A GIRL / A GUN.

“Of course I do,” Ross is quick to reply, obviously defensive. “It doesn’t matter, I’ll be fine.”

“ who do you think you are? “ // @agentromancff

was this chick serious? stephanie looked down at her chest –– where a yellow bat symbol was clearly emblazoned across her bust, stark against the black and purple uniform. oh god… what if people still don’t recognize her, even after all this time? that was definitely worse.

covering up the lapse of self-doubt with humour, a clear coping mechanism hardened through the years, she lifted crystalline eyes to meet the redhead and plastered on her best camera-ready smile. “well, i’m CLEARLY superman.” emphasizing the point by widening her stance, hands on the hips, flexing just to resemble the blue boy scout. “how can i help you, young lady?”

jesus, she really was a loser.

natasha   ───   had not meant it quite this way. not really. not exactly. though it’s painfully obvious to the trained eye that the younger girl sought to build up her own BRAVADO, clearly festering in her own self-doubt. questioning her inadequacy? perhaps. but the widow has neither the time nor patience to console a young adult on the qualms of self-identity. instead, a simper, made of scarlett lips and glittering emeralds, weaves into her features, a webbing of amusement.  ❝  right. a little boy scout. it suits you. ❞  

It always annoyed Hayden how something can look so simple down on paper, but once you go out to exercise a plan something goes wrong. It can’t ever just be easy — even though he thought so considering the two of them were both super-soldiers. He groans as he pulls on his torn up gloves. He’s going to need to replace these, and he just got them too. Another irritation.

Hayden raises an eyebrow, ultimately he trusts her a lot more than most people. He looks over at the people that took them captive, and he just smirks as he looks at Natasha. He gets the hint, and he’s standing up, a swift hit to the back of one of the men catches them off guard. He turns around trying to swing, but Hayden was much too fast for him. He takes him down with ease, and not breaking a sweat. “Well he wasn’t prepared for THAT.”

and they fall into a procession of beatings, a symphony of perfectly timed moves as the widow flips, chair bound tightly still to her frame, collapsing the legs atop a guard’s spine and freeing herself from captivity. she’s quick to shimmy out of the metal restraints, a subtle crack of broken thumbs as she slips her wrists free, then pops them back into place. her smirk, then, is a masterpiece in its own right, predatory, dangerous. FERAL. the accompanying  ❝  hey sailor,  ❞  as the romanoff poises herself atop another guard’s shoulders, is a death sentence, the widow building momentum with each spin, then throwing him to the ground and lunging off with a roll. 

When Steve had been buried beneath a layer of ice, dead to the world and to all those he loved within it, he had time to think. He had time to think about the life he had lived, the people he had lost, and the life he would have lived if he had only survived. And then, when SHIELD had found his body a mere seventy years later – cold, frozen and almost-lifeless –  he’d awoken to a new world without those he had come to love. He had woken in a world without any place to call home.

But now, he has a home. He has friends, and he has a family. Children to call his own, friends that will never leave his side – he is finally home.

Home has taken a while to get to, though, and it’s been one hell of a journey too. And now, as he walks down the familiar path from his apartment to the community college he teaches at, he allows himself a moment to take it all in.

Until someone smacks right into him.

Not realizing he’s been blocking the way for this one individual, he says, “’m sorry, ‘m sorry. Didn’t realize I was blockin’ the way.” And then, he notices the array of items the other person has dropped and immediately bends down to help pick them up. “I swear to God, I get real clumsy in the morning. I apologize once again for – uh. This.”

children, natasha romanoff knows, are often clumsy. college students? not any better. both groups have the attention span of a bread loaf, easily distracted by whatever device is inserted before their eyes at any given times, and, in the case of the latter, oft still find their blood pumping with the drug of the day: be it nicotine, marijuana, alcohol, caffeine, or perhaps something stronger. there’s thus nothing close to surprise in the widow’s unenthused expression as one of these very students, preoccupied with their gaze trained on what natasha can only presume to be some form of social media, collides with the man of the hour: one particular steve rogers. 

「   ❝  →  Why did things have to go so fucking wrong?  ❞  」⋮

❝  — why, indeed?  ❞  echoes the widow as the flesh of her wrists signal for her attention, rubbed raw from metal and twine. it was intended to be an easy outing, something through which the two super soldiers could engage together — tracking and ELIMINATING a local crime lord, on the request of shield, due to his possession and trafficking of classified research, should have been an easy task. and yet — now she finds herself in a new predicament ───  things going so fucking wrong, as hayden eloquently phrased it. 

「   ❝  →  it’s not a party until someone almost fucking dies.  ❞  」⋮

now — isn’t that the truth? and if the black widow had surreptitiously slipped a dollop of poison into the now deceased man’s old fashioned? well. it wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? whether it makes thor an accomplice to the murder or not is up to debate, but natasha romanoff nothing if not AUSPICIOUS in the implementation of her assignments. and, besides, she should be at the bottom of the suspect list for this . . .  untimely event of the soirée. after all, it is just a gala. and she is just an eligible bachelorette and arm candy of the beloved god of thunder, is she not?

❝ ─── you’re right, thor. this is turning into quite the party, ❞ muses she with the twirl of a lock of hair about her fingertip. she’s pointed in her gaze remaining transfixed upon the god’s own eyes, instead of trailing to the scene of unruly chaos now transpiring around them. ❝  ────── and yet in an unfortunate turn of events, the party appears to be over. why don’t we return to your place for a little fun, hm?  ❞

「   ❝  →  let’s make a fucking baby.  ❞  」⋮

❝  — excuse me?  ❞

maria hill should know better. shouldn’t she?  then again.  perhaps her own quick wit and sardonicism have a tendency to obscure the extent of natasha’s DISCOMFORT when it comes to discussions about. babies. pregnancy. poor choice of words?  arguably so. but the widow’s eyes offer no semblance of an indiction something is amiss  —  no twitch of a vein falls out of her proprioceptive control. no heartbeat out of pace. no shift to her gaze. instead, she keeps her breathing steadied as fingers interlace at the nape of maria’s neck, a sculpted brow arches. a glittering smirk curves  ─  dark,  seductive.

{ trigger warnings : mentions/implications of death, abuse, alcoholism, violence/murder, pregnancy, hospitals, war, & mental illness }

last intro for the day. im sure everyone knows the loml aka natasha romanoff so i tried to keep this mostly headcanon & relevant information based~