#i only say this because when Certain Men have light-colored hair it makes me BARK BARK SNARL HISS etc
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THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.
—part i.
word count: 6k
rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.
warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. for this chapter in specific, roman likes to take things to the Extreme (i.e., "i'm going to fucking kms if you say this word one more time") but if you're here i imagine you know exactly what he's about.
notes: it's here! i know that most of my followers and friends on here are my friends through my far cry 5 content, but my return to the fic-writing world was inspired by my first longfic in a decade after watching birds of prey. you could say, perhaps, that i have a Type(TM), given that roman sionis lives rent free in my head forever and always. this is the sequel to my work carry your throne, though i like to think it's fairy user-friendly, especially once we really get into the thick of it.
special thank you goes to my beta and the loml, @starcrier; the first person to ever truly recognize varya for the wretched little beast that she is and love her anyway. thank you for being my beta and for loving my girl!
and, of course, another special thanks goes to @shallow-gravy, @vasiktomis, @faithchel, @tomexraider, and @belorage for being so supportive of my foray out of the far cry fandom and back into one that, in a way, brought me here in the first place!
summary: —by dread things, compelled.
roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.
(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)
“If one more person says the word ‘chandelier’ in my presence,” Roman announced, drawing all eyes to him, “I'm going to blow my fucking brains out. Got it?”
There was a brief moment of silence that lapsed before the murmured acquiescence of the workers marked their return to their work. Blowing hot air from his mouth, Roman raked his fingers through his hair and turned back around to where Zsasz was watching him expectantly.
“What?” He demanded. “It’s my wife’s birthday.” Emphasis on the my, not the wife; it was not a favor Roman was doing for Varya, it was something he was doing for himself.
“V told them she wanted it.” Zsasz gestured to the offensive piece of lighting, which continued to haunt Roman’s waking and dreaming hours with its garish crystalline drippings and expensive bulbs. Ever since Varya had found out his fluctuating approval of the chandelier, it had been in and out of the Black Mask Club more times than he could count. Not that he needed to; he could very well put in or rip out a stupid fucking light fixture as many times as he wanted.
“Well.” Roman pulled a glass out from behind the bar, setting it on the top and dropping an ice cube into it. “She does so love to torture me.”
“It's just a—”
“Do you want my fucking guts on the floor, Zsasz? I mean it. Say the word and I’ll do it.”
The blonde regarded him drily. “No, boss.”
“Blood and guts everywhere.” Roman gestured widely with his free hand. “All over the floor. The bar top. You’ll have to clean it up. Maybe wipe down some of the bottles.”
“I won’t say it.”
“I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get blood out of the carpet.”
Zsasz’s mouth quirked up in a smile. It said, without saying anything at all, no, you don’t. More agreeably, and with the flash of pearly whites and the capped tooth: “Sure.”
Roman poured well over what would have been considered the polite amount of expensive scotch into his glass, capping the bottle and setting it aside. It had been exactly twenty-four hours of making sure the club was perfectly polished and styled for Varya's birthday; though she was shrewd, she was so preoccupied with the twins and the lawyers and overseas business associates that she barely seemed to notice whatever was coming in and out of the Black Mask Club. He didn’t think she’d had a baby nor a phone out of her hands in over two days, and truthfully, it was starting to become tedious. Now that the twins were a little over a year old, they were supposed to be scheduling their honeymoon.
The delay of it hadn’t been a big deal, at the start. But everyday with you feels like my honeymoon, Varya had demurred months before the twins’ arrival, fluttering her lashes and gliding her fingers along the lapel of his jacket—and not even an hour after she’d curtly informed him that any more chatter, while she was nursing a headache, would be met with a swift and efficient extraction of his vocal cords by her own hands. Motherhood was supposed to have domesticated her, Roman thought, and had done the exact opposite; now, she was more assured of her status and power than ever.
So, yes; Varya had been busy, and he was almost certain she’d forgotten her own birthday. Never mind that everything had to be perfect. Never mind that it had to be immaculate. Never mind that Varya had deigned to order a brand new fucking chandelier from the same place they’d gotten one last time, knowing full well that he had made the executive decision to gut the fucking thing and get it out of his club.
“Tell you what, Zsasz,” Roman muttered, taking a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, “don’t ever get fucking married. You want someone knowing all the shit that pushes your buttons all the time?”
“Maybe you just got a button pusher for a wife.”
Roman grimaced and took another swallow. It was true. “Fuck off.”
The blonde opened his mouth to say something else—and hadn’t he gotten confident in himself too, since Varya had become such a permanent fixture in their life, constantly goading and coercing him to voice his opinion on things, things that normally he would just defer to Roman on—when the doors to the stairwell and the elevator opened.
Eclipsing the doorway was Armazd, Varya’s hand-picked-from-the-batch-of-Russians-left-over-guard. Armazd had to be easily cresting six-foot-five, his dark beard neatly trimmed and peppered with silver, a scar breaking the color of his top lip. Roman had only ever seen the man swathed in dark clothes, like a fucking mourner on parade. His wife had been the one picked to be the twins' nanny, despite the fact that Roman felt like she barely did anything.
Also hand-picked. Thoroughly vetted. Interrogated for hours. No stone left unturned, when it came to Yuli and Ro.
“What are you doing down here?” Roman barked, coming around the side of the bar to make his way across the room. “You’re supposed to be going up and keeping—”
“She is coming down,” Armazd clarified. “In the elevator. Irina called to tell me.”
“Instead of stopping her?”
“She was—”
The elevator dinged in the hallway, and Roman quickly ducked around Armazd and closed the door into the club behind him. As soon as the doors slid open, he planted a smile on his face and closed the distance between himself and his wife.
Nobody would know, looking at Varya, that she not only barely utilized the nanny that they had furiously vetted and now paid handsomely, but that on top of juggling their twins she was actively in the process of getting a massive, international gun-running business signed over in his name. There was not a single hair out of place, not a single crease or rumple in the sapphire-blue silk of her blouse or skirt; the scent of her preferred jasmine perfume followed her like a cloud. She looked as put-together as the day he’d first seen her standing in his club.
And now, he desperately needed her to stay out of it.
“Kitten,” he greeted warmly, his hands—though gloved—immediately scratching the itch by reaching for her; they captured hers to carefully still her procession to the club’s main room. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be busy for hours.”
“Yuliana has been fussing nonstop,” Varya replied, her voice light despite what could only have been an expression of frustration quickly following, “all while I listen to grown men fussing nonstop at me on the phone.”
Roman feigned a sympathetic noise, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss them. “We have a nanny, V.”
“You know better than anyone else,” the brunette murmured, brushing her nose against his as their hands dropped, “that she is inconsolable without you.”
He tried not to look too pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Don’t be modest, Romy.”
“Well, I’ll come up, of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And console our princess.” Another kiss, to the other corner. “So that you can continue letting grown men fuss at you.”
She beamed at him prettily, and finally they met in the middle for a real kiss—nothing coy, nothing demure, but lingering warm and just between the two of them.
“I love you,” she purred. “Go on, then.”
And then Varya pulled away, as though to go around him and into the club, and Roman blinked rapidly. He had only just caught her around the waist before she could walk in and pulled her in a full one-eighty until she was facing the elevator again.
“What are you doing?” she asked, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I was just going to make myself a drink.”
“Encouraging productivity,” Roman replied, hitting the button for the elevator doors to open again. “Ready for all this paperwork to be done, aren’t you? It’s been over a year.”
A year of wading through mafia-esque bureaucracy. A year of listening to Varya say, these things take time. A busy year, to be sure, jam-packed full of things—the biggest wedding in Gotham since its founding, the twins.
A funeral.
Roman tried more and more every day not to think about his (now) brother-in-law’s funeral, the double burial of the only man that might have stood a chance at being loved by Varya more than Roman himself and the only man who had ever been anything like a father figure to her. Family is tedious, he’d wanted to say, brothers and fathers and mothers, the whole lot of them, cut them loose why don’t you? Why should anyone matter to you outside of the twins and I?
Varya glanced at him over her shoulder. “These things take time.”
He rolled his eyes. “Mhm.”
“Not to mention, we were a little busy,” she added, eyes narrowing playfully as he nudged her into the elevator, “you know—having children.”
“And what beautiful children they are.” Roman hit the button without looking, the doors sliding shut behind him.
“Well, how am I supposed to suffer through those phone calls without a stiff drink?”
He quirked a brow upward. “I’ll make you a stiff drink, Mrs. Sionis.”
The brunette propped herself up against the back rail of the elevator as it whirred into motion. The corner of her mouth, painted ruby, curved and her head tilted inquisitively. “Oh?”
“Of course,” he demurred, sidling forward and boxing her in against the wall. “I’ll make you a stiff drink—”
He dropped his head to the slope of her jaw to plant a kiss there.
“—you’ll finish up with the lawyers, and put on the dress I bought you—”
Varya hummed and sighed sweetly.
“—we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday—”
He dropped his hands to her hips, planting a kiss on her temple so that he could rumble, “And we can get to work on baby number three, hm?”
A sweet laugh billowed out of her just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to bring to Roman the oh-so-sweet sounds of a caterwauling infant. Over the distressed crying was Irina’s voice, shushing and cooing dulcet words in Russian; he could see her swaying to and fro with a swathe of fabric bundled in her arms.
“I almost forgot about my birthday,” Varya said thoughtfully, completely unrattled by the sound of their daughter’s distress. She stepped out from between him and the elevator wall; Roman fell into step beside her easily, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor enough to draw Irina’s eyes to them.
Roman said, “I know you did,” and did not bother to hide his smugness as he held out his arms for the shrieking baby in Irina’s arms. The redhead regarded him with a sort of weary amusement before she acquiesced; with Yuliana safely in his arms, he watched Varya cross the room to turn the automatic rocker that held their son back on to a slow, lulling pace. The freckled infant babbled happily—ever the quieter of the twins—and as Varya said something to Irina in Russian that inspired the woman to depart to the kitchen, she absently picked up a baby blanket from the couch and wandered over to him.
“Yuli,” she murmured, waving her finger at the already-content infant, tucking the blanket around her “is that all you wanted, hm? Just for your papa to hold you?”
“What else could she want for?” he replied confidently. Soothing Yuliana’s fury had become old-hat for him at this point. And, certainly, it pleased him to know that sometimes, the only thing that would make his daughter stop screaming was being held by him. Not even Varya—who had taken to motherhood like a fish to water—bothered when she was in a fit.
Still, the brunette sighed dreamily, her finger captured by their daughter’s tiny hand before she said, “What a perfect little gem.”
Roman hummed his agreement. “Finishing that call with the lawyers?”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Varya replied. “They’re in a mood today.”
“They’re in a mood every day.” Russians, he thought venomously.
“Yes.” She smiled, flashing pearly teeth at him. “But only today is my birthday.”
She had him there. Still, he was itching for the whole thing to be done—Ilarion had dragged his feet through the process of even drawing up the original contract, which had only been a spit in his face (“You are the only person who gets to fuck Varya Astakhova, that is as exclusive as it gets”) and by the time all of that nasty business had been wrapped up, Ilarion was dead.
Ilarion, and Nikita—leaving only a single living soul to be in charge of the Astakhov empire: Varya herself.
Which, she had expressed time and time again, she had no desire for; not in the public way that her father had done it, and Ilarion after them. She much preferred the clerical work of it all. Paperwork and public relations. Let the men do men’s work, she’d demurred one night, tangled up in their sheets, when he’d asked her what she was going to do with it. I don’t mind. They like me better as their madonna, anyway.
“You know,” she continued, breaking him out of his thoughts as she made her way to the bar cart, pouring herself a drink, “they will like you more if it’s you they’re talking to.”
“I don’t give a fuck if they like me or not,” Roman replied, lifting Yuliana with both of his hands so that he could look at her. “Isn’t that right, princess? Mommy gets to do all the paperwork so that your papa can spend all of his time with you, instead of listening to some dumbfucks bitch and moan on the phone.” He glanced at her. “Well, anyway, since it’s your birthday we can let it slide.”
“Very generous of you.”
“Get dressed, won’t you?” he prompted, depositing his now-content daughter in the mobile swing with her brother. “The table’s been ready for us since noon.”
Varya watched him, dark eyes glittering amusedly. “And why, my darling, did you make the reservation for noon? It’s nearly six now.”
“Because,” he replied, “I wanted to make sure they held it, regardless of how long it took us to get there.”
“Ah.” She lifted her chin a little, lashes fluttering with contentment when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face. “Or else?”
Roman flashed her a grin.
“Or else.”
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
They held the table.
“Good for them,” Roman said as they followed the server out onto the balcony. The table had clearly been refreshed—a new candle, a new vase, a new bucket of ice and bottle of champagne. He’d heard the waitstaff whispering furiously among themselves as they idled in the lobby to be taken to their table; now, settled across from the birthday girl, Roman was content with the way they had squirmed.
“Quicker than the two-hour wait last time,” Varya noted by way of agreement, smoothing her hand along the edge of the tablecloth.
He scoffed. The only reason they had waited in the lobby for two hours was because Varya had asked him to stay for the table she wanted. If it had been his way, they would have left with a bloody warning and gone somewhere else. “I can’t believe I finally convinced you to leave the twins home for a night and we got stuck sitting in that fucking lobby because they gave our table away.”
“In my defense, they are good babies, Romy. Hardly ever cry. Certainly not too much trouble.”
“But there’s two of them,” he replied, “and toting two babies around is a lot of work. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of paying her that much fucking money if we’re just going to—”
The waiter came by the table, clearly a little stressed; the lines of concern on his face were clear as he cleared his throat and said, “Should I come back?”
Varya, perusing the menu: “No, my darling, you may stay. You were saying, Romy?”
“I just don’t know why we’re shoveling money into her bank account for her to be a glorified accent chair in our house rather than a nanny.” Roman gestured to the champagne bottle expectantly. “Open it.”
The waiter did as he asked, having been standing there uncomfortably for a moment during their exchange. As he worked to carefully open the champagne bottle, Roman turned his attention back to Varya; her eyes remained on the menu, absently twisting the engagement and wedding band on her finger back and forth.
There was no way, he thought, that she was putting off getting the business signed over to him on purpose. Surely, there was no way; even when Ilarion was alive, even when she had anticipated no further problems, it had always been, if you’re going to be my romantic partner, it seems only right you’d be my partner in business too, don’t you think? And yet—
And yet, Roman could not push down the strange, hazy doubt that occasionally flickered through his mind. He had always wanted Varya, had always found himself wanting and wanting and wanting more and more often, and Varya had always seemed content to indulge him. There was, it seemed, nothing she enjoyed more than indulging him. One more kiss, one more minute in bed, one more lingering glance across the room. She was the absolute pinacle of his hedonism, in every sense of the word, and had proven time and time again that she would give him anything that he wanted.
The business had always been for her and Ilarion. He wanted it, and told her he did, and she said, you can have it, if you like, but like in all things, there was a slyness about his wife—a cruelty—that he found endearing and dangerous. Dangerous, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been on the other end of her cruel nature, playfully poking and unwinding and tugging the thread loose until she had pushed him to the limit.
Something echoed in his head, and he realized that the waiter was asking him what he wanted to eat. Varya had handed the menu over and steepled her fingers, watching him with dark, curious eyes and red painted lips, sooty lashes fluttering. A pretty, painted little snake.
“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Roman said after a moment, setting his menu aside and returning his attention to the brunette across from him. “Something interesting, kitten?”
“Can I not just appreciate my husband?” Varya demurred. “You’re wearing the suit I like best, after all.”
“It is your birthday. What greater gift is there than me?”
She laughed, delighted by him—as she always was—and took a sip of her champagne. “You were away from me, for a moment.”
He watched her, gauging her carefully. Even I know not to drop my pants when a viper opens its mouth, Bianchi had said, just before Varya had unloaded six rounds into his face and chest less than two feet away from him.
“Just thinking,” is what Roman said finally.
“Hm. A dangerous past time.”
His expression flattened, deadpan. “It’s taken a significant chunk of time to secure your father’s business in my name.”
Something flickered across Varya’s expression. at the word father. “To secure my business,” Varya replied, her voice abrupt and cutting, her eyes narrowed, “in your name.” Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked to be composing herself, like she’d spoken on a knee-jerk reaction rather than with thinking.
Then, glossy and silken again: “You know your patience means the world to me, Romy.”
There was nothing that he loved more than watching her pull back her venom for him. Drumming his fingers against the top of the table, Roman bridled his own irritation to say, mildly, “I’d do anything for you. Even wait...” He made a thoughtful noise. “Over a year to finally take on the responsiblities you wanted handed over to me.”
“Of course.” Varya smiled prettily, absently straightening out her silverware. “And we will speak no more of my father on my birthday, or any day after this.”
He knew what that meant. She phrased it pretty, wrapped it up in silk and velvet and presented it to him as unassuming as a doe, but he knew what that meant. There is my button, she was saying, there is my trip wire. Don’t push it, Roman. The name Nikita had all but been banned in their household, even when funeral arrangements were being made; any time he’d heard one of the lawyers mention her father’s name, there had been a sharp rebuke. Not in my presence, she would tell him later, I do not want to hear that fucking name in my presence.
“At any rate, there is nothing that I want more than for this whole process to be done,” she continued lightly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It was always what I wanted, you know. Ilya was better suited to be a functional piece of the business; he was the face because he had to be, not because he wanted to be, and I am better suited for the nitpicking and the details. Being the overseer is much more in your circle of talents, Romy.”
Her words assauged something unsettled and prickly in him, the sweep of the pad of her thumb across the back of his hand returning that doubtful monster in his mind back to its slumber. He sighed.
“You’re right,” he acquiesced after a moment, “it is more in my circle of talents.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I always got the impression Ilarion wasn’t happy with it,” he added. “Though you two certainly enjoyed making work of me that first night, didn’t you?”
Varya smiled demurely. “It was never meant to make work of you, only to make a good impression.”
“Hm,” he replied, eyes narrowing playfully, “but you enjoy pushing me, V.”
She looked pleased. She always did, when he remarked on something that felt like he was really seeing her, beneath the glossy veneer. His girl did so love being seen.
“Only,” V demurred, “because you so enjoy reining me in.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Roman brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before relinquishing it and glancing around. He would just have to exercise patience, of which he had the most; patience, modesty, and humility, all excellent qualities that he could participate in at will, at any given time. Without any restraint.
“Did the men get the chandelier installed?” Varya idled, snapping his attention back to her. He narrowed his eyes.
“I told you I didn’t want a chandelier anymore.”
She looked at him across the table, dark doe eyes wide and innocent. “I thought you liked how polished they make the club.”
“No, you little viper,” Roman replied, clicking his tongue, “Paolo has a chandelier in his club, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to have people comparing it.”
“Ah,” she murmured, “the drama of the chandelier goes on.”
“And while we’re at it, might as well gut that one from the estate, too.”
“There’s more than one chandelier in there.”
“Then the men will be busy, won’t they?” He tsked his tongue. “I know you dream about watching me blow my top, V, but I’m making an executive decision on gaudy light fixtures.”
A smile flashed across her expression, pearly teeth and delighted eyes. She sighed, almost dreamily, like there was nothing more that she liked than to be doing this exact thing, and with him.
“Oh, Romy,” the brunette said sweetly, “you are the only thing I dream about.” And then, almost as an after thought: “Gaudy light fixture terrorism included.” She waved her hand to dismiss any protest or rebuttal he might have given her and said, “Now, since it’s my birthday, tell me all of the things you love the most about me.”
Roman sucked his teeth, eyeing her for a moment as he leaned back in the chair. Wicked little thing, waiting to preen and glow under his attention, a feline seeking him out. Her little bout of cruelty before was already forgiven. He said, “We’re going to be here for a while, if I do that.”
“They held the table for over six hours,” Varya demurred, “I’m sure they’ll hold it for as many more as you need.”
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By the time they got to the club, Varya was acting as though nothing had happened.
Truthfully, Roman preferred it that way. It just also left a lot of room to wonder—his wife was a talented actress, adept at smoothing his ruffled feathers out and not divulging her own feelings on the matter. And he wouldn’t ask, of course. If Varya wanted to express herself, she would, and had, quite openly in the past.
“I am so happy to be home,” she announced, gliding past the door to the club once Roman had opened it for her. “Do you think the babies are asleep, yet? I always miss putting them...”
Her voice trailed off, pausing a little as she seemed to realize that the club was cloaked in inky darkness, freezing just a few steps past the threshold. Roman let the door swing shut behind him, nudging her forward with a hand at the small of her back. He was met with some resistance; she steeled, stiffening against his insistence, before taking a few steps forward.
He said, barely keeping the delight out of his voice, “You’re holding up the line, V.”
“Roman,” Varya said, her voice pitched oddly soft and tight, “why—?”
The lights flashed on to a loud, unified cheer of Happy Birthday!; the club had been packed with vases of flowers, the tables donned with food and drink, and everyone worth their salt within a fifty-mile radius had made their way there. Not a single thing was out of place—everything exactly where he had instructed it be placed, and not a fucking chandelier in sight.
Roman came around in front of the brunette, grinning. “Happy—”
He stopped. Varya’s expression was not happy, or even surprised; it was something else, something that he couldn’t read, the pupils of her hot-whiskey eyes blown wide and the normally Renaissance-soft lines of her face sharpened and hardened into an expression that was more vicious.
“V?” he asked. Her eyes snapped to him, and for a second she looked the same way she had that night in the loft, her hands drenched in blood and the kitchen knife clutched in her fist with bodies at her feet: like she didn’t recognize him.
It took a heartbeat, but her expression smoothed out and she smiled, almost sheepish—like she’d been caught doing something naughty, instead of being caught being somewhere else. Someone else, more the wolf than the girl.
“The lights,” she explained, hands resting on his chest, “they startled me, is all.”
A frown creased his expression. He brought his hands up to hold her wrists, thumb pressed against her pulse point. It fluttered unsteadily. Unconvinced, Roman pressed, “The lights?”
“Just the lights,” Varya assured him. She tilted her head up and kissed him, one hand departing his jacket to go to the back of his neck—and when she kissed him, he could feel that strange little flicker of energy, like she’d been stamping something out before it could catch, but it still vibrated under her skin.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but she disentangled from him and swept around to the crowd of people waiting, beaming prettily and playing at bashfulness, as though she did not enjoy their eyes on her and did not soak their attention up like a flower did sunlight. Whatever had been plaguing her in that moment was now gone, and she was awash with attention and love, thanking people profusely and accepting each hug and cheek-kiss directed her way.
Roman brushed off the odd feeling that she wasn’t being as forthcoming with him as he would have preferred—no secrets anymore, isn’t that what they’d agreed on?—and instead waded into the crowd. Music kicked on overhead; chatter picked up to a warm humming around them; there was nothing else to think about except letting his girl enjoy her birthday celebration.
By the time Varya had made a suitable number of rounds (which tended to verge much higher than one, much to Roman’s chagrin—what tedious work, to share her with everyone else), she had barely sipped the glass of champagne someone had planted in her hand. She circled back to him eventually; like always, there was that pinprick tugging in the cavity of his chest, like they were bound by a single thread that kept them from parting too much and too quickly, and when she drew closer to him again it oozed relief, warm and vibrant, through his ribs.
“Sufficiently loved on?” he asked as she neared, hand reaching up to slide around her waist.
“By them? Certainly.” The brunette’s hand smoothed along his shoulder, the pad of her thumb gliding across the velvet of his jacket. “By you, though, not hardly. Not ever.”
“You are insatiable,” Roman agreed in a rumble. He splayed his fingers against the small of her back, tugging her in closer and brushing their noses together.
“Just for you,” Varya murmured, and the words brushed their lips together just a little—but everything with Varya, like this, felt like almost-kissing, enough to push him to some kind of edge where his stomach twisted and wrenched with want when she added, “And only for you.”
“You know I can’t resist you when you talk like that.”
She laughed, leaning in to set her glass to the side and curl her fingers into his shirt for a kiss; everything for a second felt normal, and good, and right again, the strange way she’d gone-away back in the doorway having disappeared, the dark cloud over her having cleared, her wretchedness from dinner dissipated.
And Roman kissed her, with the sound of the party chatter ringing in his ears, and kissed her with the faint taste of champagne flooding his senses when she parted her lips against his, and kissed her while his hand fisted the fabric of her dress and he managed out in a voice rough with want, “So you’re trying to rile me up.”
“I always,” Varya murmured against his mouth silkily, “want you riled, Romy.”
“Varya?”
A stranger’s voice filtered through the haze—the rose-colored one that usually accompanied Varya saying anything like she wanted him riled up—and Roman felt the irritation spike straight through it. He turned to look at the interruption at the same time that Varya did, only to find a young, handsome blonde standing just a foot away.
Varya said, sounding faint, “Maxim?”
“It has been a while,” the blonde said, and he sounded sheepish. “I called Armazd, asking after you—”
“Sorry,” Roman interjected briskly, fingers still curled—now possessively—into the fabric of Varya’s dress against the dip of her spine, “but who are you?”
His wife started to say, “Romy, this is—” at the same time that the man began, “I am sorry, my name—” and they both stopped at the same time, a strange little silence stretching between them.
“Maxim,” Varya said after a second, turning to look at Roman now. “This is Maxim. He is Artyem’s son.”
Roman stared at her, more to buy himself time than anything; she said the name like he was supposed to know who that was. Artyem, but it didn’t sound familiar. Almost any Russian name sounded like gibberish to him, and if Varya had said it to him, it had been in passing, an afterthought, nothing but a whisper of information passed between them before it was gone again.
Until it did. Until he remembered that the person Varya had thought was her father had actually been Artyem, that she’d poisoned him, let him bleed to death on the carpet while she had mentally checked out of the moment. That she had watched him die, but she had been somewhere else—someplace else, the way Ilarion had described it, very far away where she couldn’t even enjoy what she’d done fully.
And Maxim—golden, and polished, and clean-shaven—looked awfully pleasant for someone whose farther had choked to death on his own blood because of Varya.
“I see,” Roman said, even though he didn’t. His gaze turned to Maxim. “And you’ve—shown up without calling ahead?”
“I have been in Turkey,” Maxim explained, “finishing up some business, and I did not know how to get in touch—”
“Well, you spoke with Armazd, didn’t you?” Roman’s head tilted. “The man practically sleeps in our bed, I imagine he would have been happy to get you in contact with us.”
“Admittedly,” Maxim said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”
No, Roman thought absently, venomously, that won’t do at all.
“—Varya’s birthday—”
“So you slunk in,” Roman elaborated tartly, “like a little street dog, hm?”
“Maxi,” Varya interjected, fingers absently tracing the stitching on Roman’s jacket, “why don’t you go get a drink and acquaint yourself with our friends? Armazd is just there—you see?”
Maxim’s eyes darted between her and Roman for a minute. He shifted on his feet, tilting and giving a little smile that might have liked abashed if Roman didn’t think he saw a little squirm of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Fucker.
“Of course,” the blonde replied after a moment. “C dnyom razhdyenyem, Varushka.” He took a step forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
Varya’s thumbnail dug into the lapel of Roman’s jacket. “Thank you, Maxi.”
Once the blonde had departed, linking up with Armazd in the crowd to get introduced, Roman straightened up from the bar. It was impossible not to stare at this newcomer—he glowed with an easy charisma, flashed bright smiles that were all teeth. Roman hated him already.
“Maxi?” he asked her, eyes narrowed, and Varya sighed. He waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps she’d say they had dated once, perhaps they were literally nothing. That would be ideal, after all. Ships passing in the night.
She said, “We grew up together.”
Even worse. Roman twisted a loose, dark curl of hers around his finger. “And you killed his father.”
“Well—” She paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. “He does not know.”
“He doesn’t—” The notion that she was keeping secrets, and not from him, coiled high and happy in his throat. He tried not to sound too delighted when he said, “V, surely he knows.”
“Surely he does not, that I did it. Only that it happened. And I will keep it that way,” she added firmly, picking up her champagne glass from the bar top. “Maxim was incredibly loyal to my father because Artyem was, but more than that—he was mine and Ilya’s friend. I’m sure he is missing Ilya almost as much as I am.”
“As we all are,” Roman agreed sagely, planting a kiss on her temple in spite of the dry look she gave him. It was hard to tell, to get a read on this Maxim. What was it he’d dragged himself out of the trenches for? Just to fly halfway across the world to wish Varya a happy birthday? Above all things, Roman understood that his wife was a desirable thing, and knowing that he kept her out of the reach of others was part of her appeal—but that much? Could someone who was just a friend want that much?
He continued, “So what is it that Maxim offers to the business, hm?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Varya demurred, which didn’t sound at all like the truth. “Artyem was the one who sent him out on jobs. My father kept things tight around the top, you know. If anyone would know what it was Maxim was up to in Turkey who wasn’t my father or Artyem, it would have been Ilarion.”
“I find it hard to believe you have no idea what your father was using someone for.”
The sound of delighted commentary drew both of their eyes away; Irina had come down, both dark-haired infants in her arms, and was walking them toward Varya and Roman. Murmured remarks on what could only be their cuteness passed throughout the crowd of party-goers.
“I am putting them down for bed,” Irina announced as she approached, “and I know you like to say goodnight.”
“Oh, you are an angel,” Varya murmured, glass set aside once again. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to baby Ro’s cheek. Yuliana babbled, and she sighed dreamily, “Have you ever seen more perfect babies, Roman?”
Perfect babies, a perfect wife; soon, he would even have the perfect grip on Gotham’s neck, throttling it until it was nothing but dust and ash. Soon, but not soon enough; he’d be content when it was just done and settled, when there was nothing else standing between him and everything that he wanted. Varya, and the guns—what an odd thing, to know that a year ago he’d set out for this and it was just falling into his lap.
“Romy?”
“Never,” Roman replied, smiling and glancing back at his wife, reaching and cradling the back of Yuli’s head. “I’ve never seen more perfect babies, V.”
Across the room, Maxim watched them. There was something about it that Roman didn’t like—the way his eyes flickered, the way he looked between the children and Varya, the way their eyes met and he didn’t deflect away. Like he didn’t mind getting caught. Where had he come from? What little shithole had he crawled out of, over a year after Nikita’s death and Ilarion’s death—longer, still, since his father’s death? Hadn’t he wondered what had happened to his father?
What are you doing here, he thought venomously, that you think you can just come in here like nothing? Like I won’t root you out like the little rat you are?
Maxim smiled. It was a polite smile, unassuming kind of smile.
Roman picked up his drink from the counter, taking a heavy swallow. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of him, no finish line in sight.
Nothing else standing between me and everything I want.
And he was going to keep it that way.
#birds of prey#birds of prey fic#roman sionis x original female character#ch: varya astakhova#ch: roman sionis#ch: victor zsasz#roman sionis/original female character#my writing#fic: the land of gods & devils#me sweating profusely posting this#i am really excited about this though and i want to really really thank everyone who has been supportive of me pursuing this!!!!#creeping up on varya's birthday and also the one year anniversary of CYT making me super emo#<3 <3 <3
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Slasher OC: Decebal Avram Chirilă
Full Name: Decebal Avram Chirilă
Nickname(s): Dacia, Dece, The Impaler, Vladislav, Tiger, Lynx, Dracula, Casanova
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Nationality: Romanian
Place of Birth: Bucharest, Romania
Current Location: Travels from country to country
Occupation: Former Romanian Soldier; Now Hitman
Languages: Romanian, English, German, French, Italian, Hungarian, Russian, Turkish
Appearance:
Height: 6'8
Weight: 240lbs
Body Type: Middle Bulky and Atheltic
Skin Color: Warm Beige
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Hair Style: Short on the sides and longer on top, wavy
Eye Color: Pale Grey, almost white, giving the impression he is blind
Face Claim: Stephen James
Clothing: He opts for comfortable clothing mostly because of his job as a hitman and because he is always on the run. He mostly goes with black T-shirts or shirts, a khaki army coat with many pockets, along with camo army pants again with many pockets and black combat boots. He has a long black scarf with the colors of the Romanian flag trimmed along that belonged to his father.
Other features: He has many scars on his broad back and down his arms; his back's scars are covered by tattoos of an eagle and a grim reaper with two swords in an X shape. His has full sleeve tattoos down his arms, picturing all kind of nature scenarios from his country, mountains and wild animals and AK-47's on each forearm. His neck, chest and legs are also covered by tattoos along with his hands. This guy is all inked up. He also has a silver earing on his right ear. He also wears an eyepatch that is covering his scarred eye that he got from a fight with his brother Alexander, the scar mimiking the ones Alexander has, coming from his eyebrow down his eye and over his cheek.
Weapons: Twin Swords, Twin Guns, and throwing knives.
Power/Skills:
Murderous expertise
Brute strength
Skilled usage of weaponry
Skill in hand-to-hand combat
Knifesmanship
Swordsmanship
Multilingual
Cunning Nature
Charisma
Driving expertise
Ruthlessness
Fearlessness
Manipulation
Marksmanship
Master tactician and strategist
Stealth mastery
Symbols: Here is the link to Decebal's symbols
History/Bio:
Decebal was named after a Romanian king by his parents, father Apostol Chirilă, and his mother, Maria Stratulat of Moldovic heritage. They were a poor family that lived in Bucharest during the communist times, a hard period for them. Decebal's father, Apostol was one of the rebels that were against this form of a system of social organization in which all property is owned by the community and each person contributes and receives according to their ability and needs.
Because of this Apostol and Maria, along with their three years old son, Decebal, were dragged into the communistic jails where they were tortured in all kinds of ways from whipping to starvation to being chained into coldness.
Decebal tried to protect his parents even though he was a small child and the army warden that took care of the horrific jails was surprised by the child's braveness and he took him away from his parents, not before forcing him to watch how his parents were killed brutally.
During the rest of his childhood and teenage years, Decebal spent most of his life in the dark underground jail, training with the soldiers, doing hard work. Despite that, the warden thought Decebal about all kinds of languages, cultures, and history.
'Just because you're a stray dog that doesn't mean you cannot learn to bark and bite.'
In his late teenage years as he grew into an adult man, he got more to the light outside, following the warden wherever he went and did was his so-called 'father' figure did; smoke, drink and got laid with all the ladies.
The warden's words during a drunken late-night:
'You know boy, you will do something big, much bigger than you can imagine. I saw how all these sluts looked at you... You make them fall into your arms like they are desperate whores.'
'Use everything you got; charms, brains, muscles. In this world, there are the ones that walk every inch of the ground as they own it and the ones that follow, all chained. Tell me, boy... Which one you are?'
One of the greatest abilities that Decebal earned during years in the darkness was that he got so used to it that now as an adult, he sees perfectly into the darkness, just like cats do.
Some people called Decebal 'Lynx'; the moniker originates from the fact that Lynx has exceptional night vision, remarkable hearing, and incredible instincts. The spiritual lesson Lynx carries to you is a reminder to partake of quiet observance, remembering there’s more to the world than what’s accessible through the physical eyes and ears alone.
After communism fell down in Romania, Decebal still maintained the attitude he grew up around; being sadistic, cold, and cruel. People weren't too fond of his attitude; his habits including fighting and torturing people that opposed him, getting laid with other men's wives, strolling down the streets like he owned everything.
He disappeared from Romania when there was a reward on his head to be finally executed. The Romanian army was hot on his trail, turning against him, but he simply vanished.
He strolls from country to country, not having a definitive home and working as a rogue hitman to earn money and to survive.
After a brutal fight between him and his twin little brother, Alexander; the two brothers which resulted in both of them almost dead, they get on an agreement of peace between them, with the help of their third part, their little sister Nadia.
Family: His little brother Alexander Chirilă and his little sister Nadia Nikolina Chirilă
His favorite killing style:
He prefers a kill that will put on a good show, he will shot his victims in both their knees, then he will dismember them with his sharp twin swords.
Personality:
Decebal has two paths of personality; the civilian one and the hitman one, that sometimes cross path depending on the situation at hand. In hi day to day life, he is a charming, handsome man, confident and sure of himself, but also having a modesty edge, just to draw people in closer, because he loves the attention, having a God-like complex.
Despite his childhood, he is a very educated man that speaks many languages, sometimes taking people by surprise, he can even put on fake accents. He also has vast knowledge about other countries history, mostly because that's what his 'father-figure' talked a lot about.
He is a flirt, he simply adores to make women swon by his charming looks and mysterious persona wherever he goes, people always wondering from where he comes. He knows how to sweet-talk people, being extremly manipulative. His looks; big and strong, in his eyes a flaming white glow.
You will rarely see Decebal without his charming smile or dark smirk that makes the ladies sigh and faint. He always puts on a winning attitude, knowing for creating many divorces along his travelings.
Here goes his saying: 'If the female raised her tail, who I am to deny.'
He has a romantic side, after all he does speaks the romance languages, but it's highly influenced his his Casanova attitude.
He is blunt; this man will tell if you're damn gorgeous or if you're down-right ugly or stupid. He has no problem putting his opinions straight on the table.
His favorite drink: Țuică- is a traditional Romanian spirit that contains ~ 24–65% alcohol by volume (usually 40–55%), prepared only from plums.
His favorite food: Sarma is a dish of vine, cabbage, monk's rhubarb, kale or chard leaves rolled around a filling of grains, like bulgur or rice, minced meat, or both. It is found in the cuisines of the former Ottoman Empire from the Middle East to Southeastern Europe.
His scent: Decebal's scent could be described as a 'game of seduction' with an "exciting rush" of citrus and cool spice top notes. Pungent bergamot "bites" with freshness, revived by cardamom and lavender. Caviar gives a provocative and erotic touch “like a trickle of sweat on a man’s chiseled body.” Masculine and rough notes of tobacco and orris root facilitate the heat of the composition. He has that scent that could be described as smoky confidence irresistible to women.
Other Characteristics:
He is a very good dancer, especially traditional ones and he also knows singing. Attending important parties with his 'father-figure' he learned from the women how to dance and sing. The women basically made him such a charismatic man.
He is a heavy drinker and holds his alcohol like it's water; his moldovic genes showing off.
He is more of a night person that a day one, mostly because of his very good nocturnal sight.
He is pretty much an Outlaw.
His accent sounds like italian, latin, but with a little bit of russian or another slavic accent. (That's how a Austrian woman described his accent one night)
He is a master at Poker. Another way he earns a lot of money is through poker and plus, he is a master cheater. FUN FACT HERE: He won a man's wife through poker for one night.
He is a sword swallower, bonus he has no gag reflex.
He also loves to smoke from his pipe.
============================================
There lived a certain man in Romania long ago
He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow
Most people look at him with terror and with fear
But to Bucharest chicks he was such a lovely dear
He could preach the Bible like a preacher
Full of ecstasy and fire
But he also was the kind of teacher
Women would desire
DE DE DECEBAL
Lover of the ROMANIAN queen
There was a cat that really was gone
DE DE DECEBAL
Romania's greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on
He ruled the Romanian land and never mind the Tsar
But the kazachok he danced really wunderbar
In all affairs of state he was the man to please
But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze
For the queen he was no wheeler dealer
Though she'd heard the things he'd done
She believed he was a holy healer
Who would heal her son
DE DE DECEBAL
Lover of the Romanian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
DE DE DECEBAL
Romania's greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on
(This is an interpretation of the song ‘Rasputin’ by Boney M, mostly because the song inspired me into creating him)
For power became known to more and more people
The demands to do something about this outrageous
Man became louder and louder
"This man's just got to go!" declared his enemies
But the ladies begged "Don't you try to do it, please"
No doubt this Decebal had lots of hidden charms
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms
Then one night some men of higher standing
Set a trap, they're not to blame
"Come to visit us" they kept demanding
And he really came
DE DE DECEBAL
Lover of the Romanian queen
They put some poison into his țuică
DE DE DECEBAL
Romania's greatest love machine
He drank it all and said "I feel fine"
DE DE DECEBAL
Lover of the Romanian queen
They didn't quit, they wanted his head
DE DE DECEBAL
Romania's greatest love machine
[Spoken:] Oh, those Romanians...
=======================================================
But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger
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A Fresh Canvas: Incomplete Preview
Quite some time ago I did a silly little thread on Twitter, and I’ve always wanted to take that and actually make something out of it. Well it was a little harder than expected, but it’s coming along!
When I have the entire thing done I will be uploading it to AO3, but for now it seemed seasonally appropriate to at least drop this.
I wanted to have this posted yesterday but festivities kept me busier than expected! Story is below the cut. Keep in mind that this is still technically a rough draft, and will receive its final beta pass before the full story hits AO3.
(Tentative) Title: A Fresh Canvas
Fandom: Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System by MXTX
Rating: G, No Warnings Apply
Summary: Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan are neighbors in the same modern apartment complex who, despite looking similar enough to be mistaken for each other, couldn’t be any more different. Or so they think.
----------------
Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan were neighbors in the same apartment complex. They lived on the same floor, in the same hall, and were often mistaken for one another due to this proximity combined with how similar their appearances were.
But there were key differences, as both would readily point out to their neighbors. Shen Jiu’s hair hung shy of his shoulders while Shen Yuan’s was shorter and lighter in tone.
And still the mix-ups kept happening, particularly if they were at some distance or facing away. The misunderstanding would very rarely last past the first glance since Shen Jiu would snap and take immediate offense, and Shen Yuan would just sigh and say, "Sorry, wrong one."
Shen Yuan had no idea why Shen Jiu got so offended over it. Surely he didn’t look that bad, come on!
The neighbors eventually started learning to look at the clothes first--or to at least look for Shen Yuan’s thick-rimmed glasses.
Both men carried and dressed themselves so differently. Shen Yuan dressed in hoodies and jeans--well, if he was planning on going any further than the mailbox, that was. Otherwise why bother changing out of pajamas or sweatpants?
On the other hand, Shen Jiu didn’t touch anything that wasn’t from a known designer.
Shen Jiu spent proudly--and why shouldn’t he? Because he at least earned his money!
That Shen Yuan kid down the hall? Rumor was that his parents were paying his rent and he'd never had a real job in his life.
But because he never went out, Shen Yuan was one of the only people still hanging around the apartment complex when Shen Jiu went around knocking during a major holiday.
In Shen Jiu’s arms was a box containing two fluffy black pups.
Shen Yuan’s eyes widened at the sight of them and he completely forgot to greet his neighbor until Shen Jiu cleared his throat. The dogs were like little storm clouds with feet and stubby tails, staring back at him with big black eyes. One started wagging its tail with such vigor that its whole back end wiggled about.
It took Shen Jiu a moment to find his voice as he followed, such was the state that his neighbor had chosen to answer the door in. Hideous cucumber-print pajama pants, a tacky anime shirt covered in snack crumbs, and unkempt hair had greeted him. But the continuous movement of the box in his arms reminded him of his mission.
“I found... ” Shen Jiu shifted the box in indication as Shen Yuan shut the door behind them, “these, out by the garbage.��
Shen Yuan blinked as the other passed by him, “Have you tried calling any nearby shelters?”
“Of course I have,” Shen Jiu scoffed at the implication that he was so simple. “You try getting a real person on the phone today, though. It’s impossible. I could only leave messages.”
Shen Yuan put a finger to his lips, “Oh, right. Today is…” Glancing at a wall calendar almost as ugly as his shirt he nodded, “Right. Right.”
Did this kid ever so much as leave the building? Shen Jiu was starting to wonder. Shen Yuan dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed in the latter part of the daytime. And he hadn’t realized it was a major holiday. And then there were the countless odorous takeout boxes covering every available surface in his apartment.
Shen Jiu wrinkled his nose but still asked in spite of his rapidly growing doubts, “You don’t know anyone who can take these little mutts in for a day or two, do you?”
Shen Yuan shook his head and heard Shen Jiu sigh. His neighbor set the box down to give his arms a rest… but Shen Yuan couldn’t seem to rip his attention away from one of the pups. It hadn’t stopped staring at him, or shaking its fluffy little behind, for a moment.
“What if we take them in?”
Shen Jiu’s tone was flat, “What.”
Shen Yuan picked up the excited little pup and it immediately started wiggling in his grasp. Not struggling, however--just trying to get closer to his face, paws waving in the air and its little pink tongue darting out to reach for him even though it was still well outside of range. He had to fight back the urge to laugh at the silly little storm cloud.
“The building allows us to have one animal per unit, right?” Shen Yuan shrugged, “so what if we each took one, even just long enough to find them new homes?”
Shen Jiu frowned. Taking in a dog, or really any animal, had never been on his agenda. He liked his nice clean apartment and intact furniture unlike a certain someone. Plus he was more partial to cats. He moved his gaze from the overexcited animal back to the box. Though the pups looked identical on the surface this one was clearly the calmer one. It looked up at his scowling face but put forth no such ridiculous display… thank goodness.
Who knew? Maybe Shen Yuan’s idea wasn’t so bad. And if it was, it was only a temporary arrangement, in the end. He might be able to get rid of the animal as soon as tomorrow if it was truly intolerable.
Tentatively, Shen Jiu reached out to pick up the dog…
And felt tiny teeth close around his fingers.
Jerking his hand backwards, Shen Jiu sneered down at the animal. “What, you ungrateful little beast!”
Shen Yuan finally stopped cooing at his own pup to look over and said, “Maybe he doesn’t like your cologne?”
“And what’s wrong with my cologne?” Shen Jiu snapped, voice raising.
Stepping back, “Nothing, nothing!”
“It was a gift, you know!”
Shen Yuan barely avoided tripping over a haphazard stack of game cases as he kept moving away. “P-perhaps it’s just too strong for a dog’s nose, that’s all!”
This time Shen Jiu moved quickly, snatching up the dog by its middle before it could get its ridiculously tiny muzzle around anything, and he stared directly into the animal’s eyes.
“Do that again, and I’ll put you back out in the cold where I found you. Understood?”
The dog stared back at him, placid and indifferent… until its tongue darted out and licked the end of his nose.
“...good enough.”
----------------------
It was a few days before the two of them crossed paths again.
It’d seem they both had decided to keep their newfound pets and they were both out that day to take the dogs for walks.
The air in the park was warm, so they sat themselves on a bench to enjoy it for a bit longer and soak up some of the sunlight that was so rare that time of year. Shen Jiu’s pup sat like a sentry at his feet while Shen Yuan’s pup curled up on his lap the moment he sat down.
It was through the ensuing conversation they realized they both gave their dog the same name by sheer coincidence.
One was too lazy and the other was too stubborn, so neither changed it. At least they’d bought different-colored collars. But this brought to light a new revelation, and Shen Yuan just had to ask…
“How did you come up with it?”
“It was just the first thing to come to mind,” Shen Jiu had explained, “from something I’ve been reading, probably.”
"Wait, you read that too!?"
As he suspected! That name was from one of the top-rated web novels that year, from its stallion protagonist: Luo Binghe!
Shen Yuan couldn’t imagine someone as outwardly prim as Shen Jiu reading trashy webnovels, but it turned out to be true. It was just a quick, easy way for him to kill a few minutes of downtime at work, Shen Jiu reasoned in his defense.
Whenever they met up from that point forward, Shen Yuan talked his ear off about his various grievances with Proud Immortal Demon Way.
‘Villains that dig their own graves but don’t bother finishing! Women that lead the protagonist on a three-chapter long subplot just to get to their lewd scenes, only to never see them again! And every single character lost all of their intelligence when the protagonist came around!’
And yet he had nothing but praise for said protagonist… almost excessive praise.
Shen Jiu is annoyed at first but he starts enjoying the company. Which is good because the dog turns out to be a menace.
Well, both dogs could be counted as menaces, just in different ways.
Bing-mei (as they come to call him) would start whining so pitifully when Shen Yuan shut the door between them, thus he often just gave up and took the dog with him whenever it was feasible.
Bing-ge, on the other hand, broke his toys within days, climbed around on furniture he wasn’t allowed on--sometimes when Shen Jiu was looking right at him, too--he barked, he scratched furniture, he tore up pillows.
Despite all the trouble he was causing for his master, Shen Jiu would no longer entertain the idea of giving him up. Not after Bing-ge tore up three separate muggers on three separate occasions and growled at the person who kept taking his parking space until it never happened again.
But the biggest takeaway from their conversations, for Shen Jiu, wasn’t webnovels or dogs. It made him start to realize how lonely he'd been.
The only other person he really spoke to was halfway around the world for their work and they only spoke a couple of times a month. Now that Shen Yuan was around, Shen Jiu actually started to have things to look forward to besides the monotony of work--knocks on the door, long walks with the dogs, the occasional cup of tea afterward on colder days...
Shen Jiu was never the sort to be up-front with his feelings, so he found a way to show his gratitude by helping Shen Yuan with his confidence issues. He started encouraging him to go out more, and to put a little more effort into his looks when he did. This morphed into helping clean up his squalid apartment since Shen Jiu could barely stand to look at it when he came over.
Months later, Shen Jiu’s recommendation had helped Shen Yuan to land an entry-level job. That, and a steady habit of going out once a week, gave them something else to do and talk about.
Progress was slow, but visible. Shen Yuan seemed a little less awkward in public with each passing week.
One night they were leaning on Shen Yuan’s balcony. It was a night of celebration, for he’d just earned his very first promotion, and Shen Jiu had brought over wine for the occasion.
He found himself leaning closer to Shen Jiu, telling himself it was just to get a better look at him in the dim light of the city night. His focus wasn’t the best even when he was sober after all. Yet Shen Yuan didn’t stop. And when Shen Jiu turned to look at him in confusion, and their lips met, he didn’t withdraw for several seconds.
Neither did Shen Jiu.
Shen Yuan tried to flee as soon as he realized what he’d done only for Shen Jiu to pull him back saying:
"Don't run, take responsibility. We talked about this."
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The Island
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: You own a safe house designated for the avengers. A couple years ago they all came to visit. Little did they know, Bucky had won his way into your heart.
Warning: none
Word Count: 2.3k
2020
The hot sun beats down, beads of sweat begin to form on your forehead. With a swish of your hand you wipe away the droplets that drip down your forehead. Pruning and planting the different crops for spring always took time, but that was all you had to do on your little island. That, and think about the love of your life and the hands that planted this garden in the early fall time. Thinking of the memory of your butt planted in a beach chair while watching his bent over frame in the garden boxes, planting strawberries and various greens.
A slight buzz in your beach bag catches your attention and you think nothing of it; most likely a news notification regarding the recent breakout. After hearing another ping, something in your gut tells you to check it. Walking through the thick sand surrounding your house, you bend over to retrieve your cell phone and realize that the buzzing continues from the second pocket. The emergency phone that hasn’t gone off in a few months is now alive with sound, and with your stomach dropping into your toes; you answer.
“Need any groceries?” Natalia’s familiar tone gives you friendly butterflies in your stomach, as she is one of your longest friends. You hadn’t heard her voice since Thanos had ruined the planet with the snap of his fingers. It was almost a relief to hear her raspy tone. Even then she didn’t want to bother you, or more likely find out if you had survived the initial snap (Which you did).
Without missing a beat, “Just pickles,” The familiar code for ‘the coast is clear’, “Maybe some vodka if you’re stopping.” You added with a smile. Nat happily said she would bring you a couple bottles, and with that she hung up the phone. After taking a shuddering breath, you tossed the phone back in your bag. This meant you had to make some rounds and change sheets in the different guest bedrooms, and actually wash the dishes in your sink. Your lab would be beyond happy to have some different but familiar faces around the little compound.
-
Seeing the familiar tiny red boat pull ashore that afternoon to your island always brought a smile to your face, along with the red head manning the small vessel. For the first time you noticed a few beefy men in tow, which made your eyebrows rise in surprise. Nat climbed ashore with a couple of manly hands held out to aid her. Then with the small boat anchored, the few men climbed ashore. Of course you knew who they all were, who wouldn't? At least she managed to bring some of the most well mannered men on the planet; all of which extended their hands in sync once reaching you on the shore. Steve introduced himself first, and he even kissed your cheek with a red hue on his own. Sam was a little more cocky in his introduction, but thanked you immensely for letting him stay there. Bucky was the last, and he was much more quiet and distant in his introduction than the rest. He took your hands in his, and then mimicked Steve and placed the gentlest kiss upon your cheek that made Sam and Nat furrow their brows. However, they didn’t say anything in fear for their lives.
After a moment of awkward silence, Natasha cut in. “We needed a safe house, desperately.” You nodded, almost prying for more. “There’s a little too much going on in the world...Virus and all. Tony got worried with all of us in New York or in the same Safe House at that.” She tucked her hands in her pocket, which was a cue for her that she was done talking. For as long as you had known her, it was almost impossible to get her to a point of being uncomfortable that she couldn’t talk anymore. So this situation had to be dire.
With the warmest smile you could offer up, you spoke to the group, “I understand, and you’re welcome here for as long as you need.” They all joined in a chorus of ‘thank yous’ but you interrupted with “As long as you’re willing to go to the grocery store for or with me.” In response Nat quickly walked back over to the boat, and grabbed a handful of reusable bags that contained at least $300 worth of groceries. “Well then, I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Throwing a dinner together for your guests was pretty easy since they all would eat anything you put on the plate in front of them. Steve was the one to strike up a conversation more than anybody else; asking how you came to get this land and when the house was built. Nat was just exhausted from navigating most of the way, and Sam must’ve been exhausted from nagging the whole time. Bucky, however, kept a cool distance from you across the dinner table. But he was the one who stayed to clean up dishes once everyone else went to bed, and even suggested you go to bed while he finished up downstairs. A smile graced your face and with a small wink you climbed the three flights of stairs to your master bedroom.
5:45 AM rolled around, and your alarm went off to get up and get ready for your 6 AM run around the island. The sunrise always brought a fresh breath of life to your lungs and soul. The island that you were lucky enough to live on, clocked in at around 4 miles round which was just the perfect running/walking mixture for your exercise credentials. Being on your own gave you a certain sense of freedom and happiness with the few trips to the grocery store that you made. While tying your sneakers, another person joined your presence downstairs in the island farmhouse. Bucky Barnes stood on the landing of the staircase, hair in a bun at the nape of his neck. He had a long sleeve shirt on that covered up to his wrists, leaving the metal arm to glimmer in the faint morning light. You had a sly smile on your lips with the thought of Nat teaching him how to tie his hair up in a small bun.
“What?” Bucky was also tying up his shoelaces, but caught a glimpse of your smile playing on your lips. The two of you were creatures of habit, and that meant getting up early in the day to work out so you had time for important stuff in the afternoon, like drinking. “Is there something wrong with my hair?” Bucky self consciously ran his flesh hand over his head.
You quickly jumped in, “Not at all! I could just tell Nat taught you to do that.” You grabbed the handle for the front door and looked at Bucky with a sympathetic look in your eyes, “Gonna run the same pace as me or outrun me today?” He laughed and agreed to keep pace with you. He was over a foot taller than you, which made you doubt his abilities to go your pace given the leg difference between the two of you.
The sun was only beginning to create a color show over the various mountains and islands surrounding your private island. Purple hues took over the sky and your heart. It always made you incredibly happy that you were able to reach this point in your life that you were able to live the life you had always dreamed of; quiet, and no one bothering you unless the situations were dire. Bucky’s strides were slower than normal to your left and even you could tell that, he wasn’t out of breath even when you were. Towards the end you always walked just to cool down and take in the cool morning breeze. Your black Labrador also joined during this morning ritual, which helped him settle during your afternoon activities.
After finishing the lap around the island, you sat down on one of the blue adirondack chairs you had perched on the beach. The paint was slightly peeling but every couple of years you repainted right over it, good as new. It was probably getting close to the time that required some more paint on the old, trusty chairs. Bucky carefully lowered himself into the chair next to you. With a slight sigh, he whispers as if to not disturb the sunrise still occuring. “Do you think Natalia knows about us?”
A laugh bubbles up into your chest as your hand reaches over and interlaces your fingers with Bucky’s. “I don’t think so baby.”
This had been occurring for the past 2 years, unbeknownst to the rest of the team. Neither of you really cared whether the rest of the team knew, maybe just Sam. The first time Nat had brought everyone to the island (By everyone, that means the WHOLE team and their significant others) over 2 years ago. There were so many dogs barking and beds squeaking that nobody had noticed you and Bucky on the front porch having a drink and learning everything about one another. He came to visit quite often after that, and no one really bothered to ask him where he was going.
The chairs in the sand were so close together that even if someone was to look out their bedroom windows and spot the two of you holding hands, you couldn’t quite tell what was happening. Steve was the only one with a bedroom that had a view over towards the sunrise, and you did that on purpose because you knew he wouldn’t say anything, and if he did it would have just been to Bucky. You adjusted in your chair so you could lean your head on his right shoulder, since his forearm was resting comfortably on your thigh. Bucky moved his head slightly just to kiss your sweaty forehead, and you could feel the smile on his lips. Bucky always smelled like eucalyptus and the scent stayed around your house even after he returned to his normal routine at the Avengers Compound. Your dog laid at both of your feet on the sand, comfortable as ever.
“I think we have to tell Tony eventually, especially since you wanna move here sometime in the near future.” You barely spoke above a whisper to him as you brought the back of his hand to your lips for a small kiss.
Bucky rested his cheek on the top of your head, watching the finishing sunrise. “I know, let this pandemic finish first before he realizes that he has to find another Avenger.” He giggled a little, and it brought a bubble of laughter up to your chest. “I just want to enjoy our privacy for now, before Sam realizes.” You nodded in agreement.
-
2019
Bucky had been introduced to you the year before, and somehow he managed to show up at your doorstep once a month. He claimed that it was his “vacation time”, even in the dead of winter, with snow piling up on your porch and an icy lake all around. The smile he donned melted a path right into your heart and you knew there was no way of falling out of love with Bucky Barnes. Most of the team was still under the impression that he was half psychotic; willing to snap at any time. But he was just the opposite. He was the most caring person you’d ever met in your life.
Bucky spent most of his time on your island helping with various projects that needed completing, whether it was fixing broken floor boards or sealing the shed against snow. You watched him get bundled up in overalls, glove only on his flesh hand and a fuzzy hat that he didn’t realize had cat ears on top, and trek outside to shovel a pathway to the shed that contained a few important items. Not to mention the chilly nights you spent with the window cracked, bundled up and a shirtless Bucky sleeping in the kingsize bed next to you.
Everytime he showed up on the porch, he claimed he took a leave of absence for some quiet time. But the time he spent on your island was anything but quiet. Making meals required any kind of music playing and hips swaying. His thumbs made impressions on your hips while you leaned to grab different seasonings from the spice rack, and a deep blush would form on your cheeks.
Late in the evenings it would just be the sound of snow falling outside and both of your breaths, ragged and slowing down. Legs tangled together, and not a care in the world. Bucky spent time tracing his fingers along the various tattoos that were painted over your arms and body. It made your heart warm to see Bucky this vulnerable. You finally had to ask what brought him here after all this time.
“You.” Was all Bucky wanted to offer at the time, and after some pandering he continued. “It’s peaceful here, you bring me unconstituted peace and so does this island.” Bucky was speaking the truth, it had been a long time since he had felt safe and content enough to be this open with someone. All it took were 4 sides of water for him to finally feel safe.
-
2020
You let out a little sigh before you spoke again, “I’d kiss you right now, but I have a feeling there’s a pair of eyes on us.” Closing your eyes, you felt Bucky stretch to turn around next to you. Sure enough, Nat was already up and sipping her coffee on the porch. She knew how much your privacy meant to you and Bucky, so she simply raised her mug in a cheering motion, and went back to bed.
Everyone had an inkling of an idea about the two of you, since Bucky didn’t know how to shut off the tracking on his iphone. But Natalia had reminded them of your spy past and how you once decapitated a man with your bare hands. Needless to say they kept their mouths shut until everyone was invited to the wedding/Bucky’s retirement party on the island.
#Bucky Barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes/reader#winter soldier#winter soldier x reader#winter soldier/reader#natasha romanoff#black widow#steve rogers#captain america#sam wilson#falcon#avengers#avengers x reader#avengers safe house#avengers fanfic#avengers oneshot#bucky barnes oneshot#bucky barnes imagine#avengers imagine#safehouse#ours#oneshot#archive of our own
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Impressed
A/n: Before requests opened up, I just wanted to write a YJ! Riddler x Yellow Lantern! Reader because why not?
Typically, you were a pretty big fan of irony and your situation was very ironic. You, a supervillain dressed in your normal civilian attire, now being held hostage by another supervillain. You were so amused by this that you didn’t even mind that your coffee was already 45 minutes late but then again, you were sure that this hostage situation wasn’t exactly speeding up the process.
You had been messing around the yellow ring on your finger, tracing your thumb on the logo imprinted on it, when there was suddenly the sound of the doors slamming open and people shouting. Making you turn around to see that multiple men clad in green clothing and armed with weapons were storming the cafe.
To make matters worse, the villain holding you hostage was none other than The Riddler, the enforcer of the Light and pretty much the emotional (sometimes physical) punching bag for other villains. While you did feel pretty bad for the guy whenever you saw him get bullied, you didn’t pay much attention to it, however, this was somewhat of an eye opener for you.
Watching as he shouted and barked orders to his underlings, standing in the center of the room with his hands on his cane as he had a devious smirk on his face and surveyed the hostages that were giving him looks of fear and utter terror. He was very much in his element and very in control as he knew along with everyone else that he was able to give the order about who lives and who dies in this situation.
Little did he know, he was actually creating the perfect element for you two as you could sense the fear and unease of everyone, and you’d be lying if you didn’t say you were impressed.
With a heavy sigh, you stood up from your seat and grabbed your coat, now starting to make your way towards the exit despite the situation you were in. After all, you felt as though you had seen enough and didn’t really need to be around. You felt like you were somewhat intruding for some reason.
The Riddler noticed you, everyone did, as you casually started to walk over to the exit with zero worry. However, Edward soon scowled and looked at one of his minions as he nodded over to your direction. The henchmen understood and walked up behind you, grabbing you by your shoulder and throwing you to the ground behind him harshly.
You grunted in pain at the impact, rubbing your head and looking up to glare at the guy, one for your (e/c) eyes to meet Edward’s brown ones.
“Where exactly did you think you were going?” He asked, leaning onto his cane to look at you.
“Just going to the cafe on Main Street,” You answered, “since the customer service here is rather terrible.”
There was a glint of amusement in Edward’s eyes as he smiled at you and he gave a dark and low chuckle, “Look, I’m not sure if you’re just too stupid to comprehend the situation you’re in or not, but you’re a hostage. My hostage. And you’re not leaving until I say so.”
“I beg to differ, Eddie.” You responded, a restrained smile growing on your face.
In that moment, whatever amusement Edward was feeling now faded into anger and irritation. It was bad enough that he got enough slack from other villains, no way was he going to let some hostage who had no sense of self-preservation disrespect him in front of the other hostages and his minions by calling him ‘Eddie’.
“It’s The Riddler,” He corrected as he roughly grabbed you by the chin to make you face him, “so unless you value your life, you won’t make that same mistake again.”
“Well, unless you value your life, Eddie,” You began, emphasizing his nickname, “I suggest you let go of me.”
He blinked dumbfoundedly a little before annoyance began to build up even more as he furrowed his brows and continued to scowl at you.
“Just who do you think you are?” He growled.
It was kinda cute, to see him so in control yet so angry at the same time. You weren’t used to it, that was for certain, but it was a side of him that you didn’t mind seeing.
“In blackest day, in brightest night,” You began, making Edward along with everyone else confused, “beware your fears made into light.”
Edward opened his mouth to most likely as what you were talking about, only for a bright glow to catch his eye. He looked down at your hand to see a ring, a ring that was glowing a bright yellow before he looked up at you.
“Let those who try to stop what’s right burn like my power, Sinestro’s Might.” You finished, with a sly smile on your face as you saw the color drain from his face.
Edward had backed away from you, at this point, looking away when a bright yellow light began to shine brightly within the cafe. Everyone else covers their eyes while also letting out fearful screams or whimpering in fear.
When the light had quickly faded, Edward looked up to see that the (h/c)-haired civilian was no longer in front of him but a (h/c)-haired yellow lantern. He stared into the yellow domino mask that covered your (e/c) eyes in worry as he quickly identified you.
“(Y-y/n)!” He stammered, his once confident and intimidating demeanor gone when you slowly began flying to the ground.
“Eddie,” You grinned as you crossed your arms over your chest.
“I-I’m so sorry about that! It was- well, you look so different in civilian clothes and...a-and, well, I just didn’t recognize you, but-” He was silenced when you laughed.
It wasn’t a devious laugh or a bitter one, it was genuine honest-to-god amused laugh. It sounded oddly innocent to him, since ‘innocent’ isn’t a word you would describe a Yellow Lantern with, but it was the only word that could be used to describe the sound.
“What happened to all that bravado?” You asked him in a tone of mirth.
He paused a bit, your reaction taking him completely off-guard before he began to fidget with his cane slightly.
“Y-you’re not mad?” He questioned.
“Of course not,” You assured him as you put one hand under his chin and the other placed on your hip, “In fact, I kinda liked seeing this side to you. ‘Course, you’re going to have pay for that ‘stupid’ comment later.”
He gulped at your words only to be surprised once again when you pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“I’m thinking sometime around Friday 9pm? I’ll meet you at that new restaurant that opened up downtown.” You hummed only to walk away.
He was utterly silent as he watched you walk over to the door, however, one your hand had gripped the handle, you looked back at him with the same sly smile on your face.
“I almost forgot, since I’m your hostage, would it be alright if I left?” You asked him.
His reaction to the question was actually really cute, his face now becoming red that someone more powerful than him and much more feared than him was actually asking for his permission, even if it was meant to be a joke.
“U-Uh, sure…” He permitted, now scratching that back of his neck nervously, “and, uh, see you on Friday?”
Your grin only began to grow as you nodded your head before opening the door and walking out, then you took off from the ground followed by a yellow streak of light as you felt rather excited for Friday to come.
Meanwhile, Edward was in utter shock as he tried to replay the events in his head. Was he just asked out on a date?
By a high-status villain like a Sinestro Corp member?
By you, specifically?
It was a fact that he couldn’t get over, even as he still carried on with his hostage plans, but still the scene was replaying and playing in his head. The fact that you had arranged a date with him instead of beating him up or something.
Almost like he had impressed you.
The very thought of it made him grin happily, that he managed to impress someone as respected and renowned as you and soon, he couldn’t wait for Friday to come, either.
#The Riddler x reader#The Riddler x you#Young Justice villains x reader#Young justice villains x you#young justice x reader#young justice x you#yj x reader#yj x you#Edward Nygma x reader#Edward Nygma x you#Dc villains x reader#Dc villains x you#DCAU x reader#DCAU x you#Yellow Lantern! Reader
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SSM 2020 Day 3
Prompt: Sleeping Soundly
Summary: Sakura has the ability to travel to people’s dreams and alter them. So she helps resolve Sasuke’s nightmares.
Rating: K+.
A/N: The story is set during ancient times when kingdoms still existed. This was inspired by the drama Mystic Pop Up Bar. Go check out the show!
Life is surely filled with mysteries. Mysteries of the mind and the body. One can argue that they both are just equally as important, equally dependent on each other, and equally strong. But Sakura would argue otherwise. The mind is the key to everything. A strong-willed mind can withstand anything. It can even push one’s limit beyond anything they imagine. Unbeknownst to some, it even has the ability to affect one’s body. When the mind is strong, the body is as well. And when the mind is weak, so too is the body. Thus, becoming the key to unlock one’s potential.
This is what Sakura has control over. Not necessarily the mind itself, but the thoughts underlying it. One might ask, how is this possible? Through dreams.
A scholar once believed that the mind is the door that to peak into person’s subconsciousness. A dream is like a projection of one’s beliefs, thoughts, and hopes. Many things are uncertain, but one thing Sakura’s certain, is that she is not like other people. Ever since she was little, her dreams have never stopped being so vivid, so clear. Her mind has always been so alert and conscious, even during sleep, movements so clear and swift, she can practically do whatever she wants in the dream plane.
That’s when she realizes she’s special. She was ten when she found out her abilities can be stretched out to enter other people’s dreams. Seeing what they see, standing in the sidelines, watching the events unfold and change from one thing to the other.
She was thirteen when she found out she was able to alter those events. Creating her own playground in other people’s dreams, architecting rooms and houses, making things disappear or appear.
Back then she had to learn to manipulate her powers and hone them by using it on her friends. But soon, she realizes, it’s both a blessing and a curse. She was then feared by many. Feared that she is a puppet master who can control people’s minds to do whatever she wants. Feared that she will someday bring doom to their village.
The thing is, she did believe them. By the time she was sixteen, she decided to run away and leave her village behind.
.
.
Sasuke’s day has finally come to an end. With a war coming, the palace is becoming more eager to manufacture weapons and armors. Bows, arrows, swords, and spears are constantly in the make each day. Constantly being surrounded by the hot furnaces, handling scolding metal and heavy hammers, Sasuke’s body aches all over.
The walk back to his house feels the most rewarding. A day at the forge earned him three days’ worth of meals. He can barely remember when he started working there. The only thing he remembers is the face of his brother going into war. It’s been two years since he last saw him. He wonders if he’ll ever see him again.
Boiling some water in a pot and cutting up vegetables, he settles for a simple meal for his dinner before deciding to sleep right away. All cleaned up from the coal and dirt on his body, he lays himself on the futon, closing his eyes.
Just as his mind is starting to drift, flashes of blood fill his mind. He can hear the screams of women, of children. He sees arrows lodged into trees and ground. He keeps running and running deeper into the forest, running as fast as his legs could carry him. His body feels sluggish, as if putting one leg over the other is the hardest thing to do. His whole body feels heavy. He looks back to see if anyone’s following him when he accidentally trips on a branch, rolling down a hill and falling into a dark endless pit.
His body jolts as he sits up, covered in sweat. This has been the nth time he’s had the same dream. They never fall far from similar themes of blood, war, and fear. It’s like he’s watching his memories on tape being rewinded over and over again. Memories of the civil war that happened in his village years ago. Sometimes he gets to see his brother in them and they’re not as bad as he thinks. But some days they’re worse because he sees his brother in them, dead.
He runs a hand over his tired face and ruffles his hair in frustration. He lies back on the futon and stares at the ceiling.
Brother, where are you?
.
.
“Hey, Sasuke, Sasuke!” Someone finally snaps him out of his musings. He turns to the source of the voice.
“Careful with that.” The man points to the hot rod in his hand. Sasuke quickly sets it on the table before taking off his gloves.
“You okay? You look like you barely got any sleep last night.” It’s apparently too obvious that he didn’t get any sleep last night.
“I’m fine.” He goes to the back and splashes some water on his face. He lets it cool himself down as he stands there, staring at his reflection in the water. The man places a hand on Sasuke’s shoulder.
“Hey, you know what might help? I heard there’s a shaman in town that can give you good dreams!” Sasuke quirks an eyebrow at the suggestion. He surely is not one to believe in ghosts or spirits. He might believe in an afterlife, but hearing about someone who can supposedly give him good dreams is a bit too far-fetched.
“I’m telling you it really works! My brother went to see her the other day and he said she could really do it! Just try it once. You got nothing to lose, right?” He’s right. He doesn’t have anything to lose. His nightmares are already bad anyway, he can only hope that things get better from there, right?
He decides to give this shaman a try. At the end of the day, following the directions the man gave him, he comes across a small house at the edge of the village. The house looks small and humble. The yard seems barren except for the clay jars lined up along the sides. He notices the bell that hangs from the ceiling. He approaches the entrance and knocks a few times.
“Come in.” He hears a voice from inside. He slides the door and steps inside. He finds a woman sitting on the floor behind a table. He’s never been inside a shaman’s house before but he can say it’s not like anything he imagines. The room appears empty, except for a futon on the right side of the room, and an incense on the other side of the room.
She eyes him and chuckles.
“Wow you must really need my help.” Sasuke is beginning to re-evaluate his decision. But he might need her help after all. He steps closer and takes a seat in front of her.
“I’ve been having nightmares.”
“I see. And what kind of nightmares?” She’s probably heard this so many times, judging by the unchanging tone in her voice.
“People dying. War.” He can’t tell if it’s just his imagination but he can see her eyes widen a bit.
“That’s rare. You see most people say they want dreams of meeting their loved ones, flying, travelling.” She can tell that he only wants one thing. Peace. Peace of mind.
“Okay. I’ll help you.” She gets up and sits next to the futon. She gestures him to sit as well. He gives her a questioning look before he decides to follow her words. He sits there and Sakura hands him a cup of tea.
“This will help you relax. It’s chamomile tea.” He takes a sniff before sipping the beverage. He then lies down and tries to even his breathing. She’s lying of course. It’s not just any regular tea. It’s a special liquor of hers that can put a person into a deep slumber. Not long after that, Sasuke begins to drift into sleep. His eyes flutter closed.
Sakura grabs his hand in hers and touches his pulse. She closes her eyes and tries to match his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She focuses on Sasuke’s heartbeat in her fingertips. A few minutes pass and she begins to enter his dream.
Darkness. Everywhere around her. The moon is the only thing lighting up her path. She notices she’s in a forest. She walks a few steps before she sees an arrow lodged in the ground, followed by a trail of blood. She then begins to hear screams. She keeps walking and starts hearing fast footsteps. She quickly steps to the side, hiding behind a tree. She then sees Sasuke panting and running. She follows behind him to see where he’s heading. He keeps on turning back, as if someone is chasing him. She looks back to see no one.
She keeps following him. Deciding that she should end his misery, she grabs both his shoulders, startling him.
“Hey.” He turns around, fear evident in his eyes. His face is covered in dirt and sweat.
“Who are you? Let me go!” He tries to break free, but she holds him in place, remaining calm.
“There’s no one here. No one will hurt you.” Sasuke keeps his gaze on the ground, seeming afraid to look at his surroundings. Sakura decides to brighten the surroundings. Literally.
The sun slowly starts to rise, a colorful orange and yellow hue appearing from the horizon. Sasuke notices this and looks up to the sky. He can see the woods clearer now. The arrows stuck on the ground begin to crumble and sprout branches and leaves. The blood on the ground and barks slowly fades to nothing.
His eyes widen in surprise. Fear and terror seem to have dissipated from his eyes and Sakura can’t help but let out a relieved sigh.
“Look, there’s nothing here that will hurt you.” She points towards the path behind him. He turns around to see a clear road ahead of him. The trees surrounding him appear livelier. Birds are singing and the sun shines down on him, engulfing him with warmth that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He breathes in the clear air.
Sakura takes his hand and starts walking along the path. He lets her lead him to wherever they’re going. A village is starting to come into view and before he knows it, he’s arrived at the entrance of his village, of the village where he grew up in.
He takes in the surroundings. Children are running around laughing, women are carrying tubs of leaves, and the men are carrying a boar, laughing and patting each other on the back, celebrating their hunt.
He can’t remember the last time he’s seen his village this happy. He feels his mind is more at ease as he finally spends a well-rested night.
.
.
He opens his eyes, and finds sunlight peeking through the cracks and edges of the house. He rubs his eyes and looks around. He sits up and notices he’s still at the shaman’s house. However, the shaman is nowhere to be found.
He spends some time to recollect his thoughts and remember what had happened the night before. He remembers seeing sunlight and trees in his dream. He remembers hearing children laughing. He gets up to find the shaman to thank her before he hears a door being opened.
Unbeknownst to him, a door at the back of the house open and he sees her walk in with a bowl and a glass of water.
“Good morning. I see you must’ve slept well last night.” She sets the items on the table in front of him and kneels. He sits himself back down.
“Thank you.” It’s the best rest he’s had in years and he has her to thank for it. She shakes her head and smiles at him.
“I’m glad I can help. Here’s some breakfast for you.” He eyes the bowl of soup in front of him and thanks her for the meal before downing it all in one go.
He gets up to head out for the forge.
“My name is Sasuke.” Sakura looks at him for a moment before responding.
“Nice to meet you, Sasuke. I’m Sakura.”
Sakura.
He will surely remember that name from now on..
.
.
tbc?
A/N: I have a few more ideas on how to expand the story. So let me know if you guys are interested in reading more :)
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soaring, carried aloft on the wind...continued 6
A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
The story continues...
Part 1: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / … HOME
It’s on AO3 here if that’s easier to read.
NOTES: This story starts out G but will eventually be E for Explicit.
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 6
Huaisang returns the next morning, the next afternoon, and brings Xichen his dinner, but he seems distracted and only asks if Xichen is well before leaving. Truthfully, Xichen is relieved to be left alone, and quite glad not to be reminded of the warlord’s existence—or his kisses—any more than necessary.
He writes letters to Wangji—I am safe, don’t worry, please be happy—but each time he tries to ask Huaisang if they can be sent, the words stick on his tongue. If Huaisang says no, Xichen will be disappointed, and if Huaisang says yes, Xichen will be afraid it is only for the chance to read his words. He doesn’t want anyone to see his apologies.
But after three days alone, after reading two long histories, playing every song he knows, hours of meditation, and trying to practice sword forms with a calligraphy brush, he wonders if he’s been forgotten. He is so bored, he considers making an escape attempt just for something to do.
When Huaisang asks Xichen if he would like to ride one morning, Xichen is tempted to hug him with relief. There are already horses waiting outside the door, and it’s almost funny that Huaisang was so certain of his answer.
If Mingjue is younger than he first appeared, Huaisang is older, perhaps even older than Wangji. He’s small, nearly a full head shorter than Xichen, and dresses more frivolously than anyone else Xichen has seen—loose, colorful layers, thick silver rings on three fingers, a bahnzir on his thumb, several gold hoops in his ears, and a bright scarf, ends fluttering behind him as they ride. It is not the wardrobe of a soldier. But although these two masters of the Beifeng army are not as obviously brothers as Xichen and Wangji, with a thick wool hat disguising his light brown hair, it’s easier to see Huaisang’s resemblance to Mingjue, especially around the eyes and mouth. Rather than many braids, though, Huaisang wears only one that reaches the middle of his back.
Huaisang is also something more than merely a translator. He sings loudly as they ride and jokes with nearly everyone they pass, sometimes translating them, sometimes telling Xichen laughing stories about the men and women they see. But Xichen is an expert at reading minute facial changes, and he sees the deferential nods and glances the soldiers give Huaisang as they ride through the camp. At least twice, a warrior in full armor stops them and has a whispered conversation with the young man.
Xichen notes the looks people give him as well: sly, curious, and occasionally lingering, but not necessarily censorious.
“They think you’re interesting looking. You’re very pale,” Huaisang mentions after one young woman’s open admiration flusters Xichen. “Don’t worry. No one will ever touch you here. They would invite Ipira’orhew Ikira’s wrath, and not one of the Beifeng would be so stupid.”
Xichen tries the words. “Ipira...Orhew...Ikira? What does it mean?”
Huaisang hums thoughtfully. “Vermillion Sword Master. Or maybe Crimson Sword Lord. It doesn’t exactly translate. In your language, you might call him Chifeng-Zun. It’s his title, not his name.”
“What is his name in your tongue?” Xichen asks.
”Etikuntiga,” Huaisang answers. “Etikuntiga means ‘visualizing success,’ and that just didn’t have a very pretty sound in your language, so I chose something more poetic, as your people like to do.”
“How did you learn my language so thoroughly?” Xichen wonders aloud. Huaisang is right, Xichen’s native tongue, Yuyan, often chooses metaphor and poetics over practicality, but it is a nuance many of his countrymen don’t even notice.
Huaisang laughs, a shout of mirth that turns a few heads toward him. “Zewu-Jun, I fear it would horrify you. There’s no better way to learn a language than in the arms of a willing teacher. Or two,” he grins.
Xichen can feel the red heat creeping up his neck, and he distracts himself by turning to watch a pair of birds circling overhead. Hawks, he thinks, and then is surprised when one of the birds folds its wings and plunges down as though it will crash into the ground only to pull up and land on a man’s waiting arm. Xichen has heard of hunting birds before, but he’s never actually seen one.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I actually have shocked you,” Huaisang apologizes, sounding entirely unremorseful, the amusement still in the back of his throat. “It is true, but it’s also true that I am just very good at other tongues. Zewu-Jun, do you require anyone to assist you? On a daily basis?”
The change in topic is abrupt and startles a laugh from Xichen. “I do not have anything for anyone to assist me with,” he says, and Huaisang purses his lips.
“Would you like me to find something for you to do?”
Xichen counters with his own question. “Am I allowed to leave my tent?”
Huaisang looks genuinely distressed. “Of course! Of course you are. Zewu-Jun, I apologize if that wasn’t clear. You are not a prisoner. You are Ahora'ipa. You may go anywhere.”
He says the word like it is also a title, and Xichen is too embarrassed to ask what it means.
“Then yes, I would like something to do. I can…” He thinks. What can he do? He has been trained as a musician, as a mediator, and with all the practical knowledge necessary to lead his clan, but only in his own language. His skills do not seem like assets here.
“I can heal,” he finally decides, and Huaisang beams at him.
“Healing is always valuable, Zewu-Jun. Thank you.”
They eat lunch together in Xichen’s tent and Huaisang leaves, promising to return for dinner. He could never be a replacement for Wangji, but he seems like he could almost be a friend one day. It gives Xichen the courage to unpack one trunk. It does not feel as much like a chain as he thought it would.
Xichen is entirely nonplussed when Mingjue arrives for dinner with a bird riding on his shoulder.
“I saw you watching the munaku today, and I thought you might like to meet one,” Huaisang says, not quite laughing at Xichen’s expression. “Her name is Kitingi. She is technically mine, but she is rather fond of my brother. Probably because he’s taller.”
The bird is barely bigger than one hand span and her feathers are a dark grey, speckled with dabs of white and orange. She tilts her head to peer at Xichen, and he has to resist the urge to tilt his head back at her.
“Will she be joining us for dinner?” he finally manages to ask, and Huaisang laughs so hard, the bird flutters her wings in annoyance.
“If you don’t mind, Zewu-Jun. She is a very polite dinner guest,” he answers, and indeed, the little bird doesn’t move from Mingjue’s shoulder throughout dinner, occasionally accepting small pieces of meat he hands her, her hooked beak surprisingly gentle.
As with their last meal together, Mingjue has a never-ending stream of questions for Xichen to answer and Huaisang to translate. He asks if Xichen has horses, and Xichen has to admit that he does not ride often, which seems to alarm and concern the man. He launches into a defense of horses and horsemanship that Huaisang can barely keep up with and at least once, rolls his eyes at. Mingjue catches him and pokes him in the arm, but Huaisang is undeterred, smirking at his brother’s grumbling. Their easy and affectionate relationship is so at odds with what Xichen expected from the Beifeng, at odds, even, from his own family.
Something occurs to Mingjue, and he cocks his head curiously like the hawk on his arm, asking a question that Huaisang hesitates to translate. The brothers have a silent conversation about it before Huaisang sighs and apparently gives in.
“What do you love so much, if not horses, Zewu-Jun.”
How can he possibly answer that question? The part of him that is still angry with his father, angry with his clan, and angry with this man for forcing him into a life with no choices thinks that he loved his freedom most of all. He doesn’t know what he has left to love anymore. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back.
“I love the sunrise on the mountain,” he says softly. “I love my brother, and I love playing the guqin. I love the feeling of bones knitting together under my hand, of learning something I did not know yesterday, of magic flowing through me. I love to win sword fights. I love to read books and listen to the wind at night, rustling through the jasmine...”
He stops. He’s said too much, and he can’t finish the sentence. He won’t ever hear the rustle of the heavy jasmine leaves behind his house again, or smell their thick, sweet perfume in summer. It is pointless to even think of it. The tent is utterly silent when Huaisang finishes the translation.
Abruptly, Mingjue stands and barks something at Huaisang who shakes his head, not a refusal—more like a reprimand. The look he gives his brother is indecipherable to Xichen, but Mingjue narrows his eyes as though he knows exactly what the younger man is thinking. He repeats his order, and with pursed lips, Huaisang reaches out a hand to Kitingi. She hops gracefully to his fingers, and they leave.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Xichen begins, but he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. Being honest? Missing his home? It doesn’t seem like the warlord is angry, but Xichen can’t tell. It’s so frustrating to know every tiny shift in his father’s or brother’s faces, but feel so lost at understanding the huge, sweeping expressions that animate this man.
Xichen hadn’t realized he was within Mingjue’s reach until the warlord pulls him into his arms, his mouth hard and bruising against Xichen’s. Mingjue’s hands burn like hot irons, and Xichen is vividly aware of every single place he is being touched, places he had never once thought were flammable now feel like they will consume him—the nape of his neck, the inside of his knee, the ridge of his hip.
His legs are suddenly weak, and he braces his hands against Mingue’s chest, clutching his shirt. When he touches Mingjue, the man groans against his mouth, slipping his tongue between Xichen’s lips but...oh...oh, the hand on his back, sliding over his buttocks...it is...the tightening clench in his gut is suddenly more than Xichen can take. He is a traitor to his people as his body is a traitor to his mind.
“No, stop,” he whispers, shoving away the chest he had so easily, so shamefully, fallen against. He’s suddenly afraid that Mingjue won’t understand him or won’t let go even if he does.
He panics.
He fills his hands with power, the heat familiar like resolve.
He pushes at the same time Mingjue lets go.
Xichen’s gift is a strong one, and although he tries to curtail it in time, it is effective enough. He does not throw Mingjue sprawling across the tent, as he’s capable of, but the man rocks back nearly a full body length, knocking over a chair and dropping to one knee with a grunt. Mingjue looks up at Xichen, blinking dazedly.
Xichen gapes at him and looks at his hands.
What has he done?
Xichen searches Mingjue’s expression frantically, examining the lines of his face for anger or retaliation. He thinks of his uncle clipping leaves from orchid stems. His nephew who has just begun to swing a sword. His brother. His brother. In only a few days, has he managed to destroy the treaty that protects his family?
Xichen’s hands are shaking and, in fact, his whole body is trembling. A white cloud is filling his eyes and he needs to sit. Regardless of whether or not he killed the man, or even injured him, he just attacked his captor. What warlord would stand for that?
Mingjue touches his chest gingerly and tilts the corner of his lips. He cocks his head at Xichen and takes a half step toward him looking almost...intrigued? Xichen can’t tell. He can’t tell.
Xichen sways and Mingjue’s expression shifts to concern, which Xichen does recognize. He catches Xichen before he falls, lifting him effortlessly and carrying him to the bed. Laying Xichen down, Mingjue pulls the blanket over him in a movement so smooth, Xichen wonders wildly if this isn’t the first time he’s soothed a violent lover. And then, thinking of himself as anyone’s lover, much less the Beifeng warlord’s, makes him gasp, suddenly unable to breathe.
Efficiently and with no signs of his earlier overtures, Mingjue loosens Xichen’s belt and robes and starts to remove the silk ribbon from Xichen’s forehead. Xichen bats his fingers away instinctively and then remembers that he should have already removed it, acknowledged that his body—his life—belongs to someone else now, even if they aren’t truly married. He tries to turn away, and his lungs protest, struggling painfully for air. Mingjue rests his hand against Xichen’s chest and pulls the dark smoke of Beifeng magic to his palm. It warms Xichen, opens his lungs, and immediately, he can breathe again. His first full lungful of air catches in a sob, and he covers his mouth.
“Aitapaho, aitapaho,” Mingjue croons, smoothing a hand over the top of Xichen’s head. “Aurum auha, et sika pida auha.” (1)
He says other words that sound remorseful and affectionate, still touching Xichen’s hair, but whatever magic he’s using is swiftly putting Xichen to sleep, and he can’t focus on them. Before he loses grasp with consciousness entirely, he covers the hand still resting against his chest with his own.
“Not your fault,” he says, the words blurring together. “Thank you.”
Xichen doesn’t know why Mingjue is being so kind, and the gratitude muddles with regret and self-recrimination. He is not a child. He chose this, knowing what it would mean. He has a duty to make every effort to ensure the warlord—Mingjue—is happy, and his family is safe. A duty. Only a duty.
Tomorrow, he will ask Huaisang for a language instructor. The traditional kind, not Huaisang’s kind.
Translation Notes:
Aitapaho, aitapaho. Aurum auha, et sika pida auha / Treasured one, treasured one. Forgive me, I was too hasty.
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hello! can u write some firby angst, hurt/comfort based on the episode where Fallon is scared about the storm? and maybe talk about why she's so scared :3
Yeehaw
Cloudy with a Chance — set after S2E6, slight AU with certain details to help the plot line
Culhane leaves not long after she’s awake — slipping back into the shadows of whatever secrets it is that he’s keeping from her. When he asks if she’s mad, Fallon offers him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and promises she’s not. He knows its a lie for his benefit, but he pretends he doesn’t.
Kirby doesn’t see her get hit, but she sees the fallout. Culhane came barreling into the cellar with a limp Fallon in her arms. A bruise had already formed on the side of her cheekbone next to her hairline and her face was contorted even in her unconscious state, and Kirby doesn’t think she’s ever seen the woman look so … fragile.
“We have to get her to a hospital.” Kirby orders when she realizes that Fallon’s fiancee was rendered useless by a fit of panic.
“Men and their emotions.” Kirby can’t help but smile when she remembers the catchphrase, but the brief moment of levity is short lived, because Fallon moans lowly and shifts on the ground. The redhead puts a sweater underneath her head, and Fallon’s eyes flutter.
She doesn’t plan on checking on her, but when she sees Culhane slip out the front door of the manor, her stomach drops. Kirby’s eyes travel to the larger than life stairwell in the foyer, and she’s scaling it before she can fully cognate what it is that she’s doing.
Fallon is awake, much to her surprise, holding an ice pack to her forehead, and staring at the wall across from her. Kirby raps on the doorframe twice, and it makes the other woman jump.
“You know better than to sneak up on me.” She whines, shifting her fingers around the ice pack and wincing as it agitates her bruise.
“I knocked.”
“So?”
“So that’s literally the opposite of sneaking up on you.” Kirby roles her eyes and comes to perch on the corner of her bed. “How’re you feeling?”
“Head hurts.” Fallon responds curtly, tensing her jaw in an attempt to seem more alright than she is.
She know that’s not what Kirby’s asking — knows that she’s wondering about Culhane, and the storm, and …
Fallon exhales heavily, placing the ice pack on her bedside table, and bringing her gaze to meet her friend. Kirby can’t help but grimace a little when she sees that what was once a mere bruise had started to swell. The other woman notices, and it turns her cheeks flush.
“You don’t have to stare.” Fallon snarls, her hair falling across her profile. “I know it’s ugly.”
“It isn’t ugly! It’s just …” Kirby trails off, not really sure where she’s taking her justification. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t respond — just heaves a sigh and grasps the hem of her satin sheets. If she wanted Kirby gone, she would say it, so Kirby takes it as a win and kicks her shoes off before sitting crosslegged on the all-too-large bed. Fallon feels her studying her, watching her like she’s trying to decipher the rosetta stone, and it makes the color rise in her cheeks further and her stomach churn. It isn’t like Kirby not to push, not to be utterly intrusive and desperate for every detail, and its more disconcerting than it is anything else.
“What’re you doing here, Kirby?” Fallon asks, her eyes glistening with what she can only assume is both physical and emotional turmoil.
It catches her off guard, because … fuck what was she doing? She had seen Culhane leave, true, but she wasn’t sure what brought her to the other woman’s room — to make herself comfortable on her bed.
“I …”
Her brow furrows, lips pursing, and she looks like she’s about to say something, but there’s a clap of thunder from outside and it startles her. Fallon shrieks, jumping so far that Kirby is surprised she doesn’t land on the floor. When they were young, thunderstorms would bring her into Kirby’s bed. She remembered the way Fallon’s eyes would squeeze shut as she clutched herself into a ball. The brunette would never initiate touch — would never admit to being afraid, but Kirby knew.
She would pull her into her arms, stroking her hair and singing her lullabies that her mother had sung to her as a child. More often than not, they would fall asleep like that. She was always gone the next morning, and were she to ever ask, Fallon would deny being there — calling her crazy or obsessed or just shooting her a ruthless glare.
“Shit.” Fallon hissed, pulling the other woman out of the memory.
She hadn’t fallen off the bed, but she had managed to smash the back of her skull into her wooden headboard, and now she was bent over at the waist, her fingers delicately prodding the spot where it had made contact. Fallon groaned as she detected the spots in her vision. As if being hit with a plaster fucking cow wasn’t enough trauma for her head to go through that night, she was now almost positive that she had given herself a full-blown concussion.
“You ok?” Kirby jumped off the bed and sprinted around to the other side, grabbing the icepack from where it was on the bedside table and placing it gingerly where Fallon’s hands had been not moments before.
She winces when it makes contact with the already tender area — snatching the pack from Kirby’s clumsy hands, and slowly pulling herself upright. The redhead couldn’t help but noticed the fog that had come to settle in her eyes, or the way Fallon looked up like she couldn’t register where she was. After she was sent away, Kirby would wonder what she did during storms, and vaguely assumed that she would eventually grow out of her silly phobia.
Clearly, that wasn’t the case.
“I can call the doctor again, if you —“
“No.” Fallon mumbled, shaking her head before the motion made her feel a little nauseous. “That’s ok, I’m … It’s fine don’t worry.”
A flash of lightning forced her eyes shut — partially because it spooked her, but mostly because the light it elicited hurt her brain. Kirby had never understood her friend’s fear of weather, granted, she had never bothered to ask. She teased her mercilessly for it, sure, but she had never really tried to understand. Then again, she countered silently, she assumed that even if she had asked, she wouldn’t get a straight answer from the easily bristled brunette.
Typical Carrington — all bark, even more bite.
“Shit.” Fallon exclaims for the second time that evening as she slowly lets her eyes open again.
Kirby can’t help the giggle that forms in her throat, but oh she’ll wish she had, because it earns her Fallon’s most dangerous glare. It hits more like a silent plea for help than it does a reckoning, though when the redhead recognizing the way her chest is rising and falling with shallow breath. Slowly, Kirby places a hand on her shoulder, and the touch seems to steady her, or at the very least make Fallon cognizant of what she must look like.
“This is ridiculous.” She snaps, and Kirby assumes she means her fear, until Fallon adds, “I mean you’d think that with how far modern science has come, someone would have figured out how the hell to stop a tornado. We can do surgery on a goddamn grape, but we can’t stop some damn weather.”
Kirby roles her eyes, this time succeeding in stifling the smile that threatens the corners of her lips. Yeah … there she is. She thinks as she comes back around the other side of the bed and flops down on her stomach.
“Maybe you’re in the wrong industry.” She muses, playing the little star pendant on her necklace.
Now its Fallon’s turn to role her eyes, sucking in a breath and holding it until she feels her chest loosen, and Kirby can’t help but think that it feels like a win, because … because she’s not pushing her away or attacking her for teasing her. If anything, she thinks she sees a light smile grace her lips, and Kirby’s chest flutters. She pushes the levity down, her eyes flicking to the corners of the bedroom, before landing on the lit fireplace.
“Where’d he go?” She murmurs, keeping her tone even.
Fallon tenses, tensing her jaw as much as her newly bruised cheekbone allows, and that’s more like it. She had known it was only a matter of time before the Australian asked, but she had started thinking that maybe, just maybe she’d let it slide. No such luck.
“What do you mean?” Fallon tries, her tone careful, her gaze fixed on her engagement ring as she spins it.
Part of her wishes she hadn’t asked, but its out there now, and … well … here goes nothing.
“I saw him leave.” She intones, her voice dripping with so much pity, Fallon thinks she’ll need a towel.
It started raining. No, not raining … fucking monsooning before she could answer. Fallon’s eyes flick towards the ceiling, her head starting to pulse with the introduction of the incessant patter of droplets to her already tired brain. Vaguely she felt herself wonder if Culhane was driving, and if so, how the hell he could see through this storm, and how fucking stupid he was for going out directly after a tornado in the first fucking place.
“He’s just … out.” Fallon placated, her lips pursing, and that’s when it hits Kirby.
“You don’t know where he went, do you?” She breaths, her deep brown eyes practically popping out of her head.
“What, like I have a tracking device on him?” The other woman bristled.
“No … I just … I don’t know, Fal.” Kirby conceded, and she’s about to push herself off the bed when she feels Fallon’s hand on hers.
She doesn’t say a word — just looks at her, her blue eyes ambivalent with a million different indiscernible thoughts. It makes Kirby’s breath hitch in her throat, because … its not … all negative, and fuck maybe she even wanted her there …
“You just can’t help but push, can you?”
… at least in her own, quintessentially Fallon way.
She’s right, though (not that she’s ever wrong) — she can’t. She wishes she could bring herself to not care, hell part of her even wonders why it matters, but … it does. It just does. Kirby runs her hands through her hair, making the scent of her shampoo radiate through the space.
Truth be told, she was trying to find Stephen’s room, but the panic induced by the thunderstorm had clouded her judgement, and she slipped into the wrong room. She had practically sprinted into Kirby’s bed, covering her head with her covers, and screaming as a clap of thunder boomed. Fallon didn’t realize where she was until the the honey and citrus scent of the redhead’s shampoo flares in her nostrils. Only then did the ten year old peak her head out from beneath the sheets, looking up sheepishly at an utterly bewildered, nine year old Kirby.
Kirby watches Fallon study her. She’s looking at her like she’s a vessel — a catalyst for some other person, or thing, and its just so typical of her to be looking at her and not really seeing her. The redhead feels frustration rise in her stomach, but before she can do anything about it —
“You looked so terrified when I came in.” Fallon smiled, and Kirby couldn’t tell if she knew what she was talking about. The brunette rolled her eyes melodramatically. “When there were thunderstorms, and I would … you know.”
Kirby couldn’t help but smile — delicate and precarious and fully aware that she was changing the subject, but still there.
“How could I forget?” She muses, nodding and tucking a few pieces of hair behind her ear. “You used to snore.”
It earns her a slap on the arm, and a horrified “I did not!”, which only makes her smile grow. Kirby chalks it up to her concussion when it elicits a giggle from Fallon. She vaguely wonders if brain damage can make a person … kinder? The thought is lost, though when she feels the usually icy businesswoman’s eyes on her, and she turns to see her staring like she’s lost, or confused, or …
“You’ve always been there.”
Oh. Oh. It hits her out of left field — practically knocks the wind out of her. Kirby’s mouth gapes for a moment at the admission, her eyes blinking rapidly as she processes the admission.
“I mean you’ve known me the longest out of anyone … it’s not like your psychic or something.” Fallon retreats when she feels the color in her cheeks start to rise.
Kirby roles her eyes and stifles a chuckle. “Yeah, well … it’s not like you were ever that hard to read.”
“Oh?” Fallon quirks an eyebrow, a pang of embarrassment twisting in her already muddle stomach.
Kirby was sixteen when she first saw her cry. It was right after Alexis had left. No … more specifically it was while an adolescent Fallon was clinging to her mother’s coat, apologizing and begging her to just tell her why. Alexis would barely look at her as she attempted to pry free of the girl’s grasp on her white cashmere coat. When she finally broke free, Fallon had fallen in a heap of tears on the marble floor, her entire body vibrating with the force of her sobbing. Kirby had looked around, expecting to see someone — her father, Blake, or at the very least Stephen — come to console the devastated teen, but there was no one.
Well, there was her … shit.
She had expected her to push her away — maybe violently but at the very least with a mirthless jab, but … when Kirby helps the girl into sitting position, Fallon hugs her like its the only thing grounding her to reality. She can’t do anything but hug back. Hug, and stroke her hair, and whisper that she was so so sorry. Kirby wished that she could feel fully sorry for the girl, but it just … it wasn’t that simple. Instead she was uncomfortable, and fixated on the fact that she had never seen her cry before, much less this, and just wished that Fallon would would stop crying. That night, it would rain, but Fallon wouldn’t come.
The next day, Kirby knew better than to ask.
“Yeah well … I’m no physic, right?” She says, and if Fallon didn’t know any better, she would think she was flirting.
Another crack of thunder — this one louder and longer, and it sent the brunette barreling into Kirby’s chest before she can realize what she’s doing. The redhead let out an a soft ‘oof’ as Fallon made contact with her chest, her arms coming to grip around the back of her flannel shirt. She smiled, bringing her fingers to gently stroke the back of her head, but it made Fallon wince, and so she pulls away, smiling dissonantly and murmuring her apology. Fallon’s hair smells like lavender and primrose, and it makes her breath stammer. She tries to play it off, exhaling softly and straightening her shoulders.
They were in downtown Atlanta when the thirteen year olds heard the warning sirens begin to sound. Kirby didn’t know what it was at first, crooning her neck to listen to the message blaring over the city. Fallon, on the other hand, knew immediately. Her heart dropped into her stomach as she grabbed the other girl’s hand and dragged her into the closest shop and down into the owner’s basement. They would stay there for what as actually only forty minutes, but would feel like hours thanks to Fallon’s incessant babbling. She had completely unhinged — blue eyes wide and streaked with panic, breath hitching heavily in her throat with each inhalation. When it was cleared as a false alarm, Kirby would tease her, only for Fallon to pretend that she had no idea what she was talking about. She would see the panic still streaked behind her eyes, so she wouldn’t push.
There was a beat — long and uncomfortable and filled with enough prolonged eye contact to last both women a lifetime, until Kirby couldn’t take it anymore, and —
“What are you so afraid of?”
She hates the way it makes the other girl falter — hesitating in a way that is so, completely the opposite of who Kirby knows her to be. Fallon averts her gaze, sucking her lower lip between her teeth, and crossing her arms over her chest. It reminds Kirby of a child pouting over being told to go do her homework.
“I’ve never liked weather.” Fallon shrugs, her voice low and tired and cautious, because she knows that’s not what the other woman means.
“No, I mean with Culhane.” Kirby confirms her suspicions. “Why are you letting him do … whatever it is he’s doing?”
“I’m not his keeper.” She snaps, but it hits more nervous than it does bold.
Fallon sighs, pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes before they travel up into her hair, and it’s all so … human. More human than she’s ever seen her, and it sparks something deep and yearning in the pit of Kirby’s stomach. She places a hand on the brunette’s shoulder like she’s trying to make sure she’s tangible. Fallon’s breath hitches when she feels her thumb accidentally graze her collarbone. She places her blue eyes on Kirby, and it strikes the redhead just how scared she looks. No, not scared … I mean that’s part of it, but … Kirby knows this look. It’s the look she gives clients when she’s about to close a deal — it’s an intoxicating anticipation that comes with playing with fire, it’s —
It isn’t Fallon that initiates the action — it’s Kirby, and oh …! She doesn’t know how to respond, so she just sort of sits, hands clamping down on the pink satin bedsheets, eyes wide. The kiss doesn’t last longer than five seconds. Kirby presses into her, leaving her right hand where it is on her shoulder like they’re at some goddamn high school dance.
When Jeff was a no show to pick her up, Fallon showed up stag (much to her mother’s disapproval). Kirby saw her immediately, marveling at her custom made gown, and the way the blue lights of the winter themed formal dappled her pale complexion. Her wonder would give way to concern when she sees the uncertainty painted across the teen’s face, and the way she’s wringing her hands. She would make it to her just as she spins on her heels to leave, grasping her hand and offering her a smile. Much to her surprise, Fallon smiled back, and allows her to lead them onto the dance floor.
She sees the puzzlement on her face, and Kirby can’t help but apologize, and then proceed to babble about hoping that she isn’t offended or angry or … shit … I mean … fuck!
“It’s … ok.” Fallon rasps without really moving or seeing her or anything at all.
Her vision goes sort of silver — she sees light dance in front of her eyes, and she sees the dip of shadows, and the outline of silhouettes, but not much more. At first she thinks its the concussion, and that her brain is hemorrhaging, and she’s going to die because she just got kissed by Kirby fucking Anders. It isn’t, of course, but then, what the hell else can it be? Fallon brings a finger to trace down the center of her lips, her lower lip dipping slightly as her index finger hits the slight gap between them before bouncing back into place.
“Fallon. Fallon?” Kirby’s voice cuts through the inch of fog that’s muddling her cranium.
Her blue eyes flicker up to meet her gaze, but there’s no certainty in it, just a blank bewilderment. “What?”
Kirby pulls an arm across her chest, bringing her hand to clasp delicately across her forearm. There’s turbulence behind her already dark eyes, they breach as tears glistening at her lash line.
“You’re scaring me.” She breaths, wiping desperately at her eyes. “C-can you just say something? Please?”
Fallon’s lips purse, then relax, then gape, then close, and it happens probably four times before she shakes her head and her vision is reverted back to her hands. It hits Kirby like a ton of bricks, because … she … why did she … what have I done? She starts to leave, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and muttering an apology, and it stirs something in Fallon.
“Why did you do that?”
Kirby looks at her over her shoulder, and its like she’s worried that if she moves too quickly, she’ll shatter. “I …”
Fallon’s brows knit, her face contorted in some amalgam of betrayal and … Jesus is that pleasure? Kirby shakes her head, remembering that her first leap of faith had succeeded in nothing more than a crash landing. Not to mention, she had a right to ask, Kirby conceded, shifting her position on the bed so that she’s facing her.
“I … Jesus this is hard.” Kirby relents, huffing perilously. “I couldn’t … help it.”
There’s a beat as both of them let that sink in, and really? That’s the best she can come up with? Fallon scowls, biting the inside of her left cheek — and
“My life is a goddamn soap opera.” She fumes, rolling her eyes. “I mean Jesus, Kirby. What kind of offhand, melodramatic bullshit is that?”
Kirby doesn’t respond, too taken aback by her explosion to see through he debris. It only pisses Fallon off more. She flies into a rage (or at least … the composed, calculated, Fallon version of a rage), spewing a string of mockeries at the redhead, and ending with the suggestion that if she can’t articulate what the hell it was that she just did, then she could “get out!”
“Because you deserve better.” Kirby blurts, and oh … oh. “Because … Because ever since we were like teenagers, I haven’t … I just … Fallon I’ve had a crush on you since we were sixteen, and you forced me to help you alphabetize your CD collection.”
Fallon tries to giggle, but it’s muddled the start of her own tears, and it comes out more as a choke. Her smile drops, lips pursing the way they do when she’s trying to level her composure.
“I’m engaged, Kirb.” She whispers, for fear that her voice will crack if it’s anything louder. “You … you could’ve picked a better time.”
Kirby smiles sadly, wringing her hands and nodding. She’s right, of course. This was impeccably unorganized — even by her standards. They had planned their weddings when they were twelve — their heads hanging off the edge of Fallon’s bed, legs dangling in the air above them. Fallon had wanted the traditional, big, white wedding that was expected of her. Kirby had dreamed up an utterly new, completely untraditional ceremony fit with a bouncy castle and Panera Bread catering. Fallon would smile, eyes clinging with amusement, because she thought the other girl was joking. She learned quickly that she was not, when they played pretend wedding and upon being cast as the groom (obviously), Kirby insisted on playing air guitar down the aisle.
“I messed everything up, didn’t I?” Kirby wavers, her eyes screaming a silent apology.
Fallon doesn’t know how to respond, because … damnit this feels like a breakup, which is ridiculous but it also isn’t and just … just … !
Their lips crash together, and Kirby practically jumps out of her skin. Fallon’s fingers come to run through her hair, tugging lightly on the pieces at the base of her skull, making the redhead’s eyes flutter closed. Kirby places her hands on the woman’s waist, pulling herself closer and pushing the brunette onto her back, and wanting to do more, but Fallon’s eyes pop open as her head makes contact with the bed a little too fast, and she’s hissing in pain, rolling onto her side.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” Kirby apologizes for the umpteenth time, scrambling from her perch above her.
“I’m fine.” Fallon grits her teeth, her eyes squeezing shut for a moment.
She opens them again when the room stops spinning and her stomach doesn’t feel like its about to lurch. Kirby is glaring at her with wide eyes, and a face so pale it looks like she might throw up.
“Jesus, Kirb, I don’t know what you’re freaking out about.” Fallon huffs. “I mean … you kissed me first, remember?”
The redhead nods as the last of her stun wears off, and she realizes that she hasn’t blinked in the last ten seconds.
“Right. No, yeah, I know. I’m just …” The words topple over Kirby’s lips until she can finally stammer herself into silence for long enough to suck in a long, deep breath. “What about … you know …?”
The light behind Fallon’s eyes flicker out for a moment, replaced with a sort of flat dread that makes Kirby wish she’d never asked. The brunette’s jaw tenses, and it looks like she’s playing tug of war with herself.
“It was just a kiss, Kirby.” Her voice grates against the back of her throat like its a physical effort to get them out. “It’s … just a kiss.”
Kirby feels like she’s been buried alive, like the oxygen around her is sucked out and replaced with smoke. Her devastation gives way to annoyance, then hatred, and she thinks she’s done when suddenly its just … resignation. Fallon can’t help but flinch when the other woman takes her hand, bringing her thumb to stroke delicately on her palm, and observing her with a sort of saturnine despair.
“I know.” Kirby relinquishes, which only makes it worse, then repeats, “You’re engaged.”
The brunette thinks she’s going to explode, or maybe melt, or just fall through the gates of hell right on the spot. Her lower lip trembles dangerously, and part of her wants to lean in and kiss her again, but there’s a knock at the door, and fucking hell its Culhane.
“Kirby, what’re you doing here?”
“Culhane. Just … making sure she’s ok.” Kirby snatches her hand away, bringing it to run through her hair in an attempt to get it as far away from her as possible.
Fallon hated storms because when she was nine, she’d gotten caught in the woods on the outskirts of the Carrington property. Her mother had warned her not to ride alone, but it had only fueled the young girl more. There was a role of thunder, and her horse jolted, bucking her off and bolting deeper into the forest. Fallon had no clue where she was, or subsequently how to get back. The storm lasted two hours — lighting and thunder and heavy winds. Her would find her curled in on herself, caked in mud, and utterly stunned. He carried her back to the manor before calling for a maid to help her change into something dry.
Kirby practically scrambles out of the bed, offering Culhane a tight smile. Fallon watches her with so much desperation that Kirby feels like she’ll need scissors to cut the strain. Kirby doesn’t look at her when she leaves, not even when a flash of lighting comes streaming through every window in the manor, not even when Fallon whimpers and sucks in a sharp breath.
#ok ok this is long#and really sad so like get ready#dynasty#firby#kirby anders#Fallon Carrington#liz gillies#dynasty fic#long fic#nat writes#firbyfic#dynastyfic#angst#angst comfort#hurt comfort#fanfic#I wrote this instead of sleeping#michael culhane
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In Memoriam
Anonymous asked: Could we see a little something about Ruthie comforting FP after Fred’s death?
Word Count: 2,787
When it happened, it was like the world stopped for a minute. As if no one could believe that someone so brilliant was gone so quickly. It was a rift in time, a rift in town, an event that would shake Riverdale to the core. Fred Andrews: Father to anyone who needed it, friend to just about everyone, all around great man. His front door was always open, coffee always brewing, always up for a friendly conversation when a listening ear was needed. Fred’s death rocked each and every citizen of Riverdale to their core, though it closer to home for some people more than others.
FP Jones was one of the first men on the scene, having responded to a hit-and-run call up in Cherry Creek after checking out a domestic disturbance nearby. There was a lot of things that FP had been exposed to that no one else was, not that they wanted to. He’d known traumas big and small; when he was sixteen and his old man kicked him out of the house, when he turned eighteen and he enlisted in the Army. Gang life and War meant that FP was used to seeing a lot of casualties. He’d lost a lot of good men. None like Fred Andrews, though. FP knew it was bad news when he pulled up to the crime scene and the coroner’s van had already pulled up. But behind the sterile black van, pushed off the side of the road, was a big brown truck that FP knew well. It was Fred’s truck. The mere sight of it made the man sick with worry as he whipped around to look at the faces in the growing crown, hoping to find Fred among the worried bystanders and the tight knit lines of policemen and EMTs who were talking in hushed voices.
“What’s happened here?” FP piped up, taking off his wide-rimmed Sheriff’s hat as he looked over at a medical examiner.
The woman sighed, her long ponytail swaying in the wind, “Terrible — nice guy pulls over to help some stranded woman, another jackass barrels through the intersection…hit and run.” She excuses herself and FP barely registers her lack of presence, the blood pumping in his ears as he tried not to jump to conclusions.
There’s a sinking feeling in his gut that got worse with every step as he approached the crime scene. FP stretches the yellow caution tape up over his head and ducks under, pulling out his Sheriff’s badge to appease the pinched faces of the Cherry Creek police unit. The ambulance drives off without turning on the sirens — never a good sign — it usually meant that they were in no hurry to get somewhere, or that they were too late to be able to be of help. FP poked his head in where he could, asking for questions, details about the truck, the accident, the victim. The one thing that he hadn’t manage to catch was the name of the man who died. Of course, deep down he knew the answer already, the truck, the details of the accident; it had Fred Andrews written all over it. But until FP was certain, there was still a glimmer of hope that Fred was alive and well, giving his statement to some police officer while trying to figure out if everyone else at the scene of the crime was okay.
Fred Andrews was selfless. It was one of FP’s favorite things about his best friend. The two had been thick as thieves since before high school, having met after some Northside kids were picking on FP for his hand-me-down shoes; the cheap pair of sneakers from Southside Thrift may have had pink laces, but they were a three dollar pair of shoes that fit young Forsythe like a glove, and his Momma couldn’t see any sense in passing them up. Freddy Andrews stood up to the Northside bullies on behalf of FP, and they spent the rest of recess coloring the laces with a permanent marker that Fred nabbed from the art classroom.
That same selfless boy grew it into a wonderful man, volunteering to cart FP’s drunk self home from the Whyte Wyrm on most weekends, despite not being in the man’s good graces. These nights may have usually been a blur for FP, but there was on in particular that he remembered with a stunning amount of clarity:
He’d been let up the stairs of the rickety mobile home, with Fred giving his back a push and mumbling about having to take care of the “dead-weight”. FP can remember collapsing on the couch after a struggle to take his boots off, Fred had dipped down the short hallway to the let Gladys know that her husband had made it home in one piece, and that she didn’t have to worry. Fred was setting down a glass of water and some aspirin atop the coffee table when he looked over his shoulder suddenly,
“You can come out now, Jug, everything’s fine.” Fred whispered, prompting Jughead to reveal himself from his spot behind his bedroom door.
The boy was fourteen and angry at the world around him, ready to throw a skinny elbow in the face of whoever tried to get in his way. His father had been on his shit-list for a while now, and things had only steadily gone downhill since FP lost his job; He’d been treating Jug’s mom poorly lately — a product of unemployment and alcoholism — she’d never been the type to make herself smaller to appease anyone, and so the arguments became almost nightly. Jellybean was getting old enough to understand what was happening, all the ways things were going wrong. It hurt Jughead’s heart to watch, he didn’t want his younger sister to have to bear witness to all that, he didn’t want her to grow up too fast like he was. So when Mom and Dad would fight, he’d pull out the old walkman from the shoebox in the closet, trying his best to untangle the headphone wires with his clumsy fingers before slipping the cold plastic over his younger sister’s ears and pushing ‘play’ on whatever cassette was in the tape deck. It didn’t matter what it was, it just mattered that it was loud. Jug would sit there with Jellybean by his side, too distracted by the heavy thrums of drums and guitar to notice that her older brother had his hands slammed down over his ears to shut out the arguing.
“Thanks for takin’ care of him, Mr. A.” The boy mused, taking off his knit beanie and running a shaky hand through his greasy hair. Jughead glanced over at his passed-out father and, stepping out into the light, crossed Fred in the threshold to walk over to the couch and start loosening FP’s bootlaces.
“You shouldn’t have to see him like this, Jug. You’re too young for this” Fred shook his head, opening one of the cabinets in the kitchenette to see if he could find something he could make for the boy to eat. “It’s not your job to take care of your parents, and they shouldn’t be involving you in their problems…” Jughead nodded as Fred kept shuffling through the pantry. There wasn’t much besides oatmeal and stale protein bars, dented soup cans and discounted packets of ramen. The apples on top of the refrigerator were bruised and mushy. Fred pulled at his collar as he tried to think of anything he could do.
“How about you come around our house tomorrow morning for breakfast, say 10:30? I’ll grab a dozen donuts from the Bakery and you and I can have a cup of coffee and you can tell me about how school’s been, how’s that sound?”
Jughead smiles at the man, with teeth, a kind of smile that Fred hadn’t seen from the boy in quite a long time. “I’d like that, Mr. A.” Fred nods and lets himself out of the trailer, already knowing that the boy would show up on his porch fifteen minutes earlier than expected with a thermos of coffee because Jughead never liked to show up empty-handed.
FP had woken up in the midst of their conversation, sobered up enough to have baseline awareness of where he was and what he was hearing. And just like always, just like all of those years ago, Freddy Andrews was there to help FP when he couldn’t help himself. He woke up that next afternoon with a dull ache behind his eyes, most of last night’s memories gone, but he sees the two pills on the coffee table accompanied by the half-empty glass of water and he remembers: FP remembers Fred picking him up from the bar, walking him inside. He remembers Jughead taking his boots off and covering him up with a blanket as Fred talked to him from the kitchen. FP lifts his head up carefully, peeling his heavy eyelids open. Jughead’s not home and that means Gladys and JB probably aren’t either. He almost has it in him to get up and face the damage he created, but not yet. Not then.
When Fred helped FP sober up a little, he made himself promise to always take care of Fred and the rest of the Andrews family in any way that he could. So despite it all, despite all of his deep-set urges to turn back to the bottle and drink away his worries, he knew that he had to be the one to break the news to Archie and Mary. When he gets the news, he’s able to sit with it calmly. It’s news that travels down the chain of command until it reaches Sheriff Jones. He was already expecting it, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. The ride back to Riverdale from Cherry Creek wasn’t easy, but the weight of “He didn’t make it, he was killed upon impact” hadn’t set in yet. The tears start threatening to spill the closer he gets to town, vision going misty and blurry knowing that Fred Andrews was woven into the fabric of Riverdale, and that it would be harder to deny the fact that he was gone.
The Andrews household was a jumble of nerves and confused energy; red hair, red faces, red-tinged eyes. Mary sat as stiff as a ramrod, hands clutching onto a throw pillow from the couch just so she could have something to grab onto. Archie is Archie, all bark and no bite, always wanting to fight for the good just like his father. FP had always envied the close knit relationship that Archie had with his dad. It was selfish, but he couldn’t help but want to have that same relationship with his own son, though FP understood that there was one too many things he put Jughead through that were deemed unforgivable. He was doing a lot better though, and Fred had commented it on it one of the last times he and FP got to sit down together:
“I gotta hand it to you, Jones, you’ve really managed to turn everything around…” Fred claps a well-worn hand against FP’s shoulder, “I’m happy for you, proud.” FP was never one to be all that sentimental, but Fred’s words struck a chord in him; he couldn’t remember the last time that someone told him that they were proud of him. It’d been years, maybe even decades, before the Midnight Club or the Serpents, back when everything was so much easier.
He swallows the lump in his throat and smiles at his old friend, “So I guess you and I are gonna be neighbors?”
Breaking the news to Archie and Mary was when things got all too real. It was the moment where FP had to accept the fact that his best friend was gone. There would be no more Sunday night football together, no more weekly lunches at Pop’s, no more fix-it projects. Watching Archie and Mary wait with bated breath for the news made it all even more painful, how does one even begin to compartmentalize a loss as big as this one?
“Another vehicle came up on them an-and…he was struck by it. I’m sorry, Mary. I’m sorry, Archie” His voice breaks and FP tries his best to wipe away the tears before they spill, trying to stay strong like Fred would want him to be. His shaky fingers grip at the bridge of his nose, he can feel the tension headache coming on from how hard he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying. He tries his best to talk Archie off the ledge, telling him to let the police find the man who committed the hit and run, trying to sway the boy from his sense of vigilante justice. FP gives hugs and extends his condolences before excusing himself and making the short walk next door.
“That you, Jones?” Ruthie calls from the kitchen. She’s making dinner and FP’s stomach grumbles right on cue. He’s hungry but he doesn’t feel much like eating, his heart had been sitting at his stomach for most of the day and he could feel the dam threatening to break at any moment.
“Yeah, Ruth, it’s me…” FP’s voice breaks and Ruthie picks up on it because soon enough she’s slinging the kitchen towel over her shoulder and peeking her head down the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice is soft when she asks the question, hesitant, like she should tell that he was seconds away from breaking. Ruthie walks up to him slowly, wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her height. FP buries his face in her thick curls and that’s when she can hear his strained sniffles. “Talk to me”
He wants to, but it’s like the words are caught in his throat; like if he spoke them into existence they would become harder to ignore. Fred Andrews, his best friend, was dead and there was nothing he could do to bring him back. What hurt the most was that he never got the opportunity to say goodbye, and that he was so thankful for all the ways in which Fred took care of him and his family throughout the years, especially when FP couldn’t do that himself.
“Fred’s gone, Ruthless, he died. This morning” FP vomits out the words as fast as possible, suddenly wracked with gut-wrenching sobs that he’d been holding in for the good of everyone else. But now that he was home, in his new home, with the woman he’d finally felt true comfort with, letting his guard down wasn’t as scary. He knew that Ruthie would be there for him, that she wouldn’t go away, and that she was strong and capable enough to help him through this monumental loss.
He can hear the low gasp that escapes Ruthie’s lips, but she doesn’t say anything, just tightens her grip on FP and tangles her fingers in his hair. She’s quiet, letting FP cry it out because she knows that he needs to. She doesn’t ask questions yet, though every fiber of her being is screaming for answers. Fred Andrews had been nothing but kind to her since she met him, and it brought a tear to her eye that his kindness would be no more. Mainly she was crying because it hurt her heart to see FP in so much pain; it really put it into perspective how important Fred was to him. And if Fred was important to FP, that meant he was important to Ruthie too.
Somehow, FP and Ruthie end up in a tangled embrace in the middle of the hallway, sprawled out on the shag carpet. If anyone would walk in the front door at that moment, they’d be greeted with a pretty funny image: FP, who was bigger than Ruthie in every sense of the word, laying in a wrinkled and defeated heap on top of the younger woman, who was doing everything in her nature to be consoling despite knowing none of the details. With no more tears to cry, FP rested his head in Ruthie’s lap as she massaged at his temples as a feeble attempt to dull the ache.
“I love you, you know that, right?” FP asks, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion.
“I love you too, and I’m here when you need me…” The silence sets in again and Ruthie finds herself absentmindedly running her hand up and down FP’s strong bicep. “Will you tell me a story about him?”
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Fruition
Summary: SasuSaku and NaruHina. One-shot. Soccer AU. "B-but that's your woman, teme!" Naruto splutters. "Shouldn't you defend her honor or something? Those bastards are nearly salivating over her!" "Let them salivate all they want," Sasuke replies, smug. "I can't blame them." Such is the life of young, beautiful soccer players and their supportive boyfriends.
You can read this story on AO3 here and Fanfiction.net here.
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“Oi, teme! Over here!”
Sasuke briefly closes his eyes and counts to ten before turning in the direction of his best friend’s booming voice. The blond is waving at him in the VIP section several rows down. He’s visibly tipsy already, cheeks flushed as he leans over his chair and spills popcorn over the laps of innocent bystanders in the row behind him.
“I can see you!” Sasuke snaps, beginning to make his way down. “Watch your hands, idiot. You’re getting food everywhere.”
Naruto belatedly realizes the mess he’s made and proceeds to sheepishly apologize to the people behind him. They glare and mutter to themselves but otherwise don’t seem too perturbed.
Once he’s joined the blond, Sasuke nods his head in greeting at the line of men on Naruto’s other side—Neji, Sai, and Shikamaru, to name a few—then makes himself comfortable. After a moment of contemplation, he unzips his jacket and tosses it over the back of his chair before settling in; for one, because it is a bit warmer out than he thought it would be, and two because he secretly loves showing off his jersey. It’s Japan’s standard women’s soccer jersey—navy blue (his favorite color) with three white stripes on each sleeve. His has the number seven written in bold, and, most importantly, the name Haruno emblazoned brightly across the back.
(He’s never been so proud to own a piece of clothing in his life.)
“I can’t sit still for shit,” Naruto tells him, nearly shaking with anticipation beside him. “It’s almost like I’m the one about to play, yanno? I can’t imagine what the girls must be feeling right now.”
“They’re probably a lot calmer than you, dumbass,” Sasuke retorts easily, but it’s half-hearted at best. His own nerves have had the best of him ever since Sakura left his place earlier that morning. He feels jittery, pumped full of adrenaline. Even though he’s not the one who trained day after day for the last nineteen years of his life to make it here, it truly does almost feel like it’s his game that’s about to start. He thinks the fact that he’s been by Sakura’s side for nearly as long and gone to every single one of her games since he met her also has something to do with it.
“I still can’t believe they made it,” Naruto continues as if the Uchiha never spoke. “I mean, I do, of course. It’s our girls after all, but holy shit this is unreal.”
Sasuke can’t help but agree. This is the largest stage their team has ever played on—figuratively if not literally, and just a few years ago it seemed like a far-off dream to the team members and the rest of the country alike. Japan’s women’s national soccer team has never made it to the FIFA Women’s World Cup finals before, and while they performed increasingly well over the last decade they still weren’t quite up to par.
That was, however, before three young, talented players from Tokyo University’s women’s soccer team were drafted three years ago. They’ve been unstoppable ever since.
“Fuck fuck fuck I’m so nervous.” Naruto’s right leg bounces up and down, shaking the entire bench.
Sasuke’s just about to make a scathing remark to make him stop when Sai beats him to it and comments, “The game doesn’t even start for another hour, Dickless.”
“I know that, dumbass. I always just get so excited and—HEY GUYS LOOK IT’S HINATA! HINATAAAA! Oiiiiii! Over here!”
Sasuke winces, solemnly thinking he may have to get his hearing checked when this is over, while the blond leans over the railing and flails like an idiot, trying to get his girlfriend’s attention.
“They’re warming up, dobe,” Sasuke mutters. “Let her focus.”
He says this even as his eyes flash from player to player until he sees a familiar, bright beacon of pink hair, and he can’t help the upturned corners of his lips as he takes her in.
Haruno Sakura walks onto the field like she owns it—all five foot four inches of her confident and comfortable, as if she were born to play. She’s walking beside her best friend and the team’s star forward, Yamanaka Ino, smiling and laughing as they pass a ball between them. Her green eyes are full of fire, back straight and proud. Sasuke doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing her in her element.
True to Naruto’s incessant screaming, Hyuuga Hinata—the most reliable sweeper he’s ever seen and a monster of a defensive player, fascinatingly at odds with her naturally shy and soft-spoken nature—is walking on the right side of the group, closest to where they’re seated. Her head whips around and Sasuke can see her blush even at a distance as she waves back.
“I LOVE YOU, HYUUGA HINATA!” Sasuke curses himself for not buying those ear plugs he saw yesterday. The blond’s voice could surely cause an avalanche at this point. “You’re gonna do great!! Go kick some ass, dattebayo!”
Hinata’s red as a tomato. Her teammates laugh and pat her on the back, but the smile she tries to hide with a curtain of her hair is undeniably happy.
“Oi! Uzumaki!”
Their entire row of friends stiffen at once and gulp deeply, wholly fearful of the blonde lady stalking toward them on the field, murder in her eyes.
“If my strongest defensive player faints because of your idiotic ass again,” snarls Senju Tsunade, the team’s head coach and also the boys’ worst nightmare, “I will rip your dick off and shove it so far up your ass you’ll taste it in the back of your throat. Now shut the fuck up and let her do what she does best.” She’s glaring at him from below, and with a crack of her knuckles she finishes, ���Are we clear, Uzumaki?”
Naruto lets out a meek, “Clear,” and it’s only when Tsunade’s moved away that they can finally relax.
“Jesus fuck, she’s terrifying,” Kiba whispers, and they all nod in agreement. Tsunade is a stern coach but she treats her players with the utmost care and consideration—which consequently involves her threatening the lives of anyone who messes with her girls.
A sudden increase in noise throughout the stadium draws Sasuke’s attention. The crowd has begun cheering enthusiastically, and Sasuke’s confused for a moment before he sweeps his gaze across the stadium and realizes what it is that has them so excited.
They’re playing a video on the jumbo screens—a clip of the post-game interviews from Japan’s semi-finals match against South Korea, which ended with a brutal score of 5-0. Sakura scored three of the five goals, further solidifying her spot as the team’s ace player and earning her an MVP title.
And it’s Sakura, it seems, who has captured the audience’s attention so raptly. Her interview is currently showing on the screen, and she’s radiant.
Sakura answers the reporter’s questions with a beaming smile, sweat glistening on her face and neck, green eyes exhausted yet bright with energy. She makes a stunning picture, as Sasuke and the entire Japanese crowd seem to recognize. It’s obvious that she’s a fan favorite—young, naturally beautiful, and quite honestly the most talented midfielder in the whole tournament. Sakura flashes the camera her trademark toothy grin and throws up a peace sign before the TV screen switches to a commercial.
A few male voices sound especially loud behind Sasuke’s left shoulder, yelling and chanting her name—a roar of “Sakura-chan, Sakura-chan, Sakura-chan!”—and he glances back at the group of ten or so men responsible for the noise before crossing his arms over his chest and settling back into his seat with a smug curve of his lips.
Beside him, Naruto stiffens and turns to fix the men with an icy glare. Pointing a furious finger, he barks, “Oi! That’s Haruno-san to you, you hear me! Don’t be calling her so familiarly, you bastards!”
Sasuke hears the offending group grumble and grow silent. “Leave them be, Naruto,” he says, watching as the source of their affections practices one-touch shots on the goal below. She’s light on her feet, following through the shots with a clean arc of her foot.
Naruto splutters indignantly. “B-but—that’s your woman, teme. Shouldn’t you defend her honor or something? Those bastards are nearly salivating over her!”
Almost as if sensing that they’re speaking about her, Sakura turns her head in their direction. She searches the crowd for a moment before spotting them, then smiles and waves a hand. Her smile grows soft when she locks eyes with Sasuke. Cheesily she makes a heart with her hands, beaming as she holds it out to him, and he can’t help but chuckle quietly at her antics.
“Let them salivate all they want,” Sasuke replies, content with the attention she’s shown him. “I don’t blame them.”
If this happened three years ago, he might have had a different reaction. At the start of Sakura’s professional soccer career Sasuke found himself playing the part of the jealous boyfriend far too often. He was not a stranger to her receiving male attention before and was always certain of her loyalty to him, but finding an increasing number of random men wearing her jersey at their games was hard for him to handle at first. Not to mention the fact that many of her male fans flirted with her every chance they got, and Sakura was honestly too kind—and oblivious, he noted—to reject their advances with any real gusto.
The advances only grew in number and fervor as time went on, especially when she became part of the starting line-up at the young age of twenty-two. It was around that time that Sasuke decided once and for all that his jealousy was irrational. He would only become more and more frustrated as time went on, after all, and in reality—underneath all his possessive instincts—he was proud of the attention she was receiving. Sakura was the hardest working person he knew and she deserved to be showered with endless support more than anyone. He wouldn’t let his jealousy take that away from her.
And besides, Sasuke thinks, eyes never leaving her as she continues warming up, he’s the one whose arms she falls asleep in every night. He’s the one she’s loved since they were kids, the one who’s been by her side through thick and thin.
These men can cheer for her all they want—it’ll never change the fact that Uchiha Sasuke is Haruno Sakura’s biggest fan.
He’s also, he thinks as he brushes his hand against the velvet box resting in his pants pocket, hopefully her soon-to-be fiance. He fully plans to propose to her after the game today, winning team be damned.
(He has the utmost faith in Japan’s victory, though. He can feel it in his bones.)
For now, however, Sasuke makes himself comfortable in his chair. He orders himself a beer, makes casual conversation with the other proud men beside him, and waits for the game to start.
____________________________
“Gather ‘round, girls! Let’s go!”
Any whispers that might’ve lingered in the group die down at Tenten’s shout. Silent and serious, they group up around their team captain, watching her intently.
Tenten fixes them each with a level stare before finally breaking the tension by saying, “We have worked hard to be here, ladies. Each and every one of us has earned the right to be on this field time and time again.”
There’s a hushed agreement from the girls. Heads nod, smiles flash. Excitement is tangible in the air, energy vibrating between them.
“No matter the outcome of this game, know that I am proud of you.” Tenten’s voice rings with sincerity, loud and commanding. “This country is proud of you. We are the first Japanese team to make it to the World Cup finals, and that in itself is an incredible feat.”
A few girls whoop at this, a few others clap. Several shift back and forth on their feet, needing some form of movement to channel their mixed nervousness and exhilaration into.
“This might very well be the most important game of our lives. I know what you’re all capable of—what we as a team are capable of—so let’s show the world who we are.”
Then Tenten grins, hungry and eager. “Let’s kick some ass, ladies. We’ve got a World Cup to win.”
Tenten yells a hearty “Hands in!” over the sound of their cheers. They bring their hands in together, break, and after winning the coin toss they’re spilling onto the field, thrumming with excitement.
Haruno Sakura allows herself to bask in the cheering of the crowd as she steps into position at the center mark. The sound fills her with adrenaline, sends fire coursing through her veins. The smell of turf wafts through her nostrils and the sun blazes overhead. Being on the field is a delicious feeling, one she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of.
Sakura positions the ball at her feet and turns to gaze at her teammates around her, almost in disbelief that they’ve made it this far. Ino’s at her usual post as left forward, jumping from foot to foot to keep her blood flowing. As their striker, she’s undeniably the quickest on the team—Sakura’s never seen a sight more beautiful than Ino sprinting downfield, her long blonde hair flying behind her as she outruns their opponents.
“Don’t screw up, Forehead!” Ino calls. The blonde grins evilly and winks, causing Sakura to laugh.
“Over my dead body, Ino-pig,” Sakura growls back. Their familiar banter always soothes her nerves before a game. They’ve been friends and teammates since they were six years old, and together they make one hell of an offensive duo.
Opposite Ino stands Sabaku no Temari, one of the older players with a feisty attitude. Sakura can say this because she’s seen the woman whip her husband, Nara Shikamaru, into place more times than she can count.
Past the three ladies who make up the rest of Sakura’s midfielders and at the very back of the four-man defensive team stands Hyuuga Hinata. She’s quite possibly the sweetest human alive and an absolutely unbreakable wall on the field. Truly, the amount of goals Hinata has let past her is insanely low. As the sweeper she’s the last line of defense before the goalie—her role is crucial to their team, and she never fails to impress Sakura with her ability to halt even the sneakiest, most talented forwards in their tracks.
Rounding up their team is Hyuuga Tenten—their resident goalie and also the team’s oldest player at the ripe age of thirty-two. One of the most passionate players Sakura’s ever seen, Tenten has earned her spot as their team captain through countless years of dedication and hard work. Her love for the sport shows in everything she does, and Sakura couldn’t ask for a better woman to lead them.
The referee calls first for the opponent’s goalie, then for Tenten, who throws up a hand to signal that she’s ready.
And in the few split seconds before the game starts, Sakura looks into the crowd and finds her gaze locked with a pair of dark, heated eyes. Their owner sits in the very front row next to the field, gazing at her intensely. He has his arms crossed over his chest, legs spread, and Sakura feels any trace of doubt and anxiety left within her drain away as she takes him in.
Uchiha Sasuke is her lucky charm, her rock, and he damn well knows it. He is also without a doubt the man she plans to spend the rest of her life with. He’s been to every single one of her games, believed in her when no one else did, hugged her while she cried and told her she was amazing even when she was at her lowest and wanted nothing more than to give up.
Sakura thinks of him, and she thinks of the game ahead of her, of the blood and sweat and tears that have led to this moment. With her team behind her and the love of her life supporting her in the crowd, she truly feels invincible.
She sees Sasuke’s lips tilt into a small smile just as the ref brings the whistle to his mouth in the corner of her eye. Sasuke nods at her, a simple gesture that only she can read: you’ve got this, it says. You’re going to do amazing. Believe in yourself. I love you.
Sakura can’t restrain her answering smile as she nods back at him. She takes a deep breath, feeling the energy of the crowd around her, the passion of her teammates. The sun warms her from head to toe and she thinks that she’s never been more ready for anything in her life.
Sakura shifts into position. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, waiting—
Then finally the whistle is blown, and the game begins.
#sasusaku#naruhina#naruto#soccer au#fanfiction#naruto fanfiction#sasusaku fanfiction#soulaire fiction
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Damian Wayne x Reader: All I Ever Wanted (Part 1)
Soulmate AU where you can’t physically hurt your soulmate.
Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader
Requested: No
Warnings: Swearing. There is one F-Bomb. Angst, mentions of blood, mentions of killing. Basically, like a weak M-Rated movie.
Other: Reader is 16. Damian is 17-ish. I tried my best to make your ‘parents’ names as unique as possible. But if you know anyone with that name, just change it in your head.
Word count: 4,102 (dAmN).
Things you probably wanna know, for all you ‘x reader’ illiterates:
(Y/N): Your Name
(H/C): Hair Colour / Color
(E/C): Eye Colour / Color
**
Truth be told, you did not expect to find your soulmate. You didn’t expect to see him in a million years, and you really didn’t mind. Growing up in a villainous family, soulmates were naturally looked down on. Your own parents weren’t even soulmates; they had murdered them the first chance they got. They forced you to follow in their footsteps, and really, you knew no better.
Your parents were psychopaths. Okay, even that was an understatement. Your parents murdered innocent people, messed up people’s lives, just to get what they want. Whether that be jewellery, money, weapons, or revenge, they were bound to get it. They would stop at nothing- nothing! - to get what they wanted.
By the time you were 16, your parents agreed that you would never find your soulmate. After all, for 15 years of your life, you had been hurting more people that you could count. You never needed to worry about the fact that they could be your soulmate. You were sure that it was never going to happen either way.
Half of you didn’t mind not having a soulmate. How were you going to tell them that you were a cold-hearted murderer? Not only that but how would your parents react if you brought him home? He would be dead within seconds.
But the other half of you wanted a soulmate. Somebody to hold you when you were weak, to wipe away every tear… ‘Get a grip, (Y/N),’ you had scolded yourself when you began thinking such foolishness, ‘what would mother and father say if they found out?’ You certainly didn’t need any reprimanding or punishments.
“(Y/N)!” You heard your mother bark from the other side of the house. “Come here!”
You ran as fast as your two legs could possibly carry you, standing straight as a pin when you found them. “Yes, Mother?”
“There is a heist. You will, of course, be joining with us. After all, it is in your blood.”
“Right,” you mumbled. “Will I be lookout again?”
“Of course you will,” Your father snapped at you. “You should be grateful that we are even taking you along. You still have a chance to meet that horrid… soulmate of yours.” He spat out the words like they were poison.
“I… of course. Thank you, Mother. Father.” You forced a small smile before leaving to your room.
**
You sighed, playing with your throwing knives as you stood guard. Your job was simple- take down anyone who tries to ruin the operation. You were so busy day-dreaming; you almost didn’t notice the soft ‘whooshing’ sound from above. Keyword: almost. You looked up, only to see about an inch of fabric tuck away on top of the large metal crates.
“Bats and the Bird are here. We have to go. Now.” You said into your earpiece.
“Honestly, Spitfire. Hold them off. We are not leaving this port until we get those jewels!” Your father spat.
“But-”
“Do as your Father says!” You mother snapped, leaving no room for retaliation.
You grumbled slightly but complied. You climbed up the side of the crate, calling out to the vigilantes. “Oi, Batsy! We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” You readied your stance.
Batman muttered something to Robin who nodded and brought his katana out.
You rolled your eyes. “Hard way it is.”
Without warning, you threw your knife directly at him, expecting it to embed into his thick skull, when it disintegrated in red and black ash. Apparently, he and Batman were pretty shocked as well.
“Shit,” Robin swore, gaping.
“I am going to die,” you whispered, taking a step back.
“Spitfire, what is going on? Have you gotten rid of those pests?” Father demanded.
“I can’t hurt them.” You said as bravely as you possibly could.
“We trained you to be better than this!” Your mother’s voice shrilled.
“No, I mean, I really can’t hurt them.”
“That can’t be,” Your mother said in a dead whisper.
“Well, it happened. We have to go. Now.”
But it was already too late. Batman was already fighting your father, throwing multiple punches at him. Your mother was getting the smoke bomb ready for a quick escape by the time you managed to get to them. Robin was still trying to secure the area and get rid of the shocked feeling that his soulmate was a villain.
You ran to your father’s aid. Just because you couldn’t hurt the sidekick, doesn’t mean you can’t hurt the Bat himself. “Spitfire! Pyro! We’re leaving!”
And, with smoke pouring around you, you were gone.
**
“I can’t believe this,” Damian muttered to himself, pacing the Bat Cave. He ran a hand through his jet black hair, scowling. “I won’t believe this.”
“There’s no point in denying, Demon,” Jason smirked, taking a bite of his apple. “You’re destined to be with that freak. Not that you aren’t.”
“Shut it, Jay,” Dick sighed. “This is pretty hard for Damian.”
“Come on, Todd! We weren’t this bad when we found out that your soulmate was that musician. I don’t know about you, but fate was pretty cruel on her,” Tim hummed, working on a case.
Damian huffed, sitting on his chair and spinning around on it. He typed a few words into his computer, muttering to himself. “Spitfire. Where have I heard that name…?” Multiple images showed up on the screen, his green eyes
scanning each one. “(Y/N) Keynes.”
“How…” Dick began but Damian cut him off.
“She was in the League of Assassins. She was in the year below me, kidnapped at the age of 8.” He scoffed in disbelief, glaring at the screen, “she was no safer there than she is now.”
“What are you talking about?” Tim demanded.
“If the Leaders ever found out we were… you know…” he trailed off slightly but continued to speak. “One of us would have died. And because my mother was one of the Leaders, I would be spared.”
“Wait, so you’re saying…” Jason frowned.
Damian rolled his eyes. “TT, slow as ever, I see. She would have died, idiot.”
The man muttered under his breath. “I know that, demon spawn.”
**
You looked at your feet as your parents discussed their next move. “You know I’m right here, right?”
“Not another word,” your father hissed. “You failed this mission.”
“It’s not a mission if the motive is bad!” You argued. Your father lunged at you in anger, but you swiftly dodged to the side. “I am not hurting him.”
“If you’re talking about that insolent Bird Boy-” Your mother began.
“Don’t talk about him like that!” You snapped, glaring.
“Don’t give me that tone, young lady! I might not be your biological mother-” She stopped short.
“What are you talking about?” You queried. “What do you mean that you’re not my real mother?”
“We stole you,” your father, no, Odium said with a scowl, giving up the secrets. “From an assassin’s camp. You were the strongest child. Well, apart from that wretched Al Ghul.”
“You will help us kill!” your not-so-mother, Saeva, yelled.
“Never!”
“That was what you were trained to do,” Odium snarled.
“I don’t care! I’m not going to help you kill him!” You yelled back.
“Just because you’re not going to kill, doesn’t mean we won’t.”
Odium lifted his gun and aimed. Your eyes widened and you bolted out of the apartment. You ran down the stairs as faced as you could, sliding down the railings when you could. You forced your way between people, pushing through as you heard Odium yell your name. You continued to run faster, ignoring the burning of your lungs, legs begging for you to stop. You felt around your shins, feeling slightly more secured as you knew that your throwing knives were still on you.
You ran deeper into the streets of Gotham, only stopping when you knew that the coast was clear. You let out a breath, feeling the pain coarse through your body. You whimpered as you felt blood drip from where you scratched yourself on a metal fence. You had to keep going, you told yourself. You have to run. But you couldn’t. Your body could only take so much. You tried desperately to keep your eyes open. The sun was still high in the sky, torturing you with its warm rays of light.
“Stay awake,” you murmured. “Don’t fall…” you were on your knees, feeling the sweat drip down your face.
The last thing you heard was people yelling. Someone had yelled, “That’s her!” but you were too tired and too pained to move.
You closed your eyes.
**
By the time you had opened your eyes, your wounds were treated and you were panicking. You shot up on the hospital bed with a scream. “Where the heck am I?! Who the heck are you?! Why the heck am I here?!”
“Relax, (Y/N). You’re in the Bat Cave.” A person said.
“Who are you?!”
“And we spooked her. Nice one, Dick Face.” Another person said.
“Why does he have a gun?!” You demanded.
“You’re the one who spooked her,” another person said, taking a sip of his coffee.
You were silent for a minute before feeling for your knives. “Where did you put my knives?”
“They’re on that table,” ‘Dick Face’ said helpfully.
The man with a gun covered his face with his hands. “You’re not supposed to tell her!”
“Oh.”
A few moments of silence passed, only to be interrupted by a certain green-eyed boy entering the room. “So, she’s awake.”
Your head snapped to see the direction of his voice, cocking your head in confusion. “You’re… Damian Wayne. That means…” Your eyes trailed loosely over the other three men. “Dick Grayson, Jason Todd and Tim Drake.”
“Oh, so now she recognises us,” Jason scoffed, throwing his arms up in the air.
“Shut up, Todd,” Damian rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell Ari that you’re being rude again.”
“Sorry to intrude,” you cut said in the middle of their conversation, “but can I go now?”
“(Y/N).” The youngest boy looked at you. “Do you know who I am?”
“I… how do you know my name?”
“Facial recognition,” Tim said with a shrug.
“Right…” you looked at the four wearily. “I mean, you can’t really miss the fact that Bruce Wayne has a biological son, can you?” You let out a forced laugh.
Damian deflated slightly. “TT, so you don’t know me.”
“I guess? I mean, unless you were at some League of Assassins meeting and your father did the do-do with your mother there,” you snorted. “What are the chances of that, am I right?” The four boys looked at each other and your jaw dropped to the floor. “For once, I do not want to be right.”
**
You sighed, sitting in the room that Bruce Wayne gave you. Damian had explained everything to you; who he was, secret identities, the whole shebang. The room that they gave you was really quite beautiful. The bed was a super king-sized bed with royal blue sheets made with delicate silk. The desks and drawers were a beautiful mahogany with an endless shine, unscratched and flawless. The balcony outside gave an incredible view of the city; the sunset surely was beautiful that day. A bookshelf filled with famous books stood next to the window, basically begging for you to read one.
You groaned, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands.
Collapsing on the bed, you let out a huff of annoyance. You weren’t supposed to be thinking, especially not about him. His gorgeous emerald green eyes, his flooooofy jet black hair, his confidence… ‘stop it,’ you scolded yourself, scrunching your nose in distaste. ‘You barely even know him.’
A small knock on the door alerted you, and you let out a small, “who is it?” before sitting up.
“It’s just Alfred, my Lady.”
Silence.
“I brought food.”
That did it. “Come in!”
A metal trolley rolled its way into the room, Alfred pushing behind it. “You did not come to dinner.”
You looked away. “I couldn’t bring myself to.” You forced a chuckle. “It seems as if Damian doesn’t like me much.”
“Master Damian has lived most of his life without a soulmate. So have you,” Alfred said as he carefully placed dishes on the desk. “I believe you have the same problems.”
“Not exactly,” a small smile made its way onto your face. “I never really wanted to admit it, but I’ve always wanted a soulmate. I just thought that I would never find them.”
“I suppose Master Damian thinks that he doesn’t need one,” the butler shrugged. “Now, I must be off. I believe Master Bruce wanted me to supervise Master Jason and Master Tim’s sparring.”
“Right.”
Glancing at all the food that was on your desk, you bit into the steak. Dang, that stuff was good. After you had finished what you could (literally one steak and some mashed potato. Were they expecting you to eat all the broccoli?) you began to read Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens. Only managing to get through one chapter, the door was opened, revealing Damian himself.
“I see you have finished dinner.”
“I have. It was very kind of your father to let me stay,” you offered a smile.
“So when are you leaving?”
You looked up at him, surprised. “Leaving?”
“I assumed your stay was… temporary,” he shrugged. “Perhaps you could go to back to your parents.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” You demanded, glaring. “And my parents want me dead!”
Another shrug. “You’re no better here.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” You challenged.
“You killed for longer than I have,” he pointed out. “At least I stopped.”
“Are you saying that only you can change your ways?” You scowled at him. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“You think I asked to be raised as a killer?”
“Do you think I asked for my parents to be psychopaths?” Your voice was beginning to rise as your (E/C) eyes flashed dangerously.
“I didn’t ask for you to be my soulmate! I was better off without one!” Damian scoffed at you. “You’re only going to slow me down.”
Your heart almost stopped. Tears began to prickle in your eyes and you furiously blinked them away. “My parents wanted me to help them kill you! They told me to help them, and that if I didn’t, they’ll kill me. They’ll kill me, Damian! They threatened me, threatened you, and do you know what I did? I defended you!” A teary laugh erupted out of your throat. “I defended you. I vowed to myself that I would protect you. I promised myself that if I died, at least you would be safe. I wanted you to be fucking safe. And this is where it gets me. You may not have asked to be the son of Batman. But I didn’t ask to be the soulmate of some idiotic, egotistical moron who doesn’t know who to shut his mouth.”
Just as Damian was about to blow his fuse, Dick’s voice ran through the halls. “Hey, Damian! B wants us to spar.”
The Arabian boy huffed. “I’ll be back.”
You rolled your eyes. “I count on it.”
**
Two hours later, Damian returned from his training, somewhat exhausted. It was past nine o’clock and Damian was almost convinced that you were asleep. Still, he found himself wandering to your room. The door was slightly ajar and a chill crept up the boy’s spine.
He carefully pushed the door open, expecting you to be asleep on the bed when he realised that the room was exactly the same way as he had left it. The dishes on the desk were stacked neatly and the bed was still made. His attention snapped to the balcony. Its door was open and the white curtains flowed in the wind.
“No…” the word was almost soundless as Damian searched the room for clues. On the desk, there was a small note written in clear cursive writing.
‘Don’t look for me.’
“Shit.”
**
“What do you mean she ran away?” Dick demanded. “What did you do?”
“That’s beside the point, Grayson,” Damian spat. “We need to find her before she gets herself killed.”
“(Y/N) was raised with assassins,” Tim pointed out, typing into the computer. “She should be able to handle herself.”
“Her parents are psychopaths. They want her dead,” Dick told him.
“Shame, I was starting to get used to her,” Jason hummed, sharpening his knives. “She was pretty cool. Sick aim as well. You’re lucky, Demon Brat.”
Damian looked away guiltily. It was his fault that you’re gone. “We need to find her.”
“We don’t have any information about her. We don’t know who her parents are, we don’t know where she lives, and we don’t know where she went.” Tim scowled. “Great. She messed up our tracker!”
“How does she do that?!”
“It was part of the training,” Damian huffed. “We had to be able to hack into any computer or gadget.”
“Well, what are we even supposed to do? We’re running on empty.” Jason rolled his eyes.
“Drake, can you access the security cameras of the Harbour? The one where we stopped (Y/N) and her parents from completing their heist.”
“Uh… I guess? But, Damian, what’s that supposed to-” Tim paused before gaping. “She’s there! With… with her parents! Well, the footage is from an hour ago, but there are clear images of their face.”
“Great, run facial recognition,” Dick said, suiting up. “We need to find them. And get that tracker working.”
**
-An Hour Earlier-
“We should have known that you would run back to us,” Saeva cackled.
“Join us, Daughter. We can rid this world of those rotten soulmates.”
You began to walk to them, head hanging low. Just as you were within arm’s reach, your head snapped up and you swiped your knife at them, drawing blood from their arms. “Not if I could help it.”
“Fool!” Odium yelled, lunging for your arm. “You’re a traitor if you go with that pesky bird!”
“Better him than you,” You hissed. “He doesn’t kill innocent people to get what he wants.”
Letting out a cry, Saeva attacked. With her sword, she attempted to slash your skin. You jumped back, kicking her sword from her hands and catching it.
The fight raged on, leaving you bruised and wounded. A trail of blood trickled from your lip as Odium punched you in the mouth. You growled, fighting back and flipping him over onto his back. All weapons were abandoned and you tried your best to keep up with the fight.
Before you could react, Saeva had an arm on your throat, muttering in your ear. “Surrender now, (Y/N), or face the consequences.
“Never,” You managed in a raspy voice.
“So be it.”
**
“Sharp left here,” Time said through the intercom. “Take a right now.”
“Can this thing go any faster?” Damian demanded, adjusting his utility belt.
“This is the Bat-Mobile,” Dick rolled his eyes. “Of course it can.”
Jason let out a whistle, “Relax, Demon. We’ll save your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Robin quipped.
Red Hood scoffed. “Yeah, sure.”
“(Y/N)’s in there,” Dick cut in, parking the Batmobile beside the warehouse. “Be ready. They might be expecting us.”
The trio carefully tread into the warehouse, on guard for any traps or attacks. A rat’s small footsteps were heard from the railings above, squeaking quietly. Just as they made it to the centre of the warehouse, a loud bang was heard. The door had closed from behind them. In another second, the lights began to flicker, revealing you tied up to a chair, head lolled to the side.
Saeva and Odium walked into the room not even a second later, proud smirks on their faces.
“You,” Damian hissed, glowering at Saeva and Odium. “What have you done with (Y/N)?”
“That’s beside the point, Lover Boy,” Saeva, waved a hand dismissively. “You should be worried about what we’re going to do.”
“But your little girlfriend was the perfect bait,” Odium snickered. “You came running right to us. Oh and don’t think about trying to free her. No one can get in or out of that force field.”
Before long, punches were thrown, shots were fired and injuries were made. Nightwing and Red Robin were on the ground, bruised and battered. A trickle of blood made its way down Dick’s forehead, while Jason was tending to his dislocated arm. Saeva had been knocked unconscious and was wearing Batcuffs on her wrists. Odium, on the other hand, was a different story. He put up a much bigger fight and was doing a reasonable amount of damage to the others. Damian let out a cry before putting him in a headlock.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, boy,” the man spat before twisting his body around and breaking free. In a blink of an eye, he was standing upright, a gun pointed directly at you. “You wouldn’t want her to die, would you?”
“Let her go,” Damian snarled as dangerously as he could. “Leave her out of this! It’s me you want.”
“That’s so cliché isn’t it?” Odium snorted. “But you’re wrong. I want my daughter back. The girl who didn’t care if she had a soulmate or not. It’s your choice really. Give yourself to me, or watch her perish.”
“You’re bluffing!” Dick managed desperately, his grip tightening on his escrima stick. “No one can get into that force field.”
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“Take me, then,” Damian said slowly. “Just leave her alone.”
“Smart choice,” the corners of his lips twitched. “But not smart enough.”
Just as he was about to fire, Dick threw his escrima stick as hard as he could, hitting Odium in the back. Losing his aim, the bullet found its way into your shoulder. Letting out a scream, Damian unsheathed his sword, attacking Odium the best he could without killing him. The man didn’t even put up a fight. Before long, Dick had Odium on the ground unconscious, attaching Batcuffs around his wrists.
“I managed to hack into the system,” Tim’s voice echoes in Damian’s ears. “The force field is down.”
“(Y/N)!” Damian yelled, cutting through your bounds. Just managing to catch you as you fell, he began to panic. “Come on, wake up! (Y/N), wake up!”
“We need to get her back to the Cave,” Dick said softly, a hand on his bloodied arm. “Alfred can fix her up. Red is already in the Batmobile, securing her captors.”
“Right, of course. You better not pay attention to any of the road signs, Grayson, or I’ll kill you.”
**
It has been almost a month since you were in a coma, and it was enough to drive Damian crazy. He visited you as often as he could (considering the fact that the Cave was in his basement, it would be safe to say that he probably didn’t leave) and he talked to you through your unconsciousness.
“(Y/N)… please wake up,” he mumbled, looking at your sleeping form. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was somewhat reassuring. At least you weren’t going to die.
Your eyes moved from underneath your eyelids and you forced your eyes to open. “Ugh, where am I?” you groaned, sitting up in an awkward position.
“You’re awake!” Was the first thing you heard. You looked around, only to see Damian with the biggest smile on his face.
“Sorry to disappoint,” you said with a lopsided grin.
“You’re going to be okay,” the boy promised. “You’re going to be okay. Father said you could keep the room you stayed in. Or you could move. He said it didn’t matter, but I was wondering if…” he trailed off.
You really liked where this is going. Peering at his emerald green eyes, you cocked your head in confusion. “If what?”
“If you… wanted the room next to mine?” A blush crept up his neck as he looked at you expectantly.
“This coming from the guy who didn’t want me as a soulmate,” you smirked at him. “Admit it, you like me.”
Damian looked away as blood rushed to his cheeks. “Shut up, idiot.”
You laughed. “I would love to have a room next to yours.”
The Arabian boy offered a smile at you, brushing a strand of (H/C) hair from your face. “I truly am sorry, (Y/N).”
“I know. I’m sorry if I wasn’t what you expected.”
“Beloved, you’re everything I ever wanted.”
#Damian Wayne x Reader#Damian Wayne#Dick Grayson#Reader Insert#x Reader#Jason Todd#Tim Drake#Red Hood#Robin#Red Robin#Nightwing#Batman#DC superheroes#DC comics#fluff#cute#SFW#Soulmate AU#alternate universe
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Torment
Summary: Frank’s demons catch up to him in the worst possible way - by getting to you.
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
Warnings: Angst. Descriptions of physical violence, blood and torture. Reader discretion is advised
Wordcount: 5.8k
A/N: I just wanted to try something new and this was the result, not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Feedback is welcome.
You don’t hear them coming. Don’t notice the shuffle of too many feet until the footsteps are on top of you like the rumble of thunder and there’s a hand over your eyes and another over your mouth and nose. Your breathing goes shallow - heartbeat kicking up to a sprint - feet just beginning to mill wildly in retaliation as you’re lifted off the ground. Blood is rushing in your ears - blood like river rapids and fear like an ice floe in your veins. Max’s leash slips from your fingers; you let it go to claw at the hands that hold you, tearing at calloused skin with your fingernails in a desperate, losing fight to get free. You can only barely hear him growling over the rush of blood and the grunts of strange men. He coughs a vicious bark and someone swears and screams and then there’s a wet tearing and the sound of something sinking into flesh and a whimper.
They - whoever they are - throw you into a trunk, not even bothering to bind your hands and feet. You’re tossed like a duffel bag full of guns - like a dead body instead of a girl still kicking and screaming, the sound tearing violently from your throat without a hand to hold it in. The door is slammed before you can make any sort of move, slammed with enough force to take off your fingers if you’d so much as tried to climb out. Now you’re in the dark.
It’s cold. You can’t tell if it’s the weather or the panic as the car takes off at a screeching pace and you tumble like a corpse inside a coffin. Stupid. The word comes harsh and unbidden into your head. Stupid to be so unaware. Stupid to be caught off guard like that. So stupid so helpless and, and... Dead. How many times had you had this very thought, this very fear? How many times had Frank clamped warm palms down over your shoulders and shaken you and told you to be careful? You almost see his face in the dark - olive skin populating the shadows, one cheek bruised, the thick bridge of his nose sporting a cut, dark eyes pensive on yours.
“I don’t have a lot of friends.” he says and you smile, lift a hand to smooth the unease from his beautiful, drawn face.
“You have me.”
He takes your hand in his, squeezes it, like a lifeline but like an admonishment too. “There are people who will want to hurt you because I have you.” Chapped lips touch down on your knuckle. “You always have to be careful.”
In the dark, you almost feel the ghostly fan of his breath over your skin. It isn’t real. The car takes a speed bump at an incomprehensible speed and your shoulder slams mercilessly into metal. That is real - the pain, the dark, the fear - it’s all too real and you sink into it. You feel inky blackness creeping over every inch of your tender skin, feel it seeping over your scalp and breaching your nostrils.
If they ever get you, fight.
The words come to you out of the dark and you cling to them. Take hold of the gritty rise of Frank’s voice and breathe what little air you have left.
You fight like hell - kick, bite, spit - I don’t give a shit. You fight and stay alive until I can get to you.
Stay alive. The words shimmer with warm light of their own. Fight.
You have no way of knowing where they’re taking you; every turn sends you rolling through the blackness, unsure of which way is up, head reeling, so you breathe, deep and deliberately like your air is being taken and you are fighting for every gasp. You lean into the turns, bracing yourself for every impact and when you finally come screaming to a stop, resurfacing to the sound of slamming car doors and heavy feet, you’re ready.
The kick connects with a man’s face the moment he opens the trunk, his flesh molding to the tread of your sneakers, the cartilage of his nose snapping against the ball of your foot.
“Fuck!”
A jet of blood pours from his broken nose like a faucet turned wide open and you just keep kicking. You’ve pressed your back down into the grimy mat of the trunk, far more confident in your ability to kick your way out than claw. And while you’ve succeeded in catching the first man off guard, the others can see you coming. A hand closes down around your ankle but you shake it off, another kick planting solidly in someone’s abdomen, forcing their breath out in a gust. You lash out wildly, uncaring of who you hurt and how just knowing you have to hurt them before they can hurt you. There are more hands on you now - too many hands. They hoist you out the trunk like a fresh kill, still trashing. You’re shrieking, screams falling on deaf, uncaring ears as arms struggle to hold you upside down and then a knee meets your temple and blackness falls over you like a curtain.
You wake to the even keen of a zip tie tightening and then - not pain - but sharp discomfort. They’ve bound you to a chair, arms behind your back, legs bound at the ankle - all too tight for comfort. You feel the bite of plastic too close to skin and the slow, thick churning of blood beneath constricted flesh and you shudder. There’s a hollowness in your head, every sound amplified and reverberating painfully. You make yourself blink, choke down a dry swallow.
“Good to see you’re awake.”
For a moment, there’s more than one man in front of you - one and a half men in off white button downs with grey hair. The fuzzy ghost man slinks into his shell and then there’s only one. Your eyes feel heavy in your head. “I was worried Albin hit you too hard.”
“Anton,” comes a voice from off to your right. You crane your head as much as your bonds allow to look at him. This man - Albin - is younger - and ugly, a condition only exacerbated by his recently broken nose. He glowers at you as he rounds to stand near Anton, Addressing the older man in a language you don’t recognize. Something throaty and Slavic that you can’t parse. You snort, the closest thing to a laugh that you can muster. There’s malice in his pinched voice, pain barely masked by anger and you’re fairly certain he’s talking about you.
Anton waves him off, turning his attention fully back to you. He eyes your face, no doubt considering your left eye beginning to swell shut. “You’re a pretty girl.” He frowns. “Much too pretty for a dog like Frank Castle.”
You say nothing, staying silent because you’ve never been any good with words and right now you don’t trust your voice not to quaver. All things considered, if you open your mouth, you might find yourself begging so you clench your jaw and do your best Frank Castle instead.
“Too pretty to take the fall for him.” Something in the quirk of Anton’s brow reads as feigned sympathy and if you could feel anything but dread right now, you’d feel anger. “Where is he?”
“Fuck you.” It comes out weak, like a whisper or a plea instead of an insult but Anton hears it and scowls condescendingly at you. The way one might look at a child.
He kneels on the cement in front of, strokes your cheek with fat fingers as he looks up into your face. The way he says your name makes you sick to your stomach, the syllables mingling with what feels like tar sliding out of his throat. “I don’t want you, I want Castle. Tell me where he is.”
You don’t have to think very hard to know that telling him where Frank is isn’t going to improve your situation. They wouldn’t have abducted you if they didn’t want you, wouldn’t have nearly caved your skull in if they only wanted to get to Frank. You’re a part of this, whether or not you want to be. So you lie.
“I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in days.”
Anton scowls again and behind him, Albin bristles. It’s not going to take much for the injured man to hurt you, he already wants to. He man takes a step forward, but Anton holds a hand out, warning him off. His face morphs into something sincere for a moment - a candle’s light flickering in the dark. “I don’t want to hurt you.” You almost believe him. “But I will.”
A quiet, shuddering sob shakes your shoulders, but you tamp it down enough to respond. “Do what you have to.”
Disappointment colors Anton’s weathered face as he stands. He steps to the side, no longer shielding you from Albin and his disrespected fury like a cornered dog.
The first blow cracks across your face like a bullet, snapping your head to the side. You choke on your own breath, throat straining as your lip splits open like a water balloon and you struggle to right your reeling head so you can breathe again. Albin smiles at you menacingly, sadistic glee apparent in his eyes despite the bruises beginning to purple into view beneath them.
“Tell me,” he growls, “where is Castle.? He grins into your labored silence. “Or don’t tell me. Yet.”
The next blow fills your mouth with blood and the one after sends it spraying across your cheeks and Albin’s fist. He grimaces in disgust, wiping his already reddening knuckles on his white shirt, leaving streaks of your vivid pain behind. You just cry thick, ugly sobs as red, ropey strings of it dribble down your chin.
You’ve let go of your pretended bravery, because even your best Frank impression is no good. Because ‘afraid’ isn’t a sensation Frank recognizes. ‘Afraid’ isn’t a state Frank ever experiences, but it’s one that you live in, inhabiting it fully as though it were a home. Fear, to you, isn’t just an emotion or a thing you sometimes feel - fear is like water and you’re the fish. Fear is the atmosphere and you are lost and breathless without it. You don’t know how to be without being afraid.
“Where is he?” Albin doesn’t even wait for you to deny any knowledge of Frank’s whereabouts before he hits you again. You don’t hear your eye socket fracture as much as you feel it, pain radiating out across your face like a million tongues of lightning forking through the muscle and bone. Your vision goes blurry, red smudging everything you see into a violent abstract image. A scream rings through your head like a caged bird until you realize that your split lips are parted in a horrible shuddering sound unlike anything you’ve ever heard - or made - before.
Max makes it home and climbs up onto the stoop and whines like a broken little soldier until Frank Opens the door. He notices that you’re not with Max first; then he notices the blood - thick patches of Max’s slate fur tinged brown. There’s a knife protruding from the dog’s shoulder - buried to the hilt. Frank goes cold. You see, you were wrong about him. Frank doesn’t feel fear often - that’s true - but right now, with an injured dog on his stoop and you nowhere to be seen, he feels panic sweeping over him like he’s never known.
The broken eye socket throbs but that’s nothing compared to the three missing fingernails, and even those pale in comparison to the fractured tooth screaming from the depths of your blood-filled mouth. Albin has graduated to gloves now, having had his fill of striking you with his bare hands - his desire to feel your bruised flesh on his seemingly sated. The gloves don’t help. Your head tips forward, eyes fluttering as you wheeze laboriously. Blood and saliva and God knows what else dribble from your mouth and nose onto your lap, the polyester of your leggings encrusted with the stuff, and your head is clouded with pain. You’re not sure how long it’s been - since you lost Max, since he first hit you, since he stopped. Since you last saw Frank.
Frank.
Something crawls out of the wreckage of your raw throat - half a laugh, half a whimper. It feels like days since you woke up beside him - months since a calloused finger found the waistband of your leggings at the door and pulled you back into his chest - you, a catch all too happy to be reeled in as he leaned over your shoulder and you craned your neck back to meet him in the middle. His lips were soft against yours, his hands gentle on your hips. No urgency there - only contentment. Only Frank. Only you.
You’ve never felt further away from a point in time than you feel from this morning.
The memory is muddled and warped around the edges - the images and sensations fuzzier than they ought to be - but it’s warm, so you fall into it. Seep the way blood seeps through your chipped teeth and nestle into the fading memory of Frank’s caring grasp - letting the pain and the warmth take you.
Someone says your name - one voice but two - the word sounding the way a double exposed photograph looks. You hear Frank there but another person too. They say your name again - Frank and this stranger - together and a rough hand finds your face, the palm slapping your cheek sharply yet gentle. You flinch away though you recognize the feeling. Like the way Frank roused you when you slipped on the tiled kitchen floor, striking your head. Your name again, the voice laced with concern. Your eyes flutter, fighting back against the pain and the desire to sleep, leaning into Frank’s phantom touch. You win the battle, heavy eyelids flying open and Frank is gone.
Anton’s face fills your field of vision, each line and wrinkle worming through his skin defined. The sympathy is back in his eyes - false sympathy - the kind of sympathy a man feels when he’s the one inflicting the harm. He says your name again almost like he cares and in spite of yourself, you’re touched by it. Your battered, weakened mind is moved by the kindness in his voice, maybe because you know it’s the last time you’ll ever experience it - kindness - real or feigned. You gasp a quiet sob and he rubs the pad of his thumb beneath your eye to sweep away the tears. His hand comes away ruddy and smelling of iron.
“Albin..he gets carried away. I apologize.” As he speaks he busies himself tidying you up. Tidying the way one sweeps a dirt floor. “ You must understand he is grieving.”
He gently tucks a loose braid away behind your ear.
“He’s not very mature, he does not know how to handle his pain.”
Albin is wearing a navy blue blazer now and from the breast pocket he produces a silk handkerchief, snapping it in the air to unfurl it. He folds the cloth over the tip of his index finger and cups your cheek as he runs it along the skin beneath your nose.
“My Stanis though...My Stanis had good head on his shoulders. He was strong and smart. He knew how to talk about things. Many things. You’re a nice girl, you would like my Stanis.”
The handkerchief makes its way up to the split brow leaking blood into your swollen left eye. You hiss at the sensation, wincing away from Anton’s careful touch as he presses the kerchief to the laceration to clean away the blood.
“He was my pride.” Anton’s tone balloons sorrowfully and you realize that he’s speaking around barely suppressed tears. “My boy.”
He grips your chin now, a bit too roughly, his patience wearing thin at your pained squirming. You still, alarmed at the suddenness, eyes locked anxiously on his.
“I wanted to give him everything. Everything I do I did for my boy. So he could take care of his family. His brother, his mother.”
Anton lowers his ministering hand from your face, though his other still grips you like a vice. Flat - his gaze is flat on yours. Placid. Like a snake as he opens his mouth again.
“Your Frank took Stanis away from me. From us. Albin is all I have left now and I need to know, where is Frank Castle?”
You’re taking quick, jerking gasps through your nose now, fear paralyzing you and making you capable of little else. Anton’s eyes are boring into you, peeling away all of your layers and looking for the truth. You’re afraid he’ll find it in your expression, but you can’t look away. You know he’ll strike when you do.
Anton is unimpressed with your silence, though he recognizes the fear that motivates it. He shakes you a little - stars and orbs of light sailing across your vision.
“There is no need for you to die - only Castle. Tell me.” The handkerchief rises again, this time scrubbing across your stinging bottom lip. “Where is he?”
Something - bigger than fear, deeper and colder and more potent - takes you, violently, like an earthquake shaking the home where you live. Like it will vibrate you right out of this chair, the whole thing shaken to disassembled pieces of wood and a scattering of screws across the cement. Then a wave of calm passes over you - a lukewarm peace that belies the situation settling comfortably around your shoulders and your hammering heart.
It’s a peace that comes from knowing that you no longer have control - that you never did. It’s the silent rush of letting go and falling into oblivion.
It’s when you know you’re going to die.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out like the thin skeleton of a whisper, though you still try to pour as much empathy into it as you possibly can. “I just don’t know.”
Anton’s face goes stony, any bit of humanity forced out by a dark storm front of animal rage. Blood runs cold in your veins, despite your acceptance. There’s no sympathy left now, only rage, only the will to hurt you to hurt Frank.
“Albin!”
The younger man steps into view, his white tee shirt painted haphazardly with sprays of your blood. A dingy rag hangs lazily in his grip, flopping as he wipes his fists as.
“Yeah?”
He keeps his eyes on you, even as his father yells something harsh and quick to him. You see the smile beginning to spread across his face first and then the rag rippling through air as it drops to the floor and with it, your heart. Then he descends on you in a flurry of fists and feet.
“Wake up!”
A shower of frigid water crashes over you, pulling you back from the inky mire of whatever unconscious plain you’ve inhabited. You’re gasping, shivering, sobbing again in spite of yourself. Tears of exhaustion, of shock. You come to yourself enough to look up at Albin standing in front of you. He holds a phone in his hand, the camera aimed at your blubbering form as he glares at you over-top it.
Anton kneels beside you, arranging implements neatly on a little table to your right. There lie the pair of pliers his son used to rip out your fingernails, the tips still dappled red.
“Look, sweetheart,” Anton coos, pausing his ministrations to point toward his son holding the camera, “pay attention, draga.” He raises his voice performatively. “I want you to know - both of you - that I gave you a chance.”
He lifts the pliers, gesturing with them. He turns to the camera.
“I gave your girlfriend plenty of chances, Castle, she didn’t take them. So all of this.” He gestures again with the pliers, flinging drops of blood. “I consider it your fault.”
Anton reaches down with the pliers and clips a zip tie, freeing your right arm. It shoots up immediately, your trembling hand finding Anton’s wrinkled face and attempting to claw at the loose skin but you do little more than streak it with blood. You’re weak and he knows it.
“Ah ah ah.” Anton grabs your wrist easily and guides your hand to the table, the metal cool against your open palm as his positions it flat upon the surface. He places the pliers down with his other hand, this time selecting the knife. It glints with a flex of his wrist as though he’s testing its weight. “I need you to look at the camera, darling.”
He leans up on his knees, bringing his lips close to your ear. “I want you to beg.”
You lock eyes with this man - your captor, your tormentor - and you see in his eyes that he knows. You won’t beg. You’re not getting out of this alive and you won’t take part in this snuff video - this attempt to harm Frank more than he’s already been harmed. He’s going to lose you regardless.
Not taking his eyes off of yours, Anton places the tip of the knife into the back of your hand - not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting. Your breath catches in your throat.
“Beg him to come and save you.”
You say nothing. Anton applies more pressure to the knife, the tip digging further into your flesh. You grit your teeth so hard you’re sure they’ll shatter. More tears well in your eyes.
“Tell him.” The knife splits your skin and sinks a few millimeters deeper, blood blooming fresh and bright from the new wound. Your stomach writhes, sick threatening to claw its way out of your throat. “Tell him to save you.”
The knife sinks deeper, the double-edged blade widening the hole in your hand and you feel every searing inch. Anton still holds your wrist in a vice grip, holding you there as he tears into you, your hand jerking futilely of its own volition - a spider running from the boot on broken legs. You feel blood trickle between your spasming fingers. A groan starts deep, deep in the pits of your stomach and grows, roiling up your throat like magma and leaking from between your clenched teeth and tight lips.
“Tell him.” Anton’s eyes are hot on your face. Five yards away, Albin grins evilly from behind the phone. “Tell Castle goodbye.”
The tip of the knife touches down on something not meant to be touched. White hot pain arcs through your hand and down every finger and up your arm into your shoulder and chest and you let go, the scream exploding out of you like a smoldering fire exposed to a draft of pure air. It’s ear-splitting and agonizing but it feels like being emptied out and you can’t think of anything you want more.
“Frank!” your voice breaks, shoulders shuddering with sobs as you look tearily toward the waiting camera. “I love you.”
Anton hisses and leans into his work, putting more weight on the knife and forcing it deeper. You scream another sob, feeling your flesh and muscle splitting, feeling the knife sever things inside your hand.
“I’m sorry, Frank. I’m so sorry.” For a moment the pain overwhelms you, sweeping you along in an undertow of screaming nerves too hot and loud to do anything but tremble. You fight through the shock beginning to creep through your veins and threatening to numb you. “Don’t come for me, Frank. I love you so much.”
Albin yells something to his father - something angry - and Anton yells something back, their conversation too fast and heated for you to hope to understand. You hope they’re deciding how to finally take care of you. Anton barks some words with a tone of finality, punctuating the declaration by ripping the blade from your skewered hand. You barely feel the pain anymore, though your body jerks with it. Blood goes flying in the knife’s wake and wells up in the open gash. You blink through a fresh wave of tears.
Albin’s head blossoms like a flower in spring.
The skin of his left temple opens up in a bloom of petals, pistils and stamens of blood spraying out in between and all of it speckled with white flecks of bone and pink bits of gristle and brain. You watch it happen in slow motion - this head deconstructing like a bloody lily in slow motion. Only after do you hear the ringing echo of a gunshot, and then Anton’s horrible screams.
He raises the knife in a shaking hand, its bloody surface shimmering in the sparse light until a bullet tears through his shoulder - another flower blooming from distended flesh and hot air - and the blade goes clattering onto the cold cement. Anton tumbles over, his hand grasping you on the way down. The chair tips into the tiny metal table, sending both clattering onto the floor and you with them. You land hard on top of Anton, forcing the older man’s breath from his lungs. Already blood has started to pool beneath him from the wound in his shoulder and he reaches up, one rough hand clamping down on your shoulders and arms again. To push you off or cause more harm, you don’t know. You don’t plan on finding out either.
You ignore the shrieking pain in your hand as you reach out, sliding it uselessly along the dirty, bloody floor until you find it, your red fingers closing down around the grip of the needle nose pliers. You grasp them with some effort and then, your dead weight still pinning a struggling Anton, you drive them into his eye.
You’ve done - and heard - a lot of screaming today, but nothing quite like this. Nothing like the terrified keening that pours out of Anton’s mouth and you can’t deny the thrill you feel climbing your spine. This, you realize, is what Frank feels - this power, this vindication - as bloody pink mixture bubbles out the recently vacated eye socket.
The feeling takes hold of you, Anton’s wails still ringing shrilly in your ears, and you press deeper. The screams ascend higher and higher on the scale until his mouth is open, lips quivering with pained vibrato but nothing is coming out - only hissing air. You press until something gives, something deep inside his skull cracking wetly like an egg and his entire body jerks like a galvanized corpse then he goes still and quiet and he’s gone.
The feeling doesn’t leave. You rip the pliers free and plunge them into Anton’s throat and then again into his chest and shoulder. Again and again opening up tunnel after gaping tunnel inside of this body who was a man only moments ago.
Frank is on you now, leaning over you. His rough hands gripping your bruised arms. He’s shouting your name though you don’t hear him. You’re not completely you - not anymore. You rear back again with the pliers, this blow directed toward Anton’s lifeless face, but Frank stays your hand, wrenching the tool out of your grip painfully. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, no, but he recognizes the sensation directing your movements - the rage, the all-encompassing hurt, the feeling. He knows that if you chase it, there’s no coming back, so he holds you.
Something leaves you when the pliers slip from your grasp, the feeling fleeing your body through the hole in your dripping hand. Frank says your name, low and frantic as he busies himself with cutting your restraints and when he’s done, you go limp in his arms.
“Hey, hey. Stay with me.” Frank cradles you carefully to his chest like a china doll, like you’ll break. You don’t have the energy to tell him that you’re already broken. You reach up, trembling fingers brushing Frank’s cheek, leaving blood behind. A bruise is beginning to purple into view across the side of his face and you open your mouth to say something but cough up a tiny spray of blood instead.
Frank rocks you as you start to sob, in earnest this time, dark eyes warily scoping the room around you. “Shh. I got you.”
You sit there like that for God knows how long. Frank holding you and rocking and you crying, struggling just to breathe. The shock has started to set in by now; you feel it creeping over you, growing over your prone body like moss. There’s no fighting the rising tide of numbness, so you sink into it and going under instead.
Frank wishes you would sleep. It wouldn’t ease his worry, but if you slept he’d know how to worry about you. But like this, your glassy eyes wide and staring off into nothing in particular as he guns the gas, he’s not sure what to do with you. You’re leaking onto the seat, silence thickening in the air between you as asphalt flies away behind you, and a burning warehouse belches black smoke into the sky in the rear-view mirror.
Frank knows pain, he’s used to it. He knows how to deal with it, patching himself up and putting on a brave, angry face. But you... your softness doesn’t make you weak but it makes him unsure of how to care for you. He’s out of practice you see. Frank doesn’t have much softness left, but now, neither do you.
Frank is careful unbuckling you, careful up the steps with you in his careful arms. He kicks the door shut behind you and carries you into the back where he sets you carefully on the toilet and draws the blinds shut. He leans into the tub, lowering the stopper and running hot water into the basin. Then he leaves you there, shivering and empty on the toilet as he makes his way around the house and locks you both inside.
Steam is beginning to rise into the air when he returns, the humidity clinging to your grimy skin and curling the exposed roots of your hair, though you don’t notice. You’re still lost in there somewhere, letting the shock hold you, letting it keep the pain and the horror at bay. Frank shuts the door and stands at the opposite end of the bathroom from you. Not very far - not enough room- but giving you as much space as he can. He lets the warm mist billow up between you before he crossed to the tub, closing off the tap and then turning to you. He kneels between your knees, taking your hands ever so gently in his own, noting the involuntary jerk your right gives from the pain. Just holding you, for a second, just the contact, just Frank. He looks up into your face and hopes that he can fix this - whatever this is.
He undresses you - carefully - pulling every article of clothing off of you softly like peeling away petals - she loves me, she loves me not - each item dropped in an unimportant heap like the rind of an orange. Your garments crack and peel away from your skin, sprinkling brown flakes of your dried blood onto the slick whiteness of the tiled floor. Then, naked and empty, Frank scoops you up in steady arms and lowers you into the tub. The water fizzes quietly, pressing tiny kisses to your filthy, tender skin.
You slide down, bringing your back down to the textured floor of the tub so you’re completely submerged. With stinging eyes you make out Frank peering down at you, face rippling slowly. You feel as though you’re lying on the ocean floor, tons of pressure caving your chest in to make room for the fish and the monsters.
You stay like that far longer than you should, until your lungs burn and your head is buzzing with static that sounds like lapping water. Go up, something inside you pleads, breathe. You press your back more firmly into the pebbled bottom of the tub, fighting the cogs and springs inside you straining tightly. You could drown like this, you think.
The bathroom is quiet when your head breaches the surface of the now pink water, heavy silence punctuated by your thumping heartbeat and the singing of the water. Frank sits beside the tub looking at you, arms slung across his knees, thick fingers dangling. He waits for your breathing to level before reaching into the tub, the sleeves of his hoodie already gathered around his elbows. He cups water over your back, warmth trickling along the ridge of your spine the way it might down a window pane. Over and over like a baptism. After a while, he reaches for a rag and the soap and scrubs away the filth - hard - like a snake shedding its skin against a rock.
“Frank.”
It’s the first time Frank has heard your voice since this morning when you were a very different person. The sound halts his movements and he just looks at you, old soldier’s eyes studying your face.
“Frank.”
You say his name because you don’t know how to say anything else. You don’t know how to tell him what parts of you were taken and what parts were added and don’t fit - new appendages tacked onto your emotional anatomy - Frankenstein’s monster cobbled together from trauma and pain.
He hears you and understands all the same, so he reaches into the tub for your hand - skin already beginning to prune - and he kisses every fingertip. When he’s done he reaches back into the lukewarm water for the other and does the same.
All the while, you say his name and nothing else.
Frank like a confession.
Frank - a benediction.
Frank - an invocation.
Frank - a prayer.
#Frank Castle#The Punisher#Frank Castle x reader#The Punisher x reader#Frank Castle Angst#Frank Castle fic#Frank Castle imagine#The punisher fic#Punisher fic#Punisher imagine#Punisher angst#Defenders#Marvel fic#MCU#Frank castle x you#Punisher x you#Avengers fic#Defenders fic#My writing#SFW
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Daughter of no one part 6
Summary: Your mother told you that your father walked out on the both of you, only for you to find out that a certain avenger is your father and had no idea he had a daughter.
Pairing: Bucky x Daughter reader (platonic) Peter Parker x Reader
Warning: ANGST, fluff, Swearing
A/N: I SORTA CRIED IN THE LAST PART GOD DAMN.
—————————
Thursday:
Bucky punched the nearest wall to him, once him and the team arrived in the alleyway you were in you were no where to be found.
“Dammit Dammit.. DAMMIT!” He was hitting rock bottom, he promised himself he’d protect now you were gone, Tony was trying his best to find your location but it wasn’t easy; they had left your phone and Peter’s as well in the same spot you two were in.
“Tony! Please hurry!” Bucky yelled out “I’m trying Barnes don’t worry we’ll get them back.” Tony understood how Bucky felt even if Peter wasn’t his son he truly was attached to the kid.
After a few attempts Tony shook his head “I can’t find anything.. I’m sorry Buck.” He felt like throwing up his stomach felt like they were turning into twists and knots Steve gently touched his arm trying to help him calm down but how could? He’s daughter is gone.
————
“Peter no! Stop it!” You cried out, you saw Peter trying to fight back as some guards tried dragging him out the room, suddenly the man held up his hand telling them to stop.
“How about this Y/N..” he circled around you until he was face to face with you, he crouched down “how about you keep Peter as a reward.. you will follow our orders exchange for his safety understood?” You quickly nodded.
“No Y/N.. please it doesn’t matter what happens to me!”
“Take him out the room put him in a cell.” Peter cried out your name as they dragged him away from you.
“What do you want?..” you growled out, the man clicked his tongue “you see I don’t like that attitude you better change it before I think about killing your friend.” You bit into your lip “please.. what do you want?”
He smiled “that’s more like it kid!” He singled one of the guards to pass him a folder once he did he opened it “I want you to take out the avengers.” You felt your stomach sink “what?! How the hell am I suppose to do that?” He let out a dry chuckle “I’m not stupid Y/N if your mother was mutant so were you.. and I know you have somewhat of our assets super solider serum.”
You let out a whimper you didn’t want to do it, hell you don’t even know if you can even if you could you would never hurt them especially Bucky “I can’t..” you whined out “fine have it your way, prep her.”
Before you could even ask what he meant you felt something grab onto you and hold you into place “what no! Stop it!” You cried out you didn’t care if you started crying you were afraid “Dad..” you whimpered out.
“Sadly I don’t think the asset will hear you Y/N.” Suddenly the room went dark “what the hell?! What happened to the damn electricity?” The man yelled out “w-we don’t k-“ “then go check it out! Idiots..” he left with them leaving you alone in the dark.
————
“We did it!” Tony said in hushed voice Steve smiled he looked over at Bucky checking him for a few minutes he could see that he was tense “Bucky?” “You didn’t hear that?..” “hear what?” Bucky let out a shaky sigh “Y/N.. s-She cried out.. she called me dad..”
Of course Bucky heard he was a super solider all he could do was focus on the warehouse you and Peter were in, he wanted to punch the lights out of the men that kidnapped you no one he means NO ONE lays a hand on his daughter.
“Okay they’re distracted I think we can- where’d Bucky go?” Tony looked down and saw that Bucky was already ahead of them “STEVE! Control your friend he’ll get himself killed!” Steve, Tony and Nat followed behind him quickly.
Nat raised her gun ready to shoot at anything that was threatening she just wanted to get you back as much as Bucky did “Guys! I’m getting a heat signal.” Tony said thorough his iron mask, he gently opened the cell door his heart broke when he saw Peter in the corner he looked so afraid..
“Peter..” Tony gently said, Peter snapped his head towards him “M-Mr.stark?” He nodded, Peter quickly scrabbled to him hugging him Tony never liked hugs he thought it was awkward but when Peter did it he didn’t push him away he just held onto him.
“Tony Take Peter back to the quinjet, we still need to look for Y/N..” Bucky said in a hushed voice “I-I know where she is!” Peter said quickly Peter grunted as he stood up by himself leading them the way to your cell suddenly the lights came back on “shit!” Tony cursed out.
“W-What happened?” Peter looked at both Tony and Bucky “Tony shut off the power so we could distract them but they got it back on!” Steve said as he looked around the corner to make sure no guards were coming “we aren’t leaving Y/N.”
“Of course we’re not Bucky how far kid?”
“Down the hallway, on the left hurry!” Peter said Bucky and Steve ran to the cell once he opened the door his heart broke your face was covered with tears your hair was a mess.
He could see that your wrists were becoming a redish color “Y/N?” You let out a sob “dad! Oh my g-god.” He quickly broke the restraints you collapsed in his arms “dad! They killed mom! She’s g-gone..!” You cried into his chest.
Bucky felt his chest tighten he gently rocked you in his arms “Bucky! We need to leave they’re coming back!” Steve shouted he got his shield ready to strike “Y/N can you walk?” You nodded.
Bucky held onto your hand he made sure you were behind him so he could protect you for any danger that would come your way you would often hear Steve throw his shield at the guards who saw you.
“We’re almost there Y/N, just a little bit more.” You could see the sun shine through the door but suddenly a large metal door slid down blocking the exit “well if it isn’t the asset.. come for your offspring?” The man chuckled deeply, Bucky let out a low snarl.
“Now now.. no need to get violent now, I just want you to return the girl that’s all.”
“Like hell I will.” Bucky barked back at the man “fine have it your way.” Suddenly HYDRA agents flooded the room, Bucky and Steve had their backs on each other as you were in the middle.
“You ready punk?” Steve said as he held onto his shield tightly “oh you better bet your ass I am.” Bucky smirked back “...language..” Steve mumbled out, suddenly HYDRA agents started attacking at first they were doing fine but you noticed more and more of them were pouring into the room.
Bucky and Steve might have the upper hand but they would waste their energy on them before they even get to the last few that’s when you knew you had to help fight back, you grabbed onto one of the agents and slammed them down on the floor hard Bucky and Steve stared at you in amazement.
“Wow..” was all Steve could say Bucky smirked “that’s my girl.” You only smiled as you went back to taking out more of them, sometimes they would land a good punch on you but that was rare considering how you could see farther from them you knew when they would punch or kick you.
Finally you take out the last one, you let out a long sigh and crack your knuckles “there’s still one more.” Bucky said as he glared at the man who was looking down he only smiled and did a slow clap “that’s all I needed to see.. until next time Y/N Barnes.”
You guys didn’t chase after him, you knew the next time he showed up you guys would be prepared “Dad.. mom’s body.. she’s still..” Bucky nodded “we’ll give her a proper burial Y/N I promise.” You nod as you leaned against his chest “I-I was so scared.. Dad I thought I was never going to see you again.”
“Y/N.. I would go through hell just to get you back, there’s no way I’m letting you go out of my life again.” He gently hugged you, it felt so warming it wouldn’t be the same.. since your mom was gone but you still had Bucky and Bucky still had you.
—————
Once you got back to the quinjet Bruce checked you out and made sure you didn’t have injures, after he was done you saw Peter he had bags underneath his eyes.
“Hey Peter..” you said quietly he looked up at you finally smiling, he got up and embraced you “I was so worried Y/N..” you gently cupped his cheeks “So was I.” Peter gently kissed your forehead man did you wish you two could stay like this forever.
“Ahem.” You and Peter quickly let go and saw Bucky standing there, he was trying his best not to glare at Peter “Parker.. thanks for um.. trying to protect Y/N.. I can see you care very deeply about her.. just don’t break her heart because I will hunt you down.” He left after saying that.
“W-What?..”
“I think my dad just improved of our relationship.”
“Dad?” He said raising his eyebrow.
“Yea.. my dad.”
“I thought you hated that word.” “I thought I did too.. it just took me while to see that it wasn’t such a bad word after all.”
————
After you got back to the tower you and Bucky sat outside looking at the stars that shinned brightly “Dad.. how did you and mom met?” Bucky remembered that special night Tony was throwing a party he never really liked going considering that he didn’t like being near a lot of people, but Steve being Steve he wanted Bucky to go and he just couldn’t say no to Steve.
Bucky sat at the bar looking out into the crowd, he took a sip of his drink just like Steve no matter how much he drank he could never get drunk, unless Thor brought his special drink from Asgard he noticed someone sat beside him.
She had light brown hair, a dress that hugged her curves the most beautiful thing was her eyes; they were a bright blue ocean color she looked at Bucky and smiled “I’m guessing parties aren’t your thing?” He shrugged “guess not, rather be here then out there.”
She nodded in agreement “you work with the avengers don’t you?” He nodded “I haven’t seen you before.. are you new?” “I am, I’ve barely joined shield a month ago.” They talked for a bit they exchanged phone numbers and at that point on they fell for each other.
Maybe it’s cheesy to say but he felt like it really was love at first sight, they went out together, slept together, lived together. Steve was proud of his best friend for finding someone he knew how hard it was for him to open up to new people.
Unfortunately though as months passed by he was getting busy by being called onto many missions it left no time for her, they’d start fighting a lot arguing a lot, they even slept in separate rooms until that day he left.
He regretted it why didn’t he stay and fight for their relationship? He would’ve been with you and Lauren. Him and Lauren would’ve raised you together but now she’s gone she’ll never come back.
“Dad?” Crying. He was crying in front of his daughter “s-sorry.. I was just remembering..” he said as he wiped his tears with his sleeve “we met here.. in the compound.. s-she was really something Y/N.. just like you.. she had so much fire and passion in her..” You let out a sad smile.
“I’ll miss her too dad..” God he hated that he was sobbing like a baby in front of you.
“She loves you dad.. she always will.”
“I wish I told her I loved her.”
“... she still knew you did.”
Taglist:
@just4muggles
@chloe-geoghegan1
@joe-mazzello-is-my-dad
@kawaiiasfuak
#marvel x reader#marvel miniseries#marvel angst#marvel fanfiction#marvel fic#marvel#avengers x teen#avengers x reader#avengers angst#avengers fanfiction#avengers fic#avengers#bucky x daughter reader#bucky x teen!#bucky x teen!reader#bucky miniseries#bucky fanfic#bucky fic#bucky barnes angst#peter parker x reader#peter parker x y/n#peter parker x you#peter parker angst
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Just a Kiss
Happy birthday, @kday426 ! Thank you for being a lovely person who so faithfully reblogs and comments on my stories. I wanted to give you something truly fluffy and happy for your birthday, and I also couldn’t help giving it a Southern flair because of the Lady Antebellum song it’s based on. This is one of those times I wish I was an artist so I could make a manip, painting, or drawing of this beautiful kiss I envisioned in my head. Unfortunately, this picset is the best I could do. Thanks to @kmomof4 for helping me choose the best suspenders pic 🙂
Summary: Emma turned then and fled from the tree and the fireflies and the moonlight. Fled from her best friend who could apparently kiss the living hell out of her.
Rating: T, but only for brief mentions of stereotypical college behavior
Trigger warnings: Tiana is in this for people who aren’t fond of season 7 ?
Words: About 4,000
Tagging: @snowbellewells @winterbaby89 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @teamhook @bethacaciakay @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @let-it-raines @optomisticgirl
Ao3
Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight. Just a touch of the fire burning so bright. And I don’t want to mess this thing up. I don’t want to push too far. Just a shot in the dark that you just might be the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
Emma never knew that the country could be so loud. She was far away from the wedding band and the partying guests, yet the air held a cacophony of sounds. She’d always been a city girl, so she couldn’t really identify what they all were. Crickets, she knew for sure. The croaking of frogs maybe? That shrill, unceasing screech, however? That one she couldn’t place, but it was sure annoying as hell. At least far away from the fairy lights of the wedding tent the mosquitos had stopped plaguing her. An outdoor wedding in New Orleans? What was Tiana thinking?
Despite the bugs, and the strange sounds, and the shadows cast over the bayou by the full moon, she still preferred it here than back under the wedding tent. Out here Mary Margaret wasn’t trying to play matchmaker. Out here there was no DJ barking out ridiculous things like “lady’s choice” or “all the single ladies out on the floor” while he pumped out Beyoncé. Emma reached down and slid off her strappy heels, then sagged against the bark of the magnolia tree she had sought solace beneath.
“Hiding, Swan?”
She jumped as she spun around, pressing her hand to her heart. “Shit, Killian, you scared me to death!”
He just chuckled as he sauntered closer, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants. “Sorry, love. I saw you head this way and was worried you would get eaten by a crocodile down here.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Louisiana has alligators, not crocodiles.”
He shrugged. “Fairly certain they would both eat you.”
“What a lovely thought.”
Killian leaned against the tree casually. They had always felt at ease around each other ever since they met her freshman year of college. His best friend David had dragged him over to be his wingman while he hit on her roommate Mary Margaret. The rest, as they say, is history. Mary Margaret and David married back in the fall, and Emma and Killian became best friends. They hung out with the same group all through college, leaning on each other through finals, drinking binges, and nasty breakups. Especially breakups. Neal Cassidy had done a number on her, and Killian’s literal affair with a much older Milah Gold hadn’t ended much better. Killian had offered her a strong shoulder to cry on, and Emma had in turn been there for him when he drowned his misery in rum.
They understood one another.
Emma lifted her long blonde locks off her sticky neck. “How is it this hot at the end of April?”
“You think you’re melting? I’m British. I’m wondering if this is what hell feels like. And you lucked out with the much cooler wardrobe.” Killian gestured at her spaghetti strap, knee length sundress.
“Hideous color, though,” Emma said, wrinkling her nose. “Blondes shouldn’t wear yellow, or at least I think that’s a fashion rule. I look like a lemon meringue pie.”
“Nonsense, Swan, it brings out the gold in your hair.”
She snorted, used by now to Killian’s over the top compliments. She added another eye roll for good measure.
“You know,” Killian teased, “most men would be offended by your constant eye rolling. I, on the other hand, take great pride in how often you grace me with them. And as for your aversion to wearing yellow, need I point out that I am wearing the same shade? Only in the form of this hideous bow tie?”
He grimaced as he tugged at the offensive accessory, which was indeed lemon yellow. Emma had to admit it wasn’t his best color, but he looked handsome nevertheless. She was used to his chest hair breathing, so the bow tie was out of character, but he wore the suspenders well. Extremely well, actually. She averted her eyes when she realized she was staring.
“So, um, are we going to have these things constantly now?”
“You mean weddings?” He started undoing the bow tie, and that was a good look, too.
“Yeah, and I think I’m going to fit into that category of always a bridesmaid.”
“I think the old wives’ tale requires you to be a bridesmaid three times before you’re doomed to singlehood, so I think you’re safe.” Now he was the one rolling his eyes. “As if you’re the husband-hunting type. I’ve watched you Emma; you run in the opposite direction as soon as the bride aims her bouquet.”
“And Mary Margaret was definitely aiming,” Emma pointed out, “but a month from now, I’ll be Elsa’s bridesmaid, so there you go. Doomed to singlehood as you put it.”
“I’m in that wedding too, second time as best man, third time in the wedding party, so am I also doomed?”
“I’m pretty sure it only applies to women.”
“How sexist.”
Now that his tie was hanging loose, he undid several of the top buttons of his dress shirt. He rolled up both sleeves, revealing his tattoos: one of a compass pointing north that he already had when they met, and the other of an anchor. The second one he had regretted along with his hangover the next morning, mumbling about looking like a bloody pirate cliché. Emma had informed him that it could have been worse – if she hadn’t been there to stop him, Milah’s name would have been encircling it. Again, it was all a very good look on him, standing there in the light of the moon, the top of his shirt open, his arms exposed, and those surprisingly sexy suspenders. Her best friend was hot, it wasn’t as if this were a new revelation, but she had to admit that her body was responding to it more often lately.
It suddenly seemed as if the stars above had lowered and settled beneath the boughs of the magnolia tree that ensconced them. Dozens of fireflies blinked around them, perhaps hundreds. Emma was rendered speechless for a moment as they all flitted and blinked around them.
“Amazing,” Killian whispered, as if speaking would shatter the magic around them, “I’ve never seen them before.”
His words pulled her gaze away from the entrancing spots of light and to his face instead. The city girl thing meant fireflies had been rare in her life, too, and growing up in foster care meant she’d never had that idyllic summer evening of chasing them with a jar in her hand. Yet she had seen them before. She studied Killian’s expression, the way his eyes lit up in the moonlight watching the fascinating insects. He reached out a hand, and one landed there, crawling around and blinking in his palm before flying away again.
It felt as if time had slowed, the branches of the tree cocooning them in some sort of enchantment. Under that spell of dazzling light, fragrant magnolia blossoms, and singing crickets, Emma reached out and grabbed hold of Killian’s suspenders. Yet instead of yanking him to her, she stepped closer to him instead. She searched his blue eyes intently, her knuckles turning white as she held fast to those damn suspenders. His eyes darkened and his expression softened as he gently brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, then slid his hand into her hair. He slowly lowered his face to hers, brushing their noses, and God! was he torturing her on purpose? Evidently so, because he first dragged his lips across her cheek, then her chin before claiming her lips.
Even then, he didn’t speed up. He moved his lips tenderly across hers, then tilted her head to deepen the kiss. He swiped his tongue across her lips, asking for more, and she gladly gave it. She finally let go of the suspenders, taking her time dragging her palms over his chest and shoulders, then wrapping her arms around his neck. Killian still had one of his hands in her hair, but his other arm encircled her, pulling him flush against her. Emma was embarrassed when a moan escaped her throat. God, could this man kiss. She had always wondered . . .
Emma gasped then, but not from desire. Her brain had finally reared up to ask what the hell she was doing. She pushed away from him, her face burning.
“Emma -”
“- don’t,” she silenced him, unable to look him in the eye, “don’t say a thing, okay? It was just a kiss. Just . . . don’t follow me. Wait five minutes.”
She turned then and fled from the tree and the fireflies and the moonlight. Fled from her best friend who could apparently kiss the living hell out of her. Her best friend who had just muttered, “as you wish,” maybe on purpose. He knew that was her favorite movie, so what would possess him to say that? Unless . . .
No, no, no, no. Killian was her best friend. They had an understanding, a great platonic relationship. What the hell had she been thinking kissing him like that? Or had he kissed her first? She groaned as she slipped into the back of the crowd in the wedding tent, pressing her sweaty palms to her flushed cheeks. It didn’t matter. She had been the one to grab him. Stupid sexy suspenders!
*****************************************************
Three weeks, two days, five hours, and twenty-seven minutes. That was how long it had been since Emma had seen her best friend. Three weeks, two days, five hours, and twenty-seven minutes since their kiss. It had been the longest length of time she had gone without seeing or talking to him since they had met. Even when they were dating Neal and Milah, they had at least talked every single day. It had been a sore point with her and Neal. He’d been extremely jealous of Killian.
The thing was, avoiding Killian also meant avoiding everyone else. Especially Mary Margaret because Killian and David were always hanging out, and Elsa because her fiancé was Liam Jones. Avoiding Elsa was an especially thorny issue since Emma was her maid of honor, but it wasn’t like her friend had a lack of attendants. Her own sister was her matron of honor, for God’s sake, surely she had everything covered. What the hell Emma would do when the wedding day actually arrived, she wasn���t sure. It would be a little hard for the maid of honor to avoid the best man.
During week one, her friends hadn’t suspected anything. Emma sometimes got prickly and withdrew. When week two rolled around, they started texting and calling in concern. It didn’t take much for Mary Margaret and Elsa to discover she had also withdrawn from Killian, and both also well knew how odd that was. So Emma wasn’t really surprised when she received the ultimatum from Elsa at the three week, two day, five hour, twenty-seven minute mark: Meet me for coffee, or I’ll turn into a Bridezilla.
Now, Elsa was much too kind to follow through on such a threat, so that wasn’t why Emma relented. It just made her realize how worried her friend was, and that was the last thing she wanted for Elsa a week before her wedding. So she dragged herself off the couch and away from Netflix to meet her friend.
What she wasn’t expecting was to find not just Elsa but also Mary Margaret, Anna, and Tiana sitting at a table in the corner of their favorite coffee shop. Elsa’s entire wedding party. Tiana especially shocked Emma, since she and Naveen were still in the blissful haze of being newlyweds. They’d only returned from their honeymoon five days ago.
Emma arched a brow suspiciously at them before sitting down. “Is this an intervention or something?”
Tiana arched her brow right back and slid a chair out with her foot. “In a way. Sit.”
People typically said nothing but “yes, ma’am” to Tiana, even if they weren’t from the South. Emma mumbled it herself with a scowl as she plopped down into the offered chair. The diamonds glistening on the fingers of all four women seemed to mock her.
“Emma,” Elsa began, “we’re all worried about you. Liam and David are worried about Killian.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “What?”
“It’s true,” Mary Margaret added, “is it true you’ve been avoiding him for over three weeks now?”
Emma lifted a hand to stop their words. “If this is about the wedding, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be there, and I’ll also be on my best behavior.”
“You think that’s all that this is about?” Anna exclaimed, sounding deeply offended. “I’m the sister of the bride, so we’ve got it all covered. We’re worried about you.”
“And Killian,” Elsa added.
Emma bit the inside of her cheek at the sight of Elsa’s furrowed brow. Was Liam really that worried about his brother? But it had just been one kiss . . .
“What happened at my wedding?” Tiana asked.
“What are you talking about?” Emma tried to sound nonchalant, but she couldn’t stop the traitorous blush that rose to her cheeks.
Tian a leaned across the table. “Rumor has it you and Killian both disappeared for a while. Then you both showed up later looking flushed.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “We didn’t leave together or come back together.” Truth. “And it was just a warm night.” Partial truth.
Her four friends exchanged glances that clearly said they weren’t buying it. Emma blinked. “Wait - did Killian . . . tell you anything?”
Mary Margaret looked smug. “I thought there was nothing to tell.”
“He’s been brooding ever since the wedding,” Elsa explained, “but he refuses to tell Liam why. All he will say is that you’re upset with him and that you won’t return his texts or calls.”
Emma let out a long sigh. She got a short reprieve when a waitress came over and took their orders, but when she walked away, her friends’ pointed stares and heavy silence let her know they weren’t going to let it go.
“I kissed him,” she finally hissed under her breath.
“Who?” Mary Margaret asked.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Killian! Who do you think?”
“Wait!” Anna said eagerly. “Did you kiss him, or did he kiss you?”
Emma rubbed her temple. “Both, sort of? I don’t know, it’s all sort of hazy.”
“Were you drunk?”
“God, Tiana, no!”
She shrugged. “Just making sure.”
Their orders came, and in between sips of hot chocolate, Emma poured it all out: the teasing and flirting under the tree, the moonlight, the fireflies, and Killian looking so unfairly attractive in suspenders. She told them about fisting her hands around those suspenders and the slow-motion way Killian had bent towards her. She ended the story with pink cheeks, and it wasn’t from the cocoa.
“Wow,” Anna said into the silence.
Emma groaned and covered her face with both hands. “I can’t believe I just word vomited all that.”
Mary Margaret reached out with a gentle hand to her elbow. “Emma, none of us are surprised.”
She looked up in confusion. “You’re not?”
Tiana shrugged. “Frankly, I’m surprised this is the first time.” She took a sip of her latte, wagging an eyebrow at Emma over the top of her mug. “I even thought you two were maybe . . . friends with benefits?”
Emma’s mouth dropped open, and her face went from pink to red as her friends all laughed.
“Oh no,” Elsa said, “our Emma here has been far too oblivious for that.”
“Oblivious?”
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. “Come on, Emma, seriously? The yearning looks? The doey eyes?”
Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t yearn.”
“Maybe,” Tiana quipped as if she didn’t believe her for one second, “but he does.”
Elsa squirmed. “Killian has never come out and said as much to Liam, but . . . Liam knows anyway. He can tell that his brother is in love with you.”
“I-in love with me?”
“It isn’t just obvious to his brother, Emma,” Anna told her, “it’s been obvious to all of us. For a long time.”
Emma looked in shock around the table at each of her friends. They were all gently nodding in agreement. Mary Margaret took her hand in both of hers.
“And honey, you’re in love with him too.”
“Yeah,” Anna laughed as she took a sip of her cappuccino, “that’s been obvious too.”
********************************************************
Maybe Emma should have contacted Killian after speaking with her friends, knowing that he was hurt by the wall she had thrown up between them, but she had far too much to process. Her friends said it was obvious, not just that Killian loved her, but that they loved each other. Could she really miss something like that completely? Misread her own feelings?
So the wedding rehearsal ended up being the first time she had seen Killian since their kiss. Elsa, unlike Tiana, was not fond of the heat, so her late May wedding was being held in the ballroom of an old manor by the sea. The French doors would be thrown wide to let in the ocean breezes, but they would all be safely inside for the entire ceremony and reception. The ice sculptures and ice cream sundae bar also necessitated the air conditioning being cranked up. Instead of melting in the Louisiana heat, they might all freeze to death at Elsa’s wedding.
The actual ceremony took place in the foyer of the manor, with the wedding party lined up on the wide staircase. The rehearsal was so hectic, with the wedding coordinator lining everyone up and making sure the music cues were correct, that Emma and Killian only exchanged quick pleasantries until his turn came to escort her back down the aisle.
“I’m not mad at you,” she whispered to him as they made their way down the snow white runner.
“Then why wouldn’t you return my messages?”
They were in the hallway now, crammed in with the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen. It felt like everyone had grown quiet when they entered.
“I just needed time to think about things,” she whispered in an even softer voice. She finally, for the first time that night, locked her gaze on his. His eyes looked sad.
“I wish I could apologize for kissing you,” he whispered back, “but I’m not sorry at all.”
Emma bit back a gasp. “You’re not?”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. A tiny smile flirted with the corner of his mouth. “No. Are you?”
She bit her lower lip before letting a small grin fill her own face. “No. I’m not sorry either.”
His eyes lit up then, his smile broad and dimpling his cheeks. Emma lifted her hand quickly, resting it on his chest. HIs heart was thumping hard beneath her palm.
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m not . . . confused.” She frowned, wishing she could explain herself better.
“Okay,” Killian said with a sigh. He glanced around the room where everyone was pretending not to be eavesdroppping. He lowered his face close to her ear. “We’ll talk after the rehearsal dinner.”
When Emma slipped out before dinner with a lame excuse to Elsa about not feeling well, she knew she was a complete and utter coward.
***************************************************
Avoiding Killian at the wedding was surprisingly easy. Prior to the ceremony, all the bridesmaids were on the opposite side of the manor in the bridal suite getting their hair and makeup done. Elsa wanted Liam’s first glimpse of her to be when she walked down the aisle, so the guys and girls also took pictures separately. Talking was impossible during the ceremony, and even when the entire wedding party took joint pictures, it was too chaotic for a private conversation.
Then they were all ushered into the ballroom amidst cheers from the guests. Liam and Elsa had their first dance, then the entire wedding party were seated at the head table. Emma had been expecting to be seated next to Killian, but the wedding coordinator had seated them in the traditional way with all of them sitting in a row facing the guests, men to the groom’s left, women to the bride’s right. As soon as Emma ate, she quickly slipped away under the guise of heading to the ladies’ room. She found a dark alcove, and seated herself there to wait out the rest of the celebrations. She knew she couldn’t avoid Killian forever, but today was just too much. He wasn’t wearing suspenders this time, but he still looked far too handsome in a suit and an ice blue bow tie that brought out the color of his eyes. Every time he glanced her way, her heart raced. The entire scenario was too similar to their first kiss. In short, she didn’t trust herself.
She sipped on a flute of champagne as the DJ cranked out one party tune after another. She had a perfect view of the cake, so she didn’t miss Liam dabbing Elsa’s nose with icing and kissing it off. When the crowd thinned, she even snuck over to get a slice. She heard hoots and cheers and some sort of stripper music, so she figured Liam was removing Elsa’s garter now. Such a ridiculous, sexist custom, if you asked her.
“And now!” the DJ cried. “The bride will toss her bouquet!”
Sure enough, he punctuated the announcement with Beyoncé's “All the Single Ladies.” Emma rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” the DJ called out again, lowering the volume of the music almost completely, “we need the maid of honor on the dance floor. The bride says she won’t throw her bouquet without her. Maid of honor? Emma Swan!”
Emma tried to shrink farther into her dark alcove, but the entire ballroom had started chanting her name. It was only a matter of time before Anna discovered her and practically dragged her to the front of the room. Emma’s face burned as everyone laughed and cheered. Elsa winked at her. Emma pointed a finger threateningly, but her friend just laughed.
Emma wasn’t fully aware of the set up until every other woman on the dance floor suddenly disappeared as the bouquet sailed through the air. Mary Margaret had aimed, but had failed to take into account Emma’s complete disinterest in catching. Elsa had upped the game. Emma either had to catch the damn thing or hurt the bride’s feelings. She just managed to grab it with the tips of her fingers, the petals skimming the floor. Everyone laughed uproariously as Emma lifted the bouquet half-heartedly. She did, however, accept her friend’s hug.
“That was low,” she whispered in Elsa’s ear.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Elsa whispered back.
Now what did she mean by that?
“Okay, maid of honor,” the DJ announced, “tradition says the woman who catches the bouquet must dance with the man who caught the garter.”
Emma groaned. Of course it did. The DJ began to play Lady Antebellum’s “Just a Kiss.” The title of the song made dread fill her gut. Surely Liam and Elsa hadn’t . . .
Oh , but they had. She turned to see Killian standing there, Elsa’s garter dangling from his fingertips and an apologetic grin on his face.
“Sorry?” The word was cancelled out by the smirk and the cocky tilt of his head.
Emma scowled. “Isn’t that kind of gross? That was on your sister-in-law's thigh.”
Killian wrinkled his nose. “Seriously, Swan? You had to go there?”
She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her. This was the easy banter they had always shared. He crammed the garter in his coat pocket and reached to take her hand in his. He rested the other at her waist. As they swayed together, she was surprised to find that this was easy too.
“I’ve missed you,” he told her.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
They swayed silently, drawing closer and closer until his arms circled her waist and hers circled his neck. She fiddled with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Are you really . . . I mean, do you really . . . “ she let out a frustrated breath of air.
“Yes, and yes,” he told her with a sparkle in his eyes.
She rolled hers. “How can you answer when you don’t even know the question?”
“If I waited for you to spit it out, we’d be here all night.”
Emma smacked him in the chest as he laughed. When he drew her in his arms again, she rested her head against his shoulder.
“The question, I believe, is: Are you really in love with me? Or alternately: Do you really love me? Therefore, the answer to both is yes.” He spoke the words against her hair, and when he finished, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” she told him honestly, pulling back to look him in the eye.
He cupped her face in his hands. “Oh Emma, that’s impossible. Being with you can only make my life infinitely better.”
This time when they kissed, it was met with cheers and shouts of “it’s about damn time!” Not that either of them noticed. For them, they may as well have been back underneath that moonlit magnolia tree, hidden away with enchanted fireflies.
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The Winter Soldier: A Ghost Story- Chp4
Pairing: Winter Soldier x OFC
Summary: Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a ghost story. So why does he keep coming back?
Warnings: Mild violence, murder, blood, language. Someone being stupid.
Important Note: This story is a lot darker than anything I have ever wrote with the themes in it. Please proceed with caution during those moments. Everything in this story is a connection. (translations not from google)
Words: 7k
Ophelia is rushing down the hallway, double checking that all the pages are together in the leather case folder that Pierce asked her to bring as requested by one of the Councilmen. She’s half way there when her shoulder slams into something solid. The three folders tumble out of her arms before she can stop them, physically wincing at the sharp pain the impact caused in her bruised ribs.
“Well now, if those weren’t held with metal clips that could’ve been a disaster.”
Ophelia’s eyes snap up, knowing the voice as soon as they spoke. Her gaze lands on a clean-shaven handsome face with a chiseled chin, sharp jaw and an amused expression aimed at her. His blonde hair is trimmed neatly, short to his head, and his dark blue eyes are as friendly as ever.
“Daniel!” Ophelia chirps, a surprised smile on her face.
Daniel Pierce smiles brightly at her, bending over to pick up the fallen folders. He gathers them quickly before holding them up for her to take. He opens his mouth to speak when she halts him.
“Wait, give me a moment,” She tells him, taking the folders, “and thanks!”
She turns, leaving his mouth half open in an unformed sentence. Continuing down the hall, she makes it to the room without anymore interruptions. She quietly opens the door as someone is in the middle of speaking, carefully sliding the folders on the table over to her boss. Ten sets of eyes of the World’s Security Council glance at her, so she waves briefly, accepting their nods or waves back.
Then she backs out of the room while making sure the door stays silent. She turns so her back is to the glass, releasing a slow exhale. Now that she’s delivered the folders, the small spike of adrenaline is dying down and the dull aching in her ribs makes itself knows. She briefly touches her left hand to the area, gently rubbing her fingers over it as if that will soothe the injury.
Daniel. Right. Ophelia snaps back to it, ignoring the twinge of pain; a feat not foreign to her. As she approaches the son of her boss, also known as her ex, she glares at him. He has knowing smile on his lips, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.
“What’s that look for?” She inquires, hands on her hips.
“Good to see your perception of work hasn’t changed,” He quips, “Always so precise and on time.”
“It’s what got me this position in the first place. That, and apparently someone put in a good word after they found out that I applied.”
Daniel laughs, mouth wide open. “We both know you got this job all on your own, Affie.”
Ophelia leans forward to lightly smack his bicep as she looks around frantically. “Mark Daniel Pierce, don’t you dare call me that!” She scolds in a hushed voice. “No one knows that nickname except my sister!”
Pouting with an over exaggerated lip, he rubs his arm. “You just used my full name.”
“Because you compromised private, embarrassing information.”
“You’re so dramatic,” He chuckles, finally breaking his frown.
“Me? You’re rubbing your arm like a hit you with a bat,” She begins to walk past him. “Let’s go into my office.”
“So official.”
“You’re in town for two seconds and the teasing is through the roof.”
“It’s been a year, I have to annoy you somehow.”
Ophelia rolls her eyes fondly, opening the door of her office for him. Daniel plops down on the chair in front of her desk as she sits behind her computer, wincing just slightly when her ribs jab with pain. She quickly answers an email that popped up on her screen, then gives her full attention to the man she hasn’t seen in a year.
“So,” She begins, leaning back in her chair, “What brings you to town?”
Daniel’s eyes light up at her question, sitting up straighter. “I’m engaged.”
“What!?” Ophelia snaps herself forward, a smile growing across her face. “Daniel, congratulations!”
He shrugs, a small blush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah, thanks, Elia. I’m just- she’s amazing, and I can’t believe she said yes. I came back to tell my parents. Well, I haven’t told them yet.”
“Why not?” She frowns in confusion.
“Alexis couldn’t get off work, so she’s coming in Friday afternoon,” He explains, pulling out his phone and handing the device to her.
Taking the phone, she enlarges the picture he displayed. “Well, damn,” She chuckles, staring at the decent sized ring. “I wouldn’t say no to that either.”
Daniel laughs heartily, accepting his phone when she hands it back. “Thanks. We’re telling them Friday at dinner. But I was wondering if you’re busy Saturday? Maybe three of us could do lunch? I’d love for you to meet her.”
“I’ve met her, Daniel,” Ophelia chuckles, genuinely happy for her giddy friend.
“Yeah, but it’s been years and you haven’t met my fiancé,” When he says the word, the softest expression on his face.
“Of course. I’d love to meet your fiancé. Just give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”
“Great!” Daniel stands up, prompting her to do the same. “I’ll let you get back to work, I just stopped by to give something my dad forgot at home.”
Ophelia gives him a quick parting hug, flinching just slightly at the pain in her ribs. “Alright, tell your mom I said hi, and I’ll see you Saturday.”
Daniel nods, walking towards the door. He stops to turn around, a bright smile on his lips. “I’m so excited to get married.”
“I’m excited for you! Now go, before you get me fired,” She playfully shoos him away.
He cackles as he exits her office.
March 18th, 2012 9:30pm
The night is brisk, although one might not remember with the warmth of the vault a half mile beneath the bank. Sweat prickles at Agent Bernstein’s temple, a drop running down his cheek as using the sleeve of his gray lab coat to wipe it away. He has been fixing the slight electrical malfunction of the computer’s hard drive, tinkering with a faulty wire, for the past hour. He works cautiously but with precision, knowing the ever presence of threats hanging over his head should he fail.
When he has tampered with the wire, glancing over once his shoulder for prying eyes, Agent Bernstein crawls out from under the table. Switching on the computers and electrical system, he hears the gentle sound of machines coming to life. He’s alone in this certain room, the one he dubbed as the psychiatric torture chamber, allowing him the privacy to work. He knows the other agents are preparing to receive instructions for the next mission, which means the Asset will be arriving soon.
After he scans his fingerprint to unlock the computer, he pulls up the data functions of the chair itself. All looks correct, as does the system meant to digitally read vitals, and the digital scan of the Asset’s brain. He keeps the vital scan up on the display screen, moving over to the control switchboard for the chair. Agent Bernstein tests the main dial, the cracking and whirling of electrical noises signal the chair powering on. He turns the dial up halfway, wishing he had a body to test it on; maybe that one agent who seems to abuse the Asset for no reason. He smirks down at the dial, listening carefully to the unmatched surge of power. He had no idea if what he just did will work, only time will tell.
“Bernstein!” Barks a sharp voice.
He startles, quickly turning the dial down until it shuts off. He turns to face the voice, the man who recruited him is flanked by a team of men in black clothing, and bullet proof vests. They’re armed with semi-automatic guns, held idly in their hands but, thankfully, not aimed at him.
“Sir,” Agent Bernstein responds steadily.
“Is the system functioning properly?”
“Yes, sir. It’s ready.”
“Good.” The man nods, turning to the agent on his right. “Bring the Asset.”
Agent Bernstein keeps his slight relief to himself, turning back to the computer in front of him. The doctors in charge of monitoring the Asset’s brain activity and scans enter the room, quickly getting to work on either side of him. He keeps his eyes on the screen, bringing up a data box to monitor the chair’s system. He hears the heavy footsteps of boots enter the room a few minutes later, along with the scraping of another set of shoes. As if they’re dragging him. Bernstein inhales and exhales slowly, trying to keep his heart calm.
Soon the screams will start.
Bernstein reluctantly turns to face the chair; the Asset, the Soldier, already strapped down. One of the doctors leaves his post to push a rubber guard into the Soldier’s mouth. Bernstein has noticed the mouth piece before, sometimes they give it to the poor man, other times they leave him to bite down on his tongue. Those are the times when Bernstein is forced to clean the blood away from the Soldier’s chin.
He catches the eye of the doctor, nodding his head. Ignoring the sickening curl in his chest, Agent Bernstein clicks the system control panel on the screen. The chair buzzes to life, the extra restraints snapping into place against the Soldier’s body, his breath coming out in short panicked huffs of air. Bernstein slowly turns the dial up, the paddles of the machine crackling with electrical current. He hopes his tampering works.
The clenched screaming begins.
It’s hard to ignore the sounds, the horrible noises that will echo in his chest for the rest of his life. However, Agent Bernstein is distracted by the agent pulling out a small, dirty red journal he didn’t notice the last time. A solid black star is imprinted on the front, matching the red star on the Soldier’s left arm. The agent cracks the book open, easily falling to a page previously marked.
As the man begins to recite words in Russian, Agent Bernstein discreetly turns down the dial.
“желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”
Finally, the clamps of the machine release from the man, moving back into their original position. Bernstein swallows the thick lump forming in his throat, pulling his gaze away from the Soldier’s twitching head.
“Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон.” There’s a short pause. “добро пожаловать обратно, солдат.” (Welcome back, Soldier)
Agent Bernstein can’t keep his eyes from slipping back to the scene in front of him. The man in the chair takes a short breath. Then his shoulders drop into submission, his head tilts forward just slightly. His body, dressed in a dark gray thermal vest and matching pants, remains clam. His dark hair is stringy, slightly dripping droplets of water onto his shoulder.
“готовы соблюдать.”
When the Soldier speaks, his voice is low, rough from being locked away for a few days. Bernstein still isn’t sure how exactly the man is locked up or kept, since the people he works for haven’t given him access to that certain area. Agent Bernstein hadn’t noticed the new presence in the room as the Soldier was being tortured into submission once again. When he does, his heart rate speeds up, but he grits his teeth to remain silent and ignores the sting of bile churning in his stomach.
Alexander Pierce takes the few steps needed to stand in front of the Asset.
“New mission, Soldier,” He informs him with a steady, poised voice. He has a manila folder in his hand, slipping out a photo, holding it up. “This man is a traitor to Hydra. He obtains valuable information that could compromise our plan to help the world. If he is successful in trading that information, we can’t continue to give what mankind needs. What the world needs. Eliminated him.”
March 18th, 2012 11:00pm
Nightfall brings the last lingering round of winter. It holds onto the plants with its icy fingers, not relenting to the life of Spring just yet. Snow is absent from the dark sky, a silence through the night except for one lone faint breath. The quiet draw of an inhale, the soft hiss of an exhale, then, a light crinkle of a withered paged book.
The man lounging in the chair with a novel held in his hands fleeting wonders if he should light the idle wood in the fireplace. Just one last cackling warmth before the weather turns warm; chase away the lingering scent of winter.
Shifting, the man adjusts his book, eyes staring at the page in front of him, but not reading. He listens, carefully, with ears attuned to the tiniest sound. Waiting. A hard metal object digs into the side of his thigh, slowly dropping his right hand to place his fingers over it. Waiting.
Inhale. He hears nothing. Exhale. Nothing.
Inhale. Exhales. Nothing.
Inhale. Something shifts in the air. He lifts his eyes from the book, trying his best to remain clam, keep his heartbeat down. Fear can be pungent. Noticeable. It can make the skin prickle, make blood run cold, and Winter just found him.
He slowly lowers the book, eyes locked on the shadows of the far corner of the room. His hand tightens around the metal object, index finger quietly slipping over a trigger. He had waited for this moment. He had known this moment would come, that his past, his betrayal in their eyes would catch up to him. No one is safe from the monster; cut one head off, another takes its place.
He is one of those doomed heads. Death has come for him, but he refuses to go as quiet as the night.
“Я ждал тебя, Зимний Солдат,” The man declares in his native Russian tongue with a low, gruffy voice. “Зима ищет моей смерти. (I have been expecting you, Winter Soldier. Winter seeks my death.)
The man knew this day would come, that his time was running out. The Winter Soldier remains silent in the shadows, the halo of light from the street lamps is the only source illuminating a strip of gold over his metal appended. The red Soviet star standing is contract against it. A blood red reminder; no one gets out alive.
Setting the novel down on the side table, the man begins to stand, as the Soldier’s cold gaze follow his move. As expected, the Soldier wears the mask they gifted him, the one that silences the shell of the Asset. The hard plastic being the object that will keep this night a secret forever, lost in another burned file of the dead. Of the betrayers.
The man tightens his grip on the gun in his hand. The Soldier’s eyes flicker to the movement. He has yet to draw any of his own weapons from the plethora of options strapped to his person. The man swallows, feeling sweat begin to bead down his neck.
“Я уверен, вы понимаете. Я не пойду спокойно,” He speaks to the stoic Soldier. (I’m sure you understand. I won’t quietly.)
He takes several cautious steps toward him, coming as close as he can. He slowly points the barrel of the silencer under his own chin. The Asset’s eyes gleam for a split second, his head tilting just a fraction. It’s enough of a distraction for the man to unleash a small knife from his left sleeve. He abruptly jerks his arm up in an attack, pointing the gun towards the Soldier at the same time and fires.
Two soft pops echo around the room, followed by the splatter of blood and the shattering of a bullet greeting a skull. A heavy thud plunks on the wooden floorboards, the dark thick flow of red beginning to seep into the designs of the wood. The Soldier looks down at the man on the ground for a moment, his eyes now vacant with life.
The Soldier bends to take the Gerber knife from the former Hydra agent’s slack hand, leaving the body there, as he slips out of the house as soundlessly as he came in. Minutes pass until a vaguely familiar twinge of pain stings through the Soldier’s nerves, down his right arm. With a flare of annoyance rising in his chest he adjusts his course, a vague memory of an old rendezvous point flashing through is mind.
Pressing his steel fingers to a spot on his right shoulder just under the collarbone, he releases a sharp breath. When he pulls his hand away, the sliver is coated in bright red blood. He furiously shoves his right hand through his long hair, frustrated with the strands and the wound the traitor inflected. His palm comes away with another smear of red.
The Soldier ignores the injuries, pushing forward towards the meeting point. He details his surroundings, calculating every small movement, every little noise, his body moving as if his legs were out of his control. He reaches the point, an abandoned building just streets away from the dead man’s home.
He finds his way in, easily climbing steel railings despite the blood oozing out of the wound. He finds that one window, accessible and inconspicuous with no breaks to the glass, slipping inside. Once there, he walks into a smaller room, finding a curved porcelain seat and sinks into it.
He grinds his teeth in irritation as it’s not often he is wounded. Wounds, injuries, are a nuisance, just little blips to slow down a mission that could be handled quickly. He lifts the blade of the knife, pressing it into the gaping hole through his vest. A clenched noise emits from behind the mask for several moments, as the sharp pain sends fire through his veins briefly. The blade sinks easily into the wound, slicing through leather and new flesh, until he feels the solid piece of metal lodged in his shoulder.
He flicks his wrist, the bullet making a tinkering noise as it hits the ground. The Soldier drops his left arm, dropping his head back until it plunks against the wall behind him. Then he waits for his handlers to arrive, reveling in the success of his mission.
Friday, March 18th, 2012 11:45pm
Ophelia finally makes it to her door after what she thought would be a normal work day. Pierce had been in meeting after meeting, which required updated policies to be proofread and sent back. It took her working overtime to finish proofing, but then there was a strange fail to the computer systems. On every floor.
She had groaned and thanked her past self for saving the proofs every few minutes. Aggravated, she had marched right down to the IT and Computer Specialists floor to see what in the hell was going on. Carter and half of the department had been absent, long gone by now and probably eating hot dinners at home. It gave Ophelia the privacy she needed to access Carter’s computer, pulling up the programming to the central control system. Briefly, she pondered if it was just a ruse for Carter to get her to “work her magic” as he liked to call it. However, Carter would’ve been there to gloat, and not be home with his loving husband probably eating pizza or curry. God, she had been hungry.
Finally, after several minutes of pulling up the codes and statistics, she had figured out the problem. She added a few formulas here and there, for future prevention should something like this happening again. Just little back up system to the back up system. She had logged off his computer, then marched right back to her office.
Now, Ophelia rest her forehead against her door for a moment, exhaling. She had finally grabbed food on the way home, eating the tacos in a record pace in her car. All she wanted to do at this very moment was take a bath with some bubbles and open a bottle of wine. She unlocks her door, stumbles into her apartment, noting the time on her clock; 11:46 pm. One of the latest nights she’s had in a while. She closes the door behind her making sure to lock it as she kicks off her heeled boots. She walks through her apartment, turning on the lights as she goes and dropping her purse on the coffee table.
She’s sighs, feeling the weight of the stressful work day ease from her shoulders as she takes off her blazer, tossing it on the couch. She calls for Binks by making clicking noises with her tongue and begins unbuttoning her white blouse. Her cat doesn’t greet her, but usually that means he’s sleeping under his fuzzy blanket tent. By the time her shirt is half open, she already has the bottle of wine in her hand, finding a glass and pouring the red liquid into it. Ophelia makes sure to refill Binks’ food bowl, otherwise he’ll be yelling at her at four in the morning.
She finishes stripping off her shirt, leaving it on the dining table, not caring for the trail of clothes she’s leaving along the way. She adjusts her bra for a moment, cursing underwire and bigger breasts, and the fact that she barely got away with wearing a blue lace bra under that shirt. Grabbing her glass again, she finally makes her way to her room, taking her hair down from the bun she had it in.
Ophelia turns on light of the bathroom, then promptly screams.
The wine glass falls to the floor, shattering across the tile, deep reddish-purple splattering everywhere. Her heart flies to her throat and she grabs the nearest thing she can reach. Which happens to be the hair dryer.
Lounging in the bathtub, or slumped rather, is a man, tall enough that his legs hang over the edge, his toes touching the floor. The man is dressed in black from head to toe, a heavy leather vest over his board, heaving chest. He wears a black mask, something that almost looks like a muzzle that covers the bottom half of his face, as his eyes are covered with what she swears is eye black grease athletes use. His legs are clad in black tactical pants and his feet dawn heavy combat boots. There are thigh holsters on each side holding two knives and a pistol, a utility belt loaded with more weapons and there’s a semi-automatic gun resting next to his hip.
It’s the dark, long sleeve shirt that gets her though, for the left sleeve is gone. The man’s entire left arm, from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers seem to made of metal. The sleek silver gleams dully against the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, a red star imprinted on his shoulder. He same metal hand that is resting in the barrel of the gun.
Everything about this intruder screams danger. Turn and run away!
Except, he slowly lifted his head as Ophelia screamed. His irises are a startling blue, contrasting against his black smudge band around his eyes. A bright blue that belongs in paintings and not in the body of this dark, menacing stranger. His long, dark hair falls around his face, stringy and matted to the left side of his forehead. His eyes look cold, albeit tired, exhausted, and it’s then that Ophelia notices the man is injured.
There’s a decent sized cut on his forehead and a small hole in his leather vest in his right shoulder. Blood is seeping out of the wound, racing down his torso, catching in the bizarre straps across the vest. There’s a moment of sympathetic instinct that takes over Ophelia, wanting to help the man and tend to his injuries, or at least call 911. Because maybe, just maybe, he is a victim, just like she- No. He broke into her home, he’s armed. He looks dangerous and her fight or flight response is finally kicking in. Fight. It’s always fight with her.
“Who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here!?” Ophelia demands, raising her menacing weapon of the hair dryer.
The man just blinks at her, as if he’s bored. He’s loaded with weapons. In retrospect, shouting at this sinister looking man probably wasn’t the best way to go about the situation. Ophelia’s eyes drop to the broken glass and she drops the dryer, opting for the sharp pointed stem of the broken wine glass instead.
“Fine. I’m calling the cops,” She hopes that by threatening the authorities arrival that this man won’t harm her.
With her free hand, she reaches into her pocket pulling out her phone. The man shifts, then abruptly her phone is knocked out of her hand. Ophelia looks at the counter behind her, her phone lying there with the screen black, the glass shattered beyond repair with tiny curls of smoke emitting from it. Because he threw a knife at her, at it. He threw a fucking knife at her phone. She’s about to panic, when she realizes said knife is on now on the counter. That was stupid on his part. She picks it up, now armed with a real weapon to defend herself. Grant, it’s a knife to a gun fight if it happens to go that route.
He remains stoic, despite her pointing his own weapon at him. Besides her phone, he hasn’t moved to attack her. Not even aiming his gun at her. Her eyes focus on his bleeding form once more, briefly and wildly wondering if this man isn’t truly dangerous, but scared. He’s wounded. Maybe he’s hiding.
Ophelia sighs, lowering her arms but keeps the knife at the ready. Alright, think. A strange, murderous looking man has broken into her apartment and is currently bleeding out in her bathtub. He just threw a knife at her phone, so she can’t call for help. He hasn’t shot her yet and didn’t even nick her hand with the blade; not even the slightest bit of skin. Skin exposed and on display.
With an internal start, Ophelia realizes she’s shirtless. Because of course life-threatening moments like this happen in embarrassing situations. She rolls her eyes so hard it gives her a headache. She understands how vulnerable she might seem to him but again, the man hasn’t acted upon it yet. With that in mind, and the continuously bleeding wounds, she makes her decision.
Granted, probably the stupidest decision she has ever made.
“Fuck me,” Ophelia grumbles under her breath. “Fuck it all, I’ll probably end up dying because I can’t leave well enough alone.” She raises the knife once more, jabbing it in the air, “Don’t move. You’re hurt and I’m going to help you. I’ll be right back.”
She slowly and carefully backs out of her bathroom, trying to avoid stepping on glass with her bare feet. The man’s blue eyes follow her movement until she can’t see them anymore. She hurries to the kitchen, grabbing her heavy duty first aid kit from the cabinet, then runs back to her room. She quickly pulls on a tank top, searches for the her sewing kit she knows she has, then slips on her sandals.
When she enters the bathroom, the man hasn’t moved, save for his head tilted back again. She lays her supplies out across the counter top, keeping her body half turned towards him. She opens the first kit, shifting through supplies until she gathers what she needs. Anti-septic wipes, small and large gauze pads, wrappings, medical tape, butterfly band aids. Tweezers, because she’s pretty sure that’s a bullet wound in his shoulder and grabs the bottle of alcohol from under the sink.
“I swear to God if you end up stabbing me,” She mutters as she sits on the edge of the tub.
Other than just tilting his head to watch her with expressionless eyes, the man remains still. She swallows her fear but lets the skills her mother taught her years ago take over. Glancing down she assesses the amount of blood he’s already lost, finding the cause of his shoulder wound. A small bullet coated in thick blood lays on the bottom of the tub. It’s a clear sign that the bullet had been lodged into the joint of his shoulder.
Going by the smaller knife next to the bullet as well, he definitely dug out the bullet himself. Ophelia reaches above the toilet to grab a smaller towel, folding it so when she presses it to the wound, the blood won’t soak through immediately. However, she can’t really d anything to help him if he doesn’t remove his vest. Or that mask.
“What’s your name?” She attempts as calmly as she can. Despite it, she can hear the shakiness in her own voice.
For the first time, his blue eyes flash with what she thinks is confusion. He doesn’t speak, but his eyebrows twitch down minutely. It was a strange reaction, but not one she’s hasn’t seen before. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.
“Okay then,” She utters, moving slowly holding up the towel. “Um. Cuál es su nombre?”
Nothing. “Come ti chiami?”
Again, nothing. So, not Spanish or Italian then. Maybe French.
“Uh, comment vous appelez-vou?”
Silence.
“Never mind. Hold this to your shoulder,” She instructs anyway, shaking the towel. She goes to press it against his wound, but his left hand tightens on the gun. “Right. Sorry. You do it.” She leans back dropping the towel. “But I’m cleaning the one on your head.”
She points to her own forehead, then his and makes a show of dabbing the gauze she picked up. For some reason, he allows her to do this. Although the voice in the back of her mind is screaming how stupid and dangerous this is. Using the anti-septic wipes, she gently wipes away the blood from his temple, careful not to touch his skin. Vaguely, she thinks if she says her name maybe he’ll truly realize she’s just trying to help him. She warily eyes the gun every few seconds.
“I’m Oph- Affie. My name is Affie,” She tells him, deciding to supply the rare nickname only her family knows. He doesn’t respond, but she didn’t think he would. She does notice the blood has run down his face, spreading along the edge of the mask. “Can I...can you, uh, take this off? It’ll be easier.”
He just stares at her for a long, tense moment. She taps her chin to insinuate his mask. His eyes flash again, but his metal hand slowly releases the gun, his fingers hooking around the edge of the mask, pulling it off. It clatters to the bottom of the tub, the noise overly loud in the silence between them.
The slightest whisper of familiarity echoes in the back of her mind, but she can’t place it. The man has a strong jaw, dusted with stubble and chapped pink lips. He looks, young, possibly around the same age as Ophelia. She forgets the feeling of familiarity, continuing to wipe the blood off his cheekbone. Some of it has already dried, flaking off into the gauze.
“This can be marked down as the strangest night in my life,” She murmurs, clearly just talking to calm her nerves.
She sees something move out of the corner of her eye, and for a split moment, she thinks it could be another intruder. Except it’s not. It’s Binks, who looks like he has been sitting in the doorway since she entered the bathroom again. He flicks his tail, relaxed composure, which she finds out of character. Binks isn’t too fond of strange men being in their home.
Ophelia focuses on the task at hand, throwing the red soak wipe away and grabbing a new one along with a gauze pad. She presses it to the cut, attempting to stop the bleeding, which strangely has seemed to slow down already. Once she’s cleaned the cut, she opens the butterfly band aid, carefully placing it over the wound. She uses three.
“One Down, another one which requires you to be shirtless, to go,” She clears her throat awkwardly. “This, um, needs to come off. For me to help you.”
His blue eyes shift to her again, narrowing just slightly.
“I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” She informs him gently.
Gently? She probably has a hitman for the Italian mob or something bleeding in her damn bathtub and she’s speaking to him softly? All she wanted to do tonight was soak in said tub and go to bed. Ophelia bites her lip, thinking.
“Alright. I’m going across the hallway to call 911 then. They’ll help you better than I can,” She throws away the scrapes of the band-aids, standing from the edge of the tub.
“нет.”
The curt voice makes her stop. It’s the first word he’s said to her, and she’s 100% sure it was Russian. She is also 100% sure he understood every word she has been saying. Slowly, she sits back down on the ledge, not wanting to anger this man, in case his clam demeanor abruptly changes.
“Then allow me to help you,” Ophelia insists, keeping conviction in her voice. “I’d really rather not deal with a stranger bleeding out in my bathtub tonight.”
When his eyes meet hers, there a hint of something there. As if she said something that was furthest from the truth. Slowly, his eyes warily roam over her face, down her body, and back up, as if he sees her as a threat. Ophelia keeps her ground, clenching her teeth to keep her jaw strong, confident. She meets his stare, not blinking in hopes to show him that she isn’t a threat at all.
This whole night is odd.
Finally, the man’s metal hand smeared with his blood, tilts his gun sideways until the length of it rest on the bottom of the tub, barrel point away from them. He hadn’t moved his right arm much, besides throwing that knife at her, but he does now and with it, a fresh pump of thick blood oozes out.
Over his shoulders and across his chest is a strange looking holster that he unclips, letting it hang to the sides. His vest, upon a closer look, oddly reminds Ophelia of a modern straight jacket, minus the actual restraining sleeves and chains. There are seven faux straps that secure the vest, as he pops each button open, tugging down the right side of it to reveal the wound.
The bullet tore a hole in the man’s under shirt, however it isn’t wide enough for Ophelia to do anything. She reaches for the small scissors in the kit, until she hears a small ripping sound bringing her focus back to him. He tore a bigger hole in his shirt, the bullet wound on full display. Despite the thick pluses of blood pumping from it, the surrounding area of the wound looks clean. Whoever shot at this man knew what they were doing.
Ophelia grits her teeth closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Her stomach churns and she can taste the bitter sting of bile in her throat. She’s seen gruesome pictures of every type of wound when her sister was going to nursing school, as she would excitedly show Ophelia. Seeing it up close and personal is on a whole different level.
Swallowing thickly a few times and steeling her stomach, she opens her eyes once more. She grabs a bigger, thicker towel from under her sink – a red one- fold it and goes to put it over the wound. She hesitates, half considering to just risk it and call the EMTs.
“You do not have to,” The man speaks again. Despite the low volume of his voice, Ophelia jumped when the silence was broken.
“I-“ She exhales shakily, briefly glancing at him. “I can’t not- you’re bleeding in my home. I’m helping.”
Ophelia finally presses the towel over the wound, adding as much pressure as she can. Her muscles shake a little with her own body weight, moving one hand to the back of his shoulder to press on either side. From the corner of her eye she sees his jaw twitch, his shoulders tensing but he doesn’t make a sound.
“I think it, um, I think it needs stitches,” She tells him nervously. “Once the bleeding is under control I can-“
“No.”
“No?”
When her eyes snap back to his, his gaze had hardened, turned icy; a warning. Ophelia huffs, thinking she should probably keep her mouth shut if she doesn’t want her own wound bullet hole. Several minutes pass in tense silence, to which her damn cat had decided to get more curious and hop onto the tub’s ledge. Binks gracefully walks along the tub until he is right next to the man’s metal arm.
Ophelia glares in warning at her cat as he literally head bumps the man’s shoulders. Binks, of course, ignores her or any other cat self-preservation, and puts his paw on his silver shoulder, sniffing the man’s hair. Then, stunning his owner completely, Binks rubs his head against the man’s jaw.
Making a short psst sound through her teeth, Ophelia tries shooing her cat away. The man lifts his metal arm, making her heart clench in fear because for a moment she thinks he will take her cat and chuck him across the room. Instead, he pats Binks on the head twice then gently pushes him away. Binks begins to purr as the man repeats the motion, until her damn curious cat takes the hints.
Binks decides he’s bothered the man enough, and finally jumps off the tub, leaving the room. Ophelia shakes her head in disbelief, adding the most amount of pressure to the wound once more. She refocuses, counts to sixty seconds in her head, then ever so slowly removes the towel slightly to check. Only a light trickle of blood escapes, much better than earlier, but it still needs stitches, as she’s sure it’ll starting bleeding again.
She carefully folds the towel in on itself, dropping it into the trashcan to take care of later. Some of his blood had soaked through the cloth and onto her fingers. Ophelia grabs another towel, pressing it to the wound.
“Hold this there,” She instructs quietly as she gets up to wash her hands.
Once she does that, she gathers several of the big gauze pads, layering them together. She sits back on the tub, the man silently removing the towel, allowing her to place the gauze over the small gaping hole. Quickly she grabs the medical tape as she leaves the gauze on his shoulder, tearing several pieces off. Once all edges of the gauze are taped, Ophelia takes the wrappings out of the package. She works quickly, thankful for volunteering as her sister’s mock patient while she was in school.
Where the bullet entered the man’s body is right between his clavicle and humorous bone. It makes it a little easier to wrap, although having to weave the roll of wrapping through the vest was a little difficult. Ophelia leans back the second she’s finished, feeling proud that this man didn’t go into shock in her bathroom.
“Finished,” She announces, gathering the bloody wipes, and trash. She throws it all away wanting to deal with it later. She meets the man’s eyes once more.
He looks at the dressings, then back to her, his eyes flashing again. She swears he looks confused, curious even, but it’s gone in a split second so she couldn’t be sure.
“Um, you should probably eat something. Drink some water, or- I think I have some soda,” Ophelia stands, opening another packet of anti-septic wipes to clean her hands again. “You lost a good amount of blood, eating will put the sugars back in your body.”
The man stays silent, just lifting his metal hand to touch over the gauze. Ophelia nods, feeling as if her luck is running out. She’s so, incredibly curious, but the fear she had been ignoring is slowly rising to the surface. This man is still dangerous. He is still a threat.
“I’ll just…” She swallows the lump in her throat again starting to back away “I’ll get you an apple and water, maybe the soda.”
She continues backing up, keeping her eyes on the man, even if he isn’t looking at her. The second she doesn’t see him, she briskly walks to her kitchen. She grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, a bottle of water and a can of coke from the fridge. She also carefully takes that frying pan she had knocked her ex out with just a week ago. It saved her then, maybe it can save her now.
Ophelia notices Binks sitting on her bed, staring out the window as she enters her room. When she cautiously steps back into the bathroom, she halts. The tub is empty. She places the items in her hands on the counter, holding the frying pan up like a shield. She peeks her head out the door, scanning her room.
There aren’t many places to hide, even her closet is too small. He didn’t leave the room to follow her to the kitchen, which would’ve been a good plan to jump her then. But she was only gone for several seconds, and she would like to think that she would’ve heard him.
Narrowing her eyes at her cat, who is still staring out the window, Ophelia cautiously moves forward. The latch of her window is unlocked, which is probably how this whole situation happened in the first place. She peers outside, expecting to see a glimmer or flash of that strange silver arm. Instead she sees nothing but her breath fogging up the glass. She lowers the pan, her shoulders dropping. A strange emptiness settles throughout her apartment.
Like a ghost in the night, the man is gone. Just like that.
************************************
Previous Chapter Five
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#tws: a ghost story#tws a ghost story#winter soldier x ofc#winter soldier!bucky barnes#winter soldier fanfiction#bucky barnes x ofc#winter soldier fanfic#bucky barnes fanfic#my fic#the winter soldier a ghost story
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