Fic: would you love me if (Yelena/Natasha, NC-17)
Title: would you love me if
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Yelena Belova/Natasha Romanova
Summary: Yelena Belova has spent her life haunted by a shadow.
Word Count: 2177
Author's Notes: Because these two were made to be shipped.
I.
Play.
Rewind.
Play.
Pause.
The dancer is frozen on the screen, one long leg lifted up above her head in a graceful sweep, balanced on knifelike pointe shoes. One of her hands reaches beseechingly offscreen, her other arm curled prettily by her side, but her eyes are anything but gentle. Focused, intense, and blazing with a feeling Yelena can't name. Her lips are parted, perfect red arches caught mid-breath. Yelena traces them with a nail, then drops her gaze to the dancer's legs again. Strong, every muscle tensed; the calf of her supporting leg bulges, both her thighs sculpted and defined until they join at the crux of her legs, her fair skin cut in half by the slash of her black leotard. It must be so hard to hold yourself like that (even for a moment, for that living second before the woman on the screen exhales and flings herself into the dance), and Yelena presses her palms flat against her own thighs, imagining the dancer's leg quivering under her hands.
Play.
The dancer spins and leaps in one powerful move. In other videos of hers, she is light and graceful, an ethereal thing, but here she is a frenzy, whipping her body across the stage with beautiful precision; the girls of the corps are faint shadows against the fervent bloom of the dancer. Natalia Romanova.
Yelena hits pause again, this time while Natalia is crouched as if ready to spring, a sleek animal dressed in filmy skirts. That is a posture Yelena recognizes: no longer a work of art, but a predator. She stares at the dancer onscreen for another moment, then flexes her feet in her pointe shoes and rises to the balls of her feet, her heels high in the air. Balanced on that knife-edge, she closes her eyes, and then forces herself onto the tips of her toes. Her mouth opens in a silent shout as pain lances up her nerves, but Yelena doesn't wobble; she grits her teeth and holds the pose. Only older trainees are supposed to practice stress endurance training, but Yelena is better than other girls her age. Hitting play again, she sinks back down, then up again Natalia dances. Repeat once, twice, three times, again.
One of her toes cracks, and her ankles give out and she collapses, just as Natalia onscreen does too-but unlike Yelena, in seconds she has whirled back to her feet, her fall just another part of the choreography. In a fit of petulance, Yelena kicks the television with her broken toe; the machine hits the floor and expires with a crunch. So much for that.
Blood seeps through the silk of her shoe. She thinks her toenail might have been torn off.
"Fuck you," she says to the remnants of the TV, taking a moment to bury her head in her arms.
Then she exhales, sneers, rises to her feet, and does the whole routine again, broken toes and all.
II.
"At your age," her instructor says with a frown, "Romanova was twice as fast."
Yelena glares at the rifle in front of her, and mutters under her breath, "Well, I'm not Romanova."
"No, you aren't," he snaps. Yelena winces inside, but takes the smack he deals her without flinching. "She is better than you, and always will be. Now try again."
His words curl like ice in her stomach, and Yelena sets her jaw, openly sneering. I'm better than that defecting bitch. She stares at the rifle for a moment longer, trying to memorize every last part of it, then ties on the blindfold and tries again. Disassemble, reassemble, load, aim, shoot-the recoil slams the gun into her shoulder, bruising her, but her grip on the rifle doesn't waver. Reload, shoot. The second magazine runs out and she scrabbles at the table for another, but there's not one there.
"Take it off," her instructor says, and Yelena obeys, setting down the rifle and removing the blindfold. She stares at the line of human-shaped targets, the paper tattered and torn to pieces, cut them in half by her bullets. "What did you do wrong?"
"I should have put the extra magazine in my bag," she says instantly. Her instructor nods solemnly.
"Yes," he agrees. "Do it right next time. You should know better."
Then he adds, "Well done," and Yelena glows.
. . .
Natalia Romanova runs through the tangled hallways of the facility, dressed only in a black leotard and tough combat boots, Yelena only a few steps behind. They both know every twist and turn of this place as surely as they know their own names, but Romanova has been gone a long time; she's going to stumble sooner or later. Yelena pants through the stitch in her side and pushes on, forcing her legs to move even faster. Romanova darts a quick look behind her, just a flash of green eyes through her streaming red hair, and her pace falters the tiniest bit-Yelena's cue. She lunges and grabs a handful of Romanova's hair, yanking her backwards, but Romanova was the first Black Widow, and she twists in Yelena's grip to fight back, hands stabbing at her chest and head. Stars explode as Romanova's fist smashes Yelena's cheek, and Yelena hits back just as hard, smacking the butt of her gun under Romanova's chin. The redhead goes down, and Yelena pounces.
They writhe together on the floor, Yelena gets her into a stranglehold and keeps her there, Romanova struggles and curses-and the curtains part, the roar of the crowd descending on the two of them. Blinded by the spotlight, Yelena throws a hand over her eyes and reels back, landing hard on her ass in the center of the stage. The spotlight dims; Yelena drops her hand. Suddenly she is the one dressed in the leotard, that and nothing else, and Romanova is sprawled in front of her, wearing nothing but a black hourglass painted on her stomach. Her legs are spread, and Yelena can't help but look. She's a natural redhead. Yelena wants-her mouth waters, she is flushed and shaken, and she wants.
Romanova holds out a hand, her calm gaze pinning Yelena as surely as the spotlight did.
"Come here, rooskaya," she says softly, and Yelena recoils.
"You're a traitor," she spits, but her heart isn't in it. "You left us for the Americans, for the capitalists-"
"Bring me back," Romanova whispers. "Only the Black Widow can do it, Yelena Belova. You're the only one."
Yelena's mouth is on Romanova's ankle. She is kissing a trail up her leg, nipping at her thigh, burying her face between her legs, licking her cunt with the flat of her tongue. Romanova sighs ecstatically and reaches for Yelena's hair, grinding herself harder against Yelena's mouth. Yelena wraps her arms under Romanova's body and stills her hips with bruising hands, finding the woman's clit and worrying it with her tongue. Wordlessly, Romanova cries out, and Yelena presses harder, deeper, faster.
Her fingers slip in something wet, and Yelena looks up briefly before jerking back in shock; the paint on Romanova's stomach is dripping across her fingers, staining them black, and as she sits up to examine them, the paint spreads, coating her arms and then her shoulders. Romanova props herself up on her elbows to watch, still unruffled, but now with a sharper edge to her smile. She is now clad in the Black Widow's traditional catsuit, golden zipper pulled up to her neck. The suit fits to her body as if painted on; her nipples are clearly outlined, just like the lips between her legs. Yelena blinks, and Romanova flickers, becoming blonde and bustier-becoming Yelena. She blinks again, and the redhead is back, watching her closely.
"You didn't do it," she says, sounding regretful.
"I can!" Yelena splutters, and reaches out to her. "I can, just let me try again, I can do it-"
"Try harder," Romanova orders. Yelena wakes up.
She rolls onto her stomach, still half-asleep, and shoves her hand between her legs, fingers working busily. Her climax comes quickly, an empty seizure of muscles and a brief rush of pleasure; then she wipes her fingers off on her underwear and goes back to sleep. In the morning, she pretends not to remember a thing.
III.
Hating Romanova is too easy, she decides as she studies for her first field exam. Hate is what a child feels for that which threatens her, and Romanova is no threat to me.
Better to learn from her, at this point. For years, Yelena's instructors have played her, using the original Widow's name to drive her to new heights and achievements, but no longer. Yelena doesn't have to worry about such feelings of inadequacy anymore. She's surpassed Romanova's marks on all her written tests, and she has no doubt that she'll meet and exceed expectations in the field as well.
The phone rings. Yelena drops her pencil on the stacks of old files and grabs for the receiver.
"Hello?" she asks, and breaks into a smile when her mother says, "Lena! I was so hoping you would answer. Are you doing well? Have you been keeping up with your books? Are you eating?"
"Yes, Mama," Yelena says with a laugh; the cavalcade of questions is as much a joke between the two of them as it is sincere by this point. "To all of it. Well-maybe not the books part."
"Why not?" Her mother, a steadfast devotee of classic literature, nearly sounds offended. "What am I sending you all those books for if you aren't reading them?"
"Mama, I have other things to be doing." She glances down at the topmost file-OPERATION: TORCHBEARER, file #31088/00-WID-and the square photograph attached to it. Quickly, she closes the folder to block Romanova's direct gaze. "I will read them, I promise."
"Good." Her mother hesitates; Yelena waits for her to speak. "Lena, I spoke to your instructor before you."
"Oh?"
"He told me your first test is in three days."
"Oh." Yelena deflates, drumming her fingers on the desk. "I would have told you, but I-I wanted to surprise you with my results."
"I wanted to take you out for your birthday," her mother says with a sigh. If Yelena didn't know better, she'd say she sounds sad, but she has never once expressed anything but pleasure for Yelena's hard work. "Auntie Olga is baking you a pie."
"Well, when my test is over, I'll visit," Yelena says with confidence, flicking the tip of her pencil with her nail. It goes spinning off her desk, and she curses as she bend to retrieve it, ignoring her mother's admonitions ("Yelena, have some manners!") and tangling herself in the cord. "And we can celebrate more than my birthday."
"It sounds perfect," her mother says warmly, and then, "Lena, I am so proud of you."
Yelena stares at the blank folder until her eyes swim. Rumor has it that she's the first Red Room student to be allowed contact with her family-she wonders why, because if anything, her love for them is a weakness.
"I love you, Mama," she says. "I've got to go."
"Goodbye, Lena. And good luck. I'll see you soon."
Gently, Yelena places the receiver back in its cradle, shaky but relieved; her mother always has that effect on her. She opens the folder again, searching for some distraction, maybe information that could help her in the field (as if she hasn't spent half her free time poring over these files, anyway), but instead she thinks abruptly, Did Romanova have a family?
Yelena can't remember; she knows Romanova's history by heart, but her early childhood was ever mentioned in the files Yelena has access to. She looks at the picture again. The woman has an utter blankness of expression that Yelena can't manage, no matter how hard she tries; the only thing in her eyes is a quiet, cold determination. Did anyone ever tell her they were proud of her?
It doesn't matter; she had her country, and that should have been enough. It would be enough for Yelena.
IV.
The first woman Yelena fucks is a redhead. It's only a coincidence.
V.
CAPT. BELOVA, YELENA (DESIGNATION: BLACK WIDOW)
OPERATION: DOPPELGANGER
OVERVIEW
TARGET: Natalia Romanova
Aliases: Black Widow
Nationality: American (formerly Russian)
Allegiance: Freelance operative
(see attached file)
MISSION: Intercept, neutralize and interrogate target. Information pertaining to Operation RHAPISTAN is to be prioritized. After extraction, return target to base.
Thumbing through the papers, Yelena briefly glances over the attached files-the thicker one is Romanova's, the slimmer a briefing on Operation Rhapistan-and returns to the first page, with her mission emblazoned across the top.
Yelena's fingers do not tremble. Two years' worth of experience keep her professional, but there's a quivering in her stomach she doesn't let show on her face. Still, a little smirk steals its way across her lips.
Target: Natalia Romanova.
She sets the files down, heart thumping rapidly, and thinks, At last.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Yelena Belova/Natasha Romanova
Summary: Yelena Belova has spent her life haunted by a shadow.
Word Count: 2177
Author's Notes: Because these two were made to be shipped.
I.
Play.
Rewind.
Play.
Pause.
The dancer is frozen on the screen, one long leg lifted up above her head in a graceful sweep, balanced on knifelike pointe shoes. One of her hands reaches beseechingly offscreen, her other arm curled prettily by her side, but her eyes are anything but gentle. Focused, intense, and blazing with a feeling Yelena can't name. Her lips are parted, perfect red arches caught mid-breath. Yelena traces them with a nail, then drops her gaze to the dancer's legs again. Strong, every muscle tensed; the calf of her supporting leg bulges, both her thighs sculpted and defined until they join at the crux of her legs, her fair skin cut in half by the slash of her black leotard. It must be so hard to hold yourself like that (even for a moment, for that living second before the woman on the screen exhales and flings herself into the dance), and Yelena presses her palms flat against her own thighs, imagining the dancer's leg quivering under her hands.
Play.
The dancer spins and leaps in one powerful move. In other videos of hers, she is light and graceful, an ethereal thing, but here she is a frenzy, whipping her body across the stage with beautiful precision; the girls of the corps are faint shadows against the fervent bloom of the dancer. Natalia Romanova.
Yelena hits pause again, this time while Natalia is crouched as if ready to spring, a sleek animal dressed in filmy skirts. That is a posture Yelena recognizes: no longer a work of art, but a predator. She stares at the dancer onscreen for another moment, then flexes her feet in her pointe shoes and rises to the balls of her feet, her heels high in the air. Balanced on that knife-edge, she closes her eyes, and then forces herself onto the tips of her toes. Her mouth opens in a silent shout as pain lances up her nerves, but Yelena doesn't wobble; she grits her teeth and holds the pose. Only older trainees are supposed to practice stress endurance training, but Yelena is better than other girls her age. Hitting play again, she sinks back down, then up again Natalia dances. Repeat once, twice, three times, again.
One of her toes cracks, and her ankles give out and she collapses, just as Natalia onscreen does too-but unlike Yelena, in seconds she has whirled back to her feet, her fall just another part of the choreography. In a fit of petulance, Yelena kicks the television with her broken toe; the machine hits the floor and expires with a crunch. So much for that.
Blood seeps through the silk of her shoe. She thinks her toenail might have been torn off.
"Fuck you," she says to the remnants of the TV, taking a moment to bury her head in her arms.
Then she exhales, sneers, rises to her feet, and does the whole routine again, broken toes and all.
II.
"At your age," her instructor says with a frown, "Romanova was twice as fast."
Yelena glares at the rifle in front of her, and mutters under her breath, "Well, I'm not Romanova."
"No, you aren't," he snaps. Yelena winces inside, but takes the smack he deals her without flinching. "She is better than you, and always will be. Now try again."
His words curl like ice in her stomach, and Yelena sets her jaw, openly sneering. I'm better than that defecting bitch. She stares at the rifle for a moment longer, trying to memorize every last part of it, then ties on the blindfold and tries again. Disassemble, reassemble, load, aim, shoot-the recoil slams the gun into her shoulder, bruising her, but her grip on the rifle doesn't waver. Reload, shoot. The second magazine runs out and she scrabbles at the table for another, but there's not one there.
"Take it off," her instructor says, and Yelena obeys, setting down the rifle and removing the blindfold. She stares at the line of human-shaped targets, the paper tattered and torn to pieces, cut them in half by her bullets. "What did you do wrong?"
"I should have put the extra magazine in my bag," she says instantly. Her instructor nods solemnly.
"Yes," he agrees. "Do it right next time. You should know better."
Then he adds, "Well done," and Yelena glows.
. . .
Natalia Romanova runs through the tangled hallways of the facility, dressed only in a black leotard and tough combat boots, Yelena only a few steps behind. They both know every twist and turn of this place as surely as they know their own names, but Romanova has been gone a long time; she's going to stumble sooner or later. Yelena pants through the stitch in her side and pushes on, forcing her legs to move even faster. Romanova darts a quick look behind her, just a flash of green eyes through her streaming red hair, and her pace falters the tiniest bit-Yelena's cue. She lunges and grabs a handful of Romanova's hair, yanking her backwards, but Romanova was the first Black Widow, and she twists in Yelena's grip to fight back, hands stabbing at her chest and head. Stars explode as Romanova's fist smashes Yelena's cheek, and Yelena hits back just as hard, smacking the butt of her gun under Romanova's chin. The redhead goes down, and Yelena pounces.
They writhe together on the floor, Yelena gets her into a stranglehold and keeps her there, Romanova struggles and curses-and the curtains part, the roar of the crowd descending on the two of them. Blinded by the spotlight, Yelena throws a hand over her eyes and reels back, landing hard on her ass in the center of the stage. The spotlight dims; Yelena drops her hand. Suddenly she is the one dressed in the leotard, that and nothing else, and Romanova is sprawled in front of her, wearing nothing but a black hourglass painted on her stomach. Her legs are spread, and Yelena can't help but look. She's a natural redhead. Yelena wants-her mouth waters, she is flushed and shaken, and she wants.
Romanova holds out a hand, her calm gaze pinning Yelena as surely as the spotlight did.
"Come here, rooskaya," she says softly, and Yelena recoils.
"You're a traitor," she spits, but her heart isn't in it. "You left us for the Americans, for the capitalists-"
"Bring me back," Romanova whispers. "Only the Black Widow can do it, Yelena Belova. You're the only one."
Yelena's mouth is on Romanova's ankle. She is kissing a trail up her leg, nipping at her thigh, burying her face between her legs, licking her cunt with the flat of her tongue. Romanova sighs ecstatically and reaches for Yelena's hair, grinding herself harder against Yelena's mouth. Yelena wraps her arms under Romanova's body and stills her hips with bruising hands, finding the woman's clit and worrying it with her tongue. Wordlessly, Romanova cries out, and Yelena presses harder, deeper, faster.
Her fingers slip in something wet, and Yelena looks up briefly before jerking back in shock; the paint on Romanova's stomach is dripping across her fingers, staining them black, and as she sits up to examine them, the paint spreads, coating her arms and then her shoulders. Romanova props herself up on her elbows to watch, still unruffled, but now with a sharper edge to her smile. She is now clad in the Black Widow's traditional catsuit, golden zipper pulled up to her neck. The suit fits to her body as if painted on; her nipples are clearly outlined, just like the lips between her legs. Yelena blinks, and Romanova flickers, becoming blonde and bustier-becoming Yelena. She blinks again, and the redhead is back, watching her closely.
"You didn't do it," she says, sounding regretful.
"I can!" Yelena splutters, and reaches out to her. "I can, just let me try again, I can do it-"
"Try harder," Romanova orders. Yelena wakes up.
She rolls onto her stomach, still half-asleep, and shoves her hand between her legs, fingers working busily. Her climax comes quickly, an empty seizure of muscles and a brief rush of pleasure; then she wipes her fingers off on her underwear and goes back to sleep. In the morning, she pretends not to remember a thing.
III.
Hating Romanova is too easy, she decides as she studies for her first field exam. Hate is what a child feels for that which threatens her, and Romanova is no threat to me.
Better to learn from her, at this point. For years, Yelena's instructors have played her, using the original Widow's name to drive her to new heights and achievements, but no longer. Yelena doesn't have to worry about such feelings of inadequacy anymore. She's surpassed Romanova's marks on all her written tests, and she has no doubt that she'll meet and exceed expectations in the field as well.
The phone rings. Yelena drops her pencil on the stacks of old files and grabs for the receiver.
"Hello?" she asks, and breaks into a smile when her mother says, "Lena! I was so hoping you would answer. Are you doing well? Have you been keeping up with your books? Are you eating?"
"Yes, Mama," Yelena says with a laugh; the cavalcade of questions is as much a joke between the two of them as it is sincere by this point. "To all of it. Well-maybe not the books part."
"Why not?" Her mother, a steadfast devotee of classic literature, nearly sounds offended. "What am I sending you all those books for if you aren't reading them?"
"Mama, I have other things to be doing." She glances down at the topmost file-OPERATION: TORCHBEARER, file #31088/00-WID-and the square photograph attached to it. Quickly, she closes the folder to block Romanova's direct gaze. "I will read them, I promise."
"Good." Her mother hesitates; Yelena waits for her to speak. "Lena, I spoke to your instructor before you."
"Oh?"
"He told me your first test is in three days."
"Oh." Yelena deflates, drumming her fingers on the desk. "I would have told you, but I-I wanted to surprise you with my results."
"I wanted to take you out for your birthday," her mother says with a sigh. If Yelena didn't know better, she'd say she sounds sad, but she has never once expressed anything but pleasure for Yelena's hard work. "Auntie Olga is baking you a pie."
"Well, when my test is over, I'll visit," Yelena says with confidence, flicking the tip of her pencil with her nail. It goes spinning off her desk, and she curses as she bend to retrieve it, ignoring her mother's admonitions ("Yelena, have some manners!") and tangling herself in the cord. "And we can celebrate more than my birthday."
"It sounds perfect," her mother says warmly, and then, "Lena, I am so proud of you."
Yelena stares at the blank folder until her eyes swim. Rumor has it that she's the first Red Room student to be allowed contact with her family-she wonders why, because if anything, her love for them is a weakness.
"I love you, Mama," she says. "I've got to go."
"Goodbye, Lena. And good luck. I'll see you soon."
Gently, Yelena places the receiver back in its cradle, shaky but relieved; her mother always has that effect on her. She opens the folder again, searching for some distraction, maybe information that could help her in the field (as if she hasn't spent half her free time poring over these files, anyway), but instead she thinks abruptly, Did Romanova have a family?
Yelena can't remember; she knows Romanova's history by heart, but her early childhood was ever mentioned in the files Yelena has access to. She looks at the picture again. The woman has an utter blankness of expression that Yelena can't manage, no matter how hard she tries; the only thing in her eyes is a quiet, cold determination. Did anyone ever tell her they were proud of her?
It doesn't matter; she had her country, and that should have been enough. It would be enough for Yelena.
IV.
The first woman Yelena fucks is a redhead. It's only a coincidence.
V.
CAPT. BELOVA, YELENA (DESIGNATION: BLACK WIDOW)
OPERATION: DOPPELGANGER
OVERVIEW
TARGET: Natalia Romanova
Aliases: Black Widow
Nationality: American (formerly Russian)
Allegiance: Freelance operative
(see attached file)
MISSION: Intercept, neutralize and interrogate target. Information pertaining to Operation RHAPISTAN is to be prioritized. After extraction, return target to base.
Thumbing through the papers, Yelena briefly glances over the attached files-the thicker one is Romanova's, the slimmer a briefing on Operation Rhapistan-and returns to the first page, with her mission emblazoned across the top.
Yelena's fingers do not tremble. Two years' worth of experience keep her professional, but there's a quivering in her stomach she doesn't let show on her face. Still, a little smirk steals its way across her lips.
Target: Natalia Romanova.
She sets the files down, heart thumping rapidly, and thinks, At last.