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kazoo5480 · 3 years

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Almost finished! 30 chapters down, a few more to go. Thanks to those of you who wrote awesome notes, and who provide inspiration to us newbies every day with your lovely tales!

Chapter 1 Arrivals

Prologue – September 1943, New York City

25-year-old Killian Jones steps down the ramp off the Algernon straight from Belfast. He has $40 to his name, the clothes on his back. Having lost his brother in an accident, his mother to illness, and abandonment of his father when he was 7, Killian made a choice to leave his homeland and make his way to America. America was currently engaged in World War II, with no family left, he decides that a fresh start in a new land and a new line of work away from the IRA is just what he needs after the arrests and massacres taking place back in Ireland.

Gun running and violence is not a life he wants any longer, nor is a life in prison, or death. He is hopeful that despite his heritage, he will be able to settle into a new life, away from the massacre left behind on the emerald isle. Finding honest work is harder than he expected, even in a city this large.

Waiting in those long lines with all those other expats, hoping to find honest work and nothing. He goes every day for two weeks but quickly realizes that no one wants to hire an Irishman or give him a fair shake. But he believes you make your own destiny and believes in hard work and determination.

He hears the other men talking, that security and lounges, the US Army, and driving taxis are just about the only people hiring anyone right now if you aren’t American.

Killian has no interest in joining Americas crusade, so he finds a gig working the doors and security a little dingy nightclub at first, but slowly descends into the more glamorous nightclubs and lounges.

Word spreads quickly to his newest employer, Louis Lepke, who owns the Riobamba- one of Manhattan’s most posh nightclubs that Killian was once part of the IRA and has a hell of a left hook. Lepke, one of the most dangerous mob bosses in New York at that time sees potential in Killian, thinks that his past IRA ties could be beneficial to their enterprise, and he offers him a better paying job running pickups and drop offs of packages that Killian doesn’t open and doesn’t want to open.

While the money is nothing to turn your nose up at, Killian continues this path, socking away the cash and crafting an entirely new persona for himself while making his own contingency plans to disappear for a quieter life someplace near the sea, perhaps finding peace and burying his demons for good at last.

Killian will never forget the day he was able to move out of the vermin infested room he had been renting in a boarding house on the lower east side, and into a three-room apartment of his own for $80 a month near Washington Square Park. Not cheap by any means, but it’s a second-floor walkup, with a fireplace, and wide windows that overlook the street.

Lepke pays him three hundred a month right now, but he always earns tips from both ends of pickup and delivery, and that extra cash is always appreciated.

He will never forget the first suit he purchases, or his first pair of new shoes in god knows how many years. He knows with his new employment, he needs to look the part, so he only is careful in his wardrobe choices, dark colors that won’t show dirt easily, well-tailored shirts, wingtips in black and white, and two hats that he sees the other men wearing.

He manages to pry a floorboard in the back of his new closet loose, securing the hole with a thin layer of wood, ensuring nothing would fall through or be lost to the ageing building, and he uses this as home for his cash and very little valuables. He has no furniture to speak of, except a mattress on the floor with linens, but he knows soon enough he will have money to furnish his new home.

For now, he is only willing to spend money on rent, and groceries, he saves every dollar that he earns after his necessities are purchased.

What he does not expect is meeting Emma Swan, an enchanting blonde lounge singer at the Riobamba. Frank Sinatra even plays there on occasion, so the joint was always packed. But amongst all those entertainers, is Emma. With the voice of an angel, the body of a bloody goddess, and a fire in her green eyes.

He knows that from the moment he saw her dancing and singing across that smoke filled room, that he was going to have her no matter the cost. Tonight, her golden curls pinned back on one side with a glittering clip, wrapped in a floor length sequin dress cut scandalously low in the front, even for the nightclub scene at that point in time.

She is easily the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he wonders if she works for Lepke as well, a personal relationship perhaps, and the thought of any man touching her at all has him see red when those thoughts flit through his mind. He always hopes divine intervention is on his side to catch a glimpse of her during her sets, whether picking up or dropping off to his boss.

Occasionally he just sits in the back nursing a rum while he watches her, gliding around the small stage, dressed like sex personified, singing in that angelic voice of hers, enchanting the entire room.

She sings songs of love and happiness, sometimes she covers popular music of other entertainers, but he sees the sadness and demons lingering behind those emerald eyes, the glittering dresses and gorgeous gold curls. He wants to know more, scale those walls he can spot a mile high surrounding her.

On more than one occasion he is thankful for the low lighting of the club and his dark suits to hide the evidence of his rock-hard arousal that she stirs up every damn time he lays eyes on her. Green eyes that sparkle in the low lighting, locking on his blue. She sees him and he sees her, never exchanging words, just eye locks and then he is off.

In a rare occasion that Killian indulges the other members of his crew in playing craps, he casually asks about Emma to one of the kinder men, Bill Starkey, a slightly older married man, who handles the books for the clubs that Lepke owns.

“What of that lounge singer Starkey, she is a sight for sore eyes if I may say so myself”, Killian mentions with a smile. The older man looks him over for a second, and replies “She is a quite a dame, isn’t she? Voice of a siren an everything, but she is not to be trifled with - She keeps to herself, is a bloody fantastic piece of entertainment, draws the crowds in, but she does not mess with our crew. Many of ours have learned that the hard way he says with a laugh, Tough as brass that one is, so don’t bother with her”, and the man went back to the game.

When Starkey bids goodnight, leaving the younger men to their games, another crew member that Killian has somewhat befriended named Victor Whale leans over, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “If its Emma you’ve set your sightings on, you are not as slick as you think ya git, my girl Ruby mentioned that she caught you watching her shows on occasion, but Emma doesn’t date anyone around here, if she does date, it isn’t anyone related to our line of work”.

Bidding goodnight to Killian and the few stragglers still playing, he stands and Killian notices Ruby Lucas in her coat waiting by the door with a smile on her face. Whale takes her hand and pulls them out the door. Killian feels a pang of jealousy at their obvious companionship but pushes the thought away.

Ruby Lucas, the costume coordinator for the club, is a gorgeous specimen of her own right with long chocolate locks, hazel eyes, and legs for days. She has worked in the club a long time, and if anyone knows Emma, its Ruby. Killian decides that perhaps he shall inquire to Ms. Lucas about Swan but tucks the thought away for another time.

He has gained enough information about her for one night, he will have to just be patient. If Ruby has noticed him watching Emma, he would bet the few dollars left in his lightened pocket tonight that she has told Swan about him, and that is something he is not quite sure he knows how to feel about.

He wonders what Ruby would tell Emma, since she was obviously very much with Whale, she must know more about their conducted business, but appears to know when to keep her mouth shut. Maybe, the tides will be in his favor since he tends to keep a low profile in his job. The bosses like him because he is discreet and is known not to be messed with.

Emma sees him alright, black suits, navy wool suits, tuxedoes at parties, custom made shirts, and she would bet her last dollar that those cufflinks he always wears are actual sterling silver.

He has slicked back inky hair, tousled in just the right places, a permanent five o’ clock shadow, and forget me not blue eyes that haunt her for days every single time she catches a glimpse of him staring right back at her.

She notices the way he carries himself, so confident, dangerous, and definitely a hustler. He must be connected somehow, and Emma does not want that complication in her simple life.

He looks at her sometimes like he would devour her like a man on death row, and she being his last meal. She cannot get mixed up with someone like him, she has survived this long without someone, and the last time she allowed someone into her heart it nearly broke her in two.

Her friend Ruby has casually mentioned him, his name is Killian Jones, he works with her boyfriend Victor, but she does not know exactly what his role is. Ruby giggles as she talks about how handsome Killian is, and notes that he always throws her a generous tip, never ogling her or being disrespectful like some of the other crew who think that any woman in the club is dumb enough to roll in the sack with them.

Ruby has been with her boyfriend for a few years from what she mentions, having been together since before Victor’s job with Lepke’s crew, whatever that may be. Ruby is also one of the few people that makes Emma smile genuinely and lifts her spirits. Emma considers the brunette one of her very few real friends.

One night after her set is done, Emma enters her dressing room, and slips out of her dress, carefully hanging it inside the garment bag, and lights a cigarette, swallowing a sip of her Manhattan. Her roommate Mary Margaret is getting better and better with her sewing skills, her emerald green gown tonight is delicate, covered in sequins and green feathers float around the hem of her dress, she admires the gown once more before zipping the bag.

Standing in her silk stockings and garters, she begins removing her jewelry and realizes suddenly that she is not alone. Sitting in a low chair in the back corner of the dressing room is Killian fucking Jones. She grabs for her silk robe, tying it quickly- trying to regain some of her modesty. Watching her with those blue eyes, fingers crossed under his chin while he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"Don't stop on my account love, I simply wanted to introduce myself, and I thank the bloody gods that I was granted enough luck to watch your private show just now. He smirked at her, running is tongue over his bottom lip, and she wanted to punch that smirk off his smug face, even if her heart beat faster in her chest and not from anxiety.

“Emma breathe,” she internally chastises herself. Her brain reconnects, she stamps out her cigarette, and she manages to spit out “listen pal, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I am not that type of woman. Go buy one down the street if you need to get your rocks off but get the hell out.”

He stood up, adjusting his trousers by the belt, which she noticed were fitting awfully tight, the evidence of his arousal clear but now covered as he buttoned his coat up.

He spoke, his voice a lilting Irish accent, “I apologize lass, I simply wanted to introduce myself and give you these in person,” he held out a large bouquet of creamy white roses tipped in pale pink, tied with a black silk ribbon.

“You are a vision, both on and off the stage Swan, and I simply was hoping to make your acquaintance as we seem to catch each other’s eye from time to time. I thought perhaps my interest was reciprocated, but clearly it is not, and I shan't bother you again”.

Emma did not know what to say, still shocked, her red painted mouth in a grim line. She caught his cologne as he made his exit, carefully avoiding touching her in any way. He smelled of wood and spice, and definitely rum.

Right as he was crossing the threshold to exit, Emma made a rash decision, and grabbed his hand, locked eyes with him and said, “Don't ever do that again, thank you for the flowers, but I am not interested.”

“They're nothing compared to you Emma, but I do apologize again”, and with that parting line Killian quietly exited, making sure to close the door fully behind him.

Emma locked the handle, ensuring no one else would interrupt her. She cleaned most of her face off and pulled on her burgundy wool dress and matching coat, gathered her things, and her flowers hailing a cab home.

Tagging a few who might be interested! @wefoundloveunderthelight @itsfabianadocarmo @purplehawkcaptain @the-lady-of-misthaven @the-captains-ayebrows @thesschesthair @myfearless-love @kmomof4 @jonesfandomfanatic @hookedpirate @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @letmedieahooker @captainswanouat @captainswoon @cathloves @laschatzi @timeless-love-story @asluve @ao3feed-cs @ahookerandproud @ineffablecolors @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @kymbersmith-90 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @tnlph @the-captains-ayebrows @captainswoon @captainswanouat @captain-swan-coffee @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @captainirishstubble @onceuponadaily @resident-of-storybrooke @greenlef777 Let me know if you want to be added or removed!

#once upon a time #captain swan #killian jones #emma swan

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deathonyourtongue · 4 years

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Resurrection | 5

Summary: A ragtag team of Spec-Ops operators are brought out of retirement for all the wrong reasons. When the dust settles, only the best will be left standing. Pairing: Pablo Schreiber x OFC, Henry Cavill x OFC (listen, she gets with the whole team, okay? Don’t lie, you would too.) Word Count: 2K Warnings: Waterboarding. Dream sequence involving death and gore. A/N: I’m reposting this for a few reasons. Mainly ‘cause I’m done having my fics in two places, wanted to re-work the cover, and most importantly wanted those of you who weren’t following me back when these chapters were originally posted to be able to take it in from scratch. I’ve also cleaned up a lot of the text as far as grammar, etc. goes, so it’s more polished. ***ALSO: All the Portuguese translations are found in the links (read the address bar or the error that comes up when you click the link)*** Like what I do? Buy me a coffee (or a commission)!

C H A R A C T E R C H A R T

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

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Send me a PM me if you’d like to be added/removed from the tag list!

@fumbling-fanfics @skiesfallithurts @pinkpenguin7 @madmedusa178 @fangoria @bluestarego @my–own–personal–paradise @tastingmellow @honeychicanawrites @angelicapriscilla @swiftyhowlz @schreiberpablo @pinkwatchblueshoes @kirasmomsstuff @prettypascal @playbucky @queen-of-the-kastle@cajunpeach @godlikeentity @captainsamwlsn @lilac-tea-time @katerka88 @melaninmimii @alienor-romanova @downtowndk @redhairedmoiraandtheliferuiners @agniavateira @henryfanfics101 @fatefuldestinies @iloveyouyen @justaboringadult @xxxxxerrorxxxxx @bloodyinspiredfuck @peakygroupie @stxphmxlls @trippedmetaldetector @radaofrivia @speakerforthedead0 @oddsnendsfanfics @snowbellexx @leilabeaux @cavillunraveled @woofgocows @andahugaroundtheneck @sofiebstar @kmhappybunny @mary-ann84 @cappot @cheyentjj @cavillhavoc @sleepy-moon-girl@princess-of-riviaa @peakyrogers @hell1129-blog @thethirstyarchive @worldicreate @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @henry-cavill-obsessed @rmtndew @elena-lawley @bichibibi @penwieldingdreamer @scoopitypoopbloop @flightofthefantasies @justrae9903 @raspberrydreamclouds @minton131 @hollydaisy23 @mizzzpink @omgkatinka @rn7rocks @elenas-fanficrecs @ohjules @writernerd23 @whatawildone @toss-some-coffee-to-your-witcher @modernscarlett @jasmindaughteroftheworld @badoopwoop @onlyhenrys @moderapoppins @flouncingxtart @ffreadings @captaingothgirl1996 @schmidten17 @alexakeyloveloki @asylummara @dearlybelovedluke @pinkzsugar @valkyrhys @ntlmundy @livingonmywishes @thotti3evans @whitewolfandthefox @madbaddic7ed @sausagefest1996 @foxyjwls007 @fuckoffbard @bethabear12 @lovieebby @marswritings @mooniiieee @traceyaudette @pumpkinglory @keiva1000 @my-rosegold-soul @geralt-of-baevia @luna-aestas @thereisa8ella @lovefreylove @littlefreya @designedacertainway @worshipping-skarsgard @aletheladyinred @sugarpenchant

Gone are the suits and ties, and my heels are replaced by combat boots.

The safehouse we use for interrogations is across town from the one we stay at, and it shows. Far from the posh of Knightsbridge, Dagenham is home to the largest diesel engine manufacturing site in the world. Soot and oil coat everything and at night, the area is a ghost town; perfect for our needs.

On paper, all the governments in the room condem torture, but work in the business of terror long enough, and you know that’s all just to save face and keep the top brass’ hands clean. We’re not animals about it of course, but if Miguel wobbles a little in his seat, it’s only because we let Max drive and London roads are so winding.

“You know...We don’t technically have to take the bag off his head.” Flip murmurs, breaking the silence we’ve all been in since getting Miguel settled into his new surroundings.

“You’re absolutely certain he’s never seen you, darling?” Max asks me, his face set in concentration. The rest of the team look up for my answer and I nod.

“Positive. Besides, bag or no bag, if he knew me, he’d have recognized my call sign by now,” I remind them, relief shooting around the room as all the men recall that Miguel was privy to any conversation we had in the car, call signs included.

“Alright. Who’s going in with you?” Rick asks, finally moving from his position against the wall and taking a seat next to Flip who looks all too eager to get a crack at our soon-to-be informant. Knowing he’ll be a liability if he reads the tone wrong, I look around, my gaze resting on Max as I smirk.

“Beef. I owe him for nearly taking his head off earlier,” I answer, both Dom and Rick nodding their understanding. Flip looks somewhat crestfallen, but I know he understands. He, of all of us, is too close to the situation, and though I know there’ll be a time to turn him loose, this isn’t it.

Max and I both stand from our seats, checking our handguns as we move towards the blast door that separates us from Miguel. Taking a moment, we focus our gazes on eachother, silently getting on the same page so that there’s no chance of Miguel thinking one of us is weaker than the other.

With a nod to each other, I take a deep breath and open the door. Padded on the inside in order to mitigate any screaming or loud music we might use throughout our interrogations, the room is graveyard silent. Once the door shuts, Max moves with precision, turning the stereo on full blast, and I can’t help but smile at the song that comes on. While all of us are metal fans, it’s one of the most effective interrogation tools we have because those in the hot seat usually either haven’t ever heard metal before (and are immediately disturbed by it) or despise it to the point where they can only tolerate so much. EDM comes a close second, but in Miguel’s case, Metal is the right call as he flinches immediately. Catching Max’s eye, we can’t help but grin as we mouth along to the lead singer’s screaming, the song’s lyrics about lying and choking oddly appropriate for what’s about to happen.

I headbang along with the double-bass as I grab a five gallon jug of water, hoisting it over my shoulder and letting Max handle the towels as we set things up. When everything’s ready, Max moves into position, arms crossed over his broad chest, his trademark scowl firmly in place.

I count to three with one hand, and on ‘one’, pull the bag from Miguel’s head, immediately tipping his head back and holding it in place with my forearm as I dilate his eyes. Max and I both stay out of his line of sight for the few moments it takes for the drops to work, and once we see the tell-tale squint, we slowly move to our places.

“Miguel, ta com cara que tá com sede, meu amigo.” I open, one eyebrow raised, staying just far away enough to be little more than a faceless blur to our informant.

“Vai se foder!” He yells, trying and failing to get out of the restraints he’s in.

“Ah, que isso, cara. Não fique assim. A gente só quer falar com você,” I purr, playing the “Nice Girl” routine even though everyone in the room knows it won’t last long.

“Certo, é por isso que vocês me capturaram, colocaram um saco na minha cabeça, e me levaram a Deus sabe onde. Falar, uma ova!”

“Já aprendeu Inglês, seu cafajeste?” I ask him, hoping he’s picked up a second language since the last time any of our governments dealt with him, more for the rest of the team’s sake than my own.

“I have,” he says, his accent nearly a perfect facsimile of anyone who’s been born and raised in London. Max’s eyebrow goes up in mild surprise, and if I know my team, the rest of them are all pressed against the two-way mirror, intent on listening now that they can understand.

“Good, so we’ll do this in English, ‘cause fuck you,” I tell him in no uncertain terms, moving into his space so he can confirm that the woman he wanted to bang at the party is the same one who’s now holding his life in her hands.

With everyone in the room discreetly mic’d up--including Miguel--there’s no need to turn down the music, and I use it to my advantage, wanting him as disoriented as possible so that he’s not focused on his words or the thoughts behind them.

“Three weeks ago, right here in London, two of our own were killed by a bomb that has your signature all over it. Wanna tell me who you sold that bomb to?”

Miguel laughs, a dry throaty sound that comes from too many cigars, and too much time around toxic chemicals; if one of us doesn’t kill him, I know for a fact cancer will get him in the end.

“I sell bombs to many people. How am I supposed to remember who I’ve sold to a month ago, puta?”

I don’t have time to react as Max lunges in and connects with Miguel’s jaw in one of the most vicious right hooks I’ve seen him throw in a long time.

“Talk to her like that again and I’ll dislocate the other side, y’cunt.” Max growls, teeth bared mere inches from Miguel’s face, leaving no room for interpretation of just how pissed he is. Without another word, Max takes Miguel’s face in his hand and relocates the joint he popped out, a scream coming from our informant as soon as he can open his mouth.

“See, Miguel, I’d like to think you’d remember, because this particular order had your initials on one of the plates, and I know you only do that when your order is for a single explosive device. Mass orders go through the factory, but the custom pieces, well...You’ve gotta take pride in your work, right?” I’ll give the man props, because if he’s searching for a lie, I can’t tell. His face stays unreadable apart from the discomfort from the light.

I shoot Max a look just as the song switches over, and he nods.

“Fuck this.” He barks, flipping a switch on the wall that immediately sends Miguel’s chair back into a 45 degree angle, the back legs hinged to the floor so he can never truly fall back, but feels like he’s going to, just the same. With the lights directly in his line of sight, I can’t keep from smirking as I hear Miguel hiss and try to cover his eyes, the steel shackles on his wrists clanking loudly and only causing him more pain.

“What is it, Miguel? Lights too bright?” I ask as I move to grab the first neatly folded towel from the pile. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Pressing the towel firmly against his face, I stand out of the way as Max pours the water from the jug. We both count silently in our heads, Max stopping at exactly the right number as I flick the switch to bring Miguel upright once more.

Our informant coughs and sputters, screaming every vulgarity I’ve ever heard in Portuguese before spitting in our general direction.

“THERE WAS NO NAME! IT WAS PURCHASED BY AN ENTITY!”

I roll my eyes, annoyed that a man who once gave up an internationally-wanted terrorist is now spewing bullshit about an entity.

“So you sold your shit to a ghost? ‘That what you want me to believe?” I ask, feeling my own anger start to rise. I grab a fresh towel and Max and I repeat the process with surgical precision. It takes Miguel a little longer to cough up the water he’s swallowed, but when he’s finally able to speak, his voice is far more defeated.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. The entity I sold that bomb to is known as Cenere. I get a call with a location, date, and time for delivery. I get the specs sent via encrypted email, and when the time comes, I deliver, usually to a lock box in the middle of nowhere. That is all I know.”

Max looks at me and I know he’s itching to hit him again. I shake my head, squatting down in front of our informant so that he can see me clearly.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us that may be important? For example, the location and date of the last delivery you provided for this entity?” I enunciate every word, my tone making it clear that I’ll be the one hitting him next if he tries to lie or get smart again.

“L-last delivery was in Roma, by the Colosseum, a week ago.” He answers, still hoarse from inhaling water.

“So whoever these people are, they’re planning another bombing,” I say, feeling the room behind me start moving; Rick and Dom looking up information, Flip packing our gear. We don’t have a lot of time.

“Y-yes. The bomb that killed your amigos was delivered exactly two weeks before it detonated. That’s how they always do it.” Miguel adds, giving us an even narrower timeline to get to Rome.

“Cut him loose,” I sigh, wishing Miguel could give us more to go on besides a location we’ll be getting to with zero prep time and even less information.

Max moves towards him, a wolfish grin on his face. I close my eyes, knowing exactly what’s about to happen.

“I sincerely hope someone strings you up by your balls and cuts them off with a piece of paper. This is for everyone you’ve had a hand in massacring. Especially my friends.”

I don’t have to look to hear a few of Miguel’s teeth rattle to the floor.

The room is starkly lit, the sickly blue tone reminiscent of a hospital. Empty aside from a plexiglass box filled with dirt and a pine-board coffin, there’s a feeling dread that emanates throughout the place.

“Carmen? Carmen! Carmen, if you can hear me, you need to get me out. Get me the fuck out of here, Carmen. Carmen, please!! Please! I can’t-I can’t breathe! Carmen, don’t leave me here!”

A heartbeat--elevated and distinct--couple with the sounds of hyperventilation to turn dread into pure fear.

“CARMEN, PLEASE! I’M GOING TO DIE! DON’T LET THEM KILL ME!”

Something cuts through the air with a distinct zing, crashing heavily onto the floor. The box, the dirt, and the coffin are all sliced neatly, trapped almost perfectly between thick sheets of razor-sharp glass. All except the first slice, where the side of the coffin has fallen away, trapped at a skewed angle below the dirt.

Rick looks like a fish out of water, gasping for breath, tears flooding his eyes. Despite being segmented like some primal experiment, every part of him still heaves with breath, organs pulsing with blood they no longer have, intact structurally despite being completely separated.

��Carmen, please!” It’s a whisper now, the life going out of Jake’s eyes even as the tears sweep his face.

A long, low horn sounds, finalizing the horror that’s come to pass.

I wake screaming, tears pouring down my face. Not realizing where I am at first, I don’t even see the boys as I fight with my lap belt and haul ass out of the seat, vaulting over Dom’s legs and careening to the bathroom to throw up. It’s rare that I dream, but when I do, it’s never good. This one felt too real; felt like a message from a man I’m certain we buried. The room spins and I heave out what little is left from lunch earlier. When I’m certain there’s nothing left to get out, I sit back, sobbing.

Once my breath stabilizes, I stand up and wash out my mouth, swilling the jet’s courtesy mouthwash before splashing cold water on my face. Stepping out of the small bathroom, I’m met with utter silence and four sets of eyes staring at me with concern. I can’t bring myself to tell them what I dreamt, and none of them need an intro into nightmares, as all of us, regardless of how little bloodshed we’ve seen, have them from time to time.

Still feeling the panic in my throat, I decide against taking my old seat, not wanting to be caged in. Instead, I sit behind Dom’s aisle, resting my head against the cool plastic of the window and looking out, my mind reeling. What if the bomb isn’t what killed him and Benj? What if they suffered? What if-- I cut off my own mental processing, not wanting to go down the dark alleys of my mind, wiping my eyes to stem the flow of fresh tears.

I feel a hand at my knee, and looking down, find Dom’s hand reaching back through the seats. Though he faces forward, it’s easy to tell what he’s doing, and I lace our fingers together loosely, taking the much-needed comfort of his touch. He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze, and I turn my face away further, not wanting any of the guys to see me like this.

#pablo schreiber #henry cavill #adria arjona #pablo schreiber x ofc #henry cavill x ofc #ryan reynolds #alexander skarsgård #joel kinnaman #alex o'loughlin #fic #deathonyourtongueoriginals #resurrection

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violetmuses · 3 years

Text

Grey || Chapter 1

2023

Helmut Zemo

Scheisse!

I’d forgotten that some electronic devices would have spotty reception during this flight to Madripoor, but another part of me cursed once more for attempting to contact someone in particular. Several decades passed since I’d last seen her in and I knew better than to act as if she’d listen to me, especially since my imprisonment.

“Did something in your plan go awry?” James probed, sitting across from me without closing too much space between us both. Meanwhile, Sam perched himself into one chair of the opposite aisle, sitting alone.

“No, James, but I appreciate your concern regarding the mission.” I tucked away the small burner phone, hoping that he would not ask many other questions before we landed. We shared silence, but prompted gratefulness to reach my thoughts.

Only I knew the truth.

______

“Got word from high. You ain’t welcome here.” This bearded guard addressed me minutes after we reached Madripoor. By now, I’d entered the Brass Monkey Saloon with James and Sam, planning to contact Selby then after. This bar also lined with decor that would’ve reminded children of Halloween as skulls perched in all corners.

“I have no business with the Power Broker, but if you insist, either come and talk to me or bring Selby for a chat.” Facing that guard, I motioned my gloved hand between him and James, showing authority I’d held by noting current placement of the Winter Soldier. Meanwhile, Sam, dressed in his red-brown suit, remained silent.

“The Power Broker, really?” James eyed me without much emotion whilst asking his brief question.

“Every kingdom needs its king. Let’s just pray that we stay under his radar.” I remarked, keeping my voice low amid the presence of others.

“Do you know him?” Sam countered, leaning as well.

“Only by reputation. In Madripoor, he’s judge, jury, and executioner.” I continued, acknowledging how influential The Power Broker had been.

“ Зимний солдат, атака.” A different patron of the bar had lurked nearby, but dared to touch my shoulder. In turn, I uttered Russian, signaling the need for James to attack. Voices of shock and surprise had filled the area, adding noise.

“What is going on?” Sam questioned me moments later. Across the room, James then turned the earlier patron’s arm and inflicted more pain to others almost immediately afterwards. Here, we won, earning slight notice in the venue now.

“Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.” I uttered to Sam , shoving another guest of the bar towards this fray. As long as we kept up notice here, there wouldn’t be problems, no matter how much people recorded with their phones.

“Shit.” Sam mumbled in return moments later, watching as various people aimed their guns or readied other weapons to defend against us. Meanwhile, James had now clutched his brace around someone’s throat, holding him near the bar counter.

“Stay in character before the whole bar turns on us…Молодец, Солдат.” I reminded James and Sam, keeping my warning quick as Sam peered. I then spoke in Russian once more and turned to face James, still encouraging him as The Winter Soldier.

“Selby will see you now.” The Bartender acknowledged what happened and permitted our entrance towards Selby. Meanwhile, that poor and seemingly helpless victim of James slipped off the bar with this large thud, coughing.

“Thank you.” I said, quickly leaving as Sam and James began to trail behind me. At least we could leave this bar alive.

______

“You should know Baron, people don’t just come into my bar and start making demands.” Selby lounged on her favorite sofa once more, resting her arm onto its backend.

“Not a demand, an offer.” I sat down in one of the adjacent armchairs. Both James and Sam cornered themselves to stand in the room, not bothering to act comfortable while staying in character.

“A lot has changed since you were here last. By the way, I thought you were rotting in a German prison. How did you escape?” Selby remarked back, noting my current presence and freedom away from those claustrophobic walls.

“People like us always find a way, don’t we?” I smirked, emitting feigned arrogance to keep us alive just a bit longer. There was no other choice. Once again, I knew much better to give us away, especially now.

“You’re taller than I’d heard, Smiling Tiger. What’s the offer?” Selby bravely purred in the direction of Sam, gesturing her hands to imitate the ferocious cat of his alias-namesake. Yet, her eyes faced me, asking to describe the purpose of our visit.

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum and I will give you him, along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want” I stood up from the armchair and lurked to James, momentarily baiting Selby here.

“Now, that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately. Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right. The serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you or want or thank or condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the Serum, but things didn’t go as planned.” Selby almost plastered her wickedly famous smile whilst I then sat back down in the posh armchair and listened to this extremely significant information. James and Sam were once again quiet.

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?” I asked, lifting one of my gloved fingers to emphasize the question itself.

“The breadcrumbs you can have for free, but the bakery’s gonna cost you, Baron. And before you get all cute, don’t think you can find Nagel without me.” Selby rose from her sofa and gestured to me. I could only imagine what else had to be done.

Just when I planned to respond, Sam's cell phone buzzed out loud. My thoughts now raced with anger as we all glanced around the room. Selby’s guards had departed the nearby shadows and lifted weapons, planning to attack, of course.

After Selby demanded for the call to go on speaker, we heard Sam’s sister, Sarah. This clueless and innocent woman did not realize our mission in the slightest. As Sam and Sarah bickered to and fro, I froze, eying nothing but the farthest wall.

“Sam, let me call you back.” It was not long before Sarah had acknowledged Sam by name, ruining our cover during this mission immediately. Even James had nearly lost his own composure, for good reason.

“Sam, who’s Sam? Kill them!” Selby glanced around, realizing that we were all imposters now. Just moments later, however, this singular gunshot pierced through the glass of a nearby window, ending Selby’s life without fail. Accurate, perfect.

“They’re gonna pin this on us.” Sam huffed. Between gunshots, guards in the room aimed to put up a fight with us. James and Sam defend themselves as I rose from the armchair and cornered us all, lifting my hands when Sam had addressed me.

“We have a real problem now, so leave your weapons and follow my lead.” I breathed to respond quickly. Outside the bar, cell phones chimed, pinging a bounty message. A reward would be given to anyone who found Selby’s killers.

______

“Deactivate your hustle mode because you sell fake Monet pieces.” Sam wasn’t convinced that Sharon Carter kept such exquisite artwork in this high-rise. James and Sam were moving around, eyeing the property as others would keep sight.

“No, she means real. This gallery is specialized in stolen artwork. Monet, Van Gogh, classics.” I recalled more information, but paused midway through my own acknowledgements… Sharon, James and Sam still conversed, but left me alone.

At that moment, I cornered to take out my burner phone, hoping to see if a call would actually go through. At least I could rid this device if need be, otherwise the digital exchange would be found by others. Blue and white lighting of the room kept me hidden to an extent.

Placing the phone against my ear, I watched as Sam and James kept chatting with one another. Sharon looked uninterested, but annoyed all at once. Meanwhile, I listened as three dialing rings filled my ears. I’d waited too long for this moment.

“Hi, you’ve reached Dionne Charles. I’m sorry for missing your call, but if you leave a message after the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks and have a great day.”

There it was. Somehow, her sweet voice hadn’t aged in the decades that passed since we first met. I shut both eyes, immediately remembering the pretty smile that always hid whenever she sipped from those champagne flutes after the auction.

Before I could dare to clear my throat and leave a message, Sam caught me off guard.

“Are you just gonna stand there all night to use your phone or change into different clothes? Sharon’s got clients visiting soon.” Before I could dare to clear my throat and leave a message, Sam caught me off guard.

“Apologises.” Facing Sam in return, I tucked away my phone once more, heading towards one of the last guest rooms located here to switch my current attire.

Tonight would show a great reprieve until the next hurdle came along.

#zemo tfatws #helmut zemo #au fic

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stattic-writes · 4 years

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Game Fight

https://statticscribbles.tumblr.com/post/639099629845233664/masterlist

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statticscribbles · 3 years

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Game Fight

Request: Swarchie; Angst

Archie knows the chances of him getting out of L&L are going down by the minute let alone the hour. He doesn’t say anything when they take Mad Dog away. He doesn’t say anything when the ghoulies take his shoes or Joaquin dismisses him from the Serpent’s. He doesn’t even say anything when he’s tapped.

Every day continues as it had been and he knows he’ll be stuck in here until he dies.

Archie spends most of his free time writing. He writes to all his friends. Letter and thoughts about the things they’ve gone through; he writes to his fellow inmates; and debates actually passing the letters to them. He knows Joaquin will appreciate it but he’s not sure how Shank will react to a five page letter about how Archie wishes to help him. He can’t help but laugh when he’s alone; crying silently at how nice, how soft he still is. The Serpents had all given him advice before he’d left; ways to stave off the boredom or keep his mind sharp so he won’t lose himself. Of course he can only hear Sweet Pea’s voice; the concern trying not to leak through but pattering on his skin like Sweet Pea’s fingertips had ghosted over his arms and skin tracing the snake tattoo that was still sore and sometimes wept when his fights got too rough. He keeps at his usual routine; it’s almost a comfort having to train and getting decent meals; getting books to read and free time in the yard to tell stories of how normal; how safe his school days were. He can tell some of the other boys enjoy it; they’re a little younger than him; with how they excitedly chatter about him. Archie feels a little sick about how much they value him; he’s never had siblings and he finds himself writing Jughead and Joaquin to ask for help.

He spends any free time he gets talking to anyone who will listen about Sweet Pea. No one gives him warnings about being gay and he’s half expecting to get jumped everytime he’s let out from his cell but he finds most of them don’t seem to care beyond the hope he’s single. The thought makes him blush; nervous about anyone finding him attractive; especially since he’s been spending months with these guys and they’re all actually decent people. Archie refuses to admit he has a tiny crush on Shank; mainly due to the thought of the guy being so willing to help his nana; of course Archie knows he didn’t do it on a whim; it was mostly likely Shank’s nana was the only one to care for him. Archie hates himself for the thought. Sweet Pea and him hadn’t been fully exclusive; not with how he’d seen Sweet Pea flirt but he tells no one otherwise. Everyone assumes they’ve been together for years; and never had much of a fight beyond picking it with others who disagreed with them.

Rumors of a new fighter surface. Not of another prisoner but someone brought from the outside; someone who’s fighting to avoid having to go back to a cell.

Archie loses his fight to baby teeth to avoid whoever the new fighter is; after both Shank and Joaquin come back with broken bones and concussions so strong neither of them can stand without swaying. Baby teeth comes back worse than both of them and Archie can tell the warden is desperate to fight with him; but also unsure of using him against the new fighter.

Baby Teeth is released; or maybe he does die like Joaquin mumbles to him. Archie had requested they share a cell; and due to both their last wins the Warden had agreed.

“We’re going to get out; I swear.” Archie promises and the next morning he has a visitor. Ms. Monica Posh appears like an angel and offers him money for the canteen and shoes and almost everything the Warden is giving him. Archie wonders how much Veronica knows of her father’s involvement.

“He’s gotten bad Arch; Jug says he and Fangs are playing G&G almost all the time; they’ve really gotten into playing foot soldiers. We think it’s just a distraction from you.” Veronica hums under her breath as she tells him of the plan to break him out. He offers a half hearted shrug; advice that the Warden is quite nice and that Joaquin is his bunkmate and he really doesn’t want to make it worse for anyone.

Of course Archie never gets what he wants when the Lodges are involved and he finds himself squaring up, masked and waiting in the swimming pool; he can smell Hiram’s cologne and he waits as he’s inspected. He can hear Veronica’s gasps; and Reggie’s growl; the anger in both of them at Hiram is something Archie can taste if he breathes through his mouth.

“Now Red Paladin what will you fight for?” The Warden asks him this question every time; each answer has been the same more or less; usually one of the other inmates’ safety and this time is no different. He knows he’s going to be up against the new fighter; the one that possibly killed Baby Teeth; he also knows Joaquin is the next in the roster; with two of the newer inmates potentially being tapped if he or Joaquin don’t make it.

“Immunity.” He speaks and the Warden nods taking his blindfold off.

“Immunity for who?”

“Joaquin; the other fighters. Just use me.” The Warden laughs nodding.

“Now then. What will you fight for?” He grins stepping back from the edge and Archie takes in the figure standing across from him; his eyes widening in horror.

“Archie Andrews.” Sweet Pea hisses hands shaking as he raises his fists; brass knuckles shimmering.

“For his immunity?”

“To swap places.” Sweet Pea snaps; charging forward. Archie closes his eyes and wonders if Sweet Pea will find the letters he’s stashed in his cell.

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