#dynastyfic

[ratchedspeach]

R&R

Prompt written for Falliam Frenzy Week 4 - “Are you flirting with me?” and “…or we could make out.” This isn’t nearly as angsty as my other stuff - thought I would let these two have a little fluffy moment hehe

Femperial was a success — not just profitable, not just breaking even, but a real, bonafide success. By the end of their first year, Fallon had managed to double their profits, bringing in almost fifty new authors to publish and help launch careers for, and she did it mostly single-handed (by and large because she couldn’t loosen her grip on the reigns). It was a somewhat thankless job, not that she minded. Work was the only life Fallon really knew, and the one she felt most comfortable in.

Liam would watch and offer his help when he could, which … wasn’t very often, because he didn’t actually understand the business side of his own industry. It made him feel a little foolish that mostly what he was good for was bringing her too many cups of coffee to count. Fallon never complained, though — never expected him to do anything for her, never mind what he already was. She would just smile, and thank him gently, before turning back to her computer.

There was something almost confounding about watching her focus — eyes squinted, lips parted gently, bent slightly forward towards her computer screen. It wasn’t necessarily when she was her most flattering (at least that’s what she would tell him), but it was certainly when she was least worried about what others thought of her. It was intrinsic, and personal, and passionate.

Today is different.

Usually when Liam came, she would tell him that she was too busy for visitors, not that he would listen. Today, though, she had simply smiled as she accepted the coffee and kiss on the cheek, because she actually was too busy for visitors, let alone the three minutes that their usual useless banter. He noted the change in their routine, as well as the way her jaw clenched as she continued typing away at what he assumed was an email, but he hadn’t looked at long enough to be sure.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you its not nice to stare?” Fallon teased, eyes maintained on the screen.

He was seated on the couch, legs crossed with a book abandoned against his chest, and his hands placating a now cold and mostly untouched latte. Liam smirked, making the dimple in his left cheek protrude. 

“Actually my mother was always upset when I didn’t stare.” He mused. 

She rolled her eyes, heaving a sigh, because of course that would be Laura Van Kirk’s prerogative. There was a ping from her computer before she could respond. Fallon tensed, biting the inside of her cheeks and clicking the email open. The further she got into it, the further her face fell, and the more Liam’s concern subsequently rose.

“Fallon?” He murmured, standing from his perch and coming to lean next to her.

She closed the email before he could read beyond Dear Ms. Carrington, tensing as she starts searching through her files for only god knows what. Liam backed off the desk pressing his hands out as if to signal his white flag. She relinquished almost immediately, exhaling heavily and pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes, and for the first time Liam saw her for what she was: exhausted. A pang of guilt settled in his stomach for not having seen it sooner — for not even considering the fact that after launching her own company with all bets against her, she must be …

“You need a break.” Liam murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder and kneading into the spot behind her shoulder blade.

Fallon groaned in protest, but did nothing to stop the contact. “I don’t have time.” She mumbled, and he could feel her back tense again at the omission. “If I don’t secure the Griffin option before one of those little Penguin gremlins gets to her, that’s it for Femperial.”

“It’s one option, Fal.” Liam looked at her like she was speaking another language. “I don’t think it will make or break you.”

It’s the first time all day that she looks at him, and he almost wishes she hadn’t. Fallon’s blue eyes are bloodshot, and unfocused, and maybe a little panicked, and her lips are pursed into a decidedly uneasy grimace. She’d been pulling late nights, Liam knew that, but he’s beginning to think he doesn’t know the full extent. He’s always asleep by the time she gets home, and she refuses to wake him. Liam’s grown used to taking her word for it when she promises that she’s home no later than midnight.

“Jesus, when’s the last time you slept?” Liam breathes, his brow furrowing.

“I’m fine.” She huffs, rolling her shoulder away from his grasp. “At least I will be once Griffin responds to my email instead of getting one of her assistants to do it for her.”

“Well have you called her?”

Fallon quirks an eyebrow. “She hates phone calls ... she’s an author, Liam. I swear you and your kind are going to be the death of me … what ever happened to face-to-face communication?”

He smiles at the hyperbole, but he thinks she might be right judging on how close to the bone she’s working herself. She’s mentioned the Griffin option once or twice — Leila Griffin, a prodigal eighteen year old fiction writer who had just finished her first full-length novel. Liam had pushed her to fight for it because it was, admittedly, an impressive opportunity. He doesn’t realize what pushing for something means in her mind, though, but now here she is - running almost purely on coffee (and some Adderall she stole from her father’s medicine cabinet, not that either Liam or Blake know about that), and going out of her mind over one book option.

“You need a break, Fallon.” Liam repeated, cupping her face softly in the palm of his hand and reveling in the way it made her eyelids flutter. “You know, rest? Respite? Relaxation? Any of these words ringing a bell?”

She rolled her eyes at his alliteration, swallowing down a giggle, and fixing him with the closest thing to annoyance that she could muster. He had grown impressively adept at making her pause, and it was equally comforting and aggravating. Fallon loved her work — more specifically she loved doing her work — because it was only her’s.

She had grown up with the expectation of her future holding marriage — more specifically, marriage as a means of some business merger for Carrington Atlantic, she would come to realize. The first Christmas she can remember is when she was six and her brother as ten. Steven had received a chemistry set, and his first briefcase (amongst other things … they are the Carringtons, after all). Fallon, on the other hand, got clothing, and her first eyeshadow pallet. She would smile, and thank her parents gently, and try to ignore the disappointment she felt settling in her stomach, because truth be told she was too young to really articulate why it was there in the first place.

Femperial is the first time she’s felt like her life has direction, like she has direction outside the confines of expectation and without anyone’s aide. It had started as a passion project — something to occupy her from the crippling devastation that came with Liam’s absence, but …

By the time he was back (and actually remembered being back), it was a career, and one she loved, but one that Liam thought was starting to run her ragged.

“I know what a break is.” Fallon snapped, but he saw the humor glinting behind her gaze.

Liam smiled in return, tilting his chin before leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. “Well then,” He mumbled into her hair, “maybe you should bring it into practice before you go crazy. Or … drive Griffin crazy.”

Fallon felt he way her nerve endings tingled and fizzled as he formed the words against the roots of her hair. Her eyes closed, and he took it as permission to bring his kiss from the top of her head, to her cheek, to the space just below her jawline, and —

“Liam …” Fallon whined softly. “I can’t. Not here.”

“You’re the boss, last time I checked.” Liam whispered, marveling at the soft murmur his lips moving against her bare skin elicited from the woman.

Fallon gigged, grabbing him by the chin and kissing him squarely. “Maybe so, but that actually makes me more culpable … last time I checked.”

Liam groaned when she rolled her chair a few centimeters away from him, but complied, reclaiming his seat on the far side of her desk. She watched as he placed the book he had been largely ignoring back on his lap and quirked an eyebrow upward. Fallon chuckled, shaking her head, before returning back to whatever she had been doing prior to the interruption on her computer. Liam watches her brow furrow as she returns to her work, before heaving a sigh and unfolding the page of his novel.

He’s not sure how long they sit like that — long enough that the next time he looks up from his half finished book, the sun is golden, and Fallon is … she’s asleep? Liam thinks, crooning his eyes to wear her head is placed on the crook of her elbow and her curls are spilling over the edge of her desk. Oh my god she fell asleep. 

He has half a mind not to wake her — Fallon’s stillness is something of a relief if he’s being honest — but he knows that if he doesn’t, someone else will eventually barge into the office looking for her, and that would simply mortify her. From his vantage point he can just barely make out the way her ribcage rises and falls to give way to the slowness of her lungs expanding. Liam smiles, closing his book delicately, and coming beside her.

“Hey.” He whispers, pushing a few strands of hair off her cheek with his index finger before tracing the profile of her face.

Fallon stirs, mumbling softly, but otherwise does not change. Liam can only assume that its the equivalent to her rolling over were they in bed, Liam thinks, and has to stifle the laugh that threatens to spill over his lips at the sigh.

“Fallon, babe, wake up.” He practically sings before leaning over to kiss her cheek.

She wakes with a start, then, practically knocking the side of her head into the front of his as she sits upright, placing her hands on the desk like she’s holding on for dear life, and snapping her eyes open.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Liam gripes.

“How long was I out.” Fallon groans, blinking her eyes and checking her phone screen as she once more orients herself with where she is.

“Not sure. A while, I think.” He shrugs. The brunette looks at him, and his smile falls when he sees the panic streaking across them. “What’s wrong?”

“The … the goddamn Griffin option.” She breathes. “It was due at three.”

Liam fumbles with his coat pocket until he finds his phone, clicking the home button, and … shit. His eyes close, breath dropping out of him in as his knuckles close around his phone. “It’s 4:30.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” It comes as a dangerously low grumble, and he jerks his gaze towards her.

Fallon isn’t just angry, she’s pissed — cheeks red, eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a snarl. Liam looks at her a little incredulously, because … it’s not my fucking fault. He doesn’t say it, because he knows it won’t help, and ultimately he knows that she doesn’t actually think it's about him. Which begs the question …

“Fallon what the hell is wrong?” He asks, and before she can snap back, adds, “Really?”

It was rare for him to come to her dance recitals. As a matter of fact, Fallon can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her in the audience. When she joins the competitive team at her school, and even earns herself a solo, she had begged Blake to come. He complied less because he was proud, and more because he was curious.

She was a beautiful dancer, admittedly, and were she not born into the family she was, it might have made a viable career option for her. Blake had watched her dance, and feels something akin to pride. It was short lived, though, when awards were announced and she came in second. He left before the ceremony was over, stalking back to the car, and sucking down scotch in the back of Bentley while he waits for her.

She’s thirteen the first time her father tells her that she’s “a Carrington. Loosing is not an option, Fallon.”

“I lost!” She shrieks. “I … fuck, I didn’t even loose, I just wasn’t a contender!”

Liam realizes that what he had mistaken at panic in her wasn’t that at all — it was grief. Grief over a lost option, over something that she would see a million more of during her time as a publisher, that she would lose a million more of.

“Fallon, it’s ok.” He says, and its a little harsher than he means it to sound, but … is she fucking serious?

“No it’s not, Liam.” Fallon rasps, shooting out of her chair and slamming her hands on her desk. “If I can’t even get a goddamn eighteen year old to sign with me, how is anyone going to take me seriously? Leila Griffin was a perfect client for us, and I dropped the ball, because I was —“

“Because you were tired, Fallon.” He cuts her off, ignoring the sharp look it earns him. “Because … Jesus, because you’ve been working nonstop, and you’re not taking care of yourself.”

It hits her like a ton of bricks. “Oh my god, is that what this is about?”

Liam’s brow furrows as he tries to keep up. “What … what? What what is about?”

“The visits.” She seethes, color rising in her cheeks once more. “The coffee, asking me to wake you up when I get home, and your incessant company. Is … is this all because you’re trying to fucking play doctor?”

“I’m trying to help, Fallon.” He shoots back, his voice low in his tenor. “I was trying to take help take some of the pressure off of you! Jesus, what did you think this was all about?”

“I thought you were flirting!” Fallon shrieks, arms jutting out to her sides like she’s presenting tangible evidence. “I thought you were — … ! I … fuck, I don’t know! I thought you were bored, and looking to be preoccupied, or something. That’s all!”

He can’t help but laugh by the time she’s done, because even she sounds uncertain about her reasoning. Liam watches the muscles in her shoulders release as she considers what she’s just said. 

“Ok … maybe … maybe, like, deep in my subconscious, I knew why you were here, but that doesn’t change anything.”

He’s full on cackling by the time she’s done, which he thinks she might kill him for, but he doesn’t care. he starts to giggle too, covering her face with her hands to hide her smile. It’s almost off putting, because he’s really expecting her to be angry, or defiant, but she’s just …

“Maybe I am tired.” She mumbles, the sound getting muffled into her palms.

“Are you sure? I think you’re doing great.” Liam teases, silver eyes glinting, and Fallon groans softly, and yeah … she’s sorry. Liam pulls her into his arms, the scent of his shampoo making him heave a contended sigh.

“You’re gonna have a million opportunities thrown at you, Fal.” He levels, weaving his fingers through her curls. “You can’t win ‘em all. Hell, no one expects you too.”

He thinks he might have hit on something when he says it, because she pulls away (not before he can feel her tense in his arms) and looks at him with stormy blue eyes, it takes everything in him not to break her gaze, because she looks so somber. He thinks there’s something particularly unsettling about somberness on her because it requires a certain amount of defeat, and Fallon Carrington does not go down without a fight.

It might be the first time she hasn’t been punished for making a mistake. A sheer B+ was reason enough for Blake or Alexis to come down on their children, going so far as to insult their characters when they were especially upset with them. Fallon has heard how mistakes are her fault so many times that she’s effectively learned how to stop making them - or at least how to project the blame. It makes for a great businesswoman, but a sometimes shitty woman, woman. In a lot of ways, Fallon owes who she is to them, which is as much reason to love them as it is to resent them, she thinks.

“I was off my game.” Fallon inhales when she sees a way out within what he says. “I do need a break.”

She spins, clicking a few buttons on her computer. He hears it whirr and hum for a moment before falling silent, and he realizes with a decent amount of relief that she’s turned it off. Fallon, on the other hand, seems uncertain, her fingers trailing idly on her keyboard as she brings her gaze back to him. Liam smiles softly, reaching for her hand and squeezing it softly.

“This is a good thing.” He says, and he’s only half teasing her.

Fallon bites the inside of her cheek, giving him a knowing glare, before squeezing his hand back. She hadn’t realized how quiet her office was without the humming of her desktop, and she’s not sure yet if she likes it. Her eyes flick to the window pained door that separates where she and Kirby work. The other woman’s desk is covered in papers and empty coffee cups, but there’s no sign of her.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

“Where did everyone go?” She murmurs mostly to herself.

Liam shrugs, the image of everyone finding times to sneak out before she woke up flashing through his mind. He doesn’t say anything, just places his free hand on the small of her back and kisses her delicately. She squeaks at the jolt in movement, before melting into him and bringing her arms around his shoulders. Liam pushes her against the desk, trailing his hand up her back to the spot just below her ribcage.

“Liam…” She protests weakly when his lips find her neck. “This is still where I work.”

“Right, because your moral compass is always pointed due north.” He breathes, kissing her neck again and smiling when her breath hitches in her throat.

“Are you flirting with me, Liam Ridley?” She muses softly, her fingers finding the space between his pants and his shirt trailing up the muscles in his back. 

Liam pulls away so that he’s looking at her and god she wants to wipe that smirk straight off his face, because he looks all too pleased with himself, and it makes her heart melt. 

“Maybe.” He coos, kissing her again and bringing his own hands to toy with the top button of her deep green Chanel blouse.

Fallon’s breathing goes a little ragged, and before she can really think about what she’s doing, she’s kissing him again, hard and fervent, and mussing his hair between her fingers. Liam pulls away after a few moments, his eyes meeting hers knowingly as he ignores her whines in protest.

“We can go home if you want.” He flirts easily.

“You’re right, we could.” Fallon says cooly back. “Or …”

“Or?”

“… Or we could just make out.”

#falliamfrenzy #nat writes #I hope y'all like this #falliam #Falliam frenzy #ship: falliam #liz gillies #fallon carrington #fallon x liam #this is kinda cute and fluffy and like smutt if you really squint ... its more like pre-smutt HAHA #liam ridley #dynasty #dynastyfic #dynastyedit

[faizreviews]

Dynasty Review - ⚠️Don't Get It⚠️ Without My 🎁 Custom Bonuses 🎁 Dynasty ...

#Dynasty #DynastyReview #DynastyDemo #DynastyBonus #DynastyDiscount #DynastyMuncheye #DynastyFE #DynastyOTOs #DynastyUpsell

[ratchedspeach]

hey! can you write something where Kirby comforts Fallon after she's kidnapped? I know it doesn't work with the timeline haha

It’s already AU so why not make it established Firby as wellllll (-:

CW - nothing serious, but there’s brief flashbacks of Fallon’s kidnapping, and mentions of (a little) bloodDISSONANCE - where we’ve been and where we’re going

She sings when she’s nervous. Well, no … not really sings as much as hums, with the added bonus of mumbling her favorite lyrics as they come. The first time Kirby notices is when they’re sixteen, and Fallon had coerced her into helping her re-organize her already pristine CD collection (another nervous habit, but one she was already fully aware of). 

She would pretend not to hear at first, for fear that it would make her stop. Fallon’s voice is beautiful — a low alto with its own unique tambour, only helped by natural rasp of her voice. What really captivates Kirby, though, is the way she supports the notes — her ribcage expands, and her breath settles into a low, centered space. She can see her breathing through her back, and it’s special in its own way to see her so grounded in technique. 

“You’re staring.” Fallon’s voice had lifted her gaze from where they sat on her spine. Kirby blushed, and was about to respond when the teen continued haughtily. “I didn’t ask you here so you could stare at me.”

Kirby’s stomach dropped. “I’m doing you a favor, last time I checked. It wouldn’t hurt you to be a little nice.”

“I’m always nice.” Fallon had quipped.

“Yeah, ok.” The redhead breathed, slamming a disk into its place with more force than needed. “Why are we doing this anyways?”

She wasn’t going to respond, was just going to offer up her best insult to change the subject, but there’s a crash of glass breaking, followed by a voice that is distinctly Alexis’s calling someone (she can only assume Blake) a ‘goddamn pig!’. Kirby would watch as Fallon’s shoulders tensed, and her eyes shot her a silent warning to just drop it.

“Forget I asked.” Kirby would mumble as an apology, knowing better to push when it came to matters of her parents.

***

She looks tired, Kirby can’t help but think when she’s finally done answering the slew of questions from the detective. She’d responded with what her father would call ‘striking poise’, patting her on the shoulder before retiring to his room to check on Cristal. Kirby’s trained eye knew what he saw as composition was actually immense rigidity, largely thanks to Blank’s presence in the first place. The redhead could only imagine that if she’d been through what Fallon just had, she wouldn’t be able to stop crying. The brunette doesn’t, of course, because, well she’s Fallon fucking Carrington. 

Now though, curled up on the couch with a blanket around her, wearing the closest thing she’s seen the woman wear to sweats since they’ve been dating (even her pajamas are beautiful and feminine and probably cost more than Kirby’s entire wardrobe), she looks … fucking exhausted. Kirby comes to sit next to her slowly so as not to startle her. She’s lost in thought — blue eyes fixed darkly on some spot on the wall, fingers clutching an untouched cup of green tea.

“Hey.” Kirby murmurs, bringing her fingers to tuck a few pieces of hair behind her ear. “You ok?”

Fallon doesn’t look at her, just nods gently, and brings her mug to her lips without actually sipping the contents inside. Kirby doesn’t want to push, or more specifically, she knows Fallon doesn’t want her to, but …

“I was so scared for you.” She breathes, the devastation she’d been keeping at bay all day settling dangerously in the pit of her stomach.

Fallon’s knuckles go white around the cup, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching, but she doesn’t respond, just starts humming.

***

She had asked her why she didn’t want to become a singer — blurting it out before she had a chance to censor herself, which was only met with an astonished look from the brunette sitting across from her, back supported by the long forgotten CD shelf behind her. The answer was obvious, of course — because she’s a Carrington, and she has responsibilities and expectations to fulfill … that she wanted to fulfill.

“Not that you’d know anything about that.” Fallon had smirked, letting the dig settle in the air.

They would stay in her room most of the day —avoiding the carnage of her mother’s wrath downstairs. Fallon barely acknowledged the cacophony of screams between her parents, save for flinching every so often when she hadn’t braced herself for a new discord of plates being thrown or books hurdling against the wall and landing on the ground. Kirby would watch her carefully, paying attention to the way she picked at her cuticles, or straightened her back, or tried to dart her eyes towards the origins of the noise without the other girl noticing. She was humming openly now, but Kirby couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she was actually comfortable around her, or if she just had bigger things to worry about than allowing her to hear her singing. 

She’s pulled out of her thoughts when the shouting downstairs turns into moans. Fallon groans, doubling over so her forehead is being supported on her knees, and covering her head with her arms.

“Woah, are they —”

“Yup.” Fallon griped before she could finish her sentence.

Kirby thinks she knows what mortification means now, because it’s one thing to hear the Carringtons doing … that, but it’s another thing to be hearing it next to their only daughter. It had dawned on her that for however embarrassed she must be feeling, it’s absolutely worse for Fallon.

***

She wakes in a fit of panic, and sweat, and heavy breathing. Fallon’s eyes dart to the corners of the room, taking in the familiar shadows cast by the architecture of the space. She doesn’t remember falling asleep — one moment, they’d been lying in bed, Kirby’s finger tracing the profile of her cheek like she’s worried she’ll forget what it looks like overnight. The next, she’d been there …

Alejandro’s hand coming around her neck, his thumb pressing into the space just below her chin. He smells like sweat and coffee, and it makes Fallon gag. He grins in return, white teeth flashing dangerously, and —

Fallon shakes her head, noting with grim irony the way her bangs toss back in forth, and god she wants to rip them out of her head, or shave all her hair off altogether. She flicks her eyes to the Kirby, counting her luck stars that she didn’t wake her up, before slipping out of her bed. Much to her relief, there’s a carafe of scotch on the table next to the fireplace. Fallon sinks into a cushioned velvet chair, and pours herself a glass. The alcohol burns at it hits her larynx, but its familiar, and she goes back for another sip, and another, and another, and …

“Jesus Fallon, it’s almost five in the morning.” Kirby’s voice cuts through the pleasant buzz that’s warming the space behind her eyes. 

Fallon drops the glass out of surprise, watching as the last droplets of the dark liquor soak into the carpet. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t sing, then.” Kirby’s voice is husky with sleep, her words a little slurred as she comes back to consciousness, but Fallon knows meant as a musing more than an accusation.

The brunettes shoulders tense, and were it not for the cloak of darkness overtaking the room, she knew her cheeks would be about three shades pinker then their usual pallor, because she hadn’t realized she’d been humming. Fallon untucks her legs from where they are on the chair, bending over and picking up the crystal glass at her feet before placing it delicately on the table next to her.

“Have you been drinking?” Kirby asks, sitting up in the bed and crooning her eyes in the lowlight.

“No.” Fallon winces when the single syllable word hangs just a little too long in her throat, coming out as a low drawl that she know will give her away.

“Fallon …” She doesn’t realize that the other woman has gotten out of bed before she feels her fingers delicately on her shoulder.

The brunette flinches slightly at the contact, casting her blue eyes to the wet spot of carpet directly in front of her. She can feel the pity in Kirby’s stare, and it makes her skin crawl, and she’s humming again absently, much to the redhead’s dismay. Kirby comes to kneel in front of her, taking the other woman’s hands delicately in hers and letting her thumb graze the palm of her right hand.

“Hey, talk to me.” It comes as a mumbled plea, as Kirby’s hands trail up her arms and squeeze gently just below her elbows.

Were it anyone else, Kirby would expect them to start sobbing, or at the very least hold back tears, but this is Fallon — a woman who grew up in a family where emotional responses held the equivalent weight to murdering someone. Come to think of it, crying was probably worse. The brunette tries to pull away, but she’s cornered in her chair, and it makes her stomach drop and her chest tighten, and —

The barrel of a gun to her temple, his nails digging into her shoulder, his laugh — gravelly and low and dishonest, and —

“Drop it, Kirby.” It’s a warning, and Kirby knows it, and usually would heed it.

Usually.

“Not until you tell me what’s up.” She responds delicately, concern and uncertainty lacing her tone.

Fallon looks at her like she’s trying to make her evaporate with a glare. “I’m fine.” She huffs, pretending not to hear the way her voice cracks in the back of her throat. “Just let it go.”

“Damnit, Fallon!” It catches the brunette off guard, because Kirby never raises her voice — not with her.

She’s seen the redhead angry plenty of times, and she’s received enough insults to prove it, but almost as principle she doesn’t yell. She’s not really sure why, but she’s been that way since they were children, always using her quick wit to overcome her otherwise soft spoken manner.

***

She would let Fallon ignore her, but wouldn’t leave her room — not until the glow of evening light started to filter through the teen’s windows, painting the space in a saturated, golden hue. Kirby watched as the brunette busied herself, organizing things that were never out of place to begin with, and humming all the while. It was a song she didn’t recognize, but Kirby knew better than to ask what. Years later she would hear Tin Angel by Joni Mitchel on the radio, and the memory of that day in her room would come flooding back.

When her parents finally quieted downstairs, after what must have been hours, Kirby can’t help but note, Fallon turns back to her, looking at her like she’s surprised to see the redhead still there. Kirby had shrugged, giving her a slight smile, and offering Fallon a CD.

“It starts with a C.” She’d stated.

Fallon’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“The album,” Kirby clarified, “you put it with the ‘K’ albums.”

She was out the door before the brunette could respond, leaving her to clutch the CD and stare after her.

“I’m trying to help you.” Kirby’s voice snaps her out of the memory, and she shushes the woman, because as she has just pointed out, it’s fucking early.

“Well you’re not.” Fallon fumes lowly, wrenching out of her loving grasp. “You’re not helping, Kirby. You’d be helping if you just did what I said and let it go.”

Kirby stands out of sheer frustration, taking a few steps away from her and clenching her hands into fists on either side of her. She’s trying to get a rise out of her, she knows that, and maybe if she wasn’t so tired and so goddamn scared she wouldn’t let it work. 

“Well forgive me,” She all but shrieks, turning back to the woman with her deep brown eyes blazing, “but I’m off the opinion that when someone you love gets fucking kidnapped, you should be there for them. Jesus, Fallon, do you know what I went through —”

“What you went through.” Fallon cuts her off, repeating the sentiment like she’s not sure she’s heard her correctly, and standing slowly.

Fuck. Now she’s really done it.

“What … what you went through?” 

The knife against her neck, trailing up her cheek, nicking the skin just in front of her ear until she felt blood trickling off her jawline and onto her bare shoulder. 

“You know what I mean.” Kirby backpedals, but only slightly. “I was scared out of my mind. I thought I would never see you again, I thought …” 

She shakes her head, not allowing herself to finish the sentiment. Fallon falters for a moment, but the bile rising in her throat pushes her forward like its a goddamn inquisition, because she knows that her options are anger or …

“They aren’t coming, girlie.” Alejandro whispered in her ear, reveling at the way her chin juts out defiantly when he does. “Nobody is coming for you.”

“No!” She’s talking to herself, but she plays it off like it’s directed at Kirby. “No, you don’t get to spin this like you’re the goddamn victim, here.”

Kirby’s ears are burning and her chest is tight as she blinks back the tears dangerously close to the precipice of her lash line. She wants to respond, wants to fucking scream and maybe even shake her, but Fallon cuts her off before she can utter a single syllable.

“Oh boo hoo, you got a little scared —“

“That’s not —“

“When did you realize I was gone?”

And there it is: the question that both of them had been dreading since Fallon had collapsed into her arms outside the warehouse. It hangs in the air — thick with expectation and too much pain for the brunette. Guilt settles heavily in Kirby’s chest, and she sucks in a breath, holding it for a long moment. 

“W-what?” She stammers in an attempt to buy herself time.

Fallon lets out a humorless chuckle, tilting her chin and narrowing her eyes dangerously on her. “Don’t play games with me. When did you realize?”

“Fallon, I … I don’t …” Kirby brings her hand to her forehead, suddenly very concerned by the wisps of hair she finds there. “Jesus, I didn’t — … It’s not like I was keeping track of the time, Fal.”

It hits her with the weight of what it is — a pitiful and completely half assed effort to delicately tell her that she hand’t noticed. Fallon heaves a heavy sigh, defeat settling in where her rage once was. She misses it immediately. The brunette turns back to the bottle of scotch, this time pouring both of them a glass. She swigs the last drops of hers down, gritting her teeth at the sheer volume of liquor she’s consumed in a single swallow, before holding the other out to Kirby, who thinks she shouldn’t take it because it’s five in the fucking morning, but does anyway. Truth be told, she’s afraid what will happen if she says no — afraid that Fallon will throw it at her, or drink it herself, and Lord knows the last thing she needs is more alcohol.

Kirby cups the glass between her hands, her fingers tracing the grooves of the intricate crystal work. “I’m sorry, Fallon.” She whispers, and it’s almost inaudible. “I am … fuck, I am so sorry.”

Fallon just shrugs, slumping to a seated position on the corner of her bed and pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes. “It’s not like I can blame you.” She concedes, taking the other woman completely by surprise.

Kirby sets her unfinished scotch down and comes to sit next to her. She’s afraid that the proximity will bring forth a new surge of rage, but when she’s certain it hasn’t, she brings a hand to trace the bare skin on the brunette’s thigh. It makes Fallon wince, so she pulls away, eyes searching the other woman for an explanation.

“Bruise.” Fallon murmurs without explaining any further, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Kirby squints in the early morning light, and sure enough sees the outline of an impressively large bruise that expands at least four inches in any direction. Her heart sinks, and she lowers herself into a somewhat uncomfortable position in order to kiss the spot, taking note of the way Fallon’s muscles release just slightly when she does. She stays there, pulling her legs onto the bed so she’s laying with her head in the brunette’s lap (not directly on the bruise, obviously).  Fallon brings her fingers to weave through her strawberry blonde locks, heaving a sigh when the scent of her lavender and honey shampoo fills her nostrils. 

“I was so scared.” Kirby whispers.

“I know.”

“I thought you were gone.”

“I’m here.”

“Are you?” Kirby shifts so that she’s looking up at her. Fallon gives her an inquisitive look. “You’ve been so … Fuck, I don’t know … you’re just clearly not ok, and you’re shutting me out, and …”

She trails off when she feels the other woman’s lips on hers. The kiss is gentle — almost gossamer. Fallon lingers there despite the way her spine protests at the discomfort of the position they’re in. It’s worth it for the brief moment of levity that spikes in her stomach. Her lips taste like scotch, Kirby notes, bringing a hand to cup her cheek delicately. When the brunette finally pulls away, she comes up with her, sitting up and pulling her in again for a much more desperate kiss. Fallon tenses for a moment before melting into her, slipping her arms around the other woman’s shoulders and pressing into her.

“I’m here.” She mumbles, the words getting jumbled with an amalgam of too much alcohol and not enough air.

“You fucking scared me.” Kirby responds in the same fashion, sans drunkenness.

They stay like that for longer than either of them realize, until Kirby puts a hand to her jawline, and the brunette pulls away almost violently. Fallon’s eyes squeeze shut, her entire body starting to tremble, and it scares Kirby to death.

“Fallon?” She urges as her breath returns to normal.

Alejandro’s fingers on the gash by her ear, trailing down to smear the line of blood it left.

“Fallon, hey. Look at me.”

“Nobody is coming for you.” He sing-songs, placing the knife this time against her collarbone.

Its Kirby’s hands on her shoulder that finally breaks through. Fallon’s eyes snap open, panic flashing through them as she slowly comes back to reality. She looks at Kirby, and Kirby can see the weight of the entire day pulling at her features. She wants to ask — wants to know every detail so that she can figure out how the hell to take the pain away, or at least share in the burden — but she knows better than to pry. Instead, she pulls the woman’s head onto her shoulder, stroking her hair and making sure not to go anywhere near the spot that had made her lose touch with reality in the first place.

“I’m here, too.” Kirby murmurs as she buries her nose into the other woman’s hair.

Fallon’s eyelids flutter closed, and she heaves a sigh, and Kirby feels her nod in acknowledgment. They stay like that until after the sun rises, and the redhead finds herself tempted to never let her out of arms length again, because she had been so scared … so fucking scared.

Sensing her anxiety, Fallon places a hand on Kirby’s knee, her thumb grazing back and forth affectionately, and starts to hum.

#I had soooooo much fun writing this #firby #firby one shot #firby fic #au #dynasty #dynastyfic #dynasty fic #nat writes #fic recs #ask #anon #ship: firby #fallon carrington #fallon/kirby #Fallon Carrington fic #kirby anders #liz gillies #kirby/fallon #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #angsty as all hell #but what else is new #the CW

[ratchedspeach]

hello! can u write some firby angst, hurt/comfort based on the episode where Fallon is scared about the storm? and maybe talk about why she's so scared :3

Yeehaw

Cloudy with a Chance — set after S2E6, slight AU with certain details to help the plot line

Culhane leaves not long after she’s awake — slipping back into the shadows of whatever secrets it is that he’s keeping from her. When he asks if she’s mad, Fallon offers him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and promises she’s not. He knows its a lie for his benefit, but he pretends he doesn’t.

Kirby doesn’t see her get hit, but she sees the fallout. Culhane came barreling into the cellar with a limp Fallon in her arms. A bruise had already formed on the side of her cheekbone next to her hairline and her face was contorted even in her unconscious state, and Kirby doesn’t think she’s ever seen the woman look so … fragile. 

“We have to get her to a hospital.” Kirby orders when she realizes that Fallon’s fiancee was rendered useless by a fit of panic.

“Men and their emotions.” Kirby can’t help but smile when she remembers the catchphrase, but the brief moment of levity is short lived, because Fallon moans lowly and shifts on the ground. The redhead puts a sweater underneath her head, and Fallon’s eyes flutter.

She doesn’t plan on checking on her, but when she sees Culhane slip out the front door of the manor, her stomach drops. Kirby’s  eyes travel to the larger than life stairwell in the foyer, and she’s scaling it before she can fully cognate what it is that she’s doing.

Fallon is awake, much to her surprise, holding an ice pack to her forehead, and staring at the wall across from her. Kirby raps on the doorframe twice, and it makes the other woman jump.

“You know better than to sneak up on me.” She whines, shifting her fingers around the ice pack and wincing as it agitates her bruise.

“I knocked.”

“So?”

“So that’s literally the opposite of sneaking up on you.” Kirby roles her eyes and comes to perch on the corner of her bed. “How’re you feeling?”

“Head hurts.” Fallon responds curtly, tensing her jaw in an attempt to seem more alright than she is.

She know that’s not what Kirby’s asking — knows that she’s wondering about Culhane, and the storm, and …

Fallon exhales heavily, placing the ice pack on her bedside table, and bringing her gaze to meet her friend. Kirby can’t help but grimace a little when she sees that what was once a mere bruise had started to swell. The other woman notices, and it turns her cheeks flush.

“You don’t have to stare.” Fallon snarls, her hair falling across her profile. “I know it’s ugly.”

“It isn’t ugly! It’s just …” Kirby trails off, not really sure where she’s taking her justification. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t respond — just heaves a sigh and grasps the hem of her satin sheets. If she wanted Kirby gone, she would say it, so Kirby takes it as a win and kicks her shoes off before sitting crosslegged on the all-too-large bed. Fallon feels her studying her, watching her like she’s trying to decipher the rosetta stone, and it makes the color rise in her cheeks further and her stomach churn. It isn’t like Kirby not to push, not to be utterly intrusive and desperate for every detail, and its more disconcerting than it is anything else.

“What’re you doing here, Kirby?” Fallon asks, her eyes glistening with what she can only assume is both physical and emotional turmoil.

It catches her off guard, because … fuck what was she doing? She had seen Culhane leave, true, but she wasn’t sure what brought her to the other woman’s room — to make herself comfortable on her bed.

“I …”

Her brow furrows, lips pursing, and she looks like she’s about to say something, but there’s a clap of thunder from outside and it startles her. Fallon shrieks, jumping so far that Kirby is surprised she doesn’t land on the floor. When they were young, thunderstorms would bring her into Kirby’s bed. She remembered the way Fallon’s eyes would squeeze shut as she clutched herself into a ball. The brunette would never initiate touch — would never admit to being afraid, but Kirby knew.

She would pull her into her arms, stroking her hair and singing her lullabies that her mother had sung to her as a child. More often than not, they would fall asleep like that. She was always gone the next morning, and were she to ever ask, Fallon would deny being there — calling her crazy or obsessed or just shooting her a ruthless glare.

“Shit.” Fallon hissed, pulling the other woman out of the memory.

She hadn’t fallen off the bed, but she had managed to smash the back of her skull into her wooden headboard, and now she was bent over at the waist, her fingers delicately prodding the spot where it had made contact. Fallon groaned as she detected the spots in her vision. As if being hit with a plaster fucking cow wasn’t enough trauma for her head to go through that night, she was now almost positive that she had given herself a full-blown concussion.

“You ok?” Kirby jumped off the bed and sprinted around to the other side, grabbing the icepack from where it was on the bedside table and placing it gingerly where Fallon’s hands had been not moments before.

She winces when it makes contact with the already tender area — snatching the pack from Kirby’s clumsy hands, and slowly pulling herself upright. The redhead couldn’t help but noticed the fog that had come to settle in her eyes, or the way Fallon looked up like she couldn’t register where she was. After she was sent away, Kirby would wonder what she did during storms, and vaguely assumed that she would eventually grow out of her silly phobia. 

Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

“I can call the doctor again, if you —“

“No.” Fallon mumbled, shaking her head before the motion made her feel a little nauseous. “That’s ok, I’m … It’s fine don’t worry.”

A flash of lightning forced her eyes shut — partially because it spooked her, but mostly because the light it elicited hurt her brain. Kirby had never understood her friend’s fear of weather, granted, she had never bothered to ask. She teased her mercilessly for it, sure, but she had never really tried to understand. Then again, she countered silently, she assumed that even if she had asked, she wouldn’t get a straight answer from the easily bristled brunette.

Typical Carrington — all bark, even more bite.

“Shit.” Fallon exclaims for the second time that evening as she slowly lets her eyes open again.

Kirby can’t help the giggle that forms in her throat, but oh she’ll wish she had, because it earns her Fallon’s most dangerous glare. It hits more like a silent plea for help than it does a reckoning, though when the redhead recognizing the way her chest is rising and falling with shallow breath. Slowly, Kirby places a hand on her shoulder, and the touch seems to steady her, or at the very least make Fallon cognizant of what she must look like.

“This is ridiculous.” She snaps, and Kirby assumes she means her fear, until Fallon adds, “I mean you’d think that with how far modern science has come, someone would have figured out how the hell to stop a tornado. We can do surgery on a goddamn grape, but we can’t stop some damn weather.”

Kirby roles her eyes, this time succeeding in stifling the smile that threatens the corners of her lips. Yeah … there she is. She thinks as she comes back around the other side of the bed and flops down on her stomach.

“Maybe you’re in the wrong industry.” She muses, playing the little star pendant on her necklace.

Now its Fallon’s turn to role her eyes, sucking in a breath and holding it until she feels her chest loosen, and Kirby can’t help but think that it feels like a win, because … because she’s not pushing her away or attacking her for teasing her. If anything, she thinks she sees a light smile grace her lips, and Kirby’s chest flutters. She pushes the levity down, her eyes flicking to the corners of the bedroom, before landing on the lit fireplace.

“Where’d he go?” She murmurs, keeping her tone even.

Fallon tenses, tensing her jaw as much as her newly bruised cheekbone allows, and that’s more like it. She had known it was only a matter of time before the Australian asked, but she had started thinking that maybe, just maybe she’d let it slide. No such luck.

“What do you mean?” Fallon tries, her tone careful, her gaze fixed on her engagement ring as she spins it.

Part of her wishes she hadn’t asked, but its out there now, and … well … here goes nothing.

“I saw him leave.” She intones, her voice dripping with so much pity, Fallon thinks she’ll need a towel.

It started raining. No, not raining … fucking monsooning before she could answer. Fallon’s eyes flick towards the ceiling, her head starting to pulse with the introduction of the incessant patter of droplets to her already tired brain. Vaguely she felt herself wonder if Culhane was driving, and if so, how the hell he could see through this storm, and how fucking stupid he was for going out directly after a tornado in the first fucking place.

“He’s just … out.” Fallon placated, her lips pursing, and that’s when it hits Kirby.

“You don’t know where he went, do you?” She breaths, her deep brown eyes practically popping out of her head.

“What, like I have a tracking device on him?” The other woman bristled.

“No … I just … I don’t know, Fal.” Kirby conceded, and she’s about to push herself off the bed when she feels Fallon’s hand on hers.

She doesn’t say a word — just looks at her, her blue eyes ambivalent with a million different indiscernible thoughts. It makes Kirby’s breath hitch in her throat, because … its not … all negative, and fuck maybe she even wanted her there …

“You just can’t help but push, can you?”

… at least in her own, quintessentially Fallon way.

She’s right, though (not that she’s ever wrong) — she can’t. She wishes she could bring herself to not care, hell part of her even wonders why it matters, but … it does. It just does. Kirby runs her hands through her hair, making the scent of her shampoo radiate through the space.

Truth be told, she was trying to find Stephen’s room, but the panic induced by the thunderstorm had clouded her judgement, and she slipped into the wrong room. She had practically sprinted into Kirby’s bed, covering her head with her covers, and screaming as a clap of thunder boomed. Fallon didn’t realize where she was until the the honey and citrus scent of the redhead’s shampoo flares in her nostrils. Only then did the ten year old peak her head out from beneath the sheets, looking up sheepishly at an utterly bewildered, nine year old Kirby.

Kirby watches Fallon study her. She’s looking at her like she’s a vessel — a catalyst for some other person, or thing, and its just so typical of her to be looking at her and not really seeing her. The redhead feels frustration rise in her stomach, but before she can do anything about it —

“You looked so terrified when I came in.” Fallon smiled, and Kirby couldn’t tell if she knew what she was talking about. The brunette rolled her eyes melodramatically. “When there were thunderstorms, and I would … you know.”

Kirby couldn’t help but smile — delicate and precarious and fully aware that she was changing the subject, but still there. 

“How could I forget?” She muses, nodding and tucking a few pieces of hair behind her ear. “You used to snore.”

It earns her a slap on the arm, and a horrified “I did not!”, which only makes her smile grow. Kirby chalks it up to her concussion when it elicits a giggle from Fallon. She vaguely wonders if brain damage can make a person … kinder? The thought is lost, though when she feels the usually icy businesswoman’s eyes on her, and she turns to see her staring like she’s lost, or confused, or …

“You’ve always been there.”

Oh. Oh. It hits her out of left field — practically knocks the wind out of her. Kirby’s mouth gapes for a moment at the admission, her eyes blinking rapidly as she processes the admission.

“I mean you’ve known me the longest out of anyone … it’s not like your psychic or something.” Fallon retreats when she feels the color in her cheeks start to rise.

Kirby roles her eyes and stifles a chuckle. “Yeah, well … it’s not like you were ever that hard to read.”

“Oh?” Fallon quirks an eyebrow, a pang of embarrassment twisting in her already muddle stomach.

Kirby was sixteen when she first saw her cry. It was right after Alexis had left. No … more specifically it was while an adolescent Fallon was clinging to her mother’s coat, apologizing and begging her to just tell her why. Alexis would barely look at her as she attempted to pry free of the girl’s grasp on her white cashmere coat. When she finally broke free, Fallon had fallen in a heap of tears on the marble floor, her entire body vibrating with the force of her sobbing. Kirby had looked around, expecting to see someone — her father, Blake, or at the very least Stephen — come to console the devastated teen, but there was no one.

Well, there was her … shit.

She had expected her to push her away — maybe violently but at the very least with a mirthless jab, but … when Kirby helps the girl into sitting position, Fallon hugs her like its the only thing grounding her to reality. She can’t do anything but hug back. Hug, and stroke her hair, and whisper that she was so so sorry. Kirby wished that she could feel fully sorry for the girl, but it just … it wasn’t that simple. Instead she was uncomfortable, and fixated on the fact that she had never seen her cry before, much less this, and just wished that Fallon would would stop crying. That night, it would rain, but Fallon wouldn’t come.

The next day, Kirby knew better than to ask.

“Yeah well … I’m no physic, right?” She says, and if Fallon didn’t know any better, she would think she was flirting.

Another crack of thunder — this one louder and longer, and it sent the brunette barreling into Kirby’s chest before she can realize what she’s doing. The redhead let out an a soft ‘oof’ as Fallon made contact with her chest, her arms coming to grip around the back of her flannel shirt. She smiled, bringing her fingers to gently stroke the back of her head, but it made Fallon wince, and so she pulls away, smiling dissonantly and murmuring her apology. Fallon’s hair smells like lavender and primrose, and it makes her breath stammer. She tries to play it off, exhaling softly and straightening her shoulders.

They were in downtown Atlanta when the thirteen year olds heard the warning sirens begin to sound. Kirby didn’t know what it was at first, crooning her neck to listen to the message blaring over the city. Fallon, on the other hand, knew immediately. Her heart dropped into her stomach as she grabbed the other girl’s hand and dragged her into the closest shop and down into the owner’s basement. They would stay there for what as actually only forty minutes, but would feel like hours thanks to Fallon’s incessant babbling. She had completely unhinged — blue eyes wide and streaked with panic, breath hitching heavily in her throat with each inhalation.  When it was cleared as a false alarm, Kirby would tease her, only for Fallon to pretend that she had no idea what she was talking about. She would see the panic still streaked behind her eyes, so she wouldn’t push.

There was a beat — long and uncomfortable and filled with enough prolonged eye contact to last both women a lifetime, until Kirby couldn’t take it anymore, and —

“What are you so afraid of?”

She hates the way it makes the other girl falter — hesitating in a way that is so, completely the opposite of who Kirby knows her to be. Fallon averts her gaze, sucking her lower lip between her teeth, and crossing her arms over her chest. It reminds Kirby of a child pouting over being told to go do her homework.

“I’ve never liked weather.” Fallon shrugs, her voice low and tired and cautious, because she knows that’s not what the other woman means.

“No, I mean with Culhane.” Kirby confirms her suspicions. “Why are you letting him do … whatever it is he’s doing?”

“I’m not his keeper.” She snaps, but it hits more nervous than it does bold.

Fallon sighs, pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes before they travel up into her hair, and it’s all so … human. More human than she’s ever seen her, and it sparks something deep and yearning in the pit of Kirby’s stomach. She places a hand on the brunette’s shoulder like she’s trying to make sure she’s tangible. Fallon’s breath hitches when she feels her thumb accidentally graze her collarbone. She places her blue eyes on Kirby, and it strikes the redhead just how scared she looks. No, not scared … I mean that’s part of it, but … Kirby knows this look. It’s the look she gives clients when she’s about to close a deal — it’s an intoxicating anticipation that comes with playing with fire, it’s —

It isn’t Fallon that initiates the action — it’s Kirby, and oh …! She doesn’t know how to respond, so she just sort of sits, hands clamping down on the pink satin bedsheets, eyes wide. The kiss doesn’t last longer than five seconds. Kirby presses into her, leaving her right hand where it is on her shoulder like they’re at some goddamn high school dance.

When Jeff was a no show to pick her up, Fallon showed up stag (much to her mother’s disapproval). Kirby saw her immediately, marveling at her custom made gown, and the way the blue lights of the winter themed formal dappled her pale complexion. Her wonder would give way to concern when she sees the uncertainty painted across the teen’s face, and the way she’s wringing her hands. She would make it to her just as she spins on her heels to leave, grasping her hand and offering her a smile. Much to her surprise, Fallon smiled back, and allows her to lead them onto the dance floor.

She sees the puzzlement on her face, and Kirby can’t help but apologize, and then proceed to babble about hoping that she isn’t offended or angry or … shit … I mean … fuck!

“It’s … ok.” Fallon rasps without really moving or seeing her or anything at all.

Her vision goes sort of silver — she sees light dance in front of her eyes, and she sees the dip of shadows, and the outline of silhouettes, but not much more. At first she thinks its the concussion, and that her brain is hemorrhaging, and she’s going to die because she just got kissed by Kirby fucking Anders. It isn’t, of course, but then, what the hell else can it be? Fallon brings a finger to trace down the center of her lips, her lower lip dipping slightly as her index finger hits the slight gap between them before bouncing back into place.

“Fallon. Fallon?” Kirby’s voice cuts through the inch of fog that’s muddling her cranium.

Her blue eyes flicker up to meet her gaze, but there’s no certainty in it, just a blank bewilderment. “What?”

Kirby pulls an arm across her chest, bringing her hand to clasp delicately across her forearm. There’s turbulence behind her already dark eyes, they breach as tears glistening at her lash line.

“You’re scaring me.” She breaths, wiping desperately at her eyes. “C-can you just say something? Please?”

Fallon’s lips purse, then relax, then gape, then close, and it happens probably four times before she shakes her head and her vision is reverted back to her hands. It hits Kirby like a ton of bricks, because … she … why did she … what have I done? She starts to leave, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and muttering an apology, and it stirs something in Fallon.

“Why did you do that?”

Kirby looks at her over her shoulder, and its like she’s worried that if she moves too quickly, she’ll shatter. “I …”

Fallon’s brows knit, her face contorted in some amalgam of betrayal and … Jesus is that pleasure? Kirby shakes her head, remembering that her first leap of faith had succeeded in nothing more than a crash landing. Not to mention, she had a right to ask, Kirby conceded, shifting her position on the bed so that she’s facing her.

“I … Jesus this is hard.” Kirby relents, huffing perilously. “I couldn’t … help it.”

There’s a beat as both of them let that sink in, and really? That’s the best she can come up with? Fallon scowls, biting the inside of her left cheek — and

“My life is a goddamn soap opera.” She fumes, rolling her eyes. “I mean Jesus, Kirby. What kind of offhand, melodramatic bullshit is that?”

Kirby doesn’t respond, too taken aback by her explosion to see through he debris. It only pisses Fallon off more. She flies into a rage (or at least … the composed, calculated, Fallon version of a rage), spewing a string of mockeries at the redhead, and ending with the suggestion that if she can’t articulate what the hell it was that she just did, then she could “get out!”

“Because you deserve better.” Kirby blurts, and oh … oh. “Because … Because ever since we were like teenagers, I haven’t … I just … Fallon I’ve had a crush on you since we were sixteen, and you forced me to help you alphabetize your CD collection.”

Fallon tries to giggle, but it’s muddled the start of her own tears, and it comes out more as a choke. Her smile drops, lips pursing the way they do when she’s trying to level her composure.

“I’m engaged, Kirb.” She whispers, for fear that her voice will crack if it’s anything louder. “You … you could’ve picked a better time.”

Kirby smiles sadly, wringing her hands and nodding. She’s right, of course. This was impeccably unorganized — even by her standards. They had planned their weddings when they were twelve — their heads hanging off the edge of Fallon’s bed, legs dangling in the air above them. Fallon had wanted the traditional, big, white wedding that was expected of her. Kirby had dreamed up an utterly new, completely untraditional ceremony fit with a bouncy castle and Panera Bread catering. Fallon would smile, eyes clinging with amusement, because she thought the other girl was joking. She learned quickly that she was not, when they played pretend wedding and upon being cast as the groom (obviously), Kirby insisted on playing air guitar down the aisle.

“I messed everything up, didn’t I?” Kirby wavers, her eyes screaming a silent apology.

Fallon doesn’t know how to respond, because … damnit this feels like a breakup, which is ridiculous but it also isn’t and just … just … !

Their lips crash together, and Kirby practically jumps out of her skin. Fallon’s fingers come to run through her hair, tugging lightly on the pieces at the base of her skull, making the redhead’s eyes flutter closed. Kirby places her hands on the woman’s waist, pulling herself closer and pushing the brunette onto her back, and wanting to do more, but Fallon’s eyes pop open as her head makes contact with the bed a little too fast, and she’s hissing in pain, rolling onto her side.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Kirby apologizes for the umpteenth time, scrambling from her perch above her. 

“I’m fine.” Fallon grits her teeth, her eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

She opens them again when the room stops spinning and her stomach doesn’t feel like its about to lurch. Kirby is glaring at her with wide eyes, and a face so pale it looks like she might throw up.

“Jesus, Kirb, I don’t know what you’re freaking out about.” Fallon huffs. “I mean … you kissed me first, remember?” 

The redhead nods as the last of her stun wears off, and she realizes that she hasn’t blinked in the last ten seconds.

“Right. No, yeah, I know. I’m just …” The words topple over Kirby’s lips until she can finally stammer herself into silence for long enough to suck in a long, deep breath. “What about … you know …?”

The light behind Fallon’s eyes flicker out for a moment, replaced with a sort of flat dread that makes Kirby wish she’d never asked. The brunette’s jaw tenses, and it looks like she’s playing tug of war with herself.

“It was just a kiss, Kirby.” Her voice grates against the back of her throat like its a physical effort to get them out. “It’s … just a kiss.”

Kirby feels like she’s been buried alive, like the oxygen around her is sucked out and replaced with smoke. Her devastation gives way to annoyance, then hatred, and she thinks she’s done when suddenly its just … resignation. Fallon can’t help but flinch when the other woman takes her hand, bringing her thumb to stroke delicately on her palm, and observing her with a sort of saturnine despair.

“I know.” Kirby relinquishes, which only makes it worse, then repeats, “You’re engaged.”

The brunette thinks she’s going to explode, or maybe melt, or just fall through the gates of hell right on the spot. Her lower lip trembles dangerously, and part of her wants to lean in and kiss her again, but there’s a knock at the door, and fucking hell its Culhane.

“Kirby, what’re you doing here?”

“Culhane. Just … making sure she’s ok.” Kirby snatches her hand away, bringing it to run through her hair in an attempt to get it as far away from her as possible.

Fallon hated storms because when she was nine, she’d gotten caught in the woods on the outskirts of the Carrington property. Her mother had warned her not to ride alone, but it had only fueled the young girl more. There was a role of thunder, and her horse jolted, bucking her off and bolting deeper into the forest. Fallon had no clue where she was, or subsequently how to get back. The storm lasted two hours — lighting and thunder and heavy winds. Her would find her curled in on herself, caked in mud, and utterly stunned. He carried her back to the manor before calling for a maid to help her change into something dry.

Kirby practically scrambles out of the bed, offering Culhane a tight smile. Fallon watches her with so much desperation that Kirby feels like she’ll need scissors to cut the strain. Kirby doesn’t look at her when she leaves, not even when a flash of lighting comes streaming through every window in the manor, not even when Fallon whimpers and sucks in a sharp breath.

#ok ok this is long #and really sad so like get ready #dynasty #firby #kirby anders #Fallon Carrington #liz gillies #dynasty fic #long fic #nat writes #firbyfic #dynastyfic #angst #angst comfort #hurt comfort #fanfic #I wrote this instead of sleeping #michael culhane

[ratchedspeach]

... “Carrington Manor looks like it's been thrown up on by Father Christmas. Kirby’s fingers trace the tinsel-wrapped banister as she descends the stairway. There’s something sort of … breathtaking about the frivolity of it all, if she’s being honest. The mansion is decked in red bows and silver ornaments, and there’s the faint tinkering of what she can only describe as the elevator music equivalent of the greatest holiday hits. It’s beautiful, yes, but she can’t help it think that its a little impersonal as well. 

The living room is empty when she rounds the corner, but the fireplace paints the room in a warm glow. Kirby’s eyes flick to the coffee table, where she sees a full array of cookies and desserts, and most importantly eggnog. She pours herself a glass, inhaling the aroma of cinnamon and whiskey.

“Good to see you’ve made yourself at home.” Fallon’s voice makes her choke on the sip she’s taking. “Oh please don’t let me interrupt. This is supposed to be for the party later, but by all means. Can I get you anything else? A shot of tequila? Some pie? The keys to the city?”

It’s harmless banter, Kirby knows that, but it doesn’t stop the color from rising in her cheeks. Kirby stares the other woman dead in the eyes, gulping the last of her drink and placing her crystal cup on the table. Fallon shifts a little when the redhead brings a finger to the corner of her lips and wipes away the excess.

“I think I’m good, actually. Thanks though.” Kirby smirks, and Fallon roles her eyes.

In her plaid mini skirt, turtleneck, and boots (all of which she’s almost positive she bought at H&M), Kirby feels underdressed compared to the brunette. Fallon is adorned in a sleek back pantsuit with a gold, silk tunic. The blouse is tied at the neckline into a bow, but the rest of it flows and billows, and it might be a little sheer, but she doesn’t let herself stare long enough to find out. Kirby recognizes the outfit immediately from Yve Saint Laurent’s holiday line. The brunette’s curls are pinned into a messy bun at the back of her head, and her makeup is lightly and glowy, and lacking the red lip that is usually quintessential to any ensemble Fallon wears. It’s more androgynous than she’s seen Fallon look.

She likes it.”

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#cause I owe y'all some happy lesbians #I LOVE LESBIANS MWAHAHA #christmas lesbians #nat writes #archive of our own #dynasty #dynastyfic #firby #fallon carrington #kirby anders #ship: firby #fic recs #you don't know me #fanfic #dynasty fanfic #firby fic #firbys #idk what else to tag this #I hope you like it thouhg #fluff #smut if you squint #the start of smut at least #i