#Master trainer program

[learnwithotos]

https://oneteacheronescientist.com/about-us/

[bushnb1]

Running Workout Plan - Bushnb for Fitness and Running

Boost your endurance, speed, and overall fitness with the Bushnb Running Workout Plan. Designed for all levels, this structured program includes interval training, long runs, and recovery sessions to help you achieve your running goals. Stay motivated, track progress, and enhance performance with expert-backed workouts. Lace up and start running today!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

part two - part three - part four - part five

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let’s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training. 

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Madd…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Mad—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

[coach-transformation]

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[scientia-rex]

Hey. HEY. We aren’t good at understanding how bodies work. I spent five years in undergrad (I was indecisive; graduated with six years’ worth of credits), two in my terminal master’s program, four in med school, and three more in residency. I know a whole lot about how bodies work. I am qualified to tell you that we don’t know a lot more than we do know.

This means that, when you encounter a claim, you need to weigh it against what you have experienced.

I have met doctors who were sure fibromyalgia, or “muscle hurty disease,” from the roots of the word, was just women being crazy. Turns out it’s probably at least partly due to autoimmune dysfunction. Or maybe not! Sure would be nice if we knew! But I sure as shit know it’s real, because I have it and so do the women in my family. Our bodies don’t work right, somehow. They don’t work like other people’s bodies work. I experience more pain than I “should” based on what stimuli other people find painful. I have less ability to build and maintain muscle strength. This has not kept me from doing what I love most in the world, which is have opinions, to the point where I went through the horrifically awful process that is medical training in the US just so I could have opinions all day long and get paid for it. I gain nothing from saying I have it, and in fact risk the opinions of my professional peers if I do admit to it, since it is still seen as a disease of mental or moral weakness. I’m perfectly qualified to self-diagnose, as a board-certified family physician.

And yet I believed people in positions of authority for a long, long time who said it was a mental illness and not a bodily one. As if those even can be distinct, when our brains are part of our bodies and our experience of reality is filtered through their circuitry. But I believed that I was somehow to blame for being in pain.

Life has been better since I accepted that I just need to do some things differently. If I lift weights, I need to use machines, I need to start on the lowest possible setting, and I need to increase very gradually. If I do cardio, I need a low-impact model like an elliptical trainer; running outside, every time I have tried it in my life, results in incapacitating shin splints, even if I try to work up slowly. I no longer buy laundry bins that don’t roll. My home is all on one level. I go to physical therapy. I stash freezer dinners that contain (shudder) vegetables, my least favorite thing, so that when I do feel like shit, I have an alternative to starving (or eating a block of cheese that upsets my stomach).

Accommodate yourself. This society isn’t going to help much, if at all. In your good times and days, be the person whose help you’ll need in your worst days.

[withahappyrefrain]

51) They’re professors who teach the same course but disagree over teaching methods with Jake and Venus…. It’s a match made in heaven

Jake Seresin prided himself on being the best. Not only was the first person in his immediate family to receive a master’s degree, but the first person in his entire family to get their doctorates. He didn’t just work at some local mom and pop doctor’s office, he had been an athletic trainer for a professional football team. He became one of the youngest professors to teach a graduate course at the University of Texas. Now, at the age of thirty six, he was one of the top professors at the University of San Diego for their athletic training program.

And of course, he wouldn't be Jake Seresin if he hadn't developed a name for himself. Dr. Seresin’s courses were known for being rigorous. Jake could count on one hand the number of students who received A’s from him. Though his tenure at USD hadn’t been long, he was well known among the students.

Comparisons between him and other professors would pop up, it was only natural. But one name kept coming up more and more.

Professor Morales.

Though she was part of the College of Medicine, Doctor Morales and Jake both taught Emergency Management of Injuries and Illnesses. The course overlapped with both the athletic training and the nursing program at USD. Truthfully, Jake thought teaching an undergraduate course was beneath him, but he knew he had managed a sweet deal with USD.

It seemed with every passing semester, Professor Morales’ name came up more and more amongst his students.

“I was hoping to get into Morales’ section.”

“I heard Morales is the one to take for that course.”

“I wish I was in Morales’ class.”

Jake tried not to let it get to him. Clearly, his students weren’t accustomed to being held to high expectations. He would put them to work and they would be better off as a result. In Jake’s mind, he was simply preparing his students for the real world, which was fast paced and intensive.

And for a while, he was satisfied with that. But then something unusual began happening.

Not only were more and more of his students passing, but more were getting higher marks. Last semester, Jake had to give three students an A. He was now nearing the double digits in the number of students who had aced his course. What the fuck was going on?

And then he heard it, as students were leaving after receiving their first graded test back.

“My friend has notes from Professor Morales’ class. She said if we use them, we'll pass the class.”

No, that wouldn't do. Not only was Jake having students pass, but the fact they were using another professor’s notes to do so? Worse of all, Morales was a doctoral student.

This had to end immediately.

Jake sent a strongly worded email, letting her know he was going to be in her office at one-thirty to discuss a pertinent matter.

Much to Jake’s dismay, when he arrived he found that Morales had not cleared their schedule and was in the middle of holding office hours. Pathetic. Jake’s office hours were his time to catch up on grading. He had given his students the tools to pass, they knew not to come to him.

By the time it was two, Jake’s anger was barely concealed.

As the last student walked out of the office, a soft voice called out from the officer, “You can come in now Doctor Seresin.” She even had the audacity to sound so nonchalant, like she hadn’t just made him wait for forty-five minutes.

Jake stormed in, already ranting, “Y’know, there’s this thing called courtesy. I made it explicitly clear when I was arriving and you kept me waiting-

He stopped dead in his tracks. Jake wasn't familiar with mythology, but he was pretty certain he was looking at Venus reincarnated. The emerald green pants hugged her hips and thighs. God, her curves. He could imagine what the fabric did for her ass, if she just turned around and-

Fuck, he should not be thinking about a graduate assistant like this. Had it been that long since he last got laid?

“Um, is Professor Morales here?” Jake cleared his throat.

The goddess scoffed, “You’re looking at her. So please, continue Doctor Seresin. I believe you were questioning my audacity to continue holding office hours at my scheduled time rather than drop everything for a man who emailed me no less than four hours ago?”

Right, that's why he was here. To discuss an important matter. Not to gawk over this woman. Yes, she was the living embodiment of Venus. But she was also ruining his perfect record.

“Yes. Well you see, I need to talk to you. About your uh, class.” Why were words becoming difficult for him? Jake never had any trouble laying on the charm to get what he wanted. Till now.

“I teach three different classes, Doctor Seresin. Gonna need you to be a bit more specific,” she smirked before taking a sip of her coffee.

“Uh, emergency management of injuries and illnesses? Anyways, my students are using notes from your class.”

She raised a brow, “Really?” Stepping closer, Jake could smell her perfume. Jasmine. Iris. Her scent was as intoxicating as her quick wit.

“And this is a problem that warranted a meeting because….” Her voice trailed off, waiting for an answer.

“Because of your notes, they're passing. It's a problem,” He fought for his eyes to remain anywhere but her face. His skin felt hot, clammy.

“Is that so?” There was…glee? In her voice? She waltzed back to her desk, giving Jake a view of her ass and how the fabric left nothing to the imagination.

“Well Doctor Seresin, that is important. Thank you for telling me,” she opened her laptop, well manicured fingers beginning to type away.

“T-thank you, Venus-I mean Professor Morales. I trust you're going to deal with it in your next class?”

Her fingers stilled and she looked up at Jake with a gleam in her eyes, accentuated by the black frames that adorned her face, “Next class? I'm dealing with it right now.”

“Oh thank you, I appreciate-”

“I've been telling the Dean for two semesters how awful of a teacher you are for that course. Your students being so desperate to learn the material that they use my teaching materials, is exactly that evidence I need to convince Doctor Krazansky that I should teach all sections of that course.”

“Wait, what?”

She simply smiled, “That's all I'll need from you today, Doctor Seresin. Have a good day.”

Venus paused, her eyes moving from his face to down his body, “Oh, also. You should um, take care of your problem. Bathroom’s on the left.”

It was then Jake became painfully aware of how tight his pants were in the crotch area.

He needed to take care of it. He also needed to buy a ring for his Venus, but that was a whole different story.

[lucky-stick]

domestic dog inspired jobs:

Domestic dogs are known for their loyalty and assistance to humans, getting these various careers that embody these traits. this is a list of dog-inspired jobs, categorized by activity level and social interaction.

its a long post and i don't want to clog up people feed but have fun and i hope i inspire some of you

Active, Extroverted, Team-Oriented Careers:

Police K9 Officer: 🚔

Role: Collaborate with trained police dogs to protect life and property, prevent and detect crime, provide court evidence, support victims and witnesses, investigate burglaries, and dismantle organized crime groups.

Requirements: Must be over 18, possess confidence, strong leadership and teamwork abilities, willingness to take risks, and keen observation skills.

(i know most of u are ACAB)

Armed Forces Officer: 🪖

Role: Serve in the army, air force, or navy to protect civilians, holding authority and responsibility over a team of soldiers, with various specialist roles available.

Requirements: Leadership skills, accountability, confidence, physical fitness, ability to work under pressure, and balance.

Search and Rescue (SAR) Professional: 🧭

Role: Undergo emergency professional training to respond to crises and assist in locating and aiding lost individuals.

Requirements: Basic education, physical fitness, emergency medical training, SAR training, technical skills and specialization, experience, certification and licensing, mental and emotional resilience, and commitment to ongoing training.

Lifeguard: 🌊

Role: Ensure the safety of swimmers at pools and beaches by monitoring conditions, enforcing safety rules, and performing rescues when necessary.

Requirements: Minimum age of 16 for pools and 18 for open water, strong swimming abilities, good physical condition, certification and training in CPR and first aid, and proficient rescue skills.

Farmer: 🥕🥔

Role: Engage in the demanding yet rewarding work of growing crops or raising livestock.

Requirements: Relevant education, physical and practical skills, access to land and equipment, financial and business acumen, and necessary licenses.

Security Guard: 🔐

Role: Protect property, people, and assets by monitoring and preventing theft and damage.

Requirements: Appropriate education and training, licensing, physical fitness, and strong observational skills.

Less Active, Introverted Careers:

Therapist: 📖

Role: Assist individuals in improving mental health and adopting healthy behaviors, with various types of therapy available.

Requirements: Bachelor’s, master’s, or doctorate degrees, clinical training, supervised experience, licenses, and essential skills and personal qualities.

Healthcare Caregiver: 🏥

Role: Support individuals with daily activities due to age, disability, injury, etc.

Requirements: Relevant education and training, essential skills and personal qualities, licenses, experience, and adaptability to various work environments and hours.

Careers that work with Dogs:

Dog Handler: 🐕

Role: Train, manage, and work with dogs in fields such as security, search and rescue, therapy, and personal training.

Requirements: Experience with dogs, specialized training programs, certifications, patience, physical stamina, good communication, keen observation, and problem-solving skills.

Dog Groomer: 🫧

Role: Clean, style, and maintain dog hygiene.

Requirements: No formal education required, but certification is beneficial; patience; gentle handling; ability to stand for extended periods; and basic animal knowledge.

Kennel Worker: 🧺

Role: Provide daily care for pets in kennels and shelters, including feeding, cleaning, bathing, and interacting with pet owners.

Requirements: On-the-job training, love for animals, physical stamina, and attention to detail.

Assistance Dog Trainer: 🐾

Role: Train dogs to assist individuals with disabilities, enhancing their independence and quality of life.

Requirements: Experience with dog training, understanding of various disabilities, patience, strong communication skills, and certification from recognized organizations.

i hope you like my new list, i like lists, anyways ill be comjng out with a wild canine, feline, bird and aquatic kin tell me if theres anymore you would like ^^

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not walking my dog with my neighbor anymore? 

I (20sNB) graduated from my masters program in 2019 and moved back home with my parents. It was meant to be temporary, but before I could save up enough to move out, the pandemic hit. I ended up living with my parents until late 2022. During that time I was responsible for walking our dog. I ended up meeting and connecting with a handful of other dog owners in the neighborhod and we would walk our dogs together and let them play together at a local dog park.  

One of these dog owners, C (70sF) turned out to live right around the corner from me, so we started walking our dogs together very often. Her dog has always been a bit domineering, and my dog has always been a bit submissive. But for a long time they played together very nicely. They would run and chase each other and play with the toys we brought to the park for them. Sometimes they would play fight, but I could always tell from my dog’s body language that she was having fun, and wasn’t actually feeling threatened or scared. 

Of course, C and I also ended up bonding. She’s a retired kindergarten teacher, and she’s very, very nice and kind, and I would consider her a friend. We now exchange baked goods on holidays and she sends me birthday and christmas cards now that I don’t live down the street from her. And since I moved out, whenever I came to my parents’ house to visit, I would call her up so we could walk the dogs together and catch up. 

However, a few months ago, while my mom was walking our dog at the dog park, a different, even worse behaved dog, attacked and bit her. This attack was bad enough to draw blood, and my mom had to take her to the vet and get her on antibiotics and everything to make sure it didn’t get infected. Plus, the dog we had before this one, got sick and almost died because of a bite from an unvaccinated dog, so this was pretty scary for us. But it ended up being okay. No infections and the wounded healed well. But ever since then, our dog, who previously was very social and good with other dogs (we took her to obedience school as a puppy, so she was socialized very early on) has become much more nervous around other dogs, especially new dogs.

We’re trying really hard to resocialize her, and she’s slowly getting better. She still sometimes growls at new dogs, though. Which brings us back to my neighbor and her dog. Her dog is poorly socialized, and growls and barks at other dogs. I know my neighbor tries her best to fix her dog’s behavioral issues and has even worked with specialized dog trainers to no avail. But I’ve noticed that my dog is much more likely to growl at other dogs when we walk with C and her dog, because C’s dog growls. Not only that, but I’ve noticed that when they play together, my dog doesn’t enjoy it anymore. Now, her body language does read as threatened and afraid when C’s dog play fights (C’s dog is a boxer, which means she loves to play fight.) 

So, I’ve started not calling C when I’m in town. I feel guilty about it because I really like C and avoiding her feels like a shitty thing to do. I feel like I'm basically ghosting her. But I know if I reach out to her, she’ll bring up walking the dogs together. Walking the dogs is the entire basis of our friendship and the only reason we spend time together, so I can hardly tell her I don’t want to do that anymore. 

AITA? I just want to take care of my dog, and right now walking with C is not only causing my dog unnecessary stress, it’s re-enforcing bad habits that I am trying really hard to break.

What are these acronyms?

[ussgallifrey]

(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 28

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, domestic Avengers living in relative normalcy until things turn south, language, official team movie nights, political commentary, political discourse, protective Steve Rogers.

✦ Word Count: 6.2k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

✦ Author's Note: Hey! Here we are at Civil War. You might find a few things to be a clear change up from the original source material while others stay about the same.

[Master List]

The twins had really started to come into their own after a few weeks of training sessions at the Compound. With a state-of-the-art gym at their disposal and a plethora of willing trainers on hand, you had taken note of the subtle changes.

At first, they preferred to remain in their quarters on the south end of the residence, rarely talking to anyone outside of yourself and Steve (and Vision, at times). And, at the Captain’s insistence, they began a training regime to get them up to task. Even though they would not be participating in any active missions until they turned eighteen.

Pietro rebelled, at first, against Steve’s program. He was insistent on the fact that his enhanced speed was more than enough to take down anyone who crossed his path. And then he met your unmoveable shield and, after his ego took a minor beating, he agreed to try out a strengthening system.

Wanda’s training was one of a kind. Even though Natasha had offered to give her a basic rundown program of defensive combat skills and firearms training, she had declined at every turn. You were her trainer.

Or more accurately, her test dummy.

As you slam into the wall mats once again, you hold a thumbs up for her to see before waving your hand a moment later.

“Good,” you grit, fighting back the twinge of pain that blossoms from the base of your spine as you move back onto your feet. “That was better.”

A hint of a smile flits across her lips before she regains her composure, her misting red hands falling to her side.

“Great heights can work to your advantage. Most everyone you will come across will experience negative effects if you drop them from such a distance. Me included,” you add under your breath.

You had been at it for the better part of an hour now. Her magic was temperamental at times, but she was getting a better grasp on it as time went by. Being free of HYDRA’s hold had given her the chance to truly feel her powers; and reacquaint herself with them, in all honesty.

“Okay, let’s work on disarming.”

“No,” she groans, already taking a step back.

You can’t help but chuckle as you move toward the edge of the room.

While the rest of the team worked in the large gym down the hall, Wanda had been given access to this room. Every square inch was padded (for your benefit, really), and the walls were reinforced with the strongest metal Tony could acquire. If anything went wrong, the padding would act as an immediate barrier to whatever destruct force occurred during training.

Your workouts with the seventeen-year-old had started off small - focusing on moving objects across the room with accuracy. Followed by larger weighted objects. And then, onto training dummies. And eventually, onto you. The most sturdy person on the entire team who could handle a few rounds with the enhanced teenager.

Now, she could physically pick you up and chuck you against whatever target you laid out for her. Despite the occasional aches, you were incredibly pleased with the progress she was making.

“Come on,” you playfully push at her arm. “You know how he gets.”

She sighs, “He gets that face, like… disappointment but worse.”

With an arm wrapped around her shoulders as you steer her out of the room, you laugh in agreeance, “That’s Captain America for you.”

Arriving in the lavish gym, you find Pietro in the ring with the supersoldier. The teen’s got boxing gloves on, while Steve holds up the punch shields for him to hit. While Wanda moves to stand near the ring, you remain by the weight machines. 

He’s just about perfected Pietro’s movement now. His footwork has made great leaps and strides, and, if it was actually a real fight, Steve wouldn’t mind if the teen was using his enhanced speed to move around him. As it is, this is only part of his strengthening regime.

“That’s it,” Steve encourages, twisting to move with Pietro.

You watch the semblance of a dance that’s taking place between the two; between student and instructor. Pietro’s sweating bullets, his tank is drenched and his white curls are clinging to his forehead while the man opposite him merely smiles - not a sign of exertion to be found.

“Okay,” he smiles as the boy drops his gloves to his sides, chest heaving. “That was better than yesterday. You gotta work on your - ” he demonstrates a particular left jab and uppercut combo for him. “But we’ll focus on that later. Right now, I have to work with your sister.”

“You were brilliant,” Wanda beams as Pietro pushes his way through the ropes, dropping down beside her on the ground, “Eww, wait! No! Don’t - god, you stink - don’t!”

Steve huffs a breath of laughter as the boy moves to envelop his sister in a particularly sweaty hug. His azure eyes meet yours from across the gym, and while the other two occupants are distracted, he makes his way out of the ring and over to you.

You flash him a smile as he draws near, running a hand through his blonde locks.

“How’d she do?” he asks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his track pants.

“Better,” you shrug, watching as Pietro zips around the treadmills to corner her near the mirrors. “Always getting better. I can see her confidence building up after every one of your training sessions with her, you know. Even if she’s going around calling you a hardass after.”

His brows rise, “Oh really?”

“I’m sorry,” you grin. “I think Captain Hardass was the exact term she used.”

Shaking his head, his eyes not leaving your face, he calls her name from across the gym with an immediate authority that has both teens freezing.

“I wish you luck,” you murmur to the supersoldier as Pietro suddenly appears at your side.

Wanda slinks over to the training mats on the opposite side of the gym as Steve begins detailing their exact workout for the morning.

“Cronus, she wasn’t kidding,” you groan as the boy begins heading toward the doors. Unable to help turning up your nose as you catch a whiff of his post-workout scent. “Go take a shower, kid.”

He laughs as you shove him in the direction of the locker rooms. With a shake of your head, you head out of the gym - entrusting Wanda’s training in Steve’s capable hands - as you head up to the main floor.

Life at the Compound had been a completely new adjustment period for you.

While you had been comfortable living with the twins, Steve, and Vision at your house in Vermont, it had been your house. This was a total changeup to your usual routine. In the residence section, you only had the team to worry about. If you ever moved outside of it, however, into the research building, the labs, or the hangar, suddenly there was a vast array of employees, scientists, and agents to deal with.

So, slightly similar to Wanda, you kept to your section of the Compound for the first few weeks. But, eventually, you found yourselves in the main living space on the first level of the residence building.

Tony had made the Compound feel similar to the Tower in the sense that everyone had their own space, but also common areas as well like the kitchen and lounge. Even down in Tony’s private lab, he had an offshoot room with a kitchen and living space.

It had been one of those nights, one of those too-frequent sleepless nights with Wanda and Pietro, that you found yourselves in various states of exhaustion on the plush couches in the lounge. Wanda had been curled up next to Steve, eyes slowly blinking as she tried to focus on Cher Horowitz. While you took up the armchair for yourself and Pietro made a makeshift bed on the floor.

Natasha had wandered in from Cronus knowswhere in a knee-length black cocktail dress. And she only blinked once, not a single question on her lips, as she silently joined the four of you for the remainder of the movie.

And as you had FRIDAY dim the lights once the show came to an end, the two teens fully asleep on the couch and floor, respectively, she had pulled Steve away for a conversation that was not meant for your ears.

But after that, one by one, on those particular nights, at least one other member of the team would happen to wander in on you and join in. Eventually, two would show up, and sometimes even the entire team would be assembled in the designated movie space. And at that point, it transitioned from late-night nightmare solutions to weekly movie nights and takeout.

When you wander into the lounge, tucking your hair over your shoulder, you find Clint and Sam locked into a taunting match on the white couch in front of the TV; a controller in each other their hands.

“Eat my shit, Barton,” he bites.

“Ooh. Taking the high road, Samuel?”

Wandering over to them, resting your arms on the back of the couch, you watch as Clint tosses a blue shell at Sam’s go-kart, laughing maniacally as he slips into first place.

“Ouch, tough blow,” you breathe out.

“Grab a controller,” Sam calls over his shoulder. “We can take him.”

With a laugh, you just rustle his shoulder and leave them to their game, “Think I’ll pass.”

In the kitchen, Natasha rests on the island counter with her phone in her hands - her gaze intense.

Snatching an apple from the fruit bowl, you roll around the counter to her side. Squeezing the fruit between your hands, you twist the center - successfully snapping it in half.

“What’s with the face?”

She hums in reply as you take a bite of the sweet fruit.

“It’s deadlocked again.”

Your brow rises, as you question around a mouthful of fruit, “Seriously?”

With another hum, she turns her screen to the left for you to see.

“No, don’t tell me Vis is the tie-breaker again.”

The redhead nods, a smirk turning up at the corner of her lips as you let out a long groan.

“But he doesn’t even eat it! How is that even fair?”

As she types out a text for the sentient lifeform to read, you shake your head. Cronus you hoped he picked Indian.

The weekly dinner and a movie night had been fraught at first - too many people with too many varying opinions on what should be ordered and worst of all, what movie should be watched. This led to the implementation of a weekly poll for both cuisine and film genre.

So far, Ghostbusters was in the lead with a solid 6/8 vote (Sam and Steve had teamed up in hopes of Remember the Titans). But, again, the team had been fully split between restaurants. Vinny’s Pizzeria was fully locked with Royal Palace, and while you were all for a good pizza and pasta combo, you had been craving the tandoori chicken and biryani for over a month now.

“Excuse me, Miss Athena; Goddess of Wisdom, Warfare, Handicraft, Amazing but Impractical Stunts, and - ”

“Yes, FRIDAY?” you interrupt with a hand to your forehead. Tony and his damn nicknames.

Natasha snorts, barely looking up from her phone.

“Sir has requested your presence in the lab.”

Biting into the second half of the apple you respond around a slice, “Tell him I’m on the way.”

Waving in the assassin’s direction, you take the left hallway down to the main atrium. From here, you can see the SHIELD agents doing their morning training regime out on the lawn.

Down two sets of stairs and a few left turns later, you’re in the immaculate white lab that Tony had been calling home for the past year. He’s hunched over a piece of electrical board with a screwdriver between his lips and goggles on his face.

“What’d you need me for, Stark?” you question as you move into the room - careful to keep a solid five feet between you and his project. You had learned your lesson from the last time.

He grunts in return. You watch as sparks briefly fly up from the wiring before he leans back on his rolling stool. Dropping the tool into his right palm, he lifts his goggles up onto his forehead and stares at you.

“We need to get Vision onboard before Cap wins them over with pizza again.”

With a laugh, you clap Tony’s hand in yours, “A matter of great importance, I see.”

“You don’t mess around with takeout Fridays, 007. It’s a sacred rite.”

“Mmm, pass the garlic naan?”

Steve chuckles low in his throat as he leans over to nab the basket from the coffee table, offering it over to you as you nab another piece of warm bread for yourself. His left arm drapes over your shoulders when he settles back into the couch cushions.

“Everything was fine with our system until the power grid was shut off by dickless, here.”

“They caused an explosion!”

“Is this true?”

“Yes, it’s true. This man has no dick.”

Pietro snorts next to your legs on the floor while Tony giggles behind his hand on the chaise lounge.

“God, I love this movie,” Clint grins between bites of curry.

“You would,” Natasha intones beside him, sipping on her pink-colored drink.

Steve’s fingers tighten briefly on your left shoulder, making you turn to look up at him. His face is a swath of warmth and contentment. 

Ever since you moved to the Compound, it’s like another version of Steve was available to you every day. You were so used to seeing the Captain out on the field, on missions. But now, nearly every beginning and ending of your day had Steve Rogers in it in some shape or form.

The team had become a family, in all honesty, these past few months.

Moments like this - the simple domestic moments that were a rarity in the realm of superheroes and villains - were such a blessing. To be next to your best friend - to share a meal and watch an old movie together, that’s where the joy came from.

He smiles back at you before turning to speak to Wanda in a hushed voice. You smirk as he tries to explain a portion of the dialogue that was alluding her. To her right, sits Vision in a chair pulled from the table, he’s also listening intently as Steve explains the scene and why it’s considered amusing.

By the time he’s answered all of Vision’s questions - which is impressive, considering the fact that he’s never seen the movie before either - they’ve already encountered Gozer, and the Stay Puft monster is just coming onto the screen.

“Well, there’s something you don’t see every day.”

“I tried to think of the most harmless thing. Something I loved from my childhood. Something that could never ever possibly destroy us. Mr. Stay Puft.”

“Nice thinking, Ray.”

“Okay!” Tony calls out, “Tell me the truth, are you in this one?”

You can’t help but snort as several heads turn to look at you.

It had been quite the revelation, three months back, for them to learn that you had been an accidental extra in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

“I was in Chicago when they filmed the parade scene! We didn’t know it was a production in progress. We heard music and thought, oh, let’s go check that out.”

Tony had rewound the scene to find your face in the crowd. Your colleague from the Art Institute had been beside you for the dance number - you were barely in the picture, but it had been enough to turn Tony’s new obsession into a full-blown problem.

“I’m not in every movie that has ever existed, Tony.”

You had been in exactly two movies the team had watched. Two. You had watched over fifty together now. That was barely even a percentage, surely.

But he bats his eyelashes at you and you can’t help but sigh.

“Sorry, Venkman. I’m terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought.”

The camera pans down to the screaming people on the street.

With a dull voice, you point at the screen, “Right there, by the cab.”

“You’re shitting me! Who has the remote? Pause it! Pause it! No, go back - ”

He’s up from his seat, standing directly in front of the TV to try and find your figure in the crowd. His finger runs across each face, then once more before he turns back to you with a glower.

The laughter bubbling out from your lips can’t be contained once you catch the broken look on his face.

“I told you, I’m not in every movie!”

“Ooh, that’s cold,” Sam grins, raising his drink toward you.

Tony stalks over to you, “That hurts, Athena. I’m hurt. Do you see the hurt on my face?”

You can feel the rumble of Steve’s silent chuckles as he tucks you in closer, trying to hide his face from Tony.

“I’m not in Ghostbusters, I’m sorry I lied.”

“Thank you,” he holds up his hands in annoyance.

As he walks back over to his chair to resume the movie, however, you add, “I think I might be in the sequel, though.”

“That’s it! Double movie feature!” he points at you accusingly, followed by a playful wink to let you know that he’s actually not that bothered by it.

When the movie resumes and the Ghostbusters attempt to blast the Stay Puft man to marshmallowy fluff, Steve leans over to you - his breath is warm against your cheek.

“Are you really in the sequel?”

You look up, only to find him but a breath away from your face.

“Maybe? I actually can’t remember if it was that or Look Who’s Talking. I know I was in the city when one of them was filming, and I think I was on the corner or something when they were rolling?”

His hand clutches at your shoulder, bringing you in closer.

“You’re awful,” he murmurs with a wave of warm breath along the shell of your ear.

You smirk, glancing from him, to the TV, and back again.

Settling back into his hold, you grin, “You like it.”

The knock on his office door has Steve looking up from the e-mail he had been religiously re-reading from Sharon. It was a rarity that he was ever disturbed by anyone outside of FRIDAY when he was locked away in here.

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him too much, however, to see Tony’s face behind the glass.

“Rogers,” he states as he pushes his way inside, pacing as he goes, glancing around at the various items on the walls.

Steve watches him for a moment before he settles his arms across his chest, rocking back slightly in his chair, as he asks, “Was there something you wanted, Tony?”

“Uhm, yeah,” the other man settles down on the couch across from him, balancing one leg over the opposite knee. “God, this feels very principal calling the parents here, but… the gist is, your ward is causing me a headache, Rogers. Or, more accurately, she’s causing Pep’s team a headache which means I get the migraine.”

He’s immediately on alert, leaning forward as he addresses the billionaire, “What’s going on?”

“Yikes, I’d hate to be your kid. So, basically…” he drones, getting off of the couch to begin pacing once again. “Someone has made themselves an unofficially official handful of socials.”

With Steve’s blank look, Tony rolls his eyes.

“Social media, Rogers. Christ help us all. She’s got the TrueView, she’s got the SnapTap. Basically, anything the kids are down with, she’s got. And, you know we kind of got that separation of kicking-ass life and personal life thing going on for us and… well, Wanda’s blurring the lines a bit. And she’s gaining attention with her rare posting habits.”

There’s suddenly a phone in his face, requiring Steve to look and scroll through a small trove of pictures. Nothing too incriminating, nothing too revealing. There’s one of her in the kitchen, clearly taken by someone else - Pietro, if he had to hazard a guess. Another of a sunset on the outskirts of the Compound. A pizza box with a shot of a movie playing in the background. He thinks he can see Clint’s boot in the corner of the photo.

“This seems like… I don’t know, typical teenager stuff, right?” he questions as he hands the phone over.

“It would be,” Tony clips. “If she wasn’t currently one of only two known mutant refugees in the country. You get that after… Ultron, the press hasn’t been the kindest? Well, we get her posting online and suddenly we’re looking at a PR nightmare. I know that isn’t really your realm, Cap. Not mine either, if I’m honest - ”

Tony grins as he sits on the edge of Steve’s desk.

“I leave that to Pepper and the company’s social media team. And while she’s fine with the official Stark Industry pages, regular Avenger accounts are another thing. They need regulation, approval of posts and what can be said and what can be shown or not shown and… a lot of shit, honestly.”

He finds his arms crossed once again as he looks up at the billionaire with wariness in his eyes.

“What is it you want me to do exactly?”

“Take her phone, send her to her room? Whatever it is pseudo parents do.”

He groans, averting his eyes, “I’m not their father, Tony. I’m about the farthest thing from it, actually.”

Tony scoffs, “Right. Is that what we’re calling Mr. Sensitive cuddle buddy now? Were you or were you not just spotted making Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes this morning for a certain teenage witch? Was it the other person who frequently dones star-spangled tights?”

“Enough,” he bites, challenging Tony to say anything further with his heated gaze alone.

Everyone skirted this topic quite brilliantly. But, like with many things, Tony had the incredible inability to keep his mouth shut.

To be clear, Steve did not view himself as a parent to anyone. But… he knew how attached the teens had become to both you and him over the past year. You were the designated safe people in their lives. And while Wanda let Natasha do her nails, and Pietro frequently joined Sam in his morning workouts, there was a familiarity there between the four of you. That couldn’t be denied by anyone.

So, sure. Maybe Steve was more protective of that relationship. He had every right to be.

They had been traumatized for the better part of their short lives. They needed stability and safety. He had watched as you opened your home to them without question. And Steve rarely strayed far from your side in those endeavors. So, yes, despite the occasional teasing behind his back - though it had died down in recent months - he knew he was basically a pseudo-guardian for both Wanda and Pietro.

Though no legal document ever had his name down as such, nor would it likely ever, he was as good as. Maybe not a father, but a mentor. A person they could rely on.

Tony holds his hands up in a sign of a truce.

“Got it, don’t question the bond. All I’m asking is for you to go and… get her to either take the accounts down or set them to private,” he stands up, straightening his tie as he heads toward the door. He stops, looking back at Steve for a second, “Kids will be kids, right?”

With the prevailing silence now returned to the office, the supersoldier drums his knuckles on the desk for a moment before he closes the laptop and heads down to the lower south hallway.

He tries to come up with the right words as he journeys down to their section of the Compound; the designated four rooms that they occupied along the curved corridor. Wanda’s is the first on the right, her room faces the interior section of the building. The door is ajar and he can hear the sound of sharp pop music coming from inside before he even pushes the door open further.

Leaning against the doorframe, he watches the girl lying across her bed with her face just a few inches away from her laptop. Her feet bounce in time to the music. The video, some kind of late show from the looks of it, shows a man in a maroon-colored suit lipsyncing to a song, much to the audience’s amusement.

“Get much closer and you’ll mess up your vision.”

She balks, pausing the video as she turns to look back at him.

“Could you get any older?” she questions in her slightly accented voice.

Yeah, even he admits that was pretty on brand for the ninety-year-old he was purported to really be.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Steve drags his fists into his pockets and moves to rest on the edge of the bed. Wanda sits up, knees to her chest as she looks over at him with a wary eye.

“Relax,” he smiles. “I just wanted to - ”

“Vision!”

He turns to look at the man who has fazed through the adjoining wall - floating just an inch above the carpeted floor.

“You called, Captain?”

“What… no, I… Sorry, no. I didn’t mean to call you down here,” Steve sighs.

The other man gives him a nod, a curious look in his eye, as his gaze then falls on Wanda. He tilts his head.

“Is this about the social media issue?”

“Vision.”

“There’s a problem with me?”

Oh my god, please just allow him to get out of this in one piece. He was not made for these kinds of conditions.

“Thank you, Vision,” Steve states with more bite than he initially intended to use. 

The sentient being seems to understand as he drops to the floor and proceeds to walk out of the room, thankfully closing the door behind him.

He looks back toward Wanda, “So… I was told you have socials?”

She scoots back, grabbing her phone from the bed and drawing it close to her chest, “Yes…?”

“There are… some concerns over it. Ideally… Tony would like to see you either delete them or - ” he holds up a hand, seeing the immediate rebuke she has prepared, “or, set them to private. Apparently, there’s a lot more to it when you’re a public figure.”

She looks down, picking at her nailbeds - the black polish chipping in the process.

“I didn’t ask to be a public figure.”

With a gentle smile, he says, “I know.”

“Why shouldn’t I get to have them? I have, what, maybe ten pictures and a few posts on there? Nothing incriminating! Nothing that could… I don’t know, jeopardize this, us.”

“I… it came from Stark Industries’ PR department. Pepper is all over that and… well, I’m not completely versed in this area. But, they think it would be safer if the profiles were privatized for now. Maybe in the future, I think, they were considering having official accounts. So… next year, when you’re eighteen?”

“Are you serious?” she sets him with a dead look in her dark eyes.

He lets her simmer for a moment more. His silence leads to her groan, followed by the furious typing of her thumbs on her screen.

“You are incredibly uncool now,” she grits, her eyes briefly meeting his.

“Uncool and a hardass. Wow, really racking up the accolades, aren’t I?”

Her lips curve into a smile, unable to help herself from the looks of it, as she tosses her phone up toward her pillows.

“There. The world has no idea I exist… online, anyway.”

He pats her knee before hopping up from the bed, “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, unpausing her video once more. The sound of pop music fills the room. “Don’t say I never do anything for you, Captain.”

Smiling to himself, Steve leaves her to her videos.

Leaning back in his chair, he chuckles as Sam describes the details of his very outlandish sparring session with Nat.

“No, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m wrong. Damn near, so… I got her down, she’s down. And then bam! Up and over my back, choking me out with her thighs. I’m just saying… it’s witchy. Witchy shit.”

Nat smirks into her glass, “Not witchcraft, Sam. Just ingrained training regimens.” 

“Witchcraft,” he mouths in Steve’s direction.

A handful of potato chips are chucked in Sam’s direction, leading to a burst of anger followed by several bouts of laughter from around the table. Steve catches your eye from the seat beside Natasha, your smile is radiant as you playfully toss a wadded-up napkin at Sam.

“Hey. Hey!” His eyes fall on Tony, who’s seated on the chair near the TV. “Shhhh!”

Steve’s gaze moves from the billionaire to the program he has on - ACNN. One by one, the rest of the table’s occupants turn to look at the TV while Stark increases the volume for them all to hear.

“We have our political reporter, Marc Burns who has been listening in on all of this tonight. Marc, while we wait for our analyst to come on, what would you say is your biggest takeaway from the announcement today?”

“I think today we truly heard the emotion behind some of the prevailing arguments that have been rattling the nation. Particularly from Congressman Ulborne and what you’re hearing from the lawmakers is that now is the time, given the protests that have been happening around the country and the world, really, Margaret. Public sentiment against the Avengers has risen to an all-time high.

“And you heard of the challenges, but also the opportunities in going forward with this legislation. While the GOP is eased by their majority in the House, they also have a Democratic Senate to try to surpass.”

Easing his arms onto the table, Steve watches on as a news conference is shown with a man in a red tie speaking, quite passionately, at the cameras. His voice is an enigma as the reporter continues with his remarks.

“These are a set of bills looking to address accountability and responsibility in due part to both the Avengers and the recently rebuilt SHIELD program. While some lawmakers might see this as a challenge, many members of the House are viewing this as an appropriate response to the outcry from the public at large.”

While the man continues, the screen changes to a bullet-point list.

THE SUPERHUMAN REGISTRATION ACT 2016

457 pages

Improve transparency by creating a public registration form

Place restrictions on superpowered individuals/teams from entering allied nations and territories

Enforces criteria and requirements of superhumans to be able to fully utilize their powers under the direction of the US government

“However, you’re already seeing President Ellis and Democrats trying to seize on that topic coming into this next election cycle. And while the current Democratic nominee, Michael Ruebens has declared the bill a gross overstep of government overreach today on TrueView, members of his party are not quite in agreeance with the current presidential candidate.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hears Clint mutter.

“The current Republican candidate went on to TrueView this afternoon and offered his praises of his party members. Saying: fantastic creation of Ulborne and Giavanno, seeking to hold known terrorist Tony Stark accountable for his actions. It’s about time someone held these so-called heroes to a standard.”

“God, he’s a gem,” Nat tuts with barely concealed malice in her voice. Steve nods in agreement.

He can see your knuckles gripping the table’s edge tighter and tighter as the segment continues on.

“I think we can all agree that Republican sentiment amongst this proposed legislation is strong, Marc. But, it should be noted that Senator Young, from California, was seen at an anti-superhuman protest this past weekend. One of the few Democratic members of the Senate to take such a stand.”

“Well, I think that really speaks to the pulse of the nation right now in the aftermath of Sokovia, and New York, and Africa, you know? The people want to know if these individuals have our best interests at heart and if they are the best people for the job.”

“Okay, well, after this break, we’re going to go ahead and speak to Senator William Sharpe to hear what the Democrats in Congress are truly thinking about this legislation. And at eleven, we’ll be back here with Kennedy Jones to discuss the latest Roxxon leak off the coast. We’ll be right back with more, at America’s Central News Network, ACNN.”

Tony flicks the mute button and turns back to look at the table.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint questions, pointing at the TV. “How long have they been holding that in their pocket?”

“Probably a lot longer than they want us to think,” you reply with a trace of bitterness in your words.

“I mean, that’s gotta go against some kind of law or some shit, right? We’re a private group, individual rights and all that.”

Steve looks at the faces of his team, from Clint’s pure incredulousness to Natasha’s silent rage. From Sam’s quiet disappointment to your… the table creaks under your grasp.

He reaches his hand out, covering your fingers. Your blazing eyes meet his gentle blues from across the table. An exchange of conjoined thoughts happens in the blink of an eye before Steve retracts his hand and you release the table from your grip.

The supersoldier focuses on the one person likely to have the answers.

“Tony?”

Dragging a hand across his face, the billionaire puckers his lips and stares up at the ceiling before any words leave his mouth.

“So… the gist of it is, public discourse is still in question. And before an election cycle where their stronghold on the House could be tossed in a different direction, we have Republican do-gooders trying to shove as much legislation down the hole as they can.”

Taking a breath, he sits up, resting his hands on his knees as he levels his gaze with Steve.

“Fact is, you got some Congressmen trying to work a piece of questionable legislation down into the Senate. If, by some miracle you get a few Dems to jump party lines and vote in favor of it, then yeah. It’ll hit the House and get moved along. But, it hits Ellis’ desk, and… we have a connection. You know… saving his life and all.”

“So, it’s dead on arrival?” Sam asks; a hint of hope in his voice.

“Uh, yeah. Basically. And if by some miracle the Senate can find it in their hearts to agree on something for a change - ” 

Nat chuckles into her drink.

“- and it goes to Ellis, then yeah. I’ll go and wine and dine the guy and get him to veto the thing.”

Satisfied with that answer, the mood of the room seems to shift back to its former self. But there’s a look on your face that brings Steve pause.

He waits until you’re both making your way down to the south hall to bring it up.

Walking side-by-side, your head is downturned, your thoughts almost audible to even the supersoldier.

“Talk to me.”

Your gaze lifts, meeting his face with a look of apprehension.

“What is it?” he questions in a softened tone.

You’ve stopped now, just a hall away from your final destination. Clear of any listening ears outside of FRIDAY’s constant vigilance.

“It’s not going to be the last, you know?”

With his perplexed look, you move to explain.

“After Sokovia, the public hasn’t fully turned back in our favor. With enough outcry and protests, I can guarantee more legislation like this will be coming through. Maybe even harsher ones.”

“You think we’ll be in trouble?” he questions with a slight lift to his brow.

With a pause, you cross your arms, “Not necessarily. I mean, Tony faced down Congress before when they were after the suit. He has an army of lawyers I don’t think any legal body would want to touch at his disposal. It’s just… I don’t know.”

Sensing your discomfort, Steve reaches over and pulls you into his arms.

He can feel the immediate sigh of relief that you exhale when his grip tightens ever so much.

“I don’t want anything to touch the team,” you admit against the fabric of his shirt.

Nodding in understanding, he tugs you even closer.

“I know. Neither do I.”

Glancing down the hall - at the double doors that lead to their rooms, to Pietro and Wanda’s rooms - Steve feels an immediate flash of protectiveness wash over him as he holds you close.

The thought that anyone, or any body of force, would try to disrupt their lives or the lives of the ones he cares about, is enough to keep him on edge.

But with you in his arms, he tries to dispel the thought.

Tony said he could handle it if worse came to worse. And Steve just had to believe that that sort of miracle could occur.

Pulling back slightly, just so you can tip your face up to look him in the eyes, Steve tucks a strand of your hair over your shoulder.

“You worry too much.”

With a warm laugh, you say, “I think I worry the right amount, considering the hecticness of our lives, Steve.”

Giving a nod, he relents with a fair point before you both head off in the direction of your rooms.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

[anderswelten]

Suspicious offerings

You may remember that I said in one of my past blog posts how important it is to inform yourself about methods for hacking etc. - obviously not, because I want to teach you how to cheat, but knowledge will always be the key and your trump card to prevent yourself from scammers.

Today, I stumpled over a suspicious offering. From time to time I check classifieds, because sometimes you can be lucky and dig out a little treasure. However, this time I found an offering of a used Pokemon Diamond card. In the description it was highlighted that a rare Pokemon is on the card, an Arceus which was only distributed in Japan and it was not „traded via a module“. To proof that the mentioned Arceus is on the card, some photos were shown. I‘m attaching them for you. Please take a minute and look for hints, why this Arceus might be suspicious:

Ok, you may have already an impression what is going on here. Let me summarise everything what seems wrong here:

Arceus was redeemed/received in January 2021. Pokemon Diamond is a Generation 4 game. All distributions took place around 2010 - to be fair, the redemption date is the date of the DS system, therefore 2021 is not completely impossible, but at least very strange and let‘s say „uncommon“

Every event Pokémon is a fateful encounter which is „Schicksalshafte Begegnung“ in German. This phrase is completely missing.

This Arceus was caught in a Master Ball - event Pokemon are usually (not all!) carried in a Cherish Ball

This Arceus is level 80, but all Arceus distributed in Generation 4 were level 100.

The OT and TID seem to be custom, I‘m pretty sure that this is the OT and the TID of the trainer himself - or rather the trainer who caught it.

There was only one Arceus distributed in Japan - the Cinema Arceus - and its data are different from this one (OT, TID, level, Poke Ball, …)

Now, we can guess what it is or where it was obtained. Actually, I do believe that this Arceus itself was not transfered with the help of any kind of module. And I‘m aware of two possibilities: it is either an Azure Flute Arceus or an Arceus obtained over the Void glitch - which is basically the Azure Flute Arceus as well. That this Arceus is really an Azure Flute Arceus can be confirmed by the find spot: „Halle d. Beginns“ which is „Hall of Origin“ in English.

You may have already heard about the Azure Flute Arceus - it is the Arceus from Pokemon Brilliant Diamand & Shining Perl (BDSP) which all shiny hunters are after it, because shiny Arceus became accessible. And you also know that BDSP are the remakes of Pokemon Diamond & Perl, so it seems logical that the Azure Flute was also accessible in the original games, right? Unfortunately not.

The Azure Flute was meant to be distributed through an event in Japan, but it never happened. That the Azure Flute item was programmed into the game, it was already known, but after several years it was finally confirmed by Junichi Masuda that they have decided to not distribute the Azure Flute. So, literally, any Azure Flute Arceus from Generation 4 is somehow hacked, because the Wonder Card and the item have to be injected in your game, otherwise the in-game event would not be triggered. But even if no external module was used to inject the necessary things, a glitch has to be used. And just for those who are curious: you will not be able to port up this Arceus to a higher generation. Pokemon Bank will not accept it at the latest.

Here is the point what bothers me the most in this context:

The guy who offers this Pokemon Diamond card with a hacked Pokemon is advertising that it is a rare Pokemon.

Additionally, he is rising the price of this card, because of its „more value“ due to the „rare Pokemon“

If you are not that deep into the topics of event Pokemon, you may not have noticed it

It is the same like last time: it is absolutely fine if you do hacks and glitches just for yourself, but it is an absolute No-Go if you are trying to trade or sell it without telling its correct origin - whether consciously or unconsciously does not matter.

I‘m currently thinking about reporting this offer, but I have just little hopes, because this is such a niche - and most people care more about if the game itself is real of fake.

I can only recommend: keep continue to inform yourself and be suspicious every time and everywhere. And sadly, this was an easy case…

[astropathshalamain]

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[mothnem]

Okay! This is my backstory for Spy no matter what AU he is in.

He was an orphan. Lost both of his parents as a baby. And when he was six years old, he was adopted... into a human rights violation. He, along with over two dozen other orphans, were to be trained to be perfect spies. To never break no matter what. So for their welcome home ceremony, they had their fingerprints burned off. And it only gets worse from there. Any type of torture you can think of, physical, mental.... sexual, these children went through until it no longer bothered them. They know how much pain they will be in and know it can't get worse. They had been left out in blizzards after being sprayed down with water just so they would learn to survive it to get the intelligence back to their Masters. Spy had dragged 12 and 27 back to the exfil zone only for them to not make it. They had been 12 years old. The agency, planned to sell the spies to the highest bidder, but something happened. Someone caught them. The Spies were unleashed on the world with no orders. So they found their own. But slowly, bit by bit, they died. Until only our Spy is left. And he doesn't even know his real name. He had been given a number, 22. He was the 22nd child brought in to the program.

Spy left Scout's Ma because he had an accident with baby Scout that freaked him out. He realized he was thinking about how Scout DIDN'T need picked up right then because you can go for a long time on discomfort. He did pick up Scout, but when Ma got home he went for a walk and smoke.... that's when he saw one of the Trainers. She was talking on the phone, and from the onesided conversation he could hear, they were going to start the Program back up. And while he is the last one left, he's not the only one that had children. And they are planning to use those children. Spy ends up leaving to protect Scout.

(Also Scout got a Gift. Spy once went undercover as an exchange student. He had liked the name "Jeremy.")

But some funny can happen. Heavy remarks winter is coming, and Spy agrees, saying his room has been "a little cold" recently and for like five seconds everyone is normal until they remember Spy had been out in a blizzard soaked in water before and that's his definition of cold now. Suddenly Spy has several armloads of blankets dropped on him and Heavy's winter coat and Scout comes running in screaming he has the heater and now Spy is very warm boy. And Engineer is making hot coco and kicking Medic to keep him from adding drugs to it that would make your blood be like antifreeze.

Also Scout is furious and he doesn't know who to be pissed off at. Spy? The Trainers? Who?

[desertsportshipping]

The Shadow Wes Master-post

After much rumination and insanity, at the request of some friends, I am proud to present my masterpiece: the essay on how Wes became a shadow human and how it effected him. Enjoy.

How it happened

Cipher was the most powerful group in Orre. They filled the power vacuum after the mass collapse of the Under Network, bringing a source of stability and being the only employment option in the region. The smaller gangs and syndicates who refused to work with Cipher were wiped out, and the only way to survive was to cooperate. 

Team Snagem’s business model of stealing Pokemon to sell on the black market was… a lot harder to pull off now than it was during the days of pure anarchy. Originally, grunts stole Pokemon by pickpocketing the Pokeballs or breaking them and catching the Pokémon in a new one mid-battle. Both of these methods were highly risky. More commonly now, trainers were mugged at gunpoint and forced to hand over their Pokeballs, with the process of erasing the original trainer done later, back at headquarters (a significant portion of the time, this ends in the original trainer’s death). 

Then, Cipher rolled up with this new invention, the Snag Machine. It takes the blood of a Team Snagem member (deposited into it beforehand), and replaces the fluid inside normal Pokeballs with that blood, turning them into Snag Balls. The blood is enough to override the bond a Pokemon had with their trainer, meaning that a Snag Ball can steal a Pokemon in battle without the hassle of breaking the original Pokeball or killing the trainer. The portable version of the Snag Machine does the same thing, except that instead of blood being deposited beforehand, it directly draws blood from the wearer’s veins.

Of course, Cipher wasn’t going to just hand over these Snag Machines. There was a price, and Team Snagem couldn’t pay it with money. Gonzap chose to sell his son.

The contract marked Snagger Leo as an asset of Cipher, currently being rented to Team Snagem. The portable Snag Machine was fitted to his arm, and surgeries were performed to make him more “suitable” to use it. Part of said procedures (and the month of torture that happened to prime him for it) was an injection to turn him into a shadow human. 

This marked Wes as the second shadow human to be created by Cipher. The first was Nascour who willingly underwent the procedure (minus the torture). In fact, it was also Nascour who suggested shadowing their newest asset, and that Wes be branded as such. 

For Nascour, becoming a shadow human was the best decision of his life, a way to enhance his aura powers and finally take control of Cipher. For Wes, becoming a shadow human has brought nothing but misery.

The metaphor <3

Before moving onto the effects, we must first talk about the metaphor of shadowing. 

“A Shadow Pokémon is a Pokémon that has been made into a fighting machine by artificially shutting the door to its heart.”

Being a shadow means being disconnected to your heart, cut off from positive emotions and love (whether platonic, romantic or just zest for life). The way to purify a shadow is to give them happy memories, treat them with kindness and help them rediscover those positive emotions they’ve been cut off from. Once the shadow has enough memories of kindness and joy, the Relic Stone can finally reopen the door to the shadow’s heart. 

The process of shadowing is a metaphor for trauma: Pokemon become more violent, the benefits that they gain are for causing harm, they stagnate as they’re held back by that trauma, with Hyper Mode being the culmination of giving into that rage and pain and lashing out. The shadow program as a whole is the cycle of abuse: some give in and continue to perpetuate it (Nascour) and some fight to break it (Wes). Being purified is the end of the journey of healing from that trauma, lifting the weight and allowing them to move forward.

Shadowing isn’t just trauma, it’s the embodiment of coping with that trauma. Becoming a shadow is to choose (in the moment) to succumb to the instinct to be a worse person, to let the anger and rage manifest in destructive behaviors (both to others and yourself). A person or Pokemon becomes shadowed when they accept it as the alternative to whatever is tormenting them. In every case but one, shadowing is the escape from the torture that happened in the Shadow Pokemon Lab. 

How shadowing manifests depends a lot on the person or Pokemon’s personality and willingness to be a shadow. Nascour is a result of leaning into the shadow, using it to enhance his own abilities and inflict violence on whoever he pleases. Wes is the result of fighting the shadow, his entire body and mind going through immense pain due to the battle within. 

For a while, Wes didn’t fight the shadow. He dutifully carried out Gonzap’s orders, his empathy cut off for anyone but Umbreon and Espeon. He really started fighting it when he met Rui; not only did her morals rub off on him, but the good memories and kindness she showed him tipped the balance and made him unstable. His body started killing itself after Wes unlocked his empathy for the Shadow Pokemon in his care.

The reason Wes was never purified during the course of Colosseum or its post game is because he was not giving himself the same love that he gave the Pokemon in his care. He put his Pokemon’s journey of healing before his own, sacrificing his own health to ensure that they were purified. It was only when he arrived in Galar, where he had nothing else to do, that he started to lower the shadow gauge of his own heart. With Leon’s support and out of Orre, Wes could finally heal.

The effects

Wes is now a weapon of mass destruction. He has a higher pain tolerance, greater durability (which is why he could take so many hits from various shadow Pokemon), a reduced need to sleep and a reduced appetite. However, when he gets unbalanced, he starts to suffer the effects of his reckless lifestyle: anemia, chronic pain, pollution and tears in his lungs. 

While Rui had her suspicions, she only got concrete proof of Wes being a shadow human once she found the corresponding Ein file at the Shadow Pokemon Lab. This is because Wes’s aura is normal unless he goes into Hyper Mode, where his aura twists into something monstrous and terrifying. 

As far as psychological effects go, it’s hard to detangle what was a result of the shadow itself and what was a result of the sudden switch in how he was treated. He now sported the brand of the worthless, and Gonzap considered his son Snagger Leo dead (at the hands of Cipher naturally, he denied his own role in his son’s death) and treated Wes as a tool at Team Snagem’s disposal. As a result, Wes both dehumanizes himself (viewing himself the same way) and holds himself accountable for everything he did for Team Snagem and Cipher (he is the champion of mental gymnastics). He also suffered memory loss, with the memories before he was shadowed getting hazier until they were gone and he perfected the art of masking his emotions (at least as long as they aren’t strong enough to trigger Hyper Mode).

What was a direct result of the shadow process was the loss of empathy for anyone other than his two best friends and the raging need for violence. When working for Team Snagem, he directed that need for violence at the poor trainers he was robbing; after meeting Rui and following her, he directed it inwards and at himself. Due to that severance of empathy, Wes had handed over Pokemon to Cipher without remorse, knowing what would happen to them, and it’s only after some of Rui’s morals had sunk in that he started to feel guilt for the suffering he’d caused. 

Wes eventually turns to more and more self-destructive behaviors (heavier drugs and riskier games and bloodier violence) to “atone” for what he did. He thinks atonement (purification) is only possible for someone like him through suffering or death.

The purification

Wes put off his own journey to heal, instead focusing his energy on taking down Cipher and purifying the Shadow Pokemon in his care. Rui had made some good progress on opening the door to Wes’s heart, but it wasn’t enough, especially when Wes appeared almost determined to shove it back shut with his self-destructive habits. 

But Wes always felt he was making the right decision. Of course he put himself last, he was the only one who could purify them. He was the only one like them, equal to them. 

He would never be purified as long as he stayed in Orre. But when Rui offered to take him with her to Unova, he turned her down. He was forced to leave when Cook provided him with a boat ticket and a bag of fake papers, and he met Leon in the wild areas of Galar. 

Unlike Rui, who recognized that she couldn’t help Wes as she was and therefore decided to go on a training montage, Leon is insane. His aura abilities are also a lot stronger than Rui’s, so he could read and understand Wes a lot better. Finally, he had the advantage of environment: most of Wes’s worst habits were physically impossible or easy to corral now that he was an ocean away from Orre.

Leon’s unconditional insanity worship love is what finally opens the door to Wes’s heart. Reconnecting with his empathy, his love of Pokemon (even the wild Skwovets trying to steal his food), rediscovering platonic love for Rui and his mons and discovering romantic love, letting go of the toxic beliefs that had been eating him from the inside out. He even let Leon take him to see a real doctor and fix some of the problems with his health.

Of course, Wes is finally purified at the altar. When Leon and Wes kiss, the relic stone behind them glows, and the last of the shadows are banished from his heart.

Purification is lifting the weight off of Wes that he’d been dealing with. Hyper Mode is gone, and his body stops trying to implode. Some of the memories lost to the shadows return to him, and the constant need for violence disappears from his system.

He is finally free.

Further Reading

Post going deeper into Wes's brain.

Post exploring the dynamic of DesertSport specifically.

Post explaining more about the Snag Machine.

Post going into how Wes's past affected his relationship with Rui.

Post about Wes's relationship with the Galarian media.

Post about Orre's folk tales.

Post going deeper into the brand on Wes's face. [my other magnum opus]

[shingekinohyrulewrites]

& They Were Roommates

Armin Arlert is in need of a roommate, and you just so happen to need a place to live. For some reason you cannot figure out, his best friend, Eren Jaeger, has a problem with you.

Read on AO3 here

SMUT AHEAD, MDNI, 18+ ONLY, CONTENT WARNINGS FOR :

Couch Sex, Unprotected Sex, Spitting, Creampie

Armin Arlert is an accomplished man.

After graduating as valedictorian in both high school and college, he decided to continue on with his higher education by going on to graduate school. With his Molecular Biology Bachelors Degree under his belt, he was moving on to get his Masters and, sometime in the future, his PhD. His alma mater, Eldia University, offered a great graduate program, and he decided to continue his education there.

He had been living in the same off-campus apartment since his freshman year. Since he excelled in high school, his tuition and living expenses were paid for, which meant he had his pick for where he wanted to live. Wanting to have the “real” college experience, he opted to choose a two bedroom apartment two miles from campus, and he took the bus to commute to class.

Annie Leonhart stumbled into his life during his second semester. They were both taking Chemistry, and they had been assigned as lab partners. Despite her stern demeanor, Armin managed to break through, and the two began dating halfway through the semester. Sophomore year she moved into his apartment, the extra bedroom being converted into a guest room. They graduated together, and she also decided to pursue a graduate degree like her boyfriend. Their first year was stressful, navigating much more difficult, specialized classes while balancing a job at the local pharmaceutical company.

Over the summer, Annie was presented with the opportunity to study in her family’s native country, Russia. Despite safety concerns, the top pharmaceutical company there had offered a chance for her to work there, gain experience, and attend classes at the local prestigious university.

It was a chance she couldn’t refuse.

However, this left Armin with a conundrum. Now that he was in graduate school, only his tuition was covered. Given that he was expected to have a job, his living expenses were now up to him. Since he had chosen a rather swanky apartment, he knew he would need some help with paying for the rent. He put out an ad in the university’s newspaper, hoping that a fellow student would be willing to reside with him.

The week before Annie was set to leave, Armin’s best friend, Eren Jaeger, heard about his situation and stopped by. The two had been best friends since they were kids, and he wanted to see if he could help out somehow.

“Hey, why don’t you let me move in?”

Armin’s nose had scrunched up, which immediately annoyed Eren.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked, frowning deeply.

“No offense, Eren, but I need someone who is just as studious as me. I can’t afford any distractions right now.”

Eren opened his mouth to argue, but Armin held up a hand to silence him.

“Look, you’ve been done with school. You work as a personal trainer. You don’t have a set schedule, so you would be coming and going at unpredictable times. I need consistency.”

For some reason, Eren decided to take this personally.

He currently lived at home with his parents and half-brother, Zeke. Although he made good money as a personal trainer, it was hard to find an affordable place that he could afford by himself. He had been hoping that this would be a chance to finally move out, and the thought of living with his best friend made him excited.

“Why don’t you help me vet roommate options? I know it’s not moving in, but at least you have an idea of who you would see when you come hang out.”

For the next week, Armin arranged “interviews” when the both of them were free. They interviewed both undergraduate and graduate students, with Armin asking the questions while Eren studied them quietly. Unbeknownst to the blond, Eren was fuming. He hated every single option, finding stupid reasons for Armin to reject them. He had decided that, regardless of who Armin decided to go with, he would hate whoever his roommate ended up being.

Two days before Annie’s flight, Armin was freaking out. He still hadn’t found a suitable roommate, and Eren had been no help. The responses to the ad were basically zero now, and Armin hadn’t heard from friends about anyone who may need a room.

Then you showed up.

A mutual friend of yours who had a few classes with Armin had casually mentioned he needed a roommate, and you had immediately jumped them for details. You were finishing up your Masters Thesis, jumping between meetings with your advisor and your job. However, your roommate had dropped out, the stress of graduate school causing a nervous breakdown, leaving you essentially homeless.

Your friend gave you his contact information, and the two of you arranged to meet the day before Annie’s flight. You were greeted by him, relieved that he seemed kind. He introduced his best friend, Eren, who regarded you sternly. The both of you toured the apartment, with Armin explaining the amenities and breaking down the bills. He asked about your schedule, and was pleased to see that it essentially aligned with his. You both conversed about your respective Masters programs, and he had a feeling the two of you would get along great.

“How soon can you move in?”

“I can move in tomorrow!” you excitedly said.

“Sold!”

Eren watched the exchange with a scowl, rolling his eyes as Armin went over the lease paperwork and how to get a copy of the keys. The next morning, you moved in, settling into the second bedroom before leaving for work. The two of you had decided to go out for dinner to better get to know each other. Armin had dropped off Annie that morning, which meant he had time for you that night.

You immediately admired Armin. It was evident he was a hard worker, and you listened intently as he talked about the difficulties of his program and his job. You asked about his study habits, and were pleased to hear they were similar to yours. The two of you had similar personalities and senses of humor, and a part of you predicted that you would be getting along very well.

It took one week to fall into a routine. Since your schedules were almost the same, you were up at the same time, sharing a quick dinner before running out the door. Twice a week, your lunch time aligned, so you met for lunch. You would usually get home before him, which allowed you time to relax a bit before you started dinner just as he was getting home. He would ask about your day as you ate before watching a bit of TV and retiring to bed.

Eren came over the week after. It was Friday, and Armin had suggested a movie night. You had happily agreed, hoping to get to know Eren better. Armin talked about him often, letting you know that they had been friends since they were kids and that he had always been super protective of the blond.

“I was usually a target for the neighborhood kids,” he had admitted sheepishly.

You had offered to pay for the pizza that evening, and you asked Eren what he wanted on his. He shrugged, saying pepperoni was fine. His aloof personality put you off a bit, but you figured you were still a stranger to him, so he was weary.

While you waited for the food, Armin and Eren caught up. You sat to the side, scrolling through your phone silently while you quietly observed Eren. It was hard not to notice how attractive he was - he looked like he could be a model. His long, brown hair was pulled into a messy bun, just like the first time you had met him. A few pieces had slipped out, framing his face. Thick, dark eyebrows sloped over a pair of expressive turquoise eyes, who often eyed you with suspicion. His nose was slender but rounded at the tip, above a pair of full lips. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

The sound of someone knocking at the door pulled you from your thoughts.

Armin sat in between you two, eyes fixed on the TV screen. Eren hadn’t said a single word to you beyond thanks for paying for the pizza. For some reason, it really bothered you.

Meanwhile, Eren was absolutely annoyed with you. Armin had been gushing about you over text, going on and on about how you were essentially a perfect roommate. The two of you got along great, and his studies weren’t interrupted. When he had invited him over, Eren was intent on saying “thanks, but no thanks.” But Armin had mentioned how it was so important for them to get along, and Eren couldn’t say no to that.

His eyes watched you from the side. Your eyes kept flicking between the plate on your lap and the screen. You were wearing a thin tee shirt and sweats, your hair messily braided. Armin had mentioned you had been busier than usual with work that week, which explained your tired appearance. You weren’t cute or whatever.

That movie night opened a door. Eren came and went as he pleased, stopping by to hang out with Armin. Sometimes you cooked an extra plate for him. Other times, him and Armin went out for dinner, leaving you alone. He still kept you at arm’s length, never greeting you past a nod. Armin tried to push him to open up, but you saw how hard Eren resisted.

“It really wouldn’t kill you to get to know her.”

It had been a month since you moved in. The two were currently sitting in a booth at the local diner, waiting for their burgers. Eren rolled his eyes, taking a long sip of his drink.

“She’s really nice. I mean, she goes out of her way to include you at dinner and stuff.”

“Have you considered that she might be trying to break you and Annie up?”

Armin, bewildered, stared at Eren.

“What?”

“I mean, she’s pretty cozy with you.”

“You’re joking, right?”

The waitress brought their food then. Eren immediately began eating, keeping his eyes low as Armin continued to stare at him.

“She’s met Annie. I introduced her the first time I Facetimed her.”

Eren ignored him, keeping on with his meal.

“She’s given me advice on how to deal with a long-distance relationship. I don’t think anyone who wants to break up a relationship would do that.”

When he saw that Eren wasn’t going to respond, he sighed and picked up his burger. The rest of their meal was silent, with Armin dropping Eren off before returning home. Eren lay in bed, arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. What was it about you that bothered him so much?

You’re obviously trying to take Armin away from me.

He scowled, turning on his side. That had to be the reason. You knew how close the two of them were, and you wanted to pull Armin away. That had to be it. He saw how chummy the two of you were, and he figured you were just nice to him out of sympathy.

Whatever.

He rolled over to his other side, letting out a long sigh.

It had nothing to do with how hot he thought you were.

***

It was the first week of June, which meant the heat was starting to kick in.

The last week of classes was fast approaching, and you and Armin were thankful to have some reprieve before the Fall. Annie was set to return in mid-July, and you were excited to meet her. The couple had agreed to let you stay for the next school year, with all three of you set to graduate next June.

Armin’s week was chaotic, with back to back exams, as well as meetings with his thesis mentor. You, on the other hand, had it slightly easier, as you were taking one elective. Your final paper had been finished last week, as you had wanted to get an extra week to relax. Your boss had also been kind enough to give you Finals week off, which meant you had a week to do nothing.

Eren had been told about the end of the semester, and he realized he would have more time to spend with Armin. Normally, he would text him to give him a heads up, but he figured Armin would be home, so he stopped by. He whistled a tune as he walked up to your building, letting himself in with the gate code and climbing the stairs to your unit. Armin had given him a spare key for emergencies, so Eren let himself in.

The apartment was silent, sunlight streaming through the open windows. Normally, Armin would do his work at the dining room table, since it gave him the space he needed. Instead, it sat empty. Eren listened for any sounds coming from his room, but the entire place was silent.

“Armin?” he called, but no one responded.

He waited a minute, but figured that neither of you were home. Shrugging, he kicked off his shoes and left them by the door before laying down on the couch. He figured he could hang out while he waited for Armin to come home. The two of them could probably grab some dinner then.

Unbeknownst to him, you were home. You had slept in, going for a run before coming back and taking a shower. The heat, plus the exhaustion from working out, made you sleepy, and you decided to take a nap. It was still hot in your apartment, so you climbed into bed naked and fell asleep. When you woke up, you were feeling better but still feeling warm. You used the towel beside you to wipe some sweat before standing up and stretching.

Armin had texted you that he was working overtime, so not to worry about dinner for him. You had texted back you would order something for him, and he had sent you his order along with a smiling emoji. The apartment was yours, and you figured it wouldn’t hurt to walk around naked and pour yourself a cold glass of iced tea.

The apartment was filled with sun, and you made a mental note to shut the blinds to try and cool the place down. You yawned, pausing to stretch again in the living room. Your joints popped, satisfaction flooding you at the sound.

“Holy shit.”

You jumped, head whipping around towards the voice. Eren was sitting on your couch, eyes wide as he took in your very naked figure. You could feel your cheeks burning, and looked around desperately to cover yourself.

“What are you doing here?” you squeaked.

He didn’t reply, still staring at you.

“EREN!���

He jumped, shaking his head before hesitantly turning his head away.

“I, uh, thought Armin would be home. He told me you’re almost done with school.”

“Why didn’t you text him?!”

He shrugged.

“Oh my god, I am going to kill you.”

“Look, you’re really distracting. Can you put some clothes on?”

“This is my home! I have the right to be naked if I want to!”

He didn’t respond, his eyes continuing to take in every single curve. 

“Get out!”

Instead of listening to you, Eren stood up. He slowly strode over to you, and you backed up until you were pressed against the wall. The cool sensation had you relaxing slightly, the heat flaring through your body going down. One of Eren’s hands came to rest beside your head while the other came to rest gently on your waist.

“You have been such a fucking pain in my ass.”

You narrowed your eyes at his words and opened your mouth to argue with him but he shook his head, the hand on your waist coming up to cover your lips.

“Now, here you are, walking around naked as if to punish me.”

A dark chuckle escaped him as he shook his head.

“Were you just waiting for your chance to tease me like this?”

You shook your head as you narrowed your eyes further.

“Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me and I’ll stop.”

You hesitated, and he immediately took note of this.

“Oh, look at you, naughty girl.”

A quiet whine was muffled against his hand. He chuckled again, removing his hand and placing it carefully back on your waist.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You looked up at him, all the times he had been dismissive of you the past few months playing in your head. He cocked his head to the side, waiting for your response.

Fuck it.

You stood on your toes, gripping the back of his neck to pull him towards you. His lips met yours messily, your lips pressing against his as he sighed, allowing your tongue to slip in. The hand beside your head slid down to your hips, squeezing the flesh there before he bent down and picked you up.

“I’m going to fuck you on this couch, and you’re going to think of it everytime you sit here.”

He laid you down on the couch before hastily removing his clothes. You admired the muscles on his body, eyes trailing down his abs and following his happy trail down to his erect cock. He stroked himself, smirking as he watched you study him.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up.”

He paused for a second before realization crossed his face.

“Shit, I don’t have a condom. Um, do you think Armin has any?”

“Eren,” you laughed. “It’s fine. I’m on birth control. Are you clean?”

He nodded, relief crossing his face. You opened your legs as he kneeled at the end of the couch, eyes half-lidded as he took in your naked body splayed out beneath him. He leaned down towards your core, close enough that you could feel his breath. You sucked in a breath as you waited to feel his mouth on you, but instead he spit on your core.

“Eren,” you gasped.

He shrugged.

“Gotta make sure my girl is ready.”

He slapped his cock against you before sliding it slowly along your slit. You moaned, wiggling your hips to try and get him to slip in. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, and he finally obliged you, pushing in at an agonizing pace. He was very well endowed, and you winced slightly at how thick he was. The stretch took some getting used to, but he went slow, murmuring praise until his hips were pressed against yours.

Your left leg came to wrap around his hip while the other hung off the couch. He pulled his head back to kiss you for a moment while you adjusted to him. After a moment, you lifted your hips, your silent signal that you were ready to take him.

His head came to settle in the crook of your neck, groaning as he pulled out. You felt how heavy he was as he dragged himself out until just the tip was in before pushing back in. One hand came to grab the back of his head, pulling at his hair while the other began to claw at his back. His pace started slow, repeating the slow drag and harsh push before he started to pick up the pace. The couch creaked noisily underneath you as he fucked you faster, your moans getting louder and filling the living room. He turned his head to kiss and lick your neck, biting down lightly in an effort to mark you.

“Mine,” he slurred out. “You’re mine now.”

You lifted the leg on his hip higher, allowing him to hit a different angle. Stars began to dance in your vision, and you tried to warn him through moans.

“You want to cum, yeah? You think you deserve to? Walking around naked to fucking rile me up?”

“I’m s-sorry,” you stammered out. “I-I didn’t mean t-to, Eren.”

He grabbed your cheeks harshly, turning your face so you could look at him. His face was flushed, pleasure evident on his features as he kept on fucking you.

“Look me in the eyes while you cum. I want to remember what it looks like.”

His words were the nail in the coffin, and you moaned out his name loudly as you came around him. He groaned with you, relishing the feeling of you tightening around him as he kept on until he came too. You could feel him twitching inside of you, his cum flooding you and leaving you warm.

The both of you were quietly panting, trying to recover from the intense sex you had just had. After a moment Eren pulled away, one hand pushing your hair out of your face. He studied you, a trace of intimacy in his eyes, before he leaned in and kissed you. The kiss was so different from before, tender and full of affection. You didn’t want him to pull away, but he did so to pull out and sit back on the other side of the couch.

“Are you alright? Let me go get you some water.”

Your heart swelled as you watched him pad into the kitchen and return with a cold water bottle. He handed it to you, kissing you before he sat down again and took a long swig of his own bottle.

“Do you hate me?”

He sputtered on his water.

“No!” he exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Then why have you been so cold to me since I moved in with Armin?”

He looked away, cheeks flushing.

“I was, er . . . jealous of you. Armin and I have been best friends since we were kids, and I just didn’t want someone to take him away from me.”

A deep frown touched his brows as he stared at the coffee table.

“He’s my closest friend, and I care about him so much. I just . . . I didn’t want him taken away from me.”

You let out a quiet giggle as you scooted closer to him.

“You were just being protective of your friend. You’re like a golden retriever.”

“Hey! I am not!”

You laughed, ruffling his hair before snuggling into his side.

“Well, I guess we better come up with a story for Armin. But I think we should leave the couch out of it.”

It was Eren’s turn to laugh and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Great idea.”

[alohastyles-x]

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚂𝚗𝚘𝚠 - 1

A Dark Disney Retelling of Snow White and the Huntsman ft. The Winter Soldier as The Huntsman.

Dark Disney Retellings Masterlist | Synopsis

Warnings: This story will contain graphic descriptions of torture, violence and gore, possible smut scenes (undecided), cursing, brief mentions of reader being nearly emaciated as a result of torture.

Wordcount: 2.3k

Note: ahhhh it's here!! I can't wait to unfurl this project for you guys! <3 There are rough Russian translations at the end, I'm sorry if it's innacurate lol, I banked on google translate for this one. Enjoy my loves!

The cold metal erupted a fire against your raw skin, the red marks from the lashings earlier a grotesque sight against the stark white of the room. Your skin had attempted to stitch itself together, but the process was slow and painful, as you could feel each individual cell regenerating into flesh. 

And yet not a sound escaped you. Your life depended on the silence of your movements.

There weren’t many rules in Hydra’s camp, but the most important was that you kept quiet, silent during it all. How else were you supposed to become a master assassin if you couldn’t silently handle pain? Their methods were unorthodox, but damn did they work. The first time you screamed, a volt of electricity ran through your body, locking your muscles in a painful grip. They continued, until your screams turned to groans, then turned to silent tears. 

It had only been six months since your father had told you he enlisted you in this program. For the country, he had said. For your people. You wondered often if he knew the pain you were subjected to here. You’d like to think he didn’t, for your sanity’s sake. 

“Up, now.” One of the guards' voices echoed as he entered the room your cage was held in. You stood determined, despite the pain that erupted through your muscles as you moved. Quiet as a mouse, you held your head high, awaiting whatever order followed. 

“Good girl,” another voice said, a short stocky man entering behind the guard. You didn’t recognize him, which meant he was an operative of Hydra, sent to check in on your training. He smirked as he looked you over. Your skin had turned alabaster white from the lack of sun and the cocktail of chemicals they injected daily. Your jet black hair was stringy, dehydrated from the lack of moisture. Your skin laid over your bones like paper, weakening by the days from the lack of food and intense physical training. You resembled a shell of your old self, which is exactly what Hydra wanted. 

“I hear you’ve been doing well,” his accent was different from the guards and trainers in the facility. He was English. His voice was deceptively gentle thanks to his accent, unlike the harsh Romanian and Russian the other guards spoke. 

“That’s good. It means we’re doing something right.” The smirked returned, making your skin crawl. He paused, for what reason you weren’t entirely sure. A beat passed before he decided to fill you in. 

“I have news, dear. You’re ready for the next phase. See, phase 1 was all about your endurance, and your initiation into a nearly immortal existence. We had to prepare you and your body for the job of a silent killer, a silent operative, if you will. You’ve proven beyond a doubt you can handle the kind of work you will be used for. Now we move to phase 2. You’ve heard the stories of our current Winter Soldier, yes?” 

How could you not. You were reminded of him constantly, compared to him with every task you failed or completed. Of course he had an advantage over you- a robotic limb and a manipulated brain that could be controlled with words. They refused to do that to you. They wanted you pristine and willing to submit. The true feminine version of him in all accords except one. The very first night you were here, they had brought you into the Red Room, a multipurpose training room in this facility. It started with an operation, ending one of the feminine qualities about you. They didn’t want to risk the effects the chemicals would have on any offspring you may one day produce. Later the room was used for training on grace and your ability to move in silence like in a ballet. The irony was not lost on you. 

You stayed silent to the English operatives' questions  as you’ve been instructed to do. It was yet another test. One you passed with ease. 

“Wow. You all truly have trained her well. I’m impressed. Anyway, darling, Phase 2 is now about strength- mental and physical. I’m not sure if you’ve looked in the mirror lately,” he paused to chuckle at his own humiliating joke. “But you’re not exactly buff. Far from it. Phase two will be about returning your strength and power back to you. The torment is over, you can rest now. You will be given a training room with equipment to use at your will to regain your muscle, while enduring mental tests to strengthen your mind, like puzzles. You like puzzles don’t you?” 

It sounded too good to be true. You knew better than to give into the false hope of an easier training phase. Either the operative truly had no knowledge of the camp you were in, or he took pleasure into tormenting you even more with the promise of a release from torment. You assumed it was the latter. 

He continued on with the details of your next training phase, as you stood silently, looking straight ahead. The guards behind him had a nasty smirk as he spoke. There was no way the operative was this clueless, you decided, which led to a stray tear falling onto your cheek at the thought of what new torment you were about to endure. 

“Don’t cry dear, this is all for the greater good. You’ll see.” He said, reaching through the bars to place a calloused thumb over your tear. His grip was firm as he wiped it away, and it took everything in you to stand completely still. 

He left with a few words to the guards on how to initiate this next phase. When they were out of sight, you slunk down in the cage, curling into a fetal position. You had to find a way to escape. You knew you couldn’t take much more of whatever training they were about to give you. 

It was that night that a plan formed in your mind, flawless in execution that was bound to work. It was a gift given from the gods above. 

Midnight struck with an eerie silence that echoed across the base. The lock to your cage had been picked, the door left ajar. The room was empty, and the guards stationed outside of the door stood confused, wondering where you went. 

“Subject 340 is missing, I repeat, subject 340 is missing,” the guard said into his mic, as he illuminated the room with the flashlight attached to his gun. The room was without a doubt empty. You had hid in the shadows behind the door, waiting for the guards to do their midnight check on you. As they entered the room, you slipped behind them through the door, taking off silently down the hall. 

Red flashing lights and sirens erupted following the command of the base leader, yelling for every guard to be on the hunt. Your bare feet padded silently down the hall as you ran,  using the red blinks as a guide. The hall slinked around into a centralized area, where you knew from your intelligence training that a group of guards would be stationed, waiting for you. 

There was a small opening in the wall next to you- a vent. You slunk through, following the narrow hall until it opened up to another hallway. You weaved in and out of various halls and vents, making it closer and closer to the exit you needed. 

Like a ghost in the night, you dodged guards, cameras, and motion sensors. It was rather easy, your small neglected frame helping to slip through the crawl spaces and vents without any evidence you were there. 

Finally, you made it to the vent you knew would bring you to the outside. It was almost too easy, as you dove through, crawling until you made it to the other side. Popping out the vent, you winced at the cold air that blew through, and another siren began to blare. It was the breached siren. You hurried out into the cold, taking off to the direction of the treeline. 

You were careful in how you stepped, ensuring footprints were not left behind you. It was a dance you knew all too well, mimicking the pattern you were taught in the Red Room.

In the end, it was their own tests and training that helped you escape under their noses.

“What do you mean you lost her?” Your father boomed, his voice echoing off the walls of his war room. His face was red with anger, as he stared down the Hydra operative who had come to give him the bad news. It should have been Alexander Pierce before your father, relaying the vital information. Instead, he sent a lowly operative, resorting to hiding in his compound like the weak coward he was. It was a trait your father despised- cowardice. 

“That is all the information I have, sir.” 

“Where is Pierce?” Your father demanded, slamming his hand on the table before him. The operative flinched slightly in response. 

“To my knowledge, he is investigating her disappearance.” 

Your father shook his head, mulling over what his next steps would be. Anger boiled through his veins. He warned them to keep a close eye on you. He knew your intelligence surpassed whatever they expected, and your determination would outrank whatever test they gave you. It was why they wanted you, and why he let you go. Your intelligence would one day outrank him if left uncontrolled, you were a threat to him and his position on the council. Hydra had succeeded so well with The Winter Soldier, he had no doubt they would succeed with you. It turns out he was wrong, and if there was one thing he despised more than cowardice, it was being wrong. 

You, after months of training, left alone to do as you please terrified your father. He visibly paused as the thought erupted into a beautiful plan. 

“Tell Pierce to send The Winter Soldier after her. He’ll find her faster than any of our men can combined. It’s the only way we can ensure she is found and returned… tell him by whatever means necessary.” Your father said, looking the operative in the eyes as he delivered his message firmly. 

The unnamed hydra operative nodded, saluting your father before retreating from the room. 

The operative now stood before Pierce, in his own war and council. room. He had delivered the news just as your father had given it to him. Pierce just looked at him with wild eyes, unsure he heard the operative clearly. 

“He wants us to unleash the Winter Soldier on her? Does he know that means her fate is sealed once she comes into contact with him?” Pierce asked, eyeing the operative with a curious look. A man sending a killing machine after his own daughter did not sound right- not even to the head of Hydra. 

“He said ‘by whatever means necessary’,” the operative replied. 

Pierce nodded. 

“Let’s go find him then.” 

It was easy to find The Winter Soldier’s hide out this time around. He had resided in an apartment just north of the city. He lived simply, with skeletons of furniture decorating it. Pierce sat in the dark, awaiting his return from his day in the city. 

He was no longer The Winter Soldier at this moment, his alter persona turned off. Right now, he was just James Buchanon Barnes, a Romanian citizen who lived a quiet life. He had gone to the markets, buying various fresh fruits and vegetables to use for a dinner he planned to make that night. 

When he returned to his apartment, he sensed something was off before he even opened the door. It was his decades of training that led him to approach carefully, opening the door slowly and silently, before proceeding into the apartment. 

He avoided the floor boards that creaked, setting the bag of fruits down as quietly as he could on the kitchen counter. 

It was then he recognized why he felt the way he did. Alexander Pierce sat just beyond the kitchen wall, illuminated only by the lights from outside the window to the left of him. He had yet to see Bucky’s presence, which would give Bucky the upper hand had he wanted to attack. 

Instead, he slunk around the corner of the kitchen into the dining room, catching Pierce’s attention. 

“Ah! James! There you are.” Pierce said, his tone friendly. Bucky sat quietly before him, waiting for Pierce to get to why he was really here. 

“We have a new mission for you.” 

“For me or for the Winter Soldier?” Bucky asked, his voice tight. He hated the transition to and from the Winter Soldier. It left him in ruins, a bit more fucked up than he was before. Not to mention the mental switch with the final word spoken hurt like a bitch. 

“I think you know the answer to that by now James.” 

Bucky sighed. He wasn’t in a position he could refuse, bound by the spell of words. Pierce pushed forward a glass of whiskey before him, offering him an outlet of relief. Bucky reluctantly picked up the glass, knocking back the warm liquid with ease. 

“Can you at least tell me the mission before the switch?” Bucky asked, hopeful for a little autonomy in the situation. 

“You know I can’t do that either, James.” Pierce responded. He actually looked empathetic with his response. 

Bucky lowered his head, waiting for Pierce to begin the cantation of words, waiting for the mental switch up into the Winter Soldier. 

“Желаниe, pжавый,” The cantation began, a piercing sound echoing in Bucky’s mind. 

“Семнадцать, рассвет, Печь,”

He grunted at the feeling erupting through his body. 

“Девять, Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон.” 

Something snapped within Bucky’s psyche. He was no longer the gentle and calm James Buchanon Barnes. No. He was the silent ghost of an assassin. 

“я готов отвечать” 

He was The Winter Soldier.

Feedback is greatly appreciated <3 <3

[optimal-living-lab]

Strength Training for Beginners: A Comprehensive Guide

Strength training is an essential component of overall fitness, providing numerous benefits such as increased muscle mass, improved bone density, and enhanced metabolism. If you're new to strength training, getting started can feel overwhelming, but with the right guidance, it can be both enjoyable and rewarding. This comprehensive guide will walk you through the basics of strength training for beginners.

Understanding Strength Training

Strength training, also known as resistance training, involves exercises that use resistance to build muscle strength, endurance, and size. This resistance can come from various sources, including free weights, weight machines, resistance bands, or even your body weight.

Benefits of Strength Training

Increased Muscle Strength: Strength training helps to build and strengthen muscles, making everyday activities easier and reducing the risk of injury.

Improved Bone Health: It stimulates bone growth and can help prevent osteoporosis, especially important as we age.

Boosted Metabolism: Muscle is more metabolically active than fat, so building muscle through strength training can help increase your resting metabolic rate, aiding in weight management.

Enhanced Functional Strength: It improves your ability to perform daily tasks, such as lifting, carrying, and bending.

Getting Started

1. Consult a Professional

Before starting any new exercise program, especially if you have any health concerns, it's wise to consult with a healthcare professional or a certified personal trainer. They can help tailor a program to your specific needs and ensure you exercise safely.

2. Set Clear Goals

Identify what you want to achieve through strength training. Whether it's gaining muscle, losing weight, or improving overall fitness, having clear goals will guide your training program.

3. Start with Basic Exercises

Begin with compound exercises that work multiple muscle groups simultaneously. These include:

Squats: Targets the legs, glutes, and core.

Deadlifts: Works the back, glutes, and hamstrings.

Push-ups: Engages the chest, shoulders, and triceps.

Rows: Targets the back, biceps, and shoulders.

4. Learn Proper Technique

Focus on mastering proper form and technique for each exercise to prevent injury and maximize results. If you're unsure, consider working with a personal trainer initially to learn the correct form.

5. Gradually Increase Intensity

Start with lighter weights and gradually increase the resistance as you get stronger. Aim for 2-3 strength training sessions per week, allowing at least 48 hours of rest between sessions to allow your muscles to recover and grow.

6. Incorporate Variety

Include a variety of exercises in your routine to target different muscle groups and keep your workouts interesting. This can include different types of resistance exercises, as well as cardio and flexibility training.

Tips for Success

Listen to Your Body: Pay attention to how your body feels during and after workouts. If something doesn't feel right, stop and reassess your form or consult a professional.

Stay Consistent: Consistency is key to seeing results. Stick to your strength training program and make it a regular part of your routine.

Rest and Recovery: Allow your muscles time to recover between sessions to prevent overtraining and reduce the risk of injury.

Fuel Your Body: Eat a balanced diet rich in protein, carbohydrates, and healthy fats to support muscle growth and recovery.

Conclusion

Strength training is a valuable addition to any fitness regimen, offering a multitude of physical and mental benefits. By following this guide and staying committed to your goals, you can build strength, improve your overall health, and enhance your quality of life. Remember, progress takes time, so be patient and enjoy the journey to a stronger, healthier you!