#gone fan fic

[journen]

Simon encounters a creature

[sashaisready]

Since You've Been Gone: Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Series Masterlist

After a regrettable first meeting in the cemetery, you discover that you have something in common with a certain member of the Avengers. Unfortunately, you can't choose your neighbours, even in death.

(Setting is approx. post TFATWS)

Hi, I'm back! I have no idea where this came from, or where it's going! So apologies as updates may not be consistent while I figure it out. Warnings for death of parents, grief, mentions of cemetery/graves - please tread carefully if these are triggers for you.

🍂

It was a chilly Autumn day, but not unbearable. Your coat could more than handle the frigid breeze. You squinted at the headstone as you crouched on your knees, angling your head to make sure you hadn’t left any streaks or marks from the polish. Satisfied with your performance, you trimmed a few of the roses that were leaning against it before standing and taking a step back to admire your handiwork.

Immaculate as always, so neat you could almost be fooled into thinking you weren’t even outside. You could hear your parents’ voices in your head now, joking about being able to keep their graves far cleaner that you ever managed your bedroom to be, their frequent nags falling on deaf adolescent ears.

You smiled sadly as you looked at the intricately engraved text below their names on the shared stone:

Beloved parents taken too soon,

Waiting in heaven to be reunited with their only daughter

You’d never really like that phrasing; it was a little too whimsical for your tastes – especially all these years later. But a recently orphaned teenager wasn’t exactly an expert in choosing the best headstone wording. You’d been more than happy to let your aunt and the funeral home lead the way, too paralysed by grief to make even the smallest decisions in the hellscape that was death admin.

Still, you’d never want to upset your aunt by getting it changed, there’s a lot of strange emotion tied up in grief even when time has passed, and that mourning teen has become an adult. And it wasn’t like new headstones were cheap anyway…

As you packed up your cleaning kit your attention was drawn to the two graves next to your parents’ - George and Winnifred Barnes. They had both passed several decades earlier, long before your parents were buried next to them. They had died only a few months apart according to the text…maybe they’d couldn’t survive without each other.

It was easy to infer that they no longer had anyone left earthside. The graves had been long untouched, unkempt, and overgrown, the inscriptions getting harder to read – and you’d never seen any evidence of a visitor in all your time coming here. Except of course when the cemetery staff did one of their occasional mass clean-ups of the neglected graves.

About a year ago, you’d started tending to them alongside your parents. You weren’t sure why, it just seemed like the right thing to do. They were neighbours after all. And you’d want someone to do the same for your mum and dad if you weren’t around.

You’d cleaned their stones, wiped away the grime and given them a decent polish. You’d trimmed back the weeds and laid fresh flowers. The first time took a while, but after you’d got them to a reasonable standard it was all pretty easy to maintain.

You’d often wondered who they were. What they were like. The dates suggested they’d died of old age, a luxury your parents didn’t have. Were they kind? Funny? What hobbies did they have? They were around during the war, that must’ve been tough. You knew from the inscriptions that they had children who would’ve been over hundred by now. Maybe no grandchildren which is why nobody came by to see them anymore. It made you feel sad, how we could all be just a few generations away from being forgotten entirely. At least you could try to remember them.

You gave their graves a quick once over, took away the dead flowers and added some fresh roses in their place.

“Well, I’m done,” you said aloud, “see you soon, mum and dad. And you too, George and Winnifred. Sleep well”.

You sighed, walking back to your car and back to your life. You knew all too well that the dead may be still, but the world continues around them.

🍂

A week later you were back at the cemetery with your cleaning kit slung over your back, your arms full of fresh flowers.

“Afternoon, mum and dad,” you said as you placed your kit and flowers down and pulled out the foam pad that you used to kneel on, “and you, George and Winnifred”.

“Work has been kicking my ass this week,” you sighed as you got to work on your parents’ stone. “There’s only so much I can take of Brock’s moaning about the numbers…it’s getting harder not to smash my keyboard over his head – yeah I know, violence isn’t the answer, blah-blah-blah…”

You worked diligently, chatting away as you went through your maintenance tasks. It was nice, talking to them like this. You could say anything, really. No judgements, no admonishment, just silent acceptance of everything you told them. It was a bit like therapy for you. You often imagined your parents were sitting behind you as you spoke, just out of sight.

You liked to use old newspaper to buff up the marble. As you gathered your things together, you glanced at some of the headlines from the copy you’d brought with you. Lots of dreary grimness unfortunately. There was also a longread feature on the Avengers and where they were now, their photographs lined up across the top of the page. It was sad that a few of them were dead now, or at least no longer here. You felt a pang of sadness for their loved ones – you knew what that was like.

You didn’t know all the details of The Avengers and their associates, but like everyone else you knew the basics. It was a strange time, just a decade or so ago nobody had ever thought superheroes really existed…but then all of these ‘enhanced’ people started crawling out of the woodwork, revealing weapons and technology that previously had only existed in sci-fi movies. It was hard to believe, really.

You scanned the newspaper page, looking at the pictures for a few moments. You took your time studying their faces before sighing and placing it back down.

“All done…now let’s help out George and Winnie over here, looks like you guys need some new flowers…and all that heavy rain we’ve been having has really done a number on your stones…let me just-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the gruff voice behind you demanded, causing you such a shock that you nearly joined your parents.

You spun your body away from the graves, horrified to see a man looming over you as you stared at him open-mouthed in surprise. You hadn’t heard him approach, not quite understanding how you hadn’t noticed him coming at all…

“I said what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated to you, his blue eyes alight with anger.

He was big. Bigger than you. Even under his coat you could see his broad shoulders. A mop of dark hair framed his face, most likely quite an attractive face when it wasn’t pulled into a furious sneer like it was now. He wore black gloves as he pointed at you accusingly. The fact that you were kneeling on the ground while he stood towering at his full height had not gone unnoticed by you.

There was something strangely familiar about him, but you couldn’t place it. Did he shop at the same market as you? You couldn’t quite…

“I’m…I’m just-” you spluttered as you fumbled for the words, still caught in your surprise and the fact that this normally serene time had been interrupted by a stranger yelling at you…

“Get away from there!” he snarled.

You quickly realised he was talking about the Barnes’ graves. You bounced backwards, landing painfully on your ass in your desperation to do what he said. He had a chilling air of authority that you didn’t want to screw with. You weren’t trying to piss off an angry man while you were out here all alone…

“I was just tidying them up,” you managed weakly as you sat up and clutched at the flowers.

“Nobody asked you to,” he scoffed in response as he leaned over and ran a gloved finger over Winnifred’s inscription, “you shouldn’t be clambering all over graves of people you don’t know”.

You frowned as the initial shock of the encounter wore off, now annoyed now at his abrupt rudeness towards you when you only had good intentions.

“Oh, and you know them, do you?” you snapped back sharply as your felt your emotions surge and your eyes water, your cheeks hot with mortification, “well, nobody has been to visit those graves in years so-”

“Yeah, actually I do know them - I’m their son,” he spat furiously.

Your head bounced back in surprise and confusion. You curled your lip and frowned at his strange claim, he appeared to be his mid-to-late 30s at most – many years away from the very elderly man he’d need to be for that to be true.

What was his goal here, exactly?

Was this guy just looking to start an argument and decided you’d be his target? Spouting off nonsense about random graves just to mess with you?

And where did you know him from?

Despite your survival instincts, you couldn’t help but fight back. You didn’t appreciate being messed with at the best of times, let alone when you were only here to visit your deceased loved ones. Who came to a graveyard to fuck with people? And yell at them?!

“Huh? Son?” you scoffed with derision and jabbed a finger towards the inscriptions about their children, “well, that can’t be true as that would mean their kids would have to be over a hundred…and how many one-hundred-year-olds look like you…?”

“I’m 107 years old, actually,” he said venomously. He sounded utterly sincere despite the ludicrousness of his claim. His face was sullen, his eyes piercing.

You ignored the shudder that threatened to roll through you in response. It was a strangely familiar expression on his face.

Where had you seen that look?

“Oh, yeah! You’re 107…Sure!” you laughed sarcastically. “You just have the greatest plastic surgeon of all time, in fact there’s a bunch of centenarians wandering around looking thirt-”

You trailed off as a wave of recognition suddenly hit you and the penny dropped. Oh. Oh.

He wasn’t from the market…

It was him.

Your eyes panned down to the crumpled newspaper lying next to you. The same man’s face scrutinised you from the page, an exact mirror image of the brooding 3D version in front of you. A little older now, but still unmistakably the same man.

Oh!

Now you remembered that same picture on the news. Read about the terrible things he’d done before when he was under hypnosis. For the Nazis? The Soviets? Both? Flashes of recollection hit you at once, disjointed and scattered.

It wasn’t really him doing all of it, it was a mind control thing, they’d said. He was like the Captain…the first one from the 40s. Kept young…somehow. He had a robot arm. Then there was the big government pardon after he’d helped to save the world. The deep dive the New York Times had done on his assassin past. What had they said he was called? Iceman? Winter? Winter hitman?

The Winter Soldier.

Barton? Baines? No, Barnes.

Barnes.

As in…son of Winnifred and George?

Ah.

He must’ve seen your train of thought written all over your face as he nodded solemnly at you.

“Yeah. It’s me. And I only found their resting place a few weeks ago,” he said with disdain.

You got to your feet, taking a few cautious steps backwards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You didn’t need to be a jerk - I’ve just been coming here for years, and I’d never seen…”

You trailed off, he didn’t care. His focus was on the graves, one gloved hand gripping the top of his father’s stone as he peered down at the grass below.

You turned to leave, giving him his privacy, “I’m sorry for your loss,” you mumbled quietly as you picked up your kit.

You started to head back to your car, then turned to face him again after a couple of steps. You warily moved back towards him and leaned over, placing a single flower between the feet of his parents’ graves. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pick it up and throw it back in your face, either.

As you walked away, you thought you felt the weight of his gaze on your back.

🍂

Another week passed and you were back at the cemetery once more, working the usual routine and doing your best to forget what had happened the last time you were here. Upsetting a war veteran slash Avengers superhero by accusing him of not being his parents’ child was impressively incompetent, even by your standards. But in your defence, he did just start yelling at you out of nowhere. And you were only trying to help. And he was a literal defiance of nature, time, and aging…

But then again, people weren’t always their best selves in a cemetery. It wasn’t exactly Happy Hour over here. And you’d probably freak out too if you caught a stranger tinkering around with the resting place of your parents. The parents who died of old age while you were cryogenically frozen and a prisoner in your own body…

You’d done a little more reading up on him, James Buchanan Barnes. ‘Bucky’. The man behind the scary winter soldier mask. The older images of him in his combat gear were chilling, as were the alleged stats of his kills, but mainly you just felt immense empathy for a man out of time. A man who had lost his youth, a limb, his autonomy, and everybody he once knew from his old life.

You tried to put it out of your mind, catching your parents up on what they’d missed and pretty-ing things up a little around their plot. You didn’t touch the Barnes’ this time, just gave them a little wave and concentrated on your own flesh and blood.

You were a million miles away, lost in the quiet fog that often seemed to overtake you when you were working in the cemetery. It was peaceful, really. This was the one place you could switch your brain off and quiet the chatter of your head, just concentrate on the tasks you knew so well by now that your hands did them on muscle memory alone.

You were just adjusting the newest flowers when a voice interrupted you.

“Hey,” it said.

It startled you as you were still in your own world and hadn’t heard anyone else approach. You whirled around slightly panicked as a pair of eyes the colour of sapphires met yours.

It was him again.

“Oh, hello,” you replied quietly.

He stared over at you, wrapped up in his coat as he was last time. His stare was still intense despite appearing much calmer than when you first met him. He wore black pants and boots, his hands tucked away into his pockets, a dark backpack slung over his shoulder. His face was more relaxed than it was during your first encounter. His blue eyes were just as arresting, but the absence of anger made them sparkle rather than burn. He had a soft dusting of stubble across his taut jawline, his dark hair was pulled back behind his head as he absent-mindedly ran a hand over it. He was…

…hot?

Fuck.

He nodded at you in acknowledgement and moved to George and Winnifred’s plot, kneeling in front of their stones. He pulled a candle out from his backpack and lit it with a lighter, placing it between where his parents lay.

You turned away sharply, not wanting to look like you were intruding during what was clearly a private moment of mourning. You focused on your own parents’ graves, clipping back the flowers as quietly as possible.

The two of you continued doing your own thing, the awkwardness thick in the air. You remembered how furious he’d been with you last time. You considered saying something, trying to explain that you were only trying to maintain the graves, but you didn’t want to provide any more ammunition for potential anger. Instead, you continued your routine in silence, keeping your eyes down.

After you finished you packed up your stuff and cleared your throat, ‘uh, bye,” you said quietly to him as you hurried down the path and back towards your car. He didn’t respond, but looked up at you as you passed, studying you intently.

[averycutesalamander]

so after boots, what other hsr characters do you like?

hm. well. hmmmm. ahhh.. uhhhhhhhhhhh

[faceeeeee]

I have a few questions about your version of flumbo

1.) would it ever be possible to gain his trust as a human (please my heart hurts/hj)

2.) would cups balance on his horn nubs

3.) I’m not sure if you’ve clarified or not but what is his relationship with Syringeon? Do they hate each other or is it just annoyance or something else entirely

4.) can I marry him/j

1) Technically speaking, you COULD gain his trust but you'd need to be veeeryyy persistent on getting him on your side. That man is stubborn af and will not let the notion "that all humans are the same" go. You'd have to keep following him around and try to become someone he can lean on (aka try and make him know that you understand his problems and what not. Help him get around the facility and promise him a way out of the place). You'd have to prove this a bunch of times till u can get it through his thick skull and just then, when the realization hits him that you're not ,in fact, just another human wanting to hurt him and take advantage of him, he'd be absolutely confused. It'll take time of course but if you're determined you can get him to be your companion.

2) yes. Tho he wouldn't be pleased by it

3) Their relationship is kinda weird and not healthy, like at all. Syringeon has a massive god complex and add the fact that he helped create flumbo, it makes for a pretty unbalanced power hierarchy or whatever u can call it. Flumbo usually tries to mask his problems by acting like a smug mf and so the two clash. I plan to make a lil sketch where syringeon gets fed up with flumbo and threatens him by saying smt like

"Watch your tone with me, boy. Remember that as easily as I created you, I can break you apart and put you back together as I see fit".

Another thing to put on the flumbo trauma list. And the worst part is that flumbo thinks that getting on his side is the only way to get what he wants (basically just escape tho he's not exactly sure). And so, syringeon practically uses him as a pawn to use to achieve his goals and flumbo is stuck with him (and maybe brushista as well but I've not developed more of that side of things).

So in summary it's a little bit of both. Flumbo somewhat resents syringeon for the threats Yadda Yadda and syringeon is somewhat annoyed by his presence tho not as much as he is annoyed by... let's say the player or bittergiggle. Same goes to how he sees uthman (he deems them both as a necessary annoyance)

4) Yes

[mythmerth]

all I’m saying is that rewriting merlin in a fic with a nativity style start wouldn’t even be that crazy. like uther as herod. hunith and baby emrys flee out of Camelot to ealdor. a prophecy of reform. an all powerful baby. druids as the ‘wise men’ bringing gifts. Magic. immortality. like you can’t even lie and say that wouldn’t work it would work dare I say too well

[xakemi13x]

COSMO🍓🍞🍰✨!!

Character from Roblox Game:

'Dandy's World'

Human version fan design I made ♡

I have so many doodles on random notebooks.

Should I upload??

[tommygotwrittenoff]

okay ik that man is gone (yayyy) and theres no reason to ever talk about him again but i just gotta say i love when fic writers are like this is not t bashing he's just like that for some reason

[mysicklove]

i need to slowly jerk isagi off while kissing his neck, just to see his eyes roll slightly back and his hips slowly buck forward into your hand. need to hear the breathless, "faster...please?" that makes you giggle and slow your pace even more. but the poor thing doesn't complain, instead just whimpers when you press your lip to his

[medium-sized-carlos]

Desperate Measures (3148 words) by sparkinthedark

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Formula 1 RPF

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Carlos Sainz Jr/James Vowles

Characters: Carlos Sainz Jr, James Vowles

Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Omega Carlos Sainz Jr, Mating Cycles/In Heat

Summary: Omega Carlos goes into an unscheduled heat during a race weekend and has no one to help him. Who better to step up then the alpha who's been trying to court him for almost a year?

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sentence Sunday

Trying something, but I'm not sure if it's going to work or if it'll end up in the final story, but here it is.

Somedays, he didn’t know how to feel like a real person. Somedays, he never left that basement in Kansas. Part of Ted died that day with his father, leaving him doing his best Pinocchio impression of trying to act like a real boy.  Somedays, it worked. Somedays, Ted ended up turning into a donkey. So, to help, he developed mantras.  Be curious, not judgemental.  Forgive people.  Don’t give up.  Never let people question how you feel about them.  Somewhere along there he forgot how to just be Ted. Somewhere along there he forgot to meet people where they were. Somewhere along there he forgot all people are different people. Somewhere along there he forgot that Jamie needed something different than the other fellas. Somewhere along there, he forgot he was supposed to be a coach and not just an extra in the Zava show. Somewhere along there, he failed at all of it.

[the-fae-tricked-me]

There is a sickening lack of days gone content on this app, both in terms of tags, posts, and fics. How did we stray so far from God?

[randompajamaalt]

oups hand slipdt

im sane about him. completely. absolutely. not feral at all. nooope.

in a burst of hyperfixated joy i drew this fellow up in about 2 hours with no pauses. i finished at 2am. i had to wake up at 5am. i then had auditions at 9am. it was a wild ride

[sashaisready]

Since You've Been Gone: Chapter 2

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Series Masterlist

After a regrettable first meeting in the cemetery, you discover that you have something in common with a certain member of the Avengers. Unfortunately, you can't choose your neighbours, even in death.

(Setting is approx. post TFATWS)

After that, you saw him there quite frequently.

Not every time. But often when you were there, he was there too. You guessed your schedules overlapped in that way. One time you’d nearly said, ‘I guess we have the same dead-parent visiting hours’, but fortunately had managed to hold your tongue.

The two of you didn’t really speak. A nod of acknowledgement here, a mumbled hello there. Once, something fell out of your bag onto the ground without you noticing and he’d said ‘hey’ and pointed to it as you turned around, and you’d thanked him. That was the extent of your interactions.

And that was fine. You remembered all too clearly the fury in his eyes at that first meeting. Best to leave him be, and not accidentally invoke his wrath. You were still a little sore about how he’d spoken to you then, but you also cut him some slack – you’d probably be quite prickly if you’d been through what he had. Your parents’ deaths had given you some perspective in life, you tried to think the best of people and take their actions in good faith unless they proved otherwise, as you never know what they’re battling.

But you weren’t a doormat, either.

One chilly afternoon you were both at the cemetery. James…or should you refer to him as Bucky? Was standing at his parents’ graves. He’d brought flowers but now stood there in silence as he looked down at their head stones, pondering. He often did that.

You were hunched over your own family’s plot, trimming the leaves on some chrysanthemums (your mother’s favourite) with the mini garden shears you kept in your kit. You had pulled your free arm across your body in an attempt to shield yourself from the biting wind when you clumsily slipped, the shears nicking the skin on your hand.

“Ow!”, you whispered sharply as you abruptly dropped the shears and looked at the damage.

“Fuck…” you mumbled under your breath. Crimson seeped across your hand, dripping onto the grass below. You weren’t squeamish but you couldn’t help but feel queasy at the sight of all that blood, the cut was deeper than you initially realised and at an awkward angle across your palm.

You trembled slightly as you attempted to find a tissue or similar in your bag with your free hand, scrambling before locating a microfibre cloth you fortunately hadn’t used yet. As you struggled to free the cloth from your kit and move it onto your injury, a gloved hand moved across you and scooped up the cloth – effortlessly swiping it onto the cut and holding it in place over your hand.

You blinked, bewildered, as you turned your head to find James or Bucky or whatever he called himself leaning over you. He furrowed his brow as he applied pressure to stem the bleeding. You tensed up as he touched you – not expecting physical contact, his proximity so close you could smell his cologne. But he was gentle, gentler than you expected a burly, metal-armed man to be. This was all quite unexpected from your normally silent neighbour.

“You wouldn’t think those little suckers could cut so deep,” he gruffed as he glanced down at the discarded shears.

“I’m not quite sure how I managed it…” you told him, “and…uh…thank-you…for helping me”.

He didn’t respond, just expertly wrapped the cloth up and tied it at the sides to create a makeshift bandage across your hand. He worked quickly, but with the precision of an actual medical professional. You figured he must’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of stuff.

“You okay?” he asked.

You looked up at his face, searching for well…anything. Despite the care and concern shown in his actions, his tone was still grumpy and monotonous like it always was. The juxtaposition between the two contrasts was dizzying. It was as if he was doing all of this as a tedious chore, even though you hadn’t asked him for any of it. His blue eyes stared back at you, nothing given away. The man was a vault.

“Yeah, was just a little shocked. I’m fine, thanks,” you replied as you tore your eyes away, looking down as you lightly flexed your hand beneath the cloth/bandage. It was well secured – the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

“That’s good for now,” he nodded towards your hand as he stood back up, “but you should probably take a look at it when you get home. Clean it so it doesn’t get infected. Put an actual bandage on it,” he ordered sternly.

“Okay. Thanks, I uh, will,” you nodded back at him, “I need to get going, anyway”.

You began putting things away in your bag – which was harder with one hand - and to your surprise he helped, carefully packing up the kit without a word.

“You don’t have to-” you attempted to protest, but he ignored you – leaning over you sliding each item into your bag as if he did it all the time. After he was finished you slung the bag over your shoulder.

“Bye,” you hesitated as you moved to leave, “and thanks again, for all…of that”.

“See ya,” he responded casually. He’d already turned his back to you as his focus centred on the graves once again.

You kissed your fingers and placed it on your parents’ headstone to say goodbye, as you always did when you left them. As you walked away, you couldn’t help but replay the interaction in your head. Did he…like you? Or the very least tolerate you? Or were you just a nuisance? But you didn’t ask him for any help, he just-

Stop.

You did your best to remove it all from your mind. Nothing good ever came from arguing with yourself.

As you walked, you didn’t notice the intense gaze that followed your movements until you disappeared from sight.

🍂

The weeks rolled on. You saw Bucky here and there. The two of you probably exchanged ten words in total over a period of months. Hellos. Byes. Nods of acknowledgement, hands held up in greeting. Little else. You simply minded your own business, and he minded his. He seemed satisfied with that. You certainly didn’t want to piss him off.

It was a Sunday morning when it happened. Autumn was becoming winter and the air was changing, the chill sharper than it had been in the weeks before. You had bundled up in a hat and scarf but still came to see your parents as you always did. You were an all-weather visitor.

Bucky was there too, still in his coat but not quite wrapped up in the way you were. You supposed he didn’t feel the cold the way you did. He was standing quietly as usual while you swept up the last of the autumn leaves that had blown onto your family’s plot.

It was quiet which was unusual, Sundays were often busy here as it was a popular day for people to pay their respects - but it was still quite early in the morning, and it’s possible the cold had put some of them off. You liked the peace and solitude of the weekend mornings, and it seemed that Bucky did too.

You could see a man in the near distance wandering around seemingly aimlessly. He had his phone pointed at various head stones, swinging around as if filming them on the phone camera. He didn’t seem to be visiting anyone specifically but taking a scattergun approach to where he was going. You frowned. That was odd, but you didn’t like to judge how people visited the cemetery. Maybe he was trying to find a certain plot, or filming the place to show someone else. You put your head back down and ignored him as you moved away the last few leaves and became engrossed in your tasks again.

“Oh FUCK, I knew it was you!” someone squealed excitedly.

You whipped your head around at the abrupt voice. The man with the phone was now standing just a few feet away, his phone aimed at Bucky’s face as he grinned.

“Hey, man,” Bucky said calmly, the discomfort obvious across his face, “How’s it going…look, I’m just-”

“The WINTER SOLDIER,” the man yelled into the camera, “in the FLESH. THE METAL. Right here in the cemetery. I knew I’d find good content in this creepy ass graveyard but I never thought-”

“Put the phone down, please,” Bucky asked. Well, more demanded. His voice was even, but from the sidelines you could hear the hint of annoyance creeping in. His face tightened; his eyes suddenly seemed darker. You subconsciously tensed up as the air changed.

The man, oblivious to any of this, or just refusing to acknowledge it, continued.

“So why you here man?” he asked obnoxiously as he thrust the screen closer towards Bucky. “Can I get a selfie? It would be great for my channel…”

Bucky winced, “look, no offence, but I’m just here trying to keep my head down. This is a private moment for me. Can you just-”

“What, what’s the big deal?” the guy scoffed, “don’t get all diva celebrity on me. You think you’re too good to meet fans?”

“No, I just…”

“What? You visiting the grave of one of your victims or something?” the man laughed vindictively as he mimed a gunshot to the head and made a shooting sound with his mouth. You gasped at his callousness.

Bucky didn’t blink. He yanked the phone from the guy’s hand and crushed it between his metal fingers in a split second, the debris sprinkling onto the ground below. The guy gasped in response, but before he could protest Bucky had grabbed him by the shirt and was holding him in the air, staring him down with a terrifying sneer as the man’s legs dangled and he wailed in fear.

“Hey, whoa…whoa…put him down,” you said softly, moving to Bucky and placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not worth it…and this isn’t the place for it…”

Bucky inhaled sharply but listened to you, keeping his eyes locked onto the man but releasing him. He fell to the ground with a heavy thump.

“Everyone’s gonna hear about this…” the man said anxiously as he righted himself, his breathing heavy in spite of his clear attempt to seem tough.

“No, they’re not,” you spat back.

His eyes widened in shock as he jeered at you, “What?? Says who? You? That maniac broke my damn phone and picked me up by my collar!”

“You disturbed someone at a cemetery who was privately mourning, and were disrespecting the graves by treading all over them and filming it all for views,” you said venomously, “I’m guessing you didn’t get a permit to make a video here either, huh? They take that very seriously here, you know, after all, this is a place of rest. They could even get you on grave desecration if they decide to file a complaint with the police…”

He didn’t respond, but his panicked face said it all.

“You’re lucky all you got was a broken phone. Besides, you have no evidence,” you toed at the phone remains, “and your only eyewitnesses will say you tried to attack a veteran as he was having a private moment of mourning, so he accidentally broke your phone in self-defence”.

The man opened his mouth in dismay, looking between you and Bucky in shock. Bucky nodded, affirming your version of events.

After a few moments the man harumphed.

“Fine…whatever. You’re both crazy anyhow…” he muttered as he stormed off. The two of you watched him go.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bucky said quietly without meeting your gaze, “I should’ve kept it together”.

“It’s fine,” you shrugged, “I hate people who are disrespectful to this place. And what he said to you was really out of line”.

“I’ve had worse. Do you really need a permit to film here on your camera? And they’d really call the police?”

“Oh…no idea. I just said that to rattle him,” you smirked.

Bucky looked at you with surprise, then the corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile.

“Thank-you” he mumbled.

“Yeah…no problem,” you smiled back at him.

“I’m James by the way. But everyone calls me Bucky”.

You gave him your name in return, and he gave you a small nod.

You both stood in the silence for a little while, until he leaned over and started picking up the broken shards that once resembled a smart phone.

Bucky, you thought to yourself. I can call him Bucky.

[petorahs]

what other hsr ships do you like, if any?

quite a few!

(disclaimer pls dont get mad at me for any ships i mention, and note that they never affect what i draw for Avenday 😭)

I have a ScrewTio wip coming up and ive drawn them before :3 literally so interesting. just as much foils as Avenday i would say

other than that in terms of OTP: AcheSwan, BronSeele, Jingliu x Bai Heng, whatever the hell Feixiao x Jiaoqiu x Moze polycule have going on

do NOT separate the girlfriends or i'll start tweaking..(lighthearted)

as mentioned in prev tags i love both RobiFly and StelleFly! CaeFly is... ok i guess but only if i put them in my elaborate headcanons and even then it works just as well with Stelle. I plan to draw RobiFly soon they are soooooo cute to me :3

theres more but i'll mention in tags!

[mythmerth]

a merthur x hayloft fic plot because it would work so perfectly, cause whatever happened to the young young lovers?

Arthur trying to make up for uther, who went off the rails when his wife died at Arthur’s birth and uses their money on whatever new thing he’s found to fill the void that Arthur’s life created. Arthur, who had to raise himself on their farm and run all of the business on his own while keeping pretenses that uther knows better than him. He’s at his limit, one single scathing remark about how “strange it is you haven’t found a girl yet, Arthur,” from dropping his entire livelihood and running away with the money he earned for them.

But then he meets merlin, one of the ranchers sons who’s incredible with his hands and god, the way commands the horses, the way his teasing remarks makes Arthur’s heart skip a beat, the way his eyes light up — and he feels like he can breathe again, or maybe for the first time. Everything is a pleasant haze until months later when uther catches them in the hayloft together intertwined in body and soul and has his hand gun pointed in his face demanding to repent for what he’s become. He tries, he really tries to talk his father down, that a gun won’t solve anything, to go back to sleep. yet uther yanks merlin up by his sex-mussed hair and his gun turns to point at Arthur’s starkly exposed and terrified lover instead. There’s tears streaming down his face as he grows increasingly hysterical, the pale skin that Arthur had just been reverently worshipping only minutes before still glowing in the moonlight. He can see the red marks he left, not even yet developed into their purplish completion. He suddenly visions everything clearly if he remains complacent to uther, can see Merlin’s lifeless form slumped over with uther towering over, his lovers soothing pulse never to be felt under Arthur’s lips again, and something inside of him breaks. without a second thought, he grabs the shotgun leaning against the wall behind him and aims.

“You wouldn’t dare,” uther scoffs, like he really believes it.

He’s not a bad kid, but he had to do it.

he couldn’t not. he had to face off.

he had to kill pop.

And so he does. because he couldn’t not, not when merlin was his everything.

Covered in blood, they burn down the barn with his body in it and tell everyone uther got drunk and knocked over a lantern, tragically passing in the fire in the middle of the night before anyone noticed.

Whatever happened to the hayloft?

you can ask Arthur and Merlin, but the only truth they’ll tell is to each other.

[puhpandas]

Why do people like ggy? I don't like what it does to Gregory's characterization, how it makes Vanny pointless, and how it contradicts the game.

I think you just answered your own question. you dont like what it does to his character but some other people do!

vanny being pointless isnt GGYs fault, it's just unfortunate that GGY takes away from her. which like I said isnt his fault because Vannys lack of screentime/character is just a fundamental problem with her. if she'd gotten the screentime she needed, it wouldnt be nearly as bad.

and it doesn't really contradict the game if you think about it. theres nothing in the game about Gregory to contradict lol. he has a lot of mystery surrounding him that GGY can explain if you apply it to him.

Gregory's lack of a record, his skill with robots, freddy 'remembering' him somehow in cut security breach lines, sleeping in the box, a lot of these can be explained if you assume Gregory had memory loss during sb after getting freed like vanessa somehow. it makes a whole lot more sense.

and it's also just an interesting dynamic for Gregory and the other characters in his life! gregory and vanessa being in the same boat changes things, and it makes a narritave they're pushing in ruin make a whole lot more sense (the idea that Gregory and vanessa worked on mxes together, and collabed as a 'we were ur victims now we're going to lock you away' type deal)