#Cuffed Ankle Barrel Pants | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sableflynn · 4 years ago

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By flash and thunder fire - 13

Prompts: No. 10 (trail of blood), No. 19 (mourning loved one)

CW: blood, mentioned death and torture, guns, yet more head trauma

Taglist: @lave-e @justplainwhump @hurtmebeautifully @whumpymirages @slaintetowhump @justwhumpitwhumpitgood @whump-tr0pes @whump-me-all-night-long @greatandquestionablecontent @whumping-newbie @moose-teeth @butwhatifyouwrite

Also on Ao3

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Katia stepped out of the cabin, breathed in the crisp morning air, and took in her surroundings.

She wasn’t in the city, or anywhere she recognized. A single dirt path led from the cabin into the woods surrounding her on all sides, and a few cars were parked in the grass. Mist clung to the ground in tendrils, dew dampening her ankles as she took a hesitant step forward.

She immediately stumbled. Barely managing to catch herself, she gasped, her head swimming. I’ve lost too much blood, she decided, and as she lifted her cuffed wrists she saw that several of the neat lines Savio had carved into her had broken open and were bleeding again. She watched the blood ooze for a dazed moment, and then her eyes trailed down to a fresher cut slicing along the very edge of her waist. Peters, pulling a knife from his belt and lunging at her—Peters lying on the ground with a pool of blood seeping around his head—she squeezed her eyes shut as if to block out the memories, and the cut on her stomach throbbed in pain.

I’m not walking out of here. She had no clue where she was and she was on the verge of passing out. Blinking, she stumbled against the passenger door of the nearest car, jerking the handle. Locked. She crossed the path to the other car and tried it, but it was locked as well.

Staring down the dirt path that disappeared into the woods, then turning back to face the cabin, her body thrummed with mingled dread and cold determination. I’m just going to find some keys, she told herself. Peters is—he won’t bother me any more, and Leila…

Movement through the window caught her eye. A figure walking through the house, shit. That other guy. What was his name? Anderson. She ducked down, like that would hide her if he decided to look out the window, stupid.

It was fine. There had to be a back entrance somewhere, or an open window. She would just crawl around the house. And pray no one noticed the trail of blood she was surely leaving streaked in the grass.

Now that she’d stepped outside, felt the grass on her skin and the cool breeze in her hair, she couldn’t let go of the thought that she might make it out of here. Her mind was crystal clear, singularly focused on escape. It’s fine. I just have to find some keys.

The damp dirt irritated her cuts, left muddy streaks on her skin and clothes. She kept close to the side of the house as she crawled. It was a peaceful morning, but not completely quiet; a few birds were chirping, the wind whispered through the trees, and Katia’s own labored breathing was oddly harsh in her own ears as she struggled to pull herself forward with her bound hands. Then she saw curtains billowing out a window in the morning breeze and her breath caught in her throat.

Slowly, so slowly, she lifted herself up to look in the window, braced to be met with the barrel of a gun to her face. There was only silence and a dark, empty room. She hoisted herself over the sill, hissing in pain as the movement aggravated her injuries. Her hands left smears of blood on the wood.

As she rolled gracelessly into the room, her eyes adjusted to the dim indoor lighting, and she took in her surroundings. An office of some sort, with a gleaming wooden desk and shelves lined with leather-bound books. She gripped the edge of the desk with slippery fingers and hauled herself to standing, eyes already searching the room, because if this was an office then maybe there was a phone.

She kept one eye on the door as she searched, praying no one would walk in on her. The desk was cluttered but organized, covered in files and loose sheets of paper. Her mind was racing as she shuffled through the clutter. If there was a phone, she could call Nic—no, not him. They’d already called him. She’d call the police, then, and then she’d curl up under this desk and wait for them to show up—no. She had no clue where she was, she wouldn’t know what to say to them, she couldn’t count on them to come here. She’d have to call them and then go find the keys and get away. But her head was still spinning and she felt dizzy every time she moved, and what if she passed out before she got to safety—

Her scanning eyes stopped on a photo among the papers and her blood ran cold. Picking it up with shaking hands, she held it up to the weak sunlight streaming through the window, confirming what she saw.

A photo of her and Nic, arm in arm, walking downtown together. She was wearing her sleek cocktail dress and her hair was styled in loose waves; he had that effortless charm he always had in his button-up and charcoal slacks. Katia remembered this night—the ballet was in town, so they’d gone to opening night, and then they’d gotten drinks downtown after at the rooftop bar. She could pick out the landmarks in this photo, recognize exactly where in the city they had been. She’d had no idea anyone was taking her photo.

Her gaze was drawn back to the assortment of files and papers on the desk, background clutter that now concealed something more sinister. She shuffled past several bills and found another photo, this one of Nic giving a speech at the opening of a new branch of the public library. She’d felt so proud when he got the invitation to speak, and he looked so confident and collected, standing up there and giving his lecture to the crowd.

The next photo was Nic, a gun in his hand, his expression stony.

She stared at the photo, her mind slowly processing. He wasn’t looking at the camera; his gaze was directed at someone just out of sight, and his eyes blazed with cold fury. He held the gun easily by his side, like it was just an extension of his arm. She couldn’t help but remember the time they’d gone to the shooting range together, just to try something new, and Nic had been so nervous and clumsy around the guns, as if he’d never held one before. The man in this photo seemed perfectly at ease.

Who had even taken this photo? Was Savio pulling his phone out in the middle of a—a business negotiation, snapping photos to use against him later? The sound of the shutter echoed in her mind, and she could almost see Savio shoving the phone in her face to capture the frozen image of her fear and pain.

Beneath that photo, she found a note, scrawled in handwriting she would recognize anywhere.

We need to talk about just who controls the Northeastern corridor, and about this rat of yours that wandered into my business. 1125 Strickland Avenue. July 25th. 11 pm. I’ll take a finger for every minute you’re late after that. Come alone, or I’ll take his entire hand.

There was a smear of reddish-brown blood in the corner of the page. Katia’s eyes glazed over as she stared at it, the words blurring as she lost focus. Suddenly she was in the kitchen of her home, holding a love letter Nic had left her before he took off for a business trip. The lo in alone looked just like the way he’d written love. The blood in the corner could be a heart.

A business trip.

Katia shut her eyes a moment to stop the tears from falling, clutching the paper in tight hands. She could deny Savio’s words; she could even convince herself Leila had been mistaken. But there was no mistaking the note she held, and the pointed brutality of the words written in her husband’s own hand. She took in a shaking breath and tried to allow herself to grieve the love she thought she had once had.

“Found her.”

Katia’s eyes flew open at the voice and she automatically stumbled a step back before she even processed what she was seeing. Anderson. She’d gotten wrapped up in the moment, let her guard down, and now he was watching her with hard eyes from the doorway. One hand held a phone up to his ear, and the other had a gun pointed directly at her.

“She was digging around in your office,” Anderson said to whoever was on the line—Savio, it must be Savio. “What—I’m not gonna kill her, Jesus, but I’m not—she killed Peters, for fuck’s sake.”

Katia’s heart was hammering as her vision narrowed to the gun pointed at her. The paper slipped from between her fingers as she slowly raised her cuffed hands, as if she could protect herself if he decided to shoot.

Anderson took another step into the room, his expression darkening. “You don’t need to come back here,” he snarled. “I have her completely under contro—”

A crack, and the deafening bang of a gunshot, and Katia threw herself back against the wall with a scream. For a moment she was terrified to move, braced against the wall with her eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the inevitable explosion of pain in her stomach or shoulder or heart.

The pain didn’t come. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Anderson was sprawled on the ground. The phone and gun had both fallen from his hands and were lying next to him, a tinny voice just barely audible from the phone. Leila stood above him with a baton clutched in her hands, panting heavily.

They stared at each other for several heartbeats. Not breaking eye contact, Leila slowly crouched down and picked up the phone. She pressed the end call button without a word and let the phone drop from her hand as she straightened back up.

Finally, she spoke. “You didn’t use the bobby pin.”

Katia couldn’t help but give an incredulous laugh. “You think I know how to pick a lock?”

Leila smiled at that, but it was tinged with regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything better. Or sooner.”

Katia swallowed. She couldn’t allow herself to imagine, just yet, how things would be different if Leila had acted sooner. A bit of blood dripped from the cut on her side. “Do you have a car?”

Leila’s eyes flicked down to the unconscious man at her feet, then back up to Katia. Her gaze lingered on the fresh cut, and she nodded.

Steeling herself, Katia stepped away from the wall and moved towards the other woman. She kept wary eyes on Leila as she approached, just barely daring to trust. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and she managed to keep her voice from trembling.

#whumptober #whump #bfatf #my writing #catch me speed writing over the next few days to finish this before october ends #lady whump

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tuiccim · 4 years ago

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Santi (Part 8)

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Words: 3103

Warnings: Angst, violence, language

Trigger warning: Violence

Summary: The Caruso Op continues.

Santi Masterlist

Day 101

Everything was set. Vision was driving you and the cargo in the SUV to the meeting place. You pulled into the warehouse in Brooklyn you had previously scoped out and smoothly exited the car. Vincent was there waiting with his bodyguards and a few other people to take the cargo.

“Vincent.” You smile.

“Eve, is this everything?” VIncent asks.

“Your entire list, as promised. Did you doubt me?” You smirk.

“Of course not, darling.” Vincent says smoothly.

You spend the next 20 minutes going over the cargo and discussing future needs and shipments. When Vincent seems satisfied with everything he nods to the others.

“I have a gift for you in the office here. Will you join me for a drink?”

“A gift?” You say suspiciously.

“For our reunion.” Vincent smiles devilishly at you.

You look to Vision who immediately joins you, but Vincent turns back. “Leave the shadow. I’ll leave the guards. Just the two of us.”

You can feel something is off. Everyone is tense, which is normal in a deal, but there’s something different about Vincent and you can’t quite pull the emotion out that is making things feel strange. Knowing you can handle Vincent alone you decide to take the chance and follow him. Vision is obviously unhappy with the decision but he lets you go. You walk into the dim office with an old metal desk and little else in the room. The door closes suddenly behind you and that’s when you feel the needle in your neck.

You wake up what was only 20-30 minutes later. Your healing ability metabolizing the drug more quickly than average. You are in the backseat of Vincent’s SUV with hands cuffed behind your back. You moan as you are coming to and realize your surroundings.

“Awake already?” Vincents snarks.

“The fuck did you do, Vincent?” You try to sound forceful but it comes out slurred. The effects of the drugs still in your system.

“I have some bad news. I’m afraid your shadow is no more. My guards are dispatching him as we speak. You did say one lover at a time so I felt the need to rid us of him.”

You chuckle, “I doubt your guards can handle, V. He’s more than he seems.”

“5 to 1. I like my odds.” Vincent looks at you.

“Where are we going and why am I handcuffed?” You say.

“Someplace private. And it’s the first step in breaking you. I’m the one in control.” Vincent says.

“You think.” You know now that Vincents ‘never say never’ comment at the party had been a threat. His obsession had been rekindled and this time he had decided he would have you no matter what.

“I know. You are mine now, Eve. I’ll prove it to you.” He slides a hand to your thigh and rubs. “You’ll see, darling.”

You jerk your leg away from him and he chuckles. Looking outside you stare at your surroundings and realize you are no longer in Brooklyn. You assumed you were headed to the loft in the meatpacking district when you see the car is going the opposite direction. Away from everything you had shown Vision and Sam. A little panic begins to form as you realize they have no idea where you are being taken. You reach out to feel Vincent’s emotions but the drug in your system is making it difficult. Your head is pounding so you decide to just lay your head against the window and watch. You hoped Vision was okay. The ride lasts nearly another hour before you arrive at a beautiful house with extensive grounds. The car door opens and you feel another sting in your neck.

This time you wake up with a start. Something is being held under your nose. You shake your head to get away from the acrid smell.

“That’s it. Wake up, Eve. It’s time to play.” Vincent's voice is delighted.

You come awake but still feel sluggish. It takes you a second to realize you’re tied to a metal rack. Wrists are tied by your head and ankles tied to the bottom. Thankfully, you’re still fully dressed. The room is windowless and full of different weapons and equipment. This makes you more fully awake. “Enough, Vincent. Unchain me. This is not how it works.”

“So naive. You think all submissives actually start off wanting it?” Vincent says darkly.

“If you touch me again, you will die today.” You say.

Vincent slaps you across the face. “Speak when told.”

You laugh at him knowing you can’t let him break you. The longer you hold out against him the better chance he wouldn’t… He needed you to be submissive and there was no way in hell you were gonna break. “That’s cute, Vinny. You think I’ll actually listen to you.”

“Don’t call me that. You will. I think you are wearing too many clothes.” Vincent picks a knife up.

You simply stare at him with dead eyes. He takes the knife and slides it under the buttons of your blouse and pops them off. You never break eye contact with him. When the last button pops off he rips the blouse open. “Look at you. So pretty.” He slides the knife along your skin.

“I’m going to mark you. I think I’ll carve my initials right next to your bullet wounds.” He looks down for the scar and your heart accelerates. You hadn’t bothered with the fake scar as trust had been reestablished. Vincent stares hard at your stomach where they had been before reaching for the waistband of your skirt to pull it down further.

“Where are they?” He stares at you in disbelief. You just stare at him. Not saying anything. “Where are they?” he repeats more loudly and presses the knife into your skin where they should be. Your face twitches at the sting from the knife and he scrapes the blade across your skin raising a thin line that beads with drops of blood. You try to remain calm but the terror begins in the pit of your stomach. Vincent is about to realize what you are. You can already feel your skin knitting back together and his face is staring at the line as it is quickly disappearing. “What the fuck?” He says as he watches and then his eyes snap up to yours. There is pure glee in his face and you feel panic begin to rise in you. “You’re one of those! How far does your healing ability go, Eve? Secretive girl.”

You say nothing.

“Let’s test it out.” He makes a deeper stripe across your stomach and you keep your poker face on as best you can. He watches as the line recedes again and then rips a piece of your shirt off to wipe away the blood revealing the smooth skin underneath. Then he plunges the knife into your stomach fully and you grunt at the pain. He pulls it out and watches again as your skin repairs itself. He repeats the action eliciting another grunt and smiles at you wickedly, “You still feel all the pain, don’t you? I can hurt you and hurt you and you’ll never have a mark on you. You really are the perfect woman.” He laughs sickly as he plunges the knife in again.

“Where the fuck is she, Sam? Bucky is near out of his mind as the team scrambles to find you.

“Redwing lost them in the trees covering the road. We’ll find her. There are only two ways they could have gone. I’ve got another asset that was following her but he hasn’t checked in.”

“I’m gonna kill this bastard.” Bucky fumes.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing and he picks up. ”Nate, man, where the hell ya been? Do you have her?” Bucky is looming over Sam.

The voice over the line is breaking up, “Sam, got shit reception out here. They’re in a huge house. No way to get in there without being noticed and he’s got several guards on the ground.”

“I’ve got his location.” Natasha says behind Sam.

“Let’s go.” Bucky bellows at everyone Vision puts a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. The quinjet is already heading the right direction.

You are panting from the pain. Vincent has stabbed you a dozen times and your skirt is drenched in blood. He was reveling in the pain it was causing you but was also angry because you wouldn’t scream.

“Scream for me once, Eve. Then I’ll give you a break. Just one scream.” He plunges the knife in again.

You hold in any sound. You can’t let him win. Once you catch your breath, you laugh. “Told ya, Vinny. I don’t break.”

“Bitch!” He screams and slaps you again. You just laugh maniacally hoping to unnerve him more. Between the drug still in your system and the pain, you can’t concentrate well enough to use your telepathy.

Vincent is suddenly calmer and your stomach clenches. “Let’s test something out. You heal, but can you grow back appendages?”

Shit. This was going to hurt. You had lost a toe once before and it had grown back but you’d never cared to test the limitations of the ability. He grabs your hand and then you hear the shots firing. Vincent looks towards the door.

“Ready to die?” You say.

Vincent picks up his gun and points it at your head. “We die together, Eve. Don’t worry.” He grins malevolently.

The door is kicked in and Steve and Bucky freeze seeing the gun pointed at your head.

“The Avengers. How interesting. I should have guessed with your abilities, Eve.” Vincent says before addressing Steve and Bucky, “Can she survive a head shot?” He grins.

“Shoot him.” You enunciate clearly and Vincent brings the barrel of the gun closer to your head.

“Lower the gun.” Steve says.

“I don’t think so. I’ll take her with me.” Vincent turns back to look at you and you wrench your head as far away from the gun as you can but the bullet still hits the right side of your forehead. Vincent drops to the floor dead from Bucky’s shot. Bucky runs to you immediately. You’re slumped over and not moving.

“Doll, doll, wake up.” He picks your head up to see the bullet hole in your forehead. “NO! NO! SANTI! Wake up, baby. WAKE UP, WAKE UP!” Bucky drops to his knees and screams. His jeans become stained with your blood that covers the floor. The rest of the team stand in the doorway taking in the scene before them.

Steve comes up behind Bucky and tries to pick him up. “Come on, Bucky. Come on, man. Let me get you out of here.”

Suddenly a small tink is heard and Bucky sees a bullet drop into the pool of blood. He looks up sharply and sees your head move slightly.

“Owwwww…” You say as a massive headache reverberates through your head.

“Santi!” Bucky is up in an instant and cradles your face.

“Vis?” You slur. Everything feels strange and you can’t seem to get your words out.

“He’s here. He’s okay. Help me get her out of this.” Bucky says.

Within a few minutes Bucky is carrying you to the quinjet. Natasha and Steve are checking you over for injuries which you find slightly ludicrous. You are exhausted and just want to sleep. Bucky keeps you cradled in his arms in the quinjet whispering to you, “You’re okay, doll. I’ve got you. Never letting you go again.”

“Bucky,” you curl your fingers into his shirt.

“Shhh, you don't need to talk. I’m gonna take care of you, baby.” Bucky reassures.

You can’t hold out any longer and pass out.

Day 102

You wake in the medbay of the tower and slowly look around. A monitor next to you shows your vitals. You see Bucky talking to one of the doctors. He turns to look at you and you lock eyes. He rushes to your side, “Doll, you’re awake.”

"Bucky." You reach out for him and he takes you in his arms. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s fine. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. How long was I out for?”

“It’s been almost 14 hours.” Dr. Miles says as she walks in.

“Hey Doc.” You say to your usual doctor. Despite your healing abilities you are still required to have regular check ups with the medical staff.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Miles asks.

You look at Bucky’s face. His arms are still around you. “I’m fine. Nothing feels off. When can I get out of here?”

“All your labs are normal. I want to monitor your vitals and keep you for another hour or two.”

You groan, “Really, Doc?”

“Let her do her job, Doll.” Bucky says kissing the top of your head.

She performs a cognitive and neurological exam.

“Can you tell me what exactly happened? I need to do a full report of your injuries.” Dr. Miles says.

“Bucky, can you give us a minute?” You look at him.

“Sorry, Doll. Not letting you go. I need to hear it, too.”

“No, I… Buck.” One look in his stern face told you he wasn’t going anywhere. “Okay. Two slices across my abdomen. Around 20 or so full seated stabs to the abdomen. Bullet to the head.” You get a far away look in your eye. “Bullet to the head. I survived it.” A hand flies to your forehead.

“You did and without any lasting damage it would seem. We did a cat scan while you were out and everything looks the same as the one we did six months ago.” Dr. Miles gives you both a smile and walks out.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to hear that. I’m sorry you had to see it. Sorry you had to do that.” You whisper to Bucky, pulling him tighter against you.

“I would do it all over again to keep you safe. You never have to worry about him again.” Bucky holds you tight. “I’m just so damn glad you’re safe. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Several hours later, you’ve been released from medbay, showered, spent some quality time with Bucky, and are now joining the team for dinner. When you walk into the room, your eyes immediately go to Vision. Letting go of Bucky’s hand, you rush to hug Vision.

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” You say as he returns your embrace.

“I’m glad you’re okay, too.” Vision says. You put your hands up to his face and look at him for a minute.

“I’m glad to see you, Vision.” You smile at him in his normal form. You move to Wanda and hug her fiercely. “Thank you. Without him… Thank you.”

“We’re a team. We will always look out for each other.” Wanda says.

You make your way around the room hugging everyone. You hear the elevator and see Sam step off of it with another man. He was wearing a cap and his head was down, but when he looked up at you a minute later you recognized him immediately.

“Nate?” you say in disbelief.

“Nate’s an old buddy. Pulled him in since he’s not a recognizable face. You did good, man.” Sam smiles at him.

“Hi, Agent Delarosa. Nathaniel Spencer, at your service.” He holds a hand out to you.

You shake it, “I take it you were how they found me.”

“Yeah, I was following. Sam wanted an extra set of eyes on you just in case.” Nate smiles.

“Thank you, Nate.” You smile at him and unable to contain yourself you step forward and hug him. “Thank you.”

Nate laughs, “Yeah. So, you’re not as mean as I remember.”

A laugh bubbles up, “I hope not.” You turn to Sam and pull him into a hug. “Thank you, Sam.”

“You got it, Santi.” Sam squeezes you.

“Okay, okay. Enough, Birdbrain.” Bucky says pulling you into his arms.

“I can’t help it if she’s grateful to me.” Sam smirks at Bucky.

“I’m grateful to all of you. I’m just sorry we didn’t complete the mission and find out who was being supplied. I didn’t realize how obsessed…” you trail off.

“You couldn’t know what he’d do, doll. You and Vision made it out alive. That’s all that matters.” Bucky says.

“I, for one, am both glad and jealous that you can apparently survive a headshot.” Natasha says.

Steve clears his throat, “I’m just glad we’re all back together. You need to take it easy for a bit though, Santi. Doctors orders. No mission for at least six weeks.”

“I know, Steve. Doc told me.” You smile at him. “Let’s eat. I’m starving!”

After dinner you asked to speak to Steve and Sam alone. Of course, that meant Bucky too. He hadn’t left your side since you woke up.

“Fury?” You asked simply.

“His only concern was getting you back. He knew Caruso was dangerous and unstable. No one could have predicted that he would do that.” Steve says.

“Figuring out who he was supplying for was the goal and now we’re back at square one.” You frown.

“Not exactly.” Sam says.

“What do you mean?”

“That house was a treasure trove of intel. It wasn’t on anyone’s radar. SHIELD got several leads to follow from it.” Sam says.

“So, it wasn’t a total bust?” Relief floods through you.

“No. SHIELD will be chasing everything down. Caruso had several links to HYDRA.” Steve says.

“It’s out of our hands now.” Bucky puts his arms around you. “You did more than enough.”

You lean into his touch. “Okay. We’re gonna call it an early night, guys.”

“Night.” Sam says.

“Night, Santi. Night, Buck. Get some rest.”

You lay on your side facing Bucky, studying each beautiful feature of his face. He is doing the same. His eyes keep wandering to a certain spot on your forehead. Your heart broke a little every time they did. Knowing the agony he must have been put through.

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper with tears in your eyes. A sentiment you had repeated several times since waking up in the medbay.

“We’ve been over this. Not your doing, doll.” Bucky cups your cheek.

“I just…” You start sobbing again. It felt like the hundredth time you had that day. Everything replayed in your mind again and again. Bucky pulled you into his arms and held you. The mission was over but the effects had a hold on you. The damage Eve always left in her wake.

Part 9

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otonymous · 5 years ago

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Roughhoused (MLQC Gavin - NSFW)

Description: Gavin, as you’ve never seen him before Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised. Trigger warnings: rough sex, rough oral sex, spanking, dom/sub, bondage, gun kink, spitting Word Count: 1774 words (~9 mins of pure, shameless smut) AO3: read here Author’s Notes: This story was inspired by this post made by the lovely @dear-mrs-otome. Apparently, Gavin spitting in my mouth is something I didn’t know I needed in my life until it was pointed out to me 😂 Very smutty and quite rough (please note the warnings above). That being said, if you’re into it, happy reading! 😊

All characters & Mr Love: Queen’s Choice owned by Elex

The smell of leather intensifies in your nostrils as the side of your face presses even harder against the seat of the motorcycle, and when long fingers weave through your hair to anchor and curl in an iron grip, you let loose a shaky exhale to feel your scalp lift ever so subtly in whichever direction he chooses to pull in.

But there is absolutely nothing subtle about the way his knee parts your legs, sudden and rough, like the blast of cool evening air that hits your skin when he pulls your skirt up to the waist, one large hand ripping the ribbon ties at the side of your panties so hard and fast you barely had time to blink before satin slid down one leg to rest at the ankle — the man who has you pinned and cuffed refusing even an inch of movement to allow you to step out of them in the black stilettos you wore especially for—

“G-Gavin! Ahh!”

You jump at the touch of his calloused fingers between your legs, stroking hard and impatient and so different from how he usually took you. But there is little time for contemplation: pulling his hand away, he yanks your hair up and back, directing your gaze towards a face so handsome you feel yourself growing wetter despite the distortion of your body.

“Did I give you permission to call me by name?”

His voice is low. Husky. Dangerous.

Hair in the grip of his fist, you merely manage a slight shake of the head, tongue running corner to corner to lick lips parched from panting as you desperately try to find your voice.

“N-No, sir. I’m sorry, Officer Gavin. It won’t happen again.”

Desire darkens the amber eyes closing in on your face as his lips approach your open mouth, just shy of touching when he whispers:

“It’s too bad for you I don’t believe in second chances.”

Gavin spits in your mouth, shock combining with the heat and taste of his saliva to make you throb so violently your legs press together, chasing some modicum of relief in the absence of his hand. And when you find your pussy too slick to secure any sort of friction, a whimper leaves your lips, pathetically begging the officer for his cock.

But he merely meets your supplication with a sneer — gorgeous features frozen in an icy expression as he presses an index finger to his lips, the gesture suppressing your groan as it calls for absolute silence.

“I’ve dealt with scum like you before...”

Fingers still wound in your hair, Gavin forces you to the ground and it takes a moment to find your balance — bare knees on dirt and grass with your hands cuffed at the small of your back. And as the officer starts to remove his gun from its holster, you track his hands with wide eyes and bated breath.

“…Think you can get away with anything and everything just because you’ve got a beautiful face.”

Finally loosening his hold, he squats before you, the dying rays of sunlight glinting off the insignias of rank on his shoulder to make you squint. Then…deliberately slow…he caresses you with the barrel, cool metal tempering the heat of crimson cheeks with its touch. And for a moment, you wondered whether Gavin would agree to slide it between your legs if you swore to spread them wide for his eyes only.

“Tsk, tsk. Were you expecting something? You’re not even wearing a bra.”

Nipples hardening even further against the silk of your favourite blouse, you bite back your moans as the gun moves against the skin of your chest, barrel pulling at the front of your top to pop button after button until your breasts are fully exposed to ravenous eyes — Gavin’s throat bobbing conspicuously at the sight.

Bringing up the muzzle of the firearm to rest lightly against your lips, the officer studies you intently, not a hint of pink on his cheeks as he says,

“Well, beautiful, it’s time for you to show me what those pretty little lips can do.”

Salivating on reflex at the sound of his pants unzipping, your mouth immediately parts to accept the smooth head of his cock as it replaces the revolver, now back at his hip. But before your tongue can even slide out to get that first taste of flesh, he draws back, chuckling under his breath as he taps his erection against your lips.

“Impatient, aren’t we? Nasty girl. Mind your manners.”

“Please.”

“‘Please’ what?”

The sharp tone of his voice sends another jolt to your core, the surge of moisture now palpable as it drips from swollen lips.

“Please, Officer Gavin…may I have a taste of your cock?”

“Hmm.” A tiny smile of approval.

Lower lip disappearing behind the bite of white teeth, Gavin slowly exhales as you take him in your mouth, eyes locked on his all the while. And when you feel his heat against your cheeks and that strain in your jaw, you hum happily, tongue dancing along the underside of his cock just to get the satisfaction of feeling him twitch at the back of your throat.

But with your wrists still rubbing against the cuffs and knees precariously balanced on uneven ground, it was difficult to satiate your appetite, being unable to build up neither the speed nor depth you were typically used to.

“Can’t even do this properly, can you? Perhaps some punishment is in order.”

Gavin’s fingers fan out on either side of your head, the grip gentle despite being firm. Inhaling deeply through your nose, you quickly suppress a smile as you relax your jaw, preparing to receive the officer when he suddenly thrusts into your mouth, spit cascading past lips pulled taut over teeth to coat your chin each time his hips draw back.

And just when you think he is close to spilling across your tongue, Gavin stops, yanking you up by your sleeve to release your bound hands.

If the sheer size of his erection wasn’t intimidating enough, the feral look in his eyes certainly was as he said, “Hands against the bike.”

So you comply, the leather seat soft beneath your palms as you bend forward at an exaggerated angle, attempting to offset the way your heels sink into the ground.

A moment passes. Then another. And when you still can’t feel Gavin behind you, you lift your head to seek him out amongst foliage that shielded you both from prying eyes at the side of the quiet road, stopping short when his baritone voice commands:

“Keep your eyes forward. Lift your skirt and spread your legs wide. Wider.”

Gaze fixed obediently on the ground, you watch as polished boots step between your stilettos. And when Gavin’s hand finally reaches around to cup and caress each of your breasts in turn, you cannot help but close your eyes at the sensation of his smooth head sliding along the length of your folds, coating himself liberally in your arousal before pressing against your entrance.

His breath is hot in your ear when he whispers, “Does this excite you?”

Before you could even answer, one powerful swing of his hips has him buried to the hilt in your pussy, leaving your mouth gaping open in a silent gasp as Gavin fucks you, relentless in both speed and force.

Smack!

“Mmm!”

Your cry rings out in the open air when the officer brings his hand down hard on your supple ass, and when the initial sting gives way to blooming warmth, you look back to see his hand raised once more, Gavin’s eyes dark with threat and lust as he poses the question yet again, this time slow and deliberate:

“Does. This. Excite. You?”

Smack!

“Ahhh! Yes! Yes, it excites me, Officer Gavin!”

Breathlessly, you spit the words out, and when you feel his palm rubbing over the sore flesh of your backside, the unexpected tenderness has you clenching so hard he hisses behind you.

Relinquishing its hold on your hip, Gavin’s hand snakes south until his fingers find their way between your folds — index, middle finger and thumb deftly exploring: savouring the friction in the tight spaces where he dove in and out of your body, testing the consistency of your arousal that dripped and accumulated.

Drawing concentric patterns around your already sensitized clit as they gradually build up the pressure and velocity needed to send tremors coursing through your body.

“Come…hmm…come with me. This is an order.” Gavin’s voice trembles ever so slightly as he issues his final command, spoken against the shell of your ear.

“Y-yes, Officer Gavin.”

Securing your grip on the seat of the motorbike, your face distorts from pleasure and the effort expended in trying to remain silent despite the way Gavin moved within your body — hot, hard and fast as he approached his climax and brought you to the edge of yours.

And when the soft bite of teeth at the nape of your neck coincides with liquid warmth rhythmically inundating you from within, every nerve in your body conspires to snap the tension in tight muscles, the violence of your climax leaving you limp and clinging helplessly to the bike for support.

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

“I’m so sorry. Was I too rough this time? Did I get carried away?”

Lips curling into an amused smile, you plant a kiss on Gavin’s cheek, admiring the red that crept up to the tips of his ears.

“You were absolutely perfect, Gavin. Didn’t slip out of your role, not even once! And that bit with your unloaded gun? Perfection. But you can put me down now, I can walk by myself. My place is right there, and besides…people are starting to stare.”

Your lover breathes a sigh of relief, readjusting his grip to carry you even closer to his chest.

“I couldn’t care less about them, let them stare. The only one I care about is you. Besides, are you sure you’re alright? I…I didn’t hold back at all earlier. You must be sore.”

Brows furrowed, a hint of remorse crosses the handsome officer’s face as he searches your eyes, soft tenderness wrapped up in a hard-boiled exterior, the entirety of the man making you melt all over again.

“Sore in all the right places,” you snicker in his ear, beaming to see him grin in response. Then, lowering your voice to a whisper, you ask, “Why don’t we put you in the handcuffs the next time around?”

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beckzorz · 6 years ago

Text

Old Habits

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader Words: 7445 Warnings: 18+, NSFW, smut, swearing Summary: Training with the Avengers isn’t supposed to be like the Red Room, but for you and Bucky, the past is hard to shake. A/N: So you might recognize the beginning section from a drabble I posted back in February. Some folks asked for a continuation, so here it is. Hope it lives up to expectations :3 Let me know what you think!

“Again.”

“No. Again.”

“Again.”

You yank off a sweaty glove and hurl it at Bucky, panting. Enough is enough. “No! Not again! It’s been hours—”

Before you can finish, Bucky rushes you, his face transformed from its usual impassive façade to a violent snarl. You leap out of the way, sweeping a leg behind you to trip him up.

He’s too quick.

Bucky grabs your ankle and yanks hard, aborting your roll and nearly pulling your leg out of its socket. You twist onto your back as he clamps a hand on your waist, hard fingers digging into your side. You’ve still got two hands free, and a leg besides, but this is the Winter Soldier after all. In seconds you’re pinned to the floor. Bucky’s elbow digs into your throat until you see stars.

Only then does he pull away.

By the time your vision clears, his face is back to its customary blankness. The only hint of his moments-ago ferocity is the tic in his jaw.

“Again,” he orders.

You push yourself up on your elbows and glare up at him. Every muscle burns, and you can feel a bruise forming on your throat already. You don’t move.

“No.”

His jaw clenches. He takes one step closer until he’s nearly straddling you, so tall he might as well be a mountain.

“You need to keep going,” he says.

“I’m done.”

You sit the rest of the way up and peel off your other glove. You try and look nonchalant, but you’re on full alert. Would he attack you like this? You can’t be sure.

He doesn’t attack you. He just drops to his knees and grabs hold of your chin, jerking your head up until you meet his eye.

“That wasn’t good enough!” he shouts.

“Don’t yell at me like I’m a child,” you retort. You will not let him drive you to shouting back. You press your shoe hard against his groin, pushing him back. “Just because you did when I was doesn’t mean you can do it now.”

Bucky’s dark look washes away with sudden shock. His blue eyes go comically wide.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh.”

He scuttles backwards, his pinched expression so full of regret that you lean forward to stare.

“What?” you say.

Bucky runs his hands over his face, pushing his loose hair back. It falls right back into place.

“Old habits die hard,” he says, not meeting your gaze. “Got caught up in—I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” You stand with a wince; the hours of grueling training have taken their toll. You stretch your arms over your head and bend to press your hands to the ground. You straighten again. “No one here will kill me if you don’t push me past the point of reason. This isn’t—“

“I know,” Bucky interrupts. “I know.” A brief smile flickers on his face. “This isn’t there. No children. No handcuffing to the bed, either.”

“Speak for yourself,” you say with a snort.

Bucky’s eyes light on yours with sudden, piercing interest. “Oh?” he drawls.

You freeze, caught in his intense gaze. A blush rises to your face. Bucky’s eyes are darker than before—damn it, this isn’t supposed to be the Red Room, but here you are sneaking glances at the soldier, wondering what it would be like to have him cuffed to your bed.

What would it be like to have the power over him for once?

You swallow.

“Mind out of the gutter, Barnes,” you say, as lightly as you can.

Bucky smiles wistfully up at you. “If you insist.”

You force your eyes away from curve of his mouth and gather up your gloves. It’s wrong, to think of your old teacher like this… but how can you resist?

Even after he’s literally driven the air from your lungs, you’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Still, no call for him to know it. After everything you’ve been through, you know how to deny yourself anything.

Even something as dazzling as Bucky Barnes.

“I do.”

—

You tilt your head back and study yourself in your bathroom mirror. Concealer is a wonderful invention. The blooming bruise on your throat is totally hidden. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the smooth skin of your neck.

You press your hand against your right side. The finger-shaped bruises there are hidden by your shirt.

But they still hurt to the touch.

It hurts to talk, too. You’re perfectly capable of working through pain, but that sure as hell doesn’t make it fun.

Fortunately, you can get away with minimal talking for the rest of the day. Once you grab lunch and a granola bar for later, you can sequester yourself back in your room and lounge in peace and quiet.

You pass by the main mess and wince; it’s far too crowded for your liking. Instead, you go farther afield to the lounge kitchenette.

Natasha glances over her shoulder as she dumps fruit into the blender.

“Hi, Natasha.” You squeeze past her to raid the pantry.

“How was training?”

You shrug. You stick a wrapped granola bar between your teeth and grab the bread. From the fridge, you snag your sandwich fillings. Natasha wordlessly passes you a plate and knife. You hum in thanks and spread everything out on the table.

“Hm.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. Natasha’s looking at you with a furrow in her brow.

“What?” you ask.

“Oh, nothing.”

You shrug and turn back, popping the bread clip off. Natasha sets her smoothie down beside you and steps out of your line of sight.

A hand clamps around your throat.

Red floods your vision.

In a heartbeat, you’ve flipped Natasha over your shoulder, sending her crashing onto the table. The bread lands with a muffled thump somewhere behind you. Natasha blinks up at you as you collapse into the closest chair, clutching your neck gingerly.

She’s not even winded. You scowl.

“Dammit, Nat, what the hell?” you rasp.

“What happened?” she asks, sitting up.

You look away, heat rising to your face. Will Natasha be as scolding as Bucky has been?

“Bucky had me training for hours,” you whisper. Anything louder hurts. “I told him I’d had enough—”

“Let me guess,” she says drily. “He rushed you.”

You shrink in your chair and nod. “I guess he forgot we weren’t, you know. There.”

“Yeah, he gets that way sometimes. Not saying I don’t, but…” Natasha shrugs and swings her legs back and forth. “He’s more intense than the rest of us put together. Except for Tony when he’s in one of his manic episodes.”

A smile flits across your face. No lie there.

“I’ll have a word with him,” Natasha says.

“Oh, please don’t,” you blurt. You wince and try not to massage your throat—that would only make things worse. Quietly, you add, “He knows he got caught up, and then he’d know we were talking about it, and I just don’t want to have to deal with that next time.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Next time? Why don’t you just train with someone else?”

You open your mouth, then close it. Natasha takes a long sip of her smoothie.

Why don’t you train with someone else? No one else, not even Natasha, goes to Bucky’s lengths. And there are other large men who can pose a reasonable threat. Steve, maybe? No, he gets too defensive about Bucky. Sam might do.

Whomever you pick, a change in partners might be just the thing to clear Bucky from your mind. You’d told him to get his mind out of the gutter, but there are moments where you can barely keep your head in the game. Bucky and his tight workout gear—not to mention that sinful mouth—draw you in no matter how much you tell yourself no. A little distance will do a world of good.

Bucky’s a teammate. He’s your old teacher, your old tormentor, your fellow sufferer. He’s one of the few people alive who could truly relate to your past. But in his eyes, you’re just the kid who still needs breaking in.

That settles it. You can’t keep sighing over a man who only wants to lecture you. No matter how much he makes you weak, Bucky Barnes isn’t for you.

“Thank you,” you say at last. “That is the reasonable thing to do.”

Natasha smirks. “Of course it is,” she murmurs. She stands and raps her knuckles on the table. “Later.”

—

A week later, you’re in the ring with Sam, sweat trickling down your face. Sam has a hard punch, and even without wings he’s tough to hit.

In the ring, anyway. If you weren’t playing by arbitrary rules, you’d’ve flattened him a half-dozen times already.

Oh well. It’s good practice.

Sam aims a few more hits in your direction before stepping back with a fresh smile.

“Sup, Barnes?” he says.

You look over your shoulder, gloves still up. Bucky’s leaning against the ropes, his eyes flicking between you and Sam. His sweats ride low on his hips below his fitted t-shirt.

You look away.

“You still goin’ at it?” Bucky asks.

You glance at Sam, unsure if Bucky’s talking to him or you.

“We can wrap it up if you need the ring,” Sam says. You give Sam a panicked look, and he blinks. “Well, five more minutes?”

“Uh, sure.”

You watch surreptitiously as Bucky wanders off, peeking over his shoulder at you with a frown. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his shirt pulled tight across his shoulders and back.

“Wonder who he’s sparring with,” Sam muses.

You shake yourself out of it. Enough of Bucky. “C’mon,” you urge Sam. “One more round.”

Sam puts up his gloves with an indulgent grin.

You barrel towards him, eyes on the prize. The rush of adrenaline sends all thoughts of Bucky to the wind.

Sam’s defeat comes swift. A surge of power runs through you as you hold him down an extra second with a foot on his knee, but at his urging you help him to his feet with a grunt.

“You’ve got moves, girl,” Sam says, grinning good-naturedly. “Thanks for going easy on me.”

You giggle. “Sure thing, Sam.”

Your smile holds as you amble to the locker room, gloves swinging from your hand. When you turn the corner to your row, you freeze.

Bucky is sitting hunched over on the bench in front of your locker, elbows on his knees and one hand in his tousled hair. The soft lighting in the corner engulfs him in a gentle halo. He looks like a goddamn angel, sweats and all.

No, no.

You grit your teeth. Whatever he looks like, he’s a man who can’t control himself who’s hell-bent on controlling you.

You step back, but your sneaker squeaks on the tiles. Bucky’s head snaps in your direction. For a moment, his face is soft, with wide eyes and barely parted lips and a hint of a blush in his cheeks. Of course, his expression hardens as he pops to his feet.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he demands.

“Uh—”

Bucky steps towards you; you step back instinctively, dropping your gloves and settling into a fighting stance as your heart hammers in your chest. He stops short.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He collapses back onto the bench and rubs a hand down the back of his neck, chin tucked against his chest. “Forget it.”

You blink. “I’m not avoiding you,” you tell him.

“I said forget it,” he snaps. He jumps up and stalks away, passing so close to you that you can feel the air moving in his wake.

You spin to stare after him. His stiff shoulders fill you with sudden rage.

“Fine!”

You storm past where Bucky had been and open your locker with so much force that it bounces back closed, nearly taking your fingers off in the process. Teeth bared, you grab a change of clothes and slam your locker shut.

You make for the showers. Shirt and leggings off first, then you shimmy out of your sports bra and underwear. The water is a relief, and in here behind the locked door, you can finally relax.

Relax? No, you can’t relax. All you can think of is Bucky.

What the hell is his problem?! Why does he turn into the fucking Winter Soldier every time he talks to you? Why can’t he just deal with you like a normal person? Like Natasha, or Clint, or whoever the hell he wants. It’s not like you’re actually avoiding him.

You aren’t. Well…

You worry the inside of your lip as you run your soapy hands down your arms.

Are you avoiding him?

Sure, you stopped training with him, but it’s not like you run out of the room when he comes in. You’re just keeping a healthy distance, the better to contain him—and yourself. It’s better you’ve switched to working with Sam. Better for everyone. Clearly, your presence alone triggers Bucky. The man can’t even ask you a simple question without putting you on the defensive. And there’s no point in hovering by him, panting after him like a lovestruck child. You’ve done that before, back… back before. It never got you anywhere, except stuck in a chokehold from losing focus.

You run your fingernails lightly along your neck. The phantom memory of Bucky’s hand on your throat sends a sudden chill through you.

No, not a chill. Just a shudder, one that settles right where you wish it wouldn’t. Your hand dips between your legs, and you lean heavily against the wall as want pools in your belly.

Maybe you have been avoiding Bucky. Under the circumstances, you’re pretty sure it’s for the best.

Thank god you don’t have any missions planned together anytime soon.

—

Two days later, Steve summons you to the conference room.

You sit on the edge of the table across from him and bounce your foot as you wait for him to get started. He pushes a file over to you. You thumb through it.

“Something’s come up in Ukraine,” Steve says. “We need Ukrainian speakers.”

“This looks simple,” you tell him. “I can take this. Don’t drag Natasha into it; she’s almost had a full two weeks on-site.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t planning on pulling Natasha. She’s earned some rest. I’m sending Bucky with you.”

“What?!” Your stomach drops. “Steve, I—”

“I don’t know what happened between you two,” he says, standing slowly. He leans on the table, fixing you with a sharp stare. “But fix it. You leave tomorrow, five a.m. Sharp.”

You sputter as he sweeps out of the room.

Great. Just great. You groan and kick the closest chair over. A mission with Bucky? Alone? How the hell are you supposed to manage? It’s not your fault he gets lost in the past when you’re around. Of course, it’s not his fault you dissolve when he’s around, either.

If only he’d stick to his instincts and let himself be soft around you.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to imagine it.

You don’t do a very good job.

—

The flight, at least, is bearable. Mostly because Bucky spends the entire time piloting in the cockpit while you review the file in the cabin. There’s really only a few meters between you, but the cockpit door does an excellent job at letting you forget how close he is.

However distracted you let yourself get on base, this is different. This is a mission, with strategizing and information gathering and subterfuge. You can handle yourself on a mission like this, even with the Winter Soldier.

You’ve done it before; you can do it again.

You glance at the cockpit door, fiddling with the corners of the papers in your lap. You can do this. You can stay professional, keep your cool, not let his inevitable reversion get to you.

There’s no other choice.

Hours pass before the intercom buzzes to life. You stiffen in your seat and clutch the file tight as you wait for Bucky’s voice.

“Fifteen minutes to landing. Pack it up.”

He kills the intercom, and you let out a slow breath. Your knuckles are white; you open your hands with wide eyes. All that for just the sound of his voice?

No. You shake your head hard. No more.

You have to get a handle yourself. There’s no other choice.

—

Phase one goes off without a hitch.

Steve had written up a suggested plan in the mission brief. Pretend to be tourists, scope out suspected hubs of criminal activity, listen closely for any hints. All that sounded great. The fake dating part? Not so much. You know exactly how that would have gone. Fake relationship, all-too-realistic break-up scene. No thanks.

So you changed the plan. Splitting up, you told Bucky, meant you could cover more ground. Hear more conversations.

He didn’t argue at the time—and to be fair, you’d only pulled that out right before your arrival—but now that you’re on the road to the motel, the tension is as thick as cheddar cheese. Bucky’s hands are clenched on the steering wheel of the mid-grade rental car. He’s got gloves on, but they’re pulled tight over his knuckles. The leather creaks against the wheel whenever he shifts.

You only glance occasionally at him; you spend most of the ride typing up notes and staring out the window, parsing the various tidbits you’d gleaned from the last hours of spying.

Neither of you say a word. Fifty-six minutes of silence.

You check into the motel, letting Bucky sit in the car. The old-fashioned key with its numbered keychain jingles as you amble back to the car.

Packing light is a specialty; both of you just have one large backpack each. You grab yours from the trunk and make your way to the room as Bucky locks the car up, clearing any evidence away.

You unlock the door and push it open.

You freeze in the doorway.

There’s only one bed.

Bucky’s footsteps behind you rattle in your skull, and you hurry to dump your bag on the side of the bed closer to the door. It’s cold, despite the heat being set to seventy; you turn it up to seventy-five. You pray Bucky doesn’t notice your hands are shaking.

You rummage through your bag for your pajamas, every hair standing on end as Bucky shuts and triple-locks the door. He goes straight into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

You run your hands down your face and struggle to contain a groan.

One bed. One bed. Who the fuck decided this? Is this Steve’s misguided attempt to make you and Bucky get along? Doesn’t he know what the problem is?

The toilet flushes, and you hurry to change into your silk romper. Off with the civvie clothes of the mission, on with your romper. God, why is it so cold?

When Bucky comes out, you glance his way, then automatically look back, heat rising in your cheeks. Bucky’s wearing a loose t-shirt over a pair of boxer briefs, his metal arm gleaming in the dim light. His hair is tucked behind his ears, neat for almost the first time this whole trip. Despite the looseness of his dark shirt, you can still easily make out the shape of his pecs. You don’t dare let your gaze go any lower.

Oops.

Your thighs clench together. Oh god. You’re fucked.

Bucky drops his bag on the floor and pulls out one of his many guns. He settles in the chair by the little round table and glances up at you as he dismantles the pistol for cleaning. His eyes widen briefly as he looks you over. He shifts in his seat, brows drawn low.

“What?” he asks gruffly.

Your cheeks burn. “Nothing!”

You run into the bathroom, desperate for air. It’s barely over fifty degrees and still the air is too thick. You showered this morning, but you’ve still got the urge to scrub yourself clean. Thoughts of Bucky rattle around your head, teasing and torturous. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes. Enough!

You brush your teeth furiously, hard enough to make your gums bleed. You cup water in the palm of your hands and swish it around in your mouth, wincing at the sting. If only washing out your mouth could clear your thoughts as well!

By the time you emerge, you’re certain Bucky’s going to make some comment about girls and bathrooms. But he doesn’t. All he does is turn his head a few inches in your direction, then look resolutely back at his disassembled rifle. The cleaning cloth practically squeaks from his furious rubbing.

God, his hands move fast…

You swallow, a rush of heat flooding your face as you studiously ready your bag for the night—if something happens during the wee hours, you’ll be ready to book it in seconds. All the while, you can’t help sneaking glances at the chair, and at Bucky’s hands. He reassembles his rifle in seconds, then he wipes it down one more time with a gentleness that makes you shiver.

His hands have never been gentle on you, but he sure knows how to use them.

On his guns, at least. Would he be able to use them gently on you, if you told him how? Could he keep them still, if you asked?

Ugh.

You slip under the covers and swear under your breath. The sheets are cold to the touch. You huddle in a fetal position on the edge of the bed, holding yourself tight and facing away from Bucky. You shut off the light on your side, leaving only a weak yellow lamp for Bucky’s work.

Bucky is quiet, perhaps too much so. Is he still cleaning guns? Is he done? Is he just sitting there, waiting for you to fall asleep? You run your hands along your bare legs, trying to infuse some warmth. For all the blushing you’ve been doing, most of your body is still cold.

Best not to think how warm you’d be if Bucky joined you.

You bite your lip to contain a snort. If Bucky joins you, he’s more likely to kick you off the bed than offer any real warmth. His track record even in just the last couple weeks involves nearly strangling you, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention all those times in the Red Room…

A shudder runs through you, more pronounced than your shivering.

“Something wrong?”

You freeze. “No, nothing,” you say quickly. You pull the blankets tighter over your shoulders, your fingers digging into your arms.

“Riiight.” Bucky cracks his knuckles, then his neck. “When exactly are we going to talk?”

Terror passes through you, and your answer comes faster than reason can quash it. “Tomorrow. Good night.”

You pull the blankets clean over your head.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky mutters, almost too quiet for you to hear.

But you do hear it. Tears prick at your eyes, but you don’t answer. What right does he have to complain? He didn’t even try to talk in the car, and once you got here, he just locked himself in the bathroom.

But you’re no better. You should be debriefing with Bucky, planning with Bucky, talking to Bucky… Instead you’re curled up like a fucking baby, teary and angry and eyes squeezed so tightly shut that your eyelids hurt. The thought of talking to him with all those thoughts swirling around in your head is enough to turn your stomach. How can you look him in the face when all you want to do is mark him as yours?

If only Steve could see you now.

Bucky’s moving around again. You stiffen, the better to hear him; he slides a gun under the bed, another in a nearby drawer.

Then he lifts the blanket, exposing your back to the cold, and slides in.

You let out your breath slowly as he settles on his side of the bed. Bucky’s not close enough for you to feel his body heat yet, but from all your training you know he runs warm. In the meantime, you press the blanket down for better insulation. Bucky shifts seconds later, ruining your careful tuck.

What a waste.

Intermittent shivering aside, you lie as still as you can, curled up with your back to Bucky. Deep, shallow breaths do nothing to relieve your tension. Every few seconds, Bucky turns, or shifts, or tosses. You try to keep track of which direction he’s facing without looking at him, but in minutes you can’t imagine. He’s moving too damn much.

All you want to do is sleep, and by sleeping stop thinking about him.

“For fuck’s sake, Bucky, stop twitching!”

Bucky sits up with a huff, the blankets pulled tight over your shoulders yanked down with him. “I haven’t had to share a bed in months, and you think I can just lie still?”

“I’m managing,” you say icily. You tug the blankets back into place, suppressing a shiver. The heat in the motel is awful; you’d set it to seventy-five an hour ago, but the room is barely at sixty. In a better world, you might have shared Bucky’s body heat, but you’re on separate edges of the bed, as much space between you as possible.

“You’re shivering,” Bucky says. “That’s not managing.”

You groan. “My shivering is not your problem.”

“Of course it’s my problem,” he argues. “I don’t know why you’re being such a—” He cuts himself off. “Of course it’s my problem,” he repeats slowly. “We’re teammates. If you get sick…”

Seriously?

Enough is enough.

You sit up, arms crossed tight over your chest, and glare at him.

“First of all? It’s not cold enough to get sick in here. We both know that. From experience. Second, being teammates doesn’t make us friends. We’re here to complete a mission, not babysit each other. We’re adults. And third, you know damn well why I’m being such a bitch.”

Bucky’s eyes widen through your little tirade, but narrow as you finish. He licks his lips, his eyes darting across your face. “Do tell.”

“You’re a fucking control freak!” you snap. “This isn’t there. You don’t get to tell me what to do all the time. You’re not my boss, and you sure as hell aren’t my handler. I’m done letting you dominate me. I’m done roleplaying our past. I’m done! So lie down, be still, and shut the fuck u—”

Bucky’s lips stop your mouth.

You freeze.

His mismatched hands cradle your face, one warm flesh and one cool metal. His lips are soft and slightly chapped against yours. You can’t move, but your heart hammers in your chest. What is happening?

Bucky pulls back after what feels like an eternity, or maybe a single second. His dark eyes flit across your face. You just stare.

“I never could do that,” he whispers. “There, I mean. But god, I’ve wanted to do that for—”

You barrel into him, pinning him to the bed. You hold his wrists down over his head, your knee pressed against his groin. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to notice that he’s hard. His eyes are almost black, just a thin ring of their customary lightness still visible in the dimness of the room. The muscles of his right arm are tense. He could throw you, from this position, but he lays quite still beneath you.

His face is inches from yours. Both of you are panting; his warm breath fans your face. The smell of toothpaste doesn’t mask his particular intoxicating scent. Goosebumps break out along your bare arms and legs.

You crouch over him, your torso stretched above his. Bucky licks his lips again. He tilts his head up, baring his throat. His eyes are heavy with desire.

“It’s only fair,” he says huskily.

Your eyes drag down across his flushed face, his lips, his stubbled chin, the line of his throat, and finally settle on the rapidly beating pulse point just above his collarbone. You duck your head, your arms stretched a little more to accommodate the movement, and press an open-mouthed kiss to that pulse point. His heartbeat thuds against your lips.

Then you sink your teeth against his collarbone, and Bucky jerks beneath you. His chest brushes yours—when did your breasts get so tender?—before he collapses back down, his breathing even heavier than before.

You pull back and stare down at him. Heat dances through you, between you; Bucky’s grinding himself on your thigh, just enough to notice. His arms are still splayed over his head, his hands caught in yours. You push his hands into the mattress and slowly move back until you’re kneeling between his knees.

He leaves his hands where they are.

You take the opportunity to look him over. Your teeth have left a mark on his collarbone. His loose t-shirt is too dark for you to make out the shape of his chest, but the tent in his boxer briefs casts a hefty shadow. You run your hand up his thigh, the dusty hairs there standing on end as your fingernails scrape against his skin. You stop at the hem of his briefs, your thumb curling against his inner thigh and just brushing against him.

His cock twitches, and he shudders.

“You tease,” he rasps.

“Alright, alright.” You can’t help the smile on your face. “Well, tell me then. What do you want?”

“I want you.”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific than that…” You push his shirt up over his abs, kissing them as you go.

Bucky grabs your hips and pulls you up his body; you lose your balance and collapse on his chest just as he takes your face in his hands and kisses you again. This time, you’re not frozen. This time, you’re burning up. The feel of him under you is everything you’ve ever wanted. In this position, his cock is nestled between your legs, and you rock against it with no mind to what Bucky might think.

Then his hands slip around to squeeze your ass, and you remember that his hands were supposed to be over his head. You bite his lip and slam his hands back into place.

Bucky ducks his head and latches his mouth onto your breast. Your silk romper is no protection from the wet heat of his mouth, and your elbows buckle as he sucks your soul out through your nipple.

“Fuuuck, Bucky—”

He pulls back with a wicked grin and licks his lips. “Sorry, baby. Couldn’t resist.”

You laugh breathlessly. He’s too adorable, too fuckable—do you even care about control anymore? Every second the power changes. If things keep going the direction they’re headed, both of you are going to win no matter what.

What’s a little democracy among friends?

“Alright, fine.” You sit up on his thighs, threading your fingers in his, and kiss his knuckles. “No point in resisting anymore.”

Bucky sits up too, his cock pressed tight between you. He worms his hands free and loops his arms around you. He doesn’t grab your ass again, just holds you against him and gazes into your eyes.

“You mean that?” he murmurs.

You raise your eyebrows. “Sure.” You drag your core against his cock, a shudder running through you. “I think we’ve gone past holding it in.”

“Well,” he says. He peppers kisses across your face, prompting a giggle, and finally slides a hand down to squeeze your ass. The other dips between your legs from the front, and the brush of his hand against your clothed clit sends starbursts rushing through you. “Here’s to not denying ourselves.”

“Ch-cheers,” you stammer.

Bucky turns and lays you back on the bed. You look up at him, breathless, as he whips his shirt over his head. He has to tilt his hips to free his cock from his boxer briefs, but they go flying off the bed in turn.

God, what a man.

His chest is smooth and pale in the dim light, his sculpted muscles leading a natural trail down to his Adonis belt and the thin line of hair leading down to his jutting cock. Fuck. He’s big; his glans is almost purple, the tip leaking precum.

Bucky chuckles at your blatant staring. “Enjoying the view?” he teases.

“I’ll say,” you answer breathlessly. You press your thighs together, desperate for friction after that single touch.

Bucky notices. Of course he does.

“Let me,” he says huskily. He peels the straps of your romper down your shoulders and arms, peeling the fabric away from your tender breasts—you suck in a breath as the cool air hits your skin—and past your hips with your underwear. There’s a wet spot in the crotch, of course there is; you hadn’t noticed before, but you’re positively dripping with desire. You kick your clothes away. Bucky worms his way between your legs until your thighs are hooked over his. You grab hold of the sheets with a moan as Bucky kneads your breasts. His right hand skates down your belly.

When he finally dips his fingers inside you, you cry out and buck your hips into his touch. He brings his fingers to his lips and hums as he tastes you. Then his hand is back between your shaking legs, sending fresh lances of pleasure through you. His thumb circles your clit as two fingers tease your entrance. Your toes curl and your hands ache from clutching the sheets, but god, you can’t let go. The wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you are pornographic.

“Mm, so wet, baby. Is all that for me?” he murmurs.

You let out a breathy moan, unable to form words. Your eyes flutter shut as his thumb traces patterns on your clit and his fingers curl inside you, all while his metal hand plays with your breasts.

When his fingers finally find your g-spot, you see white. Your back arches right off the bed as your limbs seize up; a wordless cry leaves you as shudders rack your body. All you can feel are Bucky’s hands on you, in you, his mouth suddenly back on your breast.

When your orgasm finally passes, you realize Bucky has pulled away. He’s lying next to you, his cock pressed innocently against your hip as he wipes your damp brow.

Of course, there’s nothing innocent about the way he’s sucking his wet fingers. When he wipes them on his bare skin, you pull him down for a brief, lazy kiss.

“There we go,” Bucky says. His eyes are still dark, but there’s a gentleness to his expression that fills you with unexpected warmth.

Was the room cold before? You can’t tell anymore.

“Think you’re up for more?” Bucky asks.

You reach over and take his hard cock in hand; he hisses at the sudden contact. “You’re certainly up for more,” you tell him, and he laughs breathlessly and kisses you again.

“You minx.”

You squeeze him, and he crawls over you until his cock is nudging your entrance. He pauses suddenly and pulls a few inches back.

“What?” you ask, annoyed.

“Um, what about protection?” he asks hesitantly. The blush on his cheeks isn’t the flush of desire. It’s cute.

Also entirely unnecessary.

“I’m clean, you’re clean, and we both know I can’t get pregnant,” you remind him. His eyes flash with sudden memory. You sigh and kiss his cheek. Maybe he had forgotten—but it doesn’t matter. Not now, when he’s inches from screwing you into the bed. “Now fuck me already, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You hitch your hips as he aligns himself, propped up by his elbows curled under your arms. You reach down to help him find the right angle, then wrap your arms around his waist and press your hands against the small of his back.

Both of you gasp when he finally pushes in. Your eyes slide shut, and Bucky’s head falls onto your shoulder as he rests there, only the first few inches in. It’s tight, and after your orgasm you’re extra sensitive. You can feel when he twitches inside you. You can feel every millimeter, every bump and ridge, as he slowly sinks the rest of the way in.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans. He brushes sloppy kisses along your shoulder until he’s sucking a mark into the same pulse point you’d kissed on him before. “Fucking perfect.”

You squeeze your walls around him, absurdly pleased when he hisses in pleasure. Damn right you’re fucking perfect. You were trained to be perfect at this, among other things. But hearing it from him, with his voice so damn wrecked, is a million times better than the stilted approval from the rest of them back at the Red Room.

He’d never given you words of approval before, but now…

Hearing him sing your praises is a literal fantasy.

He pulls out, then slowly pushes back in. His hair tickles your skin; his lips are still on your neck, his chest against yours. It’s all so good, too good. You spread your legs wider, digging your heels into the mattress as you lift your hips to meet his on the third thrust. You turn your head and kiss the side of his head, the shell of his ear.

“Fuck me,” you whisper as he pulls out, leaving only the tip inside. “I want—”

Bucky buries himself inside you so fast you cry out in shock. He sets a furious pace, pulling back enough to stare down at you as he breathes harshly, the air whistling through his teeth. His hips snap into yours. You buck up against him as best you can, but he’s so unrelenting you can barely keep up. All you can do is let him hammer you into the creaking bed. You reach up and grab the headboard, holding it still and anchoring yourself.

He grabs one of your legs and hooks it over his waist, opening you even more to him. Your mouth falls open. Now, every thrust hits your g-spot, sending a steady stream of sparks through you. Your arms tremble from the strain of containing yourself. You’re awash in feeling, in heat; your painfully hard nipples are burning from the friction of his chest, and there’s the throbbing radiating from your clit, and, and, and…

Your second orgasm comes without clear warning, when Bucky hitches your leg higher and pushes in just a little deeper. This time, your cries are soundless, and your eyes squeeze shut as you let the sensations crash through you like tsunami waves.

Through it, Bucky keeps pounding into you, bottoming out every time. He slows as you come back to yourself, and finally stills long enough to kiss you senseless all over again.

“You sure know how to wear a girl out,” you mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, low and filthy, and pulls out of you. Cool air tickles you as he moves away; you feel empty without Bucky’s cock in you. You whine in disappointment, but then he flips you onto your front and pulls your hips off the bed. He grabs your pillow and stuffs it under you.

“If you weren’t so darn worn out, I’d let you ride me,” he says. He squeezes your ass, spreading you open for his eyes. “ Let you hold me down… But you’ll have to make do with this.” He pulls one arm back, trapping you in place. Your cheek is pressed against the rough sheets. You clench your walls, desperate for some relief.

He guides himself back inside you, and oh god, it’s even better than before. The new angle lets him get even deeper; he hits every spot. Soon, he’s snapping his hips so hard into yours that you’re slipping up the bed, losing height as he flattens you into the mattress. Your arm burns from his hold, and dimly you realize you couldn’t get out of his grasp if you tried.

You whimper at the thought, a fresh wave of want pooling at your core. Your nipples are throbbing in time with your rapid heartbeat; Bucky’s free hand digs into your hip. You know he’ll leave bruises, but this time all the realization does is spur you to push back against him as best you can, moaning.

“God, Bucky, more, more, c’mon!”

Bucky growls. He lets go of your arm and pulls you up by the base of your neck until your back is against his chest. He slams up into you, his right hand coming around to squeeze your breast and his metal left hand snaking across your belly to flick your clit with the speed of a machine. Your head falls back onto his shoulder. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your keening cry unending. You grab your left breast and tweak your nipple in tandem with Bucky at your other breast; your right hand joins Bucky’s left at the joining of your bodies, your fingers forming a V around the base of his cock as he pulls out and pulls you down on him. You can feel your wetness coating his length. God, he’s got you right where he wants you—no, you’ve got him where you want him…

Tears prick at your eyes as tension coils in you so tight that you’re desperate for release, but Bucky stills his hand on your clit at the last second.

“Stay with me, baby, I’m almost there, hold on, a’most,” he rambles. His rhythm falters as his cock swells impossibly harder inside you.

Your legs are jelly, but he’s more than strong enough to move you as he wills. Your walls clamp tight around him, your hand reaches lower to cup his balls, and with a shout he slams you down on him one last time, his metal thumb flicking your clit with abandon as his cock twitches inside you.

You see stars.

All the tension building releases in an earth-shattering explosion. Waves of pleasure pass through you; you quake in Bucky’s arms, and he holds you tight as he cums inside you. You hear yourself babbling his name, swearing, crying out—you’re a mess, you’re wrecked, you’re buried in his arms and he’s buried in you, and oh god, it’s everything you ever dreamed of.

Bucky lifts you off him. You topple forward, still wrapped in the aftershocks. He falls to his side beside you and wraps you in his arms as you slowly ease into stillness. His stubble scratches against your shoulder as he kisses the skin there.

Eventually, you feel recovered enough to speak, but words fail you. You’ve just had the best sex of your life with the man of your daydreams—and actual dreams, to be honest—but you’re at a loss for words. You don’t need to pump him for information. You’re not about to thank him.

What else is there to say?

“That was fuckin’ incredible,” Bucky mumbles. He rolls you onto your back and kisses the edge of your mouth.

You smile weakly and thread a hand into his hair. His words are all you need. “Yeah,” you tell him. “It was.”

“Next time I wanna watch your pretty tits bouncing,” he says, tweaking a nipple between his fingers.

You burst out laughing and shove his hand away; after all that, you’re still too sensitive to enjoy his teasing touch. “What?!”

“Hey,” he says, holding his hands up defensively, “you’re the one who told me to be more specific.”

You shake your head incredulously as you hobble to the bathroom. “Alright, alright…”

Once you’ve used the bathroom and cleaned yourself off with a damp washcloth, you crawl back into bed. The heat has finally kicked in; it’s pleasantly warm now, but not too hot to keep you from snuggling into Bucky’s open arms.

“So?” he asks.

“So what?”

“Next time…”

You huff tiredly into his neck, but a smile curves your lips as you recall how this all began. One stray comment about handcuffs… Maybe it all went sideways for a while there, but god, what a beautiful resolution.

“Sure. You can watch my tits bounce all you want. But you’ve got to keep your hands where I put them.” You catch his hands in yours and hold them together against your back. “Think you can submit to that?”

Bucky groans, but it’s a good kind of groan. The kind of groan that’s anticipating, not dreading, what’s to come. “For you, I’d submit to just about anything.”

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky x you #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier smut #mcu imagine #bucky barnes imagine #becca writes

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thirstychuuya · 4 years ago

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i have no idea how to give you this other than just submitting it so uhhh skshfhdkg i accidentally sinned a little bit :’) it was written and submitted on mobile so hopefully the formatting won’t be too fucky but thank you for the inspiration and for this whole blog and aaaaaaa chuuyaaaaa 🤤

————————

“Date of interrogation... August fourthteenth.”

The voice echoed in my ears and flooded my brain with excitement. How he let nothing of his own anticipation show, so formal and business-like, how very real it felt.

His perfectly polished dress shoes clicked lightly on the floor as he circled me, taking another long drag of his cigarette.

“Executive of interrogation,” he leaned against the desk, looking out the high-rise windows of his office. “Nakahara Chuuya.” He stated, smoke puffing from between his lips with every syllable. He ground his cigarette in the overfull ashtray next to the recorder, snuffing it out with practiced ease.

The weight of the chains pinning me down was heavy, to say the least. He didn’t need to bring out his ability yet, no- there were hooks on either side of his desk cemented into the floor. The chains were attached to those, and they had no slack whatsoever. They wrapped tightly over me and pressed me into the wood, pinching into my lower back every time I tried to breathe deeply. My legs barely touched the floor where his chair would usually be.

Briefly I wondered if he’d used this set up for actual interrogations, or if he installed the hooks just for me. I shivered.

He didn’t let me think any farther, though. He lifted himself off the oak furnishing and continued circling me, heels of his shoes tapping against the polished floor, and I felt like prey just dying for the predator to stop playing with it’s food. But I was going to be good. I always was.

“Purpose, and-or information to be acquired,” he read off the script burned into his mind from experience. He hesitated though, looking oh-so-thoughtful as he pondered his options, before smiling again, wolfishly, and leaning close to my ear.

“I’m sure we’ll find something... mutually beneficial.”

His tongue dripped with dominance and I was already panting, squirming, wishing he’d cuffed my hands a little looser- no, tighter.

His breath left my neck and I heard the rolling of his chair’s wheels approach me from behind. I heard him sit down, heard the fabric of his pants rustle as he put one ankle over his knee. I knew that pose- I could see it clearly in my memory. He only ever sat that way to turn me on, to look down on me from his imaginary throne. He would lean back now, bringing a finger to his lips and biting it gently, taking in whatever sight he’d set before him- which, at the moment, I hoped was pleasing him greatly.

I wore that skirt I knew he loved- it was just long enough to be modest, but light and thin, any gust of wind would lift it, any curious hand could feel what was underneath it (though, of course, only his was allowed to). And there wasn’t anything to be felt- I knew what I was doing when I brought up the idea, long before he dragged me by my wrist into his office and locked the door. I knew what he liked, so I didn’t bother wearing anything underneath- he would have torn it to shreds, anyway.

He pushed himself forward in his chair, the wheels clattering over the lines of the tile floor, and his hands found the outsides of my thighs. He pulled on them slightly, urging me to spread them wider, and when I did, he let out a sigh of contentment, breath tickling my oversensitive skin.

“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

His voice was still even, still strict, but the words slid down my spine like ice.

“You’ve done some very bad things.”

His thumbs were rubbing circles where my thighs met my ass, avoiding all the places I wanted his touch.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

His question was routine and could have fit into any context, but I knew what he wanted me to say. What could I find to apologize for, to beg him for forgiveness over? Had I teased him, had I made him hard at work, had I worn a shirt that revealed a little too much for him to handle? I honestly couldn’t think of anything. I shook my head, rattling the chains gently.

“Please use your words, the recorder is audio only.”

Fuck, that tone, how many times had he said that to someone he was brutalizing during his real dirty work? How many people had spat in his face for it? How many people had he pistolwhipped or stabbed for not cooperating? Did he laugh when they begged for mercy? I sure hoped he did. Seeing that side of him was an aphrodisiac, and I wanted to drink it all in.

I almost couldn’t reply, mouth too occupied biting my lower lip from the salacious thoughts invading my mind. I stuttered and choked out a small “I don’t know”.

“You don’t know.”

He reiterated with a theatric sigh of exasperation. I wanted more touch than I was getting, his nails scraping at my skin as they gently pressed into the softness of my upper thighs. I tried to press them together, to get at least a little bit of friction, but his hands immediately snapped between them and roughly wrenched them even farther open.

He clicked his tongue derisively.

“That’s why.”

I could only whimper. I could tell this was going to be a rough ride. Half of me wished he’d get on with it already... half of me wished he would never stop.

His hands were putting a firm pressure on my legs, and it felt good, but not good enough. I wiggled just a little bit, trying to entice him, desperately and pathetically.

I felt his hands leave me and whined before suddenly one hand was gripping the back of my neck, pressing my face into the desk, as he loomed over me from behind.

“It’s because of shit like that you’re all chained up now. You just can’t control yourself.”

I whined again. Whimpered, even. He was right, he was totally right, but how could I control myself when I’d been daydreaming about this all day?

I shifted my hips back, hoping to feel his own pelvis behind them, wanting to grind on something, tempt him. But he’d already sat back down before I could even move.

“You’re pathetic.” He whispered, with a beautiful grin in his voice.

“I didn’t think I’d have to use this today, but clearly it’s a necessary evil,” he sighed. I heard a click and velcro strap being ripped apart, the sound of something being removed from somewhere. What the hell was it? A toy? Him? I wanted it. I wanted it bad.

I got my wish. Something finally poked at my entrance, something cold, and smooth. It wasn’t a toy- at least, not one that I recognized- and it was metal, too.

“Do you know what this is?”

His voice was struggling to keep the formality, lust seeping into his throat and twisting his tongue.

“N-no... I don’t know.”

Suddenly, violently, it was inside me. I almost screamed- maybe I did, I couldn’t tell. My mind went haywire. It felt good.

“How about now?”

With a hot breath I clenched around it, trying to understand it’s form while also trying to get it deeper inside me. I still couldn’t tell what it fucking was.

Another sigh. He sounded so irritated, but I knew he was anything but. He was loving this. Every second of it.

“You don’t seem to know much of anything. I’ll give you a hint.”

The chilled metal dragged slowly out of me, and I instinctively bucked backwards, trying to recapture it. I heard his chair lean back and felt his arm brush past me as he raised it up, toward the ceiling-

BANG.

...

Dust and fragments of the ceiling’s surface clattered to the floor and the surface of the desk. The sound of the chains rattling stopped short as I froze, adrenaline burning in my blood. A strong, smoky smell overpowered the cigarette’s scent, and the sound rang in my ears.

It was a gun.

Before I could fully process the thought it was back inside me again- hot, burning hot, from the heat of the bullet leaving the chamber. Fuck, it was loaded.

Chuuya dragged the weapon out and pushed it back in, slowly, so fucking slowly, and I trembled with so many emotions all at once I couldn’t keep track. He kept moving it, letting me feel that weight of it inside me, the power behind it, the lethality.

“How about now?”

I could tell he had a smirk on his perfect face, the kind that made me go weak at the knees even when he wasn’t shoving a deadly weapon into my pussy.

“G-gun!” I cried out, clinging to the cuffs around my wrists, chains clinking loudly as I frantically tried to press myself back into the movements.

He laughed, low and dark, shoving the barrel as deep as it would go, watching me twitch and drip with arousal, moaning right into the voice recorder.

“That’s right,” he whispered.

“Good girl.”

#okay but H O T #chuuya approves ;)#i am so happy with this istg #submission

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honeypiehotchner · 5 years ago

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Trust -- part twenty-eight

Hello again! This one is shorter than usual, so apologies. Apologies also for the torture. It’s fixed in the next chapter (I promise). Enjoy xx.

You’re jolted awake by a cold bucket of water being poured over you, effectively knocking you back into consciousness, albeit with a raging headache, the kind that comes after not fully sleeping off a drowsy medicine, only amplified.

“There you are,” Gidon smiles. “Now, I was trying to discuss this with you.”

“Discuss what?” You groan, fighting to keep your eyes open, and now fighting your body’s urge to begin shivering. The water was cold as hell, and it’s already cold enough in here – wherever it is he’s keeping you.

“How you’d like to die.”

“Just shoot me,” you scoff, your speech slurred. “It’s quicker.”

“I like the way you think,” he smiles.

You yank on your wrists again, this time being met with metal reinforcement, and a sharp pain in the shoulder. The bastard must have dislocated it.

“Christmas is in one hour,” he informs you, his tone almost wistful. “So soon.”

You make a face at the door when it closes behind him, leaving you alone in the room. You try one more time at the handcuffs on your wrists, but nothing is budging. Even your ankles are cuffed, which is smart on his part, but extremely annoying on your end.

Fighting through the remains of whatever drug he gave you that’s in your system, you try to look around the room. No windows. Just the door. Unfortunately.

No cameras either, but they could be hidden somewhere. Or microphones, something of the sort.

As you’re turning to look, you see – and begin to feel, as it starts to sting – Gidon has carved a cross into your arm. Not deep, surprisingly, but enough that little beads of red blood have dotted the lines, and enough that it stings when you twist and turn.

One hour.

One hour of your life left and you’re stuck in this room, in this chair that’s bolted—

Wait.

You immediately look to your feet, nearly squealing in glee when you see the chair is not bolted to the ground. Not at all. It’s just sitting here.

One hour. He’s probably going to see Mary Josephine. And then he’ll be back.

One hour.

~~~

Sherlock yells at Lestrade to drive faster, even though Lestrade is driving as fast as possible, the lights and sirens on his car flashing and wailing as they fly through the streets of London toward an old abandoned factory.

Gidon made the biggest mistake of his life when texting Sherlock that message – partly because Sherlock’s anger has reached a lethal level and partly because he gave away his location. All in those two words, one simple text, and they’ve got him.

A helicopter flies above, two ambulances and four police cars following behind Lestrade as best as they can. They’re prepared for the worst, but are hoping they won’t have to be.

~~~

You scoff as you look down at the chair, the ropes and two pairs of handcuffs sitting neatly on the seat.

Amateur.

Your head is still pounding, your eyes and body threatening to close and shut down, but you can’t right now. You have to keep moving if you’re going to make it out of this alive.

Testing your luck, you pull the door open as quietly as you can manage, poking your head out into the hallway. Not a single soul is in sight, so you quickly make a move, darting down the right side of the hall. You have no idea how you got in here or where you are, but your legs are fine, so at the very least, you’re going to run.

You hold your shoulder as you do, grimacing when your arm swings enough that it sends a pain down your arm. You need to pop it back into place, but it’s kind of hard to do that when you’re trying to avoid being seen or heard.

You turn a corner, coming to skidding stop when you see Gidon at the other end of the hall. You freeze, your mind panicking, but your thoughts are much slower, and you don’t move until you see Gidon lifting his gun, causing your body to act on instincts and throw itself backwards to safety.

“Shit,” you gasp for air, your back pressed against the wall, and then your mind screams, “Don’t stand still!” so you turn and run the other way, as fast as your legs will take you, your shoulder practically burning from all of the movement.

Shouting echoes off the walls behind you, your mind screaming along with them. There’s the loud, ringing sound of gunfire, and you hit the ground.

~~~

“Here!” Sherlock yells, pointing to the building.

Lestrade throws the car to the side, into park, and then throws himself out of the car with John and Sherlock. The officers in the cars behind them follow suit, all running to catch up with Lestrade as they make it to the door.

“You know what to do,” Lestrade nods at them. “Mary Josephine and Y/N L/N are to be kept safe and alive. If anyone stands in the way, you know what to do.”

Sherlock wastes no time in kicking down the door, stepping across the splintered wood and pulling out his firearm.

John splits off and goes the opposite way, keeping his gun raised as he runs through the halls, shouting your name.

~~~

Somewhere through the pain that’s blossomed in your abdomen and the swimming in your mind from hitting your head on the way down, you hear someone calling out your name. You know it can’t be Gidon, he’s the one standing over you, threatening to shoot again, threatening to ruin history and finish you off before the strike of Christmas. You almost beg him to. You know there’s no way Sherlock could get here in such little time. You’re staring down the barrel of a gun, staring at your end. Even Sherlock Holmes can’t get you out of this one, and you know that.

But Gidon hears it too, the shouting, and it distracts him enough for you to scream in pain and fury, reaching up and grabbing his weapon. He fires another round, the bullet hitting the concrete next to your head. Using the rest of your strength, you yank on his arms, sending him flying over you and onto his back, releasing the gun into your grip.

You scramble to your feet, holding the weapon with shaking hands. “Stop,” you order, your voice weak. You must look pathetic. “Don’t move.”

But Gidon doesn’t stop, he stands to his feet, pulling another gun from the waistband in his pants. “You think I didn’t see this coming?” He cocks it, holding it up, his finger fidgeting on the trigger. “Remember? I know you.”

You try to focus on the shouting around you and not on the amount of blood you’re no doubt losing. You can feel it; your shirt is warm where it’s stuck to your stomach. You can feel your consciousness beginning to fade, your balance wavering.

“I’ll shoot,” you murmur.

“Then do it already,” he demands. “But you can’t. You can’t, can you? Because the last time you did, you shot your mother. The woman who gave you life, and you took hers,” he shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “That must be hard to bear. That must weigh on you, surely.”

Sherlock stands around the corner, listening. There are men on the other side, a plan in action, but he can’t risk Gidon shooting you again – no matter how badly he wishes to step out from the wall and shoot Gidon down in one go.

“Shut up,” you shout, the noise hurting your ears. Your ringing ears, the pain is white and blinding and your knees are ready to give—

You jolt back into reality when Gidon is tackled from behind, his gun flying out of his hand and skidding to a stop at your feet. You do them one more favor and kick it backwards, halfway down the hall and out of reach.

The energy it took to kick his weapon was all you had left, your knees finally buckling and your hand releasing the gun you had been holding. It clatters to the ground as you slump against the wall, feeling someone place their hand on the middle of your back. Your eyes need to close. You’re so…tired…

Officers swarm the hall, three of them handcuffing Gidon and three more trying to talk to you. What are they even saying? Merry Christmas? Is it Christmas yet? Has midnight come already?

John. One of them is John. And Sherlock. Sherlock looks…terrified.

You’re on a stretcher. Somehow that happened. An oxygen mask over your face. Pressure being put on the wound to your abdomen. That hurts. Enough that you start to see stars in your vision, constellations forming in the darkness.

“Y/N! Y/N, we’re losing you, stay with me.”

John. John. The brother you apparently had but never knew about. The man who took you in when he didn’t have to. He could’ve told Sherlock he was full of shit. He could’ve told you to have a nice day and to leave them alone, that there’s no way he could have a younger sister. But he took you in. He cared for you and worried for you even after only just meeting you. He gave you all the love you don’t deserve.

And Sherlock. Your eyes flick to the other side of the ambulance, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. There are tears in his eyes, falling down his face. Something you haven’t really seen. And is it because of you?

A hacking cough wracks your chest, pain blinding you from your abdomen and a rusty taste on your tongue. In the back of your mind you hear, blood…you’re dying.

John and Sherlock are pushed out of the ambulance, John shouting in the process that he’s a doctor and he should be able to stay, but you’re in too bad of a condition, so he’s not allowed—

And the darkness. The darkness returns.

#Trust #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #john watson #greg lestrade #half-sibling!reader #angst #near death #i'm the worst

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lesserknownhero · 6 years ago

Note

Buckynat prompt: "YOU CAN'T JUST BACKFLIP IN HIGH HEELS"

“Remind me again why I can’t just wear my regular clothes,” Bucky called from the bedroom.

“Your regular hobo chic isn’t classy enough for the club,” Nat repeated for the tenth time, “The target is a wealthy businessman and you, my darling, are playing the part of the honeypot. That requires a certain amount of allure.”

“Are you saying I’m not alluring?” James cried, mock affronted.

“Not what I am saying at all,” Nat said cooly, “I am just pointing out that this will go smoother if you put in a little extra effort.”

Bucky fussed in front of the mirror for a few more moments, he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hair so he went with the old standby of a messy bun. Satisfied he then strode out for Natasha to see.

“I didn’t expect them to be so comfortable,” Bucky stopped in front of the couch and fought to keep his hands out of his pockets. He was dressed in tight jeans, a clingy grey sweater, and knee-high heeled boots, “Though I am not sure about the heel.��

Natasha sat on the couch, wine and mission parameters forgotten in favor of giving James a critical once over. “It’s necessary I’m afraid,” she said, “The mark is six foot six and you are many things but tall is not one of them.”

Bucky frowned but Nat ignored it in favor of taking in the rest of the ensemble.

The sweater was good, cashmere softened him a little while still showing off his sizeable arms and barrel chest. The jeans were familiar and while she would’ve chosen a nice tailored pant, they wouldn’t work with the boots and James wouldn’t completely forgo what he was used to, at least not without a heavy dose of bitching.

Which they very much did not have time for.

Natasha was wearing all black, her tac suit was form fitting yet comfortable, her hair was french braided away from her face and gathered into a tight bun at the base of her skull.

“Stop tugging on the sweater,” She said rising to her feet.

“I think it’s too small.”

“It isn’t,” Nat said, “You just aren’t used to nice things that aren’t slouchy, stretched out or Steve shaped.”

Bucky laughed. He had borrowed a lot of Steve’s hand-me-downs when he had finally stopped running and joined the good guys. There had been months of stretched out teens and tight waisted jogging pants before he’d been comfortable enough to go out in public to buy his own stuff.

That didn’t mean he had only worn loungewear. Part of getting himself back was remembering all the ways he used to treat himself. Including his unconventional tastes, currently represented by a red lacy pair beneath his jeans.

“You’d be surprised at what I am used to,” he teased.

“I’d love for you to show me sometime,” Nat teased back.

They met in the middle for a sweet peck on the lips, Bucky smiling as he pulled his girlfriend close. She let him hold her for a moment, her fingers deftly taking out his hair tie and smoothing the silky brown waves.

“Loose hair is tactically disadvantageous,” Bucky said solemnly.

“Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier can be stopped by a little hair pulling.”

“Of course not.”

Nat smiled and stepped back. “Good, because you’re leaving it down.” Her tone brooked no argument.

“Fine.”

*****

Bucky sat on a wobbly folding chair, his arms bound behind his back facing a stained bedroom wall. His cheek throbbed from being hit with the butt of a gun and he a large tear in his swanky grey sweater. The meeting had been a trap and now he was stuck in cuffs waiting for the head of the Chicago Hydra cell to arrive so he could take them all down and make his escape.

He had only planned on wining and dining one of the scientists to get info on the cell’s location and purpose but now he had to shift gears. The doc had suggested they leave the supper club for something more private, and Bucky had been ready for a hotel room only to end up in a gross tenement that smelled like spoiled apple juice and stale cigarettes.

Fucking Hydra.

For a moment he stewed in frustration that Nat hadn’t allowed him any guns.

“They’ll ruin the lines of the outfit and be easily spotted,” She’d said.

“I’ll be defenseless.”

“James, She said with a fond roll of her pretty green eyes, “You are never defenseless. You just like shooting things.”

He’d grinned wolfishly at her and she’d swatted his flesh and blood arm surprisingly hard.

“I know what I’m good at,” he’d argued.

“So do I,” she said, her voice husky, “Get this mission done successfully and maybe you’ll get a chance to do it.”

Bucky smiled at the thought and looked over his shoulder at the window. Across the street was another apartment building and Natasha, who was monitoring the situation and organizing the SHIELD agents they’d been forced to call in.

Bucky winked then waited. A red light, nearly imperceptible blinked back. Damn, I love that woman he thought.

“Focus,” Nat’s voice husked in his ear.

“I am focused.”

“They’re coming back. You need to move.”

“There is nothing in this room but me, this chair and the frankly disgusting, dilapidated twin bed behind me.”

Brace your feet against the wall, push off and get yourself up and over the bed. You’ll be closer to the window and have a better vantage point. Plus you’ll have some cover.”

“I know all the pros of hiding behind the bed Tasha.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“YOU CAN’T JUST BACKFLIP IN HIGH HEELS!“

“Yes, you can. I do it all the time. Now stop shouting and get to work.”

Bucky tipped his chair to get better leverage.

“One, you wear heels more often than I do. I have no training in defensive heel wearing.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Point: Natasha.

Bucky drew his knees to his chest.

“Two,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “Your heels are custom made. They are able to support your weight perfectly. We bought these online and who knows if they can support 200 plus pounds at high velocity.”

Natasha hummed thoughtfully.

Point: Bucky.

He launched himself over the bed and landed in a clumsy crouch beside the bed. The door sprang open a moment later and Bucky tucked his face into the mattress to avoid flying glass as Nat shot out the window behind him and laid cover fire.

“I think my ankle is twisted,” he said sardonically, “My Amazon review will not be kind.”

Natasha let out an amused snort.

Point: Bucky

Score: Barnes 2 Romanov 1

He grinned.

“James, It’s time for you to go,” Nat said, her voice still calm despite the chaos.

“My hands are still bound.”

“Your arm.”

“Both arms are cuffed Tasha.”

“James. Stop talking and Use. Your. Arm.”

Damn it. The stupid boots were a distraction. He was better than this.

Bucky flexed his arm, the vibranium prosthetic barely registering resistance as he snapped the cuffs and rolled his eyes.

Tied Game.

Subduing the Hydra goons was easy and clean up was handled by SHIELD, leaving Bucky to settle up with Nat.

*****

“I am never doing that again.”

“A good agent does whatever is necessary Mr. Barnes. Including seducing dangerous men on occasion.”

Bucky chuckled.

“Seducing men is not the problem. I meant using untested gear in an op.”

“Ah,” Nat said, “The boots.”

James walked into the room, the night air cool on the bare skin of his chest, back, and thighs.

“The boots,” he confirmed.

“It’s a shame they aren’t up to your standards because they really compliment your…suit.”

Her voice was rough and her eyes sparkled.

“Well just because they aren’t mission appropriate doesn’t mean they can’t still be useful,” Bucky said.

“Do you have anything in mind?”

“I’m sure we can think of something.”

Game on.

End.

#buckynat week #drabble #buckynat

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 6 years ago

Text

Stella and the Wolf - Chapter 18

You can read if here on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here.

Everything freezes in this moment.

When Stiles feels the press of the barrel against the back of his head, his limbs lock and his heart forgets to beat. A part of him wants to close his eyes, but also this might be the last time he gets to look at Dad’s face. It’s a careworn face, both somehow stern and open at the same time usually, but it’s stricken right now. Pale and stricken in the moonlight, as though he’s looking at Stiles and already seeing a ghost.

Stiles can hear Kate panting for breath behind him.

A droplet of sweat slides down the back of his skull, close to where she has the barrel of her firearm pressed.

Stella, peering out from behind Dad, is wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and Stiles wants to tell her to close her eyes, but words are beyond him right now. He can’t even breathe, so words are beyond him.

Kate sucks in a breath. “Nobody mo—”

But Dad already is.

He’s already pulled the gun out of Stiles’s waistband, and he’s lifting it even as Stiles realizes what he’s doing and somehow finds a way to unlock his frozen limbs and drops heavily to the ground. The report is loud, and leaves Stiles’s head ringing. Leaves him lying there, gasping, and wondering if he’s still in one piece.

“Move!” Dad yells at him. “Move!”

And Stiles grabs Stella by the wrist and drags her around to the other side of the granite memorial. He looks back to see Dad following, crawling as best he can with his wrists and ankles cuffed.

Kate Argent is on the ground, but she’s still moving too. She’s climbing to her feet, swaying like a drunk, one hand out for balance, and one still clutching a gun.

And Derek is running for her, roaring.

Kate pivots on her back foot, fires, and Derek hits the ground. Stiles can’t tell if it’s a dive or a fall.

And then Stiles can’t see anything at all, because Dad is here, and he’s shielding him and shoving him at the same time. Stiles hits the back of the granite memorial, one arm wrapped around Stella, and one hand clutching at Dad’s shirt.

He glimpses a flash of silver between the headstones. Lydia’s dress.

“Stella,” Stiles says. “There’s Lydia. Can you get to here? Can you run?”

“No!” Stella shakes her head, her face wet with tears. She clings to Stiles. “No!”

And then Stiles sees the darker shape moving towards them between the headstones. This is the second time tonight he’s been stunned to see Jackson Whittemore. Like, at some point he might even have to reevaluate his low opinion of the guy or something.

Jackson reaches the last of the headstones, and then breaks his cover, running towards the Hale memorial.

Stiles, with more strength than he even knows he has in him, pushes Stella towards him, and Jackson scoops her up and darts away with her. Kate rounds the back of the memorial, her gaze drawn to the movement, and Dad kicks both legs out at her, making her stumble backward a step before she regains her balance.

It’s enough.

Jackson and Stella are away.

Kate stares down at Stiles and Dad, and lifts her gun.

Stile’s heart stops beating.

“No.” The word is sharp and articulate, and so very strange to hear coming from the jaws of a beast.

Peter.

He’s rounded the other end of the memorial.

“It’s me you want, not them,” he says. “The Hale Alpha.”

Kate shoots him, and he barely flinches as the bullet hits.

He shows her his fangs. “Is that all you’ve got, bitch?”

He steps back, and back again, and Kate follows him like a fish caught on a glimmering line. She steps past Stiles and Dad, and that’s Stiles’s signal to move.

“Go,” Dad mouths at him. “Go.”

Stiles shakes his head.

He can’t. Not without Dad.

And then he looks up to see Derek.

They have her now, he thinks wildly. She has a gun, but they have her between them. The piggy in the middle.

Whatever happens, she won’t be walking away from both of them.

Derek crouches down, and grips the shackles on Dad’s ankles. Snaps the chain as easily as if it’s made of paper, and then does the same for his wrists. His eyes are glowing, and his fangs are showing, and there’s a low rumble in his chest that’s a growl waiting to burst forth, and he’s as beautiful like this—strong and powerful—as he is in his human skin.

Stiles takes Dad’s hand, and they scrabble down the hill towards the cover of the headstones.

And then, gasping for breath, Stiles turns to look back at the Hale memorial.

***

The Hale memorial is black granite, but it shines silver in the moonlight, a beacon on a hill. Peter and Derek stand at either end—one a beast, and one not quite a man, and Kate stands between them. Her back is to Derek, but there’s a readiness in her stance, a coiled anticipation, that says she knows he’s there. Her gaze might be fixed on Peter, but she’s not ignoring Derek.

She’s a hunter. She knows predators. She must know they’re circling her now, trying to divide her attention, to force a misstep. She must know they’re looking for a weakness. And Kate Argent doesn’t seem like the type of person who will give them one easily.

“She came hunting an Alpha, Peter. She’ll be prepared,” Chris Argent said earlier tonight.

Stiles’s stomach swoops as Kate reaches into her jacket pocket with her free hand.

“Hey, Peter.” Her voice carries clearly on the cool night air. “Burn in hell. Again.”

She draws her arm back—

Derek moves toward her a fraction of a second too late.

—and throws.

The object hits Peter square in the chest, light flashes, and Peter howls and rears back as he is suddenly engulfed in flames.

From somewhere nearby, Stiles hears Stella scream.

***

Kate turns on her heel, laughing, her arm extended, and shoots Derek in the chest.

He stumbles back.

She fires again.

And then Peter is lunging towards her, grabbing her from behind and tackling her into the ground. They struggle, and the flames continue to burn, and Kate is screaming, or maybe both of them are, and Derek is there, trying to pull Peter off her, trying to save his uncle, and then, as quickly as it began, it’s over.

The screaming stops.

***

When Mom died, they used to come here a lot. Stiles remembers Stella, a little fat toddler, wavering on unsteady legs between the headstones. Dad would sit by Mom’s grave with Stella on his lap and Stiles at his side, and talk to Mom about things that were happening in their lives now that she was no longer with them. And Stiles tried to do the same, but it was weird, and it was wrong, and he couldn’t look around and see all the pretty trees and flowers and think that this was a nice place. Not when there were all those dead people underneath him, slowly rotting away.

Not when one of them was Mom.

He thinks of Mom now, and of the Hales, and of the thousands of others of dead here, and it doesn’t scare him anymore, but it aches.

Everything aches.

Derek’s howl isn’t quite like a wolf’s. It’s a man’s too, and it’s full of despair and disbelief and heartbreak.

Stiles climbs to his feet, drawn to that sound like it’s a siren song.

“Stiles,” Dad says, and tries to catch him.

Stiles dodges out of his reach and hurries up the slight hill towards the memorial. Dad follows. So does Lydia, a strange fae creature in her silver dress in the moonlight, her stole fluttering on the breeze. Jackson, still holding a crying Stella, stays back.

Good.

Good, because Stella shouldn’t see this.

Nobody should see this.

Chris Argent is on his feet again now, leaning against a headstone like he’s just crawled out of a grave. He makes no move to join them. Maybe he doesn’t want to see his sister’s body. Maybe he doesn’t want to see Peter’s. Or maybe he’s bleeding out slowly and doesn’t have the energy to move.

Stiles isn’t sure where he finds his, and he wasn’t even shot. But Derek needs someone—maybe he even needs Stiles specifically—and there’s no power in the universe that can stop him from going to him.

Breathless, he reaches the memorial.

Peter isn’t a beast anymore by the time Stiles gets there. He’s a man, his body red and black with burns. His chest is rising and falling, but the sound of his breathing is wet and ragged. There’s an intent light in his eyes, desperate and piercing, and Stiles can’t bring himself to look away.

Derek has dragged him away from Kate’s body, and is kneeling beside him at the base of the memorial.

There are no individual names on this side. Just one word: HALE.

Peter lifts a shaking arm, his fingers no longer… no longer properly there, and touches the stone. When he drops his arm again, he’s left a bloody smear on the granite, as messy as a child’s finger painting.

“Peter!” Stella wails from a distance. “Peter!”

No.

No, it doesn’t end like this, Stiles thinks. It can’t. They beat the odds. They did, so it’s not fair that it ends like this. Peter isn’t the bad guy, and nobody deserves to burn like this twice. Peter can’t die. Not when he’s won. Not when he’s got his revenge. Not when—a strangled, crazy laugh tries to fight its way free of Stiles’s throat—not when he and Stella haven’t finished reading Matilda yet.

It’s not fair.

Stiles’s eyes sting as he drops to his knees beside Peter. His hands hover over his body, but he’s afraid to touch. He’s afraid it will hurt him, even though there’s probably nothing he can do at this point that would hurt Peter more.

Dad’s fingers dig into his shoulder.

“Peter,” Derek says, his voice as small as a child’s. “Uncle Peter.”

He’s not afraid to touch the way that Stiles is. He puts a hand on Peter’s chest—Stiles winces at the sticky sound it makes—and black lines, thick and inky, climb up the veins in his forearm.

Lydia kneels beside Stiles. Her face is pale, but her gaze is solemn and fierce at the same time. Her stole slips, baring her shoulders to the moonlight. She’s hurt, Stiles realizes. Her shoulder is bleeding.

She tugs her stole up again, shivering.

Peter’s blistered mouth quirks, but his breath stutters. It sounds as though he’s choking. He keeps his gaze fixed on Derek. “Do it,” he rasps. “Take it.”

Derek raises his hand and extends his claws.

Stiles closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch.

He still hears the moment Derek’s claws tear through what remains of Peter’s throat though, like wet Velcro ripping.

“Derek?” he asks, eyes still squeezed shut. “Are you okay?”

And Derek says, in a shaking voice, “I’m the Alpha now.”

#Stella and the Wolf #discontenetdwinter #sterek #my fics

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anonymouspuzzler · 2 years ago

Text

it is time for me to subject you all here to my FUNNY NEW OCs!! meet Buck (AKA THE INVINCIBLE BULKHEAD), Davey (AKA DYNAMO), and Minerva (AKA LAST NERVE; slightly more commonly AKA Minnie). They're all part of a new comic concept I've been bouncin' around in my sweet little head!! Expect a few more posts about them coming down the queue soon...

(Detailed image descriptions under cut!!)

[Image 1: A character design sheet for Buck, one of Puzz's original characters. He is a middle-aged white man with a top-heavy, barrel-chested build, a bushy reddish mustache, and two tufts of reddish hair on an otherwise-bald head. He has a square head, a large round nose, and a heavy brow with no visible eyebrows. The design sheet shows him in three alternate outfits, posing the same in each - one arm held up near his chest, the other down at his side, facing slightly to his left and looking back towards his right shoulder. His first outfit is a beige jacket with pointy lapels and multiple pockets on the chest, over a forest-green sweater and khaki pants; he is also wearing big brown lace-up boots, matching gloves, and large round goggles with orange lenses. The second outfit is the same minus the jacket shoved up on top of his head instead of over his eyes. The final outfit is his sleepwear, an off-white t-shirt that exposes his stomach, and forest-green pajama pants with cuffed bottoms.]

[Image 2: A character design sheet for Davey, one of Puzz's original characters. He is a middle-aged Black man with long, curly dark brown hair, a thin mustache, and a lanky build. He has a diagonal scar going from the top left to bottom right of his face, and is missing his right arm at the shoulder, with a visible scar from shoulder to mid-chest. The design sheet shows him in three alternate outfits, posing the same in each - standing slightly to his left, left arm up in a wave, grinning widely. His first outfit is a pair of light-blue denim overalls with cuffed legs and an olive-green patch on the left knee, as well as pointy-toed, laced-up brown boots and a large brown glove on his left hand, a reddish-orange leather helmet with orange-lensed goggles attached, and a toolbelt around his waist; he also has a massive prosthetic right arm held on by a harness under his overalls, made up of a blender, toaster, and various car parts. The second outfit is the same but with the right strap of his overalls unbuttoned and missing his prosthetic, toolbelt and glove; a detail shot also shows how he looks with the goggles shoved up on his helmet, revealing eyes with long bottom lashes. The final outfit is his sleepwear, light-blue boxer shorts with wavy purple stripes, and blue-and-tan slippers; a detail shot also shows him with a purple quilted sleep mask over his eyes.]

[Image 3: A character design sheet for Minerva (AKA Minnie), one of Puzz's original characters. She is a short, white preteen girl with thick red hair styled in enormous twin braids, an ovular face with freckled cheeks, black painted nails, a little round nose, buck teeth, and an irritable expression. The design sheet shows her in two alternate outfits, posing the same in each, standing neutrally with her left hand in a fist on her hip and the other hanging limply, looking off to the side dismissively. The first outfit shows her in what looks like a school uniform, consisting of an off-white t-shirt with golden-yellow trim on the sleeves, a golden-yellow pleated skirt, white knee-high socks, tan mary-jane shoes, matching fingerless gloves, and a light yellow sweater tied around her neck. A detail shot shows her "rocket boots, with steel toes and bands around the ankles, toy rockets strapped to each, wires running along one side and spiked cleats. The second outfit is her sleepwear, consisting of green cross-patterned boxer shorts barely visible under an oversized purple "VILLAIN CON '97" shirt with a graphic of a skull with X-es for eyes.]

[Image 4: A sketchy design for "Golden Boy", one of Puzz's original characters. He is a stout, muscled white blonde man wearing a superhero costume, consisting of a tight sleeveless jumpsuit with an eight-pointed star on the chest, maroon briefs, a belt with a large round buckle, knee-high maroon boots with flared edges, matching gloves, and a long, flowing maroon cape with glittering golden interior held on by a large golden yellow clasp. He also has a pale orange visor over his eyes, and his hair is styled with swooping bangs. He is grinning proudly, flexing with his left arm, the other on his hip in a heroic pose.]

[Image 5: A series of sketches on notebook paper in purple ink, showing the early design process for Buck, Davey and Minerva. From top to bottom and left to right, there is: A sketch of Buck from the shoulders-up in profile; Minerva from the hips-up in profile; Davey, wearing his helmet and goggles, from the shoulders-up in profile; Davey in profile without the helmet and goggles, then a detail shot of him from the front; a rough silhouette/shape test slash height lineup of Davey, Buck, and Minerva; a sketch of Buck in his jacket from the waist up; another detail sketch of Davey's face from the front, testing a different eye style and face shape, then a test of the same face shape with helmet and goggles on; a very rough sketch of front-facing Minerva from the waist up.]

[Image 6: Early design sketches on notebook paper in pink ink, testing out outfits for Davey, Buck and Minerva. The first row shows Davey in his "standard" outfit, minus prosthetic, Buck in his "standard" outfit, and Minerva in her "standard" outfit. The second row shows them all in their sleepwear, with this version of Davey's having long pants instead of boxers and a floral print eye-mask instead of quilted.]

[Image 7: A sketch of Davey and Buck on notebook paper in blue ink. Davey is posing with one leg up on a box, his left arm resting on his knee, grinning widely with sparkles around him. His helmet and goggles are on, but his prosthetic is not. To his right is Buck, standing with his hands on his hips, glancing over his shoulder towards Davey. His goggles are shoved up on top of his head, and he is not wearing his jacket.]

[Image 8: A sketch of Minerva on notebook paper in blue ink. She is holding a polaroid camera in both hands, a photo being printed out of it, and she is looking back over her left shoulder with a petulant expression. Sitting on the ground in front of her is her pet black-and-white rat, Oreo.]

[Image 9: A sketch of Davey, Buck and Minerva in casualwear, drawn on notebook paper in blue ink. Davey has his hair in a ponytail and is not wearing his prosthetic. He is dressed in a tank top with long arm-holes, tucked into short sweatpants that end just below his knees, and wearing high-top Converse-style sneakers with socks barely peeking out above them. He is holding a large grocery bag in his left hand and looking off to his left. Buck is wearing a jacket with a fluffy collar, open over a nondescript t-shirt, long pants, and boots. He has on sunglasses and a knit beanie. He is standing with his right arm in his pocket and the left hanging at his side. Minerva is wearing a sweater over a collared shirt, and a pleated skirt with safety pins along the edges, and her usual mary-jane shoes. She stands with her arms at her sides, looking slightly left, appearing bored.]

[Image 10: A black-and-white drawing of Puzz's OCs Buck (left), Davey (top right), and Minnie (bottom right), plus Minnie's rat Oreo. Buck is a middle-aged white man with two tufts of hair and a bushy mustache, wearing goggles on top of his head and a turtleneck sweater. Davey is a middle-aged Black man with curly hair in a ponytail, a missing right arm, diagonal scar across his face, thin mustache and big ears, wearing overalls and a leather glove. Minnie is a preteen girl with massive twin braids, buck teeth and freckles, wearing a t-shirt, fingerless gloves and a sweater tied around her shoulders. Oreo is a black-and-white pet rat. Minnie and Davey are both posing with their heads in their hands and grinning smugly, looking over at Buck, who is blushing and trying to ignore them.]

[Image 11: Three colored pen drawings of Davey. In all three, he has his hair in a ponytail and is wearing overalls with the right strap undone, and no prosthetic. The leftmost drawing shows him from the waist up, looking off to his left in apparent mild confusion, right eyebrow raised and left eye slightly closed. He is lifting his left hand to bring his pointer finger near his chin, and there are a couple sweat droplets on one side of his face. The top-right drawing shows him from the shoulders off, looking off to the left with a warm smile, eyes crinkling. The bottom-right drawing shows him from the waist up, hunched over with his chin resting on the back of one hand. He looks incredulous and slightly annoyed, left eyebrow raised and eyes narrowed, grimacing very slightly, with a "..." speech bubble.]

[Image 12: Two colored ink drawings of Davey. In both, he is drawn from the shoulders-up and is wearing overalls with the right strap undone, and no prosthetic. In the first, he is looking directly into the camera with a lovestruck grin, eyes sparkling, blushing warmly. There is a speech bubble next to him with a big red heart. In the second image, his face is partially in shadow and he is staring intensely into the camera, brow slightly furrowed and with a tight, humorless grin, saying bluntly, "I'll [censored]ING kill you."]

[Image 13: Two drawings of Buck and Davey together. In the first drawing to the left, Buck, seen from behind in his sleepwear, is holding up Davey, wearing a baggy blue tank top, in his arms. Buck's face is barely visible, but Davey's is smiling warmly, looking lovingly at Buck. His right arm is around his shoulders and his legs are kicking playfully. In the second drawing to the right, the two are sitting together with Davey on the left and Buck on the right. Davey is wearing his overalls and boots, but no prosthetic or helmet; similarly, Buck is in his sweater and khakis but no goggles or jacket, and has also removed his boots to reveal ribbed black socks. Davey has his legs crossed and his arm around Bucks shoulders, kissing him gently, eyes closed. Buck has turned to lean into the kiss, eyes closed and looking happy. He is propping himself up with his left arm behind him, while the right rests on Davey's knee. There are two little heart symbols above their heads.]

[Image 14: A black and white drawing of Puzz's OC's Buck (a barrel-chested, middle-aged white man with a bushy mustache and two tufts of hair, wearing round goggles, gloves, a jacket with pointed lapels, and a turtleneck sweater) and Davey (a lanky, middle-aged Black man with a massive prosthetic right arm, thin mustache and diagonal scar across his face), wearing overalls, leather workman gloves and a leather helmet with round goggles). Buck is grimacing with his arms crossed, while Davey is behind him sticking his tongue out and posing with a V-sign. A screenshotted tumblr post by auroraanorth is above them, reading "why are my two favorite tropes 'seemingly powerful and dominating guy turns out to be kind of pathetic' and 'silly goofball of a man turns out to be terrifyingly powerful'.]

#Anonymous Puzzler art #Anonymous Puzzler originals #tw for bare chest and amputation #i've become very enamored with these new guys very quickly so get ready to see more of 'em #and of course feel free to ask questions if yer curious! that goes for all my OCs of course but these guys are Very On My Mind lately LMAO #Villain Coded comic

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malhaw · 6 years ago

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A night alone

A couple of weeks had passed since he had made contact with almost anyone outside the random stranger, who’s conversation was nothing to warrant any interest. A simple ‘How’s the weather’, or ‘What’s up?’, but rarely did anything more than a grunt or simple one sentence answer return to him. And on this night, of all night. Hallow’s End. He walked the neighborhoods of Stormwind, paid a local mage for a portal to Dalaran, and even to Kul’Tiras. Just to wander and see how things were since he began his reclusive lifestyle. The smells of pumpkin, warm spices, and sugary sweets did bring a gentle smile to his lips. The time when he spent the nights with his younger sister, before their parents’ death, and how he missed those days did so flood back to mind as he saw similar walking through the roads of the cities.

He wore simple leathers. A jerkin, cargo belt, and loose fitting pants that cuffed just around his ankles as they stuffed into his boots. He wore an older Kul’tiran long coat, to protect against the chill in the air. He did have daggers on his belt, and a long barrel flintlock. He always traveled with weapons, but didn’t feel the need to be overburdened with full battle raiment. He leaned against a lamp post, looking out over the Kul’Tirans, seeing many just walking around to the shops, the festivities, the hustle and bustle. Lighting a rolled cigarette off a nearby candle, a skinny man walked up to Malthaius, and assuming he was going to ask for a smoke, he reached for it but his ears chimed with silver bell-like voices.

“Tick or teat!” said two small children, boy and girl. About nine or ten winters old. He smirked and immediately killed his cigarette before kneeling infront of them with a tilt of his head.

“What what’ve we got here, eh? You two out being a nightmare for your paw?” He said with a grin, looking over the costumes of the younglings. One was just painted green, with what look like a wooden nose strapped to his face and his hair greased back. A Goblin! And the girl;barely taller than a gnome, wore rags and what looked like toothpicks hanging from both sides of her mouth. A troll. Both of their costumes were very low budget and makeshift. Easily. He looked to the skinny man, their father. Balding with a bushy mustache. He looked tired and worn with age. “Mum ain’t out here with you, friend?”

“Nah, bless’er heart. She.. uhh.. passed. She was docked in Darnassus.. an’..” The man struggled to get it out, and Malthaius held his hand up, shaking his head. “I’m sorry for your loss, friend.” He looked around and one of the nearby shops that was selling treats and he placed a few silver on the counter before taking the small bags of pre-wrapped treats.

“Here ya go, kids. Be good fer yer paw, right?” He said with a soft smile.

“Awright!” they explained, as he handed the kids their prizes. “Have a happy Hallow’s End, friend.” said the man, and Malthaius stood up, offering to shake his hand. Once shook, Malthaius would nod. “Sorry again fer yer loss, mate.” He said.

The older man returned the smile with his glassy eyes, but his hand clenched at something that was not there before. Thinking it was a glove he would look down to his hand to see it was the draw strings of a small leather bag. “Ummm, friend, I think you for-..” Malthaius was already walking away, waving his hand over his shoulder insinuating he knew. “I know your struggle.”

Opening the bag, was more than a fist of gold coins held within. Looking to his children and then back to the man, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in deep thanks.

Malthaius walked on, glad he could do good by someone else. There was too much ugly in this world. Even if just for one single dad and his two kids, he could make something of a difference. He was tired, tired of people being cruel and ugly. He took a breath and exhaled hotly, leaving steam in its wake above him. What had the world come to? They just finished with the Legion, where they all practically came together for one common cause, and now, back to the lunacy.

Having friends on both factions made it difficult to want to take part in any of it. How was Cherly doing? Was she mixed up in all this insanity? Was she even still alive? Did she get married and have some mixed babies by now wit hthat Kaldorei fellow he practically, and literally, gift-wrapped for her? He laughed to himself, sitting on a bench just outside the harbor, lighting another cigarette and leaning back to looking up to the gaslight lamp just above the bench.

More commotion, some kids with their parents trotting by, and then going opposite, a couple in costume. Coming from some form of masquerade no doubt, as their costumes matched, and also mirrored each other in color and design. When was the last time he did anything with anyone? Last time he felt a hand in his? A set of warm lips to his stubble-ridden cheek?

“I prefer to be alone.” He said to himself. “..easier that way, right?”

“....right.” He answered silently into the night.

@cherlyhawthorne

#TheRealFolkBlues

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cyb-by-lang · 7 years ago

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OSF AU - All the Little Children (2/?)

Part 2: Wherein tiny thieves discuss the meaning of “turf," have a threatening chat, and throw down a gauntlet.

Sabo didn’t quite know how to break the news to Ace, but it was bad. He waited at the usual spot, pipe leaning against his shoulder and tapping it occasionally as he thought. There had to be a way to explain what was happening, but Sabo still wasn’t sure what they’d do next.

For the last couple of days, all the easy targets around Gray Terminal seemed to have dried up. It wasn’t like the people weren’t around or anything, but nobody Sabo tracked down seemed to have anything worth the effort. Even the swankier-looking people, the ones who stuck around High Town instead of anything closer to the trash heap, seemed to be running out of treasure and didn’t seem to be getting any more even though the trash still came, right on time.

It was like… It was like someone was grabbing all the best targets before Sabo could find them.

And he had some idea who.

“Sabo!” Ace called, making him jump. “There you are.”

Crud. “Hi, Ace.”

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Ace commented as he hauled himself onto Sabo’s vantage point. It wasn’t all that high, but he could see people without being seen as easily, and thus it became their spot. “Get anything good today?”

Sabo shook his head. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Again?!” Ace kept his voice down to a dull roar, but his hand tightened around his pipe hard enough that Sabo almost worried he’d bend it. “What is it with this freaking town this week?”

So Ace hadn’t been having any luck either? Good to know, but worrying. At least there was some news, though. It was just still bad. “Ace, I think I know what the problem is.”

“Yeah?” Ace asked, frowning. Still he was listening. “Who do we gotta beat up?”

“There’s more thieves here than just us, now,” Sabo said. “Two other kids like us, but they’re taking all the good targets before either of us can get there. At least, I think it has to be them.”

“Then what’re we waiting for?” Ace smacked his pipe into his other palm. “Let’s go take out the trash.”

Sabo reached over and cuffed him on the shoulder. “No, Ace. We need to know what these kids are like. It’s too dangerous in case they’re like us, and we don’t even know where they hide out when they’re not stealing.”

“Gah, fine,” Ace grumbled, crossing his arms. “We’ll do it the boring way.”

“You asked what we were waiting on, and I answered,” Sabo told him. “Let’s go.”

Sabo and Ace scoured Gray Terminal for the rest of the afternoon, chasing down rumors of other thieves and other kids. Most of the residents they interrogated seemed to think that they were recruiting, but Ace’s death glare discouraged any further questioning from the general crowd of beggars and lowlifes that haunted the place. Sure, these people were mostly ignored by both Ace and Sabo when considering who to rob—since no one ever had anything—but there were a lot of them and everyone got spotted sooner or later. Even some new phantom thieves.

“Brats looking for more brats,” muttered their most recent informant, with Ace’s pipe directly in front of his nose. His eyes were almost hidden under shaggy gray eyebrows, and he was probably pushing something like eighty years old. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Who’re you calling a brat, you bastard?” Ace snapped. “Talk and I won’t make you eat this!”

“Fine, fine!” replied the man, holding his hands up in surrender. “Ask Menma over there! He’s seen your friends!”

“They’re not our friends,” Sabo said, but he dragged Ace off the guy and toward the next one.

“The next one” turned out to be a teenager with creepy red eyes and nasty scars on both sides of his face. He was twice Ace or Sabo’s size, lanky as heck, and looked at both of them like they were scum.

“Whaddya want?” he asked, in a raspy voice not much deeper than theirs.

Sabo took the lead, since Ace would probably just give the guy a concussion. “What do you know about some kids who’ve been stealing stuff all over town?”

“Ain’t I looking at ‘em?” Menma countered, irritated. He fell back into a pile of junk, huddling under a tarp. “Go away, kid. I ain’t got nothin’ to steal.”

Ace slammed his pipe into the ground an inch from the guy’s toes, making him flinch. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you you’re gonna cough up all you know about those kids before I crack your head open.”

Menma stared up at the two of them for a long moment, his eyebrows moving as he considered his options. With Ace there, he didn’t have a lot of them. Menma licked his lips. “What’ll I get if I tell ya?”

“An unbroken skull,” Ace snapped, glaring for all he was worth.

“And we’ll leave you alone,” Sabo said, playing good guard to Ace’s bad one. “We won’t even tell them you told us about them.”

Menma’s eyes darted between them. “Yeah?”

“Unless your info’s shit,” Ace said, just to make his stance clear. “Then I’ll come back and fulfill my promise.”

Menma paled. “Uh, then…” As Ace raised the pipe pointedly, Menma burst out, “FINE! Fine, I’ll tell you. We’re all friends here, right?”

“Sure, buddy,” Ace said, his tone implying the exact opposite.

Menma spilled his guts worse than a sea cucumber. With one last series of threats regarding his head and the breakage thereof from Ace, he and Sabo set off from Gray Terminal and headed into the forests of Mt. Colubo. While Sabo was the expert in the trash heap, the mountains were Ace’s playground more than anyone else’s. If the other thieves were setting up shop in the wilderness and hadn’t been eaten by any of the bigger animals, there were only so many places they could go, and Ace knew all of them.

Afterward, Sabo wondered if thinking like that counted as tempting fate.

“Where did all these traps come from?!” Ace screamed as they barreled down a hill, chased by a falling log the size of a small ship. Freaking tripwires in a forest?

“Just an idea,” Sabo panted, as he dragged Ace to the side to avoid the trap, “but I think we should’ve asked where that guy got his info!”

“You mean that bastard set us up? I’ll go back there and—!”

But whatever Ace would have said was cut off by the sound of another wire snapping. Together, they ducked under a swinging log that crashed through the trees above their heads. Sabo wasn’t sure, but it looked like this trap was designed for hitting taller people. Maybe adults?

“We’ve gotta get out of here first,” Sabo reminded him, sitting up.

But there wasn’t a way out. Every time they tried to escape, a wasp nest would fly out of nowhere and almost hit Ace in the face. Or a pitfall lined with spikes would just appear where Sabo was going to place his foot. Or a quicksand trap would almost swallow them both whole. Or maybe they’d be chased around the forest by giant animals with steaks in front of their faces to keep them running, while surrounded on all sides by poison ivy. And even when that stopped, the paths were lined with brambles and thorns and burrs that stuck to their clothes and hair.

By the end of the gauntlet, both Ace and Sabo were covered in scrapes and sores, their voices were hoarse, and their entire bodies ached with exhaustion. The sun had long since dropped below the horizon, and now it was too dark to see. They couldn’t get off the mountain without possibly running into more traps, but without their eyesight to spot them in time.

“Shit, this was such a bad idea,” Ace muttered as they clambered down into a hollow underneath a tree.

The air smelled like rain, so Sabo knew it was time to find shelter in any form available. He trusted Ace’s judgment in the forest more than his own, and followed.

“My idea wasn’t much better,” Sabo said after a while, in between picking burrs out of his pants and coat. He winced when they caught his fingers, but he knew he couldn’t sleep with things digging into his skin. “I was the one who said we should gather info.”

“And I was the one who kept threatening the guy,” Ace muttered, pausing for just a second to suck on a cut on one of his fingers. “Should’ve figured he’d try to get us killed.”

“Still planning to head back there?” Sabo asked.

“If we get outta here? Yeah.” Ace scowled. “Now I owe him a fight.”

Sabo sighed. “That’s a bad habit you’re getting there…”

“Tch.” Ace spat toward the corner of their little hideout just as the rain started to fall. “I’ll be fine, Sabo. Same as always.”

“Sand Drizzle.”

Both of them whirled on the spot, or tried to, but they were already up to their ankles in sand and the roots weren’t high enough to let either of them stand up or swing their pipes. The sand dragged them out of shelter, moving on its own like it was a snake or a monster of some kind, hoisting both boys up into the air by their feet and swirling around them in a gritty, blinding storm.

Ace spat and swore, his voice muffled by sand getting into his mouth.

Sabo tried to free his feet, but couldn’t bend far enough upward before his arms were pinned to his sides. By the time he could open his eyes without pain, he and Ace were suspended upside-down in cocoons of yellow sand big enough to hide their whole bodies from view, except their faces. When Sabo tried to struggle, he couldn’t move an inch.

“What the hell is this?” Ace shouted, but there was a tremble in his voice that didn’t match anything Sabo had ever heard from him. He wasn’t being loud because he thought it would help, but because he didn’t know what else to do.

A different voice, sounding lower and raspier than Memna’s by a lot, spoke from behind them. “Naruto, what should we do with them?”

“Dunno, gimme a second,” said a voice that was, unfortunately, more familiar.

As Sabo watched and his stomach tried to plummet right out of his body, Menma stepped out from behind a nearby tree and leaned casually against the trunk. “So, having fun with our little obstacle course?”

“Of course we’re not, you backstabbing son of a bitch!” Ace snapped, before Sabo could shout across him.

Menma’s red eyes narrowed and he stalked forward, cloak billowing around him in a way that was suddenly a lot less like a Gray Terminal resident and a lot more like a trained fighter. He stopped when he was within about four feet of Ace, then said, “You leave my mother out of this.”

…What.

Menma leaned back, before Ace could spit in his face. “Anyway, this isn’t even my fault. You’re the ones who got all pissed off over something and started threatening everyone in the trash heap.”

“Did you plan to set us up from the start?” Sabo asked, before Ace could get a word in edgewise.

“Well, sure. Why’d you think I talked to you like this?” Menma asked, gesturing at his entire body.

Sabo blinked. “…What the hell are you talking about?”

“The thieves you were looking for? They’re right here.” With that, Menma disappeared in a huge plume of smoke. In the middle of it, a higher voice cackled, “Gotcha!”

When the smoke cleared, Sabo felt his jaw drop before he realized it. Where Menma had been standing, there was a blond kid a little older than Sabo and Ace were, with spiky hair instead of curls and three whisker-shaped lines on each cheek. Sabo could still see the resemblance between the kid and Menma, in build but not in height, but mostly his brain was stuck on the fact that there’d been a person standing there and now there was a different one, and the first one had just disappeared.

“I didn’t know what you guys were looking for, but if you were stubborn enough to chase us all over the trash heap, you’d probably take on the death course,” said…this person. The one raspy-voice had called him “Naruto,” right? “And boom. Here we are.”

“I want to know why you were following us,” said the other voice, much closer than before.

As Sabo watched in a kind of horrified fascination, his and Ace’s sand cocoons slowly drifted apart and a creepy-looking kid walked between them to Naruto’s side. When he turned, Sabo saw blood-red hair and flat, blank green eyes surrounded by dark circles. The guy had a completely neutral stance, other than his crossed arms, and he didn’t look like the kind of person who’d blink twice at killing someone.

“Hey, Gaara asked you a question,” Naruto said, putting his hands on his hips. “So ‘fess up.”

“We wouldn’t even be here if you jackasses weren’t stealing everything in Gray Terminal that wasn’t nailed down or on fire!” Ace exploded. “Not everyone can just turn into someone else to do whatever they want! Me and Sabo are getting starved out because you can’t stick to your own freaking beat!”

“…What’s a ‘beat’?” Naruto asked, making a face.

“Turf, territory, whatever the hell you wanna call it,” Ace replied, as the blood ran to his head.

“We can return what we stole from you, just out of pity,” suggested the redhead, still entirely expressionless. “But otherwise? No.”

“They didn’t say they were thieves, Gaara,” Naruto said.

“It was implied,” Gaara replied. His eyes narrowed for a second, then Sabo and Ace’s cocoons started to turn back rightside-up.

“Well, stealing stuff’s a ‘first come, first served’ kinda business.” Naruto shrugged. “And right here and now, we’re stronger than you are.”

Ace audibly ground his teeth.

“So get off our ‘turf,’ kid,” Naruto said. He grinned in a way that was totally not a good thing, showing off a pair of long canines. “Wanna give ‘em a push, Gaara?”

“I have a better idea,” Gaara replied. He clapped his hands together, and the sand exploded off Ace and Sabo and dropped them roughly on their feet.

It didn’t last.

All around them, the ground shook, and then a whole flood of nothing but sand rose out from between individual clumps of earth and blades of grass. Before either of them could react, the sand tripped and swept them along the forest floor. Out past the trees, straight through all the bushes—

And right off the mountain.

#Ocean Stars Falling #All the Little Children #Naruto Uzumaki #Gaara #Portgas D. Ace #Sabo

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loxare · 8 years ago

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A Talon by Any Other Name

Chapter 10 - Spiralling

The only sounds coming from the comm. was bitten back shouts of pain and muttered curses. Tim was fighting to hold back tears. Bruce had sent him upstairs, trying to protect him, but he had forgotten the comm. unit Tim had had in his pocket. He'd heard everything. He was still hearing everything.

“Dick? Hood? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Please, answer me. Dick, we found Hood's name. Please, we know who he was. Bats hasn't told me, but I know he knows. Your name got taken, but we can give that back too. We can give them both back.” If the Talons could hear, no matter what state they were in, they would find some way to answer.

Nothing for a solid minute. Then, “Hey, Acrobat?”

“Yeah Hood?”

“Think they'll... find us?”

“'Course Little Wing. Why -agh- why wouldn't they?”

“I'm not sure I'm worth it. You have hope in you Acrobat. I saw the record... of your -urgh- assignments. Nothing worse than... the murder of a corrupt political figure. I've done a lot worse.”

Tim shook his head. Hood couldn't hear him, but he spoke anyways. “No Hood. No. What you did then wasn't your fault.”

Dick seemed to have the same idea. “Not your fault Little Wing. Not... your... faul...t.”

Hood let out a small, pained chuckle. “Good idea. Can't feel it if you're unconscious. Don't worry. I'll keep watch.” He gave out a gasp, then a slow inhale. The quality on this call was really good. Near perfect clarity. Tim stifled a sob. “You had a name, right? I remember calling you something else. But it's... ow, it's gone.” Hood fell silent.

There was a few hours of this, silence with nothing to distract Tim from his thoughts. Hood and Dick were not here. They were hurt and not only could he do nothing to find them, he was stuck in his room. Alfred was “dusting” outside, probably to keep him from running off. He just... felt so useless! He opened the feed to the Batcave on his computer. He'd planted a camera there a few days ago, which Bats had obviously found within the hour. But he hadn't found the secondary camera, the one that was smaller and better hidden. Not as good quality, but better than nothing.

Bruce was typing frantically. A million windows were plastered across the screens, with traffic cams of all locations and angles displayed. He'd hacked the financial records of every Owl he knew of, looking for purchased houses, ware houses, sheds, bolt holes, boats, anything and everything that was big enough to hold two Talons.

Talons? Tim didn't want to call them Talons anymore. Because they weren't. Talons were cold, calculating, horrible. Murderers. Dick and Hood were warm and full of laughter and they could bring so much goodness to this world if they were given the chance.

Dick had called him a brother. So that was what he was. Timothy Jackson Drake, adopted son of Bryce Wayne, vigilante Red Wing, and the younger brother of Richard John Grayson and Hood.

...That last part sounded weird. He'd have to get Hood's name from Bruce later.

Tim was just about to open a feed to the Batcomputer, to lend a hand, when an alert flared across the screen. Joker again, this time with Ivy. Already, they were planting bombs downtown. Most likely some mix of Joker toxin and pheromone pollen. Bruce flexed his hands in his gloves, obviously conflicted.

Finally, he pulled his cowl over his head and headed for the Batmobile, locking down the Batcomputer to finish the tasks without him.

Of course, now Tim couldn't help with that either. With a cry of frustration, he slammed his fist into the ground. Then, again. And again. It wasn't a productive use of his energy, in any way, shape, or format, but it was very satisfying. Right up until his knuckles started bleeding, and a little after.

He probably would have kept going, but a sound from the comm. brought him out of his stupor, diving for the dropped and forgotten unit to better hear everything that was said.

“Ahhh ah, ow, that was my intestine. Hate gut wounds. The acid goes ever-ahhhowow-where. Yeah, yeah, Cobb. I can see your little camera. Not gonna make me scream.”

There was a muffled beep, followed by a series of thuds and an electrical whine. When it stopped, Hood lay panting for a minute, the laughed. “Nope. Nice try. Electrocution always sucks. Be careful though. Don't want to waste the battery on this thing or it won't have enough juice to kill me.”

There was a groan. “You up Acrobat?”

“I... yeah, I oh, OW! That's...”

“Stomach acid. Yeah.”

“Hate it when that happens.” There was a cough, then scraping as someone shifted position. “Hood, about what you said earlier...” Another cough, this time from Hood. “You're worth it Hood. You are.”

“No, I'm no-”

“No! You are. Ow, shouldn't have shouted. Hood, I saw it four years ago, and I still see it. You're -ow- good. No, shut up, you are. You're not a Talon anymore. You can be... you can be a Robin.”

“Haha-ow-ha. A what?”

“A Robin. That's what my mooo-ow-oom used to call me. Her little bird on the trapeze.”

“I'm not a Robin Acrobat. I've never been on a trapeze. Ouch. How do you even remember this?” A whimper. Tim wasn't sure who it was from.

“They didn't know I remembered it, so they didn't -agh- know to take it away. And that's not the point you brat.” Somehow, they managed to share a laugh. “What I mean is, you're still bright. Not innocent anymore, you've seen too much. But you glow with life, with goodness.” There was a moment of silence. “You said I had hope in me. That was because of you Little Wing. Before I -urgh- met you, I did horrible things. I wasn't a... person. But I saw you and I rebuilt myself around being your brother. You just have to rebuild yourself too. You don't believe me. I can see it. Don't -ah- worry. You will. You'll see it some day.” There was some more shifting. “Hm? Hood? What's -ow- that?”

“It's a comm... The comm. Batman gave us.”

Jimmy the Snake was a low level thug. Of course, he fancied himself the next Falcone, but so did half the people in his gang. They'd gotten picked up recently, to help keep the Bat away while Joker and Ivy set up their latest “destroy Gotham” plan. A good plan, but they would need more than the measly hundred guys they'd gotten if they really wanted to keep the Bat off of them. Good pay though. Which was the only reason Jimmy the Snake was standing here, holding a semi-automatic and trying to look tough. Fairly easy when he stood at 6'4” and had a face that looked like it'd been through a blender.

Not the point. Point was, he'd been around the block. He'd seen the Bat take out twice this many guys with a paper clip and seventeen oranges. That had been a day. But he'd never seen this.

They saw the Bat coming. That was unusual enough. Normally, he snuck up on them, swooped down from the nearest tall building. And there were a lot of tall building to choose from. But instead he drove in, right up main street like it was nothing. Then, still half a block away, he launched himself out. Honest to God launched. The... what was it... momentum threw him over the heads of the small army Ivy had collected and right into Joker. Seriously, his feet landed on Joker's face. Before the clown could fall, he was pushing off, flying back into the crowd.

And that was where things got surreal. The Bat was the most seamless fighter Jimmy had ever seen. The absolute best. Of course, one day, Jimmy would get lucky and take the Bat out – blaming it on his mad skills of course – but that was for later. When he had time to cement his criminal empire. This though...

He was fighting like the thugs he took out. All heavy fists and no finesse. Bats usually moved like water, but now he was like a jerky automaton. Rigid punch, followed by rigid kick, then rigid elbow to the rib cage. Not only that, but he was getting injured and stuff. Greggie Manfred scored himself a blow to the ribs, and Greggie was the worst fighter in Jimmy's outfit. Jimmy himself managed to sneak up on the Bat and ram a knife into his side. Skittered off the Kevlar, missed the kidneys, but it was in there. On any other day, he would have been over the moon over this. Jimmy the Snake, and he slithered in and stabbed the Bat.

But he had snuck up on the Bat. People don't just sneak up on the Bat. This one time, Jimmy had watched Annie Grimes sneak up on him. The warehouse they'd been in had been incredibly noisy, and Annie had always been quiet. But just as she'd been about to blow his brains out point blank,he'd reached over his shoulder, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and had Annie face first on the ground and cuffed before anyone could blink. People didn't just sneak up on the Bat. Didn't matter if it was in a noisy warehouse or a noisy fight, it didn't happen. But Jimmy had.

So excuse Jimmy for being a little worried. Bats was his greatest nemesis, and Jimmy the snake was Bat's (well, one day). But he couldn't rise to the top of the top if he didn't have the Bat to oppose him. Sure, Red Wing would be fine, seeing as he wasn't here or nothing, but there was no glory to be grabbed by fighting someone half his age for the rest of his life.

His worry lasted right up until Bat's got a hold of him. Jimmy had been keeping count. The Bat had a few broken ribs, sprained ankle, four bullet holes and half a dozen knife wounds, but he still managed to grab Jimmy by the head, snap both of his arms, beat him half senseless, and drop him, all in the span of about ten seconds.

Bats could go screw himself. Clearly, he was fine.

If Batman had been thinking clearly, he would be worried about how he was behaving. Of the hundred or so thugs that were in the area, he had maybe twenty left, and he was starting to wear down. He couldn't quite curl the fingers on his right hand into a proper fist anymore. Repeated connections with one too many thugs' faces. Not only were they bruised, they were bleeding under his gloves and one of them was dislocated. But he wasn't. Worried, that is. All he could think about was the missing boys, their feed still coming through the comm.

THUD

A small moan of pain, its intensity in no way affected by its size.

THUD THUD BAM CRUNCH

Even unconscious, Dick cried out, louder than he would have if he'd been awake.

WHAM CRACK THUD CRUNCH

The loudest noise that came from Hood was a whimper, but Batman could hear the suppressed screams in every one.

THUD THUD THUD THUd THud Thud thud thud ...

The criminal he had in his hands was begging for him to stop. His entire face was a swollen bleeding mask. Barely aware of his surroundings, Batman stood up. The one he had been beating to death had been the last one, so he slowly turned to Joker and Ivy, who were still here for whatever reason. He shot out his grapple gun, reeling himself in so he flew right past Joker, arm-barring him in the throat. While the Joker wheezed chuckles, he turned to Ivy.

Something in his face made her surrender immediately. The Joker just kept laughing. “Haha-wheeze-hahaha. Batsy! I love this... new side to you.”

Later, much later, Batman would remember Joker's words and be horrified. After all, he had just beaten a hundred people half to death with nothing more than his fists. But right now, Dick and Hood needed him. These people were standing between him and finding them. So, with a simple, decisive punch, he knocked Joker unconscious. “Shut up.”

He knocked out Ivy, cuffed both villains, and shut down their machine. It looked like it would spread pollen, laced with Joker Gas, into the air. The pollen would kill off the humans, Ivy would get her plant paradise, Joker would get his laugh, the standard fare for these kind of scenarios.

He took a few samples, less neatly than usual, then called the Batmobile. He had to admit, he had stopped listening to the comm. when the Joker had spoken to him. He tuned back in, just in time to hear Hood say, “The comm. Batman gave us.”

He took the Batmobile at max speed back to the Cave.

“It's a comm...” Urgh. Ah, that one hurt. Whatever Cobb had put on them, it was moving. Slowly. “The comm. Batman gave us.” And it was cold. So cold. Probably coated in -ow- that anti-Talon juice. Or secreting it or something.

He tried to move closer to the comm., to try and turn it on, but was stopped by an intense pain every time he moved his leg. Ah. Ow. Right. The thing had drilled through his pelvis. Hadn't healed yet.

Acrobat was moving to the comm. too, and making better progress than Hood was. Just looking at him hurt. Not because of the torment they were both going through, although that was... hhnngghh-ow. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Where was he?

Acrobat. Acrobat had a name. He did. And it was there, hovering at the edge of his brain. It reminded him of that time the Court had run out of anti-Talon juice, but he had back-talked one of the Owls for the millionth time. They had tossed him in a large pit for a week. The sides had been beveled so the bottom was wider than the top. No food, no water. Once, day six or so, they had dangled a water bottle on a string at him. It had been agony, being so close to grabbing it, but every time his fingers barely grazed it.

This was worse.

Acrobat was at the comm. With a final grunt, he grabbed it, pulling it closer to his chest, a movement which made Hood realize that his arm was broken. Not surprising. With this what-ever-it-was in them, their bodies weren't focusing on healing little things like broken bones and contusions. Hood himself had fourteen broken bones and... um. He hadn't counted the cuts. But there was a lot.

Crawling closer to Acrobat, he saw that the older Talon had almost managed to find the switch. Honestly, these Bat-people and not labeling their tech. He flipped the switch, and almost immediately, there was a screaming from Hood's abdomen. Acrobat's too from the way he cried out.

The thing had reached his diaphragm. Already, he was having trouble breathing. But his hearing still worked. And thankfully, there was a voice talking at them.

“Hood! Dick! Are you alright?” Red. He was safe. The Talons let out a sigh of relief.

Wait. What did he say? “Dick? Is that Acrobat's name?”

“Yes! Richard John Grayson! But Hood, you said that Dick suited him better. Where are you two?”

For the first time, Hood took a look at his surroundings. “Not a building. A cavern. And not one I recognize, so not anywhere near the Court.”

Acrobat – Dick – coughed, then chimed in. “Walls are dry. Not close to any water source. And there's a tiny bit of light coming from a hole in the ceiling. Can't see anything though. Just sky.”

“Rock is grey. Don't know if that helps.” The thing traveling through him felt like it was trailing something. Like a string thing that kept it attached to the device still latching on to his leg. If he could, he would pull it out. But the device had its claws in deep, sinking into his femur. And with his hands on a short chain attached to his neck, there wasn't any good position to pull it off.

Breathing got really difficult all of a sudden. The thing, it was eating through a lung, at an angle. Why at an angle? “Red, we won't be able to... talk pretty soon. Just wanted to say... I don't regret a minute of it. Those two free weeks -wheeze -were the best in my... life. I think -gasp- my whole life, even the before stuff. So thanks. And you need... to work on defending from attacks... coming from your left.” His lung was filling with blood. He coughed out a damp cough, feeling the red trickle down his chin.

“What are you talking about? Tell me all of this later Hood.” There was the sound of keys clicking. Was Tim trying to find them?

Another breathless cough from Dick. “Sure, but we want... to tell you now too Red. Ha. What kind of brother... am I? One of you is dying right -gasp- next to me, and I'm leaving the other one to fend for himself.”

Was it just him, or was his intestine healing? “You're not! You're not leaving me! We're going to find you and you're going to be fine!”

“Sure Red. But hey, while I... have you, I just wanted to say thanks as well. You gave... me my memories... back. You know, I'd given up... on them? But you -cough- gave them back, just like you and Hood gave back... my self. Without you too, I'd probably be... another Cobb. You're my brothers, and I'll always... love you.”

Hood wanted to reply. But the thing chose that moment to finish with his first lung and start in on his second.

Suddenly, there wasn't enough air. He gasped, sucking in air and having none of it do a lick of good. Beside him, Dick was wheezing and still trying to rasp out words, but there wasn't any air.

His lungs burned, or, the parts of them not ruined by the thing did. Those parts were cold, freezing him from the inside out. Pressure started building in his head. He wasn't getting enough air, he wasn't getting any air!

Tim was shouting. “...at's going on? Are you two alr... ... alk to m... ...ease Hood, Dick! Say som...”

His lungs were burning and still the thing kept moving. Faster now. No apparent reason. His chest was heaving, taking in massive quantities of air and losing most of it. Blood rushed in from the millions of openings. Every exhale had a river following it, every inhale rattled and sloshed. Dick, his friend, his brother, was facing him. Together, they slipped into darkness.

#Loxie's fics #Brainwashing #Torture #Lots of torture #Blood #Injuries #Bad times #Talon AU #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Alfred Pennyworth #William Cobb #Bruceman #Jay #Timmers #Dickie #Alfie

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serpentariusart · 7 years ago

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I haven’t shared a lore story before, so why not now? I’m just gonna share a little snippet, but I might start doing somewhat-regular updates on my entire overarching story, if that tickles anyone’s fancy.

To start it off, we’re getting right into the heavy stuff: why my clan moved to light. It does contain blood and violence, you have been warned. But without further ado, let us begin!

It had been bound to happen. They all knew the day would come. The chains were getting rusty. Watchstone had lead his four brothers, thinking it would be fun to go poke at Stellor. The foolishness of adolescence.

Watchstone stood outside the great door, looking at the chains. He gave them a rattle, but they were locked firmly, with some sort of binding spell.

“Zachary, do something. You’re good with magic.” He drawled, beckoning one of his brothers forward. Zachary nodded, and stroked the chains, muttering under his breath. Queen was hopping from foot to foot, mane bristled.

“Guys, this isn’t a good idea. You know what they say about him. We need to leave him alone.” He pleaded. The others rolled their eyes, and Sweeptail walked up to Queen, leering at him.

“Of course Queen chickens out. He wants to be a girl so bad, he doesn’t just dress like them, he acts like them now too!” He barked. Zachary and Watchstone laughed, and Queen scowled.

“Oh shut up Sweeptail, I don’t want to be a girl. I just like dressing up as one.” He mumbled. Sweeptail shrugged, attention already drifting away from Queen.

“What’s the difference?” He said, as if that summed it up perfectly. Queen was about to retort, when Zachary let out a cry of joy.

“I did it, the chains have fallen away! Come on brothers, time to see if this Stellor is actually real, or just a children’s tale designed to scare the clan from coming down here.” He said. Watchstone grinned, rubbing his paws together. He, Zachary and Sweeptail stood against the door, and pushed it open, with all their might. The door groaned and creaked, shuddering open slowly. Inside the room was naught but darkness. Watchstone grinned, and turned to face Queen, who had not moved a step forward since.

“Come on brother, stop being such a girl and come in with us.” He hissed. Queen shook his head, scowling.

“No, screw you. You’re mad, all three of you. I won’t have any sympathy for you if you get hurt.” He snapped. Watchstone laughed, but he was not the only one. A deep rumbling came from inside the room, before silence fell again. All four brothers looked into room, even the older three suddenly becoming less sure. The silence was broken was the sound of slithering chains, grating against the floor and each other. And it was silent again. Sweeptail snorted, and bumped his shoulder against Zachary.

“Come on you two. Stop being chickens. Let’s see this myth for real.” He said with a laugh. The other two nodded, and Queen watched hopelessly as they slowly walked in. He could hear them murmuring softly. He walked up to the door, but didn’t care to enter.

“Who do we have here… guests?” Asked a voice. It was cracked and broken, deep and menacing, and tinged with a note of madness. “I have not seen your faces before, but you all look familiar. Who’s children are you?” He asked. The three brothers strained their eyes in the darkness, but they couldn’t see a thing. Zachary clicked his fingers, and a small light hovered above his paw. And then, all four brothers saw Him. He was covered in scars, some more recent than others. The brothers noted with horror that some were still bleeding. He was held in place with numerous chains. They were cuffed around his ankles and wrists, and pulled tight as they buried deep into the rock There was a muzzle around his mouth, but it didn’t seem to inhibit his speech so terribly. His eyes were small and dark, they seemed to dark to be Shadow eyes. His wings were tattered, his mane hung limp, his whiskers were torn off at the base.

“Who’s children are you?” He asked again, eyes narrowed. Watchstone averted his gaze, and Zachary hung his head, but Sweeptail puffed out his chest.

“Aura and Aiko are our parents. What’s it to you? And what did you do that was so bad they locked you away? What did you do to deserve this treatment?” He demanded. Stellor giggled, a high pitch wheeze more than a laugh, and swung his head down to the brothers as best he could.

“Oh really now? I suppose I see it. Go on, take off my muzzle and I will tell you. It is hard for me to talk for long while wearing this.” He said, ears dropping and eyes growing sad. Sweeptail flinched, he wasn’t keen on that idea. Watchstone stepped forwards, and started to fiddle with the buckles around Stellor’s head.

“Ok, but like… don’t eat us or anything. We’re just here for answers.” He growled. Stellor giggled again, tongue snaking out to lick his nose.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He purred. Queen was getting more agitated now, and was about ready to run in there and pull his brothers out himself.

“Watch, you’re being a fuckhead. Step away from him, pleaaase? You know this is wrong, you have heard about the things he has done.” He begged. Zachary looked at Queen and shrugged.

“Not very accurate when you only hear one side of the story.” He drawled. Queen sighed, exasperated, and nervously plucked at his mane.

“It’s not that simple, you know it.” He said, but he couldn’t think of much more to say. Watchstone then stepped back, the muzzle dropping to the ground. Stellor reared his head back, and looked at the brothers with a mad smile.

“Thankyou! You have been ever so helpful.” He hissed. He opened his mouth, further open than should have been possible. The brothers did not believe what they saw. A black shadow was bulging at the back of his throat. It wriggled and squirmed, before pulling free, and creeping along Stellor’s neck down to his body. It broke into four, and settled around his feet, melting the metal cuffs. The brothers staggered back. They realised now their mistake. Stellor flexed his legs, and shook away the chains that pinned his wings. He looked at the brothers, and now they could see the mad glint in his eye that he had been repressing.

“Four little foolish imperial boys. That’s four heads to start off my collection.” He said, before screaming loudly, a hint of laughter buried in there somewhere. And with that he leapt forwards, and slammed into Sweeptail. He tore off his head as if it were a berry in a bush, blood erupting everywhere. The others screamed, and attempted to run away, but Stellor had grabbed Zachary and Watchstone before they could do a thing. Queen didn’t stick around. He ran as fast as he could, screaming for help. His cries failed to drown out the sounds of his brothers screaming as their limbs were torn apart. Queen raced up the staircase, faster than he thought he could ever run. As he ascended higher, dragons blocked his path, although not intentionally. He bowled them over, not bothering to apologise as he was still screaming for help. He burst through onto the ground level, and ran up to the council room. He barreled through the doors. He knew the council were having a meeting, it’s why his brothers had chosen to go down when they did. The council would be too distracted to check on them. The council jumped to their feet as Queen raced in, panting.

“Queen? What is the meaning of this? Aura boomed. Queen shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut to try and stop the tears.

“Stellor killed them! He killed Sweeptail and Zach and Watch, he tore them apart!” He shouted. The council took a moment to register what he was saying, but the shock was quick to show on their faces.

“What were you doing down there? How did he escape his bonds?” Astrid demanded. Queen gulped.

“They wanted to see if Stellor was real, and he was of course. Stellor convinced Watchstone to take off the muzzle and then there was this black ooze that melted his cuffs and then he screamed and then he tore off Sweeptail’s head. I ran and didn’t see him kill Zach and Watch but I heard it please just believe me just make him stop!” He blurted. Ara shot forwards, and grabbed Queen’s face, pulling his head down to look him in the eyes. She stared at him for a moment, before nodding.

“We need to evacuate everyone. The whole clan needs to get out of here, now. I don’t know if the legends of Emperors are true or not but I’m not sticking around to find out. He should still be magically tethered but who knows what power killing other imperials has granted him. Come on, we need to go. Now!” She barked. The other council members nodded gravely, and rushed through the door. Ara looked at Queen and shook her head.

“You will explain this later, given that we all manage to escape with out lives.”

#gore #violence #cursing #fr #lore #shade #blood #Stellor kinda mad #maybe not kinda #maybe more like very

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