Isn't it confusing, what first love does to a man?
Story where Alexine is Soldier Boy's first love and rekindle after many years apart.
[UNGOING]
[Warnings; smut, angst, torture, mention of torture, trauma, physical abuse, mental abuse, verbal abuse...
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In a dimly lit, spacious room adorned with vintage Cuban decor, Fidel Castro sat at a mahogany desk, surrounded by the clutter of his surroundings. The rich aroma of his cigar smoke curled lazily in the air, mingling with the faint scent of old leather and aged wood. A large wooden bookcase lined with volumes of revolutionary theory and historical texts stood against one wall, while a map of the Caribbean, marked with strategic notes, hung prominently.
Castro, dressed in his trademark olive green military fatigues and a green beret slightly askew, was hunched over a pile of papers on the desk. The desk, strewn with scattered documents, official reports, and a few red wax-sealed envelopes, suggested a day spent in political deliberation. His left hand held a half-smoked cigar, the tip glowing with a steady ember as he took slow, deliberate puffs.
In front of him lay a stack of U.S. dollars, freshly counted. He meticulously organized the bills into neat piles, his fingers moving with practiced precision. Occasionally, he tapped the cigar ash into an ornate ashtray, his eyes scanning the figures on the financial documents.
He glanced toward a large window draped with heavy curtains, through which faint moonlight filtered, casting a silvery glow over the room. The only sounds were the occasional rustle of paper and the soft, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. A radio, set to a low volume, played "Noze Achul", a cuban song popular the decade prior.
As Castro carefully stashed the counted money into a leather briefcase, the door creaked open, breaking the serene silence. Castro, momentarily startled, lifted his gaze from the stack of documents, expecting to see one of his guards.
"Is that you, Carlos?" Castro asked, his voice firm but tinged with curiosity.
The figure that stepped into the room was not a guard but Alexine, clad in sleek black military pants and a fitted shirt with a high collar. Castro's eyes narrowed as he registered her attire and the threat it implied.
"Guess again," Alexine said, her voice smooth and unwavering.
Castro's hand instinctively reached for the revolver holstered at his side. However, before he could draw it, Alexine unleashed her demonic pitch, paralyzing him with its otherworldly resonance. His entire body froze, his mind struggling to form coherent thoughts.
"Stop," Alexine commanded, her eyes piercing through Castro's confusion as she advanced with purposeful strides. Her military boots clinked softly against the wooden floor.
Castro's face contorted in fear and anger as he croaked, "I know you... you're the woman superhero. The CIA bitch."
Alexine's eyes narrowed slightly, she had never been in the spotlight. But with nearly 20 years of activities, it was normal that her cover got compromised. Despite the revelation, she remained stoic.
As long as he didn't say her name, she was fine.
She reached for the documents on the desk, her fingers deftly flipping through the papers. Suddenly, Castro's powerful grip clamped down on her wrists, his strength evident in the vice-like hold. "Let go," Alexine commanded again, her voice tinged with her supernatural influence.
