#Forgotten Hearts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starry-bi-sky · 9 months ago

Text

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well:

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents.

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill.

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.)

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one.

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself.

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.)

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.)

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe.

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal.

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking.

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter.

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind.

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous.

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own.

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t.

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward.

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”)

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell.

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his.

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it.

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now.

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own.

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother.

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten.

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands.

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely.

It is a fast dream.

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods.

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him.

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal.

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train.

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.)

—---

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again.

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person.

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.)

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird.

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is.

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off.

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom.

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.)

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #danyal al ghul au #amnesiac danyal al ghul au #songs in order of the album: the hartebeest / harpy hare / and the hound / neath the grove is a heart #musician danny has my heart and soul #yes this danyal IS an alternative danny from the other au. an au where things were a little better :) but still sucks #implied good mom talia al ghul #danyal is a momma's boy send tweet #dpxdc ficlet #dpxdc prompts #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #danyal is sTILL five years older than damian in this au #no beta no edits we die like danny fenton #poc danny fentons #i didnt know where to end this :(( i was gonna go on but i blanked. i thought about going into his relationships with his rogues and so on.#but that felt too much like trying to just increase the word count rather than actually writing?? if that makes sense #ugh im gonna have forgotten to include things and im gonna be kicking myself later #morally ambiguous danny whoo! we love to see it #since this was just for fun it doesnt really go into it all that much other than like. it happens. and that danny realizes he's dangerous #phantom in a hazmat suit? nah phantom looking like an assassin >:].#danyal al ghul with damian and his mom: 🥰🌸✨#danyal al ghul with everyone else: 👹🔪#am i heavily implying that clockwork had smth to do with Danyal’s amnesia and appearance by the cabin? 👀 maybe #not enough danyal al ghul aus where him being an assassin actually. has some kind of affect on him

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scarnatlover · 9 hours ago

Text

Yours is in red underlined

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Electrokinesis!Reader

Summary: Years ago, Natasha Romanoff and Y/N Y/L/N, a Red Room guard, shared a forbidden love. Y/N helped Natasha escape, but was captured and brainwashed by HYDRA, losing all memory of their love. Years later, they meet again as enemies, but Natasha still recognizes Y/N as the woman she once loved. Determined to uncover her lost memories, Natasha begins a painful fight to awaken Y/N and free her from HYDRA's influence. Will Natasha be able to rekindle the spark between her and Y/N or will theirs be forgotten hearts forever?

Warnings: dark themes, violence, torture, whipping, restraining, cutting, skin, sewing, brainwashing, blood, gore, name calling, mention of death, fainting.

Fear.

What is fear?.

“Emotional state consisting of a sense of insecurity, confusion and anxiety in the face of a real or imaginary danger or in the face of something or a fact that is or is believed to be harmful: more or less intense depending on the person and the circumstances, it takes on the character of a strong and sudden disturbance, which also manifests itself with physical reactions, when the danger comes unexpectedly, takes you by surprise or in any case appears imminent”: definition of fear

“Again”

It is a primary emotion, present since always in both the human race and the animal kingdom. Like all emotions, fear has an adaptive function, in fact it protects the individual in the face of a danger or a threat (real or imaginary) and is invaluable from the first years of life.

“You were nothing before we found you”.

We refer to fear with different terms based on its degree of intensity: Fear, Anxiety, Fear, Phobia, Panic, Terror and Horror.

Fear is the least intense form of fear and is determined when a situation promises pleasure but, at the same time, also pain: there is the perception of the possibility of losing pleasure, but one still moves towards it. In this case the threat of pain and that of pleasure are equivalent, generating a situation of conflict while waiting for some clue capable of tipping the scales to one side or the other.

Fear emerges when the context is dominated by the threat of pain or its perception: in this case one is pervaded by the desire to escape or in any case to distance oneself from the source of pain, whether real or imaginary. When the anxiety in front of a certain object, animal or event is considerable and cannot be controlled by reason, it is called phobia.

This causes a reaction that is significantly disproportionate to the situation being faced. For this reason, the subject who has phobias carefully avoids all situations that could trigger his anxiety. Therefore, his social life can be significantly affected. Examples include claustrophobia, agoraphobia, and centrophobia. When fear is at its maximum and is charged with a premonition of death, it is called panic. This is defined by Galimberti as an "acute episode of anxiety characterized by emotional tension and intolerable terror that hinders adequate organization of thought and action". The panic situation is related to claustrophobia.

Terror is the extreme form of fear, even more intense than panic, where the impulse to escape is so high that an immediate solution is sought: in this case the individual chooses to retreat inside himself. Terror is a real escape inward, so much so that the muscles can become paralyzed in an attempt to reduce the sensitivity of the organism during the presumed or real agony.

Horror is a feeling of strong fear and disgust aroused by what appears cruel and repugnant in a physical or moral sense. By extension, horror can indicate a fact, an object or a situation that arouses such a feeling.

“You will never be enough”

Many people have common fears, but you. Oh, if only I had only a few. There are so many that you probably don’t even know them all. But no fear you have ever felt can be compared to what you felt in those moments.

In the moments when you were tied to the bed, with ropes that left marks on your wrists, when they pushed your head under water and continued to do so until you passed out, when they left you in a small room without food and water for days. And the memories continue. Those memories that every day, constantly, cloud your mind, make you feel even more angry towards the people who took you. For the conditions in which they made you live. For how they changed you.

—

The footsteps that echoed in the hallway, getting closer and closer to your room, were heavy, full of anger and rage. Somehow, it gave you a very clear idea of what was waiting for you.

Those same footsteps stopped right in front of your door, then slammed it open and entered that small space where you are forced to spend your few free moments.

“Get up” said the hoarse voice of the man in front of you. “You’ve done it big this time, you mutt” he approached, forcefully lifting you to your feet.

You stumbled, but the strong grip the man had on your arm prevented you from falling. The two of you walked in a direction that was now familiar to you. The red door, given by the rust that had formed on it, was getting closer and closer, and with it the consequences of his actions.

The two guards in front of the door moved when they saw you coming and opened the door, both with an evil smile plastered on their faces, knowing exactly what was about to happen to you and ready to hear the noises they would hear.

The guard who had initially escorted you now led you to the center of the room. It had no windows, the only light came from a light bulb attached to the ceiling, right above you, the stone walls almost made you feel the pain that the other test subjects and prisoners had felt and among those screams of pain, you could hear yours too.

The guard made you undress, leaving you only in your underwear. The chains that he then tied to your limbs were heavy. Those same chains that you had been attached to for hours were sometimes no longer your first thought, not even the noise of the whip with the metal tip, which dragged along the floor emitting an annoying screech. No, your only thought was whether you would actually come out alive, and if so, how much longer you would last. He circled you, stopping right in front of you and lifting your head with a knife.

“Were these not enough for you?” he asked, smiling evilly at you and tracing the scars on the sides of your mouth with the tip of the knife. “Obviously not,” he pressed against your cheek, glaring at you with hatred and causing a few drops of your blood to fall to the ground.

You still remember the pain and the satisfied face of the person who had caused them. You remember one of your attackers holding your head still while the other, without flinching, pushed the blade against your skin. You remember your eyes filling with tears and the two of them laughing at the scene. You remember your mouth filling with blood, that metallic taste that was unknown to you before, now oh so familiar. You remember being taken to a doctor who, without caring about your pain, began to sew your cheeks back together.

He spat at you, then returned to his starting position behind you.

Your back arched as the whip came into abrupt contact with your skin. Your hands gripped the chains so tight that if they had been normal, they would have broken. You could feel the skin splitting open, wounds that were now almost completely healed reopening, blood running down your back. You felt like you were on fire. The subsequent lashes were never in the same place, but each time they hit an open wound it felt like a limb was being torn from your body. You could hear the laughter of the man behind you and, unfortunately thanks to your super soldier hearing, that of the guards outside the door.

You were always taught never to grimace in pain or show signs of weakness in general. Maybe that's why you didn't cry; or maybe, more simply, because you didn't have the strength to do so. The first few times they tortured you, your screams could be heard from thousands of miles away, but now it was as if they had ripped out your vocal cords. You didn't even know what your voice sounded like anymore. Was it high-pitched, like the little girl who was kidnapped all those years ago, or hoarse, like the monster they created, or soft, like you spoke to that red-haired Russian girl you'd met all those years ago, during your time in the Red Room? You couldn't have known that.

You didn’t know if your mind went blank for the rest of the punishment or if you fainted, you just knew that you didn’t feel the last lashes. It was almost as if your body was a mannequin. You could feel the skin of the whip on your skin, but you didn’t feel any pain. But you could see, or imagine, a very well defined, but above all very familiar silhouette. That very bright red hair, those sharp green eyes, those full lips, that body, those shapes that some time ago had been your favorite.

Natalia. Your Natalia. The girl you, against your will, began training during your time in the Red Room after the unexpected death of your predecessor. The girl with whom you formed an unbreakable bond in such a short time. The girl who introduced you to that feeling that still consumes you just thinking about it.

You muttered her name under your breath, but in that dark, windowless room, the sound was amplified. And, unfortunately for you, the murmur of that name, which even now, years later, still instilled fear, was heard by your torturer. He stopped, the hand that held the whip still behind his head, ready to deliver yet another violent and painful lash. His face showed shock and disbelief, but it was quickly replaced by an expression of anger mixed with terror. He quickly dropped the whip, and quickly returned in front of you, kneeling down and forcefully cupping your face in his hands, his fingers applying pressure against the hideous scars on your cheeks.

“What the fuck did you just say, mutt?” he spat, his spit landing on your face. You closed your eyes, not wanting to look into the eyes of the man in front of you. You tried to hide your face by turning it towards the floor, but his grip was too tight. “Say that again, if you dare.”

Silence.

The small, dark, gray room was deadly silent. The only sound that could be heard was the mix of yours and his labored breathing. You looked up at the man’s eyes, but this time there was no more anger or fear on his face, replaced by a smirk.

“Did I hear that right?” he began, after you whispered the forbidden name again. “Is that the name of that cheating bitch Black Widow? The girl who made you weak? The bitch who’s the reason these scars were made on your face?” he laughed.

“Did you really think she fell in love with you, that you two had something special? Oh, honey, she just used you to escape that shithole that is the Red Room. No one could love a monster, not a murderer, not even a monster himself,” he continued.

“I’m not a monster,” you muttered, watching the man’s face harden and turn red with anger. “You made me one,” you spat in his face, smiling at his shocked face. Apart from the first few times, you had never spoken to anyone like that, too scared of the consequences. But you had nothing left to lose.

He looked at you for a few seconds and then called out to the guards outside the door. They untied you from the heavy chains and forcefully dragged you out of the small room, walking down the long corridor that smelled of death, probably from the multitude of now-deceased bodies that remained in the basement to rot.

They pushed you into another room, this time much larger and much brighter thanks to the many lights, but still without windows. You realized how heavy the consequences of your actions would be only when you saw the chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by all the other utensils.

“No no no no, please. I’ll be good, I swear. Please, I beg you. Everything but the chair” you screamed, your voice full of terror. They ignored you, without even deigning to look at you and, with a few struggles, they tied you to the seat. You started to squirm, trying in every way to free yourself from the straps, but one of the two guards, positioning himself behind the chair, held your face still while the other, after briefly heating the blade of his knife with a blowtorch, started to cut your cheeks, in the exact same spot as the original carvings.

This time, unlike before, you screamed in pain, hot tears streaming down your face and mixing with the blood, landing on your wounds and starting to burn. This went on for quite some time, the guard only stopping when a deep, raspy voice ordered him to stop and move away from your painful form. Your vision was blurry, the figure in front of you unidentifiable, but that didn’t matter. He touched your cut and bloody cheeks, pressing hard against the cuts, making you moan in pain. “Oh, how I love it when whores like you moan for me,” he muttered. He motioned for another individual to come over and position the machine above your head in the correct position. The iron was cold against your skin, which brought relief for a millisecond.

“Wipe her,” he ordered, not a shred of hesitation in his words.

“But Sir, she is too weak. She may not survive,” another voice replied, higher pitched and with an Eastern European accent, very different from your Western one

“I told you to do something, and you will do it, without question. Wipe her.”

The doctor approached the control panel of the machine, and with uncertainty, he lowered a large lever and immediately the room echoed for a second time with your cries of pain. The procedure took a long time, almost longer than usual, but it was much less precise and effective, since the last thing you thought about before giving in to the pain and passing out was the very person who put you in these conditions.

Natalia Romanova.

#black widow x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #avengers x reader #Forgotten Hearts

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