boyswillbebuggsorsomething

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

Moving in Place

Natalie Scatorccio x Fem!Reader

Summary: Wiskayok wasn’t the place for people who were different. Especially not poor, queer freaks like yourself, or girls haunted by ghosts like Natalie. But at least you had each other, and you’d make it out someday. Just a little blurb of Nat and a girlfriend from a similar background.

Warnings: pre-crash, a lot of fluff, inspired by Moving in Place by SDC, reader has an older brother who they live with, reader is coded to be the same sort of burnout-alt kind of person as Nat & her friends from episode one, original male character but he’s really just mentioned in the background, canon typical drug use, underage drinking, underage smoking, Nat’s probably out of character, kinda black cat x golden retriever, crossposted on ao3

A/N: Just a short blurb inspired by one of my favourite songs. Honestly I might continue making fics with these characters, and maybe I’ll even go on to make an extension involving the crash, who knows? Let me know if you’d be interested in that. This was all written in like an hour a week ago and I don’t proofread so this might be written horribly but I think it was done enough that I wanted to post it, so here it is.

Word Count: 1731

…

Tangled in the warmth of your bedsheets, body pressed against your girlfriend, you felt a calm unlike any other. Nat slept better with you, you knew that well, and so despite being an early riser yourself, you let her sleep, content to watch her in her few moments of true relaxation. Gently, you smoothed her hair back from her face as you watched the soft rise and fall of her chest, each breath precious to you. 

You wished she would just stay here forever, never return to the trailer haunted with ghosts of the past and tensions born of mistakes she had no hand in, but logically you knew she’d always go back. It was like she was drawn by some invisible string, tangling her in a web of awful memories and worse treatment, even when escape was less than a two minute walk from that damn cage.

Slowly, you felt her shift as she woke up, blinking sleep from her eyes as she looked up at you.

“G’morning,” You murmured.

“Morning,” Her voice was rough and thick with sleep, and so very beautiful.

“Now that you’re up, I’m gonna go make us some coffee, okay? I’ve been awake for, like, two hours now, and staying this still for any longer might kill me,” You grinned before shoving her off of you, standing with a quick peck to the top of her head. Nat flipped you off, grumbling as she sat up, before pushing her mussed up hair from her eyes. 

“Mhm, love you too,” you hummed before leaving your bedroom.

Your trailer wasn’t big nor well put together in any of the sense of the idea, however, the strange little tin can was nothing if not a truly comfortable home. Wall to wall was decked out in photos and trinkets collected over the years, and while the space was small and cluttered, it didn’t feel hostile. One wrong move wouldn’t set off a chain reaction of rage like you knew so many had grown to expect in their own homes. 

You wove through the cluttered kitchen, grumbling as you pushed your brother’s dirty dishes out of the way of the coffee maker. You loved him, he kept the whole damn place running, but god, James was a fucking disaster when it came to any form of organisation or basic cleanliness. The old coffee machine rattled and groaned each time you used it, begging for a well deserved death that you denied each time you slapped it back to life when it began to give out. It filled the little trailer with the smell of stale coffee - almost enough to cover the constant faint stench of weed, beer, and cigarettes lingering in the trailer - which was sure to draw Nat from her abode in your room, and despite his late shifts, your fiendish brother would demand coffee be made for him too, even if he didn’t wake up until three hours later once it was cold in the fridge. As the coffee maker whirred on in the background, you grabbed mugs from your cabinet, an old stained white one your brother used for everything, one that you think used to be red but had since faded to a strange brownish-orangey-pink that was questionable to look at, and your favourite mug, a chipped up old thing with blue flowers that you got for at a garage sale when you were 12 and had used religiously since.

Once the machine stopped its screaming, alerting you the coffee was done, you poured it out for each person, making it exactly as they liked. You loved days like these, peaceful domesticity where you didn’t have school or work or practice and only had to worry about making food or coffee, or what music to play. It made you feel halfway normal, not like the freak or burnout known at school, or the town queer, but instead as just a girl in love, and in these four walls you didn’t have to hide it, just like any other girl your age, with a family and a life and a future outside of this hellhole. You knew you were far from normal, at least by the standards of a place like fucking Wiskayok, but at least on days like this you felt like you were.

You were drawn from your thoughts as Nat emerged from your room, hair mussed and eyeliner from days of reapplying without ever removing any smudging her eyes. 

“I really oughtta get you some makeup remover of some kind. Or even just a fuckin’ cloth. You’re looking more like a raccoon everyday,” You muttered affectionately, smiling as you handed her the once-red mug.

She grumbled slightly, rolling her eyes as she sipped at the coffee, but she slowly shifted towards you, gravitating towards your body. A goddamn cat, James had called her when he first saw her act like this. You had to agree. There was an old black cat that used to live under your porch when you were a kid, long before ever moving here or meeting Nat, who would slink around and hiss at anyone who got too close, but once you’d offered it food and care, it would stay as close to your side as possible. She reminded you of that cat almost daily, but you’d never tell her that.

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm as you drank your coffees, with you preparing breakfast with the remainder of last week's groceries as Nat helped wash last night’s dishes, music blaring from your little old radio propped up on the counter. After you’d eaten and cleaned, you made it back to your room to get ready. You dressed in an old tank top and a ratty pair of jeans you stole from James, Nat in the same black jeans and striped shirt she wore constantly at your place, rings adorning her fingers and silver chains layered around her neck. She always looked more put together than you, even with choppy hair and day old makeup, and today was no different.

The day passed by slowly, baking in the heat of late spring since the damn A/C broke two months ago and you never got around to fixing it. Not like you had the money to spare, but it was still hell on earth. The trailer didn’t have a TV, never did. Ever since you moved to Wiskayok when you were 11, you had never had anything of the sort in your home. James said it was to keep you creative, force you to do something other than rot your brain, but you’d known even then that TV was expensive in a way you’d never be able to afford, especially with a 16 year old high school dropout as the only source of income. He was right though, it did keep you creative, and thank god for that fact.

You’d practiced on your guitar - one you found on garbage day walking around in a rich area, thrown out just for a couple scuffs and broken strings - until your fingers ached and you’d messed up enough chords that you and Nat were both laughing. James woke up well after lunch, somehow having slept through your playing. He still looked exhausted even after sleeping most of the day away, but a night shift would do that to you. You knew well, having spent most nights over the summer working until ungodly hours at the gas station or the corner store, depending on the day of the week. He left you a pack of cigarettes on the counter before he left for work, grumbling something about how they’d kill you, even though he smoked twice as much as you ever did. He’d do things like that every so often, a pack of cigarettes, some beer or vodka, or weed, thanks for what you did around the house while he was at work. You’d pay him back though, with random trinkets he collected or a book once your paycheck came through.

You let Nat have full control over what music played, knowing her mother was always screaming at her for being too loud if she ever played her music above a whisper pitch. As you cleaned or cooked, the low hum of whatever grunge or punk she’d put on provided some lovely background noise. In the spirit of domesticity, you found yourself prattling on about any nonsense you could think of, and eventually so was Nat, detailing stories from the soccer practices you’d had to miss or parties you’d never gone to. 

Once the hottest part of the day had passed, she dragged you outside to practice some passes or… something. You were never the greatest at sports but you loved her so you went along with it. She was dedicated in a way that her team never seemed to give her credit for, not that they ever thought she was anything but a dedicated player, but Nat had a reputation as a burnout that had a tendency to precede her, worming its way through the crevices in the brain of anyone who met her, leaving them to assume she didn’t care as much as the others. 

By the time the sun was going down, you were sitting out on the steps to the trailer door, passing a cigarette between the two of you. There was a beer balanced between your legs, one sat beside Nat as well, hot air causing the chilled bottles to weep condensation like tears.

“Do you think this is it?” She asked, voice hoarse.

“Hm?”

“This. Wiskayok. Doesn’t it ever feel like we’re just going to be here forever? Like it doesn’t get any better?”

“Fuckin’ existential, huh?” You huffed, taking a sip of your beer, “Nah, it’ll get better. The world just isn’t ready for us yet, so we’re stuck until then, y’know? Then, I don’t know, you’ll go pro, and I’ll get a job that isn’t at a damn gas station, or I’ll start selling crap to those rich fucks who pay premium to live the life of us burnouts they hate so much, and we’ll get outta here.”

“Yeah?” She laughed slightly, a short, hoarse, breathy sound, taking a drag off the cigarette, “Y’think?”

“Mhm,” You leaned your head on her shoulder, sighing softly, “And until then, we’ve always got each other.”

A/N: Thank you for reading! Any and all interactions are appreciated, please let me know if y'all want more of these characters or more similar fics!

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I don't know if it's just me, but I've noticed a weird trend of people who make art for Epic: The Musical drawing Calypso as like, the only Black woman, or even at times the only Black person, in their designs, and genuinely there's something so off putting about that. I'm not super into Epic, mainly because of the fanbase, but I was super into mythology growing up, and just based on her characterization in the musical and who Calypso is, there's something so fucking weird about making her the only Black woman or Black character.

Like, I can't be the only one who sees this and finds it weird?? It leans so much into the Jezebel tropes and similar things that are used to stereotype Black women in media. This isn't just making a Black woman who happens to do some bad things or problematic things, this is at least to some degree internalised stereotyping and racism, even if it isn't intentional.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

something I've noticed that really pisses me off and grosses me out is the fact that people are more judgemental of people who read/write x reader fanfiction than they are of people who use chatbots. I don't know if this is a common thing, but I've seen it a lot where people act like readers & writers of x reader stuff are weird and creepy or cringey but act like fucking chatbots aren't the most creepy, weird shit ever???

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

y'know, something that bothers me is the whole judgement recently online for people who use certain metaphors or certain types of imagery in their poetry and writing just because certain people either overuse them or use them so stupidly it ruins the idea of them entirely. like, I've been seeing a lot of judgement towards people who use dogs, ribs, pomegranates, and cannibalism for symbolism and metaphors as if they can't be used well or somehow inherently lower the quality of one's work, or that people only use them because they are popular online?

one of the first poems I ever wrote was from when I was 7-9 ish, I don't know the exact age, and 90% of it was me comparing myself to a dog left outside during winter because I was friendless in a lot of ways due to being undiagnosed autistic and being chronically ill, and every time I saw my dog outside waiting to be let in during the winter, something just felt the exact same as seeing other people together when I just couldn't understand why I was separate. I've also been using pomegranates in my writing since I was 11 or so because all throughout my childhood, pomegranates were a treat for me after surgery or bloodwork or whatever, and so I associated them with a reward born out of my illness, and their imagery only grew in importance when I got into mythology, also because I had a lot of free time due to being chronically ill. I got into cannibalistic imagery and vampirism as a metaphor when I felt like my queerness was morally wrong and animalistic in some way when I was 13 or so.

maybe I'm just biased because I have such a personal connection to a lot of these metaphors and symbols that have gained popularity recently, but I just can't stand people who write others works off because they use these kinds of imagery or metaphors.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I don't know if this is a shared experience, but as someone with a younger sibling, what the fuck is with parents becoming so lenient these kids become just awful??

Like, I'm the middle child of my family and when I was growing up, I couldn't get away with shit. If I was slightly disrespectful? Grounded. If I didn't listen to my parents? Grounded. Basically anything I did could warrant a punishment, but this kid? Literally the most rage filled, violent, mean child ever yet they face no punishments. For one, I'm disabled and chronically ill, so my pain tolerance is weird as hell and just a harsh touch can be agonising for me, yet this kid has gotten away with literally hitting me in the side with a metal pot because I was "annoying" them. And if I dare tell this kid that they can't stay up until five in the goddamn morning then I am somehow being mean and they decide its their right to treat me like shit for not wanting them sleep deprived and even meaner than usual.

And look, I'm not gonna act like I don't do the older sibling teasing and joking meanness at times, and I know I was a dick when I was their age, but I never got violent yet I was so much more over-policed by my parents and its fucking exhausting to deal with this kid who can't be bothered to treat anyone with basic respect. Also, this kid isn't on social media or anything STRICTLY BECAUSE I KNOW THEY WOULD JUST BECOME WORSE IF THEY WERE so I have no idea where this is coming from.

And obviously I love my parents but I'm just so pissed off because this is a lose-lose situation for me. I grew up with the strict, harsh parents who never saw me as trustworthy, all while I was dealing with chronic illness my whole life so they were even stricter, meanwhile they get to be violent and awful to me while my parents have become "chill" so they just let them do it. I obviously don't believe parents should be super strict or awfully harsh, but this is too much lenience and I'm so sick of not being heard when I point it out. Especially since they act like since I'm older and "grown" I shouldn't be upset about this, even though I'm literally being threatened and bullied, they act like being mature warrants allowing mistreatment and I'm just fucking sick of all of this. I love my family, but there's a reason I'm moving in with my sibling once they can afford a big enough space for themself.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I generally don't use much slang or "internet/brainrot language" often just because I don't see the appeal and it just doesn't mesh well with my usual way of speaking, HOWEVER my younger sibling is gen alpha and I love just putting some random phrase I barely understand into a sentence and just watching the disdain on their face as they realise what I just said

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

So, here's a little fun fact about me: I always believed Finnick was from Newfoundland or one of the other Atlantic provinces when I read THG.

For context, I have a lot of family up in that area of Canada, specifically in the rural areas, and his name + District 4 being a fishing district just made me think of that area, so I've always just read him as being from there. Like, his last name is O'Dair. And Mags' is Flannery. I'm pretty sure that was someone in my family's maiden name or something. This was before I knew that technically Canada wasn't part of Panem, but so much of my family lived there that I just was like, yeah, makes sense that it's all of North America, including Canada.

Anyways, this led to a somewhat depressing headcanon between my younger sibling and I where essentially people in D4 do tend to have rather thick accents, very irish/scottish Newfie style accents like our relatives had, but because the Capitol fucking sucks, having any sort of accent that makes any of the tributes seem too different from the capitol citizens in any way (like the accents of people in 12, or in this headcanon, 4) would be looked down upon (or possibly fetishised/seen as something that made him more like a special item rather than a human in a way), so he would have ended up masking it long enough that he just didn't really have it anymore by the time Catching Fire took place.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I know I have not posted anything in regards to OUATIS animated, so here's a little update: I have created paper storyboards for Snow's Flight, Pump Shanty, and part of Rose Red, and I am currently working on digitising the storyboards and animating them, so I should be able to upload some actual progress soon.

Anyways, I also created these semi-realistic/oil painting inspired portraits of Snow, Cinders, and Rose for a 6 hour long presentation I'm making for my friends about the mechs, so have these until I have enough of the animation done to share:

taglist: @cinderswife @miralines @saintofbadpuns @the-final-high-noon-rings

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I Love You More Than Words Can Say Masterlist

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I Love You More Than Words Can Say (chapter 3)

Bucky Barnes x M!Reader

Summary: Bucky and the stranger from the bar reunite under unexpected circumstances. 

Warnings/Content: Steve is here but no serum? But he also isn’t particularly scrawny?, I have no idea how to write for Steve, Peggy does not exist because I don’t really like her and I can’t do 40s slang and British slang, Bucky kind of hates himself, switches from 3d person POV (Bucky’s POV) and 2nd person (reader’s POV), romance(?) written by someone who has never been in an actual relationship, no one can deal with their emotions

A/N: I’m going to be so honest, I have never been to any dance, and I was writing this entire thing at like 2-4 am (and that shows in how this was written) so I didn’t want to do much research, so I was definitely imagining the dance set up from TLOU2 but with a bunch of people dressed for the 40s while I wrote this. So, while that might be unrealistic for the time, that was what was in my head. Also, I am so sorry for my usage of 40s vocabulary, I have a terrible memory but this was all written from memories of the first Captain America movie and 40s movies I used to watch with my nan, so it’s definitely badly done. Anyways, this takes place somewhere between 5-15 days or so after their first meeting, I’m bad with time.

Word Count: 2372

…

Bucky hadn’t expected to ever see the stranger from the bar ever again. 

Something about him had seemed inhuman, a smoky facade easily destroyed by only a strong breath that had given him a dreamlike quality, leaving Bucky feeling as though he’d imagined the whole interaction. It was strange how fixated he had become on the man. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever felt before, the tugging behind his ribs and an ever present hope for just another glimpse of the bizarrely ethereal man whose mere presence caused a cascading calm to wash over him. At times he found himself searching the crowds for that unruly hair or those truly entrancing eyes, which on days like this when he was out with Steve had led Steve to believe he was searching for some girl he had fallen for. 

“Y’know Buck, I was thinking,” Steve started.

“Huh, really? That’s new,” Bucky shot back with a grin. 

“I know, surprising. But, I was saying, you and I should get out again. Do something other than work, like we used to.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky began, despite his confident demeanor, he simply hadn’t had the energy lately. Keeping up with the version of himself curated for those around him was exhausting to say the least, but the idea of letting the walls crumble, revealing the horrible thing he had become in the wake of all he had seen, all he had done, was too terrifying to consider. 

“Come on, you used to be dragging me to every dance, every carnival, whatever was going on, and going out with every girl who ever caught your eye. It seems to be time I returned the favour,” Steve smiled, but his eyes betrayed the concern he truly felt for his best friend. It was warranted of course, though Bucky chose not to acknowledge how truly terrible he was at hiding things from Steve. He refused to acknowledge when the stench of whiskey clung to his skin or when he was caught so deep in his own mind reality seemed entirely separate. It was easier to fall into the mold that had been built for him, even when it had been his own hands placing the bricks he so often found himself trapped behind.

“Oh, so I’m going to be the third wheel for you this time around?”

“No, I’m just tired of seeing you struggling and refusing to do anything good for yourself. I just want you to do something that makes you happy.”

“So what, you’re just going to force me to come with you to what, exactly? Did you hunt down some event just for this?”

“A dance, Bucky. I found a flier for a dance, and there’ll be plenty of pretty dames for you to at least have some fun with.”

“I’ll think about it.”

…

And that was how Bucky ended up at some random dance alongside Steve. Or, at least, it was alongside Steve until he had been whisked away by some pretty girl with big doe eyes to be her dance partner. So instead he was up by the wall, watching his friend dance across the floor, though Steve kept glancing back to check on him, to which Bucky kept having to wave him back to his partner. In a horrible way, he found himself preferring this solitude. It felt deserved somehow. He felt less like a man and more like a ghost. Unreal. Inhuman. It was as though the light itself was absorbed by the darkness that emanated from the depths of his soul, leaving a shadowy mark where he once stood. 

A few girls had come up to him, drawn to the melancholy of such a being, asking him to dance, but each time he felt like a spectator as his body moved on its own, politely declining their requests while he himself was wholly absent. Occasionally he’d be drawn back as Steve would take breaks, a hand on his shoulder or a drink handed to him forcing him to respond to the only person who could reliably see through his facade. But for the most part he was a ghost.

It stayed that way until he spotted something that for a moment drew him back to reality. Across the room, dancing alongside a dark haired woman, was the man from the bar. His hair was still too long, and now it seemed as though it was intentional. His face was hard to see from a distance, but what wasn’t hard to see was the smile spread wide across his face. A pang of jealousy hit Bucky in the chest, though it dissipated just as quickly as it came. Brushing it off, he continued to watch as the man spun across the room, his movements imperfect and unpracticed, but incredibly mesmerising nonetheless. There was something about it, the clumsy yet beautifully natural way he danced, as though the music had made its home in his bones and was guiding every movement without any rhyme or reason other than that it felt correct.

Eventually he lost sight of the man, and it seemed his partner did as well, and for a moment felt the urge to fade away again until he heard that same soft voice that was somehow perfectly recognisable despite only one shared night.

“Can’t say I expected to see you here,” he slumped against the wall, offering a half-smile to Bucky.

“I can say with certainty I never thought I’d see you again,” Bucky huffed a small laugh, but noticed the small shift in his companion’s expression, “You come to these things often?”

“Ah, thank God you remember me. But yeah, always. I’m surely not a good dancer, but I’ll be damned if it’s not a hell of a good time. You oughta try it sometime, ‘stead of just hanging out by the wall.”

“I used to. Haven’t had much of a reason to get out recently though.”

“What brought you out tonight then?”

“Ah, my best friend dragged me here,” Bucky grinned, finding Steve in the crowd and pointing him out, “The blonde, see there?”

“Oh, yeah. Good lookin’ friend you’ve got,” The man nodded. It was interesting to Bucky, the way he was so open about other men’s beauty. He had been the same way when they first met, Bucky could remember the stranger calling him casanova, almost flirting with him the same way he himself would flirt with women. And of course, Bucky wasn’t the type to judge anyone’s proclivities, he didn’t think there were moral standings regarding something as simple as attraction to the same gender, but it was a not so unspoken rule that you didn’t flaunt said attraction if you weren’t looking for unwanted - more often than not negative - attention. 

“So, you weren’t all that keen on coming out dancing?” He continued, glancing back at Bucky.

“Haven’t been lately. Used to go out a lot, but, uh, not so much anymore,” Bucky laughed slightly.

“Well then, you want to get out of here then? I might be the type to go out all the time, but I understand plenty what it's like to wish you were dead in a crowd.”

“What?”

“C’mon, you look like you need some air, and frankly so could I,” The man grinned, a true, proper smile unlike any he offered Bucky the first night and it was beautiful. It was the kind of smile that warmed you to the core, that made you feel as though you had no choice but to smile back. 

“You’re sure?”

“‘Course I am. Who wouldn’t want to spend more time with a man such as yourself?” 

…

You slipped out into the night, waiting to be joined by Bucky while he went back to tell Steve he was leaving with someone. In the cold darkness of night, your mind took a chance to run freely, and what a horrible thing that was. Was this a terrible idea? Surely it had to be. He was a kind man, but that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Kind men did not equate accepting or even tolerant men. And of course there was always the chance he could be a wolf in disguise, sharp teeth and gnashing jaws kept under wraps until you step close enough to see past warm eyes and pleasant conversation. Would you find yourself torn to shreds once again should you approach its gaping maw? You would. Of course you would. Every path you took, no matter how seemingly good they were, always led to your own destruction. It was simply your nature to drive yourself mad with mistake after mistake until you eventually got yourself killed.

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes until you saw spots, trying to force your mind away from villainizing the man before you even knew him.

Then you felt a hand on your shoulder and you were drawn back to reality.

“You alright?” He asked, voice kind yet raw.

“Mhm. Of course,” Your voice came out much rougher than you intended, not at all the sociable mask you’d trained yourself to wear to feel any ounce of normalcy out in the world. 

“You sure?”

“I’m certain, James.”

“Bucky, please. It’s- No one calls me James,” He let out a small laugh.

“Bucky isn’t nearly as dignified a name as you deserve,” You chuckled, “James is a rather handsome name anyways, it suits you quite well.”

“Thank you?” His voice was unsure, but appreciative, like the compliment was wholly unexpected to him. 

“Come on now,” You began to walk, waving for him to follow you, “We don’t have all night.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky started, catching up to you quickly, “And where exactly are we going?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue. You see, I’m actually very new to this city still, and I take it you on the other hand, are not,” You glanced at him, waiting for a response, to which he nodded, “So, I decided, just now in this very moment, that since you aren’t interested in a night out, you can instead show me around, since I assume you know the city fairly well.”

“Oh wow. We meet twice and now I’m a tour guide? Has this been your master plan all along?”

“Obviously,” you joked, grinning at him, “Why would I ever pay for a tour guide when I can just rope random locals into my life? This is much more interesting.”

It was easy to talk to Bucky, you realised, even without the buffer of alcohol and sorrow. There was something about him that made you feel as though you’d known him for years, despite the fact this was quite literally your second time meeting. Perhaps it was his voice and the strange, rough yet warm quality that sounded unlike any of the people you would have surrounded yourself with back home. Perhaps it was just the fact you knew that beneath the blinding smile and endless charisma was a man not so different from yourself, broken and bent out of shape. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he just didn’t know who you were beyond the man you were now. And honestly, you preferred it that way. You didn’t need to worry about him looking at you and seeing nothing but how far you’ve fallen to reach this state, instead he met you at nearly your worst, so really it was only up from there. 

The two of you walked side by side through the streets, surrounded by a symphony of discordant sounds of the city. Bucky quickly fell into his role as your tour guide, leaning into his assigned position with an easy confidence that suited him well. At practically each corner he’d explain what led where, who worked at what store and which were best, and all sorts of little anecdotes about his own life growing up. This version of Bucky; this smooth talking, confident man was so clearly who he really was at his roots. It was entirely unlike the man you had met at the bar, with listless eyes and pallid skin, this Bucky was in his element and it was beautiful.

“Oh, and there,” He continued, grinning as he gestured towards a rather unremarkable alley, “Steve and I have gotten into at least five fights there alone.”

“With each other? I can’t imagine fighting with any of my friends that much,” It was with that statement that you realised just how long it had been since you ever spoke to, or even wrote to any of your friends, and for a moment you found yourself sick with how easily you had left everything, including them, behind, but you were drawn back by a short bark of laughter.

“Oh, no, not with each other. Steve hates bullies, so he used to start fights with anyone who was one, even though he was only about 90 pounds soaking wet. And I had to finish them.”

“Ah, well, that’s-” You nodded slightly as you tripped over your words, “Yes, that seems in character for you, at least from what I’ve seen.”

“You know, I’m assuming that’s a compliment, so I will take it as such.”

“Good, it is. You seem like a wonderful man, James,” Your words were sincere, and held a horribly raw amount of emotion that you’d usually never let slip.

And his response was just as sincere, a simple and soft, “Thank you.”

You stayed like this for what could have been hours. Walking together through the cluttered city streets as he shared stories about his life and you listened. The night grew colder and it was soon far too late to stay out for any reason, and eventually you had to split up, but not before you gave him your address and made him swear to either come by sometime or write you. This could either be your worst or best decision in quite some time, but somehow you felt it would turn out well, and you just had to pray that for once in your life you wouldn’t end up driving yourself to the brink over a trivial issue like a man. 

A/N: Sorry this isn’t as good quality as my last two chapters. I’ve been really sick (whooo!! Being chronically ill with the immune system of a dying victorian child is so fucking fun!!) and haven’t been able to formulate anything up to any standard, but I wanted to get another chapter out because I don’t know if I’ll get a fourth chapter released for a while, so yeah I just wrote this in the middle of the night in a couple hours without any editing or anything.

Tags: @vainillacookie

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I Love You More Than Words Can Say (chapter 2)

Bucky Barnes x M!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of the night at the bar, the reader spirals.

Warnings/Content: implied past sexual experiences, hangover, religious imagery, Bucky is not featured in this chapter, there is literally no interaction with any other person in this chapter

A/N: This is essentially just the aftermath of the night they had met, and it is insanely short, but anyways, first chapter from the reader’s perspective! Honestly I can’t tell if I like writing from his or Bucky’s perspective more, but this characterization of the reader is so fun to explore and write so I can’t wait to write more of his chapters. Next chapter, the reader and Bucky will reunite.

Word Count: 786

…

Your bed felt horribly solitary in the cold light of the morning. Sickly grey rays of light trickled into your room through the curtains as your mind waged war upon itself as memories of the past night flooded back, along with the awful pain of hangover. 

You had met many men in the shadowy corners of bars no respectable man dared step foot in. Men with a glint in their eyes and honey sweet voices that made any sin they led you to worth the damnation you were sure to face should the reckoning come. None, however, had been able to look you in your eyes with anything but hunger. The starving kind that required a feast to satisfy, leaving a gaping hole in their wake when you had foolishly believed that a deal of flesh would not be the extent of the care afforded to you. Left with nothing but blood drained and skin stained with the mark of false affections, an affliction you could not seem to escape in the path of your own self destruction. None, until the strange, beautiful soldier boy from last night. 

James, he had called himself, a man with such horrors wracking his mind his despair was palpable even through silence. His eyes held no desire, nor desperate hunger for control over another, there was simply an aching pain, deep past any flesh wound or scar visible to the naked eye. One he tried and failed to hide with a shining smile and confident demeanor. It was an ache that you had felt deep in your bones to the depths of your core. And God, if it was not a beautiful sort of pain. A martyr cannot be made of one who does not suffer poetically, blood spilled over marble by a silver blade.

But of course, the dreamlike haze of a drunken man in the dark can easily mistake a street lamp for a halo. And so by dawn’s light, the man who had seemed to have the potential to be more than a back alley mistake fuelled by whiskey and regret was washed away as nothing more than a blurred, blacked out ghost. The bitter taste of regret laced your mouth, coating your tongue like syrup, impossible to choke down. Only a fool such as yourself could allow the cruel hands of fate to warp what could have grown into something truly good into a taunting memory of what could have been. 

The pain you felt physically was a penitence you had earned in the wake of your own poor decision making, you decided as you dragged yourself from the small comfort your bed provided. Stumbling like a reanimated corpse across the room, you stripped off your clothes from the night before that you hadn’t managed to change out of, and pulled together something suitable to wear. 

Sundays for most people were a chance to get away from work, to spend time in the house of God and be together with their family in a picturesque level of perfection. For you they were a reminder of everything you could never return to. But at least you were able to sleep half the day away until you had to get to work.

As you went through the motions of your morning routine, you found yourself staring into the mirror. The man staring back looked unwell, bags under listless eyes and shadows haunting the lines of his face; framed by limp, too-long hair. Beneath his sickly face, a perfect crucifix shone in the light, the perfect, beautiful tragedy depicted mocking his own decrepit state. You wondered for a moment how you’d let yourself get to this state, looking at yourself you couldn’t believe that you had once been seen as a respectable man. But that man had died long ago when you’d packed your bags and left home that final time. Like Cain and Abel, the beauty and kindness slaughtered by all that was cruel and unlovable within yourself, leaving behind the horrible shell that you now saw in your reflection. 

Once you had managed to pull yourself together enough to look less like you’d crawled out of your grave, hair combed and face shaved, you made yourself a breakfast of stale coffee and bread. You really had to stock up on groceries sometime before you found yourself falling ill from such a diet. But that was an issue for another day, today your only goal was to survive the night, and maybe find someone to go home with to make it all a little less painful.

So, downing the last of your coffee, you grabbed your coat and left into the hopeless grey light of the outside world.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

Jon, again

This is a redraw/heavily inspired by a different art piece I found on pinterest that I currently do not have the original of, but y'all can easily find it online if you're interested in the original

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

Some more of Jon and the Admiral because they are very silly

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

I Love You More Than Words Can Say (chapter 1)

Bucky Barnes x M!Reader

Summary: Having recently returned from the war, Bucky finds himself struggling to readjust to civilian life while coping with the trauma he was left with. So, when it all becomes too much, he ends up attempting to find solace in the bottom of the bottle, that is until he meets a strange man who just might make everything hurt a little bit less. 

Warnings/Content: No Avengers/they’re all regular people AU?, 1940s era typical homophobia (internal & external), heavily inspired by the Joshua & Jericho album by The Reverent Marigold (more specifically Johnny Turn Away, where I stole the name for this from, and Good Protestant Values), religious themes/imagery, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possibly out of character (I’ve never written for any Marvel character before, definitely not Bucky, and definitely not in any AU), reader has hair that would be considered long for a man in the 40s, historical stuff written by someone who hasn’t taken anything beyond a tenth grade history course, survivors guilt, PTSD, drinking as a one off way to forget, Steve is mentioned, switches between third person (Bucky) and second person (reader) perspectives, reader is from a family of some Christian denomination, possibly incorrectly used 40s slang

A/N: So I’ve been on a bit of a Marvel kick right now, and so now we get to witness the lovely thing of me writing incredibly self indulgent fics based on music I feel in my bones. Anyways, this is my first ever time writing Bucky, and since it is an AU without all the Winter Soldier stuff, I took some creative liberties with his personality & demeanor I guess, but idk, I adore the idea for this so I had to write it. This is also crossposted on AO3, so if you see it there it is not stolen.

Word Count: 1261

…

War changed people. 

As sure as the sun would rise and the wind would blow, war would change even the best of men. Bucky was no different. Of course, there was no expectation for the horrors of war to have no effect on him, he knew what he was signing up for, but there always is that lovely cognitive dissonance between enlisting and going into active combat that painted a sheer wash of courage and glimmering hope across even the most dire situations the mind could conjure. And so when the war was won and Bucky had found himself back in New York, he was left with a mind in shambles and the title of war hero, one that at times felt like it was mocking him for all the lives he could never save. He didn’t regret all he did, of course not, he’d done a great deal of good in the grand scheme of things, but that reminder didn’t make him feel any less like his hands were permanently stained red with gore. He was no longer the man he was before he had gone off to fight, and a horrible guilt settled beneath his ribs for that fact, especially when he saw that Steve had remained so entirely good, still the same man he had always been, while Bucky was left with a gaping void where his heart had once held that true innocence and purity. 

So, he found himself seeking solace in the only thing that was ensured to stop the memories from resurfacing, for at least a little while. The whiskey clutched in his hand had long since begun to warm, leaving it watered down and room temperature. Each burning gulp turned his stomach and left his head spinning in a foul way, not in any way reminiscent of the loving embrace of oblivion he so craved, which paired with the horrible musty stench of alcohol and despair filling the dingy old bar, an establishment he had only chosen as to ensure he would not be recognized, left him feeling separate from his body, yet simultaneously horribly nauseous. The soft sound of metal brushing metal filled his ears as he ran his fingers absently over his dog tags. With each breath he took, the rickety barstool he had made his perch upon creaked and whined obnoxiously, though he had nothing left in him to care. 

Bucky sat in that horrible creaky seat, unmoving and wholly disinterested in the world around him until his glazed over eyes caught sight of a strange man making his way up to the bar. His hair was wild, left to grow long and untamed, framing his sickly face like the portraits you’d find in an art museum, Ophelia born again in the form of a perfectly, beautifully tragic young man. Peaking out beneath his raggedy button up was a crucifix, perfect gilded purity glinting in the dim lights of the bar. It seemed to be the only well cared for aspect of the man’s appearance. As the stranger slumped onto the stool beside him, Bucky turned his gaze away so as to not be caught staring like some sort of judgemental creep. Through the corner of his eye though, he watched, entranced by this strange young man. 

“Just get me whatever’s strongest,” the stranger spoke softly as he placed some crumpled up bills on the surface of the bar, voice melodic despite its strained hoarseness, “please.” The word was a roughly tacked on addition, spoken quieter than the man’s other words. 

The sentiment was something Bucky had to come to know well in his time since the war. Not in the intimate way one who is dependent on drink to get through the day is, more like friends who come together only in times of dire need who otherwise do not speak. He wondered for a moment if it was the same for the stranger, or if he frequented these establishments as though they were a second home.

When the bartender slid over a glass of amber coloured liquid, Bucky watched as the man sipped it gingerly before downing it all, exhaling sharply when he had drunk it down. The stranger caught his gaze, and despite his efforts to seem like he wasn’t just staring, he knew it was fruitless when the man spoke.

“Y’know, it’s rude to stare,” the stranger murmured, tensing his fingers slightly around his cup.

“I wasn’t staring, per say,” Bucky attempted the kind of confident smile that had once made its home on his face each day, “I was just taking note of the only interesting person here.”

“I ain’t interesting,” he scoffed

“Sure you are. Especially compared to anyone else in this damned place,” Bucky gestured at the bar, filled with few other patrons, most slumped over and barely conscious in their drunken stupor.

“Still doesn’t make me interesting,” Despite his words, a small smile tugged at the man’s lips.

“Well, I couldn’t possibly know that without getting to know you.”

 It was strange, the way Bucky found himself slipping so easily into this bantering attitude with the man. Perhaps it was the whiskey lowering his inhibitions and peeling away the stress that had clung to him like a second skin, though there was something more reminiscent of the attitude he had used on girls before the war in the way he found himself acting with the stranger.

A grin broke out on the strange man’s face, “Okay, casanova.”

“Let me introduce myself properly, so you don’t think I’m just some creeper who spends his days staring at strangers,” Bucky held his hand out casually as he turned to face the man in a more one on one fashion, “James Buchanan Barnes, pleasure to meet you. And you are?”

The stranger introduced himself, delicately shaking Bucky’s hand before speaking once more, “So, James, what’s got you in a place like this? You seem quite a bit too respectable to be spendin’ your time here.”

It was then that the man’s eyes caught on the glinting metal of Bucky’s dog tags hanging out of his shirt, and he simply nodded in understanding, “Tryna forget?”

“Something like that.”

“Makes sense. Seems to be just about the only option to deal with anything now.”

“Were you enlisted?”

“Briefly.” The way his posture tensed and eyes darkened made Bucky choke back any further questions.

“Alright then, what are you doing here?” 

“Just trying to get my mind to stop running in circles. And what better way to do that than drinking yourself half to death?” The man huffed a small laugh at his own self deprecating joke.

“Well I could definitely drink to that,” Bucky chuckled, halfheartedly lifting up his glass before taking a long sip.

A silence, not entirely uncomfortable but a silence nonetheless fell over the two as they drank together in a newfound state of solidarity one can only find with a stranger in the depths of night. Bucky, rather surprisingly, found himself becoming relaxed far more than the alcohol alone could ever achieve, simply by being in the presence of this strange, rumpled man. Something about his presence, despite his tear-reddened eyes or the stench of whiskey clinging strongly to his form, provided a sense of comfort, of warmth and understanding that Bucky found himself lacking even with Steve or his own family. The shared tragedy of two men warped and torn apart by an unkind world, molded into an unnatural form by hands cruel enough to not even consider the repercussions of their actions.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

Sometimes I wake up at random times of night and write down random thoughts I have when I'm half asleep. I apparently came up with this sickening train of thought a couple days ago:

"Did God know I would turn out to be as cruel as I am or did he watch in horror as yet another one of his beloved creations damned itself in fear of what it truly was?"

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

So now that season 3 is over and Ben is dead, this stupid little theory of mine probably won't get confirmed or denied in the canon, but anyways I still feel like this is true.

Okay, so this could be a very common theory/already be confirmed but whatever, I don't interact with fan theories that much and I just came up with this in my most recent rewatch of Yellowjackets. So basically, I am 100% convinced that Coach Scott/Ben and Coach Martinez were having an affair and here is my proof:

First, in the first episode during practice, Ben refers to Martinez by his first name, which could be looked over as just regular coworkers screwing up and using the wrong name around their students, but it continues. There's a look of shame on Martinez's face whenever he looks at the photo of his family on his desk. Then, when Coach Martinez is getting ready to leave for the plane with Travis and Javi his wife keeps looking at him with just utter disappointment. We already know that Travis thinks his dad is the worst and I think blames him for their family borderline falling apart. Then there's that scene where Ben gives Travis all those condoms that he just so happened to pack on the trip where the only man who he already knows is Coach Martinez. We also already know that he screwed up his relationship with Paul so it is totally believable that he'd go for his closeted, married work friend/boss.

Anyways this might be total nonsense but I feel like it's true so yeah.

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

one of my friends keeps complaining that their phone has no storage space on it and I found out recently that it's because they have literally every lotr and hobbit movie downloaded on it