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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

Text

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bitsmasterlist

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soudam-appreciation · 4 years

Text

A Special Kind Of Lamp? (3)

TW:: this chapter contains depression and brief/vague mentions of s*icide. Stay safe loves!

. . .

Gundham knew he should get up. His mother had left hours ago for her job, and he felt hunger gnawing at his stomach. Heaving a sigh, he rolled his feet off the edge of his bed and let his body follow. He sat there for a moment, on the floor. The random assortment of objects that lay scattered across his room did not make his position any more comfortable. He contemplated sitting here all day doing nothing, or maybe cleaning up the mess that had been gathering for months, or perhaps even taking a shower (since gods know he could use one). Groaning, he decided against all of those things and stood, trudging out of his darkened cave without even putting on pants.

He glided down the stairs, kicking up a cloud of dust and animal fur with every sullen step. Like a ghost, he wandered through his household, barely registering the pristine condition of the place. Winding his way around the bright Victorian style living spaces, he reached his destination.

He rifled through the pantry, then the fridge, grabbing a single can of soda. Then, opening the freezer, he removed a bag of frozen tater tots and an entire tub of ice cream. Dropping them on the countertop quickly, and shaking the cold from his hands, he pushed the freezer shut with his sockless foot. Not bothering to get a plate, he pulled a spoon from a drawer somewhere and a towel from another and wrapped up the bag of frozen tots. Picking up his items, he began to leave. However, as he took a few steps, he caught a glimpse of a note on the countertop.

"Happy 21st birthday, love!" the note read. "I know you haven't felt right lately, but I thought maybe today you could go out around town! I've left some money for you, in case you want to go out and get anything!"

Gundham sighed. It was sweet of her, for certain, but he didn't know if it was alright to take her money. He certainly had enough of his own, for the time being. But then, on the other hand, was it now expected of him? Was he supposed to go out and about because his mother had both suggested and paid for it?

Lifting his frozen items, he tromped into the main living room and sat on their plush rose sofa. He opened the bag of tots, popping one into his mouth as he contemplated.

He must have spent around 20 minutes munching the solid, ice-cold chunks of potato before halfheartedly making up his mind. Standing, he briefly wondered if that meant his mind was, in fact, not made up, but he brushed that aside and wandered back to the kitchen. When the leftover frozen goods were replaced in the freezer, he scooped the money and note from the counter. Now that life down here was back to the norm, he retraced his earlier steps and returned to his room.

He switched on the light, wincing at how utterly disgusting everything looked when one could see it. The room was quickly returned to darkness.

Snatching a pair of jeans and a ratty band tee from his closet, he changed quickly and tugged on his boots. He didn't want to bother with a shower, he knew he'd lose all energy far too soon. Cold, stiff fingers ran through his greasy, tangled hair, and he considered a hairbrush. No, too much. He had to get outside, spend whatever money he had been given, and return. No need to look nice.

Shoving his arms into a dark jacket that smelled slightly of mildew and was probably a size or two too small, he trotted back down the grand staircase. He grabbed his (majorly unused) car keys from a dish by the door, checked to make certain his phone and the money were both stuffed into his pockets, and opened the door.

The light shining in his face almost made him shriek, but he caught himself and threw his arm before his eyes instead. A sudden and steady hiss pushed from his lungs, and it took far too long for him to snap out of his haze.

When he lowered his shield, he glanced at the too-bright world and rows of houses. He also caught the eye of a small group of children that had probably been playing in the street, before they noticed him. He took a moment longer to understand why he must seem so strange, and why the children were likely staring. To test his suspicion, he bared his teeth and hissed once more, this time at the kids. They scattered, screaming.

Of course, how were they to know he wasn't a vampire?

Already feeling far too strange after this interaction, he stepped fully outside. The warmth of the sun washed over him, and the soft scent of flowers drifted in the breeze. He took a long, deep breath, and closed the door behind him.

He hadn't driven in so long he wasn't sure he remembered how. After a few failed attempts at reversing, thankfully none of which ending in property damage, he finally got out of the garage. Gundham was on the road again.

For the first several minutes, Gundham's average car speed was around 10 mph. He wasn't sure he could keep the car in control if h went much faster, and he had forgotten his wallet and ID at home.

After he had been out and about for about half an hour, the sun was becoming more bearable and he could finally get nearer to the speed limit. He pulled into a parking lot at the local superstore, ending this extra-long car trip with the world's worst parking job. Whispering an apology to whoever may need to park near to him, he locked the vehicle and wove his way into the store.

Entering the building felt like an enormous undertaking. He had to get in, exhaust as much of the money as he could, and get out. Unfortunately, this also meant he had to force himself through aisle after aisle of bright lights and items he had no need for.

He spent twenty minutes simply looking for things to buy, eventually encountering the pet section. Looking only briefly, a deep unease and upset coiled in his chest. His hamsters were the only part of him that he had taken above excellent care of, and even then they had not lived past a few years. He hadn't managed to breed them at that time, and the absence of his always-present companions dampened his spirits considerably.

He pushed on, reminding himself that this was not about his Devas. This was about buying what he could and going home.

Scooping up some shampoo, he wormed through personal care and clothing aisles, ignoring nearly everything on the shelves. He made a beeline for the electronics aisle, certain he could pick something up for a fairly high amount. Unfortunately, he wasn't precisely sure where that was and got turned around quite quickly.

Somehow, he ended up in a deserted and dusty section of the store. The rows of shelves seemed nearly empty, despite being stocked full. The graphics on the packages were mostly faded as if they were quite old compared to the other items in the building. Glancing around for a hint of where he had found himself, a sign hanging above the aisles caught Gundham's eye. Upon it was printed, Old and Discontinued Stock.

Intrigued, he continued through the packed shelves, passing rows of what seemed to be ancient exercise equipment. Rows and rows of items advertising their 'as seen on TV' status in bold red (or rather, pink) spiked bubbles filled his line of sight, and remembering stupid infomercials from his slightly younger years almost made him smile out of sheer annoyance.

As he turned a corner, a slightly different item brought his attention. In large, curly letters, the banner across the front of the box crossed an image of a fairly nondescript lamp, sporting the words LoveLight™. He approached, sliding one box off of the shelf. Turning it around, he hoped to read what exactly it was supposed to do on the back of the box. Fortunately for him, that is exactly where such a description was found.

It seemed to claim something about... connecting soulmates? He wasn't sure how well it could work, but he thought he might as well buy it anyways. It was right about the amount he needed to max out the gift from his mother and return home. He didn't care much about what color the lampshade was, so he carried to the checkout the box he was already holding.

. . .

Tromping up the stairs, he dumped the bag of lamp onto his overcrowded desk. He groaned as a few stray papers slid to the floor. They gathered around the edge, adding to the steep piles of clothes and garbage that littered the area.

He threw himself onto his bed, wrapping his favorite comforter around himself. Today had been longer than expected, and he was exhausted from his excursion, even if it was only an hour and a half. Pulling out his phone, he opened YouTube and began the first video in his feed. He didn't even try to focus as his eyes drifted shut, and sleep overtook him.

. . .

When he stirred, it was long past dark. He groaned, twisting his body sluggishly to be freed from his cocoon-like prison of the blanket. Propping himself up on his elbows, he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. When this attempt was unsuccessful, Gundham rolled back over and tried to return to sleep.

Unfortunately, his blankets were still too tight, and he was made painfully aware of two things. The first was how hot it was; the second was how badly he needed to pee.

He squirmed yet more, struggling to free his arms. When he had at last accomplished this, he slowly peeled the comforter away layer by layer, until he was sitting fully clothed, shoes and all, on his bed. He tugged off his boots, exhaustion numbing his fingers, and slowly began to make his way to the bathroom.

. . .

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he yawned and looked for something to do. The night was often when he was "productive", but tonight he still felt ready to collapse in on himself, like a dying star. What a worthless waste of space he was.

Tonight was certainly not the first night he felt ready to give up. This was, in fact, a near-daily occurrence. However, he knew that his mother would be left alone and that he, too, was far too afraid of what lay beyond, so he instead searched for an occupation for his hands.

He settled upon the plastic bag that contained the boxed “soulmate lamp”. Lifting it, he noted that it felt a bit heavier than before, but attributed this to his cold and tired limbs. Once the box was freed from its thin plastic containment, he searched for an opening.

He examined it, locating the circular sticker that secured the cardboard. Picking at the edges with his overgrown nails, he managed to peel up the side (with great difficulty). The packaging from there was not too difficult to decipher, though it still caused mild annoyance.

Only when the lamp sat undisturbed atop his bedside table did he begin to feel the stirrings of excitement. Before, it had merely been a vessel for assuaging boredom and returning home as quickly as possible, but now it seemed to radiate a faint... hope.

He plugged it in, wincing as the bright light flicked on. Snatching the instructions from their perch beside the lamp, Gundham wrestled with the folded paper to find the directions to dimming the damned thing.

Said directions were fairly simple to find, so when he had saved his eyes from the caustic sheen, he began the calibration process.

The process was long and bothersome, it seemed. First was simple, imputing the kinds of personal information every internet-connected device needs. Each answer was written against the shade with the "specialized" pen, and submission was accompanied by a pleasant blip sound. Then came the long series of questions that needed answering, a process by which the lamp was to determine one's soulmate. This step took the greatest time of the setup, costing him nearly an hour total. If he had had anything else to do, he simply would have given up.

Finally, however, the setup was complete, and he was alerted to this by another small electronic noise. Gundham tossed aside the instructions, groaning audibly as a loading circlet began rotating against the shade. He replaced the pen in its slot at the lamp's base and leaned back against his plush comforter. The loading process took several minutes, as it ran through the extensive database of other questionnaires (or so he assumed, this was never stated in the instructions). It took quite a few minutes, long enough for him to begin to drift off to sleep.

He was awakened by yet another blip sound, this one likely stating that the final stage was complete! He bolted upright, watching the shade warily for any signs of writing.

And then, something appeared.

A hasty message scrawled in sloppy and nearly unintelligible print. It seemed rushed, letters running together on the mesh shade.

"Hi! I just got this thing and I'm super excited to talk to you!!!"

It worked.

He blinked, quietly astonished, amazed that such a device could do much of anything at all. As he sat in the dark, bewildered, another message began to appear.

"I can't wait til you get these. I'm so excited to talk to you!!"

He shook his head, strands of grimy dual-colored hair falling out of place. His chest felt tight, the sensation of someone other than his mother even speaking to him so foreign. Even if the messages did sound as if they were written by a child.

"Hey again! I hope your getting these!"

Fists tightened against wrinkled sheets. Gundham felt his stomach churn, yearning for another message.

"Today was fun! I got to hang at the Skate park! What did you do today?"

Tears pricked at his eyes, the sweetness and innocence in each message rushing over him.

"I don't have many friends. I think when we get to meet we'll be real good friends! Right?"

A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard.

"Good morning! I hope you respond soon!"

One single tear dropped from his face, hitting his exposed skin.

"Hey, just seein if youre ok! I had a weird day today :("

They kept coming, messages appearing faster and faster. Was it a backlog? Were these old messages? Gundham wasn't sure.

"Guess what today is? It's my birthday! I'm 14!! How old are you?"

The tears kept coming too, streams of salty liquid flowing freely across his cheeks. He couldn't have stopped it if he tried.

"I wonder what kinds a things you like?"

Messages appeared faster and faster, quickly filling available space across the lampshade.

"I hope ya feel alright today! I still can't wait to talk to you. :)"

Gundham's vision blurred, too much to see the individual messages. Hundreds of letters blurred to nothing but glowing gold clouds, soft light filling, and obscuring, his vision.

The years of isolation began to crumble. He had tried so hard to harden his heart, to erase this feeling of crushing loneliness, and the facade he had so tirelessly built with shaking and scarred hands had started cracking from the pain. He hadn't understood how much he craved this, how desperately he had needed someone to talk to. For someone to ask if he was ok.

His body shook with sobs, ribs splintering under the pressure of the world as golden light flooded his room. Messages poured in, the light now nothing less than a glowing orb in his eyes, but he couldn't look away. He watched as more and more scribbled notes filled his mind, the emptiness usually stored in his chest now replaced with intense hurt. Love was what he needed, friends and company and care were the things he desired so desperately, the things he had never allowed himself to want.

The light began to fade, the most recent messages having used their allotted minutes. He sniffed, scrubbing tears from his eyes with harsh hands, and squinted at the lamp. Choking, he continued to press against his eyes. Perhaps if he tried, he could stop the next wave.

He caught another flicker of light, quickly leaning back toward the device to read whatever was there. Then he watched as, in real time, more words scrawled across the shade.

"Just wanted to say I still love you."

His last chance at holding back was ruined, and again he began to weep. Pushing away just enough to reach for the pen, he grabbed it with shaking fingers and raised it to the shade. Slowly, he pressed the tip against the mesh fabric and began to write.

"I'm so sorry."

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wikkart · 4 years

Video

Since June of the past year I had the purpose to make a Vanoé animation, but even now I haven’t had time to finish the sketches of it. So just in case that I never finish this, here’s a demonstration that I made before to check something.

Also here’s the lyrics of the song called “Therefore You and Me”

An empty shampoo, Or a full garbage bag Which do you want? You want neither? There’s meaning if they’re all set, they are our avatar, They are on if they’re together, it’s just like you and me. Don’t ever let go of what’s beloved.

#vanitas no carte #vanitas #noé archiviste #vanoé #my art #animatic #luli-productions

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khelinski · 5 years

Text

Voluntary commitment, Pts.1-3.

Pt. 1: Voluntary commitment

A breakdown occurs. It has been boiling for quite some time. It finally happens. And boy, is it ugly.

I kneel to the floor, in tears, before my family and tell them I need to be committed. Dark thoughts have plagued my mind. It’s obvious to anyone that knows me well. It’s obvious to those that read my writings. It’s even obvious to my family. They did what they could for me – but only one person could help me get out of the gruesome gritty gutter: me. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t drive myself. So my family takes me to the nearest hospital, Osceola Medical Center near my house. I check myself in the emergency section of the hospital. Because I am still emotional from current breakdown, my family describes what I am going through. I immediately get escorted to the emergency room. A nurse checks my vitals. My family calls in my work. Another nurse draws my blood. My family waits by my side in the room. A doctor comes by and asks me questions ‘are you suicidal, etc-etc.’ My answers are simplified yes or no. I still can’t fully speak.

A cop comes by and searches me for weapons. I wait for another couple of hours in the room. During that time, an orderly keeps guard of me in the room. I am on suicide watch.

More vitals are checked. Registering comes in to jot down my insurance information. A urine sample is requested. I am also asked to change out of my street clothes and into a hospital gown. I do so. I hand my clothes to my family. The only thing on me is the hospital gown, underwear underneath, and a pair of socks.

After some more time (and an assortment of emotions washing over me), I am told they have a bed for me up in the fourth floor (the psych ward). I am told I will be held for 72 hours. I gulp, full of nerves. All I can picture is ‘One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest’ or ‘Girl Interrupted.’ I wasn’t too far off from the insane reality.

My family says goodbye to me, wishing me luck. They hold back their tears while I don’t hold back mine. How the hell did I get to this point in my life? How did I wind up at a place like this? And how the hell am I going to get myself out? I didn’t ask myself those questions until my second day. You see, I am still in the middle of my breakdown.

After some more time – I am escorted into various sections of the hospital. I then am held in an empty room in a gray, bleak, blah-lookin’ floor with multiple rooms, beds, etc-etc. A holding cell of some kind? There is a bed attached to the wall center of the room I am placed in. I lay down. Another set of heavy emotions washes over me. Two doctors come by soon after – one that is asking me medical questions and the other that is asking me mental questions simultaneously. ‘Are you feeling depressed?’ ‘Are you allergic to any medications?’ ‘What brought you here?’ ‘Did you had a tetanus shot in the last five years?’ ‘Are you suicidal?’ Question after question.

After being interrogated – they tell me to wait for a bit. I lay there with my eyes closed. I don’t even remember what was on my mind then. The breakdown (and the thoughts) was a blur. After some more time – I am escorted to the fourth floor.

Once I enter – the very first impression I have: I am in hell.

Screaming in the hallway. Patients that appeared to be insane are walking down the hallways freely in hospital garbs. I am wearing a matching set of the finest meh clothing a hospital can provide.

And so begins my four days in an enclosed mental hospital…

Pt. 2 : Day One - Saturday.

I walk into the psych ward. I already smell hospital. And it’s cold. VERY COLD.

I pass a screaming female patient, yelling that she wants to call the police. I didn't catch the entire conversation. To the right is the nurse's station. There are two hallways between the nurse’s station. To left is the male wing. The right is the female wing. I am being lead to my room. There are two beds in the room. My twin bed is toward the window. My roommate is in his bed toward the bathroom entrance/exit of the room, snoring away. I lay in bed for a while, lost in thoughts/emotions/my new reality. Ever so often, my roommate's snoring breaks my thoughts. A nurse comes by, and asks me how I am doing. They take my vitals. I then get a grand tour of my new home for a few days. I am still wearing the lovely hospital gown.

I am shown the board with various times/activities/meals/etc-etc. I am shown the cafeteria. Dinner is starting soon. I get handed a small Tupperware container, consisting of the following: non skid hospital socks, towel, shower cap, shampoo, lotion, toothpaste, flimsy toothbrush, and deodorant. I go back to bed for a few. My roommate is still snoring away.

Little bit later, a doctor comes in. He asks if we could talk. He escorts me to what is called the 'quiet room' in the male wing across from my room. Three comfy chairs and a small bookcase of selected/donated books reside in the room. Being a book nerd, I quickly glance at the books. Bibles, meh mid-grade novels and authors occupy the shelf. I tried reading two of the books during my four-day stay. Couldn't get past a chapter with both books.

The doctor asks how I am doing, why did I come in, and an assortment of questions to gather information for quick diagnoses.

Afterwards - I walk into the cafeteria. There is a long line. The floor is sticky. The room smells. And I am still in my hospital gown. I am starting to notice there is a range of various ages, race, and stories people has for the reason they are here. I still didn’t talk much.

I get my styrofoam tray of food. Pasta and meatballs. My stomach is grumbling, I haven’t eaten since the day before. But I have no appetite. I pick at it – eating some portions that is on the plate. It's not the greatest tasting in the world. The smell of the room turns me off from eating further. I get up to throw the tray away (their garbage cans consist of tall lawn paper waste bags). A black fella asks me if I could give him the cake that’s on my plate. He’s my roommate – surprisingly awake. I hand him my cake without saying anything, and walk out of the cafeteria. I head back to my room. I walk past an young girl, screaming at the nurses that she’s going to call the police if they don’t let her out. The nurses taunt the young girl: ‘what is the police going to do?’

I lay down for a bit, processing my new reality. Then I get up and head back to the nurses’ station. I ask if I could make a phone call. The times to use the phones are during lunch, dinner, and later in the evening before bed. But they make an exception for me. I call my family, letting them know that I am okay, that I am sorry, and about the clothes situation. I can wear (based on what I see others' wear) PJ pants and hoodies, but with no string attached. I couldn’t get a hold of them, so I leave a message.

I walk back to my room and lay down. By then, my roommate is in his bed – and is awake. We introduce ourselves. He tells me a little bit about why he’s here. I tell him a little bit about me. He then passes out. Me? I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I then look out the window. Silver lining in this black cloud - fourth floor of the hospital is a great view of the St. Cloud/Kissimmee area.

Some time passes, and I am being asked by an orderly to come up to the nurse’s station. I head up there. They have some clothes for me my family dropped off (thank you, thank you, thank you), consisting of:

-Grey sweatpants, no string. -Homer Simpson PJ pants, no string. -Margaritaville t-shirt -Jurassic World hoodie, no string. -Two pairs of underwear.

I sign for it, and head back to my room. I immediately take off the ugly, uncomfortable hospital gown and into the Simpsons pants and Jurassic hoodie (which I wore for three days straight). I already feel human, sort of. When you are confined in a place like this – small things like receiving clothes from the outside world brings you joy. I am starting to realize the simple pleasures I had are now gone for a time being.

I lay down and close my eyes. Some time passes. I catch a few z’s. But sleep’s cut short. I wake by ear-piercing arguing at the nurse’s station. I get up and see what the commotion is about. A young girl is arguing on the phone.

I head back to bed and try to sleep. I can’t. So I lay there looking out the window. It’s dark.

Little bit later, I am told it’s snack time. I glance at what they are serving. I still have no appetite. I am ready for my PM meds, though. I go to the nurse’s station and inquire. I sense an annoyance with them. Some are on their phones. I ask about my meds, and they told me to wait later – midnight nurse will get my meds for me.

I head back to bed. My roommate is snoring away. I close my eyes and pretend I am somewhere else. I hear loud voices in the hallway. An obnoxious, older male patient jokes around with the nurses. Young girl is still arguing on the phone. Nurses raises their voices with their own private conversations.

Midnight nurse finally comes in little bit later, checks my vitals, asks key questions ‘are you hearing any voices,’ ‘are you having any thoughts,’ ‘when was your last bowel movement?’

I then am told that my meds will be ready in a few minutes. A few minutes turn into ten minutes. Ten minutes turns into twenty minutes. But I finally get my meds. I head back to bed, close my eyes, and doze off. Exhaustion from my breakdown and the emotions that came with it – exhaustion from waiting in the hospital – just, plain, exhaustion hits me. I even forget I am in a hospital (and in what section of the hospital I am in) for a very very VERY short amount of time. Reality comes knocking in a few hours later in the middle of the night, when I wake up from a) loud nurses joking, laughing, talking in the hallway, and b) nurses that come in the room every 15 minutes, touches a button on the wall, flashes an light, and paces out of the room. I asked a nurse on my third day, why they do that. I was told they do that to keep check of our bodies, to make sure we are still alive/breathing as we are sleeping. Cameras in our rooms don’t capture everything.

I couldn’t go back to sleep.

By 6 am, lights are turned on, nurses announce for us to wake up and line up to a room across the hallway for blood work. My second day begins…

Pt. 3: Day 2 - Sunday.