tense agony

Queens and Pawns: Part 1

A/N: This is is my new multi fic. I don’t really know what to say about this one, other than its a soulmate AU where the name of your soulmate is on your arm, so this will be a relatively short A/n. I hope you enjoy!


Pissed didn’t even begin to describe how you felt, sitting there, Rumlow staring back at you. “Problem, Angel?” He mocked, using the code name they’d given you when you’d first woke up.

Your programming kicked in and your expression went blank as you responded, hollow. “No, sir.” He gave a nod and left without another word, leaving you alone in the apartments bedroom once again.

Even with all the people you’d been told to kill, you believed Rumlow had to be worse than any of them. Your hand absently rubbed the long scar on your arm where he’d literally carved your soulmate’s name out of your body.     

You never did get a chance to see who it was. The day it appeared, you didn’t notice it until Brock did in training, and by that time, you were held down on the training matts as he cut it out.

You held on to the one letter you did see though. “B”. That was it.

For a while, Brock had led you to believe it was him. Until you were no longer useful to his purpose. Only then did he tell you he’d lied. And now, he was telling you they’d be taking you out of the field, that there wasn’t room for you and the Winter Soldier.

You’d heard of the guy, everyone had. But they never gave you the opportunity to meet one another. Maybe they were afraid it would end as a blood bath. They might be right.

“Angel. We’re moving.” A HYDRA guard barked as he swung open the bedroom door. You stood stiffly, falling in step between two of them, heart hammering as they led you to the armored truck.

This wasn’t going to be pretty. There was no way you could survive going back underground, or worse, Cryo. They’d let you out for too long.

You tried to calm your emotions as the truck sloped down, not wanting to give them any more power over you than they already did. Instead, you thought about your replacement. Anger filled you.

What was so special about the guy, anyway? You’d been completing missions for the past 6 months. Why give them to him all of a sudden? Didn’t they think you could handle it?

The truck rolled to a stop and you readied yourself as the doors opened. Brock stood waiting and stripped you of all your weapons, letting his hands linger longer than they should have just to watch anger simmer in your eyes before shoving you roughly ahead of him. “Walk.”

You bit your tongue to stop a reply and did as you were told, knowing you were going straight to your cell. As you walked, a scream tore through the building. You stopped and listened intently, your curiosity piqued.

The scream was one of pain, not terror and you tilted your head slightly as a guard behind you shifted uncomfortably. “What’s that?” he asked Brock, who scoffed. “Easy, newbie. It’s the Winter Soldier. Get used to it. He does that a lot.”

The famous Winter Soldier, huh? So they’d be keeping him in the same facility as you. You watched Brock out of the corner of your eye, a horrible decision already confirmed in your brain.

You spun to the left, elbowing him in the nose and kicking the nearest guard in the stomach before taking off running. Brock shouted behind you, his voice muffled. Another scream echoed off the concrete and you followed it, skidding on the slick floor.

You rounded a corner and two armed men immediately aimed their guns at you. But you paid them no attention, fascinated by the sight behind them.

Pierce stood in front of a (very shirtless) man, plugged into what you referred to as The Machine, his dark hair slicked back and his skin glistening with sweat. He shifted and as his left arm came into view, you suddenly were sure it was him.

The Winter Soldier.

Your replacement.

Looking at him, his eyes squeezed shut and his muscles tense with agony, you didn’t feel hatred. You felt…nervous. Seeing him in pain made you want to help him.

Brock’s fingers tangled in your hair and ripped your head backwards, earning him a shriek of pain as it slipped from your lips. On the edge of your vision, you saw the Winter Soldier attempt to sit up, but was stopped by the restraints on his arms. The two of you only managed to make eye contact for a second before Pierce stepped between you, watching your struggle with Brock.

In that second, something inside of you changed.

Brock forced you to your knees with a jerk of his hand and you were forced to focus on him. Pierce exited the room and came into view, clicking his tongue as he approached. You shook slightly. Pierce could do so much worse than Brock.

“Having issues, Agent Rumlow?” he questioned and Brock’s hand released your hair for a grip on your windpipe. “Nothing i can’t handle, sir.” he growled, squeezing as a choking sound escaped you. Pierce’s expression hardened. “Agent. Release her, I’ve told you, we’re using a different approach with her. She’s no use to us dead.” Brock hesitated, but threw you forward slightly as you coughed, spit splattering the ground at Pierce’s feet as he kneeled in front of you.

“Now, Angel, why’d you come all the way over here? Eager to have your memories wiped again?” he asked with a deadly calm, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

You frantically shook your head, flinching when his hand brushed your cheek. “I just wanted to see what he looked like.” you whispered, tears springing to your eyes at the thought of his threat being carried out.

Pierce’s eyes shot up to meet Brock’s and he chuckled. “Hear that, Brock? She wanted to see him.” Brock shifted behind you. “Sir?” he asked, but Pierce stood. “Agent, we’ll discuss this later. Make sure she’s in one piece for tomorrow. I have plans for her.”

Brock roughly yanked you to your feet and began dragging you backwards as Pierce returned to the Winter Soldier. You twisted around to watch as the Winter Soldier lifted his head to speak to him, eye glued to your face.

You managed to read his lips with little difficulty. “Who’s the girl?” Pierce turned around to look at you and chuckled. “You’ll find out soon enough, Soldier, don’t you worry.” Before you could see anymore of their conversation, Brock had pulled you around a corner and out of their sight.

As soon as you reached your cell, he posted two men outside and roughly threw you forward. You were off balance and as a result, your palms skidded on the concrete floor as you hissed in pain. Instinctively, you whipped around to face your attacker and immediately got a foot to the chest.

You gasped as you were knocked sideways and clutched your chest, desperately trying to consume enough air to breath before the next blow came. You twsted to look at Brock as he peeled off his jacket and tossed it on th mattress against a far wall.

“You fucked up today, Angel. Apparently they were too soft with you on the surface. Well, let me remind you what happens when you disobey me.” He allowed you to scramble to your feet before his fist buried itself in your stomach and you flew back into the wall, involuntary tears pooling in your eyes as previous experiences flooded back.

He advanced and you threw up your hands to protect your face. A big mistake. His fingers wrapped around your throat and his nails dug into your skin as he hoisted you off the floor, your toes barely scrapig the floor with every kick.

“What, Angel? Did you think you were in control? Think you had rights?” he sneered as you clawed at his arm, angry red lines showing on his skin. He pulled you off the wall and turned, shoving you to the floor. The back of your skull brutally slammed against the floor and black crawled into the edge of your vision as you fought to stay conscious.

Brock’s weight settled on you as he straddled you, drawing his knife. He gripped your face with one hand and traced your bottom lip with the flat side of the blade. “What do you think? Have we been reminded?” he questioned almost gently. You frantically nodded but he gave a sad shake of his head. “Yknow, you said that last time, Angel. I have to make sure this time, you made me look bad today.” he murmured, feigning remorse as he whispered in your ear, his hot breath sending your skin crawling.

You attempted to struggle, and he sat up, holding your head tightly in place. He pressed down and  the blade sank through your lip. “Ask me to stop,” he whispered, slowly dragging the knife downwards. “Beg me, and maybe i’ll stop.”

Your hands fisted at your sides. You wanted to scream, wanted to cry. You wanted to claw his eyes out with your nails. But you were afraid to move and push the blade deeper.But you couldnt ignore an order. “Please,” you croaked. He smiled. “Good girl. But i’m not going to.”  

So he dragged the blade lower, cutting the skin below your lip as well. You held your breath and closed your eyes, tears squeezing out. His grip tightened painfully on your face. “Eyes open, soldier.” he ordered. You did as you were told and he finally pulled the blade out of your skin.

He replaced his knife back in its home and stepped off you, retrieving his jacket and leaving without a word. You laid there for a moment before forcing your shaking hand to touch your mouth. It stung and you pulled away, your own blood glistening on your fingertips. You could feel the shape of it, starting in the center of your inner lip and continuing over the curve, ending halfway to your chin.

A sob leaked from your throat as you rose to your feet. Tears flowed and mixed with the blood, thinning it and dripping down your throat. You weren’t worried about the wound, he wasn’t trying to kill you.

You were pissed about the scar. You’d heal, but there would be a lasting mark. It wasn’t like they hadn’t scarred you before, but never on the face, and never… never deliberately. The bastard had carved his mark into you, a permanent reminder that you didn’t belong to yourself. And it would be there any time you looked at yourself.

You laid on the mattress and curled up, facing the wall as the cloth below you steadily turned a light pink. You closed your eyes after fighting sleep for a few seconds. There was no reason to struggle. No reason to fight anymore. You were broken. And there was nothing to bring you back. Right?

Originally posted by amjeth

anonymous asked:

Can you do an m rated 9? Pleaseeee?

#9: grinding

(And this is why I shouldn’t be allowed to write smut. M-rated, so if you’re underage blah blah blah)

Gail stilled instantly. Well, this was awkward.


“Shh!” Gail insisted, clasping her hand over Holly’s mouth. She placed the index finger of her other hand over her own lips.

Holly nodded up at her in understanding, eyes wide.

Keep reading

fbdarkangel  asked:

OQ PROMPT: (please) post 4x05, robin hears what happened to Regina and goes to her vault to see if she's okay. Instead he finds the photo of them together then Regina comes down to do more research...

Largely unedited. Enjoy

Robin looks up when he hears her footsteps. “Robin? What are you—” Regina’s words trail off as she sees what he’s holding.

She reaches out, her fingers itching with the urge to rip the frame out of his hands, before she reminds herself that he’s already seen it, and ripping it out of his sight won’t change anything. Still, she closes the last bit of distance between them, curls a hand around the edge of the metalwork and tugs it out of his hands, setting it face down on the trunk beside her.

For a moment, they simply stand there, facing each other, both too stubborn not to meet each others’ eyes, and too unsettled to speak. What could she say?

“Are you all right?” he asks.


“Emma and Hook came back into town, said you had a run in with the Snow Queen. I came to make sure that you’re all right.”

She glances at the ground, then back into his eyes. “I’m fine. No—progress on Marian, though. Not yet, anyway.”

He reaches out a hand as if to take hers, then thinks better of it, lets it bump into his own leg instead. “I know you’re doing everything you can,” he assures her. “I trust you.”

She scoffs, a hand curling into her own waist. “Right,” and she speaks the words quietly, glancing at the velvet backing of that photo, almost can’t help it, “As your second chance.” That was harsher than she’s meant to be to him. Nasty. Uncalled for. Even if it’s the truth.

When she looks up, his eyes are tense with agony, and apology, and more than a little self-hatred. Regina could swear she can hear their hearts beating over the deafening silence, and then she’s thinking about use mine for the both of us and can you feel? and she’s thinking yes, too much. Because this would all be easy, it would be so easy (it wouldn’t—those first few days would’ve been torture; she wouldn’t have found the anger to consider harming Marian, but she also wouldn’t have found the strength to help her, or to leave her home and spend time with Henry), but it would be easier, emptier if he’d just gone. If he’d pretended they were nothing, she was nothing to him, if he’d stayed away from her and kept silent and let her think she’d misunderstood, and he’d let her go. But he hadn’t, he hasn’t; he’s been relentless, my feelings for you are real and I’m in love with someone else and it’s so hard, it’s impossible, to walk away from. Regina’s never, not once, been capable of walking away from someone who loves her. It hasn’t served her well, not at all, but there it is all the same.

“I’m sorry I have—” she starts, but no, that’s not the truth—“I’m sorry you saw that.”


She swallows, blinks back the way it feels when he says her name, the way her belly flutters, her soul flickers with something like hope.

“I never meant for you to erase your memories.”

“Well, good, because you don’t own them.”

He swallows heavily, clearly hurt, and for a moment, she regrets her harshness. She hugs her arms into her chest. “That’s what you’re trying to do,” she reminds him. “Erase your memories. Remember different ones.” Forget his feelings for her. Remember his feelings for his wife.

“I miss you,” he says, so softly it could be a whisper.

Regina fights the tears, manages to keep her voice from shaking too much as she returns, “I miss you too.” And there’s that anger again, nagging at her. Because he asked her to look into her heart, and understand the impossible. Love, love has guided her forever, falling for Daniel and saving Snow and hating the king and chasing Snow White, her daddy, and Cora, and Henry and Robin. She cannot fathom loving, and choosing to walk away. Regina takes a heavy breath, meets his blue eyes with chocolate brown. ”But I’m right here.”

“I know.”

“And you’re here,” she tries.

He winces. Visibly. “I know.”

She sighs, turning away, and she doesn’t realize she’s walking towards the trunk until the velvet touches her hand, and she runs a fingertip around the rim. “Go home Robin,” she says without looking back. Regina hears rustling clothes behind her, and then calloused fingers slip between hers, squeeze once, before falling away. He leaves.

Regina presses her eyes shut for a moment, and in the moment captured in the picture beneath her hands, he did the same, caught her hand. But that was different, another lifetime, a path fate has lost interest in taking. Wait, and gentle but insistent hands and a final kiss, another, a smile and caress and safety and love. Robin himself is gone, from this room, from her. He’d only lent her use of his heart for a short while. She’d thought it would be forever, for the rest of their lives, a second chance, but this fleeting moment in her frame—that’s all she has left of who they used to be. 

She stood stock still when he glanced at her, his head tilting for a moment as his eyes suddenly creased in a very disturbing way.

When he walked towards her, she saw the gait of a killer. When he stopped not a few inches from her space, she saw a glint of hesitation.

She breathed. Felt her muscles tense into agony when his metal hand flew forward toward her middle, a single digit sliding under the hem of her shirt and lifting. 

Behind him, she could see Steve and Sam watching close. Behind her, she felt Agent Hill take a cautious but deliberate step forward.

The cool metal ghosted over the scar and he looked down at it, brows furrowing before raising his gaze to her own.

“Natalia Romonova,” the Russian inflection in his voice was smooth and familiar, but the thickness of the name from his tongue told her he was struggling.

Before she could respond, he switched to English, blinking at her with new eyes that whispered their regret,

“I remember you.”