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russosafehaven · 1 year

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There are Widows and There are Men - Part 3

A/N: This part will be darker, it will involve a sexual assault scene that borders on rape. The reader will be four years old in those scenes. Please do not read this if you are uncomfortable. The scene will be in bold, after that it will not describe it any further.

Series Title: There are Widows and There are Men

Chapter Title: Part Three - Memories are clawing at me

Song: The Exit - Conan Gray

Pairings: Billy Russo x Black Widow!Reader (Also autistic!reader and implied to be on the aromantic spectrum)

Word Count: 4304

Warnings: Rape, SA, Self Harm, Red Room, Dreykov, Canon Typical Violence, Age Gap

You had fallen asleep not long after Jessica and Trish had left. After a few hours of mind numbing conversation and revelling in being free, they left you to rest. It helped that Jessica had some less then legal activities to attend to, but that was life now wasn’t it? Your boss hated you and your closest friends were vigilantes. You thought about Billy, what would he do when he came back to you? Would he hate you for good or perhaps he’d put you out of your misery? The betrayal in his eyes had stung. The way he looked at you with disgust mixed with rage and horror. You were used to being treated like a monster. It was all your life had been. Blood, murder, kidnapping, torture and all these other crimes you were made to commit.

“You up?”

You looked to the source of the voice. Smooth hair that wasn’t styled to perfection, dark eyes that look black in this light, dried up lips and a messy green sweater. It was Billy but he looked almost unrecognisable like this. What had he been through?

“I’m up, you okay Mr Russo?”

His head hung low, his feet kicking the ground. The tension was thick and layered. If you cut it with a knife you’d be able to see it. Billy’s footsteps were quiet as he found his way to you. The hospital bed creaked as he sat down. You adjusted yourself to the weight change. Making sure you were comfortable for the inevitable awkward conversation.

“I’m sor-“

He cut you off by placing a hand to your lips. They lingered for a moment as he looked at you gently. You could tell Billy wanted the first word by the look in his eyes. As his hand pulled away from your face it fell into his lap. Toying with the fabric of his stained jeans.

“Look… I didn’t mean to yell. I… shit. I’m not good with this touchy feely crap. Frankie’s always been better at it. I care about you… a lot. You were just so different, so… pure and fresh. When I saw you covered in blood I freaked. I care about you… a lot. I was scared… really fucking scared”

Tears started to prickle in the corner of his eyes as he spoke. That work facade that he put on, the strong and confident former marine turned business mogul was falling apart in front of you.

“I grew up in the system. My mother… she uh left me in front of a fire station out in Albany. My childhood was group homes and the occasional foster parent until they’d kick me to the curb again. It’s why I joined the Marines… to feel like I belonged somewhere. You know, as a kid I used to play stickball a lot. Used to hit the ball nearly all the time, thought I was gonna be the next Joe DiMaggio or some stupid shit. I was a kid and yknow, kids dreamed big. There was this Samaritan, used to come by the group home… he told me I was pretty. When a grown man tells you you’re pretty you know nothing good is coming. He cornered me, tried to touch me… so I hit him with the stickball bat. Caught him good a few times too but it pissed him off. He tore my rotator cuff. Shit… memory still hurts. I got a buddy who works with vets, he runs a support group. When I told him, he said that’s why I have this sexual deviant persona as he called it. Cause it’s all I think I’m good for. That and the guns and shit”

He was playing with his hands as he spoke. Looking down at them so intently, he was scared of how'd you react. Your thoughts churned, he didn’t deserve this. You’d heard stories about the foster system from your higher ups. About how lucky you were to have been taken in by the Red Room and didn’t grow up in the system.

“Is he dead?”

His head lifted at your question. Eyes widened like a deer in headlights. Billy put his hand on your leg, fingers drumming lightly.

“No, but what does it matter now? No proof anyways, he’s served 15 years so the countries clearly okay with it”

Rage seeped in your veins. Billy sounded so defeated as he spoke and it resonated with you. In the Red Room one of your trainers had taken advantage of you.

“What’s his name?”

His hand tightened on your thigh. Billy’s breathing got heavier and you could hear it clear as day.

“No, no shut up. I can’t have you hurt anyone. You shouldn’t have to. You aren’t in that shit-hole anymore”

He threw himself up, standing heavily on his feet. One of his hands ran through his hair, pushing the messy locks back. Making his way to the window to look out at the overcrowded streets. You studied him intently.

“Billy you were a kid”

Your voice was quiet. You knew better than to pity Billy, pity in these situations always felt horrible.

“SO WERE YOU”

His fist came up and slammed down onto the windowsill. It garnered attention of nurses whom you had waved off. Giving them a sorry look. You looked back at Billy, sadness in your eyes.

“Billy… what happened in the Red Room isn’t the same as what happened to you. You were a kid who was meant to be protected in those organisations. I’m nothing more then a pawn. You’ve managed to change the world, you were meant to be protected and they all failed you”

Billy walked back over to you, towering over you. You reached a hand up to him, the cannula prominent on your hand. His own arm reached up, fingers wrapping around your wrist.

“Why are you so insistent on dehumanising yourself?”

“The little spider can’t fight back anymore?”

His voice made you shiver. You were only four years old but you knew enough to know this wasn’t going anywhere good. Your training has only just begun recently and your trainer was a cruel man. His name was Mikhael and he wasn’t toned like anyone else. He was round and balding, much older then the widows. You had assumed he’d been here as long as Dreykov. What he lacked in physical fighting skills he made up for in computer science and weapons. He taught most widows how to use a bow, teaching them how to aim.

“It’s okay. I can help you”

His hand reached out for you, groping your thighs. Pulling you toward him, Mikhael started yelling when you thrashed. His actions were violent and erratic. You couldn’t even blink before your body made contact with the floor. The cold, concrete floor. The same floor you’d seen so much blood fall from other widows as you were made to watch them fight. Necks snapping and bones breaking. It was a vicious sight but what you were about to feel scared you so much more.

“It’s okay моя дочь. I won’t hurt you too much, just let me touch this precious little body of yours”

His hands roamed up your thighs, they just about covered your entire body. He was huge compared to you. When once you were just a small child you were now his plaything. The man who made you call him “Papa” and called you his daughter. The widows had seen a lot and so had you, but this was not the violence you were used to. In your mind you were telling yourself that you were four years old and you didn’t deserve this. Although some twisted part of you couldn’t help but think you did. You’re being raised to be a weapon, so isn’t this penance for the sins you’ll soon commit?

He kept pawing at you, mutty hands and greasy fingers feeling at the space between your thighs. You tried to ignore the feeling, convinced yourself that one day this would be nothing but a bad dream. His other hand found your chest and held onto it. You wanted to vomit. Release it into his face and watch it curl up in disgust.

The memory played in your mind like a broken record. You’ve been nothing but a weapon and a sex toy since birth, why would Billy see you as any different? The two of you looked at one another in longing. You weren’t capable of love, puppets didn’t feel anything.

“There was this man… in the red room. He treated me like his daughter. For the first four years of my life I was his daughter. I was born and bred for the red room, stolen from my real family. Since I was an infant that man was all I knew. When I begun my training…”

You trailed off, climbing out of the bed and walking over to Billy. Your arms snaked around his neck, pulling him towards you. As you lowered your arms back down you slowly lifted the skirt of the hospital gown up. Revealing cotton underwear and your thighs decorated in scars. One hand holding the fabric up, your free one reached for Billy’s hand. Bringing it to cup the mound between your thighs. He tried to pull away, shaking his head.

“I was a little thing when I learnt what being touched here felt like Billy. I’m far from being human, I never have been. I’m a weapon, a doll for the Red Room to toss around and use to kill. I am nothing without the blood that has stained my skin and my mind for decades. No matter how hard I scrub, not matter what I do I cannot erase that. You chose to fight, you chose that life for a noble reason. I’m bred for it, they raised me like they raise the lambs to slaughter. You’re a Lieutenant, a decorated war hero who has clawed his way to the top of only for a moment while I am the Blood Widow. I have killed innocents because it’s what I was made for. I’m designed for this, they made me in a lab so I would be the perfect weapon. The Red Room’s greatest creation since Natalia and Taskmaster”

Billy didn’t meet your eyes and you couldn’t blame him. In such short time everything has changed and he’s seen you as the one thing you swore never to show him. His hand was still firm against your core, cupping it gently like you would break if he dared force himself onto you. Many people before Billy had put themselves onto you, taken you by force and brutally destroyed you. You still remember the blood seeping from your core while your assailant left you for dead in an alleyway. When you escaped the Red Room and made your way to New York you had made yourself a promise. If you ever saw anyone being attacked in that way you would make sure the streets ran red with the blood of the perpetrator. It doesn’t matter if they had a family, the victims need to be protected. If it got messy then so be it, no one protected you so you would do whatever it took.

His hand started to trail down, his eyes following as he looked at the scars decorating your legs. Bullet holes, stab wounds and your own creations stretched all over your skin like an abstract art piece. There was a time you were ashamed of the scars and some days your still are. It was one night with Trish that made you appreciate them. You, her and Jessica were all drunk. Sitting in the blondes high end apartment as you discussed her latest heart break. It was a warmer summer day and after so much time spent in the snow, warm seemed like you were standing right next to the sun itself. You sat on Trish’s couch in a torn sports bra and ragged gym shorts. The two women weren’t strangers to your scars, it was only a few years ago you were sent to kill Jessica, but now you were comfortable with them. Living in peaceful bliss for a few short moments. Trish was asking about the scars again and as you explained each one she made a comment about how beautiful they were. She spoke of how your skin was a story, living history of what you’ve survived. Those words still live with you and you can’t help but believe them even in your darkest times.

With a small thud Billy dropped to his knees, one hand on your hip and the other on your thigh. He started playing with the scars, tracing them like they were lines in a colouring book. You watched him curiously as he drew patterns with his finger against the tissue, a small smile gracing your face. Billy Russo was a ex-special forces Marine, a Lieutenant with nearly 150 confirmed kills, a foster kid who rose to the top and is now a CEO of one of New York’s most prestigious security services, but here right now he was just Billy. Not your boss or your superior, but your friend. It made you realise he didn’t hate you, he wasn’t mad at your for lying or for not coming to him with your troubles. He was mad at the people who did this to you, who hurt you in unimaginable ways that seemed like mere fiction to him. He had seen wars and battles, watched the men he called his brothers die and so had you. Very different experiences yet your lives were so similar that it made you wonder if that’s why you connected so well.

Without warning his lips pressed against one of the scars. His lips were warm and the feeling was welcome. He moved to the next one and repeated the action, pressing his attention to every scar he could find. His hands wrapped around your thighs and you felt small in his grasp. Once he had finished his ministrations he looked up at you, eyes pleading.

“Come to me, I don’t care what it is. I need you to let me help you. I don’t get attached, I can’t because everyone leaves. My mum left me at a first station, the Castle’s died and now Frankie’s gone again too. Please let me help you, I need you”

With parted lips you looked down at the man before you. On his knees practically worshipping you, begging for you. You went to respond but the door opening pulled you both out of your thoughts. Without thinking Billy had sprung to his feet, head snapping towards the door. A nurse walked in and for a moment you panicked. That was until you were met with Claire’s gentle eyes and warm smile. You let a breath you didn’t know you were holding and walked over to Claire, letting her take you in her arms.

“Normally we’d keep you under observation for a few more days, but because of your… history I think it’s better if we let you go. Do you have somewhere safe to stay? I know Luke and Danny have set up a few safe houses if you need”

As you pulled away from Claire you pondered the option. Not before you turned back to Billy, tear stained cheeks and messy hair. You hadn’t noticed he’d been crying. He looked so different from the man you knew, the put together guy who was strong and took no shit was now a mess all because of you. Turning back to Claire you smiled gently.

“It’ll be okay, I’ve got a place. Days like this I’m glad I work for a security company. Plus I think it’s best if I stay with Billy”

You gestured to the man behind you and Claire followed, looking at him. As she focused her attention back on you heard shuffling, looking over your shoulder you saw Billy turning around, staring out the window to try and give you a sense of privacy.

“That’s your boss? Wow, I know you said he was good looking but god. You sure know how to pick them huh Huntress?”

Huntress, the name the media had given you. While your face was known to the public your name wasn’t and you preferred it stay that way. The name wasn’t clever in any shape or form, but then again what New York vigilante had a smart moniker? Daredevil, Spider-Man, Moonknight, the other Spider-Man, Power Man and so on so forth. The papers or reporters were not clever with the titles they gave to the unofficial heroes that protected New York, you just wished you weren’t lumped in with them. With one last smile Claire walked out, allowing you to change before you got discharged.

“Shit…”

You turned round to Billy who was now sitting on the bed, watching you intently. You had looked through the bag Jessica brought you and they had forgotten a change of clothes. The only other outfit you had was the one that was bloodstained and had a rather noticeable tear in it from the bullet.

“What is it?”

You turned to face him, his eyes still red and puffy. It made your heart flutter, you know it shouldn’t but there was something so exciting in being cared for. Knowing that Billy cried because of you, because he cared? It made you giddy like a school girl asked to the prom.

“Jessica and Trish forgot to pack me some spare clothes”

Billy looked at you, not saying anything as if he were still in though. As he launched up he looked down at you a small smile creeping cross his face. He didn’t say anything as he left the room. You had no idea what he was up to but you hoped it wouldn’t be anything too long as you didn’t have it in you. Turns out after not getting shot at for 3 years it takes a lot out of you once you finally do get a bullet tearing through your flesh again. Sighing, you took a seat on the bed and laid down. As you splayed yourself out like a starfish you gazed at the ceiling. Imagining the plain white sky was replaced with the darkness and a million stars. It was one thing you despised about the city, air pollution causing the stars to be hidden. You missed them, astronomy was the only area of science you were good at. In a way you thought the stars were yours, the night sky was this special thing you loved back in the Red Room. It was your secret and the stars would sing songs for you.

Around five minutes had passed before Billy had come back up. In his hands he held a shirt and what looked to be gym shorts. He held them out to you and you took them, turning them over in your hands.

“I had a spare change of clothes in my car from a training session I ran the other day. Better then nothing, they’ll be a little big but at least you won’t be in nothing”

You stood up from the bed, placing the clothes down before taking the time to untie the hospital gown. Billy hadn’t had time to process what was happening before you stood in front of him in nothing but cotton panties. His gaze immediately darted away. Hands covering his eyes as a string of apologies fell from his mouth. It clicked in your head that he probably wasn’t so used to casual nudity, most people in the city seeing it as taboo. In the Red Room it was common, experiments on naked girls, or your superiors watching you change. You had grown used to stripping in front of others, not caring about any insecurities you may have. As you pulled the shorts on and tied the lace as tight as you could, the shirt came next. It hung loose over your frame as Billy was both taller and bigger than you were. Stepping towards the marine, you pulled his hands away. Mumbling an apology for making him uncomfortable.

“No, none of that. I turned around because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Not because I was uncomfortable, I was used to this shit happening in the marines. I just didn’t know how’d you feel given your history and all. Fuck… I just don’t want you to think I’m going to take what I want from you and then leave you behind. I know what it’s like for that shit to happen without your consent, to be the victim and be blamed. I don’t want to ruin our… friendship because you’re scared of me”

He hesitated before saying friendship and some part of you had wished he’d said relationship. You didn’t know why. While you couldn’t deny that you were certainly attracted to Billy visually, you didn’t know if you could ever see yourself with him romantically. You looked him up and down, staring gently at his big dark eyes. He looked like a wet cat and as you walked over to him, you wrapped your arms around his waist. Pulling him into you tightly. As he returned the favour you listened to his heart beat. Gentle and slow, yet it seemed to speed up a bit as he held onto you.

“Let’s go get you discharged and go back to my place. Get you out of here and make a plan or some shit. Sound good?”

You nodded and he held out his hand which you hesitantly took. When you did it felt normal, almost domestic. You smiled inwardly and walked alongside him. As you reached the desk, he filled out your discharge paper work for you. For the first time in a while you felt yourself fully trusting a man. Something you hadn’t ever been able to do. Even in a workplace full of men who were ex-military and always joking around with you, you couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop and succumb to their violence. With Billy that had never been the case, he was respectful and he engaged in conversation with you that wasn’t just small talk or filler. It was nice and as he walked you to his car now you couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be like in a relationship.

As you approached his Wraith you couldn’t help but be stunned. You knew he was wealthy, ANVIL took on all sorts of big shot clients but this was something else. Billy opened the door for you and helped you get settled, buckling you in as if you were a child. While the gesture would feel demeaning form anyone else, with Billy it felt nice. You both knew that you were made of glass yet Billy treated you with utmost care. Even before discovering your childhood. He’d treat you like you were a pristine painting, to be looked at but not to touch. Like you were worth more money than anyone could ever imagine.

As he started to drive you looked over at him, his eyes were less red and the corner of his lips formed the beginning of a smile. It felt far to simple and as your thoughts started to consume you a hand was placed in your thigh. Billy looked at you, smiling as he continued to drive through the streets of New York. His thumb rubbing the skin of your leg and you couldn’t help but melt into his touch.

“Is this a good time to mention that English isn’t actually my first language?”

The worlds fell out of you before you could even realise what was happening. Billy snuck a look at you, eyebrows raised in questioning. A sigh escaped your mouth as you explained.

“I know we’ve covered the whole I’m actually a spy for the Red Room academy who poised me as a Bolshoi dancer. They trained me to be an assassin and I’ve killed like 5000 people or whatever but it feels important to note that English isn’t my first language. I guess I didn’t mention it cause it feels embarrassing, but working for ANVIL in such a high place and fumbling over my words would just be too much for me. Russian is my first language, then it goes French, Latin, Mandarin, Italian, Greek, Spanish, Afrikaans, Dutch, Irish, Japanese, Somali, Arabic, Punjabi, Portuguese and then English”

You finished speaking, a sliver of your Russian accent slipping through. In an attempt to calm yourself you took his hand in your own, playing with his fingers like a child. You had never really gotten the chance to be a kid so some of your behaviours were regressive in that sense. A small chuckle escaped Billy’s lips and you looked at him, eyes wide like a deer.

“Come to think of it I have noticed small errors when looking over some files you’ve given me. I always just assumed you were tired or it was because you’re autistic and you didn’t process it correctly. Look, native speaker or not, your english is damn good. For someone who speaks 16 languages it’s impressive that you can pass as a native”

He smiled at you, teeth on full display as it spread across his face. You always loved when he smiled like this. He wasn’t trying to be the suave CEO or the charming guy you’d hook up with in a bar, he was just himself. Free of the confines of his work persona and acting like he was free. You went to speak again but Billy had interrupted you.

“And for the record, you belong at ANVIL more then any other of my guys. You were one of the first people I hired after it really kicked off and the company wouldn’t survive without you. Now after learning all that shit I think you belong there more then I do. The things you survived to get where you are? Not everyone could come through that”

If only he realised how true his words were.

There are Widows and There are Men taglist:

@thefictionalgemini

@woowwwee

@celestialams

@noortsshift

Billy Russo Taglist:

@snowkestrel

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wayward-lives · 7 months

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The girls are small. Two dozen of them, in three neat rows of four, staring up at him. They wear the same black leotard and black stockings, their feet clad in pointe shoes. Their hair is identical, tied up in a tight bun at the base of their skull. The oldest looks to be around ten, the youngest no older than three.

"First position."

The girls move synchronously, little robots in their neat lines, eyes staring forward, unblinking. The Mistress is severe, her body clad in dark clothes, hair pulled up tight, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. In her hands, she holds the Cane. The Cane is much more painful than it appears.

"Soldat."

The Handler's voice is firm, and the Soldier obediently moves to follow the girls. The position is familiar, as is the burn in his feet as he rises onto his toes. Pain is irrelevant.

The girl with the red hair watches him as he moves, her green eyes wide and orb-like in her sallow face. She isn't being fed enough, he thinks, taking in her stick-like limbs and sunken cheeks, but she moves as gracefully as a swan, a precision in her movements that shouldn't be seen in a child this young.

She isn't the youngest of the group. But he is drawn to her nonetheless.

-------

The Soldier has been tasked with supervision of the Girls. The Mistress had left ten minutes prior in a swirl of black skirts, the Guards scuttling along after her like insects. The Handler had snapped at the Soldier to remain in position, to watch the Girls and ensure they stayed compliant in the Mistress's absence. The Soldier had obeyed.

The girl with the red hair watches him from across the room as she chews her food. She sits with one other girl, a girl with blonde hair and brown eyes who can be no older than four years old.

The other Girls cast nervous glances at him from the corners of their eyes, their limbs tense and thin shoulders quivering. They fear him. The Soldier is not sure why.

"You are the Monster, yes?"

He looks down. The girl with the red hair stands in front of him, her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes are terrified, but she stands tall, her chin raised in defiance.

Small, blonde, skinny, blue eyes, clenched teeth, blood under the Soldier's fingertips, long fingers clutched in his own -

"I am the Asset," the Soldier replies. He is to only speak when spoken to.

"They tell us stories about you," says the girl with the red hair. "You hunt us in the dark. You slice our throats and hang our bodies on your bedroom walls."

The Soldier is not sure why the girl believes him to have a bedroom. Only humans get bedrooms. "I sleep in ice and glass and stone."

The girl blinks slowly, like a cat. "I sleep with my wrists tied to the bedpost."

The Soldier looks down. He notices the bruises around her wrists. "You are a child."

"I am a Widow," she says, her voice emotionless. "I am a servant of Hydra."

The Soldier's throat feels tight. He does not understand why. "You are a child."

The girl with the red hair looks at him with those fierce, green eyes, then turns and walks away.

-------

Her name is Natalia. She is the best of the best. She has five confirmed assassinations. She will be the death of America.

(She has a little sister. She is six years old. She sleeps with her wrists tied to the bed. She is a child.)

Sometimes, when he looks at her, he sees another little girl. This one has thick, brown hair and grey eyes, and wears an old-fashioned dress. She smiles and giggles and holds out her arms for him to pick her up and spin her around in the air. The Soldier is not sure who this little girl is, or why he thinks of her. She is nothing like Natalia. She is healthy and happy and looks a lot like him.

Natalia is a good child. She does her exercises, she holds her position. In training, she was put against a girl twice her size and much older. She got her legs around the other girl's throat. The other girl was cold and dead within five minutes.

The Soldier hears whispers about her. That the Red Guardian needs a child for his next mission. That Natalia is being considered.

The idea fills him with terror.

------

"Come now, Natashenka," he croons. His big, awkward hand runs softly through fine, red hair, softer than he ever knew himself capable. "Don't cry, little one. Come now..."

The little spider's hand is clutching tightly at his arm, tiny fingers digging into the meat of his bicep. She is already strong; much stronger than the other girls, despite being no more than seven. The Masters may have gifted her with something much the same they did to him. It doesn't feel much like a gift, no matter what they tell him.

"Little spider," he tries again. All he gets in reply is a small sob.

"It's not fair," the child moans. She glares up at him, bright green eyes brimming with tears. "Why did the men take her away? Why did they take my Yelena?"

"She is going to a better place," the Soldier says. The words taste like poison on his tongue. "She will be taken care of."

"It's not fair," Natalia sobs again as she buries her face in his chest. His hands cradle her tiny body close to him. She's small, fragile. She is his world. "They took my little sister, they took my mama, they took everything from me!"

The Soldier shushes her frantically, pressing her close to his body. "Little one, you must not say such things - you know how they listen."

"I don't care!" she cries. Tiny fists beat down on his chest as she bawls, body shaking in his arms. "I don't care, I don't care, they took my family, and they're going to take you too!"

"Hush, hush, my spider, please," he pleads. He ducks his head to press kisses to her soft hair, breathes in. She smells clean, young. He has never known her to smell any different. "They will not take me, you understand? I will always be here with you."

Natalia looks up at him, tear-stained cheeks red and puffy and the Soldier feels his heart break all over again. "You promise?" She holds out her pinkie, such an innocent gesture, and it makes the Soldier want to cradle her close and never let her go. Instead, he reaches out and hooks his pinkie around hers.

"I promise, my love."

------

She is nine years old when the guards come for her during practice. The Mistress doesn't say a thing, just purses her lips and tightens her grasp on the Cane.

She does not return.

He asks for her, and is beaten with clubs.

He escapes, one night, to find her. He fails, and the Handler punishes him.

They take him to the Secretary, whose blonde hair and blue eyes make butterflies erupt in the Soldier's chest. He is older, now, but still just as handsome as the first time he crouched in front of the Soldier and cracked his hand across his face. The Secretary smiles at him, taps his cheek.

"She isn't coming back, Soldier. You are not a father, or a brother. You are a machine. Your job is not to comfort her. Your job is to train her, and to kill her if she fails."

"Please," the Soldier whispers. The Secretary's face twists into something ugly, something inhuman.

"It's been too long since a calibration. You are malfunctioning. You'll feel much better after the wipe."

The Soldier knows fighting is useless, yet he tries anyway. He fights the whole way to the Chair - he kills one man, crushing his windpipe with one quick squeeze. He throws two more into a wall, where they crumple and don't get up. Someone sticks him with a cattle prod, and the pain is excruciating. He must lose consciousness, even if only for a second, as the next thing he knows he's in the chair, restrained and with the Secretary's disappointed face looming above him.

"You know better than to fight," the Secretary chides him. "Now, hold still - you'll feel better soon."

Then the machine clamps over his head and he's swept away in agony.

#marvel #bucky barnes #natasha romanov #red room #abandoned works #my writing #fanfic #tw child abuse

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kcyars99 · 16 days

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voicesinthedarkness · 7 months

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Child

TRIGGER WARNING: IMPLIED CHILD NEGLECT

Chapter One

He finds her in a safe house.

Shots are fired. Three arrows leave black marks on the wall next to a window. Finally, he pins her to the floor and holds a knife to her throat. Something flashes in her eyes, something that makes him stop.

It is not anger, or hate, or vengeance.

It is regret.

Remorse.

Fear.

Sorrow.

He stares down at her, panting. She stares up at him, no longer struggling. Resigned to her fate. “Black Widow,” he says, voice still rough as he tries to catch his breath. “Hawkeye,” she replies steadily, her Russian accent thick.

“Do you want to live?”

“I… I don’t know.”

His voice softens. “If I roll off of you right now, are you going to attack me?” Her breath shudders in surprise. “No.”

And she doesn’t.

“What’s your name?” he asks, dabbing at the small scrape on her throat. She hesitates, thinking, then answers, “Natalia. But… but my friends call me Natasha.” He smiles. “Hi, Natasha. I’m Clint.”

~ ~ ~

Natasha Romanoff

“We need confirmation Dreykov’s in the building,” Clint says, eyes focused on said building from his perch a few roofs away. “His car is pulling up now,” Natasha reports. She watches as a young girl, no more than four or five years old, with hair even redder than Natasha’s exits the car and is ushered inside. Her eyes follow the girl to the second floor, heading to a room with a familiar figure inside. This is wrong, she thinks suddenly. The girl shouldn’t be killed for Dreykov’s sins. But if Dreykov dies…

Maybe my own sins can be forgiven.

“Natasha, we clear?”

“Yes,” she answers automatically and promptly regrets it. “Wai—”

But the building is already exploding. The girl’s tiny body is wreathed in flames and propelled through a window. She lands below Natasha’s hiding spot on an apartment building fire escape, bruised, bleeding, and unconscious, but strangely unburned. Natasha easily slips from her hiding spot into the alley, feet thudding on the gravel-strewn asphalt next to the girl. Clint runs up to them, a first-aid pack in his hands. “Hey,” he pants, kneeling and taking out a couple alcohol wipes and some bandages. “How’d you find her?” he asks, cleaning a scrape on the girl’s arm. “She was flung out of the building by the explosion,” Natasha explains, bandaging a cut on her leg. “So… probably part of the Red Room?” Natasha nods. “I… I couldn’t leave her. To be… made into another Widow.” The girl’s hair is coated in ash and dust, but a few of the fiery red-gold curls still glitter in the light. Clint nods too, touching Natasha’s arm gently. “I don’t want that either.”

They work together in silence for the next several minutes, until a gunshot hits the brick of the building behind them, not far above Clint’s head. Immediately he’s up, the girl in his arms, zipping down the alley. Natasha fires her own gun while packing up the first aid kit as fast as possible and follows him.

The gunman chases them for several blocks and into a train station. They dart around a couple corners, until Natasha spots a grate in the ceiling, leading to an air vent. She gestures to it and Clint nods, shifting the girl in his arms so that he can reach up and swing it open. He lifts the girl inside, pulls himself up, and holds out his hands to help Natasha up. “Come on!” he hisses impatiently when Natasha pauses, her independent instincts warring with the critical goal of hiding. Finally, she gives the first aid kit to Clint and grabs his hands once he’s shoved it behind him. He pulls her up easily and gets the vent closed once more just before the gunman comes around the corner, raging about what he’s going to do to someone named Iskra Khozyaikova.

He searches for a long time, so long that Clint eventually takes out a Sharpie and draws a strange grid on the wall of the vent. Natasha can only give him a look of complete confusion. He draws an x in one space, holding the permanent marker out to her. Hesitantly, she takes it and draws her own x. Clint’s eyes widen with surprise. “Do you know how to play tic tac toe?” he whispers. Natasha shakes her head mutely. Clint's expression saddens, but at the look on Natasha's face, he wipes it away quickly. “One person draws x’s and the other draws o’s,” he explains, still whispering. “The first person who gets a line of three wins.” Natasha nods in understanding and draws a new grid, then an o in the far-right middle space, and hands the marker to Clint.

They play two or three dozen games before they both decide it’s safe to leave. Natasha wins the most by far.

~ ~ ~

Clint leads Natasha, the girl in her arms, to a safe house. She wakes up at the sound of the door creaking open, her golden eyes instantly filling with fear. She twists and writhes, but her body is so small and her strength so little that Natasha keeps hold of her easily. “Ты в безопасности,” (you’re safe) she soothes, carefully setting her down when she pauses for a moment. Clint heads to the tiny kitchen, taking three cans of baked beans from the pantry, dumping them in bowls, and putting them in the microwave. “Хотите немного еды?” (Would you like some food?) Natasha asks, leading the girl into the kitchen. She nods after a moment, tentatively climbing onto a chair. “She looks really malnourished. Don’t let her eat too much,” Clint warns. Natasha makes a noise of agreement, watching carefully as the three of them eat and nudging the girl’s bowl away when the amount of beans in the bowl has visibly decreased. “Остальное вы сможете получить позже,” (you can have the rest later) Natasha reassures in response to the girl’s sound of protest. “Как тебя зовут?” (What's your name?) Natasha says. The girl just stares at her silently, clearly still suspicious. Natasha exhales. “Хорошо, ну, меня зовут Наташа, а моего друга зовут Клинт.” (Okay, well, my name is Natasha, and my friend’s name is Clint.) The girl flinches when she hears друга (friend). “Что не так?” (What's wrong?) Natasha asks, reaching out to take the girl's hand, but she jerks away, eyes wide. “Нет,” (no) she whispers. “Пожалуйста.” (Please.) Natasha nods, pulling away. “Ты безопасности здесь,” (you're safe here) she repeats. “Обещать.” (promise)

Chapter Two

#black widow #hawkeye #natasha romanoff #clint barton #platonic natasha x child!oc #child oc #my stories #will tag as i go #red room #dreykov #tw implied child neglect

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