#I'm not the boss of my brain so nothing's ever set in stone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kaiparker-avengerssmut · 3 years

Text

Yes, ma'am

Pairings | Jimmy Woo x domme!reader

Warnings | smut, gun play, female domme, Dom/sub dynamics, role play, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

Word count | 1.5k

Summary | Jimmy wanted to try something new

Masterlist

Jimmy sighed, pushing back from the desk as the clicking of heels sounded around the room.

"Here she is, boss." One of his coworkers said, hands clutched tight around your wrists where they were tightly handcuffed behind you back.

Your lips were twisted into a permanent, deviant smirk. Face cold, calculating as you looked Jimmy up and down - the only hint of emotion displaying itself when you traced your lips with your tongue before pulling the bottom one between your teeth.

"Put her in the back room. I'll integrate her." Jimmy dismissed, his own eyes cold as they bore into yours.

You had been at odds with the agent since, well- since a long time ago. He never quite managed to catch you, or even get close for that matter. You were always one step ahead.

Until today.

The chair screamed as you plonked down, the legs scraping over the scratchy floor in a melody of ear-crunching rakes of metal over old marble.

You cringed, leaning out of the officer's way as he attached your cuffs to the table. He scoffed, clearly amused at your compliance after so many years of running and fighting and defying...

Little did he know, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

He left the room with a thud of the door and a pointed look, as if to say 'don't you dare fucking move', even though - let's face it - there isn't really anywhere for you to go right now.

Chained up and locked in a room. You might find the bondage arousing if it wasn't for the hard metal and the fact that, oh yeah, you like to top.

Well, like might be the understatement of the century.

You cleared your throat as the door sprung open again, malice behind the action when Jimmy stepped through.

He sauntered over to the table, shuffling papers and settling his coffee down. Jimmy pulled the seat out and sat down, only looking up when you cleared your throat again.

You couldn't contain your grin at his bugged out eyes.

"H-how did you...?" He cut himself off as he eyed your hands with marvel.

"Get free? Oh, sweetheart, did you really think these," you held up the opened handcuffs and swung them side-to-side tauntingly, "would hold me?" Jimmy swallowed and you grinned.

"I, uh-"

"Aw, are you getting Flustered, Darlin'? Don't worry - I'm only getting started." You smirked, placing your hands on the desk as you pushed yourself to your feet. "Stand up, don't make me ask twice."

You walked across the room, double checking the door was locked before turning around. Jimmy was still in his seat, gaping at you. You arched a brow.

"What did I just say?" He snapped to it, quickly getting up and standing with his hands at his sides. Your tongue snuck out to smooth over your lips as you moseyed closer to him. "Good boy."

Your finger danced over his chest, peaking under his coat before your dragged the material from his shoulders. Jimmy stayed still as stone, ridged and frozen as you dragged the garnet from his body.

As quickly as it came off him, you pulled it over your own shoulders. The jacket was baggy and hung unflattering the from your arms, but you were taunting him.

"Strip. I may have use for you yet." You demanded and you'd never seen a man move so fast.

A blink of an eye and his gun was in your face, aimed straight for your brain. Your eyes flutter up to look at it and your red-painted lips curled into a malicious grin.

"Put your hands in the air, right now." Jimmy breathed haughtily, hands shaking.

"Cute, but not gonna work." You murmured, grabbing his wrist and turning his arm until Jimmy released his hold on the weapon.

You pushed him up to the wall, his arm bent uncomfortably behind his back as you lifted the gun to his head. Jimmy swallowed thickly as the sound of the safety turning off. Click.

"Awhha, and you didn't even have safety off!" You exclaimed. "It's like you want me to win." You commented before shoving it against the back of his head. Jimmy flinched. "Now, you're gonna do exactly as I fucking tell you to, or I shoot you. Got it?"

Jimmy winced again.

"Got. It?" You repeated through clenched teeth.

"Yes!" Jimmy shouted and you pushed him against the wall harder.

"'Yes' what?"

"Yes, ma'am!" You grinned, easing your grin to spin him around.

"Much better." A kiss was placed to his damp cheek before you pushed him to the ground.

You could see him quivering, his thighs shaking as his knees made contact with the cold ground. You waved the gun back and forth, humming in contemplation before settling on an idea.

"You ever sucked someone off before?" You asked and Jimmy frowned.

"W-what?" Jimmy asked, confused.

"I asked if you've ever sucked anyone's dick before." You hummed, gun pressing against Jimmy's head again. He swallowed. You smirked.

"N-no, ma'am." Jimmy whispered and you sighed.

"Hollow your cheeks, breath through your nose, don't gag too much." You rattled off your instructions.

"I-I don't understand-" was all Jimmy got out before the gun parted his lips and made its way into his mouth. You licked your lips at the sight of Jimmy's - spread beautifully around the gun and shiny with spit as he bobbed his head.

For as much as he was resisting, it's like he wanted to do this.

After a little while, you noticed Jimmy was canting his hips into nothing - humping the air as he sucked his own god damn gun.

"Rub yourself off, baby. Go on, make yourself cum." You mumbled, pressing the tip of your boot against his crotch. Jimmy moaned around the metal, long and strained as he began to roll his hips against your foot.

And oh fuck, it felt good. Oh so fucking good, and that feeling alone made Jimmy feel ashamed. He shouldn't like this at all. You loved to see him like this, desperate and needy as he ground against you.

"That's enough." You decided, and Jimmy whimpered as you pulled away. You chuckled, setting the gun down the the table before crouching down before him. Your fingers found their way beneath his chin, tilting his bowed head up so you could meet his eyes. "On your feet."

By the time you'd finished playing around with him, Jimmy was a planting mess. His hair was sticky with sweat and his eyes droopy with lust as you hovered over his achingly-hard dick.

A smug expression settled itself on your face as you lowered yourself onto his cock. You still had his jacket on - the rest of your clothes discarded around the room along with his.

You had put him back into the chair he'd originally sat down in, using the cuffs you'd been locked up in to attach his wrists behind his back before climbing onto his lap.

Once you straddled him, you began to lower yourself down before letting him sit deep inside you.

"You're so big." You moaned, lifting your hips in a slow roll that made his eyes roll back. "Fuck, you feel good." Your fingers traced the lines of his muscles, finding their way to his nipples before you began to pull and pinch at the stiff peaks as you picked up the pace.

Jimmy was a moaning, whining mess as you bounced on his dick - walls clenching teasingly as you felt him throb inside you. Your fingers kept pulling at his nipples, the act surely nothing but painful.

Your teeth nipped at his neck, your aim to leave marks when you kissed against his jaw. Jimmy's arms strained as he fought against the bonds, muscles flexing beneath a soft layer of fat that made him so much more attractive in your eyes.

"Such a good boy, letting my ride your dick. So big for me - fuck, I could stay here all day." You continued to purr dirty nothings into his ear, relishing in the deep moans you were pulling from the man as your pace began to falter.

You came with a cry of his name - the only crack in your facade - before you were collapsing onto his chest. You kept a slow roll, grinding dirtily against Jimmy until you felt him tense.

"Cum for me, sweetheart. Fill me up." The words twisted your tongue next to his ear, a filthy whisper that had him groaning through an earth-shattering orgasm.

"F-fuck." He moaned and you hummed. You slid the key for the cuffs from the pocket of his jacket, which still clung to your frame, before reaching around and freeing him. You rubbed his sore wrists before kissing each one softly.

"How was that, baby?" You asked, leaning back to look in his eyes, yet you made no action to get off him. Jimmy smiled dopily as your hands cupped his face.

"It was perfect, thank you." He mumbled and you smiled back.

"Good, I'd do anything for my best boy." You murmured, lips pressing a small kiss to his forehead, his nose, his lips.

Taglist

Other Marvel Characters One-shots, Drabbles and Headconnons | @buckysgirl101 @quxxnxfhxll @anakinsslag @marvelhoesworld @macylawz @zaphdekota @thegirlwiththeimpala @ohmy-fandoms @prettysbliss @samira_mcd @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @dpaccione @multihoee @natasha-danvers @supraveng @cap-n-ce @sebbyxlover @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @veronicapaula @ravenmoore14 @frickin-bats @itstaylorcale @dannjulie @ChaseTheMoon

If your name is crossed out, it means I couldn’t tag you!

#jimmy woo #jimmy woo fanfiction #Jimmy woo smut #jimmy woo supremacy #Jimmy woo fluff #Jimmy woo angst #smut #image #images #marvel #marvel smut #wandavision

46 notes · View notes

consumedkings-archive · 3 years

Text

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part i.

word count: 6k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. for this chapter in specific, roman likes to take things to the Extreme (i.e., "i'm going to fucking kms if you say this word one more time") but if you're here i imagine you know exactly what he's about.

notes: it's here! i know that most of my followers and friends on here are my friends through my far cry 5 content, but my return to the fic-writing world was inspired by my first longfic in a decade after watching birds of prey. you could say, perhaps, that i have a Type(TM), given that roman sionis lives rent free in my head forever and always. this is the sequel to my work carry your throne, though i like to think it's fairy user-friendly, especially once we really get into the thick of it.

special thank you goes to my beta and the loml, @starcrier; the first person to ever truly recognize varya for the wretched little beast that she is and love her anyway. thank you for being my beta and for loving my girl!

and, of course, another special thanks goes to @shallow-gravy, @vasiktomis, @faithchel, @tomexraider, and @belorage for being so supportive of my foray out of the far cry fandom and back into one that, in a way, brought me here in the first place!

summary: —by dread things, compelled.

roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.

(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)

“If one more person says the word ‘chandelier’ in my presence,” Roman announced, drawing all eyes to him, “I'm going to blow my fucking brains out. Got it?”

There was a brief moment of silence that lapsed before the murmured acquiescence of the workers marked their return to their work. Blowing hot air from his mouth, Roman raked his fingers through his hair and turned back around to where Zsasz was watching him expectantly.

“What?” He demanded. “It’s my wife’s birthday.” Emphasis on the my, not the wife; it was not a favor Roman was doing for Varya, it was something he was doing for himself.

“V told them she wanted it.” Zsasz gestured to the offensive piece of lighting, which continued to haunt Roman’s waking and dreaming hours with its garish crystalline drippings and expensive bulbs. Ever since Varya had found out his fluctuating approval of the chandelier, it had been in and out of the Black Mask Club more times than he could count. Not that he needed to; he could very well put in or rip out a stupid fucking light fixture as many times as he wanted.

“Well.” Roman pulled a glass out from behind the bar, setting it on the top and dropping an ice cube into it. “She does so love to torture me.”

“It's just a—”

“Do you want my fucking guts on the floor, Zsasz? I mean it. Say the word and I’ll do it.”

The blonde regarded him drily. “No, boss.”

“Blood and guts everywhere.” Roman gestured widely with his free hand. “All over the floor. The bar top. You’ll have to clean it up. Maybe wipe down some of the bottles.”

“I won’t say it.”

“I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get blood out of the carpet.”

Zsasz’s mouth quirked up in a smile. It said, without saying anything at all, no, you don’t. More agreeably, and with the flash of pearly whites and the capped tooth: “Sure.”

Roman poured well over what would have been considered the polite amount of expensive scotch into his glass, capping the bottle and setting it aside. It had been exactly twenty-four hours of making sure the club was perfectly polished and styled for Varya's birthday; though she was shrewd, she was so preoccupied with the twins and the lawyers and overseas business associates that she barely seemed to notice whatever was coming in and out of the Black Mask Club. He didn’t think she’d had a baby nor a phone out of her hands in over two days, and truthfully, it was starting to become tedious. Now that the twins were a little over a year old, they were supposed to be scheduling their honeymoon.

The delay of it hadn’t been a big deal, at the start. But everyday with you feels like my honeymoon, Varya had demurred months before the twins’ arrival, fluttering her lashes and gliding her fingers along the lapel of his jacket—and not even an hour after she’d curtly informed him that any more chatter, while she was nursing a headache, would be met with a swift and efficient extraction of his vocal cords by her own hands. Motherhood was supposed to have domesticated her, Roman thought, and had done the exact opposite; now, she was more assured of her status and power than ever.

So, yes; Varya had been busy, and he was almost certain she’d forgotten her own birthday. Never mind that everything had to be perfect. Never mind that it had to be immaculate. Never mind that Varya had deigned to order a brand new fucking chandelier from the same place they’d gotten one last time, knowing full well that he had made the executive decision to gut the fucking thing and get it out of his club.

“Tell you what, Zsasz,” Roman muttered, taking a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, “don’t ever get fucking married. You want someone knowing all the shit that pushes your buttons all the time?”

“Maybe you just got a button pusher for a wife.”

Roman grimaced and took another swallow. It was true. “Fuck off.”

The blonde opened his mouth to say something else—and hadn’t he gotten confident in himself too, since Varya had become such a permanent fixture in their life, constantly goading and coercing him to voice his opinion on things, things that normally he would just defer to Roman on—when the doors to the stairwell and the elevator opened.

Eclipsing the doorway was Armazd, Varya’s hand-picked-from-the-batch-of-Russians-left-over-guard. Armazd had to be easily cresting six-foot-five, his dark beard neatly trimmed and peppered with silver, a scar breaking the color of his top lip. Roman had only ever seen the man swathed in dark clothes, like a fucking mourner on parade. His wife had been the one picked to be the twins' nanny, despite the fact that Roman felt like she barely did anything.

Also hand-picked. Thoroughly vetted. Interrogated for hours. No stone left unturned, when it came to Yuli and Ro.

“What are you doing down here?” Roman barked, coming around the side of the bar to make his way across the room. “You’re supposed to be going up and keeping—”

“She is coming down,” Armazd clarified. “In the elevator. Irina called to tell me.”

“Instead of stopping her?”

“She was—”

The elevator dinged in the hallway, and Roman quickly ducked around Armazd and closed the door into the club behind him. As soon as the doors slid open, he planted a smile on his face and closed the distance between himself and his wife.

Nobody would know, looking at Varya, that she not only barely utilized the nanny that they had furiously vetted and now paid handsomely, but that on top of juggling their twins she was actively in the process of getting a massive, international gun-running business signed over in his name. There was not a single hair out of place, not a single crease or rumple in the sapphire-blue silk of her blouse or skirt; the scent of her preferred jasmine perfume followed her like a cloud. She looked as put-together as the day he’d first seen her standing in his club.

And now, he desperately needed her to stay out of it.

“Kitten,” he greeted warmly, his hands—though gloved—immediately scratching the itch by reaching for her; they captured hers to carefully still her procession to the club’s main room. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be busy for hours.”

“Yuliana has been fussing nonstop,” Varya replied, her voice light despite what could only have been an expression of frustration quickly following, “all while I listen to grown men fussing nonstop at me on the phone.”

Roman feigned a sympathetic noise, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss them. “We have a nanny, V.”

“You know better than anyone else,” the brunette murmured, brushing her nose against his as their hands dropped, “that she is inconsolable without you.”

He tried not to look too pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t be modest, Romy.”

“Well, I’ll come up, of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And console our princess.” Another kiss, to the other corner. “So that you can continue letting grown men fuss at you.”

She beamed at him prettily, and finally they met in the middle for a real kiss—nothing coy, nothing demure, but lingering warm and just between the two of them.

“I love you,” she purred. “Go on, then.”

And then Varya pulled away, as though to go around him and into the club, and Roman blinked rapidly. He had only just caught her around the waist before she could walk in and pulled her in a full one-eighty until she was facing the elevator again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I was just going to make myself a drink.”

“Encouraging productivity,” Roman replied, hitting the button for the elevator doors to open again. “Ready for all this paperwork to be done, aren’t you? It’s been over a year.”

A year of wading through mafia-esque bureaucracy. A year of listening to Varya say, these things take time. A busy year, to be sure, jam-packed full of things—the biggest wedding in Gotham since its founding, the twins.

A funeral.

Roman tried more and more every day not to think about his (now) brother-in-law’s funeral, the double burial of the only man that might have stood a chance at being loved by Varya more than Roman himself and the only man who had ever been anything like a father figure to her. Family is tedious, he’d wanted to say, brothers and fathers and mothers, the whole lot of them, cut them loose why don’t you? Why should anyone matter to you outside of the twins and I?

Varya glanced at him over her shoulder. “These things take time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mhm.”

“Not to mention, we were a little busy,” she added, eyes narrowing playfully as he nudged her into the elevator, “you know—having children.”

“And what beautiful children they are.” Roman hit the button without looking, the doors sliding shut behind him.

“Well, how am I supposed to suffer through those phone calls without a stiff drink?”

He quirked a brow upward. “I’ll make you a stiff drink, Mrs. Sionis.”

The brunette propped herself up against the back rail of the elevator as it whirred into motion. The corner of her mouth, painted ruby, curved and her head tilted inquisitively. “Oh?”

“Of course,” he demurred, sidling forward and boxing her in against the wall. “I’ll make you a stiff drink—”

He dropped his head to the slope of her jaw to plant a kiss there.

“—you’ll finish up with the lawyers, and put on the dress I bought you—”

Varya hummed and sighed sweetly.

“—we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday—”

He dropped his hands to her hips, planting a kiss on her temple so that he could rumble, “And we can get to work on baby number three, hm?”

A sweet laugh billowed out of her just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to bring to Roman the oh-so-sweet sounds of a caterwauling infant. Over the distressed crying was Irina’s voice, shushing and cooing dulcet words in Russian; he could see her swaying to and fro with a swathe of fabric bundled in her arms.

“I almost forgot about my birthday,” Varya said thoughtfully, completely unrattled by the sound of their daughter’s distress. She stepped out from between him and the elevator wall; Roman fell into step beside her easily, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor enough to draw Irina’s eyes to them.

Roman said, “I know you did,” and did not bother to hide his smugness as he held out his arms for the shrieking baby in Irina’s arms. The redhead regarded him with a sort of weary amusement before she acquiesced; with Yuliana safely in his arms, he watched Varya cross the room to turn the automatic rocker that held their son back on to a slow, lulling pace. The freckled infant babbled happily—ever the quieter of the twins—and as Varya said something to Irina in Russian that inspired the woman to depart to the kitchen, she absently picked up a baby blanket from the couch and wandered over to him.

“Yuli,” she murmured, waving her finger at the already-content infant, tucking the blanket around her “is that all you wanted, hm? Just for your papa to hold you?”

“What else could she want for?” he replied confidently. Soothing Yuliana’s fury had become old-hat for him at this point. And, certainly, it pleased him to know that sometimes, the only thing that would make his daughter stop screaming was being held by him. Not even Varya—who had taken to motherhood like a fish to water—bothered when she was in a fit.

Still, the brunette sighed dreamily, her finger captured by their daughter’s tiny hand before she said, “What a perfect little gem.”

Roman hummed his agreement. “Finishing that call with the lawyers?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Varya replied. “They’re in a mood today.”

“They’re in a mood every day.” Russians, he thought venomously.

“Yes.” She smiled, flashing pearly teeth at him. “But only today is my birthday.”

She had him there. Still, he was itching for the whole thing to be done—Ilarion had dragged his feet through the process of even drawing up the original contract, which had only been a spit in his face (“You are the only person who gets to fuck Varya Astakhova, that is as exclusive as it gets”) and by the time all of that nasty business had been wrapped up, Ilarion was dead.

Ilarion, and Nikita—leaving only a single living soul to be in charge of the Astakhov empire: Varya herself.

Which, she had expressed time and time again, she had no desire for; not in the public way that her father had done it, and Ilarion after them. She much preferred the clerical work of it all. Paperwork and public relations. Let the men do men’s work, she’d demurred one night, tangled up in their sheets, when he’d asked her what she was going to do with it. I don’t mind. They like me better as their madonna, anyway.

“You know,” she continued, breaking him out of his thoughts as she made her way to the bar cart, pouring herself a drink, “they will like you more if it’s you they’re talking to.”

“I don’t give a fuck if they like me or not,” Roman replied, lifting Yuliana with both of his hands so that he could look at her. “Isn’t that right, princess? Mommy gets to do all the paperwork so that your papa can spend all of his time with you, instead of listening to some dumbfucks bitch and moan on the phone.” He glanced at her. “Well, anyway, since it’s your birthday we can let it slide.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Get dressed, won’t you?” he prompted, depositing his now-content daughter in the mobile swing with her brother. “The table’s been ready for us since noon.”

Varya watched him, dark eyes glittering amusedly. “And why, my darling, did you make the reservation for noon? It’s nearly six now.”

“Because,” he replied, “I wanted to make sure they held it, regardless of how long it took us to get there.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin a little, lashes fluttering with contentment when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face. “Or else?”

Roman flashed her a grin.

“Or else.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They held the table.

“Good for them,” Roman said as they followed the server out onto the balcony. The table had clearly been refreshed—a new candle, a new vase, a new bucket of ice and bottle of champagne. He’d heard the waitstaff whispering furiously among themselves as they idled in the lobby to be taken to their table; now, settled across from the birthday girl, Roman was content with the way they had squirmed.

“Quicker than the two-hour wait last time,” Varya noted by way of agreement, smoothing her hand along the edge of the tablecloth.

He scoffed. The only reason they had waited in the lobby for two hours was because Varya had asked him to stay for the table she wanted. If it had been his way, they would have left with a bloody warning and gone somewhere else. “I can’t believe I finally convinced you to leave the twins home for a night and we got stuck sitting in that fucking lobby because they gave our table away.”

“In my defense, they are good babies, Romy. Hardly ever cry. Certainly not too much trouble.”

“But there’s two of them,” he replied, “and toting two babies around is a lot of work. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of paying her that much fucking money if we’re just going to—”

The waiter came by the table, clearly a little stressed; the lines of concern on his face were clear as he cleared his throat and said, “Should I come back?”

Varya, perusing the menu: “No, my darling, you may stay. You were saying, Romy?”

“I just don’t know why we’re shoveling money into her bank account for her to be a glorified accent chair in our house rather than a nanny.” Roman gestured to the champagne bottle expectantly. “Open it.”

The waiter did as he asked, having been standing there uncomfortably for a moment during their exchange. As he worked to carefully open the champagne bottle, Roman turned his attention back to Varya; her eyes remained on the menu, absently twisting the engagement and wedding band on her finger back and forth.

There was no way, he thought, that she was putting off getting the business signed over to him on purpose. Surely, there was no way; even when Ilarion was alive, even when she had anticipated no further problems, it had always been, if you’re going to be my romantic partner, it seems only right you’d be my partner in business too, don’t you think? And yet—

And yet, Roman could not push down the strange, hazy doubt that occasionally flickered through his mind. He had always wanted Varya, had always found himself wanting and wanting and wanting more and more often, and Varya had always seemed content to indulge him. There was, it seemed, nothing she enjoyed more than indulging him. One more kiss, one more minute in bed, one more lingering glance across the room. She was the absolute pinacle of his hedonism, in every sense of the word, and had proven time and time again that she would give him anything that he wanted.

The business had always been for her and Ilarion. He wanted it, and told her he did, and she said, you can have it, if you like, but like in all things, there was a slyness about his wife—a cruelty—that he found endearing and dangerous. Dangerous, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been on the other end of her cruel nature, playfully poking and unwinding and tugging the thread loose until she had pushed him to the limit.

Something echoed in his head, and he realized that the waiter was asking him what he wanted to eat. Varya had handed the menu over and steepled her fingers, watching him with dark, curious eyes and red painted lips, sooty lashes fluttering. A pretty, painted little snake.

“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Roman said after a moment, setting his menu aside and returning his attention to the brunette across from him. “Something interesting, kitten?”

“Can I not just appreciate my husband?” Varya demurred. “You’re wearing the suit I like best, after all.”

“It is your birthday. What greater gift is there than me?”

She laughed, delighted by him—as she always was—and took a sip of her champagne. “You were away from me, for a moment.”

He watched her, gauging her carefully. Even I know not to drop my pants when a viper opens its mouth, Bianchi had said, just before Varya had unloaded six rounds into his face and chest less than two feet away from him.

“Just thinking,” is what Roman said finally.

“Hm. A dangerous past time.”

His expression flattened, deadpan. “It’s taken a significant chunk of time to secure your father’s business in my name.”

Something flickered across Varya’s expression. at the word father. “To secure my business,” Varya replied, her voice abrupt and cutting, her eyes narrowed, “in your name.” Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked to be composing herself, like she’d spoken on a knee-jerk reaction rather than with thinking.

Then, glossy and silken again: “You know your patience means the world to me, Romy.”

There was nothing that he loved more than watching her pull back her venom for him. Drumming his fingers against the top of the table, Roman bridled his own irritation to say, mildly, “I’d do anything for you. Even wait...” He made a thoughtful noise. “Over a year to finally take on the responsiblities you wanted handed over to me.”

“Of course.” Varya smiled prettily, absently straightening out her silverware. “And we will speak no more of my father on my birthday, or any day after this.”

He knew what that meant. She phrased it pretty, wrapped it up in silk and velvet and presented it to him as unassuming as a doe, but he knew what that meant. There is my button, she was saying, there is my trip wire. Don’t push it, Roman. The name Nikita had all but been banned in their household, even when funeral arrangements were being made; any time he’d heard one of the lawyers mention her father’s name, there had been a sharp rebuke. Not in my presence, she would tell him later, I do not want to hear that fucking name in my presence.

“At any rate, there is nothing that I want more than for this whole process to be done,” she continued lightly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It was always what I wanted, you know. Ilya was better suited to be a functional piece of the business; he was the face because he had to be, not because he wanted to be, and I am better suited for the nitpicking and the details. Being the overseer is much more in your circle of talents, Romy.”

Her words assauged something unsettled and prickly in him, the sweep of the pad of her thumb across the back of his hand returning that doubtful monster in his mind back to its slumber. He sighed.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced after a moment, “it is more in my circle of talents.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I always got the impression Ilarion wasn’t happy with it,” he added. “Though you two certainly enjoyed making work of me that first night, didn’t you?”

Varya smiled demurely. “It was never meant to make work of you, only to make a good impression.”

“Hm,” he replied, eyes narrowing playfully, “but you enjoy pushing me, V.”

She looked pleased. She always did, when he remarked on something that felt like he was really seeing her, beneath the glossy veneer. His girl did so love being seen.

“Only,” V demurred, “because you so enjoy reining me in.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Roman brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before relinquishing it and glancing around. He would just have to exercise patience, of which he had the most; patience, modesty, and humility, all excellent qualities that he could participate in at will, at any given time. Without any restraint.

“Did the men get the chandelier installed?” Varya idled, snapping his attention back to her. He narrowed his eyes.

“I told you I didn’t want a chandelier anymore.”

She looked at him across the table, dark doe eyes wide and innocent. “I thought you liked how polished they make the club.”

“No, you little viper,” Roman replied, clicking his tongue, “Paolo has a chandelier in his club, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to have people comparing it.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “the drama of the chandelier goes on.”

“And while we’re at it, might as well gut that one from the estate, too.”

“There’s more than one chandelier in there.”

“Then the men will be busy, won’t they?” He tsked his tongue. “I know you dream about watching me blow my top, V, but I’m making an executive decision on gaudy light fixtures.”

A smile flashed across her expression, pearly teeth and delighted eyes. She sighed, almost dreamily, like there was nothing more that she liked than to be doing this exact thing, and with him.

“Oh, Romy,” the brunette said sweetly, “you are the only thing I dream about.” And then, almost as an after thought: “Gaudy light fixture terrorism included.” She waved her hand to dismiss any protest or rebuttal he might have given her and said, “Now, since it’s my birthday, tell me all of the things you love the most about me.”

Roman sucked his teeth, eyeing her for a moment as he leaned back in the chair. Wicked little thing, waiting to preen and glow under his attention, a feline seeking him out. Her little bout of cruelty before was already forgiven. He said, “We’re going to be here for a while, if I do that.”

“They held the table for over six hours,” Varya demurred, “I’m sure they’ll hold it for as many more as you need.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time they got to the club, Varya was acting as though nothing had happened.

Truthfully, Roman preferred it that way. It just also left a lot of room to wonder—his wife was a talented actress, adept at smoothing his ruffled feathers out and not divulging her own feelings on the matter. And he wouldn’t ask, of course. If Varya wanted to express herself, she would, and had, quite openly in the past.

“I am so happy to be home,” she announced, gliding past the door to the club once Roman had opened it for her. “Do you think the babies are asleep, yet? I always miss putting them...”

Her voice trailed off, pausing a little as she seemed to realize that the club was cloaked in inky darkness, freezing just a few steps past the threshold. Roman let the door swing shut behind him, nudging her forward with a hand at the small of her back. He was met with some resistance; she steeled, stiffening against his insistence, before taking a few steps forward.

He said, barely keeping the delight out of his voice, “You’re holding up the line, V.”

“Roman,” Varya said, her voice pitched oddly soft and tight, “why—?”

The lights flashed on to a loud, unified cheer of Happy Birthday!; the club had been packed with vases of flowers, the tables donned with food and drink, and everyone worth their salt within a fifty-mile radius had made their way there. Not a single thing was out of place—everything exactly where he had instructed it be placed, and not a fucking chandelier in sight.

Roman came around in front of the brunette, grinning. “Happy—”

He stopped. Varya’s expression was not happy, or even surprised; it was something else, something that he couldn’t read, the pupils of her hot-whiskey eyes blown wide and the normally Renaissance-soft lines of her face sharpened and hardened into an expression that was more vicious.

“V?” he asked. Her eyes snapped to him, and for a second she looked the same way she had that night in the loft, her hands drenched in blood and the kitchen knife clutched in her fist with bodies at her feet: like she didn’t recognize him.

It took a heartbeat, but her expression smoothed out and she smiled, almost sheepish—like she’d been caught doing something naughty, instead of being caught being somewhere else. Someone else, more the wolf than the girl.

“The lights,” she explained, hands resting on his chest, “they startled me, is all.”

A frown creased his expression. He brought his hands up to hold her wrists, thumb pressed against her pulse point. It fluttered unsteadily. Unconvinced, Roman pressed, “The lights?”

“Just the lights,” Varya assured him. She tilted her head up and kissed him, one hand departing his jacket to go to the back of his neck—and when she kissed him, he could feel that strange little flicker of energy, like she’d been stamping something out before it could catch, but it still vibrated under her skin.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she disentangled from him and swept around to the crowd of people waiting, beaming prettily and playing at bashfulness, as though she did not enjoy their eyes on her and did not soak their attention up like a flower did sunlight. Whatever had been plaguing her in that moment was now gone, and she was awash with attention and love, thanking people profusely and accepting each hug and cheek-kiss directed her way.

Roman brushed off the odd feeling that she wasn’t being as forthcoming with him as he would have preferred—no secrets anymore, isn’t that what they’d agreed on?—and instead waded into the crowd. Music kicked on overhead; chatter picked up to a warm humming around them; there was nothing else to think about except letting his girl enjoy her birthday celebration.

By the time Varya had made a suitable number of rounds (which tended to verge much higher than one, much to Roman’s chagrin—what tedious work, to share her with everyone else), she had barely sipped the glass of champagne someone had planted in her hand. She circled back to him eventually; like always, there was that pinprick tugging in the cavity of his chest, like they were bound by a single thread that kept them from parting too much and too quickly, and when she drew closer to him again it oozed relief, warm and vibrant, through his ribs.

“Sufficiently loved on?” he asked as she neared, hand reaching up to slide around her waist.

“By them? Certainly.” The brunette’s hand smoothed along his shoulder, the pad of her thumb gliding across the velvet of his jacket. “By you, though, not hardly. Not ever.”

“You are insatiable,” Roman agreed in a rumble. He splayed his fingers against the small of her back, tugging her in closer and brushing their noses together.

“Just for you,” Varya murmured, and the words brushed their lips together just a little—but everything with Varya, like this, felt like almost-kissing, enough to push him to some kind of edge where his stomach twisted and wrenched with want when she added, “And only for you.”

“You know I can’t resist you when you talk like that.”

She laughed, leaning in to set her glass to the side and curl her fingers into his shirt for a kiss; everything for a second felt normal, and good, and right again, the strange way she’d gone-away back in the doorway having disappeared, the dark cloud over her having cleared, her wretchedness from dinner dissipated.

And Roman kissed her, with the sound of the party chatter ringing in his ears, and kissed her with the faint taste of champagne flooding his senses when she parted her lips against his, and kissed her while his hand fisted the fabric of her dress and he managed out in a voice rough with want, “So you’re trying to rile me up.”

“I always,” Varya murmured against his mouth silkily, “want you riled, Romy.”

“Varya?”

A stranger’s voice filtered through the haze—the rose-colored one that usually accompanied Varya saying anything like she wanted him riled up—and Roman felt the irritation spike straight through it. He turned to look at the interruption at the same time that Varya did, only to find a young, handsome blonde standing just a foot away.

Varya said, sounding faint, “Maxim?”

“It has been a while,” the blonde said, and he sounded sheepish. “I called Armazd, asking after you—”

“Sorry,” Roman interjected briskly, fingers still curled—now possessively—into the fabric of Varya’s dress against the dip of her spine, “but who are you?”

His wife started to say, “Romy, this is—” at the same time that the man began, “I am sorry, my name—” and they both stopped at the same time, a strange little silence stretching between them.

“Maxim,” Varya said after a second, turning to look at Roman now. “This is Maxim. He is Artyem’s son.”

Roman stared at her, more to buy himself time than anything; she said the name like he was supposed to know who that was. Artyem, but it didn’t sound familiar. Almost any Russian name sounded like gibberish to him, and if Varya had said it to him, it had been in passing, an afterthought, nothing but a whisper of information passed between them before it was gone again.

Until it did. Until he remembered that the person Varya had thought was her father had actually been Artyem, that she’d poisoned him, let him bleed to death on the carpet while she had mentally checked out of the moment. That she had watched him die, but she had been somewhere else—someplace else, the way Ilarion had described it, very far away where she couldn’t even enjoy what she’d done fully.

And Maxim—golden, and polished, and clean-shaven—looked awfully pleasant for someone whose farther had choked to death on his own blood because of Varya.

“I see,” Roman said, even though he didn’t. His gaze turned to Maxim. “And you’ve—shown up without calling ahead?”

“I have been in Turkey,” Maxim explained, “finishing up some business, and I did not know how to get in touch—”

“Well, you spoke with Armazd, didn’t you?” Roman’s head tilted. “The man practically sleeps in our bed, I imagine he would have been happy to get you in contact with us.”

“Admittedly,” Maxim said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”

No, Roman thought absently, venomously, that won’t do at all.

“—Varya’s birthday—”

“So you slunk in,” Roman elaborated tartly, “like a little street dog, hm?”

“Maxi,” Varya interjected, fingers absently tracing the stitching on Roman’s jacket, “why don’t you go get a drink and acquaint yourself with our friends? Armazd is just there—you see?”

Maxim’s eyes darted between her and Roman for a minute. He shifted on his feet, tilting and giving a little smile that might have liked abashed if Roman didn’t think he saw a little squirm of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Fucker.

“Of course,” the blonde replied after a moment. “C dnyom razhdyenyem, Varushka.” He took a step forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Varya’s thumbnail dug into the lapel of Roman’s jacket. “Thank you, Maxi.”

Once the blonde had departed, linking up with Armazd in the crowd to get introduced, Roman straightened up from the bar. It was impossible not to stare at this newcomer—he glowed with an easy charisma, flashed bright smiles that were all teeth. Roman hated him already.

“Maxi?” he asked her, eyes narrowed, and Varya sighed. He waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps she’d say they had dated once, perhaps they were literally nothing. That would be ideal, after all. Ships passing in the night.

She said, “We grew up together.”

Even worse. Roman twisted a loose, dark curl of hers around his finger. “And you killed his father.”

“Well—” She paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. “He does not know.”

“He doesn’t—” The notion that she was keeping secrets, and not from him, coiled high and happy in his throat. He tried not to sound too delighted when he said, “V, surely he knows.”

“Surely he does not, that I did it. Only that it happened. And I will keep it that way,” she added firmly, picking up her champagne glass from the bar top. “Maxim was incredibly loyal to my father because Artyem was, but more than that—he was mine and Ilya’s friend. I’m sure he is missing Ilya almost as much as I am.”

“As we all are,” Roman agreed sagely, planting a kiss on her temple in spite of the dry look she gave him. It was hard to tell, to get a read on this Maxim. What was it he’d dragged himself out of the trenches for? Just to fly halfway across the world to wish Varya a happy birthday? Above all things, Roman understood that his wife was a desirable thing, and knowing that he kept her out of the reach of others was part of her appeal—but that much? Could someone who was just a friend want that much?

He continued, “So what is it that Maxim offers to the business, hm?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Varya demurred, which didn’t sound at all like the truth. “Artyem was the one who sent him out on jobs. My father kept things tight around the top, you know. If anyone would know what it was Maxim was up to in Turkey who wasn’t my father or Artyem, it would have been Ilarion.”

“I find it hard to believe you have no idea what your father was using someone for.”

The sound of delighted commentary drew both of their eyes away; Irina had come down, both dark-haired infants in her arms, and was walking them toward Varya and Roman. Murmured remarks on what could only be their cuteness passed throughout the crowd of party-goers.

“I am putting them down for bed,” Irina announced as she approached, “and I know you like to say goodnight.”

“Oh, you are an angel,” Varya murmured, glass set aside once again. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to baby Ro’s cheek. Yuliana babbled, and she sighed dreamily, “Have you ever seen more perfect babies, Roman?”

Perfect babies, a perfect wife; soon, he would even have the perfect grip on Gotham’s neck, throttling it until it was nothing but dust and ash. Soon, but not soon enough; he’d be content when it was just done and settled, when there was nothing else standing between him and everything that he wanted. Varya, and the guns—what an odd thing, to know that a year ago he’d set out for this and it was just falling into his lap.

“Romy?”

“Never,” Roman replied, smiling and glancing back at his wife, reaching and cradling the back of Yuli’s head. “I’ve never seen more perfect babies, V.”

Across the room, Maxim watched them. There was something about it that Roman didn’t like—the way his eyes flickered, the way he looked between the children and Varya, the way their eyes met and he didn’t deflect away. Like he didn’t mind getting caught. Where had he come from? What little shithole had he crawled out of, over a year after Nikita’s death and Ilarion’s death—longer, still, since his father’s death? Hadn’t he wondered what had happened to his father?

What are you doing here, he thought venomously, that you think you can just come in here like nothing? Like I won’t root you out like the little rat you are?

Maxim smiled. It was a polite smile, unassuming kind of smile.

Roman picked up his drink from the counter, taking a heavy swallow. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of him, no finish line in sight.

Nothing else standing between me and everything I want.

And he was going to keep it that way.

#birds of prey #birds of prey fic #roman sionis x original female character #ch: varya astakhova #ch: roman sionis #ch: victor zsasz #roman sionis/original female character #my writing #fic: the land of gods & devils #me sweating profusely posting this #i am really excited about this though and i want to really really thank everyone who has been supportive of me pursuing this!!!!#creeping up on varya's birthday and also the one year anniversary of CYT making me super emo #<3 <3 <3

30 notes · View notes

hainethehero · 4 years

Text

The HARRINGROVE War AU that no one asked for...

"Jetty!"

"Oh fuck!"

"Fucking hell man! We're fucking dead-"

"Shut the fuck up Meyers!"

"Andrews! Get the medic!"

"Fuck- my goddamn arm!"

"Tommy-!"

The sounds are still in his head, knocking around his brain inside his skull. His eyes haven't closed in days and he's pretty sure his skin is falling off his bones. He feels sick and dirty and his hair feels dirty and unkempt. It had grown back so fast in the short period of time he'd been here... in Hell.

His body hurts, bones jarring and scraping against each other with every movement. There's a throbbing on the left side of his ribs, and the stinging pain of a festering wound on his right. It's been burning for days. His legs are sore, right leg wrapped up to the knee and oozing thick, dark red. The bandages around his head have started getting sticky with sickening ointment and congealed blood. His lips sting painfully every time he passes his tongue over them. They're cracked and busted in several places, red and raw where the skin's been opened.

God, what had they done to him?

He feels a presence near him and freezes, even though the bombs ringing in his head don't quite stop exploding.

"Hi Ms. Nancy, how's he been?"

"You're always right on time Soldier."

The woman's voice sounds familiar but he can't place it in his hazed state.

"I made him a promise." The man responds, a dark, echoing loneliness in his voice.

"Of course," Ms. Nancy replies, walking closer to fix something very near to his left side.

And somehow, his body fails him and goes stiff, sitting upright with his eyes wide and frightened. His jaw is locked tight and his fists are clenched, knuckles white. Every instinct in his body is warning him to get away- to run away from the danger, as if he'd be torn apart by the bomb Ms. Nancy was currently setting atop the bed. A terrified whine escapes his throat and a solitary tear runs down his pale cheek.

"He's been getting worse huh?" The Soldier asks, not unkindly, just kind of sad.

"So far, we've only seen nine cases of men recovering from shell-shock. It's not promising... one of them died last night."

"Died? Did it spread?"

"No Soldier. He put a gun in his mouth."

There's a sudden silence that falls over them, cold breeze billowing through the over-arching windows of the stone Catholic church they'd set up the triage in. Even the pained and terrified moans and cries of grown men had fallen into the hush, as if God himself were present.

Then Ms. Nancy speaks again:

"There's been a new shipment of iodine and sodium hydroxide today. From the French. We've been ordered to ration it but I think he needs his wounds cleaned again."

"Thank you."

........................

He hates when the nurse bathes him.

Hates how useless it makes him feel. Hates that he'd become so cowardly, like a child afraid of the dark. Her thin but gentle hands wash over him, soothingly passing the clean water over his skin, careful not to disturb the wounds. But he feels so wounded all over.

By the time he's back in bed, the night has taken over for the day, and hundreds of his comrades have already conceded to sleep. But he stays wide awake, terrified and paranoid that a bomb's going to go off in the middle of the night and kill everyone while they rest peacefully. So he keeps his rifle by his bedside, ready for a fight.

"Goodnight Soldier." Ms. Nancy says softly, not to him, but to the man sitting beside him.

The Soldier's been with him since the trenches. He was a good man, and a steady presence of stability in these crazy days. He could recall some kind of kinship between them, comprised of half-hearted banter, terrible jokes and early morning conversations that were for their ears only. Talking to him had made being in those vile and unsanitary trenches a little better. They often talked about being back home, safe and surrounded by friends who loved them. Their families were another story but that was beside the point.

"Got a letter today," the Soldier tells him, drinking out of an aluminium canteen. His finger twitches, almost as if he's fighting to respond but is paralyzed to do so.

"From Maxine."

Maxine was Soldier's sister...

She told me that my Dad and Susan were planning to move out of California. Stupid, right? She said something about Indiana, and starting over in a small town. Who knows pretty boy? They might even move to that good ol' Hawkins you keep telling me about."

Pretty Boy... that's Soldier's pet name for him.

"A letter came for you too. From your father."

He must've gasped in shock because suddenly the Soldier is staring up at him with those unreal blue eyes, lips slightly parted in surprise. He feels the Soldier's hand on his shoulder and it's warm and comforting. It beds down the shock a little bit; shock at the fact that his father had written a letter to him. He may have been in shell-shock but even his mind could recall the time when John Harrington said that he was dead to him. That until he'd made something of himself, he would never be accepted- would never be his son.

"Steve? You with me kid?"

Kid.

The Soldier always called him that, despite being not much older himself. He preferred that nickname to rookie though, since he'd only just started while the Soldier had been on this tour since late last year. He remembers the absolute feeling of dread that had filled his body when the draft had come around and his name was on that godforsaken piece of paper. His parents had been all too ecstatic to ship him off on his merry way. He'd been writing to them, feverishly begging for their mercy. Hadn't gotten a letter back since he'd started writing to them.

"Wh- ...what d...does it say?" he hears himself ask softly, throat shaking with emotion. "Can- ...um, can you read it to me Bill?"

Billy- no longer the abstract Soldier in his mind- sighs and leans over in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. He's holding a piece of paper in his hands, fists closed tight, his knuckles white.

"Please Bill..."

"Hold on pretty boy," Billy whispers as gently as he can, blue eyes staring hard at the neat, professional penmanship of who must've been John Harrington, Steve's father. It was concise and void of any kind of human emotion.

"Steve,

Stop sending us letters. It upsets your mother and I'm much too busy to sit down and write replies."

Billy feels his heart break into pieces for the poor kid and he doesn't have the heart to put him through such harsh words. He folds it up quickly and clears his throat.

"Y'know what? I brought Max's letter by accident."

"W- what?"

"Must've left it in the command wing. It's fine, we can always get it some other time."

Steve looks at him, big brown doe-eyes confused and sad at the same time. "What if it's an emergency?"

Billy scoffs. "Trust me, they ain't fighting a war back in ol' Hawkins. Your folks can wait. You on the other hand, need to get some sleep."

A soft smile creeps up on Steve's pretty face and he blushes soft pink. "Well at least tell me what's been going on Boss."

That was his pet name for Billy.

"Where's Tommy?"

Billy's expression suddenly changes and he's no longer pained. Just angry. And lost and so fucking confused. War brought out the worst in men, and it was always hard to fight alongside the corpses of men he'd spent weeks, months in the trenches with. They were all family, and losing even one of them was the worst pains Billy had ever faced.

Steve's hopeful expression turns ever so slightly and now he looks awfully worried.

"Bill? Billy where's Tommy?"

Billy glances up into the kid's eyes and sees nothing but hopelessness there as realization dawns upon him. Steve bursts into wailing tears and crashes back onto the pillows, hands covering his face. His wails trigger some of the sleeping men and they wake up in a shock, disgruntled yells and curses filling the large hall.

"Settle down Soldier," a tired looking nurse hisses, looking more panicked than mad. She gives Billy a pointed glare and goes about on her way to putting the terrified men back to sleep.

Billy sighs and shushes Steve as gently as he can, petting the boy's soft hair until he quiets. He feels a weariness wash over him and crawls into the bed to lay down next to the kid. Steve wastes no time in burying his face in Billy's neck, silent sobs wracking through his frail body. Billy wraps him up in his arms, a scalding hot wave of protectiveness flaring inside his chest.

"It's okay kid, I've got you. I promise," he whispers in Steve's ear, stroking his back in slow, deliberate motions. The pretty brunette cries and cries until he cries himself to sleep, snuggled into the larger soldier, as if he was the only protection he needed.

Billy just holds him through the night.

83 notes · View notes

mwolf0epsilon · 4 years

Text

Two birds, one stone part 2! Warning for gross stuff and you know, zombie typical behaviour.

Summary: It was every man for himself down in hell, and yet Norman still found the time to care for others.

---

[[MORE]]

If there was something Norman had learned from his pops, it was that it really paid off to be a bit of a Swiss army knife when it came to skills.

Between the pseudo-military training, Norman's own uncanny ability to hide in plain sight and stalk around silently, and the multiple things he knew that made him basically self-sufficient, he was a good (if not the best) person to be allied with in this sort of situation.

Which really begged the question of why he was doing this anymore.

The world had ended. The dead rose out of their graves with a taste for man beef, spread a strange infectious disease that made you switch to the brain-munching side, and then society had collapsed.

It had happened so quick that he and everyone in the studio had been trapped.

New York was no place to survive a zombie apocalypse, and Joey Drew Studies wasn't stable enough to even serve as some sort of safe haven.

Everything fell into place of this new world order in a matter of weeks, and the few that could hole away did their best to survive on their own.

It was every man for himself down in hell, and yet Norman still found the time to care for others.

He'd established trading systems with groups within the studio, and even shared accomodations with whomever was desperate enough to engage socially.

They never stayed. He didn't mind.

Those who ended up as those gruesome things were put down and mourned, but otherwise everything was strictly business.

And then Sammy happened.

Sammy Lawrence, once head of the music department now the very last to have managed to escape down into the lower floors after the hoard overwhelmed his group, was not the easiest person to get along with.

He complicated things with his ornery disposition and volatile temper, but he was a decent conversationalist when he didn't shove his own foot in his mouth and he had connections with the survivor group down in the Harbour.

He could hold his own well enough in a fight that Norman was sure he had his back, and with help that didn't seem too keen on leaving the projectionist often got a bigger hawl of supplies when they both went scavenging.

It was a mutual agreement. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. And soon enough it was Polk and Lawrence instead of just Norman going on his usual duties.

And that evolved further.

In the lonelier nights, there was more to be done than just share a cot for warmth

Call it desperation, call it basic human needs, they were more than just companions or allies.

They were partners.

No matter how much they bickered, it was almost always in a loving fashion.

Like an old married couple…

Of course, nothing good ever lasted.

Not in the literal end of times.

Norman hummed as he heated up some bacon soup in the stove he'd managed to fashion out of a few parts and scrap. The Bendy clock on the wall read that it was half past eleven, so he knew Sammy must be aching for some grub.

He'd not been doing well. Not since he came back from his last solo run to the Harbour.

Norman knew why, but let the other keep quiet about it. He knew the ex-music director would admit to it soon. Especially with the speed of his degradation.

He'd caught him coughing blood just an hour prior.

Three more and he'd turn. Like the rest of them had, before Norman put them down.

"Soup's almost done." He looked over at their shared cot, where Sammy was curled up under several ratty blankets.

He was shivering weakly, trying to breathe with lungs that were steadily filling with fluid. The raspy wet sounds painful to the ears.

"M'not hungry…"

"Oh, we both know that ain't true." Norman continued to stir the pot. "Might as well gimme a chance don't yous thinks?"

"Norman…"

"Sammy I know the symptoms…" he poured some into a bowl. "I'm not mad, just sad yous would rather waste away like this…"

"D-didnt want to bother… Was s-stupid and…" he coughed up some gunk. Choking slightly on his own blood and whatever else was coming up. "And got b-bit. D-deserve it…"

"N'aw… Don't go bein' so harsh to yourself. Shit happens." He walked closer and set down the bowl. Sammy's eyes were red and starting to bleed. His stage of infection was progressing quite rapidly. "Eat… Yous going to be famished soon enough, might as well fill you up a bit before it happens."

"You shou-should put me down." The blond reached for the soup, slurping it up eagerly. Nerve damage, he couldn't feel it burning his mouth or lips.

"Woulda asked me before if yous really wanted that." Norman stretched lazily.

"You're right… I uh, call me p-petty but… I wonna t-take Joey down with me." He coughed and spat out a thick glob of indescribably foul-smelling tar colored blood. Gross. "If I'm g-gonna end up like t-the rest of those things… I wonna e-eat the greedy fuck w-who left us to die…"

"I can respect that. I'll help yous with that." He reached out and entwined their fingers. The blond seemed to appreciate the gesture.

"You t-think I'll be a-able to get him?"

"Knowin' you? I'd say yous got a pretty good chance…" he chuckled.

"Flatterer…" Sammy laid back down and closed his eyes, suppressing another cough and instead letting Norman thread his fingers through his messy hair. "Just don't end up le-letting me bite you… T-this shit's painful..."

"Noted… Sleep well Sammy." He planted a kiss on his partner's sweaty forehead. "Love you."

"Lo-love you too…"

"Norman that's disgusting." Susie was slightly appalled, but no less opposed to watching what used to be Sammy Lawrence dig its teeth into a very much dead Joey Drew's neck.

"Yep." Norman shrugged. Both of them had been bit in an altercation with a hoard up in the Heavenly Toys department, but that hadn't deterred them from reaching their end goal. Joey's office.

Susie was the newest ally he'd acquired, and had been dead set on killing Drew since he'd damned them all.

It was a shame their quest for revenge ultimately doomed them both as well, but hey… Sammy seemed pretty happy to devour his ex-boss as a mindless corpse. It couldn't be that bad.

"You think we'll turn fast enough to get in on it?" The petite brunette pointed at the feasting zombie. "As the ultimate fuck you to Joey?"

"Who knows… Took Sammy five hours to turn." He did feel a bit sluggish, so it was definitely taking effect. "Least he hasn't snapped at us in a while. Think we might be startin' to smell like the rest of 'em…"

"Damn… Oh well, Joey's probably not a five star meal anyway…"

"Probably not."

The world had ended. The dead rose out of their graves, Sammy was one of them and soon Norman and Susie would be too.

He wondered if his zombified self would remember his fondness for either, or if it would recall any of the skills he'd had.

Probably not.

It was every man for himself down in hell, and yet Norman still found the time to care for such things.

Funny how some things just didn't change.

#Eps Writes:#Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Norman Polk #Sammy Lawrence #Susie Campbell #Zombie AU

11 notes · View notes

sassycassie-s-writing · 6 years

Text

A Total Boss

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Final Fantasy XV/Prompto Argentum

Rating: PG-11/T- (for minor peril + spider)

Original Idea: @welovegroot asked: Could I request a bodyguard fic? With Prompto?---coupled with This set of headcanons

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Heck yes you can! First Prompto one-shot! Isn’t he an adorable sunshine boy? XD Enjoy this Bodyguard!AU

^^^^^

The moment Prompto saw you, his brain stopped working. He wasn’t aware that he was going to be assigned to protect someone so pretty! He had a hard-enough time talking to girls as it was but talking to you? Being around you all day and keeping you safe? He was going to make a complete idiot of himself. Biting his lower lip, he awkwardly approached you.

“Uh… hi. Pleasure to meet you. I'm—” He gulped and stuck his hand out. “—I'm Prompto Argentum.”

You beamed at him and shook his hand, giving him your name in return. He barely heard it over the blood roaring in his ears. “The pleasure is mine, Prompto Argentum,” you said. “I'm grateful for your service.”

OMGOMGOMG, he thought frantically. You were smiling and your smile was breathtaking.

He let go of your hand quickly when he realized his hand was sweating. He was wearing fingerless leather gloves as usual but he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Uh—yeah! Uh, no sweat,” he replied.

Nailed it. Smooth as a cactus. If he’d been alone, he would have smacked himself in the forehead.

Trying to hide the pink rising on his cheeks, he turned to your father. “I, uh, believe there’s still some business to take care of?” he asked.

Your father nodded. “There is. Right this way,” he said. The two step into your father’s study to complete the boring paperwork.

^^^^^

The moment the door shuts, your friend snorts and dissolves into a fit of giggles. She’s been sitting on the couch twiddling with her hair since before your new bodyguard came over. You’re used to her antics by now, but you turn a look at her. “What’s so funny?” you ask.

“He’s so adorable!” she replies. “Who would guess that he’d be a qualified bodyguard?”

You shrug. “My father, apparently,” you say.

“The five-foot-eight blond dork whose bulletproof vest looks like it was made for a man bigger than he is.” She snickers again. “Hey, at least he’s cute.”

“Oh come on, Estelle,” you protest. “That hardly matters—”

“Sure but at least the guy you’re now stuck with all day every day is nice to look at.” She kicks her feet up on the coffee table and twirls a bit of her hair around her fingers casually, her dark eyes glittering with humor. “I, for one, cannot wait to see how this turns out. Two-hundred gil says you two will be dating before he leaves service as your bodyguard.”

“I’ll take that bet,” you say impulsively. “And when it’s over, I’ll be two-hundred gil richer!”

Estelle just grins. “We’ll see.”

^^^^^

Prompto may have seemed flustered and embarrassed when the two of you met, but as time goes on he loosens up. Within the first week of him guarding you, you get a measure of his true personality.

He’s bright and cheerful. A bit talkative, but at least he fills the awkward silences. He gets friendlier the more time he spends with you.

He starts feeling less like a bodyguard and more like a somewhat-overly-attentive friend.

“Look! Puppies!” he exclaims as the two of you walk down the street. He scuttles away excitedly and kneels in front of the couple out walking two very small yellow dogs covered in soft hair. You laugh and jog to catch up. The smaller of the two has a cowlick on the top of its head that reminds you of Prompto’s hair.

“Aw!” the woman says. “You have a very sweet boyfriend, miss.” She smiles at you.

Prompto starts coughing. “Oh, no, no, ma’am, you’re mistaken,” he says politely, pushing himself to his feet. “We’re not… together.”

“He’s a friend,” you put in, smiling back at the woman. “We’re just friends.” It’s too complicated and personal to explain why you have a bodyguard to every stranger on the street—though how they don’t notice his bulletproof vest is beyond you since he doesn’t even wear it under his clothes—so you decide “friends” is the best way to put it.

“Oh. Sorry,” the woman says. “You two have a nice day now!” She and her companion stroll off.

Prompto’s ears and nose turn red. “OMG. I should not have done that. I am so sorry, miss. I’m not supposed to leave your side and—”

“Prompto!” you protest, grabbing his wrist to catch his attention. “It’s okay. No harm done.”

^^^^^

“Boyfriend, huh?” Estelle teases after you tell her what happened in town. Prompto turns a light shade of pink on the armchair in the living room. Estelle gives you a playful raised eyebrow. “I can see why people might think that initially.”

“Estelle,” you begin. “There’s really no reason to—”

“Spider!” Prompto shrieks, waving his hand and arm madly. “Spiderspiderspiderspiderspider!”

Your friend covers her mouth with both hands to hide her laughter as the spider lands on the carpet and gets crushed under Prompto’s boot. When you look up at his face, his eyes are red and tearing up and his lip is quivering. You give him a sympathetic look, get off the sofa, and throw professionalism out the window because goshdangit he looks like he needs a hug. Ignoring Estelle’s barely-muffled snickers, you wrap your arms around him.

Prompto squeaks in surprise. “Uh… miss? What are you doing?”

“This is a hug, Prompto. I'm hugging you.”

“I know what a hug is. Why are you hugging me?”

“Because you look like that spider scared you to death.”

“Well,” Prompto says, slowly prying himself from your hug, “no one likes finding out a spider crawled on their arm.”

“True that,” Estelle remarks with a snap of her fingers pointing at Prompto. She glances at her watch and gets to her feet. “Well, I gotta be off. Boyfriend and I are going out to dinner and if I don’t go put on a nicer shirt my mother will never let me hear the end of it!” She winks at you and ducks out your front door. “Oh, and bye Prompto!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Uh, bye!” Prompto replies.

You roll your eyes at your friend—and immediately rub at your eye as discomfort shoots through it. “Shoot,” you mutter.

“What’s wrong?” Prompto demands, looking around in sudden vigilance you’re not particularly used to.

“Eyelash in my eye,” you say.

“Here. Let me get it out,” he says.

Am I going to trust him with this? Your mind races as you lower your hand and open your eyes wide, looking up so he can get the eyelash out. His face is ridiculously close to yours. You can see every detail in his light blue eyes—and practically count the star-field of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

You do trust him to remove the eyelash. He does it gently but quickly. Sure it feels wrong to have someone touching your eyeball, but one quick poke and the discomfort goes away. You rub your eye again. “Thanks,” you say.

“Anything for you, miss,” he says professionally—with just a hint of his trademark playful friendliness in his voice.

You laugh and sit back down on the sofa, flipping open the book you’d been looking at before Estelle stopped by. “Hey Prompto?” you ask.

“Yes?” he replies with a bright smile.

“Do me a favor and grab me a pen, would you?”

“You got it, gurl!” He gives you finger guns and does a front-flip over the loveseat toward the kitchen. You can’t help but giggle. He’s a funny guy. Really you couldn’t have asked for a better bodyguard right now. Sure, you were in danger, but with Prompto around life felt almost normal. Like having a friend.

A really overprotective friend who carried a gun.

^^^^^

“LOOK OUT!” Prompto shouted, grabbing your hand and yanking you out of the way of a car that blew through the red light right where you were about to cross. The force of his pull sends you right into his chest. His other arm closes around your back, holding you close.

After a moment of both of you panting with adrenaline and fear, he lets you go. “Oh man. So sorry. I shouldn’t have—oh wow.” He steps back and pushes his hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have touched your bare skin like that. So unprofessional—I'm so sorry—”

“Prompto! It’s okay. You’re just doing your job. And without you I would have been run over, okay?” you press.

He nods. “Okay. But… still. I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be. I'm safe.” You smile at him. “Now come on. Let’s cross.”

He twitches a bit as you cross the road, making sure you’re not going to be run over again. It’s a nice evening, turning into a warm summer night. The heat of the sun has baked the pavement and the stone that the buildings are made from, and as the sun’s power fades toward darkness, the pavement and stone radiate the heat they’ve captured. It’s fantastic weather.

Perfect for seeing a film.

One good thing about having a bodyguard twenty-four-seven is that going to the movies is easier. You don’t have to try and coordinate schedules with a friend so you don’t go alone. Prompto has a difficult time sitting still in a movie, but sometimes he does manage to relax.

“Come on,” you say, nodding toward a gap between two buildings. “This is a shortcut. Estelle and I always cut through here.”

Prompto looks wary but follows you in. You notice his hand rest on his gun. The buildings cut off the sunlight, plunging you both into near-nighttime. Prompto steps closer to you. You can almost feel him vibrating from anticipation.

“Prompto, it’s okay,” you say. “Nothing ever happ—AAAHHH!”

The scream is torn from your throat before you can stop it. It was just a reaction as Prompto grabbed your hand and yanked backward. He shoves you behind him protectively, one hand gently brushing your upper arm to make sure you’re still there and within reach should something happen.

A man almost twice Prompto’s size emerges from the shadows—how you hadn’t noticed him is beyond you. You see yellow, dirty teeth leering at the both of you and the glint in a pair of eyes too far away to really see.

And the barrel of a gun—gleaming in the half-light.

You yelp, fear catching you up.

Prompto reacts fast—and you’re reminded that he’s there to keep you safe. He’s not just a friendly dork who hangs around all the time.

He kicks the gun out of the man’s hand, using the momentum to flip backward. Sticking the landing, his hand shoots into the air and catches the gun, which he then cocks and points at the man. “Don’t try that again,” he snaps at the huge dark figure.

The man looks as surprised as you are. He puts his hands up and backs off.

Prompto reaches back and finds your wrist. “C’mon. We’re going,” he says. You don’t protest as he keeps you behind him, circles the man, and then runs through the rest of the alley. He puts the safety on the unfamiliar gun into place and shoves it into a spare holster you’d noticed but never thought much of. The two of you are standing near the side-door of the movie theater.

“That… was awesome,” you say. “Terrifying, but awesome. How did you do that?”

“Years of training,” he replies, panting. This time he takes your hand gentler and pulls you toward the front door of the theater.

You’re almost there when he starts to cry.

“Prompto… what’s wrong?” you ask quietly.

“I… I failed you, miss,” he says, voice shaking. “I couldn’t stop the threat before it happened. I'm such an idiot. Completely disposable.”

“Prompto,” you say, reaching up to brush some of his messy hair out of his face. “You are not disposable. I couldn’t ask for a better bodyguard. And look at me—I'm safe! You did not fail, okay? You’re a great bodyguard! A total boss!”

He sniffs and wipes his face on his bare arms—you’re fairly certain he hasn’t worn anything with sleeves since the day he began—giving you a melancholy smile. “You think so?”

Impulsively, you tilt up onto your toes and peck his cheek. “Absolutely. Thank you, Prompto.”

“M-my pleasure, miss,” he says. Still holding your hand, he pulls you around the corner to the front of the theater and opens the door for you, as he always does. “Your evening of entertainment awaits.” There’s his playfulness. You grin, making him smile.

“I’ve had plenty of entertainment already,” you say.

“Too much,” he says. “Hopefully you won’t have to have any more of that kind.”

“Well, with you here, at least I know I’ll be safe,” you say.

I think I might owe Estelle two-hundred gil when all this is over, you think as you give your tickets to the usher and head into the right theater to catch the film.

Surprisingly, you’re pretty sure you’re okay losing that bet.

3 notes · View notes