#maladaptive daydream fuel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rookthorne · 19 days

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⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲

A venture to a club for a performance — the type that better suited the phrase ‘once in a lifetime’ — left you with far more than you could have ever anticipated for when you step out from the double, glass doors.

The secrets within the lustful atmosphere weighed on your own thoughts, as did the vivid imagery of what happened up on that stage: the drag of heated palms over your clothes and the whispered words of praise that would fuel your sinful dreams for a time.

Only, the source of your maladaptive daydreams waited for you outside.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ꧖ Stripper!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ꧖ 7.9k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ꧖ Fluff, extreme spicy tension, emphasised size difference (Bucky is huge and beefy as fuck in this), Russian!Protective!Bucky ჻჻჻ TROPES: Grumpy/Sunshine, Meet Cute ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, size

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 ꧖ I have been waiting for the opportunity for over a year now to create this AU, and I had the push from @sgt-seabass' experience at a certain event that she so graciously shared with me... 😘 ꧖ A special thank you to a certain someone for their help with the Russian flirting... ꧖ I have to say that this Bucky was one of the hardest ones I have ever attempted — there were times I was so close to throwing in the towel. I am so glad I didn't. ꧖ It was so fucking hard to not add smut into this — I am determined to save that for a... special moment.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ꧖ It's A Man's World by Sevyn Streeter ꧖ greedy by Tate McRae ꧖ Soaked by Shy Smith ꧖ Crazy in Love by Beyoncé

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒂 ꧖ @thevillainswhore — you were a literal saviour, baby, thank you so much for sticking with my stubborn ass through this. ꧖ And to quote her when she saw the tropes: MEET CUTE? YEAH, SOME FUCKING MEET CUTE! 🤭

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ꧖ @buckybarnesevents Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟮 — Stripper AU — Masterlist ꧖ @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Teasing (January) — Masterlist ꧖ @anyfandomfluffbingo 𝗢𝟰 — Nightclub AU — Masterlist ꧖ @anyfandomkinkbingo 𝗡𝟯 — Free Space — Masterlist

𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The crowded line around you bustled and shifted with excitement for what lay ahead in only — you checked your phone for the time — a few minutes. Double, glass doors artistically darkened would part to the masses, passes would be checked, and then you would be directed to and seated in your booked seats.

“What do you think they’ll be like up close?” your friend asked from next to you, their arm looped around yours to stay close. “What about–”

“Let’s just hope we get to see him,” you reminded your friend. “He’s kept a secret for a reason, no one knows if he’ll be at a show until he is there—part of his mysterious charm, I guess.”

As a birthday present from your accompanying friend, you were given a set of tickets to see a coveted show by the Howling Commandos — a group consisting of a few men and their host, Natalia, travelling through the states of your home country and performing risqué dances on a dimly lit stage to a crowd of howling women (and a few men, too).

That wasn’t what you were there for, however.

Within the ranks of the performers that made up Howling Commandos, was a man built like a God — from what you had seen on their social media, you learned that he was called Sarge. He had jaw length, dark brown hair, and piercing, slate grey eyes.

Not much could be parsed from his lack of information — it wasn’t abnormal to be a private performer, it was part of the allure and to gain profit, you suspected, but there was next to nothing known of the brooding mountain of a man that commanded such a presence on the stage that he was only brought out for the biggest of shows.

It was a little disheartening, if you were honest, that your particular show wouldn’t be classed among the bigger crowds — the likelihood of Sarge even being in the roster of performers was slim.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, glancing around the gathered crowd. “I just– I hope we get to see him. Have you seen the way he dances?”

“Oh, yeah,” they replied. A strange, teasing smirk pulled at the corner of their lips, and it made you nervous for some inexplicable reason. “I’m hopeful too, babe—turn that frown upside down, it’s your birthday!”

You managed a small nod and smile in reply.

Not even a moment later, the doors before you parted, opening in a wide arc to reveal a provocatively dressed woman, a staff member of the ensemble. The bass of the music from within the nightclub pounded in your chest, and your heart skipped a beat as you handed the worker your joint passes — they flashed a wolfish smile and gestured you inside.

“She was hot.”

You snorted at your friend’s blunt commentary, though you nodded in agreement. The woman was dressed in what you could only describe as a modest corset and fishnets, topped off only with platform heels and an updo that would make a nineteen-forties housewife jealous.

The interior of the club was remarkably different to the outside. From the blackened windows, you could still see the dimmed glow of the neon’s that lined the outer signs and gutters of the building, but within the establishment, it was a much softer, moodier atmosphere.

Couches made of plush, burgundy velvet were lining booths and tables alike, while stools and tables made up the middle of the floor with a few stylistic chairs thrown among the mix. A stage, high off of the floor by at least four feet, lined the furthest and widest wall from the entrance.

Curtains covered the back of the wall, a combination of blacks, deep reds, and purples making up the canvas of a backdrop.

The music that played over the speaker sounded familiar, and you strained your ears to decipher the song — a classic for a club hosting a stripping event, with a sultry beat that made your skin prickle.

“Well, well, hello there, vozlyublennyy,” a voice suddenly called from the stage.

Your gaze snapped towards the source, and you found a woman standing right at the edge. Black leather met fire-red hair and lipstick; her mouth was curled in a wicked, sultry smile that turned your insides to jelly. The heels she wore made her as tall as a Goddess, and she bent her knees to squat down to better look at you. “Aren’t you pretty?”

“Oh, god,” you whined, hiding your face in your friend’s shoulder. They laughed at your shame. “C’mon, that’s not funny–”

“It is, sweetheart,” the woman cooed, and she offered you her hand to shake; blood red nails turned her porcelain skin paler, and she had a single, silver ring on her thumb. “Natalia—pleasure to meet you.”

You offered your name and your hand, only, she kissed your knuckles and left behind a stain of red lipstick.

Natalia tilted her head as she looked at your friend. “Interesting… very interesting.” Before you could question her statement, the leather of her pants creaked with the movement of her standing tall. “Why don’t you come take a seat over here for me?”

The chairs she pointed to were placed in the VIP section. Your heart thundered against your ribs with trepidation. “But–”

“Aw, thanks!” your friend cried, far too enthusiastically. The grip they had on your arm was iron tight, and you had no choice but to follow the direction they frog marched you in — straight towards the seats that screamed opulence.

“What are you doing– We– You didn’t pay for these?” you rushed, watching your friend sit beside you in the booth. On the centre table was a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne, a tray of hors d'oeuvres beside it. “The fuck is this?”

“Just don’t think about it, babe,” they replied nonchalantly. A sample of food popped into their mouth, and they made an appreciative noise.

The sudden, mysterious determination of your friend set you on edge and made your stomach coil with anxiety. You could not figure out what they were up to, let alone having acquired such tickets to sit so close to the stage, and you realised with one hell of a start, if you reached a hand out from your set, the tips of your fingers brushed the very edge of the platform.

People began to take their seats with ushers directing them, and you took the opportunity to take in the interior again — a large bar was bordered by glass shelves stocked full of liquor, from whiskey to vodka, all the way to tequila.

While you stared around the space, the lights began to dim even further until you could barely see the stage.

“Hello, hello, all of my minxes,” Natalia said, her honeyed voice blanketing the crowd and kicking up the anticipation in the air by several degrees. Spotlights suddenly illuminated her figure on the stage, and you gasped at the sight — black leather pants accentuated her thighs and hips, and the dip of her corset in the harsh light was anything but modest. The red curls you admired moments ago sat over her shoulders.

The crowd cheered and whooped with her appearance; she took a bow. “Thank you all for the very warm welcome, darlings,” she cooed, the slight rasp of her Russian accent making her tone sensual. “Tonight is, as you know, a very special night.”

Her heels clicked over the stage as she strolled leisurely back and forth, holding the entire focus and attention of the patrons in her manicured hand. “We have ventured from far and wide to come here tonight. So it is of both of our benefits if I allow the boys to start the show, but first,” she said, coming to a halt in the middle of the stage. “Some house rules.”

You listened while Natalia listed off the do’s and don'ts for the evening — most of which you couldn’t believe had to be even mentioned. “Some people are pieces of work,” you muttered to your friend. They snorted a laugh and nodded in agreement.

“And with all that out of the way,” Natalia sang, and she tilted her head to search through the crowd. Her hazel-green eyes landed on you — something behind that playful gaze caused a shiver to run down your spine. “I present, Falcon.”

The show that Falcon put on toed the line in so many instances that the room felt like a sauna — a few women were using their leaflets to fan themselves. You watched with heat adorning your cheeks as he bowed to the crowd, then dashed off stage, opposite to where Natalia appeared once more.

Her sensual smile seemed to invigorate the crowd even more, and they whistled as she slunk to the very front of the stage as the music began an interlude. “I’m sure Falcon would not have minded a louder cheer, darlings,” she purred, arching a perfectly manicured brow.

An uproar of cries and screams made her laugh from her perch on stage. “That was much better, excellent.” Her heels clicked over the platform as she strutted back and forth, back and forth — if she were a cat, you suspected her tail would be twitching with the anticipation of cornering her prey. “Our next performer is a crowd favourite, and he is eagerly awaiting his turn behind the curtain–”

“Hurry up, Nat,” a deep voice said from behind the barrier of cloth.

The cackle of laughter Natalia replied with sent a thrill down your spine. “Easy—be a good boy now, Nomad.”

A blond head of hair that belonged to no other than the infamous Nomad appeared between the split of fabric, and he glared at Natalia with a playful heat that only made her laugh harder.

The appearance of him roused the crowd, and for good measure, he winked at a few patrons. “Come on out then, boy,” Natalia teased. “They seem to want you—we must give them a show.”

Nothing prepared you for the intensity of Nomad’s set. The sensual movements and choreography of his routine was mesmerising, and you often found yourself staring into his face as opposed to his body; those eyes never left the woman he danced over, a depth to them something only a lover would achieve.

By the time Nomad took a bow and strode off stage, your heart was jammed in your throat and your mind was flitting with dreams you only hoped would manifest while you slept. It was only early, though. The tickets stated clearly this show would run for at least another hour, if not longer — you looked to your friend whose attention was wholly fixated on the stage. “What are they–”

“Ah, darlings,” Natalia called, cutting you off, and an unnatural hush fell over the crowd. Some kind of electricity shot through the patrons like a lightning strike, anticipation heavy in the air. “You must think that tonight must be over—it is only early, I assure you, the night is young!”

There were a few hollers in reply.

“You need not fret. We have another surprise for you all,” she soothed. Her boots shone in the spotlight as she stalked to the front of the stage, and she squatted in place. Dark eyes met yours, and your breath hitched at the way she seemed to see through you.

Music swelled and pounded against your ear drums, the deep bass of it taking the rhythm of your heart and twisting it to its own beat. The lights dimmed and turned red, casting Natalia’s silhouette over the crowd.

“Please, welcome our very own soldier,” she purred.

A dark figure came out from behind the curtains and loomed over Natalia, even in her high heeled stilettos. They wore a cap to obscure their face; a jacket bulked their frame and covered a red henley, the first and second button unclasped to show the rounded neck of a black shirt.

No matter what they wore, there was no mistaking who just stepped onto the stage, and you felt what little control you had over your body slip through your fingers like sand.

Beside you, your friend grabbed your arm and shook it, squealing excitedly. “Oh, he’s here!”

You blinked, covering your open mouth with a hand — either to clasp your jaw shut or hide your surprise, you couldn’t decide.

“Well, hello there, Sarge,” Natalia greeted, and she circled him; each click of her heels loud against the floor. “I think we have a few voyeurs excited to see you.”

Sarge raised his head to observe the crowd, eyes sharp and bright under the red light. “Da, you would be right,” he said, face passive and void of any emotion. “I better get started then.”

The fabric hugging his chest wrinkled with a sudden roll of his shoulders, and he moved his neck side to side — a physical show of his strength that made the crowd squeal and shriek.

He did not even react.

That same passive stare observed the crowd before he glanced at Natalia. “Ubiraysya otsyuda, Natalia.”

Manicured nails brushed over her forehead while she saluted in farewell. “Have fun.”

“I can’t believe this,” you whispered in shock. The flood of heat that warmed your neck crawled its way up to your cheeks; suddenly unbearably warm while the lights overhead dimmed.

The vision of him on stage was otherworldly — nothing could compare, not even the videos and pictures uploaded to social media of his performances or press. Even his accent was stronger, deeper in person. He towered on stage with his mere presence, let alone his astounding height.

A few patrons whistled and called for him to start, but he merely threw them a heated stare that forced them to quieten down. The respect he commanded made your stomach flutter with nerves.

Next to you, you felt the seat cushion shift, and your friend leaned closer to whisper in your ear, “Happy birthday, babe.”

You blinked and looked at them with wide eyes. “What–?”

They nodded towards the stage. Confused and unable to repress the nervous shiver of being watched, you looked towards the raised platform, just as steel-grey eyes met yours. Sarge had searched the crowd like a famished wolf, and the hunger in his gaze reflected as such.

All of the breath in your lungs escaped in one fell swoop, the exhale turning into a squeak of shock that was not dignified. “Oh, oh,” you whimpered, moving back in your seat until your back was against the plush cushioning. “You didn’t– Oh no—no, I can’t–”

The frantic pleas turned to breathless whines when Sarge smirked at you; a slight quirk of his full, pink lips that froze the world around you. His handsome features came into full view with the sudden beam of a spotlight, and you took them in — a sharp jawline that would cut glass, paired with a straight nose above perfect lips. There was a light dusting of stubble over his jaw that offset the dark brown locks that fell to his neck.

People in the crowd caught onto who he was staring at, and they began to whoop in encouragement.

A gloved hand raised to halt the noise. “A little bird told me that tonight was someone’s birthday,” Sarge said, still staring straight at you. The slack in your jaw was almost painful. “And for the birthday girl, I have a surprise.”

“What,” you blurted.

Small giggles punctuated your stunned silence, the sudden hysterics of your friend almost made it all the more unbearable. The clarity that came with the sudden reveal hit you like a speeding truck on a highway, the mysterious change of seats; how Natalia picked them out from the crowd.

You turned to stare at them heatedly. “You did this?”

A sludge formed in your stomach when they nodded.

“I can’t, I can’t– Oh, god,” you gasped, overwhelmed with the sheer amount of emotion that coursed through you. “I can’t go up there!”

The doubt only gave rise to a sense of confliction — some small part of you yearned to take that stage by storm and have a dream become true, the other, however, wanted to crawl into a ball from the shame of such exposure.

“Yeah, you can,” your friend said, and they gripped your hand. “You’re going to go up there and have the time of your life—don’t let your fear steal this from you.”

Lights around the room dimmed entirely, casting the stage into darkness. Over the pounding of your heart, you could hear the heavy thump of boots over wood, then a solid shadow loomed at the edge of the stage; sans cap, and hair flowing loose down his neck, the few strands that covered his face brought to life the impulse to tuck them behind his ear.

“If it truly makes you uncomfortable, I will leave you be,” Sarge offered. The gravelly tone of his voice made you gulp compulsively from a sudden dry mouth.

He squatted in place, the toes of his boots right on the edge of the platform — you couldn’t help but notice the tightness of his jeans around his thighs. “Otherwise, darling,” he continued quietly, “Allow me.” A gloved hand appeared in your vision, and he smiled softly at you.

“I– Oh, fucking,” you rambled, unable to take hold of his hand. “I can’t–”

“She will,” your friend interrupted, and Sarge glanced at them — his expression had turned passive once more. “She just needs some encouragement.”

“Oh?” Sarge replied, a curious lilt to his accent. He stared at you. “That I can offer.”

The squeak of his boots sounded when he rose to his feet. His looming height only made your heart beat faster and faster against the confines of your throat — you watched his back and shoulders move as he strode back towards the curtains.

The crowd was in titters of anticipation for the beginning of the show.

And to your utter astonishment, Sarge turned on the spot to face you, and started to shed the jacket he wore all while maintaining eye contact — a spell you could not break, no matter how hard you could have tried, you did not want to.

Your jaw ached with the way it fell open in awe once the outer layer of his clothes were removed, leaving him in just his henley and undershirt; jeans hugged his thighs far more prominently now the baggier layer didn’t hide his frame.

“Go on,” your friend whispered, pushing you sideways on your seat to the edge.

“Ah, nyet,” Sarge barked, pointing at your friend. “Let me try to convince moya malen'kaya kukla.”

The seamless transition to his mother tongue made a small, quiet moan fall from your lips before you could bite back the impulse. Sarge, ever the cunning wolf, seemed to have heard it, regardless of the crowd of impatient patrons.

You watched as his index finger beckoned you, a come-hither motion that set the last of your reserved dignity to cinders.

“Idi syuda, viksen,” Sarge called. “Come here. Kneel at my feet.”

The pit of your stomach fell through the floor, much like your jaw, and as though you were bewitched, you rose from your seat to whoops and cheers; rounds of applause that could not be heard over the thunderous roar of blood in your ears.

Sarge stood on the stage, his eyes fixed on you with such intent it turned your knees to jelly, and as you reached the small set of stairs to the side of the stage platform, he moved towards you and offered a gloved hand to help you up.

“Here, darling,” Sarge said softly. One hand held yours while you navigated the steep steps, the other was placed on your lower back when you reached the solid and suddenly very large platform.

Under the guise of directing you, he leaned in close enough for the heat of his breath to be felt on the shell of your ear. “If it becomes too much for you to take—what I am about to do,” he clarified at your startled squeak. “You must tap my arm thrice, like this.” The soft tap of his finger against your arm was insistent and firm. “Understood, da?”

“Y–Yeah, yes,” you replied breathlessly, nodding once. “I– Okay.”

Sarge dipped his head low and grinned, so only you would see. “Khoroshaya devochka, lyubimyy.”

The music swelled and trembled the floor before you could even reply to his quip, and he looked around the stage. “Hmm, over there, I am thinking,” he said quietly, and then you were moved towards the other end of the stage, his hand still holding yours. “Are you ready, darling?”

You blinked, then hesitated a brief second. Sarge picked up on the swirling anxiety that viciously swarmed your mind and body. “Remember, you need only tap my arm three times and it stops. I will signal to Natashka, then she will take you to a quiet room to soothe you.”

“Well, there’s a back up plan, just in case,” you mumbled.

A small smile danced on Sarge’s lips again, the same one that he held only for you back at your seat. “There will always be precautions,” he said, his voice thick with the accent of his mother tongue. It was endearing and you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him for how nonsensical and calming his mere presence was — quite the opposite for what you would expect of a performer. “Besides, I do not want to frighten such a beautiful woman.”

“Oh–”

“Kneel, viksen,” Sarge commanded suddenly. You jumped in fright and fell to your knees with little hesitation — the rushed action made Sarge smirk. “Well done, darling.” Leather caressed your jaw, then your chin, and his hand tilted your head up to look into his face. When your gaze met his, he winked and licked his bottom lip before he silently mouthed, “I am starting now.”

His consideration swelled far more than your heart.

A loud voice called over the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s make some noise for Sarge!”

The crowd roared a few decibels below deafening.

You watched in the sudden, dimmed lighting as Sarge turned back around and headed straight towards where he stood when he beckoned you on stage. His head was held high while he looked over the stage, and a spotlight caught his profile, sending it into sharp relief against the backdrop of crimson and purples.

Sarge’s beauty was unmatched by any model or actor. His side profile alone was enough to make a small, unbidden whimper fall from your lips.

The leather gloves that covered his hands were pulled off, exposing the skin beneath — swirls of ink lined the back of his hands, while a few patterns stretched artfully down some of his fingers. As for the rest of the artistry that you assumed decorated his body, it was covered by the red henley and black undershirt, let alone the jeans that hugged his thighs.

His heated gaze fell on you as he turned to stand directly opposite you — his feet shoulder width apart and his head tilted to the side so strands of dark hair fell over his cheek and jaw.

From within the crowd, you could just decipher the calls from your friend, and their encouraging cries fuelled your bravery — a blessing in disguise, for Sarge held out his hand and beckoned you towards him, just as he had done to get you on the stage in the first place.

Oh, fuck, you thought.

Instinctually, or foolishly, you placed your hands past your knees and onto the stage, then lifted off of your knees — everything in your body screamed arousal at such a dominant move. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” you mumbled at the ground. “I’m really doing this.”

Yeah, you are, the voice replied in your mind — it sounded familiarly like your friend that watched on.

One hand moved forward, followed by a knee; the other hand mimicked the firsts, then your other knee followed suit. The hard surface dug into your knees and palms, but you paid no mind to the subtle ache, your gaze too homed in upon the man that stood watching you crawl to him.

Sarge’s eyes bled from blue to black in the dimmed light, and he grinned; all teeth that shone white.

At last, you met the halfway point between your starting position, and where he watched on, when he held up a hand to halt your crawl. You sat back on your haunches and stared at him, eyes widening while he strolled forward — all the while grabbing the hem of his henley and undershirt, pulling it up to expose a deep, defined v-line.

The crowd moaned and screamed in unison, but it was a dull roar of noise over your mind’s insistent parade of what it would be like to kiss the skin of his hip; how tense his muscles could get in the throes of passion.

Before you could even shake yourself from that particular vision, you blinked and Sarge stood right in front of you — his very exposed hip within reach, if only you just leaned forward–

“Go on, detka,” Sarge purred, tapping the skin above the belt loop next to his zipper. And the bastard teased, “You want to, I can see it.” The impulse consumed you like a forest fire, and your lips met the heated skin in a chaste kiss. “Good girl.”

There was no discerning the patrons cheers any longer, the continued shouts and cheers of their voices melded into one, constant noise.

His fingers deftly worked the belt clasp, and you realised with an audible gasp that the black leather was branded with an inscription that sent a dull, aching throb to your cunt — Sarge’s Girl was decorated with silver filigree and a bold, full star on either side of the words. The buckle clinked as he pulled it free, then the strap where the text sat was pushed towards your parted lips.

“Open,” Sarge ordered, and you complied without a second thought.

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, and he stepped back slowly, leaving his belt between your teeth. The heavy fall of his boots copied your heartbeat, the pounding rhythm sent your head into a spell of dizziness you wanted more of.

Your lips moved over the strap while your tongue tasted the earthy tones of treated leather; something you needed more of.

The leather dangled down your front, the end of it resting in front of your knees — Sarge tilted his chin up, looking down at you with an unreadable expression, as though he was contemplating something.

It all fell away — the sounds, the smells, the tastes when he kneeled down on one knee in front of you, eyes bright with a sense of mischief, and a smirk that rivalled the devil’s. “Let go,” he said, holding around the strap of his belt, right next to your cheek.

You bit down on the leather with a playful growl, and Sarge smirked as he pulled against your grip gently. “Give it back to me, devochka, before I tame the brat in you for all to see.” Shock flooded your system and forced your jaw to be lax around the hard leather. “Ah, there we go, Viksen. Arms out, wrists together for me.”

Your actions fell on autopilot to obey, and you stuck out your arms, wrists together, just as he asked for. He hummed and looped the belt around them, careful of the tightness of the leather against your skin. “Now, down.”

His hands moved you back onto all fours, the gentle grip of his hands while he did so sent a cacophony of butterflies to soar wildly in your stomach. The leather toes of his boots were all you could see when he got to his feet before, the deep, red henley fell to the floor a second later.

“Give it up for our Sarge!” That same announcer voice called over the speakers, and the crowd did not disappoint.

Warmth spread over your waist, and you realised it was both of Sarge’s hands feeling down your sides — one boot disappeared, then thudded as it landed on your other side.

He was standing over you– Oh, fuck, you almost gasped aloud.

A sharp, loud shriek fell from your lips with the sudden change of altitude — in the blink of an eye, Sarge had lifted you with both his arms around your waist. Your legs were draped over his shoulders, and his face brushed against your navel from the sudden proximity.

You could feel one hand splayed over the middle of your back to steady your frame and prevent you from falling backwards, though it did nothing to alleviate the rush of adrenaline through your body at suddenly being held in the air, with your thighs either side of his head, by one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh my god!” You scrambled to grab at his neck before you could master the impulse, and all you felt was the soft, brown locks of his hair in your fingertips. There was a hot breath on your stomach through your shirt, and the broad shoulders that held you so securely in the air shook up and down — Sarge was laughing at your fear, the bastard. “What–!”

Sarge’s other hand that was held to the side in a show of strength, brushed over the seat of your pants before he squeezed. The contact sent a rush of heat through the whole of your body as you realised just how close to your cunt his mouth was in conjunction with his hand on your ass.

The crowd was still whooping when he fell to one knee and twisted in place, so you lay across the stage — his hands wandered from your back to your knees. You could only see the wicked, hungry grin on his mouth when he peered around your calves; he arched a brow and licked his lips, carelessly fuelling the fire between your thighs.

Your wrists rubbed against the leather strap of his belt, and you subconsciously whined — you wanted to touch, to feel his strength under your fingertips.

“Easy, darling,” Sarge purred. “You will have your fill, obeshchayu.”

The buckle of his belt clattered to the floor with surprising speed, though you didn’t have time to linger on the newfound freedom — Sarge’s slow thrusts against the back of your thighs made a dizzy spell hit you with such force you almost passed out right then and there. “Sarge–! Fuck.”

“Not yet,” he rasped back.

You squeaked and looked down at him with widened eyes — the black of his pupils painted over the grey, bleeding profusely over the once calming seas of his irises.

All of your insides squirmed and vanished with the heat of his stare, and before you could even blink yourself back to reality, you were sitting in a chair on the stage with Sarge in front of you. His stature loomed over you and blocked out the patrons that cheered behind him — feet shoulder width apart and hands on your cheeks to tilt your head up.

The gentleness of his hold replaced the fire in your veins with an unexplainable adoration.

“Lyubimyy, are you with me?”

“Yeah– Yes, I am, just–” You stammered, blinking fast. “I got a bit flustered.”

Sarge grinned. “I know—it was sweet. So easy to entrance, hmm?”

“Hey–!”

“I joke, darling,” he teased. “I am almost done with you. I know you are eager to join your friend again.”

The music swelled over the speakers, the beat and bass reverberating deep in your chest — it didn’t feel like you were on the stage of one of the most prolific nightclubs of your city with a stripper performing with you, let alone talking to you in such a tone of hunger.

You had watched all of Sarge’s performances reverently, far more than you would ever admit, and never before did he treat a patron to such intimacy.

His press gave the same impression of stoic and blithe interest. Never one to talk unless questioned — Sarge was a quiet one, but yet, here he was, speaking to you with a reverence of what you’d expect from a lover.

Something tugged and pulled in your stomach with that particular realisation.

“Are you ready?” Sarge asked quietly, leaning in close while still moving his body to keep the crowd entertained. His eyes were clear and narrowed in on your features, darting from your eyes to your parted lips. “I will stop if you are overwhelmed–”

“No, no,” you rushed, and you reached for him on instinct — a reassuring, grounding presence the beacon you didn’t know you needed. “I’m okay, please.”

“As you wish, viksen,” he replied. “Follow my lead.”

The skin of his palms felt rough over your own hands, and he guided them to his chest, covered only by the dark undershirt — you realised it was a tank as opposed to a shirt. He turned on the spot and fell to his knees, boots tucked beneath the seat you were perched on, and his hands guided yours to the neckline of his shirt.

“We’re in the final stretch,” the announcer called over the cheering crowd. “Let’s give it up one last time for Sarge!”

Your fingers were squeezed by Sarge’s palms, the grip firm as he pressed your hands into his chest while manipulating the thin cloth into your fist. He looked at you over his shoulder with a sly smirk. “Have your fill, darling—pull.”

The fabric tore away with ease under the combined efforts of Sarge’s strength and your hands — black cloth revealed a chest covered in artistry, rippling with the movement of guiding you to strip his chest bare.

A small moan fell from your lips and into his ear.

“Settle,” he murmured back with a wide smirk.

You gulped while he turned his head to look out into the crowd, and the smirk he threw you morphed into a grin while he slowly moved his hips back and forth — a show far too intimate, but you could not look away. The low position of his beltless jeans left little to the imagination.

“Now you can return to your friend,” Sarge said lowly, helping you up from your seat while your legs shook. “You took it so well, darling. Come.” His warm hands guided you to the edge of the stage, where the stairs were situated, and he took each step down with you.

Your heart thundered and skipped the longer he stayed beside you, and finally, he helped you to your seat before moving your hand to his lips. A soft kiss brushed against your knuckles, and he smiled softly. “Goodbye, viksen.”

You watched him turn back around to walk back up the stairs, the muscles of his back and shoulders tensing and rippling with each step, and the time passed in a daze from that moment onwards.

Through the hazed lust, you barely acknowledged your friend who welcomed you back to the table with eager chitters and whispered demands after Sarge disappeared from the stage through the side exit.

The feel of his hands on you lingered, even after the soft touches of him guiding you back to the sanctuary of your occupied booth, and you found you didn’t want that sensation to ever leave.

The last of the performers dwindled on stage while patrons shuffled around to gather their belongings. It wasn’t often that the Howling Commandos lingered at a venue, given they were a sought after group of performers, they often had tours that were demanding beyond reason — though it was different this time.

After following them for so long, it was rumoured and then later confirmed on social media, that this show was the last for them for some time — no one knew for sure how long their rest would last, but it was well deserved regardless.

It was how you found yourself bouncing on the balls of your feet in anticipation beside the stage. Nomad, Falcon, and Natalia were mingling amongst the crowd for photo opportunities for the lucky few who purchased the extra bonus of a meet and greet.

You were not unfortunately one of the few, as much as you wish you were — the treat of being brought on stage was already too much for you to cope with and process.

The sound of footsteps of giggles emanated from your left, and you glanced over to find your friend on the approach. “You good?”

“Yep,” they said, popping the ‘p’. “Let’s go get some drinks!”

“But–” You tried to protest, but it was of no use — the grip your friend had on your arm was tighter than a vice as they dragged you out of the door and into the street. The night life of the strip of nightclubs was wildly alive with partying crowds and drunkards stumbling all over the place. “Oh, hell. Do we have to?”

They looked from left to right with a tight grimace pulling their expression taut. “I mean, no– Oh.” A scarily menacing smirk danced on their lips, and just as they opened their mouth to speak, they were cut off by a shout.

“Viksen!”

You whipped around to search for the source, when your mouth fell open in shock. Down the closest alleyway, leaning against the brick wall of the club he just danced in, was Sarge — a freshly lit cigarette dangled from his lips while the rings on some of his fingers glinted from a flickering streetlight opposite where he stood.

The black V-neck shirt and leather jacket bulked his frame even more than the hooded get up he wore for his performance, and he still wore those tight jeans and boots.

Smoke billowed from his mouth and nose while he threw the cigarette to the pavement, where he scuffed the lit end with the toe of his boot. “I never thought I would see you after the show,” he called, and he strode forwards, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “It seems luck is on my side tonight.”

The closer he came, the more your insides melted — while he looked nothing like he did while he performed, he still exuded a lethal confidence that cut your resolve to shreds, and that smile of his didn’t help, not one bit.

Your friend suddenly gripped your arm and rushed, "I just remembered I'm staying with a friend tonight. Can you make it back home safe?"

“I–”

Sarge stepped closer and tilted his head. The passive line of his mouth while he looked at your friend smoothly changed into a softened smile when he met your gaze. “I will take you home, darling—if you would like?”

The pocket of his jacket chimed with the sound of keys. “I did not park far from the club, and I do not tend to enjoy…” He looked back towards the club where his fellow performers lingered behind. “I prefer to selectively spend my time with those I choose.”

“Well–”

Brown strands of hair fell forward as he looked to the floor, his posture turning open with the sudden show of bashfulness, and under his breath he spoke, “Ideal'noy byla by kompaniya krasivoy zhenshchiny, a ne etikh idiotov.”

You swallowed around the slither of fear that clutched your stomach in a vice — being alone with the man you were beginning to form a crush on was not ideal, not without preparation or a wing–

From the corner of your eyes, you saw your friend staring at you pointedly with wide eyes. Go with it, they urged, unspoken and greedily.

A deep breath rose your shoulders shakily. “Yeah, that– That would be nice,” you replied softly. “I, uh– I don’t live too far away.”

Sarge looked up with a blindingly bright smile, and it made your stomach flip and riot in place. “Good—that is good.” He looked at your friend again — you couldn’t help but feel heartened by the plain stare he gave them. “Do you have a way to get to your friend’s home?”

“I’ll call a cab.”

“I will wait with you,” Sarge said, and he set his shoulders. “I cannot leave you without knowing you will get there safely.”

“A real gentleman,” your friend teased while their fingers flew over the screen of their phone. To your horror, they glanced up at you and smirked. “I like him.”

The air rushed from your lungs in a shocked exhale while Sarge moved inexplicably closer at the statement, his arm brushing against yours in a feather light touch. He didn’t move to rebuke their words, nor did he make any noise of acknowledgement; eyes intently scanning the surrounding crowds as he would if he were guarding something precious.

It was a comfortable silence that stretched between the three of you while you waited curb side for your friend’s lift to arrive — a surprise that you would chew them out for endlessly later, but you were nonetheless nervous to be left alone with the mountain of a man beside you.

Passersby paid no mind to you as you waited there, surreptitiously shuffling your feet in place to inch closer towards Sarge. The warmth he emanated drew you in and you couldn’t resist the temptation to just be close — no matter the people around you, or the way your friend kept flickering their knowing gaze to you, a slight smirk still playing on their lips.

“Oh, here we are,” they said suddenly, their head turned towards the road where a car was starting to pull up. “My ride—perfect timing.”

Sarge moved forward and opened the back door wordlessly, inclining his head in farewell but uttering no words in their parting. You hugged them goodbye and tucked your chin into the juncture of their neck and shoulder. In your ear, they whispered, “Be safe, have fun; wear protection.”

“Come on,” you hissed, pulling your lip up in a grimace. “That’s not fair–”

They hugged you tighter, not allowing you to pull back from their embrace. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? The way he offered to take you home?”

You hesitated, but you truly could not see how it was any more than just friendly interaction. “No…”

“Enjoy his attention, babe,” they said softly, rubbing their hands up and down your back. “Just text me when you get in his car and then again when you get home. I want to know how he kisses you.”

Before you could scold them again, they pulled back and skipped to the open door of their lift. They looked up at Sarge and smiled. “Take care of my girl, yeah?”

“She will be safe,” Sarge replied simply. “I would not let anyone hurt her.”

Heat flooded your stomach and crawled up your neck while Bucky shut the door gently behind them. Through the tinted window, your friend waved goodbye, and you did the same as they were taken away; swept to their own respite and leaving you to fend for yourself against the butterflies that ran riot through your whole body.

The car’s tail lights disappeared around the corner at the other end of the street, and with it, your courage. It was suddenly overwhelmingly nerve wracking to be standing there next to Sarge, the cold breeze of the night biting through your poor excuse of warmth as an outfit. Your arms moved to automatically cradle your front, your hands gripping your biceps, when Sarge spoke, “Are you cold, darling?”

You blinked and met his gaze. “No, no, I’m okay,” you lied.

Sarge tilted his head, the strands of dark hair brushing against his cheek and brow. “You are not a very good liar.”

The words were said in such a deadpan statement it made a laugh erupt from you, and that made a smirk pull at Sarge’s lips — one that he reserved for only you. “Alright, yeah, I’m a bit cold–”

You couldn’t even finish your admission before a jacket — Sarge’s leather jacket — appeared in front of you. “Here, it will keep you warm. I cannot allow you to be in any discomfort, not if I am able to prevent it.”

“But–” You tried to protest, looking at him with widened eyes. What you wouldn’t give to wear that jacket, be enveloped in his warmth and distinct scent that filled your senses to lift you off your feet, but then he would– “But you’ll get cold too!”

Sarge narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Takaya upryamaya zhenshchina.” The gravel of his voice sent a shiver entirely unrelated to the sudden chill down your spine. “YA tebya obozhayu.”

“Hey, I don’t speak Russian,” you whined, pouting at him. “What did you say?”

Sarge only chuckled and shook his head while he placed the jacket gently over your shoulders, prompting you silently to slip your arms into the sleeves. “Never you mind, Malen'kaya Lisa.”

“Stubborn asshole,” you teased half-heartedly, though you burrowed into his jacket with a hum of contentment.

“Me?” Sarge laughed, and he took a single step back after adjusting the collar to better sit on your smaller frame. “How am I stubborn when you are shivering and refuse– Ay, moy bog, you are too adorable.”

The way his eyes brightened as he looked down at you suddenly hit you hard — the force of it leaving you breathless. Maybe your friend was right… “So,” you began nervously, and your hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket.

Sarge smiled softly. “I did not introduce myself.”

“You don’t go by Sarge–”

“Nyet,” he laughed again. “No, darling. That is the name for the stage—only for my performances.”

“Oh.” The warmth from his jacket suddenly grew overwhelming with your embarrassment. “I didn’t–”

“Do not worry, Malen’kaya Lisa.” Sarge grabbed your hand and moved the cuff of his jacket from the back of it, where he placed a soft kiss. “My friends call me Bucky, if you so wish– Actually,” he paused for a second, then, “Please, call me James. Sarge and Bucky are for everyone else—vy zasluzhivayete chego to svoyego sobstvennogo.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” you replied with a nervous chitter wavering in your voice. “But, okay, James—nice to finally meet you.” The smile James gave you when you offered him your name made the butterflies ditch the fluttering riot for absolute pandemonium.

“Let me take you home, darling.” James took a step closer. His arm went around your shoulders. You let out a breath when you were pulled into his side — the comfort of being so close enveloped you, and “First, I would like to accompany you for a stroll. The night is young, viksen.”

You couldn’t help the snort of laughter at his words, and the blinding smile you received in return lit you from the inside out — you would do anything to see it again. “Are you trying to be old fashioned?”

James looked at you with a quirked brow. “Did it not work?”

“Maybe it did.”

“Nu, krasivaya devushka.” He leaned in close, his lips dancing over your temple, where he placed a soft kiss. The hot gust of his breath tickled your ear. “Allow me the pleasure of you on my arm for the evening.”

vozlyublennyy = beloved ubiraysya otsyuda = get out of here moya malen'kaya kukla = my little doll idi syuda, viksen = come here, vixen khoroshaya devochka, lyubimyy = good girl, darling detka = baby obeshchayu = I promise ideal'noy byla by kompaniya krasivoy zhenshchiny, a ne etikh idiotov = company of a beautiful woman would be perfect, rather than those idiots takaya upryamaya zhenshchina = such a stubborn woman ya tebya obozhayu = I adore it Malen'kaya Lisa = Little Fox moy bog = my god vy zasluzhivayete chego to svoyego sobstvennogo = you deserve something of your own nu, krasivaya devushka = well, pretty girl

🤭

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #alternate juneiverse 2024 #babb2023 #rookthorne's works

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fanaticsnail · 6 months

Text

You Should Be Sad - Part 1

This little tidbit was brought to you by: my extra sad maladaptive daydream playlist, my preparations to perform as a musician at my brother's upcoming wedding, and brandy.

Word Count: 5,487

Not going to lie, this one-shot might turn into a two-parter if you guys want some closure.

(Edit, ok I got carried away. 1 & 2 are SFW, 3 is not)

Sitting aboard the one-manned, coffin-shaped vessel: a warlord of the sea found himself in a particularly nostalgic mood. Swirling a near-empty crystal balloon glass within his fingertips, he brought the amber coloured liquid to his lips and took a heaped gulp from the strong liquid.

It was slightly humorous to him; any time he found himself drinking brandy, his thoughts would always drift to the woman he first gave his heart to. The touch of her hair within his fingertips as he raked them affectionately through the strands, the smell of her sweet perfume lingering in the air as he pressed kisses along her neck and up toward her jaw. Her melodical laugh echoed throughout the recesses of his brain as she would pour his name from within her lips chastising him for his surprise affections.

He rose the brandy glass to his lips once more and downed the remainder of the liquid from the short, rounded glass.

They were too young to be so intensely in love. In his youth, he was mad about her: the only woman to successfully have him fall to his knees and look up with nothing but adoration. When he proposed, she was surprised to receive such a commitment from him, but not at all shocked as she wanted to join herself in sharing his familial name.

And then he ruined it.

Piracy, corruption, selfishness and elevation as one of the pirate warlords of the sea split their lengthy tryst, ending their commitment with her throwing the circular, gem encrusted band of promise at his face as he apathetically watched her withdraw from his castle with complete disinterest. On the inside, he was dying: crying, begging and pleading with her to stay. His ego held him back from completing any of the actions to keep her with him always.

She wanted a child. She wanted a child with him.

He growled through clenched teeth as he rose himself from his chair in search for more brandy. Pulling bottle after bottle away from the cabinets below deck, he found each bottle to be completely and utterly dry; empty from the memory fuel he needed to reminisce further. He needed to know what could have been. He needed to know what should have been.

Most of all, he needed to hear her voice. Your beautiful, perfect, flawless voice. He frowned as he closed his eyes tightly shut and focussed on chasing a memory.

Lying atop the woven fabric of an outdoor floor mat, his head resting in your lap and gazing up at your face as you focussed on reading the words within your hands. The hand not occupied with maneuvering the pages to read more rest atop his head and massaged his scalp absentmindedly.

Small hums and whispers of words to the lyrics you were reading cascaded down to his ears, him closing his eyes to focus on your melody. Once you’d finished reading through the lyrics, he sat from it’s place in your lap and grasped your neck within his hand; pressing a long and romantic kiss against your lips.

“A pretty song,” he said, once breaking from the kiss, “who wrote it?”

“I wrote it,” you replied with a warm smile, “and it’s not finished.”

He leaned in again to press another kiss upon you, this time against your cheek as he smiled against your skin.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. He pulled away from your embrace and gazed into your eyes, looking half-lidded and oh so lovingly at him in return.

He ruined it. All of it.

“I need more brandy,” he growled. He brought himself back up and sat against his chair with a loud sigh, reclining against the armrest of it and scowling. He turned his eyes upwards to see some lights in the distance. Too far from the nearest port, he narrowed his eyes at the sights before widening them in recollection.

“Baratie,” he whispered with a smirk, “they have brandy.”

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

“And this is the dining room,” the fishman gestured to the empty floor below the top deck. You ran to the large wooden handrail, thrusting your body against it as you looked enthusiastically around the large room.

You felt a hand clasp around your shoulder. You turned to your blonde band-mate, her face beaming equally as wide as your own. You leant against her embrace and allowed yourself to have a small giddy shriek in absolute excitement.

This was not your first gig. Being a travelling trio of musicians was the most riveting and fulfilling occupation you had chosen to do. You had been requested to play for weddings, marine ceremonies, smalls bars and taverns, birthday celebrations and any other occasion was a regular occurrence for the three of you. Baratie, however, was on the top of your list for venues to play at. The waves crashing against the hull, the rounded walls of the restaurant perfect for reverberations to echo your voice within.

“Thank you so much for showing us here between services,” you addressed the scaled matradee, “I really appreciate the time you’ve spent escorting us around.”

Nods and hums of thanks echoed from the lips of your other bandmates, the blonde guitarist also gesturing out to thank the matradee for his time.

“Did the owner wish for us to set up down there?” you asked him, gesturing to the middle of the floor below your feet.

“Oh, no, no, ma’am,” he smiled, “you’ll be up there for the first part of the evening,” he gestured to a small ledge that looked similar in make to an amphitheatre private booth with withdrawn velvet curtains.

You trailed your eyes up towards the booth and your jaw fell slack in absolute excitement.

“And then you will be playing on a stage outside for the bar shift,” he smiled at your joy.

You clasped the mallet clutched hands of your drummer as he held the same giddy feeling as you began to jump up and down in celebration; a high squeal pouring from your chest and his alongside your own.

The matradee arched his eyebrow upwards with a smirk playing on his face, eyes twinkling at your enthusiasm.

“Sorry about them,” the blonde guitarist uttered apologetically, “she’s been so excited to play here since she heard about the place. Water has this neat ability of carrying sound, and the round deck would absolutely amplify it. We might not even need to be amped up for the sets!”

“You’ve no need to stifle their joy,” he rose his hand, still smiling, “and I’m well aware of how sound works within the waters.”

The guitarist’s smile faltered slightly at her ignorance, noting a fishman would absolutely understand how water works. He chuckled at her expression and shook his head.

“Your enthusiasm also brings a smile to my face,” he said, “you can set up and practice for the next hour or so while we set up for the next rush.”

She cringed with her teeth tightly clasped, and again scrunched her nose in apologies.

He gestured to a small circular staircase, prompting you to begin your ascension to the top booth and set up.

Aiding in carrying the several pieces of drum equipment, having no instrument of your own to carry upwards, you began to assemble the kit and tighten the drumskins to tune them accordingly.

“Leave this, love,” he uttered to you while tightening the wingnut and adjusting the height of his crash symbol, “go let ‘er rip! See how far it carries.”

Your hands clasped together in excitement, a giddy feeling shuddering throughout your being at the notion of belting your voice to reverberate throughout the room. You brought your torso against the railing once more and gripped the beam tightly as you mustered the courage to acapella a vocal riff from your diaphragm.

You released the beam from your grasp and shut your eyes, taking in a large breath and exhaling it with technological precision that came with the mastery of your skill.

Several members of floor staff halted their task and turned to locate the source of the melody passionately falling from your lips. Your words drew them up toward you as a siren would lure a sailor to their doom. Their jaws hung slack as they gazed at you as you writhed in the passion of your performance.

The melody eclipsed your thoughts as you poured out your emotion into the song. You softly trilled your voice; crescendo and decrescendoing the intensity flawlessly. You knit your brows together, opening your eyes and looking to the glass chandelier hanging from the roof of Baratie. A smile falling to your face as you watched the glass twinkle under the artificial light.

Once completing your tune, applause and hollers from the floor staff brought you back to reality; a prominent red hue flooding to your cheeks.

“That’s some voice you got there, lass,” you heard a voice bellow upwards towards you.

Looking down, you noticed a chef wearing a white uniform and navy cravat; his large white hat indicating him to be the head chef of the establishment.

“Thank you, sir,” you called down to him with a broad smile.

“I don’t know why I didn’t ask you lot here before,” he again called up, “just what this place needs; music to liven up the place a little.”

You smiled at him, your eyes baring slight creases at their overuse of late.

“Any time you want a drink tonight,” he called once more, “ask Matty at the bar to get you one, and tell them Chef Zeff said you drink for free tonight.”

“Yes, Chef,” you again called, gesturing a two fingered salute down to him with a wink.

“I could go one before we start,” your drummer shrugged.

“Absolutely not, Jed,” the guitarist reprimanded him, “last time you had a drink before we played, not only were you out of time for the whole night, but we had to stop mid-set so you could go take a piss.”

“Come on, Chrissy,” he whined, “it’s Baratie! We’re only going to do this one once. Live a little!”

You smiled at the exchange between them as they continued to bicker.

“I’m going to go grab a coffee,” you said to them, “want me to bring one up with some waters?”

“Yes,” Chrissy sighed at you in thanks before turning back to the drummer, “see! That’s what responsibility looks like, Jed. Now tune your skins, set up your symbols and behave yourself.”

You laughed as you descended down the stairs in search for coffee and waters to sustain you for the first set.

After returning from your quest and downing some espressos, you sang through the first set above deck and brought an air of delight and elevation to the guests as they dined at Baratie. Several diners and staff watched on as you sang and swayed to the music reverberating the walls.

Upon completion of the set, you bowed alongside your bandmates; applause surrounding you as you did so.

“Thank you everyone,” Chrissy called from your side, “we’ll be playing our next set in an hour outside at the bar! Come and see us, and if there’s any song requests; buy us drinks!”

You laughed at her suggestion, knowing she did this at every venue to bring more revenue to the bar till. “The band drinks for free,” was often a common curtesy among venues, but after Chrissy had spent so much time in her youth waiting tables and manning bars; she wanted to give as much respect and cashflow at every venue she can.

You descended the staircase, clasping two symbol stands with the boom stand hanging over your shoulders. The guitarist slung the leather strap of her guitar to her front so she could utilise her hands to carry the drum toms in her arms; leaving the guitarist to manage carrying the kick peddle and bass drum within his arms. Unable to carry the final two drums, the matradee gestured for a floor staff member to come to aid the drummer with the snare and bass tom.

You nodded your head in thanks as you passed him to make your way throughout the service quarters and out to the side stage of the bar.

Placing the symbols in their collective places on the stage, you smiled and turned to make your way towards the bar to get a small drink within the interlude; only to have your actions halted immediately as your heart jumped up into your neck and hitch your breath within your throat.

Wearing a broad, feathered hat and a long open leather coat; his yellow eyes raked over a red-headed woman at his side as his fingertips danced in feather light touches along her clavicle.

He was as handsome as the day you left him, although his facial hair had been groomed in a different style than you were once intimately accustomed. He smirked at the redhead as she shuddered under his touch, prompting him to whisper something in her ear to which a warm blush rose to her cheeks.

You were completely dumbstruck. Although ten years had passed since you left him, you were flooded with nostalgia, sentimentality and melancholy at the scene laying before you.

Quietly rushing yourself to a wall and placing your back against it; you clasped your palm over your lips and widened your eyes as they began to brim at the corners and flood with emotion. All of the built up rage you felt for him at his indifference to your leaving, all of the anger you formerly held at his prioritisation of his duties to being a warlord of the sea, and the fury you endured over his final words uttered to you brought a shadow to your once excitement and anticipation of performing this next set.

“What’s going on, what is it?” Chrissy uttered to you with her hands resting firmly on your shoulders.

The band had completed setting up, Jed retiring to the bar to collect something stronger than water and coffee, much to the disdain of the guitarist.

You brought your eyes back towards the woman you formed a tight bond with over the past ten years.

Upon and searching for a remedy for your sorrows at the bottom of a rum bottle, she plonked herself down next to you and introduced herself as a down on her luck musician; much akin to your own journey. A man sighed and plonked himself atop the remaining stool, the woman introducing him as a fling from her past that just stuck with her after they had broken up.

There and then, you decided the three of you would join together and travel the seas; presenting your fine music together without a care in the world. You had moved on, although your heart never truly healed from the intensity of the love you once shared with the swordsman.

“Talk to me!” she shook your shoulders with a gentle amount of force.

“He’s here,” you released in a breath above a whisper.

“Shit,” she uttered, her own eyes widening and her grip softening its grasp on your shoulders, “what to you want to do? Sit the next set out?”

You shrugged your shoulders and hardened your resolve.

“No,” you murmured darkly, turning your sights to Jed as he carried a full pint of beer with foam brimming at the top. He sipped from the glass and made eye contact with you, promptly bringing the liquid down from his lips.

“What do you need, babes?” he quietly uttered, noticing the intensity of your gaze.

“Liquid courage, dealers choice but something strong,” you smirked, “my ex-fiancé is here and I’m going to make him feel something.”

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

It was not the same. Although attractive to the eye, the redhead just didn’t have what he needed. She would be a fun lay, but the intensity of his release required the object currently occupying his thoughts. He was not sure what had come over him, but his desire for you grew vines within his chest that pulled firmly at his heart strings of late. It must be the brandy.

The redhead laughed and tossed her head back, enabling him to glimpse the room behind her. A guitarist and drummer appeared to be setting up their instruments in the corner of the room atop an elevated platform.

“Wonderful,” he thought to himself sarcastically, raising the glass to his lips, “just what I need to pull her away from my thoughts. Musicians.”

He returned his gaze to the redhead who was now boring him slightly with her attention. He entertained the thought of inviting her to return with him to his boat so he didn’t have to endure the minstrels playing at the bar.

At a moment, that thought completely dissipated, as voice began to resound from the stage. He immediately snapped his eyes to return his sights to the musicians on the raised, wooden platform; only to find the redhead beside him obstructing his view from him.

“You’ve been a wonderful distraction, Darling,” he uttered, gesturing for the barman to refill his brandy glass, “but unfortunately, this is where our little encounter ends.”

“You leave every woman you meet high and dry?” she snarled at him angrily, prompting him to bring his intense yellow eyes back to meet hers while a tri-part harmony of vocals built in their intensity.

He chose not to engage in her taunt as he collected berry from his pocket to pay the barmen for her drinks, his drinks and a large bottle of brandy. He swooped to collect the fresh bottle and ballooned crystal glass from the countertop and turn to find a vacant table close to the raised stage.

He stalked in slow, calculated movements over to the vacant table at centre stage; his intimidating aura following him as his brows furrowed into a scowl.

Yellow eyes baring into the woman he was so desperately longing for earlier today, watching as she expertly disregarded his undivided attention by gesturing with her arms, closing her eyes and flittering her eyesight throughout her captive audience.

The intensity of his scowl fell slightly, prompting him to maneuver his hat to shroud his face as he closed his eyes and listened to the lyrics coming from her lips.

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“Right, I need to piss,” Jed uttered after finishing a song, “and my balls are numb from sitting on the stool for the past hour and a half.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Jed!” Chrissy hissed from between her teeth as she moved her head away from the microphone, “a single beer and a double shot of tequila and you’re gone for the night.”

“That sounds about right,” you nodded with a wide, playful smile, “go take a piss and be back in 15.”

He sighed in relief as he stood from the stool and unceremoniously adjusted himself before exiting stage right in search for the bathroom.

“How do you want to do this?” she whispered with a smirk.

“Can you use the bass drum at the same time as the guitar, just like we practiced?” you asked her with a quirk of your brow.

“You’ve got it, Sugar,” she winked at you, she began to maneuver the drum stool over to the front of the stage, allowing you to lift the bass drum and collect the foot peddle and lay it at her feet.

She adjusted her microphone downwards to collect her voice from her new seated position, leaving you to continue to stand at centre stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re one man down right now. Poor lad can’t hold his liquor,” you smiled to the audience, prompting them to laugh at your addressal, “please bear with us as we improvise a little to make up for his absence.”

The audience hollered and wolf-whistled at you both in encouragement before your attention was brought to the shrouded gentleman from your past as he sat back against his chair and bore his yellow eyes at you.

You had almost forgotten he was there for a moment as the music took over, possessing you with its power. You focussed your eyes into his own and narrowed them before releasing him from your gaze and turning to Chrissy who counted to four to lead you in.

The words poured from your heart as the song resonated with everything you could possibly express to the individual you broke your coupling from a decade ago. Chrissy expertly plucked the strings of her guitar and tapped her right foot to have the floor peddle beat it’s mallet into the skin of the bass drum at the floor.

Chrissy joined your voice in harmony, after learning your vengeful lyrics you had notated while heavily intoxicated one night several years ago after drinking a bottle of brandy. It was always brandy.

The spirit was crafted with matured grapes usually utilised in wine making, but stronger in alcohol content. It was your go-to drink for memory exploring, which often allowed your mind to trail back to the one and only Dracule “Hawk-Eyes” Mihawk.

Your words fell effortlessly from your lips, no hint of trauma or whisper of a sob as you almost laughed the lyrics out.

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

There was nothing Mihawk could do to stop the words from pouring from your lips. This song was written about him, he was sure of it. You always had a way with your words. Your voice carried a beautiful melody, but the lyrics felt like a knife twisting within his heart. He almost gasped at the words you relayed at not allowing yourself to bear a child – his child – and how you said so with no sense of remorse, but relief in its stead.

His jaw slacked slightly and his brow knit together tighter. He was confused at the way his body reacted to your lyrics, his breath hitching in his throat as you began to slow the music a little with your musical companion accompanied you with her own vocal harmony. A small tear escaped from his eye, of which he expressed anger at himself for displaying such weakness.

“You should be sad,” your voice taunted him, baring your beautiful eyes into his own with such intensity only a woman scorned would express.

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Vindication was the way you felt at finally being able to relay all of the ten years of pent up frustration, anger, sadness and hatred to the individual in front of you. He was completely captivated with you, hanging on your every word.

Right where you wanted him.

Effortlessly, Chrissy led a melodical interlude between the first and second song expertly with the plucking of her fingers. You broke your gaze from your former beau, satisfied with the amount of trauma you lyrically released onto him; ridding you from your unspoken words you held onto for ten years.

You began to lyrically relay one of Chrissy’s songs that she’d written; something a little more upbeat and happy than the vengeful lyrics you’d just expressed. You smiled as you looked to the crowd you held as captive audience as some began to rise to their feet to dance to your music.

Unlike the other patrons who moved from their chairs to commence dancing, you watched as the leather clad warlord rose and almost stumbled back to the bar; clutching a completely empty brandy bottle in his hands.

You almost stuttered over the lyrics as you watched him order another at the bar, almost threatening the bartender to give it to him with the intensity of his gaze.

You managed to complete the song just in time for Jed to return, feeling fully recovered from his prior stool numbness and with an empty bladder.

“Sounded great ladies,” he said with a light laugh, “now can I have my drum back?”

Chrissy laughed at his words, prompting her to raise from her seat and place down her guitar.

“Only if you move it yourself,” she scrunched her nose in a light jest.

You continued to trail the back of the broad, feathered hat atop the finely maintained hair of your past lover, knitting your eyebrows upwards almost in pity. Chrissy lay her hand on your shoulder, prompting you to turn to meet her eyes.

“Go get yourself some closure, Girly,” she said with a wink, “we can take a small break.”

You sighed and returned your sights to the warlord as he exited the bar with a small stumble in his step, using his empty hand to clasp the railing of the stern to steady himself against it. You nodded and hopped down from the elevated stage and began to follow him.

Thoughts circled throughout your mind of what exactly you were going to say to him. You said everything you wanted to lyrically fifteen minutes ago, that was enough for you. “But it may not be enough for him,” your thoughts added. Considering you knew he knew the song was about him, and how publicly you relayed the words, he must be feeling a mixture of things.

He halted his steps, his back turned to you as he grasped the handrailing within his left hand, clutching his right around the now quarter empty brandy bottle. You caught up to him with ease, stopping a metre behind him and reluctantly reaching your right hand out, halting it and returning it to you upon second thoughts.

“Did you enjoy my song?” you asked him with a small smirk. You needed to know if the words had an impact on him. Something other than apathy or indifference, as was the expression he bore last you met.

No effort was made to release a single word of affirmation or negation to respond to your question. In its stead, he attempted to walk away from you again, refusing to turn to face you. His foot caught beneath him, his knee buckling slightly; prompting him to grasp the handrail further as he steadied himself.

You no longer held reluctance as you maneuvered yourself beneath his right arm, circling your left around his waist and taking some of his weight from him.

“You’ve had a bit too much brandy, haven’t you?” you chuckled a little as you walked with him towards the dock; spotting his coffin-shaped vessel tied firmly against it. He didn’t speak, look or acknowledge you in any way; holding firm his gaze at his ship as he continued to walk with you by his side.

He released the bar of the handrail from his left hand, forcing you to bare the brunt of his weight against your left shoulder. You almost groaned under the intensity, noting Yoru was also clasped firmly against his back.

“Alright, Sailor,” you patted your right hand against his bare best, noting its warmth beneath your fingertips, “let’s get you tucked in.”

No confirmation, no whisper nor hum released itself from his lips. He allowed himself to stumble within your arms to the deck of his ship.

“One foot after the other, Love,” you coaxed him as he placed one leather clad boot after another down onto the deck of his ship. The title you gave him just slipped from your lips, no apprehension or malicious intent behind them – just one old friend helping another in need.

You made it to your former shared quarters, his cabin decorated slightly differently as his interests developed over the past decade. You stabilised him against the righthand wall and unclasped Yoru from his back and levered it to recline against the floor of the boat without having to lift it. After removing the mighty blade, you ushered him over to his bed by lacing yourself against his side and walking him over.

After halting at the bedframe, you pulled his shoulders from his long, leather jacket and neatly lay it over the back of his bedside desk chair. You turned him to face you and pushed his bare shoulders down so he could take a seat on his mattress. You knelt to the floor and removed his leather boots and pooled them in toe beneath the clothes you’d piled against the chair.

You stood between his knees as he hung his head to obstruct it from your view.

You noticed his smaller blade still hung from his neck. Although once, several years ago, you wanted to see him hang for the way he made you feel; your emotions changed as you matured from the person you once were to the woman you found your identity with now.

You reached your hands around his neck and gently unclasped the leather knot and lay the necklace over the chair your formerly lay his coat on. Lastly, you collected his hat from his head and tossed it to the side, it finding a stable place to rest atop his desk.

“I think you can handle it from here,” you cooed at him, still standing between his knees.

As you began to turn away from him, you felt his firm grip clasp your hips to halt your movements by holding them in place, his right hand still clasping a brandy bottle. You furrowed your brows and looked down at him, still hanging his head.

“Mihawk, I have to get back-,” you began, only to be surprised as he placed his lips against your stomach as he held you against him.

Your eyes widened at his sudden expression of affection, standing shocked between his knees. He withdrew his lips from your stomach and sighed a long breath.

“I should’ve,” he hiccupped, stuttering over his words, “never let you leave.”

You hung your head back, rotating it slightly in agitation to release a light click from it.

“Mihawk, you’re drunk,” you reprimanded him, bringing your left hand down to collect the quarter-drunk brandy bottle from his hand and place it on his bedside table.

“I should’ve,” his words caught in his throat, hissing slightly, “we would’ve had a child.”

You snapped your gaze back down to the dark curls on the crown of his head.

“She would’ve be nine by now,” he whispered to the floor, his shoulders quivering slightly as he continued to speak, “she would’ve had your hair and my eyes. She would’ve brought the world to their knees.”

“Mihawk,” you snarled in warning, prompting his shoulders to hitch upwards, “stop it.”

He sighed and continued to press his face into your stomach.

“I would’ve given you an army of children,” he murmured against your belly, “and you would’ve looked so beautiful growing them in here.”

At that, you pulled his head away from you by the scruff of his neck and looked deeply into his yellow eyes; your rage baring down into them. Although glazed over in light drunkenness, the streaks of fresh and matured tears remained against his cheeks.

“So beautiful,” he whispered lovingly as he looked into your eyes, bringing his right hand up to caress your hair.

You caught his wrist mid action and brought your face closer to his, him reacting by bringing his lips up to capture your own with a kiss.

You stopped a centimeter away from his face, holding firm your grasp on him.

“But you didn’t,” you snarled, a ferocity once again forming within your chest, “and you’re drunk.”

He inhaled a shaky breath as you held him so close to you. You let out an exasperated sigh which sounded a little more like a growl as you released his neck from your firm clutches.

Again, you made to turn to leave his quarters; his hands falling from your hips and lay against the edge of his bed.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, prompting you to halt your movement, “please don’t leave me again.”

“I have a job, Mihawk,” you spat, turning your head again to meet him, “and I intend to see it through. This little quest to get you to your quarters has eaten up enough of my time tonight and I’m needed back at Baratie.”

“I love you,” his whispered words halting your exit.

You paused at the door handle, looking to the chair beside you with his clothes neatly piled; the small golden cross hanging from the frame of the back of the chair.

“Look,” you said, turning to face him again, “I’ll be at Baratie until the morrow. If you still feel raw about it, I’ll be waiting. First table you see on the outer deck.��

“I’ll bring the brandy,” he uttered before falling back against the plush sheets of his bed.

You shook your head with a small chuckle and removed yourself from his cabin below deck and made your way back towards the raised stage beside the bar to continue singing well into the night, much to the delight the patrons of Baratie and the head chef who commissioned you.

Part 2

#one piece #opla #x reader #one piece live action #opla fic #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #mihawk x reader #mihawk

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