#i remember most of them but i'm blanking on the fifth and the wording of the raccoon one

[terribleinfluensins]

terrible influence tour confessions archive

NASVHILLE! submit the sins read aloud at your show by filling out this form ✰

[astroboots]

Don't they know it's the end of the world

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Summary: There are many things Joel would like to forget, you hope you're not one of them.

Rating: Explicit. I just want to fuck old man Joel.

Content: hurt/comfort, explicit sex-town, cowgirl position yee-ha, post-apocalyptic angst and jazz. Mentions of death, blood and gore, but the real warning all along was emotionally unavailable men.

Word Count: 3.5k

Astroboot’s Masterlist 

The thing that nobody warned you about living in a post-apocalyptic world (to use the dramatic phrase) is that when the world as you know it has ended. When an unprecedented catastrophe transforms the very fabric of your reality. In the midst of abandoned cities, dilapidated high-rise buildings overrun with moss and ivy, and rusted cars forsaken on the highway. This horrific new world of unending horrors, at some point, with enough days gone by, becomes common place.

After the first and second year, you're no longer bothered by the constant aches and how everything hurts, everywhere all the time. The new bruises that spring up overnight to replace old healing, because sleeping on concrete and dirt will do that to you, isn't as overwhelming. You barely mind the constant blunt ache in your lower back from unloading crates anymore. Or the way your feet are always blistering and covered in callouses that crack and split and bleed. It's all background noise.

After the third and the fourth, you're no longer dry-heaving at the burnt metallic smell of charred flesh and human hair that reminds you of melted and burnt plastic when they're tossed into fire. Your sense of smell dull to it.

After the fifth year you think that hollow feeling in your chest of missing home, is no longer a constant. At most it comes to you in glimpses. Because sure, there are a million and one things you still miss. The sweetness of cereal soaked in milk. The lingering smell of peonies from your shampoo after a steaming shower. The way your cat used you as a headrest while watching TV.

You miss cupcakes. You miss the cinema. You miss pumpkin lattes. You miss the forest ground covered in auburn leaves in the fall. You miss your mom. You miss--

You miss a lot of things. Small little things, and you remember each one of them despite the years that passes.

But the mind adapts. It doesn't consume you with a hollowness that makes you burst into tears at any given moment anymore. Humans are nifty like that. Our brains rewire to accept the new realities and life just goes on somehow.

You accept the military surveillance. Of men in vests and gear, wearing blank expressions, with rifles slung across their shoulders like it were backpacks, ready to use them at the slightest provocation if you so much as dared to cough in their presence.

You get used to cracking jokes about priests walking into bars, while burying your dead, not because you're unfeeling, or not understanding of the graveness of what you're doing, but because the human mind cannot be relentlessly scared and sad and depressed and unhappy without reprieve.

Instead like much else, that seems horrific and world-ending at first, it becomes background noise.

---

"Uno," you announce as you drop the last card in the pile of red, blue and green cards in front of him.

Joel scowls, that furrowed wrinkle between his brow carves deep with displeasure.

"You're cheating. I've never played this game where stacking is allowed. The correct rule is no stacking."

This again. You scoff. This topic of conversation comes up every now and then (everytime he loses in fact) because the two of you has solely been relyng on your memory to reconstruct the rules given that the manual to the pack of cards were lost long ago.

"I'm not having this argument with you again Joel, I've told you. The rules allow stacking, you're misremembering it."

You shake your head at him and smile. He doesn't smile back. He never really does. Instead he folds his arms across his wide chest, leaning back as he appraises you with skepticism.

"What if you've forgotten the rules?"

"I don't forget things, I'm not you" you say lightheartedly.

He's already passed out when you let yourself in through the front door tonight.

It's a sparse apartment, like all the other accommodations in the area. The mismatched dining chairs and fold up table is not much to look at, but there are still hints of the family who had made this place their home before they had to leave it. The feminine touch of flowery rose wallpapers. Scribbled markers of their children's height year by year. The claw-marks of a dog by the front door.

If Joel left tomorrow, you don't think it would tell much of a story of him or the life you lead together. The only thing that's his besides the radio and music catalog is the blue butterfly sticker that sparkles on the window.

And even with that, you don't quite know what story it is meant to tell or why he'd put it up. You only know it wasn't there when he moved it because it appeared out of nowhere after Tommy left. It clashes with the rest of the decor. Something that belongs to a young girl's bedroom and not a grumpy former veteran addicted to painkillers. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put one plus one together and deduce it's something of sentimental value to him.

It's always confounded you, because that is so unlike the man you know.

Unlike you, Joel forgets. He makes it his mission to forget. Expired opioids from god knows how long, you're surprised they don't crumble into dust when they're exposed into open air.

There are horrors in his memories that Joel wants wiped clean, and he doesn't care if the good memories go with them, as long as he doesn't have to look at them in the broad daylight.

You never said anything about it, don't pry and you don't ask questions. You don't ask him for anything period. You just let him be and take him as he is. You suspect that that's why he's allowed himself to keep you around for so long.

The room is dimly illuminated from the night light has been left on for you, and you try to be quiet as you make your way to him on the bed. He's lying curled up on his side, back turned to you.

Broad shouldered as he is, with a build that reminds you of a bear at times, in this position, there's something vulnerable about him right now that's reserved for your eyes only. His face is no longer tense, against the amber hue that bathes the room. The specks of grey and white in his beard, soft to the touch.

He's half-dragged into consciousness as you dip your knee into the mattress, as he lifts the tattered, moth-eaten quilt and makes space for you.

Reaching behind you, you kill the light. Then you wrap your one arm over his waist, tucking one leg between his thick and firmer ones. He sighs into his pillow and leans into your touch.

There are things that you know Joel wants to forget, you would like to believe that this won't become one of them.

"Are you awake?" he murmurs against the nape of your neck. His voice is gravelly and worn with sleep.

You open your eyes and the world greets you with darkness. It's too early to be awake at this ungodly time.

His chest is pressed up against your back, warm and firm, and you hum in reply. "Barely."

You nuzzle into the scratchy linen of your pillow, inhaling deeply to relax back into sleep. But Joel isn't turning back around. He's still behind you, almost hovering above you as if he wants to tell you for something, but doesn't.

You raise yourself slightly, reaching over the nightstand to flicker on the small lamp there.

Turning back towards him, you observe him for a moment. The slight sheen of sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. His eyes wide and alarmed, hands closed into a tight fist into the sheets. His whole body is wired for a fight, even though he's just woken up and it's dead quiet in the still of the night without a threat.

"Did you have a nightmare?" you finally ask.

His jaw tightens at your question, which is as good of an indicator as any that he doesn't want to answer. Also a good indicator that he did have one.

You sigh, reaching your hand back to trail the soft hairs at the back of his neck. Flattening the curly ends with your fingers, and trying to comb it down in a gesture to soothe him the way others used to do for you in a different life and another world. It's a mistake.

He flinches at the touch, and stiffens awkwardly in front of you. Like he's trying to decide what's the right next course of action. To apologize or to turn back around and pretend he didn't do what he just did.

You frown at him, but say nothing. You give him the time to find his words.

"Can we just--" he starts, but his words trail off, eyes barely meeting yours. Silently pleading for you to know what he's asking for so he doesn't have to put them into words.

Joel doesn't really do softness. Doesn't accept comfort. Doesn't trust it.

But there are things that he wants, because he's only human after all. A touch, a warm body to lose himself in, a human connection. It's what everyone of us wants.

But he can't ask for it. Can't say it.

The moment he puts words it, he would have to name it. What this thing is, between the two you that you have. Where at the end of the day you return to his apartment. Where you sleep in his bed. Where he worries if you don't.

If he asks you for this, then he can't pretend there's nothing there anymore.

So you don't say anything. You don't needle him into finishing his sentence. Don't ask him what he means. You don't ask him for anything. Instead you nod.

His face shifts, the stiff crease between his brows smooths in relief and he scoots forward, chest draped flush against your back. He's already hard, the familiar thick girth pressed to your tailbone, like it's trying to carve a permanent dent into you.

"Is it okay?" he asks again, rolling his hips and the newfound pressure against his denim-covered cock has him breaking off with a gasp.

"Yeah Joel. Yes it's okay."

His fingers come to the hemline of your jeans, as he roughly shoves at it in the dark. It catches at the dip of your hips, and you can hear the gruff impatience of the man from behind, as he yanks it down further. As if sheer brutal strength is going to be the solution in here, the way it is outside these walls.

You lift up your hips to help him, long enough for him to slide the jeans off your legs and you can kick them to the floor. Vaguely you try to estimate the distance to where they landed. Because that's where you'll have to pick them up in the early morning before he gets up. But that doesn't matter right now.

There's a scuffle behind you of rustling denim and the metallic clink of a buckle being undone. You reach back with your hand against the softness of his belly, down the sparse trail of fine coarse hairs until you can wrap your hand around his hardened cock.

He shudders in relief. A soft sigh into the back of your neck as he grinds against your back, demanding more. You indulge him, swiping your thumb in a circle over the head of him. There's a sharp intake of breath from him, similar to the sound he makes after taking a swig of shitty whiskey that burns his lungs too sharply.

The indication that it's too much, and therefore just right, because it's only then that it's a relief. An escape from the current reality.

You squeeze down again, fingers wrapped firm around the thickness of his girth not allowing him any reprieve, and he thanks you not in words, but with the way he bares his throat as his head throws back in ecstasy.

For Joel, the old world never ended. Never left. He's still trapped in it. His existence now is a purgatory. He treats it like he's just sitting in a waiting room, as the days and years go by. Everything and everyone in it are transitory. Nothing in the room matters.

His hand shoots out, sliding down the bare skin of your stomach and wedges underneath your panties. One broad thumbs presses down on your clit perfunctory, and still it feels so good. Sharp heat licks your spine at the touch, and your eyes flutter close as you lean back into him.

It's brusque, the way Joel's hand comes to your thighs and spread you open for him. Unrestrained the way his fingers parts your slick folds to collect the wetness he finds there, pressing into you and curls with a familiarity when he knows he's reached that perfect spot that makes your vision whiten. Rough in much the same way he is in every other part of his life.

"Fuck, get up here," he orders gruffly.

You roll over and he wastes no time to roughly grip onto your hipbones and dragging you up his body.

Bracing your arms on his firm chest to steady yourself, you settle yourself with your knees pressed into the sides of his ribs. They're dipped into the worn-out mattress and you think you can feel the springs of the bottom of the bed dig into your kneecaps.

It's a bit uncomfortable, but you don't mind. Because you get to straddle him this way. Get to see all of him, underneath you, on display. His bare skin made golden and soft by the dim light of the night lamp.

He doesn't look like the movie-stars of old. But Joel is handsome. There's no doubt about that.

Despite his rough masculine features, there are details that don't quite match up. His lips are plump and soft, inviting. A deep crease in the curve of his bottom lip that is just begging to be kissed.

Even with the significant grey in his thick hair, and the white in his beard, the weathered look suits him well. As does the fine lines on his forehead, and the ones around his eyes.

Smile lines, an old friend of yours had called them. Does that mean he used to smile? You imagine how he must've looked like in those days. Not constantly frowning or scowling. But smiling so hard that it would make his eyes crinkles. How beautiful and carefree he must've been.

In front of you, there's no trace of that man. His jaw is set, grinding his teeth, with gritted impatience as his hands grips onto your waist and pull you forward, towards and over his cock, positioning you right where he wants you.

His hand reaches behind you, and even though you can't see it from this angle, you've seen it plenty times before to know how good his cock looks fisted in his hand, as he uses your slick, still wet on his fingers to spread it over the length of him. Then you feel it, the fat tip of him nudging against your entrance as he slowly slips inside.

A heady anticipation fills you. It shakes the core of you until it makes your thighs tremor visibly as you straddle him.

Joel is rough. He is unrestrained and brusque, but he is not unkind. Or at least you'd like to think, not to you. He steadies you, one hand still on your hip, the other a flat palm against your lower belly, as he slowly lifts his hips as you sink down on him in unison.

The first thrust always knocks your breath away. Pleasure that warms you inside out in a way that standing in a fire fails to. It fills you anr nourishes.

You drop down the rest of the way until he's as deep as he goes, until he hisses sharply again, in that tell-tale sign that it's, too much and just right.

Your chest glows with pride, and you grind down against him to elicit another noise, this time a chocked grunt that's not nearly as satisfying. But the buzzing warmth that spikes your veins more than makes up for it.

You stay there for a moment, savoring the pleasure that simmers along your spine, until Joel opens his eyes, his fingers digging a bit deeper into the plump flesh of your thighs.

"Fuck," he grumbles, "please move."

You don't deny him, you never do. Not with this, not with anything. Rising on your knees, you feel his cock drag inside you and close your eyes at the sensation until only the tip of him rests inside you. It's a slow, dragged out pace. One that Joel doesn't seem to have any patience for.

His hand around your hip wraps firm and he pushes down at the same time as you can feel him thrust upwards, until he's buried as deep as he goes.

Fuck, you feel like you can't breathe. Didn't know you could fit so much of him.

Your eyes fly open, to the sight of him, thick brows knitted in pleasure. He looks gorgeous like this. Lost in pleasure, no longer buried in a grave of regrets he can never climb out of. Mouth parted as he gasps out at the feel of you wrapped around him. You stare at his spit swollen lips and all you can think of is how you want to kiss this man. Press your lips to his and feel the full weight of intimacy of this shared moment with his arms wrapped around you.

You anchor your arms on his chest, leaning down closer to his face, hovering above his lips and it's like he can sense you. His eyes flutters open as he meets your gaze.

You wonder what it is he sees in your eyes. If the want and depth of your feelings for him are so plain to see. Because he looks at you like he's terrified.

You don't kiss him.

You drop down your hips again, as far as he goes, and his eyes squeezes shut again, both of you choosing to forget what preceded it. An unrestrained moan rips out of him and to your ears, and though he's not saying any words, it's almost like he's thanking you for forgetting.

You ride him and it's rough and there is no rhythm. He meets you with every thrust, deep and fast, like he's racing for the end.

The hand on your belly, pushes down firmer, and the pressure does something to you. The simmer of pleasure turns to an inescapable heat. It climbs up your veins and invades your ribs with it.

You come around his cock and the pleasure is punishing, a slam to your ribs that squeezes down on your very lungs. It flattens your vision, until you're disorientated with it and you nearly fall off. But Joel doesn't stop. Continues to fuck up and into you. Harsh and reckless thrusts.

Pleasure is written over every line of his face, teeth gritted as he keeps his eyes closed to you. You feel him swell thicker in you, and you know he's almost there.

With a harsh hiss, his hand on your waist, lifts you up and off of him. His freed hand comes to his cock and wraps around it. Swollen and glistening with your wetness, as he fists himself with frantic strokes.

The chords of his neck strains, and then he comes. Line after line after line of his release, coating your stomach with the warmth of him.

You're both breathing hard and fast, made louder by the silence of the room at this hour.

Joel doesn't say anything and neither do you. Instead you reach over to the nightstand to kill the light, enveloping you both in the familiar darkness.

You lay back down against the mattress and roll to your side. There's rustling noise besides you and then Joel's hand comes to your stomach, cleaning up the mess he made of you with a corner of the sheets.

---

You wake up before dawn breaks. When it's no longer dark but the sun has not had time to rise above the skyline.

Dipping your foot onto the grimy wooden floor, you walk towards the very spot your jeans had been tossed aside last night, and put them on, as quietly as you can so as not to wake Joel.

You cast one last look at him where he's lying in the same position you found him when you'd let yourself in last night. On his side, curled up, vulnerable.

Then you gently pad across the length of the living room and let yourself out of the apartment, closing the door slowly until it gently clicks.

Someday, when this version of the world is over and one of you leaves. You hope that you get to miss him.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

[sazzujazzu]

Hello, as the days count down and the Bad Batch finale draws closer, may I show to the fine folks of tumblr my first Star Wars OC in 20 years, created thanks to this show? 😃

Too bad, I'm showing them anyway 😊 somberly chilling while listening to their bestie talk.

Please excuse the poor background (I got lazy) and half-finished Tech (I got sad)

there's, uh, a big mess of words under the image because I wanted to put into words the importance this show has for me, and I am bad at doing so.

I want to get some thoughts off my chest, because I have no one in my day-to-day life who cares about the animated Star Wars shows, and especially the Bad Batch. (well, other than my mom, but I don't want to bore her with my rambling too much. she already banned star wars from me once, i won't let that happen again lol)

I can't stop thinking how much I don't want Bad Batch to end.

This show has been so dear to me. I can't remember the last time I've loved something this much.

Before the second season started, I had an artistic block that had lasted way too long. Anything I drew or wrote, mostly turned out a horrible mess after staring at a blank page for hours and hours, if I ever managed to create anything at all. For someone who tends to draw whenever their hands aren't otherwise busy (aka all the damn time), such a block weighed down on my mental health.

Well, then season two happened, and full-on gave me back my love for Star Wars, a love that had somewhat gone out over the last few years. Then, Plan 99 happened, and broke me because again my favorite character "died" (I'm in team Tech lives until I draw my last breath or until proven correct. That chocolate-eyed cutie-pie is alive nothing will convince me otherwise). Pretty much after finishing the episode and staring at a wall for another 30 minutes, I said "nope" and began writing.

I wrote for hours. I believe it's been well over a decade since I last wrote fanfiction, but here I was, creating a Star Wars oc, something I'd last done as a ten-year-old. And now, roughly a year later, I think I've written over a hundred pages of (very self-indulgent) fanfiction with the Batch, and with my oc that I've come to love.

And drawing, oh boy, have I been drawing!

(... Sure, I've mostly been drawing Tech, over and over again, to a point I once actually considered lying and saying "yeah that's my boyfriend haha!" to a man at my job last summer, when asked who it was that I was drawing for maybe fifth day in a row 😂 likely would've been a more acceptable excuse for someone my age. But, I mean... I just really love drawing him, not only because he is my favorite character of maybe all time, but because he is just so fun to draw! And most of all, at least I draw again!)

And it is all thanks to this wonderful show about a bunch of defective and effective copy-paste boys and their sister.

It's probably something many say, but I've always felt like a bit of an outsider. I've felt like I have no place; when I was a kid, my interests were very different from the other kids of [gender assigned at birth], and trying to play with them while inserting my own interests into the games, often didn't go so well. I was... kind of an odd child (although now, older and questionably wiser, knowing that I might actually be autistic, many things make more sense now. me kind of discovering this about myself is also partially thanks to Bad Batch)

Also, growing up trans/non-binary, while not even knowing what that is or having a word for it, didn't really do much to help with the feeling of "I'm different and an outsider because of it". Perhaps it was one more reason I fell in love with Clone Force 99, because I could see some of myself in them. Being different from the "regs".

I love this show, and these fictional people have become my family, and I am not ready to say goodbye to them.

Alright, weird pile of thoughts over. In case someone read all this, uh... thanks 😊

[pfhwrittes]

Actually I know you said I wouldn’t wanna hear you bemoan your writing process, but I’m actually very interested in that tbh

What is your process for a longer fic? How do you format your outline? What does your research look like if you need to do that?

I’d love to see it! Maybe this is more of Talk Shop Tuesday question lol

tats you can have a little Talk Shop Tuesday as a treat!

so i briefly touched on my process (god i need a new way to phrase that it sounds so wanky) in this ask here where i admitted to kind of flying by the seat of my trousers/pants with writing ("live by the PWP sword, die by the PWP sword i guess" is probably one of my favourite sentences i've ever written).

but i'll expand further under the cut because i know i'm going to get long winded as hell.

firstly, i'm going to admit something slightly embarrassing. i'm not a planner, or a plotter, or a think further than the scene i'm writing writer. i'm just not. i write entirely on vibes or wherever the worms take me. i think that's pretty evident from the fact that most of my fics/drabbles for the fandom are shorter than my left leg. i consider it to be a minor miracle if i break 500 words, never mind 1000 words for my fics.

secondly, maybe mummies is my most rigidly outlined fic ever. i have a super rough outline for my festival fic (remember that? god those were the days) and for my bbc ghosts inspired thing (again, another blast from the past right there) but maybe mummies is the biggest document i have in my WIP folder right now and i'll use that as my example for my outlining process (and hopefully i won't spoil the fic too much).

What is your process for a longer fic? i always start every single one of my fics by dumping a synopsis of what i want the fic to be at the top of my document. first of all, it scares away the Fear of the Dreaded Blank Page (where The Blinking Cursor of Doom lingers), secondly it pulls me back on track when i start getting lost in the weeds as i always get lost in the weeds to some degree. thirdly, it's kind of silly and mostly vibes. i basically just talk to myself in the blurb and at some point that may translate to an author's note but sometimes it doesn't.

then i move onto notable tags i know i need to include. so that would be the general vibe of the fic ("Inspired by The Mummy (1999)"), the genre ("Action/Adventure", "Romance", "Comedy"), or notable triggers ("Bugs/Beetles", "Implied PTSD", "Implied Alcoholism"). the notable tag section is subject to change as i write but as soon as i pop something in my fic that i know could potentially trigger someone or make someone balk at bit at reading it, i update the tag list. as i work through the sections/scenes of my fic i list the tags/triggers that apply to that section and mark them with a star and match that star up to the notable tag section.

for maybe mummies, i started writing it chronologically while on my third(?) rewatch of The Mummy. i spat out the blurb during my first watch because the brain worms took me gently by my throat and calmly threatened me at knife point (no, i don't know where they got the knife either and at this point i'm too afraid to ask). then i yelled at @391780 over having an idea as i usually do and early enabled me like the Chief Worm Wrangler they are.

then i got bored of writing it chronologically on my fifth rewatch after blocking most of act 1 and act 2, so i went to the last scene of the fic, blocked that out with bullet points (and made myself laugh) before deciding that actually, an epilogue would really tie everything up wonderfully. so then i spat out the epilogue (and very shyly asked @syoddeye if the emotional beats hit right and they were kind enough to go "i love [this metaphor] and [this interaction]" which basically cemented the epilogue for me. so if you hate it, don't you dare blame sy, i'll come for your kneecaps with my makita drill if you do).

aside from that, i block everything roughly using bullet points. sometimes that's a badly worded sentence, sometimes that's a particular dialogue exchange that fits, sometimes thats just [JP and F!RC bicker] (anything in parentheses gets filled with more detail in at a later date), sometimes the worms wriggle and i spit out an entire scene.

if i'm struggling to write a scene i tend to either leave myself bullet points or break the scene into smaller chunks. it helps my brain to focus on the parts i want it to write better that way and it takes the pressure off so i don't get stuck in the mire of "oh god this needs to be the most perfect first draft that has ever existed".

How do you format your outline? so my heavily redacted outline for maybe mummies looks something like this:

Blurb (stream of consciousness babble/vibes/silliness)

Title (currently blank)

Notable Tags (all the current tags/triggers, and there are 23 currently!)

Characters notes - John "Johnny" MacTavish - Female! Reader Character (RC) - Captain John Price - Simon "The Ghost/Ghost" Riley - Kyle Garrick - Philip Graves (then some redacted characters)

Act One (the set up) - Scene 1 - Scene 2 - Scene 3 - Scene 4

Act Two (the rising action) - Scene 1, part a - Scene 1, part b - Scene 1, part c. (etc, etc. you get the idea)

Act Three (the crisis) (see act two and three for how that would look)

Act Four (the resolution) (heavily redacted bits go here) - Final Scene

Epilogue (this i have written out in full, but i can't share it with you because of spoilers).

Odds and Ends (this is where chunks of dialogue i want to add into the fic, or interactions i want to go live until they find a place in the fic. it's also where the parts i've "scrapped" go too. i never delete anything from my outline, it just gets moved to the odds and ends section).

What does your research look like if you need to do that? oooooh boy. okay, another embarrassing admission coming up. my research for maybe mummies has been my nigh on continuous rewatching of The Mummy. i'm on 13.5 watches right now (10 before my surgery date, 3 post surgery, and one time i started watching it and fell asleep about half way through while my brain was slowly stewing in the remnants of morphine and codeine). other than that, i've got about 5 or 6 tabs that i've shoved into a folder in firefox dutifully labeled "shit i don't know about 1920s eygpt".

in short, my research is more of a mess than my outline.

hopefully this answers your question and i'm so sorry i made you slog through what is essentially 1.1k of words that may be nonsense.

[sebstanseabass]

Afterglow (A Bucky Barnes AU fan fiction) - Chapter 13

Afterglow chapters

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

A/N: Future you, r u okkkk

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

You stared at Bucky and the gentleman who was with him named Sam Wilson, completely dumbfounded; as if they both had three heads. They were seated across from you, Bucky with a glass of water, and Sam with a bottle of beer in his hand. Sam was just finishing his beer, as well as his speech about his business proposal which had to do with you taking photos of his new products, and models.

Bucky introduced Sam as a long-time friend and an owner of a sporting fit apparel named The Falcons. The name did ring a bell as soon as you heard it. You suddenly remembered passing through it while you and Bucky were strolling down Fifth Street, vaguely telling you about a friend who owned it and six other stores scattered in California, Chicago, London, and Australia (and was planning to branch out more in Asian countries); and here he was right in front of you, hiring you as a photographer for his big-time business.

Sam didn't give you a sliver of time to intervene with his flawless little speech he had committed to memory, as he spoke so fast. Some words were even incomprehensible to you — or perhaps it was just because the world was still whirling around you, given the prior event that just took place.

And now this.

You tried to give Bucky some kind of signal by giving him a look but he encouraged Sam further and urged you to listen to his proposal.

"So, y/n..." Sam rested his hands on the wooden table, his attention solely focused on you. "What do you think?"

If only you could tell him the truth that your mind was completely blank, you would. But you didn't want to embarrass yourself or Bucky for that matter, so you just gave him a smile and did the first thing you could think of. "Mr. Wilson — "

"Oh, you can just call me Sam. There's no need for formalities."

You nodded. "Sam... Do you mind if I have a little discussion with Bucky? It will just take a moment."

Sam leaned back on the cushioned couch of the booth and nodded. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

You didn't give Bucky the time to question why so you immediately stood up, grabbed Bucky's hand from across the booth and dragged his body towards one of the closets the bar rarely used. You closed the door behind you, and switched the light on. Even with the small lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, the inside of the closet still looked dingy, and the dust crawling on the walls and flying in the tight air space were clearly evident.

"Bucky, what the hell is going on?"

"Isn't it great?"

You smacked his arm. "Steve just told me he's getting me fired so that I can focus on my career as a photographer."

"That's even greater!"

You smacked his arm harder this time. "I'm not done." You hissed. "He's giving me one week to figure things out and then I'm fired. If I don't have shit figured out in that one week, I'm not gonna be able to pay for bills. Did you say something to Steve when you came here this morning? Don't lie to me, James."

He was rubbing his arm, brows furrowed. "I told him nothing."

"You showed him the photos I took last night. What was that all about?"

He sighed in defeat. "I just made him realize that you needed to be out there and not stuck here. You said it yourself, y/n, you're stuck in a rut and the only way to get yourself moving is to break from that routine. To go out there and explore the world."

"And then you just swoop in and bring your friend?"

"Yes."

"So, Steve just happens to realize that I needed to go out there and explore the world, and then it just so happens that your friend needs someone to photograph for his business?" You scoffed. "Bucky, do you expect me to believe that this is just one big coincidence? That you're not the one pulling all the strings in this little weird puppet show?"

"Yes, okay, I may have done something about those, said something, but — "

"Oh my god, you can't do that." You had the urge to get some air, and to pace back and forth as you tried to put your thoughts into words, but the space felt tighter the more you spoke. "You can't just walk into people's lives and, and... control everything! This is not just about chasing a dream, this is also about survival. I'm not rich like you. I don't have a safety net when things fall apart. You... You can't put all your trust in me."

"Well, someone needs to." Bucky sternly answered. "And if that someone should be me then so be it."

"I don't even know why you're going to great lengths for me." You looked down on the floor. "I... I don't get it, Bucky. I don't get you at all."

"Hey, hey, hey, listen to me, doll." His hands made contact with your skin, lifting your face to look at his blue eyes. "I apologize for taking things too far, I guess I could act so rash as well but I just wanted to do what I know is right and what would make you happy. Seeing you last night was... heartbreaking."

"So, you pity me." You sighed. "Everybody does."

"Call it what you want, y/n. But people who pity you won't ever believe in you and in what you do. But here I am putting all my trust in you. Your boss Steve does too. And Sam." A smile formed on his lips, making the insides of you flip.

"Your friend Sam sounds like a big deal and he hasn't even seen my photos. How can he trust me to do all this for him?"

"I put my word in for you. I told him if I was wrong, then to hell with me. And if you're worried about people assisting you during the shoot, don't. Sam has people all over and he just needs your beautiful eyes and hands and brain." He laughed. "Sam's a good guy and you're not going to be working for some big corporation. I know you hate those. This is perfect for you, trust me. And right now, all I need you to do is say yes to Sam, say yes to me, and most especially say yes to yourself. Please?"

The atmosphere became lighter, and the room didn't feel that tight any longer. His flattering words forever engraved in your mind. His warm hands stayed on both sides of your face, his face pleading.

You sighed and nodded your head slowly, finally convinced. "Okay, yes."

A grin started to crawl to his face and for a moment, his face drew closer to yours. "Okay, good. Now let's get out of here and tell Sam the good news."

You nodded but a touch of disappointment came, as Bucky's hands left your face. You never knew the presence of Bucky's skin against yours was one thing you could miss. You didn't even know if you should.

As soon as you sat down, you told Sam the good news and quickly ordered a bottle of champagne. You were supposed to get it for them but Bucky told you to sit down and let loose for a while, so you did.

Nat approached the booth with the cold champagne, and some glasses. She bent down and whispered to you, "You better tell me what's going on here. I wanna hear everything."

Sure, she did. Nat always wanted to. When it comes to water cooler gossip or any kind of gossip for that matter, Nat always wanted to dig her nose into other people's stuff. With a wink and a slight sway on the hips, she retreated to the counter and took more of people's orders. Beside her, you noticed Nick steal a glance in your direction but was averted away by people trying to get their drinks.

"Alright, let's toast." Sam declared. Bucky was just finishing filling yours when you focused your attention back at the two gentlemen in front of you. You thanked Bucky and mirrored Sam as he raised his glass. Bucky followed, his eyes with a luster glaze on you. "To new partners, beginnings, and to y/n."

"Thank you, Sam." You laughed, clinking your glasses. "And to Bucky, for trusting me enough to do this."

"To Bucky who wouldn't leave me alone until I said yes." Sam replied, emptying his glass.

You gave Bucky a look and shook your head. Being the cheeky man he was, the ends of his lips curved slightly which triggered the beat of your heart. The sudden changes you have been feeling when it came to Bucky have been scaring you but it wasn't a "bad scary"; it was the kind that excited everything inside you. A thrilling feeling that left you wanting more.

At the taste of the sprinkling cold champagne, for a moment, you were brought back to last night's events. A montage-like of red, blue and white lights illuminating the street, Howard waiting in the limousine, Wandavision, and then Bucky. After that, it was just Bucky's presence beside you and as you looked back at him, all you could think about was his soft warm lips pressed on your forehead. The entirety of it felt like you were living a dream — there were parts you couldn't remember and parts that you could, and the latter were just the ones you kept replaying in mind (even with Bucky in front of you), trying to imbue this dream-like memory and convince yourself that it was a memory.

Nat's voice pulled you out of your thoughts (and boy, were you thankful for it). "Hey, your shift's almost ending." She reminded you, passing by the booth, then turned to face Bucky and Sam. "Anything you want from the menu, boys?"

"No, thank you." Bucky replied then turned to you. "We should also be heading up."

"Oh." Nat's change in voice was so evident that you wanted to pull her out of here as soon as possible. "You guys are heading up, huh?" She teased, her eyes now on you.

"It's not what you think." You said. "He's just looking after me. Parker's gone to some corporate retreat for a week."

"Man, you're a babysitter!" Sam butted in, punching Bucky's arm lightly. "Oh, I can't believe this."

"No, I'm not."

"You can't even take care of your damn self, how are you gonna take care of her?"

"Shut up, Sam!"

"He's actually taking good care of me." You said, looking at Bucky.

"I'm sure he is." Nat chuckled which made you step on her foot. She cleared her throat in response.

"Anyway, I gotta go say goodbye to Steve." You said, standing up. "Hey Nat, do you want me to say hi to him for you?"

With her mouth slightly open, and eyes furrowed, she replied very slowly. "No."

You smirked. "Okay then."

You headed towards Steve's office, leaving Nat stunned in her place. Steve's office was slightly open so you didn't bother knocking and just went inside. "Hey, Steve. I'm off for tonight."

"Sure." He replied. "Hey, about earlier."

"What about it?"

"I'm doing it because I truly believe in you." He smiled. "And your new friend Bucky does so too."

You smiled at him right back. "Yes, Steve. Thank you."

"Take care, y/n."

"You too, boss!"

And with that, you headed towards the booth where Bucky and Sam were.

Out on the side of the street, the three of you parted ways, Sam hailing a cab and you and Bucky heading towards the apartment building. Once the elevator doors opened, you stepped inside and was greeted by its metallic smell.

"Hey, Bucky?" You said, quickly grabbing his attention. "T-thank you for this and for basically everything you've done for me for the past few days."

"Please, you don't have to thank me for this. I'm just really glad I'll be able to help you."

"And I promise once I get my shit done, have money and everything, I'm gonna pay you back — "

"Hey, hey, hey." He cut you off. "Who said anything about paying me back? You don't have to do that, okay?"

"But I feel like this is all too much, like, there's this thing tying me to you."

"Is that a bad thing?" He asked.

"When it comes to money, yeah kinda. And you've bought me all kinds of stuff — "

"Y/n, just..." He sighed. "You don't have to do or say anything. You don't have to worry about paying me back and even if you will, I won't ever ever accept it. Can we leave it at that?"

You sighed in response, the little ding! right on time. "Yeah, okay."

By the time you got in the apartment, you practically ran towards your room because of how exhausted you were but before you could even open the door, there was one more thing you needed to do.

"Bucky?"

“Yes?”

"I-I'm sorry again about last night and no," he was about to do his face whenever he cuts you off, "please, don't cut me off, let me finish."

Bucky walked towards you, his back facing Peter's room.

"This is about what I said... when I asked you to, uh, kiss me. You were right to stop me. I was drunk, sad and vulnerable and the moment wasn't right. It wasn't right. I would have regretted it the next day and would be so ashamed to face you. I might actually avoid you for a month." You sighed. "I'm really sorry you had to see that side of me. A kiss at that moment would be really inappropriate. When we — if we ever do, um, it wouldn't be like that... just like what you said. You said that right? You said, and I quote, not like this. 'Cause I keep hearing your voice saying that in my head." Bucky nodded, affirming it. "Okay. Um, yeah so in conclusion... I am sorry."

He slowly smiled, nodding his head. "You make a lot of speeches."

"Yeah, I'm the queen when it comes to it."

"And apology accepted, of course."

You warmed up with a smile. "Okay, thank you. Good night."

“Good night, doll."

Once you turned around, you felt a strong force on your arm, spinning your body which then collided with Bucky's, together with his lips crashing on yours.

It was like an impulse you couldn't avoid: for you to close your eyes, to move your lips in his rhythm, and to savor his breath. He tasted like cold champagne, and mint, with a hint of coffee. His lips, luscious, warm and soft; you were afraid of tearing them apart with your teeth. He kissed you with all the fervor of a lover. A lover talked about in books, movies, in fairytales.

Bucky's hands found their way around your hips, pulling you closer towards his body, while you rested yours on the sides of his face, pulling every inch of him, craving more of him. Slowly, you opened your eyes and tore your faces only an inch apart, foreheads touching. Lips empty but still hungry. You stayed right where you were; You never dared move an inch and so did he. You were still like statues. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of your breathing.

Bucky's hands slid from your waist. You felt his fingers on the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing your lower lip and giving it a small, passionate kiss.

"Just like this, doll." He whispered. "Just like this."

[fandom-writer642]

Stone Skipping Final Part

Summary: The Batfamily has always been so crazy that no one notices the silent sister. She’s made her way through college with no one else realizing, sometimes forgetting about her completely. How many times can she bounce back before sinking?

Warnings: Angst?

Request: Part one wasn’t.

Pairing?: Family; Batfamily x Sister! Reader a small bit of Bart Allen x Reader at the end.

———

The CCPD was calmer than normal, no crimes from any of the rouges but it could not be said by some of the other cities in the country. Work was simple, a catch up day of reports for most. (Y/n) Wayne was looking through a few cases that were thought to be linked. She had been working for the CCPD for the past two years, starting the job in her last year of college.

It had been five years since Damian and her moved to Central City. Damian worked as a veterinarian not too far, though (Y/n) said he would’ve been a good asset to the Police Department as a detective. Both left the lives they lived in Gotham behind, not wanting to go back. They may be the biological heirs to the company but they knew Tim could handle it just fine. Neither (Y/n) or Damian ever made a move to talk to their dad or brothers. Alfred was the only one allowed to stay with them.

"(Y/n), there are two men asking to talk to you," an officer stated.

"What are their names? Because if it's my dad or brother's I don't want to speak with them."

The guy nodded and walked away to go talk to the pair that wanted to talk to her. Quickly she compared fingerprints and weapons from a recent case to one that happened a few months back. The crimes were very similar, too similar in the way they were planned, they had to be connected in some way or shape.

“(Y/n), they said their names were Bart Allen and Jon Kent. Do you still want them to come in?”

A smile graced the young woman’s face and she nodded, “Yes right away.”

Jon, Bart, Damian and (Y/n) were all close friends. They helped each other out and helped each other through school. More often than that they just hung out like normal people and lived normal lives. Inside jokes and random visits were a normalcy among the group, not one falter was possible between them. (Y/n) was going to guess that the man was new to the station since everyone knew who Jon and Bart were. Looking up as two figures she stood up sharply a glare in her eyes. Now she was certain the man was new or paid off, no one would let those two in to talk to her. It was common knowledge that the (Y/n) and Damian Wayne didn't talk to the rest of their family and everyone knew who was in the group.

She tapped her bracelet that went unnoticed at the sight of the two. Damian would come as soon as possible, as would Bart and Jon. She needed to get away from these two, now.

"Sit down sis, we just want to chat."

"There is nothing to chat about Timothy. Why did you and Richard come? You know I want nothing to do with Gotham or the rest of our family. So why are you two bothering me while I'm clearly working?"

Both men frowned at her, "Look we just wanted to apologize about-"

"About what?” (Y/n) cut off. She was well aware that her co-workers were getting ready to move the two young men if needed. “About forgetting my existence for all the time you’ve known me? Only showing you cared when I left for Central? Richard, Timothy, if you wanted anytime to apologize then it should have been soon after I left. It’s been five years, not five weeks, five years. I’ve made a life for myself and so has Damian, we don’t plan on leaving our new lives.

“If you wished to apologize then go ahead apologize, that doesn’t mean a I’ll be forgiving you for what you did. You can talk to Damian, that is if he doesn’t punch you first.” She nodded as she looked past the two and to her friends and little brother. None of them looked happy, in fact Damian looked ready to murder both of them, Tim mostly.

“Honestly, don’t you remember when we skipped stones?” Dick tried to get to her. All he got was a blank look and a nod. “We had fun and we were siblings.”

“The key words in that sentence are had and were. Dick, you have no right to come here and make sure she talks to you.”

Dick looked at Bart in surprise of what came out of the young speedster’s mouth. Jon nodded in agreement and Damian was faster than you could blink. One second he was next to Jon and the next he was in front of Tim. The only things holding back were his morals and Jon’s grip on his arm.

“(Y/n) we can remove them from the premises if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary Captain. I’m sorry for the disruption, may I leave early?”

“Of course.”

The woman packed her things and grabbed Tim’s and Dick’s arms before dragging them out with her three boys behind her, all chuckling in amusement. Soon they reached a small diner where the six got a table.

“Why are you two here?” (Y/n) questioned. She looked Tim dead in the eye and he couldn’t help but remember the night she had left, the day right before Damian’s graduation. Dick couldn’t believe how much his sister had grown from when he last saw her on Christmas about six or seven years back.

“We wanted to talk,” Dick replied, he was trying hard to stay calm but couldn’t as Jon sat next to him, giving him pointed glares.

Damian rolled his eyes from across Jon, “Well, we’re talking. You better say what you need to by the time this early dinner ends. We have places to be.”

“The winter festival,” Tim guessed. “We know what you four have been up to for the past few years. You all volunteer at homeless shelters, help out where ever your needed, only as your civil identities. You four are like everyday heroes that help with the small stuff.”

“While that is all correct, why have you been keeping tabs on us in the first place?” Damian questioned, his eyes zeroed in on the older men.

Dick shrugged, “Wanted to make sure our little siblings are well and safe.”

The two Waynes scoffed and rolled their eyes, glancing down at the menus. They both doubted that was the reason why they tried to corner (Y/n) at her job. The waitress took their drink orders and hurried off but the tension still stood.

“Look, why are you really here? What could you possibly know?”

“Enough,” Tim said causally. “Damian’s a veterinarian, not that I’m surprised by that. You’re a forensic sciencetist, that was a little startling seeing as you went to medical school. Jon’s a journalist like Clark, one of the best actually which is surprising, I always remembered you as a goof ball. Bart is also a scienctist that specializes in physics. All four of you live in Central City, right across the hall from each other in fact. (Y/n) and Damian live in the same apartment that the had moved into and Jon and Bart live as roommates right around the hall. However, Jon and Damian spend more time with each other while Bart and (Y/n) spend more time with each other. Should we be worried about that?”

“Should you even care?” Bart snapped. “These are our personal lives and no offense Drake, we don’t want you in it. You had your shot and you missed it.”

“Look, we just want to set a new play field,” Dick began. “We don’t have to be friends though we’d prefer it. We know being siblings is out of the question so friends?”

“Acquaintances,” Damian spoke up. “We’ll see about friends in the future but we’re acquaintances. I don’t forgive you for what you’ve done and by the look in (Y/n)’s not forgiving you guys either.”

“Damian’s correct, I don’t forgive you and nor will I be your friend at this time. We will only be acquaintances and nothing more. I have not intention on being your sister in any time.”

The six sat in silence, a little less tension than before. Soon after dinner was over they went their separate ways. Though Dick and Tim were not Damian and (Y/n)’s siblings and would never be, perhaps becoming friends would be better. The pair went back to Gotham and informed everyone of what had happened, no one was overly pleased. The group of four however enjoyed the rest of their evening laughing and talking all happy that the festival was taking place.

There were things that had changed over the past five years like stones being skipped.

First, Damian stopped being so serious and stiff. He would talk, laugh, and joke like most people his age would. He enjoyed his life as he lived it and didn’t insult people unless they deserved it. The press and media saw the change of the Past Gotham Prince and people saw him as he had truly become. A young man with a love for animals who was actually a truly caring person that would help anyone and everyone.

Second, (Y/n) had let her emotions take more control over her thoughts and actions than she normally had. She was able to help as many people as she could both in and out of her job. She was great at her job and people seemed to recognize her as more than just a silent and pretty face. She was a smart woman and was ready for most anything and to help those who needed it. She wasn’t Gotham City’s princess anymore but a Central City Hero.

Third, Jon had indeed moved to Central City and followed Clark’s footsteps as he became one of the best journalists known around the nation. He gave his adoptive parents a run for their money as he wrote and got his stories published. His powers helped him, especially his super hearing which could pick up most conversations that he wanted to hear. He was a favorite in Central City for his writing, it was something that surprised those closest to him but he had a natural talent for it.

Fourth, Bart gave up the superhero gig and started a normal life. He’d get called in about once every year for an extreme emergency and that was all he’d listen to. He didn’t have an easy job as a physicist as it was a complicated task but he enjoyed it none the less. He was one of the best in the city.

Fifth, Bart and (Y/n) had gotten together, but they didn’t go public. Last thing they wanted was for the press and media to find out so they just acted like good friends in front of people. It hasn’t changed the group’s dynamic at all, they were all great friends and that would never stop.

They had changed into people they never thought they would be. All four were happy, glad to have each other and glad to have left.

“Stone skipping?” Damian asked as they got hot chocolate.

“I was naive, thought it was fun. I liked to see how far I could get it to skip before sinking.”

The group smiled and joked around, teasing each other as the winter festival brought joy to everyone there. Even so, Damian couldn’t help but think that people themselves were like skipping stones, they could only go so far before they sunk to their lowest point. It was only a matter of time before someone went to pick them back up again and test how far they could go once again and doing better than before, perhaps even reaching the goal that was set. It was a never ending cycle and he couldn’t help but smile even more as he realized that his sister was like an embodiment of that cycle.

———

Note: I don’t know why, but writing the last part made me very emotional. When writing this chapter I realized what Damian had and I hope I’ve entertained you! You can message me request if you want me to write something but I hope you all have a good day and enjoyed what I wrote. Also shoutout to @lizlil for being so kind and writing what she had. But shoutout to everyone that liked the story or commented on them.

[ciucalata]

Oh dear Ciuucalata (I'd like to call you Elena or Ellie but I'm not sure you are comfortable with strangers doing so) won't you divulged the sacred knowledge of how to write a fic and be able to finish it?

Ooh dw i love it when people call me by my name, or ellie, but ciuucalata is okay too i don’t mind!!

Finishing fics is really hard, my dude. And i say this as i look at my 18 wips, some of which will never be finished unfortunately. Maybe I am not the best person to answer this but I will try to help however i can. At least you will learn fron my mistakes and know what not to do lmao

First, i think it’s important to focus on one project at a time. This is mainly my biggest problem, i start a fic and somehow along the way i get an idea for another fic. I start the new fic, then i get a new idea and so on. One project at a time is a totally reachable goal. If you get a new idea, just write down the main things you already have for it so you don’t lose it and you can return to it once your current project is finished. Of course, this depends from one person to another, some people work better when they have more than one work in progress, but I do think it’s important to not have too many. Two of three are an okay number, but more than that can be overwhelming, in my opinion.

Second, try writing the parts you are excited for, whether they are in cronological order or not (or in a different chapter if we’re talking about a multichap). Write down every bit of dialogue or narration or description that come to your mind. Write outlines if that is your thing, write only the dialogue to keep it flowing, write whatever you want first be it the beginning, some random part in the middle or the end. That’s the beauty of writing: it has no set rules and you can do whatever you want. Unfortunately, once you have those parts down, there is still the hard bit where you have to go back and write the in-between parts to connect them. But just keep in mind that once you have those finished, your fic will be ready too. And wow, isn’t that amazing??

Third, if you don’t know how to start it, don’t just stare at the blank document. I know how hella frustrating that can be and trust me, it doesn’t help anyone no matter how hard you glare at it. Instead, before you open the doc, try to imagine the first scene and then translate it into words in your mind. I found that this helps me a lot and once i have the first sentence, or at least a few words in mind for the beginning, the rest just come on their own. I once wrote more than 1k in a sitting like this.

Fourth, I think it’s really important to keep being excited about your wip. Personally, i like talking with my friends about it or share parts with them so they can read it and then we can just start screaming about it (man i love my friends they’re too good for me @friends i love and appreciate u guys thanks for being in my life even if i suck sometimes). If you don’t like sharing your writing before it’s done, then just ask them if they can help you brainstorm for the fic. Two(or more) heads at work are better than one.

Fifth, and the most important i think, don’t beat yourself over the fic if you reach a part that’s blocking you. Accept that sometimes that can happen, no one is a writing machine, and let it be for a while. Maybe try writing a little for another wip if you have more inspiration for it, or just take a break from writing, they’re honestly the best thing ever. It helps a lot, trust me. While writing a lot and being in the zone is an amazing feeling and you wanna keep going no matter what, breaks can be just as great and helpful. Live your life a little, socialize with friends/family, go to a coffeeshop and treat yourself to your favorite thing there bc you deserve it damn it, or read a book. Reading helps you with your writing, too. Whatever you do, enjoy yourself (and yeah, you can keep thinking about your writing if you want, but no negativity here!! I will personally materialize wherever you are and beat that negativity for you with love ofc) and you’ll find that when you go back to writing after the break, however long or short it is, the words come easier or you’ll realize why you couldn’t get past that scene. Oh, and about this, I remember once reading a post here somewhere on tumblr that if you’re stumped with your writing, the problem is 10 sentences before (and damn that’s hella true i can guarantee you that).

Sixth(god this is already so long i’m sorry), don’t be afraid to delete stuff, even if it’s a super long part or something that you really like. Sacrifices must be made so that you can keep moving forward. It’s hard, i know, and it will break your heart a little everytime bc all the words you write are important to you, but you have to kill them(joking just save them in a different doc bc who knows? maybe you’ll need them later or for something else). Sometimes you have to take a step backwards so that you can keep going.

And lastly, but not least, have fun!!!! Write stuff you want to read about, write stuff that only you care about(although the internet is such a big place there will be a lot of people who care about the same stuff you care about), write that au that has been already written for thousand of times (there’s a reason it’s such a popular au after all). Just love what you do and create, and don’t forget to take breaks when you think it’s too much. Also it’s normal to have negative thoughts about your writing, we all have them, just don’t let them control you. Talk to someone about it and you’ll feel a lot better both about yourself and your writing. Oh, and take your time!! We all have different writing speeds (and while comparing yourself with other writers is inevitable, don’t dwell too much on it, you are you, they are they and we’re all just doing our best here) so don’t rush things. The fandom you’re writing for will still be there when you’re done and you’ll still have people who will read your writing.

I’m sure i’ll come up with more stuff after i post this, but it’s already too long so i’ll stop here. I really really hope this helped you in some way, and hey if you need some cheerleading along the way, I’m here for ya 💕

[the-girl-without-a-face]

What do you think the Winter Soldier Trigger Words meanings are??( I've read different opinions on them and I'm curious to know yours )

Thanks for asking me this, sweety! I love those theories and that got me thinking for an hour here.

I think each and every word has something to do with Bucky’spast, either as James Buchanan Barnes and as the Winter Soldier.

As James B. Barnes/Bucky Barnes, he’s Steve’s friend, the boyfrom Brooklyn who enlisted into war to become the man that Sergeant Barnes is.

As the Winter Soldier, he’s HYDRA’S weapon, the man that wasdenied of choices about his life and body.

With that settled, I see the words as:

1) Longing: желание: as HYDRA never gave Bucky a choice upon becoming the WinterSoldier and we know for a fact that he kept remembering flashes and scenes fromhis life before them, longing means what he misses most, both his memories andhis life. In Portuguese, (for those who don’t know, I’m Brazilian) we have aword for that, “saudade”, which sorta means “to miss something” but more so thefeeling you get when you misssomething. As a summary, it represents the life that Bucky longs for.

2) Rusted: ржaвый:Bucky’s is a person, a human being, but with a metal arm, which I’m sure required maintenance quite regularly. Maybeeven Bucky needed a session once upon some time to keep him ‘obedient’, as withthe chair.

3) Seventeen: Семнадцать: it’s the year Bucky was born, March 10th,1917. Plus, the year of the Russian Revolution.

4) Daybreak: Рассвет: means a new beginning, right? So a newbeginning for HYDRA with a brand new ‘weapon’. You are to be the new fist of HYDRA. Also, a new start for Bucky asthe Winter Soldier and through every time he’s taken out of cryo and given neworders, new missions.

5) Furnace: Печь. I searched the meaning of this word so I couldgive you something better than “a description of HYDRA, like a living hell forall of its prisoners”, but what I found was “an enclosed structure inwhich material can be heated to very high temperatures, e.g., for smeltingmetals.” So I stick with what I said.

6) Nine: Девять: is the number of heads the mystical beast which is thesymbol of HYDRA has. Also, 1939 was the year that WWII began. HYDRA put itselfinto the trigger words so Bucky would be forever marked. 

7) Benign: добросердечный: In order to maintain a safe environmentfor whoever is saying the words? The words are kind of top secret, kept in asafe in a super hidden HYDRA base in Siberia, so it’s be pretty bad for HYDRAas a whole to lose this person.

8) Homecoming: возвращение на родину: I see homecoming as whereBucky wants to go but can’t, at the same time that HYDRA plans that the WinterSoldier is ‘home’ when he has a blank mind (which I’m assuming happens from thefifth word on).

9) One: Один: We know that Zola’s experiments were all failuresat first and that Bucky was the first to survive (which is why we see Zolaarguing with Schmidt about destroying the fabric in Azzano and then he runs tocollect the notes he made with Bucky). Yes, other Winter Soldier came along,but Bucky was the first. I assume that the trigger words were some of the firstthings HYDRA tried to forge into Bucky, so they could control him at any time.

10) Freight car:грузовой вагон:this was the last thing ever experienced by James Buchanan Barnes before HYDRAtransformed him into the Winter Soldier. It’s the last word because it meansthe end of the life that he had and that that life is dead (as he should havebeen if Zola hadn’t experimented on him in Azzano) and the birth of the WinterSoldier.

Extra: if we take all the numbers in thetrigger words, 17, 9 and 1, we have 1917 once again. HYDRA is Russian, right?