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#bonely hearts club rust x reader

whorediaries-09 · 6 months

Note

Hey!! Could you do one where Sirius and reader were dating during hogwarts but they broke up after harry was born but they were already his godparents. After James and Lily die, Sirius doesn’t go to Azkaban so they have to reunite to take care and raise Harry.

hi love, thank you for sending in the request. it's a great idea, and could have been longer than what i have written to be honest, but i was running short on time. i still hope you like it <3

maroon;

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- hurt/comfort, drinking, alludes to sexual assault. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- i wanted to write a fic using this song for so long. anon i love you cause i have the perfect opportunity to do that now 👯‍♂️

the slut club

and I wake with your memory over me that's a real fucking legacy to leave,

you're sure you can still hear his ringing distinctive laughter through the photograph. the photograph you hold has faded away its brightest hue, along with the smile of james potter and his heartbeat. you cradle his almost doppelgänger on your knee if it wasn't for his bright emerald eyes. he sucks on his thumb, while brandishing a twig in thin air. (after you had successfully convinced him it was a wand)

'honey, look, it's your papa,' you say, flashing his father's picture on his eyeline. you wonder if he recalls his features as his grubby fingers grab at the photograph. you wonder if you'd had to introduce his father to him if he weren't dead.

the doorknob clicks. the footsteps knocking on the floor are similar but it still sends a wave of coldness through your veins. your jaw tightens.

'i'm so sorry i'm late,' he says running his fingers through his hair. he picks up harry, and places a chaste kiss on his chubby cheek. you get up from the sofa.

'it's okay sirius, he's my godson too,' you say, loosening your tightened jaw. you crack your knuckles.

'buddy where'd you get this...twig?' you hear sirius ask harry. he flashes him a half toothed grin, shoving the twig in his ear.

'hey, hey no,' sirius scrunches his face in pain. you suppress a smile, throwing your coat over your shoulders.

'i convinced him it's a wand. he saw me using it to turn down the blinds and yeah, you know he's just like his father, stubborn,'

'you seen moony?' you ask. remus was the only person you could confide in at that moment. somethings seemed to be overwhelming. swallowing it up would seem like a great idea, but it wasn't. not in the long run. the run hadn't even started and you felt like your joints were rusted, lungs exhausted and heart beating too slowly. perhaps it was the after effects of a lorn tragedy. your breathing palpitated with the way sirius' gray eyes ran over your body.

'he's sulking as usual,' he replied, his mood suddenly in the halt of a shift.

'home?' you ask, your feet jittery.

'hm,'

you're not sure whether it's a tone of disapproval or jealousy. the latter seems dimensionally impossible, so you disapparate, to lupin's house.

*******

your eyes are torn of sleep, the half moon shining stark against the dark sky. the stillness of the night enveloped you, an uncomfortable warmth surrounding you. the night seemed stuffy, a prison of your thoughts. it was as if a weight of restlessness settled upon your bones, your mind and body battling to fall into a slumber. the darkness thundered a dance of troubled thoughts, which instead of providing solace was a battle against the dreams that awaited you on the other spectrum of sleep.

it's thud against your door. is it the wind? you search for your wand, and slowly whisper,

'lumos,'

the tip of your light enlightens into a beautiful solemn blue. you curl your toes, walking down the hallway. your voice is sore, dry and cracked when you speak, pressing your ear against the wood of the door.

'wh-who is it?'

'it's me, sirius.'

your hand wraps itself around the doorknob as your turn it, around, unlocking the door. it's not the first time he showed up at your house in the middle of the night. last time, when he came in he was drunk and red-eyed, searching for a bestowed comfort. while it wouldn't have mattered if it was someone else, it felt so wrong back then. he'd hugged you tight, your ribs almost breaking from the pressure. it made you reminisce of the days when he'd hug you, whispering i love you's in your ear. it made you reminisce of the days when he'd tickle you and you'd laugh till your ribs hurt. you remembered how he'd reeked of alcohol and tobacco, so unlike yet like him.

he stands there before you, his nose dripping blood, tears staining his cheeks. you stare at him hollow-eyed, your heart bleeding with an urge to hold him. but it seems like you're stuck, as if your blood is frozen, your senses too numb. he stammers, walking towards you. he smells like a flowery scent infused with the stench of beer. his words are broken when he speaks into your hair, his arms dropping on your body.

your lips are dry as your arms close around his shaking body.

'who did this to you?' you whisper. you feel his heartbeat beating against yours. his slows it's pace and yours picks up the pace as he lets the cruel words out of his mouth, offering you a broken story.

'this-this girl, she groped me when i was dancing with her. i thought it was by mistake a-at first, but-'

he breaks down, his sobs shattering every shard of your broken heart.

'it's fine, we'll get you a warm bath,' you whisper, slowly running your fingers down his spine. it's as if by instinct, or maybe old habit, you kiss his shoulder.

'i-i miss you.' he says.

'i'm right here,'

'no, i miss us.'

'sirius?'

he looks at you with an utmost expression of genuine love and it scares you. his gray eyes almost absorb your soul. it's as if your heart beats maniacally against your ribcage, while he captivates you. he feels like the perfect muse for your poems. he feels like the last bite of your cornetto. he feels like home.

he feels like he's yours.

you're scared. maybe the incarnations were roses after all.

368 notes · View notes

timbertumbr · 2 years

Note

Hello dear before typing anything I would really like to say that I adore your writing! Could I request headcanons of characters of your choosing from bonely hearts club reacting to/interacting with a monster! s/o who is a perfectionist and a class president ( ex college president, or maybe any form of a leader? idk like a club leader would be alright too , you can change it ofc but I just wanted to sketch the rough image of them ). S/O is trying really hard to make everything perfect and they want to appear as put up as they possibly can. They can appear mean to the others if they get in the way but thats because they want to be their best selves for the rest ( they organize parties to make others happy, they manage events, they try to be the ,,symbol'' and use their magic to make others happy etc ). Basically they give the same vibes as isabella madrigal, amity blight, pacifica northwest etc. I would really like to see your take on a request like this ( adding even more aspects of their personality is welcome too ). I hope I made this description as clear as I could!

If you have a lot of requests or anything stressful happening at the moment please take your time and write when you feel like it :)

Perfection is Flawed (BHC! Skeletons X Reader)

Ooo! Interesting! I have just the thing! Made the reader whoever you want, human or monster.

Papyrus-

Oh boy, match made in heaven. At least that's what I think. You two kinda help each other out. Whenever you're planning something, Papyrus is willing to help give you ideas and vice versa.

However, if you try to go all: EVERYTHING MUST BE PERFECT. EVERY LITTLE DETAIL.

He'll simply pull you aside and give you a heartwarming speech about how you're only human (or monster) And things can never truly be perfect. You can only do your best and your best is the skills and experience you've gained and applying it.

You take this to heart and actually use your skills for the things you love, Papyrus by your side!

Dates? Super planned out. Like the order of movies or snacks that must be brought. You turn the living room into a movie theater and he's all for it. And if you're tired, have too many snacks to finish off, etc. Papyrus proposes letting his family have the temporary movie theater for a while.

They loved it. So happy.

All in all, very understanding and willing to help!

Sans-

Chill. Will transfer his chillness to you just by being in the same room. Need help with suggestions? Likes anything you show him. Makes it difficult sometimes but other times it helps keep the stress at bay with the easy choices.

While he's all for pranks and jokes, he would never do anything that would harm your hard work. And if he sees anyone trying to pull that, they're gonna have a bad time.

He's the most likely to have the most fun at your planned events. He's a people person and absolutely will not let those snacks go to waste, much to Papyrus's chagrin.

Dates with him are usually chill. Whenever you ask for specific details, he tells you he's cool with whatever as long as you're with him. He'd know you'd never plan a date with anything he's uncomfortable with.

Sometimes when you're stressed about an event, he'll pull you aside for some cuddles or if it's night, cuddles and stargazing.

Good for keeping you in check when you need to but also just as supportive as Papyrus.

Nox-

He thinks it's a competition. You can't be more sophisticated than the coffee addicted skeleton. It's not a serious competition though, just to see how you'd fare against an equal. (His words, not mine.)

He admires your skills, he gives you unbiased yet gentle criticism for some of the event planning, very helpful.

He'll make sure to attend ALL the events you plan. Isn't his style? Doesn't care, he's going for you.

He'll ask you for help with important events like birthdays or an anniversary since you seem to have knowledge about EVERYTHING they like. It terrifies him. But he still loves you.

You two would absolutely make fun of poorly planned events if you both know the person behind it is a prick.

If it's a person who you both know is just trying to be helpful? You two are going to show up on their doorstep.

"We're here to help,"

And help you do.

He knows how difficult it can be so would absolutely offer you his prized coffee. (If that's not your cup of tea, makes your favorite beverage) and just talk about whatever comes to mind.

All in all 100/10 boyfriend.

Rust-

He doesn't really get it but will still support you!

Ideas? Oh, sure, he got you- He's pretty creative and sometimes gives you unique themes!

Will melt if you tell everyone it was him who came up with the idea, you just saw it through.

He'll try to make it to as many events as he can. But if he's overwhelmed, you'll take him to a back area and be with him. Give him hugs.

He understands that these events take a lot of time and effort. And if he sees you stressing, he'll give you hugs, cuddles, soft kisses and prepare stuff you love.

Very sweet boi. ^^

77 notes · View notes

wkemeup · 3 years

Text

Delicate Edges (6)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.4k chapter warnings: angsty angst angst, rumlow causing trouble,

series masterlist / series playlist

Your hands were trembling as you locked the front door to May Flowers; neon pink sign faded to black, overhanging lights dimmed over the baskets of roses and lilies. It was only minutes before noon and you couldn’t chance catching a glimpse of Bucky’s navy-blue baseball cap through the crowded sidewalk, a bag of food in hand as if nothing had changed. You knew he would offer you convincing excuses disguised under the delphinium blues in his eyes. Every part of you would ache to believe him but something awful would fracture in your chest instead.

The image of his battered and bloodied mugshot quickly washed away the memory of his charming smiles, diminished the lightness of his cheesy pick-up lines, and shattered every kindness he offered you. The article you had read under the aching strain of Wanda’s cellphone light had served as certain proof of Bucky’s ties to the biker underworld of this town, to his years of corruption and violence. It didn’t matter how sweet he was with you, how impossibly charming he was, gentle in even the roughest parts of him.

You knew the truth of what he was capable of. There was no room for doubt.

Your life was already chained to one biker club under the rusted metal of cuffs on your ankles – digging sharp and unrelenting deep into your bone. You didn’t have room for another, didn’t have the strength to fend off the torture of another man. Rumlow would sooner have you killed than waste his time bantering with the 107 over a debt Hydra had laid claim to a decade ago.

You didn’t spare a glance to the sidewalk before you rushed up the back stairs to your apartment. The echo of the second hand ticking around the clock seemed to rattle inside your chest with every step, inching closer and closer to the hour you had once cherished above all else. Your hands were shaking so badly, you had to curl them into fists, even within the safety of your apartment.

You tried to ease yourself on the possibility that Bucky wouldn’t bother himself with this game anymore. He wouldn’t show up at your front door with lunch in hand like he did every day for the last two weeks. He wouldn’t pick up the broken stems from the vases outside and carry them inside for you as if they were wounded soldiers in his hands. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and it nearly made you jump out of your skin.

Wanda had helped you set Bucky’s called to go directly to voicemail the night before, afraid the temptation of the man you so desperately wanted him to be might convince you to answer. Heart pounding, you pulled the phone from your pocket. Bucky’s name was illuminated at the center of the screen.

One missed call. One voicemail message.

You knew Wanda would tell you to delete it. Nothing good could come from listening to the message. It could only be another trick to draw you back into his charm, to manipulate you into starting another war between the 107 and Hydra. Nothing good could come from it.

You pressed play anyway.

“Hey, doll. It’s... uh, it’s Bucky.” A strained groan followed through the speaker. “Right, you know that. Sorry.”

You held your breath at the sound of his voice. It carried the same sweetness laced into the inflections, the same tenderness he had held you with when you kissed him amongst the lilacs the day before. But there was a slight tremor in his tone. Nerves, you realized.

It was part of the game, you halfheartedly convinced yourself. It had to be. The man you’d heard terrible stories about couldn’t be the same Bucky you knew. This man, who extorted money from local businesses, who threatened families down on their luck with violence until they feared for their lives. This man, who children ran from in the street, whose name alone drew fear. The Bucky you knew couldn’t exist within that man. It had to be a mask.

You dared a glance down to the sidewalk from your window above the shop. There, you found Bucky staring into the empty windows, trying to catch sight of you. He pressed his hand against the glass, searching amongst the darkness and the flowers for a woman he would not find.

“I know you’re dodging my calls,” he sighed in the message, “and you’ve got every right to after I left the way I did yesterday... but I brought burgers from Daisy’s Diner on the eastside. You mentioned a few days ago how much you missed their curly fries so I thought... I don’t know. Hoped that might entice you enough to give me a chance to explain but... I see you’re closed so... I’ll go. I’ll see you tomorrow, doll.”

The voicemail ended long before you felt the cold wash of tears against your cheeks. You brushed them away quickly, reminding yourself that the man you knew was a fiction – an entirely made-up creature to hide the monster underneath. It was the only possible explanation. You had proof that Bucky Barnes was the leader of the 107, that he’d beaten men to a pulp. It didn’t matter that those men were Hydra. He was capable of violence on par with what you’ve witnessed in Rumlow and Rollins.

But something was screaming in the back of your head; a terrible, unpleasant feeling as you tried to group Bucky amongst the men who slipped through the shadows of your shop, who made your skin crawl and terrified you through your bones.

When you dared to look out the window again, Bucky was gone. He’d left the bag of burgers and curly fries by the door.

***

The next day when Bucky came by again, the lights were out in May Flowers. You waited from the safety of your apartment as he first stepped up to the shop, the realization dawning. His shoulders sank, the fictitious hope draining from his body as he looked inside the empty shop for you. Peering in through the windows, cupping a hand to the glass in an attempt to see better. When a hand print was left in his wake, he grimaced and quickly attempted to brush it away with the sleeve of his jacket.

As a last resort, you watched as Bucky’s fingertips hesitantly reached for the knob. Panic surged inside your chest; flooding worry second guessing whether you’d locked it firmly enough, but the door didn’t budge. Relief sank heavy into your body as something strange crossed Bucky’s features. Something close to defeat.

Slowly, Bucky pulled out his phone, his gaze casually trailing up the exposed bricks and awning above the shop to your apartment window as he brought the phone to his ear. You slammed your back to the wall behind the curtains, clutching hands into the fabric before he could see you. Your grip was aching by the time you a notification of a voicemail appeared on your phone screen. It was only then that you gathered the courage to peer outside the window one last time.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh and set the sandwich bags on the sidewalk. He gaze remained fixed on the interior of the shop, as if he were holding out hope that you might have simply forgotten about your lunch meetings, that you might bound down the back steps and flick the lights on and welcome him inside with a bright smile on your face. Misplaced hope. Foolish hope. Hands shoved deep into his pockets and he hung his head, turning to walk back to the east side.

It was where he belonged, you thought bitterly. Why he would bother taking the risk in the first place to walk carelessly through the west side was beyond you. If Bucky was who you believed he was, he was dancing with an offense that could get him killed. You’d seen Hydra beat men into submission for less. If the leader of their enemy club paraded himself into their territory... they’d kill him for his sheer arrogance alone.

You closed your eyes, wishing you had the strength to simply delete his message.

“Hey doll,” Bucky’s voice carried through the speaker. “I, uh, I can see you don’t want me around. That’s okay. I promise, honey. It’s okay. I’ll just leave the food outside like yesterday, all right?” He paused for a moment, exhaling a slow, steady breath. “When you’re ready to talk, just let me know. I hope you will. I hope... I didn’t completely mess us up. I was a fool for leaving you that day but I... I swear to you I didn’t have a choice. I want to explain everything, honey, if you’ll let me. But I can't do it like this.” He cleared his throat, as though the words had pained him. “Just know it wasn’t you that scared me off. It wasn’t anything you did and it—it wasn’t the kiss. So, I’ll... I’ll wait for you. Please, just... call me when you’re ready.”

You tossed the wilted, stuffed bouquet made of wild colors and mismatched flowers in the trash after you deleted the message. They were both too painful to look at.

***

Three days later and Bucky hadn’t dared another step onto the west side.

Every so often, you’d catch yourself looking up the windows in search of the navy-blue baseball cap through the crowd only to be harshly reminded of the man you were hoping to see. Shame curdled into your stomach, disappointment weighing heavier in your heart. You couldn’t make sense of any of it – why you longed for a man who could only serve to hurt you.

The only solace was that Bucky had stayed true to his word. He’d stopped coming around, stopped calling.

He was giving you control, the annoying voice in the back of your head tried to reason. That must mean something. A man like Rumlow would never think to grant you that kind of power over him, but you pushed aside the thought as quickly as it came.

It was on the fourth day when he sent the first text.

You were with a customer, explaining the watering needed for the ready-to-plant tulips along the left wall of the shop when you felt the vibration in your apron. As the customer bent down to closer examine the array of colors, you quickly glanced at the screen, thinking it might be Wanda trying to convince you to come to movie night with her and Pietro.

But it was Bucky’s name across the top of your screen instead.

I know I said I wouldn’t call, but I hope you won’t fault me for a text. You don’t gotta say anything, doll. Just let me know you’re okay. Please.

You stared at the message, carefully reading over each word until the woman tapped painfully on your shoulder to get your attention. She furrowed her brows at you, her annoyance evident as her pointed glare dropped to your phone. You apologized quickly, shoving it back into your pocket without a response.

***

Days dragged by without word from Bucky. You knew you should be grateful for it, relieved even, that you could keep May Flowers open through your lunch. It would help increase the chance of potential customers stopping in around noon with a sandwich in hand from the deli next door. That terrible aching knot in your stomach should have gone away. But it hadn’t. It only seemed to get worse.

You hadn’t given yourself a moment to notice just how many pieces of you Bucky had brought back to life in the month you’d known him – gently pulling them out from the wreckage Hydra had created in the wake of your father’s death and easing the shattered edges back into your soul with Elmer's glue, with the light graze of his lips and the calloused touch in his hands. Kind. So impossibly kind and wonderful and –

No.

Bucky lied to you. Whether his entirely personality was a twisted game or not. He made you believe he was just a bartender at the Centenarian, that he was nothing more than a man from the east side. He had every opportunity to tell you who he really was and he’d held his tongue.

Would you have let him explain if he’d tried? You weren’t sure. Even weeks since Hydra’s last visit, you could still feel Rollins’ hands sliding along your hips, his breath hot on your neck, could still see Rumlow’s outline in the shadows the night they came for their payment. Fear settled into your veins – familiar and still, ruthless.

It was impossible to separate the rumors of the 107 to the man you knew Bucky to be. You were terrified to try – scared that you might uncover the same sort of monster who extorted your father and left your family in shambles. Worse, you realized, to discover he might be every bit the man you hoped he was, to realize you were caught up in a war between the clubs you were certain you wouldn’t survive.

You were at the register, counting the profits for the evening when your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name lit against the screen – the silly emoji of a wildflower by his name you hadn’t had the heart to change.

It’s been a week. I’m worried about you, doll, the message read. Tell me you want more time. Tell me to fuck off. Anything. Just say something.

You swallowed, staring helplessly at the screen.

For a moment, you imagined the sun gleaming in through the open windows, the bell chiming under the front door as Bucky strolled inside. Smile bright upon his face, cheeks flushed pink in warmth from his walk, and a bag of food under his arm. Your heart would leap at the sight of him, stomach fluttering as he crossed the shop to you.

He’d ask how your day had been as he slyly picked up a fallen rose from the floor, hiding it behind his back until he met you at the center of the store. Before you could finish your story of the awful woman who chastised you all morning because she somehow managed to kill her succulents in less than a week, he’d raise the rose to you – that beautiful smile of his pressing high into his cheeks.

Your fingertips might graze his as you took the flower, his lips might fight their way to your temple, to your lips. He’d tell you he liked the color of your dress and you’d pretend he didn’t notice the way he affected you, made you feel all warm inside.

This beautiful, wonderful man who never had the chance to be yours.

But the image shattered as the sky morphed into a deep, unsettling darkness and the ghosted image of Bucky approached you with malice soaked into the blue of his eyes – blood dripping from his fingertips, bruises covering his face, blisters on his knuckles. He looked at you with an awful hunger in his gaze, rolling down your chest to your thighs – never your face. A gun settled on his hip.

The scream of motorcycle engines rang in your ears and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the nightmare away. You knew Bucky had never once looked at you the way Rollins did, never once approached you with anything other than the kindest intentions. You knew but— nothing made sense anymore. You didn’t know what to believe and you couldn’t trust your own naivety, your own desperate hope, over the belief of an entire town. The fear that he was every bit as vengeful and terrifying as the Hydra leader was crippling. Dollar bills crumpled in your hands.

“Preparing for our evening together, are you?”

Your heart leapt from your chest as Brock Rumlow sauntered through the back door of your shop; his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. You swallowed back the yelp caught in your throat, your hand clutching to the rapid pulsing within your chest, fingertips curling into the fabric of your dress.

Rumlow slipped through the shadows, his dismissive gaze trailing along the flower arrangements along the walls. Your gaze quickly flashed to the calendar hanging behind your desk and the red circle marking the date the Hydra club would show up for its payment. He was five days early.

“You remember what I told you about being short this month, don’t you?” Rumlow said, his voice low enough it could have cut through gravel. You studied the patch of the skull and tentacles on his back as he continued about the shop. It stared back at you.

“Y-Yes, I remember,” you managed to reply though the knot building in your throat. You didn’t even consider giving excuses. You’d be short – you knew you would.

Your hand slid along the desk, digging through the drawer, through you kept your gaze on Rumlow as he picked up a single white rose. Your breath hitched as he appeared to study it for a moment. If you were a fool, you might have suspected he was admiring the thing, but he crumpled the petals within his hand, tossing the broken flower to the ground.

You flinched when he looked back at you. In your hand, you gripped onto your keys – on a familiar keychain that you did not dare to use but one that would remind you that you were stronger than this man made you feel. You dug it into your palm, focusing on the sturdiness of the plastic, the warmth as it took on your body heat. It would get you through this. Rumlow would leave, just as he always did. It was only ever about fear. Only fear.

Rumlow smirked. He must have noticed the strain in your eyes. The redness there. The evidence of his effect on you. You struggled to keep your hands still – to not touch your fingertips to the gold watch you knew would give away your panic.

“Are you afraid, darling?”

Yes.

“No,” you replied, trying to keep your voice even. You steadied your gaze beyond his shoulders, to the stars hanging outside the windows; misguided hope that they could draw you some relief from the demon in your presence.

Rumlow tilted his head, studying you as he did the rose. You wondered if he might crumple you within the palm of his hand as well.

“I want my money, Y/n. Tuesday."

He lingered as he passed the register, his fingertips brushing aside your hair as he leaned into your ear. You held your breath, clamping down so sharply on your cheek, blood spilled into your mouth. Copper and bitter and warm on your tongue. Lips grazed your neck and you stopped breathing entirely.

“I will not be so kind with you this time if you hold back on me,” Rumlow gave his final warning.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You did not dare to move until Rumlow’s footsteps no longer echoed inside your shop, until you heard the engine purr in the alley. Only when the loud hum of the motorcycle faded into an unsettling silence did you finally allow the sob to break you.

A godawful sound escaped past your lips and you fell to your knees, gasping for air. Fingers growing numb, your mind spinning. You desperately clung to the fabric of your dress, touched the cool tiles on the floor under your knees, gripped that damn keychain until your hand ached – but your lungs wouldn't inflate enough. Breath after breath – not enough. Wetness coated your cheeks, spilling down your neck and against your collar.

He'd kill you. Tuesday, he’d kill you. Or he’d do something worse to make you wish he did.

The bell chimed at the front of the shop.

No. No.

He came back.

“Y/n?” a gentle voice called from the door.

You froze, clutching your knees behind the counter as cautious footsteps approached. An agonizing tension bore through you – uncertain whether you should feel relief at the sound of Bucky’s voice or whether you should fear him in the way you had Rumlow.

“The door was unlocked,” he announced hesitantly. “I’m just—I don’t want to bother you, doll. You haven't returned my messages and—and I’m sure that’s on purpose because you don’t want a damn thing to do with me and that’s okay. I swear to you I’ll leave you alone after this. I just want to make sure you’re--”

Slowly, you emerged from behind the counter. Bucky stilled at the sight of you, devastation wrenching through him as his gaze flickered over the tears on your face; reflective until the low dim of overhead lights and the moonlight slipping in through the windows.

“What happened?” His voice was low, restrained by only a thread.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, ignoring his question.

Bucky swallowed, blue eyes flickering to the floor, coated in shame. “Because you don’t want me here?”

“Because you’re in Hydra territory.”

Bucky blinked, the realization washing over him that you knew exactly who he was. Ice pressed to exposed skin, standing in the heart of blizzard; shock and panic, crippling. You waited for the mask to fall – for his cruelty to rise to the surface. But instead, the hardness upon his features began to fracture, guilt swarming through the cracks.

As you stepped out from behind the counter, determined to show at least one of the dangerous men in your shop tonight that you would not be afraid, Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hand and something in him seemed to break. He stumbled into the table behind him, trying to catch his balance.

In your grip was the keychain he’d given you the night you met. The one he’d made you promise to use in defense, to hold when you were afraid, to give you strength against the men who would do you harm. Sharp edges expanding from your knuckles. A weapon in your hand. Your fear of him seemed to puncture worse than any blade could.

“Sweetheart, I’m not going to hurt you,” Bucky eased. His hands raised. “I would never—”

“You lied to me,” you seethed, gaining courage in his moment of weakness.

But Bucky was grasping at straws, shaking his head as he closed a trembling hand to a fist. “No, I—I never lied. Not once.”

“You didn’t tell me the truth!” you shouted and a terrible part of you was pleased when he flinched in response. “You should have told me who you really are! The sort of people you run with!”

If this was game, he was playing it poorly. You’d expected him to drop the pretense of the character he’d constructed to manipulate you in favor of the cold, calculating man he hid under the surface. But there was no trace of men like Rumlow or Rollins upon Bucky’s features.

His chest rose high with every new breath as if it hurt to simply pull in air. His hands gripped into the edge of the table behind him to keep him steady. He looked absolutely wrecked, like he hadn’t slept properly in days. He didn’t look like a man who had spent the last month playing games with you – charming you for fun and mocking you behind your back. He looked as though his heart had been broken.

“What was I supposed to say?” Bucky asked instead, his voice calm despite the tension filling the room. “You would have looked at me like I was no better than Hydra. The way you’re looking at me now.”

“I had a right to know, Bucky!” you shot back, a terrible mixture of anger and remorse boiling inside of you. “A right to know you'd beaten four people within an inch of their lives! To choose to not make a fool of myself by caring for a monster!”

Bucky recoiled as if you’d struck him. It hadn’t left you with the satisfaction you imagined it would – leaving only a hollow ache behind instead.

“You’re right,” Bucky admitted, his gaze falling to the floor. He took in a deep breath, slowly drawing his eyes up to meet yours. You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze; the keychain gripped tighter in your hand. “The truth is that I am the head of the 107.”

It didn’t feel any better to hear it aloud in his voice – the agony, the aching, the desperation to believe it wasn’t true. Bucky took a step closer to you, only for you to retreat backwards. He froze, devastation evident upon his features as he nodded and put more distance between you.

“I know that you must think that I’m... I’m like Rumlow,” he said, his voice catching on the name that haunted you through the shadows of this shop. “Let me prove to you that I’m not. Ask me anything and I’ll answer you truthfully. I swear it on my life. I won’t lie to you. Never again.”

You stared at him – caught somewhere between your desperation to believe him and the self-preservation screaming at you to run. Bucky had become a steady, comforting presence in the time you’d known him – a sanctuary within his touch – and you could not rectify the rumors of the man standing before you, ones that made him out to be as vile as the men who threatened and extorted you. Split between your head and your heart.

“I’ll start,” Bucky offered when you did not respond. He shifted awkwardly on his heels, steadying his breaths. “The men you mentioned, the ones I sent to the hospital... that night I was lured to the west side by a woman that I had –” he swallowed, biting back the word that had almost slipped past his lips, “—trusted. She called me close to midnight, made me think she was in trouble, and got me to cross the damn border for the first time since the line was drawn. She told me that Hydra had taken her... that if I didn’t come for her, they’d kill her.”

Bucky sighed, the breath near painful. “She was... uh... very convincing. When I got there, Hydra was waiting for me. Four of them. Armed to the teeth. She set me up to be ambushed on their turf where I had no friends, no allies. But she was there. Untouched. Unharmed. Standing behind the row of men intent on ending my life, Brock Rumlow’s arm draped over her shoulders and this... satisfied look on her face. Because she knew I would come for her. She knew I would have done anything to—” Bucky clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if to swallow back the end of the sentence.

“It was the perfect setup, really. She found a weakness and exploited it. A trap was set and I walked right into it.” Bucky pinched at the bridge of his nose and it was then you noticed the slight tremor in his hand. “I still don’t know why she did it. Power, probably. Money. I don’t think she ever cared for me at all.”

The grip on the keychain slacked as Bucky began to pace. He’d never told the story out loud, might not have even allowed himself to remember it fully since that night– that much you could gather by the strain in his voice as he spoke like every word was harder to say than the one before. Like the memories were digging into his spine, tugging him back into his past and shoving him onto the pavement in the alley.

“One of them came at me with a knife,” Bucky continued. He paused his pacing then, glancing cautiously over at you before slowly, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it above his ribs. A raised scar ran along his torso – pink and faded with time but still angry, still jagged and tangible. Your stomach twisted at the sight. You looked away.

“I did what I had to do,” Bucky said quietly, as though it pained him. “I fought back. They would have killed me. They almost did if Sam didn’t find me in time. It was self-defense. It’s only ever been self-defense.”

You didn’t know who Sam was, but you imagined he was in the 107 club as well. He was either incredibly reckless with little care for his own self-preservation, or he valued Bucky’s life to such an extent that the danger of crossing the border was worth saving his friend’s life. You wondered briefly if Rollins would dare risk his life to cross into enemy territory to save Rumlow’s.

Bucky’s story seemed plausible enough – aligned with cruelty of what Hydra was capable of. But there were still too many questions unanswered, too many pieces of the man standing in front of you, you were not able to reconcile on your own.

“The rumors,” you choked out, wincing at how rough your voice sounded. Bucky’s head perked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes that you would entertain his offer to explain at all. “I’ve heard about the 107, Bucky. I know what you’ve done to the people in the east and—”

“They’re all lies,” Bucky replied quickly. “Nothing but stories we made up to intimidate Hydra, to give us enough credibility to keep those bastards away from as many people as we could. Kids starting telling some of their own to scare each other and we didn’t deny them. It helped keep Hydra at bay.”

You swallowed. Could that really be possible? Could it be that the mask Bucky wore was the monster of the 107, not the man who strolled into your shop each day at lunch and made your heart beat so badly it felt like it could burst? Could he be every bit the man you hoped he was?

“What about the protection fees?” you asked, thinking back to what Wanda had said of the 107 charging businesses under the guise of security.

“A lie to make Hydra think we had a market over the businesses on our side of the border,” Bucky explained. “They were pushing into the shops by the Centenarian, threatening to burn them to the ground. We made a show of insinuating that we already laid claim to them. It’s the only thing Rumlow would respect. We don’t take money from anyone, I swear it. Mrs. Marcovaldo at the café across the street gives me free coffee for keeping Hydra off her back but only because she won’t let me pay a dime. That’s as far as it goes.”

You held your breath, listening intently. The keychain slipped from your grip and you placed it on the counter. Bucky's eyes followed the movement, his gaze fixated upon the tension releasing from your hands, the marks of the keychain imprinted upon your palm.

“So, it’s all a story?” you questioned slowly. “The 107... you’re not... you’re not like Hydra at all?”

Bucky shook his head, relief pouring through his body. “That’s right, doll. We’re still a biker club. Still got rides parked outside the bar, but we’re not interested in staking claim on this town. If there’s a fight, it’s because Hydra didn’t give us a choice. The cops aren’t doing shit to protect this town. Someone had to step up.”

Tears blinked from your eyes and Bucky’s face slacked. Panic rusted into his features, mistaking your tears for the same fear you carried when he walked inside the shop in Rumlow’s wake.

“Doll, please don’t cry,” Bucky begged, his voice barely a whisper. “Please, honey. Tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it. Let me fix this.”

You took a step closer to him as he rambled, his hands closed to fists as if to hold back the shaking.

“I’ll take you to the Centenarian,” he offered desperately. “You can meet the club. Steve—Steve's my best friend. Used to be a tiny little shrimp but he’s a giant now. You’ll see. Sam’s a huge pain in my ass. Drives me absolutely nuts. But he’d take a bullet for me, I know that. I’d do it for him most days. Natahsa—you'd like Nat. She's scary as hell but—you'd like her. She likes you, I think.”

You were halfway across the shop when Bucky’s eyes fell to the tracks of tears slipping over your jawline. He clenched his jaw as you approached.

“Peter’s just a kid. Carries french fries in his pockets,” he continued, listing off his family in an effort to prove they were nothing like the Hydra club you recognized. “Stark’s an old washed-up genius of some kind and he still sticks around in a shitty run-down bar with us. Pretends like he’s above it all, but I know the old man cares more than he lets on. Barton—hell, I don’t even know where Barton came from but I—”

You wrapped your arms around Bucky’s waist and he froze. Arms held out by his sides; his breathing stopped entirely. You rested your ear against his chest, listening for the fast, heavy pumping of his heart. Your hands slid along his spine, touching the thick material of his jacket and the low dip of his back. You breathed him in as your tears wet the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Y/n?” he whispered, terrified to so much as speak your name in fear he might scare you away.

“I believe you,” you exhaled against his chest and Bucky’s knees wobbled. You clung to him, holding him steady as his arms circled around you. You swore for a moment that you could feel the fractured, jagged pieces inside his ribcage mold back together with glue and tape, fusing into the messy, misshapen heart you'd convinced yourself was absent and hollow. The heart he’d had all along when you were too afraid to look beyond the tales whispered in the dead of night.

The warm graze of Bucky’s lips peppered over your hairline – timid and gentle, asking. Hesitant and still, desperate; like the distance had hurt him worse than the lies of the 107 had hurt you. As if being deprived of your laughter, of your pastel floral dresses, of the sunlight smile on your face, of your sheer presence was enough to render him aching and helpless.

You held him tighter, begging for the days lost to your own fear.

Bucky didn’t say a word as his hands slid along your spine, fingertips gingerly stroking the ends of your hair, but you could feel the apologies, the words unsaid, slipping through his touch.

I’m sorry, as a hand brushed against the small of your back.

I missed you, as he rested his lips against your forehead. Lingering. Present.

Please forgive me, as his arms circled around your shoulders, holding you closer to him, like he was afraid you might slip through the cracks in the title if he let go for even a second.

Don’t hate me, as his breath coaxed against your skin. Warm and shaken. Nerves still nestled into his lungs.

Let me make this right, as something hitched inside his chest when your hands slid up along his cheeks, gently brushing the tense muscle from his jawline.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered and Bucky’s eyes widened, stunned you would say such a thing. He quickly shook his head, trying to absolve you before you could even admit to your failing. “I should have known you weren't... I should have trusted that you...”

“No,” Bucky answered instead, his hand resting over yours, fingertips curling around your palm as you held his face. “You were protecting yourself. I know what they write about me in the papers. I know what the town thinks of me, what they believe me to be. Knowing all that, cutting me off... it was the right thing to do, honey. The smart thing. I just wish I’d had the courage to tell you the truth of it when we met, before you found out about this mess on your own. Could have saved us a whole lot of hurt.”

“Could have,” you nodded, your thumb drawing a tender line along the stubble on his jaw, “though I’m not sure I would have had the strength to believe you then. Not with what I know about Hydra.”

A line pressed into Bucky’s forehead, a question narrowing his eyes, though he did not press for an answer. Enough truth had been spilled and you didn’t know if you had the resilience to empty the darkest parts of your shame to him just yet. You ached to. You hoped you’d find the courage to. Soon. Because the chance that Bucky would only miss Rumlow by mere minutes again was too small to risk.

“It’s been easy to forget who I really am under all the rumors. I think I did for a while,” Bucky admitted, the thick tension in his muscle under your palm. He sighed, slowly bringing himself to meet your eye. “I need you to know that no matter what this town thinks of me, who I am with you is the closest I’ve ever felt to being myself again since this all started. Who I am with you is the realest part of me.”

You nodded, offering him a heavy smile. “I know that now. I just wish I had sooner.”

Bucky didn’t reply and you didn’t expect him to. There was little else either of you could say for the missed days stolen by the intricate weave of lies and rumors around this town. But he could hold you a little longer. You could lean into his chest and breathe in the warm scent of his jacket. He could press his lips to your temple and linger there for hours. You could finally feel safe again, wrapped in his arms.

It was all that held you together anymore.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic

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pinknerdpanda · 7 years

Text

At The Crossroads - Ch. 3

Characters (All AU): Dean x reader, Benny Lafitte, Anna, Castiel Hennessey, Meg Masters, mentions of Crowley

Warnings: Angst, Character Death, Canon level gore

Word Count: 1917

Summary: It’s the 1920’s, Prohibition is at it’s peak, and New Orleans acts as a beacon to all those in search of a fresh start, smooth jazz, and a taste of the good ol’ giggle water. The Crossroads is the joint to be in for all three, or so you thought when Benny Lafitte hired you. All your dreams of becoming a famous jazz singer were just starting to come true, and then Dean Winchester strolled back into your life. Just one look into those green eyes of his was enough to send you into a tailspin. Question is, will you recover, or will you crash and burn?

A/N: This is the third chapter of this 1920’s AU series.

Need to catch up? Part 1 | Part 2

A/N 2: This story was edited and beta’d by @wheresthekillswitch. She also wrote the summary and contributed to some of the writing and plot development of this story and series. I don’t really know how to credit you, but suffice it to say, this story would be nothing but a sad little WIP in my folder if it wasn’t for you, Lee. Thank you for your continued wisdom, guidance and support as well as your unwavering patience.

Aesthetic by the wonderful and talented @arryn-nyxx. (Go check her out - she is amazing!)

I really appreciate feedback! Tags are at the bottom and if you would like to be added to my tag list, just send me a message or an ask.

At The Crossroads Chapter 3

Three Months Earlier….

Castiel

“Why should I trust you?”

She stares at me and makes a show of snubbing out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray at the edge of my desk before answering me. “Because, blue eyes, I got nothing to gain from this.”

I silently consider her statement, I know she’s taking a huge risk even coming here. She’s right though; everything falls on her if this thing goes south. Sighing, I stand and round the desk to lean against the front edge.

“Let me make sure I understand you correctly, Miss Crowley…”

“Masters, actually,” she interrupts. “I adopted my mother’s family name. Wanted some distance from my father and some of his more...nefarious activities.”

She emphasizes the word. Nefarious. That's putting it rather delicately. I study her cautiously, crossing my arms over my chest. “My apologies, then, Miss Masters. So, you have information on the Black Hand as well as your father’s business. And you want to work with me because…”

“I’ve always had a soft spot for a man with a badge,” her blood red lips curl flirtatiously, and I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to with the rush of warmth I’m feeling in my cheeks. She looks down at the floor, her thick black eyelashes fanning out across the apples of her cheeks and her smile fades. “Besides, Officer Hennessey, I've had my fill of this life and I want out. My father has made it very clear that he has no intention of allowing it.”

Every instinct I have tells me no; well, nearly every one of them. The look on her face is one that I’m more familiar with than I’d like to be. Sure, there’s sadness, pain, and loss reflected in her large, chocolate eyes, but beyond that, there is rage - like the smoldering remains of a fire, long after the damage has been done. There’s something else, too. I can’t quite put my finger on what, and I sure as hell can’t explain it, but, against my better judgement, I believe her.

“Alright, Miss Masters. I think we can come to some sort of arrangement.” I reach out to shake her hand; a show of trust and solidarity. She smirks and accepts it. One thin, dark eyebrow lifts in either surprise or amusement, I can’t quite decide which, and for a moment I wonder if I have made a huge mistake.

“Call me Meg, Officer.”

-----

Dean

It’s at least 5:00 am before I finally climb the stairs to my small apartment and jam the key in the door. I feel as though I could sleep standing up, and every bone in my body hurts. It’s not a new feeling, though. Everytime Crowley is at The Crossroads, I feel him scrutinizing everything I do, and I wind up cleaning every glass, table, and counter at least twice.

On top of that Anna never showed up for work tonight, so one of the waitresses had to take over as cigarette girl for the evening and that pushed the night back even further.

Y/n hasn’t spoken to me in a week; not since she saw Anna and I on the street. If she was saddling close to Benny before, she’s gotta be sitting in his lap now. The two of them are thick as thieves these days, and who knows what he’s told her about me and Anna. As far as I can tell, she’s drawn her own conclusions about what she saw. And Anna hasn’t exactly done anything to make her think differently.

Last night, she’d snuck into the storeroom when I’d gone back to grab another case of hooch. Frankly, I’d like to know how many times I have to tell her to scram before she takes the hint. One of the nice things about having Anna gone was that I didn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder to see what hooey she was gonna pull. It feels like lately she's determined to ruin my life and drive y/n and I further and further apart.

I step inside and lock the door, my fingers making short work of the buttons on my shirt and I throw it aside. If I time it just right, I may be able to have all my clothes off by the time I get to the bed and I can just fall right in and let sleep overtake me. Shoes next, kicking one off and then the other, not bothering to care where they land. I fumble for the belt on my pants and allow them to slide down my legs and step out of them on my way to the bed. Just a few more steps.

My knees hit the edge and I pause before closing my eyes allowing myself to fall face first into the soft down mattress. However, instead of the pillow, my head makes a soft thud as I hit something firm and cold. Confused, tired, and angry that I’m not already halfway to dreamland by now, I scramble to my feet.

I flip on the lamp, the light flooding the room in a gentle golden glow and making me clamp my eyes down tight. I blink slowly to allow myself time to adjust, bright spots dotting my vision from the sudden assault.

I’m not sure if it’s my sleep deprived brain or if my eyes are playing tricks on me for nearly rendering them useless, but it takes several moments for my brain to process everything I’m seeing. The whole scene is a mix of colors that are just wrong.

Her hair, strands of copper and rust, fans out haphazardly across my pillow. Crimson splatters mar the bright white of the sheets and blanket in a stark contrast. Green eyes, frozen and unmoving as though they are made of glass, stare up at me, silently begging for mercy. Her lips are a sickening shade of blue as though she’d been stranded in a snowstorm for too long. It’s like I’m seeing pieces of a puzzle and each one, on their own, although startling, doesn't make much sense. But as my mind starts fitting them together, a horrific and gruesome scene begins to unfold before me.

Anna’s lifeless body - scantily-clad, pale, and covered in blood - is sprawled somewhat seductively across my bed and any feelings of anger or exhaustion I may have felt earlier are replaced by fear and my stomach roils in response.

-----

The stillness of New Orleans before dawn is something you relish as you slip from your boarding house and into the crisp morning air. There is really no reason that you should be awake already, but after tossing and turning all night, your thoughts on anything but sleep, you decided you’d had enough.

The last week has been hell for you. You’ve seen Dean every night and every night you’ve either been unwilling or unable to face him. Every fiber of your soul has been crying out for you to go to him, talk to him - find out the truth. And, whether it’s your pride or your still-healing-heart you aren’t sure, but you just couldn’t. Until now.

You’d spent every restless moment since your head had hit the pillow, arguing with yourself over and over again. You know that he’s keeping something from you, and if there is one thing that you can't stand, it's being lied to. You're not sure if it’s better or worse than when he’d left you all alone for an entire year. Your life had ground to a screeching halt without him and you’d thought you would never recover.

But then, by some stroke of luck, you’d found yourself back in his arms again. It had been hard at first; to look at him and try to ignore the dull ache in your chest that you'd become accustomed to in his absence. But you thought it was obvious that the universe had brought you back to each other. What you had with Dean was pure and beautiful and you’d finally decided that you weren’t going to let some redheaded bimbo stand in your way.

Mr. Crowley had been at the club last night and you knew that meant Dean would’ve been staying late to make sure everything was spic and span. If the last few times Mr. Crowley had spent his evening at The Crossroads were any indication, you expect Dean to just be getting home.

So you set off in the direction of his apartment. It’s a decent walk from where you are staying, but you have come to know the route by heart. You pass the time rehearsing everything you want to say as you weave your way through the eerily quiet streets. The streetcars have yet to begin their morning routes and as the sun begins to break over the tall buildings of The Quarter, the only faces you see are those of the newsagents setting up their stands for the day.

Having repeated your speech in your head at least twice, you feel fairly confident as you approach the last corner before Dean’s building. Every practiced word and phrase slips completely from your mind, however, as his building comes into view and you freeze, fear rattling your bones instantly.

Three shiny police cars are parked in front of the building as though their operator had been in a hurry to get out. There are several uniformed officers flitting about between the cars and the entrance. A large white wagon that you assume to be an ambulance is backed up near the foot of the stairs, and a few men with white coats dot the scene.

You don’t realize that you’ve moved until you find yourself being stopped by a large officer with kind eyes.

“Miss, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stand back,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “This is a crime scene.”

You gape up at him, your brain finding it increasingly difficult to associate his words with their meaning. Over his shoulder you see two men hefting each end of a long stretcher out of Dean’s apartment and down the stairs, their faces stoic and devoid of color. There’s a sheet covering the stretcher and your stomach lurches as you realize that it’s soaked through in several places with blood.

“My beau, Dean Winchester, lives in that apartment. Is he alright?” you ask in a panic laced voice, just as the world starts to go topsy turvy on you.

The officer’s demeanor shifts from commanding to sympathetic and for a moment you assume the worst - it’s Dean under the bloody sheet.

“I’m sorry ma’am…” his words fade in the dull roar of blood as it rushes to your head.

More movement from the building catches your attention. A tall man with brilliant, blue eyes wearing a light colored trench coat appears at the top of the stairs, leading another man - this one shirtless and bloody, his hands bound - down the stairs.

It’s the eyes that really give him away; you would recognize them anywhere. You realize you’d been wrong. The thought of it being Dean under the sheet had been horrific, but watching him being led down the stairs and shoved roughly into the back of a police wagon instead was the worst thing.

Your whole world shatters as your vision narrows and slowly dims. The last thing you see is Dean’s blood spattered face from behind the glass of the car window and then the darkness engulfs you.

...to be continued...

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#dean x reader #au!dean x reader #Au!dean #1920's AU #dean winchester #benny lafitte #SPN Fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn au fanfic #at the crossroads #dean angst #arryn's aesthetics #Panda Writes #death #angst #blood #murder

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sehunpeachy · 7 years

Text

strokes and sins (m)

⇒pairing: painter!yoongi x musician!reader

⇒genre: angst + themes of smut

⇒length: 1k (drabble)

⇒summary: loving an artist came at a cost. you were his perfect muse, until he found inspiration else where.

a/n: this is what happens when you cant sleep at 2 am and all you can think about is possible au!s. this one is super short and its just a little something something before my next big piece :)

There was something about the art of music. The way your calloused fingers molded into tight strings, or the way they danced and glided and sank onto black and white notes. The way it serenaded to your ears and you could hear every thump and bass and note it played for you.

It seemed odd that you didn’t meet him that way, because he was nothing like you. His fingers were smooth, untouched, perfect for you to slot your hands through. He said he never picked up an instrument, and you replied that you’d teach him how to play.

His hands were instead always preoccupied with a brush, splashes of pale blue and rust red and sunflower yellow painting the surface of his palms, and sometimes he even got it on his cheeks.

You used to like to watch him work, unable to comprehend how his wrists knew the exact directions and precise angles to replicate the curve along your nose or the wisps of your eyelashes or the dip in your lips.

“You’re so good,” you whisper as you observe the deep textures and indents of his paint strokes, then how each color blended so seamlessly into each other, then how much the painting looked just like you.

His hands reached out for your waist; his smooth, smooth fingers, burning themselves into your hip bone and feeling out the landscape of your skin like you were the only muse he ever needed. “You’re just the perfect subject,” he mumbles as he brings his lips between the valley of your breasts and lets his breath rest against your collarbones.

Your hands go to tangle themselves in his dark locks before you’re sitting on his lap, rubbing your indented fingers up his shirt, along his hips and then his ribcage, allowing them run over each dip and curve of his body.

“Yoongi,” you barely say into his ear before he’s lifting your skirt up to dig his hands into the fabric of your underwear, grabbing your skin and molding it to his liking.

You rode him, just like he told you to do, and you both reached your peak, right in front of the portrait of you he painted.

It was the perfect love story. The love story that lived fast but died young, it was alive in the moment and full of lust and lies and whispers deep in the night that he would forget by the early creeks of the morning. He drew you because he told you you were beautiful, but you began to think he drew you because he had no other ideas.

Feeling his body and lips move against you was all you had ever needed, but seeing it was different, especially on a body and a pair of lips that you hadn’t owned.

You saw it in the dark fluorescents of a night club. The lights made it seem like a movie, and you wished it was that. You never got to see her face, but you didn’t need to.

His eyes were fluttered close, and in the moment you wondered if that’s what he looked like when he kissed you. His hands rubbed her sides like he rubbed the sides of his canvases when he stepped back to admire his work, and the way he rubbed your waist when you lay in his arms and his limbs entangled with yours.

He broke the kiss to lay butterfly against her neck and you caught a glimpse of how her lips parted in pure pleasure and how the sides of his mouth went up in a satisfied smirk.

Then suddenly you can’t see anything because the tears building in your eyes clouded your vision before the anger did. You left without a word, slipping past the crowd and you wondered if you had meant anything to him. If you were his muse or just something to paint. If he kept you in his bed and made love to your lips and your neck and the innards of your body because you were something to him, or because it made him feel better about himself.

It didn’t take you long to pack your things into a bag. After all, you weren’t a materialist person, and you always lied to yourself of how he was the only thing you had needed anyways. You were about to leave just like that, as if you had never existed, when you saw the portrait.

You looked happy in it, and you really were. But the dainty and careful paint strokes of the drops and curves of your clear eyes were nothing like the sharp, harsh edges of your burning red ones now, stained with tears that he would have called beautiful because it reflected against the light. It wasn’t like he cared you were crying, as long as you looked like a subject for his next masterpiece.

You dug your fingernails into the rugged surface of the canvas, making sure to first rip out the lips that he placed his over so often, and then your eyes that he used to love to swim in, and then your neck that showed off deep purple universes scattered by his mouth. It was everything he loved about you, the things he spent the most time on to love and to paint.

You made sure it was all in ruins, completely destroyed and demolished, because that was all you wanted him to remember about you. Not the way your body felt as you flinched and jerked with him inside you, or the strain in your voice when you told him you loved him with subtle tears in your eyes and a timid smile painting your features.

You wanted him to remember how your calloused fingers from years of playing scratched and teared through his days of work. How the years of honey-oozing affection and exchanged whispers after he made love to you meant just as much to you as it did to him. You wanted him to crave the smell of you between the sheets and the touch of your hands running over his pale waist as he made breakfast.

You left. It was hard. Maybe the hardest thing you ever had to do because the easiest one was falling for him. It made your heart violently tremble within your ribcage and you could hear every thump and bass and note it made. It made your face burn and scold and ache when the tears got too hard to control.

But you left nonetheless, and you swore you’d never find art beautiful again.

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