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evilzoldyck · 4 years

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Fiancée II

part I

The floral scent hanging in the humid air had become particularly nauseating, the mixed flower petals that complemented the oils poured into the bathwater had all sank before you while the water itself had turned lukewarm.

Looking down at your fingers, you noticed that your fingertips had pruned horrendously. Normally you wouldn’t take much of your time disengaging with reality but recently, there was something in your mind you couldn’t quite comprehend. Just a few hours ago you were subjected to your mother-in-law’s favourite pastime which was holding a tea ceremony by the garden. Except it had a special twist, for every crucial detail that you missed, a melting hot iron would be pressed against the palm of your hands.

You didn’t miss the slight turn on the corner of her lips, her hidden smile behind the paper fan every time the torched metal would melt onto your skin, reminding you that will never be worthy enough to be accepted by her. And for every time your skin healed, your scars disappeared, your blood stopped seeping from your skin, she will be the one to make sure to replace them. Asserting her position and making sure you knew who the true matriarch of the family is.

Living with in-laws was a truly dreadful ordeal.

However when a butler with hard lines etched onto his face interrupted the unfortunate event, his sunken eyes that held the deepest sympathies only gazed at yours. He came forward with an ill-bearing news of your mother’s recent passing.

You knew this day would come, but you hadn’t anticipated it to come so soon. Though you had the resources to finance her health with the best doctor money can buy, you knew there was nothing you could offer death for an ailment so monstrous. The more times that you visited her in the hospital, the more and more different she looked.

You almost didn’t recognise her. She looked like a corpse, barely breathing through her tube encasing her mouth, her hair you used to comb religiously every night was mostly gone. You knew that she was barely alive.

The only times that you were allowed to visit her was once every full moon as the rest of your days were filled with torturous training all for the sake of building your strength. You were barely considered family to them and so your own Mother visiting you at the Zoldyck estate was unimaginable. Sometimes in the darkest hour of the night you could almost hear her hoarse whispers, blindly pleading repeatedly to the nurses for you, why her daughter was nowhere to be found.

She fought for your next visit, begging at death’s door to see you one last time but alas, death was cruelly fair and her time was rightfully due. And so the feeling when you completely missed her burial, when you were refused a visit to her grave to pay your respects, when you were forbidden to grieve for it was a sign of weakness. The feeling of such accumulated events…

What was it you were supposed to feel?

You knew your heart nor mind could never be so numb, you weren’t anything like the Zoldycks at all, so detached to even a sliver of morality and compassion. So then why didn’t the news of her death send you to your knees? Why couldn’t you feel anything? Could it be a temporary shock- perhaps that’s why your cheeks were dry.

Just when you were lost in your thoughts with a tight frown pursed upon your lips, your personal handmaiden politely intruded herself inside the bathroom, announcing the arrival of master Illumi from his recent mission abroad. You lifted your head from your trance as her soft voice ricocheted off the black marbled walls, a gentle reminder to you of exactly where you were before your mind took you someplace else.

Upon seeing her, she was diligently prepped with her arms open wide, holding your robe before you.

The strange family had rightfully encroached all rights that you previously held, your freedom, your dignity, pride, and even your last name; privacy was the least of your concern. Rising from the cold waters, you allowed her to tie the warm fabric around you. She was always so meticulous and gentle, as if the slightest movement of her gestures or the flicker of her gaze could potentially be taken as an affront.

There were ample times that you searched for at least some kind of warmth in this forlorn and dreary estate, some kind of companion to show a little humanity and compassion with. You should’ve known that pursuing friendship on this mountain was pointless. The myriad of maids and butlers that they have at their disposable offered no comfort to your despair as they were always sickeningly polite but never friendly, leaving a gaping hole in your chest to fend this loneliness for yourself.

At the threshold of the gargantuan door, Illumi stood impassively while one of the butlers of the estate came to lighten his load. He had come back rather early from his departure, the extensive tasks assigned to him was nothing he hadn’t done before and yet with so many undertakings he was obligated to finish he had forgone rest when it was deemed necessary, opting to continue on to the next job effective immediately. Perhaps it was his habit of having a tireless and dedicated focus during a mission or maybe it was just his overzealousness to see you again.

“Welcome back, master Illumi. I trust that you found our services to be adequate on your journey back.” Gotoh pleasantly bade a congenial welcome as he gracefully placed his right hand across his chest and bowed his head slightly before the eldest of Zoldyck’s son.

He simply hummed in reply not sparing another glance at the man for Illumi’s vacant stare was occupied, searching the premises based on his peripheral vision for any sign of you awaiting him without fail like you do every time he arrived back from his assignments. “And my wife?” he curtly inquired after seeing no sign of you.

Descending from the stairs, you face your personal demon with a pathetic palpitating heart. The robe that you adorned did little to cover the coldness of his gaze for the room froze every time he was near. Nevertheless a stretch of a satisfying smile formed across his lips as you made your way towards his arms.

Embracing him always felt like the first time, your shoulders tensed every time his elongated thin fingers squeezed your sides as he enveloped you in a mockingly sweet embrace. If it bothered him, Illumi never spoke of it. The locks of his midnight hair brushed against your face as you placed a quivering kiss upon his cheek, uttering a small greeting for him.

Just like clockwork he began to led you away from the foyer and into your shared quarters with his lithe hand burrowing itself into your waist.

Though it felt like years had passed once your fate was intertwined with his, you could never get used to his presence. This saccharine coated reality could never delude you to construe this as something more meaningful than a means of escape from your financial poverty and his obligation on fulfilling his filial piety. The carefully rehearsed charade always played out the same where in the end of the night you would find yourself in a familiar predicament.

Inside the cimmerian chamber dim flickering candle lights illuminated the tenebrous darkness around you. The satin beneath your naked skin easily shifted as Illumi handled you attentively from above. As he moved to discard of his clothes your eyes absentmindedly wandered to the same spot on the ceiling that you’ve gazed upon countless of times. However once you heard the gentle rustle of his garments join yours into the floor, your attempt to seperate your mind from your body ended in vain.

Illumi hovered above you leaving a scant space between your lips. You wished you knew why he searched for your eyes every time he began to kiss you, taking a pensive moment for you to finally look at him, to be the centre of your attention. You didn’t know why he bothered taking his time with you for every night you spent with him you had only demonstrated compliance and obedience. Prolonging such affair was only counterproductive.

You felt him dragging his nails softly into your skin as he brought his hands up slowly from your thighs to your neck, grasping the rhythmically beating point and finally placing a soft kiss.

Closing your eyes you unconsciously balled the sheets beneath you with your fists. The kiss was timid and placid on your lips as his hair fell and entangle with the pool of your own. Illumi finally released after a few languishing moments and began to trace wistful kisses along your neck.

You knew better as to why an apathetic assassin that left a trail of crimson behind him for equity would give you the time of day to leave obsequious pecks.

Illumi was a man of pure objectivity, each action he took had an ulterior motive behind it for no lift of his finger went by without it having some kind of incentive for him in the end. And so his adoring kisses and unctuous attention did little to move your amoral perception of him.

He only indulged in such idle debauchary for he believed it was what you enjoyed, hence allowing the intercourse to go smoothly and successfully with the benefit of your arousal. Illumi was especially persistent in his countless endeavours in carrying out his bloodline with you. The details surrounding the child were kept quite vague and undisclosed, the only emphasis now was centred around the health and condition of your mental and physical state.

Perhaps that’s why Illumi always handled you selflessly, as if he missed you terribly every time he went away for his delegated tasks. His efforts to please you easily began to grow more apparent, especially under an auspicious moon.

Suddenly his hand encapsulated your small shivering ones, making your breath hitch just slightly as he rose up to meet you once more. “You’re still shaking, what’s the matter?”

Were you? You hadn’t noticed the state of your body for your mind was running wild with endless thoughts. Sensing the tension in the air you quickly placated his growing trepidation with a weak smile. “Forgive me, tonight is just particularly cold today, perhaps I’ve left the window open again.” Avoiding his ruminating gaze Illumi released a ghost of a sigh before nodding, indicating that he took your word for it despite you knowing deep down that he did not.

“Shall we go by the fireplace?” He suggested innocuously.

You, however, couldn’t prevent the heat from rising up to your face as you couldn’t even begin to fathom engaging in such activity beside a roaring fire. Not only that but you would be rid of the protective barrier of your sheets and most of all, the wavering waves of red would cast a glow onto his face, forcing you to glance up upon him and seeing more of what you’re already comfortable with.

A prude is the word most women back in your town would describe you as, however you would staunchly argue to such claims when the eyes of death has its attention solely on you.

“No,” you gripped onto his hands. “Here is just fine.”

Illumi gathered you into his arms, pulling you upwards along with him as he pressed more kisses against your lips and slowly trailed them down to your chest. You hesitantly wrapped your hands around his shoulders, careful not to tip the centre of balance he had on you as you nearly straddled his lap.

“Very well,” he murmured before flipping you back on the bed and making you land onto your front swiftly. “Then I shall hold you instead.”

Encapsulating you wholly with your back pressed against his chest, he held onto your chest tightly against him with one arm as the other gripped your hips firmly, raising it up to meet his. His head burrowed itself into the crook of your neck to leave more discoloured marks, and just in time as you felt the stretch commence.

You were nowa Zoldyck, as you often reminded yourself, nothing could contain you not even pain, not even death, not even love.

Roughly a year had passed and the same moonlight shined through the darkness upon the mountain peak once again. The Zoldyck estate was in turmoil. Nurses ran frantically from across the halls carrying fresh pristine white towels only to have them drenched in blood in the next second.

You knew what you signed up for the moment you stood before theTesting Gate, it was just simply your time to fulfil your end of the bargain.

The journey of your pregnancy was a stark contrast to the treatment you had been subjected to in your time here. Instead of poison laced meals to the verge of hospitalisation and endless hours of enhancing your strength endurance, you were finally given some form of a break.

Those little mercies such as extra hours of sleep, the vitamins and protein back in your system and the permission to acquire rest when you needed it were like heaven to you.

Your health along with your baby’s progress was greatly monitored, not a day goes by that your daily intensive checkup went by carelessly.

Everyday you gazed down in front of the mirror and saw yourself grow progressively. The size of your belly began to expand with each passing time that came closer to the due date. Though despite the baby being attached to your very self you couldn’t feel a sense of attachment to it, the very kind your mother had for you.

And so when you first heard him cry from your extraneous labour, you were stricken by a sudden powerful force. Months of him stirring inside you and it took you this long to realise the being inside you was alive.

The obstetrician and the nurses all cheered and cooed at the successful delivery of your newborn baby, making excessive notes of how handsome he was. Their faces damped with their efforts to ensure the health of the mother and the baby was maintained paid off for the delivery was a success.

The burden finally left their shoulders as one should feel when it was a Zoldyck’s turn to employ and entrust an imperative job such as this.

Once the umbilical cord was cut, you were able look upon his face. Blood stained your hands and cheek as you held him close to your chest, his tiny hand already reaching out for your face, finally tempering his cries into charming babbling nonsense when he sensed that you were near. Everything about him reminded you of Illumi, his midnight hair that was twisted in tiny wisps, his complexion, his small but sharp features upon his face.

But those eyes, they were yours.

The warmth of such gaze possessed you to crumble down before your son for it wasn’t until his arrival that your humanity was finally restored. Emotions flooded your senses to the point that you thought you couldn’t feel anything else but harrowing pain and guilt. Your separation from your only family, society, your own mother’s death, the excruciating pain that was inflicted upon you- you’ve felt it all.

The mental fortitudes that you’ve built up over the accumulating years all came crashing down when you looked upon a face so innocent and pure. Something that was truly incapable of harnessing any bloodshed as per the family designed of his future.

And after all this time you were carrying him like a pig to slaughter. Partaking in this corrupt pseudo-experiment to create the cold and hard perfect monster, subservient to the wills and orders of the family.

Just like his father.

Suddenly, one of the nurses took him away from your embrace consequently making you panic at the thought of your son being alone without you. The feeling that compelled you to care for another was one that felt so familiar and yet so foreign, plucking an untouched chord in your heartstring that you’ve forgotten a long time ago.

All your life you were living for someone else; when you lost your mother you were at a loss for your purpose was amiss, living as an empty hollow shell of a human being. Now that the birth of your child had come, an epiphany struck you like a blinding flash of lightening.

He was your new profound purpose.

“Where are you taking him?” You gasped out, already reaching out towards the nurse who held him around a blanket. She briefly replied that she would be taking his measurements but her words of comfort fell on deaf ears for it did nothing to placate the fact that you were separated from your baby.

“No, no- please! Give him back to me!” Now you were crawling across the maroon soaked sheets, wincing at the fact that you were still bleeding but still keeping a staunch arm out in front of you.

Your frantic actions forced the nurses nearby to restrain you, holding you back onto the bed while urging advices to calm down. However their grip upon you nearly fell for you could see nothing but red in your eyes, there was no amount of force in this world that could withhold you from being without him. Your beseeches and tenacious struggle quickly came to a halt when you felt a sudden jolt of pain from your side.

Looking down with your tear stricken face you saw that you were haphazardly injected with a strange transparent liquid to sedate you. Usually you could easily persevere over simple liquid anaesthetics that could even wipe out an entire five adult men but this dose was a new thing entirely, you’ve never been exposed to such a heavy medication that edged on it being lethal before.

However you knew that the fate of your son would be compromised if you stayed, if you didn’t fought for him.

Consequently, the only necessary action you needed to take was to escape. Gathering your bearings from the Jenny that you’ve rightfully championed two summers ago, you’ve decided that the amount would guarantee him and you a stable future.

That is why after two moons have passed when you’ve conjured enough strength to gather yourself from your deep sleep, right before Illumi was scheduled to come back to witness the scion of the house of Zoldyck, that you would take off when the moon was at its peak.

There was no leaving it up to chance for there was no telling when you would see you son again. There was much conviction in your assumption that Illumi would haste his training program to become an elite assassin, just as the family intended from the start.

The Zoldycks were unrivalled in their system of securing their property. A fortress that the brave or the foolish dared to try to penetrate, though their attempts would always end up in vain; along with bruises and a few broken bones if they were smart enough to retreat soon. However, they weren’t quite as adept at keeping someone in than they were at keeping everyone out.

Glancing back the faint sight of the distant mountain on the horizon, you slowed your pace as you decided you’ve made satisfactory progress in distance. Looking around perilously and tuning your ears to the sound of even the faintest landing of the leaves in the autumn breeze, you relievedly deduced that you weren’t followed- well at least not yet.

Releasing small huffs from your over exertion of energy, you gazed down fondly at the sight of your son bundled up in a large cloth in which you tied tightly onto your back. You relievedly let out a soft smile when you found out he was still sleeping soundly, gripping onto some of your loose hairs unconsciously. Setting him down inside a hollow tree you figured you could take a few minutes to decipher where True North lied.

However, a sudden change in the atmosphere made your blood freeze. Staring out into the darkness, you fixed your sights in the direction of the energy with your fists clenched in anticipation.

You felt him before you even saw him. Your heart dropped when you sensed whose aura emitted belonged to.

Illumi came out of darkness with an air of calmness surrounding him. This sense of composure completely shifted yours, you knew he could easily overpower you for his nen abilities reigned supreme over yours, nonetheless you couldn’t allow a fight for freedom to go unchallenged, not when you were so close to the finish line.

His ambiguity costed you valuable time to quickly devise a plan. Should you fight or should you flee? There was no telling he would kill you and steal your son away if you opposed him and yet given his nature, Illumi was quite capable of putting up a façade to front his murderous intent.

When he came too close for comfort, you realised you could never outrun him with this distance, thus you had to strike before he could. Unsheathing a small dagger that you carried just in case you ran into some trouble, you cursed at yourself for carrying a short range weapon.

Nevertheless you missed his shoulder by just the width of a hair. Illumi’s speed, though something to be marvelled at, was the only aspect that you worried most about.

As if in slow motion you fell forwards and from the corner of your eyes, you saw him shift easily from your reach. Illumi began to extend his arm out to impede your efforts, however you caught sight of his advances and immediate retreated back.

He blinked in mild surprise before exhaling a jaded sigh. “Fighting me is futile, you know very well that you cannot defy me in battle.” He stated matter-of-factly. “This victory brings me no satisfaction.”

“Bring the child forth and end this foolishness now.”

“You monster,” you spat out the words like venom. “You’ll kill him.”

Lashing out in anger you attempted another strike but narrowly missed again. Gritting your teeth in frustration you were so blinded by hatred that you failed to notice his hand reaching from your blind spot to restrain your dagger.

Wrapping his long lithe fingers around your wrist Illumi gave a warning squeeze, enough to make a grown man fall to his knees. When you refused to yield, he gripped it into a blood cutting bind until you heard your bones shift and crack. You gasped out once your hold slackened as the dagger fell into the soft green grass below.

“No, I’ll make him stronger.” Illumi confidently promised. He just broke your wrist but oddly still, you couldn’t sense any intention of harm from him as you presumed.

Your body went rigid when he uttered your name softly, pulling your weight into him almost comfortingly. “We’re still a family,” he spoke so lowly you thought you heard a sense of betrayal and hurt from his words. “I know it’s hard, but we only have each other.”

This imitation of kindness pulled you back into reality before you could cry into his chest and take you back to the mountain. Jerking from his touch disgustedly you began to prepare to lunge at him despite your broken hand.

“You know very well that I will pursue you even to the ends of the earth.”

You lurch out in a punch at his direction but Illumi hastily blocked your attacks. Dodging your strikes he only ever defends, hardly even trying to challenge you. An approach that was more pacifist as opposed to practical.

“I’ll stop at nothing to bring you both home, there is nothing you can protect him from. The boy will watch many deaths before him. He will know the true meaning of threats and violence, they will fall under mine. He will never know peace.”

You almost cried when you heard him spoke of your son’s future in a manner that was so casually cruel. Forcing yourself to block his torturous lies and vitriolic taunts, you eyed for your weapon inconspicuously.

Catching a glint from the blade of the dagger in the tall grass, you reached out to briskly seize it. Before you could even get close, Illumi kicked it swiftly to the point where it was no longer visible to you. Looking up at him with a gaze gaunt with pain and humiliation as he said your name once more.

“Listen to reason.”

In a fit of rage you blindly fought him with your moves only consisting of attacks and albeit not very coordinated for you could barely even see your hands in front of you. You could sense that Illumi willingly took some of your punches as he winced a little when one of your attacks coincidentally targeted his weak points.

You hadn’t realised you were crying until he balanced you upright just as when you stumbled forwards due to your eyes stinging with blurry vision. Why had you expressed yourself at your weakest point in the midst of a fight? Were you really this weak? After such gruelling years of training did they amount to nothing when you couldn’t even compare to the man you willed yourself away to?

You already lost before you even began.

Locking a grip around his neck you managed to successfully pinned him to the ground floor. His eyes blankly looked up at your dishevelled state raw with pure emotions in contrast to his cool and composed self. It took you this long to register that he wasn’t fighting for your submission but for your sake.

Illumi easily reverted to being the dominant position when he was about to receive a lethal strike from you. Pining both of your hands to the ground as he restrained your legs with his knees.

Illumi studied your trembling form underneath him, appearing like a feral cat caught in a cage, ready to lash out from any sudden actions even one out of kindness.

“What can I do to get you to stay?” He persuaded exasperatedly, as if he was tired of you looking at him like he’s the enemy. Meanwhile, you glared at the ludicrous question.

“I want a normal life for him. I want him to see the world, I want him to go to school, to make friends.” Your throat tightened when you brought him up. Proposing your wishes in vain knowing truly he could never fulfil what you desired. “You’ll have to kill me first before you could ever get to him.”

“An unnecessary sacrifice.” He quickly corrected, as if such a thought had never crossed his mind.”How could I endanger the one I love most?”

Your face twisted in detest at his hypocrisy. “What do you know about love?”

Illumi merely blinked at your question, in which the answer was one that he thought was already apparent

“I love you.”

And yet a thousand needles could never the change the way you feel for him. You only saw darkness within Illumi, death was the only thing drilled into his mind for his purpose was designed only for murder.

But then why couldn’t you see any deception in his eyes? Why did he possess such sincerity when he declared his feelings for you. In the midst of constant exposure to inhumanity was it truly possible for hope and love to endure for Illumi?

At the cold realm on top of the mountain you have gazed at numerous celestial wonders of the universe, but none could compare to what you saw in his gaze. You recognised the fragments of humanity inside him and it was far more powerful than anything that you had ever witnessed before.

To have seen compassion for another being in a state of infinite chaos, Illumi was truly a wonder.

“We can have that, you know,” Illumi gently said. “A house for our own far away from here, school, friends, whatever you want.”

“But... not for him?” Your breath stopped when he nodded slowly, sympathising your disappointment at your speculation.

“His siblings may lead the normal life you intended for them, but it’s critical that the eldest Zoldyck carry on the family’s name and status.”

Like an echo through history, you really can’t stop the Zoldycks’ legacy. Nevertheless, the question still rang in your head alarmingly.

Could you do it?

Doom your firstborn to save the others?

After what you’ve been through was it the only logical choice?

“You can’t hurt him.”

Alas, the only natural rational course of action was to naturally comply. Illumi graced a genuine smile as he closed the distance between you and sealed the deal with a chaste kiss.

“Never.”

#pls dont ask me for a cont. 😭#illumi x reader #yandere illumi x reader #illumi zoldyck #yandere x reader #reader insert #yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #tw:violence #tw:yandere #tw:dubcon #tw:torture #childbirth

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carminite-wyrm · 3 years

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Hero-of-Kvatch!Nyx AU, Part 2!

aka, Nyx continues to not have a great time in the tunnels beneath the Imperial Prison.

Again, story under the cut.

Part 1

The most ridiculous part of this whole matter, Nyx decided, was not the not-daemons (the creatures had certainly looked the part, but they hadn’t disappeared into a cloud of miasma after he’d killed them) he had encountered in the tunnels as he made his way out of the prison. It was the fact that no one had commented on both his injuries, or his tattered uniform that was very much not fitting the ‘high fantasy novel’ aesthetic he was also wrapping his head around.

Even as the brisk pace that the elderly man – who was apparently Uriel Septim VII, the Emperor of the nation Nyx now found himself in – and his entourage set through the tunnels did wonders for working out the lingering stiffness in his body, (as did the vaguely nightmarish path earlier full of the largest rats Nyx had ever seen), Nyx found his mind starting to spiral off into multiple tangents, trying to process the wealth of information he had already managed to gather.

He had died, that was almost an undeniable fact. And then he had awoken in what he was now absolutely certain was a different universe, to find himself in a cell that he was shortly released from by the Emperor of the land of Tamriel, who was fleeing cultist-assassins who had most likely already claimed the lives of his heirs. On top of all of that, the Emperor (and Nyx, apparently), were mixed up in some sort of shared fate or prophecy, that likely had to do with the gods of this realm if Nyx was understanding things correctly.

Nyx was fervently doing his best to try and ignore how the situation was rather similar to what he had just lived in his own world. It had been almost too easy for him to slip back into the role of a bodyguard and defender of a King, to the point that one of the guards, Baurus, had given him several suspicious looks when he had found their group once again, and introduced himself as Nyx.

He silently cursed the lack of his kukris, the weight of the short sword he had found in the tunnels slightly awkward in his hand, as he fended off one of the strange assassins that were chasing their group, the blade nevertheless good enough to sink through a chink in his opponent’s armour. Even the slightest drop of magic to blast some of them away faster would have been useful, but he was fairly certain that the magic he once had was now gone. Dead and gone, vanished when Regis’ body had-

He grit his teeth, shoving that thought away along with the dead body that slid off his blade.

Even if this Emperor Uriel was supposedly meant to die at some point in the coming future, Nyx would do his best to help him avoid that ‘fate’. Quite frankly, he’d had enough of talks of fate and destiny, and the fact that the Emperor looked about as resigned to his fate as Regis had been-

The group halted as they found the way to the sewers to be barred, and Nyx suddenly had a sinking feeling. He readied his sword, just in time for one of the guards– Blades, the Emperor had called them –to call out that it was a trap. He followed them as they tried a side passage, only to find that it was a dead end.

“Wait here with the Emperor,” One of the Blades ordered, as the sound of assassins entering the previous chamber grew louder. “Guard him with your life!”

And before Nyx could even muster up a shred of disagreement, that perhaps leaving their Emperor with a man who they had previously thought to be a criminal, and also visibly injured even if he wasn’t actively bleeding or burning to death was a terrible idea, the two Blades had rushed off to engage the assassins.

“Well, at least this room is somewhat defensible,” Nyx sighed, readying his sword as he briefly gave the room a once-over to see if there was something he could use to barricade the entrance. Finding nothing, he instead took up a post by the doorway, readying his sword. Once confident that he’d be able to see any danger that would appear, he turned his attention back to the Emperor, only to find an amulet with a bright red gem being held out to him.

“…Isn’t that yours?” Nyx asked, a sinking feeling starting to settle into his stomach. This was starting to look very, very, familiar. “Why-“

The Emperor’s eyes were startlingly clear, and kind, as he explained that this would be where he was to die, and that he wished for Nyx to not only take his amulet, but find his last son, a secret son that only another man named Jauffre knew the location of.

“This amulet…it isn’t just some family heirloom, is it?”

The Emperor shook his head. “It is the Amulet of Kings, and must pass to the last of the Dragon’s Blood.”

“…Don’t tell me this contains some sort of great power that only someone blood-related to you can wield, a power that was granted to you by a dragon god. And that it will help to end a world-ending calamity.”

“That…is exactly it.” The Emperor gave him a curious look. “That is not common knowledge.”

“I…I’m not quite sure how to explain it.” Nyx admitted. “It’s…a long story.”

“Take the Amulet, and then in the little time we have left, I would hear what you can tell of your story. Your fate lies past the moment of my death, I do not worry that you will fall with the Amulet.”

Nyx glanced around the room, finding it still clear of danger for the time being, even if the sounds of fighting had moved ever so slightly closer to them. He slowly took the Amulet, tucking it away in one of the pockets in his uniform.

“So…Would you believe me if I said that I’m not from this world? Or universe, probably.” Nyx began. “And that I had died, then woken up in that cell, and then a few minutes later you and your guards showed up.”

The Emperor’s eyebrows creased in thought, before he nodded slowly. “The ways of the Divines are mysterious indeed. But you are here, as I have foreseen. Your origins, or your past deeds, do not concern me.”

“I’ve already lived through this!” Nyx blurted out, before he realised that probably wouldn’t make sense without some level of explanation. “I mean, the events leading up to my death, are startlingly similar to what’s happening right now!”

He agitatedly twisted one of his braids in his free hand, decidedly not looking in the direction of the Emperor.

“You are afraid.” Nyx snapped around to stare at the other man.

“I-“

“Even though we have only just met, and yet you still care enough to fear the consequences my death will bring.”

“I just. Don’t want to fail to protect another person. I don’t want your guards, your Blades, to also fail to protect someone they swore to keep safe.” Nyx muttered.

“Oh.” The Emperor sighed, and briefly closed his eyes. There was a sudden presence in the room, ever so slight and yet Nyx could sense it, almost vibrating through the vein-like scars on his arm, the feeling similar to the rush of power that he had felt when confronting the old Kings of Lucis when he had put on the Ring.

The Emperor opened his eyes once again as the moment passed, and looked straight at Nyx, his gaze this time almost as piercing as Regis’ had been when he had spoken up for Nyx in front of the old Kings.

“Your kindness, and dedication, is a gift in these dark times. I am honoured to have met you, Nyx Ulric, and to have been granted the knowledge of the weight you bore before you were brought here. I regret the fate that has been passed onto you, so soon after your sacrifice in your old world, but, I have faith that you will not only face it, but also surpass the expectations laid upon you by the Gods. After all, this new life you have gained will not be without its blessings.”

“Wait, what do you mean-“

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a now-familiar flare of red magic, and broke off as he spun around to meet the assassin, the enemy’s mace rattling against the blade he just managed to bring up in time. The two traded blows furiously, moving across the room as Nyx attempted to use his free arm to gesture or herd the Emperor back away from danger.

Nyx hissed in pain as the mace briefly slid past his guard, the sharp edges of the weapon slicing sharp lines through the side of his uniform. The enchantments that had once been imbued into the fabric clearly had not survived his appearance in this world, though that was not surprising, given how they had hinged on Lucis Caelum magic anyways. He stumbled back a few steps from the impact, and ducked as the mace came down at his head once again. This assassin was clearly a cut above the others they had encountered earlier, Nyx thought, briefly eyeing the cracked stone where the mace had hit.

The assassin cackled, and moved to attack again, when Nyx heard the sound of stone grinding against stone. He looked around for the source of the noise, and spotted, in that half-second, a figure in red robes, wearing an even-more ornate set of black armour, a wickedly-long dagger in his hand. And that figure was stepping out of a passage that had just opened up, right next to where the Emperor was standing.

Instinctively, he flung his sword at the assassin, bracing himself for the pulling sensation of a warp. And then he remembered.

He no longer had the ability to warp.

“Shit!” He yelled, now scrambling under the first assassin as he tried to reach the new assassin in time, trying to reach the Emperor before– and why was he just standing there?! – the new assassin struck.

His fingers had just skimmed the edges of the hilt of his sword, other hand outstretched to try and push the Emperor or the assassin out of the way, when he saw the knife sink into the Emperor’s heart.

He watched as the Emperor toppled to the ground, the assassin’s knife dripping blood onto the stones. He heard, more than saw, as one of the guards appeared in the doorway and gave an anguished cry.

And then the assassins were attacking them again, and he had no time to further process the situation as he and the guard – Baurus – ended up fighting back-to-back, a grieving desperation in Baurus’ attacks as together, they managed to kill those last two assassins.

There was silence, finally, as the last assassin slowly bled out on the ground, and Nyx watched with blurry eyes as Baurus fell to his knees next to the corpse of his Emperor.

#ffxv #tes oblivion #nyx ulric #uriel septim #hok!nyx au #ficlet #carminite writes #can we get an f in the chat for baurus #and yes this will be a fixit its just that there is angst first

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emy-loves-you · 4 years

Text

The Prince, The Knight, and The Assassin Chapter One

The Assignment

Inspired by the amazing @kawaiikat54

Here’s the summary I wrote for AO3 bc I’m very proud of it:

Janus has never had a good life, raised to be a perfect assassin for the Dark Kingdom. Even though he hates his life, he follows all of his orders and does what he can to protect his little family. But what happens when he's given an order he can't follow through?

Patton is the Prince of the Light Kingdom. His family sees him as just a pretty face, a bargaining chip for peace between the two Kingdoms. He's given up everything for his Kingdom, even his chance of being happy with the love of his life by being forced into an arranged marriage with the High Queen of the Dark Kingdom. But what happens when he's kidnapped by someone who's lived through more horrors than Patton could ever imagine?

Roman is the personal knight and lover of Prince Patton. At least, he WAS Patton's lover, until they broke up so Patton could marry the High Queen. He hates having to pretend that he no longer feels anything for the Prince. But what happens when Patton disappears in the middle of the night?

What happens when the stars align just right? When a tortured soul refuses to kill? When family and duty are abandoned over love? When pain and anger override all thought? When three men, destined to be apart, fall in love?

Masterlist | Chapter Two

Warnings: Child assassins, child abandonment, I’m pretty sure this counts as child slavery, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, these characters will suffer

Two steps to the left.

Clash!

Feign a jab. Step to the right.

Clang!

Opponent is leaning heavily on his right foot. Most likely hurt his left. Jab near his right, make him lean back on his left. Swipe your leg out from under him-

“Oof!” The small figure fell to the floor, going to roll out of the way only to be stopped by the tip of a sword against his neck.

Janus glanced out of the corner of his eye to see the instructors leaving and relaxed minutely, stepping back. Evaluation over. Must have passed if we're not punished already. He put his sword away and held out his hand for his smaller opponent to grab. "Acknowledging your weaknesses will get you killed. Even if your foot has been crushed to a pulp, you need to put just as much weight on it as you would your right. Ignoring your pain, if only for the few moments of your fight, could be the difference between killing and dying."

His pupil nodded, grabbing the offered hand and pulling himself up. He dusted the dirt off his clothes and followed Janus back to their room, doing much better to hide his injured foot than when they were sparring. The room was small, more comparable to a closet than a bedroom in terms of size. But because of Janus' status, the room only houses three instead of the standard seven, so they wouldn't complain.

His pupil, Virgil, stepped into the room and immediately sat down on his cot, cradling his injured foot. Janus sighed and pried open the moldy floorboards, grabbing the small medkit hidden he’d stolen months ago. Virgil saw the medkit and shook his head "m fine."

Janus frowned, kneeling in front of him. "You obviously aren't, now let me take a look at it." He lightly grabbed Virgil by the calf and carefully removed his sock and shoe. He took note of Virgil's wince as he examined his limb. His foot appeared to be in perfect health, but his ankle was swollen slightly.

Virgil huffed softly, turning away. "See? I'm fine. No use in wasting supplies." He yelped when Janus poked his ankle, trying to jerk back but his leg stuck in Janus' firm grip.

Janus rolled his eyes. "Just let me wrap you up and give you a painkiller, Vee." He grabbed the roll of bandages, not waiting for Virgil’s response as he wrapped his ankle. Virgil huffed and grumbled under his breath.

Knock knock-knock knock

Janus tensed up before he recognized the knock pattern, relaxing. “Come in.” He didn’t bother turning back to look as he meticulously wrapped Virgil’s ankle. He heard the door open and closed followed by a sigh.

“I knew you twisted your ankle yesterday.” The person behind him drawled. “If you had let me tend to it yesterday-”

“Yeah, I know.” Virgil flushed and looked away. “But it felt fine yesterday, and if the supervisors had seen the bandages-”

“It would’ve been a risk we were willing to take.” He finished wrapping his foot and sat up, making deliberate eye contact with Virgil as he spoke. “We would’ve hidden them under your clothes, and if they still somehow saw it I would’ve taken the blame, not you. I’m the only one here with potential access to medical supplies.” Janus was the only one who went on unsupervised missions, the others too young so they were heavily supervised.

Virgil frowned, his gaze flickering to the left half Janus’ face as he remained silent. Janus ignored it, used to people staring at the scar. It started at the inner corner of his eye and trailed just under his cheekbone, ending at his jaw just under his ear. He’d gotten it when he was 8, a warning for hesitating in the middle of a mission. The only reason he wasn’t killed on the spot was that he was a prodigy at what he did.

Janus put the bandages away and searched for some pain medication. “Did your evaluation go well, Lo?”

Logan, or ‘Lo’ as Janus had so eloquently put it, sighed. “They changed the assignment as soon as I arrived in an attempt to throw me off guard. I still managed to pass, if barely.” He knelt down next to Janus, and Janus resisted the urge to frown. They’re being a lot more strict on evaluations now. Have they forgotten that they’re doing this to children? Or maybe they want them to fail so they can be broken down more. Janus mentally shook away the thought as he handed Virgil a pill, trying not to seem too obvious.

Virgil noticed though. He always noticed the little things. “That’s the last pill. We should save it for when we need it.”

Janus shook his head. “I’ll go smuggle some more on my next mission.”

Virgil scooted back, looking away. “I told you I’m fine-”

Logan crawled over to Virgil’s side, grabbing his hand and squeezing. “Just please take the pill, Virgil.” Janus watched as Logan and Virgil stared at each other, their mini battle-of-wills adorable to watch when you ignored the context. Virgil eventually sighed, taking the pill and swallowing without water as Logan rubbed his hand soothingly. Janus watched out of the corner of his eye as he put the medical supplies away, smiling softly at their interaction. It was moments like these that reminded Janus why he kept himself alive, why he kept listening to the High Queen’s demands.

No one in the Dark Kingdom could remember a time before the High Queen’s rule. She ruled the land with an iron fist, though most of the citizens were left unaware of the true horrors that lied behind the castle walls.

Janus was one of those horrors. Raised by birth to do the one thing that he was good at anymore: killing. Janus was an assassin for the High Queen.

“Jan?” Janus looked down at Virgil, snapping himself out of thought. “Are we busy today?”

Janus sighed. “I have to go receive my new mission from her highness at sunset, but you have nothing to do until training tomorrow.”

Virgil nodded and snuggled into Logan’s side, making grabby hands towards Janus. Janus smiled, rolling his eyes fondly as he crawled onto the tiny cot. His two pupils adjusted themselves accordingly, one on each side as they used his shoulders as pillows, their hands linked together over his chest. Janus watched over them as their breathing slowed, their grips on each other and Janus refusing to go slack as they drifted into slumber.

Janus frowned, starting up at the ceiling above him. They didn’t deserve to suffer through this type of life. Hell, if it wasn’t for the High Queen’s order for the older assassins to train the younger ones as mentors, Janus was sure that they wouldn’t have lasted. They were good at what they did, but not good enough for her majesty.

Virgil whimpered softly and Janus was quick to shush him, petting his hair and wiping away his fresh tears. The kid had nightmares almost every night, and Janus learned that it was best for him to just sleep through them. If he woke up there was a chance he would still remember what he dreamed about in the morning, and Janus refused to put him through that.

Janus sighed, his mind going back to the documents he had found and read years ago. It had included information on all of the children operatives in this program. Janus had only read the information on himself and his two pupils, not having much time and deeming the rest irrelevant. Before then, they didn’t even have their real names to go by, just the codenames that the higher-ups gave them.

Virgil, codenamed Widow. Ten years old, will turn eleven near the winter solstice. Was neglected in an orphanage and later ‘donated’ to the Kingdom’s cause at almost four years old. An odd case, especially since operatives were usually initiated at 1-2 years old. Specializes in stealth and poisoning, and can blend in with almost any crowd. Can climb and run quickly, but quite weak in terms of hand-to-hand combat.

Logan, codenamed Sparrow. Turned nine near the spring equinox. Was sold to the castle at 14 months old. A natural prodigy, second only to Deceit, but tends to lose any form of stealth without Widow or Deceit by his side. Prefers to use a throwing knife and call it a day over making it look like a natural death. Is usually partnered with Widow to keep him in check.

Janus, codenamed Deceit. Turned nineteen near the summer solstice. Son of a noble who ‘donated’ him to the cause the moment he was born. First child to be entered into the program, and the oldest one in it. Raised to be the perfect killer. Completes every mission perfectly, other than the instance where he got his scar. The High Queen’s ‘favorite.’ Assigned as Logan’s mentor when he was 11, and Virgil’s a little over a year later. Can kill someone with almost anything, but specializes in swords.

Janus sighed, carding his hands through his pupils’ hair. He saw them as something akin to younger brothers, someone that he needed to watch over and take care of. But that was quickly changing. They were already so big, and Janus was dreading the day that the higher-ups would notice and kill the youthful light in their eyes. They still laughed and smiled, even if it was just in the comfort of their little room. They still cared about eachother and trusted the other to catch them when they fell. They didn’t have the same cynical view on the world that Janus did.

But that wouldn’t last forever. Janus knew they could take care of themselves now, but Janus still dreaded the day they would be forced to do so. The day that Janus was given too big of a task and didn’t come home. The inevitable day that the higher-ups noticed how close they were and started using them against each other.

Janus shook his head. It wouldn’t do good to dwell on such thoughts. He needed to live in the moment while he still had a happy moment to live in.

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When the sun just started to set along the horizon, Janus carefully pulled himself out from under his pseudo-brothers. They immediately latched onto each other, and Janus smiled softly before schooling his features. He quickly stepped out of the room, ignoring the chilly hallway as he walked through the castle, past the dozens of rooms filled to the brim with child soldiers.

He reached the throne room just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, not bothering to glance around the room as he walked down the familiar path towards the High Queen’s throne. He knelt down at the base of the throne, his gaze down towards the expensive silver-lined shoes in front of him. “Your majesty.”

A hand carded through his hair and he stopped himself from flinching or tensing up, already expecting it to happen. “Deccceit… my preccciousss sssnake…” The hand tugged, not quite harsh but definitely not gentle, and Janus looked up at the High Queen. She reminded Janus of a dragon, her old, wrinkly skin reminding him of dragon scales. She tended to speak softly in low hisses, but Janus was used to straining to hear what she said. “I have a tassssk for you.”

He kept his expression neutral, not showing any emotion as he droned out his response. “Anything for you, my Queen.” He bit back a shudder as she kept carding her fingers through his hair. She had once claimed to see Janus as a son to her, but Janus would never see her as a mother. She was cruel and manipulative, and only saw people as pieces to her own master plan.

“The Light Kingdom hasss deccccided to negotiate peacccce with ussss.” Janus inwardly relaxed, already knowing what she would say. This wasn’t the first time they had tried to negotiate peace, and this wasn’t the first time she had sent Janus out to deal with it. The High Queen didn’t wish for peace, or even to win her battle against the Light Kingdom. No, she craved the violence and war between the two kingdoms, the constant pain and suffering that everyone around her was forced to endure at her expense. So, she would order him to kill the light side’s politicians before they reached the meeting point, make it look like they all disappeared out of thin air-

“They offered the Princccce’sssss hand in exchange for peacccccce.” Janus barely held back his shock. Prince Patton was eighteen, and the only heir to the throne. Either the King and Queen wanted to fully merge the kingdoms (which was highly unlikely) or they weren’t wanting the Prince to rule. But that also left a much more concerning matter at hand. The Queen didn’t want to establish peace, which meant Janus’ task-

“Your tassssk isss to kill the Princcccce.” The hand kept carding through his hair, her voice calm and light, as if she was discussing the weather and not murder. “You’ll leave tonight. I’ll have sssssomeone bring you to the border. The wedding isssss ssssscheduled to occur in two and a half weekssss. I expect to hear about hissssss death long before then.”

He nodded, ice flooding his veins. He had only killed corrupt politicians and men with no morals. He’d never killed someone so young, and the thought made his stomach churn. But he had no choice. “It will be done, my Queen.”

She laughed a cruel wicked laugh and dismissed him to grab his weapons. He left, feeling numb as he traveled through the halls, the task finally sinking in. He had to infiltrate the Light Kingdom’s castle and assassinate the crown prince. An impossible task for most, and highly improbable for Janus. If he was caught or failed his task, he would be killed or worse. And he would never see Logan or Virgil again.

Janus swept into the room, knowing that he didn’t have much time before he had to leave. He packed his weapons and gently shook his charges awake, his dread momentarily paused by their sleepy expressions. “I’m assigned to leave tonight. If everything goes according to plan I’ll be back in less than three weeks.”

The children said nothing as they wrapped themselves around Janus, holding him tight. The fact that he said ‘if everything goes according to plan’ meant that he wasn’t confident about this mission, and they immediately held on for dear life.

He smiled sadly, rubbing their backs soothingly. “I need to leave now. Go back to sleep, you have training in the morning.” He didn’t promise to come back. These were the only two people that Janus swore never to lie to, and he wasn’t going to do it now just to give them a moment of false hope. They soon fell back asleep on the cot, holding each other tighter than before, and Janus slipped out the door and into the night.

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Taglist: @bisexualdisaster106 @self-taught-mess @arodynamic-enby @sanderssides-angst @kawaiikat54 @artsy-enby09 @irritating-lady-knight @girl-who-reads @larrymalecsolangelo

#sanders sides fic #royaliceit #angst #analogical #janus sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #dragon witch

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gaylien51 · 4 years

Text

So this is the first chapter of my story. I’m a beginner writer so if you have any advice feel free to share.

Baron Draxum watched all his precious work go down in flames. The heat overwhelmingly and the fire still roaring. CRASH! Another part of the roof collapsed bringing even more damage. He cursed his now forever enemy Hamato Yoshi. As he begun to walk away from the ruins of his previous lab he thinks of how his lab was destroyed.A prisoner of big mama that he had his loyal gargoyles bring to him for his highly anticipated experiment of creating the perfect soldiers to rain hell upon the vile humans that lived above. The experiment consisted of 4 turtles, a red eared slider turtle, a snapping turtle, a soft shell turtle, and a box turtle. He looked down in his hands to see a small box turtle, the last of his experiments. “ You shall become the perfect soldier, the perfect success, you will be the downfall of humans, the rein of pure terror as everyone kneels down to our almighty power!” Achoo! He looked down at the box turtle in disgust. Ugh germs- and from a mutant turtle no less. He felt pressure on his fingers as he looked down to see the experiment nuzzle into his hands happily cooing and smiling at him. “There is much much much work to be done little one” he expressed with tiredness in his voice.

“ Uhhhh sir, no offense but your mortal enemy who you called us to capture because of his awesome fighting skills, ninjutsu and all that, has destroyed your lab place, burned it down to the ground, escaped with the 3 other turtles, and is most likely mutated into a rat and will raise the 3 other turtles if they survived, and will most likely prep himself over the years to come and fight you, has completely and utterly destroyed your work, soooooooooo where we living?”. Baron looked at the gargoyle on his shoulder (which he solemnly forgot about) and wore a frustrated and pinched expression as he explained the obvious. The other gargoyle on his shoulder also looked at him waiting for an answer to their question. Frustrated, tired,angry, and annoyed Baron Draxum argued in his head if he should kill them for their very annoying existence. “ We will rebuild our laboratory starting from the ground up and prepare experiment 42005 for his long and successful journey of destroying the humans!” He answered with determination. “ As for now we will visit the yokai city and remain there for the time being” he added. Both gargoyle looked at him and shrugged satisfied with the answers. “ hey as long as me and Muninn have a place to stay we’re a-okay with your plan boss man!” replied the gargoyle on his left shoulder. “ what huginn said!” Munnin, the gargoyle on his right shoulder said.

So Baron Draxum, Munnin, Huginn, and the experiment 42005 began their trek to yokai city and onwards to their journey of the destruction of the humans.

CRASH! Baron hurried out of bed and into his kitchen to see his experiment trying to cook breakfast for himself. Tiredness dripped in his voice as he asked “ Little one when I said you must learn survival skills such as cooking, I did not mean to make a mess of the kitchen” his racing heart calmed seeing his son on the counter unharmed but dirty with flour all over his clothes. Which was also on the counters and tables- and how did pancake mix get on the ceiling? All over the kitchen causing quite a mess.

“ I’m sorry da- I mean sir, I was trying to create a acceptable meal for us today but it didn’t go over quite well” replied his son with disappointment and frustration. “ Just make sure to clean this up and meet me in the lab for your training... we will eat cereal so you may have your breakfast”. Internally experiment 42005 groaned at just the thought of eating bland boring old nutritional rations that his dad called cereal. As his dad continued to walk away from him he quickly and expertly cleaned up his mess frustrated at his failed attempt at cooking. Usually he was quite good at this and created the best meals with whatever was stocked in the pantry but his mind was distracted with thoughts of what he’ll do today and this resulted in the mess before him. But he decided to not think too hard about it and stored those thoughts away and quickly finished up. He ran to the lab through the dark and creepy decaying hallways all colored the same dull gray and rusted. He then saw his dad and the left out “cereal” for him and proceeded to make his way to the table with the laid out food and sit and eat it hurriedly. His father in the background working on many technologies to improve their home and for his patrols.

“42005 today is your 13th birthday” his father said suddenly. 42005 stood up from his chair standing tall and proud as he’s always done since he can remember. “As you know I have been preparing you since birth to destroy the vile humans that live up above, the disgusting creatures who forced us down here into yokai city, making us soft, and stealing the surface from us, and- yadda yadda yadda I know dad you’ve been saying this since my birth!” Interrupted his son. Looking at him with a disgruntled expression he stared into his sons eyes as his son stared back. “Ha you blinked! I win” his son said with smug. “ENOUGH!, experiment 42005 you will listen to me! You know I hate interruptions!”. His son cowered a bit internally but did not show it out of fear for punishment. “ Yes sir, I apologize “ he said solemnly. Satisfied with his answer he continued on his rant about vile human as his son mentally bored with the same discussion hes heard again and again and waited for him to finish. “And that is why human are disgusting and you will go on to destroy the- Are you listening to me?!l he yelled. Startling his son out of his short nap. He sighed with dissatisfaction and drag his hand over his face. “ Proceed to training with Munnin and Huginn and the foot bots, later today we shall proceed with your far more intense training and then patrol will happen is that understood?”. 42005 flinched very subtly at the mention of the clan but replied yes and proceeded to go train. The training room was a stimulation his father made that can produce whatever needed. 42005 chose footbots this time as some early practice while waiting for Munnin and Huginn. He tried desperately to bury himself in his training tearing foot bot after foot boy apart with his mystic kusari fundo the fire ball shrieking wildly as their enemies were torn apart. He had started to train with the foot clan when he was 4 and learned quickly how cruel they were. Every mistake he made he was punished for severely. His scars aches just thinking of it. Burning, drowning, poisoned , whipped, and many other methods of torture he had to induce upon people or else he would be punished instead. They told him this was the way of the clan and that it was effective for enemies.They silenced him quickly with threats to not tell his father unless he wanted even more punishments. At age 4 42005 learned what the word discipline truly meant and when to enforce silence. He grew to be one of the most notorious assassins out there a product of the foot clan and his father. He was a cold blooded thirsty terrifying killers known as the fire akuma, the devil, the bringer of death, and many other names. All at the cost of his innocence. At age 8 his father found out about the horrible punishments after hearing the excuse one too many times he was hurt from patrol and training. His father accepted it too busy with projects and destroying humans to pay attention to him. Once he learned of the horrors being done to his creation he rained hell upon the foot and promised 42005 that no one shall ever harm him again. He started paying more attention to his experiment from then on making sure nothing tainted his creation. As time went they grew closer and acted more as father and son although Baron would never admit it as he was too prideful. Baron always felt guilty for his trauma and did his best to help him with it. Although he still had plenty nightmares from the screams he heard and bones being crushed and throats be big split- he was getting far too much in his thoughts. Baron never did explain why he allied with the foot - he never explained many things but 42005 learned to not question it. His father was still very guarded hence why he was never named an actual name instead of numbers.

SWOOSH! Oh right he was training! 42005 lassoed the foot bot who threw kunai at him and threw him at the wall effectively making him short circuit with his neck being twisted at an awkward angle. He proceeded to the next foot bit and threw his fiery friend into the foot not making an effective burning hole. As he continued on with his training his father watched him through the screen at his work station satisfied and proud of his son with what he was seeing. A few hours later 42005 had created and effective pile of destroyed bots and was panting heavily. Baron called for his son over the intercom that connected to the speaker within the stimulation room. Once 42005 came he stood in front of his father waiting for instructions as his patrol would begin soon.

“42005, you have done remarkably well since I have raised you and have succeeded my expectations, you will be sure to wipe out the human race and bring hope for us Yokai and mutants alike to rule the surface, and I am... p-“. Baron coughed on trying to swallow his ego and pride. “ what was that pop?! We’re you going to say-YES LETME FINISH, I just need a second”. 42005 looked smudged and excited staring at Baron who somehow managed to swallow his ego and proceeded with his original saying. “ Yes 42005 I am p-proud of you and I know for certain I can call you my s-son. For your birthday I gift you this and give you your name... Michelangelo” baron heaved a sigh of relief as Mickey squealed and jumped all over. His father had promised him when he was 8 that when he exceeded his expectations of him he would finally give him a name and 42005 or we’ll Mickey hadn’t let him forget since. It was a true sign of parental love and trust. Baron had struggled to do this for so long because he didn’t want to get attached to an experiment that could still fail and he might need to replace even if he started from scratch again. In truth he chose the name Mickey because he read about a renaissance artist once who was named Michelangelo and was highly successful. As Mickey grew up he promised great strength and ambition as well as intelligence but not in the way you think.

You see Mickey has ADHD which caused him to have trouble paying attention during lessons his father was teaching more focused on what to draw and having multiple thoughts in his head. He also constantly had to be doing something wether it was tapping his feet or humming a tune he heard or other things. This quickly annoyed his father as he didn’t know why Mickey was like this and at first assumed it was because he had a lot of energy since he was a child but it continued to happen as he grew up and then mood swings started to appear a lot more. So Baron decided he should look into it more and see what was wrong and found mickeys symptoms to match most of the adhd symptoms. He asked Mickey later that day why he had trouble paying attention and why he was so impulsive and as his son explained he concluded that he had ADHD. He felt guilty for yelling at his son so many times over something he couldn’t control and never asked why he did what he did. He looked up herbal teas and created many medications similar to those used for humans but instead for a growing teenage mutant turtle boy. Of course this didn’t cure his adhd and he’ll always have it but over the years they’ve learned to manage it and what medicines did and didn’t work. But because Mickey had adhd he had to find other ways to do things other solutions. This caused him to memorize skills and cooking and other acedmic stuff in several ways for example most things were labeled around their home and Mikey used lists in order to keep track of things. Once he got a phone he also put reminders on there and his father would also him remind him of his tasks. Growing up Mikey also had special interests such as games, technology, reading but mostly comic books, cooking, and creating art. His father encouraged his behavior as it helped for him to gain confidence and he was able to use it to his advantage in training and fighting. But when Mikey was with the foot clan he was mocked for his habits and drawings. They would tear up his drawings in front of him and beat him when he couldn’t pay attention or he was stimming. This caused him to have low self esteem and ptsd. His father was a busy man selling his creations and do in g business deals among the yokai city so often times he neglected Mikey. Mikey was angry at him for this and this caused a rift between him and his dad he was afraid and scared and needed his dad but didn’t want his dad to find out about the abuse. This left him confused angry and frustrated as well as draxum as he was emotionally stunted. Wanting to know why his son was acting this way he visited the foot clan without telling them and saw Mikey being cut and beaten in a fight as they yelled horrible words at him. This sent him in a rage destroying everything in his path and getting his son out of there. Once in the safety of their home Mikey spilled about everything like an overflowing sink as he kept crying as well. Baron unsure of what to do simply held his son tighter and listened. Once this happened his father became more protective of him but also trained him more to fight back against harmful people and they continued to repair their relationship.

“-ickey, Mickey, MICKEY!” Yelled his father. He rose to attention still full of energy but stood straight waiting for instructions . His father looked at him with his classic I- love-you-so-much-but-your-gonna-be-the-death-of-me look . “It is time to start your patrol, your task today is to find the needed chemicals I sent to your phone to create more mutagen for my oozesquitoes, stay safe out there my son” Draxum patted mikeys head with slight fondness and Mikey beamed at him. He then hurriedly made his way out of his home and towards yokai city. He snuck into a nearby alleyway and drew the symbol for the portal going through quickly to the surface world. He checked his black utility belt for all his weapons. “ I have my kunai, my shuriken, my tento, my kusari fundo, my protein bars -ughhhhhh, my sketchbook, pencil, yup! I think I have everything!” Mikey exclaimed. He skated rooftop from rooftop heading towards the old abandoned factory filled with chemicals his dad usually made him get for his experiments. He was wearing a black hoodie and mask that showed a wide grin of sharp teeth and his skateboard full with stickers that consisted of smiley faces, graffiti words, neon signs, gaming brands, etc. Patrols weren’t necessarily patrols more of errand runs for the human world unless it was an assassination for a human who wronged a fellow yokai. As much as his dad hated humans he worked with the ones from the foot clan for yet untold reasons and had Mikey assassinate humans who were especially evil. The foot clan had also messed that up for him taking away his in once when they started executing innocent people who wronged them and made him watch and kill them. He shuddered at the reminder and of things that still haunt his nightmares and shook his head to be clear of the horrific thoughts. As he jumped from the next rooftop he hears chatter that gets louder and ducks down on a balcony to spy on whoever’s coming his way. There he sees WHAT!?!? 3 OTHER MUTANT TURTLES dad said I was the only one, the only mutant turtle who was trained to be an assassin. Are they even assassins?!? What’s going on? Mikey thought.

Mikey can get angry and sadistic . Can be downright cruel and unforgiving. Can kill someone quick and merciless. He’s a soldier, an assassin, a demon if you will. His names is feared within the Yokai community despite not being a yokai. But that’s to be expected of Baron Draxums son. He’s proud of it and it certainly helps that his dad praises him for it. He’s a turtle or we’ll a mutant turtle ,created to be the perfect experiment. The only mutant turtle in the world. So why the hell does he see 3 other mutant turtles on a rooftop during his patrol?! Unless... No! They couldn’t be! Dad said they had died in the fire! They are dead...right? Or maybe someone stole dads work and mutated 3 other turtles for their own benefit? Or something??? Ughhhhhhh!

Mikey then peered up from the balcony to spy again as he saw the 3 mutant turtles talking amongst themselves and a ...human!!! Aren’t all Yokai supposed to hate humans?! This night just keeps getting confusing! Mikey then decided to look up again and as he shifted around he forget about the skateboard next to him

CRACK!!

The skateboard had fallen of the balcony and broke in two over a dumpster. Mikey froze as his breath was taken away. Slowly he looked up, only to find the turtles gone?

“ Huh? Where’d they go” Mikey climbed onto the rooftop confused and a bit hesitant And then heard some shuffling behind him. He quickly grabbed a Kunai and held it up to one of the turtles neck

“Uhhhh hi? Nice dagger you got there” Mikey stared fiercely at the turtle ready to kill if necessary.

#casey jones #tmnt raph #tmnt leo #tmnt mikey #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt donnie #rottmnt #tmnt angst #foot clan #beginner writer #rise of the tmnt #angst #I’m trying my best here #adhd tag #baron draxum #april o'neil #[ out of character ]

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elucien · 4 years

Text

“i did not want to lose you, nesta archeron,” continues cassian, his voice rough. “i did not want to push you away, to break whatever tentative bond had been between us. i did not know if you felt it too. but when you covered my body with yours... i thought then that you were aware, and that you did not want to lose me. for the first time in five hundred years, i felt as if i were full. it did not matter to me that death had come to collect us, to take us to a realm that we have not seen; all i could think of was that i had found my mate, and she had found me. she had accepted me.”

nessian oneshot: cassian confronts nesta after a brutal fight in the illyrian steppes where it was revealed that cassian withheld knowing the two were mates. the two speak for the first time after that, and nesta accepts the bond.

this is part one.

part two will be released relatively soon.

the night is nothing but the animalistic howls of the wind and great gusts, with enough force to perhaps deter the greatest of the illyrian warriors from tasting the wind, not until the moon meets the lovely obsidian embrace of the night.

it does not stop cassian from navigating them, despite the growls he hears in the thick underbrush of the forests, or the beating of wings that do not belong to him. it does not surprise him, nor should it; he is not the only predator in illyria, and particularly near the steppes. it should not surprise him that nesta has chosen to make her abode here, not when she is as much a predator as the beasts that the illyrians whisper about on the darkest of nights, if not more.

his pause when he lands in front of a door that is roughly hewn, carved from a tree that he has not seen in decades, from a continent he has visited once, in crueler times.

it is fitting that she had selected it.

he does not knock on the door, not when he knows in his very bones that she can sense him.

smell him.

the bond between the two is perhaps an attempt from the mother herself to extract vengeance, likely for the foes that have fallen at his hands. or something else, something he has done in the years he has spent as an assassin, with hair that does not fall at the nape of his neck but was chopped and trimmed neatly, in a style that the mortals had found to be intriguing, stylish.

this is fitting ; to have what he has desired, perhaps above all else, so very close - - - he can smell her on the other side of the door, with that rich scent of rosemary and sage. she likely lingers behind the roughly polished kitchen table, back straight, as proud as any queen.

her footsteps are tentative at first, as if she is in thought, but they stop when she is on the other side of the door.

“nesta.” a plea.

on the other side of the door, slender, slightly calloused fingers lock around the doorknob.

then linger.

“I- I’m sorry.”

there it is; an admittance, a glimpse into his soul. it is an opening, one that she finds acceptable. the door swings open.

nesta archeron simply stands there. stiff. unyielding. yet beautiful, in a way that is utterly devastating. it is a beauty that would not only bring kings to their knees, but one that would have them clamoring to hand over their kingdoms. then there is the matter of her mind ; cunning, cruel, and ancient. she may be new on this continent, yet there is something in her soul that cannot be contained, a sharpness that would take warriors millennia to hone.

perhaps that was why he could not stay away.

why he still cannot stay away.

“get in,” she demands, stepping aside.

she pretends not to notice how his shoulders slump in relief, merely drifting towards what passes as a sitting room in her cabin. the door is closed gently, with a thud that would likely not be heard by human ears, and she does not meet his eyes, not until she is seated in a tasteful armchair, one that is at odds with the rest of her cabin.

an armchair from sangravah, cassian gleans. the exquisite embroidery and the thread that gleams beneath the candlelight cannot be found elsewhere. he’d know, if only because of how often rhysand imported goods from there. pricy, perhaps, but well within the range of expenses that the night court can afford.

he stands behind the other armchair, his wings spread slightly. in their silence, there is only the crackling of the embers, and the snarls from predators that he has not encountered, not in the five centuries he has spent within the steppes. her hurt is near tangible, almost a presence, one that he can thank the bond for.

“when were you going to tell me?” her words are colder than the snow that caps the illyrian mountains. “you knew, for months, and you did not tell me.”

if he did not know her tells, or was incapable of traveling down a corridor that stretches between their very souls, he would think she was unfeeling. he would assume she was simply unbothered.

“you knew,” she repeats. this time, her words are different. “for months, CASSIAN. AND DID NOT TELL ME.”

regret is etched onto his handsome face; regret, along with sorrow. for with the warrior, there is not one, but always both. the emotions are always hand in hand.

“for two years,” he starts, his voice rough. still, he does not move into the sitting room, nor past the border of the thick, rich rug that coats the floor of most of the sitting room. he remains where he is, broad hands resting atop the other armchair. “i knew it the moment before hybern.”

before there had been a blood-stained field, a king hellbent on vengeance, and the murder of a father that she had not known, not fully.

“i knew it the moment we lingered outside of your tent before that godsdamned battle, and all i could do was watch you attempt to battle tire while trying to string words together to speak to me. i felt your fear, and...” he pauses, shaking his head, as if he cannot entirely ward off the emotions, the vulnerability that accompanies the memory. “it made me want to pull you into my arms. i did not want to leave you after that, but i could not have myself saying it, not when you’d only started to stomach me, when you’d begun to speak to me as if i were worth talking to.”

there are some scars that will never heal, even with the guiding hand of time herself.

the death of his mother is one nesta knows will haunt him, perhaps, for the entirety of his immortal life.

she remains in her chair, chin tilted high, as any queen holding court would, but there is a sinking feeling in her stomach. there is a numbness that eats at her, that has her wanting to roar, to rip into the very void that she has spent the past few months staring into.

there is a tear that slides down her cheek, but she does not make to wipe it away. he does not stride forward either. this is her space, entirely hers. he will not near her, let alone touch her, unless it is requested.

it will always be her choice.

“after the war, i...” there is a sadness that haunts those hazel eyes when he continues, sharing a story that she had not thought of asking for. “i did not want to bother you. i understood your loss, and i knew you would want your time alone. i thought you would approach me when you were ready, but you did not. and those days turned into weeks, and those weeks turned into months.”

cassian begins to pace, only pausing once he faces the land that is exposed from a window, leaving his back to her. “you did not discover the bond, but i was well aware of it. each night, i felt this sense of dread that did not belong to me. then there was a cold i could not shake off, one that was numbing. i had found my mate, after centuries of seeking, and bloodshed, and what hurt most was that i could not help you. and that night, the solstice, my control snapped. you were thin - too thin - and your eyes were colder than i had ever seen. no joy, no laughter. i knew i had lost you, and when i followed you, you still did not notice the pull, the draw. i wanted to help you, but i knew you could not bear to look at me, not when it reminded you too much of what you had lost.”

for she had not just lost her father in hybern, but control. she had lost the last tether to the mortal life. she had spent years cruelly disregarding her father, deigning him unimportant, even taunting him. he had not fought for her mother, she believed. he had failed not only her, but the daughters as well. her. elain. feyre.

but when they had needed help most, he had done it, if only for her, and her sisters. he had done what he had promised, and she had not been given the chance to apologize, to ask for forgiveness. she had not walked aboard the deck of the nesta, nor asked for any of his final possessions.

“i did not bother you again,” he says after a pause, turning so that he faces her again. “i did not want to, even when i heard what you and amren said that night on the summer barge, even when feyre and rhysand told me i was to bring you here.”

a frown ; nesta does not attempt to hide the emotion that is clear on her face, not anymore. there had been something built between the two in the long months that they had spent with one another, a bond forged by the hands of the mother herself. with cassian, there is understanding. there is kindness.

for too long she has desired for someone to peer at her, and not just her, but at her very soul, her very essence. for that person to see how she burns and burns, and cannot stop it, no matter how much it threatens to overtake her, and for them to understand. she does not love conditionally, no matter how ideal that may be. she wants them to see her ; the pride, the temper, the cunning, and to accept it all. she is not one trait, she is all.

“but you didn’t tell me.” her voice is light and her words barely audible. “you didn’t tell me, even though you knew.”

it is those words that strike him the hardest, perhaps as any physical blow would. to nesta, it is a betrayal, one that he knows had sent her reeling. he’d deserved the words she had flung at him in that mud-filled field, had seen the pain behind them. yet... she had still allowed him into her cabin rather than turn him away, particularly on a night where the patrols are not flying, not when it would mean their certain death. she is still sitting before him, speaking to him, rather than shutting it out, pretending it all does not exist.

she does not want to push him away, however; it is clear in her words, in the way that her gaze rests upon him, as piercing as ever. he had fought for her. despite the attitude, the cruel insults, and the mornings where he had woken her up himself... he had refused to leave. he had not left her alone, no matter how much she lied about enjoying it.

he had seen every single part of her, and he had not left.

it is enough to have her rising, despite the hurt that still consumes her. there is understanding there, glittering in her eyes, enough to have him relax slightly. but there is also fury.

“you do not know what is best for me,” she near snarls, “and there is no reason for you to have hid that from me for THAT LONG.”

she draws closer, her spine straight, those eyes of hers focused solely on him. there is nothing else in the world but cassian, nothing else that is of importance.

she stops when they are only a few breaths apart.

“i understand why you did it,” the words are concise, clipped. nothing like the fire that is likely blazing beneath her otherwise impassive surface. “but you had no right to do so.”

he still does not speak.

she steps past him, leaving the sitting room now empty.

her footsteps do not pause, not until she is back behind the table that serves as her location for dining.

“you are my mate,” she declares.

there is food that rests atop the mahogany surface, with tendrils of steam rising.

“and you are going to eat.”

#nessian #nesta archeron #a court of silver flames #a court of thorns and roses #my writing #let me know what y'all think <3

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dearlazerbunny · 4 years

Text

Let it Go (Ch. 2 of ?)

Pairings: platonic avengers team x reader, potential background loki x reader

Words: 3000

Genre/Ratings: -WARNINGS- there will be an (unsuccessful) suicide attempt by reader- chapter will be explicitly marked in advance. Drug (pills) and alcohol abuse, lots of negativity and self loathing. There will be an arc, but said arc is going to start in the eleventh circle of hell and inch up from there.

Summary: *not far enough into this one to give an accurate summary, so this’ll have to be updated eventually. enjoy for now!*

He had just gotten used to the noise.

When he first woke up, it felt like he was suffocating him- always there, always cars honking and lights flashing and music playing and people going about their lives- the city that never sleeps. Someone told him that, he forgets who. He figured out what they meant the second he stepped outside for longer than a minute.

Now there’s just the wind stirring up dust, and occasionally toppling over a loose pile of debris. City workers push brooms along the street, trying to clear a path. Machines groan and creak as they haul away pieces of the city- days ago, that window was hundreds of feet in the sky- like its nothing. Another day. Just a little quieter than usual.

t’s hard to believe, even though he has the scars on his shield and healing bruises on his ribs to prove the aliens did, in fact, try to invade New York and take over the planet. Led by a god. And then he’d teamed up with another god- he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d never been particularly religious, but Bucky was- the insufferable bastard Stark, two assassins and a green giant and became an Avenger of planet Earth.

This wasn’t what he signed up for in 1941. Nazis or aliens, punching them in the face still uses the same muscles. Metal torsos don’t have quite as much give against the knuckles though.

He wanders the streets with no real purpose in mind, other than helping out with lifting here and there where needed. The war roars to life in the back of his mind, overlayed with the eerily calm day. His eyes mark the battle: here, where he launched Nat into the air, her dry words echoing in his ears; here, where Thor had very efficiently covered his back. Here, where for the second time in his life he watched a man who didn’t deserve to fall hurdle towards the ground.

And here- something happened here. His feet remember even if his mind doesn’t- they’ve stopped in the middle of the road. He squints, resisting the urge to cough on a cloud of dust that gets kicked up in his face. Something… his shield, doing far greater damage than his fist ever could, and then someone… screamed?

Her. A girl, in the middle of the road, eyes sunken and skin so taught and paperwhite he’d wondered if the ghosts of this battle were already coming to haunt him before it was even done. She’s screamed at him to duck, and her voice was so raw it triggered something in the back of his brain from basic training and caused him to hit the ground before he fully knew what he was doing. Something had flown over his head- he could hear it cutting through the air- a thunk, a screech that would likely be added to his rotating litany of nightmares- then nothing, save the battle raging behind him. A Chitauri he assumed he’d missed lay twitching on the ground just inches from his neck, and sticking from its chest- ice. Solid ice. So cold that his gloved hand still recoiled when he reached out to touch it.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

The girl’s face had been a roulette of emotions- a hint of pride, a darkly sarcastic flicker of her lips, and then her eyes widened and- fear. He watched her watch him, clenching and unclenching her fists. By the time he had opened his mouth to call out to her, she was gone, leaving only a trail of what looked to be frost on the ground before she disappeared around a corner- and something that slipped out of her pocket, jostled from her sweatshirt as she made her getaway.

He didn’t have time to think about her after that. A second later, his comm had crackled to life in his ear, and Stark started barking instructions, and Captain America had straightened his spine and grabbed his shield, and got back to where he was needed.

Steve Rogers, though, still has her tucked in the back of his mind.

The frost is still on the ground. Not as white as it had been, but a few grains of ice still cling to the cracks in the pavement. Strange. Magic? After everything he’s seen the past few days he wouldn’t be surprised. He follows the trail, irrationally hoping she’ll still be tucked behind an overturned car or crumbling building corner.

She isn’t. But there is a neon orange bottle tucked amongst the wreckage, and as he reaches for it he has a flash of memory of it falling from your pocket as you run. The contents rattle. A prescription bottle- like the ones medical gives him never get touched and sit collecting dust in a corner of his closet. Neat rows of print declare it Klonopin, 0.5 mg. Take once a day at bedtime, take an additional half as needed. Ingest with food. In the upper left corner is a name and address and phone number- Christian Heysworth.

The girl in the sweatshirt doesn’t strike him as a Christian. He should probably drop the bottle- it’d never be noticed among the rest of the chaos- and walk away. Worry about his own life and his own mess.

He tucks the bottle into his pocket. It might be a place to start.

…

The knock on her door is crisp and succinct, with no room for error. A soldier’s knock. She knows who it is before she turns the lock, because Clint doesn’t bother knocking anymore. When the door opens, she tries not to look as tired as she feels. “Captain.” It’s an easy acknowledgment, and it gives him time to categorize the healing gash on her cheekbone, covered with a butterfly bandage; the bruise blossoming on her collarbone that peeks just far enough above the neckline of her shirt to be seen. She doesn’t need the attention, but he needs a reminder that not everything is different since the forties. Same soldiers, different decade. Despite herself, the corner of her lip flicks up in the tiniest hint of appreciation. It has been a while since someone’s cared. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a favor.”

Interesting. “With?”

“Something stupid, most likely,” His voice is just sheepish enough to believe him. From his pocket, he pulls an orange bottle identical to the ones SHIELD’s psych department keeps prescribing her and the ones she keeps using for target practice.

Oh. Something deep in her chest softens and clenches all at once. She knows these questions all too well. “Cap. If you need help with- well. I can try my best, but I doubt I’m the best person to-”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, these- they aren’t mine.” He hands the medicine over and she appraises it with a practiced eye. Klonopin, schedule IV drug in the United States, dose as low as one milligram to sedate an average adult male within forty-five minutes, effects greatly compounded by alcohol- “I, um. I’d like to track down the owner.”

Her brain is humming. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s a long story.”

Wordlessly, she steps aside, letting him in. “I didn’t have much to do tonight.”

Eventually, there are cups of tea in front of both of them, though she’s only taken a sip and Steve hasn’t touched his at all. He tells her about the girl who leaves frost on the ground in the middle of Manhattan and saves him with a spear made of ice. From the way he speaks, its almost like he isn’t quite sure if she was real or not- just a ghost or a very strange guardian angel. It’s bizarre, but not even on her top ten list of bizarre things in this week alone.

“So. I want to… thank her, I suppose?” He laughs without mirth. “I’m not really sure.”

“Think she’s enhanced?”

“Hopefully not by force.”

It doesn’t even bother her, anymore, the implication. Her breathing becomes more controlled on instinct. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t think about it. “Let’s hope. Is she on anyone’s radar? SHIELD?”

“I wouldn’t even know how to check. And if I did, I don’t have anything to go on.”

Natasha glances down at the bottle of pills. But there is Christian Heysworth. She reaches under the couch cushion she sits on to produce a laptop from the gap. It’s wafer-thin and high tech enough that pulling up something as inane as Facebook looks categorically ridiculous. There’s a few Christian Heysworths, but they’re quickly narrowed down by what little information she has. “Christian Heysworth: junior at NYU, frat boy, wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a couple of DUIs under his belt paid off by someone in his family-” she glances up, sharp cheekbones illuminated in blue light. “What?”

“I just… what are the odds he’d be in SHIELD’s databases…?”

“Hardly, Cap. Behold the wonders of the internet. So, are we wringing his neck, or were you thinking something more subtle?”

She says it to get a rise out of him and is rewarded by an aghast expression. “I just need to ask him some questions, Natasha, not-” he stops when her quiet smirk lifts a little of the weight from her eyes and laughs with her. “Fine. But I’m doing the talking.”

...

Natasha Romanov has infiltrated thirty-seven countries in as many or more disguises and has never been caught. She is failing miserably at attempting to camouflage Captain America into a generic civilian. There aren’t enough sunglasses and baseball caps in the world to make him a more manageable height and physique, and his t-shirt- at least two sizes too small for him- attracts the eyes of every wannabe pro sports player and every girl and guy hanging off of their arm. Honestly, they expect her to work in these kinds of conditions? Thankfully pulling her top a little lower and batting her eyelashes nets her enough information to direct her to her “absolutely earth-shattering one-night stand.” They climb stairs in a dorm hall that could be nicer than some of the floors in Stark Tower. She has the urge to crack the tile with something sharp.

Heysworth opens his door in boxers and smoke still on his breath. Heavy-lidded eyes barely focus on her face. “Uh, hey. Can I help you?”

Steve comes up behind her. “Christian Heysworth? I’d like to have a word with you, son.”

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“I didn’t say you did.” Steve’s blue eyes are cool when he takes off his aviators; primly folds them and hangs them on the collar of his shirt. “Recognize this?” He holds out the prescription.

“Uh, I didn’t really-” Heysworth stops. Belches. Squints up at Steve. “I- wait. Wait, holy shit, you’re fucking Captain America! Holy shit man, I can’t even-”

As he rambles, Steve looks over to Natasha, who shrugs. “You must have one of those faces.”

Captain America holds up a hand to the kid’s face. “Just answer the question, son.”

“I, yeah, okay, um-” he turns the bottle over in his hands. “Shit, is this what that bitch stole from me?”

“Language. Who stole from you?”

“I met up with some chick downtown who wanted to buy them, but then those freaking aliens started coming and I- you didn’t hear it from me though, ‘kay?”

Steve sighs. “Do you know her name?”

“Nah, chat rooms and shi- stuff. Sorry. I have her screen name?”

He agrees to trade for a selfie with the Captain, which Natasha promptly deletes as soon as he hands over his phone, transferring data to her own. “She’s communicating from this address,” she murmurs, showing Steve the area it triangulated before wiping that information too. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, are you-”

Steve neatly closes the door in his face. “I don’t think he looked at your face once.

Oh, Steve. What a pure soul. “To be fair, I don’t think anyone has been looking at yours either.”

Their trail leads them to the backstreets, to an alley so covered in grime it looks like the whole place should be condemned. And many of the buildings are- covered in caution tape, stairwells crumbling, and fire escapes rusted over. Wind whistles through shattered windows. Foundations are rotting. And yet there are a few minuscule signs of life- a door that’s scraped the ground so many times there’s wear on the concrete, a few piles of garbage here and there. “She’s off the grid.”

“Can’t be right. She was a kid, couldn’t have been more than twenty-”

“You do what you have to.” She gives him a look. “You know that.”

His face goes stony. “Let’s just find her.”

Natasha sets off in one direction, Steve in the other. They both know how this works. It’s a practiced dance. Search the bottom floors first, find faults in the buildings and stairwells so you can avoid them the next floor up. She picks a lock that has managed to stay fast despite rusting over, he leverages himself through a windowsill strong enough to hold his weight. Eerily silent save for scraps of trash and the skittering of mice. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the construction in midtown, slowly shoveling away.

Steve’s mark is almost laughably easy to find. There’s a door tucked in a second-level corner whose seams are iced over three inches thick.

Her boots crunch in frost spilling out from under a crack in the door. She punctures the air with a bird call, and seconds later Steve rounds the corner. He reaches down to run a finger through the snow. “it looks the same.”

“Do you want to do the honors then?” He tests the knob once, twice- the metal doesn’t even rattle, it’s too frozen solid. He opts to kick it in with a well-placed boot, wincing at the sound of ice cracking and then shattering into shards.

The apartment is empty. There’s a table along the far wall stacked with a few cardboard boxes to use as makeshift shelves. Packets of potato chips are shoved in one alcove, a few granola bars in the other. Empty soda bottles litter the floor. The table itself is mostly covered with alcohol: a whole skyline of glass bottles glinting in the light from the newly busted door. Some are empty, some are half full, a few have broken necks. An inspection of the crooked drawers attached underneath reveals nothing but a junkyard of pills, none of which are prescribed to the same person more than twice.

Natasha opens a few of the safety caps, rattling them like a scientist with an interest. “There’s enough in here to put even you to sleep.”

“Is she here? She would’ve heard the door.”

“Maybe.” A door leads off to a molding bathroom and a small hall closet. The next, a makeshift bedroom. A grimy mattress sits in the corner, covered in blankets so dirty there’s no telling what the print of them might’ve once been. There’s also a girl. She’s curled up in the center, drowning in layers of hoodies and sweatshirts. The second Natasha steps in the room she can see her breath. Another step in and the air feels like home. Whatever water was in the air has crystallized and fallen to the ground in a tiny hailstorm, surrounding her like a halo.

She also doesn’t move.

The spy moves with ruthless efficiency, ignoring the cold as she kneels by the mattress. Too many layers. Can’t even see if she’s breathing. She tugs her sleeve up over her fingertips before beginning to shove aside tangled hoods and t-shirts, digging for the collarbone.

“Natasha?”

“Here. She’s almost-” she cuts off with a hiss of pain, wrenching her fingers back like she was bit.

“What-?” the girl is still sleeping. Steve only spares her a glance before taking Natasha’s hand in his, checking for damage. There’s no blood, no broken skin. But the tips of her fingers are white and hard, paler than normal and cold to the touch. He recoils on instinct. “Frostbite.”

Natasha is muttering low in Russian, tapping her fingers together to move the blood, and Steve is momentarily taken back to a plane going down in the middle of an endless ocean surrounded by walls of blue. No going back, only going under, and nothing waiting for him but frost and ice and cold-

“Steve!” He blinks. Natasha’s face swims back into focus. “Get out. Contact the tower. We can’t move her like this and she needed medical yesterday.”

“I’m fi-”

“No, you’re not. I can handle this. Russian, remember?” She tries to give him a small smile. He doesn’t return it. “Get out and coordinate removal. That’s an order.”

Orders, some primeval part of Steve’s brain can understand. He turns and hopes he doesn’t run from the apartment, not even bothering to navigate the stairs- just jumps over the balcony to land in the courtyard below, chest heaving. Unconsciously, he glances in a nearby piece of glass, ensuring his breath isn’t fog. He isn’t cold. He isn’t. He’s fine.

He isn’t thinking when he puts a beacon out for JARVIS to trace. He isn’t flexing his fingers to make sure they can move. He isn’t drowning. He isn’t on ice. He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t-

In the apartment, Natasha swears and wrings her hand as pins and needles race down her arm. She’s handled plenty of frostbite, but it never gets easier. The girl is still unconscious, heartbeat dangerously slow. Whatever she put in her system, she meant to knock herself out for a long time. Or worse.

And Steve is on the verge of a panic attack and if your heart stops she can’t perform CPR, so she sits on the edge of your mattress blowing on her fingers as you keep causing the air around you to quietly freeze and fall, a tiny secret twinkle of ice in the middle of New York.

#marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #avengers fic #avengers fanfiction #avengers x y/n #avengers x reader #avengers x oc #loki x reader #reader insert #Steve Rogers #natasha romanov #tony stark #bruce banner #Thor Odinson #clint barton #Loki Laufeyson #angst

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creativerogues · 5 years

Text

Player’s Guide: Meet The Archmages of Capitol!

Well the Player’s Guide is coming together really well, and thanks to @dnd-chamyra-studies, as well as @paradigmanomaly and @nickle-snatcher for providing so much help on building the City of Capitol.

But without any further delay, let’s get into the details...

Archmage of Illusion, The Archmage Indefinable

The Archmage of Illusion never shares his actual name, and often creates elaborate illusions and personas to hide himself.

He’s a High-Level Wizard (obviously) with the magical capabilities to create up to 8 Illusory Duplicates thanks to his ability to cast Mirror Image at-will, and he’s almost accompanied by his Simulacrum, who can do the same...

He’s used many fancy names and personas to hide his identity: Example names include Salem, Owahl, Zakalis and Morgan.

The Archmage of Illusion became famous for being so powerful that when the rival Kingdom of Rassumurait attempted to sail to the shores of Capitol, he disguised the stars they used to navigate so that they ended up lost at sea and where forced to retreat...

What does he look like?

He’s an older Halfling Man, lightly hunched in posture with wild curly grey hair with an arrow through it like a makeshift hairpin. He’s well over 3-foot-tall, even while hunched over, with gross old barefoot hobbit feet with excessive foot hair, his toenails have clearly never been trimmed, and he seems to have some sort of exotic fungal disease on his feet, even starting to develop small mushrooms...

Because when you literally always have a disguise or illusion on you, you don’t really need to look good or wash at all...

He carries a small wooden staff like a cane, and in his other hand he often holds a pipe.

The Archmage of Illusion is known for levitating in conversations with the other Archmages, so they can speak eye-to-eye rather than top-of-head to crotch; and he has a nervous habit of letting out a little giggle whenever he tells the truth.

He’s also recently become addicted to the Laumadorian Plant known as ‘Weeping Flak’, smoking it and adding it like spice and sugar to everything they consume, since Weeping Flak (also known as Bluegrass) is also known to increase one’s arcane powers for a short time after consumption.

Archmage of Enchantment, Father Jack

Father Jack? Well this handsome dwarven wizard used to get every girl he wanted into bed since his beard started to grow. You may be asking why the Archmages call him Father Jack, better pose that question to his 122 Sons and 99 Daughters...

He’s short, stocky, and very clearly dwarven to anyone that looks at him. His skin is slightly tanned from his days on the coast, and his face carries a big bulbous red nose at its center.

His beard seems quite magnificent, with ornate brass and bronze bands adorning their beard. Their beard is also very obviously dyed. There are streaks of grey that have been colored to match their original shade, but don’t quite match.

Another odd feature is his left eye, since he’s missing it, and it appears he’s had a chunk of solid gold carved to look like an eye implanted in the place of his left eye.

He wears a copper ring on one finger, a ring with intricate carvings on its surface, and this Archmage always seems to be followed by a smell of rum and alcohol on his breath...

Archmage of Conjuration, Archmage Butterfly

Her full name is ‘Clawed Butterfly’. A Conjuration Wizard who is always accompanied by her Faithful Hound and her Unseen Servant. She often chooses to use Misty Step rather than walking...

She’s feline and cat-like in appearance, she often wears an ombre-dyed hood that reminds you of a hunting cat. Meanwhile the feline tail of the Archmage winds and flickers with a mind of its own.

She has cat-like slits for eyes, and just to confirm; Yes, she’s a Tabaxi Wizard.

She has tattoos across her face, starting from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her eye, but barely visible under her tabaxi hair.

Her right arm is bizarre and unnatural: One of her arms is a slightly different tone, and slightly shorter in length than the other one, her right-hand having steel claws that appear to be artificially attached to her fingertips.

Her left arm is even more bizarre: She has an extra hand coming out of her left wrist. This extra hand is as small as a child’s and is blackened and seems to be of no use: A failed conjuration experiment perhaps?

She also has an eye on the palm of her left hand, something she hides behind her back in her always regal-looking pose while speaking.

Archmage of Evocation, Archmage Damascus Iados

A Tiefling Evocation Wizard with bright flames that flicker across the back of their hands, and smaller, heatless flames seem to flicker across their skin while the earth seems to tremor slightly while he walks.

In charge of the Tower of Evocation, Archmage Iados is a Tiefling Man with bright red skin, a bald head and two curling horns atop his head like those of a wild ram.

He wears blue and green robes that flow down to his feet, and every so often has heatless flames flickering across his skin before sputtering out on their own.

His left hand has three fingers, while his right hand has seven, and both hands seem to glow very faintly with a low white flame...

Archmage of Abjuration, Archmage Neskul Nyultin

Urban legends say that there used to be a Silver Dragonborn Wizard so skilled in the magics of Abjuration, yet so paranoid, that he stayed deep underground within his Tower, surrounded by a bubble of powerful magics, though when forced to go outside in-person, he sits cross-legged on a Tenser’s Floating Disk, with a globe of protective magics around him at all times...

Archmage Neskul Nyultin is a Dragonborn Wizard with glimmering silver scales, as is usually seen cross-legged on a small disk of force that floats above the ground. His legs seem withered from atrophy, and his body seems very thin for a Dragonborn...

A shimmering globe of arcane wards almost always surrounds him, as he’s almost always seen with his hands inwards, his fingers intertwined and seemingly always concentrating on the many spells that protect his being.

This Dragonborn Archmage has several scales missing and a long deep gash running along his face. He has two long, spiny and membranous ears, and a slightly off-center snout, akin to a poorly reset broken nose.

Upon his head sit two overly curled horns, and in his chest glows a dragonborn heart, a heart that glows bright enough to be seen beneath his scales and through the sphere of arcane wards that surround him.

After an encounter with a Red Dagger Assassin as a young Archmage, Neskul has become paranoid, as he knows the Red Daggers are master assassins that always get their target, one way or another.

This paranoia has caused him to become shut-off and shut-in, though he still teaches the students of his Tower through the use of Simulacrums, Projected Images and various other methods of magic, all while hiding himself away deep within the underground of his Tower of Abjuration...

Archmage of War, Archmage Leowynn Wynanthal

A High Elf War Wizard and Bladesinger, Archmage Leowynn is probably the most prominent figure in Capitol aside Archmage Iados.

An elf with pearl-colored hair that seems to glow in the light, with long and curved ears and incredibly long eyebrows with a small pointed nose. He has pale skin, his face having splotches the color of red wine, with exotic runes carved onto his forearms and a long thin rapier by his side.

He wears flowing robes that looks as if they’re made from specks of starlight, he also wears elven ear clasps made of spun silver and an engraved leather archery bracer on his left wrist.

He has many scars and callouses along his forearms, perhaps formed over many brutal sparring sessions.

But his hands can sometimes be the most fascinating thing about him. He has a recessive finger on each hand, and a Holy Symbol of the Black Hand of Bane branded onto his right hand.

Leowynn is maybe my favorite Archmage out of the lot. He’s the Archmage in charge of both the Tower of War that trains War Wizards, and the War College that trains up the regular infantrymen and soldiers.

He’s probably the most publicly seen figure, and his whole host of magic items, from Bracers of Archery to his Robe of Stars to everything else he carries, also makes him look the part of an Archmage (he’s also the only Archmage to travel to another Plane of existence...)

He’s also known for his spats and arguments with the other Archmages, since the War College has always had an uneasy alliance with the Edhel Halls Library, and with Archmage Leowynn being one of the few Archmages to of taken part in the War Underground between the Elves of the West and the Drow of the East over 50 Years ago, he’s probably the oldest Archmage in the King’s Council, but he seems to favor Archmage Iados and students from the Tower of Evocation especially...

Archmage of Necromancy, Archmage Froja Dundrek

Ya haven’t heard of the old tale of Froja’s head? Well let me tell ya!

There was once a Wizard called Froja who got sentenced to death for using Necromancy and black magics back when it was still a crime, before the War Underground basically. She managed to break free and sneak into the Archives of the Edhel Halls, the place that holds all the scrolls with the old magics in ‘em. She found a spell in those forbidden pages, one that granted her eternal life.

After she cast the Spell, she went in-front of the King himself and asked for forgiveness before demanding her freedom, he refused. Put her in Jail and chopped off her head the next day.

Well as it turns out, she’s still alive! And she now teaches other Wizards. But they still keep her head as a training object for young students...

The best way to describe Froja’s apperance is that of a headless corpse.

She’s a shadowy and shrouded figure, wearing boots and thick black leather straps around the ankles. She also wears grey patterned pants and a slender thin belt made of the same black leather.

A shimmering feathered shawl drapes from her shoulders like a pair of dark wings, and a brooch that seems to be made of woven strands of pure silver hangs from her left breast.

And above her shoulders is a collar made of woven tree twigs, the twigs and sticks thorny and withered black.

And finally, above this collar, where a head would be, there’s nothing at all! No head, and yet the body lives on...

Archmage Neskul has been at odds with Archmage Froja since the beginning, with Archmage Neskul begging Froja time and time again to reveal whatever magics and spells she used to maintain this life (or un-life) for eternity, never being able to truly die. And time and time again Froja had refused his advances, never revealing even a single detail about the spell she used to gain this eternal life...

Archmage of Transmutation, Drasaaria Argal

There once was a Transmutation Wizard so prolific that eventually any gold coming into her city was treated like scrap metal to her...

Archmage Argal is a Half-Drow Transmutation Wizard, and probably the only figure with a dark elf bloodline that’s tolerated by most people in the Capitol. When she joined the King’s Council, the uproar was tremendous, as the War Underground between the Elves of the West and the Drow had ended not a decade before...

But you wouldn’t think she’s a half-drow if you looked at her, because her skin isn’t dark... It’s metallic!

Her skin has a shine to it like a fine polished metal, and some might even mistake her for a statue standing in the room if you didn’t know her...

She wears very little actual clothing, but hold onto your thirst because she still wears clothes, specifically a pair of white gloves woven from the finest spider silk, while an ornate ear-cuff in the fashion of an orchid spirals around her left ear.

Her leggings have an opalescent sheen, and she’s also one of the many Archmages that likes to stand and walk barefoot...

Argal is another one of my favorites, and I knew I wanted to put a Drow on the Council because I just wanted to see what would happen...

And trust me when I say she’s no pushover, as my Players have found out time and time again.

That shiny skin she has: That’s Adamantine. Yep, she transmuted her skin to become living adamantine, so you try facing down a 20th Level Archmage with 23 AC...

And she’s also been known to horribly torture people the Council wants dead, or wants answers from. She’s turned a guy’s brains into mercury, polymorphed a guy into a robin before turning said bird into a tiny solid gold statue, she’s even wiped a Player’s memory clean using Programmed Amnesia... She’s a mean one...

She’s also one of the Wizards (alongside Archmage Froja) who’s at odds with Archmage Neskul, since he keeps asking her how she got her adamantine skin and she keeps refusing to answer him.

And due to most of the other Archmages just barely tolerating the presence of a Drow on their Council, that just means she trains up her students in the Tower of Transmutation even harder, which often results in the Tower of Transmutation producing some of the most powerful Mages...

Archmage of Divination, Archmage Ofyne Yuvidet

There used to be a Wizard so skilled in divination magics that she never bothered having a conversation, because she already knew how it was going to end...

Ofyne is a Human Wizard and the Archmage of Divination. She wears old dull blur robes over tattered clothing. She has long and frizzy graying-brown hair that falls just below her shoulders, with what looks like small woodland critters wriggling around in her hair...

Her body seems incredibly damaged. Her hands are stained multiple colors of brown and green, and acid burns that run along both hands.

On her right hand is a small blackened sixth finger that twitches of its own volition. She also possesses what’s left of a still-attached left hand. It looks like it was crushed but was never amputated. She also has a horrid burn mark running down from her left elbow to her crushed hand.

One leg seems severely deformed: Ofyne uses a set of double crutches to walk, but more often floats and flies around as she finds it far easier on her body. She’s also one of the Wizards that walks barefoot, and smells of burnt tea leaves!

She seems blind, her eyes pale and clouded over with cataracts in her old age, with bags under her eyes that suggests she probably hasn’t slept comfortably in many years...

She has no nose, instead having a big hole where her nose would be, and her mouth is permanently crooked, giving her a cocky smirk and almost wicked grin. However, Ofyne wears a prosthetic nose and mask made of silvery-blue mithral, which keeps the prosthetic in place while partially obscuring her face to prying eyes.

Small mushrooms emerge and grow from her neck and shoulders, she also has several scars around her neck, some apparently self-inflicted, almost like she’s had her throat slit multiple times and healed from every wound...

Ofyne (or Archmage Yuvidet if you want to call her that) is probably the most interesting Archmage. She hasn’t cut or groomed her hair in over 8 Years, and her eyes seem to glow when near poison or fresh blood.

She’s in charge of the Library of Saturnity in Fostin, ans she’s also one of the very few Archmages that’s actually allied with Archmage Neskul.

However, the Archmage of Divination is currently missing and has been missing for some number of months now, but this has yet to become public knowledge...

Ofyne is probably the oldest Human on the Council (aside from Archmage Froja and that eternal life thing she has going on...) and Ofyne’s seen a lot.

You’d think for a Divination Wizard she’d be fine right, no scratches at all because she knows the future...

Well when you have to take orders from the King, the Hand of the King, and a bunch of Archmages (lest you be straight up murdered), you’re forced into situations where you know you’re going to get messed up. (Google ‘The Seven Against Thebes’ if you want to see where I got some inspiration...)

And that’s all the Archmages!

And yes, I know there’s other Wizard Schools like the School of Invention and the School of Onomancy, but since those aren’t Official Subclasses yet, I’m yet to make them canon in my world, so no, there is no Archmage of Onomancy or Archmage of Invention... Yet!

But tell me what you think of the Archmages of Capitol, what are your first impression, are they to be trusted?

Let me know in the Comments with your Replys and Reblogs!

#dnd #DnD 5e #worldbuilding #Players Guide

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warwaged-archive · 4 years

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Katarina + heartbreak

Send me something to drabble about

The first man to break her heart never does it to her face.

It is no tale of romance, of love found and lost. Heartbreak first comes to her in the shape of a blade, crimson blood dripping through her fingertips from a wound that leaves scar much deeper than the obvious mark of failure etched upon her face. Katarina had been scarred before, a thousand times and more; those were marks of devotion, however, of dedication to shaping herself into something deadly and violent and strong and perfect. This one is different; this is shame and humiliation and the explicit message in words he never bothers to say.

You are no daughter of mine.

Not even worth his time, that he would take her life himself; all the General offers her is spite and a death sentence, a nameless assassin he had raised from the city slums to wound her pride, and it hurts unlike anything she had experienced. Katarina had bled before, by accident and on purpose; had felt the blood within her veins burn with poison that would have killed her had she taken the wrong dose. She was no stranger to broken bones and bruised skin; there was no building strength in a golden cage, and she had always been determined to be strong. Yet training endurance and crafting resistance of body and mind did awful little to prepare her heart, inconvenient thing that it had always been, determined to feel too much, too strongly. Emotions had led her astray in her mission, emotions devastated her as she faced the consequences of it; emotions threatened to ruin her, then, daggers clashing against the nameless assassin’s blades with vicious rage (willed forward by each sharp edge of a shattering heart).

Was a daughter worth so little in face of a name?

Was she nothing but a disposable weapon, to be thrown away upon first test and failure?

Her chest rises and falls with quick breath, anger overwhelming. There is no planning, no careful analysis of opponent, but she needs it not; what she needs is the violence in itself, each motion a product of a lifetime of training, each strike delivered with more strength than needed (it would tire her faster, but Katarina did not care; had she not been made to kill? Then kill she would, in bloodiest, most gruesome possible way, so there would be naught left of the nobody her father sent to end her life).

Her heart aches at that, screaming betrayal; and though instinct moves her as blade nearly guts the other where he stands, Katarina grows careless. She allows herself to get lost in what comes naturally -- the fight, lashing out as she is; the deadly dance of blades matched evenly by one equal to her in skill. In battle, some sort of soothing; it does not numb her to it but dulls violent outpour of emotion, enough so that when carelessness could have cost her life, she knows to acknowledge it is a deliberate withdraw on her would-be killer’s part.

There is silence between them, then, cut only by her quick breath; and though anger subdues, Katarina does not allow it to go away entirely. It is better than giving in to pain; and controlled, it allows her to clear head enough to decide what to do next.

“I failed my mission.” A statement, not a question; she has realized her mistake well before she had noticed the presence of the other assassin. Fingertip still upon her cheek, tracing the end of the wound he had given her; but green eyes do not move away from him, even though he had been first to sheathe blades. “I intend to make it right. I will kill my original target and pay for my mistake. You can stand in my way and die or let me do what I ought to have done already.”

Even as she speaks, chaotic feelings are kept just beneath the skin; he could have killed her. He had the chance, and chose not to. The other assassin did not seem older than she was; and by choosing not to kill her now, he had failed as she had.

She does not know what to make of that, though it seems not an act of pity. Mercy from a stranger, a nobody, a nameless assassin who sees her choice to atone as worthy enough he would submit himself to judgement for allowing her to leave; if her heart is in pieces, she feels the pieces shatter to dust. Mercy from a stranger, but not from one who had taught her everything, blood of her blood, mentor, father.

Perhaps it is what leads her to stay her own blades, rather than killing her would-be killer. Perhaps it is what drives her to ask for his name instead. “Before I go, I would have the name of the one he sent for me.”

“I have no name to offer you. My name never mattered.”

“It does now.” Why she was uncertain herself; but Katarina’s tone made it clear she would have an answer, something to call the blade her father had sent. The truth of it did not matter; there was nothing to be gained from that knowledge she could not have taken through violence then and there. It is important for her to know all the same; the nameless nobody had matched her in strength and skill, she who carried the name of one of Noxus’ old houses. They are worlds apart and not at all, children of the same land, mentored by same teacher.

It stings to know the other will not face punishment as she had, favor lost and name disgraced and life threatened, but Katarina knows it to be the truth.

This was never about her mission, or the Noxian lives she had caused to be lost. This was about a name, and one man’s pride, and though her chest still aches, there is bitter resignation at that. She had failed, yes, because he had failed in teaching her, sharpening her edges to best serve him when she should have been spilling blood not for the man, but for the nation.

“It matters to me.” She repeats when silence falls upon them once more, and finds it to be the truth. It matters not to the General who had brought them both then and there, to be as they were; of that she has no doubt either.

But she is not her father, and this is the moment when she chooses to never be.

“They called me Talon.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ruin inside is plainly mirrored in exterior by the time she walks towards her father once more.

Katarina needed not make it messy, true, but she wanted to. She could have slipped into the Demacian’s camp undetected, slit his throat in silence, returned clean and freed of the burden of a mission unaccomplished. Could have, but did not. Instead she allowed them to see her, slaughtering her way to her target; and when she reached him at last, his death had been neither quick nor painless, drenching her in blood as head was severed from body.

Katarina needed not make it messy, true, but she wanted to. She could have brought simpler proof of her kill, kneeling before her father and pleading forgiveness in face of her attempt to atone. Could have, but did not. Instead she walks in with righteous fury, confident even when torn apart, and throws the severed head at his feet, gaze sustaining his, even as eyes so alike her own offer her only disdain.

“I would have taken your head instead,” Something flickers in his eyes (perhaps wrongfully assuming this to be threat, announcement of what she would do next?), but she does not flinch. Violence solved everything; and blood had soothed her heartbreak enough it had since turned to deserved resent. Father had not been wholly wrong, however; she had, in expecting their ties to matter more than their mission. “but failure must have consequences.”

“And I have failed.” Sour enough to say it that the bitter taste stays upon her mouth, worsened by each subtle sign of a reaction he displays (barely there at all, but his is a familiar face, and too long she had hungered to see it show pride, learning each shift in order to avoid blatant disregard he now offers). But swell of disdainful pride does naught to smother her own, evenly matched; she is not her father, but blood is thick, and spite only makes her more spiteful. “Not you, but Noxus.”

One of her earliest memories is of being taught not to cry. You do not display your emotions for all to see, or they will know to use them against you. You do not show fear, and you do not show pain; if you are hurt, you endure it with strength and dignity. The assassin is the blade; you wound, and you do not weep. There had been nothing of comforting in his stern tone as he spoke, looming over her in a stance others may have taken to mean General instead of Father (they had always been the same to her). Her tears had dried as soon as she was able to force them back, nevertheless; she did not wish to disappoint him. She promised herself to be strong, and brave, and never cry again.

The memory seemed irrelevant, in spite of coming to her then, father and daughter staring down at one another in deathly silence. If he expects her to request forgiveness, Katarina never does; she merely slips into the shadows once more to take her leave, no permission requested.

Had her mistake not been enough, she had actively burned that bridge now. There would be no amends, now or ever; there would be nothing but constant reminder of scorn and failure, attempt after attempt to spite her --- to wound, not because he refused to show weakness but because he could, and whichever ties she had been foolish enough to presume, she had never been more than a tool in his vast arsenal.

Rain that pours outside washes away some of the blood; it barely hurts at all as water runs down the wound above her eye. Katarina does not seek shelter from it, in spite of blurred vision and stinging eyes; if she lies well enough to herself, she can almost believe it is just the rain.

#aen-consilium #The first thing that comes to my mind when people ask about characters and heartbreak nearly never is in a romantic sense #and with katarina I tried to think of something but honestly she just never experienced it bc she just never gets romantically involved #with anyone aksndfkajsndf #anyways do you ever think about how this happened after her /first/ mission which presumes she was pretty young #when her father c: decided c: she had to die c: because she didn't kill the target she had been told to kill c: c: c: c:#I'm not really happy with this but daksnfkajsdfn #here you have it #ty lully <3 #* general: answered / DARK WINGS DARK WORDS.#* muse: katarina du couteau / THE SINISTER BLADE.#* in character: katarina du couteau / A TAPESTRY OF SCARS.#* verse 001: katarina du couteau / EVERY WAKING MOMENT SPENT IN HONING HERSELF INTO THE ULTIMATE WEAPON.

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beingevil · 4 years

Text

if there be thorns, Guardian Yang AU

title: if there be thorns

pairing: none here

Rating and warnings: Gen

author’s notes: In honour of a very special day, for Neon’s Guardian Yang AU. You can read it on Ao3 here!

summary: Annerose POV, set largely after Yang goes missing.

wordcount: 1690 words

Even the Kaiser’s palace walls cannot keep the whispers out.

When Reinhard was taken into custody after the attempted assassination, Friedrich kept that knowledge from her, whether out of a misguided sense of kindness, or to keep her sweet and compliant – she did not know, and it made little difference either way.

His court had no such reservations.

It is Benemunde who first springs the knowledge on her like a steel trap, gleefully detailing how Reinhard had been taken away in chains, fighting the guards like a mad dog.

It had taken much to listen with a pleasant, detached interest, to nod and smile, to thank Benemunde for telling her how Reinhard was getting along.

Perhaps if it appeared she did not care, she would be less of a weapon against Reinhard.

There is little enough she can do in the Kaiser’s grasp, but she can do her utmost not to be turned into a weapon against her brother.

Life under her father’s hand had taught her all too well not to show weakness, and here in the Kaiser’s court of vipers she knows she needs every lesson she learned and more.

She finds a quiet joy in Benemunde’s dissatisfaction, knowing she had denied the Marquise her satisfaction, as the other woman storms off, loudly calling her a disgrace.

After all, she learned long ago never to act as if the names hurt her.

So it is now, months away from Reinhard’s arrest, that she recognises the look in Reinhard’s eyes as he descends from the carriage. She has known her brother from the day he was born, she knows his hundred different tells better than anyone else: the haunted circles around his fever-bright eyes, the rigid set of his mouth before he shapes it into a brittle smile for her and everyone watching.

It seems he has dressed today with little care for how he looks. His blue coat seems carelessly rumpled, and the edges of his cuffs appear to have been worried at.

She knows why. His life has been transformed since they last met.

The Kaiser’s walls had not kept those rumours out either.

The cravat around his neck is at odds with his ensemble, its cut a little too old. It must have been cream-coloured, once, but time has turned it off-white and its best days are clearly far behind it.

Her musings on Reinhard’s odd sartorial choices on this day is interrupted by his approach.

She puts her arms around him as he nears her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into his ear, hidden from the guards by the crook of her arm and the curve of his shoulder. When his arms close convulsively around her, she has never more wished to be able to speak freely to her brother. But they are ever under the gaze of the Kaiser’s men, and both of them know to be careful.

Yang had been good for him, Reinhard’s complaining about his strange ways and fussiness notwithstanding. It had been good fortune that Annerose had learned long ago not to expect for either of them.

She had thought that the savage wildness in Reinhard calmed, however momentarily, during his time with Yang. At their last meeting, she had smiled to herself as her wilful brother poured Yang tea as if he had done it a thousand times, even as he complained to her about how Yang couldn’t do a thing for himself, not even getting up in the morning.

Then Reinhard had reached out and adjusted Yang’s cravat over Yang’s feeble protests – it had gone askew somehow – all the while deploring his choice in clothing and chiding him for not paying heed to Reinhard’s suggestions for suitable palace fashion.

She had liked him, the quiet unassuming man whom court politics had unexpectedly thrust into their lives. She too knows what it is like to be plucked from the world you knew and thrown in the midst of a court where every smile could hide a dagger. She liked that Yang never made it seem like he expected anything of her or Reinhard, not even conversation, for even silence was comfortable around him.

Above all, she appreciated that Yang was a safe pair of hands for her brother. It did not escape her that Reinhard, in his own way, turned towards Yang like a flower to the sun. She had thought it was good that finally, Reinhard had an adult in his life that he could trust.

But Yang is gone now.

And in her brother’s place is a wild creature that looks out at Annerose from behind his fevered blue eyes.

She leads Reinhard to the conservatory, where heliotrope blooms in dreamy violet clouds. Deep magenta fuchsia hang their heavy lantern blossoms from the trellises, vivid petals tumbling down the conservatory walls. Hydrangeas unfurl their storied petals here, and honeysuckle trumpets grace the air with their sweet fragrance.

Over and under it all, the scent of the Kaiser’s prized roses perfume the air. Summer is approaching its peak and so are they, petals of the deepest crimson, the palest pink, the purest white all unfolding to the air.

Reinhard barely seems to notice. He is standing right next to her, but he might as well be a thousand miles away.

In a way, he is.

Never has she more regretted that they cannot speak freely here.

She pours him tea, amber liquid swirling in its gilded cup. He glances once at it and not again, and she knows then who he must be thinking of.

Under the table, she reaches out and takes his hand.

His nails are ragged to the touch, and there are healing scars scattered across the back and sides of his hand, recalling to her the destructive rages he would fly into as a child. How many fragile things already been consigned to his rages?

How much more could he bear before he too would shatter?

He rests his cheek on his hand, the very picture of an indolent, spoiled noble.

“The weather is so very hot recently,” he says. “Sister, I do think that the next two or three weeks would be a perfect time for a sojourn into the mountains. I hear Freuden would be a wonderful place.”

The question is in her eyes as she smiles at him, wondering what game he intends to play this time.

“Did you not summer there last year?” He continues, without waiting for her answer, “If you go, I may join you there too.”

Under the table, his hand tightens almost convulsively on hers.

She laughs gently to give herself time to respond.

“Dear Reinhard, whatever it is you wish, I shall certainly endeavour.”

“Do,” he says, and his fingers once again close, painfully tight, around hers.

She knows for certain then that he has no intention of joining her there.

When he takes his leave from her, he rests her head on her shoulder for a moment, and he is her brother Reinhard once again, running into her arms with skinned knees and bruised knuckles from yet another fight.

But her brother fights different battles now, far beyond the schoolyards of their childhood years.

This time he is wounded with hurts she cannot heal.

She would like to believe that he can draw strength from her presence like this.

She embraces him and strokes his hair gently. Briefly, his shoulders shake as she holds him.

It is all the emotion he allows himself in her presence that day.

“Be well,” she says, reluctantly releasing him.

“Always,” he answers, smiling.

There is a strange fey light burning in his eyes, one she knows too well.

He takes his leave, striding to his carriage without looking back.

Never once has Yang’s name crossed their lips.

She wonders what her brother has become, what new creature birthed in tragedy and resolve now loosed upon Odin, planning his vengeance.

It is then that she remembers where she had last seen the cravat around Reinhard’s neck.

It had been around Yang’s neck.

They had laughed, all three of them together, on that day a lifetime ago.

She sleeps poorly that night. Soon after midnight, she wakes to watch the moon traverse the sky until the dawn greets her weary eyes.

A week later, as Reinhard has asked – no sooner, so as not to arouse suspicion – she seeks the Kaiser’s leave to holiday in the Freuden mountains, away from the summer heat.

The Kaiser grants her request, of course. She asks him for so little, after all.

Here, where mountain ranges cradle her villa, alpine springs feed the lush green gardens and their wildflowers.

Though she has been here before with the Kaiser, the silence feels different this, portentous as it weighs on her shoulders. There is bite in the cool winds as they tug at her skirts and echo through the ravines.

She waits for news, but never expected it to come on wings this swift.

Even guarded in the heart of the mountain fastness, the news reaches her, through the newspapers and the whispers from the villa’s servants.

The capital has been plagued by a sudden rash of unexplained accidents and deaths – odd, for their frequency and occurrence, amongst the mid-ranking military and minor nobles. Stabbed, shot, poisoned – they meet their end through means as varied as their victims.

Annerose is not naïve enough to fail to see Reinhard’s hand in this – the timing, the coincidence, fits all too well.

A mysterious letter arrives at Neue Sanssouci which evidently threatens her safety, the Kaiser has her guard doubled as a result and asks her to be watchful. He has decided she is safer in the mountains than she is in the palace, a decision she knows Reinhard arrived at weeks ago.

Her heart aches for her brother even as she wonders about his purpose – are all these deaths to lay at a dead man’s feet? Yang would never have wanted this for him.

One day a letter from Reinhard arrives, and in its wake, when she returns to the heart of Odin, everything has changed.

#legend of the galactic heroes #ginga eiyuu densetsu #yang wen li #reinhard von lohengramm #annerose von grunewald #my fic

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acesgroupchat · 4 years

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A week passes, then another. The Chiyan army camp grows. Fei Liu gets close enough to touch an orange before the tree rejects him. Consort Chen arrives, and falls weeping into his mother’s arms. His father has stopped speaking. Lin Shu finds himself in the garden almost every day. He keeps the words ‘tactical retreat’ in his mind, and does not look too close, lest he find ‘coward’ written underneath. Fei Liu will sit under the branches with him now, for all he still has not spoken a word.

It is nearly three weeks when he walks into the garden, and finds Lin Chen lounging against the base of the orange tree. He does not get up, but waves an arm in lazy welcome. Lin Shu sits beside him, lets the tree hold him up.

The oranges hang above them, bright, tempting, and just out of reach. The lord of death barely seems to notice him, contemplating patterns in the leaves above. Every sprawled line of him radiates power, but what was leashed has gone lazy in the shelter of the tree. This is the stillness of the hottest days of summer, and just as sweet.

“I have a question.”

“Mmmm?” Lin Chen cocks his head slightly.

“You knew who I was.”

“It would be a terribly rude host, who would not know his guests.”

“A polite host would have come to greet his guests when they arrived.”

“A polite guest wouldn’t wander into his host’s private garden.”

“You don’t seem to make much use of it.”

“I’ve been busy. I have an army camped in my foyer, conspicuously failing to move on to the fields and meadows that have been so nicely set aside for them. One wonders if rudeness is contagious, or merely the hallmark of a certain military fellowship.”

There is a tightness on the back of his tongue. “Perhaps this army has greater need of news than of comfort. Is it not always so, in such exceptional times?”

“What news? What exception? Times are as they have always been, and recent events no more than commonplace. The wheel turns, power changes hands, the living forget and the dead move on.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I have seen more of these petty squabbles than your mind could comprehend. I know their shape. In a month it will be ended. In a year it will no longer be spoken of. Those who value their skins will hold their tongues, and in a decade this will be as any other unpleasant dream, un-thought of and quickly fading from memory.”

“It will not! This is a catastrophic miscarriage of justice, and a crisis for the nation. The very foundations of the court are threatened. The country will bear the scars of this for generations and—”

“And what does that matter here? It is not your country now.” The lord of death shakes his head. “So much fire in you. Has no one told you where you are? The affairs of the living are no longer yours to concern yourself with, any more than they may concern themselves with you.”

His throat aches with the force of his words. He swallows. “They will not forget.”

Lin Chen snorts, but does not reply.

“Jingyan will not forget.”

“The seventh prince? In all of this the princes are the ones who most stand to gain. He may remember but he will choose his own survival.”

“Jingyan is loyal. He will never accept these lies. He would not—” His tongue is thick in his mouth, clumsy and caught. The taste of blood wells in the back of his throat. Jingyan would not believe me a traitor.

Lin Chen watches him, face impassive. Finally, he shakes his head. “Well you’ll have your answer soon enough, I suppose.”

Terror goes through him like an electric shock. He lurches to his feet. “He’s here?”

He takes one stumbling step away from the tree before ice cold fingers catch his wrist. They tug him back and he collapses among the roots again, pinned beyond even an attempt to struggle, though the grip on him is lighter than a butterfly’s wing. “I said soon, not now mayfly. Are you always in this much of a hurry?”

“When will he be here? What do you know?” Lin Chen’s gaze is sidelong and flat.

“I know that he is coming here, as all the living are. The future is not my area, but the precise date of his arrival is of little consequence. It’s not as though you have any reason to rush. He will come here in due time, and you will have your answer.”

“There is no one more loyal. He will not believe these lies, and he would never betray Prince Qi. When he arrives, I will find you here, and you can tell me you were wrong.”

“He will be arriving very soon then, unless his mother is particularly clever on his behalf. He can join all those ministers of yours just as soon as he returns from Donghai. Will you cross the river then?”

Lin Shu shuts his eyes against the image. “We will cross the river with honor, with our names restored and our deaths avenged.”

“And if you cannot? If all who knew you die, and your names remain unspoken, will you camp in my foyer forever? Eventually you will get bored, little marshal.”

“You don’t know me.”

The god beside him snorts, and their shoulders brush. “I know the moment you came out of your mother, the sound of your first squalling cry. I know the first time you opened your eyes for your father, your first steps, your first kiss. I know every pastry you stole from gracious Concubine Jing, and exactly how many times you fell before you climbed your garden wall successfully. But even an idiot would know you will get bored. You are bored now.”

He feels the tendons in his wrist shifting against those cold fingers even as his nails dig into his palms, sharp and sudden. “I don’t care. I will wait on the riverbank until the blood of Da Liang is exhausted, until every other soul has crossed. I will search forever, and when I have found my answers I will find some way to see justice done.”

“I’m sure you will make a lovely vengeful spirit. The poets will sing beautifully of you in Elysium. Has it not occurred to you that perhaps the riverbank is not the best place to find your answers?”

“There are none who will not find their way here eventually.”

“But there are many who will not bother with you or your camp. The executioner’s blade is far from the only one in your capital.”

Lin Shu feels ice run down his spine. Lin Chen meets his eyes with the same languorous gaze, and his posture retains the same sprawled grace, but something is somehow different. When he does not reply, the god of death quirks an eyebrow.

“You know something,” says Lin Shu

The second eyebrow joins the first in a brief look of extreme impatience. Lin Shu stares back, and refuses to blush. The glare transforms into a smirk. “I know everything my guests know, and have since the beginning of mortal time. I do, indeed, know something. It would not be too bold to say I know many things.” Cold fingers leave his wrist, and Lin Chen tucks his hands deep into his sleeves, settling against the tree and closing his eyes.

Lin Shu bites down on his own impatience. “The ministers have been honest with me, and my own men would not hide anything from me. Xie Yu’s men knew nothing but what they were told. Who else must I speak with?”

The god of death sighs. “Not long ago, a man entered my realm. A school teacher from Xian. This is not in itself uncommon, of course, but it is a rare school teacher who finds himself in my lands on the edge of an assassin’s blade.” Lin Chen opens his eyes, and turns his head to Lin Shu. “He crossed the river, but I am sure he would be happy to tell you his tale, should you like to bring your army across to meet him.”

His eyes dance, and Lin Shu finds himself once again biting his tongue. “You said yourself that your guests’ knowledge is your own. You could tell me his story now.”

“Mmm I could. But what does it benefit me to assist rude interlopers in my own private gardens? What could you offer me, save the fruit of my own trees?”

His words are ash on his tongue. Lin Shu swallows against them, searching for his voice. His eyes fall to the roots between them, to the white robes spilling carelessly across the ground. He is rising to his knees when Lin Chen speaks again.

“His name is Li Chongxin. Some months ago he received a number of letters from one Xia Jiang. These letters belonged to Xia Dong, and were written by her husband, Nie Feng. Li Chonxin was an exceptional calligrapher, and from these letters, he was able to create a forgery of Nie Feng’s handwriting, so flawless as to be indistinguishable even to the man’s own wife. He forged one letter, in which he said that Commander Lin Xie of the Chiyan army intended to rebel, and that he had been sent on a suicide mission for his discovery of those intentions.

"Your ministers have spoken of a denouncement letter, which was brought back by Xie Yu with Nie Feng’s remains. Neither the letter nor the remains are genuine. Shortly after Xie Yu’s return to the capital, an assassin came to Li Chonxin’s home and slit his throat.”

He is dimly aware that he is shaking, fingers digging deep into the soft earth beneath his knees. The sounds of battle and death ring loud in his ears, and he is burning, burning again. “Xia Jiang,” he gasps, and suddenly he cannot bear to be still. He stumbles to his feet, catching the tree for support as his feet find their way among the roots. Jingyan used to make fun of him for pacing like this. “This was Xia Jiang’s plan all along, with Xie Yu to help him. He did this.”

“It would appear so.” Lin Chen shifts to rest one wrist against his knee. His eyes follow Lin Shu.

“He turned the Emperor against us.”

“He did.”

“ Why”

“This is human nature, is it not? To scrabble for power and devour the more vulnerable?”

He turns so quickly that he stumbles against a tree root. Lin Chen does not move, even as Lin Shu sways over him, and surveys him with dispassionate eyes. “Humanity is more than this. There is nobility also, and mercy, and loyalty. It’s just the court these last few years. When Prince Qi is emperor, he and Jingyan will—”

His own words choke him. He closes his eyes against the slow rise of Lin Chen’s eyebrows. The picture turns in his mind, events shifting and connecting. A net forms and he sees it draw tight. He can feel fire licking at his bones. “Prince Qi would have disbanded the Xuanjing bureau. We were only ever collateral damage.”

Lin Chen nods once. “It is neatly done. Prince Qi is crown prince no longer, and his supporters join your camp in greater numbers each day. He is alone and imprisoned, and Xia Jiang claims credit for thwarting a rebellion before it could touch the palace grounds.”

“He has Jingyan still. Jingyan will never turn against him. Perhaps, in time—”

“He will be months still in Donghai, will he not? By the time he returns this matter will most likely be settled. That loyalty that you love so much will be useless, and even one far stupider than he would know to keep his mouth shut.”

“Jingyan will not betray Prince Qi.”

“That will not matter, when Prince Qi will be long dead by that point.”

“You can’t know that!” He does fall now, and his fingers close in the collar of those white robes.

The god of death does not flinch at his weight. His robes are as cool under Lin Shu’s fingers as his hand had been on his wrist. His eyes are fathomless dark, and not quite gentle. “Can’t I? Everything that you know is known to me also.”

“There is still hope. While he lives there is hope.”

“What need is there for hope in this place? A trap was laid for you, for him, and it has claimed you both. Does it matter that you can see its threads now? What will you do now that you know?”

The garden is silent and breathlessly still. Those dark eyes are steady, endless. He shuts his own eyes, but there is nothing to shut his ears, nor his mind to the words that echo there. He tears himself away, stumbles to standing. “I will take my leave first. I must speak of this to my father. We will need to—There is—” He does not manage to bow as he runs from the garden. The stone hallways twist before him, endless and indistinguishable. His boots make no sound on the polished floors. His legs churn tirelessly beneath him against the maelstrom of his thoughts.

He stumbles, finally, into the army camp. His parents are sitting with Consort Chen, as they often are now. His mother is the first to see him, and when he cannot meet her gaze she rises to take his arm. There is no warmth in her palm through his sleeve, but the pressure is a comfort that he cannot bear. He collapses against her, and feels his father and aunt draw close.

They draw the story from him slowly through his sobs. It is difficult to speak, but there is little enough to tell. He can see the moment comprehension takes them. It comes first to Consort Chen, who knew her son’s plans best of all of them, and who has marked as the Emperor’s affection withered these many years in the face of his suspicion. His mother and father follow close in their understanding. They clutch at each other, all four of them. His mother’s hands are hard in his robe, and tears roll unchecked down his father’s face.

“Father, what will we do now?” Lin Shu hates the sound of his own voice, so timid and young. This is not the voice that will command armies, and this moment demands no less than his most capable. He reaches for something stronger, but his father is silent. When Lin Shu raises eyes to him, his father shakes his head. There is nothing in his face but despair.

#nirvana in fire #lin shu #lin chen #lin xie #langya bang #aceswrites #new chapter sunday!#oh god this chapter #it fully took two months to write #and every word was like pulling teeth #but now its here!#Enjoy!

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jpat82 · 5 years

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101 Ways To Kill Bucky Barnes

Welcome to The End

Bucky wound you through the city at high speeds, taking turns seemly randomly. You held tight to the man that you were paid to kill, currently your only life line. He drove out New York and into Brooklyn, the heavy traffic died down a bit the further he got to the other side of that city. You closed yours eyes, just allowing yourself a moment, one moment where you could forget that you were being shot at and chased, that because of inability to kill one simple person that you were now marked for death also.

When bike started to slow you opened your eyes once again, finding the two of you pulling into a parking garage under and older brick building. Bucky pulled into a spot and killed the bike. He didn't utter a word as he kicked the stand out and helped you off of it. The silence continued as he helped you up a flight of stairs and locked a door to an apartment.

The walls were brick, and floor a beautiful chestnut hardwood. From the walls hung military memorabilia from the 1940's and pictures from that era as well. The floor was open design, and you could see a diningroom and kitchen from where you stood including the living room which hosted no tv. The wall your left was floor to ceiling in books, the wall to right was where the kitchen lay and a set of metal spiral stairs. And just in front of you taking up the entire side was windows that allowed you to see out toward the Harbor on the other side.

Bucky took your hand and led you toward the kitchen, he lifted and set you on the counter. He open a cupboard near the sink and pull out a red bag with a white cross. Bucky came back over to you and took a breath, his eyes met yours and you knew what he was planning. He need to clean and doctor up the bullet hole in your leg. He grasped hold of the tear in your pant leg and ripped it open.

Blood dripped from the bottom of your boot slicking the floor as he looked at the damage done. The entry hole was clean enough, the exit wound was ragged around the edges. He untied your boot and slipped it off allowing it to fall the floor, a wet thud echoed through the room. Next he peeled your blood saturated sock off, that too hit the floor.

Bucky stepped away and grabbed a chair from the dining room. He sighed as he grabbed the bottle of alcohol and you bit your lip as you watched him work carefully.

"This is going to hurt." He stated calmly, his voice just above a whisper. Bucky grabbed your foot and gently placed it on his knee.

"I know." You replied, bracing yourself, gripping the wooden counter top tightly.

He poured the alcohol over the entry hole and you winced biting down on your lip to keep from screaming as it burned. The clearness of the liquid mixed with the crimson of your blood and washed down to the floor coating his pant leg in the process. Gently he turned your foot exposing the other side, and repeated the process as before. Pain exploded immediately and you slammed your fist down onto the counter top, screwing your eyes shut and tried to breathe out your nose.

"I have one of two options. One, I have something to put you under so you won't feel what I'm going to do." He explained, he lift his face and his blue eyes looked back you. "Or two, you can be a wake while I finish cleaning, I have to clean the edges up of the exit hole before I can suture you up. I'll warn you, you'll have some really bad scars though, I wasn't a medic."

"It will just add to the rest of the scars that cover my body." You replied quietly looking down at the blood that continued to ooze from the open wound. "How long will it put me out for?"

"An hour, maybe two."

"Will you still be here when I wake?" You asked, looking back up to meet his stare.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Let's do it then." You told him, you had been through this pain more then once. But he was giving you opportunity for once not to feel the pain, he was giving you the choice as he hand you a small white pill and a glass of water. You tossed the pill back and took a sip of water before setting the glass down.

"It's going to take a minute or two." He explained as stood up and pulled you from the counter. Bucky gently lifted you bridal style, carrying you over to the chestnut table in the dining room. He tenderly laid you down, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I'm sorry Bucky." You told him as your eyelids became heavy. A small smile broke across his face as he walked back to the kitchen leaving you to doze.

————

When you woke the room was darkened, a lamp in the corner of the room where the windows and book wall met was on. You were laid out on a leather couch. The yellow light from the lamp poured out over the empty leather arm chair, a small end table had a book open, face down and small coffee cup.

Slowly you began to sit up, the beige colored fleece throw slipped down your shoulder pooling around your waist. You were still wearing what you had when Bucky brought you here. You pulled the blanket back the rest of the way, and stood up looking around for the man that for whatever reason you just could not kill.

"Bucky?" You called out, looking around the vast empty room.

"Up here." He replied, your eyes snapped up to see him standing at the top of the stairs. He was shirtless, and his heather grey pants hung low on his hips as he descend the stairs and came to you. Beads of water dropped from the loose pony tail. "How's the leg?"

"Hurts like hell, feels like I've been shot again." You replied, watching him as he stopped just in front of you, making you feel small.

"Again?" He asked, his eye brows raising.

"Yeah, I'm not photographer." You admitted even though he knew this.

"Want to tell me who you really are?"

"My name is y/n, it's the first time I've ever actually used my real name. I'm an assassin for hire, I've been at this for as long as I can remember, well before I was an adult." You replied, you looked down at your feet suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I've was hired a while to kill the man the world knew as the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes. I knew the name, and I knew the legend."

He remained quiet as you spoke, and you could see by his feet that he didn't move.

"I don't know the name of the man that hired me, not his actual name. Just like all the others they use fake name and I was being paid a lot of money to do this." You sighed, slowly you lifted your head and allowed your eyes to meet his, tears clung to the corners. "I.. I just, after a point I don't know if I started to mess up on purpose or what but the more I got to know you the more I couldn't do it. And I feel horrible."

Tears feel freely from your eyes as you stood before him, Bucky lift his hand and brought it to your cheek, cradling it softly. His thumb swiped across, wiping the tear from your face. He took a deep breath and nodded before reaching and grabbing your other hand.

"Knowing people were trying to kill you, not knowing where you were, and then seeing you bleeding. That just about killed me." He stated at first. "I can look past the failed attempts of you trying to assassinate me, cause it's what I used to be. But these people that are after you, they would never of let you walk away, even if you had managed to some how kill me. These people are part of the same group that made me, they're called Hydra."

Slowly he walked you over to the couch and sat down. You followed him, taking great care not to disturb the white bandage the encompassed your calf.

"Me, Sam, Tony, Clint, Nat all of us a part of team that take people like them out. And it's your choice, you can either slip away, and hide the rest of your life knowing that there is alaways going to be a chance that they will find you." His eyes never left yours as he spoke. "Or you can join us, Natasha was a spy and assassin with KGB, and I'm a former assassin myself, we could use someone like you. And you have protection and hopefully take out the people that order the hit on me. It's all up to you."

"You don't hate me?" You asked, looking at him in pure confusion.

"Nah, though, I'll give you credit. Nobody has ever tried to kill me using a venomous snake." He smirked.

"Alright, I'll join.”

"Welcome to the Avengers."

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thedcmonshead · 4 years

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All’s Fair...

WHO: Ra’s and Stephanie @itspciler

MENTIONED: Tim Drake @cleverbxrd, Bruce Wayne @xwxynxs

WHERE: An old meatpacking facility in Gotham’s industrial district.

WHEN: The day after Stephanie’s kidnapping.

WHAT: Stephanie wakes up to find out who took her and why. Ra’s uses the opportunity to make a statement to the Batfamily, and to get under Stephanie’s skin long after she’s sent home.

TWS: Oh, man. Kidnapping, torture, predatory behavior, blood, threats of grievous bodily injury (not enacted), psychological manipulation and trauma.

RA’S: He’d never been the type to take ’no’ for an answer.

He liked to consider it a virtue, despite the trouble it had landed him and those he cared about in on more than one occasion–it had been a refusal to back down from a challenge that had led him to the discovery of the Lazarus Pits in the first place, all those centuries ago, and refusal to listen to Sora that had led to the events that had transpired at the young prince’s healing. That had been, as far as Ra’s had ever been concerned, his fault, if not in the way the sultan and his pig of a son had tried to paint it.

But in all those centuries since, his refusal to accept ‘no’ had been a saving grace. There was no resource out of his reach, now, no item he couldn’t obtain, no person he couldn’t sway or break.

Not even, despite what the boy seemed to hope, Timothy Drake. The boy would become his Heir–it was, as far as he was concerned, an inevitability. The only thing that was in question was how difficult the boy was going to make it for him, and how much pain Ra’s would have to cause in turn to get him to yield.

He was no fool. He knew the training Batman gave to his children, knew that trying to break Tim’s will by attacking the boy himself was both unlikely to work and likely far too difficult compared to the other options–the boy’s genius and tactical abilities was a large part of why Ra’s wanted him, after all. And it wouldn’t do to damage the boy too much.

But the boy did get so very attached to his friends. Stephanie Brown, it seemed, even more so than most. Which was why the young woman was here, wrists bound above her head and head slumped down as Ra’s waited for the sedative his men had attacked her with to wear off.

He didn’t have to wait long.

STEPH: There was a certain sense of contentment Steph had been filled with upon leaving the manor. She had been staying there with Tim since they got together, likely being on the too clingy side but she liked to wake up Tim’s entirely too cute sleepy face and be around him while catching up on her own work. Eventually she knew she had to go back to her tiny apartment, do some laundry, and let Tim have some space. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to go, but it was fine.

She really should have expected that things couldn’t stay just that: fine.

Her phone and keys had dropped from her grip the moment someone grabbed her outside her door, lashing out violently, elbow connecting with a stomach and foot slamming down on someone’s toes, but it was useless. The needle plunged into her skin and the sedative was delivered, her body swaying and eyes drooping before she descended into darkness.

The girl’s head was pounding the moment she came to. Her stomach rolled and she had to take a few moments to gather her wits about herself before it registered her wrists were bound above her head and she was definitely not anywhere near her apartment. Don’t panic. It was a cardinal bat rule, panicking got you nowhere. Steph took a few steadying breaths, raising her head and opening her eyes.

Ra’s Al Ghul, of course.

The snarl was instantaneous. Steph spat at his feet and glared. “What the hell do you want, you fucking asshole?” She snapped, jerking roughly at the bondage around her wrists in hopes of finding any sort of give or a way she could escape. Her stomach dropped down to her feet and she sucked in a sharp breath; Tim. “If you touched him then I’ll kill Batman’s cardinal rule myself.”

RA’S: Well, that was an amusing surprise. Ra’s didn’t bother biting back the grin that curled across his face in response to the immediate flare of fury the girl lashed out with. "Oh, my, and hear I’d heard you were the sweet one,“ Ra’s drawled, clasping his hands behind his back and regarding her smugly. "I do believe you just answered your own question–quite correctly, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, I haven’t touched him yet.” He smiled, a bright expression that didn’t match up to his words or their surroundings. "He’s a bit slippery to get on his own, and the last time I tried, I got a base blown up for my trouble. This time I thought I’d have him come to me. Hence why you’re here.“

He paced forward, taking the girl by the chin and forcing her to hold his gaze, fingers digging bruises into her jaw. "Timothy may want little more than to stay away from me, but one of those few things is to keep me away from his loved ones. If he knows I have you, knows that you’re being hurt because of him, he’ll throw himself at my feet to keep you safe. And you know it, don’t you, Miss Brown?”

An assassin entered from behind him with a tripod, and Ra’s ignored the man as he began setting it up. “Of course, we’ll have to get the message to our little songbird first. I’m sure he’d figure it out on his own, eventually, but I think I’ve given the boy more than enough time to evaluate my proposition. I’m not particularly inclined to give him any more.”

STEPH: Steph didn’t bother to stop the glare on her face despite the dread creeping up her spine. “I live to crush men’s expectations of me.” She snapped, eyes narrowed and flickering around to try to take in her surroundings and get any sort of clue where she could possibly be. The overwhelming sense of doom was pressing down on her, making it almost hard to breathe through the panic that threatened to overcome her. “That’s because he’s smarter than you’ll ever dream to be, asshole.”

Jolting back, the girl tried to yank her face out of his bruising grip and snarled. The crippling guilt and dread took hold of Steph’s heart. She knew he was right and hated it. If she had been better, been more aware maybe she could have gotten away, or at least got a text to one of the bats. This is why she was a failed Robin, a failed Batgirl. The thought made tears sting at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, especially not in front of him.

Staring at Ra’s for a long moment, not bothering to reply to his monologuing, Steph jerked forward and spit right in his face. “Fuck you, you absolute nut.” She said harshly. “He’ll never take you up on whatever insane idea you’ve formulated in that wonky brain of yours. I’d rather take whatever shit you insist on throwing at me then ever letting him even consider the shit you have planned.”

RA’S: Modern young women and their resentment of men. Perpetually tiresome–he hadn’t liked it when it had started showing up in his own daughters, and he particularly didn’t like it in a prisoner. He oughtn’t be surprised, though; anyone that Timothy hung around with for too long was apt to have the boy’s same resentment for authority and antagonistic style to dealing with losing control. "Smarter? No, no. Smart in a different way, I will give you that–which is, of course, why I want him.“ Amongst other things.

He was satisfied, for a few moments, at the sight of tears welling in the girl’s eyes, but then she was spitting in his face, and Ra’s grip on her chin dropped down to her throat. While he wiped his face with his other hand, that one squeezed. Centuries of training and use of the Pits had lent him strength enough to strangle someone with one hand, if he so desired, but he let her have just enough air to stay conscious. At least, until his other hand came slamming into her stomach, forcing what air she’d been dragging in from her lungs.

"The detective will take me up on my offer, because he will have no choice,” Ra’s snarled, leaning in. "I’ll tell you what–I’ll even let you see your little boyfriend give himself to me, just so you can have that image in your head any time you think of him. Him yielding to me because of a stupid little girl he thought he could have when I already laid my claim. And he knew it would be useless, too–he could have gone for someone strong, someone better-trained, but he picked you. You made it so easy for us to get a hold of you, he can’t have expected any less. Perhaps that’s why he chose you–the team won’t miss out if you don’t come back alive.“

STEPH: The satisfaction had lasted all of ten seconds before the fingers closed around her throat and squeezed. She jerked uselessly, and a whine escaped her as her body thrashed in an attempt to break the man’s touch. Black spots were starting to dance in her vision, then came relief, sucking in all the oxygen she could get. That is, until Ra’s hand slammed against her stomach and all air left her once more. She gasped and her chest hitched uselessly until her lungs remembered how to work and she gasped in all the air she could manage.

Ra’s face was entirely too close to Steph’s and despite the bruises forming around her throat and how shaken she felt at nearly being strangled until she passed out, she snarled and bared her teeth at him. His words were meant to hurt, to barb at her until she bled and lost all hope in Tim, in the bats, but despite the sting, she ignored it. "You’re one sick creep, Ra’s Al Ghul.” Steph managed to finally choke out, regardless of the harsh sting in her throat. “I bet it just eats you up inside that he can’t fucking stand you. That you left those scars on him and that not him, but we all want to see you taken down. He’ll do it do. If anyone can do, it’s him.”

Steph was from Gotham. She was used to villains, used to crime and the potential of getting hurt with her night job, but there was a deep fear in her she was hiding. She was dreading the torture Ra’s may likely inflict on her, the own scars she’d get from this, maybe even a matching one across her cheek like Tim if he was sadistic enough to do just that. It didn’t matter. Steph could do it, endure it. Anything to keep his grubby paws off of Tim. “Give me your worst, old man. You’re not touching him.”

RA’S: It was a pittance of recompense, feeling her spasm under his grip, listening to her choke for air. Fortunate, then, that he had plenty of time to punish her, for spitting on him and for Tim.

Her words earned a sneer, Ra’s leaning in to speak into her ear. “Eats me up? Oh, Miss Brown, you truly have no idea,” he breathed. “There isn’t a single part of my immortal soul that feels anything but glee at seeing those scars. Seeing my marks on him.” He pulled back, dropped his hand from her throat. “You will never know that feeling, I’m afraid. Because he will be coming with me.”

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a sheath covered in intricate silver inlay. He circled behind Stephanie, drew the blade out with a snick. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave you some marks of your own to remind you of him. Of me.”

The blade sliced along her shoulder, the skin pulled open immediately despite the blade’s sharpness by the stretched position of her arms. “We have hours until I’m to meet him. We’ll give him something as pathetic to look at as your fighting skills, hm?”

STEPH: There was a grimace on the blonde’s face, stomach churning at his disgusting words. “You’re fucking sick. He’s not coming. I won’t let him. I’d rather you mark me up just like you did him than ever let you touch him. I would walk through hell and back for him. This is nothing.” She swallowed hard the moment the fingers finally left her throat, the moment of relief short lived as soon as she sees the blade taken out. Her blood turned to ice, dread crawling up her spine and rendering her momentarily frozen.

The muffled whine was out before Steph could stop it, biting down roughly on her bottom lip in attempt to keep it quiet, feeling the skin split open and blood start trickling down her skin. She let out a few shuddery breaths, trying not to shake with the fresh pain blooming across her shoulder. “You have a sick sense of humor, Ra’s. I’m from Gotham. You’re about as scary as a house cat.” She got out through gritted teeth, through the burn in her shoulders and arms, increased tenfold by the cut on her body.

RA’S: “Fortunately for you, my dear, it’s out of your hands. Otherwise you’d be going back to your family in pieces.” It was so very satisfying, the way the girl’s eyes went wide in fear the moment the blade came out, but not nearly as satisfying as the whine the first slash to her skin brought from her lips.

“Oh? I’ll keep that in mind.” Ra’s dragged the blade along her ribcage, next, breath warm against the back of her neck as her shirt and skin sliced open again. “Perhaps I should give the two of you some matching scars. He has quite a number. Not as careful as he ought to be.”

The next slice mimicked one of Tim’s scars with eerie accuracy, a stripe of crimson welling up across her collarbone as he circled back to her front. “Do let me know when you get bored, will you, Miss Brown? I have plenty of tools we can play with before my meeting with your boyfriend.”

STEPH: The mere thought made her stomach roll, fingers curling up into tight fists above her head where they stayed tied up uselessly. The fear was enough to practically choke her with it. She swallowed hard, unrelenting in her hard glare at the man before her. She had to be strong. For Tim. For all the Bats, but mostly, for herself. The blade sliced into her ribs, pained noise being pushed through her lips and breath hitching. Her skin felt like it was on fire with each slash. It was excruciating.

Steph wanted to cry out, but didn’t want to give Ra’s the satisfaction of it. The slashes were nothing compared to what he could do, what she was sure he had planned. “Cute.” She bit out through gritted teeth. “Might as well do the cheek one next if you really want us to match.” The snarky words were out and she wanted desperately to stuff them back into her mouth, swallowing hard. Sometimes she was too much of a smartass for her own good.

“Bored? Me? Never. I’m having a great time. Do you do this as a leisurely activity for all your brainwashed idiot assassins? Just curious. I mean. They’d have to be pretty stupid to think you’re someone worth following after all.”

RA’S: There were few things he enjoyed more than watching people’s instincts war with each other. Brown’s instincts to lash out with sharp tongue, to make herself seem powerful with confident words, fought clearly enough against her instinct to self preservation–the words she herself uttered often had her wincing in immediate, fear-laced regret. Action, equal and opposite reaction. Confidence and doubt.

“Do you know, Miss Brown,” he began, shifting the knife in his grip, “That I used to be a doctor? A surgeon, even, on the days it was necessary. Back then there was no difference in education, you see–the butcher down the street could serve as a surgeon in a pinch. For obvious reasons, I was preferred.”

The hand with the knife came up to cup her cheek, one finger wrapped around the tip of the blade to keep it controlled. Wouldn’t do to put her eye out on accident, not when they were so very expressive. Not given this.

“It’s easy, in the blur of battle, to get lost in the adrenaline, hm? To move on instinct, to strike out with unknown purpose but to knock one’s opponent back a step. I prefer being rather more deliberate with where I cut.”

His other hand shot up, and his thumb hooked around her chin as a finger pressed between her lips, forced her jaw down and held it in an iron grip before the thought to bite could even cross her mind. “I have half a mind to take your tongue, Miss Brown. It would probably do both of us a favor.”

STEPH: The fear was ever present. Ra’s was a dangerous man, Steph knew this, but he seemed to enjoy when she reacted as such. She could hear Tim in the back of her head, telling her to stop and have some goddamn self-preservation, but she knew it’d all end the same. Well, she had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how she reacted it was going to end the same way, bloody and her injured as some sort of sick present to Tim.

The flare of anger was instantaneous. Her eyes hardened and she watched Ra’s cup her cheek, resisting the urge to flinch away. “You talk a lot. It really is rather boring. Are you going to tell me about your childhood trauma next? Get in line, we’re all traumatized from shitty fathers, bad conditions, et cetera,” she deadpanned, a strangled noise coming from her the instant her mouth was forced open.

That is probably exactly what he meant. Steph didn’t know if this was a good idea in the slightest, but it gave Tim more time. To figure out a plan, to avoid whatever hell inducing idea Ra’s had for her boyfriend. She was a fighter, always had been even before her vigilante days. So there was a moment, a split-second decision, Steph’s hard eyes not flinching away from Ra’s. Her foot came down and slammed onto his, digging her heel in as hard as she could.

RA’S: She had the same attitude as Timothy, but not the same intelligence or self-preservation instincts. Not by half. Ra’s hissed, drew back from her and glared with a ferocity that would have any of his own men dropping to their knees in supplicant apology.

Ra’s considered the girl in silence, for a long moment, before finally moving to the winch in the wall. The building they were currently in had once been a meat packing facility, which meant plenty of useful equipment, for his purposes, and ingrained bloodstains more than ample to hide the new ones.

Her feet were pulled off the ground, leaving her weight to pull on her shoulders and wrists, where they were bound. Liable to be pulled out of their sockets, if he left her there long enough.

The smile sent her way was venomous. “That’s quite enough of that, I think.” The cuts would be pulling even more, in the new position. “Now, I think I’ll let one of my brainwashed idiot assassins keep you company for a while, hm? After all–I have a surgery to prep for.”

STEPH: Steph glared right back him despite the intense urge to shrink back and try to avoid the ferocity coming off of him in waves. Her heart was racing, the silence dragging for entirely too long. Then he was moving and she could feel her heart drop right down to her feet. The dread increased by tenfold. Her already incredibly stiff and sore arms screamed in protest the moment she was lifted off the ground, feet kicking and attempting to find purchase, only to make her wounds bleed further and ache in burning pain. She sobbed out in pain for the first time, not able to muffle it in the slightest.

The girl’s blood turned to ice, the words ringing around in her head. “No, no—” The panic threatened to choke her with what that could mean. She was sure it was what he wanted to accomplish, but the fight or flight instinct was draining out of her and leaving her with an overwhelming sense of doom instead. Her head was spinning with how much her body was screaming at her, the pain practically making her nauseous.

Steph just wanted Tim, but also wanted him as far away as possible. The reminder was enough to rekindle the fire that was snuffed out. “Fuck you, Ra’s Al Ghul.” She choked out, not as fierce as she had once been.

RA’S: The kicking would only make it worse, but it was irrepressible. Instinct, to scrabble for purchase, to try to reach for some ledge to alleviate the pain. She wouldn’t find one. She would find her company being kept by a man with an excellent propensity for handing out pain without breaking bones. Well. Too many bones.

Ra’s returned an hour later, with the blue mask of a doctor around his face and nitrile gloves snug around his wrists. Even behind the mask, a smile was evident by the expression at the corner of his eyes. “Miss Brown! How are we feeling?”

He had no intention of taking her tongue, no. But appearances could be even more valuable than the action.

STEPH: Swallowing hard, Steph could feel her fingers trembling as Ra’s left the room and left her in the hands of the assassin who looked entirely too pleased to have the reigns handed over to him. “Just you and me, ugly. I’m sure this is just thrill—” Her words were cut off by a fist to the face, a loud cry of pain as her nose immediately started gushing blood.

She lost time of it all, the hour Ra’s was gone was filled with pain and blood. Her left eye was swollen shut, likely already bruising from the ferocity of the hit she had been delivered. There was blood dried over her mouth and chin, her breathing considerably most labored due to one too many hits to her chest. She knew she had a few cracked, if not broken, ribs. Likely, at least one of her shoulders had to be out of the socket, but she couldn’t even tell. There was just so much pain she was having a hard time telling what hurt and what didn’t.

The moment Ra’s stepped into the room, donning gloves and a face mask, her stomach churned violently. A broken sob fell from Steph’s lips and she shook her head weakly, it flopping forward almost uselessly as the room spun from her movements. “No, no, no—” she groaned weakly, eyes shut tightly. “No.”

RA’S: “Shh, shh.” He closed the door after himself, issued his next order without even looking away from Stephanie. “Let her down. I can hardly do anything with her up like that." Stephanie was winched down to the floor–all the way down, arms still suspended above her while Ra’s watched her be lowered to her knees. He grabbed the girl’s chin, again, this time almost gentle.

"My, you are a mess, dijaaj. Is there something you want to ask me?”

STEPH: The relief off of her arms had the girl sobbing in utter relief, practically slumping back when her knees hit the ground. The room was spinning, black spots dancing in front of her vision, her whole world threatening to fade into darkness once more. She let out a harsh breath, looking up at Ra’s when he grabbed her chin, grimacing at the feel of his hands on her skin.

Steph was having a hard time even keeping what day it was straight in her mind, blood loss and pain making her mind scrambled. This felt like a trap. She couldn’t figure out how, but it was totally a trap. Right?

“What could I possibly want to ask you?” She slurred out, the blood and tears on her face and her words tripping over each other not reaching the bite she would want in it. There was the lingering fear of what could happen to her making it sound entirely too meek. She was so tired. So very tired, but she had to keep going. Tough it out, keep Tim safe.

RA’S: “What indeed, little one,” he murmured, patting her cheek. She was clearly barely conscious, barely present in this conversation at all, let alone up for playing games.

Almost submissive, the tone, there, the way that her gaze had lost much of its heat. “I would take your tongue, for being so sharp. But say something sweet, and maybe I can let you rest, hm? Would you like to rest?”

STEPH: There was a slight flinch away from Ra’s when he patted Steph’s cheek and the mere thought of resting was so very tempting. Her entire body was screaming out in pain, begging her to take the opportunity.

“Yes.” Steph admitted weakly. “But more than anything I want…you to stay the fuck away from Tim.” Her stubborn nature reared its ugly head, her protective nature she held for those she loved dearly giving her one last ditch attempt at this. It was increasingly hard to push through it, but she trucked forward. “What do you want? Is that what you want me to ask? What you gain from hurting me? Do you need the cue for the monologue? Go ahead. Can’t promise I won’t pass out.” She muttered, held flopping tiredly to lean against her aching arm that was still suspended above her. Her eyes screwed shut tightly, tears escaping and trailing down her cheeks.

RA’S: The girl really couldn’t stop herself from talking. Quite the inconvenient affliction for someone intending to fight Gotham’s brand of criminal (she said that Ra’s liked to talk, but clearly she’d never had dealings with Nygma). Ra’s clicked his tongue, brushing at her tears with his thumb. "Tt, no, you already know what I want, as you are so insistent on pointing out. I’m just asking for the magic word, proof that you can manage that tongue of yours so I needn’t take it.“

That didn’t mean he’d be leaving her alone, of course.

STEPH: Sucking in a harsh breath, the girl flinched back as soon as his thumb brushed against her tear stained cheek. "Magic word, huh.” She muttered tiredly, her head spinning. “Is it please? I don’t beg.” She got out, knowing she was definitely making this harder for herself.

There was a quiet sense of doom, of…acceptance. She hated that. “…I want to see him.” Steph whispered after a beat. “Please.” She finally said sincerely, black spots dancing in her vision.

RA’S: “It is, smart girl,” he chuckled, the mockery in the epithet evident. She didn’t beg, she insisted, but then a moment later, she cracked. As he knew she would.

She didn’t beg for what he’d been nudging her toward, but that was alright–he hadn’t been specific, he supposed, and she had done what he wanted. That didn’t mean she would get what she did ask for. "He isn’t here, dijaaj. And I won’t be bringing him to see you–who knows what ideas the boy might get if I did? You’ll just have to keep what you have here, I’m afraid,“ he said, tapping her between the eyes even as he reached into his pocket for a vial. He twisted free the cap, brought it up to her nose. "Breathe in.”

STEPH: Steph shuddered and felt something in her crack, tears starting to slip down her cheeks in earnest. Her bottom lip trembled and she let out a broken sob. “Please. Just—just one time. I don’t…please.” Here she was begging Ra’s Al Ghul of all people just to see Tim. She was sending Tim off to his death. She killed Tim. Why wasn’t she better? A better fighter? A better bat. She didn’t even deserve her Spoiler mantle, let alone any bat related one.

A truly broken sob ripped its way from deep in Steph, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack crawl its way up her spine and shake her to the core. “No, no! Please, just let me see him! One time, please!” She jerked her head back roughly away from the vial beneath her nose, shaking her head rapidly. The whole world tilted on its axis and she swayed, breathing hard and fast through it, trying to not pass out. “Please,” Steph whimpered weakly.

RA’S: There it was, finally. It didn’t matter how strong they started out–Ra’s had centuries of experience in breaking people on his side, and the willpower and time to keep pushing until he could tear down anyone else’s. Ra’s moved his hand around to cup the back of the girl’s head, keeping her from pulling too far away.

“Shh, shh. There’s nothing you can do now, Miss Brown. Perhaps next time you’ll be more careful.” He smirked. "Don’t worry. I’ll leave you that little cheek scar you kept asking for, just so you have a reminder of him instead.“ He tightened his grip, bringing the vial under her nose again. "Now sleep.”

STEPH: Next time you’ll be more careful. The words were ringing in Steph’s ears, her vision blurring with how hard she was crying. Even Ra’s could see she was an absolute failure. The words were on repeat, but nothing turned her stomach and made her heart rip apart more than the mere knowledge she was the death of the love of her life.

“No, no! Please, no—” Steph sucked in a breath rapidly, unable to catch her breath and did just what he requested without intending to. The world around her started to darken around the edges and as it closed in around her, with one last sob she gasped out, “Timmy.” Then it all turned to dark.

#f: discord #d: all's fair #c: stephanie brown #tw: kidnapping #tw: torture #tw: predatory behavior #tw: blood #tw: threats #tw: grievous bodily injury #tw: psychological manipulation #tw: trauma

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craftyshipper · 5 years

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Bring Me Home, Chapter 12: Scars

Shouto walked wearily down the sidewalk, the male's hand pressed firmly against his back pushing him forward as if Shouto couldn't walk on his own. This, Hitman, or that's how he had introduced himself, knew enough to take back alleyways and side streets that weren't populated by very many people.

From what he had heard, Gou and Noboru had sent this man to kill him. This, alongside them kidnapping Kira, there is no way he isn't who Momo says he is. He still had a smidgen of doubt when they were at the hospital but with this new development, he is now leaning to Momo's side of the story.

"Where are we going?" The red and white-haired male inquired, his eyes flicking to the side to eye he villain.

"To an abandoned area," he simply stated, "I don't need witnesses."

So, he IS planning on killing me. Shouto inwardly sighed with frustration. And I can't do a damn thing about it, not with these bracelets suppressing my quirk.

The Hitman shoved him forward again, causing Shouto to stumble before they came to a stop outside an old run-down factory. He turned to the man who just had a sneer on his face before he used the gun to gesture for him to go inside. The meaning of his actions loud and clear.

The fire and ice user walked into the deserted building, his heart skipping a beat in his chest when the door shut behind them once Hitman walked in after him. The silence was almost deafening as Hitman came around to stand in front of him.

Does this guy even have a quirk? Shouto thought If not, it would be an even match since I can’t use mine. But then again, I don’t know what kind of skills this guy has.

“You must have really pissed off this guy Noboru,” Hitman stated, “he wants me to bring him your head once I take your life.”

Shouto was taken aback, Noboru is a psychotic lunatic, and he regretted ever doing anything to help that scumbag with his plans. Although he had no idea what those plans were, Shouto had only ever been ordered to go get the samples of blood and any other quirk research along with it. Never had he questioned what it was to be used for.

“He’s the one that took advantage of me,” Shouto stated in an attempt to stall for time, “I’m the one that should be pissed.”

“Whatever your quarrels, it’s none of my concern,” Hitman stepped closer, “he pays me to do a job, and I do that job, no questions asked.”

“You’re despicable.”

“Enough talk.” That was it as Hitman seemingly vanished.

Shouto's eyes widened as Hitman appeared at his side and slammed his fist into his face, sending him flying to the ground before disappearing again. All the fire and ice user could do was raise his arms in defense while Hitman came at him again.

What the hell is with this guy?

Hitman barreled into Shouto with astounding speed, the killer not hesitating or pulling punches as he went at him again and again. Another punch sent Shouto to his knees, holding his stomach in an attempt to stop the pain radiating through his body.

I can’t fight him like this. Shouto rolled out of the way as the man slammed a fist into the ground with blinding speed. He’s way too fast.

“Stay still, I’ll make it quick!”

“Yeah right,” the red and white-haired male muttered under his breath as he jumped backward at the last minute when a knife slashed just an inch from his face. He’s using weapons now? His mind was racing to come up with a strategy when he fell to the ground, sliding back on his elbows just to avoid the knife that Hitman had been attempting to stab him with.

“Dodge me or not, you’re still going to die tonight!” Hitman lunged at Shouto, slamming him into the wall, holding him by his neck. “This is the end.” Hitman stated, raising his arm and prepared to strike, his eyes turning a terrifying crimson before a feeling of helplessness overcame the fire and ice user.

Shouto's eyes widened. I can’t move! How many quirks does this guy have?!

“You know it pays to have had known All for One before he was killed all those years ago,” Hitman smirked, his eyes seemingly glowing brighter. “He was generous enough to have provided a few extra quirks for me, of course without becoming a mindless monster that is.”

Who? The fire and ice user was confused. All for One?

“Say good night Todoroki.”

Shouto wanted to tense up, to prepare for the blow that he wouldn’t be able to dodge just as an explosion forced them apart. He fell to his knees, the world spinning as he tried to catch his breath. He rolled out of the way of falling debris and scrambled behind a wall to get out of Hitman's view. He couldn’t let himself be paralyzed again.

His heart hammered in his chest from the lack of air and close call he had just seconds before. Cursing the bracelets around his wrists, he attempted to slip one off, scratching up his wrists on the process.

“Shouto!” He paused then peered around the wall at the call of his name, witnessing the ones that called him their friend begin stepping through the new opening on the wall.

Momo, or Creati, her hero name if he remembered correctly, was the one his gaze stopped on. Her eyes filled with a fiery determination as she stepped forward to confront Hitman. At least she is alright, his memory flashing to her slamming into the wall before he shook his head of the image.

When Shouto failed to respond to them, a worried look overcame her features, the determination dwindling just the slightest. Momo looked straight at the man that caused this mess.

“Where is he?” She demanded in a tone that seemed so malicious compared to the voice she used around Kira.

“So angry Creati,” Hitman taunted as he walked towards her, not even fazed by her threatening tone, “you need to relax.” And he vanished.

Momo felt something into her back, sending her skidding to the floor and scraping up her elbows as Jirou and Mina called out to her friend before springing into action.

The creation hero picked herself up off the floor and created a bow staff from her arm, quickly charging into the fray as her friends did the same. Hitman didn’t hesitate to make a mockery of them as he vanished and reappeared several times, but not before delivering a blow to whoever happened to be closest to him. The latest victim being Iida, whose speed didn’t stand a chance against the man that was able to give them the slip so easily.

“Damn it,” Uraraka cursed, “if I could get a hand on him, I can stop him from moving.”

“Would that still work if he has a quirk that allows him to basically teleport?” Tokoyami inquired.

“I don’t think he’s teleporting,” Momo stated as she came to stand next to her friends, “he’s moving so fast that it makes it look that way.”

“So, what do we do?” Ojirou asked as Bakugo took a shot at attacking the male, only to have himself thrown to the ground.

Midoriya and Momo each had a look of thoughtfulness before quickly being interrupted when Hitman appeared at Midoriya’s side, slashing at the One for All user, knocking him to the ground. The green-haired male quickly recovered and landed next to Kirishima and Kaminari.

“Foolish heroes!”

Hitman came before all of them, a malicious smile on his lips as he stared with watchful eyes. When his pupils began to glow, that was all it took, the deep crimson taking over and paralyzing any who looked into them.

“This quirk is very useful for my profession, it’s almost similar to the hero killer’s quirk except I don’t need your blood,” Hitman nearly snickered manically, “mine work’s like a hypnotic spell instead.”

Momo and the others were frozen in their steps, eyes wide as they stared into the red orbs of their enemy, none of them being spared Hitman’s ability.

“It’s what makes me such a good killer.”

Bakugo inwardly cursed as he attempted to command his body to move but to no avail. His eyes staring hopelessly towards his friends from his position and what made it worse, Hitman had turned his attention towards Momo. He knew what was coming, the knife that manifested from the man’s hand was poised to strike her.

Shouto, finally having regained his strength and full mobility peered behind the wall. What he saw made his blood run cold. Hitman had paralyzed all of them and currently, his arm was raised above Momo's head.

“Shit!”

Shouto clawed at the cuffs again, his wrists now raw and bleeding from his attempts to rip the metal from his wrists. He wasn’t even sure how bad the damage to his wrists was. But at that moment, he didn’t care, he has to save them. He has to save her. When he felt the weight finally slip from his hands, a sense of relief overcame him. Sure, his wrists were torn to shreds but now he could use his quirk!

With a speed he hadn’t realized he had, he shot to his feet and stepped around the wall before using his ice work to shoot himself forward. He appeared in front of Momo with his arm sheathed in ice, effectively blocking the blade. Unfortunately, Hitman had put all of his strength behind that punch, fully intending to kill Momo, and had forced Shouto to fly back into the raven-haired beauty instead.

Luckily though, Shouto's sudden interference was enough to break the others out of the paralysis. Midoriya and Bakugo not hesitating in attacking Hitman once they had been freed. The villain, not expecting it, had been slammed into the ground by Midoriya while Bakugo activated his explosion onto the man once the green-haired hero jumped out of the way.

Shouto moved to cover Momo when the blast from Bakugo caused stray debris to scatter across the room. Once they were clear, he stood and quickly helped the female to her feet and turning towards the assassin.

“Don’t look him in the eyes!” Momo shouted but it didn’t take long before Shouto used his ice to pin the man’s feet to the ground after the killer got back to his feet, giving Tokoyami the opportunity to place a set of quirk nullifying cuffs on his wrists.

“You think this is over?!” Hitman didn’t miss a beat, pulling a small grenade from a small pouch attached to his leg. “We’ll be seeing each other again.”

“Get down!” Midoriya yelled as Hitman pulled the pin and dropped the grenade.

The explosion sent a few of them flying while others hunkered down on the ground. By the time they regrouped, each of them with their own cuts and bruises, Hitman was gone.

____________

Shouto flinched slightly as the paramedic dabbed his wrists with a cotton swab that had been moistened with peroxide. The damage he had done to himself ripping those bracelets off was minor but they still needed treatment to avoid infection. Once the paramedic finished cleaning the wound and adding an antibiotic cream, he grabbed some gauze and wrapped it around each of Shouto‘s wrists.

“Change these as necessary,” the male stated, “have someone help you put them on a little tight so the pressure will help with the bleeding, you should be good in a few days.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, have a good night.”

Once the medic walked away, Shouto stepped back from the ambulance. Reaching up to touch his nose where there was now dried blood from when Hitman had punched him earlier, he sighed and attempted to wipe it from his face.

Momo stepped forward when she noticed he was finished with the medic, she watched him for a minute until his gaze turned towards her. Feeling a bit embarrassed from his stare, she forced away the blush creeping onto her cheeks and cleared her throat.

“Um, do you need some help?” She offered a towel that she had created, having gotten it wet with the water bottle one of her medics gave her before they left.

“Uh, sure.” Shouto shrugged while Momo poured a bit of the water onto the towel before reaching up to his height.

“May I?”

He nodded and she began to wipe away the dried blood, along with some of the dirt and grime that had gotten onto his face from his scuffle with Hitman.

“How are you doing?” She asked as she pulled away, the towel still gripped tightly in her hand.

“Sore.”

“Shall we go home then?”

The way she said it sent a feeling of warmth through him. She is referring to her home as his home too and he hadn’t even agreed to stay with her. But as things were now, how could he not? He wanted this, he wanted to try being this Shouto that all of them claimed that he was. He wanted his memories back. How could he ever make her happy if he can’t even remember what made her fall in love with him, to begin with?

“Um, shouldn’t I get replacement bracelets from the police or something?”

“No.” Momo said it in such a firm and irritated tone that he feared he had done something wrong. “None of this would have happened if you had been able to use your quirk from the beginning, so I’m going to talk to Tsukauchi about it.”

“Oh.” Shouto placed his hand on the back of his neck. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me Shouto,” Momo smiled sadly then, “I’d do anything if it meant protecting you.”

The sadness in her tone made him wonder if she felt guilty for not being able to save him in the past. But at that moment, he didn’t feel he had the right to ask.

________

Momo sighed as she walked out of Kira’s room, finally having put the little girl to sleep after the events of today and now the creation hero just wanted to fall onto her own bed and pass out. Thankfully Rei had agreed to watch her while she went with her teammates to rescue Shouto. She was currently passed out on the couch and Momo didn’t have the heart to wake the woman from the sleep that she needed.

“Um, Momo?”

Shouto’s voice called out from the guest room that he was in, he sounded so shy to say her name, almost like he wasn’t allowed to. Making a mental note to ask him about it, she stepped towards the room, noticing the open door and stepped inside.

She should have expected it, but it still caught her off guard to see him completely shirtless, his towel tossed onto the bed as he struggled with the gauze he was trying to wrap around his wrists.

“Oh! I-I'm sorry!” She quietly shrieked and turned around, her hands coming up to her burning cheeks. She felt a bit of annoyance shoot through her from her reaction. It’s not the first time she’s seen him without a shirt, but it had been so long and she felt like she intruded on his privacy.

“I didn’t think me being shirtless would bother you,” Shouto said as she made a move to grab a shirt that had been lying on the bed, “I mean...”

She knew he was referring to the picture he had seen when they were at the hospital and she had to mentally slap herself. Quickly composing herself she turned to the red and white-haired male, with what she hoped was a straight face and walked over to him. Momo held out her hand for the white fabric and made quick work of wrapping his wrists again. The shower he had taken did him some good, he looked like the Shouto she had always known.

But before he could turn away, her eyes flew to his chest. “Wait.” She called out to him, eyes widening at the scars he received from the nomu’s claws all those years ago, they were still thick and jagged, but healed and her mind couldn’t help recalling that fateful day.

Shouto watched the array of emotions that played across her face before she looked into his eyes and spoke. “May I?” She gestured towards his torso.

Realizing what she wanted, he hesitated slightly before letting out a shaky breath. Shouto grasped her hand which had begun to shake and placed it onto one of the claw marks. Her fingers moved along the raised skin before moving onto the next one. Her fingers sent shivers down his spine and he felt his cheeks start to heat up from her intimate touch. But he wasn’t afraid, nor did he want to push her away, if anything, he wanted to grab her and hold in his arms until the world stopped spinning. Until the pain stopped.

A quiet sob broke him out of his spell and he looked down at Momo as tears slipped down her cheeks. Her eyes staring at the scars as if she were responsible for them.

“It’s all my fault.” She cried out and looked up into his dual-colored gaze, the tears not letting up as she did so. “I’m so sorry Shouto. I should have done better to save you, I should have been able to protect you, I-”

Strong arms encircled her, bringing her face into his chest, the shock of his actions only stopping her cries for a moment before she completely lost herself to her grief and collapsed in his hold. His strength the only thing stopping her from falling to the ground. She cried for his death, his sudden resurrection and for all the time they lost over the years.

“I don’t want to lose you like that again.” Momo sniffled into his shoulder as he moved to sit on the bed, not letting her go for a second.

“You won’t.” He said with conviction.

And those words only made her cry harder.

_______

SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!! HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT!!!

#todomomo #shouto and momo #craftyshipper fanfiction #todoroki and yaoyorozu

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lesbianmothership · 5 years

Text

Come Back To Me (PART 1)

I originally wanted to post the whole thing in one part but its become a lot longer and in depth than I originally planned so this is part one of probably a couple different parts to come. I like writing angst so let me know whatchya think!

Natasha Romanoff x reader fanfiction

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of torture and violence.

Word Count: 2092

_________________________

“Come back to me” your girlfriend of three years says as she rests her forehead against your own. Hands cupped around your neck, just under your jaw.

“Relax Tash,” you smile pecking her lips. “It’s a simple extraction mission. In and out no problem. I do this all the time, you should know.” You wink, earning a tug on your ear.

The redhead beauty rolls her eyes, “You and Clint are never going to let go of that. It was one time!” Natasha Romanoff, the deadliest assassin in the world turned S.H.E.I.L.D. agent hiding her face in the crook of her girlfriend’s neck. Not many get to see this vulnerable side of her. To those outside of the Avengers and yourself she is closed off, cold hearted and will take down her enemy by any means. “You know I worry Y/N. All extractions are dangerous. Why else would the asset need to get out of there? You’re everything to me and if I lose you… don’t think I won’t beat your ass.”

“And you’re everything to me but I got this. You have nothing to worry about, I’m the best of the best.” You give her a cocky grin knowing nothing you say will actually relieve her of her worry but at least you could get her to smile before you depart.

A quick knock on the door of the room you’re in lets you know that the Quinjet and your team are ready to go.

“That’s my cue,” but before you can pull away Natasha grabs you by the collar and tugs you in for a deep kiss.

“You do anything stupid that gets you hurt and I’m holding out for a month,” she warns after she pulls away.

“Well that hardly seems fair,” you complain throwing your arms down to your side like a child. “I’d like to negotiate those terms.”

Another knock on the door. “Doesn’t seem like we have the time моя любовь” Natasha smirks as she watches her beautiful, bad ass girl walk out.

__________________________

What was supposed to be a simple extraction mission had gone to shit very fast. The intel you had been given was false. The asset you were to extract from the Hydra base was already dead and the whole thing was a trap. They knew you were coming the entire time.

The moment you stepped into the base bullets were flying. You and your team tried your best to get a handle on the situation but it was obvious from the start that you were outgunned. At this point there was no getting out of it either, you were surrounded and everyone was coming up on their last rounds of ammunition.

“Ramirez is down, gunshot wound to shoulder and chest, Leroy and Shaw are dead ma’am... We need a plan,” your second in command, Smitty, informed you.

“Fuck!” you ran a hand through your hair trying to regain your composure. The weight of the situation hit you hard. Your team, your responsibility which meant as team leader their deaths were on you. It was a part of the job; losing people and you all knew what you had signed up for but it was never easy when it actually happened. You thought about your options but you really only had one viable option where you came out alive, however, it was the very last thing you wanted to do.

“Weapons down!” you ordered.

“Wait what? Y/L/N are you serious?” Jakobs ducked down behind the barrier your team was huddled behind after letting out another round of bullets.

“Are you sure about this?” Smitty asked.

“No… but what other options do we have? We either die here or surrender and hope S.H.E.I.L.D. will send another rescue party.” God you hoped you weren’t making the wrong decision here.

“How the fuck are we going to get them to stop firing at us though?” Jillian asked as she tried to stop Ramirez from bleeding out.

“I got an idea, a really bad one but I think it could work… hand me some of that gauze,” Jill threw some in your direction and quickly you tied off the white fabric to the barrel of your assault rifle before lifting it and waving it around above your head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jakobs pinched the bridge of his nose “We are never hear the end of this when we get back to headquarters.”

“Headquarters is the reason were in this mess in the first place. Someone fucked up real bad and whoever it is I swear I’m going to have their head,” Smitty growled.

“Less talk about how this happened and let’s focus on how were going to get out of this. Trust me I want the head of whoever is responsible for this as much as you guys but at the moment we need to make sure we keep our own heads alright?” You flinch as a bullet hits the base of your rifle. “Hey nimrods! Don’t you know that a white flag means we surrender!” You yell out.

The Hydra agents seemed to have finally figured out that you’ve given up as their firing ceased and you heard their approaching footsteps. Moments later you and your team were completely surrounded at gunpoint.

“Ah shit.. Natasha is going to kill me-“ you groaned right before everything went black as you were hit over the head with the butt of a rifle.

__________________________

“Maria… what do you mean you haven’t heard from them yet? Shouldn’t they have the asset secured by now and be back up in the air?” It had been 18 hours since you left for your extraction mission and you were due to radio back hours ago. Natasha was pacing back and forth in communications room with Maria and your team’s handlers.

“Any number of things could be the reason they haven’t made contact yet. They were on radio silence to begin with to hold cover, and they could still be trying to stay under the radar if they’re not in safe airspace yet. We don’t know the situation yet Nat but we don’t see reason to worry yet. Y/N’s team is the best extraction team we have and I have full confidence in their safe return.” Maria tried to reassure the ex-assassin.

“Something doesn’t feel right about this Maria… I know Y/N, she would have radioed back by now already even if they weren’t in safe air space yet. Fuck its been hours.” Natasha was pinching the bridge of her nose. It was protocol to remain in radio silence until the mission was secure but Y/N wasn’t exactly one to always follow protocol. Hell, last mission you were on you connected your team’s comms to your iPod so you could listen to Tequila by The Champs.

“Alright we’ll send another team in-“

“I’m going with.” Natasha snapped, leaving the room to go get ready before anyone could argue with her.

“Alrighty then,” Maria clasped her hands together before turning back to the handlers. “Keep trying to establish communications from here. We need to figure out what the hell happened.”

__________________________

“Ah fuckin-hell” you groaned. Your head was pounding and as you opened your eyes everything was still dark. They had you blindfolded with your arms cuffed above your head and your feet to the floor. You could feel crusty dried up blood matted into your hair and down the side of your face.

“This ain’t good” you grunted under your breath as you tried to sit up.

“No shit sherlock,” Jakobs to your right responded.

“Are Smitty and Jill with us too?” you asked while trying to stretch out your sore muscles.

“I don’t know. I only woke up a few minutes ago and I can’t see anything. They could still be unconscious or being held in another area.” Jakobs reported with a sigh.

This is bad… really really bad. You thought to yourself. You had no idea where you were and odds are you were transported to different base than the one where you had gotten into this mess. You could tell you weren’t in your gear any more either which meant the tracking devices in them were of no use. If anything, Hydra would send S.H.E.I.L.D. on a wild goose chase once they figured out the mission failed. Hopefully they’ve sent out another team already, although you have no idea how the hell they’re going to find you.

While testing out the strength of the chains around your wrists and feet the door to the room you were in scraped open. The sounds of boots walking towards you made your hair stand on end.

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the light in the room when your blindfold was removed. You were in a small concrete room; no windows just the single thick metal door and camera in the corner, it was only you and Jakob which confused you. Why keep you together yet separate.

“I can see your thoughts on your face,” the man who seemed in charge spoke. He was an ugly feller. Bald, with a long scar that ran from his right temple down to his jaw and wore typical Hydra getup.

“Your friends are more morning people than yourselves. Woke up quite a bit of time ago. You should know they are dead now though. It was clear they didn’t have the information I wanted so they were disposed of,” the bald fucker chuckled to himself.

Seething through your teeth you made a pathetic attempt to lung at the man. To say you were angry was an understatement. You were seeing red. Basically your whole team was wiped out in what was supposed to be a simple mission. You were furious with yourself. With S.H.I.E.L.D. And you wanted to murder the man who had the audacity to stand before you right now a laugh at you struggling in your chains.

“You really should be more appreciative than that agent L/N” You froze when he said your name. “Although they did experience quite a lot of pain beforehand, I made sure their deaths were painless,” He smirked tapping his index finger between his eyebrows. “I truly felt bad for them really. To be tortured like that only for me to figure out they really didn’t have the information I wanted! Security clearance is a funny thing isn’t it?”

Clenching your jaw, you remained silent.

“You see agent L/N, when I figured out I had a mole in one of my bases relaying information back to S.H.E.I.L.D. I was livid! But then I thought hmm maybe I can use this to my advantage because where there is one mole there is a whole system of them,” he crouched down in front of you tucking a stray hair behind your ear much to your dismay. “So, I had him signal to be extracted, then I shot him and now here you are and what you’re going to do for me now is give me the list of all assets and agents you have hidden in Hydra.” He smiled laying it out like it was the simplest of requests.

“Over my dead body,” you spat.

“I had a feeling you were going to say that. No worries you’ll break eventually.”

__________________________

Natasha knew it was bad news when they landed a mile outside the base at the same location where they were able to track down Y/N’s team’s Quinjet. Completely abandoned, not a trace of anyone.

During the short trek to the Hydra base Natasha was getting more and more anxious. She couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in her gut. The closer they got the heavier the feeling weighed down on her. When they got to the entrance Natasha instructed the team that she would follow in behind her. They had no idea what they were walking into.

However, the last thing she expected was a completely empty base. They cleared room by room, went down each hallway and found not a single trace that anyone had ever been there. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner into another hallway that Natasha’s stomach plummeted. Three bodies laid across the floor. Approaching Natasha let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding when she recognized Y/N’s teammates: Ramirez, Leroy and Shaw.

Had she been alone she was sure her legs would have given out but she remained poise in front of the team of agents around her.

“What the fuck happened to you Y/N” Nat whispered under her breath.

#Natasha Romanoff x reader #Black Widow x reader #Marvel #Marvel Fanfiction #Natasha Romanoff fanfiction #Lesbian fanfiction #wlw #lesbian #CBTM

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