#tbh I feel like him breaking into the temple at night to take photos of the scripture

[midwestgender]

worst thing about midsummer is watching Josh start to realize what’s going on. he’s clearly well studied on the type of neo-pagan Germanic beliefs that the harga ascribe too and he KNOWS they have white supremacist values (exemplified by him having that book about the secret nazi language or something which has a little more focus in the screenplay) but he trusts his friend and probably went into it thinking he’d experience racism but I’m sure he was like. well that’s everywhere for a black man! And he’s an anthropologist and really genuinely cares and is interested in this topic. But then he goes and it’s just this slow dreadful realization that this isn’t a culture, it’s not a religion, it’s a cult. And he is in far more danger than he realized.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Only For A Moment Ch. 5

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: PTSD, imprisonment, references to past physical violence.

A/N: Like I said last time. Getting into (aka only scratching the surface) of the Bucky feels that are coming. Tbh it’s Bucky/Reader feels because, this character... woo. I hope y’all love her/love reading yourself as her as much as I love her/love writing her.  Also 5 chapters in a week... who does that? I’m going to try to space them out more (1 or 2 a week prob) but... I’m just eager af because I’m having a blast writing this. 

Word Count: 1461

Tags are open!

@l0kisbitch @disagreetoagree

You take a deep breath and pluck the Glock out of the air, the knives clatter to the floor released from your hold. Part of you suspects he’ll rush for them but he just sits there, hands up eyes shining and glued to the books on the bed. You de-cock the gun and tuck it in your waistband. Not wanting to take your eyes off him you lift the bag and its contents from behind you and dump them in his lap.

Immediately he begins to look through them, checking each, mouthing the title. “There was another boo-“ the spine of Silent Heroes slams into his temple, admittedly a little harder than you intended, he flinches but as soon as he sees it’s ok he visibly relaxes.

“Who the fuck are you,” your voice is low without an ounce of softness. Your gut may be telling you he’s not an immediate threat but that does not mean you trust this man.

His mouth opens to answer and snaps shut. His eyes look to the books, to the bed, the wall. Anywhere but at you. “I… I don’t really know.” He appears small to you suddenly. Like a kid that’s lost at night with no clue where to go.

The fight drains from you and you plop heavily onto the bed. He’s just staring at the book, at his photo from so long ago. Suddenly you feel guilty for going through his bag, a ridiculous emotion given the situation but it rankles all the same. “Do you really think Lombardi’s is shit?”

He lights up. A raspy chuckle escapes. “Yeah.” Your eyes meet and again he’s a different man. “Everyone thought because it was first it was best but man, Totonno’s, that was pizza.” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he looks ravenous, you can relate.

“The sauce,” you both longingly groan at the same time and laugh despite everything.

“Wait…” he sounds excited, like a kid on Christmas, “Is it still there?! I mean you’re not… I was… it was…” He takes a moment, “a long time ago…” with that a cloud befalls him again.

“As of 2007 it was still there slinging the best pies in Brooklyn.” You pull your phone from your pocket to check.

“So you’re not…”

You look up, “Not what?”

“Like me…” you stare confused and he says with a small dark laugh, “A relic.”

“I don’t know how alike we are but no, I’m not a relic. I’m…” honestly you hadn’t thought about it in a while, how old you were. “Fuck I guess I’m about 30.”

Your age was always an awkward subject. You’d ran away at 15 and landed in New Orleans, where you met Nix. He was a few years older but was just like you, a kid alone. He helped you get fake documents, a new birth certificate, social, everything. A new date of birth made you 18, a new last name made you someone else, and a high school diploma complete with transcripts made college an option. You can’t help but sigh, you had already killed one version of yourself before Hydra had even found you.

Google has graciously saved you from this line of thought and informed you that Totonno’s is in fact still in business. “Yup, Totonno’s is still there to this day. Thankfully all the aliens seem to be destroying is Manhattan. They’re smart enough to leave the best borough alone.”

His face breaks into a breathtaking smile that genuinely surprises you. “I guess that’s a bit of silver lining in this mess of a world.” His voice is rich and melodious. At this point you’re honestly wondering how there are so many different sides to one person.

The silence hangs for a moment. His hand runs over the cover of one of the composition books that has ‘Home’ scrawled in a shaky hand. “So…” he trails off. “Are, uh, you from there, Brooklyn I mean.”

You scoff, “No. I’m from nowhere.” That’s always been your answer. Ghost girl.

“Everyone’s from somewhere.”

You stare at him a moment, his face is open and, frustratingly kind… dammit. You slump a little, “Yeah well most people have a hometown, someplace they grew up, but I never really stayed anywhere long enough for that.” He remains quiet, giving you space to form your thoughts. “But,” your voice cracks and you clear your throat to reel in your emotions, “Brooklyn, was the first place I made a home.” The only place.

“It’s a good place.”

“It was.” And you could never go back. You stared at your phone. The little red dot marking a place that may as well have been on Mars. When the screen turned black you kept staring into it, your reflection warped in the shattered screen. When you looked up he was flipping through pages in that composition book looking so serene it almost made you want to throw something at him.

“Ferdinando’s?” he whispers. Then again, “Ferdinando’s,” as though he’s answered a question and scrambles for one of the pens on the floor. You watch him quickly jot something down.

“Ferdinando’s?”

“Oh!” It was like he had forgotten you were there. “I… just something I remembered. Sorry.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re talking about that old Italian place in Cobble Hill?” His head shoots up. “Yes, that’s still there too last I knew. And they made a damn good cannoli.”

A small chuckle skips past his lips and he stares into the middle distance for a moment. “I,” another little laugh, “used to take dates there.” He runs a hand absently through his hair and writes something down.

His pen freezes, his eyes don’t leave the paper, “To make Him they had to kill me…” He’s so quiet you have to strain to hear, “this,” he gestures lazily to the books, “is my attempt at raising the dead.”

Mournful eyes, more grey than blue meet yours. “But I can’t pretend the bad didn’t happen too… that He, I, didn’t do horrible things.” He pulls a three subject spiral from the pile, thicker than all the others. There’s no title here. “I’m not sure what book you belong in… but if it’s this one,” he lays his palm flat on the cover, “and I think it is. I…” his voice breaks and you think he’s going to sob, “I’m truly sorry.” No tears fall but you swear you could drown in his eyes, in his grief.

A very strong part of you doesn’t want to give him anything, push him away, make him leave. Wants to shut him out. But if you’re being honest with yourself your loneliness is far stronger. And his loneliness… I mean for fuck's sake he just opened up to a woman who he only thinks he knows, who knocked him unconscious and chained him, however ineffectively, to a wall a few hours ago.

Fuck it. 

“No…” You stare at your hands, unable, unwilling to hold his gaze any longer. “I don’t really think that’s where I belong in your story.” You hear him let out a breath. “How do you know me, or think you know me, Mr… Sargent-“

“Bucky,” that crooked smile again.

“Mr. Sargent Bucky, then.” It’s a shitty joke, hardly even a joke, but he gives you a little laugh all the same.

The slight humor isn't enough to lighten his next words, “When I saw you nine days ago-“

“Nine?!” You can’t help but be alarmed. Nine days, nine fucking days he had been following you and you didn’t notice a goddamn thing.

“… Yeah.”

It hits you, “You wanted me to see you today… You wanted to see how I’d react.” He just nods. Small again despite his size, shoulders slumping. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“If it’s any consolation you’re doing a great job laying low.” You snort. “No really,” he says insistent, “I mean you did pick the same city as The Winter Soldier, that says you know how to disappear.” There’s an awkward beat, “I don’t know that anyone else would notice you.” You don’t say someone already had, in Berlin.

“But… yeah…” He picks up again. “I saw you, your face, and I saw.” He stops suddenly his eyes  staring at his hands, balled into fists sitting on his knees, “I thought I remembered…” He just can’t get it out and his eyes find yours begging you silently to tell him he’s wrong.

You feel for him, you do, but you won’t sugar coat this. “You remembered,” your hand wanders to your right cheekbone where a thin scar runs up from there up around your eye socket, “beating me.”

[magtitude]

41 -- 50 Chris headcanons from my old blog/s under cut. watch out tho bc it’s a long post. additonal cw for drugs mention, disordered sleeping, body image issues.

41. “What does their living space look like?”

At Mom&Tom’s, his bedroom is in the attic; it actually takes up half of the attic, and the other half is used for storage ( it’s a pretty big place ).

There’s a skylight in the roof; his bedroom is directly underneath it. There’s a window on/in the wall a foot or so away from the foot of the bed, where his desks are placed in front of. The floor is carpeted, blue.

There’s a photo of him, Ash, and Josh above his bed, framed. There’s also a photo of Ash, Josh, Sam, Hannah, Beth, and Ruth on his first desk, along with notebooks and sticky notes. The second desk has his computer and desk chair, and other gadgetry.

He also has a bedside table with a lamp; he leaves his phone there, where it’s able to be charged.

42. “Do they drink/do drugs?”

He does drink, sometimes to excess, and he does smoke weed occasionally/sometimes ( lmao somewhere between the two ).

43. Favourite fruit: probably tangerines or nectarines. Maybe even grapefruit.

44. Do they eat healthy or do they like junk food: lmaooo he loves junk food so much. Not to say he won’t eat healthy stuff, but you know. Junk tastes good. Sometimes.

45. The longest they've been awake: It’d probably be 45 hours, after a particularly bad night terror spell post-mountain.

46. Most of the time, he’s OK with the way he looks, so long as he doesn’t think about it too much, or too seriously. Because he is chubby, fat, and that’s fine. No-one ( who he cares about ) says anything about it, negative or positive, so it doesn’t really come up.

But there are times when he’s alone and he looks at himself and… “:/” It usually happens when he’s already in a sour mood, and it snowballs until he makes himself feel bad about a lot of other things ( body image, his dad, his mum, doubting himself as a supportive friend, getting all worked up over what other people think of him – that sort of thing ).

It also kinda-sometimes ties in with his sexuality. And his doubts over it’s sincerity (? words. i need a thesaurus). Sometimes thinks What if I’m not actually asexual and/or sex-repulsed and I’m just using it as an excuse because I’m not that good-looking? Works himself up by thinking that he’s actually making a fuss over nothing, that he just wants to be “special”, and that he might not actually that against sex, and what he’s really worried about is that his significant other won’t like the way he looks when they’re intimate.

It all ebbs and flows: some days, he’s confident; other days, he feels like utter shite. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

47. Before the events on Blackwood, he’s very sceptical about the supernatural and superstition, and he can either be quietly and politely dismissive about it when someone brings it up ( more so if he knows/cares about the other person ), or a bit of a douchenozzle ( “:/ ghosts don’t exist.” ).

Afterwards, he can’t stop thinking about what else might exist. Or where else wendigos may exist. Cryptids and urban legends start to freak him out in a “shit, it might actually be real” way.

48. Chris knows how use a handgun and shotgun. It’s thanks, in part, to Tom teaching him when he was 14, and his mother’s approval ( having grown up with guns herself ). He’s practised his aim with waterguns and such, as well as the range on the mountain.

49. body things:

“[build]: are they skinny and petite or do they resemble a body builder, are they tall or short or average height, are they lean and wiry, are they overweight, are all of their features proportionate, etc.”

He’s fat, not gonna shy away from that; he’s a soft, chubby fella, and it shows most around his stomach, chest, arms, thighs, and hips, although there is a bit of muscle there, so it’s just all fluff.

He’s just over the average height for a white man in the US/Canada, so he’s neither tall nor short at 5′11″. Although he does lord it over that he’s taller than the national average, thanks.

Everything’s proportionate, and mostly-ish symmetrical down the middle if that makes sense lol.

“[skin]: obviously colour, but also if they’re inclined to run hot or cold, do they have any blemishes or unusual markings, are they inclined to blush, are they freckled, do they tan, what does their skin feel like, etc.”

A fair boy, and freckled ( sparse on his face, clusters elsewhere ), he tends to burn/crispify in the sun, so he’s gonna need a lot of sun cream every half hour. He’s usually a little cool to the touch, even during the summer ( although less so during this time ), which might be down to poor circulation ( inherited from his mother’s side ). His skin is smooth, which is more noticeable where there aren’t fine blond hairs on him ( his face and neck the inside of his arms and legs, mostly ). There are a few, faint scars on him from some years ago ( one at the temple going into his hairline and past it, another on the top of his left hand ).

“[eyes]: not just the colour, but the shape, the length of their eyelashes, whether they’re alert or usually half-closed, large or small, sunken into the face, ringed by bags, etc.”

I think Chris’ eyes are almond-shaped or round ( probably almond-shaped tbh ). His eyes are blue, but sometimes look grey-blue, depending on the light ( his mother says they actually change colour ).

His eyelashes tend to look longer than they actually are, more so if he’s wide-eyed about something, but they are about average. He also has one, very light blond eyelash on his upper right eyelid.

When he’s worked himself to exhaustion, he doesn’t really get bags under the eyes. Severe dark circles, yes, but not bags. And it tends to have the effect of intensifying his eye colour, especially if he’s in a foul mood and glaring.

50. “share an unpopular opinion you have related to your fandom or character.”

I’m not sure Chris’d forgive Josh easily or so soon after the 2015 event on the mountain. Even with the wendigos and Josh being out of it, and even wanting to still be friends with him and wanting him to be alive and OK – forgive him immediately? Nah, mate. Nah-ah. Because that’s always gonna be lurking at the back of his mind.

And I’m pretty sure that Chris has considered ( in verses where Josh is still alive ) just breaking off that friendship and cleaning his hands of it; wouldn’t’ve been too hard to, even if he does miss Josh.