VIOLET VARICOSE VEINS *

independent female multi-muse written by rae — she/her — over eighteen only!

if she stops to think about it too long, she gets wrapped up in the nostalgia. and too, what a strange thing to be nostalgic about — the clinical smell of metal and bleach, the soft whirr of machines accompanied by the sharp beeping. the screams of men begging to die, the scribble of ballpoint pen against paper.

she misses him. fuck steve rogers for taking him away. 

she uses the back of her finger to keep a tear from falling, there is no time nor room for emotions, not now. not ever. 

the files have been in her possession since the fifties — yellowed thin pieces of paper, typed out notes, photos, all contained in thick folders. numbers, trigger words, but no names.

they never knew their names. they never cared. 

james buchanan barnes had become famous in his own right, but she didn’t care about him. she flipped the file open in front of her to a file that belonged to a man with strawberry blonde hair and a strong jaw.

she remembers him. she remembers the look of utter rage in his eyes. tapping a long nail against the photo, dark lips curl into a scythe-sharp smile. 

‘  ön tökéletes. ‘ you’re perfect. 

she pulled the photo from the file and closed it, tucking it away into a drawer which was locked with a turn of the key. leaving the room, the staccato click of her heels echoing as she headed towards the last place surveillane had seen him.

ophelia sarkissian could make the black widow look like a girl scout. she could make yelena belova look like a kitten. this was because, at the end of all things, the viper wasn’t afraid of shit. she’s not entirely sure she held any morals, and she’s fairly certain that the space where her heart should be beating is an empty socket filled with ash.

it’s a freeing thought, really.

mercenary, bio-terrorist, mad scientist — psychotic bitch. she’s been called it all, and it never bothered her. 

a tongue lashed over the sharp point of an purposefully elongated canine, and she observed him, wondering if she could cut his arm off clean in one slice. 

sometimes she liked to test herself by going up against the biggest, the meanest. like trees in a forest, she thought, the bigger they are, the harder they’ll fall, and they didn’t get much bigger (or meaner) than georges batroc; even captain america had a hard time bringing him down.

but then again, fuck steve rogers.

rocking back on the stacked heel of her boot, she licked her lips in quiet anticipation, twisting a ring on her finger before she cleared her throat and called out to him.

‘ les hommes français sont de mauvais amants! ‘

she didn’t know who he was, or why someone wanted him dead — and she didn’t care. adjusting the scope a millimeter, she brought the high-powered rifle up to her shoulder, watching him talk, shoot the breeze as if death didn’t await him right around the corner.

but that was the point, wasn’t it? she was silent death, death from above — a gloved finger barely tightening around the trigger, but not quite pulling it. 

she was on loan for lack of a better word — mr. stone’s assistant had been out sick for at least a week, if not more. and while siobhan hoped her felt better, she also knew she was learning scores from the gentlemen in the tailor shop. techniques could cross genders, and she planned to put some of this to use once she was back in mrs. o’hara’s shop.