someone frame this and put it in a museum of fine art

“Two Weeks”

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: A narrative that explores how Steve copes after your tragic death.

notes: implied character death (reader), a failed attempt at writing sad things

A/N: thank you to @buckyywiththegoodhair​ for beta-reading this mess. i adore you, and god rest this old bitch’s soul.

One week has passed since you left New York for a month-long guest curatorship in Germany. Before leaving, you kissed Steve goodbye and promised to return in one piece.

One week has passed since HYDRA agents infiltrated the museum. They put the entire museum on lockdown, claiming it had World War II documents that were essential to the HYDRA agenda. Even the Avengers wouldn’t stop their mission to obtain these documents, they declared.

One week has passed since a certain HYDRA agent recognized your face from a tabloid, the headline screaming “Captain America Finally Finds Love!” He also deduced your title as one of the United States’ leading experts on Nazi Germany. It was the perfect coincidence.

One week has passed since HYDRA attempted to use you as a bargaining tool. “Give up the documents, and we’ll let you go back to your precious boyfriend,” they said. Much to their surprise, behind your simple dress and ballet flats was a woman not afraid to kick men in the balls, both figuratively and literally. You proceeded to do the latter.

One week has passed since the Avengers compromised the guards and rescued most of the hostages at the museum. Only one remained, but when it became clear that they’re wouldn’t gain access to any of the documents, HYDRA decided to inflict pain in the best way they knew how - by taking away the remaining innocent life.

One week has passed since your tragic death.
One week has passed since Steve Rogers buried the love of his life.

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Picturesque

Hey guys! I went to the museum and had a buncha cute thoughts about Tom there, so I thought I’d do my best to eloquently sum them up for you guys! I hope y’all like the imagine, and feel free to message me if you ever want me to write anything specific!

Picturesque
She was drenched within the white walls of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Different colors seemed to drip from the ceiling and she eagerly soaked them up, ambling through the varying exhibits.
Biting down on her lip, she pulled the map out of her bag and tried to pinpoint her exact location. The whole reason she came today was to see the German expressionism art exhibit. From the articles she read, she learned that the LACMA had secured assorted paintings from the 1920s, and she was desperate to see them.
Nobody had wanted to come with her, so she decided to go alone. Thinking back to her decision, she realized that it probably wasn’t the best, seeing as she was as directionally challenged as the fates from Greek mythology, who only had one eye to share between the three of them. Glancing up at the sculptures, she wished that they’d come to life and help her with directions like the characters from Night at the Museum would. Alas, she thought, and stuffed the map back into her purse and carried on walking.
Tom wasn’t too jazzed to be spending his Sunday afternoon at a museum. Him, Harrison, and Harry had only come because Harry wanted to take photos outside. Harry then decided that they should all explore the museum because they happened to be there, and some of the exhibits sounded neat.
It wasn’t that Tom disliked art, because he didn’t, he liked art just as much as the next guy, but he had too much energy to be quiet while they walked through the massive museum. All the walls were clean and white, bare except for paintings, and it reminded him of being locked away in an insane asylum. He wanted out, but decided to wait it out for Harry’s sake.
“Hmmm,” Harry muttered, leafing through the museum’s vast map, “we should try to find the German art, it says here that they’re being moved around in a few days.”
Tom groaned into his hands, “Why? You don’t even like history, let’s go outside! It’s 85 degrees, we could be at the beach.”
Elbowing him, Harrison said, “We’ve gone to the beach everyday this week, you can handle some,” he glanced at the page to confirm the exhibit’s title, “German expressionism.”
Tom pouted as he followed Harrison and Harry up the stairs to the German exhibit.
She smiled victoriously. She’d made it to her exhibit, all without asking for help. She had traipsed around long enough, wandering up the stairs, down the stairs, through long hallways, all while taking in all the art the museum had to offer it’s visitors.
Softly, under her breath, she muttered, “Finally,” and walked into 1920s Germany.
When the boys had gotten to their destination, the room where all the art was hung-up was essentially empty, except for the small frame of a girl loitering around the pictures.
The first photo Tom stopped in front of was horrendous. The colors were all dark, and cool-toned and seemed to blend together in a very unfavorable fashion. The people depicted looked afraid, dazed, and as if they were being chased down some great monster. It was also a somewhat abstract painting, and Tom couldn’t really tell what anything in the painting really was. Shaking his head and crossing his arms, Tom moved onto the next painting while Harry and Harrison discussed the information on the plaque beneath the artwork.
She came to a stop in front of a vivid, richly red painting. The woman portrayed was naked, lying on her back, looking as if she was floating above the earth. Her eyes were startled and her mouth curled back, as if she had a scream caught in her throat, and her hands grasped at something invisible and unattainable.
Her eyes drifted from the plaque and back up to the painting again as she attempted to decipher and put back together the conceptual work of art. She heard the shuffling of a body behind her, but didn’t turn her head.
Tom reached the painting the girl stood in front of. Focusing more on the back of her head than the disturbing painting, his gaze trailed down the length of her spine, covered in the soft blanket of her black sweater, and then back up to the halo of light emitted from her shiny hair. He wanted her to turn around so he could see if her face was as pretty as her hair, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to spend anytime thinking of something to say. Harrison backed into Harry, and Harry let out a shout of surprise, and she whirled around and collided with his chest, clearly surprised by the sudden breach of silence.
She made a move to side-step around Tom, so she wouldn’t fall into him, but her ankle slipped up and she let out a shriek of shock and began to fall backwards. Quickly regaining his bearings, Tom slipped a soft hand around her waist to pull her back up, but tripped over someone’s feet, at this point, he couldn’t tell who’s, and ended up tangled around her as they fell to the ground.
Thankfully, due to his Spider-man training, he knew how to fall with someone in his arms without either of them getting bruised up too badly. Tom shifted, pulling her to his chest and placed a hand behind her cranium, and fell with his back onto the wood floors, cradling the girl to his chest.
When they finally settled onto the ground and he opened his mouth to ask if she was alright, he was stricken by her eyes. Her eyes were like flower petals, Tom thought, as they glassily peered up at him. They unfurled like fresh, spring florets and her eyelashes curled the same way leaves did. Soft roses smeared across her cheeks as she began to utter apologies a mile a minute at him.
Removing herself from his grip, she sat back on her knees and pressed her hands to her lips. Tom could hear hysterical laughter and Harrison shouted, “Smooth mate, smooth!” In his general direction. Leaning up onto his elbows, he tried to think of something smooth to say.
“Shit, fuck, fuck, I’m really sorry! Are you okay? Should I get someone? Oh geez, don’t move, I can try to find you an ice pack. Oh my gosh, I’ve literally killed Spider-man before his film is even out to the cinemas. I’m really so sorry, like, anything you’re thinking, double it, triple it, shit, sorry, sorry, sorry!” At this point, she sounded like she was becoming frantic.
Swiftly, Tom was sitting up and trying to comfort her. “No, no, don’t worry! It’s fine, I’m fine! Are you fine?”
“I cannot believe, of all things, I bump into you! I literally crushed you and you’re asking if I’m alright?” Her hands flitted around rapidly, not sure where they should settle down.
Tom sat up straighter, she seemed to know who he was. “Are you, uh, do you like Spider-man?”
“Youre-fuck- he’s my favorite. I’m really sorry, I just can’t believe-.” Tom noticed that her hands were shaking.
“Darling, it’s fine! Don’t worry about the fall, I’m just glad that I was there to catch you! Made me feel like I’m actually your friendly, neighborhood Spider-man.” He moved to help her up off the floor as he stood up.
A giggle left her lips as she accepted his hand. “I’m sorry for being a creep and for almost mangling you to death.”
“Don’t be silly,” Tom tilted his body closer to hers, “Wouldn’t be doing Peter justice if I just let you fall.”
She smiled up at him shyly. She could barely believe that this was happening to her. She knew Tom, she loved Tom, she even had an embarrassing blog dedicated to Tom, and now, here Tom was. He was even cuter, more polite and charming than his interviews did him justice, and she had almost flattened him against the hardwood floor of the museum.
“Are you here with anyone, because if you’re not,” Tom’s arm curled up behind his head, “we could look at all this disturbing artwork together? And, maybe I could buy you a coffee afterword?”
Her entire face lit up, and she felt so giddy that she had to physically stop herself from jumping up and down. She automatically launched into a nervous chatter about the artwork surrounding them. “The artwork is historical! All these were right before Hitler came into power, so Germany was struggling economically after the war and was looked down upon by basically everyone, so that’s the only reason they’re not light and fluffy, if that’s the disturbing aspect you’re speaking of.”
Quirking an eyebrow, Tom smiled at her, “is that a yes? Or-?”
Her eyes widened and she impulsively grasped his hand, and upon realizing what she’d done, she recoiled, blushing furiously. “Yes, I’d love that.”
Taking her hand within his own, and making a blatant point of flipping off Harrison and Harry as they hooted in the background, “Now, tell me more about,” He turned around to examine the time period stamped onto the painting, “1920s Germany.”
Leading him to the next painting, she did just that.

I Think Joining The KGB Is A Far More Interesting Story

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. One Shot

Characters: [FEMALE] Reader x Illya Kuryakin + Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller

Warnings: theft

Request: “Oneshot request: Illya x female reader I wondering if you could do an extended imagine about the art theif x illya and how they met” - anonymous

Word Count: 2,123

A/N: related gif imagine is here [x], hope you like it !

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Poems ; j.j. x reader

Originally posted by riverrdxle

summary: basically, reader writes poems about Jughead, and gets drunk one day and he reads them and yep.

warnings: might be like a swear or two? like underage drinking and stuff , my writing in general.

a.n: you guys should tell me if I should write this as a series, because I didn’t go too much into detail with stuff and that irks me honestly.

words; 2,510


It all began with Y/n’s best friend Jughead telling her that he was going to go on a date with his girlfriend. She shouldn’t get this sad over him so she decided to do something she thought she would end up regretting the day after. She called up the clubbing gang, as she’d dubbed them to do exactly that, go clubbing.

“Any reason as to why you want to go clubbing? Perhaps it has to do with a certain gloomy beanie wearing boy?” Veronica asked her.

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Title:  My Lies, Your Worth
Part:  42

First  l  Previous  l  Next

It hasn’t been long since he’s last gone out like this.  Because Nash is the man he is, he spoils Akashi at any opportunity with art, culture, and history.  These are the things Akashi finds interest in.  While Nash might not find the subjects enjoyable himself, he likes Akashi.  He humors Akashi, has learned for him and wants to please him.  It’s been a lost cause for four years; it will be a losing battle until Nash finally gets bored of him and moves on.

In truth, Akashi doesn’t deserve someone so kind in his life.  It’s with a simmering desperation that Akashi wishes Nash would give up.  He’s not worth the effort.  Akashi is little more than used goods and a broken heart that he won’t let heal.

A drop of rain hits his face and startles Akashi from his thoughts.  When he looks up at overcast skies, he sighs.  Right now he wants to cancel this date he agreed to; Akashi wants to go home.  He knows he shouldn’t be here, but he breathes through the guilt.

Everything about what he’s doing is self-destructive.  He’s going out with a man he knows Nash doesn’t want him to be around alone just so Nash can hear and get mad.  Akashi wants to be hurt and abandoned.  It’s what he deserves.

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My Grandma has this mermaid...

So a little background information: My grandma’s an artist of sorts. She works in a kind of restoration, taking old objects like statues and window frames and decorating them with the shells and detritus she finds lying on the beach. She walks there every day, even though it’s almost an hour away, her pockets full of empty plastic bags that come back full of sand dollars and dried seaweed.

It’s pretty interesting, and she’s being doing it for years, making bigger and bigger pieces as she went on.

Overall, I like her stuff. Going to visit always meant getting to see her new work and gorging myself on the food I can’t get back in the States. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been here, so I was excited to see the newest one, but it’s…different.

See, she made this mermaid. It’s life-sized, biggest she’s ever done, and inexpertly carved from stone. The face is rough: big lips and pupil-less eyes added with paint and spackle. The tail is thicker than I am, greyish pink and covered in shells. It only looks like a person because it’s vaguely person shaped. My grandma isn’t a sculptor by any means, but her work’s always been about breathing new life into stuff, rather than creating from scratch.

It’s…fine. Obvious really, considering the rest of her work focuses so heavily on the sea, but I just can’t get into it. Maybe it’s the how not right the face is, or the way that the stink of rotting seaweed still clings to her even though all her hair is dried out and crusted white with salt. But ever since we got there, I can barely walk past the thing, just looking at it gives me the creeps. I can’t even go to the bathroom at night, cause I’d have to walk past the corner outside the art studio where it’s propped up, and trust me, it’s even worse at night.

I’m the only one who thinks it’s weird though. My mom loves it, and my grandma’s so proud of the thing. Other people in town love it too; it’s not a big place so when the local artist churns out something new then people tend to get excited. Only, people are getting more excited than usual and there’s talk about setting up an exhibit out in the city.

You think I’d be happy about that, the damn thing would finally get out of the house, but here’s the problem: I don’t think the mermaid wants to go.

I know, it sounds ridiculous, but for the past three nights — ever since the offer from the museum came in — weird things have been happening. I always stay up late on my laptop, and around eleven o’clock, I start hearing noises.

First it’s a soft rhythmic whoosh, like waves. Only it can’t be cause the beach is way too far away. But it keeps getting louder, and faster for like half an hour until it sounds like the house is right next to the ocean.

But as soon as it reaches its crest, it just stops, and another sound starts, and this is the one that scares me. Cause it sounds like something heavy scraping across the floor, something made of stone.

It’s as constant as the waves before. Scrape, scrape, scrape, and it gets softer and softer as the night goes on. Then once it stops, there’s a loud bang, like someone trying to push open the front door. Once, twice, and then they give up. Then the scraping happens again, softer then louder until finally, it’s quiet.

The first time it happened I didn’t fall asleep the whole night, just waiting to hear something again, but nothing. I thought I was crazy.

But in the morning, there was this trail of sand leading away from the door, and it led straight to the mermaid.

Still, I wouldn’t have been worried if it didn’t happen again. All the same stuff, the sound of the ocean, the scraping and the mermaid trying to open the door and get out. Everything was exactly the same, even down to the sand.

I brought it up to my mom and grandma but they didn’t believe me, of course. They don’t hear anything at night, and the mermaid is always in the same place it’s always been in the morning. Her town has the beach on one side, and a desert on the other, so there’s always sand everywhere. And if the front door smelled more like seaweed, then grandma just needed to rinse her shells out better before she got into the house. They almost had me convinced that I had just made it up, even though it’d happened twice.

Just in case, I went to bed early last night to try and miss it, but I was just too jittery. Soon, I heard the ocean again, and the scraping. Only this time, it kept getting louder, and louder, and then the bang, much louder than before.

It didn’t sound like someone was banging on the front door anymore. It sounded like they were banging on the door to the art studio, the one right next to mine.

When we woke up, the door to the art studio had been pushed open, and I know we’d left it shut at night. They laughed when I told them it was the mermaid.

I’ve left the front door unlocked tonight. But just in case, I put a chair in front of my door as well. It doesn’t lock, so something heavy would be able to push it right open.

It’s almost eleven now, and I think I can hear the ocean.

Betrayal

Niall Horan Short Story

Notes: I had taken the down a long time ago, but i still had this part posted on my wattpad for some reason so i’m just going to post this on here. i hope you enjoy, this is only the first part out of possibly 3-5. 
Word Count: 1,791

Part One

Constant disappointment. That’s what I felt like to him. Everyday there would be efforts, some even going to the extremes to make him happy but nothing ever worked.

Each morning I would wake up to a lonely bed, walking down stairs to an empty kitchen and living room and just everything…

Harry and I met in school, you know like high school sweethearts kind of thing. We’ve been together ever since. It was almost like since everyone else saw us together, they expected us to stay together forever. To obtain this popularity throughout school, that’s exactly what we did. We did love each other though. When we got married we were both extremely happy. We even have little Lillian.

But each morning, he’d wake up first get ready for a long day at the office and take Lillian to school. I would go to work at the museum, come home to make dinner. When we first had little Lilly, there was this apparent glow that would come off of our faces when we saw one another. We used to like our tiny family, our tight-knit community of love. That seemed to be no more. As time passed and we grew together, we also grew apart.

I never really knew how much people could change until I experienced it with my own eyes…with Harry.

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