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palbabor-writes · 4 years

Text

Look Upon the Light

(Chapter 8: Terrify)

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, angst, general melancholy

Word Count: 7765

“I know who you are.”

Shigaraki lifts your console up, turning it this way and that, ignoring your declaration. “The facing got knocked off,” he states, his four fingered grasp lifting it up for you to see. His eyes catch yours, the crimson ensnaring you. “I don’t think it’s going to fit back on. Lucky you, you don’t really need it to operate the machine.”

His pinky comes down against the plastic, joining the rest of his finger pads. The plating is gone in an instant, dissolving into a fine dust and drifting to the mats beneath Shigaraki’s feet.

Moving to Japan has been an absolutely terrible life choice.

Notes: Not beta edited, so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Chapter 1: Encounter || Chapter 2: Observe || Chapter 3: Hello || Chapter 4: Intoxicate || Chapter 5: Taste || Chapter 6: Teeth || Chapter 7: Polaroid ||

Terrify ter·ri·fy /ˈterəˌfī/ verb cause to feel extreme fear.

In hindsight, you should have known. It was too quiet.

The moments that stretched between Tomura’s visits narrowed and shrank. You’d come to expect him whenever you walked into your living room, your bedroom, your kitchen. He stuck to your ribs, pulled at you, wordlessly asking you to stay close. You’d wake to his warmth, his touch, the reds and whites blurring together.

Despite these moments of tranquility, he was tense. Thrumming with an energy that made you shake.

It was dangerous.

But, you’d always known that, even if you pretended that the tiger at your door was as gentle as a kitten. Something was closing in. It felt like the calm before a storm, the air pulling back and pushing forward, misting over the pliant ground.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Like the best ghost, it only made its presence known in the chill of pre-dawn. Slipping over your sleeping bodies and seeping into your skin, slowly tarnishing, rusting out.

You wake one morning to see Tomura leaning over you. He isn’t touching and is barely breathing, his exhales coming out in little puffs of air. His eyes rake over you like coals, smoldering as they set you aflame.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice heavy with sleep. He doesn’t answer, just continues his silent introspection. There it is again, that creeping sensation that’s been nagging at you. You don’t question him further. Instead, you roll toward him, pressing your cold hands into his warmth.

Something unspoken has been drifting above the two of you for weeks. You knew that you could give it a voice. But, you were unsure if he could. You wanted to tell him about it, to make it solid by speaking it into existence, but you didn’t know how he would react to your declaration. And provoking an unknown reaction out of Tomura was never a wise move.

Did you even need it to be said when you’d already accepted it as fact? You loved him.

And, he loved you. You knew that, you’d never doubted that. His walls had come crumbling down with yours and Tomura was nothing if not passionate and possessive. He couldn’t help himself. He might disguise it as something else, tell himself that it was another thing he was entitled to, but you knew the truth. You clutched at it, keeping it safe, holding it to you so he could never tear it away. Even if he left, even if you never saw him again, you would keep that small piece of him.

You could feel that love when he came to you like this. He would soften, his voice and touches lingering, tender. He wouldn’t let you go. Insisting that you hold onto him, that you come to him. He was at his most desperate in these moments.

Running your hands along his bare legs you look back up at his face. He is leaning closer, practically bent in half as his hair trails against you.

“Come here,” you whisper, arms lifting to pull against his neck. He doesn’t resist and you tug him back to you, trying to leech some of his warmth. He lays his head against your breasts, his low breathing making you shiver. Your hands tangle in his white hair, cascading the tendrils against your palms.

His eyes finally drift closed as the sun peeks playfully against your curtains. You should get up, but you can’t bring yourself to leave him alone in the bed. Burrowing against his slackened form, you fall blissfully into sleep, content to let your whirling anxieties still.

******

It was the little things that tripped the two of you up.

He’d been careful, and you’d been protective of his presence, keeping your movements to a minimum. But, it had always been a matter of time. He wasn’t infallible and you, well, you couldn’t stop time.

At first, the extra patrols made you feel at ease, especially when you were returning to your apartment late. There was a new hero in the area and she seemed determined to make a name for herself. Although you had never run into her, the shops and local papers were chock full of her name. She had brought along two sidekicks, kids really, but between the three of them, the crime rates had steadily decreased.

Then, you remembered what Tomura had told you once, “Guess this prefecture isn’t important enough for any hero to deem it worth their while…I doubt anyone will notice a villain respawning in the vicinity.” Now, the patrols just made you jumpy and you couldn’t help but worry for him each time he stepped out your door.

Tomura became even more inscrutable as the days wore on. He was practically seething, a deep rage bubbling over him and tipping, spreading. It tainted his voice, his movements. However, he was careful to not take his brittle aggression out on you.

No, he was never rough with you, at least, unless you wanted him to be. But, that was a different sort of dynamism he would retreat into. And it was one that you welcomed. Often, it could pull him from the brink of his restlessness.

Even with the distractions, Tomura was still on edge. He’d always worn his emotions in his eyes and body language. You could map every inch of him now and that power never brought reassurance. You didn’t question his anger.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, you just knew that it was a part of him. It sat against his heart, beating in tandem with the muscle. But, it wasn’t his budding aggression that set things in motion.

Instead, something more insidious crept in.

******

A knock at your door startles you, your pen dragging against the drafting paper, an unseemly line etched across the design. Shit. You look at your phone. Although Tomura didn’t text every time he came by, he usually kept his travels to and from your apartment to odd hours, like pre-dawn, or the dead of night. According to your device, it’s just after noon. No, something isn’t right…

The knocking comes again, louder, insistent.

You stand, gulping down your shaking nerves. It could be nothing, you tell yourself as you walk to the door, your feet padding against the wood, just calm down, (Y/N).

Two men stand outside your doorway. They are wearing professional, dark suits and they look like bad fucking news.

“Miss (L/N)?” the shorter one asks, removing his hat and bowing to you.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, your heart beating tightly against your chest.

“I’m Detective Ito and this is Detective Yamashita,” he gestures briefly to the taller man, who gives you a cursory bow. “Sorry to bother you during the work day, but we have a few questions for you. Do you mind if we come in?” his voice is liquid and you distrust it immediately.

“Right now? I’m in the middle of a project, is there any way I can get a card and possibly meet with you later?” You try to make yourself stand up straight, projecting a calming lull over your tone. Come on, (Y/N), you’re not bothered by this, if anything you’ve been preparing for this. Handle them and don’t let anything slip, you have nothing to hide. Except for the villain who haunts your bed. No, don’t think that. You’ve got this...

“I’m sorry Miss (L/N),” the taller gentlemen, Detective Yamashita, presses, stepping toward you. “It can’t. This concerns some delicate information and we need to make sure we can clear you. While you’re not being accused of anything,” he amends, catching sight of your narrowed eyes, “we do need to make sure we’re covering our bases.”

“And my rights as an American citizen?” you press, holding your ground. You have a feeling it will be a null point, but it’s worth a shot.

“I’m afraid your visa doesn’t grant you any special privileges. Now, I’ll ask you again, may we come in? Or, do we need to come back with something a little more…stringent?” He lets the final word hang, a warning. Detective Yamashita is clearly playing the role of bad cop in this little interrogation, that’s not an interrogation. Yeah, right.

You pause, biting your lip, thinking. If you push back, then you might find yourself in more hot water, besides, as far as you can tell, you aren’t under arrest. That means they don’t have anything concrete, for the time being.

You bow, “I apologize gentlemen, I don’t mean to be rude, I just don’t understand what two detectives could possibly want to question me about. Please, come in.”

They seem placated by this response and follow you into your living room. You offer them a seat on your couch and bring your work stool around to sit in front of them, hands folded in your lap. Here’s hoping the demure act will work in your favor…

“It’s no problem Miss (Y/N), I know you haven’t been in Japan long. I’m sure it’s unsettling to see us. Now, before we proceed, would you please show us your U.S. passport, work visa and residence card?”

You nod, keeping your face neutral as you gather your paperwork, holding them out to Detective Ito, who takes a small flashlight to them, scanning for any forgeries. Satisfied, he hands them back, a small smile on his lips. Still doing that good cop routine, you think irritatedly, tossing the papers on your media stand.

“We’ve heard that you’ve found a boyfriend while you’ve been here,” detective Yamashita pries, crossing his legs and leaning toward you. “Where is he?”

“Not sure I’d call him that, he’s more of an acquaintance. He lives in another city,” you lie. Keep things simple and to the point, don’t supply anything you don’t mean to.

“Which one?”

“Esuha City,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the detectives.

“Your landlady said he has very distinctive features,” Detective Yamashita pauses, writing something down. Then, his eyes lift, waiting. He’s not going to let you slip past this query.

“What do you mean?” you ask, your head tilting questioningly.

“She said he had white hair.”

You tap at your chin, pretending to think. “Oh, I believe he did. He dyes it a lot.”

“What color is it now?”

“Not sure, I haven’t seen him in a while.” Well, you think snidely, that one is partially true, it had been about a few days since you’d last seen Tomura.

“A co-worker of yours, Mr. Suzuki, also mentioned something interesting about your, er, friend,” Detective Ito pipes up, and you arch an eyebrow at him, not answering, holding back.

“He said that he acted strangely when he came by. Apparently, he was very aggressive. Mr. Suzuki said he felt threatened.”

It’s really shitty luck that interaction has come back to bite you. “Oh,” you feign remembrance, “well, my co-worker, Mr. Suzuki, had decided to walk into my apartment unannounced and without knocking. Naturally, I thought he might have been a burglar. I’m sure my landlady has told you that my unit has been burglarized before?”

“She did,” Detective Yamashita replies, his eyes finally drifting away from yours. “While this might be a long shot, we would like for you to look at some pictures.” He snaps open his briefcase and pulls a collection of images out, pressing them into your hands.

You can feel them both eyeing you carefully as you shift through the images. Some of them are Tomura, some are others, and most are blurry. You lift one curiously. It’s the image of a man standing on a train platform in a dark trench coat. Squinting, you try to see the station name. You can just make out the lettering, Musutafu Station. It’s the one that is close to UA. Taking another look over the others you see the same station tiles, your heart feels like it’s floating away.

Maybe they really are just checking leads, they do seem a bit bumbling, but that could also be an act. Something that makes you drop your guard, something that could put both you and Tomura in danger.

“No, I’m sorry. Although,” you tug out one of the pictures that is not Tomura, “this one looks a little familiar. I just can’t think where I’ve seen them before…”

“That’s the League of Villain’s leader,” Detective Ito provides, and Detective Yamashita glares at him, his eyes darkening.

“Oh! God, is that who you’re looking for?” you ask, eyes wide.

“We’ve been canvassing the area, asking questions of some of the locals. A girl in downtown Tokyo thought she saw him the other day, like I said, just covering our bases.” Detective Yamashita admits, taking the pictures from you.

“But, that doesn’t explain how I ended up in your investigation. Is it because my friend had white hair? I mean, not to be rude, but that feels, vague…”

“Since Shigaraki was seen near the train, we traced other CCTV cameras in the station. We noticed that someone similar to his description was seen exiting at this station, as well as several stops in Tokyo a few months ago. Your, uh, friend, as of now, fits a similar description. We’re just checking the area for anyone who has been in contact with persons similar to Shigaraki.”

“So, no recent sightings?” You opt to ignore that last bit of information, it would make more sense for you to be worried about the bigger picture.

“It’s terrifying to think that a villain might be lurking around. After the burglary, I really considered moving to another complex. I was hoping that that new hero would turn things around.” You duck your head, trying your best to look flustered and scared. They aren’t hard emotions to reach for, given the circumstances.

“He hasn’t been seen in a while, ma’m, please, don’t worry,” Detective Ito says encouragingly, earning him another glare from Detective Yamashita.

“I just, I don’t understand something, why talk with my co-worker?” you ask, your voice low.

They're hiding something. Suzuki could have reported his minor encounter with Tomura to the police, or maybe these men approached him. It was frustrating and frightening. It’s something so small, such a tiny slip in time. You’d honestly forgotten about Suzuki’s visit, so much had happened since then. But now, thanks to Suzuki’s report, there are detectives sitting in your living room. There’s no way you can plausibly deny Tomura’s presence in your apartment. Both Suzuki and the apartment manager had seen him.

“We have reason to believe that he might have-” Detective Ito is cut off by Detective Yamashita’s throat clearing, a rasping sound that reverberates in your small apartment. You gulp, pulling yourself from your musing, your hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Ito, please. I’m sorry ma’am, we aren’t able to give that information out at this time. At present, we have no further questions for you Miss (L/N), but, before we go, do you mind if we take a quick look around?”

“Um, of course,” you smile weakly. What else could you do? The more you resisted, the more suspicious you looked. Your stomach drops as they stand and you feel like you are going to be sick.

These detectives knew about Tomura, there’s no way they didn’t. They might be checking now, but they’ll be back. And the next time they might not…

No, you can’t think about that right now. Just go along with what they want and get them out of here. You can figure out a plan of action when they’re gone.

The detectives are already pacing around the rest of the living room when you finally stand from your seat. Thankfully, this part of their investigation should be easy.

The most Tomura ever kept at your place was the two pairs of sweatpants that you’d bought him and those you can easily explain away. You’d also kept your food purchases to a minimum. Lately, he hadn’t been eating much of anything, so you’d saved on the grocery bill. Thank God for that.

Overall, your apartment looks like it just housed you.

The two detectives putter around for a few minutes, opening drawers, examining shelves and closets. They even peek in your bedroom, but Detective Ito had practically closed the door on Detective Yamashita’s nose when he poked into the dark room. The smaller detective shook his head, aghast at the very thought of entering something so feminine and private. And odd reluctance, for a man who called himself a detective.

Concluding their search, they head back to your front door and you trudge after them, feeling numb.

“Well, Miss (L/N), thank you for your time,” Detective Yamashita bows, followed closely by his compatriot. “If you hear or see anything out of the ordinary, please, don’t hesitate to give us a call. We’d also like to hear from your…friend if he drops by again.”

“Of course,” you demure, bowing back, praying that this is about to end.

“Have a pleasant day, we’ll be in touch.” Detective Ito grins and the two men make their way to the next apartment floor, their feet heavy against the carpet. Once your door is shut you fall down into the floor of your genkan, your heart pounding and hands shaking. Oh God, you have to…Wait, should you text him? You’re not using his name on your phone, but what if they’re already tracing it? Can they do that?

You pull yourself to your feet, your legs wobbly, and drag yourself back to your drafting desk, snatching up your phone. Your fingers tremble as you type in your message. You don’t know if you should put it in some kinda vague, coded wording, or if you should just toss the damn phone out the window and resort to smoke signals. Damn it.

[You: 1:13 pm]

Hey, some men came over. They were asking questions.

Well, it certainly doesn’t seem like a vague text, you think, looking over the message and hitting send. No, it looks like it’s screaming that you’re harboring Tomura Shigaraki. You move to your floor, back braced against the wall, waiting. It might be hours before he texts back. But, you didn’t want him coming over and then finding himself immediately captured by the police.

You bury your face in your hands, a low groan wracking out of your lips. Worst case, he won’t answer at all and all you’d have left of him are memories, not even realizing that they were the last interactions that the two of you would share.

The sudden vibration of your phone snaps you out of your head, and your hands shake so badly they send the device skittering across your mats. You tumble after it, lifting the screen and breathing a sigh of relief. He answered.

[Tenko: 1:23 pm]

5-2 Kusunokicho 7-chome

It’s an address. You highlight the text, hit copy, and paste it into the mapping app on your phone. It looks like it’s a tea shop. You stand, legs still trembling, and grab your purse and jacket, heading for your door. You poke your head out, into the hallway, and gather your strength. If you are going to do this, you need to look natural. Besides, if they are following you, hopefully Tomura would know what to do.

You gulp as you lock your door behind you, a morbid thought jumping into your mind. Well, here’s hoping that knowing what to do didn’t mean killing anyone.

******

The tea shop is busy. It’s raining, so that might have contributed to the bustle inside the shop. You pull the hood of your jacket higher, trying to shield your face from the freezing droplets. Tomura hadn’t texted again and you didn’t feel like it would be a good idea to ping your location on your phone.

In fact, you think belatedly, you might as well switch it off. As you power the device down, you hear a low whistle from the alleyway across the narrow street.

You turn your head slowly, the rain pattering against your face. There is a figure loitering toward the back. It isn’t distinguishable as anything other than dark. Well, fingers crossed you aren’t about to be murdered.

Splashing across the street you duck down the alleyway, thankful you’d thrown on some heavy boots for this excursion. The figure is stationary and you pause a few feet back, waiting. He lowers his hood, red eyes still focused on the street behind you. You almost run to him. You have to tense your legs to resist the temptation, your nails digging into your palms.

“Were you followed?” he rasps, watchful, his eyes flashing at you, the street, and finally, back to you. You shake your head.

You’d taken a route similar to the one you’d transversed when you came to the clinic to drop off the diagram for that prosthetic. Each time you’d switched trains or busses you had discretely studied the faces around you, looking for any repeats, anyone who might be tracking you. You’d even drifted into a few other shops before reaching this street, often ducking out a back door and taking the alleys to the next street over.

You’d been careful, you just hoped it was enough.

“This way, stay alert,” Tomura murmurs, his hands still firmly in his pockets. He leads you down another street and into a smaller back alley. He’s doing his own weaving now, taking you over some of the pathways twice, his eyes always peering over his shoulder, observant and sharp. Finally, he pauses in front of a dilapidated door and shoves his way inside.

“Come on,” he calls back to you, holding the door open, allowing some space for you to slink past him. He follows, yanking the metal closed, sealing you both inside.

You shrink back against the darkness, your eyes struggling to adjust. You can hear Tomura moving toward you, his breathing a low scratch against the silence. He stops at your side, the warmth of his body close.

Neither of you move for a time. You’re both listening. The only sounds you can make out is the rain and your own heartbeat. You close your eyes, your head thumping against the door. “God,” you whisper, your voice thick with disuse.

The sound makes Tomura shift closer, his arms pulling you to him, away from the cold metal. He presses a quick kiss against your temple and tugs you further into the room.

It looks abjectly barren.

There’s an old mattress in one corner and a smattering of trash, mostly cans and takeout containers, strewn over the greasy floorboards. It looks like it’s operating as his bedroom and the thought makes your heart squeeze. It’s fucking disgusting. No wonder he used you as a place to crash in the beginning. No human should live like this.

He flops down to sit on the mattress and pulls you after him. The two of you perch on the uneven surface and you let out a long sigh, overwhelmed. Tomura senses this and doesn’t press you. He lets you catch your breath, welcoming your leaning touch. Once you’ve shaken off your jitters, you begin.

“They were detectives. They said they saw you at a Tokyo station, so they checked CCTV and traced you to the stop by my apartment.” Tomura is silent and you gather your breath to continue.

“They talked with the landlady and they talked with that idiot coworker of mine, you know, the one who tried to come in the apartment that one night. It was vague shit, I tried my best to ask more than I talked.

One detective kept trying to get the other to stop telling me details. He finally shut down the whole thing, saying they’d be in touch and for me to give them a call if I saw anything. I…I just hope this doesn’t fuck things up for you, for-for us…I don’t...goddamn it…” You bury your face in your arms, a sob stuttering from you.

Tomura is quiet, but he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around your quaking shoulders.

******

He isn’t sure what he wants.

It’s not a sensation he experiences often and he’s finding it hard to grapple with. If he’s thinking selfishly, he would keep you with him. He’d drag you to hell and back if he could. He doesn’t want to give you up and he isn’t even sure if he can. A deep welling of possessiveness had overtaken him. You were his, just as he was yours.

It was strange to admit that.

He wanted to break everything to pieces, to decay it into nothingness, but, over the last few months, he’d come to adjust those goals. Not just with you, no, the same leniency applied to this league of his. They should have what they wanted, too.

So, he let you cry against him.

He wants to know what giving is like. To tell you that he could give you something of his. After all, he’d stripped you down to nothingness, taking and taking until you had finally lain bare and open in front of him. You’d started the process naturally, giving coming as easily to you as breathing.

He knew he didn’t want you around the league.

You were too different, too removed from that sense of desperation and fanatical idealism. And you didn’t deserve it. He doesn’t like seeing you in a place like this, dilapidated and crushed, sobbing against his chest, your warm tears soaking into his skin.

No, you deserved to be comfortable. You weren’t a fighter. You would try if he asked, he knew you would. But it wasn’t you. Besides, what did you want?

He would have to let you go. He’d known it from the first moment he’d felt your lips running across his. Still, it had come too soon. Perhaps that could be his gift to you? Letting you settle back into normality.

******

“What should I do?” You ask him, lifting your head from his chest, eyes puffy and tired. His gaze is clouded, the red murky, unfocused.

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice hollow.

“Tomura,” you admonish, “I...I just don’t want you falling into some trap. Not because of this stupid…I don’t even know what to call it. I thought we were careful...I-I don’t know. I’m just so fucking mad.”

He smiles at your outburst, his scar lilting up. “What do you want to do?” He presses his forehead against yours, exhaling heavily, waiting for your answer.

“Move,” you reply, tipping your fingers up to trace along his jaw.

“Then move, it should be easy for you to get back to the U.S.”

You sigh, pulling your head back. “No, I don’t want to do that. I just mean, move somewhere that’s safe for-”

“The league is regrouping soon. We’ve caught wind of some…information. It’s going to take us farther out of the city. I was going to tell you tonight. I don’t know how long it will be. Could be months…” He speaks slowly, his voice lulling, soothing you, even as you take in what he’s actually saying. I’m leaving, get out while you can.

There is a long silence following his announcement, and you lean against him, burying your face against the rough fabric of his trench coat. So, just go home? Go back to the states? There has to be something that you’re not thinking of…

Tomura tilts your face up, craving contact. He runs his rough lips over yours, carefully letting his hands tap over your neck.

His kiss is light. The fleeting caress makes you press against him, your fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. You moan when he tilts his head, sliding wetly across your lips. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you open, tangling with him. Tomura grunts at your eagerness and his nose bumps yours, his exhaled breath shaky, wanting.

You sigh. How were you supposed to just say ok? How could you be ok without having him like this? What if you wanted to try and remain at his side...could you ask that of him? What if…wait…wait…that’s it!

You pull back from him, gasping and he gives you a disgruntled look, a frown creasing his features. “Oh...that’s it! I know what to do!”

“Keep your voice down,” he reprimands, as you lean back to reach for your purse. You dig in the scattered contents and emerge with a small business card, a beaming smile across your face.

“Nico! He said to call him if I wanted to take him up on that job offer. He said I could draft for him. He’s at that clinic, and he said they work in a grey area, but they have some serious connections. It’s perfect. It lets me slip away, I’ve just got to be careful how I do it.”

Tomura snorts at your enthusiasm. “So, you just get a new job and all your troubles go away?”

“No, I tell my job I’m transferring back to the states and I pack up my apartment. It won’t be the cheapest thing I’ve ever done, but if I can pull it off, then it’s the perfect solution. I can find some place else to live, and slip into a new life, one where you can still come and go.”

He stares, his eyes wide in that childlike manner, the pupils blown. You smile and fling your arms around him, kissing along his neck. He grunts and presses you back, pinning your arms to your sides.

“Stop squirming,” he growls and you still obediently, not wanting to agitate him.

“Come on, don’t be like that, Tomura. It could work. At least let me try.” You plead, watching his face, trying to see if you could get a read on him.

“You actually are insane,” he sighs, rolling his eyes and turning his head to look away from your stare.

“No, I love you.”

It just tumbles out, but it’s too late to unring the bell. Besides, you stand by it.

He freezes underneath you, his head whipping back to yours. His eyes are sharp and his lips are lifted in a deep scowl. It’s an intense look he’s giving you, almost raw, dangerous. It makes your stomach flip, uncertainty pooling in your gut. You find yourself looking away and biting your lip, “I mean it, I-”

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else.

He’s pulling you against him with bruising force, his hands trembling as they press into your skin. He can’t even seem to focus enough to land his lips on yours. He tries again, then stops himself, his face lifting away, but he won’t let you go.

His arms are wrapped around you, his grip tightening and relaxing. He tries to look at you, but ends up ducking his head once your eyes catch his, burying his face in your neck, panting against your skin. He can’t stay still. No, he’s groaning, so brokenly against you that you’re worried he’s going to shake himself to bits.

You lift your arms, belatedly, to wrap around his neck. You try to hold him to you, desperate to seep a little reassurance, fuck, a little sanity into his trembling body. Tomura shakes his head at the confinement and shoves you down, against the mattress.

You squeak as your back hits the musty sheets, but he’s pinning you under him before you can protest.

“What did you say to me?” he finally snarls, his lips curled over his teeth. “No. I know you didn’t just fucking tell me that. How could you even- How? I’m a monst- I-I...” He can’t string his words together. His head dips to your neck, his lips rough against your skin. He can’t catch his breath and he won’t keep still.

You’re gasping under him, trying to hold him. But, it’s impossible to control him. You just shut your eyes against the emotions that he’s pulling from you and let him seethe above you.

“Look at me,” he growls, his voice hoarse and ragged. You try to wince your eyes open, but you’re too overwhelmed, you just can’t, you can’t look.

Why, you think distantly, why can’t you look?

You tell him you love him and now you can’t look at him? Are you afraid of what you’ll see? Afraid of the rejection that you know is coming? It doesn’t change anything, you tell yourself, even if he tells you to get out, it doesn’t change what’s happened between the two of you. No. If this is what you want, then tell him that. He has to...he has to hear it.

“Fucking look at me, (Y/N).”

“T-Tomura,” you try, a tear of frustration, of fear, slipping down your face. “Tomura, I mean it. I lov-”

“Stop it,” he moans, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips following the path of your tear, pressing the salty wetness away. He’s straddling your hips and his hands are curled, pressing into the bed.

“Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t mean it. You can’t-”

“Stop it, Tomura. Just, stop. You think I don’t mean it? How can you say that? After everything we, no, God, how can you fucking say that I don’t love you? When I’m right here, telling you that I do? You don’t get to dictate how I feel. What gives you the right to say that I don’t?” you ask, your voice an angry whisper. You can feel him shaking, his body wracked with his shivers and the realization gives you the courage to open your eyes. Your anger melts away at the sight that greets you.

He’s hunched over, his hair draped across his face and his eyes are clenched shut. He looks like he’s ready to fall apart. One of his hands lifts to scratch at his neck, dragging red lines down the scarred skin.

As if they have a mind all their own, your own hands lift, tugging free of his weight to cup around his face. He tries to yank his way out of your grasp but you just tighten your hold. He’s not getting away that easily.

“Tomura,” you call, keeping his face captive in your hands, forcing him back to you. “Tomura, I love you.”

He sags.

His whole body seems to shrink and his eyes finally meet your steely gaze. The red is bright, wild, gleaming in the darkness. You gulp and furrow your brow, a trembling exhale falling from your lips. You have to say it now. There’s no going back. The world is shattering, splintering to pieces above you, but he has to know. Before you lose him, he’s gotta at least know that one thing in this world that he hates so much, cares about him. Fuck, loves him.

“Sure,” you begin, still gripping your fingertips into the side of his head, slowly slipping up to tug at his hair. “I’m insane. I’ve fallen in love with someone who wants absolutely nothing to do with what I can offer.

It’s not going to work Tomura, I know it’s not. But, goddamn it, at least let me try. I know I don’t get to keep you, I don’t even know what you’re fucking planning to do. You could want to burn down the world for all I care. I just...I just want to hold on a little longer.”

He’s slack jawed and his eyes are wide and unfocused. He’s still panting but he’s not fighting against your hold anymore. Finally, he closes his eyes and lowers his head, his forehead coming to rest against yours.

“Say it again,” he requests, his voice muted, thick with longing.

“What? The whole thing?”

He lets out a wheezing laugh and you slowly start to breathe again.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs. You lift his head from you, tilting until you catch his eyes.

“I love you, Tomura.” A low shudder echoes up his spine and his eyes drift closed again.

“Fuck,” he rumbles, tugging his head from your hands. He doesn’t go far. Instead, he flops to his side and drags you over, draping you across him, his arms latching around you, keeping you in place.

You sigh, relieved, dipping your head against him, feeling for his heartbeat. You’re both quiet and the room stills around you. Your fingers are tracing lazy circles over his crossed arms, careful to avoid his clenched fists. He presses his nose against your hair, inhaling deeply.

“Stay,” he says above you, his breath stirring across the top of your head.

You smile against his chest and duck into his warmth. His grip on you tightens, lean muscles coiling, holding you to him. You can feel his lips as they run along the top of your head, tapping soft kisses into your hair.

Ok, so it’s not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard, but you wouldn’t have wanted him any other way.

******

Your new apartment is nothing to sneeze at. Nico hadn’t been joking about that pay raise. He also was so much more than you were expecting. Not in a bad way, just in a, hey, I know some shit just went down, are you ok, kinda way. He didn’t pry, but he’d gone out of his way all the same.

The rest of the team at the clinic has also been absolutely stellar at helping you to get set up. Need something moved? On it! It’s like a big family and you can’t wipe the smile off your face most days.

As for your old job, they had been disappointed, but they understood why you wanted to get back to America. However, the American side of that job hadn't been so thrilled at your resignation, but you had received a glowing review from your old boss stateside. You liked to pull it up on your new laptop, reading over the words of encouragement and shaking your head at just how seriously you’d taken her advice.

Your Japanese work buddies were heartbroken, Hanabi most of all. But, you promised to keep in touch. You hadn’t quite figured out how you were going to do that, but that was a problem for another day.

All in all, things were going to plan. You had asked Nico for a little bit of extra help with the paperwork, explaining some of the details to him, and he had been quick to get you set up with a new passport, visa and residency card. It was like the old you was just a blip. You’d just need to keep your head down for a while, check the news, and see where all the extra precautions took you. It wouldn’t be easy, but what part of life was?

Tomura had stopped by after you finished setting up your new tv and console. Appropriately, he’d said he wanted to try it out and had then proceeded to ignore you while you set up the rest of the room. You didn’t mind.

The two of you were trying to make the most of the next couple of days. That lead he’d mentioned was somewhere on the outskirts of Tokyo and he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone. He’d reminded you of that fact, over and over, until you’d finally told him to shut up and let you enjoy the time that you did have with him.

“Hey,” you call, unboxing the last of your new dishes, “got you something.” He tilts his head toward you, eyes still glued to his game. Rolling your eyes at his inattention, you wander over, leaning over your new couch to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Pause it,” you demand, dropping a kiss against his temple. He grumbles, but you persist, nibbling on the shell of his ear when he tries to prolong his session.

“What?” He lifts his head up to look at you, his hair falling back against your arms.

“I want to give you something,” you reply, pressing your lips to his forehead before unwinding your arms and stepping around the couch. He eyes you suspiciously as you perch on your coffee table. You lift a key up, wagging it beside your face.

“It’s a key,” you taunt. He smirks and snatches it from you, pocketing it and tugging you forward.

His kiss is soft, so achingly soft that you melt into his arms immediately, flopping against his lean chest.

“Stop being so dramatic,” he grumbles, shifting you to a more comfortable position across his lap. Your legs straddle his hips and he holds you against him, his fingers warm against your hips.

“Can’t say I never got you anything,” you tease, leaning back and grinning down at him.

“Same,” he huffs, reaching into his pocket again and tossing a small phone at you. You fumble to catch it. He snorts at your scrambling and you pout.

“It’s not like you’re throwing it at a normal angle or anything.”

It’s small in your hands, almost obsolete in this modern age. You flip it open and already see a contact programmed in: Tenko Shimura.

“So you don’t bring any more cops around. It also can’t be traced.” His voice is hushed, almost embarrassed. It makes your heart flutter.

“Awe, a burner phone. I’ll cherish it always,” you jab and tilt his chin up, so you can keep kissing him.

******

A low vibrating wakes you. Blearily, you check your phone, only to be greeted with a normal screen, no missed messages or emails. Huh? The vibrating continues and you suddenly realize what it is. Flinging your feet out of bed, you rush to your charger, unhooking the old phone Tomura gave you.

[Tenko: 2:23 am]

Out of the city. Found a new friend.

There’s a picture underneath the words and you click the buttons until it lets you highlight and bring up the image.

It looks like he’s in a forest and you’re shocked he has a signal. But…what the hell is that?

There’s something nestled between all the greenery and it looks ominously like a man. If it’s real, it’s practically a giant, no, actually hulking would be a better word…

It’s practically a living, hulking mountain. Unsure if your sleepy brain is playing tricks on you, you exit the image, deciding that 2 am is not the time to unpack this particular phenomenon.

[You: 2:35 am]

Looks, uh, interesting? Be safe & Love you.

- Fin

Author’s Note:

Ugh, this was such a bittersweet chapter for me. I wrote this fic in its entirety back in the last few weeks of August. I had time before my classes started again and I leapt at the opportunity. In many ways, I identified more and more with the reader insert as I tried to pour out my ideas. I wanted to hold onto this tiny story that I’d outlined, to see if I could make something like this work after such a long break from writing on this scale.

So, out came Look Upon the Light.

It was like a fever dream. I couldn’t stop now that I’d started. After I reached the 8th, and final, chapter, I spent the next two months pouring over what I’d written, editing endlessly. I wanted to make things feel just right.

I went from this bombastic climax to something more subdued. Why not let it be an anticlimactic ending? Life often works that way and sometimes things just, well, end.

Tomura, in particular, has changed so much over the course of this journey.

There were days when I felt like he sounded terrible, nothing like the complex character that I loved so much. But, with my sister's wonderful edits and suggestions, main ideas & patience and countless read-reads of the manga, I got a handle on him and I am so proud of how he’s come out.

Canonically, I feel like this gap in the main story is the only time something like this romance could happen to him. Tomura is in a fragile place. For the first time in his life there’s no one looking over his shoulder and he’s become a character who is worlds away from where he started.

His goals are finally solidifying and he acknowledges that the members of his league deserve to have what they want too. Inside, no matter what has been stripped from him, he’s always been Tenko Shimura: that little boy who wanted to play with the outliers, to make sure that he was letting them feel included too. I indulgently like to think that if someone like the reader existed, their relationship might help him to come to terms with this part of himself.

Finally, this wouldn’t have been possible without you, dear readers. I have cherished each and every kudo, comment, subscription, like, and reblog. I was so scared to put this out. There are so, so many talented writers for this fandom and I was nervous. It had been so long since I’d written anything on this scale, would it sound ok? You all have been so supportive and welcoming and I love you so much. The response I received from posting this let me feel confident enough to explore some of my other favorite characters.

So, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I mean it when I say that you all are amazing and I wish each of you so much joy.

While this won’t be the last time I write for Tomura, there are other facets of his personality that I want to explore, I will wait a bit to do any updates to this story. I want things to catch up and settle within the manga itself before I toss the reader back into Tomura’s life. I do hope that they can come together again, as I have become their biggest fan.

In the meantime, The Gap in the Door will explore some of their other interactions. Some take place around the time of the chapter Polaroid, but some will look into other parts of the story. If you have a prompt, or want to see another glimpse into anything that happened, let me know. These two are so much fun to write and I enjoy head cannoning how they could fit together.

In short, thank you again for all you’ve done for me and take care of yourselves.

Tags: @inumorph, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @possum-person, @akutaguagua

172 notes · View notes

gotnofucks · 4 years

Text

Parts of Whole

(No images are mine, but I did edit them. If anyone knows the owners, do let me know so I can credit them)

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes, Sam x Steve (platonic)

Summary: Steve would see his OTP’s ship sail, even from across the grave.

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: mentions of death (nothing graphic and not very sad), language, angst + fluff

A/N: I saw the trailer for tfatws and I just had to write this. This is also my entry for the amazingly talented @sagechanoafterdark and @sweater-daddiesdumbdork challenge (pic prompts above). Thank you for hosting this and being wonderful. The beautiful dividers are made by @firefly-graphics . Huge thanks to @the-inquisitive-hobbit for beta reading and giving me her very valuable insight.

It never felt right in his hands. It was his to wield, his to claim, and yet it never felt more foreign. The concentric red and white circles with the star embedded in the blue center glared back at him from the mirror. It had been months, but Sam had never taken this shield with him to any mission. He couldn’t.

It felt starkly cold in his hands, lifeless and materialistic. It was Steve’s symbol of strength and hope. It used to hang on his back, warmed by his body heat. Now, it seemed like the shield only existed to remind him of Steve’s absence. This shield was made for Steve. It belonged to him, it always would. How could he ever stand where he stood? How could Sam ever be the captain that Steve was, take this shield that held more power than a crown on a head?

He put it down again, covering it with a cloth before shutting the door on it, leaning heavily against it. He missed him, he missed him like a throbbing wound that refused to heal. If only he could see the sun shining on those golden locks again, have those baby blue eyes smile at him again. What wouldn’t he give for that.

He didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until a heavy hand was on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Sam didn’t open his eyes, just let the weight of it anchor him, let it bring him back from the chaos that was his mind. The cold metal hand felt like a relief against the overwhelming burden of grief that penetrated his being whenever he touched the circular shield.

“I miss him too.” Bucky said, and Sam opened his eyes. Bucky’s eyes were blue too, slightly grey where Steve’s were green. He could see himself reflected in them and he straightened, looking away, hiding his weakness.

This mantle of Steve Rogers that he was supposed to assume, this legacy he was supposed to take forward felt like cheating. His friend, his mentor, his brother was no more. How could people just expect him to move on? But they did. It didn’t matter he was emotionally compromised, it didn’t matter he wanted to drown, like Steve nearly had at the Potomac all those years ago. The world didn’t wait to create one disaster after another. They needed Captain America then, and they needed him now. Like Fury said, trouble always sticks around.

Sam cleared his throat, making sure he was collected before looking at Bucky again.

“Everything loaded in the Quinjet?” He asked and Bucky nodded. They’ll be leaving for another mission soon, and Sam was glad he’ll have the sounds of battle to drown the war in his heart.

“Sam.” Bucky said once Sam started leaving. “Take it.”

Sam looked at Bucky over his shoulder, his gaze equal parts pain and accusation. Of everyone, Bucky shouldn’t be the one telling him this.

“I’ll meet you in the jet.” He said firmly and quickly marched to his room, shutting the door behind him. He hated coming back to the compound, the lingering memories of their fallen warriors whispering in his ears every time he was here. He preferred his little house in the woods where it was only Bucky and nature with him.

He took out his tactical gear, laying it on the bed and getting out his wings when he heard it.

“You are punishing yourself Sam.” Came his voice.

It was this moment where Sam broke, sliding down the wall and letting a few tears escape. He was gone but he never left him.

“How could you have been so selfish Steve. Why?” He asked, looking up to glare at Steve. Even dead he looked so handsome, so put together with his hands on his hips. He didn’t look like the old man they had buried a month after the battle. No. He was their Steve, their young, beautiful Steve who left them behind.

Sam didn’t know why he saw him. He didn’t know if this was a ghost or a creation of his mind. To him, it was Steve. It was Steve and it was a beautiful suffering to see him again every time he reappeared.

“I am sorry.” Steve said and knelt before Sam, looking apologetic. Sam didn’t try touching him. Not when the first hundred times his hand just went through him.

“You are? What for?” Sam asked. “For leaving behind your shield and title, for leaving me behind, or for abandoning a best friend you promised to walk till the end of the line with? What are you really sorry for Captain?”

Steve didn’t answer, he never did. He let Sam take out his hurt and anger, and Sam cried. In the privacy of his walls, he cried. He was so tired of pretending to be strong, to be happy. He hid behind his jokes and smiles, fooled the world which was so ready to move on while Sam was buried somewhere with Steve in the cemetery, half dead, half alive.

“I am sorry Sam, for everything.” Steve insisted. “But you need to stop punishing yourself for mistakes you never made. You can’t live this way.”

Sam snorted a laugh for even in death Steve was a humanitarian bastard. He didn’t come back to haunt his enemies; oh no the centenarian came back to help his friends. Why didn’t people see that he could never be Steve? That Sam Wilson can never, won’t ever be the Captain that Steven Rogers was.

“I hate you so much Steve, I really do.” Sam whispered, wiping his nose and getting up. Steve watched him getting changed, no barriers of shame between them from that side of the grave.

“You always said that. I have never heard a ‘I love you’ more pronounced than I do in your hate.” Steve commented with a soft smile, it widened when Sam gave him a half-hearted glare. It was amazing how they could go from having a painful conversation to joking, but that was how it worked with Steve. He knew Sam, he knew everything that made him laugh and made him smile.

“What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you have a tea party with Gandhi or some other do-gooder like you in the afterlife?” Sam grumbled, tightening the belt in his suit and attaching his wings to it. Steve chuckled, sitting on the chair and watching Sam with a relaxed smile.

“They are too uptight for me. Mother Teresa tried to adopt me the other day” Steve said, and Sam laughed. His wings were the colours of American Flag, a new change. He grabbed his weapons and fixed Steve with a look, hating and loving him for being so him.

“I’ll see you after the mission?” He asked tentatively. He would never admit it, but he feared one day Steve would disappear again. It was crazy, it was not normal to see dead people, but Sam would rather have a shadow of Steve than just a memory.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me Sam. Always.” Steve said, a sad smile on his face when he saw Sam leaving without the shield.

Sharon greeted him in the jet, talking to Bucky and the other agents over the blueprint spread before them. Sam nodded his hello, snatching the half empty pack of Cheetos from Bucky’s hand and munching on it.

“So now you want to steal the show and my food. You’re such a dick Wilson.” Bucky said, poking Sam in his shoulder and Sam poked his tongue out at him, a gap-toothed smile on his face. Their previous somber interaction would not be mentioned, filed again like so many inside the neglected corner of their minds.

“Bitch, I paid for grocery this month. This is technically mine.” Sam replied, making Bucky scowl. Sam knew there was a 70-30 chance he’ll find his bed crawling with centipedes when they got back home.

“Charming, boys.” Sharon remarked rolling her eye. “What are you guys doing for Christmas? Must be nice to have a holiday.”

Bucky shrugged, sharing a look with Sam. It was their first Christmas without Steve, a 6 feet 2-inch void always between them.

“Nothing special. Stay home, watch movies, eat a lot.” Bucky said. A lot remained unsaid, but they rarely needed words to communicate anymore. Sam bumped his shoulder in his, offering him some Cheetos to munch while he silently grieved.

“Well, I’ll leave my address here for you to deliver your presents to me.” Sharon joked and Sam laughed softly, mentally making a note to get her something.

“Alright then, and I’ll just casually remark that my phone and laptop are both in serious need for an upgrade. Just saying.” Sam said. “Hey Buck, what are you going to gift me?”

Bucky crumpled the empty chips packet before sending Sam an amused glare, flipping him off.

“A ball gag, so that I can hear something other than your stupid voice.” He snarked.

“Damn dude, at least ask me out for dinner before getting kinky.” Sam winked and Bucky swelled with indignation, pointing an accusing metal finger at Sam.

“I cook dinner 3 times a week you bastard, and I don’t even burn it!” He protested making Sam laugh louder than ever. He loved making Bucky mad, teasing him into an incensed rage that usually ended in a pillow fight or sometimes with Sam’s head in a headlock.

They straightened as they saw the incredulous looks on the new agents’ faces, baby agents as Bucky liked to call them. It was times like these, when both the battle-hardened veterans missed their lost teammates, the inside jokes that were shot around with as much precision as bullets and arrows on the battlefield.

They got to work again, discussing the mission and its details with the other agents. Sam would run point on scaling the territory and fly down to the enemy base with two agents while Bucky would guide him from up here and take out potential threats. They just needed to secure a technological innovation and it didn’t seem too like much work. As Sam poured over the briefing, his eyes subconsciously went over to Bucky who was fiddling with the equipment, making sure everything was in working condition.

If someone had told him a few years ago that Bucky would become his anchor, his solace in his darkest hours, Sam would have punched them in the face. But as it happened, they came to lean on each other, the only unchanged part of their older lives, the only person who made each feel that were still real, still alive. They were still annoyed by each other, but the arguments were more of a routine than an actual expression of resentment.

He didn’t realize he was staring until someone deliberately coughed behind him.

“He is so pretty, isn’t he?” Steve asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Bucky Barnes was a beauty, from his blue grey eyes to the new golden streaks running through his new arm. Sam tried not to notice the way Bucky’s armor clung to his muscles, his face looking almost boyish as he forgot the world and focused on his task.

“I thought you said I’ll see you after the mission.” Sam muttered, taking care that no one noticed him talking to air. He hurriedly looked away from Bucky when their eyes met, a heat rising in his cheeks that made Steve chuckle.

“I said I’ll be there when you need me. And it seems like you do.” Steve commented. He took the seat next to Sam, so near that Sam swore he could feel the heat emanating from his body.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sam snapped, the smug look on Steve’s face making him wish he could touch him if only to be able to punch him. Stupid blonde best friends with perfect teeth and beautiful smiles and an ass that looked just as round after being dead.

“Oh, I think you do.” Steve said, shifting his gaze to Bucky. “I liked his hair longer but the shorter is going well with the new arm. Don’t you think?”

Despite himself Sam found himself nodding, admiring Bucky as he’d done a thousand times before. He liked his longer hair too, but without them falling in his face, he could see him better. And the arm. The new arm that gave Sam tingles in the most delicious ways, it had him flustered for three whole weeks after Bucky first showed up with it on him.

He didn’t know when it started, but Bucky had somehow become the most beautiful person to Sam. From the way he would make him the perfect mug of coffee to their little kitchen garden they started to keep themselves busy, he loved everything about him. Those moments where he would sense the turmoil inside Sam and silently slip his hands in Sam’s to assure him that he was there, these little moments endeared him even more.

Sam had lost count of how many times Bucky and he had woken up on the couch, sharing a blanket, both silently afraid to sleep alone. He had forgotten how many times he had spent kneeling at Bucky’s bedside, coaxing him out from a nightmare. Every moment spent in each other’s company, laughing, joking, mourning together, it brought them together in a way Sam had never imagined before.

“Tell him” Steve said, a wistful look on his face as he looked at his best friend. “He feels the same. I know.”

Sam shook his head, tearing his eyes away from Bucky with reluctance. He’d already lost so much, he wouldn’t lose Bucky too. Not because he has a minor, very minor teensy tiny crush on him.

“Man, shut the hell up.” He snapped.

“Who’re you talking to?” Bucky called out from across the jet and Sam’s head snapped up, mouth parting a little before he mumbled out a ‘no one’ and focused on the papers in his hand. Sometimes he felt guilty for keeping Steve a secret, for keeping Bucky away from his best friend. He knew Bucky cried into his pillow at nights, he knew because he’d held him then, tried his best to fill the cracks that appeared in the walls of Bucky’s heart as well as his own.

But then, Steve chose to come to him. Chose to talk to Sam. And he was afraid that telling anyone would disturb this magic, whatever this was. That he would once again have to bury Steve. So, he kept quiet. He buried this secret in the deep recesses of his mind, the initial worry of insanity long forgotten in favor of seeing his friend again.

“Do you even have a plan?” Bucky questioned, watching him prepare for the jump. Sam had a job for every agent accompanying him, but the idiot had not outlined anything for himself.

“I do.” Sam said, and when Bucky looked unconvinced, he lightly punched his shoulder. “You’re my plan, my backup. I scream, jump down and get my ass back up.”

Saying this, Sam jumped, the exasperated look on Bucky’s face imprinted behind his eyelids as his wings flared out and he floated.

Everything that could have gone wrong on this mission did, and Bucky was hysterical even before Sam’s call for backup came. He was going to kick Nick Fury’s ass, but before that he was going to bring his friend back in one-piece and chew him out for giving him a heart attack.

Sam’s wings took most of the weight of the fall, so he came back with a sprained ankle and bruises. Bucky was getting increasingly irritated when they came back home, their little secluded spot in the woods welcoming them with the smell of pine and wild grass.

“It’s not my fault Fury gave us shitty intel.” Sam groaned, “You can stop being salty now.”

Bucky remained quiet, the silent treatment going for almost the third day in row and Sam was at his wits end. It was stupid and ridiculous because Bucky almost always pulled the stupidest moves in the field, like stopping a bomb with his hand or listening to the villain’s evil monologue.

Steve was grinning as he leaned against the edge of the table, and with every suggestive wink he gave Sam, the new Captain America resisted the urge to throw a vase at him.

“He cares so much that he’s speechless.” Steve commented and Sam flipped him off. Dickhead has been giving running commentary of the thick tension in the air since they came back, and Sam was on the verge of calling for an exorcism.

“Why do you do that?” Bucky asked suddenly and Sam was so glad to hear him talk again it took him a while to understand the question.

“What?”

“This thing, looking somewhere and talking to yourself, or – I don’t know, you keep being weird.”

“You’re the one with the cyborg brain and arm and I’m weird” Sam tried deflecting. Bucky frowned, coming closer to sit near Sam, leaving abandoned Christmas decorations scattered around them. Clint had delivered it for them but neither had the heart to put them up.

“Sam.” Bucky deadpanned, and Sam sighed, resting his head back and avoiding eye contact. He looked at Steve who was still smiling, his beautiful face like a slap on the face and caress on the head at the same time.

It was more difficult than one would assume to explain. Why did Sam see Steve, and why did only Sam see Steve? Was it a hallucination, or his spirit? Would Steve go away if Sam confided in Bucky? Would Bucky be mad he didn’t tell him? There were so many questions, so many doubts, and yet as Sam looked into Bucky’s eyes, shining like sapphires, he couldn’t keep it to himself.

“Its…Its Steve.” He said, looking down and playing with the soft lint on his blanket. He didn’t hear Bucky say anything but moments later a metal hand gripped his, stopping its nervous movements.

“Steve?”

Sam gulped, the coolness of Bucky’s hand in his warming his heart, swelling it with hope and an emotion Sam was too afraid to acknowledge.

“Steve, he – he talks to me.” Sam confessed and tentatively looked at Bucky whose eyes were brimming with emotion. He expected him to call him crazy, or to get mad, but what he did not expect was Bucky to shift closer and take Sam’s other hand in his too.

“He talks to me as well.” Bucky said. Sam was breathless, both by the slight smell of cinnamon that came from Bucky and the way Bucky came even closer, close enough that he could count the flecks in his eyes.

“He does?” Sam asked and Bucky nodded.

“I don’t know how he does it with you, but whenever I need him, miss him, I feel him speak to me from here.” With this Bucky placed one of Sam’s hand on his chest, the beating heart under thumping strongly. Unconsciously, Sam’s hand caressed Bucky’s chest, mapped its muscles and the jagged scars that bulged under his left shoulder.

“I see him.” Sam admitted, unable to look away from Bucky. “I can see him”

Tears blurred his vision until they dropped on his cheeks, sliding down, and forging a river down, leaving a trail of hurt, betrayal, and loss in their wake. Bucky’s hand came up to wipe them away, staying on Sam’s cheek, playing with the soft hair on his chin.

“I see him too. In you.” Bucky said and they didn’t know who moved first, but their foreheads were touching and then their lips met in a chaste, hesitant kiss. Sam melted into his touch, molding himself to fall into Bucky’s larger frame, his arms circling his waist and pulling him closer. They kissed as if they had walked a hundred miles just to kiss each other, as if they had saved every last breath just to live this moment.

“I – I, Buck –” Sam began but Bucky shushed him, pulling him into another soul-searching kiss before pulling away.

“I know.” He murmured.

As Sam relaxed in Bucky’s warm embrace, lost himself in the blues of Bucky’s eyes, he noticed Steve from the corner of his eyes. There was sadness on his face, the pain of a goodbye in the creases around his eyes. But when he smiled, he smiled with genuine love and happiness. The two parts of his soul he’d left behind seemed to have found themselves, and with them Steve felt himself complete.

“Till the end of the line pals.” He whispered.

Sam never saw Steve again.

Their Christmas was not very festive in terms of decoration. There was still too much pain, too much suffering in their hearts. Steve and Nat’s pictures beamed at them from the walls, and Sam sent Pepper the confirmation that they’ll come over for New Years.

It was a beautiful thing about human nature, about how one rises from the ashes to become stronger. Sam and Bucky lost someone, but they found each other. In the shared grieve of their hearts, they discovered the love long buried in there, eagerly waiting to be spread and shared.

They stayed warm under the blanket, wearing oversized sweaters that they wouldn’t be caught dead wearing outside. The sweaters may or may not have been Steve's; the soldiers mutually decided to hold Steve close in this way. Sam’s heart was tripled in size, as his head rested in the crook of Bucky’s neck, the smell of chocolate and cinnamon melting together to make a little world of their own. Sam wondered if he would mind growing out his hair again.

“So, what did you get me?” Sam asked, knowing he wouldn’t mind if Bucky did get him that ball gag. Part of him almost hoping for it.

“How rude Wilson, here I’ve given you all of myself and you still thirst for more.” Bucky mocked and Sam tackled him into a hug, peppering kisses all over his face.

“Bitch, you’re lucky I lo-” Sam cut himself off, suddenly shy. The smirk on Bucky’s face melted into a smile, a hungry look in his eyes.

“Say it” Bucky ordered. And Sam did. The Captain obeyed his Sergeant without hesitation.

“I love you. I love you so freaking much! I got us the cheesiest gifts.” Sam said in excitement. He pulled away long enough to grab his gift from under the bed, giving it to Bucky to open. He watched with his bottom lip between his teeth as Bucky opened the box to pull out two chains, each dangling with a rectangular pendant.

Dog tags.

Their dog tags. Bucky raised his eyes to Sam’s, fisting his hand in Sam’s t-shirt to pull him closer into a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth and moans, hips grinding as passion merged with love and emotion.

“I love you!” Bucky growled and kissed Sam again. “And I got you chocolates that look like dicks. I didn’t know this would happen between us when I bought them, and I was going to give you a hint with them.”

Sam’s laughter echoed around their small house, the dopey smile on his face remaining intact as they ate candy and burnt sparklers into the night. In the colourful light that played on their faces, they held hands together, filling the void that was there with the warmth of each other.

“We can use the shield as a sleigh until you’re comfortable using it as a weapon.” Bucky mused and Sam smiled into his neck, thinking of a certain blond asshole who may have gone away, but will never be lost.

Permanent Taglist: @what-is-your-wish @shooting-star-love @stanmysoul @sweeterthanthis @scentedsongrebel @muralskins @rayofdawnworld @donutloverxo @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @angrythingstarlight @rockyrogers @slothspaghettiwrites @nerdygirl8203

CE & Steve : @littlegasps @bluemusickid @harrysthiccthighss @abeyyaaar @slytherinandoutasgard @empath-bunny

SebStan & Bucky : @sebastiansthot @its-izzys @harrysthiccthighss @empath-bunny

For this fic : @barnesandco

#ssholidaychallenge #sambucky #sam x bucky #sam wilson x bucky barnes #sam x steve #tfatws #fluff

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ipromiseiwilltakeyouthere · 3 years

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Tagged by @explosionshark and I haven’t done one of these in a while so let’s go!

1. What is the first song you remember hearing?-

Hmm, I’m not really sure. I think one of them actually might be “good riddance (time of your life) by green day which was all over the radio when i was 3 or 4 but maybe or probly nsync or ricky martin or britney spears or something lol.

2. What is the first band you got into?

Green Day!!! American Idiot came out and I was the right age and it just clicked. Them and My Chemical Romance both shaped my taste!

3. Do you collect any physical music?

Uh. Yeah. I have way too much physical music. Moving it up here to canada was kind of a hassle but I fit it all! I have probly around 200+ cds, maybe more- and over 100 + vinyl, oh and also like 30 tapes probly. (I love cassette tapes)

4. What is your favorite piece of music memorabilia?

All of my vintage nine inch nails shirts and all my pressings of three cheers for sweet revenge on vinyl. But the vintage nin shirts for sure. I have them all in a footlocker back in pennsylvania and I cannot wait to get them back because I love them so much. I snipe em on ebay for great prices (mostly).

5. The favorite concert you’ve been to?

Even though I went with someone that would’ve been nice to not go with, I also went with my brother so- nine inch nails back in 2018. It was also cool to see My Chem at Madison sq. garden back in 08′. But I think nine inch nails put on one of the best shows i’ve ever seen on a big scale. (yo but also back in 2019 seeing ghostemane for the first time was fucking cool as hell)

6. If you could see one artist who is no longer alive in concert, who would it be?

Nirvana for sure. I think. They’re one of my favorite bands still and to this day I keep finding meaning in their music and through interviews. They genuinely were the musicians who broke the mold and were just doing it because they loved to play music. They’re the first band I can think of. (i think seeing lil peep would be cool too?)

7. Have you met any musicians?

Oh yeah, thomas erak from fall of troy, lemmy from motorhead, frank iero from mcr, ghostemane, chris motionless a bunch of times, jake casualty randomly in the middle of soho lol. and a bunch of other people at warped tour etc. MANY musicians! I wanna meet lady gaga! I wanna meet trent reznor!

8. What’s your go to album when you’re feeling sad?

You know, I don’t really know. I haven’t really put an album on that I listen to when I get sad in a while (mostly cos I don’t really get sad anymore). I remember listening to a lot of emo going through shit in highschool. But I think I’ll probly go with The Fragile by Nine inch nails- It just gives me a melancholic feeling.

9. What’s your go to album when you’re feeling happy?

Elephant by the white stripes? That’s the first one that came to mind. Fun to drive to. Or maybe Speak and Spell by depeche mode cos its so upbeat. -edit, deffo fall out boy’s first two records FOR SURE

10. One music documentary you love?

I liked the VH1 metal history series whatever it was called. Shame they only did such a broad range of metal subgenres. Obviously they could have gone way deeper. Like the hip hop one I’m watching on netflix; There is so much history of hip hop its so cool to see how different regions took that genre and bent it in such a short time. Really cool shit.

11. What is one concert DVD that you love?

I really don’t watch live DVDs they’re not really my thing but Bullet in a a Bible by Green Day is obviously a banger.

12. Do you prefer listening to playlists or albums?

Albums if I’m in the car, Albums if I’m spinning wax, playlists if I’m doing chores or something and playlists if I’m in the shower.

13. Do you listen to albums in order or on shuffle?

playlists go on shuffle but albums are most certainly in order 1000% of the time. if you like albums shuffled you’re a monster.

14. What is your favorite deep cut song by your favorite artist?

omg Summerboy by lady gaga off of the fame. Pretty much a lot of the fame are some deep cuts and I fucking love that album. I like it rough? Star Struck? bangers. Listen to this album if you like 80s synth dance music- gaga was so ahead of her time.

15. What is your favorite CD/cassette/vinyl you own in terms of its packaging?

hmm- I think I’d probly go with shout at the devil by motley crue because I got an original pressing that still has a catalog in it to send money to an address and get xyz (shirt, record, accessory) like I just think its really cool. I can’t really think of any that stand out too much. Gatefolds are obviously pretty cool though. But nothing as of right now strikes me.

#thank you!#I really don't have anyone to tag since idk who likes music/physical music!

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greensparty · 3 years

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Thoughts on the Grammy Nominations

Today they announced the nominees for the 2022 Grammy Awards, taking place Jan. 31, 2022. As a whole I feel kind of disconnected from most of the music that was nominated this year. I’m a big music geek and I feel much of the nominees didn’t represent this year’s best music. But art is subjective, so what do I know vs. the Grammy not knowing. Here are a few thoughts.

- Chris Cornell scores 2 posthumous nominations

Cornell was nominated for Best Rock Performance for his cover of “Nothing Compares 2 U” and Best Rock Album for No One Sings Like You Anymore, Vol. 1. Very well deserved!

- Foo Fighters score 3 nominations

Foo Fighters have won 12 Grammy Awards since their 1995 formation. This year they are nominated for Best Rock Performance for “Making a Fire”, Best Rock Song for “Waiting on a War”, and Best Rock Album for Medicine at Midnight. This is their best album in a long time and I’d be surprised if it didn’t win in at least one of those categories.

- Sir Paul scores 2 nominations

Between The Beatles, Wings, various collaborations and his solo work, Paul McCartney has won 18 Grammy Awards. This year he is nominated for Best Rock Song for “Find My Way” and Best Rock Album for McCartney III, which I named my #6 Album of 2020.

- Mammoth WVH scores his first nomination

Nice to see Wolfgang Van Halen nominated for the first time for Best Rock Song for “Distance”, the highlight of his band Mammoth WVH’s debut album.

- Halsey is alternative rock?

I like that just because Halsey did an album with Trent Reznor producing it is nominated for Best Alternative Album?!?

- Stewart Copeland nominated

Copeland, formerly of The Police as well as an accomplished solo artist and composer, is nominated for Best New Age album for the one he did with Ricky Kej.

- Barack Obama nominated

The 44th President of the United States has been nominated for Best Spoken Word Album, a category he actually won for in 2005 and 2007.

- Trent Reznor nominated again

Trent Reznor has won 2 Grammy Awards for Nine Inch Nails, but this year he is nominated for Best Score Soundtrack for Visual Media for Soul, which he did with Jon Batiste and Atticus Ross, which won an Oscar earlier this year.

- George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass: 50th Anniversary Edition nominated

The 50th anniversary edition of ATMP is nominated for Best Boxed or Special Limited Edition Package. Congrats to Dhani Harrison, Olivia Harrison and Darren Evans. Fingers crossed the Grammys do the right thing and reward this album now, since they didn’t give it Album of the Year in 1972.

- Prince nominated

Prince’s Sign O’ The Times Super Deluxe Edition, which I named my #4 Best Reissue of 2020, is nominated for Best Historical Album.

- Best Music Film category has stiff competition

There are quite a few that could easily win for Best Music Film. There’s Music, Money, Madness...Jimi Hendrix In Maui, Spike Lee’s David Byrne's American Utopia which I named my #1 Documentary of 2020, and Questlove’s Summer Of Soul which was the best movie I saw at the 2021 IFFBoston.

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asfaltics · 3 years

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and yet we went on reading

Flim, sb. Obs. Sc[otch]. A whim; an illusion. 1 in the manufactory of these flimsy things 2 had hung a basket of fodder underneath for these flimsy things 3 Poor indeed are their prospects of continued protection, if they rest upon these flimsy things alone. 4 will you never learn to choose good, useful, lasting articles, instead of these flimsy things that do good to no one, and that a breath 5 took hold of these flimsy things, Oh! 6 the discomfort, the positive misery of these flimsy things 7 wretchedly printed on bad paper, with few or no literary expenses, these flimsy things drag on 8 “These flimsy things don’t last long, they soon break,” said he. “Of course they do!” declared Madame Guibal, with an air of indifference. “I’m tired of having mine mended.” 9 In all her looks the words we see, These flimsy things are not for me And I with them do not agree. 10 of these flimsy things 11 the ice floes ran in under and cut out these flimsy things. 12 about 12 inch in being evident that these flimsy things are depth, which projects over the top of the difficult 13 He knew “Well, it’s a good deal warmer than when to leave a man unhindered and to these flimsy things” he said, lifting the 14 attempt to hit some of these flimsy things, you will put your screwdriver through them. 15 You undertake to fix some of these flimsy things and you put a screw driver into them and they go to pieces. 16 You undertake to fix some of these flimsy things and you put a it in the same condition although I know 17 Lucy gave her skirts a toss “I am getting tired of these flimsy things, and am trying to wear them out” 18 “I must get some more,” he said, “stronger than these flimsy things.” 19 First of all, I know now what it means to travel “light.” These flimsy things 20 These letters, these unintelligible flowers, these bits of lace and of paper, what are they? Around these flimsy things what is there left ? And yet we went on reading. But something strange is growing gradually greater... 21 “Why, if I put these flimsy things on now they’d be in holes before I ...” Thorough Young Lady enters. Thorough Young Lady — “Good morning... I’d like a dozen” 22 They had seen it as a whim, Agnes knew; a flimsy, floating thing which scientists might examine under a microscope. But if that were what it was she was full of them. 23

sources (all but the last pre-1923)

1 Joseph Wright (1855-1930), The English dialect dictionary (London, 1898) vol. 2 : 405 2 OCR cross-column misread (on forged bank notes, and banks), at The Black Dwarf (“A London weekly publication, edited, printed, and published by T.J. Wooler”; January 13, 1819) : columns 21-22 “The Black Dwarf (1817–1824) was a satirical radical journal... published by Thomas Jonathan Wooler, starting in January 1817 as an eight-page newspaper, then later becoming a 32-page pamphlet. It was priced at 4d a week until the Six Acts brought in by the Government in 1819 to suppress radical unrest forced a price increase to 6d. In 1819 it was selling in issues of roughly 12,000 to working people such as James Wilson at a time when the reputable upper-middle class journal Blackwood’s Magazine sold in issues of roughly 4,000 copies.” wikipedia on Thomas Jonathan Wooler (1786-1853), also see wikipedia 3 OCR cross-column misread, at “Mrs. Perewinkle’s Visit to Boston,” by “Muhitable Holyoke,” in Frank Leslie’s New Family Magazine 3:2 (August 1858) : 161-167 (162) 4 ex The Chronicle (“An insurance journal”) 10:18 (October 31, 1872) : 274 on the mismanagement of The Globe Mutual Life Insurance Company under Frederick A. Freeman, its president, and/or other members of the Freeman family (including Pliny Freeman). 5 ex Out of the world, by M. Healy vol. 2 (of 3; London, 1875) : 27 asides — this would be Mary Healy Bigot (1843-1936), daughter of the painter George P. A Healy (1813-94 *) A brief entry on Mary Healy is found at A Database of Victorian Fiction, 1837-1901; rather more, including an extensive list of her publications (journalism, fiction, translations, &c.) is found at her French wikipedia page — “Mary Healy utilisa le pseudonyme de Jeanne Mairet, mais aussi celui de « Madame Charles Bigot » et de « Mary Healy-Bigot ». On trouve des écrits non seulement publiés en français (souvent par Paul Ollendorff), mais aussi en anglais et en allemand. Elle produisit aussi de nombreuses traductions avec parfois l'aide de sa soeur Edith Healy.” in his autobiography is to be found the reason he (and later his daughter after the death of her husband Charles Bigot (1840-93 *)) would move to Chicago — George P. A. Healy, his Reminiscences of a Portrait Painter (Chicago, 1894) : 57 6 ex Alex(ander). Mackenzie, The Life and Speeches of Hon. George Brown (Toronto, 1882), in Chapter 19, The reform convention of 1867. Resolution of thanks to Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown’s reply : 113 7 ex correspondence to the editor (on the subject of “new restrictions in dress”), by “Freedom,” in The Meteor (“Ed. by members of Rugby School”) 175 (May 18, 1882) : 60 8 ex John Bull’s Neighbor in Her True Light : Being an Answer to some recent French criticisms. By a “Brutal Saxon.” Veluti in Speculum. (Third edition. London, 1884), in Chapter 11, The French Press: its Vanity—Le Temps and London Telegraph contrasted—Des Debats—Le Figaro—Le Clairon—Press Laws—Fear of Actions for Libel—Want of Freedom : 87 9 ex conversation about a fan, in Émile Zola (1840-1902 *), The Ladies’ Paradise : A Realistic Novel (London, 1886) : 74 aside — The novel is set in the world of the department store... (wikipedia) 10 “The Village Wedding,” in Poems by Chas. F(rederick). Forshaw, LL.D. (Bradford, 1889) : 28-33 (30) 11 from Act 2, Scene 4 of John Lesslie Hall (1856-1928) his Judas : A Drama in Five Acts (Williamsburg, Virginia; 1894) : 73 aside — “also known as J. Lesslie Hall, was an American literary scholar and poet known for his translation of Beowulf” (wikipedia); (some) papers at the College of William and Mary 12 ex “He saved others” (from Brotherhood Star), at Herald and Presbyter (“A Presbyterian family paper”) 68:46 (Cincinnati and St. Louis, November 17, 1897) : 15 in full — “When ice was running in the North River at New York, a ferryboat was crushed in, under the water line. An employe was sent down to stop the leak, or hold it until the boat could be run into the slip. Bedding, clothing and anything available were passed to him, but the ice floes ran in under and cut out these flimsy things. The boat reached the dock. Passengers were all hastened ashore. The boat was raised up by chains, so that the break was above the water, but the man did not come up on deck. They hastened below and found a bruised body of an unconscious man, pressed close against the opening. Careful nursing brought back life, but broken health and a disfigured body were his. ‘Even Christ pleased not himself.’” 13 OCR cross-column misread at J. B. Fulton, “Faulty Concrete Construction,” in Fireproof 3:6 (December 1903) : 31-33 (32) 14 ex OCR cross-column misread, at Francis Prevost (H. F. P. Battersby, 1862-1949 *), “The Siege of Sar,” in Ainslee’s (“A magazine of clever fiction”) vol. 12 (January 1904) : 1-44 (22) 15 ex Arthur H. Elliott, “The Gas Range in the Kitchen” In Light, Heat and Power 5:12 (February 1906) : 942-946 (944) self-described as “A monthly magazine devoted to the fields of illumination, and also combustion for producing heat and power, wherein the elements employed are natural, artificial, acetylene, gasolene, or petroleum gases.” 16 ex “The Gas Range in the Kitchen," in report of Elliott paper, in The Metal Worker, Plumber and Steam Fitter (March 3, 1906) : 52 17 same as no.s 14 and 15 above, but OCR cross-column misread, at Arthur H. Elliott, “The Gas Range in the Kitchen,” Progressive Age (Gas-Electricity-Water), 24:4 (February 15, 1906) : 96-99 (97) 97 Paper delivered at the First Annual Convention of the National Commercial Gas Association, held at the Cadillac Hotel, New York City, January 24th and 25th, 1906. 18 ex Mrs. Mary Dudeney. All Times Pass Over (London, 1909) : 75 (snippet view only, but entire at hathitrust) aside — little is found, biographically; author of poems, stories, even songs as Mary Du Deney (BL catalogue); are these of the same Mary? — “A novelty appeared in Judge Allen’s court in the shape of a woman, Mrs. Mary du Deney, who sought solace and mental refreshment in a book while her fate was being decided in a divorce proceeding. After reciting the grounds upon which she sought the divorce, the lady was lost to the world until the Judge cut the knot and she again felt the thrill of single blessedness.” (Los Angeles Herald (23 December 1900) : here); and ◾ “...Old Lady Was Swaying, Fatal Collision with Cyclist At Bridgwater. Returning a verdict of Accidental Death at the inquest on Thursday on Mrg. Mary Du Deney. aged 85, of 2. Holmes Buildings. St. Mary-street, Bridgwater, who died in the hospital on Tuesday...” (Taunton Courier, and Western Advertiser (20 September 1947) : here) 19 ex William Caine (1873-1925 *), The Devil in Solution, (nicely) Illustrated by George Morrow (London, 1911) : 68 (snippet view only, but opens to same page at hathitrust 20 from this longer passage — “First of all, I know now what it means to travel ‘light.’ These flimsy things which the Japanese make are wonderfully serviceable. For instance, I purchased a silk Japanese raincoat which sheds rain perfectly, and yet when not in use I carry it in the pocket of my light overcoat.” ex “Japanese Milling, and Weather,” in Rosenbaum Review 2:39 (Chicago; September 15, 1917) : 8-10 asides — devoted to grain trade; at some point title changes to The Round-Up; published by the J. Rosenbaum Grain Company; this would be Joseph Rosenbaum (1838-1919), whose interesting life is sketched by Arba Nelson Waterman, in “Historical Review of Chicago and Cook County and Selected Biography," found here ◾ perhaps more interesting is the editor of Rosenbaum Review (and its successor Round-Up), J. Ralph Pickell (1881-1939? *). ◾ see, for example — “Senate Asks Jardine of Chicago ‘College’” ¶ Secretary Jarine was asked Friday, June 25, by the Senate to explain his connection with the Roundup College of Scientific Price Forecasting of Chicago. ¶ A resolution making the request was offered by Senator Caraway (Dem. Ark.), and adopted. Caraway said the secretary had accepted appoitment as a member of the faculty of the college to teach students “how to speculate and get around the rules of the grain futures act which he administers.” ¶ The resolution asked the Secretary to state whether his information on grain futures markets was obtained as a result of his official connection with the department of agriculture, and what compensation he has received from the college. ¶ The Roundup College school for price broadcasting [sic, should be “forecasting” ?] was held at the Congress Hotel four weeks ago. Secretary Jardine was announced in publicity as the principal speaker. The school is run by J. Ralph Pickell, listed in the telephone book with offices at 1848 West Washington Boulevard and 328 Ashland Boulevard. It is said, however, that the offices have moved to Western Springs, Ill., near Chicago. ¶ Pickell at the time the school was held, said about 500 students would be in attendance. Each student, he said would pay $50 for the course. ex The Illinois Agricultural Association Record (July 1, 1926) : 3 21 ex chapter 23 (the last) in Henri Barbusse (1873-1935 *), Light (Fitzwater Wray, trans.; 1919) : 301 several scans of the same at hathitrust 22 ex Fashions for Men (this passage) and The Swan (in one volume, subtitled Two Plays by Franz Molnar (both comedies in three acts; English texts by Benjamin Glazer); (Liveright, 1922) : 117 Ferenc Molnár (1878-1952), at wikipedia 23 ex Rachel Cusk, Saving Agnes (1993; Picador 1995) : 2

—

subject to change, corrections, &c.

#cento #flim #flimsy #tercet #Mary Healy Bigot #The Black Dwarf #Rachel Cusk #Mary Du Deney #J. Ralph Pickell

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thetechidevice · 3 years

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What should I know before buying a smartwatch?

A smartwatch is a bracelet-like wristwatch with an embedded operating system and sensors that can run applications, send or receive messages, show notifications, and more.

The first smartwatches were developed by PHTL Smartwatches. They were powered by the energy from a button cell battery. Later, in 1991, Seiko Epson Corporation created the prototypes of smartwatches. The description of this watch was filed in 1997 (see figure 1).

The concept of wearables has been gathering attention since 2007, when Apple launched its first iPhone. Nowadays, everyone is thinking about wearable devices due to their growing popularity. In 2014 Apple released its first real smartwatch: Apple Watch (see figure 2).

Google also created a smartwatch called Android Wear (see figure 3). Samsung has released its line of Gear S3 watches (see figure 4). In the fall of 2016, Pebble Technology Corporation announced to stop making devices because it was bought by FitBit Inc.

What should I know before buying a smartwatch?

Before buying any type of device, you should know how to use it and what advantages it will bring. You can search the web for tips on choosing one or hiring an expert, but the most important thing is to check the specifications of a particular watch.

1. You don't need it

"The Apple Watch has been on the wrists of reviewers for ten days, and I haven't worn any other watch since setting it up," said Katyanna Quach from VentureBeat. Some people are going to love this watch, but most people will probably not need it. According to a study made by Endeavour Partners, in 2015, about 58 million smartwatches were shipped. This year, Apple Watch sales are expected at $10 billion only for 2016 (see figure 5). That's why "if you want one, get it now," said Philip Elmer-DeWitt from Fortune.

2. You can use your phone instead

A smartwatch is like a smartphone companion, they are both powerful devices that offer similar benefits, but the main difference is that it's much easier to pull out your phone than take off your wrist to check what time it is. By having a smartwatch, you don't need to be so dependent on your smartphone: "On average, people touch their phones 150 times per day," said Ashley Carman from The Verge, "that's around 9,900 touches for the entire year". And not only smartphones are taking our attention: "Americans spend up to 90 minutes a day looking at their computers", according to Mary Meeker, who did this study in 2015 (see figure6).

3. It's for fitness enthusiasts more than the general public

"I think a lot of people are going to be disappointed with it as an everyday watch," said Jason Snell from Macworld. Indeed, smartwatches have initially been created for fitness enthusiasts. Tim Cook, an Apple CEO, said at the Worldwide Developers Conference (WWDC) in June 2015: "the way I see it, if you're looking at a smartphone all day long, you probably aren't doing so well." Also, Phil Schiller claimed on stage that the primary goal of the Apple Watch was "to help customers stay fit.” Android Wear also has health-tracking features, and watches can track your heart rate (see figure 7). Fitbit also has its line of smartwatches, the Surge (see figure 8).

4. Choose Apple Watch over Android Wear smartwatches

"The Apple Watch is something people will want to buy and use on their wrist every day," said Joel Santo Domingo from The New York Times. He also did a review about Android Wear at the Google I/O conference in 2015, saying that it wasn't good enough yet: "I still find it frustrating to deal with notifications when they come in on Android Wear. For one thing, there's no way to archive or delete them directly-you can only respond or clear them" he said

5. go with a Pebble Time Round you are not into fitness tracking but want an affordable smartwatch -

It is the only watch on this list that does not have a color screen, and it costs $250, a bit more than other models ($179 for Apple Watch Sport, $499 for the steel edition). However, if you don't care about having fitness features in your watch, this model is a better value. "It's exquisite [The Pebble Time Round] and every bit as functional with just enough app support to keep most people happy," said Rich Jaroslovsky from Bloomberg.

6. If pure fitness tracking is your priority

you should probably just get a fitness tracker - "When users buy the new Fitbit Alta HR or Charge 2, they're buying something that's going to sit in their lives and do something for them every day," said Stefan Etienne from Techcrunch. In this case, maybe you don't want a smartwatch because the battery life is shorter than most fitness trackers.

7. Nobody knows how long the battery will last

This problem was one of the most criticized things about Android Wear. According to several reviews, the battery lasts two days or less (see figure 10). "In the end, Apple Watch battery life is likely to be a big sticking point for potential buyers," said Anton Shilov from Computex. Users can extend it using Power Reserve mode, but they need to know when they charge it so that they don't miss any important notifications.

8. Want to look like a cyborg? Choose another watch

An unnamed reviewer said: "it looks like the most futuristic thing on your wrist," and added that he would wear it even if it didn't come with any innovative features. The Apple Watch Edition is made of 18K yellow or rose gold (with sapphire screen) and costs from $10,000 to $17,000 depending on the band you choose (see figure 11). One could also check out other smartwatches by Samsung (whose Gear S2 costs between $300 and $350), Asus, Huawei, or LG.

9. You shouldn't buy an Apple Watch hoping for a phablet replacement

"Size matters when it comes to a smartwatch. The LG Watch Urbane 2nd Edition is huge by comparison, with a 1.3-inch face that would look more at home on your wrist if you were rock climbing or deep-sea diving," said Andrew Hayward from TrustedReviews.

10. Do I have to charge my watch every day?

It depends on the model (see figure 12). Some Android Wear watches need charging every night, but there are not many reviews about it yet.

Conclusion

The best watch for you depends on how you plan to use it, your budget, and how vital battery life is for you. If you are looking for a good smartwatch that will last more than a day, the GX Smartwatch for the first thing you try out.

If fitness tracking is your primary goal, get a Fitbit model. If you don't care about color screens or other fancy features, you can also save money and choose the Pebble Time Round.

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ghchgc · 3 years

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Despite the blockbuster order from United

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Jeep Wrangler Sport S and Mustang 2.3L Convertible: Two Fours for Summer Fun

Words and Photos By Michael Hozjan

No I’m not talking about cases of beer. I’m referring to the number of cylinders found under the hood of two American icons in the automotive landscape – the Jeep Wrangler and Mustang. Don’t scoff, four cylinders have been making a huge come back in recent years and no, these are not your grand dad’s four cylinders. Both the Jeep and the Mustang rely on turbocharging to get the extra oomph when needed all while delivering below average thirst numbers compared to their V6 and V8 counterparts. Let’s face it do we really need all that horsepower all the time and isn’t it nice to save some bucks at the pump.

Jeep Wrangler Sport: Back to its roots

“There’s something amiss here.” I tell myself as the engine comes to life. I hit the off button and check for the glow plug light, there isn’t one. For some reason the engine doesn’t sound the same, and yet there’s something eerily familiar about the sound. I mistakenly expected the Wrangler to be diesel powered, which it was not. The diesel mill is offered in the Gladiator that I was due to drive, but at a later date. Blame it on old age or just on my eagerness to get behind the wheel of one of my favorite rides.

Well one thing lead to another and another and before I knew it, it was several days later that I popped the hood to gaze upon the turbocharged inline 2.0L four cylinder. THAT’S what the sound was… somehow, the engineers at Jeep have managed to get the sound of the old familiar World War II era four cylinder Jeep into this modern, 80th anniversary edition Wrangler…or maybe it’s just me. One thing is certain, it doesn’t sound like the Wrangler I’ve been accustomed to.

Maybe it’s just coincidence, maybe it’s good corporate planning, with Jeep’s closest off-road capable rival, the Ford Bronco making its debut this year, Jeep has stepped up the ante, not only have they launched the Wrangler Xtreme Recon equipped with the first ever 35-inch rubber straight out of the factory, but are also offering a slew of powerplants to make any competitor nervous: beginning with this week’s tester, there’s the 2.0 L turbocharged four cylinder mated to the 8-speed TorqueFlite automatic, the trusty old 285 horsepower Pentastar 3.6L V6s remain and come with either a manual or automatic trans, there’s also a mild hybrid version mated to the 3.6L tagged the eTorque, a 3.0L EcoDiesel V6 with 442 lb-ft of torque and 260 horses and for the first time in four decades, the Wrangler gets a V8. Available exclusively (dare I say for the time being) in the Rubicon 392 trim, the 6.4L throws out 470 horses and the like amount of torque through the eight-speed TorqueFlite automatic transmission and Selec-Trac full-time active transfer case. It blasts the Rubicon 392 to 100 km/h in less than five seconds making it the quickest Wrangler in history!

Well it appears the Jeep has come full circle with their mills, reverting back to four cylinder power to move their off roaders about. But don’t think for a minute that these are the old WWII flatheads. No sir, and not one but two count them, two four cylinders are offered. Aside from my Snazzyberry Pearl colored 2.0L turbocharged tester which pumps out 270 horses and 295 lb-ft of torque, capable of towing 2,000 lbs (907 kilos), that’s 35 more lb-ft of torque than its V6 counterpart, there’s also an electrified four cylinder that adds an electric motor. The plug in hybrid 4xe delivers 375 horses! Stay tuned for more on this one.

Above and below: There’s nothing missing in the four that you wouldn’t find in the six.

If you’re a regular reader of my posts you’ll know that I do NOT check performance numbers or price tags before I get a feel for what the vehicle feels like. Does it feel like 300 horses, does it feel like 400 lb-ft of torque? I tend to reserve looking at the stats until after my first, second and third impression. That said, despite having 270 horses, it still seemed a bit anemic from my previous Wrangler encounters (with the V6). There’s a noticeable difference at half throttle when leaving a red light or stop sign, but that quickly disappears as you build up speed. Punch the go pedal however to wake up the turbo boost and grab on to the steering wheel. The torque kicks in and bites the tarmac like a banshee. Suddenly Jeeps decision to go with this combo makes perfect sense.

On the highway the four delivers smooth, linear power and actually feels better mated to the 8-speed automatic than the six. Passing semis or climbing grades isn’t a problem and while I didn’t get the chance to go off-roading I suspect that the added torque would be able to let this Wrangler do some serious climbing prowess without hesitation.

Of course one of the other main attributes is that the Wrangler can shed its top when the weather turns warm. With two tops available it still remains the only convertible SUV in the market.

Above: A hidden cubby hole under the trunk floor comes in handy

One of the Wrangler’s Achilles’ heals has always been it’s thirst for fuel. My best has usually been around 12L/100 kms even when feathering my foot. Well the 2.0L netted me a 9.75L/100 average, on top of which a $200 saving over the automatic trannied V6 makes getting into a Wrangler a lot easier. The Sport S starts at $45,465, my fully loaded tester came in at a substantial premium, which leads me to want to see this mill in the 2-door Wrangler variant with a manual transmission. Now that would truly be full circle. If you’ve always wanted a Wrangler but weren’t crazy about their fuel consumption Jeep has just given you several reasons why you should reconsider.

Price as tested: $62,030 *

*Includes excise tax and destination fees

Mustang 2.3L Convertible: Is this the best Mustang ever?

It’s a balmy July afternoon, the kind we wait all year long for and fantasize about from December through to March. I’m in the left lane of the 401 heading west, passing semi after semi. The sun is beaming down on me and I get to thinking how nice this thing would be for a cross-country run. Indeed it doesn’t get much better than this. There are so many semis it reminds me of the rocking chair scene in The Bandit, only I’m not driving a T-top black Firebird with a roaring V8 and Sheriff Buford T Justice chasing me, but a drop top Antimatter Blue (yes that’s the hue) Mustang with a turbocharged 2.3L four cylinder.

For decades Ford has been grappling with the notion of having both a high performance Mustang and an economy Mustang, and yes when it first debuted there were trims that encompassed both. But over the years that concept got lost with muscle cars taking the limelight. It wasn’t until the gas crisis of ’73 that the economy car resurrected itself in the Mustang II, but in the process lost the muscle slice of the pie.

Well guess what, the 2.3L fits both bills easily. Yes diehard muscle heads may pooh pooh the thought of another four cylinder in a Mustang but they have no idea what they’re missing out on.

Pillaged from the darling all-wheel-drive Ford, the Focus RS, the 2.3L mill has been turned longitudinally to fit into the pony car. Although Ford has given the Mustang a larger twin scroll turbo, there are 18 fewer horses pulling the pony car over the RS. Torque however has been retained.

With 310 horses and 350 lb-ft of torque on tap mated to an optional 10-speed automatic my tester galloped along without so much as missing a breadth. Thankfully Ford has retained the 6-speed manual. My unofficial timing showed zero to a hundred kilometers shot in at 4.6 seconds! I have to say that as sweet as the four cylinder is, the exhaust note just tries to hard and gets annoying after a while. It’s like look at me, look at me. Oh shut up! Thankfully there is a shut off switch.

My ‘stang came with the High Performance Package, a $6,500 option inherited from the Mustang GT, which meant stickier 19” Pirelli rubber over the base car’s 17” units, larger brake rotors with four piston calipers, stiffer springs, a beefier rear sway bar, strut tower brace, a larger rad, a 3.55:1 limited slip diff. In other words, all the right stuff to make this a serious tourer.

Above and below: Top up or top down the Mustang looks great. Front spoiler is part of the High Performance Package.

Another plus for the four-cylinder argument is better balanced shedding 147kilos (auto trans) off its front axle. The result is a crisper handling ride with a nominal amount of body roll, less nosedive under hard braking. Switching driving modes from Normal to Sport mode for attacking the lakeside twisties shows the car’s true potential with the engine’s responsiveness hitting the sweet spot over 2,500 rpm and the fun factor sans V8.

This would make an interesting track car.

Inside you get all the usual fan fare of goodies including cooling and heated power leather seats. The hi-po package adds an oil pressure and turbo boost gauge and engine spun aluminum instrument panel. Fit and finish is spot on with comfortable buckets making the drive that much more enjoyable.

Above: Despite what it looks like my 6’ frame spent several hours back there in a friend’s convert for a three-hour trip to the Syracuse Nationals a few years back without a single complaint.

Like the Jeep the Mustang doesn’t come cheap. While the base price is a very reasonable $43,370, my tester’s option list added another $11,800 to the price tag. Stepping up to the $6,500 high performance package is a no brainer, especially if you’re a serious driver, but while the 10-speed is perfectly matched to the engine and responds wonderfully to throttle inputs I’d go with the 6-speed manual and trim $1,750 off the tag. Other options included $1,000 AM/FM/CD/HD radio, $2,300 for adaptive cruise, voice activated touch screen navigation and the Ford Safe & Smart package.

In a move I just don’t understand is the spare tire/wheel has been relegated to option status! In its place is a compressor - just the ticket for a bent rim, blow out or flat in the middle of nowhere on a dark rainy night. Come on Ford!

Yes the Mustang buyer has a number of trims and powerplants to opt for all the way to the 100 grand Shelby GT500 but really, wouldn’t you rather have a car that hits all the right fun buttons without breaking the bank while still passing a gas station or two ( I averaged 10.7L/100 km). Oh and let’s not forget the savings on the insurance premium on the four cylinder So shrug the V8 monkey off your back and hit the road in a four.

Price as tested: $56,970*

*Includes destination charges

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