Summary: "Numinous (adj): describing an experience which makes you fearful, yet fascinated. Awed yet attracted. The powerful personal feeling of being overwhelmed and inspired."
Maybe love is like rain. Sometimes gentle, sometimes torrential, steady, joyous, filling the earth, collecting in underground springs. Sometimes unwanted, unexpected. When it rains, when we love, life grows.
James is lost in himself, torned between the unknown, divided into two. When Corinne comes into his life, he feels right, weightless.
Yes, maybe love is like rain. And if love is like rain, James's love for her is a whole storm.
Warnings: descriptions of violence, mental illnesses, abuse.
Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes/OC.
A/N: Finally I had the courage to post something I really love writing. I have pre-written chapters and I'll decide when to post the next one once I finish another, that way I'll always have chapters to post and motivation to keep writing. The thingy I used was downloaded on Google so if it belongs to you, just text me and I'll work it out. @sophieisinlove and @just-call-me-mr-snoopy-pants are always supporting me when it comes to writing so my full love for both of you, my babies. Also, love and feedbacks are always welcomed! Have fun 🍑✨
It was a very quiet night in Budapest streets. Until he passed in front of that alley.
Keep walking, the rude voice inside his head says. It has nothing to do with you.
Yet, there he is, still like a statue, heavy breathing and fists clenched while the cry goes on and on, the rustling of fabrics and fists meeting flesh, the woman's whimpers echoing painfully in his ears. He tries to move his feet foraward, to keep walking because it has nothing to do with him. But he stays, he's paralyzed.
The sounds come to a stop, there's only the deadly silence and a faint choir of cicadas.
You can't save everyone, another voice reasons, totally different from the first one, softer. But you can try.
And he does, marching back to said alley he tried so bad to ignore, he's not sneaky, he wants them to know he's coming. He wants them to fear his arrival, all heavy boots and stoic stance.
But there's no one other than the woman curled up in fetal position, trembling incessantly.
He approaches her, crawling to make himself look smaller. He then notices her beautiful beige coat all ruined by crimson, her skirt clustered up her waist and stockings with wholes all around, knees scrapped and bleeding just as bad as her nose and lips. Dark stains bloom all over her fragile frame and he hisses when she still tries to get on her feet, fails and falls back facing the concrete with an agonizing mewl.
His hand touch her shoulder first and, although strange and cold, she doesn't flinch, not anymore, she can barely breathe, internally surprised that what she expected to be the final punch that would blow her out actually came out very much delicate.
Registering the friendly grip, her eyelids flutter open and she stares dead into his bloody image, pupils blown wide thanks to the seringe with probably some drug that would keep her meek like a puppy.
"You need a doctor", he warns. To her, it sounds like he's under water, she could feel the thin line of red hot blood running down her ears and into her hairline.
"No... No hospitals...", she managed to mouth it silently. It ache too much, her jaw and throat, she felt like her teeth would just fall off her mouth if she tried to speak again.
Before she could process, the agonizing pain in her stomach remembered her of those men's words. They said you would come, they did, she thinks to herself. This was definately the soldat they were talking about while breaking trough her. Yes, they did said he was coming and although there was zero description of his features, she knew it was the man whose gentle hands were scooping her up now, tightly pressing her against his firm chest.
Everything twinged, burning muscles as she writted under him, trying to make him let her fall back to the ground. She couldn't scream at him to run away before they came back, she couldn't even stand alone. She didn't want them to hurt him like they did to her, her broken ribs were enough for the night. Her body was dying from exhaustion, she could feel the numbness beginning to take over her every cell, slowly, dreadfully seeping into her brain. She was tired, so tired of fighting with this man's warmth, so she gave in.
When her eyes darted open back to consciousness, she felt dizzy and heavy on that worned out matress. Her favorite trench-coat had been discarded to the floor next to the door, so had her pair of oxfords. The room was poor in decoration and furniture, lacking that hint of a homey place, walls with huge such stains of infiltration she could feel the humidity in her cheeks, but the thick blankets covering her lower half had a faint flowery scent and she caught herself smiling to it.
Steps could be heard outside the bedroom she was in, careful, almost as if the person on the other side was tiptoeing not to bother her slumber. She kicked the blankets over, the best way possible without yaking her own leg off, and drank in the sight of her ragged form. Besides looking, smeling and feeling disgusting, the person had ripped off the rest of the thin fabric that covered her sore legs, where once was only open wounds and dirt, now rested pure white, clean bandages. Purple bruises tinted over her muscles like galaxies but there was nothing sexy or poetic about them resting there, nor in her fractured collarbones or her tired members.
In her head lingered only fear and pain, flashes of the bad things those men did to her, the touches and the violent hunger, their vile laughter after abusing her and leaving her there to die in the street. She felt the same panic, the same terror that coursed trough her veins like lava when they pushed her into that alley by the hair — her hand rose from her lap and ventured on her scalp, where the ghosts of harsh male fingers had gripped, she quivered intensely —, their rough russian words spat at her with every single hit would haunt her for weeks.
Russian words... Her brain snapped again and she remembered clearly why she shouldn't be there, wherever she was, and that someone was in danger.
Rolling out of the bed, she crumbled over trying to reach the door with still so sheaky steps and knocked everything out of her way with loud thumps in the process. The gentle-handed as she so called him was there in no time, bursting the door open to find her supporting herself on the fragile shelves with little to no books, his wide eyes on her trying to walk after loosing so much blood are shocked and he gulps, rushing over. The plate of eggs long forgotten, crashed on the cheap carpet. She motions him to stop.
"You need to go", she forces out, voice coming out awfully hoarse. Her dramatic self hating how weak and not at all romantic it sounded.
"You must!" She then collapses on the floor, stitches she didn't knew that were under her shirt ripping over from the sudden movements and blood gushing out from it, running down her bare legs.
blakekathryn
gummygunk
gamechangershow
prguitarman
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
