
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4348988.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel, Marvel_616, Marvel_(Comics), Black_Widow_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      past_Red_Room_officials/Natasha_Romanov
  Character:
      Natasha_Romanov, Red_Room_People, Amora_(Marvel), various_other_mentions
      and_minor_characters
  Additional Tags:
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Ambiguous_Relationships, One-Sided_Attraction,
      Trust_Issues, Past_Rape/Non-con, Past_Sexual_Abuse, past_dub-con, during
      a_time_where_Natasha_simply_wasn't_sure_who_she_was, Mind_Control
      Aftermath_&_Recovery, Natasha_needs_a_hug_but_will_probably_stab_you_if
      you_try, why_do_I_do_these_things_to_myself, I_am_deeply_sorry_for_what_I
      have_done.
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-15 Words: 1136
****** These Hands Are Hard To Hold ******
by ernyx
Summary
     The past is haunting, the present is unbearable.
     There is nothing to do but r u n.
     [After all, the first thing they taught you was that emotions were
     your greatest enemy.]
Notes
     alt title: From Flames To Blood [don't break don't break don't break]
     warning for noncon, in case you didn't see it in the tags!
See the end of the work for more notes
     You crash out of the window and into the arms of an unknown man. His name
is Ivan, you learn, and he is in the military. He is not prepared to be a
father, but somehow he refuses to give you up. You have a protector, someone
who cares about you even though your mother is dead, and life goes on. You grow
up for the first few years ensconced in his love, and it’s the only one you’ll
know for many more years to come.
     Little girls need hobbies and he has no toys to provide, so he enrolls you
 in ballet. You’re a natural—a splendid dancer, agile, graceful,
a perfectionist and you refuse to be bullied by anyone. “So what if I'm a
girl,” you say, “I will fight you.” When you get caught, you look terribly
sorry—not because you are, but because you may have brought shame upon Ivan and
you could never do that. Ivan is your everything.
     You stay out of trouble—in public—let the boys (who like to torment you on
your way to class for the frilly little tutu and the skintight leotard and the
simple fur coat over it that Ivan bought for you for your sixth birthday) run
home to their mothers crying about the redhead girl with teeth and claws.
(Their mothers scoff, say that it's humiliating that they'd be beat by a little
girl, and that they should really do better. They couldn't if they tried.)
Someone notices.
                                              That is the first mistake.
===============================================================================
 
     They tell him that they will keep her safe (lie), that they will make her
skills blossom (dubious) and help her fight for the glory of the Soviet Empire
(truth) if she wishes (lie), just like her foster father. They tell him that
she is one of the chosen few (truth) and that they have great hopes for her
(dubious). Besides, they say, they can give her some stability unlike a
traveling military man (lie).
    Ivan sighs and nods and gives his baby away.
          “Be good, Natalia,” he says. You nod solemnly.
It is hell.
   It is hell and you’ve never even believed in hell and yet there’s nothing
else to call this.
      It is jail cells and 28 orphan girls lost and in grief, their screams as
they’re called down the hall.
                                              (You never want to go down the
hall.)
     You sit in an empty room, staring blankly at a screen.
                       1 and 2 and 3 and 4. Now turn and plié and pirouette.
                                   1 and 2 and 3 and 4. Now brisé volé and
grand battement.
     You stand in an empty room, staring blankly at targets.
                       1, 2, 3. Turn, shoot, duck, shoot.
                                   1, 2, 3. Step, parry, block, stab.
     You lay in an empty room, staring blankly at the ceiling.
                       Drip, drip, drip. The first, second, third. Grunts above
you, pain spiking through.
                                  Breathe, breathe, breathe. Hot semen gushing
out inside you, hands lax in defeat.
You cannot fight them. You cannot speak of this to anyone.
   They would eventually dispose of you, of course, but first they’d torture
those you loved.
      If you had naught to lose, they’d send you to the failed Wolf Ops to be
devoured slowly and painfully.
                                    (Of course, if you are lucky enough,
                                         you won’t even remember who you are
                                                and everything that they’ve
done to you.)
===============================================================================
 
     It’s months before Ivan gets to visit. You look strong, your muscles
building up from your training, from the (reluctantly) balanced diet provided
in face of rationing for the sake of the few that might survive. If your gaze
is a little unsettling, if your posture is a little stiff, he chalks it up to
the military side of training. He, too, had once learned to stand straight as a
board, shoulders square, chest out, posture ready to pull a gun. You were
developing those skills too.
     You aren’t allowed to talk long, and he never gets to question your flinch
at his arms around you.
                                   Even if he had, it’s not like you would have
been able to say.
Hell continues.
     Hours upon the stage, hours in the battlefield, hours of bloody toes,
hours of bloody bodies.
     Hours on the cold table, full of this and that, tearing you open, forcing
tears from your eyes.
                                    This is training too, they say. Learn to
withstand this.
                                   Don’t you dare cry, or we’ll whip you for an
hour more.
                                                         They whip you anyway.
     The cycle never ceases, your insides are left raw, and you learn to
contain your cries. You learn to stay conscious through the pain. You learn to
watch and hold perfectly still as they do biopsies on random body parts. You
don’t flinch when they cut out your appendix without anesthesia. You don’t turn
away when they fuck your wounds—you know they’ll be disinfected later just in
case you’re one of their successes. You want to be one of their successes
because it’s all you know.
                              Someday you won’t feel the pain. Someday you’ll
be perfect.
         “She’s not the most extraordinary,” they say behind closed doors.
     “Perhaps we’ll throw her away.”
===============================================================================
     By chance, someone decides to play a game, luring you out from the fake
normalcy of your life. Amora the Enchantress gives your young body strength,
gives you power for a little while, promises you freedom.  They never said
they’d take Ivan if you got freedom on your own, did they? The compound was
built to keep the victims in and the public out, but you could do it,  the
voice whispers to you.  You’ll be able to do whatever you want to. With your
training, you could have the whole world at your feet. Think of it.
                                                                          
(lies)
     But for the moment you are strong and determined and you fight. You claw
your way out, pushing your limits, bringing down guards with your fists, with a
brick, with whatever you can find. You make it as far as the outer wall and
then she retracts her power.
     “You promised,” you cry out to the beautiful woman.
     “I lied,” she replies, and then she’s gone.
     You collapse on the ground, exhausted.
              “Perhaps she has potential after all,” they say in their
     office. “Upgrade her to Widow training.”
     In the meantime, you’re dragged back to that horrible room at the end of
the hall. They rape you over and over for hours. They punish you for not
staying awake. They tear you open to see how your muscles gained so much
strength for the rebellious outburst and find nothing. You pass out again, and
the guards all get a turn with your body one last time before you’re put away
into your new life in the higher level recruits. They are the killers, and soon
you’ll be a killer too.
End Notes
     Comments? Feedback? I'd love to hear it! Drop me a line either here
     or on my tumblr (@artificiallyimplantedmemories) !
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