#sends my entire fucking brain and nervous system in alert

[magnoliamyrrh]

.

[angelicspaceprince]

Keeping Warm

Author: Ama

Title: Keeping Warm

Pairing: Zhuk/Reader

Character/s: Zhuk

Word Count: 2, 541 words

Warnings: Smut (18+ only please), cockwarming, public sex, train sex, 

Prompt: Zhuk wanted to show you all the sights and sounds of his home country of Russia, but you definitely was not expecting what he has in store for you today.

Notes: So. Yes. Ok. I may have. A small problem. And addiction. To this sorta thing. Translations for long pieces of Russian is at the bottom of the post in order of appearance. Enjoy.

Buy Me a Coffee

Keeping Warm

The fact that you were in Russia, visiting Zhuk’s home, was incredible to you. Yes, it was right before the cold snap of winter, but everything was gorgeous. Every sight, every sound, everything Zhuk had to show you was incredible. Saint Petersburg, Red Square, the City of the Dead, the Dancing Forest, even Muromtzevo Castle. Zhuk wanted to show you every part of his homeland as possible, holding you close as he zapped you to a new location each day.

Which is why it surprised you that he insisted that today you needed to take the train.

You didn’t mind, even though it was freezing and he insisted on you wearing his favourite dress that barely covered your ass rather than pants, you just thought the entire situation was….well. A little off to say the least.

The train was packed. Even before you climbed in. You turned to look at Zhuk, almost in a pleading fashion. Wouldn’t it just be easier for him to transport you there? He simply chuckles and pushes you forward, hand on the base of your back as you enter the carriage. Zhuk, somehow, managed to procure a seat for himself, having you stand up in front of him. That really should have been your first clue that something was wrong.

The train hadn’t even started moving before Zhuk grabbed the lapels of your coat and tugged you into his lap. It wasn’t an uncommon location for you to be in, in fact, it was pretty much your guaranteed seat at the manor. Hell, he’d even have you sit in his lap during smaller meetings. That you were used to. But this? In public? With what you were wearing? It wasn’t a place you were 100% sure you wanted to be.

You shift into his lap until you’re comfy, looking up to see his lips turned into an amused smirk, amber eyes glinting, almost as if he was plotting. “Malysh, come closer?” He requests, his amused look not changing for even a second. “I’m cold.”

“Thought you’d be used to the cold weather by now.” You tease as you shuffle forward slighl-

Oh.

Oh.

So that was his game.

You look up at him at the feeling of his very hard, leaking cock that had made its way out of his pants and was pressed up against you, your brain piecing together why he wanted you in that short dress. And why he requested you go panty-less, a request you firmly denied. A decision you stood by even in the current situation.

He returns your look, his hands moving to reach your waist from under your coat, rubbing his hands up and down your sides in a soothing motion. The elderly woman across from you coos before speaking to Zhuk in rapid Russian, him simply smiling and returning her comment smoothly. You barely catch the words ‘is nervous’ and ‘isn’t used to the cold’, your Russian - although good enough to converse with - not good enough to follow the two speaking it so quickly.

You do catch her saying ‘what a good man you are, looking out for your wife’ and that nearly causes you to snort, having to hide your face against his neck. If only she could see that the ‘soothing motions’ were actually him pulling your dress up to your waist, his fingertips tracing over the lace of your panties. You don’t know how it happened, one second they were there, the next they were gone, but soon your bottom half was bare and you could feel the scratchy fabric of his trousers against your ass. His fingers skillfully, almost playfully, move to spread your folds and dance along your clit before slowly sliding inside of you, stretching you, preparing you. You don’t know how to respond, face red as you bite back gasps and small moans, much to his delight and enjoyment. You look up at him through your lashes, eyes wide as you murmur, “Zhuk, moy muzh,” shifting slightly in his lap, accidentally forcing his fingers deeper inside of you, causing a small jolt and grunt to fall from your lips. The look in his eyes is positively feral as he calmly lifts you up and pulls you flush against him before slowly lowering you onto his cock, slowly filling you up as you take him to the hilt. His strong arms wrap around you, keeping you pressed against his chest to stop you from moving.

“Keep me warm, moya zhena.” He purrs in your ear as your arms wrap around him, face pressed against his neck as you try to hold back small moans, feeling so incredibly full. Your hand briefly move to feel your stomach, causing you to whine softly into his shoulder when you feel him. Pulsing, throbbing, but most importantly, filling you and stretching you in a way no one else could. You press down just to see if it’d make you feel fuller, which it does and it causes you to whimper softly. What it also does, much to your surprise is cause Zhuk to let out the smallest, quietest, tiniest little moan, almost breathy, right in your ear. You freeze for a second, and in that second, you nearly forgot where you were. You try to go and press down on the bulge protruding out of your stomach slightly, only for a pair of hands to catch your wrists and tug them away before disappearing. “Behave.” The one word rumbles out from deep within his chest.

You somehow manage to settle, his arms having wrapped around you to the point he was able to rub at your hips gently. To the onlooker, it simply looked like the two of you were completely and utterly lost in one another, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, completely hidden by the thick fabric of your coats. But, in reality, you were struggling to remain quiet, remain discreet. Every so often, as the train went over a part of particularly bumpy track, Zhuk would jerk up into you before settling back down, it causing a sudden jolt of hot pleasure through your already sensitive system as you move to hide your red face against the collar of his coat, biting down on your lip to the point that, at some stage, you had caused it to bleed. Ever the gentleman (or as gentlemanly as one could be with his cock currently pressing against every sensitive spot inside of you), Zhuk calmly swipes away the few droplets of blood before swooping down to kiss the pain away, lips soft against yours as his tongue chases after the few drops he missed, closing the wound for you as he does so. As he pulls back, you feel his cool breath coast over your face, eyes having fluttered shut as you try to concentrate on his lips and him filling you and him healing you and just him in his entirety. His delicious, mischievous, sexy entirety. “Beregis', malen'kaya roza. My ne khotim, chtoby vy unichtozhili takoye prekrasnoye proizvedeniye iskusstva, verno? Eto moya rabota.” He purrs lowly and slowly, giving you a chance to translate the sentence into English, causing you to shudder.

“It’s your own fault.” You complain, moving to rest against his shoulder once more as he chuckles, enjoying the sensation of his vibrating chest against yours.

You settle back down and try to focus on anything. Anything other than the delicious stretch he was providing, anything other than how every so often either one of you would shift and it would send a large shiver down your spine as the fabric of his pants rubs against your clit, anything other than how you could feel him throb and pulse inside of you. Anything other than that incredibly hot growl he lets off every time you clench or squeeze around him, that one-word warning rumbling past his lips every single time that gets at you just enough for you to temporarily obey him. Anything other than the low vibrations that seem to be coming deep inside the train right up through Zhuk and inside of you, turning his cock into a low-setting vibrator. It feels good, too good, to have him fill you, stretch you, hold you flush against him. You can’t help the occasional whine or whimper that falls from your lips. You can almost feel his smirk every single time as a large hand palm at the bulge he has created and murmuring a soft ‘soon’ into your ear, a promise of what was soon to come.

Slowly, but surely, the carriage begins to empty. Each stop, several passengers disembark with very few boarding. Within thirty minutes, there is just you, the elderly lady who is knitting quietly opposite you and three other passengers to your left. At the next stop, they all leave, the elderly lady biding the both of you farewell as she goes, only Zhuk returning the goodbye.

The train takes off once more and you relax into his arms. Finally alone.

Zhuk, on the other hand, has very different plans. His grip on your waist tightens as he growls lowly, and then, without hesitation or mercy. Zhuk begins to fuck you.

You weren’t expecting a slow, romantic, love-making session, but the ferocity of how he takes you does surprise you slightly, your last brain cell melting from your mind with that thought as you cling to him, nails biting down into the black wool of his coat and teeth sinking in against his neck as you desperately try to muffle any sounds pouring from your throat as to avoid alerting the people in the next carriage.

You feel so full, in a way that only he’s ever been able to fill you, so completely and nearly to the brink of breaking point, him pressing against every little spot inside of you that makes your body tingle and light up with each thrust upwards into you. You’re not sure what it was, the fear of getting caught, the idea that you were in public, having sat on him for at least three-quarters of an hour before he started fucking you, the risk that at the next stop the carriage could fill up again, the time factor because of that fact, the rough cotton of his pants rubbing against your clit so deliciously, his low, rumbly voice with his own special kind of timbre murmuring small praises, mixes of Russian and English being quietly spoken into your ear, or a mix of them all, but your orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth-baring down to the point you are certain you’ve ripped fabric as you muffle your scream as you shudder and clench around him, causing him to groan lowly in your ear.

“Careful now, dragotsennyy.” He nips at your earlobe teasingly. “You do not want to get caught in such a compromising position, da?” You shake your head, trying to force yourself to stay quiet, barely able to hold back your small mewls as he continues to press up against you, your overly sensitive body both begging for more and for it to stop.

Quickly, his rhythm becomes sloppy, his thrusts become harsher and his grip on your hips grows tighter as he grunts quietly. You can tell that he’s close, his hands guiding you to rock up against him, your hands moving to cup his face and move his face in order to kiss him, your teeth clacking as your faces mash together in a desperate attempt to silence him as he groans lowly into your mouth, returning the kiss just as heatedly and as desperately.

Just as the automatic voice comes up to inform you of the incoming station, Zhuk’s hips stutter to a stop as he groans, a little too loud for comfort but thankfully no one next door seemed to notice. You roll your hips against him as he spills inside of you. You can feel his smirk against your lips as you sigh happily as your hips move to a stop, him kissing you softly once. Twice. Three times before he moves to nuzzle against your neck.

As a selection of new passengers enter the carriage as the train stops at the next stop, the sight that greets them is nothing more than sweet. You, having swung back around to sit properly in Zhuk’s lap, his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you close, your face beet red as the taller man hides his cocky smirk into the back of your neck. What they can’t see is you squeezing thighs together tightly to keep his cum from sliding down your legs and into the back of your coat or, God/Satan forbid, into the seat of Zhuk’s pants. You turn to murmur closer to his ears in the hopes that no one will overhear.

“Can I have my panties back please?” You don’t like the sound of his amused chuckle that comes from the back of his throat.

“No.” Comes his simple response, his arms squeezing around you for just a second. “The next stop is ours.” He says calmly.

“Zhuk.”

“Moya zhena.” He replies, amusement still evident in his voice, hands moving to tap at your thighs as the train starts to slow.

You sigh, knowing that there was no point in fighting it. You discreetly attempt to tug your skirt down lower from over your now buttoned-up coat, Zhuk already having pulled it down just past your ass when he helped you reposition earlier before you carefully slide off of his lap and awkwardly make your way to the doors, his hand rubbing the base of the back as you continue to attempt to keep as much of his cum inside of you, whimpering when you feel it slowly start to slide down your thighs.

The moment you step outside, you forget anything about your previous missing of not leaving a trail of white behind you as you spin to glare at your husband. “Zhuk.”

He looks down at you innocently. “Yes, zaika?” He asks innocently.

To your surprise, when you exit the train, you are back at the station you boarded on. You are tempted to slap him, tell him off, ignore him completely. Instead - “When can I have my panties back, you asshole?”

He smiles charmingly down at you, leaning down to kiss your lips chastely, a stark comparison as to what just occurred. “When we are back in our room.” He dismisses, his hand resting at the base of your back as he guides you towards the exit.

He’s lucky that you love him.

Translations:

In order of appearance:

Watch out, little rose. We do not want you to destroy such a beautiful work of art, right? That's my job.

[anthonyed]

Day 4 + 5: On A Date + Kissing

-//-

There was a time when Tony remembered things. Things like the time of the day, the date and the last time he’d eaten and showered. Right now though, his mind is a swamp of all things but miscellaneous.

The smell of burnt metal had sunk into his pore and become one with him. Which means, “Urgh.”

A light chuckle issues from somewhere within the four walls he’d trapped himself in and Tony straightens up, suddenly alert. His eyes scan around the wide area, for a while seeing nothing but wires and furniture and projects and projects and -.

“Steve!” He exclaims in delight, face helplessly splitting into a too wide grin. His skin tingles upon spotting the small bundle of perfection curled up in his favourite piece of furniture of all time; like a little cocoon of heaven carved especially for Tony because that is all he needs after his head finally stopped spinning with problems.

A soft purr satisfaction rumble in his chest as he rolls himself all the way across the work station to where his heaven’s situated, “Hey, Tony,” Steve greets when the chair comes to an end at the foot of the couch. He looks soft and warm, all wrapped up in Tony’s cosiest blanket which he keeps draped over the couch and he’s curled up with his sketchbook, pages open to a work in progress.

Tony stretches and pops his stiff joints with little happy sighs while Steve observes with a fond smile. “Finally came to Earth?” He asks once Tony’s done and Tony pokes his tongue at him impishly. His stomach rumbles then, betraying his mundanity and while Tony glares at it in disdain, Steve chuckles and holds up a plate of saran wrapped sandwich in his sight. “Eat,” he says while Dum-E rolls up, helpfully presenting a bottle of water.

Tony says his thank you to both of them and starts digging in. Halfway through his meal, he realizes that Steve’s staring and guiltily offers a bite to which Steve shakes his head, no, then keeps on staring until Tony’s nape prickles and he puts down the empty plate, starting on Steve with a full mouth, “Whu?”

Steve colours high on his cheeks and the tip of his ears, shaking his head as he ducks and laughs nervously. Tony takes him in and wishes he’s bestowed with the liberty to lean in and kiss Steve on the nose.

On the mouth, along his neck, down his chest, and – well, you get the gist.

Harrumphing, he gives a slight kick to Steve’s curled up legs and makes a face. “What?” He asks again after swallowing. When Steve looks up, he’s properly blushing, neck flushed red and he scratches the back of his head and says, “Nothing,” and then, “I should go.”

“Why?” Tony asks with a poorly suppressed whine. He’d just pulled out the zone and now Steve’s leaving? Already?

“Well…,” Steve trails off before pulling a breath and looking Tony straight in the eyes as if he’s trying hard not to burst a vein. “If I don’t go now, then I won’t make it for our date tonight,” He says softly. Too soft that Tony gulps the shock and replies with a dumb “Whu?”

Steve blinks, blue eyes searching and he looks like he’s panicking. Tony feels like he’s going to faint himself; two second away from smashing his face on the coffee table. His heart is racing, pulses jumping and he’s feeling uncomfortable hot. Throat dry and all.

“Our date.” Steve says faintly.

Tony swallows painfully, “Oh.” The fuck? “Right, of course.” What the actual fuck? “Our date. Which is at…,” He drags, hoping Steve will fill in but Steve doesn’t so he ends with, “Tonight. Clearly.” He huffs a nervous laughter. Play cool, play cool – Jesus.

“Chop, chop.” Tony chases him when Steve starts squinting suspiciously at him. “Hurry up and dress pretty. I like my date looking pretty.” He babbles, pushing Steve to the exit as his ears ring in panic. Steve blinks like a deer in the headlight; wide and adorable but wide – panic, wide. Tony winces. “Or just come like this, your wish. I like you anyway. That’s why we’re going on a date!” He finishes ceremoniously, hands thrown wide apart like ‘tada’ and he waves at Steve opening and closing his mouth like a gold fish on the other side of the glass door.

Dammit.

“Jarvis, pull up the shop’s footage from when Steve entered.” He orders between clenched teeth, grinning and waving as Steve boards the elevator and once their door closes, Tony’s grabbing for his hair and yanking. “Did I ask Steve out?”

“Yes, sir. At precisely five past four this evening.” JARVIS replies with a subtle peppiness to his tone which Tony squints at but ignores for the footage of himself sitting ram rod straight in the middle of the workshop surrounded by a sea of holo-screen and there’s Steve walking up to him with a plate of sandwich.

“Volume up, please,” Tony murmurs distractedly, zooming in to the two men on the screen. He watches unblinkingly and listens carefully to every word spoken; the usual reprimands for keeping long hours from Steve and Tony’s witty replies even in his zone-out stage – which is frankly, impressive, he knows, he’s been told before too.

Then the bickering leads to mild flirting until it isn’t mild anymore because Tony says something about; “Yeah sure, like you’d date me,” to Steve who not only looks offended but recovers quickly to retort a haughty, “Why wouldn’t I?”

To which then Tony says, “Seven o’clock today works for you, Cap?”

“Only if it’s Italian,” Steve smirks and Tony – Jesus Christ – leans so close into Steve’s space that on screen it looks very much like they’re kissing - which is no way, because Tony would remember such if something like that happened right? Like, come on! His life’s dream is to be with Steve and if he fucking forgets something so crucial like kissing Steve, he’s about to set himself on fire and send his arse straight to hell – and says something too soft to be registered by the system. And Steve appears to ask him something, again, too soft and Tony yanks hard at his hair in the present.

For a long time, he’s frozen. The footage plays until it stops and Tony’s looking at himself looking at the footage on the screen. It’s JARVIS who interrupts his state, clearing throat like a through gentle-AI, “Sir, may I take the liberty to remind you that you have date with Captain Rogers in exactly thirty minutes from now.”

“Oh fuck.” Tony expresses faintly, feeling extremely light headed as disbelief clouds every single section in his brain. But, in for a penny and all that right?

Right.

“I have a date.” He stands up. “With Steve.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Then louder and clearer, he repeats, shaking off the disbelief. “I have a date with Steve Rogers.”

“In 29 minutes -,”

“JARVIS!”

“Glad to be of service sir.”

-

A quick shower and a brief meltdown in the closet after, Tony’s about as ready as he can be to a date he doesn’t remember asking but has every bit dreamed of. To make things worse, Steve looks utterly delectable.

“Hey,” He says, as if he’s not melting Tony on his feet looking like he does in a form fitting navy dress shirt. He got a blazer on his arm and a nervous look in his baby blue eyes, “Not sure if I need a jacket or not.”

Tony wants to whip him back upstairs, straight to his bedroom and strip him naked. You don’t need anything, “You’re perfect.”

Steve blushes and Tony inhales sharply, making sure that he’s still grounded and not up in the air, floating.

Tony takes Steve to that one place he’d never taken anyone to before; the one place that exists in his memories only because it’s where Maria used to take him to when Tony does well in his exams.

It’s stuffy, there is way too many tables in a too small space but never is it ever crowded. The walls are decorated with tasteless vintage photos and art pieces. The entire place is run by a pair of too old Italian couple; the husband runs the kitchen whilst the wife takes care of the customers and neither of them speaks English. Tony absolutely adores it.

Steve’s taken aback the moment he enters the place, but Tony reminds himself that if anyone can see the beauty of this place and appreciate it as much as he does, it’s Steve.

It’s why he decided to bring him here. It was as clear as the day the minute he asked himself; fuck, where do I take him – and Tony had just known.

And he was right. Two minutes after, Steve is glowing with the light of discovery, gushing, “I love this place,” and Tony hasn’t even showed him the best part yet. He waits until he’d placed their orders, tongue rolling smoothly in fluent Italian as he kisses Elena and asks for permission while Steve observes with an unfamiliar intensity in his eyes.

Manuel usually takes some time to whip up the orders. Although Tony had asked Elena a favour and reserved the entire place for only them, it still isn’t going to make Manuel any quicker on his old bones and creaky joints. So he stands up and offers a hand, palm side up, to Steve who takes it with an interest and follows as Tony wordlessly leads him behind the counter and up an immediate staircase hidden in the corner.

It’s a spiral iron staircase that is too narrow for even a perfectly standard sized male body like Tony’s. But Elena is petite and Tony knows for a fact that she still uses it because she had just said so. Confidently, albeit a little anxious because he can’t help it – he’s on a date with Steve! – Tony pushes open the old wooden door and steps out into the rooftop of the three storey building.

The evening breeze is pleasantly cool for a summer evening and Steve’s hand in his is deliciously warm in contrast. Tony closes his eyes for a brief second and relishes it before he turns to regard Steve.

Steve’s looking at him and only him; singularly focused, uncaring of the bright orange night sun that’s too stubborn to slip past the horizon or the cooing birds in the distant. Uncaring that even by Tony’s standard, this is the most beautiful roof top scenery he’d ever seen in his entire life – with potted plants and their blossoming flowers surrounding them - and right then, Tony feels incredibly privileged to feel the heat of Steve’s gaze on his face.

He wonders what Steve sees though, as he squeezes his hand in his. His own eyes dart all over Steve’s handsome face, searching, and he decides he’ll just ask him. But the moment he parts his lips, words ready on the tip of his tongue, Steve decides to speak.

“You’re stunning.” He says, stepping closer. Tony holds his place and lets Steve curl a hand around his neck, thumb pressing gently over his pulse point, caressing. “I could paint you like this” he murmurs, letting go of Tony’s hand to trace a curve over Tony’s ear and back before he fits the heel of his palm under Tony’s jaw, gently nudging Tony’s chin up and when he steps in impossibly close; both of their breaths intermingling; hot and heady, their foreheads touch.

“Tell me I can kiss you?” Steve’s breath brushes over Tony’s lips, his mouth barely an inch away from slotting perfectly with Tony’s and it aches to wait, hurts to even breathe out a ‘yes’ but Tony manages. Daze as he fascinates himself with the curl of Steve’s fair lashes and the ridiculously gorgeous golden way they glow under the sun.

He can point the precise second – down to millisecond - when Steve’s lips meet his. He knows he’ll remember it by the way his heart stutters and jump circuits, and the exact pressure, in mmhg, with which Steve’s fingers press into his skin and pulls him closer. The exact temperature and the direction of the wind; Tony knows.

He knows, but all those details blur out in the back of his head like a swirl of paint dropped into a jar of water. They’re present, but insignificant to the greater details of how Steve feels against him, his body temperature, the hitch in his breath, the way he kisses – him, him and all him. Nothing else.

Tony drowns, willingly helpless, into Steve and Steve, he drinks him in.

The sun is red when they finally resurface and realise that there are things more interesting around them and only each other. But still, Tony thinks Steve’s the most of them; the most interesting, the most brilliant, and all.

It’s that giddy love-stupid brain of him, fuelled by all those happy hormones yada, yada - he knows. But he doesn’t care as he intertwines Steve fingers with his and giggles. He’s been in enough relationships to know that this high will fade in time, but right this second, he’s happy and is unapologetic about it, because it’s Steve and Steve likes him enough to go on a date with. To kiss him, and well, Tony’s over the moon.

He hasn’t even shown Steve Maria’s favourite blossom before Elena’s curious head pops out. Reluctantly, he leads Steve back downstairs for their dinner, marvelling how for the first time in forever, Manuel’s faster than him. He tells Steve that; about Manuel and Elena and about those potted plants and one of them which Maria loves the most. He tells him about Maria and Steve takes his hand, asks Tony if they can come back again.

“Next year, same place, same time.” Tony jokes, but not really. Eyes anxiously searching for Steve’s and relief floods in when Steve smiles in that mischievous way he does when he’s up for the challenge and is bloody sure he is going to win it.

Love-high fades, Tony knows. But the love itself, that he feels for Steve? That is staying because it’s stayed for years now and it hasn’t gone anywhere. He knows Steve like the back of his hand, knows him and loves him with all of his heart, so with utmost confidence, he says; “It’s a date.”

[antialiasis]

The War of the Worlds

So after seeing that live War of the Worlds concert the other day, I started getting curious about the book. I was interested in exactly how faithful of an adaptation the album was, plus just feeling a little uncultured for considering myself a fan of this classic story without being more than very vaguely familiar with the actual book. So I decided to do something about that.

I started by just going on Wikipedia (hence that H. G. Wells quote I posted the other day) and reading the plot summary to get the basic gist of how it might be different. The plot summary featured passages like “Now in a deserted and silent London, he begins to slowly go mad from his accumulated trauma, finally attempting to end it all” and “The narrator continues on, finally suffering a brief but complete nervous breakdown, which affects him for days”, which made me think that aaactually maybe I should just read it, particularly after feeling a great kinship with the author after reading that quote that I posted. And luckily, it’s in the public domain and freely available online.

Overall, I enjoyed it a lot, actually more than I expected. The War of the Worlds came out in 1897, and like a lot of people, I can’t help but feel sort of instinctively prejudiced against books written that long ago - I expect something kind of stuffy and unrelatable, rooted in the values and concerns of a bygone, alien era. The War of the Worlds, somewhat ironically, is not alien in that way at all. Human society may have changed over the course of the past 120 years (120 years!), but the basic emotions and instincts of human beings are the same as always, and The War of the Worlds is an intensely human novel - more than the activities of the Martians per se, it’s about human reactions to the invasion, the narrator’s harrowing emotional journey through his encounters with the Martians, how the people he meets cope with the horrors that are happening, the dawning realization that humanity is powerless to stop this alien apocalypse.

In other words, it’s also my kind of novel, and it’s delightful to me to see just how similar this is to the sorts of things modern authors write about analogous situations - the sorts of things I might write. There’s even a bit that presses my buttons pretty hard: The narrator is holed up with a curate (the book equivalent of Parson Nathaniel) who is slowly losing his mind and has started shouting and raving in a way that’s set to alert the Martians outside to their presence. After trying desperately in vain to get him to be quiet, the narrator, “fierce with fear”, grabs for a meat cleaver on the wall and leaps after the curate, then, “with a last touch of humanity”, turns it around to strike him unconscious with the butt of it instead. A man desperate to survive after weeks of unending horrors is driven almost to horrific murder with pure, animalistic terror, but can’t actually do it? Yes, please. This is totally what I would write into a story about a Martian invasion, and 120 years ago H. G. Wells wrote the same thing, because humans and the fascination with the outer edges of human psychology in extreme, horrifying situations transcends time and culture.

That being said, it is of course obvious in the framing of the novel that it’s set and written in the 1890s, and that’s pretty fascinating too. I noticed particularly how much communication has changed - in the novel the Martians have murdered a party of scientists and set a large area on fire days before the news starts to spread that okay, there are Martians and they’re hostile and this is kind of a big deal. A man sends a telegram to London about it, but is dead before they telegram him back to confirm, and when they get no response, they shrug and figure it’s a hoax. It seems incredible to read about people going about their lives normally the day after an alien mass murder, simply because they’ve only heard vague third-hand stories if that and none of it seems terribly real. It’s unthinkable in the modern world to imagine information spreading at such a slow, human pace - it really makes you appreciate how much the world has changed in that respect.

In other places, the novel is simply scientifically dated, in delightfully quaint ways. Everything about Mars in it is of course wild speculation from long before we’d gone to space or knew much of anything about Mars: Wells posits that its red color is the color of its native vegetation, for instance. The Martians themselves have evolved to sustain themselves simply by injecting the blood of other creatures into their own veins, and this completely removes their need for a digestive system, allowing them to consist almost entirely of brain. And the narrator asserts that this (along with their asexual reproduction) is what causes the Martians to experience no emotions - because human emotions come from the digestive and sexual organs, and would simply disappear if we were to evolve to discard those organs! The way it’s described sounds very logical, and it must have seemed totally reasonable at the time, but it’s pretty amusing for a modern reader.

That speculative aspect is often really interesting, though, and it was fun to see how much more of that background the novel has than Jeff Wayne’s adaptation (understandably). I was not at all expecting an explanation for why the Martians would decide to feed on humans specifically rather than other animals, but that’s in there: the Martians brought in their cylinders the corpses of a couple of Martian animals which coincidentally happen to be bipedal and fairly similar to humans in size, and it is subsequently deduced that these must be their primary native food source. They simply regarded humans as the most edible-looking creatures on Earth, the same way we’d probably feel most comfortable eating a bulky, quadrupedal alien resembling cows or sheep than one whose basic form looks more like a human or an insect. It takes a standard weird trope that your average person would just shrug and accept and explains it to make perfect sense - beautiful.

In the musical version there is a moment where the narrator mentions the Martians have long since eliminated bacteria from their planet, obviously in order to set up the ending; I’d often heard the ending referred to as one of the most infamous examples of a deus ex machina, so I wondered if the novel had had no such setup at all, but it actually sets it up even more extensively, in two separate chapters (once when discussing the biology of the Martians in detail, from which the line in the musical is taken, and also in a different chapter where the narrator explains that the Martian red weed would eventually be killed off by microbes).

(Really, the ending is fucking awesome and I will fight you on this. The whole point of the novel is how for all of humanity’s arrogance and what they consider awesome weaponry, they can barely touch these superpowered invaders, but the Martians’ own arrogance and reliance on their superior technology is their downfall in the end - they’ve rendered their own bodies frail and defenseless against these invisible threats that they simply forgot existed and never accounted for (or never knew; the novel also suggests maybe bacteria never even evolved on Mars), which we humans are protected from because of our evolutionary history of struggling with disease and developing defenses against it. It is not an authorial asspull to save the day on any level at all; it’s carefully foreshadowed and exactly thematically appropriate and makes perfect sense within the established premises of the novel and is generally one of the best endings of anything ever. Putting it in the same category as lazy “but then a contrived coincidence/power pulled out of nowhere/conveniently arriving character fixed everything” resolutions is pretty ridiculous.)

Of course, since at the outset I had wanted to examine how Jeff Wayne’s musical version had adapted the novel, I was also looking out for that. The adaptation is all in all quite faithful to the basic story; the actual core storyline of the Martian invasion is pretty much identical aside from being compacted, with most of the narrator’s lines closesly adapted from the novel as direct or near-direct quotes (where changed, they’re usually cutting out detail or slightly simplifying the language).

There are mainly two major changes. In the novel, the narrator never goes to London himself until the end; instead, there are a couple of chapters from the point of view of the narrator’s younger brother, a medical student in London (still written in the narrator’s voice, though, since in-universe he’s writing this account after the fact, relaying what his brother described to him). The brother is there for the panic when (several days into the invasion) the government calls for an evacuation of London, and then eventually gets on a steamer out of the country, from which he witnesses the HMS Thunder Child’s valiant last stand. These chapters feel a little out of place, and the introduction of several new characters to tell this part of the story who then simply disappear is fairly extraneous and doesn’t get the reader terribly invested, so it’s definitely a solid and sensible choice in the adaptation to simply remove the brother and have the narrator be in London and witness the Thunder Child chapter himself. Since he’s obviously not going to be on the boat getting out of England himself, though, to get the listener invested in the fate of the steamer, Jeff Wayne instead puts the narrator’s girlfriend/fiancée Carrie and her father on the boat - with them also providing his reason to go to London to begin with. In the novel, the narrator is married and lives with his wife near where the first Martian cylinder lands; after they turn out to be hostile and dangerous, he leases a horse-carriage to take his wife to safety in the town of Leatherhead and then comes back alone to return the carriage, which is how they get separated. He then spends the rest of the novel worrying for her safety and wanting to get to Leatherhead to find her again. This setup is a bit complex, and all in all I think the musical version made a good call in simplifying it to one that’s easily comprehensible with much less dialogue; it does create an interesting difference in the narrator’s situation during the second act, though, as in the musical version he knows that Carrie made it to safety, while in the novel he believes his wife to possibly if not probably be dead until they both meet again in the epilogue.

The other major change is in the narrator’s dealings with the curate/Parson Nathaniel. In the novel, the narrator meets the curate, a young man, shortly after escaping from the fighting machines and being separated from the artilleryman, and they spend weeks together, first traveling and then trapped in an abandoned house after a cylinder lands on top of it. The curate is cowardly, indecisive and grows increasingly agitated and incoherent, and he is in a constant conflict with the narrator for most of this time. His character is frustrating, pitiful but starts to border on despicable, a man reduced to a gibbering, animalistic mess selfishly hogging food and recklessly endangering the narrator and himself with inane ramblings.

Parson Nathaniel in the musical adaptation, however, is a more genuinely pitiable figure. The narrator only comes across him shortly before the cylinder lands on the house they take shelter in; he sounds much older than in the book, and he has a wife, Beth, who he deliriously believes to be one of the devils here to claim the earth for Satan. His religious philosophy, while deranged, feels much more coherent than that of the curate in the book, and ultimately he comes across as much more of a sympathetic and tragic figure. That’s likely the root of why this change was made - the curate in the book is desperately unlikeable, which mostly fuels the narrator’s conflict with himself and the long, grueling setup culminating in that desperate moment of nearly killing him. Obviously I’m a fan of that part, but it would’ve been very hard to do that setup in a way that would actually work in the musical version, and making the parson’s desperation and misguided faith into the focus for that part instead makes a lot of sense. It helps that “The Spirit of Man” is one of the best songs on the album.

(Interestingly, the outtakes on the Collectors’ Edition include some voice outtakes with a much younger-sounding parson who is much closer to the curate’s character in the book and seems to match his role much more closely, with more direct or near-direct quotes from the book. The change to the parson’s character must have happened fairly late in the development of the album, then - after they started recording vocal work. I’m pretty interested in the story here and how they developed the final version of “The Spirit of Man”.)

The addition of his wife Beth is a less obvious choice, and even before I read the book it felt a little weird how unceremoniously she was disposed of in the musical version. Part of me thinks she may have been added in part just to get one female voice on this album - the book contains basically no real female characters with significant speaking parts whatsoever. That lack isn’t too glaring in the book - there are very few characters with significant speaking roles to begin with - but it’s still reasonable to want to patch it up a little in a more modern adaptation. But her role is also as an optimistic, hopeful contrast to the parson’s apocalyptic ravings, which the narrator probably couldn’t have provided in the same way after everything he’s seen. And the parson’s relationship with her develops him a bit more and adds to his tragic nature - she’s his wife, so they must have loved each other once upon a time, but this alien apocalypse has driven him to believe she’s in league with the Satan himself, and even when she dies he only channels his anguish into his nonsensical convictions. Beth is the only character who remains steadfastly hopeful and urges sanity and reason - in the book, the narrator remarks that seeing the curate’s descent into madness tightened his grip on his own sanity, but perhaps Beth’s genuine hope serves the same purpose for him in the musical version.

(It also occurs to me that theoretically Beth’s optimism could be viewed as setup for “Brave New World” - if one man could stand tall, she sings, there must be some hope for us all, and later, the narrator comes across what initially seems to be just such a man, with a plan for saving humanity and keeping its spirit alive. But I’m not sure I buy that as a reason for her presence - both because it seems a bit backwards given the artilleryman turns out to not actually represent the true hope of humanity and because otherwise these two songs feel very separate and not like they’re supposed to be connected at all.)

I found it interesting that in the book, the way the artilleryman frames his plan is a lot more explicitly eugenicist in nature - he talks a lot more about getting the right sorts of men and women into their underground city and keeping the riffraff out (“We can’t have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die. They ought to be willing to die. It’s a sort of disloyalty, after all, to live and taint the race.”), compared to “Brave New World”’s vague, innocent-sounding “With just a handful of men…” Interestingly, the Icelandic translation of the musical version felt closer to the book in this respect, because there that line was translated as “With just a few chosen men” - definitely getting the feeling the translator had read the book. I suspect this was very intentionally toned down for the musical version because the narrator initially pretty much buys into the plan, which would be a bit jarring with the full implications of the original.

The artilleryman’s character in the book also generally comes across as more of a… well, the sort of nerd who today might fantasize about the zombie apocalypse. He focuses a lot more on how the Martians will keep humans as pets and how most humans will eventually just accept their Martian overlords, relishing the minutiae of how grim things will be and the depths to which humanity will sink and how they must resist descending into savagery, while Jeff Wayne’s version is far more focused on his grandiosely optimistic ideas about what the underground city will be like - banks and prisons and schools! We can get everything working! He sounds enthusiastic at the idea of this underground living, whereas his book counterpart appears to suggest it strictly as a means of survival.

I don’t have much of a big conclusion here; Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of the War of the Worlds is a good adaptation, its changes are solid, and overall it puts the novel fairly faithfully into an accessible dramatic format, but I still really appreciate the book’s somewhat more complex and nuanced, if also somewhat more cynical, takes. Overall, I think The War of the Worlds is a really good story, and I’m amazed that here I am enjoying its explorations of human nature 120 years on. And if you want to enjoy it in a more accessible form than a 120-year-old novel, go give the musical version a listen, because it is great.

[readerwinterbarnes]

Motionless Part 11/?

Bucky x Reader

Summary: Will the team find the reader in time? What exactly does this brother want?

Word Count: 2,998

Warnings: Language, character injury, mention of torture, depression, angst

A/N: Switching POV’s, It’s finally here guys!! Please let me know what you think! Comments are always appreciated!! :)

Tags are still open!! 

I kept having the same nightmare over and over again. Each ending was different, but it was always the same. Red tentacles dragged Y/N away from me, coiling themselves around her, squeezing the life out of her. Then a man would stand next to her and just smirk at me. Talking about he was going to get back at me for what I did to his brother, how he finally has his prize. I was restrained, held against the wall. No matter how much I struggled to get free, the chains only tightened their grip, cutting off any circulation. I was completely immobile against their hold. But what hurt the most, was the look Y/N gave me.

Her eyes were red and hollow. The Y/N I once knew and grew to love was long gone, the person in front of me was no longer Y/N, but something entirely different. The man beside her wasn’t speaking, but his words, his voice came out of her instead. Saying everything that was true, I just wish I didn’t believe it.

‘It’s all your fault she’s gone. You never loved her. If you did, you would’ve been able to protect her, kept her safe. But no, you let her slip right through your fingers like you always do. Y/N never deserved you and never will. She deserves someone who can actually take care of her, who can protect her. How are you supposed to protect someone when all you were trained for was to kill?’

I felt my heart being ripped out of my chest as the red tentacles and the man dragged her away. Again. And all I could do was cry out to her. I woke up screaming Y/N’s name, Steve was holding my arms back so I wouldn’t lash out and hurt myself more than I already did. The nightmares kept getting worse. I busted my right hand, broke a few fingers, and messed up my left arm. So Tony had to remove it and fix it. On top of that, I was still losing a good amount of sleep, but I usually just went down to work out, until I was completely exhausted or until Steve had to force me to take a break.

I had to go meet up with Helen and Banner, well under orders to, to have them see if they could come up with something to help me sleep. To help bring down my anxiety. But with the serum, it made it difficult, since it just washed it right out of my system before the pills could actually take effect. Eventually, they came up with an injection they could insert into my bloodstream that managed to last for a few hours before it wore off. It worked, I knew because I could feel it. I no longer had the motivation to go spar or even get out of bed. They warned me of the sluggish side effects, I’m just glad it only lasted a few hours. I hated feeling like this, it only made me feel worse than I actually was. However, I didn’t want to say anything because they worked so hard to make something for me.

So instead of heading to the gym, I stayed curled in bed staring at our engagement photo Nat had taken that night. Y/N looked so happy, so carefree, and alive. It’s been almost a fucking week since that message in the paper. In all honesty, I forgot how long it’s been, time no longer was an importance to me. There was no need, the only time I wanted was to spend time with Y/N, but she wasn’t here. So why bother doing anything else anymore?

Steve’s POV

This whole situation has been killing him. It’s amazing if he ever made it out of his room at all. When he did, he kept to himself. Only speaking when spoken to or screaming out his frustrations whenever he sparred with me, which happened more regularly.

I made my way towards his room, knocking a few time before pushing the door open, expecting to find him in bed or the room empty. Except, I found him sitting on the edge of the couch, holding a frame in his hands a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. I grab some coffee for myself, before taking a seat next to him. Smiling softly at the photo, they were both smiling at each other, oblivious to the fact someone took the picture. We didn’t say anything, just sat there in still silence, finishing off our coffee.

“Come on,” I put down my mug and gripped his shoulder, “let’s go spar for a bit.”

“They’re always the same.” His voice stopped me from going anywhere, this is the first time he’s spoken willingly in the past two days. I faced him, his face contorted in emotional pain, placing down the frame carefully on the table.

“Y/N’s there, telling me I’m not good enough. How it’s my fault this happened, how I should’ve protected her. Actually done my fucking job as her fiancé, that she doesn’t deserve me. That I’m not fucking worth it. I mean, they’re not wrong in that category.” Bucky sits back into the couch, solemnly looking at the ceiling. Black rings under his eyes due from lack of sleep. Seeing him like this, was never a good sign. It usually ended up with him going back to how their relationship grew over the past few years. How he broke her heart, pushed her away, how they started over. Fell back in love, proposed to her.

“It’s like everything I touch dies, withers away. God, I almost killed Tony, you, Nat, Sam. Killed Tony’s parents, almost killed Y/N. Goodness, and almost killed myself with that stupid bike accident. And now?” He looked at me with sad eyes, glassy from unshed tears, “Now she’s gone. Again.” He looked back at the ceiling. “The universe hates me, Steve. It’s punishing me for all the wrong I’ve done the past seventy years. It’s quite funny to be honest, the Winter Soldier falling in love. Should’ve known it wasn’t a possibility.”

Not wanting to leave him alone, I switched from coffee to beers, grabbing some for the both of us and switched on the TV to watch tonight’s ball game.

Readers POV

You woke up with a throbbing pain in the back of your head. You winced when you felt the lump, blood on your fingers when you brought your hand back. Getting up slowly, you glanced around the room. There were two lights hanging from the ceiling, an empty cot on the opposite side of the room and a door with a rectangle chicken wire window.

Feeling the dizziness dissipate, you slowly make your way to the door. Looking out the window, the only things you could see were fluorescent lights and cement walls. There wasn’t even a guard posted by your door. Deciding to give it a shot, you tried the doorknob, but of course it was locked. Didn’t hurt to try, though. The last thing you remembered was getting up for a glass of water, then the window shattering, only to be dragged out of the house screaming Bucky’s name. Eventually blacking out and now you’re here. You had no idea who took you or what they wanted, but they wouldn’t have taken you unless they had a good reason to. Hearing footsteps coming from the hallway, you stepped back from the door and sat on the bed. Toying with the ring on your left hand nervously as the steps grew closer.

The sound of keys and the bolt of a lock echoed throughout the room. The door opened and a man in tactical gear and a second man wearing a sleeker look entered the room. The second man wore a black coat that reached past his knees, a black shirt, and, well, black everything. He wore small spectacles on his nose, blond hair slicked back. His eyes met yours, a grin forming on his pale face.

“Ah, Y/N. You’re finally up, sorry for the bump. I asked them to be discreet, but alas it needed to be done. Now if you will, come with me, please. Do not bother resisting, Bane here will not hesitate to take action.” Leaving it at that, he turned and you had no choice but to follow.

Keeping to yourself, wrapping your arms around your waist trying to make yourself smaller. The hallways seemed to go on forever, the longer it took, the more nervous you became. All you wanted was Bucky to come get you out of this place. You had no idea who this man was, where you were, what they wanted, or what was even going to happen to you.

“Here we are. Bane, if you could make our guest comfortable.” Instantly, strong hands grabbed you and practically dragged you over to the back corner, chaining your wrists to the iron cuffs that hung from the ceiling. Once they were locked in place, Bane stepped off to the side as the man took a couple steps towards you.

“Y/N, my dear, we have not been properly introduced. My name is Albern Schmidt, my brother is Friedrich Schmidt, of course, I do not expect you to know that. But enough of introductions, let’s talk about you. Yes?”

You, however, froze in place. That name sounded familiar, but if only you could remember exactly where you heard it from. Your mind began to scramble, picking at the furthest corners of your brain. The name was infuriating, you knew you heard it before but you couldn’t place it.

“Y/N Y/L/N, soon to be a Mrs. Yes?” The man, Albern, pointed at your engagement ring as he walked towards you with scissors. You nod in reply, wary eyes on the scissors. “Mrs. Barnes perhaps?” Your eyes snapped up to meet his small beady eyes. They wrinkled as his smile grew.

“Yes, yes, I know who you are. I have been watching you for a very long time, ever since my late brother’s passing. You can thank Barnes for that.” Albern reached for your shirt, you flinched away from his touch, but Banes knife at your throat stopped you.

“Please stay still, I would hate to cause an accident I never permitted.” He cut the fabric of your shirt away, doing the same with your sweatpants as well. Leaving you in just your undergarments.

“There, now does that feel better? I will send someone in to look at the bump on your head. But in the meantime, I need to take some scans. Bane, if you would please.” Bane gripped your hips harshly and turned you around, so you were now facing the corner. Your senses were on high alert, now that you became more aware of your surroundings. Kicking your legs out, you tried to hit Bane, even Albern, not wanting them to touch you. Albern sighed behind you, he must’ve given Bane an order, because next thing you knew, he was jabbing a needle in your neck.

Soon after, you began to feel your limbs turn into jello. Sagging with your own weight, having only the metal cuffs and chains keeping you upright. Head falling forward, hair blocking your view. Leaving you with no choice but to let the four-eyed freak do whatever the hell he was planning to do. A whirring sound, followed by a low hum came from behind you. Your back tensed, feet stumbling to shift away from it.

“Oh do not worry my dear, just a simple scan, nothing to worry about. At least, not yet.”

‘Not yet? What does he mean by not yet?’ You struggled to lift your head, glancing back at him, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sorry, I did not hear you. I was too engrossed by this,” a cold finger slid down your spine, tracing the surgical scars at the base, “lovely little thing.” You cringed as you felt him crouch down behind you to get a better look at it. His hot breath on your skin. You noticed him look back at the screen tablet in his hands, then turning back to write marks along the scar.

“And it is Stark made. Wonderful. Looks like they did an absolutely great job at applying it, now haven’t they? It will play a very important part in what I have in store for later. But in the meantime,” he stood up, nodding at Bane who turned you around to face Albern who placed the tablet on the table then smiled at you, “YA sobirayus' imet' stol'ko udovol'stviya.” (I’m going to have so much fun). You felt your skin crawl from just his gaze alone.

“Doctors!” Two other guards opened the door, letting three men in white lab coats come in holding equipment. You watched nervously as they hooked up what looked like to be a battery of some kind to some prods.

“Y/N or do you prefer Mrs. Barnes? Oh well, no matter, I just need to run a few tests if you don’t mind.” Bane stood off to the side to make sure you didn’t lash out again once the drugs wore off. The first doctor made his way towards you and reached for your face, luckily, the drugs wore off just enough so you could knee him in the balls.

“Touch me and I’ll bite your fucking nose off!” Bane punched your side causing your legs to buckle slightly. The pain wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, you just grinned at the man on the floor. He was helped up by the other doctors. Looking like a dog with its tail between its legs. Righting yourself up, you glared at Albern the pain at your side subsiding. Little by little, you began to remember Friedrich Schmidt, the brother. The bastard you stole those files from all those years ago, the year you got shot.

“Friedrich Schmidt, oh yeah, I remember him now. He had that weird face, scar under his jaw. Stole some files from him a while back. Man was he pissed, wiped his computers clean too. Nasty thing viruses, they can do so much damage. But he had it coming, he was a sick twisted bastard who actually thought his little plan would work.” Your shoulders shake as you chuckle dryly. “Sorry if I didn’t send flowers to his funeral, never got invited.” Albern stomped towards you, grabbing your throat, cutting off your breath supply.

“Friedrich may have been a sick, twisted bastard, but he was my brother and one of the best informants we had. He was going to change history until James Buchanan Barnes made the mistake of putting a bullet in his head.” Stars filled your vision, your lungs burning for oxygen. The cuffs digging into the skin of your wrists as you watched him bring a knife up. You struggled against his hold, biting your bottom lip as the tip of the knife sliced across your cheek, a trickle of warm blood ran down your face. Albern smiled at this and made another one at your hairline, under your jaw, across your collarbone, up along the inside of your left arm. You screamed out when he dug the knife into your shoulder.

“But now he’s dead and I am here to take his place.” He leaned closer towards you, nose centimeters from your face.

“Cut off one head, three more grow back. Hail. Hydra.” You spat at his face, smiling despite the pain radiating from the cuts, as he wiped off his face. He sighed, letting go of your neck finally, you gasped lungs heaving as they filled with oxygen. He waived his hand at Bane, who knelt down and quickly chained your ankles down with the cuffs that laid nearby. Not only could you not use your arms but now your legs were now completely useless. You thought you’d be able to handle all of this, imprisonment, bound in a creepy corner, being interrogated by the mass criminal, being tortured for information, but now you weren’t so sure. Your mind began to process just how bad a situation you were in, the shock from before vanished completely. You really wanted Bucky to find you, for him to hold you protectively in his arms, for Steve to come crashing through that door any minute, for Sam and Tony to come blasting through the ceiling, for everyone to just come save you. But they had no idea where the fuck you were, or who even had you.

You felt your stomach drop at the thought of you never being found until you were hanging on by a thread or worse….them finding your lifeless body. Your once chill and stoic exterior shattered into one full of fear, pain, and jumpy. Albern saw the drastic shift in your demeanor and smiled sickly in victory. Hands clasped behind his back, he made his way back towards you, circling around you like a predator circling its prey. He did this a few times, eyes raking over your frame as if you was a piece of meat until he stopped right behind you. He rested his chin on your shoulder, taking a deep breath, fingers tracing the surgical scars lightly. He might as well be cutting into your skin because your skin burned underneath his touch.

“Teper' vozlyublennaya (now sweetheart), if you behave I might be swayed enough to send a little message, but in the meantime,” he gripped your hips tightly enough to leave hand sized bruises. “I’ve got my brothers work to finish and…a new thing to play with.”

Your agonizing screams bounced off the walls, echoing down the hallway, sending chills down anyone’s spine who happened to be passing by.

Part 12 (WIP)

Motionless Tag List:

@marvel-fics  @green-spotlight  @sebs-sugar-cookies  @akm0o  @extraterrestrialsky  @marvel-fics 

Everything Tag list:

@candycountries  @sebseyesandbuckysthighs @marvelatmytrash @oh-goodness-loki  @jotink78   @foreverlovecaptainswan  @pickylittlebitch @just-call-me-mrs-captain  @buckyismyaesthetic @imgettingmarriedtobuckybarnes @shes-a-little-weird-but-perfect  @anxuanpham @saladalpaca @specs15 @morganosborn101 @earinafae @frolicsomefawkes @chameerah