celestialmidnights - Tumblr blog

celestialmidnights · 3 years ago

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love me by the night.

premise: the relationship shared between you and bruce was anything but perfect. it was raw and caked with blood and pain, but it worked.

pairing: bruce wayne x (f)reader

word count: 5.4k

warnings: unprotected sex, pain kink (just a little taste, more or less emotions wise), toxic relationships, blood (wounds, cuts, and bruises mentioned), needles mentioned, tragic pasts (readers family life was crap and domestic violence is mentioned briefly), arguments, angst, scratching, probably slightly unrealistic when it comes to certain things lmao. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI.

etc: i swear i’ll stop writing shitty angst after this lmao. obviously there’s no spoilers and this leans more towards au since we don’t know too much about the batman and his characterization just yet, i literally took what i’ve seen in trailers and ran with it. let’s hope this doesn’t flop and here’s to all of us becoming completely whipped by robert pattinson this month <3

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

You’re not sure if it’s the low hiss that shakes through him as you pat the disinfecting cloth to one of the many open wounds littering his back, his body's instinct to shake and move away from the sting—no matter if it's helpful or not—clearly being fought off by its host. As if proving, to no one, that a little antiseptic was not a big deal. Especially with gashes as deep as these. His ability to hide any sort of pain he may, or may not, be going through being one of his least rewarding qualities. In your opinion.

Or maybe it’s the gashes themselves that has your stomach flip flopping, jumbled with nerves, and in the trenches of an all too familiar feeling, from an all too familiar scenario—much like this one—playing through your head the minute you saw Bruce Wayne clad in his batsuit, cuts and tears distinguishable from a mile away. Coated in that dark crimson that looked tar black when it laid upon his suit—stood at your balcony door, having let himself in like he did most times he would find himself out of options or needing a quick stitch.

And sometimes for other reasons.

It had become an old song and dance you wished you could stop moving to. Wished that that year ago when you had let your journalist drive get the best of you, had peeked your head into a world you truly knew nothing about, but labeled as ‘your big break’—your promotion to the top. If you could have taken back that drive, that need for power in a dying industry: you would have.

Would have taken back being in the wrong place—or right one your boss would have said—at the wrong time. Would have stayed home that night and had a glass of wine, read a book, laid in bed daydreaming about an unobtainable future—any of that was better than getting in the mix of Gotham’s savior doing what he did best and you getting caught in the crosshairs. You know it would have saved both yours, and the infamous Batmans, time and energy. Would have saved you a deep purple spreading along your eye socket and a rusty knife to the ribs for him. But you were there and had made the wrong call.

You had all but disclosed that your mother was once a nurse and you knew how to tend to wounds thanks to her—not disclosing that the only reason she had taught you was because you had a meaner than a skunk father when he was drunk and had once beat your mother so badly she needed stitches. Those stitches coming in the form of her sitting shaking and bloody on the side of the tub while she taught you, at the mere age of ten, how to sew up a wound—Another recurring event in your life you wished you could have missed out on.

The two of you finding yourself in your dingy studio apartment, your thoughts more than hyper aware of the judgment that could possibly be flashing across The Batman's face. An assumption that was more than delirious as the pounding in your eye had made its way throughout your entire membrane, the pain shooting through your body as if it was more than just your eye that took the beating—and like most of Gothams population, and why you were tailing him—you knew next to nothing about the masked savior, so maybe he had lived in a bigger dump than you.

An incorrect fact you eventually learned by the many recurring visits that had him ending up on your doorstep, apparently your first encounter not going as botched as you yourself thought; the dead silence as you fixed the wound at his side, patched the material of his suit the best you could. The low and husky thanks, his gloved fingers flinching and flexing tightly as it looked as if he might, or wanted to, reach out and check your eye, but didn’t. And he quickly left without another word.

The journalist part of you wanted to grab your laptop and type away at what you were sure was going to be the juiciest story of The Batman to date, but instead found yourself having zero desire to share the time, and humiliation on your part, the two of you had spent together. Because in reality it was nothing. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong, got hit, got the Bat stabbed, and you dressed his wound. If anything people would, most definitely, call you a liar or add you to one of those crazed Batman fan sites. Neither things you wanted. So you kept your mouth shut and moved on to other projects.

And maybe it was that fact, that you had kept your mouth shut, that had him coming back to your apartment the second time, the third, the fourth, and then the fifth.

Blood had caked around his mouth and jaw, a visible trail of where it could be coming from—under his mask—apparent. The wheeze in his breath an indication that he could, and most likely, had broken ribs, falling on deaf ears as he barely made eye contact with you. Had barely said more than three words to you as you began to locate each wound and patch it.

It didn't take a genius to know that The Batman didn’t want to be known, was not meant to be known, his identity seeming more important than the actual ‘saving’ he did. You knew you couldn't have just asked him to take the mask off and that would be it, that the frigid man sitting upon your couch—most definitely staining it—in his bulky suit would just comply. But you figured you’d try. So you saved it for last. Put antiseptic here and there. Pressed cloths to deeper wounds to stop the blood. Stitched a knick on the side of his jaw. Until the elephant in the room became too big and the blood on his face too heirowing.

You didn't really even have to ask. One look, one stare, the shift of your eyes as you kept looking back at the blood on his face, at the mask that covered half of it. You were sure he knew already, had tensed so much because he could feel it coming, could feel the request, the dare, the speculation that he would actually take off his mask for you.

But you still asked, adding that you wouldn't tell—which was as cheesy to say as it sounded, so ameteur of you, it holding no solidification in the grand scheme of ‘everyone says that and you're a journalist so why should he believe you’. And that's exactly how it went. His ‘no’ coming out more of a grunt as he stood up and headed for the door.

And maybe it was your curiosity, or maybe it was because you felt actually needed by Gothams own little celebrity of vengeance. And it felt good to be needed, a feeling you didn't quite get writing boring columns and non-break through stories. “I wont look!” You declared as he reached the threshold, “I’ll keep my eyes closed, I even have a sleep mask I can cover them up with if that will make you more comfortable.” You felt stupid for even suggesting, he was clearly done with your help, probably for good now that you’d attempted to unmask him.

“You can just guide my hands where they need to go. I’ll feel if you need any stitches, or antiseptic. I won't peak.” You were surprised to see him stop in his tracks, his back turned to you for a beat longer, your heart in your throat from nerves, before he turned and gave you one quick nod. A small smile had spread across your lips, a feeling of triumph that–may have had no right being placed—lingering in your bloodstream.

And you kept your word, had let his gloved hand wrap around your wrist, your two fingertips brushing his skin; along his temple, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose—his grip tightening so hard on your wrist as your fingers scraped against the culprit for all of the blood on his face. The wince you let out from the heavy strength of his palm squeezing your wrist dredging up a gravely “sorry” from his lips. It had all been oddly romantic now that you had looked back on it—fucked up none the less though, as you held a needle to his nose and tried to sew up a wound you could only feel with your fingertips. The heat from his leather gloves burning your skin. The hot puffs of air he would sometimes let out, or the twitch of his own wrist as he moved your hand in the right direction so you wouldn’t impale a piece of him you didn't need to.

You think that had been the turning point in the fucked up relationship the two of you had. What had completely solidified whatever the hell the two of you would grow on to have, to become. And the night he finally let you see him, had taken off his mask, had given you the darkest look of both trust and distrust all in own brooding glance; his eyes darker than his suit, the permanent scowl that you've come to know so well. It had started a fire inside of your belly that leaked into your veins to the point of succumption. And you knew then that no matter what time it was, how dangerous it was, or how stupid it was for you to do a real doctors job, half as good as them; you’d always let Bruce in.

Even if he didnt do the same.

Him proving that in tenfold along the way in more ways than you had fingers and toes to count. You had lost count of all of the ways Bruce Wayne—The Batman—had broken your heart, and had seemed to do so without any deep reflection of the fact in his zero attempts to fix said broken heart. Or acknowledge it. The turning point of your relationship slipping into something more than just you tending to his wounds, into the two of you also sharing a bed some nights—not the full night though, he had always refused to stay and you had grown tired of asking him to. Of offering him more than being his on call nurse and another warm cavern to sink into.

And maybe it was your own doing, your own foolishness for falling for such a man; mysterious, frigid, thinking he needs to prove something to himself, to put his mind at an ease you don't think you'd ever really understand because Bruce wouldn't let you. Wouldn't let you see into the dark crevices of his mind that you knew would explain all, tell all, bring you closer to this man you (unfortunately) loved.

The hopeful part of you wanted to believe that it was because you were a journalist, that that's why he was so closed off with you. He still had doubts that you wouldnt rat him out and get famous off a story you've swore time and time again you'd never tell. But the part that knew that that was just Bruce, that he had conditioned himself into this hard brute on both the inside and out, a loner billionaire without parents who no one really knew, and would never get to know; a man stuck on the hopes of vegences and violent acts being more of a warm blanket, a warm home, more than you could ever be. It was just Bruce. How he was. And maybe, sometimes you think, with the way he would look at you, the way he would try to open up, that he had wished he could be more for the both of you, but this was him.

And despite your broken heart you'd accepted that, accepted him. That didn’t mean it hurt any less though, that you didn’t have doubts and fears.

But it’s the reasons why it was not a surprise he showed up at your apartment tonight, and it wasn't a surprise he was stripped down to only a pair of pants, cloths stained with blood littering around your bed, winces of pain as you stitched up wounds, touched bruises, and tried not to be angry at the fact that another set of your sheets were now stained because of him.

“How many were there?”

“Less than you think.”

“Mmm,” you hum as you press the needle into his skin one last time, the ends poking through him easier than leather, the string pulled tight, the wound closed, and then wiped. Bruce barely flinching now that, you were sure, his back had become numb to the needle. But not your fingers it seemed as you ran the tip of your index along one of the deep purpling bruises in the middle of his back, his torso flinching slightly in contortion. It was hard for you to tell when Bruce was lying, even after all the time the two of you had spent together. And instances of you probing and it ending in a fight had stopped you from fully questioning when you get the suspicion of him lying. But you knew he was lying about this. You didn't get this many cuts, bruises, and chunks of flesh opened from there being ‘less than you think’.

“I understand why you do it,” and you did, to a certain extent. “I just wish that-”

“Don’t.” It’s authoritative, threatening and stings all the same. It's a tone you've grown to hate, but know it's like poking a bear if you go against it.

And maybe the two of you have been doing this dance for so long now that you didn’t care, because it does little to deter you. “Right.” You stand from the bed, your chuckle is anything but humours, joyus, having any good sentiment of what it's supposed to, without a trace. You grab the used rags and cloths from your sheets, ignoring Bruce’s eyes on you as he turns towards you. The wince from the stretch of doing so is heard before he can swiftly hide it.

“Thank you.” Is all he says and it makes your blood boil. Makes you stop your actions and scowl at him, because you’re so sick of hearing those words from him. Sick of them being the only true sentiment you can dredge up from his dark soul.

“For what, Bruce? For stitching you up for the millionth time? For dressing a wound that may get infected because I'm. Not. A. Doctor. That's who you really should be seeing, not me.” You laugh. You throw the bloody remiments in your hands in the trash beside your bed, turning back to see him no longer looking at you. His eyes cast across the room. “What if you show up here one night and I can't help you?” Your arms cross around your chest, your frustrations more than prominent in your tone, and of the heavy thud of your heart you can feel against your flesh. “What if your wounds are so bad that you bleed out on my floor? What then Bruce, you still going to tell me thank you for trying to save you. For staining my hands with the blood of someone else's that's mixed with yours to the point of it being caked on your body? To the point where I have to rub your skin red and raw to get it off, is that all worth a big thank you to you? Is that all its worth to you?” You chew on your lower lip, can feel your breath pick up from the octaves of your voice going up, and to a tone you hate using. To a point of boiling in your veins you hate reaching. “Is that all I'm worth to you…Is a thank you?” You hate yourself for even asking, knowing it’s just going to escalate into something more vicious between the two of you—or worse he’s going to ignore it. “More importantly, is that all your life is worth to you? Going after these men, getting hurt, being stitched up by some woman you sometimes fuck; is that worth it to die on my fucking rug?”

“That's not important to me.” His eyes burn into you as he turns, his pupils filled with fire and rage—a look you've grown to wonder if it's the last one his enemies see, if this is the only time you'll get another glimpse into the dark world of his alter ego. “My death has no meaning when the bloodshed from it is more important.”

Your heart would break if you weren't expecting such a response. But the one thing you did know about Bruce is his one track mind on the reasons he does what does. The reasons he doesn't care who he has to hurt or get back at to get his message across, to achieve what needs to be done. To itch a sad sadistic ache from the wound the death of his parents left.

“It's important to me. I don't want to watch you die on my floor, this apartment is shitty enough.”

“I wouldn't-” he growls, “I wouldnt come here if I knew that's how it was going to end, if there was a chance that you'd be a part of that I wouldn't-”

“You’d die in some cave? A back alley? Some psychopaths fucking lare? That's how you want your story to end? The legacy of the infamous Batman, the great Bruce Wayne unmasked and found bloody and beaten, his fortune and birthright torn through the mud because-”

“Because what? Because I chose to do something? Because I am doing something?”

“Just because you’re choosing to do something doesnt mean you’re choosing the right reasons to do it!” A thud comes at the other side of your wall, your neighbors voice muffled but understood enough to know that a noise complaint was a sure thing. You close your eyes, breathe through your nose, out through your mouth, give yourself five seconds, ten, fifteen, before you open them again and Bruce still has his eyes on you. His expression withdrawn, as always. “I would never ask you to stop being The Batman, I’m not your keeper, Bruce.” You laugh, “I'm not even your girlfriend.” This gets a reaction from him, for the ten seconds he lets it swim across his face before he's looking down into his lap. “I’m just saying you’re wrong about your death not being important. You're wrong about not caring about your own life as both of these…people, things.”

You swallow back the emotions that are begging you to let out, the tears you know you could shed but refuse to let be seen by him, be shared between the two of you. An intimacy you're not sure will ever be shared, as much as you would be okay for it to be. But it's hard to throw your emotions at someone who is never willing to catch them, to hold on to them, to grasp them with open and returned devotion, care, love. You never doubted that Bruce cared for you, he had to, even if it was a little bit. You knew he wouldn't have shown his face to anyone, keep showing up at anyone elses doorstep—unless he was there to take his so-called vengeance. So you knew he cared, just not as much as you for him, or the way you deserved, in reality. And if he did, if your assumptions were wrong and those of a toxic mindset; you knew you’d never know because he would never let you see it.

“No one can make you care about your own life. Only you can do that. I just wished you’d leave me out of it, because I cannot go another day wondering if you're going to show up worse than before, I” you swallow, take a deep breath “I can't deal with it anymore, Bruce. I’m sorry.”

He doesn't go to answer and you don't wait for him to. Distracting yourself from letting the tears that are burning your ducts fall in front of him, with picking up the rest of the medical contents on your bed and putting them away. Taking a moment to grip the sink in your bathroom, to let the few tears you actually do allow yourself to shed for him to fall, to help ease a part of your heart that’s screaming for you to have a breakdown right now. Before wiping them just ask quick as they had fallen, righting yourself, and walking back out into the main room. You expect to see him gone, he usually leaves promptly after arguments like this. A bad habit the both of you have; yelling, declaring avoidance, Bruce disappearing for a few days, your heart aching more than it does when he’s actually around, and then he’s back and you’re forgetting your past declarations and letting him.

The song and dance you need to give up. Are going to give up because you’re sure about it this time.

You were not lying when you said you were done with the caked on blood you have to scrub from your fingers every other night. Or the scent of metal that you can't get out of your couch cushions. And the many nights you've gone to bed and woken up with him sitting at the end of your bed barely breathing and cut all over.

But if you didn't do it, who would? Alfred? Perhaps. That had been the only part of Bruce’s life he had told you about, had shared with you the bare minimum of information. No thanks to your prompting. But if he had neither of you, trusted neither of you any longer than who did Bruce Wayne have? A lot less friends than Batman did. A lot less people who loved him.

Because yes, you loved Bruce on the same bitter vine of fruit that you hated him. The two forging together into something ugly and overlooked, something no one would want to even buy, touch, let alone sink their teeth into. It was a fruit you needed to give up. A dance you needed to stop moving along with. A love you needed to get over.

Bruce could darken someone else's door and heart because yours was closed off to him.

For good.

A notion set in the stone of your brain, carved with the broken pieces of your heart; sharp and cutting your chest open like shards of glass only meant to cause pain and bleed you dry until that satisfying, sickly, numb sets in and you forget even why you were hurt in the first place. Why you even cared. It being why you would never let someone into that now dark cavern of your chest cavity again because you didn't want to feel that numbing pain again.

But as you walk past him, his reflexes faster and stronger than yours, giving you little time to wrench yourself away; he grabs your wrist, the warmth of his skin burning that stone, that notion, into multan pieces that forge your heart back into something misshapen and even more fragile than before. Your brain singed by the very heat as your heart is the only thing that calls out to the warmth of him, pulls you into the warmth of him, begs you to take back every word and to just love this man. To ignore the bad and succumb to the good that is there, the good that does show itself. To the way Bruce’s eyes are soft as they look up at you. As he pulls you between his legs, as there's a sorry on the tip of his lips but he can't seem to get it out. Can't seem to get past anything other than the twitch of his bottom lip and the heavy swallow breaths of emotion that he's not used to feeling. Or showing.

It’s all such an overwhelming feeling of everything that you dont have the will power to fight it, because fuck this man, fuck Bruce Wayne and fuck the way he made you feel, fuck fuck fuck.

Bruce cups the back of your neck pulling you down to meet his mouth in one quick motion, before either of you can think differently, can pull away or scream, or remember why you shouldn't do this, again. Why he should walk out of the door and out of your life for good, and why you should let him. It's all washed away, torn and shred, by the penetrating tongue slipping into your mouth, an unspoken apology written in the way your mouths work together. As Bruce’s lips burn against yours, as his teeth nip at your seams of lust and love and forgiveness.

He pulls you onto his lap, your knees finding a home on either side of him. Both of his hands resting on your neck, holding you steady, close, in a grip that says he's not letting you move. That even if you kick him out after this, if the two of you actually follow through, that he’s taking this moment to have you. Close. And moaning into his mouth. It's almost primal the way Bruce can be sometimes, the way he kisses you with such fervor and hunger, the way he strips you bare as quickly as he can, as if if his palms didn’t touch your bare skin, cup your breasts, run along the seams of your body soon, that he might go mad.

Your hips stutter against him, the cotton of your underwear the only thing between you and his covered cock. The barrier that drags along your growing ache the more he pulls you close, the more you gyrate your lower half, rubbing against his growing cock. The sighs of pleasure falling from your mouth into his, Bruce swallowing them down with a low hum. Accepting them like a precious meal.

Once your shirt has been discarded to the floor and the two of you have switched positions; Bruce hovering his weight above you, your legs spread for him, his body just as naked and bare as yours, the heat from his cock warm and throbbing between your thighs. Only ever scraping lightly against your slick slit, enough to have your hips chasing after it, and needy whimpers vibrating against his tongue. Your lips already feeling swollen and bruised from his relenting mouth, his devours; the words you know he can't say swallowed down and settling into that hopeful part of your pathetic heart.

“Please, Bruce,” you whine as his mouth trails wet kisses and nips down your chin, to the junction of your neck, to your breasts where his tongue draws a slow circle around one of your nipples. Making your intake of breath burn your throat as your chest pushes up into him, your cunt throbbing even more as he takes the other one in his hand and squeezes. You had never understood how good it could feel to feel the warmth of someone’s mouth sucking on your skin, your breasts. The shot of desire and burning aching lust that shot through you when their teeth grazed your nipple. Not until Bruce. He toyed, sucked—and even fucked—your breasts with a type of worship that made God himself jealous. The times you would look down and his eyes would be staring up at you in awe. Like watching you wither in pleasure and the taste and feel of you in his palms and mouth was like drinking from the rivers of Eden.

He ate your pussy the same. Some nights it's all he would want to do. You’d finish patching him up and he would drop down to his knees and fuck you with his tongue until his hair wasnt just sticking to his forehead because it was wet with sweat. Like all things Bruce did he did it with vigor, with devotion to the cause, and like it was going to fucking kill him in the end and he was okay with that.

But tonight all you wanted was to feel him inside of you. To be fucked so good by him you forgot everything, all the bad gone, all the heartaching pains. You just wanted to feel Bruce’s breath against your neck and his cock against your walls, fucking you so delicously raw and hard that he was the only thing you could feel, could reach out to, could wrap around in excruciating ecstasy and pain.

You pull him up by his chin, pull his mouth from your body, your breaths mixing as you bring him inches from your lips. “Fuck me, Bruce,” you pant, whine, beg. Looking up into his eyes you can see the dark fire of lust and want burning in them. And it's all you need to ask of him because in his next motion he is grabbing his cock, rubbing it along your wet folds, the head of his cock rubbing against your needy throbbing clit, watching your mouth as it hangs open in a gasp. And he doesn't stop staring as he pushes into you, so slow, so gentle, dragging it out so he can watch the emotions of relief on your face contort in pleasure. Swallowing down your breathy moans when he presses his lips back to yours.

The pace of his thrusting hips against you slowly pick up, once you’ve gotten used to the girth of his cock stretching your walls. The pain from it always one of your favorite parts about Bruce fucking you, you think. As fucked up as it sounded. And maybe that's why you kept letting him, into your apartment, into your heart, into your cunt; because while his words, and lack thereof, had pained your heart, his cock had been the sting of the salve to put it back together. His mouth and his hands had been the words he couldn't speak. The look of pure devotion in his eyes as he told you how pretty you sounded as he fucked you, the bandage to hold it all together.

It was a fucked up relationship the two of you had. A fucked up tune for a fucked up dance. But deep down you knew there was no stopping in sight.

Not when it felt this good. When you loved Bruce like this. When the world got to see the gruesomeness of the Batman, and you got to see the aftermath, the tiredness in his eyes, the aching muscles, the torn skin and soul from his alter ego; and then help put it back together.

His breath is hot against your skin as he fucks you harder, one hand gripped above your head in the pillows, the other wrapped around the column of your neck. The slap of his hips against your thighs, your loud moans, his low heavy grunts deep and vibrating against your chest are the only sounds in your dingy apartment.

Your nails dig into his back and the gravel of the hiss of pain he lets out makes your stomach twist. Your mind too clouded with sex and lust, and him, that you forget that he is infact still hurt. You open your mouth to apologize to move your hands to cup his face, but he quickly stops you with the lift of his chin. With his lips devouring yours with that same heat and hunger and the low mumble of, “do it again.” He grunts, “hurt me the way I hurt you. Show me your pain.” If you had a sane mind, if his words didn't make something burn in your lower belly adding to your arousal, to your lust; you'd know his words would have cut you differently. Would have brought something new and aching to the pile of your already severed heart. But it doesn't. It makes you whimper, it makes you want to pull him closer and drag your nails down his back, reopen his wounds, show him that pain so you can both wallow in it, feel pleasure from it, bask in it, drown in it; because that was your love, that was your devotion to each other in the end; pain. Desirable, lust filled, pain.

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celestialmidnights · 4 years ago

Text

𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝𝘐𝘐 - 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙚) || sub!bucky barnes x dominatrix!reader

(𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐𝘐) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘝) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝𝘐)

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || the finale.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 || 3.5k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || fluff, angst, implied smut, domestic goodness, more EMOTIONS!!!

six months ago...

Bucky wrung his hands a few times before knocking on your door, feeling his heart beat a little faster when he could hear the sounds of your footsteps on the other side. He'd been dreaming of a day like this for so long— the day he finally acted on this secret obsession he had, the day he stopped fantasizing and started realizing— but all this time, part of him had never really thought he'd go through with it. I mean, there's a pretty big difference between jerking off to videos of dominant women and actually getting spanked, slapped, and choked by a dominatrix after paying her an insane amount of money per hour.

But frankly, Bucky needed a big difference from what he'd been doing. He'd been alone for a little too long, he needed someone else's touch before he lost his mind. And he knew that he needed something more substantial than a hook-up, someone who wouldn't expect him to be dominant at all. Even in a kink-less, vanilla hook-up, there’s still an onus of dominance, that’s what Bucky had realised. He’s still supposed to initiate, to guide, to be fully in control… and he hates how it feels to be in control. He’s not used to it, and it doesn’t feel right, and it just makes him sure he’ll do something wrong. So here he was, standing at your door, hoping you’d take away his freedom to do something wrong.

The latch turned and you opened it.

Fuck.

You looked great. Too great, almost overwhelming. Even better than the pictures on your website.

You looked so much softer than the women he saw whenever he searched up femdom porn (yes, that was pretty much the first thing he did once he figured out google— thankfully he had also figured out incognito mode), but your presence was twice as commanding. Your eyes scanned over him quickly and your face stayed annoyingly stoic.

You invited him in; And since then, you’d had him wrapped around your finger.

Even knowing to a certain extent what he was getting into, he could’ve never prepared for how quickly he’d fall for you. Not that he was exactly new to the feeling, but he thought guilt might eat him alive: because of course he felt awful for developing real feelings for you. You were just doing your job and he was falling into the same trap that probably every dumbass client fell into.

Or maybe they actually knew what they were doing and understood how to separate fantasy from reality. He couldn’t decide which one was worse.

He spent a few hours trying to decide while staring up at his ceiling— certainly a better way to spend the time than being social or taking care of unfinished business, right?

But leave it to you to change everything with just three words. Make me yours.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about those words— or about the way you said them— since the moment you spoke them. He hadn’t stopped changing his mind on if he could really believe you were his or not. He wanted to, more than anything; and in those brief moments he did, he felt a joy that he had no idea what to do with.

He frowned as he turned his back towards the mirror, looking over his shoulder to watch his finger run over the fading scars on his back. They’d be gone for good in less than a week, but he knew you had left plenty of permanent marks on him— just unfortunately not those that anyone else could see. He liked the way these scars looked under your fingertips much more than his; he liked everything about being in your arms.

Since you’d texted him to ask if you could have a serious talk with him soon, he worried he wouldn’t get to feel that again. In fact, nothing worried him more.

He was typically antsy as he waited for you to answer the door— he had been since that very first time so long ago— but this felt entirely different: not as jittery, but a thousand times more anxious.

At first he’d been wishing you’d answer it right away, but then he heard your bolt turn and panic landed on him like a dangling anvil dropping on a cartoon character. Suddenly the last thing he wanted was for you to open that door, to be standing there looking all perfect and shit, to smile at him and greet him and invite him in. He didn’t want it; he couldn’t take it.

But you did it all anyway, though it was obviously and immediately a new situation entirely, compared to every other time you’d done it.

You were dressed differently, still formal but definitely toned down. Nothing sexual, at least not objectively. And your smile, though it still made his heart skip a beat just like always, was noticeably softer and maybe a bit sadder.

He stepped in past you, and you surprised him by sitting next to him on the couch rather than across from him on your chair. “Do you want, like, water or anything?” you asked, breaking the silence for a moment.

“No, I’m fine,” he nodded.

Bucky had gotten pretty good at silence these past few years; it didn’t bother him, in fact he barely even noticed it. But this silence made him remember why everyone else hated silence so much: it was heavy and thick and made him overcome with the need to blurt something out. “Everyone calls me Bucky,” he finally admitted. You smiled.

“Do you want me to call you that?” you asked.

He considered your question, trying to imagine you saying it. “I… I used to think it would be better, but now I like the way you say ‘James’ too much.”

“If you thought it would be better, why did you ask me to call you James?” you pressed.

“Because I didn’t want you to know who I was.”

“I know who you are,” you informed him. “I always knew.”

He swallowed as the pit formed in his gut, glancing away to hide from your gaze. “You did a good job of… of pretending you didn’t. You never seemed scared of me.”

“Because I wasn’t. And I’m not.”

He couldn’t imagine how; but then again, if there was any truly fearless woman, he figured it would be you. “I thought you’d beat me up better if you knew what I’d done,” he admitted, almost smiling but not exactly feeling very happy. “Thought you might want… revenge.”

“Surprised that didn’t make you want to tell me.”

He laughed a bit at that. “Yeah, fair enough.”

You asked him a very different question next, one that made his throat suddenly dry: "Have you ever had something that was all your own?" you spoke gently.

"Not for a long time…" he trailed off, letting his eyes unfocus as he stared down at your floor before finding the courage to look up at you again. “Is that what you wanna be?” he asked, already wishing he hadn’t said anything in case it was too presumptuous, but you just smiled back at him in a shy sort of way.

“Something like that,” you mitigated.

His eyes darted around your face— from your eyes glancing away, to your lips that you gnawed on for a moment, to the little crease between your brows— and he found himself leaning forward before he even realized it. “Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer, you just kissed him first; he was so relieved that you did it, too, that you took control so easily and just let him melt into your kiss. As good as it felt to submit to you, he enjoyed the new freedom he had in this moment as well— the freedom to reach up and grab your waist, to brush his hand over your hair, to tilt his head and deepen the kiss further.

It was hard to define exactly where it went from innocent to sensual to sexual, but by the time you were straddling his lap and running your fingers through his hair, it was definitely sexual.

“I want you,” you breathed against his lips.

“Have me,” he offered immediately, “I’m yours. Always was.”

He breathed in sharply when you moved your hips just right to rub up against his swelling cock through his jeans, making him grip your waist a bit harder. “Good boy,” you whispered. “You’re so good, James.”

He believed you this time, finally.

For your first real date, he took you to Coney Island. Not the classiest affair, and he promised to take you somewhere really nice next, but you didn’t mind. It was jarring to see you in casual clothes for the first time, something summer-y and light which was everything opposite to how he was used to seeing you; but he liked it, and he liked knowing a secret about you as you walked through a crowd of carnival-goers that were none the wiser.

He walked you through the fair and explained how he remembered it, showed you the few things that hadn’t changed much. He bought you a hot dog and even won you a prize at one of the games; that one where you throw a baseball and it measures your pitch speed? Yeah, it’s rigged, but he pitched lefty and it seemed to even everything out. (It’s not cheating, okay? It’s beating them at their own game, literally.)

So with a massive teddy under one arm and his waist wrapped in your other, you two walked through the winding pier, under twinkling lights and over walkways towering over the ocean below. And then you fooled around a bit on the ferris wheel. It was the ideal Coney Island experience, for sure.

Bucky didn’t have a ton of friends, per se, but he was excited for you to meet them. Meeting friends was certainly a step, though; hopefully a step you were willing to take, but he didn’t want to ask you to do it without at least having a title to introduce you with.

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he finally told you.

“I kinda thought I already was,” you laughed.

And so, with more pride than he might have ever had for anything before, Bucky finally got to take you to meet everyone (‘everyone’ being a mix of his friends and his coworkers, who may or may not be his friends because he couldn’t always tell) and say “I want you guys to meet my girlfriend.”

Of course you were amazing with all of them; you continued that tactful “I know who you are but I’m pretending I don’t to be nice” thing that you’d started with him, and everyone seemed to appreciate it. You cracked a couple jokes, everyone laughed.

You lied about how you and Bucky met, or at least answered very strategically. Everyone at least pretended to believe you.

Afterwards, they all said something about how great you were or about how lucky he was. The only thing he ever said back was “I know.”

Now that he could kiss you without breaking any rules, he never wanted to stop. He hardly ever did, actually. He kissed you basically whenever he could get the chance; you two didn’t even go out much anymore because he wasn’t very good at keeping his hands to himself, but you weren’t exactly complaining about staying in. You were too busy kissing him back, and teasing him mercilessly while you were at it, to do that.

You had already found the fastest way to get him needy and begging, not that any way took very long. If you kissed him while you straddled his lap, wrapping your arms around him and slowly grinding against him, he lost it in minutes. And you really seemed to get a kick out of watching him lose it, just as much as always.

It made him realize that the way you looked at him before, in sessions and scenes together, was a lot less of an act than he’d assumed at the time. He just thought you were a really good actress, or that he was really whipped; and maybe the first was true, and the second was absolutely true, but regardless it had become clear that you had it almost as bad as he did from the beginning. It gave him even more respect for how well you controlled yourself, he certainly hadn’t had much self-control at the time— after all the whole ordeal was about losing control, and occasionally about trying to gain it back.

He didn’t ask you to quit your job. He didn’t want or expect you to; but you did cut down your hours, which gave the two of you more time together.

To be totally honest, part of him got a bit titillated to imagine you with your other clients. He didn’t like the idea of other men touching you, but he smirked at the thought of them begging to touch you and being denied; he liked knowing that you didn’t do with them even half of the stuff you’d done with him when he was your client.

But he wasn’t your client anymore. He was your boyfriend, and he wanted the world to know it.

six months later...

He let you struggle to reach the top shelf for a moment, just because you looked cute on your tip-toes with the tip of your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth, before he finally relented and helped you grab the bottle of rice wine vinegar.

“Thanks,” you smiled as he set it in the cart.

After that you let him grab everything, content to stand on the end of the cart and push you around as you reminded him what else you needed.

“We’re out of Captain Crunch!” you remembered as he passed the cereal aisle, pointing to try to get him to turn.

“Yes, and we need to stay that way,” Bucky explained sternly, “that shit is addictive. Only way to avoid it is to not have it in the house.”

You frowned but accepted that he was absolutely right, though you groaned when he took you to the refrigerated section to stock up on chicken breasts. “I swear, you would eat these for breakfast if you didn’t think I’d judge you for it,” you joked.

“What’s wrong with chicken breasts?”

“They’re just so… bland!”

“Not if you season them right,” he corrected.

“Which you don’t,” you rolled your eyes. “Come on, at least splurge on some chicken thighs. They’re basically the same but so much more flavorful.”

“Fine, but no more making fun of my cooking,” Bucky decided, placing the breasts back on the shelf and grabbing two packs of thighs instead. “I’m still adapting to 21st century sensibilities.”

“Right,” you nodded, though he caught your smile in the corner of his eye— you knew he couldn’t exactly claim to still be as conservative as he was raised to be in every way.

Like any well-planned grocery run, it ended at the frozen section where you got some fruit bars and frozen vegetables (you had this theory that frozen vegetables tasted better in fried rice than fresh ones, and so far you’d proven him right) and he got a pizza to have for dinner in a pinch. When shopping alone before, he always did self-checkout to avoid being seen anymore than he had to… he still did it with you, but he didn’t even think about who might be looking at him, because all he saw was you.

You drove for this trip, and he always felt oddly soothed by riding passenger with you at the wheel. He liked to close his eyes and lean back a bit, or occasionally look over at you (but if he did it too much you complained that he was being creepy and distracting you). It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that he enjoyed the feeling of you taking control, considering everything, but it was one of those little ways that he hadn’t expected. He just felt so comfortable, so safe with you, and never he felt like he was a burden for asking you to take the lead when he didn’t trust himself with it. And that applied to everything— driving, cooking, speaking up in crowds, all those little things that sometimes made him anxious.

There were some things he didn’t have any trouble being dominant about, though. He was very protective of you, for example, and tended to be uptight about how late you went out for walks or where you should be going alone. And he didn’t struggle to ask you for what he wanted— he was getting a lot better at asking for help, specifically.

He used to ask you to say that you loved him, instead of just saying ‘I love you’ himself, because for some reason it was easier to make you do it first. It started as something he’d beg for in the throes of passion, fingers digging into your skin as his eyes watered (as they often did in intimate moments): please, say you love me— jus’ need to hear you say it, please? And you were always sweet about it in return, of course I love you, James, my good boy, I love you so so much. But then he’d ask you to say it whenever he felt like it— he’d come up behind you while you were reading or cooking or something and kiss the top of your head or the shell of your ear and try to act nonchalant as he asked you love me, right?

You’d laugh and roll your eyes before you answered, but it was, thankfully, always a ‘yes.’ Eventually you figured out how often you needed to say it to make him stop asking all the time, which was probably a little too often.

“I love you,” you blurted out randomly as you turned on your signal and leaned a bit to make sure it was safe to make a left— case in point.

“I love you too,” he answered back with a smile.

“I don’t mind saying it so often,” you added, “but you know that I love you even when I’m not saying it, right? I love you all the time.”

It was a simple question, probably mostly rhetorical, but it hit him harder than he expected. “Yeah, I know,” he managed to get out evenly enough that you didn’t notice he was tearing up a bit.

He put the groceries away while you took the trash out; you liked to keep the fridge pretty organized, and it was an adjustment at first, but by now Bucky had it down pat. Before you, he hadn’t even considered that the contents of a refrigerator could be aesthetically pleasing.

Dinner was leftovers in front of the TV— you two were almost done with Frasier, but after that you had ten seasons of Friends to get through. You had tried to encourage him to watch more challenging stuff— you know, True Detective, Hannibal, dark cerebral stuff with arguably more artistic merit than classic sitcoms— but Bucky had had enough darkness in his life that he didn’t need it in his fiction. Maybe he’d find the time to catch up on the last 80 years of dramas and murder mysteries after he caught up on the last 80 years of comedy.

After dinner you were going to do yoga and Bucky, not in the mood to embarrass himself with that, retired to the bedroom a bit early to read his book— he’d heard a lot about this Harry Potter guy and now that he was on the fourth book and could hardly put it down, he understood the hype. He related a bit to the unwilling war hero in its protagonist; most of the time the series enthralled him, but occasionally something would hit too deep and he’d have to put it away for a couple days. At the moment, though, he was in one of the easy parts where it was just about schoolwork and childhood antics.

He instinctively glanced at the door when he heard you open it— he wasn’t sure how long it had been time-wise, but he’d gotten through quite a few pages— but he only quickly looked up at you as you shut the door behind you, before returning his attention to the book he was reading. “So, Bucky…” you began.

“Yeah?” he mumbled.

“James.”

It wasn’t any one thing that got his attention— not just the tone of your voice or the way it got a bit deeper, not just the look you gave him, not just the way the air of the room seemed to shift all at once. It was everything about you that made his body react instantly. He shut the book and set it aside, sitting up straight to look at you expectantly.

And you seemed to notice his instinctual obedience, considering you just barely smirked at him, raising an eyebrow as he spoke his reply: “Yes, Mistress?”

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celestialmidnights · 4 years ago

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𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 || sub!bucky barnes x dominatrix!reader masterlist [completed]

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || working as a dominatrix is never exactly easy, but a new client brings challenges you never expected.

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 || 30k

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || smut (including cnc, oral m and f receiving, penetrative m and f receiving), dom/sub relationship, ‘mistress’ title, pain kink, whipping, blood, orgasm denial/control, slapping, objectification/degradation, angst and hurt/comfort, dacryphilia, touchstarved!bucky || please read individual chapter warnings

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐𝘐

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘝

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝𝘐

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝𝘐𝘐

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celestialmidnights · 5 years ago

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Mania{Ch.2}

Description: By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who's family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves/OC

Warnings: Death

Word Count: 2,842

Series Masterlist

Ophelia left behind all the hurt Reginald had instilled in her, after leaving The Umbrella Academy. The Hargreeves siblings were split up across the state and moon, leaving the woman to fend for herself. She did not have any real skills other than her extraordinary abilities. Ophelia had no choice but to use her ability to her advantage. Since her time at the academy, she had been hired for a large tech company that was researching a way to use her abilities for trauma recovery. It became an overnight hit, allowing users a safe way to cope with unforeseeable circumstances. The irony in her new job was hilarious.

"This will only take a moment. Please, relax and do not be alarmed when you start seeing images." Ophelia explained to an anxious patient.

The man sighed, "No matter how many times we do this, it still scares me."

"That's understandable, but am I really that scary?"

The man ignored the chuckling woman as he went through the treatment. He wasn't scared. After suffering from an accident overseas, She had helped him gain control over his life. He was grateful she was in business.

Ophelia on the other hand was always ridden with a sense of guilt. After being left with the Hargreeves family 13 years ago, she never amounted to Reginald's expectations. Every failure after Ben's death was blamed on her, stemming from Ophelia being there for the least amount of time. She eventually got tired of being the scapegoat and left before it could get any worse.

For the next thirteen years, Ophelia hadn't stopped trying to help people. The only thing Reginald assisted her with was control. Now she had the opportunity to support people in need, without the scrutinizing tone of Reginald. It's not like she didn't grow attached to the other members of The Umbrella Academy, but it was just different. They were all so closed off to the idea of a person replacing Ben that it made forming relationships difficult. She didn't take it personally. They were all screwed up by their childhoods, including Ophelia.

"okay, you're done for today so take it easy. I mean it. You need to stay for another 10 minutes after the treatment just to make sure you're alright." Ophelia explained as she broke the mental connection she had with her patient.

The man groaned, "Can you at least put the tv on?

"Sure. The only things we have is the news though."

She turned on the tv and was automatically hit with the breaking news.

Reginald Hargreeves, the Billionaire mostly known for the creation of The Umbrella Academy has died. He leaves behind six grown children.

What the hell just happened? How was that man dead?

Ophelia never would have thought that she would feel such dread at hearing the news about Reginald's death. A part of her seemed to believe he wasn't able to die. She thought that her running away from her problems would help avoid having to interact with them again. He was dead, but he still insisted on tormenting her.

This meant she had to return to the academy.

Lucky her.

—————

Ophelia sighed as she looked at the enormous doors that seemed to still be outlined with the red engravings of umbrellas. She had only spent a brief moment inside, but she couldn't forget the amount of neglect inflected on her.

What had happened to them. What he did to her.

There was no way a person could forget all the trauma that fell upon her. She didn't want to be here. Maybe she could turn back and pretend the old man was still alive. It wasn't like any of the original six members would care.

Ophelia was about to back out, but was interrupted by the sound of the heavy doors opening. It revealed the familiar face of Pogo. One of the few redeeming parts of this place.

"Hello Ms. Cortez, I am glad to see that you were able to make it."

The monkey hadn't changed from the last time she saw him. He still talked like he was some well polished gentleman. Other than the fact that he was a monkey, She had always considered him as one. For an animal, he did have more empathy and compassion compared to her actual caretaker. Pogo would always read her stories with Grace's help, ensuring the young girl every night she was wanted. Grace and the monkey were her soft spots.

"Hi pogo, I've missed you so much." She excitingly spat out, reaching out her hands in order to hug him.

"I've missed you too Ophelia. It's a shame this is how we meet again." Pogo expressed sadly.

"Well, this is probably the only way I would have came back. Have the others arrived yet? "Ophelia questioned pogo, taking note of his facial expressions for any sign of discomfort.

Pogo looked into Ophelia's eyes, "Miss. Vanya and Allison have arrived. Your brother Luther is also around here somewhere. We are still waiting on the other siblings I'm afraid."

"None of them are my siblings Pogo. That was made clear. I was only here for a year, and Reginald made sure to remind me of it. I don't know anything about them anymore."

The monkey stepped into the mansion, waiting for Ophelia to walk inside, "Maybe this is the chance for that to change Ms.Cortez. I believe you've been brought back together for a reason."

Ophelia thought about that for a moment. Was there a reason she was here? Maybe there had been some universal tampering to get them all in the same room. Whatever the reason was, it still didn't account for the awkwardness that was guaranteed to take place.

"Ophelia is that you? You look great and you've changed so much." Allison's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm kinda surprised you remember what I looked like." Ophelia joked.

"Oh come on, not that again. We were kids Ophelia. Also, I couldn't forget your horrible bob and the bad eyeliner"

It was true, she had changed since the last time they were all in the same room. She had filed out and was taller than the last time they were together. Now, she sported long hair and a athletic build. Ophelia wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a woman.

Ophelia offered a genuine smile, "Okay, yeah I get it. You weren't any better. It's nice to see you again Allison."

"You too. Everyone's missed you." Allison said, walking away from her.

Ophelia seriously doubted that. After Ben's death, they wanted nothing to do with each other. There were obviously good times, but they were hard to remember. Being older probably faded a lot of the emotional baggage each of them carried. There was no use in being angry. Everyone was dealing with the torment of Reginald Hargreeves.

While exploring the old home, Ophelia stumbled across her room. Nothing had changed. It was still bleak and barely had any photos. The only things displayed were news articles about The Umbrella Academy. She really didn't have much decor style. As she was admiring her handiwork, Diego appeared in the hallway.

"Hey, long time no see." Ophelia called out catching the man off guard.

"H-Hey. Wow you actually showed up. I wasn't expecting it. Y-Y-You look good." Diego stuttered.

Ophelia knew his stutter would appear again when he was talking to her. For some reason, Diego had always had such a problem talking to Ophelia when she moved in. They had communicated normally before Reginald took her in, but after being integrated with The Umbrella Academy it changed. He barely talked, only stepping in when his siblings got too bold with her.

He had always treated her with such softness. Always making sure the siblings and Reginald didn't make life for her too hard. She had to tell him that she could take care of herself, which she could. But it was nice having at least one person stick up for her, even though they never stayed in touch after the academy.

Things had since changed. They were both grown, and he looked at her as an equal. They both had made a name for themselves since leaving. He had become a man now. It was far different than when they were in their teens. She still didn't get his whole Ninja get up but respected it. Other then the outfit, he looked good. She would even consider him handsome if it weren't for the fact he would probably kill her if he found out.

"Thanks. What's with the outfit?" Ophelia inquired.

Diego looked down at his outfit, "Needed some gear. I'm still helping out the police force."

Ophelia smiled lazily at him, "Helping? I guessed, since you're still with Patch."

"You keeping track of me? Who would of thought. Im surprised after how everyone left. " Diego said, scratching the back of his neck.

Ophelia shrugged, "Well, we were kids. I've seen a lot of family trauma, and you would be surprised by how ours wasn't the worst."

Diego chuckled, "So you weren't just keeping tabs on me Ophelia."

Blushing, Ophelia hastily snapped, "I kept tabs on all of you idiot. Don't get a bigger head than you already have."

His facial expressions softened, "too bad, was kinda hoping it was just me phelia."

His words carried a double meaning that Ophelia was confused by. What was that supposed to mean? What was going on with this family? Obviously, she was in a dream. Diego was probably just trying to get under her skin.

They had left on bad terms. There was a huge fight that had caused a drift. A mission hadn't gone well, with the suspects getting away and breaking Klaus's arm. Ophelia was the only one in the vicinity to stop them, but she decided to let them go in order to help Klaus. They came back stealing more money, and shooting her in the process. After finding this out, Reginald punished her and the team the next day.

Diego was mad that she let them get away, telling her she should've protected herself. He made it seem like she was weak. Could she have fought back? Yes, but not when it was at the expense of Klaus. He knew that, but he had chosen to pretend like he wouldn't have done the same. If Diego wanted to keep living like that he could, but she wasn't sacrificing her own beliefs for Reginald Hargreeves. She hoped he would come to his senses. Ophelia always had a hidden soft spot for the knife thrower.

Luther shouted at Diego and Ophelia, "Meeting down stairs now. We need to talk about things."

"Uhhh. He's still the same isn't he?" Ophelia complained.

Diego began walking downstairs. "Definitely, just a lot meatier than usual."

"Diego, What's that supposed to mean"

The two walked towards the living room, "You'll see." Diego warmed Ophelia.

—————

The seven members of the Umbrella academy were now all in the living room, pretending it was under normal circumstances. Ophelia hadn't seen everyone in thirteen years. So much had changed, but at the same time nothing had changed. Klaus was still pretending to be sober, secretly pouring himself a drink under the table. Luther was in the middle of the room. Allison and Diego were sitting by the bookshelf, listening to Luther.

"I guess we should get this started. So, I figured we could have a sort of memorial service in the courtyard at sundown. Say a few words, just at Dad's favorite spot."

Allison's face contorted in confusion, "Dad had a favorite spot?"

"You know, under the oak tree. We used to sit out there all the time. None of you ever did that?" Luther had asked.

"No Luther, not all of us were his favorite. Also, can everyone remember that he's your guys's dad and not mine." Ophelia huffed.

"Shush. Shhhh cranky pants. Will there be refreshments?" Klaus asked joining the group. "Tea? Scones? Cucumber sandwiches are always a winner."

Ophelia rolled her eyes, "Don't shush me Klaus. Shouldn't you not be smoking in here? Pogo could get sick"

"Is that my skirt?" Allison asked, eyeing Klaus' eccentric outfit.

"What? Oh, yeah, this. I found it in your room." He explained.

"It's a little dated, I know, but it's very uh, breathy on the bits."

" There's still some important things that we need to discuss."

"Like what?" Diego asked.

"Like the way he died."

"And here we go." Diego sighed, looking at Ophelia from across the room.

She couldn't believe this, "Wasn't it a heart attack?" Both Vanya and Ophelia answered at the same time.

"They checked and it all lined up Luther." Ophelia sighed in frustration.

In order to calm her down, Diego put a supportive hand on her back.

"I'm fine. Thanks." Ophelia said to Diego as he slid his hand up and down her back.

"No problem." He replied as they both held each others gaze.

Confused by the outward comfort being given, Luther continued, "Theoretically. He sounded strange, and told me not to trust anyone."

Diego had gotten up from beside Ophelia. "Luther, he was a paranoid, bitter old man who was starting to lose what was left of his marbles."

"No. He must have known something was going to happen." He relocated his attention towards Klaus. "Look, I know you don't like to do it, but I need you to talk to Dad."

"I can't just call Dad in the afterlife and be like, Dad could you just... stop playing tennis with Hitler for a moment and take a quick call?" Klaus snapped.

Ophelia couldn't contain her laughter, causing the siblings to stare at her.

"What that was funny."

"This is why she's my favorite." Klaus responded.

"Since when? That's your thing." Luther refocused on the topic at hand.

"I'm not in the right... frame of mind."

"You're high?" Allison asked.

"Obviously." Ophelia muttered.

Klaus drunkenly pointed at her, "Ophelia my dear, I will retract your title of my least despised number."

Starting to get annoyed, Ophelia alerted the group. "He's totally high."

"Yeah! Yeah!" He laughed. "I mean, how are you not with listening to this nonsense?"

Luther kept talking, "Then there's the issue of the missing monocle."

"Who gives a shit about a stupid monocle?" Diego sighed.

"Exactly. It's worthless. So, whoever took it, I think it was personal. Someone close to him. Someone with a grudge."

"Where are you going with this?" Klaus asked

"Oh, isn't it obvious, Klaus?" Diego started. "He thinks one of us killed Dad."

This was a serious allegation. Yes, most of them wouldn't have cared if he died. But killing him? None of them would be stupid enough to try. As soon as Luther had voiced his theory, he looked guilty.

"You do!" Klaus yelled in amusement.

"Come on, Luther. Who do you think it is? Who's going to do something that stupid? What a brother you are." Ophelia angrily said.

Luther getting more heated by the second, and aimed his words at Ophelia, "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying it could happen. I mean you hated him, and your track record with people isn't great."

Ophelia became red with anger, "Are you seriously accusing me? She raged, trying to calm herself down. "I know you've never liked me Luther, but don't you fucking dare accuse me of that. Have I done questionable things? Yes, but I'm not a monster."

"How could you think that?" Vanya asked in shock.

"I spent years helping people and that's not enough? I know I had slip ups, but I never killed someone ."

"Yeah, but..."

Unexpectedly, Diego bursted out in anger, "Don't blame her. We're not kids anymore. She didn't kill dad. You've just always had something against her Luther. "

"Look, Diego you can't protect her all the time. I don't know what's happening with you guys, but don't pretend she's above this. Ophelia has a short circuit, always has. " Luther instigated.

"WHEN?" Ophelia put her hands to her head. She couldn't believe this. She blows a goats head off one time, and suddenly she's a hot head.

"Come here, let me show you what a short circuit looks like. " Diego stepped forward to hit Luther.

"STOP. I can handle it myself Diego." Ophelia pressed down on his chest, trying to calm him down. "I didn't kill him. None of us did. If something actually happened, then we'll figure it out like adults. I'm not going to stand here and let you accuse me or anyone else. Get a grip Luther."

"Fine." He huffed.

"Great job Luther. Way to lead." Diego said, angrily walking out of the room.

"That's not what I meant to happen..." Luther tried to defend himself.

"You're crazy, man. You're crazy." Klaus interrupted him.

"I'm not finished!" Luther exclaimed as everyone stepped out of the room.

"Sorry, She's just gonna go murder Mom. Be right back, I'm going to go watch." Klaus said.

"Geez, that went well."

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celestialmidnights · 5 years ago

Text

Mania {Ch. 1}

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves/OC

Warnings: Mentions of abuse

Word Count: 1,116

Series Masterlist

It couldn't get worse than this.

The early training sessions had started when Ophelia arrived, making it nearly impossible for the girl to settle in. The practices became a regular occurrence after Reginald Hargreeves brought her back to the academy. The old man had made it his mission to "properly" train her himself, since he couldn't have the new recruit messing things up for The Umbrella Academy.

Ophelia consistently worked on growing her abilities. Reginald's favorite way to ensure improvement was to use her gifts on living animals. The man would hook goats up to brain scanning machines, and project their brain waves onto the lab reports.

On multiple occasions, Mr. Hargreeves asked Ophelia to practice her abilities on small goats. The animals were strapped onto metal tables, fighting to break loose. She didn't want to do it but was forced into it.

"I don't want to hurt it. This isn't going to work." The young girl cried out to her caretaker.

The man scoffed. "Girl, you must continue. I will not have an incompetent child running amuck. If you do not do this I will lock you up and kill it slowly. Do you want it to die in pain? The man asked. "I will make it far worse. I am not making you kill the animal, but I will if that is what you want."

"No, please don't... I-I'll do it." Ophelia cried out to the man.

A stinging sensation arose in her brain as she projected an image into the animal's head. The goat was safe in her illusion, and it had absolutely no reason to be afraid. But fear began to invade the young girl's brain, reflecting in her illusion.

Due to an overwhelming amount of stress in Ophelia's mind, the goat started to convulse on the table. Ophelia tried to reign in her emotions but was unable to do so. The girl's head was filled with an unexplainable sense of dread, causing her illusion to transform into a nightmare. The sounds from the machines were off the charts. She didn't mean for it to happen, but her mind seemed to twist her abilities into something dark.

The once peaceful animal was now lying in its own pool of blood, its head blown off.

Years after this incident, Reginald kept her isolated from the rest of the world. The girl wasn't able to conjure non-lethal illusions. He would need more time training her. Before introducing the girl to the other children, Ophelia needed to learn control. She was far too dangerous to have among other people.

He couldn't have the girl blowing peoples' heads off. It would create too much bad publicity.

It took years of training for Reginald Hargreeves to feel comfortable letting his pupil use her gifts. When she first arrived, Ophelia could barely create an illusion without an emotional trigger. In the last six years, she had grown the ability to manipulate reality at will.

After the death of Ben Hargreeves, Ophelia was forced to become an improved number eight. She had been trained rigorously for years. Her life wasn't hers anymore. She belonged to a man who cared for no one but himself. Ophelia was a ploy in a game only Reginald Hargreeves knew how to play.

————————-

When Ophelia was first introduced to The Umbrella Academy, it was quite underwhelming. She had been expecting a better reaction then what she received. The only person who seemed to notice her at first was Diego, the boy she met in the warehouse a year ago.

He had changed so much in three years. Diego had become taller and much more muscular since the last time she interacted with him, but this wasn't what drew her attention. It was the dark circles under his eyes and sunken face that Ophelia noticed first. She remembered their first encounter, recalling the exciting nature of the young boy's aura. This wasn't the same boy. It had to be the result of his brother's death.

There was no life behind his eyes, he had succumbed to new darkness she hadn't experienced before. Having no real-life experience with kids her age, she didn't know how to react. They were both 16, and so much trauma had transpired in their lives since the last time they met.

Lost in thought, Ophelia was luckily snapped out of her daydreaming when Reginald introduced her. Ophelia hadn't heard her name used in years. It was either eight or girl, never her actual name.

"Listen here Umbrella Academy. Number eight is to be your new member. You shall be responsible for her shortcomings. She will be a new and improved number eight. So I suggest you all make sure she does not fail, as it would be your faults." The billionaire told the seven children.

"Why do we need her now?" A girl with dark curly hair asked.

Sighing with discontent, Reginald snapped, "Have I ever owed you an explanation number three? I think not. Now get on with your day."

The older man walked away, leaving the young girls at the mercy of the seven children.

"So your family's dead, right? I'm guessing because there's no way he would have waited this long to get you. A boy with dark eyeliner interjected. "She's here to replace Ben. He must have had her since we met in your dads factory. I heard she went crazy." He aimed towards the young girl.

"KLAUS. You can't just say that." Number three punched his arm.

Rubbing where his sister hit, "What? We were all thinking about it."

"No, he's right. My parents died when I was born, and the adoption didn't really work out. Mr. Hargreeves took me in and said I was a new member. I heard what happened to Ben. Reginald is horrible, I'm sorry." Ophelia quietly murmured to the seven children.

The curly-haired girl frowned, "Well thanks for the apology... I'm Allison. This is Klaus, Luther, Diego, and Vanya must be somewhere."

Ophelia smiled at the girl and her siblings. This was her first time interacting with them, and she didn't want to mess anything up.

"Ophelia." She offered. "Nice to meet you all."

"It won't be for long. Do you think it was bad when he was training you? Now that you're a part of the team, it'll get worse for all of us. Dad will make sure of it like always. " Allison muttered.

Klaus held a pained expression.

"Bastard." The siblings all seemed to silently agree with his outburst, except for the more confident boy of the group.

Luther, the oldest of the siblings, snapped at Klaus, "Don't say that about dad. He loves us. She's just a test run." He added, trying to deflect the pain his father had caused onto the newest member. "Let me make it clear. You're not one of us. You're not Ben. We have been here since the start. Don't make it seem like he didn't do you a favor. Pull your weight or we won't help you."

Ophelia hadn't realized she had hit a sore subject for Luther. She was under the impression that they all knew what type of monster Reginald was. She couldn't fathom that anyone could possibly care for the abusive man. Especially, since Mr. Hargreeves contributed to Ben's death.

"Stop Luther. We don't need you yelling today. She didn't kill Ben. Dad did." Diego interjected, making sure to place a hand on his shoulder.

Aiming his words towards his brother Luther turned, "Diego, he didn't make it happen. You just can't get over the fact that you couldn't stop it. Don't blame dad."

The two boys began to exchange heated words with one another as the rest of the siblings tried their best to calm them down. Ophelia had always thought about what meeting The Umbrella Academy would be like. This wasn't how she had imagined it.

From this one small introduction, she could see how much Reginald Hargreeves didn't care about his children. They were all in competition with one another. None of them had dealt with the emotional trauma of losing their brother. Now she was expected to take his place, living with them was going to be interesting.

After a few minutes of the constant bickering between siblings, the commotion settled down. Each of the children had walked out of the room except for Diego, leaving Ophelia and him alone.

"Look all you have to do is lay low. We've been together since we were born and you haven't. You're not our sister. They'll ease up just give it time." Diego made sure to explain to Ophelia

"Okay, thanks." She nervously replied.

"Don't thank me. Just stay out the way and do what he says. You know how he is, so you need to adapt." Diego said turning to look at her face. "Training isn't the same as real life. You're not Ben so don't try to be.”

His face remained void of any emotion.

Ophelia could tell he was still mourning the loss of his brother. He couldn't meet her eyes, and his voice had become so cold. She had once thought they could become friends. Ophelia knew it was still possible, but it would take longer than she thought. It had become painfully obvious that the death of their brother had messed the Hargreeves children up badly.

Luther was in denial.

Allison was angry.

Klaus was barely coping.

Vanya was hiding

Diego was burying his emotions.

Ophelia was wishing she hadn't met them in these circumstances. Maybe they would have become closer sooner, but she wasn't a part of their family. It was a little too late for that.

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celestialmidnights · 5 years ago

Text

Mania- MASTERLIST

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves/OC

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves

Description: By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who’s family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.

Prologue // Part I // Part 2

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celestialmidnights · 5 years ago

Text

After All

Character: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Just because Bucky pushed her away doesn’t mean he knows how to let go.

Word Count: 2,100 - One Shot

She looked beautiful. Too beautiful. Bucky didn’t know why she put in such an effort for this schmuck. She didn’t need to put in any effort at all to be beautiful. And if some guy didn’t know that, then he didn’t deserve her.

The bar had giant windows with no curtains or treatments to hide its patrons from outside observation. They did it on purpose, to hypnotize the people walking by and pull them into the romantic and dark lighting…and overpriced cocktails.

But Bucky didn’t just notice how beautiful Y/N looked. He could also see how bored she was. Her smile was forced. He could almost hear exactly what her voice sounded like as she talked to him. Bucky would tease her about it, always knowing when she was being polite but wanted to find an out from a conversation as soon as possible. She called it her “customer service voice.”

Keep reading

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celestialmidnights · 5 years ago

Text

Mania [Prologue]

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves/OC

By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who's family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.

Word Count: 2,300

October 1, 1984

43 women around the world suddenly gave birth at the exact same time. The weird part? Until the moment they gave birth, none of those women had been pregnant. These newborns are weird and inexplicable and special.

Sir. Reginald Hargreeves, billionaire, and adventurer, made it his mission to acquire as many of these children as he could, overall at the start he ended up with seven although as time grew on a new 'challenge' arose.

——— 11 Years Later ———

Life as an orphan had its challenges, one of which being the constant moving from home to home. By the age of 10, Ophelia had already been through five temporary home placements. The fosters she lived with were all the same. They always made false promises about keeping her around. It was never true. The promise of making a new family grew harder to believe in, as each passing home continued to give her up. Whether it be because of poor timing or her closed-off personality, Ophelia lost hope in ever making a lasting relationship.

Being tossed from most homes she had been placed in, the young girl began to form a discouraging outlook on the rest of her life. There was no point in trying to become a part of a family. Everyone would just leave her in the end. It also didn't help that the current couple she was adopted by hated her even more than she hated them.

Last year she had been given the "privilege" of being adopted by a young couple in their 20's. Amelia and James Cortez. Their public personas were perfect, but behind closed doors the two parents were horrendous. Often the two of them would make Ophelia clean and cook until she was physically unable to continue. This resulted in achingly red blisters formed from working on projects around the house. The little girl would frequently be taken to doctor's appointments with bumps and bruises, but no authority figure ever stepped in. She was told to suck it up because she was one of the lucky ones. The girl's caretakers were saints. Even though, they would continue to cause harm to the child in their possession. This treatment would be continued until it progressed into full-on verbal abuse.

Over time, Ophelia had just become used to a life full of solitude and hurt. The year-long tirade on her self esteem had slowly started to deteriorate any sort of social skills the young girl wished to attain. She had accepted the fact that she would have to age out in order to gain a semi-normal life. That was until the family had decided to get into business with an extremely wealthy man by the name of Reginald hargreeves.

Ophelia's "father" had acquired a small-scaled company, dealing with space travel from his deceased father. The man would often spend a large amount of time at his warehouse, near the Hargreeves estate. When the world had seen the birth of extraordinary children, Reginald had sprinted towards using the new technology Ophelia's father had access to.

This created the opportunity for James Cortez's family to be more involved in the family business. After being employed by Reginald, James moved his family into the warehouse near the Hargreeves estate. It was there that each member of the family had a purpose. Amelia went on to be head of the supply chain, while their 10-year-old was suddenly tasked with taking note of how many parts the billionaire was in need of. Every day, Ophelia would be expected to write a number of each item Reginald needed.

The man was usually harsh towards Ophelia. He would never use her name and only called her the rumpled little girl. After a year with Amelia and James, she didn't even raise an eyebrow at his insults. Ophelia just went about her business. This seemed to irk him, resulting in the older man continuing to antagonize her.

Reginald aimed his words towards the small child, "Why does your father insist on having you down here. Clearly, he has the means to not use you,"

straightening out his long coat.

"You, my girl are pointless. Do they make you do this so they don't have to see you?" The man chuckled.

"I mean you don't even talk. How Pathetic." Reginald stood back waiting for a reaction that never came. Unable to gain satisfaction, the man turned his back swiftly making an exit.

He did not get his reaction. It was true, Ophelia hadn't talked since she was adopted. This wasn't because she couldn't, but because she didn't want to. It was too frequently that a person's words could endanger someone. Ophelia was no stranger to this. Her silence was a weapon. No one, not even the people who surrounded her could take that away.

Over a couple of months, it became routine for Reginald to come in and make swift comments at Ophelia. She never responded. Why would she? He was just like her parents. In a way, the man was predictable. That was until he started to bring along children. He claimed they needed to start taking responsibility, and he wouldn't stand for anything less.

The first time Ophelia had an interaction with the children was when she had been cleaning up. The girl's father had sent her downstairs. Reginald had been on an emergency call for some sort of experiment.

This time he had people with him...

A shaggy long-haired boy, who had looked so sleep-deprived she could see the sunken black rings around his eyes. He seemed to be hissing at something in the corner.

Weird.

The other boy was about the same age. He looked just as tired, but his darker skin did a better job of hiding it. He seemed to curl into himself out of discomfort, making him appear two times smaller. It really was a shame. She had a feeling he would look better if he wasn't so scared.

Reginald was too busy with his project at hand to care that the kids were wandering around the area. The two children were looking around the warehouse as it was pretty enormous. While it didn't have much variety because of the white walls, it made up for in size. The shaggy-haired boy seemed to be enamored with the gadgets littering the area. He accidentally touched an exposed wire on a trinket, causing him to squeal in shock. This caused the girl to laugh full heartily. Ophelia had been too preoccupied with looking at the shaggy-haired boy that she didn't even notice the other one behind her, waiting for her to turn around.

"Hi. W-W-What's your n-n-name?" The boy struggled to spit out, startling Ophelia enough to cause her to tumble on the table next to her.

Like a deer caught in the headlights, she was unable to move from her spot. Ophelia hadn't talked to someone other than her parents in over a year, let alone a kid her age.

The young boy tried to help her up, "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He looked down apologetically at the small girl.

Ophelia returned the sentiment with a tight-lipped smile. She didn't know how to react, and this small interaction was making her get major anxiety.

"My n-names Diego." He said waiting for her to give him a name back. It never came.

This confused him, "Can you talk?"

Ophelia shuffled awkwardly, suddenly embarrassed by the joking tone in his voice. She blushed and shook her head side to side.

"Oh... that's okay. I sometimes have trouble talking too." Diego tried to make the girl feel more comfortable.

Ophelia pointed to an area on her shirt. Diego's eyes landed on a nameplate.

"Ophelia. I like that name. My sister's name is Allison, and I think you have a better name than her. She thinks she's the best. She's not though." He huffed.

A chuckle came out of Ophelia's mouth, catching her off guard. Diego smiled at her with a chestier grin, spanning across his face. The two kids continued to stare at each other until they were interrupted.

"NUMBER 2 GET BACK HERE. I AM NOT ENTERTAINING A CIRCUS. GIRL I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISTRACTING HIM. GO ON." Reginald yelled at both children.

Diego looked back and forth between them contemplating his next words, "Bye Ophelia. I have to go. See you later maybe."

Diego didn't leave until she nodded. Running towards Reginald, he bid her a wave goodbye and smiled on his way out.

Ophelia turned to finish up the days work much giddier than she had started it. For communicating with someone her age for the first time in years, interacting with him wasn't so bad. Not at all. It should have brought her a longer amount of joy, but it only left her with feelings of sorrow and loneliness.

James and Amelia had heard about this incident from Reginald the next day. They took it out on Ophelia, removing her from the warehouse duties. Instead, she was placed inside a room with no one to talk to. Her parents said it was for her own good. It wasn't. Ophelia knew for some reason her parents didn't want her out talking to people. With each passing day, the girl grew more resentful towards her parents, building until there would surely be a break down to follow.

She never knew why they hated her. Until the day abnormal abilities started to make an appearance inside her. Ophelia had been having pain in her head for as long she could remember. There seemed to be no sense of relief from it, and Amelia and James always seemed to make it worse.

On a Saturday evening, Ophelia's father decided to visit her. He had a particularly bad day at work, making it why he came to see her that day. He never went unless there was a need.

The man had stepped into the room where Ophelia was. He seemed moodier than normal. The tirade of verbal insults started almost instantly. His face growing red, the man began to move towards the 10-year-old. Ophelia tried to back up, but there was nowhere to hide in the small room. James grabbed her arm and threw her down on the floor and began hitting her consistently. She didn't know why this was transpiring. He never went this far, but there he was beating her to the point where she had begun to lose consciousness. Ophelia was sure she would die that day, but the universe had other plans for the youthful girl.

There was a sudden buildup in her mind that burned almost like a ray of sunlight. Suddenly, the scenery of the room began to change. No longer inside the room, Ophelia's father began to panic.

"DID YOU DO THIS? STOP. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP OPHELIA. NOW YOU DECIDE YOU'RE GOING TO BE SPECIAL." The man cried out at his daughter.

"Did he know there was a possibility she had abilities?" Ophelia thought to herself.

This must have been the justification for why they kept her away from people. The reason why they disliked her from the beginning. She didn't show any special abilities when born. Ophelia was created on October 1, 1984. She assumed they knew that Ophelia didn't possess any inclination for extraordinary abilities until right at this moment. For some reason, the abilities didn't kick in until now. All these years, and this is what caused their tirade. How pathetic.

Ophelia had no idea how to control what was happening. It was some sort of reality manipulation ability, but she couldn't figure it out in time for her father not to take advantage of her confusion. Before she could even process what was being done, Ophelia had been knocked out.

——— 3 Months Later ———

Over the next three months, Ophelia began to grow more resentful of her parents. After the Hargreeves incident, her parents made it impossible to have outside contact with the world. Currently, she had no ability to go anywhere but her room. They were scared of her. Whenever they would try and talk to her, she would temporarily blind them or manifest a nightmare inside their heads. They kept her under medication to ensure she wouldn't be able to truly master her abilities. There was no telling what she could do if given the chance.

After the first month, Ophelia started going a little crazy. In order to keep her mind active, she began avoiding reality through illusions. It was her only escape. She was only able to create small illusions and mimic physical sensations. If it wasn't for being trapped in her own home, Ophelia would be pretty excited about it.

The small amount of joy was short-lived, as the couple had planned on selling her to Reginald Hargreeves. This had been their plan all along. Her for an exchange of money. They must have been planning on doing it since she was adopted, but the couple was unable to fulfill their intention when she didn't display any special abilities. Now they were finally getting a return on their investment.

Ophelia wasn't heartbroken at being given to the Hargreeves. When a person already lived with monsters, anything seemed better.

At least she would have kids her age to interact with. Yes, Reginald was an unkind man, but it wasn't anything she wasn't used to. There was no point in fighting. What was done was done. She would have to accept becoming a member of The Umbrella Academy if she still wanted a shot at a decent life. Ophelia could only hope it would be better than her current environment.

————-

This is my first time writing fanfiction in English. I learned to write in English three months ago so I’m not sure how well everything flows. It’s only for fun and practice. Hope you enjoyed reading. I might continue but it’s up to how I feel about it.

#imbrellaacademyfanfiction #diegohargreevesfanfiction #hargreevesfanfic #diegohargreeves #umbrellaacademyfanfic #umbrella academy #diego hargreeves #umbrella academy fanfiction

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