Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is the youngest Senator in New York. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, he’s down to earth, and is deeply in love with his wife; Y/N Barnes. His dreams consist of having kids, helping find a cure for cancer and AIDS in his lifetime, and one day, sitting at a desk in the Oval Office. It’s good to go after your dreams, right? Not if you’ve got one hell of a secret. Word Count: 907 Warnings: Language, heavy angst, explicit sexual content, explicit descriptions of blood and gore, not for the light-hearted. Author’s Note: GIF Credit [X]
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Blood. It had a tendency to get into the nooks and crannies; under his nails and cuticles, deep into the wrinkles of his knuckles. There was one time he even got some behind his ear; one lone drop of the crimson liquid. Despite all of the annoyances, he loved the way it felt on his skin; all slick and warm, like a bubble bath.
His fascination for it started at a young age, younger than most sociopaths in society; he was just four years old when he found out just how much pressure to apply to watch the family’s cat’s eyes burst out of its head. His mother had fainted, his brother had cried, and his father had screamed at him until he was red in the face.
Red. The color of blood. A color he was now completely enamored with. It was a color that he wanted to dive into head first. He wanted to take it apart, break it down to the last molecule to truly understand his newfound fascination.
Blood. It was spilling out of the gash in the orderly’s neck like a river that had broken the dam. Nothing could stop it, not even the hand that was clamped to the wound; the blood just rushed through the man’s fingers. His mouth was open, ragged gasps of protests coming out in the form of bloodied bubbles where they popped on the edge of his chapped lips.
The orderly tried to go back the way he had came, but his patient had already closed the door and was standing guard, a murderous gleam in his eyes and a paring knife gripped in his hand. How he had gotten it, the orderly didn’t know. All objects such as that were kept under lock and key, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year.
“P… ple… please,” the orderly rasped as he fell to his knees.
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