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tisfan · 4 years

Note

Prompt list 94. “Oh fuck it, will you marry me?” WinterIron. Pretty please !

Title: Somebody that I Used to Know Written by: 3023 @tisfan Square: T3 – Phone Sex Rating: Teen and Up Triggers/warnings: no archive warnings apply Tags: Make-up Fic, Tony Stark has a Heart, post break up, texting your ex, references to phone sex Created for: @tonystarkbingo Word count: 1,547

Prompt: Fuck it, will you marry me?

Bucky Barnes wasn't sure when Brooklyn had become a stranger to him. When he didn't quite feel welcome anymore. That he didn't belong.

Too many changes, maybe. Not the superficial ones, like that bookstore being a cafe and the Wash-a-teria boarded over, or a new Bodega on the corner. But the changes to Bucky.

It's a two week job, he told himself. Two weeks and he'd go home again. This empty hotel room and looking over the skyline… being in the same city with him.

Of course, if Bucky hadn't been stalking his ex on social media for months now, he wouldn't know that. Not for certain. He took out his phone, considering the idea of ordering take away from their favorite place. New York was always going to remind him of Tony.

God, those had been some good times. Fucking great times, really. He remembered their last fight, when they decided it just wasn’t going to work, they were done. Bucky needed to make something of himself, get out from under Tony’s shadow, and Tony was insisting that Long Distance could work, but then he kept getting swamped with SI stuff and not coming out to visit, and it just wasn’t fucking worth it. The heartache and disappointment. But man, he’d loved the hell out of that man. No one else in the last few years had come even half as close.

He scrolled through his contacts. He had a new phone, but he always just transferred everything to the new device. He flicked the screen a little harder than he meant and the list scrolled way past Knish Nosh and Stark, Tony was there on the screen.

He probably didn't even have the same number anymore. Or wouldn't know who Bucky was. New phone, who dis. New life, do I even know you?

Thinking about getting Potato Knish. You hungry?

He hesitated and then hit send.

Tony probably wouldn't even answer him.

Good. It was probably for the best.

His phone buzzed. New text from Stark, Tony.

Am now.

Bucky? It's been ages. How TF you been?

Bucky was just starting to type in a reply when his phone rang. Stark, Tony.

“Hey,” Bucky said, trying not to put too much meaning into it. It wasn’t a shoulder touch and a lean in and bedroom eyes, Hey. It was just a hey, how are you? That kind of hey.

“Are you close enough to actually get knish?” Tony was talking really fast, tripping over his words like he was scared he wouldn’t have time to get them out.

“They certainly haven’t got knish in Indiana,” Bucky said. “Yeah, I’m in the city for a few weeks, on a job.”

“Oh,” Tony said, and there was a lot of weight in that oh. What did oh mean, Bucky wondered. Oh, as in that’s good to know, or-- “A few weeks, yeah, that’s good, that’s good. I mean, not-- I mean, you’ll be in the city for a few more days?”

Bucky’s eyebrow went up. So typical. “Let me guess, you’re out of town for some SI thing and--”

“Yeah, you know, it’s a thing,” Tony said hastily, instead of trying to make excuses, which is what he usually did. “I’m on the plane right now, as a matter of fact, gotta love that inflight wifi. Hey, do you remember, back when I was on that trip in Beijing and the wifi cut out right when we were having the most incredible phone sex?”

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh, and it was a bitter sort of laugh, because that had been the beginning of the end. He wouldn’t be so shallow as to say that being left hanging had been the whole reason, just that it was a symptom of the problem. And the problem was, Tony was never there. Which just made it easier for Bucky to leave. “Yeah, I remember.” But Tony had come home, and taken a whole week off, despite the fact that his personal assistant had been screaming about it, just to spend it with Bucky, to be there for his sister’s birthday.

Huh. Bucky’d sort of forgotten about that, really.

“Well, you know, it’s not knish,” Tony offered, “but I could entertain you, I bet. Those were the days weren’t they, Bucky? I’ve been thinking about you recently, glad you texted. You know?”

Tony Stark had been thinking about Bucky? “Phone lines go both ways,” Bucky said. “You could have dropped me a line.”

“Yeah, no, I didn’t think I wanted to hear you hang up on me,” Tony said. “In case I was just somebody you used to know.”

Bucky swallowed an absurd lump of guilt. “I would never,” he lied. It was a lie, because he didn’t know if he would have, back when they first broke up. But he had never, so it was still sort of the truth. “I-- I never hated you, Tony, you know that, right?”

“I know,” Tony said, and it was wistful and sad, and a little like Han Solo going into carbonite. God, Bucky was such a nerd.

Tony was, too.

“I missed you,” Tony said.

“Yeah, I missed you, too,” Bucky admitted. He had. “It-- Indiana wasn’t… I mean it wasn’t bad, you know. But-- it wasn’t you. I… okay. When will you be back in the city? You want to get knish with me?”

“I would love to,” Tony said. “Um, Thursday? I think I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“I can do Thursday.”

“Great, I’ll call you with details,” Tony said. “I-- I mean, I’ll see you then.”

Was Tony going to say “I love you”?

And if he was, did he mean it, or was it just leftover muscle memory from when they had signed off their calls with I love you.

“I know.”

“Not that I’m not glad to see you,” Tony said, looking up from his phone, “but--”

Bucky threw the paper down onto the hospital bed, along with a bundle of cheap, sidewalk-seller flowers. The petals went everywhere in a storm. “Business trip?”

Well, Pepper had tried to keep it out of the papers, but apparently someone with a telephoto lens had gotten him as he went into the hospital.

“It’s what we were telling everyone,” Tony said. “Stock takes a hit if I’m not fit and fantastic, which seems unfair to me, but SI employees thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of people, and if the stock tanks too much, then the board starts hounding me for layoffs.”

“You could have died,” Bucky said. With those dramatic eyes and his penchant for hyperbole, not to mention the sort of face that wrecked a thousand ships, Tony always wondered why his boyfriend -- ex, ex boyfriend -- hadn’t gone into modeling. Or acting.

“But I didn’t, and now I have a brand new tricuspid valve, and everything’s going to be fine. Assuming you don’t kill me,” Tony added.

Bucky threw himself down in the guest chair. He probably regretted that immensely, since Tony knew they weren’t very comfortable. “How long did you know?”

Tony didn’t try to play dumb. “That I had heart problems? About two years, now.”

Right before Bucky had left. He watched Bucky come to that conclusion.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Honey, you-- you were leaving anyway, you wanted your dream and your career, and what sort of an asshole would I be if I made you stay here just because--”

“You were dying?” Bucky glanced at him, his entire heart in his eyes. “Tony, you could have told me.”

“Well, I’m telling you now,” Tony tried. It wasn’t a good attempt. He’d let Bucky leave. Practically driven him off, really, not wanting to be that guy, not wanting to spend the rest of their time wondering if Bucky was being nice because he wanted to, or because Tony was sick. Not wanting to emotionally blackmail the man he loved.

And, to be honest, wanting to make the break easier for Bucky. Didn’t want to leave him alone and mourning, if that happened. Tony had never been very good at that sort of thing.

“You asshole,” Bucky said.

“Well-established,” Tony agreed. “Look, I just--”

“I love you,” Bucky said. “I… you were putting the company ahead of me, that’s what I thought, and I know… I know your job is important, baby, but. All I wanted was to be first, and you-- you let me leave you when you were dying?”

“I’m not dying now,” Tony pointed out. “And I was going to meet you for knish on Thursday and tell you. I think I should get credit for that. I-- I just wanted… if it worked, if we could make it work, I wanted to be sure. I didn’t want you staying because I was smothering you.”

“Breathing free air in Indiana is not that damn important, Tony,” Bucky said. “I’ll quit, I’ll come home, whatever you want--”

“What?”

“Fuck it, will you marry me?” Bucky asked, then, because it was Bucky, and Tony, he added, “dumbass.”

“It’s pronounced Dumas.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” It was probably stupid and impulsive and rash, self-destructive and textbook narcissism. “I think-- I think we’ll be all right.”

#tonystarkbingo2020 #texting your ex #winteriron #tony stark x bucky barnes #fills #prompts #Anonymous

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thewritewolf · 4 years

Text

The Dupain Cheng Home for Wayward Kittens

Summary: On the tail end of a bad day, Chat Noir was hoping to be cheered up by his favorite civilian. But it wasn't Marinette who opened the skylight that night.

This week's prompt was Chat Noir and the daily prompts that I used were Cat in the Night, Just Because, and Bakery.

@adrienaugust

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Not even a minute had passed between Nathalie closing the door behind her and Adrien transforming into Chat Noir. Just before he clambered out the window, he made sure his door was locked.

He knew there wouldn’t be a good chance of anyone coming in later that night, and that was on after a normal day. But after the long, grueling day they’d all just gotten through? There was no chance. Nathalie, the Gorilla, his father - none of them would have the energy to micromanage him now.

A big grin spread across Chat Noir’s face as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, feeling the weight he’d been carrying fall off of him. After a long day of being shuttled from one photoshoot to another, he was thrilled to finally have a chance to just run. To stretch his legs, feel the wind in his hair without his father chiding him for making the stylist’s job even harder.

Chat’s smile soured as not even running across rooftops was enough to dismiss the memory of his father taking a personal hand in today’s photoshoots. They were bad enough usually - a bunch of people fussing over him, sitting in one place for long stretches of time, faking emotions that he had to hold until the muscles in his face started to grow sore. But adding his father into the mix? Famous for being an unpleasable perfectionist?

Nothing was enough. They could’ve done three photoshoots in the time it took them to do one with Gabriel Agreste at the helm. And Adrien didn’t even get to have the loud and energetic atmosphere that usually accompanied those shoots. There were no exclamations of ‘mama’s spaghetti’ this time. Just the eerie silence that Gabriel demanded for his work.

The worst part? The photos didn’t even look all that better from what Adrien could see. Not that anyone would dare tell his father that. Even Adrien wouldn’t tell him that since his father’s hairpin trigger of a temper was about as well known as his perfectionism.

It was with a pout that Chat Noir sat down on the rooftop he found himself on, arms crossed and hunched over in just a way that he could imagine his father berating him for doing it. Which gave him some satisfaction but it was still no cure for his bad mood.

An idea suddenly occurred to him, which brought a smile to his face. There was one thing that never failed to cheer him up. Well, less a thing and more a person.

Standing up, Chat Noir made his way toward the Dupain-Cheng bakery, hoping that Marinette would still be up by now.

------------

Chat Noir knocked on the skylight and waited, crouched next to it like his namesake. His tail swished back and forth behind him, arced high in excitement as he waited for Marinette to respond. It was the weekend so she wasn’t studying. There hadn’t been any homework recently. It wasn’t super late into the night, so she should still be awake - even though he knew she tended to stay up later than she should.

His stomach grumbled - would it be rude of him to ask for pastries immediately, or should he wait until they got the pleasantries out of the way first? He fidgeted nervously in place as it took longer than usual for Marinette to answer his knocking. Had he accidentally woken her? Should he not have come in the first place?

Light poured out from the slowly opening skylight, pushing away any his doubts and returning his previous good mood.

“Marinette! I was hoping you were-” His words got stuck in his throat when he realized that he wasn’t talking to Marinette. Sure, there were similarities - hair color and complexion and such - but this woman was much older than his classmate.

Sabine Cheng blinked up at him in bemusement.

“Hello Chat Noir,” Sabine said slowly, cautiously. “I don’t mean to insinuate anything, but is there a reason you are visiting my daughter’s bedroom at such a late hour?”

It took a moment for what she was saying to click in Chat’s head, but when it did his face heated up and a blush spread across his face. He stumbled backwards, falling from his crouch and landing clumsily on his rear.

“I- No, that’s not- We’re just friends is all!”

Sabine was still watching him cautiously through half-lidded eyes.

“Honest!” He looked down and grabbed his tail only to begin wringing it in his hands. “We eat some croissants - very tasty by the way, you’re great bakers - and talk and she listens when I complain and its just…” He swallowed heavily and glanced back up at her. “...It’s nice.”

Sabine’s face softened. “Sorry, dear. Marinette went over to her best friend’s for a sleepover. I’m just up here taking her laundry hamper downstairs.”

“Ah, so she’s at Alya’s then,” Chat said, hunching his shoulders. Talking to Marinette alone is one thing, but having more people there felt like he couldn’t open up as much. Not to mention that the other person being ALya meant that there was no guarantee that what he said wouldn’t end up on the Ladyblog. “I guess I’ll just go home then.”

His stomach growled, which coaxed a smirk from Sabine.

“Do you want to come inside, dear?” A twinkle of mirth shone in her eyes. “The pastries aren’t from Marinette but I have been told that I’m a great baker.”

Chat Noir debated on it for just a moment before his stomach growled even louder than before. Swallowing his pride, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

--------------------

Was it the superheroics combined with being a growing boy that made him so hungry? Or was there something going on at home?

Before tonight, Sabine would have assumed it was the former, but after having Chat Noir happily chattering away for the past half an hour, she wasn’t so sure.

Sure, she could take him at face value when he says that he is getting enough food at home. And while he might deny it, he is still unquestionably a child - there was no doubt in Sabine’s mind that he wasn’t much older than Marinette, if he even was older. So high metabolism might have something to do with it.

But then again… he didn’t speak of his home life fondly. She’d seen the look on his face when he thought he’d have to go straight home instead of visiting with Marinette. There was no excitement - just a quiet dread. As if getting away and staying away was all he wanted.

Tom passed him a mug of hot chocolate to go with Chat Noir’s plate of croissants. While the young hero brought it up to his lips, Tom saddled up onto one of the chairs opposite him. Tom shared a look of concern with her while Chat Noir wasn’t paying attention.

“So… rough day, son?”

Chat put down the mug and tilted his head curiously. “What makes you say that, sir?”

And such a nice young man too! Sabine could see why Marinette might take a shine to him.

“Folks don’t usually run around the city at night if they had a good day.”

“Well there was that time you ran out into the rain, sweetheart.”

“True,” Tom replied to her. “But the most wonderful woman in the world had just said ‘yes’ to my proposal, so I think that gives me a little leeway.”

“Flatterer,” Sabine said with a smile.

“Always.” Tom turned back to Chat Noir, still grinning. “So what’s got you down, son?”

Chat Noir looked down into his mug, gently swirling the hot chocolate. Just when Sabine thought Tom would have to repeat his question, Chat Noir spoke up.

“It’s my father.”

Sabine raised an eyebrow. That seemed overly formal for a father-son relationship.

“What about him?”

“Oh, he was just keeping me busy all day is all,” Chat Noir said, still looking into his swirling chocolate. “Nothing all that important.”

It was a slow process, but they managed to coax a few more details from him. Absent or missing mother. Distant father. Some sort of job that his father had him do. But at his age? It all seemed rather fishy.

Once they had said their goodbyes and sent him home with a bulging bag of baked goods, the two of them sat quietly in their kitchen, far later than they usually were up.

“It’s not right, Tom.” Sabine finally broke the silence.

“No doubt about it.” Tom sighed. “But what can we do, really? There’s nothing that can be done without knowing who he is.”

“Then that’s where we have to start.”

He blinked in stunned silence. “Sabine, you don’t mean…?”

She nodded resolutely. “Tom, we need to find out who Chat Noir is. That’s the only way we’ll be able to get him the help he needs.”

#Miraculous Ladybug #Chat Noir #Sabine Cheng #Tom Dupain #ml fanfiction #my writing #The Dupain Cheng Home For Wayward Kittens #Adrien Augreste #AdrienAugust

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kenzieam · 3 years

Text

Remember Me - Chapter One

@jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @iammarylastar@captstefanbrandt @badassbaker @pinknerdpanda @oliviastan17 @mizzzpink

I know I’m forgetting people, sorry. If you want in, hit me.

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Rating: M

Warnings: Major angst, drama, sorrow, pain, suffering, language, my usual shit

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FEEDBACK IS LIFE, Y’ALL!

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Lev is newly born, her entire life up until the last mission gone. How does she navigate these new waters where she doesn’t remember anything anymore? And what to make of the heartbreaking way Bucky is always looking at her now?

***********************************************************************

My head hurts and I’m getting tired of the endless questions, but the people milling around me can’t seem to accept what I keep saying, over and fucking over.

“You don’t remember me?”

I study him, if only to give the impression that I’m trying really hard to remember but it’s all a blank, just a big fucking expanse of white. Not overly tall, tailored suit and smart-ass twist to his lips. “No.”

He glances at one of the others, a quiet, introspective guy who’s been doing most of the medical shit and only receives a shrug in return.

“C’mon Banner, what the hell is going on?” The little one asks, sounding surprisingly distressed.

Who are these people and why do they care so much if I know them?

“I told you,” the one called Banner begins, voice quiet and somehow chronically sad. “She can’t remember; going by my preliminary findings, it’s most-likely post-traumatic retrograde amnesia.”

“What? She hit her head or something?” The little guy looks around at the rest of them, hands out in exasperated query.

I consider answering, something cutting and acerbic about the blood-stained uniform I wear, the bruises and cuts and cracked bones that Banner has already splinted and given me lovely drugs for, but it seems like too much effort and really, if the suit can’t deduce that something went down out there based on how I look and feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, I’m not going to waste my breath.

A tall blond who’s holding his side gingerly answers, flicking a glance at me as if he’s read my apparently scrambled mind. Judging by the way the others pay attention to him, I’m guessing he’s one of the bosses. There’s a reassuring steadiness about him and I see why he’s the one everyone looks to for answers. “Yes, Tony. She hit her head, Kozlov had a few dirty tricks laid out that we got stuck in.”

The one called Tony shrugs, looking inexplicably pissed. “The rest of you look okay.”

That was far from true, every single one of them was bleeding or bruised somewhere, but if he was referring to the fact that no one else was sitting there unable to remember anything personal, then he was right. A petite redhead, her arm in a sling, shifted her weight, throwing a dirty glance at Tony, while a handsome black guy, one whole side of his uniform scorched and torn but the skin beneath thankfully intact, scoffed, looking ready to say something in return if not for the blond glancing warningly at him over his shoulder but my attention was on the brown-haired man hovering in the shadows.

As tall as the blond and heavily muscled, chocolate brown hair hung lank in a stunningly beautiful face, all the more striking because of his almost supernatural blue eyes but the most defining feature by far was his shiny, metal left arm. He looked like he was struggling with the urge to simultaneously destroy something in rage and collapse into tears, the dichotomy both fascinating and unsettling. Although heavily injured, at least to my eyes, he’d eschewed all attempts at help, insisting on everyone else being taken care of first. He’d spent most of the time here in this sterile room watching me, something indecipherable in his stare. He seemed to be taking this amnesia business far more personally than anyone else, eyes red-rimmed and swimming in tears, even as his fists, one metal and one flesh, clenched at his sides.

“I know,” the blond replies, sounding chagrined and I look his way once more, curious despite the pain in my head. He flicks his eyes to me, and I’m surprised at the distress there. “Lev took a hit meant for all of us.”

I did? Why? And is that my name, Lev?

The anguish in the metal-armed guy seems to overflow at the blonde’s words and he turns away, hammering his synthetic fist against the wall, the sound barely concealing his sob, but the group appears remarkably indifferent to his reaction, as if used to it; maybe he’s the emotional one of the team.

Or maybe, based on the way he’s been watching you; this news hurts him more.

Whatever, my head frickin’ hurts and I just want to lie down, we can all play twenty-questions later.

Banner seems to notice my weariness first and steps closer, freezing when I tense then seeming to accept my reaction almost sadly. “C’mon, let’s leave her alone. She needs to rest.”

“She can’t go to her quarters…” the redhead begins, looking between the one named Tony, Banner and the blond, glancing once apologetically at the brunette, who’s turned away from the wall to watch us again, but looks like he is barely holding on. A strange compulsion hits me, to leap off the exam table, rush to him and hold him close but it makes no goddamn sense, I don’t know this man, I need to go lie down, like Banner said.

“No.” Banner agrees, and he too flicks a look at the man, seemingly sorry to agree with the woman. “That won’t work… not right now…. Anyway, she needs to be monitored closely for the next day or so, I’d feel better if she stays here.”

Whatever, I can’t think about this, everything hurts too goddamn much. The darkness swirls up again and, rather than fighting it, I embrace it, faintly registering my body sway and tip over, the impact with the bed probably painful but I’m too gone to notice.

********************************************************************************** Heavy breathing wakes me later and I slit my eyes open, trying to find the source. Whoever it is, they sound like they’re fighting tears and my heart cracks at the sound. I imagine the sound of anyone crying is something I don’t particularly want to hear, but something about this person’s anguish is particularly cutting.

It’s the brown-haired man, the one with the metal arm. He sits to my side, hunched over, face buried in his hands and massive shoulders shaking. It’s disconcerting to see someone so physically imposing and large looking so… broken but there’s some serious shit going on with this guy.

Before I can move though, shift my hand to brush his knee or anything really to help him, the blond appears at the doorway. I can barely make his features out, due to the dim lighting and my barely-opened eyes, but he’s not looking at me anyway. I close my eyes again, it’s easier.

“Buck, c’mon man.” He murmurs, stepping further into the room. “You need to lay down.”

Buck, okay; that’s his name.

“She’s gone, Steve.”

No, I’m not. I’m not dead.

“No, she’s not.”

Thank you, Steve.

“Her memory is! She can’t remember us; she doesn’t remember me.”

“Bruce hopes it’ll all come back.”

“What if it doesn’t?” There’s a horrible resignation in his deep voice, a stark question.

“Then we’ll deal with it.”

“She’s everything to me, Steve. She’s my life, you know this. If all we had is gone-”

“Stop it.” There’s an edge in Steve’s voice now, but I get the impression it’s not anger, but the same fear currently affecting Buck. “She will come out of this. You know as well as I do that Tony and Bruce won’t rest until they figure this out.”

Buck scoffs, but it’s half-hearted and I feel a calloused hand take mine. The touch is gentle, if a little desperate. It feels like he’s saying goodbye.

I hear Steve step in further, a hand slap lightly on a shoulder. “C’mon.” He says again and I hear the chair scratch as Buck stands. A moment later dry lips brush my forehead.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” Buck murmurs but then my shadows are dragging me down again and if he says anything more, I don’t hear it.

********************************************************************************** The next days pass with painful slowness, dragging like rusty blades across my skin and, based on the faint scars I find on my inner arms and thighs, that’s something the old me used to do with heartbreaking regularity.

What sort of life did I lead, that made inflicting pain on myself acceptable?

I want to stay away from the others, but it’s made difficult by their damn persistence. I’m given some space but not nearly as much as I crave. They all mean well but being asked a hundred times if some location or activity ‘triggers anything?’ gets old. And Banner, Bruce now as I’ve learned is his first name, has a thousand and one ways to try and restart my memory.

But it all remains frustratingly blank.

I remember nothing, not one thing about my life before waking up in the quinjet, everyone hovering over me looking like I’d gone and died on them a time or two.

But apparently there’s records and I spent the first few days that Bruce insisted I stay in the medical labs working my way through them.

I was an orphan, raised in a series of group homes and shoddy orphanages, fighting for scraps. Faint memories trickle back as I read this, just flashes and hints but, based on what I’m reading, that’s a good thing. Sometimes they seem little better than nightmares.

And it explains the scars.

After slumming around in dead-end jobs for a while I, seemingly on a whim, applied to SHIELD and passed the entrance exam, a surprise given my basic background, lack of higher education and chip on my shoulder regarding authority.

Following one particularly ugly assignment, where I completely disregarded orders and then told my commanding officer to go fornicate with himself, I was offered a choice.

Leave SHIELD in disgrace, or volunteer as a guinea pig, only I wasn’t supposed to call it that, even if I was.

For what exactly I had no idea, but that didn’t seem to stop me and, after a half-dozen unsuccessful tests where I nearly got my head blown off more that once testing out experimental weapons, (an expendable resource for R&D), I was offered up to Tony and Bruce.

And what a proposition they’d had for me.

For years Stark had been working on perfecting a serum similar to what his father and Erskine had used on the blond I now knew was called Steve and, with Banner’s help, he’d achieved a version he was fairly confident in.

For whatever reason, they saw something in me (that I did not and had never seen in myself) and the multiple personality and psychiatric tests that were standard at SHIELD and felt I was worthy of the opportunity. Or maybe just perfectly expendable, with no family or close friends to speak of.

And I’d apparently had no sense because I’d agreed to let them test it on me.

If the serum had failed, as it had the few other times Stark had felt confident enough to try it on a real person, I would have probably been booted out of SHIELD entirely, left to my own flawed devices; but it hadn't and I’d become the first successful recipient of serum since Rogers himself, at least for our side. There was a section included in my reading on HYDRA and their Winter Soldier program, including a group of volunteers who’d been executed by their handlers that I skimmed over, feeling the strangest sense of discomfort.

Anyway, with that came the transference to the team, and my first exposure to The Avengers.

That was as far as I got before Bruce cleared me to leave medical, despite the near crippling headaches I was still suffering from, and I was glad for it, being awakened every few hours (usually just after I’d managed to nod off again) had gotten old fast.

The topic of my quarters was still a touchy subject apparently, because I was led to a furnished but plain set of rooms to make myself at home. Steve was the one to take me and his shoulders stiffened when I asked if this was where I had lived before.

“No,” he replies quietly, not looking directly at me.

I was getting really tired of being spoon-fed inf0rmation, at the rate everyone else had decided I could handle it and there was obviously more here than Steve was willing to tell me. “Then where did I live before? Why can’t I go back there now?”

“Lev-” Although I didn’t remember this man, the look of reluctance on his face was universal. He doesn’t want to tell me.

“Goddammit, would someone tell me the truth?” I snap, slamming my fist into the wall, only a small part of me sorry for my outburst. “Why is everyone lying to me?”

“We’re not lying!” Steve almost shouts and I get the sense that this big man rarely raised his voice like this because his face went pink and blotchy and he looked away from me. “Look, Lev. This is hard for everyone-”

I snort, because really.

“No, it’s true.” He returns, finally meeting my eyes. “We just don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“By taking me to an empty room?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Its not a good idea for you to go to your old quarters.”

“Why not?”

He looks downright miserable now. “Because you share them with someone.” He lifts his gaze to me, beseeching me to stop asking, to not press him further.

To hell with that. “Who?”

“Lev.”

“Who?!”

“No,” he shakes his head and get the feeling he’s digging in his heels. “Bruce said it’s dangerous to overload you with information, I’ve already said too much. Don’t ask again.”

There’s such misery on his face I pause. “Was it you?”

He starts slightly, fighting to hide it. “No.”

I feel bad suddenly, pressing him like this. It’s not his fault I can’t remember anything (at least I don’t think it is) and he’s just the poor bastard that got tasked with showing me my new room. A headache flares up with sickening strength and I suddenly don’t care anymore who I shared space with. “Okay, thanks.” I reach for the knob, hoping to keep my face from betraying my pain.

“Lev-”

“I’m going to go lay down now, Rogers. Thanks.”

I close the door in his face before he can answer.

************************************************************************************ Murmured words against my throat.

Soft lips caress my pulse-point.

A soft, stroking touch.

Heat and weight as someone stretches out on top of me, the feeling welcoming and familiar.

A knee between my thighs, a shuddered exhale.

“I love you, baby.” A tender voice.

I wake to a dark room, cold and alone. There is nobody with me, no one whispering tenderly in my ear. Whoever they were, I trusted them completely, felt one hundred percent safe with them and…. Shit, loved them in return.

But who?

My brain has been too scrambled, my interactions with the team too awkward and stilted to give me any clues. Nobody so far has sparked anything in me like that, male or female; not that I’m prejudiced, but the weight on me, the timbre of the voice says it was a man I loved.

Steve says it wasn’t him, but that doesn’t really narrow it down. There’s apparently a thunder god running around out there somewhere I haven’t met in my new form, and his brother, plus a multitude of others, it’s all a jumbled maze in my head right now.

I could be standing right next to this person and not have a fucking clue, thanks to the tangled spaghetti in my brain.

It’s been a week since I was escorted to these empty rooms and I’ve rarely ventured out, preferring solitude to everyone’s well-meaning ‘help’. It’s not like I’m partying it up or anything, most of the time I sleep, exhausted and baby-weak, trying to remember my life when I’m awake, which usually just leads to more sleeping.

The others do get in unfortunately, because even though it’s exhausting and draining to talk with people, see the hope in their eyes that their words are going to somehow trigger some memory in me, it’s also strangely lonely by myself. I don’t have myself in my head anymore to keep me interested, the general background noise of a busily-humming brain. Mine is still shell-shocked, with no files to sort through for entertainment.

The dreams, or perhaps memories, continue. Not all the time, but enough to make me think they’re more than simple fantasy. The whispered words, the warmth of someone’s strong, muscular body. I’d sit down and try to figure it out if I didn’t now have the attention span of three-year old and the napping habits of a ninety-year-old.

“It’ll come back.” Bruce reassures me, but I’m not sure who he’s talking to, me or him.

“The memories,” I clarify. “Or everything?”

“Everything?”

“My… ties with people, friendships?”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know. It’s still too early to tell, but with traumatic brain injury there is always the risk of permanent damage, personality changes. You being serum-enhanced just makes it a bigger question mark. Steve has never experienced something like this, and Bucky’s amnesia was an entirely different set of circumstances.”

I’ve learned since that first strange encounter with him, that his name isn’t in fact Buck, but Bucky, and both are nicknames for his real name, James; but that’s about it. The guy avoids me like the plague, and I guess that’s fair, since Bruce just said he’s experienced something the same but different, and probably doesn’t want to be reminded about it.

Once or twice, I’ve brought up Bucky to Steve, the first time in curiosity, the second to see if I imagined the first reaction. Both times his face went red and he suddenly couldn’t speak clearly, suffering from an acute case of the mumbles.

It would be telling, his reactions, if I actually remembered the man and whether he was a frequent sufferer of such things, or if my questions are hitting a particularly sore nerve.

“How’s your headaches?” Bruce continues, watching me carefully.

“You tell me, I know you’ve got that computer thing watching me all the time, what’s it called, MONDAY?”

He smiles faintly. “FRIDAY, and it’s for your own protection. You insist on being alone but if you ever suffered a seizure or was suddenly overcome with pain or-”

“I’m fine, really Banner. Don’t need a babysitter.”

“Right now, you do. Sorry Lev, I know that offends your sense of independence.”

“I have a sense of independence?”

“Yes, you were very self-reliant. That didn’t stop you from maintaining strong relationships with the team, but you preferred to nurse any wounds or injuries only in the company of a select few.”

“Them being?”

He grimaces, the same ‘oh shit’ look on his face as Rogers and we’re back into the ‘keeping Lev in the dark for her own good’ bullshit. “Lev-”

“Either tell me or leave me alone, Banner. I’m drowning in ‘what’s good for me’ around here.”

“Lev,” he looks genuinely hurt and I feel bad for a heartbeat. “We just want to help you, this is as strange and new to us as it is for you, we don’t know what will trigger memories for you, or overload you-”

“I know.” I heave a sigh because, as much as it grieves and frustrates me, I do get the sense that these people truly care about me and want what’s best for me.

“Do you feel well enough to try some exercise?”

I shrug, was that something I was into before? The toned lines of my body say yes but, as with everything, I have no memory of gym training.

“You have retrograde amnesia Lev; your personal memories are affected but not the practical ones. Your body remembers repetitive activities, you can dress and feed yourself, if you went down to the training area your body would remember your exercise routine, your muscles would take over.” He paused, weighing his next words. “No guarantees, but it might help trigger your memory as well.”

I nod absently because I’m wondering the same thing. There’s small bits and flashes that I remember now, but they only come if I’m not trying to remember. My mind needs to be blank and floating, basically concentrating on the opposite of thinking and sometimes I’ll get a little hit, some quick blip. Mostly it’s early memories so far, before I joined SHIELD or the team, but I’m starting to get a sense of the scrappy orphan I was, fighting more often than not, learning street smarts more than books.

I don’t feel like talking anymore and if the old me felt the need to exit conversations gracefully, the new one doesn’t. I stand, surprising Bruce and force a smile. “Okay, see you later?”

He recovers quickly and smiles. “Yes, Lev. Later, and I’m here anytime you need to talk, okay?”

Start actually answering my questions and I will, I think bitterly as I leave.

I find gym clothes in the bag someone packed for me, as well as a set of earbuds. Huh, maybe I’ll get more of sense of who Lev was if I listen to her music choices too.

The training area is empty when I get there, which is better than I’d hoped for. I don’t want anyone watching me right now or, even worse, trying to help.

I jab experimentally at the display on the treadmill and start walking. Bruce’s right, the practical shit is still here, I can work a treadmill, but if you asked me what my favourite colour was, I’d be lost.

Oh well, at least this gives me something to do besides sleep.

After a while, I speed up, moving into a jog. Even though I’m still stiff and sore, it feels good to move, and my body seems to remember doing it and doing it well. I catch sight of me in the mirrors and can’t help but smile. I don’t know how much is hard work and how much is the serum, but I love this body, it’s toned curves and latent strength… if only my brain would catch up.

The doors open and I look up, turning down some bass-heavy rap song that old me used to listen to and stumble on the track.

He looks as surprised to see me as I do him.

The infamous and rarely glimpsed Bucky.

He dithers at the door, clearly torn between continuing what he was doing or turning and leaving before setting his square jaw and marching inside. He nods once to me, averting his eyes and heads directly to the weights section.

I try not to stare as he gets started, putting in his own set of earbuds and grabbing a large set of dumbbells. Sweet baby Jesus, but the man is a work of art, and strong as an ox to boot.

I turn up my treadmill and music, forcing myself to look away because, damn.

But, despite myself, my eyes occasionally track back over.

Sweat darkens his tank top, his metal arm shining under the lights. His skin glows with good health and effort, each muscle cut and sharply defined. Small tendrils escape his man bun, sticking to his cheeks and the back of his neck. I can’t hear him over my music, but I imagine a very manly series of grunts as he works, straining at the weights, pushing for each rep. Maybe he swears too, the occasional gasped ‘fuck’ that wouldn’t be out of place in bed either-

Jesus. Calm the fuck down.

My fingers fly over the controls and some program flashes across the screen, something with lots of hills and valleys, whatever and, for awhile, I’m too busy trying to keep up to worry about Bucky. Then, movement nearby makes me flinch, a completely unexpected reaction.

Bucky, a few treadmills away, freezes at my response, something sad crossing his face, dimming the hope I see there, it looks like he was approaching me tentatively, perhaps to talk, and I had to go and spaz instead. I swallow, trying to think of something to say, a feat in itself since this program I chose is actually quite demanding and I’m working my ass off to keep up but, before I can think of anything, everything swirls grey and my knees give out. A loud thump hits my ears and I wonder if it’s my body bouncing off the track, but it doesn’t matter, because the comfort of oblivion has wrapped around me again and nothing else matters.

Raised voices wake me later, that and another monster of a headache. This is getting old, fast and I struggle to make sense of what’s going on around me.

“We need to tell her; she needs to know!”

“She needs to know, or you need her to know?”

It’s hazy, but I recognize the voices, Bucky and Steve, apparently arguing about something I need, or Bucky needs me to know. But then another voice weighs in, Bruce this time.

“We can’t rush her; this seizure just proves how fragile she still is.”

“No, the seizure was because someone told her she was okay to go to the gym!” Bucky snaps. “Who the fuck said that?” The way he asks it says he already knows and through slitted eyes, I see him squared off with the quiet doctor, his face a stormcloud of emotion, scary even. Steve intervenes, stepping deliberately between them. Tony appears, seemingly out of nowhere and the whole tense stand-off is dragged outside the medical lab, the doors cutting off any sound.

I can’t keep up with this shit and I let the darkness take me once more. Sleep is infinitely better right now than cryptic conversations I clearly was not meant to hear.

The next time I wake, my head is better, but my body still aches; what did I hit on the way down and I seriously consider just trying to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but there’s someone sitting beside me again.

It’s Bucky and he’s staring blankly at my hand, which is currently twined with his, tears in his eyes. He looks like sitting here beside me is absolutely killing him, or is it me? Something about me is hurting him. Does he feel bad I fell in the gym in front of him? Were we friends before all this happened?

I swallow painfully and the motion startles him back to life. He looks at me with indescribable pain in his eyes, like he’s dying to say something but can’t, maybe won’t. He’s the one I heard saying I needed to know earlier, what did he mean, what is so earth-shattering that the others seem to think I don’t need to hear yet?

His other hand reaches up and, I must still be semi-dreaming, because he strokes my forehead gently, an easy intimacy, like he has a right to my body and then he murmurs, so softly I almost don’t hear it.

“Baby.”

I jolt, but before I can get myself together enough to speak, he stands, giving me one last heartbreaking glance before leaving and I lay there for a long time in shock.

His voice; the few times I’ve heard him speak it was always in anger, arguing with Bruce or Steve or someone; I’ve never heard him tender, speaking softly and, now that I have, more questions flood into my tangled brain.

His voice is the one I hear in my dreams, the one that makes me feel safe and loved.

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky and lev #bucky and levi #bucky barnes drama #the avengers

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minstrophywife · 5 years

Text

DeMasqued

⇢Pairing: Art thief!Taehyung x Museum curator!Reader ⇢Genre: Thief!AU ↳[PWP] [Smuuuuut] ⇢Word Count: 5,383 ⇢Warnings: PWP - fingering, bondage, Oral, male receiving: face fucking, deep-throating, cum play, cum marking, videotaping, objectification kink, sensory deprivation (blindfold), breathplay, hair pulling !!! Seriously if those warnings trigger anything, please don’t continue. This is just a smutty fic and is not worth your anxiety. !!! ⇢Part Two of the Masqued Universe. [Part One] ⇢Masterlist

⇢Summary: It seems as if the memory of you isn’t enough, and so Vante decides he needs something more concrete to remember you by.

⇢A/N: I want to thank everyone for the overwhelming support that I received with Masque, and so I made sure that I got this done as soon as I could. I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations! It’s a bit shorter than the other one, but it’s full of smut.

Okay but for real, don’t treat national art like this Vante. It was preserved in a temperature and humidity controlled room for a reason.

DEMASQUED.

- Live with Action 7 News -

It’s time to have an open discussion about the missing jade set which was reported stolen by the Seoul National Museum of Fine Art and Craft.

Min Yoongi: As we all know by now, the famous jade from the ‘Rare Treasures of the Dynasty Royalty’ has been reported stolen, as of this morning.

Kim Seokjin: While the museum hasn’t officially declared the set was stolen by the world infamous art thief Vante…

Min Yoongi: There is no other person who could have stolen it.

Kim Seokjin: Especially when he left his calling card of intent behind the day before.

Min Yoongi: Action 7 News has tried to come in contact with Park Se Hoon for another interview- however the museum staff and owner have declined any further media requests until further notice.

Kim Seokjin: It must be damage control- I suppose the response is more tense this time because the government was involved with this exhibit this time around.

Min Yoongi: It could be seen as an embarrassment for the government officials, as I believe they were the ones to provide ample security to the museum.

Kim Seokjin: What I am more interested in is the fact that- even after managing to evade security, and not leave any evidence behind to indicate who Vante is, the master thief only decided to take one item.

Min Yoongi: *eyebrows knit together in thought* Yes, it seems like when he leaves his calling card, he only has one piece in mind to steal. This correlates with the other, previous instances of theft.

Kim Seokjin: Either way, notorious art thief Vante has been successful yet again- and I believe that he is gaining more confidence every time he sets his target.

Min Yoongi: *nodding his head* It seems like it, He only let the hair pin set be viewed by the public for one day, before stealing the whole set. He must have especially wanted this specific piece.

Kim Seokjin: I wonder why? I mean, I went to the exhibit on opening day, with Action 7 News, and yes, the piece is visually striking and beautiful, but it seems like an interesting thing to choose to steal.

Min Yoongi: What do you mean exactly?

Kim Seokjin: I guess what I am trying to say is that, in terms of displaying purposes, don’t you think one of the many beautiful celadon pieces would be apt to steal?

Min Yoongi: I think you are assuming exactly -how- Vante chooses to display his victories.

Kim Seokjin: We all know that Vante doesn’t resell the items that are stolen- which means he must display them or keep them somewhere, probably in his own home. Maybe like trophies?

Min Yoongi: I’m re-emphasizing my point here… how do we know how Vante wants to display his collection?

Kim Seokjin: … I suppose you are right. We won’t know either. Because I have a feeling Vante is going to continue to be successful in stealing his next target.

Min Yoongi: I agree. We are running out of time, so we’ll discuss this further after we are able to have an interview with Park Se Hoon once again.

Kim Seokjin: To commercials.

What were you going to do with your day off?

You decided to turn off your phone, throwing it on your bedside table, face down. You decided to avoid your TV as well- with the TV came the possibilities of seeing the news.

Anything to avoid the inevitable chaos that you knew was occurring this very minute. Was it a bit irresponsible? Perhaps.

So you pace around your apartment, grabbing whatever random food in your fridge, and that book that you’ve been meaning to read since your birthday- a gift from your mother. You curl up on your couch, cocooning yourself in blankets as your own shelter.

When you are reading you try not to pay any attention to the band of mottled purple and blue hues that lay across your wrists, hiding under the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. When your thumb brushes against it, you shudder.

My perfect masterpiece.

Your book drops to the floor with a thud.

After that you fumble to put on some music- anything really- just to prevent the haunting of lips by your ear, and the low baritone of a chuckle the settles deep under your skin.

You are mine to ruin.

But nothing can quiet the amount of anxiety and guilt that slowly builds throughout the day, and soon enough your phone ends up in your lap- your face staring back at you blankly at the dark screen.

Your thumb hesitates over the power button of your phone.

You are mine to create.

Your thumb presses down harshly on the power button.

99+ Missed calls

25 Voice mails

120+ Text messages

Voicemail 1 of 25: Y/N - this is Se Hoon. This is an emergency. I know that it is your day off however this is urgent.

Voicemail 5 of 25: You probably are sleeping in huh? Well when you wake up, you need to come straight to work.

Voicemail 19 of 25: *frantic* He stole the Jade set!

Voicemail 25 of 25: Hey, so Se Hoon flew me immediately from my consulting job in Japan. Text me before you head in.

Your eyes warily travel up to the clock on the wall of your office, and you groan outwardly when you see the time. It looks like another late night tonight. The first night you braved the museum and the shouts of Se Hoon, you accidentally fell asleep on the couch in your office to rest your eyes, and the resulting cold and aching muscles prompted you to bring a blanket and a pillow the next day, and honestly, you do not regret your decision one bit. It has been a trend the last couple of days, and the hour or two of rest in between more work helps immensely.

The chaos that ensued at the museum over the preceding few days was surreal. The exhibit seems to have drawn in a far more larger crowd that even on opening day- you suspect everyone wants to see for themselves if, in fact, Vante did take the jade set.

Art displayed upon art.

In fact- a nap sounds really good.

But, if you can push through, tonight should be the last night you need to stay late at the museum- after numerous (long, drawn out and almost unnecessary) meetings with the board of trustees, the conclusion that was reached that some sort of replacement for the exhibit needed to be selected. It would be the quickest way to divert the public’s attention from the missing jade set (no it won’t), the officials concluded.

Which, of course, that responsibility landed on you. So after more meetings, and more discussions and countless hours of pouring through the museum and the government’s own personal collection, a decision was finally reached- one of the beautiful hanbok’s worn by Joseon dynasty elite. Tonight you needed to select which one, before handing it off to be displayed properly the tomorrow.

Which means you have to search the large warehouse basement of the museum.

You really don’t want to get up from your desk, but the promise of sleep in your own bed rather than the office sofa is what finally motivates you to rise, and you grab the catalogue before you head downstairs to the basement.

As you are in the elevator, you shiver- perhaps its the pull of sleep or your body weary from long nights- either way you wish you wore something a bit warmer to work today, instead of your silken dress shirt. It was the comfiest thing you had while still looking formal.

Curse the meetings with the officials. You should have brought pajamas to change into you think bitterly.

The elevator door opens with a soft -ding- and you walk out in a daze. It’s eerily quiet in the basement- you hear the slight hum from the fluorescents above your head, your shoes clack almost too loudly down the hallway.

You arrive at the door soon enough.

Waving your ID card in front of the door, as well as using the consistently rotating key code that Se Hoon provided to you for this evening, you walk into the room. The basement storage is cool and dark when you step into it- you blink your eyes as you attempt to adjust to the darkness. The museum storage room is temperature and humidity controlled- as invaluable pieces of art need to be handled with the most care.

Where is that light switch? You fumble along the wall, and another shiver passes through you- this time starting at the base of your spine, but it doesn’t fade- it lingers, almost like a sneeze that wants to escape but fails to in agitation- and this feeling is putting you on edge- your shoulders tense.

Just as you touch the edge of the switch casing, a trace of fingers encage your eyes, and a long arm encages you around your waist. You feel the heat of his palm through your blouse, against your ribcage. Your surprised gasp is caught in your throat.

It can only be him.

Your heart quickens, body blooming in heat with anticipation.

“Hello my dear, did you miss me?” His low whispers are teasing the shell of your ear, his lips hovering but not touching just yet. Your eyelashes tickle his fingers as you close your eyes, your breath quickens as you struggle to respond- his deep baritone effecting you much more than the haunting of it.

He must think you are shy.

“Because I most certainly missed you.”

A soft cry leaves your lips. “Vante.” It’s all the confidence you can gather at the moment, your body too overwhelmed by the memory of his hands, lips, tongue and the very real presence of him behind you- and your trembles in anticipation.

Your reply stirs him, and you feel his hand leaving your eyes. There is a quiet ruffle of clothes, coat brushing against your arms.

The way he presses you against the wall, along with his arm that still encircles your waist does not suggest escape, and you vaguely wonder what it means that you don’t want to move from him at all. Instead you lean further back into his space.

You think smell a subtle floral scent- lavender maybe? Tease your nose, but you don’t get a chance to ponder the scent- silken fabric brushes over your eyes- and soon enough you feel the ends being tied together behind your head, the warmth of Vante’s arm leaving your stomach.

You suddenly are hyper-aware of the heat from his fingers as they grasp lightly around the base of your neck. And then-

Then, he’s pushing you softly from behind, but honestly you feel as if you are floating in space, Vante as your tether, your lifeline.

You then vaguely realize he’s removing the clipboard of the catalogue from your fingers, and he’s twisting away slightly and your fingers clumsily try to grasp his hands- afraid that he’s going to leave you alone. But the presence amongst your throat never leaves, and he returns to settle behind you once again and you realize how foolish you are.

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. He must feel your flush on his fingertips, see the red blossom- because you feel the hand that had removed the clipboard return to your collarbone, dipping lower and lower to tease the edge of your bra. He lazily traces the lace trimming there, in no rush, his cheek rests against your hair.

“My beautiful masterpiece…” His voice sounds strained, a whisper as if he’s afraid you are an apparition. He slowly begins to unbutton your blouse, each syllable that rolls off his tongue is punctuated by each button freed. The blouse flutters down to the floor.

He them teases the hemline of your skirt, fingernails scratch lightly on your thighs as your skirt begins to bunch around your waist as he brings the fabric upwards. And upwards still, along the curve of your ass, until he finds your zipper, and the skirt falls, the loud sound of your zipper a jarring sound against your heavy breaths. And then the skirt slips down your legs to join the blouse.

“The fleeting memory of my beautiful creation behind my eyelids whenever I closed my eyes was not nearly enough…” And upwards again, a finger runs itself against your spine, and you find yourself arching forward, your head resting back against his chest. You bring your lower lip between your teeth, not trusting yourself to let a moan escape your lips just yet.

Your bra quickly joins your discarded clothes, and you can already feel your nipples swell- from the cold, from seeking attention- you aren’t sure. He continues even further to the final article of clothing, your panties a cover that masks the most beautiful part of you in all. He hooks his fingers at the waist band, and drags the fabric down, ever so slowly. You feel a string of your anticipation follow, your panties already sopping wet, it breaks when it dangles uselessly by your knees until you assist- you shimmy it down, stepping out when you feel it by your ankles. Vante traces the inside of your thighs, too far away and yet close enough to drag a finger through the mess you’ve made.

“…not when I had finally created perfection and I just let it slip away.” There is bitterness in his voice, and his arms encircle you once again, pulling you closer still.

You feel enveloped by him, ensnared by his long arms that keep you flush against his body. And then his lips are on your shoulder, you can feel new daubs of purple and red being added to the canvas of your skin.

“Purple suits you the most.”

You feel your body go limp, his mouth your weakness- you feel your weight held up by his arms. But then he’s lowering you, letting you fall to your knees your hands rest in your lap, a sudden act of modesty. The floor feels cold and you immediately feel the loss of heat from behind you. Another rustle of fabric, this time it brushes between your shoulder blades. But his hands never leave you, reassuring fingers thread through your hair to softly massage your scalp. Soon enough he’s spreading your legs outwards, and he grabs one of your wrists from your lap, long fingers enclose around it fully to slowly guide your wrist backwards, so that it meets the corresponding ankle. He guides your fingers to wrap around your ankle. You hold your breath when you realize what he is doing.

The sculptor is placing you where he wants.

And you are his pliable clay, molded to whatever he wants you to become.

Because you are his masterpiece.

A shaky exhale.

And then he is binding the two together, slipping the fabric between the natural space that he has created, deftly tying them to keep you in the perfect position, And when he deems one wrist complete, he follows with the other.

The ties- you imagine they are black, perhaps maybe the same silk ribbon from the first night. You grip your ankles experimentally, and the ties feel perfect and right and you feel complete- you want to paint over the fading stripe of purple that has turned into yellow over the past couple of days. You don’t want the memory of Vante to fade away.

“I thought I would be satisfied with creating art, but it was not enough. I want more.” He’s standing above you now, in front of you.

“Something is missing though,” he sounds contemplative, looking at you to try and determine what would look best, “this arrangement would look far more if we just had… I’ll be right back my dear.”

And he steps away, this time no hand to remind you of his presence. Your breath quickens the longer he is gone- time stretches until you feel uncomfortable- what if he leaves you here? You begin to shake, your confidence wavers.

You jump when you feel fabric hit your shoulders. You hadn’t notice him return.

“Waiting so patiently for me.” He coos, soothing your tension. You aren’t sure what he has draped over your shoulder, but it seems to be jacket of some sorts, but it doesn’t matter because he caressing your cheek, and then a hand at your chin pointing it upward.

And then you feel something nudge against the seam of your lips. He’s waiting for you its hot, and when you peek your tongue out to swipe at the wetness of your lip you taste bitterness.

“Its time to paint you in the most beautiful luster.”

You realize its the head of his cock that playfully prods your lips. His hand grips the sides of your jaw, tempting it open. Your lips open wider to receive. Your tongue stretches outward, and you feel the underside of his cock land on your tongue. It’s warm, all too warm. You feel the thick vein that runs underneath, and saliva begins to pool in your mouth. He’s pushing forward now, and his other hand tangles back into your hair. Before it was soft and comforting, but now he grips at the strands harshly- easing you forward. He’s sliding in just a bit too quickly, your mouth has little time to adjust. You try to push back a little bit, but the grip in your hair tightens, your scalp begins to sting.

You knew he was large, you remember when he pounded into you relentlessly. But now, as your face is pulled closer to the bed of his pubic hair, your throat protests at the invasion, and your gag reflex begins to flare. He must feel the constriction of your throat, because he pauses, and he’s wiping away the tears that have fallen down your cheeks.

“Breathe.”

You want to shake your head, but instead all that is said is a muffled and strained groan from your lips. You take a few deep breaths through your nose, the tension of your throat easing around his cock, and one final push. He’s buried to the hilt in you- and you feel his hands full of tension. He’s still holding back to the best of his ability. When he pulls back, his speed is slow but steady, and when just the head of his cock is caught between the cushion of your lips, you feel the saliva flow over, dribbling down your chin, down your neck. You barely have a second to grip you ankles in preparation. Even though you have a blindfold on, you screw your eyes shut.

He’s pushing forward again, his hands in your hair keep you at the pace he wants, as if you had control to begin with. The slip of his cock into the wet cavern of your mouth is easier this time, and when he’s fully in once again, you moan, deep from the pit of your belly that aches with want. It seems to spur him on- because his controlled pace becomes faster each time he pulls back and pushes forward again.

And then he’s fucking into your face, and you are trying to take breaths through your nose every time he pulls back. But he’s brutal, the lewd slick sounds of his cock that slides in and out of your mouth not slowing, and the amount of spit that has spilled out of your mouth is surely a mess. But you are encouraging him still, with moans as he’s using you, prepping you, molding you into the perfect masterpiece. Because you cannot see him, you realize you want to hear Vante coming undone.

Behind your blindfold, you want to imagine his face, twisted in desire from your undoing. You feel frustrated- You want to see Vante’s skin, shiny with sweat, you want to see him fall apart.

He’s becoming loader, his groans fall towards you, panting with need and want.

Your jaw is on fire, an ache that blooms.

After a particularly rough pull, like an answer to your frustrations- you feel something loosen, something slip off your nose. Blinking away the tears that have settled on your eyelashes, you realize your blindfold has fallen off. His hands grip tighter on your hair, the sting of your scalp makes you realize he’s close. You wonder if he notices that your blindfold fell off, it’s still bunched in his hands, tangled amongst the tresses of your hair.

The strangled moan that tumbles forth, down, down, down from his lips to your ears makes you feel brave.

As you look up, blinking as your eyesight adjusts to the light- and you see your own masterpiece.

Because he blindfolded you, you do not see a mask this time. Instead you see a sculpture- perfection chiseled from marble to create a face crafted from Bernini himself. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline frame the handsome high nose, and perfectly shaped eyebrows, knit together in ecstasy. While you saw his lips from your previous encounter, you were not privileged to see his face in full. You are still not sure if you should be privy to his mistake- and yet you stare at him- awestruck.

You are shocked. Your hands slip from around your ankles, you barely register the bindings tighten when your hands press against he floor.

You let him continue his brutal pace as he fucks into your face- momentarily distracted from his cock in your mouth because you are attempting to commit every detail of him into memory.

His head is thrown back, his mouth open. You see his jaw clenched, his neck bulging with tension. You moan once more around his cock, and he fucks into your throat harder, shallow but deep. And then-

His eyes are opened once again, and he stares back down at you- eyes widen slightly in acknowledgement that the silken blindfold is off your tear-ridden eyes, your own eyes not leaving his.

So suddenly, you get whiplash-

He yanks away, and you find your lips almost searching for his cock in a trained fashion with how fast he pulls out-

The first string of warmth hits the bridge of your nose and arcs upwards towards your eyebrow, preceding spurts hits your cheek, and you then taste the bitter saltiness of him when it lands on your lips, and in your mouth.

He does not let anything be spoiled- the cum that was not strong enough to reach your face he wipes on your collarbone, pooling in the small divot.

You realize he’s placing his cum exactly where he wants it. Painting you with a sheen of milky white.

His cum begins to drip down your face, joining your saliva in a mess and you feel like you want to brush it out of the way, especially when some threatens to fall into your eyes. And then you remember the other silken ties that bind your wrists and your ankles together. You whine softly in inconvenience.

You see Vante grip the silk that had been your blindfold in his hand, a small contemplation of what he should do next.

Instead he tilts head to the side, and while still looking down at you from his seated position, he grins.

“Well it seems like the masterpiece can finally see its creator.” He has a slight hesitance in his voice, hesitant and unsure. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice sound like that, and you take a moment to understand. He uses his hand to trail down your neck, fingers pressing until he finds your pulse. He rests it there, as if your steady heartbeat is an answer in on of its self.

“A masterpiece huh?” You croak, your throat dry and itchy from his relentless pounding. “Art can only be so great when it reflects its artist.”

His lips begin to quirk upwards.

“You’re handsome, Art thief Vante.” You continue to mumble, words now tumbling out in a garbled mess- you are beginning to feel unsure if he understood.

His chuckle is raspy, and you feel accomplishment. Your feel yourself clamp around nothing. Your needs feel heavy inside your stomach. You suddenly acknowledge the sticky mess of your own juices, coating your thighs and the floor.

“You should be a model, not a thief.” You still do not dare remove your eyes from his, even if you can begin to feel an ache in your abused knees. It’s almost like you are afraid he’s going to leave- now that you know his face.

“Always for sharing- aren’t you, my dear.” And you shiver, as he conjures up memories of your first encounter. His hand leaves your cheek to trail down your neck, dragging through his cum that is beginning to fall down your chin.

“Don’t you want to be selfish - just this once? You’re one of the select few who has been privileged enough to see my face.”

His fingers press lightly on your forehead and he’s kneeling down to your eye level, and you feel lost in his eyes because he’s still not looking away, and so are you. You have to twist your arms around a bit, the bindings on your ankles and wrist bite into your skin further. But you are soon on your back, legs spread wide for him to see the mess you’ve made.

Because of him, only for him.

You vaguely feel the fabric that he had put on your shoulders underneath your back, as there is no shock of the fold floor on your skin. He’s leaning over you now, resting between your thighs, his knees drag through the slick on the floor. A hand lays by your ear, another grips your thigh.

“Now that you’ve seen my face my dear, I’m afraid I really can’t let you go.”

His voice is everywhere, deep and low, teasing your ear, reverberating against your body. It almost sounds sad, twinged with longing. His fingers take no time tease, your cunt swallows three fingers greedily. There is no protest, and he pumps with fervor. The loud squelching sounds that your pussy makes echos in the room. You cry out, but its strained against your abused throat.

“Vante!”

And then three fingers are replaced by his cock, already hard and throbbing with desire for you once again. The squelching noise is replaced by the wet sound of his skin against yours, his balls slap against you each time he pistons into you.

You both are a mess, a flurry of broken words between guttural moans. But you repeat Vante, inside your head and out loud, you aren’t sure anymore- a broken chant because that’s all you are thinking about, that’s what you are filled by. Him.

Vante

As he chases his second orgasm of the night, he kisses you, he tastes himself on his tongue as he sucks on your lip- and all you hear is the sound of your bodies connecting in a brutal pace. And the coil in the pit of your stomach is starting to unfurl, ready to snap. He detaches from you quickly, a hand grabbing your throat.

At the restriction of your throat, your world turns blank, your senses too overwhelmed too acknowledge anything else but the intensity of your orgasm.

A needy moan keens from you, distantly you imagine belonging to him forever.

And its not much longer then, because you feel him pull away to paint you once more.

The last thing you remember is the deep growl of-

Mine.

This time when you reawaken, you are surprised to see yourself curled up on the couch of your office, your coat turned into a makeshift pillow, and the blanket from your many overtime nights from this week tucked all around you.

You curse when you see the time. It’s already 8 am in the morning, and you jolt out of the couch. You attempt to stand, but your knees buckle under you, and you blindly have to grab at the couch to break your fall.

You see the rumpled state of your blouse, your skirt in no better shape. You wearily scramble to the bathroom, wondering what sorry state you are in.

When you reach the bathroom and turn to the mirror, you are greeted by tear stained cheeks and red eyes. Your throat is saturated with purple and blue swatches, deep bite marks littered here and there.

But what causes you to cry out in alarm Is his dried cum still on your face, which he had clearly left for you to find when you came to.

Mine.

You spent a good thirty minutes washing away the evidence of your late night tryst to the best of your abilities, but nothing can hide the sorry state of your neck, your wrists, your ankles.

You sit in your office, until you hear a light knock.

“Y/N. Pulled another all nighter? You look a mess.” Its Se Hoon, and honestly his voice is grating to your ears.

“I saw the Hanbok you decided to choose- thank you for placing it safely in my office. Interesting choice- you chose the rare purple silk.”

“What?” You blanch, eyes blinking back in confusion to Se Hoon.

That’s right. That’s why you needed to go to the museum basement to begin with last night. To choose a Hanbok for the exhibit. You never remembered choosing one last night unless…

“Follow me to my office- we’ll need to receive approval from the committee and then you can go home.” You follow him mindlessly to his office, barely registering what he’s saying.

“You need to take a couple days off- we all do.” You nod woodenly.

And then you see the purple Hanbok, surrounded by white tissue, presented gently.

Purple suits you the most.

The silk of the jeogori is slightly rumpled.

He wouldn’t dare.

But he would.

There is a brief knock on the door, two clear raps that echo into the office. In comes your fellow curator, Namjoon.

He nods towards you, flashing a quick smile, dimples appearing and disappearing quickly, with an eyebrow raised. He’s probably deciphering your current state. You hide your wrists behind your back. The pink that dusts his cheeks means Namjoon has an inkling of what happened to you last night.

“All pieces in storage are accounted for.” He says, addressing Se Hoon. “The audit took a couple of days. However nothing has been stolen.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, and now it’s Se Hoon’s turn to Blanche in response.

He doesn’t have much time to react further, his mouth opens to speak, but before he a syllable can escape, he is interrupted by another knock at the door, this time the knock is a lot more frantic and loud against the wood.

Se Hoon grumbles in response, annoyed at the interruption.

The knocking continues, impatient. You can feel the worry through the door.

“Yes?” Se Hoon huffs, a mumbled “this better be important” does not escape your ears.

In pops in head of security. Eyes wide and feeling unsure. He has another museum guard cowering behind him.

“Show him.” He says, stepping aside and nudging the guard forward.

Your eyes zero in on the black card between his fingers immediately.

In your peripheral view, you register Se Hoon’s eyes bulging out of his sockets. He’s really had a shitty two weeks, you think.

“T-this was on my desk sir, when I went to relieve the night Officer from duty this morning.”

Se Hoon is quiet.

The head of security then begins to speak. “I reviewed the last night’s video footage, as per policy and routine.”

Namjoon speaks up in place of Se Hoon.

“I’m guessing the footage was missing?”

The head of security startles a bit, not so much that is obvious, but obvious to you.

“That is correct.” He nods in the direction of Namjoon. His eyebrows are knitted together in confusion, an eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Namjoon just smiles softly.

“Now why would he want to steal security footage I wonder?”

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bts pwp #Taehyung smut #Taehyung pwp #kim taehyung #taehyung #Taehyung fanfic #thief au #art thief au #bts imagines #bts x you #taehyung x you #bts x reader #Taehyung x reader #bts #bts v

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etherealwaifgoddess · 4 years

Text

A Good Night’s Sleep, Pt.3

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After your date with Bucky things heat up quickly.

Warnings/ Content: Aaaaaand here’s the smut you’ve all been waiting for :)

Word Count: 3.8k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies, this is the final installment of this little series. Once again tagging @marinaaniseed since the idea for this was hers. I hope you’ve enjoyed this as much as I have.

Here are parts ONE and TWO if you missed them. XOXO - Ash

A Good Night’s Sleep, Part Three

Bucky’s living quarters are larger than you expected. The common area; a spacious living room, dining room, kitchen set up, made you think that the individual rooms would be just that: a room only. What you find behind Bucky’s door is a small apartment of sorts. He has a kitchenette with a table to eat at, a living room, and two doors down a short hallway for a bedroom and bathroom. You follow his example, toeing off your shoes at the entryway, slightly amused by the sight of your ballet flats sitting next to his assortment of combat boots, sneakers, and the dress shoes he takes off. It’s so painfully domestic. The carpeting under your bare feet is thick and soft, you’re officially glad for his no shoes rule. Digging your toes in, you have to resist the temptation to lay down on the plush carpet.

“Right this way.” Bucky motions to the door at the end of the hall. You follow him down to his bedroom where he flicks on a light illuminating the small space in a golden glow. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. I was thankful Steve got me a place here after everything that happened. New York has changed so much since I lived here last, but it’s still home.”

“It’s nice. Mine isn’t much different, honestly.” You look around the bedroom that’s decorated in various shades of blue and white. There’s prints and posters framed on his walls, all depicting some type of space themed art. The bed against the far wall looks huge and soft, covered with a small army of pillows and a fluffy navy blue duvet.

Bucky catches you staring at it and smiles, chagrined. “I might have gone a little overboard with the bed.”

“You don’t say?” you tease.

“I really like having somewhere soft and warm to sleep. It’s nice after so many years of… well, you know. I didn’t realize how crazy it was until I was done. It started out buying an extra pillow so the bed looked balanced. Then I needed a duvet to keep warm and that came with decorative pillows. After that I found those fuzzy pillows over there that looked nice and then the ones with constellations on them. Within two weeks I went from a single pillow and a quilt to that. Once I spent a night in it I was done for, it’s amazing and I regret nothing.”

“It looks amazing.”

“The mattress is unreal too. Tony got these memory foam gel things for all the beds here, it’s like sleeping on a marshmallow. Here, get comfy and I’ll set up the projector.”

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, the softness of the bed inviting after the long day you’ve had. Bucky moves around setting things up, making small adjustments to the device on his desk before finally going over to turn off the lights. The room is only dark for a moment before the ceiling lights up with a starry sky. “Lay back, you’ll get the most out of it that way.” he instructs as he joins you on the bed.

You follow his lead, stretching out on your back on the bed next to him. Bucky’s hand slips into yours and entwines your fingers, waiting to see if you’ll allow it, and you do. He clicks a small remote in his other hand and the light show starts up. The ceiling is alight with simulated stars, rolling through the different major constellations and stars; each one lighting up before it’s name appears across it for a moment, then moving to the next. It rolls through the seasons as well, showing the different positions and constellations that appear based on the time of year. It’s magical in a way and you get lost in the moment.

It can’t have been more than ten minutes and Bucky has been oddly quiet the entire time. You glance over, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He seems at peace watching the series of stars. You wonder how many times he’s watched the show before and if it always brings him peace.

“About a hundred. And yeah, that’s why I bought it.” Bucky replies, making you realize you had spoken your musings out loud.

“Sorry, that was supposed to be an ‘in my head only’ thought.” you give him a lopsided smile in apology.

“You can ask me things, that’s okay. I’ve always been fascinated by space and being able to see the night sky is something that grounded me. Even when I was the Soldier, I remember feeling better when I could see the night sky. Didn’t understand why at the time, but I did. I like how it’s always the same, no matter where you are, no matter how the world changes below it.”

“With everything that’s changed in your life, I can see how you would like that. Thank you, for showing it to me.”

“This is nice.” Bucky rubs a thumb across the back of your hand, a soft smile playing on his lips.

You can’t help but stare at his lips a moment, you want to feel them on yours, against your skin. It’s still your first date and you resign yourself to maybe getting a quick kiss later if you’re lucky.

Bucky notices your staring almost immediately. It would be so easy and you seem willing. He wonders what’s holding him back, what’s keeping him from taking what you’re freely offering. There’s always something that’s stood in the way of what he wanted. The financial crash of the depression, the war, HYDRA, recovering from seventy years of brainwashing, being an outlaw for a while, going back into Cryo. His life has been an endless stream of if only’s and Bucky has had just about enough of it. He’s adapting to his life in the twenty first century, he has friends, a place to live, a sort of job, and enough money that he doesn’t have to worry about it for at least a hundred years. There’s nothing standing in his way anymore except for himself. Bucky props himself up on his elbow, leaving his hand entwined with yours. He looks from your lips to your eyes, waiting in silent permission. You nod, eyes locked back in on his lips, and he leans forward instantly. He’s done standing in his own way.

Bucky’s lips collide with yours, searing hot and insistent. You had expected him to be more hesitant but he’s pouring himself into the kiss and all you can do is hold on and keep up. He doesn’t let his hands roam, just exploring your mouth with his own while his body blasts heat like a furnace pressed up against the side of yours. You don’t bother reigning yours in, letting your free hand glide along the lines of his back and tangle gently in his hair. He lets out a throaty noise when your nails rake across his scalp and you make a mental note to repeat the motion later to see if elicits the same response.

You can’t tell if the kiss has gone on for hours, days, or minutes. It’s all consuming in the best possible way and when Bucky finally pulls back you’re both breathing hard. “Um,” Bucky begins with a bright blush, tucking his head against the curve of your shoulder, “We need to stop. Or slow down at least.”

You furrow your brow, worried you’ve triggered some unpleasant memory for him by accident. “You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, more than okay. I just… I don’t know how far we want things to go and I’m about to have a problem if we keep going like that.”

“Oh.” realization dawns, “That’s okay. If you want to stop we can, or we could keep going and then I could help you with that problem when it arises.”

Bucky shudders. He wants you, desperately. It’s liquid fire in his veins and he doesn’t want to keep ignoring his desires. “I think.” he starts and stops. “I think I’d like to keep going. If you want to.”

“Oh, sweetheart, of course I do.”

Bucky resists the urge to preen at the endearment and you shift up to claim his lips with yours. Tangling your hand back in his hair you trail kisses down his throat, nipping lightly at the bow of his collarbone before trailing back up to his mouth. Bucky is a mess of over sensitization, your hands in his hair and your lips against his skin while your body curves against his so soft and beautiful. You can guess that it’s been a while for him, he had alluded to you being his first date since before the war during one of your text chats. He’s so responsive to your affection and you want to make it as good as it can be for him. Your favorite part of sex has always been figuring out what makes your partners see stars and Bucky is making it so easy for you.

You run your hand down his chest, feeling the wall of muscles under his soft sweater, letting it rest a moment on his belt buckle before you start tugging the sweater up and off. Bucky helps you get it off him and then tentatively skims his hand along the neckline of your blouse. You pull your top off easily, willing to go tit or tat with him if gets you both naked quicker. You’re both fumbling with pants next, quickly depositing your jeans on the floor with your tops.

Bucky looks pained as he looks down at your body, clad only in your powder blue satin lingerie. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” he whispers reverently as he kisses the tops of your breasts where they threaten to spill out of the cups of your bra.

“You’re not too shabby yourself, Barnes.” you tell him affectionately.

A chuckle rumbles in his throat and it reverberates against your skin. You let your hands continue their explorations, not really meaning to rush but you’re dying to get your hands on him. You ghost your palm across the front of his tight boxer briefs, getting the slightest feeling of the hard length straining under the soft fabric. Bucky’s hips stutter against the contact and he gasps hard.

“That okay?” you check in, wanting to ensure you’re not moving too fast.

“More than,” he rasps.

You smile widely, pleased by his response, and let your hand slide over him again.

Bucky thinks you’ll be the death of him as your hand presses against his aching cock, the pressure more intentional this time. He’s afraid he won’t last very long, he hasn’t been with anyone intimately since before the war and getting himself off pales in comparison to being with someone else. He hasn’t even done that all that much since thawing out. Bucky curses himself, he’s going to blow his load like a teenager before he can even ensure you enjoy yourself. For all of his bravado in his teens and twenties, he only had the occasional partner. Sure he could charm girls and guys alike but he was, at heart, a hopeless romantic. He knows what to do, but he feels inexperienced while you seem instinctively able to light his body up like fireworks.

Determined to make this about him, you slowly push against his chest so he’ll lay back and let you steer things for a bit. Bucky complies and you help him shimmy out of his boxer briefs once he’s on his back. From the gentle caresses over his clothes you had guess he would be gorgeous but the sight of him has your mouth watering. You exhale heavily through pursed lips, letting your excitement be known and Bucky has the good graces to look shy at the sound. This is going to be a stretch you feel for days. You slip your bra and panties off quickly, wanting to give him full access to your body like you have his. Bucky swallows thickly, thanking every god above that he met you.

You carefully take him in hand, letting the silky heat of his erection slide easily against your palm. He’s holding himself rigid with tight control and you lean forward to kiss him again, wanting him to relax a little and just let himself enjoy this. Pre-come drips from the blunt head of his cock and his hips jerk involuntarily. “What do you want, sweetheart?” you ask him softly. He gasps but doesn’t respond so you try checking in again. “Do you want to just do this, or I could use my mouth. Or I could get on top of you, if you’re okay with going that far. I need you to tell me though.”

Bucky shakes his head to clear his scattered thoughts. “I don’t think I could handle your mouth right now.” he admits honestly. He practically came at just the thought of your lips wrapped around him. “I want to be inside you. Please.” The request is breathy and desperate, a tone he’s not familiar with coming from his own mouth.

“Okay, sweetheart. Thank you for telling me.” You kiss him lightly in thanks. Despite how responsive his body is you know you need to check in with him frequently to make sure you’re not pushing him too much or triggering something. Slowly you rise up on your knees, your lips exploring his torso to keep the two of you connected while you swing a leg over his hips to straddle his thighs. You arch up, grasping his heavy cock in your hand to get it right where you need it and then you sink down on to him.

Bucky grasps his duvet so hard it creaks, threatening to tear in both his metal and flesh hands. The tight, wet, heat of your body engulfing his straining erection brings pinpricks of tears to the corner of his eyes. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

You let yourself settle on top of him, giving you both a moment to adjust to the sensation. You gently unclasp his fists from the sheets, moving them up to your breasts so he can palm and knead them instead. “You good?” you check in one last time before moving.

“Yeah. So good, doll. You’re fucking perfect.” he grits out.

Spurred on by his enthusiastic consent you start grinding your hips against his, getting the friction going slowly so it doesn’t overwhelm either of you right away. He feels like steel inside of you, so incredibly hard and thick. The way he’s responding so easily adds to the heady mix and you’re reeling that this is real life right now. It’s so much better than you ever could have imagined. Bucky’s hands fly down to your hips as you start sliding up and down on his shaft, letting the drag of his cock hit all the right places for you both. It’s incredible, all consuming, and you can tell by his glassy eyes and the sheen of sweat on his brow that it won’t take long to push him over the edge. You take his right hand into yours, unsure of the limits of dexterity in his left, and move it down to the apex of your thighs. Carefully you guide his fingers between your folds, mere inches from where your bodies are joined.

Bucky’s foggy brain realizes what you’re doing as you rub two of his fingers against the tiny bundle of nerves between your folds. Moving your hand away you let him do the rest, rubbing small circles around the tiny bud as your body shakes in pleasure. This he knows how to do, even as he’s fighting for rational thought at the feel of your body grinding on top of his. Your orgasm builds rapidly, his skilled fingers bringing you quickly to the edge until you’re shuddering and clenching down around him, choked off cries spilling from your lips. Your whole body is shuddering as you come back down from your climax and you increase your pace, helping him chase his own release. It’s barely a minute later that Bucky’s muscles clench up, going perfectly still before his vision whites out and he comes, lost in the hurricane of his own pleasure. Your name is a desperate plea on his lips as he comes, hips locked firmly against yours as they shake.

You’re painstakingly gentle as you bring him down, making sure you don’t move while he comes back into his body bit by bit. You can see the moment his head clears and his eyes open back up, blearily look up at you like you’ve hung the moon. “Hi.” you say quietly, pressing your lips together to hide your satisfied smirk.

“Hi. Wow.” he mumbles, raking a hand through his sex mussed hair.

“You okay if I hop off?”

He nods quickly, “Yeah.”

You slide off and the hot gush between your legs reminds you that in your haste you forgot to use protection. You’re never that careless and are immediately thankful you’re on the pill. “We forgot a condom.” you point out with a cringe. “I’m on the pill though. And I’m clean.” you’re quick to assure him.

“I’m clean too. I’m sorry though. Next time we’ll be more careful.”

“Already planning a next time?” you ask with a smirk. You locate a box of tissues on his nightstand, quickly cleaning your combined releases from your inner thighs.

Bucky somehow manages to blush brighter, even on top of his flushed cheeks. “I hope so. Maybe in the morning?”

“Did you just invite me to say the night?”

“If you want to. You can borrow some of my clothes if you do.”

You look at him, he’s sleepy and sated and the draw of spending a night wrapped up in his arms has you nodding in agreement. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

“I have nightmares.” Bucky blurts out, embarrassed but needing to warn you.

“I mumble in my sleep.” you tell him with an indifferent shrug.

“No, really. I might wake you. I really want you here, but if I wake you, just give my shoulder a shake and wake me up.” He’s never been violent waking up, thankfully, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about hurting you, just possibly scaring the shit out of you. He wants to try though, he thinks if anyone will understand and accept him it’ll be you.

“Okay, I will. Let’s get under the covers, you can be the little spoon.”

“Little spoon?”

You chuckle, “I’ll show you.”

The two of you slide under his heavy blankets, the cool sheets soft and slippery against your bare skin. As soon as you’re settled you roll him onto his side facing away from you so you can curl your body around his, an arm thrown over his waist and your head nestled on his shoulder.

“I like being the little spoon.” he tells you in the darkness.

“Good, now try to get some rest.” you press a kiss to his shoulder and lay quietly until you hear his breathing even out and you allow yourself to drift off.

Sunlight is filtering through the curtains of Bucky’s bedroom, tiny dust motes floating in the air like glitter. You let out a sleepy sigh as Bucky shifts to get more comfortable and he feels momentarily guilty that woke you. Since you’re awake, he rolls over so he can face you, not caring about morning breath after the night you shared. “Morning.” his voice low and sleep hoarse.

“Morning.” you echo sleepily, “You slept well?”

Bucky realizes it’s the first nightmare free night he’s had in years. He can’t remember a single dream and feels rested for the first time in forever. “Yeah. First time in a long time.” He wonders if it was the sex or just having you in bed with him or both. It doesn’t really matter, it was a fucking marvel that he finally made it through the night. He also wonders how he can persuade you to stay over more.

“I’m glad. I did too.” You lean into Bucky’s hand as it curls through your hair, your brain slowly waking up and still sleep hazy.

Quiet minutes pass, both of you letting yourselves adjust to being awake slowly.

“Want to go get breakfast? I don’t have stuff here but the team kitchen is fully stocked. Everyone is probably already up and off for the day.” Bucky offers, finally breaking the comfortable silence.

“Sure, want to grab a shower first though?” You’re feeling a little grimy and a shower will help you wake up more too.

Bucky is quick to agree and shows you to his large walk in shower. It’s heaven on your sore muscles and you take turns washing each other, careful not to start up anything you can’t finish right then. Once you’re clean and dressed in a pair of Bucky’s sweatpants and a tshirt, you follow him down the hall to the team kitchen. It’s huge and Bucky wasn’t exaggerating about it being fully stocked. There are dozens of packages of pre-diced vegetables in the fridge along with bags of shredded cheese and several large flats of eggs. You pull out a little of everything, figuring you can whip up omelettes pretty easily while Bucky starts on making a pot of coffee.

“Hey Buck!” you hear a friendly voice call out, “No nightmares last night?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says but his tone is awkward.

“That’s great pal. I’m so happy for you.”

“Good for you, Barnes.” another male voice chimes in. “So what finally worked?”

You hear Bucky let out a squeak, trying to clear his throat. Not willing to leave him to flounder, you take your arm load of ingredients and shut the large fridge doors with a thump, making your presence known.

Two sets of eyes, one blue and one brown, snap over to see you standing in the kitchen in Bucky’s clothes, damp hair falling all around you, and the faintest bruise on your throat where Bucky got a little over eager. You have exactly zero shame about the amazing night you’ve just had and your expression makes that abundantly clear.

Steve’s eyes are saucers and Sam has to cover his laugh with a cough into his hand.

At seeing your unabashedness Bucky feels the tight panic in his chest loosen a little. It’s going to be okay, and he feels more certain of that than he has in a long time. He feels like he can handle just about anything by your side. With a cocky grin he takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs at his friends, “Looks like you were right, Wilson.”

~The End~

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes feels #bucky barnes x reader #nightmares #PTSD #original female character #reader insert #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fandom

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ryanmillermu · 4 years

Text

Falling || Self-Para

Who: Ryan Miller When: Father’s Day (June 21, 2020) Where: Ryan & Bryce’s place Triggers: suicide, alcohol, mental health, Alzheimers, religion Summary: Ryan has struggled with Father’s Day since her dad’s diagnosis, however, this year, she finds herself unable to cope with her own emotions.

It was just before eleven in the morning and Ryan could already feel herself headed towards self destruction. Her beach day with Emery couldn’t come quickly enough. She’d started off her morning bright and early, and naturally, on Instagram. The blonde figured she’d avoid the many Father’s Day posts that way. Boy was she wrong.

Next came church. She never realized how alone she’d felt sitting amongst the rest of her congregation until today. She’d gotten to know most of the others in her ward but, they all had families. Many had even grown up within the ward. Ryan was an outsider. It became even more evident today as she glanced around the room, fathers surrounded by their children. Each held a craft in their hand that they’d put together in Sunday school. Ryan remembered doing the same when she was younger. She’d always convinced her teacher to let her make two for her dad. Her dad was special, after all. He was her daddy and her mommy. She’d quickly learned that none of her Sunday school teachers could say no to that. Today, she found herself trying to find some sort of distraction to avoid listening to the sermon that so fittingly revolved around fathers. All the while, she wondered how she’d gone from having a dad who was a father, a mother, a superhero and a best friend all at once to not remembering she even existed.

The moment services ended, Ryan was on her feet, making a beeline for the door. She offered excuses to those who tried to stop her, insisting that she was late for a school group project. No one commented on the fact that finals had taken place weeks ago.

Upon arriving home, she went through her usual routine of taking off her high heels, swapping her dress for sweatpants, tying her hair into a messy bun and, of course, stuffing her face with fresh donuts she’d picked up on her drive. The blonde climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets over herself. She reached for her phone, opening up her messages and clicking on Emery’s contact name. Ryan was about to hit send when her phone began to ring: Incoming FaceTIme from Aunt Michelle.

Ryan hesitated. She could come up with something. Church ran late. She was taking a shower. She’d left her phone in her car. But, it was Father’s Day. While she might have tried to avoid it, she knew that there would be few years left where she’d have a father to call. She was sure then that she’d be willing to do anything to hear his voice. With a small sigh, she plastered a smile on her face and accepted the call.

In a matter of seconds, her father appeared on the screen, staring blankly back at her. “Hi, Dad,” she waved at him, awaiting a response that never came. “It’s me,” Ryan added in. She heard her aunt murmur something to him in the background, eventually earning Ryan a warm hello in return. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to wish you a happy Father’s Day. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.” She was met with more silence.

“Brianne,” he smiled back at her after a while, and Ryan’s heart sank slightly. She didn’t know too much about her mother. She knew her name was Brianne, and she knew that she’d looked just like her. Ryan always told herself that it was his disease. The confusion was what caused the common mixup. Still, a part of her wondered if maybe her dad felt like Ryan left him the same way her mother had.

“That isn’t Brianne, Derek. That’s Ryan.” “Who?” “Ryan.” “Who’s that?”

The blonde bit her lip harder, trying to keep herself composed as she spoke again. “It’s me, dad. Ryan. Your daughter,” she offered gently. “I’m away at school. I’m studying so I can be a doctor, remember? I’m going to become a pediatrician and then you and me are going to go back to Brazil like you always wanted to do and serve a mission together and set up a clinic for them.”

He was silent again, and Ryan was sure he’d never respond. And then, he said it. “Minha filha.” It meant my daughter in Portuguese--a language her father had become fluent in before serving his mission in Brazil. He’d called her that often growing up.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she confirmed with a nod and a smile--a genuine smile this time. “I’m going to come home soon. For your birthday. Maybe we’ll go to the lake and see the sunset over the mountains by the water.” Ryan suggested, hoping he might remember that as well.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, Brianne.” He nodded, turning away from her.

“No, dad, not tomorrow. It’s Ryan, remember?” She corrected him, though, he already seemed distracted, no longer looking at the video camera. A few more seconds passed before her aunt appeared in the frame. “Uh, I guess I’ll go.”

“You know he gets confused. It’s still morning. Maybe we’ll try calling back later.” Her aunt tried to comfort her. Ryan knew that the time of day wouldn’t change much.

She offered a simple nod in response. “Bye, Aunt Michelle.” Ryan hit the end button on the phone before tossing it across the room. She pulled her knees up to her chest before burying her face in her knees and bursting into a fit of tears.

Ryan allowed herself her time to breakdown before pulling herself back up, as per usual, and pushing everything aside. She made her way into the kitchen, pulling out the flour and sugar. It was muscle memory by now. It was all apart of her coping mechanism. And yet, the bags somehow felt heavier. When she popped a handful of the chocolate chips in her mouth, they tasted bitter. No matter how many times she tried to remember how much butter the recipe called for, she simply couldn’t. There was no space in her head for anything but the racing thoughts.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Ryan’s gaze fell on the liquor bottles Bryce had placed on the countertop. She didn’t know what they were but, she found herself collecting them up and hurrying back into her room. Ryan sat back on her bed, placing the bottles in front of her.

Her gaze stayed on the bottles as she let her mind wander. She thought back to third grade, when the entire class worked to compose a poem for their mothers in honor of Mother’s Day. Payton Johnson had teased her for making one for her aunt, telling the other kids that Ryan’s mom didn’t want her. It’d taken over ten years but, Ryan was finally realizing Payton had been right. She reached for one of the bottle’s, unscrewing the cap, taking a large sip for Payton. The blonde coughed at the taste, making a face as it burned her throat going down. Then, she took another sip to clear her throat.

She thought back to the day her dad had sat her down. How they’d pitched a tent by the lake and watched the sun set. They’d roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire. And then he’d told her. She didn’t understand then where it would lead her but, she knew enough to know her life had changed that day. He’d held her as she cried. He’d promised her everything was going to be okay. It was the first promise he’d ever broken. Things hadn’t felt okay since. She drank to that.

And then she’d found her ex-boyfriend, and things did feel okay again. She’d found the person who held her when she cried, made her laugh when she was having a crappy day, listened to her talk for hours on end when she needed and loved her for being nothing other than herself--or so she’d thought. Then one night, he wasn’t. One night she needed him. She needed her person. After many ignored texts and calls, she’d showed up at his apartment, having been let in by one of his roommates. She waited hours before she heard the door open. And then there he was, his lips on another woman’s as the pair stumbled through the doorway in front of Ryan. She forgave him, only to have it happen again. How could she be mad at him? He’d asked her. What did she expect? He was a man. He needed things. He loved her but, she had to understand. And she did. She understood then that she simply hadn’t been enough. She drank to her ex.

It’d made her question everything she’d ever been taught. She’d been faithful. She’d saved herself. And in return, all she got was heartbreak. She had finally began to question the God that had been her safe space. The God who was to blame for her broken heart. The God who’d taken her dad from her. She drank to Him.

Here she was now. Monarch University. She’d come here to escape it all. No, she’d come here to pursue her dreams. She’d become a doctor. Just like she and her dad had always spoken about. That would be Ryan’s gift. And she would vow to use that to make a difference. Her dedication to her goal had always made her dad proud. He may not have been fully aware of it anymore but, the blonde held onto that promise to him. But her grades told a different story. The longer she held onto the promise, the harder it became to break. She drank to failed dreams and broken promises.

But then she’d found Alec. An unexpected light in what felt like a university full of darkness. He’d fallen for her. For her stupid jokes, her sugar addiction and even her decision to save herself. The happiness she’d felt with him had been happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was happiness she was unwilling to lose. She vowed to make sure she was enough for him. Ryan gave herself to him completely. In trying to be enough for him, she realized she would never be enough for her God or her church. She felt dirty. She felt unworthy. She felt unloveable. She drank to all three of those feelings.

As for her relationship with Alec itself? Well, clearly not even sex had been able to save that. She wasn’t sure anything would have been able to. She fell short again. A victim to her own naivety. Ryan had blinded herself with the lust, the need to find happiness and the desire to be wanted, she hadn’t even recognized the lies. She drank to Alec.

Then there was no one but Ryan herself. And that was the worst of it all. The one who had refused to make anything for her aunt for Mother’s Days to come in fear of Payton Johnson commenting. The one who had brushed the topic of her father’s condition off instead of admitting that she wasn’t okay. The one who had blamed herself for the breakup with her ex instead of telling herself she deserved better than a man who wouldn’t love her because she didn’t spread her legs. The one who blamed God for her problems instead of making any sort of attempt to better herself. The one who believed a twenty year old promise was worth more than her own success and happiness. The one who let her purity define her worth. The one who still loved a man who would probably never love her back. The one who didn’t have the courage to confront any of her friends after each one had forgotten her birthday. The one who didn’t even have the courage to walk into a counseling session and admit she needed help. The one who was nothing but a coward. The one who was a disappointment. The one who was better off dead.

Her head felt heavy now. She could hardly focus enough to see how much of the alcohol she’d managed to get down. Her tolerance was low, that much she knew. She’d only drank on one occasion before, and that had been an accident. However, she’d managed to get it all down quickly. She knew her body had little chance of processing so much in such a short period of time. She knew it was unlikely her body would bounce back from this.

She felt herself shiver and pulled the duvet over herself, much like a body in a morgue. She figured she’d save someone the extra step. Ryan felt her breathing slowing, wondering if it was happening already. She did her best to relax, settling back against her pillow. The blonde raised a shaky hand, deciding to take one last sip for good luck, but, before she could manage, the world went black.

#tw: suicide #tw: alcohol #tw: mental health #tw: alzheimers #tw: religion #para #falling

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jasper-hale-protection-squad · 5 years

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(Fic) Battle Scars

Warnings: Fireworks, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, panic attack, war flashbacks, mentions of the confederacy, blood, gore, violence, and self-hate

Ship(s): Alice/Jasper (main), Carlisle/Esme, and Emmett/Rosalie

Tag list: @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @reprehensibleghost @actuallybennyweir

Jasper Hale was many things, but he was proud to say that a coward was not one of them. He’d fought newborns, looked death in the eye on the battlefield as a human, and denied his true nature as a vampire to feast on animal blood. Having a family as supportive as the Cullens and a mate like Alice certainly helped Jasper overcome his rather violent and traumatic past. He would do anything for them. Including, apparently, going into town to watch the local fireworks show even though he had no interest or idea of what fireworks were. It didn’t sound like such a bad idea, from what Edward had described. They lit up the sky in bright colors and flashes. Alice told him they were beautiful. He had his doubts, but he trusted their judgment. Carlisle stashed a blanket for all of them to sit on in the back of his car. Jasper got in there with Alice and Esme, while Emmett, Rosalie, and Edward took Edward’s car. The family arrived at the top of a hill overlooking the town. It was only their first summer there, but the small area was already becoming familiar. Alice helped Carlisle spread out the blanket and everyone took a seat. Alice immediately made herself comfortable in Jasper’s arms, snuggling into his chest and tangling their legs together.

“When exactly are these...fireworks supposed to start?” Jasper asked her quietly, observing his siblings and adoptive parents as they chatted among themselves. Alice hummed softly and played with the collar of his jacket.

“Soon, it seems like they’re just finishing the-“ Alice suddenly froze, gripping tighter onto Jasper. The blonde vampire immediately became concerned, sensing his mate’s distress. He cupped her face with one hand, gently encouraging her to meet his gaze. The silent question that hung in the air was easily detected by Alice. “We need to go, right now,” she whispered earnestly, grabbing Jasper’s hand and dragging him to his feet with her typical vampire strength. Jasper’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Why? Alice, what did you see?” Jasper asked, gripping her hand in both of his. Before Alice could reply, Jasper’s attention was caught by a streak of gold shooting into the air. Was that a firework? Jasper’s curiosity piqued until the firework exploded into a burst of blue, the loud crashing sound echoing through the air. Jasper’s entire body tensed and he stared at the sky in horror. But he wasn’t really looking at the sky. No, Jasper had been transported to a different place entirely.

As fireworks continued to explode in the air, Jasper found himself on all too familiar terrain. Men in uniforms or tattered farm clothes shouted and ran for cover as buckets ricocheted through the air. A group of men, all who couldn’t be any older than 18, were blown backward as a cannonball landed directly in front of them. There was blood, so much blood, and the screams… Jasper fell to his knees, his throat tightening involuntarily. He was lucky vampires didn’t need to breathe to live because he couldn’t have sucked any air in even if he wanted to. He scrambled backward as a body mangled with bullets and shards of metal fell in front of him, the face of the soldier covered in so much blood he was unrecognizable. Jasper needed to get out of there, find safety.

The vampire tried to move but he was frozen in place with fear. Even with screams and explosions and young boys dying at his feet, Jasper couldn’t move. Every muscle in his body was drawn taut and screamed for him to run, but refused to let him move. Finally, he managed to crouch, pressing his knees and forehead against the ground and wrapping his arms around his neck. He jerked and let out a choked scream as another cannonball whistled overhead and exploded just inches away from him. He faintly heard someone crying out his name but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t look up to see who had spoken to him. He couldn’t do it.

“Jasper? Jasper, come back to us,” Emmett was saying earnestly, shaking the man he loved as a brother by the shoulders. Jasper looked at him without seeing him, eyes sharp and wide in terror. He was muttering things under his breath, gripping hard at the grass and the blanket underneath him. Emmett tried not to panic, knowing Jasper would sense it and only get worse. Carlisle rested a hand on his back and Emmett looked up to see Edward looking down at them solemnly.

“We need to get Jasper out of here, away from the fireworks. It’s triggering some sort of trauma-related reaction,” Edward said. Emmett nodded curtly and hefted Jasper Into his arms, guessing the other man was in no state to walk by himself. Jasper, however, seemed to have other ideas.

“No!” Jasper screamed, thrashing in Emmett’s grip, eyes blown wide. Emmett winced as Jasper dug his nails into his chest and clawed at him. There would definitely be marks later.

“Put him in the back Emmett, I’ll help calm him,” Alice said earnestly, getting into Carlisle’s car. Jasper resisted Emmett’s attempts until Alice grabbed his wrist, her eyes set firmly in determination. Jasper’s eyes finally began to focus and he grabbed on to Alice, shaking and breathing in heavy pants despite not actually needing air. His eyes still clouded with fear, were at least focused on the current world and not the past one. Another firework went off and Jasper cried out, practically flinging himself at Alice and shaking. Emmett wanted to say something, to comfort Jasper, but then Rosalie was grabbing his arm.

“The sooner we get to my car, the sooner they can get Jasper out of here,” Rosalie said to her husband, taking him by the arm and leading him to her car. Emmett kept stealing worried glances at the other car as Carlisle and Esme got in and quickly sped off to return home. Jasper was still shaking and flinched at the increasingly distant explosions. Carlisle gripped Esme’s hand, tense and worried as his adoptive son’s terror didn’t seem to fade, even when they were well out of earshot of the fireworks. Alice pet Jasper’s hair and whispered to him, holding him close to her and not letting go. Jasper’s eyes grew distant again, but he seemed more aware this time around. He suddenly reached out a hand and grabbed Esme’s wrist, sitting up weakly. Surprised, Esme let go of Carlisle’s hand.

“M-Ma,” Jasper murmured, his hand shaking as he gripped Esme’s wrist. “Ma, I’m so sorry, everyone was so excited about tonight and I ruined it. I’m sorry,” Jasper continued, his voice quivering. If vampires could shed tears, Jasper would have been bawling. Esme’s eyes softened and she squeezed her son’s hand.

“You haven’t ruined anything. Your brothers and sister just want you to be alright, so do Carlisle and I. You don’t need to be sorry,” Esme reassured him, running a thumb over his knuckles. Jasper, still trembling, nodded and withdrew his hand. Alice nuzzled into him, continuing her gentle whispers and making sure Jasper could sense the calm and the love she felt to help ease him. Jasper closed his eyes and leaned against her, holding her hand and wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her close.

Rosalie, Edward, and Emmett were all waiting anxiously back at the house. As soon as Alice entered the home with an exhausted and shaken Jasper leaning against her heavily, Emmett strode over to them. Jasper tensed instinctively and the older vampire stopped, putting his hands up in a surrendering gesture.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I just wanted…” His voice trailed off. Jasper glanced him up and down, seemed to get the message, and parted away from Alice to wrap his arms around Emmett. Emmett immediately pulled him close, the embrace tight but comforting. Jasper was almost dizzy as he felt the concern and worry rolling off of his brother in waves. He shook his head but the room kept spinning. He groaned softly.

“Couch?” Jasper mumbled. Emmett ended the hug but kept an arm around his brother, guiding him to the couch and helping him settle. Emmett pulled away but Jasper gripped hard onto his wrist, head shooting up. At Emmett’s confused look, Jasper grimaced and whispered, “You’re calm, surprisingly. It’s comforting.” Emmett immediately sat beside Jasper, willing himself to relax further and concentrating on channeling that emotion as much as possible. Alice, appearing from the doorway, sat on the other side of her husband and held his hand. Jasper closed his eyes and leaned his head on her shoulder, his own shoulders slowly becoming less tense and his body slowly relaxing.

“Are you alright, Jasper?” Carlisle asked as he entered the room with Esme. Jasper hummed softly in response and nodded, not feeling up to saying anything. He could feel how worried they all were, how scared they were for him, and it made him uneasy, Emmett and Alice’s emotions were strong, however, and Jasper could tell they were trying to project them as much as possible, which did help. Carlisle sat on the couch opposite the three vampires, Rosalie, Edward, and Esme joining him. “Can you tell us what happened?” Carlisle continued. Jasper’s eyes opened and he met Carlisle’s gaze. It was pleading. “Is it alright if Edward tells us?” Jasper hesitated before nodding, then buried his face back in Alice’s shoulder. Carlisle turned to his other son and nodded slightly. Edward looked at Jasper for a moment.

“The fireworks made him remember his time as a Confederate soldier. Specifically, the battles. He was in the middle of the battlefield and was watching soldiers dying. Apparently, the fireworks reminded him of the gunshots and explosions,” Edward explained the best he could. He could read thoughts, not see people’s memories, and Jasper’s thoughts were somewhat incoherent and panicked at the moment. Carlisle gazed at Jasper thoughtfully, taking Edward’s information and picking it apart.

“That sounds like Post Traumatic Stress. It’s fairly common in war veterans and abuse victims. Have you heard of it?” he said. Jasper nodded and turned his head to face Carlisle to show he was listening. “I’m not trained in mental illness, so I can’t diagnose you officially, but based on what Edward said and how you acted back at the celebration, that’s exactly what it sounds like.” Jasper’s expression became pained when Carlisle brought up the Fourth of July celebration. He opened his mouth to speak and Edward glowered him, cutting him off.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, golden eyes flashed dangerously. “You did nothing wrong, Jasper.” Carlisle raised an eyebrow at him and Edward angrily said, “Jasper thinks he ruined the night and we’re all angry at him.” Jasper made a pained noise in his throat and Alice frowned.

“We aren’t angry, Jasper. We’re worried for you,” Alice said, cupping Jasper’s face in both of her hands. Jasper met her gaze tiredly. His shoulders sagged and he placed a hand over one of hers, gently tracing a finger over the back of her hand before removing it from his face and gripping it tightly.

“You should be. First, you couldn’t take me anywhere because of my bloodlust, now you can’t take me anywhere because I panic over loud noises,” Jasper said. His voice was bitter and his gaze dropped again. He slid away from both Alice’s and Emmett’s grip, standing from the couch. He was gone in a split second, disappearing up the stairs and into the room that he and Alice shared. His mate followed quickly, and Emmett stood to follow as well, but Rosalie grabbed his arm.

“Let them have a minute,” she said. He tried to protest but Rosalie wasn’t having it. “Jasper needs space. We can talk to him later, ok?” Her voice was firm but loving. Emmett stared at the staircase for a moment before nodding, letting Rosalie lead him back to the couch.

“I never knew his time as a soldier affected him so much,” Emmett told him. He and Jasper were close. He was the one Jasper trusted the most after Alice, and they were both fairly open with each other. Emmett would never admit it, but it hurt to know Jasper had kept such an important thing from him when he told him almost everything. To be fair, Jasper didn’t like to share much. He never had, but Emmett and Alice could usually coax him into talking about things.

“Battle scars are not always physical, Emmett, and sometimes even the person suffering doesn’t realize it until something terrible happens,” Carlisle said solemnly. “I’m certain if Jasper had known about this he would have told us; he would consider it something to warn us about. But don’t take the fact that you didn’t know personally.” Hearing his father figure’s words made Emmett feel guilty, but he just nodded and said nothing, glancing at the stairs again and wishing that he could do something to help his brother.

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fiftyshadesgrl · 5 years

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He saved me/ part 6

Summary: reader is in a abusive relationship. When things take a turn for the worst she finds help in the winchesters.

Warning: this story will have smut, violence, language, abuse, and torture. If you are triggered by any of this then i suggest you not to read.

I sat down on the bed and sorted through the bags and decided that since it was just a local bar theres no need to dress up to much. For some reason though i felt the urge to look nice, for dean. So i picked out a black strapless shirt, some ripped jean shorts, a red flannel and some sandals. I walked into the bathroom and showered with the new shampoo and body wash i bought. It was called lust, fitting for the occasion. I stepped out and wrapped a towel around my hair and then one around myself.

I stood in front of the mirror and applied some makeup, i went for a smoky eye look and some dark purple lipstick. After i got dressed i towel dried my hair and left it in waves down my back. I started to get nervous hoping dean would think i looked okay. I applied some perfume of the same brand as my body wash and shampoo and put in some small hoop earrings.

A soft knock on my door brought me out of my thoughts. "(Y/N), you ready? Sammys not going so its just us."

Oh great i thought. Now my stomach was really doing flips thinking i was going to be alone with dean tonight. "Yeah, just a few more minutes."

Dean must have walked away because no other sound came from the other side of the door. I looked in the mirror adjusted my shirt, my shorts, fluffed my hair. Obviously i was stalling because of the fear that dean wouldnt like the way i looked.

I took a deep breath and walked to the bedroom door, hand on the door knob my heart was racing. Its now or never. I turned the knob and opened the door, and gasped as deans eyes met mine.

His mouth fell open as he looked me up and down. My eyes fell to the floor as his gaze went from my toes to my head. "Holy shit." Dean whispered.

I closed my eyes waiting for the next words to come out of his mouth. His finger under my chin raised my eyes up to meet his. "Youre so fuckin beautiful."

I blushed and tried to look away but he wouldnt let me. He smiled and ran his fingers over my cheek, he leaned in as if he was going to kiss me then he pulled back. "Lets get going, dont want all the good tables to be gone."

I sighed and nodded, even if dean thought i did look good doesnt mean he wanted me. I walked slowly behind him and waved at sam who was sitting in the library again reading this time. "Dont wait up." Dean said over his shoulder. Sam nodded but i doubt dean saw it and he went back to his reading.

Sitting in the bar was way different than i thought it would be. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol, there was no bikers sitting at the bar like i had imagined. There was actually just a handful of people here. Dean and i got a booth in the back where it was secluded. I slid in the booth and dean slid in right next to me.

The waitress came over swaying her hips and batting her eyes at dean. He didnt pay much attention to her but it didnt keep her from trying. "Two beers, two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey." Dean said cooly still not paying attention to her.

She placed her hands on the table and leaned in close to dean. Showing her clevage to him, "you sure thats all i can get you?" She said seductively as she glanced over at me.

Dean gave her a quick glance, "yeah, thanks." Then he turned his attention back to me. The waitress huffed and walked back over to the bar. She came back soon after and placed our drinks on the table with more force than she needed to and never said another word.

Shot after shot i began to lose track of time. I began to feel fuzzy and more relaxed as the night went on. Dean and i were laughing and having a great time, every now and then we would share little touches or glances at each other.

"Im really glad you decided to come out with me tonight. You deserved it." Dean said brushing my hair over my ear.

I leaned into his touch and sighed at how it made me tingle all over. "Im glad you asked." Dean smiled as i took another shot. "Ya know, parker never took me out like this. He always kept me under lock and key all the time while he went out and cheated on me and done god knows what."

Dean shook his head and opened his mouth to say something but i cut him off. "But you, not you. I wish i had met you before i did him. I wouldve jumped you the moment i laid eyes on you."

Dean chuckled and took a shot. "Thats the whiskey talking."

I shook my head which made me dizzy. I swayed sideways and fell onto deans chest. He wraped his arm around me, i smiled up at him as he smiled down at me. I licked my lips as my eyes focused on his.

I stretched my neck and kissed him, at first he didnt respond but then his arm tightend around me as he deepend the kiss. Our tongues tangled with one anothers and a small moan escaped my lips. He growled as my hand rested on his thigh and started moving upwards.

He pulled away from the kiss and i could see the lust in his eyes. "Come on, we need to go home." I nodded and smiled knowingly up at him. He just threw some money on the table and guided me out to the impala.

I slid in through the drivers side and sat in the middle. Dean sat next to me his breathing was harder than it was earlier. He sat there with a death grip on the steering wheel. I leaned close to his ear and peppered his neck and jaw with little kisses and i flicked my tongue out to lick in some spots.

"Fuck." Dean cursed under his breath. I ran my hand up his thigh to rest on his belt. I fumbled to get the belt loose but dean stopped me.

"(Y/N), what are you doing" dean asked in a whisper.

"Whatd ya think?" I asked slurring my words together. I unbuttoned my flannel and tossed it in the backseat. I moved down to my shorts and started unbuttoning them when dean placed his hand over mine.

"For fucks sake, stop trying to take your clothes off." He growled as he grabbed my flannel and placed it in my lap.

"You wanna do it?" I smiled at him.

He shook his head as he turned back around in his seat. He started the impala and before he pulled out of the parking lot he said, "no, not here not now."

I huffed and slung my flannel back over my shoulders and tried to cover up as much as possible. This makes the second time hes rejected me. There wont be a third.

I didnt say another word to him until we got to the bunker. "Thanks for tonight dean." It came out in a cold flat voice. I opened my door and stumbled out, dean was there before i knew it. He picked me up and i shoved at his chest.

"Put me down, i can fuggin walk." I slurred and pushed against him again. He just carried me down the stairs and into my room. He placed me on the bed and before i even hit the pillow i was out.

The next morning

My eyes slowly opened and i felt the throb in my temples. I groaned and rubbed my eyes, they felt like they had sand in them. Then it hit me, i felt the bile rise up in my throat. I jumped out of bed quickly and ran to the bathroom and just barely made it to the toilet. Even after i had emptied my entire stomach i dry heaved for several minutes.

I flushed the toilet and walked over to the sink to brush my teeth. After i was done i splashed cold water on my face to try to take away some of this hangover. I slid down to the floor and rested my head back against the counter. I closed my eyes hoping that would help this horrible headache go away.

"I would say good morning but it looks like youre having it rough." I heard deans voice come from the doorway. I cracked my left eye open and seen him standing there with a glass of water and something else in his hand.

He knelt down in front of me and handed me the water. He opened his hand and there was two pills settled on his palm. "Take these asprin, itll help with your headache."

I grabbed them hastily and drank the entire glass of water. I leaned my head back again and whispered a quick thank you. I figured dean would leave but he didnt.

I opened my eyes and looked over at him, "im never drinking like that again." He chuckled and sat down on the floor next to me.

"You just gotta know your limit." He said quietly. I sighed as a comfortable silence filled the room. We sat there for i dont know how long and my head finally started easing off.

"I think im going to take me a shower now since my head has quit spinning." I said raising my head up. I looked down and noticed i was in one of deans shirts and nothing else. He helped me up off the floor but stayed standing in front of me holding my hands.

"Did you undress me last night?" I asked looking him in the eyes.

He nodded, "yeah i figured what you had on would be uncomfortable. I knew you liked my shirts so i gave you mine that i had on." He said smiling. He touched my cheek with his hand and ran his finger across it.

I sighed and leaned into his touch, then the memory of last night came into my mind. I know it was the alcohol that made me do what i did but it doesnt mean that i didnt mean it.

I opened my mouth then closed it again, not knowing what to say. He cleared his throat and took his hand off my cheek. "I guess ill leave you to it." He turned and walked towards the door.

"Dean." I said stopping him from leaving. He turned back towards me, his eyes burning with emotion. His breathing rough and fast. "I remember what happened last night. In the bar and in the car."

He just stood there looking at me, waiting.

"It wasnt just the whiskey." I said quietly. I noticed his fists clenching and his jaw muscle ticked. He closed his eyes and turned and walked out the door. Never saying anything.

I looked in the mirror and my god i was a mess. Yesterdays makeup was strewn down my face my lipstick smeared and my hair. Lord my hair was nothing but a fuzz ball.

I turned the shower on and washed everything from last night away. An hour later when the water had gone cold i stepped out and wrapped a towel around me. I grabbed deans shirt from the floor and brought it to my face and inhaled his amazing scent.

I walked back into my bedroom and grabbed a pair of shorts and i put deans flannel back on. I wanted to keep him close to me for a little while longer.

@an-unhealthy-obsession

#deanwinchester #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean x you #deanwinchestersmut #supernatural

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book-of-ryker · 4 years

Text

When the Navy found out I smoked marijuana, I was at a firing range. I had an M-4 and an M-9, one being an automatic rifle, the other a pistol.

They disarmed me immediately, and I remember knowing why they did.

In the twenty seconds it took me to walk over to the disarming barrel, my thoughts were, “Pull the pistol out, put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger” for as many times I could mentally repeat before I lost the opportunity. I called my dad while a Chief was on his way to pick me up.

After the phone call, I deleted all of my Facebook messages at the recommendation of my father.

All of my text messages. too. My dad swore the Chief wasn’t my friend, and would screw me over at his first chance and not to tell him anything, at all.

The deleted threads of conversations with people who either didn’t exist anymore, or we had stopped talking.

I must have chain smoked about fifteen cigarettes in the hour and a half it took for this Chief to arrive.

All the while, I had been wishing that I had the courage to just pull that fucking trigger.

That anxiety was unbearable.

I went to a DRB, which is where I stand in front of a bunch of senior enlisted military.

At first, I came in with my shoulders back , military discipline and all. At the end, I was escorted out by a compassionate Master Chief, and I was bawling.

I have wanted to kill myself for as far back as I can remember. I smoked weed because all of my pain in life is unbearable and my mind never shuts the fuck up.

I don’t understand reality the way everyone seems to and it’s isolating, like being in the dimension next door.

"Most everyone who doesn’t know me resents me. Most everyone who knows me tolerates me," I tell myself.

I sat outside and cried, blubbering to these senior enlisted folks.

As a Second Class Petty Officer with all of the skills that I had possessed. I was in the United States Navy for five long years, and nine excruciating months and two awkward days.

I had been to mental health multiple times in my Naval career. The first psychiatrist that I ever spoke to was at NATTC Pensacola.

It’s not even six months of me getting out of the Navy now...

My present life finds me in this bed at some house in South Carolina, Like a muscle, those words stream across my mind like a teleprompter, “You should have died on that day. You should have fucking killed yourself.”

And for myself, I finally gave myself the courage to tell myself, “No.” "I love you for just who you are. I love the way you think, I love the way you handle thing[s] (most of the time ^.^), I love what you do. You have a very solid and strong mind, you think things through very thoroughly, and you have a very good outward perspective. I don't know if that helps, but that's the best I can come up with while working." Let me tell you what I think happened before I tell you why I think we should reconnect. I'm 26 years old and the one and only thing in my life that I regret, to this day, is what I once said simply to hurt you. I was an awful boyfriend for you. Not all of the time, obviously. But my only regret comes from when I said out of annoyance and irresponsibility, 'I guess you're going to have to celebrate Thanksgiving without your boyfriend or your mom.." You eyes glazed over me. You slumped over. And you sobbed. I walked towards you and hugged you because that sort of rage-to-regret is exactly the kind of Bipolar Disorder that I am used to. It's been my entire life, Nicole. It's all I have ever known. Albeit, the worst of it all is over and I'm just waiting for all of my hopes and dreams to bloom into the flowers I have been cultivating. The night we went to Twin Peaks was the night you said goodbye, even though you never did. You and I both are aware that we would come across each other someday, I think. I don't have any proof for that delusion/hope, but hey, I don't know everything which means I have unfettered access to being totally wrong and totally right, until one of us is deceased. I do remember being in absolute bliss that night we met up and you were drunk with me in the Whataburger drive through and that's about all I have for that. Mike and I moved out of the house because we wouldn't be able to renew the lease before I had to get my new job in the Navy. I moved into an apartment on the second floor and I got a dog named Itachi. I did loads of LSD that I'd gotten and I had a REALLY FUCKING AWFUL TRIP with Hailey Campbell (also tripping) and Rian Nobles (not tripping). I went to my grandmother's funeral in New York with my Dad and Alex. I found out that my photographic memory is real because I reminded my Uncle about the fit my brother went into at the LAST funeral we gathered. Which was Renee's. I lived with Lauren Teston for a long time after that. I started smoking weed because, Nicole, I didn't know what to do.. Everyone has always left me, and I only NOW understand why: me. But I didnt see it like that. It didn't feel like that.. It didn't feel like I had an emotional problem. I didn't know. But in retrospect, Nicole, my emotions felt like a chainsaw to my insides. Our breakup was the healthiest breakup for me, and it was also the worst. (2020 readers, it got way worse) I didn't leave for California until right before October 10, 2016. I was trained to be an Engine Mechanic by the Seabees and I learned a fuck ton about cars. I did more PT than anywhere else in my military career. Every Friday was a 4:30 A.M., seven mile run with the whole school. Really, it was a fourteen mile run, but it makes me sound less of a douche if I say seven, maybe. I came home on leave for Christmas and I smoked even more weed. I came back to California to finish my school. Byy the way, there were two onomatopoeia's in a barracks room together: Petty Officer Quackenbush and Petty officer Miao (this or 'mao' is also the Chinese word for cat") I left Port Hueneme after meeting Johnny Depp in L.A. I drove, for the third time, across the country. I was at Gulfport, Mississippi for a few months, learning combat procedures with the Seabees. I pissed hot in Gulfport. I wrote a poem that I'll attach later about what that was like. I went to some military proceedings, reduced in rank, lost a lot of money, had to go to two different hospitals for one month. I first went to Garden Park Hospital for a suicide watch that I had been placed under after the military proceedings had broken me down to where I couldn't take it anymore. I bawled my eyes out to men I'd never met because I could no longer believe that people didn't care about me. I was suicidal given the circumstances, but I was suicidal before I ever got caught smoking. The only reason I smoked was because I didn't want to be suicidal. A 51 year old woman tells me at this place that she, "Would be surprised if I never heard of you again. I stayed at Emerald Coast Behavioral Health (This is when I called you in 2017) and I learned an entirely different way of living. I was told that I have Bipolar Disorder I, Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety, Osteochrondroma in the left knee. I was told a handful of tools to help myself become a better person. I then went to restriction, which is where a person is constantly monitoring me while I do nothing but work and survive. I did that for forty five days which dragged forever. I left. I stayed with my dad and I had a good first month out of the Navy. I was happy. I was excited and nervous and terrified. I smoked SO much more weed. I drank SO much more booze. And cigarettes. I was helping my dad build a deck in the backyard. My car was repossessed about one and one half months after getting out. I had nothing. I started working under the table as a contractor for a few months, but my mom and I got into a fight and I was kicked out of the house for the second and last time of my life. I moved in and slept on a friends floor. He had a bum knee from a recent surgery and so I quasi-morphed into his at-home nurse. Started doing dabs and malt liquor with friends. Eating popcorn for food, drawing outside for five hours, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I did this for a month until my depression (booze) had become evil. I tried hanging myself on a dog line and I had to leave their house.. I stayed with my dude Sam for a few days and then moved in with my brother for a day. I feel nothing for him anymore, and so I really dont want to elaborate about this because he will always be a peace of shit. I went to a music festival that got shutdown by a hurricane. I got to do LSD/blow/weed for free because I was working security and I have worked with the team before. Hell, the guy in charge personally handed me $275 because of how badass of a watchstander I am. I then migrated to Asheville, North Carolina where my eyes were opened to the world we live in. And how great a thing love is, Nicole Renee Gable. But after this, I really had nowhere to go. That is until I remembered that I knew a guy from when I was in Japan.. We only ever really interacted in the smokepits. After he found out I had been sleeping on the floor of my friends house, he told me that if I was ever in South Carolina that he had a guest bedroom waiting for me. I lived with him and his wife and their son while I got a job as a forklift driver at BMW. I got another car (since been repossessed, not as debilitating for me now). I moved out and lived with a dude that I thought was a friend. He ended up being a real twat of a motherfucker. Before I knew he was a real dullard, I left BMW about two weeks of me living with him. It was too military.A HUGE millitary-industrial complex. He fucked me over so that I had nowhere to go and I didnt have a job. He left. I had the apartment by myself. It was a blur of events past that. Between the weed, the booze and the mental health issues, I am grateful to be writing this. This guy's stripper girlfriend (Her name is Sam and she's nice as well as bananas) came to find me in a fucked up mess of my own doing at the apartment. After I came to, she and I decided that I needed to check myself into a mental health center. With no insurance. I had only a few boxes of stuff (I drove down to Florida at one point to get my shit). After I was in for a week (I know what I'm about and the solutions I need), I got a job working as a cook in a strip club. The BEST job I ever had because I actually made some good money. (30 girls dancing in one night with $5 tips to me is a lot of moolah) However, I didnt make enough money to stay. I only made enough money to leave. I bought two edibles and had a nice relaxing eight hour drive to a friend's house in Pennsacola We had a personal falling out/disagreement. I worked as a line cook at Slimz at the Al Fresco in Pensacola. I saved up money to come out to California. I'm with one of my few best friends, Tymothy. Upon my arrival here, my car was repossessed (I bought in South Carolina, which is fucking crazy that they found me). My life is coming together though, Nicole. I am generally happy in my day to day lifestyle. I'm hoping to be officially retired from working for the rest of my life within this next year. It turns out that there was A HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE scandal in the Navy and I'm going to use my genius mind to collect the disability that I deserve. Monthly, that payment could land anywhere between $800-2900.. For the rest of my life. I have an amazing home loan that I will get to use once the ball has begun rolling. Nicole, I really dont think I love you as much as I should have and that bothers me. Not in a negative way, at all. It makes me feel like I need to write this email to you. Like I owe you more for what you gave me, Nicole Gable. You might not see it, Nicole. The only reason I ever went along with the mental health is so that we could have a healthy relationship together. Whatever that even fucking means as far as the definition goes. Hell, for all I know, you could be seriously dead or worse. You could be dating somebody.. 😝 I havent dated anyone quite seriously. I've been on a couple of dates here and there, but I just didn't/don't care. I hope that all of these women find someone that loves them as much as I know I can love you someday, if you could ever trust me... If you're with someone, I seriously hope they love you as much as space-time can hold matter and energy and light and dark matter. The greatest lesson I have learned since we spoke last is that we will live our lives from the shades of fear and the radiations of love. I love and accept myself now. I love myself exactly how you once loved me. I don't know where on this rock you are, but if you'd like to never have to work again, please reach out to me. I would be honored, if you would ever be willing. It's still going to be a few months, so you can think about this for awhile..? If you ever wanted to live in California with me someday, I mean. Hell, we could be roomates. You could wear chastity belts and Amish outfits all year round . I don't know anything.. I hope that this email finds you well. I hope it has given you smiles. I hope you have a blessed day. [Update] It is now the year 2020. I am. The world is the world. Hell is hell. We’re all stuck on a rock in the middle of nowhere. If there’s someone reading this, be aware: you do not exist. This is my spaceship.

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pi-cat000 · 5 years

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 17)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, Part 16

Part 18: here?

LANCE POV

Lance halts his work when the natural light, afforded by the open roller doors, dims, forcing him to strain his eyes. He could flip on the floodlights, but his patience for the fiddley wiring threaded through his current project is trying his nerves enough that he’s in danger of screwing himself over. It’s best Lance start the end of day routine before he does something he’ll regret. The car is causing a bit of grief, and he’ll need a second set of hands for some of the more complicated stuff he has planned, meaning he’ll have to wait for one of his numbskull employees to arrive in the morning.

The garage’s roller doors rattle shut, clanking when they hit the concrete, reverberating about the shop. Lance has grown too used to having a second mechanic around. Arthur's always been a genius when it came to the more techy side of mechanic work, something he’s come to rely on. He is already missing the kid, and it hasn’t even been a day. Maybe that’s the source of the gut feeling telling him that something, somewhere was going very wrong.

Lance grabs his phone on his way out of the workshop so he’ll hear when Arthur calls. It’s normal to be concerned for your kid when they go off on an extended trip, right? This is standard parent stuff. Lance tucks the phone into this back pocket.

Sure, Arthur suddenly defaulting into his passive defensive ‘I’m not going to answer your questions,’ mode, is concerning. The boy went from relatively talkative and energetic to quiet and pensive seemingly overnight. It’s not the depressive anxiousness either. That he knows how to deal with. Oh, there’s anxiety there by the bucket loads, but it is melancholic and reserved now like Arthur's not telling him something.

But… Maybe, he’s worrying over nothing. Perhaps this road trip is the fix Arthur’s been needing. Maybe, he’s misreading Arthur’s strange increases in nervousness. Lance exhales long and hard. He knows Arthur is his own person and an adult to boot, but, as the boy’s closest worthwhile relative, he’s worried. To call him concerned would be an understatement.

Tiredly, Lance moves through the makeshift reception room, switching off the Kingsman Mechanics neon street sign and making to kick away the block wedging open the front door. Predictably, the door jams when he attempts to pull it close, and he is part way through prying it lose when he catches the sound of steps in the driveway.

Lance pauses in an attempt to catch any further noise, sticking his head out to squint at the darkening lot. Nothing jumps out as being strange but the low lighting is hampering his vision so he can’t be sure.

“Freeze, old man.”

The gruff voice sounds suddenly from just around the front entryway. Lance tilts his head sideward, taking in the half-obscured form of a heavy-set figure. From this angle, he can make out a leather vest and the shape of a compact handgun.

“Come on out, and step away from the door,” The gun is waved loosely, carelessly. Lance scowls and opens the door wide.

“You got a problem mate,” He answers casually, stepping out hands partially raised, “If you’re lookin for money it’s locked in the till behind that desk. There aint a lot there mind you.”

The figure snorts, seemingly amused, “Yeah no. I’m not here for cash buddyo. Just here to ask a few questions is all.”

“And that needs to be done at gunpoint?”

Lance turns his head subtlety to get a better look at what he’s dealing with. A man on the taller side, dressed in leathers which are all badly scuffed like he’s already been in a fight. Previous injuries would give Lance an advantage in a one-to-one brawl and maybe negate the height difference. Lance would have to be the one to initiate to even the odds which currently weren't in his favour. To the side, Lance thinks he can make out the shape of a motorcycle, the only new addition to the parking lot.

“Eh,” He gets a loose shrug as a response to his question, “It gets results. You humans do love your guns. A match made in heaven if I may be so bold.”

Lance mentally ups the man’s danger levels, adding possible mental instability to his assessment.

“And what is this important question?” He asks to humour the potential crazy person.

“Oh, it’s an easy one. I’m looking for an Arthur. Apparently, he works here.”

Lance blames the unexpected nature of the question to the twitch of his upper lip, giving away his relation. Of all the things he expected this nutjob to ask, it hadn’t been that. He’s now very glad Arthur isn’t around.

“Oh oh, what was that, do you know Arthur,” The nutjob catches the twitch and takes an attentive step into Lance’s range. Lance can now see the other’s squashed, slightly beat up, facial features, full beard, and prying green eyes. Damn it. Arthur did always have the worst sort of luck, but it had never followed him home like this.

“Is he around?” The nutjob is still talking, “Where does he…”

Lance throws himself sideways, slamming into the figure with his full weight, taking them both to the ground hard. No way in hell he’s waiting around for this nutjob to shoot him and go after Arthur. The gun goes spinning, flung into the air by the sudden impact.

“Ahh. Shit,” The taller man responds, hitting the dirt gravel of the parking lot with Lance on top of him. Lance brings his elbow down on the man’s ribs, twisting to get leverage. He’s sure he’s broken something but the nutjob twists and wiggles like nothing. Hands shoot up and grip either side of Lance’s head as if to bring him in for a headbutt. The hold is weak, and Lance moves to knock the limbs away and maybe break a few more bones while he’s at it.

Briefly, Lance makes eye contact with his attacker.

Green.

Lance just managers to register the eye colour when he’s struck by the oddest sensation of slipping to the side and falling back all at once. His muscles lock up, freezing him despite his attempts to deliver a punch to the temple. Acid green sparks across his vision like his eyes are covered in a thin film of cellophane.

“Geez old man. You’re wrecked. Did no one ever tell you to bend with the knees when you were a kid,” Lance hears himself say, and it is wrong because he still can’t move and he definitely hadn’t said anything.

Suddenly, his body is stumbling up and away from the wrestling match, reaching with a twitching hand towards the discarded gun a few feet away. His legs take a jerky step, halting awkwardly, then stepping again in a slightly smoother movement. His eyes blink several times in quick succession. One by one every one of his muscles twitches experimentally.

Of its own accord, his hand grips the gun, turning it back on the leather-vested nutjob. Said nutjob is clumsy stumbling away in wide, frantic movements, attempting to start up the bike Lance had noted earlier.

“Where are you going in such a hurry,” Lance hears himself comment and feels his finger seek out the gun’s trigger. Jesus. He’s going to shoot this guy, and there’s nothing Lance can do to stop himself.

“Bastard,” The nutjob coughs wetly at him, managing to mount the bike.

The first gunshot goes wide.

The bike splutters to life, wheels throwing up gravel. The second shot appears to hit the other man’s shoulder. The bike wobbles dangerously, the figure slumping, definitely hurt. He still makes it out onto the highway, disappearing into the dark.

“Oh bugger. Always the fine motor control. Every time,” Lance listens to himself complain, all the while tracking the disappearing figure, “and I was looking forward to killing that one. Shame.”

What madness was this? It’s tight. Lance still can’t move. Everything about him feels like it’s been suspended in time. Inactive.

“Wasn’t it obvious? With the possession an all, I thought it would be obvious,” He answers his own question. The full body twitching, which had been an ongoing thing for the last few seconds, finishes. His body now moves in smooth and confident strides, walking out and onto the empty highway, staring to where the nutjob-who maybe wasn’t a nutjob after all-had made his escape.

Demon? The thought comes unbidden, almost unbelievable.

“Bingo. Guess there’s a brain in here after all.”

How? It couldn’t be true. None of that stuff was true. It was all bullshit to scare idiots into behaving.

“Rude,” The creature laughs with his mouth, making a sweeping gesture with one of his arms, “You can’t say I’m not real when I’m sitting right here.”

Lance is suddenly very aware of a creeping malice, threading its way into and through his mind. Something dangerous is wiggling into his memories, pulling them apart, searching. Looking. Every instinct is telling him to run. Not that those instincts can do him a lot of good now.

Something buzzes in his pocket. His phone. Lance’s stomach sinks and dread settles in.

“Hmm,” He, the demon, reaches around for the phone, pulling it up. A sense of knowing realisation echoes about Lance’s mind when he sees the user ID, “What do you know. A call from one Arthur Kingsman just the human I’m after. Should I answer and ask him to come home because his dear old uncle misses him? You do miss him quite a lot. It’s sickening really.”

What do you want with Arthur? Lance attempts to project anger over his growing fear. It’s a strategy that may have worked in the past. Now, all he gets is an increased sense of vulnerability.

The call stops, unanswered, and the demon flips the phone around and back into his pocket. The creature’s amusement echoes about his brain, overwhelming and unnerving.

“A random kid with double the spiritual essence sends a couple of chumps to release me from a century-long imprisonment? Have to say…It’s piqued my interest. I’m not about to let that sort of thing go. Not without giving a little thank you at least.”

The reasoning is nonsensical. Lance doesn’t understand. He’s missing information.

“Hell yeah, you’re missing some info. You don’t know jack about your nephew. Which really is a shame. Now, the question is, how do I get little Artie to come home because I’d hate to have to chase the kid across the country,”

Leave him alone ya bastard.

“How about this: Poor Uncle Lance, tragically found dead, the victim of a home invasion gone wrong. Hmm. You think that would get his attention?”

If he dies, Arthur would be alone. Again. He can’t do that to the kid. The creature seems amused at his growing panic, “Oh calm down. I’m not going to kill you. Yet. Sides, my last body just ran off to bleed out on the side of this road somewhere, so I’m stuck with your stiff sack for the time being.”

“I was thinking more along the lines off stabbing myself than letting one of those ‘numbskull’ employees find me.”

That’ll kill me!

“Please. I know my way around the human body. All I have to do is get my timing right, and I’ll be seeing little Arti very soon.”

Piece of shit. No good. Bastard. Leave my nephew alone. I’ll kill ya if you touch him. I”LL KILL YA! Lance rails hatefully against the creature. The sentences bounce about, dissipating. Amusement and faint laughter are what he gets back. Any remaining sense of touch and control vanishes, his vision blackens, turning to black. Lance finds himself trapped in a silent, eternal dark with nothing but his fear for Arthur and a sense of failure.

Note: Two cliffhangers are better than one.

Part 18: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #Lance #fanfiction #fanfic #time travel #lance kingsmen #coarse language #mind control #posession

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whickedlydeviant · 5 years

Text

I Hate Everything About You: Chapter 4 w/ @DarkLoverLost

Wrath:

I’m not quite sure how long it had been since everything went dark in the alley, but none of this had turned out like I had planned. I was supposed to be spending the rest of eternity with my Queen, not shunned at the doors of The Fade, only to end up here, in what was obviously the med suite with a bullet lodged in my heart and another that had been through-and-through in my gut. Well, I was guessing by now that bullet lodged in my heart had been removed. Or, at least I hoped it had. I’d obviously had surgery due to that hideous incision going all the way down my chest. Thank fuck we don’t scar.

My attempt to move triggered all sorts of alarms that only made my head pound worse, so I fell back on the gurney and closed my eyes. In an instant, Manny and Ehlena were both at my side, waiting to hear how I was feeling, where I was hurting, and most importantly how they could help. “You could leave me the fuck alone, is how you can help!” I knew it was harsh, but I had just been put through the ringer. Do you have any idea what it’s like to finally find yourself at the doors of The Fade, only to be turned away by the one person you love most in the entire world? Yeah, I didn’t want any kind of help. I just wanted to go back, back to The Fade and have it turn out all differently.

Manny and Ehlena were insisting on answers, but I didn’t care. I just kept my eyes closed and tried to wish it all away. Eventually, they gave up, telling each other I needed some more rest. Things would be different in a few hours. Best of fucking luck to you on that!

Whicked:

*I blinked once, twice, three times trying to clear my vision. My head was pounding but I didn’t have the heaviness I felt before I passed out. Shit! I passed out due to blood loss from giving the King a major transfusion. I sat up quickly, looking around an unfamiliar bedroom. My eyes darted around until they settled on a red headed Male sat in the corner. He settled a book on his lap, a smile curving up the corners of his mouth. “Hey Whicked, how you feeling?” I tugged the duvet up higher realising I was still in my soiled bra and leather trousers “Uhhhhh who are you and where am I?” He reached up and ran his hand through his hair and then leaned back and stretched out until he cracked a few tight muscles. “Well...my name is Blaylock, you can call me Blay and you are safe, you are at our compound. I brought you up here to rest, you collapsed after you fed the Wrath. I thought I would hang around till you woke up, see if I could maybe offer you my vein, you know... to say thank you for saving the King.

I eyed the Male wearily, he seemed nice enough I guess and if I was still in the Brotherhood’s compound I was surely safe. He seemed to anticipate my wariness and his smile turned into a soft chuckle. “Don’t worry, you are safe here. No-one will come through these doors if you don’t want them to, I will make sure of that, if that is what you want of course. That includes me, if you don’t want me in here, I will totally respect your choice and I can take this chair out into the hall with me. Your call.”

Wrath:

Eventually, thinking that I needed some sleep, Ehlena and Manny left the room. Of course, they left the door half-open and I knew they weren’t far, but I could finally relax a little. I didn’t have to pretend to be sleeping anymore. I opened my eyes and ran through all the recent events.

The trip to The Fade almost seemed like a dream. At that point, I might have actually believed it had been… if it hadn’t been for the fact that I had /felt/ Beth’s breath on my face as she leaned in to kiss me, the touch of her soft lips brushing against mine, and the way my heart broke when she turned me away. The intensity of it all had been way too vivid to have been a dream. I would have rather it had been a dream, because that would mean that Beth was still up there, waiting to welcome me unto The Fade with open arms. But, I knew she wasn’t. I knew if I did something like this again, it would end up with the same outcome. Beth standing guard over the doors to The Fade, keeping me out for some unknown reason. How could she do this to me? If the roles were reversed, I never would have been able to turn her away! No. Fucking. Way! Not in a million years could I deny that female anything! How could she possibly have denied me?

My thoughts began to drift and I realized that before they had left, someone had added a slight bit of sedative to my IV. Well, fuck! That’ll teach me to pretend to be asleep.

Whicked:

*I eyed the redhead slightly less warily than before, he seemed pretty chill. I shrugged my shoulders lightly. “Sure...stay if you want but could I maybe get a clean tee or something? Not sure if is such a good idea to walk around here in just my bra and leathers, right?” *He was up and out of the seat before I finished talking, he pulled open the door to a wardrobe and grabbed a plain black fleece from a shelf and gently tossed it my way. I caught it mid air and smiled as he turned his back to me so I could slip it on. “You know, we do have a shower here, you could get yourself cleaned up if you want before Fritz takes you home?” I pulled my flame coloured locks out from the fleece* Fritz? Sorry who is Fritz? *He turned back to face me* He is the main man around here, he makes sure that everyone is taken care of properly. He will take you home, whenever you are good to go but like I said, you can take a shower or I can get you some food from the kitchen, whatever you want?

I pushed back the sheets and clambered out of the bed. “Truthfully I just want to get out of here and get back home, I probably shouldn’t be here. You guys don’t usually put up strangers here, right? So I don’t wanna compromise you or anything.” He nodded slowly, his fingers playing with the bottom of his cashmere sweater anxiously as if he was jonesing for something. My guess would be that he was either coming off of smokes or drugs. He seemed pretty squeaky clean so my guess was that it was cigarettes. I made for the door but paused and reached out to steady myself against the wall to wait out a bout of dizziness. I needed to take a vein, maybe I could make till I get home and call Ahxton, the Male I usually fed from.

Wrath:

Trying hard to fight the drugs that were running through my veins, I faded in and out, all the while trying to remember every small detail about my time with Beth. There was the unbelievable sensation of having her in my arms, again, as well as the fury that unfolded as she fought with me to leave. But, there was something else that tickled just beyond the details of my memory. It was something that I didn’t understand, and made me a little uneasy… what the fuck was it? As the memories floated through my head, I tried to remember it all, but the drugs were making it all so difficult. However, that one thing seemed so important. Something about there being so much ahead of me… What the fuck was it that she said?

I took a deep breath and allowed the drugs to take over. Hopefully, once I have my wits about me again, things will be more clear. One could only hope, because this mish-mash of memories tangling together was beginning to piss me off. I wanted to remember it all, every single second of my time with my Queen. Apparently, it would be the last time I saw her for a long, long time and I wanted to savor every moment.

Whicked:

*Black dots appeared in my vision as I used the wall to support my weight. Well maybe I couldn’t wait till I got home to feed. Blaylock came over behind me but kept his hands off my svelte frame, but I knew if it seemed like I was gonna faceplant the floor, he would catch me first. I pushed off the wall gently and half walked, half stumbled back over to the bed. Blaylock sat down on the bed, but kept a generous distance as if maintaining a modicum of decency. Something I definitely wasn’t used to with the Males I have fed from before, including Ahxton, although he was one of the nicer I had been with.

As I sat next to the Male, he rolled up his sweater sleeve and slowly put his forearm out to me. I sat and stared at his proffered arm for a moment as if convincing myself that I needed to do this, in truth I didn’t like this feeling of being out of control, I never let myself get to this eat a horse kinda hungry before and I 100% didn’t want to get like this again. The lightheadedness made me feel like a space cadet. I leaned over and gently wrapped my hand around his wrist, pulling him toward me. I eyed his veins keenly before I angled my head closer. As my fangs elongated, I licked my lips, the hunger taking over me. I stuck at his wrist like a cobra, unable to be gentle about my bite. He stiffened for a second or two before relaxing as I began taking long pulls of his blood.

Wrath:

Once I woke up, my head felt like complete shit. The pounding headache, along with the muffled recollection of all that had happened made me want to vomit. That’s not even to mention the sounds of all the hospital equipment beeping and making noises. “Shut this shit up!” I screamed as I swung my arms out wide, hoping to push some of it away. I wasn’t super thrilled to have anyone in the room, poking and prodding at me, or inquisitioning me, but my head felt like it was about to explode and if someone didn’t shut this crap up soon, I was going to stumble out of bed and destroy it all.

It took all of about 5 seconds for Manny and Ehlena to be at my bedside, Tohr quick on their heels. Manny and Ehlena were firing off questions about my health and how I was feeling, while Tohr was giving me the third degree. What the hell did I think I was doing? Did I not take into consideration how this would affect the race, the Brotherhood, LW? I just about leapt off the gurney at him for that one. He didn’t seem to care, though. He kept right on going. It was obvious that he was beyond pissed. Well so the fuck was I! I had been through literal hell and back in the past day or so (I was guessing on the time) and wanted no part of this berating horseshit he was throwing at me.

“I don’t need to put up with this bullshit from you, Tohr. Just get the fuck out!” I snarled, trying to muster up as much aggression as I could in the situation I was in.

Slender fingers wrapped around Tohr’s arm, “Tohr, please. He needs to rest.” Ehlena pleaded, but aside from flinging his arm out of her grasp, he ignored her.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you think you need, Wrath! You went out there with a death wish! Don’t fool yourself for a second into thinking that there is one person in this mansion that doesn’t realize that!” Turning to Manny, he shot out. “Get me a goddamn wheelchair.” Shouting out the door, “Butch, get your ass in here. I’m going to need your help.”

Whicked:

*His blood felt amazing as it slid down my throat, I could feel his power running into my veins, returning some of my strength to me. I didn’t take much, only enough to make me strong enough to get home and set up something with Ahxton. Truth be told feeding from this Male felt all wrong, and I wasn’t sure that feeding from Ahx would be any different. There was only one Male I wanted to feed from. What?! What the fuck was I thinking? The King was off limits to a civilian like me, shit to any Female. He was grieving over his Shellan and from what I heard, it was hard for a bonded Male to ever get over the loss of his Mate. I am sure it would be worse if that Shellan had bore a young, like the Queen had for Wrath. The Male had lost the centre of his universe and here was I wondering how his blood would taste. What the fuck was wrong with me, mooning over an unavailable Male such as Wrath.

He watched me intently for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah sure, of course. I will do that right now for you. *He nodded to the door at the back of the room* The bathroom is right in there if you want to freshen up for the trip, you know clean up or something”? I got up as if on autopilot and headed to the closed door, behind me I heard the handset of the phone next to the bed being picked up and the push of a button. As I pushed open the door and flicked the lightswitch, I could hear Blaylock talking over the phone to someone, Fritz I assumed. I closed the door and stood against it. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths before taking a few short steps to the mirror and glancing into it, checking out my reflection. My skin was white as a snowdrop against the fire engine red of my hair. There were streaks of blood across my face, the King’s blood. A few scratches from digging through the rubble I guess. Dirt and blood matted my hair, well at least the fleece I had put on was clean. I would hate to see how bad I looked underneath it.

A soft knock at the door startled me and I heard Blaylock’s voice through the door. “Whicked, we are ready to go whenever you are”. I took a deep cleansing breath and about turned and pulled open the door. “OK, then let’s go, I am ready now.”

Wrath:

Manny gave Tohr a hard look, but exited the room, anyway. No sooner was he gone and Butch was there.

“Oh, good.” Ehlena remarked, “Talk some sense into Tohr, please? Wrath needs to rest.”

“Wrath can rest when he’s actually dead and gone, for good. Right now, he needs to get his ass down the hallway and properly thank this female for the offering of her vien. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be here right now, and as much as he wishes that statement were true, she needs to be thanked. Now, work it out so that all this shit he’s attached to can move with him. They’ve already called for Fritz to take her home.”

Was he fucking serious?! He was going to get me out of this gurney, feeling and looking like I was, and force me down the corridor to thank some female for doing something I never asked her to do, and if I could’ve, I wouldn’t have asked it of her? “Fuck you, Tohr! You are not getting me out of this goddamn bed!”

“Maybe not alone. But, that’s why I’m here.” Came the thick Boston accent. “Between the two of us and the drugs in your system, we’ll get you in that wheelchair and down the hall. She needs to be thanked, man, and not by the rest of us. It needs to come from you. Respect.”

Within seconds Manny walked in, wheelchair in tow. He still had a sour look on his face and it was directed at Tohr and Butch. “He shouldn’t be doing this, right now. He needs his rest. He’s still recovering. For crying out loud, he was shot twice, once in the heart. Give him a beat.”

His pleading was all for naught, though. These two shitheads weren’t listening to reason. They were just pissed off at me, so this was retaliation.

Whicked:

*I brushed a lock of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. I stepped out of the bathroom and followed the Male out of the room. Once out in the hallway, there seemed to be a lot of commotion, people everywhere. The blonde warrior and his Shellan. A tall brunette Female standing close by them, she eyed me and smiled. Another brunette stood with the King’s son and a teenage girl roughly about the same age as the young prince. I felt eyes on me from everywhere. As we got to the staircase, I caught sight of an aged doggen waiting patiently at the foot of the stairs, ah this must be Fritz. The peanut gallery were all standing at the edge of the balustrade, peering down at us. Seemed to be everyone but Vishous and the King, well everyone I had seen before at least.

“Mistress, if you would like to follow me, I shall take you to your home before the sun comes up”. I glanced over at Blaylock and offered him a small smile. “Thank you Blaylock, for the offer of your vein and for taking care of me….I appreciate it.” I gave him a small nod and he smiled back. “No problem Whicked, the least I could do for the Female who saved the King.”

I took one last look around the foyer, part of me wishing that Wrath had been here, I would have liked to see him before I left, but I am sure he was still flat out on his back recovering from this wounds.

I followed the doggen out of the Mansion and into the darkness beyond. Fritz held open the passenger side rear door, and I slid in without a backward glance. I needed to get home and try and put this whole mess behind me.

Wrath:

I, in no way, helped the two asshats get me into that wheelchair. But, they were right. Between the drugs and the two of them, I was by far outmanned. So, after attempting to fight them off, and ten minutes later, I was firmly planted in the wheelchair Manny had drug in.

Before they wheeled me off, Manny and Ehlena insisted on making sure that all cables were connected properly and weren’t going to get ripped off by the trip. They also wanted to check my stats one more time, after all the manhandling was done. Blood pressure and heart rate a little elevated, but within acceptable ranges. Finally, reluctantly, they gave their okay.

As we wheeled out of the room, I half expected there to be a hallway full of faces, waiting on news of my wellbeing. I should have known better. As Tohr had said, they all knew what I had done and not one of them had really been interested in seeing me. Not even LW was down there, which was probably for the best. He didn’t need to see me as I was. At this point, I wasn’t sure how I would face him again. I hadn’t planned for that. How was I going to look him in the eyes after what I had done? Fuck! Why did she have to turn me away? Then I heard her voice, clear as day, ‘You have so much ahead of you. Welcome it. Welcome her…’

“Stop!” I growled. It was the memory that had been just beyond reach all day. ‘Welcome it. Welcome her…’ Fuck no! There was no way in hell she sent me back to love another… to love her. I reached out and grabbed at the next doorknob I saw. “I said, fucking stop!” Everything in my gut told me who the her was and I was not having it.

#IHateEverythingAboutYou #Chapter4 #EBRPG #BDB

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darkloverlost · 5 years

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I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU: CHAPTER 4 w/@DelicateDeviant

The Zombie King: I’m not quite sure how long it had been since everything went dark in the alley, but none of this had turned out like I had planned. I was supposed to be spending the rest of eternity with my Queen, not shunned at the doors of The Fade, only to end up here, in what was obviously the med suite with a bullet lodged in my heart and another that had been through-and-through in my gut. Well, I was guessing by now that bullet lodged in my heart had been removed. Or, at least I hoped it had. I’d obviously had surgery due to that hideous incision going all the way down my chest. Thank fuck we don’t scar.

Whicked:

Wrath:

My thoughts began to drift and I realized that before they had left, someone had added a slight bit of sedative to my IV. Well, fuck! That’ll teach me to pretend to be asleep.

Whicked:

Wrath: Trying hard to fight the drugs that were running through my veins, I faded in and out, all the while trying to remember every small detail about my time with Beth. There was the unbelievable sensation of having her in my arms, again, as well as the fury that unfolded as she fought with me to leave. But, there was something else that tickled just beyond the details of my memory. It was something that I didn’t understand, and made me a little uneasy… what the fuck was it? As the memories floated through my head, I tried to remember it all, but the drugs were making it all so difficult. However, that one thing seemed so important. Something about there being so much ahead of me… What the fuck was it that she said?

Whicked:

Wrath: Once I woke up, my head felt like complete shit. The pounding headache, along with the muffled recollection of all that had happened made me want to vomit. That’s not even to mention the sounds of all the hospital equipment beeping and making noises. “Shut this shit up!” I screamed as I swung my arms out wide, hoping to push some of it away. I wasn’t super thrilled to have anyone in the room, poking and prodding at me, or inquisitioning me, but my head felt like it was about to explode and if someone didn’t shut this crap up soon, I was going to stumble out of bed and destroy it all.

“I don’t need to put up with this bullshit from you, Tohr. Just get the fuck out!” I snarled, trying to muster up as much aggression as I could in the situation I was in.

Slender fingers wrapped around Tohr’s arm, “Tohr, please. He needs to rest.” Ehlena pleaded, but aside from flinging his arm out of her grasp, he ignored her.

Whicked:

I pulled away from Blaylock and wiped my lips with the back of my already blood covered hand. I sat as still as stone and stared at them. They were stained with the King’s blood, the King had almost died….in my arms. I started to shake uncontrollably and Blaylock looked at me concerned, his eyes locked onto me. “Whicked, are you ok?” I barely heard his question, it only dimly registered as I stared at my hands which I started rubbing against my leather trousers. “Uh...yeah, I um, I just need to go home Blaylock, can you get that Fritz guy to take me home. Now. Please? He watched me intently for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah sure, of course. I will do that right now for you. *He nodded to the door at the back of the room* The bathroom is right in there if you want to freshen up for the trip, you know clean up or something”? I got up as if on autopilot and headed to the closed door, behind me I heard the handset of the phone next to the bed being picked up and the push of a button. As I pushed open the door and flicked the lightswitch, I could hear Blaylock talking over the phone to someone, Fritz I assumed. I closed the door and stood against it. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths before taking a few short steps to the mirror and glancing into it, checking out my reflection. My skin was white as a snowdrop against the fire engine red of my hair. There were streaks of blood across my face, the King’s blood. A few scratches from digging through the rubble I guess. Dirt and blood matted my hair, well at least the fleece I had put on was clean. I would hate to see how bad I looked underneath it.

Wrath:

Manny gave Tohr a hard look, but exited the room, anyway. No sooner was he gone and Butch was there.

“Oh, good.” Ehlena remarked, “Talk some sense into Tohr, please? Wrath needs to rest.”

His pleading was all for naught, though. These two shitheads weren’t listening to reason. They were just pissed off at me, so this was retaliation.

Whicked:

Wrath: I, in no way, helped the two asshats get me into that wheelchair. But, they were right. Between the drugs and the two of them, I was by far outmanned. So, after attempting to fight them off, and ten minutes later, I was firmly planted in the wheelchair Manny had drug in.

#IHateEverythingAboutYou #Chapter4 #EBRPG #BDB

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isoboto · 4 years

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Michael Garfield

I couldn't sleep that night.

I tossed and turned on the bed, the ceiling hovered above me, moulded into faces of the deads. Everytime I close my eyes, Mrs. Garfield's blue eyes resurfaced from the murky darkness, her silent words encircled me: Why're you still alive? Why Michael died and you're here? Why, why, why? Why Michael? You should be dead—you, you, you, you. You, not Michael.

The ticking of my watch frayed on my nerves, so I took it off my wrist and buried it underneath the pillow.

The sound muffled, gliding in and out of my hearing.

Still there, though.

Just like the presence of Michael Garfield pressed on my back.

Tick-tick-tick.

Mrs. Garfield's voice echoed back from the dead silence. Mocking. Her determined face etched behind my eyelids, bright and fuzzy as a newly burnt photograph.

He wrote to me when he was promoted to sergeant, Mrs. Garfield had said, You were in the same battalion as him, yes? Her voice was firm. There was no tremor, no tripping, no hiccup—she stated the fact with an expressionless hindsight. She didn't dissolve in tears and trembles. I don't think I ever see her cried. Not in her husband's burial, not even in her Father's funeral. I wondered did she cry when she received the letter announcing her son's death.

Yes, I was, I had said. I recalled him bending over wet wood trying to make a fire, rain pattered down on his coat, dripping into his face, his hands slipping everywhere. His fingernails always crammed with trench dirt. He'd ran across No Man's Land, dodging bullets and fire, just to haul the already decomposed corpses of our comrades back and bury them properly. He was a good man, I said.

If he was alive, he would be joyful to hear that, Mrs. Garfield said, the bitter, blunt edge of her tone hit home. How did he died? She asked, turning to me. But she already knew the truth. They've shipped Michael's journals along with his battledress. She must have read over his messy scrawls multiple times, peering into a snippet of his berserk thoughts running through his head.

She must have know I was supposed to die with him that day. She only wanted to confirm it.

So? how did he died? Mrs. Garfield repeated, stopped walking. Her eyes were screaming: Why my son is dead and you're not? Why am I here? Alive, breathing, enjoying life, while Michael is dead?

I fumbled for my cigarette, running my quiver finger along the flint wheel. After the third attempt failed, nerves built up upon the dread forming at the base of my throat. I started groping for words—anything that popped into my head. A sniper shot him though the head, I blurted.

She looked at me blankly, her body went totally still.

I was beside him, I said, He died instantly.

Mrs. Garfield opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned on her heels and resumed walking a feel paces in frantic haste, then abruptly broke her stride and spun around. The veins on her jaws popped visible.

That's what all the letters said, She said, her nose redden. James Crowell died instantly. William King died instantly. George Elsner died instantly. Robert McDonald died instantly. Frank Sullivan died instantly. And now, guess what, Michael Garfield died instantly! Did any boy die in pain, holler with his wounds? She laughed, the deranged sobbing-laugh that frighten birds.

I recoiled deeper into my exoskeleton at each word she flung at me. I had nothing to recall the assurance and self-confidence of a soldier—no rifle, no belt, no tunic, no helmet, no big boots. The thin shirt was not enough to cover up the guilts seared on my skin. My mind kept rewinded the moment Michael pulled the trigger and blew his brain inside out, his tight expression and his dead stare haunted me.

What sort of heroic act did my son do when he was killed? She said. Threw himself in front of a tank? Trench raid? What, what, tell me!

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I choked out, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

Mrs. Garfield stared at me. She turned her face to the sky. A tear rolled down her cheek, vanished before she wiped it away. She licked her lips. You are a coward, She said, You're a coward. Your whole family is. None of you are brave enough to tell the truth. You're all liars. Liars. Cowards.

I had grounded my teeth until my skull ached. I couldn't breath, couldn't couldn't breath.

She trained her eyes on me—eyes that were pale, pale gray, like November skies. Tell me the truth. I won't judge you. It's not your fault, she said.

I raised my head and met her gaze. How familiar—her decrepit frame, her gentle features, her bristle hair.

The ghost of Michael pressed his hand on my shoulder: Tell her the truth.

Michael was shot through the head by a sniper, I exhaled the words slowly, monotonously, He fell forward with a calm expression on his face. I'm sorry for your loss. He was heroic in his action. The country is greatly in debt with him and your family.

Mrs. Garfield gaped at me.

Her body slumped forward. She turned and walked away, shaking her head. The back of her skirt swayed, dragging along the dirt road. I didn't follow her.

Why didn't you tell her the truth? Michael screeched. Blood festooned his skin, his tunic, mingled with his raven hair.

Stop it, I whispered, realizing with a jolt that I was speaking to myself.

After another short while, I couldn't take it anymore.

I slipped out of my room noiselessly, padding for cigarettes in my pants and rooted around the kitchen for Da's bottles of beer. I sneaked to the front porch and cracked the bottle. The sharp noise was sucked into a giant invisible whirlpool, along with the mooing of the cows and crackling of the crows. Michael stood besides me, quiet, flickering in and out with the wind.

The full moon bloated on the pitch-black sky, casting a silvery, glimmer liquid on the darkness. The night was like a photograph—frozen, forever locked in one position. And I thought of how some memories were also imprinted forever in my brain—sometimes like a roll of movie rewinded over and over again, sometimes like collections of loose pamphlets burst like the shells.

Michael Garfield's death presented in both.

Featureless, smooth face; pale, gray eyes like the November sky; revolvers, bullets; a sardonic smile. Blood, red and sticky and warm, gushes of it spilling onto the grass from the hole in his forehead, seeped into the brown earth. His lips, pursing.

I pressed the heel of my hand onto my eyeballs, willed the images to dissolve. The last sentence he said loitered, reverberated through my skull: We're all equally doomed. May you come out of this war alive and never feel a kiss the same way again.

Michael Garfield, with his feeble voice, smooth porcelain skin, soft lips and silken black hair. Michael Garfield, with his lone back and frail bones and girlish appearances and huge brain and glasses.

Michael Garfield is dead. While I'm still alive. Breathing. While I'm suppose to be dead alongside him.

I shouldn't feel guilty. I shouldn't feel bad at all. Michael Garfield and I weren't friend. We knew each other at school, but that's that. We were in different classes and we hung out with different boys. We enlisted on the same day, only that I got accepted and Michael got rejected for bad eyesight. Our path hadn't crossed.

It was a cruel joke that pushed us into the same battalion the year 1917. Him a sergeant, me a lance-corporal serving under him.

I see you've claw your way to higher rank, I had said, stood towering over him.

Same to you, Michael had replied. He was cool, his eyes were hard-bitten and cunning as a fox, gleaming, reflecting the dancing orange tint of the torches. He wore hobnail boots, breeches tucked in carefully with sandbags tied around the rim of his high boots, his mouth set in a firm, sneering line. Muscles bunched up in his chest. I remembered thinking, The war had changed us all, hasn't it? He no longer the faggot who tucked his head between his shoulder blades while we chucked rocks at him, or bit his lips to barricade his sobs as he cried in the corner. He looked like he would bite off anyone's hands. The army had bring forth the most of men—pitiless, suspicious, tenacious, optimistic, vicious—we were all smelted and hammered into something much tougher to break and harder to crush.

But by the time we broke down, things already were a fucking hot mess that couldn't be put together. The thing is: we're completely, absolutely sane. The officers wondered why the soldiers went mad, while in fact we're very fine. We see reality, we see the things as they are. It was them who are mad, it was them who are messed up. It was funny that the lions were being lead into meat grinder by monkeys.

They couldn't cure me. The doctors couldn't treat the madness eating me alive. They didn't understand when I say I couldn't bear the sound of shells exploding anymore. They smiled, clasped my back, fixed me a wooden leg for the one they had amputated, sent me to the front and deemed me suitable for combat while all I wanted was to dig a hole in the dirt with my bare hands and teeth.

Michael Garfield was transferred to the dressing station I was in two weeks before I leave. His bunk was next to mine. I didn't recognize him until he called my name with a satire ring. The mustard gas made his face that bloated at the wrong places, the skin blistered. He looked inhuman. I overheard the orderly said he had severe blindness, but the piercing blue gaze he used to pin me down whenever I got up and hobbled around made me skeptical.

He didn't talk much during the day but he hummed in his sleep, loud enough for me to hear but so quiet that some notes were dropped. The lyrics came out twisted and wrong, crooked and forlorn, without leaving an echo. It was during the night that the whisper became louder, going round and round my head: Look at you useless piece of shit. What will Ma say when she sees this? What will Marie say when she sees this? Look, look, look, look at yourself.

Sometimes, he didn't hum. He murmured to himself in the dark. Can you imagine their horror? He whispered, Can you imagine what it feel like to be so horrible that your own children cry when they see you, when your wife flinches at your touch, when your parents do not recognize you? Can you image what they will say? Can you imagine what will you say to your reflection? Michael's voice was low, rippled across the tent like water before storm.

We were dismissed on the same day—me to the front again, he would be move to an English hospital somewhere. Three days before we leave, Michael told me: I will shoot myself the first chance I get my hand on my revolver. He declared it casually, softly, firmly with a vacant look on his face and a cynical glint in his eyes. The night was freezing but the tent was hot with piss, sweat and blood. We were facing each other.

I'll shoot myself with you, I said.

He stared at me in silence.

Morning, I sneaked outside and stole bullets and guns from the deads littered the field. I didn't tell the orderly that, of course, I said I need a walk. I didn't feel guilty at all as I scavenged their belts and pockets. I yanked an emerald ring off a finger and slipped it inside my breast pocket—soldiers have a fine nose on what would come in handy.

Midnight, Michael called for the nurse. She was a young one, with a shocking blonde head that glowed in the dark. Michael was a wordsmith—he had a way of telling he'd like to shit in the most graceful fashion. She helped him outside. Moments later, I slipped out and followed them to the rendezvous Michael and I agreed upon.

He stood immersed in the darkness, facing the field beyond him, his back to the station. Shadows tilted, light flickered on his lone, erect back, playing with his pointed chin and dainty nose. I handed the revolver to him wordlessly. We slid the bullets inside the chamber, mirrored each other perfectly, hearing the slick click cut clear through the air.

I shivered. I'm not sure whether it was the cold or the thrill. Are you sure you want to do this? I asked aloud.

Michael raised the gun nuzzle to his temple, steadfast. His eyes were the shade of angry ocean. He watched me closely as I followed him. My hands trembled. My whole body trembled.

On three, he said. I nodded.

One.

I mesmerized his featureless, smooth face. The way he inclined his head forward, the way his neck muscles twitched, the black and blue spots under his fingernails. The sweat traveled from his crown.

He was pretty. He was strong.

Two, he counted.

Goodbye Ma. Goodbye Marie. Goodbye Charles. Goodbye Conrad. Goodbye my dear son.

Goodbye my life. Goodbye, goodbye.

I wanted to screw my eyes shut, but I didn't.

Three.

I willed myself to pull the trigger, but my joints refused to obey. Neither did Michael fire the revolver. There was no Bang.

We stood like that for a long while, breathing heavy. I slowly lowered the gun, my stomach clenched tight. My knees were wobbly, swaying. I squatted down, heart in my throat. The metal was cold and heavy in my palm.

I let out a bark of laugh, I guess we're both cowards.

Michael freezed on the spot like a statue, staring into the empty space. His index still placed on the trigger. His lips were pursed, whiter than the colour of his skin.

C'mon, let's get inside the tent, I stood up.

We're all equally doomed, he murmured.

Let's the fate decide our death, then, I said with a terse huff.

No. You. Are a coward, Michael said. His gaze refocused, and it was frightening because his looked pierced through my chest. May you come out of this war alive and never feel a kiss the same way again.

Mi—

The fire was so loud it deafen my ears. So harsh. So startling. His head knocked to the side by an invisible force. His knees crumbled. Blood, red and sticky and warm, gushes of it bursted from the hole in his forehead into the black earth. Michael Garfield, with his feeble voice, smooth porcelain skin, soft lips and silken black hair. Michael Garfield, frail bones and girlish appearances and huge brain and glasses.

There was a scream. I didn't realize until stretcher-bearers wretched Michael's body away from my clutch that I was the one who scream.

Michael Garfield is dead. While I'm still alive. Breathing. Living.

I'm suppose to be dead.

I hurled the beer bottle from the porch and watched it arched across the field. Its shatter never echoed back to me. I crushed the cigarette under my shoe sole and stomped back inside. I crashed on the bed, feeling sick to the stomach. The lurid lemony soap Ma used to clean the clothes weren't enough to mask out the reeked of cheap beer and cigarette smoke clung permanently on my skin.

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posted on Wattpad at some point in 2019

#more war stuff #flash fiction #short story #nonlinear story #blank gun silencer #short stories

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