#and i feel like with so much money maybe i could do more than just disperse it to peoples gfms u kno

[rafes-slut]

Price of Affection

Pairing: bsf!Rafe Cameron x reader

Warnings: Slightly toxic dynamics, possessiveness, mild angst, Rafe being controlling in a subtle way, mentions of money and wealth disparity, manipulation, cursing.

Summary: Rafe has always spoiled you—buying whatever you wanted, sending you money for no reason, and making sure you never had to lift a finger. You never questioned it; you loved the way he took care of you. But when people start pointing out how strange it is, you begin to wonder—what does Rafe really get out of this

Rafe had always been generous with you. More than generous, really. He spoiled you rotten in a way that made your friends side-eye the whole thing, but you never thought too much about it. Why would you. He was your best friend. And if your best friend wanted to throw his Kook wealth around and make sure you never went without, who were you to argue.

It started small. A coffee here, an Uber ride there. But before long, he was sliding cash into your purse when you weren’t looking, sending you random Venmo transfers with nothing but a winking emoji as a caption, buying you anything you even glanced at for too long. A new dress for a party. Done. That necklace you thought was cute. Already in a box on your bed before you could even think about saving up for it. Rent? He offered. And when you refused, saying you couldn’t just take his money like that, he only scoffed.

"You think I care about a few hundred dollars?" His voice was always so casual when he said it, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it wasn’t weird.

And you didn’t think it was. Not at first.

You liked being spoiled. You liked the feeling of his money taking care of things before you even had to worry about them. And Rafe. He liked taking care of you. It was never a transaction. There were no expectations. It was just… Rafe being Rafe.

Until people started to talk.

“Best friends don’t do that,” your friend snorted over brunch one day. “That’s some sugar daddy behavior.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing it off. “He just likes taking care of me.”

“Yeah, why do you think that is?”

The question stuck with you longer than you wanted it to. You thought back to the way Rafe would smirk when he saw you wearing something he bought you. How his gaze would darken just slightly when another guy complimented your outfit, as if he was silently reminding them that he was the reason you looked that good.

Or the way he never let you pay for anything yourself, going so far as to pluck your wallet right out of your hands at times.

The next time he sent you money—five hundred dollars, no context—you called him.

“What’s this for?”

“Does it have to be for something?” Rafe’s voice was lazy, laced with amusement. “Just wanted to.”

You hesitated. “People think it’s weird, you know.”

He sighed, like the whole thing was ridiculous. “Who cares what people think?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered, gnawing on your lip. “It’s just… it’s a lot, Rafe.”

“So?”

“So… maybe it’s too much.”

The silence on the other end of the line was brief but heavy. And then, he laughed. It wasn’t the warm, easy laugh you were used to—it was something else. Something sharper.

“Don’t start acting different now,” he said, voice low. “You like being taken care of, don’t you?”

You swallowed. You did. You really did.

So why did it suddenly feel like a trap?

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I doubt I’m the first person to come barging in saying this, but I’m not happy with how Malleus’s consequences played out. Obviously we don’t have a full translation to work with so this should be taken with a massive load of salt, but he’s really getting off with just the temporarily broken horn?

I understand why the writers did it. You can’t take one of the main cast out of the game for an extended period of time lest you impact the gacha money. And the rest of the overblot guys had but a slap on the wrist too so nothing was ever going to happen.

But still, isn’t it too convenient that there just so happens to be a precedent for Sage’s Island to excuse this exact situation because Malleus feels bad? At least the other guys had the argument that their overblots were relatively contained.

But maybe it is a fitting punishment that Malleus lost the usage of the one thing he used as a crutch. That he needs to learn how to use more than brute magical force to handle his problems. I guess I’m just bitter that Malleus always seems to get away with much more than the other characters, and here he seems to be doing it again.

Sorry if this is repetitive.

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 finale here!]

To be fair, they did say the broken horn would take an estimated 100-200 years to grow back + would require monitoring. In his current state, I believe Malleus isn’t able to use his UM or similar “disaster-level” magic. It seems he can still use the rest of his arsenal of spells?? But we’ll have to follow-up to see for ourselves what the true range is, since we didn’t see Malleus use much magic at the end of book 7.

But yeah, other than that 😅 Seems like all is fine? Malleus is going back to school, Lilia’s still alive and returning to NRC as well, his grandma seems to be handling diplomatic matters + smoothing over foreign relationships, fae fixed the physical damage to buildings, other countries are settling back into their own daily lives, etc. I guess we should’ve expected this, given the medium and the pattern of letting OB boys off easy. It’s all for the sake of keeping the marketable characters present and still lovable. (Though I do want to point out that, because the story ended sort of quickly, Malleus may not have been granted enough time to show us how he's dealing with the aftermath or what other consequences there were. This could be something covered or expanded on in a future update, or perhaps in the manga, light novel, or anime.)

I think that maybe the new lore surrounding Sage's Island could connect with a future update (there's many theories that it could tie with Mickey or Grim), but its placement here is... I don't know, the framing of it reads as very convenient for Malleus. I'm not saying that Malleus shouldn't be forgiven or granted a chance at redemption (he certainly should, especially if we're giving this to the other OB boys). His OB may have been on a far larger scale than the others' were, but that's no reason to deny him or to think that there's 0% chance he can change for the better. What I am saying is that telling us, "This other powerful mage also did an oopsie and wasn't exiled for it, he only got scolded" feels like we're redirecting attention to someone else instead of focusing on Malleus :/ which doesn't sit right with me.

This really is not helped by the narrative bringing up all these additional details which only seem to minimize Malleus's impact on the world. No one died, no major areas were affected (save for Sage's Island), the only injuries sustained were those of some NRC students, the only physical damage sustained was mainly the Diasomnia dormitory (which was easily patched up with fairy magic), Maleficia + the headmasters are handling the press coverage of the event, there's now a group (the Fairy Dream Life Association) that adore Malleus and want to stay in the dream world, etc. I understand that the point of the big fight against Malleus was to prevent him from doing more harm--and it seems like they were successful, so good for them. I also understand that Malleus's absolute power allowed him to control space and time within his briar barrier (so I guess any deaths that would have resulted from people falling asleep while swimming, driving, cooking, etc. didn't happen?). But that feels... again, too convenient, and gives Malleus another "out" of being forced to realize he's done something truly horrible (since apparently no physical harm resulted + what little harm that did happen was easily fixed), that he potentially has blood on his hands. Does he even truly comprehend the emotional and mental turmoil he put his victims through? Maybe not all 20,000 residents, but definitely a non-zero amount of them. I don't pick up any of that based on how he's acting. Malleus doesn’t talk about or acknowledge any of that.

It doesn't even seem like his classmates hold any grudge toward him for what he did??? Even though NRC students are the exact type of people who would do that??? Yeah, Leona and a few others express shock when Crowley says Malleus is coming back to school, but I didn't see a SINGLE person protest or put up a fight or consider not showing up to Malleus's party. In fact, the first years seem oddly excited to be seeing Malleus again after all of that. It weirdly seems like there was more resistance to going to Lilia's farewell party at the beginning of book 7 (because at least there Leona expresses WANTING to leave early) than there was for Malleus's party at the end of book 7. Is this supposed to show us that the NRC students are now so pro-cooperation they don’t mind Malleus being back?? Even though those same dorm leaders were surprised at the meeting where it was announced?

On top of all that, he also conveniently gets what he OB'd over: Lilia not leaving, not dying, and reenrolling at NRC. Malleus isn't forced to reconcile with that loss, isn't made to confront mortality. It just gets pushed off to a later date. None of the other OBs are magically given what they got mad over to begin with. They had to work to overcome their own issues, but Malleus seemingly doesn't have to (because he no longer has to currently grapple with the distress of Lilia leaving), so it seems unfair that Malleus is the only one that gets it all. This could be something they tackle in like… book 8? Like I’m sure he must have feelings around him killing Lilia—but right now, he can still enjoy a happy ending.

One of Malleus's horns being injured might be a physical symbol of change and may limit his magical powers (no UM, no disaster-level magic), but he's still a powerhouse seeing as he seems to have helped amplify Lilia's UM for the party + sent the invitations to everyone by magic. He can still have his power, I’m NOT saying he should have no magic or that he should be physically harmed further. But if he's to learn to use more than brute strength or magic to resolve his problems, then why not start with words? Words like, "I'm sorry", and "It was my fault", and "I shouldn't have imposed my will on you", etc. And not just to NRC, which happened in canon, but to the world.

If the story won't commit to actually assigning consequences to the world for what Malleus did, at LEAST let him handle the social repercussions of it all. Show us other students being wary around him so he has to earn back their trust instead of it being handed back to him. And why not have Malleus be the one going on TV (after he has recovered, of course) to apologize to the world instead of having his grandma handle it for him? Malleus apologizing just to those in attendance at the party isn't enough, because that insinuates his actions only affected the guests present, when, in reality, his actions scared so many other people and had them intervening. Have him say sorry to S.T.Y.X., to RSA, to all the other countries he endangered. At least do RSA (since Ambrose is also being interviewed), S.T.Y.X. (since they were largely involved in the containment), and Foothill Town residents. I would have liked it if Malleus told us how he is going to make amends. One party's nice and all, but it doesn't tell me what he is going to do in the long term to make things better.

To be clear: To reiterate, I don't want Malleus to be physically harmed or "further punished". What I want is for Malleus to actually understand that everything he did was wrong, acknowledge that he broke the trust of countless people, and actively take steps to learn and to prove to everyone he is worthy of having their trust. I'm disappointed that it seems like Twst skipped these crucial moments in favor of having a rushed happy ending. If there isn't space to do it now in book 7, give us some lines that imply he's got a plan or some ideas in mind for next update or something OTL He has maybe one or two lines tops at the party, and that's it. We really needed more to close off book 7 in a satisfactory way for his arc of learning to accept change.

Here’s to hoping that book 8 (?) can show us the things book 7’s conclusion didn’t deliver on.

[sergeantxrogers]

The Space Between - 1

"You have enough blood on your hands that not even four lifetimes of atonement could wipe off, Barnes."

He stared at you, blue eyes critical and assessing. "Funny."

"What?" you snapped.

"Funny how you think I'm not aware."

The US Secretary of State, backed by the government, has given James Buchanan Barnes an ultimatum: spend the rest of his old, unnaturally prolonged life behind bars, being poked and prodded and tested on, or be pardoned of all charges of treason, mass murder, kidnapping, blackmail, property damage, terrorism, torture, abuse, breaking and entering, and stalking (just to name a few), on one condition: he's to live with someone who the US government deems credible and fit enough to keep him on the right path. Obviously, he chose option number two. Just his luck that the credible person assigned was none other than Tony Stark. And double that luck with you, Tony's younger sister, in the equation. As if the guilt wasn't already eating away at his soul enough.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!reader

Chapter word count: 4.5k

Chapter warnings: Swearing, mentions of minor character death, hostility, mixed feelings, angst

series masterlist | main masterlist

If there was anything Tony Stark prided himself on more than his money and his good looks, it was his genius brain. The genius brain that built an empire up from nothing, that used scraps and heaps of metal to create things the world had previously only dreamt of, the brain that earned him PhDs in physics, mechanical engineering and electrical engineering.

That same brain was the one that brought Avengers compound to life, of course, with copious amounts of help and advice from one Pepper Potts. Yet that same, genius brain was the one that decided the layout, how to maximize the size of the compound to its fullest potential, how to best make the entire place seem even bigger than it already was with an open-floor plan throughout most of it.

Right now, however, that maximized open-floor layout seemed to be the bane of his existence, fueled by the loud echoes and hysterical shrieks filling the main living area as you yelled at him. And yelled. And yelled. And yelled.

And now, Tony's big, brilliant brain was at risk of detonating.

"There's no way in hell I'm gonna be sleeping under the same fucking roof as that - that murderer!" you seethed, fists clenching and unclenching as you paced in front of your brother, trying to collect yourself and failing.

Tony sighed, pulling his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He leaned forward, throwing them on the table, and rested his elbows on his knees. "It's not like you have a choice-"

"I should have a choice! Who the hell does Ross think he is, shoving a problem like that into our lives - into our home - with no regard for our feelings or our safety?"

"He's the Secretary of State, and our feelings matter very little to people like him when they have different things to take into consideration."

"Yeah? Things like what?" you asked, hands on your hips.

Tony's voice rose steadily, parallel to yours, and you could tell he was nearing his breaking point but trying to put it off. "Oh, I don't know, maybe things like the safety of the entire country. Things like not having a pardoned criminal fresh from HYDRA's refrigerator roaming around the city however he pleases."

"So we're being punished? Is that it? Did you do something to piss him off-"

"No, I didn't." He hesitated.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "What aren't you telling me?"

Tony sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. You waited, watching him.

"A few years back, before you moved back to New York, I had... a phase..."

You blinked at him. Your jaw ticked.

"What kind of phase, Anthony?"

"Well, it wasn't a phase so much as it was a hobby of sorts."

"Spit it out or I swear-"

"I spent a couple years making and selling weapons... illegally," he muttered.

You froze.

Tony looked up at you sheepishly, and scrambled to continue. "I didn't know it was illegal at the time! I only found out later, and then I cut off all ties and broke off every contract I had with those contacts. However, dear Secretary Ross has his fingers in every pie imaginable, so when he came to me and told me I had to take in Barnes, I sort of didn't have a choice."

A heavy sigh escaped your lungs, and you moved over to collapse onto the couch next to him. "So, basically he blackmailed you."

"He liked to think of it more like a favor: he's allowing me to take in Barnes, and in doing so, he'll strike every illegal job I've ever done off the records and keep me out of jail."

He leaned back to match your position, and the two of you sat side by side, staring up at the high ceiling. Silence surrounded you for a few minutes as you were both thrown deep into thought. Then, Tony broke it in a soft, tired tone.

"Trust me, I don't like it either. If I had any say in the matter, Barnes would be anywhere but here. But now all we can do is weather the storm together."

He twisted his head to look at you, and you did the same. You couldn't help the tears gathering in your eyes as you let out another sigh, this one defeated and resigned.

"I suppose you're right," you whispered, and you felt him grab your hand and squeeze it tightly, once, twice.

And then, in true Tony fashion, he ruined the moment: "And wipe your tears before someone gets here. You always were ugly when you cried."

He ran off with a smirk on his face before you had the chance to throw something at his head.

Bucky Barnes stood with all of his possessions and belongings packed tight in a small navy backpack, thrown over his shoulder just as haphazardly as the baseball cap on his head. He stared up at the looming building above him, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his anxiety from skyrocketing. Better than prison, he thought to himself as he followed his five assigned agents through the large entrance of the Avengers compound and headquarters.

Personally, he thought five highly skilled and trained agents for one of him was a bit of an overkill, but then again, what did he know about government business. If it made everyone else feel safe, he was more than happy to comply. These days, confrontation was the last thing on his mind.

One of the agents, a tall man with broad shoulders and a shiny bald head, turned around to face Bucky. His hands clasped in front of him, he cleared his throat.

"This is as far as we go."

"What?"

"Unfortunately, we're not authorized to go any further, or step foot into the compound. Mr. Stark still has some say in the matter, it seems."

Bucky took in a deep breath through his nostrils, then nodded. The agents turned to leave, falling into a single file line as they passed by him and went in the direction they came from, towards the two black vans waiting for them. He watched them go, jaw clenched and hand squeezing the strap of his backpack.

His ears picked up on a sound. A low, vibrational sort of hum, so faint he doubted he would've heard it if his hearing wasn't advanced. The hum grew closer, behind him, until it came to a stop. And Bucky knew someone was standing at the entrance behind him.

Turning slowly, his eyes followed the ground until they landed on a pair of bare feet - or, at least something that looked like feet. If feet were normally red, then yes, these would be considered feet. His brows ticking slightly in confusion, Bucky's eyes travelled up khaki pant legs and a torso clad in a black sweater, before finally landing on a face. A red face, seemingly without imperfections, with bright eyes that stared at him so intently and uncannily that Bucky subconsciously shifted in place.

"Hello," the man - robot, person - spoke. Bucky said nothing.

"Sergeant Barnes," the robot continued, voice steady and clear. "We have been expecting you."

Bucky almost scoffed at the sentence. Expecting him, as if he was a guest, here of his own free will. As if he was wanted here.

"What are you?" he asked blankly. If the tone of the question bothered the creature, it didn't show. He merely tilted his head ever so slightly to the side as he studied Bucky.

"You may call me how everyone else does."

Bucky quirked a dark brow. "And that is...?"

"Vision."

The person - Vision - turned suddenly, and it was only then that Bucky noticed his feet were a few inches off the ground. He was floating, not standing. Vision motioned with his head for Bucky to follow, and then began floating his way down the large entry hall of the compound.

"What the hell," Bucky muttered under his breath as he fell into step behind him.

Vision led him down a hallway with high ceilings and windows instead of walls, the greenery from the forest and lake outside seeping in through the glass and giving the entire space a more natural feel. Bucky supposed, in any other circumstance, the sight would be quite relaxing. They passed by multiple doors on either side, the rooms behind them closed off and teasing Bucky's curiosity with their secrecy. At last, they reached some sort of bridge structure, closed off on all sides, and as Bucky walked down it, his boots left hollow thumps with each step he took. The end of the bridge flared out into four large, wide stairs, and beyond those stairs, a magnificent sight greeted Bucky.

He slowed as he descended the steps, looking straight ahead in poorly-concealed awe. The main living area of the Avengers facility was gigantic, with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling glass windows on every side, letting in sunlight and a slight breeze from the nearby lake. Everything was sleek, modern, expensive and definitely made Bucky feel as if he stuck out like a sore thumb. The couches were white, the rugs were white, the furniture was dark mahogany, the chandeliers were large and shiny, the technology was more than he could take in. Everything was clean, bright and new, and it only amplified Bucky's feeling of being too dark, too broken, too out of place wherever he went.

His eyes travelled up, glancing at the second floor landing, the bars of the balcony wrapping around the entire area. Every single little thing was out in the open. It made him squirm.

Bucky had almost forgotten Vision was there, staring at him patiently, waiting for Bucky to take in his fill, until he spoke and broke the semi-trance he had found himself in.

"You may have a seat. Mr. Stark will be here shortly," Vision said politely, waving an elegant hand towards the sitting area. Bucky nodded mutely and, as if on auto-pilot, felt his feet carry him to the couch Vision had guided him to.

Bucky opened his mouth to say something, anything, but was interrupted by a harsh, female voice.

"Thank you, Vis. I'll take it from here."

Bucky's brows furrowed as he tried to pinpoint the origin of the voice, and his eyes scanned the area until they landed on you, standing right above him on the second floor landing, hands resting on the railing. Your eyes were already focused on him, narrowed and intense, and he narrowed his in response. Some deep instinct told him yours was not a friendly face.

Vision nodded, hesitating only a moment as he looked between the two of you, then floated off through the wall behind him. Bucky tried not to let that weird fact distract him as he watched you circle around, one hand never leaving the railing, towards the side and down the spiraling staircase.

You made your way over to him, and the tension in your body called out to the tension in his own, preparing him for a fight or a risk. He felt on edge, vulnerable in his seated position as you reached him and stood in front him him, arms crossed and glaring.

"I know what you are," you said, and Bucky's brows furrowed imperceptibly.

"Wh-"

"I know what you are, Barnes. I know what you've done, and how much of it you've done, and you're kidding yourself if you think there's any amount of community service, court-mandated therapy and apologies that'll change that."

Bucky stayed silent, but got to his feet, bringing him even closer to you. Now, your faces were inches apart, and you no longer had the advantage of height. He stood a head taller than you, making you crane your neck to keep your eye contact. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, not faltering, not backing down, as he mimicked your stance and crossed his arms.

"And what, exactly, am I?" he said lowly into the space between you.

You steadied your breathing, and clenched your jaw to keep your gaze from falling to his lips as he spoke. "A murderer. A cold-blooded killer who finds enjoyment in other people's pain and grief. That's what you are, and nobody on this God-given planet can convince me otherwise."

You stepped closer, closing the gap between you even more, until only an inch separated your angry eyes and flaring nostrils, and your next words came out in a whisper.

"I see right through you, Barnes. You can't fool me."

Before Bucky could react and do something he would've most likely regretted, a cough brought your attention to the railing where you had stood moments before.

"Barnes," Tony Stark said as he scratched the back of his neck with a wince. "I see you've met my sister."

Those words washed over Bucky like a bucket of ice water, and his eyes found yours again as he stepped back, almost stumbling. A maelstrom of emotion whipped around inside him; regret, fear, grief, pain, sorrow, anger, disbelief. All of them whirled and shot through his nerves, like fire in his veins as he took a deep breath to try to calm himself and seem more composed than he felt.

"I didn't know there was a sister," he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. Of course there was a sister. Of course the universe liked to make Bucky's life hell even more than it already was. Of course fate would find a way to amplify Bucky's grief and regret tenfold. As if he didn't already despise himself enough, standing before him, looking at him with eyes that he now recognized as hurt, was another reason to hate himself. Another person whose life he ruined even as he tried his very hardest not to and still failed. Another person who had every right to say and do whatever they pleased to him, because he deserved it, for taking away something so precious and something so irreplaceable: your parents.

Tony sighed heavily as he came down the stairs you had descended minutes before. "Yeah, she's a real ray of sunshine."

"Fuck you, Tony," you snapped, eyes still glaring at Bucky.

You watched him, carefully. You saw the exact moment the realization and recognition flared behind his eyes, even though he tried to hide them. You saw the feelings rippling beneath the surface, locked away. And you couldn't help but feel happy about it. You hoped it hurt. You hoped it burned him as much as it burned you your entire fucking life. You hoped he would waste away in his misery. It wouldn't bring your parents back, but it would be something.

"Smalls..."

You inhaled sharply through your nose at the nickname, and shot Tony a look. "Don't."

"Please, just - just go. There's no reason for you to be here right now," Tony said, eyes pleading and sending messages he hoped you would receive.

"There's no reason for him to be here, either," you said sharply, jerking your chin at Bucky. "Yet, here he is. Standing in my living room. Free."

"Not free," Tony amended, stepping towards you and grabbing your shoulders gently. "And definitely not your living room. It's my living room, and I, of course, am just being a good brother and letting you mooch off me and my money."

You rolled your eyes and tore them away from Bucky, who was standing silent and still as a statue, eyes flickering between you and your sibling. You looked up at Tony, and softened slightly when you saw the truth behind his sarcastic attitude: it wasn't easy for him either. In fact, it was tearing him apart inside, but you had both already come to the conclusion that there was no other choice.

Tony stepped to the side ever so slightly, effectively blocking your view of the man standing behind him, and shook your arms softly. "Please, go upstairs. You'll only make it worse if you stay here, for everyone involved, and that includes you."

His words were whispered into the air, and you bit your cheek but nodded. He placed a kiss to your forehead before letting you go, and wordlessly, you retreated back up the stairs, not bothering to spare Barnes a second glance. You felt, however, the weight of his stare on your back right up until the moment you rounded the corner of the upper hallway and left his sight. And you felt it branding your skin long after you slammed your bedroom door shut behind you.

You hated him. You hated him and his stupid blue eyes that intimidated you when you stood too close, you hated the slope of his mouth that twitched when he decided not to say something. You hated those stupid leather gloves under which you knew a metal arm was hidden; a metal arm that caused so much pain and strife, and it was now living under the same roof as you.

You hated the fear you felt in his presence, something visceral and innate, rooted deep in your bones, as if every molecule of your DNA was singing the same song: danger, danger, danger.

Because, at the end of the day, that's exactly what Barnes was: dangerous. Highly skilled, highly trained, every single pore seeping with the energy of threat and peril, as if he's always ready to attack at a moment's notice. And he probably was. His ledger was dripping, and no amount of walls or security or reassurance from Tony was going to make you feel safe sleeping at night with someone like him in the same vicinity.

You let out a frustrated sigh that sounded more like a growl, throwing yourself onto your bed. When you felt tears stinging your eyes and the familiar tickle in the back of your throat, you shoved your face into your pillow and let out a long scream. You had no idea how you were going to survive living with your mother and father's murderer. You only prayed for the strength not to go insane.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

A gasp clawed its way up Bucky's throat as he shot up off the floor, scattering his pillow and blanket across the linoleum floors.

"Fuck," he whispered, running a hand through his hair, now sweaty and sticking to the back of his neck. "Fuck."

He sat there for a long while, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal, for his chest to stop heaving and his lungs to stop burning, as he stared at a patch of moonlight illuminating the floor by the foot of the bed. Trying his very hardest not to think of the nightmare that had woken him from sleep, he shook his head and stood, wobbling slightly on his feet.

Bucky interlocked his fingers and held them on the back of his neck as he walked over to the large wall of windows in the room he was given. It was nice, quiet luxury spilling out in every corner, but it was nicer than he was used to, and nicer than he believed he deserved. The bed was too soft, the rug was too rich, the view was too beautiful, the floors were too shiny.

The windows in his room gave him a perfect view of the lake behind the compound, and the forest that stretched beyond it. He had no idea what time it was, but he could now see the gray tinge covering his surroundings, showing the very first signs of dawn about to break, the moon leaving and about to be replaced by the sun.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

The night he took two lives, and ruined two more in the process.

You seemed young. Incredibly young, at least younger than Tony, and definitely younger than Bucky, and he couldn't help but wonder how old you were when you got the news that your parents had died in that crash. If his guess was correct, you were only a child, probably just starting school when your life was turned on its axis completely.

He shook out the tension in his arms and let out a heavy sigh. Bucky was certain that sleep was no longer in the picture for him, so he decided he may as well leave his room and explore his new living quarters before anyone else woke up.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and the first shirt he could find, going to the bathroom and splashing his face with some cold water just to try and shake the remnants of his nightmare - no, memory - from his mind.

Leaving his room, his steps were quiet as he walked down the west wing, taking in the amount of doors and windows and opulent décor that Tony obviously had no problems spending his riches on. He made his way down the staircase, crossing the sitting area and heading over to the kitchen in the corner.

Bucky paused, realizing he had no idea where things were stored here, or how to use any of the fancy machines Tony had set up, so he decided on just a glass of water. Bringing it to his lips, he took a sip and leaned against the counter behind him, watching as the breaking dawn slowly but surely lit up the compound. This was the most peaceful part of the day, Bucky thought, where the world was still asleep but the planet was just waking up, calm, quiet and unbothered by human touch and sound.

He let his mind wander as he stared at a point somewhere in the distance. He thought back to his conversation with Tony just a few hours before, and involuntarily winced.

"Listen, Barnes," Tony turned to him as soon as your bedroom door slammed shut and echoed throughout the compound. "Just because I saved you from the wrath of my sister, doesn't mean I like the fact that your here, or that I even like you. If anything, I'm only tolerating your presence because a) I don't have much of a choice, and b) consider it a favor for Rogers. Capsicle owes me a lot, but I owe him that much and then some."

Bucky's brows furrowed. "You spoke to Steve?"

"Of course. What, you think because we had a little skirmish, almost killed each other, then went our separate ways, we can't keep in touch? Be serious, Barnes."

"He - Steve knows I'm here?"

"Yep. Don't get your hopes up too much. He won't be visiting in a long while, since he's off God knows where with Natasha and Wilson, doing off-record crime fighting and do-gooding."

Bucky couldn't ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his chest at that - he had hoped Steve's presence would act as a calming balm on his soul, maybe even help him transition into a regular life.

"Anyways, that's not the point. The point is, I'll be keeping an eye on you. This isn't going to be some sort of vacation for you, so you can relax and lounge about away from the press and prying eyes. You better watch how you act because I swear to God, Barnes, one wrong move and I'll have bullets raining into your body from every corner of this goddamn house. You'd be dead before you could blink."

Bucky sighed and finished off his water, turning to put the glass in the sink, when movement caught his eye.

In the faint first light of the morning, the soft sunrise made you seem to glow as you made your way carefully down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. Bucky stayed quiet and perfectly still, realizing you hadn't noticed him standing there yet. His body and mind already reacted, sending him into overdrive, ready to fight or flee at the first sign of trouble from you, but he stayed still, eyes following you. They trailed up your legs, bare from the mid-thigh down, the soft light catching on them as you walked. The huge shirt that was hanging on your body seemed to be three sizes too big, and made you look shorter than you normally were.

A tired yawn escaped your lips, and as you rubbed an eye, you finally focused on the figure standing like a statue in the kitchen. You froze.

Your pulse accelerated, and you didn't know whether it was from anger, surprise, fear, or a strange mixture of all three. Your eyes locked with his, and you felt as if the blood in your veins slowed to a stop. Was this what loathing felt like? You were certain it was.

Bucky continued his quiet streak, waiting for you to say something or nothing at all. You seemed content to do the same.

You finally padded over to the kitchen, closing the gap between you, and stood on the other side of the island. You stared. Bucky stared back. You narrowed your eyes. Bucky raised a brow.

You broke the silence first.

"Already looking for an escape route?"

Bucky clenched his jaw. "How'd you know?"

You rolled your eyes.

Stepping around the island, you made a point of ignoring him as you reached into the fridge for something - what, exactly, you couldn't remember. Not with his gaze bearing into the side of your face like he could see right through you. You blinked at the contents of the fridge a couple times, before giving up. Closing it empty-handed, you turned your attention back to Barnes, who was still staring at you in silence.

"If you take a picture, it'll last longer."

That seemed to do the trick. Bucky scoffed, breaking his silent streak as he pushed off the counter. "Yeah, because I definitely want that."

He stepped away from you until the two of you were standing a few feet apart, and then swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided better of it, and closed it with a barely-there shake of his head. He seemed to scoff to himself, before turning on his heel without a last look at you, retreating back to his room. It was now your turn to watch his back has he left, staring at him until you could no longer see him, all the while trying to calm your anger and slow your breathing. His presence caused you to feel unbalanced, unstable and irrational. You hated it, and everything about him.

Up in his room, Bucky paced the floor by the windows, running his hands over his face as he calmed his breath. A hot flash shot through him as the voice from his nightmare echoed in his brain, however this time it was accompanied by the sight of your furious, grief-stricken eyes, and Bucky let out a frustrated growl.

It was only later, when the sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the lake, birds outside chirping and signs of life chiming through the world, that Bucky lied in his bed, staring at the ceiling, and realized he had no idea why you were up so early, too.

[muiitoloko]

Hi! I wonder if you could write Alex Hughes has a crush on reader but too shy to make a move because she’s a lot younger than him and he’s man with the past.🥺

hope you have a good day🫶🏻💘💖

Title: Trouble Next Door

Summary: She was a walking temptation, and Alex was trying very hard to resist—but she made it damn near impossible.

Pairing: Alex Hughes × Fem! Reader

Warnings: improper language.

Author's Notes: Thanks for your request! I hope you like it. 🫶

Also read on Ao3

Alex took the glass from your hand, his fingers brushing yours briefly before he pulled away, lifting the lemonade to his lips. His hazel eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet gratitude in them that he didn’t voice. He never did.

You smiled at him, leaning against the counter as he stood to his full height, rolling his shoulders slightly after being cramped under your sink for the past half-hour. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back up absently, his hooked nose crinkling slightly as he did.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” you said, tilting your head as you sipped your own drink. “I would’ve called a plumber.”

Alex exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s fine,” he muttered, his baritone voice low, rough at the edges. “Didn’t want you getting ripped off.”

That was true enough. But it wasn’t the whole reason.

The real reason was standing right in front of him, all bright eyes and easy warmth, and he was helpless against it. Against you.

It had been months now since you moved in next door, and in that time, you had made it infuriatingly difficult for him to keep his walls up. You were too kind, too welcoming, too damn beautiful. He’d learned quickly that you had an effortless way of making people feel at ease, of making even someone like him—someone with a past, someone who should know better—feel like he could belong somewhere again.

And maybe that was why he kept offering to help. Fixing your sink, carrying your groceries, checking in when you were sick. It was an excuse, really. A reason to be near you.

But it didn't mean anything, not really. Because what was he to you? Just a neighbor, a friend maybe, but nothing more.

You were young, with a whole future ahead of you, and Alex—Alex was a man with a past. A past that clung to him like smoke, no matter how far he tried to step away from it.

Alex turned his attention back to the sink, his hazel eyes flicking over his handiwork as he grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands clean. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if buying himself a moment before speaking.

“It’s fixed,” he muttered, setting the cloth aside and picking up his glass again. “Shouldn’t give you any more trouble, but if it leaks again, you know where to find me.”

You smiled, warmth filling your gaze as you leaned against the counter. “Thank you, Alex. Really.” Then, tilting your head slightly, you added, “So… how much do I owe you?”

Alex exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

You frowned. “Come on. You spent half an hour under my sink—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his baritone voice firm but quiet. “I didn’t do it for money.”

You crossed your arms, challenging him. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t pay you.”

Alex looked at you then, really looked at you, and there was something in his eyes—something unreadable, something restrained. “You don’t owe me anything,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He was stubborn.

And unfortunately for Alex, so were you.

“Fine,” you conceded, a playful glint in your eyes. “Then let me pay you another way.”

Alex stilled.

His fingers curled around his glass, his knuckles white as his mind immediately went straight to the gutter. Christ. His jaw clenched as he tried—tried—not to picture exactly what you might mean by that. What he wanted you to mean by that.

His pulse kicked up, the memory of your fingers brushing against his earlier suddenly feeling much more significant. You were younger, vibrant, untouched by the kind of past that weighed him down. You deserved someone clean, someone without blood on his hands. Not a man who had seen the inside of a prison cell.

And yet, the way you looked at him—like he wasn’t just a man with a past, but a man who could still have a future—made something hot coil low in his stomach.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he forced himself to meet your eyes. “What… exactly do you mean by that?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended.

You blinked at him, then laughed—soft and teasing, completely unaware of the direction his mind had gone. ��Relax, Hughes,” you grinned. “I just meant I’ll buy you some drinks.”

Alex felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Fucking hell. He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to exhale slowly.

“There’s a beer festival in town this weekend,” you continued, oblivious to the inappropriate thoughts currently running rampant in his head. “I was already planning to go, but I don’t have any company. At least, not until now—if you say yes.”

Alex hesitated.

It wasn’t a bad idea. It wasn’t dangerous. And yet, the thought of spending an entire evening with you, drinking, laughing, being close—it was dangerous for him. Because he was already toeing a line he had no business crossing.

He swallowed, gripping the counter as if it could anchor him. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t be good for a girl like you to go to a festival like that. There’ll be too many drunks.”

You scoffed, tilting your head at him. “I can handle myself.”

Alex arched a brow. “Is that right?”

You grinned, stepping just a little closer—enough that he could smell the faint traces of your perfume, enough that his breath hitched slightly before he forced himself to stay still. “If you don’t trust that,” you said, your voice dropping just enough to be dangerous, “then that’s all the more reason for you to come with me.”

Alex inhaled sharply. God, you were testing him, and you didn't even know it.

He shouldn't go; he shouldn't. But the idea of you being there alone, surrounded by men who would look at you the way he already did in secret—the thought sent something dark and possessive curling through his veins.

He shouldn’t go.

And yet, before he could stop himself, he found himself saying—

“…Fine.”

Your face lit up. “Really?”

Alex sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah. But only to keep an eye on you.”

You smirked, stepping back, that knowing look in your eyes again. “Whatever you say, Hughes.”

Alex groaned internally, already regretting it.

He was in so much trouble.

The weekend came quickly—too quickly, in Alex’s opinion. He spent the better part of the day questioning why he had agreed to this in the first place. A beer festival. With you. Alone.

Dangerous.

And yet, here he was, standing outside his house, waiting for you.

When he heard the low, rumbling growl of an engine, he frowned. Then, as you pulled up, straddling that thing, his frown deepened into something closer to horror.

A motorcycle.

He’d seen you riding it before, always shaking his head at how ridiculously dangerous it was. Every time he caught sight of you zipping through the streets, reckless and infuriatingly confident, he’d mutter under his breath about how young people had no self-preservation. And now, here you were, parking the damn thing right in front of him, swinging one leg over smoothly as you pulled off your helmet with a smug little smile.

“Hey, Hughes,” you greeted, your voice carrying that infuriatingly amused lilt.

Alex exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re not serious.”

You grinned, dangling the spare helmet toward him. “Dead serious. Get on.”

Alex stared at you. Then at the helmet. Then back at you. “No.”

Your grin widened. “Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m asking you to jump out of a plane.”

Alex folded his arms across his chest, his baritone voice flat. “Who’s going to drive that thing if you get too drunk for it?”

You rolled your eyes. “If I get too drunk, I’ll take a taxi.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, Alex?” You tilted your head, teasing. “Scared?”

His jaw clenched, hazel eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He wasn’t scared. He was… concerned. There was a difference. “This is a death trap,” he muttered, eyeing the bike like it had personally offended him.

“Oh, come on.” You patted the seat behind you. “Live a little.”

“No.”

“Alex—”

“No.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m alive. That’s fun enough.”

You gave him an exaggerated look—all amusement and mischief and barely concealed challenge—but when it became clear that he wasn’t budging, you huffed in defeat. “Fine. Then I guess we’re taking your car.”

Alex exhaled in relief. “Much safer.”

“Much more boring.”

He ignored that, turning toward his car. “Come on.”

You followed, but not without one last glance at your bike, shaking your head. “Old man.”

Alex shot you a warning look. “I heard that.”

You grinned. “I wanted you to.”

He muttered something under his breath, opening the passenger door for you, trying very hard to ignore the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him before slipping inside.

This was already dangerous, and the festival hadn't even started yet.

The festival was exactly what Alex had expected—loud, chaotic, and filled with the kind of people who didn’t know their limits when it came to alcohol. And you? You were having the time of your life.

He watched you, his hazel eyes narrowed behind his glasses as you flitted from stall to stall, sampling different beers, laughing at something a vendor said, and throwing yourself into the crowd with an ease he could never muster. You were light, uninhibited, adventurous. And he was the man standing on the sidelines, making sure you didn’t get yourself into trouble.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Alex had barely taken a sip of his beer when you spotted something that made your eyes light up—a beer-drinking competition. His stomach tightened with foreboding the second you turned to him with that devilish grin.

“Oh, no,” he muttered, shaking his head before you even said a word.

“Oh, yes,” you countered, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the crowd gathering around a long wooden table. “Come on, Hughes. Live a little.”

“You said that about the death trap on wheels,” he reminded you flatly. “I said no to that, too.”

“And yet, here you are. At a beer festival. With me,” you teased, waggling your brows.

Before he could argue, you were already signing up, tossing a bill onto the growing pile of money in the center of the table. The crowd whooped as the competitors took their seats, and Alex sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You were absolutely going to get yourself into trouble.

He didn’t even have time to figure out how he was going to stop it before the competition started. Huge men with beer bellies and cocky grins began chugging down massive steins of beer while the crowd hollered, cheering on their favorites. Alex stood back, arms crossed, watching in quiet amusement as you, easily the smallest competitor, downed your drink with a confidence that made the men around you nervous.

By the second round, you had bested two competitors. By the third, you were a crowd favorite. Money changed hands, shouts grew louder, and Alex, despite himself, felt a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You were something else.

By the time you made it to the final round, facing off against a burly man with a Viking beard and arms like tree trunks, the entire festival seemed to be watching. The final steins were slammed onto the table, the countdown began, and Alex could see the sheer determination in your eyes.

You were going to win.

And you did.

With a triumphant gasp, you slammed your empty stein down before your opponent, tilting your head back as the crowd erupted into cheers. Alex shook his head, smiling despite himself as you wobbled slightly when you stood up, clearly feeling the effects of the alcohol. He stepped forward instinctively, steadying you with a hand on your arm.

“You are trouble,” he muttered, voice low.

You beamed up at him, your cheeks flushed with victory (and maybe a little too much beer). “But I won,” you slurred playfully.

“You’re lucky you can still stand,” Alex countered.

Before he could make you sit down and drink some water, a group of men approached, clapping you on the back, handing you money, congratulating you. It was all good fun until one of them, a tall, greasy-looking bastard, got too close.

Alex saw it before you even reacted. The man's hand, bold and presumptuous, slid over your hip. Your body tensed, a frown tugging at your lips, but before you could step away, Alex was already there. His grip on the man's wrist was tight, controlled.

Barely.

“Back off,” Alex growled, his baritone voice dangerously low.

The man scoffed, yanking his hand back, clearly irritated. “Relax, grandpa. Just congratulating the lady.”

Alex’s nostrils flared, his pulse hammering. The world around him blurred for a second, memories from years ago slamming into him like a fist. The bar. The idiot with the leering grin. The way his blood had felt, warm and slick, on Alex’s knuckles.

He could still hear the sound of that fatal hit; he could still hear the judge sentencing him. Alex’s fists clenched, his body coiled with restraint. One wrong move, one punch thrown, and he’d be right back where he started.

But the bastard was smirking now, emboldened by Alex’s hesitation. “What’s the matter, old man?” he taunted. “Not man enough to fight?”

Alex saw red; he took a step forward, his fists tightening—but before he could throw a punch, your hand grabbed his.

“Alex,” you whispered, voice urgent.

His breath hitched.

You weren’t afraid. You weren’t pleading. But there was something in your eyes, something steady, something knowing. You shook your head once.

Not like this.

And just like that, Alex forced himself to breathe, to unclench his fists, to step back.

But you weren’t done.

Before the bastard could gloat, you grinned, pointed dramatically to something behind the crowd, and gasped, “Oh my God, is that the mayor?”

Every head turned, including bastard’s. And that's when you grabbed Alex's hand and yanked him into a sprint. For a moment, Alex was too stunned to react. His feet stumbled before falling into step with yours, and then—then he was laughing.

The two of you ran through the festival like children playing hooky, weaving between booths and drunken festival-goers, ducking under banners, dodging confused security guards. You kept glancing back at him, your laughter ringing through the night, and Alex—Alex couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this light.

When you finally ducked into a quiet alley, panting and breathless, you collapsed against a wall, giggling. “That,” you wheezed, “was possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

Alex leaned beside you, shaking his head, still catching his breath. “I don’t doubt that.”

You turned your head to look at him, mischief still dancing in your eyes. “But admit it,” you teased. “That was fun.”

Alex exhaled a laugh, hazel eyes crinkling slightly behind his glasses. “You’re impossible.”

You grinned, nudging his shoulder. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

Alex barely managed to keep the car on the road as you belted out the words to some song that had absolutely no business being sung with that much passion. Your voice, a little off-key and exaggerated in your drunken enthusiasm, filled the small space of his car as you leaned against his shoulder, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was currently trying to drive.

“I waaaant it thaaaaaat way!” you wailed dramatically, gripping his sleeve like your very soul depended on it.

Alex exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, his baritone voice edged with strained patience. “Christ, love. That’s the fifth time you’ve sung that chorus.”

You gasped, clutching your chest as if he’d just insulted your entire existence. “Are you saying you don’t appreciate the lyrical genius of the Backstreet Boys?”

“I’m saying,” he muttered as he pulled into your driveway, “that if I hear one more note of that bloody song, I’ll walk into the sea.”

You let out a snort of laughter, slumping further against his shoulder as he shifted the car into park. “M’kay, fine. No more singing.” A beat passed. “Unless you wanna duet—”

“No.”

You pouted dramatically. “You’re so boring.”

Alex sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before unbuckling his seatbelt. “And yet, here I am, ensuring you get home safely instead of leaving you passed out under some beer stall.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” you slurred with an affectionate nuzzle against his sleeve.

Alex froze.

His whole body went rigid, his pulse doing a strange little flip in his chest at the unexpected affection. He cleared his throat, very, very pointedly not reacting. “Come on, trouble. Let’s get you inside before you pass out in my car.”

You whined but let him coax you out of the car, though you immediately latched onto him like a limpet, making it nearly impossible for him to do anything remotely useful. “Hughes,” you mumbled, arms wrapped around his middle as he tried to balance your weight and fish your keys out of his pocket at the same time.

“Yes?” he muttered, struggling to keep you upright.

“You’re warm.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering, “Brilliant observation.”

“I like that about you.”

Alex inhaled sharply, fingers fumbling with your key as he tried very, very hard not to dwell on the way you said it—so soft, so unguarded. It made his throat go tight.

He managed—miraculously—to unlock your door without dropping you or, worse, succumbing to the ridiculous heat rising in his face. Pushing the door open, he helped you inside, steadying you as you wobbled into the living room.

“Alright, bed,” he instructed, trying to steer you toward the hallway.

But before he could take a step back, your fingers suddenly curled into the front of his jacket, yanking him forward with surprising strength. Before he could even register what was happening, your lips were on his.

Alex froze again.

For a moment, his brain completely short-circuited.

Your lips were soft. Warm. A little bit desperate. And God help him, for one insane second, he wanted to melt into it—to give in, to pull you closer, to let himself have this.

But he couldn’t.

With a sharp inhale, Alex forced himself to pull away, gripping your shoulders gently but firmly as he put space between you. “No,” he rasped, his baritone voice rough with restraint.

Your brow furrowed, eyes hazy with alcohol and confusion. “Why not?”

Alex let out a shuddering breath, his grip tightening just a little before he let go entirely. He stepped back, running a hand over his face. “Because,” he muttered, “you’re drunk.”

You huffed, crossing your arms in an adorably uncoordinated pout. “So?”

“So,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not about to take advantage of that.”

You blinked up at him, considering this, before your lips curved into a lazy, teasing grin. “Hughes,” you drawled, “are you saying you want to kiss me? But only when I’m sober?”

Alex regretted everything.

“Bed,” he ordered gruffly, refusing to engage.

You giggled, but thankfully let him guide you toward your room without further attempts at seduction. He pulled the covers over you, tucking you in with a sigh. Just as he turned to leave, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Alex tensed.

You peeked up at him through heavy lids, voice softer now. “You don’t have to be scared, y’know.”

Alex swallowed hard. “I’m not scared.”

You hummed sleepily. “Liar.”

Alex sighed, shaking his head. “Sleep, trouble.”

You yawned, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Fine. But only if you promise to think about kissing me tomorrow.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.” But as he closed the door behind him, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He was in so much trouble.

[0viraptoraskblog]

What do you think the btd/tpof characters would be in something like DnD?

I remember seeing a piece gato made of Sid as a barbarian and Farz as a ranger but I'm curious about the others

Ooh, I’ll have to look for that art.

Forgive me, I love fantasy, but I never had a group to play D&D with so I never got officially into it. I might not know enough for this to be accurate, but let’s do it for fun anyways! I’ll give it my best shot:

Ren- Ren is small and fast, with quick reflexes. He’s good at being silent and sneaking around. I think in this world he could be good at utilizing those skills to help the party. I have three options for him. Rogue: for stealthy things like stealing or spying. Ranger: because he can still utilize his reflexes/animal traits, while taking a more frontline position in the party. Or Druid: due to his beastkin nature (which stems from a connection with that species, generations before him) it just seems right. He could be any of those.

Strade- Fighter. I considered barbarian, but fighter tends to lean more towards weapons than magic, right? I think even in this world he’d love to find new “tools” to use as weapons. Except in the world of D&D, he can use violence more freely. What could go wrong?

Lawrence- Druid. He’d rather be in the woods than with a group of people. I feel like his connection with nature would slowly be overused somehow (maybe using too much darker magic?) and it would start to affect him like the river does in BTD.

Sano- He already has fire and shapeshifting magic. If not just his own species (a naga), I think he’d be a sorcerer.

Akira- Ranger. Has some fighting skills as well as magic, but mainly uses a signature long-range weapon like a bow. Stealthy and deadly. (Akira is a ‘world class’ sniper, with amazing aim. I felt like this fits.)

Rire- Rire is.. himself. As a demon king of such high standing, I feel like Rire would sooner be an entity that the party encounters and fights against rather than with.

Vincent- Barbarian. His anger issues (and the urge to fight that comes with his rage) play into that a lot. There’s also that little bit of respect for the other members (or pack mates, in his case) and the urge to protect them.

Farz (BTD version)- Honestly, I could see him as either a ranger or a fighter. BTD Farz focused more on his short temper and how he quickly resorts to throwing fists, so maybe fighter better suits that version of him.

Cain- My first thought would be the same as Rire. Maybe he could be something like a paladin? He is a fallen angel, but still an angel. I think that would still link his magic with the divine? Or maybe a Monk, but a rare and supernatural one. Maybe he’s just a fallen angel.

Derek- I’m kind of drawing a blank for Derek. He likes it when people are upset, and obviously likes to hurt others. Maybe a fighter or a rogue? If a rogue, he’d probably use his abilities mainly at the expense of others, just for him to laugh at.

Celia- Actually, I’m thinking rogue- but in a non traditional way. I think she’d use her skills and manipulation for underground scandals to make her some money, or to make her enemies suddenly go missing.

Mason- Barbarian. We know he has no problem killing hordes of people, but he does still respect nature and survival of the fittest.

Take that all with a grain of salt, I only know half of what I’m talking about XD

[cementcornfield]

Some of Tee and Ja'Marr's thoughts on the Tee Situation

Tee said to me 'right now I get to play with one of the, if not the, best quarterbacks in the game, I get to play with one of, if not the, best wide receivers in the game, that opens up so much more for me.' And then he said 'this offense is designed for so many different players to be spotlighted, the way that I am used in this offense so plays to my strengths.' And then he said to me, 'can you guarantee I can have that exact situation anywhere else?'

....

So do I think he's taking a home discount? No. But I do think that he is very very smart, he sees the whole picture out there...

....

It's very easy to compare this situation to what Ja'Marr had at LSU with Joe Burrow and Justin Jefferson. And Ja'Marr has said Tee is very different than Justin Jefferson. That every single minute with Justin Jefferson was a competition. That everything was who makes the more dynamic catch, who has more catches in practice, who runs faster? Everything was that way. Ja'Marr had to speak up and demand the ball a lot at LSU, because so was Justin. Ja'Marr told me that he doesn't have to do that in Cincinnati because Tee, and this is a quote from Ja'Marr, is one of the most unselfish humans you'll ever meet.

[icewindandboringhorror]

sometimes looking at like Self Help Strategies lists for the symptoms I'm having is always just like:

thing that I already do

thing I have tried 10 times

thing I already do

thing that I don't have the money to do

thing I already do

thing I've been doing since I was 10yrs old to no avail

thing that is impossible given my situation

thing that doesn't apply to me

thing that I already do

thing I have already tried

hrmm, oh wait, maybe finally- OH, yeah.. okay. thing that I already do but it was just phrased slightly differently

thing I have already done

[asmodeusamaryllis]

I don't think I can keep being open minded to n@tl@n guys

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Square Enix, learn how to market games again, 2025.

[adore-gregor]

So I could really use some advice

[vanishingmoments]

i still don't know if i want to settle for an Associates or not

[crest-of-gautier]

got the badges for gone fission evp 400 + evp 600 yesterday! .52 gal, l-3 nozzlenose, dread wringer, and squiffer make for quite the synergistic team!

my peak was EVP 810 (appx 300-310% HL). my high score of 151 eggs was obtained somewhere in evp 300...? i'm pretty satisfied with how it went, even if i didn't get HLM or 9s.

some thoughts/reflections on good freelancing teams/traits to develop when trying to rank up in evp under the cut:

i think grinding this rotation was pretty fun- all of the weapons have excellent mobility and i think they cover for each other really well! the l-3 was not my favorite weapon going into it but i think i really enjoyed the accuracy and mobility of it, so it's a bit more favorable for me now :)

i ended up reaching a skill wall in EVP 760-780 where i could not get past wave 2 or 3 (usually for quota related reasons, the quota is BRUTAL! we'd miss it by like 4-5 ish... ofc this partially relates to how well bosses are handled).

the grind for evp was a mix of freelance and grouping up (freelance for 230 -> 440s, grouping up for 440 - 750~, and then testing myself in freelance for that last bit).

i enjoyed the bits of freelance i did, and from my playtime i think these were some of the key traits/practices that indicate "good salmon run skills" to me:

players that know their weapons role(s) and target the appropriate salmonid (but also being willing to break that when priority targets haven't been taken care of)

knowing when a teammate needs help (with a boss or being revived) or when the teammate has a situation under control (e.g. someone's already on the fishstick, you can do something else)

proactive use of specials when problem targets appear, preferably with no overlap (e.g. tri-strike and inkjet activated on the same flyfishes is not the best)

using specials like booyah bomb, triple splashdown, and reefslider to clear basket area in the last 30 seconds to help eggs get in (especially important past evp 600)

teams that paint the walls first thing (especially whoever had the dread wringer). all interior walls for fission can be painted within the first 10 seconds imo

forwarding eggs closer to the basket after splatting static bosses (throwing one egg, and then swimming up with one)

players with good judgment; knowing when to lure (mostly for initial boss spawns), and knowing when to leave the big shot cannon

being able to figure out which directions snatchers come from and what eggs they can help you collect

i think these practices all stem from having good awareness and being able to collect information about the shift. it helps with making snappy quick-fire decisions, and it just gets more important the higher up in EVP you go. camera positioning/control is essential for this (you can't figure out where bosses/teammates are if your back is turned to them).

for me, every 7-10 seconds, i like to rotate my camera around to the opposite side of where i'm currently looking to make sure there isn't any bosses i'm missing. i'm hardly in one place longer than 5-10 seconds and i try to always be on the move. the spawn direction where salmonids come from are always changing, so it's essential to rotate around the map proactively rather than reactively. i think this also helps a lot with shotcalling in groups too (since you can be someone else's pair of eyes).

other than boss spawns/teammate locations (for revives), i think it's also important to notice when certain bosses haven't been taken care of for prolonged periods of time too, so that a special can be popped. to me it's usually a sign that someone whose ill equipped to deal with that boss has been forced to deal with them because the people with the "right" weapon are focused on something else... (no fault to them, of course, everyone has different priorities and you can't always communicate clearly in freelance)

in situations where squiffers were chased by a pack of scrappers, perhaps a booyah bomb or splashdown can be popped to help if you don't have the time to stun and splat them manually. maybe the fish sticks were left unattended by the shooters, so a triple inkstrike or a crab/inkjet shot can help clear them out.

awareness also extends to meeting quota, which imo involves paying attention to the timer + where eggs are located. i find that it's nice to check in with the timer/quota at 50s and 30s respectively so that you can start forwarding eggs closer to basket. and when everyone's going crazy about quota not being met i try to make sure i'm not overstepping anyone else's egg pile so that no one goes "wait no thats the egg that i wanted to pick up fuck i have to go back and get a different one."

i think this is why sometimes playing in groups is easier. if you have more sets of eyes that you can communicate with, it alleviates the need to have awareness of "everything" (provided that you can comms effectively). someone can be attuned to different things (e.g. my friend always tells us where snatchers come from and if they're good, i'm personally attuned to where people need to be revived, etc.). you also know what specials you have access to, unlike in freelance where you're not sure what others have until they use them.

the other part of completing shifts successfully (to me) is being mechanically sound with your movement, mostly in regards to how you use the terrain (walls) to get around the map and escape situations. the more you play a map the more you'll figure out how you can move around on it.

some examples, using the location callouts from salmonrun.ink: there were a few times i'd go on the harbor but i could escape any salmonids in the bridge area by climbing the walls there and squidrolling out as needed. sometimes on high tide i would swim from the perch to the left plat.

sub-strafing is also good to know too, especially when you want to rapidly collect the basket eggs at the end. i still need to integrate it into other parts of my gameplay, but it's helpful!

uh. this was way longer than intended because i have WAY too many thoughts about salmon run. TL;DR: The key to succeeding your shifts is having good awareness which comes from good information collecting practices, and having the mechanical skill to act on that awareness without hesitation.

there's definitely a lot that goes on in sensory overload the game™, so it will take time to build these muscles and reaction times. i think while at every rank of salmon run you may face a wall of "i'm overwhelmed by the bosses," the exact fix needed to get past it usually varies, so it's important to figure out what information you were missing or what actions you could've taken (more efficient movement or special usage, usually).

or if you're struggling with quota, try to practice forwarding eggs or take a look where snatchers come from (even if people splat them, it's still a good practice 2 develop for later evp. source: i don't fucking do it and it's biting me in the ass)

and most importantly, recognize when you're in the midst of a loss streak/skill wall, so that you can take a break and focus on other things that energize you! even if there's a certain goal you want to meet, grinding for higher levels of EVP and getting better at the game can be a very exhausting process. you can always come back to the grind later, whether if it's after a 30 minute break, or just a different rotation!

[arolesbianism]

There's a well 🎉

[pukicho]

You've changed, man. I don't know what it is but some time in the past six months your shitposting got a bitter edge to it. Sure you could blame the political climate or world events on it but...I dunno. I used to scroll your blog to momentarily escape the hardships of today but now it feels like even you're not a safe place any more. I wish you luck on your journeys onwards but I'm sorry to say I cannot travel with you any more. Be well, puki, and I hope whatever troubles you passes.

Escapism is important and I try to offer that to a degree, but ultimately, I am a person. I experience hardships, I empathize with the worsening conditions of my world. As long as I care about things external to myself, I will subtlety, or blatantly express them in some way in my blog, which I’ve done for years, not merely 6 months.

Unbeknownst to you, these concerns are often the inspiration for some of my most beloved posts.

You’re free to leave of course, if my 1 serious post out of every 30 fucks your day up that badly, then please, feel free! - I simply don’t see my blog as escapist fluff, it never has been, even if that is often the outcome. My page has always been about my interests, and I just so happen to enjoy making people laugh.

I see it more as a fun place to hang out and express the feelings I feel inclined to express, most of which are fun and goofy, some of which are not. I love our little playful back-and-forths, and I enjoy seeing your insights, even if some of you are fucking stupid as shit. Sometimes I just like using you guys as little guinea pigs, testing my odd expressions out on you, and sitting back and seeing the outcome.

Ultimately, I try to balance balance 3 things on my page:

Comedy, as you know - I like making jokes, I like testing them out on people. Even if they suck, I like writing them regardless. Sometimes I sit back after writing something I know objectively sucks, hit send, and watch as everyone tells me how much it sucks. It brings me joy.

A desire for money - because if not, I wouldn't be able to make posts half as often as I do (ie, shirt sales, promoting my music, etc) - Sometimes that anxiety for money also bleeds into my posts, it has for years; and I hold back from being even more desperate about money than I feel I should be sometimes.

And the point you brought up: The occasional comment on something real that matters to me. - Over the past 3 years, if not longer, I’ve made a few uncharacteristically-serious statements on things like Covid, Gaza, The Presidency, hell, even the indigenous people of Australia... and more.

Why do I feel inclined to discuss these things? Because I want to. My page has always been about what I want. Fortunately for you, what I usually want to do is to make you laugh! But sometimes I wish to express other feelings, because I have a platform that allows my voice to travel further than that of others!

For those angry at all the qualms I don't bring up, try to understand my balancing act, as someone who understands your desire for escapism, and the comfort that it brings you. If the veil falls, remember, we are of like-company - - and maybe, this veil was only ever in your head to begin with.