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aphrodite-made-me-write-it · 4 years ago

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Everything Stays

Part Four: Love, Lust, Prophecy

(A/N) Hey I’m alive! Sorry I’m just out of it. Got a new tattoo and I am back to normal(ish)? Work is killing me :D s/o to the anon who gave me the idea of vampire r freaking out over what we’ve done to fruits and veggies over the century. alskdfj i will throw in several mentions of this from here on out

♫ ♫ ♫

Rating: M (This Chapter, E Later)

Warnings: French Slander (Sorry), maybe some smooching, heavy themes of heaven/hell/demons, lovable succubus influencing bad decisions

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Vampire!Helsing!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 4,092

Total Word Count: 18,972

Synopsis: You and Natasha follow up on the lead in France and fall victim to the influence of a tricky demon.

| i | ii | iii | iv | coming soon |

“I hate France,” you mumble for maybe the hundredth or so time since you arrived in Paris. Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes at you. Somebody knocks into your shoulder, only further irritating you. “And I hate the French.”

“Don’t be mean,” Natasha scolds, looping her arm through yours.

The streets of Paris haven’t changed much. Well, no, they’ve changed a lot, but it’s still easier to navigate than a lot of Europe. Missing a few big wars will do that to the layout of any country, but at least the French have upholded their ever-stubborn hold on ancient traditions. (Or, at least, the ones that don’t involve monarchy.)

“Can’t believe they’re keeping that eyesore,” you comment, scowling at the tower in the distance.

“The Eiffel Tower is, like, the symbol of France, now.” Natasha smirks at you. “It’s actually considered romantic, these days.”

“What’s so romantic about a fancy capital A?”

Natasha scoffs incredulously, placing a hand over her chest as if in shock. “Maybe you just have to be there to understand it.”

“Please, Miss World Wonder, show me your ways.”

Natasha’s laughter is free; the most relaxed you’ve seen her in a long while. She’s always so tense - as tense as used to be, when your world didn’t revolve around a prophecy - but since you’ve left the states she’s loosened up ever so slightly. Maybe it’s because it’s just the two of you, and a world full of strangers.

It’s a wonderful glimpse into that part of her, but it’s only a glimpse.

“After the ballet.” She tuts, not breaking her stride.

“I still don’t understand why we have to go.” You sigh. “I love the dancers, but it’s so-”

“I learned ballet, long ago,” Natasha hums, almost wistfully. There’s a bit of pain in the tightness of her smile. “Even danced as Odette for a job once.”

You arch an eyebrow at her curiously. “Oh.” Your eyes dart down to her legs. Yeah. That explains a lot. “So that’s why your legs are so nice.”

Natasha, to your delight, blushes. “You like my legs, of all things?”

“I’m not some lowly man, Natasha. I have standards.” You huff dramatically.

“What, so you don’t like my tits?”

“I never said that.”

“Uh-huh. Now who has to keep it in their pants?”

It’s jarring to think that apparently much of your life has been predestined, and you can’t help but wonder if that means you were meant to meet Natasha, too. It’s a distant thought, but a nagging one.

“You must have been good at it, is what I meant,” you clear your throat but Natasha doesn’t look convinced in the slightest. “My mother always wanted me to involve myself in the arts, but it was always obvious that I wanted nothing more than to be like my brother.” You chuckle at the memory. “It was quite scandalous of me to wear trousers all the time.”

Natasha lets out a soft laugh. “You sound like you were a real rebel.”

“Who said anything about ‘were’?” You open the door of the theatre for her, giving a playful wink as she steps through the threshold.

Yes, you think as Natasha looks over her shoulder at you, you are indeed in deep shit. Maybe it’s just the way she smiles at you, her green eyes sparkling with the dazzling lights of the lobby, but you swear there’s something shifting between you. Unstoppable, unpredictable. You find yourself wanting to throw yourself into the unknown.

“Come on, rebel girl,” Natasha pulls your arm expectantly. “We’ve got a ballet to watch.”

According to SHIELD, your target is going to be attending tonight. You aren’t meant to approach her, but if you can get a read on her and figure out what she is, you can better prepare for the ‘ball’ she’s throwing. (She’s got to be centuries old to still be using that term, even in France.)

You find your seats easily enough, Natasha looking a little eager. It’s unbearably cute how excited she seems for this. Does she miss dancing, you wonder? You’ve missed out on a lot, but you know some of the basics at least. A good waltz or two.

The ballet begins, and your world feels like it’s curving in on itself. The crest of a wave, ready to crash around you. You can’t tear your gaze from Natasha - though you do try. Her features just look so soft in this light, her expressions more vibrant and readable than you’ve ever seen before.

Here, Natasha is an open book, and you’re an avid reader starving to memorize each and every line in her pages. The way her lips will curl up or down, eyebrows twitching with every little shift of mouth movement. It’s making you feel lightheaded, dizzy.

Natasha glances at you out of the corner of your eye. You wish you could look away, but your eyes are glued to her even as she faces you with a smirk that says, ‘caught you’. It takes all of your willpower not to connect your lips then and there, but she turns back to the ballet with a dark blush on her cheeks and a heart hammering so loudly you can hear it as clearly as the music.

When intermission comes, Natasha pulls you aside in the hallway and your head is just starting to clear up.

“Are you okay?” She asks, looking genuinely concerned. “Did we pack enough, um- y’know, food?”

You blink away the last tendrils of fog. “Yeah, I-” you stop yourself. What the hell are you going to say? ’I just got caught up staring at you because you’re gorgeous and I’m a walking nightmare?’ Nope, not acceptable. Not even a little bit. “Sorry, I zoned out.”

“You’re sure you aren’t hungry?” She presses.

You clear your throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Really. No need to get all steamed up about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t press the matter any further.

The rest of the performances follow much the same way. You end up thinking about Natasha the whole time and, no matter how hard you try to fight it, you end up looking at her like some kind of nutcase. Your relief only comes with the intermissions, but Natasha doesn’t seem to have noticed your gawking or if she does she doesn’t call you out on it again.

At last, the evening comes to an end and you still haven’t located the woman you’re looking for. Natasha looks just as disappointed, but hides it well and convinces you to follow her to the Eiffel Tower.

There’s something breathtaking about it. You can’t quite explain it. It isn’t just the stupid tower or the stupidly gorgeous view below. If you came here alone, it would just be another stupid tower with another stupid view, but with her…

When you were alive, you never had a moment like this. Where the world doesn’t feel like it’s seconds away from ending. Moments where it’s just you and this person - this wonderful, understanding person - on top of the world.

“I think I get it, now,” you admit when a particularly bitter gust of wind causes Natasha to huddle closer to your side. “It is just a little bit romantic up here.”

“I’m never wrong,” Natasha hums. You’re not sure how she managed to slip under your arm, but you aren’t complaining. It’s unbelievably nice to hold her like this. You feel like this is all some strange dream. Will you wake up, back in your tomb, waiting for the apocalypse?

“Except when you try to get warm by cuddling up to a walking icicle.” You huff, shrugging your jacket off to give to her. “Or are you just collecting my jackets?��

“A good girl never spills her secrets,” Natasha winks, resuming her comfortable position once the jacket is properly around her shoulders. You keep an arm around the fluffy lump that Natasha has become, a warmth spreading through you like midsummer.

This is dangerous. you’re dangerous. She should be terrified of you - disgusted by you. But here she is, cuddled against your side like a satisfied cat like you don’t have the ability to drain her of her blood in a few short seconds.

I shouldn’t be letting this happen.

But you are.

(You were always a little selfish, though, weren’t you?)

- - - - -

“Jesus, what a weird dresscode,” Natasha comments, turning around to look in the mirror. The bathroom is small, so you’re a little too close for comfort. Then, there’s the added bonus of the singular bed because of course the one time Tony isn’t in charge of booking a room you’re stuck in this hole of a place.

“Supernaturals are a bit on the dramatic side, in case you couldn’t tell.” You slip the masquerade mask around her face, grinning at the effect of it. You’d bought it when she wasn’t paying attention; a sleek, silvery mask that resembled a swan. It goes remarkably well with the black material of her dress, the smooth black loosening into almost wistful grey at the bottom. She’s a summer night, and you’re helpless to those stars. “And who doesn’t love a themed party?”

“Well, let’s hope these at least give you more cover than last time. Don’t want you to be recognized again.” Natasha finishes the last touches of your makeup, grinning to herself. She reaches out with her thumb to rub at your bottom lip, probably to wipe away some lipstick, but lingers just a touch longer than necessary. She takes a step back, as if to clear her mind from your presence, and grins. “You look fantastic.”

“Not as good as you,” you tell her, eyeing yourself up in the mirror. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

“That’s a good thing, remember?”

Your dress is a deep, deep purple that shimmers under certain lighting. Your mask resembles a butterfly’s wings, intricate glittered patterns exaggerating the beautiful features. Because both of your gowns trail to your feet, you and Natasha holstered weapons beneath the skirts. You made sure she had a stake on her, just in case, as well as whatever else she wanted to use.

Before leaving, you feed on one of the blood pouches that you’ve been regularly provided. They started keeping them in solid black bags, except for the few times Tony Stark managed to put some strange label on them. ‘Capri-Sun’ claimed to be some sort of ‘all-natural’ juice, but apparently they come in pouches like this. What sort of natural juice comes in a fucking pouch?

Futhermore, the amount of fruit and vegetables you don’t recognize is fundamentally alarming. What the absolute hell did they do to bananas and why? And watermelons, too! You make a mental note to ask Natasha what the fuck is happening to the natural food sources when you finally pull up to the building the masquerade is being held in.

It’s some sort of hall that’s definitely rented out regularly by the rich and snobby. The architecture is beautiful and ornate, though you expect nothing less from the elite of Europe. Some things never change.

The rest of the attendees are as extravagantly dressed as you’d predicted. You keep an arm around Natasha as you lead her through to the main area, where bodies are pressed together and happily mingling.

“Most of them are business owners and politicians,” Natasha notes quietly. “From all over.”

“How can you tell?” You snort. “You can’t even see their faces.”

“Wouldn’t that be the point of a masquerade?” She questions. “If the paps happened to get wind, they’d have a hard time getting a real scandal out of it.”

“You’ve got a point,” you hum.

Something itches in the back of your mind. The sense that a supernatural is here, lurking, and it makes your skin crawl. Natasha stiffens a little, her eyes focusing straight ahead. You follow her gaze to where two marble staircases meet, a huge statue between them. You stop dead in your tracks, a familiar cold rush running through your entire body.

Depictions of her all over the world vary, but there’s a consistent factor: her beauty. The statue is so life-like in its details, you almost thought it was REAL. The veil, the robes that drape across her curvy features like water. Her face is hidden, but you can see her smile from here. A wicked smile, barely containing extended fangs. One hand is outstretched with an apple in her palm; the other rests at her side, just beside a dagger barely concealed by the rest of her robe.

“Nat,” you murmur. “That’s-”

“The Maiden of Death,” an unfamiliar voice makes you nearly jump. It’s a friendly looking man, definitely human by the smell of him. He has a very faint accent, though you can’t place where it’s from. “Commissioned by Lady Elana herself.” His mask is a fox, or something similar to it. The scarlet of the mask matches his tie, and he looks just a little bit out of place amidst the rest of the dramatically decorated guests.

“She’s fond of the occult, then?” You inquire, trying to sound casual despite the sickening feeling twisting in your gut.

“What?” The man blinks. “Oh, I suppose it appears rather dark. I’ve heard she’s fond of ancient history, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she found an interest in mythology.”

You grit your teeth together. If this man is going to be useless, you have no time to listen to him.

“Is she here now?” Natasha asks, her tone oddly flirtatious.

“The Lady likes to make her presence known once the guests have all arrived,” he explains. “You know how she is.”

“Yeah,” you tighten your grip around Natasha just a little bit, not hiding your displeased expression. “I think they’ve brought out the champagne.”

Natasha gives you a sly smirk, but nods, following you through the crowd until you’ve reached the large serving table. Sure enough, the champagne is out and you hastily hand a fluke to Natasha. The redhead eyes you questioningly, and then flicks her gaze to the statue. The table is closer to it, allowing a perfect view of the exposed smirk of the Goddess.

“Is that the one who…?” Natasha asks quietly, audible only to your ears. You nod subtly, sipping your own champagne with a scowl. Eating and drinking just isn’t fun when you feel no satisfaction from it. “So, I guess the odds of this person being a friend are…”

“Slim to none,” you confirm softly, looping your arm back with hers. A wave of emotion has suddenly overcome you, just as it had at the ballet. This time, though, it’s so intense you have to stop yourself from pulling the redhead into you. You force yourself to take another sip, the orchestra beginning to play a familiar jaunty tune.

“I feel like I went back in time,” Natasha jokes as the partygoers begin to flit around the dance floor.

You hum, watching the way her lips press against the glass, her throat bobbing as she swallows. You notice you aren’t the only one watching - men always look at Natasha like that. It definitely bothered you before but it was easy to hide it; at the moment, though, all you can think about is mine.

“Do you want to dance?” You ask, hoping you sound less annoyed than you feel.

Natasha, puzzled but blushing slightly, nods. You finish your drinks and you lead her onto the dancefloor with an odd determination. You can’t quite control yourself, thoughts consumed only by Natasha. You definitely hadn’t had enough alcohol to be this impaired - especially as a vampire - and Natasha was far from a lightweight, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say her gaze was just the faintest bit cloudy.

Once you’re able to put your arms around her, you’re lost to the rising storm beneath the surface of your skin. It’s unsettling without the drum of a heartbeat, but your slowed beat quickens noticeably. Natasha seems to have a bit more awareness, her fingers toying with the enchanted ring as she keeps her arms around your neck. Your hands at her waist, you guide her through what few slow dances you remember without making it look too obvious that you’re fighting the urge to capture her lips with your own.

A powerful scent hits your nose, sweet and floral. Roses and wildflowers, a summer afternoon. And suddenly you’re drowning in Natasha. Her pupils are dilated, her own heart leaping into action as you mindlessly lead her away from the main hall and towards a sectioned off hallway.

You push Natasha against a stone column with a little too much force, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her legs wrap around your waist easily, your lips clashing together with such force and passion you’re dizzy for a moment. Her lips are softer than you’d imagined them to be, warm and wet and welcoming as you deepen the kiss by shoving your masks aside and plunging your tongue into her mouth.

You swallow her quiet noises eagerly, relishing in the desire flooding through the both of you. Her hips grind hard against you, your hands pushing the skirt of her dress up and up and-

Wait.

With a shock, you realize that cloudiness has faded. You’re still horny as hell, and this is definitely something you’d like to continue, but the force that had made you lose yourself into the feeling has loosened its grip on your mind.

Natasha stiffens, taking a sharp breath. Your name leaves her swollen lips in a rasped whisper.

“Lady Elana is a succubus,” you murmur.

A delighted cackle makes your skin crawl. You set Natasha down before facing the unearthly beautiful woman standing in the archway separating this section from the rest of the building. She’s gorgeous - velvet-smooth voice, naturally plump lips and curves. The more popularized version of the ideal woman, at this point in time.

“I was wondering when you would figure it out, sweet thing,” she croons, taking a step towards you. Her dress is long, a train behind it and everything. She still manages to walk with grace and confidence, like you were any normal party guests and this was a regular conversation. Of course, this is neither of those things. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised you can’t tell the difference between your own carnal desires and your… influenced ones.”

“Enough of your games,” you snarl, showing your fangs in a dangerous smirk. “We didn’t come here to be toyed with like puppets.”

She rolls her eyes, placing a hand on her hip and pushing her hair over her shoulder. “Please,” she scoffs. “You needed the push. You’re the most powerful vampire and you can’t even let go of your own human idiocy-”

“Wait, stop,” you interrupt. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes widen. “Tally-kins told me you were nearly helpless but I hadn’t realized-”

“Do all supernatural creatures talk in riddles?” Natasha asks.

You snort. “Practically-”

“I also didn’t realize she was serious about your… pet.” She eyes Natasha curiously, but there’s a dangerous smile on her face that you don’t like. “She’s a lovely specimen.”

“She’s not a pet,” you instinctively step in front of Natasha, blocking her from the hungry gaze of the demon. “And I’m tired of riddles.”

“Well,” Elana crosses her arms over her chest. “You know as well as anyone how this works.”

“Information doesn’t come easily, yeah,” you roll your eyes. “Ridiculous attempt at civilizing a bunch of-”

“Insulting me is a poor way of getting information, VAN-HELSING.” Elana warns, a flash of red in her gaze.

You take a forcefully steady breath. “Alright, Lady Elana,” you begin with what you hope is a sweet tone, “please explain to me what this prophecy is. How am I the most powerful vampire?”

She lights up immediately, like a kid in a candy store. She pauses and looks around suspiciously. “Not here,” She whispers, nodding towards a door not far off. “That’s an old storage room. C’mon.”

Both you and Natasha hesitate before following, exchanging nervous glances. Her hair, you realize, has become messy and her mask is still hanging loosely around her neck. Yours is much the same, forgotten and irritating as you slip into the dark storage room.

Elana flicks on a light, illuminating dusty old boxes and crates filled with who-knows-what. She eyes you and Natasha for a long time, seemingly contemplating how best to begin. You wait as patiently as you can, though you’re achingly aware of the way Natasha’s lips had been pressed to yours mere minutes ago. You’re still aching for that touch, the fire she spread deep into your core.

Maybe that’s Elana’s influence again.

“Ever since he was created, Harkon was destined for his Throne. He absorbed his Goddess, drank of her blood and took her powers. His Throne is all that remains of her,” Elana begins quietly. You lean forward with a frown. “As the Goddess of fate, she ensured a prophecy that would remove him from his crown.”

“She can just… do that?” Natasha snorts.

Elana frowns gravely at her. “Contrary to what the Helsings taught, she was not a malicious force. Being from the Underworld doesn’t mean you’re a monster.” At this, the succubus glares directly at you. “The prophecy bound Harkon to a family of noble warriors who had once worshipped her. If a child of that family were ever to be turned by Harkon, they would become the product of two powerful and conflicting magicks. A perfect storm to defeat the King.”

You stare blankly at her. “You can’t- you can’t seriously be suggesting that-”

“You,” her expression is entirely serious, as opposed to her seemingly natural teasing attitude, “are going to travel the rings of the Underworld to confront Harkon’s true demonic form and stop the end of the world.” She takes in your gaping expression before adding, “I suppose you would have preferred a riddle?”

“This- this doesn’t make sense.” You shake your head. “Arthur was- he was bitten-”

“By a vampire lover of his,” she chuckles mischievously. “She was powerful, yes, but his turning was not what began the incident a century ago.”

“Then what was?” You can’t hide the desperation in your voice.

She hesitates a moment. “Your brother was involved, yes,” she licks her lips slowly. “But only as the sacrifice that needed to be made to bring the savior.”

Your heart clenches painfully; a surprising reaction given your current state of existence. “I-I caused it? And I’m causing it again?”

“I’m afraid so.” Elana, to her credit, really does look apologetic. “But your victory is important to more than the vampires. Harkon had overthrown so many overlords in the Underworld - freeing his reign would improve life for all of us.”

“Why would I want to help demons?” You snap.

“Because,” Elana’s eyes narrow. “Your human concept of good and evil, of heaven and hell, are miniscule compared to reality. Come now, you’re a Helsing. This should be common sense.”

“So that’s it, then? That’s my fate? Waltz into Hell and overthrow the devil?”

“No,” Elana smirks. “Waltz into Hell and overthrow a God.”

- - - - -

You don’t talk about what had happened when you return to the hotel. You just change into your pajamas and lay in the dark while Natasha sleeps, your mind running through several different thoughts all at once.

Another apocalypse was coming. The apocalypse, apparently. One that will be a hell of a lot harder to stop than the previous. One that requires you traveling into the unknown. You’ve journeyed through dark forests, ancient towns and broken castles - but you have never walked through the Underworld.

Could you trust what Elana said? That not all demons were bad? That those from the Underworld weren’t just forces of evil? It was too complicated, too complex to understand and sort through. Even worse, it sounds like you have no choice in this. Fate was always a looming figure in your life. When Arthur was the heir and the favorite; when you became the heir… now you realize, even when Arthur had the family magic, he was never the true heir. He never excelled the way you did, never committed like you.

This was always your destiny. To become this monster. To become- become-

You don’t have any other options, do you?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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