#this motherfucker has a vice grip on my soul
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trying to do a vace run in iwatex and, man…
obsessed with the idea of an empathetic, sarcastic, xeno-loving doctor!sol and a non-sadistic but still deeply troubled and prone to solving emotions with aggression vace slowly falling into dumbassery together. and it changes the world.
#iwatex#iwate#i was a teenage exocolonist#vace#olivaceous#solane#solana#solanaceae#sol#no srsly#this motherfucker has a vice grip on my soul#i’m too old to be chasing red flags#yet here i am#happily bleaching the flags#because pink is only sorta red
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Boop
Roman Sionis x Reader
pt 2
Warnings: more swearing, more anger issues, smoking cigs, two dumb fucks trying to deal with feelings, me having no idea what’s going on at this point
Author’s note: guys this is it, i did it, and i’m not proud
also, i’ll be posting a character list and some requesting rules soon so yeah i got that going for me
@horror-flick-chick @rosionis
Sun was peaking out from behind the happy little clouds, birds were singing, streets bustling with life. Light filled the penthouse, and only glitter was missing for (Y/n) to feel like some fucking Disney princess. The whole situation did look like some Beauty and the Beast kind of bullshit anyways.
— God fucking dammit turn it off! — ah, so the Beauty has awakened!
— What? The sun? — she snorted, rolling her eyes and flicked the ash off her cigarette out of the window, the stink of the city flowing in along with the sunlight. She stole his sunglasses just to make him suffer and open the curtains.
She promised to make him pay for yesterday.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him perking up at her voice, surprised to see hear her of all people. And he scrunched up his face in this fucking way that made her want to rip it off and pickle it. It made her heart arythmia speak up or whatever the fuck it was that made her heart halt or speed up constantly around him.
— Rise and shine while it's still up. — she grumbled, tightening his robe around her form to shield her vampire-ish ass from the stinging, scorching rays of sunshine.
— And what do you want me to do, photosynthesis? — he hissed, falling back on the bed and covering his eyes with his forearm, armpit hair full on display. She could fucking braid it if she wanted to, honestly. Same with his chest. This gorilla of a man...
— Anything's better than flashing this morningwood to my sensitive eyes. — it's not her fault her eyes went there! It was very... prominent.
But Dear Lord, was this a blush she could see creeping up his neck? And was he squirming like a worm on the bed? This man was about to get fucking bullied.
— What in the-... — she observed his nose scrunching up violently as he tore himself away from the sheets and looked at her with that offended glare of his — For fuck's sake, stop smoking in my penthouse!
This man-child and his god damn tantrums...
— Shut the fuck up, it's probably healthier than all those fake motherfuckers sageing your house. — and she was probably right. She didn't believe for a second in this sage and essential oils bullshit, but Roman was all about clearing his soul and mind and had the cheek to invite her to some yoga or meditating or whatever the fuck that spiritual orgy was.
— It's also one way to kill yourself. — if she squinted really hard, he almost sounded like he cared. Ew.
— It's also one way to de-stress. — she hissed at him, her scowl practically permanent as she took another long drag, hating his surprised stare she felt burning into her back.
— You're stressed? — immediately, he dragged his ass out of bed and right up to the window, daring to steal his glasses from her face so he could actually see something.
— And you're not? — she countered sharply, feeling her heart hammer in her chest like it wanted to burst right out and hand itself to him on fine china. The idea of pushing him out of the open window seemed really tempting at the moment.
— Just give me the fucking cig.
The fucking hypocrite.
It was his voice that interrupted their momentary silence. His voice that tore through her thoughts and woke her up from the daydream she fell into. His voice that destroyed the god damn peace she reached for once and her face immediately went back to it's usual scowl, muscles tightening again.
She could see he felt bad, to some extent at least. And fucking right he should feel bad.
— What are you doing here? — but he had to ask that question. He just had to. And had the gall to sound so fucking tired asking it. He really didn't remember shit, did he?
She regretted not skinning him in his sleep.
— You really got wasted yesterday, huh? — she snorted, sparing him a glance — I had to-...
He had the courage to interrupt her.
— I remember what happened. — that hiss made her whole head turn in his direction. Well, what the fuck did he want from her then? — Which is precisely why I'm asking what the fuck are you still doing here? — his fists and teeth clenched painfully, and he looked like a kicked puppy waiting for another blow. She'd gladly deliver...
If not for the god damn clenching in her chest. Just great, now she couldn't even breathe, let alone talk to him. Pathetic, that's all she was. Pathetic.
The second she turned her head away, she felt his vice-like grip on her shoulder, spinning her right back, trapping her there and it was hard to fight the urge to kick him in the nuts because she felt like a cornered animal. Why did she even fight? If there was one person who deserved to have his balls ripped off, it was him.
— The fuck you on about? — she finally hissed, a feeble attempt to save herself from this whole situation, defend her own pride and dignity from the horrible look he was sending her way. Why did he have to act so sincere all the time? Where was that fake-ass smile he flashed every night, that fake-ass laugh, that fake-ass mask? Why did she have to endure all this bullshit?
And then, he booped her. Booped. Her. On the nose. Sober.
#roman sionis#black mask#birds of prey#birds of prey and the fantabulous emancipation of one harley quinn#the first part i was ready to accept#but i disown this absolute abomination#thanks to yall i was hyped to write the second part#and now i would just like to apologize for doing so#im sorry if you took the time to read this#my writing
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You Can Stay if You Like. ❜
Summary: Sometimes, you can’t control what sticks with you.
He didn’t lie to her.
‘’Not nightmares. Memories.’’
The simple fact was that he didn’t need to have nightmares. Whenever those hazy recollections replayed themselves in his head, he was painfully aware of the fact that they did not belong to the fictional realm that most dreams did. Those fingernails that I found under the sink three weeks after the investigation were hers. The locks of hair I found stuffed in my pillow after two months of grieving were his. The pain I had to carry around for the rest of my life, even long after I murdered that motherfucker, was mine.
Edgar awoke with a startled jolt, his trip down memory lane cut short by consciousness’ clean blade. His heart thundered in his chest, arms reflexively tightening around his mate as he struggled to breathe. It wasn’t often that he awoke so suddenly. Most of the time, he suffered only a brief interval of disorientation before phasing into the real world naturally, a poignant sense of relief following neatly every time. It was different now; his hands were pawing desperately along his lover’s body, eager to feel all of her limbs in place.
The disturbance triggered her to wake up, struggling against his vice grip, and it made him panic, made him cling tighter. “H-Hey, what’s going on, what’s wrong?” She would have thrown an accusatory comment his way had he not been heaving for air, the hands all over her body unwarranted when she wasn’t awake to tell him what was acceptable and what wasn’t, but she quickly deduced that his hold had nothing to do with desire. It was as if she’d come in a box, like a wooden doll in need of constructing, and he was desperately trying to slot her pieces into place. She winced as his claws unwittingly sank into her arm, like dirt he was desperately scrabbling for purchase in. With a sharp gasp: “Eddie, you’re hurting me…!”
The words made him fall still, as if her voice alone had penetrated the noise with no effort at all. Though his arms remained around her like a snake, his claws retracted, traces of blood dim beneath his nails. Her soft flesh came into focus then, her familiar body sending a cold chill through him as he realised what he’d done.
“Oh… oh no…”
His arms loosened enough for her to turn around in his grip. She did so slowly, afraid to set him off, still confused as to what was actually happening. When her palms rested on his cheeks, she found that they were clammy and hot, as if a fever had chewed its way through his system overnight. Though she could barely make him out in the dark of the inn room, her sense of hearing was acute and touching him was enough.
“It’s alright…” she whispered quietly, brushing strands of hair out of his face. He shook his head quickly.
“I hurt you--”
“It’s alright,” she reassured, tone firm but patient. She wasn’t used to her Alpha displaying such openly distressed behaviour. He was the type to let his pain age like wine, to laugh it off until it ate him alive; to feel him clutching her so desperately, holding her close as if he expected her to slip through his fingers like sand, made her heart ache. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t know what he could say that would illustrate his grief effectively enough. In a rushed tone: “I don’t… I just need to know you’re alright. All together.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion, though she didn’t dwell on it. She didn’t have time to as he suddenly pushed himself out of the bed, feeling around in the dark for his clothes. Her ears perked as she heard the jagged end of his tail collide with the bed frame, then the dresser, futile fumbling apparent as he struggled to find anything of value. Eventually, he located his shirt, tucking it haphazardly over his arm before striding to the en-suite .
The knot in her stomach worsened, and after flicking the light on and sliding her underwear set into place, she approached the bathroom door and knocked quietly. When he didn’t reply, she took her chances and opened it, slowly revealing his form as she cracked it open further. She’d seen him naked quite a lot at this point, though she was always struck by how tall he was. Despite his eerie personality, he was perfectly proportionate, and the only thing that she hadn’t been expecting upon undressing him the first time was the myriad of scars that littered his upper body. They spanned along his arms like grass did a meadow, and his shoulder blades were home to two slightly-raised grooves-- as if he’d had wings in his past life.
You’ve put on weight while we’ve been together. I steadily convinced you to eat more, to stop sparing extra for everybody else in the vain hope that you could keep them all perfectly fed at all times.
He was fiddling with the water, body bent over the side of the bath in a manner that looked painful. She approached him warily, hands hovering momentarily before resting on his back and arm. It was as if he didn’t know she’d been there-- he jumped slightly when touched, tail making a dull fwap noise as it swatted sideways.
“Let me help, okay?”
“I can run my own shower.”
Arguing wouldn’t have been good for either of them. Instead, she levelled him with a considerate look, slowly nodding before stepping forward to take over. Surprisingly, he followed her motion without complaint, standing aside while she messed with the temperature.
“Cold…” he rasped. “...I want it cold on my head.”
Her head bobbed with understanding, the heat turned down. She wouldn’t let him climb into a shower that resembled an ice bath, but he received his wish nonetheless. Eventually, the water resembled steady rainfall, chilly against her palm as she tested its warmth.
I still don’t know what’s wrong with you. You haven’t said a word about it.
She was distracted by Edgar clambering into the bath, hissing between his teeth when the cold water hit his skin. However, when he turned his head towards it, he let out an audible sigh of relief, eyes falling closed. The tremors slowly stopped, body soaked in a matter of seconds, his thick red hair flat against the side of his face and back. Had she not been so worried, she likely would have felt a spark of lust.
Hesitantly, she turned around to leave.
“You can stay if you like…” Edgar muttered, voice barely audible above the running water. A feeble smile shaped her lips as she slipped her undergarments off and climbed in with bated breath.
It was freezing in comparison to what she was used to, but when he tipped his head down to look at her, water clinging to his tall frame, she realised that she didn’t care. It doesn’t matter. I’m here for you. I wouldn’t care even if it gave me frostbite.
Though he’d made it explicitly clear that he could take care of himself, he didn’t stop her when he felt her hands on his body, his usual shower gel rubbed into his skin. He even raised his arms at one point, accommodating her thorough scrubbing without so much as a grumble. In truth, he was just relieved to see her before him like this. Feeling her hands on him had him sinking back to solid ground, hammering heart settling like a dead cicada in his chest, shrill screaming now long void.
You’re okay. You’re not going to wind up like Brielle. You’re not going to be a repeat of that horrible atrocity. I won’t allow it, and neither will you. The only man who posed a threat to you has already been dealt with. You saw me do it. And with my scent on you, nobody will dare to threaten you like that again. If they do, I’ll kill them too.
“Feeling good…?” she asked softly. Though he felt quite horrible, he nodded his head.
They didn’t speak for the rest of their shower. She washed his hair for him and he did the same for her wound. They shared a passionate kiss, one that he didn’t think would unravel the way it did until she’d pressed herself close, seeking out his comfort plainly. He simply hadn’t been able to let go of her, afraid that once he did she’d be gone for good. Eventually, they got out together, her teeth chattering as he wrapped her up in one of the inn’s fluffy white towels like a baby kitten, tying one loosely around his waist afterwards.
My head feels much clearer. I still feel heavy, but I don’t feel like I’m going to die.
When they were dry, they exited the bathroom in search of the rest of their clothes, dressing themselves properly before they sat beside one another on the bed. If there was one thing she had come to realise about Edgar, it was that he looked much different when he shed his suit jacket. In just a button-down shirt, sitting in bed beside her, she could have mistaken him for her husband.
I hope that I see you in just a button-down for aeons longer. I like this cushy private life.
“... thank you,” he said levelly, afraid to look at her. “And I am sorry for hurting you.”
He graced her with eye contact as she rose, seating herself in his lap. Warm flesh against his cheek prompted him to look up at her, the compassion in her eyes reaching his cold soul just right. He basked in her love like a cat did sunlight, stretching himself thin in search of more.
“You don’t need to apologise…” she whispered, fingers stroking gently. Wet hair was swept aside so that she could hold his face properly. “... did you have a nightmare?”
“A memory.”
The response was familiar but no less harrowing. Seeing his state all but half an hour ago, she knew that whatever had plagued him was horrendous, something that even his twisted little head had had trouble filing away.
What happened to you?
What have you been keeping inside all of these aeons?
Who were you?
Her thumb stroked tenderly against his cheekbone. “...a memory of what?”
The silence between them hung like a cloud. As she stared at him, looking for clues while he refused to say a word, images flashed in his head. It cut to him finding the letter; to him throwing up violently all over the kitchen floor; to him finding as many pieces of his dead loved ones as possible and surrounding himself with them, sobbing on the phone to the police as he rocked in a pile of disconnected limbs and vomit. He hadn’t even been able to explain himself to the dispatcher. He’d just wailed, and retched, and wailed some more. At some point, they must have gotten his address from him for he was surrounded by police tape and officers, and something in his head had snapped. He felt it go, in fact, like an elastic band finally being stretched past its limit. As the investigation unfolded, he went from one extreme to the other: anguished cries and profuse upchucking to void, staring into space even when an officer shone a torch directly in his eyes.
Sir. We need to speak with you. We understand this is stressful, but until we’ve checked all of our boxes, you’re a suspect too. We just need to ask you some questions.
“... I recalled the night I lost my wife and son,” he answered. “They were murdered. By some sick fuck. I was a target too, originally, but I got called into my office for an impromptu campaign pitch and…” He stopped, inhaling sharply. Though he had tucked his feelings for his previous life away in a neat little cubicle, discussing the ins and outs of his case brought back a dull pang of nausea. For a brief moment, he felt guilty for sitting there with another woman in his lap. Is this what it feels like to cheat? “... they were brutalised. Completely. Fucked. Tortured. Cut open. Dismembered. Dismembered so finely that I still found pieces of them around my house long after the dust had settled.”
“O-Oh, God…”
“He left me a letter, detailing all he’d done. Though there were a couple of lies in there, the majority of it was true. There were signs of a struggle; semen samples; tiny fragments of makeshift weapons still lodged in body parts; and they were able to determine very basic, approximate times of death based on decomposition of the located limbs. It checked out with what he said: he made my boy watch all the horrible things he was doing to his mother, and then he did most of them to him.” He shook his head, eyes narrowing slightly. When he spoke, there was rage and heartbreak encased in the same voice: “Couldn’t even mercy-kill the poor kid…”
Grace had turned pale quite a while ago, nausea coiling up her throat like a snake. “... why?”
“Heh, well there’s the best part,” Edgar retorted bitterly, a hateful smile curling onto his face-- as if he was watching the person he hated the most burn alive right in front of him. There wasn’t a single trace of his usual flippancy in that sardonic curl of his lips. Even so, he approached the topic with a startling coldness, his explanations clinical and matter-of-fact-- as he was discussing somebody else’s tragedy. “You would think he’d have a pretty good reason to do that to a man’s wife and son, particularly when that son was a young child. But he did it to take things from me for my political beliefs.”
She was clearly stupefied by that. Her brow furrowed with equal amounts of confusion and hatred-- as if she couldn’t believe what he’d said.
Edgar scoffed quietly. “Mm. He took issue with my ‘’anarchist’’ stance.”
“What is ‘’anarchist?”
“Very basically, it’s somebody who believes in ‘’overthrowing’’ those in charge. Abolishing the systems that do not benefit you because you believe that they’re harmful.” When she slowly nodded, he continued: “... I was not an anarchist. I didn’t want to do stupid things like abolish the police force or overrule the High Court. I just wanted standard working people, like myself, to be paid a standard working wage, and I still don’t think that that was so evil. Huron almost had a civil war. I was alive then, and I had a foot in the door for political affairs. I wrote speeches for public figures. I helped build campaigns and advertised the desired party positively. I was originally anonymous, though as I became more coveted as a writer, I decided I wanted my name attached to my work. It was mine after all. By all accounts, I was an advocate for political virtue. But I disagreed with one thing. One thing.”
“The work thing…?” Grace asked quietly. Her heart was beating hard for reasons unknown. Her stomach was in knots-- as if she expected to come across a piece of information that upset everything inside of her at once, one that would send her rocketing to the en-suite and throwing up their dinner date in full.
“Mhm. I didn’t believe in people accepting their poor work conditions as irrefutable. I was for the strikes. I believed in staying away from work if it meant that people could get fair compensation. I stood behind their right to protest-- created slogans and art for them to print on billboards and signposts. Wrote speeches that detailed the desire for fair treatment in the workplace.” He realised that she didn’t really understand what he was talking about, and he decided to fill in the gaps for her. “That almost-civil war I mentioned was because of these unfair laws. It was the working class against the rich and powerful. Back then, it was perfectly acceptable to not pay an employee for their work, especially not if it was overtime. That in itself would have been fine had overtime been optional, but the corporate bosses were legally allowed to use their ‘’discretion’’ in order to determine who worked extra for nothing and for how long. I was a particular favourite because of my brain and my work ethic. I was promised money for my efforts, and at the time I obliged, thinking I could save it for my family, but I didn’t receive a penny of it. By the time I found out that I never would, it was too late. I’d already worked those weeks. I’d already sold them my free time, for no profit. I’d already promised my son a birthday gift that I could no longer afford to get him. So yes, I did agree that the law required some amendments. I agreed with people protesting. I even attended a few myself, made some public speeches, and was publicly smeared for doing so, but I didn’t care and kept going. All until this man decided, ‘You know what, FUCK this man, if he thinks that wages are so important then he doesn’t know what he’s got!’. I knew. I did everything for them-- the protests, the late shifts, the birthday gifts-- everything. I believed in change because of them, too. They kept me sane. They kept me grounded. Whenever I felt like I was spiralling out of control, they would be there to set me straight. I loved my wife more than words could express, and Augustus… Gods, I adored him. Still do. I can let go of my wife but I can’t let go of him, even now.”
She stared at him-- through him-- without a word to offer him. What could she say after all she’d been told? An apology would only fizzle out like infatuation. It was an empty word after all he’d endured.
Dear God… what do I do? My mind is reeling.
His hand distracted her from her stunned state, his cool skin nursing her pale complexion as he cupped it easily. He’d always been so much bigger than her in every sense of the word; his tall frame dwarfed hers completely, and his mind was so much more expansive than she had ever thought possible. She fancied herself as a clever woman, as somebody who knew what she was talking about more often than she didn’t, but she knew that she was nowhere close to where his intellect sat. Even so, he’d barely ever weaponised it. Whenever she’d asked him a question, he’d answered it; whenever she hadn’t been able to understand something he’d said, he rephrased it in words she could grasp without even being asked. She wasn’t dumb, she just wasn’t Edgar Strahv, and he made her feel okay with that.
“... but that isn’t the reason I awoke so troubled,” the Alpha murmured softly. “I’ve moved on with my life. My past life doesn’t haunt me. The bad revisits me on occasion, and it all crops up every so often, but it doesn’t plague my every thought. I’m a different person now. But I can’t stand seeing those things again because I don’t want to associate you with them. I don’t want you to be my deceased mate, the woman who was murdered because her lover was too busy for her. I see you now when those memories resurface. You’ve replaced Brielle. You occupy the space she once filled - and as such, you occupy her role in my dreams, too. I find pieces of you strewn around my tavern like confetti, and I cry. I cry a lot.”
Despite the severity of his confession, she couldn’t help but flush slightly. Though she knew it was cruel of her, she wouldn’t deny that she wanted to feel special to him. She didn’t want him to cling to his long-dead wife; didn’t want him to never let her into his heart fully because it was taken by somebody that he could never return to.
“... this is why you hover so much,” she mumbled softly.
“Yes,” he replied, thumb tenderly stroking along her cheekbone. “It’s also why I apologise for my duties so often. I fear you being left alone. I fear the day that I become busy with a task that costs your life. If I hadn’t gone into the office that night for some worthless political movement…” He cut himself off, teeth grit, a frustrated grimace replacing his typical smile. “... I would have either been able to stop it, or I’d have died with them. My life would’ve either continued as it should have or it would have ended as it should have. I wouldn’t have had to take justice into my own hands. I wouldn’t have tried to fill the empty space with worthless women. I wouldn’t have travelled the path I did.”
A lot of what he’d done was unspoken, and as long as he didn’t want to discuss it, she wouldn’t ask. Not only did she feel that it wasn’t her right to know, she didn’t want to be the reason that he was forced to relive all of those vile memories. She could only imagine how painful it was deep inside, like a wound that could never be sealed shut. Though he claimed he had moved on, she was suspicious of that.
“... I wasn’t a ‘bad person’ until all of that happened. Then I lost my way. And I refuse to lose myself again. If I lose you, Grace, it’s game over. I… can’t, do all of that again. And I don’t want to.” He smiled a strange smile, his other hand settling on her cheek and pulling her closer to him with a firmness that didn’t match the sincerity of the scene. A stuttered gasp caught in her throat, their noses touching delicately. “... so don’t. Die.” It almost felt like a threat, her head nodding slightly in agreement before he loosened his hold somewhat. “Or at least, if you’re going to, let me know. We can arrange it together.”
Before she could comprehend it, she had thrown her arms around his neck. She clutched him to her as if she was scared of him vanishing altogether-- as if he’d promised to commit suicide by dawn. Fiercely, she buried her face into his neck, seeking out his mate mark in the dark. Lips brushed against it softly, provoking a shiver, hands flitting to her waist as she held him tightly.
“We’re not going to die,” she whispered furiously, holding him close. “Not you or me. We’re going to be happy here together for as long as we like. Screw what you’re “supposed” to do ‘’as a hybrid’’. Gods can’t stop people who love each other from being together.”
He chuckled at that, something about the words tickling him. She almost sounded childish, though he knew that her indignation was nothing to scoff at. He’d fallen in love with that brazen side of her almost as immediately as he had her face.
I can’t see that die. Not ever.
His arms tightened around her, holding her in his lap defensively. He’d sit there like that for the rest of his days if it meant keeping her sheltered from the world. She’d already seen so much darkness… he didn’t need more looming over her.
“No,” he agreed, voice placative as he stroked through her hair. “No they can’t.”
#🞮 — if i could i'd trade my heart for a second brain. ❜ ( edgar. )#🞮 — that vixen﹐she's a master of disguise! ❜ ( grace. )#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ hoooooooHOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH
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Scars
“There was a time Billy wanted to make him pay. We went to Bensonhurst. He wanted to tune the guy up. The guy showed up, and he changed his mind.”
“You think this asshole got jacked up in prison?”
Frank’s voice is a low rumble. He’s never been the guy that feels the need to fill uncomfortable silences. That’s more Billy’s shtick, to break the tension with a wisecrack and a dumb joke. But Billy’s not acting like his usual self. Gone is the loud-mouthed jackass that Frank knows so well. For once, Frank’s aching to hear some inane comment that’ll make him roll his eyes and call the other man a moron. But he gets nothing.
So Frank’s there to fill in the pieces.
He mostly talks to keep Billy’s mind distracted. The other man tends to get lost in his own head sometimes. Frank knows the signs by now. The first time it happened, it caught him by surprise. It was the first time they met up in New York while on leave. He never saw it coming. But now, Frank knows the signs. And he knows the triggers.
He gets the barest hint of a shrug for his troubles. Just a lift of the shoulders. Billy sits stiff and silent, dark eyes glued to the street, refusing to meet Frank’s gaze.
“Child molesters always get jacked up in prison,” Frank grumbles. He turns his head back to the shabby looking house in the middle of the block. The windows are drawn shut, heavy curtains preventing anyone from looking inside. Frank imagines the creaking of the rusty old gate that surrounds the place. Maybe they could jump it instead. Without a hint of life coming from it, the house looks practically deserted.
Frank shifts in his seat and spares another glance at his friend.
Billy sits stiff as a board in the passenger seat, like any sudden movement might make him lash out like a cornered animal. Frank knows first hand just how dangerous Billy can be. He can’t wait to see Billy unleash his rage on this bastard.
But something about Billy’s face makes Frank pause. His eyes are almost glassy, pupils blown wide. His mouth is a thin line on his face. It’s the look of a desperate man, or a terrified child. Not the toughest, most stubborn, most ambitious guy Frank knows. A shiver runs down his spine.
“Bill, we don’t gotta do this,” Frank says suddenly. “If you don’t want to go through with it,” he lets his voice trail off. He shrugs. If it’s too much for you... He doesn’t say that part out loud. Because they’re marines. Nothing’s supposed to be too much for them. But this is one situation Frank doesn’t quite know how to handle. He was never trained for this.
“I’m good,” Billy finally manages through gritted teeth.
Frank lets it go. He turns an apprehensive gaze back to the empty street. There’s not a soul in sight, and on a street like this he would have expected kids running around the sidewalks, with bikes maybe, screaming and hollering and playing. He’s glad he doesn’t see any.
Frank feels it when Arthur shows up. He hears the sharp draw of breath through Billy’s teeth. He sees Billy flinch from out the corner of his eye. The wave of anxiety that radiates off of him chokes the air in the small car like a sickness.
“That him?” Frank’s eyes are glued to the guy climbing out of the station wagon that had pulled up in front of the residence they were watching. The man has graying hair. He’s slightly overweight with a short, stocky build, and he walks with his head bowed low. “Bill, is that him? That piece of shit—”
“Drive.” Billy’s voice is tight. “Fucking drive.”
“What?!”
Frank’s head swings around. His pulse is already racing. The blood pumps wildly through his veins. He’s so fucking ready for a fight. He’s been itching for one since they got back to the states.
And then he realizes that Billy doesn’t look like a guy who’s about to deliver a beatdown of epic proportions. Billy doesn’t look like Billy at all. He has his head bowed, chin tucked to his chest. His shoulders are clenched and trembling. A solid moment of confusion passes before Frank realizes the wheezing he’s hearing is his best friend hyperventilating.
“Shit.”
Billy’s having a goddamn panic attack.
“Drive the car. Please.”
Frank’s hands clench around the steering wheel and he’s pulling them into the street without another glance at the barren-looking house they’d been staked outside of for the better part of the afternoon.
He doesn’t know how many blocks they get between them and that house. His head whips between the road and the way Billy rocks in the passenger seat like he’s about to jump out of a moving car that’s currently breaking the speed limit. And when he sees Billy’s hand wildly pawing at the door handle, he realizes that might actually happen.
“Fuck!” Frank curses loudly as he slams on the brakes.
He’s barely stopped the car before Billy’s out and running, nothing but a blur of dark fabric. And the son of a bitch is fast. But Frank already knew that. He just wasn’t expecting to have to chase him today of all days.
“Bill! Bill, stop!” Frank pulls the keys out of the ignition and takes off after Billy while cursing under his breath.
Billy always outruns him. Always. No matter the field or the obstacles. And he never lets him forget it either. Whereas Frank is built like a tank, Billy is long limbs and slender, toned muscle. If it’s a race, Billy wins every time, not for lack of trying on Frank’s part.
But Frank never lets Billy out of his sight.
Billy takes them past a park, running like his life depends on it. Like he’s trying to outrun something impossible to leave behind.
Frank’s heart clenches when he suddenly recognizes the baseball field.
Billy doesn’t stop at the bleachers though. He doesn’t stop until he hits the treeline, ignoring the loud calls of his name.
Billy collapses with his palms against a tree trunk. Out of breath and like a man unhinged, he raises a fist and slams it into the trunk. He does it again and again. The thunderous smacks of his fist against rough wood are deafening, and they make the panic grip Frank’s heart in a vice-like grip.
“Christ, you’re gonna break your goddamn hand!”
Billy ignores him and keeps punching until he sees red.
“Billy!” Frank roars, as he struggles to pull the other man away. He’s winded and feeling ragged. But it’s nothing compared to how Billy looks. Billy screams like a madman and Frank prays that no one calls the goddamn cops on them. He finally manages to pull them both back and they fall, tumbling to the ground, wheezing and groaning in a tangle of limbs.
Billy slowly rolls off of him with a pained, muffled cry.
For a while, neither of them speak. Frank huffs and bites his tongue to keep from calling the other man a goddamn idiot. They catch their breaths as they lie in the grass, staring at the green trees above them as their chests rise and fall from their exertion.
“What do you need?” Frank asks fiercely. “Just tell me what you need, Bill.”
Billy’s eyes slip shut. He waits for his racing pulse to calm as he recalls the breathing exercises he learned as a child to keep it together when it felt like his whole world was falling apart. He slowly sits up and shakes his head. He shrugs his shoulders, his arms resting listlessly at his sides. His busted knuckles pulse with a relentless throb. “Fuck, man. I don’t know,” he murmurs.
Frank sits up and watches him. Watches the way Billy stares down at his lap and rocks slowly. There are so many things he wants to do. He wants to go back to that house and beat the old man to a bloody pulp. He wants to rant and rave and throw things and break ‘em. Because that’s what he’s good at. That’s what he’s trained at.
But he does none of these things. He just sits and watches in silence. ‘Cause he’s got to let Billy make the first move with this one. Billy’s a natural born fighter. A survivor. The toughest goddamn son of a bitch Frank’s ever met in his life. He’s not going to be okay with Frank taking the reins on this.
Only when his breathing is finally even, does Billy speak. “He took something from me.”
“Yeah,” Frank says softly, carefully. “I know, bud.”
“I’m not talking about my fucking shoulder, he—” Billy shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He draws his knees to his chest and curses, “fuck!”
“Hey,” Frank reaches out a hand before thinking twice and pulling it back. He winces, hating how helpless he feels, all the while knowing what Billy’s going through is a hundred times worse. “The guy’s a piece of shit. I want to fucking kill him. I want to stomp him into the goddamn ground. He’s not worth this, Bill—”
“I know he’s not worth it!” Billy screams. His eyes glitter like black diamonds as he rages. “Don’t you think I know that?!” He growls in frustration and runs his fingers through his hair. He draws back into himself again. “But I can’t forget, alright? I can’t forget what he did to me.” He groans, the sound weak and quiet. He hates it the second it reaches his ears. It’s pathetic.
So he focuses on the red that paints his knuckles. He flexes his hand, hisses quietly at the pain. Not broken. He’s not broken. “I see it, all the time,” he murmurs, his voice evening out as his good hand clenches into a fist. His nails dig into the meat of his palm, the pain is something to hold on to, like a lifeline. “I—I feel his hands on me. I remember the fucking leer on his face and I… I remember the pain.” He shakes his head as something twists painfully in his chest. “I’ll never forget it.”
Frank’s breath leaves his lungs in a short huff of air. He sniffs. “Just say the word, Bill.” His throat feels rough as he speaks. He’s so angry, he’d started to shake. “Just say the word and I’ll kill that motherfucker. I won’t even think twice about it, I swear.”
Billy finally looks up. He looks tired, he feels exhausted. Just drained, emotionally and physically.
“I swear it,” Frank says again, meaning every single word. “I’ll fucking kill him. Just say the word and I’ll do it.”
He wishes Billy would say yes. He wishes Billy would say yes just so Frank could pound that child rapist into the ground. He looks down at the blood, fresh and wet, dripping from Billy’s knuckles. His white-hot anger rumbles dangerously in his chest. He wants to beat the piss out of the man who ruined Billy’s childhood. He wants to choke the life out of him. To make it slow, and make it hurt, just like they were trained to do. They are trained killers. He just needs to wait for the word.
Frank swallows and slowly draws air through his nose.
Billy blinks when he suddenly feels tear tracks on his face, cooling in the crisp fall air. He jerks and looks away, quickly wiping his face with his sleeve.
Frank turns away.
Billy never got this way overseas. Only rare moments when they’re in New York. But never around Maria. Mostly not even around Frank. Just when he’s alone. Billy gets dark whenever he’s alone. That’s the real reason why Billy indulges in women and drink. It helps to keep his demons at bay. Sometimes men help too. Frank never mentions it and Billy never brings it up. But he knows Billy has taken guys home on more than one occasion.
The fucked up thing is, they both feel out of place when they’re home. Frank would never admit that to Maria. Hell, he hides it best that he can from her. But Billy gets it. And Billy’s family. When they’re home, Frank invites him over every chance he gets. Billy gets an invitation to every family outing, every trip to the park. Maria certainly loves him. Most people do when they’re only treated to his charismatic side. The kids are still too young, but Billy dotes on them like an uncle. He smiles around them, genuine and loving.
Seeing Billy smile makes Frank smile.
His craving for violence has mostly faded, but it’s left a bitter taste in his mouth like bile.
As the silence stretches between them, Billy finally shakes his head. “I found out later, there were others,” he says, his voice dull and lacking emotion. “Before me, and after me.” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws. “Ten years he got for what he fucking did. Ten years,” he growls and a huff falls past his red lips. “I’ll be living with it for the rest of my life.”
Frank lets the silence settle, his eyes on Billy’s face are warm and gentle.
“It ain’t right, Bill. What happened to you, it ain’t fucking right.” He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck.
He’s not going to push it. Billy doesn’t need the guy who pushes for a confrontation with the monster that hurt him. He doesn’t need lies about fairytale endings, or some bullshit that a therapist would spew, everything will be okay, just hang in there.
The truth is, Frank doesn’t know if it’ll ever be okay.
And suddenly he’s hit with a wave of longing. A yearning that hits him deep in his soul for the barracks. To be back in uniform, in a place where things are simple. Just follow orders. Kill the bad guys, survive another night, protect your brothers. Black and white.
The irony is, when he’s overseas, Frank’s counting down the days until he can come home to his wife and kids. And when he’s on home soil, he’s missing the dirt and the blood and the gunpowder. The familiarity of a weapon in his hand and his brothers by his side.
Frank sighs and reaches out a warm, heavy hand that he lays gently on Billy’s shoulder. His throat tightens.
“It ain’t fucking right.”
#The Punisher#Frank Castle#Billy Russo#Frankenbilly#my fics#I just want more flashbacks#I want more of Frank and Billy's relationship when it was good#I'm still not over S2 and how it ended
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