Sneak Peak
As of yet unnamed Bucky Barnes x Reader
*open to suggestions and beta-reading offers*
Chapter One
The heavy glass door of the tattoo parlor chimes as you push it open. You flip the sign from Open to Close and lock the door before a man enters the front lobby to greet you. He’s covered in colorful images from the tips of his fingers to the full beard covering his jaw. His dark hair hangs in dreadlocks and he has huge gauge earrings in both ears.
“English?” you ask, feigning shyness.
“Little bit,” he says, smiling apologetically, his words stunted by a thick Eastern European accent.
“Perfect,” you mutter, telling him you know exactly what you want and that it won’t take long. He agrees and leads you back to a small but sterile room, the bright lights and antiseptic smell making your head spin slightly. You sit in a chair that strangely resembles something one would find in a dentist’s office and when he turns to ready the ink and needle, you silently reach into your pocket, your hand sliding around the cold metal weapon and you gently thumb off the safety.
“What you want?” he asks in broken English.
Smiling at him, you unbutton your jeans and slide the zipper down as a slow, excited smile creeps across the tattoo artist’s face. As you lower your pants further, his eyes grow wider, but it isn’t at the sight of your black panties or shapely legs. It’s at the lines and lines of meticulous hand writing, all done with a blue ballpoint pen, covering the entire front of both your thighs. As he leans in to inspect it closer, you remove the gun and hold the barrel against his temple. His head snaps up, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. You narrow your gaze at him and whisper.
“Ink it. All of it. Fast.”
Your eyes are watering as you hurry from the tattoo parlor, searing pain stinging the soft skin of your thighs as the material from your jeans rub against the skin. You subconsciously tug the sleeves of your shirt down lower over your wrists while ducking your head. As soon as the man had finished his work, a sharp blow from the pistol butt to the base of his skull had rendered him unconscious and you’d helped yourself to the credit cards and money in his wallet as well as the cash register. It was enough to get you out of Eastern Europe to the safe house in London. From there, a few phone calls and a bogus passport were all that stood between you and home.
Your train departs Bucharest in the morning so you hole up in a tiny flea bag hotel not far from the station. It’s 1970s chic turned shabby, the faded decor all dull oranges, browns and yellows. You let the bag fall from your shoulder onto the bed where it spills its contents onto the scratchy bedspread. You fish around for the tube of antibacterial cream you’d swiped from the tattoo place and take it with you into the bathroom.
The main light source in the depressing washroom is a single bulb with a pull chain suspended from the ceiling. A swift pull on the chain casts you in a warm yellow glow. You grimace as you catch your reflection in the mirror, noting the veins of gold paint flecking the surface in full throwback glory.
Setting the ointment on the dingy counter top, you remove your shirt and you can see every rib jutting out. The past few months have been long, hard and exhausting and the toll it’s taken on your body is visible. Slowly and very gently, you peel off your jeans. The words are embossed on your skin, angry, red and bleeding in a few places. You know from experience that they will flatten out in a day or so and the sting will likely be gone by morning. You gently clean the surface with a surprisingly white face cloth before rubbing the soothing cream over the surface of legs. You crawl into the hard bed, the sheets worn and threadbare but mercilessly softer than the scratchy, polyester quilt. You raise your hand to your rib cage, your fingers slowly gliding along the skin until the reach the raise edge of a scar. Closing your eyes, you trace the words you’d carved there months ago, when you realized they could make you forget, the familiar curves of the letters and the bumps of puckered skin somehow calming you now.
Bucky Barnes
It’s his name you hear on a quiet loop in your mind as you fall asleep
