natasha romanoff application.
out of character portion.
name: kyle!
pronouns: they/them or he/him.
age: 18 :“)
kik: yaoihell
skype: cisheteroboy
blacklist: alcohol, alcohol mentions, drunk blogging whether ic or out, nsfw, eye gore. it’s all on my ooc page!
anything else you’d like to add about yourself:
i work 9-4 wednesday through saturday! that shouldn’t affect rp too much, you can usually get in contact with me regardless of the time during the day! if you’d like my phone ### hmu!
character: natasha “the real mvp (mom valuable player)” romanoff
Objects are to be moved, manipulated by clever fingers, like hers. She was taught, raised up on the base ideal that people are objects, they are synonymous. What do you do with an object? You control them, you mold them, you force them to fit your needs. What do you do to people? You control them. It is the key element of an assassin’s arsenal, the human body.
The “human” body, as if Natasha has ever felt human.
She is a weapon, not unlike humanity’s objectification there is her own. She is the threat of bones breaking and cartilage snapping under the sinew of muscle, her own, twisting the weight of a grown man over her, taking them to the ground. She is the teeth of a zipper pulled down so far as to be a distraction, the primal needs of humanity have always been a downfall for them and their fickle attraction. A patch of skin exposed and pushed up for the distraction of the general public. She is weaponized sexuality, the belt of her catsuit cinched just so at the waist to show off the deadly hourglass of a widow’s thorax.
But now she is hidden. She is ratty skinny jeans and a beanie. Horn rimmed glasses- is that what the kids are in to? She stopped short of a meme shirt. Her face is her own, files on her identity recently recovered thanks to a helpful bit of code.
A truck stop, familiar with the aesthetic of bright lights on the side of a dusty highway, drivers in their cabs sleeping soundly, palms tucked over full bellies, filled up from the classic red neon diner across the way. She’d heard reports, well, whispers, that’s all the ever were, of a man with a metal arm passing through. Suspicious, to say the least. It was an uncredited source, but a year after the incident in D.C. and they were pulling at straws to get information out of anyone. She had faith in Steve to have the ambition to find the Soldier– except she didn’t. She enters the diner, immediately smacked in the face with the stench of –
— the room is always watching, casting an air of paranoia everywhere but here, here where they’re secret, safe and hidden from the ever vigilant eyes of the instructors, he is one but does he count when he is as much a pawn as the girls themselves? he does not count. this room, not the room, is cast in a hue of red, it shakes and shivers as trains pass through. they are on a seek and destroy mission, that is what he calls it when he slips into that accent, words that carry the rattle of dog tags and the scent of gun powder, she thinks that makes no sense, but –
– the diner was homely enough, what you’d expect of a truck stop, cycling through different patrons every day, every hour. A teenager sat behind the counter, oily, pubescent, she wonders vaguely who drives him to work every day. Maybe he drives himself. With a quick shimmy of her cardigan he fesses up the relative knowledge he has of the Soldier- he calls him the tin man, it sets Natasha’s teeth on edge and she hesitates to leave him a tip when she brings her the espresso she ordered. It’s foul. But this is a truck stop. And –
— the covers are upturned, he is on the fritz, twitching and mumbling, she thinks he is running through kill codes, attempting to shut himself off. he is not- no. wait. she has read something. on missions like this she skims books, they’re a guilty pleasure. her fingers taste like dust and ink in his mouth. science fiction is what they call it, robots, tin men. he is not a robot, he exercises empathy in the form of a hesitant trigger finger when he is with her, she changes him. the instructors dislike this, –
– figure in her peripheral, he is hunched, a curtain of hair hangs in his face and a single hand clutches to his chest a cup of coffee, black. There are torn sugar packets strewn across the speckled table top of the counter but she suspects those are pressure sensitive plates tugging on paper thin corners. She tilts her chin slightly, makes pleasant conversation with the cook through the slat in the wall. The angle of her face brings his profile into sight just as he turns, the shriek of his twisting stool, latched to the ground like metal fingers that flash as he moves too jerky, too quickly to leave for the door –
— slams open, rattles against the opposite wall, the knob cracking the paper thin surface. Natalia hears the skitter of a rat’s claws inside, scrambling to get away from the scene as she’d like to. His fingers still where they had been tracing the gently slop of a freckled jut in her hip, eyes wide, wide in. Horror? She blinks. A word is tossed out, rough on the tongue of a familiar voice, rough like his hand as it tightens on her hip,
he stills, she scrambles, twists when –
– she grabs him. The metal sears her skin, his coolant system is malfunctioning. The whir of an overexerted fan is much like his breathing, labored, panicked. “Barnes-” she chokes on the word, a name she has never even known him by, nor he himself. He will not recall, she tries something else. “Bucky,” but it feels unfamiliar, acidic, on her tongue. His brows knit and she can see the strain behind his eyes. He is too far gone to understand her. Her fingers are singed when she releases him, and tomorrow her palm will blister, a reminder.
It is a twenty minute drive to her rendezvous point, alone in a hotel room. Upturned cover. Clinking dog tags.
She calls Rogers.
Barnes is apprehended.
She returns to base, her head held high, unaffected by the lack of recollection Barnes has for her, he doesn’t seem to recall the truck stop. She wonders if he remembers how he took his coffee black, but those are not thoughts for people like her. “People,” as if she was one. She is a weapon, and people are objects.
natural redhead who still needs to dye her hair redder. she reeks like chemicals both in her bloodstream and clinging to the threads of her hair.
multilingual and adaptable. she can pick up a language from a simple twenty minute conversation based on dialect, region, and inflection.
thick thighs, big ass, give em whiplash.
actively practices ballet as a form of training and stimulation.
working for shield for roughly twelve years.
very good at repression, honestly.
believes attachment is a weakness, love is for children. uses people to suit her needs.
sex is about control, never to release of have fun.
everything is about control.
direction: interact this spider and pull her out of her shell? honestly she is so cold warm her tf up. doubtful! civil war tho.
gender/pronouns: genderfluid. typically she/her. isn’t picky.
