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wallgirl · 4 years ago

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The Little Nereid Part two

2200 words, part two of a five six part fanfiction

Poseidon x OC

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful.

Categories: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending; no NSFW content

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Once she had collected herself and spent enough time admiring the bracelet on her own, Dynamene rose from the bed with a sigh and went to her door. No doubt her family would be wondering what her running was about.

Upon opening it, several of her sisters nearly fell into the room.

“Why-! What are you all doing here?” Dynamene gasped, quickly stepping out of the way.

“We heard you received your gift, and we didn’t want to disturb you, but we were just so curious…” One of the nymphs tweedled her fingers.

“Ah, yes! My birthday present from Lord Poseidon!” Dynamene beamed and held her bracelet-clad hand up to the light, allowing her sisters a good look at it. They crowded around in awe, cooing with admiration.

“Dynamene! Are you alright? Ianeira said you came running like a madwoman from Lord Poseidon’s quarters…” Actaea halted with relief at the sight of Dynamene showing off her new bracelet. “Oh, I get it now. So he did give you your gift himself, did he?” She gave Dynamene a rather knowing grin.

Dynamene blushed. “I mean… Yes, he did. I was very surprised.” She began to turn the beads of the bracelet over in thought. “I’m very happy with it. It’s even mother-of-pearl.”

“So it is!” Actaea stepped closer to get a better look. “It goes so well with the pins I gave you. You look absolutely spoiled now.”

Dynamene giggled. “I do have to say that I’m very happy with the presents I’ve received thus far.”

“Then you’re going to be even more delighted here in a moment,” another sister called from the far end of the hall. Slender Callianassa stood holding her treasured lyre in both hands. “Why don’t you all come down to the sitting room here? I’ll play you anything you’d like, Dynamene.”

The sisters crowded together down to the large sitting area, one of over a dozen spread out throughout the palace. Dynamene took a place of honor, draped on the side of the couch closest to where Callianassa perched on a gilded chair. “What would you like to hear, Dyna?” Callianassa asked, lightly strumming the instruments strings.

“Play me something by Erik Satie,” Dynamene said thoughtfully. Her thoughts continued to drift back to that moment in Poseidon’s quarters, where she had stood face-to-face with him.

“Oh, Erik Satie! That’s furniture music,” Thoe scoffed from where she had begun brushing Actaea’s hair.

“You’re so old-fashioned, Thoe,” murmured Callianassa. “Let’s see… I’ll start with the Gymnopedies, Dyna.” She began to softly pluck at the lyre.

Dynamene gave a sigh of contentment and allowed herself to close her eyes. It really had been such a wonderful day thus far. She felt so lucky and at peace to be here, surrounded by her loving sisters, enjoying a calm afternoon on her birthday. The golden sunlight washing in through the open windows caressed her skin with warmth. The gentle, bittersweet melody began to envelop her, and she found herself picturing Poseidon’s unwavering grey gaze. The tender somberness of the song brought to mind the emptiness in his eyes. How was it that someone so beautiful, so mesmerizing, felt so completely cold and void?

And yet a powerful aura emitted from him wherever he went. He was heartless, but he was also smart and strong. What he lacked in sentiment he made up for ten-fold as a god with his vast knowledge of the ocean and his subjects.

The ocean, his domain… How fitting for a man as unfathomable as he.

The sound of familiar footsteps echoing along a distant hall brought a stop to Callianassa’s playing, and Dynamene looked up. The rest of the Nereids halted whatever they were doing and stood; those footsteps could only belong to one person. Dynamene quickly got to her feet as well, straightening her peplos with quick hands. She felt that strange tingle returning to her veins, creeping from her wrists up her spine.

Lord Poseidon entered the room, and the fifty sisters immediately dropped to a quick curtsy. As the eldest, Ianeira stood at the head of the group, ready to engage their master.

He said nothing, as he was typically wont to do, for a moment, taking in the room. “We will be receiving Lady Hera here tomorrow afternoon.”

Several of the sisters tilted their heads or tapped their chins in reaction to the news. Lady Hera didn’t visit that often, but she was one of the few Olympians to make it a point to see her brother from time to time. Unfortunately, Lord Poseidon and Lady Hera didn’t often see eye-to-eye, and her visits often ended with him annoyed and her in a rage.

“I will be meeting with her in my quarters. There is no need to prepare the guest suite,” he finished.

That part wasn’t unusual. Poseidon did his best to keep his interactions with his family private affairs, usually entertaining them in his sitting room in his private quarters. The sisters exhaled silently in relief. Hera was always polite to them when she visited, but she had incredibly high standards of cleanliness, not unlike her brother. Preparing a suite for her was always nerve-wracking.

“Of course, my lord,” Ianeira replied. “We will see to it that the palace is fit to receive her.”

His instructions finished, Poseidon turned and left as abruptly as he had arrived. Dynamene stared after his vanishing figure, her hand lingering on the bracelet.

“We have our instructions,” Ianeira said, turning to the others. “We’ll start the preparations after lunch.”

With that, most of the sisters returned to their leisurely activities, some breaking off to have lunch early. Callianassa took her lyre up once more, and Dynamene returned to her perch on the couch. But her mind was now racing with the news of Hera’s visit. Hera usually came to Poseidon’s palace with one goal in mind…

Convincing him to marry.

It was just in her nature. As the goddess of matrimony, she worked hard to pair up her relatives and see them happily settled. A loner like Poseidon who refused to take a partner irked her to no end. Dynamene wasn’t entirely sure what her end goal was in seeing Poseidon married, but that mystery was best left to the Olympians who knew her well. Perhaps she considered Poseidon’s refusal to marry a personal affront to her own nature as the goddess of marriage. No matter her persistence, however, Poseidon would never bend. That was why their visits always ended in both parties with a sour mood. Dynamene often wondered why he bothered to entertain her coming in the first place, but then again, Poseidon was a pragmatist in these matters. He probably allowed her to make her arguments simply to keep the peace between him and her – and by extension, her husband Zeus.

Not that Hera herself was someone to trifle with on any accounts. One disastrous visit 700 years ago had ended with Hera punching a column that upheld Poseidon’s personal balcony, completely levelling it in the process. It had taken forty skilled workmen seven days, working day and night, to restore it to its prior condition. Hera was the most feared goddess of the Greek pantheon, sheerly on account of her wrath. Not to say that Poseidon could not take her in a fight; he mostly certainly could, and he would win. But Hera’s destructive fury wouldn’t leave him unscathed, if things came to blows.

Dynamene swallowed and forced herself to come back to her senses. There was no point in letting her fears run away from her. Since that incident so long ago, Hera had been largely successful in reining in her violence around her brother and his palace. Nowadays, when she visited, only harsh words were exchanged.

And yet, Dynamene found herself dreading Hera’s arrival. Was it because of Hera herself?

Or was it because of the topic that would no doubt be broached yet again?

“Alright, sisters,” Ianeira called, clapping her hands. “Lunch is ready for all. We’ll begin work after.”

With a sigh, Dynamene pulled herself from the couch. There was no use worrying now.

Several hours later, with the great entrance hall freshly scrubbed and polished, and the special velvet carpets laid out, the Nereids’ work was done for the day. Dynamene slipped out onto one of the smaller balconies overlooking the ocean for a breath of fresh air. She inhaled the scent of the seawater with relish; as a sea nymph, it would always be her favorite scent. The door softly opened and closed behind her, and Actaea stepped forward in the moonlight to join her.

“Finally, everything pristine and in its place,” her older sister sighed, gazing out at the ocean. “I’m sorry the latter half of your birthday was so dull.”

“No, it’s fine,” Dynamene smiled. “I got to spend plenty of time with all of you, and several nice presents to boot. I’d say it was a pretty fine birthday.”

“Always the optimist,” Actaea tousled her hair fondly. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. You won’t have another for the next century!” She sighed, voice full of reminiscence. “I cannot believe you are a woman now. It seems not long ago, when we first arrived here, you were hiding behind our skirts and shrinking behind furniture. And now look at you; a smart, well-read, considerate young lady.”

“I still don’t feel that… grown up,” Dynamene confessed, looking down at her hands. “I still look so childish. And I’m still so clumsy.”

“Coming-of-age is just the line drawn by the world, the official cut-off point between child and adult. The task of growing up is a giant blur; not one you can compartmentalize. Give it time, and you’ll feel grown-up soon enough.” Actaea smiled kindly.

Dynamene took a deep breath, deciding to share what was weighing on her mind. “Truth be told, I am… worried about Hera’s visit tomorrow.”

“Oh, everyone is worried about that,” Actaea laughed. “But she’s been well-behaved these past several centuries, no? I don’t think we have much to fret about.”

“Well, yes, but… It’s not just Hera’s temper. I mean… She always comes to talk to Lord Poseidon about one thing,” Dynamene continued lowly, twisting her hands.

Actaea looked mystified for a moment, then her eyes widened lightly as it dawned on her what Dynamene was referring to.

“If Poseidon marries, we’ll have a lady-of-the-house,” Dynamene ventured. “And I suppose I’m just worried about what that would mean for us.” She turned her bracelet over on her wrist. Its iridescent surface caught the moonlight in haunting cool hues.

Actaea was quiet for several moments. “Dynamene, you know as well as I do that Poseidon will never take a bride,” she said softly.

Dynamene looked up at her older sister’s face. There was something she couldn’t place in her sister’s eyes. She slowly turned her face back to the ocean, gripping the balustrade tightly. “You’re right,” she replied. “It’s not something we should worry about.” A tight pricking sensation came to her chest.

Actaea squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “We should head to bed now, little sister. We’ll want our energy for whatever Hera brings our way tomorrow.” She grinned dryly before going back inside, leaving Dynamene alone again with her thoughts.

Dynamene gave the dark ocean with its frothy foam one last longing glance. Her thoughts had been in a dizzy whirlwind all day long, it seemed. She desperately wished that she could go down for a swim, just to clear her head…

The more she considered it, the better it sounded. The idea was tantalizingly delicious in the face of the strange weight in her heart. With quick, quiet footsteps, she rushed through the dark palace and down those 150 steps to the shore. She took a moment to take in the vast ocean again, with its white foam crests and the soothing rush of its waves. Stripping off her peplos and chiton, she folded them and placed them atop a nearby rock, making sure the pins gifted to her by Actaea were wrapped well within. Dynamene looked down at her wrist, momentarily debating taking off the bracelet as well, but couldn’t bring herself to remove it. Surely, as mother-of-pearl, it would be just fine in the seawater, wouldn’t it?

With eager steps, she waded into the cold ocean water, allowing the spray of the waves to pelt her skin in its soothing rhythm. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate. Her older sisters were much more skilled in joining themselves to the water, but she still needed more time to focus her energy. Before long, her body began to slip away in the ocean, melting into foam. She gave a sigh of contentment. Although they might spend the majority of their lives in humanoid form on land, the Nereids were really most at home in the sea, their source of life and spirit. The dark, powerful waters cradled her fluid form, not unlike the weight of that presence she cherished back on land.

With her body now joined to the water, her essence little more than a current, she slipped deep into the darkness and allowed her thoughts to melt away.

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Author’s notes: A new sister added to the bunch. The Nereids asides from Dynamene are:

Actaea – caring sister

Callianassa – musically inclined sister

Eione – tomboy sister

Thoe – rude sister

Ianeira – oldest sister

I did my best to pick names for them that are each unique, to help differentiate them. These are all names of Nereids mentioned in real Greek mythology, but the resemblance largely stops there.

Now we’re starting to bite into the meat of the story; the main conflict. You know, Poseidon is a really static character to have as a love interest, but I have plans to flesh him out a little bit more in the next parts, so it doesn’t seem like Dynamene’s in love with a freaking statue (though with the way he acts most of the time, she might as well be)

What is the time period this fic takes place in, you ask? no one asked that

Well, it’s kind of an anachronism-stew situation. If we try to put a time on when Poseidon rose to power as king of the oceans, we might be able to slap the date on that as 1000 BC, roughly around when the Greek Pantheon as we know them started to be widely worshipped. Assuming that the Nereids came to serve Poseidon around the same time period, and that it’s been 1000 years since, that puts us around the year 0. However, Erik Satie composed the Gymnopedies in the late 1800s. So who knows? I’ve given up on making it make sense

#record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok poseidon #poseidon #poseidon x oc #fanfiction

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bauslut · 5 years ago

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seventeen days

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

word count: 1.022k

warnings: angst, lots and lots of angst, mentions of violence, cursing

a/n: this one is for a dear friend, @tempus-ut-luceant ! <3 the prompt from this fic was one from my list! my requests are still open, and i’m always happy to receive them! the repetition at the end is intentional! also.. strauss was actually... nice... for once..? i hope you guys enjoy! :))

prompt: “and when things have changed, i guess i’ll find out seventeen days.”

(i do not own this gif)

“you’re kidding right?” you scoff, pressing the phone against your ear, “it’s been so long since i’ve been out in the field, strauss. you know that.”

“yet i have been made aware how eager you’ve been to dive back in,” her voice is thick with satisfaction, and you can practically envision the smug smirk painting her lips, “if it’s not your speed or what you want, you can always step back. you have my full support on this matter, whatever you choose to do. i can only guide you, and i will in every way that i can.”

“what kind of position is this again?” gnawing on the inside of your lip, you reach across your desk, plucking a pen out of a mug, “i know you mentioned it only a few moments ago, but i wanted to write it down.”

“don’t fret, (y/n), i can repeat it for you. the behavioral analysis unit in quantico is in need of an agent within their department,” strauss answers, the words crisp and cool, “you would be working alongside supervisory special agent aaron hotchner, and his team, of course. does that name ring a bell to you? looking over your file here, it says that you two have previously worked together.”

aaron hotchner.

your hand froze, mid-way through scribbling down a sentence. your throat tightened, the pen suddenly becoming very slick in your grasp, trembling, marking up the paper with incoherent segments.

“i-i,” you stammer, the words nearly impossible to strand together, “i-i’ve worked with him before, yes.”

“oh perfect,” strauss chirps, “then the transition from the pentagon to the bau should be a breeze! it will certainly help that there’s a familiar face around. i will start the paperwork right away, (y/n). i am looking forward to meeting you in person.”

bringing a hand to your temple, your mind buzzes, clouded with a torrent of thoughts, “w-when do i start?”

“seventeen days!” strauss’ voice is shrill, piercing through the speaker, “if you need anything, jot down the number. have a good evening, (y/n).”

with that, the line clicked dead, nothing but static ringing in your ears.

inhaling a sharp breath, your eyes squeeze shut, your stomach twisted and knotted, bile rising in your throat.

the office is silent, nothing but the hum of the air conditioner echoing through the space, the twitters and chirps of birds sounding every so often, the rush of engines soaring down the street.

you’re perched in a chair, shoving the last few papers into your briefcase, grumbling under your breath. you’re so invested in your task that you nearly don’t hear his footsteps approaching.

“hey,” his voice is soft, laced with a tenderness that had your knees buckling, your heart all aflutter, “are you okay?”

“nothing that i haven’t seen or heard before,” you snort, a crimson blush tainting your cheeks, “i was more worried that he was going to lash out and hurt you instead.”

“oh it was nothing,” the chuckle that drips from his lips chimes like bells, “you know i’m always going to be there for you, right? no matter what happens, you’re always going to have my heart.”

“you’re worrying me aaron,” you swallow the lump of concern, “is there something wrong?”

“no,” he shakes his head, his mocha depths alight with happiness, “i’m just so in love with you, i’m not sure if i’ll ever stop.”

“oh aaron,” you murmur, reaching up to cup his cheek, cradling it with your palm, “i love you.”

“i love you too,” his lips curve into a broad grin, dimples and all, “more than you’ll ever know.”

“do you mean that, aaron hotchner?” you giggle, arching a brow.

“of course i do, lovebug,” the answer is instant, the words so utterly sincere, “of course i do.”

a tear drips down, splashing against the paper. with a jolt, a frown creeps onto your lips as the drop smudges the ink, ruining the letter.

“fuck,” you sniffle, desperately wiping away the streams trickling down your heated cheeks, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

yet, it’s no use.

the tears are flowing now, drenching the paper with splotches, the ink running all over the page.

just the mere mention of his name was enough to split your heart into two, tearing it apart. you thought the pain had subsided. after all, it was so long ago. you thought you were over it. you thought you had moved on.

but the pain was still there.

and it was real. unfiltered and raw as it overcame your body, the sobs shaking you to your very core. the sound nothing but gut-wrenching wails as you rocked back and forth, blubbering incoherent rambles.

as much as your mind was screaming that you didn’t have to. that you didn’t have to do it. that you didn’t have to move, you knew you had to.

you had to face him.

was he still the same man you knew back then?

the poised, charming, cool-headed, undeniably witty man? the man who held your heart in his tender hands? the man whose kisses sucked the air right from your lungs, leaving nothing but a blissful, airy feeling afterwards?

was he still the same aaron hotchner?

how could you know, you hadn’t spoken a single word to him since that day. no phone calls. no emails. no letters. nothing.

had things changed since then?

the queries lingering in depths of your mind were going to be answered soon enough.

in seventeen days, you would step in the confines of the behavioral analysis unit of quantico virginia, surrounded by bright, welcoming faces. in seventeen days you’d be starting a new chapter of your life, yet retreating back to old stomping grounds.

in seventeen days, you would face him, masking the hurt from wounds that he left. deep, jagged wounds that were not quite healed.

in seventeen days, you would receive your answers. and in seventeen days, you would realize that the feelings were still there. who knew if he still harbored those same emotions. after all, it had been years.

did aaron hotchner still love you?

in seventeen days, time would only tell.

#hotch #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch x reader #thomas gibson #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x reader

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afewmarvelousthoughts · 5 years ago

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Only For A Moment Ch. 45

Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: Violence (combat), ALL THE EMOTIONS

A/N: WELL HERE WE ARE. Almost to the end of Part One of this journey. I always knew we’d end up here, I just didn’t know it would take 44 chapters and a little more than a year but I also can’t say I’m mad about it.

I hope you all enjoy this Civil War throwback and everything that’s to come.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

Tags are open!

“How about Vienna?” Bucky pipes up.

“Huh?” You ask, looking up from your sketch.

“Vienna. It’s a large city, not high on anyone’s radar.” His slight smile makes you long to kiss him. Walking over to his spot on the couch you lean down, pressing your lips to his. He tugs you into his lap, holding you close.

Without Mr. Goldstein, the city felt somehow colder even as winter melted into spring. Leaving was no longer just the logical choice, it was the easiest one, and of course, Bucky had been thinking of your next step this whole time.

“Vienna sounds lovely.” Honestly, you didn’t care where you both ended up, as long as you were together.

“Perfect,” he purrs.

Throughout the next two weeks, the two of you get ready yourselves to leave. Books that aren’t sentimental are donated, same with any home goods you can do without. Most other things are taken to the farmhouse, for safekeeping and future sorting. In no time the apartment feels barren--but somehow it’s good, a clean slate to leave from. Another new chapter… but this time you won’t be starting off alone.

The sun rises, brightening the paper-covered windows but you both linger in bed, wanting to hold onto this little slice of peace for just a bit longer. Wanting to revel in the peace and comfort of familiarity before heading into the unknown.

Tomorrow you’d head the farmhouse, staying there a few days before moving forward to Vienna. While you’re both ready, moving on was still bittersweet—this had been your home, after all, the place you found one another.

“So,” Bucky leans on his elbow, staring down at you, “I’ll go to the market and you’ll take care of laundry?” You groan dramatically and roll over onto your stomach.

“Come on,” he goads, “I did the laundry last time.” His lips press into the skin at the top of your spine and you shiver with pleasure. In response, he presses closer to you.

“Hmm. I mean fair point but…” You encase him in your power and pin him to the mattress on his back, sitting up to straddle his hips. He stares, a little awestruck at his sudden position change. “I think the market will still be there later.”

“And the laundry?” He asks with a wink grasping your hips and settling himself within you.

“Sure.” He moves inside you causing you to gasp. “Whatever, just keep doing that.”

Eventually, you both manage to get dressed, however reluctantly. He slips into that red henley that made his eyes look somehow bluer and your mouth actually waters.

“What?” He asks, catching your hungry stare.

“Nothin’,” you say hopping up from the couch passing by him to wait by the door.

“Liar,” he whispers into your ear as he grabs you, holding your back to his chest. You laugh, your head falling onto his shoulder.

“Maybe,” you kiss the rough stubble of his jaw. “Come on, doing things was your idea old man, chop-chop.”

In the entryway to the apartment building, he goes over the list as you shoulder the laundry bag.

“Anything else?” He tucks a loose curl behind your ear.

“Plums,” you smile kissing his cheek, “if they have any good ones.”

“Got it.” He tilts your face up before planting a tender kiss on your lips, his blue eyes making your heart skip. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love all of you.” You playfully push the bill of his blue baseball cap down covering his eyes. “Don’t forget the plums.” He laughs and smacks your ass playfully as you turn to go.

As the laundry spins in the washer you crack open your now well-worn copy of Frankenstein. Though you hope on the familiar words will soothe the anxiety that change inevitably brings, you can’t seem to focus on them. Instead, you let your head fall back, focusing absently on the flickering muted screen of an old staticky TV in the corner.

At first, you think you imagine it because… that couldn’t be Bucky’s image. Just a blurry photo and your mind, distracted as it is, is just filling in the blanks. But then you see the words flashing on the screen.

Blinking hard you shoot up from your chair, unwilling to believe what your eyes are clearly seeing. His name. His fucking name. Wanted. For…

“Fuck,” you breathe out. Too fast to be even remotely perceived as normal, you push past the people by the door to the laundromat and run home, laundry forgotten.

Rounding the corner onto your block you barrel into a police officer trying to keep curious onlookers at a safe distance.

“Sorry, Miss. It’s not safe here. Please stay back.”

“You don’t understand,” you say, trying desperately to keep your voice even. “I live here. I live here.”

He only shakes his head, “You will need to just wait. I’m sorry.”

Unwilling to waste any more time you walk away, telling yourself over and over, Do not run. Do not run. Running would be suspicious and you need to look like just anyone else right now. Throwing a cautious look over your shoulder you duck down a nearby alley.

With trembling hands, you pull your phone out and stare at the word knew you’d see. The one word that brings everything crashing down around you:

Burned.

All those months ago the two of you had laid out plans, one for every conceivable horrible occurrence. Each one had it’s own code word and plan of action. Each one had been drilled over and over until the steps and stages of each came as easy to you as breathing.

You know what you’re supposed to do. You know you’re supposed to trash your phone. Head to the apartment for supplies if possible. If not cut and run to the farmhouse. From there a 48 hour window for the other party to arrive. If they didn’t… you disappear and hope to find one another again, hope that fate was kind once more. Hope…

There’s the sound of splintering glass and crunching metal parts as you crush your phone in your hands, both from duty and the rage that’s beginning to burn through you. Dropping it to the ground you bend down to pluck the sim card from the heap and crush it as well for good measure.

Step one done.

It’s the only step you intend to take.

Reaching into your bag you fish out your scarf and tie it around your face—best to not be recognizable. Strapping your backpack on, you focus and propel yourself onto the roof above you, and then drop to the back of your building.

A lone swat agent notices you and yells at you to stand back. You don’t hesitate to land a blow straight to his throat, rip off his helmet off, and slam his head into the wall rendering him unconscious. Every movement is fluid and measured. Not an ounce of energy wasted. Bucky would be proud.

You’re almost to the side entrance to your building when you hear something on the opposite roof. Moments later the thundering sound of a chopper cuts the air before bullets begin to rain down. Fear clenches your chest. They have to be shooting at him.

Without a thought for the chaos above you, you slide into the parking garage next-door where Bucky’s bike waits. You don’t have the key but it’s easy enough for you to use your ability to force the starter to turn. Wheels squealing you peal out just in time to see Bucky running, being pursued by a person in black and… Captain America himself.

Ignoring them you pull up next to Bucky.

“Buck!” You call out, hand extended.

He throws you a sidelong glance, eyes winding in fear and maybe a flash of anger before he reaches for you. Your power just barely latches onto him while helping you control the bike one-handed.

The person in black kicks the back wheel of the bike causing you to lose your hold on Bucky and sending you skidding into traffic. It takes all your concentration to not crash and keep a line of sight on Bucky as he drops down into the underpass.

“Goddamnit,” you growl, throwing the bike around to find a way into the fray.

Soon the noise of the bike echoes alongside the other cars as you swerve between them, desperately attempting to catch up. The squealing of tires up ahead pushing you forward.

You’re sure you’re close when some fucker with wings is pulled down by the person in black. Hope blooms for a moment before a blast sends part of the roof plummeting down ahead of you. Barely avoiding it you bring your bike up just outside the rubble. A few curious citizens exit their cars and creep closer, phones out, to get a view of the scene before them.

A small sound slips from you as you watch what could only be considered a firing squad draw on them all. No one else should have heard it but Bucky did. He turns, searching for you through the dust. Before you can call out to him you’re being driven back with the other civilians by the police.

No, you silently say to yourself. No.

Grabbing the bike you thunder out of the underpass and circle around, breaking every known traffic law, to get to the exit you know they’ll need to take in order to get out. You make it just in time to catch the end of the motorcade.

Hanging back enough to not lose them but to remain suspicion free you follow.

You haven’t the slightest idea as to what you’re going to do—but you’ve never been able to save anyone else you loved, no one was going to take him from you.

The containment unit they put him in was well insulated. The only sounds are his own ragged breath, hissing slightly when the electric current passes through his left arm sending pain reverberating through his body, and the gentle hum of the electricity itself. If it wasn’t for the movement of the truck Bucky wouldn’t be sure if they were transporting him still or if they’d arrived to whatever hell they deemed appropriate for him this time.

Two categories of thought run over and over through his head, only interrupted when he feels the sway of the vehicle cease from time to time.

There was Steve. Steve had come for him. Not to bring him in, not to take him to task for what he did, nothing like that. Steve had come to warn him, had come to help him even though there was no way for him to know for sure whether or not Bucky was innocent, he couldn’t help but grin a little at that.

And then there was you. Love and anger and fear all pulsed through him in equal measure when he envisioned you on the bike, reaching for his hand. He should have known you wouldn’t run, should have known you wouldn’t listen to reason, follow the plan.

Bucky supposes that he should be thankful you didn’t rush into the line of fire to stop his arrest, you had that much sense at least. It was little comfort because he knows without any doubt that you’re trying to find him now—he also knows the massive target that places on your back.

He thinks he wants to be mad about this. Thinks he wants to tell you that you’re being needlessly reckless. He thinks these things because they’re easier to focus on than the stabbing sense of pain and longing that overcomes him when he wonders if he’ll ever even see you again—ever hold you in his arms, feel your lips, hear your laugh.

His head thuds back into the seat he’s strapped in, gnawing at his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself from screaming because… Because the fact is, before you he’d have accepted this, wouldn’t have fought back at all, just taken it and let whatever would happen come, now that isn’t an option.

He hears Mr. Goldstein’s voice in the back of his head talking about the good moments… Bucky focuses on all the good ones with you, all the little things that brought him peace and happiness.

There is a way out of anything. He will find it. Find you.

All he can do for now is wait. To break out now could be a greater risk to both you and Steve. And, despite Steve’s warning, they were indeed taking him in alive so that meant something had already changed from the intel Steve was provided. They wanted him alive…

The realization makes his blood run cold.

You’d been riding for almost 20 hours. It made the trek you’d undertaken after escaping from Hydra feel like a pleasant hike.

The constant vibrations from the bike had left your lower body numb and maybe a little raw while the rest of you was exhausted from lack of sleep, food, and an overload of stress. Each time you had to stop to refuel or pull farther back to avoid notice your body buzzed with panic, afraid that you’d lose the motorcade entirely.

You don’t though. Without fail you hone in on the backside of the motorcade, the flashing lights guiding you in the darkness.

When your tired mind realizes that you’ve entered Berlin a familiar sense of dread settles over you. This was where you’d come after Hydra, before Bucharest. This was where you’d thought you’d be safe. And this is where you learned that being free did not mean that your fight was over.

It seemed fitting that this road would lead you back here then. Back to this reminder. Because here you were—still fighting. A deeper sense of exhaustion washes through you as you wonder if the fight will actually ever stop.

The motorcade slows as it approaches what appears to be a government facility of some kind. You pull the bike down a side street ditching it without a backward glance and casually make your way toward the buildings.

There’s a flurry of activity, everyone scrambling now that the Winter Soldier was on the premises. Good.

The chaos allows you to slip through the crowd like a shadow—unsuspecting, unnoticed, unimportant—and tail a group in swat gear. They begin to disperse, each to their own assignments until you’re only on the heels of one.

He seems more nervous than the others, distracted, a telltale tick in his hands. He rounds a corner into a quiet corridor and you follow only a few steps behind, constantly checking for any signs of others.

Hydra taught you how to do this, how to send out your power like an extension of yourself, feeling for things and people in your area. But this power was not theirs—it never was—this is yours and you will use it. All the little tendrils of power you send out touch nothing that seems organic. Just the person before you, unaware of your silent steps behind them.

Using a key card the officer opens a door marked as ‘Exit.’ You send out a bolt of your power to hold the latch as the door closes behind him.

Silently you crouch by the door, assessing, your senses honed in on this individual. There’s the sound of steps down one flight and then they stop, a sigh, the click of something like a lighter. Pushing the door open just a bit you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. Perfect.

You open the door casually. The man having a, no doubt, forbidden smoke frantically tries to hide his transgression rather than check if you’re someone who should be here. Too bad for him.

It takes maybe a minute. He was a strong man, you can feel that in his struggle, but you were stronger. With his head locked in your arm, you use your power to cut off his air and blood flow just enough to render him unconscious quickly. You carry him down one more flight of stairs to be far from any quick lines of sight and quickly strip him.

The clothes are slightly too big but it’s fine, you leave him his boots and don the helmet to better disguise your features. Curling him into a ball you cover him with your jacket and hide his face with your cap before heading out the door you’d entered—braking the lock to make his discovery, hopefully, take a little longer.

Of course, you know fuck all about this building but if you had to hold a super soldier, underground would be best. You stand casually by an elevator and punch a button. A blonde woman huffs up next to you, looking down at a file folder seeming more distraught than happy at what’s happening around you both. Curious, you think but try to not pay her too much mind.

You focus your attention on the door instead, crossing your arms as if annoyed at the time the elevator is taking. Finally the doors open and you both step in. She’s by the keys and presses her number, scanning a security badge.

You can feel shrewd eyes assess you before she speaks, “Are you assigned to Barnes?” Her German is perfect but clearly accented. Not a native.

Forcing down the lump in your throat you nod and answer in German, “Yes.” You make a scoffing sound, “Last minute assignment. Needed a woman to meet the diversity requirements.”

Her eyes roll and she shakes her head, “And let me guess the men left you to figure out where to go on your own?”

“Exactly.” You’ve never been more grateful for the patriarchy.

“Assholes,” the woman grumbles in English and punches another button.

“Thanks,” you point to what you assume is the floor you need.

“Gotta lookout, right?” She smiles. Before stepping out she looks back at you, “I don’t think he’s what they say he is. For what that’s worth. Make sure they aren’t too harsh.”

Words fail you and you only manage a nod. She gives you a sad smile and exits, leaving you alone.

Did she… know somehow? Your mind races to try and locate where you may have seen her before but you’re certain that you have never met. How could she know? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe there really were just people who could look past the bullshit.

You don’t have much more time to mull it over. Three floors away the power cuts sending the elevator to a shuddering halt. A cold foreboding settles across your shoulders but your heartbeat stays steady, thrumming in time with the red flashing light.

Every instinct screams that this is wrong. It was too convenient. Too perfect.

Your power confirms that the elevator has stalled between floors. Sliding it between the doors you use that and your strength to pry them open and shimmy out into a corridor filled with people scurrying like rats.

At first, there’s nothing but noise but you narrow in, catching bits of the frantic chatter.

“Breached containment.”

“Rampage.”

“The Winter Soldier is loose.”

Your mouth feels desert dry. You’d been heading for him before, knew roughly where to find him. Now…

“What the fuck are you doing officer?!” An angry, official-looking, man grabs your shoulders. “He’s heading up, now’s no time to freeze. Go!” He pushes you against the flow of bodies and you start to run.

They were running from him… Why…

You turn a few corners and head up a flight of stairs until the space opens up into a bright lobby. The beautiful day outside the windows is a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding before you.

Desperately you try to assess what’s going on, try to grasp it. He’s fighting off every person who comes at him with a cold ferocity.

Part of you screams to rush in but you know it’s best to read the room, the last thing you want is to get in his way. But as soon as you hear the gun go off, see him land a hard blow to who you suspect is Tony Stark--remembering seeing his face on magazine covers and gossip shows in the past--your feet move, unable to hold back any longer.

The woman from the elevator rushes Bucky. You catch her in your power and drag her back. She gasps in surprise, righting herself quickly. Throwing yourself between him and her you catch her kick, grabbing her leg and spinning her around sending her to the floor.

“What the hell!” She exclaims scrabbling to her feet.

“Sorry,” you shrug countering her next blow with your power before landing a right hook to her jaw and a lung crunching blow to her sternum. She stumbles back into a heap.

Bucky has Natasha Romanoff punned to a table, her throat in his metal grip. It only takes a second for you to realize that if he continues he will kill her.

“Bucky stop!” You grip his shoulder trying to pry him off of her.

He whirls on you. He just doesn’t realize, you tell yourself. Quickly you fling the helmet away before dodging a swing.

“Buck-” Metal knuckles graze your cheek, flashes of your first encounter searing through your mind, as you sway back to avoid the full blow.

Before you can recover he’s got you in his grip, lifting you from the ground. You use your power to keep your body weight from making the bad situation worse, trying to keep blood and air flowing from beneath his metal fingers when you understand with earth-shattering clarity… Bucky isn’t in control now.

No.

You know this is why the two of you trained so hard. This specific worst-case scenario. He wanted you to beat him back, hurt him so badly that he couldn’t hurt you worse. But… you just can’t.

“It’s me,” you croak, reaching your hand out to touch his face. “Bu-” there isn’t enough air in your lungs to finish his name. Through the growing haze, you see just a moment of horror flash across his face. Recognition. It’s enough.

You find yourself sailing through the air, body careening with Romanoff, who was heading for another volley. She grunts under you, rolling you over and pinning you beneath her.

“Who the fuck are you?!” She snarls.

“No one,” you snap, butting your forehead into her nose and tossing her aside as a man sprints up the stairs on Bucky’s heels.

He’s there, just beneath the surface, he’s trying. You just have to get to him.

Still gasping for air you pursue them. You try and fail to send your power out to the man but your head is reeling. Before you realize it’s happening you’re tangled in them as they tumble down a flight of stairs.

The three of you right yourselves and you place yourself between Bucky and this man. He has to be enhanced, his blows coming rapid and fluid. Bucky doesn’t seem to be viewing you as an enemy any longer, instead, you both move together, fighting like one unit, deflecting his strikes with almost beautiful precision.

He moves to attack you but Bucky catches it with his left arm. Impossibly the man holds him back. Head clear you push a blast of power between them. Bucky stumbles a bit before he jumps over the railing dropping down. As you move to follow the man lands a hard blow to the back of your skull.

Blackness envelops you and when your vision clears and they’re both gone.

Groaning you lift yourself up leaning against the wall—the weight of the last 30 hours thundering into you, threatening to suffocate you. The two of you should be at the farmhouse by now, curled together, getting ready for a new life. But no.

Focusing on that was going to get you nowhere. You’d promised to take care of one another…

Your eyes sting, “Mr. Goldstein,” you whisper to the eerily quiet air, “if you’re looking out… help me find him… Please.” Your voice cracks and you take a shaky breath before rising on trembling legs.

Unsure of where to go next you head out into the courtyard, teeming with nothing but panicked people. Well… almost.

A familiar-looking man hovers near the edge of the courtyard, a bastion of calm in the chaos, clearly observing everything happening around him. Finally, you place him, he’d been arrested along with Steve and Bucky in Bucharest. Even so, there is no telling if you can trust this man, but if he can get you to Bucky-

The crowd erupts in fresh screams as the sound of a crash echoes across the complex. Both of you rush to the edge of the river only to see the fractured pieces of a helicopter sink.

Every muscle in your body wants to jump in. He’s in there! Your heart screams—but your gut says, Wait.

Carefully, you slide your gaze over. The man doesn’t seem to have noticed you, but he seems to have seen something else. You glance back but don’t notice anything significant. He turns on his heel, walking purposefully from the courtyard. You cast a desperate glance back to the river before following him, your gut winning this fight.

You follow him on foot on a long, winding, route. Each step, each moment you think he’s come to his destination only to continue on, each time you narrowly escape his keen observations leaving you more and more exhausted.

You’re so close to breaking that when he finally enters a dilapidated building in an industrial complex and doesn’t exit you nearly weep—you may not know if Bucky is here but you do know your body cannot take much more.

Ignoring the chill rising up your spine as you hear helicopters overhead, you slip into the building silent as a shadow, only the tips of your boots touching the ground just enough to allow you to pivot if needed.

Steve and the man are in a room away from the main space judging by their raised voices. It was pure luck, there were few spaces to hide in the open building, had they been there you’d be seen. Still… If you’re going to wait them out you need a place to hide Thankfully, most people rarely, if ever, thought to look up.

Praying your power holds out you push yourself from the ground and perching above the doorway to the room they occupy, listening.

“He tried to kill us!” One of them bellows. “I get trying to repay some kind of old debt or something. But you pulled him out, I’d say you’re even.”

“I get it, Sam,” Steve says, voice low and thick with emotion.

“Do you?” The person you assume is Sam growls out.

“Yes. But I can’t just… He wouldn’t leave me behind, he’d never-”

“Steve…”

“I just need to know. I need to know if he…”

“The odds aren’t looking good man,” Sam sighs out. “You really think that’s gonna hold him when he comes to?”

When he comes to… Those words light a fire in your veins, chasing away the bone-crushing exhaustion from a moment before.

He is here. He’s right here. You almost rush down to him but sense wins—he was there, unconscious. Sure, you may be able to fight these two off but you couldn’t get you both to safety if he was dead weight. Plus… when he woke would he be himself…

You hear shuffling from the room. Panicked, you push yourself up a bit higher, using the old pipe as support, and guide yourself to a far corner, toes resting on the pipe, body curled against the rafters. And so you wait.

Sam and Steve make rounds of the building a few times, never thinking to look up just like you suspected. As you wait you see two different versions of Steve Rogers.

When Sam is around he’s solid, seemingly unshaken by what’s happened. Donning the mask of a leader without thought. The moment Sam goes into the other room though… the mask is gone. Steve looks smaller somehow, shoulders slumped, pace less measured. His fingers run through his hair over and over in a nervous tick. Just like Bucky, you think with a smile.

It feels like an age before Sam calls to Steve sending your heart into your throat. Steve sprints into the room, following Sam.

Silently you return to your place above the door. A small pained noise hits your ears causing your heart to seize. Bucky… Patience, you coach yourself to keep from doing something stupid.

“Steve,” he says in a huff.

“Which Bucky am I talkin’ to?” Steve’s voice is cold, the mask back on. There’s a pause and you don’t dare breathe.

“Your mom’s name was Sarah…” Your body tenses. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes,” Bucky says, a soft laugh coloring his tone.

Tears sting your eyes and you feel yourself breath just a little easier. It’s him. He’s alive and in control and… he is yours. Steve may want answers, may even be willing to help, but you don’t know them and don’t trust them. You’re going to get the two of you out of here no matter what it takes.

Dropping down you fling Sam across the room, with a blast of power that surprises even you, before they even realize you’re there.

Steve, caught off guard rushes you—he doesn’t get far. You grab his ankles and with a flick of your wrist, you send him to the ground, his own momentum working against him. Sam was up again but you pin him easily enough as you slam a wall of force down on Steve to keep him down.

“Y/N!” Bucky gasps as you hurry to his side.

You can’t speak, scared that you’ll lose focus, already feeling the tingle of pain in your skull from using so much power. His arm is caught in a vice of some sort. Groaning you use your hands to pry it open just enough for him to get loose. Steve slips your hold and lunges but you manage to push him back.

“What the fuck is this?!” Rage rumbles in Sam’s words.

“Bucky?” Steve looks at Bucky behind you, eyes begging for answers.

“It’s ok,” Bucky says, voice steady behind you. His arms wrap around you, pulling your back tight against his chest. “It’s ok,” he says again, breath hot on your ear. “Let them go, Y/N.”

“No,” your voice steadier than you anticipated. “We need to go, we have to-”

“It’s ok, doll,” he coos, like you were waking from a bad dream. Steve’s eyes are on Bucky still, some silent communion taking place because Steve nods before Bucky says, “We can trust them, it’s ok.”

But it wasn’t. Nothing was ok… Pain cracks through your skull, your power recoiling as it thunders back, and you shudder. His grip loosens and the other two men don’t move as you turn in his arms.

“Bucky,” your voice cracks.

“It’s ok,” he repeats, his kind eyes studying your face, “I’ve got y-” Gentle metal fingers trace the bruise forming on your cheek and wander down to your throat. “Who…” Realization dawns with horror on his face as he pushes you away stumbling back.

“It wasn’t you,” your voice soft. It feels like the oxygen in the room has been replaced with tension. You place a hand on his arm and he pulls away, it hurts worse than any bruise.

“Wasn’t…” he shakes his head, tremors tearing him as he collapses onto the floor, back to the vice that held him a moment before. He turns desperate eyes to Steve, “What did I do?”

Steve looks at your own desperate expression, begging him to be kind. “Enough,” he says. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut, his head hitting the metal behind him with a painful thud. You fall to his side, taking his face in your hands, trying to force him to look at you.

“You didn’t-”

“I knew this would happen,” it’s barely a whisper, his eyes refusing to meet yours. “It’s all still there, everything Hydra put in my head.”

“And you’re still there too. You. Bucky Barnes,” your voice is strong now, needing him to hear you. “You stopped yourself from killing people, from killing me. You fought-”

“I hurt you,” his eyes finally met yours, the pain there threatening to swallow you both.

“I’ve hurt you, remember?” Your hand rests on his abdomen where purple bruises once bloomed darkly after you lost control during a flashback.

“This disfunction is touching but who the hell are you?”

“Sam,” Steve says, warning in his tone. You glare at Sam over your shoulder before Bucky coaxes you to sit between his legs, clearly wanting you both to remain as non-threatening as possible.

“What?” He gestures at you and Bucky. “It’s a fair question considering both of them have thrown my ass across a room today.”

“He has a point,” Steve looks to Bucky.

You sigh, “Y/N. My name is, Y/N.” Silence hangs for a moment.

“Like Cher? Just the one name?” Sam crosses his arms and cocks a brow at you.

“Yeah,” you smirk up at him. “Just like, Cher.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around you, his focus on Steve, “She’s my girl.” You see Steve’s face soften.

“So the assassin has a girlfriend and I can’t even get a date?” Sam rolls his eyes shaking his head.

“Have you considered, or rather reconsidered, your winning personality?” You snipe back, watching Sam fight a smile.

“Are you both done?” Steve looks between you and Sam.

“For now,” Sam sighs, sitting on the floor as well, his back to the wall.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, “What did that guy want with you Buck? The doctor.”

“I… I don’t know.” A tremor runs through his body behind you and you give his forearm a comforting squeeze.

“I need you to try and remember. He attacked some of the most powerful people in the world for the opportunity to get 10 minutes alone with you. We need to know why.”

“He said he didn’t know,” you bristle.

Steve doesn’t acknowledge you, “Bucky…”

“He… He wanted to know about… Si-Siberia.” Bucky’s voice is strained, as though reaching for this information is painful. “Where I was kept…” You shift in his hold so your back is pressed against his inner thigh to be able to see his face.

“Why?” Your brows knit. Of all the things-

“Because… I’m not the only Winter Soldier,” he says, eyes glued to the middle distance, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.

Your body goes stiff, blood cold, as he lays out the story. Flashes fill your mind when he speaks on the serum they pumped into the agents—blue and burning and… running through your own veins. Without thinking your fingers wander to the track marks on your arms, tracing them over and over again while Bucky describes what these other soldiers are capable of.

Sam and Steve huddle together talking. Bucky’s warm fingers catch your hand, “It’s because of me. Like I said. They were able to do this to you because of me…”

“You were Hydra,” Steve turns on you both, voice dripping with venom.

“No,” Bucky says.

“You said those people were Hydra-” Sam starts.

“I’m not fucking Hydra,” your voice shakes. “I wasn’t one of them. They… they took me.”

“Why?” Steve’s expression is cold, distrusting.

Your jaw clenches as you send Steve stumbling back several paces. “That’s why,” you growl.

“You trust her?” Steve asks Bucky.

“With my life,” Bucky says. The certainty in his voice makes your heart sing.

“I think the question here is do you trust him?” Sam asks Steve, voice laced with disbelief.

“I do.”

“So some heartfelt sharing and just like that we’re supposed to be cool? That makes sense.”

Sighing heavily you run your hand over your face, feeling the weight of exhaustion beginning to press in once more. “I think a fucking Hydra death squad being let lose is a more pressing matter than who trusts who don’t you?”

“She’s right,” Steve says. He walks over to Sam, taking a seat beside him. “We need a plan.”

“You plan things now?” Bucky asks, a note of humor coloring his words. Sam issues a knowing scoff causing Steve to glare at them both.

“Whatever the plan we should sort it out in a better place than this.” You say, looking around the space. “Like maybe a place with a door that locks?”

“Open to suggestions,” Steve says.

“I think I noticed some shitty hotels not too far away.” You try to think of the buildings you passed on your way here.

“In case it slipped your notice we’re kind of being hunted,” Sam says.

You grin, “You guys are being hunted. I’m not.” Steve’s smile mirrors your own.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky’s tone is no-nonsense.

You spin on him, “Do you have a better idea?” His jaw flexes as you stare at him. “Didn’t think so. We need to get out of here to someplace where we can sort this shit out and I’m the only one here who’s face hasn’t been plastered across news channels around the whole damn world.”

His eyes narrow, “What exactly do you think we’re gonna sort out? You’re going to get the hell out of here and we-” he gestures to the other men-“will find a way to-”

“The hell you will!” You shoot to your feet, staring down at him in shock. “You just said some psycho is planning to unleash a bevy of Hydra fuckery onto the world and you actually think I’m going to run off like some damsel?!”

“Y/N-”

“Don’t. There isn’t anything to discuss. I’m in this. We are in this.”

“Oh I like her,” Sam says with a smile. Bucky gives him a murderous look but doesn’t argue further.

Despite Bucky’s protest you’re soon ditching the top of your stolen tactical gear in favor of Sam’s leather jacket and sneaking off into the growing afternoon shadows.

First thing you need is cash.

It feels like old times as you slide into a dim pub, already filling with patrons fresh off from work, and effortlessly slide a few wallets and money clips out and away from their owners. You ditch the wallets, cards, and IDs in the bathroom trash and move to head out before your reflection catches your attention in the mirror.

The circles under your eyes are practically purple in the light, your hair a tousled mess. You sigh heavily, resting your hands on the sink as your stomach roars. No time for that now. Instead, you drink from the faucet long and deep, splash some water on your face, and get back to the tasks at hand.

It’s full dark by the time you pull up to the warehouse.

When you see Bucky he looks like he’s about two minutes from razing Berlin to find you.

“What took so long?” He grumbles once you’re inside.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Could you steal cash, a car, get food, and find the most questionable hotel in Berlin faster? I’ll be sure to let you do it next time.” Behind you Sam snickers.

Bucky pulls you into his arms. “I’m just happy you’re ok.” You look up, giving him a weak smile before resting your head on his chest, your eyes begging to close.

“Are we clear?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.” You nod toward the exit and they follow, Bucky taking your hand in his.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam says, gawking at the beat-up Beetle waiting for you all.

“It’s a classic,” you say over your shoulder. “Plus, no one is gonna look for two super soldiers and a… Bird… Guy, in this.”

“It’s Falcon,” Sam throws at you as he rounds the car to pry open the rusty passenger door. “Bird Guy,” he mutters under his breath, folding himself into the back seat. Steve chuckles a little as he somehow shoves himself in beside Sam.

Before Bucky releases your hand you sway a bit.

“Baby doll?” He steadies you, hands on your shoulders.

“Just tired,” you say, doing your best to sound nonchalant. His eyes brim with concern. “Seriously. I’m ok. I’ve got you.” You place your hand over the steady thrum of his heart.

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth rising a bit, and lowers his lips to your forehead. A knocking on the small back window of the car hits your ears.

“Not to ruin the moment but…” Sam says. You both laugh a little before climbing into the car.

“You boys comfy back there?” You ask, looking back at them through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah-” Steve’s knees jam into the back of Bucky’s seat- “plenty of room to spread out.”

“Still a punk,” Bucky huffs pushing his seat back a little farther.

The three of you stand in the doorway to the hotel room, giving yourselves a moment to acclimate to the stale smell.

“Getting scabies is the perfect way to top off this shitty day,” Sam sighs out.

“It’s been more than a day,” Steve says dryly.

“Rogers. Shut up.” Sam shoulders past you all. “I’m taking a shower.” He’s in the bathroom for about thirty seconds before he exits.

“On second thought, dealing with my stink is the least you all owe me.” He immediately face plants on the nearest bed, the cry of old springs filling the room.

“Maybe the other bathroom is better,” you say opening the door to the adjoining room, Bucky silently trailing behind you. It’s equally musty but the bathroom doesn’t look like someone died in it recently. You’d certainly showered in worse.

“This one isn’t so bad, Sam,” you call out to him.

“Nope,” he says, voice muffled. “Too late.”

Steve shakes his head at Sam’s prone form as he sits on the edge of the other bed. Relief floods his features as he lifts the receiver on the old phone, it must actually work. His eyes run over you and Bucky, hovering by the door to the other room, then back to Sam.

“I’m gonna make some calls. You guys get some rest and I’ll get you when we’ve got enough intel to start putting together a plan.”

“You sure?” Bucky asks, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. The two of you turn to leave. “And, Y/N…” You turn back to Steve. “Thank you.” His words are filled with sincerity and hold so much more than their simplicity would suggest.

“I think I owe you at least a few.” You glance up at Bucky. Steve pulled him from the river and likely did more that you didn’t know. Something tells you that you’d have lost Bucky today was it not for him.

“I’d say we’re even.” He sighs, “Rest up. We’re gonna need it.”

Bucky closes the door behind him and your legs finally give out as you collapse on the edge of the bed, your head held in your hands. Suddenly your breath is ragged, body trembling, you don’t have an ounce of will left in you to control either.

The sound of angry springs tells you he’s perched on the opposite bed.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, his voice rough. You look up at him, his expression is bereft. “You don’t have to do any of this, Y/N. You don’t. This doesn’t have to be your fight.”

You’re too tired to be mad at him but you bristle all the same. “It is my fight.” His brows knit and you press on. “He came for you. That makes this my fight, even without Hydra being involved.” Venom drips from your next words, “And if I get my hands on him first. I swear I’ll break him in every way I know how.”

Bucky rises, kneeling on the ground in front of you, gathering your hands in his. It reminds you of when you first met, how he’d kept you from being crushed under the weight of your grief, even after you’d attacked him and tied him to a wall. Your eyes sting with tears and you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Y/N…” His thumbs run over the ridges of your knuckles before he lifts your hands to press a kiss on the back of each. “You’re my whole heart. The one good thing that’s come from the nightmare that the last 70 years has been… And I need you to promise me something.”

All you can do is nod, unwilling to say anything too committal.

“Promise me that if…” He swallows hard looking away for a moment before turning his focus back to you. “That no matter what happens to me… Promise you won’t give up.”

No matter what happens… The implications make your chest seize. You look away, trying to pull from his grip but he holds you tight.

“Y/N,” his voice is calm and steady, “look at me.” Begrudgingly you do. “We don’t know what may happen, we never did. But now…” Now the threat was more tangible. You close your eyes, trying to fight back the tears.

“I just need to know that you’ll keep going,” his voice cracks on the last word. You open your eyes—tears, breaching their banks, flow silently down your cheeks—and study the face of the man you love.

He was so beautiful. Those eyes that told his story often better than his perfect mouth ever could. The lips you loved to feel on your skin, hiding a smile that you knew could shame the sun. You pull your hand free from his and trace his strong brows, the crease between them that formed when he was worried or thinking too much. Your thumb dashes away a lone tear that sneaks out of the corner of his eye and take a deep, shaky, breath.

A part of you wants to give him what he wants—promise him that you’ll be fine, thrive even, no matter what. A part wishes you were that unbreakable… but you’re not. A world without him… It wasn’t unimaginable, you’d lost too many people to be that naive, but it was a nightmare to consider. You can’t promise him much but you can give him something.

“I promise I’ll try…”

His smile is soft, a little sad, as he pulls your hand from his face to press a kiss to your palm. “That’s enough.”

“You have to do the same though.” His eyes narrow, body tensing a bit. You knew he’d only seen one side of this, the one where he’s taken in or down—but he wasn’t the only one heading into this situation, there was enough risk to go around.

His jaw flexes and you think he’s going to protest but instead, he says, “I promise, Y/N.” You give a small nod, face contorting as you press down a sob, too scared to fall apart now.

Bucky takes your face in his hands, pressing his lips to yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. Your chest fills as though you haven’t truly taken a breath since you’d last tasted him. His fingers tangle in your hair, his tongue sliding between your teeth. A small sob finally breaks free from you, but he catches it and the pain it carries with his kiss.

A hurricane of love, fear, relief, and exhaustion rages through you. Rather than fight it, you let it come, let the tears flow, let him gather you in his arms and carry you into the tiny bathroom, setting you on the sink.

Your kisses taste like the sea as your hands clumsily tear at each other’s filthy clothes until they reach purchase on the flesh they crave. Everything slows then. Each touch becoming less desperate and more reverential, memorizing the dips and curves of each other because… Because maybe this is the last time.

You won’t give that thought any space to take root.

Bucky turns the water in the shower on, steaming hot before lifting you in his arms again. You wrap your legs around his waist feeling the length of him brush against you. Once in the enveloping warmth of the shower he slowly slides inside you.

For a few minutes, you remain connected like this, staring into each other’s eyes. You want to remember this, remember how he feels, how his eyes are always so blue when they’re wide with wanting.

Under the heat of the water the two of you make love as though there isn’t disaster dangling just beyond your line of sight—unhurried, sighing love between kisses, whispering it into ears, saying it with your bodies as you both come together, quietly.

You’d just slipped your teeshirt back on when a knock sounds quietly on the other side of the door between the rooms. Bucky answers, still roughly toweling his hair in only his jeans.

“Hey, sorry,” Steve says somewhat awkwardly. “I got through to some folks faster than I thought I would.”

“That’s great,” Bucky says. You come up behind him, handing him his white undershirt, as you both head to the other room.

Sam smirks at the two of you, “How’s the shower?”

Bucky makes a small noise and you laugh, “Passable.”

“Good.” Sam looks to Steve, “Lay it out, Rogers.”

Steve leans by the window, arms crossed. “Sharon is going to meet us an 0700. Thankfully she’s not one to hold grudges.”

Bucky’s face drops, “Did I-”

“Pretty blonde?” You ask taking a shot in the dark and cutting him off from falling into that guilt trip.

“Yeah,” Steve nods.

“No worries there babe, that one’s on me.” You pat his shoulder and sit on the empty bed. Bucky raises a brow before joining you.

Steve shakes his head, “She’s got mine and Sam’s gear and agreed to grab a few things for the two of you as well.”

“That’s generous,” Bucky says with suspicion.

“It wasn’t hard to convince her after I explained what was going on.”

“And Clint?” Sam asks.

“Yup. He’s on board and is gonna reach out to Wanda and get your guy, Lang.”

“Wouldn’t call him my guy,” Sam says, groaning as he sits up. “But if he can get the drop on me I say he’s a good addition.”

Steve looks at you, “Assuming you’re in too?”

“Absolutely.” Bucky takes your hand in his, holding tight. Steve nods in approval.

Steve gives you an approving nod, “Then we rendezvous at the airport. Clint is covering transpo. From there we head to Siberia and hope we can stop him before he topples whatever empire he’s aiming for.”

“Alright.” Sam stands to stretch. “You two cool with switching rooms? I need to shower.”

“Fine with me,” you look at Bucky and he nods in approval.

Once the guys leave you lay on top of the dingy comforter. It takes all of one minute for you to fall into a deep sleep.

Bucky counts your breaths, hoping they will lull him to sleep. Instead, he finds himself studying your face, the little sounds you make, the way your lashes just barely graze your cheeks.

He almost lost this.

Like a memory from a nightmare he recalls his left hand tight on your throat, the look of terror and determination in your eyes, your hand reaching out, calling his name. He can still feel the shock through his skull as your name thundered into his consciousness then. You had been enough to pull him back, even if only for a moment.

Just before dawn he’s restless, body humming with anxiety and anticipation.

Delicately he extricates himself from the bed, hovering for a moment to make sure you’re not awake. He heads out into the hall, propping the door open with the latch to make sure he’ll hear any sign of you waking.

“Had a feeling I’d see you out here eventually,” Steve says from his spot on the floor just down the hall. “You never could sleep the night before a mission.”

“Neither could you.” Bucky slides down the wall across from Steve.

Steve’s gaze is focused on his palms, forearms resting on his knees. He doesn’t look up when he says, “How much… How much do you really remember?”

Bucky sighs, “I…” His mouth goes dry suddenly, unsure of how to quantify this. Then he remembers the stories he shared with you, a smile rising to his face.

“I remember that one time we got caught sneaking into the pictures and hid out in a dumpster.” Steve laughs a little but still doesn’t look up. “I remember DumDum always challenging you to a drinking contest knowing he’d lose every time. And…” Bucky swallows hard, smile falling, “I remembered… I remembered what I said when your Ma passed.” This causes Steve to look up, eyes big and glassy.

“The end of the line,” Bucky says, voice thick with emotion. Quickly he dashes away tears threatening to fall, not wanting Steve to ever see him break. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I tried-” He doesn’t finish, cut off by Steve’s bone-crushing embrace.

It takes him a minute to realize that Steve keeps repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” like a chant under his breath.

“Pal-” Bucky pats his back firmly- “you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I do,” Steve barely manages as he pulls back, Adam’s apple bobbing hard in his throat. “I couldn’t save you. All the times you backed me up, saving my ass, again and again, our whole lives and… when it mattered-”

Bucky shakes his head, “You’re impossible.” Steve leans against the wall next to him, wiping his nose on his arm. “Did you forget pulling me, hell the lot of us, out of that facility? Thought I was the one with memory problems, man.”

Steve throws him one of his signature sidelong looks. Bucky grins, knowing that means he’s getting through.

“Do you remember it?” Steve takes a shaky breath, “The train?”

“No.”

Steve sniffs hard, nodding and clearing his throat.

“Y/N, must be somethin’.” There’s nothing false in the smile he throws Bucky’s way. “Don’t think I ever saw you look at a gal like that.”

Bucky huffs a small laugh, casting a quick glance at the cracked door. “I don’t think I ever did.”

“You deserve that, Buck.”

“Not sure about that. But I want to…”

Steve claps a hand on his shoulder, “You do, brother. I promise.” Bucky manages a half-smile.

“Steve…” He rubs his hands together, unsure if he has any right to ask this, but knowing he has to. “If anything happens to me…”

“I’ll have her back.” Bucky looks at him, a little slack-jawed. “You’re my family, Bucky. That makes her family too.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

“Don’t mention it.” He shoves his shoulder into Bucky’s. “But, let’s both try to make it out of this one.”

“Deal.” Bucky sighs, leaning his head back against the wall.

“I lost her… Peggy,” Steve says after several minutes. Bucky had figured as much but his chest tightens all the same. “They buried her two days ago.”

“Oh, Stevie…” The old nickname slips out and he cringes a bit, remembering Steve hated it. He’d assumed Peggy, everyone, had been gone for some time by now.

“It’s ok.” A sad smile fills Steve’s face, tears threatening. “You did say that I’d regret waiting. You were right.” Bucky doesn’t know what to say, he just rests what he hopes is a comforting hand on Steve’s knee.

“Don’t waste any time you have together, Buck.” Steve stands suddenly, shaking off the sadness like it was nothing. Bucky knows its bullshit, just a front Steve Rogers was good at putting up. He holds a hand out and pulls Bucky up.

“Get your ass back in there. We’ve got almost two hours until we leave.”

Bucky smiles tightly and nods before heading into the room.

You’re still asleep when he closes the door quietly behind him. He slides up next to you, pulling you tight to his chest, pressing kisses to your brow.

“Bucky,” you say in a groggy voice.

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yup. We have a little while before we roll out.”

You nod, “Good.”

“Kiss me,” he says low. That’s all he wants to do until you run out of time. Kiss you, hold you. Pry one more good moment from this mess of a situation.

Tag List

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justanotherbuckydevotee · 7 years ago

Text

lostmyhead - part 1

Word Count: 1,850 words Prompt : Lovecraftian – Horrible and indescribable platonic love. Or in which you don’t know how to deal with your emotions. Warning(s): Sad stuff in the beginning, then some badly written fighting scene. Mentions of blood. My attempt at violence. A/N: This is my entry for @hellomissmabel‘s 2k Birthday Celebration. Thank you for letting me join! This my first action stuff so please be kind with your criticisms (of which I want to know!). It’s also not proofread sorry. Happy reading!

masterlist

series page || prologue || part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4

** gif not mine **

read previous >> The Prologue

A soft touch on your shoulder jolts you back to reality. Your body, trained to be distrustful on instinct, grabs the threat’s wrist before swiftly moving to their back, pulling their whole arm behind them forcefully.

“Hey, it’s just me” came a voice, a familiar voice. For a moment all you could see was the distance between you and the drawer that held all your guns, forgetting that you’re just in the Quinjet waiting for the others to join you.

You halted your movement, tensed shoulders relaxing as you release a sigh. “Sorry” you mumble, freeing your hold of Bucky before you settle back to your seat, feeling his gaze at the back of your neck. You move to your ammo bag that’s situated on your seat, unzipping and taking out the contents as something to do.

You hear the faint footsteps of his boots, an intentional movement to let you know he’s right next to you. You’re hyper aware that he’s standing just at arm’s reach, the heat of his body almost radiating in the cool air of the hangar.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly as if you both were sharing a secret. Blue eyes bore into yours, an intense clear blue-grey, sharp yet tender as he leans closer. “Talk to me” he continues with a low voice when you’ve yet to answer him. Worried eyes locked with your blank stare.

He takes another step closer, taking his hand over to yours in order to stop you from digging through your bag aimlessly.

It’s a simple action, but the aftermath of it isn’t. It manages to send every alarm in your brain blaring, the voices in your head whispering angrily to run but your heart. Oh, your heart. It is begging you to savior the simplicity of such an innocent action, jumping slightly from the contact before settling back to its quiet beats. It’s making your body torn between yanking your hand away or to let it be, making your body scream at your inner turmoil to make a decision.

This is dangerous, (y/n) the voice in your head hisses. It’s rationality speaking.

You pull your hand away from his, pretending to bring a box of ammo over to your weapon compartment. “I’m just nervous for this mission, I guess” you say to him as you walked over, pulling a drawer with your name on it and taking out your favorite firearm.

“It’s going to be okay. Besides” he tells you just as he stands next to you again before continuing “You’ve got the best partner there is” with a smirk.

You could let out a small laugh before nodding, just as the rest of the team begin to appear from the distance and onto the ramp of the private aircraft.

Throughout the whole flight, you keep to yourself, trying your hardest to avoid Bucky so the unfamiliar confusion between your heart, mind and body wouldn’t appear again. You can’t afford to be distracted, not when the mission objective is to get a high-ranking member so he could be detained, questioned and sentenced for prison.

You weren’t going to let these emotions swirling inside of you whenever Bucky’s even near you get the best of you.

You take the small earpiece from the open palm of Bucky’s hand, pushing it into your ear as he begins to speak to a device tucked in his sleeve, making sure your comms are working properly.

“T minus 10 minutes” Clint informs as he operates the jet alongside Natasha, looking at a screen beside him. You stand up from your seat and begin to count the amount of weapons you have.

The belt around your waist is secured with ammos, thigh holsters holding your trusted pistols, the hidden pockets of your tactical suit hiding more guns and a selection of knives. You’re in the middle of running your hands along your calves, bending forwards and patting to ensure that the extra knife you concealed was there safely, when a hand brushed past the small of your back. Immediately you snap your head to see who it was.

“You need to relax, woman” smirks Natasha. You hadn’t even realized she’d unbuckled from her seat and made her way to you. She pulls her compartment, pulling out her electrocution bracelets, taser disks and other gadgets before tucking in a few of her hand guns.

You can physically feel the Quinjet slowing down, making Steve walk over to the side of the ramp, repeating the plan yet again; Sam will be up for aerial coverage, with Clint over-looking the grounds for when it’s time to move out. Natasha and Steve are the ones in charge of getting the person of interest while you and Bucky cover for them.

It was a standard operation that you’ve done a thousand times and more. It wasn’t any different from any of your previous missions –ones that you’d led yourself and ones you’ve had the pleasure of working with your team mates.

Standard.

Easy.

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes as you did so. You needed to be professional on the field and handle whatever it is you’re feeling once everything was done and dusted. Exhaling slowly, you pushed any lingering emotions away, making your way to the ramp that was slowly being unlocked just as Clint lands it smoothly.

Bucky’s already standing there with a rifle in his hand, looking at you next to him. With a simple nod, the both of you walk out of the safety of the jet and make your way to the gated building.

Did you say it was easy?

Nope.

The mission was far from easy.

Throwing a quick punch to your assailant’s throat, you heard the satisfying sound of his choked breath, before ultimately shooting him squarely on his chest. Before his body could hit the ground, you grabbed him by his neck, using him as your shield just as more agents came from around the corner. Thankfully your training with both Clint and Bucky paid off, having managed to fire a round of bullets to each of them.

The sound of whirring from behind made you turn, seeing just in time your partner throwing a punch that thundered around you. You’re definitely grateful not to be at the receiving end of that punch, seeing how such a blow managed to throw even the people behind the unfortunate agent.

Distant echoes of footsteps made you grab your gun from its holster, raising it just as more agents came charging at you.

All hell broke loose after that. Everything’s happening all at once as adrenaline kicked in, and you’re fighting mercilessly against so many foes, shooting, throwing punches and kicking your way through them all. Your ears are ringing with so many frantic voices overlapping one another as your team members shout warnings to retreat

“It’s a trap” Steve grunts. “Get back now!” he barks after the faint sound of knuckles against flesh.

“Lukin isn’t here” Natasha explains as she throws one of her disks to an enemy. “Me and Steve are retreating now. Where are you, (y/l/n), Barnes?”

“Three floors below you” you manage to reply, hurling yourself to an agent before digging a knife on his ribs, making him emit an almost inhuman ear-splitting shriek before he gurgled.

“Roof is clear” “I’ll get the jet” “Get up there. Now!”

You hear Bucky shout from behind you, spinning your head to see multiple people holding him down, stabbing his neck with a slim syringe.

Nothing mattered to you after that.

Instantly your hand grips the knife tightly, only to throw it speedily to the forearm of an agent that’s holding the syringe. Bucky is still fighting, grabbing hold of an agent’s head and tossing him over like a rag doll. You yanked a weapon from one of the bodies that lay there, realizing you’ve used up everything you’ve brought, you shoot at one that’s adamant on pulling Bucky away.

Bucky is screaming words at you, his face beginning to lose color as he continues to fight, but you don’t listen. You can’t listen to anything besides your rapid heartbeats that you fail to notice an agent creeping behind you. He kicks you, hard, making you lose balance and the weapon slips from your hold. You fall face first before his hands grab a handful of your hair and slams you violently to the concrete ground.

For a moment you can’t breathe, eyes going in and out of focus when warm blood starts gushing out. He raises your head one more time and you think that you’ve lost everything when you don’t see Bucky in front of you.

But the blow doesn’t arrive. Instead, your opponent goes limp next to you after a horrific crack, his head twisted. Bucky turns you around, calling your name vaguely. Your eye-sight is slowly returning though its hazy, bringing with it a pounding headache. Bucky’s helping you stand up but again another came charging at him.

Your heart, though it is scared right now, is yelling ‘save him, save him’, giving you enough energy to will yourself to move, crawling to find the weapon that you held moments before. Another painful scream and it’s enough to make you deliver a shot to the enemy.

Both of them falls to the ground, and you’re so scared when you see Bucky’s not moving.

“Don’t you dare die on me, Bucky” you say, eyes wide when you finally make it to him. You place two of your shaky fingers to his neck, grateful when you feel his strong pulse. The ringing in your ears are ceasing, and you can hear Steve’s worried voice through the comms, needing answers.

“They got… injected Bucky… ‘M not sure…” you stumble with your words as you stand up, bringing Bucky with you to a door.

You’re praying to any higher being that’s listening to you, pleading to them to just make the staircase be vacant so you could bring him up to safety, begging to any God to take you instead of him.

You’re so caught up in your own fear that you don’t see Natasha and Steve up ahead, calling your name as they take two steps at a time to reach you, both of them grabbing Bucky from you when they see your bloodied state. Neither of them look too good either.

“Just one more flight” Steve informs as you follow behind him. “Hang on”.

You yelp in pain when you feel a sharp sting at the back of your thigh, followed by another one up on your hip, making you lose balance and stumble down to the bottom of the stairs with a painful gasp.

“If we can’t have him, then we’ll take you inste–“ your attacker spits in a foreign language but doesn’t complete his sentence when Natasha puts a bullet in him.

“Just go. I’ll be right behind you” you tell her as you struggle to get up, trying in vain to not give into the excruciating pain.

“я не оставлю тебя”. It’s Natasha.

It’s her words that you hear before your body finally gives up.

Next part >> Part 2

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souslejaune · 6 years ago

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During the food shortage my sister... (Folio 1: Part 4)

iii

During the food shortage my sister and I spent our hours reading. In the rainbow world of the written word we found holes in which to hide from the reality of our existence.

On the news we saw flickering images of flat bodies steamrollered by hunger. People dotted the city waiting for rations of flour and yellow corn. We had never seen yellow corn before the drought, but it was the colour of the corn the American government finally sent us as aid. Ronald Reagan’s yellow reaction to humanitarian pressure. The Americans didn't owe us anything but because the corn was yellow, our gratitude was measured.

Kenkey, a national staple made from fermented corn: milled, rolled into balls, wrapped in corn husks and punctured in the middle to hold the husks in place and provide better heat transfer; changed its colour from white to yellow like a chameleon. No amount of boiling could make the shade fade. We could no longer identify with our food.

Grandma’s chronic need to consume kenkey before she declared herself sated meant that she was never full during the drought. Yellow kenkey was a hollow statement.

Men wandered around with bloodshot eyes seeking answers. The parched ground offered nothing. Even priests and witchdoctors queued for food. There was an air of persistent mourning. Richer families crossed the border to Togo or La Côte D’Ivoire to buy food that had been shipped in from France. The entire West African sub-region was hit by dry Sahelian winds that came to steal moisture from plants and render them barren. Across the region, breezes played a new kind of music – no longer did we hear the harmonious chorus of green shoots; instead a harsh rattle of brown stalks making sticks of themselves invaded the air, assaulting us, striking a frantic rhythm that left dancers spent. France supported its former colonies with vital food shipments. Although they remained hungry in those countries they thinned slower.

My father drove out into the villages and farming communities where there was still some food, and brought sacks of food home. Plantain, cassava and yam. Tomatoes were scarce. Out of season, they festered like wounds across the nation. There was no infrastructure to process them and our people didn’t like sun-dried tomatoes. Our Uncles and Aunts heard about my father’s haul quickly. Faster than the sweep of bush fires across the farmlands. They came for their “share” of the spoils and later conveniently forgot about us when they managed to get a store of food. My mother told my father that he was too kind-hearted, even though her sister, Stella, was one of the Aunts that came to take our food away.

All through the drama Naana and I read. We fought in the Spanish Civil War alongside Hemingway’s heroes Anselmo, Pablo, Pilar, Maria and the tragic Robert Johnson. We watched them plot and double cross and fall in love and die. We ached with them. We cried with them until the bell for our single meal tolled.

In 1984 a Japanese philanthropist called Ryoichi Sasakawa brought food aid to Ghana and started to consult with West African governments on finding a lasting solution to our sensitivity to drought. I immediately read everything I could about Japan. It wasn't easy reading. While I admired them for Judo and for Walkmans, they had a terrifying history of violence; in Malaysia, in the Philippines, in China – even in Russia. They were just like the British in South Africa and India and Kenya. Still, I decried the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and got mad at the United States for putting over 100,000 Japanese Americans in captivity at the end of World War II. The anger came easily. We were still eating yellow kenkey and Grandma was developing a permanent look of hunger.

That year – 1984 – was an especially difficult year for my sister Naana. She was studying for her A-levels and had to deal with hunger at the same time. Rations at her boarding school reduced dramatically. Her workload increased in an inverse relation to the rations. Predictably, her head appeared to grow ahead of the rest of her body. She looked like a stick drawing by a talented five-year-old. Still, Grandma said she couldn’t afford to weaken or stumble. The exam questions were oblivious to the question of hunger amongst the masses. Universities the world over would still rank us by the same criteria as everyone else, because modern society has no sensitivity to life. I tried to help. Anytime she was home, I read her notes to her when she started doing something that prevented her from reading herself. I read outside the bathroom door. I read in the kitchen and by the ironing table. She began to speak to me like a friend rather than a little brother. We talked about everything and made jokes about our hunger.

“Don’t hold your finger too close to my face,” she’d say. “It looks too much like food and I might bite.”

“If you bite, I might think you’re a big fish. Perfect for kenkey.”

We’d laugh a pained laughter that involved as little motion as possible, although Naana’s head still shook involuntarily anytime she laughed. Every time I made a comparison with something from Great Expectations, which had become my habit after reading the full version that year, her head would shake silently.

We were as close as twins until our parents decided that GeeMaa – my father’s mother – should come and live with us, since living alone in hard times is doubly hard. Naana automatically lost her bedroom and had to share mine. I did my best to make it easy for her but I was very untidy, and I refused to move my mounted spider, which gave her the creeps. Sixteen is a terrible age to lose your privacy. Particularly if you are female. Hormones kick in. Unfamiliar cycles become bedmates. Changes occur almost daily. You need time and space to adapt. Apart from the obvious sexual differences, I was a curious boy with a penchant for reading. Her diaries, letters, notes and schoolbooks became targets. She had no inclination to share the soaked blood of her growing pains and concerns with me. I was too wide-eyed. My questions too detailed. We grew apart.

Nevertheless I think I was good for her. I asked her endless questions about her schoolwork; asked until she could reel off answers without thinking. I also pestered her with information from my favourite information trove – the encyclopaedia – and what I had gleaned from old magazines.

“Naana, did you know that Somoza Garcia’s dictatorship in Nicaragua was supported by the US?”

Impatiently, “No.”

“Twenty years. Then his brother took over, then his son…”

“Ebo, I’m trying to study.”

“Oh, OK. What is it today? I didn’t understand the differentiation thing you explained yesterday.”

“Ebo!”

“OK. Just give me the book.”

She threw it at me.

When I wasn’t with her, I spoke to GeeMaa.

GeeMaa liked to go for walks. We left our house in Tesano and strolled. Sometimes to the Industrial Area. Sometimes to North Kaneshie. She bought me groundnuts on the way when we could find some. The dusty roads had become dustier still. With fewer traders lining the banks of the open gutters along the roads, the city had become a faded monochrome of its former self. GeeMaa seemed impervious to the despair that clung to the city like grey blight on trees. She told me fantastic stories. Water maidens, sorcerers and the living dead. Being the student I was, turned on by basic science and its neat explanations, questioned her stories. She always smiled when I doubted her. “Mi bi, there are two sides to every story,” she would say. “More than two sometimes.”

It was the same thing she said when I asked her about my grandfather, FatherGrandpa, whom I had only met twice. She said it with a tender smile. With the quiet assurance that Mr. Wemmick from Great Expectations had when saying “portable property.” The clear air of those who have tested the truth of their statements. On the way home she often recited her favourite poem

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Alone at home with her one afternoon, I told her about my Dee Dee dreams. It was a Friday and I was helping her slice onions in the kitchen. I chopped onions so regularly that I no longer cried when I did. GeeMaa had taken over in the kitchen since she moved in with us. She insisted she had nothing else to do and she didn’t want to be waited on. Her intervention was well-timed. The drought had pushed prices up and, although the food situation was improving, prices showed no inclination of easing down. With GeeMaa living with us my mother didn’t need to be home as much so she went back to work as an accountant. Business was slow in my father’s hardware store; sales of farming implements had reduced to a trickle. He continued to sell cooking utensils and specialist items like laboratory equipment, but his income was not enough to support the family. Undeterred, he contemplated importing irrigation devices from China. He revealed this while we were cleaning his well-kept Datsun.

“It will be the next big thing,” he announced with a smile. “The drought has taught everyone that rain is not a reliable servant.”

My father’s optimism always made me smile.

—–

continued >> here <<… | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

#novel #series #fiction #niiayikweiparkes

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whenwillweawake · 8 years ago

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To sleep, perchance to dream

This is very long, and definitely contains details of quite specific (public) moments that could be considered spoilers. Please don’t read it if you haven’t been to the McKinnon. (And maybe don’t even if you have? At this point it’s really more for my own memory than anything else)

I normally make at least some notes of what I’ve done in each show, knowing how blurry my memory can get - this trip felt like it flew past, which I partially blame on excellent company and trips to mountains, and partially on being able to sit outside and drink old fashioneds all evening. The result, was that I made absolutely no notes, so here is a jumbled assortment of the surprising amount of things that are vividly wedged in my mind following a second week-and-a-bit at the McKinnon.

(And yes, that’s a Hamlet title, for reasons)

Manderley

- The welcome from Calloway at the start of every show. Deciding it was only right by the end of the week to cheer loudly as he took to the stage.

- Violet and Constance might do my favourite welcome speeches of all time, even though I don’t understand a word of them.

The hotel

- Getting to see Olly’s Macbeth, alongside Lily’s Lady Macbeth, as an unexpected treat. The moment that most sticks with me beyond their violent duets, is their distance and distraction as they return to bed following the ‘bathtub’ scene. It’s the perfect touch of stillness and alienation for both of them, sitting together yet alone.

- Even though I didn’t get a chance to spend much time with him on this trip - every glimpse of Andrea’s Macbeth just feels so right.

- The night that the party got really loud as Omagbitse’s Lady Macbeth encouraged “Come on Ladies! Let’s get him up! up! up!”.

- Two variations on Banquo. Daniel’s wonderful solo in the ballroom. Omar’s emergence after his death. The very different feel of their dances in lost luggage and in the crypt with Bald. The flashlight and creeping through the trees. Whispered words in ears. Fights with Macbeth that feel dangerous and violent.

- Malcolm’s continuing obsession with the birds: Feathers from pockets, feathers in his office, feathers on the bed, feathers turning up in seemingly endless, subtle ways. The moment of still as he holds the bird to his face. The distracting owls in the ballroom before Banquo nudges him out of it.

- Malcolm’s truly threatening demeanour in his office, his fall after laying Duncan to rest, his notebook, his politeness when meeting one of the witches on the stairs, the way he gives in to Boy Witch’s distraction and takes his eyes of his father at the crucial moment. Occasionally, being able to see the shaving scene.

- The interrogation - the room is still too big, but there’s something in the pacing that’s working really well, a brief moment where Malcolm’s hand is all that is visible as he holds the light towards Macduff and reaches for him, the clarity of their partnership when they both slump to the floor and take a moment before setting a plan in motion.

- Macduff and Malcolm descending the stairs to the banquet. Such a simple change that makes a big difference to the effectiveness of a transitional moment.

- Gao Yang’s Macduff, a mixture of hope and sadness, confusion and accusation. The ‘crypt’ solo, his dances with his wife, his fight with Bald. Possibly, a moment at the fountain. How I thought the door dance had been dropped one night, only to see it reinstated on a following evening.

- Finally working out the rules of the card game.

- My first ever loop with Lady Macduff. Her giddy, giggly reaction to the milk. The push and pull, and tenderness and fear in her moments with her husband. Tottering along bookshelves and the hopelessness of what’s happening to her, Feeling sick to my stomach with the violence of her death.

- Daniel’s Porter’s moments of forced smiles, his beautiful version of Moonlight Becomes You, his silliness when hiding and his genuine concern for Lady Macduff and her baby.

- Garth’s Porter remembering that there is a mirror in the lobby that can be used during Moonlight Becomes You.

- Going out of my way to see what Duncan is doing after he is killed.

The Witches

- The always-right sight of Conor’s Boy Witch to welcome me into the hotel. He was brilliant, obviously. Sunglasses. Teasing. His eyes full of tears as he showered. His neediness in those moments following the rave. The way he shoved his jacket at me, without even really looking, knowing that I’d take it.

- Being halfway up the stairs when he appeared from nowhere to lead me back to Manderley.

- Following the perfect witch trio of Fania’s Bald, Miranda’s Sexy and Olly’s Boy Witch down the corridor to the rave. The three of them together is intoxicating, mesmerising and irresistible. Definitely my favourite witch combination of all time.

- Miranda’s Sexy bar solo really might be the best thing in the entire show. Utterly, beautifully, heart-wrenching. Her toes and her hands, and never knowing where or when she’s going to rise above the waves again. It’s just phenomenal. (As is everything else she does)

- Fania’s Bald Witch: All of it. Unable to take my eyes off of her during her solo in the Ballroom, her at war with God, spitting and licking, her hands in the lights and fingers restless as she stalks the corridors, her power over everyone, lurking in the trees as the flashlight approaches, her spider-like crawl, holding her stare and both of us laughing as she dances with Banquo, the way she condescendingly acknowledges his fancy dance moves.

The high street

- Tim’s totally oddball Taxidermist. Who I had all intentions of spending a full loop with until he led me to something haunting, and spaces I’d not seen before, that ultimately whisked me away.

- Over the course of my time at the McKinnon deciding that there definitely is a teddy bear loop, and that I had seen most of it.

- Spending time with Olly’s Speakeasy, who is still seemingly having insane amounts of fun. The grin on his face as he teased me/us during the card game. The bit that follows, that is still one of my favourite things to happen in a Punchdrunk show.

- Seeing both sides of the story in a thematically brilliant final show spent with Lee Wen Hsin’s Bride and then Ben’s Husband.

- Side note: Didn’t get to the bottom of the changes in the relationship between Sexy and Bride since December. Where did Bride’s human-clothes go? Hide and seek down the high street? The dynamic of their rep bar showdown feels very different - who is saving who?

- Watching both sides of the Bride’s beautiful dance through the bamboo forest.

- Being stood in just the right spot to see Bride blowing Husband a kiss through the shop window, him catching it, both of them adorable, whilst I can see Sexy Witch slowly creeping down the street to interrupt them and ruin the moment.

- Getting the chance to see that scene once more.

- Watching Bride go from snake, to human, and back again. Her poorly contained anger as she washes herself, the extraordinary dance as she finds the thistle - echoes of Sexy’s shipwrecked bar dance, but like she’s caught up in a ship’s rigging.

- Watching her bring her Husband back to life.

- Husband’s dreamlike walk back down into town, pausing at the doorway to the ward, remembering moments in the bamboo forest, feeling the memory of pain in his eye as he reaches the high street. The fuzzy memories that make it possible to draw an imperfect map.

- His naivety and optimism in finding his shop, and signing the contract, his poor negotiation skills. The whirlwind infatuation that leads to a wedding in so few encounters. More memories of past lives?

- The bonkers visual of Speakeasy and Taxidermist’s performance. The weird echoes of seeing a former Conrad, being teased and made fun of, and distracted, much like Conrad did to William. The way Bride transforms so completely and the horrified reaction of them all to her black blood.

- The sheer violence of Omar’s Cunning Man and Ben’s Husband’s fight after the Dragon Boat festival making me jump every. single. time. It’s brilliant, and hard to not follow out of that scene every time. The moment his heart starts to break as a sign of what’s to come, and Cunning Man’s mock concern.

- His frantic pounding on the door and running through the hallways, taking some drugs, recognising the maps, and stumbling into the rave, before finally making his way back to his wife and the final heartbreak.

The infirmary

- Miranda’s moody, terrifying, always-stealing-me-away Nurse. Sarcastic pouts, commanding me around with a nod of the head or a tiny gesture. Genuinely scary whenever I encountered her.

- Discovering a new-to-me room on the 5th floor that I never saw used, but felt like it should be, and that reminded me of our old friend in the igloo, somehow.

- The perfect pairing of Tang Tingting’s ‘Matron’ and Miranda’s Nurse with their pouts during the wedding, and their mirrored walk and bed sorting on the way down to the banquet.

- Strange happenings when I ended up unexpectedly meeting Gao Yang’s exceptionally creepy James/Matron, the sounds of children’s toys and the feeling of ‘what on earth is going on here’, hearing a story that I think I know but can’t be sure of, wanting to find out more but losing him, only to have him find me at the end.

- Ending up on the 6th floor twice in one show. In two different languages. Somehow still being surprised and letting out a small yelp the second time round.

The laughs

- Sam’s Taxi beckoning at me in the darkness and taking me for something very unexpected to start my final show, not being able to suppress my laughter and delight. “Showtime!”. A black-stained kiss.

- Every single interaction between Omar’s Cunning Man and Ben’s Husband: “Well, you’ve been eating your dumplings!” / “Who is that?” “I don’t know, I only met her a few times!” “But… you MARRIED her!” / “Brush up on your Mandarin! Good luck with your wife!”.

- Cunning Man and Taxidermist bartering over a snake.

- Taxidermist’s conversations with the bear.

- Whenever I followed Speakeasy and Taxidermist as they caused trouble throughout the town on their way to perform. Both trying to get through a door at the same time, Speakeasy’s arm getting stuck in his jacket, carrying Taxi down the high street.

- The moment in one rave where Sexy Witch gave an unwitting audience member who didn’t want to move a witchy lapdance, before barking in their face.

- Bald slapping Sexy across the face immediately afterwards. The surprise in Sexy’s eyes.

- Watching Bald dance a friend through the Macduff’s suite and out into the walled garden.

The tears

- Hearing the Grandmother’s Story from Lily’s ‘Matron’

- Under the bed; heartbreak in close-up

- Looking around the ballroom thinking it’s highly likely that it was the last time I’d see all these people doing this together

- A ghostly final walk through the empty hotel as the perfect goodbye.

#sleep no more shanghai #mckinnon

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gleitzman · 8 years ago

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B-boys on E

It's widely known that marijuana and hip hop are inextricably linked - just turn on the radio or take your pick of MCs becoming poster-boys of weed culture. However, there's a more obscure branch of rap references dating back to the early 90's that have another target in focus: ecstasy. In December of 2000, Simon Reynolds penned an article for the webzine of London-based record label Hyperdub, which now boasts artists such as DJ Rashad, Burial, and Martyn, about the rising trend of MDMA-related references in rap lyrics.

A comprehensive look into B-boys on E, I've republished the piece below alongside a playlist of every track mentioned in the article, including a few sub-2000's tracks that came to mind. Put down the blunt and pick up the pacifier.

Hip Hop and Ecstasy - Simon Reynolds

Magazine editors have a secret formula: "two things, that's just a coincidence--but three, that's a trend". Well, here's three pieces of evidence. On "Let's Get High" from his don't-call-this-a-comeback album The Chronic 2001, Dr. Dre declares " I just took some Ecstasy/Ain't no tellin what the side effects could be". In The Wire's Christmas issue, El-P of underground hip hop outfit Company Flow listed among his 1999 highlights trying Ecstasy "for the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth time". And gangsta rappers Bone Thugs-N-Harmony's latest album BTNH Resurrection contains the song "Ecstasy," inspired by the group's recent introduction to MDMA. The chorus features some of Bone Thugs private slang for the E sensation: "I feel so 'Z'/I feel so ziggety ziggety ziggety/Cause I'm floatin' in ecstasy.." Bizzy's so impressed with the "new shit" touted by their weed dealer that he even wishes Eazy E, Bone Thugs's deceased mentor, "was here to feel pillish, pillish, pillish, pillish."

Add to this reports of thugs and bitches buzzing on E at the Tunnel (New York's most hardcore and "street" rap club), MDMA references in tracks by Jay-Z, Eminem, DJ Quik, Nas, Three-6 Mafia, and Saafir, and persistent rumors about a certain rap mogul who's got a serious Ecstasy habit, and you've got more than a trend--you've got a phenomenon: Hip Hop America Gets Loved Up. It's happened as a knock-on effect of the astonishing surge in Ecstasy use in America over the last two years, itself triggered by a return to reliable, high-dose MDMA pills thanks to Mitshubishi and the brands that followed in its wake. The New York Times reported a 450 percent increase between 1998 and 1999 in Ecstasy seizures by police and customs (which usually roughly reflect the amount of Ecstasy on sale on the streets). The United States Custom Service is projecting a 1500 percent increase from 1999 to 2000! For the first time since it was legal in the early Eighties, MDMA is popular outside the rave scene, with college students and yuppies throwing E parties. And finally, the drug has made significant inroads into the rap community.

On the face of it, Ecstasy would not appear to be a B-boy drug. MDMA lowers one's emotional defences, promotes feelings of trust and tactile tenderness, defuses aggression. It basically creates the exact opposite mind-body-soul state to rap's paranoid and paramilitary ego, all threats and boasts and psychologically armored readiness for the outbreak of hostilities. It also seems really unlikely that your typical gangsta rapper would enjoy exploring Ecstasy's androgynizing effects--the way it makes men more able to express their emotions, be cuddly and affectionate, talk to women without sex as the primary goal, find it difficult to achieve an erection or have an orgasm. These swoony Ecstasy effects would probably be experienced as traumatic not pleasurable--threatening sensations of weakness, softness, E-masculation. Hip hop's ethos of "keeping it real," its concern with reflecting hardcore street realities of crime and incarceration, also conflicts with rave's Ecstasy-fuelled positivity and utopian hope. This dark-tinted realism was a common attitude in the early jungle scene, which was highly influenced by hip hop values. For many Black British junglists, Ecstasy was "false," a chemical haze of unreality that didn't resonate with their harsh experience of urban life.

Judging by the Ecstasy-inspired lyrics that have emerged from rap so far, though, even MDMA can't teach an old dogg new tricks. The sexual attitudes haven't improved one bit. Dr. Dre's lyric about just dropping an E goes straight into "All these fine bitches equal sex to me/plus I got this bad bitch layin' next to me". In "Ecstasy", Bone MC Flesh rhymes about "feelin’ hot and exotic with an arced cock/ I'm feelin' too sexy for my muthafuckin self/Gotta find my bitch and I’m gonna fuck her ass to death!". There are stories floating around about major ballers and shot-callers in the rap industry who throw parties at their mansions in the Hamptons (an expensive Long Island summer home area favored by Manhattan's wealthy and famous) where Ecstasy is primarily used to get the ladies "in the mood" for multiple-partner sex. As for the violence in rap lyrics, rhymes about guns and murda have not been replaced by spiritualized Ecstasy babble about P.L.U.R. (the American raver's mantra of "peace, love, unity and respect"). Unlike with Britain's reformed football hooligans during 1988's Summer of Love, we've yet to see the emergence of the "love thug" in hardcore hip hop. Perhaps the behavioral codes are too ingrained for rave's smiley-face to replace rap's "screwface"--the menacing scowl-sneer that signifies hip hop culture's taboo on showing your teeth.

Then again, it's early days yet, and Ecstasy is such a powerful drug that it's certain to have some affects on hip hop, both as a culture and as a music. Although jungle eventually adopted an anti-Ecstasy stance (favoring the "organic", herbal highs of marijuana over "chemicals"), as a form of music it could not have existed without its precursor genre, 1991-92 hardcore rave--whose sped up breakbeats and manic barrage of samples were basically "hip hop on E," rather than a mutant form of techno. Add Ecstasy to hip hop again, and the results could be as revolutionary as the emergence of jungle out of rave. Whether as a result of Ecstasy use or just an eerily prophetic prelude, there's been a flood of rap and R&B tracks that feature techno-like sounds and riffs over the last eighteen months: Ja Rule's "Holla Holla" with its snaking, writhing riff that sounds like nothing so much as a Roland 303 acid bassline; the staccato rave-style stabs in Destiny's Child's "Bugaboo," Ginuwine's "What's So Different," and Jay-Z's "Girls' Best Friend"; the house vamps and techno pulses in countless Cash Money tracks by Juvenile, B.G., Hot Boys and Lil Wayne, all produced by Mannie Fresh (who actually worked with Steve 'Silk' Hurley a decade ago).

Most recently Timbaland, who's talked about his fondness for electronica and groups like The Prodigy, has produced three tracks that positively drip with the influence of European Ecstasy culture, if not E itself. Aaliyah's smash hit "Try Again" rolls on a burbling Roland 303; the dirge-bass riff on Jay-Z's "Snoopy Track" makes it a rap "Dominator" or "Mentasm"; Nas featuring Ginuwine's "You Owe Me" has the slinky, lurching flow of 2-step garage. Indeed two-step ought to be the logical bridge between American "urban" (radio programmer code for black) music and house culture, since it is basically UK rave embracing and absorbing US R&B. 2-step garage is where the musical advances made during 10 years of collectively living at the cutting edge of rave's drug-technology interface ("caning it", in plain English slanguage) are now being folded back into the humanist, hypersexual pop sounds that ravers originally broke with to pursue manic sexless drug-noise (starting with acid house). As such 2-step could function for black Americans as a journey in the opposite direction, an acclimatisation phase before they get into Plastikman, Basement Jaxx, or The Mover. (Well, one can only dream, eh?). Actually, Armand Van Helden has been trying singlehandedly to be that demilitarized zone/interface between hip hop and house (he's obsessed with 1989 hip-house as this lost moment of possibility) but so far with zero impact in the US. His B-boy flirtations have even counted against him in the world of American deep house, where they don't want ruffnecks coming to the party (forgiveably, perhaps, given the rampant homophobia in hip hop). House music creeps in through the back door of Lil' Kim's new album The Notorious K.I.M., with tracks based on "French Kiss" by Lil Louis and "Break 4 Love' by Raze, and a pronounced Daft Punk-y flavor to "How Many Licks?"

Finally, OutKast's late 2000 release Stankovia is the first real hip hop example, overt and acknowledged by its creators, of a marked influence from rave music and Ecstasy. Big Boi and Andre 3000 go to raves in the Atlanta, Georgia area and even did field research in London clubs. They gave Stankonia faster b.p.m's than its easy-rolling predecessor Aquemini because "nowadays you got different drugs on the scene. X done hit the hood. It ain't chronic no more. They on some other speed-up type shit.... so that's why the tempo had to get a lot faster." The single "Bombs Over Baghdad" makes a botched if exciting stab at drum'n'bass (they're big fans of Photek) while "?" is a disorientating foray into the jungle: tangled breaks, chirruping synth-blurts, ravey riff-lets.

With the E'd up thugs and thuggettes reputedly drifting from the main floor of the Tunnel into the smaller house'n'techno room that it (god knows why) offers, it could be that the hip hop nation will turn onto electronic dance music big-time, finally ending rap's contempt for house music as mere gay disco. Sonically, the differences between the two forms of music have never been smaller---for instance, both techno and rap have been influenced recently by a revival of interest in Eighties electro. As for the drug's cultural impact.... Ecstasy's "loved up" vibe fits perfectly with hip hop's endless professions of loyalty for the crew, family, click, posse. E will only exaggerate this aspect of blood-brother solidarity and "thug love". But what about the hate side of rap's soul? Can Ecstasy lead to a truce in rap's symbolic warfare? Will "call-that-a-worldview?" couplets like "all I know is that bitches suck dick and niggas bleed" (The Lox) lose their appeal to hearts that no longer feel hard? What can be said safely is that Ecstasy had seemed like a drug that held no more surprises in terms of its cultural effects, given that the clubbing-and-raving industries efficiently channel the energy it catalyzes into tidy profits (eg Gatecrasher, whose slogan is "Market Leaders In Having-It Right Off Leisure Ware"--they might as well just put "Sponsored By Mitshubishi, Nudge Nudge Wink Wink" on the ads). But now that the drug has found its way to one of the few demographic and subcultural zones it had so far left untouched---African-American youth---it could be that Ecstasy has new tricks up its sleeves, new stories to tell, new revolutions to unfurl. (Just wait 'til it hits the dancehall community in Jamaica). Watch this space.....

#rap #drugs #ecstasy #music

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