#violetstriped

[at-hauntrcss]

               — 𝐖𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎. 

helena & zem.o / @violetstriped → personals do not interact!​

[sevenswcrds]

@violetstriped​ asked for a starter

Park chess sets are a fun place to haunt when one’s hunting. She ever is, a predator in pretty skin, and she’s been waiting here- a while, even as she sticks out a foot- hooks it around a passerby’s ankle and levies a dangerous smile at him, red and sly. 

“You look like someone who appreciates a good gambit.” She’s only just setting out her pieces- or, in truth, reorganizing them. “Care for a game?”

[galaeus]

STARTER : @violetstriped​​ [ BARON ZEMO ]

“USUALLY WHEN ONE OF YOU start a text with hear me out, I’m inclined to expect the worst.” Flying in from the Netherlands proved exhausting when standing on American soil felt so off. At least a year since the war, maybe more; she’s lost track of time as a forgotten ghost, abruptly moving from country to country. Bucky and Sam had proven themselves to be the exceptions to the rule --- yet by now it would be wise to make peace with the concept of never coming home.

With a heavy thud, her livelihood knapsack drops to the hangar floor. If she didn’t know any better, she’d suggest the two men look on with... nerves? “See, I usually expect that kinda text from him---” Her left hand gestures to Bucky before her chin tilts towards Sam. “---but you? That’s new. I don’t like new.” Echo Galaeus draws a sharp inhale as a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “So what’s the big emergency?”

[at-hauntrcss]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄. / @violetstriped​ said:  ' you're shaking. ' ( O O P S )

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐌, involuntary response included. she’d be lying if she were to claim her guard is up as high as it can be, knowing full well that she’s been foolish enough to let it down with him. she had been unwilling, all the while, but that hadn’t meant a thing. even helena is no match for the pounding within her chest when helmut z.emo is near. sincere or otherwise, he’s been swimming through her veins since la traviata.  she should have never invited him to the opera. she should have allowed their paths to cross briefly before they each went on their way, no harm done — that could have been it. something about the thought sends an ache throughout her body: how easily that could have been it. 

she nods, though offers no further response. no smile, no seeking of comfort or the grasp of his hand. she continues to tremble. she’s terrified, and for reasons so unfamiliar to her. can he see that? does he understand what she does not?  “you’re here.”

[at-hauntrcss]

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋. / @violetstriped​

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, and they’re seeking asylum in the secret apartment. funny, how it had become a sort of haven for them when initially it had been a location she had given him due to not trusting him. how the tables have turned. while not exactly safe, the dwelling is secure enough to have long-since gained her approval. it’s as safe as they get for these rare meetings — and with the world searching for the wanted man,  she will take all that she is allowed. especially when all they are usually afforded is goodbye.

donned in raven silk with red lounging coat in similar fabric draping over her shoulders, helena’s eyes trace absentmindedly along the pages of a magazine, tossed up against the counter. she turns a page, observing the coming season’s trends as she swiftly removes the cork from a bottle of chianti classico. crimson is poured generously into two glasses of crystal before the bottle is returned to the counter, allowing the sound of puccini to swell the drum of her ears as it plays quietly from a record player from the sitting room. secret apartment or not, helena imparts what is necessary to allow for simple pleasures. she spares another moment for the magazine as she steals a sip from her glass before he makes his appearance — robed, fresh from a shower as he promenades from the other room. how easily they seemed to have slipped into this. whatever this is. she’ll not dare give it a name.  she’ll not dare spark grief within her soul; not this night. she follows, forfeiting the magazine for a glass in each hand. he finds succor on the couch, and like before she joins him — although unlike the night of his night terror, there is zero hesitance. while before, where she merely sat in silence, blind as to how she might provide him with some comfort, now she lowers herself to the cushion with graceful ease. raising his glass, a gesture for him to claim it, he does so and as such allows for free of her hand. resting back against one of several decorative throw pillows, smooth length of legs lift to arch over his lap to allow perfectly pedicured toes to rest on the cushion at his opposing side, an action made while allowing eyes to watch curiously for any sign of protest: she’s prepared to retract at first cue, but there’s a still hope that it won’t be necessary. closeness, for the remaining bertinelli, has always been a rare form and yet she finds it within herself when it comes to helmut zem.o. her usual aversion to touch (when not attached to some violent act…) is disregarded when it comes to the brush of his hand, or the singe of his gaze. and oh, how he gazes when he does so at her. amber hues find those that are similar, her heart alight in flame. hand, having been freed from his glass, trails lazy from his shoulder until digits reach the back of his head. fingers, deft and gentle, tangle affectionately in the short, damp strands found there. 

“we have something today that we did not have yesterday,” helena’s voice is strong in credence, yet the tone remains hushed. for once, for them, the moment does not appear to be fleeting. “time.”

[at-hauntrcss]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 & 𝐢'𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐧𝐨𝐰 / @violetstriped​

scent from her afternoon beverage of choice wafts up from the mug to her nose, cappuccino swirling her senses. a few moments of silence, and she knows what it will bring: what it always does, these days, whether the time of day be afternoon or middle of the night  — thoughts of him.

plagued, although she has not yet found reason for complaint beyond his absence. beyond her initial confusion, the denial which had come paired with such foreign matters when it came to her emotions. he had won out over all of the doubt. 

by now, the series of weeks without their last correspondence had turned into months, and still her heart longed only for him. helmut. their final parting had branded her soul, his gaze from those moments a permanent fixture. how close they had come, how much she had craved to feel his touch, his lips, him. the ache of it echoes, even now.

how often she wished to be back there: under cover of darkness, with the occasional delicate brush of wind to hold them together, nothing but the soft ambient of a distant street lamp to illuminate their faces. or by his side at the opera house, welling with intensity following the performance of tragedy: one she now hopes they do not find themselves mirroring. no, she does not want to be the violetta to his alfredo — not if there is a chance, perhaps small, that somehow out of all of this they may find happiness.

however unlikely.

staring out over the view of gotham city from her terrace, she cannot help but stifle a laugh at her own thought. her own hope  — something she had forgotten about, before him. something that had evaded her. she had left hope behind, along with the probability that she would ever harness enough grace to allow happiness. yet here they are, although the latter just out of reach. she’s searched for him, high and low, seeking clues for where he may have gone. where they may have shuttled him off to — only to come up empty-handed after each excursion. he would be disappointed, she reminds herself each time she fails. there are times helena convinces herself he doesn’t wish to be found, not even by her. times where she nearly gives up under such premise: he does not owe her anything, after all. they are practically strangers. yet they are not, no. he knows her in ways no one else ever had. in ways no one else ever would, for she would never allow it — and to this day she is uncertain as to how he had accomplished such a feat. it mattered not to her, so long as he kept the promise he made to her. so long as he came back. taking a sip from her cappuccino, amber hues look up at the cloudless sky, the warmth of sun washing over her. it is an otherwise nice day...and yet she is unable to properly enjoy it. she is, however, able to find comfort in the thought which follows:  he does not shirk on his promises, and no matter how long it takes him to follow through, she would be waiting. 

[at-hauntrcss]

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: ft. @violetstriped !

[at-hauntrcss]

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝟐 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍. / @violetstriped​ said:  ' you're shaking. ' ( O O P S )

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆. she’s late for their rendezvous. another one of their stolen nights, now stolen by her inability to stay away from a fight. especially one that involves yet another name on her list, one she’d just as quickly had crossed off  — just like all the rest. but not before the man in question had claimed his own pound of flesh: a blade to her abdomen. this night was about to be much unlike the others. 

grateful enough to have been raised by assassins mastered in the trade, helena knew well enough that her best chance for survival was to keep the blade steady until she could prevent a loss of blood too great to recover from. it’s something she’s still trying to do as she stands with her back to the now closed door of their meeting place. he’ll know what to do, she thinks to herself, if i pass out. “don’t freak out.” as if he would in the first place. she offers a weak, quiver of a laugh at her own words, head falling back against the door. all focus to remain steady focuses is offered to the hand that remains on the bloodied knife in her abdomen, sickening red painting trails from the wound, the deep lilac and black of her huntress regalia torn and doused in ichor.

“— need to get this out. the bleeding, I have to stop the bleeding…”