Freddie Bianchi and Juliette Dupont are polar opposites.
She's hot, he's cold. She makes jokes, he takes them to heart. He's only an inch taller than her, and she makes fun of him ever chance she gets.
He calls her a dumb blonde, and albeit she's he...
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TW: VIOLENCE
I had blood dripping out of my mouth. The fat, thick drops rolled over my bottom lip and dripped onto the floor with a long red string. One more hit landed against my stomach and I bared my bloody teeth, gritting them and groaning.
"You have enough, blondie?" the man gripped the back of my hair and lifted my head, and I collected blood on my tongue and spit it at him, which only earned me a head butt from him. My brain throbbed and my back collided with the wall, and I blinked my clouded eyes clean at him.
"Oh, I'm gonna have fun with you," he said, a sly and disgusting smirk on his face. He was a tall blonde man, with a blonde moustache that didn't quite fit his face.
It was silent around us, except for a few distant an very faint gunshots. He had both hands on his hips, his chest heaving after the beating he just gave me. The chapel walls were shot and barely standing around us, but so I could only look at him, and decide to face my inevitable death.
"You're not gonna say anything, huh? Not much of a talker? Perfect, actually,"
"Go to hell," I panted, and the man lifted his heeled foot to land a heavy hit to my face, but he never got that far.
In a blur of black suits and blood, I found orange-brown eyes.
And I watched as Freddie beat the mans face to a pulp.
Hit after hit, over and over again. His arm lifted and snapped down, in a blur of fours and heavy, controlled breathing. I made myself as small as possible against the wall as I watched the murder unfold in front of me.
Freddie had just his undershirt on, and it was torn and bloody and his hair was messy, and his eyes were filled with rage and the need- thirst for blood.
The Polish man didn't even have time to fight back. He was dead after the fifth punch.
But Freddie kept on hitting, over and over until his bare knuckles made a cracking sound, and then he put a hand next to the completely fucked up face and panted down, inhaled deep, strenuous breaths of air as he looked at the ground in front of him.
And then his eyes found mine. Our gazes locked onto the other in a blurry mix of panic and fear and rage, and I was beautifully surprised when his eyes softened, and he moved towards me. Slowly, so as to not scare me.
"Fay..." His voice was a low rumble, pained and tortured. His shaking, bloody hands cupped both of my cheeks and he tilted my head up, observing the blood running from my nose and over my lips. He unbuttoned the cuff on one sleeve before he moved it down, and then he was wiping the blood from my face with his sleeve.
"Where does it hurt, roohi? Tell me, darling," He said as he wiped and wiped, holding my head still with a large, shaking hand at the back of my head.
