deviants

The fascination manifested as plain curiosity, really. She liked to think that all of her intentions started out pure, even if they rarely ended that way.

As princess Natasha Natalia Romanova of Moscow, she was allowed most things that she wanted, which would usually leave young women in her predicament feeling more or less satisfied with their standing. If she wanted someone gone, she had someone make it happen. The finest dresses and jewelry within hundreds of miles of her kingdom? She would have them. A handmaiden and three butlers. A gorgeous mare, black as midnight with piercing blue eyes. A cat just as black, with an attitude to match his counterpart (much to the King and Queen's dismay). Hours of pampering, countless books lining the walls of her quarters, an expansive and luxurious garden for her preferred lonesome, all the entertainment she could ever wish for, suitors at her very beck and call—

Suitors. That is where, as luck may have it, things had always gotten a bit messy.

Natasha had been introduced to her first ever suitor at the ripe age of fifteen, long before either of her parents were considering Natasha's inevitable promise of the throne. She remembers the boy (young man really, as he'd already been eighteen) being from some far off country. Somewhere she had yet to learn of in her studies, at least. His name was odd, Rumlow, and she didn't like the way he looked at her or the way his hands felt caressing her own in even the most polite gesture (though without the supervision of her parents his advances did become much less...gentlemanly over time).

It was much the same as more suitors racked in over the years, Natasha always getting that same unpleasant feeling when approached in a less that platonic way by anyone her father deemed worthy of introducing her to. They were of an unfortunate breed, it seemed: pompous and arrogant with that misogynistic undertone to their speech, as if they viewed Natasha as nothing more than a potential trophy wife.

Never to say that Natasha thought herself too much above them. She'd considered many a suitor for his looks and stupidity, momentarily content with the idea of allowing a man to sit pretty upon her father's throne while she ran the Kingdom of Moscow from the sidelines, unchallenged and irrefutable.

The thought was always promptly discarded. Natasha Natalia Romanova needed strong, physical connection and a shallow, simpleminded man was not going to give that to her.

No man would give that to her.

Natasha had always found women remarkably attractive, but it wasn't until she turned eighteen that she truly grasped the stark difference between appreciating their beauty and her persistent desire to be with them intimately. However, once she had that revelation, it became difficult for her to envision herself being with a man, as she found herself more drawn to the idea of pinning a woman's dainty wrists firmly with one of her hands, the idea of watching someone writhe beneath her increasingly enticing.

Though she was known for being an openly defiant princess, she'd yet to act out on her desires. Trading her jewels for a sword and saddle when she was supposed to be attending a royal council meeting was one thing (much to her father's frustration), but refusing to bed a man and potential King in lieu of a woman was another, and likely to get her disowned altogether. Believe it or not, Natasha rather liked her place in power, and losing it was not somewhere high on her bucket list.

This, however, did not mean that she had never confided her taboo in anyone. In fact, she shared a close bond with two of the royal guards, men who had grown alongside her despite their disparate hierarchical positions. Clint Barton and Sam Wilson were akin to her brothers and privy to her most intimate secrets, including matters pertaining to her sexuality. And so, it was no surprise that Natasha was the first to hear of the supposedly gorgeous miscreant a couple of other guards had caught practicing what looked like witchcraft at the edge of the village nearest to the palace. And to hear it from no other than Barton and Wilson directly was no shock either.

“Apparently, there was a whole group of ruffians camping just outside Volyanov. Odinson said they looked rather peaceful upon first glance, aside from being acutely aware of their surroundings.” Clint supplied as the trio rode their horses casually along the palace perimeter. “But you know Strucker. He sees something he wants to take and then flees at having the slightest downside in confrontation. He only managed the girl at the very last moment, while they were all making a run for it.”

“And boy, is she a sight for sore eyes.” Sam whistled, shaking his head. He ran his fingers through the mane of his steed, Redwing, as they turned the corner where the stables stood. “A shame she got separated. Poor girl is probably terrified.”

Natasha hopped off of her own horse, whom she’d taken the liberty of naming Fanny when she was younger, and gave the mare a distracted, though loving scratch behind the ear. Fanny grunted appreciatively, nudging the princess in the side with her muzzle in a show of mutual affection.

“Her people didn’t attempt to help her evade capture?”

Clint led his steed into the stable beside Fanny, scratching the back of his own neck with his free hand. “Oh, they tried. There was one boy, even, unnaturally bright hair and dark stubble, and he tried with everything in him. He kept calling her ‘sestra’ and much of the little gag had to hold him back to prevent Strucker from turning around and outright impaling him with his sword.”

“The Queen is keeping her underneath the Palace until your father returns, last I heard.” Added Sam, producing three carrots from his knapsack. He took a healthy bite from one before offering the rest to Redwing, who chomped on it happily, and handed the others to his friends. “You know how your stepmother is. She hears ‘witch’ and all hell breaks loose if she doesn’t contain the threat immediately.”

“Supposed threat.” Natasha corrected her friend, taking the offered carrot and feeding the whole thing to Fanny, her expression thoughtful. “What does the girl look like, anyway? I know we’re way past the tales of green witches with moles and sharp noses, but…”

“The specifics might have to wait until another time, Nat.” Clint chuckled dryly, nodding his head in the direction they’d just come from.

Riding towards them was the one and only Anthony Stark, the King’s royal advisor and possibly the least tolerated person on Natasha’s list of acquaintances. He slowed when he neared them, rearing his horse to a halt just before it could come nose to nose with an indifferent Natasha. The dark haired man smirked as he pushed off his saddle in as suave a manner he could manage. “Don’t look so glum to see me, Red. I don’t always come bearing bad news.” He nodded cordially at the two men flocked on either side of the princess. “Barton, Wilson.”

“Unsurprisingly, I can’t think of a time you’ve come bearing something worth my time.” Natasha shot back easily, rolling her eyes. She could tell by his lack of outerwear that he’d just come from inside the palace and not from a ride like the rest of them, so his dramatic gallop of an entrance was, per usual, all for show. “What does my evil stepmother want now?”

“Dinner over a cup of ale, you know, the usual.” He jested, his usual sarcasm as present as ever as he handed over his horse to be tended by a stable hand. “You missed yet another fitting for your father’s Reunion Ball next week. The Queen is less than pleased with your avoidance and requests your presence as soon as possible.”

“Cut the formalities, Tony,” Natasha grumbled, shooing off her friends to their own work in favor of following him towards the closest palace entrance. “Could you just do me a solid and tell her I’m sick? Sucking into a dress for a stupid party is the last thing I want to do right now.”

He gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Me? Lie to the queen? What do you make me out to be, a traitor?”

“I won’t beg, Stark,” Natasha smirked. “Though I’d hate for you to have to forgo your long awaited date with Pepper Potts because a certain someone caught wind of you sleeping through a council mediation meeting a few days ago.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Just tell her I’m not feeling well!” The mischievous redhead called over her shoulder, having quickened her stride as Tony simultaneously slowed to a stop. “And don’t you dare let her send anyone up to my room!”

Natasha hadn’t intended on heading in the direction of the palace dungeon, but she was a firm believer in going wherever her feet wanted to take her, and peaked with curiosity and underlying boredom, they had led her here.

The entrance was surprisingly unguarded, and if Natasha was in any other mood she might’ve had the mind to bring it up to her stepmother, perhaps stir up some unneeded trouble. Anything to breathe some life into the dull, gray of the palace. Something to take the insistent nagging off of her back and give her a moment to enjoy herself, even at the tiniest expense of another.

Instead, she took advantage of the freedom, casting one good look to her surroundings before slowly descending the cobblestone steps. It was reasonably cooler beneath the palace, but not uncomfortably so, and Natasha found herself taking in a quiet, much needed breath. It was dark, too, and as her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness of the secluded area, her ears picked up on rhythmic tapping coming from the cell farthest in the back.

The cells beneath the palace were only used on…special occasions, so the newfound witch would be the only one down there, as far as Natasha was aware. Bracing her left hand against the wall opposite the array of cells, the princess made her way toward the noise, her curiosity growing with every measured step.

Without a torch, it was only bright enough to make out the basic shapes and some details of the things laying about the small area, and though much of the same could be said about the prisoner, Natasha’s breath still seemed to catch.

Sam had not been joking when he took note of the young ruffian’s beauty.

Even in the dim lighting, ivory skin shown soft and pale against the gray backdrop of the cell. Well worn boots rested against one of the stone walls adjacent to the cell bars, followed by mile long, creamy legs and the hem of what Natasha assumed to be an earthy brown dress rucked carelessly about the tops of her thighs, bordering on mouthwatering indecency. The bodice of the dress hugged a slim figure, the neckline low on the woman’s chest, but accentuated by a plethora of intricate necklaces.

Pulling her gaze away from a sharp collarbone, Natasha was met with long, dark hair, pursed lips and long lashes, fluttering ever so slightly against sharp cheekbones. Dark makeup lined her eyes and Natasha could bet that the girl’s lips were deep red, even in the darkness.

Lithe, ring adorned fingers continued to drum against the cobblestone ground, long nails clicking melodically. She didn’t look the least bit terrified as Sam had predicted her to be. No, she looked bored.

Bored and positively stunning.

“Have they been treating you well down here, маленькая мышь?” Natasha crooned before she could help herself, leaning her full weight against the wall and peering curiously at the prisoner. She reveled in the way the brunette’s nails momentarily stopped their drumming, as if to acknowledge Natasha’s presence before promptly starting back up.

“Well, I have not been hit over the head with anything else, and my arms are no longer tied, so I say I am getting along just fine for time being.” Came the icy reply.

Oh. Even her voice was like magic, deep with a rasp from which Natasha could easily tell was likely from yelling at the guards that had managed to get a hold of her earlier in the day. Heat pooled low in the princess’s stomach at the prospect of hearing her speak again, preferably with her own name on the woman’s lips.

“For someone considered dangerous enough to be put beneath the palace, I’d say such treatment sounds rather lenient, don’t you think?”

The dark haired woman huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh, letting her head fall to one side and resting a pale cheek against the cool, stone floor. “So that is where they take me? To underground dungeon? How original.”

Natasha could only move closer to the bars then, eyes narrowed as she studied the woman’s lax posture. She couldn’t have been any older than Natasha herself, with her youthful features and unbothered attitude. But still, there was mirth behind her eyes, a sort of cold, detached gaze Natasha could only place in people with far more experience with adversity than she. “Your accent is slightly different than most… you’re not from Volyanov, are you? Or anywhere around here. Are you even from Moscow?”

She raised her chin in defiance and sneered at the princess, kicking her feet off the wall and bringing her legs into a more comfortable sitting position. “It is none of your business where I come from. You people take me no matter where I go.”

“You’ve been caught before?”

“Captured. Imprisoned. Say it how it really is.” The young woman corrected indignantly. “And no, not by your people. But by many others. You get witch label one time and–”

“Are you?” Natasha cut her off swiftly, slim fingers brushing lightly against the prisoner’s bars. “A witch, I mean. You practice witchcraft?”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but the hesitation was quick and fleeting. “Why does it matter what I practice? I will be locked up in stupid cell regardless. You will get no information out of me.”

“Oh?” The princess smirked at the clear defiance in the girl’s tone. “Not even your name?”

“What do you need name of your prisoner for? To further debase me? I would not be surprised if you call me what you like. Those guards certainly did.”

Natasha could only imagine the defiling words Baron von Strucker had hurled at the young girl once he’d caught wind of her supposed practice. She would deal with him and his disrespectful attitude later. “You are not my prisoner, no matter how…tempting the idea.” Natasha assured silkily, eyes roaming her sharp features. “You are the queen’s prisoner. All I wish to know of you is your name.”

She also wished to know how her eyes looked in the sun and how her lips might taste and how she’d look squirming below her with her hands pinned above her head, but that was none of the foreigner’s business.

“I told you, you will not get it.”

“What if I tell you my name in return?”

The girl scoffed, and even in the dark, Natasha could practically see her rolling her eyes. Her attitude was something fierce. Alluring. Tantalizing even. Natasha had met plenty a prisoner in her life and most, if not all, had been the opposite of snarky. The thrill of finally meeting someone less than willing to bow to her every command weighed heavily sweet on her tongue.

“You are Princess of Moscow. Everyone knows your name.”

“Yes, but…something tells me you don’t, маленькая мышь.” The princess droned, raising a sculpted brow.

“Stop calling me that.”

“It is like you said. I’ll call you what I want until you give me your name.”

The dark haired woman only glared, an unyielding glint in her eye as she rested her head against the wall. She let out a huff, making a strand of her long hair sway in front of her eyes. Her hair looked soft in the low lighting. Natasha had the startling urge to grab a fistful of hair and tug.

However, there must have been something of a glint in Natasha’s eye as the prisoner began shifting ever so slightly beneath her gaze, likely growing uncomfortable. Natasha flicked a bit of copper red hair over her shoulder and stepped just inches from the cell bars, glowering over her with a slight, knowing smirk.

“The people of Moscow know me as Princess Natalia. However, I think I’d rather you call me by my first name. I’m Natasha. Now, are you gonna tell me your name or will I have to find someone to pry it from those pretty lips of yours?”

The brunette huffed, a wrinkle forming between her brows as she evaded Natasha’s gaze. She muttered something inaudible, glaring a hole into the space between her heeled boots. The princess held back a snicker.

“Go on. Speak up, little one.”

“My name is Wanda.” She growled petulantly, caving without much effort. “You will stop calling me little now, yes?”

The princess hummed in satisfaction, running her tongue over her bottom lip subconsciously. Wanda’s eyes followed the small movement curiously, shoulders tense as if she’d just told her worst enemy her biggest secret. Defensive. Hiding something.

“No. I don’t think I will.” She gave the brunette a thorough once over before meeting her eyes again. “It fits you well. моя маленькая мышка. My little mouse.”