#Gaming laptop with long battery life

[muskan15]

Powerful Gaming Laptop with Fast Refresh Rate. http://websiteone.thehrbeans.in/wp-admin/post.php?post=147&action=edit

[eggbagelz]

ORWELL 3

I HAVENT INTRODUCED HIM YET everyone this is Orwell, an ex-zonerunner and one of my ocs in the killjoy roadtrip au :3c

[techtoio]

How to Select the Perfect Laptop for Your Needs

Introduction

Choosing the right laptop can be overwhelming with so many options available in the market. Whether you need a laptop for work, school, gaming, or general use, it’s essential to pick one that fits your specific needs. In this guide, we’ll break down the key factors to consider when selecting the perfect laptop for you. Read to continue link

[lovelybarnes]

Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises. 

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

-

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you. 

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

-

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

-

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug. 

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

-

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains. 

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

-

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

-

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably. 

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. 

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously. 

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

-

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks. 

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?” 

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.” 

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons. 

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

-

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose. 

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend. 

-

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path. 

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

-

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down. 

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh. 

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back. 

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve. 

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

-

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

-

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

-

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit. 

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily. 

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can. 

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability. 

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.” 

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues.  “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

[lxndonorris]

warmth - Logan Sargeant

Y/N x Logan Sargeant Theme: fluff, touching (light) you need a break from studying and cuddle with your boyfriend Logan x word count: 1100+ taglist: @game-set-canet (sorry for the wait, had exams and stuff but they are nearly over, so :)) gif by me.

It's always been this way. Studying is exhausting, so you push it away and focus on other things while the day of the exam keeps creeping up on you. Months turn into weeks, and weeks into days, while you try to manage your life the best way possible. Your boyfriend, Logan, tries to support you, but, to be fair, more often than not, he's a welcome distraction.

Right now, there is no way you can procrastinate any longer. It's Friday, and the exam is set for Tuesday. You're sitting at your desk; what feels like a dozen textbooks lie in front of you, with the artificial light making it even harder to keep your eyes open. You've read the same chapters and the same lines at least half a dozen times, but you feel like it isn't enough.

Your laptop already went dark like ten minutes ago; the battery probably died from exhaustion as well, but something inside you isn't ready to stop yet. Steadying your head with your hand against your forehead, you let out a low sigh and take a deep breath. 'How are you supposed to get all of this into your head until Tuesday? Clearly, there wasn't enough time', you think to yourself. No, you were just too busy procrastinating.

That's when you see the reflection of your boyfriend on your screen. He's lying on the bed right behind you, one hand casually resting on his tummy, stroking himself through his white shirt, while his other hand is leaning against his face, covering a coy smile with two fingers.

Logan notices you watching him, and he holds back a soft smile. Exhausted, you turn your head toward him, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look." You say this, shaking your head slowly.

"I have no clue what you're talking about." He says, raising both of his eyebrows, trying to play the innocent one, but the smile he's holding back is giving it away.

That vicious, cute look on his face. He would always look at you like that when he was craving attention. Cuddles, kisses, hugs, anything. It's not hard to look through him after being with him for nearly a year.

"Logan." You mentally raise a finger as if scolding him, but he just giggles quietly. "You looking at me like that makes it really hard to concentrate."

Holding back a smile for yourself, you turn back to your textbooks and start to read the same lines for the seventh time.

However, you can't help but look at Logan through the screen again, and he's giggling still, but he tries to regain his composure.

You turn your face again, but before you can open your mouth, he stops you.

"Look." Logan says, trying so hard not to giggle. "I just think you should take a break." He runs a hand through his messy hair as he sits up.

"I can't." You let out another long sigh before you turned back to the books. The words keep melting together, almost spinning. Clearly, you're way too tired to keep studying.

That's when you feel Logan's hands on your shoulder, before he wraps you in a warm hug from behind. 

"You've been studying for hours, Y/N." He breathes and places a few kisses on your neck. Feeling his soft lips against your skin gives you goosebumps.

"I know." You say, leaning back against his firm chest, embracing his arms around your chest.

"You need a break." He says it softly and rubs his head gently against yours, slightly pulling you back into him.

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you give in.

"Fine. You're right." Logan purrs quietly, leading you toward the bed, one of his hands running along your arm. It tickles as his fingertips brush over your skin.

Together, you get on the bed. Logan is the first one to lie down, inviting you to lie down right next to him.

Carefully and slowly, you snuggle up against his chest, using his left arm as a pillow. Letting out a low groan, you rub your face against his chest, causing him to giggle again.

"See, you must be exhausted." He says, with his voice a little rougher than before.

Logan kisses your forehead and moves a little closer so he can stroke the small of your back with his other hand. It feels good—soothing, almost. It feels even better once his fingers slide underneath your shirt—a tender touch, with his fingertips gently dancing across your skin.

At the same time, you let one of your hands slip inside his shirt as well. It feels so good to run your fingers across his chest, feeling his firm chest, his soft, warm skin, and the way his chest heaves with every little breath he takes.

"Mhmm." Logan purrs again, rubbing his head gently against yours.

"That's what you wanted, eh?" You lift your head to meet his warm gaze.

He licks his lips quickly as a shy smile forms on them. "Yes." Logan's face flushes with color.

"But you deserve a break." He nods comfortingly, knowing very well that you're stressing yourself out, even though there is no point in studying when you're that tired.

"I know." You lean in and kiss him once, then twice. He embraces your lips on his own as his hand wanders down your back, across your buttocks, and to your thighs.

You can feel his thumb stroking you, causing you to giggle into his mouth.

"I couldn't help myself." He giggles as well and kisses you again before you two get even closer, cuddling again.

While he keeps stroking your thighs, you return the favor by stroking his tummy, just the way he likes it, causing him to purr like a happy kitten.

Now, you're lying face-to-face, looking into each other's eyes. There is no need for words; it just feels so good to not think about exams, textbooks, or anything else.

"Thank you." You breathe deeply, moving a little closer toward him, and hug him with both of your hands now underneath his clothes.

Logan embraces you right away and rests his head against yours.

"You're welcome." He growls, stroking the small of your back again, while you take in the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his cologne.

With a soft smile, you rest your head against his firm chest, and he embraces you even closer—like wrapping you in a warm glow.

After a while, you fall asleep inside his arms while he watches over you, just for a little while longer, before he too falls asleep.

[edith-is-a-cat]

There is a storm coming and ima little scared since we are being released early bcuz of it so why not write idia drabble! This is silly stupid and self indulgent TY AUBBIE FOR SWEET SHROUD SUMMER <333 srry for any error im writing this on my phone n im real shakey

Tldr: Idia scared of storm :(((

Word count: 483

Reader is implied to be a little scared of storms

✦ Idia knows to handle storms on his own, he has been on an island basically all his life so he’s bound to have been hit by bad storms. He just hides with his laptop, his headphones, a rechargeable battery, and all the physical media he could get into his closet. But sometimes he doesn't get the convince of a hideout...

✦ You, Azul, and Idia were having a late night in the board game club. (Maybe bcuz there was a new board game that y'all wanted to demo..) You all just thought it was rain. Azul was fine, but Idia was on edge thinking about all the ways it could get bad. But, you and azul had just set up a new game and one last round couldn't hurt

✦ Just a little over half way through the game there was a crack of thunder that almost made idia jump out of his seat and definitely startled you. Azul just continued counting his resources like he heard nothing, calling for Idia to take his turn.

✦ Then the storm continued terrorizing you all, with a thundering clap the lights cut out. Idia dove under the table, you covered you head with your arms, and Azul just turned on his phone's flashlight after making sure he had enough battery.

✦ He scanned the scene, then promptly got up saying that he was going to go figure out how to turn on a generator. Leaving you in the dark, well no not really Idia's tablet was glowing from under the table.

✦ The dark was starting to give you the heebie-jeebies after a point so you decided being on the floor with some light would be better than being in a chair with no light. You crawl under the table with Idia offering a soft hi while he shaked like a nervous chihuahua.

✦ after a long bit of awkward silence (just as he was going to say something too) a clap of thunder scared the life out of him again, making him jump.. and in addition hit his head on the table.

✦ He just stared at you, steeping in embarrassment and the buzzing pain on the top of his head until another crash of thunder made him instinctively hug you. He held on like the storm was going to take him away, though that did not last long as he realized what he was doing and scrambled away. A soft sorry left him as he looked away brewing in his embrassment tea.

✦ "It's okay, you're afraid. It's okay that you are afraid" you softly whisper like you were coaxing a cat out of a cage

✦ He nods, then jumping again when the lights turn on. Azul had a prideful smile as he turned on the light, but it had changed to one of confusion as he looked at you both under the table.

lol srry if bad im not rlly a writer

@fryofthefrench

[docholligay]

You are 10000% correct! Winston basically develops and fleshes out the battery system from the CA, capable of being small, portable, and insanely powerful, licenses it for laptops and other shit, and retires on that money, once Lena stops any fieldwork. She was the only reason he wore a uniform anyway. Then he takes care of her when she can't really take care of herself. He never minds. Emily couldn't do it on her own, and there's no way he would ever even allow the idea of her going into a care home.

But then, she dies. And what does he do now? Everything feels wrong.

Avi is basically his saving grace in everything. He throws himself into her entire life, because she is the second person ever who was not even once afraid of him or intimidated by him. From the first time he held her and she reached up to his face, he was utterly in love.

And Fareeha and Angela take the attitude that there could be nothing in the world wrong with Avi having another person to love her and another place to go. So he takes her to museums and shows and playgrounds and anywhere she wants. Without even realizing it, he ends up getting out of the house, too, and it's good for him. They have sleepovers and she never misses out on any school trip or summer camp, because he won't let it happen, however much Fareeha might think it's occasionally good for a child to hear that something is impossible. When Emily finally moves on and out, Winston remakes her room--Lena's room--into a room for Avi. Newly painted, rearranged, she's too young to understand the significance of what he's done, but it's not lost on anyone else.

They play games together, and read books, and he teaches her anything she wants to know about science or history or art. He becomes a nanny, and then a companion, but always an uncle, and always Avi's favorite. Her Uncle Winston is big and kind and warm, and she is always so excited to introduce people to him. When she gets older, she admires his brilliance, his loyalty, his tender nature.

With her around, he is happy. He takes great pride in her, and she loves him.

But still, he never really stops missing Lena. Every Christmas, especially, he misses her. Avi is used to hearing stories about Lena from a wide variety of people, but almost always they're smiling when they tell them, or shaking their heads, laughing. But Winston wavers between seeming so sad to talk about her, and being desperately terrified that everyone will forget her. As she gets older, Avi makes sure to listen carefully, and to even write some of his stories down, to reassure him that no one will. (This seems mildly ridiculous to her given her near-canonization among a certain breed of Londoner, and the fact that she features prominently whenever a "blitz spirit" needs to be invoked by a score of politicians Lena herself would hate, to say nothing of, oh, the Overwatch museum itself, but what is love if not embracing the anxieties of the beloved, smothering them as best you can in the embrace?)

To the end of his life, Winston always wishes she was there. He mourns her to the day he dies. Avital never feels less loved for this, because she is in many ways her mum's child, practical and straightforward, but she has a touch of her mutti's softness, and so for every time she might think it insulting or ridiculous, there is the sense that poor Uncle Winston went so long without a family that when he found her he grew around it like a tree around a signpost. If the signpost rots away, the hole will remain. It doesn't make the treehouse he built in his own branches for her any less.

She defers going to university to take care of him, and still somehow manages to be surprised that absolutely everything is left to her. The cemetery attempts to stop Winston from being laid there with Lena, despite that always being the intention--rules, you know--but while Avital has a touch of her mutti's softness, mostly there is a spine of Egyptian steel and the ability to bureaucrat someone into the ground.

Uncle Winston loved Avital. He did everything for her. He asked only one thing of her, and that was to be buried with the person he spent twenty years mourning, and despite her mum's best efforts, Avital never did get good at hearing something was impossible

[dragongirltail]

I hear that you like Microsoft Surface tablets. I'm currently setting one up for my friend, and I'm wondering what it is that draws you to them? I know it's Microsoft's "answer" to the iPad but haven't paid much attention to it since it's release

Oooo, loaded question that one! In truth, it's less that I like Surface tablets and more that there's nothing that does it like them.

The windows tablet market is a hellscape where most of what people use them for is lightweight chromebook note block stuff that requires little to no computing power, so most of what's available from most companies is just kinda meh.

You have tons of Lenovo/Thinkpad stuff that tends to run on pentiums and low power i3s and whatnot, it'll be able to play a youtube video but that's about it.

For higher performance there's like two or three models by lenovo, Dell has a few good ones, you can go the gamer route and buy an asus ROG thingie that looks gaudy and like it's made for 15 year olds, but either way you're gonna be running short on something if you just want something basic.

Gaming tablets are high in power but at that point you might aswell buy a laptop since the battery life is atrocious, the lenovo ones are alright but quite new and hard to get used, and I just dislike dell out of principle because they're a terrible company.

So that means generally the only real answer lies in Microsoft's lineup since they offer sleek but pleasant designs, and their performance isn't so through the roof that you can't use them without wall power, but still good enough to do general tasks and basic gaming which is exactly the sweet spot I'm looking for!

The personal answer here is that the surface Pro series specifically covers a large area of specific things I'd like in my secondary device: Portable, decently long battery life, good performance for how long it lasts.

The main purpose for wanting one is so I can use it to watch videos in bed before sleep on a larger screen, to be able to play basic games when I'm away from home, and as an auxilliary screen to put somewhere on my desk when I need it for other stuff like reference pictures or whatnot.

Having a touchscreen is a godsend there since it's so much easier to operate something with just bapping it with your fingers instead of operating a trackpad, keyboard, or mouse so it's the easiest choice for that kind of "no brain" use to me.

The other issue is price, since most of the other companies only recently jumped on the windows tablet bandwagon they're hard to get used, but surfaces are available online for cheap the further back in generation you go.

Currently I've got a Pro 7+ with an i7-1165G7, 16GB of ram, and 512GB of storage + a 128GB micro sd card installed. The i7 is an 11th gen intel model which means it has the blazing fast iris Xe integrated graphics and anything I can really see myself playing on this thing it handles swimmingly (minecraft, warframe, any game from like 6+ years ago).

Bought it for about 500€ last winter, which is extremely good value for what it is, seriously!

TL;DR: Surfaces are the least bad choice in the tablet/convertible market, they're expensive but previous gen models will still do all you'd ask from one without much issue.

[moonlight-tmd]

team prime but what they do at night when they can't recharge; I got this idea from a silly little idea that bots go to sleep like we do instead of just powering down.

I headcanon that bee would either toss and turn until settling into his back and stare at the ceiling, get up and go for a midnight stroll, hum/sing to himself, or play videogames when he can't recharge.

OP would do everything in his power to get back to recharge until giving in and either check up on his teammates (standing outside their door for a nanoklik before moving on) , read a data pad, or sharpen his axe.

It's a rare occurrence for ratchet to not be able to recharge as he's old and needs it, but he doesn't care so he stays up late filing or organizing data pads.

Bulk would sleep soundly but if he can't then he'll do the cybertronian equivalent for counting sheep, probably be careful as he can while trying to paint, or think up of cool ideas/stuff to paint tomorrow.

Prowl would turn onto his side and stare at the tree in his room with the available light in the room from the moon. Or get up and get some oil/something to refuel himself with, or think of things he normally wouldn't/doesn't get the chance too.

That's a cool idea.

I mean, the only transformers fandoms i was ever interested in were the 2 cartoons; Rescue Bots and now TFA. I actually watched the older season or 2 of Rescue Bots- there was an episode where one of the bots (Blades) was sneaking out and woke up another bot (Boulder).

So yeh, i think their recharge mode is more like a sleep mode on a laptop or pc. The sensitivity of it- as in what will wake them up from it- varies depending on the transformer itself. For example, one could wake up to a thud or a small sound and the other could sleep thru a storm or even an alarm.

I imagine Bee is the type to not need much recharge to function, somehow this mf is energetic almost all the time. Because of that, he won't be able to go to recharge at least once a week. His battery is just not drained enough. So what he does is he'll pull a gaming night or have a romance movie night. Or if he really wants to recharge, he'll drive around town and do some crazy donuts on the outskirts, anything to get his battery low enough to recharge.

Optimus is the type that is he's not recharging he'll get flashbacks to his life's mistakes. So if he can't recharge he will stay up and catch up on his reports if he hasn't done them. He'll go over his recipes, read a book or like you said, sharpen his axe. He will get everything he needs and walk out into the parking lot so the sounds don't wake up his team, sit on the shipping container and sharpen it while looking at the few stars in the sky.

Ratchet will absolutely pull an all-nighter organizing his files and med folders, a little less work for tomorrow... Most often tho he ends up sprawled at his desk at the end on the night. He didn't need recharge at that moment but he does need it after all.

Rarely Bulkhead can't recharge at night- recharging soundly is an effect of growing up on the farm where there was sound basically all cycle long. Those times he can't fall into recharge he'll just lay and imagine what pretty things he could paint. Or count Quarills to help him recharge. (A Quarill is a made up creature, i think it'll be like a 6-legged cybertronian horse, similar to Avatar's Direhorse)

Prowl is also the minibot of the team- although unlike Bumblebee, he's not all energetic and moving all the time so he's not burning his battery as much. It's often Prowl can't recharge, instead he will go out and refuel since his meditation makes him forget to do so during the day. He'll absolutely snoop around the pantry and steal something good to eat that he usually wouldn't. Other times he will sneak out and go on a nightly stroll around the parks and nearby forest. He's the one that is put on night patrols more often, in fact he asked Optimus if he could do them(it's quieter and more peaceful at night). So if he's not on night patrol, he will do the things i listed above.

Bonus: Sari will just eat all the fucking candy he father hid from her and snoop around the other parts of the tower that are still functioning. If she's having a sleepover at the Autobot Base she will go and seek Bee. They'll play video games or watch a movie Sari eventually will get tired, she's just a 10yo, and doze off on Bee's lap. Then he will bring her back to her bed and either go recharge himself or do what he does when he can't recharge.

[meshconcept01]

Foldables phones are here to stay for a fact.

I'd call it, the novelty addition of smartphone technology.

You can tell by the higher spectrum at which smartphone brands are beginning to adapt to the trend, offering a wider range of user choices, now it's up to the user to choose which of these foldable devices stand out and bends in best to their lifestyle and routines.

The functionality of foldables continually improve in every generation and series and the Honor V3 will no doubt, be a reflection of that statement.

While I stay cosy in my bed sheets and await the launch of the Honor V3 in September, I have some expectations.

New foldables like this always puts me on the edge of of "seeing how these things work!", The major cutting edge differences and what sets it apart from the previous generation and outclasses it from the predecessor.

MY SOLID EXPECTATIONS OF HONOR V3 ⤵️

BUILD QUALITY: if among the reasons I'm choosing a foldable, one is most likely to avoid the weight burden, I could have gone for a tablet but I choose a foldable to avoid the heft, build quality has the proficiency to attract the "entertainment circle" customers, they are just as concerned about the build as the performance, a game and movie lover wouldn't want to feel stressed holding their foldable for as long as the entertainment takes them.

A non slippery build material is as important as the phone condition itself, this foldable will go through a lot of chronicles in our daily lives and it's important the manufacturers are conscious about the quality of build.

DURABILITY/SPOTLESS CREASE: If a phone is rated IP68, you'd be tempted to plunge it into water or just be in a weather condition that provokes that aspect of the device.

If the Honor V3 can boast a flexible hinge technology, it definitely would awake that hunger in me to keep closing and opening as many times as I can to verify the feature of the foldable to see if the crease is feelable or truly spotless and non fragile.

Durability shouldn't be overlooked because anyone buying a foldable first thought of the form factor, this should be among the "A" features and should never for any reason be compromised by manufacturing material (bad crease) or substandard engineering.

LEVEL UP MULTITASKING GAME (Split screen function and a lot of others): I want to easily multitask and handle everything seamlessly, I felt my traditional 6.7 aspect ratio smartphone screen tried it's best but just isn't enough, I can't have myself carrying a laptop, I want something I can always carry and lift around buses, lunch breaks and at my easiest convenience no matter where I find myself, I consider a foldable and i expect the Multitasking function to meet up to standard.

The transition between apps and multi screen interface should be smooth and lag free on a much spacious display with thin bezels, it's a disaster if the bezels gets to big and ruin the intent of the unfolded screen ratio in the first place.

BIG BATTERY: Gamers, Creative enthusiasts, multitaskers can be heavy users according to their active work flow, a lasting battery and speedy charging should be considered in the Honor V3 foldable.

Everything could be great but an epileptic battery life can be a kill joy to experiences and shrink productivity with it.

#HONORMagicV3

[autisticsupervillain]

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters....

Sollux Captor vs Omni-Man!

Conditions:

Feats for Omni-Man are taken from both the comic and the show. "Dubiously canon" materials for Homestuck, such as the Epilogues and ^2 are ignored.

Scenario:

The Viltrum Empire launches an invasion on Earth C. Sollux stands in their way.

Analysis: Sollux Captor

Doom. The Aspect of dispair. Those bound by Doom are fates chosen sufferers, predestined for a life of pain and misery. And there is no better example of that in all of Paradox Space than Sollux Captor.

Born on the alien hell world of Alternia, Sollux was born as a Gold Blood. The third lowest caste in Troll society. Thanks to his status, he was not only relentlessly persecuted, but he was predestined to serve as a living battery for the Empire's warships, guaranteeing a short life of pain and misery once he left the planet. Even on the planet, his life wasn't much better. Largely because a nearby highblood and local 8itch mind controlled him into killing his own girlfriend.

So yeah, as you can see, if you're bound to the Aspect of Doom, then life is just going shit over you right from minute one. While all your friends are bound to primordial concepts that grant them cool superpowers, you're bound to a concept that forces you to hear the voices of those who are soon to die. Well, okay, I say that, but it's not all bad for poor Sollux. For one thing, being a SBURB Player does give him a few handy perks, like a video game style hammerspace inventory called a Specibus, or a leveling up system called an Echeladder, which goes up continuously as you do random things, ensuring that you're always getting stronger.

Not like Sollux needs much help with that. He's easily the most powerful psionic on the planet, arguably the strongest in history. As a direct descendant (or clone. Kinda. It's complicated.) of the Psiioniic, Sollux has inherited all his absurd abilities and psionic powers. This includes telekinesis powerful enough to lift buildings and eye lasers big enough to vaporize skyscrapers.

Sollux's telekinesis is so powerful, it can overpower and redirect meteors summoned by the Reckoning, including those the size of Australia. That's a feat that requires at least 3 exatons of tnt. And that's on top of it's utterly ridiculous range, allowing Sollux to grab and throw meteors from the other side of the universe or blow up a laptop that was in a different timeline entirely.

Source:

He did that during his team's battle with their version of the Black King. Seeing how the Black King was Prototyped twelve times with components of far more powerful entities, he should be more powerful than the Jack Noir of the human session was prior to being Prototyped with Bec, who himself could complete decimate the planet of Prospit. Given Prospit's size, causing that much damage to it would require 63.1 exatons of TNT.

Source:

But, as with all things Doom bound or SBURB related, it came at a price. Since Sollux was a SBURB Player, he was inevitably going to witness the end of his race, as it's the job of him and the rest of his friends to create the next universe while their old one dies. Furthermore, he didn't even get to live in our universe, because someone from the universe he and his friends just created traveled back in time to kill all of his friends. The pressure of having to hide from this god-like entity shattered his already fragile friend group, causing Sollux's rival, Eridan, to go on a killing spree. This resulted in Eridan vaporizing Sollux's eyes and killing his new girlfriend... right before Sollux gets dropped down a flight of stairs for unrelated reasons. And not long after that, Sollux dies from the exertion of pushing his spaceship across the Outer Ring at faster than light speeds, moving at 1,041,320.39 the speed of light.

Source:

Man, Sollux is just the Spider-Man of the Homestuck universe. He certainly has about as many dead girlfriends. That isn't even counting the time he got forcibly fused with the person who killed his girlfriend (not Vriska, the other one). Yeah, needless to say, when your life sucks as much as Sollux's does, you become something of a grumpy dick. He's relentlessly cynical and pessimistic asshole, which is certainly not helped by his bipolar mood swings and short temper.

Despite this though, Sollux's luck did eventually begin to turn around. He's far and away the most competent hacker in Paradox Space, capable of hacking into a video game that alters the fabric of reality. Eventually, his first girlfriend came back to life as an immortal time goddess and they hooked up again, a little while after Sollux discovered he is now immortal and unkillable, due to being half-dead and half-ghost. This means, not only does he not age anymore, but he's only half blind now, as his ghost half's body is bound by his own mental self image, while only his living half being bound to his pre-existing injuries. So, not only is Sollux Spider-Man, he's also Danny Phantom.

So, no matter how badly life kicks him, Sollux is always going to rain down hell on whoever and whatever crosses his path.

Analysis: Omni-Man (Spoilers Ahead!)

In a universe filled to the brim with great and mighty heroes, none were more powerful than Nolan Greyson, the seemingly invincible Omni-Man. A Viltrumite from the planet Viltrum, was sent to Earth to protect humanity so that it may one day grow into a mighty civilization, but like most retellings of Superman's story, his true intentions were much darker than they seemed. In truth, he had been sent to Earth in order to scout it out and prep it for conquest beneath the boot of the mighty Viltrumite Empire and once his half human son began to exhibit powers like his, Nolan knew it was time begin his conquest.

While Nolan succeeding in slaughtering the Guardians of the Globe, he couldn't bring himself to kill his son, no matter how hard he brutalized him. Realizing that he had grown to love hunanity during his short time on Earth, Nolan left the planet in tears, leaving his ultimate fate uncertain.

When Mark woke up, he learned it took Omni-Man, at most, two weeks to leave the solar system, meaning he was flying at speeds over 41 times light speed.

Source:

Nolan Greyson, upon witnessing his son struggle to catch an asteroid, casually remarked "that was a small one" before remarking that he once caught an asteroid the size of Texas. Indeed, this vast strength gap was made clear when Nolan, though conflicted in his emotions, effortlessly battered Mark around for the entirety of their fight, more than capable of beating him to death if he truly wanted to.

But, that's the thing. He didn't want to. No matter how much Nolan focused on his mission, he could not put aside the love he had for his son or the family he built here. Nolan might have tried to turn his son into a Viltrumite, in the end, Mark made his father... human.

It was this love for his family that resulted in Omni-Man turning around, eventually fighting alongside his son to save the planet he'd been raised. To the point of even destroying Viltrum outright by plowing right through it alongside his son. Even when dividing the required energy up between the three of them, that'd still require up to 662 Exatons of TNT!

Source:

Omni-Man has much more than overwhelming strength in his side however. As a Viltrumite, Omni-Man is naturally capable of flight, even in the vacuum of space, and can breath outside of Earth's atmosphere. Indeed, Viltrumite's are nigh impervious to any sort of traditional weaponry that Earth has to offer, including all Earth based forms of disease and radiation. His superhuman healing factor allows him to survive getting beaten into a coma, punched through the stomach, and getting his eyes gouged out! Similarly, Viltrumites have also shown to get stronger through intense training. As someone's whose been conquering planets for thousands of years, Omni-Man is easily one of the strongest Viltrumites around.

However, beyond all his brute strength and powers, Omni-Man is brutal and cunning warrior with hundreds of years of experience under his belt. Having grown up in the Darwinist society of the Viltrumite Empire, Nolan has trained all his life to be a ruthless warrior. He is capable of wiping out entire planets singlehandedly and was capable of beating all the Guardians of the Globe by himself.

But, he is not invincible. ....Because that's his son. Come on man, pay attention.

But in all seriousness, Nolan does have some weaknesses behind that awesome mustache. His super hearing makes him vulnerable to loud noises and sonic vibrations, to the point that loud blasts can stop him flying outright. Extended exposure to the extreme heat of stars can overwhelm his healing factor, as can severe damage to the brain or heart.

Nolan Greyson has protected humanity from gods, aliens, and even entire armies. And now, he stands out as the biggest threat the human race has ever seen. It was only through his love for his family that he was able to become the hero he always pretended to be.

Throwdown Theme:

Throwdown Breakdown:

This fight is interesting due to the dynamic created by the stat gap.

Omni-Man is roughly 10x stronger. For reference, Mike Tyson is 16x stronger than the average person. That's a very huge stat gap that would allow Nolan to rip Sollux apart if he gets his hands on him. But Sollux's speed advantage is even greater, being over 25,000x faster.

So, what stops Sollux from speed blitzing? I mean, he's fast enough that he could probably eat an entire roast chicken before Nolan crosses the room.

Exertion. Sollux can move that fast, yes, but that feat killed him. He cannot consistently maintain that level of speed. So while he can considerably outrun Omni-Man, it'd take a lot of effort to do so. Omni-Man could just run out the clock of Sollux's stamina by pressing him into maintaining his highest limits of speed.

So, the question becomes if Sollux can overwhelm Nolan before he wears himself out.

Yes, Nolan has a massive experience advantage. He's basically if Kryptonians were Saiyans, he's been conquering planets for thousands of years. Sol's lifespan is a blink in all the time he's been slaughtering, so he's definitely smart enough to see Sollux is taxing himself to stay out of range and think to exploit it. But, Sollux has fought people with similarly long rap sheets. The forces of Derse have been locked in an eternal deadlock with Prospit for as long as the Medium's existed, after all, and Sollux and his team can handle those guys.

Omni-Man's insane healing factor and resistance to pain would allow him to tank a lot of punishment, but Sollux can throw literally everything at him. He can call down meteors from the corners of the universe. If Omni-Man tries to take advantage of Sollux's inability to breathe in space, then that just opens Sol up to throw the moon at him.

What I think definitively make this Sollux's game is precision. Crushing the heart will ultimately beat Nolan's regeneration and, frankly, I think Sollux can do that. If he's percise enough to target the components of a computer to make it explode, then I think he could do the same to Nolan's brain or heart. While he normally wouldn't, I think the specific dynamic of this fight forces him to.

In a situation in which he has to exert himself this heavily to keep ahead of Omni-Man, in which if he pushes himself any faster he risks bleeding from the eyes, then yes, I think he will resort to dirty tactics to win like that. His life is on the line in this situation after all. And he would survive long enough to make that decision, because the gap between their speed is much smaller than the gap between their strength.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Sollux Captor!

[tap-tap-tap-im-in]

I'm helping a friend find a laptop on a budget, here is some general advice that might apply to anyone else looking:

1. I don't trust used SSDs. SSDs have a limited number of write operations when they are manufactured. Under normal use you probably won't run into these limits, but there are things you can do that make it a lot easier to run into them, and with used devices you never know what previous owners were doing.

2. Don't be afraid of APUs, the Nintendo Switch and the Steam Deck both use Radeon APUs. Intel's APUs are also getting better, but they don't have decades of experience making video cards.

3. There are three important numbers associated with CPUs (there are a bunch more, but there are three that are easy to look for), single core clock speed, number of cores, and power draw. Single core clock speed should be the average speed of a single core (this should be lower than the boost speed, probably somewhere around 2Ghz with a boost into 3 or 4). Number of cores is what both Intel and Radeon have been pouring money into to speed up applications. Applications that multi-thread well can take advantage of these cores to run operations simultaneously. Video and photo editing tend to multi-thread very well. Games are hit or miss. The power draw will tell you how long your cpu can sustain the boost clock speed. The lower the power draw, the less time it will boost for (but the better your battery life will be).

4. Modern Windows is memory greedy. It uses between 4 and 6GB unless you go into the settings and turn off some things. 8GB gives you enough memory to use the Internet, use a word processor, and that's about all. You can do more than that and the system will use a paging file to store the contents of your memory on your hard drive, this works, but you will feel a hang while your system writes or reads from the page file. If you want to minimize this, look for 12 or 16GB if you can. Never buy a Windows 10 or 11 machine with only 4GB of RAM.

5. If you can, and are buying a laptop, buy one with a user removable battery. This makes it easier to replace, and if your battery swells, you can use your computer without the battery (plugged in) until it can be replaced.

[arduadastra]

An unhinged recap of TLOU EP3

Honestly read at your own peril, I cried a lot in this one

*spoilers ahead*

So right off the bat I played TLOU with my partner very soon after it came out, and then again.....and again......(and again) a few more times so I thought I was ready for this. I was ready for grissly asshole bill needing to go find Frank because he's only gone and got himself in some shit and yeah joel and ellie come along I know where a battery is but oh no Frank got bit?! and have a cry but did we get that? No. Do i wish we did? Absolutely not.

But i am kinda bummed we didnt get pedro pascal caught upside down shooting at zombies because of Frank's trap....thats one of my all time favourite scenes

ANYWAY

The whole set up to Bill and who he is, is done so well and with comedy too. It's meant to be ridiculous in a way that someone like bill, a prepper and lets be real we all know one, who 9/10 is called crazy is now the smart one and we see him living his best solo life in his mini town

5. Years pass im thinking huh, that isnt too long, we arent up to present day yet and then i see my boy frank in a hole and im thinking OH YEAHHHH we get some BACKSTORY

6. "there is no girl" "i know" - why did this make me laugh yet cry in the same breath? its so bloody unfair people can grow up without knowing what it is to love and be loved simply because some assholes out there made it 'not the norm' and considering how bill grew up, im sure that didnt help either.

7. "have you done this before?" "no"

8. Young joel in that sunshine? eating with that fork on a fancy plate with pedro's non grey hair and looking clean as frick? this was for the pedro simps and i APPROVE

8.5 MY BOYS JUST WANNA GROW STRAWBERRIES OK

9. the raiders hit, im thinking SHIT here we go, this is when theyre gonna kill frank and joel and ellie will show up and bill will be an asshole and joel will think nothing of it and ill be screaming at my tv and all will be right in the wor- wait what BILL GOT HIT?!

10. oh he's fine

11. Frank isn't though

12. This is where im prepping myself right? I KNEW since i started this episode that he would die, he died in the game and he's gotta die here but im not liking this.

13. Bill stop naming Frank's pills fun names im literally crying

14. Frank: "This is my last day" Me:

15. I dont need to write the speech he made because honestly if i did i'll just cry again and im writing this on my laptop and i really cant afford a new one but you all know that made you cry too

16. THEY. GOT. MARRIED. ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?! ARE YOU?! BECAUSE THIS SUCCEEDED MAN YOU DID IT - WELL DONE

17. Now here i am, tears streaming down my face when you lose something you cannot replace Frank has drunk the wine, im a puddle and then Bill.....this mother fricker....downs his glass and im thinking wait a miniute here....this isnt what happened in the game

18. "objectively.....that is very romantic"

19. ........ *frank castle voice* wait wait wait wait wait WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT

20. my ass is in denial right, im like nah ok bill is gonna wake up and that'll be horrifying and heartbreaking because now hes forced to live on without the love of his life and joel and ellie arrive and his door is locked and i knew this aint the way it's gonna be

21. the letter. I need say nothing more.

22. So after ALL THAT, all the sobbing and crying and pact and 'we left a window open' they're just gonna throw at me some joel and ellie bonding in the car? theyre gonna give me the game quotes of 'what you say goes' ????????????????

TLDR: EP3 was beautiful and heartwarming and then soul sucking all at once. While i didnt get my refirdgerator scene i got something so much more and I loved them for that. Now im just hoping ellie found those magasines because best BELIEVE thats another of my all time favourite scenes from the game

[gadgetsgalaxy2]

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[belethlegwen]

The Faerie Spell - Chp 7

Chapter One: Click Here

Previous Chapter: Click Here

Story Directory: Click Here

Words: 6061

Summary: Daphne decides to take back some of her own agency after the awkward-as-hell movie night, learning that she can get away with keeping her curse-bullshit bouts a secret under certain conditions. It makes her feel good enough that she starts to finally start breaking away from her friends a bit, making more decisions for herself and even deciding to treat herself a little!

But...

Content Warning: Violence, bodily harm, fear

Since the movie-night, like I mentioned, there had been three episodes. The first one didn’t even last until morning, which made things a bit awkward. Waking up to cold chills and wondering how long it had been, scrambling with whatever I could remember to grab out to the top of the desk. I made it, but it did make me move the bed from the second floor/loft of the ‘beach bungalow’ to the ground floor.

I fell into my real bed, barely blinked my damn eyes and the sun was up before I could fully form the question of what that stupid winged bastard was getting up to at my height in the middle of the night on a Friday. Sheri had helpfully informed me at the kitchen table that I looked like shit, but it being Saturday, I just took a morning shower and went right back to nap until lunch. It, admittedly, wasn’t a huge help to my energy or my mood.

The second one had happened on Tuesday, around 10:30 or so in the morning. I was mid-zoom call with my team lead and some of my other coworkers when the feeling came over me and I managed to zonk the laptop down with me in what I personally believe was my smoothest move yet. Only one of them had even noticed something happened, and that was more because the warm waves make me sweaty-- whether from anxiety or because they’re actually that warm, I haven’t actually bothered to check-- and a little nauseous. I had almost passed it off completely, but because I hadn’t been charging the laptop all morning the battery died just a bit past lunch and I had to take a sick day for the latter half.

I had been getting warned about taking those, but I had looked at the health coverage and poured over some of the language with a personal caseworker after my accident, and ‘illnesses and afflictions’ such as mine were covered.

…Well, supposed to be, but it was still a weekly game of email-tag with HR and management to get the sick days applied properly and compensated for according to the contract, etcetera etcetera, blahblahblah.

I had forgotten that day who was free and who wasn’t, and I didn’t want to give Sheridan an excuse to dodge out of work early or something, so I just… wandered. I got into the cupboard I had been testing, I checked my new elastic-ladder situation, and realized what was so good about sunbeams. As a heads up: Giant cheetos are more trouble than they’re worth, but there’s something about giant breakfast cereal if you can get to it that really really hits.

I was honestly about to start heading back to where my phone was sitting on the desk in my room, ready to alert them that it had happened before Sheridan may have shown up and found me, when the cold chills hit and I was standing normal-sized in the hall again. Being self-sufficient felt good. Really good, honestly, and being able to just spend time by myself and do things on my own helped me plan out some things I could do to make everything easier to just… stay self-sufficient.

Mostly it involved getting a lot of things for my room. I started taking little notes in a diary, started bringing a bag full of some essentials with me from room to room so that if it hit again I’d be able to-- hopefully-- grab it before I zonked. ALWAYS making sure my phone was going in a pocket of some kind instead of being laid somewhere was a tricky one, but I had been getting better at it! By the time the next bout hit, I had improved a bunch of little, like… quality of life things for myself in terms of mobility, keeping things kind of concentrated to certain areas, that sort of deal.

I got a little bit sour that nobody noticed them before I zonked or whatever. No one seemed to care about my stupid curse or how I was actually dealing with it outside of making dumb jokes, so nobody noticed that the bookshelf dollhouse set up had gotten a little pimped out, that I had made some extra additions for like, comfort. Closest we came was when Gem popped in for dinner with us one night and she noted that I had some scraps of fabric and stuff around, things like hacky sacks or a scrap of old memory-foam from a pillow I was replacing that I had wrapped some cloth around, wondering why I wasn’t ordering more doll furniture.

I told her this was just basic stuff to ‘tide me over’ until an order came in. She had been excited about that, even though I didn’t honestly believe it was that convincing of a lie. It still wasn’t probably going to be comfortable but it was better than a lot of the doll-intended trash I had already wound up with.

I had… almost forgotten about the Gem shit entirely by this point. There were moments when it would hit again, but honestly? In my newfound independence, it didn’t bother me nearly as much and I had no interest in wanting to talk to anyone about it. Why bring it up? I was actively making it not-a-problem and that felt so good, oh my god.

The latest bout, the one that ended this morning, happened at 10:30-ish again on Tuesday, and I was sincerely hoping that whatever this bastard was up to would last the same length of time as it did the last time, but by 4:30 I was left with no real choice but to warn everybody before Sheri came home and just found me. I had gotten through the entire workday with no one noticing that my background was uh… well, bigger, but I tended to keep to a pretty vague section of my desk while on the zoom calls and such anyway, so I suppose it wouldn’t have been extremely noticeable.

Once Sheridan made it back and settled in for the night, I messaged Cal and had them come over to hang out with me in my room and even convinced them to sleep over just to get Gem off my back. We didn’t talk about the incident, but Cal and I did have a conversation about how kind of pushy Gem was about babysitting me and taking me for sleepovers when this shit happened, even when it was blatantly impractical like it was that night: she had work the next morning! Was I just going to hang out on a table in her house for 8 hours? Was I supposed to break my way out of there if the curse un-zonked me mid-way through the day? God girl, just let me sleep in my own house.

“Listen,” Cal had said as they spread out on my bed, causing the pillow I was sitting on to almost toss me into the air as their head landed on it with some force next to me. “I can’t blame her too much, you’re pretty cute like this.”

“Ugh,” I had grunted, reaching for the strap of my bag and hauling back up beside me to avoid it getting crushed, sending off my sick-leave request on my phone. “That’s the last thing I wanna hear. I just wish people would give me a fuckin’ break when I’m like this.”

“It takes you like, four years to get to a bathroom at this size, girl,” they had drawled, yawning, their hand almost hitting me as it moved to flop on the other side of me. “Only so much of a break you can get.”

“You know I’ve like, dealt with that at least a little, right?” I had asked pointedly, turning to stare at the side of their face, but it was useless. As they scoffed and made some kind of comment that unless we put litter boxes in every room ‘it wouldn’t matter’, I decided to not let them in on the details of my creative engineering. 

I also decided, once again, to not complain about how touchy Gem was when Cal’s finger started to bump into me idly and repeatedly while we talked. What right did I have to complain about Gem’s handsy-ness when I was constantly smacking at Cal’s stupid fingers?

One thing I was grateful to Cal for, though, was that when I told them I could handle myself and would message them if anything went wrong, they believed me enough to head out to work the next morning without trying to call in Mak or Gem. Even agreed to send a dummy-message in the afternoon that they were heading home so it looked like I’d only be home alone for maybe an hour before Sheri got back. Sheri had even made sure Hannibal wasn’t going to do his morning run, though it was pretty unnecessary. One of my quality-of-life upgrades I finally caved to was a couple of sets of earplugs. 

I had run clean out of those USB-charger battery packs by the time me and Sheri had finished dinner, so she had suggested we just watch TV together while I gave my phone a break. It was honestly a nice night, like I had said; she was pretty good about listening to me when I said it’s easier for me to watch from the back of the couch, or at least the armrest, and aside from the quick warnings before being grabbed and moved everywhere she was alright to get along with.

The rest of the group chat… not so much. When I mentioned my phone was dying, Gem told me she was absolutely going to take the time off of work tomorrow and come get me so someone was ‘actually taking care of me’ while I was still zonked, Mak asked me why I didn’t just keep all of my old phones charged as back-ups because they don’t need SIM cards to use the WiFi and I was going to be home all the time anyway, Cal saying instead that they’d call in for their shift tomorrow afternoon if I was still zonked and come hang with me at my place, which just started an argument with Gem…

When I was grabbing my bag and everything just a bit before 5am and sleepily dragging my ass out of the bungalow, I can not begin to express how god-damn relieved I was. I plugged my phone in and sent off a message to the chat that I was big again, everything was fine, and then just collapsed for a few more hours of sleep. By 7, everyone had seen and was… well, they all said they were happy to hear, but I was getting more and more suspicious of Gem’s level of honesty. 

So, I hope that’s a pretty clear explanation of why I decided, at around 9am, to drive myself into town to run some very minor, personal errands and just enjoy myself without letting anyone know. 

Like, the house-keeping was done and getting done! I plugged in all of my chargers at home, phone was back to full charge by the time I was up, set up my laptop to charge… My sick-leave was still in place, though I had told the crew that I was thinking of letting them know that I was good to work again when I first was re-embiggened or whatever before dawn. I decided against it because after Sheridan had left for work it just kind of hit me that… I missed doing shit on my own.

It hit me that I hated the idea of trying to ask if one of them could schedule some time with me to get my haircut, or that the only one who ever really seemed down for a nice coffee-and-chat like I used to have was Gem because everyone else was busy or was worried I’d zonk or something. 

I also, also… kind of wanted to try out some of the other magic shops around town. I had been doing research, but every time I brought it up around the gang, they all got really squirrelly about it; even Gem, who was always saying she knew someone or knew someone who knew someone who was in the magic underground scene or what-have-you. Like, we were all super ignorant about magic stuff, me and Cal almost especially because of our, uh…

Well lets just say that our respective upbringings required a lot of very intense unlearning in order for Cal to be able to be themself, and for me to just… get along with other people, especially people like Cal.

We don’t go home to visit family often, is what I’m saying. If my family knew I had been cursed by magic they would probably say it was because I was ‘giving into sinful urges’ or something. Then they’d ask if I had a boyfriend yet. You know how that shit gets.

I won’t lie, I had been putting off showing my face around like… known magic gigs since the Witch had flipped her lid at me, but I figured if I just went in and asked, and just didn’t tell them I was cursed or whatever maybe they wouldn’t like… try to read it or whatever the fuck that sour old bitch did that told her I was somehow in cahoots with a Faerie. My real issue was that no one else was going to do it for me though, so I figured just… nosing around for new charms wouldn’t kill me?

I mean, I was at no risk. I had gotten a minimum of almost four days between bouts at the shortest since this had all started, and it ended this morning. All I wanted was to feel normal, and I had already proven to myself in at least a dozen ways that I can handle myself way better than the others wanted to believe. So… I drove into town, parked the car at my workplace lot because I still had my pass and it was pretty close to everything I wanted to do, and then walked into a salon to get my hair finally dealt with.

I kept it long enough that I could just keep it in a bun, hopefully no one would notice immediately, but I figured, hey! If I can go a few days without anyone figuring it out, I could let Cal in on the secret. They could appreciate a good bit of friendly espionage like that, we always liked doing that kind of thing.

God, it was so nice to just… sit in a chair and chat with a hair stylist again. It was nice to just be out, with people I didn’t know, just acting like a person again! I went window shopping, I stopped into a little cafe I had never been in before and got myself this neat little herb-and-cheese danish thing and a really really fancy coffee from them-- literally just told them what my favourite flavours were, said I wanted something hot and fancy, and the barista looked like they could die they were so happy to build me something custom. They even wrote it down after I tried it and loved it in case I wanted to order it again!

I was just wandering around the downtown area, bopping along to tunes and taking a ton of pictures of things that I never realized I missed so much. I was waving to people, saying hi and smiling… 

Did you ever notice that you used to be someone, and that you just… hadn’t been that person in a while? It was weird. It was so weird to become that person again so naturally, so easily, and see how badly I had missed it. Even before the stupid curse I just hadn’t been doing much of any kind of socializing outside of the crew because I was just so busy all the time with work, and I mean, after the bullshit with my ex it wasn’t like I was trying to hit the town and find a new mistake to make, so…

I had been bringing up Google maps so much to find out where anything I might wanna visit might be that my phone was already on half-charge, so it was going to be a pretty short trip out into the real world. I wasn’t too upset, honestly my anxiety was high enough in the car originally that I was thinking I’d just do the haircut and get back home ASAP, but once the sunlight and fresh air hit me… damn I really did love it.

My legs also felt they could walk me clear out of town and back if I wanted, too, which was a fun little benefit. Walking to the nearest charm shop and then back to the car would be easy, and I still had like half of my very-fancy-coffee drink with me to keep me company.

I was already making plans to come back tomorrow, my eyes looking at a gorgeous little outdoor seating area outside a restaurant, a little wrought-iron fence and some bushes, under the sidewalk trees. There were a few couples, some loners, and even a couple of moms with their below-school-aged kids with them enjoying an early lunch, and it just looked so wonderful. I stopped at the little wooden sign with today’s specials on it, trying to glance around the area to see if there was a waiter or someone I could ask about seeing a full menu, when I felt the sun break through the trees.

God, what a beautiful day. Why didn’t I do this more? Why did I just let myself be scared, let my friends try to run my life like I needed to be wrapped in bubble wrap all the time? What was so terrifying about being out here on such a gorgeous day?

The alarm on my phone started to go off, reminding me that if I had been at work, there was a zoom meeting due about one of my team’s projects happening in a half hour. It was loud and obnoxious, and I felt myself flush at the embarrassment of having some random video-game noise from the 90s start blasting out in the middle of such a nice public spot. I heard high-pitched, squealy giggles as I pulled it out of my pocket and hit the shut-off button, sighing.

Then I caught my reflection on the screen as it changed back to black.

I caught the look of myself, sweat beading on my head, and realized that the sun had never broken through the trees around me.

“That fucker--” I managed, somewhere between panic and rage, before the rush of air and massive bout of nausea sent me to my knees instantly on the extremely rough concrete. My coffee spilling on the ground as I slammed the paper cup against it. 

I vomited. I couldn’t help it. I vomited and scrambled to my feet as fast as possible, ready to start screaming if anything came near-- the three times this had happened outdoors, the massive feeling of being so exposed so suddenly, with no walls and no ceiling, had hit like a ton of bricks and this was absolutely no different. At least there weren’t any pigeons around this time, I guess.

To my left was the wrought-iron fence and the side of one of the bushes that decorated it. The folding menu-sign with the specials chalked up on it was just slightly further, and was also likely to get too many eyes. I darted, running sloppily toward the fence and the bush instead, my hand diving into the pocket with my stones in it and hauling them out.

I could barely keep myself upright; between the nausea and the panic, I was barely breathing around my heart feeling like it was literally sitting at the back of my god damn tongue. I was swearing, that was the only way I could think to get air out of me between terrified gulps of air. Between my shaking hands, I was able to finally grab the stone that had the minor-invisibility charm and after stammering twice, activated it. That helped, a little. It would at least keep the birds from finding me if there were any bumming around the restaurant tables looking for scraps. 

The charm was basically one of those that kept eyes from landing on you if someone wasn’t specifically looking for you, or you weren’t drawing specific attention to yourself. I never had to use it much between never leaving the house and always winding up in a pocket or a purse when I did and zonked, but that just made me happier knowing that it had a lot of charge.

My mind was racing as I slipped it back into my pocket and moved to the next stone. I had nothing with me, nothing but the stones which were always in my pockets out of habit, my phone, and my wallet which was useless at this size. My bag was at home, but even if I had it all of the chargers were out and plugged in, the only thing in it now was a chocolate bar, spare pajamas and earplugs. I was going to need to tell someone that I had left the house, that I was basically somewhere downtown, try and send the geolocation and just… hunker down and hope nothing ate me until they got here. It was going to have to be Cal. Their shift wasn’t until later in the afternoon, they might not have left yet… they might not be awake but they’d be my safest bet with the least amount of yelling, at least immediately.

Next charm I wanted to use was the protection stone, it helped with bumps and falls, and even helped-- at least a little-- with the crew grabbing me if they were a little more rough about swinging me around. It was like magic padding. I was going to need it if I was going to be trying to climb things out in the wild and hiding under stuff, waiting for Cal to come get me. Massive feet were stomping past on the sidewalk between the little fenced-off garden eating area and the actual wall of businesses that seemed like they were towering skyscrapers blocks away from this height, and I wanted to puke all over again at how heavy they felt even on the concrete. My stomach churned and I couldn’t bring myself to get the spell-word out while I was gagging over the thought that maybe I’d need to find someone, a stranger, to try and talk to to keep me safe until I could get rescued by one of the gang.

I had just gotten the shield spell activated, shoving it back into my pocket with the unactivated speaking-stone as I was determined to not talk to anyone, to not draw any attention to myself whatsoever while I was like this, waiting for my blood to heat up and un-curdle again, when suddenly everything around my chest went tight.

Bone-crushingly tight.

My eyes dropped down from the roofs of the buildings instantly to see fingers across my front as my feet were yanked into the air, kicking and flailing as my lower half was completely free-- dangling with a thumb pressing painfully into my back.

I screamed.

I screamed, and whatever was behind me let out a squealing screech of delight so loud I went temporarily deaf in both ears. 

I was being flung around, up and down in wide arcs as the squealing noise continued, barely fading back in as my hearing came back and was blasted away again by another insane bout of noise. The grip tightened again and the fingers shifted up against my neck as I almost slipped in another wild shake. My vision was nothing but colors and stars, the stone keeping my bones from breaking but everything still hurt.

My only reaction was to throw my face forward and bite, and bite hard.

The reaction was instant. The fucker screamed so loud every bone in my body vibrated to the point I was worried my joints would just fall apart, and my eyes shook-- not that they were any good to me in the moment before that-- but my body hit the ground from what felt like falling off the roof of a house, and I had no time to actually care about how badly I might be hurt. Feet and hands pushed me off of the ground and I scrambled as fast I could manage, practically on all fours for the first half of it, running toward the safety of the bush.

My eyes glanced behind as my hearing started to come back through the most intense ringing I’d ever had, my whole head throbbing-- my whole body throbbing-- and saw the frankly massive child clutching it’s finger while it wailed, tears streaking down it’s face as its mother swept in like a moving building to see what had happened. I turned back to the bush and dove into the leaves and branches, the bluntly-cut ends of wood jabbing into my body as I tried desperately to scratch my way inside to almost no effect.

I tasted blood. I had no idea if it was mine, or if I had managed to actually hurt the kid.

How the fuck could this happen?! I had the stone activated, the kid shouldn’t have fucking seen me, shouldn’t have even noticed me after it was on. God, unless the kid had heard my phone going off and was already watching when it all happened… fuck.

There was a searing pain against my leg that I finally clued into as air was finally going back in and out of my lungs, my stupid battered body trying to wriggle around this bush to get completely out of the child’s view, but from the stupid babbling it was making I was terrified-- I knew it was going to try and come back and look for me. The searing pain was literally that-- searing. The protection stone was so hot I almost thought it might be burning me, it must not be meant to work that hard, that fast.

It was cooling, at least, but still-- now I was terrified of how much of it’s charge that stupid kid had used trying to fling me around like garbage. My chest was heaving, and all my brain kept telling me to do was run, and run as far as I could. A gap finally opened in the overly-manicured branches, a tight tunnel of sharp and poking twigs twisted around that looked like they came out the other side near the bottom of one of the street-side trash cans. I might be able to fit under that, if I could get there fast enough.

The thumping and rumbling of footsteps all around me-- someone was dragging their steel chair across the bricks just alongside the stupid topiary-divider I was trying to scramble my way through like a rat and it cut through the other ringing in my ears like something was jamming dentistry tools inside my skull-- was enough to make me want to vomit again. I was doing a good job at holding that back until I finally broke free of the bush and moved to make a dart for the cover of the trashcan, my sleeve snagged on one of the jagged-cut branches I had pushed past.

“Come on just let me go!” I screamed, turning to yank at it before a rush of air caused me to yell again, ducking and pressing myself back into the greenery while another insane amount of noise rocked my world so hard it knocked the wind out of me.

“Fuckin’ hell, you can’t aim for shit,” a booming voice laughed mockingly as another voice so deep I felt my ribcage vibrate swore back at him. I had almost been crushed by an empty glass bottle, and my thoughts that I was ‘soooooo lucky’ it hadn’t shattered evaporated into my panicked grunting and yelling as I tried to claw my way back into the bush, legs and feet suddenly stepping around the corner and a colossal hand practically slammed down on top of the bottle to grab it.

The leaves and whole bush shifted as the towering body crashed into it sideways, and I shut my eyes, forcing my body as much as I physically could back against the blunt and jabbing ends of the branches that were refusing me entry back into the cover and safety of the stupid plant. The two gigantic idiots were getting into a shoving-match and I was maybe seconds away from getting stepped on, my teeth gritting through the ringing, the pounding, the throbbing of every single part of my head and a significant amount of my body.

“Fuck off ya moron,” one of them shouted and as quickly as they had been there they were gone, their footsteps thudding further and further away as they kept bantering in their rumbling voices. My eyes opened again and I gasped for air.

I hate this. Why did I fucking do this? It wasn’t worth it.

The thought of that massive, unknown hand grabbing me instead of that bottle pushed me over the edge, and I hurled up what little was left in my guts into the bushes again. That fancy coffee probably wasn’t a huge help to my nerves right now, but I was still sad to feel like it had all gone to waste, especially with the thought that I was never going to be able to get one again.

Someone was getting up from a seat in the restaurant area-- god how huge was this place?! It felt like I had been running for miles, for fuck’s sake! As their chair scraped across the ground again I saw them gathering up their trash and turning in my direction, my body scrambling on some primal urge to get out of any potential line of sight. I had no trust now that the stupid invisibility stone was working, or had ever worked. My eyes closed again out of some childish fucking instinct to believe that if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me, and I just had to tremble and try not pathetically cry as their steps got closer and closer and I heard the ridiculous amount of noise of them tossing their garbage away.

Their movements had stopped. Nothing was happening. I had to have been spotted, I must’ve been-- I could hardly hear anything over the sounds of my own breathing now turning into panicked whimpers as I could practically feel them crouching low, staring at me, reaching a hand toward my body to grab me and haul me into the air. I bit my lip so hard I was sure I was bleeding as I imagined that child again, thrashing me around and throwing me through the air.

Then, with a massive wave of relief, they were thumping and stomping away, their voice rumbling into me as they spoke something into their phone, a buzzing conversation coming through the earpiece somewhere high, high above me.

I untangled myself from the bush and lined up alongside it, crouching low. I was so dizzy… would the stone protect me from a concussion? I really should’ve gotten more details about the charms, but I was so nervous about being in there and-- fuck, there’s no time to think about this.

The store directly across from me-- was it the restaurant? Was it another store entirely? How far had I been thrown or flung or whatever had happened? How far had I run? It didn’t matter-- it had a slight outcropping of its brick face, where the main window was, and it left a little protected overhang above the street at least twice my height by the looks of it. There was some garbage that had been blown underneath and seemed pretty well protected from sight and everything else. I get there, I duck and cover and hide. 

I was finally hauling my phone out of my pocket to send a geo-lock to Cal, when the massive bush behind me started to shake, the voice of the child and its mom having gotten closer. Was the kid still looking for me? Was the mom looking for whatever rat or bug just bit their kid? I bolted, it was the only move I could really make. They wouldn’t see me over there, they wouldn’t be able to catch me. 

I was so preoccupied with them, that I was blasting my way across the gargantuanly-wide sidewalk before I realized that I didn’t account for traffic. A foot slammed down to my left about 20 feet away--to me--, not close enough to worry about but heavy enough to shake me and cause me to yell as I kept running, weaving uselessly… No one lifts their feet enough to miss me, everybody is always nearly scuffing their shoes. I’m constantly at risk of getting bodied by hovering cars and I never noticed before now.

I couldn’t bring my eyes to move anywhere but my goal, even though I knew I was basically running across a 12-lane highway or something stupid. They were all moving so fast, all I had to do was get across this stupid sidewalk, under that ledge, and I’d be fine. Nothing would be able to hit me there, nothing could fall on me… that was it, that’s where I had to go.

I felt a foot land so close behind me I almost stumbled, my hands falling forward to push myself off the pavement and try to fling me forwards, my phone bonking off of the pavement in its case and I didn’t even care as I just held it tighter and kept running. I was so fucking close.

There was a rush of air and, on its own, my head turned to see a foot slam down with such force I felt almost like I was sent hovering from the shock it sent through the pavement. The motion of what it was attached to was so much faster, the shape so different-- I never thought of what someone would even look like while they were running from down here, when they were damn-near 60 feet tall or something.

There was nothing I could do.

My own stride had me lined up directly in the path.

The top of their shoe, the rubber-cased toe, the laces… it smashed into me and knocked every ounce of breath I may have ever taken out of my lungs, and I was pressed into it so hard I thought I’d become a part of it.

Until, suddenly…

…I wasn’t.

My arms uselessly tried to grip it, beyond the last second, noticing too late what was happening as the shoe started to lower out from under me but I was still going, arcing through the air. The stone in my pocket really, honestly felt like it was burning this time, and as I sailed through some kind of railing, the ground dropped out from under me. Now, instead of being maybe 10-15 feet in the air, I was probably 40 or more over the concrete stairwell I had flown into, rapidly descending.

I’m sure I was screaming. I must’ve been, because some kind of noise in me stopped as my back slammed into stone and I felt the hot rock in my pocket shatter against me like it had exploded, the only thing keeping it from flying out like shrapnel being the lining and my jeans. 

It was like a stupid movie, everything in slow motion as I was plastered against that wall, gravity slowly pulling my limp body forward. As my eyes landed hazily on the ground below, bare concrete surrounded by trash bags and garbage, my phone fell out of my hand.

The last thing I thought before everything went black was:

Will my body stay this small once I’m dead? Will they ever find it?

-----------

Next Chapter: Click Here

[hexdsl]

My desk, right now.

Just thought I would share this.

For those interested the dock is also a wireless phone charger and attached to is my mic, camera and a 2tb SSD and ethernet.

The laptop is an XPS 12 (9315) with 16GB of RAM, 1TB storage and an I7 (1250u.) its shite, don't buy one, but the keyboard and battery are awesome.

I do have mechanical keyboards, but I really like the Logitech mc keys mini. Wireless is nice and it has a similar key feel to my laptop, which means its not jarring to switch between them.

Things on the desk I do recommend:

if you use wireless devices, get a big ol' battery pack and leave it on your desk, its a good solution and when you use a laptop, like i do, you can use it to charge the laptop in the event of a power cut! (Assuming your laptop will charge from USB PD, which mine does)

The kettle.

That dock means I can switch my monitor and all my peripherals between my laptop and steam deck with just one cable and its really very cool! - it also means when i eventually have the spare scratch to buy a top specced MacBook air, all I gotta do is plug it in and I'm ready to do! which is nice.

That google screen thing (nest hub) is way more useful than i expected and when its not doing anything it has a little weather fog on it which i like a lot.

Things I don't recommend:

The laptop. Performance is not as expected. Though for my requirements (good keyboard and long battery life for writing, also wanted as portable as possible) I still think it was a good buy.

The TV. I never really use it. Should it break I won't replace.

Things not pictured:

2 x 1tb USB hard drives, i use for backup and archive.

1 x network attached 2tb storage, as above

Controllers. I use an xbox 'series' controller on my laptop, when i GFN a controller game. I use a PS4 controller on my steam deck. overall, i prefer the Xbox one.

Thanks for reading. Questions welcome.