такая сильная.” As the baby shrieks. There you are little one. Look at you, already so strong.
The new mother inspected her child, counting ten fingers and ten toes, a light tuff of hair, and a strong chest as she continued to cry.
She hushed her baby, cradling in an effort to comfort her, “всё хорошо, мама здесь.” She coddled, the child instinctively quitting her cries. Now now, it’s okay, momma’s here.
A soft silence filled the barren room as the soft hum of the mother soothed the child. A moment of peace and joy so rare for a place like this. Centuries of what should have been a quiet bonding between new born baby and its mother was soon interrupted.
The bolts of the door groaned as the door was unlocked. Startled, the new mother as she tried to scoot back, pain erupted from between her legs as she lacked the strength.
She clutched her baby in her arms, helt tightly to her chest as five solders entered the room followed by man in a white lab coat, eyes set on the woman and infant.
“Чего ты хочешь? Отойди! Не надо!” She spoke in panic as the solders surrounded her, the man in the coat stalked closer, focused on the baby in her arms. What do you want? Get back! Don’t!
He hummed, satisfied from what little he could see, “забрать актив и избавиться от улик.” he ordered, before walking out of the room completely. take the asset, and get rid of the evidence
Hands moved in an instant, as they reached for the child. “НЕТ! НЕ МОЕГО РЕБЕНКА! ОСТАНОВИТЕСЬ! НЕТ! ПОЖАЛУЙСТА, НЕТ! Я УМОЛЯЮ ТЕБЯ!” The woman struggled, but it was futile. NO! NOT MY BABY STOP NO! PLEASE NO I BEG YOU!
Her body was in no condition to fight, still week from giving birth. She tried, god help her, she tried. Legs kicking as she clutched the baby for dear life. The disturbance causing the child to start crying again.
Rough hands yanked the woman’s arms back as two others took the child from her hands, her screams now mirroring those of her baby, “НЕТ! ВЕРНИТЕ МНЕ МОЕГО РЕБЕНКА! ПОЖАЛУЙСТА, НЕ ЗАБИРАЙТЕ ИХ! НЕ ЗАБИРАЙТЕ МОЕГО РЕБЕНКА!”. NO! GIVE ME BACK MY CHILD! PLEASE DONT TAKE THEM! DONT TAKE MY BABY!
The cries of her child growing more distant as they left the room. She was a madwoman, snarling as spit flew from her mouth as she yelled, “Вы, ублюдки! Верните мне моего ребёнка! Вы-!” you bastards! Give me back my baby! You-
Silence filles the room, as the the loud bang echoes. Her body slumped as the hands holding her dropped her without a care in the world. The woman’s body lay on the bloodied mat as footsteps walked out the room.
“Актив получен, требуется санитарная обработка ячейки 103.” Asset obtained, sanitation required for cell 103.
“Asset number 121a has been delivered and is being bathed. Table 12 is ready for procedure.” a man speaks into a mic.
This room has seen many things, but over the past 5 years it’s become a death sentence to those brought in. Human experiments have proven that a full grown adult can indeed survive, however, conditioning has proven to be far to difficult and not efficient enough for Hydra.
So they have now moved their sight onto starting with younger test subjects. Much younger.
One hundred and twenty. That’s how many have died in efforts to achieve their goals. Hydra had no shortage in assets. Like they say, for one head you cut off two shall grow in its place.
“Despite Dr. Erskine’s cowardice, we will continue to make ground on this serum. He doesn’t need to know.” Armin Zola, stands behind the glass looking into the room.
“Bring in the asset.” The door buzzes as a nurse walks in, the Bebe now bundled up in a blanket as they’re later down on the table. The woman begins to hook the child up to multiple wires. One for heartbeat, on for brain movement, and so on.
The baby whines uncomfortably, but no one pays her any mind. Once done, the nurse walked back out. “Time of initiation, 17:09. First doses will start at 0.2 ml.”
The machine above the Bebe whirls to life as the blue liquid fills the syringe, mechanically moving before pricking the infant on its arm. There is no need for anesthetics when chances of survival are this low.
The child lets out a bloodcurdling scream as the liquid invades her body, burning hot in her veins as pain she’s never felt before overtakes her. The babe begins to convulses on the table as the serum works itself into every fiber of her little body.
“Asset 121a, just like the others, is experiencing a heightened heart beat as well as pain. Brain activity is normal, no signs of burn on the skin as opposed to asset 120a.” Zola speaks into the tape recorder, someone else writing it down on a chart.
Screams can be heard from the other side of the reinforced glass as scientists stand and watch as the baby screams one final time before stopping completely.
Eyes sly to the heart monitor to see a dead line. Zola sighs, “Asset 121a, not compatible. Time of death, 17:16. The asset insured longer than previous trials by 3 minutes and 36 seconds.” he says as he rubs his eyes from exhaustion.
“Sanitize the room and clean up this mess. I will write a report on-“
The room stills, as the monitor starts to beep with life once again.
“How-“ Zola says as he rushes to the glass his own eyes not believing what he’s seeing. There, the child chest huffs as she takes in steady breaths. “Asset 121a survives first dose. After flatlining for,” he looks at the clock, “six minutes!” He joys.
“The asset will remain here for further monitoring to see how the body reacts. I want an hourly report, if she so Mach as wiggles, I must know.”
The room rushes to write down the data as Zola stands idly by the glass, “seems your mother was right,” he grins “you are strong.”
Weeks passed with no problems. The asset was developing as a infant should. She had opened her eyes within the first three days of being born and was eating and sleeping normally.
There were no physical changes.
By the fourth week, the dosage was then increased. Now double what they had given the asset the first time.
“Asset 121a has shown standard conditions following that of initial dosage. We will resume with phase two. Dosage will increase and we will see if any changes occur.” Zola nods at the people operating the machine as the dosage begins.
Alike lists time, the asset shrieks as she’s pricked. Unlike her prior dose, this time the asset seems to take it much better.
“Assets is experiencing lower levels of pain, and are not seizing. Breathing is steady as well as heartbeat.” someone reads the monitor.
All eyes are on the asset as she calms down, her body accepting the extra serum with no complaints. “Fascinating,” Zola claims, “it’s as if once the assets body accents initial dosage they can then accept further amounts.”
The asset now lays bundled up on the table, eyes wide as she looks up at the blinding white lights. “We will need to estimate how much serum she will be able to take before and once fully grown.”
Further testing then sees that the serum is not just affecting physical growth, but also brain development. The asset shows traits of great intelligence when given puzzles. As well as remembering and recognizing colors, shapes, and animals.
By the assets 9th month she is able to walk fully on her own and has begun to speak. Asset 121a successfully becomes the first of the experiments to exceed lively hood.
Once physical changes are detected, they begin with training. The asset goes through vigorous tests to determine endurance.
Weapons training, martial arts, gymnastics, aerobics, mathematics, stamina training, all were implemented by the age of 5.
Growing up with people who don’t regard you as a child does something to how you perceive yourself. You’re told that you are a weapon not yet ready, but in the making. You are taught how The United States and the Soviet Union have been at silent war for decades.
History class teaches you of past presidents and their dooms. Learning how governments think, move, and act. By the time you’re 5 you have that of a high school education. Your brain constantly working, whether on a physical task or mental.
And the wounds and broken bones that stitch and mend themselves together teach you that your limitations exceed that of others.
By 1907, you are then handed over to the red room academy to further your strengths and snuff out your weaknesses. You aren’t trained like the others. They push you twice as hard. Then, make you show the others how much better you are.
You learn that not meeting expectations leads to punishment. The first time, it’s only three slashes from a whip as the rest of the girls your age watch.
An example is made of you. The second time, it’s ten.
You learn quickly, and hit even quicker. Agility is you’re strength. Especially when being put up against a man twice your size. By age 12 you’ve got four bodies on your list.
You’re durable, but their goal is to make you break. And you do, over time. You’re taught that you are nothing. That you are property of Hydra and Daughter of The Red Room. That you serve no purpose other than to serve them and their needs.
They break you and rebuilt you as many times as they needed to. Conditioned to follow orders without hesitation. Taught that you have no needs, no dreams, or wants that don’t align with their agenda.
By the time you’re 18 you’re deemed the best widow The Red Room has produced to date. You become something the younger girls strive to be. A legend amongst secrets.
Mission success rate at maximum. There is no target you can’t hit. Your Hydras number one asset and the Red Rooms greatest creation.
Refined and sharpened, you become the tip of their spear, their tempered steel. Laying waste to anyone who dare defy either of your houses.
The serum, as they discovered slows down your cells. Meaning you age slower. By 1920 you’re accredited to more than a dozen assassinations. However, you’re put into cryo sleep in order to keep you secret.
paired with: Bucky Barnes
named attributes: smaller than Bucky, mouthy. Very experienced.
short synopsis: An ex-winter soldier & an ex-widow. They have history- he trained her in the red room and she hated him for it. She defects and starts working for S.H.I.E.L.D. in 2012(ish) - and then finds him on a mission.
tropes: "enemies" to lovers, trauma bonding, battle couple
Some time after December 24th, you finally find the enegy to open your late Husband’s phone. Most of the photos are ones you had took and sent him over the years— quiet, ordinary moments he saved without saying a word. You start saving them to a hard drive. Slowly. Carefully. Because going through it all has been a struggle in itself. This for now is the only way you know how to hold him again.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader (widow!reader)
Warnings. Major character death (Gojo Satoru), widow!reader, posthumous love, grief, bereavement, emotional distress, digital mourning, phone gallery archive, slow burn grief processing, bittersweet memories, heavy angst, melancholy tone, coping with loss, no comfort, empty house syndrome, post-Shinjuku timeline AU, devastating, soft domestic flashbacks
This piece is part of a companion series to my ongoing project, After All, I’m the Strongest — a layered narrative about love, loss, and the weight of memory in the wake of Satoru Gojo’s death. While the main series explores grief of soulmates through many lifetimes and galaxies, this archive dives into the quiet aftermath of this reality— the silence he left behind, and the photos you’re just now ready to see.
📌 Disclaimer:
All phone images, screenshots, and media used in this series are sourced from Pinterest and are used purely for storytelling and entertainment purposes. I do not claim ownership of any of the visuals, and no copyright infringement is intended. Please don’t sue me — I’m just here to cry about a fictional man in peace.
warnings: violence! like a lot of violence.. and detailed accounts of said violence, reader goes insane, mentions of murder, trauma, reader is a past widow for the red room, Y/N usage, kidnapping, established relationship, fluff, standard the punisher warnings.
authors note: hii theree! so this one is kind of insane, i may have went just a tad bit overboard, but y’know. thank you anon for this request that this fic is based on! this story is heavily based on the song, ‘the red means i love you’ by madds buckley, so give it a listen if you’d like. much love to you all, i hope you all enjoy this !
masterlist
You panted, your hand pulling the machete out of the last man’s chest. Your vision was still hazy, and you didn’t exactly feel like you were in your body.
But, that’s how you always felt when you killed.
As you gathered your bearings, your eyes began to dart around the room— and you realized how many men you had just taken out.
“Motherfucker,” You groaned as the pain began to set in due to the knife that was currently in your thigh. One of them must of done it when you were distracted, and your adrenaline was far too high for you to register it.
You no longer had that problem, it hurt like a bitch. But, you’ve had worse— a lot worse, and you could handle it. So you did was you were trained to do: push the emotions and pain away get the damn job done.
You had to. For Frank.
You see, he was taken by God knows who. You and Frank had no shortage of enemies, so you weren’t exactly sure who you were even invading, but you didn’t care. You knew they had Frank.
You were getting him back. You didn't care how many lives you had to take, you would do it all without second thought.
One of them had his sawed-off shotgun, they tried to shoot you with it. So you knew he was here. You just didn’t know exactly where.
And you’d go through hell and back to get to him.
So with a sharp inhale, you began to walk over to one of your victims, snatching the shotgun from his cold grip. A new sense of rage washed over you when you held the cold metal in your hands— they tried to take Frank from you.
You couldn’t let that stand.
Anger flooded your bloodstream as you began to stalk over to the hallway in front of you, cocking the shotgun along the way. You looked damn insane—you were covered in blood, a knife sticking out your thigh, your machete in one hand and Frank’s shotgun in the other.
One thing was for sure: you were out for fuckin’ blood.
You kicked open the first door you saw with your good leg, and inside were 3 men. Before they could even get a chance to react, you let the first round of bullets fly at one of them, the man dead instantly.
You narrowed your eyes at the two remaining men, putting the machete in your belt, you cocked the shotgun and aimed directly towards them. “Where the fuck is Frank.”
“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about,” One of the men stuttered out.
You scoffed, shooting that same man in the shin. “You think I’m fuckin’ playin’ around? I said, where the fuck is he?! What did you do with Frank?!” You shouted angrily, cocking the gun once more.
The man cried out, falling to his knees as his partner put his hands up in surrender. “He’s in the building..” He murmured, but you could see the man you shot reaching for the gun that the other had so obviously in the back of his pants.
Rolling your eyes, you shot the man who was still unharmed in the head. “Fuckin’ useless. I’ll find him myself.” You muttered to mainly yourself before grabbing your machete once more and stomping over to the last one.
“No, no, no!” He begged, backing away as far as he could from you. “Killing me won’t do anything. You’ll never get through all of us. You and Castle are as good as dead,” He spat and you only gave a sinister smile in return before you dove the machete into his chest.
After he was dead, you took your machete and wiped it clean of the blood before storing it back in your belt. You walked out the room without another thought as you continued your walk down the hallway, Frank’s shotgun tight in your grasp as you pointed it for precaution.
The next room you walked into contained 5 men, and then 3 after you let your itchy trigger finger take over.
3 guns were pointed at you in a instant, and you smirked in delight. "Drop them now!" He nodded towards your weapons. With a smirk still on your face, you let your machete clattered to the ground, but still kept Frank's shotgun in your hand. If you were going to die, you wanted it to happen with at least something that tied to Frank.
Staring them all down, you tried to wait for one of them to make the first strike— but eventually you got bored.
You hit one of the men over the head with the shotgun as you kicked one of the other one’s knee in. Without thinking, you grabbed the knife that was still painfully lodged in your thigh and pulled it out-- causing a sharp roar of pain to leave your lips. And with a menacing stare, you used that very same knife to slash the third man's throat.
In a flash of motions you turned to the next man and shoved the knife into his throat, causing him to stumble back with fearful eyes before dropping dead.
That left the last one that you practically bitch-slapped with the gun. He stared at you with wide, rage filled eyes before he grabbed you by your neck, throwing you into the table next to you. Your now open wound on your thigh got caught on a nail on the way, only tearing it open further. A cry of pure pain left your lips at the act, but you recovered quickly, turning to the man with a evil glare.
You let out a yell as you tackled him to the floor, letting all of your anger out as you brutally laid punch after punch to his face until he was unrecognizable. You let out another broken cry as you left one last hit to his bloodied face.
Ragged breaths left your lips as came back down to reality, shakily standing up. Your knuckles were bruised and cracked, and you knew it would hurt like a bitch later, but as of now, you really didn't care. It would all be worth it in the end. So, without another thought you grabbed your machete and the shotgun and headed out the room.
There was only one room left. It was at the very end of the hallway, and you silently prayed Frank was in there. At this point, after all the people you had just killed and fought— you were fucking tired, and quite frankly; fed the fuck up.
You cocked the gun with nothing in your brain other than bloodlust and kicked open the door harshly. “Where the fuck is he?!” You bellowed as you stormed in, gun raised. You had tunnel vision, seeing nothing over than the targets before you.
8 or 9 men were scattered around the room, and before you knew it bullets were flying everywhere. With wide eyes you dove down for cover behind a fallen table, and on the way down you were grazed by several bullets. Your hand flew up to the blood you felt trickling down your ribs, a low groan leaving your lips. You fought tears of pain as you pulled yourself together, reminding yourself of the goal: Get to Frank.
“Come out, now!” One of them yelled, and it only fueled your anger further.
“Fine.” You growled, standing up and shooting the first two men in front of you. Standing up, you ran to the side of the wall where their bullets couldn’t hit you. You let out a small laugh to yourself— you had to admit, you kind of missed this.
The chaos of it all.
You were raised in the chaos of this— you were brought up in the Red Room, killing people all around the globe. Yelena Belova, one of your fellow past widows, had broken you out some time ago and you tried to give the life up, but it seemed it was in your DNA.
Who were you to fight that?
You shook the thought away just as quickly as it arrived— you had more pressing issues right now.
You pulled the pistol out of your boot, peaking around the corner and picking off 3 men, leaving now 4.
“You fuckin’ crazy bitch!” One of them roared, running at you with a dagger.
“Fuck off!” You screamed back, blocking his attempted strike by grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm, the man now yelling out in pain. He dropped the dagger that was clutched in his hand, while you caught with your free hand, not hesitating to plunge it into his heart.
“Y/N?!” You heard that familiar voice yell, causing you freeze. His call made a soft smile spread across your features, but at the same time ignited that dedication to get to him now.
You grabbed Frank’s shotgun, cocking it and getting your pistol in your other hand. And with a devilish glare, you turned the corner and proceeded to pick off the rest of the men that remained.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you realized they were all dead. Turning on your heel, you ran to room in the back that was connected to the room you had been in, throwing open the door urgently.
“Frank,” You practically whispered. He was bound a chair by chains, his face bruised and bloodied.
“Holy shit.” He murmured, taking in your current state. You didn’t know what you looked like, but you were sure it was nothing short of horrific. You were covered head to toe in a mixture of your own blood and your victim's, wounds and bruises littering your entire body. "Christ, woman, what the fuck happened out there?" He asked with a worried tone.
You aimed your pistol at his chains. “Don’t move.” You spoke gently, yet firm. He nodded, giving you the okay to take the shot. Once you did, he was up and bringing you into his arms almost immediately.
The weapons in your hands clattered to the ground in an instant as you let yourself melt in his arms. You were exhausted. Due to your search for Frank and also just your pure anxiety in being away from him, you had barely slept in the past couple days. That definitely came back to bite you in the ass, and on top of it all, you were in a lot of pain. The kisses Frank was leaving to the side of your head made you feel a lot better, though.
You pulled back just a bit to cup his jaw, your eyes scanning his injuries. “Are you okay?”
He let out a dry chuckle before turning his hand slightly to leave a kiss to your palm. “Baby, you are in no position to be askin’ me that right now.” His hands came up to cradle to your face, and you nestled your face into his palm. "Are you okay?"
You managed to give him a smile. “I'm better now.” You let out a shaky breath. Now that you had found Frank, the pain really began to set in. You wouldn’t let yourself feel all of the pain until you knew you were safe— and you now knew that Frank had you. “They’re all dead.” You told him. "I killed them all."
“Damn,” He licked his lips, staring down at you. “And here I was thinkin’ no one was comin’ for me.”
“You should know by now I’ll always come for you.” You expressed, leaning up to connect your lips. You didn’t care if you were covered in blood, or that Frank had been tied to a chair for 2 days— you missed him.
You loved him. And you would set the world on fire for him.
Once you two pulled apart, he stared into your eyes. “I fuckin’ love you.”
You giggled softly, gazing up at him lovingly. “I love you, Frank.”
