#assassin dullie

[fanficgirl429]

Glitter and Cuddles

Prompt: Y/N returns from a bachelorette party and when she gets home all she wants to do is cuddle with her boyfriend, Bucky

Pairing: fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

---

Title: Glitter & Cuddles

Bucky was sprawled across the couch, one arm tucked lazily behind his head, the other holding his phone above his face. The screen glowed dully in the dim living room light, but he wasn’t really paying attention anymore, just scrolling absentmindedly, counting the minutes until Y/N got home.

The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavier without her in it. 

Then the front door clicked open.

Bucky’s head turned immediately, phone forgotten. He heard the unmistakable sound of a rolling suitcase bumping over the threshold and the soft shuffle of slippered feet.

And then there she was, still wrapped in the remnants of travel: leggings, an oversized hoodie (one that suspiciously resembled his favorite), a backpack hanging from one shoulder, and an exhausted expression that made his chest ache.

She didn’t even glance his way before kicking off her Ugg slippers, letting her bag fall with a dull thud, and making a direct beeline for him.

“Hey—” he started, sitting up a little. 

But she was already there.

Without so much as a warning, Y/N threw herself onto him, collapsing into his chest like she belonged there—because, well, she did. With a dramatic groan muffled by his shirt, she wrapped herself around him. 

“Hi,” she mumbled against his sternum.

Bucky huffed a soft, as his phone slid off the couch somewhere behind him. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, metal and flesh curving to hold her securely, protectively.

“Long trip?” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of her head.

“Endless. Loud. There was glitter. So much glitter.” She nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “I missed you. I need a solid five minutes of just... this.”

He kissed the crown of her head with a gentle smile. “You’re sparkly.”

“I know.” She groaned. “I think I absorbed it through osmosis.”

“Did you roll through a craft store?”

“No, but someone brought body glitter to the club and it was chaos. I’m pretty sure it’s in my soul now.”

He laughed quietly, reaching up to brush a few glimmering specks off her cheek—only to smudge them more. “It’s like hugging a disco ball.”

“I warned you,” she mumbled, her arms tightening around him like a vice. “Now you’re contaminated. There’s no going back.”

“I can live with that.”

For a while, they didn’t say anything. Bucky just held her, his fingers tracing soft, sleepy circles on her back through the worn hoodie. The kind of silence that existed only between two people who knew each other inside and out. Who didn’t need noise to feel close.

Eventually, she tilted her head back just enough to peek at him, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and affection.

“Were you asleep?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a bit of glitter from the edge of her brow. “Just scrolling. Waiting on my girl.”

She smiled, slow and sleepy. “Well, your girl is home. And she’s not moving for the next twelve hours.”

“I’m good with that,” he replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll order food later if we decide we’re humans again.”

She laughed against his neck. “Perfect.”

He grinned. “Also, you’re definitely getting glitter all over the couch.”

“You love it.”

“I love you,” he corrected, voice warm and unhurried. “The glitter’s just… part of the Y/N experience.”

She leaned up to kiss him, a slow, sweet brush of lips that made his heart feel too full. Then she collapsed again, sighing contentedly.

“Oh,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper, “I brought you something.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “If it’s glitter, I’m throwing it out the window.”

“Nope,” she murmured. “It’s a keychain. Says, ‘I heart my hot assassin boyfriend.’ 

He let out a low laugh, his chest shaking beneath her. “Romantic.”

“Only the best.”

And just like that, tangled in a nest of blankets and love and literal sparkle, they drifted off—together. Home wasn’t the couch. It wasn’t even the apartment. It was the feeling of this.

----

Bucky woke to fading afternoon light. The weight of Y/N was still draped over him, a familiar comfort he never wanted to live without. Her cheek was squished softly against his chest, her mouth slightly open, breathing slow and steady. Her hair was a wild mess, flecked with glitter.

He smiled, slow and sleepy, and traced his hand along the small of her back, gentle and aimless.

She stirred, letting out a tiny noise, and shifted—one leg now completely flung over his hip like she owned the space. Which, honestly, she did.

“Mm. Alive?” he whispered, voice husky from sleep.

“Barely,” she croaked, half-asleep. “Why are your abs still firm? This is supposed to be a human pillow.”

“You’re napping on a supersoldier, babe.”

She groaned dramatically and burrowed closer. “You should come with a mattress topper.”

Bucky chuckled. “You’re still glowing, you know.”

“I want to ruin your shirt,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“It’s already ruined,” he replied, glancing down at the glitter-streaked mess of cotton. “We are going to be finding glitter for the next few months.” 

She cracked one eye open. “Think of it as festive.”

“I’m serious. I think I saw some in your ear.”

Her nose scrunched. “Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“God,” she groaned, flopping onto her back beside him and dragging half the blanket with her. “I need to shower.”

He rolled onto his side to face her, eyes soft. “Or… you could keep laying here. Being adorable. Glitter and all.”

She let out a little hum, her smile sleepy. “So you do like the glitter.”

“I like you,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips along her jaw. “If that means I have to sparkle, I’ll deal with it.”

She grinned. “Bucky Barnes: ex-assassin, part-time glitter fairy.”

“Don’t say that too loud. Sam’ll never shut up about it.”

“Sam already thinks I tamed you. This’ll just seal the deal.”

He laughed, then paused. “You didn’t tame me.”

She turned her head toward him, curious.

“You just… make the noise stop,” he said, quietly. “You come home, crawl on top of me like a weighted blanket full of sass and glitter, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel so damn loud.”

Her heart caught in her throat.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You can’t just say things like that. I was gonna shower.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all, and leaned in to kiss her slow and deep.

When they broke apart, her smile was softer. Sleepier. Warmer.

“Guess I’m staying glittery a little while longer.”

He pulled her back into his chest and held her like she was something precious. “Guess you are.”

And there they stayed: a quiet tangle of limbs, love, and sparkles, wrapped in a comfort deeper than rest—something you don’t find in a five-star suite or trendy bar.

Just home.

Just them.

[ericshoney]

Stark's Wit~ Tony Stark

Summary: You're not the best at hand-to-hand combat, but your the second best Stark with sarcastic responses.

Warnings: Platonic nicknames, possible swearing, sarcastic humour.

Reader's Age: 18

The biting wind whipped around Y/n as she stood on the training platform, a scowl etched on her face. Sparring with super soldiers in January was not her idea of a fun Friday afternoon. Especially when all she had to defend herself was the Stark family arsenal of sarcasm.

“Alright, kid, you ready?” Steve, radiating earnest encouragement, adjusted his gloves. Beside him, Bucky simply stared, his metal arm gleaming dully in the overcast light. Sam hovered behind them, a wry grin on his face. He knew how this usually went.

"Born ready, Captain Rogers," Y/n quipped, her voice dripping with irony. "Just try not to break anything too important. Dad would have a conniption if his precious lab assistant came back in pieces."

Steve winced. He still wasn't entirely used to Y/n's… bluntness. "We'll be careful, Y/n. This is just for practice."

"Practice for what? The Super Soldier Olympics?" She rolled her eyes. "Last time I checked, my skill set leaned more towards coding and caffeine addiction, not hand-to-hand combat."

Bucky finally spoke, his voice gruff. "Everyone needs to know how to defend themselves, Stark. Especially with your… family history."

That hit a little too close to home. Y/n tightened her jaw. "Right, because I specifically asked to be born into a world of interdimensional travel, rogue AI, and sentient purple grapefruits. My bad."

Steve sighed and stepped forward. "Alright, enough talking. Let's see what you've got."

The next few minutes were, to put it mildly, humiliating. Steve, ever the gentleman, pulled his punches, but even he couldn't help but land a few glancing blows. Bucky, predictably, was less restrained. His metal arm was like a battering ram, and Y/n found herself mostly dodging and weaving, her reflexes surprisingly sharp despite her lack of formal training.

"Having fun yet?" Sam called out, leaning against the railing.

"Oh, I'm having a ball, Sam," Y/n gasped, narrowly avoiding Bucky's fist. "This is exactly how I pictured spending my Friday: getting pummeled by a century-old assassin. Living the dream, really."

She managed to duck under Steve’s arm and deliver a swift kick to his shin. It wasn’t exactly a knockout blow, but it was enough to make him stumble.

"Not bad, Y/n," Steve said, rubbing his leg. "You're getting faster."

"Years of dodging Dad's bad science puns have honed my reflexes," she retorted, then spun to face Bucky, who was advancing with a predatory gleam in his eye. "Alright, Tin Man, let's dance!"

Bucky lunged. This time, Y/n tried a different tactic. As he swung his metal arm, she sidestepped and grabbed a handful of his long hair, yanking him off balance.

"Whoa! Hey!" Bucky sputtered, momentarily disoriented.

"Sorry, Barnes! Didn't know you were so sensitive about your 'vintage chic' hairstyle," Y/n said, releasing him and darting away.

Sam burst out laughing. Even Steve cracked a smile. Bucky, however, wasn't amused. He charged again, his movements less precise, fueled by irritation.

Y/n knew she couldn't keep this up forever. She was already winded, and her sarcasm reserves were starting to run dry. As Bucky cornered her near the edge of the platform, she knew she was out of options.

"Okay, okay, I surrender!" she yelled, throwing her hands up in the air. "Uncle! Mercy! I admit defeat! You win, metal arm! You’re the best at… uh… arming metal-ly! Yeah, that’s the one.”

Bucky stopped, his expression a mixture of annoyance and begrudging amusement. “You’re impossible, Stark.”

“That’s what my therapist keeps telling me,” Y/n said, panting. She collapsed onto a nearby bench, gathering her breath.

Steve clapped her on the shoulder. "You did well, Y/n. You're quick, and you think on your feet. You just need to work on your… offensive capabilities."

"My offense is impeccable," Y/n said, gesturing to Bucky. "Just ask him. I practically incapacitated him with my devastating wit."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, wit doesn't exactly stop a bullet."

"True," Y/n conceded. "But it can annoy someone enough that they forget what they were going to do in the first place. That's a defense mechanism in itself, right?"

She looked up at their faces, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. They were her dad’s friends, family even. And despite the inherent strangeness of having super soldiers trying to turn her into a miniature Avenger, she knew they cared.

Steve, ever the optimist, gave her a reassuring smile. "It's a start, Y/n. We'll keep working on it."

"Great," Y/n said, her sarcasm returning full force. "Just promise me one thing: next time, can we at least do this in a heated environment? And maybe with a pizza? I'm pretty sure I can weaponize pepperoni."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Even he had to admit, Y/n Stark, with her sharp tongue and Stark-brand stubbornness, was growing on him. Even if she did almost pull his hair out. He smirked, “I’d pay to see that.”

As the three men began to pack up, Y/n pulled out her phone. Time to order that pizza. And maybe send Dad a text. Something along the lines of: 'Almost got murdered by Bucky today. Send backup (and maybe a new shield design. Sarcasm-proof, preferably).

Tags:

@parkjihoonsnudes @riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[anonymous-dentist]

Or: A prince and a pirate meet in a bar...

For Spiderbit Week Day One: Pirates

-

Las Casualonas used to be a smaller building, Roier thinks. More smoke, less space. More room for dancing, less room for goddamn swordfighting.

Roier watches passively as yet another pirate-wannabe gets thrown out of the building. He sips at his (terrible) beer, fingers idly drumming the table in a neat rhythm.

The loser's sword- a pitiful little thing with more holes than a slice of cheese- gets thrown out after them by the winner: a tall woman with white-blonde hair and a big floppy hat.

"Better luck next time!" she taunts. She laughs, loud and harsh and very pirate-y, and turns right on the heel of her boot to head back to the bar to order a round of celebratory drinks for her crew.

The sword on her belt shines dully in the dim tavern light, blood spattered across its blade.

Roier... considers. She's tough. She has a crew of tough-looking people- Roier watched them cheer her on during the fight, and he can see them surrounding her at the bar now with claps on the back and laughter. She has a nice sword. She has a big hat. She has to be a pirate, right?

But. But she just isn't right. She isn't the one he's looking for.

And so Roier turns his attention from the woman and back to the tavern as a whole. Back to the drawing board...

Pirates.

Oh, pirates.

There's a new law against piracy in the kingdom now. There's also a new pirate in the kingdom- or, rather, from the kingdom.

Coincidence? No. The new law was created within days of the Bear Captain's attempted assassination of the royal family's oldest child, and the Bear Captain hasn't been seen since the law was put into place.

This is a problem, because Roier wants the Bear Captain dead. He wants him more than dead, actually, but there are laws against torture these days, too. (UGH!)

And so Roier sips his (terrible) beer in Las Casualonas' most secluded table. He wants a pirate, but he wants a certain kind of pirate. One that will seek him out, not one who jumps onto tables and stabs a guy (though that is pretty cool, can't lie.)

The hood of Roier's cloak is pulled over his head. He's wearing gloves. He's in all-black, and he has a sword on his belt and two knives up his sleeves and another knife hidden in his boot.

His eyeliner is black, and that's all that matters, isn't it.

The woman and her crew leave the bar and head to a table across the tavern: out of sight, and now out of mind.

Roier sighs and looks down at his reflection in his beer. His eyeliner is smudged, ugh. He'll have to touch it up soon; he might be emo now, but he has standards.

His reflection blinks up at him: black eye and healing lip and broken nose. He looks pirate-y, right? Suitably criminal?

He tries a smile. Fails. Sighs again.

Flinches slightly as the chair across from him is roughly pulled out.

"Shit, my bad," he hears. Deep voice, kind of raspy as if he'd just been yelling.

Roier looks up from his drink and locks eyes with a stranger.

Roier... considers. Broad shoulders, some visible muscles, but not many. Solid figure and large, scarred hands. Short hair, scar across nose, golden earrings, bags under eyes, healing broken nose.

Rapier on his hip, and a pair of flintlock pistols hidden beneath his heavy-looking green coat.

Pirate, Roier thinks.

The pirate sits and immediately leans back into his chair with a groan and a slump, his face burying itself in his hands. He has rings on every one of his fingers, and they're shiny. Gold and silver and gold.

"Sorry if I'm intruding," the pirate sighs. "It's just... so much over there."

He doesn't point, but Roier's eyes go over the pirate's shoulder and towards the group of pirates the woman has at her table. (Is he one of them...?)

Roier shrugs. "It's fine."

(Because it is.)

"I was hoping for some company, anyway," he adds.

(Because he was.)

"Really?" the pirate asks, cracking his fingers apart and looking through the gap. He doesn't sound convinced. "You look..."

"Handsome?" Roier supplies.

"Yeah, but I was going to say, 'emo'."

Roier laughs. He can't help it. (He hasn't laughed since it happened, and it tears his throat up a little, but he almost can't feel the sting.)

Leaning forward slightly, Roier braces himself with his elbows against the table. He tries a smile, and he even sort of succeeds.

"Maybe I am," he hums. "But even emo guys have shiny things. Here."

He manages to smile a bit wider as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny gold piece. He places it on the table and slides it across, his fingers lingering as the pirate snatches the gold piece up.

Both hands turning the gold piece over, and suddenly so much more attentive, the pirate frowns: contemplative.

"Okay," he cautiously says. He looks up and furrows his eyebrows at Roier. "What do you want."

Roier's fingers tap against the table.

"Eh, not much," he shrugs. "Just tell me what you know about the Bear Captain."

The pirate snorts and looks back down at the gold piece; his eyes are practically shining like stars, and it's really actually kind of adorable, actually.

"Who, Spreen?" he casually asks, not noticing the way Roier's entire body freezes up at the name. "He's new in the area. Not much of a captain. He doesn't even have any treasure."

Roier gasps dramatically. "Oh my God, he doesn't have any treasure!"

"Fuck you, treasure is important," the pirate huffs. "Who becomes a pirate for fun? It's all about the treasure."

He pauses, then: "Or... it's all about the killing."

Absently, Roier reaches up and scratches at his chest. The rough fabric of his shirt does not feel good under his nails, but he hardly notices.

The pirate looks back at Roier, eyes narrowed just slightly.

"Which are you?" he asks.

Roier hums, feigning confusion.

"Which kind of pirate are you?" the pirate asks. "Treasure, or killing?"

There's a pistol and a bag of ammunition in Roier's satchel at his feet, but he answers, scoffing, "Treasure, obviously? Do I look like a killer?"

He gestures towards himself with a painted grin. His scar just barely pokes out above the collar of his shirt, and so do the bandages plastered over his shoulder wound.

The pirate... considers.

Then, he smiles and looks back down at his new gold piece.

"You're right," he says. "And you're smart. Like I said, it's all about the treasure. Who needs to kill to get money when you can just steal it?"

He flips the gold piece into the air, and he grabs it mid-fall. He opens his palm, and... nothing.

He meets Roier's surprised gaze with a cheeky grin.

"But if you want someone dead, you're talking to the right guy," he says. "I'd have to talk it over with my co-captain, but-"

"Your co-captain?" Roier asks.

At the same time, the woman from earlier stands and cups a hand around her mouth and shouts, "Cellbit! Stop flirting and get over here! Tubbo's going to do a backflip!"

The pirate- Cellbit?- just rolls his eyes and flips her off without looking.

"Her," he says, voice just short of a sneer. "I'm down to kill whoever you want dead, but she'll be a bit harder to convince."

"Ah," says Roier.

He's still smiling, but it doesn't seem to be reaching Cellbit's eyes anymore.

Reaching forward, leaning across the table, Cellbit brushes a hand behind Roier's ear; Roier bites back a gasp, a shiver running down his spine.

As Cellbit sits back down, he holds up the missing gold piece. He flicks his wrist, and another gold piece slides out from behind the first one.

"She doesn't do it for the gold," he explains. He drops the coins onto the table, watching them roll into each other. "She has morals."

Roier frowns. "Is she even a pirate?"

"No, but I am, and so is half our crew. She prefers the term 'boat mafia'. But, anyway, let me finish here."

Cellbit reaches into Roier's cup and pulls out a third gold piece, placing it neatly onto the table near the other two.

"If someone was to come onto the ship and, say, kill the Bear Captain without Bagi's approval..."

He slides his gaze up to meet Roier's, smirking slightly.

(His eyes are so blue, Roier thinks. Just like the ocean...)

Roier finds himself smiling, genuine.

He nods. "I get it."

"Good. Now, let's go join the others so we can-"

Cellbit is cut off mid-sentence as Las Casualonas' doors crash open and a legion of armed guards come storming into the tavern.

Roier folds into himself, pulling his hood further down his face. (He was supposed to have more time, what the fuck?)

"Everybody, stop what you are doing!" Etoiles, the head of security for the royal family, commands.

The woman, Cellbit's co-captain, slowly turns to face him.

"Um," she says, "no? Who the fuck are you?"

"Who the fuck are you!" Etoiles counters. "Are you a pirate?"

"Technically, no."

"Oh, well that's alright, then. But everyone else!" He pulls his sword out and points it at the rest of the tavern. "Put your hands up where I can see them! Princess Leonarda has informed me that her cringe brother is being held captive in here- which is totally embarrassing, by the way, total rookie move from him, and I am not leaving without him!"

Cellbit looks at Roier.

Roier looks at Etoiles.

Etoiles looks at the barkeep.

Roier looks back at Cellbit.

"Kidnap me," he whispers. "I'll have you and your entire crew pardoned when Spreen is dead."

Without hesitation, Cellbit stands and kicks his chair backwards and turns and pulls both pistols out of their holsters and points them both right at Etoiles' heart.

"Cellbit!" the woman hisses. "We are not doing this again!"

Cellbit ignores her and says, voice low, "The prince is not going anywhere. He's coming with me."

"Okay, those two sentences contradict each other, but that's fine!" Etoiles says. "I may not be good at grammar, but I am much better at killing pirates. Are you ready?"

Slowly, Roier wraps his hand around his bag's strap under the table. He's beaten Etoiles once before, sure, he can do it again. Probably. Maybe. (Not in his condition, not now when he's still supposed to be under bedrest, but...!)

"Get ready to run, your highness," is all that Cellbit says in response.

He glances back at Roier, winks.

And then he pulls the trigger, the tavern explodes.

[otomehoneyybearr]

Kagari Amagase

Beware of the Wild Lynx

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Card

***Warning: Mentions of blood and death. Kagari is also becomes quite intense in this story, so please feel free to skip this if it at all makes you feel uncomfortable.

Emma: "Wait…!"

Under the veil of night, with countless stars painting the sky—

Cat: "Meow."

When I had picked up what the cat had dropped and brushed off the dirt, I let out a deep sigh of relief.

(I panicked when I realized I’d lost it, but I’m so glad I didn’t give up searching…!) (Still, who would’ve thought the cat had taken it? Encountering it again feels like a near miracle.)

Staring at the small object that fit snugly in my hand, memories of that day flashed in my mind, and a soft smile crept across my lips.

(Now that I’d found what I’d lost, I need to hurry back.)

The forest, wrapped in silence, was dim and devoid of people.

Just as I turned to leave, remaining cautious, a rustling sound came from the bushes in the distance.

(That’s too loud to just be the cat from earlier...)

Emma: "…!"

Man: "What the—what’s a woman doing here?"

A rugged-looking man emerged from the bushes, his voice tinged with unease.

In his hand was a blade, unsheathed, its glint sending a chill through my body.

(…This is bad.)

Man: "Ha, this is perfect."

Emma: "Don’t come any closer!"

Man: "Reaching into your bag for a knife or something? Don’t bother. You’ll just get yourself hurt."

I backed away as the man steadily closed the distance, but my retreat was blocked by a tree.

My hand trembled as I gripped the dagger inside my bag.

(I can’t… Pointing a weapon at someone is terrifies me.)

Even though I knew I needed to protect myself, the thought of harming another person scared me even more.

I glared at him as a last-ditch effort to intimidate him, but his expression twisted with irritation.

Man: "Cornered like this, and you're still thinking of running? Quit being so stubborn!"

???: "Right back at you."

Emma: "…!!"

A spray of red danced before my eyes.

For a moment, I mistook it for cherry blossoms—the scene before me was so shocking my mind rejected it.

My body froze, paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t even breathe properly.

(And yet… I can’t look away.)

From the elegant curve of the blade’s arc, to the downcast green eyes partially obscured by crimson hair, and the faint smile on his lips—

I found the sight of him wielding his sword hauntingly beautiful.

Kagari: I let you go, hoping you’d lead me to your allies, but it seems I wasted my time."

Kagari: "The moment you tried to involve an innocent person, your fate was sealed."

Kagari: "You chose the wrong side."

As the man tried to crawl away, Kagari drove his blade into him without hesitation.

The sword, piercing through the man’s chest, gleamed dully, stained with blood.

The spreading pool of blood darkened as it seeped into the ground, and my legs began to shake.

(Why…? No, Prince Kagari wouldn’t kill someone without reason.)

Emma: "Prince Kagari, who was that man…?"

Kagari: "A troublesome guest."

(So, an assassin from the enemy camp.)

It was an answer I’d heard countless times before—enough to understand immediately.

Kagari wiped the blood from his blade, deftly spun it, and slid it back into its sheath.

The danger had passed, yet the tension remained in the atmosphere.

Emma: "Well, I…"

As Prince Kagari stepped closer, an inexplicable fear welled up, silencing me.

Kagari: "Out for a midnight stroll? In an empty forest at night?"

His expression was as calm as always, but his green eyes were chillingly cold.

Unlike when he had fought, there was now a flicker of something darker in his gaze.

Kagari: "It seems you have a death wish. If that's the case, I could grant it right now."

As he leaned closer, pressing his hand against the tree behind me, he pulled the dagger from my bag.

Still in its sheath, he pressed it lightly against my neck.

Emma: "…!"

Kagari: "Remember this. There are two quick ways to kill someone."

Kagari: "The first is the neck. It has thick blood vessels and thin—easy enough for even a woman to cut."

Kagari: "The second is the heart."

The blade, still sheathed, traced along my skin from my neck to my collarbone.

Kagari: "It requires more force, but one stab is all it takes."

Kagari: "The target won’t even have time to scream, making it perfect for an ambush."

The tip of the sword lightly prodded the center of my chest, as though aiming directly at my heart.                                        

Even though the blade was sheathed, just feeling it against my skin made my body tremble uncontrollably.

Kagari: "If you want to take your time killing someone, aim for the stomach. Start shallow, then go deeper…"

Kagari: "In your case, it wouldn’t take long to reach your vital points."

Emma: "Ah…! P-Prince Kagari, please stop."

The blade, which had been trailing down from my chest, now gently tapped my stomach twice.

I flinched, causing the distance between us to close further, and I felt Prince Kagari’s breath against my ear.

Kagari: "If you’re going to scream, make it loud enough to be heard."

Kagari: "If it were me, I’d notice, but no one else would come to help you."

Kagari: "Even an amateur can buy themselves some time with a self-defense blade if they swing it around recklessly."

Kagari: "I’m sure "I told you this before, didn’t I? Or am I mistaken?"

Emma: "…No, you’re right."

Though the forest wasn’t far from town, venturing into it at night was dangerous—especially for someone like me.

I had been so desperate to retrieve what the cat had taken that I’d completely forgotten.

(Because of my careless actions, Prince Kagari had to remind me again.)

(And worse, if that man had caught me, I would have burdened him even more.)

Emma: "…I’m sorry."

At that moment, something fell with a soft clink.

Kagari: "…"

Prince Kagari picked up the item that had slipped from my hand, his eyes briefly widening when he saw it was a Sakura charm.

Kagari: "Did you chase after that cat into the forest because of this?"

Emma: “How… how did you know?"

Kagari: "I encountered a cat earlier while chasing the man. It wouldn’t stop meowing at me."

Kagari: "It must’ve been worried you’d get lost and was trying to lead me to you."

Emma: "Really…? If I see it again, I’ll have to thank it."

(To think a cat was worried about me…)

Kagari: "…"

Kagari: "Your lecture ends here."

After averting his gaze awkwardly for a moment, Prince Kagari stepped back from me.

The release of the tension made my stiff body relax.

Kagari: "If you don’t want another scolding, don’t wander into the forest alone at night."

Kagari: "If you absolutely must go, tell me first."

Emma: "Yes… I’m sorry."

Kagari: "Stop apologizing. It’s my fault this happened in the first place."

Emma: "That’s not true…"

(Could it be that Prince Kagari thinks this happened because of the charm he gave me?)

Kagari: "There won’t be any more danger tonight."

Kagari: "Rest assured—I’ll make sure you get home safely."

He returned my dagger to my bag and then took my hand, starting to walk. But moments later, as if realizing something, he let go.

(He doesn’t have to worry about that…)

(Even if it’s the same hand that just took a life, I don’t feel disgusted.)

(While I don’t fully understand why Prince Kagari wields his sword, I know it’s partly to protect countless lives…)

I caught up to him and, this time, took his hand myself.

His fingers twitched slightly, as if startled.

Emma: "If you don’t mind… this makes me feel much safer."

Kagari: "…If you insist. I’ll allow it."

Kagari: "Consider this an apology for scaring you."

(So he’s doing this not because of my request but as an apology…)

(Even so, his clumsy kindness warms my heart.)

Emma: "Kagari, thank you for saving me."

Kagari: "Don’t mention it."

Kagari: "I protected you because I wanted to."

Hand in hand, the once-frightening forest seemed far less daunting.

Before I knew it, the lively lights of the town greeted us.

Emma: "Prince Kagari—huh?"

Before I realized it, he was gone, leaving only the lingering warmth in my hand.

Emma: "I wanted to thank him properly…"

(It’s fine if he surprises me by appearing suddenly, but…)

(…It’s lonely when he disappears without a word.)

(Maybe if I bring some dorayaki to thank him tomorrow, the scent will lure him back.)

The decision to visit him again was already made in my mind—

Clutching the hand that still held the warmth he left behind, I promised myself I would.

Prev

▼・ᴥ・▼

[redd-blushing-roses]

In Between Dreams (It's Fear Pt. 3)

word count: 4.3k

pairing: (winter soldier)Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: The Winter Soldier is plagued by dreams of you, and although he does not remember why, he feels as though Pierce is hiding something about you. And him.

warnings: violence as always. nothing too egregious in this one.

notes: alright lovelies, the third part is out! we are just over the halfway point in the movie's timeline and inching closer to some of my favorite moments (mainly the highway scene). and if you'd like to be put on a taglist for this series let me know!

here are the links to the previous parts:

(It's Fear Pt.1) (It's Fear Pt.2)

enjoy reading :)

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

The Winter Soldier awakes, his eyes blinking up at the blank ceiling dully. 

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. Duty calls.” 

The Soldier eyes the man leaning against the doorway of his cellroom, two guards entering, standing on either side of the room. 

It’s routine at this point. He should feel surprised they’ve kept him out of the cryo chamber for this long, a full 127 days. 

It’s the longest the Soldier’s been awake, every few days it seems he’s sent on a mission. Mostly recon and assessment; a few overseas HYDRA gatherings, acting as eye candy for Pierce who loves to show him off like a trophy; and of course, the killing. 

He should feel invigorated at being awake for so long, but he wishes they would just put him under again. Pump him full of drugs and shove him back into the freezing chamber. At least there it’s quiet. Dreamless. 

Here, it’s never ending barbarity. Nightmares. Blood. Screams. 

The Winter Soldier gets up out of the hard metal bed, following the man down the long hall. He blinks, trying to shake the sluggish cloud currently in his head. 

Another reason the Soldier had come to despise being awake this long. They kept putting him into the machine. He doesn’t remember what it does, he doesn’t think they’ve ever told him. All he knows is the pain of being strapped to it, the fatigue and heavy headache which always follows. 

And the dreams.

Pierce kept the Soldier in isolation for the most part. Not that he minded being alone. When he was alone, no one could hurt him. 

But being alone meant all he could do was remember. Remember the nightmares which plagued him every night. Replays of the brutal assassinations he carried out. Nightmares of Siberia, of bullets tearing through his skin, a woman’s hands gliding along his body as he lays unable to push her off, a cold winter day-

A train, high above him, his body flailing as a scream rips through his voice-

They weren’t things he liked to dwell on. 

But then, one night, after a particularly exhausting hour in the machine, he had the first dream. Lighter, softer than the nightmares.

He can’t remember it now, just fragments and pieces. A soft hand against his thigh, a feminine figure standing across from him, eyes sad yet kind, piercing. If he tries hard enough, he can almost picture the woman.

Or, at least that’s what he tells himself. When the Winter Soldier wakes after these dreams, he can’t shake the aching feeling in his chest, like he’s missing something.

And he’s left to wonder what it means. 

The Soldier is brought to the large weaponry room, Pierce stands with a folder in hand.

“Ready to comply, Soldat?”He nods, taking the folder from Pierce. 

“It’s simple. Take care of the target. It’ll be broad daylight . Be quick about it, but keep it public. We can’t let him slip away.” 

The Winter Soldier opens the file, a picture of a dark man with an eye patch peering up at him. Nicholas Fury. 

It was simple enough. 

“Where is he?” The soldier questions.

“No need for pursuit. We’ll bring him to you.”

The preparation is small. Various guns and missiles loaded into a disguised van. There are soldiers milled about in the private HYDRA hanger, all disguised in police uniforms, the cars wrapped to look like police cars.

The Soldier follows a guard, getting into the truck as the guard opens the door for him. He sits inside the truck, allowing the STRIKE guard inside to strap weapons to his chest, and place a pair of dark goggles and a mask onto his face. 

He stills his breathing, trying not to give in to the way the mask stifles his breathing.

The van ride is long, and the Winter Soldier sits, patient. He pictures himself as a caged animal, waiting to be released, muzzled and violent. He doesn’t like the image. 

But it’s for HYDRA. To shape the century. For the betterment of the world as Pierce tells him. But the longer he’s awake, the less he believes it.

The Winter Soldier is dropped off on the corner of a street, instructed to wait. And he does. He waits alert in the shadows, listening for the chaos of cars and sirens. He finally steps out onto the street when he hears the loud crashing of metal, the squeal of tires and multiple gunshots.

The team of faux police cars herd Fury’s black van onto the designated street, chasing him into a trap. A sheep being led to slaughter. 

As the van approaches, the Soldier takes a breath, raising the gun.

He fires, calmly sidestepping the now burning van as it barrels towards him. The van flips and rolls.The Soldier watches as it comes to a screeching halt. 

He approaches, steps quick but steady. His metal hand grips the door of the van and he rips it off and tosses it aside. His nostrils flare with annoyance. 

The inside of the van is empty, nothing but broken glass and empty bullet shells. 

He hears a voice in his earpiece. 

“We’re tracking him now, Soldat. Extraction and relocation will be at your location in 2 minutes.”

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

The Winter Soldier hauls himself onto the rooftop, footsteps light as he treads towards the wall. STRIKE had located Fury in an apartment complex, not far from SHIELD headquarters. The sky grows dim, the sun setting on the horizon bathing everything in shadows. The Soldier blends in with ease, becoming one with the night.

He passes an apartment window and peers into it, the room dark and empty. It’s a bedroom, the contents indicating it likely belonged to a young female. With his metal hand he breaks the lock on the window, popping it open and sliding inside. 

His boots are quiet against the rug and he moves through the apartment, listening to the people in the hall. It’s hard to hear, even with his enhanced hearing because of the music coming from the neighboring apartment, but he can just make it out.

“Are you sure you’re alright? That looks like it really hurts.” The voice is male, bright.

“It’s just a bruise. It’ll heal. I’ve had worse” A feminine voice, likely the resident of the apartment. The Soldier readies his silencer, moving into the shadows of the room, always sticking to the rule. 

No witnesses. 

But the girl doesn’t enter the room. There’s something about her voice. He strains to listen, telling himself to focus on finding the voice of the target. But the Soldier stays against the wall for another minute, listening for the girl’s voice again. 

“Do you want to come in for a drink?” There’s a pause. “You don’t have to-”

“No, I’d like to.” It’s soft. Pretty. Words prick the back of his mind, but he shuts them out. 

Focus on the mission.

There’s shuffling and the door opens. 

“You left your record player running…”

The male’s response is muffled as they enter the apartment. 

It’s as if he’d heard it once before, in a dream. The voice soft and gentle. The words surface once more.

“You did your job. And I’m grateful.” 

“I’m sorry moya lubov.”

The Soldier shakes his head. He doesn’t have time to dwell on dreams. Not when the consequences of failing rest heavy on his shoulders. 

He moves to the wall dividing the apartments, listening. He can hear the male from the hall, speaking. And then another voice. Deep. Hollowed with pain. 

It has to be the target. The Winter Soldier moves across the small living room and opens the window leading to the fire escape. Quietly, he steps onto it, slinging the rifle on his back off, prepping the trigger and target line as he looks into the neighboring apartment. 

There he was. Nicholas Fury, slumped in an armchair. It wouldn’t take much to finish him off. 

Standing across from him, his back turned to the Soldier was a blonde haired man dressed in brown leather. One hand rested on his hip, the other clutched a metal shield, decorated in red and blue. 

As the Soldier aligns his rifle to his eye, setting the target on Fury, a movement catches his eye. He shifts the rifle to the open doorway in the apartment, the female entering. 

She moves towards his target, handing him a glass of water and crouching down, mouth moving as she speaks to him. 

The Soldier’s brows furrow. He can’t see her face. He wants to see her face, feels he needs to see it. That feeling is back in his chest, the ache of familiarity. 

“What’s your status Soldat?” He clears his throat, answering with whispered Russian.

“Target located. Waiting for clear shot.” A lie. One adjustment and he’d blow the man’s chest wide open. But his eyes remained trained on the back of the girl’s head, willing her to turn around. 

As if she had hear him, she turned, looking to the blonde man-

It was so fast, the Soldier feels he can hardly breathe. And it’s not because of the mask.

There you were. He feels it, that same ache in his chest he gets when he dreams. You looked different than he thought, a dark bruise blooming on the side of your face, a bandage taped to your cheek. 

But your eyes… the Winter Soldier could recognize them from all the way through his rifle scope. The same set of eyes, kind but sad.

And to see you here, with the target…

The Soldier feels a pang of concern. He wished he knew what it meant. 

The Winter Soldier furrows his brows and aligns his target with Fury once more. He doesn’t have time to worry over fantasy and dreams. They don’t matter. If Pierce says they don’t, then he’ll listen. 

He doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger now.

Fury goes down, the blonde man pulling you behind him as he crouches, holding up the shield. 

The Soldier activates the comm.

“Mission accomplished.”

“Good Soldat. Extraction point is a mile south. Back of the parking building. Be ready in three minutes.”

He should get up now, head to the extraction point. But he stays a moment longer, watching you, your hands clinging to Fury, hands fumbling for your phone. The blonde man’s eyes dart around the room as he looks around, panic written across his face. 

The man locks eyes with the Soldier and you look up as he speaks, his finger pointed towards the fire escape. The Soldier sees the moment your eyes catch his shadow through the window. He sees the fear written across your face, the longing. He doesn’t like it.

The Soldier moves, darting up the escape and onto the roof, boots pounding as he moves to the extraction point.

The image of your face is burned into his brain. And he wishes it wasn’t. 

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

Despite the warm and stuffy air of Pierce’s office, the Winter Soldier has chills running up his back. He was cold. 

He was always cold. 

The Soldier sits in the chair, eyes vacant as he stares at the large window providing a view of the city. 

Why Pierce had called him to his office above the basement? He didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care either. He was just glad to have an opportunity to get out of his cell. 

It had barely been 24 hours since he’d completed his mission, and since then he hasn’t stopped thinking. About you. 

The Soldier would kill anyone Pierce asked him too, anyone who got in his way. He knew the work was important. 

It had to be. 

But this was the first time (that he could remember) he felt questions brewing beneath his chest. He wanted to know who you were, why you were with the target. Why did he keep dreaming about you? 

He’d dreamt about you last night, clearer than before. You had been in danger, wearing a pretty dress, a man hovering over you, dangerously close. He had awoken sweating, wanting to shoot someone.

There are footsteps echoing down the hall outside the office, the pace set and heavy. The Winter Soldier straightens in the chair, waiting as the door opens and shuts with a bang. 

“Apologies, Soldat,” Alexander Pierce walks into view, adjusting the tie on his suit. “Our guest is running a bit late.” Pierce sits in his office chair with a sigh. 

He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a glass and a bottle of alcohol. He lifts another glass, as if to ask the Soldier if he’d like one. The Winter Soldier stays still and Pierce accepts his silence as a no. 

Jerk. The Soldier knows if he had said anything Pierce would be onto him about respect and conduct. 

The Soldier’s fingertips twitch and he wishes he had something to fiddle with. 

Boredom was something he had grown accustomed to. It was necessary or he’d have gone mad a long time ago. Maybe he had. 

Waiting in stakeout missions, waiting for the perfect shot, waiting for the next assignment,

Waiting to be free… 

But here, waiting in the office with Pierce, it was like an explosion ready to happen. And he wasn’t sure if it would be Pierce who would make the first move, or him. 

The office door finally opens, Rumlow lingering in the door frame.

“She’s here sir.”

“Good,” Pierce gestures with his hand, “Have her come in.” Rumlow nods and leaves. 

He’s gone for a minute and finally comes back, a girl in tow. The Soldier glances for a second, seeing her face-

It’s you. 

The Winter Soldier tenses you as you walk in, takes you in and tries to disguise the fact he doesn’t want to take his eyes away. You weren’t in the comfortable day clothes he saw you in that night; instead wearing a set of tactical hiking gear, subtle yet practical. 

When he spots the half hidden hydra patch on your shoulder, he knows this meeting will not be a pleasant one. 

Your gaze latches onto him the moment you walk in the office, flitting between himself and Pierce at the desk. It’s full of familiarity and fear.

Your body is radiating with nerves, your hand brushing against the gun at your thigh as Rumlow shoves you into the seat next to the Soldier. 

The Soldier tries not to think about how you were so close, this fragment of his dreams sitting right there next to him. 

“Myshka. How kind of you to finally join us.” Myshka. 

The name sparks something in the Winter Soldier, a memory, a feeling. He can’t quite reach it, like a word caught on the tip of one’s tongue. But he knows it’s there. 

It’s important.

You’re important.

You swallow and cross your legs in the chair, sitting up straighter. You’re trying to look put together, to not look so afraid. The Soldier thinks the name is fitting for you in this moment, a mouse caught between three snakes, waiting for the moment they strike.

“I’m still not entirely sure why you called me here, Mr. Pierce.” 

Alexander Pierce takes a tablet off of his desk, eyeing you as he pulls up a video, displaying it for the both of you to see. 

The Soldier watches as the video plays, camera footage from SHIELD’s halls. There’s a flurry of movement from a STRIKE team, their group running down the main foyer of the building. A man comes crashing through the glass of the ceiling, ducking and rolling on the ground. 

It’s the man who was with you that night, dressed in red, white, and blue, shield in hand.

 An American Flag.

“You’re keeping the suit right?”

It’s a voice he recognizes as his own. But he can’t remember saying them. Or why he’s remembered them now.

The Soldier shakes the words from his head, paying attention to the way Pierce is looking at you, like a father ready to scold a child. Disciplinary. Authoritative. Afraid. 

You look at Pierce, waiting for him to speak. The Winter Soldier is sure if he took out his knife, he’d be able to pierce the tension which lay thick in the air. 

It was almost worse when the man didn’t lash out in anger. The silence of the office was punishment enough. The waiting was dread inducing, and the Soldier can hear your heart beating from where he sits.

“I hope in your inability to keep Rogers away from Fury, you at least have an idea of what happened to the intel he had stolen.” You shake your head.

“Sir, how would I-”

“You were there the night he died. You didn’t see anything. Hear anything Fury said to Mr. Rogers? He didn’t say anything to you.” You shook your head again.

“Sir, Fury doesn’t exactly trust me considering I work for you.” Pierce slams the tablet down on the table and points a finger at you.

“I find it hard to believe that you couldn’t get anything from him. You’re one of the best spies we have, and instead of thinking and doing your job, you were too busy jeopardizing the mission.”

“I didn’t do anything-” your voice raises and Pierce cuts you off.

“You called for the medics! What if he had survived? All that work-”

“I wasn’t about to blow my cover. Steve would have known something was up when he came back and found out help wasn’t on the way.” Pierce sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

“That’s over. I’m ending that project now. It won’t do us much good anyway now that Rogers is on the run.” You glance at the floor, and the Soldier notes the tension which returns to your shoulders. 

Pierce stands from his desk, moving around it and leaning over your chair, caging you in. 

The sight made his stomach churn. 

“Myshka. Did Rogers tell you anything?” You don’t say anything, breathing heavy as you look anywhere but at Pierce. Pierce slaps you. Hard. 

The impact leaves a bright red mark on your already bruised face and the Soldier can see the tears welling in your eyes. 

“Don’t lie to me now.”

“I swear, Steve didn’t tell me anything about the intel. I haven’t even seen him since the hospital!” 

“And Romanoff?” You lick your lips. 

“She knows.”

“Knows you’re working for us?” Your lips tremble as you nod. 

“It wasn’t hard for her to put it together. She’s smart.” The Soldier notes the strength in your eyes. Despite the fear, you had a level of confidence.  

Pierce backs away from you, seeing this as well. He leans against his desk and crosses his arms. He’s quiet for a moment.

“Well, we can’t risk having you mess this up. You’ve already caused enough trouble and Project Insight will launch in two days.” Pierce looks to Rumlow who’s standing in the back of the office. 

“Get her the schedules for Sitwell’s meetings. She’ll be acting as his new assistant for their duration.” The Soldier watches as you frown.

“But his meetings are with SHIELD stockholders. They’ll know who I am.” 

“Precisely why you’ll be provided a disguise. And, if you make a move, they’ll have all the incentive to arrest you for treason.” Pierce checks his watch and you sigh. 

The Winter Soldier watches as you look at him, your eyes glistening with secrets. He doesn’t like the fact he’s brimming with questions about you. 

Pierce dismisses you and Rumlow first, and the Soldier watches as you leave, your gaze leaving his at the last second as you exit. Pierce frowns, watching the tablet again, replaying the footage.

“I’ll have your new targets prepared in a few hours. Be ready for the call.” The Winter Soldier nods and stands, like the compliant killer he was. But as Pierce goes to open the door to let him out, the Soldier’s tongue slips, the words leaving before he can bite his cheek and stop them. 

(This is what happens when he let’s dreams cloud his mind)

“Who is she?” 

Pierce’s eyes are fierce at the question. The Soldier tenses, and Pierce licks his teeth, annoyed. 

“You really won’t let her go, will you.” The Soldier says nothing. It’s better to not answer. “It doesn’t matter who she is. Just know she’s not to be trusted.”

Then why does she make me feel this way?

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

The Winter Soldier moves down the empty hall, silent and shadow like. He’s almost to the elevator, waiting to descend to the basement when he feels the presence behind him. The Soldier moves to grab the gun at his thigh, but his fingers come empty. 

It’s not there, and as he turns he sees it in your hand, your body pushing him forward in his surprise into a broom closet. How did you know-

The small closet is enveloped in darkness as you close the door, locking it and banging your fist. He can hear Rumlow’s voice from the other side.

“Your five minutes start now. Five minutes and no more.” 

“I got it,” you say, and it’s just the two of you in the dark room. The Soldier is uncomfortable, hot and cramped, his back pressed against the shelving unit, your legs grazing his as you lean your back against the door. You still have his gun pointed at him.

You’re both quiet for a second and then you speak.

“You really don’t know who I am?”

The Winter Soldier glares at you. He wants to, but now that he’s here, his gun in your hand so easily taken, he’s not sure he does. Maybe Pierce was right.

“Right now, you’re being a nuisance who’s disregarding orders.” 

You sigh, tilting your head as if you don’t believe him.

“Always loyal. I’m trying to help you, believe it or not.”

“You almost cost me my mission.” If you really had gotten Fury help and if he had survived- the soldier can feel the phantom of pain running up his spine. 

“Don’t.”

The Winter Soldier feels a spike of anger at your word, the feeling mixed with the strange feeling overwhelming his senses with you so close. 

“I’m following orders. Like you should.” 

“Do you even know what your orders are?” Of course he does. They’re simple. The same every time. Escort this HYDRA member. Kill this traitor. Obtain this weapon. Do this. Do that. 

Clear, concise instruction. And he always executed them flawlessly. 

Until you showed up. 

The Soldier’s eyes glance down at the gun in your hand and you shift it back up towards his chest. He has a feeling you’re only holding it for him to see you were able to take it. You don’t seem like the type to actually shoot it at him.

“Let me rephrase that, have you never asked why you’re given these orders?” 

The Winter Soldier’s eyes snap to yours. 

“No.” 

“And why not.”

He’s not allowed to question. Questions only lead to pain, to Pierce slapping him and telling him he just needs to follow orders. Questions only lead him back to that machine, that awful machine, and that stupid book, the one which overrides his thoughts and his actions. 

“I can’t-”

You groan, frustrated.

“This is what they want. They don’t want you to question things. But you have to.”

“NO.”

“No!” Now it’s your turn to be angry. In the midst of your frustration and emotions, the Winter Soldier catches you off balance, grabbing the gun out of your hand and pushing you forward, pinning you to the door. He does it so fast, you barely have time to gasp before he’s pushing the gun into your side.

The Winter Soldier holds the gun, staring at you. He’d pull the trigger, save Pierce the annoyance of finding a place for you to sit in a timeout, and just kill you now. But he can’t.

You're so close to him and your body beneath his is overwhelming. Your scent. The curve of your mouth. The bandage on your cheek.

You’re breathing slows as you look up at him. You don’t move, just allow him to hover over you, caging you in.

You finally speak.

“You don’t ask questions and they win. They don’t want you asking because they know the minute you start, their whole facade crumbles.” The Winter Soldier frowns. You continue.

“You don’t know the whole truth. If you question them… if you were to find out the truth….” You swallow. “They don’t want you to know the truth because if you did you’d know all the lies they’ve fed you.” The Soldier doesn’t want to hear anymore.

“Stop.” 

“No, I won’t-” 

“STOP-”

“No, because I know you James!” He stills at the word, confusion brewing like a storm in his mind. “At least I think I do. And what you’re about to do…” you look down, taking a breath. 

“If you go through with this, someday you are going to start to question things. And you’re going to regret going through with this.” 

The Winter Soldier lets you go, panting. Everything you had said… he couldn’t believe it. Pierce had told him not to trust you. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t-

The Soldier shakes his head. 

“You don’t know me.” You just look at him sadly.

From the other side of the door, Rumlow knocks, telling you time was up. You straighten yourself and unlock the door, the light from the hall bright as you slowly crack it open. 

Rumlow pulls you out, whispering in your ear. "You better remember our deal."

The Soldier watches as you go to leave, remorseful and despondent. 

“I’ll be here when you do remember. And I hope you do.”

You leave and the Winter Soldier shoves his metal hand into the shelves behind him, tearing at the first thing he could get his hand on. 

Remember you. If he didn’t, this would all be so much easier. 

And he hates that a part of him is already trying to search his mind for any memory of you.

taglist: @frog-fans-unite , @vicmc624

[realtacuardach]

How to Heal a Herbalist

Entry for Day 1 of Obiyuki Madness 2025 (better than never :D) for @snowwhite-andtheknight: caregiver reversal.

~~~

“Herbalists,” Obi said airily, barely audible over the crunching of snow underfoot, “make the worst patients.”

Miss lifted her head from where it had been resting against the back of his neck, and made an indignant noise that was far cuter than it was intimidating. “You have clearly,” she began in a stern tone, the effect somewhat dampened by the congestion already overpowering her sinuses with a vengeance, “never treated assassins. They are very,” she sneezed, “stubborn.”

“Mercenary turned shining knight, thank you very much,” Obi countered, grinning as his Miss attempted to wipe the back of his neck in apology, although it hadn’t penetrated the scarf she’d insisted on wrapping around his neck before their evening adventures. “And I think herbalists have us beat on being stubborn.”

“Oh, really?” Miss attempted to jibe back, although her head fell against his back with a dull thud that caused him to tighten his hold around her legs and hasten his step.

“I have experience,” Obi continued, “in climbing all sorts of trees, Miss. I could have gotten that branch easily–”

“I was there first–”

“And I wouldn’t have fallen out of the tree into the pond.”

“You could have!”

“Miss.” He turned to face her, a little difficult given how she was draped over his back. “Have you ever seen me  fall?”

A pregnant pause fell over the pair as Obi made his steady way back to the castle. Miss nuzzled against his neck and murmured triumphantly. “You fell for me!”

Even exceptionally nasal, the words paired with the warm press of her face against his neck sent a jolt of some strong emotion that he felt he needed to bestow on her in kind. But she was cold, she was dripping from the thankfully not quite frozen pond, and he was pretty sure she had, at the very, very least, a sprained ankle. “Yes, I did, Miss.”

“Shirayuki.” Her arms gripped more securely around his neck, and he shivered at the sensation - and at how cold her fingers were.

“Shirayuki,” he acquiesced, the name still a strange but sweet taste on his tongue. She made a murmur of something like approval, and leaned forward with a sigh. Her grip slackened on his neck, and he gripped her legs more firmly, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the castle finally looming in the distance.

…

Obi slid smoothly through the clinic door, satchel borrowed from Shirayuki bouncing on his hip, the contents clinking dully together. “I’m back,” he crooned quietly, but bit the sound off quickly as he saw his lady’s chest slowly rising and falling in a light doze, her nose whistling slightly in the still room. He indulged in a moment of appreciating how beautiful she was, even in a cocoon of blankets and snoring, before turning in earnest to his work.

The fire he had stoked prior to his quest to the kitchen and storerooms crackled cheerily in the hearth as he set the kettle he had filled with water above the flames. He pulled one of the clinic’s side tables towards him, depositing his pilfered gains onto the slightly scarred surface.

He could hear Miss’ lilting laugh in his ears, as clear as though she were awake. And you know that you could have asked someone to get those, you don’t have to ‘steal’ anything.

But then she would have been embarrassed to have roused the concerned kitchen staff and not-so-little Ryuu and who knew who all else on her behalf; especially since it had nearly required pulling teeth to let him alone take care of her. Besides, Obi liked having him all to herself, to be the one to take care of her.

Keeping an eye on her dozing form, he began to finely dice ginger root, sliding the pieces into her favorite chipped mug. He then peeled the onion and garlic before slicing them into thin slivers. By the time the garlic and onion had been ground into a fine power and then turned into a thin paste following a generous slug of olive oil, the kettle had begun to whistle.

Obi pulled the kettle off of its hook and replaced it with the bowl of poultice. He poured the boiling water into the mug of ginger root, hoping the whistling hadn’t roused Miss.

“Obi?”

“Oops, sorry, Miss,” Obi smiled at her, stirring the contents of the mug. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“That’s okay,” she replied, attempting to sit up before falling back with a thump against the headboard. She let out a breathy, somewhat exasperated laugh. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, bringing over the steeping mug and a bundle of bandages. “Rest is important to healing, I have it on good authority.”

Miss seemed to consider sitting up again but decided against it, settling for rolling onto her side to better see Obi. “It’s good to know that you heard that authority,” she said, sniffling,” “It’s a shame you don’t seem to remember that when you’re the patient.”

“Must be some sort of condition,” Obi quipped, returning to the bowl of poultice and checking the temperature.

“Selective hearing, most likely.”

Obi barked a laugh. “Could be. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” she admitted, “but less cold.” She sniffed the air curiously, then looking adorably frustrated. “What’s that on the hearth?”

“Why, don’t you trust me?”

“I do.” She said without hesitation, and he swallowed hard, focusing on stirring the steeping ginger water. “I’m just curious.”

“Onion, garlic, and olive oil,” he replied. “For your ankle.”

Her eyes glowed appreciatively. “A poultice?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s not as tasty this way, but I didn’t think your throat could take anything more hearty than a broth right now.”

She coughed ruefully, the catch in her voice audible. “I think you’re right.”

“So I made you some ginger tea.” He gestured towards the steaming cup before scooping a liberal amount of honey from a nearby jar and stirring it in. 

“Sounds good,” she sighed, leaning back. She shuffled her shoulders and laughed. “Although I might need help detangling myself so I can actually drink it.”

Obi shook his head sadly. “Sorry, can’t do that. Rest is important for healing.”

She gave him a look. “That does make drinking it harder.”

Leaning over her, Obi slid his arms around her back and legs and gently lifted her into a sitting position. “That’s why I’m here.” She looked puzzled, and he bit back a grin as he reached for the cup and spoon. He dipped the spoon into the tea and brought it towards her mouth.

She crossed her eyes at him for a moment before laughing. “That’s not necessary.” However, she obediently opened her mouth for the first spoonful, sighing a little at the warmth coursing down her throat before she winced.

“Is it too hot?” Obi asked, dipping the spoon again and blowing gently against the tea. 

“No,” she said, before accepting another spoonful. “It’s perfect, my throat’s just tender.”

“Told you you needed to rest.”

Shirayuki sighed.

The next few minutes passed in a comfortable silence save for the clinking of the spoon against the mug and the quiet whisper of Obi’s breath across each offering. After drinking half of the mug, Miss closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

Obi put the mug to the side and retrieved the warm bowl of poultice. He peeled back the blankets around her feet, wincing a little apologetically at the shivers the movement evoked. “Sorry,” he said, removing the thick woolen sock before applying the warm poultice with firm, gentle strokes around her swollen ankle.

“You’re fine,” Miss assured him, and then her throat caught in a giggle.

“Ticklish?”

“Yes,” Miss looked down at him, and a somewhat alarmed look spread across her face at his smirk. “Obi, don’t you dare.”

“Perish the thought, Miss,” Obi replied lightly, obediently steering his fingers away from the sole of her foot while storing away that information for the future. He wrapped the ankle firmly in the bandages and replaced the sock before tucking the blanket snugly around her once more.

“Shirayuki,” she reminded him automatically. He saw her foot flex experimentally beneath the blankets. “That’s a wonderful wrap, Obi.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

A cheeky grin spread across her flushed face. “Ryuu?”

“From two of the best,” Obi corrected.

“Garelt?”

“You, Shirayuki,” Obi crooned, shifting his position back towards where her head rested against the wall, “are teasing me.”

“I learned from the best.”

“The best, you say,” Obi grinned, leaning closer towards her and delighting in how the flush in her face spread swiftly to her ears. He wondered how he might make that flush spread even further, and an idea sprang to mind.

“What is it?” His Miss knew him all too well.

“You know, I heard of one way to get rid of a cold.”

“Really?” The tone was equal parts curious and suspicious as his lady regarded him.

“Sharing it.” Obi leaned closer.

“That,” Shirayuki stuttered a little at his encroaching proximity, although her eyes glittered with mirth, “has never been scientifically proven.”

Obi arched a brow. “Well, I’ve learned from you how to fix that.”

“And how is that?” She shivered, moreso from the ghost of his breath across her lips than from the cold.

“Further testing.” And with that, he leaned the remainder of the way.

[likemosaic]

@magicxecustos : [ KEEPING ] receiver holds sender's arm just above the elbow while they're talking or to get their attention. (for solus era or emet selch shb era, whatever floats your boat vibewise!) casual yet intimate interactions meme.

solus stops mid-word when aurelia grabs him by the arm, expression slightly outraged at being forced to a stop. but mostly curious. he feels the brush of air as she pulls out her scythes, quicker than a lightning strike; hears the clang of metal as a projectile is repelled off of her blade, alarmingly close to his chest. before he can react, one of aurelia's men has the assailant on the ground, while the assailant screams bloody murder, death to the emperor, blah blah blah. they always say the same thing, don't they? solus is reminded of lucius during one of his temper tantrums.

chaos unfolds as the emperor's guard jump into action, several seconds slower than both reapers, who could have handled the entire thing by themselves. solus watches dully, unimpressed by how they handle the assassin, the way they roughly yank his arms behind his back. painful, sure, but unimpressive. he turns to aurelia.

"well spotted," he tells her, eyebrows raised. despite his mild reaction, he's genuinely relieved. it would have been a pain in the fucking neck to explain why he could survive a bullet to the heart, and no, everyone, don't panic, the emperor is fine! bleeding from the chest, but fine! "i believe that's the fourth this month. you've won your ridiculous gamble."

cossutia and her maidservant had bet two assassination attempts before the end of the quarter; aurelia had bet four, in an attempt to undercut her friends. ruthlessness wins, as always.

solus sighs. "how tiring it all becomes. shall we return home?" this outing has lost its joy, and he's of a mind to see their family.

[llamamamarisen92]

The Wolf and the Lion

Chapter 1 - A Wolf Snuck into the Lion’s Den

Chapter 2 Link:

https://www.tumblr.com/llamamamarisen92/760433510540541952/the-wolf-and-the-lion?source=share

Named Dark Urge

Pre-BG3 Dark Urge/Gortash Head Canon

Warning: Violence

Characters: Johim (Durge), Gortash, Orin, Sarovek

Word Count: 1,800ish

By: Jesh Llamas

Bored. He sat bored upon the throne of Bhaal. Long ago he had mastered his domain. Celebrated among those who thirsted for blood. Idols of the white dragon beginning to show up in homes of partriars who dabbled in cruelty and debauchery. For years he sat on this throne. Picking up the pieces of Sarovek's failure. Building something much more than a temple of murder. Growing an empire of his own designs in the name of his father. Divine blood flowing righteously through him.

Orin stood atop the altar chanting as wails of terror filled the ceremony hall. Hammers crashing down upon mighty drums. Building a cacophony of anguished horror in honor of Lord Bhaal. In honor of him. Johim Ba'elwyn, chief scion of the dread god. The last victim was stretched upon the stone slab. A high elven maiden who seemed no older than 40 years. Her eyes were beautiful. Hazel panic filled eyes danced in silent beseechment of him.

He stood up slowly, holding his hand in the air to stay Orin's blade. Unhurried as he walked down the dais stairs towards the terrified woman. A stalking lion making its way to a lamb tied to a spit. He stood above the woman now. Eyes softened as he placed a gentle hand on her cheek. For a moment the terror fled from her. Tears of relief flowing as he smiled gently down at her. He bent over brushing his lips against hers. An intimate lovers gesture. Little whimpers escaped her, body relaxing slightly. He chose that moment to dig his dagger deep into her heart. Watching her face as confusion and anguish were her last expressions. When the light in her eyes dimmed he thrust his bloodied fist into the air. Roaring as he transformed into the dread dragon's form. A trick he used to stir the worshipers into a zealous frenzy.

Orin was now kneeling on the ground bowing deeply. This was her role. Submission. His sister, the granddaughter of Sarovek showing obeisance to his rule. The graven crimson eyes of Bhaal flickering above him. A sign of pleasure from his divine father. He turned away from the crowd of worshipers. The echo of vile cheers followed him as he made his way to his private quarters. He made a few short commands to the sentries at his door. He did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening.

Closing the door and turned back to his normal form. Handsome leonine features set upon sun-kissed skin. Thick red hair that fell like a river of blood down his shoulders and back. He had been alive for a thousand years, but he looked no older than thirty five. A benefit of being the spawn of a god he supposed. His beauty was a mark of his status as Bhaal's perfect scion.

Thankfully a basin had already been filled with water. He walked over to wash the blood off of his hands. Dully scanning the bowl as the blood washed off. How many times had he performed this ritual? It had become automatic. Hardly having to think about or calculate how proceedings would go. It was always the same. A fear stricken victim. A false sense of hope. And a crowd cheering at the illusion of a dragon.

When he was finished cleaning up he settled at his desk. A pile of letters filled with requests from various lords and ladies of the land. Desiring for support in this venture or that. Someone requesting to hire his assassin's blade. Another wishing for an intimidating presence. Some of them simply dinner invitations with the intention to keep in Bhaal's good graces. What better way to stay unmurdered than to appeal to Bhaal's charismatic and indomitable son.

Outside of the temple when he was representing Bhaal he was always the dragon. When he took over he had seen fit for the temple to present a more diplomatic face. To slither into the upper class and puppet the rulers of the land. It wasn't that hard. The good and great of the sword coast often debauched and thinly veiling their own personal evils.

Sifting through the letters until one of them finally caught his eye. It was sealed with the black mark of Bane. Raising his eyebrow in curiosity at the oil stained paper he unfolded it. Banites did not send appeals to Bhaal's temple. Their gods were similar and at times their objectives aligned. But their desire for the outcome of the world was very different. Their differences often landed in deadly quarrels between their respective cults.

His curiosity was peaked further a half smile curving his lips as he read the letter:

"Beautiful son of Bhaal." The letter was off to a good start. "How long will you sit upon your fathers throne. Growing stagnant in the shadow of your father's power. Surely one such as yourself craves more. I see the way you control the inner workings of your realm with an iron fist. But perhaps it is time to loosen your grip on the shadows and reach towards higher elevation. Not to simply sit contented as the son of a god, but to be in truth a god entirely of your own. Perhaps it is time to shed the dragon and instead become the lion."

His brow furrowed at that last line. Very few outside the temple were privy to his true form. And one did not simply step into the temple without very careful vetting. It served him well when he wanted to walk the city streets discreetly. Watching and listening for information from crowds of people that may prove useful. A salaciously whimsical smile masking the monster inside. Seducing his way into the beds of important men and women for a multitude of reasons all designed to further his kingdom.

The letter ended in a peculiar sign off.

"May we obtain absolute glory in the light of our own ambitions, Gortash."

Setting the letter down he puzzled out the words. The motives that may lay behind them. Getting up he walked towards a shelf of books on the gods of the realm. It was important to be studied on the entire pantheon and its histories. But Johim truly found pleasure in knowledge and was as devoted to his scholarly pursuits as he was to his brutal acts of worship. Constantly drinking up knowledge as if he was on the cusp of dying of thirst.

He selected a volume recounting phrases of power and declarations in the name of Bane. Searching for something within the text that matched up with the strange phrase. Banites were often ambitious, but the mechanical nature of their thinking often limited them. Frustration built as nothing jumped out at him as he flipped through the pages. He put down the book and sifted through his own knowledge for anything that may prove familiar.

A thought struck him and he walked back to the vast shelf of books. At the top was an old tome. It was a second hand recounting of the life and destruction of Karsus. The priceless book was given to him by a calamshite mage who enlisted him to personally slaughter a rival of his. Johim smiled a bit at the memory of Orin's rage when she found out her brother took on a contract for a book. Raging that it was beneath him to do anything for dingy worn out pages.

He flipped to a page near the end of the book reading the passage that came to his mind.

Karsus lay broken and bloody upon the floor of his own half constructed temple. Mortal once more, his life rapidly flitting out like a candle in the midst of a tempest. The failed child that would be a god grasped by the oppressive hand of Mephistopheles as he was dragged down into the depths of the hells.

He continued to read until he came to a final stanza on that same page. 

Karsus cried to the heavens in one final display of defiance, 'May I still obtain absolute glory in the light of mine own ambitions'.

It was famously the last words Karsus spoke before his kingdom and godhood was snuffed out. His artifacts were rumored to be kept in the volts of Mephistopheles himself. Karsus was an infamous figure in history. But not many outside a handful of powerful mages and perhaps clerics of Mystra were well read on the subject.

Suspicion filled him as he pondered how Gortash would not only know his true identity but also be keen enough to put in a reference to a rare passage about Karsus. But suspicion was also accompanied by a deep curiosity and the spark of a fire that had been simmering out at the monotony of his own success.

He sat back at his desk with the book in hand. Clearing a spot so that he may write a letter in response. He dipped a quill in ink and simply wrote:

"Ambition is what distinguishes between those who would remain mortal and those who would reach above the divine."

Another reference from the same book. He signed it, 'Your roaring lion'.

Eager to catch a glimpse of this Enver Gortash he donned a dark hooded robe as he walked through a door that led to a secret tunnel that connected to the docks of Baldur's gate. There was no address. Nothing to indicate where Gortash may be. No. But judging by the oil stains on the paper it was likely it came from the steel factory that sat next to the docks. He slipped into a dark corner waiting for any sign of the man that wrote to him. A group of artificers walked out of the factory gate. He perked up as one of them waved to a man in an ornate set of robes.

"Your ingenuity will cause you to outpace the Master Artificer in no time Gortash. Safe travels home."

Johim grinned as the young black haired man walked into the dark streets. Presumably to go home. Johim followed him quietly, keeping to the shadows. Gortash turned the corner onto a walkway that was lonely at this time of night. Taking the opportunity he quickly covered Gortash's mouth as he held his dagger to the man's back. Just enough pressure to warn him against calling for help.

"It seems a wolf has been playing in my den." He whispered softly into Gortash's ear. He sheathed his dagger and slid his response letter into one of Gortash's pockets. Before Gortash could respond or turn around, he slunk back into the shadows undetected.

Johim was all too ready to play whatever game this clever wolf was setting in front of him.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 2 @ailesswhumptober - alt prompt : shock collar.

As part of the assassins training the facility needs to desensitise them them to death, to killing. And hesitation needs to be punished. (Apparently I couldn't resist torturing Ash again and exploring some of who he was earlier in training.)

CW: shock collar, implied death, implied killing, living weapon, dehumanisation, violence, conditioning, torture as training.

AiLessWhumptober List Complex 27

The Desensitisation Room, dubbed the "Death Room" by the assets, often felt more like a morgue than a training room. Its metallic walls glinted dully under harsh lights, casting deep shadows across the space. Every surface was cold steel, from the grated floor - designed to allow blood and fluids to drain away into unseen gutters - to the rows of hooks hanging from the ceiling, reminiscent of a butcher’s shop.

Along one wall stood a large, heavy metal table, its surface scarred from years of use. Thick leather restraints hung from each corner, ready to hold down whatever—or whoever—found itself subjected to the cold dissection blade. Above, an array of tools hung neatly: surgical saws, scalpels, forceps, and clamps, all gleaming under the flickering lights. They were meticulously organized, each one in its place—a grotesque parody of an operating room.

Today, a failure from D Block lay on the table, a living weapon with hollow, dim eyes. But they still lived.

For now.

Asset 77 stood in line, rigid, disciplined, with four other young assets each clad in the black uniform of C Block. Around each of their necks sat a shock collar—heavy and oppressive, a constant threat. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, but it was the anticipation—the electric charge in the room—that made their skin prickle. Eyes downcast but alert, his short brown hair sticking to his forehead in nervous sweat. Next to him, Asset 47 was a statue—his face hard, unreadable. They both knew what was coming. There was no avoiding it. No denying it.

They had seen the films, watched the dispassionate executions and dissections, but today was different.

It was real now.

Ahead of them, the first trainee - Asset 51 - was handed a knife that looked too large in his trembling hand. He stared at the blade as if hoping it would disappear, his wide, terrified eyes darting between the instructors and the restrained figure on the table.

“Do it,” the instructor barked. The voice was sharp and clipped, cutting through the room like a knife.

The instructor towered over them, tall and imposing in a pristine dark blue uniform. Every button was fastened, every crease sharp. Their expression was one of cool disinterest, as though the suffering before them was no different from a routine drill. With hands clasped loosely behind their back, they radiated an unmistakable air of dominance. Shoulders back, chin slightly raised, the instructor seemed to dare any of the trainees to step out of line. Cold, calculating eyes swept over the room, lingering on each asset just long enough to remind them of who held the power.

“Remember, you are here to learn to eliminate, not to hesitate. You should be proud. The Facility sees your potential.” The disdain dripped from their voice, especially as they studied 51’s quivering form. “Do you understand? Failure is a stain that never washes away.”

51 didn’t move. The instructor’s jaw tightened slightly, a muscle flickering beneath their skin. They didn’t need to yell; their authority was not in volume but in control—absolute and unwavering. A single, deliberate step forward echoed on the cold, grated floor, sending a shiver down Asset 77’s spine.

“I said, do it.” The instructor's voice lowered, laced with quiet menace.

The room fell into an oppressive silence. 51’s hand shook violently, his breathing erratic, eyes wide with fear. The tension crackled, amplifying the fear that hung in the air.

Then, without warning, 51's shock collar activated.

A sharp crackle of electricity erupted, followed by a choked cry. 51 convulsed, his body seizing as the shock coursed through him. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering against the grated floor. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, his face a mask of pain and terror.

Asset 77 flinched at the sound, muscles tensing instinctively. His gaze shot to 51’s crumpled form. For just a second, he imagined himself there, on the ground, the electricity still dancing through his body. His fingers twitched at his sides, dread bubbling up in his throat, he felt his body flinch again.

A small sign of fear, of emotion, of weakness.

That was enough.

Everything went black. A jolt. Electricity. Pain. Pure, unrelenting pain. It engulfed him, took him. No air. No thought.

His knees buckled, but the floor didn’t matter anymore; all that existed was the agony. Bright white spots danced across his vision, a dizzying blur of light and pain, as if his skull might crack under the pressure. Breathe. He couldn’t—there was no air. His throat tightened, choking him from within.

He clawed at the floor, but his hands felt distant, useless. His mind shattered into fragments. Stop. Please, stop. Were the words real or just echoes in his head? The burning in his neck stretched and twisted, every muscle locking into place until his body was no longer his own. His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears, a drum beating him into submission. All he could taste was metal—blood, maybe? Was that blood?

Pain.

Blinding.

It clawed at him. Not just his neck. Everywhere.

Fire in his veins.

All there was, all that ever existed, was the collar and the fire it forced into him.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

He gasped, air flooding back into his lungs, but it burned like acid. His chest heaved, and he collapsed fully onto the floor, coughing and shaking uncontrollably. His limbs twitched, the aftershock of electricity still lingering in his muscles like tiny knives poking from within. Vision blurred, but he could see the dull, cold steel beneath him. His fingers flexed against it. Real. He was still here.

The collar stopped, releasing 77 from its cruel grip. He sucked in a sharp breath, coughing as the air returned to his lungs, the burn still smouldering deep inside him. He tasted copper. Blood.

Somewhere nearby, he could feel 47’s eyes on him, but he said nothing. 47 knew better than to react. Knew better than to flinch. Asset 77 hated him for it. 47 was always so composed.

The instructor’s voice sliced through the haze of pain. "Get up 77."

His fingers curled into fists against the cold steel floor, his body still trembling. But he forced himself to rise, legs shaky beneath him, unwilling to show any more weakness. The instructor’s gaze lingered on him for a second longer, as if daring him to flinch again, to falter, before their attention returned to 51 - still on the ground, gasping for breath, tears streaking his cheeks.

No one moved to help him. The instructor stepped forward, retrieving the fallen knife and shoving it back into the boy’s hand.

“Do. It.”

The trembling in 51’s hands intensified, the knife slipping in his slick, sweaty grip. On his knees now, he stared up at the figure strapped to the table, face pale and drawn. The failure didn’t struggle. Didn’t plead. Barely reacted. As if they had already accepted their fate.

The silence dragged on for what felt like hours, broken only be 51’s ragged breathing.

“Do you want this to be your fate?” The instructors voice was smooth, dangerously calm, dripping with authority. “Make your choice.”

Another flick of the instructor’s finger sent a fresh jolt through 51’s collar.

The scream that followed was louder, raw, and full of agony. His body writhed on the floor, fingers clawing at the air in desperation. When the shock stopped, he lay limp, sobs echoing through the sterile room, a sound of defeat that reverberated off the cold, unforgiving walls.

Asset 77’s throat tightened at the sight. He knew what would come next. If 51 didn’t act, the knife would be passed down the line. Each of them would face this moment sooner or later. The phantom burn of the collar still fresh in his mind, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

But 51 didn’t get up this time.

Instead, the instructor’s gaze shifted to the next trainee in line, then to Asset 77.

“Your turn.”

[kuroneko1815]

Tyranny of a lost love

Callisto loved her but he had known that too late. As he stared out at the beautiful day, he cursed it too. Behind him the bed was empty, a proof of his failure. Her absence like a monster gnawing on his very being, the silence haunting him. There would be no more smiles, no more sharp words, no taunts luring him in until he made her beg, spread out on his bed, tangled together and her words of devotion only for him.

He had bid her a final goodbye today, watched as her body was forever entombed in a grave for the two of them, their child dead with her. The Eckharts hadn’t come, too busy fawning over their newly returned daughter, over the girl that had caused all of this. That miserable wretch who had accused his Princess of all manner of wicked misdeeds, he had stopped them but not in time for them to beat the life out of her.

Her broken body etched forever in his mind and soul. The Eckharts had made a nuisance of themselves in the meantime, celebrating the engagement between their precious real daughter and the Marquis, joining his brother’s faction and slandering him.

He cared not for it.

“Your highness?” Porter asked him from where he stood on the other side of his room. Baroness Eloise by his side.

“I love her.” He said dully, voice devoid of life and emotion, just as he now was. “I wanted to protect her, protect them, forever.”

Porter was silent for a moment.

“What do you wish to do?” The aide asked.

“Burn them all to the ground.” He said, a flame lighting up in him. Penelope had wished him to be the perfect emperor, but he couldn’t do that with those filth still walking about.

“As you wish.” Both Porter and the Baroness replied.

-

-

Cedric watched his Liege as he issued out commands. He’d known this to be a possibility for years. Perhaps he should be against this, others certainly would. But Cedric had been sixteen when he followed a twelve year old crown Prince into battle, watched as he stained his hands with blood, destroyed his innocence, butchered his own soul in order to obey the commands given to him by the Emperor and to prove himself to a thankless empire.

The Crown Prince who kept his studies even in the battlefield, who did his work as both the leader of the military and the crown prince, had done the work of practically every other Imperial family member, and yet all he received from high society was scorn and ridicule, the barbarian prince, and assassins every other day or so.

And to see him fall for the first time, to see shades of the boy he’d been resurface around the woman he loved had been so very uplifting. To see the shadows and darkness chased away as he gazed at the Lady, the gentleness with which he held her, the excitement upon his upcoming nuptials, and of his secret impending fatherhood. And then too see it all ripped away, Cedric hadn’t been surprised by the path that the Prince chose to take.

There were many who would follow him to such a course of action, Cedric included. Not just for his liege but for the sake of his friends among the mages as well. His friends who had been trampled on for generations because of their magic when they were so very useful. Far more useful than those corrupt, insolent, uppity nobles in their gilded homes who knew little of the world beyond their halls and balls.

-

-

He had made sure to make a nuisance of himself, a bigger, more effective nuisance. One that constantly undermined his brother and his faction. Destroying the relations between the citizens and those certain nobles further, sowing seeds of distrust and discontent.

He bid his time, he chased down any rumours from Penelope’s days in the streets, his informants more well versed in the art of street gossip and the shadier sides of the world. And he found one in particular. The pink monster, a tale of a little girl with pink hair and blue eyes, angelic in face, but would devour a man whole, sucking the life from them and leaving them as ashes.

Now which demon did he know of that did that? The Laila was known to be a goddess this time around, and that description was quite specific, narrowing it down to two girls within the capital at the time. Penelope and Ivonne Eckhart.

But Penelope had been well known and still well loved among the people of the street, that meant that the monster had to be Ivonne.

He found a wicked sense of humour in the fact that the Marquis, the pure white gentleman of high society would soon be sharing his bed with such a vile thing.

And then he heard tales of his brother’s movements and he smirked. A coup was it?

-

-

In the end, the Marquis brought his bride to be into the Palace, had supported the coup in such a state. Whether he did so willingly was no matter to him. The Eckharts had participated and so doomed themselves as well.

Callisto played the part of hero and caught them in the act. What he discovered was that the Laila could heal the host body with life forces, he threw the brothers in first, made the Duke watch what his daughter had done to his sons. Made him remember how he’d cast out his other child.

He had no sympathy.

The Marquis had escaped his grasp but he hunted him even now. It wouldn’t be much more until he caught him.

Outside the doors, the new Emperor was hailed, the golden hero of the Empire. Many families had been purged from nobility, many more loyal servants and soldiers uplifted into nobilities ranks.

-

-

Winter Verdandi watched it all from a cave far away. Too late had he awoken from the thrall. He had destroyed an innocent girl, the Crown Prince… no, the new Emperor’s love. And had inadvertently caused her death.

It set about a path of silver tongued tyranny for the Golden Prince.

He looked out at the capital, at the buildings being rebuilt after the Laila had unleashed the Golden Dragon. So many… so many lives had been destroyed by his actions, so many lives lost. The faces of his apprentices appeared in his mind, the fear and betrayed looks they’d given him as he allowed Ivonne to take them, to devour them, it was too much.

He set about making things right as he stepped into the ritual’s circle and felt the flames lick in to his skin.

-

-

The spell had been done too many times. Far too many to even be counted. The soul that had suffered so many agonizing deaths and moments had shattered long before the spell had even been cast.

Time froze, unable to accommodate the glaring absence needed to complete the reversal.

Fate compensated.

The soul was remade, a child was born in a new world. Parallel experiences mirroring the ones she had suffered through in one world, only this time, she was born in a place and time where she had a choice.

Fate decreed only in death. Death came, but could not fully reap.

The child grew into a woman who fell unconscious and woke up in the other life.

And so time reset, now able to proceed along the many paths it could take.

Obviously I’m on to my angst phase again. I guess I’ve been working on too much fluff behind the scenes too, including a new Imperial Domesticity instalment. So I needed to balance it out.

[la-muerta]

five lines fic meme

tagged by @cheetahing! ❤️

rules: find five lines in your fic based on the prompts you are given, then change one of the prompts at the end!

Most of these are more like paragraphs than lines 😆

A Line You Think is Hilarious: from names of people we could be together, a modern rival assassins AU, (Word of Honour, rated E, ~17.8k words

Wen Kexing leans closer, his breath brushing the nape of Zhou Zishu’s neck. “Aren’t you going to give me a kiss for good luck?” “I could give you a broken nose, for whatever luck that brings,” Zhou Zishu mutters darkly.

A Sad Line: from two halves of the end of the world, set in Batavia just before the onset of WW2 (Shadowhunters, rated E, ~25.4k words)

"If losing it is the price I have to pay for you to come home safely, it's a price I'll gladly pay," Magnus says, then lets out a bitter laugh. "Isn't that how it works? You don't believe in gods until you need to bargain with them — take this precious thing, and this, and this — whatever it takes, as long as you keep my love safe."

A Furious Line: from again and again we look up to the moon // 细算浮生千万绪, canon divergent set 10 years before canon (Mysterious Lotus Casebook, rated E, WIP)

"There's no antidote for the bicha poison. She laughed in my face when I begged her for it," Yun Biqiu replied dully, finally looking up at Li Xiangyi, suddenly hopeful. "But you're alive, so you must have found a cure after all? It's been almost two weeks since that day, but you still look well." No thanks to you, Li Xiangyi thought. "So you betrayed me with good intentions. The battle with Jinyuan Alliance never happened and it's all to your credit, you must be pleased that Jiao Liqiao's scheme worked. Then why are you hiding here like you can't face the light?" he snarled.

A Line About Dreams: from lovers be lost (but love shall not), a 1910s casefic where Wei Ying is betrothed to a recently deceased Lan Zhan (The Untamed/MDZS, rated T, ~13k words)

“Oh! We can talk to each other now? This is good,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan shakes his head, his expression troubled. “I don’t think this is a good thing.” “What? Why?” Wei Ying says in surprise. Instead of explaining himself, Lan Zhan frowns and stands up. “Wake up, Wei Ying.” “Huh?” “Wake up."

A Line About Love: from Definitely Not Haunted (Anymore), a line about familial love rather than romantic love (Shadowhunters, rated E, ~50.4k words)

His mother was standing right before him — not as a greyed-out, bloodied ghost but exactly as she'd looked the day Magnus had last seen her alive, with colour in her cheeks and no blood on her white blouse. "A-ma," Magnus breathed, and she smiled. "Anak sayang," she murmured, reaching out to place a hand on his cheek, and Magnus' face crumpled with the terrible ache in his chest when he grasped her hand in his and found that he could hold her hand again after all this time.

No pressure tagging: @dragongirlg-fics, @sfjessii, @sasamelons, @the-wintry-mizzenmast, @howdaretrashships with the following prompts

Prompts:

A Line You Think is Hilarious

A Sad Line

A Line About Dreams

A Line About Love

An Atmospheric Line

[mercysought]

what was the first impression you had of me? + zevran to asharen

YOU ARE EATING AN ORANGE // not accepting . @saovaene @ara1nai

Asharen gives a small snort, tilting her head to the side, and turning the cup of coffee to the side. Long wavy red hair pulled up in such a loosely styled braid that any movement might just undo it completely. But it holds, for now.

Well, that was a simple question to answer. There weren't many of simple question she could so easily and promptly answer.

   "Charming." she supposed that anyone who had met Zevran could likely say the same thing. Looking at the man, her eyes wrinkling with the warmth of her smile reaching the light eyes, she wonders how much of that was taught and how much it was natural "I suppose the fame is not unearned or unwarranted."

Given what she had learnt about Zevran, there weren't many that could have survived a failed assassination attempted, their lives spared by the would be assassinated. Looking at him, Asharen thought about the crows' lives she had ended when they had invaded her in her home in an attempt to take hers. It hurt her to think about it, how any of them could have, in a different time have been Zevran, and while she had not known their names their deaths still weighed dully in the back of her mind.

She didn't feel sorry, they would have killed her, had certainly tried hard enough she had no other choice and yet, it was her who had to live with their deaths in her mind.

   "You..." her head tilts to the side, part of the red hair falling on the side of her forehead and over her eyes. She brushes it aside absently as her weight shifts on the chair "You reminded me of myself, in a way."

Selfish, perhaps; it wasn't lost on her how all roads in her mind often lead back to how it could apply to her own live and yet it was impossible not to.

Another elf that had disappeared into the streets of Antiva in hopes they would not be found or would have no reason to. And yet they both were, being called upon to do the work that had shaped their hands into the tools they were.

Well, her eye falls on the brass hand resting atop the wooden table - hand, in her case. She gives him a small smile "I returned to Antiva after being away for so long and hoped that being alone would..." what, what had she hoped? Her brows arch and her lips thin into a line with a shrug "Help? Make me feel better?"

And it had. For a time. And perhaps that was what made it all the worst.

Softly brushing the brass fingers over the wooden surface she feels the soft grooves under them. She places the palm of the prosthetic fully against the table. Light eyes glance to Zevran and then to the window that overlooked the small village and the people that still walked the streets.

   "To be surrounded by the city and the people there." Antiva City was always crawling with activity. From the early mornings of merchants getting permits and setting up stores, to people that were crawling from the brothels and late closing bars. To the burst of live in the city streets and the mid afternoon sun.

There hadn't been a time while she stayed in Skyhold that she didn't imagine herself back on those streets.

   "I thought... honestly, I honestly thought it would feel..." her smile opens and she exhales, shrugging as her eyes fall back to the coffee cup "Like it used to."

But it hadn't. Things were the same, felt the same, but she did not. And for a while that was good enough, until it wasn't. Her eyes return to Zevran and she holds the small smile, it falters as her eyes fall back down to her brass fingers against the coffee cup. Asharen's brows arch and she sighs, shrugging once more "But it can never feel the same way again, can it?"

[liviavanrouge]

Problem pt 2 of Punishment

Livia: *Sits on the couch, her eyes closed*

???: *Shrieks in Livias head*

Livia: *Opens her eyes and stands up*

Silver: Liv?

Lilia: Little Bat, what's the matter?

Livia: *Shoves Lilia out of her way then vanishes into thin air*

Sebek: She looked so mad!! What's going on?!

Silver: Liv...I've never seen her so angry!

~~~

Marina: STAY BACK!!! I AM GOING TO PURIFY THE WATER, I JUST NEED TIME!

Brooklyn; Time isn't what we have! *Shoves Marina* Go purify the water!!

Marina: *Trembles, her eyes wide* I can't I need-

Marina: *Gasps as a sharp pain shot through her chest, making her fall to her knees*

Brooklyn: *Stares in shock* I-I didn't do that!

???: GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HER! YOU GOD DAMN BASTARDS!!

Marina: *Looks skywards alarmed* Fluffy?

Livia: *Scowls, her eyes glowing dark red*

Livia: *Lands in front of Brooklyn, forcing the woman back*

Brooklyn: S-Stay away you savage animal!!

Livia: *Points to Brooklyn's eyes, snarling*

Brooklyn: *Flinches then screams, dark water contaminating her eyes causing her to claw around them*

Marina: *Stares in shock, her eyes wide*

Livia: *Looks at the others* You all need to learn TRUST! If Marina says she will purify the water, she will purify it and make sure you all have clean water!

Livia: Trust works BOTH WAYS, not just one you God damn imbeciles!

Man A: S-Sorry...we're...just antsy...

Man B: Y-Yeah...we apologize..

Livia: Good....about damn time someone said they're sorry..

Marina: Fluffy...?

Livia: *Walks over, lifting Marina up* Dark water?

Marina: Yes-

Livia: *Shoots up and slashes her claw though the air, stopping an assassin*

Marina: *Stares dully, a hand on her chest* Fl..uffy....

Livia: *Picks Marina up princess carry, her chest glowing blue as water surrounded Marina purifying her*

Livia: *Gently sets Marina down, leaning close* ...you'll have to summon me back, Mari..I will be getting punished for this..

Marina: Huh...?

Livia: *Steps back* Once you summon me back, I will belong to you and forever be yours...

Livia: *Vanishes into the air, leaving the area*

Marina: *Stares as a guard carried her* Summon...back...?

@queen-of-twisted

[domoz]

i wish u would write a fic where izuna and hashirama conspired

"Ah, Izuna-san, thanks for coming!"

"Sure." Izuna responds dully. As if he really had a choice. Hashirama has been duly elected the leader of this little mess that everyone is calling a village, and now Izuna is obligated to answer to him. To a Senju, which stings, but not so badly that he can't bear it. Mostly it hasn't been an issue, because so much of the work they've done to make this nonsense work is by committee -- but today it just might become one. The -- former, now, as of his election -- Senju clan head has really never had cause to talk to Izuna one on one like this.

His skin prickles as Hashirama leans back and activates a privacy seal. Izuna doesn't let the tension in his chest bleed over to his expression, since all that seal does it stop eavesdroppers. The security seal that would prevent him from leaving hasn't been touched. Maybe the Senju has noticed anyways, because he flashes Izuna a lopsided grin and leans back in that stupid home grown office chair of his.

"I hope you don't mind if a cut to the chase., He says, "There's a mission I want your thoughts on."

Something in his tone make's Izuna attention sharpen. It's ever so slightly different than normal. Calmer than usual, or maybe… More serious. Whatever this is, it's gotten Hashirama to drop his usual buffoon act.  There's no  scroll to be seen, so this mission is likely one of those, where linking paperwork to the deed is just too dangerous. Izuna has his done his fair share. He raises an eyebrow.

"Well I'm sure your brother has already said his piece. What's with all the secrecy for a second opinion?"

"Ah… No. I don't send Tobirama on missions like these for… A variety of reasons. And this one is very need to know."

"…Missions like?"

Izuna lets himself look suspicious, and Hashirama's smile dims, though, it doesn't fall completely. There's nothing that Hashirama should trust Izuna to do for over his own brother. So far the Senju hasn't seemed the type to eliminate his enemies by sending them on suicide missions, but Izuna is well aware that he still doesn't know the man well enough to know.

"The daimyo has asked us to assassinate a political rival of his. Make it look like an accident, you know how it is." Which is not the sort of mission the Uchiha have gotten in a long time. Those sorts of requests only go to the most well trusted and well placed in court, and neither the Uchiha or the Senju have been in that position for a long time. As if reading his thoughts, Hashirama goes on, "I suspect this is a test, of sorts. And I thought, well, maybe it’s a good opportunity to test something out myself!"

Well assuming that mission is real, someone's going to have to do it. Izuna crosses his arms and waits for an explanation. For once the Senju gets to the point.

"I've realized that as the Hokage I might be in need of some people who serve me directly instead of going through the mission office. And I thought…"

"Me?" And not his brother? If it were just an assassination mission, sure, Izuna can agree he's more suited to it since Tobirama is disgustingly unsubtle for a shinobi. But as, what, an aide?

The Senju's stupid big brown eyes crinkle with another smile.

"You!" He agrees, "Really, if you've done even half of what Madara has told me you'd be perfect for this, and, well…" There's something sharp in the Senju's expression, a look Izuna isn't certain he can ever recall seeing there before, "When it comes to things like this, I thought it would be best if I asked someone who would keep me accountable."

He's insane, Izuna thinks, and not for the first time. He's either insane, or he's toying with us all. And if it's the latter, what the hell is Izuna supposed to do about it on his own? At least with this on offer he can keep a closer eye on him.

"I'll be telling my brother you sent me on a mission." He challenges.

The Senju's smile melts back into it's usual fake cheer, "I was thinking a delivery to rice country would be the perfect cover. I already have the wine you might have brought back as a souvenir!"

Izuna snorts, mostly out of disbelief with himself, and steps closer to lean over the desk. "Which I would give to nii-san and not to you, so don't you dare crack the seal on it. Now fill me in on the actual details."

[msbigredmachine]

TARGETS - 27 - In The Mouth of Darkness

Roman Reigns is an agent in the secret organization The Authority and one of the world’s deadliest assassins. When he crosses paths with a mysterious woman during an assignment, he makes a life-changing decision that switches his role from the hunter to the hunted.  (AU Espionage Story)

TARGETS MASTERLIST

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

Roman leaned against the wall of the van he was ensconced in, staring dully at the heap of clothes in front of him, seeing them without seeing them. His mind was somewhere else, spinning with a million thoughts - all of them centered on his love.

It seemed impossible that six hours had elapsed since he had last seen Jasmine; six hours since she left Leona's house. Since then, he'd replayed their last encounter several times in his mind, reducing it to the fragmented haze of sight and sensation that all treasured memories seem to consist of. He recalled what she said before she left, remembered what she had been wearing - heck, he could still remember the warm softness of her lips beneath his as he kissed her, the determined look in her eyes before she walked out that door. If he'd known this would happen, that that psychopath would take her, he'd have barricaded the doors and kept her inside and in the safety of his arms.

That Corbin had Jasmine, frankly, terrified Roman. If that bastard had his way, he would never see her again. If he lost Jasmine today, he wouldn't know what to do with himself, he honestly didn't. But he could not allow himself to think like that. He knew firsthand that his girlfriend was a firebrand, a fighter. There was little doubt in the Samoan’s mind that she was going to survive Baron and be reunited with him.

Roman had hitchhiked on a laundry delivery truck, hiding out among the dirty clothing. It wasn't a problem for him, as he'd staked out in worse places for agonizingly long periods of time. He recalled his phone conversation with Dean and Seth a couple of hours ago.

"What exactly is the plan, Reigns?" Dean asked. "After this...after you rescue Jasmine...what are you going to do?"

"We're going to bring the Companies down," Roman answered him, "both of us."

"What?" Seth and Dean exclaimed, their voices so loud that Roman actually had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"Bring the companies down? You tellin’ us you wanna bring down F.L.O.R.A. and the Authority?" Dean repeated incredulously, "Have you lost your fuckin' mind? How the hell do you expect to bring down two groups of the world's deadliest assassins all by yourselves? And need I remind you that even if you do rescue Jasmine intact...Corbin would have done some serious damage, you know that. She may be in no shape, physical or mental, to do anything by the time he's through with her."

Roman wished he could explain himself further. He knew they both wanted in on the action. But he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let them get in harm's way. Not for him. "There's a plan in place, don't worry," he assured them. "But right now, the less you know the better. And if Jasmine and I do make it out of this mess, we've got a one-way ticket to Jamaica. And if we don't make it..." He watched their eyes widen. "I've asked Leona to head there if she doesn't hear from me. I want you to do the same. Both of you."

"You're joking," said Seth, stunned. "You want us to run?"

"Not run. Walk away. Start over. Skip town and this God-forsaken life behind. You deserve better lives than this and you both know it," Roman replied fiercely. And the silence that followed proved him right.

"Still...Dude, let us help you. I can get Dean to turn the car around right now," Seth pleaded.

"I can't let you do that. This is my fight. I got into this mess all on my own. I can't get you involved any further and have them chasing after you for the rest of your lives."

"Meh, they know we're involved already. We’ll take our chances," said Dean, "Corbin won't be in that building without backup. You need us, man."

"I don't care how many people are in there; I'll kill them all for hurting her." He paused and swallowed hard, the emotion threatening to take over again. He finally understood why sentiment was outlawed in this business; the pain of losing someone you cared about was overwhelming, all-consuming, and almost impossible to recover. But the former Authority agent knew he needed to put that aside and focus on getting this done, like any other assignment.

"Remember, boys. Jamaica," he reminded them. "I will meet you there as soon as possible."

"Your ass had better be there," snarled Dean, "You got a week to show up, and if you don't, I swear to God I'll come right back to the States and take out your fuckin' ghost."

Roman nearly laughed at the threat. He was sure he meant it, too. "I'll be there. We’ll both be there. I promise."

"Good. It’s about damn time we met the woman that’s stolen our boy’s heart,” Seth said with a deep, resigned sigh. “Get rid of the phone the moment you can, alright?"

"Will do. I'll see you soon, boys." And with that, Roman had hung up.

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

He sniffed the air, and was instantly taken back in time. He knew exactly where he was. It took a bit of effort, but he broke out of the laundry truck and jumped out, relieved that he hadn't hurt himself as he did so. Looking across the road, he was spot on with his calculations. Roman could feel his fingers itch with eagerness. Shaking his muscular shoulders, he set off towards the building. In other circumstances, he would have given more time for to scout the area, but time was something he was lacking right now. Every second lost took Jasmine further away from his reach.

His walk was somber, subdued but determined, and a reminiscent chill swept through him as he crossed the tarred road. Yeah, this was it. This was the very place where he'd first got involved with The Authority. Unfortunately the ‘meeting’ hadn't gone very well; He was a bystander then, a hungry punk kid fresh out of prison and finding his way around Vermont, looking for some food to get him through the day. The warehouse looked like a good place to start. He ended up stumbling on an active ‘interrogation’ and the sight of a man in a chair covered in blood. Kevin Owens spotted him. He remembered fighting for his life against Owens, remembered the helplessness he felt as Owens stood over him, a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, sadistic enjoyment practically oozing off of every word he spoke...

"Sorry, man; you're at the wrong place at a very wrong time..."

That night changed his life forever. But by the time all of this was over, they would wish they let him go. They would regret ever crossing Roman Reigns. Every single one of them. And he would start with Corbin. That was a promise.

He dragged his beanie hat over his tied-up hair, hands in pockets, looking like just another pedestrian. He watched as a hooded man slipped in through the lone door at the side of the building and shut it behind him. Locked, surely. Approaching the door, he began working on the lock, looking around a number of times to make sure no one was watching him. The door opened successfully after a couple of tries. The area was blanketed in darkness, stuffy and uncomfortable. Perfect conditions for him. He navigated inside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. He made his way quietly down a flight of stairs towards the basements, where he had deduced Jasmine was being kept. Just as he thought, there were people standing guard; two men and a woman. He recognized them all; former Authority recruits. One of the men, Trick, if he recalled his name, stood there at the bottom of the stairs, oblivious to the intruder behind him. Withdrawing his gun, Roman aimed it at the back of Trick’s head and fired, the silencer giving nothing away. He stepped over the agent's body and kept walking like nothing had happened.

He made quick work of the other two, Dijak and Jakara, the woman. Their presence meant that Roman was at the right place. Both had dark hoodies slung over their heads and guns in their grasp as they patrolled the long, straight corridor. Roman moved quietly, ensuring to remain in the shadows. His footsteps were silent, invisible to the naked eye or ear. He approached Jakara from behind, locked his hands around her head and twisted it brutally to the side. Dijak received a bullet in the head for his troubles. He confiscated their weapons and continued on his way.

As Dean had shown him, there was a long line of doors along both parts of the corridor. Roman resolutely picked open the locks of each one, his heart pounding with anticipation and hope. But each door produced nothing. Time after time, hope after hope was dashed. And Baron was still nowhere to be seen.

He had pushed open the very last door, almost certain that he'd been too late, when his gaze landed on the slender figure dangling in the middle of the room. He recognized the person instantly, and shock flooded his body.

Her red wig was gone. Her dark hair was limp and dirty and tinged with blood. She was suspended in the air, heavy chains binding her arms above her head, her feet off the floor with her legs shackled together. Her half-naked body exposed the cuts and bruises littering her skin. There were deep, nasty-looking gashes along her stomach and both of her thighs. Corbin had hurt her. Badly. And Roman would make sure he paid if it was the last thing he did.

Rushing into the room, he aimed his gun and fired at the chain holding her arms hostage. He caught her before she dropped to the ground. Gently cupping her head, a sob nearly escaped his throat when he took a look at her face for the first time. It was battered and streaked with blood, and her eyes were swollen shut. Roman placed a gentle palm on her cheek. "Jasmine, wake up. It's me. Please wake up, baby."

She stirred, a small groan emanating from her. Squinting through swollen eyes at him, she gasped with surprise. "Roman?" she whispered. Her voice was incredibly weak. Roman felt the tears sting his eyes. "Oh, thank God," he breathed, bringing his forehead to hers.

Tears filled her eyes. "You're here. You found me."

He pushed his lips against hers and stroked her lank hair. "Of course I did. I told you I would." His bottom lip trembled, and it was all he could do not to break down in front of her. He couldn't describe the relief he felt that she was alive. "I'm so sorry, baby girl."

"Don't be," A sad smile tugged at her full lips. "Just get me out of here, and hurry. I don't know where he's gone or how long for."

"I'm on it. Is anything broken?" he inquired, just to make sure.

"No." Jasmine winced and hissed in pain when she brought her arms to her front. She was hurting everywhere; her entire body felt like she had third-degree burns, and it didn't help that this was the first time she could move in over six hours. Roman came back in front of her and unshackled her legs. His gaze drifted to the spot on her thigh where the branding iron had struck her, leaving an ugly wound that looked like it was infected. As he gingerly touched the area, Jasmine violently flinched with another hiss, and he regretted causing her pain. He eyed the bruises on her inner thighs, and looked up tentatively at his girlfriend, already dreading the answer to what he was about to ask. "Corbin...did he…do anything else?"

Jasmine swallowed hard, tears of shame rising. "He...touched me…He…put his fingers inside me," she clarified meekly. The heartbroken look on his face made her want to actually cry. "I'm sorry...I tried to stop him, I swear-"

"Hey, hey!" His hand was back on her face, his lips on her bruised cheek, soothing her, assuring her, "It wasn't your fault. You hear me? He did this." Jasmine's head was bowed as she nodded. Roman trembled with fury and hatred. "And he gon’ fucking pay. I'll kill him," he growled. "I'll rip his fucking balls out and feed them to him."

"Not if I kill him first," Jasmine told him, and Roman smiled as that familiar fire of hers flickered again. "Come on, let's get you to your feet," he said. "I can carry you out of here. Can you move for me?"

"I'll try." She glanced up, her gaze immediately drifted to the door. "Roman, look out!" she screamed.

The sound of the gunshot echoed all around the room.

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

Thoughts?

Credit to the owners of the pics and the gifs.

Please leave comments. I love comments!

[littleladymab]

Listening to Royal Assassin and let me tell you my eyes never stop rolling back so far in my head with any Molly and Fitz scene how is it that a trope I'd normally find interesting is done so dully is it perhaps that Molly has been reduced to just Fitz's object of affection instead of an interesting character and friend or is it because both of them go in circles over the same arguments "you never give me any time or attention" "because my duty is to my king" "okay fine then I shall ignore you as you asked" "I SHALL WITHER INTO DUST DON'T YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU" both of you shut the fuck up you are not interesting to me when in the same scene together