#fuck man just noticed that yellow spot i forgot to erase

[skinks]

mr wentworth yes i help my son with his goofy voices yes i am a dilf tozier has the salt n pepper hair of god (oscar isaac) and the sexy librarian glasses to match

god I had never even considered that... the range of this...

Went starts going gray at 32 when Richie is 5 and it’s all the church women’s group can talk about... indirectly, of course. Oh, but he’s so young. Oh, he’ll be balding next. Oh I don’t know, doesn’t he look... distinguished? Mrs Nash from just down their street sees him doing rock-paper-scissors with his son Richard in the grocery store to determine whether or not Richard is allowed ice cream, and Dr Tozier is laughing because he’s winning, and he’s winning because Richard doesn’t know his father can see his little hidden hand reflected in the freezer cabinet, tucked behind his back. Richard’s laughing too, even though he’s losing, and bleats, “Again! Dad again,” eyes shining big as planets with coke-bottle rings.

“Don’t you know what best two out of three means? That was four draws ago.”

“No! No, I’ll win!” The boy shakes his head so hard his whole body rocks from side to side, then clings up at Dr Tozier’s middle with sticky hands. His very... trim middle. Helen’s own Rory, God love him, he enjoys a sudsy six-pack too much these days to keep a middle like that. “Two outta three! Three ice creams please Dad please please Dad please watch I can count to a hundred—”

“Well, we’re not playing hide-and-go-seek right now, Rich. And I beat you, didnt I?”

“Yeah!”

“Right. So why don’t you go get Dad six apples instead, alright? If you can do a hundred, six’ll be pie.” Dr Tozier claps his big hands gentle to the boy’s round cheeks, until they goldfish.

“Easy as,” they chant together. Helen props herself up with the handles of her own cart, the can of little hotdogs going slack in her hand.

“Six apples, then come right back. You got that, doc? You pick the color.”

Richard nods like he’s trying to detach his own head. Dr Tozier puts one hand just briefly on Richard’s dark mophead hair, like he’s giving the boy a blessing for his apple adventure. His hand is really quite broad, thinks Helen, popped out square at the thumb-joint. Matches that jawline of his, something whispers darkly in her stomach. Then the boy’s off, tearing down the aisle on a squeaking chariot of scuffed-gray sneakers and babbling what sounds like a Bugs Bunny impression, repeated on a loop. What’s up doc what’s up doc what’s up doc, fading around the corner to the fruit. Peculiar. Helen once saw the Tozier boy eat a worm at the park while pushing her youngest on the swings, after another solemn-eyed little boy with a faceful of freckles had carefully presented it to him in the sand box. Most peculiar.

Dr Tozier watches him go, then turns back to the freezer cabinet, and sticks two cartons of ice cream into his shopping cart—the very sugary kind. And the man is a dentist!

Helen puts her hand on her chest to calm the trilling schoolgirl rush of her heart, and then stops herself at the sight of her own wedding ring. Get a hold of yourself, Mrs Nash! For Pete’s sake! She trundles her cart over for some chit-chat. Afternoon, Doctor, she says, lovely weather. A perfect neighbourly opener. It is lovely; bright and warm and clear and golden, like honey outside. She’s quietly smug about her new blowout. Dr Tozier is wearing a crisp shirt with buttons like neat soldiers and short sleeves, exposing lean forearms. Yes, a lovely day. Helen swallows.

“Yes, good for the lawn,” replies Dr Tozier.

“We missed Margaret at book club this week,” Helen hedges.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Dr Tozier, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins are even more distracting without the facemask he’s usually wearing, when Helen drops in for her check-ups. He pushes his spectacles up the strong slope of his nose. They’re wiry like him, steely gray to match his eyes. “She meant for me to tell you, or Diana. Maggie’s been in Skowhegan for the week at her mother’s. My mother-in-law is a woman of... nervous disposition, shall we say. Maggie didn’t think she’d cope with two Tozier men at once, now that Richie’s started losing his teeth.”

“Ohhh,” Helen coos. That must explain the ice cream. She puts her hand near to Dr Tozier’s arm, then away, then near, then away again for good. A neighbourly distance. Margaret is a lovely, lucky woman, even if she does wear flared pants. Hippie to yuppie pipeline’s alive ‘n’ flowin’, Rory always grunts whenever the Toziers come up in conversation. Helen imagines a picket fence between their bodies, and calms. “My Wendy was the same, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes,” says Dr Tozier mildly. “You brought her in six times as I recall it, Mrs Nash.”

Mrs Nash. Honestly, like she’s his schoolteacher. It’s a little rude. Admittedly he does look quite, quite young with his faintly curling weekend-hair, if not for the new gray blazing a trail back from his temples like virgin snow. Helen is undeterred, even if something quivers inside at the thought of the word virgin in conversation with Dr Tozier. Music tinkles tinny through the ceiling speakers, and it puts Helen in mind of potted plants, or elevators. This is a lovely chat. “Well, you hate to see them suffer, don’t you? I’m sure Richard’s the same, lots of tears—”

“No, actually, Richie keeps on finding things to hit himself in the face with and knock out more teeth,” Dr Tozier interjects. He raises his eyebrows and speaks hushed, as if this is a secret for Helen’s ears alone. The thought makes her dizzy. “It’s my fault, I made the mistake of giving him a quarter for the first one. That’s why he’s not invited to Grandma’s. Lot of antiques.”

“Oh,” says Helen, taken aback. She has three girls; little boy behavior is as yet mystifying. “Well.”

“I’m joking, Helen,” Dr Tozier says cheerfully.

“Oh. I—I see. What a relief.”

He opens a freezer chest to examine a bag of frozen peas. “Maggie’s mom is deaf as white cat, she’d never notice.”

Helen tries to wipe her clammy hands on her dress without being obvious. Her face is hot, but she hopes her cardigan conceals the effect that the chill of the freezer aisle is having under her bra. She also hopes that it doesn’t.

He really does have such a slender, pleasant face, always with an air of casual, amused expectancy hanging around him. Haloing him, like that bright yellow light above the chair in his practice, blocked out when he leans over and slips his fingers inside. Helen supposes that’s what graduating medical school must do to a man, what marrying and fathering young and having one’s own practice by the end of such a turbulent decade as the nineteen-seventies must elicit. The ability to put people at ease, to—to say open wide and know the people of Derry trust him enough to comply. To open themselves. Helen’s breathing catches. Dr Tozier idly checks his sensible watch, still smiling the unhurried smile of a man who very rarely does his own grocery shopping anymore. Everyone knows you pick up the ice-cream last.

Helen gathers herself. This is the longest conversation she has entertained with Dr Tozier without children or the squeaking of latex gloves between them, and she’s gripped by the terribly silly need to be interesting. “Speaking of white cats, I couldn’t help noticing your hair, Wentworth—”

“DADDY!”

Dr Tozier blanches, whipping around to scan the end of the aisle. He is a long line of tense instinct tuned to thrum into action at one specific frequency, knuckles white on the cart handle. His cart bumps into Helen’s. It is thrilling.

“Fuck,” Dr Tozier mutters, and that’s thrilling too, he swore, oh, the boy’s probably fine Wentworth, don’t go, why don’t we just stay right here with the frozen goods and—

Then Richard comes barrelling back down the aisle like a colt on new legs covered in old Band-aids, with his arms full. The fluorescent strip-lights gleam white on Dr Tozier’s broad shoulders and he sags, like snow dropping from a branch, with relief.

“Hey, lunkhead,” he says, sounding shaky, but Richard is only five and would never know it. He’s babbling again. Seems to Helen like the boy’s as a hydrant overflowing on a hot day; entertaining and welcomed at first, until it becomes a nuisance when you begin to understand it won’t shut off, and have to call the firemen.

“Nyyeeeeeah,” Richard greets his father, tousled and bug-eyed with clear adoration, breathing hard from his Supermarket Sweep. Then he makes the carrot-noise. Looks like Bugs, Helen thinks of the boy’s new adult front teeth, the beaverish jut of them exacerbated by his missing canines on either side. Then she feels abruptly un-neighbourlike for being jealous of a child for his father’s attention, good grief.

Dr Tozier regards his son for a long moment. Then says, “What’s up, doc?” in a spot-on Mel Blanc whine. Richard giggles so hard his too-big glasses start slipping. “How many apples is that?”

“Gotta apples and I was gonna put ‘em in a bag but I forgot and Dad, Daddy look, s’a dinosaur on the box for my dinner when Mommy’s at Grandma’s—”

Dr Tozier sighs, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other over his clean-shaven mouth, watching Richard drop his armfuls everywhere, scattering the linoleum. He has two apples, four boxes of brightly colored cereal, a handful of pencils topped with cartoon-character erasers, and a kiwi fruit. For a moment, Helen sees the shining enamel of Dr Tozier’s everything-will-work-out-with-another-cup-of-coffee amusement slip, wear away to worry underneath.

“Rich,” he says, interrupting Richard’s blabbermouth, firm and patient. Helen’s thighs burn suddenly under her skirts at the tone of his voice, and she looks down, rearranging her own groceries. She should leave them to get on. She could offer to help. Margaret’s out of town, poor things, they probably haven’t eaten a cooked meal all week!

“Richie,” Dr Tozier says again. “Listen and pay attention when Mom or me ask you to do something, remember? How many apples did I ask you to get?”

Richard has to crane his neck to meet his father’s eyes. Dr Tozier is one of the tallest fathers in the Derry Elementary catchment zone, Helen has checked. “Six!”

“And how many’ve you got, Elmer Fudd?”

“Um.” Richard’s pale little face creases in thought, then brightens. When he speaks again his voice is strange, accented. “Twooo.”

“Some apple hunter you are, huh.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s fine.” Dr Tozier stoops to gather Richard’s detritus, and Helen knows she has something to contribute, watching the boy stick one of the pencils up his nose.

“You know, apples are very good for you,” she says. Richard turns to her, slack-jawed, as if seeing her for the first time. “You should listen to your Daddy, Richard, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Richard stares for another few seconds. Then he bites down on his boogery pencil so that it threads through the gaps in his teeth, and hollers, “MY FRIEND BILL SAID THAT’S A PILE OF BULLSHIT.”

“No shouting indoors, Rich,” says Dr Tozier, still gathering. Helen rocks a step backwards, clinging to her cart like a life-preserver.

“Bill and my’s friend Eddie eats a thousand apples and sees the doctor all the time though Dad, and Miss Spiegel said if we eat apples we don’t have to see the doctors but Eddie eats them and—Bill said—”

“Pile of bullshit, yeah, I liked it. Bill’s an eloquent guy,” says Dr Tozier. This is the second time Helen has ever heard him curse in as many minutes. It comes out easy and amused as everything else does in his pleasant tenor. His legs and his jaw are so lean and angular that Helen can see the suggestion, the shadow of the shape of his perfect, swearing teeth through his cheek as he grins helplessly at his son, the fruit of his loins and someone else’s loins who isn’t Helen, and all of a sudden she feels a slick pulse of wet heat, up between her thighs.

She squeaks. Flutters her hand to her face without knowing why, perhaps to catch the noise before Dr Tozier notices, just another quivering Derry leaf tossed along by his breezy manner. He looks up anyway, with a frown.

“Everything alright, Helen?”

“Just—fine, yes,” she manages. Dr Tozier is still down on one knee, kindly face level with her skirts. She can see right down under his starched collar from this angle, a slivering glimpse of smooth, dark hair. No undershirt. Helen has lain naked against Rory’s nakedness before without feeling this alive, in every part of her body. She feels like a heart, beating.

“Oh, hang on.” Dr Tozier says, eyes widening, and turns Richard by the shoulders to face her. One pencil for each nostril, now. “Apologize to Mrs Nash for cussing, Richie.”

“Sorry!” Richard shouts, sounding less like he’s apologizing and more like he’s just deemed Helen it during a game of tag.

Helen is still floating in a dazed state of mild panic. Like a prey-mouse, bewitched into slack compliance by her own body’s snaking desires. “That’s alright, dear.”

F-word, Dr Tozier had said. Maybe cussing could be quite neighbourly when applied in the right context, thinks Helen.

“You mentioned my hair, earlier,” says Dr Tozier, straightening back up with a knowing sort of arch to his eyebrow as he smiles genially at Helen. He tilts his head down at Richard. “There’s the reason. Every last one, sprinkled onto my head at the tender age of thirty-two by the great salt-and-pepper shaker of fatherhood. Especially this week, with Maggie on sabbatical. Had to bring you to work with me, didn’t I, buckaroo?”

Richard bites and swings and tugs on his father’s long arm, a tearaway kitten with a much obliging scratching post. Dr Tozier hardly seems to notice. “Yeah! Daddy’s got fishes at work!”

Dr Tozier grimaces slightly at Helen, but also as if he’s seeing right through her to some past unnamable horror. “I liked those fish. Calmed down the nervy patients.” He sighs again.

Helen wonders briefly whether or not the residents of Dr Tozier’s waiting-room fish tank suffered the same fate as that worm in the park, and decides she’d rather not know.

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” she says, gamely. She watches her hand reach towards Dr Tozier’s silver-black brindle, then snatches it back from his bland expression to brush the tips of her own feathered-out hair. “The gray, I mean.”

Dr Tozier blinks.

“It’s very—that is to say, you look, it makes you look, I mean, I think it’s—”

Dr Tozier’s left eyebrow joins his right, raised up high.

A tidy little jet of hysteria shoots up from Helen’s knotting stomach to spin like a top in her chest. She hears herself stutter out the word, “Dashing,” and immediately wishes to flee the store, leaving her cart abandoned like so much collateral damage.

But Dr Tozier only barks a laugh, a short, smooth hah like everything else he says. Entirely unperturbed. “Well, thank you.”

Too unperturbed. Helen is struck by a sudden bolt of terror, at the thought of the things Dr Tozier must surely hear every day, when people are lulled by the hypnotically intimate environment of a dentist’s chair and a touch of the laughing gas. Oh, this is terrible. Her face is on fire.

“But they—they make products for men now,” she says, and why, oh why can’t she stop talking? “Hair dyes, I mean, if it really does bother you? I’ve seen them in Keene’s.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Dr Tozier, looking down at Richard then with a soft edge, at his bouncing noise and scabbed knees and gently curling hair like a black spaniel’s. Like his father’s. “I find I’m rather grateful for it, truth be told.”

“Plus,” he continues, as if Helen wasn’t already melting harder than the Tozier’s ice-cream, as if Johnny Kitchener the shop-boy isn’t going to have to come along with a mop and bucket to clean up on aisle seven, “Maggie’d kill me if I got rid of it.”

Then Dr Tozier winks.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, Helen’s whole ribcage is so tight she can’t squeeze out a reply, because who could blame dear, pretty, annoyingly friendly, lucky, lucky, lucky Margaret for that when Dr Wentworth Tozier DMD is so—

So f—

So fffffff—

So fiddlesticksing handsome!

“Well, we’d best not keep you, Helen. This one is in dire need of a bath before his mother sees him, and hands me a divorce on the spot,” Dr Tozier says, when another few moments have passed and all Helen can do is try to desperately smooth the creases from her breathing. He’s humming mild interest at something Richard is saying, knelt back down to the linoleum to tie the boy’s loose-worm laces presumably before he gives himself any more skinned knees, and they’re leaving. Dr Tozier is leaving, and Helen hasn’t done anything but act like a ninny this entire time. She doesn’t want him to think her a ninny, a simpleton. She wants him to leave this bright, liminal church of bold colors and jazzy waiting-room music and return to his lemon-yellow two-storey house thinking my, what a lovely chat I had with Helen Nash.

She wants to linger, as he lingers. Like an amiable spirit hanging over the women’s group at church, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s eager notice. I bumped into Dr Tozier at Palmer’s on Saturday, she’ll say to the other jealous ladies, with triumph, and we had such a nice talk. He called me Helen.

“And when—when does Margaret get home?” she blurts. A very secret part of Helen wants Dr Tozier to leave this conversation with Helen and his wife both, entwined by association in his mind. She tries very hard not to think about the Toziers divorcing, because that is un-neighbourly, and feels least neighbourly of all when a dopey, dreamy look crosses Dr Tozier’s face like a brief sunbeam at her question.

“Ah. Tonight. Not too late, hopefully.” He jerks one of his knuckley thumbs at his shopping cart, licking the other to wipe something unidentifiable from Richard’s grubby face. “That’s why we’re here, stocking up for her miraculous return. Like a couple of noble emperor penguins in Antarctica, eh Rich?”

“Penguins like from Batman! Ka-pow.”

Helen takes a peek into their cart, curiosity getting the better of her now that permission is granted. Dr Tozier might not know it, but looking into another person’s cart is bad grocery etiquette, especially in a town like Derry, where gossip grows like a fungus in every sweaty and close little huddle of people. Not that Helen would know about that. Anyway, there isn’t much to gossip about besides the unfortunately liquefied ice-cream, the severe lack of crunchy vegetables characteristic of a young man in 1981 trying to provide for a tooth-shedding son, and—

A little cardboard box. Tossed unashamedly between the Wonderbread and a magazine about sports. Prophylactics. Rubbers.

36-pack. XL

Helen knows her jaw is hanging open and strains to close it, the back of her neck and her shoulders feeling hot and tight and shuddery. She kneads a fist into her skirts. Crosses her legs at the ankles as demurely as she knows how, because the very last thing she needs is for frank, sensible Dr Tozier to see right through her with that easy doctor-patient-confidentiality smile, and know she’s soaking through her underwear at the sight of his Saturday grocery run, and all it implies.

Dr Tozier is laughing, nudging Richard in the direction of the register, or perhaps the apples. “Ka-pow is right. I’ll make sure to use that on Mom, thanks. Say hello to Rory for us, Helen. Have a nice day,” he says from over his shoulder, startling her. Holds up one long hand in a wave with a grin, and is gone, shadowing the boy’s haphazard attempts to push the cart despite not being able to see where he’s going.

Helen stands amongst the humming freezers, trembling. “You too,” she rasps, but Dr Tozier has rounded the corner, and is evidently going to have a nice day and a much nicer night, regardless of whether Helen wishes it for him or not.

All the bright little branded characters are watching her from their shelves, a silent jury. Helen Nash opens a freezer cabinet with a weak arm, and stands there for a while, staring at a leg of ham and thinking cooling, neighbourly thoughts.

#long post #idk how to do readmores on mobile soz not soz #wentworth tozier #richie tozier #poor sexually unsatisfied helen nash #sometimes you just have to write the DILF went tozier fic you want to see in the world #stephen king: he was a pleasant looking man with a rather thin face #me cracking my knuckles: a l r i g h t #but what if... big dick richie was hereditary... what then 😳🤔👀🤔👀😳😳👀 #ficlet

[scarlette-joel-writing]

Erased Pt. 10

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Warnings: Torture. 

A/N: It is totally reasonable that you guys probably hate me. It has been forever since I updated Hopefully this makes up for it a little bit. 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8  Part 9 Part 10  Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

~

I am in pain.

And not the “I went a little hard during training yesterday and I am really feeling it today” kind of pain.

No. This is the “I have been tied down to a metal slab for god knows how fucking long, and I have people constantly cutting me and burning me and pushing my bones to the point of breaking,” kind of pain. This is the “I kind of wish that they would just kill me already,” kind of pain. This is the “I can’t believe that my body hasn’t given out yet,” kind of pain. That is the type of life that I am living right now. This is the “I wish I could just tell them what they want they know so that the pain can end” kind of pain.

But I know that I cannot do that. I cannot tell them what they want because that would mean that I would have to tell him about Bucky and that will never happen. It will never happen. I would rather let myself die than to give them the information that is needed to make Bucky the crazy super soldier that they want him to be. It is a life that I don’t want him to live and I will do anything to protect him from that. Anything. Even if it means dying. I have to protect him.

The machine that he has attached to my head keeps the jolts of electricity bursting through me every few seconds though my body has gotten used to the little jolts of pain. They remind me that I can still feel things. That I haven’t become completely numb to his tactics. I don’t know what would happen if I did.

“Good Morning Miss!” he says as he enters the room and I can feel my entire body stiffen at the sound. This is the boss man. The man that came in and told me that he was going to torture me until I told him exactly what he wanted to know. We haven’t spoken much since I got here, but maybe that is because he keeps shoving knives into me. I don’t know, just maybe. “Are we going to talk today?” he says as he leans over me.

I have noticed in my time here, however long that has been, that this man is not from this time. He talks like he is from a different century and the way he holds himself is the same way that I see Bucky and Cap hold themselves: like they were pulled out of time and don’t know how to act in this new era.

I have also learned that Dr. Orlov is a Russian scientist/doctor and has extensive knowledge of the human body. Especially all of its weak points. I have gained that knowledge through person experience. He seems to enjoy cutting me open.

“Look at you. So beautiful,” he laughs and I feel him swipe a finger over my cheek, causing it to sting from the multiple bruises and cuts that rest of my face already. I want to spit at him. I know I look like shit. I haven’t showered in forever, there is dried blood all over me, and bruises are my new foundation color. Some are yellow, some are brown, and the newer ones are a dark dark purple that hurt like a bitch every time that he touches me. More like punches me.

“I am not going to tell you what you want to know, so fuck off,” this time I do spit at him but he quickly dodges it and laughs at me. A deep and booming laugh that sends a shiver up my spine. But not in the good way. Definitely not in the good way.

“Y’know, you are a lot more stubborn than the woman in my days,” he smiles at me and steps away from me and to the other side of the room where his table of toys is waiting. I try to pull at the restraints, once again, and once again there is no way that I am going to escape from them. They are stainless steel and bolted to the concrete floor.

My mind is strong. My body is not.

“I don’t care about your stupid monologue,” I sneer back at him and I watch a he picks up a knife that is easily bigger than my forearm and turns back around to face me. The fear shoots through my body and I don’t even want to think about what he is going to do with that knife.

“Really? But don’t you wanna know who I am? Where I came from? How I know about your precious James Barnes?” the way he says Bucky’s name is a direct taunt to me and it makes me struggle against the restraints again.

“Fuck you!”

“A little touchy now aren’t we? Did I hit a soft spot?” and at the same time he says that, he slips the knife into the soft part of my flesh at the bottom of my stomach. I scream out in pain and he just digs the knife in a little farther before he pulls it out and a rush of relief floods through me before the searing pain sinks in.

“Fuck you,” is all I can say back to him and he smiles again. Digs the knife in again. Pulls it back out slowly.

“Let’s tell you the story anyway. The story of a young doctor working for the Russians. They had brought in this boy from the mountains. Badly bleeding. His arm was mangled and had to be amputated immediately,” I let the tears roll down my body as he looks over the blood covered knife then stares back at me. “We were thinking about letting him die but we obviously found a much more suitable position for our Mr. Barnes. I wasn’t the lead doctor on the project but I was the one that they decided to put under to make sure that everything went well with our asset in the future,” his words cause me to pause and to look at him. He has a smug smile on his face that tells me that he is enjoying this interaction very much.

“Put under?” I stammer out, and I watch his eyes alight with a flame before he wipes the blood from my stomach on my dirty and torn t-shirt and sets it back down in its initial resting spot.

“Surely you know what put under means. Barnes went through it as well as Mr. America. Though, Rodgers wasn’t intentional like Mr. Barnes was,” he picks up a pair of pliers that have already caused me enough pain and fidgets with them a bit before coming back over to stand above me. “I guess timelines got a little messed up because they pulled Barnes out a lot faster than they did me,” he grabs one of my fingers within the pliers and begins to add light pressure to it with every few seconds that passes. “You can imagine my surprise when I wake up to find out that no in this era knows anything about the asset that I had helped to create,” more pressure and more pain.

That’s how he remembers Bucky. Because he wasn’t technically alive when I went in and erased everyone’s memories,

“But that doesn’t explain how you knew about-“ I cut myself off with an ear piercing scream that comes out of me when he closes the pliers all of the way and I can feel the bones in my fingers being crushed. The pain radiates throughout my whole body and it send black spots into my vision.

“How I knew about what? About you? Well, you Avengers aren’t the only ones that have powers in the world. One of my men, a true genius, has a photographic memory. And he distinctly remembers a girl that looks just like you prancing around his memory. He cant remember what you took from him, the knowledge that he had, but I guess you forgot to erase yourself from his memory before you left,” he moves onto the next finger and repeats the same torturous action with my left middle finger. I scream again as he shatters the finger and he laughs. “You gonna talk now?”

“Never,” I mumble, taking deep breaths to try and calm my heart down. The electricity is still running through my head and the tears that are streaming down my face blur my vision. I can only see the basic outline of the man that is slowly killing me.

“You do know that I am not opposed to breaking every bone in your body to get what I want, right?” he moves onto my ring finger and puts my finger between the pliers.

“Fuck you,” I spit at him again and this time, my blood colored saliva hits him directly in the face. I can feel myself smile a bloody smile that hurts like a bitch.

And that is when the pliers slam shut and the searing pain floods through me and I finally go black.

~

Bucky’s POV:

“What if this has nothing to do with the enemies of Shield and the Avengers? What if it is more specific than that?” Bruce says as we are sitting back in the conference room for the umpteenth time in the past 2 and a half weeks. 2 and a half weeks od Y/N being gone and none of us are any closer to finding her. For all any of us know, she could be dead already.

“what do you mean?” Cap sits forward a little bit and I can see that he looks just as tired as everyone else does in this situation. People working as much as they can to bring Y/N back.

“Well, think about it? What does someone want with Y/N? She isn’t a true part of the Avengers. Has never been out on a proper mission with the team. Her whole job was to take care of Bucky. To bring him back from that state And then it just so happens that she gains someone’s attention after she has pulled all memories of Bucky from everyone? That doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me,”

“But no one on the planet remembers Bucky. It would have different if they had come after her before she took all of their memories away. Unless someone from Bucky’s past suddenly arose from the dead, I don’t think that it has anything to do with him,” Romanoff gives me a sympathetic smile that I don’t return. Everyone knows that I am not handling this well.

Suddenly an idea pops into my head and I sit up in the chair. Everyone suddenly stops talking and all eyes turn to me.

“What if they didn’t arise from the dead? What if they dethawed?” I am searching through all of my memories. Who was that man that they put me under with? Their was a little doctor that said that he would be more than happy to wake up in the future and make sure that everything worked out fine..

I pull myself through all of my old memories. And then I get his head stuck in my head.

Dr. Orlov.

Nice to see you again.

Taglist: 

@jacks-on-krack @tbetz0341 @haleypearce @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @zestygingergirl @jemjem-chan @rachelmc97 @fesslasuisse @vvonder-lands @ran-randomness  @zohoffman  @geeksareunique  @m4df4n

#Bucky Barnes #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #james bucky barnes #james barnes #marvel #avengers #avenger #writing #love #romance #save #kindaromanceifyoulookatitright

[alicemoonwonderland]

Toxic Wings

A piece based on the Guild Hunter Series by Nalini Singh. The themes are heavy even though they are only references. I wrote this piece to deal with some of the negative emotions inside of me and writing has always been my outlet. 

Summary: Sariel and Dahariel had been together on and off for four decades, but as time passes, Dahariel’s actions make it clear that the relationship is unequal and toxic. So Sariel makes the hard choice of breaking things off forever with him. He may not have ever hurt her, but he was still toxic to her. She deserved better.

Fandom; Guild Hunter Series

Pairing: Dahariel / Sariel (Fem!OC of Colour)

Rating: NSFW for heavy themes

Tags: Breaking up, toxic relationship, reference of cheating/homicide/abuse, feels, angst, hope

Laughter filled the courtyard, the sun made the colourful wings shine like gems. The joy and merriment coming from the little bodies almost tangible as some fluttered around, others wobbled around on their short legs and almost tipping over because of their oversized wings. Trying to get away from the one adult angel chasing after them with a wide smile gracing her face. She ran slowly, to give the little ones a chance to escape and to feel like they could outrun anyone.

"I'm going to catch you! I'm going to catch you!" Sariel laughed hearty as she rushed after little Mikhail, his green wings splashed with amber and blue. Reminding her of a paradise bird. His curls wild, his smile even wilder. "Gotcha!" She tossed the little boy up in the air before catching him with ease in her arms. Smothering kisses on his golden chubby cheeks.

"Ah! Sa-Sa! Help! Sa-Sa!" He giggled happily, despise his protests he wrapped his little arms around her neck and hugged her tightly. Sariel's body sighed with joy as she hugged the little oh so fragile body against her chest. The other little bumblebees, as she called them, wobbling back towards her. Little hands patting and touching her legs and wings as they all beamed with joy and innocence.

Seeing them like this, broke and healed her heart in countless of ways. Angelic children were precious beyond measure amongst her kind. So few of them were ever blessed of having one of them. "It is logical why there are so relatively few children born at any given time." Keir, the head healer once told her as he busied himself braiding her hair. "We are an Immortal race and hard to kill. Quick replacement is generally not needed." But that did not take away the ache of wishing to have a child.

No matter how depraved or cruel some had become with age and power, all had agreed upon that angelic children would never be harmed. Breaking this more than Ancient rule would result into a horrible punishment that would make death seem like a mercy.

"Sa-Sa! Sing sing!" A little wide-blue eyed and silver-grey spotted winged bumblebee asked her with glee, erasing any thoughts of darkness and sorrow from her. Sariel smiled indulgently as she carried her little charge, and guiding the others to her bench in the courtyard.

With fondness, she watched the little ones all settle down as Mikhael rested his head against her chest. Her slender fingers playing with his dark curls. Unconsciously, her eyes scanned the courtyard. Always watching for danger, just in case, even though no one would dare to harm the children. This was the neutral zone, under the protection of all Archangels and free from politics and what not.

Eyes locked with the power yellow irises of an angel that made her stomach knot for many reasons. Those eagle eyes were set in the sharp hawk-features face of an angel who wore his power as a cloak to keep others at bay. His wings always reminded her of one of the most majestic birds. Having seen them spread in flight...and other situations.

Dahariel stood in the shadows, watching her with a stoic look on his face. He always looked like that, emotionless, distant....colder than ice and marble. The tightness in her chest made it almost impossible hard to breathe. She had not seen him since....half a year? Almost a year? It had been a while....he hadn't even written her. Her lips started to feel numb. Why was he here? Shouldn't he be with...

"Sa-Sa?" Mikhail asked worried as the little boy pressed his fingers against her lips. Looking up at her with such a concerned look. Giving herself a mental shake, she turned back to the little charge on her lap.

"You wish me to sing? I shall sing for you," she whispered so warmly, making the little ones cry out in joy again, and Mikhail beam. She ignored her pain, her sorrow, her confusion as she closed her eyes and started to sing. Rocking the child in her arms as her voice filled the courtyard.

Some say, she had inherited a bit of her grandmother's singing talent. And now she used that talent to bring joy to the heart of all those around her, to forget any sorrow or worries in her own heart as well. When she sang, she forgot all - a pure moment of true peace.

After a while, time always became a blur when she sang, she opened her eyes and felt her heart squeeze with joy this time as the little ones had cuddled together. Little bodies resting against each other. Eyelids closed and wings in resting position. They had all fallen asleep with little smiles on their faces. Mikhael sucked on his thumb as he slept peacefully against her chest.

The children's parents and guardians had arrived, everyone looking relaxed and joyful. It made her glad that her song had given them peace and rest in the trying times. With soft whispers and thanks, they took their children back. Sariel handed over the sleeping Mikhail to his mountain of a father who chuckled amused. Handling his son with such care and adoration that one rarely would expect from a man like Ivan. It showed that even some of their roughest, and most wildest could have a softer side.

But the whole time, she noticed the pair of eagle eyes not leaving her. Watching like a predator watching its prey. Part of her felt annoyed. He had no right to be here. Well...she couldn't deny him to come here. She just did not understood why he suddenly had decided to come here. Children weren't his thing, even though the little ones were in awe of him when he did came by.

After picking up her bag, she made her way back to her quarter's in her father - the Archangel Raphael's territory. Her pulse skittered as she felt she was being followed, still in the neutral zone. She could reach out with her mind to her father, who would be with her - or one of his men - in just a few seconds. But she didn't want him to know. Didn't want him to know her shame. Her sorrow. Her pain. He would start a war for her, and she did not wish blood on her hands. She had made her bed, and she would lie in it.

Making a turn into a dark corridor, she felt more than heard the rustle of wings. Then strong finger wrapping themselves around her wrist. Shock went through her system when she was pulled back against a hard - almost like marble - chest, wings crushing against bare skin. The breathing of the one who held her brushed against her temple, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to ignore her body's reaction to him. Not the one of fighting, but one that made her want to melt against him. Forget everything.

But she could not. She could not forgive his latest transgression. He had cut her too deep, too brutally. His hand let go of her wrist to wrap itself around her waist. His other hand resting on her cheek and turning her face towards him as his wings arched in a way as if to shelter her from the outside world

"Don't do this," she whispered breathlessly as she fought to keep her walls up. Her wings aching as they were trapped, touched in a painfully intimate way that should be reserved for lovers. His nose brushed against her cheekbone, the tension growing between them. The air becoming heavy with sexual tension.

"Sariel," he breathed husky in her ear as she was trapped between the wall and his hard body. His hand caressing her hip as his fingers brushed over her full lips. He pressed his hips against her shapely behind, able to feel his arousal. Memories of him taking her from behind while her hands pressed against the wall assaulted her mind. An involuntary moan slipped past her lips as she could feel his power and hunger brewing underneath his skin. The sensual way he trapped her spoke of his dominance, but also her own power. With no one else....no...that was a lie.

In a rapid move, that he had taught her, she broke his hold - slammed him against the wall - and pressed a knife against his throat as her eyes burned with betrayal. Her wings spread wide as she thanked whoever was out there that practically no one took this path. Last thing she needed was an angel or vampire seeing them like this and either warn her Father or Astaad.

For a moment his eyes flickered with surprise before he adopted that aloof stoic look on his face. Not moving aside from resting his hands on her lips. She knew he wasn't afraid. A cut on his throat wouldn't slow him down much. Hell, it would probably turn him on. "I said no," she snapped harshly at him, her throat tightening with emotions. "Leave me alone." Pulling away, she put away her knife and made a move to leave again.

Dahariel grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall again, his hand firmly but also tenderly cupping her face as he trapped her with his much larger and stronger body. His eyes searching her face for answers as she barred her teeth in pain and fury.

But still, arousal curled inside her belly. Making her angrier with herself and disgusted. "Go back to her," she snapped and something flickered in his eyes.

"Who?"

"You know who, Dahariel."

"Say her name."

"No."

"Say her name."

"Michaela," the word ripped out of her, unable to hide her pain and disgust at what he had done. Who he had chosen to be his lover, who he had taken to his bed.

"Sariel, my love, you don't..."

"Don't you fucking dare to insult me even more than you already have, Dahariel." If he hadn't trapped her the way he had, his muscular thigh pushed between her own so she couldn't kick him in the balls - she would have. Hard. And felt pleased with herself while doing it.

"Do you think I'm a fool?" She let out a bitter laugh as she looked away, unable to look into his eyes. Didn't wish to remember the man he once used to be. Yes, he has always been deadly, dangerous, working on a moral code that humans would find horrendous but became all too common amongst angel kind as they aged and became more powerful.

But she could still remember the way he laughed as she splashed him with water. The tender way he brushed her hair out of her face as he laid beside her in bed. The way he whispered adoring words against her lips while they hid in the dark corners of the Refuge. Stolen moments in time that they could be together.

If she had been anyone else, maybe she could have lived in ignorant bliss. Maybe she could have turned a blind eye to the indiscretions he had committed. But she was no ordinary angel, she was an Archangel's daughter whose father had the best Spymaster in his service. She was bound to find out the things he did behind her back.

And the love struck fool she was, she had accepted it. Their relationship had always been chaotic, him leaving her several times and breaking her heart, but she accepted him back with open arms every time he came back to her. But even she noticed that each time he came back, he was a little bit more distant. A little bit more cold. A little bit more cruel.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't fully ignore knowing there were others. That people in his court trembled by the merest hint of wings. The almost-Immortal didn't react like that without good reason. Then there were the whispers that Jason had told her father, of Dahariel's....dark appetites.

Her heart was soft still, her soul not jaded with time and immortality. She could still be disgusted. Didn't wish to somehow look logical at the things she did. She felt. She still hurt for others and felt empathy.

"Don't you think I would never find out what you did behind my back? The people you hurt. The people you slept with. It's a good thing that angels can't catch disease..."

"Sariel," he warned her threatening, and she hissed in return. Her wings flaring as much as they could while crushed against the wall.

"Don't you Sariel me. You've no right to utter my name," she snarled as she finally met his eyes. Saw the coldness in them, the cruelty in the lines of his dangerously handsome face.

Her heart broke as her eyes burned, but she refused to let her tears roll. Didn't wish to give him that power. That satisfaction. "And all these years, I turned a blind eye. But no more. No more. Of all the women you could take to your bed, you took that demon spawn. You know what she did to my family. You know but not for a second did you care what it did to me. You weren't even separated from me!"

"You don't understand." She slammed her hands so hard against his chest that somehow she made him stagger back. His eyes flickering to her veins as they glowed faintly but she ignored it, her rage barely being kept back.

"THERE IS NO EXPLANATION THAT WILL MAKE IT RIGHT FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME!" she roared in righteous fury, her rage made her think clearer than she had in a while. "You're toxic to me. Being with you is killing me. Destroying me by bit and by the Cadre, I deserve better. I'm done, Dahariel. We are over."

That took him by utter surprise. It had always been him who left her, and her begging him to stay. Professing her love for him. This was the first time in four decades that she rejected him. And he knew she meant it. The intent and seriousness clear in her eyes and voice. This relationship was a pure poisonous one. It didn't matter that she loved him. Didn't mean he meant the world to her. He had gone too far. Taken the archangel who wished her stepmum dead and wanted to fuck her father. She had some dignity left. Some pride.

She let out a little squeak as he grabbed her again, smashing his lips against hers. Their connection had always been explosive, powerful, mind numbing. He forced his tongue into her mouth, his hands moving hotly over her body. She kissed him back, her fingers grabbing his hair firmly, her senses overloaded for a moment that she became a being of feeling. All rational and coherent thought slammed out of her.

Just for a moment though. With snarl, she torn herself away from him and lashed out. Gouges appearing on his cheek and blood flowing down his face. His blood coating her nails. "Fuck you." She spat on the ground before him while cursing in the old angelic tongue. Her lips swollen by his kiss, her curls tousled wildly.

His flesh knitted back together as his eyes became luminous, but she had already started to walk away. Her breathing rough as she fought her tears. "You always knew who I was! Do you think your precious Illium has clean hands?!" Don't look back. Don't. Keep walking. "I've seen how he looks at you, and that precious Bluebell has skeletons of his own in the closet!" You can do this, Sariel. Keep walking. It's over. You're free. "SARIEL!"

It hurt. Her chest crushing. Ice in her veins as each step was a struggle. But she had to keep moving forward. She was Sariel. Daughter of Raphael. And she was not going to be used any longer.

By pure force of will, she made her way to her father's territory. The sight of stunning blue wings with silver came into her view. The dam inside of her crumbling to dust. Golden eyes widened as Illium took in her state. Hair wild, lips swollen, and looking on the verge of tears. Pathetic. That's how she looked. Absolutely pathetic.

"Sariel!" he cried out worried and rushed towards her, his arms coming around her and crushing her cold body against his burning hot one. Precious Bluebell has skeletons of his own in the closet. Her arms came around Illium's torso - one of her father's most trusted warriors. He may have blood on his hands. May have skeletons in his closet, but Illium had never hurt her. Her body becoming weak in his arms as she started to sob, trusting him to hold her up.

"I got you, Stardust. Whatever happened, I'll fix it. I'll fix it." How could one heal a destroyed hart? How could one heal the wounds on the soul. Closing her eyes, she decided to worry about that another day. Now, she just needed to be held.

#guild hunter #nalini singh #dahariel #illium #dahariel x oc #fem!oc #poc oc #angels #supernatural #written by alicemoonwonderland