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kylorengarbagedump · 9 months ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 4

Read on AO3. Part 3 here. Part 5 here.

Summary: Ohh, okay, so that's why he's called The Butcher.

Words: 6100

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence/animal death

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia <3

YAY finally some horny content oh my god we were literally salivating to write some of it. Very much appreciate everyone reading and interacting - it literally makes our day!! I think we probably just have to admit to ourselves at some point this is becoming a full-blown fic, but what can we say, we simply love this petty cunt of a man LOL. Love y'all so so much! <3

“Colonel,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

William Tavington exhaled softly through his nose. “My answer to this inquiry is irrelevant.”

You twisted your lips in thought, nodding to yourself. He understood you well enough.

The ride so far had been quiet—you’d slept through most of the day and evening prior, awoke with horse hobbles on your ankles, and had them exchanged for rope when the redcoats had packed up camp. Before you’d left, Tavington had gathered you back on his mount and bound you into a human rucksack once more. You weren’t sure what time you’d set out, but the sky was still dark, and the crickets still chirped in song between the hoofbeats of the horses.

The sleep you’d had was deep and halfway restorative. With the addition of water and food, your head had stopped pounding and your body had stopped quaking. Despite the horrific obscenity of your thirst the day before, you vacillated between grateful for the colonel’s offering and furious you’d even been put in the position to be grateful for it.

There was also the confusion that it happened at all. Even if the British weren’t supposed to treat their prisoners the way he treated you, you’d thought you’d had an accurate read on him. He should want you weak. Suffering. Compliant. Since betraying that, he’d wound you off on a new, inspired approach.

“What is the plan for when we arrive in Charleston?”

“Give me the benefit of assuming that I am not inclined to reveal military strategy to you.”

“Not military strategy,” you said. You lowered your voice. “It’s about Grace.”

“Ah, first the soldier, now the negotiator.”

“Try to use those large ears of yours to listen,” you said. “I’m aware of why I’m being taken to Charleston. But Grace—she really doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t belong in those prisons.” You knew as well as most that the conditions inside the prison ships were as good a death sentence as any formal order to hang. The thought of her sick, starving, alone—your heart quickened. “She… I…”

“Your sister has, whether knowingly or unknowingly, aided and abetted the enemy.” The lack of interest in Tavington’s voice dripped from his teeth. “She will receive her punishment accordingly.”

You sighed in frustration. “She hasn’t, though,” you said. “I handled everything. I was the only one to speak with my father. I was the only one he trusted. I am the only one you want.”

“And we have you,” he replied brusquely. “Was there a point to this conversation other than demonstrating to me your capability to recall simple factual information?”

Leaning closer, you implored him. “I’ll—I’ll do whatever is needed. I’ll comply with your orders. I won’t try to run.” Desperation congealed in your throat. “Trade her for me. You lose nothing, and you gain my cooperation.”

“You know,” he said, “you may be an even worse negotiator than you are a soldier.”

“I’ll pledge loyalty to England!” you said. “Let her go and I’ll swear allegiance to King and Country.”

He snorted. “Certainly you don’t believe that to be of any conceivable value.”

“If you refuse, you get nothing from me,” you spat. “You can torture me or starve me or—or do whatever your general demands. I won't speak a word. I'll die. With everything I know.”

“Ever the little lionheart.” He tutted. “Fearsome.”

“You…” Blinking, you let out a breath. “You don’t think I can withstand it? You think I’ll break?” You balled your fists, your bandages shifted uncomfortably under your restraints. “After everything you've seen?”

“Your death is all but guaranteed either way,” he drawled. “I don’t see why your chosen path to the noose is of any consequence to me.”

“The consequence is—”

“My court-martial?” He said it so matter-of-factly that your jaw shut with a click. “Ah. You see, I think you’ve rather misjudged my standing with the General. Delivering you to Charleston will be more than sufficient to avert it, but thank you ever so much for your concern.”

If the British army had a commendation for obstinacy, you were certain he would have been the incumbent winner for the past lifetime. The letter you'd discovered from Cornwallis didn't say, deliver some colonial woman to me and be forgiven. It said actionable intelligence. And you were feeling far less than actionable at the moment.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Willing to bet your life on that?”

“Yes,” you said. “You know as well as I do that your general expects results. Without what I know, I'm nothing. I'm nobody.”

You wondered if Tavington suspected you to be bluffing about your supposed knowledge as egregiously as he was bluffing now. But you guessed he wasn’t willing to risk his career on abandoning the only lead he had—at least, far less willing than you were to risk your life for your sister's.

For a moment, all you could hear was the familiar sounds of the South Carolina nighttime chorus. Each of you rocked with his horse’s gait, back and forth, steps syncing with your breathing. There was no indication of his thought process, no tensing of his stomach, no twitching of his arms.

The last tool you had was supplication—which would require precision, but not deception. There was truly nothing you wanted more than to secure your sister’s safety. But the moment he sensed any deliberate manipulation of your tone, you knew he’d deny you.

You held your breath, became even quieter, murmuring towards his ear. “Colonel Tavington,” you said, a tinge of that desperation working its way onto your tongue. “Please. I’m… I��m begging you.”

Tavington straightened in his seat. Only by a hair—but he straightened. “Are you, now?” he said. “I don't believe I heard you.”

It took nearly all the strength you'd managed to gather over the past evening to swallow your rancor. Bastard.

“Please,” you said, only slightly louder than before. “I'm begging you, Colonel. Please, release Grace.”

“Hm.” Tavington was silent for a moment, then exhaled, lifting his chin. “No.”

Your jaw dropped. You weren't sure why you expected anything different, but it struck like a boulder to your chest regardless.

Fingers twisting together in your bondage, you ran through your options. You'd have to find some way to bargain for her freedom. If not for yours, then for something. Your home, the little patch of land your father had built it on, anything at all. You'd figure it out, you were sure of it, you just needed one person at Charleston to hear you out and—

“Enough with your ceaseless fretting,” Tavington said.

You blinked. So what if your brow was drawn and your lips were pursed and your forehead was crinkled—that didn’t give him the right to say that. You were allowed to think about whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. God, he irritated you. But the thought of giving him the satisfaction of your response irritated you more.

“It does no favors to your face.”

“I—excuse me?” You needed to stop making promises to yourself that were so easily broken. “I suppose instead I should adopt a habit where I look down my nose and sneer at everyone I pass?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It would be more respectable than wrinkling your nose like a farm animal at every fleeting thought.”

“Do you have a talent for making all women feel this special, or did you reserve your charm for me?”

Tavington hummed. “I’m not certain what part of you qualifies as a woman.”

Heat came to your cheeks, and you barked a laugh. “Oh, no, I think you can remember which parts qualify,” you said. “If you think very hard about it.”

For one truly blissful moment, Tavington did not respond. Triumph resounded within you, deafening the tiny whispers of confusion that this past minute had wrought within you. What did he mean, does no favors to your face? How closely had he paid attention to your face? What about being reminded of your body had managed to quiet him, even for a breath? After all, he was the one so disenchanted with your breasts to begin with—you couldn’t imagine that his memory of them was particularly appealing.

“Hm?” he said. “Were you saying something?”

Or maybe he was still just toying with you, as he ever was.

To your right, your group passed a church that appeared still unoccupied for the moment. The sight had you rise in your seat, tighten around your captor. You must’ve arrived in Dorchester. You glanced behind you, seeking Shaw and Edwards for confirmation of your curiosity, but they avoided your gaze, craning their necks and shifting on their horses to focus on the road ahead. Beneath you, the ground flattened into a trodden dirt road.

The sky had lightened, the horizon spilling cream into its inky breadth. Just beyond it, the sun would rise—and you would be another day closer to rescuing Grace.

A scream echoed in the distance. Then a gunshot. Multiple gunshots. Tavington turned to stone beneath you, as did his horse. He raised a hand for his lieutenants to halt. You pressed closer to him, peering over his shoulder. Fire flashed in the darkness, shadows moving around the tabby walls of the fort you had been approaching. Your eyes widened, and you curled tighter to his back.

“Colonel?” said Shaw.

“Militia. Lieutenant Shaw, alert the garrison,” Tavington said. “They’re raiding the magazine.” A growl rumbled deep in his chest—his hand landed on his sword and whipped it free. “Charge!”

The horse exploded forward. You clutched around Tavington’s middle, your thighs clamping down to stay balanced as the grass turned to a blur beneath you. As gunfire and shouting grew closer, your heart leapt up your throat.

Tavington’s body felt like wrought steel, an extension of his blade that flashed in the dawn glow. Then it arced downward, and sprayed the grass with red.

The air around you fractured into bursts of light, cracks of powder, screams of death. Beneath you, the horse leapt forward, and Tavington’s blade cleaved flesh once more. Warmth splattered your neck, your mouth, leaked copper between your teeth. You burrowed into his spine. Willed yourself to think. To react. To do something.

But there was nothing you could do. Nowhere to move, no action to take but to cower behind your living blade and pray that each ensuing blast wouldn’t herald your death. Your own helplessness clawed you, squirmed and writhed like a panic-blind animal.

Flashes of battle swung past the very corner of your sight as Tavington’s mount slowed, turned. Bodies littered the grass, a row of gore sown in his wake. Beyond them, more men rushed the fort, meeting with fire from its defenses. The tabby wall loomed above you, now on your opposite side. Tavington was peeling back around for a second charge.

You tucked down again as the horse bunched and sprang. Between your arms, you could feel breath rolling through Tavington in a rhythm as wild and steady as the hoofbeats jarring your bones. A distant part of you wondered if he even remembered you were there.

Daring to look up, you glimpsed a familiar, reedy form fighting by the opposite treeline. Edwards, now on foot, had one of the minutemen flanked. Frail sunlight illuminated several more strewn on the ground around him. Then two shadows surged forth from the trees, and a bayonet emerged from Edwards’ sternum. He toppled forward off of the slickened blade, and then the barrel turned—directly upon you.

“Colonel—!” you screeched just as his sword split a throat, and the musket flashed.

The horse bellowed. The world dropped away. For a moment, you were weightless. Then you and Tavington struck the dirt in a rolling, conjoined heap.

You coughed, groaned, trying to wriggle away, but found your whole arm pinned underneath his torso and feeling somehow wrong. Tavington felt your movement and scrambled alive, throwing your arms from his body like a garland. Pain erupted through your shoulder and your arm fell limp, useless, back to the ground. Hissing, you rolled to your stomach with a sickening shift of bone somewhere below your clavicle.

On his feet, Tavington spied his sword yards away and retrieved it, his hand on his pistol as he barreled into the fog of iron and smoke.

The man before you became an instrument of war, his body singing every note of battle. It was a refrain, you could tell, he’d rehearsed hundreds, thousands of times—the slaughter a symphony, and death a dirge only he was tuned to perform. Men toppled before him in a crescendo of entrails, his sword carving through flesh like a metronome. His pistol fired, a staccato, skull-cleaving coda.

Musketfire crackled, exposing his silhouette to the light, and your jaw fell in awe. He was smothered sanguine, his chest heaving in exhilaration, his eyes wild with a fervor reserved for men at the foot of their marriage bed. He was electric with excitement, dripping with desire for more, more blood.

Breathless, you found yourself transfixed, the reality of the fight waging around you drowned in the weight of your—your—

An unintelligible whisper by your ear, and you screeched, jerking around. You came face-to-face with one of the minutemen, crouched, his attention flicking between you and Tavington, who was currently reloading his gun and seemed focused on far more important things.

“Miss,” he said, waving you toward him, “miss, come with me. We can get you out of here.”

You shook your head. “What?”

He glanced at your bound wrists. “You are a captive, miss?”

“Oh. Yes, yes, I am!” You inched forward, wincing as you raised your arms to him, one supporting the other like a hook dangling a fish. “Can you untie me?” Your rational mind sputtered alive again. You had an objective. “Can you get me to Charleston?”

He grimaced, wagging his fingers like it would make you move faster. “We need to move.”

It wasn’t as if you could refuse, so you nodded, sneaking a glance at Tavington. He was studying the treeline, just about finished reloading. Throat tight, you rolled onto your knees, and the man hovered above a squat, his arm waiting to prop you up, but you staggered to your feet without him.

“Quickly,” he murmured. He grabbed your hands. “Follow m—”

The man’s head popped like a pressurized cherry. Something hot splashed your face. He went limp, and hit the ground.

You turned, finding Tavington’s gaze trained straight on you. A snarl crested on his upper lip, and he returned to the fight, crouching low as he reloaded his pistol again. Gunshots pierced your ears and you dropped to the ground with a gasp, realizing you’d stood in the middle of a fire fight.

The remaining men were torn between Tavington and the magazine barrier. Above the half-bastion walls, a Galloper gun fired—thunder split the air, dirt spewed to the sky, bodies collapsed in pieces. Some of those still standing broke rank and tried to retreat, finding themselves impaled on Tavington’s sword as they fled.

Chest to the grass, you attempted to assess your surroundings. The fort: near-victory. The militia: almost all dead. Your would-be rescuer: definitely all-dead. Your captor: a harbinger of bloodshed, and exquisitely, grotesquely alive. You: uncertain if these facts terrified or elated you.

Outfought and outgunned, the few living minutemen fell to their knees in surrender. The Butcher gutted, slit, and bled them as they begged to live.

Horse hooves rumbled by the treeline, and in the emerging dawn, you saw Shaw, charging forth with his pistol drawn. He was passing the two men still hiding in the woods who remained unaware their regiment had been obliterated. They’d catch him, you realized. Your heart flipped. He was going to die. For a brief, confusing moment, you wanted to warn him.

Before you could reconcile that urge, a bullet burst through his chest, and he tumbled from his mount in a crumpled heap. Wincing, you watched as the horse galloped off without its rider, revealing the two colonials that had broken into the field. One was reloading. The other was ready to shoot.

Tavington raised his weapon, pulled the trigger. The latter man dropped. The former scanned the field, realized he was alone, and his movements became frantic, desperate to get off the shot and vanish unpursued. But Tavington was casual, pouring powder into the barrel with the urgency of a lion stalking a meal. Despite his confidence—or perhaps because of it—the colonial moved faster, nearly fumbling his gun as he slipped the ramrod free.

Tavington was too damned stubborn to see he was outpaced, or he was too bound by bloodthirst to care. Either way, it was plain to you he was about to get shot.

The realization catalyzed you to do something. The dead man in front of you had no need for his pistol. You lurched forward, grasping it in your tied hands. There was no shake, no tremble to your grip, no heeding of the pain in your shoulder as you stood and raised it, only the hope that the pan was properly primed, that a bullet was waiting in the barrel.

The two men stood beyond your muzzle. Tavington was pumping his ramrod into his pistol. The colonial was pulling his free, tossing it to the side. He was ready to fire. If you hesitated, Tavington would take the bullet. Or, it occurred to you, you could turn the gun on him yourself.

In any tale, this was your moment of triumph—David slaying Goliath with a stone slung through Goliath’s red-jacketed back. In any tale, this was where you’d escape, where you’d scamper into the woods with your fellow colonials and find your way to Grace with their help.

In any tale, you realized, except this one. In this tale, you needed Goliath as your ally. And you wanted him alive.

You shifted your stance, aimed your shot. The colonial, your dread mirror, aimed his at Tavington. You pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck the colonial dead-center, and he scanned the field, eyes landing on you in horror. Like a deer, he wobbled, groaned in disbelief. He heaved, spit blood down his chin and crumbled to his knees. Tavington paused and turned his head, his eyes wide as they settled on you.

Ice pooled in your chest, your gut, as you watched the man you betrayed slump forward into the grass. Though you swallowed rising bile, the breath you took was steady. As if reassuring you of your choice. Tavington eclipsed the dead man’s shape.

He was a storm. Raging a path straight toward you, carnage in his wake. His eyes sparked. His shoulders rolled. You were witnessing the very last sight beheld by so many men on this battlefield. He tossed his sword to one side, his pistol to the other, gaze never leaving yours. And you could do nothing but lift your chin and meet his advance.

He slapped the gun from your grip and his palm slammed your throat, lifting you onto your toes.

“You—” He was an inch away, eyes searching between yours. You couldn’t fathom what he found there. It wouldn’t be fear. Nor shame. Some wild tempest of your own had brewed in this chaos. It was licking to the surface along the seam where his grip met your neck, where your hands had come up to clutch a sliver of his bare wrist.

“Colonel!”

His head whipped to the side. Two redcoats were quickly approaching from the fort. Tavington’s gaze, however, fixed upon the gate from which they’d emerged.

He wrenched you around until you were facing them, and you coughed when he released your throat. His grip moved to your arm, crushing down to the bone, and he shoved you forward. The two redcoats staggered to a halt as he began to advance with you.

“Sir, we a—”

“Begin a perimeter sweep,” Tavington barked.

The men jumped out of his path with stuttered affirmatives and made for the treeline.

The gate approached fast until you were shoved through it, meeting with the wide gazes and stiffened spines of several more soldiers as their eyes fell upon Tavington. His arm shot out to your periphery, pointing at a pair of redcoats who instantly became an inch taller.

“Meet the garrison when they arrive. Brief them on the attack.”

The men sprang toward the gate and disappeared. Tavington turned to the remaining men, glassy-eyed and waiting.

“Clean up the bodies. I want a full report.”

“Yes, sir.” They followed suit without hesitation.

The fort stood empty aside from the powder magazine, a small building hunkered in the middle. You were alone. Your breathing stalled. A lurch, and you were moving again.

Tavington bashed open the door to the magazine and marched you through. You had barely blinked against its murky interior before the door slammed behind you and you were wrenched backwards. Your spine hit solid wood, your arms were pinned above your head, and the Butcher’s body collided with yours in the darkness.

“Why?” he hissed.

Pain screamed through your shoulder, mangled your thoughts. Reeling, you shook your head.

“I… I don—”

The fingers of his free hand clamped around your jaw, forced it up until you were looking into his eyes. You could just make them out, reflecting the weak light that bled beneath the door. They were shining. Deranged.

“The colonial,” he growled. “You killed him. Tell me why.”

With his grip still locked on your jaw, all you could manage was a muffled mmph in reply. Then he released your face, and his hand delved to your hip, your thigh.

“Who sent you?” He sought your pockets, the seams of your trousers. In the darkness, his hand brushed between your legs. You gasped. “Was it Cornwallis? Did he order you to spy on me?”

“What? No, I—ah!”

His hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers plundering your waistband. The leather glove was supple and warm against your skin, trailing flames in its wake as it slid from one hip across your belly to the other.

“What are y—”

“Shaw and Edwards,” he said, panting. His breath fanned your neck as he continued searching, his hand circling to the small of your back, then around to brush across your ribs. “Did they know? Were they part of this?”

Beneath your shirt, his knuckles skimmed your breast. Every flame left flickering across your skin shot straight down between your legs, and you yelped. It was too much.

“Get off.” You bucked hard, your hips colliding with his.

He drove back against you, pinning you flush between the door and his body.

“You were trying to escape,” he gritted, the words skimming the shell of your ear. You squirmed and felt the hilt of his sword prod your hip. “Tell me why you shot that man.”

“I’m not… I’m no spy.” Thrashing, you achieved nothing but to impale yourself again on his…

He’d left his sword on the battlefield.

“Tell me.” He thrust forward with such force that his knee slipped between your thighs and his coat buttons grazed your nipples. That same hardness ground against your lower stomach.

A wave of molten heat flashed up your neck, soaked your lower abdomen, and a whimper escaped your throat. The pressure that flared alive in your center dizzied you. Pressing your thighs together against it, you met only the firm length of Tavington’s leg between them.

“You were—he…” The explanation tried to form on your lips, but nothing seemed to make sense any more beyond his body covering yours. The warmth of him, the weight of him against you, the vicious thrill through your thighs. The scent of copper, gunsmoke and sweat flooded you. “I just…” Your own voice sounded far away. Breathless. Needy. “I just needed to—“

He snarled, his hand coming up to lock around your throat and silence your pathetic attempt to form a sentence. It squeezed, sending cotton through your vision, and his face brushed past yours. You felt a breath skim the slope of your neck.

The charybdian maw of your desire opened, ravenous, his breath on your skin the gale that would deliver you. As your body melted to his, ready to succumb, one final thought pierced the squall like a pinprick of light.

“Release Grace,” you heard yourself croak. His grip loosened fractionally. You gulped at the stale air.

“What?”

He had gone still as marble. You craned your neck under his grasp until you were looking at him again. The tip of your nose brushed his, your breaths mingling in the gloom. Pools of blackest ink had devoured the blue of his eyes. You sucked in a breath, heart hammering under his palm.

“Release. Grace.”

You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare struggle, terrified you’d spur him on, more terrified that you wanted it.

Tavington’s lips parted. He examined your face, attention falling to his hand on your throat, your trembling chest, the junction where his hips were pressed to your belly. A short, sudden intake of air broke him free from you, the tempest vanishing from his gaze. His brow pinched together, and he shouldered you aside to open the door, pushing you out before shutting it behind him.

As he marched you forward by your good arm, a new redcoat—a captain, you thought—approached the gate, backed by what looked like at least a couple dozen soldiers, perhaps more you couldn’t see.

The man tipped his hat toward Tavington. “Colonel.”

“Take her to the holding cells at the barracks,” he said, jostling you toward the captain. “Ready a transport to Charleston.”

“Oh.” The captain halted you as you stumbled into his arms. “Sir—”

“Did my orders confuse you, Captain?” he snapped. “See it done.”

The captain blinked, then nodded, turning you around and pushing you toward his subordinates. They received you silently, trading looks of concern with their superior officer before guiding you out of the fort.

The walk to the barracks in town was silent and relatively short, your head spinning to catch up with the past half-hour. Shaw and Edwards’ bodies joined you in a cart pulled by a couple of privates, their limbs jostling from the uneven path.

You certainly didn’t mourn them, but to see them in death felt strange, like recognizing a face you’d long-forgotten. You remembered how your mother looked when she died—though you were small and Grace too young to recall—and found no similarities there. She’d appeared to be how you imagined serenity. These men laid with mouths gaping, clothes festering with blood.

When you arrived, you were placed in an outdoors holding cell with several other prisoners of war. With your restraints and clearly limp arm, you appeared to fit right in. A relief, since you weren’t sure how welcoming these men would be if they knew you’d just killed one of their own.

Their eyes followed you as you sat in the corner, sparking awareness again of what you’d been wearing and the fact that you were the only woman being held. The attention felt unwelcome, uncomfortable, like you were a rabbit wandering into an enclosure of wolves. For a brief, despicable moment, you wondered how bold they’d be if you’d been standing next to that very same colonel.

The thought twisted your stomach. Standing next to Tavington, indeed. Blinks of memory—breath on your neck, hand on your throat, hips crushing yours, his… his—

You shook your head. The entire encounter was befuddling. And it seemed to have befuddled him, too. He’d almost lost control. Almost lost control on you. More befuddling still, between his performance in the fight and your apparently traitorous inclinations, you were nearly disappointed.

Every man you’d grown up with, every man you’d met since had been a plain-parchment imitation of a person. Talking with them was tedious, their behavior when courting was saccharine, and their estimation of you was frequently, constantly deficient. Grace often teased you about never getting married, but it didn’t bother you. The idea of spending your life with someone who bored you to the grave seemed far less appealing than the idea of spending it alone.

A man had never, ever stirred you before. Never, of course, until now.

Not that you wanted to marry a man who happily murdered surrendering innocents. But your body certainly had some ideas of what it wanted with such a man.

The ghosts of his hands retraced your skin, dragging shivers in their wake. Your eyes fluttered, tried to close. You almost didn’t see the man approaching from across your cell. Almost.

You shot to your feet, squaring your shoulders to him with eyes wide. He held his hands up to you like the skittish animal you surely resembled and slowed his pace. Back pressed to the perimeter, you measured his approach.

He wore a tattered Continental Army uniform, dappled with blood and dirt. The shadow of a beard clung to his face, his cheeks not yet hollow enough to be starved. A line of dried sweat and dirt encircled his receding hairline where a wig recently sat, and his eyes—brown and strangely familiar—were still bright. He couldn’t have been imprisoned for more than a few days.

“S’all right,” he murmured, taking in your bunched shoulder and challenging stare.

You gave him no reply, grappling to assess the threat he posed. The man was a colonial. He should be your ally. Shouldn’t want to bring you harm. But then again, Colonel William Tavington was a redcoat who should have wanted nothing more than to bring you harm. And he had thoroughly, vexingly, defied that expectation. It would be foolish to default on assumptions now, given everything the past few days had taught you.

“You, uh,” he continued, glancing back at the other men before stepping closer. Your feet shifted beneath you, lending strength to your stance. “You were at the battle? We heard shots.”

After a small hesitation, you nodded, sending a bolt of pain through your shoulder that you ignored. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Continental forces? How many?”

“Militia,” you replied, counting the number quickly in your head. “Thirty-two.”

He frowned, raised a brow in thought, then looked back at you. “Any other survivors?”

You grimaced. “None.”

His face fell, then flickered with hope again. Another vague spark of familiarity struck you. “Y—you’re sure you didn’t see soldiers? The militia could have been a cover. They could be coming to break us out.”

It wasn’t likely. But you couldn’t begrudge the man his hope. You simply shrugged your good shoulder.

“You—“ He blinked rapidly, frowned as he took in your attire. “Were you… with the militia?”

There was no good way to answer. No, I shot one of them to save the Colonel of the Green Dragoons didn’t seem like the best option. A change of subject did.

You nodded toward his uniform. “Where were you fighting?”

“Oh.” He followed your gaze down to his own torso and back up. “Waxhaws. North of here.”

Your eyes widened. A wheel of memory slotted onto its axis and turned.

“I know you,” you whispered.

He blinked again. “Begging your pardon, miss?”

“Or…” You shook your head. “You know my father. Michael. He left to join the Continental Army with you in the Wilksburg company.”

He muttered your father’s name under his breath, recognition expanding in his eyes. You leaned forward, pulse picking up a gallop.

“Do you know what happened to him? When did you last see him?”

“At the battle,” his brow furrowed, like he was conjuring the memory with some difficulty. “Three—three days ago? Some of us were captured. He escaped.”

“Do you know where he went?” you implored.

The man shook his head. “He didn’t return home? Or send word?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Deflating, you leaned against the wall behind you. “Redcoats took me and my sister from our home that night. They were looking for him.”

The man’s brow creased with pity. You felt an irrational stab of anger—you didn’t want his pity. You wanted answers.

“What was his objective?” You straightened, meeting his gaze again. “You battled at Waxhaws, were you ambushed? By whom? Where was your regiment heading?”

“S-slow down.” He took a step back, raising his palms. Only then did you realize you had advanced on him.

A jeer sounded from across the cell. Your head snapped in its direction.

“Scared of the girl, Wilson?” one of the other men called, laughing to and with himself only. “Don’t worry if she’s a biter, I’ll still make her purr.”

You glowered over Wilson’s shoulder. Perhaps some of your assumptions about men still held water. Wilson shook his head and let out a sigh, long-suffering. Your attention shifted back to him, still awaiting an answer.

“We were meeting a detachment from Virginia,” he said. “They gave us dispatches to distribute to the South Carolina commanders. We thought the Charleston forces would never catch up to us by the time they headed back north.”

Wilson swallowed. You leaned in further.

“We—we weren’t expecting the Dragoons.”

“The Dragoons,” you said, as if you barely recognized the term and hadn’t been pinned to a wall by their colonel less than an hour prior. “What, uh, happened with the Dragoons?”

“They slaughtered us,” he replied. “It was a massacre. Over a hundred dead. Maybe two. Your father was one of the few who got out alive.” He paused. “At least, I thought he was.”

You pursed your lips. How comforting to know that the man who stirred you could’ve been responsible for murdering the only important man in your life. God willing, the person you’d killed hadn’t been a father, or anyone important to anyone else on the planet. Though that seemed unlikely. Regardless, you would've killed the man again if it went even a sliver towards Grace's safety. And your newest moral quandary meant nothing as long as you didn't plan to act on it—and you most certainly didn't.

“Well, I have to hope,” you said. “Perhaps he met up with the other riders after escaping.”

Wilson shrugged in a hesitant agreement. “Perhaps so. They rode out all across the colony. Some followed the Ashley River, some followed the Santee.” He found your gaze. “It would take more than a few redcoats to trip up your father,” he said. “He’s a wily man.”

“Wily, huh?” said the awful, annoying man behind Wilson. “Does the daughter favor her father in that regard?”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you,” you said to Wilson. “I… It’s a relief to know he might still be alive.”

“My pleasure, miss,” he said. After stepping back to the group of men, he added, “Don’t let Paul here bother you too much.”

Paul huffed. “Bother her?” He stumbled toward you, his mouth black with rot and his face damp with sweat. “Am I bothering you, young miss?”

“Not yet,” you replied, trying to retreat but finding yourself cornered.

Wilson made to put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, but Paul slapped him off, inching closer to you, close enough for you to choke on the stench of dirty blood oozing from him.

“Then can you explain for me why Wilson thinks I’m bothering you?”

“Perhaps I can. You’re a tiresome lout,” you returned, your rising panic making you too brash. “Can you explain that?”

Something sinister fell across his face. Your feet ached to run.

“Come, now.” He spoke through his teeth, stepping forward again. “Don’t be unladylike.”

Just as he reached out to snag your collar, you propelled forward and smashed your forehead into his nose. His flesh gave a wet crunch. The man reeled back, clutching his face, blood geysering between his fingers. You felt a trickle of it slip down the bridge of your nose.

“God’s fucking balls!” Blood spewed, smattered the ground as Paul screeched, stumbling onto his backside.

Wilson laughed at him. Another averted his attention, appearing nauseated. The last one scowled at you. Lifting your chin, you returned his glare. Finally, he turned away as well.

Your assailant remained on the ground with his hands over his face, groaning and spitting blood. You sank back into your corner, nodding at Wilson. None approached you again.

The sun had met the sky by the time your transport was readied. New redcoats led you out of your cage full of starved wolves, putting them all in bondage before leading you toward a covered wagon. You supposed that once you reached Charleston, you’d be in an entirely different cage of wolves, or perhaps even bears, and you’d need to figure out how on God’s holy earth you were going to free Grace.

At the front of the line, you spotted Tavington perched atop a new mount, mostly cleaned of blood, surveying his domain. As you stepped toward the wagon, a stranger’s blood dripping down your face, he peered over his shoulder. His stare landed on you.

In the glow of sunrise, his eyes shimmered like water. He watched you board the transport, gaze never leaving yours until you disappeared behind the canvas.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #fanfiction problems #playing soldier #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA GOD I JUST WANNA SUCK HIS COCK SO BAD WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK #i was just saying to bastillia like i've described kylo ren's eyes so many diff ways and now i'm describing a diff man's eyes #and i literally feel so bad at it like... idk they're the most beautiful eyes on the planet end of sentence?

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hungpimp707 · 1 month ago

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dumb fucking movie

Ok so this is pretty random but I haven't been able to stop thinking about this for a while. What do y'all think is the dumbest fucking movie ever? if "I saw the TV glow" wasn't what came out of your fucking mouth then I can say with 100% certainty youre wrong. This movie was by far the worst movie ive ever watched in my entire life and I wish I could forget I ever watched it. I found out about the movie from TikTok and the way people were describing it as an "allusion to the trans experience" and plus all the edits made me interested in watching it because it seemed cool by peoples descriptions and reactions so I decided to watch it. That decision was one of the worst decisions ive ever made in my entire life because tell me why the only way I can accurately describe this "movie" is as the most overstimulating and simultaneously under-stimulating and boring and stressful movie watching experience ive ever had. like ever. There was hardly any talking and when there was it was some shitty take on trying to be philosophical and deep because all the "deep" things the characters said were just grossly written, way to drawn out, hardly existential remarks while the camera was completely still pointing at the characters. on that note the cinematography was terrible to me in general and very boring. the "allusions" to the trans experience were hardly allusions in my opinion. In the same way the "deep" remarks by the characters were written, the "allusions" people were talking about were just very badly written. Like yeah he's in a dress that hints he wants to be a girl. like you know what I mean?? its so redundant to me. all of the attempts at being this cinematic masterpiece completely work against the movie and just make it stupid. like when they tried to name drop the movie in the middle of it. what the fuck even was that?? youre telling me in a room full of adult humans the best way they could think to do this is to make a shitty what sounds like half assed song that has the movie title in the middle of it in a context that doesn't even make sense? then the movie starts going down hill I guess and it tries to do one of those endings where the audience is left to make their own assumptions about it but honestly rather than the silence before the credits leaving me to think it just left me thinking that the movie was a disgrace to the actors. over all you can't just SAY something is philosophical, put some music over it and make it unnecessarily drawn out for a story that honestly could've been told in 30 minutes and call it a movie. I can't even call it a movie it doesn't even fit in that category for me it could honestly be better described as a "moving picture show". the only words I could use to describe this monument of stupidity people call a movie is stupid and redundant. but yeah it was the worst moving picture ive ever watched in my opinion if anyone has any different opinions or perspectives on the moving picture let me know I'm open to talking about it. also even though I think the moving picture was a monstrosity not worthy of the title "movie" doesn't mean you have to think that. I get how some people might have liked it for its aesthetic or whatever. like fuck my drag right? but yeah people please let me know if anyone else thought this.

#wlw #movies

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collarbonekissesandasylumwitches · 2 years ago

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hello hi, hope y'all are doing ok :)

this is just my take on this aesthetic, my personal brand if you will, so please don't come at me if it isn't completely accurate

(i do not know where a few quotes are from so if you do, please lemme know so that i can list them)

poetcore // chaotic academia // downtown girl

vibes: grocery stores, existential poetry, psychology/english major, iced caramel lattes, old bookstores, anatomical heart emoji, thunderstorms, wired earphones, art museums, dyed hair and a nose ring, vintage posters stuck on bedroom walls, blue hour, ink stained hands, latin curses, 3 am showers, voice notes, smudged eyeliner, cocoa lotion, choco chip cookies, silver rings that clink against ceramic cups, native language nicknames, annotated books, commentary videos on youtube, forehead kisses, candles, love letters, lullabies, sunlight through curtains, libraries at night, homoeroticism, angry girl music, pressed flowers, coffee cake and coffee eclairs, glitter pens, lipbalm, dog cuddles, super specific playlists, daily outfit pictures

fashion: small shirt big pants black nailpaint mismatched earrings signature perfume hair sticks black turtlenecks cardigans fingerless gloves nose rings high waisted jeans linen shorts lipgloss cotton dresses waist jewelry heart shaped locket moss coloured bralettes bandanas tank tops crystal necklaces white eyeliner oversized earth toned sweaters cargo pants vintage band tshirts charm bracelets and anklets crop tops smudged eyeliner harem pants claw clips fairy earrings tote bags doc martens with everything lots of antique rings

songs:

ribs - lorde

coffee breath - sofia mills

movies - conan gray

how long - hadestown

sunflower - post malone, swae lee

i want you to want me - letters to cleo

bookstore girl - charlie burg

sappho - frankie cosmos

achilles come down - gang of youths

girl from the bookstore - jack jones

poet - bastille

all too well 10 minute version taylor's version - taylor swift

artists: mother mother, bon iver, girl in red, arctic monkeys, daughter, florence + the machine, hozier, the neighborhood, taylor swift [folklore and evermore in particular]

movies: shutter island, dead poets society, lady bird, 10 things i hate about you, five feet apart, potrait of a lady on fire, kill your darlings, fleabag, perks of being a wallflower, all the bright places, loving vincent, call me by your name, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

books:

crush - richard siken

a little life - hanya yanagihara

the song of achilles - madeline miller

ode to aphrodite - sappho

the bell jar - sylvia plath

and then there were none - agatha christie

envelope poems - emily dickinson

the secret history - donna tartt

the picture of dorian gray - oscar wilde

a room of one's own - virginia woolf

the robber wife - margaret atwood

the yellow wallpaper - sam vaseghi gilman

quotes:

what we love, we mention. - Marie-Helene Bertino

you said i killed you. haunt me then. - Emily Bronte

loneliness is still time spent with the world.- Ocean Vuong

let me stay tender hearted, despite despite despite.

that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. - Walt Whitman

i love you. i can't tell you. the sun on your face will do it for me. - tumblr user tturing

i will love you if i never see you again, and i will love you if i see you every tuesday. - Lemony Snicket

someone has to leave first. this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story. - Richard Siken

nothing ends poetically. it ends and we turn it into poetry. all that blood was never once beautiful. it was always just red. - Kait Rokowski

love is real. i saw it once outside my window and it stopped to look at me but kept on walking and i thought it'd come back but in the end maybe it was just passing through.

in ten years' time, i want to live in a house with big windows, i want the house to be large enough to have a kitchen table with four chairs but not too roomy to ever feel the depth of my aloneness. because i'll probably be alone. but i think aloneness won't feel so all-consuming with windows that protect me from the world but still let me watch it. - Maeve Wiley, Sex Education

male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of vour own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. you are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. you are your own voyeur. - Margaret Atwood

take care, love love >3

#poetcore #chaotic academia #downtown girl #please add other tags i am exhausted after writing this whole thing 😭

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mysecretlittlelibrary · 3 years ago

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I'm Almost Me Again, She's Almost You

Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: none really but this is the only story I've ever written that's canonically accurate to the MCU so mentions of character death, Steve's stupid ass ending (It takes place during/after TFATWS)- Bucky's low-key a sad boi

Genre: fluff with a couple sprinkles of angst

Summary: Bucky's new girlfriend reminds him of an old friend (inspired entirely by Almost (Sweet Music) by Hozier because I am obsessed with that Irish Giant- did y'all know he's like 6'6?!)

***

You walk down the isles of the bookstore where you work, stocking the shelves with new copies of some books you just got in. When you turn a corner you see a man standing in the aisle with his arms crossed. He's wearing a leather jacket and it looks like he's got on gloves from what you can see of his hands. It's not winter so they seem a little out of place, but it's not your place to judge. His eyes dart from book to book quickly.

"Excuse me. Hi is there anything I can help you with?" You ask him. He looks at you for a long while before he shakes his head slightly. "Ah- alright. Well if you need anything let me know!" You smile at him and go back to your restocking, singing quietly, an old song he swears he recognizes but won't ask you about. He's there for about an hour before he silently leaves the store.

~*~*~

The next time you see the man is about a week later. You're at the counter flipping through your latest novel of choice quitely singing Night and Day, an old jazz song, when he walks up to you and clears his throat. Your head jerks up at the sound and you stop your quiet singing.

"Oh hey- you're the guy from last week! You need something?" You smile at him closing your book.

"You- remember me from last week?" He blinks at you.

"Course I do. You got on the same jacket too. I'm- pretty good with faces." You tell him. He nods but doesn't say anything in response. "Uh anyway, can I help you with anything?" You ask.

"I'm looking for a book. One about like- psychology- or hypnosis maybe." He frowns.

"Well we have some psychology books in the science section. Probably the biology subset but I'd have to walk over there to give you more exact locations." You tell him.

"I've got it from here." He nods and walks away. You turn your attention back to your novel for the time being, singing the same song from where you left off. The man spends forty minutes browsing the books in the science section before he eventually returns to the counter, this time with books in hand. He's got three, all related to psychology and the mind.

"Find everything okay?" You ask as you scan the books. He nods.

"Alright, your total is 42.57." You say. He silently hands you his card. You hand him back his card and his bag of items.

"Thanks." He gruffly mumbles.

"Thanks for coming. Have a nice day! Hope to see you again soon." You tell him. He nods as a way of saying goodbye and leaves.

~*~*~

The man returns the following week.

"Hello again psych enthusiast." You say. He nods at you as he walks towards the science section. He comes to the counter about thirty minutes later with three new books. This time a book about dreams is amongst the set.

"You always been interested in psychology?" You ask him.

"New hobby." He says.

"Well, happy reading." You tell him handing him his bag. He nods and leaves.

He comes in again once a week for the next few weeks, picking up a few books at a time. Always about some aspect of psychology, or dreams, or the mind. You try to talk to him whenever he comes in but it's mostly just you talking, as he gives short primarily nonverbal responses.

Then for a while after that you don't see the man again. You don't think much of it, sometimes you see customers once and never again. Plus the news has been talking about some group called the Flag Smashers all the time and you're a bit preoccupied watching for updates on the anarchists that wanna take over the world. Eventually, news of the Flag Smashers dies down and a hero you'd known as the Falcon declares himself the new Captain America. You knew enough about the Avengers to know a few of them were dead now following the blip and the original Captain America was missing in action, again, much like the 40s. No one really knows what happened to him, except probably the remaining Avengers. Maybe he'll pop up again in another 70 years.

A couple days after the Flag Smashers business is publically laid to rest the psychology hobbyist walks in again. You don't notice, busy restocking by the counter. It's not until he comes up to the counter with a couple books that you even know he's here.

"Hey the psych dude- you're back!" You say.

"Psych- dude?" He frowns at you.

"Well I dunno your name, and I could call you leather jacket or something but you always come in here and buy psychology books." You shrug.

"James." He says.

"Sorry what?" Your eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"My name. It's James." He elaborates.

"Oh- hi James. I'm y/n." You smile. He nods slightly, unsure of what to say in response. You hand him his items. "Alright well, I'll see you next time James." You offer. He nods again and makes his way out.

~*~*~

The next time James comes to the bookstore he waves at you as he walks to the science section as always. He's only there for 15 minutes before he's at the counter.

"Hi James." You tell him.

"Hello." He says. You ring him up without much more conversation but as you hand him his bag you will yourself to ask your question.

"Hey James would you like to go for coffee or something, some time?" You ask.

"Oh- uh- I-"

"You don't have to say yes. I won't take it personally." You shrug.

"Actually- I'd like to." He says.

"Okay. There's a coffee shop up the street. Do you know it?" You grab a sticky note and scribble your number down on it.

"Uh- yeah- I uh- I've been there before." He says.

"Great. I'm off Saturday. We can meet then if you're free. Say one?" You hand him the sticky note.

"One?" He frowns in confusion.

"Yeah- does one o'clock work for you? Do you want to meet earlier or later?"

"Oh! One is fine." He says.

"Alright. See you then. Call or text if something changes." You tell him. He nods and leaves the bookstore without another word.

When Saturday rolls around you arrive at the coffee shop at exactly 1 o'clock. Before you've even sat down Bucky arrives at the table you've chosen.

"Hello." He says. You smile at him.

"Hi James." You reach out your hand to shake. He stares at your hand but doesn't move to shake it. "Did you want to order something before we sit down?" You ask him. He nods and follows you to the counter. The two of you order sandwhiches and drinks and take your lunches to your chosen table. For a few moments you just sit and eat silently until you test the waters with a question.

"So James, tell me something about yourself- how old are you?" You ask.

"106." He says seriously. Your eyes widen for a second unsure of if he's serious but you assume he's joking so you play along.

"Well lucky for you I've always had a thing for older guys." You joke.

"Lucky me." He says.

"Okay well what do you do? Like when you're not at the book store how do you spend your days?" You ask.

"Therapy." He shrugs.

"Oh like you're a therapist?" You ask.

"No I have a therapist." He says.

"Is that what all the psychology books are for?"

"What-?"

"Every book you've bought has been psychology related. Are you interested in becoming a therapist or just wanting be more aware of your progress?" You ask.

"I don't think I'm at all the type of person who should be a therapist." He scoffs.

"So- interested in being aware of how you're doing?"

"Something like that." He hums.

"Well I won't ask what you're in therapy for- seems a bit too personal for a first date-"

"Is that what this is? A date?" He asks you.

"If you're okay with that."

"Sure. I'm okay with it."

"Cool- so uh I won't ask you why you're in therapy but how do you think it's going? If you don't mind me asking."

"If I tried to explain all the reasons I'm in therapy you'd be 106 by the time I finished. But uh- I think it's going alright. Therapist says I need to establish more connections- but she also says routines are good for me so- I have to establish a routine that let's me meet new people I guess."

"Well, you come by the book store pretty regularly- it's not super busy but we get enough customers that you could meet new people there if you spoke to anyone else." You shrug. He hums.

"Can I ask you something?" He asks after a moment.

"Sure- it's only fair- I've asked, more than one question already." You say.

"Right, why did you invite me out? Why talk to me at all?"

"One part curiosity, two parts self interest." You shrug.

"What the fuck does self interest mean?" His eyes narrow skeptically.

"Uh- that I'm interested in you-? Like I find you attractive." You explain confused by the defensive nature of his last question.

"Oh- right. Sorry for swearing." He mumbles.

"You always this distrusting of people James?" You ask him.

"Well- if you've seen the things I've seen you would be too." He shrugs.

"Maybe- but you've gotta give people the benefit of the doubt sometimes James. You won't make any new conections with walls up higher than the twin towers you know. Most people won't climb that high." You smile.

"Would you?" He asks.

"If I care about the person sure. Everyone deserves people they can trust and love and count on- no matter how high their walls go." You shrug. Bucky takes a moment to digest your words before speaking again.

"Friends call me Bucky." He says.

"Bucky?" You tilt your head.

"Middle name's Buchanan. Bucky's short for that. Caught on. Now pretty much no one calls me James." He explains.

"Would you prefer I call you Bucky?" You ask.

"I don't mind James when you say it. You can call me either." He says.

"James Buchanan, Bucky. Alright." You smile. He awkwardly attempts to learn more about you for the next hour, greatful that you do most of the talking and by the time you're parting ways you've set up another lunch date for the following week.

This goes on for a few months before anything else happens between the two of you. You meet for lunch and Bucky forces himself out of his comfort zone with you. He tells you small bits and pieces about his life at his pace and you allow him to. He tells you about Sam and Sam's family, how they welcomed him into their community and made him feel safe. He tells you of an old friend Steve, who he's not friends with anymore but never tells you why. He even shares some of his progress from when he was in therapy- as much as he can without telling you why he was in therapy. Even when he stops going. Eventually he feels comfortable enough to ask you to be his girlfriend which you of course say yes to, your lunch dates with him having been the highlight of your week ever since the second one. About three weeks into dating Bucky offers to tell you about why he's in therapy. A conversation he's been dreading since day one.

"Hey y/n I uh- I wanna talk to you about something." He says softly while you're reading together in your living room, Duke Ellington playing through the space.

"Everything alright Bucky?" You frown, closing the book to give him your full attention.

"Yeah- I just, I thought maybe it was time I told you about- you know, why I was in therapy. About my past." He says.

"You don't have to if you're not ready Bucky. You don't owe me that information you know." You tell him placing a reassuring hand over his.

"I know- I know I don't owe it to you but I, I want to tell you. I feel- I don't like hiding it from you."

"Alright- if you're sure, I'm all ears- and you don't have to tell me all of it tonight. Just, share whatever you feel comfortable." You tell him. His eyes scan your face momentarily and find nothing but sincerity in your eyes.

"Well- I'm, I'm the Winter Soldier." He starts.

"The Winter Soldier? Like the Hydra assassin?" You frown.

"Yes. That is- was me."

"How is that possible? The Winter Soldier was used by Hydra during World War Two he would be like a hundred years old."

"A hundred and seven." Bucky corrects you. You blink at him remembering his answer to that question from your first date.

"You weren't kidding. When you said you were a hundred and six you weren't kidding. You really are- but how?" You try to wrap your head around it.

"Hydra found me armless and bleeding out in the woods after falling off a train back in the forties during the war. They- saved me, I guess, gave me a metal arm, and- turned me into a weapon. Years of physical and mental torture that I can't even remember in full. When I wasn't on missions doing Hydra's dirty work they froze me in a cryogenic chamber. That's why I don't look a hundred and seven." He explains.

"Oh my God." You whisper.

"I've done- terrible horrible things. Things that haunt my dreams, things that if I told you- you'd probably never want to see me again. But I'm trying to make up for it. I joined the Avengers- actually the Avengers are how I got away from Hydra to begin with- my buddy Steve- Captain America- he found me. Took me to Wakanda and they helped me. Freed my mind from Hydra's hypnosis. But then all that shit with the blip happened and- well now I'm making amends on a smaller scale. I have a list- families of my victims- the ones I remember. I try to help them, offer closure if I can, aid if I can't. The guilt is probably always going to be there but it helps."

"Wait- sorry- your Steve is Captain America?" You blink at him.

"He was." Bucky shrugs.

"What happened to him?" You ask.

"I don't wanna talk about that right now if you don't mind." He shakes his head.

"Of course. Sorry, continue with your story my love." You tell him. He takes a deep breath as he goes back to the beginning. He tells you about his life before the war, tells you about his time as a soldier, tells you very little of his time enslaved by Hydra, tells you about hiding after, about recovery in Wakanda, he tells you about the flag smashers and how they interrupted his government mandated therapy sessions. He tells you his entire story start to finish with as few holes as he can manage without mentioning Steve any more than necessary. And you listen intently the entire time, eyes focused entirely on him, hanging on every word he says, offering silent support through soft touches. When he finishes he's not looking at you, he's mentally bracing for an unfavorable reaction.

"Woah. Yeah I can see how that would lead you to therapy." You nod.

"Yeah."

"But wait you stopped going to therapy a couple weeks after we went to lunch the first time." You frown.

"Yeah well, sitting in a room with someone getting paid to take notes on my trauma wasn't really working for me." He shrugs.

"Well that's understandable- everyone reacts differently to therapy- not every recovery process looks the same. You find what works for you." You nod.

"Working on it."

"Well what can I do to help? How can I support you?" You ask.

"You don't wanna run for the hills?" He asks.

"Why would I? I told you before I don't turn away from people I care about and you, well I love you. Nothing you've told me changes that." You tell him. He lets out a sigh and tips his head back in relief.

"You're too good for me." He says with a laugh. You climb into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

"No I'm not." You tell him hugging him closely. He loops his arms around your waist and holds you to him tightly- enjoying the peace that's settled over him having told you pretty much everything. He's content here, with you in his arms, soft Jazz music filling the silence as you indulge in each other.

~*~*~

"Bucky hurry up we're gonna be late!" You yell at him as you grab your purse.

"Relax doll, flight's not for another a few hours. We'll make it." He says coming down the hall with yours and his duffle bags.

"We still have to get there and check in you know. Also are you allowed to fly with that metal arm? Do you have to like run it through customs or something?" You ask as the two of you leave your apartment and make your way outside to hail a cab.

"First of all babe we're flying domestic. Second of all it's fine I just opt for the pat down instead of the metal detectors." He says chuckling as you wave down a taxi.

"I know we're flying domestic- what's that gotta do with your metal arm?" You ask as he places your bags in the backseat on one side while you slide in on the other.

"Baby there's no customs for domestic flights. That's an international thing." He says.

"Airport please." You tell the cab driver. "Well excuse me Pitbull I don't travel as often as you." You scoff.

"Why are you calling me a pitbull?!" He blinks at you.

"Not a pitbull- Pitbull the rapper. Nicknamed Mister Worldwide because like- oh never mind, it's a modern pop culture thing." You tell him.

"Hm, I'll add him to my list." Bucky says.

"I dunno if you'd like him. But okay." You laugh. The ride to the airport is short and you're soon tugging Bucky through the airport breezing through security checkpoints until you arrive at your gate.

"See darling? We made it with plenty of time to spare." He says as you both sit down and wait to board.

"Oh hush. I just wanna make it to Louisiana without any problems."

"We will." He laughs. The two of you are going to Louisiana to spend the holidays with Sam and his family. Bucky's been dying to introduce you but he wanted the timing to be right first. The two of you board the plane shortly after and you spend the plane ride reading a book while Bucky watches movies. When you arrive it's already night and the two of you make it quickly to your hotel room where you get ready for bed knowing tomorrow you'll have a full day of meeting people.

When you get to Sam's family home the following afternoon you're honestly feeling a little nervous.

"Relax doll they're gonna love you." Bucky tells you as he knocks at the door.

"I hope so." You mumble.

"I know so." He kisses your temple. A Black woman opens the door with a smile.

"Bucky! You're here! Welcome." She smiles hugging him.

"Hi Sarah, good to see you again. This is y/n, my girlfriend." Bucky says.

"It's nice to meet you! I'm Sarah, Sam's sister!" She greets you happily.

"Nice to meet you too, thank you for having us." You smile.

"Well come on in! Everyone's here, Sam's running around with the kids somewhere." She moves out of the way to usher you both inside. The two of you follow her inside and two boys run up to you yelling happily.

"Uncle Bucky!" The two boys yell.

"Hey! What's up boys!" He shouts as the two kids grab his legs and he ruffles their hair. You smile to yourself as you watch the interaction. "Y/n baby meet Jimmy and JC, they're Sarah's kids, Sam's nephews!" Bucky beams at you.

"Hi boys, it's so nice to meet you. Bucky talks about you a lot." You smile.

"Hi!" Jimmy smiles at you.

"Hi. Who are you?" JC tilts his head.

"She's my girlfriend. Her name is y/n." Bucky says.

"You have a girlfriend?!" Jimmy blinks. You laugh.

"He does! Shocking I know." You wink.

"Alright! Where's Uncle Sam?" Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Living room!" JC says.

"Thanks kid." Bucky says leading you further into the house.

"Aye! Tin man's here!" Sam cross the room to meet you and Bucky.

"What's up bird brain?" Bucky says as the two embrace.

"And you must be the marvelous y/n." Sam smiles at you.

"Hi Sam! It's nice to meet you." You chuckle.

"Oh the pleasure is truly all mine. Bucky talks about you all the time." Sam says.

"Shut up." Bucky scoffs.

"I hope he's been nice." You joke.

"He's so nice you could get cavities from how sweet he is on you." Sam tells you.

"Dude!" Bucky shoves him.

"Ah relax man I'm sure she already knows how fucking whipped you are." Sam shrugs.

"Language!" You point at him. Sam blinks at you.

"Wait-what? Did you just language check me?!" Sam's mouth drops open as he glances at Bucky.

"I sure did! There are kids here everywhere! Watch your mouth." You tell him.

"Man I ain't heard someone say language like that in years." Sam shakes his head.

"Anyway! I'm gonna go see if Sarah needs help in the kitchen. Y/n would you like to come with?" Bucky asks.

"Aw come on don't take her away from me yet. I only just met her." Sam protests.

"I'll join you in a little bit Buck. I'd like to talk to Sam some more first. Get to know your best friend." You tell your boyfriend with a soft smile.

"Alright, you know where to find me if you need anything." He says kissing your temple. Sam quirks an eyebrow at the shortened version of his nickname.

"Of course." You smile back at him as he walks off.

"So! Tell me all about yourself, and what it's like dating the machine with a staring problem." Sam says dragging you to the couch with him as you laugh. The two of you chat your way through the afternoon until it's time for dinner where you join the others and get to know the rest of Sam's family. The atmosphere is light and cheerful throughout dinner and once it's done most of the guests split off while you offer to help Sarah with clean up. And with you occupied doing that Sam and Bucky are left to their own devices.

"Looks like you and y/n get along well." Bucky muses.

"She's amazing Bucky. Funny and charming and obviously she cares about you a lot. You have a good thing with her." Sam says looking over at you in the kitchen as you laugh at something Sarah said.

"I know. I love her. I don't think I can live without her." Bucky says.

"I can tell. I've never seen you this happy." Sam says.

"I haven't been this happy since before the war actually." Bucky tells him.

"She calls you Buck." Sam points out.

"Yeah- sometimes." Bucky shrugs.

"You never let anyone but Steve call you that." Sam says.

"She's the exception." Bucky says.

"And the language checks?"

"What about them?"

"She's good for you Bucky. She makes you happy, makes you more human- but you know she's not Steve. Right?"

"Of course I fucking do." Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Look I'm only saying- just don't fuck up a good thing by expecting it to be something else. Don't expect her to be like Steve."

"Yeah. I'm not expecting that." Bucky grumbles. Sam drops the subject then and it's not until hours later, once you've both returned to your hotel for the night, that Bucky thinks about it again while you're sleeping. Bucky takes a seat at the hotel room desk with a pen and notepad in front of him.

I miss you. Sometimes I still can't believe you left the way you did. I have a girlfriend now. She's everything I could want in a partner and then some. Sam thinks I see her as a new version of you. Maybe I do. She doesn't look anything like you, but she does act like you. The same kind of music you liked haunts her bedroom. She makes me feel like me again. Sam thinks so too. But he's got me worried that I'm gonna fuck this up because of you.

Bucky puts the pen down when he notices you shift in bed.

"Bucky? Is everything alright?" You mumble tiredly when you realize he's not beside you anymore. Bucky climbs back into bed with you and kisses your forehead.

"I'm fine doll, just had to take care of something. Let's go back to sleep." He says. You curl into him and mutter a sleepy 'okay' before dozing off again.

The next morning you wake before Bucky, quite unusual but you don't think much of it as you run down to the lobby to grab some breakfast for you both. You grab yourself some cereal and some scrambled eggs and bacon for Bucky and take them back upstairs. When you get back to your room Bucky is still in bed but he's clearly awake now.

"Good morning Buck!" You smile.

"Mornin doll. Where'd you go?" He mutters.

"Just to the lobby, wanted to get breakfast before it ended. Got you eggs and bacon." You tell him. Bucky sits up with a groan as you hand him his plate in bed.

"Thanks doll." Bucky says as you sit at the desk with your bowl of cereal.

"Did you sleep well darling?" You ask putting on Chet Baker.

"Always do when you're next to me." He says.

"That's why Sam calls you whipped." You scoff.

"Maybe, but Sam is single and I'm not. So who's really winning?" Bucky winks. You laugh and shake your head but don't say much else as you eat your breakfast. Bucky finishes before you and goes to shower while you finish off your second bowl. Your eyes drift idly across the desk to the notepad with Bucky's handwriting scrawled on it. You frown slightly as your eyes flit across the page.

I miss you.

What is this?

Sometimes I still can't believe you left the way you did.

Who is he talking about?

I have a girlfriend now. She's everything I could want in a partner and then some.

You try to figure out who this could be addressed, but no one comes to mind. You thought Bucky told you about everyone important in his life.

Sam thinks I see her as a new version of you.

A new version of who?

Maybe I do.

You frown at the letter. Why would he see you as a new version of someone else?

She doesn't look anything like you, but she does act like you.

You act like them? You don't understand. Who is this letter to?

The same kind of music you liked haunts her bedroom.

You glance at your phone, still softly playing music.

She makes me feel like me again. Sam thinks so too.

That part makes you smile a bit. He feels like himself again. That makes you happy a bit.

But he's got me worried that I'm gonna fuck this up because of you.

Because of WHO?!? Your mind is racing as you try to figure out who this is for. What is he talking about? Why wouldn't he tell you about this? With all those questions you don't notice Bucky getting out of the shower.

"You done eating doll?" You snap out of your thoughts at the question.

"Sorry, what?" You blink at him. Bucky frowns at you.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

"I just- I found this note you wrote." You tell him holding out the notepad to him. He takes it from you. "Buck- who were you writing to?" You ask so quietly your voice is barely audible. Bucky blows out a breath.

"Y/n-"

"You said I was like them. And that Sam thinks you're trying to replace them with me. Who am I replacing?"

"No one! Y/n I promise it's not what you think."

"Who are you writing to Bucky?" You ask. On one hand, you feel guilty for prying, Bucky doesn't have to tell you everything about everything he does, but on the other this note- you can't let it remain unanswered. It'll eat you alive.

"Steve." Bucky says.

"What?" You frown.

"I'm writing Steve. I didn't address it to him because I can't send it to him. I just... had a lot on my mind- thought I'd feel better if I wrote about it." Bucky explains with a shrug.

"Steve- this is all about Steve?" You look at him.

"Something like that." Bucky says.

"Why can't you send it to him?" You ask. Bucky sighs and sits on the bed knowing it's time to explain.

"Steve went back to the 40s. I don't even know where he is anymore."

"Wait he did what? How is that even possible?" You frown turning the desk chair to face him.

"After the blip- the Avengers that were still around had to invent time travel to bring everyone back- went into the past to get the infinity stones and undo what Thanos did but to avoid ruining the timeline they had to take the stones back to where they got them from. Steve was on return duty and... he chose to stay in the 40s. With Peggy." Bucky says.

"Wow." You mumble.

"I was angry with him- for a while. How else was I supposed to feel when the one person that promised to always be there for me abandons me without so much as a goodbye?"

"Bucky." You say sadly.

"I'm not angry anymore- but sometimes- sometimes I wonder, Steve and I have been together since we were kids- despite our wildly different life paths we found each other again 70 years in the future. What are the odds really? I always thought it meant we were gonna be together through thick and thin- but... if a friendship that managed to survive one of the cruelest tests of time wasn't enough to keep us together- what would make anyone else stick around?" Bucky muses.

"Do I really remind you of him? You think I'll leave?" You ask him quietly.

"You don't look anything like him. Don't have any common background- but somehow you act- so much like him. Even Sam could see it. I mean- I know you don't have a dame in the 40s that you regret not getting to spend your life with but- what if you find something worth leaving for?"

"There's not a damn thing in this world that would make me leave you behind."

"Steve and I used to tell each other- 'I'm with you til the end of the line'- line didn't end yet. But Steve got off the train." Bucky shrugs.

"Bucky I'm not going anywhere."

"I wanna believe you- I just- I can't shake the feeling- Steve left, Steve who's known me for a century... left. What's stopping you?"

"Is that what the last part is about? You're worried you're going to fuck it up because you see Steve and me as similar and you think that since he left I will too?" You say walking over to him and sitting beside him. He glances at you for a moment before looking back at his hands, shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Yes- and when I think about the fact that you might leave like Steve-" Bucky trails off.

"I can tell you all day long that I'm not going anywhere because it's true. But I can't make you believe it. I'll just remind you until you realize it. I'll be here for you while you heal, after you heal, forever, James." You say.

"I love you." He says quietly.

"I love you too." You wrap your arms around him and place your head on his shoulder. Bucky knows it's not easy to be with him but he's trying to get better, and you've been nothing but supportive. You make him feel more human than he's felt in years, and that's something he wants to hold onto.

***

#marvel #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #marvel fanfiction #bucky #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff

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spiteful-in-a-million-ways · 3 years ago

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Y'all while I was searching for some ANB content I found this REALLY good analysis of the musical, this guy makes some really good points that I either wasn't able to form into words and some things I didn't even realize!

You can read the whole thing here, but here are a few of my favourite points he made :)

(NOTE: This analysis is about the original play, not the 2015 version so some things might not line up if you haven't listened to or watched the original musical)

"It’s interesting to note that the score takes off, pretty much from the start, at a manic pace, and it doesn’t really stop to breathe until Roger shows up to sing “Sailing,” the first relaxed song in the show after a succession of frantic, neurotic, relentlessly driving, dissonant numbers. The music tells us that Gordon’s life is crazy (presumably even when he’s not being rushed to the hospital) and only Roger can bring a calmness to that craziness. We see that influence throughout the entire show – Roger’s patience, his humor, his deep understanding love , and his calm."

"The joke of Roger naming his boat Cutty Hunk is obviously a gay man’s parody of the famous clipper ship Cutty Sark (and its namesake whiskey), and it carries with it all the hyper-masculine, gay-appropriated imagery of an all-male crew of sailors on long sea voyages. The famous Cutty Sark was so named because of the ship’s figurehead, a woman wearing a short chemise or nightshirt (called a cutty sark in Scottish). Also, Cuttyhunk is an island off of Massachusetts, where Roger likes to sail (notice the other place names in the song – Nantucket, Cape Cod, Newport). But the joke goes even further. Other definitions of cutty include irritable, short-tempered, and impatient (its literal meaning in Scottish is short), which makes it that much funnier that Gordon, Roger’s irritable (hunky?) lover, is aboard the Cutty Hunk and is complaining endlessly. "

"it’s both funny and disturbing how condescending the doctor and the nurse Nancy are to Gordon, how much they treat him like a child (or is that just his perception because he knows he’s acting like a child?). In one of the funnier fantasy moments, Nancy begins explaining his arterial venous malformation and segues into a weird children’s song about veins in brains bursting. Has Gordon melded together all the authority figures in his life into some collective Super Bungee, all singing to him in condescending children’s songs?"

"We have to ask, since Gordon lost his own father, is Bungee a (creepy, twisted) replacement? Gordon keeps looking for Bungee’s approval, but also constantly fighting with him, challenging him, rebelling against him, just like a real, adolescent son. Is this one more clue that Gordon has a lot of growing up to do (like Finn’s other famous character, Marvin, in the Falsettos trilogy)? It’s funny (and typical) that Gordon says he hates Bungee but is then distressed to hear from Rhoda that Bungee hates him too. And what does it mean when Bungee threatens to replace Gordon with his own son?"

"It’s interesting to notice how Gordon sees – or, more accurately, how he hears – each of the people in his life. In Gordon’s head, in his ears, the doctor, and Nancy the nurse get that driving, relentless, dissonant, staccato sound (as in “911 Emergency”) ... Gordon’s mother and Rhoda both get frantic, disjointed, dissonant music (“Throw It Out,” for example). Mr. Bungee gets music with playful but bizarre rhythms, unusual intervals in the melody line, and an almost circus-like sound, a kind of music that is somewhat child-like but also “wrong” in subtle ways. In contrast, Richard, the other nurse, and Lisa the homeless woman, get a warmer, funkier, jazz sound and Roger gets the mellowest sound of all, a full, rich, romantic sound that no one else in the show shares – until the end of the show, when Gordon finds his real musical voice."

#My post #This is such a good read I recommend looking into the whole article if you have the time #I could also just be stupid and have no critical thinking skills lmao idk #maybe most of this stuff is obvious to everyone else #anb #a new brain #Gordon Michael Schwinn #Mr. Bungee #Mimi Schwinn #Rhoda #Roger Delli-Bovi

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startreatment · 2 years ago

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i can't believe i haven't asked for your in depth thoughts on the car yet but i am asking it now! has the top 5 changed?

so i just checked and my top 5 was mirrorball, big ideas, hello you, sculptures and mr schwartz and tbh i don't think it did. i'm not sure about mr schwartz, i think it might be switched for the car or jet skis on the moat, but yeah. some thoughts on each track individually:

there'd better be a mirrorball: instant classic, come on now! gorgeous production, THE STRINGS!!, smooth vocals, so hazy, beautiful and atmospheric. i cried to it more times than i am willing to admit, it really is a tearjerker. i've seen some people say that lyrics are the weakest part of the album, which i obviously disagree with, but especially on this one. it's pretty simple, but still effective and touching. "i'd throw the rose tint back on the exploded view darling, if i were you" always gets me.

i ain't quite where i think i am: FUN!! the weakest one on the album, but i genuinely love it. WAAAAAAH!! i am a she looks like fun enjoyer as well, so i guess i just like having fun idk?

sculptures of anything goes: no words to adequately explain the sheer grip this one has on me. everything i wanted and more. so dark, ominous, rich and textured, we love her!! and the title's very cool, too. it is a career highlight idc what y'all say!! 5 years from now we're gonna treat it with the same respect and love we treat crying lightning, four out of five and other pretties. love. alex turner work on a portishead inspired album challenge

jet skis on the moat: didn't grab me on the first listen, but it's actually very cute! gives me western vibes, one of the songs that reminds me of TBHC the most, for some reason. love the way he delivers "or are you just happy to sit there and watch while the paint job dries?". "you know that it's alright if you're wanna cry" thank you alex, but i have been bawling since the first track so <3

body paint: still sad it didn't live up to my very high expectations that were set up by that damn kings theatre live "leak", but i appreciate it way more in context. the piano riff is insane tho, sometimes it just randomly plays in my head throughout the day. also, really enjoy the first lyric. "for a master of deception and subterfuge you've made yourself quite the bed to LIE in" ok we get it you're very funny. also. "and i'm keeping on my costume and calling it a writing tool"? yeah he's.......... mhm

the car: ruins me the same way ultracheese does, which means i sob uncontrollably until i feel like there's no air around me at all. childhood memories always get me so hard and the strings add a sense of melancholy i can't handle. very sick of them to put it in the middle of the fucking record! anyway, it kinda reminds me of faust arp by radiohead, which is a win, because in rainbows is very good. good track!

big ideas: have i ever said that we should artists grow? let them change and flourish and explore new things? hm, idk. lyrically it's a bit too on the nose, which is not what i was expecting at all, but it's a welcome change from cryptic TBHC lyrics. sometimes i just want him to say what he thinks, you know? and we're gonna stop analysing the lyrics now, because i don't wanna get upset.

hello you: the first make me hold my breath and stop me in my tracks no matter what i'm doing (kinda like nfwmb foof and diwk do so. do with that what you will). that piano riff (? can you call it that idk i know nothing about music) is CRAZYYYY. also plays in my head throughout the day, so catchy and fun. lego napoleon moveh. vortex to vortex. the buisness they call show. 'ello gruesome. HELLOOOO YOU. might be my favourite from the record if i'm being completely honest. sorry, i love a good instrumental, what can i say. i actually saw someone say it's pattern with no miles, which is pretty accurate!

mr. schwartz: my head hurts. again, not getting into the lyrics, but i HAVE to point out that "and if wе guess who i'm pretending to be, do we win a prize?" makes me wanna lay down for a sec. also FINGERPICKING!!

perfect sense: why is it so short. melancholic (what a surprise), but doesn't make me wanna die! it's the type of melancholy that you feel when you're watching the last episode of your favourite show. a nice farewell song that sounds sad but hopeful, a gorgeous closer. they Know how to write a good closing track for sure. love it!!

my overall review: makes me cry, but it's very good. would love to have a couple more tracks that sound like i ain't quite or hello you to dilute the ... whatever's going on in the middle that makes me sob, but i can also appreciate the fact that it's just 10 tracks. still, we want b-sides @ am. make it happen!!!!! a 9/10, already in my top 3 (which is tbhc > humbug > fwn = the car), taylor swift cant't relate

#i didn't proofread this at all so i HOPE i'm making sense #what about you?#val 💚#honey ask me i should know*

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the-insomniac-emporium · 4 years ago

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Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 8

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language? Warnings: None? I think? Please let me know if I missed something Notes: Bit of fluff with some anxiety/update on primary conflict. Next chapter will be a cute date with Dani, the one after that will be maximum h*rny, and then what will likely be the finale. Music for this chapter here. PS this one is a bit on the shorter side, but I hope y'all still enjoy it. Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy, Pt. 7: Harmony

Chapter 8: Obbligato

(Obbligato: An instrumental part which is essential in a piece of music)

“Okay, okay, serious this time, please? I’ll give you a kiss if you try hard enough,” you promised, grinning up at Daniela as you did. A week had passed since your talk in the library, with the two of you spending most days together, and you were progressing nicely with the musical lessons. Still, your girlfriend (you would never get tired of saying that word) was prone to getting a tad ‘distracted’. By you, usually. Not that it was intentional by any means. There was only so much you could do to keep her focused when the two of you were this close together.

“I could just kiss you anyway,” Daniela teased, leaning in with familiar intent. Right before your lips touch, however, she pulls back and smirks. “But if you insist, I can handle the challenge.” Then she’s turning back towards the piano, carefully finding the starting position. Even with her prior experience, you were impressed with how much she had already learned, and couldn’t help but be immensely proud of her. If anyone could meet Lady Dimitrescu’s expectations within a three month timeframe, it was the two of you. Except, of course, you still had to double-check just what her expectations were.

In the meantime, you were excited to hear your girlfriend play through the sheet music you had written up. Most of what you were working with had come from the family’s storage room, but you had also found some blank sheets, and figured it couldn’t hurt to create songs of your own. This particular one was relatively simple. It had been based on a song from a game you had played years ago, and only posed a moderate challenge due to its interesting rhythm. Daniela had seemed to enjoy playing it, with you even hearing her practice the song outside of your lessons, but had so far today refused to play it seriously.

Finally that was going to change. Once she found the starting notes, she nodded to herself, then started playing. For the first time today her expression is stern, focused. Seeing her like this was nice. She was always cute, you just thought that she was extra cute like this. But you tried not to let yourself get too distracted, knowing that you couldn’t give her feedback if you didn’t pay attention. In your head you “play along”, fingers miming the movements, knowing that it would help you catch any possible mistakes. Throughout the piece there are only a couple that you catch, none of them being severe enough to ruin the experience. Finishing with a little flourish, Daniela returns her gaze to you, grinning expectantly.

“Well? I seem to recall you promising me a reward,” she said, perking a brow. Laughing a little, you roll your eyes, before moving in to give her exactly what she wanted. Both of you are smiling into the kiss, enjoying every moment of it. Soon enough Daniela is running a hand through your hair, and pressing against you more, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss. You’re blushing hard now, thoughts going everywhere other than music. It’s not until you pull back for air that you remember what you’re supposed to be doing right now.

“As wonderful as this is… we still have a few more songs to go over,” you murmured, despite how much you wanted to keep kissing Daniela. By the way she groaned in frustration, you figured she felt the same way, more or less. “Hey, don’t fret too much. Think of this as an opportunity to earn a few more rewards,” you teased, gently patting her on the shoulder. For a moment she simply pouts, but eventually she sighs and gets ready to play another song…

------------------------------------

Rushing up the steps, practically two at a time, you desperately hoped that you wouldn’t be late. This was your third “update meeting” with Lady Dimitrescu, which by itself was enough to make you a nervous wreck. Add in the fact that this was the first time you’d be meeting alone? And in her personal study, no less? Well, it was safe to say that you were terrified. You hadn’t even been told why things were different this time. No, you were about as clueless as could be, given the circumstances.

By the time you make it your Lady’s study, you cannot tell whether your heart is racing due to stress or physical exertion. Regardless, you make it there in short time, arriving precisely at the scheduled hour. After taking a moment to settle your nerves, you briefly knock on the chamber door. There’s the sound of movement from inside before the way opens. Lady Dimitrescu has to bend a little to see out, but quickly smiles when she meets your gaze. Which was rather unexpected. The last time you had met with her she had been distanced, although still polite. Then again, Daniela had also been with you, and the focus was, as always, on her.

“Lady Dimitrescu,” you greeted, giving a short bow per customs. Then you were being waved in, brought over to a small sitting area, where you waited for permission to sit down. Once it was given, you relaxed a little. Maybe I don’t have as much reason to be nervous as I thought, you muse.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. There are no reasons for you to be unsettled, as far as I am aware,” Lady Dimitrescu said, smile disappearing for a moment at the end. But it’s back as quickly as it had vanished. Did she suspect something? Perhaps she had seen the way Daniela looked at you, or even overheard the whisperings of your roommates. Both thoughts do little other than renew your anxiety. Noticing this, Alcina frowns and shakes her head. “I was merely joking. Now, let us get to the reason for our meeting: How are Daniela’s lessons fairing? There is only so much I can glean from listening.” Glad to have something to think about other than your secret relationship with your boss’ daughter, you nodded and began explaining.

“Lady Daniela is making outstanding progress, in my opinion. Even with her occasional… lapses in attention, once she puts her mind to something, she’s quick to master it. At this point she can sight read nearly as fast and accurately as myself. However, we’re still going over vocabulary, as well as keys and their corresponding chords,” you answered, barely able to maintain eye contact with your employer. Thankfully, she seems to have accepted the inevitability of your nervousness. You were especially thankful now that you prepared to ask her a question. “My Lady, may I inquire about what specifically you expect from my teachings? If there are certain genres you wish for Daniela to be familiar with, or techniques-... I must admit I am unsure as to how to best meet your requirements.”

Slowly reclining in her chair, Alcina appears to ponder your question. In the meantime she sips at her beverage, holding the cup as if it were a fragile heirloom (which it could very well be), eyes looking into the middle distance. Then she gives a soft hum, setting her cup down and returning her attention to you.

“I suppose I can understand your concern. In some ways you have already exceeded my expectations,” she said, expression oddly plain in comparison to her positive phrasing. “My daughter has rarely invested herself in anything as much as she has in your lessons. For this, I am left wondering what she finds so captivating- the music, or the one who pulls the strings?... But that is not the answer to your inquiry, is it?” In that moment, you are incredibly still, willing yourself to keep a straight face, despite the racing of your heart. At your silence, Alcina perks a brow, expecting you to respond. You can’t, your mouth suddenly dry. “What I expect is a passion to educate, a drive to see my daughter flourish. I expect you to teach her exactly as much as she wants you to, focusing on whatever brings her the most joy. But I expect professionalism. Your duties come first, above your health, happiness, and all other desires. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my Lady. Of course, my Lady,” you replied, stuttering, eyes wide. Did she know? Or merely suspect?... There’s another thought, one you try desperately not to voice, only to hear the words fill the room before you can stop yourself. “May I ask where Lady Daniela’s desires fit into this?” Silence hangs heavy over the room for several seconds. Your employer has narrowed her eyes, lips curled downwards into a sharp scowl, watching you with thinly-veiled anger. All you can do is gulp and wait for her response. When it comes, you are surprised by the stability of her tone. It was almost as if she respected your gall.

“She is young still, with the mind of a lovesick maiden. Daniela does not know what she wants, not really, nor does she understand what she needs. If her… flirtatious nature begins to interrupt your instruction, then your response must be swift, and uninterested. Regardless of how unkindly she takes your rejection, I will ensure that she does not harm you,” Lady Dimitrescu said, giving a stern nod at the end. Though her tone was reassuring, you hardly felt better, considering you were far past the point of turning Daniela down (if anything, you had only turned her on). “Now, with that settled, I believe I should let you return to your duties. Oh, and do tell Cynthia that the tea she brewed was perfect, should you happen to see her.”

Then she looked away, practically ignoring your continued existence. So you rose to your feet, gave another bow, and left before your panic could devolve into a breakdown. Daniela is not going to be happy about this.

#daniela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #serenade #my brain got stuck on this for some reason #sorry it took so long #very excited for the date chapter tho!#gonna be hecking cute

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remakethestars · 4 years ago

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CABIN 7 — APOLLO

Headcanons.

❝There ought to be more drama, I think. A musical crescendo. Confetti.❞

— Jess Cooper, I Am Still Alive

Headcanon masterlist.

Oh, boy — this is my cabin, y'all; buckle up! 😁

Not all Apollo kids are good at everything their dad's good at, okay? I sure as heck can’t paint or play an instrument.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of violence?

They run an underground tattoo parlor.

That's where Will & Butch got their respective sun & rainbow tats.

Apollo kids with lyrics tattooed into their skin.

Rick says there isn't much by way of décor inside, which is f*in' B.S. Apollo's the god of art; those walls have been graffitied Tangled style.

🎶 i'll paint the walls some more — i'm sure there's room somewhere! 🎶

The east wall is covered in a landscape of a sunrise, & the west has a sunset (because the sun rises in the east & sets in the — yeah, I'll see myself out).

The north & south walls & the ceiling are white, though, because it really brightens/opens up the space (C7 has the 2ⁿᵈ most campers under C11 because Apollo's a slut; things can get a little crowded in the summer).

When there’re celebrations, the artistically inclined kids bust out the face paint. Especially for the younger campers.

The artistically inclined are the ones that paint the camp beads for the end of the summer. Despite the numbers, it doesn’t take them as long as one might think.

Rick said the ceiling had cedar beams, but we're not gonna do Cyparissius dirty like that. Cypress wood is good for building; the beams are cypress. You know what? F*ck you — the whole dang cabin's cypress!

There’s a massive, potted aloe vera plant by the steps that gets moved into the C4 greenhouse in the winter. It’s one of those old ones — because everyone knows the old aloe plants work better for burns & blisters than these sh¡tty new ones. (It’s constantly getting broken off to heal burns & stuff.)

Rick said there are potted red & purple hyacinths in the window & yellow flowers from Delos. That's true.

I'd say the flowerbeds around the cabin are full of healing plants, but I feel like they'd be better off around the infirmary for obvious reasons.

I do feel like there's a laurel tree planted outside C7, though, because Apollo's a pining b¡tch.

And there's an actual infirmary building, okay? Rick's kinda inconsistent about that. Sometimes he says "infirmary," sometimes he says the Big House is running over with injured, & apparently there's a cot dead center for injured in C7? B.S.

Or maybe I've just read too much fanfic, and the authors don't get it right?

Either way, there's an infirmary building with surgery & delivery rooms. One floor. Locker room for C7 kids to store their scrubs & sh¡t.

They go for yellow scrubs, though, because orange C.H.B. scrubs make them look like escaped convicts.

Fun Band-Aids™

They give out little orange stickers with laurels around the edges that are like I voted! stickers, but they're injury-specific.

I got my leg(s) reattached! & Percy Jackson shot me in the butt! & I ticked off Clarisse! & I made out with an Aphrodite kid in the poison ivy! & I fell off the lava wall! & I got pranked by the Stolls!

After a war or just when there’re a lot of campers in the infirmary, there seems to be a constant flow of Apollo kids singing one hymn to their father in unison to heal someone.

Sometimes, an unconscious camper wakes in a cot & thinks they’ve died & gone to the wrong afterlife for a moment because their singing sounds like angels.

The medically inclined wash their hands like surgeons.

Kind of germophobic?

They also go around tying surgeons knots in everything.

In the summer, they’re walking Banana Boat sunscreen & after-sun aloe lotion dispensers.

The medically inclined also have the world’s sh¡ttiest handwriting.

They have to work hard to fix it if it bothers them.

Can check your vitals & run a blood test just by touching you.

A lot of them casually touch their loved ones (at least, the ones that aren’t in C7) every morning to check their vitals & see how their health’s doing.

They do it subconsciously every time they touch someone & don’t notice it until they pick up something’s wrong.

They can do this for themselves as well. Though it may not be as accurate? And they take daily vitamins depending on what they need.

Organize their lives via pill box (never lose an earring).

Fight surgically. Every blade in their hands becomes a scalpel, & every time they’re going in for a kill against an armed anthropomorphic monster, they slice the tendons in its arm required to grip its weapon to disable it before going in for the kill.

Back to C7, it’s got a little porch with a porch swing. The kids sit on it sometimes & teach people how to play instruments.

They leave the porch light on at night when they’re waiting for one of their siblings to come home from a quest.

Jumping into the depressing sh¡t, they never found Michael’s body, so they only presumed him dead. They leave the porch light on every night now, hoping he’ll come home.

Apollo kids are afraid of the dark. They use the buddy system after the sun goes down.

The cabin’s central light fixture is a papier-mâché sun that’s been charmed to glow when someone sings 🎶 clap on 🎶 & stop glowing when someone sings 🎶 clap off. 🎶

The curtains are a gold fabric. They’re only closed at night. Because, again, C7 kids are afraid of the dark.

The Wikipedia says Apollo kids are cursed to be afraid of snakes (I assume by the Python Apollo killed). I feel like they’d burn a lot of aster leaves then. I read somewhere it was said by the Greeks to ward off evil spirits & snakes.

They play Go Fish with their tarot cards. They’re really good at tarot games.

Hand-drawn tarot decks featuring figures form Greek myth.

There’s a target on the back wall they practice throwing cards at. They can throw them in combat for a distraction with terrifying accuracy.

There’s a Magic 8 ball that’s passed around on the Winter Solstice (the longest night of the year), when — as a headcanon I’m sure I’ve read somewhere has indicated — they’re up all night.

Crystal balls are allowed. However, they must be covered with a cloth or placed in a box when not in use because they’re double-convex lenses, & we don’t want another incident like the fire of 1993.

Sometimes, they make little predictions throughout the day other campers may find disturbing. Such as whipping around and catching a stray arrow without warning (spidey sense?). Or cutting you off when you’re talking about someone moments before they walk into the room.

There’s a tea cart in the corner. Because tea is good for healing & they’ve accumulated an addiction.

The cart has a radio on it that’s always on at night because a lot of C7 kids can’t sleep without noise. (Inspired by @sugarandspiceandkindanice.)

Most of the time, it’s on a nearby country station that actually plays good country at night. But sometimes they switch channels — especially when there’s a new kid settling in & they could use the comfort.

There’s a portable record player there too. The shelves under the cart are full of C.D.s & records.

I’m sure I’ve read a headcanon somewhere that they sing every morning while getting ready for the day. That’s true.

The number of times it’s been “When Will My Life Begin” from Tangled is disturbing, though.

🎶 seven a.m., the usual morning lineup! 🎶

Luke said in The Lightning Thief C11 is up at 07:00 & breakfast is at 08:00, I think, but we all know Apollo’s waking his kids up when the sun rises.

A lot of the time, someone will just start out with whatever song they have stuck in their head & everyone else will pick it up.

Sometimes, this leads to members having the aforementioned song stuck in their head for the rest of the day.

Even the people who aren’t musically inclined will sing along, as they’re usually drowned out by the music kids that get really into it.

So sometimes those not-music kids will find themselves singing by themselves during the day years later & are surprised to find — they actually sound good?? Or at least not bad??? And it’s because singing is a learned skill & they picked it up.

I’m sure I’ve also read a headcanon somewhere that they sing “Look Down” from Les Mis when they have to do menial chores, but I'm adding “It’s a Hard-Knock Life” from Annie, “Whistle While You Work” from Snow White, “Happy Working Song” from Enchanted, & the Smurf song.

They break into song all the time.

Lee was glaring at Tantalus once & made the mistake of saying, “Sometimes, I wish —” and the entire cabin broke out with “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

🎶 — i'd never been born at all! carry on, carry on… 🎶

As mentioned in at least The Lightning Thief & The Lost Hero, they spend a lot of time playing basketball. You can bet your butt they do a rendition of “Getcha Head in the Game” from High School Musical every time there’s a new camper passing by.

They have a sister named Jubilee, and every time someone greets her — "Hey, Jube!" — the entire cabin breaks into “Hey, Jude” by The Beetles.

🎶 hey, Jube! don't make it bad. take a sad song & make it better… 🎶

Sometimes, if there are two campers that really need to get together, C10′ll commission C7 to sing “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid (or the same song with different pronouns, obviously).

It’s usually a capella unless someone happens to have an instrument on them.

Rickrolling.

The “Macarena.”

Apollo takes clandestine recordings of their jam sessions & distributes them professionally. Whatever money’s made goes directly into their college funds or they periodically find it under their pillow tooth-fairy-style.

There’s a lot of denim because the artistic members like to paint on the backs of jackets & the pockets of jeans.

A lot of them have excellent aim with most projectiles, so they toss stuff to each other a lot. This results in them being oddly in sync, so they can catch something from another sibling without warning & without looking like Sam & Dean Winchester do in Supernatural.

Their life looks like a Dude Perfect trick shot video.

It also results in some funny looks when they hurl things halfway across camp to each other. Namely, the whistling Nerf football.

C7 is two stories. The second story has paint on every wall.

The east wall upstairs has arrows mounted that got Robin Hooded along with a little tag with the name of the C7 kid & the date it happened.

They also have arrows mounted from the first bullseye if there’s a member being taught.

Lots of musical instruments & art supplies up there.

There’s an old T.V. up there. They have all of Bob Ross’s show on V.H.S.

C7′s south wall (ground floor) holds the door to the bathroom on one side & a door leading to the stairs.

It also hosts framed photos of Charlotte, Lee, & Michael.

Instead of saying “shoot,” they say “loose.” For everything. Instead of saying “Shoot!” when they drop something, they say “Loose!”

It's kinda one of those things — like your friend starts saying something & you just integrate it into your vocabulary subconsciously.

They like to play a game where you shoot an arrow straight up & try to catch it as it comes back down.

That sounds really stupid on their part, but it actually comes in handy when someone tries to shoot them in combat & they catch the arrow, dumbfounding whoever's attempted to skewer them.

The cresting on their arrows is in Morse code of their nickname (·—— ·· ·—·· ·—··). They can take one look at an arrow & tell what’s whose.

And the paint color of the cresting tells them what kind of arrow it is — bullet tip, broadhead, explosive, etc.

Every bunk in C7 is made with hospital corners. No exceptions. The kids who aren’t medically inclined learn because all the beds being made the same way makes it look cleaner for inspection.

I can’t decide if Apollo kids have really good eyesight so they fit the Hawkeye bill or if they’ve all just read — Apollo’s the god of knowledge — & painted so much they’ve messed up their eyes.

The number of times one of them has used bowstring wax on an art project in a rush instead of glue is hilariously large.

I use String Snot, and it comes in a container that looks like a glue stick.

A lot of them wear bracers all the time.

When the time it takes to sling one’s quiver onto one’s back, grab one’s bow, knock an arrow, & draw is so long, one really doesn’t have time to also strap on their bracers before rushing out of the cabin to threaten a giant bronze dragon.

Not to mention if they use a recurve, they’ll also have to string their bow.

And a number of them do use recurves due to the abilities to both knock multiple arrows at once & to restring in the field.

Bows with risers coated in golden, reflective paint & limbs painted with artistic strokes.

Trick arrows are their jam. C9 is constantly being asked for new arrows.

Explosive arrows, sonic arrows, grappling hook arrows…

That’s another saying they’ve all taken to: “___ is my jam!”

There’s a bookshelf or reference material on Apollo for new C7 kids (as Rick’s indicated), but the rest of the case is full of medical journals & textbooks & books on art & poetry & divining the future.

A lot — if not all — of them have either gold flecks in their eyes or central heterochromia.

Freckles across their noses & shoulders & on the tips of their ears. Tans. Sun-bleached hair.

Long, nimble fingers perfect for playing musical instruments.

Either they hate the winter because the sun's out for less time (so you’ll find them walking around with blanched skin & faded freckles & with both a hoody & a parka on), or they’re perfectly fine with winter & are used by everyone around them as walking space heaters.

They spend a lot of time with Castor & Pollux.

Rachel sits at T7. She’s practically an Apollo kid at this point.

While her cave was being renovated, she stayed in C7.

Their dad’s the god of truth; none of these M.F.s can lie worth a sh¡t.

But, by the gods, they can tell when you’re lying.

And they take it as a personal insult. That you (A) would dare do something as immoral as lying in the first place & that you (B) would dare to insult their intelligence in such a way because you thought they couldn’t tell.

C6 & C7 are both known for reacting outrageously when their intelligence is insulted (see: chapter 10 of The Battle of the Labyrinth).

The more civil of the reactions of a C7 kid being lied to is cursing the liar to tell the truth, which I believe they can.

They can curse you to speak in rhyming couplets; they should be able to curse you to tell the truth.

You mean to tell me none of these kids have created a functioning Lasso of Truth yet?

This one's really long. 😅

A lot of people fancast Sam Claflin as Apollo, but I'm going with Ross Lynch. 'Cause I do what I want. 😎

Visit my Apollo cabin Pinterest board or my headcanon masterlist.

DISCLAIMER ━━━ These headcanons are what I consider to be canon in my fanfictions. They may be others’s headcanons I’ve subconsciously filed away in my noggin. If one’s yours and you want it removed or credited, please send me your post and let me know.

#Apollo #Apollo kids #children of Apollo #Apollo cabin #headcanons #headcannons #Percy Jackson #PJO #HOO #TOA #remakethestars #art #archery #painting #healing #doctors #sun #hcs #TW: mentions of violence

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organic-guacamole · 4 years ago

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episode 210 here we go

awww seb doing the intro

congratulations to milky white and her baby chocolate milk😌

seb is so funny

but seriously, clean up that milk fast or else it will smell so bad in there....

was that Lauryn just randomly doing cartwheels? idk any theatre kids irl but that seems like it's a common thing...

is it just me or has ms Jenn been getting more harsh to Ricky and Seb mainly-

like what did they do to her

no because I actually snorted with laughter at the "you came back" WHAT IS THAT VOICE-

AND THE MASK OMG

yeah so my throat hurts now

I'm dying over here

KOURTNEY'S FACE

SAME GIRL SAME

Ricky's fake death got the whole place in tears /s

he looks like an asthmatic walrus

Seb's on piano, I love

we all know if he was the beast we'd all actually be crying✋

ok but I listen to Julia's version of home on Spotify when I want to cry-

right so gimme a second

is Ricky scratching his face.....while he's dying?

"belle i-" *flop*

round of applause to Ashlyn for trying to make Ricky's earthworm seizure look less.... yknow

Kourtney's just dying there

WAIT IS THAT NATALIE

did she really just disappear for 9 episodes just to come back and stare dramatically into the camera

WAIT SCRATCH THAT SHES HERE TO MURDER ASHLYN AND RICKY

oh so Ricky's wearing a gay shirt now too

so that's the real reason why Rini broke up, see y'all next season when Gini and caswen become canon /j

wait that was a long intro scene-

what was that look Carlos-

TALK TO MY BOY OR ELSE

carlos' run is so funny to me

therapist Ashlyn to the rescue

"that is...super" son you good?

ms Jenn call Benjamin, he would willingly put his loved ones on a rocket and blast them into Venus for you....

maybe

"I don't want you kids to be disappointed" girl you do realise you're the one that's most invested in this?

"a smooth opening night" wasn't there just 1 show though-

like their opening night was closing night too

"I think I was Troy at one point" PLEASE THATS THE MOST ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF THE SEASON 1 FINALE

me Jenn looks like a serial killer during that clap and I'm lowkey scared for zacky

"I have notes"

oo if you're taking suggestions, lemme get my list

"mother is freaking out" uhhhhhh

right....'mother"

"is everyone sitting down?"

*looks around awkwardly*

*big red slowly sits*

"no..."

please seb was the only one sitting-

does that mean Carlos looked at Seb as soon as he walked in and assumed that everyone else was sitting too or am I a seblos clown🤡

"is this about the transformation"

WOW MAYBE OT IS RICKY

WOW HES A DETECTIVE FOR FIGURING THAT OUT SO QUICK🤩

YO WHY IS NATALIE HERE-

she just shows up when it's convenient? is she gonna be at the sleepover too?

Seb's heavy swallow after Carlos shouts at him makes me so sad

"I never learned how to lie but I figure if I keep my mouth closed, I can't tell the truth" *nods and smiles at Nini when she asks*

why are they casually standing up all over the pizza shop, just sit at a big table and talk instead of blocking passageways and blocking off at least 6 tables-

"how about I invite myself" WHY DO PEOPLE ALWAYS FEEL THE NEED TO INVITE THEMSELVES TO ASHLYN'S HOUSE-

YOU CAN ASK BUT JUST FORCE YOUR WAY IN?

so Cash Caswell has a bigger house than... Dennis Caswell.... who would've thought

ah yes there's the good old EJ 1.0

Nini: "boys vs girls"

Gina: *looks devastated and glances longingly at EJ*

way to be inconspicuous

"but north high should be" *cracks her knuckles in the most uncomfortable way*

good for Ashlyn for getting more confident though

oo bossy big red

"i get bossy around the power tools"

is that why Ashlyn was holding up the drill in episode 8 orrrr 🤠

Lily, leave him alone please

she's literally not blinking, is that what makes her creepy?

the diss at big red and his face afterwards is priceless

isn't that similar to what Gina's mom said to her in season 1? hmmmm

but seriously please don't try to redeem lily, let us have a character to hate, or to love because they're evil.

not everyone's a good guy.

"im not liked here and I don't know what to do"

let antoine finish his salad and it'll fix everything

"hug emoji" *gags*

y'all realize Lily's literally 14?

why is she calling a 16/17 year old from another school for personal advice-

"he gets weird around tools"

I shouldn't be laughing so hard

"deja vu maybe?" awkward silence

I'm dying here I love EJ so so so so much

"where's seb"

*cuts to seb being held hostage hoping that they'd notice he's missing and go look for him*

"don't ask"

"oh ok"

"100% real faux fur" as you should queen