
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12225528.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Captain_America_-_All_Media_Types, The
      Avengers_(Marvel)_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, Bruce_Banner/Tony_Stark
  Character:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Steve_Rogers, Brock_Rumlow, Tony_Stark, Bruce
      Banner, Sam_Wilson_(Marvel)
  Additional Tags:
      Stalking, Hurt_Bucky_Barnes, Possessive_Steve_Rogers, Murder, Serial
      Killer_Steve_Rogers, Alternate_Universe_-_No_Powers, Underage_Rape/Non-
      con, Bucky_Barnes_Feels, Bottom_Bucky_Barnes, sadist_steve_rogers, Stucky
      Scary_Bang_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-20 Chapters: 1/5 Words: 1236
****** Oh, How They Haunt Us ******
by JennaMoon
Summary
     Prompt 71: Steve is a serial killer who stalks high schoolers and
     then murders them. Bucky is his new prey but something goes wrong
     because instead of wanting to kill him, he becomes obsessed and wants
     him all to himself. (it'd be cool if Bucky was dating someone, and
     Steve had to kill them to get Bucky) (also, age difference is
     welcomed, obvs, Steve is very fucked up here)
      
      
      
     I hope somebody enjoys this.
Notes
     Warning: Bucky is fifteen. He doesn't want what happens to him; Steve
     is unfortunately a little warped.
     I hope the prompter likes this. I had a blast writing it!
‘I don’t want to set the world on fire~’
It was late. 11 PM, perhaps? Just gone past 11 PM. 11:06 PM. Later than usual,
but that last one had put up a fight. He could remember those doe eyes, the
fear slowly draining with every twist of the blade. Poor doe. At least it would
be put to use. Strong hand pat it comfortingly.
The low hum of the power  generator seemed to match up with the swirls of song
that danced through the hollow air. It was a cold evening, rain splatting
tirelessly against the window panes. Thunder crashed in a chorus of sound,
lighting up the dim shack. The panes rattled, glass threatened to smash out of
the confines of the wooden panels.
The radio, perched on a broken stool, faltered slightly. Fuzz mixing in with
the piano keys. Wrong. It was wrong!
A hand, dripping wet with something sweet and ruby, punched the radio. High
pitched whines left it as the machine fell to the floor. It had curled into
itself, a mess of black plastic and silver metal. The same hand was bought up
to a mouth, framed with slight stubble and a handsomely set jaw. A tongue, pink
and moist, darted out between two chapped lips and took a long, leisurely lick
of the red droplets, teasing the organ with it’s sinfully copper taste.
The doe was already coming to such use! After a few more tastes, each one
becoming more addictive, the tongue stopped, retreating back into the mouth.
That was enough for now. He had work to do.
Washing the remains of the blood and viscus (what a waste. Terrible, terrible
waste.), the hands became clean once more. A few light hairs had been dyed red,
but that could be sorted later. The radio crunched under heavy boots, plastic
snapping and hiding under the wooden counters. An irritated sigh.
It was much more soothing to work with music.
The lips let out an experimental whistle, the sound oozing into the air like
the sound of wind being pushed away in favour of a child swinging into the new
space. The short bursts of air that were released into the air sounded light,
smooth. Not quite in tine but for a mouth that didn’t usually make those
noises... it was good. Easy to follow.
Hands, bare, reach into the smooth, straight incision that had been cut into
the poor dead beast. Field dressing was always sticky, bloody and... intimate.
The bloodied mess that fell out of the slice that ran from lower stomach to
sternum was pooling around a pair of thick, plastic protected hiking boots. The
collar of the boots protruded outwards, as if to see that the coast was clear.
They were stained with blood as payment for their curiosity.
Pink tongue runs along the lower lip, beads of sweat fall down a creased,
focused forehead.
The heart is thick and fills the bloodied hand. It squeezes, as if the action
would somehow make the organ beat again. What would it feel like? The heart
pumping as the hand held it tightly, the muscle straining at foreign pressure.
What would it be like, also... what would it be like to break into the heart,
viscera running down fingers. The heart was huge, strong, overflowing between
the stained fingers.
Buzzzzz.
The fingers retreat, as if burnt. Phone. Phone...
 Swearing; picking the phone up; Sam; Letting it go to voicemail; dropping the
phone down; swearing once more.
Feet tap nervously. Away?
Away from the doe.
A leaking sink, lime scale creeping out of the faucet like a sickly blue worm
trying to burrow it’s way out of a pile of compost, sat in the corner of the
room. Water fell out of it and swam down a broken plug hole, becoming a deep
pink colour in the process. The hands sighed in relief; no longer stained. The
nails were scrubbed clean, no traces of gut or muscle left hidden between the
follicles and skin.
Clean.
Clean, oh so clean.
Hands take off the plastic wrapping. Swearing once again. Stained. “Hav’ to be
thrown away..” A voice grumbles, annoyed and regretful. Not careful enough.
Stained and ruined. Sam would ask questions.
Light flickers. Still raining, rattling and leaking. No matter. It can always
be fixed. Wood and nails, nails and wood; fitting together and fixing, making
it right. Stairs creak, down, down, down. The pretty pet whimpers as the light
finally settles, humming yellow light into the dusty room.
There he is. Pretty pet, crying so beautifully. Tongue wants to lick. Lick it
better. Lips smile, friendly, a happy smile. “It’s been a week.”
Fear. Gagged letters croak ‘they’ll find me’. Lips let out a hearty laugh.
“Find you? You’re safe here...” Hands undo the bit gag, letting it fall onto
the floor. They trace the sore, bruised mouth, wanting to make it better. This
boy is the one. He is sure of it. Thumb dips between the bruised lips of the
pretty pet, searching. Good pet. Pretty young pet. They were always better,
being young and pretty and easy to mould. They lasted longer.
This boy was going to be the one, there was-
Sharp teeth bite hard into thumb, breaking skin and causing red, again red,
always red, to escape and burn as it travelled down, down onto hand. Eyes stare
for a moment. Small breath. Fucking bitch...!
A yell and punch. More red, pretty eyes dull, short scream and nothing.
Punch.
Crunch...
Punch.
Wheeze... crunch...
Not the one...!
Punch!
There’s a final, resolute crunch and blood and pretty pet isn’t prettyanymore.
Yell in pain, anger. Fucking stupid ass...
He wasn’t the one. Fourth pet, no good. He was going to find the one. But now
there was another carcass to take care of. So soon. A week. One damn week and
pet had failed him already. Don’t hurt master, that’s all the dumb creature had
to remember.
Eyes allows number four to be drank wholly. Blood, split, fat lip, bone
flattened in the nose, left cheek bone turned to dust. Lump on the head. Brain
slushed. Silly, pretty pet.
Buzzzzz
He answers this time.
“Hey man, wanna grab a few?” Lips smile. Sam made things seem better.
“Not tonight, I’m finishing up some-“
“Business. I got it. You work too hard, Rogers. And you know what they say
about working hard...”
“Work hard, play hard... yeah. Tomorrow? I’ll buy the first round, alright?”
“Sweet. See you at seven tomorrow.”
Silence. Sam was a good friend. Sometimes, lips itched to tell Sam. The truth.
But, they would stop and squeeze together into a tight line. Sam wouldn’t
understand, not really. He’d tell ear that help was needed. That hands had to
stop, lick no more, gaze no more. No more pets.
He needed the perfect pet. Pretty and pliable, wouldn’t anger him.
The rain is heavy and thick, wetting hair and skin and clothes. But car is
warm, dark leather welcoming the hefty weight as it sank into the driver’s
seat. Dashboard comes to life, screen telling eyes that track four was playing.
Zero miles an hour, enough gas to drive home.
Music entered ears, drifting up, up, up and dancing in the warmed up air.
‘Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step
you take, I’ll be watching you’
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