#all photos are stolen from here there and everywhere- if any is yours and you want credit let me know!
Text
#happy birthday louis <3#louis tomlinson#louis tomlinson gifs#louis gifs#louis edit#I made this#mindofwalls#louisprojectstracks#louisupdates#louistomlinsoncouk#birthday edit#24dol22#24dol#happy 31st to this cutie#glad to have been a teeny tiny part of his 30th year#and all the happiness and success that it brought him#hoping and wishing for only bigger and better for him always#loml#all gifs are from my own videos#all photos are stolen from here there and everywhere- if any is yours and you want credit let me know!#show of hands#about who’s surprised which Louis I used for the edits <3 I’m never moving on actually#the flirty one turns 31#ltwt22: istanbul#louis birthday edit#my Louis#fav#fave
269 notes
·
View notes
Text
*ೃ࿐TO FAULT A NET
[ ACT V: HE IS WHAT HE HIDES ]
spider-man! ethan landry x black cat! reader
#SYNOPSIS— ethan takes a photo of mindy in an ambulance, chad's screaming about webs being shot, and ethan thinks the ambulance blanket is cold.
#CONTAINS— enemies to lovers, slowburn, antihero&vigilante reader, familial issues, implication of ptsd, gore!!, blood, murder, death, reader is overly flirtatious
#AUTHORSNOTE— thank you so much for following this series so closely <3 this isn't the end yet, there's still an epilogue xx
ACT I, ACT II, ACT III, ACT IV, ACT V, EPILOGUE
you had learned from your years in the criminal world that to underestimate someone driven by revenge was a mistake.
you had seen countless people go to unimaginable lengths just to seek the satisfaction of victory. of finally having the upper hand over the one person they believed caused them so much turmoil. you had heard men and woman alike compare it to hero's work. and you understood them sometimes, but not when their victims didn't deserve it. not when their victims had more of a right to seek them out.
which was why, as you stood uncomfortably with chad, danny, tara, and sam, listening to tara and chad bicker with danny about how he pulled them on and split mindy and ethan up from them, your eyes were set on every person around you. everyone was dressed in costumes, as it was finally halloween day. but that meant that more people were wearing stab masks everywhere around you.
"i don't understand why we couldn't have just taken my car," you muttered, eyes set on every person wearing a stab made. beside you, tara sighed.
"too many of us. besides, roads are packed right now because of halloween." tara shifted uncomfortably next to you and chad, moving away from the strangers around her. "do you think they'll be okay?" she asked you.
"who, mindy and ethan?" you asked, trying to be nonchalant, as though you hadn't completely broken ethan's heart and your own yesterday.
you kept reminding yourself that it was for the best. but you still felt that ache in your chest just at the mention of his name.
you still had a deal to finish. after everything, it'd be over.
"they'll be okay as long as they stick together," you murmured to tara, making her nod worriedly.
"right. as long as they stick together."
the lights flickered on the subway, making you freeze and hover your hand over your side. you had brought your gun (which you had stolen, of course) with you and a knife. two things that would be incredibly incriminating if any of the group were to see you with it, but you couldn't just go into the plan empty handed. you were taught better than that.
besides, how do you think you survived this long? by following the rules and not bringing a gun around with you during your heists?
the lights flickered on again, making you and the group relax slightly. holding tightly onto the pole of the subway, your body swinging with every movement, you could only hope that you wouldn't have to use the gun too much.
you had killed before. you were willing to kill again.
halloween night was in full swing, full of traffic and busy streets. the ground was slightly damp from the unexpected rain that happened through the day, but the clouds had cleared up to reveal a starless sky. kirby led you and the others to the theatre yet again, urgently pushing all of you in and using her card to open the gate.
"i cleared the place before you all got here." the gate slammed behind kirby as she turned to all of you (except for danny, who sam had told to not join). "so this is the only way in or out. he steps in through the first door, both doors lock automatically, trapping him inside." a triumphant smirk appeared on her face. "we turn it into a kill box."
"weapons?" sam asked with her arms crossed over her chest.
"one gun, and i hold onto it," kirby said. you and sam sent her a disapproving look, and she rolled her eyes. "i'm the only one with a badge here, and that's the way it's gonna be."
if only she knew about the gun on your side. and the knife on your other side. her blissful obliviousness made you bite back a laugh. if only they knew.
"we're safe here," kirby said reassuringly, her words making you narrow your eyes out of doubt.
"i'm gonna check in with mindy. see if they're close," sam said, walking away with tara and chad trailing near her. kirby's eyes were set on you, her obvious suspicion making you raise a brow.
"what?"
"you don't like the plan?" kirby asked you with a tilt of her head.
you shook your head confidently. "no. it all seems too easy—" your phone buzzed in your hand, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes when you saw an unknown caller calling. "hello?" you asked as you held the phone to your ear.
"y/n?" ethan's panicked voice made your eyes widen, your heart dropping. "mindy's at the er— the killer stabbed her in the hand. like right through. i'm outside, can you let me in?"
you glanced at kirby, who gave you a warning look. she didn't trust him— rightfully so, from her perspective —but you nodded to the gate.
"open the door and stay here. let us both in." you told the agent, trying not to let your obvious distrust for her (you had been running from policemen for years, and she was fbi) show on your face.
the gates creaked open as you walked down the steps of the gate, unlocking and opening the door for ethan. he looked more disheveled than usual, his eyes clouded over with worry, stress, and what seemed to be hurt when he saw you. "thanks," he breathed, and you nodded, making your way back up the stairs and through the gate kirby held open for you.
"where's mindy?" kirby asked him, and ethan pulled out his phone, showing mindy on a stretcher, ready to go into the ambulance. she was flipping off the camera witt her non injured hand (typical, and you smiled a bit at the sight) but she was okay. an unreadable expression befell kirby's face, but she nodded with a sigh. "fine. you two stay here.. i'm gonna clear the area upstairs one more time."
you nodded stiffly, already tensing up just by being around the brunette next to you. but you had to work with him, you knew that. you told him yourself. coughing awkwardly, you moved away from him, walking to look around. "are your web things with you, or.."
ethan avoided your gaze, nodding his head once as he looked around the area around you. "i'll use it only if i really need to," he mumbled.
the lights were working, but old, making them flicker and fade ever so slightly. the smell of asbestos and old wood filled ethan's nose, and with every flicker of light, he could feel himself tensing up more and more. ethan found himself staying around you as a result, as though he was seeking the comfort of your presence. and you let him— because you were seeking the comfort of his presence too. "i'm guessing you have your stuff, too?"
"couldn't bring my gloves without being horribly obvious," you muttered in response. letting out a sigh, you leaned against the door. your mind had been on edge ever since you willingly entered the theatre, the possibility of something happening out of nowhere weighing heavy on your mind. sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling, you could feel his brown eyes finally look at you. picking up on all the details. all his observations.
"i'll let you know when something is happening because of the.. uh.."
"spider tingle?"
"i like to use the word sense, but sure." ethan swallowed thickly. he sighed, the exhaustion getting to him. he pinched his nose bridge. “i was able to stop the killer from doing more to mindy.. they still injured her regardless.”
you were silent for a few seconds, weighing your options and responses in your head. “i told you that you’re stupid if you blame yourself for stuff like that.”
"i know."
"don't blame yourself for something that you couldn't avoid from happening."
and before he could respond, the lights went out. "y/n?"panic settled into his bones as ethan immediately walked to where you were standing, his chest accidentally bumping into you.
"i'm fine—" the sound of a whirring overhead and what sounded like cheesy movie music began to echo from the theatre nearby, making you and ethan walk towards it, your hand hovering over your knife. ethan walked in front of you before pushing the black curtain out of your way.
you made eye contact with sam, who looked just as confused as you did as the three of you stared at the movie play out. it was a stab remake— a poor one, you noted —that looked like every other stab homemade remake on the internet.
but your focus on the movie made you fail to notice ethan's frown as he stared at it. he had seen it before, but where?
"we have to get out of here—" sam said you as you led them towards one of the exits, heart jumping into your chest when you came face to face with tara and chad.
"go back, go back now!" ethan yelled, senses going haywire as he grabbed tara and chad, pulling them through the door. he shut the door behind him, turning his back on it as you and the others rushed to the middle of the theatre, looking around you frantically.
"it's kirby! kirby is the killer—" sam rushed out, making chad groan.
"yeah, no shit!"
"the entire theatre is a kill box for us," you breathed, searching all around you for any kind of exit. ethan looked at the balcony view, eyes widening when he saw the exit doors flashing up ahead.
"up there! maybe it leads to the roof?" he sent you a look, and you nodded. you both had to get them out of here. and you were both willing to put your own lives at stake for that.
"let's go, let's go—"
ethan lunged forward right as the killer jumped from behind the theatre, pushing tara aside. she only received a cut on her arm, but another swing gave ethan one too. he groaned at the slice his arm received, the deep cut making annoyance thrum through his veins.
sam dodged the killer's swing over her head, and chad ducked under before the killer could stab him. but before the killer could swing low and slice chad, you lunged at his side, tackling him to the ground. "go!" you yelled to the others, shoving yourself off the ground.
ethan grabbed the camera behind you, swinging it towards the killer before they could get back up. he shot them with webs, unable to stop himself from wanting to slow them down. even with the mask, you could see the genuine shock the killer had on their face as they made quin work of trying to get out.
"c'mon!" grabbing his hand, you ran to the back where the others were. ethan made you run ahead of him (much to your chagrin). if anyone was going to get hurt, it might as well be him.
ghostface was hot on your heels and it was much too cramped and small of a space for you to turn around and shoot them, especially since ethan was in the way. so you could only grab his hand in yours, dragging him behind you as you ran behind chad.
you ran into the snack bar, ethan throwing down the popcorn machine behind him. but ghostface prevailed; he lunged after chad, who dodged one of the killer's swings before they forced themselves onto him, pinning him against the wall. you, tara, and sam all forced the killer off of him, before the killer send a punch towards you that you narrowly ducked under to grab your knife at your side, stabbing them in the stomach, twisting it, and pulling it out.
"what the fuck—" sam's eyes widened in fear when she saw your weapon, realization dawning over her face. you hadn't said anything to kirby about being armed.
"you?" tara asked, horror ghosting over her face.
"no! not me— why would you come to this place and not be armed?" you yelled in exasperation, ethan moving quickly past you to tackle ghost face to the ground, his advanced strength making him over power him easily. ethan turned to you and the others, eyes frantic as he yelled, "go!"
your eyes widened in horror when you saw two other killers appear from the sides, their knives flashing. one jumped on top of him, but ethan had already sensed them, grabbing their arm and throwing them off of him. but then another came up to his side, shoving him to the ground, giving the other two time to stand up.
"ethan—" you screamed, already grabbing for your gun, but chad was already grabbing you.
"y/n, let's go!" chad yelled as tara and sam ran back into the theatre.
"i have to help him—" you protested, reaching for your gun and pulling it out, shooting at one of the ghost faces. it hit their shoulder, making them turn around eerily. their blood seeped into the black fabric of their cloak, but you knew that a single bullet wouldn't stop someone determined for revenge.
ethan shot a web at their feet, stopping them from walking further towards you, his eyes panicked when he saw two of them turn their attention to you and chad.
"did he just shoot a fucking web?!" chad screamed, his movements faltering and making you escape his arms, pointing your gun at one of the ghost faces and shooting repeatedly before shooting the other.
your face fell when you saw they barely winced. they were wearing bulletproof vests.
one of the killers was still focused on ethan, and with his mind solely on your protection, he failed to stop the knife from sinking into his side. you watched in horror as the killer twisted it, the wet sound of gushing blood making anger run through your body.
you watched as the light dimmed in his eyes, ethan's face paling as his eyes stayed on yours. the killer grabbed at his wrists, feeling the web shooters and tearing them off of his body and slamming them to the ground. the two killers who were webbed cut themselves free and advanced towards you.
"ethan—" you screamed, aiming your gun and trying to get a good shot, to no avail. one of the killers swiped at your stomach, making you narrowly dodge it. chad punched them before they could try more. but as your attention was on them, you failed to miss the quick swing the other killer made towards your arm, cutting deeply along the expanse of it and making you drop your gun.
immediately, you tried to go for it, injured arm desperately reaching for the gun as one of the ghost faces did the same. you kicked them in the stomach, grabbing your gun and hiding it as they tackled you. their knife was right in front of your face, threatening to stab you right in the eye. you could see the shine of the blade right in front of you as you screamed, using all your strength to get them off.
ethan shoved off the killer with his strength, ignoring the pain as he ran up to the killer on top of you, grabbing them and throwing them against the wall. chad kicked the ghost face he was taking care of in the stomach, his hand on the new stab wound on his side before running into the theatre. "let's go!"
"c'mon, c'mon, c'mon," ethan said, pushing you and chad into the theatre, slamming the door shut behind him. he felt your hand over his hand, applying more pressure to his stab wound, and he offered you a strained smile. "y/n, i'm gonna be okay."
you swallowed the worry that brewed in your throat, not giving him a response. blood seeped through your hand.
"dad! dad i fixed it, i swear i fixed it—" you sobbed, shaking your unconscious father. you could feel the blood that stained your hands, the warm liquid slowly turning cold.
ethan grabbed your hand, pulling it away from his stomach and squeezing it. his eyes immediately clouded over with worry when he saw the large gash that ran up your arm, the blood seeping from the deep cut like a faucet. it reached all the way up to your palm, making you hold your gun in your nondominant hand.
the three of you ran towards sam and tara, who were standing in the middle of the huge shrine. your back was to tara's as you held the gun up, watching as the ghostfaces came up all around you. it stank of the poignant smell of iron, the blood spilling out of all of you filling the air with its stench.
the sound of a gun ricocheting made you all duck. kirby, crazed with blood flowing from the side of her face, pointed the gun all around the theatre.
"you," you seethed, eyes narrowing as you began to raised your gun at her.
"it was you the entire time," sam breathed, making kirby shake her head quickly.
and as if it was all on cue, detective bailey walked into the theatre, his own gun pointed at kirby. he was practically vibrating in anger as he spat, "was it you? did you kill my daughter?"
"dad?" ethan asked in shock, face falling when he saw him. but something was wrong. something was horribly wrong, and he felt it more than he felt everything else. that pit in his stomach that foreshadowed what was coming.
"she killed her, ethan!" wayne snapped at his estranged son. "she killed our quinn!"
"jesus christ! whatever he's been saying to you, don't listen to him— he's probably the killer!" kirby hissed, making you look at detective bailey, your gun still pointed.
your eyes narrowed as it travelled down to the white webbing stuck on the side of his shoe. and right as kirby screamed that something was right behind him, you shot at his side. but it was too late; two shots already hit kirby, making her fall to the ground. and immediately, his gun was pointed to you. ethan immediately moved in front of you, his hand on his bleeding side.
looking down at the gunshot into the side of his torso, wayne grinned, pulling his shirt up to reveal his bullet proof vest. police grade— of course. "good job," wayne praised, a sadistic smirk appearing on his face. both the ghostfaces walked up next to him, their knives stained with your blood in their hands. "both of you."
"you?" tara asked, and wayne shrugged.
the cop rolled his eyes. "ah, 'course it's me. i honestly expected more from the two of you after what you did to us," wayne said with a growing smirk. "i'm sure ethan here can tell you all about it."
"what?" ethan felt everyone's eyes on him, realization on his face when he connected the dots. all the effort to get away from what is older brother did. all the effort me made to change his name, to move across the country, to leave his own family because despite how he grieved, ethan never forgave richie for what he did. all the lies his father said about wanting to escape from richie's crimes.
he lied to him.
"ethan, what is he talking about?" you asked ethan, expecting him to deny something. anything. to say that his father had just gone batshit, to say that his father was just trying to drag him into his killing game.
but ethan stayed silent, avoiding your eyes.
"ethan, what're they talking about?" chad asked again warily, backing away from his roommate, tara right behind him as he protected her.
"you didn't.." ethan breathed, and suddenly he felt like he was sitting alone at richie's funeral again, silently seething as his mother and father praised him for being such a wonderful man, for being such a wonderful son, even though they knew they were raising a future murderer. "you killed her? you killed quinn?" he asked, his voice breaking as he felt the bitter taste of pennies in his mouth.
"how 'bout you tell them your real last name, ethan?" wayne pushed further ignoring his words and pointing his gun at you aggressively. "about who you really are? tell everyone! including your fucking girlfriend here—"
"fuck you," you growled, and wayne's eyes shone bright in anger.
"you weren't part of the plan. you and that pathetic excuse of a son," wayne yelled, his gun pointing to ethan now. he was careless as he waved it around, obviously at the brink of sanity. and then, he broke into mirthless laughter, still pointing his gun towards whoever he pleased. "take off your masks."
the ghostface to his right tore off their mask, revealing a woman with dirty blond hair and an angled face. she was tall, around the same height of wayne, and her thin lips were in a sadistic smirk. her siren-like eyes stared daggers into tara and sam, and you would've crossed her off as some psychopath extra character if it weren't for the color of her eyes, which made your face fall; they were the same golden brown hue as ethan's.
"ethan," his mother crooned, voice dripping with disdain as she eyed her youngest child with contempt. "you've grown," she drawled, unimpressed eyes looking over him.
"mom," ethan breathed, his face paling. he could hear his blood roaring in his ears and his skin pricking with goosebumps as his senses went haywire. suddenly, he was hyperaware of every fiber of his clothing sticking to his skin, of how there was win rushing into the theatre from the exit doors on the roof, and how his mother was looking at him the same way she looked at weeds in her garden back home.
and to make matters worse, the other ghostface removed their mask too, revealing familiar red hair that made ethan's throat run dry and tears well in his eyes.
his sister always had eyes that he had been envious of; they were grey, like a constant storm that would brew over the ocean. he always thought they were so cool, much cooler than his brown ones, but when he looked into quinn's eyes, he saw no constant storm. he saw that sociopathic glint that richie always had when ethan did something that he hated. that glint that showed no remorse, no care, and no love.
"hey, roomies," quinn dragged out, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she stared at tara and sam as though they were her prey. and then, and then, she turned to ethan. and the way she looked at him.. it was as though he hadn't grieved for her the entire week. as though he didn't constantly blame himself for not doing more to save her, as though he wasn't the same boy she used to care for as a child.
quinn looked at him as though he was a parasite.
"quinn," ethan choked out, voice cracking as tears began to blur his vision. he wanted to bring himself to be happy, to hug his sister and scold her for ever making him go through that mental turmoil, but ethan didn't move. because he realized that quinn would easily make him go through it all again without a care in the world.
"hey, baby brother," quinn said in acknowledgement, grey eyes of steel sparking with fire as her smile turned into a grin. "nice to see you finally got some," she said, eyes flicking to you as she took a step forward.
"you better back up," you hissed, pointing your gun right at her and making quinn's face contort in anger.
"you're a fucking bitch," quinn sneered, pointing her knife at you. ethan grabbed your arm, moving his body to protect yours. quinn laughed. "of course ethan would get attached to a fucking liar just like he is."
"ethan, tell us the truth right now," sam said lowly, making you grip your gun tighter.
"yes, ethan," ethan's mother said, narrowing her eyes at her son in anger. "tell them the truth."
ethan's jaw clenched as he shook his head. "you know i was trying to get away—"
"say our last name, ethan!" wayne yelled, making ethan jump. never had he felt so much like a child again, crying as he was blamed for yet another one of richie's sadistic 'pranks' that borderlined torture.
and just like ethan did when he was a kid, he began to plead.
"dad, please—" ethan forced out through gritted teeth, only for wayne to laugh in disbelief.
"ethan kirsch." ethan's mother spat, as though the mere mention of his name on her lips brought poison to her tongue. "the name i gave him when he was born was ethan kirsch." she flashed a smile at sam, tara, and chad. "sound familiar?"
he couldn't breathe. the constant onslaught of reveals and the realization crashing over him made him unable to move. he was only vaguely aware of tara and sam's reactions as they finally connected the dots, of chad's loud questions as he desperately tried to get him to talk, and his family's demands for him to speak. it was all jumbled up for him as his breathing and heartbeat quickened.
and he could only feel you move in front of him as though you had the superpowers, not him. your gun was aimed at the three of them, shaky breaths escaping you as you put yourself between ethan and his family.
another person's history didn't dictate you own. you knew that first hand. and to hear sam and tara yell at ethan for lying, for being a traitor and for never uttering a word of his connection to richie, and to had chad stay quiet because he knew he saw ethan shoot a web moments before, that ethan was spider-man, and yet he stayed silent, only protecting tara behind him.
quinn and her mother began to walk around the theatre, slowly circling the four of you as they looked at you like wolves with their prey. quinn jumped forward, slashing tara's arm teasingly, a laugh escaping her lips as tara yelped in pain.
"i don't know what you believe," sam began, keeping an eye on ethan's mother as she circled them slowly. "but i didn't commit those murders in woodsboro—"
"they're not here for that, ethan said warily, sniffing harshly as he glared at his father. despite the sensory overload, his anger still shone through as clear as day. "they're here for richie."
wayne scowled at that, his eyes darting to ethan for a second before returning to sam again. "we know you didn't commit those murders in woodsboro— what, do you think this is based on some bullshit conspiracy theory? who do you think started all those rumors about you in the first place?”
quinn raised a knife-wielded hand towards sam, smiling triumphantly. you could hear wayne's sadistic laugh behind you. "do you know how easy it was to turn sam from the hero of woodsboro," she said with faux dreamy eyes, "into the villian? how easy it is to convince the world to believe the worst in people, rather than the best."
"and all the best lies boil down to one truth; that you, sam," wayne said, pointing a finger towards her, "are a killer."
"she was never the killer, dad," ethan scowled, pointing a finger to him, "you and mom raised one and did nothing! nothing, because you were just as fucking insane as he was!"
quinn jumped forward and tried to slash ethan's bicep, only for his other hand (which was supposed to keep pressure to his wound) grabbed her wrist. he kicked her back against the glass case, golden brown eyes now brass as he glared at her. "you don't get to talk about him like that!" quinn hissed. "you were just jealous of him. jealous because he was the son you never could be—"
"shut up."
your eyes met sam's, her eyes set on the gun you could barely wield due to your injured. wordlessly, you nodded, backing away from ethan until your back met sam's. your gun slowly lowered and you made a quick switch into her hand. your uninjured hand grabbed your knife and held it up.
"you can ask our parents now!" quinn yelled in disbelief, eyes crazed and dilated with adrenaline. "go on, ethan, ask them! 'was i never as good as richie?' i can tell you the answer now if you want—"
your fist collided with her face before she could say another word. the sickening crack of her nose made the pain in your body all the more bearable. your injured hand grabbed ethan's as sam shot at ethan's mom's leg, making her move away from you quickly.
you all tried to make your way to the ladders, the three of them immediately running after you and stopping you yet again.
"real great parenting job, by the way," tara said with a sneer, making quinn's eyes flare in anger over her bloody nose.
"shut your whore fucking mouth," quinn screamed, making sam shoot at her before she could step closer. the bullet grazed her ear, narrowly missing her head, and the redhead grinned at ethan's avoidance in looking at her. "what, can't handle a little blood?"
ethan only ignored her.
"did i overindulge in richie's love for these little movies? yeah," wayne sighed. "maybe! for me they're just a little dark. but.. " tears welled in his eyes, making yu grip the knife tighter in your hand as he stared at ethan. "richie really loved them. didn't he, ethan?"
"don't even talk to him," you snapped, making wayne grab your injured arm, his thumb burying into the gash inside of it. the feeling of his finger inside the fresh cut made you scream in pain, the sound echoing in ethan's mind and making him see red.
he shoved his dad hard, hard enough that he nearly stumbled and his back hit the edge of the stage. above his head, the sight of a young richie made ethan's blood rush louder in his ears, the sight of his oh-so-innocent looking older brother making him almost physically sick. and wayne only laughed a maniacal laugh at ethan's face.
"your girlfriend's fiesty!" wayne laughed. "richie would have loved her." he said, watching as your face contorted in anger.
"you better shut up," ethan growled, brows furrowing as his fists clenched at his father's words.
sam was practically shaking with anger, the gun pointed right at wayne as she forced out, "what happens next? what, after you're done with us, you'll just disappear?"
"no! i gotta hurry over to the hospital to make sure mindy and gale won'e pull through— which will be harder because my dear son decided to intervene with mindy's stabbing last minute — because everybody dies, sam!" he pointed the gun right at her, ignoring the gun she had in her hand. "everyone who had anything to do with the death of my son suffers and dies."
yells of encouragement from wayne's wife and his daughter echoed in theatre. "so now," wayne said lowly, "sam, put on the mask."
sam's eyes fell, as she sighed, the indifferent look on her face making tara look at her in disbelief at what she was doing. "he was.. so pathetic."
"maybe not the best time to say that, sam!" chad said, hands gripping a brick he had found earlier.
"what? no he wasn't." wayne said, gun aimed straight at sam's chest.
"yeah, your son," sam said, finally looking up at wayne with emotionless eyes. "he was a man baby who made his girlfriend do all the killing." her eyes darted at you, your head lowering slightly in understanding. "he was a limp dick little fuck who cried before i slit his throat."
"shut the fuck up!" quinn screamed, running towards sam before chad slammed the brick against her head. sam immediately shot at ethan's mom, who ducked under her shots and tried to lunge towards her, making her dodge it quickly, groaning when she felt a cut to her stomach.
using your uninjured nondominant hand, you threw the knife at wayne, making it lodge deep inside his side before ethan kicked the hilt, making it dig deeper. his scream of pain only fueled you as you and the others took advantage of his weakness and ran. tara began climbing up the ladder with sam and chad hot on her heels.
but you and ethan stayed behind.
"go with the others! we'll take care of this!" ethan yelled at them, tara's eyes widening when she looked down at the both of you.
"are you crazy?!" tara screamed frantically, climbing into the balcony and looking down at you. "come with us!" a shot towards her made her duck, chad immediately going to cover her with his arm.
"we have to go," chad urged her, pushing her towards the exit.
you turned away from them, swallowing thickly as you looked at where wayne stood, his gun pointed right at your head. you ducked under another bullet he shot, ethan grabbing your arm and pulling you behind him as you dodged his bullets.
"just like you to run away, ethan!" wayne yelled, knife still in his side as he watched you.
ethan's mom hummed in agreement, golden eyes shining with vengeance as she walked closer and closer to you. "changing your last name," a shot from wayne, "moving across the country," another shot, "ignoring your brother's death!" she stood in front of you and ethan, knife glinting in the dim light. her eyes met ethan's. "i'd rather you have died instead."
that sentence had been circulating in ethan's head much longer than he would admit. hearing her say it only confirmed his past thoughts, but that only made him angrier. with how she treated her, he could barely call her his mother.
ethan's jaw clenched as she lunged forward with her knife, narrowly missing his stomach. he grabbed her head with his hands and kneed her in the face, making her groan but prevail. she slashed at his leg, the pain making him only wince before he was slamming a punch into her face.
a shot that grazed your arm made your head snap towards where it came from. wayne's crazed smile made you immediately duck as another shot was sent towards you, and another, all making you farther and farther away from where ethan was. "oh, y/n," wayne srawled as you hid behind a glass case, eyes darted around as you tried to look for something to defend yourself with.
"you know, we did a search on you— there never was a y/n vaughn until around 10 years ago." wayne peeked behind a glass case, disappointment flashing over his face that quickly disappeared.
the mention of your change of last name made you swallow hard, ears listening to your surroundings behind richie's homemade movie still playing on the projector. "someone went to great lengths to change your name, you know. couldn't even find anything in the department," another peek, only to find nothing behind the case. he scowled at that, his patience wearing thin. "no mention of any parents. no guardians— just child protective—"
you jumped on wayne's back, grabbing the knife from his side and using it to dig it into his shoulder, his gun firing behind him wildly as he tried to get you off of him. but you were far too agile, for as soon as you stuck and twisted the blade, you were gone again, hiding behind some souvenir with the knife in your hand.
a beat followed your attack, the sound only being your rapid heartbeat as you tried to calm yourself. you were weaker now, especially because of your wound that seemed to continuously gush blood.
another beat. another pause.
and then you heard the rapid footsteps.
it made you turn around as ethan fought his mom, and as you turned around you came face to face with quinn mid air as she jumped at you. your duck was a second too late before you found yourself pinned to the floor. your head hit the concrete ground with a sickening crack, the power of it making you dizzy as quinn raised her knife to her throat, her hand holding your wrist with your knife.
"i knew there was something off about you ever since i caught ethan staring at you," quinn seethed, her bloodied mouth and nose dropping blood onto your face. "i also knew," she began to grin bloodily, showing her missing teeth from chad's punch with the brick, "that you were just some slut who wanted to fuck a superhero."
you groaned as her knife pressed deeper against your neck, hard enough to draw blood.
"i should've known little ethan was spider-man. it makes sense you know— he's always been too much of a coward to do shit on his own—"
"you and your family talk too fucking much." you raised your injured hand to your knife, quickly grabbing the hilt before you stabbed her lower abdomen, using the knife to push her off of you and for you to get on top of her. taking your knife out, you raised your knife and stabbed it into her again, listening to her gurgles as you stabbed her again. and again. and again.
but you underestimated her thirst for revenge. quinn's hand went up to stab you in the middle of your torso, twisting it back and forth with a horrible squelch squelch sound. the pain was unimaginable, radiating out everywhere as she forced you off of her. you wanted to get up. you needed to get up, but you had lost so much blood already. consciousness kept slipping out of your fingers as you laid there on the ground, blood seeping out of your mouth.
and yet again, you were alone. you only heard water in your ears, as though you were submerged under the ocean. you knew quinn's dead body was next to you, but she had already long succumbed to her wounds.
and you would've too. it felt as though you were 16 again, sobbing after killing the first two people you had ever killed in your life, desperately needing someone to come along and hold you and comfort you. but as you stared up at the abyss of the black ceiling, you found the abyss staring back at you.
you had no one then and you had no one now. you had pushed everyone closest to you away. you had put yourself here.
and to die alone was a scary thing. to die alone would be to dying just like your father, shot dead right at the edge of freedom, right before he could go home to his little girl.
until you heard him. his frantic voice calling for you, and suddenly, the waves disappeared, and all you heard was him.
and when he saw you, he could only feel panic. ethan had felt all of his family members' deaths as they happened. first his sister, then his mother, then his father, who sam had come back to take care of on her own.
he had no one before, but he truly had no one now. no one except for you. and to see you practically choking on your own blood on the ground, he was frantic because he couldn't lose you.
ethan was too stubborn and too selfish to lose you. maybe he was more like you than he thought.
he rushed to you, lip quivering when he saw the state you were in. "hey— hey—" ethan's hand came to hold yours as he put your head on his lap.
tears pricked his eyes as he looked down at your face, so beaten up and weary, but still looking up at him.
studying him like your favorite painting. taking in the color of his cheeks, the color of his eyes, the color of his lips— everything. and weakly, your hand went up to trace his face like you always wanted to, shaking hands remembering his every angle. his every curve.
"ethan—" you choked on your own blood, tears falling from your eyes as you stared up at him. his lip was cut and he had horrible bruises all over his face, but he was here. you weren't alone. not when he was here.
"i'm here," ethan said, tears dropping onto your face. he swallowed thickly as his senses went off again and his father's anguished scream echoed through the theatre. millions of nerves in his body practically electrified him at once. and there went his father.
"it's over. it's done. it's over, y/n."
but there was no witty remark. nothing but your eyes staring up at him and blinking slowly with every passing second. still staring, still studying, still remembering.
because once you closed your eyes, you'd never be able to see your favorite painting again.
sam walked up to the both of you, face falling when she saw you in ethan's arms. he was holding you so tight to him, your head almost limp as you struggled to stay ground. "the ambulance will be here any minute," she forced out, unable to look at the deep hole in your torso.
"hurry," ethan begged, looking back down at you. his eyes widened as your head began to fall back, his heart pounding out of his chest as he struggled to keep you with him for just a little longer. "stay with me, okay? i need you to—" he choked on his own tears. "i need you to stay with me."
"i'm sorry," you breathed, hand caressing ethan's cheek softly as he cried. you wanted to punch whoever was up there playing with your fate. you wanted to curse them out for making you die now, right when you realized that you would stay as long as ethan asked you to.
"don't say that, please," ethan pleaded, brushing tears from your eyes as he sniffled harshly. "you'll make it up to me. you'll make it up to me for treating me like such shit," he reveled in the weak laugh you let out, his own tearful laugh escaping him, "and we'll be okay. the deal won't matter and we'll be okay."
ethan's lip quivered as he stared at you, your eyes half lidded as you struggled to keep yourself with him. "you just need to stay with me. that's all i want— y/n?" ethan's face fell when your eyes shut and didn't open again. he could feel cold rush through his body as he shook you.
"y/n, c'mon." ethan shook you again, tears blurring his vision as he tried to get you to wake up. he wanted you to open your eyes and smile that genuine smile of yours and call him stupid for ever thinking you'd die just like that. he wanted you to kiss him and tell him that everything was okay and that you would be oaky, and he'd take you to museums and watch you stare at your favorite pieces of art and ramble to him just like he does to you. he wanted that.
but he received nothing of the sort. nothing but the warmth that was slowly disappearing from your body.
"no, no, no, no—" a broken scream left ethan's lips as he hugged you tighter to his chest, his back heaving with repeated sobs. "don't leave me. don't leave me, please don't leave me, y/n," he begged you, pleading with a dying body for something akin to a miracle. ethan was begging something— a person or a god, it didn't matter —to keep you with him. but whoever he was begging to was cruel, because he received nothing. and ethan could only cry as he continued to beg.
the blanket was cold. ironic for its purpose, but that's all ethan could think about as he sat in the ambulance.
his family was dead. he was the last one alive, and maybe he would've felt better about if it he didn't continuously replay the image of the knife he wielded going into his mother's throat. or the sound of her drowning in her own blood before ethan heard his sister do the same.
he blamed it on the heightened senses.
they were retrieving your body now. they had to practically force ethan out first so that his wounds could be dealt with.
his emt was more than mildly surprised when she saw how his blood vessels were steadily healing. she gave him a bandage that he had to stitch up at the hospital (much to his chagrin). but ethan hadn't uttered a word ever since everything happened. his vocabulary didn't seem to stretch past just a few nods, shakes of his head, and grunts. his empty eyes couldn't even look up from the ground.
tara and sam were both getting patched up already. he guessed chad was doing the same, until he felt someone sit next to him with a sigh.
chad didn't say anything. he just sat with him, and maybe ethan appreciated that more.
"spider-man, huh?"
nevermind.
ethan could only nod once. he couldn't even manage a whole spiel on how he got bitten, or how he didn't want chad flaunting that his roommate was new york's friendliest hero. but chad understood that, because he only nodded in response. "nice."
silence enveloped the both of them as they sat next to each other in the ambulance. kirby passed by them on a stretcher, barely hanging on to her life, followed by three body bags. ethan almost turned away just at the sight of them, but he forced himself to look with angry tears slipping down his face.
he wished it was anyone but them. that whoever was behind the mask wasn't the very people ethan was trying to get away from, because it was different to have them be across the country instead of dead in a body bag. he was so full of anger towards them. for being so encompassed with revenge and vengefulness that it led to their own demise, that they hated ethan so much that they were willing to kill all his friends and him, that they resulted in your death. your lifeless body on the ground with a gruesomely made hole in your torso.
but then he saw the last stretcher come out, and his throat ran dry. it was you, attached to an oxygen mask and barely hanging on, but it was you.
EPILOGUE
#AUTHOR'S NOTE— posting this right before finals week lol but i hope you guys enjoyed! remember, there's still an epilogue so look out for that
#TAGLIST— @ethanlvndry , @iloveneilperry , @starsfilm , @goosenoggin , @aminatic , @wenvierismycomfort , @l5byrinth , @wroetoslut , @briefwinnerpersonaturtle , @oliviapopewannabe , @wzrlds , @raggedyoldwitch , @hotweeb , @marsyay78 , @valenftcrush , @bonkyandsteeb3000 , @bubs-world , @danis-stuff-is-here , @nuhteyam , @ravenstrueluv , @taeversity , @heartipods , @gcidrvsh , @theapulidooo , @volturi-girl-imagines , @duolingofanaccount , @buorke , @grxcisxhy-wp , @strangerdangerwrites , @mrslandryy , @michaelangdonsslut , @netey6m
#scream 6 imagines#scream 6 smut#ethan landry smut#ethan landry x reader#ethan landry imagines#ethan landry imagine#ethan landry#ethan landry x you#ethan landry fluff#ethan landry x y/n#scream fanfic#scream 6 fanfic#ethan landry fanfiction#to fault a net—!#scream 6 imagine#scream vi imagine#scream vi smut#scream vi imagines
499 notes
·
View notes
Text
God damn it. I’m so sick and tired of people and how they’re reacting to AI. Just read that Clip Studio was going to implement tools around it in their latest update. And they backed out because of user complaints. Like. This. This was it. This was the whole fucking point and the promising future of AI and the software around it. Yeah, it’s in the works still. It’s still learning. But having better tools in fucking art software for artists to create more freely and better keep up with demand in the market and to fucking derive inspiration from by messing around with like, that was the whole fucking promising potential and it’s going to be shut the fuck down because people are moody fucking babies crying about every little thing before it even has a chance to get there. I hope Adobe finds a way to implement tools with similar capabilities and has the balls to tell people to suck it up because that shit would be fucking worth it. You’re all being ignorant hypocrites about how shit works in the first place. Honestly reading about this and then seeing the barrage of No AI banners being posted everywhere just fucking made me lose so much hope in humanity again.
EDIT: I posted this in 2022 and I want to make some hard clarifications here. This is referencing EXPLICABLY using AI IN SOFTWARE with tools. A thing that ISN’T new and is why I was saying people were being hypocritical about it, because AI is used with existing tools already and that is why THEY WORK. Photoshop is releasing a tool in beta right now known as Generative Fill and this is EXACTLY the type of thing I wanted implemented with this newer technology, where you are able to generate ref directly into the program for you TO USE AS REFERENCE and where you can expand the canvas of YOUR OWN WORKS if you wanted to and where you can make corrections and fill in gaps better than the already existing content-aware fill can, using your OWN works as the reference source and copyright-free trained AI. This post was disappointment directed specifically at Clip Studio’s userbase KEEPING clip studio’s software BEHIND Photoshop’s in terms of functionality and tool set because they don’t realize that AI MAKES YOUR TOOLS WORK BETTER and were over-reacting about the generators in general, like everyone else. Again, the generators had nothing to do with this post originally and isn’t the AI I was talking about. As far as AI art generators go, I wasn’t defending those and I wasn’t saying that the millions of artists and photographers getting shafted by having their shit getting stolen to train them without their consent, or any of that, was in the right. AI is a thing. It has been a thing for a very long time and it has a STRONG place AS A THING in software and in enabling tools offered by the software to function. Generators and the like, have only been a thing for a while now.
Personally, I still stand semi-neutral on them. I don’t see the point in faulting them or being mad at them or the people who made them for doing what they were made to do, just because corporations are greedy assholes or douche bags already exist that are going to abuse and exploit them and shit on others. In terms of something that was created to do a very specific thing on the tech-side of things, they achieved that purpose and they also helped advance understanding and new ways of machine-based learning. The fact they do exactly what they were designed to do, and do it WELL, is awesome. Even if their means of getting there, weren’t. And even if how people are using them, is shitty. People have ALWAYS been assholes and ruined good things though. The end result of their generations after going through the process of referencing, forgetting, and then remembering, so to speak, though trained on very obvious copyrighted sources, aren’t really doing anything any living artist doesn’t already do when making their own works, especially in the field of still life art or photo studies they would make and post that are obvious copies of other things that already exist. If it is a still-life or study it SHOULD be mentioned and ref SHOULD be given to the original though, and the fact that ref can’t be given to any of the creations that AI is coming up with, is kind of shit. WHY none of the copyright claims have had any real legal weight so far IS because its generations aren’t exact duplicates though and are things its created on its own as an amalgamation of different referenced sources. The same copyright laws that protect artists are protecting AI generations the same way because the results aren’t exact duplicates and the process isn’t that different. For the time being. On the other hand it’s obvious it’s the AI that is making it, and not the people posting AI “art” with a name attached claiming credit or claiming to be artists out of nowhere. And that is also being recognized at the moment and is also why “AI artists” can’t copyright any of their AI-made “art”. And earlier on why others were not able to copyright ideas or other things AI came up with. Because they’re NOT the ones making it. It’s the generators that were trained on how to make art and are producing the results based off of word prompts. Not the “artist/poster” typing in what they want the AI to make for them. Not being able to copyright things you didn’t make has always been a thing, and recognizing that the generators are the things making the art, basically the same way as typing something in a google search engine and getting image results back, and not the posters, is also a good step in the right direction at the moment, especially since it makes companies looking to replace artists with AI unable to copyright it as well. Hopefully something will be done eventually that doesn’t bone every real artist, writer, and musician who HAS dedicated their entire lives to learning and mastering their skill. Because making art, music and writing ARE ALL SKILLS, meaning they have rules you follow, techniques you do to get results, and that you can learn them and BE TAUGHT which is why AI can be taught to follow these rules as well by feeding it shit that does and recognizing the patterns to reproduce.)
I still don’t personally hate “AI art” and on the contrary I still find it fascinating and a great source of reference being a derivative culmination of realism and a lot of master artists’ works. It has produced better reference material than I have ever seen around my entire 20 years being an artist BECAUSE if was trained off of TRAINED ARTISTS and TRAINED photographers and the like. As for the “AI artists” I have no problem with the ones who say it’s AI and who say which branch is making it (Stable Diffusion, Midjourney, DALL-E, Nijijourney, et cetera) and are having fun with it either. But this post isn’t about that so I’m not getting into that. The fact that some of them DO use the digital art tag, which hurts real digital artists’ chances of being found and seen in an already over saturated market is problematic. And the fact that you can generate multiple pieces in the matter of seconds and spam upload, feeding into the type of algorithmic-driven favoritism every social media platform switched over to when people started over-abusing the tag system, also hurts real artists and points out a very broken system. But again, that’s more on those types of people making those choices, and not the software at fault for doing what it was made to do, or the people who made the software learning how to make it do what they made it to do really. And lastly just to reiterate again, none of this had anything to do with my original post, which was calling out the fact that CLIP STUDIO had to go back on a decision to add new tools and software equal to Photoshop because its userbase was overreacting. Which I still firmly believe shouldn’t have even happened. And which I still believe just continues to hold it back in comparison to ever catching up.
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
14: Nostalgia
a trip back to your small hometown leads to a long overdue reunion.
->explicit. contains discrimination, implied child abuse, murder, gore, blood drinking, terato.
.
.
.
It feels a bit like turning the pages of a singed photo album. A line of things frozen just as you left them, and then a scorch mark—a hole in the past. Someone has come and started little fires throughout your memory.
That’s the sweets shop where you’d press your grubby little fingers to the glass and watch Ms. Martz set out the day’s fresh cookies and fill up the candy jars, but the decor is different and there’s two teenage girls lounging at the register counter. The mattress place across from your old favorite coffee shop is gone, clipped out with hole punch precision. The empty building where it used to be has been stripped of all signage, nothing but dusty concrete and disembodied wooden beams for a storefront display. There’s the courthouse with its looming clocktower, the factory silos, the ice cream stand along the riverfront, closed for the season, and it’s all familiar, almost how you remember it, but not quite the same.
People act odd at first, everywhere you go. You’re branded an outsider, held at arm’s length until it slips out at some point: “I grew up here.” It’s the strangest sort of homecoming, like showing up late to a funeral. Everything is warmth and wistful sadness. You keep running into people you used to know and everyone has news for you, updates and gossip that make you feel even stranger. Dr. Hanson passed a few years and nobody likes the new guy because he’s curt and quiet and doesn’t bother getting to know anybody. That deathtrap of an old sawmill you used to climb around as a kid is padlocked shut now.
They found another body in Abbey Hill Park.
You hear about it from Mr. Simmons when you get behind him in line at the grocery store. He taught children’s soccer. He’s retired now, he says, in good shape except for a bad fall last winter while he was out shoveling snow. He mentions the body offhandedly, like something he forgot to pick up at the store. “This was five, six years ago,” he says. “It was just like the first one, if you remember it. You might not, you would’ve been real little at the time.”
You remember. You were little but it was inescapable. It was hiding everywhere, an ugly thing everybody tiptoed around with whispers and curfews and nervous glances. Mrs. Werther’s class didn’t have to come to school for a week, and they had a substitute teacher for the rest of the year. You heard that the sheriff’s son got ahold of the crime scene pictures and started passing around copies, so everyone knew Mrs. Werther was half-eaten by birds. They’d plucked out her eyes and stolen the tongue out of her gaping mouth and a few of them had torn into her soft belly and started eating everything inside. Small bones and bits of viscera turned up in bird’s nests all around the park for a while.
A freak accident. That’s what the official verdict was. There had been a construction project nearby, some unstable scaffolding and haphazardly piled debris. How a brick flung itself across the street, up the hill, and against Mrs. Werther’s skull remained a point of debate, as much as where it had gone afterwards. There wasn’t much to work with. No murder weapon, no fingerprints, no witnesses. Just a body in a flower field and a flock of opportunistic carrion eaters.
“That’s awful,” you say, the thoughtless, reflexive way a person does to any bad news.
“Sure was,” Mr. Simmons says. “Nobody’s calling it an accident this time, though. They caught the guy. People are saying he dumped the body there thinking it’d get pinned on somebody else.” He says the words “somebody else” with sharp disdain. “That whole mess keeps me up at night. Everyone knew. You ask your folks, I’m sure they’ll tell you the same. We didn't used to pussyfoot around just to keep the peace and look progressive. Things like that don’t belong here, but they went ahead and let it get away with murder—”
“He was just a fucking kid!”
Mr. Simmons’ jaw snaps shut. Everything gets quiet around you. People are staring. You fumble with your groceries and find a different line to stand in. Your face feels hot and your heart is pounding. It’s just another one of the things that hasn’t changed about this place.
You take a walk to clear your head. All of the houses in your old neighborhood are the same. There’s still a big bump in the concrete where a tree root snuck underneath the sidewalk. Someone new lives on the corner and that big, beautiful garden you remember has shriveled up and become overgrown with weeds. The elementary school is across the street and classes must be out because there’s a long line of cars creeping through the parking lot and kids rushing across the lawn. Your eyes are drawn through the mass of people to an unusually tall man standing off to the side, a child huddled beside him.
They look startlingly similar. Both tall, both with thin, gangly limbs and dark hair, both with shockingly bright, yellow eyes. You haven’t seen the man in years but it’s him, you know it is. His face is like the rest of town, changed in uncanny ways and yet exactly the same.
“Wes.” His name just slips out in a shocked whisper. You’re too far for him to hear you, a street and a parking lot away, but his head snaps up and those wide, piercing eyes find yours.
He stares. He smiles. Your feet are tripping over themselves and you’re crossing the street without even looking. “Wes!” you call. Your excited pace quickens when you notice his hand is bleeding.
He’s wearing a blue button-up and slacks, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “Been a while.”
“Your hand—” you stammer.
“It’s fine,” he says. It’s not. There are awful bites all over, deep cuts and lacerations around the joints. Blood trickles steadily between his fingers and into the grass. “Could you grab the bandages from my bag?” he asks, lifting his shoulder. “They’re in the biggest compartment, right there. I don’t want to get blood on everything.”
Just like when you were kids, he carries several boxes. Small adhesive dots, large, patterned ones with little cartoon animals, even some gauze and disinfectant crammed in beside books and folders. You see an elementary math textbook, a planner, a thin stack of printed handouts. “You’re a teacher?” you ask him. You mean to ask him, “You stayed?”
Wes gets it, though. He always does. “I thought about it a lot,” he says. You feel his gaze on you, that steady, intimidating focus. There’s fondness and gratitude in his eyes when you smooth a band-aid across his knuckles. “It would’ve been easier, in some ways. Getting a job somewhere else. But it occurred to me that I might be needed here. If there was ever another one.”
The kid half-hiding behind him hasn’t said a word since you walked up. Just like Wes, he sticks out like a sore thumb, a head above his classmates with bony hands and big, owlish eyes. He clutches the straps of a Spider Man backpack and chews his lip as he watches you. There’s still some blood smeared on his cheek. Wes rests his uninjured hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is a safe person,” he tells him, nodding towards you. “Kind. Friendly.”
You smile. The boy looks at his shoes. “...I’m Neely,” he mutters. “It’s…nice to…meet you.” He has the same high-pitched, hoarse voice Wes did as a kid, the same unusual cadence and long pauses as he struggles to find the right word. “Do you know…what I am?” he asks, whispering.
“Yes, I do,” you say.
He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe you. “Mr. Lynwood said that…that lots of people make…they make, uh…”
“Assumptions,” Wes says.
“That,” Neely says.
“I don’t,” you assure him. “I’ve known Wes—Mr. Lynnwood for a very long time. We both went to this school, in fact. We were in different classes, but we were best friends.”
Neely gets quiet. He digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt restlessly, his eyes flicking back and forth from you to Wes. A car honks and you see a man and a dog in the front seats of a minivan. There’s no family resemblance at all, but the man waves and Neely trots over with a, “Byeeeee, Mr. Lynwood!”
Wes waves with his good hand. He waits until Neely has climbed into the backseat and the car long gone before he tells you, “He’s had some trouble with teething.”
“Ah,” you say.
“It’s how he deals with his feelings. Mostly the bad ones. But the kids are good. They don’t pick on him. They understand he needs different things.”
The last bandage wraps around his thumb. Wes thanks you. You shrug it off. You don’t leave. The pattering footsteps and shouts of small children filter out and fade, the rush in the parking lot thinning out. “I have a lot of work to do,” Wes says.
Your heart throbs painfully. “Right, no, of course—”
“So come over.”
You think you do an admirable job of looking casual and not shocked or flustered, jamming your hands in your pockets. “Like, to catch up?” you ask.
Wes’ gaze moves from your eyes to a little lower, your lips or maybe your throat. He watches the muscles in your neck flutter when you swallow, nervous and excited. He licks his lips. You feel like a teenager again, crouched behind the riverfront ice cream stand on a chilly autumn day, your hands in Wes’ hair and his lips crushing yours, grinding on each other like you’ll die without this. “Sure,” he says. “To catch up.”
Wes lives in a small, cute house near Abbey Hill. The driveway is half-cement, half dirt. There are flowering shrubs and wild berries growing under the windows, a birdfeeder and stone fountain in the front yard. A child’s drawing of big, smiling seagulls—signed “Neely age 7” in a crude hand—is proudly displayed above a brick fireplace. He gives you a brief tour—living room, kitchen, bed and bathrooms, a home office in a cozy, furnished attic. That’s where you are when you both start dropping the facade, you poking through his collection of house plants and teaching theory books, him standing beside a reclaimed wood desk and running his fingers across the surface.
“Neely’s been the only one since me,” he tells you. “Seven years ago. His parents took it well. Better than mine.”
“They’re good to him?” you ask.
“They’re great. Had them at conferences. They ask lots of questions. They listen.” The floor creaks. You hear him shifting closer, coming up behind you. “They come over sometimes. It’s nice. Then it’s so quiet, after they leave.”
Your hand hovers over the spine of a psychology textbook. A wordy title, something about attachment theory and child neglect. “Are you lonely?” you ask him.
His hand slides up your arm to your shoulder, fingers caressing your jaw. “Are you?” he murmurs against your ear. “You came back.”
He urges you to lay your head back and bare your throat. You do, your eyes fluttering shut. Wes’ lips trail along the side of your neck, kissing you, blowing softly on damp, shivering skin. His hands are gentle and fleeting, restless like he’s afraid to leave some part of you untouched. They caress your sides and your chest, one wandering teasingly down to your stomach while the other cups your jaw. You want to turn around. You want to see him. He never lets you look. Wes moves his body in a slow, sensual grind against you and you whimper, eager for more.
“I thought about you,” you say softly.
He hums in acknowledgement, sucking at the throb of your pulse.
“I thought about—about her. That awful teacher you had. All those horrible things she did to you and nobody did anything.” It’s fucked up to bring her up, here and now, but you do. You can’t stop the words from spilling out. Wes slows his movements but he doesn’t stop, nipping at your skin as though chastising. “I think about it all the time. Did you know a psychologist came to our class? I think they talked to everyone, even if we’d never met her. I remember one time, Carrie—do you remember her? She started crying because there were a bunch of sparrows making a nest by the front doors. She thought they were going to eat her. Everyone was scared of birds.”
Wes chuckles, every puffing exhale warming your skin. He’s not upset, but he doesn’t want to talk. He’s just letting you ramble. It’s only fair. He finds a spot he likes, where he can feel your heart beating and every pass of his tongue makes you flinch and shiver, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Everyone but you,” he murmurs.
You laugh. Wes slips his hand into your pants and you buck your hips against his quick, talented fingers. He breaks away just briefly and you hear fabric shifting, his shirt hitting the floor. “I was lonely,” you admit. “I think about you a lot—”
Your words break into a moan when Wes seizes you, trapping you against him, and bites you on the neck. It hurts and it feels mind-numbingly good. You push your hips back into him desperately and he humors you, grinding against your ass. “Been thinking about you, too,” he murmurs, the words slurred and muffled against your skin.
“D-don’t talk while you’re—Wes!” The hand on your sex starts moving faster, his fingers working you into a shivering mess. He moans, tongue darting out to catch a bead of blood dribbling from the bite. He’s starting to get hard and rock his hips more insistently. You’re slammed up against the wall and you hear flesh tearing, his wings ripping through his back.
“Think about you all the time,” he moans. “Think about high school—making out by the river. The first time you let me drink from you. Wanted you to stay so bad. Wanted to get married…”
The admission slips out with a breathy whine and he’s dry humping you so hard you can feel the outline of his cock through both of your clothes. You want him inside you but he’s too fixated on your neck, licking and kissing the shape of his teeth in your skin and sucking every drop of blood that oozes to the surface. This is orgasm for him, the peak of his pleasure. Fed and comforted and holding you in his arms, he sinks to his knees and brings you gently down with him. His wings, feathers wet and clinging together, fold around you. He keeps kissing and licking you even after he’s finished, nipping the bite affectionately.
“Sorry, I…sorry,” he murmurs.
You hold yourself back for a second. You’re wired, worked up and needy for him, drowning in every memory of the time you’ve spent together, but that doesn’t matter, you think. It doesn’t make this feeling any less real. “I wanted that, too,” you say.
Wes’ cock twitches in his pants. “Can’t just say stuff like that—”
“I mean it,” you insist. “I only miss one thing about this place, and it’s you.”
His movements are shaky. His hands tremble as he shifts you around in his lap, allowing you to turn and face him. You look up at a face with a sickly, gray complexion and sharp features. A light speckling of feathers and slender quills poke out of his skin, clustered around his neck and shoulders. Wes’ enormous wings are folded, one draped against your back, the other curled behind him. His long legs are crooked, bent in the same strange ways as a bird with hooked talons instead of feet. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in full, not just a glimpse. He looks at you the same way he always has, his expression soft, his lips parted with just a flash of sharp teeth peeking through, fondness mingling with relief.
You look at him the same way you always have—with awe and affection.
The sex is rushed and clumsy, not much different than when you were younger. You’re both worked up and impatient, clawing at each other, bumping noses. Wes bounces you in his lap and then seems to get restless, sitting up with his cock still deep inside you and his arms around you, lifting you easily to pin against the wall. You wrap your legs around his waist and his thrusts are slower for a while, a little less frantic. He leaves small, affectionate pecks on your cheek and collarbones, nipping at the bite he left earlier.
“Not going to last,” he warns you. Sweet of him and totally unnecessary, because you’re so far gone after two orgasms and well on your way to a third. It doesn’t matter how hurried it is, how rough he gets with those sharp, taloned fingers sinking into your skin—it’s exactly what you wanted. There were lines he never let himself cross before. You never saw him, sweat-soaked gazing at you with those golden, lust-filled eyes, your name the only word on his tongue. It’s everything you wanted and more. He’s stronger than he should be with that fragile, willowy build, determined to keep you aloft as he fucks all the doubt and uncertainty out of you.
It’s a kiss that finally sends him over the edge. Your lips on his, your tongue pressing into his mouth, fingers tangled in his soft, feathery hair. He keens, hips stuttering, and your shoulders dig into the wall from the force of his last, desperate thrusts. The ache is satisfying. You sink to the floor together again, sharing breaths, panting softly. Wes kisses you again, sharp teeth digging into your lower lip. It reminds you of being younger, but it’s not the same. It’s better.
He makes dinner. You try to help but he pushes you out of the kitchen with his wings, blocking your view of the stove. You talk across rooms in short, disjointed thoughts, getting to know him all over again. There’s a stack of graded math assignments neatly arranged on a coffee table in front of a framed photo. It’s from high school. You’re in the woods, the old lumber mill in the background. Your smile is big and toothy. Wes is smiling, too, but he’s looking at you instead of the camera.
“How long are you gonna stay?” Wes calls from the kitchen.
“Dunno,” you say. “A little while, at least.” You pass Neely’s drawing, chuckling. You pause, crouching by the fireplace.
There’s one brick in there that’s a slightly different color from the others. You run your fingers over the bumpy, chipped texture and remember what it felt like against your palm.
43 notes
·
View notes
Text
Woe is mine and I am woe - Part 5
Wednesday x Enid
AO3 link to full work
End of the semester
My phone vibrates again, stupid thing, never stops going off.
I should probably thank Xavier, but I know he had other motives for the gift.
Also, it has given Enid a continuous and direct line of communication in which she never ceases to use. Daily texts, 3am TikTok’s, weekly facetimes, it’s agonizing.
We haven’t spoken on the night of the movie, but she never runs out of other topics to drone about. Besides a few stolen moments of glances and brushes of our hands she hasn’t said a word. I have begun to think I imagined the whole event.
The only thing keeping me aware that I haven’t gone insane is that I can remember the feel and taste of her lips pressed on mine, that and the hope that going insane would be more enjoyable than this existence of dull uncertainty.
More buzzing, this time not from Enid but that pesky unknown contact, too cowardly to admit themselves. It is interesting to have a stalker, a constant unseen eye following my every move. They keep me apprised to my own interactions by sending more photos of me to myself every few days.
At first it was intriguing but now I am beyond bored of this charade. Any attempt to get information from them has been met with silence. I have yet to tell anyone but thing, and he only discovered by snooping, I should have broken some fingers after that stunt, but he begged and having him in my debt works in my favor.
Enid has invited me to visit her in San Francisco for two weeks and I couldn’t resist the temptation and the chance to see what it is like to literally be raised by wolves.
Mother and Father’s excitement when I told them was disgusting enough to nearly change my mind. But instead, here I am on my way to the train station, I refuse to be surrounded by idiots trapped for two hours on a plane, a decent torture, when I can take a three-day train with my own cabin, giving plenty of time to work on my next instalment of my book. Knowing Enid, I will be left no time to write while I am there.
Enid is waiting for me with her parents when I step onto the platform.
After some polite introductions we are off to their house. Enid told me it’s out of the city with a huge yard and near a forest, typical for a family of werewolves.
She warns me that her 5 older brothers are all going to be home and that they are even more obnoxious than they act at school. As I suspect, the house is fairly overcrowded and messy. Not an overwhelming amount of color, that is until Enid opens her bedroom door.
As the only girl she has her own room. Small, almost like it used to be a walk-in closet turned bedroom, but the walls.
I hold back a gag, bright pink and green smear hit you right in the face.
There is color everywhere. Not a single surface is any shade of black. She motions me over to the pulled-out cot and apologizes saying she will sleep on it, and I can have her bed. Not a chance.
After setting up my stuff Enid pulls out a black blanket still in its bag.
“I got this for you, you know, so you had something dark to use.”
I smirk and accept the blanket, taking it from her, my hands right on top of hers, I look up and she is already looking at me a small smile hidden on her face.
“I’m really glad you’re here Wednesday.”
“Yes, well, I couldn’t take your incessant begging any longer.”
Enid giggles and that old wave of nausea comes rushing back, hitting me almost as hard as the paint colors. A sharp knock at the door and Enid quickly drops her hands and steps away from me.
“Girls, dinner is ready, come eat.”
By the time we get down to the dinning room the boys have already dug in and are throwing food at each other.
“Sorry, meals are kind of a madhouse around here.”
“It’s fine, and I assure you having meals with my aunts at the asylum have prepared me for almost anything.”
“Wednesday, Enid, come sit over here. It’s so hard to hear anything of the boys and their ruckus.”
“So, Wednesday, tell us about yourself.”
“Someone once said I have an obsession with all things dark and creepy. That sums me up better than I dare try.” I sneak a small glance at Enid as she tries to stifle a laugh.
“Yes, Enid has told us about the events of this last semester-“
At this I look up and catch Enid’s eye as she gives me a small head shake and looks back at the table- “and I have to admit I am not overly thrilled with the danger you have put our daughter in, but we have decided to look past that all seeing as she is mostly alright and that it finally got her wolf out. We’re so glad that Enid is finally able to participate in our family traditions.”
Enid’s mother grabs her chin and smiles at her with a weary look.
“Yep, I finally get to fit in with my own family…great.”
Enid avoids making eye contact with everyone and uncomfortably leans away from her mother’s grasp. Wolfing out is all she wanted to do, to be a part of her family pack, why does she look so miserable at her mother’s feeble attempt at joy.
#wednesday addams#enid sinclair#wednesday x enid#wenclair#wenclair fanfic#slow burn#woe is mine and I am woe#jenna ortega#emma myers
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
7 Common Cybersecurity Threats We Are Exposed To
7 Common Cybersecurity Threats We Are Exposed To
We can never deny the blessings of the internet. It has made our life a lot easier and also simpler. The internet has connected the entire world and has developed a connection between every corner of the world. We do not only watch unlimited movies by downloading them from the pirate bay through the internet; we are now doing everything. Whether it is working from home, online, meeting, online classes, online shopping, online transactions, or online payments. Yet, cybersecurity threats are coming from everywhere too. This situation makes cybersecurity threat intelligence and ways to combat cybersecurity threats a quite hot topic.
Common Cybersecurity Threats That The Average Internet User Is Exposed To
Everything comes with its negative signs. The online world is full of several types of threats. Whether it is malware attacks, phishing attacks, or stealing private information, there is always a risk.
Here, we will talk about some of the common cybersecurity threats that, as an average user, you are always exposed to.
1. Malware
Malware threats or cybersecurity threats are really a common one to get when you are using the internet. You will not know when you will end up getting malware from the game you have downloaded or the new signs you have just got.
This is why it is better to download any game, applications, songs, movies, or even your necessary content only from reputed and trustworthy platforms.
2. Phishing Attacks And Social Engineering
Phishing attacks or social engineering are some new-age cybersecurity threats we all face. You might have heard that whenever you are receiving any media file or attachment through your email, you first must scan that and then download it.
There are several cybercriminals who will force you to download files by sending them to your email. You should be really careful about this kind of cybersecurity threats.
3. Identity Theft
Identity theft is a serious one. Data breaches and phishing emails are some of the most common ways of identity theft. Your email address, social media photos, resume, home address, and financial details are exposed to these types of identity theft risks.
Identity thieves might steal your personal data, such as credit card details, and use them for their evil purposes. So, before exposing your details on social media and any online platform, make sure you are maintaining all the safety precautions.
4. Healthcare Data Hacks
At present, we are using online solutions for almost everything and anything. When it comes to healthcare and medication, we are also utilizing the perks of online solutions. By healthcare data hacks, we mean stealing data from the healthcare system.
There are instances when the cybercriminals have hacked healthcare portals, and after that, have stolen the data of thousands of patients.
5. Payment Data Stealing
As we have mentioned above, we are now looking for online solutions for everything. Due to the global coronavirus pandemic, more people are opting for online payment options. With online payment options, you are also attracting cybersecurity threats to your payment details.
The instances of stealing online payment details and stealing huge amounts of money are not at all new things. Here, you have to ensure that you are using a secured and safe medium for making payments.
6. Personal Data Hacks
Personal data hacks and identity theft are almost similar. Here, cybercriminals can steal your personal data like your identity, email address, password and use those data for evil purposes.
Today we are too exposed to the online world and also unexpected cybersecurity threats. When we are sharing any of our personal data on the internet, we have to be extra careful. However, it is always advised not to share personal data on social media and online platforms.
7. SQL Injection
You might not have heard so much about SQL injection. An SQL injection or structured query language injection is a particular type of cyber attack, where the attackers insert malicious code into a server that is using SQL.
After getting infected, the server starts releasing information. Here, you have to ensure that you are only using those servers, which have extra safety and security.
What is Cybersecurity Threat Intelligence?
Cybersecurity threat intelligence is information gathered, processed, and analyzed to learn about a threat actor's motivations, targets, and attack patterns. Threat intelligence helps us to make more educated, data-driven security choices and shift from a reactive to a proactive posture in the battle against threat actors.
What Is the Importance of Cybersecurity Threat Intelligence?
Advanced persistent threats (APTs) and defenders are always striving to outmaneuver each other in the field of cybersecurity. Data about a threat actor's next action is essential for adapting your defenses ahead of time and preventing further attacks.
The following are some of the reasons why threat intelligence is important:
It illuminates the unknown, allowing security professionals to make more informed judgments.
This gives cyber security stakeholders more influence by exposing enemy motivations, strategies, techniques, and processes.
Additionally, cybersecurity intelligence assists security professionals in better understanding the decision-making process of threat actors and allows business stakeholders such as executive boards, CISOs, CIOs, and CTOs to invest intelligently, minimize risk, become more efficient, and make faster choices.
Threat intelligence helps enterprises of all sizes handle threat data so they may better understand their attackers, respond to crises faster, and anticipate a threat actor's next move. This information enables SMBs to achieve a degree of security that would otherwise be unattainable. Enterprises with huge security teams, on the other hand, can save costs and improve analyst effectiveness by utilizing external threat intelligence.
Be Safe From Cyber Attacks
We hope this article has offered you the necessary information about the most common cyber attacks. In case you still have some queries or doubts, you can always reach us. We will try to come up with a solution as soon as possible.
Till then, be safe online.
Read the full article
0 notes
Note
Imagine Andrew getting y/n a cat due him being far from home to filming, interviews etc.,
Soon the cat stealing all the attention from her....Andrew returns home from filming....
Reader notices Andrew getting jealous of their cat and y/n teases him....and assures him there's nothing to worry about.... 😍😁❤ !!!
Andrew gives a playful warning to their cat "You're lucky, you're so cute....but she's mine! " ..... The cat meows back.... ❤❤❤
Andrew being a cutie and being jealous of little animals; my heart is full and love this idea. Also my first ever ask; so this is extra special. Thank you so much 💕
It's been a few weeks since Andrew left for set on his new film; and you've been missing his body, his touch, his soft kisses. You sighed and began flicking through his photoshoot photos; a least you can pretend he's here, right?
His name appeared on top of your lockscreen; he sent a long video message; you sat up on your double bed and played the video.
"Hey baby, I miss you so much"
His voice was like melted butter to your ears. You missed him so much. You wanted to grab his cheeks and plant kisses everywhere and he couldn't complain about it.
"I'm sending this terrible video to you because, I did something and I know you say don't buy me gifts. Your love is all I need, but that doesn't stop me. I'm Andrew, the dork you fell in love with" he said, spinning the camera around and walking somewhere else on the set.
"I wish I could see your beautiful eyes, but our time will come soon princess, I promise"
You let out a small laugh and holding your knees watching him on the video, you wished it was sooner he came back into your arms.
"Anyways, I'm in bit of rush that's why I can't facetime you, but the present; should be outside our apartment door.. I hope no one has stolen it"
You giggled, seeing him panic and knitting his eyebrows together, "Hey rob, no one took Y/N present right?"
"No"
"Good old rob, I swear he doesn't like me.. off topic, but I hope you enjoy the gift and I miss you."
He began to kiss the phone over and over and the video randomly stopped.
Pushing up slowly from the double bed you share, you walk to the entrance of the apartment and open the door.
You saw a box, and, oddly enough, Andrew didn't put spiderman stickers on it. He did it on all of your Christmas presents last year as a joke. He spent a lot of money on stickers; You never really understood why he thought it was a cool idea.
Slowly kneeling you put your hands on the box; it had a note on "I LOVE YOU Y/N" from Andrew. You felt the smile re-appear on your face. Slowly lifting off the lid, and saw the sleeping kitten, it had brown and white fur and cute tiny point ears.
If Andrew was a cat, it would just look like this one; You gasped, admiring the little kitten in the box and giggled lightly as the kitten purred under your arm.
"I'm going to name you." You thought for a second and smiled softly. "Peter, I don't care If Andrew thinks it's corny" you giggled as the kitten snuggled into you.
-few weeks later-
You were playing around with Peter on the carpet in the living. room, and heard the door swing open
"I'M HOME" Andrew shouted and dropped his bags on the floor. "Where's my baby at?" he asked, looking around, confused.
Running over you jumped onto him and gave him a long soft kiss; he smiled in the kiss and held you up, kissing back.
"Missed you to princess"
You jumped down slowly as Peter came trotting over and started to purr by Y/N ankles. Andrew looked at his collar tag and knitted his eyebrows together. "Peter, huh" he said with a small smile.
"I thought it was cute okay" you protested and watched Peter play with a ball of yarn. Andrew shook his head; "no baby it is cute, I'm glad you love him".
-few hours later-
You and Peter the kitten were playing in the living room, and Andrew sat on the couch arms crossed, watching. You haven't really paid any attention to him. "okay Y/N, I'm going get naked" he said, thinking it make you turn your head. "Okay, have fun baby" you said, patting Peter's paws softly, playing with him.
Andrew blinked and huffed, crossing his arms again, "baby.." He whined as you still played with the kitten.
He huffed, getting sad and pushed up from the couch and stomped into his little office; You notice him getting upset and placing the kitten into his bed.
"Baby are you jealous" you asked, following behind him, with a skip on your feet.
"No I'm not"
"Yes you are!" You laughed softly and leaned on the office door.
Andrew shaking his head and arms crossed; "I'm not jealous of a.. tiny.. tiny fluff ball" he scoffed.
"tiny, tiny, fluff ball" you mocked him and laughed harder.
"Y/N" he whined and sat in the chair, looking at you.
You slowly sat on his lap and ran your fingers down his jaw. He sighed softly, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch.
"You know you always my peter parker, you dork."
You kissed his lips slowly and messed with his hair. He began to kiss back and hold you softly, snaking his arm around your waist.
"I love you Y/N so much" he whispered, looking into your eyes.
"I love you the most"
I'm so sorry this took so long; I tried to give it all the cuteness I could.
💌
#peter parker x reader andrew#andrew garfield#Andrew x reader#tasm!peter x reader#tasm andrew garfield#tasm x you#tasm x reader#cuteness overload#tasm!peter imagine#tasm!peter fluff#tasm peter x you#tasm peter parker#ask
103 notes
·
View notes
Note
📋 Hello I am putting a formal request in for more Chris Saves Himself AU ft Mama Nakamura taking him I’m home only to realize the full situation
Continuing the Chris Saves Himself AU: One | Two |
CW: Grief, memory loss, recovering whumpee, some very brief and very vague references to noncon, minor whumpee (OC is 17), angsty fluff, reunion
It takes six days for the cops to let Akio's mom bring Tristan back to their house.
He's ready to be discharged from the hospital by day two, but there's nowhere for him to go. WRU is still saying there's no record of his existence, even with the barcode on his wrist. Tristan's only known living relative, Joanne Botham, is claiming he ran away from home and she had no idea what happened to him, that what she had told the Nakamura family was out of frustration and anger at Tristan for disappearing. The governor is out on bail facing charges for keeping Tristan in the mansion in the first place.
There are a lot of charges.
Akio feels by turns numb and enraged when he hears a news anchor read them out loud, bloodless words that don't seem to reflect at all how serious their meanings are.
The first few, he can process - false imprisonment, bodily assault - but then they keep going, and they get worse in ways Akio can barely even begin to imagine.
What Tristan has lived through... Akio's brain refuses to let it coalesce fully, but he has nightmares, dreams about Tristan screaming for him and being on the other side of a door Aki can't open.
He dreams about hands on Tristan's body and the way he might have screamed for help. Akio wakes up crying, retching, running to the bathroom to throw up whatever he's eaten that day as if he can rid himself of the poison of knowing.
His mom calls a therapist.
His father tells him to stop watching the news.
Akio just waits until they're in bed and searches for everything he can find on twitter, on reddit, on every-fucking-place anyone is talking about this. And it's everywhere.
He stops telling his parents about his nightmares after the second night.
Oliver Branch says WRU sold him a product they knew was outside the bounds of the law and lied to him about it. WRU says they don't know what he could possibly mean by that and they have no paperwork or documentation that Tris was ever in the system at all, and if he was, then there must have been a mistake about his age. They swear they'll do a total review of every single Box Boy, Babe, or Buddy to ensure absolute compliance.
The soundbites make Akio's mouth dry.
How many are there, then? If they have to keep looking to find more? How many like Tristan?
How many?
Joanne Botham, who never answers Aimi's furious calls and then changes her number after the second day, goes on TV and says she did nothing wrong and there's no proof that anything happened except maybe Tristan lying about his name and age to make WRU agree to take him in. Oliver Branch says he has the proof WRU knew, and he'll provide it in exchange for immunity.
They all point fingers at each other on national television, in press conferences and through their attorneys.
Through it all, Tristan sits in a hospital bed staring out the window at the blue sky as though it will be stolen from him all over again, waiting to be told where to go, what to do.
And it takes Aimi nearly a week to get the police to agree to allow her to take him home. She brings everything she can think of to meetings with the detectives heading up the case, shows them reams of team photos and home movies, folders and folders of everything Aimi and Mrs. Higgs had ever talked about or done together with the boys.
The hospital needs the room, needs the bed. The detectives don't want to put him into foster care when he barely seems to understand he's a person. The social services people won't take him because they're not equipped to handle a situation like this one. The adjustment houses don't want him because of something to do with what kind of Boxie he was, and Aimi doesn't elaborate and something in the set of her expression makes it clear Akio shouldn't ask.
After a week of mostly just being able to look at him through the small little square window in the hospital room's door, Aimi finally gets legal permission to take him out of there.
Akio isn't prepared for the slew of news vans that are there when he and Aimi arrive, someone having tipped off reporters that they might get a glance of the governor's secret Box Boy today. Aimi, though, simply sets her shoulders, slides a pair of dark sunglasses on, and walks through the crowd like a queen with her head held high, a small duffel bag handle in hand.
Akio hurries behind her, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, hood pulled over his head, trying to ignore ten thousand camera flashes. It's so much worse than the leadup to the Olympics would have been, if he were still performing at elite.
Or at all.
He has a strange, surreal hope that Tris won't be disappointed in him for quitting after Tris died.
Even though he's not dead.
They step into the hospital room around 10 in the morning to find Tristan not in the bed, but sitting on the couch built into the wall under the window, curled up on the crinkly plastic cushions to look out the window, humming low, soft and tuneless.
The hum makes Akio's heart ache with a sudden realization that this odd waking dream he's been living for a week isn't a dream at all. Tears flood his eyes and he has to blink them away as fast as he can. He's heard that hum in his ear as kids during sleepovers, he's heard it when Tris was nervous before performing a new routine, he's heard it while they waited anxiously for scores or studied for school.
"Hey, sweetheart," Aimi says, her voice low and soft, but even so Tris jumps and turns to look at them with wide, startled eyes. One hand goes up to his neck, and Akio swallows when he sees Tris has wrapped gauze around his neck to sit like the collar he was wearing when he fell from the governor's bedroom balcony.
Akio watched the cell phone video that made the rounds over and over and over again. The flash of red hair, shirtless, the bruises he was covered with, his hazy drugged eyes. Over and over and over again.
Watch him fall, watch him land, watch the people run to him and get him out of there when Akio has been sitting here crying his eyes to red half the time for a dead best friend who wasn't dead at all.
"H, Hello," Tristan says, but he doesn't know them. Akio can tell, the way his eyes move between them is uncertain, unsure. "Hello, ma'am. Can, can, can I, what..." He swallows, shivering, and Akio watches the fear move across his face. "What... what can I... do for you?"
His slowed-down voice makes Akio feel sick. He's only ever seen Tristan do that when he's with people who don't understand him or love him for who he is. Now it seems like it's the only way he remembers how to talk.
All Tristan's muscles from gymnastics are gone, leaving only faded shadows of his strength behind. He's skinny, so pale he nearly reflects the light from the ceiling. His freckles are faded, and his hair is shorter than Tris ever liked it.
Being so thin makes his eyes even bigger, they seem to overwhelm the rest of his face.
"Honey, we're going to take you to our house," Aimi says, keeping her voice the same low gentle cadence. "While we figure out what happens next. Aki and I will be taking care of you for a while. How's that sound? Would that be okay?"
Tristan looks between them again, and something shifts in his face. A kind of desperation moves there, and he turns more fully to face them, leaning over a little to look up at them. Hair falls over his forehead, and his hands move to rub over the texture of a loose pair of sweatpants someone gave him to wear under his hospital gown. "To... your house? Would I be... yours?"
He looks at Akio again, and there's something in his face that says he sees that as the best case scenario, that he was ready for far, far worse than simply changing owners. That he's... hoping he'll be Akio's property now.
Akio's stomach flips at the thought and he has to put a hand over his mouth and turn away, catching the sob before it can make its way up out of his throat.
Aimi's arm moves around his shoulders instinctively, and she leans over, pressing a kiss to her son's short black hair. "It's okay," Aimi whispers. "It'll be hard at first. But it's going to be okay, Aki. Saishūtekini wa daijōbudesu. Tristan wa mada anata no shin'yūdesu."
Tristan, sitting on the little couch, blinks a few times. "Friend," he says in English, a little haltingly. "Shin' yu. Means... best friend." He scoots closer to them along the couch, and his eyes are so big and so very, very green. Just how Akio always remembered them.
Aimi's head raises and turns to look at him, her arm tightening around Aki, breath catching in her throat. "You remember that?"
"No." Tristan shakes his head. Scoots a little closer, even. "Yes. I don't know why. Are you..." He looks at Akio. "Wa-... watashitachiha... sh-shin, um, shin-shin'yūdeshita. Yes? Did I-... did I say it right?"
Tristan's Japanese was never great, he'd just picked up some here and there from all the time he spent around the Nakamuras at home and in their car. They used to lay awake at night during sleepovers practicing over and over until Tristan had a new phrase to impress Aimi with.
But hearing his voice, his living breathing real live voice, sounding out the words...
It's too much.
It's too fucking much.
"Yeah, um, y-yeah, you-..." Akio's words are suddenly gone. He chokes on his fear that this somehow is a dream he will wake up from to find Tris still cold in some unknown open grave, and he can't keep the tears back any longer.
His knees buckle under the onslaught of grief and hope and fear and love, and he drops to the cold tile hospital floor, hands pressed over his mouth until his lips are pushed painfully into his teeth, and he wails, muffled but loud enough that there's rustling as the cops guarding the door turn to look inside through the viewing window.
Aimi drops into a crouch behind him, rubbing at his back as he curls over himself. Her voice trembles with tears she doesn't shed. Akio remembers the days after they were told Tristan was dead, how she would cry in her room at night with Aki's dad when he was home from work, but somehow when he and Emi were bawling their heads off, her voice stayed calm, she kept her composure.
Right up until she was alone.
Now, though, she's barely hanging on as her son sobs on a hospital room floor before the emptied-out shell of his best friend.
Bare feet pad along the floor until Tristan drops down in front of him, reaching slowly out. Cool fingertips touch the back of Akio's hand, and he pulls them slowly down to look and see Tristan only a foot or so away from him, kneeling, watching him.
"I know you," Tristan whispers. "It hurts, but... I know... you. Don't, um, don't I?"
Akio can barely see him through the tears that have turned the world to watercolor suggestions. Nothing's in focus. But he grabs onto Tristan's hand, those familiar always-cold fingers, and holds tight.
"You know m-me," He manages. "You do, Tris. You know me. We-... we know you. We want to t-t-take you h-home."
Tristan tilts his head to the side, and it's such a familiar gesture, one he was so sure he'd never get to see again. "My... name is Baldur," He says, softly. "My Sir named me-"
"Please don't call him that. Can you... can you answer to Tristan? Please?" Akio is the one to reach out this time, touching Tristan's shoulder, hesitant. Waiting for him to pull back and away, to flinch like he's been doing when they watch him with the nurses.
Instead, Tris takes a breath and leans into the touch.
"It hurts," He says. "But, but, but, but-... but I can try."
Akio nods, and then Tristan is moving forward, and their arms are around each other and Akio is scared of himself for a second, scared of the welling of feelings he can't control. He's afraid he'll crack Tristan's ribs with how tightly he holds on.
Tristan's face buries itself against his neck, into the crook of his shoulder.
"I missed you so much," Akio whispers against the coppery hair. He's going to start crying again. He can hear his mom sniffing behind him, digging into her purse to pull out the little pack of tissues she always has in there. "I missed you so, so much, Tris."
"I think... I think I, I, I missed you, too," Tristan whispers back, and Akio isn't sure if he can even know if he means it, but he also knows that it's so good to hear the words that he doesn't even care.
-
@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @what-a-whump @whumptywhumpdump @downriver914 @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears
#whump#chris saves himself AU#chris the strawberry blond romantic#akio nakamura#rescued whumpee#escaped whumpee#recovering whumpee#memory loss#dehumanized whumpee#reference to collars#grief tw#referenced death#caretaker and whumpee#memory recovery#bbu#box boy universe#box boy#box boy whump#minor whumpee
150 notes
·
View notes
Text
Vicious
Part VII
Pairing: Steve x reader, Bucky x reader, Thor x reader, Loki x reader, Peter x reader
Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, possessiveness, theft, mention of blackmail, all characters are adults.
Words: 1864.
Summary: Transferring to Stark Academy that has only allowed to take in female students last semester, you realize you are just one of three young women among hundreds of students. Your things are constantly being stolen, and soon you begin fearing for your safety.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
________
You wanted to slap yourself. What the hell was wrong with you today? Why did you tell Peter that?!
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” Completely baffled with you behavior, you were deeply ashamed, unable to look the guy in the eyes and wanting nothing but fall into the earth.
“Ah, I got it. It’s Steve, isn’t it?” All of a sudden, Peter let out an irritated sigh, rolling his eyes skywards and rubbing his neck. “Of course, who else would say such nonsense. Blackmail, really? Funny he didn’t call me a stalker or anything.”
“Listen, I didn’t mean it, I’m really-”
“It’s ok.” He closed the locker, slamming its door loudly and making you jump. “It’s not your fault. If I heard that from somebody, I’d be scared too.”
He spent a couple of seconds staring into the wall until he rubbed his neck again tiredly and huffed. It took him less than a minute to regain his composure, and you heard him murmuring, “What a freak.”
He didn't return to the corridor, heading to the sports hall for his PE class, instead moving to the bench in the locker room and motioning you to sit. Feeling terribly awkward, you hoped he wasn't going to do anything out of anger, even though he had every right to be upset at your stupid behavior.
"About what he said," Peter took a deep breath, "it's nothing like that. I don't dig up some nasty stuff in the web to blackmail people. I've never done it. The reason why Mr. I-am-better-than-you said that is because I've made him take me into his little bodyguard group when I heard him talking to Loki. You're nice, and I wanted to help. Of course, Steve started acting like I was some creep, so he refused, and I had to remind him that, technically, he had to report your issue to the administration, not play a hero. I said that if I go and tell the whole story to the dean, Steve's gonna be in trouble because he knew who thieves were and didn't report them."
It was a loud off your mind. Goodness. Rogers called this a blackmail? Really? Just because Peter pushed Steve into taking him into their group?
You were less and less sure Rogers was sane. You definitely had to be careful around him.
"I can't believe he called it a blackmail." You admitted quietly, and the guy sent you a tired smile. "Peter, I'm so, so sorry. It was so stupid of me."
"Nah, don't worry. I'd freak out too if I didn't know the whole story."
You knew your apologies weren't enough, but you hoped Peter didn't take it to heart - if you can take such an accusation easily, that is. Shit, shit, shit, why did you believe everything these guys were saying? You didn't even know them in the first place! Why on Earth did you go asking them their opinions on others if all of them were biased, and every guy could twist the truth the way he liked? You shouldn't have let their words affect you that much.
"Whatever. At least now you know what Rogers is like." Peter sent you a grim smile and got up, picking his bright yellow sackpack from the floor. "Shit, I gotta go if I don't wanna be late. Let's meet in a library later, alright?"
"O-of course." You hurriedly stood up and left the lockers room after him, turning to the library: your Lit class was cancelled, so you decided to go study right away. At this time, the library was usually full, and you felt safe there.
Your thoughts were all about the guys again even when you were staring at your laptop, trying to focus on Excel numbers. Why did you feel like the atmosphere between them was so dense? If they were at such terms with each other, why did they group together to help you? What, because all of them loved you so much? It was ridiculous. There was something else to it, and you didn't know. You had a feeling no one was going to tell you the truth until you figured it all out by yourself.
Weird. It was all so weird. Steve's plan, their behavior, the relationships between them, and your nagging feeling they all were hiding something. Was it them who were actually following you?
The thought scared you to the point you started shivering. Oh shit.
"Hi there," the guy appeared behind your back so suddenly you almost jumped, looking at him wide-eyed, "sorry, did I startle you?"
"H-hi Jake! No, it's ok, I was just... studying." Both of you were talking in hushed voices, knowing the librarian would kick you out immediately if she heard some noise. "How are you?"
"I'm great, how're you?" You could hear concern in his voice: he was one of Thor's friends you met yesterday, and although you spoke briefly, Thor definitely told him more about you. "You look a bit worried."
"Oh, it's Math, I didn't really understand the topic, and we're having an exam on Monday... guess I'll be studying the whole weekend." You gave him your best smile to reassure you were totally ok, and the guy relaxed a little, smiling at you, too.
"I'm sure you'll pass. Thor said you're very smart."
What, he said that to all of them? Was he simply boasting about his girlfriend to his friends or was there something more to it?
"You're too kind. Thank you."
His smile grew wider, and he landed on the next seat to yours, resting his hands on the table. Apparently, there was something he wanted to talk to you about, and you grew uneasy.
"Listen, about these incidents... Thor told us all about it, so if you see any freaks following you around, you can message any of us, and we'll come right away." Looking at his serious expression, his bushy brows furrowed, you hoped he eas being sincere with you: you had enough with people you could no longer trust. "And also... that kid, if he's giving you troubles or anything, just let me know, and I'll tell him to keep his hands to himself"
Oh, he was talking about Peter, wasn't he? He had probably seen that silly photo. Wow, you though, Peter was totally right about Instagram: it was the best news source in the academy.
Thanking him for his concern, you laughed a little, convincing him there was nothing serious except for the theft and promising to tell him if anything weird would be going on. While it should have made you feel safer, in fact, you only grew more frustrated with this situation. You wanted to forget about these freaks and just spend you day like any normal student would, but everywhere you went people were staring at you as if you had a horn; one boyfriend or the other was always close to protect you from some unknown danger, and although you believed they tried to help, you hated the feeling they were hiding something from you. Why did you have to be going through all this? Wasn't it really better to drop off school, spend a year working and then apply to a better place?
Thinking of the faces your parents would make once you returned home, you realized it wasn't. This school with all those creeps wasn't worse than home that never felt like a safe place you wanted to come back to. Besides, all money you saved up until now were only good for buying food and things like that: you'd never afford to rent a decent place unless you found a well-paid job. It meant staying with your parents, and it wouldn't be much better than here, just different. If you wanted to drop off, you had to find a good place to stay.
Well, you could at least try, right?
When Peter met you in the library, the two of you no longer talked about anything important, simply studying together to prepare for the exams next week. It didn't feel off: from time to time you met his gaze, and the both of you smiled. You were thankful he didn’t talk about Steve or other guys or that weirdo in the lockers room.
Once you returned home, you went straight to bed, completely exhausted. Luckily, you did much more than yesterday, so you could rest now, but then you thought of Thor kissing you and bit down the pillow, angry at yourself. Why did you keep thinking of him right now?
______________
When you woke up the next morning, you felt like something was off: your body ached, your throat hurt, and your headache was only making it worse. Dammit, you caught a cold, probably. And that’s when it was finally the day to meet Steve, the guy you thought was a mastermind behind all these manipulations that were making you sick to the core.
Anyway, it’s not like a mere cold would prevent you from doing everything you had planned. You left your bed and went to the bathroom, moving the dresser before again.
Honestly, it felt terrible. It was definitely because of that flimsy dress you wore to school yesterday when the weather was becoming chilly. Argh. Watching your puffy eyes and swollen nose, you sneezed. Today you had to apply way more makeup to look decently.
Steve showed up earlier than either Thor or Peter: you had to skip your breakfast, hoping to buy something cheap in the cafeteria.
“Good morning.” He said with his everyday polite expression that soon shifted into a concerned one. “Are you alright?”
What, was it that bad? You did your absolute best to apply enough makeup and do your hair. Did you still look so sick?
“Good morning. Yes, I’m ok, just feeling a little sleepy.” You yawned on purpose, covering your mouth with your hand, and Steve’s face softened.
“Did you study all night?”
“Yep, exams are driving me a little crazy.”
“I understand. I also stayed late last night.”
Of course, the student council president studying all days long to be number one student in the academy. If you didn’t know of his twisted nature, you’d think he was the most typical nerd.
You spent most of the time either in silence or talking about studies, the academy, and everything related to it. Steve acted like a gentleman and a scholar, albeit a little too demonstratively. Walking with you as if he were a king of the place, he constantly replied to greetings of others, waved to his acquaintances and smiled. You felt so off you wanted to find Loki and walk with him: unlike Steve, he was considered unpleasant by the prevailing majority of students.
“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” America golden boy asked you for the last time, and you forced yourself to smile.
“Of course. Thanks for coming, see you later, Steve.”
As he finally left you in peace, you almost fell down into your chair, your fever only getting worse despite the fact you took some painkillers. It was going to be a long day.
_________
Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherub @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @ximebebx @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @sourpatchspinster @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @iheartsebandchris @lovelydarkdaydream @soleil-dor @illyrianprincess @vampirestrawberries @goodgodimaweirdperson @frontmanash @freya-heya @yandematic @mariatietacapitu @d3monslust @maybesandohnos @ibeatuptwinks @mangobangi @nectav @whatever-happened-to-the-ducks
#bucky barnes x reader#dark bucky barnes#steve rogers x reader#dark steve rogers#thor x reader#dark thor#loki x reader#dark loki#peter parker x reader#dark peter parker#yandere
352 notes
·
View notes
Note
could I request a story where Loki and the reader are both magic time variants captured by the TVA, and they become closer and plot to escape together, but even though the reader wants to help him they're afraid of getting too close or opening up about their past because in the past they had been really hurt by the alternate Loki in their timeline? I'm sorry that's very long, you don't have to write it if you don't want to I just love your work so much and Reality Check is so perfect :')
I'm sorry this took forever! Honestly, I should've just made this a whole miniseries to really flesh it out, but with MOM I wasn't sure if I wanted to dedicate all my time for that. Hope this is alright! <3
You watched the man before you smirk once he recognized who you were. "Y/N L/N, I never expected you to wind up here," He commented, scanning you. You scoffed, turning your head away to look at Mobius.
"You expect me to work with him?" You asked, pointing lazily. Mobius nodded.
"You two are the best of the best. He never seems to die and you have the ability to control him. Not many can say they can do that," He responded.
"I don't want to work with him," You replied, sharply.
"And why is that? I want a better explanation than he hurt your feelings a while ago," Mobius said. You rolled your eyes, knowing Loki must have grinned at his statement.
"No hard feelings, promise! I'm not the same Loki you knew after all," Loki said.
"No, but the sacred timeline forces it to be exactly the same. I know you haven't done it yet, but you will. Eventually. If you ever decide to stop being a little shit and go back to your timeline." You walked closer to Loki, trying to seem intimidating.
"Ouch," Loki winced, stepping forward, "I see Midgard taught you some vulgar language."
"Seemed only appropriate for a man who killed 80 people in a matter of two days," You suddenly realized how close you were to him, eyes widening as you backed off. Loki rose an eyebrow at this.
Mobius chuckled. "This is going to be interesting."
~
"I need you two to go to a small town in Oklahoma from a few hundred years ago to inspect something," Mobius said, pulling up a file on the desk in front of you. You sat next to Loki (Though it was not willingly) and waited impatiently to hear more about the mission.
"Oklahoma?" Loki questioned.
"It's on Midgard. It's a lot of farmland. Prone to tornadoes." You briefly stated.
"Seems like you know the place quite well."
"I lived there for a while. Until the TVA decided that I messed up something in their precious timeline. I mean, really. Do you guys think another war would happen when most people don't even know this place exists?!"
Mobius chuckled. "See, that's why I like you. You're realistic. But, unfortunately, rules are rules, and the timekeepers aren't ones for breaking tradition."
You shook your head in response, leaning back in the chair. Loki leaned forward towards the desk to get a better look at the file. It had several reports scattered across it, all describing the deaths of several minutemen from the T.V.A. "What happened?" He asked.
"Someone supposedly time traveled to the 1800s and broke the timeline. When our minutemen arrived at the scene, they set fire to the surrounding grasses and burned them all to crisps. We suspect the variant is another timeline's you, Loki." Mobius explained, showing several photos of the scene.
Your eyes widened. "Another timeline of him is running rampant and you imbeciles can't catch them?" You asked.
Mobius shook his head. "Loki is hard to catch. This one," He pointed to the man before him, "Not so much. The other one? Different story."
"And you expect us to just find Loki and bring them back?" You asked, leaning your head against your hand.
"It's either that or being reset by the woman who wants your heads on a silver platter."
Both you and Loki looked at each other for a brief moment, nodding slightly. Looking back at Mobius, you spoke at the same time.
"We'll do it."
~
You arrived in Oklahoma with Loki, taking a look at the burned farmland around you. Several bodies laid around the area, their weapons scattered. "God, these men didn't stand a chance," You said, crouching down to take a closer look.
"And neither do we if we can't find a trace of myself," Loki replied. He used his magic to trace where the fire started. "Over there," He pointed.
You looked over, seeing nothing special. "Looks just like everywhere else," You said.
"No, it's an illusion. I must have cast an illusion to make sure only those with magic would be able to find it. Or, well, another me did it. Why would he have done that though?" Loki asked, contemplating it for a moment. You walked up to him, showing him the collar and remote you had stolen from the agency only moments before arriving in Oklahoma.
"If anything goes wrong when we see them, I've got backup."
Loki grinned. "You're always so dependable. That's why I love you." You knew it was a weak attempt to make you soft. You shook your head, walking away from him.
"Not the same Y/N you know."
"The Sacred Timeline makes you the same."
"The same to an extent, but for me you're in the past. A lot changes in the upcoming years." You mentioned.
"Oh come now, old feelings can't die that easily, can they?"
"No, but you sure can."
~
You made your way to the Loki pointed to. The spot seemed to be as burnt up as the rest until Loki unveiled the illusion. It didn't take much of his magic to lift it, probably because the universe recognized it as the same signature. When it was revealed, the area hadn't been burned by the fire at all. The grasses were tall, reaching up to your shoulders at times. One spot was completely flattened though, with a singular note on the ground.
You picked it up, unfolding the paper carefully. Loki stood directly behind you, looking over your shoulder. "What does it say?" He asked.
"Meet me where we once called home," You read it out loud. The note crumpled as you tightened your hold on it.
"What does that mean? Once called home?"
"It means this Loki is in fact my Loki."
"Please tell me I don't have any hard feelings that you clearly harbor for me."
"That depends on whether or not you forgive me for the incident."
Loki quirked an eyebrow at this. You shook your head. "Not here. Let's find a place to stay. I know where home is. We're not far from it."
"Then shouldn't we go there first?" He asked, placing a hand on your shoulder to ensure you didn't walk away. You shook your head.
"No, I can't go there yet. There's a lot to explain before you see Loki."
~
You found an inn close by and decided to rest there. Because it was the 1800s you had to be careful about what you did. In a different century they wouldn't have minded you being in a TVA shirt and jeans. Now, they would.
Luckily for you, Loki was able to cast an illusion so that only you two knew what you were wearing. He even had to cast an illusion on himself to blend in more. He used fake currency to buy the room, which was about as small and cramped as you expected.
With only candles to light the room, it would've been considered quaint and cozy by most. A single bed with comforters, a drawer and chest, and a small desk. It was all you needed for your journey after all.
You sat down at the desk as Loki sat on the bed, feeling the comforter. "Softer than I expected," He commented.
"You lived through the 19th century, you should know it wasn't as bad as history books make it out to be."
He nodded in response, relaxing slightly. "Well? You said you would explain it to me. I should know what's going on before we go face off against myself."
You sighed, fiddling with a pen you had found in your shirt pocket. "Time travel isn't as uncommon as people may think. You and I both know that."
"Of course. You've time traveled a few times yourself."
"Exactly. Well, in my timeline, after the events in New York in 2012, you went to prison in Asgard and were eventually freed during the Dark Elves attack."
"I know what happens there," He said, sharply. You knew he must've known what happened to his mother.
You looked down at your hand, placing the pen down on the desk. "Well, you know what happens in the Sacred Timeline. Remember, you're a variant in this timeline too. In this timeline, you ended up going back to the 1800s, to this time."
"Why would I do that?" He tilted his head.
"To see me."
"What were you doing in this time?"
"I was running. I got into some nasty trouble with not only the Avengers but the federal government as well. It was just easier to go back to a time where I wouldn't have to worry about it. Plus, I didn't know what I was doing, so I wanted to hang out in a place where I knew I would never run into myself. I didn't account for you finding out." You sighed, fiddling with your fingers.
"And what happens after that? We were just fine before I... Well," He hesitated, "Tried to take over Asgard and then Midgard," He said, sheepishly.
A soft smile graced your lips as you thought about what had happened next. "We shared a life together. We were married, secretly of course, but we were happy. We moved into an old farmhouse around here and decided we would start a family here. It was in the middle of nowhere. No one was going to find us after all. We could be happy here."
"What changed?" He asked, leaning in. He couldn't understand where it would've gone wrong.
"The T.V.A," A scowl corrupted your smile as you looked up at him for the first time in minutes. "We were variants. What happened between us should never have happened."
Loki shook his head. "I can't believe that's what divided us. What did they do?"
"You gave me a chance to escape. You kept them off me and I ran off. See, I ran off and you went into the T.V.A to be charged for your crimes. They were going to prune you. Unless you told them where I was," You scoffed.
"Did I?"
"You did. Because no matter what you would always do everything in your power to save your own skin. Even if it meant ratting me out when I was protecting the child we had just taken in." Your tone quickly turned to ice at the thought.
Loki stayed quiet at the revelation. He didn't know what to say. "What happened next?" He asked quietly.
You shrugged. "I went in, you got out. You were reset. I don't know how you became a variant again. I guess they couldn't wipe your memory if you were able to remember our home."
"I don't understand. I don't understand how I could do that," He said as he stood up from the bed, pacing the room.
"The version of you in this timeline is different. He changed after escaping. I just hadn't realized it until it was too late."
Loki stopped in his tracks suddenly, staring you dead in the eyes. "Is that why you're with the T.V.A? To get revenge?"
You nodded. "The T.V.A, while I despise them, are my one way of getting to him. I want to make sure the agency brings him in once and for all. I'll prune him myself if I have to. And then I'm out of there. I have a plan to escape."
"And what will you do after that?"
You looked out at the window, "Find my little girl, I suppose. Make sure she's okay."
"Then perhaps you would like a partner to join you," He grinned.
"No."
~
Making your way to the farmhouse, Loki decided to stay back a little. The plan was for you to make sure Loki was in a vulnerable state, giving you just enough time to alert the T.V.A. Then, your partner Loki could capture the criminal Loki using the collar and remote you brought. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was enough for you to feel comfortable facing off against him.
Loki stayed outside, watching from a patch of wildflowers that sat outside the house. They were your favorites.
The house was cold and creaking from weight and pressure it hadn't felt in years. It looked abandoned. No one must have moved in after you did. The sight sent shivers down your spine. All seemed quiet except for a single door opening across from you. There stood the man that ruined your life - Your version of him.
"Hello, darling," He greeted you, a small sheepish smile plastered on his face.
"Loki."
"I know these are probably not the circumstances you would've wanted for this-"
"Not the circumstances?" You interrupted harshly. "I never wanted this situation to ever happen. You're lucky I haven't tried to shoot you in the face with a magnum."
Loki raised his hands up in mock surrender. "What I had done was uncalled for."
"Uncalled for?! You exposed me which put our family in harm's way! I have no idea where Rose is! None!"
His expression softened at the mention of Rose. You knew it struck a chord in his heart. It had to. Rose was adopted just like he was. All he wanted was to be a better father to her than his own was. If he were a better person you may have cared about hitting a sensitive spot like this.
"That's unfair. I had no idea she would possibly be reset by them," He said.
"Oh come on! What else did you think would have happened?! They were after us and so they were after her too." You moved your finger slightly to the communicator in your jacket pocket, signaling for the T.V.A to arrive and for Loki to step in.
"I never meant for her to get hurt," He said, his voice shaking slightly.
"No, but you meant for me to get hurt."
"I never wanted either of you to get hurt. It's just that-"
"Just what?" You grit your teeth.
"I was scared. You know how I am. I'm a coward!"
"That's no excuse for what you've done," You glanced up, seeing your partner sneak up behind the man. He wrapped the collar around him and quickly backed away, holding the remote up.
"What are you doing?!" Variant Loki exclaimed.
"Getting justice. Revenge. Everything I've wanted for years from you," You glared at him. The other Loki smirked, proud of you for what you had done.
The minutemen from the T.V.A quickly stepped in, arresting Variant Loki as soon as possible. Mobius followed them, looking the man up and down. "So you're the one who's caused all this trouble. And all because of a girl you crumbled. Gotta admit, it's not a good look for you," He said. You nearly laughed. "Take him away."
The minutemen began to drag Variant Loki through the portals, though he didn't go through without one last word to you, "Y/N! I will get out of this!"
You scoffed. "Sure you will."
~
Mobius decided to allow you and Loki to stay behind, giving you a moment to examine the home around you. He trusted you two enough to have a few minutes of peace alone. "So what's the plan, love?" Loki asked.
"Mobius has given us this much. If we gain his trust for a little while longer then we'll be able to have far more time and perhaps even a way to travel through the multiverse on our own. I hate to say it, but I'll stick with the T.V.A a little while longer. The endgame is long-term here."
Loki nodded thoughtfully. "It's smart. But I'm smarter," He held his hand up, revealing one of the portal remotes in his hand. Your eyes widened.
"How did you get that?!"
"I stole it from one of the men as they went through. I'm sure they won't miss this, but if they find out we have this when we go back it won't be pretty," He said, walking up to you, grinning.
You stifled a laugh as you looked down at the remote in his hands. You shook your head looking back up at him. "You're insane."
"Perhaps I am," His grin widened, "But I know you want this as much as I do. So, what do you say?"
He held his empty hand out to you, waiting for your response. Instead of giving it a moment's hesitation, you held out your own, taking his.
And with that, you never looked back.
#loki x reader#loki laufeyson#loki odinson#thor#loki series#2021#marvel#mcu#disney+#disney plus#tva#agent mobius#fanfic#fanfiction#romance#fluff#angst sorta?
184 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi Holly, I think I remember u saying u were thinking about going to teach in Korea and I just came across this video on YouTube, where this foreigner went through so many horrible and traumatizing things working and living there, so I thought to let u know about it, so maybe u could watch and consider some things this person says in her video before moving. If I can recall correctly u said u had a good experience in South Korea and idk when u lived there, but apparently in the past few years the pay for foreign teachers has gone down a lot and the new president as you already know is very problematic and some of the policies like healthcare for foreigners and stuff like will be getting changed and/or taken away now, so ur experience could be different from the last time u were there. Also she is black and some of the things she experienced were racially motivated so maybe if u do go u will be treated a little better or perfectly fine, again every school is different and you could be very lucky. Here’s the link: https://youtu.be/j4cTeFFwuJA,, this video does touch on some TRIGGERING things like bullying and violence, brief mention of sa and attempted suicide, so yeah might not want to watch if u are uncomfy with hearing about that,, okay bye now sorry that this is so long. love you and hope ur having a nice evening/night💕✨
Thank you for your concern but I think the biggest issue with people and this whole Korea is good Korea is worse than everyone thinks it is- is that people don’t go into it with the right expectations- and I think the people who have the strongest reactions to the shattering of the halo are the ones who imagine it shining the brightest.
Let me start first by saying that I’d already been a bts Stan for like- 2 years by the time I lived there. The only reason I was going there was for bts, but I still did my research. I think part of the reason why I enjoyed it so much is because I wasn’t expecting all of the issues wrong with the world to just- magically go away, like I didn’t stop getting catcalled or judged and men where still blatant mysoganystist there cuz like...the worlds just like that. Obviously I never had to deal with racism in the same way as she did but unfortunately It’s not going to change just because you go to a different county.
I wish it did, but my experience is that generally things like fat phobia, racism and colorim, misogyny, and classism are kind of universal constants- with a few exceptions.
You can get taken advantage of for your labour in litterally any country, hell teachers in America are paid roughly the same as teachers in Korea- for about 2x the amount of work to be fair and with a cost of living that is like 3x as high.
I had a fair amount of traumatizing experiences when I lived there too, I was drugged, cat called, had photos taken of me constantly without my permission (pretty common in everywhere in Asia unfortunately but no where is as bad as China 😭), had bosses verbally berate me pretty constantly as well as professors treat me like I was lesser because I was an exchange student and not korean like- don’t go there expecting people to call you Hyung and unnie and be besties, don’t go there to get your kdrama ending?
But you know what- even with all of that I never felt safer, there where cameras on every street and I could walk around at any time of day with relative safety. I could sit in a coffee shop and leave my laptop and go to the bathroom without worrying about it getting stolen. I could walk around with headphones on and not be terrified. Seoul is a beautiful city, Seoul at golden hour...theyres nothing more breathtaking and there are so many beautiful parks! So little garbage and rats unlike New York City- it makes nyc litterally look like a 3 year olds scratch painting in my opinion.
My main point is that bad things can litterally happen to you anywhere, and I know you mean well but I’m tired of people pushing the equal and opposite narratives of “Korea is great!!! You should go teach there!” And “Korea is absolutely terrible and everyone shouldn’t set foot there” like...both can be true and that still wouldn’t make it any better or worse than any other American city in my opinion
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
YOU JUST DON’T LISTEN(F.W)
Summary: Fred’s ex girlfriend writes him a letter to explain the how him using her wrecked her emotionally.
Warnings: angst, like a lot of angst, depressed Y/N, mentions of self doubt, a little swearing, mentions of parents not loving correctly, used reader. Let me know if I missed anything.
A/N: Major thank you to Gabriella @onlyfreds for being an amazing person and encouraging me to write whatever this mess is. I am forever grateful to you
(The font is terrible Im sorry im just getting used to working on tumblr)
Fred Weasley checked the muggle clock on his nightstand. 10:30 AM. His mom will call him for breakfast anytime now. He has been awake for quite some time if he can even count the 30 minutes he tried to sleep but couldn’t, not when every time he tries to close his eyes his mind and eventually dreams are clouded by her. By the last time he looked at her, how devastated she looked, How her face was wet from her tears and her eyes bloodshot red, but the thing Fred will never be able to forget is her voice. How raw and vulnerable she sounded while saying the most horrible thing’s anyone has ever said to him, but he can’t blame her, he has no one to blame but himself because in the end it was he who caused all of this and now its come to bite him in the ass. He hears the door open and his twin brother George enters.
“Mom says breakfast is ready and she wants you downstairs. She says she’ll drag you herself if you don’t show up again today.”
“Tell her I’m not hungry and I’ll come grab a bite later.” I really don’t feel like being surrounded by other people right now. Not in this pathetic state I’m in. Besides it will take me willpower I don’t have to not hex Ron into oblivion.
“Well she will not take no for an answer and I wont either. What’s done is done now and you’ll have to face the world someday so start with your own family because everyone down there is worried sick about you and the least you can do is show your face once in a while so they know you haven’t died of starvation or sleep deprivation.” George has worry written all over him and I’m sure the rest of the family has it too. I feel even more like shit for worrying them.
“Fine. But I come back here if she is mentioned are we clear?”
“We weren’t gonna mention Y/N anyway now lets go moms worried sick for your dumbass.”
Breakfast was going smoothly with Ginny and Ron being exited for Quidditch season, Harry and Bill discussing the unfortunate events of the Triwizard tournament last year, dad asking Hermione about a rubber duck whatever that is, but the most shocking thing is mom asking me and George about the joke shop products. George is doing most of the talking but still the fact that shes even asking is awesome. I was finally feeling peaceful this whole winter break until I heard a hoot outside the window.
“I thought it was Tuesday but since mail is here does it mean its Friday already? Oh how fast time is going.
“No Arthur honey you are right it is Tuesday, Bill or George can one of you see if that owl has the owners name attached to it and bring whatever letter he has here to see who is it for.”
Bill got up from his seat and went to the window next to the countertop to look at the mystery owl.
“Do we even know a Y/N Y/L/N?”
The room went quiet. The only thing that could be heard was the owls hoot asking for its treat. Bill seemed not to realise this as he took the letter from the owl, gave him a treat and sent it on its way.
“To Fred Weasley from Y/N Y/L/N… Who’s Y/N is she the girl you’ve been crying over this whole time huh Freddie?” Bill chuckled but I just grabbed the letter. I had no time to even be mad at him because once again my mind fogs up with only her.
I couldn’t help but feel relieved and the happiest I felt in a long time. She has forgiven me. Y/N forgave me. That has to be it. Why else would she send me a letter?
“I had a great time with you guys but there’s important matters for me to attend so I have to go to now. Thanks mom the breakfast was amazing as always.”
And with that I sprinted towards my room, locked the door and examined the letter in my hands. It was a bunch of them in here. I went to mine and George’s worktable threw some papers that were on top of it to make room for these letters and carefully opened the envelope.
The first thing that I grabbed was a photo. It was a polaroid of me and Y/N on the Gryffindor common room. Happiness filled my heart when I started remembering this night. I looked at the back of the polaroid and surely enough there was a writing on it.
Fred and Yn on the Gryffindor common room at 1 AM the night she turned 17. Listening to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”. Picture taken by major 3rd wheel George Weasley.
Tears filled my eyes when I remember this night. It was the night I looked at her the way I always should have. Not as a replacement of someone who didn’t care about me.
The next one was also a polaroid photograph but this one I don’t remember being taken. It’s a picture of Y/N teaching me how to play the guitar. I can make up that we are in her dorm but not more as the picture is taken in black and white. I look at the back and surely this one also has a writing on it but the handwriting doesn’t look familiar at all.
A drunken Y/N accompanied by a even drunker Fred trying to play the guitar in the middle of the night. If I fail my charms exam tomorrow I’m killing you both but right now you two look adorable. Picture taken by Cho Chang.
The third one is an actual letter. I chuckle looking at the handwriting. Always so precise and not even one line out of place. I always thought Y/Ns handwriting always contradicts her hot headed persona but it’s actually really cute. I start reading the letter and my heart stops.
Dear Freddie,
I can only imagine the shock that receiving a letter from me would cause you right now especially after our last conversation.
But I have a lot to get off of my chest and I wont be able to move on if I haven’t said it all. Call me a coward but I was really scared to ask you to meet me so I can say it in person, but maybe that’s what I have always been. A coward. A coward because I get scared when someone wants to enter my life, a coward because I hate trying new things at the expense of failing, a coward because I should be able to confront people who brought darkness and sadness to my life.
But one thing I will admit Fred Weasley is that I wasn’t a coward when It came to loving you. It was the first time that I let someone come into my life and heart the way you did, and it will probably be the last. Throughout our “relationship” if you can even call it that as it was more of you customizing me to be her, to be someone I’m not. But that’s why you even talked to me is it, because I reminded you of her.
The signs were right in front of me and I feel stupid enough not to have seen them. But I guess people are right when they say love is blind. Love is such a funny thing to me as the first time I experienced the right kind of love was through you. But that was me creating stuff in my head. You didn’t love me no, you loved the idea of me. But I loved you. I loved you more than anything or anyone I have ever loved, I loved everything about you. But you just don’t listen. You don’t listen to anyone around you. Not George, not your other siblings, not Lee or any of your other friends for that matter, not your professors, but most importantly you don’t listen to me.
You didn’t listen when I told you that the love my parents gave me was only because I reminded them of my brother, the love my old friends back home gave me was one of interest. Everywhere I go no matter who I talk to no one will love me for me. I came to accept that until I met you.
You were funny and crazy and brave and oh so gorgeous. You were basically everything I looked for in… well everything. In a friend or in a partner it doesn’t matter. I thought you saw me for who I am. A broken teenager with issues but that at the end of the day was deserving of love. Oh how wrong I have been but no more wrong than you. You knew this but you just didn’t listen.
That makes us both horrible people now does it. Me who thought you were some kind of savior or some kind of saint and selfishly wrapped myself around your love and you who used me because I remind you of your ex girlfriend who broke your heart. But mine is excused I feel like and yours isn’t.
You would have kept me going for who knows how long just so you can live your imaginations you had for someone else.
Did you think about her the first time we slept together?
Was I not enough for you Freddie?
Was I too clingy too soon?
Is it my hot temper that gets the best of me?
So many questions will be left unanswered on my end because frankly, I never want to speak of you again. Sure I am deprived of love but I will not take it if its not directed directly at me.
I still care about you and will continue to support you and George on whatever you set your mind into. I was waking through Diagon Alley last week and saw this little store with a “for sale” sign. It’s right in the middle of Diagon Alley. I hate how my first thought went that you would have loved it but I seem to do that a lot recently.
I’ll get dressed and think would Fred love this skirt or this shirt.
I start applying lipstick and I’ll think will Fred love this color.
I start eating and I’ll think does this look good enough that Fred would’ve stolen a piece of it when I’m talking to Ginny.
I don’t even know why I am telling you this. How pathetic I’ve become clinging into someone that doesn’t want me.
Anyway I’ve probably bored you enough with my ranting but I wouldn’t have been able to move on unless I said everything that felt heavy on my heart. I also attached some photos I thought you’d like to keep seeing as now you can see yourself with Kayla without having the burden to be near me.
Say hi to your siblings and Harry for me.
Have a nice life,
Y/N
#harry potter#fred x y/n#fred weasley series#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley imagine#fred weasley#fred weasley angst#george weasley#hogwarts#fred and goerge weasley#weasley family#sadnees#i hate this
183 notes
·
View notes
Text
Toss A Coin to Your Witcher
Henry Cavill x Reader
Words: 2,362
I am so so so nervous to post this because this is my first time writing a Henry fic and I know that the Henry Cavill fandom is such a tightknit family, I hope you guys have room for one more hopeless Henry stan. I know this isn’t even half as good as the other Henry fics out there but I had this idea stuck in my head for a very long time.
Please like and reblog or leave me some replies if I should do a second part! Thank you!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The makeup brush swept precisely along your cheekbone, covering it in a subtle shimmer. Production staff milled around behind you, testing sound, testing lights. Being an actor, these things were nothing new.
"Now remember, say it with me,"
"Don't say or do anything stupid." you recited with your long time agent and friend, Marge.
You thanked the makeup artist and made your way to the set.
"When have I ever said or done anything stupid though?" you asked
Marge looked at you appraisingly before replying,
"There's always a time for everything. Now go on."
The vibe on set dialled to a hundred when you stepped on. It was really flattering how they cheered as you plonked your butt down on the wooden chair, a red tarp was set up behind you and the studio lights surrounded the area.
"Ready when you are Y/N!" the producer aka the ring leader of this whole operation flashed you a thumbs up
You nodded, feeling the nervousness bubble up your throat.
Surprise, surprise. You still got nervous in front of the camera. It wasn't hard to handle though, you took a couple of deep breaths and you were good to go.
"Hey guys, gals, and non-binary pals! I'm Y/N Y/L/N. I'm here with Buzzfeed and we're gonna be playing Twenty Questions." you winked at the camera with your arms wrapped around the little jar that had your questions in it
"Let's get started, shall we?"
Eager to begin, you stuck your hand into the jar without a second thought.
"I freaking love Buzzfeed, really. Especially Tasty, I mean, I don't cook. But," you shrugged, wiggling your fingers, hearing the tiny bits of folded paper move around in the jar. "I love watching people cook. Then I love eating."
Scattered chuckles broke out through the crew.
After a few minutes of rustling around, you figured you’d just come clean, "Okay. Small problem."
You lifted your hand, the jar coming along with it. The pieces of folded paper crowding around your encased wrist as you waved your arm.
Another round of shocked giggles started up as a couple of assistants rushed to you and tried to yank the jar off.
"This is too good," the producer chortled, "Mind if we keep this in?"
"Fine by me!" you watched intently as Marge rolled up your sleeve so one assistant could pour oil all over it. Eagle eyed, she watched as a drop of oil landed on the bottom hem of your sweater.
"Great job, Y/N. This sweater was a gift from that designer you met last week, he said he made it just for you." she scolded, taking charge by grabbing the jar with two hands
"It was an accident, Marge. It's not like I planned on getting my hand stuck in a jar today!"
With a tug and a pop, your hand was free and slick with olive oil. Marge landed on her butt on the floor.
"Marge!" you howled with laughter, helping her up
She straightened her blouse, all business but her cheeks were stained red with embarrassment.
"Can someone help Y/N wash the oil off her hands? Let's get this show on the road, people!" she barked marching orders at the staff, clapping her hands as she went. She wasn't in charge here but no one dared to question her.
You chuckled, knowing that this was a cute little anecdote you’d be sharing with anyone who was willing to listen.
A few minutes later, you were back in your chair, having a laugh with everyone. The jar incident already stripped away the majority of your anxiety so you were ready to go.
"Okay! First question!" you squinted at the strip of paper, "What is the most expensive thing you’ve stolen from any set you’ve been on?"
“Well!” you widened your eyes at the camera, “Bold of you all to assume that I’ve ever stolen anything!”
Marge scoffed rather audibly, making everyone raise their eyebrows at you.
“Okay, fine!” you held up your hand. The stunning ring you had on sparkled underneath the lights, nearly blinding anyone who looked.
“I did a period movie a while back and they had these drop dead gorgeous, and I mean gorgeous pieces of jewelry. I wore this piece,” you gazed down at the ring fondly, “for the whole of the film and I just pinched it after we wrapped, I couldn’t part with it, okay? I’m like a fricking magpie, I love shiny things.”
The crew burst into fits of laughter, making you laugh along with them.
“To clarify! This is the replica the props department had made, a very expensive replica. I can see you freaking out, Marge. And no, you don’t have to call the insurance company.”
You were a big hit, to say the least. You had them in stitches every time you opened your mouth but all good things had to come to an end, right?
It didn’t matter how carefully you dipped your hand into the question jar, this next one was going to make things very messy for you.
"What do you like to do in your free time?" you read out loud, tapping a finger against your chin
"There hasn't been much free time lately,” you chuckled, “Let’s see… I play video games, yeah. I am so obsessed with the Witcher, it's borderline unhealthy. I’ve read all the books and played the games so many times."
"What do you think of Henry Cavill as Geralt?" the producer asked you
Henry Cavill.
Just hearing that man's name was enough to make the blood rush to your cheeks. You brushed an imaginary hair out of your face. From behind the camera, Marge raised a knowing brow.
"Well," you cleared your throat and sat up straighter
"To be honest, at first I was really skeptical about his casting. I mean, he is way too good looking. Like way. Way. Too good looking. But…"
"But?"
Your mind drifted to the first time you saw a picture of Henry Cavill in full costume. The white hair, the golden cat eyes, the intense gaze and all that leather? It definitely made you feel… Certain things.
You cleared your throat, propping yourself on the table with your arms. To be honest, your head was still in a Henry Cavill haze so you had zero control of what came out of your mouth next.
"I'd definitely toss all my coins to that Witcher. Toss a few other things as well."
Everyone in the room ooh'ed and whistled, delighted by your saucy reply. The ruckus snapped you out of it and your hand immediately flew to your mouth.
“Please tell me I didn’t just say that out loud.”
“You did.” Marge mouthed at you, trying but failing to contain her laughter
"So you enjoyed his performance as Geralt?" the producer pressed on, hoping to get more audience-raking answers
How many times were you going to blush during this interview?
"Oh, well, about that, I haven't really gotten around to actually watching it.” you admitted sheepishly, “But I've seen photos and some clips. Very impressed by what I've seen so far."
"You will watch it though, right?"
"Oh, absolutely. No way I’d miss out on that! Henry Cavill is an incredibly wonderful, talented actor. I think he’s also a fan of the franchise so I have no doubt that he played Geralt to perfection as with all his other roles." you nodded solemnly, putting a hand to your heart
Everyone in the room with you caught on that you were gushing over the actor, the sly looks they all exchanged with one another were a dead giveaway. Too bad you didn’t notice before you could try and play it cool.
“Alright! I think it’s time for the next question!” you declared, swiftly plucking another question out of the jar
By the time it was all over, you had convinced yourself that your little crush-related blunder wasn’t even a big deal, it would probably just be a little footnote in that video. No biggie.
But, Jesus Christ were you wrong.
The video took a couple of weeks to edit and in that time, you were busier than ever. A movie you had just done was getting a lot of attention, your performance in particular had critics singing your praises. At that point, you were definitely getting noticed a lot more when you stepped out for coffee.
So, the timing was just perfect.
The second the video went live, your phone was going off non stop. Twitter mentions, Instagram tags, and articles. A few notable entries being:
“WATCH: RISING STAR Y/N Y/L/N GUSHES ABOUT HENRY CAVILL IN CHARMING BUZZFEED VIDEO”
“@geraskier-rights: Y/N Y/L/N REALLY SAID SHE’D TOSS ALL HER COINS TO HENRY CAVILL’S GERALT AND WE ALL KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS”
“@geralt-of-vengerberg: Y/N The Fond™ is showing👀👀👀”
Marge sat on your sofa with your phone in hand, absolutely thrilled while reading tweets out loud. You scheduled a panic session with her over lunch once everything blew up.
“Oh my God.” you groaned, massaging your temples. “Marge, what do I do?”
“About what?” she didn’t even bother to look up at you
You plopped yourself down next to her, laying your head in her lap, “All that. It’s everywhere.”
“And? There’s nothing wrong with it, they all think you’re charming and funny. A true Relatable Queen.”
Was it your sanity slipping through your fingers? Or the overpowering embarrassment? You had no idea but whatever it was, it had you laughing until your stomach hurt.
Marge tugged at your hair, “Get it together, bitch. Jeez.”
“What are you so worried about anyway?” she asked, placing your phone on your stomach
You swiped through your emails absentmindedly, “I’m not worried about anything, it’s just that what if…”
You left the words hanging in the air, you might as well have been dangling from a cliff from how much colour drained from your face.
“What if what?”
Marge shoveled some pasta into her mouth before noticing that you essentially turned into a statue right next to her.
“Y/N!” she shook your arm with a grip you were sure would leave some bruises. “What’s the matter?”
Wordlessly, you passed your phone to her, the comment from a certain verified account displayed prominently on Buzzfeed’s Instagram post of a little snippet from your video, the “I’d toss all my coins to that Witcher” part, naturally.
“@henrycavill: Dear Y/N, how many coins are we talking about here? Let’s talk about my reward.”
It was all Marge could do to not throw your phone across the room. Her eyes went wide, following your every move as you paced back and forth, a thumbnail in your mouth.
“That did not just happen, I did not just see that right now. I didn’t.” you babbled, your heart beating thunderously in your chest
There it went. Your very own ticking time bomb finally went off. Number of casualties? Just one. You.
“Okay. Just calm down, Y/N.” Marge caught you mid-pace, squeezing your arms
“Maybe it was a fan account. Tell me it was a fan account, Marge. Henry Cavill did not just hear me imply what I implied.” you grasped at her hand with your clammy one
“Well if he has a fan account that’s verified and has fourteen point five million followers?”
“Oh god.” you groaned, sinking to the floor and hugging your knees
“Oh, Christ.”
Marge hauled you to your feet and thrust your phone in your hand. She looked you hard in the eye, “Stop your whining and answer him. You’re Y/N fucking Y/L/N, one of the hottest people on the planet, start acting like it.”
You stared at her, eyes wide. Your chest rose and fell rapidly. Marge’s words started to make sense in your mind and adrenaline started surging through your veins. You nodded fervently, psyching yourself up.
“Fuck yeah.” you breathed, clicking ‘Reply’
“@yourinstagram: @henrycavill I know you take orens, crowns, and florens but maybe we should discuss further?”
Before you could even stop yourself (did you even want to?), your fingers already landed on the blue paper plane.
“I did it.” you exhaled, staring as the likes and overly enthusiastic replies started pouring in
“Fuck yeah, you did. Now, come on. Leave your phone. We’re getting drunk.”
More weeks passed and you actually ended up forgetting about that little reply you left Henry Cavill. You were busier than ever. Guestings, endorsement deals, and awards shows left and right. So, when you finally had a couple of days free, you decided you would set up camp on your sofa and finally watch Henry Cavill as Geralt of Rivia.
You even threw on your Superman pyjamas, “What the hell.” you shrugged
If you were going down this road, you might as well do it right. Maybe you would even watch the Man from U.N.C.L.E after or would it be Night Hunter? The decision would have to wait.
You watched, absolutely riveted as the White Wolf battled against the kikimora, his silver sword hacked at the creature with unmatched expertise. You were only a few minutes in but you already knew you’d be stuck on that sofa for hours.
When the kikimora had Geralt pinned underwater with his trusty sword just beyond arm’s reach, you found yourself on the edge of your seat, one of your cushions in a chokehold.
“Come on, come on, come on.” you muttered as Geralt reached for his sword
You wouldn’t find out if he got it or not. A knock on your door literally made you fall off the sofa.
“Fuck!” you exclaimed, your hip was already smarting from the impact
Whoever that asshole was, you swore you were going to give him a piece of your mind. You stomped to your front door just as that idiot started knocking again.
You huffed and threw the door open then your mind immediately went blank.
“I am so sorry. Are you alright? I think I heard you fall?”
Oh yeah. You were definitely falling.
----------------------------------------------------------
You can find the second part here!
#henry cavill#geralt of rivia#the witcher#the man from uncle#night hunter#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill fic#henry cavill imagine#fanfiction#henry william dalgliesh cavill#cavillry
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Long Last Summer
[B. Barnes] Oneshot
40s Post-War AU
Summary:
With Steve off in America again, Bucky finds himself doing his own version of a USO tour through Italy, boosting morale and friendship, or so they tell him. However, a new stationing in the tiny town of Montecarra gives him more reason to want to stay, when he becomes quickly whisked away by wild, carefree and exuberant you.
Warnings: language, smut, mentions of the war, awful awful Italian probably. The reader has a name, but it's still written as a reader insert.
Note: The reader/character in this fic is a black woman. This fic was originally uploaded elsewhere, so if you're a part of the small audience who read it originally please don't panic, it isn't stolen lol. The story is almost entirely spoken in Italian, but doing italics for every conversation was annoying, so just assume that unless otherwise stated! Thank you for reading!
Words: 19.5k [This is very long.... Sorry...]
The hot Italian sun beats down on the town below, the occasional breeze carried overland from the nearby ocean to the west might have been a blessing if that too weren’t humid and warm. Bucky Barnes thinks it should be a sin for it to be so hot so early in the morning, but he’s long past complaining about it. Leaning against his car door, stopped on a hill overlooking the town of Montecarra, Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette before stomping it out. At least he hadn’t woken up in a filthy, sweltering trench, surrounded by hot bodies after another restless night of gunfire filled dreams. At least he was only required to wear his uniform during official ‘work’ hours.
Giving the town, his newest home, one last look, Bucky gets back in the car and makes his way down.
Being a core member of The Howling Commandos these past years, Bucky had earned himself a certain amount of celebrity, both in America and abroad. Especially in Italy. Given that Steve had returned to the States already, and Bucky had expressed some minor interest in staying in Europe a while longer, Colonel Phillips had happily assigned him as a ‘morale liaison’ while the US and other allies sorted out the peace treaties and demilitarisation of Europe.
It made as much sense to Bucky then as it did now. He had come to realise that ‘morale liaison’ was just jargon for ‘dancing, handshaking, smiling, posing monkey’, seeing as most of his time the past two years had been spent shaking hands while smiling and posing for various photos. Usually with politicians. Bucky hated politicians.
Luckily, his newest post, Montecarra, was far more what Bucky had thought he’d be doing when Phillips had given him his orders; helping people rebuild and reclaim their lives in a post-fascist Italy. As he drives through the small town, Bucky thinks briefly that the bulk of it seemed to be almost entirely untouched by the war, the classic Italian architecture and warm coloured buildings homey and welcoming, the cobbled stone streets and walkways looking every part the idyllic Tuscan town, but then he sees it.
Toward the edges of town, Bucky’s eyes catch on a shattered stone building, utterly destroyed. It’s a small ways from the town itself, a little field between it and the nearest houses, and he can’t help but already feel grateful for the fact it looked to be the only place that had been hit by the violence, though he doesn’t deny the unseen scars that no doubt linger on the people themselves.
He quickly looks away and continues on to his residence.
There was no army base or fortifications in Montecarra, the nearest being in Florence, but The people had kindly offered up a small, newly unowned cottage for the military to house any visiting soldiers in during their stay. When he finally gets to be shown around by the nearest neighbour, a friendly older woman, he’s glad that for the time being, he has it to himself.
He gets himself settled, partially unpacks his bags before getting bored and making his way out to the blooming garden, camera in hand. It had been a gift from Steve, sent for his birthday the previous year when the two had not been able to reunite, and although Bucky had much preferred putting pencil to paper before he’d owned his own camera, he’d found in recent months, as the cold receded and the sun came out, he’d picked up a knack for photography.
The fact that this model was an ‘instant’ model, making it so that after each photo he took, a little slip of paper would spit out and slowly develop the image, certainly aided his newfound love for the hobby. When he had been a kid, his Ma would take the family to have their pictures taken once a year, and the results always took days or weeks.
Lifting the camera to his eye, Bucky peeks through and aims it at a tall bushel of bougainvillea, the bright red against the butter-coloured walls of his cottage making him wish the photos weren’t just black and white.
He snaps a few more floral shots, wondering absently if he’ll be able to buy more photo paper in town. With the sun still high in the sky, he decides that he may as well take a short walk, if not to introduce himself to some of the locals, then to answer his question.
Honestly, the unendingly friendly reception he’d received everywhere he went never ceased to surprise him. Two years ago Italy had been the enemy or the soldiers and government at least. For the most part, the people caught in the crossfire had been weary and scared, but helpful where they could be to Allied soldiers. Still, the warmth they seemed to hold him, and other allied soldiers with was always a little startling at first.
By the time he makes it to the centre of town, he’d been kissed on his cheeks more times than he could count, but interestingly, the people of Montecarra weren’t as clingy as he’d found some other towns and cities… After greeting him, they’d happily left him alone, though with numerous and repeated offers to have him for dinner.
Once unable to stand doing nothing at all, and always on the go, the young man Bucky had once been, had evolved into a quieter, more solitary version of himself. He still liked to have fun, mind you, he’d learnt to take enjoyment and pleasure where he could in the army, but his sniper’s life had taught him contentedness with his own company. Bucky was fine being alone, without chatter or noise to distract him. He’d come to prefer it, actually.
Bucky finds that Montecarra’s central space was a large set of four courtyards, separated by various important municipal buildings and shops, and at the centre point, an old communal well that had been made into a fountain. Without thinking, Bucky lifts his camera to snap a shot of the fountain. He loved New York more than anything, and he couldn’t wait to return home, but damn if he hadn’t fallen hard for European architecture.
He’s still waving the little piece of photo paper back and forth to help it develop when loud laughter and the familiar noise of children playing reaches his ears. It startles him slightly, Montecarra wasn’t exactly sleepy, but it was quiet, and the residence all seemed to be of an older sort, he hadn’t seen many children yet, though a look at his watch tells him that might have been due to school.
A small gaggle of children of various ages come skipping into view across from the fountain, chatting loudly and seemingly unaware of the previous peace that had reigned in the town square. Unlike in New York, however, Bucky notices not a single patron of the nearby outdoor restaurant throws them dirty looks or hisses at them to quiet down, if anything, the people nearby pause to watch for a few seconds, not with disdain written on their faces, but soft, gentle smiles, before they return to their business.
A voice calling out from the back of the group, noticeable for its maturity in comparison to the children’s voices, catches Bucky’s attention and he lets his gaze skip over the scene until it lands on you, and suddenly, he’s breathless.
Bucky Barnes had seen a lot of beautiful women in his time, and had been lucky enough to know a number of them too, but you, you are something else entirely.
It’s your smile he notices first, plush rosy brown lips pulled wide in a joyful grin, so magnetising he finds himself unable to look away. Your hair is long, curly and dark, brushed into waves that the humidity and breeze seemed set on ruining, and with one hand you secure your wide brim sun hat as you chase the kids. Your white blouse is laced around the open collar and both it and the bright yellow of your skirt stand out against your syrupy brown skin, smooth and a little shiny from the sun.
“Here! Roberto, Norma, come sit here a moment! Look at the fountain!” You beckon the children, two strays in particular, over toward the fountain, and much like Bucky, the kids seem magnetised to you as well. You float right up to the water, sitting on the edge as the children all gather around, still chatting and playing loudly, though a little more orderly now.
Bucky watches you swipe a hand through the cool water, smiling and speaking animatedly with one of the children. He wonders if you were perhaps their teacher, but he’s snapped away from his thoughts a moment later.
“That man has a camera! Look!”
Bucky blinks, tearing his eyes from you, even as the children, and you, all now turn your attention to him in varying shades of wonderment. He’s still a small distance away, but it doesn’t matter as not even a second later, he’s being swamped by the pack of energetic youngsters.
“Are you a photographer?!”
“Can I see it?!”
“Will you take my picture!?”
The last request sets off a frenzy, the rest of the children all joining in to ask for their picture taken, and honestly, Bucky doesn’t even think he has enough paper for that.
“Hey! Mascalzoni! Leave the poor man alone!” You appear then, hands on your hips, not even two meters away and Bucky thinks he could faint.
“Oh, they’re—” He cuts himself off, switching to Italian.
“They’re fine, really… I just don’t think I have the photo paper for it…” He explains, trying his best to look you in the eye, but not quite making it. You cock your head in sympathy, and clap once, getting the children’s attention once more.
“Come on, stop it. Can’t you see you’ve scared him?!” You say playfully, though Bucky wants to correct that it isn’t them he’s scared of.
“How are we supposed to get more tourists to Montecarra if you’re all scaring them away, huh?!” You continue, crossing your arms and the kids seem to relent somewhat, whining a little as they back up from Bucky. You give him another, apologetic smile.
“Come along, you all better get home before your mothers’ tan your hides!” You say, making a shooing motion that makes Bucky second-guess his teacher theory. Before any of them can begin to move though, he takes half a step forward, holding up his camera.
“Wait, I can— I can take a photo of you all together…” He says, and watches as even your face lights up, though as the children all begin to excitedly gather in front of the fountain, you step away, to his side.
“You don’t want to be in it?” He asks, throwing you a sideways glance and yep, you’re still just as pretty as before. You smile and shake your head.
“No. Not this time.” he doesn’t know what you mean by that, but focuses back on the children, raising the camera and snapping a shot of the children, smiling brightly.
Chaos ensues once again when the paper pops out of the bottom, further exciting the group as Bucky attempts to hold the picture out of their reach while it develops, unable to stop himself from chuckling at how spirited they were. It had been a long time since he’d seen any kid so carefree. Perhaps that was why the townspeople were so unphased by their noise earlier.
After the picture is passed around for all to see, you clear your throat and jerk your head away again.
“Go on, clear out now.” Far more happily the children bid each other goodbye, a few moving in pairs or trios as they split off in separate directions.
Bucky is all too aware that you’re still standing near him, and he focuses on cleaning his camera lens with his sleeve.
“Thank you.” You say kindly, with a slight bow of your head, and he finds himself shrugging and shaking his head.
“It’s alright, really.” he pauses, and then;
“Are you their teacher?” He doesn’t expect the surprised laugh you let out, shaking your own head vigorously.
“Hell no. I don’t have the patience for that! We were just walking the same way.” Bucky blinks, not expecting your language, though he finds it endearing, a little more grounding. He laughs.
“I see.”
“You’re the soldier, yes? From America?” The subject change catches him out for a moment, but he’s nodding a moment later.
“Sergeant James Barnes, ma’am.” He almost salutes, doesn’t and then thinks better of it, giving you one anyway. You cock your head at him, an amused smile pulling at your lips.
“I thought soldiers wore uniforms?” You fold your hands in front of you, and Bucky blinks, down at his casual civilian clothes, and then back at you.
“Oh, I, well, I do, but only when I’m working, these days…” You laugh good-naturedly at his awkward delivery.
“I was only teasing. I’ve heard from Rome that soldiers spend just as much time out of their uniforms as in them.” You say it easily, with a playful chuckle, but the risque connotations don’t go over his head, his eyebrows lifting high in his surprise.
Were you… flirting…? Or was this just how you were?
“Well, Sergeant Barnes, it was lovely to meet you.” You’re stepping back, giving him another smile (were you always smiling? He wants to know, now), and a little wave before you begin to turn. Bucky flounders at your fast retreat and panics.
“Uh, wait!” You look back, and he swallows.
“What’s… what’s your name?” You chuckle and push your hair behind your shoulder.
“Cristina.” You tell him and he repeats it, trying to roll the ‘r’ like you do, which makes you laugh again.
“People usually just call me Nina.” You offer a moment later and Bucky nods, before giving you his own, more commonly used nickname.
“Bucky?” You repeat, almost unsure, but when he nods, mouth dry at hearing his name on your lips, you smile and nod.
“Bucky. I will see you around, Bucky.” And with that, he watches dumbly, awestruck in his place as you float out of the plaza.
—-
The warm breeze carries through the open windows of your house, sending the scents from the kitchen below wafting around the rooms. You’d already finished your work for the day, and the chores your mother assigned you, and with a slight pep in your step, you finish tying the scarf around your hair and grab your book.
“Mama? I’m going to read!” You call out, pausing for a moment to listen for her reply. You hear a faint humming above the radio and quickly take your leave, skipping down the front steps of your home and out of the walled front courtyard.
Montecarra is hot and warm, like it had been every other day this week, but you don’t mind. The streets you pass through on the way to your nook are quiet, with only the occasional Nonna in her garden, or returning from the markets. There had been more people here once, a long time ago, and in your childhood days you remember visitors, passing through and admiring your home on their way to other places. You missed that deeply, but push it from your mind, trying not to sour your day at the thought of your already sleepy town becoming sleepier.
You reach your normal place quickly, little plaza toward the outskirts of town, many of the houses here empty now. One of the homes, a double storied one like your own, has a tall garden wall that sits in the shade of the tall tree behind it. Midway through the wall, high enough to take some effort to climb, sit a series of three empty archways, glassless windows that give a view of the overgrown garden within, and from the other side of the little square beyond.
Nobody came to this part of town, not anymore, and in recent years, you’d found it the perfect place to sit unbothered. Tucking your book under your arm, you hitch your skirt up a little, and use one of the roots that climbs and decorates the wall with green ivy as a foothold. The archway isn’t high, but you certainly couldn’t get to it without a little help.
Once situated, you lean back against the pillar, bringing your feet up in front of you, and rest your book against your thighs and knees. You lose yourself quickly in the words, devouring the stories of far away places, detectives and mystery and murder. When the Nazi’s had been here, you hadn’t been allowed to freely enjoy such things. You’d been hidden away, scared everyday would be your last, but it had never come. They had left, and you had been safe again once more.
It was why you enjoyed sitting outside, in the sun and warm, basking in a world that was purely yours again.
Well, not just yours.
A quiet, but pointed cough makes you jump slightly, and you whip your head to find the source, shutting your book on instinct before your eyes find him, and you smile.
“Good Afternoon, Sergeant Barnes!” You greet, and the man returns your smile, lifting his hand briefly. You had known he was coming of course, your whole town did. He was helping the men rebuild the old schoolhouse, though he seemed to have finished that task for the day, as you had finished yours.
He was a handsome man, with dark hair and blue eyes, his pale skin lightly tanned on his face and arms from days in the Italian sun. He was young, though older than you, likely nearing his late twenties if you were correct. You hadn’t known who he was during the war, but afterwards, you’d had plenty of newspaper fodder to read. You think most of it must have been trash though, because the man the magazines and gossip columns had labelled as a charming, suave ladies man could not be the same one that stood before you now.
“Bucky. Bucky is fine, Senora Cristina.” He replies, his eyes dropping a little as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Well then you must call me Nina.” You reply, keeping up your smile for when he looks back at you. When he realises you haven’t looked away from him, he quickly averts his gaze again, but clears his throat and looks around the empty plaza, waving a hand.
“Quiet spot?” He asks, and you turn from where your back is pressed against the brick, swinging your legs over the side of the wall to face him properly. You nod.
“Yes. The people who lived in this part left. We don’t know if they’ll come back or…” You trail off, pursing your lips briefly, but shake your head. No. No time to dwell.
“It’s a good place to come to be alone.”
“Oh, I can— I can leave if you’d lik—” Bucky’s face falls into anxiety stricken concern as he gestures with his thumb toward the little road you think he must have come from, but you cut him off quickly, laughing.
“I was not attempting to chase you away!” You tell him, and he drops his hand back to his side. For a few seconds he just looks at you, like he’s unsure of what to say, and so you fill the silence the best you can.
“How do you like Montecarra?” Bucky nods quickly, his body language immediately relaxing somewhat. You wonder if you make him nervous because he’s unsure how to speak to women, or if it might be something else.
“It’s beautiful. I haven’t been able to stop looking, you know? We don’t have towns like this where I’m from.” You smile at his clear enthusiasm, and cock your head. You’d never been to America, you’d never even really been more than a few miles from your home, so you can’t imagine what towns must look like there.
“The people are friendly, I mean, everyone is friendly everywhere, but the people here are… they don’t seem to want to be around me twenty-four-seven.” He adds, and then clamps his mouth shut, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to. You think maybe he hasn’t been around friends in a while. You shrug, and chortle.
“Oh, that’s just how we are. My Papa used to say that in the cities, nobody can leave each other alone because they don’t make real connections… but here and other small towns, we’re all we have, and after a while, you just get sick of each other.”
Bucky laughs, loudly and heartily, and you think it is a lovely sound. He says something in English, you think you hear ‘christ’, but he sobers, still smiling.
“I’d say that’s about right.”
“Though, you should be wary of signora Cavalli… she’s like a venus flytrap, you know?” You say seriously, but with a conspiratorial edge so that he knows you are only mostly joking. Bucky cocks his head in confusion, but chuckles.
“A what?!”
“A venus flytrap! You know! It’s a plant that looks all bright and colourful, but when bugs land on it it snaps shut!” You clap your hands together in demonstration.
“And then it eats them.”
“Are you… are you telling me signora Cavalli is going to eat me?” Bucky asks, eyebrows high and you take a moment to dramatically look him over.
“No. I don’t think you are her type. But she will start a conversation that will not end until either you or her dies, and trust me, she’s really old.” Bucky laughs again, hand on his belly this time, his head thrown back again, and you can’t help but break ‘character’ to laugh with him.
“Right. Avoid signora Cavalli. Gotcha.” He says as he calms, and again, he seems to have relaxed even more, the little pull that you had noticed between his brow yesterday, and earlier, even when he wasn’t frowning, had all but disappeared.
“Sounds like I need your guidance here. Clearly.” He continues, and you can’t help but feel excited by the prospect. You nod vigorously, and hop down from your ledge.
“Oh, definitely. I have lived here my whole life, I know all there is to know!” You tuck your book back under your arm and step nearer.
“I can show you around! There is more to Montecarra than there looks!” You pause and shrug.
“Well, a little more, at least.” Bucky appears torn for a moment, his face scrunching back into a polite concern as he holds his hands up.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, signora, I mean, Nina…” You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, signore, but there isn’t exactly anybody else my age around here… really you’d be doing me the favour…” He opens his mouth, but you quickly beckon him in a direction before he can argue, and you hear a faint sigh, and a few seconds later he’s matching your easy pace.
“I did notice that, actually…” He confirms, and you feel his gaze on the side of your face. His hands are back in his pockets, and he walks a respectable distance next to you.
“Well, there weren’t all that many to begin with but all the boys went off to fight, and the girls either got married and moved away, or left to study somewhere else.” You try to keep your voice light and airy, try not to betray your jealousy or sadness.
You had wanted to move to Paris and study, or London, anywhere, but the shadows of war had already begun, and it had been too uncertain. Looking back, you were reluctantly glad you had not been elsewhere. Your mother had needed you too much.
You come to another small courtyard, with a large tree at its center. It was one of the oldest in the town, and this part of the village had been built around it, as was obvious from the uneven and cracked stone ground, where the roots had grown large and disruptive.
You sling a hand around the trunk, slowly circling it in a careful swing, and Bucky oddly does the same, moving opposite you, so you are always on different sides. Oftentimes you were called childish or immature by others in Montecarra, though they never meant you harm by it. You were young at heart, and always would be. You know it was not proper for young women your age to be so restless, but you couldn’t sit still. Even just walking normally was a little boring after a while. You think it’s nice that this American man doesn’t ask you to stop or to stand still.
“You didn’t though?” Bucky asks, and then hurries to clarify.
“Get married or move away, I mean.” You chortle and lean a little further forward to see his face better as you both continually circle the tree.
“I was not good enough in school,” You lie.
“And no man would have me.” You laugh as you say it, not really meaning it. When there had been boys around Montecarra, you’d had no shortage of prospects, though how many of them would have actually married you was another question entirely.
Bucky scoffs, making an odd noise in his throat, and he fixes you with a look of disbelief.
“Well I know that can’t be right…” You smile, but look away at his kind words, before another thought hits you, and you stop moving, holding onto either side of the tree as you lean around it slightly.
“Montecarra must be exceptionally boring for you.”
Bucky stops moving too, and instead leans his side against the trunk, arms crossing over his chest as he looks down at you casually, eyebrow raised in question.
“To be in such a small town, with no women who aren’t married. Compared to Paris or Rome, I mean.”
You gasp suddenly then, and quickly switch sides, making Bucky have to turn too, and you can’t suppress your cheeky grin.
“Unless of course it’s married women who you’re after. No need to worry about commitment there.” You wiggle your eyebrows and Bucky’s face turns into a molten mess of amusement and bashfulness, sprinkled with pink cheeks.
He uncrosses his arms awkwardly and clears his throat uncomfortably, and you chortle, shaking your head. There was certainly part of him you could see being charming and suave, but for the most part, Sergeant James Barnes just seemed sweet. Eventually he just laughs too, also shaking his head, and he looks off for a moment, before he carefully turns to mirror your hold on the tree, leaning just slightly around it to look at you.
He still wears a coy look of meekness when he shrugs.
“You’re a woman who isn’t married, aren’t you?” He says softly, carefully, as if he’s not sure how you will respond, and does not wish to offend.
Offence is the last reaction in your mind though, instead you feel as if the world stops for a moment, and all that exists is you, this man, and the tree between you. Despite the carefulness of his words, his expression is a little harder, his gaze locked on yours more intense and you have to force yourself to look away, pulling back from the tree just to catch your breath and your rapidly beating heart.
Perhaps Sergeant James Barnes was sweet, but Bucky Barnes was a little more savoury than that. Suddenly, some of the things you’d read make more sense, and you find yourself reconsidering your interactions. Had he specifically sought you out? Or had he just been wandering and it was a happy coincidence. You lean toward the latter but perhaps he had hoped to see you again after your brief meeting yesterday?
You wipe these thoughts from your mind as Bucky too steps away from the tree, and fix him with an innocent smile and a shrug of your shoulder as you begin stepping backwards, ready to move along.
“I am.” You say simply, unsure of what else you even could say, but the moment seems to pass, and Bucky finally tears his eyes from you, watching his step as he makes to follow you again, down another narrow street.
You make light small talk with him as you move into busier parts of town, still a little shaken from his flirting (if that was what it was). He doesn’t seem to mind, and you realise you don’t need to fill the silence all of the time. He seems content to just look and watch, but when you do speak, to tell him something, or point out a particular shop, he listens carefully.
When you make it to one of the central courtyards of Montecarra, near the fountain where you had met him yesterday, you see that the afternoon sellers have set up at the market stalls where you’d been only this morning, helping sell. Jobs and money were hard to come by in your town, everything was so small and insular, and in the aftermath of the war, people had cared less about money to pay for goods and services, but rather taking care of each other in any way they could.
You were luckier than most towns, you’d been spared the massive damage of other places, but with resources still low, and many people still getting back on their feet, feeding each other had become a community job. Bakers would gladly accept trade for their bread, and doing chores or work for others had become a reliable way to not only give back but to earn too. The shops that had managed to remain open were supportive where they could be, and it made your heart swell several sizes to know that the war had not driven your people apart.
Bucky seems to take in the sights and smells of the markets with a dreamily like gaze, his eyes roaming over the leftover morning breads, some meats and vegetables that had not been bought or traded earlier in the week and where now for sale far cheaper.
Your stomach growls, reminding you that you have not yet eaten since your breakfast, and you groan. Usually you’d have set off home for lunch, or brought something with you, before returning to your nook, but being with Bucky had distracted you.
He looks down at you in response to your groan and you scrunch your nose.
“I would suggest we eat, but I left my purse at home.” You explain. Bucky blinks, and looks over at the food, then back at you.
“If you’re hungry, I can, I have my—” You tune him out accidentally as your mind conjures up a thought, and stop suddenly, reaching out and grabbing Bucky’s arm in excitement. He stops speaking and stares down at you.
“I have a better idea…!” You say, grinning widely, and he cocks his head, looking slightly hesitant.
You release his arm only to grab the rolled sleeve of his shirt, pulling him along after you down a sidetreet.
“What— Where are we going…?” He asks, and then continues.
“And why do I feel like it’s going to be trouble?” You laugh loudly, and throw him a look over your shoulder, releasing his sleeve at last when you’ve led him through a maze of tiny alleys and narrow streets and out to the edge of town, near the main road he’d driven in on.
“Trust me.” You say, drawing out the words long and sing-songy.
“Give me reason to…” He mutters, but when you look over at him again, you can see he’s only playing the part of exasperated, his lips pulled up in the corners, and his eyes amused.
He follows you as you lead him up a long road, well away from town and towards where the fields and fields of orchards and vineyards begin. When you veer off the side of the road, toward one of the wooden fences, he stops.
“What are you doing?” He asks, a little more nervous than before, and you turn to face him fully.
“We’re going into the orchard to pick some fruit.” He fixes you with a squinted stare.
“Something tells me that we’re not supposed to do that…” You roll your eyes.
“Nobody will know. Besides, we’ll only take a few.” You bat your eyelashes the best you can manage and watch his resolve crumble. When he sighs, hanging his head while shaking it, you know you’ve got him, so you smile widely and quickly return to making your way up the fence.
Bucky at first seems concerned with you climb, moving quickly over to attempt to lend you a hand, but you hardly need it, lifting your skirt and easily scaling the posts before you land on the other side. Bucky stares at you for a moment longer, before planting his hands on the top piece of wood, and in one large jump, vaults the thing entirely.
You laugh at the sight, and cock your head.
“They teach you that in the army?” You tease, leading him away from where you might be spotted by the road, and into the thick rows of trees.
“Brooklyn, actually.” He tells you, and you spy him repeatedly looking over his shoulder and around, as if suspecting some kind of ambush. You pause, nearly causing him to walk into you, and put your hand on his arm again.
“Nobody is out here. It gets too hot in the afternoons, so they do all their daily harvesting in the mornings.” Bucky stares down at you, the little crease between his brows returning, but he nods at your words anyway.
Turning away from him, you once more gather up part of your skirt, lifting it well above a decent length, to use as a basket of sorts as you start inspecting some of the goods on ‘offer’.
“The peaches are especially good this time of year.” You say over your shoulder, reaching out to gently squeeze a few hanging from the nearest tree.
“I— What…?” Bucky asks, and when you look back at him, you see the vague pinkness back in his cheeks and refrain from rolling your eyes. Instead, you plaster on an innocent smile and hold up one of the fruits you’d plucked from the branch.
“The peaches. They’re very ripe right now. Montecarra always has the juiciest peaches. You can’t eat them without getting your fingers and mouth all sticky.” You look away then, placing the peach into your skirt and fight yourself to keep from laughing. Bucky remains quiet behind you, until you hear him let out a slightly shaky breath.
“Jesus fucking christ…” He mumbles in English, and you wipe the grin from your face before he can see it, as he finally steps closer to join you.
You end up with a nice collection of peaches, apples and some figs. You don’t take much, just a few, and by the time you’re walking the road back into town, your grumbling stomach is sated. You spent a few hours walking along the rows of trees, just talking and eating.
Before you properly enter Montecarra, Bucky tosses your peach pits, and you watch them fly through the air and disappear into some of the empty fields beyond. He looks down at you with a rather cute, proud and expectant smile, and you nod, clapping just slightly.
“Perhaps they will grow and we will have our own orchard.” You tell him, and he sniffs in amusement.
“Or we’ll have to explain where we got the seeds from in the first place.”
“Or that.” You laugh, nudging his side.
You notice he’d stopped keeping quite as large a distance between you when you walked, though you don’t know if it was conscious or not. The late afternoon sun bathes Montecarra in orange and red and shadows, and by the time you’ve walked across town to where you live, the sunset is well and truly in motion.
Sensing your time has come to an end, Bucky slows slightly, stopping when you turn back to him, and point to your house.
“I live here.” You tell him, and he shoves his hands in his pockets with a nod.
“My mama will expect me to help with dinner.” You explain further, though you aren’t sure why. You didn’t need a reason to part with him, it was early evening now and you’d spent the better half of five hours walking and talking and stealing fruit together.
You see Bucky’s eyes drift behind you, past the open archway of the wall that held your home behind it, and then back to you.
“Thanks for showing me around today. You didn’t have to.” He says and you smile, but shrug.
“Of course.”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer before he nods, pulling a hand from his pocket to give you a parting wave.
“Goodnight.” He says softly, and turns, beginning to make his way back.
You step forward without thinking too much and call out, making him pause and look back at you.
“I— I work in the mornings, but you can always find me at the same place, where I was reading today. From about midday on. I’m always there… if you ever want to see me again.” You try to play it off cooler than you feel, shrugging a bit and giving him a nonchalant grin, but he only watches you.
Just as you start to feel discomfort creep in her shifts, dipping his chin slightly and cocking his head.
“I would like to see you again.” He says at last, and it’s just like earlier, around the tree. You feel a thick tension form between you, and even though he’s several meters away from you now, you feel like he may as well have been directly in front of you.
All you can manage is a nervous chuckle, dropping your eyes to the floor and anxiously tucking some hair behind your ear.
“Okay.” You say, and he must take that as your approval, because he smiles softly, and gives you one last parting nod before he walks away.
You watch him go for longer than you’d like to admit, right up until he disappears and you hear your mama call you from the front door.
—-
You see Bucky most days. After you had finished with your daily workload, you would return as normal to your little archway, only pretending to read until Bucky arrived. Sometimes he would bring his own book, and sit beside you in one of the opposite arches, but most days you spent walking aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing.
He would tell you about New York city, describing the streets and the buildings and the people in such detail you could see it in your mind. He’d show you pictures of places he’d been, other cities and towns in Italy and France and you’d been unable to keep from fawning dramatically over each.
You’d been warned by a few of the older local ladies, that American soldiers were notorious for the dalliances with girls, they’d have them and leave them, moving on to the next place as if it were nothing. But Bucky is different, you think. You weren’t so naive to think a man set on simply chasing what he wanted would change for just you, but Bucky never showed intention to chase. Not really.
He was kind, and sweet, and he never spoke to impress you like you’d seen with some boys before. He listened to you, asked for your opinions on subjects you spoke about and never assumed that you weren’t informed. You had revealed your love for reading to him, and he’d not complained once when you’d ranted for far too long about the plot of your newest book.
He never even tried to hold your hand, which was beginning to trouble you. You had given him plenty of opportunity, walking accidentally too close, and brushing your hand by his just slightly. He’d always apologised or ignored it, and you were becoming frustrated. It was not as if his flirting had stopped, when the opportunity arose he’d coyly spout sweet things that made your stomach churn something awful.
You look up from the page you’d been staring at for the past ten minutes without really seeing it, and blink. Perhaps you were wrong and he was just this way all of the time… but then you remember the moments of intense eye contact when he’d look at you and it felt like nothing else in the world existed at all.
No. no, you decide that perhaps you will have to give him a little push.
“Has d’Artagnan won the heart of Lady Constance yet? Or is love dead?” The voice, his voice, startles you so much you squeak, whipping around to find where Bucky has situated himself against the same wall your archway sits in, leaning on one shoulder with his arms crossed over his chest.
Today he hadn’t changed from his morning’s work, and you have to simply give yourself a moment to take in his uniform. It wasn’t the dress greens you’d seen on men in the newspapers, instead he wears a greeny-brown colour, the material slightly thicker in appearance, rougher almost. In lieu of the long dress coat, he wears a jacket that ends just over where you imagine his belt might be, cinching in his form rather nicely. His shirt bears the same colour as his suit, but his tie is a familiar khaki. Pins and medals and ribbons adorn his chest and you want to inspect each one up close, but you refrain.
“Didn’t mean to scare ya, sweetheart.” He flashes a smile, letting you know he’d noticed your long, admiring stare. Sunglasses cover his own eyes, refusing you access to their cool colour, and you hope he takes them off. Your mouth feels dry but you force yourself to shift to face him, hanging your legs over the side of the wall once more.
“Startled is not scared.” You correct, and watch as he pushes off from the wall casually, making his way to where you sit. He’s tall enough that should he so wish, he could climb into your archway no problem, but he doesn’t, simply resting his folded arms on the ledge next to your legs, looking up at you. At this angle, you can see behind his glasses, to where his eyes fixate on your face.
“You didn’t answer my question?” He probes and you have to think back, unsure of what he’d even asked you.
“Has d’Artagnan won over Lady Constance yet?” He reminds you, reaching out to pluck your copy of The Three Musketeers from your lap and study the cover.
“No, I was going to read more last night but the power went out again and I don’t trust myself not to fall asleep with a candle burning.” You sigh, pushing some hair from your eyes. Bucky places the book gently back down and hums.
“Did you come straight from work?” You ask, switching the subject, and as if he doesn’t notice his clothing, he peeks down at himself briefly, before he cocks his head and gifts you another grin.
“What, can’t a guy wear his uniform around a gal to impress her?” He counters, clearly joking. You scoff anyway and lightly shove his arm.
“I think I’m sick of military uniforms…” You had meant it as a continuation of his joke, but you mean the words far too much to avoid the melancholy that seeps in.
You force yourself to look away, and take a few deep breaths.
Bucky had gotten around to asking you the obvious question of how you, with your brown skin and ‘ethnic’ features, had not suffered during the war. You told him the truth; that your neighbours had hidden you and your mother in attics and basements for nearly five years.
He’d been quiet and pensive on your answer, before telling you he understood why you spent so much time in the ridiculously hot sun. He’d made you laugh, something that you hadn’t ever thought you could do when speaking about your time during the war.
A hand gently, feather-light, curls over your own in your lap, and it takes everything in you not to jump. When you look back at him, his features are sad and serious and he gives your fingers a squeeze.
“Me too, darlin’.”
You want to say something, to maybe turn your hand over and feel his palm against yours, but before you can he removes it from yours, pushing back off the wall.
“I had an idea earlier, when we were clearing the rubble away.” He extends his arm to you, waiting patiently for you to make the short jump down from your perch. Linking your arm with his, he turns you to begin walking, but reaches out and plucks your book from you, tucking it into his jacket.
“An idea? I’m not helping with the mess…” You tease, and he gives you a sideways look.
“No. Riccardo said if I were truly suffering so much in the heat, I should go to the beach.” You perk immediately, gasping softly. You hadn’t been to the beach in so long.
“The beach!” You repeat, and Bucky grins, pride showing clearly through at his effort to delight you.
“I was thinking we could grab my camera, and head on down for the afternoon. I don’t think I have anything to swim in but even just dipping my toes…” You’re already nodding frantically, pulling away from his arm as you clap and do a little jump. You really couldn’t help it, you hadn’t been down to the water in many years.
“Yes! Though, did he tell you how long a walk it was? We should be careful of it getting too dark, my mama has already started—”
“—We can just drive.” Bucky shrugs, and you pause, blinking. Yes, you knew he had a car the army lent him, you’d seen it once or twice even but…
“I’ve…” You trail off and stop speaking entirely, shaking your head, and trying to plaster back on your previous excitement, but Bucky had already seen the slight fall to your face, and he frowns.
“What? What’s wrong?” He steps forward, toward you a little, his hand absently out as if to take your arm, though he drops it a moment later.
“It’s nothing. It’s silly.” You attempt to brush him off but he only moves closer still, right up to you now, and this time, the tension isn’t the same as it had been before.
His head bows down toward you, his frame nearly cocooning yours, if anybody were to be standing behind him, they likely would not be able to see you. His hand does touch your arm this time, comforting, concerned and all of it makes your heart flutter like a million happy butterflies.
“I… It’s just that… I’ve never been in a car before.” You admit, and it really is a silly thing to make such a fuss over. Bucky must breathe a sigh of relief that your dramatics hadn’t been about something more serious, but you don’t see his expression or body language change at all for a few seconds.
“... Ever…?” When he does speak, there’s no amusement in his voice, no awe at how backwards and small your growing up had been that you’d never been in a car. He just… asks.
You shrug.
“We don’t need them here…” His face does relax a little, and he must realise how much he’s been crowding you because he clears his throat and shuffles back slightly, letting his hand leave your arm.
“Well… I think you’ll like it. It’s fast.” He says, before frowning.
“Not— not too fast.” He adds, and you have to smile.
“Well… Why don’t I go put my book away, I’ll find some bread and fixings and you can go change, and I will meet you at your cottage?” You suggest. You didn’t want to go all the way down to the beach without some sort of food, even if he said the trip would be fast in his car. It would also give you a chance to change from your day dress into something that you wouldn’t mind getting a little wet or sandy.
Bucky nods.
“Yeah. Okay. You know where it is?” You roll your eyes.
“Of course.” He hangs his head a little, and lifts his hands in defeat.
“Small town, grew up here. Got it.” You laugh. He’d mentioned once how even though he’d spent his whole life in Brooklyn, knew the streets and the major locations like the back of his hand, there were still places he’d never know where to even start looking for.
You part ways then, and quickly hurry home, the excitement thrumming through your veins once again. Not only were you going to get to go to the beach, but you were going to ride in a car!
You toss your book onto your bed without a second thought, quickly undressing and slipping on a lighter, older dress. It’s faded pale blue told it’s age, but the fabric was thinner, meaning you would have no problem if it got wet. You decide not to bother with stockings, removing both them and your garter in favour of feeling the sand with your bare feet instead, and slip your shoes back on.
Before you leave your bedroom, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and pause. Turning your face from side to side, you inspect your features carefully. You never bothered with makeup, it was expensive and you’d only end up sweating it off, but your eyes do linger on your lips for a moment.
Creeping upstairs, you sneak into your mother’s bedroom. She was out for coffee at one of your neighbours, still, you feel nervousness take hold when you find the small golden tube in her drawer. Taking a deep breath, you uncap the lipstick and lean forwards for a better view, before carefully swiping the deep red colour across your lower lip. You follow suit with the upper, fixing it here and there, and swiping to try and neaten it up, but when you stand back to inspect yourself, you groan in frustration.
You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard, and your painted lips and bareface didn’t communicate that at all. Grabbing a tissue, you quickly work to remove the makeup, rubbing at your lips until the bulk of the colour is off. However, when you stop to check again, you find the red has somewhat stained your skin. It only really adds a subtle flushed red over your usually brown lips, but it's still noticeable, and you panic, grabbing another tissue and trying again to no avail.
Time ticks by and you check your watch, not wanting to make Bucky wait too long, and so you pocket the stained tissues and take a last look in the mirror. Your shoddy clean up job would have to do. At least the stains were on your lips and not around them.
In the kitchen you gather up a small selection of items in a basket, just some bread and butter and homemade jam, and tuck an old blanket over the top to secure it all, and so that you could sit on it later. Checking everything one last time, you slide the basket to the crook of your arm and close up your house behind you.
You have to stop yourself from skipping as you make your way through the streets, smiling and greeting those who pass you politely and not like a mad woman. By the time you make it to Bucky’s little cottage, you can already see him leaning back against the car, waiting. He straightens when he sees you, smiling as you slow down, feeling almost hesitant about approaching the car.
“Here, lemme take this…” You let him grab the basket from you and watch him open one of the back doors, placing it on the floor, behind a seat. When he shuts the door again with a click, he turns to look at you in a both expectant and patient manner.
“Shall we?” He gestures to the other side of the car, and you let him lead you around it, swallowing as he pulls open the front side door for you.
“There you go. You know, you’re lucky this is your first car ride. This is a nice car, apparently.” You let Bucky take your hand to help you in, and for the few seconds after he’s shut your door behind you, and you see him jog around to the driver’s seat, you feel an immense awkwardness settle over you.
When he’s climbed in beside you, he gestures to something above your head.
“Here, that’s your seat belt. I know a lotta people don’t bother with them, but… better safe than sorry, right?” You nod, and reach out to grab the little buckle, not realising that the sun had been baking the metal since it had come up.
You rip your fingers away from it with a hiss, cradling them to your chest. Bucky jerks and is immediately leaning over to help you.
“Shit! Sorry, I— I forgot to tell you to be careful of the— here, look, you gotta grab the plastic part…” Your slightly burnt fingers are all but forgotten when Bucky leans right over you, directly into your space as he pulls at the belt, drawing it down and across your body, to your hip.
You watch him click the buckle together and blink up at him when he leans back, face still pulled in a wince.
“You okay?”
“Yes… I just wasn’t expecting it… it didn’t really hurt that much…” He looks like he wants to say something more, his eyes darting down to where you lower your hand back to your lap, and your face, but he eventually settles with a nod.
“Okay. Okay.” He repeats, twisting to face frontwards in his seat again as he begins readying the car. You watch him fiddle with the keys, jumping slightly when the engine roars to life all around you, but you only chuckle at the look Bucky sends you. He lifts one hand from the wheel, to hold onto a tall gear stick in the center console, shifting it a few times before you feel the car begin to move.
Despite your nerves, you can’t help but feel the excitement in your bones, and as Bucky starts to slowly drive along the outer roads of the town, toward the western most side, you can’t stop yourself from staring out the window.
It wasn’t as if you’d never seen any of these places before, but it felt different now. You feel Bucky’s eyes flick over to you every so often, a low chuckle you can barely hear above the car reaching you, but you’re too enthralled to do more than return his smile briefly.
You settle down a bit as you hit the main road. It's still a very new experience to be moving so quickly down a road you’d only ever been along at a walk. Bucky seems content in the quiet, but about halfway through the trip, he changes his hand on the steering wheel, to reach down for something on the side of his door. You watch him fumble for a moment, before he behinds winding a little lever, and you turn your gaze to where the window now rolls down, filling the car with fresh air and the sound of light wind.
“You’ve got one too,” He briefly takes his eyes from the road to point your own window lever out to you, and excitedly, you rush to unwind it. You laugh then, like a child, and lean forward to get a better view, to feel the wind blow over your face. It doesn’t last long though, the second you feel your hair get thrown about, you yip, ducking away with another laugh, but attempting to smooth back your hair again.
Bucky grins over at you, and he shuffles, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, resting his elbow on the window frame casually. With his spare hand, he rests it on his thigh, fingers tapping.
“Lotta women wear a scarf, to keep their hair from getting wrecked…” He tells you, and you make a note for if you ever ride in the car again.
“You were right.” You tell him, finally sitting back in your seat and relaxing. Bucky cocks his head, briefly glancing at you, but mostly he keeps his eyes forward.
“Hmn?”
“I do like this.”
You arrive at the beach in no time at all, the lone western road leading right down to the water. Bucky brings the car to a stop away from the road, on a patch of grass that separates the rest of the land from the sand dunes. On your right, some ways away, the land lifts, creating a rocking cliffside that encloses this section of beach neatly. You knew from your childhood that there were some caves accessible, but you’d always been told to stay well away.
Bucky grabs the basket from the backseat, and you wait for him to catch up with you before you begin treading down onto the sand. The sand is hot and pale, and the smell of sea water calls you, but as much as you’d love to throw yourself toward it, you direct Bucky to a small cropping of rocks and boulders that rested near the dunes, far enough back that the incoming tide wouldn’t reach them, but near enough to the water to be sure your things would be kept safe.
Bucky follows your lead as you kick your shoes off, climbing to the top of the largest boulder easily, it's jagged surface perfect for climbing, as long as you didn’t step on a spike. The boulder stands almost up to Bucky’s chest, and was quite large from a top side view. You beckon him to give you your basket and he watches as you quickly lay out the blanket. When he can see you settling, he joins you, scaling the rock quickly, and taking a seat beside you, where you’ve now begun to pull the bread and spreads from the basket.
“This is a nice spot.” He says scanning the horizon critically. You see his gaze turn up towards the nearby cliffs, scrutinizing them thoroughly with slightly squinted eyes. His face is so intense, you can’t help but look too, wondering what it was he was seeing, but when you turn back to him, he snaps out of it, plastering an easy smile on his face.
You open your mouth to question what he’d been looking at when he grabs the jame, and turns it over in his hands.
“Homemade?” He asks, clearly excited by the prospect, and even though you still want to know what he’d just been thinking about, you let it go, recognising a subject change when you saw one.
“Yes. My mama is very good at cooking. She cooks a lot for other people.” You tell him, buttering a thick slice of bread before handing it to him.
“Do you?” He puts the jam down as he takes the bread and a butter knife from you, beginning to spread some of the sweet, jellied fruit. You scrunch your nose.
“I don’t cook a lot. Mama says I should do more.” You roll your eyes and Bucky snorts.
“Why?”
“So that when I get married my husband won’t be displayed… or something.” You bring one of your legs to a bent position, like you were crossing your legs but only chose to do one, and shift your center of balance to be more comfortable.
The blanket was a nice touch, but it didn’t make the rock you sat on any more homey.
“I don’t understand… why women have to do so much to keep a man. If they love you, shouldn’t they not care about how well you cook or how clean your house is?” You glance at him, genuinely asking. Bucky was, as you well knew, a man, he may have insight you did not. He frowns, mulling over his thoughts as he chews his mouthful.
“I think some guys want a housekeeper more than a partner. I don’t think a lot of mother’s help that, either.” It’s your turn to frown and you cock your head, gesturing he go on. He adjusts a little, and looks off as he speaks, only glancing back at you a few times as he explains.
“It’s a cycle, right? A lady gets married, she looks after her husband, they have kids, a boy and a girl,” He pauses, takes a small bite, chews, swallows and continues.
“Now, as the girl gets older, mother starts to prepare her for when she’ll get married, so she takes on some of the household chores. The son however, he gets looked after right up until he leaves the nest. His food is cooked for him, his room is cleaned, his clothes washed…” You start understanding what he means, and nod slowly.
“By the time he’s serious about looking for a girl, he thinks they should be how his ma and pa were. I’m sure there’s love and affection, but in his mind, if she’s not doing those same things he grew up with, then how much can she really love him?” He ends with a shrug, looking at you, and you have to admit you’re genuinely surprised by his honest point of view.
But he sits up a little straighter then, and points to himself with the bread still in his hand.
“My mother would never let me get away with that.” He tells you solemnly, and you chortle at his deeply serious, over the top expression.
“Oh?”
“No ma’am. When I was sixteen she showed me how to use the machines at the laundromat, and if my room wasn’t spick and span at the end of the week I’d get it.” You laugh at the thought of a woman with Bucky’s same eyes making him remake his bed.
“And cooking?” You press, and Bucky shrugs again.
“I grew up watching her cook, helping her in the kitchen… I ain’t sayin’g I’m good. But I wouldn’t starve.” You laugh again, his stories uplifting on your general view of how things were ‘Supposed To Be’.
“Anyway, the point is, the only thing that makes a good husband or wife is that you care about one another. Everything else is negotiable.” You grin, and nod, look out at the water as he words sink in, before you sharply side eye him.
“Everything except fidelity. I’d cut off my man’s—” You cut yourself off before you can say too much, but Bucky has already begun howling with laughter, leaning all the way back to rest on his elbows, he places a hand to his chest as he guffaws gleefully.
When he calms down, still snickering quietly he nods several times to himself and gives you a look.
“I don’t doubt you for a second, sweetheart.” Your chest flutters again at not just the pet name, he’d taken to using various ones, but the softness in his voice when he says it. It makes you nervous, it makes your stomach feel like the rolling waves of the ocean before you are happening simultaneously in there too.
“Right, well. Let's cool off, huh?”
Bucky rolls his pant legs up to just above his knees before he treads into the shallows, and you lift your skirt just a little as you join him. You wallow about in the water for some time, talking about nothing in particular. At one point, he realises he’d left his camera in the car, and races back up to get it, returning with a piece of photo paper already developing in his fingers.
“Took one from the dunes. It’s a nice view.” He explains as you lean over to peer at the little print. You can make out your figure, distant in the photo.
Bucky takes several more pictures, of the cliffs, of the long expanse of shoreline on the other side… You let him be for a while, moving back up to the rock and the blanket, perching yourself on the edge as you just take in the cool sea breeze and watch Bucky move about, deeply focused.
It was sweet really, though you don’t know how many of the shots look the same.
The warm sun and your general relaxed mood lull you to lie back, fixating your gaze on the blue skies and clouds above. Your skin grows warm and a little moist under such direct sunlight, but it feels nice. You aren’t sure how long you lie there for, you even doze off for a little bit, but some time later, you hear Bucky approaching.
“Can I take your picture?” He asks as you sit up, shielding your eyes for a moment as you do.
“Me?”
“Yeah.” You want to protest that he shouldn’t waste his photo paper on you, but he’s already stepping back and bringing the camera up to check if he’s too close or far.
“Wait, let me move.” You tell him, shifting to sit side on, with your feet on the rock and your knees bent up, like you would sit in your reading nook. Bucky waits for you like you ask, adjusting a little notch on his camera before he lifts it back to his eye, peering through. You expect him to take the photo right away but instead you see his lips part and his tongue swipe out to wet them as he swallows and draws the device away again.
“Uh, your— your skirt sweetheart, it's…” He trails off and gestures at his own thigh, prompting you to glance down at yourself.
Oh.
With your legs up like this, and perhaps with the help of a little sea breeze, your dress had shifted far up the length of your leg, far more than what was proper or should be photographed, and yet, your mind begins to whir.
You cock your head innocently, and hook your finger under the hem, drawing it back even further, until almost the whole side of your leg was on display. As you do, you pop your shoulder forward and rest your chin on it, grinning widely, invitingly.
Bucky just stares for several moments, and you see him swallow again. He seems to fumble with bringing the camera back to his face, and you see his mouth in what you’re certain is English cussing. It only makes your grin that much wider.
He takes the picture, lowering the camera immediately to catch the photo it spits out, though, he keeps glancing back up at you. You only flutter your eyelashes as best you can and make sure to fix your skirt somewhat. You sit forward again, and rest your hands either side of your legs, leaning toward where Bucky still stands.
“May I see?” You ask, and he jerks, starting toward you right away.
“Y--yeah. Of course…” You note with a quiet snicker how he stands at least two feet away from you when he holds out the photograph, and you take it from him, inspecting it.
“This is a good one.” You tell him.
“Yep. Yeah. It is.” He’s aware you’re teasing him now, and you give him a smile over the top of the picture.
“You won’t throw it away?”
“Why… why the hell would I throw it away?” You shrug and hold it out to give back.
“I don’t know…”
Bucky reaches out for it, but just before he can take it from you, you pull it back.
“On second thoughts, I don’t know if you can be trusted with this.” His face resembles a rain cloud, his frown confused and deep.
“What?”
“I think it might end up in the bottom of a box somewhere… I should keep it.” Your lip quirks, and he can see the cogs turning as he realises you’re only playing. He rolls his eyes and goes to grab it from you again, but you pull it away again.
Before he can corner you where you sit, you jump off the rock, ducking to the side as he lunges, making you squeal.
“Come on, sweetheart, let me have it…” You keep moving backwards, even as you turn to face him, the photo clutched to your chest. Bucky has turned to pursue you, though he’s only walking, hands on his hips.
“You’ll have to catch me!” You take off running, unable to keep from laughing as you do, Bucky’s own chortling reaching you as he gives chase.
You duck and weave out of his reach, and even though he’s far bigger and fitter than you, you were smaller, and the drag of the sand didn’t affect you as much. He almost gets you twice, his fingers grazing your dress, and when he does finally catch you, it’s with his arms around your middle, seizing you mid stride and pulling you back.
The momentum sends you both tumbling to the sand, your back hitting it lightly. Bucky falls over you, though he catches himself before he can crush you proper. All you can do is laugh, breathless from the chase and from the fall, and most certainly from the fact Bucky now lays atop you.
He’s laughing too, his face close and his breathe warm. He shifts to lift one hand and pluck the photo from your fingers, still held to your chest, trapped their by his own body. He’s still smiling when he makes a show of placing the photo in his top pocket, and buttoning it close, and then he drops his hand, resting it back in the sand by your head.
“I caught you.” He says simply, and all you can do is nod dumbly. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you suddenly remember the lipstick debacle. You’re about to make an excuse, or explain what had happened, when he leans in, dropping his lips to your own softly. You don’t mean to, but you gasp quietly, heat pooling in your face when you feel Bucky smile, and hear his light chuckle.
He doesn’t stop though, and you gladly return the kiss at last, lifting your chin so he could reach you easier or have more of you, you don’t know. Bucky shifts over you, his knee digging into the sand as he lifts some of his weight off of you, but before you can complain, he’s holding your face, tilting your head and deepening the kiss.
When you part, reluctantly, you’re all too aware of how heavy you’re breathing, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Bucky’s eyes drop to watch for a moment, and you feel goosebumps crawl over your skin, but he looks away, moving to get off of you.
“Uhm… that okay?” He asks, scratching the back of his head a little awkwardly. You’re still just lying in the sand, watching him and trying to catch your breath.
He stands, and leans down to offer you a hand that you accept. You let him pull you to your feet, and by that time you’ve gotten at least a semblance of your sanity back. He’s looking at you cautiously, concerned maybe, but you intend to rectify that.
He hardly has time to catch you as you jump for him, legs wrapped around his middle, your arms around his neck, Bucky lets out a loud, hearty laugh as he makes to secure his hold on you. You lean in and kiss him again, heated at first, but then softer, until you’re only peppering little pecks to his lips.
“I’m gonna go with that being okay, then.” He confirms to himself. You giggle, like a schoolgirl with a crush, and realise he’d been walking the whole time he’d been carrying you. He sets you down atop the rock, hands gliding under where he’d been holding your legs, before quickly removing them, like he didn’t want to overstep.
“You had better not lose that picture.” You warn, making him chuckle, and pat his pocket.
“Oh, trust me darlin’. It’s not going anywhere.”
The sun had already begun to set, and so you make quick work of packing up the small amount of belongings you brought. As you walk back to the car, Bucky carries the basket in one arm, and with the other, he reaches out to take your hand, firmly and securely, interlocking your fingers, and you feel your whole being ascend.
He doesn’t let go of your hand in the car either, reaching out to hold it there too, your intertwined hands resting on your thigh. It’s all too short however, and far too soon he’s parking the vehicle and helping you out.
“I’ll walk you back.” He tells you and you frown.
“What? No, you’re already home, I can—”
“—I’ll walk you back.” He says again, firmer, but with a playfulness that stops you from arguing further.
You wait for him to get your basket from the backseat, and when he does join you around at the rear of the car, his face lights up in realisation.
“Oh! Wait. Hold this for a sec…” He gently thrusts the basket into your hands and you blink, watching him jog into the cottage.
He reappears a few minutes later, carrying something long and cylindrical in his hand, and as he approaches you again, he flips it, catching it smoothly.
“Flashlight. For… for if your power goes out again…” He drops it in your basket before he takes it from you again, and you’re so genuinely touched by the gesture you’re frozen for a few seconds.
“Sweetheart?” Bucky frowns, cocking his head, but you snap out of it, leaning in to wrap your arms around his neck, only a hug this time. His free arms wraps around you instantly, and you aren’t sure you’ll ever get over how nice it feels to be held.
“Thank you. That’s very kind…” You say when you pull back. He just smiles at you, before offering you his arm, and walking you home.
—-
He takes you on a picnic.
It’s such a quaint idea that when he mentions it to you one afternoon, after kissing you goodbye on your doorstep, you can’t help but feel your eyes light up like two cartoonish hearts.
Bucky had assured you he would source the meal and perhaps some wine, but he’d need your basket once more, and the next day you find yourself lounging lazily under the shade of a tree, in the empty fields outside of town.
He’d brought bread, fruit and a bottle of red wine that you’d be very excited by right up until you’d had your first taste.
Bucky burst out in laughter at your expression, nose scrunched and brow furrowed, and he gracefully takes your glass from your hand.
“It’s alright, sweetheart, it's an acquired taste…” He chortles, and you gladly let him pour what's left of your drink into his own, but you notice he doesn’t really touch it throughout lunch.
You talk for hours, clearing up the blanket so you can lie down next to one another and gaze at the cloudy blue sky. You ask Bucky to tell you once more about New York City, and as he speaks you gaze at him, gesturing wildly with his hands and smiling back at you every so often.
He was so pretty, for a boy, his eyes so blue, hair dark and lovely and smooth looking. Even his stubbly chin and cheeks, where you could clearly see he’d shaved just this morning look nice, and without really thinking, you reach out and brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw.
Bucky stops speaking, turning his head slightly to regard you softly, but you don’t stop. From the way he spoke about the war and missing his home, you think maybe it has been a while since he’d felt such gentle touches.
“See somethin’ you like, darlin’?” His smirk is barely a smirk, it's far too soft for that, but there’s still a hint of cheekiness in his gaze that draws you in. Laughing quietly, you rise to your elbow, leaning into his side where he’d previously been lying a respectable distance from you and press your lips to his jaw, then his cheek, and at last his lips.
Bucky kisses you back immediately, like he always did, lips moving softly against your own, carefully cupping the side of your face and pulling you down against him even further. Your heart races when he sits up without breaking apart from you, pushing you back so your positions are reversed. Out here you were practically alone, and even if somebody did come driving down the main road, with the tall grass nobody would be able to see you.
You wrap your hands up behind his head, tugging him down more, until he’s leaning against you fully, his forearms encasing either side of your head, a knee slipping between your own as your tongue slips between his lips. Your nearly come apart thena nd there when he moans, muffled by your kiss, but erotic all the same, and he seems to move more feverishly, kissing your quicker, bearing down against you harder.
You resist the urge to wrap a leg around him, but instead let your fingers scratch gently at the back of his neck, feeling yourself sink further and further into bliss with each tiny stroke of his tongue against yours, and each press of his clearly hardening length between your thighs.
You almost unhook your hands from his neck to lift your dress when he pulls back. At first he simply lays his forehead against your own, his eyes shut tight, and you watch him with rising disappointment and heavy breathing as he gently shifts his weight off of you, and dips his lips to kiss the tip of your nose, and then chastley at your lips.
“I uh… this probably isn’t a good idea…” You deflate, but push it aside. If he did not wish to go further, you wouldn’t pressure him. Still, the gentle ache between your thighs resists, begging for friction, for satisfaction. Bucky looks down at you, lips kissed raw and pupils dilated and it takes everything in you not to go for his pants then and there. He smooths down what he can of your hair, tucking some wilder pieces behind your ear before he kisses your nose again, and lays back down beside you.
On the walk back, the both of you are oddly silent, and although it isn’t uncomfortable, you still don’t like the awkwardness. You always felt like you could be truthful with Bucky, and you didn’t want to change that now, so tugging on his hand a little you slow your pace.
“I would have had sex with you, you know?” You squint at him and he blinks rapidly, face blushing quickly as he checks around to make sure there was nobody else present.
“Wha— I wasn’t—”
“—I’m not a virgin. I know what I’m doing.” You further assert, and he only continues to cough awkwardly, trying to reign in his clear embarrassment.
“Men aren’t the only ones who like sex. You always think us women are so eager to wait and ‘save ourselves’.” You roll your eyes then, and walk past him.
You don’t look back, but soon enough he’s hurrying to fall in beside you once more, taking your hand again even as he swallows.
“I never said you were, I just… I guess I’m not used to ladies talkin’ about it so… well, at all…” You side-eye him wryly and shrug.
“Look around, Bucky. In a town this small, there isn’t much else to do except each other. But all the boys have left now…” You shrug again, and this time Bucky laughs, letting out a slow puff of air.
“I guess.” He wears a look on his face like he wants to say something else, but he stays quiet. You slow down as you approach your home, and you’re about to ask when he stops just short of the steps leading into your front courtyard, and takes both your hands.
“I guess I wouldn’t want to take advantage. I’d want you to be sure.”
You purse your lips and roll your eyes again.
“I’m not a naive little girl.”
He laughs again and draws you near, quickly checking about to make sure no neighbour would spy the kiss he presses to your lips.
“And I’m not a boy.” The words send a thrill up your spine, and now more than ever you wish he hadn’t pulled away earlier. You swallow as he looks down at you, eyes intense and fiery and this time it’s your turn to swallow.
“I— I know…” You manage, and for a moment you can’t stop staring at one another.
Eventually, Bucky squeezes your hands and nods his head toward your home.
“You’d better—”
“—Oh! Yes… Goodnight…”
Bucky watches you as you make your way to your door and tips his hat when you look back at him before you close it.
“Goodnight.”
—-
Bucky can’t sleep.
It's late, he really should have been asleep hours ago, but he can’t stop thinking about you and what you’d said. As much as he curses himself for not seeking out the moment when he’d had you under him in the field, he’s also glad. You deserved more than a quick rut on a picnic blanket, and yet his mind wanders to Parisian nights, except all the women in his memories are replaced with you.
Would you be loud? Quiet? Would you say his name, drawn out and breathy? He decides he wants to find out.
It takes him no time at all to walk to your house, and when he’s climbed the side wall of the enclosed courtyard into the back garden, he sneaks on around to the open window on the first floor.
Surprisingly, you were either far from asleep yourself, or you had been suspecting his visit. You sit up in bed right away, but smile and hold a finger to your lips as you creep across to the window. Bucky leans against it comfortably, holding your hand when you half climb through to sit on the sill, legs dangling out beside him.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, though your demeanour seems to be far more girlish, far more pleased-but-scandalised than you had been earlier, talking so frankly about sex. Bucky gives you his best smile and shrugs.
“Wanted to see you. What’re you doing awake?” He nods to your bed, the book and torch clearly lying amidst your sheets.
“I was reading.”
“I can go if you’d—”
“—No!” You whisper, socking him lightly in the shoulder, as if it were a ridiculous thought to even suggest he leave. In the moonlight he thinks you look lovelier than ever, and he scoots closer, until he’s resting his arms across your thighs and gazing up at you softly.
“We have to talk quietly though, my mother’s room is above mine and her window is also open…” You point, and Bucky looks, see’s the curtains billowing slightly out, and he nods.
“I’d let you in, but I think you might dissolve into a blush.” You tease him, and Bucky immediately perks, eyes lighting up at the challenge. He pulls his arms off of your lap and cocks his head.
“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” He asks slowly, letting a hand gently curve up your calf. Your nightdress covers you from the knee up, but he ignores it, reaching underneath to massage softly at your thigh.
You don’t take your eyes off of him, even when he lowers his gaze to carefully push your knees apart. If anything you seem to lean back on your palms, watching him intently. Bucky meets your eye again when he snakes his hand further, forgoing your leg entirely to press the pads of his fingers against your core, eliciting a sharp inhale from the both of you.
“You don’t wear underwear to bed?” He can’t help but ask, pants suddenly restrictively tight and you breathe out slowly, clearly trying to remain quiet as he lets his fingers simply glide through you slick.
“Only when I’m expecting company.” You tell him, and he chortles, stepping closer and pressing his lips to yours.
Your head angles back for him, letting him set the pace of the kiss and gently, Bucky presses one finger inside. You almost gasp, but he kisses you harder, pulling back again just slightly, so your lips brush when he speaks.
“Gotta be quiet, remember?” You nod vigorously, eyes not even opening to meet his, and Bucky leans back further, content to watch your head lull back and mouth part in the softest breathiest moans he’s ever heard as he slowly pumps his one finger in and out of you.
He’s laser focused on the task at hand, even despite his rock hard cock, and soon he’s adding another finger, slowly letting them sink deep into your velvety wet heat, his pride stoked when you further part your legs for him. He uses his free hand to push your nightdress up around your hips, and he nearly groans at the sight. Licking his lips he sets his eyes back on you, leaning in to nip and kiss at your neck, finally letting his thumb press down against your clit, massaging in circles as slow as his strokes, and he feels your muscles flutter.
A third finger joins the others and this time you seem to reactively grip his wrist, your other hand flying to slap over your mouth as your brow furrows deeply. Bucky knows he’s breathing hard, and after adjusting himself briefly in his pants, he pulls at the thin straps of your nightdress, getting it only half down one shoulder, but it’s enough.
He wraps his lips around your exposed nipple, swirling his tongue and nipping experimentally, feeling your hand wrap around the back of his head in approval. He stares up at you, desperately wanting to see your face when he finally pulls you apart and he’s rewarded only a few minutes later, his fingers fucking you far quicker, his thumb working faster.
When you finish, your cunt squeezes his digits relentlessly in waves of pleasure, and you make strained, soft little mewls as you attempt to remain quiet. Your hips shift and twitch and he doesn’t draw away from your breast until you’re blinking back down at him, gently pulling his hand away from your clit with bashful little laughs.
“At least… at least I won’t have to change any bedsheets…” You pant, and Bucky chuckles, leaning forward to kiss your lips properly, feeling your naked chest heave against his when he does. Your eyes seem dazed, and your face warm, but when he pulls away again you swallow and gesture to his own clearly bulging pants.
“I can—”
“—Not tonight…” And he means it.
“I just wanted… I just wanted to see you.” He says, and your gaze shifts from purely lustful to something softer, and you smile, dipping your eyes away for a second.
Bucky takes the moment to enjoy his view, your dress pulled up to your hips, your pussy still clearly on display, and your sleeves hanging well down to your elbows, breasts bare, nipples hardened and exquisite. He fights the urge to reach out and start all over again, maybe get his mouth on you this time…
“S’alright?” He rests his head in his palm and you chortle quietly, nodding.
“Yes. Yes, better than… than anything with other boys before…” He gets the feeling you aren’t just saying that to stroke his ego, the blissed out look on your face and the oddly bashful demeanour you’ve taken on requiring him to believe that he really had just properly blown your mind. He grins triumphantly, and leans in again, kissing your lower lip.
“I told you I wasn’t a boy.” He kisses you full again, loving the feel of your hand reaching up to hold the back of his head to you.
“I know.” You say when he forces himself back. You watch him as he carefully pulls up the sleeves of your shirt, covering you up again, and then fixes the skirt too, until you’re mostly modest.
“You should get some sleep, sweetheart.” He tells you, and you hum, reluctantly climbing back through your window and standing on the other side. He kisses the back of your hand, but when he goes to pull away, you don’t release your hold on him, tugging him back slightly, and he blinks at you curiously.
Your eyes have taken on that same lustful expression from before and you cock your head.
“Will you think of me?” You ask, and at first, it doesn’t quite click.
“When you wrap your hand around your cock when you get home, will you think of me?” Bucky nearly chokes, nearly climbs right through your window and ends all the tension there and then, but he manages to hold strong, realising you were still somewhat teasing him.
“Darlin’ I will think of nothing but you, soaking wet and waiting for me…” He squeezes your fingers slightly, noting the approval in your eyes even before you nod.
“Okay.”
“Goodnight.”
“It has been, yes.” You finally let him go, watching as he clambers quietly back over your side wall.
And Bucky does think of you when he gets home, he strokes himself to the thought of your mouth and your cunt, and your tits bouncing in his face while he has you on his lap. It’s honestly the filthiest his mind has been since Paris nights drowned in alcohol and women he didn’t bother to get the names of. He knows your name though, sighs it again and again as he thinks of you.
He falls asleep hard and wakes up in the morning the same way, unable to stop thinking about you.
—-
In the days following Bucky’s midnight visit, you feel a giddy sort of happiness thrum constantly through your veins. Even now, as you sit up in your archway, trying to focus your mind on the letter you write to your distant aunt (you think you’ve met her all of once, but she’d written to you and your mother regarding your health and wellbeing in the aftermath of the war, so you felt obliged to reply). You find yourself able to write only several lines before you’d look up, searching, hoping perhaps Bucky would show, but even you know it’s too early… he’d still be working.
Part of you debates going to watch, the idea of seeing him labouring away in the hot sun, hopefully with his shirt removed, leaving him in only a singlet top… your stomach stirs at the thought, but you shake your head, and concentrate harder on your letter.
You manage to succeed too, losing yourself in describing Montecarra to your relative who’d never once left England, as she’d explained. It isn’t until some time later that movement catches at the corner of your eye, and you barely refrain from looking up as Bucky finally ambles into the courtyard. He must sense your buys-ness, because he doesn’t greet you as he nears, he just stops for a moment, before he continues forward.
At first you think he may approach you to wait, but instead he swiftly climbs into the open archway behind you. You take the time to pause in your own actions to peek at what he’s doing, only to find him sitting in mirror of you, his back to the same pillar yours is. After he settles he twists back and nudges your arm.
“Got any spare paper, darlin’?”
You try to pretend you hadn’t been watching him, but his grin says you’ve been caught out. Gathering a few pages from under your small stack, you hand them back to him, his fingers over your far too suspect for you to think it is anything other than purposeful. Still, you can’t help but smile, even as you settle back to finish off your letter, hearing him uncap a pen.
You find yourself referring back to your aunt’s letter to answer and reply to all of her questions and queries, and once again you almost forgot Bucky is there, until tugging on your sleeve draws you out of your reverie. You turn to look, expecting to be greeted with his lovely face, but instead, all you see is his hand, holding a page folded into a little rectangle.
Your chest flutters at the thought he’d been sitting writing something for you, and so your letter is quickly abandoned in favour of taking the little note. Bucky seems to remain as if he were oblivious to his own actions, humming quietly to himself as you unfold the paper and gaze down at the words.
‘Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’
Again, your heart stutters, and you can’t hide your smile as you put pen to paper, drawing up your response. You refold it and hand it back the same way he’d offered it to you; tugging on his sleeve and holding it out. The page is plucked from your fingers quickly, and you try to distract yourself by turning back to your true task, only to be pulled from this once more when his hand reaches back, searching. You watch for a moment before he wiggles his fingers expectantly and you snicker, adjusting your hold on your paper, so that you can place your hand in his own.
You sit there like that for the rest of the afternoon, Bucky humming happily, your hands interlocked at an almost awkward angle, and you try your hardest to finish writing your damned letter.
He picks you up from your home later that evening, finds you waiting for him out the front. You hadn’t dressed up in a long time, and so when his gait slows and his eyes roam over you as he approaches, you can’t help but feel self-conscious.
You’d worn a simple red dress, but it was the nicest one you owned, the only one appropriate for dinner out. This time you’d committed to the lipstick, painted your lips red and done your best not to talk yourself out of it. You’d left your hair down, let it fall in loosely styled waves, and all together you felt part-movie star, part-fool.
Bucky whistles lowly, just quietly as he nears, and you have to scoff and roll your eyes, hiding your embarrassment as he draws you in, hugging you just quickly before he pulls back, hands on your waist still, to inspect you closer.
“You look beautiful.” He tells you, voice soft and sweet and you know he isn’t pontificating, or trying to woo you.
“Thank you.” You reach out to smooth over his collar and finally force yourself to meet his eye.
“You look lovely, too.”
You feel lost in a slight high as you walk to the only real restaurant in town, in the main square. In the early evening the streets are quiet, only the occasional passerby, but the cafe remains open, seeing to a few quiet patrons, plus yourselves out on the terrace.
Bucky helps you with your chair and takes your order for you, pours you your drink… it's so normal and yet you’d never really experienced an evening like it. When your food is long gone, he scoots his chair around to sit closer to you and holds your hand softly in his while you talk aimlessly. You aren’t at all worried about being seen or judged, in fact the few moments in which you catch a passing couple take a look at you, you see kind eyes and sweet smiles, only making you feel dizzier.
“You enjoyed your meals, I see?” The owner, an older man named Matteo who you’d known to live in Montecarra for as long as you can remember, stops by to clear up your plates, and you nod enthusiastically.
“Wonderful, we’ll have to come back.” Bucky says, squeezing your fingers as Matteo smiles widely and agrees.
“Maybe next time I will have figured out how to work this named record player, then you will have music as well!” You and Bucky both seem to perk as Matteo throws a thumb over his shoulder, and Bucky straightens in his chair slightly.
“I can give it a look, if you’d like?” He offers, eyes already glued to the record player sitting atop the counter only a few meters away. The older man gives him a shrug and a gesture that clearly reads as ‘go for it’, as he finishes collecting the plates and patters back off to the kitchen.
You watch Bucky move over to the counter, fiddling with the player, though you can’t really see what he does. You know he’s fixed it however, when he throws a grin back at you, and plucks a record from beside the machine, pulling it from it’s sleeve and carefully placing it down on the turntable.
Music immediately begins wafting through the air, an upbeat tune you think you’d heard on the radio before, and Bucky comes speeding back over to you, hands held out even as he pulls you from your seat.
“Dance with me?” He asks, though he’s already wrapping his arm around your waist, and you move yours to his shoulder and hand respectively. There isn’t much room between the tables on the sidewalk, and although the song is happy, it’s not a rousing jazz tune, so you find yourselves simply swaying in each others embrace as the French lyrics begin to join the band.
You end up close, so close you forget anything else exists around you, Bucky’s forehead pressed against your own, your chests similarly compressed, as if neither of you could exist apart.
You have to laugh, thoroughly intrigued and enthralled when he begins softly singing the words to the song. It’s so different to hear him speak in a language that wasn’t Italian or English and it makes your chest ache for a reason you don’t know.
“I wish I could speak French.” You say quietly, Bucky’s lips quirk up but you shake your head.
“You must be so amused by how quaint I am… never been in a car, never left my town… never learnt any languages…” You don’t mean to sound so melancholy, but it hits you then, the ache in your heart stems from just how wonderful Bucky is, and how plain you are in comparison. But he’s frowning as you finish, shaking his head and adjusting his grip on you, wrapping you up even further.
“Never. I think you’re worldy in other ways…”
Your purse your lips, but as he opens his mouth to continue you cut him off, changing the subject.
“Can you tell me about New York again?”
Bucky’s expression falters, then lifts into a sweet smile, and you know his mind has wafted away to distant city streets.
“Of course…” He talks for ages about all the shops and stores available, about all the tiny apartment buildings and the decor, and his home block in Brooklyn. He tells you about the parks and the weather, and a place called Coney Island.
“... I think you’d like it.” He finishes, and you hum, having closed your eyes now, head to his shoulder as you attempt to imagine all that he describes. You feel him open his mouth to say something, to continue, but he doesn’t, hesitating and then remaining quiet, though he holds you firmer again, and you relish in the warmth of it.
Eventually, you have to let Matteo close up, and you bid the old man thank you and goodbye as you walk away hand-in-hand. Before you can get too far however, you stop, tugging on Bucky’s hand so you have his attention, the warm Montecarran breeze blowing your hair about.
“My mama doesn’t expect me home until morning.” You tell him, seeing instantly how his eyes change.
“Why’s that?” He manages to ask, stepping close again and you smile, shrugging.
“I told her I was watching some children in town overnight.”
Bucky hums at your reply, frowns as if in thought.
“Sounds as if you may need somewhere to stay, in that case.”
Bucky takes you back to his cottage, all quiet laughs and lingering touches as he leads you inside, placing his coat and keys down on the table, but any pretence is lost as soon as you kiss him. Clothes scatter around the small space, a gingerbread trail leading to his bedroom where he lays you down and peels the last of your underwear off.
Oddly, you feel less nervous about him seeing you naked than you had in your dress, maybe because he’d already seen you mostly this way, or maybe because at least naked it was real and you couldn’t pretend or hide, it was more honest.
You itch to touch him, but you don’t get the chance right away, his kisses leaving your lips quickly to travel down and soon you’re gasping, hands clutched tightly in his hair as he buries his face between your thighs, hands holding your legs apart as his tongue and lips work quickly over you, bringing you over the edge faster than you even thought possible. By the time he’s kissing you again, your mind is a haze of filth and desire and you guide him into you quickly.
Bucky is an excellent lover, his pace and angle perfect, his weight above you welcome as he thrusts into your warmth, desperate and wanting. He isn’t boring either, doesn’t end the night quickly, instead nearing his pleasure and stopping each time, drawing it out. He instructs you in various positions, making your belly spark with his knowledge of the female body, nearly sending you into a fritz when he takes you from behind, leaves you scrambling to hold on to something as you cry out into his sheets, his cock relentless as he fucks you through your orgasm, finally finishing with you, his hands curled around to pinch at your nipples, making your cunt bear down on him even more as you fall into a sweaty, moaning and panting heap.
He fetches you water, helps you fix back your hair in your still slightly dazed state, and pulls you near again, skin to skin as you drift off to sleep, lips pressed to one another even as your mind begins to wander.
In the morning you wake him with your mouth around his length, swallow him back as much as you can as he’s drawn from slumber by the pleasure, his hand reaching down to messily clutch at your hair. You watch him come apart for you, eyes fixed on his tilted head, creased brow and open mouth as he jerks into the back of your throat, hot warmth spilling forth that you swallow with ease.
He swears and curses as he rubs his eyes and you crawl up to lay beside him once again, finding his eyes looking at you as if to make sure you were real.
“Good morning, Sargeant.” You tease, only to have him cuss more, his chest heavily quickly up and down. You chitter and brush the slightly damp hair back from his head, a kiss to his cheek as you withdraw from the bed.
“Where’re you goin’?” He asks, blinking himself properly awake and you throw him a glance as you hunt for all your belongings.
“I have to go home, my mother does expect me at some point…” You explain, and he rubs a hand over his face once more, seeming to deflate a little.
“Right. Of course.”
You’re fully dressed when he manages to pull himself to sit on the edge of the bed, still naked, still just as fine as the evening previous. He looks up at you as you step nearer, braiding back your hair before you place both hands on his shoulders.
“Thank you.” You say simply, leaning down to peck his lips chastley. He hums against you, kissing you back and quickly you’re no longer pecking his lips, your hands roaming down over his shoulders appreciatively, his hands reach up the back of your skirt, pulling your underwear to the side and—
You gasp, giggling as you pull out of his reach, shaking your head and wagging a finger at him like a naughty child.
“No! No, I have to go home!” You tell him, even as he sighs, falling back to lie on the bed again. You can clearly see his hardening length and you fight yourself to just climb atop him once more.
“I will see you later!” You say pointedly, tossing a shirt onto his lap, to hide him from you, and you see him grin, chortling even as his hand travels lower, removing the shirt and wrapping around— you turn your back, flustered and tempted, but you leave his little cottage, determined to get home before your mama woke, so you could wash and change.
—-
Somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind, he knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the end comes sooner than he’d expected.
He stares at the small pile of pages in front of him, their words all making sense in his brain, he understands what they all say, what they’re telling him, but at the same time, he comprehends absolutely nothing after the words ‘The United States Armed Forces herby discharges you with honourable service records…’
He was going home. They were sending him home.
At last he’d be able to hug his mother, see his sister, Steve, all the other fellas… he’d get to go home and really start his life post-war. He’d been waiting on this letter for months, a year even, more perhaps. At one time, it had been all he’d wanted. And yet, all that fills him now is a sense of dread, muddled with a bit of guilt, because he knows he really does miss his family, but…
When he sees you later that afternoon, sitting up in your nook like always, he can hardly bring himself to return your smile, sparkling and bright as always, for him. You pick up on his mood immediately, even if you poke fun. He knows he can’t delay, they expected him on his flight home from Rome tomorrow. The army loved their damn punctuality.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, face falling a little when he only half-heartedly chuckles at your joke, his eyes downturned, afraid to meet your own. He swallows, and shoves his hands in his pockets, squints into the distance.
“They’re sending me home.”
A beat passes.
When he finally looks back at you, he catches the tail end of devastation leaving your features, replaced instead with a hopeful, sincere grin.
You grab his hand, pulling them from his trousers.
“Bucky! That’s wonderful news!” You say excitedly, but he can only purse his lips.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that! You don’t want to spend your whole life here, do you!?” You snort a little as you knock him in the shoulder, and he smiles thinly.
No, he didn’t want to live the rest of his life in Tuscany, but he’d been getting used to having a little slice of it around lately.
Your over-excitement fades, and you lean in to him cupping his cheek.
“You’ll get to see your mother, and your city… I know you miss them all…” He can’t help but frown at a spot on your dress, avoiding your eyes like a pouting child.
“I’ll miss you, too, though.” He mumbles, and you smile, scrunch your nose and shake your head.
“In no time at all this will all be a happy memory.”
Bucky wants to protest, lifts his gaze to argue with you, but the sharp, almost panicked look you give him as you shake your head again stops him.
“No, Bucky… Don’t. Please don’t make this sad… you’ve made me…” Your voice is cut off as you sniff, the shininess to your eyes spilling over just slightly, even though you smile softly.
“You’ve made me very happy, for quite some time. Let us leave with that.” You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face away and Bucky sighs, pulling you closer too, and resting his head atop your own.
He glares, frowns aimlessly at a nearby wall, barely even seeing it, focusing all his energy on swaying gently with you.
“Alright.” He says, voice a little rough. You sniff into the collar of his shirt, and he smooths his hands down over your back.
“Alright.”
—-
“We rented out your room to a shoemaker. You’re gonna have to sleep on the couch until we can convince him to leave.” Becca says flatly, half her words muffled as she’s drawn into Bucky’s chest. He holds her there tightly for several seconds before pulling back.
“Oh yeah?” He rubs at his chin.
“Don’t think the shoemaker will sleep heads to toes with me?” He wonders, and Becca scrunches her nose, laughing at the image.
Winnie Barnes shakes her head and lightly taps her daughter.
“Becca don’t cause trouble. Bucky, we left everything exactly the way it was.” His mother tells him, before hugging him for the sixth time since he’d landed. He just grins, and hugs her back each time. He’d missed her. So much.
They eat dinner together, Steve and Peggy come too, and afterward, the blond makes Bucky pull out his camera. After quickly pulling some choice images out of the pile, he lets Becca and his mother rifle through, telling them about each photo as he remembers it, the act rather therapeutic. He really had been gone for so long.
“Oh… who's this?!” Becca coos, half reading, half awed, and Bucky absently leans over to get a look.
His heart stops for a moment when he lays eyes on you, your smile wide and full of glee, the wind blowing your hair wildly about, your hand lifted to hold your hat on your head. Maybe he takes too long staring, maybe it’s just something about a sisters’ intuition, but Becca whistles, then gasps as she plucks another photo from the pile now tipped on the floor.
“Here she is again! And here too!” Even his mother gives him a sideways glance, but he can’t bring himself to feel too bashful.
He clasps his hands under his knees where he sits on the carpet and hums.
“Nina. I met her in a little town called Montecarra.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She is.” he confirms, as Becca continues to find photos with your face peppered throughout. He should be embarrassed about the amount of pictures he took of you, even ones where you aren’t doing anything but reading, but he really doesn’t.
“She your girlfriend?”
“Becca!” Winnie scolds, glaring at her daughter, but Bucky only laughs.
“I wasn’t lucky enough for that.” He shrugs, and his mother fusses.
“James Barnes, any woman worth her salt—”
“It’s not like that Ma… it’s just…” He trails off. He doesn’t want to say something to suggest he didn’t want to be here with them, because he desperately did. But he missed you.
“Well… I came home.” He shrugs, and his mother’s eyes fill with understanding. She purses her lips but frowns thinly, reaching out to squeeze his arm.
Becca frowns too, but she recovers quickly, pulling out a new photo and asking him about the features in it.
She pulls out the ones of your face, but she doesn’t mention them again.
Bucky settles in. He truly comes home. He stops feeling like he’s living out of a suitcase. He finds a job, granted it isn’t hard, with the SSR setting up an office in the city, he barely had to ask for a job. On Fridays he went dancing with Becca, acting more like a chaperone than a participant, and on Sunday’s he went to church with his mother, holding her hand through the service and making nice with the old ladies after.
He settles in. He’s home.
And then, there’s a knock on the door.
It’s well after any kind of appropriate hours for visitors, but not late enough into the night that anybody was in bed. Winnie sits by the radio in the living room, listening to her stories while Becca scrawls out a letter. Bucky had been reading when the knock came, and he waves a hand towards the women when he stands.
“I’ll get it.”
“Who on earth calls at this time?” He hears his mother wonder aloud as he makes his way down the hall to the front door.
Swinging it open, Bucky feels ready to send off whoever it is, but he stops dead in his tracks. All sense leaves him, aside from sight. He’s only able to stare slack-mouthed as you blink back up at him.
He’s never seen you in so many layers before. It was winter in New York, but Montecarra seemed to be perpetually hot, so the most he’d seen you in was a light jacket… standing before him now, on his front steps, you have a coat, a scarf, gloves, a hat and he thinks those might even be earmuffs around your neck.
“I… Hello…” You begin, your voice heavily accented when you speak English, and even though Bucky shakes himself out of his stupor, he’s still dumbfounded.
“Hi…”
“I… I’m new to the city, and I thought perhaps you will… show me around?” You seem to be thinking hard about your words, speaking slowly to articulate them. You scrunch your nose when you finish, clearly unhappy with the outcome.
Bucky can’t even bring himself to respond. He’s down the two steps separating you in seconds, hands cupping both your cheeks as he kisses you, again and again, in quick succession until you’re laughing against his lips.
“What— how— what are you doing here?!” He stops and starts, but eventually gets some version of his thoughts out. He speaks to you in Italian, not wanting you to feel limited, and you shrug, gloved fingers splayed across his chest.
“My Aunt… the one from England… she offered for me to join her in America, for better opportunities…” You trail off, and Bucky decides you could tell him any reason and he’d have been satisfied.
“I’ve been learning English.” You say, and he nods, thumb stroking over your cheek. He can’t stop looking at you, he can’t believe you’re here.
“I can see that.” He replies, in English, and watches as you slowly understand.
“Buck? Who's at the door— oh! I- I’m sorry, I—” Winnie, with Becca just behind her, stops in her tracks at the door, cheeks tinged red at catching such an intimate moment, but Bucky can’t bring himself to pull away. He see’s Becca’s eyes flash with recognition, her face lighting up.
He forces himself to pull back slightly, guiding you forward.
“Mama, Becca, this is Nina… from Montecarra.”
——
“I thought you said you’d worked in all the kinks!?” You whine, only slightly impatiently, though Bucky can understand why.
“Worked out all the kinks, baby. ‘Out’.” You roll your eyes and mutter in Italian.
“I’m going to work you out in a moment…” You say louder, and Bucky relents, holding up his hands as he finishes fiddling at last.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming! Get ready!” He tells you, quickly rushing around from one side of the camera he’d set up on a pile of books, the little wired control he holds in his hand flashing red.
“Come bambino, please smile for Mr Camera!” You bounce the tiny baby boy on your lap, earning a bout of giggles, just as Bucky slides in next to you on the stairs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and placing his free hand on his son’s back.
“Ready?”
“Five minutes ago…”
“Say ‘Montecarra’!”
He presses the button, and the camera flashes.
Thank You Very Much For Reading!
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes/reader#bucky barnes/you#bucky barnes au#40s!bucky barnes x reader#Story: The Long Last Summer#bucky barnes fanfiction#marvel fanfic#bucky barnes fanfic
162 notes
·
View notes
Text
inspiration vs plagiarism
alr y’all i’m done. this shit has been irritating me ever since the beginning of 2021 when i published “Play” on ao3 and all the way until now. i’m literally so fucking tired of seeing this everywhere it’s becoming disappointing for me to continue writing MY ORIGINAL CONCEPTS and creating ORIGINAL GRAPHICS + THEMES. why the fuck do people just steal my shit without asking or giving proper credit. it’s been ongoing for the longest that atp i’m a victim of this plagiarism bullshit 😐 can’t go thru at least a month or so without finding out somebody stole my shit so here’s a rant before i go batshit crazy over this. (screenshots are included as well)
i have confidence in my writing abilities and i’m allowed to praise my works. i love my works so much. i treat them with care unless if i don’t thoroughly appreciate it. i love my graphics and whatever the hell i put on here for y’all to keep entertained. it’s a deep part of my imagination that springs to life so flawlessly. i love that i am able to execute emotions, visuals, dialogues, graphics, and concepts that i’ve created in my head. it’s what makes my works ORIGINAL. it’s what every amazing writer on here can do and they do it so sexy. can you believe that i’m even letting people read my works for FREE? anyways, the problem comes when someone tries to steal it. LMAO obviously im sure every writer is so fucking tired of that shit it’s literally the most frustrating thing 😐 like imagine that creativity and originality being stolen without credit. the audience of that person will automatically assume that it was THEIR original idea and praise them for the concepts that doesn’t even belong to them.
now, i’m not saying inspiration is a bad thing. i get inspiration all the time as a matter of fact!! the problem comes when i don’t get ENOUGH credit or credit AT ALL. holy fuck i have a ton of screeshots of people stealing my that go past the 10 photo limit on here. but besides that, there are a few decent and amazing people on here that ask nicely if they can write/create something based off my concepts. that’s when i give them permission as long as my name is there. i also think for stories that thorough credit/praise for the original author’s works should be included before using. like i wanna know why it inspired u. why u wrote the work based off my concepts. how much u appreciate my story. a concept of my writing that u also wanna convey. etc etc. it’s literally not that hard to be a decent person and ask than assume that these concepts are yours to write. bc no tf it isn’t lmao. and don’t ask me to humble myself when all you do is feed off my writing style.
anyways, here are the screenshots throughout the year of me constantly complaining to emma over discord the people who steal my shit 🤩🤩 and some other reports too
if this continues on i might as well just delete my works 😭 but i rlly dont wanna do that. i see so much potential in my stories that it doesn’t deserve to be hidden away. but sometimes i feel like gatekeeping my works from others due to trust issues. from now on i might be implementing a new plagiarism rule where if somebody on here or any writing platform feels some sort of inspiration from my works/graphics, YOU MUST ASK FOR MY PERMISSION. ITS THE LEAST YOU COULD DO. THANK YOU.
#♥︎.important#i might sound like a karen here#but it must be said#GIVE CREDIT WHEN ITS DUEEEEE#im straight up coming to u if i see you stealing my shit again#iykyk#a message for all my writers
29 notes
·
View notes
Note
I’m living for your Danny/Reader stuff! Can we get first meetings (outside of fog?) or some ‘attempt’ at breaking up scenarios? I just love how you keep to the horror aspect of things! I love me some domestic stuff but damn it’s like, all you see anymore!!
🖤 working kinda backwards here but, first meetings will be for later~
End of the Road
Pairing: Danny 'Jed Olsen' Johnson x Reader
Summary: You wanted to leave him. You did, one way or the other.
tw: stalking, kidnapping
Danny knew this had been coming for a while.
He had felt it, like a chill creeping down his back.
The glasses 'Jed' wore at his job had always been a ruse after all, Danny's sight was adequate, it didn't need any correcting, especially to see what was written all over your face. The photos, those candid portraits he had taken of you when you thought he wasn't around? They spoke.
They told him nothing good.
Danny still waited.
Maybe he was reading into it, maybe he had misjudged your expressions. Maybe, maybe, maybe, he was going crazy thinking about the existing possibilities.
He had to miss out on work.
Take a break from taking lives and writing about the very end of those lives, all for you.
Despite knowing your routine to the point he could recite it by hour, he followed your every move that whole week.
By far the worse thing had been the fact that the amount of time he had spent being M.I.A had provided him with absolutely nothing, it only drove him closer to insanity.
You were still the same old you, had the same old life, but it was this tugging feeling at his stomach, back, head, everywhere that never left him alone.
His manipulation skills would find a way to confront you under normal circumstances, yet this time he didn't try, there was no way he was going to be put into a spot where he had to potentially be vulnerable, especially if his suspicions proved true.
He hated the situation, but you had to give him credit for not acting up on his anxieties before hearing it was true. Although maybe he should've, because they only caused him trouble, like nearly getting in his way during a spontaneous murder moment once.
When that soon-to-be-dead man wept into his knife about 'never getting to tell his girlfriend he loved him this morning', he felt like throwing up.
Thankfully, the disgust died down and so did the poor bastard with his throat slit.
Afterwards, though, he wondered if you would spend your last minutes doing the same.
Something told him no, especially if you realized your murderer would be him.
Surely you'd regret it, though.
Imagining the horror in your eyes at that moment would've satisfied him a bit normally, yet it only shot a sharp pain in his chest now.
You called him 3 days later after the stalking spree, saying you wanted time away. Time away, he had scoffed when you hung up. It was a bitter victory. Danny was once again reminded about how he hadn't been wrong about a thing once. Never in his life. Damn his people reading skills. Damn him for pursuing you. For far, far too long. Damn him for feeling anything other than homicidal tendencies for once.
Sighing, he closed the trunk. Part of him didn't want to do this, but you had left him no choice.
It wasn't Danny's M.O to transport his victims far away, in fact it was quite the opposite.
His killings always had to be local to where he was at the time, so he could write about it. That had been the motive from day one, when he had been somewhere around 13 or 14. Years ago. How the time flies. Your murder, though, would be a step-up from all that, he'd make sure of it.
Not another a gruesome Roseville murder, committed by none other than Ghostface himself.
Not even a horrifying murder case that terrified a major city like Miami. You'll make the countrywide headlines.
Backing the black sedan around, he threw gravel from the rear tires as the stolen vehicle took off. Cold-hearted as he was trying to be, he was rage-planning, in a way.
It made his usually self-assured and calculated personality second-guess himself. Danny grabbed the steering wheel tighter as the cries got quieter behind him. The calming sounds of the tires rolling on the pavement filled the car instead. Maybe not, he thought. Granting you special treatment even in separation was like admitting defeat, whether you were no longer alive or not.
But Danny had to admit, he had hoped against all odds that you wouldn't try to leave him. Look where that got you. You have to be smarter than that.
A mistake like this wouldn't be made from someone so smart, someone, probably the only person, he actually, truly loved in his whole life.
Danny wiped his perspiring face with his right arm, smiling bitterly. His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, looking at the back seat. This is the end of your story. Or perhaps, it was the beginning of the end.
taglist: @prettycutebunny
#dead by daylight#dbd x reader#fanfiction#ghostface#danny jed olsen johnson#dbd fanfic#dbd fic#dbd#dbd ghostface#danny johnson#jed olsen
131 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
chipa-me-a-puca
sou intenção num mundo de segundas.
rainbow-starlight
sun and moon loveposting
geni00
제목 없음
fgkarts
Untitled
kcidevoli
Untitled