Triger Warning for themes of implicit dub-con/guilt-sex and heavily implicit sex. Sexual content ends at the tilde (~).
Sex isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sex is a weapon: James taught me that. It's a tool for facilitating possession and persuasion. James taught me everything about sex. He was my first. And I think he knew.
He had guided me with his mature hands, moulding my movements and soothing my skin. I was sure he could taste the naïveté on my tentative tongue.
He'd never given me a verbal indication of where I stood in - what I presumed - was a flooring list of lovers and how I fared intimately. But I could tell from the accuracy of his artful hands and cunning kisses as he first guided me through my first time, that I was by no means his first. Something about the ravenous lust lurking in his blown pupils and the way he grinned between fleeting brushes of the lips was too confident, too in control. And as much as his control unnerved me, it had relieved me of that duty to impress him.
He plodded over to his en suite, metal hand clapped over the bite wound dripping red down his scratch lined back; where he'd gagged me with his muscular shoulder as I'd risen to the peak of pleasure, keeping my muffled cries of ecastasy for his ears only. Rouge rivulets were bubbling between his metal plated fingers. The sounds of his breathlessness still echoed back.
A guilty pang rippled through me. I had ruined him with my own hedonistic freneticism, mere retaliation. He was split at the seams, dripping with the blood of his recent exploits as if he'd just returned from an op. But I ached all over too.
My wrists were friction burnt from the tough leather having been used to bind me to the bedposts, between my legs, I felt raw and sticky, and my hips, they throbbed, stamped with bruises in the shape of fingertips. It had been a carnal romp on the violent side of pleasure.
He disappeared through the doorway. There was a squeak as he turned the metal dial of the rusting shower and the water was let loose.
I lay in his bed, quivering with aftershocks, heart still pounding and breath still lost. The covers were cocooned up to my neck, smothering my naked body in the hopes to maintain some of my squandered dignity, having been lain waste to like a ragdoll. I lay there, in the half-light of his quarters (light streaming from the shower room with the open door), mulling over the events undergone, counting the seconds he left me to wallow in my embarrassment - with the rhythm of the water keeping time like the ticking of a clock.
I listened to the drumming of the shower as my body steadied. The spitting noise of the faucet with the clogged holes and the thundering noise of droplets on tiles rebounded into the bedroom.
Tears of self-pity sprung from my eyes. How pathetic is that? I'd disappointed him physically, and I was wallowing in self-pity. How selfish is that?
I felt disgusted. Disgusted with myself in every sense. My innocence was spoilt, like I was a trampled flower, youth pilfered and perfection crushed. No longer was I an angelic depiction of virginity. I was imperfect, spoilt, filthy, damaged, impure, corrupted, lewd, improper. He had stolen that last hope of perfection from me. And he was disgusted with me too.
It occurred to me in that second, that it wasn't love that we had... Not really. It was lust, with just a dash of desperation and a smidge of forced circumstance.
Those showers were always ice cold, I could never withstand the temperature for more than a minute. I'd learned how to scrub myself clean in the most efficient time. I'd always shiver for the next twenty minutes, clinging a flimsy towel to myself, just to contain what little heat remained in my skin. It was cold enough to numb me completely, to make my eyes water with agony.
But he was withstanding it. He wasn't leaving. And the minutes dragged like years. He was gritting his teeth and baring the icy waterfall raining down on him. Numbing himself. Cleansing himself. Waking himself back up to reality. Washing away the regrets, that's what he was doing. Avoiding me. Trying to wash his hands of the sins he'd committed: defiling my innocence.
He didn't make a sound. Not a yowl of agony from the temperature that stabbed like knives. No sounds of uncorking bottles to wash himself. Just standing in the water.
I'd suppose memories of me as a child had gotten to him. I excused his disgust of me. I was disgusted with me. He'd practically raised me in this facility; teaching me how to defend myself, teaching me how to use my build to the best of its athleticism, teaching me how to survive on missions. And that fatherly dynamic had shifted, become... 'Romance' is the wrong word for it.
I don't think he'd ever told me out loud that he loved me. That isn't romance.
I was disgusting. So willing to show my affections to anyone who provided me with a moment's attention. I threw myself at him, obliged his every whim, just because he was protective of me.
He'd seen me as the tiny red haired girl, with too much spirit and free-thinking for her own good. He'd seen me transition into a teenager, with all of my existential trauma, my newfound aggression and fear. He'd seen me blossom into the woman I am now.
Who have I become, now?
And though I'd aged, he'd stood still: with the same face he'd always had. He was sprinkled across my timeline, cropping up intermittently. My features had gained shape, my body, angles, and my mind, ability. He was always the same.
I gave up waiting for him to come back. For him to comfort me. The comfort had dried up like the last oasis in a desert.
I rolled over, curled in sheets, silently crying into my pillow. I didn't want to make a fuss, waste his time, cause trouble. He'd been kind enough to give me his bed. And he'd made me feel good. Physically.
But after god only knows how long under the shower, he turned in. He slipped under the duvet without a word and kept his back to mine, skin still icy from the shower. He continued to stay wordless. No praise, no criticism, no thank you or apology left his lips. He left me hanging in silence, listening to his ashamed breathing. That's what it was. Shame. He was ashamed of me. I was easy. I'd made myself easy.
The night was long. I don't think either of us slept. But neither said a word. And when dawn rocked around, I was quick to make my get away. I could feel his eyes on me as I redressed, covering my body - no longer a mystery to him - and slipped away wordlessly
The walk back to my dorm was a lonesome one, a silent one. The silence was filled with the din of my internal dialogue: self-accusation, self-pity and denial. My room felt cleaner when I got back, and I slipped under the covers torn between a longing for encompassing arms and no-one. So I hugged myself. James wasn't going to hug me. Not anymore.
~
It wasn't much longer until I was awoken again, by the usual blaring alarm that alerted the facility dwellers it was time to jump to action. And with that alarm, I was summoned to the briefing room.
Not many women walked with me, but the usual platoon of men accompanied me. Towards the back of the pack I caught sight of Yelena and James. It was for a scathing second that he and I caught eyes; he looked as if he was going to mouth something - so I turned away. I was grateful of the distance, not feeling in ample state of mind to confront either that morning.
We filed into the war-room, lining up and holding parade rest. We arranged ourselves in perfect lines of rank, and as the last stragglers trailed in, Lukin emerged.
Yelena shuffled guiltily on her feet next to me. She was almost cowering; her usual noble posture had become hunched, and her expression of self-importance had become nervous. She didn't look right. Her usually well combed hair and pristine uniform had been changed into disarray.
I should've felt guilt. I know I should. But I couldn't find sympathy in my heart for the woman who had put me through so much pain. I felt glad. Glad of her pain.
"Good morning Department X..." Lukin drawled. "Thank you for congregating so readily. Now, this morning-"
"I read the files..." Yelena peered at me with puffy eyes, veiny and watery from sleep-deprivation and crying
It took me a moment to register the fact she was speaking to me. "Thoughts?" I dared mutter back, overlapping Lukin's words with my own.
"Is it true?" She sounded choked up, and her eyes darted about suspiciously. She looked to me like a lost child, as if I might know the answers to the things that escaped her comprehension.
"Take a look around you, Yelena. How many Black Widow Ops do you see?" I spared a glance to my left and right.
I watched her eyes account for the entire squadron and even steal a glance over either shoulder. "Maybe they're just posted away on an undercover-"
"Stop making excuses and open your eyes," I hissed to her. "Do you really think they have favourites? Why do you think they let you kill so many others during the early rounds of training? Stop ignoring the evidence of your own eyes! Do you really think you're worth anything to anyone here, Yelena?!" I kept my eyes front and minimised the movement of my lips as I spoke to her.
"Well, you seem to be worth a lot to that freak with the metal arm!" She growled at me.
That freak with the metal arm that was yet to administer an apology.
"-Ransacked my office last night!" Lukin raged, slamming his ebony wood cane down on the floor. "And stole something very valuable..." He whispered, trembling with rage. "It's a good thing I've had Alexi here sweep all of your rooms-" He gestured to the brooding male to my right. "And he's recovered it."
Alexi Shostakov - Approaching six foot, with a lean stature. He owned a pair of soot brown eyes; the deepest shade, barely distinguishable from his pupils. A curl of unruly hair flopped over his angled face, the rest of which was neatly tucked behind his ears. He had a pointed chin, bulky jaw and protruding cheekbones. His skin, a shade more tan than the rest of the men in the facility, I suspected he came from one of the Mediterranean Soviet States. A dusting of facial hair - in a neatly shaped goatee - framed his lips. He gave off the same aggressive vibe as a bulldog, lined up professionally, but as a proud smile was provoked at Lukin's words, kindness bled through.
"Belova, step forward," Lukin asked, in a voice disguised by tranquillity.
"W-what?" She stammered. She actually stammered.
His patience was wearing thin, an irritated tick was in his jaw. "I said step forward."
She scuffed forward, feet dragging, soles sticking. The moment she stepped out of line, he produced the wedge of files. The ones I'd stolen the night prior.
"Do you know what these are?" He asked: voice dead serious, eyes trained entirely on her.
She hesitated. She thought about saying no. "I swear... It's not what it looks like! It wasn't me who-"
It was a swift cane to the side of her head; his favourite demonstration of physical prowess. The bulbous carved skull at the top of his cane came into contact with her temple. In her already exhausted state, it was easy for him to send her uncoordinated body to the floor. "Your fingerprints are all over the file!" He glared down at her. "Everywhere." She glanced around at us, lined up, humiliated before all of her colleagues. Her fatal floor: her pride - it had been destroyed. "Don't bother trying to lie to me you pathetic little girl!" He smacked her across the head again with the cane and beckoned two bystanding officers to restrain her. "There's a reason you don't look in those files! Why they're locked away!" He roared. "There's a reason my office is locked!" She was scooped to her knees by two stronger men, and cuffs were snapped onto her. A lone tear descended down her cheek.
"No, no, no, no, no!" She howled, stealing small glances at me.
Fear flared within me. I made my face cold. I made my threat known. "Don't even think about it," I mouthed, reminding her of the last lesson I taught her in blood. This was my payback to her. This was my vendetta. This was her taste of her own medicine.
"Please... I'm begging of you..." She threw herself onto her front, bowed low to the floor before him. "Just listen to me! I can explain!"
"I don't need your explaining! The evidence is outstanding." He lifted her head by her curled blonde strands. "I've helped raise you... Into the woman you are now. Strong, fit, intelligent! Ageless! By breaking into my office, by stealing my things, you're disrespecting me, Karpov, god rest his soul, and your roster of team mates. You disappointment..." He let go of the strands and her head crashed into the floor. "Take her to Faustus!" He commanded, waving her away without even looking at her: like she was too vile, too pathetic even to look at.
"And if a single one of you steps out of line, I swear, you'll go to Doctor Faustus with her. And I promise you, you won't be the same when you come out. All rooms are being searched in light of this discovery. Don't disappoint me." All of us fell silent, heeding his threat. "Now, what I really brought you here for... Natalie?"
I looked up, fearing the worst. Footage of me, breaking in. My fingerprints. Strands of hair. Yelena incriminating me with screams of my name. I felt my heart jump into my throat
"Yes, sir?" I didn't let a single hint of guilt pollute my voice or my body language. I'd become a master of masking emotions by now.
"You have a new prerogative. And it involves what we've been prepping you for all these years. Black Widow, look around you... Choose yourself a team. Three people."
Ambiguous, but I obeyed. One pair of eyes was screaming at me from the room full of men. Threateningly bartering for a place on my handpicked team. "The Winter Soldier," I began. "Alexi..." I gestured to the man next to me, with his kind smile and sooty eyes. "And you." I pointed towards a fresh faced young man towards the back of the group.
"Vladmir... Good choice," Lukin concluded. "Dismissed... All of you. And Roman..." It took me a moment to react to the false name they'd stapled to me like an identity badge.
"Yes, sir?" I turned to face him, allowing more men to sweep by as they left.
"Your new uniform..." The word was suspended in the air for a moment. "Is waiting for you in the locker rooms."
A/N - I did actually write the sex scene implied in the first half of the chapter, and decided it would be tasteless and redundant, given I could explain it in an aftermath chapter (also I can't write smut). I wouldn't have included sex/non-con/dub-con if I didn't think it was a defining chapter of Natasha's life and her understanding of sex.
On a lighter note, meet Alexi Shostakov! I'm sure a few of you Marvel nerds out there will know who he is (but you can totally go and google him), but if you want to keep it a mystery, don't look! I'm totally casting him as Johnny Depp: A) Because he could totally look Slavic; think traditionally dark haired and dark eyed B) He had a romance with a woman (actress, Rebecca Hall) in 'Transcendence' who could totally play Natasha Romanoff's sister (if she ever had one? Anastasia Romanov - given she was Nikolai II's daughter? Someone go write it!;)) and C) Johnny Depp, do I need a reason?
Also, I casted Aubrey Plaza as the up and coming Kate Bishop (This casting even doesn't need explaining) which I know I contrary to the widely preferred (and I get why) choice of Crystal Reed, the archer Allison Argent in 'Teen Wolf'. Hawkeye chapters are only a short way away kids, hold on tight!
Dedication goes to dina_marvel! x