#thank you for your service oliver stark | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

you-heard-what-i-meant · 2 years ago

Text

All Fall Down - Moon Knight

Summary: Marc and Steven are free from Khonshu and no longer have the suit. This is one time they really needed it.

Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, blood, description of dying, major character death. Happy ending, I promise.

Note: not beta’d. Probably [definitely] inaccurate descriptions of Dissociative Identity Disorder and injury / death. I apologise in advance for any offense caused!

Posted on AO3 HERE!

Do not edit or repost my fics to other sites / apps, or claim as your own! Thank you!

Initially the pain is only the tip of the blade as it pierces his stomach. After that, the sensation is more… obstructive. The steel blade pushed in where it shouldn’t be, getting in the way of his organs, like having a band-aid on a joint makes you feel like there’s something stopping it from moving properly. The pain really hits when his assailant rips the blade free - slicing at a wide angle across his body, tearing its way through his abdomen from hip-to-hip as it leaves.

Marc staggers backwards, his hands automatically flying to the gaping wound in his middle. The man is leering at him, bloodstained linen shirt and pale, loose jeans almost flapping in the wind. Marc has a moment to register the man’s discoloured, rotting smile before it’s gone - replaced by a look of shock that remains frozen there as he hits the ground face first. The blade in his back is removed by an angel with golden wings and glowing brown skin. Her abundant ebony curls bounce as she rights herself, the blade disappearing somewhere in the elaborate armour that encases her athletic form. Her satisfied look vanishes instantly as she gets her first real look at him.

“Marc!” his name shouldn’t sound like that when it comes from his angel’s lips - choked, horrified. He realises he can no longer feel his legs, that the pain has become a raging inferno throughout his torso, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

His descent is halted by strong arms, which manoeuvre him onto his back and cradle him against the golden breastplate. Her small features are pinched in terror and fear as she gazes down upon him, her face already beginning to blur. He’s starting to feel hollow, his heart squeezing and thudding erratically. His lungs have become too full to breathe, as counterintuitive as that seems, but he understands why when the bubbling, gurgling sensation starts deep in his chest and hot, metallic wetness flows out onto his lips with the gasp of her name.

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

Layla POV

She knows when she sees the wound. But somehow her mind still screams a denial… until he chokes out her name. His impossibly dark eyes are dominated by fear and pain as they lock onto her face, the bright crimson bubbling and spurting out onto his lips a stark contrast to his dark olive-toned skin. Her hand flies to his face, resting flat against his cheek as she tries desperately to bring some comfort to her husband.

“Marc, Marc, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. Tawaret! We need help, now!”

Her panicked call is answered swiftly. The enormous Hippo Goddess materialises beside them, towering over their prone forms.

“Oh my goodness, oh no!” Her hands flap anxiously as she kneels beside them.

“Tawaret, help him, please, heal him!” Layla begs. She knows it sounds more like a command than a request, and any other Deity would have torn her apart for it. Tawaret’s face falls, and Layla already knows what she’s going to hear before the Goddess speaks.

“He’s no longer in the service of Khonshu, he can’t use the healing powers of the suit anymore. And I - I don’t have the power to heal him. It’s not something I can access. I’m so sorry, Layla, I really am.”

Layla can see that she means it. The Hippo Goddess is on the verge of tears as she lays a gentle hand on Marc’s head. “May your journey be swift and the field of reeds greet you like the war-hero you are.” Then she’s gone. Layla’s blood runs cold.

Marc’s body is quaking now. The pool of blood surrounding them has spread so far that Layla can no longer see its edge in her peripheral vision. The shallow, rattling breaths are becoming quieter. A shudder runs through him - then it’s no longer Marc she’s holding.

“Lay-la-” Steven chokes out, and it’s suddenly much harder to hold in her tears at the sight of his innocent face contorted in terror and agony. She desperately tries to soothe him.

“Hey, hey Steven. It’s okay-”

“-m - ‘m s-scared-”

Her heart shatters. His dark eyes are wide and bloodshot.

“Shhh - shhh Steven, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay -” She sees him acknowledge the lie, fear wiping out the last dregs of hope in his eyes. He tries to speak again - only short, helpless noises escape.

“Shhh - I’m sorry, Steven, I’m so sorry -” Her tears finally break free, and she holds him tighter. In that moment he locks his gaze with hers, his face spasming as he fights for breath, as the terror overwhelms him-

Then his face goes blank, his whole form falling still.

The sob that punches out of her jolts the still body in her arms. Gone. The realisation that Steven died in her arms hits her like a truck, and she feels a belt tighten around her chest.

She barely has time to feel the shock and grief start to set in when the body jolts again, the eyelids spasming over glassy eyes. She can’t fight the flare of hope that sparks to life inside her. It gutters out instantly.

Marc struggles to speak. The weak, choking noises he manages to make eventually form a word “Ste.. Ste-ven-” and his face portrays his crushing grief through his pain “-Can’t-”.

Layla fights down a sob. Her head bobs in an approximation of a nod, her own grief contorting her face. “I’m so sorry Marc - He - I was with him when - when he-” Marc’s eyes bore into hers, he tries to speak again, but now no words escape at all. A strange rattling whine emits from his throat, and Layla feels the panic grip her again - she knows that sound.

She rushes to speak while he can still hear her.

“- I love you! It’s okay, baby, I love - “

She’s still chanting her mantra as with a sigh he has no control over, Marc sinks into her arms, his eyes glazing over and his face going slack. He’s suddenly heavy, his weight no longer being held at all. His chest’s shuddering, desperate movements cease.

This time is somehow different - before, it had been like his face had paused, awaiting his return from the headspace. Now it didn’t even look like him. Nor like Steven. The features are just… empty.

Layla’s world freezes. It’s only when her chest starts to burn and her heart screams in her ears that she realises her breath stopped with her husband’s. Her whole body is numb, yet tingling painfully. It’s like she’s holding this moment in the palm of her hand, an inanimate object of a thing that she’s detached from.

With a roar, reality crashes back in and she’s aware of the screaming sobs wrenching themselves from her throat. She curls herself tightly around the body in her arms, fighting her mind’s desperate attempts to look for signs of life, anything to deny reality and divert the truth. She wonders if it’s possible to tear muscles or fracture bones with the force of her sobs, the quakes of her body, as she shudders through the shock and grief.

Then the coldness sets in.

Her shudders and sobs halt. She takes one, two, three breaths. Then she sits back on her heels to drink in the sight of her soulmate’s face one last time. She could swear there’s something behind his glassy eyes, a strange vibration running through his body like an electric current. She smiles for him, one last sight for his eyes to see before she gently smooths her fingers over them, closing the lids and putting him at peace. She begins to utter a prayer, to ask the Gods to take his and Steven’s souls to the glorious afterlife where they can live in peace and joy for eternity. Where they’ll wait for her.

As she recites her prayers, she watches the throes of a body’s settling process after death with an almost detached gaze - or maybe it’s her grief stricken mind giving one last ditch attempt to deny reality.

There’s the tiniest twitch under the golden-brown eyelids she’s just closed. Then the almost imperceptible spasm of the muscles on the right side of Marc’s greying lips.

She only just registers the weak shudder that runs through her husband’s entire form before an undeniable convulsion hits.

Marc’s chest jolts upward, his limbs tensing as his mouth opens in a silent gasp. Rigour Mortis she tells herself - the nerves dissipating their last impulses-

She doesn’t finish the thought.

An explosion of white engulfs Marc’s body. Pale bindings wrap themselves onto his upper torso and shoulders, a hood forming around a mask of dark strips of fabric - the same fabric that wraps itself snugly around each arm and leg. A bundle of white cloak pools around him, piling up on her lap and trailing into the crimson pool surrounding them.

Layla barely has time to acknowledge her terrified thoughts - Oh God, has something evil taken over his body?- when an audible, desperate choking sound accompanies a sudden, jolting rise of his chest. He twists in her arms, and she sees barely a flash of his skin as the mask pulls away and he turns his face to the ground. With deep, guttural coughing, watery crimson sprays and drips into the existing pool of red as his lungs work to clear themselves.

Time seems to stretch eternally until his coughing finally eases. As she helps him to lay back in the safety of her arms, she just catches the last slither of his cheekbone as his face vanishes beneath the dark mask again.

Every muscle in his body is pulled so tight he’s practically suspended, arched in her arms. A violent shudder runs through him, before he begins to relax incrementally, a tiny amount at a time, until he’s resting in her arms again.

Under the black mask she can hear the great chugs of air he’s pulling in, matching the deep, sharp expansion and deflation of his ribcage. She’s frozen in shock, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream as she struggles to process - what just happened? What’s happening? What do I do?

Layla can’t tell if he’s staring at her, or just staring. The glowing white eyes give zero indication of the actual focus of his gaze, or the intention behind it. “-Marc?” she finally ventures. After a second’s pause, he gives a tiny shake of his head. “Steven?” He doesn’t reply.

She’s still trying to decide if she should speak to him again, or whether the head shake was meant to communicate that he couldn’t answer her, when the mask and hood recede to leave his head exposed. He looks… different. Well he was dead a few seconds ago. But something doesn’t sit right.

“I - I thought you didn’t have the suit any more?” Her voice quakes in the cold of her body.

Dark eyes lock onto hers. His mouth works for a few seconds, his throat bobbing with an audible clicking sound as he clears the residual blood clogging it.

“They don’t.”

His statement and voice unnerve her. Her adrenaline spikes again, ready to defend herself if she needs to, when something begins to form at the back of her mind. A vague memory, a suspicion. That night in Cairo - Harrow - Marc savagely beaten into the ground - and then -

“Who are you?” She doesn’t mean it to sound as abrupt as it does.

He blinks at her, his expression wary. He’s still fighting for breath.

“Jake.” He finally huffs out.

She nods her head jerkily. They thought there was a third… “Where -?” She doesn’t need to finish her question. Jake knows.

“I've got them.” His voice has a gravelly quality that she suspects isn’t all from taking his last breath a few minutes before.

“-You’ve ‘got them’?” Hope and fear war in Layla’s chest. She searches the oh-so-familiar eyes, finding fear, pain, and a hint of relief in their dark depths.

“Yeah. They’re safe. They’re still… ‘unconscious’, they took the brunt of the - of it.” The effort of speaking seems to wear Jake out, he’s still breathless, but Layla can’t help herself.

They’re safe. “-They’re ‘safe’? Safe where? Are they okay?” Layla is err-ing on the side of caution with this stranger.

To his credit, the look of impatience and irritation passes as fast as it appears. Something unreadable but somehow soft replaces it.

“- Yeah, they’re safe. In here -” he weakly gestures to his head “- like I said, they took the worst of it… I couldn’t break through their shock to take control.” he pauses for a moment, and she recognises the look that both Marc and Steven get when they’re looking inside or communicating in their headspace. “They’re gonna be fine. They need time to heal.” He finishes softly, almost affectionately.

Relief floods her system. They’re going to be alright. And he clearly cares about them.

But the reprieve is short lived - they have to move.

“Ok Jake, we need to get out of here. Tell me as soon as you can walk and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

He nods. “Just need a minute… Let the suit give me enough juice to get moving.”

She nods in response, her eyes scanning their surroundings before settling back on this semi-stranger’s face.

“So… I don’t think we’ve really met before.” She ventures.

The man wearing her husband’s face blinks at her, then a slow smile spreads across his features. It’s both slightly unnerving and sweet at the same time.

“Oh, we’ve met. I’m the one that saves our asses.”

#moon knight #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fan fic #moon knight fan fiction #marc spector #steven grant #layla el faouly #jake lockley #marc spector angst #steven grant angst #jake lockley angst #layla el faouly angst #marc spector whump #steven grant whump #jake lockley whump #layla el faouly whump #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

21 notes · View notes

therealdisneyfan2319 · 2 years ago

Text

Can’t Help Falling In Love Chapter 3: 1839

Synopsis: On his first day in the Avengers’ Compound, Y/N finds himself making an unexpected connection.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Y/N

Characters: Y/N, Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark

Word Count: 3.4K

Part 2 | Part 1 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

One thousand, eight hundred, and thirty-nine days earlier...

There was a knock at the door.

"Yo!" yelled Tony, who was spinning in a chair situated behind his desk. He was tossing a ball to himself, deep in thought.

Y/N opened the door. He stood there in a smartly creased pair of Navy dress blues clutching a white dixie cup hat in front of him. He carried an olive green sea bag on his back and a duffle bag sat on the floor by his side.

"Mr. Stark? I'm-"

"Oh, yeah...Popeye the sailor man. Right, you're starting today. I think Cap mentioned that at our last meeting," he shrugged. "I don't know, his speeches generally have me glazed over within seconds."

Y/N had set his sea bag down and was rummaging through his duffle bag. He pulled out a manilla envelope and stood back up. "I've got my orders here, Mr. Stark, if you'd like." He walked over to Tony's desk, arm outstretched. Tony recoiled at the gesture.

"Two things there, Popeye. First: don't call me Mr. Stark, it makes me feel like my old man. Second: I don't like being handed things."

Y/N paused, looked at Tony and then at the envelope in his outstretched hand, and slowly yet awkwardly placed the envelope on the edge of the desk. Leaning out of his chair, Tony slid the envelope toward himself slowly, not breaking eye contact with Y/N.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.?"

"Yes, boss?"

"You got any info on where Y/N is staying?"

"Yes. You put him in 4B, right next to Pietro Maximoff and right across from Wanda Maximoff."

"Did I do that?" he mused. He had opened Y/N's envelope and was shuffling through the various papers: service records, discharge papers, official orders, letters of recommendation from his superiors, records detailing various awards he'd received, copies of battle reports, and other various documents.

"Yes boss," replied F.R.I.D.A.Y. "And you put his key in your paperclip holder."

He fished around his paperclip holder, which sat over near the three computer monitors on the left side of his desk. "Well what do you know? Here they are!" He handed the key ring to Y/N. "Apartment 4B. Turn right when you leave, take the elevator to the fourth floor, take a left out of the elevator, go down the hall, two rights, and it's there somewhere."

"Thank you," said Y/N. "Anything else?"

"Nope. Someone will let you know what's going on." Tony had refocused his attention to the ball.

"Thanks," said Y/N as he shouldered his seabag and picked up his duffle bag. He started down the hallway when he heard Tony's voice emanating from the office.

"Hey shut the door on your way out!"

Y/N turned his head when he heard Tony shout. He turned the rest of his body and headed back to the door where he shut it rather aggressively. His first impression of Tony was that he was arrogant and rather dismissive. He reminded him of a Chief he'd known during his first enlistment. Arrogant and a pain in his ass, Y/N found him to be insufferable but a half-decent leader. He tried to recall the rather confusing directions Tony had just given to him.

Take the elevator to the fourth floor, he remembered, and then a right and two lefts...or was it a left and a right...no, it was definitely two lefts and a right. Either way he'd find it soon enough.

He made his way down the hallway, taking in his new surroundings. The building was modern but it wasn't cold. He noted the huge glass wall that gave way to the lawn that was surrounded by the woods, a parking lot, and an extensive obstacle course. He observed the different offices and conference rooms that stretched down the hall. He got to the end of the hall where the elevators were located and pressed the up button. He dropped his duffle bag to the ground with a loud thud. He groaned and flexed his hand, which was fatigued from carrying everything he owned. He kicked it into the elevator once its doors opened. Pushing the '4' button, he leaned against the cool steel railing in an effort to take the pressure off his shoulders.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Y/N picked up his bag and did a little jump to reposition his sea bag and exited. But this presented a new challenge: where was his apartment? He looked both ways, shrugged, and decided to go left. As he walked down the hallway he noticed the numbers on the door weren't the 4B he was looking for. So when he came to another corridor he decided to turn right. But down that way were a series of storage rooms.

"Well shit," he said, dropping his bags. Y/N had no idea where the hell he was. It had been a long day and all he wanted to do was strip off his blues and lie in bed. But he had no idea how to get there. He had Tony's phone number. He'd been given that at his final meeting with Nick Fury a couple days ago. Yet he felt embarrassed at the thought of having to call him to ask for directions to his room. So he sat down on his sea bag, ran his hand through his recently cropped hair, and started digging through his duffel bag for the piece of paper that contained Tony Stark's phone number.

"Can I help you?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Y/N looked up and immediately locked eyes with the greenest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. They were absolutely mesmerizing. So was her voice. Breaking away from her eyes he began to take notice of her. She had fiery red hair, she was young (about his age), she wore a grey t-shirt and jeans and had rings on almost every finger, and she had this aura around her. Y/N didn't know what it was but he knew something was different about her. She was beautiful, absolutely radiant. He felt his mouth go dry as he tried to speak.

"Uhh, yeah, I mean, I'm trying to find my room but I seem to have gotten mixed up and I have no idea where I am." He felt sheepish at this admission.

"Oh, you must be the new guy Steve was talking about," the redhead smirked. "Tony's been calling you Popeye ever since he learned you're a sailor." She glanced him up and down, eyeing his uniform with a keen sense of curiosity.

"Yeah, yeah, he told me," Y/N responded.

"Where are you staying?" she asked, now admiring the rack of ribbons proudly displayed on his chest.

"4B."

"Well you're on the complete opposite side of the building," she chuckled. "Come on, I'll take you over there. I live in 4A. My brother lives in 4D." She started down the hall he had just come from. He jumped up and threw his sea bag over his shoulder. He moved quickly, not wanting to lose sight of his guide. But the weight of his bag was awkward, causing him to stumble momentarily. The redhead turned around.

"You good back there, Popeye?" she asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Something about this scene amused her.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good," he replied after regaining his balance. He jogged to catch up with her.

"So is that we get to call you now? Popeye?"

"My name is Y/N. Y/N L/N."

"I'm Wanda. Wanda Maximoff."

"Pleasure to meet you, Wanda."

"Likewise." An awkward silence permeated the air. "So you're joining the team, right?"

"Uh huh."

"So what's your thing?"

"My what?"

"Well we've all got something. Tony's Iron Man, my brother Pietro has super speed, Nat was a Black Widow assassin, Steve's Captain America, and I can move things with my mind. So what's yours?" There was another awkward pause.

"Bombs."

"Excuse me?" Wanda asked incredulously.

"Bombs. I can make 'em, diffuse 'em, disarm 'em. That's my thing. I did EOD for the Navy for eight years before Nick Fury recruited me into the Avengers. I guess Tony Stark doesn't want to blow things up the way he used to for some stupid reason," he chuckled.

"And with good reason," Wanda's eyes snapped front and her tone was noticeably cooler towards him.

The two walked in silence for what seemed like hours. But soon enough they reached an area of the building with numbers that were closer to the one Y/n was looking for.

"Your room is down there on the right. Kitchen and laundry are on the third floor, gym is on the second. I've got to go," said Wanda. She turned and headed back down the hall.

"Hey thanks!" Y/N yelled towards her.

"Don't mention it," she replied in her harsh accent, not even turning to look back at him.

Y/N found her behavior odd yet he didn't dwell on it. He grabbed the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and practically threw his bags into the room. The apartment was spacious, much bigger than any of the barracks he had stayed in. It had a queen sized bed, a large desk with office chair, a closet, a larger set of dressers, a wall mounted TV, a matching chair and ottoman set, end tables on either side of the bed, one huge window affixed with blinds, and a bathroom complete with a large walk-in shower, spacious vanity, and illuminated mirror. While it was extremely nice, Y/n couldn't help but feel that his lack of personal possessions made it feel cold. Everything he owned fit into these two bags. Most of it was his old naval uniforms but he did have a few pairs of civilian clothing, a couple of books, his toiletries, and his laptop. Nearly a decade in the service taught him to pack light.

Y/N sighed, looked around the room, and opened his sea bag, emptying its contents onto the bed. He figured he'd spend the rest of the day unpacking and exploring his new home. The compound itself was expansive. The sooner he could figure it out the better. He stripped out of his wool jumper and threw it on the bed unceremoniously. He was no longer in the Navy so he had no real use for it.

After unpacking both bags and finding new homes for his possessions, he changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and, while fully intending on spending the afternoon exploring, promptly passed out on the mattress. He came to a few hours later. It was dark by theme. Soft orange lights illuminated the walkways outside the compound. Stars were visible in the clear sky as were the twinkling lights of fireflies.

I guess I can still explore for a bit, he thought.

He wouldn't be tired for a while. So he slipped on his sneakers, grabbed his keys, and headed out to explore. He remembered Wanda told him the kitchen and laundry room were on the third floor and the gym was on the second. These were definitely important locations. Looking to his right he saw an illuminated exit sign. He figured that would be the quickest way to the third floor. He tiptoed his way down the hallway, taking extra care not to wake anybody. He jogged down the stairs to the third floor, still making sure to be relatively quiet. He opened the door and saw the illuminated laundry room across the hall. It reminded him of the ones in the barracks: machines were stacked on both sides of the room while a couple of rolling baskets were strewn about. Turning to the left he headed down the hall. Halfway down it was the kitchen. The lights were off but he decided to venture in anyways. Unlike the laundry room, the kitchen was huge. Modern stainless steel appliances were showcased between the sleek marble countertops. Two huge double door refrigerators sat flush against the wall. An island with bar stools sat in the middle of the room while another table sat off to the side. He hadn't brought any food with him. He'd have to fix that in the morning.

"Don't even think about going after my ice cream." someone threatened as the lights snapped on. Y/N whipped around only to see Wanda standing by the door. He must've still been half-asleep because for a second he could've sworn her eyes were glowing red.

"What? No, I wasn't going to take anything. I was just checking the kitchen out. I, uhh, I wouldn't steal anything."

She eyed him suspiciously. Ignoring him she headed to one of the refrigerators. Y/N couldn't help but watch her. Something about her still intrigued him. He wanted to talk to her but felt all tongue-tied.

"So how long have you and your brother lived here?" he asked, trying to make conversation with her.

"About two years."

"Is that when you joined the Avengers?"

"Yes," she responded as she grabbed a carton of rocky road ice cream from the freezer.

"Did Nick Fury recruit you, too?"

"No."

"Oh." It was becoming obvious that Wanda had no interest in engaging in conversation. Thinking it was a lost cause, he turned and headed for the door.

"We were with HYDRA." Y/N heard a drawer open as Wanda grabbed a spoon.

"What?" he'd turned around to see her sitting on the counter, scooping the spoon into the container.

"Pietro and I," she explained. "We volunteered with HYDRA. The Avengers were taking them down and offered us a way out, so we took it."

Y/N walked over to the island across from Wanda and jumped to sit on it. "You're not from here, are you?" he asked.

Wanda shook her head, her mouth full of ice cream. "Mmmm-mmm. We're Sokovian." She continued digging into her ice cream.

"So why'd you join HYDRA?" It was an honest question.

Wanda paused. She placed the spoon back into the ice cream and looked at Y/N. "Because one of Tony Stark's bombs killed our parents and I wanted him dead."

Suddenly it all made sense. Why she had suddenly shifted her attitude towards him. He immediately felt embarrassed. "Oh shit, shit I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made that joke." She didn't say anything. "Damn it. Look, I'm sorry. I have a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I didn't mean to upset you." She kept looking at him but still said nothing. "Okay, umm, I'll just go then." He hopped off the counter and headed out of the room.

"Do you like stars?" she blurted out just before he reached the door.

"Wha-?" he was confused by her question.

"Stars. Do you like looking at the stars?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Come on," she said as she hopped off the counter, placing the empty carton next to where she sat. Y/N was confused but decided to follow her anyway. He followed her down three flights of stairs, out the back door, across the lawn, and down through a trail in the woods toward the river. There was a small beach of pebbles at the bank of the Hudson. Wanda walked to it and sat, hugging her knees to her chest. Y/N watched her as she looked up at the night sky, its quiet beauty emanating all around them. He walked to the spot where Wanda sat, taking his place on the ground next to her. He too looked up at the stars, drinking in the beauty of the Big Dipper and other constellations.

"When I was a little girl, Papa used to take Pietro and I out to this park near our village. It wasn't very big, but we'd bring a blanket and spread it on the ground. We'd sit there for hours once it got dark. He'd point out all the constellations to us and tell us stories about them," she explained. "I always liked the one about the hunter." Y/N smiled. "It was too bright where I grew up to see stars. I didn't really experience what a dark night sky was until I was in the Navy. My first deployment to Afghanistan I remember being in the field one night and looking up and being just amazed at how bright they were. And how many of them there are. It was...it was so incredible," he reminisced.

"How long were you in the Navy?" she asked.

"Eight years. Went in at eighteen, served two tours in Afghanistan, one in Iraq, deployed for a few months on a couple of ships." He began fidgeting with some pebbles next to him. Talking about deployments always made him uncomfortable.

"Your parents must be proud," she said. While he hadn't said anything, Wanda started to sense some pain behind his words.

"My parents," he began, still fidgeting with a pebble, "were killed when I was eighteen. Four months before I graduated high school. They went out to a party one night and never came home. Drunk driver. They died instantly." He threw the pebble into the river. "I was legally an adult at that point, so I couldn't go into foster care. I moved in with one of my friends and slept in his basement until graduation. I got a job washing dishes so I could make money, but I couldn't afford to go to college without my parents. So I declined my acceptance letter and decided to join the Navy. Free housing, free medical care, the GI bill, a chance to see the world...it sounded like a good deal, you know? I didn't have anything or anyone left. So I did eight years. Then somehow my name got put in for the Avengers and Nick Fury hired me. So, you know, I'm just starting over again." He looked out at the river.

"I'm sorry about your parents," said Wanda, her voice tinged with sadness. Y/n didn't say anything. "What did you want to study in college?" she asked, not wanting him to stop talking.

He chuckled nervously. "Promise you won't laugh? It's embarrassing."

"Maybe..." she replied, a sly smile crossing her lips.

"I wanted to study English literature. I wanted to be a writer," he admitted.

"That's not embarrassing!" she exclaimed. "I think it's wonderful! I wish I could write well."

"Reading a lot helps. I like a lot of different authors...Charles Dickens, Rick Riordan, Margaret Atwood, James MacPherson, A.A. Milne, Ernest Hemingway, William Shakes-"

"Hemingway is a much better nickname for you than Popeye," she interrupted. "I'll have to talk to Tony about that."

"Oh great, another nickname. Just what I need," he groaned. She laughed at him.

"I like it!" said Wanda. "It's like you: dignified, playful, cute..." she trailed off. His ears perked up at this last admission.

"Wait, what was that?!"

"Nothing." "Right," he smirked.

Wanda promptly looked down at the ground, hands clasped in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," she blurted.

"No, no, it's okay! I mean I think, well, what I mean is, yeah, I think you're cute, too," he blurted. Great, he thought, real smooth. He flopped back onto the ground, rubbing his temples as he did so. He looked up and saw Wanda looking down over him.

"You think so?" she asked, one eyebrow cocked.

"I know so," he responded.

"So you won't mind if I do this then?" She laid down on her side, snuggling her head on Y/N's chest and wrapping her arm around his waist. He brought one arm behind his head to act as a pillow and wrapped his other arm around her.

"No. I could actually get used to this, I think," he said looking down at her. Wanda giggled as she looked up at him before laying her head back on his chest. It was the first time he'd ever felt so comfortable with a girl. He didn't know where this would lead, but Y/N had a peculiar feeling that he would remember this starry night as the night he started falling in love with Wanda Maximoff.

114 notes · View notes

oatflatwhite · 3 years ago

Note

okay well now we need your intellectual ranking of buck’s looks over the seasons. a top 5. academic analysis included

OK YOU ASKED FOR IT *cracks knuckles*

so if we're doing an "intellectual ranking" we'll need categories right? i propose sorting buck's looks by:

hotness

softness

how much each specific scene makes me want to eat glass (because as hot or soft as he might be for me, personally, it truly comes down to context)

each rated out of five. and introducing a fourth bonus category called "is he wet y/n" (water/sweat/blood included!)

based on this infallible system i present to you: an intellectual ranking of buck’s looks over the seasons (my top five + honourable mentions)

5. texas buck (ls 2.03 hold the line)

i know we all talk about crossover eddie but can we discuss crossover buck? please? it is a known fact oliver stark looks good in orange/yellow and boy does he prove it here. the lafd bomber jacket is also a look. the 118 ATE in texas and cherry on top is buck’s confused puppy face when tk assumes he’s hitting on him.

hotness 5/5, softness 4/5, do i want to eat glass 2/5, is he wet y/n = 11

4. pilot buck (1.01 pilot)

when i say pilot buck i am talking about this specific scene. also the shirtless scene on the rooftop but mostly this scene. am i a lesbian? well, yeah, i’m pretty sure. am i barking directly at it? well, yeah, i’m pretty sure!

hotness 5/5, softness 4/5, do i want to eat glass 3/5, is he wet y/n = 12

3. gurney buck (4.06 jinx)

how oliver stark manages to look both sexy and endearing in a face mask is beyond me but here we are. the attraction in this look lies not only in the look itself but the idea of the look: buck, the tallest member of the 118 by quite a margin, laid out gazelle-limbs on the gurney. you can’t make this shit up. unless you’re the writer/director for jinx in which case i guess you did make this shit up. thank you for your service.

hotness 5/5, softness 5/5, do i want to eat glass 3/5, is he wet y/n = 13

2. "hey” buck (survivors 4.14)

this whole episode? a work of art. this specific scene? do i need to go on? no but i will: running through the hospital like heathcliff searching for kathy on the moors. the slow zoom on eddie (ana? quie literally moving out of the frame if i think about this too hard i become unhinged) then buck. the softness of the “hey”. the cosy jumper. the curls! THE CURLS! work of art etc. etc.

hotness 5/5, softness 5/5, do i want to eat glass 5/5, is he wet y/n = 15

and before we get to my #1, some honourable mentions:

sharknado buck (2.11 new beginnings)

is this ensemble groundbreaking? not really. do i prefer his hair messy and curly? yeah of course have you looked at my blog. does any of this even matter when he’s smiling so big and wide like this it breaks my heart open in two like i’ve cracked an egg???

balcony buck (5.04 home and away)

and a recent contender enters the ring! *hits bell* there is just something so erotic about staring at your best friend with a black eye you’re icing with an ice pack he probably made up for you while wearing your comfiest trackpants and hoodie and he tells you exactly what you need to hear because he knows you better than the back of his hand <3 once again context is everything but also i like to see my favourite boy a little squished. a little dented. all the better to love you my dear <3

fire marshal buck (3.04 triggers)

the shirt so snug over his biceps it’s almost ripping. the tie pin. the clipboard. oh yeah it’s all coming together.

backwards cap buck (4.06 jinx)

the frat boyism. the unparalleled dumbassery. no thoughts head empty. and like i know i KNOW the cap is simply a costume device to make him look younger with minimal effort but also if i close my eyes i do not see <3

bulletproof vest buck (2.01 under pressure / 4.14 survivors)

couldn’t find the gif for survivors but this is hot too. i know something else i’d like to see him strap on

AND FINALLY...

DRUMROLL...

1. “that’s what buck means to me” buck (4.05 buck begins)

(gif credit @mediagifs because i couldn’t find it in gif search and needed this specific moment)

where do i even start. the curls. the soot. the wry smile. the emotional turmoil of the episode ripping me open like i’m a can of tuna and it’s a can opener. objectively there is nothing special about this outfit it is literally just his turnout gear but there is a... how do you say... je ne sais quoi. yes he is my mentally unhealthy six foot two fictional best friend/boyfriend/son <3 keep walking <3

hotness 5/5, softness 5/5, do i want to eat glass 5/5,is he wet y/n = 15 + bonus 💦

thus concludes my academic analysis of buck’s best looks. please note these are subject to change at any given moment on any whim i please. also i now realise i said before s4 is not my favourite hair era yet most of these are s4 what can i say i’m untrustworthy <3

#answered #anon #thanks for fueling my derangement anon much obliged #buck #evan buckley #911 #911 on fox #best looks™

173 notes · View notes