Title: Parenthesis
Genre: Movies
Series: The Avengers
Characters: Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)
Spoilers: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Written for comment fic prompt Turn The Cliche On Its Head over at the livejournal community be_compromised. I chose the cliche "Natasha hates her "romance" missions.
Disclaimer: Ain't mine.
Natasha wore control like freckles on her skin. It wasn't an emotion, wasn't a defense mechanism; it was so innate to her very being that there was no dividing her will from her body. It was a gift from the Red Room, an ability garnered from years of training and programming and not even SHIELD could strip her of it.
Her body was the only thing in the world that was truly hers, the one stable variable in a world that delighted in throwing surprises and miracles in her path. She had been unmade before, her mind reshaped and her memories cracked, but her body could not lie. Her scars were reminders of the things she had done, good and bad.
She wasn't afraid of being the weapon. She didn't feel used or violated. When her targets came too close she smiled inside because they had no idea that they played right into her hands.
She allowed them to touch her, allowed them to kiss her, enjoyed the way they worshiped the vessel of their own destruction. She's manipulated information from targets easily without allowing physical intimacy, she chooses who will come into her body and no authority could or would influence that.
When Clint became her partner she knew it made him uncomfortable. As her handler he had no choice in watching the way she accomplished her missions, as a smart man he had no comment.
It was Maria Hill who was brave enough to broach the subject, mechanically citing regulation and official policy. Natasha didn't bother explaining that the Red Room didn't require her to sleep with targets either as long as the job was completed.
It was empowering, the way nature put her together to be humanity's apex predator. The Red Room taught her languages, martial arts, and artillery. Genetics gave her lips and hips and breasts and smooth skin; her training wouldn't have meant as much had she not looked as she did.
Years later she'd let him worship her too, and he was the first man to ever tenderly brush his lips across her shoulders, his breath lingering on the rare dusting of freckles. Natasha figured she'd allow him to do that regularly, she liked the way he made her feel.
Review, please.