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slutforsilverfoxes · 1 year

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Polaroids & Promises

When your mother had first met your boyfriend, she had made two very astute observations: He was incredibly distinguished (read: much older than she’d expected) and he was definitely a heartbreaker. At the time she’d meant the latter as a testament to his devilishly good looks, but her statement had turned out to be true in a much more literal sense.

Letting out a sigh as you toed your shoes off by the front door, you settled your winter gear and house keys on their respective hooks before making your way to the kitchen. The contents of your fridge left much to be desired, a box of Chinese takeout and an unfinished bottle of wine sitting pretty on the second shelf, a sad cast of recurring characters in your post-breakup misery. Pointing at the Merlot, you declared, “I’ll be back for you soon.”

Although you wanted nothing more than to curl up with a trashy romance novel and the cheap wine, your career didn’t care how sad you were; work needed doing and therefore laundry needed washing. After shedding your work attire and scrubbing the day from your body with a hot shower, you carried the sizable buildup of clothes down the hall to the laundry room. You began sorting the delicates from your regular wash, pausing mid-squat at an unfamiliar shade of red peeking out from the bottom of the hamper. Tossing t-shirts and work pants aside, a traitorous prickle of hot tears momentarily blurred the stark white USMC before you. Releasing a ragged breath, you pulled the hoodie to your face and inhaled deeply, the fabric muffling your sob as the smell that you had come to think of as home overwhelmed your senses. Seven months of memories played in your head in the span of mere seconds, quiet nights on the couch, steaks cooked by the fire, the scraping of a sander against wood.

You missed Jethro more than words could describe. You missed his warmth, his touch, his teasing remarks. You missed visiting him at work, and sharing entire conversations with Tony consisting only of movie quotes, and nerding out with Tim over the latest Game of Thrones episode, and bonding with Ziva over a few hours at the range, and going to concerts with Abby, and trading interesting cases with Jimmy. You missed insightful talks with Ducky about life and opera and the enigma that is his friend and your lover. You missed the sight of matching keys on the hook next to yours and work boots in the hallway. You missed trading sections of the paper over morning coffee. You missed the quiet protest of the bed when he slipped in beside you well past midnight.

You missed having someone to come home to.

Swiping at your eyes, you abandoned the task at hand in lieu of moping in your bedroom, but first doubling back to enlist the company of your trusty red. You settled down on the floor at the foot of your bed and eased the cork out of the mouth of the bottle, taking a hearty swig as you pulled your wooden memory box into your lap. Running your fingers over the intricate pattern on top, you recalled the day Jethro had gifted you the handcrafted piece for all of those pictures you force me to be in, he had admitted with a begrudging smile. You took out the stack of Polaroids, spreading them out on the floor before you as you gulped down another mouthful of wine. Although the dates were printed at the bottom of each photo, you could easily track the progression of your relationship by the way Jethro’s visage grew less grumpy and more smiley over time. A teardrop splattered across the shiny surface of one of your pictures, and you were quick to wipe it off without smudging the writing on the bottom. You finished off the last dregs of red wine and with it, your crumbling resolve, and you dialed ten digits on your cellphone purely via muscle memory.

Jethro’s voice in your ear made your heart twinge, even if it was just to tell you to leave a message. Taking in a shuddering breath, you opened with a brilliant, “Hey, it’s me.” Cringing, you soldiered on. “You’re probably still at work, because that’s- that’s what you do, isn’t it? Work yourself to the bone, people who care about you be damned. Sorry,” you sighed, immediately reneging on the snarky comment. “That’s not fair of me to say. I admire you and the work you do, you know that, right? It’s just that, well, Ducky had warned me this would happen, that you have a hard time separating yourself from the job. I guess I thought I could stop it or delay it or something, but I couldn’t. And now it’s-” You paused to squint at the digital clock on your nightstand. “-a quarter after ten on a Wednesday night, and I’m wine drunk, and I miss you so much that I called just to hear your voice on a goddamn answering machine. I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days? Christ, this is fucking pathetic. Maybe I should get a cat or some-” The phone beeped at you, indicating that you’d reached the time limit on the machine. Dropping your head into your hands, you groaned out, “Oh my god.”

You heaved a sigh, then delicately returned your treasured memories to their keepsake box before replacing it on the desk. Deciding that the crisp winter air would do you good, you slipped into your coat and boots, locked up, and headed outside for a late night walk.

_______

“I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days?” Jethro chuckled softly at the incredulity in your tone, tuning back in to your message just as it got cut off. He poured himself another splash of bourbon, then downed it in one go, finger already itching to replay the rambling message for the third time in as many minutes just to bask in the sound of your voice for a few more precious moments. He heard the stairs creak and emptied out a mug of miscellaneous screws and fasteners under the assumption that Tobias was joining him to discuss their progress on the case. Instead, the voice he was so desperately craving to hear floated downstairs to him.

“You really should lock your doors. Never know what sort of unsavory character could wander in off the street.”

Turning to face you as you reached the bottom step, he rumbled out, “So that’s where my favorite hoodie’s been hiding.” There was a distinct edge to his voice as he silently took in your bleary eyes and slightly disheveled appearance.

“I took a cab,” you said softly, immediately recognizing the heat in his glare as concern at the thought of you driving in your current state. “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in,” he responded, not quite curt, but not exactly warm either. Still, he hooked his ankle around the stool beside him and pulled it out, simultaneously pouring two fingers of his signature bourbon into the awaiting mug on the workbench. You took that as an invitation to join him, closing the remainder of the space between you and accepting the amber liquid as you perched on the seat. Gathering your courage, you took a sip and offered, “I missed this gasoline with a side of tetanus.”

“I missed your unparalleled wit,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth lifting with mirth.

“Hey, so, random question,” you forced out through a laugh, “have you checked your messages yet today? Just wondering cause I-” Your words caught in your throat when Jethro suddenly framed your face with his hand, the familiar ridges of his callouses pressing against your skin as he molded his mouth to yours. He pulled back just as abruptly, eyes wide with the realization of the wounds he had reopened and muttered, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, entwining your fingers with his on the workbench. Not yet able to meet his gaze, you clarified, “Don’t apologize. Not for that, at least.”

“Y/N-”

“No, actually, you know what?” You finally dared to look up at him, taking in the scruff dotting his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his lower lids that no doubt mirrored your own. Hot tears brimmed at your water line as you continued with a ferocity, “You don’t get to turn those pretty blue eyes on me and kiss me and make me forget about the terrible month I’ve had without you. I’m so mad at you. So mad.” You punctuated this thought with a sharp prod to his firm chest. “I wanted you to fight for me. For us. But no! You decided the best course of action was inaction, and I had to be the bad guy. And you know what the worst fucking part about all this is?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head before pulling you into his arms. You melted into his embrace, all of the fight draining out of you as you confessed, “I’m not really mad at you. I’m mad at myself for being so naive.”

“Oh, my love,” he breathed out, squeezing you tight until your tears subsided. “You deserve so much better.”

Pulling back so you could look into his shiny eyes, you huffed, “That’s just it, you idiot. I want you to be better.” Lifting your joined hands to your lips, you pressed kisses to his knuckles before whispering, “I need you to choose me, just like I choose you every day. I want to build a life with you, to grow old with you-”

“One of us is already old,” he cut in with a cheeky grin, forcing a laugh out of you.

“Fine,” you amended, “I want to grow older with you, grumpy.”

“I want that, too,” he confessed quietly, the intensity in his eyes stealing your breath away. “The thing is, angel, I did choose you. I just thought you would be better off without me, and that if you left you’d be angry instead of hurt.”

“You- what?” you spluttered. “I should smack you upside the head for that, you stupid, infuriating man. What kind of dumb reverse psychology is that, Jethro? I just thought you would be better off without me,” you mimicked in a deep voice. Jabbing your finger into his chest again, you repeated, “Stupid.”

Grabbing your outraged finger as leverage, he pulled you closer and pressed his lips against yours once more, hands coming up to cup your cheeks and thumbs rubbing soothingly against your skin until your righteous anger boiled down to a controlled simmer. You let out a sigh as his mouth left yours, then beckoned him forward again. “One more.” He placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Another.” This time, the opposite side. “Keep ‘em coming.” He chuckled warmly before dotting gentle kisses all over your face until you graced him with a smile.

“Honey, listen,” Jethro said, growing serious as he guided you back down to sit across from him but keeping a firm grip on your hand, “I know I went about this in entirely the wrong way, and I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making up for it.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” you grumbled playfully, squeezing his hand.

“And you know I’m not big on moon phases and star signs and all that-”

“We’ll work on it.”

Fixing you with a look and tweaking your nose affectionately, he continued, “But I’m pretty sure most people don’t get lucky enough to find two soulmates in one lifetime. Shannon would never let me hear the end of it if I let you get away again.”

“Oh, Jet,” you sighed, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “The day I realized I was in love with you, I made your girls a promise that I would take care of you. Help me keep that promise, okay?”

“I will,” he whispered, two simple words, a solemn pledge. “Now let’s go upstairs so you can tell me what I’ve missed and call me stupid a bunch more times.”

“Deal,” you laughed, taking his hand so he could help you up. “Can I just check the answering machine real quick before we-”

“Nope,” Jethro cut you off, pulling you into his side and squeezing your hip as you ascended the stairs together. “I’m keeping that message forever. Maybe even quote it in my vows one day.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

#jethro gibbs #jethro gibbs x reader #jethro gibbs x you #jethro gibbs x y/n #jethro gibbs imagine #leroy jethro gibbs #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs x you #leroy jethro gibbs x y/n #leroy jethro gibbs imagine #gibbs x reader #ncis #ncis imagine #ncis fanfiction #ncis gibbs #ncis x reader #hurt/comfort

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darkdemeter · 3 months

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WOLF AND CONSORT: THE WEIGHT OF BARGAINS UNPAID

The DARK DEMETER WRITING CATALOGUE, WANDA MAXIMOFF COLUMN #1 —

—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—

Wanda Maximoff x Mafia! Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader

A/N — Short, I know, but I did get a little carried away with the darker aspect...

WORD COUNT — 2.2k

READER DISCRETION — Overall 18+ content, minors DNI! — post-kidnapping — Threats of death, endangerment and some abusive violence towards a minor (teenager) — general depictions of mafia violence — dark! reader — adult language — use of pet/nicknames ("Sweets") — cough obsessive/yandere type reader — I think that's it?

— NEXT COLUMN

SUMMARY — This isn't your first rodeo handling a rat caught in the trap. On the outskirts of New York, away from prying eyes, you've set into motion a plan to show Tony Stark that you are not to be trifled with. However, like an angel, Wanda comes to the rescue of your little captive. As per your fashion, in exchange for his freedom, she is expected to repay the debt of your kind deed. After all, the weight of bargains unpaid can be very hefty the longer they take to pay up...

Thump. Thump. Thump.

There are layers to the darkness he finds himself trapped in. The first masks eyes laden with tears that streak the hollowed paths of his face. The second surrounds him at all sides, in all directions, its atmosphere impairs his capabilities to remain calm, bandana pulled tight between his teeth and his limbs bound by the restraint of squeezing threads of plastic.

For time unknown is spent in the two layers of darkness, nose running with no hope to see the light of day again, forever bound to live out the remainder of his existence in the void that thrums deep and low, occasionally swerving left or right and dragging his weight to crash against one of the four walls of his black box cell.

As for the third layer of darkness, he’d rather spend this era of purgatory in the trunk, if it meant he never had to encounter the third again.

Tires slow to roll over the crunching of gravel, each second reminding him of the sound of bones being snapped and dismantled. The car’s movement halts but the car’s engine continues to rumble deeply, oiled and purring like a cat, he hears the slamming of doors.

“Mmf?”

Feet paw the gravel in near tandem of each other, moving in pairs of five in total. Clatter of metal emits from the darkness in front of his face and with a croak of the lock mechanism, the mouth of the trunk lifts upwards.

His once vocal, muffled pleas fall dead and bandaged by the damp cloth between his teeth. Eyes flooding with tears that mark his vision in a blur, spots of clear force him to meet his captors. Their eyes bear down upon him a weight that leaves his lungs burning in desperate hunger for air.

But it's the shadowy contours concealing most of your visage, eyes aglow and gaze eerily heated like burning coals.

“Peter, was it?” you drawl in question behind a wall of teeth. The falsehood of your smile brings a wave of nausea to swell in the pit of his stomach, as bile churns the remnants of his last meal, and the ringing in his ears throbs louder.

One of the men raises his arm and the barrel of a handgun forcefully kisses the rubbery flesh of Peter’s cheek, tear, blood and sweat stained. His body follows the natural course of instinct in his given position, muscles flinching harshly.

“Should we do it right here, Boss?” The voice of the gunman is roughly chalky through the tunnel of his throat.

“Not in the fucking trunk,” you hiss sharply, hand shoving the gun away. Peter momentarily catches a glimpse of the curved points of your claws, unsheathed and ready to rip and render anything fragile. If there was one thing he remembers in these final moments, it’s the few lessons his mentor warned him of.

One of which is that with you: everything is fragile. And frankly, you couldn’t give a single shit about being gentle.

“No. I have something else planned.” Your hand grapples the fabric of his shirt, bundling it together tightly and you rip him from the trunk, his body floundering because of the zipties digging into his skin, burning him red with irritated marks.

His body is thrown to the ground, back colliding into the metal rigging of the bridge’s rail. He wheezes and coughs as the air is pressed viciously from his lungs, mouth covering hindering his progress to recover his lost breath.

His eyes squint under the buzzing light overhanging the bridge section, dodgy in the way it flickers momentarily, brown hair tousled messily from his rough treatment in the time spent in your custody.

“Put some weight on him,” you order as you procure a small case from the inside of your coat.

Two of your men retrieve something from the trunk, chuckling amongst themselves, Peter’s eyes fixate on the coarse threading of rope looped into a noose on both ends. The other heaves a grunt as he hoists a large mass of concrete into his arms. Peter’s heart pounds harder and faster until his rib cage is bruised on the inside, relentless in its state of panic, the two men fix his legs together with one knotted loop, the other then tied around the hulking brick.

“Plmmf! Dmmf dmm mmph!” Old teary rivers on the verge of drying are renewed, fresh and warm. “Plmmf– plmmf dmmph!”

The men back away from him as you move forward, steps slow with preciseness in mind, you stoop down to his level. His head falters until his chin meets his chest, shoulders bouncing with his pitiful sobs.

“Don’t waste your breath, kid,” you tsk with the butt of your cigarette pressed between your lips. You pause to bring your lighter up, flame dancing mere inches away from his face, a faint overlay painting the canvas of your face. Even with that blaring light above, your features remain ominously impenetrable from his point of view.

Perhaps it’s because that’s how he sees you. As pure darkness. Evil incarnate.

With the end of your cigarette lit, your chest expands widely, shoulders engulfing Peter in shadow that threatens to swallow him whole, his pupils shrunken beyond comprehension of their existence. The scent of his terror brings about an amusing invigoration to the wolf’s side, the selfish need to hunt all things prey. All things weak.

The smokeline traverses upwards in a spiral as you next exhale, each pattern of the wisps unique. You pull the butt from your lips in silence as you offer a puff to the young man before you, to which he equally answers in his own quivering quietness with a shake of his head. The action reminds you more of an animal twitching.

Your shoulders roll back and the ridge of your browline rises up with a roll of your eyes. Another cloud of smoke is absorbed into the chasm of your chest, and this time, you huff the smoke into his face, his nose wrinkles as he coughs at the rancid smell of ashy, burnt tobacco. To add atop of the passive attack, your thumb taps the stick and the specks of ash cascade over his lashes that bat away the searing sting from his already reddened eyes.

“Y’know, I don’t like it when I catch rats scuttling around where they don’t belong. It’s not nice to eavesdrop on conversations you have no part in. No less, record it.” Beneath the octave of your tone is a breeze of airiness, a facade of hurt and your brows pitch up. When Peter gives no response, the facade vanishes, lifted to reveal the cold malice of your very existence.

“Did Tony send you to find out what we’ve been up to since the treaty?” Your hand lashes out and Peter’s voice, straining against the cloth, reaches out into the hollow of night with a raw, throat shredding scream. Your clawed fingers pinch the thinly layered bubbles of his cheeks, grip armed with the ability to threaten him that his jaw is a moment away from being unhinged with a single snap.

“Do I look like someone you can fuck with?”

“M–mf…” The structure of his face shudders with a ‘no’ response. “Then why were you snooping around in that warehouse, kid?”

The crease of your nose twists into a sneer when Peter does little to entertain your question with any sort of answer, you sigh as you move to stand up again, grip still locked around his face, he squirms as he’s hoisted up by the extension of your strength.

His tearful eyes grow in size, the whites reflecting the blinking light above, he hollers out a string of smothered screams.

“You’ll serve as a warning to him. Let him know that Clan business isn’t to be toyed with by the likes of him.”

Peter begins to writhe around in his fight to break free to no avail, body floundering, his back presses over the railing. He trusts that the weight tied around his ankles won’t keep him grounded even if you let him go, the power to thrust him over the ledge as easy for you as taking a breath, he watches behind another blur of tears - perhaps the last before his vision is overwhelmed by water - you take in a long drag of your cigarette, eyes stern and callous within its shadowed veil.

He’s hanging on the verge of a slow and agonising demise, to be tortured as he must fight for air he will never have again, in a battle futile to win he tries to take solace that there may be a white light at the end of death’s tunnel. A fleeting hope of a promise that with his suffering, there will be peace.

Rolling over the gravel, a second car pulls off to the road’s side some distance away, beams of the saving light finally bathe over what Peter could not see before. Horrors of your visage, tales a many circulating its distinctively haunting mark on the soul, once concealed in the darkness forged into your very nature, now paints the deeply etched sculpt of your furrowed brows. Below are the thinned form of your eyes that holster within them intentions dangerously untamed, and the recoiled muscle of your lips bearing sharpened points, untainted by violence and bloodshed for now, jaw set hard.

Your head bends off towards the side with a raspy growl tumbling through your clenched teeth. There's movement in the dark, wandering about as blackened shadows as they come upfront to meet with you. Your men take to preparing themselves, hands idle over their guns, they each whine and growl in a rumbling chorus backdrop.

“Let him go, Y/N,” says the accented allure of her sokovian tongue.

“Ah, well if it isn’t the poster child herself.” Mouth turning into a grin with a husky chuckle bouncing in your throat, eyes roaming the scale of her body up and down, you play into the extra mile and feign loosening your grip on the boy for a split second. You take sickening delight in the display of her body flinching.

Interest peaked, you purr lowly, “Why should I?”

“He’s just a boy. Please, he’s harmless to you.”

Your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth at this. How sweet she is, to come to the boy’s rescue, to save him from the clutches of a fate beneath the waters. Sweet and naive. You once again make your threat known, subtly pushing him that bit further over the edge. He makes to pull his body forward but you disable any attempt for him to secure even a shred of his safety. If those around you desire to push the bounds of your mercy, then you shall oblige in demonstrating the repercussions of such low thinking intelligence and blind haughtiness.

“Harmless,” you scoff, “A boy who knows too much about something he—”

“Please…,” she gasps. Oh, how that one word resounds in the night air clouded by rapids of fog. Muscle constricts around bone trembling in that same rushful, perverted delight. Never has such a sound - a singular word - been spoken so rawly and compassionately that it riled you deeply to the core, nor has any prior experience with company ever given you the dark stirring revelation you find before yourself.

Your eyes roll back to find hers, tongue tracing the sharp curves of your teeth.

Your men are silent, compliant to remain loyal and obedient despite the granted mercy you bestow upon the boy. Of course, they’d come to understand - or rather respect - your… fascination with the very woman who bargains nothing in exchange for the very clemency over Peter’s life. Your eyes pursue their focus on the darling woman whose green eyes bear to yours with such bewitching compassion. With claws hatching through rope and skin cutting plastic, Peter’s bruised features contort into a whirlwind mixture of relief and pain as he’s released from his bindings.

“Looks like you won’t be holding your breath, kid,” you huff. His knees wobble and his weight stumbles like a newborn pup, unsteady in his advance towards Wanda. She leans in close to his ear, plump lips moving before Peter continues on, moving towards the sanctuary of his saviour’s vehicle, another’s silhouette guides him safely into the back seat.

When she makes to swerve on her heel does she catch your fatal drawl with tongue beating the back of your teeth in a vocal, scolding fashion, finger wagging side to side.

“I’ve a reputation to protect, Sweets. I want compensation for your little stunt.”

For the second time, she gasps, “Excuse me?”

“I’m not a charity of mercy, Miss Maximoff.” Your head lays back slightly as you kink a finger at her in a gesture to bring to the table her payment. “So, what will you offer in return for the kid’s safety? Otherwise, with a snap of my fingers I’ll have my boys here drag him out… and I’ll hold the little fucker underwater until he drowns.”

“You… monster.” Her eyes break from yours, torn down is her resolve to stand before you and remain unshaken. Given this, the wolf’s nature takes hold and you stalk towards her, each step precise with predatory attentiveness. It’s not until you stand inches from her that she recognises that she’s let the wolf creep upon her. That she has succumbed to being your prey.

You continue, voice laced softly with a coo, “Then you know not to cross me, Sweets. So I ask again, what’s your offer?”

TREEHOUSE TAGLIST

@alexawynters @alyciaddict

#the dark demeter writing catalogue #treehouse taglist #werewolf reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda x werewolf! reader #male reader #gn reader #female reader #wanda maximoff #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #mafia wanda maximoff #mafia au #mafia #mob au #wanda maximoff x werewolf reader #angst

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tobiasdrake · 8 months

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XD Peter trying to hit on Nebula by complimenting the cyborg eyes Thanos forcibly installed in her skull. Rolling a natural 1 on his charm. I love this.

Here's the thing about Peter. The thing that this film finally, finally talks about. He needs to stop. Stop... doing this. Stop trying to bury his feelings in women. Stop looking for a woman to serve as his emotional crutch.

This behavior is a character flaw. One that's been with him for as long as we've known him. But the earlier films took the Tony Stark approach. "Meet our protagonist, a disrespectful womanizing playboy. But we don't have to talk about that because he fell in love! It's so sweet! He just needed to meet the right woman. Nothing to see here."

Guardians 3 says, "Fuck you, I want to talk about it." Reframing Peter's relationship with women from a silly character quirk into an actual, proper character flaw that the film can explore.

The film teases the question of who will be the new Gamora for Peter, giving him attempted moments with both Nebula and Variant Gamora. But these never go where Peter wants them to go.

He's no less charming than he's ever been. The Ura subplot in the Orgoscope exists to demonstrate that. But for both Nebula and Gamora, Peter's desperation to use them as a "close-enough" substitute so he can hide away from his grief is clear on his face, and they're not interested. They're will never be interested.

Instead, the film makes a different statement: Peter needs to grow up. To put down his mask made from the visage of childhood movie heroes. It's time to go home and finally face the original grief gnawing away at his heart, that's led him to chase skirt after skirt after skirt.

It's time for Peter to become emotionally responsible for himself, rather than searching for a woman to carry his burdens for him.

Honestly, this is the best Peter's ever been as a character. Specifically because they aren't treating him to the standard-issue set of White Male Protag Privileges. Rather, they're using this opportunity to re-examine and scrutinize him, to both his and the film's benefit.

#marvel #marvel cinematic universe #guardians of the galaxy vol 3 #guardians of the galaxy #peter quill #star-lord

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mirxclekissed · 1 year

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Random Angel & Tony Edits [1/?] - Being Iron Man’s sister can be hard...

#.•♫•♬• ʙᴀʙᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʙᴏꜱꜱ [visage]#.•♫•♬• ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪʀᴏɴ ᴍᴀɴ [tony stark]#.•♫•♬• ɪʀᴏɴ ʙᴏɴᴅᴇᴅ; ꜰʟᴇꜱʜ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ [angel & tony]#.•♫•♬• ꜱᴛᴀʀᴅᴜꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴇɪɴꜱ [edits]#look i just love them?!?#blood tw #.•♫•♬• ɪ'ʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ [angel edits]

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real-jane · 2 years

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poet laureate

part 3 - [prof bucky barnes x fem!reader]

summary: dean stark has his say.

warnings: none.

a/n: in case it wasn't obvious, there will be a fourth and perhaps even a fifth installment lol. i'm not ready to let them go.

series masterlist

Bucky had never been given a chance to decide what he wanted in life, but staring the visage of his fears in the face, Bucky was overwhelmed by the notion that he was not ashamed to be caught kissing this woman. All along he had anticipated how horrible he would feel, were Dean Stark to find out. Indeed, he was embarrassed (especially considering where his hands had been wandering), but former-professor Barnes couldn’t muster an apology for what they had done. He didn’t want her to be punished for it–but it didn’t mean he regretted it.

“I can come back.” Stark cleared his throat, turning away to give them some modicum of privacy.

“Thanks for meeting us,” Y/n said quickly. She stood and gave Bucky space to push off the chair and join her. He frowned at her in confusion. “I asked him here,” she said softly, leaning toward him as if the person who could end her career at NYU wasn’t standing right there.

Y/n smiled. “You are going to be so many things to me. A dirty secret is not one of them.”

Bucky searched for her hand blindly and linked their fingers once he found them. She’s not ashamed. The thought almost eclipsed the dread in the pit of his stomach. Still… he stood. He clutched her hand.

“It’s good you know. In case you get questions,” Bucky said to the Dean, who leaned against the door frame.

Stark snorted. “Is this why you resigned?”

“Yes.” The admission came forward of its own volition; it wasn’t the whole of it, but when he cut it right down to the wick of why–it was because all he wanted to do was kiss the woman at the end of his arm, even if other people saw him do it. Bucky cleared his throat to steel his nerves.

“At no point were we doing this when she was my student. I didn’t develop these feelings until the Summer. It seemed inappropriate to continue with my position, knowing I intended to pursue it.”

“No, I think that was astute. I am curious why you didn’t come to me right away.”

Bucky glanced at Y/n. She smiled gently.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked. “It happened. What’s important is where we go from here.”

“Hmm.” Stark seemed to consider this deeply, removing his ostentatious glasses to rub a hand over his face.

“I don’t want her degree to be in jeopardy, and we’re both aware how it looks–”

“Okay, bud. I know you’re freaking out,” Stark said, closing the door so the conversation might stay at least somewhat confidential, “but be straight with me: did you fuck on school property?”

Bucky’s cheeks reddened. “No.”

“Did you kiss her while instructing her?”

“No.”

Dean Stark’s focus swung to Y/n. “Did he coerce you into a relationship with drugs or alcohol or… I don’t know. A puppy, or something.”

“Nope.”

“Did you do favors for her like altering her grades or write a recommendation letter in exchange for favors of a sexual nature?”

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Nothing like that. He came to my symposium with the Emily Dickinson Fellowship in Amherst. Today is the first time we’ve been on campus at the same time since. So I can help clean out his office.”

“Great. I’ve done my duty, so. Do whatever you want, but not on property. Okay?” Stark sighed. “Barnes, I’ve known you for a few years now… long enough to see that you don’t have a life outside of teaching. No offense.”

“Apt,” Bucky agreed.

“You are a good person. The fact that you resigned to get ahead of this speaks to your ethics, but I think you underestimate how much people in this program appreciate you. If you had come to me–’gee, Tony–fell in love with my mentee, what the hell do I do?’ I would’ve asked you all of these questions, word for word. And we could’ve figured out a solution which didn’t look like you had a sudden breakdown. I mean… you’re seeing your former student. No way around it. But you’re not out here plucking up freshmen. So.” Stark shrugged. “If you have an interest in finishing out the semester, or… I don’t know. Coming back in some capacity, I’ll support you.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair in disbelief. “I–no. Thank you. I have a new job. I need to do something else for a while.”

Stark nodded. “Alright. Well. People are gonna talk. Nothing I can do about that.”

“We can take it,” Y/n said.

Stark looked between the two of them for a moment, and a genuine smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Poetry is dangerous, huh.”

Bucky couldn’t help but sigh. “Sure.”

“Off the record, just so I know for your adjudication. Did you leave his name on your thesis?”

“Sir–after two years of work?” She scoffed.

“I had a feeling. It’s better I ask your reasoning now than during your defense, in front of your peers and family,” Stark said.

“I mean–what answer would be acceptable to the board?” Y/n spat. “If it weren’t for Barnes, this thesis wouldn’t exist. To leave him unacknowledged would be factually inaccurate.”

“Y/n–you should’ve taken me off,” Bucky murmured. “I would’ve understood.”

She looked between the two men with an aghast expression. “No. And if interrogated by the board, I’ll tell them the same. I’m not hiding him from my work.” She squeezed Bucky’s hand so tight, he could feel her heartbeat in his palm.

“Okay. As long as you’re prepared.”

“Due respect, Dean Stark, I know what we’re up against.”

Stark shrugged. “Noted. Well. This has been illuminating,” he said with a surprising amount of peace about the whole thing, at least outwardly. “Barnes… I might suggest skipping her defense, anyway.”

Bucky looked down and nodded. “That was the plan.”

“What?” Y/n gapes at him. “This is ridiculous.”

Stark’s face turned stony. His mouth flattened into a thin line, and for just a moment, he looked like he was going to retort with something short or clipped, but… Tony Stark sat in the chair across the desk from them and crossed his ankle over his knee.

“About… fifteen years ago, now? I developed a bit of a drinking problem, after my father passed. The board put me on probation after I fell asleep behind the wheel at a stoplight. Luckily, I had had the forethought to turn the car off before passing out. Woke up thanks to a knock on my window by a campus patroller. So, my mother suggested hiring an assistant. I brought the idea to the Dean at the time, in the guise of helping me ‘get my shit together’ and he created a special work study position for a TA, which involved being an administrative assistant for the department. Basically… making sure I was sober enough to come to class, and drive without killing myself.

“Only one student applied. My little secret wasn’t well-hidden, but… Pepper was desperate to pay for her school herself so she didn’t burden her parents, and she didn’t care what it took. Until she realized her stroke of luck meant buying me gallons of Pedialyte, and fishing me out of the bar every time I drunk dialed her. She hated me. I was so annoyed by the sound of her shoes squeaking on the floorboards coming down my hallway that I gave her a pair of slippers… which she threw at me. But she kept showing up. She checked me into the hospital, and waved her finger in my face while the nurses had me captive with tubes and wires… It’s like you WANT to die! Pepper cried. I wasn’t thinking like that–I was just. Sad. And somebody actually cared.

“I didn’t ask her out for five more years,” Stark said. “Long after she graduated, might I add. Sometimes, love comes out of the clear blue sky. It doesn’t mean it’s bad, this thing between you. But some things will be difficult for you to navigate while you’re here–” he nodded to Y/n– “because of your historical connection. You also don’t have to make your lives harder. Barnes attending your thesis defense after suddenly resigning, while still being named on your work?” Stark clicked his tongue. “That’s a recipe for questions which have no bearing on your defense, but the board may not see it that way. I’m not… unsympathetic, here. My wife would make me sleep on the couch if I punished you for something I did, myself. But you should’ve told me right away. A guy’s gotta wonder what it says about him when people think they can’t come to him.

“Bottom line: now, I know. Should it be brought to me by someone other than yourselves, I can say I did my diligence, and found nothing… actionable. Yes?” Tony raised his brows and looked between the two. Bucky barely managed a slight nod, but that was enough for the Dean.

Tony stood. “I’ll tell you: some days, I wish I still drank.” He winked at Y/n. His departure left behind a heady silence.

Bucky released Y/n’s hand, and sank into the chair the Dean had occupied. Was that really it? Had he been waking up in cold sweats over the possibility of a personal history lesson from Tony Stark? Was it possible that the punishment for falling for her amounted to such a small sentence–well, not getting to hear her talk about her work was a loss, which rankled in the pit of his stomach out of disappointment more than anything–and he might not have to hide? He couldn’t stifle the huff of amazement. Y/n rubbed his shoulders.

“Are you upset with me?”

Bucky’s head snapped up. Was that fear in her voice? Her eyes searched his for reassurance, while she nervously nibbled the plush of her lower lip. What was crowning his dumbfounded dome? Love? He hadn’t said it, but Sam and Tony both had read him like a children’s board book. He loved her. Had done, since before the bloody workshop. Since… yeah. Since she handed him the first stack of poems which would become her thesis, and made that very same nervous face at him while he read her raw vision for her culminating project. He was neither upset with her for coming clean to Stark, or for any other thing. He opened his arms and she folded forward, dropping to kneel between his knees. The moment her cheek hit his chest, Bucky zinged with an image of the future. It wasn’t a premonition exactly, but it centered on her.

“I, uh. Hmm.” He gathered his realizations into a somewhat coherent statement, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I am better. With more of you,” he murmured, hearkening back to the poem of hers he had tried to use as an excuse not to love her.

“I know,” she whispered. Her fingers drew lazy circles on his back. “I wish you could be there for my defense.”

“Pssh.” He pulled back enough to look her in the eye. “I’ve had a front row seat this whole time. It’s someone else’s turn.” Bucky smiled as her nose wrinkled. “Doll, that night–broke my own heart, leaving you. I had feelings for you before then. I see that now. Just wasn’t gonna do anything about it.”

“Buck,” she said, as if his name were a new endearment she had created just for him, “do you know how long I’ve felt the same?” She giggled when Bucky frowned. “I didn’t even think you’d come to Amherst. When you did, I thought I was going to die. I don’t know how I made it through my reading.”

“You were perfect–”

“I was shaking, absolutely terrified you’d figure out all that… what did my instructor call it? Oh–“pent-up yearning”--was over you.” She sat back on her heels. “And you went with me to that bar after, and suddenly… we were magnetized.”

“Think we should tell Stark that part?”

She reached inside his fears and lit a candle. “Bucky, I love you. Even though you have been running like an Olympic Gold medalist, I’m pretty sure you feel the same.”

He blinked. “I think that is an insufficient description. Both of how I feel, and how much I’ve panicked about it.” They shared a soft, shaking laugh. She pressed up so they were nose-to-nose again, and Bucky nuzzled her. “Loving you doesn’t come easy to me. Haven’t had a lot of practice. But. I know I want to touch you again, and I feel a bit like a randy teenager about it.”

“Too bad we’ve been warned off campus trysts.” Her cheeks were warm when his fingers found them. “I’m free tonight.”

“I have work.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

She kissed him feather-light. “This packing thing isn’t going to take us all day.”

Bucky coughed, and flushed. “No, uh. Probably not.”

“So. Let’s wrap this up, yeah?” Y/n stood, leaving Bucky dumbfounded in the chair. He watched her straighten her clothing and turn her attention to the files in the desk. Though her eyes were cast downward, she smiled like she could feel his gaze.

He scratched his cheek. This woman–blinding, beautiful, vibrant, intelligent–she had written poem after poem about him, by her own admission. He had reviewed every one, without knowing he was reading a profile of her affection for him. Born out of so many weekends in that very office, pouring over his thesaurus together, dog-earred to death with synonyms for ‘breath’ and ‘sigh’. He recalled telling her one time, ‘this would read more romantic if you…’ and the memory trailed off, because… she took his advice. She revised. He taught her the language of his heart. He walked the path beside her. He found himself at the same intersection she did. Where he saw uncultured awkwardness in himself, she saw something precious. Maybe that’s what love is. Somebody thinks I’m poetry.

Once upon a time, he wrote things people found meaningful. Enough that his own thesis was carried by the university library, and sold at the coffee shop under ‘notable local authors’. He hadn’t put any of his own words to paper in so long that he wondered if he’d forgotten how. Or if, just maybe, he didn’t need to package his thoughts in palatable portions. Not if the woman he fed was her. And by God, if he couldn’t sustain himself on her words alone, he wasn’t fit to be with her.

And that wasn’t acceptable.

He rose to his feet slowly, as if he couldn’t trust his knees not to knock together with nervousness. She paid him no mind, so he circled around the desk. Bucky reached for the folders in her hand; Y/n squeaked in surprise when he nudged the file drawer shut with his toe. He didn’t say a word, just wrapped both arms around her waist, tucked his chin into the crook of her shoulder, and held her. It took a moment for her to relax, but when she did, she hummed. A sweet, happy three-note ditty. Heart-sounds. The sort which she emitted when words were insufficient. She made many beautiful sounds on the one night of intimacy they had shared. Back then, he hadn’t felt worthy to listen to such sounds of abandon. But as her fingers crawled along his forearms to hug him back, Bucky knew they were meant for him.

She was meant for him. Whatever ‘meant’ meant. No synonyms sufficed.

She packed everything which hung on the wall, including his degrees and the photo of his Army regiment. They left the files for his predecessor. They didn’t say much, but he kissed her when the urge struck, and offered her his coat when he deemed the office sufficiently emptied. He didn’t mind the pang of sadness which tugged when he slid his key into the mail slot of Sam’s office.

Part 4

tag list: @peterhollandkait @honeywithemoney @nahthanks @emmabarnes @dracris33 @dracosluvbot @searchf0rtheskyline @cjand10

#bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #professor bucky #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au

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milehighmechanic · 7 months

Text

@feralego moved from here

It’s not really what he wants to hear, but he’s too old now, he thinks–and too involved in superhero matters; in the plays of life and death games on a cosmic scale–to be talked down to like a child. To be pacified with false hopes. With lies.

He’s always respected Stark, but the feeling grows more personal now. Even if the honesty feels draining. Painful.

His shoulders slump, and he lets his head droop forward before clasping his hands together at the back of his neck. Peter can barely remember the last time he felt this tired. Even as a small, sickly, often hospitalized kid, this level of fatigue had been a rarity.

Stark rouses his attention when he slides it in his direction, and Peter gazes down at the iconic piece of armor, fixating on the eye slits as his breath catches in his throat. And he has to wonder if gazing into those cold, soulless eyes would make it any easier to record anything to have sent to May. If she’s even still alive.

Part of him thinks it might be. Part of him thinks that distinctly mechanical visage might help him control the emotions in his delivery more, making it easier to say what he needs to say, and quickly.

He lifts the helmet gingerly and moves to stand, tucking it under his arm.

"Thanks…“ He tries to smile, or to look anything but glum, but he can’t manage. "I’ll– I’ll do that. I’ll be in the back for a bit if you need me.”

Tony watches him---- the way Spidey droops, the look of defeat in his eyes. Probably a good reflection of Tony himself, ten minutes ago. It only steels his resolve. Tony knows he has a tendency to wallow in his own guilt---- his therapist has told him so.

He watches, silently, as the guy disappears through the doorway, and he’s just a KID, a teenager who shouldn’t have to be contemplating leaving a goodbye for his aunt.

Maybe losing to Thanos had been Tony’s fate, inescapable. The end of Iron Man. His last failure.But it shouldn't be Peter’s fate to die on this spaceship. To starve to death so far from home. Yinsen had lost EVERYTHING, but he’d never given up in that cave, he’d never let Tony give up. Maybe it’s Tony’s turn. ( Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark? )

It hurts when he stands, worn down muscles aching, pulling, weak. But pain is an old friend. It’s second nature to grit his teeth and ignore it, to control his breathing and keep on going. He’s not going far. The engine is one of their problems; the console at the front of the ship is the other. Nebula said that they couldn’t fix it----- but Tony will rebuild this whole damn ship from scratch if he has to. ( With a box of scraps. )

Ideas spark across his mind, settling into one cohesive thought. He’ll have to discuss it with Nebula, with Peter even, because the kid is smarter than him, somedays---- but it’s a plan.

Maybe he’ll manage to not fuck this one up.

#feralego #thread: a stranger or a friend #v: accidental mentor #//cue building montage #//lmao i can't remember exactly what we had planned but like #//if you wanna have them talk more pete can come find him??#//or we could timeskip to them getting home either under their own power or carol's??

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