#they’re sweating buckets every night and those go back on the shelf
Text
I just know the inside of those ghoul helmets STINK
#like Cmon#they’re sweating buckets every night and those go back on the shelf#I don’t care how much they clean it#it’s gotta build up#p1nk thinks
61 notes
·
View notes
Text
She is my Only Vice
Chapter 9: Two Cases of EPX-1 and Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812
In which Jonathan must play the game without Sirene by his side. And Sirene gets to blow shit up.
18+ only, please! No specific warnings for this chapter, but we’re talking human trafficking.
This is dedicated to the lovely and unnaturally patient Imogen, who made me so very happy with her kind comments on this story. Thank you, my friend! Mwah!
Chapter 8 here
The yacht docked early the next day after heading in endless circles, looking for his Sirene. Jonathan had given up any pretense at calling her Sarah. Once again, because of him she nearly died and she was quite definitely in danger teamed up with that lunatic firebug David. And what the bloody hell did Angela mean, “I promised her this, she’s earned it?”
He was clipped and curt with his farewells, meeting varying degrees of chagrin and false concern, and in the case of Debare, outright amusement.
“I’ll see you in Kolkata,” Jonathan said in the same tone he’d use for “I’ll see you in hell.” Debare’s handsome face grew cold, but he nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find the merchandise at the,” he chuckled sardonically, “home office is top shelf.” His cold smile faded just an edge when Pine stared back at him, expression composed but eyes alight like the fires of hell.
Pulling away from the marina, Jonathan cursed himself. In all the time with Roper - no matter how bad it got - he’d always kept his composure. He’d handled everything with calm. But now… he wanted to put every one of these monsters in the middle of a crowd of their abused, starving captives and tell them to have at it. In fact… Jonathan smiled for the first time in the last 48 hours. Maybe he would do just that.
___________
“No! Look, this is simple- the sequence is: one, shape the plastique into a cone. Two, attach the agitator. You’re using the detonator cord as the shock that triggers the EPX-1. Three, you back the hell off when the chemical reaction begins, because the decomposition of the EPX-1 will-”
David had been lecturing you for at least three hours, making you build and re-build an explosive kit with the terrifying material you’d dragged over three countries in the mail plane and up the river in this leaky-ass boat. "Yeah, okay, agent. I got you. Explain how we will be utilizing this exercise?" You were pissy, and he knew it. But you were unprepared for the huge, almost feral grin that spread across that kindly, dark face.
"Ooo, girl. We're gonna blow some shit up."
Dressed in sturdy black jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that was making you sweat buckets, you were eyeing the comings and goings of the large and ugly office building in a particularly disreputable part of the city. Through your binoculars, you could see the ugly, indifferent expressions of men used to selling bodies and the souls that accompanied them. But it was three heavily-made up women that made you curl your lip.
"Those are the groomers," David whispered, "they're the ones that convince the parents to send their girls. Or they lure them away, far enough from home to get thrown into the trunk of a car. And some..." he hesitated and you looked over at his sad face. "Sometimes the parents seek them out to sell their children."
“When do we get moving?” Suddenly, you could barely endure the thought of leaving this shit-heap without blowing it sky-high.
“Patience,” he chided, “we have to wait for the buyers to clear it out. There’s a huge auction tomorrow night, they’re clearing out four different holding houses to move the stock - shit, I mean the kids - and that’s when we’re gonna party.”
You couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your face. “Best. Night. EVER.”
David laughed.
____________
Jonathan pulled on the crisply-pressed shirt, a fine cotton, hand-stitched to fit his long body. Emerald cufflinks. A slight dash of Tom Ford Private Blend Soleil Blanc cologne and he pulled on his suit jacket. Straightened the silk tie while his brain scrolled through the numbers and names he had to procure today. Hidden inside his precisely placed tiepin was a camera, top of the line, and MI:6’s best. A fisheye lens with a powerful anti-detection electronic blocker. He’d be filming the slave auction and every piece of shite attending it. His thoughts kept drifting back to Sirene. Was she safe? Was that lunatic pyromaniac endangering her? He knew they were part of the “cleanup crew,” now that Sirene couldn’t be spotted alive. But the anxiety of wondering where she was, what she was doing was disordering his usual, rigidly composed thought process. “Focus, damn you!” he hissed to himself. He still had pages and pages of intel to memorize and the only thing he could picture was her face, made beautiful in her orgasm the night he lost her.
Whereas before Jonathan’s mantra was “Keep her alive,” now it was simply, “Please, stay alive.”
Pulling up to the palatial estate just outside of Kolkata, Jonathan straightened his cuff, allowing the perfect three-quarter inch of snowy white shirt to appear from the suit sleeve. “I’m not expecting trouble,” he told the man across from him in the luxury SUV, "our job today is primarily information gathering and purchasing as many children as we can. They are the priority.”
The other man, huge with a nose that had clearly been broken too many times to breathe properly, nodded. “Aye. Your security detail will be a bunch of mean-looking arseholes.”
“Excellent,” Jonathan nodded appreciatively, before sighing. “There is a wrinkle, Ballard.”
A matching sigh. “There always is.”
“I received new orders today. We’re looking for the daughter of a Saudi official, very high up. She apparently likes to evade her bodyguard and sneak out to nightclubs with her friends.” He held up his phone, showing a picture of a lovely young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty. Her kohl-lined eyes were twinkling over her hijab. “She is,” Jonathan said, “priority one. There’s data showing movements from her region into India. If she’s been taken by Bachchon ka Bachaav Samaaj, she should show up in the auctions today, but likely tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?” asked Ballard, leaning in to get a better look at her face. “Do y’have a full-face image?”
“Yes,” Jonathan’s thumb swiped to the next picture, taken at home with the girl posed with her mother. “Today will be for the…” he swallowed his disgust, “...the lower and medium value girls and children. Agarwal’s top-shelf product will be shown tomorrow.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Pine, I’ve heard so much about you!” Ekbal Agarwal’s voice was low, cultured and he spoke perfect English, taking pride in his crisp pronunciation. “I understand my associates-” he nodded to the suddenly apprehensive Bianchis and a clearly sullen Debare Oni, “-lost your sweet pet. I assure you, we have an excellent selection here tonight, and your first selection is yours, as my gift.”
Jonathan nodded graciously, “You’re very generous, my friend.”
Agarwal smiled at him beneficently, “Of course.” He was wearing a hand-tailored suit, an exquisite fit that clearly cost thousands of pounds. His thick white hair was casually styled and Jonathan’s practiced eye could tell he wasn’t carrying a gun. His entourage, however, was packing enough weaponry to take over a small country.
As was Jonathan’s, just not as blatantly displayed. Sitting through the first two rounds of auctions, he cursed that Sirene wasn’t there. First, because she had an excellent memory for faces and names, and secondly, the two girls Agarwal had foisted on his as “entertainment” wouldn’t currently be attempting to grope his crotch. Because he knew they could be beaten or even killed for their “failure” in entertaining him if he sent them away, he gritted his teeth and simply moved their hands. Being seated comfortably, front and center gave the camera hidden in his tiepin some excellent shots. But none of the girls he scanned matched the image of the kidnapped Saudi girl.
His wily host sat next to him, watching Pine’s purchases of the youngest children. Agarwal finally chuckled. “These new resorts of yours, I can see they will be very popular.”
Smiling blandly, Jonathan nodded. “That is the goal, of course.” Eyeing the man next to him, he asked, “And have you thought about expanding from procurement to hosting? It’s wildly lucrative and…” he casually brushed a bit of glitter from one of the girls mauling him, “much less messy than my former profession.”
“Ah,” nodded Agarwal, “I’d met Roper many times, he’d purchased several of my inventory for business associates.” He eyed Jonathan shrewdly. “Sadly, your girl did not come from my stock. I would have charged him triple for her.”
Knowing this was intended as a compliment and also knowing that if he sat next to this loathsome troll for one more second that he’d be forced to disembowel him. So graciously taking his leave, Jonathan strolled cooly from the terrible room that stank of the opium they’d given the victims to keep them quiet.
“Nothing on the Saudi girl?” He could hear Angela’s tiredness, her impatience.
“She hasn’t been seen,” agreed Jonathan. He was stuck in a 4x4 space in his hotel suite when he could successfully dampen any as yet undetected listening devices, and his shoulders twitched uncomfortably. “But the ‘premium stock,’ as they call it, is coming up tomorrow. There’s been chatter about it all over the Dark Web, according to Ballard. He’s an excellent security support, by the way.”
“Good,” Angela sounded if possible, even more exhausted.
“Is your son keeping you up at night?” Jonathan blurted.
“What?” she was clearly startled.
“Well… Sire- Sarah was concerned about you. She’s been talking about the baby and that you weren’t getting any sleep. She wanted to suggest you get a night nanny, but-” Jonathan chuckled, “-she said she thought you’d, and I quote, ‘lose your shit' if she suggested it.”
“Really.” He could nearly smell his director’s disapproval. “Anything else?”
Scratching the back of his neck, Jonathan wondered if he should just shut up. Ignoring his usual care before he spoke, he continued, “Sirene - Sarah, rather, said you would fight the idea because you’d feel it would undermine your ability to be a good mother and that you’ve tried for so long, that you’d be even more aware of it. But she was adamant that you couldn't run a massive intelligence division without sleeping.”
“I see…” he couldn’t tell whether Angela was still irritated or amused. “You two have had wide-ranging conversations, then.”
Jonathan couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “She’s a very bright girl- young woman.”
Angela actually snickered. “Ah, you are learning Pine. We’ll speak tomorrow, good luck.”
_____________
Day Two of the slave auction:
You were trying to remember the last time you were in this much acute physical discomfort. Lying upside down, sweat running into your eyes and arms on fire from trying to wire this goddamn EPX-1 to the underside of the steel girder without blowing yourself up. After monitoring all four "holding pens" and watching the comings and goings, your job now was to wait for each crop of stolen children to be hauled away so that you could wire the hellhole they'd been trapped in and turn it into a fireball big enough to be seen in Pakistan. And you were so looking forward to this part. You knew just enough to be clear that Jonathan was buying as many of the little ones as he could while you and David were preparing one big giant "fuck you!" for the Bachchon ka Bachaav Samaaj and every piece of shit working for them. You really did have the best part of the job right now, even if you were fighting your misery and loneliness for Jonathan. Your hands slowed a bit. This is what it would be like when the mission was over. When you'd go back to your little houseboat on the Thames and he'd go somewhere else. Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to finish. It had taken such a short time to fall in love with that gorgeous son of a bitch again. Or maybe you never fell out. No matter, it would hurt like hell when he left, either way.
"Okay, this is going to be great!" David was so excited, he was almost giggling, and you were this close to giggling too. You were both utterly vile, coated in sweat and dirt, exhausted. You'd made it back to the boat just moments ago, with the morning well underway. "We wait until the auction starts up again. Once they start running through the girls, we've got MI:6, CIA, and IB agents waiting to move in."
You frowned. "What, seriously? That's a hell of a lot of intelligence agencies and so many people to trust. What happened to the slick snatch and grab arrests MI:6 planned?"
David yawned, rolling his eyes. "This is their turf, so IB has to be involved. Apparently there's a government official who intends to be on hand tomorrow so he can grab the credit in the press."
"Uh, huh..." You were chewing your lip furiously. "This sounds like a dumpster fire waiting to happen. How do they trust the official? And who's he alerting? We have the big names from nearly every major trafficking ring in one building tomorrow. With bodyguards. And guns. And unprotected, kidnapped children."
You looked up to see David looking at you with some compassion. "I know it's complete shite. But this is how it's done. If this all goes to plan, three countries get the credit for making a sizeable dent in this hellscape. And then..." he began rubbing his hands together, like a gleeful child, "then with all the new intelligence, we get started on the resorts. And we blow them straight to hell."
And just as planned, it was smooth as silk.
“I’ve triangulated the first three of these buildings so that we can detonate them simultaneously.” David was fiddling with the controllers for the drones, his earbuds and shoving you down into position on the rooftop a couple of blocks away from the first holding house. Below, there was the usual hubbub of a poorer neighborhood, kids running back and forth, shouting and kicking a battered soccer ball. The air was filled with the smells of curry and fish.
You frowned. “How far is the blast zone?”
God, the man was giggling again. “That’s the best part! It’s an implosion! You’ll see the fire shoot up like a rocket, but no scatter.”
Still scanning the streets with the powerful binoculars you’d been manning, you nodded. “Okay, based on what we saw yesterday, no one in their right mind gets within half a mile of that shitheap.” David handed you an earbud. “What is this for? Intel chatter?”
“Intel chatter?” He rolled his eyes, “You’ve been watching too many spy movies. No, I made us a mixtape.”
You couldn’t help the huge grin that made your cheeks actually hurt. “No freaking way.”
“Way,” David nodded.
And so you found yourself laughing uncontrollably as a giant gout of flame rose from Hellhole #1 as you were enjoying “Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812.” Sending an electronic pulse to the drone hovering over Hellhole #2 was accompanied by Blue Oyster Cult’s “I’m Burning For You.” And then as the steel girders you’d wired on Hellhole #3 detonated with a flash so blinding that it took you close to half an hour to stop seeing spots - you and David sang along with “Burning Ring of Fire” - the old school Johnny Cash version, of course - slightly louder than you should have.
When you’d finally slipped out of your vantage point, David looked at you, attempting to be stern even though his lips twitched. “How much EPX-1 did you use on those girders?”
You shrugged defensively. “Two cases, just like you told me.”
His eyes bugged. "I told you half a case! Are you nuts? We’re lucky the entire area’s not a crater!”
“You said two cases!”
“No! Sarah, I didn’t! Two cases…” David muttered as you both hastily packed up your gear. The fourth house was too far away to coordinate, so you had to get across the city and to your vantage point as fast as humanly possible, now that the alarm would be raised.
Staggering up the broken staircase and onto the roof close to the final location, you were wheezing, clutching your side and feeling the weight of your pack crush your spine. “Man, I thought I was in good shape,” you gasped out to David, who was rapidly attaching electronics together and listening in on a conversation. Dropping to your knees, you pulled out the drone, making sure the coordinates were coded in.
“It’s cell conversations within the blast area,” he said, still listening as his hands kept moving. “I isolated two of the guards, they’re fighting about which group is going into the building because of the other blasts. There’s more men on the way.”
“Let’s get going,” you nodded, holding out the drone for his final check.
That’s when everything went sideways. You were trained for things going sideways, but when someone hit the drone with a spray of bullets from an AK-47, you looked at each other. You could hear the frightened screams from the homes closer to you and people racing to get off the streets.
“Shiiiit,” groaned David, “we’re going to have to get closer to set off the EPX-1. I wish it was nighttime.”
Yanking a robe out of your pack and a headscarf, you agreed, “I know. How did they spot the drone? Those suckers are practically invisible!”
“They’ve got an electronic tracker in there,” David groaned, getting to his feet. “Has to be. This is where they keep the most valuable girls. It’s better guarded.” You both raced down the stairs and at the bottom, he put his hand on the door and turned to you with an odd smile. “By now, Sarah, they’ll probably have 30-40 of Agarwal’s goons in and around this dump. I timed it this way.”
Your jaw dropped. He was knowingly waiting for the building to fill up and take dozens of men out in a single blast. “Was… that part authorized?”
He shrugged, “No.”
You couldn’t help your smile, thinking about that basement where you’d been tied up, laying on the concrete floor. About the faces of the girls you'd seen in that revolting auction. “Let’s go.” Your anxiety mounted as you walked through the area, head down and moving briskly, giving off the air of, "Nothing to see here, move along."
“Yeah, can’t avoid the stares,” mumbled David, “a black man and a white woman in the middle of an industrial area in Eastern India.”
“You have to have the Jedi mind trick,” you said out of the corner of your mouth. “Remember when Obi-Wan Kenobi zoned out the stormtroopers and told them to move along? You have to go full Jedi.”
Despite the dire nature of your speed walk, he struggled not to laugh. “Obi-Wan Kenobi? Never mind, when we get within 500 feet, I’m turning on the signal to the detonator. We’re only going to have maybe a minute before they triangulate our position. We blow this dump and we run, you hear me?”
Nodding, you said, “If we get separated, we meet back at the boat.” Your steps slowed, the building was in sight now, ugly and gray. Some of the windows were broken, most were boarded up. Your gaze darted back and forth to the points where you’d set the EPX-1. This would work. It had to work.
__________________
"Ah, Mr. Pine, a pleasure to see you."
Jonathan's brow arched but he nodded graciously to the man, he recognized him as one of Agarwal's closest aides. "Hello, attendance seems… sparse today.”
The man bowed slightly and nodded. “This is the stage in the auctions where all the lower level bidders have been- priced out, as you say? If you’ll come with me…”
Frowning slightly, Jonathan and his security detail followed the aide through the palatial home and out to the back. The gardens there were stunningly beautiful and lush, and beyond them was a landing pad, a giant helicopter already warming up. Turning back to him, the aide smiled ruefully. “I fear the location for today’s auction had to be changed, you’ll be flown to New Delhi and returned promptly this evening, I assure you.” Gaze moving back to the helicopter, Jonathan could see some of the bidders from yesterday settling in, along with Debare and the Bianchis. “There will only be room for one bodyguard to accompany you, Mr. Pine. The rest can follow on the next transport. This will take you to a private landing strip and you’ll be flown out on Mr. Agarwal’s private jet. But I assure you the rest of your men will join you very shortly after landing.”
Pulling out his coldest glare, Jonathan snarled, “This is unexpected. I do not appreciate sudden changes in plans. Nor does my security detail.” Ballard, standing just behind him was in fact quietly seething.
Spreading his hands in apology, the aide smiled, “I understand, sir. But this is the only way to attend the final evening of the auction.”
Groaning internally, Ballard him aside. “I don’t like this,” the agent whispered, “it stinks. I have a feeling someone slipped up and alerted Agarwal.”
“If they did,” Jonathan’s lips were barely moving, “it doesn’t mean our cover is blown. None of the arresting officers know who I am. We have to go.” Ballard scowled at him, then turned to the rest of the security detail to give them the change in plans. Striding towards the aircraft, they looked up to see Carlotta’s red-lipsticked mouth spread wide in alarmingly excited greeting.
Agarwal's Embraer Lineage 1000 was in fact, extremely comfortable. Smiling flight attendants proffered drinks, slippers, offers of a neck massage and warm cloths to cleanse the dust of the helicopter from their faces. Idly waving off food or drink, Jonathan amiably conversed with some of the other top buyers - two men from Switzerland with square, hard faces. An older Brazilian with a booming laugh who found everything quite amusing. A vicious-looking, thin-lipped woman who looked like someone cast for the role of the cruel governess in a Victorian romance. And Debare, who smoked cigars continuously as he stared at the others and the Bianchis, who were intending, apparently, to get drunk as quickly as possible. The tense atmosphere broke when their landing was announced only two hours later. While waiting to get into the luxury SUV's waiting by the jet Ballard leaned in. "I tried sending electronic breadcrumbs through the entire flight. They jammed the signal. You'd better be right about them not knowing who you're working for."
The new auction site was just as loathsomely over the top, luxury-wise, as Agarwal's home in Kolkata. As they were ushered into a massive sitting room, chairs arranged to circle a small raised area, Jonathan scanned for all the possible exits while Ballard continued to try to contact the agents left behind. The atmosphere was, if possible, even darker than it was the day before. The auctioneer handling the bidding seemed oddly excited, the aides were wandering restlessly, keeping an eye on the buyers and leaning in often with questions for their comfort. When the first girls were pulled out into the “stage,” stumbling and eyes half-lidded from being drugged, everything seemed to settle down. To Jonathan’s frustration, they were still taking bids off the dark web, making it harder to track the buyers. Still, when agents finally moved in and arrested this group, they’ll have taken most of the major players out of the game.
“We have some fresh new arrivals to the auction, just procured today” the auctioneer was saying brightly. “Up next, a lovely American, blonde, brown-eyed and…” Jonathan’s spine turned to ice. They were dragging her into the room, his Sirene, dazed, pupils dilated, lips parted.
@trippedmetaldetector
@devikafernando
@green-nightlight
@weebid
@sllooney
@jtargaryen18
@myoxisbroken
@villainousshakespeare
@cursedcursingviking
@juju092118
@ririsutty
@legolasothranduilion
@jilldsumner
@wolfsmom1
@shae2103
@this-fine-ass-queen
@chillcan
@devikafernando
@wegingerangelica
@fairlightswiftly
@nildespirandum
@alexakeyloveloki
@thebatshitcrazyfangirl
@thehumming6ird
@archy3001
@xxxprettydeadgirlxxx
@anglophileforlife
@lokiloveforever
@thechildoflightanddarkness
@mariehooper
@xxashy999xx
@iheartsebastianstan
@justmeandmyobsessions1
@cheetahwarrior
@theonelittleone
@teddybearsandzombies
@limajoro
@fessae
@easily-addicted-geek
@pinkmicrobiologist
@findingstephanie
@thedevilkeepsadvertising
@beautiful-and-strange
@808-anon
@tomstinkerbell
@wolfpawn
@rayofdawnworld
@tomhiddleston-kikibfairy
@zainab2
@siren-kitten-his
@gentlepersephone
@deathbyukmen
@thecutestlittlebunbunfairy
@dangertoozmanykids101
@whovianwookie86-captainxev
@alexakeyloveloki
@mephistophelian-doll
@juju092118
@burningarbiterheart
@nuggsmum
@sserpente
@texmexdarling
@boredbrooder
@fairlightswiftly
@inkededucatednnerdy
@nonsensicalobsessions
@nikkalia
@lotus-eyedindiangoddess
@xoxabs88xox
@davidbuddbg
@kikatd7
@mcudarklibrary
@lokis-library
@tamstrugglestowrite
@imanuglywombat
@jennmurawski13
@margetastic33
@readermia
@marvelfansworld
@official-and-unstable-satan
@vodka-and-some-sass
@is-it-madness
@galagcica
@nekoannie-chan
@sllooney
@pinkzsugar
@weird-mumbling
@ guardian-tn
@scarletsoldierrr
@princess-evans-addict
@ilikechocolatemilkh
@kawairinrin
@ cvelarded
@titty-teetee
@ arseofrivia
@what-is-your-wish
@rainbowkisses31
#jonathan pine fandom#suit kink#human trafficking#dom/sub#the night manager fandom#tom hiddleston fandom#blowing shit up#explosives#international crime ring#MI:6
74 notes
·
View notes
Text
Vampire Whump 9: Healing
I still cannot believe the support this series has garnered. My deepest thanks to each and every one of you for your patience!
Content Warnings for this one: Questionable medical know-how, muzzles, reluctant caretaking, dehumanization, the briefest allusion to/mention of sexual assault. (nothing graphic, it’s a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of deal).
Masterlist
--
The water is warm, trickling down the vampire’s shoulders. Callum dunks the sponge back into the bucket, just like he’s been doing for the past fifteen minutes, but the vampire still flinches.
It’s on its knees, still naked, and the creature shivers as the water cools. It’s filthy, it knows; its skin is coated in a sticky layer of grime and sweat and blood. It smells, too, like piss and death and stale terror. It doesn’t understand why the hunter is touching it. It doesn’t understand why anyone would touch it.
At this point, the creature has begun to wonder if the hunter has well and truly lost his mind. It’s not supposed to wonder anything, it knows, and it tries not to. But sometimes, when the man does such strange things… sometimes it’s hard.
Only a madman would bring a vampire into the comfort of his home, leave it unrestrained, and then try to bathe it.
The vampire is shivering, but there’s a certain level of disconnection between the creature and its body. Compliance has earned it mercy until now, but punishment will come soon, and right now the hunter is touching it.
For the moment, though, it’s almost like the man isn’t trying to hurt it. But that is blasphemous. Every touch the vampire can remember has always brought it pain. It remembers Callum’s hands on it the day before, wrenching and pulling and shoving, and it feels sick.
“Hmm. We’re going to have to cut this, I think.” The hunter reaches up and slides his fingers into its hair, and it’s so sudden that the vampire cries out in blind panic and recoils. It’s been grabbed like this before – foreign hands gripping its hair, holding it down, pulling and wrenching and yanking. The vampire’s hair is matted and filthy, and when it shies away, Callum’s fingers get caught in the knots. Its scalp lights up with pain, and the far too familiar sensation hurtles the creature into a flashback.
The sense-memory floods its awareness without warning, and abruptly it’s held aloft, chains digging into every limb, agony eating into its face. In real time, the vampire gives a bitten-off cry and lurches forward on its knees. It doesn’t even notice as the hunter yanks his hand back, cursing colorfully, a few brown strands caught in his fingers. It’s quick; one moment the creature is tense but stationary, and the next all it can sense is the surrounding crowds, and the violent, unrelenting passage of day and night, and the burning— burning, burning, it would never stop burning, and the hands on it would never relent, not until they’d consumed every last part of it –
“Whoa, hey!” Callum’s heart has kicked into overdrive at the vampire’s sudden movement, but it doesn’t even seem like the creature is seeing him.
Instead it whimpers and gags on the next inhale, cowering in place, and its gasps for air are only getting thinner. It can feel the memory of the sun, burning its skin off layer by layer as the assembled humans watch, as they laugh. It can taste the blood from screaming too loud for too long, and it can taste the helplessness when the screaming stopped but the pain didn’t.
There’s a sudden, sharp blow to its cheek, and the vampire abruptly snaps back into the present. It’s wheezing on every inhale, head turned to the side. The hunter is crouched across from it, one hand extended. It shudders and gasps, feeling the echoing memory of being burned alive.
“Hey. Hey, yeah, there you go.” The hunter’s talking, but the vampire feels like it’s spinning in wild circles, nothing to hold it down. “Hey bud, try and focus on me, okay? You’re right here. They’re not… You’re not there anymore. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The air feels like sandpaper as the vampire cowers, and it whimpers a pathetic apology. Only some of the words make sense. It feels like it’s trembling from the inside out, like its core has decided to shake apart.
It registers only belatedly that the hunter has finally struck it, and of all the things, the vampire is grateful. It is used to much harsher correction than an open hand.
“You back with me, bud?” The man’s low baritone has the vampire shrinking inwards again. “Hey, little bat. I need to know if you’re hearing me. Nod yes if you are, okay?” It’s phrased strangely, but there’s an order cloaked within the words, and the creature quickly jerks its head in a nod. “Okay, good. That’s good.”
The vampire does not dare look any higher than the hunter’s knees, and when Callum crouches down it cringes away.
It knows its place, it does. It doesn’t need to be reminded.
“Easy,” the hunter murmurs. “I don’t know where you went, kid, but it’s over now.” There’s silence for a moment, and the vampire quivers and waits. “… I have to finish washing you,” the hunter says, apparently deciding that he’s waited long enough. “Nod if you understand.”
Sometimes, it’s easier to disappear into its own head. The vampire understands that the question isn’t really a question, and even if it was, there would only be one answer to give.
The human is careful with it, and the creature is grateful. But it still goes fuzzy and glassy-eyed as Callum returns to sponging the filth and dirt off its skin.
By the time Callum is finished, the vampire’s skin is three shades lighter, the water in the bucket is nearly black, and there are spots of fresh blood beading up around its neck and wrists. It’s not perfectly clean, but it’s clean enough that the abuse is starker, without the cover of filth. The hunter grimaces and gently dabs at its throat again, and the vampire trembles and endures it.
“Okay. That’s as good as it’s going to get, I think.”
Water still drips in rivets from the vampire’s bare skin, and it tracks the motion of Callum’s hands as the hunter drops the sponge into the bucket. Then the man stands up, and the creature flinches habitually.
“I’ll be right back,” the hunter mutters. “Stay.”
The vampire is unaccustomed to being spoken to – but whenever Callum gives an instruction it can understand, the creature latches onto it like a lifeline. The other hunters had not cared whether it obeyed or not; it would be hurt just the same either way. But this hunter gives commands, and he speaks to it, and he offers lenience in exchange for obedience.
It’s more mercy than the vampire deserves.
The door is not locked, but it stays where it was put, even as the hunter’s steps fade. In the man’s absence, the creature dares to glance around at its surroundings.
The walls are stone, and there’s a drain in the floor. There is a shelf on the opposite wall with soap and a second sponge, and a wooden stool tucked beneath it. Beyond that the room is bare, and the vampire wraps its good arm around its middle, trying uselessly to conserve warmth.
The door screeches back open, and the vampire’s back hits the far wall before Callum is even fully in the room.
“Hey,” the man says softly. “Easy, pointy. It’s just me.” The words aren’t reassuring, but the vampire only whimpers when the man takes a step closer. Callum hesitates at the sound, and after a moment he drops down into a crouch, holding up the bundle he’s holding.
“I brought towels,” he says. “There are clothes waiting in your room. Let’s get you dry. Then we can take another crack at fixing you up.”
It’s too much information all at once. Clothes and towels and fixing are not things meant for filthy, bloodsucking leeches. And why bother fixing it up, if the hunter would only break it apart again after? The creature trembles under the weight of its own confusion. This is a trick, certainly, a test.
Eventually, the hunter sighs.
“Alright. How about this? You, come here.” The hunter snaps his fingers and then taps the ground at his feet, and relief floods the creature like cool water, because that, at least, is a command it understands.
This man hasn’t punished it for obeying yet, but it still cowers low as it drags itself across the floor. The thought of walking is laughable; instead it moves in an awkward, dragging crawl, and after several moments it drops into a pile at the hunter’s feet. Crooked fingers tremble a mere few inches from the hunter’s boots.
“Okay, good,” the man murmurs. Something settles around bony shoulders, and the vampire shrinks away and whines piteously. It’s being still and obedient, but it doesn’t understand.
The hunter finishes wrapping the towel around its torso, and the vampire shivers and stays put.
“We’ll definitely need to cut your hair,” he muses absently. He’s got a second towel out, squeezing the worst of the moisture out of the creature’s matted hair. The towel comes back dirty, and the hunter tisks.
Callum had removed the belt holding the vampire’s left arm in place so that he can wash it, and the limb feels disconnected and heavy. There is a numbness extending down the vampire’s arm and into its fingers, but there are still enough other hurts that it hardly notices.
“Okay, easy does it. Now let me see your arm…” Callum takes its wrist, and the vampire gives a small, broken warble. It remembers the strength in those hands as the human had snapped its shoulder. It had been so easy, like the vampire was just a broken doll.
“Shh,” the hunter murmurs. “You’re doing fine, kid. I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t want to hurt you. The creature muffles another little whimper, because it knows that those words are a lie. “I have to see if your shoulder is healing properly,” comes next, and the vampire flinches, drops its eyes.
It doesn’t try to escape, but the vampire can’t help the way it cowers under the hunter’s shadow. Its wrist is still horribly swollen, even though the bone has been set, and the vampire whimpers softly as Callum carefully prods at it.
“Try moving your fingers for me.” The creature tries to twitch its fingers and is met with limited success. “Hmm,” the hunter muses, watching as the creature struggles to move its ring finger. The vampire gives a little whimper in response. This isn’t the result Callum wants, and the human has given it so few commands thus far; just stay and quiet and do as you’re told.
It remembers too late that the man wants it silent, and the creature sinks lower to the floor and bites its tongue to stop its whining. Its wrist is still awkwardly extended, held out for the hunter to examine, or to hurt. There is more light prodding, and the vampire swallows the urge to retch and squeezes its eyes shut.
Callum’s grip changes, then, and more pain flares up from its bad shoulder, and the vampire’s whole body crunches inwards with the effort of staying still and quiet. The pain rolls through it in sickening pulses, and there is more just around the corner, as soon as the man decides to pull or yank or squeeze. The creature can only tremble in place and wait.
“That’s got to hurt,” the hunter mutters. “Try moving your fingers again? One at a time, there you go.” The vampire is confused and terrified, but it marshals its energy and obeys.
Its left thumb and index finger move without issue; its middle finger is stiff, and it shakes with exertion. More than one of the digits is crooked, but those are old injuries, none of them fresh enough to hurt.
Its ring finger and pinky won’t move at all. The vampire tries, but that numbing sensation from earlier is back, shooting all the way from its brutalized shoulder down into its hand.
The vampire muffles a little whimper and tries to curl all its fingers into a fist, but only the first three respond.
“Alright, okay. That’s enough.” It’s such a small thing to do, but the vampire’s shoulders slump as it gives up. The weakness is like a living thing, weighing down its limbs. “So there’s some nerve damage. Interesting.”
The hunter seems neither pleased nor displeased, and the vampire hangs in limbo and waits for his mood to swing one way or the other. Instead, Callum bends to scoop up the discarded belt. “This has to go back on for at least another four days. There’s not much I can do about the nerve damage. We’ll just have to wait and see if your body can repair itself.”
The vampire isn’t listening. Of course, it tries at first – but the information is coming too quickly, and in too harsh a juxtaposition to what it’s used to.
It exists to be hurt, so that its betters can delight in its suffering. The creature knows this, and it does not understand why it hasn’t been beaten yet, or worse.
It is toweled dry gingerly, and then its bad arm is secured against its torso with the belt.
“I know you’re exhausted,” the man says. “I’m going to let you rest very soon. But I have to take a look at the rest of the damage first. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable…”
The vampire squeezes its eyes shut when the man reaches for it, but it doesn’t struggle when it’s picked up. The position puts its face right next to the hunter’s neck, and the creature smells flesh and veins and blood, and it whimpers and twists its face away.
So far, the hunter has been merciful and allowed it to remain unmuzzled. But in order to keep such a privilege, the creature must be absolutely harmless.
“Now, this is going to twinge, and I am not going to get bitten by accident.” The hunter is calm and assured as he nudges the cell open and deposits the vampire back on the thin cot. There are several somethings waiting on the stool; water, bandages, metal and leather – the muzzle.
Even knowing that the device isn’t made of iron, the vampire can’t help but whimper.
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I figured,” Callum muses. “But I need to clean up your back. And your feet.” The hunter draws in another breath, like he’s about to add something else, then changes his mind, shakes his head. “We already know your ribs are a nightmare. But I don’t know how much I can do about that.”
The vampire isn’t sure if it’s meant to respond to the information. But it understands what bitten by accident means, and when Callum takes a step closer the vampire whimpers and shies away.
“Easy,” the hunter says. “Don’t go making this difficult, now.” It’s a reminder, of course; a reminder that there will be no escaping whatever the hunter has planned for it. It’s the gentlest of such reminders than the creature can remember, and it sinks lower on the cot in response and whines its obedience.
Callum knows he’s looming, but the vampire is shrinking away from him so hard that it’s impossible not to. “I thought we could do this a one-or-the-other type way… but it looks like you might not be up for choices, huh.” He’s not surprised, anymore, by the lack of response. The vampire is nearly bestial in the way it responds to him; as far as Callum can tell, beyond yes or no questions, it reacts more to his tone than to what he says.
It’s animalistic. And Callum would be tempted to keep thinking of the creature that way, except for the naked, human terror in its eyes whenever he moves too quickly or speaks too harshly.
“Same deal as last time,” he mutters. “You go where you’re put, and I’ll make this quick.” He picks up the muzzle and undoes the straps, and watches the vampire swallow a whimper.
He’s gentler, this time, when he puts the muzzle on, despite the danger of having his fingers so close to the creature’s teeth. He’d taken the bit out that morning, and Callum adjusts the smooth curve of leather to make sure nothing pinches before buckling it closed. The vampire is completely docile while he works.
“There we go, good,” he murmurs. It feels natural to talk to the creature, even if Callum is still unsure of how much it understands. But he is fairly certain that he hasn’t imagined the vampire’s response. Some of the constant, numbing terror seems to ease just a little when it knows that Callum is pleased.
Of course, he thinks bitterly, that makes sense. He wonders what a difference in treatment it would have made, before, if those other hunters had been pleased or not.
“Now down,” he murmurs, and he turns the creature and presses, and it folds under the direction like paper. There’s a nearly inaudible whine as the vampire settles belly-down on the cot, and Callum hushes it softly. He goes to pat the creature’s bare flank, like he would to calm his horse, but the skin there is concave, stretched too thin over pulped ribs. He grits his teeth, turns away.
“Stay,” he says, and all movement from the vampire immediately ceases.
The coming operation would be a lot easier in his lab, but Callum’s not sure he can handle the creature’s terrorized, hollow-eyed stare again so soon. And he’s sure the vampire appreciates being on the cot instead of the cold exam table.
There’s clean water, alcohol, and a cloth waiting, as well as bandages and an assortment of sutures and creams.
Callum has a wary alliance with the town’s doctor where Callum treats his own injuries, unless he’s been hurt badly enough that he physically can’t... and on those occasions when he shows up on the doc’s doorstep bleeding too heavily to staunch, he pays the doctor triple, and after he limps out the back door on his own power. But there’s no amount of gold that would convince a human doctor to see a vampire, even if the risk factor wasn’t so great. So Callum and this little vampire are on their own.
“Fuck, kid,” he mutters as he crouches down beside the cot. The creature’s rib cage is visibly misshapen, even (or especially) when seen from the back. The knobs of its spine protrude grotesquely from its body, like its skin has been suctioned right down to its bones. Some of the scars are old, raised and textured, and some aren’t scars at all, still open and oozing. Many are somewhere in between, but all dealt with the same casual cruelty that Callum has come to expect. There’s nothing deliberate about the injuries; this damage had been dealt carelessly, angrily. Hatefully.
The vampire is quivering as it waits, and when Callum carefully touches a patch of bruised skin, it twitches and lets out a muffled sob.
“C’mon, now,” Callum says. “I’m not hurting you.” Not yet, anyway. Not on purpose. “It won’t be like yesterday,” he murmurs. “I’m just cleaning out these open wounds, and I need to see what’s broken.” It’s not a question of if, just of what. “If you haven’t bled out already, I don’t think you need stitches.”
The vampire flinches minutely, and then there’s nothing left to say.
Most of the damage is visible to the naked eye, what with how gaunt the creature it, but Callum checks anyway. Its pelvis is in one piece, its hips are where they should be – although the vampire gasps and whines piteously as Callum tests the one on the left. He doesn’t like the way its ribs crunch and move with every inhale.
“Alright, it’s alright,” he murmurs as the examination goes lower. It turns his stomach, but Callum braces himself and checks for signs of a different kind of assault. There is nothing – or at least, there is no evidence present.
Below that, the vampire’s knees are swollen, and there’s a visible dent in the bone of its right shin. Callum frowns, then prods, very gently. There’s no reaction from the creature; an old break, then. Further examination reveals that it’s the vampire’s tibia bone, and it was caved inwards and then healed incorrectly.
The creature won’t be able to walk until it heals, but then, that also applies to its recently set hip joint. And, Callum discovers as he continues, it also applies to the soles of the vampire’s feet.
Tatters. That’s the only word Callum can think of describe the state they’re in. He takes one of the creature’s ankles, skinny and knobby, and the flesh there is still open and raw from the iron manacles. The vampire flinches at the contact, and its foot jerks, like it might pull away – but it quickly goes still again.
“That’s it, little bat,” Callum soothes as he looks over the damage. “You’re doing fine.” There’s still dirt caked in the open wounds, and Callum lets out a sigh, runs a hand down his face. He’ll need to clean its feet. But first he completes the rest of the exam. The creature’s cranium is intact, no dents or bumps, although there’s a nasty, crusted bruise on the back of its skull. His fingers come away bloody, and the vampire flinches and whines.
“This part is going to hurt,” he says when he’s done. There’s a delayed, wounded sort of whimper, but the creature only clenches its fingers in the blanket and squeezes its eyes shut.
Callum drags the water closer and wishes he was anywhere else.
The creature screams as he cleans its feet. There’s no way to make it painless; the flesh on the bottom of its feet isn’t burned, it’s sliced. Some skin comes away in a ribbon as Callum squeezes water out over it, and he forces down his gag reflex. There’s grit and dirt particles stuck in the cuts, and even though he had brought two extra pots of clean water, he goes through all of it.
The water is pink by the time he’s done, and the vampire is panting and sobbing into the lumpy mattress.
“I know,” Callum mutters. “I know, pointy, I’m sorry.”
Somehow, throughout all the pain, the vampire has managed to remain mostly still. But this time, when he catches one of those slender ankles, it cries out and twists. All it takes is a warning squeeze, and the creature sobs desperately but falls still and silent again.
It’s the cream next; if the creature were human, Callum would have to follow the water up with alcohol, and then bandage it. But the possibility of an infection has had a long head start – months of it. If infection could kill the creature, it would have done so already. So Callum dabs a cream made for soothing and pain-relief onto the cuts, and the creature twitches and flinches through it.
He makes sure to get the vampire’s raw ankles too, and then everything from the ankle down is wrapped in clean bandages.
“There we go,” Callum says as he sits back. The vampire is still shaking, hiding its face in its good arm. “Almost done,” he adds.
He cleans the open wounds on the vampire’s back, and the knot on the back of its skull, but he knows they aren’t the biggest threat.
The creature’s rib cage is in bad shape. Callum can see the way its ribs shift and move with each inhale, and there’s one doesn’t even seem to be attached to its sternum anymore. Some are crooked, and there’s one poking up against the skin – not piercing, but threatening to.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. If any internal organs had been punctured, the creature should be dead – but then, that assumes that vampires even have working organs. That assumes they can even die from things like internal bleeding or sepsis or a collapsed lung. “This would be a lot easier if I knew what I was dealing with,” he thinks out loud.
There’s a faint wheeze every time the vampire inhales, and Callum knows that it hasn’t just started. Injuries like this would kill a human, would have killed a human, probably a long time ago. And because it would have killed a human, Callum isn’t sure how to treat them. Support from the outside, certainly – but that won’t do much good, if the ribs are splintered inwards.
It’s too much, all of a sudden. Callum pushes to his feet and steps away, inhales sharply, clenches his teeth.
He doesn’t know how to fix this.
“We’re – hnnk.” His voice catches, and Callum coughs. “I’m going to wrap your ribs, and we’ll call that it for the day.” Because right now, that’s all he can do. None of these injuries can heal until all the misaligned bones are back where they should be.
He might have to cut it open, Callum thinks – and the thought horrifies him. He’s got nothing to put it under with, doesn’t even know what substances or chemical compounds might affect a vampire, aside from iron and silver. There would be nothing to dull the pain as he peeled it open and dug around for its misplaced ribs.
On the thin little cot, the vampire is huddled as small as it can go and still be flat on its stomach. The hunter had put it there, and the creature hasn’t dared to move. It hadn’t, not even when the man had poured what felt like boiling acid over its feet. Not when it stung and burned and made tears prick in its eyes.
“Alright, over you go.” Callum does not wait for it to obey; instead he helps it move, and the creature gasps as pain lances through it. There’s still so much of it, coming from so many different places. The hunter leans it against the cold wall, and mutters a quick, “Stay.”
The vampire stays, and Callum retrieves the largest two rolls of bandages and starts carefully winding them around its torso.
When it’s done, the creature looks almost human. The grit has been cleaned off its skin, the worst open wounds have been bandaged. Callum unbuckles the muzzle when it’s over, and he steadies the creature’s jaw as it comes free.
The vampire wets its lip habitually, but instead of charred flesh, all it tastes is the lingering tint of steel. It had forgotten that the hunter had muzzled it; after wearing one for so long, its bare face feels stranger than the leather and metal.
“Now let’s get you into some clothes.” There’s a pile waiting by the door, soft, earthy colors and stiff cotton. The vampire’s eyes skip over it uncomprehendingly, unable to even process the words.
The creature recoils when the hunter reaches for it. There is fabric looped carefully over its wrist, and the vampire swallows another whimper. Maybe it’s just cloth – or maybe he’ll hang it from its bad arm, make it whimper and scream. Maybe he’ll break the other one, so it matches, and the vampire knows that it deserves the pain, but it’s so tired of hurting.
Instead the fabric is pulled up, still careful, and then it’s being guided down over the creature’s head, and – a shift?
“Okay, good.” Callum is patient with the vampire’s confusion, and with its fumbling when it finally figures out what it’s supposed to do. The fabric is bundled up under its chin, but it’s clothing, not a rope or a restraint, or some kind of new torture implement.
The vampire lets out a shuddering breath as Callum tugs the garment into place. It’s not a shirt so much as a loose cotton drape, and the hunter ties it below its bad shoulder, and then the vampire is clothed for the first time in its memory.
The fabric feels too tight, too heavy against its skin.
Pants are next; the creature still cannot stand, so the hunter has to awkwardly hold it while they tug on a set of Callum’s old breeches. The vampire knows they are Callum’s, because the fabric is soft with use and mended in places, and it smells like sun and the desert.
Every little motion makes its injuries sing with pain, and every second the vampire expects the hunter to make it worse – dig his fingers into its side, maybe, or its back.
“That’s better,” the hunter says instead, and the vampire can only blink at his shoes in bewilderment. It does not understand the continued commentary. But better is a stepping-stone from bad to good, so the vampire clings to it and hopes.
“I’m going out for a little while.” The hunter’s voice comes again as he steps away, picks up the dirty water, gatherings up the other supplies. “I have someone to visit. When I get back I’ll have blood for you.”
Just the mention of blood makes the vampire’s gums prick, and it whines softly.
“Yeah,” the hunter agrees absently. “You need more than I can give you. So… hold tight. Just for a little longer.”
Callum takes the muzzle with him, and the creature watches with wide, baffled eyes as he goes.
The cell door closes, and once again the vampire is left bewildered, marooned, adrift in a sea of its own confusion. It understands, on some level, that this man has been nothing but careful with it. And yet pain and torment are the only things the creature understands, so it doesn’t understand this.
The lack of pain feels like a missing limb, for how used to it the creature has gotten. And in the absence of it, the vampire isn’t sure what’s left. It doesn’t know what it has left to offer, what it still has for the man to take from it or use it for.
But this hunter seems to have dedicated himself to finding out.
--
[END]
Previous, Next
@wildfaewhump @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump @what-huh-imconfused @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty @scarheart @kyra-plays @lionhxartx @blue-flare10 @whumpywhumper @doityourselfbombs @pastry-case @maybeawhumpblog @httyd-chocolate @maqcyloup @yyyee-haw @to-hurt-and-comfort @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @manip-loki @dungeons-and-dragons-and-whump @ariirenn @poetofswords86 @whumpity--whump--whump @swagjudgehandsdragon @machimaquiaveli @theladyoffangorn @oracle-of-maybe @cuddlycryptid @the-potato-beeper @insanitycheshire @slam-whump @sweeterthanadonut @ffaerie-dustt @whump-in-the-night @elfo8792 @kinda-bad-poet @crackedskel @deluxewhump @this-zombie-will-eat-you @a-moment-to-write @stoic-whumpee @paradigmparadoxical @burtlederp
#whump#nonhuman whumpee#obedience#fear#muzzle#reluctant caretaker#vampire whump series#my writing#editing six months later for world building purposes#O.ooo
473 notes
·
View notes
Text
Animals - Part 1
Warnings: descriptions of SEXUAL ASSAULT, asshole characters, angst(maybe?), poor language/swearing/cursing, name-calling(bad words)
Word Count: approx. 2,330
A/N: This is the first installment and I’m SUPER excited. I really hope you like it. PLEASE heed the warnings and tell me if I left any out. I am not responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to this story. Feedback is always appreciated!
——
“He’s here.”
Ana nudges your arm, nodding in the direction of the front door.
It’s like clockwork; the bell above the door to the diner rings every morning at 10 a.m. right before the lunch rush. He always takes the table in the corner near the door and always orders the same meal. He’s gone by 11, leaving behind a clean table, a generous tip, and a polite ‘thank you’ as he leaves.
“And?” you huff, scrubbing at that stubborn coffee stain on the bar counter. Your fingers hurt from the effort but it’s been there for weeks and you won’t be satisfied until the damn thing is gone.
“And,” she starts, “you’d better get his number before I do.”
“God, will you stop?” You roll your eyes, tossing the dirty rag through the window of the kitchen and into the sink. “I mentioned it one time.”
“Still.” Ana shrugs, toeing the kitchen door open. “He’s cute. You should ask him.” She disappears behind the door and it swings after her, squeaking on its hinges.
Sighing, you glance over at his table. He’s hunched over his menu like he is every morning, but you know he’s going to get the same black coffee and blueberry pancakes. Pulling your notepad from your apron, you approach his table.
The grin he sends you makes your face heat up like a furnace. That, and those steel-blue eyes and that one sharp canine that pokes out from under his upper lip when he smiles has you as shy as a schoolgirl and weak in the knees. Not to mention the deep timbre of his voice that washes over you like warm chocolate.
“Good morning,” you smile, doing your best to keep eye contact. It’s kind of impossible, though, with that innocent little smirk. “The usual?”
“Actually, I think I’m gonna try the breakfast platter.”
“Oh?” you grin, scribbling his order on your notepad. “Changing it up?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he picks at the edge of the menu. “Yeah, you could say that.”
The way he’s staring is starting to make you self conscious, but it’s not uncomfortable; he’s always been polite and respectful. He’s not looking at you like a piece of meat like some men do. It’s the type of look that makes you sweat and puts butterflies in your belly.
“Alright, then.” Stuffing your notepad and pen back into your apron, you pick the menu from the table and hug it to your chest. “I’ll be back in a few.”
Turning on your heel and marching toward the kitchen, you catch Ana in the window grinning at you. She raises her eyebrows as you round the corner of the bar and stuff the menu on a shelf.
“So?”
“Just make the damn food.”
Her laugh echoes in the diner as you shove the order slip in her face and force her back into the kitchen.
——
Your eyes have been dancing between the clock on the wall and John Doe in the corner for the past hour. You’ve refilled his coffee once already and you’re anxiously dreading for 11 o’clock to roll around. You’re cleaning the coffee machine when the bell above the door rings at precisely 10:52 a.m..
“G’mornin’, sweetheart.”
The voice makes you jump, nearly knocking you off your stool. Glancing over your shoulder, those butterflies are gone and replaced with nausea. Turning around and stepping down, you wipe your hands on your coffee-stained white polo shirt.
“Good morning, Brock.”
“It sure is,” he grins. The way his eyes rove your body sends a chilled shiver across your skin, and you’re sure that nausea is going to get the better of you.“How’s my favorite girl?”
“If you aren’t going to order anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Easy, I just stopped by to say hello.”
“Well, you said it.” Avoiding his eyes, you pulled a slip from the register and slid around the corner of the bar towards the man with the blue eyes and slicked-back hair.
A cold hand wraps around your arm, spinning you until your spine clashes with the edge of the counter. Brock is on your front in the next second, caging you in with his arms and thick chest.
“I take time out of my day to stop by and this is what I get?” he questions, tilting his head as you turn away. “I missed you.”
“Please, just go away.”
“Don’t be like that, sweetheart.”
“She said back off,” a voice barks, tone deep and aggressive, straight from the chest. You vaguely recognize it, but it’s sharp and demanding, not the soft velvet that you’ve been crushing on for weeks.
Brock’s eyes rake your face as his tongue presses irritatingly at the inside of his cheek. He spares a glance over his shoulder and grins, pushing himself off the counter. “Did she?”
“She did.” Blue Eyes is standing behind him, tall with his chest out and head high. That warmth in his eyes is gone, the blue now as cold as ice as he stares daggers.
“Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, Barnes?”
“Do you really wanna find out?”
They’re chest to chest, staring each other down. You’re frozen, waiting for the first punch to be thrown with a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the counter. The tense silence between them is almost deafening as the other few customers quiet their conversations.
Instead, Brock nods. “Alright,” he surrenders, taking a step back and glancing at you over his shoulder. He sends you a toothy grin. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”
You watch as he sidesteps around Blue Eyes towards the door, their eyes on each other until Brock is on the street and out of sight.
He watches through the window for a moment before releasing the tension in his shoulders and turning his gaze back to you. It’s soft, now; the cold stare he gave to Brock is gone, now only replaced with concern and a furrowed brow, his head hung low.
“Are you okay?”
His voice pulls you from your shocked state. His eyes are watching you, searching for any bumps or bruises.
“I- yeah. I’m okay,” you nod, sighing and rubbing your clammy hands unconsciously on your apron. “Thank you.”
His lips quirk at the corners. “You don’t need to thank me.”
Nodding again, you run your fingers through your hair. “I, um, I have your bill.” You look down to your hand where the paper is crumpled and the ink is smeared.
“Is it alright if I stay a while?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the clock. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. “I’d like to try the pie special.”
“Of course,” you smiled, toying with the ruined paper in your shakey hands as you move behind the counter.
He sits at the bar this time, his hulking form of muscle and leather in plain view of the street outside.
“I see you in here all the time,” you say from behind the counter, kneeling to pull the pies from the cooler. “What’s your name?”
“Bucky,” he replies as you rise to your feet. You hold out the pies for him and he nods to the blueberry, silently watching as you cut a slice and set it in front of him. “Yours?”
You smile, your cheeks once again on fire as he takes his first bite, the altercation with Brock now at the back of your mind. “Y/N.”
Bucky sits at the counter the next day. And then the next, and the day after that. He’s left that lonely table in the corner behind in favor of keeping you company. He stays past 11, now, too. Sometimes he’s here even when you lock up in the late afternoon.
If you’re being honest with yourself, you enjoy his company. Ana teases you about it relentlessly, claiming he’s your ‘lost puppy’. You just roll your eyes and serve his daily slice of homemade blueberry pie.
——
The key clicks in the lock when you close the diner at 5 p.m.. A shiver takes over you at the cool chill in the air, autumn finally setting in as the sun sets.
Bucky had left an hour ago, speeding out of town on his one-of-a-kind Harley-Davidson. The two of you have gotten close in the past few weeks, but it’s not like you’re complaining; he’s charming, sweet, and he’s got the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen.
Sighing, you tuck your jacket tightly around your chest and prepare for your 2-mile trek home as the sun fades. It’s not a bad night; the sky is clear enough to see the stars, and it’s not yet cold enough for your toes to freeze. Which is a good thing, really; you’ve yet to get your furnace fixed.
The back road you walk is quiet and dark, save for the gravel underneath your feet and the light of the moon. The road isn’t traveled often at this time in the evening, so it’s odd to see a set of headlights and an old-fashioned Ford 4x4 twisting around the windy road and through the trees. You step off to the side as it passes, paying it no mind.
It pulls over, he doors creaking open and slamming shut as two sets of heavy boots crunch the leaves along the side of the road. Your gut turns with intuition and you don’t dare look over your shoulder, quickening your pace and taking larger strides.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a voice slurs as it moves closer, “where you goin’?”
A chuckle and a second voice slurs behind the first. “I don’t think she likes you, Don.”
They’re obviously drunk. Even from their small distance away you can smell the rancid scent of stale beer and cheap liquor. It’s a wonder they can drive that rust bucket they call a truck.
“Hey.” A hand grips your upper arm, pulling you back midstep and twisting you around. “I was talkin’ to you, dollface.”
Even in the dark, you recognize them; they’re occasionally at the diner, only there to ogle at you and Ana. They’re disgusting and rude, and you’ve had to ask them to leave multiple times because of it.
“Let me go,” you hiss, tugging at his hold on your arm.
“C’mon, honey,” the other man coos, coming up on your back. His fingers ghost as the hem of your coat before slipping under and crawling up the expanse of your back. “We’ve had a long day. Can’t you cut us some slack?”
“Don’t fucking touch me!” You jerk your elbow back into his face and he yelps as his nose snaps. He stumbles back, gripping his face as blood begins to drip down his lip.
“You fuckin’ bitch!”
The hold on your arm throws you onto the road. Suddenly, your coat is being ripped open and drunk fingers are fumbling with the buckle on your belt. “You’re just askin’ for it, aren’t you?” Don’s weight on top of you is heavy as you kick and shove, his hot breath nearly making you gag. “A pretty little thing like you out here all by yer’self, then you go an’ hurt my friend. What’d you think would happen?”
Your cries and pleas fade into the dark scenery as he chuckles sickeningly in your ear. His fingers pull at the buckle of his belt, and it jingles the light from the moon is suddenly shadowed.
A deep, guttural growl comes from just behind the treeline, branches and leaves snapping under heavy yet careful footfalls. Both men freeze, slowly turning to glance over their shoulders. There’s a beat of silence with them still on the ground, one hovering over you and the other still bleeding from his face, before a loud vicious snarl rips through the trees.
They’re off the ground and stumbling across the road on drunk feet in a flash, shouting profanities at each other. The truck is barreling down the road before the doors are slammed shut, tires squealing on the old pavement as the taillights fade out of sight.
You’re too distracted to notice they’re gone.
Just a few feet away, the moon is blocked by a towering figure. Grey-white fur is illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight. Ice-blue eyes glow in the dark and stare down a long pointed snout at your form on the road. Its claws scrape the pavement just inches away from your shoes, and it seems as it’s as tall as the trees.
You don’t dare move. The rational side of your brain is telling you it’s a hallucination from adrenaline, and the other is trying to haul your ass off the ground. Either way, what you’re seeing isn’t possible. You’re suddenly thrown back into your childhood with stories of monsters in the woods that aren’t real.
Whoever wrote that bullshit was wrong.
Your breath hitches in your throat as it lowers its head down to your level. Any malice or aggression it had shown moments prior had disappeared; its eyes are gentle and warm as it watches you, but there’s hesitance in its body language. The crease in its brow is almost human-like.
You blink up at the beast, still as stone and holding your breath. Its claws scratch against the road as it shifts its weight. It raises back to its full height and turns, giving you a last glance over its shoulder before its tail is whipping through the cold air and into the dark.
Your breath comes out as white smoke when you finally release your breath. It’s quiet, now. No crickets or wind, just you and the moon. It’s almost as if nothing had happened.
Had it happened? The bruises, scrapes, and cuts are real. But was that thing real? Either way, it doesn’t matter. You don’t sleep that night; you’re too busy nursing your injuries and watching the woods from your bedroom window.
——
Like it? Let me know!
Tags: @iheartsebastianstan @plums-and-peaches
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#werewolf!bucky x reader#werewolf!bucky barnes x reader#werewolf au#werewolf!au#bucky x female reeader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky#bucky barnes#marvel#marvel fics#marvel fanfiction#bucky fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfiction#marvel fanfic#marvel au#beefcakebarnes#animals
80 notes
·
View notes
Photo
There were so many amazing bottom Louis fics posted or completed during the month of July. We really hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!
1) Bound (To Falling in Love) | Mature | 958 words
Note: The sequel to this fic is #2 on this list.
Harry and Louis innocently cuddle on the couch until things get heated.
2) Nuh Uh, Honey | Mature | 1170 words
Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic, which is #1 on this list.
So this is the ending of Bound (to falling in love) but with more detail. Long story short, Louis and Harry fuck.
3) 100ft Away | Explicit | 2479 words
Harry opens Grindr for a hookup and ends up with more than he bargained for. It all works out in the end.
4) I'm Looking for Closure | Not Rated | 2503 words
Note: This fic is the third part of a series. You can read the previous parts here.
“Say you can read my mind.” Harry said to Louis as he pushed Louis down onto the mattress. Louis squirmed as the covers rubbed against his skin.
“I can’t read your mind.” He said simply to Harry as he reached up to put his hands against Harry’s chest, trailing them down to Harry’s narrow hips.
“My mind is saying that I should just… just fucking go back in time. Go back so I could be your first.” Harry said, leaning down to lick into Louis’ hot mouth.
Or They finally fuck, sorry, I mean, make love.
5) The IT Fic | Mature | 3112 words
A fic where Harry is Pennywise & Louis is Georgie... Louis goes down to the sewers & Harry fucks him with a balloon as a condom.
aka a pwp that i wrote for shits and giggles. & yes, louis is of age
6) Souls | Mature | 3890 words
The first time Harry showed Louis two ghosts.
7) The Unfinished Fic (With an Ending) | Not Rated | 4013 words
Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it contains omega Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup.
Louis greatly regretted all of his life decisions up to this point. Okay fine, maybe not all of them, but definitely a vast majority. After all, if he’d not told one little white lie about loving cricket just to impress a fit guy at the pub, maybe he wouldn’t be stuck at what was, one hundred percent, the most boring “sporting” event of his entire life.
8) Save You Tonight | Mature | 4841 words
Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it contains omega Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup.
Louis is a headstrong Omega in charge of his own life. But he's more than grateful when an Alpha comes along when he needs it the most.
9) Whisk Me Off My Feet | Explicit | 5054 words
When Louis locks himself out of his apartment in just a pair of novelty underwear, he hopes his new neighbor can come to his rescue.
10) Can You Feel the Fever | Explicit | 5113 words
Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.
Tour has Harry exhausted. Luckily exactly what he needs is waiting for him in his Sacramento dressing room.
11) Gotta Catch 'em All | Not Rated | 5186 words
Louis loves Pokémon GO, he gets a little crazy and ends up ramming into a guy. Harry gets mad, calls him a brat and treats him like one. Oh, and they're in central park.
12) I Just Can't Get Enough Of You | Not Rated | 5466 words
Or the one were Harry got inspired from watching Louis on The Late Late Show.
13) Why Don't We Go There? | Explicit | 5654 words
Louis is a perfect model for Abercrombie & Fitch. Harry is a grungy, tattooed model for Hot Topic. When Louis walks in on Harry changing for his photo shoot, things only grow from there... including their dicks.
14) Act Out | Explicit | 6721 words
Harry and Louis try to spice it up a little for their 10th year marriage anniversary. Cliché role play ensues.
15) Life Imitating Art | Explicit | 6881 words
Note: This fic is the fourth part of a series. You can read the previous parts here.
Louis is taken on a very real journey through his fic back catalogue - life has never imitated art so salaciously.
16) You Can Show Me Your Heart | Explicit | 6935 words
Everyone knows about the unsinkable Titanic, which tragically did just that in April of 1912. However, not many people know the story of the Carpathia - the ship that raced to rescue and aid the survivors of the Titanic when the distress call came through. This is the story of the events leading up to the luxury liner crashing into an iceberg on that fateful spring night. More than that, this is the story of how two of Carpathia’s passengers - Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson - met, fell in love and helped over 700 people in the cold Atlantic water.
17) Kisses and Coffee Breaks | Explicit | 9350 words
Midterm season was finally here and all Harry wanted to do was study, however his boyfriend, Louis, seems to have a better idea.
or the one where Harry just wants to study and Louis needs Harry's cock.
18) Swallow The Knife (Outtake) | Explicit | 11186 words
Note: This is an alternative scene to fic #25 on this fic rec.
Alternate sex scene from Swallow The Knife.
19) We've Been Here Before | Mature | 11536 words
Harry goes to Louis in the wake of his sister Felicite's death, and Louis asks Harry to help him clean up a family cabin he is ready to get rid of. Along the way, they attempt to heal many things, even those that they thought were long past.
20) With Words Unspoken | Explicit | 18341 words
The one where Louis is lost, Harry is an excellent tour guide, and age is no barrier to finding the love of your life.
21) The Aurora Zone | Explicit | 19633 words
The one where Harry is busy crossing off his bucket list while Louis is busy falling for the guy he's supposed to hate.
22) Be Mine, Dear | Not Rated | 20104 words
The one where Louis just wants to meet his mate, and all it takes is for him to get a new neighbor.
23) Deflower Me | Explicit | 20154 words
Everyone is 19 and horny, and Louis just really wants to get fucked by Harry.
24) You Are Half Of Me (And I Am All For You) | Explicit | 24731 words
Note: This fic has a mention of BH.
One Direction, an obscure indie rock band, is about to embark on their first cross-country tour, living out of Louis' beloved van named Patricia.
Harry is in love, and Louis is oblivious. Or is he?
Featuring skinny-dipping in Texas waterfalls, getting lost in the desert, stargazing under the New Mexico sky, performing in front of crowds that grow in size each night, and falling in love on the road during the greatest summer of their lives.
25) You Are In My Bed, But Your Heart Isn't | Not Rated | 25595 words
Rock Band AU. Louis is an omega who fucks around, doesn't know the meaning of "feelings" until he starts crawling into Harry's bed at night. Harry gets jealous easily and they all write a lot of songs about each other.
26) Play Me A Memory | Explicit | 26932 words
Louis lives with his nine-year-old son Jake in a peaceful beachside community on the east coast of Australia, working as an entertainment coordinator at the local five-star resort. Harry is a recluse who lives on millionaires row and writes musical scores for blockbuster movies. When the roots of a wayward willow tree create havoc at his home, Harry is forced to stay at the resort while repairs are carried out.
27) Book Worm | Explicit | 37018 words
Note: This fic has mentions of BH.
“Dad said this is his very favourite place to go,” Leon divulged, much to Louis' embarrassment.
“Did he?” Harry's olive eyes flicked to Louis, lips quirking in a way that didn’t match his beige cardigan.
“Yeah and he said you have the best books. May I look?” He asked, smiling winningly.
Leon had inherited Louis' blue eyes and his mother's dark hair, his smile quickly becoming a replica of his father's.
“You may,” Harry permitted and Louis set Leon down.
“Don’t destroy anything,” he instructed. “And if you so much as crease a page then bring it to the till because I’m going to have to pay for it...”
Leon raced straight to the back of the shop and threw himself onto the beanbag seat front first.
“I put the Kama Sutra back on the top shelf, by the way,” Harry told him with a dimpled smile. “You left it by the Hungry Caterpillar.”
28) Waiting for the Tides to Meet | Explicit | 59637 words
Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.
29) Swallow The Knife | Explicit | 76168 words
“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.
“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”
Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.
Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”
30) There You Are | Explicit | 82237 words
Note: This fic has a mention of BH.
Harry’s entire life has fallen apart - in one night, his carefully planned future is suddenly uncertain.
Then he meets Louis.
Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.
You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.
254 notes
·
View notes
Text
A love that never leaves (6)
Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.
Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: Bad language. Buckets of fluff.
A/N: Bucky’s reaction to the story takes her by surprise, a poor old truck gets hot-wired, and Bucky uses an ax because if Steve can do it so can he. Here’s what happens after the reveal. After this chapter, things take a turn for the angsty (shocking I know), so please bathe in the fluff while it’s here.
Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!
MASTERLIST
ALTNL MASTERLIST
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
Previously...
Just like that, he offers his whole heart and she gives hers freely in return. Both know their world is dark and unforgiving, and this war could make liars of them both, but neither cares. To find love in this bleak life is a rare opportunity and the temptation is too strong.
Bucky kisses her one last time and rises to his feet. She watches him pause at her bedroom door to give one more crooked smile, and then the door is clicking shut and he’s gone. Alone again, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets.
It’s hell, she thinks, to love a soldier.
Burying her face in the faded green pillow, her heartbroken tears fall fast and thick, soaking silently into the soft cotton.
*****
MISSION REPORT
LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL PLAN.
He fingers the blunt edge of the tool. Scratches his temple with it and closes his eyes.
His whole body is shaking.
His whole body is sweating.
Now he digs that blunt metal into his temple until the skin splits. A thin line of blood follows the path of his jawline, dripping into his lap.
*****
Is it really any different than the morning he left? Orange flames dance in the fireplace, a comforting tune. The fire is soothing, but the silence is the opposite – thick, heavy, and colored with confusion.
Bucky sits in the armchair. Elbows propped up, one metal, one human, both digging painfully into his thighs, he keeps his face buried in his hands. There’s a dull throbbing in his head and for the first time he can remember, he has a fucking headache. The door in his head, the one that opens into the past when the memories come calling, is still shut tight. He can feel them behind it, pounding like a battering ram to break free, but nothing happens.
The door stays closed, the past stays hidden.
And he stays perfectly still.
The leather of her chair creaks as she rises to her feet, walking to the bookcase without a word. Dropping his hands, Bucky watches her select a fat novel from the bottom shelf. When she turns to face him, he sees her open it to reveal a hollow space - inside lies yet another small lockbox. Scrolling through the dial, she selects a series of numbers and it clicks open. Pulling free a thick packet of paper, she sets it gingerly on the coffee table and steps back to wait.
In front of him lies a pile of envelopes, cracked and yellowed with age. Raising wary eyes, he finds her watching at him, her posture rigid.
“I just threw everything at you. I’m sorry, Bucky. I don’t know what I thought would happen, maybe I should have told you in the beginning, but the last time we met you didn’t know, so I wasn’t sure at first and then I didn’t know how to say it and then time passed and it was so – it was nice to have you here and I didn’t want to freak you out and I know life is completely different now, neither of us are who we were during the war, you don’t – ” she breaks off, aware she’s rambling.
Shaking her head, she just stops. Stares beseechingly at him, waiting.
There’s his cue, the one telling him to speak.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. He closes it, staring at her. Then he tries again – but his voice is gone. Shaking his head, he looks back at the letters.
“Okay,” she whispers, and he hears a catch in her breath. “Okay. I don’t – expect anything. You don’t have to respond. I can just – give you some space.”
She walks to the front door of the cabin and gathers her coat from the rough wooden peg. Hand on the doorknob, she looks back once more to find him hunched immobile on the couch, staring at the pile of paper, and her shoulders fall.
Cold air breezes through the door and then it snicks shut. Like always, Bucky is left with nothing but the echoing silence of his thoughts.
Long moments pass before he reaches for the letters. A thin, dirty white string binds them together and it takes several tugs to release. The paper crackles warningly under his fingers, a result of old age and frequent readings, and he handles them gently. Selecting an envelope from the top, he opens it carefully, unfolding a delicate sheet of paper.
It’s like an electric shock, when he sees the writing.
Faded letters spill across the page, narrow words in a firm backhand slant that Bucky recognizes. So many things about him have changed over the years, but his handwriting was never one of them. Through the decades it’s remained the same, unalterable as the blue of his eyes and that small bit of constancy was a weird blessing to his fractured sanity.
One sweep of the letters and there’s no doubt in his mind. They’re from him. That fact is irrefutable.
His eyes scan down the page, picking out snippets of text. Occasional words and phrases are redacted, inked over in swipes of black where the US Army got exasperated hands on his stories, but most of it is there.
And there, in the warm little cabin, the truth of her memories shines like a beacon in the darkness of his past.
February 27, 1944
…so damn cold up here. I had ice in places I’d rather not say.
I swear to god, there’s nothing I’d like more right now than to be back in your arms. Can’t stop thinking about our last night – the boys are giving me hell every day, telling me to stop mooning around, but you make it real damn hard to think of anything else.
Sure as hell won’t say it in front of those idiots, but I got to thinking the other night and I don’t know what it is you bring out in me, but I figure you’ll indulge me getting all sappy for a minute. That morning we headed out, I left something pretty damn important behind - so I’m asking you to hold real tight to my heart darlin. You stole it fair and square that day we met, and I know there ain’t a safer place in the world than in your hands.
Stay warm and stay safe.
Love,
Jimmy
May 2, 1944
…and I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard! We’d set up a row of bottles we found and were throwing Delilah around, trying to knock them off and G got a little cocky. Tried to throw it behind his back and it ricocheted off a god damn tree, hit him in the knees and knocked his legs out. He fell face first, got a mouthful of mud and I swear to god, we laughed for an hour. Every time I thought we were done, G got this look on his face, acting all high and mighty, and it set us off again. He recovered just fine, but his knees were bruised all black and purple. It’s good for him though, keeps him humble.
G says hello, by the way, and hopes you’re doing well.
And now the rest of them are hanging over my shoulder and asking if they can all come over someday and you can make them that potato soup you made for me, and I’m sorry, I promise I’ll find new friends when this damn war is over…
Love,
Jimmy
July 23, 1944
You know, the first thing I want to do when I get home, is go to one of those drive-in movie theaters. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re new in America, but it’s a real basic idea - there’s a big screen and you drive into a parking lot and watch a movie from the car. It sounds weird, but I went once and it was great. And good lord, the teenagers love it. They pretend to watch a movie and spend the entire time getting all frisky, and no one’s the wiser.
So, here’s what I’m thinking.
You. Me. A big box of popcorn and a couple bottles of Pepsi. It’s dark outside and once the movie starts, no one will pay us any attention. Maybe we watch the movie, or even better - maybe we don’t. I can’t think of anything I’d love more, than spending two straight hours kissing you. You’re already an addiction for me darlin, but add a little salt to your lips, and I don’t think you’ll ever get rid of me. We could steam up the windows, give those kids a run for their money. I can’t wait to show you.
You’re going to love it, I promise.
Love,
Jimmy
September 18, 1944
Morning Darlin,
I’m on watch and it’s early, suns not even up yet. Should be paying attention and I am (I swear!), but the stars are so damn bright and like everything beautiful in this world, they make me think of you. You know, I never understood how many stars there were until I got to Europe. Never saw much of anything growing up, the city lights were too much. Now though, I sit here, and there’s this – infinity, I guess – staring back at me and it makes me feel small. Like I’m this tiny thing in the universe and why the hell would the universe care about one more soldier with a busted conscience and too many kills to his name.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s okay, in the grand scheme of the world. I don’t need to be famous or remembered or anything. I’m okay being one of many, because there’s a big damn difference between me and every other schmuck out here sweating and humping through the mud.
That big difference is you. This thing we have, it keeps me going. Every damn day.
Your last letter came just when I needed it. Been real hard out here lately. More than it’s ever been. How the hell’s this thing not over? How’d the world get here? I don’t understand it. Never will. All I know, is that I’m so damn ready to hang up my gun and put this all behind me. No more killing, no more tramping through the rain and camping in the snow. No more sleeping with a gun in one hand a knife in the other. I know it does no good to complain and I don’t want to put it on you. Guess I’m just tired.
But you know, I’ve been thinking about the future lately. What life will mean when this thing ends, how we all move on. What happens next. Sometimes I can’t see much past the next mission, but god willing, I’ll see you soon. There’s something important I want to ask you and I need to see your face when I do.
Wish I was there with you.
All my love,
Jimmy
Bucky reads through 12 different letters. When he finishes, he starts back at the beginning and reads them all again.
These words, these promises - they turn him inside out.
On the surface, perhaps some of the words make no sense, but wartime correspondence is unique - no names, no locations, nothing permitted that could be an identifier if letters were intercepted by the enemy. So maybe Bucky doesn’t remember writing these specific letters, but history and common sense tell him enough.
Which is why certain things buried in those simple words are so important – they trigger the patchy album of memories Steve’s given back to him, and it all begins to make sense.
Particularly those names.
Delilah. During the war, it’s what the Howlies called Steve’s shield. Steve got all red and flustered when he grudgingly reminded Bucky, saying Dugan liked to joke it needed a pretty, fancy name, because ‘oh gee whiz boys, Captain Rogers is so pretty and fancy.’ Bucky still calls it that now and then, a muscle memory screech that bursts unconsciously forth when he’s diving to the ground, trying to avoid a vibranium concussion as Steve flings it around the room.
G. That must be Steve. It makes sense in the context. His middle name was Grant, and very few people would have known. It wasn’t released to the public until after his plane went down, so it would have been hard to decipher.
And god dammit all to hell. Jimmy.
Bucky Barnes was a blood-soaked legend throughout the European theatre, and his quirky name was instantly recognizable. But Jimmy - it was one of those silly things that popped up when half the Commando unit had the name James. A silly moniker, one only used for messages and mission reports.
Now here it is in another context. Exactly like Steve told him.
The strange thing though, is that even with these letters and her story and confirmation from Steve’s tales - there are still no memories of her that he can recall. Normally they come flooding back when someone hands him information like she’s done, but they’re still inaccessible in his brain and that fact sits bitter in his stomach. All he can claim are the tentative words offered from her heart, through these quiet recollections and worn handwriting scrawled across yellowed paper.
But the icy rock lodged in his gut begins to melt when it dawns on him.
Before everything, before he fell from that train, before his life crashed and burned, he had something. He had someone. He had a life and a future and a woman who loved him.
He was in love with someone.
His brain still refuses to show him the past, but his heart – that’s another matter. Like an iron fist, muscle memory grips him and the curtain lifts. It’s a god damn tragedy that he can’t remember her, that he can’t recall the feel of her lips or the scent of her skin or any of the words she must have gifted him in her letters. It’s a tragedy and he’ll never forgive himself, but in this moment, he realizes that it’s okay.
This is why his breath catches every time she smiles at him. This is why he felt his stomach plunge the first time she spoke. This is why her laugh sets his blood on fire.
Because his heart never forgot her. Not once, not for a single moment.
Against all odds, across the endless chasm of space and time, they found each other again. Maybe this is it. Maybe after all the shit he’s been dealt, Fate decided to lift her endless ban on allowing Bucky Barnes a measure of happiness.
Maybe Fate is giving them another chance.
Well if that’s the case, he’s sure as god damn hell not going to lose it.
“Shit,” he breathes, jumping to his feet. Flying to the door, he throws it open, panicked she’s somehow slipped away, disappeared and left him all alone.
And then he skids to a stop.
Wrapped in her fluffy winter coat, she sits huddled on the front steps. At the sound of the door, she stumbles to her feet and spins to face him. Her hands are clenched in tight fists at her side and there is such naked, desperate hope in her eyes. To be seen, to be loved.
To be remembered.
Bucky steps slowly onto the porch. Cautiously, as though he’s afraid she could shatter, he reaches for her. Burning hot palms lay gently on her frozen cheeks, wandering blue eyes search every inch of her face, and he hears her breath snap harshly.
He leans closer, lets gentle lips ghost over her forehead, over fluttering eyelids, over the tip of her nose, to the softness of her lips. Searching, searching, searching, searing the scent of her skin back into his brain. When he touches hesitant lips to hers, he feels her mouth open to him, and he drinks up her shaky breath with a contented sigh.
Pulling back, he looks into wide eyes brimming with fierce, terrified love. Without a second thought, he lays himself at her mercy and begs the forgiveness he should have requested decades ago.
“I’m here. I’m here now, and I’m so god damn sorry I took so long.” Rubbing his thumb lightly over her lips, he stares in wonder. His gaze roams hungrily over her face, drinking in the color of her eyes, the shape of her nose, the curve of her lips. Every detail he never knew he missed until suddenly he did. “I see you. I see all of you. Let me memorize it, I never want to forget again.”
In the next moment, her shoulders begin to tremble. Small tremors at first, until her whole body is shaking, her breath rattling in her lungs, and the dam breaks.
“Bucky,” she whispers and her voice cracks, the sob ripping from her throat. “Bucky.”
Gravity brings them together, two dying stars collapsing into each other. He folds her in his arms and in the steel cage of his body, protected against the world, she lets go and she cries. She cries for everything.
For her past. For Bucky. For the life they could have had and for everything they lost. For all the secrets and hiding and half-truths. For everything both of them have done. For the decades spent apart, the solitude she fell into, and the horrors he endured.
Tears pour out, great heaving sobs and she burrows into him, the first real taste of heat she’s felt since that barren Parisian apartment at the dawning of 1970. His hands rub up and down her back, and he hushes her softly, murmuring soothing words again and again.
“You’re okay, I’m here, I got you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not letting go.”
Gently picking her up, he slips back into the warmth of the living room, locking the door against the cold night. Stepping carefully to the couch, he falls into the velvety cushions, hugging her close. She sobs seventy years of heartbreak against his chest, and Bucky rocks her, answering her pain with hot, silent tears dripping down his cheeks.
*****
The night crawls by, a full white moon traveling a slow arc above the small cabin, while he cradles her in his arms. In the final hour before dawn, he rises from the couch.
Emotionally drained, she fell asleep hours ago. Now, she curls into him as he carries her up the stairs to her bed. Unwilling to let go for even a moment, he keeps her tucked to his chest when he sinks into the soft pillows. In the depths of sleep, she hugs him tighter, winding herself around him.
Where does he end, and where does she begin? It’s impossible to define.
Her refusal to let go is fine with him. Bucky doesn’t plan to leave anytime soon.
In her sleep, she sighs in contentment, because for the first time in a lifetime, she feels warm. Safe and protected, she doesn’t need a pile of blankets.
Bucky is enough.
*****
Light filters through the tall evergreens outside her window and when she wakes, she’s surrounded by heat. Opening puffy eyes, she finds Bucky lying beside her, bright eyes calm and watchful.
“Good morning,” he whispers.
“Bucky?” she whispers, disbelief clear in her eyes. “You’re still here?”
He runs a light finger down her cheek. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”
There they are, the words she’s wanted her entire life. She has no clue if they’ll fade away, but for now, she lets herself believe him, because hope feels so much softer than the black abyss of depression.
“You’ll stay?” she repeats numbly. Needing to hear the words one more time.
“I’ll stay,” he answers, his fingers still brushing her skin. “Long as you’ll let me. We have a love story to remember.”
*****
So, he stays.
Bit by bit, they begin to discover who they are now, after decades apart. Bit by bit, she offers small memories that he clings to with ferocious enthusiasm. Bit by bit, they find the new rhythm of a life together.
And bit by bit, they fall back in love.
*****
Gripping a mug of coffee between fingerless gloved fingers, she gives him a dubious look.
“Have you ever chopped wood before?”
“Nah, but how hard can it be?” Bucky shrugs, hefting the ax. “Steve said he did it. I can do it.”
He balances a chunk of wood on the stump and scrutinizes it from all angles, before choosing his approach. Lining up the blade, he takes aim and with a smooth swing, slices it neatly in two.
His eyes dance excitedly when he looks at her. “I feel like this could be cathartic. Can I keep going?”
She looks at the huge pile of logs stacked behind him. “Knock yourself out.”
He considers her for a moment and then stands up a fat log, twisting it to sit level in the snow, away from any bark shrapnel, but close enough he can see her.
“Keep me company?” he asks.
She plops happily on the log, savoring the image of his tall, heavily muscled form. “Anytime,” she says softly.
*****
“I saw in that journal, you watched the moon landing? Back in ’68?”
Her eyes light up. “I did. It was unbelievable.”
“Wish I could’ve seen it,” Bucky says wistfully. “Would’ve been so cool.”
“Yeah,” she says softly, “it really was.”
The ax embeds in the stump with a thwack and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He comes over to her and leans down, his mouth warm when it touches hers.
“You were right,” he admits. “I’d have signed up with NASA in a heartbeat, if I could’ve.”
“I thought you might,” she murmurs against his lips and he hums.
“Hey. Would you go up to space with me?”
She kisses the tip of his nose. “I’ll go anywhere with you.”
*****
“Since you’ve come back, what’s the strangest mission you’ve been on?”
Bucky contemplates the question, while he searches for the perfect chunk of wood.
“Well, last year there was this one where a crazy ass botanist engineered this breed of super Venus Fly Traps that came to life.”
“A crazy what? No.”
“Dead serious. It caught me in the middle of the fight and broke its teeth on my arm,” he says, shuddering. “Got all this sticky saliva shit on me. So fucking gross. When I got home, I threw away all the plants in the Tower, you know. Just in case.”
She presses her lips together, but a fit of hysterical giggles makes her double-over, clutching her stomach.
“Cross my heart,” Bucky insists. He plants his hands on his hips and pulls a face. “I can’t believe you’re laughing, I was terrified!”
*****
“Tell me more things about you,” he grunts as he swings the ax. “Like for instance, why did you keep a bunch of t-shirts from Bon Jovi’s 1986 tour?”
Looking over to her, he finds her eyes comically wide. Deer in the headlights. He can practically see her mind racing while she debates the answer.
“Um. Okay, so listen,” she starts, and Bucky feels a silly grin beginning. “No, stop. I mean it. Bucky, shut up!”
Laughter spills out at her embarrassment.
“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles. “I won’t laugh. I’m interested. Just wanna hear more about you. Continue. Please.”
Arms crossed, she sighs heavily and shoots him an embarrassed look.
“Look, it’s not that big a deal. I may have had a crush on Bon Jovi. Okay? It was 1986 and I loved that album and his voice was so sexy and he had this beautiful hair, and I just – you promised you wouldn’t laugh!”
She grabs a piece of wood and throws it at his leg and he laughs harder.
*****
After a long day of chopping wood, her shed is bursting at the seams. Warm and cozy on her couch, Bucky stares off into space, while she sits beside him, absorbed in a book.
“Did I get blood all over the seats in your truck?” he asks suddenly.
Wrinkling her nose, she glances up and gives him an apologetic look. “Yeah. You did. I need to get it cleaned. Or buy seat covers, so I don’t have to explain why it looks like a murder scene.”
“Ugh,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs good-naturedly and grins. “I don’t mind. Least no one will steal it.”
She goes back to her book. He goes back to spacing off.
“But you have another truck in that old shed, right? Didn’t I see one?”
“Yes, an old clunker from the ‘50s. It hasn’t run for years though.”
“Hmm.”
Bemused, her lips quirk up. “Any reason you’re asking?”
“Just thinking,” he mumbles vaguely.
He goes back to spacing off. She goes back to her book.
Two minutes later, he jumps up and she topples over into the cushions. Looking down, he rubs his mouth while she untangles herself from her blanket.
“Shit. Sorry. Got an idea,” he says, offering her a hand. Pulling her to her feet, he starts collecting the multitude of blankets strewn about the living room, folding them into piles. Tucking them under his arm, he heads into the kitchen, rummaging in the cabinet for a bottle of wine and two plastic cups. Striding over to the front door, he sets the pile down and grabs her winter coat, extending it out without a word.
“What is this?” she asks suspiciously, shrugging into the coat. Bucky takes a knobby wool scarf from a hook and helps her wrap it securely around her throat.
“Get your gloves,” he replies. “And those furry snow boots.”
Finally buttoned up, he appraises her from head to toe, satisfied with the result. Grabbing his own coat, he pulls it carelessly on, picks up the pile of blankets and wine, and opens the door.
“Follow me,” he says, heading down the porch.
Stomping toward the rickety garage near the cabin, he pulls open the doors and props them open. Sitting in the small space, is an old light blue Land Rover.
Bucky takes her puffy gloved hand and pulls her to the passenger side door. Opening it with a dramatic flourish, he nods for her to get in.
“It doesn’t even run, Bucky,” she argues, climbing up into the dusty seats.
Bucky goes to the driver’s door and slides inside. Giving her a grin, he flips the flashlight on his phone and hands it to her, lighting up the interior of the cab while he reaches blindly below the steering column.
“Any chance you got a screwdriver?”
“I do, actually,” she answers, flipping open the glove box to snag the wobbly screwdriver that went to die there years ago. But where it’s normally nestled, she finds only blank space.
She blinks. How strange. When was the last time she was even in this truck?
“No matter,” Bucky grunts, and with a few strategic jerks, he pulls the metal cover away. A nest of tangled wires falls loose, ribbons of white and red and yellow. She shines the light on his fiddling, and with a practiced hand, he selects several and strips the ends until they fray. Tapping them together a few times, she hears the sharp crackle of electric current and suddenly the ancient truck sputters to life.
“What? How?” she asks excitedly. “How’d you do that?”
Bucky grins and tucks the wires away. The gas gauge shows a nearly full tank, so he fiddles with the dials and cranks the heat up full blast. It smells like wet leaves and a hint of motor oil, but there’s a welcome nostalgia to the scent. Unfolding the blankets, Bucky wraps one around her shoulders, and spreads another over their laps. He situates her legs across his thighs and wraps an arm around her.
“Reading those letters, I saw I made you a promise. Said I’d take you to a drive-in movie. Here we are, seventy god forsaken years later, and I still haven’t taken you on a date. Seems overdue,” he thumbs through the video app on his phone until he finds an old favorite. Pressing play, he props it up on the dash and turns to her with a crooked smile. “This is my favorite movie. Thinkin’ you might like it too.”
The screen is blank and then a tornado of sound surrounds them and big white letters flash across a black and white screen.
“Oh,” she sighs delightedly. Humming contentedly, he drops a kiss to her forehead and she lays her head on his shoulder, while the opening theme from The Wizard of Oz begins to play. “You’re amazing Bucky Barnes.”
“Well, that’s what I’m always telling people,” he agrees, his voice sweet against her skin. “I’m glad you agree.”
Watching the movie together is an experience. Bucky hums along to the music while she repeats the dialogue under her breath. The movie is clearly an old hat for them both, and the familiarity is comforting.
It’s not until Dorothy’s skipping down the yellow brick road in her sparkly red shoes, that she notices he’s gone quiet. Glancing at him, she finds blue eyes riveted on her. A slow smile spreads over his face, and he leans down to leave a featherlight kiss at the corner of her mouth; then the hinge of her jaw; then the smooth spot behind her ear.
“I thought we were watching a movie,” she murmurs, tilting her head to offer up the curve of her neck.
“But we’re at the drive-in,” Bucky answers, his lips tracing the shell of her ear. She shivers at the feel and tries to scoot closer. “This is what the kids do. They ignore the show and make out, right?”
“Yes, I think I read that somewhere,” she replies breathlessly. “A letter I had from a rather charming soldier. Some American, I think.”
Rubbing his scratchy face along her neck, he makes a disapproving noise and his teeth nip her ear.
“Charming American soldier, huh? What’s his name? I’m gonna kick his ass.”
“No ass kicking.” She pokes him in the belly and he grunts a surprised laugh. “I sort of like him.”
*****
The truck still idles along, while the windows have long since fogged over. Dorothy makes it back to Kansas safe and sound, returned to a world of black and white. There’s no place like home, Bucky hears the voiceover in the background. Immersed in reacquainting himself with the taste of her lips, he agrees.
There really is no place like home.
*****
“Was it always like this?” he murmurs the next night. Laying face-down on the couch, his face is nuzzled in her lap, his arms wound around her waist. Cool fingers scratch lightly at his scalp and he rubs against her like a cat.
“Well, you were a little sappy sometimes,” she teases. “But I loved it.”
Muffled laughter rumbles deep in his chest and he hugs her tighter.
“This feels so easy. Never thought I’d get something like this.”
“Sometimes you get lucky, I guess. You fit with someone, like they were made for you. That was us.”
“I just wish I could remember.” Disappointment vibrates in every syllable. “All those years with Hydra, that shit’s coming back. Nightmares and — memories of what I did to people. I don’t understand why that’s there, and my stupid ass brain refuses to give me you.”
Her hand pauses briefly, before resuming the gentle strokes.
“I know,” she says, and Bucky hears the thread of sorrow wound through her words. “None of this was fair. You deserved so much more than what they did and I - I’m so sorry Bucky.”
“No, don’t. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” He rolls onto his back and pillows his head in her lap. His expression is dark when he grinds out the words. “I just left you. Fell off a fuckin’ train and left you alone. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”
For the longest time, she doesn’t speak. Lost in thought, she gazes out the living room windows, fingers still absently stroking his hair. When she finally looks down, he sees ancient resignation in her face.
“Listen to me. I never want you to apologize Bucky, it was a war. I walked into loving you with my eyes wide open and I don’t regret a single day. I never have. You were worth it.” She pauses, and a strange look comes over her face, an odd blend of sadness and regret and - fear. It disappears as quickly as it comes, and her voice drops to a low whisper. “I’m full of memories. After all these years, after everything I - after being alone for so long. Sometimes I think I’ll drown from them.”
Drowning in the past. There’s a feeling he knows. Curling his fingers around the back of her neck, he tugs her face down.
“Give them to me then,” he breathes against her lips. “I get it. Better than anyone. Remembering things, sometimes it’s a burden. You don’t have to do it alone. I’m with you now, let me help.”
The sentiment breaks her heart.
She says nothing. She kisses him instead.
*****
In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she lays awake and thinks.
Bucky is sprawled on his stomach beside her, still dressed in his old sweats and his Captain America shirt. One arm is curved tight around her waist, a leg thrown over her knee, his deep even breaths warm against her neck. It’s funny, she muses. He sleeps the same as he did during their brief time together in 1944. With his nose to her skin and his limbs clutching her tight. Like her softness is the balm he needs to combat the horrors that come for him in his dreams.
It’s strange, in a way. He knows her more intimately than anyone on Earth. Emotionally. Physically. But even with a knowledge of what they used to be, he keeps a tight rein on his desire, nothing more than chaste brushes of his fingers that leave her restless for more. But while his hands may be innocent, his kisses still leave her breathless - they’re untamed, wild and enthusiastic, overflowing with passion. Before though, where his lips carried a hint of frantic panic, now there’s one big difference.
They have time. Something they never had before.
There’s no miserable march back into the suffocating arms of war. No desperate need to hide from Hydra after a stolen rendezvous in the night. Time is finally on their side, to rebuild his memories of their past, to create new memories together. An infinite world of opportunities sits before them and she revels in that fact.
Beneath it all though, remains that nagging flicker of fear.
Because as happy as she is now, she’s terrified of the future and the possibility it could all end once more. After finding him again, after slipping back into his arms, after falling in love again, she knows if he were to leave now? It would break her for good. There’d be no coming back from it. Life has stolen him from her too many times already.
This time, hope would not be enough to tether together the shattered remnants of a heart.
Shifting deeper into the pillows, he hugs her tighter. His lips brush her skin and he presses a sleepy kiss to her shoulder.
“Can’t sleep?” he mumbles groggily.
“Just thinking,” she whispers. “I’m okay, go back to sleep.”
Bucky hums in drowsy agreement and goes quiet. Minutes pass and his breathing resumes the steady pattern and she resumes her dreary train of thought.
What is it, about the middle of the night, she wonders drily, that makes your brain relive the worst parts of your life?
On and on it goes. The steady beat of his heart, the heat of his skin, the dangerous trajectory of her thoughts. Until his soft voice breaks the silence of the night, pulling her back to the present.
“Can you tell me another story? Another memory about us?”
Another memory. A simple request. Memories are the one thing she can always do.
“What do you want to know?” she asks, petting his tangled mess of hair.
“Everything. Tell me more of our love story,” he murmurs, his voice raspy with sleep. He snuggles impossibly closer. “I wanna know it all.”
I wanna know it all. An innocent request.
There are so many things she wants to tell him. Things she needs to tell him. But those words, those memories, they’re buried too deep and she can’t. Unearthing them would destroy her.
Instead, her mind weaves through their love story, pulling forward a memory she’s replayed a thousand times before. The memory of his one other visit to the village, right before their world went pear-shaped. She was hesitant to tell him about that night, about the question he asked, because she knows he’s not the same. They’re not the same and she doesn’t want him to think -
But her heart beats faster.
Twisting a lock of his hair around her finger, she gropes for the right words, his fingers stroking lightly down her arm.
I wanna know it all.
In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she takes a deep breath.
*****
Next chapter
*****
Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.
894 notes
·
View notes
Note
Can you please write more of your mountain lion AU? Thank you
Previous
The Road Less Traveled Masterlist
~ ~ ~
He doesn’t remember his dreams.
Only the sensation of them. Thepounding of blood and the clatter of teeth, the wrench of muscle and the acheof bone. He remembers the way his hands are slick then sticky so the skinbetween his fingers tack together even after he wakes; how his lungs fill withliquid, leaving him stuttering, clawing for breath; the one, two, three snap ofhis brain as his body pulls long; the restlessness; the sweat pooling in thehollow of his throat; the sting of broken flesh mingling with salt.
He hates them.
His eyes snap open, darkness bleedinginto sight and breath filling his lungs with a horrible sucking sound that isthe opposite of a scream. It pours into his chest, into his stomach, until itcan no more, bound in by the pull of fabric across his everything.
It’s impossible to know if he’s stilldreaming or if he’s awake. If he should stop inhaling before his lungs explode.If this is the last chance he’ll get before being submerged once again.
“Easy, son.”
Vision flicking through the dark, atiny flare of light becoming brighter, blinding him and he pinches his faceshut against the strike.
“I hope you didn’t pull any stitches,” thevoice continues, slow and conversational. Soothing, the way he has seen traders speak to half broken livestock. It’s a strangely idle thought, but Obi wondershow often he works with wild dogs. “Shirayuki is the one who swaddled a grownboy like an infant, but it’ll be me that she’s sour with for letting you getworked up.”
Peeling his eyelids back, Obi squintsagainst the low light of the lantern. Watches as first a table, then a plant, then a human come slowly into resolve. The light glows across a face, familiar but muchdrier than that the man he met in his memories, the groves of age and strain starkunder the glow of the fire. A stubble-covered jaw stretches wide in a yawn and,with the flick of a wrist, his matchstick goes out.
“Mukaze,” Obi mutters out loud,unintentionally, his brain and his mouth working in tandem. Eyes widening, hesnaps his mouth shut, and only then feels the sting of his lips, the sleep thatcakes his mouth.
“That’s right,” Mukaze grins. The skinby his eyes crinkle. “And you’re Obi, right? My daughtersaid that was your name.”
Maybe he nods in confirmation. Maybe hedoesn’t. But regardless, Mukaze clambers stiffly to his feet, and Obi’s breathgoes shallow at the sheer size of him. For a moment, he is no longer dry andwarm, but wet and impossibly cold, staring down a swordsman in the dim of astorm that wants his life. It was one thing to face him in the wild, where atleast Obi had adrenaline and knives and his feet under him. But here, under theselayers of sheets and quilts, he has never felt so small.
“I’m just getting you a glass ofwater,” Mukaze soothes, palms extended up and out. “No need to go for thewindow or introduce your face to the ground again.”
Obi blinks. Registers the words. Then the pain in his knuckles where he clutches the sheets beneath him. And lets go.“She told you about that?”
His lips twitch tellingly. “Nah. I justfigured after our introduction that you would be the type that needed proof.”
~ ~ ~
The next time he wakes up, it is silent.And he is alone.
His vision swims, then clears. Sweat beads against an earthen cup at his bedside, condenses, and slides slowly down to stain the wood beneath it.
His mouth is still dry, but-
The cup is so far away. And he can’t move his arms.
Beyond it, a burner glows steadily in the cornerof the room, filling the room with a pleasant heat. Smoke curls a fine coil froma censer resting over the coals and his eyelashes flutter. It smells pretty. Likeflowers. Like a store of drying spring green lining the walls of a home in hismemories that he’s not sure ever really existed.
It’s- nice. Maybe as nice as the wrapof clean linen. Or the sweet straw mattress beneath his back.
No, he takes a deep breath in. Nicer.
~ ~ ~
When next he’s pulled free of hisdreamless sleep, there are more pressing matters to attend to than the whisper of smokeand memory. Teeth baring in a grimace, he shifts and, ye gods-
Bedding pulls tight across his body, pressing his belly into his bladder, andah, he was going to have words withthe Miss about what she found best for his sleep.
He could, of course, use the bucket athis bedside. Just the presence of it makes his cheeks heat. Makes him wonder how long he’s been here. If he- hassuffered more indignities than he remembers. Yanking one shoulder free of theirtightly woven prison, he has immediate regrets.
Pain radiates through his whole body,vibrates through his teeth. Gods, gods, how could he forget about being cleaved into two? Staring at the ceiling, he pants, tries to count the seconds but cannot recall the numbers past two, a cold sweat prickling his brow. So he just. Breathes. Untilthe worst of it has passed.
And when it does, he eyes the bucket.The door on the other side of the room. And the bucket again.
Delicately this time, he untangles therest of him. Places his feet on bare wood. And forgets the bucket.
From there, it’s… simply a matter offinding a proper handhold. Grasp a table here, a coat hanger there, a shelf, andfinally a doorknob.
Now,he pants when the door opens before him, cataloging the shelves with theirglass jars glinting in moonlight, the shape of counters and a smattering of shadowsshaped like chairs. Just where is thechamberpot?
~ ~ ~
“What a pain…”
That voice, he’s heard it somewhere.Somewhere beneath the heat pouring on his skin and the bright light bleedingthrough his closed eyelids, there are more people. More voices. And they- don’tsound happy.
“Who was supposed to be sitting bedsidelast night?”
“He hasn’t hurt himself since westarted burning the valerian and poppy. It’s not like he’s dying anymore! I didn’tthink he would need it!”
Obi swallows. Allows himself only abrief flutter of nerves. And keeps his eyes shut.
“Everyone has their rotation for a reason, Mihaya”
Ah, the Miss. And she sounds no more pleasedthan anyone else in the room.
“I don’t see what the big deal is. It’sjust a few broken jars.”
Oops.
“You can clean this mess up, then!” Thefirst voice. Obi can’t tell if it is a man or a woman. Only that they’re gettinglouder with every word. “And find us some replacements!”
“Oh dear, I think I hear the kitchenscalling. But I’m sure you can handle it, pretty boy…”
“Mihaya!” The voice cracks. So a boy, then. “Mihaya!”
Wood thuds against wood, and a chorusof sighs fills the silence left behind.
“What a mess. Maybe we could call Itoya toget that guy back to bed-”
“He got himself out,” the boy snaps. “He can get himselfback in.”
“Kazuki,” Miss’s voice is sharp. Awarning.
“I’m just saying-“
“Don’t.”
Her footsteps are light, but theystrike the floorboards definitively. With each one, he comes up with anotherexcuse. It wasn’t me. Must’ve been an earthquake. A cat. The cabinet shelveswere too weighted down.
He doesn’t even remember how he knocked them down. Last heremembers is stepping away from the chamberpot, looking at the distance hecrossed. The distance that he would have to cross again, and- and-
A window seat. There was a nice windowseat on the way…
Miss sighs, soft and exasperated, herhand gently touching his shoulder, and-
Perhaps he could feign dead.
“Obi,” she says, her voice gentle. “Obi,wake up.”
Or at least deaf. That way she couldyell all she wanted-
“Obi this isn’t your bed. Let’s get yousomeplace more comfortable.”
His eyelashes flutter, sight stinging at the light filtering in through the windows, thosetoo green eyes staring down at him-
“Miss,” he purrs, drawing out his bestsmile. “Checking in on me already?”
“It’s mid-morning,” she smiles,squeezing his shoulder. “And you’re not where I left you last night.”
“Hmm.” He tilts his head towards thesun, eyes closing once again. “I didn’t notice.”
She huffs. “Why are you out here?”
He peers at her underneath his lashes.Manages to lift one hand into the shape of a claw. “Meow.”
Her lips twitch, but that kind bedsidemanner does not fade. “Do you need help?”
“I would be fine here.”
“We’re going to be noisy.”
“Noisy’s fine.”
Her lips spread wide in a smile. “Everyone in the village is very curious about you. They might start asking you questions.”
“If he’s good enough to be out here.”Obi’s eyes flash to a blonde half way across the room, arms crossed and facetwisted in displeasure. “He’s good enough to clean up the mess he made.”
Grimacing, Obi finally opens his mouth to take theblame, but Miss glances over her shoulder. Says nothing. And Obi finds himselfimmensely grateful he cannot see the expression on her face for how Kazuki shrivels.
“I mean, he seems okay!” he squawks.
“I’m sorry.” His voice surpriseshimself. “I just- I went for a walk. I don’t remember the rest. I don’t haveany money to pay you for it right now-”
“Obi.” Miss stares at him, face gentled again. “It’s fine. My father breaks more than you ever could.”
Guilt is not a foreign feeling to him.He’s learned to live with it. But he doesn’t know how to live with this. Thisforgiveness. “Oh.”
“Fine,” their vocal audience memberhuffs. “But he doesn’t stay out here. If he doesn’t take himself back to his bed,I’ll force him to go.”
“Kazuki-“
“Scoundrel,” Obi purrs, batting hiseyelashes. “Are you going to have your way with me when you get me there, too?”
#bubbleswrites#akagami no shirayukihime#snow white with the red hair#obiyuki#mountain lion au#you will never know how much i agonized over this chapter nonny#it took me FOREVER to get ANYWHERE on it#so I hope you enjoy it!#Anonymous
25 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
ycgibear
𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓭𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓸𝓻
chavladlover
Chav Lads
queerregulusablack
Losing You Is Easier
queerregulusablack
Losing You Is Easier
queerregulusablack
Losing You Is Easier