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The Only Truth... | Part Three

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

There are all sorts of hazards inside a Prisoner of War camp - guards, disease, injury, infection. One that none of you were banking on was the weather itself. Despite it all, and a severe lack of time to linger in one another's presence, you still find yourself growing ever closer to a certain Major.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Disease, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, Kissing, SS Officers, Depictions of Nazi Atrocities Against Russian Soldiers, Threats, Fear, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6337

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April 21, 1945

Despite heeding your request and allowing others to bear the body of the late Freddy Simms, the boy whose name he learned only after his death, from the hospital to the corner of the camp where other bodies were also awaiting transport to the graveyard, Bucky still found himself tremendously sore the next morning. If not for roll call, he would have much preferred to remain on his makeshift sleeping palette tucked beneath the eaves of a fully occupied tent only half-protected from the elements. As it was, the resident goons needed him upright and counted, and so, with no shortage of grunting and grimacing, he had forced himself up and into line.

Considering the overwhelming population present, it was a wonder the guards did not just spend all day counting the prisoners to satisfy their twice daily checks. A few mouthfuls of broth later and Bucky had just lain back down to rest before it seemed like he was having to repeat the arduous process all over again. It had taken another day of rest to recover from his overexertion, but when he awoke this morning, things seemed a little less torturous. The warmth in the sunshine certainly helped, and he felt energized enough to accompany the delivery of the hot loaves of dense, black bread to the hospital. As his eyes scanned the rows of cots in the tent and then the clapboard building, he barely concealed his frown as you seemed nowhere to be found.

“Major, would you mind taking this pail of bandages out back for me? The Nurse seemed to miss them when she collected the laundry this morning.” There was a knowing tone to Chalmers’ request that made him swallow sheepishly, his ears heating up slightly, but he quickly nodded.

Grabbing the rather light pail with the hand of his uninjured side, he walked down the hallway to drop off a loaf of bread in your sparse quarters, brows furrowing at the lack of windows therein, before continuing out the back door. The sight of you crouched beside a basin, sleeves rolled up as you scrubbed at the sudsy rags with a large pot of bandages boiling away on a small fire nearby was so utterly domestic, Bucky could not help but let his mind wander. To imagine you in a kinder place doing something so very mundane without the fear of being shot or starved to death. That was where you ought to be – not here trying to scrub blood and other filth out of tattered cotton under the thumb of SS goons.

Bucky swallowed painfully as you paused a moment to smooth some errant strands of hair from your face and he was able to fully see the painful scars on your left arm. Scars that he had previously caught small glimpses of, despite your best efforts to hide them from him, but the full extent of them made his skin ache in sympathy. That explained why your nightmares featured fire.

Your sharp inhale, swiftly following by the sound of your boot impacting the pail behind you, pulled him from his reverie. Sent his eyes flying back up to see your horrified expression. You were frantically tugging down the rolls of your sleeve as you backed away from him, gait horribly off balance due to the obstacle you had encountered, and he was both afraid you would fall over and that he had offended you. Dropping his own pail, Bucky once again found himself chasing after you across the small, mud-filled yard behind the hospital, sliding his arms around you to haul you tight against his chest.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It just looks like it hurt a lot.” He murmured into your hair, hating the way your entire body was rigid and stiff against him.

There was an agonizing, drawn-out silence where the ambient sounds of the camp bled into the intimate moment until finally some of the tension melted from you.

Sniffing indignantly, you muttered against his chest, “it did. Well not at first, I was too busy trying to get out of the damn plane and take my surgical tech with me. But after…” He felt your head bob in a nod against him and he pressed a reassuring hand between your shoulder blades.

“He make it?” Bucky whispered, immediately feeling guilty for prying, but he could not take back the words now.

“Fitz? Yeah, he’s here – helps out at the hospital once a week…” You leaned back in his arms to look at him with dewy eyes, that wicked grin tugging at your lips and the depth of his longing to kiss you took his breath away. “Don’t see him quite as often as certain prisoners, though.” You teased, making him grin warmly in response.

“Maybe I’m still a patient in a way, angelfish. Maybe you’re still healing me.” He had meant to parry your jest with one of his own, but instead all that had come out was a vulnerable truth, and you both stood there, eyeing one another intensely before Bucky felt your arms, previously trapped against his chest, slide around him properly.

The way you pulled him closer should have felt comforting, reassuring, but instead all it resulted in was a lightning bolt of pain ripping through his back and he was barely able to smother the resulting hiss. You pulled back quickly, fairly ripping yourself from his arms as you frowned at him with your hands on your hips.

“John Egan you are still very injured.” You chided, gripping his shoulders to maneuver and guide him back to the stairs before forcing him down to sit on the edge of them.

“Like it when you say my full name, angelfish. Middle name’s Clarence if you want to really give it all you got.” He smirked up at you incorrigibly and you huffed in what he hoped was a mix of fondness with that obvious infuriation.

“Don’t think I won’t add that to my arsenal Major. Now you stay right there, that way I know you’re not off getting yourself into more trouble.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He grinned, loathe to admit it aloud, but it really did feel better to be sitting down.

Nodding sharply, you grabbed his abandoned pail of bandages to add them to the pot of water, fanning the flames of your small fire until they burned hotter to boil off anything infectious, before returning to your bucket of rags. You continued to scrub at them, casting scrutinizing glances his way every so often before transferring them to a rinse bucket.

“Did you really meet the Pope?” Bucky suddenly asked the question that had been burning at the back of his mind since he had heard you speak the words to the Simms boy.

“Yes, I did.” You nodded, wringing out the clean rags one at a time before draping them across your ersatz clothesline. “The whole squadron did.”

“You were in Italy then…” He mused quietly and you nodded with a quiet hum of agreement, the pair of you swapping information without giving too much away to anyone who might be listening in. “Well I definitely did not meet the King.”

Your sudden peal of laughter had him both grinning and bristling defensively.

“That far-fetched an idea, hmm, angelfish?” He raised an eyebrow demandingly and your hand pressed against your lips, trying to smother giggles you seemed to be unable to stop. “Alright, alright… If I wasn’t stuck on these steps on your orders.” He threatened playfully, basking in the way that only made you throw your head back and laugh harder.

God, you did not belong in this place.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You apologized as he huffed, coming over to tousle his hair fondly.

It took all his willpower not to press up into your touch like some demanding housecat. Slinging an arm around your waist, he pulled you down to sit on his broad thigh.

“Think all this hard work is making you hysterical, angelfish, take a load off.”

“Bucky…” You murmured, reluctantly holding your full weight off him until he forced your hips down fully.

“Rest dammit, isn’t that what you’re always tell me to do?”

“But you’re actually injured…”

“So were you. They let you rest when this was fresh?” He asked softly, fingertips trailing across the abnormally smooth yet ridged surface of your burned and healed flesh.

Bucky could feel you twitching slightly in his arms, obviously not entirely certain how you felt about his touch on your scar and so he shifted to lace his fingers through yours instead.

“There were too many people to help.” You sighed. “Still are, I–”

“Just sit another minute. Can’t save ‘em all if you’re too tired to stand up.”

Your fingers closed around his as you exhaled shakily, head coming to rest on his shoulder. “I do want to save them all…and it’s never enough.”

“I know.” He whispered squeezing your side, lips brushing against your forehead.

The sound of voices caught his attention then – voices growing louder, growing closer. You leapt from his lap, and he reluctantly released you, assuming a casual posture as you grabbed a long stick to pull sterilized bandages from the pot and dump them into the sudsy water for scrubbing. Two guards rounded the corner, immediately barking at him.

“What are you doing back here?!”

“Hospital staff only, get out of here now.”

“Major Chalmers asked me to assist the Nurse, you can confirm it with him.” Bucky replied with a shrug, watching your eyes widen with curiosity.

“We will go confirm with him together, up.” The first guard spoke again, and Bucky rose stiffly, nodding to you before they led him inside.

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As you awoke the next morning to the sound of rain hammering against the roof, you were filled with relief that you had managed to wash and dry all of the laundry yesterday. It was still waiting in its baskets to be folded, but it would hold until your next free moment. Forcing yourself to feel satisfied with a few slices of the loaf of that black bread that had appeared in your room – you held your suspicions that Bucky may have played a role in its arrival – you dressed and emerged as your door was unlocked, blinking in surprise as Fitzgibbons entered the hospital along with Chalmers and Menzies.

You had honestly lost track of the days, a serious risk in the camp, and the fact that it was now Sunday, his shift and your day of rest, had completely slipped your mind. As a medically trained Sergeant, it was well within Chalmers’ rights to order Fitzgibbons to work in the hospital more often, but an early clash of personalities between Menzies and your surgical technician meant that his presence was only requested on a more limited basis.

“Morning Ma’am. Brought you a book to try and keep you off your feet.” He held out a battered paperback and you shook your head with a fond sigh as you accepted the copy of The Great Gatsby.

“Thank you, Fitz…sure you boys don’t need any help today?”

“You can help us by taking the day off as intended, Nurse.” Chalmers replied in a tone that brooked no argument and you nodded, retreating to your room to sit at the small table to crack open the book curiously.

The selection of reading material in the Red Cross library in camp was limited, dated. This book had been published twenty years ago, and you had a feeling you might have read it before, but it was hopefully going to keep you relaxed and your mind off the dozens of tasks you felt like you ought to be doing instead. Despite your predilection to turn inward and get caught up in an overwhelming sea of introspection, the story proved engaging enough to lose yourself in until a knock on the door jamb startled you.

“Mail call.” One of Bucky’s friends stood there, the blond with the gold teeth, grinning. He had a box tucked beneath his arm.

Confusion bloomed unabated across your face as you had not once received a piece of mail since you had been taken prisoner in January. No one had.

“I didn’t think that we were getting mail…” You slid a piece of scrap paper into the book to save your place.

“We’re not, Hambone, stop confusing angelfish.” Bucky appeared over his friend’s shoulder and snagged the box out from under his arm. “It’s those Red Cross boxes we thought we might get.”

“Man, I just wanted to say it once, still a kind of mail.” He grumbled as he strode back down the hall.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head as he set the box down on your table. “Sorry if he got your hopes up.”

Laughing dryly, you set your book down to pry open the already portioned box – each package meant for two servicemen. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned not to expect anything here.”

Spotting the can of powdered milk you held it out to him. “You take this.”

“Angelfish, why are you giving me your rations?” Bucky eyed you suspiciously and you raised an eyebrow in response.

“You’re healing bones and I’m not?”

“At least take half, put it in one of your old cans…”

Glaring at him a moment, you relented with a sigh, unable to deny the fact that it would be nice to have some to add to the bitter coffee. Digging through the remnants of your last box, you found the empty can from the allotment of powdered milk that had arrived in February and began decanting half of the fresh supply.

“You haven’t gotten a single letter? Not even your parents?” He asked quietly, leaning against the door frame.

Swallowing tightly, you slid the metal lid back into place on the cannister, shaking your head. “Figure things must be pretty bad if they can’t get the mail through. Not that I got a lot of mail before but…” You shrugged and held out the powdered milk to him. “Pretty sure it’s got a hole so use it quick.”

Stepping forward to take it carefully, Bucky’s eyes traced over your face curiously. “No handsome fella desperate for your scented stationery, angelfish? I find that hard to believe.”

You could not help but roll your eyes with a sarcastic noise. “Fellas don’t want girls like me, Bucky. They want some pretty thing waiting back home with the time to write pages long letters in looping cursive and those saucy acronyms and pretty spritzes of perfume. Not girls who spent so much time making a living they forgot to make a life.” Your eyes dropped to study the cans of corned beef, of ham, the fresh box of crackers, and small block of American cheese in your ration box. “I’m sure you’ve got a beautiful girl waiting stateside. Sweet and kind and not a whisp of a scar on her. Doesn’t know the sound of jackboots on floorboards or how to use a parachute or what it looks like when the life leaves someone’s eyes. That’s the kind of girl a man like you deserves, Bucky. To completely forget this nightmare even happened. Not this beat up, grungy, girl who wouldn’t even remember which fork to use at the dinner table–”

You barely registered the press of his lips against yours at first, mouth fumbling against his as you continued your litany of reasons why you were utterly unsuitable for him until at last you became fully aware of his warm palms cupping your cheeks, his kiss growing firmer until you stilled against him. An exhale sighed its way through your nose as the tension seeped from your bones, melting against his tantalizingly firm and broad chest. With a noise of deep reluctance, you forced yourself back, licking your lips slightly.

“You could get yourself in serious trouble doing things like that John…”

“Long as it’s not in trouble with you, angelfish.” He murmured fondly, tracing his fingertips along the curves of your ears before slowly pulling them back, tracing your jaw as he went, your nerve endings shimmering in the wake of his touch. “I just couldn’t bear to hear another word of that horseshit.”

A smirk tugged lazily at your lips, the tender flesh of them still humming slightly. “So if I spout nonsense, I get kissed, is that how this arrangement works?”

He exhaled sharply through pursed lips. “You can just ask, too. No need for all the absurd self-deprecations. Because the ‘fellas’ you speak of are idiots. You are a damn treasure, angelfish. Anyone who can’t see it isn’t worth your time.”

Feeling moisture gathering at your lash line, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him in to lay a firm kiss of appreciation on his lips, briefly glimpsing his look of surprise before your mouths collided. Mindful of his ribs, you slid your other hand to his hair, holding him close as his arms encircled your waist.

“I like this ‘arrangement.’” He breathed against your mouth when the pair of you were forced to come up for air.

“Mmmm. Well you’d better get out of here before someone comes looking for you.” You muttered, not making a move to release him.

“Absolutely.” He replied, only pulling you closer into him.

“Bucky…” You sighed, tone not nearly admonishing enough.

“Thirty more seconds.” He whispered.

The unmistakable and aforementioned sound of jackboots scraping across hardwood echoed down the hall and you started to shove at him. “Goon, goon!” You hissed and he back pedaled quickly to the threshold of the room, cradling the powdered milk under his arm.

“I tried reading that book, didn’t really understand the green light business.”

Chest heaving, you furrowed your brows, watching him gesture sharply to the paperback on the table beside your ration box and you inhaled in recognition.

“I think it’s some kind of metaphor in futility?” You blurted out, a long-lost lecture on the novel suddenly flooding back to your rescue as a guard strode past him down the hall, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Yeah, got enough of that in my real life.” Bucky huffed with easy nonchalance before shrugging. “Well, see you around, Nurse.”

“Thank you again, Major.” You nodded, desperately trying to even out your shaky breaths as Bucky disappeared down the hall and the guard continued out the back door, sending you slumping into your chair in relief.

Your trembling fingers traced the tiny smile that curled at your lips, not at all certain what had just transpired, but things between yourself and Bucky had definitely changed.

What most certainly did not change was the weather. The deluge persisted through the night and into the next day, Chalmers and Menzies arriving mud-splattered and damp after being released from their combines. The humidity was of absolutely no help to Desmond Brown, an infantryman from Pennsylvania who had been battling pneumonia for nigh on a week now. Dusty, as he was affectionately known, only seemed to grow weaker, and you were quite dismayed to note a bluish tinge to his fingernails and around his lips today.

“Won’t be long now.” Menzies uttered as you made your rounds and you nodded silently. “Doubt we have anything to prop him up and make him more comfortable?”

Scouring the hospital with your gaze, you shook your head with a frown. “I’ll move his cot against the wall and try to prop him against it – not the best but better than…” You left the fact that he surely felt as though he was drowning in his own fluids unspoken.

Menzies was smart enough to understand and nodded firmly. “Try and sit with him as much as you can today.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded and the pair of you parted ways to put your various treatment plans into action.

Pushing the cot flush against the wall, even with its occupant still in place, was not terribly difficult. Malnourishment and illness had devoured much of Dusty’s muscle mass, though you did need a moment to catch your breath and recover, given that you too were three months into your POW diet. What proved hardest was keeping the man propped upright. Any time you would leave his side to check on another patient or help one of the surgeons with a task, you would find him slumped to the side or slid down into what he deliriously claimed was a more comfortable position.

Most concerning of all, a soft rattle had taken up residence in the back of his throat, audible with each exhale. It was worryingly known as the ‘death rattle’ and usually signalled the end was not far off. Fetching a cool cloth, you settled him into the most comfortable yet still propped-up position you could manage with a combination of his pillow and blanket and the wall before laying the cloth across his fevered forehead. Dusty blinked his glassy hazel eyes at you once, then twice, before his eyelids fell shut for the last time. His labored, rattled breathing continued on for a remarkable duration, and all the while you sat at his bedside, cradling his hand in yours.

You tried to remember sweet things to talk about – spring and its flowers, family dinners, Hershey bars from his native Pennsylvania, anything at all so he would know he was not alone. The men in the adjacent beds grew quiet, the only sound the insistent rain striking the roof and the fading breaths of your patient until even those were gone too. Confirming Dusty had passed by checking his pulse, you shifted his body to lay flat on the cot and covered him with the blanket, standing with a start to find Bucky leaning against the wall, soaked to the skin, watching quietly.

“You know where his friends are bunking?” He asked in a hushed voice, and you nodded, fishing out his chart to find the number of his combine, providing it softly. “I’ll tell ‘em.”

“Thank you, Major Egan.” You nodded, looking quickly as Menzies arrived to note the time of death as you glanced back at another meaningless loss, wondering when it could all just be over.

Bucky’s knuckles brushed against yours gently and you offered him the ghost of a smile before Chalmers was calling for you. “Try and stay dry, this is perfect trench foot weather.” You gave him a meaningful look, willing him to not become another tally on the death sheet, another hole in the POW graveyard.

Bucky nodded sharply in return. “Doin’ my best, angelfish.”

“Good.” You breathed before rushing off to try and keep someone else alive.

Another night, followed by another day of incessant rain, had the yard outside resembling a sea of mud. It kept everyone trapped indoors, even the prisoners who had been sleeping outside found their fellow men making room wedged between sleeping palettes lest people get swept away in the night. There was no meeting Bucky out back whilst doing laundry, nor any excuse to sneak off to quiet corners for a moment of privacy. There was simply too much to do and so all you were able to share, when he and his compatriots delivered another allotment of black bread that day, was an intense look of yearning before duty pulled you away once more.

The state of the tent had been weighing on your mind as it sagged lower and lower beneath the three-day onslaught of water, and it was no surprise when the canvas gave way the morning of the 25th, a mighty sound of rending fabric echoing through the space. A deluge of frigid, accumulated rainwater poured down onto the three men who had the misfortune of being positioned below the gaping tear, its ragged ends flapping in the breeze. Grabbing some towels of rough cotton, you were rushing along the slickened wooden floor to try and move them, dry them off, when the entire corner of the tent lurched and collapsed with a groan and further cries of distress.

“Help!!” Was all you had the mental capacity to yell in the face of the sight before you, hoping to summon Menzies and Chalmers.

To your immense surprise and relief, a flood of men began to pour in from the yard, most likely summoned by the sight of the collapse, but also perhaps your scream. As the lot of you began to unearth men from beneath the debris, you recognized Bucky’s friend with the gold teeth – Hambone, he had called him – as well as the brunette who had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt over ‘angel face.’

“Where should we put ‘em, angelfish?” Bucky’s voice broke through the cacophony from behind you and you turned back to him quickly, wondering when he had arrived.

“In the hall, towards my room.” You thought quickly on your feet, the very last available space in the hospital coming to mind.

With over half of the tent still intact, you worked with the group of volunteers to reinforce the structure that remained standing and ensure the men resting there were all right. Mercifully, the rain slowed for the first time in days, before stopping altogether. Barricading off the collapsed portion of the tent with the sodden, unusable cots, you turned to take stock of the rest of the patients, pleased to find them resting as comfortably as possible. You were drenched and filthy, but that was a secondary concern. Squelching your way inside, you gnawed on your lip to see a total of eight patients now sheltered in the hall with no bedding to speak of.

The feel of a towel being draped over your shoulders jerked your head to the right to see Bucky roughly rubbing at his dripping curls with a towel of his own.

“I am once again in your debt, Major Egan.” You sniffed, wringing out your shirt slightly into the rough cotton.

“Don’t mention it. I’m guessing the only beds you have for them are out there in Lake Moosburg?”

A small, incredulous snort escaped you despite your ragged state and he huffed an exhausted laugh in reply. Shaking your head with a sigh, you furrowed your brows. “We’ve got nothing but a few more towels, and an abundance of dirty rags and bandages…It stopped raining though.” You tagged on the tiniest piece of good news and lifted your knuckles to rap against the wooden wall for good luck, to help it hold, grinning fondly as he practically mirrored the motion.

“Small mercies. I’ll see if I can convince some of the others to part with their blankets in the name of the unwell. I’ll be back, angelfish.”

“You’re a good man, John Clarence Egan.” You murmured tenderly.

Bucky froze, eyeing you intently, unmoving. Not even breathing for nearly a minute before he exhaled heavily. “Suppose you did warn me you’d weaponize my full name, angelfish…” He rasped, fingers wrapping around your wrist to squeeze in a subtle but emotive gesture, his thumb stroking across the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, making you shiver.

“Sorry.” You whispered, having not anticipated the heaviness of the blow it would land, but Bucky quickly shook his head.

“I look forward to you almost killing me again, soon.” He smirked and squeezed one last time before releasing his grip on you to head outside, sloshing his way around the camp to scrounge up enough bedding to keep the displaced patients comfortable.

A variety of guards and their officers came to inspect the damage throughout the day, Lieutenant Colonel Clark making his presence felt as he appeared on Bucky’s heels and immediately demanded the tent be repaired to provide appropriate care for the men.

The next morning dawned sunny for the first time since the 21st, but the cheer brought by the change of the weather was significantly dampened by the appearance of the skeletal figures of Russian labourers. You had glimpsed them from time to time through the barbed wire of the fence behind the hospital, ghoulish figures forced to work in the kitchens, on camp maintenance and repairs, and burying the dead, but you had never been this close to them before. Clearly summoned to complete the repairs on the corner of the hospital tent, they moved in a slow shuffle, clothing barely more than limp rags around their spindly frames. Rumor had it they did not even receive Red Cross ration boxes, subsisting solely on the scraps provided by the SS camp administrators.

Your heart ached at the sight, and you longed to smuggle them food or something of comfort, but they were, at all times, surrounded by a ring of guards to keep them separate. To keep them apart from the rest of the POWs. Casting sympathetic glances their way, you collected the rest of the cots and bedding they unearthed from beneath the partial collapse and shifted it all outside to dry out in the sunshine, noting the increased presence of guards kept Bucky and his compatriots from dropping by.

You assumed the same would be true throughout the 27th as well, however, shortly after the sun reached its zenith, you straightened from a patient’s bedside to see him leading in an unfamiliar face, the shorter man cradling a bloody hand to his chest.

“McLeod here sliced himself good on one of the ration tins.”

“Sorry to trouble you, Ma’am, it just won’t seem to stop bleeding.” The Scottish brogue tumbling from McLeod’s lips matched his shock of red hair impeccably, even if it was a bit difficult to decipher.

“Take a seat right here and we’ll take a look.” You smiled and gestured to one of the freshly dried cots, wedged between other patients at it awaited the completion of its normal resting place.

As you perched on the edge of the cot beside him, setting a pile of bandages in your lap, you noted Bucky eyeing the crowd of SS guards and their waif-like labourers hard at work in the corner of the tent. Gathering McLeod’s injured hand in yours, you gently dabbed at the blood pooling in his palm, nodding as the depth of his cut was revealed.

“Think you might need some stitches here, let me fetch the surgeon.” You smiled reassuringly, pressing a wad of bandages over the wound, coaxing him to apply pressure to it before approaching Chalmers who was working just a few beds away from the construction zone.

The clatter of tools striking the wooden floor caught your attention before the frail body of a workman collapsed to the ground. Acting on instinct, you surged forward to check on him, a professional hazard when on duty in a hospital. The nearest guard, not quite so tall as the others and thereby twice as mean to make up for it, barked at you sharply.

“Get back, schwester.”

He gave you little warning before the butt of his rifle cracked against your shoulder, making you lurch back in pain and chastisement. The cramped quarters combined with the mud-slickened floorboards to send you sprawling backwards onto your hip, mortified, but as you immediately tried to scramble back up to your feet, a wall of humanity was in your way.

“She’s just tryna do her job, keep your shirt on.” You recognized Bucky’s terse growl first, followed by Chalmer’s British accent, made all the crisper in his annoyance.

“You would strike a woman who is only trying to help an unwell man?!”

Sliding backward across the slimy wood, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder.

“Let’s get you on your feet, lass.” McLeod grasped your elbow with his uninjured hand and hoisted you up despite the way your boots seemed reluctant to find purchase on the ground, holding you steady until you nodded that you were, in fact, stable.

“Nein!” The guard shouted back through the men who had formed a barricade between you. “No help!”

Frowning deeply you balled your fists to see the Russian POW laying in the mud, unaided, unacknowledged by any of the guards or his fellow labourers.

“Nurse, go get cleaned up.” Chalmers’ orders snapped your eyes to his face, and you swallowed tightly before turning on your heel, making your way to the utility room to fetch some water.

You could vaguely hear the surgeon arguing for the man’s life as you transitioned from the tent into the main hospital building, but you narrowed your focus to carefully stepping over the men sheltering in the hallway. To trying not to cry at the meaninglessness of it all. Stopping at your room to grab your wash basin, you looked yourself over in the mirror, sighing as you were thankfully not as mud stained as Chalmers’ order led you to believe. Bucky’s reflection as he peered into the room made you turn sharply to face him, gulping back tears as there were patients just steps away.

“You hurt?” He asked softly, seizing your hands.

You shook your head quickly. “Just a little bruised, but I’ll live.”

Bucky tugged on your hands to pull you against him, wrapping you tightly in his arms. “You’d better.”

Burrowing your face into his neck, you could only muster a nod in reply, clinging to him, careful not to hurt him, until you felt able to take more than just the tiniest sips of air for breaths. As the crushing weight lifted from your chest, you lifted your head to look at him apologetically. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, angelfish, you were just trying to help that poor man.” He sighed, pressing his lips to your forehead. You felt one of his hands leave your back and heard him huff a laugh. “You might want to change your shirt though, your back’s covered in mud.”

Tensing, you craned your neck to look over your shoulder, muttering bitterly. “So that’s what Major Chalmers meant…”

“I’ll get you some fresh water and make myself scarce, too many goons watching.”

Nodding softly, you passed him the basin, hoping the construction would be done soon and things could go back to their bleak yet relative normalcy. As if hearing your wishes for the first time in months, the universe actually conspired to have the repairs to the hospital tent completed that evening, all eight patients returned to the cots in the corner, the hallway cleared. Everyone seemed to breathe a little easier that night as you settled them down for sleep, awaking to yet another gloriously sunny day and finally the chance to catch up on the overwhelming backload of laundry.

Setting your water to boil out back and prepping your wash basins, you returned to the hospital to collect the pails of rags and used bandages, smiling warmly as you found Chalmers in conversation with Bucky about one of the American patients. He sent you a friendly nod without breaking his concentration and you bent down to grab the pail that rested between the central desk and the cot where one of the medium-term residents, Pete Thompson from Ohio, was recovering quite well.

“Nurse, you gotta be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He gushed, as he was prone to do, fluttering his long, dark eyelashes.

The young man had lain it on pretty thick since the moment he had arrived several weeks ago, before traversing a brutal course of bronchitis, which he was thankfully coming out the other side of.

“Oh come off it, Thompson.” You laughed warmly. “You boys are so desperate for female company, I’m sure you would propose to Eleanor Roosevelt if she had the misfortune of crossing your paths in this place.”

The guffaw your joke earned had you grinning brightly in return, and you made sure he was comfortable before turning to grab the last couple buckets, blinking to find them in Bucky’s hands.

“This all of ‘em?” He raised an eyebrow and you nodded, leading him out the back way to set your load down in the nearly dry yard.

You hard barely turned around when his lips were crashing into yours, hands gripping your elbows, kissing you breathless.

“Wha…” You tilted your head at him, stunned, when he finally pulled back.

“That’s for slandering our First Lady but also diminishing yourself. Couldn’t just kiss you right there in front of everyone though, angelfish. Specially not that soldier boy getting fresh with you. Had to wait ‘till we were alone.” He smirked and pressed his lips against the tip of your nose, making you giggle airily.

“John Clarence Egan, never change.” You sighed dreamily.

His chest rumbled softly before his lips surged forward, already parted, to take advantage of your surprise and slide his tongue along yours hungrily. In retrospect, his ‘attack’ may have been well warranted, give your twice use of his full name. It was also not unwelcome, making you cling to his shoulders and whimper down his throat as he seemed to taste every inch of your mouth. The way the hair dusting his upper lip brushed against your face threatened to undo your knees, your head swimming with lack of oxygen and emotion until the sharp snap of the door’s hinges had Bucky wrenching back from you.

Pressing your lips together to take greedy breaths through your nostrils, you watched Menzies moodily deliver a missed bucket of rags, eyeing the pair of you suspiciously.

“Best move along Major, we have guests inspecting the handiwork of our unfortunate neighbours.”

Bucky nodded to him firmly, sucking in a deep breath as though to muster a reply. “Thanks for the heads up, Captain. See you around, angelfish.”

He tipped his imaginary cap to you, and you nodded in return, watching him disappear around the side of the building, heart hammering beneath your sternum, before lurching back to focus on the task at hand. To say that your thoughts stayed to him often throughout the course of the day would be an understatement.

-------------------------

Read Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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yandere-kokeshi · 4 months

Note

would love to see any yan!nikolai you can give us <3

Warnings: yandere behavior, talks about kidnapping, forced affection, and guilt-tripping.

A/N: Nikolai is the most underrated character, and it's my time to shine :)!

Nikolai is a romantic at heart, and an expressive man when it comes down to you. He cherishes you like a precious gem, and often spoils you. In many ways, Nik hates being away from you, clingy to the max. Extremely protective, and domestic in his own way; he’s also unafraid of guilt-tripping you to keep you in his path.

Meeting him was an interesting experience. There are a few ways of you two crossing paths, but the most sense is he bumped arms with you because of Laswell.

There are many possibilities of what you could be. Most sense would you being a good SAS soldier, a large figure that he gets along with easily; a dedicated fighter that he soon respects in and out of the battlefield. Not only does it make him easier to search you out- gaining your trust with odd facts, but he can flirt with you on a daily basis.

Or, like any other scenario, a rare civilian that he gets connected with — sharing the same interests in his culture, famous love for flying, and simply trying to be a better person.

With this information — it’s ‘safe’ to say that you’ve caught the eyes of Nikolai.

It’s no surprise that he’s a humongous flirt and loves making you flustered. Anybody can see he’s down bad for you, and by the excessive gifting and touching – it’s bound for the two of you to fall in love, eventually. Which, enough said, makes him go through the ‘natural’ route of persuading you; ensuring that you know he’s the right person for you.

It’s constant touches and clinginess. A hand on your hip to pull you closer, or forced eye contact that’s easily shown to be more than just friends. Nikolai is constantly messaging you– ensuring you got home safe, or asking what you’re doing; soon dialing your phone with his thick accent. And let’s not forget that his laughs are loud, even if you didn’t say anything considerable funny to him, your smile is what makes his day better.

Eventually — the two of you hit off, going on many dates where he shows himself off. Opting for Russian nicknames over English ones, telling you fun-facts of helicopters or any machinery that flies, which makes him soon reveal his emotions with harsh kisses.

Within the relationship, everything is perfect; at least how you may see it. He’s comforting, and loving in many ways. Very guarding too, watching everything around you to ensure your safety and happiness is first place.

He does bad things behind your back. And Nikolai knows it, illegal stuff and what not, but he has to protect you, no? His work is dangerous — other people are dangerous — and you need to be kept safe. If he finds someone harassing you, they’re getting an expensive ER visit; their face barely recognizable with the amount of bruises and broken bones.

Your relatives giving you a hard time? He comes with you on the next visit, smiling at them when you two get out of the car. When all of you are ready to eat, Nikolai asks rather specific questions. Ones you didn’t know, nor your family knowing how to answer. It’s only a matter of seconds before it shows that he cares for you, seeking information to ensure they know their place.

Like the post above, he’s done many illegal things. This said, he opts to put trackers on your phone, and shoes that you wear. It’s easy to add or adjust, and to spy on you; looking at his phone if he has a slight gut-feeling of you hiding anything.

Nikolai is the type to get dirty if it’s the last option. He’s kidnapped before, killed a few, with or without Laswell’s knowledge.

But he would hate to dispatch, finding the steps of keeping the murder hidden exhausting, so he goes with his favoritism: blackmail. It’s easy to scare them off that way, watching their faces drop with fear as he shows them the documents, is almost a dopamine spike.

However, if anyone dares to threaten or hurt you in any shape or form, and he’s now aware of it? It’s best to bet Nikolai is shoving a gun down their mouth. His thick eyes tell them he isn’t joking around to pull the trigger. That shown, it’s easily expressed that he’s more than just protective. He loves you, more than he can comprehend in words, and he’ll eliminate anything that makes you feel a bit uncomfortable.

Despite how overprotective and clingy he can be, especially after long-missions, he’d never kidnap you; unless a specific scenario hits. You get hurt, people come for you and force Nikolai to be the bad one. However, with his confidence, he doubts what will happen.

Acts and service and quality time are his love languages. He loves spending his time with you whenever he can, considering that his job can take him away for many weeks or months at a time. When he’s home — you cannot keep him away. He’s tucked by your side like a puppy following its owner; hands crawling underneath your shirt, squeezing your body, and kissing it a millionth time.

This includes him helping out whenever, and he loves getting orders from you, doing whatever you asked, or soon yelped, with a cheeky smile.

That said, it can also be argued that gift-giving is one of his primary love languages, too. Wherever he goes, he makes sure to get you something, dropping them in front of you in many bags — urgently asking you to open them up. Being a pilot has many perks, now, doesn’t it?

When Nikolai isn’t away from work, he’s very domestic.

The two of you live in a two-story house far away from society, in a remote small town, and an hour away from any major city. He’s caring for the both of you, cooking most dinners, doing the dishes right after, whilst being a cheeky guy and stealing some touches that may or may not lead to make-out scenes.

His own little thing is that he loves to cook for you. Being a pilot, traveling to many places with different types of food forces him to be out of his comfort zone, so naturally, he’s tried many cooking styles. He’s a professional in the kitchen, and will cook whatever you ask, with a promise of a kiss and a long-lasting cuddle session.

His kisses are incredibly soft and slow, nudging for more with his nose, breathing out a small sigh. His hands are always on you, either on your hips or back, pulling you into his body for more.

—

Masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

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kurtie4life96 · 2 years

Text

After Dark

S.H. x F Reader

Summary: After a death scare, Steve is terrified to lose you, and is determined to take care of you.

CW: MDNI 18+, angst, fluff, injuries on arms, softer smut

The frigid breeze of a cold, autumn night nipped at your skin, the usually cozy sweater you were wearing not helping one bit.

Kid after kid, with bruised knees and scraped elbows gathered into a van to be taken home after another traumatic, yet all too familiar event in the Upside Down.

Eddie had graciously offered to take them home, his van having plenty of space in the back for everyone to huddle up, tired heads resting on shoulders and nodding off from exhaustion.

You stood by Steve's car, goosebumps on your skin and a split lip quivering from the unwelcoming chill of the night, and watched him as he exchanged a few words with Eddie, thanking him before he drove off.

Your arms didn't hurt anymore at least, and you didn't know if they were numb from the cold, or if you were still in shock.

You'd been caught off guard by a demodog just an hour ago– it came running after you in the dark, and lept on top of you, toppling you onto the hard dirt.

It'd slashed both of your upper arms in the process, tearing through your sweater, and there was a fleeting moment where you were going to scream, cry for help, but you opted not to. You knew that after countless times of battling Russians and bloodthirsty creatures, you were bound to eventually die at some point.

You'd accepted your fate and squeezed your eyes shut, not wanting to look into its mouth before you became its latest meal, when you heard a loud smack, the weight and pressure of its hold on you suddenly gone.

You forced your eyes open to see Steve, holding his infamous baseball bat, and smacking it against the creature's head over and over again while he screamed and shouted, willing it to die, until its movements finally stilled.

He dropped his bat then with a thud, running up to you with frightened, wide eyes, a blood splattered face, and he knelt down next to you and slid his arms underneath you in one swift movement, holding you close to him as he took in sharp breaths, asking you if you were okay, asking you where it hurt, begging you to respond to him.

You hadn't responded, only staring at him with confused eyes, chest heaving, unable to find the words to tell him you were okay. One moment you'd accepted your fate, and the next, Steve was holding you close to him, a hand roaming over the sleeves of your sweater where it had been torn, heavily sighing with relief when he'd realized that your slashes in your arms were your only injuries.

A silver tear glistened in the corner of his eye and ran down his cheek as he apologized over and over again for not getting to you sooner, and choked back a sob, telling you he thought you were a goner.

Once you'd returned when the battle was over (for the time being), Steve made it abundantly clear that you were not going home, that you were staying with him so he could take care of you, not wanting you to go back to an empty house to lick your wounds alone.

You'd told him that you were okay, that it wasn't life threatening, that you could take care of yourself, but eventually accepted his request when he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his soul wavering and shaking life a leaf, and grabbed your face, pressing his forehead against yours, and kindly but sternly whispering, "No."

Steve was making his way back to you now from Eddie's van, the chilly air breezing through his long waves, and hastily took to taking off his jacket when he saw you shivering, thoughtfully draping it over your shoulders as to not hurt you any further.

He looked at you up and down, studying your body language and crossing his arms before he met your gaze.

"You sure you're okay?" He asked for the tenth time, distress still in his voice.

"Yeah," you nodded, softly smiling, "I'm okay. Just cold."

"Oh shit, yeah," he sighed, "come on, then."

He rested a hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you to the passenger side door before opening it for you, helping you to get in and make sure you were comfortable, and carefully shut it closed, stepping over to the driver's side and sitting down in a hurry, starting his BMW and cranking the heat before driving off.

You stared out the window, burning, hooded eyes closing in relief as the heat kicked in, almost forgetting the thick tension in the air, like a drawn bow waiting to be released, before Steve broke the heavy silence.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his eyes focused on the road ahead of him.

Your eyebrows furrowed, confused by his apology as you looked over to him.

"Why are you sorry?"

"I don't know," he huffed, "it's just that... if we never became friends, you would've never had to deal with this shit, get hurt, ya know?"

"Oh my god," you scoffed playfully, "how were you supposed to know that King Steve asking a girl out in 8th grade would lead to this?"

"I'm not King Steve anymore," he frowned.

"I know you're not, but I'm just saying, it's not your fault. Okay?"

Steve wiped his nose with his sleeve, and cleared his throat, not replying.

"I'm okay, and it's not your fault," you reassured him.

"When I saw you under that– that thing," he responded, his voice barely above a whisper, "I really thought you were... dead."

He spoke the last word as if it was something forbidden to say, and honestly, it felt like it was.

You inhaled, exhaled a short breath, and your mind played the flashbacks like a bad horror movie, making your stomach do back flips, then fill with dread as you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, not knowing what to do with your hands.

"Me too."

Steve glanced at you then, his brown eyes drowned in sorrow, remorse, and even grief of what could have been.

He averted his eyes back to the road, a shiver going down his spine, and reached his hand out to you, his palm facing up.

"C'mere."

You looked over to see his hand open and waiting for you, and you pursed your lips, before accepting and resting your hand on his.

That wasn't enough for him, and he quickly intertwined his fingers with yours and squeezed it with tightly, holding onto you for dear life, his other gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

You both sat in a much more comfortable silence for the rest of the drive, not letting go of the other's hand as Steve kept his eyes on the dark road in front of him, some streetlights flickering, some broken entirely, and you stared out the window, eyes heavy and tired, trying not to fall asleep.

He pulled up to his driveway and let go of your hand to put it in park, turning the car off and focusing on you for a moment, his eyes just as tired as yours.

"Don't move," he instructed softly, before opening his door and getting out.

He quickly moved to the passenger side door, opening it for you and taking your hand in his, pulling you up gently and then placed his hand on your back again, leading you to the steps of his front door before unlocking it and insisting you go in first.

Steve shut the door behind him and switched the lights on before turning to you as you took off his jacket and kicked off your shoes, and he cursed and ran a nervous hand through his hair at the reminder of your bloodied, torn sleeves, slashes on the skin underneath it.

He took a slow step towards you as you gazed up at him, his eyes burning into yours, and he gently smoothed your hair out of your face, making your heart skip a beat.

"C'mon, sweetheart, let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

You nodded and smiled briefly, and he grabbed your hand again, motioning his head to walk up the stairs, and guided you delicately up to his room, as if you were fragile glass that could shatter any moment. You knew it wasn't necessary, but decided it was better to not say anything.

He let go of you as the two of you walked into his bedroom, soft plush carpet under your feet, and you smiled as your heart bloomed with nostalgia at Steve's all too familiar bedroom.

He was quick to advance to his dresser, pulling out the drawers and fumbling through them to find clean clothes he thought would be comfortable enough for you.

You waited patiently, admiring the details of his bedroom, before he approached you, holding up a black t-shirt, basketball shorts and a pair of his boxer briefs.

"Are these, uh, okay?" Steve asked sheepishly.

"Yeah, perfect, thank you," you smiled as he placed them in your hands.

"Okay, cool," he stammered, his face flushing a shade of pink and his hands on his hips, "are you on your, you know, period or anything? Cause if you are, I can try to find something in my mom's bathroom–"

"No," you chuckled, "I'm not, thank you though."

He nodded awkwardly, seemingly regretting asking you such a question, though you didn't mind, you thought it was quite thoughtful of him to mention.

"Here, come shower in my bathroom, and I'll take the guest bathroom."

You followed Steve into the bathroom adjacent from his room, and he looked into the shower, making sure there was enough shampoo, conditioner and soap, before turning it on for you, his hand feeling the water to make sure the temperature was to his liking for you.

"Okay, um," he paused for a moment, thinking, "oh yeah, shit, a towel–"

He opened the cabinet and handed you a neatly folded, fluffy towel and an extra toothbrush, and you were reminded how wealthy his parents were when you felt the overly soft fabric.

"Alright, I'm gonna go shower in the other bathroom now," he motioned his hand somewhere behind him, "if you need anything else, let me know, I'll be quick and I'll be in my room waiting for you."

"Okay," you replied with a small voice, and he nodded, staring at you for a moment before walking out the door.

Suddenly, your chest felt tight, and your heart was heavy as you watched him walk away, like you didn't want him to leave, like he needed to stay with you and never be far away from you ever again, like not being right next to him felt scary all over again.

Suddenly, he felt like a lifeline.

"Steve," you blurted a little loudly, not meaning to.

The way you said his name made him halt, and he turned around to look at you again with wide eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Uh... thank you. For everything. I appreciate it a lot."

It was all you could manage to say.

He flashed you a small, but loving grin, and gave you a slight nod, before turning back around and closing the door.

You sighed heavily as you set his clothes on the counter, and looked into the slightly fogged mirror, your reflection showing your blood stained shirt and your dirtied face, and you grimaced at the sight.

You peeled off your clothes carefully, as to not hurt your already sliced up arms, but you realized it didn't matter when you stepped into the shower and the warm water hit your wounds, making you hiss in pain.

You watched as hints of blood mixed with water went down the drain, washing your hair with great care, not wanting to tangle it further, brushing your teeth and wincing a bit as you lathered yourself in Steve's body wash, the soap stinging your arms.

You rinsed yourself off and stepped out of the shower, dried yourself off with the towel and slipped into Steve's clothes, smiling to yourself as they smelled just like him, breathing in his scent, and took it upon yourself to use his hairbrush and comb out your knots, knowing that he wouldn't mind.

You opened the door to walk back into his bedroom, and just like he said, he was sat on his bed waiting for you with his hands clasped, his hair damp and tousled, his face cleaned up, and he smiled softly at you.

Suddenly, for some unknown reason, he'd never looked more handsome than right there, showered and sitting on his bed, patiently waiting for you, and you smiled back.

"You feel better?"

"Yeah," you responded, voice hushed, "I do."

"Good," he patted the comforter, motioning for you to sit with him, "come here. It's time to fix up those scratches."

You noticed the bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton rounds and bandages next to him, and you groaned, begrudgingly stepping towards him and sitting down on the bed next to him, facing him cross-legged.

"I know, I know," he cooed, "it sucks, but we have to do it. Let me see."

You hesitantly rolled up the sleeves of your shirt and sighed as Steve inspected your wounds, his fingers tracing around them giving you goosebumps.

"These probably needed some stitches," he mumbled, "but all I have are butterfly bandages."

"That's fine," you assured.

"Well, alright," he said cautiously, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and dowsing the cotton pads with it, "this is gonna hurt, okay?"

"I know," you breathed, "it's okay."

He began dabbing at the slashes with the cotton, and you winced and cursed at the sting, him muttering 'shit, shit, sorry, shit, I'm sorry', in between.

"There," he leaned his face towards your arm, "I think that's all disinfected now."

Your heart fluttered when his gaze met yours, Steve only now realizing the close distance of your faces.

His big, brown eyes darted from your eyes to your mouth, lips parted as he lingered there for a moment longer, before leaning back and clearing his throat.

"Sorry, let me get these bandaids," he stuttered, his face blushing.

"Don't be sorry," you insisted softly, "I like when you're... near me, ya know?"

He tried to hold back a shy smile at that, and grabbed the box of bandages.

"Me too."

Your chest grew warm at his words, feeling bashful, and you watched as he gingerly began placing the bandages on your skin, doing his best to close the wounds tight.

"You know," he said quietly, tapping your other arm to continue, "I just wanna tell you... I'm really sorry for how I acted towards you in middle school."

"Steve," you scoffed, rolling your eyes, "it's okay, it was years ago–"

"Yeah," he interrupted, "but I was a real douche then. So, I'm sorry."

"Well... you're not a douche anymore, so I forgive you, if forgiveness is what you're looking for."

His lips curled into a smile of gratitude, and he turned to grab a roll of compression bandages, wrapping both of your arms with them to ensure the ones underneath stayed put.

"There," he exhaled, "all done. I know it's probably not great, but I'm not a doctor, unfortunately."

"Considering that most doctors don't even take women seriously," you smirked, "I think it's perfect."

Steve chuckled, and ran a hand through his hair, sucking in his bottom lip.

The room went quiet as he sat a minute longer, timidly taking your hand in his and rubbing soothing circles on it, and there was a pull in the air, a pull that felt like a rubber band waiting to snap.

You gazed at him with half lidded, brand new eyes, studying his face, and you decided Steve was perfect– his lips, his eyelashes, his freckles, his hair– and his touch set your skin aflame.

There was some kind of mutual understanding buzzing between the two of you, that words didn't need to be spoken to know exactly what was going on in that moment, but neither of you had the bravery to say something about it.

You might have seen this coming had you paid attention, but you'd been too busy spending time with him and your friends in the Upside Down to even notice a change. He soon became your closest friend, someone that you missed anytime he wasn't around, someone who could change your stormy days to sunny ones with his smile and presence, someone who put himself in danger on a regular basis to protect you.

"Alright, well," he smacked his hands on his knees, standing up a bit awkwardly, "I better go. You sleep in my bed, it's more comfy than the other one."

You watched as he walked warily to the door, as if there was something inside of him telling him not to leave your side either, and your heart was heavy again like stone, yearning and aching for him to stay.

"Steve," you called his name, and stood up abruptly, taking a step towards him.

His steps came to a halt at the sound of your voice as he approached the doorframe, turning around to avert hopeful eyes back to you.

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave," you said faintly, voice cracking.

He sucked in a sharp breath of air, his heart beating fast, and lingered by the doorway as he stared at you, looking for any signs that maybe you'd misspoke, then realized you were serious by your gaze, and gently shut the door closed, switching off the light.

You both took slow, careful steps to each other, heat rising to your cheeks, until your faces were mere inches apart, your breath shuddering as you peered into each other's eyes, the moon being your only light and witness in the room as the pull in the air finally snapped.

Steve lifted a thoughtful hand to brush through a piece of hair, tucking it behind your ear, eyes glancing from your eyes to your lips, and butterflies danced in your stomach.

"So pretty," he whispered, cradling the side of your face, his thumb brushing along your lips.

"You are."

He leaned forward then, your name escaping him, hands splayed messy along your cheek, and captured your lips easily in the dark, kissing you gingerly, his mouth warm and soft against your own.

You kissed him back just as quickly, a wave of relief washing over you, hands resting on his chest, and he suddenly broke the drawn out kiss, eyes closed, leaning his forehead against yours as he inhaled shallow breaths.

"You have no idea..."

"Steve–"

He kissed you again, his lips gentle and probing, each one faster and more needy than the last, like he'd never had the chance to do it again because of the hellish world that lie underneath, and you snaked your arms under his, slipping them under his shirt and feeling the soft skin of his back.

His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, a silent way of asking for more, and you obliged, giving him permission to deepen the kiss, tongues gliding over one another in harmonious sync, and you both sighed into the kiss, chests heaving, and a sense of desperation washed over you as you tried to pull him in impossibly closer.

You gasped when you felt Steve's length brush against your thigh, and he embraced you deeply again, swallowing the sound as he roamed his hands under your shirt, humming at the discovery of skin he'd never touched before, warm palms smoothing down your ribs and resting on your ass, squeezing it.

The kiss slowed and your lips stuttered, breath hitching as his touch, and you stopped to press your lips to his cheek, before whispering to him.

"Take it off."

Steve's eyes went wide for a second, mesmerized by your request, and he muttered a quiet 'okay', and grabbed the hem of your shirt, helping you to slip it over your head, tossing it somewhere unknown.

He swore at the sight of your bare chest, glossy lips parted as he sighed deeply, his eyes dark and hooded as he traced his hands up your abdomen, stopping when he got to the swell of your breasts, and his thumbs smoothed over your hardened nipples, making you quiver under his touch.

"Steve," you whined, "need you."

He immediately got the hint and was quick to pull his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside and crashing his lips on yours again, pressing his bare chest against yours, and you felt lightheaded, dizzy at the feeling.

He cradled the sides of your face, licking into your mouth, before taking your bottom lip into his, sucking on it feverishly, and letting it go with a pop.

The action made you huff, and the sound made Steve abruptly grind his hips against yours, and before you could react, he captured your lips and guided you to his bed easily in between eager kisses, gently holding the back of your head as he laid you down on his mattress, anticipation and overwhelming excitement coursing through your veins.

He hovered over you, giving you one last long embrace, his hand pressed into the pillow beside you for leverage, as he made his way to your jaw, pressing sloppy kisses along it, then moving to your neck, his lips ghosting the delicate skin there, and you keened softly, your hands raking through his waves, giving it a gentle tug.

He hissed then, and he licked and kissed along your neck, finding the sweet spot under your ear, and your knees fell apart for him, Steve fervently sucking a pretty bruise there as a reward.

You sighed his name– a prayer, a plea, a beg– and you arched your hips against his, your inner thighs aching for him, making him groan at the sudden movement, murmuring to himself.

"Need you so bad," you whispered against his lips, reaching a hand in between you and lightly stroking his length, finding him hard and heavy for you, and Steve's breath stuttered.

"I got you baby," he pressed a lazy kiss to your lips, his voice husky, before leaning back, "it's okay."

He grasped your shorts and boxers, tugging at them as you lifted your back, helping him slide them down your legs, and he placed them on the side of the bed.

"Fuck," he rasped, gazing at the sight of your heat, face flushed, hair messy, "you're gonna kill me, sweetheart."

You whimpered, rubbing your thighs together for friction, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, 'cause you needed to feel his touch more than anything else.

Steve got the hint and traced his fingers down your thigh teasingly slow, his other hand on your knee, and swiped them through your soaked folds, praising you when he found how wet you were for him.

The touch sent an electrical shock through your body, and he easily dipped a finger in, curling it, his wanton eyes locked on your heat, and you gasped, arching into his touch.

He slipped in a second finger, curling both of them now, and set a languid, yet senual pace, your slick taking them in easily as he brushed against the spot you desperately needed, and you became a mess of quiet moans and expletives.

Steve used his free hand to further spread your knee, then squeezed the soft plush of your inner thigh as he bit the side of his lip, and he couldn't help but lean his face down, licking a broad stripe over your clit as he continued to thrust his fingers in and out of you, and you softly cried, his tongue feeling like velvet as you pulled at his hair again.

He pushed his fingers in and out of you faster then, circling your clit long and slow with his tongue as you held onto his hair for dear life, arching into his mouth and he groaned against your heat, the vibration alone making you huff, heat beginning to pool in your lower back.

"Steve," you warned, "I'm gonna cum–"

He squeezed your thigh harder, and you were sent over the edge, your legs shaking, your gut tightening as your orgasm bloomed within you, panting as he continued devouring you through your high until you twitched.

Your body relaxed, limbs liquid as Steve pulled his fingers out, sucking your juices off of them before sitting up, and his mouth was wet with your slick as his chest heaved, face flushed, gazing at you through half lidded eyes, and you reached your arms out for him, begging for more.

He yanked off his pants and boxers hastily and crowded into you then, hand cradling the side of your face, and kissed you passionately, slipping his tongue through your parted lips, and you hummed at the taste of yourself.

"Wanna feel you," he rasped against your mouth, body trembling above you, "can I..."

"Please," was all you managed to mutter.

He reached a hand in between you then, lining himself up with your entrance, and glanced at you for any signs of regret, not finding any, and he pushed himself inside you, your walls taking him in with ease.

You both keened loudly in unison at the feeling as he bottomed out, jaw slack, and you wrapped your legs around him, caging him in as he began a slow, but deep pace, pressing all the way into you, 'cause he just couldn't help himself when you looked like that, felt so good.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, yanking at the nape of his neck, the moan leaving his lips so soft, you decided it was the prettiest sound you'd ever heard, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him and swallowing the sound as he rocked into you, stretching out your walls in a way you didn't know you needed.

You tightened around him, and he groaned, suddenly snapping his hips into yours, and your wounded shoulders brushed against the pillows roughly, your arms stinging at the feeling, and you winced at the twinge of pain, making Steve halt his movements quickly.

"Shit, shit, shit, I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he cradled your face, pressing apologetic kisses to your cheeks, "are you okay?"

"Yeah," you breathed, "I'm fine, don't stop."

He held your face, gazing through you with worried, remorseful eyes.

"We should stop, I don't wanna hurt you–"

"No, please," you pleaded, a single tear rolling down your face, wetting your hair, "keep going, I need you."

He chewed on his lip, the pad of his thumbs swiping away the tears under your lashline, and stared at you, seemingly deep in thought.

"Okay," he sighed, "here, sit up."

You looked at him through glossy, curious eyes and Steve leaned back, grabbing your hands to help you sit up, guiding you over to where he was sitting, then relaxed his head and upper back against his headboard and pillows, his knees slightly parted.

"C'mere baby."

He motioned for you to sit on his lap, and you eagerly obliged, crawling over him, your shaky legs spread over his, and he held a hand on your hip, the other one on the back of your head to pull you into his face, kissing you roughly, tongue gliding along your lips, and you sighed contently.

"S' okay, I'm gonna help you," he whispered against your lips.

You didn't respond, only humming in agreement, and Steve grasped your hips as you rested your hands on his chest, and he gazed at you with loving, lust filled eyes as he guided your hips down, sinking your aching heat onto his hard length.

You both gasped, and breathy, loud moans escaped your mouths simultaneously at the feeling as you sank down on him fully, reeling in pleasure at the new angle.

You gripped his shoulders, lips parted, eyebrows furrowed as you grinded into each other in perfect sync, Steve holding your sides tightly for leverage as he rolled his hips into yours, setting a sensual, deep pace as he watched himself disappear inside you.

"Just like that, baby– fuck," he rasped, "you feel so fucking perfect."

You only whimpered in response, his thick cock stretching out your walls and hitting your spongy spot with every roll of his hips, and he grabbed your face, pulling it towards him to kiss you as he continued to thrust up into you, his eyes half lidded and blissed out, and embraced you eagerly; sloppy, open mouthed kisses brushing against each other's lips lazily.

"You look– so pretty," he panted, "look so pretty like this."

"Fuck, Steve," you breathed, "feels so– good."

He gripped your hips then, rutting into you quick and harsh, and your movements stuttered, the both of you gasping and throwing your heads back in ecstacy, Steve hitting his against the headboard.

"Don't stop," you cried, "harder."

He enthusiastically accepted your request, gripping your hips so tight, they would surely bruise as he couldn't contain himself, and rutted into you again, starting a faster, even deeper tempo, hitting your cervix every time, and you began to lose composure.

You grinded into each other with desperation, bodies slick with sweat gliding over one another, and you grabbed his face, kissing him passionately as you moaned into each other's mouths.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, hooded eyes burning into yours, still thrusting into you, "love you so much."

His words sent an electrical current through you, and your heart bloomed with overwhelming warmth and adoration as you rolled your hips against each other with unrelenting need, and you gazed into his eyes, tears brimming at your lashline.

"I love you too, Steve," you breathed, "fuck, I'm not gonna last much longer–"

"Me neither," he panted, "cum for me, baby girl, please–"

Your walls clenched around him and your hips stuttered as you dug your nails into his back, the coiling tension inside you snapping, becoming a blubbering mess of gasps and his name, and Steve wasn't far behind, licking and biting at your lips through your high until he couldn't anymore, kissing on your neck to hold back loud moans as his vision blurred, spilling himself deep inside of you as his movements stilled.

You both slumped into each other, chests heaving as you rested your face on his shoulder, and he brushed a soothing hand through your hair, pressing gentle kisses on your cheek.

"Hey, look at me."

You lifted your head up lazily, and he cradled your face, kissing you long and slow, like his life depended on it, and you smiled, smoothing away the hair plastered to his forehead and kissing it gingerly.

Steve smiled back, resting wide hands on your sides to lay you back down on the bed next to him, sliding himself out of you, and you shivered at the loss.

He laid down next to you, pulling the comforter over your quivering body, and pulled you in close to him, liquid limbs entangled, the both of you blissed out, and he held your face, rubbing soothing circles into your cheek as you gazed at each other, his body warmth comforting.

"I don't wanna lose you," he whispered, a look of concern on his blushed face, "ever."

You reached a hand out, brushing your hands through his hair, and grinned lovingly.

"I can't promise that," your voice hushed, "but I'll try my hardest."

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obsidiangravity · 5 months

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Nikto Gets A Cat

I saw this lovely artwork by @quimera-cami and it possessed me to drop all other WIP to write this.

Summary - Spetsnaz are tasked with guarding a remote location. Can’t ask for a simpler operation really. The only downside for Nikto is having to endure the stifling presence of his teammates. Maintaining what’s left of his sanity in such a tiny house is an exhausting challenge, but at least they all get their own sleeping quarters.

Until Rodion returns from a weekly grocery run with a companion.

Word count - 3.9k

Tags - Fluff, Alcohol, Nikto being nice.

It’s no secret to the closest people in Nikto’s life that he despises cats.

The incessant calls for attention. The hair that seems to overrun everything one owns. Their need to mark and ruin upholstery. His disdain for those common house pets are seen as irrational. Perhaps it's a childhood trauma long forgotten, the unsavoury memories regarding these animals locked away in the dark corners of his mind.

But he disagrees. The extreme hatred is warranted. How could it not? What do they provide other than misery and annoyance. He’s grateful to have been spared the torment of living around one since he joined the military over a decade ago.

So the man is rendered temporarily speechless and imobile when Rodion calls out from behind him on the armchair, “Look at what I found outside the supermarket!” and five kilograms of hissing fluff and fury is dumped on his thighs.

The feline snarls and bares its teeth at the person that dropped it. Long razor-sharp claws dig into Nikto’s flight suit, poking his skin.

He winces, gaze narrowing at the youngest Russian. “What the fuck is this?”

“Mm, it’s a cat,” Rodion mumbles over a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie as he searches for the TV remote and brushes stray crumbs onto the ground. It makes Nikto’s fingers twitch. “Siberian I think?”

Dmitry looks up from his task of chopping potatoes in the scantily sized kitchen, amusement ghosting the corner of his eyes. “Oh, it could be, but they are usually a little bigger, no?”

The cat, in a blur of unruly fur, launches itself off Nikto's lap, nails screeching and scraping the wooden floorboards as it skitters across like one of those rats caught out in the light in this shithole of a house. In a second, the creature vanishes behind a doorway to a bedroom. The one belonging to Maxim.

Rodion clucks his tongue. “Well, someone tell Maxim he has a new roommate when he’s back from patrol.”

An acidic scowl is hidden behind his balaclava when Nikto notices the strands of hair and filth left on his uniform. “Are you soft in the head? Why did you bring it here?”

“Saw her scavenging in the garbage as I was about to return. I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“Get rid of it, or I will shoot it.” His voice low and coarse. It is the only response Nikto gives before he stands up, readying to leave for a shift change with Maxim.

Nikto returns twelve hours later after a quiet night, slips out of his worn leather boots to find his single bed occupied.

The feline saw fit to curl up on it and rub dirt on his clean white blankets and pillows. Of course it would be in here, his room is the only empty one.

He’s able to get a better look at it as it sleeps. Dust clings to its matted and tangled cream-coloured fur. Its scrawny figure and ribs are barely concealed by its thick coat. Thin, elegant, almost silver whiskers a contrast to the extremely bushy unkempt tail.

Three small lines of scar run from its right cheek to its velvet-like ear. This is no pampered house pet, it may have been once, however those times were long gone.

He lightly shoos the cat away. It startles from peaceful sleep and hisses, tries to gouge his hand with the tiny daggers on its fingertips, but ultimately scampers off and hides under the bed.

Nikto sighs, long and drawn out. Questioning if he should bother using the back of his rifle like a stick to force it out of his room. He reaches for it, then decides it’s not worth potentially hurting himself from an accidental discharge.

He flips the switch off and collapses on the mattress.

~~~

He wakes up before everyone else again, the sun heating his face through the dusty window. Nikto blinks against the early morning rays and stretches his stiff muscles with a content groan. His toes collide with something furry and soft, and that brief moment of peaceful serenity is disrupted by a sharp scratch to his bare calf.

The half asleep man jerks away from the sting — accidently rolling off the bed. A shoulder and knee takes the full brunt of the fall and the greater pain jolts him fully awake, a “Blyat,” escaping his scarred lips.

The feral animal dashes around the small room, emerald eyes wide, fangs showing and claws unsheath. It howls and arches its back as it realises its trapped between the closed door and him.

Nikto scrambles to his feet, swearing a string of colourful curses that echo against the concrete walls. His jaw tightens. He wonders if he can turn the doorknob to kick it outside without being inflicted with any more injuries.

Goosebumps form on his arms when a deep rumble emits from it, as if it’s charging up an attack. He eyes the AK-47 propped against the wall on the other side of the room. Of course the one time he leaves a firearm out of reach is when he needs it most.

Tentatively, he takes a step forward and in a whirlwind, the infernal creature resumes its frantic scrambling.

It throws itself up onto the bed, rumpling the messy sheets further and jumps on his nightstand. In its rampage of destruction, it knocks the full bottle of vodka over.

It shatters loudly on the oak floor. Large and tiny shards of glass scatter in all directions as the liquid seeps through the planks.

Nikto, who is usually able to repress his anger and known for his stoic composure, lets his vision go red and a roar of unrestrained rage erupts.

He will gut this mangy stray then dump its entrails on Rodion for putting him through this. He has done far worse for less.

The bedroom door creaks open and Devil Incarnate finally dashes out.

A dishevelled Maxim peeks his head and a broad shoulder in, sleep clouding his eyes. “Can you not make so much fucking noise this early?” Then his gaze shifts to the spilled alcohol and groans. “You’re not wasting anymore of the vodka again,” he says and slams the door shut with a resounding thud before Nikto could redirect his fury at him.

He is left to simmer in the aftermath and he swears to drag Rodion’s face across the broken glass if that imbecile doesn’t clean this up.

~~~

It seems an illness has overtaken his comrades.

With its fur clean and brushed, they dote on the cat at every chance it decides to show itself. Regal grace that laid beneath the grime is now allowed to shine. It moves with the arrogance that all cats possess as it struts around the house.

“Oh, what a cute kitten.”

“Look at its shiny gemstone eyes! What a pretty girl.”

Running their fingers through the fur as they coo and play with it. All three of them mull over what to name it. As if it’s a newborn baby and they’re first time parents.

“How about Mishka?�� Dmitry asks as he strokes its back. “Look at its silky coat! Nikto, you have to feel this.”

Maxim scratches his stubble. “I prefer Nina.”

“Satan,” Nikto offers, gaze not leaving his book.

“It’s a girl,” Rodion’s faraway voice interjects from the bedroom.

“Baba Yaga.”

“Doesn’t really suit her… Princess?” Maxim suggests.

Nikto flicks to the next page. “Gluttony.”

“I think Anastasia fits this beauty.”

“Garbage Eater.”

That night, he pulls the covers over him with the feline nowhere in sight.

But dawn finds that yet again the whiskered intruder found its way onto the bed near his feet.

Less scratching and hissing this time. He’s able to expel it with only an attempted swat at his arm and minimal destruction. No caterwauls of wildness, or pointed teeth and claws tearing at his blankets thankfully.

~~~

They take pictures and record videos of the nuisance doing the most inane drivel and send them to each other, including Nikto. As if he can’t see the damned cat himself. At this rate, they would probably snap an image of its excrements and praise it for defecating outside by the end of the week.

The cat takes the greatest liking to Dmitry. It’s no mystery why. Twirling about his legs for food at all hours of the day that it’s not sleeping.

And the meowing.

It doesn’t shut up. Always whining, always mewling. Like an alarm siren demanding more and more meals.

The short period where it is not doing that, usually when one of the Bale brothers has the little gremlin on their lap, massaging the soft fur around its ears — it purrs loudly. Impeccably imitating a broken lawnmower.

Nikto has no trouble tolerating most discomforts — the filthiness of a barracks, the lack of sleep during a long operation, numbness from the biting cold of Russian winters. He would endure all of it again over this.

Nobody else seems to be agitated by it. Madness has infected everyone but him. No longer can Nikto read a book or relax with a good bottle of vodka in peace. He enjoyed his lone shifts a little more than the rest of the team before. Solitude is always freeing.

Now, it’s his only solace for true rest.

His equipment, his bed, the whole house, is filled with stray strands of fur. Irritating his nostrils and ruining his clothes. He briefly considers murdering the cat and the idiot that brought it home when he finds a nonhuman hair in his half eaten soup.

The last straw that solidifies their insanity to him is when the living embodiment of chaos vomits a wet furball on the sofa.

They will throw the cat out now for sure. Nikto has no doubts about it.

Except, that does not happen.

They did not throw the cat out.

They mutter words of comfort and pat it on the back, cleans up the mess and offers it a treat.

Nikto occasionally catches the feline watching him from some dimly lit corner. A spark of intelligence in its big round eyes. As if it secretly taunts him, before prowling away.

The following night, he scours his room, getting on all fours to check under his creaking bed frame. His bloodshot eyes strains against the darkness and finds only dust bunnies. No furry form with a demonic glint in its jade irises. Satisfied, he switches off the light and crawls in, the chill of the night seeps through the small crack in the window.

Yet, come morning, the relentless animal inhabits his sheets, purring with satisfaction.

It amazes him that it is able to burrow up so close as he slept again — with him being none the wiser, considering how much of a light sleeper he is. Nikto makes a mental note to seal the window. Clearly the sliver of opening for fresh air is too much to ask for.

He lets out a bone weary sigh, running a hand over his scarred face and rubs his temple. It can stay for now.

It’s not being overtly infuriating. It barely takes up any space. The man observes its sleek fur shining almost golden in the sunlight. Is it as soft as they all say it is?

He reaches for it, his fingers lightly brushes its tail and it lets out a groan of discontent, hopping off the bed, onto the windowsill. It slinks away, landing on the bushes outside.

Nikto watches the raised fluffy tail disappear past the treeline and he pushes the pane fully shut with a resounding snap for tonight.

“She’s nearly done with her moult,” Dmitry comments as he sweeps the tumbleweeds of fur out the front door. There are clumps of it stuck on foliage, mixing with the twigs and leaves.

It’s visually revolting.

When asked why he doesn't simply throw it in the trash, Dmitry says it makes the birds happy to use it for their nests.

Birds don’t nest this close to winter, you moron. Nikto would have loved to retort, only, he realises he doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

The one upside to the neverending mountain of inconveniences is there seems to be a decrease of rat sightings inside. Perhaps, it’s not as lazy as Nikto originally thought.

He scowls at the empty packet of potato chips left by Rodion on the coffee table. The cat is now far from being the most useless individual in the house.

He lies awake in his bed, watching the shadows of the tree branch right outside his window dance on the wall as the wind jostles it. Sleep has trouble taking him like most days.

As he is about to drift into unconsciousness, an ear grating yowl echoes in the living room through the walls, loud enough to wake the dead.

Nikto huffs and rolls onto his stomach.

It continues. The sounds of the kitchen’s trash can being rummaged and the occasional meow of discontent prevents him from dozing off.

He’s determined to ignore it, maybe yell at someone else to feed it but realises it’s probably useless. Dmitry can sleep through a bombing. Maxim is likely comatose from drinking and nothing less than a gunshot will wake him.

He sits up, fingers reaching for his balaclava, fully intending to throw some biscuits in its food bowl so it can leave him alone.

The moment he pries open the door, the feline sprints in and beelines underneath his mattress.

Nikto narrows his eyes, tired brain is slow to process what exactly occurred. A defeated exhale leaves his lips and pushes his door shut, returning to bed.

He has grown to expect the cat to claim the territory beside his left foot and is careful not to nudge it come morning.

~~~

Frantic scratching on worn oak is like fingernails on a chalkboard, agitating Nikto's taut nerves. It wasn't just the sound, but the urgency behind it.

He’s not the only person home, someone else can let it out.

He tries to ignore it and focus on his task. Cleaning firearms is a silent and soothing experience. It helps to clear his mind when he needs it most.

The scraping intensifies.

Nikto unclenches his jaw — gently places down the bolt carrier and oil stained cloth, and stands up.

Boots thudding on the floor as he marches to the source of the noise.

The cat paws at the front door and wails. Wanting to be let out. It looks at Nikto as he turns the corner. Its face saying, please I need to leave.

I need to leave right now.

He unlatches the steel lock and pulls the door open. The feline hesitates, its miniature nose twitching, testing the cool air and the scents wafting in.

Frosty blue irises flash in anger. “You wanted to leave? Then go!” His free hand gestures to the open space outside.

Seconds stretch into a minute.

It stands there. Peering outside. Then, with a flick of its tail, turns and walks away, returning to its favourite spot on the kitchen counter by the window.

Nikto watches it, a mixture of confusion and realisation settling in his chest. It gives him a side eye that speaks volumes before it lays down and gazes out the glass.

He had served this creature. Catered to her whims. Ungratefulness aside, he feels used.

~~~

Nikto leaves for his shift just like any other night. Familiar weight of his rifle in one hand. Vodka in the other. Stars glittering in the sky.

He settles down at his usual spot in the outpost overlooking the area he’s meant to guard. As he’s about to peel back the fabric of his mask to take a sip, a crunch of dry leaves alerts him to a presence not too far from his left.

Drink forgotten, muscle memory and instincts take over, he raises his gun in the direction of the intruder. Two glowing orbs look back at him, and then an inquisitive meow.

Low and behold, it’s Garbage Eater.

Exasperation washes over him. He lowers his firearm and stares at it.

The cat saunters up to his feet, rubbing its face on his boots.

Nikto silently grieves his allotted hours of privacy robbed away and sits back down. How did it even follow him? He was not as alert as he usually is compared during a mission, but for it to have not been detected since he left the house is a feat.

Surprisingly, it keeps a respectable distance. Choosing to lick its hand an arms length away.

He finally gives in. The Russian reaches out to run a hand over its back. A throaty groan of protest erupts.

Nikto stops. Fair enough. He doesn’t like being touched either.

As the night deepens, he offers little bits of chicken from his food container while they sit in tranquil company together. He will never admit to it if asked, but the presence of decent companionship is something he craves. Dmitry is pleasant and respectful, however he can be a little too worried more often than not. That man is not subtle. Nikto catches every glance of concern, every time his lips pull into a hard line.

Animals don’t do that. They don’t have any questions of his mental state barely held back on the tips of their tongues.

Sometimes when it gets too quiet, his thoughts can be overwhelming. Fragmented memories from his past come slithering back. Lately, he has been unable to keep them at bay.

Every now and then, a new door opens, and he often doesn’t like what comes out of it.

Maybe it senses his mood, or maybe it’s just cold, it inches closer to sit beside him for the remainder of the shift. Its green eyes full of concern.

When they return to the house together, the cat doesn’t have to sneak into his bedroom.

~~~

Tiny gifts in the form of dead rats are deposited in his quarters every so often. He could dispose of it normally, but he throws them into Rodion’s room. It grants Nikto a small bit of satisfaction whenever a screech of disgust sounds throughout the house, usually after that man returns from his shift.

A week passes and Nikto wakes up with a feather duster-like object in his face.

It seems that the cat, perhaps emboldened in the darkness, gained some courage and moved upwards long past midnight. She sneaked up close beside his chest as he was sleeping. Her padded foot, soft and warm, rests against his bicep with an easy pressure, tail tickling his cheeks.

She had stuck to the end of his mattress every day before this.

Her forehead nudges his hand, seeking contact, and she rubs her long whiskers against his open palm.

Sundown arrives sooner, the days grow colder and Nikto quickly discovers she likes to be squashed by his arm.

The cat blinks and carefully leaps over him to situate herself in the small space between him and the wall. She sniffs Nikto’s hand curiously and rubs her cheeks against it before rolling into a ball. He buries his fingers into her soft fur and closes his eyelids.

He knows she only pursues his company for his warmth. He doesn’t mind it. His nail traces patterns in her coat and she stretches languidly. Maybe it's not just her seeking him. Maybe he craves the physical touch too.

It has been too long, he realises, since he has hugged another living thing. To feel the pulsing of a heartbeat against his fingertips. It is not so bad afterall.

The even vibration of her purrs lulls him to a dreamless slumber.

He hears the rhythmic clacking of claws on the hardwood floor before the cat jumps onto the armrest. She puts a gentle paw on Nikto’s forearm and meows.

Nikto hums, the words of his fantasy novel momentarily blurring. “What do you need this time?” he grumbles.

Everyone else left ten minutes ago, a rarity. He has plans to finish this book today.

Unfazed by his hollow annoyance, she steps onto his lap and does a few circles before settling down.

He shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that’s more comfortable for them both. “I’m reading a story, do you want to hear it?”

She looks at him knowingly and yawns. Nikto clears his throat, he begins reading with a soft voice that feels unfamiliar, it has been a long time since he last used this tone.

At some point, her eyes drift close and her breathing deepens, yet he continues.

Nikto couldn't help but see the similarities they share. They both exude an independence born out of necessity. He runs a calloused thumb over her old scars. They’re both survivors. No other person he met has understood it truly. Though with the way she regards him, the reserved man thinks she might.

~~~

Nikto takes the last bottle of Five Lakes on a hunt with him before Maxim could — he can have whatever slop is left.

It’s been years since he had hunted, nevertheless, he still remembers how to track deer and rabbits.

Gloved hand securely clutching the cool glass, he ventures further east.

People argue that vodka isn't for taste. Nikto disagrees.

He values the smooth, barely detectable flavour, a welcomed change to the generic liquor he usually endured on duty. To him, the subtle burn is appreciated. He doesn’t think his alcoholic comrade can tell the difference.

It’s not that he can’t handle the harsh taste, he would simply rather get drunk with a minimal amount of hangover.

He’s not surprised when he hears the rustle of grass and the well-accustomed to call of his four legged companion behind him after he crouches down to inspect the gnawed on vegetation.

She trots up, her sleek form brushing against his thighs and investigates the leaves, sniffing it with a delicate nose.

“Can you hunt rabbits as well as rats?”

She flicks a ear and chirps in response.

Nikto takes that as a yes.

Undeterred by the distant rumble of thunder above, they proceed further, the sparse canopy offers little protection as tiny droplets soon begin to rain down upon them.

Eventually, the soil grows too damp for her liking and she tries scaling up his leg, tips of her claws latching on to his thigh muscle through the thick fabric.

She advances quickly, her pointed nails has no trouble finding purchase on the straps and gear tied to him. Nikto hisses and grips her to his chest with his forearm before she can make it any higher.

She calms instantly, feeling secured in his solid hold.

The mild drizzle subsides quickly, leaving the forest dripping and smelling of fresh earth. However the once stray Siberian forest cat has no desire to return to the damp ground.

He purses his lips and takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

He can’t use his hunting rifle with one hand and he refuses to let her on his shoulders. Daylight is about to leave anyway. Won’t be a terrible decision to return.

As the sun dips below the horizon, dousing the hills with the warm colour of fire, Nikto observes the sky and settles on the grass, Garbage Eater curling up on his lap in content silence — he thinks that having a pet cat isn’t the worst thing in the world.

#nikto #cod nikto #call of duty #cod mw #call of duty mw #call of duty fanfic #call of duty fic #call of duty MW19 #call of duty MWII #call of duty mw2 #Dmitry Bale #Maxim Minotaur Bale #Nikodim Rodion Egorov #MW19 Spetsnaz

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sixty-silver-wishes · 1 year

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some composers ranked by how likely you'd be able to beat them in a fight:

Mahler: 1/10. No way you're taking him down. He looks short and has a history of heart issues, sure, but this man was fucking ripped and not enough people are talking about this. We're talking six hour hikes, rowing, mountain climbing, biking, swimming, all that. Gustav Mahler never skipped leg day. Best thing you can try to do is push him off his conducting podium, but if he survives the fall, you're screwed. Man will personally eviscerate you in front of the entire orchestra and still make you play at his inconsistent-as-shit rehearsal tempi until he decides you’re dismissed afterwards.

Vivaldi: 9/10. Look at him. Dude had asthma. Plus he's a priest, and while fighting many priests is understandable, it’s Vivaldi. You'd have to be a dick to want to pick a fight with him, but it's doable.

Tchaikovsky: 8/10. Throw one punch and then he'll just start crying. But he does have access to the tsar and everyone loves him, so if you manage to beat him in a fight, all of Imperial Russia will think you're a monster. Best not to try.

Shostakovich: 5/10. It depends on if he's alone or not. If it's just him, no problem. Just break his glasses and push him down the stairs before he can tell you that he thought you were better than this, you monster. However, if Sollertinsky is there with him, which he usually is pre-1941, you're totally done for. If he sees you so much as laying a finger on Shostakovich, Sollertinsky will personally insult you in 25 different languages in ways you will never recover from. He'll go after all of your insecurities, including ones you didn't even know you had. Just ask a certain music critic named Krokhmal, who once denounced Shostakovich, so Sollertinsky saddled him with the nickname “Carbohydrates” for the rest of his life (“Krakhmal” means “starch” in Russian). It isn’t pretty.

Wagner: 6/10. He probably started the fight anyway, but no matter if you win or lose, he'll tell everyone that it was your fault regardless. Still, punching Wagner would be extremely satisfying, so it’s your call.

Ravel: 9/10, easy. Not sure why you would want to fight Ravel, but tell him that his socks don't match, and he'll be caught so off guard you can easily land several punches in.

Satie: 0/10. Don't even try to fight Satie. Just don't. You'll black out from a blunt-force umbrella to the head and wake up to your shoes replaced with live fish.

#classical music #music #composers #composer #mahler #tchaikovsky #shostakovich #vivaldi #richard wagner #ravel #satie

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scoops-stevie-archive · 2 years

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trans steve growing up and feeling that something isn't right, she feels too…..out of place in her own body and she tries to placate that feeling by wearing pants and tshirts instead of the dresses her mother forces her in but she's always caught and punished in someway so she wears the dresses and fixes her hair and she grows up.

she's fine. she deals with it. until one day in freshman year the feeling becomes too much and she ends up confiding in tommy whose been her best friend since kindergarten and he gives her his old clothes he doesn't wear anymore. the feeling lessens and she's comfortable. for now.

then, in sophomore year, wearing the clothes around the house and when she's with tommy and carol isn't enough anymore. by then her parents are hardly ever in the state, let alone the country, for more than two days at a time. she's not worried about the gossip of hawkins getting back to them, she doubts they even care, so the monday after a minor breakdown in her ensuite, she pins her hair up into a bob, dons a polo and jeans, and the new pair of nike's she bought with the money that was supposed to be used on groceries.

the anxiousness still sits at the bottom of her chest. she can't put a finger on it until she's flipping through a magazine and finds herself sighing wistfully at the guy in a cologne ad, wishing she could look like that. it catches her off guard and startles her so much she rips the page out and throws it in the wastebasket. that sets off a whole new panic to have over the weekend, but the thought of not being "___ harrington" anymore is such a weight off of her shoulders and she cries in relief.

two weeks and another confessional with tommy and carol later, steve harrington makes his appearance at hawkins high and nobody says a thing because, really, who's brave enough? tommy will beat the shit out of anyone who so much as glances at steve the wrong way and it makes warmth bubble up in steve's chest and he thinks he's so lucky to have the two of them in his corner.

until november 1983 happens.

he drops tommy and carol and steve is clinging to the last threads of his popularity when billy hargrove dethrones him in '84 and opens up the whole can of bullshit that leaves steve reeling. he's spiraling by the time dustin finds him and drags him back into the world of monsters and government secrets, and it distracts him, protecting the kids and making sure they stay alive. billy still kicks his ass, female parts or not.

and then the shit with the russians and being drugged and robin buckley becoming his best friend and platonic soulmate on the floor of a disgusting bathroom stall happens, and it all feels like a blur. or maybe that's just from being knocked in the head too many times in the past couple years, steve's pretty sure. robin knows his secret and he knows hers and they'll both take them to their graves.

summer 1986. his parents finally decide to grace the town with their presence after more than three years away. things have changed, steve's changed, and its obvious his parents aren't happy. they scream, punches are thrown, and steve ultimately ends up on the doorstep of the munson's brand new two bedroom house, courtesy of government hush money, with a suitcase in hand.

eddie remembers the steve before. he didn't have much of an opinion on him back then but he saw the fallout with hagan and perkins and quietly told himself there'd be a space for steve in his flock of sheep should he need it.

he didn't back then, but now he does.

steve opens the floodgates and tells his story from the beginning. from the clothes, from the secret hospital appointments and the surgery that, before the demobats, nobody even knew about. he's crying by the end and tells eddie that it feels like a piece of him is dead inside. that after all of it, he feels guilty. eddie sits quietly and listens, giving steve his full attention with those dark round eyes. he tells him he doesn't have to be sorry for doing it on his own. he's not alone anymore. eddie reminds him that he hasn't needed his parents for a while now, and "who needs them when you've got us, huh? those assholes didn't spend the last four years risking their lives for this town."

he's right. he's found his family in the kids, in robin, in nancy, and hell, even eddie (he won't say how he wants it to be a little more with eddie.) he's grown up and away from the expectations his parents set for him and he doesn't have to feel sorry for that.

#its 1am idk if this is even eligible #i was listening to matilda by harry styles and got into my feels #cj talks #dingus #steve harrington #ftm steve harrington #trans steve harrington #stranger things #steddie ficlet #cj writes

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timomoe · 4 days

Note

For the shipping game: DenEst and SweEst <33

We're off to an amazing start

SweEst

SweEst is one of my favorite ships in the entire fandom. For one, there is lots of historical backing to it - Sweden was once the empire that ruled over Livonia (some of modern day Latvia and all of modern day Estonia) and compared to the other powers that controlled the area, Sweden was pretty relaxed when it came to governing. Sweden was, generally, quite kind to Estonians, advocated for opportunities to have the population educated, and even allowed them to keep their folk beliefs instead of forcing them to convert to Christianity. In the grand scheme of things, a lot of Estonians don't consider Sweden's rule colonization, and it's a generally agreed upon fact that the Swedish Era in Estonia was the good era. Later, Swedes also supported Estonia's bid for independence and around 1000 (I believe) volunteers ditched their country to go fight Russians in Estonia in the 1910s. They remain good friends to this day, diplomatically, too.

In terms of hetalia, I view their relationship as one that's VERY slow to form. Initially, Sweden was uninterested in befriending Estonia, only communicating the fact he was the better option in comparison to the Teutons, Russia, and Denmark. He wanted Eduard to understand that so that he could govern him without hiccups. If Estonia knew he was the best choice, then maybe he wouldn't be as violently resistant to him as he was to everyone else.

I imagine things started to change about 2/3 of the way through the swedish era, when Sweden began to pursue a genuine friendship with Eduard. That was unheard-of (in my hcs) by that point, as Sweden's only real mission was to subdue those his crown told him to, and Estonia would have been one of them. He placed value and worth on nations based on their power, and, of course, being controlled by someone his entire life, Eduard had very little of it. But what he lacked in strength, he made up for in sheer tenacity and power of will, which eventually swooned Sweden, which Sweden wasn't expecting at all. The fact that someone had been able to "seduce" (seduce used lightly here, Eduard was being an asshole and Bernhard just went "omg so dreamy" bc he's AN IDIOT) him and not the other way around really caught him off guard.

He didn't pursue anything, of course. He was too busy, and Eduard was practically a feral cat. Sure, he'd come home to eat, but get too close and he'd run; touch him, and you'll probably contract rabies from the bite. Not only that, but very soon after Ber decided he wanted to kiss this man and stare longingly into his eyes... He lost him. To Russia. And immediately was barred from seeing him. I imagine Russia wouldn't have wanted Sweden, whose rule was very obviously preferred to his by Estonians, to speak to him, lest he inspire a rebellion. The only way they maintained contact was bc Finland decided he cared more about Eduard and his mental health than he did about his hate for Sweden, and he helped smuggle in letters that Sweden wrote. He knew it kept Estonia and Latvia's spirits up.

They probably wouldn't have gotten together until the modern day, if at all. It's honestly equally likely to me that ber is just too afraid to lose Eduard's friendship and keep quiet about his feelings as it is that he took a chance and started a relationship with him.

Either way, Eduard is just COMPLETELY caught off guard. "Me?? ME?? Why!" He doesn't get it. Ber is far more conventionally attractive than Eduard is, plus is tall, with the strong silent schtick that makes people lose it, AND he's a sweet and attentive father who loves and gets along with kids. He's got all these interesting hobbies and interests, and has amazing life stories to tell. Eduard really wouldn't think he's worthy of attention from someone like ber, and that ber is WAY out of his league. It would confuse him, but he obviously wouldn't be opposed to the idea of a relationship with him. He likes ber! He's been friends with the guy since the 16-ish00s. He knows him well. He's seen just how much he's grown as a person. He knows him, his motivations, his interests, and he knows enough to know that he would probably do well in a relationship with him. He's very analytical about the whole thing, because he doesn't want to leap into something just for it to go badly and ruin one of his closest friendships.

I think the relationship would go pretty slowly because of this. For Eduard it's a matter of experimentation and for Ber, it's a matter of keeping Eduard comfortable. He does not wanna step on his toes.

I have a confession to make. I've never offered this ship more than 2 of my brain cells until now. Mostly bc, hot take, I'm not super into Denmark. He's fine! He's silly and cute in an annoying big brother kind of way

DenEst

But this ship almost veers toward "you can see what A likes about B, but not so much what B likes about A."

In my mind, Denmark is immature. Well meaning, yes, but immature. The way I tend to characterize Eduard, is as a very mature person. He had to grow up way too fast because he was constantly being picked on, targeted, and fought over by nations two, three, four times his size. Denmark being one of them, albeit much further back than Sweden and other nations. It was Denmark that Estonia led an uprising against, with the full intention to just kill anyone they caught (St. George's Night Uprising). Denmark wasn't kind to Eduard when he owned his territory and subjugated him. BUT Denmark was stupid and young at this point, fresh out of the Viking era, where violence was how problems were solved. It could easily be said that Denmark learned a lot from his time ruling over Livonia, and it is most definitely true that he chilled out a LOT as time went on.

Denmark can be an idiot. He's impulsive. He's a little absent-minded, and can be over-excitable. But one thing he is not, is malicious. In fact, he's likely the most outwardly kind and affectionate out of the Nordics, excluding Finland. He is soft-hearted and kind, and he cares very much about the people around him.

Some of the ideas a friend (@hetaestoniahq) has shared with me revolve around Eduard in the 90s. If you're unaware, Estonia struggled a lot in the 90s. Being released from a horrific dictatorship that repeatedly tried to demolish your people's spirit in the WORST ways will do that to.

According to his hcs, Denmark was one of the nations who regularly kept contact with, checked on, and spent time with Eduard after he was granted independence. This stems from the fact that Denmark was one of the 1st countries to re-establish diplomatic ties with Estonia, if not the first. Denmark also sent volunteers to aid Estonia in their war of independence, like Sweden and Finland did.

He tried to make sure that Eduard was staying healthy, building healthy habits, and taking care of himself. Obviously this would have been a struggle, but Denmark would have done his absolute best, because Estonia was a friend of his, and he never lets his friends down, if ever he can help it.

And honestly, it would have just gone from there. It's a very soft and wholesome ship, I totally understand why all 5 people who ship this like it as much as they do.

#hetalia #aph estonia #aph sweden #hws estonia #hws denmark #aph denmark

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mariacallous · 8 months

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Russian troops entered Melitopol at the very start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Since then, report journalists at iStories, the city has become a center of partisan resistance and simultaneously “the largest prison in Europe,” where Russian soldiers kidnap and torture residents with impunity. Meduza summarizes this latest report on Ukrainians’ lives under Russian occupation.

According to a new report by iStories, abductions by Russian occupation forces in Melitopol became widespread as early as March 2022. This is when Ukrainian activists launched the “Kidnapped Melitopolians” hotline to collect information about disappeared locals.

A woman named Natalia who works at the hotline told iStories that Russian abductions initially targeted people who worked in local government bodies. By the fall of 2022, soldiers moved on to school administrators and teachers who stuck to the Ukrainian curriculum. “Then came the farmers. There was a period when they kidnapped a lot of veterans of the [2014–2018 Donbas War]. And a lot of businessmen — they kidnapped them for ransoms,” explained Natalia.

Staff at the “Kidnapped Melitopolians” hotline have documented 311 abductions. More than 100 of these people are still in the Russian military’s custody, and 56 have gone missing entirely. Volunteers suspect the true number of kidnappings could be 3–4 times higher.

Landscape designer Maxim Ivanov and his girlfriend Tatiana Bekh were abducted in April 2022, near the outset of the invasion.

“We left the house, and I had a [Ukrainian] flag on my car. An armored personnel carrier was driving nearby, and I grabbed the flag and waved it around, shouting, ‘Get off our land!’ They stopped, about 10 guys surrounded me, and they threw the flag to the ground and stomped on it. They said, ’Now we’ll take you to reeducate you,” recalls Maxim Ivanov. He says he and Tatiana were taken to the local military police, where they joined other people arrested for pro-Ukrainian agitation or curfew violations. Soldiers beat Ivanov with rubber batons, forcing him to scream, “Glory to Russia!” The couple was released two days later after being pressured to sign a document stating they had no complaints about their detention.

Maxim and Tatiana were arrested again in August when they were caught posting leaflets for Ukraine’s Independence Day. Soldiers confiscated the flyers and searched Maxim’s mobile phone, finding messages he’d posted in a chatbot where he reported information about the movements of Russian troops and military equipment. Later that day, Ivanov was beaten at the police station and suffered multiple broken ribs. The next day, Russian soldiers moved him to a garage under a bridge, where they brutally assaulted him again.

“I realized that they might kill me right there and then. I asked for my phone so I could call my parents and say goodbye. And they told me: You’ll make due. You’ll croak, and nobody will know. Then they brought me to the garage and left me. I opened my eyes, and blood was gushing out everywhere. Everything around me was covered in blood,” Ivanov told iStories.

After five days, Ivanov and several other prisoners were taken to bathe. “There was just a hose with running water, but we were thrilled because it had been so long since we’d washed. I undressed, and [the guards] watching whispered to each other and said, “This one’s ready. Let’s take him away.” They probably saw that my back and ribs were all black and blue and decided I’d had enough,” recalled Ivanov.

All this time, Tatiana Bekh was confined to a tiny shipping container (smaller than seven feet by seven feet) parked on the military police compound. The couple was eventually transferred to a city police department, where officials continued to torture Ivanov, even using electric shocks.

Russian troops later released Tatiana but held Maxim for another month, continuing to beat him regularly. In late October 2022, they sent him away to Ukrainian-controlled territory, but he had to walk the 25 miles himself from Vasylivka to Kamianske, navigating a “gray zone” where artillery fire was ongoing:

I thought about asking someone for a bed for the night, but the village was dead. There was nobody there, and all the homes were destroyed. I went into an abandoned gas station and spent the whole night there. It was late October and cold. I found a piece of fiberglass and threw it over my legs. And the artillery fire was constant. It hit nearby, and I heard the earth crumble from the explosion. I thought that gas station would become my tomb.

Russian occupation forces also kidnapped a 23-year-old schizophrenic man named Leonid Popov, whose condition was in remission thanks to medical care, though doctors warned his mother that stress could jeopardize that progress. The first time occupation troops arrested Leonid was in May 2022. They held him at a military police center for three days. Leonid’s mother told iStories that “drunk Kaydrovites” (Chechen soldiers) tortured him, tying him to a wall, mocking him, throwing knives at him, and subjecting him to electric shocks. She says her son never understood why they even detained him.

Around the same time, Russian soldiers also abducted Leonid’s brother, Yaroslav, who said he was forced into a cramped jail cell with another 30 detainees. The guards later added a “drunk or mentally ill person” who didn’t stop screaming, and the men were told that they’d all be shot if they didn’t “shut his mouth,” Yaroslav told his mother:

And then this crowd of frightened prisoners started to beat the man. And when he started shouting, they just began strangling him, just to stop him from yelling. And the man died.

Yaroslav’s mother says she asked him what he did as this happened, and he told her that he turned to the wall and prayed to God for the first time in his life.

In April 2023, Russian soldiers abducted Leonid Popov again. Three months later, they dumped him at a hospital where he was treated for extreme emaciation. Nearly six feet, five inches tall, Leonid now weighed less than 90 pounds. His father was later granted permission to bring his son home, but troops again took him away that same day. Leonid Popov’s whereabouts are currently unknown. iStories doesn’t say what became of his brother Yaroslav.

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to-the-stars8 · 10 months

Text

Reviving Love

Jason Todd x Reader AO3

Chapter 4

You apologized, too, before saying that it was no issue at all. Fuck, you were even prettier than the pictures he saw on Instagram. For a second, he thought he saw a flash of recognition on your face. Maybe you had recognized him but reasoned that it would be impossible. Gulping down the anxiety, he tried to play cool.

“Sorry,” He said again. Damn, that wasn’t what he meant to say.

This time, you only smiled before stepping around him. He thought about following you, asking you for your name, before realizing that a random man following you would be creepy. Jason was also way too aware of how intimidating he could be when not spoken to, one of the reasons he was quiet and kept to himself since he was over six feet tall with a body the size of a fridge. All at once, he decided to let you pass. It wouldn’t work out, anyway. The two of you had way different lives now, and he didn’t have time to navigate all of that.

“Hey, Mr. Jacobs, got those cigs for me?” Jason said as he put everything onto the counter. They were some Russian cigarettes he had grown fond of, and that happened to come into his taste during an undercover stint with the Russian mafia. Mr. Jacobs had been selling them for his more special customers, to keep in their good graces and all. The old man laughed, tossing the box onto the pile as he rang everything up.

Jason peeked over his shoulder to see you now standing in line behind him, eyes cast down in thought before instinctively looking up to catch his stare. Quickly, he turned his head around again, his face heating up. He didn’t hear the total before handing Mr. Jacobs a hundred as he picked up his bagged groceries.

“Boy, don’t you want your change? It’s a lot.”

He snickered, shaking his head. “Use what’s left of it to pay for her stuff,” He nodded his head at you.

You were hesitant to accept, not wanting to take a stranger's money, but Jason insisted. Shyly, you agreed, letting the old man ring up your things.

Jason was going to leave, but, in the time he had spent in the store, the rain had started to come down hard. Too hard for him to go out in a simple hoodie without getting completely soaked. Instead, he hung back as people gathered in the doorway of the store, all joking about the sudden downfall.

“Thank you,” Your voice was suddenly filling Jason’s ears.

Looking at you he shrugged, putting his free hand into his pocket. “No biggie. Do something nice and it’ll pay it forward—Or however that fuckin’ sayin’ goes.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, I think I get your meaning.”

“Yeah,” He said breathlessly, eyes looking you up and down. Jason wanted to think that he hadn’t meant to check you out so noticeably, and mentally cussed at himself for being a creep.

Unprompted, you told him your name, extending a hand. “What’s your name?”

“Jason.” He shook yours. It was a firm shake, and he went through a range of emotions. He could usually take the occasional touch from strangers, but it being you along with his intense, sudden self-consciousness he forced himself through it. Luckily, the handshake didn’t last long.

For a second, your smile fell before returning. “Nice to meet you, Jason. Are you from around here?”

Smirking, he asked, “Born and raised.” For a second, he thought about ending the conversation there, but now he was curious to see how far he could get. “How about yourself?”

“Yeah, Gothamite through and through,” You giggled. “What part are you from?”

“Midtown,” He lied.

“Oh!” You grinned. “That’s where I’m from. You must’ve gone to G.A., huh?”

Jason nodded slowly, “Yup. Never seen you around there, and I think I’d remember your pretty face.”

You were caught off guard by the compliment, bashfully looking down with a coy smile, before looking up to meet his eyes. Okay, Jason thought, maybe he was better at this than he anticipated.

“I, uh,” Before you could answer someone declared that the rain was finally letting up. Jason was paying attention to the world again and looked outside. It was a bit darker than when he first came in but it certainly wasn’t raining anymore. As everyone shuffled out, the two of you followed, stealing glances at each other as you did.

When your feet landed on the wet concrete, you stopped Jason from walking away by calling his name. He stopped cold, a feeling of light nostalgia coming over him as he turned back to you.

Stepping forward, you shyly said, “Um, I’m sorry if this is too forward, but do you have Snapchat or something? I’d like to get to know you better. You can also tell me what’s so special about those cigs you bought, too.”

You must have overheard the conversation with Mr. Jacobs, and he appreciated your observance. Jason could feel himself turning red as he shook his head. “I don’t have Snapchat, but I can make one just for you. What’s your user?”

As you wrote down the username on your receipt, Jason decided that he wouldn’t tell Dick about this. The last thing he wanted was an I told you so from his older brother. When you handed it back to him, Jason could see the flush on your cheeks, too. Damn, the friendship and spark were still there, even if you didn’t know it was your Jason.

When Jason returned to the quietness of his apartment, throwing the bag of stuff down and hunger put aside for now, he took out his phone. Damn thing, he cursed, he felt like Bruce when he couldn’t figure out this kind of infernal bullshit.

Somehow, after calling Roy to help, he managed to get an account set up. When he typed in your username, a little icon that he assumed to be you popped up. Instantly, he added you and typed out a few messages then deleted them. Somehow, he couldn’t find the right words to say to you. Then, a bubble popped up letting him know that you were texting him now.

Embarrassment flowed through him. You must have had a lot of those pop up as he tried to think of what to say. Then, your message hit his screen.

So, Jason, wanna meet up to talk more about your imported cigarettes over some lunch?

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garden-of-joy · 10 months

Text

Mistake| Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x reader

Summary: Gaz felt from the begging something about the mission was awry. But he didn't expect this...

I totally forgot about Gazfest! I hope I'm not too late @glitterypirateduck

Warnings: Angst, death

Gaz could feel it even before you left the base. Something about the mission was off. It rubbed him the wrong way when Laswell had her hands tied and forced out of the briefing room for "undisclosed reasons". The person that was in her stead seemed shifty and untrustworthy. His eyes were constantly jumping between the 141, never focusing on anyone in particular. The informat never regarded anyone by name. It was always "Captain" this, "Lieutenant" that, "Sergeant" third. Kyle never trusted that CIA informat.

What takes him out of his train of thoughts is you nudging him on the knee. "Kyle? Are you with us?" You whisper to him, making sure to not disrupt the meeting.

"Yeah love. But that skeezy guy doesn't look... Right. Something's off." He whispers back, leaning closer to you with his body.

"Relax, it's not like it's our first time without Laswell babysitting us." You reassure him, trying to be rational. Yeah sure, the replacement CIA guy doesn't look like the most trustworthy person out there, but to trust someone from the CIA fully is straight up stupid. Even with someone as close as Laswell, you still have to take everything with a grain of salt.

"I know, I just don't know if everything is right. Something is wrong." He keeps insisting, bouncing his leg nervously.

You put a hand on his thigh and press it down. "Relax, you're just being paranoid. Come on, we've gotta focus up on the brief." You move your hand up from his thigh and hold his hand, resting it between the two of you.

"You're probably right. Sorry love." Kyle shakes his head, feeling his bones pop a little and focuses on the briefing.

And even then, everything about the informat was wrong. From the way he didn't seem to look at anyone for too long, to how he never stopped changin his posture, but always had an anxious and hostile body language... What really sent him was when Price began strategizing how **his** team should go in, the CIA agent shot down his offer and gave a completely ridiculous idea. That they should all split up. And enter from four different sides, while Ghost keeps overwatch. The mission is a simple warehouse sweep, just go through it quickly, find what you need and get the hell out of dodge. It sounds painfully compromising, to send them alone like that so nobody has their six, having to comb through a warehouse with lots of potential flank routes and ambush spots.

And now here he is, two weeks later, pinned by what he assumes is dozens of russian mercenaries, taking turns to fire at his position. Some have already tried to flank him, but he picked them off, so now they just wait for him to come out, firing at him mostly to make a point. Kyle knows he can't stay here forever, or he'll eventually be caught off guard. He looks around himself, trying to find the nearest exist, his heart beating all the way up in his ears as bullets fly by, too close to his head for it to be safe. Comms are jammed, so he can't even call anyone to come help him, even though his squadmates have definitely heard the gunfire.

The exit to the north of him will take him to a more close quarters part of the warehouse. Maybe he can lose them there? Try and get any news from the team, maybe even find his comrades? At any rate, he'll have to get the hell out of dodge first, and then think about comms and whatnot.

He waits for the enemies to stop firing, just for a second, immediately springing off towards the exit, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his breathing heavy as he barrels towards the door. A bullet grazes his cheek, missing him by barely an inch, but he slams his entire bodyweight on the door, swinging it wide open. He doesn't stop sprinting, feeling the air going through his hair a mile an hour as he rounds corner after corner, in a frenzied sprint to get away. He stops after a minute, panting heavily, but catching his breath, securing his rifle.

"No doubt they'll go after me. I need to be ready. I need to-" is all he can manage to think, before he hears rushed footsteps coming in his direction. Footsteps, laboured by battle gear.

Gaz readies his rifle, setting it to full auto. His mind is going a mile an hour, Kyle can feel his hands itching to exact his flight or flight instinct, as his vision blurs around him. He doesn't quite realise what he's doing, adrenaline pumping through his veins with such intensity it can almost make them burst. He only comes to when a body hits the ground with a muted thump, all the rifles and punctured body armour clanking loudly to accompany the thump.

Gaz takes a cautious step to his fresh kill, to confirm it, but he freezes when he hears you. Or rather, the pained, blood-soaked croak you barely manage to let out. It pierces his ears like a thousand gunshots never could. Kyle lunges over to you and collapses to his knees, hoping that he misheard, but no. It is YOU. Your face, your attire, everything. Just like he remembers it. Except that now, every detail is getting bathed in blood, faster than anyone can help.

"Y/N, I... I..." He tries to find the words but he can't speak. His stomach is turning, making him squeamish. He can feel something rising up his asophagous, forming a lump in his throat as all he can do is gasp.

"I-I can fix this! I-I just need to call a medic." Gaz talks to you, clasping his palms around your wounds, desperately trying to stop the crimson fluid from seeping out of you, taking your life with it.

It's when he looks over at your face, a faint smile curled on your lips, that he feels it all. Death is staring back at him, its cold, boney hands dragging you away from where you need to be. In Gaz's arms, carrying you out of the goddamn warehouse. He stares back at your empty eyes, somehow so full of tenderness, transfixed on a place far beyond Kyle's reach.

His rationale is screaming for him to go, to at the very least save himself, but how can he? You're dead. Gone. Perished. And why? Because of him. It's his fault.

**I should have noticed your attire, your signature weapons, your fucking face!** His mind curses up a storm, drilling into him the severity of the situation. His gloves feel disgustingly warm, caked in something that isn't his, coated by something he wrongfully took. It's HIS rifle that shot HIS bullets that made it to YOUR stomach.

He takes your lifeless corpse in his trembling hands, his usual relaxed yet no-no sense attitude gone. Tears stream down his face as he presses you close, the salty drops finding their way into his mouth, painfully contorted as he tries not to cry. Gaz's ears begin to ring, but all sounds feel so distant now, as if coming from another planet. Everything feels distant and foreign to him, everything, except you. Kyle knows full well there's no going back. No amount of blood transfusions, stitches, resuscitation attempts, NOTHING, will ever help you. Because. Of. Him.

"Please Y/N forgive me, please..." He barely whimpers between stifled sobs, burying his head into the crook of your neck, your scent just like he remembers it. He wants to lose himself in you. He can't imagine a life without his one true love, especially knowing that you died by his own hands. All those dreadful, sorrowed sounds leave him, filling the room with unparalleled anguish, reverberating between the walls and drilling back into his head. It's too thick for him to move, too thick for him to hear the rapidly approaching footsteps and loud voices. It's too thick for him to see the bright red laser from a rifle, trained onto his head.

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reneeee19 · 1 year

Text

Minerva (John wick x reader) Chapter 2

Summary: Y/N, a talented ballerina whose life takes a drastic turn when her parents die and her uncle Winston gains custody of her. In New York, Y/N discovers that her uncle owns The Continental, a hotel for assassins, and is sent to the Ruska Roma for training. Despite her initial reluctance, Y/N excels in the art of killing and becomes one of the most feared assassins in the underground world under the alias "Minerva." Winston pairs Minerva with John Wick, another skilled assassin whom she had grown up with in the Ruska Roma and fallen in love with. Together, they become an unstoppable force, taking on dangerous assignments and making a name for themselves in the underground world.However, John eventually leaves his life and Y/N behind, leaving her heartbroken and alone. Years later, he returns with a final request that will put both of their lives on the line.

"STOP" The director once again yelled at Y/N on the stage. Y/N fell to her knees and felt the urge to cry but stopped herself. While she sat there and looked down at her scraped knees Y/N realized that she'd become the unknown dancer she'd seen when she first came here.

"If it wasn't for your uncle you'd be dead by now. When I come back I want to see NO mistakes and if I do see one there WILL BE consequences. Do you understand?" The director stood up and watched the girl under the spotlight. "Yes, I am sorry" Y/N replied with a broken voice. When the echoing sound of the director's heels stoped after a door was slammed shut Y/N stared crying.

As hot tears streamed down her face, Diana thought back on the past years at the Ruska Roma. Then she remembered how warm her mother's hugs used to be. Y/N needed one of those hugs now and the memories made her cry even more on stage.

Diana switched her position so that she hugged her knees and rested her head on them, looking out at the empty audience seats. She quickly stood up and tried to wipe the tears off her face as she saw a silhouette step through the huge doors. "director?" the silhouette spoke with a young man's voice. Y/N was caught off guard to hear a man's voice it had been years since she last time.

There were, of course, men in Ruska Roma but they were restricted from the girls since the "Management" thought it would be a distraction.

"S-she left a couple of minutes ago," Y/N said as she swallowed her tears. The man emerged from the shadows and Y/N could finally see his face. A young man who seemed to be around her age with dark eyes and long sculpted face with dark long hair. Y/N didn't know if it was because of the isolation from the outside world or if she really thought he was one of the most attractive men she's ever seen. She just stood on the stage admiring the man's features as he came closer to the stage. "I was said to meet her here" He had a husky voice as well as a Russian accent, an interesting combination Diana thought, wanting to hear more of his voice.

Y/N took a seat at the edge of the scene and the man stopped in front of her and looked at her as if it was first now he'd seen her face. He had snuck into stage room so many times to see her dance but this was the first time he had seen her up close. "What's your name?" he spoke as he studied her face. "Y/N...?" his eyes wandered up to meet her eyes. "I am Jordani" he stretched out his hand for Y/N to shake but it took her a few seconds for her to actually shake it. That name, she'd heard it once before, the day her uncle dumped her here.

Finally, Y/N shook the hand. The hand was so much warmer than hers and the warm touch surprised her and made her hiss under her breath. "You can call me John," he said and for the first time in what perhaps had been months, she smiled or at least tried. But all positive feeling was soon forgotten and was replaced by panic and realization. Y/N once again got up on stage and walked towards the center even though she was numb of pain in her legs and her ballet shoes were filled with bloodstains on them.

"I'm sorry John I have to get back and train or else they're gonna burn my back," Diana said and begun dancing. But John still stood there, watching her move. Elegant he thought but he knew that Alena never would've been pleased with elegance. She wanted things to be faultless, flawless, impeccable and John guessed it was because to remain a certain reputation. If anyone were to guess it was John, Alena's adopted son.

"How many times have you done this dance?" John asked Y/N, still analyzing her movements. He recognized the pain she felt, he'd done this himself, danced until his feet bled and cried until there was nothing left to cry for. "10 hours" Y/N mumbled and tried to focus on her movements and not her surroundings. "Well, I've done for years...The reason the director doesn't let you pass is that you're curling your toes as you're extending your left leg out."

Y/N stopped her movements and turned to him with frustration and confusion. John chuckled and said "Yeah frustrating... Let me help you" She nodded at him and he began walking towards her. She danced once again. John hummed the song to her and when it was time to extend the foot he gently held her shoulder as he reminded her about the toes. As John watched her posture Y/N watched him and admired is appearance. But the moment was soon over as loud high-heeled footsteps echoed.

"Good," the director spoke in the darkened side of the scene.

#John Wick #john wick x reader #john wick/reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #fanfiction

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cptg00s3 · 1 year

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All the injured soldiers

Gn reader she/they and she/her dni you will be blocked, you have enough fics for yourself.

Tw for this fic:

Lowkey unfinished since I couldn't find the correct words to merge the two prompts I wrote. Might edit this someday but idk. Definitely not proofread. Like no actual romance

Fic doesn't make sense bc I never played cod.

Further no heavy heavy gore and torture of reader (not writing but very much written amd acknowledged)

Now please enjoy

Task Force 141 was on a mission to retrieve a high-value target, a Russian arms dealer, from an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow. The team currently consisted of Soap, Price, Roach, and [Y/n], a skilled field operative with a knack for infiltration and espionage.

As they approached the warehouse, they noticed that the enemy had set up a complex defense system with multiple layers of security. The team split up, with Soap and [Y/n] taking the main entrance while Price and Gaz went around to the back to create a distraction.

However, as soon as Soap and [Y/n] entered the warehouse, they were ambushed by a group of heavily armed soldiers. They fought their way through, taking down one enemy after another, but it was clear that the opposition was better prepared than they had anticipated.

As they made their way deeper into the warehouse, [Y/n] noticed that Soap was starting to get increasingly agitated. He seemed to be more concerned with finding the target than with their safety, and [Y/n] had to keep reminding him to stay focused and stick to the plan.

Despite their best efforts, the team was eventually overwhelmed by the enemy's superior numbers and forced to retreat. As they were making their way out, [Y/n] was hit by a grenade and knocked unconscious.

When [Y/n] woke up, they were in a dark and dank cell with no idea how much time had passed. They were badly injured, with broken ribs and a concussion, and could barely move. It was clear that they had been captured by the enemy, and [Y/n] knew that they were in for a world of pain.

(Supposed timeskip prob)

The team quickly gathered their gear and prepared to move out. Price led the way, his mind set on getting [Y/n] back safely. As they made their way through the dense forest, they could hear the distant sound of gunfire and the occasional explosion. It was clear that [Y/n] was in the thick of it.

The team finally reached the edge of the enemy's compound. Price signaled for everyone to get into position. Ghost and Roach moved to take out the guards at the entrance, while Soap and Price made their way to the back of the compound.

They could hear [Y/n] screaming in agony from inside one of the buildings. Soap felt his blood boil at the sound. He knew they needed to move quickly before it was too late.

Price kicked down the door, and the team rushed in guns blazing. The enemy soldiers were caught off guard and quickly taken out. But as they moved deeper into the compound, they encountered heavy resistance.

Bullets whizzed past their heads as they ducked behind cover. Soap felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as he was hit by enemy fire. He gritted his teeth and continued to fight, his mind focused on getting to [Y/n].

Finally, they reached the room where [Y/n] was being held. The sight that greeted them was gruesome. [Y/n] was tied to a chair, covered in bruises and cuts. Their eyes were swollen shut and blood dripped from their nose.

Soap felt sick at the sight. He had seen his fair share of injuries in his line of work, but this was different. This was someone he cared about, someone he couldn't bear to see in such pain.

Price quickly moved to untie [Y/n], while Ghost and Roach covered their backs. Soap kept his gun trained on the door, ready for any more enemy soldiers that might show up.

As Price freed [Y/n], Soap moved to their side, ready to carry them out of the building. But before they could make their escape, a group of enemy soldiers burst into the room, guns blazing.

The team was outnumbered, and the fight quickly turned into a bloody melee. Soap felt his adrenaline pumping as he fought off the soldiers, his mind focused on protecting [Y/n]. He took a few hits, but nothing could stop him.

Finally, the team emerged victorious, but not without their fair share of injuries. Soap was bleeding from several wounds, but he hardly noticed. All he cared about was getting [Y/n] out of there and back to safety.

As they made their way out of the compound, Soap carried [Y/n] in his arms. They were barely conscious, but Soap could feel their heart still beating. He promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep [Y/n] safe from now on.

Back at the base, the team worked to patch up their injuries. Soap couldn't stop thinking about [Y/n] and the torture they had endured. He vowed to never let them out of his sight again, to always protect them from harm. He realized that he cared about [Y/n] more than he had ever thought possible, and he wasn't going to let anything happen to them again.

#this makes no sense #I have no idea what this even is supposed to be.#I wrote to halves and thought they fit together check.#male reader #gay #cod x reader #cod x male reader #ghost cod #trash #john soap mactavish #soap × gender neutral reader #soap × reader #like no romance #get hurt mf #I hate myself for this fic #why do I even write anymore #damn I spelled two wrong

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punchdrunkdoc · 4 months

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Part 3, Chapter 9

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 (maybe 4??) parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

————–

PART 3

Chapter 9

The warehouse was a confusing maelstrom.

The scents and the body heat of dozens of people blended together, and the painful cracks of gunfire bombarded Matt's sensitive hearing. But within moments of crouching by the main door of the squat, rectangular building, he started to sense the order in the mayhem.

The Widows were advancing through the space in teams, covering each others’ backs, their movements precise and economical. Their enemies were spread out and floundering, seemingly taken off guard, and too poorly trained to adapt to the sudden attack.

No. Not quite. Matt cocked his head, assessing the occupants of the warehouse further. They weren’t poorly trained, they just weren’t used to working as a team. As individuals, they definitely had some skills…but they still weren’t a match for the Widows.

He followed the fight from the sidelines, knowing it wasn't his place to intervene, that it wasn't his battle. But he was poised to enter the fray if Calina or one of her sister's were at risk of getting hurt, or if something went wrong.

And after ten long minutes of fighting...something did.

The balance of the fight somehow shifted. Something turned in the favour of Volkov’s men, and the Widows formation started to fracture. They started to take more hits, and they had to scramble to try to cover each other.

But not all of them managed.

Matt caught the moment one of the smaller Widows came up against a hulking thug almost twice her size. He could smell the gunpowder from her weapon where it had been knocked to the ground, and she was reduced to dodging and spinning out of the way of the brute’s powerful fists, her own hits landing with barely any impact against his muscled mass.

Sensing the danger she was in, and knowing it was time to act, Matt sprinted through the doorway and into the warehouse. He leapt over workbenches and the boxes littering the cavernous space and reached the Widow just as her opponent picked her up by the throat and slammed her onto the concrete floor. Matt launched himself into the air, twisted, and used his momentum to kick the Russian in the side with full force. The brute grunted as he flew across the floor, and Matt quickly leaned down to check on the Widow at his feet.

Up close he recognised her as Inessa, one of the Widows from the cabin. She was sprawled on the concrete, eyes closed and not moving. The scent of copper filled his nose, but before he could check for the source of bleeding, his opponent got to his feet and came at him.

That’s right, Matt thought as he ducked under a right hook. Pick on someone your own size.

He parried the hook with a one-two jab of his own, and attacked with a series of kicks and punches…but just like Inessa, his hits barely registered. The hulking Russian just absorbed the impact and kept standing. Even a booted kick to the face - with Matt’s entire forced behind it - did little more than snap the man’s head to the side. He just spat out a globule of blood and smiled, baring red-stained teeth.

Matt took a step back, frowning. His first kick had managed to affect the guy…but was that just due to the element of surprise? Because nothing was working now.

Who the hell was this?

What was this?

There was no time to figure it out - it was the brute’s turn to go on the offensive, and Matt had to use all his concentration to avoid the attacks.

Given his size, the man wasn’t exactly light on his feet, but his fists packed a huge amount of power. The support beam to Matt’s right splintered into fragments when one of the punches missed Matt by a hair and impacted the wooden structure.

Matt wasn’t so lucky with the next hit. He was a fraction of a second too late to fully dodge an uppercut, and the glancing blow to his chin was enough to send him flying backwards. He landed in a heap next to the still-unmoving Widow. He gave himself a moment to shake off the ringing in his head from the impact before staggering back to his feet.

But it was a moment too long.

It gave his attacker time to swipe Inessa’s fallen gun and start firing. Matt dodged the first round, his honed senses moving him out of the line of sight before his addled brain had a chance to catch up.

The next round glanced off his mask.

But by the third round, Matt was ready. He ducked and spun out of the way, grabbing his billy club from his holster. With a sharp flick, he sent one end of it barrelling towards the gunman. The baton hit the man in the hand with a crack, and the pistol flew out of his grip.

Before Matt could follow up the move, a familiar figure came sprinting towards them from the right. Matt watched as Calina leapt up onto a nearby workbench and used the added height to launch herself onto the shoulders of the Russian brute. She wrapped her long legs around his chest and jammed both hands into his neck, sending bolts of crackling electricity through his system.

As the incapacitated man dropped to the floor, Calina gracefully rolled off his shoulders, somersaulted across the floor, and came up in a crouch at Matt’s feet.

She stared up at him, mouth parted in surprise. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

There was no time to reply. Another man had chased Calina across the room and was coming in hot. Matt grabbed Calina by the arms, pulled her to her feet and shoved her behind him just as the newest aggressor reached them.

This one had a knife. A long, serrated dagger that flashed towards Matt as the man attacked. Matt blocked the blade with the edge of his baton, and countered with an elbow strike. Calina stepped out from behind him, dropped into a spinning crouch and swept the knife-man’s legs from under him. He collapsed to the floor, and Matt followed him down, hammering a vicious punch into his face to knock him out.

Another assailant came running at them, this one a similar build to the electrocuted brute.

And he was just as strong.

It took Matt and Calina working together to take him out, the two of them utilising their strengths in tandem - Matt’s offensive skills, Calina’s agility, the weapons strapped to her wrist, and the baton in his hand.

And they complimented each other perfectly. They both seemed to instinctively knowing where the other one was, and what they were going to do. They were so in sync, it was like a dance. As if they’d been training together all their life.

As the man finally fell unconscious at their feet, Matt turned to Calina and touched his gloved hand to her cheek, his senses checking her over for any injuries. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She pressed his hand to her face. “No, I’m fine. Are you?”

“I’m good. But who the hell were those guys?”

Calina shook her head. “They’re not supposed to exist. And they’re definitely not supposed to be here.”

———

Their intel had failed them.

All of Anya’s careful research, the days and days of carefully scrutinising the footage from this warehouse, the weeks spent wading through the information from Ranieri’s laptop…and no one had realised that three members of Volkov’s team were supersoldiers.

Well, super-ish soldiers.

The former Soviet Union had never quite managed to faithfully recreate the serum that had transformed Steve Rogers into Captain America. They’d come close with the Red Guardian during the Cold War, but a fire had broken out in the lab hosting the supersoldier program, and decades of research, and the top minds involved in the project had gone up in flames.

Over the years they’d tried to reverse engineer the serum from the Red Guardian’s blood. But the resulting super soldiers were weak facsimiles, and they invariably succumbed to an aggressive form of blood cancer, accelerated by the serum.

It was no secret that Dreykov’s ultimate goal had always been to combine the mind control of the Widows with the power and strength of the Red Guardian - he’d even experimented on his own daughter to try to achieve that aim. Calina had just assumed all that research had been destroyed when the Red Room fell.

But Volkov had obviously managed to find a few vials - and a few volunteers - and had created a cadre of three semi-enhanced soldiers.

Enough to give the Widows a fight tonight.

But not enough to thwart their victory. Calina glanced around as the warehouse suddenly went quiet, the gunfire little more than an echo, and the sounds of hand-to-hand combat silenced. All of Volkov’s men were down - either knocked out or dead - leaving only the Widows and Matt left standing.

Matt.

What was he doing here?

Before she could ask, he suddenly pushed past her and crouched down behind one of the toppled workbenches. Calina followed, her boots crunching through broken vials and beakers as she hurried to catch up.

Rounding the table, she spotted the still figure sprawled on the concrete. “Inessa!” she gasped. She dropped to her knees and patted the Widow’s face gently. “Inessa? Can you hear me?”

There was no response. Stomach lurching with fear, she scrambled at the material of the other woman’s high-collared suit, tugging it down to try to reach her pulse.

“She’s alive,” Matt reassured her. “But one of those ‘things that shouldn’t’ exist slammed her hard.”

Calina let out a shuddering breath. She hadn’t realised Inessa was in trouble. All of the Widow’s training and strategy had fallen apart once they’d encountered the supersoldiers. 18 against 9 had turned out to be shitty odds when super-powered, 6-foot-5 killing machines were part of the 18. They’d lost track of each other in the melee, their careful plans to watch each others’ backs had fallen apart in the struggle to just survive the fight.

The fight that Matt had wanted no part of. The fight that he didn’t agree with, and the one which went against every facet of his moral code.

But the one he’d joined nonetheless. To help her and her sisters.

“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing instinctively that Inessa would be dead if it wasn’t for him.

“You can thank me when she wakes up,” Matt said, probing the back of Inessa’s head. When he lifted his hand, his glove was wet with blood.

“How is she?” Yelena asked, fear evident in her husky voice. She and the rest of the Widows had rushed over to crowd around their fallen teammate.

“She needs a doctor,” Matt answered. “She’s got a nasty laceration. I can’t sense a fracture, but she’ll need to see a doctor to be sure.”

Yelena nodded, then turned to Calina. “You and Katya, take her to St Jude’s across the river. The gear’s in the van - you know the drill.”

Calina nodded, then looked to Matt. “Can you carry her out? I’ll be there in a second.”

“Of course.” Matt lifted the other Widow in his arms and followed Katya as she led him out of the warehouse.

“Will you guys be okay here with all the…clean up?” she asked Yelena.

“We have enough time,” Yelena replied. “Anya’s checked the airwaves, and no one’s reported the gunshots to the police.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

There were several bodies on the ground who were merely incapacitated and not yet dead - including the two supersoldiers that she and Matt had fought. They needed to be taken care of. And Volkov still needed to be interrogated. Once again, she felt like she was being given the easy way out. That her sisters were taking on the dirty work of killing, while she left with her hands somewhat clean.

“We’ll handle it, Calina,” Yelena said, not unkindly. “Inessa needs you. You’re best placed to sell the cover-story to the medics - you’re a lot less beat up than us, thanks to your boyfriend.”

Calina glanced around at her sisters, realising Yelena was right. They were all littered with wounds and bruises, while she was relatively unscathed. “Okay. I’ll check in later.”

Yelena nodded, then turned and started barking orders at the rest of the team.

Calina jogged out of the warehouse towards the van stashed in the adjacent lot. The earlier pain in her knee - forgotten during the heat of battle - flared up as she ran. By the time she reached the vehicle she was limping badly.

“You okay?” Katya asked from the driver’s seat.

Calina nodded and jumped in the back, pulling the sliding door closed behind her.

Inessa was laid out on the floor, still unconscious. Matt sat by her head, his mask in his hands. The sight of his messy, sweaty hair caused a pang somewhere deep in Calina’s heart. She wanted to freeze time and live in this instant forever. She wanted to avoid the inevitable moment when he would say goodbye and she’d lose him for good.

But they needed to move. Now. Inessa needed medical attention as soon as possible…and she wanted Matt as far away as possible from the warehouse before the executions began.

So she sat down, took Inessa’s small hand in hers, and called out to Katya. “Let’s go.”

———

Five minutes later, Calina started to strip, knowing it was time to put the plan in action. She pulled down the zipper of her suit and started to wriggle her arms out of the tight fitting material.

“What are you doing?” Matt asked, sounding confused.

“Getting changed,” she explained. “I can’t take Inessa into the ER looking like this.”

She kicked off her boots and peeled off the rest of her outfit, then rummaged in the duffel bag stashed in the back of the van. She eventually found what she was looking for and pulled it out, the heavy sequinned material rustling in the quiet of the van.

Matt cocked his head to the side and frowned as he tried to place the sound. “Is that your dress?” he asked. “The one you wore the night we fought?”

Calina laughed, the sound holding a bitter edge. “Yeah. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually get to wear it out dancing.”

But maybe not. This particular dress held nothing but bad memories now. In fact she was starting to think it was cursed. First there was the mind control incident, and now one of the worst case scenarios from this battle was playing out - a Widow was injured enough to need hospital care.

Calina finished dressing, quickly fixed her hair and applied some make-up. Then she turned her attention to the unconscious woman on the floor. She quickly removed Inessa’s suit and placed a different dress around her neck. As Calina gently manoeuvred Inessa’s arms through the sleeves, the other woman finally started to stir. “Why’m I naked?” she slurred.

Calina froze at the sound of her sister’s voice, then let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not naked. But you hurt your head, Nessie.” The nickname came out of nowhere. But it felt right. It made Calina realise how much she cared about the younger Widow…and how worried she’d been that she’d never hear her voice again.

She pulled Inessa into a seated position, quickly tugged down the dress, then let the injured woman rest against her. Her head fell heavy onto Calina’s shoulder, and Calina gently smoothed a hand over her braided hair as she explained what was happening. “We’re taking you to the hospital. But we need to get the cover-story in place first. You remember the plan, right?”

Inessa started to nod, but groaned as it aggravated her sore head. “Party time.”

“That’s right. Just one more thing to do.” Calina glanced up at Matt. “Can you-” Her question died on her lips as she saw the strange expression on his face. His head was still tilted to the side, his eyes were soft, and he was smiling a small, affectionate smile. It was so out of place in this van soaked with fear and sweat and blood, that she didn’t know what to make of it.

“Matt?”

The smile dropped. He shook his head as if clearing it. “Sorry, what?”

“Can you pass me the bag by your feet?”

He reached down and grabbed the paper bag, handing it over. She pulled out the bottle of whisky from inside, unscrewed the cap and downed a heft swig of the dark liquor. Then she deliberately splashed some of the contents over Inessa’s outfit.

“So that’s the cover-story,” Matt commented, putting together the plan. “You were out drinking and got injured.”

“Yep,” Calina replied. “We’re just two innocent, twenty-something party girls living it up on a Friday night.”

Matt shook his head in admiration. “You guys really thought of everything.”

“We had a lot of time to plan for all eventualities. Well, almost all eventualities.” The last part was muttered under her breath.

But, of course, Matt caught it. “You’re referring to those men in the warehouse?” he guessed - correctly. “The ones who aren’t supposed to exist?”

“Frickin’ supersoldiers,” Inessa muttered, still slumped against Calina.

Matt sat forward. “Supersoldiers? Really?”

“Yep, really,” Calina confirmed. “Do you see why someone like Volkov - with his knowledge of how to create monstrous armies - needs to be taken off the board?”

Matt said nothing and Calina winced internally - she didn't mean to drag up their fight again. She didn't want to remind him of why everything between them had fallen apart.

Luckily, she was saved by Katya. “We’re here,” she called from the driver’s seat.

———

Matt felt the van slow as it made a left turn. The sounds of beeping monitors, and the smell of antiseptic and blood grew stronger as they approached the entrance to the hospital.

“You okay here?” Katya asked Calina.

“Yeah, I got it,” Calina replied. “Can you drop Matt off somewhere dark and shadowy on your way back?”

“No problem,” Katya called pulling to a stop. “Be careful.”

“You too. I’ll call with an update once we’ve seen a doctor.”

“Do I get a call too?” Matt asked. They still hadn’t gotten a chance to really talk. The whole reason he’d been at that warehouse tonight was to see her, to talk to her.

To figure out where they both stood.

Even if that mean re-hashing their fight from the other night, so be it. He just wanted to talk to her.

Instead, she was about to leave, and he felt a sudden, irrational spasm of fear that he would never see her again. That she would disappear forever and he’d be left with nothing but a disconnected phone number and a pile of regrets.

Calina paused, her fingers resting on the door handle. She turned to him slowly. “Do you want me to call you?”

“I think I made that pretty clear when I dialled your cell a million times today.”

She frowned. “You did?”

Matt frowned too. “Yes. I called you all afternoon. Because we need to talk, Calina.”

The confusion radiated off her - and it felt honest and true. She really hadn’t known that he’d called.

Had it all just been a misunderstanding?

He’d spent hours fuming with anger over her ‘cold shoulder’ treatment of him, and he’d recklessly traveled all the way into Jersey to hunt her down…all for nothing?

No. Not for nothing. If he hadn’t been there in that warehouse tonight…and those men had managed to kill Inessa and overpower Calina…

He couldn’t bear to think about it.

He was meant to be there tonight. Call it God’s plan, or fate, or just wild coincidence…for whatever reason, he’d ended up in the right place at the right time tonight.

“I hate to interrupt,” Katya called out, “But you need to go, Calina, before someone takes too much notice of this van.”

“Right,” Calina said. She pulled her hand from his and wrenched open the sliding door. Then she helped Inessa out, one arm wrapped tightly around the other woman’s waist. She looked back at Matt and bit her lip. He could sense her indecision - and her struggle between helping her friend and not leaving things so uncertain between them.

So he let her off the hook. “Go,” he said, grabbing the handle of the door. “Inessa needs you. We can figure this out later.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “I-I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.” He pulled the door shut, and followed her with her senses as she hobbled with Inessa into the building. As Katya started the engine, Matt listened as Calina put on a show for the medical staff inside.

“Please you gotta help us, my friend fell!”

He laughed at the unexpected, note-perfect Brooklyn accent.

“We were just out drinkin’ at that bar, you know the one in Bushwick with the balcony and all those fairy lights, and she fell. Outa nowhere. There was all this blood and she was knocked out cold.”

She’d completely morphed from his sweet, serious Calina into the perfect rendition of a vapid, drunk party girl.

It was impressive, really.

“What’s so funny,” Katya asked.

“Calina. She’s really selling your cover-story.”

“Yeah, when she gets into character, she really commits. She should be on the stage.”

“I can’t really picture that.” Calina was too reserved to chase a life in the limelight. She wanted a simpler future, filled with happiness and meaning.

He just hoped he could be a part of it.

————–

Chapter 10

Tag list: @hollandorks @chezagnes @stilldreaming666 @sio-ina-bottle @tearoseart-blog @acharliecoxedfan @freckledbabyyy

If you’d like to be added - let me know!

#daredevil #daredevil fic #tabula rasa #daredevil fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock #daredevil x original female character #marvel's daredevil #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock x oc

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giordirossi · 2 months

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FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT

When: After Party, post-plot drop TW: Violence, a lot of it. Choose your kidnapees more wisely.

Hadn't enough stress been added to her evening without the untimely release of footage that would send the Russian piranhas into a feeding frenzy?

Not waiting for the grand finale, because she already knew how this video ended, Giordana slipped from the horrified throngs of spectators through the darkness and began seeking out inevitable targets. Protection amidst the impending chaos would be crucial if the Sovrani and their affiliates wanted to leave relatively unscathed.

Like hell did she come all the way to London just to relive the losses of Launceston.

Vincenzo and Giorgio would be exceptional fish in this pond, perhaps too great for a snatch and grab. The others, though... Frankie, Olivia, Patrizia, maybe even Gianna, dangled on the line. Unfortunate that the French were caught in the crossfire of this alliance, but most were none of her concern save for one who could handle himself better than anyone she knew.

Lights flickered on and panicked voices began their crescendo when she descended into a corridor in pursuit of the last place her brother ventured with his wife. Instead, at the very end, she spotted a familiar silhouette that gave her a modicum of relief.

She exhaled. At least one had been located.

The other woman turned and their eyes locked right as Giordana spoke loud enough to be heard across the distance,

"Olivia, you need to––"

Large fingers grabbed the assassin roughly by her hair, knotting through intricately woven curls as they forced her from a standing position into something bent and compliant. The stranger took advantage of her momentary surprise by dragging them into an adjoining room, all the while nails clawed into the back of his hand attempting to find purchase. The wrist alone would allow for position reversal and the opportunity to break free. Yet as soon as she took hold, the man flung Giordana face first into a nearby armoire.

Fucking really.

Impact was negated by adrenaline and she recovered just in time to turn and duck below a fist when it collided against the wood where her now bruised cheekbone might've been. The curse that flew from his lips sounded Russian, but the grunt made when she sucker punched him in the gut and kicked his knee out was universal.

So absorbed in the mission to corral those who mattered most to Giorgio and Vincenzo, it dawned on Giordana a bit too late that she hadn't considered herself in that count.

This was a message for the Sovrani. Leaving her battered yet alive enough to pack up like a damn birthday gift for the Vorshevsky ilk. Someone must have foolishly believed that a lack of weapons made her less dangerous; easy pickings for a hand delivery. Mistake number one, they should've killed her.

The next swing met air yet again as the assailant failed to bring her down to his level. His frame might have been larger and come with a strength she couldn't fathom, but years of will-power fueled training made Giordana exceptionally nimble and agile. It kept her out of reach long enough to whip the heavy armoire door into his face when he lunged for a third time.

Now who was caught off guard?

Using his temporary imbalance against him, one heel struck his sternum and sent the Russian careening into a transparent coffee table which shattered almost immediately beneath his weight.

Sincerest apology to the Berkeleys.

And to the solid mahogany frame of the paired sofa, which subsequently cushioned the blow of his giant fucking head with its base. Lucky break. Not taking any chances, she pulled a tea tray off of the vanity and bestowed three hard dings, the unrestrained force reverberating up her arms.

Glass shards decorated the rug like a shimmering prism and she considered picking up a larger piece to finish the job when her gaze swept towards sudden movement in the wall mirror. Of course this wouldn't be a one man operation.

Said reinforcement barreled at her from behind, tackling the brunette to the floor. With high ground advantage lost, it became the equivalent of a knife fight in the dirt as they landed significant blows on each other. The upperhand position gained and lost as they wrestled for two starkly contrasting motives. Until he found her neck. His fist pressed down with every attempt to cut oxygen at the source so they could cease this fight and she might come a bit more quietly.

Or maybe he'd finally wisened up enough to realize this only ended one way.

A palm splayed out at her side, reaching across the ornate rug for something... anything... only to find a now overturned coffee table book and–– metal. Weighted, solid metal.

A goddamn candlestick.

Fingertips brushed against the cool edge as she squirmed just enough beneath his suffocating grasp to roll it into her hand. The base swung upward and collided into her attacker's skull with a sickening thud. Startling enough to release his hold, which coincidentally gave Giordana the perfect leverage to propel him sideways until she straddled his chest.

Hesitation during this part had never been her forte.

Another blow. Then a third, a fourth, she stopped counting at seven. From there it was only mottled splatter and gurgling, his hands limp with disuse after they failed to defend against her relentless violence. More machine than woman, a shark-eyed creature bound for this singular objective.

When she finally stood and allowed the makeshift weapon to dangle loosely at her side, the metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air. Crimson peppered the expensive flooring around them and any furniture within range; it stained her once gloriously white party dress and dribbled down from her split lower lip and a cut above her brow.

From this vantage point, she couldn't tell if either of the men were still breathing. Nor did she care. Adjusting the one good strap left on her dress and pivoting towards the door, Giordana practically sensed the third body before she saw him. Was it possible to actually leave this God forsaken room?

Whirling with the candlestick poised to strike, a hand wrapped around her wrist before she could leave a pretty dent in his skull, too. For a moment they said nothing, his face speaking volumes more than words could ever convey about the state of her appearance.

The darkened shade over her eyes lifted somewhat as she registered his face. Never fully, never enough to allow complete weakness. He'd taught her that a long time ago.

After a beat of silence, she dropped her arm of her own volition and metal clanged lowly as it hit the floor. Standing in front of him like this, she felt twenty years old again. Messy, violent, and unrefined, having allowed someone to get the better of her because she'd been personally concerned about other people.

And there was Varden, the immovable pillar of exactly what she could be.

His hand moved from wrist to chin, turning over the damage back and forth with a different expression. This one Giordana can't read.

"I'm fine." No quips, no sly remarks. Her chest still heaving a little from the previous events, she didn't have any good natured taunting left in her tonight.

"I know you are." The Frenchman's grasp fell away yet again and his attention turned to the spectacular display she'd left behind. "You should leave here while you still can. I'll take care of this."

#( x. self para )#( x. event: 2024 awards )#post plot drop #hands on hips @ russians: what have we learned

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kayhi808 · 11 months

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Perfect Match - 8

Billy calls out to me as I stomp down the stairs. "Y/N, wait!"

I turn on him & he has to stop short before plowing into me, "If that's the way you feel, that's valid, but I am nothing like your mother," jabbing my finger into his chest. "She may not have loved you," taking a deep breath to calm my voice. I look him in the eyes and I don't see the distrust anymore but the fear is still there, "but I do. Don't ever compare me to her."

He grabs me & pull me to him, "I'm sorry." I let him hug me, more for my sake than his. "I reacted poorly. Looking the way I do, 'I love you' is not something I hear a lot of. It brought my guard up. You're beautiful. My dark angel. You can do a lot better than a guy like me." Billy cradles my face, "I know you needed me. I didn't think you'd love me, too. No one has ever said they loved me before...and meant it like you do."

I pull him down to kiss me. Lightly running my fingertips over his scars. "No one is more perfect for me than you, Billy."

"Am I forgiven?" I nod & stay burrowed in his arms for a bit longer.

*****

Grandfather spared no expense on our engagement party. Security was on high alert. Every major family was represented. The Italians, Romanians, Russians, Japanese, Chinese, Mexicans....the list went on. Bill's whole persona changed. This is the elusive assassin that everyone wanted under contract with them, who will now run New York. Unemotional & controlled, his whole body language changed. I was witnessing the business side of Bill. A little bit of his arrogance and cockiness shows through, which proves my Billy is in there, somewhere.

Father still couldn't support our engagement, not even to show unity as a family. Grandfather made up for it in spades. It was a wave of introductions, turns out Bill was familiar with many people there. It was my mistake to think that things would go smoothly for us. In the beginning of the evening, security came in dragging a man and throwing him down in front of grandfather. Guests backed away & Billy shoves me behind him. My father waves over his security & they converse quietly, but my Grandfather interupts, "Speak up."

"Joe was caught attaching explosives to Mr. Russo's car."

I feel Bill tense and I see red! Bill is under the Family's protection and this happens? I will kill anyone who thinks to harm him.

"There's a hit order when he took her," nodding at me "and now he thinks to run New York. We weren't going to let that happen."

Grandfather speaks loud enough for the room to hear. "The hit was rescinded. Months ago."

"N..no! I was told these orders still stood! I'm sure he got instructions from higher up."

"You thought to kill my granddaughter and her fiance at my home?! Russo will be a part of this family!"

Bill's steely voice joins in the interrogation, "Who's your boss?"

"Gino Palmero."

Idiot doesn't even realize he ratted out his boss in front of everyone. I step out from behind Bill. "Gino here?" Gino hesitantly makes his way to the edge of the crowd. "Were you or were you not told that no one was to touch Russo?"

"Yes."

"Let me get this straight, you were told that the hit was revoked and you relayed that to your men. Him...Joe in particular, to forget about whatever plan he had started."

"I...i think I did." His eyes dart to my father. Gino is screwed. If he admits to not telling his men, he wasn't doing his job. And if he did tell them and knew about the plan, yet did nothing to stop it or alert the others...he's fucked.

"That's a fucking lie!!" In a panic, Joe tells us all about how they planned it together and if caught how they were to say they didn't know about the hit being withdrawn.

Bill looks down at me and hands me my gun before stalking over to retrieve Gino. I quickly look it over & release the safety. I try to take some calming breaths.

My father hisses, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

One command from grandfather, "Let them," and my dad is forced to back off.

Bill goes for Gino, throwing him down on the floor next to Joe.

"I'm disappointed. These men, not only risked our lives," looking over at Bill who returned to my side, "but also the lives of our family & friends who we invited into our home. That is a crime that cannot be forgiven." I feel Bill's hand at the small of my back, giving me courage & strength. "Joe, for planting the bomb & putting everyone in danger, I have no choice but to sentence you to death. Gino, for failing to end the attack & disobeying your boss' orders, you are sentenced to death." I feel breathless, but I spoke clearly & with conviction.

I block out the pleading and screams & fire 2 shots. Headshots, both. Their bodies fall, and the room falls silent. I feel no guilt. They were a threat to Billy & me. Grandfather usher's people out of the room while his men have the bodies removed. Billy stays behind with me.

Pensively, "Did you see their faces? The other guests?"

Bill takes the gun from my hand, engages the safety & puts it back in his holster. "You probably scared the shit out of many of them, but you also gained respect."

"Gino was one of my father's captains. He is not going to be pleased."

Bill pulls me into his arms, "You had to do it. It shows we will not stop at the person responsible. Anyone who plays a part will be punished." I rest my check against Bill, trying to calm my racing heart. He doesn't say a word, just holds me. After a while, "That was fucking hot, by the way. I'm so hard for you right now."

That makes me laugh & shakes me out of my dark thoughts. He plasters me up against his body & kisses me, his tongue seeking entrance. I lose myself in Billy.

*****

We wake to loud pounding on the door. "Who the fuck is that?!"

I pull a pillow up over my head, I may have overindulged in drinks last night to make up for the fiasco earlier in the evening. "Ugh. Make them go away."

Billy pulls on some sweats and heads downstairs. I follow him, slipping on one of his t-shirts. I get halfway down the stairs when I see Bill, gun in hand. I automatically crouch down. Running towards the door, he yells "Get upstairs! Stay up there!" He runs out.

I notice an opened box on the coffee table. I make my way to the living room and look inside. There's a bloody heart with a dagger stabbed through. I gasp. There's a note that's fallen on the ground. I'm careful not to touch it.

"Y/N, this is your only warning. Give up your claim to New York. Your men don't trust you. Back off or everyone you love will suffer."

@idaofinfinity @imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend @e-dubbc11

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo fanfic #billy russo imagine #s2 billy russo au

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canadiansummer · 2 years

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TITLE: Fork in the Road [1] PAIRING: Dmitri Antonov x Fem!Reader / Enzo x Fem!Reader REQUEST: Unprompted. BLURB: You and your uncle, Hopper, have been looking after each other ever since plans falling out put you back in Hawkins, Indiana. It wasn't long until you had knowledge of the strange world that wreaked havoc on the town, and you figured it was only a matter of time before you got roped up in that side of the town. Though, it turns out that that opportunity comes about in a disastrous way, you and Hopper ending up on the Russian side of the gate during the battle in the Starcourt Mall. However, after being injured and tortured, you get separated from him early on. Now, you have to figure out a way to get back to him. However, as it turns out you two aren't as far apart as you had been expecting, Hopper being held in this top-secret prison and you being forced to lay low in a town two hours away. Though, with the unexpected help of a prison guard, busting Hopper out seems doable. That is, until it's not. WARNINGS: Injury, mentions of torture, violence, angst. NOTE: I started posting this on A.03 initially and figured it’d be worth a shot posting it on here too.

| next part

Hopper was the overprotective type. Always had been.

Usually, he did his best to deter you from getting too involved with the town’s supernatural underbelly. Yet, El, or Jane, as wonderful as she was, ended up bringing you all the closer to it, despite your uncle’s attempts not to. You knew that eventually you would get roped into something, and you liked to think you would be useful. Maybe show your mettle and prove to him that you weren’t that beat-down person he had (begrudgingly, at first–at least from what you had believed at the time) taken in.

You would jump through hoops for your uncle, but this?

The memories that came to you came through like a broken television signal. The Starcourt Mall and the Russians. The agonizing pain that ripped through your leg, preventing you from escaping to the safety of the control room where Joyce was. Firm hands grabbing you by the shoulders and pulling you back, despite your painful cries. The deafening whir of the machine near your head. The shove and explosion.

Then there was darkness.

All knowledge of where you were, who you were, faded for a while like you had simply passed out. Like the times you had dozed off while watching TV with Jane, only to be woken up later by a disgruntled Hopper and a lecture about how he needed you to actually watch her.

Reality shifted back in shortly in a somewhat similar way. A part of you was expecting to wake up back in the cabin with your uncle telling you to move over so he can sit down on the couch, that shaking against your shoulder. Yet, you never experienced the pain upon starting to wake up like you currently were.

It felt like your head was splitting in two, the side of your body flaring up in a surging pain that eventually settled into that familiar, white hot burning sensation in your leg.

“Kid,” a voice stressed above you, shaking your shoulder hard again, “kid, c’mon! Don’t do this to me!”

What? You tried to inhale to speak, yet it was as if your body caught up with your mind and you let out a sputtering cough that left you struggling to get air into your lungs for a few moments.

“Hey,” the voice that you recognized as Hopper’s said above you, feeling him grab your face as you forced your eyes open.

He looked exhausted and beat to hell, dried blood on his face and some burns that told you that the explosion you thought happened wasn’t just something you had dreamed up. Yet, he looked relieved, even though you weren’t too sure what there was to be relieved about.

“Uncle? Where…?”

“I dunno,” Hopper said around an exhale, “but we can’t stay here. There’s a ladder a couple steps over, we have to go.”

Despite the pain and the fact that it felt like your legs didn’t work at the moment, Hopper hooked your arm around his shoulders. You yelled out somewhat, earning a mumble from your uncle that you didn’t catch over the ringing in your ears. Eventually, you were able to take a couple steps on your own, reaching out to grip the ladder as Hopper climbed up ahead of you. You could tell he was exhausted, but it was clear he was the one with more strength at the moment despite the fact that the both of you were in bad shape.

Climbing that ladder felt like an eternity, however. Hopper stopped every now and then to catch his own breath and help pull you up a little more, some tingling numbness in your injured leg making you worry that you would fall. Eventually, Hopper got to the top and helped pull you up onto the platform with him with a painful grunt.

With the physical exertion, the pain, and whatever happened to the two of you, your body collapsed the moment you were on solid ground. Thankfully, it seemed like numbness started to take over again, some blackness eating at the edge of your vision as you were faintly aware of footfalls approaching you.

You passed out again as you heard someone speak in an unfamiliar language.

***

You weren’t sure if only hours passed or if it was days, but eventually you came to again.

Surprisingly.

You were sitting upright in a dark room, your vision taking a while before you acclimated to the dimness. It looked like a cell, a bench that you leaned back against being the only thing in there to suggest that it was supposed to house anybody at all. Slowly, you tried to shift up, but the pain in your leg sent you back onto the floor with a short yell. Letting out a few labored breaths, you glanced down to see a bandage wrapped around your leg where you had been shot.

They were nice enough to bandage it, but certainly didn’t deem you worthy of it being a painless gesture.

You could feel your chest tightening, your breathing picking up a little as you took in your surrounding area with wide eyes. You had no idea where you were, if this was even Hawkins–wherever you were, it wasn’t anything you had seen before in the small town. A part of you wanted to call out for your uncle, to confirm that he was still alive, but something was holding you back from doing so.

You wanted to avoid drawing attention to yourself while you tried to figure this out and calm down. However, fate really wasn’t on your side with that.

Hearing some movement outside your cell door, a small slit in the door was opened to allow some light to shine in on you. It burned your eyes, making you shut them and turn your head with a grimace. Despite that, however, you forced your eyes open as the door was opened to reveal two men. They were dressed in what looked to be military attire, though it was unfamiliar to the uniforms you had seen from the US. Taking in the insignias on the man that walked toward you, it didn’t take you long to clue into the fact that they were Russians.

Were you in Russia?

“American,” the guard greeted in a heavy accent, confirming the answer to that question, “we heal you, now you answer questions.”

You squirmed as he approached you, knowing full well that your hands were bound and you couldn’t stand. Yet, words seemed stuck in your throat as he kneeled down in front of you, pulling out a photo.

“Who is this?” he demanded, holding it out in front of your face. It took you a few moments to remove your gaze from his hard stare to look at the grainy photograph.

You took in the familiar uniform, the one that the men in front of you wore, but it was clear the picture was of Joyce while she and Hopper had snuck into the Russian base. Your heart lurched, not knowing what she must be going through but you doubted that it was nice. It took a few moments for you to realize that you and Hopper were likely presumed to be dead back home. The dread that thought put in your gut was heavy, making tears prick at your eyes.

Yet, you remained silent. You weren’t going to give them anything, drag anybody else into this.

Which was the wrong answer, clearly, as you were struck hard across the face in response. The force of it knocked you sideways, but you were pulled back upright harshly, making your world spin as you felt the guard’s gloves grip tightly at your jaw.

“Who is this?” he demanded again, stressing the words. You shrugged.

He hit you again. You could faintly taste blood. That process seemed to carry on for a bit. You knew it couldn’t be more than a couple minutes that passed, but it felt like it stretched on endlessly. He would ask the same questions: who was the woman in the photo, who did you and Hopper work for. You refused to answer. The hits got harder, more blood in your mouth.

There came a point where you thought perhaps he had grown tired of it, considering the pause between his question and the impact of his fist against your face. Instead, he growled out another question and gripped at your injured leg, fingers digging into the wound through the bandages.

That brought you to a breaking point. Though, instead of spilling everything like they expected of you, you just yelled until you could feel the burn in your throat. The pain made you thrash and kick with your good leg, a part of you wishing you could just yell yourself out of existence.

The guard pulled his hand back after an agonizing several seconds, releasing your leg with a sneer. He said something to you in Russian, not understanding a word but from the tone you didn’t think it was anything you wanted translated. You curled in on yourself somewhat, gasping and letting out short sobs as the waves of pain shot through your body. Still, you caught him talking with the other guard in Russian, making a gesture toward you.

You managed to catch the somewhat surprised look that crossed the other man’s face, but he seemed to move on from that quickly as he turned toward you.

Your world stilled for a moment, a part of you thinking you had just been sentenced to death or more extreme torture. It wasn’t like you knew anything that was happening in Hawkins in depth, either. They would torture you for disconnected scraps of information, if your resolve broke. (Which, with how things were going, you knew would happen eventually.)

However, the man pulled out a black bag as he walked toward you. You barely had time to register it before your world was cast in darkness as he placed it over your head, tightening it to make sure you couldn’t just shake it off before he hauled you to your feet.

You struggled, despite the pain that action pulled out of many parts of your body. Though, it was pretty useless as he dragged you along, ignoring your shouts. You couldn’t see much through the bag outside of some lights, supposedly being passed down a couple hallways until a door was opened and you were shoved forward again. If it wasn’t for the grip he had on your arm, you would have fallen on your face.

The cool air of the night hit your face, making you shiver as you were pushed forward. A few scenarios rushed through your head–though you seemed pretty convinced that they weren’t going to waste their time with a tag-along to Hopper’s mission back in Hawkins. As much as you had forced the role at the time.

The idea of them just executing you sat heavily on your mind for a few moments.

However, you were shoved forward again, your torso hitting something hard and metal before you were forced up and into a dark space. You managed to catch yourself as you heard the doors behind you shutting. Now, it was impossible for you to see. You heard some people walking around the space you were in before you felt the rumble of an engine starting up. It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were in some sort of truck.

“Shit,” you gasped, leaning your head back against the side of the trunk you were likely shoved into. More tears fell from your eyes, fear gripping hard at your mind.

In that moment, you wished you had just stayed out of the mess in Hawkins completely. Hell, maybe you should have moved and just hitchhiked your way to a shelter in a city somewhere instead of trying your luck with your uncle when he had moved back to Hawkins. Hopper hadn’t been in good shape then, either. The pills and drinking, you understood why he had initially rejected but you had insisted your case. Insisted to stay with him. To help with Jane. To make sure he and Joyce were covered.

Now you were in the back of a truck after getting tortured by some Russians and had no idea where you were even going. What was going to happen.

As much as a part of you told you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and find a way to survive this, another part of you was whispering about how hopeless it was. You were exhausted and injured, you just wanted to wallow and cry before you were inevitably killed.

Which was the mindset you were in when you heard a groan from beside you some time later. You jumped somewhat, not sure if they had shoved another prisoner in there with you or if it was your uncle. Still, you were almost scared to speak until you heard them shift somewhat, letting out a heavy breath before you heard your name in that familiar voice.

You almost wanted to cry.

“Yeah, I’m here,” you replied, “Are…Did they hurt you?”

Hopper didn’t say anything for a few moments, but from the silence you already knew the answer to that.

“They hurt you too?” he asked after a moment.

“They beat me pretty good, but I guess they wanted to ship me off more than put me through more serious things…”

Again, he didn’t reply as you heard him shifting around. After a few moments, it sounded like he kicked against the door, hearing a slight rattle before Hopper let out a breathy, disbelieving chuckle.

“Bastards figured we’d be too weak to break this,” he muttered, “this door’s already damaged.”

“You think you can get it open?” you asked, sounding hopeful for the first time in what was likely several days.

“Yeah, but…I’m not doing good, kid. You take me with you, I’ll just drag you down.”

“I’m not going without you,” you stated, interrupted by the sound of him kicking at the door again.

You held your breath, waiting for the truck to stop and for them to reinforce the door or just knock the two of you out again. Yet, things continued on as if nothing happened, might have thought it was just one of you getting tossed around. Hopper seemed to catch onto that, only kicking the door when the truck bumped over whatever road they were on.

“Uncle–” you insisted after the third hit, hearing something rattle and come loose.

“Listen to me,” Hopper said, his voice shifting around you as he seemed to reposition himself, “I’m gonna get this door open, rip that bag off your head, and–”

“No–”

“And you run,” he insisted, “make sure you roll on impact and once you’re on the ground, you run.”

“I have no idea where we even are!” you exclaimed, hearing him kick the door a final time before cold air rushed in.

Though, despite your protests, you knew it was no use. He ripped the bag off your head in time for you to see the dark road rushing below you. Another protest cropped up in your throat, but you felt the shove and you instinctively tucked.

The impact hurt, making you roll a few times in the snow. By some stroke of luck, the momentum allowed you to get on your knees easily enough to look back toward the truck. Your leg was protesting, but once you saw the truck hit the brakes hard as Hopper yelled out to you again, you seemed to move without thinking.

Gathering yourself up, you turned and tore off into the bush. You headed toward some trees, intending to hide yourself in them once you got far down enough. Your limbs were heavy and you stumbled somewhat, but some sort of tunnel vision seemed to take over. Shouts filtered in through your ears, the odd crack of a bullet, but eventually it was just your heavy breathing echoing in your head as you continued to run.

You weren’t sure how far you had run, but you knew you had managed to get out. As if seeming to catch onto that thought, your legs gave out as you collapsed into the snow. Your body ached, legs burning and your wound was afire once again. You heaved in some breaths, your lungs burning and the cold biting at your face. Eventually, an urge to close your eyes came to the forefront of your mind.

That would be death, though. You knew that. With a groan, you managed to pull yourself back up to a stand, glancing out at the area around you. There wasn’t much outside of the wilderness, a somewhat helpless feeling gripping at you as you glanced down at the shackles that were still around your wrists.

Upon lifting your gaze and catching some light smoke coming up over the hill ahead of you, you decided you had to try.

For your sake. Hopper, if he didn’t survive wherever they were taking him, you knew he would at least die thinking he had given you a fighting chance.

Oddly enough, a sense of determination cropped up in you. Hopper was a stubborn man, headstrong. He would survive this, and so would you.

You would meet him again, even if it would be to chew him out for pushing you out of a moving vehicle.

#my writing.#fandom: stranger things #dmitri antonov x reader #enzo x reader

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