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mo0nfairy · 10 months

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ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ THIS IS A LIFE, PART ONE !

summary :: in every universe, spiderman will inevitably lose the one thing that matters most to him: y/n l/n. miguel o'hara, peter parker, and hobie brown have all suffered through this story. they soon discover another version of you is alive, bound to fall in love with miles morales and to die abruptly. with the prospect of a second chance and a newfound obsession, these four men will do anything to keep you at their side.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 7.5k

content warnings :: yandere!miguel, yandere!miles, yandere!noir, yandere!hobie, reader death, gore/violence, murder, electrocution, fire, guns, alcohol, cigarettes, suicidal tendencies, kidnapping, stalking, physical restraint, child abuse/neglect, allusions to a child's death, physically abusive ex-boyfriend, infidelity, & torture.

──── October 17th, 2099 — Miguel O'Hara remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. August 24th, 1934 — Peter Parker remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. July 3rd, 2020 — Hobie Brown remembers the day the same way he will never forget you.

Y/N L/N. Miguel O'Hara, Peter Parker, and Hobie Brown will never forget them the same way they will never forget how it felt to lose them.

The inevitable fate of your demise is a cannon event for all spider-people. To love this person with every shred of their being only to live the rest of their lives without them; to love this person with all the might their body can contain only to let go of their hand in the end. It crushes their soul. Countless people are forced to live with the consequences of being bitten by a spider, not one had suspected it would be so detrimental.

Not when it is your life that has been taken.

Written in the stars is this destiny. How they will never love another again, but vow to be a hero and refrain a similar fate from falling onto anyone else. Many have been able to crawl out of the bottomless pit that is grief, but others have succumbed to the unforgiving anguish and let their life escape them. Just the way yours had. After all, what is life if you are not present? What is the point of living if there is no one there to patch up their scars and praise them for their heroic acts? There is no point, which leaves these three particular spider-people here. Their body is stuck in the past, reliving each moment with you up until they lost you forever.

October 17th, 2099. It was all his fault. Maybe if he hadn't let his violent tendencies toward anyone who isn't you slip through the seams, maybe if he had been more persistent in his reminders of how loved you are. Maybe if he had tried harder, Miguel O'Hara would still have you here at his side.

Miguel's attempts to make this sudden transition in your life as easy as possible turned out to be disastrous. He is not stupid; he knows this upbringing into this new lifestyle you claim to be "kidnapping" was blunt. He knew this, yet still, his plans on easing you through this change had collapsed right before him. Time had passed, and he naively assumed your fear had depleted, far too caught up in the sheer delight that came from holding you in his arms. Days and nights spent trailing his fingers down the expanse of your skin and kissing away the bruises his fangs had left upon your lips. This is a dream, Miguel always catches himself thinking.

And his sweet daughter, Gabriella. How she adored you so much. Even more so than her own father, he often joked. Coming home to find you both brushing the hair of her numerous dolls, baking treats that were rich with far too much sugar, or fast asleep on the couch while some whiny kids show plays on the television. His heart hammers like a fluttering hummingbird at the sight of you so soft and calm with his daughter. However, your guard then builds itself back up, brick-by-brick, faster than a gust of wind when he makes his presence known. In a way, Miguel found himself... jealous of Gabriella. That gentle and loving nature of yours, why couldn't he have it for himself? Why couldn't you give him some of that attention, even just a blink? What could that crybaby brat possibly have done to deserve such an amazing thing!?

No matter what kind of thoughts suffocate his mind, Miguel always tried to keep himself composed in front of you. With his tall, muscular physique, it makes sense why you are so intimidated by his appearance. If he were to ever let this satiating envy bleed through the bandaids, however, you'd certainly never open your heart to him. The prospect alone makes his chest tighten with dread.

And he had been so negligent towards his daughter, it only makes sense why she would turn to you. With how breathtaking, elegant, brilliant, electrifying you are, Miguel can understand why she loves you so much. Still, this does not refrain him from tightening his jaw whenever his daughter does something as trivial as hug you. That should be me with Y/N. Let me hold them, let me hold them, let me hold them like that.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his envy through sharp gazes, a towering frame, and muffled shouts through the thin walls. It's his fault he never assured you these ugly emotions were never your fault, since you could never do any wrong in his eyes, after all. It's his fault he didn't drown you in even more heaps of affection, to further remind you of just how much he needs you.

It is his fault you are dead.

Overcome with drowsiness, Miguel heedlessly packs his daughters lunch for school that day. Despite how you are usually the one who does this task, since you have always adored looking after the little one, you needed your rest. And he was insistent on treating you with even more intensive care, all to prove that he is the right one for you. No one else. Meanwhile, Gabriella sits at the kitchen table with her backpack on, swinging her short legs back and forth. She is bright with full energy that contradicts her father's state in a comical manner.

"Y/N/N always cuts my food into cool shapes! Yesterday, they made my sandwich star-shaped!" Gabriella exclaims to her father with admiration.

The mere mention of your name from someone else makes Miguel freeze. A sudden surge of anger wraps around his lungs like a sheen layer of morning dew resting on Spring grass. You treat her with such attentive care, why can't he get any of that? What is so special about her that he doesn't have? What does he need to change about himself in order to get you to love him the way you so fatuously love her? Miguel casts his gaze across the counter and finds several bottles of cleaning products you must have forgotten to put away. So endearing, so adorable. An idea then sparks. While Gabriella continues to babble about how cool and amazing you are, Miguel finds himself considering something he will never be able to take back.

Just a dash of some drain cleaner in her sandwich and this problem will fade away.

"Y/N/N!" The sound of your nickname shouts through the air upon your arrival. Gabriella is more than elated to greet you, but your eyes remain locked on Miguel. In other circumstances, he'd be thanking the heavens above for this bit of attention you have given him. At this moment, however, there is a disturbed gleam of horror in your expression that makes his stomach twist with apprehension.

The energy is not directed towards Gabriella, as you caress her cheek and gift her that smile of yours that rivals sunlight. Miguel inadvertently rolls his eyes at the sight, envious as ever. As she continues to ramble to you about her success at a recent soccer game, you retrieve all the cleaning products and return them to their respective place underneath the sink. Not without shooting a burning glare at Miguel, however. Had he made his intentions that obvious? You wave him aside from his stance at the pink, glittery lunchbox and he obeys. Pretending to finish up his original efforts, you examine every snack inside for anything this crazed man may have tampered with.

"Good morning, button..." The nervous tremble in Miguel's voice doesn't tarnish the sheer adoration that seeps from his tone.

Your short response of "'morning" could barely be heard over the thunderous sound of his heart shattering. Yet again, you have broken his heart. And still, he will crawl back to you every time, aching for any inkling of your regard. Soon, you're saying your goodbyes to Gabriella and wishing her a wonderful day at school. Planting a quick peck to her cheek, Miguel's talons grow and dig crevices into the steering wheel while he waits for his daughter to join him in the vehicle. Oh, if only you could give him the same act of affection, he would never ask the universe for anything ever again.

And if only he had known how the rest of the morning would play out, he never would have left the house.

When Miguel finally pulls out of the driveway, giving you a quick wave that is not reciprocated, you let your guard down. You almost watched this man murder his daughter. Tears begin to form in your eyes as the revelation simmers like boiling water. With more time here, who knows what lengths he'll travel to?

Fortunately for you, with how occupied he was with his daughter and his own inner turmoil, he had entirely forgotten to lock the door to his office. The one place neither you nor his daughter were allowed to venture into. You were unaware of what is within the room or how anything inside could aid you in your attempts to escape. What you were aware of, however, is how paranoid he was in his efforts to keep you out of there. Peeling back the curtain and taking a fearful glance out the window, just to ensure this psychopath who claimed to be your soulmate wasn't lurking, you embark on your journey into uncharted territory.

Miguel had mentioned several times in his late-night talks with you about his job at Alchemax. His boring explanations about the technology he was working on there did wonders in lulling you to sleep. Now, seeing the scatterings of machinery that littered the room made you gasp from their futuristic appearance. One contraption had caught your attention, however. It seemed to be a current project, evident in the numerous tools and papers inked with equations littered around. Upon stepping closer to the contraption, a holographic screen sputters to life. You find several distorted, glitching files that all attain to you in some shape or form. Y/N's wish list, Y/N's checking account, and Y/N's security camera footage. Curiosity does spark, but with how swiftly Miguel is able to drop his daughter off and speed home to return to you, the time you had was not versatile.

If I can piece together how this gadget works, I may be able to call for help and get Gabriella and I as far away from this man as possible, you think to yourself.

The machine continues to stammer pathetically as if it were desperately chasing its own life. Trying to peruse through the technology to find anything useful, its poor performance prevented you from any fruition. In a fit of frustration, you pull your hand back and deliver a harsh smack! to the side of the machine. With how little time you have, you can feel your opportunity for freedom begin to fade away with every glitch that erupts. With one final, violent slam to the machinery, the metal borders protecting the numerous open wires inside fall, and a sudden wave of electricity surges through you. Your entire body goes rigid before you splat harshly against the ground. You are now left entirely lifeless, except for the electric shocks that cause your stiff form to twitch in response.

With that, your life was over. October 17th, 2099 — the day Miguel O'Hara inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

August 24th, 1934. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had stayed with you more and neglected the city, maybe if he hadn't been so careless with expressing his love for you. Maybe if he had tried harder, Peter Parker would still have you here at his side.

Peter, too, attempted vigorously to make your transition to this new life with him as smooth as possible. At the very beginning of this new adjustment, hope had still plagued your mind. As days turned into weeks, soon months, the forest fire that was your persistence had slowly been snuffed out like an old candle. Now, all you can do is sit at the window seat of his apartment and just pray that someone will recognize your face. From the numerous missing persons' posters that were now left behind in dumpsters and rain puddles, you could feel your luck grow thin. Everyday looked like this, all with this lovesick maniac at your beck-and-call, deluded enough to believe this fantasy of being your doting partner to be reality. The amount of egg-creams you've drank is bound to make you vomit at some point.

At the end of the day, you had gotten what you had wished for. You were once a journalist, putting all your time into unmasking the famous Spiderman. The truth of his identity was now in the palm of your hands. However, there were far more consequences to this wish than you had originally anticipated. And Peter is overcome with guilt when he thinks back to how disastrous his efforts to give you his heart turned out.

It's his fault he had so carelessly exposed his acts of heroism through the stench of gunpowder and chunks of blood beneath his fingernails. It's his fault he didn't spend more time showering you in the affection you truly deserved. It's his fault he never assured you the inevitable fate of the bastards that hurt you was never your fault, just so you can realize that everything he does, no matter how calamitous, was all for your benefit.

It is his fault you are dead.

Slow dancing with you in the gentle haze of the moonlight peaking through the window, swaying along to some romantic melody echoing from the saloon across the street, amorous words that you'd hear from the lips of a poet whispered into your ear — this is where heaven is. This is all that he has ever dreamed of; this is all he has ever wanted for the two of you. This is what makes him happy.

"My heart is bleeding in your hands, dollface. It's all yours, I'm all yours." Peter's breath tickles your neck, the infatuation-stained harangue finally coming to an end as he continues to sway you along to the harmonies outside.

You often joke to yourself that you could stab Peter in the heart, give him even just a sliver of the turmoil he has forced into your life, and he would still give you a smile with blood painting his teeth and that revolting gleam of pure, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. With this devotion, however, comes dark, dark side effects. This was not a surprise to you, considering how you've been locked up like a bad dog for these past several months. Still, when you inhale and the sharp odor of iron poorly masked with bleach overwhelms your senses, you find yourself taken aback.

The clamoring sound of the bolts to your prison cell your captor claims to be your love den being unlocked brings you out of your thoughts. When the door opens and Peter walks in, all you see is a euphoric, hopelessly-besotted partner. With the sudden stench that is still heavy in the air, however, you feel a new, sudden sense of dread with his presence. He is elated to see you, as he always is. An impassioned kiss to your lips and an ardent compliment are essential to your everyday encounter with the man you thought once to be a superhero. Sometimes, a gift of fresh, blood-red roses may accompany him in his attempts to woo you further, as well.

Through the whiff of cigarettes sitting on his trench coat when he envelops you in a much-needed embrace after his long day of work, you sense something else. The tang you had inhaled from outside the bedroom is now stuck to his form, nestled beneath the aroma of late-night brume and smoke. You force a gag down your throat and reciprocate the affection, trying to push your suspicions to the back burner in your mind. The rest of the evening is like any other: listening to some tunes from the radio as the two of you play a card game, all that Peter deems as a "romantic date". Your winning strike against him (he always lets you win, but he won't tell you this) falters when your brain can't help but wonder what he was so occupied with outside that door.

As devastating and exhausting as the truth is, coming to terms with reality is the only chance you have of returning to the life you once had. Hoping he'll wake from his delusions and let you off your leash is nothing more than a pipe dream, you realize. If you want freedom, you'll have to take it by the neck and claim it as yours. So, as the hours of the night fade into dawn, you conjure a plan in your head while the man beside you snores in a deep slumber (not without a few sleepy mumbles of flattery for you, though).

The scheme you had so flawlessly crafted was quick, simple, and easy. You would do something you have never done before: initiate affection with Peter.

This was your ploy: fulfill all the fantasies his lovesick brain was infested with and watch with a newfound sense of hope as he forgets to lock the door, too dazed from the pleasure your sweet attitude had brought him. And it worked marvelously. Not only did this man forget to lock the bedroom door, he had entirely forgotten to lock the front door of the apartment altogether. The prospect of this mistake being a test of your loyalty lingers, but when you watch through the window as he swings away from building to building, you let out a roar of laughter.

After your fit of hysterics, a smile sits on your face as you tread to the front door. Something stops you in your tracks when your hand hovers over the doorknob. When you leave, you will have nothing but months of memories to defend yourself with. Who are the authorities going to believe — you, a mischievous journalist, prone to bending the rules for a good headline, or Peter, the famous superhero, notorious for his restless efforts to save the city? Despite the freedom you have dreamed of being right in your palms, you step away from the door. Instead, you look around for any evidence deemed beneficial. Whatever can put him under the negative limelight is satisfactory to you.

No stone was left unturned in the apartment, all besides a single door at the end of a long corridor. The night before, Peter had been so frantic with his time inside (all in order to get back to you sooner) that he was sloppy with his efforts in cleaning his mess. The spilled bleach he had accidentally knocked over was still lying in a puddle; the nauseating scent of fresh blood still satiated through the air like a fragrance. And lastly, the latch on the door had been left unlocked.

Without so much as a second thought, you enter the room and let your curious eyes soak in the sheer horror that resides within.

A metal chair rests in the middle of the room, leather straps tightened around a body that sits motionless. Two tables are located on the sides of the room where all sorts of gut-wrenching tools reside. And there is blood everywhere. What was once a second bedroom for buyers of the apartment has now been morphed into a torture chamber of sorts.

The person restrained in the chair, you weren't sure if they were even alive. Everything is drowned in so much heaps of red, attempting to use your mere first-aid knowledge is impossible. What is most perceptible, however, is the way their eye had been forcefully torn from its socket. It resembles a runny egg how it causes bodily fluids to cascade down their face. The amount of flesh on their body that had been torn asunder, the gag in their mouth that was oozing with tears and saliva, the gushing blood that continues to hastily seep from infected wounds. Everything makes your eyes blur and your stomach churn with nauseau.

With the career you once had as a journalist, you've seen some disgusting sights. Sneaking onto crime scenes from a brawly saloon fight gone too far or snapping pictures of the result of Spiderman's "heroic" acts to save citizens, you've become desensitized to gory scenes. But, this. This wasn't like anything you have ever seen.

"Y/N?" You hadn't realized how deafening the silence was until the poor victim is able to speak out.

With one eye practically staring daggers into you, the revelation hits you like a train. That voice, that eye. This is no other than the man you had called your boyfriend before this mess had snuck into your life. Or, ex-boyfriend, as you'd prefer to refer to him as. The status of your relationship was left a mystery after the night he had come to your home drunk and reeking of someone's perfume. Your insistent demands for him to sober up and inform you of his recent whereabouts earned you a harsh slap across the face. With a loud shout of how much of a “shitty partner” and "piece of cityside trash" you are, the person you thought to be the love of your life storms out of your home. Never to be seen again.

Hastily, you unclasp the restraints that left his skin numb and bruised. With how malnourished he had become from his time spent here, it was fairly easy to support his weight. You swing his battered arm around your shoulder and help him stand on his emaciated legs. After only two steps, he pushes you off of him harshly with what little strength his body was able to garner. His attempts served well, as you feel your stomach hit a table adorned with blood-stained utensils that make you sick to imagine how they were used.

"You... How could you...?" As his weak voice fills the air, you feel your stomach fold into itself. Does he think you did this?

Opening your mouth to begin stammering your way through what you intended to be a thorough explanation, a loud bang! then pervades the air. Without a second to process his actions, the man grasped the pistol left on the table and pulled the trigger. A stream of smoke now stems from the barrel. The betrayal, the aversion, and the debility in his expression tell you everything you need to know. You were so close to the finish line that would grant you freedom, but when you shift your gaze down, you're devastated to find a bullet hole protruding through your chest. You then slump to the ground and your killer falls not long after you, the act of merely standing too much for his abused body.

With that, your life was over. August 24th, 1934 — the day Peter Parker inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

July 3rd, 2020. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had been more attentive to your safety, maybe if he hadn't exposed how soul-crushing the love he has for you is. Maybe if he had tried harder, Hobie Brown would still have you here at his side.

As opposed to the others, Hobie did little to ease you into this new life with him. The transition was curt, violent. With you as a bartender, drunken customers are most certainly not a rare sight. However, when you rejected a man who had one too many drinks and he reacted with violence, it caught you off-guard. And Hobie, the lead singer of the band that consistently played at your bar, had become blind with rage. Through the mess of the blood on your head when the beer bottle shattered against you and the apple-red matter staining Hobie's guitar as he smashes it relentlessly into the man's skull, these events somehow landed you where you are now.

An abandoned building on the outskirts of town, that's where you had woken up. The debris around the room was masked with string lights and band posters adorning the walls, as well as a rickety bed frame scarcely supporting a lone mattress. With bleary vision and an even fuzzier head, you gain consciousness abruptly. You find yourself on the bed with thick, itchy blankets draped around you, clothes that certainly do not belong to you on your body, and spiky belts used to restrain your limbs. Barbed wires and decaying planks of wood board the windows; the lack of passing cars and loud pedestrians outside cause you to worry about how far you are from the lively city you called home.

A lanky figure makes their presence known, dressed in those all-too-familiar garbs. Spider-Punk, the man you'd always see performing at your penurious bar, despite how widespread their band was. Much to your shock, his large hand finds the trim of his mask before tearing the garment off. Beneath is a gorgeous face embellished with piercings and a wild head full of hair. Large, wet eyes overwhelm you. And there is only one discernible trait you could read clearly through his expression: desire.

The way your plump body pools from the hems of the small clothing he dressed you in from his closet, fuck. Hobie has thought of this moment plenty of times — finally being able to take you away, just the two of you. He swore up and down he'd keep his fervid cravings at bay. But, when you're truly here in front of him, looking like that. He has to dig his long nails into his palms to physically restrain himself from lunging for you like a feral animal in heat. God, you look too fucking good.

From here on out, the relationship you have with Hobie sprouted into something only you would call treacherous, something only he would call rapturous. Being trapped within the small expanse of this grimy room, your new life has shown how perceptibly different your reactions are from one another. You are entirely dumbfounded at these new circumstances you've been forcefully thrust into. Meanwhile, Hobie attempts to put space between you both to avoid giving into his irresistible hunger. Though, it doesn't take a genius to notice how his hands always find their way to your naked skin and how his eyes linger on the intimate parts of your body. And it most certainly doesn't take a genius to notice the sheer terror and confusion stuck to your expression.

The discomfort the residence brings does little to ease you, as well. How your body is restricted against the firm mattress has your limbs aching with cramps. Your neck throbs from no support, considering the lack of pillows. But, Hobie always remarked that his chest is more comfortable to lay on, anyway. His clothing reeks of alcohol from the numerous bars and parties he’s attended, but also from the expensive perfumes, lotions, as well as the skin and hair products he received from his time being a runway model. The scent now clinging to your skin fails to bring you any of the tranquility he wished you would feel. Meals shared between you two were often dowsed in grease and cheap in flavor. Your captor never put much effort into making your dinnertime together anything reminiscent of a romantic date in Italy or something along those themes. He would much rather eat something else for dinner, after all.

This is what life looked like for the next several months. Records spinning and filling the air with headache-inducing songs he says he had written about you; Polaroid pictures scattered around the room that display different variations of the same scene: you sitting pretty with Hobie's hands and lips all over you. Never, never, has this man ever felt so much bliss in his entire life. He has always preached about how the idea of "love" is nothing more than propaganda meant to earn greedy, capitalistic companies more money with their cheesy movies and Valentine's Day garbage. When you entered his life in all your glory, however, he was ashamed to put his pride aside and admit those irritating pop songs may have been correct.

"I don’t need nothin’ else. 'Long as I have you here, birdie." He fidgets with the necklace he had given you that was currently draped upon your neck. His lucky guitar chip is swung upon the chain, since it always belonged to you, anyway. You will always be his muse.

With how carelessly he let himself be swathed in the warm blankets of love, how carelessly Hobie had let you slip from his fingertips.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his protective nature through blood-stained bar floors and constricting arms encompassing your body. It's his fault he never assured you these conflicts weren’t your fault, it was only the monsters outside who wished to separate true love. It's his fault he had disciplined himself so heavily for his big heart, fearful of losing self-control with the love of his life.

It is his fault you are dead.

You regret not tallying the days you've spent locked up in this birdcage. Carving lines into the deteriorating walls to represent the slashes this new life has left in your sanity. It feels as if lifetimes have tread by you, the same day repeating itself like your own personal nightmare. Mere months have gone by and unbeknownst to you, the sweet escape you so despairingly crave is sitting upon the horizon. The circumstances of your freedom were the absolute last thing you had wished for, however.

Hobie’s history of being a heartthrob and heartbreaker were no secret to you, but his newfound loyalty to the innocent person he had taken from their previous life was even more evident. All the possessive, delusional fans that were convinced they'd marry their favorite singer, it was just so easy for Hobie to indulge in some casual fun before leaving them behind in his dust. As the story of all Spider-People goes, however, Y/N L/N is the tool that throws this man into a whirlpool of enamoring disarray. Embracing this newfound happiness was exhilarating for him, but Hobie was so dazed from it, he never had thought that karma would slither itself between you two.

A certain groupie, wholly convinced she and Spider-Punk are soulmates, was devastated to see how carelessly the love of her life abandoned her. Her mind had sprinted to all sorts of gut-wrenching conclusions. Am I not enough? Is he moving on? Is there someone else? Her worst nightmare materializes into reality when she stalks behind his tall figure and follows him to a building one late night, an odd pep in his step as he enters. What she assumes is just another exclusive club location with more taboo forms of partying, she is left stunned when she catches sight of what sights lie within.

The man of her dreams is found in the depths of infidelity. Through the crack of a rickety door coated with locks, there he was. Chest pressed against the back of someone else, who was sound asleep beneath an array of blankets like a baby in a crib. With his arms locked around them like a lifeline, Spider-Punk presses long, intimate kisses to their face. The words she had begged to hear from him, he was so frivolously drowning this stranger in such, despite their unconscious state. Every syllable was dripping with lust and smitten-induced hysteria. Tears brim in her eyes from how desperately she covets to be you in this moment.

With a shattered heart and a festering rage, she comes to the conclusion of what she must do. She will take him back, no matter what it takes.

Rarely did Hobie ever leave the expanse of your room, he wanted to stay with you forever. When he did, however, it was for some quick cash at yet another gig he and his bandmates had landed. Singing his lungs out, knowing every lyric revolves around the one waiting for him back home — you have brought him ecstasy he still cannot fathom the sheer weight of. A Friday night like no other, Hobie would spend the evening beneath the blinding spotlights, drinking the hours away, before returning home and cuddling with the only reason he chooses to live.

Through the barricaded windows and doors, a sudden stench of what appears to be smoke invades your senses. A big city like this, something along these lines is nothing out of the ordinary. After all, you were so thrilled to finally be granted a night to yourself, anything that would jeopardize this gift from the universe is seen as insignificant. When the heavy smell becomes more perceptible and the unmistakable sound of fire cracking gets louder, you feel dread tickle down your spine. The fear settles into your bones before you can think of a logical way to escape. Hobie did everything to ensure you wouldn’t leave his side, after all.

Air soon becomes precious, your lungs begin to squeeze, your skin is burning with scorching pain. It brings you the hell you had carelessly thought you felt before. A final cry of help into the suffocating air and you feel your life begin to fade. Meanwhile, the lost groupie stands near the entrance, holding back a satisfied smile. An onslaught of concerned pedestrians and firefighters accompany her. And Hobie was still far away, alcohol heavy in his system and the joy of returning to you seeping through his body like a drug. So blissfully unaware of what awaits him when he comes back to the place he had called home only with you.

With that, your life was over. July 3rd, 2020 — the day Hobie Brown inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

The effects your departure has left on these men are all nothing short of disastrous. No longer do they have the vibrant, loving souls they once held. Day by day, they are dragging the dead carcass that is their own body, suffering through every second and hoping it will be their last. The paths your death have led these three are unique from one another, but they all find themselves in one specific space. Spider-HQ, within Nueva York on Earth-928. The story the multiverse has written for them had so selfishly taken their happiness away from them. Taking the pen for themselves and creating the most beautiful fairytale where you are alive and back in their embrace is the only purpose they now have.

Now, Miguel O'Hara stands at the office he earned from becoming the leader of this society. Upon the various monitors displayed around him are scenes taken from numerous different universes. Lethargy sits like bags of bricks beneath his eyes, slowly blinking as he ensures no minor mistake is present. If the multiverse were to crumble, his sole objection to save the only important person in Spiderman's life will fall with it. When he verifies all is well on Earth-1610, something perceptible then catches his gaze and he does a double-take. Any sign of fatigue within him is snatched out of his body, leaving him more awake than ever before.

Within this universe, Miguel finds you.

Before, these universes have only displayed the effects your death has left on all the spider-people. Today, however, is the first time he has seen you alive since the day he lost you. Lyla snickers and accuses him of having a cute, teenage-like crush when she takes notice of the sheer captivation in his expression. Little does she know how much history lies in your mere face. It is heart-crushing, how much the simple sight of you enjoying a cup of coffee (with one too many sugars, as he knows you've always preferred) has such catastrophic effects on him.

Piles of schoolwork are scattered around your desk, covered in information adhering to your current college major. Even with your lack of sleep, school-induced annoyance, and general exhaustion over everything in your life, Miguel has never seen something quite as breathtaking as you in this moment. An epiphany sprouts in his brain as quickly as the sight of you caused his soul to blossom, just like it did all those years ago.

Maybe he can stop it. Maybe he can get you back.

Your death is inevitable, and even though Miguel was aware of this, dread still pervades his stomach at the prospect and churns with his breakfast. What really makes him shudder is when he reads through the cannon events assigned to you. A flare of jealousy ignites within him when he finds an unfamiliar name in the midst of your story.

Miles Morales, the Spiderman you are meant to fall in love with. What good is he? He's just some stupid kid, what more could he possibly do that Miguel can't? Why would you choose this loser when he can give you everything you have ever wanted!? In a sudden fit of rage, he grasps hold of whatever matter was closest to him and uses all the strength within his muscular arms to hurl it across the room. His chest heaves with infuriated huffs; his claws slice into the meat of his palms. He is enraged, yes, but he is mostly devastated that the beautiful face on his screen will soon meet their inescapable demise.

Not only will he do everything in his power to stop your death, but Miguel also vows to put his blood, sweat, and tears into ensuring you do not fall for this boy. Additionally, he will formulate a plan to bring you back into his arms without destroying the multiverse as a whole. With that being said, this does not change how reality on Earth-1610 continues to play out in front of him. It’s like a television show; a show he'd give a 1-star rating out of sheer pettiness.

In his last year of high school, Miles Morales' life was thrown into a tornado when his parents enrolled him in a new school to finish his last semester. And the 18-year-old boy absolutely dreaded this. New people, new location, new clothes that poke and jut at his skin uncomfortably. With the hefty responsibility of being Brooklyn's sole hero and hiding this truth from his loved ones, this sudden alteration in his environment does not relieve any stress. Swiftly, Miles conjures a plan to convince his parents to send him back to the way his life once was. Slack off, play dumb, and bring home report cards that are absolutely atrocious and his parents will have no choice but to give their son what he wants.

However, this is not what happened. Much to Miles' dismay, the grand idea his parents had was to not let him continue his education comfortably. Instead, they hired a tutor to aid him through his final months of high school.

Rio and Jeff had invited this tutor for dinner at their home, which Miles had flaked on entirely. Mostly due to his duty as Spiderman, but partially from how sour he was about the state of affairs. When he returned home, their anger was practically palpable. However, this disappointment soon shifted into a long, insufferable tangent about how marvelously smart, mannerly, and kind this tutor was and how embarrassed they were because of him. That Saturday, he was expected to join this tutor in the school's library or his parents may consider grounding him once again. Miles has to refrain from rolling his eyes at their never-ending lecture.

March 11th, 2023. It will be all his fault. This day is the day Miles Morales will inevitably meet the only thing that will ever matter to him.

To earn some extra support through your time in college, you had decided to take up tutoring in your free time. The myriad of students you had met all possessed the same attitude — the kind of attitude you'd expect from teenagers whose parents forced them to do schoolwork in their free time. Miles fit this category well, at first. And how your situation developed, it was oddly refreshing to finally meet someone who isn't repudiating every second with you.

15 minutes late, open backpack spilling with paper, tie loose around his neck, the student most certainly made his presence known when he stumbled into the silent library. Attempting to fix his untied shoelaces, you rush over to help him and save him from any further embarrassment he was already enduring. You are able to catch the folder that had tumbled out of his bag before it hit the ground, to where he mumbles a quick "thanks" in response. His gaze is still locked to the strings of his shoes he was attempting to tie together as swiftly as possible. Nearly tripping, Miles makes it to the table you had once organized thoroughly, but was now cluttered with everything this boy had thrown onto the surface.

Oblivious to you, the boy whose parents described as having a "heart of gold," was doing everything in his power to appear as rude and ill-mannered as possible. Deliberately arriving late, making a fool of the two of you, messing up the neat array of lesson plans and pencils you arranged. Anything to convince his parents to send him away from the nightmare that is this school. This plan of his was seized from his mind like a rug pulled out beneath his feet when he finally turns his shoulder and shifts his attention to you. What Miles expected would be the slowest, drawn-out hour he's ever experienced would actually be the most exciting, life-beaming 60 minutes he’s ever experienced.

Your voice sounds like honey as you introduce yourself to him. And that heart-stuttering smile of yours works wonders on him. Miles had already known your name, but hearing it from your mouth made him think he was listening to a symphony of angels. Since the last few stages of high school are stressful for everyone, you decided to cut him some slack and offer a kind hand for him to shake. All thoughts of his old school and the comfort it brought are all eradicated as he stares into your soul with those wide, bambi-brown eyes. After months in this new environment, you must be a gift the universe sent to compensate for all the misery he has endured. And fervently, Miles accepts you as the best gift he has ever received.

"I'm Spiderman." His mouth moves before his brain can compute. Your brows furrow in response, scrutinizing the confession for some sort of punchline.

“I mean- shit, uh… I mean, I’m Miles... You-You know, like- kilometers, yards, feet. Except, it's Miles this time... Y-... Y'know?"

His relentless stammering to try and prove himself worthy of your time while also acknowledging he accidentally told you his deepest secret earns him a quick giggle. And the sound bouncing from your lips is nothing short of paradisiacal, especially when he is the cause. A sudden wave of silence then rests between you both. You, laughing nervously to lighten the awkward tension. Miles, entirely flabbergasted at how he could have ever wanted to miss out on something as profoundly magnificent as this. His mind runs rampant while his wide eyes remain locked on your averting ones. Do it, do it, do it. Just do it already, Miles!

He pulls his hands up, your eyebrows furrowing once more trying to consider his intentions. He then lands his touch upon your shoulder.

"Hey..." Miles' voice drops several octaves, a fiddly excuse of a smirk forms on his lips, and he squints his twitching eyes that still hold the same crazed wonder they've had since they first landed on you.

"Hi...?" Your response expresses nothing but sheer confusion, not your face burning from the attention like Miles had initially strived for.

Wrapping your hand around his, your mere physical touch sends flares of electricity down his skin. Goosebumps bloom across his arms and his entire body halts in place, tense with shock and nerves. In an attempt to forcefully remove his hold on you, you're startled to find how he is now stuck to your hand. As if he had lathered his hand in heaps of glue before touching you, the efforts you took to get this boy off of you only resulted in your skin painfully stretching.

So enveloped in the way his heart lurches from holding your hand, a sudden, hushed whimper of "you're hurting me!" and Miles feels a gasp involuntarily escape his throat. Attempting to pull away from you, as much as he wishes not to, only intensifies your pain. What had Peter told him to do when this happened? Oh yeah, just relax! But, how on Earth can he possibly relax when your hand is in his!?

People are staring, exclaiming in annoyed distress over their interrupted study time. You're trying to piece together how Miles had managed to cement his hand to yours and why he refuses to let go of you. Meanwhile, Miles is apologizing profusely for inadvertently harming you, while also soaking in how rhapsodic it is to have your hand in his. He knows he has fully fallen into oblivion when the prospect of letting go of you hurts him more than the relentless pull and twist of his flesh.

So much for first impressions, right?

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ MANY LIVES THAT COULD HAVE

BEEN ENTANGLED FOR ETERNITY . . . ❞

gif credits :: miguel, miles, peter, & hobie.

tag list :: @honey-beeuwu, @hex-touchstarved, @thel0v3hashira143, @cailey1011, @mickxxstxvxns-blog, @flaming-vulpix, @puthypirate42069, @dolliemoons, @mikalovesnoodles, @explosiongamora, @thegalacticnacho091, @brinleighsstuff, @shinsou-hoetoshi, @uselessbutinteresting, @amortentor, @fried-milkfish, @officiallypoopoo, @lu-lupe, @belladonnashifter, @forgottenbynature, @marooseshawnash, @gothika-spacech1k, @funtimefoxybae, @ethnicbratz, @painpainflyaway, @shadepelt4673, @vivacioussaint, @palepettycharmer, @rqdior, @clownwiki, @clever-username96, @bisoudoll, @darlingdontwe, @naiomiwinchester, @weskennedysgirl, @chubbuart, @simpfo, @neytirisarrow, @leilani04, @lizzymizzy-blogg, @sublimesoulmagazine, @minimari415, @hcmay, @jinuaei, @altusha, @daisygirlll, @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @islandgyal06, @the-hufflebird-girl, @laucoeurs, @nepherawinchester18307, @tiredao3reader, @decadentlawyerapricotcowboy, @kitisb0red, @gabiacee, @reneuv, @letmegetthestrap, @krentkova19, @ayupfrogg, @vita-nire, @emmbny, & @realifezompire

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tietarteve · 2 years

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Vacunación de la Gripe y de la dosis de recuerdo de la #Covid_19 en #ArenasDeSanPedro el martes 18 de octubre de 2022 en el Centro Cultural Josefina Carabias, para nacidos en 1934 y anteriores.

#Vacunación de la Gripe y de la dosis de recuerdo de la #Covid_19 en #ArenasDeSanPedro el martes 18 de octubre de 2022 en el Centro Cultural Josefina Carabias #para nacidos en 1934 y anteriores.

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iiiiiiis-things · 10 months

Text

Your instagram while dating earth42!miles morales

pairing: (aged up) earth42!miles x femblack!reader

cw: cursing, mama rio being clueless, mention of ass moving like water???

blurb: your recent instagram posts while dating miles morales

a/n: yall ignore the link in the title i js thought it would be funny 😭‼️ also i'm making a fic wit (aged up) earth42!miles and reader based on the song poetic justice bt a lot of shi have been going wrong so idk when it will be out bttttt miles morales instagram while dating you should be out monday!!

slut4moralessss

liked by a.aaron and 1389 others

slut4moralessss my man 🔛🔝

slut4y/nnnn ikr

➤ slut4moralessss dont make me take it back

rio_morales why are your legs so black your never in the sun and you always wear pants??

➤ slut4moralessss MA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE 😭⁉️

➤ slut4y/nnnn ignore our users

➤slut4moralessss miles 🙎🏾‍♀️

➤ rio.morales you kids are nasty.

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slut4moralessss

liked by y/n.isminenotyourzmorales and 1295 others

slut4moralessss out wit ma bitches

unknown.bestie we had so much fun 😫

liked by slut4moralessss and 361 others

mrs.stealyoniggaaa😘 yall i should've got that boy number huh?

liked by unknown.bestie and 267 others

slut4y/nnnn oh so there was other boys and i wasn't invited??

➤ y/n.isminenotyourzmorales see if you actually had friends we rlly could've went on a 4man butttt 🙄

➤ slut4y/nnnn girl hush you jus want me to pyo

➤ y/n.isminenotyourzmorales why would i do that if i stole yo bitch ?? yeah ok! 😂👌🏾

➤ slut4y/nnnn that's not what she said last night so sdfu.

➤ y/n.isminenotyourzmorales you sdfu

➤ slut4moralessss both of y'all sdfu

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slut4moralessss

liked by rio_morales and 1939 others

slut4moralessss @slut4y/nnnn 🩵💍

rio_morales @a.aaron look!! I am so WAP for you two!!! 🥰🥰

➤slut4moralessss excuse me ? 😀

➤slut4y/nnnn ma do u even kno what that mean 🤦🏾‍♂️

➤rio_morales worship and praying ?

➤slut4moralessss no- 😭‼️

➤slut4fory/nnn get off social media.

a.aaron idc all of yall finna be blocked.

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slut4moralessss

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slut4moralessss high maintenance bitch

uknown.bestie my pretty babbyyy 🥰

slut4y/nnnn yeah thats mines 👌🏾

rio_moralessss future daughter in law 👰🏾‍♀️😊

y/n.isminenotyourzmorales MARRY ME💍😫

liked by slut4moralessss and 846 others

➤slut4y/nnnn gdf off my gf dick.

mrs.stealyonigga😘 MY TWIN 😌

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slut4moralessss my bf kill ppl yall

slut4y/nnnn u a rat? damn i thought u was my ride or die 🤦🏾‍♂️

➤slut4moralessss bae chill it's a joke 🙄

a.aaron you next.

➤slut4moralessss chill out man 🥲

mrs.stealyonigga😘 rip to my twin ig

➤slut4moralessss you guess? REALLY TWIN?!

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slut4moralessss

liked by slut4y/nnnn and 2684 others

slut4moralessss "Alexa play Slut me out ft Sexyy Red"

unknown.bestie mood asfff 😫‼️

liked by slut4moralessss and 1683 others

slut4y/nnnn you embarrassing

➤slut4moralessss didn't you slap my ass at the pool the other day ?? 🤦🏾‍♀️

➤slut4y/nnnn we was by water aint nb notice

➤slut4moralessss boyyyyy stfu 🙄

➤slut4y/nnnn yo who dfk if u talking to ?

➤slut4moralessss you nigga

➤slut4y/nnnn i'm otw.

slut4moralessss y'all ig i'm getting dick tn 🙈

➤y/n.isminenotyourzmorales LMFAO BITCH

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#across the spiderverse #earth 42 miles morales #miles morales #spiderverse #into the spider verse #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles fluff #y/n #earth 42 #earth 42 miles x you #earth 42 miles morales x black!reader

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vintage-sweden · 1 month

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Military volunteers S Johansson, Y Antonsson, O Broberg, KM Johansson, A Storm and G Meijel, 1934, Sweden.

#1934 #1930s #vintage men #military life #soldiers

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 2 months

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You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Chapter 2: Late Night Visitor

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter two of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: References to sex, Cursing (once or twice), Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC,

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. Reader is described as being "curvy." I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Masterlist

Chapter 1

*************************************************

1934 Philadelphia

The subtle scratch of your pencil against the smooth page of the sketchbook filled your quiet bedroom. One look at the ticking clock on your bedside table stated that it was past midnight, but you didn't care. The dark circles under your eyes the next morning were well worth it, tiredness forgotten as the haze of creativity dulled the weariness of the day you'd had.

It was your fifteenth birthday, and although your parents had thrown you a lavish party to prove that the y/l/n family had not been touched by the destruction of the depression and were not concerned with the horrors of war overseas, there was only one person that you wanted to be there.

Ben wasn't of course. He was still at boarding school number five, and you imagined that a number six was already in order, given his track record.

You smile to yourself when you think of your best friend. You hadn't seen him in two months, not since you walked with him to the train station and he tried to act like he didn't care that his father was sending him away again, but you knew he did.

The things that Ben's father said and did to him made anger surge behind your ribcage. You didn't understand how his father could be so callous, so uncaring. You also hate that it drove Ben to drink, though Ben didn't seem to drink quite as much when you were around, because he knew that you didn't like it.

The party would have been more entertaining if he was there. Yes he did tend to get drunk and flirt with whatever walked past him, but he always had a way of cheering you up. And he had a wonderful knack for keeping your mother at a distance, who prayed that Ben would stay away from you, but never did.

If he was there your mother wouldn't have hovered over you all night, slapping away your hand every time you tried to take a piece of cake or hiss something at you when you pulled at the itchy pink dress that she brought home three days ago, your least favorite color. When you got dressed for the party you felt like a porcelain doll in a China cabinet, made to be looked at, but never touched.

It wasn't too far off. Being the only daughter of one of the richest families that lived in Philadelphia your reputation and pedigree were two of the most important things to your mother. It meant that in a few years you would be married off to another rich family, have rich babies, and then put your own daughter through the same cycle of hell all over again.

Suitors were already beginning to trickle into your life, sons of your father’s business partners each screened by your mother before the introductory meetings where you felt bored, stiff, choked by the thick fabric of the dresses your mother picked out, and plastered with makeup. All of course the best of Europe, which you had no idea how your mother managed to get given that there was a war on.

Ben was the only thing in your life that wasn't planned and you loved him for it.

You look up at the dark corner of your room to get a view of the long shadows that creep along the bedroom floor, and cut through the light coming from the gas lantern on your bedside table. You try to distinguish the sharp edges and smooth curves and watch them take shape beneath the ministrations of your pencil against the page.

Art was your only escape, the only thing you did that your mother approved of.

"A proper lady should have a hobby." She had sniffed, but then narrowed her eyes at the graphite and ink stains on you hands.

Part of the fun is the mess. You had thought to yourself watching her disapproving look.

A tap on your window makes you lift your gaze from the page and look towards the window seat that faces out the third story of your home onto the street below.

Ben is crouched there on the ledge that juts out only a foot from the outer brick wall a wide smile on his face that you can't help but return. You had been friends since you were both eight, when your parents threw yet another party and you found Ben in one of the side rooms trying to avoid his father. When his father tried to come in to find him, you lied and said you hadn't seen Ben.

And when his mother died two years later, Ben would show up some nights, scaling the large tree outside your window to stay with you. He never wanted to talk about it and you never asked, instead you talked about everything else until you both fell asleep.

You felt your heart thud loudly in your chest and a familiar warmth tracing lightly against your skin when you lock eyes with him. It was hard to be in love with your best friend. But you were, and you couldn't tell him. You didn't want to ruin the only meaningful relationship you'd ever had in your life. Ben knew everything about you, you trusted him and you couldn't imagine what it would be like to live your life without him, didn't want to.

Sometimes you hoped he felt the same way. When you woke up before him in the morning and the light from the window made his hair lighter and he held you close to his chest because in his sleep he had wrapped his arm around you. You liked to pretend that he did it on purpose, not just because there was barely any room between the two of you in your bed because now you both weren't as small as you used to be. You don’t know when Ben got so broad, tall, and muscular, but now it was impossible to ignore, especially being pressed against his chest when you woke.

It was improper to be that close in bed together of course, but you didn't care. You didn't care what other people thought about him or you. He was your best friend, and although you wished for more, you wouldn't turn your back on him just because other people thought he was trouble.

Which he was.

You put your sketchbook down and go to the window to unlock it. "Ben what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't miss your birthday." He smirks as you take his hand to help him into your bedroom.

"What about school?"

"Wasn't a good fit." Ben pushes his dark hair out of his eyes and you try not to think about what it would be like to do it yourself.

"Uh-huh. What you're really saying is that you flunked out of another boarding school just to make it back for my birthday. Right?" You laugh.

"Thought it would be a nice birthday surprise." He leans forward with a smirk. "Would you like to unwrap your present?"

You roll your eyes and raise a hand to push him back, but he catches it against his chest.

"Come on. You're telling me that you didn't miss me? Not even a little?" Ben pretends to be hurt.

Of course you missed him. When he wasn't there it felt like apart of you was gone, but you couldn't tell him that. You knew that Ben didn't feel the same way. He was just flirty, all the time.

"No."

"Liar." He says. "How was the big party?"

"Oh it was the bee's knees." You snark. "I danced with Howard Stine and he stepped on my toes, my mother didn't let me eat and bought me a ridiculous dress-"

"Let me guess, pink?"

"Pink and ruffly. I looked like a giant cupcake."

"I'm sure Howard loved it." Ben sing-songs.

"Shut up." You punch his arm. "He's not that bad-"

"With a boring name like Howard, imagine how boring he'd be in-"

"Big talk from a guy named Benjamin." You interrupt.

The look in Ben's eyes darkens for a minute. "I'd be happy to prove you wrong."

You shake your head at him to stop the flush in your cheeks and avoid the way your breath catches in your chest at his words.

It would be so easy to give in to him, but you knew that Ben didn't see you that way. Ben had chased after anything and everything that caught his eye. If you were to give in, you were afraid of what would happen after. Ben was your best friend and if you crossed that line what would it mean?

"You're incorrigible."

"If that's another word for gorgeous then yes, yes I am."

You turn back to the bed and where your sketchbook waits, trying to calm your racing heart.

"But you don't want your birthday present?" Ben asks from behind you.

"What happened to you being the present?"

"I am a gift, but I did get you something."

You turn and see that Ben is holding out a package wrapped in gold paper a little bit larger than a book. Surprise momentarily spikes at the back of your mind. Ben had gotten you gifts in the past, but you hadn't expected one this year, especially since he just got out of boarding school.

"Did you steal it?" You ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Not this time."

You take the box from his hand and sit down on your bed to peel back the paper. "I can't believe you actually wrapped this."

"The saleswoman did. Now she was really-"

"Don't need to know." You shake your head with a smile, eyes still on the gift. When you finally pull back the paper you can't help but smile. It's a box of watercolor paints, a package of brushes, and a small pad of watercolor paper. "Ben-" You look up at him with a wide smile. "Thank you!"

"Do you like them?" Ben asks hesitantly, he looks almost nervous.

"I love them! I've never tried to paint before."

"I know. I remember said you wanted to try. Plus I thought you could do some nice nudes of me in color-" Ben smirks.

"Ben!" You snort.

“I’m just trying to help you learn how to draw anatomy.” He wets his lips with his tongue arching an eyebrow in a challenge. “Of course there are more fun ways that I could teach you that.”

“Ben!” You flush bright red.

“Sorry. Sometimes you’re too easy.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.” You shake your head at him with a smile.

An odd look crosses his face, but it disappears as quickly as you see it.

"Honestly, thank you. I can't wait to try these out." You look back down at the paints, admiring the silver box they came in.

"You're welcome."

Ben hovers by the window at the edge of your room as if debating whether or not he should stay. After all these years you noticed that Ben had trouble with the idea that you genuinely wanted him there. You knew it stemmed from his father's constant disapproval and his father's constant need to push him away, and it made your heart break for him.

And yes, maybe Ben did fill his life with brief flings and alcohol, but he was still your Ben.

"You’re going to stay right? Because you’ve already missed my birthday and I’d like to know how you got kicked out of boarding school number five.”

He nods once a small smile quirking the edge of his lips before he removes the dark jacket with the embossed prestigious logo of the aforementioned boarding school. It catches on his shoulders and you look away before he can see your blush.

“Are you hungry?”

Ben shakes his head.

“Ben, when was the last time you put something in your stomach besides alcohol?” You raise an eyebrow. He couldn’t lie to you and you knew he was only saying no because he didn’t want you to have to creep downstairs in the dark and also because he didn’t want to admit that he was hungry.

“Earlier.” He says it with a shrug, looking down at the coat in his hands to avoid your gaze.

“Well I was going to go see if I could find some of that birthday cake anyway. I haven’t eaten since this morning and all I had was half a grapefruit.”

“Another diet?” Ben frowns.

“Mother thinks I can slim down a little more. Says that I’d get more suitors if my hips were not so big.” You try not to dwell too much on it, you’d been dealing with your mother’s constant berating since you were born. The corset you’d worn at the party was so tight that it left bruises on your hips and under your arms, but your mother had been pleased with how it looked. “She won’t be happy until I’m thinner than a chicken bone I suppose.” Instead of looking at Ben you stand and turn to look at yourself in the full length mirror in the corner. You never thought that your hips were too big or that your chest was, yes you were more curvy than any of your friends but you liked it.

"You shouldn't listen to her."

You shrug.

"I'm serious y/n. You're-" Ben stops talking.

"What?" You turn to look at him again eyes wide and open.

"Well you're-" Ben looks nervous again, tightening his hands on the dark jacket. He swallows. "You're not fat." Ben finishes.

"Well I don't think I'm fat Ben, but thank you." You can't help but be a little disappointed with his answer, you were hoping that he would say that you were beautiful.

My mother thinks I’m fat. You try not to wince when you think it, but instead you focus back on Ben.

"Alright, stay here. Try not to wake my parents up."

"Trust me that's the last thing on my mind doll."

*************************************************

Thank you for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know. :)

Taglist: @roseblue373

#jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #the boys #the boys fanfic #soldier boy #the boys amazon #jensen ackles #soldier boy/ben #soldier boy fic #soldier boy fanfiction #the boys series

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federer7 · 11 months

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Ezequiel Arce y su cosecha de patatas. Cuzco, Perú, 1934.

Foto: Martín Chambi

#Martín Chambi #Ezequiel Arce #cosecha #patatas #cuzco #peru

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lindahall · 7 months

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Santiago Ramón y Cajal – Scientist of the Day

Santiago Ramón y Cajal, a Spanish pathologist and pioneer of neuroanatomy, died Oct. 18, 1934, at the age of 82.

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blurredcolour · 3 months

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I Wish You Love | Part Five

I Wish You Love Masterlist

Lewis Nixon x Housemaid!Female Reader

You and Lewis make the most of your time together before he returns to America to do his best to free himself to spend his future at your side.

Warnings: Angst, Class Divide, Discussion of Divorce, Lots of Kissing, Sexual Tension and Innuendos, Language, Smoking, Alcohol Consumption, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: I am a lying liar who lies - there are now six parts because Lewis and his darling do not know how to leave me alone. Reader's nationality is British and liberties have been taken in describing her background and family life for the sake of plot. No physical descriptions or y/n used. A good portion of this fic will be letter-based. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the HBO series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5393

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Returning home shortly before noon the next day, you could not help the fond shake of your head to see Lewis’s borrowed car already parked at the curb outside your flat building. The lovely, impatient man was early, of course. Early enough to see you tired, sweaty, and underdressed once again. You wanted to be annoyed with him, yet you could not find it within yourself to summon any emotion other than amused affection. Stepping into the building, you were in the process of fishing your keys from your handbag when a stunningly familiar voice carrying through the door halted your movements.

“And so that was your plan all along?”

Johnny. Your twin brother, physically absent from your life, existing only in intermittent letters, for years. Much longer than the just war, with your mutual need for employment to support your father had driven you both from home in 1934. A lot was made of some sort of intuition that was supposed to exist between twins, that as they had shared a womb, they surely shared a lot more, but his return home today was a complete shock that had you frozen in place in the hall. The next words out of his mouth did nothing to encourage you to proceed inside.

“You’ve permitted a married man to seduce your daughter, your sweet pea.” He spat, an unfamiliar ugliness in his tone. The comment was certainly directed at your father, but Lewis was undoubtedly in the room, and he confirmed your supposition as he spoke up.

“I would ask you not to insult your sister’s honor, it has been, and remains, utterly unimpeachable.”

“Bloody hell you sure speak like one of them…”

“Johnathon you will mind your tongue. I understand that you have lived differently for quite some time now, but I will not tolerate that sort of language or disrespect in this home.”

Your eyes widened as you heard your father raise his voice, something that happened so infrequently that you could count the sum total of such occasions on the fingers of your own two hands.

“I am quite satisfied,” Your father continued, “with the correspondence between Captain Nixon and his solicitor. I find his intentions for your sister, my daughter, to be completely honourable and I thoroughly encourage them. She has never been happier, Johnny, and if you cannot manage to smile for her when she comes through that door any moment now then you’d better go for a walk until you find a way to.”

Tensing at the thought of your brother angrily storming out of the flat, and right into you, you crept backwards and down the hall toward the stairs leading up to the higher floors, obscuring yourself behind the landing to wait. To see if he was indeed so against the idea of you being happy with Lewis that he would rob you of a reunion with him then. You waited nearly five minutes, which felt like an eternity, until you heard Mrs. Stokes and her herd of children leaving their flat a few stories up, tromping down the staircase towards your hiding place. Johnny had remained inside, there had been no further shouting – at least none that you could hear at this distance.

Taking a fortifying breath, you pulled your keys from your handbag and headed into the apartment, smiling softly as your father and Lewis were chatting in the sitting room. “Good afternoon you two.”

“Well look at you, sis.” Johnny spoke from the doorway to the kitchen, and it was not hard to present a face of shock, for in place of a gangly sixteen-year-old boy, there was a rugged twenty-five-year-old man standing there, grinning at you.

“Johnny!?” You gasped, dropping your handbag as you rushed forward to hug him, squealing as he hauled you off your feet, his time with the 78th Infantry having made him unspeakably strong.

“Blimey you really have gone yellow haven’t you.” He teased and you smacked him affectionately as he set you back on the ground gently. “I’ve heard it goes away after a few months, don’t get your you-know-what’s in a twist.”

“Can we please stop talking about my underclothes and talk about when you got home?” You glanced at Lewis, feeling rather embarrassed to have your knickers discussed in front of him, but he was smiling warmly, unfazed.

“This morning on the first train from London. I gather we’re going out for dinner later?”

“Absolutely, I am looking forward to taking all three of you out together.” Lewis nodded firmly and you smiled at him fondly, vaguely aware of your brother’s scrutinizing gaze upon your face in your periphery.

“We were going to go out for the afternoon, but you just got back and–”

“Go on sis, I hear he’s only in town a few days and you’ll have to put up with me for a lot longer than that. Go have fun, I’ll see you for dinner.”

Hugging him tightly once more, you then kissed Lewis’s cheek quickly before going to get changed into something suitable for a drive and a picnic before the pair of you made your way out to the car, leaving your brother and father to catch up.

“You two look nothing alike you know, I’d never have guessed that you were twins…” Lewis teased as he opened the car door for you.

“That’s what fraternal means – not identical.” You shook your head fondly, hesitating a moment, an apology for your brother’s behaviour dangling on the tip of your tongue.

“Well either way, he loves you very much and that’s all I could ask for on your behalf.” He nodded, eyes widening as you grabbed his face and kissed him soundly, your heart swelling almost painfully inside your ribcage.

His hands planted on your hips, holding tightly but letting you direct the kiss, lips parting compliantly at the tentative swipe of your tongue against his bottom lip. Losing your nerve, particularly in full view of the front window of the flat, you stopped short of sliding your tongue to his, but still felt a rush of pride tingle through you at the ruddy hue to his cheeks as you pulled back from his mouth.

“I’m not entirely certain what I did to earn that but…you’re welcome.” He grinned cockily and your jaw dropped at his impertinence before you laughed brightly, shaking your head as you slid into the car, happy to leave him wondering.

Glancing at the backseat, you raised an eyebrow curiously at the picnic basket and blankets there, wondering just what Lewis had planned for the afternoon.

“No peeking.” He smirked, sliding his arm around your waist to pull you close across the bench seat once he’d started the car, pulling his hand back to shift the car into gear.

“Might I know where we are going?” You asked curiously, resting your chin on his shoulder to look at him playfully as he headed down the lane.

“I thought I might show you where I lived while I was in England – well not the actual house, we’ve given it back to the Wills family, but the town.”

“I’d like that very much.” You nodded firmly, turning to look out the windshield as he headed out on the road out of town.

“We will have to drive past Lydiard, unless you’d like me to take the long way?” He glanced at you, and you shook your head quickly.

“No, it’s alright, I suppose I will eventually pass it at some point, I’d much rather it be with you.”

His hand squeezed your knee affectionately, fingers lingering on your bare skin when he found no interfering stockings until he was forced to employ it again in changing gears as he sped up as you left Swindon behind. You had somewhat bemoaned the difficulty related to finding stockings lately, but as his fingertips idly caressed the side of your knee, suddenly you really didn’t mind very much at all.

As the pair of you drove past the tree-lined drive leading towards Lydiard House, you swallowed to see a series of guards posted at the road, finding the sight altogether unwelcoming and eliminating any last bit of nostalgia you may have felt for the place you had called home for a decade.

“I would bet it feels an awful lot like a prison for the St Johns and the rest of the staff, too.” Lewis muttered and you nodded quickly.

“I have to say I certainly do not miss working fifteen hours a day. Free time in the evenings, it’s been quite a revelation.”

Lewis grinned at you softly, squeezing his hand that had promptly returned to your knee. “I told you that you were much better suited to this life.”

“You did, yes. Thank you.” You pressed a careful kiss to his cheek, paying closer attention to your surroundings as you neared Aldbourne, a town you’d rarely had occasion to visit previously.

Lewis took you on a small tour, pointing out the Nissen huts, or Quonsets as he called them, where the enlisted men had stayed before swinging by Littlecote House where he had been billeted. He regaled you with funny stories from training and that one time his closest friend Dick had been forced to upend his mattress to get him out of bed after a very intense night of celebration. Circling back to the centre of the village, he parked in front of a small bakery, opposite the village green.

“We just need to pick up our dessert and then we’ll be ready for lunch?”

You nodded warmly, sliding out of the car with him as he led you into the shop. It smelled positively divine inside, all sorts of sweets in the display cases.

“I’m here to pick up an order for Nixon?” Lewis smiled and the girl behind the counter looked up with wide eyes.

“Leftenant! We didn’t think we’d see any of you boys back here again.” She smiled up at him brightly, fairly batting her eyelashes at him.

“Just wanted to be sure my girl had a chance to try the best lardy cake in all of England.” He smiled smoothly, looking to you warmly.

Swallowing tightly, you could not help but notice the way the girl’s face fell as he tugged you closer.

“Anything you’d think your father and brother would like as a souvenir of our travels?”

Normally you would have refused, been stubborn and reticent in the face of his generosity, but there was something about the way the girl was throwing daggers at you as she retrieved a box with his name on it from under the counter that emboldened you.

“Perhaps a few imperial cookies?” You looked up at him hopefully and he rewarded you with a quick peck to the cheek.

“A dozen of the imperial cookies as well please.”

“Of course, leftentant.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the impulse to correct her sharply as you felt rather territorial about that title – more precisely that pronunciation of that title. You waited quietly as she packed a box of the cookies and Lewis paid the total. You were more than a little relieved to say your goodbyes and leave the shop, baked goods in hand, and retrieve the picnic supplies from the car.

“Can I help you carry something?”

Lewis paused a moment before passing you the blankets, taking the boxes from the bakery and the rather heavy looking basket himself.

“You know I packed artillery shells for the past seven months, I am not helpless.” You teased as you followed him across the street onto the village green.

“Just because you can, darling, doesn’t mean you are expected to.” He replied with a smirk, waiting for you to unfurl the blankets on the ground before the pair of you settled in.

“So long as you remember that I am not helpless, Lewis.” You replied firmly, watching him unearth several packets of sandwiches, some fruit, and a bottle of lemonade from the basket along with glasses to drink from.

“I assure you I would never dream of considering you helpless. After all you rescued a drowning dog from a lake while wearing a full-length dress.” He grinned, popping the seal on the bottle to fill you a glass. “Climbed the highlands to procure me heather and grouse feathers, poured TNT and lifted artillery shells, served a certain honorable without murdering her for her deplorable behavior…” His tone had started off teasing but as he set the glass in your outstretched hand his face grew serious. “No darling, if anything I really quite admire you.”

Ducking your head shyly you took a sip of the tart liquid, enjoying the way it sparkled on your tongue. The pair of you picnicked happily in the sunshine, demolishing most of the sandwiches and fruit before Lewis unboxed the cake.

“The best in England, you say?” You grinned, peering at it curiously.

“Well, all of us in the 506th would certainly say that, but I wonder what a real Englishwoman will say.” He smirked, using a knife from the picnic basket to cut a slice, holding it out for you to take a bite.

Looking to his expectant face before glancing back down at the outstretched piece of cake, you leaned in to take a bite, holding your hand in front of your mouth as you sat up to chew thoughtfully. As the flavour of it spread across your tongue, you began to nod happily.

“Oh wow, that’s probably the best I’ve ever eaten as well.” You agreed once you swallowed your mouthful.

Lewis beamed happily before taking the next bite from the piece still in his grasp, leaning back onto his forearm lazily as you prepped another slice for yourself, trying not to spend too long drinking in the length of his body in such an enticing pose. Looking around the village square instead, you smiled.

“It’s so peaceful now, I can only imagine the havoc you all wreaked.” You laughed softly and he chuckled.

“Havoc is an excellent choice of word, darling…”

After you’d both eaten your fill, you carefully packed up the remnants into the basket, setting the bakery boxes aside to take home for your father and Johnny to have a go at them. The shadows began to creep across the grass and a glance at your utilitarian wristwatch told you it was nearly four-thirty. Lewis suddenly sat up, drawing your gaze as he fidgeted slightly before shifting closer to you.

“Darling I…know I can’t make as much of a fuss about this as I’d like to but… We’ve been talking an awful lot about the future and what it might look like, and it would be a mistake if I didn’t make it official. Or as official as I am able, at this point.”

You held your breath, focusing intently as you did your best to hear him over the rushing of blood in your ears.

“Would you do me the honor of wearing this ring as a promise of my intention to marry you?” He produced a velvet box from his pocket, opening the lid to reveal a ring very much to your taste, not too many stones, in the metal of your choice, showing just how closely he had been paying attention to your preferences yesterday.

“Lewis…” You exhaled in awe and looked to him, eyes wide with wonder. “Yes…I of course…” You smiled, finding your eyes suddenly blurred by tears as he pulled you into his warm embrace.

“I thought…you’d maybe want to wear it on your right hand and then…when I get the divorce finalized, I’ll write you right away and then you can put it on your left, like a proper engagement ring.” He murmured against your cheek, and you smiled so broadly it made your jaw ache.

“I love you so very much, Lewis Nixon.” You shifted back to kiss him warmly, sighing against his lips as his fingers slid up your neck to cup your jaw.

“I love you too, darling.” He replied once you’d parted for breath, and he plucked the ring from its box to slide it onto the fourth finger of your right hand. “This is only the beginning.”

If only you’d known how seriously Lewis would take that statement. The baked goods immediately followed by a lavish dinner went a long way to easing your brother’s concerns and then all too soon Lewis had to return to France for his boat home. It was exceedingly difficult to see him go, though it was a relief to know you that, at least this time, you were not sending him off to combat.

It was not long after his departure, however, that your father began to receive regular wire transfers to cover rent and other necessities. Your father feigned innocence, though you did not believe him for one moment, as Lewis would not have known the necessary sum otherwise. You took to a letter to chastise Lewis, albeit lovingly.

While his subsequent responses acknowledged your wishes, they also cleverly shifted the focus to seeking your approval of potential homes and venues for your inevitable nuptials. It was late January of 1946 when a large trunk arrived by courier when you finally received the news you had been long awaiting. Johnny was at work, your father at the pub. You were enjoying a rare moment at home alone after finishing work for the day, having kept a small roster of clients to accumulate pocket money to spend on previously frivolous things like skin care and hair cuts.

Signing the receipt slip, you had the delivery man set it in the living room before kneeling to open it, gasping at the neatly folded piles of clothing contained within. Laying atop were two envelopes, one letter-sized and another legal-sized. You quickly retrieved the letter, assuming it would contain the most explanation, and sliced it open with your trusty butter knife.

It was fortunate that you were the only one at home, for the childish squeal you let out as you fell onto the sofa would have been a mortifying thing for anyone else to witness. Fumbling slightly, fingers made clumsy with glee, you took the ring from your right hand and quickly slid it onto your left where it truly belonged, holding it up to admire it proudly. Glancing at the watch on the same wrist, you sat up, realizing you still had time to send your reply and grabbed your handbag and overcoat, dashing out the door and down the lane to the post office.

It took a bit of explanation from the clerk, it being your first telegram after all, but you managed to condense your words to keep the entire process affordable.

The next few weeks were a flurry of activity, with Lewis’s reply arriving by cable the next day that he would be in London mid-February. You employed the services of a local seamstress, as ordered, to have your trousseau properly fitted. Lewis proved yet again that he had paid attention, having sent a few dresses and ensembles in ivory and white to choose from – and mercifully nothing so ostentatious as a full wedding gown. You were able to give ample notice to your clients and you’d already procured a passport – thankfully you’d started that process in September of the previous year. Using your accumulated ration coupons, you purchased a swimming costume and an irresistibly fine nightgown for your wedding night.

It felt like no time at all before the three of you were stepping into the suite at the Ritz that Lewis had reserved for you to get ready for your wedding that evening, and the rest of your family to stay the night before returning to Swindon on the morning train while the pair of you headed out on your honeymoon. You were startled to find a young woman waiting for you there.

“Good afternoon miss, sirs. My name is Sara. Mr. Nixon has sent me to assist you in getting ready. He asked me to give you this before you could protest.” She held out an envelope of telltale Ritz stationery and you took it with a fond sigh, following her into the room where the bellhop deposited your trunk.

Huffing in bemused annoyance, you quickly turned your attention back to Sara, working with her to hang up your outfit for the impending ceremony before looking over the selection of ‘decorations.’ Lewis had sent several sets of jewelry for you to choose from and after some deliberation you eventually settled on one before submitting yourself to Sara’s talents as she saw to your hair. Mercifully, all rumours had proven true, and the yellow hue had vanished from your skin and hair, returning you to your normal appearance. Your diligent use of skin care had also gone a long way to soften the callouses of your work-roughened hands and by the time Sara was through with you, you almost didn’t recognize yourself.

Stepping out to where Johnny and your father were waiting in their new suits, purchased with a hoarding of ration coupons and Johnny’s excellent wages from his new post at the Great Western Railway, the three of you gawked openly at one another.

“Well, we certainly clean up nice, aye?” Your father grinned.

“You look pretty as a picture, sis.” Johnny grinned and pulled you in for a hug just as Sara hurried out with a small bouquet of white roses.

“Don’t forget these, miss. Your car to the embassy is waiting downstairs.”

You took it carefully and smiled to her. “Thank you so very much for your assistance, Sara, I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, my pleasure miss.” She blushed prettily, bowing her head shyly. “I’ll see to it that your trunk is moved to Mr. Nixon’s suite with the rest of your luggage. Congratulations.”

You parted with your thanks before heading downstairs, trying not to roll your eyes when you found the waiting car was a Rolls Royce. You really might have to murder him at the end of that aisle. Climbing in carefully, the three of you drove to number one Grosvenor Square, the address of the American Embassy. It had been Lewis’s idea of course, and only possible given that he personally knew the ambassador Mr. Harriman.

It was his hope that it would ease your immigration to the United States, to be technically married on American soil, while still being able to have Johnny and your father in attendance. The building was rather imposing as you climbed out of the car, thanking the driver as he held the door, not at all what you would have imagined for your wedding. Then again, you’d never imagined marrying an American divorcé set to inherit a great fortune one day, either.

Surrendering your coats to one of the ambassadorial staff, you took a moment to compose yourself as Johnny stepped into the reception room, nodding to your father when you were ready before the doors were opened and you made slow progress down the aisle, allowing for the extra time it took him to manipulate his prosthetic leg with each step. You were pleased Lewis had chosen a smaller room, there were not that many people in attendance, really just the ambassador and his wife, your small family, and Lewis and yourself. But as you walked down the short aisle towards the man waiting for you in black tie with the officiant at his side you were certain nothing had ever been more perfect in your entire life.

Your father shook Lewis’s hand before giving you a quick peck on the cheek, ambling over to his chair as Lewis took your arm in turn. He leaned in to whisper warmly in your ear.

“You look incredible, darling.”

Swallowing tightly, you whispered back. “You are lucky there are too many witnesses to commit manslaughter here.”

He barely contained his laughter.

The ceremony was sweet and simple. The signing of the licence took a little extra time as you also completed your immigration application at the same time, with his excellency Mr. Harriman signing as a sponsor – a breathtaking honour which you were quite certain you would never be able to fully process. Lewis had also clearly bought the wedding bands at the same time as the engagement ring as they all looked quite smart next to one another once placed on your respective fingers.

The intensity of Lewis’s eyes on yours as the officiant pronounced you man and wife had you feeling rather apprehensive of the kiss he was about the lay on you, a kiss you were admittedly no less desperate for after nearly six months, but reticent to share in front of an audience. To your surprise, and slight disappointment, it was a soft and utterly appropriate kiss that only left you wanting more as the small group of attendees applauded your finally-accomplished-union.

Bestowing the bouquet upon the ambassador’s wife insistently, in gratitude, you finally allowed Lewis to pull you down to the separate car waiting to take the pair of you back to the hotel where the four of you would celebrate in a private dining room. The driver had barely closed the door before Lewis was pulling you close, at last delivering the thorough conquering of your mouth you had been yearning for as you clung to his coat, not wanting to ruin his styled hair.

“I have missed you far too much, darling.” He whispered against your lips as the driver pulled the car into traffic. “How will I ever repay your patience with me?”

“Do not remind me of balances and things owing, Lewis, I’m in a good mood.” You teased fondly. “You will meet my rage tomorrow when we’re stuck on a boat together for days on end. Tonight is for celebration only.”

He responded with a lopsided grin as his gaze traversed your face, expression fading slowly to one of seriousness before he kissed you fiercely once more, hands sliding dangerously close to your carefully pinned hair. You pulled back quickly with a pout.

“You can ruin that later.” You panted a little and he pressed his face against the crook of your shoulder.

“I will ruin more than your hair later.” He spoke, breath skating along your skin, making you shudder for many reasons. “Darling, are you certain this is not your murder plot unfurling right before my eyes?” He lifted his eyes to look up at you with a pained expression, your fingers reaching out to cup his cheek sympathetically as the car pulled up outside the hotel.

Summoning the strength to compose yourselves as the driver came around to open the door, you stepped out carefully and took Lewis’s arm to head inside, rather enjoying the way people glanced at the pair of you approvingly.

A small feast of beef wellington, Victoria sponge, and tea with milk and sugar – among other delights – awaited you all back at the Ritz. Lewis was barely able to keep his hands from ensnaring yours, his knee from pressing against your thigh, from feeding you bites of food proudly. He did an amiable job of getting to know Johnny better this time despite his distraction, the previous adversarial tension having evaporated from your brother with the arrival of the divorce decree several weeks ago. Lewis took great interest in Johnny’s employment and the topic of conversation devolved into a rather intense debate about railways…even as Lewis began to pull the hem of your dress higher beneath the tablecloth with tantalizingly bold fingertips. Eventually your father dragged a very stuffed and well-liquored Johnny off to bed, freeing the two of you from the obligation of entertaining them any longer at which point Lewis lifted your left hand to press a kiss to the rings on your finger.

“Well, Mrs. Nixon.”

You smiled shyly, but delightedly, to hear your new title from his lips. “Well, Mr. Nixon.”

“Fait accompli. At last.”

Nodding warmly, you leaned in to kiss him gently, giggling as he tasted of icing sugar and strawberry jam from his last bite of cake. “We should let them in here to clean up.”

“Are you propositioning me, Mrs. Nixon?” He teased as he stood, sliding his arm around your waist as you stood in turn.

“No!” You squeaked in self-defence, though you were more than a little enticed by his earlier promises from the car.

“Then allow me to proposition you, I would very much like to see what you’re wearing underneath this lovely outfit.”

“Mr. Nixon!” You feigned shock even as you pulled him out of the private dining room to head up to your shared suite.

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Read Part Six

I Wish You Love Masterlist

Tag list: @ronsparky, @fuckoffthanos, @bcon24, @gretagerwigsmuse

#lewis nixon x reader #lewis nixon imagines #lewis nixon imagine #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #hbo war fic #lewis nixon #band of brothers #easy company

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afranciscomiradiezblr-blog · 2 years

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Esta es la imagen y algunos datos (O no) la “Historia” la pones tú ¡La tuya! ¿Lo harás?… Peter Hujar-Fotógrafo.

Peter Hujar (1934-1987) nacido el 11 de octubre de 1934, fue un fotógrafo estadounidense conocido por sus retratos en blanco y negro. Hujar nació en Trenton, Nueva Jersey, fue abandonado por sus padres y criado por sus abuelos ucranianos. No aprendió inglés hasta que comenzó el jardín de infantes.

Cuando era adolescente, se mudó con su madre, Rose Murphy, que vivía en Manhattan. Pero el hogar era abusivo y Hujar se fue cuando aun era un adolescente. Recibió su primera cámara en 1947 y asistió a la Escuela de Arte Industrial donde expresó su interés en ser fotógrafo. Tuvo la fortuna de encontrarse con un profesor alentador, la poetisa Daisy Aldan, y siguió su consejo de convertirse en aprendiz de fotografía comercial.

Ya en 1956, Hujar comenzó a tomar fotografías que mostraban signos de su particular estilo y punto de vista. Después de conocer al artista Joseph Raffael, Hujar lo acompañó en una beca Fulbright a Italia, donde tomó muchas fotos. En 1963, Hujar consiguio su propia Fulbright y regresó a Italia donde exploró y fotografió las catacumbas de Palermo.

En este viaje, Hujar fue acompañado por su compañero Paul Thek quien sería una de las relaciones sentimentales importantes de su vida. De vuelta en Nueva York, Hujar fue parte de la escena artística del centro de la ciudad. Apareció en una de las pruebas de pantalla de Andy Warhol, que Warhol más tarde incluyó en una serie llamada "Los Trece Muchachos más Hermosos".

Trabajó para el exitoso fotógrafo comercial Harold Krieger y fotografio para Harper's Bazaar y GQ. Hujar tomó muchas fotos de sus amigos, combinando muchas de ellas con sus fotos de Palermo para un libro titulado Retratos en la vida y la muerte, publicado en 1976 por Da Capo Press. La introducción fue escrita por su amiga cercana Susan Sontag y su retrato aparece en el libro.

Utilizando a la gente en su vida como modelos, Hujar tomó fotos icónicas de Sontag, Ethyl Eichelberger, Candy Darling, Divine, y su compñero David Wojnarowicz. Su fotografía de Candy Darling en su lecho de muerte en el hospital se ha reproducido con frecuencia.

Hujar murió en el Centro Médico Cabrini el 25 de noviembre de 1987, por neumonía relacionada con el SIDA. Wojnarowicz estaba con él cuando murió e hizo una breve grabación de su cuerpo, de pies a cabeza, y tomó 23 fotografías. Por los deseos de Hujar, su funeral se celebró en la Iglesia de San José en Greenwich Village.

Está enterrado en el cementerio de la Puerta del Cielo, Valhalla, Nueva YorkNota:

Nota: La propiedad intelectual de las imágenes que aparecen en este blog corresponden a sus autores y a quienes éstas las han cedido. El único objetivo de este sitio es divulgar el conocimiento de estos pintores, grabadores, fotógrafos... a los que admiro y que otras personas disfruten contemplando sus obras. No son todas las que son, pero si son todas las que están

#Peter Hujar (1934-1987) nacido el 11 de octubre de 1934 fue un fotógrafo estadounidense conocido por sus retratos en blanco y negro. Hujar n #¿Historias cortas para no dormir?

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mishapocalyse · 1 year

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When We Were Young

->Anon asked: Reader was in love with Ben before he became soldier boy like as kids and then grew old watching him become and asshole and then “die” and imagines what their life could have been (would be heartbreaking to read but hey let’s get emotional)

Description: The fond memories of growing up with Benjamin Gilman, the man who eventually became America's Greatest Superhero, become a thing of the past.

Pairings: Soldier Boy x (Eventual Supe) Reader.

Warnings: Soldier Boy is his own warning, language, sexual content.

Note: I twisted the request a bit and made the reader a supe. This is still the most devastating piece I think I have ever written. Please read at your own risk.

To the children you both used to be, growing up on the streets of South Philly. Two peas in a pod; inseparable. Never one without the other.

You were the child of a farmer and a midwife, the two who absolutely adored you, showering your childhood with the love that you deserved.

It was 1934, he was 15 years old, and you were a year younger than him. Benjamin Gilman sat beside you on the front porch swing, barefooted, the warm summer air, scents of the floral attributes that wafted amongst you both. The scenery was just as peaceful as his hand intertwined with yours.

"My old man kicked me out again." Ben hesitated.

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"I don't think my daddy would mind if you slept in the barn again. As long as you don't bother ole' Tessa." You chirp, as he looks down at you while you turned your head to glance up at him.

"Yeah. I know. Thank you, Y/N. You're the best." Ben exclaims.

"You say that to me a lot Benny." You joke, nudging him with your shoulder. Ben leaned up from you, letting go of your hand to dig around in his pocket for something.

You raised a brow, to which he noticed.

"Hold on. I got you something." He chortled.

When he pulled out the object you were stunned at first. In his hands he held a locket. The gold piece was gently placed around your neck as he clipped it together for you.

"Ben.."You started.

You could hear your mother calling from the kitchen as she peeked her head out from the kitchen window.

"You kids should come inside! I about have lunch ready. Ben, sweetheart! Could you be a doll and fetch up Y/N's father, that man is going to get a rash if he isn't careful?"

Ben nodded, standing up to straighten his tapered trousers, and pinstriped cotton shirt. Snagging the thin velveteen coat from the swing seat, he gave you a serene smile as he trudged off into the field. In the distance you watched Ben disappear into the rows of corn towards your father who was manning the tractor.

The both of you were young, and you smiled to yourself while your mother called your name once more to come inside and wash up--the locket beautifully adorning your neck as it glimmered.

-----

In 1947, the beautiful green eyed boy, who was no longer the boy, but a man that you had waited for to come home.

Your mother had wanted you to start working with her as an apprentice as to which you had been over the moon to start. So when you had seen Ben sitting on your front porch swing, you practically threw yourself into his arms. The 28 year old Ben, chuckled to himself, as he pulled you up into his arms.

"Hey there sweetheart!" He was polite, as he set you down.

"And good afternoon Mrs. L/N. Please...let me help you with your bags."

Your mother jerked her things away from him.

"That is quite alright Ben. I got these. You and Y/N should catch up. It has been what? Almost three years since you two seen each other?" Your mother added, moving around Ben to go inside of the house.

Ben dragged your back into his chest, picking you up. The patterned dress material spinning with you while he twirled you around, the wood creaking underneath him. You giggled wildly, as he peppered soft kisses to your cheek.

"Oh Ben. I missed you." You cried.

"I missed you too, Y/N. You know I will always come back home to ya'. You know that right?" He asked, his hands on your shoulders.

From the short distance you took him in. His appearance was surely different from when you last saw him three years prior.

He was exceptionally taller. The lankiness of the young man you remembered had filled in the rest of his clothing leaving a firm and toned man standing in front of you. His hair freshly combed, he was wearing an army uniform, a proper man he had become.

"Was it hard being away from home for that long Ben?" You queried, his hands finding yours, tugging you to sit down next to him, like the old days on the porch swing.

"Being away from you, hurt like hell. All I had were them letters you sent me." He stated, his free hand rose to brush a stray lock of hair from your face.

"Now you’re home." You whispered just loud enough for him to hear you.

Ben's expression slowly saddened, as he let go of you. You raised a brow, tilting your head.

"You are staying around, like you promised in our letters? Right Ben?" You continued to question.

----

Over the years it had worsened.

The world was not like it used to be.

Thirty five years had passed since Ben had seen you. He recalled 1947 as his “golden days” where women flocked to him after he was dosed with Comp V and became known as Soldier Boy. However, he also pulled out the long forgotten memories of the young woman he had left behind.

Soldier Boy was seated in his penthouse, wearing nothing but a silk robe, fisting a glass of bourbon while half-hazardously trying to calm his nerves. On the table in front of him laid a bottle of Bennies crushed and ready to have been snorted. Yet, Soldier Boy hesitated. A heaping wave of regret washing over him.

The year Soldier Boy was getting himself riled up for Herogasm in 1982. The iron embroidered clock struck 8:30 in the evening and he knew if he was going to be fashionably late he should leave before 9:30PM. It was hard telling how the others were doing.

He had promised Couze, Crimson Countess-his publicity stunt of a girlfriend that he would meet all of the team there when he himself felt like showing up. Which was going to be now.

Soldier Boy sighed, dragging himself into the bedroom, to head towards the shower.

Once he got into his suit, the helmet slid over his chiseled facial features as he took one last look in the mirror before disappearing out his front door.

—

“Where the fuck have you been? Don’t you think it’s a bit unprofessional to show up to Herogasm four hours late? The fucking thing started at 5.” Countess bitched, while Soldier Boy rolled his eyes, turning his gaze towards the crowd of people mingling, and to others fucking each other senseless in more ways than one.

“To be fairly honest with you Couze. I’d appreciate it if you would shut that cumdumpster of a cockholder you call a mouth.” He hissed, taking a sip of his drink.

“Go fuck yourself.” Crimson spat.

“Already did, whore.” He replied.

----

Soldier Boy had eventually moved away from Countess and the others, ending up on a balcony outside of the main event. It was a bit more enjoyable with the cool night air. He pulled out a pack of smokes and took one into his mouth.

Digging a lighter out of his pocket, a throat cleared.

He tensed while he slowly looked back.

“Had no idea you smoked, Benny.” The glass shattered on the floor as Ben whipped around.

“Y/N?” He shook his head.

“Who else would it be, Benny.” You cooed.

“Looks like you got some work done.” He stated, taking a step forward.

“I gave up on you a long time ago. When you left me on that front porch swing. After my daddy died.” You gritted your teeth in frustration.

“You were dead, I was told you-“ you had to laugh.

“Is that what Vought wanted you to think? No, when they got word you had someone back home-- they wasted no time hauling my ass up to the superhero factory. They pump me full of fucking poison. I waited and waited with a small sliver of hope that you-“ you trembled, the words not wanting to come out.

“Forget it.” You turned from him. “Looks like you took that offer huh? Became a weapon-a toy for Vought American to profit off of.”

You stared back into the party, the patrons visible, sick slapping of flesh and putrid moans escaping the lips of the many who partook in this disgusting festival.

"I wanted something more." Soldier Boy started.

"Here you are then. You have got everything you wanted. The money, the fame...hell you even have someone back home. Keeping your bed warm." You interjected, as you whipped back around your face expressing how utterly livid you were to face the man that had once been your entire world.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Y/N. You got no business talking to me like that. Everything back then was temporary, whatever was between us, the things that happened, were merely one of those things." He hissed, shoving himself away from the railing, his attention on you.

Your lip quivered, you were on the verge of snapping.

"I wanted to show you the life you could have lived if you would have just stayed in Philly. We grew up together, ran the streets, we were two against your father's entire regime. It was just the two of us. I loved you, Benjamin." You couldn't help the couple of tears that rolled and stained your cheeks. You weren't finished, you never were when it came to facing Benjamin Gilman.

"You know, before you just disappeared, back in 49', my mother had asked about you. She wanted to know if you would be coming to celebrate the holidays. I didn't have the heart to tell her that you had--" You quickly swiped the tears from your eyes again.

"Your letters stopped coming. I waited and waited until I couldn't wait for you anymore. And here we are... both of us back together again. It is truly pathetic." you quipped, a small whine escaping from your lips.

"There was no us, Y/N. There never was. When I came home in 47' I was ready to tell you I was heading to New York, that I was leaving you, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you. Because why should I? You were just another girl. There's more of them around me now. I have a lot of them I can choose from." Ben sneered.

"Decided to choose the one that hates you huh? Real classy, Benjamin." You spat.

He stomped towards you, backing your back into the hard brick as it hit the siding. Caging you in with both of his arms, he leaned close to the side of your head, his lips inches away from the tip of your ear.

"You're nothing to me. Fucking nothing. Shoulda' never came here, Y/N. Don't belong with the big leagues. You keep your mouth shut about things you have no idea about" He pushed off of the wall, his back to you again.

"This is what you call the big leagues? More like a bunch of super abled brats, running around with their knickers in a twist. I wanted something amazing for you. I wanted you to have a life. This? This isn't a life. This is a place where you're going to end up dying." Your cheek had burned when he slapped you hard, as you fell onto your ass. You furrowed your brows, silencing yourself, rubbing the side of your face.

"I fucking warned you to shut your fucking mouth. Get out. Start walking. I moved on, Y/N." He gritted his teeth, pushing past you and back to the railing.

"Is this how little you think of me? I don't regret meeting you. You made me happy. Even after everything, even just the interactions between us now, I still love you. I never stopped. I don't think I ever will." You reached out to try and touch Soldier Boy's shoulder. When you placed your palm onto it, he let you. Letting out a sigh, he slightly turned his head to look at you from the corner of his eye.

"I know somewhere deep down in that heinous, arrogant heart of yours, there is a part of you that still cares about me too. I don't hate you, I don't hate the person you used to be--the Benny I adored. I hate the person you have become. Maybe things could have been different in another life." Pulling away from him, you had begun to walk away, until his hand wrapped around your forearm and pulled you back.

He tucked his head into your neck.

"Life was much simpler when you were gone, when I thought you were dead, Y/N."

You loosened his arms, as he let you go. Your hands moved to touch the clasp around your neck, as you unclipped the locket he had given you. You then placed the piece into his palm, closing it.

"Then I guess this is the end to our little fairytale story." You stood on the tips of your toes, planting a light kiss to his cheek, to then make your way back through the crowds of people.

"Wait-don't go! Y/N! Please!" The sound of Soldier Boy's voice had been drowned out by everyone before you could even look back at the man you had grown up with.

Only time would tell when you would see him next.

----

Two more years pass, the wad of pain that erupted from within your chest, brought you to your knees. The news of Soldier Boy, Benjamin "Benny" Gilman, had died to save the lives of the American people.

Not much was said after that, besides the array of memorial celebrations that honored his death, countless events, holidays created that brought inspiration to the new generation of people.

Even when Crimson Countess found out about you, she had somehow ended up at your front door, with a folded up flag. Since he was out of her life, she donated the rest to museums. Countess did not want the man to plague her even after death.

Y/N did warn him that she didn't love him.

----

Present day was much worse than what you had expected. You hadn't aged a bit, it had taken thirty years for you to even age one year. Even then, the memories still haunted you.

Payback had dispersed, becoming run down entertainers to scrounge up whatever money they could to keep their lives luxurious.

None of them had aged well.

You had become numb to the world around you, watching the Seven become popular, rising to the top of the rankings, watched their leader make a fool of himself. It was a position you gave yourself. You didn't have to work, you didn't have to eat much, nor sleep. Practically immortal, actually you could have been immortal. You were starting to believe the latter.

William Butcher and his team had met with you on some occasions after digging into files and finding your name written within. Wanting to know information about Soldier Boy. You had given those fucks the same answer that he was dead. Gave his life, like in the documentaries.

They had buried him in the cemetery, whatever was left of him of course. They had a closed casket funeral, for the sake of those who attended.

Now, you visit his grave, every Tuesday, and you sit with him. Talk about how your life was going. You wished you could have had more time.

---

It had been in the middle of winter, a Tuesday. A coat keeping you warm, while you made a place to sit, continuing the routine. The cemetery was silent, not a noise within earshot. That is until you heard the sound of crunching footfalls within the snow. Chalking it up to other people visiting their loved ones, you quietly returned to your conversation.

Someone cleared their throat.

A man.

"Still pissed at me, Y/N?"

#jensen ackles #jensen ackled #askmishapoc #the boys #soldier boy #the boys s3 soldier boy #i need soldier boy to snuggle with me #soldier boy🍦🪖🎯#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy the boys x reader #jensen ankle bracelet #jensen ankle bracelet and the soldier of boys

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silver-screen-divas · 25 days

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Actrices pre-Code Hollywood. ADRIENNE AMES

Adrienne Ames (nacida como Ruth Adrienne McClure ; 3 de agosto de 1907 - 31 de mayo de 1947) fue una actriz de cine estadounidense. Al principio de su carrera fue conocida como Adrienne Truex. Ames comenzó su carrera cinematográfica en 1927 como suplente de Pola Negri. Ames pronto fue elegida para pequeños papeles en películas mudas . Con la llegada de las películas sonoras, la popularidad de Ames creció y, por lo general, aparecía como mujer de sociedad o en musicales. Ella hizo treinta películas durante la década de 1930 con su mayor éxito en Scandals de George White (1934). Ames apareció con los tres protagonistas de la versión de Drácula de 1931 ( Bela Lugosi , David Manners y Edward Van Sloan ) en The Death Kiss (1932).

#beautiful #beauty #actress #hollywood #star #classic #diva #vintage #classic hollywood #ADRIENNE AMES

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oncewhenalongtimeago · 7 months

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Hi! Sorry for my bad English, it's not my first language and I hope it's understandable :(

Anyway, I love how you write about Hiccup and look forward to the continuation of "Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot" (If there is continuation) <3

Well, I do not know what your conditions are, but I would ask something related to Hiccup have a huge crush on Y/n and he end up accidentally confessing his feelings for her. Thank you !❤

Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot pt 3

Pairing: Onesided!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 1934

After things get dicey you share a little bit of your future knowledge.

Tags: Time Travel, Reader into Movieverse, Dragons: Riders of berk, When Lightning Strikes

The thing about getting jointly kidnapped with Hiccup by Meatlug was that people also gave you credit. Fortunately for you, as the months went on and after the hassle of Snoggletog, people stopped congratulating you on the street and you fizzled out into blessed anonymity, just the way you liked it, and life went back to your new normal.

You’d been avoiding going into town since summer hit, which was lightning storm season, boy was it rough, and everyone had started putting up large metal objects. You could practically feel the buzz of electricity, the hairs on your neck standing on end. However, you couldn’t avoid everyone forever, though you made one hel of an effort.

Hesitantly, you knocked on the forge window, package in hand. Over the counter was Hiccup, with a rag, doing some scrubbing over what looked like a very large, very crude statue of who you’d come to know in the island as Thor.

“Delivery!” You called, with as much good humor as you could muster, “Hi.”

The way into the forge was open as it usually was. You scuffed your feet in the dirt and looked back and forth, as if someone would jump out at you and tell you you weren’t allowed to go in. When no one appeared magically to tell you off, which might have been difficult considering the clearing behind you was empty, you slipped inside.

“Hi,” You said again, closer to Hiccup this time. Hiccup himself startled, looking back like you’d caught him in some sort of foul act.

“Hi. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi,” He said, shoulders stiff, “How are you- I mean, what brings you here?”

You creased your eyebrows, before deciding to ignore his weird behavior.

“...What are you working on?” You asked, peering around him at the statue with only minor dread. It would probably be just another thing to avoid until the end of summer, yeah, but it looked pretty cool.

“Uh- statue!” He deepended his voice unnaturally and cleared his throat, “Hoping to appease Thor, you know. The works.”

Hiccup not-so-casually leaned on the statue, though you didn’t find it very odd as everyone in the village was acting the same way recently. Something about the perches, which wasn’t very surprising. You’d seen a mob go by earlier, ranting something angrily about dragons. You weren’t super familiar with many of the plots past the movies but you hoped you hadn’t changed anything vital.

“How come?” A small part of you hoped the statue wasn’t some sort of secret you’d stumbled onto by accident. That would be bad news, and very counterproductive.

“You’ve heard about what’s been going on recently, right?” Hiccup deflated.

You shook your head no, setting down the small brown paper wrapped parcel onto a nearby workbench.

“Well, uh,” He started nervously, A line of sweat gathered by his brow, “Since the storms hit, lightning started hitting the perches. It’s been following Toothless around, and everyone;s been saying it’s because of him, so the other Riders and I- they were here earlier- we built the statue.”

He looked incredibly put out and tired, the same way you’d been around Snoggletog.

“If he’s the Offspring of Lightning and Death then why would, you know, the lightning go for him?” You offered, cringing, “It doesn’t make sense.”

You’d done your best to stay out of the dragon politics. It was hard to take seriously, given your background. And, also, everyone got a little bit heated whenever the subject was brought up, which usually ended in blood. Double also, as an outlier who was quite literally very disconnected from the situation, you had a lot of odd and unpopular opinions. So, yeah, you avoided it. But now, looking at him, you kind of felt bad.

“I mean, I’m not trying to sound blasphemous or anything, but also then theoretically shouldn’t the Gods have shot you down earlier? There are better ways to have done you in, probably. And still get the message across. I don’t know.”

You paused, and when he didn’t react, you hesitantly continued, despite every instinct shouting at you not to.

“Either way, setting up more metal is kind of a dangerous way to go about it, isn’t it?” You shuffled your feet nervously, “Would probably be best to take them down?”

Maybe then you could run around town more often.

“What do you mean?” Hiccup looked a little scandalized. Definitely blasphemous. There was no going back now, though.

“I mean, metal attracts lighting. So it doesn’t matter who you’re trying to appease. You’re probably just going to get your signals mixed.”

You didn’t say any more on the subject. Probably wouldn’t be helpful to say that most people in the modern day didn’t believe in the Norse Gods. You were so going to get axed.

“What do you mean?” He asked again, still staring at you blankly.

“Lighting is usually attracted to tall objects, but if there’s metal in the area, it’ll go to that. Learned it in elementary.”

“Elementary,” Hiccup mouthed, confused. The thing about being in the past and being able to speak two languages, one of which didn’t even exist yet, was that you could say whatever word you wanted and no one would get it. That was also a downside, in multiple different aspects.

“Anyways,” You stuttered, unwilling to explain that, “There’s a thing people used to set up by their houses back home so lightning wouldn’t hit their houses when it got stormy. A metal rod or something. The perches are probably, ah- the statue’s good. If you gave it to her, Gothi might appreciate it. I mean, she does live on top of the mountain. Would probably keep her from getting struck, you know?”

“Are you sure?” Hiccup asked. He looked like a dog who’d just gotten a bone.

“About Gothi?” You asked, rubbing the back of your neck, “I mean…”

You paused, rolling up and down the balls of your feet and looked around, unsure of what you were supposed to say.

“Am I going to get in trouble for being in here? I don’t want to-” You turned back around. Hiccup was gone.

Gobber had just walked by you shaking his head at the sky, seemingly blind to your appearance.

You looked left and right at the dispersing crowd, wondering what was going on as you began to slog your way through. Everyone, as they left, seemed sort of disinterested and annoyed.

At the front of the crowd was Hiccup, looking incredibly singed and dazed from where he was on the docks. His father, the Chief, and Astrid, were nearby. Astrid had just begun to leave. Stoick, it seemed, was finishing up a hardy lecture and scolding.

You decided to wait politely until he was finished and ogling at the small array of large and small metal rods until the Chief left. Perhaps that was what had drawn you outwards. You’d heard rather than seen a pretty big commotion earlier, which led you down the cliffs despite your ultimate resolution to stay out of everyone else’s crazy business. Some things were just unavoidable. Or unignorable. Curiosity was a part of human nature, after all.

“Oh,” Hiccup said, once the two of you were left mostly alone, besides the occasional straggling fisherman, “Hi.”

“You made all this?” You said. You put the pieces together fairly quickly, “That’s really cool.”

“Couldn’t have done it…” He mumbled, “Without your help.”

“You probably would have figured it out on your own,” You suggested wearily. His eyes were sort of glazed over, like hw wasn’t completely there, which set alarm bells ringing in your head, “Hey, are you alright?”

Hiccup stumbled forwards, roughly tugging your hands into his own before he picked them up, grinning widely. His hands were oddly hot to the touch and his left hand was red in a pattern that looked sort of like worms.

“I think I love you,” He declared. It looked like he was going to lean forward for a second, before stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the wood dock.

“What happened…?” Hiccup uttered exhaustedly, cradling his bandaged head.

He looked around groggily, slowly taking in the grassy dried herb smell of Gothi’s hut and the bowls of spices and bones lining the walls

You were seated on a stool by the bedside, currently his, probably Gothi’s when there were no patients around.

“You collapsed. So I, uh, I pulled you up here. How are you feeling?” You asked cautiously, wrinkling your brows.

“Uh, hi?” Hiccup’s eyes widened, flushed like he was embarrassed, “I’m good. I’m so good.”

Hiccup tried to lean back, though the heavy bandaging wrapped around his lightning-scarred arm prevented him from doing that safely. His expression stiffened and he looked down, eyeballing his ruined sleeves.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” You said, “I couldn’t understand what Gothi was saying and we kind of had to cut your sleeve off to get to your arm. The lightning kind of burned it weird too, and it was sticking to your skin, so yeah.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Hiccup scratched at his cheek with his alright arm, looking a little bit bummed out, “I have more at home.”

“Well, yeah, maybe, but-” You sighed, a little put off, “Anyways, I didn’t have enough to pick up anything nice but a bunch of people heard and helped me pitch in for a new shirt.”

You nodded down to the red tunic laying on the bed by his foot. It wasn’t his signature green but they didn’t really have that, which was unfortunate because red dyed fabric was expensive. Hopefully he’d be out of it soon and in his normal wear. It was going to be weird seeing him in red.

“Oh, wow.” Hiccup said, “Really?”

“Oh, sorry,” You said, after your knuckles scraped each other. You met him halfway with the tunic and pulled it taut when he tried to unfurl it with one hand, so the whole thing was on display.

“Th-anks,” Hiccup said, as if a spare piece of food had gotten stuck in his throat.

You responded with an unhurried “No Problem,” as he gave it a once-over.

After a moment, he let it down and you took the signature to let go as he clumsily folded it again, leaving it to sit in his lap over the old, scratchy blanket Gothi had provided.

“Yeah,” Hiccup mumbled, squinting, after a moment, “What… exactly happened? I mean, I have a few memories, but it’s all really blurry. I remember- I- Uh-”

Hiccup shut up.

You winced.

“Yeah, you, ah, got struck by lightning, I think. Unfortunately. But you did prove Toothless was innocent, so there’s that.”

“Yeah?” Hiccup very studiously examined the wall to his left.

“By the way,” You started him, “You said something before you fell unconscious.”

Hiccup laughed nervously, “Nothing weird?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t really learned the word in Norse yet.” You said, shifting in the stool, which was just starting to make your back ache.

“Learned-? Uh,” Very decidedly, Hiccup shut his eyes. His face said exactly what he was thinking, which was ‘Oh Gods,’ “What did I say?”

“What does ‘love’ mean?” You stared at him, question in your eyes. Hiccup opened his mouth once, then closed it, then he opened it again.

It looked like he was having some sort of battle with himself. You decided that maybe you should leave him alone about it for now. And rightly so, because instead of answering, Hiccup decided to lay back down and roll back towards the wall.

#thank you #very much #maybe I will find another way to fill eventually #please have this for now #any conditions for an ask are okay #if there is something I am not comfortable writing i will say it #httyd #x reader #how to train your dragon #fanfiction #hiccup haddock #female reader #fem reader #hiccup x reader #httyd imagine #toothless

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