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artficlly · 6 months ago

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smog & spirits: pony club (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, previous abuse, domestic violence, curses and hexes, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, possession, mediums, ghosts, hauntings, horror, smoking, brothels, pubs, gambling, alcohol, cults, death/violence/torture, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, police brutality, vaguely british setting??, sexism, classism, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10.1k!!! oh my god someone help

A/N: god this has been on the go for awhile. it got so long but i have a worm in my brain that told me this had to happen before i can get onto the juicy stuff. next part will be a lot more bucky heavy im so sorry this didn't have much of him, needed to build up that loreeee. anyway i actually hate my writing in this, if i have to reread this one more time im gonna go crazy so i'm just gonna post it and go to bed lol!! sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara

main masterlist | series masterlist

To be lulled into the false security that you would never see Bucky Barnes again was a foolish thought.

Two months passed rather uneventfully. The handsome payment Bucky left you after your favour to him was far beyond your normal rates. A mixture of the gangster having deep pockets and, you suspected, an indication that all that had unfolded was to be kept quiet.

So you had done just that. Your mouth had been sown shut, an invisible thread keeping your lips bound. There were so few people left in your life anyway that you didn’t feel like spilling details of a sex-based ritual with the limited relatives you had left. You weren’t particularly fond of them regardless; most you had not seen in years.

You embraced the winter months as they settled across the city of Blackstone. The fog would roll in thick and dense, the clouds lingering over the port as Sootstone was cast into days of hoarfrosts. Icicles as long as your forearm hung from buildings and lamp-posts and was salt scattered across the wooden docks, where slippage was the worst. The homeless gathered in crowds around the Smokestack district, leeching off the warmth the factories produced. The ice and frosts were never white, unlike the country estates or wealthy garden districts. Smoke and ash continued to pour into the skies, tainting everything with a layer of black grit.

You would see the Smog Boys in the streets often. Teams of the lower-ranking, younger lads would roam in packs, dipping in and out of the alleys. Even dressed in black, you could not make them out through the fog when they intended to disappear. Maybe it had been your brush with Bucky, but you began to notice them everywhere. Lurking in the markets, smoking by the docks, or sauntering by the smokestack factories. A small, stiff, knowing nod would be bestowed upon you if your gaze locked with theirs or if you lingered too long. As if they knew who you were. As if they had been instructed to keep an eye out for you.

You could never leave the Smog Boys once you were inside. Whether you liked it or not, your fates were inextricably linked. You never knew when you might be needed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find one in your home. It is what you ought to have expected by now. It was only a matter of time before they came calling.

You could only find one word to describe the woman in your kitchen. Beautiful. Beautiful in a hauntingly, terrifying way. She was stylish, with a blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted suit pants. A lavish fur coat was draped over her shoulders, and her red hair was in a fashionable, blunt bob. Her lips, painted a deep red, were curved into a disgusted sneer as she assessed your residence.

She had to be with Bucky because only a Smog Boy could illicit such an aura.

“You should invest in better locks.” The redhead comments with a sniff. You haven’t even had a chance to process her presence; instead, you are standing with your lips parted in shock. “It wouldn’t be hard to rob you… or worse.”

You’re unsure if that was a thinly veiled threat or genuine advice.

“Most don’t make habit of breakin’ into witches' homes.” You mutter, regaining your composure. You whip your headscarf off, abandoning it on your dining table. “They’re scared of being cursed.”

Your fingers unknot the woollen scarf around your neck now, tugging it free with a flutter of ash. The woman arches a well-manicured brow at you, looking you up and down. She doesn’t try to hide her judgement. She didn’t seem the type of woman to shy away from stating her opinion. Your clothing was noticeably different from hers, which was made of luxurious fabrics. The Smog Boys were well known for their finer suits—just because they lived and worked in the slums didn’t mean they dressed for it. Bucky seemed to like to keep certain appearances and had the funds to do so. You, however, were dressed for practicality. Heavy, cheap textiles that kept in the warmth.

“Cursed.” The woman states, tone sharp. “You don’t seem the type to throw curses. You’re too… sweet.”

You don’t miss the condescending nature of how her sharp lips curve into a smile. You shoulder the insult. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Natasha. Romanoff.” The name was vaguely familiar to you. She was definitely one of Bucky’s inner circle. Possibly she worked closer to the shadows—a brain rather than brawn like Steve and Sam. “Barne is in need of your particular set of skills again.”

You pause, your fingers frozen over the pin in your mantle. Again? You knew to expect this, but still, you felt your heart uptick a beat. So soon? The question of which skills hung heavy in the air. Your abnormal skill to summon and banish spirits? To break curses and sense the otherworldly? Or to get your brains fucked out by Sootstone’s most notorious gangster?

From the way Natasha was eyeing you, it seemed she knew all about your little sex ritual.

“What if I’m unavailable?” You test hesitantly.

The redhead isn’t amused. “It wasn’t a request.”

You nod slowly, hands falling to your sides. One should know when not to test Bucky Barnes or his men; it always ended rather unfavourably. Plus, you didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find your kitchen filled with any more gangsters.

Maybe Natasha was right about the locks.

—

Bucky and a pack of his dogs congregated in the streets outside the pub known as The Anchor. The establishment sat across from the docks, with tinted, lattice windows facing the port. On a clear day, one who sat in the window booths might be able to see the ocean. Though, throughout your life, you could recall about as many clear days as the fingers on your right hand. The Anchor had been in the Barnes family for years, originally bought by Bucky’s father when the Smog Boys first rose to infamy.

The building was well cared for, a luxury not many of the surrounding establishments were familiar with. The building was decorated in a nautical style, with netting and flags adorning the walls and rafters. Fish and ships were painted onto the siding, with gold and blue accenting the furniture inside. Even the sign out front was a small, steel anchor engraved with the pub's name.

The Anchor was mainly stocked with whiskey, which the Smog Boys ran an underground distillery for. They offered other spirits, wines, and ales, but the main vice of The Warrens was whiskey. Bucky had several underground or even legal businesses dotted throughout Sootstone, including gambling dens and brothels. You knew he made his office in a gambling den not too far from The Anchor—the dock-side streets were prime spots for high traffic from the sailors and dockworkers coming and going like the tide.

As you and Natasha approached, the pack of adolescent gangsters surrounding Bucky scattered, disappearing into the thick fog and alleyways like wraiths.

“Your witch, as requested,” Natasha announces with a sigh, her brows arched. Bucky glances at you, acknowledging you with little more than a grunt. He takes the last drag from his cigarette before crunching it beneath his shoe.

“Thank you, Nat.” Bucky replies, smoke escaping his lips as he speaks. “Sam’s lookin’ for you inside.”

Natasha doesn’t offer you a farewell as she pulls her coat tighter around her lean body and ducks inside the pub with a tsk. You and Bucky are left in an odd silence, with only the faint call of seagulls and the lapping of waves joining you. You had never seen the dockside street so quiet, but you could confidently assume his presence was responsible.

“I trust Nat didn’t scare you too bad.” The gangster breaks the silence. His dark eyes wander across your frame, seemingly disappointed that you were thoroughly covered to prevent the cold from seeping in. “Would’ve come to get you myself, but I had some business to attend to.”

In retrospect, the thought of encountering Natasha in your kitchen again seemed more daunting than Bucky. You weren’t too sure how to interpret her malice and cool charm. She did give off the impression that she would kill you if you even breathed in her direction. As for Bucky, maybe he would kill you, but given his reputation, he was far more likely to fuck you up against the nearest available surface.

“She said you've a job for me?” You ask, watching as the gangster tucks his large, bruised hands into his pockets.

He cocks his head to the side. “Walk with me.”

You obey wordlessly.

Bucky navigates the streets with ease, ducking through alleys and blindly striding into the fog with unquestionable confidence. The few people you encounter in the winding streets dart out of the way, mumbling apologies and casting their gazes down as they stumble over their own feet. Your breath comes in clouds as you exhale, salt and ice crunching beneath your feet as you keep pace with him.

“There’s an establishment I own, it’s been losin’ business these past months. The girls reckon it’s cursed. Or haunted.” He elaborates, and you frown.

“You think a spirit’s attached?” You ask, and the gangster huffs out a short, bitter laugh.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t have a sense for that stuff.” His lips are set in a line as he casts his sight down at you. “That’s your job, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t help but gulp and hope that his issue was indeed a spirit. One did not want to disappoint the gangster out of fear of the consequences. Your mind drifted back to months ago, to when he sat in your kitchen with that cursed necklace. He hadn’t noticed that curse—not until his sister apparently spelt it out for him. You couldn’t imagine carrying that thing around when it had reeked so badly that you tasted rot.

“What about your sister?” You suddenly interrupt.

Bucky gives you an incredulous look. “Becca? What about her?”

“You said she has a sense—”

“You think I’m lettin’ my sister near a brothel?” He snaps over you. His body turns to face you as you are both left motionless in the empty, ashy street.

“Oh— I didn’t realise it was… You just said— I just assumed—” Your cheeks grow pink—this time not from the cold—as you stumble over your words. Flakes of ash slowly amble down from the sky, twirling in your mingled breath as the gangster looms over you. Several emotions flicker over his face—insult, disbelief—before finally settling on an eerie amusement.

“Shy ‘bout a brothel? You’re not far off bein’ a whore yourself, doll. You certainly let me fuck you like one.” He leans closer to you, the scent of tobacco fanning across your skin. You clamp your jaw shut, your cheeks growing hotter by the second. The gangster smirks at you with a wickedness that rivals the devil.

—

The Pony Club was not creatively named, like most things in Sootstone. You were sure there was an innuendo about riding or mounting buried in its origin. The brothel was buried deep in the busy streets of the Smokestack District. The crowd of workers parted with hushed whispers as you, Bucky, and Steve approached the establishment. You had bumped into the other gangster during your walk, and he had thankfully filled the tense silence hanging between you and Bucky.

The Pony Club was neatly tucked between two stores. Ice covered the tiled roof, and grey-stained icicles dripped melted water from the front balcony. The ash falling from the sky was thick in these parts. Street sweepers patrolled the roads like small armies, brooms in tow, ensuring the roads were clear for carriages, waggons, and those on foot.

The three of you paused before the building. Your eyes swept over the painted sign, an illustration of a pony alongside the cursive lettering. The building looks well up-kept like many of the Smog Boy establishments; it put its neighbours to shame. You couldn’t help but notice how, despite its busy location, the building was eerily empty. It was as if its walls stood outside of time, cursed to live an existence outside of perceivable reality.

There was a twinge in your gut, a knowing.

Steve grimaces beside you, the gangster scowling as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. At first, you think he is simply cold from the frigid fog sitting over the city, but only as he speaks do you realise he senses something more. “I hate this place.” He utters.

Bucky hasn’t reacted. He truly didn’t seem to have a sense for anything otherworldly.

“How does it make you feel?” You pry. Steve blinks at you in surprise, as if he hadn’t realised he spoke aloud. It would be useful for you to know how a non-magical person might feel; it could also give you insight as to what haunted the halls of the brothel.

“Doesn’t encourage me to put my cock in some bird, that’s for sure. Bad for business, ‘cause that’s the whole point.” Steve grumbles, and you swear Bucky rolls his eyes. “How does it make you feel?”

The two men look at you with curiosity as you consider your words. Terrible? Awful? Yes, you felt unnerved, but you were accustomed to spirits and hauntings. Most places in this city had ghosts, whether they were malevolent or just lost. You had become unnervingly comfortable with the creeping sensation that you were not alone. It was an entirely different feeling to curses—no, curses, they twisted your gut in wicked ways—hauntings you were at ease with. There was an odd familiarity to them, it sparked a warmth in your soul.

“Best I not say.” You land on. It would be better not to mess with the egos of gangsters, especially if they were afraid of a little ghost.

The two men follow you as you step into the building. The inside is lavish, with a large, grand set of stairs that lead up to the mezzanine. Draperies hung from the balcony railings, and plush furniture, and decorations were artfully placed around the foyer. Despite its luxuriant appearance, there was an isolation that clung to the bones of the building. It was as if dust hung in the air, floating undisturbed. Not a breeze could get through the thick walls, nor could a breath of life. A place that was supposed to be rowdy, a den of sin and pleasure… silenced. As if it were a mausoleum.

The building and those inside were lost in time, caught between a past that did not exist and a future that had not yet come.

The peace is interrupted by a thundering noise, then shrieking. “Mr. Barnes! Oh, Mr. Barnes! So nice of you to come visit us!”

A few curious observers watch from over the bannisters. Beautiful women with tired eyes, hair swept up and curled into coiffures, and revealing dresses that clung to their curves. You suddenly felt rather overdressed in your winter clothes.

An older woman descended the stairs in a frenzy, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, a bright pink blush across her cheeks, and lipstick to match. Her blonde curls bounced around her smooth face, a few longer strands following the dip of her dress. The madame of the brothel.

Your lips purse together, and Bucky lets out a quiet sigh. “Madame Voss.”

“I trust you are here about the ghost?” The madame asks. She is rather excitable, like a puppy or a young child. Even Steve has grown uncharacteristically quiet, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and dread. “I told my girls you would be back to help! I said you were a busy man, but not to worry. We’ve lost a few since you were last here, Rose, Amorie, and Vivinne… but that is nothin’ to worry about. They were traitorous at heart—”

“Yes, I quite understand.” Bucky snaps over Madame Voss. Steve tries to hide a snort, and the madame is left momentarily speechless. “I’ve brought a witch.”

You feel the madame’s gaze rip from Bucky to you. She looks you up and down in one exaggerated sweep, then offers you a somewhat forced smile. She looks as if she is gritting her teeth as she drinks you in. You were left wondering if the madame had some type of unrequited infatuation with Bucky. Many of the women of Sootstone seemed to share such an attitude, especially if they did not have the wit to sense the danger attached to the handsome gangster.

“She’s a bit too pretty for this business, don’t you think? I suppose all those witch women are a bit pretty. It’s usually glamours though, isn’t it?” There is an underlying spite to her tone as she assesses you, arms coming to fold over her chest. Her bosom is exaggerated, and her waistline is pulled pencil-thin by her corset. You are surprised the woman can breathe. “Well, are you wearin’ a glamour, girl?”

You hadn’t realised the madame was questioning you; actually, you found yourself rather overwhelmed by the whole display. Your lips part as you struggle to find your tongue and eventually stagger out a confused reply. “What?”

Madame Voss murmurs in annoyance, her arms uncrossed and hands coming to move in spirited gestures as she speaks. Bucky is staring at the ceiling as if bored out of his mind. “A glamour? You can’t tell me you normally look like that, all wide-fuckme-eyed?”

Steve makes a choking noise somewhere beside you while you gape at the madame. “No?”

“Huh.”

“I work with spirits, not—” You cut yourself off, clearing your throat, and decide it was not worth the argument. “I’ll need some time to walk around ‘n get a feel for things. Maybe talk to some of the girls, if that is alright?”

“Fine by me.” Madame Voss waves you off, attention hastily pulled away as she turns to Bucky. “In the meantime, Mr Barnes, can I get you anythin’? Tea, biscuits… something else? You know my girls will always give you a discount—”

“Somethin’ to drink, perhaps. Somethin’ strong.” Bucky cuts off the Madame and claps Steve on the back. “What do you say, Steve?”

You got the impression that neither Bucky nor Steve liked this Voss woman.

—

It did not take you long to explore the brothel in its entirety.

The establishment was compact and efficient. Downstairs was made up of the main foyer room, which was extended into a room similar to a drawing room. Tables made up the majority of the space, with playing cards and strong Smog Boys branded liquor decorated around the room. Comfortable furniture and suggestive art lined the walls. Out of view was a kitchen, a washroom, and madame’s office space, which Bucky would occasionally take residence in if dealing with business for the Pony Club.

Upstairs was dedicated to private spaces, where the girls lived and worked. They were hesitant to speak with you, guarded and quiet. You did not get the sense that they were being abused or held against their will, but rather haunted by whatever spirit clung to the brothel.

As the Pony Club slowly spiralled due to the haunting, many girls left. Business had grown to a standstill. The girls were plagued with nightmares and anxieties. The few that spoke to you recalled dreams of a dark figure who prowled through the halls, standing at the edges of their vision. At night, they would see the figure in the corners of their room, sitting on the edge of their bed. One girl even claimed the spirit sat upon her chest, that the mass had no face but two sets of shining white teeth that grinned down at her as she struggled to breathe.

When the girls were not targeted by this mysterious figure, they were afflicted with memories of their past. Dark images would replay before them every time they closed their eyes until they awoke sweating and screaming.

You bid farewell to an exhausted working girl by the name of Hanna. She sat on the bed, a woven blanket pulled over her shoulders. There was a distant look in her eyes as you quietly pulled the door shut, forcing yourself to inhale a deep breath as you stood on the empty mezzanine. There was an oppressive energy to the building, one that weighed down your chest as if someone were purposely crushing your ribcage. You knew your feelings were exaggerated due to your knowing, but there was certainly something potent enough here that even those with little to no sense could feel it.

You slowly rotated around the mezzanine in thought, unsure where to begin. Most spirits had an anchor—an item, person, or space—that they bound themselves to. They used it to draw energy, recuperate, and recharge. In rare cases, a spirit might bind to an entire house, causing lesions and pus to drip from the walls. But in your experience, those houses had sat abandoned for years, decades, or even more. The house itself would become sentient, dripping with malice and blinded by rage for those who created it, only to leave it abandoned. That was a festering type of haunting, one of anguish and loneliness, but this… this brothel was active. There had once been clients, and multiple women still lived within its walls. So, where was the anchor? Nothing had screamed out to you; nothing had made bile churn in your stomach or your hair stand up on end—

You froze.

You were a few paces away from the staircase, your mind swimming in thought, and—

A dark mass stood on the top step.

It watched you.

You couldn't make out the eyes or the shape of any humanoid body part. It just stood there, a black cloud over the staircase. But still, you could feel it watching.

And then it smiled.

It smiled wide, yet it did not seem to have a jaw. There was no skull, nothing solid within its mass. Several pearly white teeth smiled at you, spiralling into a gaping hole. The pungent smell of decaying meat filled the air as the mist contorted and pulsated in a sickening rhythm while observing you.

Before you could even consider speaking or moving, the mass had swept down the staircase, disappearing from your view. You raced to the bannisters, leaning over as far as you could without launching yourself over the edge. Loose strands of hair danced around your face as you darted your head. You could still not make out the spirit.

By the time you gathered your skirts and descended the staircase, you found the foyer empty. You could hear the distant trill of Madame Voss's voice deeper within the building, near the kitchen.

There was still that lingering oppression, an uneasiness that squeezed your chest. Regardless of how many times you whirled around, blindly scanning the foyer, you were unable to find a trail where the sensation intensified.

Clenching your teeth together, you let out a sharp sigh and balled your hands into fists. You paused in one of the corners of the foyer, allowing the blood pumping in your ears to calm and your muscles to relax. You blocked out the distant voices, instead focusing on the hum of the environment. You were frustrated, yes, and maybe a little scared. Not of the spirit, but rather how Bucky might react if you told him that you couldn’t banish this ghost. Not because you were too weak or unaware of how to handle it—you were very much prepared in both areas—but because you couldn’t find it?

You were skilled at finding hidden anchors, but it was difficult to focus when you felt immense pressure on your shoulders alone. You closed your eyes and listened intently. You could feel each speck of dust swirling through the air and hear every small sound the walls and floors made as the wood settled. You could hear each fibre of the rug rustle as you gently tip-toed across the room, following an invisible line.

The string was knotted in a complex pattern, similar to a spiderweb. You could feel it brushing over your skin as you moved, growing taut as it tangled around your body. You pushed through the sensation as if wading into a pool of water, stepping deeper and deeper into its strands as they layered over your skin and clothes.

Then, a tug.

A slight tremor, a warbling as a single line was set alight in your mind. The spider—your ghost—was circling you like prey.

You grasped the string, following its current blindly through the foyer. You stumbled around furniture, tripping over the edge of a rug and—

The floorboard creaked beneath you.

It wasn’t a typical creak—not one of an old building or a settling house. No. The creak resonated through your mind, deafening you. Your hands rose to your ears, the shrieking growing louder and louder as you fell to your knees, wincing. The fibres of the rug bit into your skin, sending a rush of electricity coursing through your veins. Under the rug, the floorboard made a hollow thud, loud enough that your ears were ringing from the volume.

You gasped in a breath, violently ripping yourself from your secondary state until you crashed back to reality. Panting, you found yourself crouched over the rug, fingernails dug into the fabric as you wheezed and panted. A cold sweat covered your body, your head aching as you tried to roll the discomfort from your shoulders.

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with your witch, Mr Barnes.” Madame Voss spoke in a sing-song fashion as she entered the foyer, a condescending look in her eyes as she stared down at you. You wiped the sweat from your brow, forcing your wobbling legs to rise.

“It’s underneath,” was all you were able to reply, your voice raspy as you stalked to the corner of the rug.

"Ominous," the madame retorted, her brows arched. Her gaze cast back to the two gangsters who watched from the entrance to the room. There was a curiosity in their stare, hands tucked in their pockets as you worked. You gripped the corner of the rug, peeling it away from the floor. Underneath, everything looked perfectly in order, with well-polished hardwood panels lined up in unison. Carefully, you walked the length, tapping your shoe on each floorboard.

“Well, you do know what they say… with magic comes madness!” Voss announced with a sly grin, her hands moving to flourish her words. Bucky cocked his head to the side, emitting a sharp exhale through his flared nostrils.

"Let her work," he spoke up, and the tension in the room mounted. The madame's disapproving scowl only added to the oppressive atmosphere. The room fell into an almost palpable silence, broken only by the sound of your tapping as you methodically sought out the hollow board once more. You could sense the growing impatience of the group as you painstakingly worked, with each floorboard sounding as solid as the next.

Just as Bucky appeared poised to call off your efforts, the floorboard beneath you emitted a hollow thud that reverberated through the space below. You tapped again, feeling the same hollow thudding from the adjacent boards. Looking up at Bucky, you gestured toward the floor, affirming, “It’s underneath.”

Madame Voss gaped in astonishment at you and then turned her incredulous gaze towards the two gangsters. “Underneath? Underneath! This must be some kind of magical trick—in all my years working in this establishment, I have never heard of a basement or cellar!”

As Bucky waved at the woman, he made a disdainful noise in dismissal. The madame fluffed up, muttering under her breath in flustered embarrassment, and then stalked away a few paces. Bucky and Steve soon joined you, watching intently as you blindly felt around the edges of the wooden panels. As you investigated, your fingertips discovered finely carved grooves hidden within the wood—imperceptible to the casual observer but discernible to those who sought them out. The edges of the indents provided a perfect grip for you to dig your nails into the wood, allowing you to pry the board from the floor with little effort.

The three of you peered into the space below through the thin gap. It was pitch black, but you could make out some rickety stairs descending into the inky dark. A thick layer of dust sat upon the steps, a musty smell hitting your nose.

You sat back on your haunches, peering closely at the board you had just managed to pry up. The wood was marred with deep gouges as if some kind of wild animal had relentlessly scratched and clawed at the panel. As you tentatively ran your finger across the rough and battered surface, a sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach, sending a sickly shudder up your spine.

“Did you know this was here?” Steve mutters to Bucky from somewhere above you.

You continued peeling up each of the loose boards, using the indents to grip the wood with your nails. The disgusting, nauseating feeling intensified as it became apparent that every panel had identical deep gouges carved into the wood.

“No,” Bucky replies, his voice hushed.

When the hole is completely visible, you sink onto your knees. Now that light was flowing in, you could see more clearly. The dusty, ancient stairs descend to a stone floor. The stone appeared dry but extremely dusty. What appeared to be large, old wooden barrels and the beginnings of shelving against the walls were visible in the beam of light. You peer up at Bucky and Steve, who tower over you, and resist the urge to squirm as Bucky meets your gaze.

“This is the anchor.” You explain, and Steve’s face twists, perplexed.

“The pub—?”

“No. Spirits they… they bind themselves to something. An object, a person, a room. This is where the haunting originates.” You clarify and gradually rise to your feet, taking care not to collide with either of the men.

You take a hesitant step down, the stair beneath groaning under your weight. You swallow hard, then spin in place to look back up at the gangsters who watch you expectantly. “I might need a candle.”

Without glancing back, Bucky clicks his finger at Madame Voss, who is attempting to peer into the mysterious room from her perch. “Voss. Candle.”

The madam, clearly exasperated, lets out a loud huff before turning on her heel and disappearing into one of the adjacent rooms. There is still a distinct taste of tension in the air.

“Looks like your old man's been a naughty boy.” Steve teases, a boyish smile emerging. Bucky remains silent, choosing not to dignify the gangster's comment with a reply. Their dynamic left you contemplating the depth of their relationship, especially since you had heard that Barnes was not particularly kind to those who mentioned his father. While Bucky's gaze remained blank and unmoving, you couldn't help but notice a subtle twitch in his jaw, betraying a suppressed reaction.

The Smog Boys were infamous for their cruelty towards their enemies, anyone who crossed them, and those who betrayed their trust. Bucky, in particular, was known for his ruthless approach to dealing with anyone who stood in his way. He carried out his actions silently and brutally, and by the next morning, everyone in The Warrens knew that Barnes had spilt blood. Despite the fear he instilled in others, Bucky remained calm and collected. He was a strategic thinker and planner, and he took pleasure in the sadistic ways his plans unfolded. Despite his fearsome reputation, he was still not as notorious as his father.

His father exhibited a striking lack of cunning, care, or thoughtfulness in his approach. The Warrens endured a dreadful existence as George Barnes succumbed to alcohol-induced rampages. He embodied sheer strength, a fierce warrior whose white-hot rage could melt the most hardened of hoarfrosts. He instilled fear without cause, displaying psychopathic tendencies and craving notoriety through any means necessary. He bolstered the Smog Boys fostering terror through street attacks, gang wars, or burning entire buildings down as a message. Upon Bucky's ascension, the business adopted a quieter and more devious approach. Bucky was all about making money in a quick, quiet, and dirty way. His enemies didn't fear him because they knew what he was capable of, but rather because they never knew, and Bucky knew how to up the ante each time.

Around seven years ago, George had been arrested. He had been too loud and confident in his approach, and the coppers had snagged him. Bucky ran the business for his father, and the Smog Boys boomed with success. His father was set to go on trial, and it wasn’t an unknown fact that the judge had paid off. George Barnes was set to walk free and take over the business again.

Two days before the trial, he was discovered dead in his cell, his body bearing the marks of a brutal, mysterious beating. There was no trace of evidence to scrutinise, and the guards remained silent, neither admitting guilt nor pointing fingers. The law turned a blind eye to the demise of a notorious criminal under their watch, and the incident was quickly swept under the rug, forgotten within hours. Bucky vehemently denied any involvement. He put on a public display of mourning, cursing the authorities and vowing vengeance, though his threats never materialized. It's also worth noting that Bucky shared a particularly close bond with his mother, Winnifred, who herself was not spared from the brutality of her husband. It was common knowledge that, behind closed doors, Winnifred, Bucky, and his younger sister Becca endured all manner of cruelty at the fists of George Barnes.

Years had passed since those fateful events, and Bucky's ascension to power remained unquestioned. No one dared challenge his authority, fearing both the brutal consequences and because The Warrens had silently celebrated in the wake of Senior Barnes' untimely demise.

The sound of Madame Voss' heels clicking against the hardwood floor signalled her return. You took the candle gratefully, eager to escape the awkward tension, and descended into the gloom.

The old wood stairs protest with every step, emitting squeaks and groans under your weight. Your sweeping skirts brush a fine layer of dust into the air, shimmering in the weak candlelight that struggles to pierce the shadows of the small, dimly lit room. You could only describe the space as a cellar, with its stone walls and floors exuding an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere. Thick metal bolts secure wooden shelves laden with countless large glass bottles, while large barrels, shrouded in heavy blankets of dust, crowd the square room. In the dim corners, dense cobwebs collect. A place long forgotten.

Bucky and Steve carefully made their way down the creaky stairs as you delicately balanced the flickering candle on the edge of one of the dusty barrels. As you wipe away the accumulated grime, you uncover a label imprinted on the lid: Property of SMOG BOYS—George Barnes. You squinted at the words in the low light, moving to the next as you tried to understand what was in these barrels.

Behind you, Steve had grabbed hold of one of the large glass bottles and uncorked it with a sharp pop! He raised it to his nose, took a sniff, and then emitted a loud holler. "Shit, Buck. This is moonshine."

Bucky let out a grumbling noise of recognition, inspecting one of the barrels. “It must’ve been a storage space from the distillery. These barrels look like whiskey.”

The two gangsters gathered near the barrels, muttering between themselves.

“You sure he never mentioned this to you?”

“I’m sure. Don’t know why he was so determined to hide a bit of liquor. We have plenty of warehouses for this—”

You rounded the barrels, venturing deeper into the room. A row of shelves faced the centre of the room, with a narrow space between them that you could slip through. The candlelight barely reached the other side, obscured by the layers of barrels and bottles. You blindly stumbled into the empty space, feeling a familiar, thrumming sensation.

Invisible strings tangled at your ankles as you pushed deeper into the darkness, the warm flicker of candlelight barely illuminating what lay within. There, in the centre of the room, stood a solitary chair—a simple wooden chair. The thrumming grew louder, your heart pulsating as you gaped down at it. Thick sailor ropes coiled tightly around each arm and leg, faded remnants of blood splattered across the cold stone floor beneath. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in around you, the air heavy with a sense of foreboding—

You jumped out of your skin as a hand rested on your shoulder. Bucky had followed you through the shelves. His eyes mirrored the unease that churned in your stomach, his face etched with a deep, troubled frown. You felt urged to speak up and console the man but you knew better than to fall into that trap. His presence was disturbingly comforting as if the dangerous gangster were not the apex predator in the room. All you could do was gape, tearing your vision away from the chair as you stumbled back a few paces.

As quickly as you had found solace in the man, it was torn away. He stalked toward you, finger pointed as he jabbed it into your sternum. His eyes had glazed over, a thunderous rage taking shape. You sensed it was a defence mechanism, a way to intimidate you because you had seen something you weren’t supposed to—something that shocked even him.

“Not a word. You understand?” he hissed, his large, sculpted frame towering over you. You shrank back, your spine meeting the shelving, causing the moonshine bottles to clink together.

You knew what this place was. A hidden place. A forgotten place. A place where torture and death had been carried out. An echo from the past. A whisper on the wind that spoke the name George Barnes.

This was the kind of business Bucky kept meticulously hidden—a necessary evil shrouded in secrecy. Bodies were found only if he wanted to send a message. You were certain there were countless other hidden, unmarked graves. Bucky was too clever to be undone by a rogue body or misplaced trust. Every action he took was calculated to ensure it could never be traced back to the Smog Boys. Of course, everyone knew it was them, but legally proving their involvement was another matter. Despite the gang's reputation for being untouchable, the coppers constantly searched for any loophole to bring them down. Bucky's entire operation could unravel if the wrong person discovered incriminating evidence.

For all your understanding, The Pony Club was one of the few legitimate businesses under the Barnes name. If an enemy of the Smog Boys discovered a way to link this grim scene to the underground crime network Bucky managed? It could spell disaster.

“Do you understand?” Bucky repeated, his voice dripping with venom. This was a side of him you had heard rumours of but had never witnessed yourself. This was the leader of the Smog Boys. This was the Bucky that made Sootstone cower.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you huddled against the shelves.

The gangster ran a hand through his hair in frustration. You could sense the conflict in his eyes as they darted between you and the chair. After rubbing his chin and jaw, he finally settled on resting a hand on your shoulder again, an oddly tender touch. His head dipped, and he muttered in your ear, “I need this ghost gone. Now, doll. I think it's best no one else sees my father’s handiwork.”

“I can—I can do that,” you stammered. The gangster gave you a slow nod, exhaled sharply, and then turned on his heels.

In the sudden emptiness, the thrumming in your ears became deafening, a relentless pulse that drowned out all other sounds. Your ears rang with a piercing intensity, and your breath quickened, coming in short, ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in around you, now suffocatingly tight. The walls pressed inward, and the air grew thick and heavy as if it were pushing against your chest. You felt an overwhelming sense of dread creeping into your bones, a cold, insidious fear that wrapped itself around your heart. Somewhere in the background of it all, Steve yelped.

At first, you could not hear his distress, not over the noise in your head. It was only as Bucky paused by the narrow opening between the shelves, his eyes snapping to yours, that you heard Steve again—frantic shouts piercing through the deafening roar of a fire, overwhelming even the clamour in your head.

You move quicker than Bucky, darting through the shelves back into the candlelight.

Except it wasn’t the candlelight that lit the room in a blinding glow, but instead a figure engulfed in flame. You could make out bludged eyes and an agape mouth through the tendrils, which licked up the figure in a violent blaze. Steve was pinned with his back against one of the barrels as the figure, screaming and writhing, hurtled towards him.

You hurry forward, positioning yourself between Steve and the burning figure. Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you closer as he shouted, "What the fuck?!"

The fiery figure hesitates, its swollen, bloodshot eyes flitting between Steve and you in confusion. Bucky had pulled what appeared to be a knife from his pocket and was circling the scene. Your brows furrow as you give him a puzzled look and free yourself from Steve's grip.

“Put it away!” You bark over the roar. Bucky cocks his head to one side, both of you mutually surprised that you had found your voice. As you approach the figure, it retreats, the flames quickly extinguishing. Your ears ring as silence falls. The spirit has transformed into a black mass again, its shape twisting and jittering as it swings its gaze between the three of you.

“It can read your memories. It feeds off fear and pain.” You explain to the two gangsters, hesitantly stepping forward once more. The spirit centres its eyes solely on you. “It shows you your darkest memories, the ones you've buried. It’s tryna scare you.”

You do not dwell on whatever memory Steve was plagued by.

The spirit shifted once more, the dark mass disappearing into the shadows. You shallow your breath, quickly scanning the room before turning to Barnes. “The chair is the anchor. The spirit needs to be unbound.”

“And how do you do that?” He asks in reply, nostrils flaring. You step into the centre of the room, peering through the shelves into the dark space. Dread curled in your stomach as your eyes roamed the chair.

“I could destroy it or cleanse it—”

“Where's your mother, girl?” A familiar, slurred voice reverberated through the dimly lit room, sending shivers down your spine. Your entire body tensed, and your heart seemed to clench in your chest as a surge of fear momentarily halted you in your tracks. The acrid scent of alcohol mixed with the pungent odour of sweat hung heavy in the air. The heavy, unsteady footsteps of a large man reverberated over the stone floors.

“She’s sick.” A child's voice replied. Your voice.

In front of you appeared a vivid scene. Your father, in a state of intoxication, stood before you. His body was angled in such a way that only the profile of his face was visible. His clothing was tattered, and the floors bore marks of mud and filth from his worn boots. His hair was dishevelled and sprinkled with ash, and his flushed face glistened with sweat. Facing him was a much younger version of yourself. You estimated her to be around eight years old, judging by the length of her hair and the ragged dress clinging to her emaciated frame. The child cowered against a door, her limbs trembling in fear.

“Sick? That damn woman is always sick. Get out of the way, girl, I need to speak with my wife.” Your father slurs, lurching forward. The child held steady, her back pressed defiantly against the door.

“You can’t, she’s sleeping—”

A resounding crack echoed through the room as your father’s palm connected forcefully with her cheek. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she fell. Tears shimmered in her wide, frightened eyes, reflecting the harsh light as they welled up and spilt over her cheeks. The room seems to hold its breath in the aftermath, the sharp sound of the slap lingering.

“What’s this? Who’s that?” Steve spoke up from beside you. You had almost entirely forgotten that the two men were still in the cellar with you. Bucky watches on with morbid curiosity, but you do notice how the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“A memory.” You mutter back. You urge your feet to move, but you feel as though you are wading through waist-deep water.

“Some gall you have to be telling me what I can and can’t do in my own home, girl!” Your father charges through the door, his eyes wild and unseeing as he drunkenly stumbles over your younger self's frail body. Ignoring your cries, he leaves her sprawled on the floor, the door slamming shut with a jarring finality before she can react. Muffled shouting and screaming rise from beyond, chaos that drowns out her sobs. The child curls into a ball on the cold floor, trembling and sobbing as the shrieking grows louder. The walls thud and shake with the force of his rage, each violent sound echoing through the small room, amplifying the terror that grips her small frame.

“You’re not welcome here, spirit,” your voice cuts through the unfolding nightmare with unwavering authority. You can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, but you tilt your head defiantly. Momentarily sucked into the horror of it all, but now you stand unshaken. The scene pauses, and the child freezes in place as the shouting and banging abruptly stop. The spirit seems to contemplate your words, its image flickering before dissolving into a dark fog that settles in a dense layer across the stone floors.

“I think destroying it would be easiest.” You mumble to the gangsters. Bucky’s lips were set in a fine line, his jaw still clenched, while Steve eyed you warily. “Burning it would be the best way.”

As if in response to your comment, the room burst to life once more. The two men stand on either side of you as if their curiosity is too much to dismiss as they realise it is another of your memories.

This time, the version of you was older. A teenager. She perched on the edge of the docks, her legs dangling into the waters below. Next to her sits a boy roughly the same age. The two of them laugh and indulge in a shared bag of colourful, sugary treats.

“My dad keeps askin’ after you.” The boy says. Michael. Your gut twists. You knew what was to come.

“I’m not joinin’ your dad’s weird cult.” She giggles, popping a boiled sweet into her mouth with a lopsided grin. Her hair was loose, uncaring as the breeze tangled it and ash fell from the skies.

“He keeps goin’ on about how you’re some saviour—”

“Ew.” She replies, nose scrunching. The teen leans back on her palms with a sigh, looking across the docks. “You know me and my mum aren’t interested in that stuff. I’m not desperate like those other witches he tricks into joining. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve held on this long, you’re what? Seventeen? Why don’t you just get a job in one of the factories and get the hell out of there?”

Michael appears displeased by her response. You had never previously noticed, despite replaying the memory in your mind numerous times. In the past, you believed you were being helpful, perhaps even clever. You could see the wrinkle of discomfort in the boy’s face now. You knew all too well that breaking free from his father's control was never as easy as moving out. You had been naive to believe that. Michael had not called you a fool, which was probably a small act of kindness on his part.

“How’s your mum?” He asks, gaze cast to the side to look at the teen’s profile. She shrugs, sucking on the sweet in thought.

“Still sick. We saw that healer in the Smokestacks, said he might be able to do somethin’ about it.”

“You know my family could help—”

The teen gives him an irritated look. “You know my mum doesn’t want your help. She doesn’t even want me hangin’ out with you.”

The tranquillity of the scene had captivated you to the point where you lost awareness of your surroundings. It was only the looming sense of dread for what was about to unfold, the feeling of Bucky's sleeve brushing against your arm, and the audible, sharp intake of breath from Steve that jolted you back to reality.

“Oi! Lookie here! It’s—” The shout of a copper was warbled as you strode forward, the memory rippling like a pool of water.

You had to prevent what was about to happen. You couldn't let Bucky see how everything truly unfolded. You knew you should have stopped it before it went this far. You shouldn't have allowed yourself to get pulled into this memory. Yet, there was a bittersweet comfort in seeing him again, remembering him as he was before everything went so wrong.

“Probably shouldn’t burn it down here. Those barrels catch and this place will explode.” You mutter under your breath, trying to ignore the sickness churning in your stomach as you approach the chair. As you draw closer, your eyes catch the gruesome details etched into the wood. Dark, crusted blood is splattered across the seat, each fleck and smear a silent testament. Streaks of crimson have seeped into the grain, staining the wood in a macabre pattern. The iron tang of old blood hangs in the air, mixing with the musty dampness of the room. Your hair stands on end and your nerves tingle as a shiver runs down your spine. The closer you stand, the more uneasy energy pulses through you. Summoning your courage, you grip one of the chair's arms and yank with all your strength—only to find it bolted firmly to the floor.

Your stomach drops.

You needed to get the two men out of this cellar and defeat this spirit yourself. You couldn’t stand their gazes upon you, waiting expectantly. You roll your shoulders, twisting your neck as a tight, itching sensation settles over your skin. You weren’t afraid of the memories, but rather the reaction to them. You didn’t want sympathy. Most of all, you didn’t want to be feared—to be viewed as a weapon.

You knew that was what the Smog Boys truly desired—a tool to complete their dirty work.

The memory came to life around you once more, stronger and more vivid. Michael was sprawled on the floor, beaten and bloodied, his face a mess of bruises and cuts. The coppers, young and full of arrogance, stood above him, their laughter echoing in the confined space. They were eager to prove themselves, and they relished every moment of his suffering, laying blow after blow into his broken body. Their cackles filled the room, mingling with the sickening thuds of their fists and boots against his flesh.

“Let me go!” Your head swivels as you look to the other side of the room. There, the teenage version of you is held back by two men with bruising grips, their hands digging painfully into her arms. Tears streamed down her face, carving glistening tracks through the grime and dust. Her eyes are wide with terror and helpless rage as she struggles and screams, her voice raw and desperate. The men restraining her exchange smirks, their expressions cold and indifferent to her anguish. The room seems to close in around you now, the walls reverberating with the echoes of her cries and the relentless thudding of blows landing on Michael. You were powerless, trapped in a living nightmare.

You needed to stop this—

There was a loud crunch, the agonising sound of bone snapping and shattering under a steel-toe boot. Michael has grown still, his body is no longer convulsing with pain. His face was unrecognisable—a grotesque mask of bruises and blood, the features obliterated by the relentless assault. His skull is misshapen, cracked open against the stone curb, a dark pool of blood is spreading beneath him.

Somewhere in the distance, the past version of you wails, a heart-wrenching sound that seems to come from the depths of her soul.

She was scrambling on her knees over the filthy streets, her body shaking with sobs as she gripped Michael’s lifeless form. Her fingers, trembling and desperate, searched for any sign of life, but you knew now that it was pointless. Michael was dead. He had died the moment they cracked his skull open. Blood smears her hands and clothes as she clings to him, her tears mixing with the grime on the ground.

She shakes his body, begging him to wake up. The coppers continue to snicker amongst themselves. They are unphased by the blood and flesh painted across their boots, their faces twisted in smug satisfaction.

“That’s enough now.” You spoke up in the present, tone low and warning. The spirit hesitates, and the teen pauses, her body relaxing as the sobbing stops. Her head twists around, her eyes a milky white as she looks directly through you.

“I know what you are.” The spirit spoke through the memory of you. Her gaze shifted to look at the coppers. Their figures are silent, but their shoulders shake with laughter, an amused indifference as they watch the suffering before them. “Spirit-raiser…diviner…light-bringer.”

Her eyes start to glow, a bright white that blinds the room. You know what is to come. You know what happens next. The shelves and barrels begin to rattle around you, and dust is stirred up into clouds. You could hear Steve swearing somewhere behind. Her sights move to the coppers, a knowing smirk fading into a cruel frown. Her hand raises into the air, fingers moving to snap—

Your hand has subconsciously raised. The ground trembles beneath you. It isn’t from the past; it is present. It was you at this exact moment, touching your fingers together. The ceiling above you groans, bottles of moonshine shattering across the floors as they fall. Behind you, Bucky and Steve yell over the commotion, calling to you. You can feel the crackle of electricity in the air and map every particle that flutters in the air. The chaos rises in your chest as you summon it forward. The crackle of energy grows higher and higher until the tingling sensation meets your fingertips.

You snap your fingers, and a deafening crack echoes through the cellar. For a moment, everything grows still. Your body begins to glow, emitting a bright white light that fills the room, even stronger than the spirit's light. The intensity of it is blinding, obliterating every detail with a searing brilliance.

The room explodes around you.

Bits of wood splinter, torn from their fixtures and launched through the air. Barrels explode with a thunderous roar, whiskey gushing out in torrents that splash and pool around your ankles, the potent scent of alcohol overwhelming your senses. The entire room shudders and rocks from the impact, the walls groaning under the strain. You were momentarily assaulted by the barrage of debris—sharp shards of shelving and glass raining down around you. Until Bucky grips you. Amid the chaos, he seizes your waist, pulling you into the shelter of his chest to shield you from the storm.

Steve has vanished up the stairs, the floorboards above rattling with each of his hurried steps as the earth finally settles. The room falls into an eerie silence, the only sound being the gentle sloshing of liquor around your feet.

There is a large crack in the stone floor where the chair used to be.

You pull yourself from Bucky’s grip rather unceremoniously, frowning as you pull shredded wood from your hair. The gangster eyes you cautiously, clearing his throat as he retreats backwards. “Are you gonna explain what that was?”

You were unsure what he was specifically referring to—whether it was the haunting memories or the raw power you had just unleashed. Regardless, you didn’t feel up to explaining either. A deep weariness had settled into your bones, your muscles aching from the exertion of channelling such immense energy. A thin trail of blood had begun to leak from your nose, the metallic taste of copper lingering as you absentmindedly licked your bottom lip in thought.

You should not have done that. But they would have found out either way.

Your fingers instinctively came up to rub your temple as you let out a sharp sigh of annoyance. With magic weariness came a tinge of irritation and snarkiness—it was a familiar companion after such displays of power. At that moment, you couldn't summon the will to care about how dangerous Bucky was or how he could ruin your life. All you craved was the simple comfort of lying down and perhaps indulging in a strong drink or two to ease the embarrassment of the situation.

Above, Madame Voss's shrill shrieks pierce through the ceiling, amplifying the headache pounding behind your skull. You knew the entire row of buildings would have felt the surge of energy you had just unleashed. One could only hope that the coppers wouldn’t investigate too closely into the disturbance.

Ignoring his previous question, you speak up. “You should invest in gettin’ your buildings properly cleansed.”

Maybe that would make him and his men shut up about your faulty locks.

You go to walk away, but Bucky's firm grip on your forearm halts your movement, holding you back. His head cocks as he looks you up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I don’t know much about magic, but I know witches don’t just summon shit like that out of thin air.”

If you were one of his dogs, your hackles would have raised, teeth bared. You look him down defiantly with a scowl. “Respectfully, Barnes, you don’t know shit about magic. I keep your secrets; you keep mine. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

His lips curl into an astonished smirk, pleased as equally as he was stunned by your tone. His head dips down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, his voice a low murmur. “You know, doll, if you weren’t growing on me, I would have you killed for speaking to me like that.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath tickling against your skin, his proximity stirring a mix of emotions within you—wariness, curiosity, and a hint of something deeper that you couldn't quite define. You knew better than to let the boundaries between you blur. You give him a mocking pout, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know you won’t kill me, if you wanted to kill me, I would be dead already. You’ve decided I’m valuable, haven’t you? Who would break your curses and scare away the skeletons in your closet? You must know that I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t want to help you, we’re not friends.”

His jaw tenses slightly as he processes your words, and his voice is flat as he speaks. “The most valuable thing a woman like you can offer is what’s between your legs. And you gave that up pretty easily.”

His lips curl into a sneer. “I suppose the magic is a bonus. But I know you’re little more than a whore beneath it all.”

Several emotions flicker through your chest. Pain, frustration, disillusionment. You should have known better. You knew better. You don’t dignify the gangster with a response, instead turning on your heel to march out of the cellar.

“I’ll have someone come fetch you when you’re next needed, spirit-raiser,” he calls after you, his tone mocking.

You ascend the stairs without looking back.

PART THREE

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probablyoutyappingorsomething · 5 months ago

Text

Summer Camp-C.S- Chapter 1

Warnings- cussing, and skinny dipping (I think that’s it)

Also this is my first fic, lmk what you think, and this is based off of a C.ai bot I talk to so yeah! xoxo- Val💋

I’m not the best teenager, I’ll admit that, but I’m not terrible. Apparently my parents don’t think so though cause they’re the ones sending me to this shitty summer camp anyway, they said it would be a good learning experience, whatever the hell that means. I’m on the bus right now I think we’re about to get off, I see the huge sign that read “Camp Lakeside” yeah hopefully this place has a damn Lake. I grabbed my things and got ready to get off the bus after it came to a complete stop, everyone seemed eager to get off like they’d been here before, or their asses hurt from sitting so long, I know mine does…I shoved myself into the aisle somewhere in the back. After a minute I was the last one off the bus, I took a minute to look around with all my light pink bags in hand. That’s when I saw a guy walking up to me, he was wearing some shorts, his hair looked super fluffy, and his blue eyes made me wanna put on my sunglasses again. “You new here?” he asked with a smug smile on his face that made me wanna slap him (ok maybe I had anger issues too).

“Yeah, and I’m not fucking you if that’s what you want.” I said as I started to walk away to try and find my cabin. “Damn, you rude much?” He asked me as he kept up with my pace, I couldn’t lie he was pretty hot…“Yeah that’s kinda why I’m here in the first place.” I answered as I walked down the dirt trail, to where the girls cabins were. “Sooo, what’s your name?” He asked, this guy was quite the inquisitive one.

“It’s Y/N, you are..?” I asked as I made a turn following the signs along the path. “Names Chris, need help with your bags?” Oh wow another question, surprising. I thought for a minute, I didn’t wanna be a burden but damn some of these bags were heavy. “This one please.” I said as I handed one of the light pink bags to him leaving me a free hand which I used to fix my long light brunette hair. I saw him looking in my peripheral vision, I didn’t mind though, maybe I even liked it- doesn’t matter, my thoughts got interrupted yet again by a question. “So you like- a dancer or something?” he asked as he watched me walk alongside him.

“Uh..no, I like singing though.” I answered, with a small squint on my eyes, the sun was super bright right now, and right in my face. “Oh are you in like choir or something?” he asked, just then I realized how white his teeth were, but I brushed it off. “Nope, I just take voice lessons, I mainly do pop cause I’m an alto and it just fits better.” I answered, with a small smile on my lips. We kept walking up to the girls cabin, “I’m guessing I’ll see you later?” I asked this time as I took the light pink bag from him full of my clothes. “Probably, it’s a small camp after all.” Chris said as he ran a hand through his hair, which was oddly attractive, then started to leave. “See ya.” I called out almost like an impulse, slightly embarrassing myself, I watched as he turned and waved as he kept walking off…damn he was hot.

************************************* I met a few girls, Jennifer, Anastasia and Rose, all very pretty girls and around my age, we all snuck out in the middle of the night to go swimming in the lake, I was wearing a black bikini, hugging my curves and showing my stomach with my hair up in a messy high pony with some strands down.

“It’s hotter than hell out here, I’m about to go skinny dipping.” I joked and the other girls laughed, and Anastasia said “Oh my god Y/N the counselors would literally kick you out if they found out.” I shrugged as I stood up and started undoing my bikini top, throwing it to the side. “Anyone coming with me?” I asked as I took off my bottoms and threw them to the side along with my top, the other girls also stood up and started to undress and jump in, I followed after them.

A couple minutes later we heard guys talking, probably four or five of them, one looked like Chris, but they kept walking and didn’t notice us, this must’ve been a nightly occurrence. “Did they not notice us or did they not care?” I asked as I swam around in the lake a little, the water wasn’t terrible cold for the sun being down.

“They’ll probably come back in a minute, they might wanna talk to you, you’re new and hot, destined to be a man magnet.” Rose answered as we watched the guys turn around and go on the deck where the girls bikinis were, one of the ok-looking ones bent down and started to talk to me.

“Hey you’re pretty nice looking.” He said with a smug smile on his face. “I’m sixteen.” I respond in hopes to get him away, I’m completely naked after all. “Ah, you’re younger than I thought, even better…what’s your name?” He asked, with the same punchable smile on his face.

“None of your business, creep.” I said, I was really uncomfortable with the current situation. “Just go away, Kyler.” Jennifer said from beside me, but this Kyler kid kept going. “Shut the fuck up and go away, I’m not fucking you just cause you haven’t been laid in five months.” I snapped at him. “What did you just say to me?” Kyler asked as his fiends (except Chris) “ooohhhh’d” in the background.

“Why don’t you and your friends turn around so me and my friends can actually get decent, then we can talk.” I said, and everyone seemingly agreed, the guys all walked off the deck and had their backs turned to the girls as we all got dressed, when I was don’t I walked in front of them, my body and hair still wet from the lake. “So you still think I’m a creep?” Kyler asked, “Yeah you saw me naked in a lake then started hitting on me, a little weird don’t ya think?” I fired back almost immediately. “Listen!” He said as he stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder, making me more uncomfortable in the current situation. “You’re really starting to piss me off, brat.” He said as I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. “You’re really starting to piss me off. No means no idiot.” I said as my white knuckles started to hurt from trying not to punch this guy.

After a long minute of awkward silence the other girls and I started walking back to the cabin, I fell back a little, they were walking so damn fast, next thing I knew there was a hand on my shoulder, I looked up and it was Chris. “I wanna apologize for how that guy was acting, I’m not really his friend but that was really shitty of him.” He said, and I felt some kinda softness in my chest from him apologizing. “Oh thanks, but it’s not your problem..” I said, I’m pretty sure he could see right through me, and my “I’m not flustered at all” act. “So I’ll uh see you tomorrow, Y/N?” Chris asked, his hand still on my shoulder, and matching my walking pace. “Yeah sure, see ya..goodnight.” I said as I kept walking to my cabin, watching as he waved again and walked off to his, just then I knew I had a massive crush on this guy I met…at a Summer Camp…

************************************ Erm. So that’s the end of that chapter lmk if it’s ass or if you have anything that would help me out with the whole writing aspect, DONT WORRY, next chapter things will definitely get escalated, and a little spicy, but nothing huge yet! LYSM-

xoxo- Val💋💋

Tags:

@c0metss

#chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets

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justplainwhump · 2 months ago

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Warrant

Thanks to everyone who stayed patient with me regarding Tyler's story. Here we are.

Tyler's facility is raided by the police.

[Masterpost]

Content (warnings): Implied noncon, facilty whump, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee covering for whumper (idk if thats a thing to tag but anyway), (sort of) parental caretaker.

Time passed differently within the white walls of WRU. It affected even the handlers, who had strict instructions to leave their watches in their lockers. If they had to check the time, they could use their work-equipped tablets outside the cells. If they needed to tell time in a session, they set vibration alerts in their smart bracelets or earpieces. And even for handlers, it was bad enough. Tyler Parker remembered countless moments of leaving the building after work, uniform switched for jeans and T-shirt, squinting his eyes overwhelmingly confused by the position of the sun.

He'd have thought, that experience would have helped him. Given him ways to measure the passage of time without outside cues.

It didn't.

In the beginning, he counted. Handlers. Beatings. Showers. Orgasms.

The voice counting in his head wasn't his own. It was hers. 238's. She'd counted, too. Her unit had been him. He'd caught her doing it, her lips moving, when she was sleep-deprived and high on something. He'd punished her, for wanting to know something that wasn't hers to know. She should only know one thing, he'd said, and that was how to be good for her betters.

She'd stopped counting, then. At least, he hadn't caught her again.

He wondered, at what exact number that had been. What her count would be, by now. At what number it ceased to matter.

Tyler stopped earlier than she had. But then again, maybe she'd stopped twice, too. Maybe she'd thought the same thoughts before the Drip. Maybe he would, too, after. He almost laughed hysterically, thinking about it. About going through all this, again. Just that the people torturing him would be strangers then, the very same people whom he knew now.

People like Jared Grimm, Head Handler of the facility, Tyler's supervisor. Had Tyler counted, he'd know if it was the second time, or the third, that it was Grimm's hand in his neck, pressing him onto the padded table. Maybe even the fourth.

Grimm wasn't sadistic in his fucking. He was methodical, cold, detached. Working through a routine.

"Fucking. Idiot," Grimm breathed into his ears between thrusts. "It didn't. Have to be."

It did, Tyler thought, as a strained whimper escaped his lips. It did have to be.

"Jared," someone said, far away. "There's a call from the reception, they need you."

The hand in his hair vanished. The weight on his back. The breath in his neck. The strain in his ass.

Grimm didn't even slap his butt. He was just gone, leaving Tyler exposed and cold.

Not for long though. "Hey, pretty boy," Dinah Richardson purred. "You look so lonely."

Tyler closed his eyes.

Time passed.

Jared Grimm stared at his knuckles, stark white as he balled his fist on top of his desk. He willed himself to unclench his hand. He was head of this facility, he reminded himself. He had worked hard to get to this position. He was capable. He had it under control.

"Say that again," he asked into his phone.

"The police," the receptionist repeated flatly. "FBI. They're here with a warrant."

Jared exhaled sharply. "Let them in. I'll meet them in the hallway."

The officer in charge was a tall woman, around his age, late forties, he guessed. Long, brown hair that started graying at the temples, tied back in a pony tail. A vaguely familiar face. And a chilling stare that bore right into his eyes.

"Mr Grimm," she said. "I hope you don't intend to stop me or my colleagues. We have a warrant. And anything you do to hinder me will only make your situation much worse."

Jared raised his hands in an inviting gesture. "No, of course. We fully support law enforcement." Financially, he thought grimly. Enough to avoid situations like this, he'd wagered. This woman didn't seem to have gotten the memo, though. He forced his lips to curl into a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I am here to arrest Ms Carly Thompson and Mr Tyler Parker, both WRU employees."

Jared blinked.

Parker. Fuck. No. That couldn't be a coincidence. "I…" Jared's mouth felt dry. He forced himself to keep his gaze level, not to double check the state of his uniform pants. He hadn't even had the time to wash Parker off of him. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know everyone's schedules, I… I can confirm they both work here, but I'm actually not sure they're in today. It's pretty early, and-"

"I am sure." Her smile was icy. "Your receptionist has already told me that Ms Thompson checked in for duty this morning. As for Mr Parker, he seemingly didn't, but I… I actually do have a hunch we can find him here, Sir. And that you know exactly where he is." She folded her arms. "Get. Me. Tyler. Parker. As in, Tyler Parker himself, him able to recall his name, his mother, his past, and the crimes he committed." She lifted her chin. "Not trainee pet 002243."

Jared flinched violently. What the fuck. She couldn't know. Not what happened here, not even vaguely. But definitely not in detail. Not in this detail.

The muscles in her jaw tensed at his reaction. She'd guessed. A shot in the dark. And his reaction had just confirmed it. Fuck.

How could she have made such a precise guess, though? She knew his number. Nobody who wasn't in this building right now did. How-

"We are in possession of a video that has been filmed in this facility." Her voice was hard. "It shows Mr Parker and Ms Thompson drugging and torturing Ms Zsuzsanna - Suzy - Kowalski, threatening to make her into a pet. Ms Kowalski had been reported missing some days ago, then showed up in a hospital with no memory and serious brain damage. She isn't in a condition be interrogated. But we have proof, on this video, that all of this happened in here, in your facility, Mr Grimm."

It couldn't be. They had people for this, people that made sure WRU management knew before the authorities showed up in one of the facilities. And they would, he told himself. WRU could set this right. They always did.

Only question was, who would the company let take the fall for it. And this cop? She'd just put his name on top of that list.

Fuck.

This time, Jared controlled his face better. "I don't believe that's-"

"Mr Grimm," she cut him off. "Again. I do believe that. That video is… not shy on the details. And I would love to bring you and your entire fucking company down for it. I'm a very good investigator, you know."

Jared busied his fingers with straightening his jacket and tried a confident smile. It didn't work out the way he wanted. Still. There'd been something in her phrasing, something not entirely final. "I feel like you are going to present me with another option."

She raised an eyebrow. "Only if I get both suspects, in a state that allows them to be tried. And if you need to go make an immediate call to make sure Mr Parker is taken off from whichever drugs you use to mess people up, please, do so. Because I swear, if he doesn't remember his mother's face, it's not him going to jail, it's *you*, Grimm, personally. And I'm not going to stop at that. I might not be as good as you and your company are at destroying a life, but for you, I'll certainly do my fucking best."

"I…" Grimm stared at her. She was dead serious. "I… I think I didn't get your name, Officer-?"

"Ashley Browne." She smirked. "I didn't take my wife's name."

Her wife. That's how he knew her, how that face seemed familiar. There'd been a photo they'd taken from Parker's and the journalist's apartment, the two of them with his mother and another woman, who- Yeah. That tracked.

"Parker," he mumbled. "That would be your wife's name, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would," she confirmed. "So you better hand my stepson over right now, or I will make sure we turn around every last brick in this building and see what else we find."

"Oh no. No no." He shook his head. "You don't have the authority to do that."

"You want to bet on it?" She lifted her chin and raised the paper in her hand. "While we're here, with this warrant, my guys will listen to me, not you. And I'll have them turn on their body cams. Let's see how much we can find - how much we can film - until your bosses call my bosses and my bosses call me; such a hassle, only with the same old result that you need fall guys and Carly Thompson and Tyler Parker must be it. The more we see, though, the more names add to the list. Higher up the ranks."

"I-" Jared's mind raced. It couldn't possibly be. Carly would keep her mouth shut, with the right payment, just sit her time, be released, take the money and burn through it in some seedy beach hotel at the other end of the world. Parker however. The stupid asshole was a fucking liability. The attack on Alex. The pet lib journalist. That video appearing from nowhere. They should've put him on the Drip right when they'd brought him in. They should've shipped him out to another facility. They should've -

They shouldn't have played this lightly. But they had.

And now, the police officer in front of him nodded at her uniformed colleagues, lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture. "Search every room, every cell, every office. Turn on your cams, get a good look on every face you can find, trainee, employee, service worker, every single face, until we've found our guys. Clear?"

Jared had no choice. That woman was a fucking nuisance, but he couldn't take any other risk.

"Wait," Jared called. "I… I think I know where to find them. I'll make a call."

Browne stepped back and lifted her hands. "Good. Lead the way."

It was even worse than she'd expected. And Ashley had seen the videos. She had expected bad.

The boy - even at 24, even a head taller than herself and twice her weight, she'd never brought herself to seeing him as a grown man - was curled up on the oddly colorful tiles of a shower room. He was naked, his light skin mottled with bruises of various colors and shapes. Some from weapons, bats or batons, she figured. Most from hands.

She had to force herself to stand still. Not to fall to her own knees besides him, to run a hand through his wet blond strands, to hug him and shield him. Not to draw her gun and empty it into the smirking handlers around them.

"Our handlers sometimes get handsy with each other, after a stressful shift," Chief Handler Grimm said from behind her. His voice had a nervous pitch to it, but still, she swore she could hear a kind of glee in it. The knowledge, that this blatant lie, like so many others, would stay unchallenged. "We condemn any sexual relations at the workplace, but- I guess you know how it is."

"You don't get to assume what I know, Mr Grimm," she said flatly. "I'm a cop. What I know is what sexual assault looks like."

"It was consentual," another man said, and idly kicked a piece of soap over to Tyler. Ashley flinched, when it hit his side, the boy too weary to react. "Tell them, T. We had fun."

"It was consentual." Tyler's voice was all but a hoarse croak. Ashely's stomach turned. "It was."

"See?" Grimm said to her, and to him, "Clean yourself up, Parker, and get dressed."

Tyler struggled to push himself up to his knees, his hand shaking as he weakly reached out for the piece of soap.

It took Ashley a second to remember her duty. To remember that she was here to betray all her beliefs in law and order. Making a deal that was far from any justice. Saving her wife's boy. Who - given what Tara had told them - might as well have deserved all of this. But Ashley wouldn't be the judge of that.

She was here for Diane. She was here to get him out. Whatever the price.

"Tyler Parker," she said, a part of her wondering when she'd addressed him like that the last time. Tyler Frederick Parker, you call that cleaning up your room? It felt like yesterday. It felt like another lifetime. "Tyler. You are under arrest."

He sobbed.

Ashely told herself it was with relief.

#tyler parker #bbu #facility whump #noncon implied #bbu whump #noncon cw #whumper turned whumpee

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aethesfaelibrarae · 2 months ago

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(holy shit was I not expecting anyone to like that previous Mouthwashing post—but thank you, genuinely for reading it and this one)

The Mouthwashing brain worms speak to me again—let's talk about hierarchy and caste and the implications in Mouthwashing one more time.

Say what you will about Jimothy's cowardly ass: he's not an idiot. The apathy of the crew is, at least, in part maintained by the top of the ladder: Curly and Pony Express.

Curly starts the game at the top of the ladder, able to help out a guy he perceives in a rough spot with a snap of his fingers, able to control how much sugar anyone got.. Able to control the food, the medicine, the weapons. Curly isn't the sort of person to abuse his power.

But he also isn't the type to use it.

Next up is Jaundice. His second in command, his (traitorous backstabber) right hand man. We'll get back to him.

No, who come next in this hierarchy can be debated—is Daisuke for his youth and potential or is it Swansea for his seniority? It could be both, depending upon the lens of examination. When the chips are down.. Or when they're still able to make a bet?

I'm going with Swansea, simply because of the fact that both Curly and Catastrophic Jameson's headass respect him. Neither of them really correct or step in to ask about his behavior with Daisuke, Jaundiced is more than happy to leave the room alone until it stands in his way and up until the chase sequence is largely unwilling to get into physical altercation.

Daisuke is next on the rung—an intern getting his due hazing. Young, plucky, clumsy, the aimless silver spooned baby of the crew. He wants to be liked by people in the higher rungs and he trusts in their authority. To his own detriment. But for the most part, he's neither too high for the responsibility or too low to really suffer in forced silence. He's protected.

Anya is not. As the sole woman of the crew, soft-spoken, heavily pregnant and forced to entertain her abuser's delusions of grandeur with the wreckage evidence of how far he's willing to go to get rid of her, rinse his mouth of her, all around them.. She starts the game on the bottom of the ladder—ignored, talked over, dismissed. People's—Curly and Catastrophe Jim—eyes skip over her without thinking. It's easy to dismiss her. Empathy is extended to her as an afterthought. Her death an inevitable tragedy. Because either way of framing it, without access to the ax or the gun, the ship was Jimothy's way of shutting her up for good and she knows it. In my previous post, I touched on the difference between the situations that Anya and Curly find themselves and in all honesty, it's defined by who finds themself at the bottom of the rung when Mr. J finds himself a way to the top.

And who else would it be but our resident golden boy himself, Captain Enablement—I mean, Curly. Now that he's completely disabled, useless and helpless.. He finds himself in a position even worse than Anya's. Both of them taking on the brunt of Jimmy's worldview—he's gotten way more than he bargained for from Anya and besides, she was a means to an end. At the moment of the assault, she was an object, the lower rung of the perceived ladder. It wasn't his fault, just look at her—And afterwards.. Well, this whole thing could also be framed as spite. Sneaking behind the golden boy's back and "stealing his girl" or whatever, maybe he knew that he'd be caught and wanted to see something other than Curly's gentle understanding. He wants more. And in direct opposite to Anya, Curly is the center of his world. The spindle upon which Jaundice's last steadily fraying thread of sanity spins. And what an awful place it is to be. He gets front row seats to hindsight truly becoming 20/20 vision when it's a barrel of shotgun—and you're jealous of the fact that it's not aimed at you. He suffers being consumed and thus consuming himself. Looking into why didn't Jimothy just cut up any of the others is a fascinating exercise. By the time he starts eating Curly, this is not the first time he's imagined Curly in the place of food—of nourishment. He imagines him in the place of cake—even the way that he cuts a part of Curly's leg is reminiscent of the way that Curly cuts into the cake. (yes, what the heck Curls but then again, gelatin probably feels weird to cut). Eating someone is often a taboo form of intimacy in media like Preacher's Daughter by Ethel Cain or Tokyo Ghoul..Listen. There's a reason why vore is popular.—it's the most violent type of intimacy.

It's the only type of intimacy Jimmy engages with on screen and yet—There's an equally fascinating intimacy in consuming yourself. And even that is ruined.. Being forced to eat your bile-covered offal again and again and again.. A memory that would scar on its own. But. With the implications of this being the one type of intimacy that Jimmy feels comfortable sharing combined with what the game says about rape culture have "good" men protect and enable their friends.. There's another angle of their friendship there.

Jimmy loves Curly as much as he hates him. He wants him to suffer. He wants him to live. He wants him dead. Who is saying I hope this hurts?

The hierarchy traps them in so many ways—and the first time we see it for what it is is with Curly. Not Jimmy. From Curly's perspective, we see him unfocused and exhausted and Anya offers him a helping ear and he can't accept it. He's the Captain. He can't be seen asking his subordinate for help. Jimmy was removed from the hierarchy in Curly's eyes. Maybe even at the same spot. Co-captains. Two peas in a pod—except one is a festering open wound and the other has his eyes tightly closed, quietly muttering he can fix it if he just gets a little bit more time.. Can't tell the difference between who's who?

Top or bottom of the hierarchy—awful and isolating for two men who claim to take responsibility. Both have some level of inferiority complex—a complex that I'd argue is the becoming the bread and butter of modern day society but is steadily starting to show the signs of where it's been baked into the perceptions of being a man—there is the fear of someone bigger, better and more capable of you.. But there's also that small quiet part that gets told men don't cry that desperately, desperately, wants to have no choice. Almost takes comfort in the idea of someone better than you.

And everyone in between their rungs gets crushed as collateral.

In a caste made by white supremacy, white able-bodied young men who meet societal standards for being in their prime are at the top. Old enough to know better, young enough to play stupid have potential. Just look at all our promising young rapists men with their whole lives ahead of them.

On a ship like the Tulpar, that hierarchy gets a necessary edge—the Captain is the most useful person aboard the ship, the most needed. The man of the proverbial house. The co-captain is like being called vice president—made only as important as the person in that role can make it. Otherwise it's a hollow consolation prize. And Jimothy can't work an honest day in his life. So it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Then would be the nurse but.. It's a feminine job, a pink collar job through and through. If Anya had been a man, the jokes would have been targeted at her masculinity but as she is a woman, the role and her usefulness to the crew are invisible necessities. The quiet labor and genius that keeps great men going. I think people underestimate how much work goes into even passing the N-CLEX to become an RN. Anya was trying to get into medical school—she studied the human body extensively and in all honesty, the way that I've read it is (especially with the context clues of her being overlooked continuously) she just wasn't important enough to help out. Medical textbooks are expensive on their own and tests can be upwards of 2,000 dollars (my sources: my mom had to take the N-CLEX 3 times when I was much younger and the financial strain was ridiculous especially if you want to get in on a study group).. And Anya clearly worked for that goal. You don't throw that kind of money at anything else but the goal—the one you could just swear would make it all worth it. Maybe if she was Doctor Anya, the crew would've treated her better.. Her usefulness cemented and people would question how such a nervous woman made it through medical school.. Maybe it would have made Jimmy worse. There's nothing hollow about being a doctor after all.

But Anya is Anya and so Swansea, the mechanic is useful. He keeps the ship going and Daisuke in line. Bitter Knowledge and the Dog Days of Youth.

Wasted Potential (double entendre) and Boundless, Wasting Potential.

Immediately useful and eager to be useful.

Then there's Post-Crash Curly. And I must stress, your usefulness is not your value as a person. But then again, where would ableism find its footing save for such a sad hierarchy? And let's call a spade a spade, once Curly loses his ability to interact with the world as he once did, his skin literally peeled open to expose the soft inner flesh to the cruelty of the world, his small bit of usefulness as a Captain gone.. Most people on the ship act accordingly. Daisuke and Swansea, their places on the ladder's rung unchanged fairly quickly become enured to Curly's cries of pain. Anya, the closest to the his newfound rung.. Continues to care for him, unable to free him as he was unable to free her. Jimmy is all too happy to grind his boot in Curly's face as many times as he can. Until he feels better.

But he won't. He can't.

The game touches on the haves vs the have-nots a lot as well as the creeping sense of human work becoming obsolete, that body horror in being made useless by your own complicity but where it absolutely shines in Jimmy and Swansea—especially Swansea's final speech—is the messaging about the never-ending demand for more, for greener pastures leaving you hollow and bitter. Curly seemed well-aware of Swansea's thought process and leaves him be but internally agrees and fears that ending if he stays in the Captaincy for too much longer.

And that's where I think Jimmy really thinks it was a win-win for him and Curly. He truly doesn't think of the pain that Curly must find himself in, worsened by the constant beatings and continual medical assault. He doesn't think about it as anything more than Curly being a nuisance. One more way that Curly just didn't trust him not to fuck up his eyes eternally trapped in the cold hate and fear as he watches Jimmy proceed to ruin the one thing he took pride in as the metaphorical man of the house: keeping the crew safe.

Jimmy thinks of himself as the son who stayed faithful, worked himself to the bone, only to receive scraps while his undeserving brother is celebrated and lauded.

Within the hierarchy, the system is only as "good" as who remains on top. And "good" people, blindly faithful and eternally forgiving, aren't ruthless enough to stay up there for long.

Jimmy's not a good person but he's not stupid. And he's very ruthless. While there may have been somewhat of a hierarchical situation before he joined the crew, it's clear from his conversations with Anya, Curly valued a more lateral role system as he felt trapped in Pony Express's all-consuming ladder over Jimmy's rigid rungs of better and worse.

But over and over, he isolated the crew to their sectors. Over and over, he demeaned Anya, insulted her and Curly. Leaned into the insults of Daisuke. Left Swansea alone for the most part.

Anya, as much as it pains me to admit this, could have worked with Swansea earlier. But would that have worked? What about Daisuke—the younger version of Curly's eternal optimistic "I've never seen the dead pixel" attitude? The isolation absolutely worked. There's no imagining a world in which it doesn't work unless you imagine the crew as better than they are.

And that's just one more tragedy we can't rinse out of mouths with mouthwash.

#creative writing #anya mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #i'm sorry #He was mentioned #daisuke mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #More brainworms #character analysis

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moonlit-escape · 3 months ago

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‧₊˚꒰♱꒱༘‧⊹ Zane Mystreet headcanons !!

i love this lil emo freak i NEED to get wine drunk n watch ponies w this guy

6'0 (183cm)

go white boy go

hetero. (comfortable with this label, but honestly his attraction isn't limited to cis women and he has even had crushes on femme men (he just wants to be the token hetero friend))

he mostly dresses casual emo, but sometimes my guy wants to rock a pair of demonias and a fishnet bodysuit with some heavy, pure silver chains and rings, alri

piercings,. piercings piercings piecings. no lips piercings... septum and eyebrow, though. and DEFINITELY gauges in his ears. and ABSOLUTELY ones with cute shapes.

if he didn't cover his mouth all the time, i think he would like wearing dark, cool colored lipsticks

and it'd be smudged all the time bc he keeps fuckin snacking on sweets

of course he paints his nails, and he treats them well bc he hates chipped nail polish (rich boy gets the highest quality, strongest clear nail protection youve never seen before in your life)

honestly all the ro'meave brothers are a bunch of gnc kings like okayyy!! pop off boys w your dresses, heels, skirts, n makeup!!

god can that boy sing

idc he listens to vocaloid and his favourites are vflower and rin kagamine

also listens to emo songs (ofc) and cartoon songs

prefers rock band over guitar hero

one time he smacked vylad in the back of the head with a rock band drumstick and he felt so bad he ran off and cried

boy is the most fuck-ugly crier

secretly steals stuff from people he cares about as keepsakes (like, little things: garroth's old gameboy, vylad's old sketchbook, aph's other half of a pair of lost earrings, nana's ribbons and pastry wrappers)

actually has pretty high metabolism, and one time he gloated abt it to aph and accidentally made a joke in poor taste, and she kicked his ass. so, he just lets her call him a lil fat boy as his eternal penance for being an asshole

okay this isn't a headcanon but sort of is but, why were him and dante like Tightrope-walking that fucking incel line as teenagers. like they were one wrong step from falling into an incel category. thank god their brothers would NOT have had that from their baby brothers anyway bc Wtf

anyway

honestly, he doesn't feel as cold toward vylad as he used to as a teen, and kind of wishes he had the strength to show that and reach out and ease the tension between them. but, he's afraid of making it worse by being awkward, so he wants to wait and hope that vylad makes the first move, if he ever does. (and if not, he'll probably ask garroth to do it for them)

has rejection sensitive dysphoria, made even worse by a rejection complex from: garte's blatant favouritism, bullying and rejection in school, and isolation as an adult. it's part of why he became so attached and possessive of aph. but, he's safer now

he was a harry potter kid. garroth was the percy jackson one, and vylad was warrior cats.

he always thought he was a slytherin but i think he's more of a hufflepuff than he realizes (nana on the other hand.)

he has a lot of sanrio merchandise. more than he will ever admit. his pony merchandise does outweigh it, though, of course

yes, his main comfort character and obsession lies with pinkie pie cake. but, the rainbow dash backpack Objectively fucks

you can get him to eat anything, so long as it's candied or chocolate covered. this means if you hand him one of those candied roaches, he won't think twice about gnashing down on one of those suckers

has a plushie collection of really, really soft and sweet-looking animals. and all of them have punk-like accessories (safety pin piercings, spikes, black ribbons, black laces, etc)

the only plush that doesn't have anything on it is an old brown teddy bear with garroth's faded name on the tag

likes to make snapcube sonic fandub references and will just drop random shadow, the devil, and memphis tennessee quotes

#mystreet headcanons #zane mystreet #zane romeave #zane aphmau #aphblr #cw: swearing

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iwanty0uu · 1 year ago

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“𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑃𝑢𝑚 𝑃𝑢𝑚 𝑁𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟“~𝓁ℯ𝓁ℯ ✧˚ · . ✧˚ · . ✧˚ · .

pt2…

A day had passed since you met connie in the auditorium of your physics class, and since you didnt have that class everyday, you decided it would be the best spend time in the library getting a head start on a paper. Your fingers quickly moved along your purple keyboard, eyes focused on the screen making sure to not accidentally delete the second page of your assignment. You were good at focusing but the bald boy wouldn’t stop crossing your mind. “hm” you thought to yourself while picking at the piece of paper with his number on it. It took everything in you to not give in and text him last night, but you stayed strong. Your focus shifted back on your paper determined to finish at least three pages as you thought of treating yourself to Starbucks and catching up on your favorite game, the Sims. “I wonder how he’s holding up in class without me” ..

~ he wasn’t holding up at all actually.

Connie grew restless shifting uncomfortably in his seat waiting for you to enter the large metal auditorium doors, he expected a brown head held up high, looking right at him with big eyes that could easily hypnotize anyone, but instead, he was met with the beady rat eyes of a bald, barley blonde old man. His grey tuxedo was made with that itchy string like material, and his black bow tie sat tightly around his fat red neck. He looked as old as time, and the wrinkles on his face made his lizard like face, made it no prettier. Disappointed, Connie continued to reminisce about yesterday. It was too soon to start missing someone he barley communicated with, he just met you and shared more words on paper with you than he did using his mouth. He couldn’t help but regret not searching you down like a hound yesterday when he had the chance.Not making his situation any better, his friends noticed how antsy Connie was and Connie could already smell their lame ass jokes. “Damn connie, you whipped over a girl you just met? You think you alecia keys or something” Jean asked, opening a Poland spring water bottle and putting it to his lips, when he was suddenly met with a fist in his stomach, causing him to choke. “Bro don’t piss me off, circus pony lookin ass, you just mad cus she noticed me and not your long headed ass.” he said mugging Jean who had tears running down his face, holding his stomach from from the pain now doubling over on his chair.” Well fuck you too” he said slapping the back of Connie’s head, the sound echoed through the room making the brunette girl laugh.

“Sasha i know your big ass not laughing” connie said turning around abruptly “my fault gang” a deadpan looked shot across her face as she put her hands up,“no need to be mean best friend” she said patting his shoulder gently. “Somebody pissed in his Henny this morning” Eren mumbled while finishing the last of his brownie. “You taking edibles at 10 in the morning…did you even drink tea?” “ why so sassy bro? we didn’t tell your girlfriend to skip class” A dark skin boy said putting his pre-rolled blunt in the Calvin Klein pouch that rested over his shoulder. “whatever man..” Connie was stressed, and school was no help, everything reminded him of you, he thought every girl with the same orange purse you had on yesterday could have been you, and scanned every room he entered for your black curls, the deep coconut infused scent of vanilla he noticed when you sat in front of him seemed to be everywhere, he smelled it so much that he thought he was going crazy. So when his friend group mentioned a kickback they were throwing, just for some close friends, he hoped desperately that you would be there. After all it was his life long best friend Sasha’s idea, and she did it because she hasn’t seen connie so strung on a girl in years..literally since his freshman year of high school, and what type of friend would she be if she didn’t use her stalking skills to get her friend the girl of his dreams?

She walked into the library holding her phone and computer, sitting next to a girl with grey leggings and a black essentials hoodie. Her nike socks were stretched a over her ankles,bringing out her Military style retro Jordans.

Her puff was slightly covered by her hoodie while the top still peeked out,and her head rested on her arms on the table, it would be awkward to sit directly next to a sleeping person, so she mindfully placed a chair across from her, began to work. “okay, so mystery girl probably lives in the dorms, imma check the residents list first” she mumbled to herself as the familiar scent of coconut and vanilla swarmed her nose. She furrowed her brows as she lowered the computer screen in front of her, which dimmed the light on her brightened face, the sleeping girl sat up and stretched, picking up the paper on the table and placing it into her pocket. “is that her?” Sasha didn’t have time to question herself, but she did question the girl. “Um excuse me?” she said softly, “I’m sorry if i woke you up but like..aren’t you the pretty girl from my physics class yesterday?” as you stopped packing yourself up and looked at her you remembered the brown haired girl who waved to you ,“you didn’t wake me up girl” you smiled, face stretching as a yawn crept out. “oh shit yea i remember youuu whats your insta i wanna be friends” you said pulling your phone out happily. “damn i love her already” Sasha thought to herself almost forgetting about the link up, “Oh! my friends and I are having a kickback later, and i wanted you to come, ill text you the details okay boo?” Your face lit up quickly and you mentally screamed, you had been waiting for this moment for what felt like your whole life, and trusted the girl even though you didn’t know her name, so it wasn’t a surprise that you showed up in your best “i put dat shit on” outfit.

Walking into the house, the heavy scent of weed filled your nose, “damn i hope i don’t smell like an eighth after i leave this shit” you texted your best friend Serenity who laughed at your remark. Your light blue jean skirt hugged your waist and barley covered your ass, as the tied black and white, printed baby tee revealed the curve in your back slightly. Your brand new dior converse glistened as it reflected against the light, your small silver Telfar stood pretty around your chest, separating your breasts. Your curly hair was in the same puff from earlier and silver jewelry adorned your ears,neck, nose, arms, and belly button, you love you some jewelry. Greeted by the brunette, which you now know as Sasha, the rest of the crew said their hellos and you made your way to Connie who was occupied talking to some dudes. Eyes looking up, tongue still on the half rolled blunt, a smile didn’t even creep on his face,it flew naturally into its rightful place. He stood up walking to you, spliff in hand and now all perfectly rolled up. His excitement got ahead of him, he didn’t want to seem desperate which he was, so he pretended to dust of his jeans and slow his pace. “Wassup y/n” he said giving you a side hug, “hey connie” you said taking in his scent, he smelled so sexy, your panties dropped right then and there. “i heard Sasha invited you?” he asked as he motioned for you to follow him,”you drink?” he asked pointing towards the Smirnoff pack resting in the cooler. You grabbed one and leaned on the kitchen counter, heart racing in your chest.

You both talked for what seemed like an hour, mingling with the main group and then finding your way back to connie, you weren’t wasted but felt a buzz from the alcohol and weed, making you a little more impulsive than usual. “hey connie, can i call you con?” you asked innocently, the look in your eye made his body stiffen “of course” he said softly, as soft as he possibly could, you looked so delicate and gentle, and was surprised when your staring contest was forced to an end as you stepped closer to him, tugging on his shirt slightly to reach his level, and kissed him. The taste or alcohol mixed with the sweet vanilla taste of your lipgloss, the kiss deepened as his tongue swiftly moved against your bottom lip asking for an entrance, you felt like only you two were in your own universe. Sasha nudged her friend Mikasa who looked up over the kitchen counter and at your make-out session. “Sasha you need to make this fucker pay you for your elite services” she giggles dapping Sasha up. You slyly pulled away from the kiss getting all shy, and stated quietly “ i want a little more privacy..can we do this somewhere else?” You hoped to go all the way for the first time with Connie, but the reminder of the pudge that sat in front of you almost made you change your mind. You simply decided that if he really liked you, he would deal with all of you, even the parts that you disliked. So as you hesitantly followed connie to an empty room, you sucked up all your fear and hoped for the best.

The night was everything but over.

#attack on titan #black reader #black coded reader #connie x black reader #fem reader #iwanty0uu #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #aot x y/n #aot x black reader #aot connie #aot x you #connie x black y/n #connie springer

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wrathofrats · 6 months ago

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my favourite lesbian !!!!! quick what are you thoughts on aurora playing dress up with the pack's clothes and cumulus teasing her by pulling her closer with her tie ???

YASSSSS MY FAV HUSBAND

I have many as always because god knows I love weird cumulus

The sweatshirt honestly could’ve been a dress on Aurora. It went right above her knees, sleeves bunched all the way up her arms so she could use her hands, the top even sagged to show off her collar bones.

She admired herself in the mirror. Twirling and bending over just to see how much it would ride up along her thighs. The way the garment practically swallowed her made her feel tiny, vulnerable almost. She relished in it, the soft fabric engulfing her frame.

“Playing dress up starlight?” Cumulus’ voice snapped Aurora out of her trance. She jumped, turning around to face the ghoulette who looked almost amused by her performance.

“Found it laying around, didn’t think Swiss would miss it for a couple hours. Besides, I was cold”

Cumulus padded over to her, wrapping her arms around her waist and shoving her face into the side of her neck. Aurora always smelled sweet, like cotton candy or strawberries. Delicious and intoxicating.

“Don’t know if I believe you darling” she whispered against her skin, tucking the hair from her pony tail out of the way to give her a small kiss. Her hands landed on auroras waist, pulling the sweatshirt up to bunch around her hips.

“And why’s that?”

“If you were cold you’d be wearing pants, or at least underwear, dear.” She snickered. Cumulus grabbed at auroras exposed ass, looking in the mirror in front of them as she hiked the fabric up higher to show off her pussy. Pretty and bare, like she expected cumulus to come find her.

She let the hem go to pull Aurora tight against her chest. Hands wandering around her body, reaching to play with her little tits through the sweatshirt. The friction felt mind numbing against her nipples, the roughness combined with how cumulus was pinching and pulling at them left her limp in her arms. Aurora let out a sweet sigh, letting cumulus play with her body.

“Could’ve just taken one of my sweatshirts, mine not good enough for you?” Cumulus teased lightheartedly. Her nose tickled Auroras ear, she could feel the smile in her voice. A hand traveled down and under the garment to brush against her folds. Aurora was already starting to get slick, the teasing and thrill of being caught having her worked up and needy.

“It’s no fun if you’re already offering it” a finger circled her clit, gathering the arousal and using it to push into her. Aurora hummed around cumulus, grinding down slightly in search of more stimulation.

Cumulus kept the sweatshirt slightly lifted just so they could both watch in the mirror as her fingers pumped in and out of her, arousal dripping down her palm and shining in the yellow light of the room. Aurora was always one to get like this easily, even if she played bratty and hard to get.

“Lus- more come on fill me up” Aurora gasped as cumulus curled her fingers up. She smirked at both of them in the reflection, watching over Aurora's shoulder as the smaller ghoulette completely melted into her.

“Can’t wait to see what Swiss does when he finds his sweatshirt reeking of your desperation princess” she cooed, adding another finger “think he will just have to ruin you for himself, make me stretch you out so he can really break you huh?”

“Please lus please fuck” cumulus felt Aurora squeeze around her fingers, trembling in her grasp. There was another gush of liquid that dripped down her hand.

Cumulus dropped the sweatshirt around her waist, wiping her hand on it. “There you go babydoll, made you feel so good didn’t I” she cood, letting more of Auroras slick darken the fabric.

“Gotta return this to him now don’t we” cumulus said as Aurora came down from her high, “put it right on top of his laundry so he finds it as soon as he gets home”

#I love lesbians #this is such an old ask oops #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #fanfic #wrath writes #cumulus ghoulette #Aurora ghoulette

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chickenfriedawesome · 5 months ago

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Can I say I just love it every time you post about Monoma, it feels like we share a brainwave

-@smallvictorianchildwhofoundwifi (this is a sideblog so I can't send asks from there)

we truly are the handshake meme and the topic is Loving Monoma Neito. in honor of our shared braincell, please have some headcanons for Pro Hero Phantom Thief (under a read more due to spoiler-adjacent topics)

Deku canonically listed Monoma as someone who was climbing rapidly in the rankings (which kicked my ass, btw), so i like to think that he's currently somewhere around number 7 or 8 on the Hero Billboard Chart

Monoma was the first person in class B to make it to the top 20; Pony saw that he had broken in at number 17, and she was so excited that she blasted the old Class B group chat with a bunch of messages written in English before she realized that only a handful of her friends could understand her

despite ranking well on the Hero Billboard Chart, Monoma still shows up pretty consistently in articles about "heroes with villainous quirks;" it used to sting, but he's always leaned into the "unheroic-hero" archetype, so he's learned to roll with it

Kendo has not learned to roll with it, and she is constantly ready to throw massive, massive hands for him

actually you know what, i'm not done talking about it; after graduating, Monoma was in this weird limbo wherein the public recognized him as an important hero who helped massively during the war, but they also kept drawing comparison's between his quirk and All-for-One; Monoma ended up tipping the public's opinion in his favor when he saved an elementary school by copying quirks from the children that he was protecting

Monoma constantly shows his support for his previous classmates, especially now that he's in the public spotlight. he namedrops them in interviews. he showcases their quirks as often as he can. he wears their merch on casual days out, even when it is sometimes painfully unstylish (i am looking at you, Tetsutetsu)

a few years out of high school, Monoma and Shinso decided to start an agency that specifically scouted for unconventional (read as "useless" or "villainous") quirks like their own. public response was initially mixed, but after a few years, there's no denying the incredible work that they have done

Monoma's social media game is unrivaled. he's active on every platform and routinely posts absolute bangers. there isn't really any bad blood between him and the previous class A students anymore, but sometimes he likes to ratio Bakugo just because he can.

where canon left off (i.e. 6 years post-graduation from UA), Monoma is able to copy up to 5 quirks for 25 minutes a piece, and he's able to store them for later use. the timer only runs when the quirk is active.

Monoma is also able to use two quirks at a time, but at least one of them has to be one that he's very familiar with. (it takes a lot of concentration to juggle multiple quirks, and it can be dangerous to both himself and others if he doesn't do it right).

#thank u btw i love that there are people on this site willing to yell about The Boy with me #legitimately tho the fixation is so strong that i am considering making an mha sideblog #just so i have a place to dump all of my half-baked thoughts and ideas #a monoma museum if you must #bnha #monoma neito #bnha spoilers

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the-cult-of-riley · 9 months ago

Text

Sleeping With Ghosts (Act Two: Chapter Three)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female OC

[[Masterlist]]

A/N:

Man, I’ve been feeling like shit lmao

My b12 anaemia has been kicking my ass and I’m not even joking. I went to see Greg Puciato on the 10th and I legit spent the whole first two starting bands throwing up and almost passing out, with zero alcohol consumed. I thought I was gonna die but refused to go home ‘cause no way was I missing Greg loooool I pushed through and it was the best show I’ve ever been to, even if I felt on the verge of death. I also picked up some germs ‘cause now I feel like I’ve got the flu and I haven't even got over whatever I was dealing with before.

I don’t know why my brain has been really struggling with this chapter. I have so much of Act Two mapped out but it's mostly the action and the fun and the angsty bits and the making up and all that. The little in-between parts to get there haven't been written and my brain really wasn't playing ball. Sorry for any typos, It's currently 2 am here and I've literally just finished writing and quickly editing it lol

In the name of our Lord and Saviour, Simon Riley, I beseech you to strike the writer curse from my weary body and allow me to continue feeding my hungry children with Ghostly content.

The last wisps of sleep were still clinging onto Charlotte’s consciousness when she felt her bed dip and the covers rustle and move. Her eyes blinked open slowly, her brain trying to comprehend the shit show that had become her life. For a brief moment, she thought she was back home, dying under the weight of grief and raising a child alone. But then she realised this wasn't her bed, these weren’t her bedroom walls and her husband wasn't dead. She still felt that grief though, it wouldn't shake even if he was breathing and now she had a heaping scoop of betrayal to go along with it. She rolled over to the source of what woke her up to see Beth beside her, giving her a cheeky smile.

“Good morning, mummy,” she murmured tiredly, scooting closer and wrapping herself around Charlotte like a snake. It made all of her tension seep from her body, even if only for a moment. She loved these moments in the morning with her daughter. They made her feel like she was glued back together briefly.

“Good morning, pickle,” she smiled softly and Beth made a disgruntled noise like she always did at the nickname. They didn't need words as they cuddled together as they both woke up and Charlotte tried to will some backbone to leave the room at some point.

They’d need breakfast and she hoped Simon wouldn't be in the mess hall. She wasn't sure how Beth was supposed to bond with him when she wanted him nowhere near her. She knew she needed to suck it up for Beth’s sake and Simon was lucky she’d do anything for their daughter.

“Did you have a good sleep?” Charlotte asked, her fingers stroking through Beth’s unruly curls. The girl shot her a bright smile with a nod.

“I did. I’m excited to go and see daddy at breakfast! Can we go yet?” she asked eagerly and Charlotte tried to stop her stomach from tying itself in knots.

“Let's get dressed then,” she flashed her best fake smile and Beth giggled, rushing to get out of bed as Lottie sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Can we match, mummy?” Beth asked hopefully and Charlotte nodded.

“You pick what you want us to wear,” she instructed, watching with a fond smile as Beth rummaged around in the bag, pulling some things out and leaving them strewn about the place.

She picked out two matching hoodies that had Placebo across the chest. Hers was real merch but they didn't make kids stuff so she’d wound up using fabric paint to replicate it on a kids hoodie. She picked out black leggings to match too. They both got dressed in their matching attire, boots to finish off the look and Charlotte really didn't feel like making much of an effort with her hair with how she was feeling so she threw it up into a high pony. Naturally, Beth gave her a look and was only placated once she also had a high ponytail that looked nothing like Charlotte with her blonde curls.

If she thought she felt nauseous on the way to the mess hall, it was nothing compared to how she felt when they strolled in, hand in hand. It felt like everyone’s eyes turned to the two civilians on base and she knew she wasn't imagining how they all murmured to each other. Maybe word travelled fast.

One pair of eyes in particular felt like they burned her right down to her bones and she glanced over to the table housing the 141, seeing those deep brown hues staring right at her. She felt like the wind had been knocked out of her and she looked away quickly, ushering Beth to the food. She grabbed two trays, feeling guilty that Beth was babbling about something but she was struggling to pay attention. She scooped some scrambled eggs onto the plates and some bacon. She was just scooping some beans too when someone approached.

“Well then, who’s this wee pretty lass?”

Charlotte turned to see Johnny standing there, a smile that she could only compare to sunshine on a rainy day as he peered down at Beth. she clung to Mr Snuffles tightly, blinking up at the man.

“I’m Beth,” she answered sweetly and Charlotte watched as Johnny crouched to be closer to her height.

“What a beautiful name,” he grinned and Beth beamed at him.

“What's your name?” she asked curiously.

“I’m Johnny but people call me Soap,” he answered and Beth giggled.

“That's a silly name!”

Johnny snorted with a nod.

“Aye, it is, but it's mine and I love it. We need to get you a call sign, aye?” he asked and Beth toddled closer to him, eyes wide as she nodded.

“Yes please, Mr Soap,” she clapped her hands excitedly and Charlotte didn't miss how she was drawing attention.

“Alright., let’s think…” Johnny rubbed his chin, making a show of thinking and it made Beth giggle again.

“Do ye have a nickname already? We could use that,” he suggested and Beth pulled a face.

“Mummy calls me pickle sometimes,” she muttered gloomily and Johnny chuckled.

“Nah, we don't want a name like pickle, do we?” he asked her, pulling the same face she had and it made her laugh.

“What kinda things do ye like?” he asked her thoughtfully and Beth’s face lit up.

“I like Halloween and spooky things. Ghosts, skellingtons and pumpkins. I like monsters,” she made fake claws with her hands and growled at him.

Being the good sport he was, Johnny yelped dramatically, falling on his ass and Charlotte couldn't help the grin on her face as she watched the pair, Beth laughing brightly at him. She was quickly warming up to the man.

“I have the perfect name for ye, and it kinda goes with yer daddy’s” he announced, looking pleased with himself and Beth was practically bouncing on the spot.

“What is it?” she asked eagerly.

“Spook,” he declared with a flourish and Beth’s eyes were almost sparkling.

“I love it!” she beamed, dancing about a little, the bunny in her hands getting thrown about in the process.

“Awesome!” Johnny grinned, holding his hand up to her and she slapped him a high-five harder than he expected if his wince was anything to go by.

He stood back up, a slight groan leaving his lips as he back popped.

“Now that's settled, let's eat, aye?” he smiled, turning to look at Charlotte as he gave her a warm grin that had her smiling back at him.

“Alright?” he asked her and she nodded, feeling somewhat better by his soothing presence. He seemed happy with her answer, clapping her gently on the back before he swiped Beth’s tray so Charlotte didn't have to carry two.

Beth was happily chatting to him as the three of them made their way over to the table. Price was at the head of the table to the right, the bench along the back housing a man she didn't know with a cap on his head and a calming smile aimed at her. She smiled back nervously and looked away, her hands tightening over the tray. There was an empty spot beside the man and Johnny plonked into it, not before putting Beth's tray on the other side of the bench which was empty. On the head of the table to the left was Simon, whose eyes were glued to her. Beth’s tray was placed beside him and that left the spot between Beth and Price open for her.

She noticed two of the men who were there at her outburst the day before weren't here but she was glad. It was bad enough being around just this small group, especially because she’d spilled her heart out in front of them. Worst of all was Simon though and the only respite she got from his burning gaze was when Beth climbed up on the bench, having to sit on her knees to reach her tray as she beamed a blinding grin at him and his eyes now went to his daughter.

“Good morning, daddy,” she smiled up at him. Charlotte wished to tear her eyes away and yet she couldn't, seeing his dark eyes peering out of his mask at Beth, all soft and gooey. It was the same look she had herself when her daughter was being sweet.

“Mornin’, lovie,” he murmured quietly and Charlotte swallowed thickly.

“So! Introductions since this spooky bastard won’t be makin’ ‘em,” Johnny started with a smirk and Beth gasped, slapping one hand over her mouth, the other pointing accusingly at the Scot, making him go silent.

“You swore!” she exclaimed and the whole table went quiet as they watched her. Charlotte bit her lip to stifle a laugh as Johnny blinked at her for a moment before he let out a laugh.

“Aye, I did, I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured with a grin and Beth raised a sassy brow at him.

“You owe me a pound now,” she held her hand out expectantly and Charlotte watched the Scot look to the girl's hand before back at her face.

“I owe ye?” he asked slowly and Beth nodded.

“We have a swear jar and every time mummy swears she puts a pound in and then I get to spend it,” she flashed her teeth in a toothy grin and Johnny’s lips quirked upwards as he glanced to Charlotte and then back to Beth.

“Well, I don’t have a quid on me right now, but I’ll owe ye one, aye?” he asked and Beth sighed with a nod.

“So, ye already know the Captain and this creepy fu- fool…” he trailed off after curtly cutting his words so he didn't owe even more money to the mini Riley. He slapped Simon on the shoulder and Lottie watched carefully as his dark eyes slid to Johnny, mild amusement and annoyance shining behind them. But when those eyes slid back to her, she felt like a lightning bolt struck her right in the chest and she looked away quickly, picking at her eggs.

“This one is Kyle Garrick, also known as Gaz,” Johnny finished as he gestured to the only man on the table she hadn’t met yet.

“Nice to meet you Mr Gaz,” Beth smiled sweetly at him. The man smiled, a soft look on his face.

“Nice to meet you too,” he replied politely, his eyes turning to Charlotte then.

“You too, Mrs Riley,” he smiled and her hand tightened around her fork.

“Charlotte’s fine,” she muttered tensely and she could practically feel Simon’s eyes burning into her.

“And all you fuc- idiots know Charlotte and Beth, now also known as Spook,” Johnny gestured to the little girl with a flourish and she grinned, making a spooky noise while she wiggled her fingers.

“You gave her a callsign?” Simon asked and Charlotte couldn't decipher his tone. It was so detached, different to what she was used to with him.

“Course I did. She loves spooky shi- stuff, so it felt right. You like it, aye, Spook?” he asked her and she giggled, nodding her head.

“I love it,” she answered happily before she turned her deep brown eyes to her father.

“Do you like it, daddy?” she asked, her eyes hopeful and wide as she stared at him. He just watched her for a moment and Lottie was starting to think he wouldn't answer her.

“I do. Suits you,” he answered, reaching out slowly and stroking her head softly. Her smile widened as she leaned into his touch and Charlotte felt a burning in her chest.

“We need a call sign for Charlotte then,” Gaz commented, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Grim,” Simon answered before anyone could suggest a thing. Had he shot her in the chest? It felt like it. So many memories flooded her system, memories of a happier time, of a time where he hadn’t betrayed her trust, hadn’t lied to her, hadn’t hurt her.

“Aye, that's good. Ghost, Spook and Grim, a proper family,” Johnny snorted gleefully

“What can I say? I like a good theme,” Simon answered dryly but she heard the amusement and it sparked an annoyance in her.

Five years he’d been gone, five years he’d fucked off, only to live in their old base. Was he here every day eating with his friends and cracking jokes like she wasn't at home raising a child alone and drowning in grief? Did he really care that little that he hadn't even checked in with her once? Didn't have anyone look into where she might be, what she was doing? Would he have even bothered to come back if he knew Beth existed? Would he have come back for her? Did he like it here without her?

She pushed her tray away from her, a vile feeling creeping into her chest like an infection that was spewing puss. She didn't want to be here.

“Mummy, your breakfast,” Beth murmured, looking up at her carefully.

“I’m not hungry anymore, sweetie,” she replied but her voice felt far away, floating out of reach.

It felt like her eyes weren't seeing, she couldn't get out of her own head. She suddenly felt warm leather on her cheek and with a start, she realised Simon had reached over Beth to cup her cheek, turning her to look at him with pure worry in his gaze. She jerked her head from his grasp like he’d burned her and his arm dropped back down. She didn't miss the pure anguish in his eyes. She needed to get out of here, she couldn't break down in front of everyone, not in front of Beth.

“How about I give ye that tour we were talkin’ about?” Johnny asked her with a grin but there was something on his face that touched her, soothed her spiralling. He’d never offered her a tour, he was giving her an out and in that moment, she knew Johnny meant his promise from the night before.

“Sounds good,” she forced a smile and Beth grasped her arm.

“Mummy… could I stay here with daddy?” she asked with a smile and Lottie hated the pain that lanced through her chest.

It shouldn't hurt her that she wanted to spend time with her dad, she’d only just met him and they had a lot of lost time to make up for. Yet she couldn't help the burning jealousy that hit her out of nowhere. He hadn't been here, it wasn't fair that he got to covet her and she got left in the dust.

“That's fine,” she answered, trying her best to keep herself in check until she left. She stood up quickly, not looking at anyone and not really bothering to think about manners to the other men at the table as she rushed out of the mess hall and outside.

Johnny was right behind her, hand on her back as he led her to a bench. She crumbled onto it, resting her face in her hands. She didn't want to cry, not again. She was sick of it. She wished she could just pretend it didn't bother her what he did. That she could just be happy he was here, happy he was alive. She couldn't shake the feeling of abandonment though. That the one person who swore he’d never do that to her had done it without care. It hurt so much that she felt she might die.

“It's alright, love,” Johnny murmured sympathetically as he rubbed her back.

“I just… he’s been here this whole time while I’ve been suffering ,” she lamented, feeling like her sanity was slipping through her fingers.

“I know… I know, lass. I wish I had the words to make this all better. Ye didn’t deserve to go through all this,” he sighed sadly, his hand still rubbing her back. Silence settled over them for a moment as she fought the deep urge to cry, sitting there staring out at nothing as she wondered how it all came to this.

“Ye wanna blow some shit up?” Johnny asked out of the blue. Her eyes darted to him, wondering if he actually meant what he said and he gave her a roguish grin that told her he did indeed mean it.

“Okay,” she nodded with a sniffle. Johnny’s grin widened, a gleeful laugh leaving his lips as he jumped from the bench, grabbing her hand and yanking her with him. He all but dragged her through the base to get to the demolitions section where training was held.

Ghost sat stiffly, watching as Charlotte rushed from the mess hall, his best mate in tow like a little puppy at her feet. He couldn’t get that haunted look she had out of his fucking head. She looked so lost, adrift at sea with no anchor to tether her to the world. He’d been that anchor once and now he was the cause of her spiralling. He’d wanted to be her anchor again and his touch had brought her back, but it wasn't the reaction he was hoping for.

Having her pull away from him like that was more painful than the gunshot wound to his collarbone last year. The fleeting contact he’d had with her filled his dead heart up with so much warmth before it was snuffed out like it was never there to begin with and he cursed himself for wearing his fucking gloves. He just wanted to be okay with her again, wanted her to accept his touch, wanted to fall into her arms and have her make everything okay again.

It wasn't okay though, it hadn't been for a while and this was his doing. He wasn't sure he’d ever be able to fix it and having Johnny be the one glued to her side was like salt in his wounds. He knew it was a good thing, Johnny would try and get her back on his side like the good best mate he was, yet it still stung. Hurt like a bitch when he saw her embracing Johnny while she refused his touch so viciously. How easy she’d fallen into Johnny’s arms, how desperate for comfort she was. It hurt. It really fucking hurt .

He was brought out of his depressing musings by a tug on his hoodie and he glanced down, remembering the little girl sat next to him. Her brown eyes were blinking up at him carefully, tilting her head like she was sizing him up. She was so beautiful.

“Daddy?” she asked him, her voice soft and sweet, wrapping him up like a warm blanket.

“Yeah, lovie?” he asked quietly. It was like no one else existed in that moment but her. She nibbled her lower lip as she shifted where she sat for a moment, looking deep in thought.

“Can we do something?” She gave him a hopeful smile and despite looking so much like him, he saw Lottie in that smile and he wasn't sure if that eased the ache in his heart or made it worse.

“What do you wanna do?” he asked, unsure what four year olds liked to do and even if that was possible on a military base. Her eyes seemed to light up as she flashed him a bright grin.

“I know!” she shuffled off her seat, moving to stand as she grabbed his hand and tugged on it impatiently. He stood, seeming to tower over her and she refused to let go of his hand as she started pulling him along. He couldn't hear Gaz’s witty remark but he heard Price chuckle at them both as he left.

He allowed her to lead him until they got outside and she kept pulling him until they moved over to the patch of grass that ran along the gates near the car park. She let go of his hand and he watched curiously as she plonked herself down without a care. She looked up at him expectantly and his lips tugged up slightly as he moved to sit on the grass with her.

“Daisies are really pretty,” she murmured happily as she started picking them. He’d never really noticed them before but now she’d drawn attention to them, he noticed they were scattered all over the grass.

He had no idea what to say, couldn't remember how to act around kids, it had been far too long. Part of his brain tried to remember how he’d interacted with Joseph but that was far too painful and he shoved it away quickly. He wanted to bond with her but he really had no clue how, so he just watched her.

She picked a bunch of daisies, her tongue poking out of her mouth a little in pure concentration as she started fiddling with them. He couldn't really tell what she was doing with them but after a few moments, she grinned triumphantly and put a flower crown on her head.

“What do you think, daddy?” she asked him sweetly and he melted into a puddle looking at her. The sun shone down on her and he wondered for a moment if he was dead and she was in fact an angel.

“Perfect, love,” he murmured, his throat feeling tight and uncomfortable and he had to clear his throat to ease the sensation.

Her smile widened even more and his chest felt like it was expanding. She picked a bunch more and he was helpless, could do little else but watch this little part of himself as she busied herself with the flowers. He still hadn’t fully wrapped his head around the fact he was a father now.

He’d been so ready for it back then, when he’d left for the last time. He’d been so excited to get back to Lottie and start a family. He’d been excited to watch the bump grow, to watch Charlotte glow as she carried their baby, looked forward to the scans and all the milestones. Looked forward to holding a tiny bundle of his own, much like he had when Joseph was born.

He didn't have any of that though and it was all his own fault. He’d missed out on the most precious moments of Beth’s life because he was a coward. He’d never be able to get those moments back, he couldn't undo what he’d done. Knowing all the things he’d missed made him wish he had died back in Mexico. It would be a relief from feeling what he was currently feeling.

He flinched with a blink when something touched him, rousing him from his thoughts. Beth was standing in front of him now, a cheeky grin on her face as she put a crown of his own on his head over his balaclava. He felt a rush of warmth flowing through him and he really didn't give a toss who saw him wearing it. She’d made him something and he wished he could keep it forever, wished it wouldn’t wilt away.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he smiled softly even though she couldn't see it. It was like she could sense it or maybe she was perceptive for her age and picked up on the scrunching of his eyes because she beamed at him, such a radiant smile he wanted to burn to a crisp from it.

“You're welcome,” she smiled, kissing his cheek over his mask before she moved away.

He was overwhelmed, too many thoughts and feelings running rampant in him and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. An explosion across base felt like it shook the floor and Beth jumped up, a worried look on her face that had a protective streak surge through him. He steadied her with his hands and she settled closer to him, plopping into his lap as if she’d done it a million times before.

“What was that?” she asked with big eyes, looking towards where the noise came from.

“It's just the demo practice. Its where they learn about bombs and things,” he explained, hoping to ease her worries. It seemed to work as she relaxed into him more.

“So, it's not bad?” she asked him, blinking her pretty eyes at him.

“It's not bad. You don't have to worry, lovie, I won’t let anythin’ bad happen to you,” he meant those words wholeheartedly. He’d burn the entire world down with everyone on it to keep her safe.

Another explosion happened and this time Beth seemed fine, pressed into his chest as she sat on his knee. While he wasn't worried as the noises were coming from the demo area, he was sure there weren't any classes or training today. It wasn't uncommon for Johnny to go and play around a bit, the only one to get away with it as the demolitions expert and being one of the 141. Was Lottie with him? Was it them making all this racket?

His eyes drifted back to Beth then, happily sitting on him with their matching flower crowns. He wanted to know more about her, all the things he’d already know if he’d have been around.

“You wanna play a game?” he asked her and she grinned up at him.

“What kinda game?” she asked him excitedly.

“We ask each other questions to find out more about each other,” he suggested and there was a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes.

“I already know everything about you. Mummy told me,” she beamed, sounding more than proud of herself. He felt like someone just gutted him, sliced him right open and let his insides splat onto the floor. He pushed it away though and tried to ignore it. Of course Lottie told her everything.

“How about you tell me stuff about you, then?” he asked her hopefully and she clapped her hands excitedly.

“My full name is Elizabeth Anne Riley,” she started. No, he hadn't been gutted before, he was now though. The pain that ricocheted through him tore through skin, muscle and bone. He bit down on his lower lip hard behind his mask, drawing blood. The sensation grounded him though as he nodded, trying not to look too upset.

“That's a lovely name,” he muttered, voice strained and choked. Her smile turned softer then, blinking up at him and she leaned into him more.

“It's a special name. Mummy told me I was named after special people,” she murmured. His chest felt so tight that he felt like he couldn't breathe. Without thinking about it, a hand came to stroke her hair and he found the feeling soothing to him, easing that ravaging ache in his chest.

“I’m four but I’m five in two weeks,” she held her hand out, wiggling her fingers at him to demonstrate her point and he felt his lips tug up a little at her excitement.

“My favourite colour is…” she trailed off, tilting her head with that thoughtful look on her face again. “Black. I like black ‘cause it's all spooky,” she flashed him a toothy grin and he melted once again.

“Mummy’s sketty is my favourite meal but I also love when she does eggy bread on my birthday,” she beamed up at him and he swallowed thickly, still stroking her hair as he nodded.

“They’re my favourites too,” he replied hoarsely and she gave him a cheeky look.

“I know,” she giggled and he made him smile.

Without warning, she hopped off his lap, his hand suddenly cold now it was no longer stroking her hair but she flopped down next to him, laying down and making her crown fall a little onto the grass.

“Lay down,” little one was bossy and he knew he had no choice so he obeyed. He held onto his flower crown as he shuffled around before laying on his back beside her. He moved his hand back to his side even though he was sure the crown had slipped off into the grass anyway,

“Do you like clouds, daddy?” she asked him softly. He turned his head to look at her and she was laying there, staring at the sky.

“Never really thought about it,” he replied honestly. She turned to look at him then, scrunching her face up with the most judgmental look he’d ever been given.

“Look at the clouds. Sometimes they look like things,” she murmured.

“I’ve seen that sometimes. Once I saw a cloud that looked like a co-... clock,” he muttered, shaking his head as he changed his words. Wouldn’t bode well for him as his first day being a dad coming out with that.

He still remembered that day though, in the sweltering heat of Al Mazra in the middle of a mission. Wasn’t every day you see a cloud shaped like a fucking dick in the sky and he’d have thought he was hallucinating due to the heat if it wasn’t for Johnny seeing it too. The Scot had said it was the best thing he’d ever witnessed in his entire life. When Soap had got Price to look, the shape had changed and the old man was sure they were off their rockers.

“Look at that one, it kinda looks like a bird doing this,” she pointed at a big cloud before she started flapping her arms around weirdly and he shook his head fondly before he looked back up at the clouds. He just watched them go by for a moment, enjoying the peace he felt. Something he wasn't sure he’d felt in a long while.

“That one kinda looks like a bum,” he murmured, pointing to a cloud.

“Daddy!” Beth burst out laughing, smacking his arm and he found himself laughing. Actually genuinely laughing and not the half arsed chuckled Johnny would draw out of him with a bad joke. It was an odd feeling to laugh like that, he was sure he hadn't done it since before he’d left for that mission, the one that ruined his life. It made him feel lighter.

“You can’t tell me it doesn't,” he huffed playfully and she laughed again.

“... It does, but you're still silly,” she snorted, making his whole body light up.

She was so precious and he wasn't sure just how to handle it. He was sad things with Charlotte were so bad and he didn't want to think about how the hell he was supposed to fix that mess, but being able to spend time with Beth and bond with her meant the world to him. He could focus on Beth for now, one thing at a time. He’d build his family back up from the ground, brick by brick. He’d done it before, back with his brother and his mum and he could do it again. It’d be painful and probably take a while but he wouldn't waver, wouldn't give up. Not when he had the whole world in the palm of his hand. He couldn't give that up for anything.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #simon riley x oc #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley

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edelweissbarnes · 1 year ago

Text

Not a flower but a bomb

Bucky Barnes x supersoldierF!reader Edelweiss (smut)

We take a step back discovering how was the relationship between the winter soldier and Edelweiss. Hope you enjoy.

The two female guards conduct you to the locker room, their rifles pointed at you, ready for shooting if you dare to make a false move. Sweat cover your body after your training. Sometimes they put you out of your cryo cage to give a demonstration to the new reclutes. they always underestimates you because you have a too pretty face and a hot body to be a skilled supersoldier and killer. You look like more to a bombshell with characteristics long platinum hair, blue eyes and curves that can make every man falls on their knees. You know too well that everytime that assumption pop up from a new group of reclutes someone will visit soon the infirmary because you'll be ordered to kick the poor soul's ass without an ounce of mercy. That's how they'll remember the shivering fear of underestimate something apparently beautiful but lethal.

This time wasn't different but they leave you out of the ice also for another reason.

"undress and take a shower" one of the guards barks at you in german. You obey without a word, taking off your white tank top, then your black shorts, followed from your sport bra and your panties. You untie your high pony tail and you move over the showers. The showers room is silent, noone is there except for you and your guardians.

"Ah...look like they send him to have some fun" you hear the guards whispering malignantly before you reach the handle to start the shower.

You put your head first under the water stream,facing the wall and letting your hair getting soaked. You moan softly as the hot water ease the subtle pain in your muscles.

"Edelweiss" his voice is sharp and low. A shiver run down your spine at the way your new given name is rolling out of his tongue. You had sense him even before he steps in the showers room.

You close your eyes and you tilt your head back, letting small drops of water slide down your throat to the valley of your breasts.

"winter soldier" you reply in russian, unimpressed " Weren't you taught that this is the women's locker room?" You mock him passing your hands between your hair.

"I've finished a mission and you're my reward" he replies coming near you, fully clothed.

"take me then" you murmur stilling your movement.

You know well the winter soldier, you were captured by him and taken in Siberia for your conditioning and then to an HYDRA's base in the italian alps to be used as needed in the crisis management on the European continent. Before the conditioning you were a very skilled and valuable agent in the italian intelligence. You were very good at your job and, after your last successful mission, your boss had decided to give you a few days' leave to relax. You were together with some friends, heading to the cabin you had rented on the swiss mountains to enjoy a few days skiing (one of your passions) when the winter soldier came to pick you up. None of your friends survived, not that you remember them now, anyway.

When you were an agent you heard stories about him, like some kind of ghost to scare off newcomers, not knowing that one day you would become one of his missions, let alone be his prize and diversion.

You were tortured for months, you tried to resist the conditioning with every ounce of determination you had but they broke your willpower and your very soul in so many tiny pieces that you'll never be the same.

He moves his fleshy hand to grab the back of your neck in a possessive grip, you stay still, waiting for the right moment to knock him down. You exhale and open your eyes slowly, glancing at him and smirking before moving, using the wall at your advantage to do a perfect backflip and twisting his wrist so that you break free from his grip. You crouch down slightly and land a series of punches to his right side knocking the air out of him. He squats, lightly coughing, before glancing at you with a smirk on his lips. This excites him and you know that.

"Never said it would be easy" you murmur assuming a difensive posture, ready to move.

Your resistance arouses him, it's like a bolt of excitement that goes from his chest right down to his cock. He knows that physically you can fight him back, thanks to the supersoldier serum, and he likes to test and challenge your strength but he's given order to do with you what he want as long as he doesn't corrupt your face. He moves rapidly, his punches precise, with little expenditure of strength, you dodge them easily, backing down til your back touch the wall behind you. His metal hand reaches your throat too easily, squeezing and taking you up from the floor as you weight nothing.

"you're mine" he growls in russian as you squirm in his hold, trying to breathe. The wetness between your thighs is becoming uncomfortable. Your body is trained to give him pleasure and reacts instinctively to his proximity. You try with both of your hands to free yourself from his metal grasp, unsuccessfully. His fleshy hand tries to reach between your thighs to cup your sex but you resist and you try to kick his groin.

"Stop it" He warns, he lowers more his voice. You feel like a prey fallen into the hunter trap and as a reflex you're trying to fight for your life.

"Dämmerung" he breathes and, as this word rolls out of his tongue, you go limp and cease every attempt of resistance. As part of your conditioning they use some code words in german (your second language after italian), pronounced by the winter soldier himself, to unleash your killer self or sedate every kind of resistance from your part.

You feel his fingers tracing your folds and entering your heat, you whimper without shame, closing your eyes as you're savoring his touch.

"So ready and needy for me...why you have to fight it?" He whispers in your ear as he open slowly his metal hand, leaving you free to breathe easily.

"I-it excite you..." you reply stuttering as he move slowly his fingers in and out.

He hums in approval when you arch your back, as the tip of his fingers brush the sweet spot that makes you shiver, a moan vibrate in your throat as he traps your mouth in his.

He pushes his fingers out and Instinctively your legs are wrapped against his waist, your drenched core brushing against his tactical trousers, the rough fabric separates your sex from his. He growls at the light stimulation and you buck your hips slightly to hear again that sound coming from his mouth.

He's the fist of HYDRA, the winter soldier, the terrible weapon of the most corrupted and evil organisation in the world but it makes your knees weak hearing him goes feral to have you, to be inside you and fuck you senseless.

Your hands move to his chest holster unfastening the buckles eager to unleash completely his appetite. You rip his leather vest apart and latch onto his neck, nipping his skin with your teeth while descending on his chest.

Another growl rumbles in his throat and you feel his erection straining in his trousers. You let your tongue swirl on his skin and you try to suck a little purple hickey on his chest. he grab a fist of your hair with his metal hand and pull slightly in a warning, you glance at him, smirking, as you unlock your legs from his waist to kneel gracefully in front of him. His other hand cup your chin and his thumb trace your lower lip, there's a fire so dark and lustful burning in his eyes that the promise to burn with him is an irresistible sin you want to give in.

Your hands go unfastening his trousers and freeing his raging erection. You let out a strained whimper as you see a bead of precum at the tip of his cock. You lick your lips before letting him in. He groans tilting his head back, savoring the warmth of your mouth. You let your tongue caress his shaft while you retract slowly and let him in again, fully. You repeat the action, your movements very controlled as you want him to feel all the sensations you can give him. Once again he slammed it in and you feel the tip of his cock touching the back of your throat and you close harshly your fists to suppress your gag reflex, he moans forcing a little bit more the barrier of your throat. You can feel him twitching inside your mouth and you try to retract but his metal hand stills you at the back of your head. Suddenly tears are spilling from your eyes on your cheeks because you can't breathe, you bang your fists against his thighs and he let you free.

"Your mouth is almost hot as you cunt..." he murmurs while you retract sputtering and coughing while some saliva slide down your chin. He doesn't give you time to sulk or breathe, both of his hands grab you by the shoulders to get you on your feet, then he turns you so you face the wall. You feel both of his hands grabbing your hips and then he takes you.

"CAZZO" you yelp crashing both of your hands into the wall in front of you. With one swift thrust he's all the way in. He's stretching you delightfully and your walls squeezing him in as that is the right place where he needs to stay, where he belongs.

"You're squeezing me like a vice..." he growls lowly as he start to move. You whimper and let him use you as he want, after all that's your purpose: appease the winter soldier needs.

"I'm gonna fuck this rebellious attitude of yours out for good..." he murmurs finding the rhythm to have you writhe against him. You're so groundend in the physical sensations that he's making you feel that you're unable to formulate a word, just a bunch of whimpers and moans are leaving your mouth. You try to reach his hair with one of your hand and you succeed at the same time his metal hand grab your throat and press your back hard against his chest. His cold fingers are squeezing lightly your throat and you feel the initial wave of your orgasm surging through you.

"Oh...you're so close...aren't you?..." he whispers in your ear pumping you up and then stopping abruptly.

You wail, showing your disapproval.

"You want it, right? You want to cum?" He asks in a whisper against tour ear before nipping your earlobe with his teeth.

You whimper and nod lightly while your soft walls are clamping his erection still sheathed inside you.

"Only the good girls can cum...have you been good?...I don't think so..." he whispers and you tug sightly his hair.

"Please..." you manage to reply under your breath. You know that having you begging is another thing that drives him out of control.

"Please what?" He continues as now he's pinching one your nipple between his fingers. You yelp, arching your back.

"Please, make me cum..." you breathe, trembling in your discomfort.

"Are you gonna be good?" He asks softly, his fingers now tracing circles on your abdomen.

"Yes..." you answer, pure desperation in your tone.

" I can't hear you...are you gonna be good for me?" he mocks you.

"YES! PLEASE...PLEASE...PLEASE" You shout on the verge of tears. One of your hand moves behind you, trying to touch him and make him move, the other reach his hand and squeezes it lightly.

He grunts hearing you beg and slowly he starts to move again. His strokes painfully calm and brutally precise, touching the spot inside you that makes you a shivering mess.

"Pleasepleaseplease..." you repeat whimpering while you feel again your orgasm approaching.

He fastens his pace and now guides his fleshy hand from your abdomen to the apex of your thighs, pinching between his fingers your bundle of nerves.

"Scream for me..." he orders you and you comply, feeling the orgasm crashing over you violently. For a moment you feel only the sound of your blood roaring in your veins and then a sudden peace invades your body as you feel his thrusts becoming sloppy and a strangle roar from his throat as he came inside you copiously.

He holds you against him before you both collapse on your knees. you can hear the rhythm of both of your hearts calm down.

"Let me wash you up, soldat...we better use our time out of the ice at the best of our possibilities..." you whisper turning your head slightly to watch him in the face. He nods quietly, holding you a little more tighter.

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Notes:

•Cazzo: italian word for "fuck".

•the dialogue is in russian. It's my headcanon that both the characters speaks russian while they're together 'cause it's the language they hear the most as their conditioning was done in russian, however mothertongue die hard so our FC (who is italian) when overwhelmed turn to speak italian.

• Edelweiss is italian but grew up bilingual (the virtue of growing up in a border zone) so she speaks fluently german.

Please, let me hear what you think of this story and about this character. I'm always open to suggestions and I'd like to hear from you. Hope you can excuse me if there are any grammar mistakes.

#edelweiss #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #super soldier #bucky barnes fanfic #winter soldier smut #winter soldier #winter solider x reader

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