Sebastian Stan/Bucky Barnes Smut

When He Has A Breakdown || b.b.

As I hold him close to me, I can feel it, the oncoming storm that brews inside his battle-bruised body. This moment which we lay in, was the calm before the chaos.

Red-stained fingertips. Within my grasp, I hold a whisper of a life source. An injured soldier beneath my quaking touch.

He tells me he is dead inside and yet fraught with emotions of a dark nature. My dear, deluded paradox. He once thought the world a dream but now like me, he has discovered the living nightmare in which we dwell, thrive and die.

The rubble of trust a tiresome weight. The truth, too much for such young shoulders. He will soon buckle under the weight. I in my absolute horror, will spectate. My own Shakespearean tragedy, unfolding before my very eyes, as the hero of this play, sings his final swan song. The curtain to inevitably fall upon the greying corpse of romance.

Soon his chest would crack open and bursting forthwith will be his complete undoing. The fragile mental thread will snap and gone my lover will descend into a despair where he can no longer be reached.

Inconsolable to my loss, I'll weep for him as he, for his lost innocence. A knife of betrayal has set it's scars into the very fabric of his internal being. Wounds unhealing to my hushed declarations of undying adoration. Unnoticing in the ignorance to my chastened kisses to whimpering lips and furrowed brows.

Tear drops fall, the heavy downpour to accompany the turbulant skies of a broken mind.

I cup his sweetheart face in my hands, his eyes imlpore me to save his soul but I cannot right the wrong of another. I can merely console his shattered perspective. I can only tape so many gaping traumatism together before the blood begins to pour through the cracks. Before the mirror of reality is distorted forever and he becomes jaded like I, one who is no stranger to the darkness.

Once I used to navigate the seven circles of Dante's inferno but now, I roam the world surrounded by a star-studded sky. Freed by my now fallen knight. Dragged from hell, raised from my personal purgatory.

I wish to save him but fate knows no bounds, no mortal limits. I cannot manipulate the numbers, his characters are set.

Open Pandora's box, allow me to reside within. The world is too cold without his warmth. Not a place I wish to inhabit. Hide me away until the midwinter of his souls has thawed and I can once more be of use.

Perhaps I cannot halt the hurt but be the one post-disaster, who picks up the remnants of a torn heart and sews together the sinews of muscle. Entwines the veins with sweet sedums. I shall play Frankenstien and rebuild my monster and as one, maybe we'll fight the the world and it's pitchforks.

Perhaps I've not lost him forever but only for a short while? I can only assign my highest hopes. So now, I shall murmur my farewells and gaze upon that cherabim face and pray to the seraphim for guidance.

I'll fall at the feet of the blessed virgin and beg for his healing, beg her to repair my lover. I'll sell my sins to the shaman, in return for a solution or two, to the problems of a vacant man, so that he may be whole once more.

Wrap myself in purple rags. Play the part of a faux monarch, who's kingdom does not lay in ruins at their feet. Who's majesty remains resigned to his cerebral chambers.

I tell him I love him but already he has faded away. The beginning of the end has begun. From the ashes, I shall have to wait with bated breath, to wait to observe his rebirth. A phoenix from the ashes.