#char: benjie | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nessieart · 9 months

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Summary: What if...HYDRA captured you?

Warnings: Canon typical violence, blood, gunshots, mentions of implied SA (but never specified), made up supernatural elements probably.

Italics signifiy speaking in a foreign language

Main Masterlist.

1954

The night air nips at your skin as you creep through the bushes, the only light coming from your now burning house. The smell of smoke permeates the air and rises high up into the moonless night. The orange glow from the flames pouring out of your house cast long shadows from your hiding place. When you reach a better vantage point to see the front of the house, you gasp, then clap your hand over your mouth to stop the scream that wants to bubble up.

There, lined in a row all kneeling in the dirt, are your brothers. Charlie seems to be talking to the men around him, head held high as he glares at the man you assume is in charge. You can't hear what they're saying, but you see the man standing in front of your brothers let out a hearty laugh.

Junior and Benji share a look, and you hear Aiden yell at Charlie to stop. You think you hear him say your name, but the roaring house fire is loud, and so is the blood rushing in your ears.

You notice the cuffs on your brother's hands and forearms, arms tightly bound behind them. Probably to stop them from Shifting, you think. The man in charge bends over to say something to Charlie, and a moment later, they all shout, Charlie hasn't made a move the whole time. You wonder what they said, because in the next moment, Aiden jumps up to lunge at the man, and then a resounding CRACK fills the air. And Aiden falls to the ground unmoving.

The scream escapes you now, but the sound is drowned out as another crack goes off, and Benji falls in a heap next to Aiden.

No, this can't be happening.

One of the men comes up and unfolds a baton, the end crackling violently with electricity, and shoves the end of it into Junior's side. He lets out a strangled scream and slumps forward as the pain passes.

Charlie's head falls forward, shoulders slumping in defeat and looks right at you, hiding in the dark in the bushes.

You scramble back in the dirt and go to get up and run. As you turn to run, you ram into a solid body and get knocked back down in the dirt.

Looking up, a giant mass of a man stands before you, his hair is stringy and long to his chin, there’s a mask covering the bottom half of his face but you’re sure he’s sneering at you. There's black paint or coal smeared across his eyes, and the crystal blue of his eyes shines that much brighter in the firelight from the house. They look cold and distant as he stares down his nose at you. A gleam catches your eye at the fingers on his left hand as they glint in the light from the fire. He clenches his fist, and there’s a mechanical whirring sound. He’s dressed in all black, from his combat boots to his pants and the tactical vest with long sleeves.

How did you not hear him come up behind you? “P-please,” you plead. There’s tears running down your face, making tracks in the dirt that’s smudged on your cheeks. He tilts his head to the side as he looks down at you, inhaling deeply.

“Poydem so mnoy, lepestok,” his voice is deep and gravely. It sounds like he has to force the words out of his mouth. It sends shivers down your spine, and you shake your head at him. He growls as he crouches down to your level, eyes flashing dangerously at you as his brow lowers over his eyes. In one swift motion his hand goes to his hip and he flips a knife through his fingers with practiced ease a few times before he grasps the handle and places the sharp tip under your chin so you can look up at him.

He smells like charred wood and machinery, gunpowder, leather, and dried mint. It reminds you of a cold winter's evening.

“YA ne budu sprashivat' snova,” his knife presses into your chin a little harder, making you whimper, “lepestok.”

“I-I don-don’t kn-know what y-you’re saying,” you tell him softly, afraid to speak above a whisper. “Please, pl-please let me go.” You reach up to touch his hand that's holding the knife, but his silver hand catches you before you can and holds your wrist in a crushing grip. You let out another whimper as he squeezes his fingers tighter.

He hauls you up by your wrist, your feet barely touching the grass beneath you. You bring your other hand up to try and pry his metal fingers from you, but his grip is unrelenting. He picks you up higher and brings your face closer to his, his cold, dead eyes narrowing above the mask.

“Ty poydesh’ so mnoy, lepestok,” he growls out. You would have felt his breath fan across your face if it weren't for the muzzle keeping it in. “Ili ya ub'yu togo, kto ubezhal.”

That last sentence has the hair on the back of your neck stand on end, you tug your arm again, eyes glowing and fangs extending.

“Let me go, or you'll regret it, asshole,” a growl bubbles up and out of your chest, skin rippling as you go to Shift.

Before you can blink, the man with the metal arm grips the front of your shirt and slams you down on the ground hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You're dazed as you look up through blurred vision at him hovering over you. His metal fingers dig into your collarbone to keep you down, and from his back, he pulls out a metal ring. He places it around your neck, and it closes with a deafening shink.

The pain is instant, causing you to arch up and let out a scream so loud it has you seeing spots. Silver, the collar around your neck. It burns into your skin, and you try and claw it off, only burning your hands in the process. The skin around your neck is raw and red within a few minutes, and you sag back into the ground, panting heavily and eyelids heavy.

The metal armed man grunts in satisfaction, pulling you up with him to stand and flopping you over his shoulder. You hang limply in his hold as he treks back to the men near the house.

“Come, enough struggling, Little Petal,” his voice is deep and accented as it rumbles through you.

You struggle to swallow the lump in your throat, raw and hoarse from screaming, “f-fuck you,” you croak. All the energy leaves you as you're carried across the grass, the heavy boots of the man carrying you thump loudly in your ears.

He comes to a stop and dumps your body on the ground unceremoniously, and when you loll your head to the side, you see Junior and Charlie still kneeling side by side. Junior has a few bruises littered around his face and body, and Charlie has a gash along his hairline that's trickling blood down his face and into the dirt. They both give you pained smiles, eyes filling with tears that soon spill as they look at you.

“Why didn't you run, Flowers?” Junior husks, eyes bouncing between your own.

“Co-couldn’t leave yo-you,” you manage to say. The men around you speak in that foreign language as you talk to your brothers.

“Where is the other Shifter, Soldat?” A man sneers, his accent heavy. Eastern European, Russian, you think.

“Gone,” is all the metal-armed man says. You peer up to him, his eyes are trained ahead, unseeing and blank. In the next second, the man in charge steps forward and strikes him across the face with the back of his hand. The other men around snicker to themselves. The man, Soldat, barely moves, just his face turning with the force of the blow, his long, stringy hair fanning across his face, and you think he's staring down at you now. His face is impassive, and he turns it slowly back to face forward again.

“Where?” Charlie whispers to you, eyebrows creased in worry.

You give him a smile, you hope, though it's probably more of a grimace, “I hear there's Sunshine out in Shiprock,” you speak the code you know only your brothers would understand. A look of relief fills their faces. Your muscles tense as a new wave of pain goes through you as the silver collar settles on your skin. You crawl towards your brothers, trying not to focus on the lifeless forms of Aiden and Benji.

You almost reach them, fingers barely grazing Junior's knee when a boot between your shoulder blades shoves you back to the ground. You whimper at the pain from the collar and the full force of the person standing on you.

“Sdvig. ili umeret',” the man above you sneers. He presses his boot down harder into you, and you yelp, hands reaching and fingers digging into the dirt. The silver collar digs into your skin more, and you struggle to fight through the pain.

You can barely make out that your brothers are yelling at the man to stop and that you can't understand what it is they want. After several moments or hours, you can't tell, Charlie's voice reaches your ears. It's frantic, and he's trying to be soothing, but you can tell he's panicking.

“Shift, he wants you to Shift, Flowers! Do it!”

“Can't,” you rasp, “silver.”

“Tell her to change! Or one of you dies!” The Head man says, and when you peer over to Charlie and Junior, they're both pushed to the ground as well. The man over them cocks his gun and aims it at Junior's head. “Sdvig!”

You try with every fiber of your being to Shift, but the pain and the silver won't let you. “I can't!” You shout, tears pile in your eyes, and you can barely see when the man above your brothers shoots Junior twice before the light leaves his eyes. Your skin ripples as you hear Charlie let out a deafening roar. He screams he's going to kill every last one of the men in the clearing. Threatens them with such violent deaths that if they lay another finger on you, they'd regret it.

You're yanked up by the collar, and when you look up, the metal armed man is holding you. His eyes are empty as he stares back at you, and you let out a low growl. It hardly escapes your throat, but the warning is there.

“Shift, Little Petal, or he dies,” the Soldat speaks into your ear. When you look at Charlie, his eyes are glowing in anger. And then you look at the bodies of your brothers. Lifeless and unmoving, tiny pools of crimson paint the dirt.

You were all happy and laughing not even an hour ago, and now your house was a crumbling pile of flaming ashes.

“Why me?” You ask him, and when he doesn't answer, you look at the Soldat again. His brow is pulled low over his eyes, a question in his gaze. Did he even know why?

The man standing over Charlie laughs. It makes your blood run cold. “Because you are female, my dear,” and the implication isn't lost on you. Your heart rate kicks up, and you look at Charlie. His eyes have faded, and he stares at you in shock.

He says your name softly, like a prayer, pleading, “fight them, every step of the way. You fight. Don't let them-”

Crack

—--

You don't remember the pain, and you don't remember much of anything after the gunshot went off.

You do remember sinking your teeth into the man who shot your brothers. The warmth of his blood coating your mouth as you tore at his jugular. His body lay in a bloody heap beneath your paws. Your face, chest, and paws stained crimson as you look at the rest of the men gathered around. Fear and shock mar their faces, all except Soldat. There's a glint in his eyes. He seems amused even under the muzzle. He's the only one that could hold you back, but he all but threw you at the man now dead at your feet.

The remaining men around are all shouting in Russian for the Soldat to do something. They take cautious steps back to put themselves behind the metal armed man and far from you. He crouches down and extends his metal fingers to you. His stare is still blank, but it's not as cold as it was before.

“Come, they will not hurt you, not with me here,” Soldat says, his voice low and gravely. When you don't make a move toward him, he tries again. “they do not speak English. Only he could,” he nods his chin to the dead man at your feet, and his hand still extended to you.

A man in the back speaks up, voice wavering and uncertain, “zastavit' yeye podchinit'sya!”

You hear the Soldat growl and stand, his metal arm whirring as he clenches his fists. He says something back to the men, and they all flinch and hastily make their way back to the SUVs parked a few feet away. Except for one, he catches by the collar of his shirt and tosses him at your feet.

When you look up to the Soldat, he gestures to the man trying to scurry away from you, “The boot on your back,” he says calmly.

You growl, head going low and eyes flashing. You lunge and sink your teeth into the man's shoulder, he yells in pain, and you tighten your hold and rip away, blood spraying out onto the ground around you. The man gurgles for a second and is dead in the next.

You've silently crept your way to stand by the metal-armed man, head coming up just below his chest. His flesh hand comes up, and his fingers dig into your fur. The silver collar around your neck is a dull ache compared to the pain in your chest, heart shattered in a thousand pieces.

Your eyes close at the contact, you may have killed the man responsible for your siblings' deaths, but you can't bring yourself to look at them again. So when the Soldat takes a step towards the vehicles, you don't hesitate to follow. There's nothing left for you here, and getting them to leave lets Leon get far away from the death and destruction left behind.

—

You've lost count of the days, or months, or years maybe, that have passed since you followed Winter. It suited him. It was a better name than Soldat, in your opinion.

The silver collar around your neck doesn't pain you like it used to. The scars along your collarbone and neck never seem to heal.

The thin mattress and even thinner blanket sit in the corner of the cage they keep you in. Cage is a relative term. At least a cage has a view. the one you're kept in is just a concrete room with no windows and one door.

You only see Winter on rare occasions. He tried to protest once but was quickly punished for speaking out. You went to intervene, but the collar had a shock system in it, and you collapsed to the ground in a heap and was pulled out of your Shifted form. You lay naked and in pain as the aftershocks of the electricity coarsed through your system.

You only Shift to your human form when they tell you to. The electric shocks let you know when, any other time you're Shifted. It's easier that way, easier to deal with the handlers that were assigned to you. No one talked to you anyway. The men around the compound only sneered at or talked about you.

The heavy metal door to your cell opens, bright fluorescent light streaming into the dark room, and you shuffle up onto all fours. But the man at the door isn't your usual handler. He seems nervous and won't meet your eye. He shuffles on his feet, holds up an electrified baton, it crackles violently, and you pad out of the room and wait for instructions. You know the drill by now, do what they say or else. The or else usually results in some form of pain.

“khodit, dvornyaga,” (walk, mutt) You're not sure when you picked up on understanding Russian, but you could understand the basics. Maybe you have been here a long time. You shake the thought out of your head as you follow the man down a few corridors, twisting this way and that. You've ascended a few flights of stairs, and when he opens the next door, the room is vast and cold concrete. In the center of the room sits a strange contraption, surrounded by monitors.

On the opposite wall, there's another set of heavy metal doors. They roll open and in staggers Winter, fog rolling along the floor as he exits. Two men in uniform enter next, making him walk forward, but his legs give out, and he collapses to his knees, panting heavily. There's a man in a lab coat that follows behind and a final man with a maroon beret on his head. The handler, you think. There's a folder in his hands as he goes to wait by the contraption.

You make your way over to Winter, tail low but swishing slightly. You nose over his hair and down his face and into his neck, he brings his flesh hand up and digs in your fur. His hair is wet, maybe a little frost bitten like he was laying in a heap of snow. You put yourself under his arm, and he uses you to lean his weight on so he can stand again. Winter’s hand lazy finds your head and pats once, huffing out a heavy breath. He's barefoot, wearing the bare minimal tact outfit; a black vest and pants.

You felt like you hadn't seen him in years, but there he stood just like the first time you met him. Tall and broad and menacing. His shoulders straighten, and he cracks his neck from side to side.

You glance into the room he just left, and you see some kind of chamber. The door's ajar and fog is rolling out of it in a steady stream. You can smell the chill of it in the air, like the scent of the first snowfall of the year right before it happens. What was that machine? It makes a chill run down your spine.

When you go to pad back towards Winter, you're stopped by the man who collected you from your cell. He stands in front of you with the baton pointed at you, his face trying to be stern, but falls short when you growl at him.

“Time for you to Shift, Mutt,” he sneers. He raises the baton to your face, and it crackles in anticipation. Your ears go back, and you lower your head as another growl leaves you. You take a step back when the man advances.

There's panic in his eyes, frantically searching around the room as his heart kicks up a little.

“Leave her. She will comply after she witnesses this,” a man across the room calls. He's standing with the two men in matching camo and rifles in their hands. He ushers Winter towards the strange contraption and forces him to sit.

“Come closer, little mutt, and witness first hand total compliance,” the maroon beret man calls, a smug look on his face. The men with rifles secure Winter's arms down with bindings and then the metal arms above hum to life and shift down on either side of his face.

Winter makes eye contact with you for the briefest of seconds before the ends of the metal arms clamp around his face. One side completely obscured his face and the other framing his cheek. They tighten so he can't move his head, and the lab coat in the back flicks a few switches and you can hear the electricity hum to life and in the next second you see the metal armed man tense and scream in pain.

The sound makes your fur stand on end, the pain and agony leaving this man sends your mind reeling. What the hell were they doing?

After a moment, Red Beret opens a red book with a star on it, matching the red star on Winter's shoulder. He starts a series of phrases in Russian. You can't hear it over the rush of blood in your ears or over Winters screaming. And then the machine shuts off, metal arms retracting and raising away from the man in the chair.

He convulses with the aftershocks of the electricity, head twitching slightly. The Red Beret says one final phrase, and Winter's eye twitches before he looks up at his handler, eyes cold and distant.

“Good morning, Soldier,” the handler says as he places the red book down.

“Ready to comply,” the Soldat answers. His voice is rough as he forces the words from his mouth. Another shiver runs up your spine, but you take a few steps closer. The Soldats head lowers slightly, eyebrows furrowing low over his eyes, and his gaze cuts to you before you can take another step.

“I have a mission for you. Sanction and extraction. No witnesses,” the handler picks up a manilla folder, thick and full of papers, and holds it out for the Soldier to take. Without breaking eye contact with you, he takes the folder and rises to his feet. Your hackles stand on end, and your stance widens, head low as a growl escapes your chest.

Something about the way the Soldat moves is off; different. This isn't the same man you've known. He's cold and menacing. Things he's never been around you.

“And take the mutt with you,” the handler says, amusement in his voice. A pile of black tact gear is thrown at your feet, and in the next second, a harsh jab of the electric baton is shoved into your side. You yelp and go to dodge the next jab but a metal arm grabs you by the collar and holds you aloft, the electricity runs through you violently and the aftershocks make your skin ripple and a shudder runs through you. The Soldat drops you, and the collar turns on, and it forces you to Shift, and you let out a strangled yell through clenched teeth. He steps over your prone form and walks out of the room.

“Hurry after him, little mutt,” the handler says as he folds his arms across his chest. “Or do you want to try again?” He glances at the machine behind him, and your eyes widen. You scramble to grab the clothes and hastily put them on as you run to catch up to Soldat.

It's a one-piece bodysuit, and after you shove your arms and legs into it, you zip it up. The all black suit is a little baggy on you, but it fits well enough. The pants are cargo like, large pockets on either leg. The top is like a vest, the sleeves are cut off at the elbow and the neck is long and baggy, you can pull it up over your head and it covers the bottom half of your face as well.

You catch up to the Soldat, he puts in a code for the door, and the heavy metal of the doors creak and groan to life as they open just enough for you both to fit through.

The sheer cold hits you in the face, and a full blast of ice-cold wind forces its way through the door. You're keenly aware that you aren't wearing shoes as you follow the Soldat outside. He seems unaffected by the cold as he crosses the walkway and to a small aircraft, it's a little bigger than a helicopter, and plane-like. The ramp in the back is already down, and he climbs aboard, not even sparing you a glance.

When you finally shuffle your way inside, it's a little warmer, only due to the fact the wind isn't blowing inside. To your right, the Soldat stands at a rack of supplies, you notice he pulls a pair of boots out and shoves his feet in them, then a few knives find their way into various parts of his suit. He shifts over a little and extends his hand out to you, a pair of combat boots that look like they'll fit you in his hand.

You grab them before he can drop them, pulling them tight to your chest.

“Tha-” you cough and then clear your throat. It's been a very long time since you've had to use your voice. “Thank you.” It's rough and doesn't sound like you, but it comes out all the same. He nods and makes his way to the pilot seat, strapping in and plopping the manila folder down on the seat next to him.

“Read it,” he spares you a glance before he starts the aircraft and begins the preflight measures. When you sit next to him, he pauses, “aloud.”

When you open the file, it's all in Russian. No surprise there, but you can't read it. There's a photograph of an older man, a candid shot of him exiting a car. His hair is white, cropped short on the sides and fluffy on the top. His mustache is also white. And then you're struck by the fact that this photo is colorized.

“This,” you clear your throat again, “this photograph is in color,” you show him the image, and his eyebrows furrow, eyes moving along the photo, the paper and then your face. It's like he doesn't seem to grasp the concept. “It's in color,” you say more to yourself. Your fingers trace along the photograph, the lines on the man's face, down his chin and stopping the suit he wore. He was very well dressed.

“Ho-,” you cough again, this one longer than the last. “Howard St-Stark…” It's mostly mumbled to yourself, but the Soldat can hear you. “Born 1917, in New York… head of Stark Industries…. Worked on Projects PEGASUS, and REBIRTH, and co-founder of SHIELD. A lot of this is in Russian, I can't read it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, pressing one final button and then a switch, and then pulls a lever, and the aircraft takes off. It's faster moving than you thought it would be. After 20 minutes, the Soldat engages the autopilot and then turns toward you with his hand out. You hand him the folder, and he reads through it, eyes scanning over every detail. He takes a few pictures out of the folder and gives them to you, one of the target, Stark, another of a metal briefcase, and another of the car you assume he'll be driving.

“Those men, they want what's in the briefcase?” You ask, flipping through the pictures again.

He hums again, “HYDRA.” And when you give him a questioning glance, he nods to the pictures and motions to the folder, “HYDRA wants whatever is in that case. A serum. It says here, retrieval at all costs,” he reads a few more pages before he puts the folder down, having gathered enough information.

“Do you remember the night we met?” Curiosity getting the better of you, and when he doesn't respond, you look up at him. There's a blank look in his eyes and his brows lower. He searches your face for a moment, as if trying to place it. He shakes his head no, and you deflate

After a few silent moments, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye, “Dvornyaga,” your head whips around to look at him, “those scars. How…?” The question hangs in the air. Did he really not remember how you got most of them?

“I remember when I was 9 years old, and I climbed the tree in the backyard,” you’re staring out the window at the clouds that pass, running your fingers over the newest scar you can’t heal from. “Mama and my brother, Aiden, always used to worry I’d fall out and hurt myself. Papa used to laugh and say, ‘Well at least she’ll learn to land on ‘er feet,’” you let out a sad chuckle. “I did fall, sprained my ankle, and got a really big gash on my leg ‘cause I landed on a rock.” You turn to him and lift your pant leg, “It healed in a few days, and the scar never showed.”

The Soldat’s brows are pulled together, the question in his eyes as they scan up your leg - which is now littered with scars - and back to your face.

“The silver stops me from healing all the way. Everything they do to me stays on my body like a morbid reminder. This is a reminder of what I am and how I got here.”

You pull the zipper of your tact suit down to your navel, exposing the skin and standing to show him the biggest scar you had. Its jagged edges to the left of your belly button is about 6 inches long, “You shot me with a silver bullet once, all because they told you to do it. It was after you brought me in, the night they killed my family. The doctors dug it out with silver tools. Sometimes, I can still feel them burning me from the inside.”

—

It was late in the evening when you and Soldat reached the interception point. Hidden behind a treeline from the main road, you sat behind him on a motorcycle. One he stole from a bar a town over. He may have broken someone's nose to get it.

“I still can't believe it's 1991…” You shuffled the newspaper in your hands. On the corner near the bar was a newspaper dispenser, and you didn't hesitate to take one as you walked by it. “So many things have happened. So many things I've missed…” your hand scratches at the silver collar around your throat absent-mindedly. You've gotten so used to it that it's like a second skin.

“Where are we again?” You've asked this question multiple times and have received no answer each time.

He sighs heavily, hands tightening on the handlebars, “It doesn't matter. Now be quiet,” he hisses the last bit out in Russian. A sign that tells you he's fed up with you talking so much.

Another hour rolls by, and you're about to say something else when a car drives by. You recognize it as the same one from the photos.

“Hold on,” is all he says in warning before the motorcycle comes to life and Soldat speeds away. You scramble to hold on, newspaper flying into the wind and arms circling his waist and gripping tight. He speeds up to the car quickly, pulling up to the passenger side he winds his metal arm up and punches the side of the vehicle, a tire blows out as the car struggles to stay in its lane, but fails and crashes violently into a tree.

The Soldat skids to a stop and backtracks toward the car, shutting the bike off and stepping off. The skin from your elbows to your fingertips ripple, fur coming forth, and claws extending as you follow behind the metal armed man. He forces the trunk of the car open, the metal straining with the force. There lies the briefcase, and when he opens it, 4 or 5 pouches of glowing blue liquid are inside.

“All of that,” you gesture to the car wreck, “for these?” You look up at your companion, and he just gives you a silent side-eye. He shuts the briefcase and goes to grab it when you hear a car door open and someone falls out with a pained grunt. You both share a look before you round the car.

There on the ground in a bloody, disheveled heap is none other than your target, Howard Stark. Soldat makes his way over to the injured man. You right behind him, claws bared. Stark is whimpering in pain, and when the Soldat fists a chunk of silver hair in his hands and pulls Stark to a kneeling position.

“Pl-please, my wife,” he grunts heavily, and his eyes focus up to the Soldat, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “S-sergeant Barnes?”

Barnes? Who..? And then the Soldat brings his metal fist up, but you stop him before it could make contact. He glares at you, and if it were anyone else, they'd be running away as fast as they could and putting as much distance between him and them. But you aren't afraid of him. You give the Soldat a pleading look, and he drops his arm but doesn't let go of Stark's hair.

Stark winces as you peer around your grumpy companion, his hand going up to try and gain purchase on the hand, gripping him too tight. He eyes you warily, grunting in discomfort. You're sure he has a few broken ribs, maybe a sprained arm or leg. It's definitely a broken nose.

“He called you Sargeant,” you say. “Do you know this man, Soldat?” He doesn't respond, only glaring down at you when you step closer to Stark. When you get close enough to smell him, you take a few inhales, circling around the back of him and stop. He doesn't smell unpleasant, all things considered. He smells musky and metallic; probably from the blood. But there's something else on him, something pleasing, and it makes you hum.

“Ho-Howard?” A strangled cry comes from the car, and your head swivels around at the sound, eyebrows lowering. Another person?

“My wife, please, please,” Stark pleads, and you make your way around the car to the passenger side. The door is jammed shut, and you give it a few hard tugs before it finally creaks free.

The woman, Stark's wife, is bloody and broken but alive. She looks at you with wet eyes, big and round, as she chokes out a sob. Her cheekbone looks shattered, maybe a broken arm and a few bruised ribs. When you lean in to rip the seat belt from her, you smell it again, that pleasing scent that was also on Stark. You hum quietly, claws easily tearing the seat belt from her body, and she sags. You catch her and her fingers flex in your forearms.

“What are you doing, Mutt?” Soldat asks, letting go of Stark and stopping you in your tracks.

“What - your arms,” she lets out a quiet gasp. Oh yeah, fur, oops. You hum again, nodding when she looks up at you. You shrug and help her out of the car. She leans all her weight in you, and you support her around the car toward her husband.

“Helping. They're hurt, Winter,” he flinches at the name, and you go to move around him, but he stops you again. A growl starts low in your chest when he doesn’t move.

“No witnesses,” his voice is low and demanding, but you won’t be swayed. There’s something about these two that tugs at something inside you. You have to know what it is. The woman lets go of you, and you let her crawl towards her husband, and they embrace, hands fleeting and worrying about one another.

“No one has to know,” you reach out to him and place a hand on his chest, but he flinches back out of your reach. “I’ll stay. Take the package and leave,” you say for only him to hear. “HYDRA will think they died, maybe me too…”

“Did you say HYDRA?” Stark asks. He and his wife are still kneeling on the ground, and he straightens up a little when the Soldat turns to glare at him. “you've been with HYDRA this whole time?”

“You know him. You called him Sergeant,” You crouch down to their level and give him a reassuring smile.

Stark nods, eyeing the man over your shoulder, “Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. He is - was - Captain Steve Rogers best friend. He was my friend, too. Barnes fell from a train in the Swiss Alps, and Steve was devastated. We all thought he died," Stark looks up at the Soldat again, and you turn to look at him too. “I'm sorry, Bucky.”

“Who the hell is..?” You mutter to yourself. The Soldat, Barnes - or whoever he is - starts breathing heavily, eyes wide and unseeing as he takes in Stark's information. “Winter..?” You stand and take a cautious step towards him, his eyes cut to you, and there's something in them that makes you pause.

You've heard of Captain America and his sacrifice. But you don't know the details, or maybe you forgot them. You take another step towards him and stare up into his eyes. They seem distant and lost.

“Bucky?” You ask hesitantly. His eyes soften slightly.

“Dvornyaga,” he brings his metal hand up to the side of your face, palm resting on your neck. In one swift movement, his fingers clasp around the collar and crush it. A small jolt runs down your spine, and then the pieces of offending metal are in scraps on the ground.

Your eyes glow bright, and it’s like a thousand pounds has been lifted off your shoulders. The tears well up big and fat in your eyes before you laugh, digging your fingers into the tact vest of the man who has freed you. The tears fall freely when you blink and look up at him, “Why did you do that?” You hug him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing as tight as you could. His arms stay at his side, but he can smell you now, and he remembers. Maybe only a sliver of a memory, but it’s there.

“Petal,” he says softly.

“Stay,” you say into his neck, but he shakes his head no. He pulls you away and walks toward the trunk of the car wreck and shuts it, leaving the briefcase behind, and then takes out his pistol. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end, and you shuffle in front of Stark and his wife. He raises his gun and shoots, shattering a security camera not even 10 feet from you.

“I'm not him,” he says quietly, “don't think I ever will be. But I can try.”

He nods and makes his way to his motorcycle. As he speeds away, you have a small thought that you hope to see him again one day. Maybe you could find out who this Sergeant Barnes is, or was, together.

——

Howard and his wife, Maria, were wary but thankful that you intervened and saved their lives. Admittedly, you also had a part in their crashing, but they had other things to worry about at the moment.

When you offered to run and get help, Howard had worried it would take too long, but you assured him you were very quick.

“Let us go with you,” Marisa insisted. “Our son, he'll be so worried, please?”

You aren't sure how you've kept your humanity for this long. If the year was right, and you're sure it is, you've been mostly Shifted for 30 years. Give or take, with the way HYDRA kept you and tortured you, you weren't sure the details. You noticed your mannerisms were more dog-like now than you used to be, but Howard and Maria didn't seem to notice as they limped together while you guided them back to a main road.

“You stopped Sergeant Barnes from killing us. Why?” Howard breaks the silence after a while. “Why? Aren't you with HYDRA as well?”

Why did you? You just had a feeling? Because you could smell something on him? You don't even know what it is.

“I- I don't know,” your brows pinch together as you wait for them to catch up to you. There’s headlights heading towards your group, and you step into the street with arms raised. The car pulled to a stop, and you ran to the driver's side. “please, my - they - uh, they need help. There was an accident. Can you take them to the nearest hospital? Please.”

The man behind the wheel relents, and you help Howard and Maria into the back of the car, shutting the door behind them. When you step back and walk away, a voice calls out to you.

“Wait, aren’t you coming?” Maria has a look of worry on her face, and when you go to tell her no, tears gather at her waterline, and you sigh.

—

You sat in the ER waiting room, Howard had been checked out and sat with you while he waited for his wife. His arm was in a sling, suit jacket long forgotten and slung over your shoulders. His face was cleaned up only slightly, small amounts of blood under his nose remained, but at least it wasn’t broken anymore. There’s a dark bruise forming on the side of his face where it met the steering wheel, his brows pinch together as he studies you, hazel eyes flicking around your face.

“I never did get your name,” Howard says quietly, fingers fiddling with the strap of the sling around his other arm. You hum softly, tugging his jacket tighter around you. It smelled like him, and Maria. But there was just something else there, hidden in the fabrics of the jacket you couldn’t put your finger on.

A young man comes barreling into the ER waiting room, skidding to a stop and heaving gulps of air as he spins around frantically. His dark brown hair is a poofy mess on his head, like he’s been pulling at the roots. The dark red hoodie he wears has the sleeves pulled up over his elbows, and dark gray baggy sweats sit low on his hips. Howard also notices the young man and goes to stand, but lets out a grunt of pain, and you shoot up to help him stand. He puts his uninjured arm over your shoulders, you place a hand on his ribs, he takes a limping step forward, and you guide him.

“Tony,” Howard calls out, a little strained. The man - Tony - whirls around at Howard’s voice, and his eyes go wide as he rushes toward you both. “My son, Tony,” Howard says to you, and you nod. Tony comes to a stop in front of his father, and you let him go to take a step back. Tony is tall, not as tall as Howard, and they both tower over you.

“Dad, what the hell?” Tony says in a panic. He takes in the sight of Howard, reaching his hands out when Howard staggers a little. “What the hell happened? Where’s mom?” He cranes his neck to look around the waiting room, and his eyes find you, eyes narrowing slightly, “who is this?”

Howard places a hand on his son's shoulder, calming him with a quiet hush, “she sav - helped your mother and I. There was an accident,” he pats Tony's shoulder and speaks over his protest, “we're fine, just a few scraps and bruises. Really.” A minute later, Maria is wheeled out, her wrist has a brace on it and the gash on her forehead has a few stitches, but she looks a lot better than she did when you arrived. You sigh in relief.

“Tony,” Maria sounds relieved, “oh my boy,” There's tears welling up in her eyes as her son rushes to her side, helping her out of the wheelchair and hugging her carefully.

When Howard makes his way to his family, you feel an ache in your chest. Sure, you're happy they're together, and you did what you could. But you miss your family, miss your brothers, and maybe you miss Bucky as well.

You slip the jacket off your shoulders and drape it over a chair, and make your way towards the exit. There's nothing left here for you now. Might as well find somewhere to lay low for a while. Outside there’s a well-dressed man leaning against an expensive looking town car.

“Hey? Hey!” A voice calls out behind you, and when you turn to it, it’s Tony rushing towards you, “wait, please.” He stops in front of you, heaving a sigh and running a hand through his hair. “I just uh, I wanted to thank you. For helping my mom. And my uh, my dad,” he rubs the back of his neck. “so, thanks. Really,” he sticks his hand out, "I'm Tony, by the way.”

You look from his face, to his hand, and back again. “I'm… I-“ your brows pull together. Why couldn’t you remember your name? The only word that comes to mind is the one HYDRA gave you. And you can’t tell Tony your name means mutt. You let a whine escape your mouth when you can’t think of anything, a tear escaping your eye as it slides down your cheek.

“Oh God, don’t cry, miss, I’m sorry!” Tony places his hands on your shoulders when you almost crumple in on yourself. He brings you a little closer when you let out a sob, and you cling onto the front of Tony’s hoodie. He has one arm slung around your shoulders, and the other hesitantly pats your head, trying to be soothing. You take a deep inhale, and you freeze. Something in you seems to right itself, like everything was only ever leading to this moment, and you lean your head back to look up at Tony’s worried face.

He smells like everything right, like sunshine after it’s rained forever. It’s the scent you couldn’t place on Howard and Maria. It makes your heart stutter and your stomach fuzzy. Everything is warm, and it overtakes you, moving up your chest to your face. He smells like home. And you haven’t had somewhere to call home in so long. The ache almost overwhelms you.

His brown eyes scan your face, and he brings his hand up to wipe away a few tears. His finger tips leave a trail of sparks in their wake as they move along your face. Did he feel it, too? Tony’s lips part slightly in surprise, and his eyes seem to light up when he drags his eyes to yours. Those pouty pink lips curve up at the edges, and he's looking at you like you're not real.

“You,” you breathe out, “you're mine.” It’s whispered into the space between you, and Tony leans his forehead against yours. Your fingers tighten into his hoodie, and he hums.

“What is this? Why does it feel like,” Tony brings a hand up to rest over your heart. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, his nose brushing against yours. “like everything suddenly…”

“Like it all makes sense now?” You ask, heart leaping into your throat when he hums again as his nose brushes against your cheek, and he grins.

“You smell like flowers.”

****

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#what if...? imagine #mcu fanfiction #shifter!reader #tony stark x reader #tony stark x shifter!reader #young!Tony Stark x reader #mcu imagine

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unknownjpegs · 8 months

Text

impact

“Extraction six, one injury. Requesting medical.”

At the comm crackle, two black-clad heads lift and swivel in eerie unison. Silhouettes near the same height, stationed and secluded on the swell of a patchy-grassed hill. Awaiting orders just like this.

The smaller, feminine of the two figures begins to rise from a crouch. Thumb at her neck, ready to respond in affirmative. The radio crackles again, and she pauses to listen.

“E-ex…traction six. Amend to one— one fatality. Med stand-by.”

Her companion offers a disappointed tsk.

“Awh, boo.”

Both settle back into position, wary of the snap-white flashes of gunfire in the distance, the echoing trawl of it across the landscape. Eyes peeled, ears perked: ready to assist.

Well, one of them.

“You’ll get yours,” the smaller figure intones, voice washed in carefully vague judgment and considerably less vague revulsion. “They’re not unit one.”

Her companion grunts in agreement. “Fuckin’ messy.” Then, with an audible smile, adds: “Hopefully.”

“Ugh, Palanivel, you’re…” she sucks in a breath, adjusts her tone. Will tell anyone it was a slip away from professionalism, a harsh snap reigned back for that reason alone. “Disgusting.”

“Ooh, Rodriguez.” Benji purrs theatrically, leaning forward and twisting to find her eyes where they’re shadowed behind that shiny visor. He knows, without seeing, that they dart away. “Keep goin’ to town on me, all snide like that? Might need to reconsider some things.”

Shut up, she might laugh if it were anyone else. If it were a normal friendship. Barely a friendship, really. First time they met, Rodriguez’s had glazed a bit in fear, just like the rest. Except unlike the rest, she’d sneered at him before deliberately neutral wariness blanketed her expression.

It made Benji like her immediately.

“Disgusting.” Rodriguez says again, but there’s a tiny, tiny hint of something suspiciously light in her usually clipped tone. Hard for people not to lean into the charm when he lays it on like that.

Their exchange is interrupted by the soft, distant bang of a door opening. At the far end of the field, a figure escapes the ruins of the southern-most warehouse. Hurt, judging from the limp, but neither of them move. The person isn’t dressed in Shadow blacks.

Enemy, goes the tingle within, cool fingers tracing the inside of his skull. Get ‘em.

When Benji slings the Sig fluidly over his forearm, settles that neat cross cleanly center over the fleeing target’s head, there’s a hedging sigh beside him.

“Not meant to engage.”

“True.” He agrees, and adjusts his finger to brush along the rounded trigger guard instead. “Good thing it’s not first contact, ‘ey?” He glances side-long, but his partner can’t see that — or the smirk beneath his mask. “C’mon. Just a bit of defensive fire as a treat?”

“Christ,” Rodriguez sounds sick about it, but not with actionable strength. “He’s running away.”

And he is. The combatant, small from their vantage point, turns in panicked circles and then sprints west.

As best he can, with that limp. Benji notes. Hm. Wonder what’s broken.

He’s got the mind to zig-zag, but unfortunately not enough smarts to shake up the pattern. Benji traces it steadily through the scope.

“Yeah.” The soldier stumbles, arms flung out to catch on the ground, and then gets up — legs kicking cartoonish in the dirt. The limp is worse, and he moves a little slower. “Runnin’ away into a sledgehammer.”

To the west, Wolffe’s leading another unit, since his is largely down for the count. Benji’s been listening closely to their calls. Listening more to the increasingly adrenaline-soaked breaths that begin to lace the corporal’s barking commands.

Sounds good like that. Sounds almost like it hurts.

Benji’s brain helpfully offers up a miraged image, wavering and fuzzed with desire, of him hefting the weapon across broad shoulders with ease. Warmth tickles below his belly button. A hint of unspooling, sick heat that feels as if a flame is being held up internally, licking chars at his pink insides. It winds solid, feels now like there are fingers within him, petting at the interior of his abdomen. Coaxing to be let free.

He imagines the graceful, crushing, messy, wet swing of that sledgehammer. Imagines the fingers tearing out of him. He shivers.

Benji flicks the safety. “Isn’t it the kind thing to do?” He drops an eye to the sight again. Drops the cross, too — from the figure’s skull to its leg.

No, is what he knows she wants to say, no it’s fucking not. You could let him run. You could let him go.

Rodriguez shifts in place, stretches out one leg. “I don’t think I’d call it kind.”

“Mm,” Benji hums. His index finger pets over the trigger. “Me either. What d’they call those old nurses — the ones that go ‘round killin’ terminally ill fuckers in hospital?”

“Angels of mercy,” Rodriguez’s voice is suddenly thin like spun-sugar candy, unsettled. “Hold on —”

The rifle cracks loud. Rodriguez is not a jumpy woman, but she jolts now. Gloved hands twisted in the grass on either side of her thighs, visor sliced bright and shining with the flash.

“Oops.” Benji says dryly. “Missed.”

Except he hadn’t, of course. The shot is dead-on. Just…not in the slightest bit merciful. Benji’s isn’t an expert shot, not his purpose, but he’s adequate. Decent enough he could make it quick, clean through the heart or skull.

Benji’s not decent.

Instead, the combatant writhes on the ground. Petting in disbelief, clutching desperate, at the remains of his leg. Through the scope Benji notes how the hinge of it hangs at a funny, loose angle. Been nearly halved; what was once a kneecap now flesh and exposed tendon, shattered bits of bone. Barely connected by a straining bit of muscle.

It’s a mortal wound if he doesn’t get help, judging by the way blood weeps in great spurts from those severed arteries.

Rodriguez doesn’t have a scope, so the image is less clear. The agony is palpable, if not audible, and so vivid even from afar that she goes: “Jesus.”

It’s nearly impossible for Benji to keep the suggestion from his tone and the filthy, twisted grin from his mouth when he slips a thumb over the radio: “0-5, combatant was headed towards your position. Downed — injured.”

A crackling pause, and then Wolffe’s slightly distorted voice. “Copy.”

He’s a massive blot in the doorway as the metal swings open. The soldier, who has now resorted to desperately pulling himself towards the warehouse’s cover, freezes. He makes a hopelessly sad (amusing, Benji thinks) half-circle in the dirt. Escape attempt. But Wolffe’s got long legs, and this guy’s down to just one. The distance swallows up quick in that wolfish saunter.

Benji’s scope’s smears over the bloodied enemy. Slows as it traces a provocative, voyeuristic regard up the corporal’s legs. Benji darts his tongue out to wet his lips, swallows down pooling saliva, as that cross lingers in a quartering bisection of a wide torso. Holds there a moment, right over his heart. He watches the heaving breaths and flex of muscle as that dense weapon rises beautifully skyward.

Again, the view lifts. Catches and hovers on Wolffe's rakish, grotesque expression. He's not wearing a helmet.

Gorgeous, Benji thinks. That wide grin splits wrong. Green eyes glinting with awful, sublime ferocity. The head of the weapon is a silvery-flash flurry as it holds hands with gravity. Sweeps in a graceful, plummeting arc to the earth. Brutal. Crushing.

Gorgeous.

Its impact into skull and brain isn’t audible over the distance. Benji wishes it was. But he at least feels the impact in his stomach; as if the punishing, mercifully destructive thud is meant for him. The harsh steel head pounds that flame, smothers it, crushes those petting fingers in a wobbling, lascivious red mess. The heat becomes something thick and soggy in his gut.

He doesn’t focus on the impact. Instead, he is absolutely riveted by the crimson pied varnish of viscera as it paints across Wolffe’s pale face. Looks like ink from this distance, and even though it disappears against the grim achromatic wash of his uniform, Benji knows it’s there. A deep, ruddy color that smears across his cheek, the seat of a black glove as he wipes it away.

“Wow,” Benji breathes, airy and appreciative. “Vicious.”

“Disgusting,” Rodriguez says for a third time, meaning it. She’s not looking at the scene anymore. Probably hasn’t been for awhile. “Just disgusting.”

Benji laughs.

“Messy,” he corrects in an eerie chirp. The cheerfulness sounds mad as it wraps wantonly around the lust-rough crackle of his voice. “Nice and fuckin’ messy.”

#writing #ua #bp #xw #bp x xw #evil bastards au

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