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buckyskorpion · 4 years ago

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11 hours - part six

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: so i was gonna leave this on ANOTHER doozy cliff hanger but i genuinely thought i would get lynched so i decided to just leave it at a baby cliffhanger. a lot happened in this chapter and a lot of seeds have been planted for future chapters..... so lemme know what you think hehe. predictions?? angry letters?? pitchforks??? lemme know!! i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

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“You’re very calm for someone with a gun to their head.”

Honestly, you had been thinking the same thing. Sure, your stomach feels like a snake pit and your hands are sweating and you don’t think you’ve ever been more aware of your own heart beat, but other than that - you don’t understand why you aren’t panicking more. There are three men standing in front of you, one behind, all with guns. They’re wearing matching leather jackets with an octo-head patch on the sleeve, and they all look very scary. Briefly, you wonder if Bucky has a jacket like this, with a patch on to match his family. It’s an irrelevant detail you can’t help but fixate on right now.

Bucky. Hopefully listening on the other end of the phone you have tucked in your back pocket which your kidnappers haven’t been bothered to check yet, thankfully. You flex your wrists against the zip ties holding you to a chair and ask, “Where am I?”

“You should know,” your stalker turned kidnapper says with a condescending sneer. “You followed me here.”

“The Lerna?” you clarify, for the sake of hopefully someone on the other end of your mobile picking it up. You glance around at the old-style bar; chipped wood and beer stains, a rickety pool table one of your stalker’s friends is using as an arm rest. You curl your nose up at it - a little proudly, you note it has nothing on Sam’s bar.

“Do you recognise the place?” your stalker asks. That throws you. You want to ask what he means by that, why you would recognise this gross bar you’ve never stepped foot in, but you clench your teeth and school your face.

Once your dad sat you down in a chair much like this one, in his office at the house you grew up in. You were eleven, maybe, and you didn’t quite understand why he was tying your hands to the back with a necktie but you went along with it. He did this, sometimes - would orchestrate some strange lesson when his nightmares got really bad, his ghosts chasing him inside the house until he saw enemies in lampshades and kitchen cabinets. To keep you safe, he would say, and then he sat opposite you and asked what you would do if anyone ever put you in this position against your will.

“Kroshka, they will use anything against you,” he had said, and you see that now with the way these men are looking at you for any weakness. But you didn’t understand then, you were a kid thinking your dad was spiralling again, so he had cast around until he found a beer bottle on the coffee table. “See, like this. When the label is flat it’s fine, but as soon as one little corner lifts you can’t help it - you have to peel it all the way off. Don’t give them any corners, kroshka.”

You blink, once. The man in front of you scowls when you don’t answer, presses forward into your space in a show of intimidation. You try not to flinch, but that fear you were missing before is starting to set in real fast. What did he mean, do you recognise it? And why the hell are you so prepared for a situation like this, almost as if your dad has been training you for it since you could remember?

“Fine,” your stalker says, his breath fanning over you with how he’s leaning into your space. “Maybe you can answer something else, about your boyfriend.”

“Dunno who you’re talking about,” you say. It’s not a lie - technically, you hadn’t had the ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ chat with Bucky yet. This man is not appreciative of your loopholes. He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, pressing his glock into your neck. You shiver, both at the pain and the cold of the metal. Through gritted teeth and mild hyperventilation, you say, “As a matter of fact, I dunno who you are either. That’s kinda weird, dontcha think?”

You can practically hear Bucky in your head telling you to shut up, but he’s not here right now. No corners, just like your dad said. Doesn’t mean you can’t try and find some corners of your own.

What you meant as a question to buy some time, with a bit of attitude on the side, sends your stalker reeling back from you. He’s confused, eyebrows drawn down low and his friends behind him look to each other with the same expression. Now, you’re confused as well. Everyone in the room stands (or sits, in your particular predicament) in a pure state of what the fuck is going on. It would be funny, if there wasn’t still a gun to the back of your head.

“You don’t know the patch?” the man asks, gesturing to the sleeve of his jacket. When you don’t respond he continues, slowly, reiterating his question from before but as a statement, “You don’t recognise this place.”

You have zero idea what’s going on, but whatever you’ve said seems have thrown your kidnappers for a bit of a loop, so you decide to roll with it. You say, and hope to god the man standing behind you doesn’t shoot you for it, “I’m starting to think you’ve lost control of this situation, pal.”

From the corner of the room behind you, a familiar husky-toned red head says, “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

Shots ring out, shattering the windows as one by one your stalker’s friends drop like dominos. Someone crouches behind you and cuts you lose with a knife, and you hear it clatter to the floor as they launch over the back of your chair feet first into your stalker. Natasha. The flash of her red hair over your shoulder as she sends him flying is unmistakable. You scramble from the chair, fumbling for the knife she dropped but your hand slides through something thick, wet. The man behind you with the gun lies dead, throat slit, his blood now all over your fingers. It mesmerises you in a sickening way, making your stomach turn and your vision go fuzzy.

You’d never seen a dead body before. Now they are all around you, the bar smelling like blood instead of beer and the sound of bullets pinging off glass the only noise other than Natasha grappling with your stalker. She’s so small compared to him but she has her thighs clenched around his throat and he gasps for breath, clawing at her legs. You watch, stunned, as he gets a grip on her and throws her off, sending her crashing into the wall with a groan.

She hits the floor and you see red - all you can think is that’s Bucky’s family and that man is walking towards her, his gun trained on her body as she tries to pull herself to her feet, so you stop thinking at all. You picture the back of your stalker's neck like the dartboard at Sam’s bar and you throw.

Bullseye. Just like your dad taught you.

The man drops, knife buried in his neck and haemorrhaging blood. He gurgles this awful, awful sound as he clutches at his throat, trying and failing to push the blood back in. Natasha looks from your still outstretched hand, trembling in place, to meet your gaze. You can’t begin to decipher her expression, nor do you want to. You feel like you’re going to throw up, or choke, or scream, or all three. The man you just stabbed in the neck groans in pain, eyes rolling, coughing blood from his mouth in thick clumps. You can’t feel your hands anymore.

The door bangs open and you flinch, stumbling back until you trip on the chair you had been tied to and fall to the floor in a crumple of limbs. It’s Bucky, eyes wild and larger than life with a rage you’ve never seen before. He has a huge sniper-rifle slung over his back as he strides into the bar, stepping right over the writhing body of your stalker.

“I’ll deal with you in a second, Rumlow,” he practically growls, kicking aside the man’s hand that tries to grab for him. You scramble to your feet, practically tripping over yourself to get to Bucky. Doesn’t it say something about you that you run towards the man responsible for the death all around you?

You crash into Bucky hard, the force of the impact knocking the breath right out of you and once it’s gone you can’t get it back. It feels like his arms encompass the entirety of you as he holds you so tight your feet leave the ground. His chest rumbles with words but you can’t hear him, your ears are ringing and your chest is tight because panic attack, you dumbass. You press your face into Bucky’s neck and hope that’s enough to escape the scene unfolding around you.

“Get her out of here, I’ll deal with this,” you hear Natasha say somewhere behind Bucky but you refuse to lift your head to see.

Bucky attempts to pull away from you to look at Natasha, you can feel him try and twist his head but the inarticulate whine that rips from your throat stills the both of you. It’s mildly embarrassing, the sound you’ve just made, but it’s out there now. Bucky shifts his grip so one big palm rubs soothing strokes up and down your spine and you feel yourself becoming boneless with every pass of his hand.

“I’m not fucking lettin’ him get away with this,” Bucky says, low, threatening - if you were this Rumlow guy bleeding out on the ground, you would be afraid.

“And he won’t,” Natasha says, and then like she has to remind Bucky of his own thoughts, “but you have other priorities right now. Get her out of here.”

You feel Bucky nod, his scratchy chin moving against the top of your head. He kisses your temple and holds the back of your skull with one big palm, pressing your face further into his neck. It means you don’t see the carnage of the bar when he moves to place an arm around your shoulder and steer you out the door, stumbling under his guidance on shaky, cotton-fuzzy legs. He’s hurrying you, but as gently as he can. Once you feel the bright burn of sunlight on your skin you pull back from Bucky’s neck, blinking in the now empty street and Bucky’s piercing gaze as he looks down at you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, his hand dropping from your skull to squeeze the side of your neck. You still feel like you’re sipping each breath through a straw but you nod. You can see in his eyes he needs you to be with him right now, to get out of here, so you try and blink away the fuzzies in the corners of your vision and focus on his face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and christ, now is not the time for that stinging pressure behind your eyes you hate so much. You hope Bucky understands - sorry for not listening to him, sorry for getting you both into this mess, sorry for not being strong when he needs you to be.

Bucky shakes his head vehemently, tugs you in harsh and strong by the grip he has on your neck to press a bruising kiss to your forehead. Your eyes flutter close at the fierce way he holds you, presses emotion into your skin like the tattoos littering his skin - a brand of your own, in the middle of this eerily empty street with the blood of strange men on both your hands. The thought makes you shake, so you twist your fingers in the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and breathe him in deep.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he says, then pulls away from you. He grabs one of your hands from out under his shirt and links your fingers, beginning to drag you down the street. Looking back over his shoulder, he says with a grimace, “We gotta go.”

He leads you to his bike, squeezed between a brick wall and a dumpster in a side alley a block away from The Lerna. It roars to life before you’ve properly swung yourself on the back, and you aren’t bothering with helmets this time as Bucky eases the bike out from it’s tight spot with unsettling ease. All you can do is hold on tight and close your eyes as Bucky leads you away, weaving through the city in nonsensical loops before you feel the air open up around you and the familiar sounds of Brooklyn.

Bucky takes you to Steve’s tattoo in Red Hook, the first time you’re been back there since that fateful run-in with Natasha. You’ve checked out completely by the time Bucky parks - he has to lift you off the back of the bike because your legs won’t work, and he all but carries you inside. Steve is quick to rid the shop of the two customers looking at designs out front as Bucky settles you on the couch by the tattoo beds. You sink into the faded red leather without feeling a thing. Distantly, you notice the kid who usually mans the tills looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you suppose you deserve that.

“Stevie, I think she’s in shock,” you hear Bucky say, and the childhood nickname makes you smile. You watch Bucky’s face crease up deep concern at the dreamy look on your face, so you suppose you should stop smiling like a crazy person. A giant blonde head swims into your view, just as concerned, and he drapes a blanket around your shoulders.

“Bucky,” you say, your eyebrows drawing down as you fumble for his hand. He squeezes your fingers and mumbles something to Steve who leaves you again, his voice mingling with the kid’s somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder but you can’t focus on that. All you can do is swim in the back of Bucky’s too-deep stare and say, “I killed him.”

“No, no,” he says, shifting closer between your thighs as he kneels on the floor in front of you. This would be funny to you in any other moment, something to tease him for as he takes both your hands in his and squeezes them together, silently imploring you to stay looking at him. He says, “That’s not on you, sweetheart, it ain’t. You didn’t kill him.”

You’re crying now, properly, which you suppose is a good sign because you don’t think people in shock can cry. You watch as something cracks in Bucky’s eyes as he watches you break apart, but you can’t stop now you’ve started. You say, “I did, I killed him. How do you do it? How do you just- I feel like my throat’s gonna close up. How do you live past this?”

Bucky’s face darkens, smoothing out to something stone cold and frightening. You don’t feel scared, though, as he leans into your space so close you almost feel cross-eyed trying to stay glued to the blue of his eyes. He searches your face for something and says, no room for argument, “You did not kill that bastard, you hear me?”

“But-“

“No,” he says, simply, and that’s that. “The only reason you were in that position is because of me, doll, so no. You didn’t kill him. It’s on me, and I live with that so you don’t have to. You got that? You don’t ever have to live with that.”

You don’t know how he makes you feel like he’s physically reached into your chest and pulled out your guilt through your throat, but he does. You can see it clenched tight in his fist, his eyes shuttering down dark as he shoves it between his own teeth to hold. It’s too soon for the feelings clawing at your ribcage but you feel them just the same, that cigarette burn he left on your heart aching so bad you could scream from it. You extract a hand from his to run down his cheek, along his jaw, cupping his face in your palm. He closes his eyes, shudders as though swallowing down the guilt for the both of you.

I love you for that, you think to the soft flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. I’ll love you forever for that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Natasha returns to the shop, and Sam bundles in not long after that, the four bikers sit around Steve’s prematurely closed tattoo shop and have a family meeting. You can’t help but feel like the kid who’s stayed up past their bedtime to try and hang with the adults, the words flying over their head and sleep pulling at their eyelids but they fight to stay awake anyway. Bucky pulls your head into his lap as he sits on the couch beside you, so you lie there and let him stroke your hair while they discuss what happened over the past two hours.

Two hours, and that’s all it’s taken for your whole world to spin on it’s axis. You’d learnt to throw knives at tree trunks with your dad as a fun, albeit unconventional after-school activity. And now you’ve buried a knife in someone’s neck, you’ve been kidnapped and tied to a chair and watched Bucky gun down men from a rooftop with his sniper rifle. He pulled the trigger with the same fingers he’s carding through your hair now, nails scratching at your scalp in a way that makes your toes tingle. How is that at all ok?

“We’ve started a turf war with Hydra, now,” Sam is saying, sitting backwards on a chair facing Bucky and spreading his hands out in a placating gesture as Bucky bristles. “It was unavoidable, alright, I’m just saying.”

“Not necessarily,” Natasha says. “Rumlow has had a vendetta against Bucky for years. He could’ve been acting alone.”

“It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” Steve says thoughtfully. He is pressing an icepack to Natasha’s back, already bruising from where this Rumlow guy threw her into the wall. She’s lifting up her t-shirt and you can see a glimpse of a back piece standing out stark against her pale skin. Giant, feathered wings and a talon, a mosaic piece of what looks like a large hawk spanning the length of her spine.

“When Pierce finds out it was us that shot up his bar, though,” Sam says, making meaningful eyebrow movements to the group. They all nod thoughtfully and fall into silence.

None of these names make much sense to you - Hydra, Pierce, even Rumlow who you’ve gathered by now was your stalker. Was, because he’s dead now, and the thought turns your mouth dry and rusted. You shift in discomfort, drawing Bucky’s attention down to you as he gives you a concerned once over. He had done a thorough analysis for any injuries, even after you’d assured him you were fine, but you can tell he’s still unconvinced.

Unfortunately for you, all your wounds appear to be mental. They’re getting deeper by the second.

“I keep thinking,” you say to Bucky, “why was he so surprised I didn’t know where I was? Or who they were?”

“Hydra is our biggest rival,” Bucky says, and huffs a laugh at your crinkly brow so he clarifies, “They’re another gang, one we’ve had a lot of run-ins with. Rumlow especially. He wasn’t our biggest fan.”

“So he expected you to have told me about him, and Hydra,” you say, the name unfamiliar on your tongue. He nods, and you have to ask, “Why didn’t you?”

Bucky frowns at that. “I already told you - the more you know, the more dangerous it is.”

“And I already told you, no secrets,” you say, frowning just as deep. A beat passes and Bucky doesn’t budge, just glares down at you like he can physically bore his opinion into your brain and make it yours. Exasperated, you say, “Bucky, it didn’t matter anyway - the danger found me. Telling me things like that isn’t going to make a difference.”

“It would’ve if you’d listened to me and not done the stupid thing,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows. He may have a point, but you aren’t going to back down that easily. Bucky knows you, he knows if you see a loose thread you’re going to pull it. The fact he thought you’d listen to him tell you what to do at all is laughable.

“This gang is your life,” you say, and you don’t bother to hide your frustration now, “They’re your family. I’m no safer not knowing what’s going on - I got stalked and kidnapped regardless. Clearly, it’s dangerous no matter what, so just tell me, Bucky. Whatever it is.”

Bucky stares at you for a long time. Steve, Natasha, Sam - they cease to exist in this room with you. Those first few weeks, when you refused to stay the night in Bucky’s bed and would only see him to fuck - you used to be scared of looking into those eyes for too long, for fear of getting lost. Now you dive head first, a part of you hoping you do get lost so you never have to find your way back out again.

Eventually, Bucky clenches his jaw tight and says, “You’re right.”

You blink, surprised. You hear Sam whisper to Steve, “did you record that?”, and honestly, you wanna ask the same thing. Except the way Bucky is look at you- dread curls thick and choking in your gut. You look up at Bucky and he seem so far away, out of reach even though you feel him all around you. He continues stroking your hair but it’s absentminded, his mind far away too.

You are drawn back to the tattoo shop by Sam saying, “I gotta say, Barnes, your girl is smart as hell. Keeping your phone on you and out-smarting Rumlow in a hostage situation? Pretty badass.”

Bucky smiles briefly down at you, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. You turn to Sam and say, “I got the impression out-smarting Rumlow isn’t really that hard.”

Everyone laughs at that, even Bucky, and it clears away some of the dread eating away at your stomach. But it’s still there, acidic and bubbling no matter what you do to smother it.

Eventually, they grow tired of talking in circles about Rumlow and Hydra and the possibility of the feds showing up (Bucky assures everyone the cops will find no rifling on the bullets and won’t be able to pin them to the crime scene, but Sam mutters heard that before and an argument erupts about some debacle in Bucharest so you tune out). Bucky takes you back to his apartment, tucked securely in his leather jacket in the best kind of shock blanket you could ever ask for.

For the first time, you noticed the tiny embroidered star on the sleeve of his jacket. You wonder if all Bucky’s friends have the same star on their jackets, because they’re not just friends, they’re a gang. One you feel suddenly, irrevocably intertwined with since they’re the only reason you aren’t sitting in a jail cell for murdering someone.

You feel jittery as you walk into Bucky’s apartment, almost nervous. It looks the same as this morning, the coffee cups you used for Steve and Bucky still in the sink and hoodie of his you’d worn last night draped over a chair. But everything is different, now. It’s all changed, there’s weird new shadows over everything long after Bucky turns on the light. You linger in the doorway to Bucky’s bedroom while he rummages around for sweats and jumpers, laying out a pair for you before he begins changing himself. He shucks off his t-shirt and you see his tattoo sleeve, the mottled scars hiding underneath, and your heart flies out of your throat before you can stop it.

“So do you guys have a fun, spooky name like Hydra or what?” you ask, closing your eyes with a grimace as soon as you ask the question. What are you, twelve? Bucky doesn’t answer and you’re too afraid to open your eyes too see the look on his face.

You’re startled when you feel him kiss your cheek, sensing his large frame towering over you and blocking out some of the soft bedroom light. You open your eyes to find him smiling down at you, laughing at you with his eyes as he says, “Not so spooky. Steve named us, he called us the Howling Commandos. The HC, for short.”

You crinkle your nose up at him and he flicks the tip with his ringed fingers. You say, “That’s very old-fashioned.”

“Nat teases him for it all the time,” he says, “She calls us her barbershop quartet.”

You smile, imagining Bucky in suspenders playing the accordion, and say, “Now that I like.”

The longer Bucky looks at you the more sober he becomes, mouth becoming pinched and jaw muscle ticking. He holds you soft by the biceps and walks you back until you hit the wall, still gentle, but bracketing you in now so all you can see is the weight of whatever complicated thing is running across Bucky’s face.

“You scared the fucking shit out of me today,” he says. He shifts, grips your jaw tight so his rings dig into your skin with none of the gentleness of before - he means this. “Never do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, twisting in his tight grip to press a kiss to his fingertips. He softens, allows you to pull him in flush against you by his waist, his bare skin so warm under your hands. “And, thank you. I don’t- I guess I’ve never had someone come save me before, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He kisses you, a rough press of chapped lips against yours and is gone again before you can react. Says, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Come back,” you say with a pout, and you have just enough time to see Bucky smirk down at you before he’s kissing you again. It’s just as fierce, almost painful, but the rough slide of it distracts from the burn in your chest and your racing thoughts like razorblades. You lick into his mouth, chasing away the ghosts nipping at your heels, and he presses you back into the wall with a thunk hard enough to leave a bruise on your tailbone tomorrow. You don’t care. It feels good to hurt in a way that’s physical.

The ease with which Bucky picks you up makes your head spin. It’s all you can do but pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw as he carries you to the bed, lips suddenly ripped from his skin as he dumps you on the covers. He is quick to follow, squashing you down with his tongue in your mouth before you can take another breath. This, you know. All the messy feelings and heartache and fearfearfear that beats in time with your heart, that maybe you’ll lose him or he’ll lose you and you came so close today, is unfamiliar to the both of you. But arching your back off the bed so he can take your shirt off, scrubbing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck as he peppers kisses across your tits with a trail of goosebumps left behind - this is how you know Bucky best.

He makes quick work of your clothes and you fumble with his jeans, laughing into his mouth as he bats your hand away to do it for you. Bucky bites your bottom lip in playful admonishment and you chase his mouth as he tries to pull away. He places one big palm on your clavicle and pushes down, holding you against the bed. He shakes his head at you with a smile.

“Stay,” he says like he would to a dog, grinning wide as you glare at him. But you do as you’re told as he leans over you to grab a condom with his left arm. Maybe you bend the rules a little to trail kisses up the bits of his outstretched forearm you can reach. Over a shadowy skull, the stem of a rose, what looks like military windings near the crook of his elbow and tiny handwritten letters that spell S N S. Sam Nat Steve, because Bucky might be a tough guy to most but he’s a giant sap deep down.

Bucky shudders at your touch, and it makes you wonder if the scarring under his tattoos is extra sensitive. Or maybe he is just sensitive to anyone touching him in such a vulnerable place. You flick your eyes up to watch him watch you, lip drawn between his teeth and a dent between his eyebrows you ache to soothe if he wasn’t still holding you down. You don’t stop, even though he looks physically pained with every brush of your lips against his skin. You trace the edges of another small wolf with your tongue, like the ones on his chestpiece, and watch as his eyes flutter closed when you get close to the paper-thin skin of his inner wrist.

That hits Bucky’s limit. Suddenly his hand on your chest slides up to your neck and he’s leaning over you, left arm braced by your head and his mouth swallowing yours. You groan against his lips at the rough drag of his hands down your sides, gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. He makes your brain go fuzzy, the only coherent thoughts being Bucky and touch me more. He seems to understand. His fingers find your clit, smoothing slow circles which spark embers in the pit of your stomach. Bucky’s mouth falls open as yours does, as if to breath in the whine he draws from you.

“Fuck, you always sound so good,” Bucky groans. He buries his face into the side of your neck, taking advantage of your thigh trapped between his legs to rut against you while he continues playing with your clit. Every time Bucky gets filthy with you it’s like the first time, shocking and almost embarrassing in the sexiest way possible. Heat floods your cheeks and makes you lightheaded, unable to stop the moan he draws from you. You’re rewarded by Bucky’s teeth in your neck, the sensitive spot just over your pulse point, and if you’re being honest you could come just from this.

Bucky’s cock growing harder against your thigh, as his hips shift in rhythm with the circles he draws on your clit, becomes too difficult to ignore. To gain his attention you twist and nip at the closest piece of skin you can find, Bucky’s ear, and he engulfs you in a kiss which steals the breath right out of you. You buck your hips, hoping to nonverbally convey the demand get in me right now, and Bucky doesn't need any more hints than that.

He fumbles with the condom for a second and you take the time to sit up on your elbows and look at him. Bucky is so beautiful, drawn in harsh lines and stark contrasts. Tan skin turned paler against the opaque black of his tattoos, colour swirling in-between and it should be jarring, but you think he just looks like art. Bitten red lips, startling blue eyes pinning you to the mattress as he catches you staring - such bright, primary colours because he is a statement piece, and one you could look at forever.

Bucky grins almost bashfully as you stare at him, leaning back over you to kiss you soft and sweet in a sharp juxtaposition to the rough tumble which got you here. Again, he sends your head spinning when the tender kiss is punctuated by the unexpected push of Bucky’s cock in your cunt. He bottoms out before you can blink, throwing your head back out of the kiss with an untamed groan - both pleasure and pain, in the good way. Bucky drags his teeth from your lips down your chin and neck, biting a mark into your collarbone to set the tone for the bruising pace he creates as he pounds into you.

He doesn’t do anything in halves, you think. You gaze up at him with an almost dopey smile while Bucky fucks the literal breath out of you. You lift your hips to meet him as he bottoms out with every thrust, watching in awe as his face creases up in ecstasy - it’s you who brings him there. He palms your tits like he can’t help himself, loses control in your pussy because you make him feel that good, and the thought makes you giddy. Drunk, almost, as you drag your nails down his chest and nearly come once again just from the moan you draw out of this brilliant, dangerous, gorgeous man.

“You take it so well, baby, fuck,” Bucky pants, eyebrows creasing as the pleasure gets almost painful in its build. You know the feeling. Bucky’s mouth is always your undoing, rolling your eyes back into your head and the sounds you’re making turning positively feral. He kisses you again, more a slam of mouths than anything finessed, and says, “Never gonna get over this, never gonna get over how good you feel.”

“Bucky, you gotta-“

“I gotta what, huh?” Bucky grins at the pleasure-addled panic he brings you too, not wanting to come too fast but also needing to let go before you actually explode. He knows exactly what he’s doing, balancing on one hand to thumb harshly at your clit as he says, “You want me to stop? I don’t think so, sweetheart, I think you wanna come on my cock just like this, wanna hear me tell you how good you are, how sweet you are for me all laid out like this-“

Everything whites out as you come, hard, all your muscles spasming like crazy with the orgasm that rips through you. Bucky’s voice is drowned out, but it doesn’t matter what he’s saying anymore, he’s made you feel like you’ll never catch your breath again. Bucky thunks his forehead against yours, collapsing on top of you as the fluttering clench of your cunt around his cock becomes too much. His thrusts turn sloppy, his breath hot and ragged across your face as you press lazy, barely-there kisses to his cheeks - all you can muster in your fucked-out haze.

Bucky comes with his eyes closed, eyelashes tangling with yours, and you cling to him with all four limbs as he shakes through his orgasm. The release was so needed for the both of you, the events of the last twenty-four hours frying your nerves to the point where it was either fight, cry, or fuck. It feels so good to have Bucky on top of you, inside you, all around you in every single sense and it warms your heart in a way you didn’t know was possible until now. Until Bucky.

Maybe that’s the afterglow talking, and you should stop. But you can’t help but press another kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and another, over his nose and across his still-closed eyelids until you reach his mouth and he can kiss you back just as soft. You hope he gets it. You hope he feels it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You go to see your dad, eventually. The chaos of yesterday kept you attached to Bucky’s hip - you showered together in the morning, and he allowed you to pretend it was just the water and not tears soaking your face. But he made you cuddle with him on the couch and fed you an omelette like you were incapable of feeding yourself, and maybe you were, because the reality of what happened in that shitty Manhattan bar was starting to eat away at your executive functions. It took all of your strength to convince Bucky you would be ok and that you’d come back to him as soon as you were done, but it was time to pull on a thread you’ve been ignoring for far too long.

It turns out, that paranoid over-questioning part of your brain doesn’t turn off even during a traumatic event. Your dad lets you in without a word, tugging you into a side hug as you both walk to the kitchen to make tea.

The house you grew up in has taken on a different light since the Lerna. The kitchen chairs aren’t the same, reminding you too much of ziptied wrists and a gun in your face. Why can you superimpose the memory of Rumlow holding you hostage to one you have of being eleven and tied to a chair by your father? You shouldn’t be able to do that.

He nudges your hip, jerking you out of your staring contest with the dining chairs, and offers you a mug of tea. You both sit at the table, either end, the fruit bowl a mediator between you. He looks tired, old, like he always has somehow in your memories from childhood. He’s still your dad, the same man who always been there because he’s all you’ve ever had. He loves you, you know does. Ya lyublyu tebya, luna. But he has always been the first to say your paranoid streak runs a mile deep, and once you find a thread-

Well. Everyone knows how that ends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” your dad asks, and it’s like he knows you aren’t here to ask for boy advice or moan about a case or your skyrocketing rent.

There’s a lot you want to talk about. Why did I learn to throw knives instead of joining the soccer team, like normal kids? Why did I learn how to survive an interrogation instead of going to sleepovers, like normal kids? Why did you train me to question everyone and everything in this world, but I’ve always blindly believed you? Like a normal kid would, you suppose, the only normal you’ve ever really gotten. Always believing your dad is the superhero of six-year-old dreams, someone who would never keep you in the dark.

“No,” you say, taking a sip of tea. It burns your tongue to numbness, but you can’t bring yourself to care. We had the secret language for only us - why did I never think you might have secrets from me as well? You grimace into your tea and say, “Not right now, I’m sorry.”

“Tayny budut presledovat tebya vechno, malysh,” he says. Secrets will haunt you forever, little one.

You don’t dare look up from your tea as you say, “Ya dumayu, ty by znal vse ob etom.” I guess you’d know all about that.

He gives you leftover curry in a carry bag when you leave. Kisses you on the cheek and lets you go, but you can feel him watching you the entire time it takes you to walk down the street and out of sight. As soon as you round the corner you retch into the nearest bush, a well-manicured rose which you silently apologise to as it gets covered in your bile.

This guilt isn’t something Bucky can save you from - it feels like it’s eating you alive. You had never, ever thought you would get to the point where you’d be leaving a bug stuck to the underside of your dad’s kitchen table, but you suppose you never thought you’d be stalked and kidnapped either. You wipe the your mouth with the back of your hand as your stomach finishes emptying itself of tea and betrayal, and try to tell yourself you won’t find anything, you're just being paranoid. But you know you will.

Maybe you always have, and that’s why you’ve been too scared to pull on the thread you’ve known has been dangling in the back of your mind since you were a kid. Just one secret you wanted to leave, one dark corner you didn’t want to shine a light into. That’s never been in your nature. You spit the foul, acidic taste from your mouth onto a poor, innocent rose bud and think with just as much bitterness as the bile coating your throat, that’s not who my dad raised me to be.

Part 7

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes x reader fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #reader insert #reader insert fic #pov #pov fic #biker!bucky #biker!bucky fic #biker!bucky au #biker au #11 hours #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #brock rumlow

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the-mira-life-project-mtf · 6 years ago

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My MtF~H.R.T. Journey -- Finally Came Out (No Longer Hiding)

In my previous posts, I finally made my second attempt to ‘Coming Out’ with my second family. I know that my biological family would never accept it! If they had their way, all LGBTQ individuals would be killed as they see us as a disease. It is a hard reality to swallow, harder when you are nonconforming yourself.

My love and relationship with my second family meant much to me; however, over the year...I have found myself being pulled apart. My second family wants me to leave my biological family as they are not good for my health and happiness whereas my biological family wants me to distance all communication with my second family.

It is difficult to decide as I am bound to my biological family through duty and honor; but bound to my second family through love and unity. I can not have both, even though I want both! I decided yesterday, I would come out completely with my second family, to see where they stood. I was kinda hoping they would shun me so the decision would be easier...however, things did not go as expected!

Longing & Uncertainty...

It is kind of exciting to ‘sneak’ around; as I am on house arrest with my biological family and forbidden to see my second family. Their hatred for me and my second family is almost palatable. I had to see them, when I am with my biological family, the stress is almost sickening! This would prove evident when my second family saw me. I was scheduled to go swimming at 7pm and used that time to head to Belfair to see my second family. I set the mood as I listened to the new soundtrack from the movie: Five Feet Apart as the calming, yet sad melody played in stereo. My mind kept singing a song over and over:

‘Home is behind, the world ahead. And there are many paths to tread. Through shadow, to the edge of night...until the stars are all alight. Mist and shadow, cloud and shade. Hope shall fade...all shall fade’

The song, although from Lord of the Rings, spoke deep to my tribulations as I was leaving my home behind for a new rebirth. There were many paths I could follow. All going through the dark-times of my life...of uncertainty...like walking at night in the woods alone. All the paths lead to pain, suffering and regret.

In the end, I felt like I was dooming myself! My words would turn my second family away from me and my transition would leave me alone...isolated from love and compassion. All hope...gone...everything, gone! Yet, there was still hope, a silver lining in the clouds...maybe they would surprise me!

Even though I told them I needed time to adjust, I was ready to leave my old life behind for a new one. My connection to my biological family, severed the day they gambled with my life back in 2015. I saw death, if I stayed with them. The Lord sent me to my second family...the Lord will always provide to those souls who help themselves first.

Arriving at their asphalt driveway, I breathed as deep as I could and made the turn as I traveled up the road and parked. I pointed my car downhill...just in case I needed to leave quickly! I swallowed my fears and walked to their door, but ran into an obstacle as the gate was latched and it isn’t easy to undo. I pulled out my cellphone and called Michelle to let her know I have arrived, but was locked out. My voice trembling as I was scared.

Lexie, Michelle’s daughter, let me in as I stood patiently in the kitchen, rehearsing what I was going to say. My words would determine the future as I waited and waited. I became anxious, so I put away the dishes and started a new load of dishes and washed the sink and cleaned the counters. Staying busy helps ease my frantic mind. ‘Where are they?’ I wondered as neither Michelle nor Mitch came to see me. I envisioned horrible thoughts of them talking about my future...displeased in me and what I have become.

With the dishes done, and my anxiety thick enough to carve with a knife, I saw a black truck roll up the driveway as Michelle stepped out. I was early, by almost 30 minutes, so it was understandable. When she came in, I seem to hide in the corner of the building as she smiled.

“Hello honey...where is Mitch?” she asked as she saw the sink empty. “Oh, sweetheart, you did not need to do that!”

I glanced at the empty, clean sink “It helps me relax.” I say as I smile, which is hard when you are so scared, you feel like you might vomit! Michelle puts the rest of the bags down and tells me to hang tight as she goes upstairs to inquire on her husband. There is a delay as I wait patiently, looking for something else to clean. Michelle returns downstairs and smiles, not the reaction I was expecting.

“How have you been doing?” she asks as we wait for Mitch to join us.

“It has been a tough few days, found out today that I have to go in for surgery to have a port surgically implanted into my chest...should be fun!” I say with a smile. It is my personality; things that should scare other people, I take with stride like it is nothing, but inside, I am terrified! I purposely avoid the ‘Talk’ as Lexie and her friend, Cammie are only feet away and I don’t think I could handle four people, personally!

Mitch slowly comes down stairs, he looks tired and medicated. He also inquires about how I am doing and quickly moves this conversation outside as I reluctantly follow, knowing in is time.

Coming Out...

Outside, on the porch that overlooks the yard and North Bay, we all take a seat...Mitch and Michelle sitting by one another and I on the other-side. It is mildly warm outside, not too hot and not too cold...comfortable temperatures to talk. At first, we talk about my family and health as I just can not bring myself up to come out quite yet. We talk about the work my family has put me through. They are certainly not happy with me! Michelle looks at me and then at Mitch

“Your color has changed and your eyes...” Michelle looks at Mitch, “...look at his eyes...you must be exhausted!”

“I have not slept that well...and the pain is...always there.” as I even now feel the pressure and stabbing pain in my back with each breath. “They say that my health isn’t doing well, and that I need a port as they expect me to be in the hospital more often...and personally, I think they are correct! I feel...tired!”

It isn’t the ‘Talk’ that Mitch wants to hear; and I don’t blame him. I avoid talking about death or willingness to die. He had to bury his two only daughters and his wife...the fates have been hard on him. I know this conversation will have to be discussed...it needs to be addressed, but that is not why I came all this way out here for.

“I have been thinking about what you have said and written...” I begin as I open a new subject “...about moving out here, and before I come to a decision, I need to be frank with the both of you...” I swallow deep as my eyes cast downward in disgrace “...happiness can not be achieved without the truth that I suffer from gender dysphoria.”

There is a pause, as I expect, then Michelle asked the first question. “What exactly is gender dysphoria...?” as she tries to say dysphoria a few times as it isn’t a word in her vocabulary. “What does that mean? I am a little confused.”

“From what I’ve learned, gender dysphoria is...” as I think of what it is and what it means to me “...ah...confusion, displease or a feeling of being wrong, being in the wrong skin. Remember when I said I don’t like looking into mirrors, it is because the image I see is wrong, it does not match the image in my mind. It creates anxiety and can lead to suicide.” I wish I took the time to open my Tumblr page, as I’ve tackled many times trying to describe my dysphoria.

“Well, you know that Ryan is gay,” Mitch begins as he seems to sit in the most uncomfortable way...he too is trying to understand...but inside his mind, confusing questions are instantly being answered with this revelation “I found out when I walked in on him and Tyvel. Him being gay, concerned me, but I’ve learned to accept it, as I unconditionally love him. Him being gay does not bother me, it is him being harmed...by Tyvel, who is hard on him and other people who call him a fag.”

I think about Ryan and Tyvel. I have deep sympathy and love-as-a-brother for Ryan...always have. Tyvel concerns me, it is something about him that makes me sick, scared. I can understand where Mitch is coming from. I too worry for Ryan, he is open with his gay-nature and there are many out there...like my family...who would do great harm to him. I too don’t want him harmed, but when it comes to judging Mitch and his opinions about the LGBTQ...I was completely wrong! And I was angry with myself!

Michelle tries again with the question about my dysphoria...but honestly, I can’t explain it well...it would take too much time...time which I do not have! I try answering again, “When I look at myself, it isn’t me. Everything is a facade to please my family...”

“Which gender do you relate with the most?” Michelle asks, trying to understand through all my jumbled words and thoughts.

“Female.” I say, deciding that just cutting to the chase would be the best option for me. “But it is more then relating, since I was seven years old, I’ve always considered myself in-between genders...I think it was due to my upbringing in a single-parent family and suggestions from society...yet, during my great depression from my failing health, I took steps to correct this dysphoria” I knew this part would be tough as I have never told anyone about it, not even Ruth, who only knew I was nonconforming/fluid “I have been taking hormones to correct my dysphoria for about two years (which was a lie as I’ve only been on for barely a year...but figuring if I was going into the fire, ought to go all the way, and considering that prior to taking hormones, I did try self-medicating with bovine hormones, which was a terrible mistake...so two years give-or-take). For awhile, I was able to hide, but I personally know that I am changing and most find that in their second year, the changes are unable to hide from anyone.”

“Do you have a penis?” Mitch asked, which was a shock to me as I nod. “And a vagina?” and I shake my head. “So your a man...” as he summarizes. I feel the discomfort creep back into my heart. If I could, I would be rid of my male appendages...they gross me out! The only benefit I see having a penis is less UTI’s and easy to pee outdoors. “Do you have both a penis and vagina?” he asks as I can even see Michelle wishing he’d stop, but I let him continue “What do they call that aphadite?”

“Hermaphrodite.” both Michelle and I say in unison.

“No, I do not have both sexual organs; logically, I am male...but I was suppose to be born female according to my doctors and when I was nine, I began developing breasts...scared the hell out of my mother. We think it was due to the medication I was on...but it was enough to send me down this path.” I breathed deep, glad that was over. I hate talking about sex and sexual organs...it is gross!

“So you identify mostly as female.” Michelle summarizes as I nod.

“Always.” as I study both their faces. Mitch then repeats himself over an over about the unconditional love of the Lord and about how those who are LGBT were not saved in the Old Testament...but we live in the New Testament and God does not care if you are LGBT, he cares about your actions and love you give to others. It is comforting, as I always struggled with being nonconforming and possibly going to hell for it! “This is what I wanted to talk to you guys about. I know you’ve both offered me a home here, and I have decided, but I don’t want to hide and you both deserve the right to know...as you will find out down the road!”

“David, we love you for who you are! You were brought into our lives for a reason. You should never be ashamed that you are LGBTQ or anything. The only thing we ask is that you respect this place...which I know you will...but also, we need you to be open and transparent with us, don’t think you will hurt our feelings!” Michelle says as I smiles for the first time...those are the words I wanted to hear...however, I could see Mitch still debating.

“It all makes sense now!” Mitch interrupts as Michelle pokes him for interrupting her. “I’m ADD I have to do this!”

“So am I!” Michelle says with a smile as she lets Mitch speak his mind.

“It makes sense now why you are still a virgin. I was shocked to hear that! And learn that you’ve been dating for 11 years and have done nothing!” “I could not understand it!”

“It is hard to be intimate with another, if you can’t stand to look at yourself. I knew I had a problem in our 9th year of dating when she wanted to have sex and was willing. I was not. And in our 5th year, she commented how our roles were reversed, she was masculine and I feminine. I think my ‘issues’ broke us up; that, and the fight we had years ago...I hated what I was...orderly and authoritarian!”

“A woman craves sex! Needs it!” Mitch says as Michelle blushes and does not argue with him. I can somewhat understand why. As a man, sex seems to stimulate only in the groin and comes-and-goes in minutes whereas a woman, sex seems to stimulate over the whole body and once climaxed, it continues for minutes to hours...over and over...like hot waves of euphoria. I have felt this...it is beyond measure or words! Men are missing out! Just touching the skin is a stimulation, like sparks. The chest and groin can make you go blind! “No, Michelle and I suspected...” turning to his honey “...remember, we talked about the possibility...”

Michelle nods, “Of him having some element of being transgender, yes.”

I was shocked, was it that obvious! From what Michelle and Mitch were about to say...it was. “Everything about you, seemed different. For example, the way you speak...your words...men don’t talk that way, you are far too articulate. And your fears of being touch or exposing your chest had me guessing...but it was when you told me about you being a virgin...I said, ‘I think David is trans’.” as Michelle nods and I sit their baffled. “David, our family loves you...our friends love you and will not care if your male or female!”

I breathe deep as I nod, “Then, in that case, is the offer to join your family still up...and you are both okay with me being nonconforming and dealing with my changes as I become more...feminine?” they both nod and I quickly add. “My family will certainly disown me for this...I will have no connections...”

“Then they don’t truly love you,” Mitch says as it stings, but true. “If they truly love you, you know the saying, ‘If you love something so much, you must learn to let it go’ If your family loves you, they will understand.”

“I understand...a litman test...I just fear that if I go, they will fall apart. That is my biggest concern about my health. When my grandfather died, the whole family fell apart, they became isolated and negative. It is stressful and toxic.” I pause as I come to talk topic number three “Once I am apart of your family, I would like to have your blessings to join the Messinger family, I would like to adopt your name...I already come from a broken family, and I feel that my life is owed to the thanks of your daughter, Amanda who saved my life in 2015 and to you and Michelle who have given me hope.” I smile as I pull out my wallet, “For instance, my name isn’t the name I was born with!” as I find my really old license and hand it to Mitch who shows it to Michelle.

“Ohhh, look are cute you were!” Michelle comments as they look at my age 16 picture.

“David Joseph Butt--gen--back...” Mitch sounds out. It isn’t a easy name. “David and Joseph, all names from the bible.”

“And they mean nothing to who I am...” I say, realizing how bitter that sounds. “None of those names is unique to me; David is a memorial to my mothers brother whom she loved and lost; Joseph was to appease my father...they are not who I am...no, my real name has been in hiding all this time, but for those who are looking, it is visible...” this time I take out my cellphone and open my Facebook page.

Michelle takes the phone and scans the page for the name...and sees it, clear as day...right before her eyes. She tries the four letter word: “Myra.” even though the spelling is Mira The word Mira is beautiful, all four versions of it: Mira (Mir-a) from Croatian, Myra (My-ra) from Spanish, Amira (A-my-ra) from Greek and Miralen (Mir-a-lenn) also from Croatian language dialect. Michelle smiles as she likes the words and tries it again, “...Myra...”

“My true name, hidden, because of the fear of my family...that is the name I will take soon. And would like to add Messinger to it...if that is okay.” I ask Mitch, forgetting that Michelle too is part of this plan.

“You want me to adopt you?” Mitch asks, chewing on his nails...a sign of distress. I sense something isn’t right.

“Only if you wish...Mira Messinger...” I smile as that will take time to get use to. “Still working on a middle name...” even though I am considering Amanda’s middle name, Carlene. There is no answer from Mitch as it is much to process.

“So, what is your plans?” Michelle asks as Mitch is indisposed in thought.

I am confused as I answer, “Now that I now know you both are okay with me being nonconforming, and willing to support me...next step is to move my life from Olalla here.” I hesitate, fearful of the consequences. Homesickness is a real nightmare. Mitch seems to join us again as he summarizes.

“Lets look at the cons: a loving family, you won’t have to hide anymore, better health...”

“Sweetheart, those are the pros.” Michelle says as I smile, a simply mistake. I know that they are as uncomfortable as I am.

“You know what I mean...the pros...now the cons...” he pauses as he looks at me to fill in the blanks.

“What cons concern you?” Michelle adds, giving me time to consider.

“Well, top one is isolation from my family, then there is the distance from the hospital if there is a problem...and my upbringing...that will take time to be reconditioned.” I explain as Mitch answers for each one, isolation is a answer that they don’t love you, we would gladly drive you to the hospital at any hour and we can work on your issues. I smile as I shake my head, “Just as I expected;” I can see the confusion on their faces. “Sorry, we don’t talk much about this outside of the family...we seem to be gifted with dreams of possibilities. My mother, grandmother, sister and I. This entire conversation is because of a dream...remember when I asked about the chances of snow out here?” as they nod, I wrote a note back in September about us getting stuck here in deep snow like we’ve never seen.

“You have visions?” Mitch asks as it is unknown to me, he too has visions and terrors with the darkness or simply put, evil. I nod, realizing we are sharing more then expected. “That is God talking to you!”

I never thought of my dreams as God talking to me; most of them are nonsense. Michelle jokes, “And did you ever see us winning the lottery?” I sadly shake my head, something Mitch does not want to see. He won the lottery once, and even though it gave him the chance to help so many, it also brought a terrible price.

"Mark my words...I am going to prove you wrong!” Mitch tells me.

“I hope you do.” I reply, as I believe his plans are for the greater good.

“We three should go get food...continue this conversation on the way.” Michelle offers as Mitch has other plans.

“I was thinking of cooking up some hamburgers...”

“David does not have much time, and you still need to heal on him.” Michelle says as she makes a new decision. “I have a better plan, I will take the girls and get dinner while you work on him!” she, Lexie and Cammie jump into the black durango and head to DQ, Taco Bell and JR’s for dinner as Mitch and I continue the conversation in the dark. I can see that he too is struggling with a secret that he already told me...

(Out of respect, I will omit this part as he asked me to do so)

When Michelle and the girls came back, we retreated to the warm house as night in the Pacific Northwest gets mighty cold! We massaged, prayed and performed CPT (healing) on my back as I ate quickly, the clock was ticking. The conversation about me being transgender ended out of respect for me, in front of the girls as I reflected on previous dreams and thoughts.

We talked about Mitch’s daughters, Jess and Amanda. I never had the opportunity to meet Jessica, but knew Amanda from her visits at St. Anthony and the Panamanda Transplant Fundraiser. My many hours at their home, I have had many dreams and conversations with things that my eyes can not see...I can feel it. Sometimes I wonder if my brain is making it all up, but the things I write or see, tend to come true months down the road.

“When Jess died,” as we were still talking about my final wishes that they might have to endure if I become part of the family “she went from being a healthy girl to skin and bones in a week...she just gave up, stop eating and fighting! I wasn’t there when she passed, but the night she passed away she said to me: ‘Dad, when I die, I am going to come live at your place.’ And I said, ‘How would I know.’ and she replied: ‘You’ll know.’” I was fighting back tears, this should not bother me, but for some reason, it does. And I don’t understand it. When I look at images, I see things that ‘seem’ familiar, seeming to fit in as if I left off...somewhere.

I have always felt ‘connected’ to Amanda, even if the encounter was only a few words in a hallway. And when she died, it broke my heart. She was always fighting! It seemed she’d beat the odds, like nothing but old age could render her dead...but on January 1st, 2013 she died...and my whole life was shattered. I changed careers, changed direction, and began to realize...she was right...I had cystic fibrosis...the same damn disease that killed Jess, her and so many others I would follow and talk to. Yet, doubt is a monster that tears me down. And when Michelle added. “There is nothing you could do or be that would cause us to push you away, sweetheart...the only thing I can think is that if you made up your sickness...”

Doubt...in its rawest form. Being atypical is hell! You are not a CFer, yet, you are! You are dying from cystic fibrosis-like symptoms that can only be controlled with CF therapies, but no CF doctor will see you. I sometimes ask myself, ‘Did I cause this? Did I convince myself I had CF?’

Impossible!

You can’t cause pancreas failure, you can’t cause excessive sweating that leads to mineral and salt loss, you can’t cause total lung failure without the use of smoke or inhalation of chemicals! You can’t live day-to-day with the pain, suffering, torment and scars! As Dr. Iregui said to me...you can fake an illness, but you can’t fake an FEV1 or x-rays of collapsed scarred lungs. You can’t fake chronic digestive disease or gallbladder failure. I was sick...with a disease that hid as well as I hid my transgender-nature.

“When Amanda passed away, she fought to the very end...and I was there to hold her. Like you, she was a fighter...but I was unable to save my daughters!” Mitch punishes himself. I always feel that I was put on this path to prevent Mitch from forgetting his promise to Amanda and hating CF. Now, don’t get me wrong, CF is a cursed disease! A killer of dreams and hopes; but Amanda’s life was to fight CF and dreamed of a foundation that would continue her work. That was now my job...my calling. I feel that my whole life is now dedicated to continue Amanda’s work...and to help heal Mitch.

But, there is something weird going on...

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but there seems to be a correlation with my arrival to the Messinger family and my struggle with CF...like I still am being guided by Amanda. And with my transgender nature blossoming at the meeting of Mitch and Michelle...it could be that Jessica’s promise might be coming true. Whatever the case or cause, I feel that I must keep their memories alive, keep the fight going and heal myself to complete my work.

I think to myself as Mitch hits a painful nerve, ‘Mira Carlene Messinger!’ So much for living as David Messinger or Bruer...my life was changing, and I yearned for this new life. Mitch got up from the chair he was sitting on. Every time he is done, he is wiped out! I look at my watch, it is almost nine and I know I need to go, although, I don’t want to.

“So, the plan forward is to start transitioning in May as I have an obligation with my family in April that I must honor. We can go from there...and have plenty of time to talk. But, I want to thank you both for accepting me for who and what I am, as Mira, it has removed a great deal of stress from my chest!” as Michelle walks over to hug me and Mitch does the same.

“When can you come over again?” Michelle asks as I think of Wednesday.

“My last swimming lesson is Wednesday, I can come that day...for more healing.” I say as I smile, looking at Mitch, my father. It is odd, in my mind, to be in my 30s, yet, perceive my life as if I was in my 20s. I give Lexie a hug as she does not want me to leave, but I have to hurry home before they know.

Driving home, my mind is free. Second year on hormones, a new primary transgender-health doctor and moving towards my life as Mira...I whisper to the darkness “I hope I am making the correct choice.”

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hannahindie · 7 years ago

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Breathe - Part 3

Pairing: Dean x Reader Series Warnings: Fatal illness, character death, blood, canon violence, language, eventual smut, kidnapping. Word Count: 3,109 Square Filled: Fatal Illness Summary: A year ago, the reader makes a decision regarding her treatment. Present day, she finds herself in over her head, and Sam and Dean are about to find out just what she’s been hiding. A/N: This is the third part of my SPN Angst Bingo Card, hosted by @spnangstbingo. It will be seven parts, and the schedule has already been posted. It will post twice a week (Monday and Friday) until it wraps up.

Beta’d by my beautiful waterbear writing soulmate, @trexrambling: “I love it when Sam gets sassy.” So do I...sassy Sam makes my life.

My twinny, @pinknerdpanda: “I read this in your voice and it made me so happy.” I like to indulge myself and put myself in things, so it always makes me happy when you find it. :)

And my beautiful, sweet angel, @masksandtruths: “Yea, it’ll be fine.” Snerk. Sure.

As always, tags are at the bottom. If you’d like to be added, please let me know!

One Year Earlier…

“No.”

My mouth is forming the words before I even realize my brain has thought them.

“I’m sorry?” The doctor looks at me, her brows raised in surprise. I would laugh at how absurd she looks if the situation at hand wasn’t so serious.

“No...I don’t think I want any of those options.” My heart is racing; I’m basically telling this woman I want to die. But that’s not entirely true, is it? I don’t want to die, but now that I’m presented with options, if I’m going to go, I want to go with some dignity.

“Y/N, there’s a chance-”

My laugh interrupts her and she frowns, her lips pressed thin as she stares at me. “I-I am so sorry,” I clear my throat as I try to calm down the hysterical laughter bubbling just below the surface, “but I just find that ridiculous. You already told me that the five year survival rate is eight percent.” I sigh, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I am very tired. I am a deep, soul crushing tired, and honestly I just want...I want to go out the way I want to go. Do you understand? My job is hard and, honestly, I’m lucky I’ve made it as long as I have.”

Her mouth forms a little ‘o’ of surprise, and I realize that’s the closest I’ve ever come to telling someone outside the life the truth about what I do.

“But at the end of the day, I love it. It’s everything I’ve ever known, and I get to help people, and that’s what this world is about, right? So if this is going to happen, if I’m going to die, I want to be able to do so knowing I have done everything I can before I’m gone.”

“I have to strongly advise against that.”

“I know,” I smile as I stand up from the cozy chair that I’m sure is there to be a small comfort when people are receiving bad news, “but it’s what I want. I understand the repercussions.”

She nods, then pulls a sheet from the pad in front of her and holds it out to me. I reach for it, and she holds it back slightly and raises an eyebrow, “I will give you this if you promise that you will at least get checked once a month. I understand that you aren’t going to accept treatment, but I expect you to be in this office once a month for the foreseeable future. In return, I will make sure you are kept comfortable, in a responsible manner. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yea, doc, we’ve got a deal.”

She nods once, then lets the paper slip into my hand. I give her one more smile, then leave the office and head to the closest pharmacy.

The bell above the door dings as I push my way into the building. Pharmacies always have this weird vibe to them; the overhead lights cast a yellowish glow on everything, and most likely one of them is buzzing, flickering slightly as it tries to decide if it’s time to quit. The music playing quietly in the background at this particular one is some cheesy Muzak that would make any hotel elevator jealous. I hand the pharmacist my script then sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs lined up in front of the window. He looks at me, looks at the wrinkled piece of paper, then back at me. I smile, and he gives me a sad look in return. I know what that looks means. Dead girl walking.

“Not too reassuring when your pharmacist looks at you like that, is it?” I look over to see an older man, at least in his eighties, sitting several seats down, one leg crossed over the opposite knee and a cane balanced against his arm rest.

“No, not really.”

“What are you in for?”

I'm usually not much for small talk, but the glint in this man’s eye has me intrigued.

“Lung cancer. You?”

“You name it, I got it, though I do believe you got me beat on that one, sweetheart. Today it's my sugar, but I’m sure tomorrow will find something else. Then again, I like to believe that I didn't fight the Nazis and survive for something like that to take me out.”

“I like the way you think, sir.”

“Sir’s my daddy, you can call me Frank, Frankie if you're feeling cheeky.”

I wink, “I'm always feeling cheeky, Frankie.”

He grins, “Oh, to have met you in my heyday. We woulda had a ball.”

I cock an eyebrow, “Who says we can't now? As long as you don't mind my broken lungs, I think we could have some fun adventures.”

He holds up his hand and wiggles his ring finger, “I don't think my wife would approve. She's cheeky, too.”

We fall silent and I wonder what his wife is like.

“I'm sorry about your lungs, sweetheart.”

I shrug, “In my line of work, it's just a matter of time. It's a little...less violent than I assumed it would be, so that's nice.”

Frankie frowns, and again I realize I've let something slip. “What kinda job do you do?”

“I hunt monsters.”

“I understand that. Someone's gotta do it, huh?”

I know we are talking about two different kinds of monsters, but the sentiment is still there.

“Mr. Duvall?”

He stands slowly, then leans on his cane for a moment to balance himself. “That's me,” he says as he gives me one last look. “You take care of yourself.”

“You too.” He shuffles to the counter and gets his medicine, then disappears around the corner. The pharmacy falls silent again, except for the occasional pop of that one, slowly dying light.

Now…

Simple hunt my dying ass.

Sam should have been right. All his research pointed to the ghost of the husband being the culprit, stuck in a loop in an attempt to save his children.

God, I wish that was true.

Instead, it’s the entire family, including the murderous bitch that killed the rest of them. She is not having our interruption, and I suddenly find myself trapped in an upstairs room, my only defense the iron poker I had grabbed as I ran past the fireplace and up the stairs.

I look around for another way out, but there's no use. This room opens into a nursery, but there's no doors in that room and all of the windows are nailed shut. I'm gasping for air; the run from one side of the house to the other then up the stairs was too much. I cough into my hand and can tell before I even look that there's more blood.

Dammit.

I hear a thud from downstairs and a muffled sonuvabitch, then the loud bang of a shotgun going off.

“Come on, this is ridiculous!” I wiggle the doorknob, knowing it's pointless. On a good day, I might be able to kick it open, but as it is, I'm having trouble standing. Kicking doesn't really seem like an option right now. Suddenly, the air is frigid, and I can see pathetic little breath clouds trying to form in front of me. I turn slowly to see the wife slowly appear, flickering in and out of existence like some kind of video cassette from the eighties.

“You are a raging bitch, you know that? Sam is going to find your bones and he's going to burn your ass. You won't be hurting anyone else.”

It's then I realize that there's one way to get that door open. It's not a good plan, but I have to try something. “Come on, get me! I'm not moving!” I hold my arms out and drop my poker. “Look! All yours! C’mon, bitch!” Suddenly, she throws her arm out towards me and I'm airborne. I close my eyes and brace for the impact, but nothing could have prepared me for how much it was going to hurt. I hit the door and it yields with a sickening crack. For a second, I'm honestly not sure if it is the door or my spine that's making the sound, but there's not much time to think about it as I finish my descent and slam into the floor. It feels like my entire body is curled around something the wrong way, and I lay there and try to force the air in and out.

It feels like I'm drowning on land, like the air I'm trying to desperately suck in is going to be the very thing that kills me. “Dean…” I can barely speak, but I manage to roll over to my hands and knees. “Holy shit….bad...idea…” Good news, the cracking sound is the door, not my spine. The bad news, there's blood dripping from my mouth and I know I didn't get hit in the face. I spit and grimace at the amount of red on the floor. Not good.

“Dean!” A little louder this time, and I hear footsteps taking the stairs two at a time. I manage to get to my feet in time to see Mama Murder appear, less flicker and more violent than before. Great.

“Duck!”

I turn to see Dean pointing a shotgun at me and drop to my knees with a groan; it's a shame, considering I'd just managed to stand up. While he's preoccupied, I swipe my palm swiftly across my mouth and wipe away the evidence. No need for him to see that. The blast makes my ears ring, but the ghost is gone for the moment, so I slump against the wall and let my chin hit my chest.

“Thanks,” I force out, biting back the scream of pain that I want to let loose. I can feel the bruise forming on my back and it feels like my lungs are on fire. Breathing is like swallowing glass shards, and I’m worried that I may have broken a rib, which just adds insult to injury, honestly.

“What the hell happened?” he asks as he kneels next to me, taking a moment to look at the now destroyed door.

I give him a weak shrug and look up at him, my attempt at the usual smartass smirk failing as blood drips from my lip. “Well, I had to get the door open somehow.”

“Are you okay?”

His eyes are on my mouth, and now would be the time to tell him that I am not, in fact, okay, but instead I spit, then wipe my hand across my lips again, “I'm fine. She got me pretty good, I must have bitten my lip when I hit the door. No big. Help a girl up, would ya?”

He stands, offering his hand, and I grab it. It’s warm in mine, rough and gentle at the same time, and for a second my mind flashes back to another time with those hands...which is not helpful now. I gather myself as well as I can and stand with a groan. “I am getting too old for this shit.”

“You and me both.” He stares at me, his eyes traveling from my face down to my toes and back up, narrowing as he realizes how carefully I'm holding myself. “Seriously, are you okay?”

I straighten up, ignoring the way my entire body is protesting the movement, and let go of Dean’s hand. “I’m fine. Let’s just gank this bitch and get out of here. Where’s Sam?”

“I don’t know. I heard him yell something about burning bones, I guess he figured out where she is. I haven’t seen him.”

“Well, let’s go downstairs, there’s nothing up here-”

I’m cut off by what feels like a hand around my throat and then suddenly I’m airborne again. Only this time, there’s no door to slow my fall, or a wall to crash into. I hit the floor, and before I can scramble to catch myself gravity betrays me and I literally bounce down the stairs. I always thought it looked ridiculous when people on television fell down the stairs, and I have a few seconds to contemplate how stupid I must look until the wall at the bottom abruptly stops me. For the second time in five minutes, the air is knocked out of me. This time, my vision starts to go black around the edges and spots start dancing in front of me. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on getting my lungs to cooperate. In. Out. In. Out. Dean shouts and suddenly his shotgun slides down the stairs and lands at my feet. I look up to see him held against the wall, and I gauge the distance between us.

It’s too far.

The shotgun’s range with normal ammunition wouldn’t be enough, but this is rock salt. I’ll have to get closer, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I don’t move the lie I have been telling could get Dean killed. I grab the gun and crawl to the steps and begin dragging myself up, the shotgun in one hand while the other hand grips the worn wood. He’s looking at me, his eyes rolling as he tries to catch his breath, and I pump the shotgun one-handed, another television trope I wasn’t sure actually ever happened. I manage to climb half of the stairs and stand up shakily, leaning back against the banister as I aim the shotgun.

“Let him go, you bitch,” I snarl, then shoot. She disappears with a high pitched screech, and I collapse on the steps and let the gun fall from my hand. When I look up, Dean’s on his knees, his chest heaving as he stares at me. “When I said to go downstairs, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Dean shakes his head and laughs, “I was gonna say, that was a dramatic exit.”

“Well, I have to keep it interesting.” A crash comes from above us, and we both look up.

“Did you know that this place has an attic?”

I shake my head, “No, but I guess I do now.”

Sam shouts, and before Dean can run to the source of the sound, we hear a muffled found you and then feet hurrying across the floor above.

Sam pops out of one of the rooms, “We need to go.”

“Why? What did you do?” Dean asks as he gives me his hand again and I stand up gingerly. At least this time Dean isn’t going question it; I did just get thrown down the stairs.

“The better question is where the hell did you even come from?” I grimace as we start down the stairs and Dean’s brows furrow as he tightens his grip around my waist.

Sam grabs the shotgun and takes off for the front door, “Let’s talk about this outside. Actually, better yet, let’s talk about it in the car, as we’re leaving.”

We stumble outside and I turn back just in time to see the second story burst into flames. “Someone’s got some explainin’ to do.” I look back at Sam and he shrugs, and the puppy dog look on his face is nearly too much to deal with. “Was that absolutely necessary?”

Sam tosses Dean his keys, “Well, from the sounds of how hard she was kicking your asses, yes, it was necessary.”

Dean rolls his eyes and lets his arm slip from where it was resting around my waist. I’m sad, both because it was comfortable and because I can feel my body start to give up as my adrenaline begins to wear off.

“She wasn’t kicking our asses, we had it handled.”

“Right,” Sam scoffs, “if you consider Y/N getting thrown down the stairs and you getting choked out ‘having it handled’.” He air quotes that list bit, throwing a bitch face to beat all bitch faces at Dean.

“How would you even know? You didn’t see what was going on. And how did you even get up there anyway?”

“Guys…” Everything is getting blurry, and I can’t catch my breath. I reach out for Dean but my fingertips barely brush his arm; my depth perception is pretty much gone.

“Well, if you’d even tried to look around, you would have seen there was a back staircase, and a hidden entrance in one of the closets.” Sam crosses his arms and, even with blurry vision, I can tell that he’s gloating. They're picking a fine time to act like normal brothers.

“Dean.” It’s all I can get out before wracking coughs take over. I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't speak. I can taste it, the bitter metallic taste of my body working against me, tearing me apart from the inside out. I'm choking on blood, and the thought of dying throws me into a panic. I'm not ready; I just found the thing worth fighting for, even if I'm in denial about it. I have family again, a life, and I regret the decision I made to give it all up.

“Y/N!”

I fall to my knees, and I feel someone next to me, a familiar warmth, and I fold myself into it. Dean's looking down at me, his eyes full of fear, and it's the only thing I can focus on.

“C’mon, hang in there. Sammy, help me get her in the car.”

“Shouldn't we call an ambulance-”

My gasp for air and another coughing fit interrupts him, and he looks at me in horror when he sees how much blood is on my face. I may not be able to see well, but I can tell. This is bad.

“We don't have time to wait. Come on.” Dean lifts me up and Sam rushes to open the back door. He carefully slides me onto the bench seat, and before he can move I find a little strength to grab his arm.

“Please...don't…” It's all I can say. It's Dean, though, and he understands. He's understood me since we were ten years old.

“Okay, I'm here, I gotcha.” He crawls in next to me and holds me across his lap, my head against his shoulder. Each gargling breath I take has him holding me tighter, and my heart aches. I shouldn't have done this to him. He holds the keys out to Sam, “Drive, fast.”

The last thing I feel as my eyes slip shut is Dean’s lips as he brushes them against my cheek. “Everything will be fine,” he whispers.

Everything will be fine.

Read Part 4 HERE.

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lucifers-trash-stash · 7 years ago

Text

Into the Woods: Chapter One

Summary: After drunkenly crashing a yacht on a joyride, the Dixon brothers are required to teach a class as a part of their community service. Knowing that her sister Charlotte has a thing for Merle, Robin and Daryl come up with the idea for a weekend at the Dixon’s cabin in the woods.

A/N: This story is co-written by two authors, @ladylorelitany and myself. She writes the sections for Robin and Daryl, and I write for Charlotte and Merle.

Word count: 2,372

Warnings: Swearing

Masterlist

Merle

“Anchor’s away, private!” I call out to Daryl on the deck down below. Even in my drunken state there’s no way I’m letting my baby brother get a hold of the wheel and claim the role of captain. I’ve seen way too many rich old dudes with their hot little wives act like tough shit behind the helm of one of these babies, and I want that same sort of power, if only for a little joyride.

I hear Daryl climb up the steps just as I start giggling at “private.” Daryl grunts and walks over to me. “Why am I always left as the sidekick on your drunken adventures, huh?” he asks, slinging an arm over my shoulder and offering me a swig of my moonshine from a flask. I take it from him and gulp down a swig of it. Nothing tastes better than my own recipe, after all.

“Because I’m the oldest, baby brother,” I tease him. “Now go swab the poop deck!” I cackle at my own joke as Daryl rolls his eyes and takes the flask back. He can never just relax and have a little fun.

I fish boat keys out of my pocket, which the owner stupidly left in his room down below, and fire the engine up. I grin from ear to ear at the roar it makes. Even Daryl can’t contain his excitement at getting the thing up and running.

Just as I’m about to figure out how to get the boat away from the shipyard and onto the ocean, Daryl looks at me and wonders, “Ain’t ya supposed to pull the anchor up or something?”

I snort and shake my head at him. “They only put anchors on the big boats, numbnuts.”

When I finally figure out how to actually get the engines going and move the boat forward, Daryl says, “This is a big boat.”

As the boat slowly begins to move, I groan. “This ain’t no cruise liner, baby brother. As ya can see, it’s all smooth sailing from-”

A sudden lurch sends the both of us to the ground. Disoriented, I struggle to pick myself up off of my brother. With a grunt, Daryl tosses me off of him. As I start sending a slew of curses in his direction, we hear it. The sickening sound of metal scraping across metal.

I don’t dare to look, but I know my suspicions are true. We rammed into the side of the yacht next to us. While I run my hands over my face, trying to clear my head for just enough of a moment to think of a way to get out of this, Daryl’s voice comes in loud and clear. “Think we hit something.”

I moan at the obvious statement and rest my throbbing head against the cool hardwood of the deck.

Robin

I walk into the community center and head to our classroom, my arm slung around Charlotte’s waist. “Last class,” I mention nonchalantly. “What do you think?”

I already know what she’s thinking, but I’m always trying to get my sister out of her shell. It’s harder today because she’s feeling down, but I already have a fix for that.

We sit down in our normal spot in the front row and Charlotte shrugs dejectedly, casting a longing glance in Merle Dixon’s direction.

Merle notices the look, but assumes that it’s for his younger, shyer brother Daryl. He gives me a little wave, flashing me his signature smirk, and I wave back, nudging Charlotte to get her to wave back too. She does, but it’s halfhearted. She is definitely upset.

Charlotte has always had a thing for Merle. Not that I blame her. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s attractive, in good shape, and has a great sense of humor.

The problem is that my sister is shy. Like, painfully shy. She has a hard time talking to people, so flirting is pretty much off the table. I’ve taken her out a few times and tried to do the wingwoman thing, but she just didn’t seem interested. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me there was already someone she wanted and admitted to liking Merle.

So when I heard that the brothers were teaching a wilderness survival class as community service for crashing a yacht, of all things, I’d signed us up and started planning.

Daryl notices me wave and gives me a small smile. I wink at him conspiratorially. He’s totally in on my big move. We met at the diner and talked about it yesterday.

Talking to Daryl alone was a totally different experience than seeing him around his brother. He’s soft-spoken, but he’s also smart and thoughtful, and I think a lot of that gets lost in Merle’s ostentatious, vulgar demeanor. In fact, I’m wondering if that’s how Charlotte feels around me. She and Daryl are definitely alike, which is probably why Merle keeps trying to flirt with me. I seem like the more obvious choice of person who’d be into him.

I lean my chin on my hand and stare at the younger Dixon for a long moment. I honestly haven’t been thinking about myself in this venture at all, but yesterday after I told Daryl my plan, I’d definitely noticed a change in his behavior. He had leaned forward a little more, like he was hooked on my words, rather than uncomfortably getting through our conversation. It was hard to tell because of his deep tan, but I’m pretty sure he was blushing the rest of the time we talked. I think he’d thought I was after his brother, because he seemed surprised when I told him that it was Charlotte who liked Merle.

I’m not sure what to do about that. I’m generally pretty confident with men, but that’s partially because I go after confident men. I’ve never been with someone as shy and withdrawn as Daryl. Maybe it’s time for me to ask Charlotte for some advice.

I sigh, finally looking away from Daryl. I can always figure that out later. Right now, my concern is Charlotte.

The Dixons have a cabin in the woods, so I suggested to Daryl that we could all spend a weekend there to celebrate our class ending. He agreed that it would be fun, and we talked about various ways to conveniently make sure that Charlotte and Merle end up alone together.

I figured that Daryl and I might hang out a bit while my sister and his brother are off doing their thing. He’s definitely sweet and nice. But now I’m wondering what else might happen, and for the first time in a long time, I’m actually nervous because I don’t have a clear plan.

Class starts and I try to pay attention, but instead I find myself gazing at Daryl’s well-muscled arms and oddly fashionably messy hair. I bite my lip and blush, squeezing my legs together as I think about those arms in much more compromising situations.

I shake my head to clear it as the lecture ends, trying to sort out my thoughts. Getting to the cabin is my main goal right now, and Daryl is going to help me with that. Merle and Charlotte don’t have any idea what we’re up to.

Luckily, I don’t have to convince Charlotte to wait until everyone else has wandered out of the room; we usually stick around anyway. I push my new confused reaction to Daryl aside and prepare to suggest our little weekend trip instead.

Charlotte

Now that class is done I wait around with Robin for everyone to clear out so we’re free to talk with Daryl and Merle. Thankfully Robin has made it a habit to do this every class, otherwise I’d never be able to talk with Merle under any other circumstance. He’s far too outgoing for me, and even with my sister chatting them both up I still feel like I can barely find the words to talk to him.

If only this wasn’t the last day of class. The highlight of my week was being able to at least talk to Merle with some sort of reason. But now I probably wouldn’t see him again for a while, considering he frequents bars with Daryl and his drinking buddies. I’d never be able to talk with him alone. Not that I’d be confident enough to anyways.

As I’m stewing with what I should say to the guys, two of our classmates make their way over to me and my sister. We’re the only women in the class surrounded by a group of men, so that isn’t really surprising. What’s really bothering me is that they’ve never wanted to talk to us before, which makes me kind of nervous.

“Hey ladies,” the one says, eyeing us both. “Would you wanna go out and celebrate now that the class is over?”

I don’t even have to worry about opening my mouth, because Robin immediately comes to my rescue. “Sorry, but we’ve got a busy schedule. Kinda hard to squeeze you guys in.”

I smile and try to make a sympathetic face at the men. Robin always knows just what to say. I’m happy to have someone so understanding of my shyness as my sister.

The guys seem a little bummed out, but don’t make a big deal about it as they leave, which I’m grateful for. When the door closes behind them, Merle snorts and says, “Well ain’t ya ladies lookin’ fine today. Turning down men and everything.” Daryl rolls his eyes and gives us a small smile.

“Oh, I know, we’ve had to bat them off of us with a stick lately,” Robin jokes back. “Though I doubt you’d understand the feeling.”

“How would ya know, darlin’? Feeling curious?” Merle answers with a wink.

God. As much as I love Merle, I can’t stand to see him flirt with my sister the way that he does. Robin has continuously tried bringing me into conversations in the past, but Merle usually gets drawn right back into her.

I can’t believe I have a crush on a man that’s this dense. Though I suppose my shyness is a huge factor, because I’m sure if I told him I was interested he’d go out with me in a heartbeat. But I can’t be as blunt as my sister is. I just wish I had more time to try to get him to talk to me.

“Actually, I was curious about a little something,” Robin starts. I give her a look but she ignores me. “Charlotte and I really enjoyed your guys’ class. Honestly, we learned a lot. But you know what they say. You can’t really know something unless you experience it for yourself.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Merle agrees. “Ya ladies are gonna have to make the time to go out camping sometime and get the real experience.”

“That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you boys about. We know you guys are the real pros, and we were wondering if you’d actually be willing to spend a weekend camping with us?” she asks. “Just to make sure we’ve really got a handle on it.”

My mouth hangs open slightly as I stare at Robin. We never talked about this at all. In fact, besides this class, neither of us have even shown interest in learning how to camp. My stomach begins to flip flop when I realize her true motive. She’s trying to get Merle and I alone together.

Merle gets this dark look in his eyes as he looks at the two of us, and I instantly feel a shiver run through me. The amount of times I’ve imagined him looking at me that way is too embarrassing to count. He knows exactly what Robin’s up to.

“It ain’t a bad idea, Merle,” Daryl interjects. “We got the cabin to use. Haven’t gone down there in a few weeks anyways.”

Merle grins, and it looks like the wheels are beginning to turn for him. Two women, two guys. Alone in a cabin in the woods for a weekend. If I wasn’t so nervous at the implication, then I’d be smiling from ear to ear.

“I think yer right,” Merle says, his tongue prodding the inside of his mouth. “Gotta make sure y’all understand how to take care of yerselves in the woods. Even got a lake if it gets too hot. How’s this weekend sound for ya? Pick ya up Friday afternoon?”

Before I can even stutter a response, Robin throws her arm around my shoulder. “Sounds like a plan! We’ll see you boys in a few days, then. Us ladies have to prepare.”

I mumble a goodbye over my shoulder as Robin drags my stunned body to the door. Though it might be my brain playing tricks on me, I swear I hear Merle tell Daryl that “these chicks are totally coming onto us.”

When we’re halfway down the hall, my mouth starts spilling out words. “What the fuck, Robin?! Why wouldn’t you tell me you were going to do this!? I’m not prepared in any way to go through with this!”

“Well, you were having a hard time bagging Merle, so I figured I’d speed things up a little bit,” Robin says with a wink.

“But I’ve never,” I begin, my voice faltering slightly.

Robin stops and gives me a sympathetic look. She lowers her voice and says, “Charlotte, it’s okay if you haven’t had your first time. And I guarantee you that once you get Merle to realize you’re into him, he’ll take things nice and slow for you. All right?”

“Why would he bother with me when he’s too busy staring at you?” I ask, starting to feel that sinking feeling in my stomach yet again.

“He will. I promise,” Robin says with a smile. She wraps her arms around me and I fall into them, sighing deeply. I know she means it. She’s been there for me for as long as I can remember.

I’m just hoping that this weekend will really work out with all the planning she’s probably done while I wasn’t looking.

If you’d like to be on or off my tag list (for this story or for anything Merle related) let me know! <3

@superprincesspea// @vizhi0n// @ladylorelitany// @kijilinn// @the-angle-of-depression// @multi-villain-imagines// @squid-from-mirkwood// @notice-me-senpai-sama// @ofdragonsanddreams16// @uniquewerewolfsuit// @anaire// @yondu-dixon// @derlemerle// @werkhvnty// @kindatiredkindahungry// @shannmiw// @toxic-ink// @yondu-gonna-do-about-it// @amysuemc//

#merle dixon #daryl dixon #merle dixon fanfiction #merle dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #merle dixon x original female character #daryl dixon x original female character #merle dixon x oc #daryl dixon x oc #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #self insert

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retroreaderr · 7 years ago

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Hello! So... since harry potter is on your fandom list thing, is there any way a huge fan of yours could get a slightly angsty and incredibly fluffy oneshot or more if you get inspired with that precious bb Remus Lupin? It can be HP era or marauders era, up to you. Thanks so much!! :)

OK SO PLEASE SEND MORE HARRY POTTER STUFF BC REMUS IS MY BABE AND I LOVE HIM SM??? this is set in the marauders era but i am 1000% down to write some golden trio era stuff too !! also im like one of a solid 3 people in the fandom that doesnt subscribe to the whole andrew garfield as a faceclaim thing but hey mod gaston and i came up with alternates and we decided matthew gray gubler makes an adorable remus bc look at this babe ???? but hey yall can have ur hcs ill have mine 🕷️💋

“Hey James!” you flagged down the boy as he walked.

“____, what’s up?”

“Have you seen Rem? I wanted to ask him about some homework.”

“He’s, uh, out. Y’know,” he nervously scans the other students passing the two of you.

“Full moon tonight?” you ask keeping your voice low. He nods slightly.

“Listen, I promised I’d meet Pads before dinner -” he awkwardly motioned towards the Gryffindor Common Room.

“No, no it’s alright,” you turn to walk back down the staircase, “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?”

“Sure.”

You took a seat in one of the chairs of the Common Room, glancing around at the decor.

“Never been in Gryffindor’s before…” you mumble to yourself.

You watch as three particular troublemakers made their way from the boy’s dormitory towards you.

Sirius was the first to notice you, “____? What are you doing -”

“Got the password a while ago from a friend. Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”

“We’re kinda busy, can it wait till tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Listen, I know you guys usually spend the night with him, but -”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m his friend too, you know,” you sigh, “He tells me these kinds of things. Anyways, I was thinking…What if I went tonight?”

“I’m all for the fact that you wanna help a friend, ____, but you can’t come with us, it’s too dangerous.”

“I actually wanted to go alone.”

They all stared at you as if you were mad.

“Have you lost your damn mind?”

“James, listen, I’ve got a plan and -”

“No! It’s way too dangerous. Listen, ____, it’s nothing against you, but…It’s just…Too dangerous.”

“If you won’t let me go I’ll march right down to Dumbledore’s office and tell him about your little map you all use.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

James sighed, Sirius simply glared at you, and Peter stood behind them, clueless as always.

“When you get hurt don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

You get up from your seat and make your way towards the exit, “I’ll be fine.”

“How do you even know about the map anyways?” James calls after you.

“I told you, he tells me these kinds of things,” you smirk.

Your footsteps echoed off of the stone walls as you traversed the small passageway. You could still hear the thump of the Whomping Willow above you, and had it not been for the soft glow of your wand, you would’ve been left in complete darkness. After a few minutes of walking, you found yourself confronted with a small door above you, it reminded you of the entrance to a cellar. You pushed your way through it, being sure it was closed once you were through.

The house you stood in was dusty and decrepit, just standing in the hall you felt your anxiety levels rise. You slowly took your first step, and the floor under you creaked. You heard a shuffling from upstairs, and your eyes shot towards the ceiling, scanning it for any other signs of life. After a small period of silence, you took another step, this time towards the nearby staircase.

You heard the shuffling again, then a small thunk.

“Rem?” you whispered, hoping to hear him answer.

He didn’t.

You climbed the steps slowly, trying to make minimal noise. Your bag felt heavy on your shoulder despite its light weight.

At the top of the steps, you were faced with a door, half open already.

You reached out and pushed it, and watched as it slowly creaked open.

You saw him sat in the corner, his head buried in his knees, his breath rigid.

“Remus.”

His head shot up at the sound of your voice.

“____, what are you doing here?” his face was overwhelmed with worry, making the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent.

“You’ve got to leave, you gotta go, it - It’s not safe, you know -”

“Does it hurt?”

He stopped speaking, though his expression was still overcome with concern.

“What?”

“Does it hurt?”

He doesn’t acknowledge your question for a moment until he slowly nods, dropping his head back to his knees.

“Yeah,” his voice was muffled.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got to leave, though,” he suddenly stands, “You know it’s not safe -”

“I’m staying.”

He shakes his head as he approaches you, “Please, I don’t…” He finally is close enough to touch, and you watch your friend stare down at your hand - god how much he wanted to take it in his own, grab it and never let go - “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I might,” he meets your eyes, “I can’t exactly control myself when…When it happens.”

You reach into your bag, pulling out a small object. You look at it before placing it in his hand.

“I know it’s your favorite.” He looks at the small candy bar before glancing back up at you, he had such pretty eyes, didn’t he? You never noticed how the green sometimes turned to a sort of blue -

“Thank you,” a small smile crossed his face, “But…You really do have to go.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“____-”

“At least let me stay for a little bit longer, then.”

He turned his head, looking out the window before glancing down at the chocolate, then to you.

“You can’t stay long.”

A smile spreads across your face.

“I don’t get how you stand me, really,” he leans his head back against the wall.

“Hm?”

“I mean, all I really am is a hassle, aren’t I? I just cause problems and I’m not worth your time, and -”

“Rem, you’re worth all the time in the world.”

“What I am is a monster.”

“What you are is kind, and cute, and shy and -”

“I don’t get why you like someone like me. Someone with my condition.”

“Because you aren’t defined by it. It’s a small part of a much bigger whole.”

“It’s a pretty big part of my life, if you ask me.”

“I’m not saying it’s not. I’m saying everything else about you, all that good, isn’t defined by that single negative. You’re too hard on yourself, Remus. You’re really a wonderful guy.”

“That’s not how I see it.”

“Well it’s how everyone else does. I’ll just have to teach you to see it my way, eh?” you nudge him playfully. He flashes a small smile again, and the sight makes your heart melt.

You sit in silence for a few minutes, just sitting, enjoying each other’s company. You almost forget why you’re there until suddenly you see him tense up.

“Rem?”

“You gotta go,” he breathes before letting out a grunt of pain and falling forward to the floor.

You felt your heart shatter at the sight of him in pain.

“Rem -” you reach out towards him, resting your hand on his shoulder. At your touch he jerks away.

“Go.”

“No.”

He’s shaking as he meets your eyes. His pupils dilate as his head lowers again, and he lets out a scream of pain. You wince at the noise, but stand your ground. His nails dig into the floor and his breath quivers as he bites hard on his bottom lip, drawing blood.

“Please,” his voice is weak.

“I want to stay.”

He jerks backwards, slamming against the wall. You look away as you hear the sickening snap of bone.

You slowly back towards the bed that sat in the corner of the room, unsure of what to do. He let out another groan of pain, though as it went on it became less human. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

There were a few more moments filled with the sounds of both bone and flesh contorting, and you hold your breath as the room becomes silent. You hear a small whimper, and you slowly open your eyes, and turn to face him.

You’d expected much worse, honestly.

He almost looked cute - his fur was shaggy, and the same shade as his hair. His robes were tattered but still clung to his body.

You let out the breath you held.

His amber eyes snapped up towards you, and you were struck with fear.

“Rem?” you whisper.

The wolf’s eyes softened for a moment, and he took a step towards you. You smiled and stepped away from the bed, towards him, and extended a hand to reach for him. He stopped walking, and you barely saw his pupils dilate once more before he let out a growl and leapt towards you.

You stumbled backwards, onto the bed and frantically grabbed around for your wand. Your fingers felt nothing but the cold and worn quilt of the bed as you heard another bark and the patter of nails against the hardwood floor. You barely rolled out of the way before you felt the pressure of another creature on the bed besides you. You clambered onto the floor, searching furiously for your wand. You spotted it a foot away, next to your bag. Crawling towards it, you barely making contact before you heard the howl of your friend beside you.

If you could even call it your friend - you knew it wasn’t really him.

“Rem, please,” you whimper, finally grabbing hold of your wand. You then pull yourself to your feet using the wall as support.

The wolf simply growled aggressively, and bounded towards you. He swiped at your arm, barely catching it and tearing your colored robes in the process. The action made you fall backwards, though you didn’t process the pain right away.

Your breathing quickened as the animal slowly approached you again, teeth bared.

“Remus, I know you’re in there somewhere. I know…I know…”

The beast paid no attention to your pleas and leaped towards you again, but before he made contact with you, your arm flew in front of you, wand in hand. You weren’t sure which spell you’d casted, as a thousand different ones had flown through your mind all at once, but whichever it was sent the wolf flying back into the wall. It landed on the ground, whimpering. You immediately felt a pang of regret and sadness, you had just hurt your best friend.

You slowly approached him, placing a hand on his soft fur.

“Rem?”

The wolf responded slightly to the noise, trying to lift its head. It let out a deep huff before resting back on the ground.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry -” You placed your other hand onto its head, petting him. It seemed to lean into your touch, once again letting out a small whine.

Maybe it had hit its head too hard, or maybe you had somehow gotten through to him, but you knew then that you were safe. You sat down next to him, leaning against his torso, slowly stroking the fur of his neck. The scraps of robe that still stuck to him somehow only added to your comfort, reminding you of his true self.

You closed your eyes, and soon enough fell into a deep slumber, not even noticing that the wolf had adjusted its large body to somewhat wrap itself around you protectively.

It wasn’t the sunlight glaring through the window that woke you. It wasn’t even the cold. In fact, it was the lack of cold that had awoken you. You opened your eyes, still dazed from sleep. Your pillow rose and fell rhythmically, and you raised your head to look at it, confused.

Instead of the familiar four-poster you were used to sleeping in, you then realized that you lay on the hard-wood floor of a bedroom.

“Rem?” your voice was low and still veiled in slumber.

He lay below you, dark circles surrounding his eyes. Just the look of him made you exhausted, as though in some way you could share his burden of fatigue.

His arm is draped around your waist, and you make no attempt to move it as you lay back down against his chest, which is barely covered by his clothes.

The contact makes him shiver, and he opens his eyes, startled after being pulled from sleep.

He groans, taking a moment to asses the situation.

“____?” his voice is gravelly.

“Hm?” you snuggle closer to him, suddenly feeling the chill of the shack’s air.

“What are you…Oh god. Oh god, did I -”

“I’m fine, love.”

He stiffens at the name. You chuckle, then reach up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“____, I don’t understand…”

“Hm?”

“Why you’d risk your life for…Someone like me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I…I just…”

You look up at him again and see a few stray strands of hair draped over his face. You grin, once again reaching up to kiss him, though this time you capture his lips, and your eyes flutter shut as you do so. Despite his exhaust, he eagerly kisses back, and after you part he sighs, turning his head to stare out the window.

“Have you got classes today?”

“No.”

“Can we stay a while longer?”

“Of course, Rem.”

You hear an almost inaudible, “Yes!” from him.

You giggle as you cuddle closer to him, and he wraps his other arm around you, “Dork.”

#remus x reader #remus lupin x reader #marauders era #harry potter x reader #remus lupin #harry potter #widow's kiss

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