#and it still makes more sense than English

[starfieldcanvas]

reminds me of an argument i had in high school trying to explain that the expression was "play it by ear"—meaning "figure it out as it's happening, rather than plan ahead", like a musician listening to a song for the first time and playing an accompaniment spontaneously without sheet music—not "play it by year."

my best friend at the time insisted that it had to be "play it by year" because it was an expression about future plans and scheduling, not music, so "year" made more sense because it was a time measurement; she had some idea in her head about "let's keep our plans vague and figure it out later" matching well with a long-term time unit like "year", like, let's not figure out our schedule to the minute, let's take the long view and play it by year!

which, that is a very creative and interesting retroactive justification for a misheard expression ("it's a moo point—it's like a cow's opinion, it doesn't matter!") but what she thought was her strongest argument was that her mother said "year" instead of "ear," and her mother had gone to Yale, and did I really think someone who had studied English at Yale would be wrong about something like this?

i had to give up the point because another girl in our group was agreeing with her and this was before teenagers had smartphones so we couldn't just look it up on the quad. one of those silly things you remember for far too long because you know you're 100% right and nobody believes you.

---

longtime followers of mine may recall that i myself have a pet peeve misheard expression. this one is a real headache because the misheard version is far more popular than the original.

misheard version: "if you think [x], you've got another thing coming."

original version: "if you think [x], you've got another think coming."

because "coming" starts with a k sound, the k at the end of think blends into the c of coming and all you hear is the "iihnng" at the end of "think" that can be easily mistaken for "thing."

but the misheard "thing" version caught on decades and decades ago, to the point that you'll see it regularly in published media, and therefore never have any reason to question the "thing" version, even though it's much duller than the original.

"you've got another think coming" is an excellent folksy way to say "think again!" or, more specifically, "you'll be forced to think again because of what I'm going to do." even if you're only familiar with the "thing" version, you can recognize the logical progression of the original: the first think in the beginning of the phrase leads to another think in the second part.

"you've got another thing coming" seems to be interpreted by most people as a direct threat: the people I've asked tell me they imagine the "thing" in question is a fist or a beating (if they think it refers to anything at all—some people just interpret it as a meaningless filler word.) if you assume the "thing" is a direct threat, it narrows the utility of the expression quite a bit. after all, you can say "you've got another think coming" to mean "I'm going to prove your assumption wrong" in whatever way makes the most sense in context, while still benefitting from the repetition of "think x? think again!"

by contrast, while "thing" can technically be whatever you want it to be (e.g. "if he thinks he's going to win this game, he's got another thing [a defeat] coming", "if she thinks she's going to get away with fraud, she's got another thing [a lawsuit] coming") it still needs to be in the form of A Thing. So it wouldn't quite sound right in, for example, "if Great-Aunt Edna thinks I'm coming to visit, she's got another thing coming." You're not going to beat up your Great-Aunt Edna, and "me not coming to visit" isn't really a "thing" in the way the expression needs it to be to work. You could maybe say the thing Great-Aunt Edna has coming is "disappointment," but you'll be much better served by the original expression.

this has been a public service announcement to rescue "you've got another think coming" from the dustbin of history.

[thewertsearch]

Enjoy your new session while it lasts, kids. Given everything we know now, I can't imagine it'll go particularly well.

Yup, it looks like this guy is even more immortal than normal. No conditional deaths for our Lord English, methinks.

Scratch's head seems to be connected to the God Tier clock in some way - but which came first? Did Scratch create the God Tier clock for some purpose, or did he mold himself in the image of an already existing artifact?

What the fuck is up with this clock?

...it's fucking Cal.

Of course it's fucking Cal. Of course the final boss of Homestuck is a supercharged Lil' Cal.

It makes a lot of sense, too, that Cal's face was what was hiding behind Scratch's cueball. This was probably a major reason why we never saw English's face until now - because doing so too early would have tipped us off to Cal's role in Scratch's creation.

The Vast Honk has been released.

The juggalo prophecy was about Lord English all along, then. They are, and always were, a doomsday cult, presumably founded by the Handmaid in times long past.

Alternia was raised by Scratch, and consumed by English.

It’s joined to these bastards at the hip.

And that’s that, then. Scratch’s grand plan has finally came to fruition, spawning an instance of English out of his own body.

As we move into Act 6, we should hopefully learn how this arrangement came to pass, how it works, and how to disrupt it. For now, though, I'm still just reeling - mostly at the fact that we're going to be fighting Cal.

This comic, guys. This god damn comic.

[w1w2]

Bored

Part 1 | Part 2 - But I'm Not the One To Keep | Part 3

Ningning x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 9,5k

Synopsis: Ningning, a charismatic heartbreaker known for her fleeting romances, finds herself unprepared for the depth of her feelings when she meets Y/N.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Ningning dorm room was dim, illuminated only by the faint, cold glow of laptop screen. The cursor blinked on a blank document like a silent taunt, its rhythmic flicker the only movement in the otherwise still room. Papers and notebooks were strewn across her desk in disarray, remnants of unfinished assignments she couldn’t muster the energy to complete. The guitar she usually turned to for solace leaned against the desk, its polished surface catching the faint light, but tonight, even it felt like a stranger to her.

The vibrant personality of her space, walls adorned with colorful posters of her favorite artists and shelves crammed with knick-knacks collected over the years seemed muted, almost mocking in its cheerfulness. The once comforting clutter felt stifling, closing in on her like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Ningning sat cross legged on her bed, her comforter twisted into a heap beside her. She leaned back against the headboard, her head tipped slightly upward as if searching for answers in the shadowed ceiling. Her hands dragged through her hair, fingers catching on tangles she hadn’t bothered to comb out, before falling limply to her lap.

The room was silent except for the occasional hum of a passing car outside her window, but inside her mind, it was deafening. The echo of her own voice reverberated with cruel clarity

"You knew what this was, Y/N. Don’t act like I promised you forever."

Her words played on an endless loop, hollow and sharp, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She could still see the exact moment they landed, as if watching a replay in slow motion. The way Y/N’s expression had faltered, those warm, expressive eyes dimming with hurt, the way her shoulders had dropped, as if burdened by a weight too heavy to carry.

Ningning groaned, the sound raw and broken as it slipped from her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though she could will the memory away, but it only grew sharper in the darkness. The image of Y/N lingered, unrelenting.

She saw her on the rooftop again, bathed in starlight, the words spilling out of her with hesitant courage

"I think... I’m starting to fall for you."

The vulnerability in Y/N’s voice had terrified Ningning. It had been too much, too real, too honest. Her instinct had been to retreat, to guard herself against the kind of raw emotion that threatened to unravel her carefully constructed facade. Vulnerability was dangerous. It asked too much and gave too little in return.

But Ningning couldn’t stop seeing Y/N’s face, that fragile hope that had been shattered. She let out a shaky breath, her chest tightening as if caught in a vice. Why had she said those things? Why had she hurt the one person who made her feel like she was worth more than the labels she carried?

Her gaze darted to her phone, lying face down on the nightstand. The urge to pick it up, to type out an apology, burned in her chest, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her fingers twitched, as if sensing the weight of the words she could never take back.

Instead, she reached for her guitar, but her hand faltered halfway. What good would it do? She already knew the melodies wouldn’t soothe her tonight. She felt hollow, as if every note she played would ring false.

She slumped forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her head cradled in her hands. The stillness of the room seemed to press against her, amplifying the ache in her chest. Her own thoughts suffocated her, circling back to Y/N over and over again. Her laughter, her steady presence, her way of making Ningning feel seen without asking for anything in return.

She had let that go.

Now, left alone in the quiet of her room, Ningning couldn’t outrun the truth. The silence amplified the very feelings she was trying to suppress, and the walls of her sanctuary felt less like a haven and more like a prison.

She whispered into the stillness, her voice trembling with the weight of her regret “What the hell have I done?”

Her mind betrayed her, pulling her back to that first, vivid memory of Y/N. It had been an ordinary afternoon, the kind Ningning had spent a hundred times before flitting through the campus café between classes, basking in the attention of passing smiles and casual greetings. But this time had been different.

Ningning had stopped short as her gaze landed on the girl sitting by the window, her head bowed over a notebook. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass, wrapping around her like a halo. Strands of her hair, slightly tousled, caught the golden light, and her brow furrowed in concentration gave her an air of quiet determination that Ningning found unexpectedly captivating.

Her breath hitched, her casual confidence faltering for the first time in years. There was a magnetism about Y/N, an unspoken aura that drew Ningning closer without effort. She found herself staring, caught between curiosity and an unfamiliar sense of longing. It wasn’t just Y/N’s appearance, though Ningning would later recall with a smile how beautiful she’d looked in that moment, but the way she seemed completely at ease, oblivious to the bustling café around her.

Ningning had hesitated for a fleeting second, something she never did, before making her way over and sliding into the seat across from Y/N. She flashed her most confident smile, the one that usually won over even the most reserved of hearts. “Mind if I join you?” she had asked, her voice light and playful.

Y/N had blinked up at her, startled, her pen pausing mid stroke. There was no wide-eyed awe, no immediate disarming smile in response. Instead, Y/N’s gaze was polite but wary, a quiet guardedness that intrigued Ningning. It was a challenge, one she couldn’t resist.

In the weeks that followed, Ningning had sought out opportunities to be near her. She told herself it was casual curiosity at first, something about Y/N’s calm demeanor and dry wit made her stand out. But the truth was something far more consuming. Ningning found herself watching for Y/N in the library, lingering outside engineering labs with excuses that felt increasingly flimsy.

The little things.

That’s what had undone her.

It was the way Y/N’s laugh bubbled up, completely unrestrained, when Ningning teased her about her “intimidating” thermos of coffee. It wasn’t a soft chuckle or a polite giggle, it was full-bodied, genuine, and infectious, the kind of laugh that made Ningning feel like she’d accomplished something extraordinary just by being the cause of it.

It was the way Y/N scrunched her nose when concentrating on her engineering projects, her lips pursing in a way that Ningning found inexplicably endearing. It made her want to sit closer, to nudge Y/N’s elbow and ask about whatever brilliant thing she was working on, just to see that focus shift to her for a moment.

And it was the way Y/N always seemed to have an extra cup of coffee ready when Ningning showed up unannounced, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she handed it over. “Figured you’d need this,” she’d say, and Ningning’s heart would stutter at the casual care in her voice.

Ningning had never felt seen like that before, not in a way that mattered.

The rooftop.

Her heart clenched as she thought of that night, the memory vivid and bittersweet. The stars had been scattered across the sky like glittering promises, but all Ningning had been able to focus on was Y/N. She had looked radiant, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the city lights below.

Ningning had joked about constellations, trying to lighten the moment, but the air between them had grown heavy with something unspoken. And then Y/N had turned to her, her voice trembling as she said, “I think... I’m starting to fall for you.”

The words had struck Ningning like a lightning bolt, leaving her breathless. For a moment, she had been frozen, caught between the overwhelming rush of emotions surging through her and the fear she could never quite outrun.

When she had leaned in to kiss Y/N, it hadn’t been an impulsive act, it had been deliberate, tender, and charged with all the feelings Ningning didn’t know how to put into words. The softness of Y/N’s lips, the warmth of her touch, the way she had leaned into Ningning like she belonged there, it was perfect in a way that made Ningning’s chest ache.

But perfection had its price, and Ningning knew all too well what it felt like to fall short. She had seen it in the faces of her past relationships, the disappointment that flickered in their eyes when they realized she couldn’t give them the love they wanted, the hurt when her walls refused to come down, the longing in their voices as they asked her why she couldn’t just stay.

She had tried, once or twice, to explain it, but the words always failed her. How could she describe the way love seemed to suffocate her the moment it became too real? How the very idea of being someone’s everything made her chest tighten and her instincts scream to run?

The cycle had become predictable. She would charm her way into someone’s life, bask in the glow of their affection, and then pull away the moment things grew serious. She had convinced herself it was better this way, better to leave before she could cause too much damage, better to slip away before they saw the cracks in her.

So when Y/N had opened her heart, when she had stood under the stars and said those words with such trembling honesty, Ningning had panicked. The vulnerability in Y/N’s voice had terrified her, made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

Her instinct had taken over. She had pushed Y/N away, her words sharp and cutting, designed to hurt. To end things before they could begin. “You knew what this was, Y/N. Don’t act like I promised you forever.”

Now, in the stillness of her dorm room, those words echoed like a curse, each syllable clawing at her chest.

“Better to hurt her now,” she muttered bitterly, her voice cracking as she spoke the lie aloud, “than later.”

The words felt like ash on her tongue, bitter and hollow. No matter how many times she repeated them, they failed to convince her. She knew she had done it to protect herself, to shield her heart from the inevitability of failure. But instead of finding relief, she had only magnified the ache in her chest.

The memory of Y/N’s face as she walked away haunted her. That mix of hurt and disbelief, the way her voice had faltered as she tried to ask Ningning why. Y/N had deserved an explanation, deserved more than Ningning’s cowardice, but Ningning hadn’t known how to give it.

And now it was too late.

Ningning’s whispered question What the hell have I done? hung in the suffocating stillness of her dorm room, unanswered. She sat there for what felt like hours, her mind replaying the same memories, the same regrets, until her phone buzzed again.

Her gaze flickered to the screen, where Aeri’s name lit up with a simple message “Studio. Now. You can’t avoid this forever.”

Ningning sighed, dragging herself off the bed. Her limbs felt heavy, her chest tighter with every step she took to gather her things. Avoidance wasn’t an option tonight, and deep down, she knew she couldn’t keep running from her feelings. If she couldn’t face Y/N, maybe she could at least pour everything into a song.

Grabbing her guitar, she left the room, her mind clouded with doubts and melodies that refused to settle.

The studio was bathed in the soft, artificial glow of overhead lights, casting long shadows across the soundproofed walls. The padded panels seemed to absorb every sound, muting the outside world and leaving only the faint hum of equipment and the low crackle of static from the speakers. It was a space Ningning usually loved, a sanctuary where she could lose herself in the rhythm of creation.

But tonight, the familiar comfort was absent, replaced by a weight she couldn’t shake.

She sat hunched over her guitar, her posture unusually tense, her fingers idly plucking a melody that had been haunting her for days. The notes were soft, tentative, like they were afraid to fully form. The polished wood of the guitar felt smooth under her fingertips, but instead of grounding her, it only made her feel more adrift.

Aeri was at the control panel, her sharp focus cutting through the room’s lethargy. She twisted a knob with practiced ease, muttering to herself about reverb and equalization. The glow of the monitor reflected off her glasses, and every so often, she glanced at Ningning, her brow furrowing with quiet concern.

Jimin was sprawled on the couch in the corner, her phone screen illuminating her face as she scrolled lazily. Every few minutes, she would let out a soft snort or chuckle, likely at some meme or post that caught her attention. The casual ease with which she lounged felt at odds with the tension radiating from Ningning.

The room buzzed with life, yet Ningning felt miles away. The low hum of the equipment, the faint static breaking through the speakers, even the comforting presence of her friends none of it could drown out the storm in her head.

“Earth to Ning,” Aeri’s voice cut through the haze, jolting her out of her thoughts. Aeri swiveled her chair around to face her, arms crossed. “You gonna sing, or are we just gonna stare at each other all night?”

Ningning blinked, her fingers faltering over the strings. She forced a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just... give me a minute.”

Her voice sounded distant even to her, like it belonged to someone else. She gripped the neck of her guitar a little tighter, as if the familiar weight might anchor her in the present.

Aeri exchanged a glance with Jimin, who set her phone down with a small sigh. “You’ve been like this for days,” Jimin said, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Ningning replied too quickly, the word slipping out like a reflex. She cleared her throat and tried to soften her tone. “I’m just tired. Long week, you know?”

Jimin raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, she leaned back, kicking her feet up on the arm of the couch. “Well, whatever it is, you’d better get it out before we start recording. No half-assed vocals, okay?”

Aeri nodded, her expression softening. “Yeah. We’re not rushing this, Ning. If you need more time—”

“No,” Ningning interrupted, her voice firm but strained. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Aeri hesitated for a moment before turning back to the control panel. Jimin gave a small shrug, picking up her phone again, but Ningning could feel their concern lingering in the air like an unspoken question.

She closed her eyes, gripping her guitar tighter as the melody echoed in her head. It was the only thing keeping her tethered, the one piece of her chaos that made any sense. But even as she prepared to sing, a part of her wondered if she was ready to face the emotions waiting on the other side of the music.

Her heart wasn’t in it, and they all knew it.

When she finally stepped into the recording booth, the familiar weight of the headphones pressed against her ears. The microphone stood before her, stark and unyielding, like a confessional waiting to unearth her deepest truths. She adjusted the mic stand slightly, stalling for time as the first chords of Bored began to play in her headphones.

Her fingers itched with the ghost of her guitar, but it wasn’t the melody she was struggling with, it was the lyrics. Every word felt like an admission, a raw fragment of herself laid bare for the world to see.

She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, and the memories followed, relentless and vivid.

It had been a warm afternoon, one of those rare, golden days where everything felt easy. She remembered sitting on the campus lawn with Y/N, the hum of distant conversations mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Y/N had been bent over her notebook, her pen moving in slow, thoughtful strokes.

Ningning had plucked a small flower from the grass, a delicate splash of color against the green, and leaned forward with a grin. “Hold still,” she had said, tucking it carefully behind Y/N’s ear. The sunlight had caught in Y/N’s hair, her startled laugh soft and musical, and for a moment, Ningning had felt something unfamiliar bloom in her chest.

That laugh, that moment, it was still there, woven into the fabric of her song.

Her voice trembled slightly as she sang the opening lines.

“I’m so pretty in your head, boy, yeah Picking flowers, put ’em right behind my ear...”

The lyrics twisted the truth, but that was easier than admitting the vulnerability of the original memory. She poured her longing into each word, shaping them into a melody that felt bittersweet, like a smile hiding an ache.

Her voice grew stronger as she reached the chorus.

“Takin’ up a good rush, don’t try to fight it Paradise on Venus in your eyes...”

Y/N’s eyes flashed in her mind, bright and filled with something Ningning had never let herself name. The rooftop kiss followed, as it always did. She could still feel the warmth of Y/N’s hand resting lightly on hers, the weight of her gaze as she had said, “I think... I’m starting to fall for you.”

The words had sent a jolt through Ningning’s heart, a mix of exhilaration and panic that she hadn’t been able to untangle. And then she had ruined it.

Her voice faltered slightly, the weight of her regret pressing down like a physical force.

“Ning,” Aeri’s voice came through the headphones, soft but firm. “You’re doing great. Let’s take it from the top.”

Ningning nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She started again, pushing through the chorus and into the second verse, her voice carrying all the raw emotion she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud.

“Turning your hellos into goodbyes, I always come in hardcore...”

The words felt like a knife turning in her chest. She had turned Y/N’s soft hellos, her open heart, into something brittle and broken. She had pushed Y/N away, convinced it was for the best, but now all she could do was relive the moments they’d shared, clinging to them like lifelines in the emptiness.

She poured it all into the song, every ounce of guilt, every flicker of longing, every unspoken apology. When the final note faded, the silence that followed was deafening.

Aeri’s voice broke through again, careful and measured. “That was... intense. You okay, Ning?”

Ningning pulled the headphones off and set them down with trembling hands. “Yeah,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

But as she stepped out of the booth, her chest felt hollow, and the ache that had driven her to create this song remained as sharp as ever.

Hours later, the studio was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the equipment and the soft clatter of Aeri’s keyboard. The raw recording of Bored played through the speakers for what felt like the hundredth time, every note polished, every vocal layer perfected.

Ningning sat slumped in a chair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against her arm, the only outward sign of the storm brewing inside her. She stared at the monitor as if it held some answer she hadn’t yet found.

“Okay,” Aeri said, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “That’s it. It’s done.”

Jimin, who had been dozing on the couch, cracked an eye open and gave a lazy thumbs up. “Sounds killer. People are gonna eat this up.”

Ningning nodded faintly, but the weight in her chest didn’t lift. The song was done, polished to perfection, yet it didn’t feel like a triumph. If anything, it felt like a confession she wasn’t ready for the world to hear.

Aeri turned to her, her voice softer now. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Ningning replied automatically, though her voice wavered. She cleared her throat and forced a weak smile. “Just tired.”

Aeri didn’t press further, but the look she gave Ningning lingered, a mix of concern and something unreadable.

They listened to the track one last time, the haunting melody filling the studio. Ningning felt every word as if she were singing them again, the emotions sharper than before. When the final note faded, she let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

“It’s good,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else.

“It’s better than good,” Jimin said, sitting up and stretching. “This is the kind of song people are gonna remember.”

But as Ningning packed up her guitar and prepared to leave, all she could think was how much she wished she didn’t have to remember.

The song dropped three days later, and the reaction was immediate.

By the time Ningning woke up that morning, her phone was already buzzing with notifications. Social media was flooded with posts about Bored, clips of the song, glowing reviews, and endless comments tagging her name.

“@_imnotningning just gave us the ultimate heartbreaker anthem.” “Why does Bored sound so good and so savage at the same time?” “This song... wow. Ningning really said, ‘I’ll break your heart and make it a hit.’”

Jimin sent a screenshot of the streaming numbers to their group chat with a series of fire emojis “We’re blowing up. Told you.”

Ningning sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through the messages and comments, her expression unreadable. Normally, she would have basked in the attention, maybe even posted a playful selfie with a “thank you” caption. But today, the praise felt hollow.

Her classmates were talking about the song too. Everywhere she went, cafés, hallways, even the library, someone was playing it. The haunting melody seemed to follow her, the lyrics spilling from speakers and headphones like they were taunting her.

She walked past a group of students sitting on the quad, their conversation carrying over to her ears.

“Did you hear Bored yet? It’s so good. Ningning really nailed the whole ‘heartbreaker’ vibe.” “Yeah, but like... do you think it’s just a song, or is she actually like that?”

She quickened her pace, her chest tightening.

Later that day, she sat in a corner of the café, her hood pulled low over her face. She watched from the shadows as a group of students queued up at the counter, one of them humming the chorus under their breath.

“Takin’ up a good rush, don’t try to fight it...”

Her stomach churned. They were celebrating the song, turning it into something bigger than it was ever meant to be. They didn’t know it wasn’t just a catchy tune, it was her. Her regret, her longing, her everything, laid bare for the world to dissect.

Jimin sent another text “People are calling this your best work yet. You okay?”

Ningning stared at the message for a long moment before typing a reply “Yeah. Just a lot to process.”

She didn’t hit send. Instead, she set the phone down and stared out the window, watching the world move on without her.

The song was a success. She should have been happy. But all she felt was the hollow ache that had been with her since the night she’d walked away from Y/N.

The praise was loud, but the silence in her heart was louder.

It was late when Ningning found herself wandering the campus, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The paths were quiet, lined with the faint glow of streetlights, their soft hum filling the silence. She had hoped the walk would clear her head, but instead, it only made the ache in her chest sharper.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a notification about Bored. It was another tag, another comment praising her, another reminder of the song’s success. She didn’t even bother looking at it.

Her steps slowed as she approached the bench near the quad, tucked beneath an old oak tree. The sight of it stopped her cold. She hadn’t intended to come here, but her feet had carried her anyway, as if drawn by memory.

She could still picture Y/N sitting there, her face illuminated by the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches. Ningning had spent countless afternoons on that bench with her, sharing jokes, snacks, and moments of quiet that had felt like their own little world.

But now the bench was empty, and the silence around it felt deafening.

Ningning sank down onto the worn wood, the weight of her regret pressing her shoulders forward. She stared at the ground, her thoughts spinning in endless circles.

This is what you wanted, she told herself. You pushed her away. You said it was better this way.

But the words felt hollow, even in her mind. Every memory of Y/N burned brighter against the darkness of her guilt. She thought of Y/N’s laughter, the way it had filled the spaces between them, making everything seem lighter. She thought of the way Y/N had looked at her, her gaze steady and full of quiet affection.

And she thought of that night on the rooftop, the way Y/N’s voice had trembled as she confessed, “I think... I’m starting to fall for you.”

Ningning’s chest tightened, her hands curling into fists on her lap. She had been terrified in that moment, so scared of falling short that she had lashed out. She had thought she was protecting them both by ending it, but now it felt like she had only destroyed the best thing she’d ever had.

The quad was still, but her mind was anything but. Every line of Bored replayed in her head, the lyrics that had once felt like armor now cutting her like glass.

“Love ’til the end of the road, then I tend to get bored...”

The words had been true when she wrote them. At least, she had believed they were true. But now, sitting here alone, she realized how wrong she’d been. She wasn’t bored. She wasn’t indifferent. She was miserable.

Her hand drifted to her pocket, pulling out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Y/N’s name in her contacts. The urge to call, to apologize, to beg for another chance burned in her chest.

But what could she even say? I’m sorry for being a coward. I’m sorry for not seeing what I had until it was too late.

She opened her messages anyway, scrolling aimlessly through old chats. Y/N’s name sat near the top of her contacts, untouched since the day she had ended things. There was no new message waiting, no unread text to give her a sliver of hope.

She didn’t need to open their conversation to remember how it ended. She had ended it in person, face to face.

She remembered Y/N standing in front of her on the courtyard bench where they’d often met between classes, her arms crossed, her expression guarded yet hopeful. The question had come softly, without accusation:

“Ning, is something wrong? You’ve been... distant.”

Ningning had tried to shrug it off, playing the part of someone too preoccupied to care. “I’ve just been busy,” she’d said, her voice clipped.

But Y/N hadn’t let it go. “You’re canceling plans, avoiding me. Did I do something wrong?”

The crack in Y/N’s voice had nearly undone her, but Ningning had held firm. She had to.

“It’s not about you,” Ningning had replied after a long pause, avoiding Y/N’s gaze. “I just... I don’t think I can give you what you want.”

Y/N’s face had fallen, confusion and hurt flashing across her features. “What does that mean?”

Ningning had stood abruptly, running a hand through her hair as though she could smooth out the knots tightening in her chest. “It means you’re getting too attached,” she’d snapped, her voice rising defensively. “I didn’t sign up for this, Y/N. I’m not looking for something serious.”

Even now, sitting alone in the cold glow of the campus streetlights, she could still see the look on Y/N’s face as her words landed—the shock, the disbelief, and the crushing realization that followed.

Y/N had stood there, her shoulders stiff and her chin trembling, holding back tears. “You could have told me that from the start,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Instead of letting me believe this meant something.”

Ningning had meant to respond, maybe even apologize, but the words had refused to come. All she could manage was a hollow echo of the line she had clung to like a shield: “You knew what this was, Y/N. Don’t act like I promised you forever.”

The memory struck Ningning like a blow, and she doubled over on the bench, her head in her hands.

Now, sitting alone on the bench, Ningning could still see the scene as clearly as if it were happening all over again. She could still feel the lump in her throat, the gnawing ache in her chest as she had watched Y/N leave, knowing she had just let go of something irreplaceable.

Her phone slipped from her hands, landing softly on the bench beside her. She pressed her palms to her face, her breathing shaky as tears threatened to spill.

“I miss you,” she whispered, the words breaking like a confession in the quiet night. “God, I miss you so much.”

The silence around her offered no comfort, only amplifying the emptiness she felt. She had tried to move on, tried to channel her feelings into the song, but it hadn’t worked.

The song was everywhere, on playlists, in cafés, on the lips of people she passed, but none of it mattered. Its success felt meaningless without Y/N.

The worst part was knowing she had done this to herself. She had pushed Y/N away, convinced it was the right thing to do, but now she wasn’t sure she even knew how to fix it.

As the first tear slipped down her cheek, Ningning let herself cry. For the first time since their fight, she didn’t try to push the feelings away. She let herself feel the weight of it, the unbearable ache of missing someone who had once felt like home.

The world around her blurred, the quiet hum of the campus fading as her emotions overwhelmed her. She didn’t know how long she sat there, her tears soaking into her sleeves, but for the first time in weeks, she stopped pretending she was okay.

The song hadn’t been meant for the world, it had been meant for herself. She had written it thinking that putting her feelings into words, into melodies, would help her let go of them. She had hoped it would be an exorcism, a way to purge the ache in her chest and move on.

But now, as she sat alone on that bench, she saw how wrong she had been. The song hadn’t taken the feelings away. It had only magnified them. Every lyric, every melody, was her running from the truth.

And she wondered if Y/N, wherever she was, had heard it, and if she’d felt even a fraction of the emotions Ningning had tried to hide.

The song’s lyrics again played in her mind as she rose from the bench, the melody haunting her steps as she made her way back toward the dorms. Her feet felt heavy, each step a reminder of the ache in her chest that refused to fade.

She barely slept that night, her thoughts a relentless spiral of memories and regrets. By the time her alarm blared the next morning, Ningning felt like she’d been awake for hours, her body sluggish as she forced herself to get ready for the day.

Ningning burst through the doors of the lecture hall, her bag half zipped and her papers spilling onto the floor. A few heads turned her way, some with mild annoyance, as she scrambled to gather her belongings.

“Sorry,” she mumbled under her breath, avoiding eye contact as she hurried to an empty seat in the back. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but her mind was already elsewhere.

She pulled out a notebook and pen, but her hand stilled after the first few lines of the professor’s lecture. The words on the board blurred, her thoughts drifting to Y/N. She imagined the way Y/N used to say her name, soft and teasing, her voice carrying a warmth that Ningning hadn’t appreciated enough at the time.

Her pen began to move across the page, not writing notes but doodling aimless shapes in the margins. Flowers, stars, anything to distract herself. But even then, her mind betrayed her, filling the empty space with memories of Y/N’s smile, the way it lit up her whole face when she laughed.

A sharp cough snapped Ningning back to the present. She glanced up to find the professor’s eyes briefly meeting hers before moving on. Heat flushed her face again, and she quickly closed her notebook, pretending to follow along.

The class ended, and Ningning shoved her things into her bag, barely paying attention as she bumped into a few classmates on her way out. The hallway buzzed with chatter, the usual post-lecture hum of voices, but Ningning moved through it like a ghost, her mind clouded with thoughts she couldn’t shake.

She stepped into the quad, hoping for a moment of calm in the open air. The sun was warm on her skin, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees lining the path. For a brief second, she allowed herself to breathe.

And then she saw her.

Y/N sat under the large oak tree near the center of the quad, her back resting against the trunk. Chaewon and Yunjin flanked her, laughing at something Yunjin had just said. Y/N was laughing too, her head tilted back, the sound light and infectious.

Ningning froze mid step, her heart plummeting into her stomach. It felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs.

She hadn’t seen Y/N in weeks, not up close like this. The sight of her, her radiant smile, the way her hair caught the sunlight, was almost too much to bear. Y/N looked... happy. And it wasn’t Ningning who had put that smile on her face.

Her first instinct was to approach her, to cross the quad and find a way to talk. But before she could take a step, her doubts crept in. What would she even say? I miss you? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean any of it?

She couldn’t do it.

Before Y/N could notice her, Ningning ducked behind the nearest tree, pressing her back against the rough bark. She closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to slow down. The urge to look again was unbearable, but she forced herself to stay hidden.

The sound of Y/N’s laughter drifted to her, faint but unmistakable. Ningning peeked around the tree, just for a moment, and her chest tightened at the sight. Y/N was leaning forward slightly, her hand brushing against Chaewon’s as she spoke, her expression animated.

Jealousy twisted in Ningning’s gut, sharp and unforgiving. She hated herself for feeling it, knowing she had no right. Y/N had every reason to move on, to surround herself with people who wouldn’t push her away.

But the thought of Y/N finding happiness without her was unbearable.

Ningning bit her lip, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She stayed hidden until Y/N and her friends gathered their things and walked away, their laughter fading into the distance. Only then did Ningning step out from behind the tree, her legs trembling as she continued toward her next class.

Later, Ningning sat at a corner table in the café, her tray untouched in front of her. The low hum of conversations filled the air, punctuated by the clinking of mugs and the hiss of the espresso machine. Aeri and Minjeong sat across from her, animatedly discussing their latest group project, but their words barely registered.

Ningning stared down at her plate, her fork idly pushing a piece of lettuce back and forth. Her stomach felt hollow, but the thought of eating made her nauseous.

“Ning,” Minjeong said, her tone tinged with concern. “Are you even listening?”

Ningning blinked, looking up as if startled out of a dream. “What?”

Minjeong exchanged a glance with Aeri before leaning forward. “I asked if you’re okay. You’ve been... off lately.”

“I’m fine,” Ningning said quickly, her voice tight. She picked up her fork and stabbed at her salad, hoping it would make her look convincing. “Just tired, that’s all.”

Minjeong frowned, her skepticism clear. “You’ve been tired for weeks. Is something going on?”

Aeri nudged Minjeong with her elbow, cutting her off. “Let it go. She’ll talk when she’s ready.”

Ningning felt a pang of guilt as Minjeong sat back, muttering under her breath. She knew her friends were trying to help, but the thought of explaining everything, the fight, the regret, the way she couldn’t stop thinking about Y/N, was unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” Ningning mumbled, her eyes fixed on her tray. “I’m just... distracted. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Aeri tilted her head, studying Ningning with a sharpness that made her squirm. “You sure that’s all it is?”

Ningning forced a smile, though it felt like her face might crack under the strain. “Yeah. Promise.”

Aeri didn’t look convinced, but she let it go, turning the conversation back to Minjeong. Ningning nodded along absently as they talked, her gaze drifting to the phone sitting on the edge of the table.

Y/N’s contact sat pinned at the top of her messages now. Ningning’s chest tightened as she stared at it, her fingers itching to pick it up, to type something, anything.

But what could she say that would make a difference?

She pulled her hand back, letting the phone sit untouched. The noise of the café pressed in around her, but Ningning felt utterly alone.

Later Ningning left feeling more exhausted than ever, the weight of her friends’ unspoken concerns lingering in the pit of her stomach. She had promised herself that she’d keep it together, but lately, even the smallest interactions felt like a struggle.

The next few days passed in a haze. Her routines blurred together, classes she barely paid attention to, meals she didn’t taste, music sessions that felt hollow. The song’s success continued to ripple through campus, but Ningning barely acknowledged it. The praise that had once thrilled her now felt meaningless.

Her friends noticed. Of course, they noticed.

So when Aeri texted her to meet up for coffee with Minjeong and Jimin, Ningning felt a flicker of apprehension. She knew they would ask questions. They always did. And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep dodging them.

By the time she reached the agreed place, she was running late, her mind already spinning excuses.

The café was quiet, the midday rush long gone. The faint hum of soft jazz played over the speakers, mingling with the rhythmic clink of cups and the occasional muted laugh from a nearby table. The warm scent of coffee and pastries filled the air, but for Ningning, the atmosphere felt anything but comforting.

Aeri, Minjeong, and Jimin sat at a corner table by the window, their drinks half-finished, their conversation subdued. They weren’t laughing, weren’t chatting like they usually did. Instead, their focus was fixed on the door, their expressions tight with concern.

When Ningning finally walked in, their gazes snapped toward her in unison. She hesitated in the doorway, her heart sinking as she caught the looks they exchanged. This wasn’t going to be a casual hangout; she could feel it already.

Sliding into the seat across from them, Ningning dropped her bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Sorry,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on the table. “Lost track of time.”

Aeri leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she studied Ningning with a raised eyebrow. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Ningning’s hand shot up to her face instinctively, as if she could smooth away the evidence of her exhaustion. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, forcing a weak smile. “Just a lot on my plate right now.”

“Yeah, we can tell,” Jimin said dryly, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. “Look, we’ve been giving you space because we figured you’d come to us when you were ready, but you’re not getting better. You’re getting worse.”

Minjeong nodded, her voice softer but no less insistent. “We’re worried about you, Ning. You’ve been... off for weeks now.”

Ningning let out a short, strained laugh, her fingers toying with the edge of her sleeve. “What, do I need an intervention now? Relax, I’m fine. Just tired.”

The words felt hollow even as she said them, and judging by the silence that followed, they hadn’t convinced anyone.

Aeri leaned forward, her expression unusually serious. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the tension like a blade. “You’re not fine, and we’re done pretending you are. Talk to us.”

Ningning shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her hands gripping the edge of the table. She could feel their eyes on her, the weight of their concern pressing down like a lead blanket.

“It’s nothing,” she said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just... stuff. I’ll figure it out.”

Minjeong frowned, leaning closer. “Does this have anything to do with Y/N?”

The question hit like a lightning strike. Ningning froze, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t answer right away, but her reaction was enough.

Jimin leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed and her tone pointed. “You haven’t been the same since you broke things off with her. Have you even tried reaching out?”

Ningning’s fingers curled into fists in her lap, her jaw tightening. “It’s better this way,” she muttered, avoiding their gazes.

“Better for who?” Aeri asked, her tone sharp but not unkind.

“For her,” Ningning snapped, her voice cracking slightly. She swallowed hard, lowering her gaze. “I’m doing what’s best for her. She deserves better than me.”

Minjeong’s voice softened, her eyes searching Ningning’s face. “Is that really how you feel? Or is that just what you’re telling yourself?”

The question hung in the air, and Ningning struggled to find a response. She could feel the walls she had built around herself beginning to crumble under the weight of their words.

Jimin’s gaze was steady, her tone matter of fact as she broke the silence. “You’re miserable, Ning. Don’t act like you’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Ningning shot back, her voice rising slightly.

“No, you’re not,” Aeri said firmly, leaning forward. “You’re barely holding it together, and it’s not just affecting you. It’s affecting all of us. We’re worried about you, Ning. Whatever you’re carrying, it’s too much for you to handle alone.”

Ningning’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “It’s not your problem,” she muttered, her voice sharp and defensive.

“It is when we care about you,” Minjeong said softly. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Jimin tilted her head, her voice cutting through Ningning’s resistance. “You think pushing everyone away is helping? You think hiding from how you feel is going to make it go away?”

“It’s not that simple!” Ningning snapped, her voice trembling. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make us understand,” Aeri said, her voice softer now but still resolute. “We’re here, Ning. Stop running and talk to us.”

Ningning’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as the weight of their concern pressed down on her. She looked at each of them in turn, their faces filled with quiet determination, and for the first time, she felt the walls she had built start to give way.

Her hands trembled as she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I hurt her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with regret. Ningning blinked rapidly, her vision blurring as tears welled up in her eyes. “I hurt her, and I can’t take it back. I pushed her away because I thought it was the right thing to do, but... but now, all I can think about is how much I messed up.”

Minjeong reached across the table, her hand brushing lightly against Ningning’s arm. “You made a mistake,” she said gently. “That doesn’t mean it’s the end.”

Ningning shook her head, her voice breaking. “You don’t get it. I’m the one who ruined everything. She trusted me, and I... I threw it all away because I was scared. Scared of screwing it up, scared of letting her get too close.”

Jimin leaned back, her voice softer now but still firm. “So instead of letting her in, you broke it off? That’s not protecting her, Ning. That’s protecting yourself.”

The words cut deep, and Ningning’s defenses crumbled completely. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly swiped it away, but the floodgates had opened.

“She’s better off without me,” Ningning whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t give her what she needs. I’ll just mess it up again, and I can’t... I can’t put her through that.”

Aeri spoke then, her tone steady but kind. “You’re not giving her a choice, Ning. You decided for her, and now you’re both hurting because of it.”

Ningning’s shoulders shook as she buried her face in her hands, her tears coming freely now. She felt Aeri’s hand on her back, a steady presence that didn’t demand anything from her.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Minjeong said gently. “But it’s not okay to let fear control you. You can’t keep running from this, Ning.”

Jimin nodded, her voice softer than before. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. But you owe it to yourself, and to her to at least try.”

Ningning sniffled, lifting her head to look at her friends through tear-filled eyes. Their expressions were filled with quiet support, no judgment, just an unwavering belief that she could face this.

The weight of her conversation with Aeri, Jimin, and Minjeong lingered in Ningning’s chest as she walked across campus the next morning. The air was brisk, carrying the scent of damp earth from a recent rain, but it did little to clear her thoughts.

Her friends had been right, she couldn’t keep running. But knowing that and acting on it were two different things. She wasn’t ready to face Y/N yet. Every time she thought about reaching out, the fear of rejection, the fear of making things worse, held her back.

She sighed, pulling her bag tighter over her shoulder as she approached her next class. The last thing she needed was to spiral in front of her classmates.

But as she rounded the corner to the lecture hall, she froze. Yunjin and Chaewon were waiting by the door, their arms crossed and their expressions unreadable.

Ningning’s heart sank.

“Uh, hey,” she said cautiously, offering a weak smile.

Yunjin raised an eyebrow, her tone sharp. “We need to talk.”

Ningning hesitated, her gaze darting to the open classroom door like it was a lifeline. Her heart pounded as if it could somehow drown out the growing tension in the air. She felt cornered, exposed, and the sharp looks Yunjin and Chaewon were giving her only made it worse.

Before she could make a move, Yunjin stepped forward, her stance unyielding.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Yunjin said firmly. Her voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the edge in her tone.

Ningning’s stomach churned as the words sank in. Her fingers fumbled with the strap of her bag, and she looked to Chaewon, silently hoping for an out.

Chaewon placed a calming hand on Yunjin’s shoulder, her expression softer but no less resolute. “We’re not here to fight,” she said, her voice measured. “We just want answers.”

Ningning sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the moment. “Answers to what?” she asked, though the dread creeping into her chest told her she already knew.

“To why you hurt Y/N,” Yunjin said bluntly, her gaze cutting through Ningning’s defenses. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put her through?”

Ningning flinched, the accusation landing like a physical blow. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. The memory of Y/N’s hurt expression flashed in her mind, twisting her stomach into knots.

“I... I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But you did,” Chaewon interjected, her voice steady but heavy with meaning. “She’s been trying to move on, but it’s obvious she’s still hurting. And honestly? So are you.”

Ningning felt the heat rising in her cheeks, a mix of shame and defensiveness bubbling up inside her. Her grip on her bag tightened, her knuckles white.

“I’m fine,” she said tersely, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

“No, you’re not,” Yunjin snapped, her words cutting through Ningning’s facade. “We’ve seen how you’ve been acting, like a mess, avoiding everyone, barely holding it together.” She leaned in slightly, her tone biting but not unkind. “If you’re fine, then I’m a pop star.”

The last comment hung in the air, both sharp and oddly humorous, but Ningning couldn’t bring herself to respond. Her throat felt tight, and her chest ached with the weight of her emotions. She tried to hold her ground, but the truth was written all over her face, and Yunjin and Chaewon weren’t letting her run from it.

Ningning’s temper flared, the heat of frustration rising to her face. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “I don’t see how this is any of your business.”

Her hands gripped the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. The tension coiling in her chest felt unbearable, and lashing out was the only release she could find.

Yunjin didn’t back down. Instead, she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing with a mix of anger and determination. “It’s my business because Y/N is my friend,” she said, her voice unwavering. “She’s been there for me when I needed her, and I’m not going to stand by and watch her suffer because you can’t get your act together.”

The words struck a nerve, and Ningning’s jaw clenched as she fought to maintain her composure. She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes, but she refused to let it show.

Chaewon sighed, stepping slightly between them, her voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to attack you, Ningning,” she said, her eyes searching Ningning’s face. “But you can’t keep pretending this didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

Ningning shook her head, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. “I don’t owe you anything,” she muttered, her fists curling at her sides.

“You don’t owe us anything,” Yunjin said, her tone softening slightly but losing none of its weight. “But you owe it to Y/N, and to yourself, to stop running and be honest about how you feel.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Ningning’s throat tightened, her defenses wavering as the truth pressed against her like a physical weight. Her voice cracked as she shot back, “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel like crap every single day for what I did?”

Chaewon placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, her voice soothing. “Then why not do something about it? Running away isn’t making it better, it’s only making it worse.”

“I’m scared, okay?” Ningning’s voice broke completely, and she felt the first sting of tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can.”

Yunjin’s gaze softened, and she let out a sigh, her arms uncrossing. “Ning, no one’s saying it’ll be easy. But if you care about her even half as much as we think you do, then you owe it to her, and to yourself to try.”

Chaewon nodded, her tone kind but firm. “We’re not against you, Ningning. We’re trying to help you.”

Ningning blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. The vulnerability she had been running from for so long felt like it was finally catching up to her, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to keep holding it off.

Ningning’s facade cracked at the words, her composure slipping as the emotions she had been suppressing clawed their way to the surface. Her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven. She tried to hold it together, but the pressure was too much.

“You think it’s that easy?” she snapped, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and despair. Her hands balled into fists at her sides as she glared at Yunjin, though her expression was more pleading than hostile. “You think I don’t want to fix this? I don’t even know where to start!”

Her words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered.

Yunjin’s sharp expression softened slightly, though her stance remained firm. She took a step back, giving Ningning space, but her voice carried the same unwavering conviction. “You start by being honest,” she said simply. “With her, and with yourself.”

The directness of the statement left Ningning momentarily speechless. She looked down, her breathing shaky as her thoughts swirled chaotically.

Chaewon stepped closer, her voice gentle but resolute. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Ningning opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat, the weight of them too much to bear. Her lips parted in a silent attempt to speak, but no sound came. Instead, her eyes burned with unshed tears as she looked away, her gaze fixed on the ground.

The lump in her throat grew tighter, and the silence between them stretched until Yunjin broke it.

“You love her, don’t you?” Yunjin’s voice was softer now, almost tender, but the question hit like a punch to the gut.

The weight of the truth she had been avoiding pressed down on Ningning, and her shoulders sagged under its heaviness. She stumbled back, sinking onto the nearest bench as her defenses crumbled entirely.

Her hands trembled as they came up to cover her face, and her voice was thick with emotion when she finally spoke. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her words barely audible. “I’m scared. What if I mess it up again? What if she’s better off without me?”

Her confession lingered in the air, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, the only sound was her quiet, uneven breathing.

Chaewon crouched down in front of her, resting a comforting hand on Ningning’s knee. Her voice was steady and reassuring, each word deliberate. “You won’t know unless you try. And I think she deserves to hear the truth, from you, not from anyone else.”

Ningning lowered her hands slightly, her tear-streaked face finally visible. She blinked at Chaewon, her lips trembling as she tried to absorb the words.

“What if it’s too late?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Yunjin stepped forward, her tone softer but still firm. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. But you can’t keep running from this, Ning. You owe it to both of you to face it, no matter how scary it feels.”

Ningning’s breathing slowed as the weight of their words settled over her. The fear that had been consuming her didn’t vanish, but for the first time, she felt a faint glimmer of possibility. Of hope.

Yunjin sighed, leaning back slightly. Her expression softened, though her tone remained firm. “Look, you don’t have to figure it all out right now,” she said, her voice measured. “But you need to talk to her. Be honest about how you feel, even if it’s messy.”

Ningning swallowed hard, the weight of the words sinking into her chest. Be honest. The very thought made her stomach churn. Honesty meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant opening herself up to the possibility of rejection. Or worse, hurting Y/N again.

Chaewon nodded, stepping closer with a look of quiet determination. “We’ll help you,” she said gently. “We can set up a time for you to talk to her, somewhere private, where you won’t feel pressured. Somewhere you can just... be real with her.”

Ningning’s heart pounded as the thought took root. Her mind raced with the possibilities, each one more nerve-wracking than the last. What would she even say? How could she begin to fix the damage she’d caused?

But as terrifying as the thought of facing Y/N was, the alternative, living with the regret of never trying, was worse. The ache in her chest, the gnawing sense of emptiness that had consumed her since the day she pushed Y/N away, was unbearable.

Her gaze flickered between Yunjin and Chaewon, both of them watching her with expectant yet supportive eyes. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap as she finally nodded.

“Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do it.”

The words felt fragile, as if they might shatter under the weight of her doubt, but as they hung in the air, a small wave of relief washed over her.

Yunjin’s expression softened into a small smile, a mix of approval and reassurance. “Good. Because it’s about time,” she said, her tone lighter now but still carrying the weight of their earlier conversation.

Chaewon crouched down slightly, meeting Ningning’s gaze as she gently patted her shoulder. “You’re not alone in this,” she said, her voice steady and full of warmth. “We’ll be here every step of the way.”

The simple gesture, Chaewon’s hand on her shoulder, the sincerity in her voice, was enough to crack through Ningning’s lingering doubt. For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t dared to hope for: a glimmer of hope.

It wasn’t going to be easy. She knew that. But as she looked at Yunjin and Chaewon, their expressions filled with quiet confidence in her, she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to make things right.

The knot in her chest loosened slightly, and she let out a shaky breath. “Thank you,” she murmured, the words carrying a weight of gratitude she couldn’t fully express.

Chaewon smiled softly, standing back up and gesturing toward the hallway. “You’ve got this, Ningning. And when you’re ready, we’ll help you figure out the next step.”

Yunjin gave a playful nudge to Ningning’s shoulder as they turned to leave. “And don’t overthink it too much,” she said, her tone teasing but still supportive. “You’ve already made it this far. The hard part’s just beginning, but you’re tougher than you think.”

Ningning couldn’t bring herself to smile fully, but the faint curve of her lips was enough. As she watched her friends walk ahead, she realized that while the path ahead was uncertain, she wasn’t walking it alone.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Minds 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson

Summary: You start a new job after being fired as a programmer and it's more than you could have anticipated. (maid AU)

Note: I should stop.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Yeah, mom, I got the job,” you huff. “On my way right now. You really think Auntie would say no?” 

“I know my sister,” your mother harrumphs from the other end. “She doesn’t do favours.” 

“I mean, couldn’t she just give me some money instead of making me scrub floors,” you joke to the deathly silent speaker. “Alright, cool, well, guess I should go. I’m here.” 

“Good luck,” your mom sighs. “Please don’t mess this up. Your father and I already postponed our vacation once.” 

“I won’t,” you croak, deflated by the reminder. “Love ya.” 

She hangs up without returning the sentiment. Yep, she’s still mad about that. You didn’t ask to be fired. Actually, you worked overtime and bent over backwards just to avoid the fate. It happened anyways. Every company in the state culled their numbers. Looks like your programming degree is now as coveted as English Lit. 

You look up at the Upper East Side townhouse and suck your teeth. It’s just another reminder of everything you don’t have. Of everything you lost. Your order-in pad thai and sushi have given way to peanut butter on stale bread and canned soups. You can go without, it just stinks. 

This should help. Aunt Jan says the job pays well if you do a good job. The more clients you can pick up, the better. For now, you’re starting out with one. Probation, she calls it. Even if your mom hates her sister, they’re more alike than she cares to admit. 

You grunt as you swing the bucket of cleaning supplies with your steps up the concrete steps. The compact vacuum strapped to your back doesn’t aid in your struggle to maintain your balance. You couldn’t afford the rental fee for the company car so you schlupped everything here on the subway. Not ideal. 

You put the kit down and tap the buzzer, struggling to catch your breath. There’s no answer. Jan said that might happen. Try again and if there’s no answer, let yourself in. 

It’s not that complex, is it? You got through coding and calculus. You can figure out all those attachments for the vacuum. You hit the button again. 

“Ah, welcome lady maid, you’ve come at last,” the booming lilted voice crackles from the speaker. You flinch. There’s a lens there too. You try to smile. 

“Uh, hi,” you reply. “I was sent by the Agency.” 

“Yes, yes, as Stark recommended. Please, come in. Ehhhh, which button....” 

The door clicks and beeps as it unlocks. Wonderful. The blind leading the blind. That might be better. You definitely don’t need a stickler pointing out the streaks on the windows. 

You push the door open and heave the bucket over the threshold. You take off your shoes and unhook the vacuum from your back. Should you start with the instructions in the app or go find your new boss? 

You wander further in, sheepish as you look around the interior. There’s red satin strewn over the back of the French-style sofa and clunky boots beside it. And there’s a few takeout containers piled across from the large television. Oh, right, it definitely is a man. 

“Lady maid? Is that you?” The voice calls through the doorway to your right. 

You slowly follow it as you hear clinking from within. You peek into the kitchen and cry out at the scene. You don’t mean to stare at the naked ass but it’s the first thing that you see. The large man, with blond hair spilling past his shoulders, is nonchalant as he loads the coffee maker. Entirely naked! 

“Uhhhhh.” Your voice unfurls dumbly and you bring your hand up to block your view. “Um. You—you're...” 

“Oh my, yes, I do forget myself,” he chortles and searches around. He grabs an apron and ties it around his waist. “In Asgard, the natural form is not stigmatized. Rather, we do much unfettered. Cook, clean, wrestle.” 

You reluctantly drop your hand as you’re face by the man and his immense chest. He’s huge. And familiar. He isn’t a man at all. He’s... 

“Thor?” You utter dumbly. 

“You know me? Did I perhaps save your cat?” He asks. 

“No, I saw you... on TV.” 

“Oh yes, how amusing. It was I!” He grins triumphantly. “They don’t always tell me when there are cameras.” 

“Hm,” you nod awkwardly. “I... should I just start.” 

“Ah, diligent maid, how admirable. To work so earnestly,” he praises and turns to grab his cup as the machine quits grinding. His ass is still out as the apron only conceals his front. You’re not going to get hung up on it. He’s probably hung too. 

Wow. Wow. Keep your head above board. 

“I’ll start out there,” you point over your shoulder. 

“Whatever you like, lady maid.” 

You retreat and try not to picture his muscular ass or statuesque shoulders or bright blue eyes. It must be a godly trick. You’re not one of those fan girls. You’re not pathetic like that. 

You start in the living room. You open a bin bag and start to gather the containers. A fan of burritos, you see. You make your way around the surfaces. You should be methodic. Clutter first, then floors. 

You continue back into the entryway and organize the shoe rack. You hang the cloak left on the sofa and take the boots over to the mat. There’s several cloaks and many shoes and boots. The green satin holds your curiosity. You didn’t think that was his colour. 

You carry on through each room, avoiding the kitchen as long as you can. You go into the bathroom, bracing yourself. You wipe off an errant glop of toothpaste and some darker hair strands near the drain. Those are black, not blond. 

A groan tickles your ear and you glance over as a shadow steps into the doorway. The lithe figure stretches his arms above him as he tilts his head back, arching so his chest puffs out and his... bits dangle freely. You squeal and cover your eyes. 

“Oh god!” You cry out. 

“So I am,” the other Asgardian sweeps in without bother, brushing by you as he approaches the toilet. 

“Uhhhh, oh, oh,” you squeak as he flips up the lid. “Jeez!” 

You hurry out of the bathroom and swing the door shut behind you as his stream hits the water loudly. You stand on the other side, breathless in shock. That was him. Loki!

You don’t know what’s more off putting. The shameless nudity or that you’ve been assigned to clean up after two gods. Not just gods, avengers. Well, at least Thor. 

It doesn’t matter. You’re here to clean, so keep your eyes and your brain under control. You don’t need Aunt Jan getting a complaint, even if this is the last job you wanted. 

[soulfulazrael]

"Media literacy" in HB fanbase. OH MY GOD is r/HelluvaBoss dumb. Also Vassago.

I made a mistake

Well 2. One of them is using this gif given recent... funny things with certain VA, but the other, relevant one is visiting the dreaded r/HelluvaBoss

Now I do not engage in discussion there. It will lead nowhere as most of you will realize the moment you will see what I have to show you, but first let's talk about a spectacular case of confused character writing that is Vassago.

I wont discuss who he is in Demonology. That is kind of irrelevant because this show barely follows any of it anyway. What is important is their appearance in Mastermind as the sole defender of Stolas's honor and all I can say is... Who the fuck are you?

And let's be honest. If none of us watched promotional material we would also ask ourselves the same thing. Who is this guy?

And it makes sense because suddenly at a very high point in the story this character is thrown at us as if we are not only supposed to know who this is, but also be amazed at that he defends Stolas. His one friend... brother... lover... someone who comes to his aid among all the other Goetias.

And there was no build up to this character, there was no name drop of him before, no flashback, not even a peep that would relate in ANY way to his character and all we are left with are questions and not the good kind. Why is he for instance speaking spanish in between english? Why is he so important? Why is he the only one in Stolas's corner? Why is he in this pivotal moment that is meant to cap off the entire season's story?

But not to worry because bright people from a beautiful place that is r/HelluvaBoss come to our aid to help our 'media illiteracy'

Do I even have to say anything? I mean I do, but still... come on.

Let us first address top comment "He will be important later". I am sorry, but what kind of justification is that? When is that later? 3rd season? Because if so then this is terrible way of introducing character that is going to be important in 3rd season. Because this show already presents him as if he has been part of the story for a while and gives him a prominent role (as prominent as like 5 lines are) like there was some kind of foreshadowing towards him being the only one to defend Stolas.

There was not. Vassago is put in a role that would be more fitting for character like Ozzie. You know. Actually important character that was given previously some screentime and has established relationship with the main cast who can stand in this proceeding and do SOMETHING aside from looking down at his phone like an average 12 year old today during Christmas Dinner.

And that is the thing. Such a role in an episode should NOT be given to completely new character. This is a role that should be given to already pre established character that AT LEAST is mentioned by word. Like I dunno. With Stolas maybe wondering how Vassago is doing or how maybe at some point he mentions him. SOMETHING. Dropping this character so suddenly in such a crucial moment of the story is just very strange. In a way same goes for Satan who also had about nothing about him besides I believe Verosika episode having him mentioned... one line... that is the level of foreshadow we are doing here.

And then there is that other comment that talks about "media literacy". You want to add a new character? How about do it ANYWHERE ELSE than a crucial part of it. Because those moments are not good for introductions of new parts of main cast without any prior mention of them. Those moments are meant to be culmination of everything that came before. Leave intros for before and/or after.

And then we have some of this

I love those people man. All talking about "media literacy" or "anti-intelectualism". Just... AAAAGH! God. Yeah. You are so smart. You understand writing so well.

Let's just put it into perspective. This is as if Verosika's first appearance would be in Apology Tour as one of the people Blitzo hurt and we are suddenly supposed to care for her even though she never showed up or was mentioned before. That would be STUPID right?

Well that's what they did with Vassago. Apparently VERY important character to Stolas introduced haphazardly during climax of the Season in a prominent role of being the only one who defends him even though not only is this part better suited for other character that is there, but also this role is absolutely wasted because he has about 5 goddamn lines. And it is telling how much in that first image the long comment does mostly just theorizing because we know absolutely NOTHING about this character and people are already supposed to be hyped for him despite that he was introduced so quickly. Also take a load of this.

Yeah. Because a character introduced at the very start of the book is the same as goddamn Vassago. In fact this is like Gandalf being introduced in Moria. Wouldn't that be just dumb? And you know what's sad? This.

Those people actually bring up good points. And they either no attention or get downvoted. Why? Because critical thinking is a sin on that subreddit. The first one especially (upvoted by me now BTW). Just... ugh...

This is the state of people on r/HelluvaBoss. If you value your braincells do NOT go to that damn place. There is about as much critical thinking and praised "media literacy" as there is on ragebait thread on twatter spouted by some idiot talking about how "west has fallen" because woman.

It's stupid. And makes me dumber just thinking about it. Jesus. This fanbase man. It's amazing.

Now there are smart people in this fanbase. There are good people in it. There are very much great, talented people in it. And some of those people who I mentioned who's comments hurt my brain could be talented and could be smart, but are just not about this part of HB. But considering what they are saying... I needed to vent about this because this hurts to see.

And the worst part is that Viv probably likes that this fanbase is like this. No critical thinking or doubts. Just spouting insults. Making headcanons to counter criticism and refusal to leave their echo chamber.

It's sad. Because not only I feel bad for them, but I feel bad for the show, because with fans like those how could it EVER improve? To many of those probably the only time to say anything critical is when it's all over. But at that point... who cares?

Also do not think I am some pillar of 'media literacy' or 'intellectualism'. I am not. I am really not. I am just passionate about writing and those people cause me headaches.

[truelovepolinator]

The Chaos of the "Friends to Lovers" Quote & the Alleged Antonia Xmas Photos

I honestly have so many thoughts about Nicola and Luke that I usually don't even know where to start. As a result, I often end up saying nothing. Other folks are already talking about things so eloquently, and even when I don't entirely agree, I agree enough that I like it, move on, and wonder whether it's worth chiming in with my takes.

But today I do feel like tackling yesterday's craziness - the newly discovered article (and those hot photos) and the weirdness that erupted with the alleged family photo(s?) with Antonia.

This was a lot of chaos and excitement for one day and I found myself drowning a bit in the swell of it all.

Part of me was as thrilled as everyone to read those words that Luke said about friends to lovers, and also what Nic said about Luke making everything better. This story seemed to just confirm and crystallize everything I ever thought, that all of us true believers have thought. He said it. He said it right out loud.

But then there was the part of me that couldn't help but question it. Was it taken slightly out of a context that might have softened the meaning had it been included? Had the translation from English (Luke's original words) to Spanish back to English slightly tweaked the thought or expression of the thought in a way that implied slightly more than he originally intended?

Also, why would he/they just admit everything fully out in the open for this one random interview with a Chilean reporter, then retreat and go back to pretending to be just friends everywhere else (even if they never said "just" friends).

Then again, a point both for and against the accuracy of the implication of this quote is the fact that he came very close to saying this several other times. About how appropriate it felt that Polin was friends to lovers that they were friends... and he'd just sort of trail off or not quite continue the thought. So that seemed to make it both more probable that he might have inadvertently finished the thought one time, and also less probable that he would have said it so explicitly this one time when he never did any other time. Could the original translation have taken liberties in finishing the thought?

Bottom line, who knows? And I found myself wondering WHY I was wondering when, at the end of the day, I still totally believe they're together. So why question this quote so hard?

Perhaps there's just something inherently dangerous about allowing myself to believe they (even inadvertently) confirmed it. I already believe. I really do. So why does the thought of him having actually said it out loud feel so chaotic? Why was everyone whipped into a frenzy by this line when we could already see it? And why is this story just now making its way into our collective consciousness?

There's so much about this ship that doesn't make a lot of sense. I've had a few fictional ships I've loved, but I have never felt this much attachment to a celebrity couple before. Not even close. I'm sure I never will again. They are so special, and their connection is so unusual and obvious that it's hypnotic and magical. It feels like a privilege to witness such a magical and precious thing.

But perhaps it is precisely because their connection feels so magical and precious that it feels more elusive. For Luke to explicitly confirm what we all saw feels like very nearly stepping onto the solid ground of a previously misty, distant shore. But then, they took it back with every subsequent (and prior) interview, leaving us wobbly and unmoored.

And then the rumor of the Christmas photos with Antonia hit. I never saw these photos and only heard everything after the fact, so it's hard for me to draw conclusions. It sounds like the photos were inappropriately taken from a memorial page and not new, so not only were they disrespectful, but potentially also not remotely relevant to Luke's current relationship and life.

And even if she was with his family last year, there seem to be at least half a dozen explanations for that (just a friend or casual date with nowhere to go? Friend of his sister's? there at Christmas time, but for a different occasion and not actually "Christmas with the Newtons").

I also found myself confused by people insisting she was in the Maldives for work while others insisted she and her father were in a trailer somewhere? So which is it? Trailer Christmas with dad? Or dance gig in the Maldives? And perhaps most importantly, why does anyone know any of this because why is anyone following her, let alone her father, this closely?

I confess all of this chaos did drive me to check her stories and I saw the (apparently) Maldives videos. But I don't know what any of this proves.

I wrote extensively about my belief that Nic and Luke are together (see my blog: Nicola and Luke Are Absolutely Together and Have Been All Along and Here's How I Know), and that the relationship with Antonia has been a fake PR strategy to distract us all along. But I'd be lying if I said these little flare-ups don't make me wobble slightly in that boat as I continue trying to set foot on dry land. I don't feel like I know enough about how L & A met, how/if she's friends with his sister, what the deal is with that friend group, etc. And all those questions leave a tiny space for uncertainty.

Still, what's with the timing of that photo? The same day this story spreads like wildfire where Luke says OUT LOUD the very thing we've been wanting to hear and they've been trying to distract from? Seems to me a good PR agent who was paid to keep eyes off the real relationship might identify that as a moment to drop some confusing content and muddy the waters again. Don't want folks getting too close to the truth, after all.

The truth is, none of us can know the truth definitively because we don't know them. But again and again, when I look at the actual facts and the extensive evidence and crumbs, the only crumbs that fit together into a whole that makes sense are the Nic and Luke crumbs.

For the record, I have not a doubt in my mind that Nicola is *not* dating Jake. That one is crystal clear because after allowing some uncertainty to linger (part of the distraction strategy), they have all collectively shown us the truth.

Remember, Nicola has NEVER shared her love life publicly. All these photos with Jake are actually proof of a negative, that he is NOT her bf. Thinking that her photos with him are proof of their romantic relationship represents a fundamental lack of understanding of who Nicola is, let alone Jake and their shared friend group.

I do believe that she and Luke will go public eventually for two reasons. The least of these is for the fans. The fans want it so bad that one day they will relent and show us. But the more important reason is that when you find the one, and you love them with all your heart, you don't want to hide it forever. Live privately, yes, but not hide. When they feel settled and confident enough, and perhaps when the glare of the spotlight has died down enough, they will finally share. That's what I believe.

Could I be wrong? Of course. Could this hypothetical relationship with Antonia be real? I suppose. But if it is, it's the weirdest damn thing I ever saw. I will never get over the strangeness of the InStyle LA photos, and in particular, that one at the cafe with the white truck. There's something just inherently fake and fishy about the way their hypothetical relationship manifests. And since their pap photos, implied togetherness photos, and weird "likes" patterns all follow a classic PR fake relationship playbook, I have a hard time believing it.

Also, I feel much better about him with Nic than with Antonia, for a variety of reasons I won't go into because I don't want to spread hate.

If I am wrong, I will be heartbroken. I admit it. I believe in NicLuke. Lukola is my endgame. And I don't just think “someday.” I absolutely believe it's happening now. I made my case extensively in my prior blog. People seem to want to read the signs a million different ways, but all the signs I've seen point directly to Nicola and Luke being together now. So that's where I'm sticking.

Let the ship wobble. I'm not going anywhere.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

A Quiet Neighborhood - Chapter 2

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader Words count: 4180 Rating: + 18, MDNI Tags: POV second person, reader is female with female genitalia, wears dresses, heels and a bikini, has hair that can be tied up in a bun/ponytail, no other description is given, she doesn’t blush, smut, angst, kissing, dirty thoughts, masturbation, use of a sex toy, mention of infidelity, kinda Desperate Housewifes coded (uh, don’t judge, I love it), easter eggs in secondary character’s names (so you can have fun guessing which series/film they come from 👀), neighborhood dynamics, Carol, Molly and Alice are there. Mention of food, alcohol consumption, mention of poker game, some reader's thoughts marked in italics, swearing, Dave is a fucking menace. This takes place right after Chapter 1. A/N: Dave is finally back! First of all thank you so much for the interest you have shown in this series, I didn't expect it and it made me really happy 🥹 I hope you like this chapter, I was planning to release it earlier but I struggled a little bit with my writing. English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistake. No beta, I reread it myself, I really hope it makes sense. I would particularly like to thank @arcanefox207 , @milla-frenchy and @aurorawritestoescape for their support, encouragement and kindness. Love you, girls ♥️

Chapter 1 | Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Coming out of the bathroom everything feels too loud, ringing voice of people, music, clanging of glasses, it's all too much to bear with when all you need right now is silence to make up with your overwhelming feelings spinning in your head like a carousel gone wild.

“I need to get out of here” you think, heading toward the Horowitz' living room in brisk steps to retrieve your purse. 

Jane stops you in the track "Hey, where were you? We're having margarita, would you like some?"

You see him. behind Jane’s shoulder, through the door to the outside. He's back in the garden to his wife, holding an arm around her waist with a relaxed expression on his face, as if nothing has happened.

"I-uh-" 

"Just sip this time, don't throw it down like you did before" Jane looks at you amused "I don't want to hold your hair while you vomit in one of Walkers' fancy bathrooms"

You nervously laugh then you look at him again and it's infuriating, the way he just goes on with his life while you feel like you've been hit by a train.

Fucking worthy of an Oscar.

The temptation to go home takes you for a moment but then looking at him smiling seraphically you think, “Fuck it, I don't see why I should ruin my day for him.”

So you follow Jane into the garden to join the others.

“If he can play it cool I can too” you think ”nothing a nice margarita can't fix.”

You walk past him and see that he and his wife are talking to Edie and her new boyfriend.

He doesn't even look at you, as if you are back a figure in the background with the others.

Which actually makes sense; the opposite would be much stranger since in the eyes of everyone you are nothing more than mere neighbors.

“Dave, look, Carol left lipstick on your lips,” you hear Edie say giggling as you sit at the table with your friends, ”you two lovebirds, you're still so cute after so many years of marriage.”

You feel your heart jump into your throat but you try to maintain composure outside and greeting Susan and Emma that just arrived “fuck” you think, cursing Edie and her big mouth “Now she's going to realize it's not her lipstick, God, I'm so screwed”.

You talked to her before but now in your panic you can't even remember what lipstick she was wearing.

You smile quizzically at Gabby who hands you one of the margaritas a waiter just left at your table but you perk up your ears to catch whatever they're saying; for a moment it's all silent until you hear Carol's crystalline laughter.

You barely turn to observe them out of the corner of your eye as you take a sip of your cocktail and see that Carol is wearing a lipstick very similar to yours. You're not a church girl but right now you're literally praying that one stupid kiss doesn't make you the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

Damn you, Dave.

Carol pulls a tissue out of her purse and hands it to him.

Okay, she’s quiet. Or at least she seems to be.

And who would ever connect me and Dave anyway?

You shake yourself out of your thoughts when you hear Jane call your name “hey! are you still with us?”

You smile “yes, sorry, I was thinking about work, you know that presentation I have to give on Monday” and you squeeze into your shoulders “what were you saying?”

Jane rolls her eyes “ugh, work. I was saying we're meeting tomorrow afternoon at my house for poker, are you coming?”

“Of course I'm coming, and I plan to tear you all apart!”

Jane, Gabby, Susan and Emma all say in chorus “we'll see about that!”You laugh and sip on your margarita again trying to appease your nerves, the liquid slide cool down your throat and you savor the citrusy flavor on your tongue thinking "it's good. it's all good. I will cut that Dave bullshit out of my life and everything will be great"

The rest of the afternoon passes pleasantly, you drink another margarita while chatting with your friends, you grab some snacks from the buffet so you don't risk forcing Jane to hold your hair in the bathroom, and you feel like you have regained some mental stability.

Dave is still here, looking like the perfect picture of a man trying to spend quality time with his beloved wife.

They talk to neighbors, they laugh, she holds a hand in his tracing small concentric circles on his back.

All smooth, I can't believe it, you sigh as you finish your second margarita.

Ms. Horowitz goes between tables to tell you that anyone who wants can take advantage of the pool, all your friends thank her saying they will do so shortly, and you reply, “Oh,I don't have my bathing suit with me,” wondering if anyone has ever told you to bring it. From the way Jane looks at you with an amused expression you guess that yes, she had told you but you completely forgot in your frenzy to look good in front of Dave in your new shoes.

Being in a bathing suit in front of him is not something you could afford to contemplate and you can't do it now either so you try to shy away from her invitation as politely as you can, but Mrs. Horowitz presses you, “that's no problem, dear, we have dozens of bathing suits for our guests!”

“Of course. I forgot that if they wanted to they could swim in a pool full of money like Scrooge McDuck.”

At this point you can do nothing than accept.

Carlos and Rafael managed to disengage under the guise of joining Mr. Horowitz and other neighbors in the living room to watch whatever is going to be on the sports channel. And these are the moments when you wish you were someone who knows about sports.

“You can go to the pool house and change there, you will find swimsuits and towels in the closet,” Mrs. Horowitz chirps.

And so you do, you head for the pool house teetering on your new heels, thinking maybe you shouldn't swim at all because you're feeling a little tipsy.

“God, I really don't feel like it,” you say to Susan who is beside you, and she replies, ”oh come on, it will be fun!”

You already hear some splashing coming from the pool as you enter the little house.

It is luxuriously furnished like a real outhouse, there is a huge bed, a small kitchen, and a door on the right side that leads to a bathroom. Someone could actively live in here like a king.

Susan opens the closet that takes up the entire wall in front of the bed and finds dozens of bikinis and one-piece suits. “Jesus, they could open a swimsuit store with all this stuff.”

You laugh, tapping her on the side “make room” Susan pinches your arm “rude!” she sneers.

Emma, Jane and Gabrielle laugh. You choose a swimsuit as they take turns to change into the bathroom.

____________________________________

You walk out of the pool house wearing a black bikini, holding the towel wrapped around you. You chose the simplest model you could find that wasn't a one-piece swimsuit, because you always thought you looked like your grandmother in those.

You don't want to stand out but neither do you want to feel ridiculous at the idea of Dave seeing you.

You hope he has already gone home until you reach the pool and see him diving off the small diving board located on one of the short sides.

By now it's evening so several strings of small lights have been lit and hung directly above the pool like small fireflies floating in the air and scattered over the buffet and beverage gazebos.

There are also several garden street lamps around, but the small lights create an enchanting atmosphere.

Mr. and Mrs. Horowitz really know how to throw a great party.

Dave's back looks golden as you watch him disappear into the water, his muscles outlined by the play of light and shadow that refracts against them. You bury a howl inside as you steal a glance at his butt swaddled deliciously in red swimming shorts.

You sit on a lawn chair, fully intending to stay there, while your friends put their towels down and go for a dip in the pool.

It's still warm for fall, today in particular, so you don't mind the thing itself, but showing yourself to Dave like this? That's a whole other matter.

The whole neighborhood is there but you literally feel like only he can see you, because that's the only look you care about and might feel judged by.

Your friends wave at you from the other side of the pool, even calling your name so you listlessly drop the towel on the deck chair and walk to the edge, wetting your feet in the cool water.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Dave go underwater, you follow his movements, and see him come up right in front of you.

“Fuck” you think

“Hi,” he says in a low voice as you wonder where his wife is. You answer him by mumbling a “hello” as you look around for her. Carol is sitting on a lawn chair, wearing a white one-piece bathing suit and matching sarong, and sipping cocktails with one of your neighbors. She is quite distant and seems very engrossed in the conversation, so you finally allow yourself to look at Dave.

He's still in the water, leaning against the edge below you.

He runs a hand through his hair to pull it back, small droplets sliding down his perfectly chiseled jaw to the column of his neck and down his broad chest until they die at the water's edge.

Your friends call your name loudly as he rests both hands on the edge and rises effortlessly beside you. You don't look at him, you keep your gaze fixed on Jane and the others as you hear the sound of water sliding over his body and falling back into the pool, a few drops hitting you in the process. He is beside you, completely wet, wearing only shorts. You’re petrified, trying to govern your emotions and especially your facial expressions “stay calm stay calm stay calm” you repeat to yourself as you hear his voice whisper “you look so fucking sexy in that bikini. I wish I could fuck you right here right now” just before he walks over to the loungers.

He didn't turn around, he didn't make eye contact with you, no one would say he even noticed you, and he spoke so softly that no one could have heard him but you. You heard him loud and clear, and his rough voice went and settled directly between your legs on your wet pussy.

You hastily dive into the pool feeling your cheeks on fire.

“Fucking Dave and his fucking flirting.”

_________________________________________

First thing you do when you come home is to take off your shoes throwing on the carpet in your living room.

By now you are no longer tipsy; swimming in the pool has definitely helped you get sober again.

And Dave.

Dave who ignored you pretty much the rest of the evening but infiltrated your brain like a disease.

You know you can't get your hopes up, you know that this thing between the two of you will have no future, and you also know that you don't like being a home wrecker.

I am just an escape from his marriage, a sleazy adventure, a little toy to entertain him.

And yet, you still want more.

Your body unfortunately doesn't care about morality right now, it reacts to every image of him imprinted in your mind, Dave is Pavlov's bell and you are the drooling dog.

Lingering in fantasies about him hurts, but there is a desperate part of you that still feels his hips grinding against yours, the taste of his tongue, the warmth of his big hands on you.

And his body next to yours when he got out of the pool, how you could smell the scent of his skin mixed with chlorine, how you could still feel the warmth of his body despite being completely wet, water dripping down his legs pooling at his feet.

You can stay here a little longer, just a little while longer without hurting anyone, before you turn the page.

You shuffle into your room with your head in the clouds, open your night stand drawer almost without thinking, pull out your dildo and lie on the bed. You loop your dress around your waist without even bothering to take it off, just enough to get rid of your bra and your panties.

You let the dildo glide over your body, shivering at the feel of the cool plastic on your tits, brushing against your nipples.

The low rasp of his voice still in your mind, graveling like an echo in your brain “you look so fucking sexy in that bikini”

It was the first time you saw him like that, you happened to see some exposed skin as he mowed the lawn, even lifting up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead once he was done but what you saw today? Nothing compares with it.

His fully exposed torso, the darting muscles of his back as he dove, how his arms flexed as he leaned over the edge of the pool. There is something obscene about seeing people completely wet, a primal instinct awakening, the water slipping and hugging the curves of his body, the droplets of water glistening on his skin, the wet shorts glued to his body that barely suggested the shape of him.

You shut your eyes and suddenly it’s his cock wiping on your hardened buds, tip slapping and teasing, brushing on your skin just right, red and swollen and already leaking.

You can think it’s real, it feels so real, his hand roaming on your body, pulling your dress up, get it out of the way to dispose of you as he wants.

Big strong hand gripping on your inner thighs, his fingers rising higher on your skin, making you whimper in anticipation.

Your cunt aching tremendously, unrestrained and starving.

His big cock grazing your swollen labia, parting them and then sliding entirely over your center, his tip slamming against your clit, mingling your essences in an overwhelming arousal that runs through you all.

And then he pushes inside, deeper and deeper in the most intimate part of you.

And that’s it.

You are fucking away all your bad omens, lying to your hands sinking into the flesh of your thighs, your heart pounding behind your ribcage, your hips swaying against the rubber dildo, pushing them away to suppress them. All frenzy and delirium as it is his cock kissing your cervix, stretching your walls, pulsing and dripping inside you.

You can’t stop, angling the dildo so that it brushes against your swollen clit pumping incessantly into your core, creaming the entire length of your dildo, your legs obscenely spread, your body torn apart by every thrust, your hungry pussy sucking in, contracting, devouring every inch without finding peace.

"I wish I could fuck you right here right now"

Your free hand rises on your tit, your fingers latched on your pebbled nipple, pulling and twisting until you feel your brain leaking from your pussy.

Your orgasm breaks inside you, vibrating in and out of your body, quivering on your sweaty skin, taking your breath away. You come thinking of him completely wet from head to toe on top of you, your flesh colliding, your bodies merging, in a desperate, relentless rush toward the brink.

And you can't get enough, so you don't stop as the first orgasm washes over you, your swollen, slippery cunt keeps frantically gripping around the dildo, your hands keep thrusting it in, torturing your nipples, it's like you're trying to quench your thirst once and for all.

The way he ignored you afterward makes you want to have him even more, to break through his stoicism and trigger an outburst in him as much as your own.

It's twisted, wrong, immoral and you don't care a bit. 

You fall into a deep sleep, having come repeatedly, Dave being all that's left in your head.

______________________________________

Morning light flutters on your eyelids forcing you to open your eyes to another day.

You grunt, feeling your incredibly aching pussy, and realize your dildo is still inside you.

The stretch is here to remind you your guilt, the frenzy that took you last night, the feeling of being just one inch away from slipping into something dangerous.

You pull it out cautiously, feeling your essence slip out of you, soaking your inner thigh, the sticky mess of your desire for him dribbling silently over your skin.

Your pussy tightens around nothing, pulsing to the void, deprived of something, swollen and tried.

The dress from the night before is still crumpled around your body, crumpled and damp with your sweat and arousal at the hem. You get out of bed feeling like a rag doll, drag yourself into the bathroom and look in the mirror. Mascara has run down your cheeks, your lipstick smudged, an exhausted and defeated expression on your face.

You look like a total disaster, matching your feelings.

This morning, in the sunlight, you are furious with yourself. Why did you let this married man condition you so much? You spent $350 on a pair of shoes just because he told you they'd fit you, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You have to stop before it takes a turn for the worse and you find yourself crying for him.

There's no way it will end well.

You take off your makeup, take a shower, and change into a pair of sweatpants and an old Pearl Jam T-shirt you got at a concert a million years ago.

You clean and tidy your house, then Jane calls to have your confirmation to meet at 3 p.m. at her house.

Having a fun afternoon with your friend will help, you think.

You don't look out the window toward his house even once, you simply pretend it doesn't exist.

After changing into a pair of jeans and a white top, you head towards Jane’s house at the end of the road, your eyes straight to her house without your usual wandering and sneaking through your neighbor’s windows.

You are able to shut down your brain concentrating on poker and your friend and it all goes smooth until you hear Susan say, “Did Edie call you to gossip about the Yorks?” And you all turn to look at her, you with your heart leaping in your chest like an acrobat.

“Really? Was it only me who had this pleasure?” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Why, what happened?” Jane asks as she shuffles the cards for the next hand.

“According to her, Dave has an affair. But you know how Edie is, I mean-”

"And how can she say that?" Gabby widen her eyes, getting all excited. You love her dearly but she’s almost as gossipy as Edie sometimes.

"She says Dave disappeared at the party and then came back with some lipstick on his mouth."

“What?” you all exclaim, as you try with all your might to feign surprise.

“Yes, and then she says Carol pretended nothing happened but according to Edie there is something going on because you know - she says that lipstick seemed slightly different from the one his wife was wearing”

“Well that also depends on lips natural color,” Jane tries to intervene, usually she's the one who instead tries to quell the rumors. You are thankful that she maintains her attitude even now, all while your other friends cut her off squeaking “oh my God!” And Gabby, who sits right next to you put a hand on your arm “Jesus, can you believe that?”

“Actually no” you shrug “I mean…they seem so close-hearted”

“Well, honey, I'm sorry to tell you but not all that glitters is gold” Gabby scoffs.

“Even if it was true - and with Edie I wouldn't put my hand on it because she was really tipsy and then well...she's Edie” Jane admonishes “it's none of our business”

“God, he would be such a scam though. And to think I kinda considered him incorruptible” Emma sighs and you all nod.

You never mentioned your crush, not even to the friends.

No one ever saw you two talk for more than a few minutes and only of mundane arguments, totally out of courtesy and being good neighbors.

Fuck. It has to end before anyone finds out.

The bullet missed you by a whisker but you know you can't play with fire.

“Then you wonder why I haven't found another boyfriend yet!” You playfully snap, just to look more unsuspicious.

You hate lying to your friends, but you are relieved when you see them nodding.

Jane urges, “Come on let's play, we've talked enough about this.”

The afternoon flows nicely, Jane and Gabi argue over points as usual, you all laugh, and by the end you feel better, really better.

Yesterday was crazy, but I can get through it, you think.

When you get home you order a pizza and eat it on the couch watching a horror movie. You don't think about him for the rest of the evening, until you get under the covers and a flashback of him pushing you against the bathroom tiles flashes before your eyes. You squeeze them hard, trying to banish the image from your mind.

________________________________________

Monday morning at the office hits you in the face, you have a lot of work to do but you've never been so happy to keep busy so you don’t complain. Anything goes as long as you don't think about him.

Your agency has just acquired a big client for whom you'll have to manage a marketing campaign, there's a lot of pressure but by the end of the morning you feel like you and the rest of the team have come up with the right idea, which makes you relieved.

At lunchtime you go out to get a sandwich. It's a beautiful sunny day, there’s a little wind that caresses your face and moves the tree canopies along the road. You're glad you've been able to focus, you really care about doing a good job and making a good impression on your demanding boss in light of a promotion you'd like to get.

You will slowly return to your usual life and what happened will remain a sporadic episode without consequences. That's the best thing for everyone.

You walk into the diner and get in line to order a sandwich.

You greet Sarah, the girl at the counter, with whom you've been chatting since the first day you were hired at your agency.

You order the usual and come out humming and feeling some lightness at last.

You walk the short distance to your office, and the moment you push the door open you feel a gaze on you, like in déjà vu. You turn to look at the street, and see no one, just a black car that takes off quickly, speeding down the empty road. For a moment it looks like Dave's. You blink your eyes and shake your head, feeling lost.

It's like you've taken one step forward and three steps back.

It will take much longer to eradicate him from your mind, and living in the same neighborhood across the street from each other certainly won't help.

You come home tired, you managed to do a good job despite the thought of Dave that kept pounding in your head all afternoon, at least you can be satisfied with that.

You park in your driveway and out of the corner of your eye you see Carol loading suitcases into a cab.

Shit, what's going on? Was Edie right? Did they really have a fight? Is she leaving him?

You start toward your door but then stay on the porch pretending to rummage through your purse for your keys.

You see Dave leave the house with his daughters, he helps Carol with the heaviest suitcase and they briefly say something you can’t hear. You hold your breath for a signal, something that will let you know what they’re doing, but it all seems neutral, calm, no drama, no screaming fight in the middle of the street. Typical of them, you think, they would never do that in front of their daughters anyway.

Molly and Alice hug their father and happily get into the taxi, sitting in the back, Alice holding a doll which she places next to her on the seat.

Carol kisses Dave on the cheek and climbs into the cab with the girls. As you watch them leave your mind is filled with question marks, it didn't seem like a traumatic departure but you know they are the best at keeping up appearances. And deep down, what do you really know about Carol and Dave? What really happens when the doors are closed and they are far from the rest of the world? Are they really the perfect family they pretend to be?

Dave is on the sidewalk waving to the cab pulling away, as soon as it's far enough away he turns to look at you and winks.

Series tag list:

@penascigarette @syd-djarin @almostempty @aurorawritestoescape @joelalorian @milla-frenchy @baronessvonglitter @cas-readsandwrites @sunnytuliptime @foreveratlantica-blog @peppermintfury @drewharrisonwriter @indiegirlunited @darkheartgatita @untamedheart81 @missladym1981 @rosebuds-and-moonlight

If you want to be added or removed, just let me know, thank you so much for reading ♥️

[mlbigbang2024]

ML Big Bang 2024 Fic Recs

Miscellaneous

This collection of fics were recommended by the contributors of the @mlbigbang2024 for their favourite fics of 2024 (posted in between Nov 2023 and Dec 2024)

General and Teen and Up Fics

What If... Ladybug and Chat Noir had to go on a Miraculous scavenger hunt? (Rated: G)

By Booksforthelost

Tags: What-if, AU - Canon Divergence, Turtle Master Fu | Jade Turtle

Summary: When Master Fu is robbed, Ladybug and Chat Noir find themselves in a race against their enemies to recover the Miraculous.

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: It displays what happens when nobody knows each other's secret identity but work together to stop Hawk Moth. Also, scavenger hunts are very fun!

A Swing and a Miss (and a Kiss) (Rated: T)

By @coffeebanana

Tags: PRPR, mutual pining, canon divergent

Summary: Adrien derails a game of ping-pong with a single sentence: “If I make this next point, my lady, you have to kiss me.”

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: Just two kids being super awkward and kissy kissy meow meow.

The Terror (Rated: T)

By @gaussiansphere

Tags: psychological horror, la terreur au, using a miraculous has side effects

Summary:

Something is rotten in the city of Paris.

A general lockdown has been imposed as the entire world scrambles to make sense of the images of magic and monsters trickling out. Here, all powers have a price, whether they come from the ring on your finger or the voice in your head.

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: Based off the Tumblr comic by @sillysiluriforme , La Terreur, of the same name but in English. Fleshing it out and adding more psychological horror. Things are bad (but it’s okay! (I think))

Meditations (Rated: T)

By @bittersweetresilience

Tags: experimental style, poetry, epistolary

Summary: Félix reflects on fathers, and on monsters, and on dying.

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: I cry thinking about this. It’s so rare we have something so experimental in the fandom. Poetic, epistolary, reflective. It’s a treasure

The Best Worst Day Ever (Rated: G)

By @fandomofone

Tags: awkward flirting, Plagg is so done, fluff and angst

Summary:

Riding high after Hawkmoth’s latest defeat, Adrien’s promising day begins to unravel when he arrives at school and discovers that Chat Noir is apparently a laughingstock following the previous day’s fight against Malediktator- and he has no memory of it. Feeling somewhat hurt and embarrassed, Adrien questions Plagg and is shocked to learn that the source of all his woes may be… his Lady? As if that’s not bad enough, Marinette unwittingly gets roped into his miserable day, and a misunderstanding between them leaves Adrien anxious about the future of their friendship. Can this day possibly get any worse?

Well, there is still patrol duty with Ladybug to look forward to...

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: This is a cute little Adrienette fluff piece that fits snugly between episodes! It occurs after Maledictator, and I just love the adorable idiots. 

Not Quite Right (Rated: T)

By @ladynoirfanao3

Tags: Marichat, protective Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, identity reveal

Summary:

When Marinette wakes up one morning, she can’t help but feel that something is just a little bit… off. No one else around her seems to feel the same, however, and she is forced to shake off the strange feelings.

It proves to be more difficult than she imagined, especially when an akuma attack leaves her feeling helpless as she watches Chat Noir and Ladybug arrive on scene.

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: It's like it's on the tip of your tongue, but you can't tell what it is

Mature and Explicit Fics

Voyage! Tales of the USS Miraculous (Rated: M)

By @uptoolateart

Tags: AU - Star Trek Fusion, But can be understood even if you don't know Star Trek, PTSD

Summary: Almost four years since the brutal battle at Wolf-359, Captain Marinette Dupain-Cheng – one of the youngest Captains in Starfleet history – has been assigned command of the USS Miraculous.

Her first mission with her new crew is to investigate a distress beacon from the most dangerous region of the Alpha Quadrant – the Neutral Zone. But what they discover is just the beginning of an exploration into the strangest world Marinette has ever visited – her own heart.

* A Star Trek crossover written to be understood even if you aren’t familiar with the Star Trek universe *

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: Such a fun and clever crossover with Star Trek - it fits perfectly in the ST universe, and can also be read fandom-blind. The characters have such different histories but are still so clearly /them/. It's funny and cute, with a healthy dose of angst and hurt, too. There's a very interesting undercurrent of mystery, adventure, and discovery. 

Revealing Commission (Rated: E)

By @katieykat513

Tags: Aged-up, smut, identity reveal

Summary: Marinette: I'm poor! Adrien: I have money! Marinette: I can't take your money! what if I made fanart? Adrien: I can pay for fanart! Marinette: Uhhh what do you want? Adrien: NSFW ladynoir for no specific reason! Marinette: What is my life?

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: The premise alone is enough said, but it also had some sweet fluff mixed in with the hilarity.

Mamma Mia! (Rated: M)

By @ladynoirfanao3

Tags: Cat Walker, unplanned pregnancy, aged-up, identity reveal

Summary:

When Marinette discovers she is pregnant, she is distressed to realize any of the three men she slept with in the recent past could be the father; Chat Noir, Ladybug’s partner and ex with whom she had gone through a tearful breakup - the mysterious Cat Walker, Ladybug’s rebound - or Adrien Agreste, Marinette’s current boyfriend.

But does she quickly discover all three potential fathers are, in fact, the same man? No, of course not; where would be the fun in that?

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: What a better way to play with all the different tropes! Identity shenanigans galore. 

What We're Made Of (Rated: M)

By @uptoolateart

Tags: I have spent the last two years thinking of nothing but sentibeings, I'm taking the sentibeing idea as far as possible

Summary:

Humanity has just survived the apocalypse – with a little magic, and the help of several hundred senti-soldiers. Now, they need to figure out what to do with them…and what to do with the news that the Mayor of London is a sentibeing himself.

Meanwhile, Hugo, the twins, and other children of sentibeings have developed magical powers. But with the trauma of the war still fresh in people’s minds, prejudices are forming and tensions are riding high.

Now, Adrien, Marinette and Felix – and some unexpected friends – must band together again to face old demons and find a way to move forward at last.

Read on Ao3

What we liked about it: Cerebral, emotional, inspiring, and always inventive. I love it when a well-written story expands the lore in a creative, yet plausible way. There’s a direct line from canon to what this story and its siblings in the Breaking Free series do, and it’s a gift to the fandom.

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader (NSFW) - part1

Summary: You want to tell a story no one has told before—not of the Winter Soldier, but of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

Warnings for the whole story: English isn't my first language, so apologies for any mistakes. Reader has some descriptions. Angst, fluff, SMUT So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

A/N: I have been writing it for a while... having this idea in my head for over a year or so... I hope you guys like it reading at least as much as I loved writing it <3 Because the story is too long (ooopies) I need to divide it into two chapters, so apologies, but blame Tumblr, not me ;)

Words for the chapter: 15 805 (big oopsies)

The city’s symphony hummed through your half-open window—a blend of car horns, distant chatter, and the rustle of wind against skyscrapers. Beneath it all, the low, smoky cadence of jazz from your turntable added a timeless rhythm to the scene. You sat at your desk, eyes drawn to the framed black-and-white photograph perched on its corner: your great-grandfather, uniform sharp as his gaze, shaking hands with Captain America.

The photo was more than a relic. Its corners were frayed, the edges softened by years of proud display, but its essence remained undiminished—a talisman of duty, an unspoken promise that had been passed down with every new generation. To you, it was more than a family heirloom. It was a call to action.

Maybe that’s why the Avengers had always felt less like strangers in capes and more like a cause you were meant to champion. You weren’t just drawn to them; you were tethered to their story, defending them when no one else would.

Your career in journalism hadn’t begun with dreams of fame or Pulitzers. No, it had been born out of something far simpler and more profound: a sense of responsibility. The day Tony Stark stood at that podium and declared, “I am Iron Man,” the world had turned on him faster than it had celebrated him. One moment he was a hero; the next, a reckless billionaire with a penchant for self-destruction. The headlines were ruthless, tabloids voracious in their takedowns. But you? You saw something else.

Instinct, or maybe that familial debt, told you there was more beneath the bravado. With a press badge still warm from the printer and a recorder borrowed from your college newsroom, you wrote your first piece. It wasn’t perfect—raw around the edges, maybe a little too earnest—but it defended Tony Stark in a way no one else dared to.

To your astonishment, it caught his attention. Months later, you found yourself in the legendary Stark workshop, an organized chaos of brilliance and madness. Tony, tinkering with a half-finished contraption, had barely glanced up when you entered.

“Nice piece,” he said, his tone as dry as the scotch he usually favored. “Didn’t expect anyone to actually get it right.”

You fumbled for a response, somewhere between awe and intimidation. “I just… wanted to tell the truth.”

He finally looked at you, a glimmer of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Well, aren’t you noble?”

That was the beginning. Over the years, you became a fixture in Tony’s world—not a friend exactly, but a constant presence. The one journalist he could count on to navigate the blurred lines between heroism and humanity without sensationalism. You stood by him through scandals and triumphs, from his bold experiments to the fallout of the Sokovia Accords.

“You’re one of the only people who doesn’t make me want to throw my drink at the TV,” he once told you at one of his infamous parties, raising his glass with a smirk. “That’s high praise, by the way.”

Your relationship with Steve Rogers was different. Where Tony was sharp edges and biting wit, Steve was all steadfast resolve and quiet strength. You first met him at a charity gala, where he lingered at the edges of the room like a man still learning how to fit into this new century. When you mentioned the photograph of your great-grandfather, his expression softened.

“Thank you for your family’s service,” he said, shaking your hand with sincerity that left a lasting impression.

Steve earned your trust slowly, just as you earned his. There was no pretense with him, no theatrics. He respected your work—even when it challenged him—and you, in turn, respected his unwavering moral compass. That respect brought you to his Brooklyn apartment one crisp autumn morning, your notebook clutched tightly in your hands.

Steve greeted you at the door, his hair slightly mussed from an early run, dressed in the kind of casual simplicity that made him seem all the more unassuming. He waved you inside with a curious smile.

“What’s this about?” he asked as you settled onto the worn couch.

You hesitated, knowing the weight of what you were about to say. “It’s about James Barnes.”

His expression hardened, his guard rising instinctively. “What about him?”

“I want to tell his story,” you said, keeping your tone steady but earnest.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiff. “Why?”

“Because people deserve to know the truth,” you replied. “Right now, all they see is the Winter Soldier—a weapon, a killer. But that’s not who he is. It’s not who he was. I want to give him a chance to tell his side, to show the world the man beneath the headlines.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Steve stared at a spot on the floor, the weight of your words sinking in. Finally, he looked up, his gaze filled with both caution and hope.

“And you think an article will fix that?” he asked softly.

“It’s a start,” you said. “Let me interview him. Let me write a series that goes beyond what he’s done—to who he is. Let people see him as more than his past.”

Steve exhaled slowly, the conflict evident in his furrowed brow. “Bucky doesn’t trust easily,” he said at last. “And I don’t blame him. What you’re asking… It's a lot.”

“I know,” you said, leaning forward. “But I believe in him, Steve. And I think you do, too.”

For a moment, the room felt heavier than the two of you. Then, Steve nodded, his resolve softening. “I’ll talk to him. But it’s his decision. If he says no…”

“Then I’ll drop it,” you promised.

As you stepped out into the brisk fall air, your chest felt lighter, the ache of doubt replaced by the spark of determination. This wasn’t just another story. It was a chance to rewrite the narrative, to shed light on the shadows Hydra had left behind.

And you wouldn’t waste it.

---

The kitchen in the Avengers Compound was unusually still, save for the soft hiss of the espresso machine steaming milk. Early sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching motes of dust in its golden glow. Steve Rogers sat at the island, his hands wrapped around a glass of water. His fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm against the countertop, betraying the careful composure of his expression. He was rehearsing his words, running through the conversation he was about to have—one he knew wouldn’t be easy. But then again, when did anything involving Tony Stark ever come without complications?

The sound of footsteps broke the quiet. Tony breezed in, tablet tucked under one arm, a coffee mug in the other. His T-shirt, emblazoned with a faded logo of a band whose prime was decades past, hung loose over a pair of well-worn jeans. His mismatched socks peeked out as he moved, their carelessness somehow perfectly in character.

“Cap,” Tony greeted without pausing, setting his coffee down with a deliberate clink. “You’ve got that look. What is it this time? End of the world? Time travel? Or did someone touch my lab without leaving a thank-you note?”

Steve sighed, rolling his eyes. “Relax, Tony. It’s not that serious.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony drawled, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Serious to you usually means catastrophic to the rest of us, so go ahead. Lay it on me.”

Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “It’s about Bucky.”

Tony stilled mid-sip, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly before he set the mug down. “Of course it is,” he said, his tone sliding into mock exasperation. “Alright, what’s going on with Barnes this time? And don’t tell me this is where you ask me to bankroll his therapy bills. I will, but only because I’m a masochist.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitched—a shadow of humor undercutting the still-fresh scars of their shared history. Years had softened the rift between Tony and Bucky, but some wounds lingered like phantom pains, waiting for moments like these to ache.

“It’s not that,” Steve replied, shooting him a sharp look. “This is… different. Someone wants to help him.”

Tony’s brow arched, skepticism flickering in his dark eyes. “Someone? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you mean her—our resident do-gooder with a press badge.”

Steve nodded.

Tony whistled low, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got to hand it to her. Girl’s got guts. And a death wish if she thinks she can crack open that vault of suppressed trauma Barnes is carrying.”

“She’s not just doing this on a whim, Tony,” Steve said firmly. “She wants to tell his story. The real story. Not just the headlines or the conspiracy theories.”

Tony tilted his head, his lips quirking in thought. “I’ll give her this: she’s got a way of spinning truth into something people can stomach. Hell, if it weren’t for her, the world would still think I’m just an egomaniac with a God complex. Not that they’re entirely wrong.” He grinned briefly before sobering. “But Barnes? That’s a mountain of baggage even she might not be able to unpack.”

“She can handle it,” Steve said, unwavering. “If anyone can, it’s her.”

Tony ran a hand over his face, the humor ebbing from his expression. “Alright, Rogers. Sell it to Barnes. But if he snaps and puts another dent in my walls, you’re footing the repair bill this time.”

---

In the compound’s gym, the rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the space. Bucky Barnes was relentless, his punches driving into the heavy bag with the precision of a man who had fought too many battles to count. Sweat slicked his brow and clung to his shirt, but he didn’t pause. The steady impact was the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay.

“Bucky,” came Steve’s voice, quiet but firm, from the doorway.

Bucky stopped mid-swing, his breath heavy as he turned. Steve approached slowly, hands in his pockets, his expression calm but resolute—the way he always looked when he was about to say something he knew wouldn’t go over well.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, reaching for the towel draped across a bench.

Steve leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “It’s about someone who wants to talk to you. Someone I trust.”

Bucky frowned, suspicion tightening his features. “Talk to me? About what?”

“Your story,” Steve said simply. “She’s a journalist. Someone who’s been with us since the beginning. She’s defended Tony, stood by me… she understands what it means to fight for the truth, even when it’s hard.”

Bucky scoffed, tossing the towel aside. “What truth is there to tell, Steve? The world doesn’t want to hear it. They don’t care about who I was—they only see what I’ve done.”

“That’s exactly why she wants to do this,” Steve countered. “To show people who you are now. Who you were before Hydra. To give them a reason to look beyond the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gaze falling to the floor. “You think one article will fix everything? That people will forget the blood on my hands?”

“No,” Steve said quietly. “But it might make them see the full picture. And if anyone can get it right, it’s her.”

Bucky was silent, the weight of Steve’s words pressing down like the memories he tried so hard to suppress. Finally, he looked up. “Why her?”

“Because I trust her,” Steve replied. “And if you can trust me, then trust this: she won’t make you regret it.”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll meet her. But I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s all I need,” Steve said, a hint of relief softening his voice.

---

As Steve left, the gym fell back into its familiar stillness. Bucky sat on the bench, staring at the floor. The idea of sharing his story—letting a stranger into the labyrinth of his past—felt impossible. But he owed Steve. And maybe, just maybe, he owed it to himself too.

He resumed wrapping his hands, his movements slower this time. Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the doubt and the fear, a small flicker of hope sparked—a fragile ember, but an ember nonetheless.

---

The gym at Avengers Tower was still, an expanse of silence broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. The sharp tang of leather, sweat, and faintly metallic cleaning agents lingered in the air. You arrived earlier than planned, your footsteps soft against the polished floor as you took in the emptiness of the space. It was better this way. You’d asked Steve to let you handle this alone—not out of pride, but because this conversation required something unspoken, something delicate.

This wasn’t just about Bucky Barnes. It was about trust, a foundation that could only be laid between the two of you.

The door creaked open, and a shadow spilled across the floor. Bucky stepped inside, his movements deliberate, shoulders broad and heavy with tension. His dark T-shirt and track pants clung to a frame honed by war and survival. His long hair framed his face, softening features etched by years of conflict. But it was his eyes—those stormy blue-gray eyes—that hit hardest. They swept over the room, sharp and assessing, before landing on you.

You felt the air leave your lungs. Steve had warned you about Bucky’s presence, the way he carried himself with a silence that could fill a space, heavy and unyielding. But standing there, facing him, it wasn’t just his silence—it was the weight of his past, worn like a second skin.

He lingered by the doorway for a moment, the hesitation subtle but unmistakable, before crossing the room. His steps were quiet, almost predatory, his body language cautious but not unkind. Without a word, he sank to the floor in the far corner of the gym, his back to the wall, knees bent, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraped over stone.

“So are you,” you replied with a soft smile, easing yourself to the floor across from him. You kept the distance respectful but not distant—close enough to bridge, far enough to let him feel in control.

The silence between you stretched, taut and uneasy. You could feel it radiating off him—the tension, the readiness to retreat or fight if the moment called for it.

“I appreciate you meeting with me,” you began gently, your tone steady but warm. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Bucky’s lips twitched—a flicker of dry humor that barely creased his face. “You’d be right.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light, unobtrusive. “Fair enough. Let’s make a deal, then—if you want me gone, just say the word, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

He tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze pinning you. “Steve said you’re stubborn.”

“He’s not wrong,” you admitted, your smile widening slightly. “But I promise I’m not here to push you into anything. This is just a conversation.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment, the weight of his stare pressing down like a physical force. Then, with a reluctant nod, he gestured for you to continue.

You introduced yourself, offering your full name. “I’m a journalist. Though, I like to think of myself as a storyteller. I’ve been writing about the Avengers for years. My first piece was about Tony, back when he announced he was Iron Man.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, faint amusement flickering across his face. “Tony Stark. Bet that was something.”

“It was,” you said, laughing softly. “He thought I was some starry-eyed rookie—and, to be fair, he wasn’t entirely wrong. But over time, I guess I earned his trust. I’ve been writing about the team ever since. I don’t take sides. I just try to tell the truth.”

Bucky leaned back, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. “And Steve? How’d you meet him?”

“My great-grandfather,” you said, your voice softening. “He was in the 107th. Steve saved him during the war. There’s a picture of them shaking hands—it’s been in my family for decades. When I met Steve, I told him about it. I guess that’s how it all started.”

Something flickered in Bucky’s eyes—recognition, curiosity. He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Your great-grandfather… William, right? Had the weirdest way of talking I’ve ever heard.”

You froze, your breath catching. “You… remember him?”

Bucky nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I do. He was a good man. Brave. Had this sharp sense of humor that could catch you off guard. You’ve got his eyes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the connection unexpected and profound. You swallowed against the sudden lump in your throat, managing a quiet, “I didn’t think you’d remember him. That means… a lot.”

Bucky shrugged, but there was a warmth in his expression now—a subtle thawing of the guarded lines around his mouth and eyes.

Clearing your throat, you reached into your bag and pulled out a stack of printed articles, sliding them across the floor. “These are some of the pieces I’ve written. About Tony, Steve, the team. I thought it might help if you got to know me a little better.”

Bucky picked up the stack, flipping through the pages. His eyes moved over the headlines, lingering on a photograph of Steve. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, not looking up.

“Because I believe in second chances,” you said simply. “And because the world only knows one side of your story. I think it’s time they saw the whole picture.”

Bucky set the articles down, his jaw tightening. “And what if I don’t want them to?”

“Then that’s your choice,” you replied. “If you tell me no, I’ll walk away, and you’ll never hear from me again. But all I’m asking is for a chance. Let me tell your story—with your permission, on your terms. Nothing gets published without your approval.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp and probing. “You’re putting a lot of faith in someone you don’t know.”

“I am,” you admitted, holding his stare. “But sometimes, the people who don’t think they deserve faith are the ones who need it the most.”

Bucky leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable, a swirl of conflict and curiosity. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

Relief bloomed in your chest, but you kept it tempered. You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you for hearing me out, Bucky. That means more than you know.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and offered a small smile—unguarded, honest.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. It wasn’t pity or fear—it was something he hadn’t seen in years. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something crack through the armor of his guilt.

It terrified him.

---

The morning light spilled through your apartment window, golden and soft, stretching across the room in fractured beams. It casts a gentle glow over your desk, illuminating the scattered notes, books, and the faint ring left behind by your coffee mug. You sat motionless, fingers poised above the keyboard, your laptop’s screen glowing faintly in the quiet.

The cursor blinked, mocking your hesitation. Words had always been your refuge, your weapon, but this was different. This wasn’t just about telling a story—it was about trust, about reaching into the shadows of someone else’s life and hoping they’d let you in.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the city below. You adjusted the blanket draped over your shoulders, feeling its weight settle around you, a comforting barrier against the uncertainty creeping in. Finally, you exhaled a long, slow breath and began typing.

Subject: Something to Think About

Hi Bucky,

Thank you again for meeting with me the other day. I know how much it cost you to be there, to sit across from a stranger and let your guard down, even for a moment. I don’t take that lightly, and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate your time and your willingness to listen.

As I mentioned before, I want to approach this project carefully and with the respect it deserves. I’m not interested in sensationalism or rehashing the narratives that have already been written about you. The world has enough stories about the Winter Soldier. What I want to do is different—I want to tell the story of the man. The friend. The brother. The soldier who existed long before the shadows ever found you.

I’ve been thinking about how to begin, and I wanted to share a rough outline of the first article with you. This isn’t a finished piece; it’s just a concept, a foundation I hope to build with your guidance, your voice, and your trust.

Title: The Soldier and the Shadows

Before the world whispered his name in fear, James Buchanan Barnes was simply a boy from Brooklyn. Born to a city that thrived on resilience, he was shaped by streets where laughter mixed with the roar of trains and kindness could be as fleeting as the breeze off the East River. He was the boy with the quick grin and sharper wit, the teenager who walked with a quiet confidence and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved.

He became a soldier, not for the glory but because it was the right thing to do. His sacrifices were not grandiose; they were quiet and deeply personal, offered not to the world but to the people who mattered to him. He stood shoulder to shoulder with heroes but never sought to be one himself. He was, in so many ways, a reflection of the best his generation had to offer.

But history can be cruel. And fate? Even crueler. Through no fault of his own, James Buchanan Barnes became a name that conjured fear, a figure cloaked in tragedy. To the world, he was the Winter Soldier—a ghost forged by the hands of those who sought to strip him of everything he was. For a time, they succeeded.

But what the world doesn’t see is the man who fought tooth and nail to reclaim his humanity. They don’t see the friend who would give everything to protect those he loves. They don’t see the man who carries the weight of choices he never made yet feels responsible for all the same.

This isn’t just a story about redemption—it’s a story about survival, about finding identity in the aftermath of unimaginable loss. It’s a story about what it means to fight your way out of the dark and into the light, scarred but standing.

The world knows the myth. The shadow. The weapon. But James Buchanan Barnes is not a ghost of the past. He’s a man, living proof that even in the aftermath of tragedy, there is hope, resilience, and the possibility of something more.

This is his story. Told not by those who fear him or those who sought to control him, but by the one person who knows it best: him.

There’s something else I wanted to share with you—a photo. It’s the one I mentioned during our meeting, the picture of my great-grandfather with Steve during the war. It’s been part of my family’s story for as long as I can remember, a quiet reminder of courage and loyalty.

But now, it means even more to me. When you said you remembered him—his voice, his humor—it reminded me how deeply our stories can ripple through time, even when we don’t realize it. That small moment of recognition meant more to me than I can express.

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT]

Take your time, Bucky. There’s no rush, no pressure. This isn’t about a deadline or a byline—it’s about something bigger. I’m here to listen, to answer your questions, your doubts, anything at all. All I ask is that you think about it.

Whatever you decide, thank you. For your time. For your trust, however fragile it may feel.

Best regards.

---

As you reread the email, your fingers hovered over the “Send” button. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of what you were asking settling over you. Then, with a final, steadying breath, you clicked.

The email vanished into the ether, and with it, a piece of your hope, your determination. The sun climbed higher through the window, casting the room in golden light, but you barely noticed. Instead, you sat there, still and waiting, the faint hum of your laptop the only sound in the quiet room.

---

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of his phone casting pale light across his face. He hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon, if at all. Yet there it was—your name, standing out in bold at the top of his inbox. His thumb hovered over the notification, hesitating.

Part of him wanted to ignore it, let it sit there untouched. Not because he wasn’t curious—he was—but because he wasn’t sure he was ready. The idea of someone wanting to dig into his past, to lay bare the scars and shadows he’d spent years burying, made his chest feel too tight.

But then he thought of the way you’d looked at him in the gym. Calm, patient, unafraid. And that damn smile you’d given him before you left—a smile that wasn’t forced or laced with pity, just honest. It had lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit.

With a low sigh, he tapped the email.

The words hit him harder than he expected. He read the outline twice, then again, each pass leaving him with a knot in his chest he couldn’t quite untangle. This wasn’t what he’d anticipated. There was no pity in your words, no attempt to paint him as a tragic figure or a monster. Instead, there was care—an earnest effort to understand him, not as the world saw him, but as the man he was trying to be.

Then he reached the photo. His breath caught.

The image filled his screen, black and white but vivid all the same. Your great-grandfather, standing tall in his uniform, shaking hands with Steve. Bucky enlarged it, his fingers brushing the edges of the screen as though touching the past itself.

The memory surfaced, distant but clear. He remembered the firm handshake, the soldier’s steady gaze filled with quiet gratitude. He remembered Steve’s smile—small but unwavering, the kind that could make you believe they’d already won the war, even when the odds said otherwise.

“She’s really got his eyes,” Bucky murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, fleeting but real.

He set the phone down, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. The photo stayed etched in his mind, a bridge between the past and the present he hadn’t expected. His gaze shifted to the articles you’d included, still neatly stacked on the table beside him. For a long moment, he just stared at them, debating.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he picked up the first one.

It was about Tony. One of your earliest pieces, written back when the world wasn’t sure what to make of Iron Man.

"Stark isn’t perfect—far from it—but he doesn’t hide behind a mask of infallibility. He owns his flaws, his mistakes, and his triumphs. That kind of honesty is rare, and it’s exactly what makes him worth believing in."

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he read, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could picture Tony in those early days, all sharp edges and bravado, as polarizing as he was brilliant. And yet, your words cut through the noise, painting him not as an enigma but as a man.

The second article was about Steve. Bucky’s fingers tightened slightly on the paper as he read.

"Captain America has always been a symbol, but symbols are rarely understood in their entirety. Steve Rogers is not just the man with the shield; he is a man who bears the weight of his choices with quiet strength. To reduce him to hero or villain is to miss the heart of who he is."

By the time he finished, Bucky sat back, the papers still in his hands. Each article told a story, not of perfect heroes but of flawed, complicated people. People who’d been trusted with the weight of the world and had carried it as best they could.

And then there was you. Your voice threaded through every word—not just as an observer, but as someone who cared, who wanted the world to see what you saw.

Bucky’s mind raced. Steve trusted you. Tony trusted you. And now, maybe—just maybe—he could, too.

He picked up his phone again, his thumb hovering over the reply button. His chest tightened at the thought of agreeing, of opening himself up to something he wasn’t sure he could handle. But then he thought of that smile again, the way it had silenced the doubts just long enough for him to believe this might be possible.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he started typing.

Subject: Re: Something to Think About

I’ve read the articles you sent. They’re good—honest.

I don’t know if I can do this, but I’m willing to try. You’re right. I need time to think, but I’ll give you a chance.

Thank you for the photo. It means more than you probably realize.

Let me know when you want to start.

Bucky,

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, setting the phone down quickly, almost like it might burn him if he held onto it any longer.

The silence of the room pressed in around him, but for once, it wasn’t oppressive. It felt… lighter, somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d taken the first step toward something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for in a long time.

---

The gym felt quieter than usual as you stepped inside, the faint hum of the air conditioning blending with the soft creak of the door. Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The space felt familiar now—not in a comforting way, exactly, but in the sense of stepping into a story already half-written, waiting for its next chapter.

Bucky was easy to spot, sitting near the far wall with one leg bent, his arm draped over his knee. He seemed relaxed at first glance, but there was an edge to him, a tension in the line of his shoulders and the way his gaze flicked briefly toward you.

“Hey,” you said softly, approaching with a small smile, one you hoped might ease the weight in the room.

He nodded in return, his eyes shifting to the notebook tucked under your arm. “No laptop? No recorder?”

You chuckled as you sat down across from him, leaving a comfortable amount of space. “I figured they’d stress you out,” you admitted. “Plus, I’m old-fashioned. I like writing things by hand—it helps me think.”

That smile—the same unguarded one you’d given him before—spread across your face again. You noticed how it shifted something in Bucky, just the faintest softening of his expression. His shoulders dropped slightly, and the guarded look in his eyes dulled, if only a little.

“Old-fashioned, huh?” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Very,” you replied with a laugh. “And this way, you can read everything I write. Line by line, if you want. Nothing gets recorded, and if something goes wrong…” You tapped the edge of the notebook lightly. “I burn it. Problem solved.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking further. “Burn it?”

“Yep,” you said, your tone mock-serious. “I’ve even got a metal trash can ready for dramatic effect.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement, a sound so soft it almost slipped past you. But it was there. For the first time, you saw a glimmer of something in Bucky—a trace of humor, unburdened by the weight of his past.

He leaned back against the wall, his blue-gray eyes studying you. “You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment.

You tilted your head curiously. “What did you expect?”

“Someone nosier. Pushier. Maybe a little annoying.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and Bucky’s lips twitched again, as if he was trying to resist smiling back.

“Well, give me time,” you teased. “I can be annoying when I need to be.”

His smirk lingered for a moment before fading into something more thoughtful. “Tell me about your childhood.”

The question caught you off guard. “My childhood?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, his voice even as his gaze stayed fixed on you.

“Uh… well, it was pretty normal,” you said with a small shrug. “I grew up in a loving family. My parents are still together—they’re celebrating their 30th anniversary this year. I’m an only child, so I was spoiled rotten. My great-grandfather was one of my favorite people. I used to sit with him for hours, listening to his stories. That’s probably where I got my love of storytelling.”

You smiled at the memory, but as you looked at Bucky, you noticed a shift in his expression—a flicker of something knowing.

“You already knew that, didn’t you?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Bucky didn’t deny it. “I checked,” he admitted, his tone unapologetic. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying about who you are.”

You laughed again, waving it off like it didn’t bother you. “Fair enough. It’s not my first rodeo. When I met Tony, he knew more about me than I did. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told me my blood type.”

That earned another quiet laugh from Bucky, the sound low and unpolished but real. “I still don’t trust easy,” he said, his voice softer now.

“And you shouldn’t,” you replied without hesitation. “I’d be more worried if you did.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly reassured by your response. But then his expression shifted, his eyes shadowed by something heavier. “There’s one thing you got wrong,” he said quietly.

“Oh?”

“In your introduction to the articles,” he began, meeting your gaze directly. “You said I always did what was best. That’s not true. I didn’t volunteer to join the army—I was drafted. You can look it up. My number’s on record.”

His words weren’t bitter, but you could hear the weight behind them. This wasn’t about correcting a mistake—it was about how he saw himself, the guilt he carried.

You didn’t falter. You met his gaze with the same quiet sincerity you’d shown before. “I know,” you said softly. “I did my research.”

Bucky blinked, momentarily surprised, but you continued.

“Just because you were drafted doesn’t mean you weren’t a good man,” you said. “It doesn’t change the fact that you fought to protect the people you cared about. That you were brave. That you mattered.”

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t respond. The way you said it—not as flattery or pity, but as something you truly believed—hit him harder than he expected. His chest tightened, and he looked away, the words settling in his mind like a stone dropped into water.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally, his voice rougher than he intended.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, your smile soft but unwavering.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt purposeful, like something unspoken was shifting between you. A bridge was being built, slow and deliberate, but solid.

Finally, you flipped open your notebook, breaking the quiet with a light, playful tone. “Alright,” you said. “Now that we’ve established I’m old-fashioned and nosy, are you ready to get started?”

Bucky glanced at you, his lips twitching faintly. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Let’s get started.”

And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt the faint stirrings of trust—fragile but real—blooming in his chest.

---

The gym had become a rhythm unto itself, a sanctuary of quiet purpose. It wasn’t just a place for physical training anymore—it was where conversations were born, where silences grew into something meaningful, and where you and Bucky began to find a fragile but growing connection.

At first, your exchanges were cautious, fleeting, like testing the waters with bare toes. A comment here, a question there. But over time, those ripples expanded, stretching across the stillness until the silences between words became less about hesitation and more about comfort.

This wasn’t just an assignment for you anymore. You’d realized quickly that if you wanted Bucky to trust you, you had to strip away the pretense of being a journalist. What he needed wasn’t someone dissecting his past with surgical precision—he needed someone who could remind him he still had a future.

---

“Do you always carry that thing?” Bucky asked one afternoon, nodding toward the leather-bound notebook in your lap as he wrapped his hands in preparation for a sparring session.

You glanced down at the familiar journal, running your fingers over its worn edges. “Always,” you said with a small smile. “I’m old-fashioned like that. Writing things by hand just feels… more real. Like the words have weight.”

Bucky tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. “Don’t people say the opposite? If it’s not online, it doesn’t exist?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe. But if the world ever loses its tech, at least my notebooks will still be around.”

His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Fair point.”

---

Another time, you sat cross-legged on the floor, your notebook abandoned beside you. “Did you see they’re opening a new exhibition at the astronomy museum?” you asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Bucky paused mid-swing at the punching bag, glancing over at you. “Astronomy?”

“Yeah,” you said, your grin widening. “Space is kind of my thing. It’s infinite. Thinking about it makes me feel small, but in a good way, you know? Plus, this exhibit has a whole section on Mars rovers. I’ve always thought they were cool.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his faint smile betraying his amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the space type.”

“Oh, I’m into all sorts of nerdy stuff,” you said, waving a hand. “Space, ancient civilizations, true crime. I’m basically a walking trivia machine.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Bucky replied, his tone dry but warm.

You leaned forward, propping your chin in your hand. “Your turn. What’s something you’re into that I wouldn’t expect?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he thought about it. “I dunno,” he said after a pause. “I used to like going to the movies. Haven’t been in a while, though.”

“Really?” you said, your excitement piqued. “What kind of movies? Don’t tell me you’re secretly into rom-coms.”

That earned a snort of genuine laughter, his smile breaking through in full force. “Not exactly. I liked the old war films. Westerns, too.”

“War films and Westerns,” you repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “Classic. Fitting, I guess.”

“And you?” he asked, surprising you with the shift.

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”

You pretended to think hard, tapping your chin theatrically. “Probably cheesy underdog sports movies. You know, the ones where everyone comes together, and the team wins in the end? Gets me every time.”

Bucky shook his head, but there was warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

---

“Do you ever miss home?” Bucky asked one afternoon, his voice quiet as he adjusted the wrappings on his hands.

You tilted your head. “You mean where I grew up?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp, watching your reaction carefully.

“I don’t really think of home as a place anymore,” you admitted, the edges of your voice softening. “For me, it’s people. My parents, my friends—the ones who make me feel like I belong. I visit the house I grew up in sometimes, though. My parents still live there. It hasn’t changed much.”

“You’re close with them?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, smiling at the thought. “They’re my biggest fans—and my harshest critics. My mom proofreads all my articles. My dad jokes that it’s because she doesn’t trust me to catch my own typos.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Bucky, and the sound warmed something deep in your chest.

“What about you?” you asked carefully, your gaze steady but gentle.

Bucky hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know if I have a home anymore,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low, almost a murmur. “Not the way you’re talking about it.”

Your heart tightened, and you nodded slowly. “I get that. But maybe home isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you build.”

His eyes flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you could tell your words had settled somewhere deep.

---

The sound of his punches against the bag created a steady rhythm as you sat nearby, scrolling through your phone. The sudden sight of a headline made you gasp softly, your face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh my God,” you exclaimed, turning your phone toward Bucky. “Look at this!”

He paused mid-swing, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced at the screen. “What is it?”

“This lion cub!” you said, scooting closer. “It was just born at the zoo. Look at that face—tell me that isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

Bucky leaned down slightly, peering at the image. The tiny cub, all fluff and oversized paws, was curled up against its mother.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you started to wonder if you’d just embarrassed yourself. Then, to your surprise, he nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Yeah… it’s cute.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by his quiet agreement.

“Really cute,” he added, his voice softer now, as if the cub had cracked through some small part of his guarded exterior.

You laughed nervously, feeling your cheeks flush. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to trade lives with a lion cub? Just sleeping, cuddling, and being adorable all day?”

Bucky straightened, grabbing a towel but letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer than necessary. “You’re kind of like that already.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He shrugged, his voice casual but his expression unreadable. “You’re always cheerful. It’s… nice.”

The compliment was so unexpected, so genuine, that it made your heart stutter. You quickly looked back at your phone, pretending to focus. “Well, someone’s gotta bring the sunshine, right?”

Bucky didn’t reply, but when you glanced up, his gaze was still on you, something unspoken passing between you.

And for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about earning his trust. Something more was blooming here—something delicate, unspoken, and undeniably real.

---

The topic of food came up one day, unexpectedly light amid the ebb and flow of your usual conversations.

“There’s this food truck on the other side of town,” you said, leaning forward, your excitement bubbling over. “It’s run by locals, and everyone says it’s amazing. They’ve been doing these community food festivals, and I’ve been dying to check it out.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his posture still relaxed from finishing his workout. “Why haven’t you gone yet?”

You shrugged, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I just haven’t gotten around to it. Plus, it’s more fun to go with someone.”

To your surprise, Bucky didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “You’ll… go? With me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Why not?”

For a moment, you just stared at him, searching for some hint of teasing, but his face remained calm, open. Then, before you could stop yourself, a laugh bubbled out of you, sudden and bright.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky asked, though his tone was tinged with amusement.

“I’m sorry,” you said between chuckles, shaking your head. “I’m just shocked, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh like that, and it struck something deep within you, a warmth that spread through your chest.

“You have a great laugh,” you said before you could think better of it. The moment the words left your lips, your cheeks flamed, and you clamped your mouth shut.

Bucky tilted his head, watching you curiously, but instead of teasing, he simply nodded. “When are we going?”

---

The evening air was thick with the scent of grilled meats, sizzling spices, and fried dough. Strings of warm lights hung overhead, casting a golden glow over the bustling food festival. Laughter and conversation rose and fell around you as locals and tourists darted between colorful trucks, balancing steaming plates of food and clinking plastic cups.

Bucky walked beside you, dressed inconspicuously in a baseball cap pulled low and a loose jacket concealing his metal arm. To anyone else, he looked like any other man enjoying the festival. But to you, the way his eyes scanned the food stalls with curiosity rather than wariness was a quiet triumph.

“Okay, what should we try first?” you asked, practically bouncing on your heels as you scanned the array of options.

Bucky nodded toward a truck boasting “authentic Italian cuisine.” “You pick. I’ll follow.”

Grinning, you made your way to the truck, and soon you were holding a plate of steaming spaghetti carbonara. You handed Bucky a fork, scooping up a bite and offering it to him.

“Here, try this,” you said, holding it out.

Bucky hesitated for only a moment before leaning in and taking the bite. His eyes widened slightly, and a low, involuntary groan escaped him.

You froze. That sound—so small, so unintentional—sent a jolt through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“That good, huh?” you said, trying to keep your voice light and steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Bucky nodded, swallowing before replying. “Yeah, it’s good.”

You smiled, taking a bite yourself. “Told you. Italians don’t mess around with food.”

---

As you wandered through the festival, stopping at a stall serving Chinese dumplings, you found yourself rambling between bites.

“You know, I used to want to be a food critic,” you said, laughing softly. “It seemed like the dream, right? Traveling, eating amazing food, writing about it. But then I realized I’d feel awful writing bad reviews. Like, what if the chef was just having a bad day?”

Bucky let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You feel bad about criticizing chefs, but not politicians?”

You pouted in mock defiance, crossing your arms. “Politicians deserve it,” you said, your tone playful.

His laugh came louder this time, a deep, rich sound that made you look up at him in surprise. He was smiling—really smiling—and the sight caught you off guard.

“What?” he asked, his laughter fading into something softer.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head as a grin tugged at your lips. “It’s just nice to see you like this.”

He glanced away, but not before you caught the faintest hint of color rising in his cheeks.

---

Later, you found yourself at a shooting range game. The target? A giant teddy bear sitting proudly at the center of the stand.

You stared at the bear, your lips curling into a wistful smile.

“Why are you staring at it like that?” Bucky asked, following your gaze.

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to win one of those, like in the movies. But I’m terrible at shooting games.”

Bucky smirked. “Terrible, huh?”

“The worst,” you admitted dramatically.

Without a word, he handed you the food he’d been holding and stepped up to the booth. He exchanged a few bills with the operator, picked up the air rifle, and lined up his shot.

One by one, the cans toppled with effortless precision. The entire thing took less than ten seconds. The operator handed Bucky the bear, looking vaguely impressed.

Turning to you, Bucky held out the bear, his smirk softening. “There. Happy?”

Your squeal of delight was uncontainable as you hugged the bear to your chest. “Are you kidding me? This is amazing!”

Bucky chuckled, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but he just shook his head, the faint smile lingering on his lips.

---

Back at the Tower, you sat on the floor of your apartment, the giant teddy bear propped up beside you like a loyal guardian. The box of desserts you’d brought home lay open between you and Bucky, who, to your surprise, had settled close—so close that his shoulder brushed against yours.

For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, but then Bucky broke it, his voice quiet.

“Why do you do all this?” he asked, not looking at you. “The food trucks, the conversations… You haven’t even written anything yet. Feels like I’m wasting your time.”

You set your fork down, startled by the vulnerability in his tone.

“You’re not wasting my time,” you said firmly. “I don’t care if it takes months to write anything. Getting to know you—this you—is the best part of all of this.”

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“This,” you continued, your voice softening. “The way you laugh, the way you care about the little things… That’s what I want people to see. That’s who you are.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes closing.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you stayed still, letting the warmth of his presence settle around you.

---

The Avengers Tower was unusually quiet as you wandered through its familiar halls. The kind of quiet that followed the steady hum of a busy day winding down, where every footstep seemed louder than it should. You had come, as always, to meet Bucky, notebook tucked snugly under your arm and a lingering thought about whether any desserts were left over from last night.

First, though, tea.

You found the kitchen easily—it wasn’t your first time navigating the compound’s labyrinthine halls. The space was sleek and modern, all polished countertops and gleaming appliances, with enough mugs in the cabinet to serve the entire team and then some. Reaching for two cups, you began preparing something warm, something simple—black tea for him, chamomile for you.

The quiet was broken by a familiar voice, low and tinged with amusement.

“Well, look who it is.”

Startled, you turned, still holding the mug, to see Natasha Romanoff leaning against the doorframe. She had that effortless poise she always carried, arms crossed and lips curled into a small, knowing smirk that seemed to see right through you.

“Natasha,” you greeted, managing a smile. You weren’t surprised to see her—she had a way of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. But something about her always left you feeling slightly off-balance, like you were playing a game without knowing the rules.

She stepped into the kitchen, her movements fluid as she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “How’s it going with Barnes?” she asked casually, though her sharp green eyes betrayed her genuine interest.

“It’s going… amazing,” you admitted, the honesty surprising even yourself. Your cheeks warmed as you added, “He’s amazing.” Then, hesitating, you glanced at her. “But I can’t really tell you more than that. I promised him I wouldn’t talk about what we’ve been working on.”

Natasha’s expression softened, the smirk fading into something closer to a real smile. “Good,” she said, her tone gentler now. “He needs that. Someone who keeps their promises.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle over you. “I just want him to feel safe.”

“Safe,” Natasha repeated, her smirk returning. She tilted her head slightly, mischief glinting in her gaze. “And how safe do you feel around him? Your cheeks get awfully red when you’re with him.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but she cut you off with a laugh, clearly enjoying herself.

“It’s cute,” she teased, her voice lilting. “The way you look at him. Like he’s the most fascinating thing in the world. And then when he says something unexpected, your face does this little thing—” She mimicked a flustered expression, her grin widening as you groaned.

“Okay, fine,” you said, waving a hand in surrender. “Yes, Bucky is charming. And handsome. And maybe I have a… silly little crush. But that’s all it is. A crush. I’m not here for that, Nat. I’m here to make people see him for who he really is.”

Natasha’s smirk faded as she studied you, her expression turning thoughtful. “And how do you see him?”

The question caught you off guard, but when you answered, your voice was steady. “I see someone who’s kind. Someone who’s trying so hard to be better, even when the world doesn’t give him the chance. Someone who’s funny, and thoughtful, and—” You stopped, shaking your head. “I just want people to see him the way I do.”

For a long moment, Natasha didn’t speak. Then she nodded, her approval subtle but unmistakable.

“He’s changing,” she said softly. “Whether it’s because of you or not, I don’t know. But he’s more open. More… himself.”

Her words sent a warmth through you, though they carried a gravity you couldn’t ignore.

“But,” Natasha added, her tone firm now, “you can’t forget that he’s still struggling. Progress isn’t always a straight line. It’s not going to be easy—for him or for you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. And you did. You saw it in the way his laughter sometimes faltered, in the distant look that would creep into his eyes when something triggered an old memory. But you also saw the way he kept trying, and you were willing to try with him.

“Good,” Natasha said, stepping back toward the door. “Then keep doing what you’re doing. And maybe one day, you’ll figure out what that silly little crush of yours really means.”

Before you could respond, she was gone, her footsteps disappearing down the hall.

You stood there for a moment, her words echoing in your mind as you finished preparing the tea. Two mugs in hand, you headed toward the gym, your heart feeling strangely full.

---

When you entered the gym, Bucky was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his posture unusually relaxed. His hair fell in loose strands over his face, and when he looked up, he gave you one of his rare smiles.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm.

“Hey,” you replied, handing him one of the mugs as you sat down across from him.

As you sipped your tea, the silence between you was easy, comfortable. You found yourself watching him, the way his eyes softened as he stared into his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic as though grounding himself.

“What?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe your feelings for him were something more than a “silly little crush.” But as you sat there, sharing tea and silence with the man who had slowly but surely let you into his world, you realized something else:

Whether or not you could name what you felt didn’t matter.

What mattered was that you were here, together, and that for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes seemed to feel at ease.

---

It started like so many of your conversations did—in the gym. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the faint creak of leather from the equipment filled the space, a subtle backdrop to the measured rhythm of Bucky’s words. It had become a sanctuary for him, a space where his guarded edges softened, where he could breathe without feeling the weight of a world that still didn’t quite know what to make of him.

You’d learned to let the moments flow naturally, to not push or prod. He didn’t need someone to drag his past out of him. He needed someone who would listen when he was ready.

Today, he was ready.

Bucky sat on the bench, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his vibranium hand resting lightly on his knee. You sat across from him on the floor, cross-legged with your notebook balanced on your lap but largely forgotten. This wasn’t about the notes anymore.

For a while, you talked about little things—the weather, a new bakery you’d heard about, the way the gym smelled faintly of old leather and floor polish. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, his voice softened, and he began.

“My ma,” he said, his gaze distant, his tone almost reverent. “She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. She had this way of making you feel like… like you were the only thing that mattered when she looked at you. But she didn’t take any crap. If I stepped outta line, she’d give me this look. Just one look, and I’d straighten right up.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly. “She sounds incredible.”

Bucky nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She was. Strong, too. Had to be. My dad worked long hours. Too long, sometimes. But he always made time for us when he could. Used to take me and my sisters to Coney Island whenever he had a free weekend.”

“Coney Island,” you repeated, grinning. “Let me guess—hot dogs?”

Bucky’s smile widened. “Best in the city. I’d fight anyone who said otherwise.”

“You had sisters?” you asked, your tone light but curious. Of course, you knew this already—your research had told you—but you wanted to hear him talk about them. It was the biggest breakthrough yet, and you weren’t about to let it slip away.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening even more. “Two of ‘em. Rebecca was the youngest—she was a firecracker. Always getting herself into trouble and talking her way out of it. Could charm her way past anyone. And Winnie…” His smile faded slightly, turning wistful. “She was the serious one. Always felt like she had to keep the rest of us in line. We used to fight like cats and dogs, but… I miss ‘em.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you gave him a moment, letting the silence stretch gently between you. When you spoke again, your voice was soft, careful.

“And Steve?” you asked. “How’d you meet him?”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Steve… We grew up in the same neighborhood. Scrawniest kid I’d ever seen, but damn, he had guts. Always getting into fights he couldn’t win. I’d end up stepping in, dragging his sorry ass outta trouble more times than I can count. But it didn’t stop him. Stubborn little bastard.”

You laughed at that, the image of a wiry, determined young Steve Rogers standing his ground against impossible odds vivid in your mind. “Sounds like you two were troublemakers.”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky admitted, his smile widening.

“Rumor has it you were a bit of a ladies’ man back then,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shot you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Is that what they say?”

You grinned. “Are they wrong?”

He didn’t answer directly, but the knowing look in his eyes was answer enough. You laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it drew a softer smile from him.

“Okay,” you said, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “What were dates like back then?”

Bucky leaned back slightly, his eyes growing distant as he thought. “Simpler,” he said. “We’d go to the movies—cheap seats, usually. Maybe get ice cream after. And if you really wanted to impress a girl, you’d take her dancing.”

“You danced?” you asked, your tone tinged with playful disbelief.

“I wasn’t much of a dancer,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But it worked. Most of the time.”

You smiled, imagining him in those days, his charm and easy confidence lighting up every room he stepped into. “Sounds romantic,” you said softly.

“Maybe,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

The conversation slowed, a quietness settling over the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like standing on the edge of something—like there were more stories waiting, more pieces of him still to be shared.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost hesitant. “I don’t think about those days much anymore.”

“Why not?” you asked gently.

“Because it feels like another life,” he said simply. “Like it happened to someone else. And I’m not sure I deserve to keep those memories.”

The weight of his confession pressed down on you, but you didn’t look away. “You do,” you said firmly. “You deserve every good memory, Bucky. Every single one. They’re yours, and no one—nothing—can take that away from you.”

His gaze flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you thought you saw something in his eyes shift. Not quite belief, but the beginning of it.

“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“You’re welcome,” you replied softly.

For the first time in a long time, you saw a glimpse of the man he used to be—the boy from Brooklyn with a quick grin and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved. And for the first time, you thought maybe he saw a piece of that boy in himself, too.

---

The gym felt heavier than usual when you walked in, a tension hanging in the air that made your chest tighten. Bucky sat on the bench, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the floor. His metal hand rested on his knee, the faint hum of the vibranium audible in the otherwise silent room.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping closer but leaving a careful distance between you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his tone clipped and cold. He still didn’t look at you. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You frowned, setting your notebook down on the floor beside you as you sat across from him. “Bucky, if you don’t want to talk today, we don’t have to. I don’t want to force—”

“Everyone wants something,” he snapped, his voice cutting through your words like a blade. His eyes finally met yours, sharp and filled with a storm you hadn’t seen in weeks. “They want me to talk, to act normal, to live like none of it ever happened. But it did happen. I can’t just forget about the people I killed, the ones I hurt. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that?”

His voice grew louder, more raw with every word, and you felt a pang in your chest at the anguish spilling out of him.

“Bucky—”

“You don’t get it!” he shouted, his fists clenching at his sides. “No one does. You think I can just sit here, smiling and talking about movies, like it’s all fine? Like I’m fine? I’m not!”

His voice cracked on the last word, and before you could respond, his fist slammed into the wall beside your head. The sound reverberated through the room, loud and jarring, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed perfectly still, your breath caught—not because you were afraid, but because of the tears streaming down his face.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your voice trembling under the weight of the moment.

He froze, his hand still pressed against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

Without thinking, you reached for him, standing to pull him into a tight hug. He stiffened at first, his body like a coiled spring, but then he collapsed against you, his arms falling limply to his sides as his sobs wracked his body.

You slid down to the floor with him, your arms wrapped around his trembling frame. “It’s okay,” you murmured, your hand moving soothingly over his back. “It’s okay. Nothing happened. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “I’m so scared, so damn scared that I’ll hurt someone. That I’ll hurt you. And you’ll leave, and I can’t—I can’t handle that.”

Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your own eyes as you held him closer. “I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “Even if you kick me out, I’m staying. You hear me? You’re stuck with me, Bucky. I don’t care how messy it gets. I’m not going anywhere. Remember? I’m nosy like that.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped him, muffled against your shoulder. Slowly, his metal arm came up, wrapping around you with surprising gentleness. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breathing uneven but beginning to calm.

The two of you stayed there for a long time, the weight of his pain settling around you like a storm finally breaking. You didn’t say anything more—you just held him, letting him pour out everything he’d been carrying for so long.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red and swollen, but there was something quieter in his expression. He looked at you as though searching for cracks, for some sign that you were afraid or pulling away.

You smiled softly. “We’ll figure this out,” you said. “Together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky nodded. And you knew he believed you.

---

The hum of the elevator seemed louder than usual as it carried you to the common floor of Avengers Tower. Tony had called for you—no, insisted on seeing you—and you couldn’t shake the suspicion that it had something to do with Bucky.

Stepping into the lounge, you found him leaning casually against the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze flicked to you as soon as you entered, and he didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Alright, spill,” he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play coy,” Tony shot back, gesturing vaguely with his glass. “Something happened with Barnes. He’s been acting… weird. And by weird, I mean less broody than usual, which is frankly unsettling.”

You sighed, the tension in your chest tightening. “Tony, if Bucky wants to talk to you about something, he will. But that’s between him and me.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting. “Between him and you?” he repeated, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “So now you’re the Winter Soldier Whisperer?”

Your jaw clenched, the words stinging more than you expected. “I’m his friend,” you said evenly.

“Are you?” Tony countered, his tone cool but pointed. “Because last time I checked, you were supposed to be writing about him, not playing therapist.”

The accusation hit harder than it should have, but you didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about writing,” you said, your voice firm. “It’s about helping him. And if you don’t trust me by now, Tony, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the two of you stared each other down, the weight of unspoken words pressing between you.

Finally, Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine,” he said, his tone softening. “You’ve proved yourself enough times. Just… don’t let him down. He doesn’t need any more of that.”

“I won’t,” you said quietly but with conviction.

Tony studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, his usual smirk tugged faintly at his lips. “Good. Now get out of here before I start saying something sentimental. Can’t have that getting out.”

A smile flickered across your face, and you turned to leave, your chest lighter than when you’d arrived.

As the elevator doors closed behind you, you couldn’t help but think about what Tony had said. This wasn’t just about writing anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

It was about Bucky. About being there for him, no matter what.

---

Later that evening, your apartment was bathed in the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The city’s muffled sounds filtered through the half-open window—honking cars, distant laughter, and the hum of life carrying on outside. Your notebook lay open before you, the first blank page staring back at you like a challenge.

It was time.

You twirled the pen in your fingers, hesitating for a moment. The weight of what you were about to write felt heavier than usual, as though the trust Bucky had placed in you was balancing on the tip of your pen. Taking a deep breath, you began.

Title: James Buchanan Barnes – The Boy from Brooklyn

Before he was a soldier, before he became a shadow in the history books, James Buchanan Barnes was just a boy from Brooklyn.

He grew up in a neighborhood where the buildings leaned too close together, where streets buzzed with life—vendors shouting out their wares, children’s laughter echoing in the alleys, and the distant hiss of trains passing by. Mornings smelled of fresh bread wafting from corner bakeries; evenings carried the smoky tang of burning coal.

Bucky’s family wasn’t wealthy, but they were rich in the ways that mattered. His parents filled their modest apartment with love, loyalty, and a sense of unwavering stability.

As the eldest of three siblings, Bucky took his role as protector seriously, even when it meant teasing his sisters mercilessly. Rebecca, the youngest, was a firecracker—always talking her way into and out of trouble. Winnie, the middle child, was quieter, her serious demeanor often earning her the title of “the responsible one.” But Bucky adored them both fiercely. His sisters would later say he was equal parts troublemaker and guardian, the kind of brother who could make you laugh even as he scolded you for making poor choices.

His father worked long, grueling hours, returning home with hands calloused from years of labor. But he always made time for his children. On weekends, he’d take them to Coney Island, where Bucky would wolf down hot dogs and swear they were the best in the city.

His mother was the cornerstone of their home. She was kind but firm, with a gaze sharp enough to silence even the most defiant child. She taught Bucky how to tie a tie, how to hold a door open, and how to treat people with respect. From her, he learned the quiet strength of standing tall in a world that could often feel like it was trying to knock you down.

It was in that same Brooklyn neighborhood that Bucky met Steve Rogers. Steve was scrawny, sickly, and stubborn—a kid with a lion’s heart trapped in a frame that couldn’t always keep up. The two became fast friends, a duo that seemed inseparable despite their differences.

“He was always picking fights,” Bucky had said once, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t matter that he couldn’t win. He just didn’t know how to back down.”

Where Steve was unwavering in his ideals, Bucky was the one who kept him grounded. And in turn, Steve reminded Bucky of the kind of man he wanted to be—a man who fought not for glory, but because it was right. Together, they became a team. Trouble found them often, but so did moments of quiet triumph—sneaking into a movie theater, sharing a laugh over melting ice cream cones, or walking the long way home just to enjoy the cool Brooklyn nights.

---

The words flowed easier than you’d expected. You didn’t write about the Winter Soldier or the wars he’d fought, the darkness he’d endured. That part would come later. For now, you wanted the world to meet James Buchanan Barnes—the boy who lived, laughed, and loved before the weight of history settled on his shoulders.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. Your palms were clammy as you watched him read, the sound of the paper rustling unnervingly loud in the quiet room.

He sat on the edge of the bench, his posture stiff as his eyes moved over the page. His expression gave nothing away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was searching. “It’s… good,” he said slowly. “Really good. But…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Weird.”

“Weird?” you repeated, tilting your head.

He set the notebook down, his metal fingers tapping lightly against the bench. “Reading about myself like that. Like I’m… normal.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward. “Well, you are normal, Bucky. Or at least as normal as anyone else.”

He chuckled at that, a low, quiet sound that felt like a victory. “Normal, huh? Don’t know if I’ve heard that one before.”

“First time for everything,” you teased gently.

---

Before you left, you handed him a small, carefully wrapped package. He frowned slightly, his gaze flicking from the package to you.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

He unwrapped it carefully, his movements almost hesitant. When he finally revealed the contents—a set of classic movies on Blu-ray—his brow furrowed, but the softness in his expression betrayed him.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied simply, your smile shy but sincere.

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, his blue-gray eyes flicking between you and the gift. Then, to your surprise, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you.

The hug wasn’t born of desperation or pain like the others had been. It was soft, deliberate, and unprompted.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice warm against your ear.

Your heart fluttered as you hugged him back, the solid weight of his arms around you grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. When he finally pulled away, your cheeks burned, but the look on his face made it worth it.

For the first time, you thought maybe Bucky wasn’t just starting to trust you—he was starting to trust himself again, too.

---

That night, the quiet of your apartment felt heavier than usual. The city’s usual soundtrack—distant sirens, muffled music, the occasional rumble of a passing train—faded into the background as you sat cross-legged on your couch. The notebook in your lap was open to a blank page, the pen in your hand poised but unmoving.

The weight of your feelings for Bucky pressed against your chest, a slow, steady ache you couldn’t quite shake. It scared you, how much you cared. How deeply you wanted to see him smile, to see the light in his eyes grow brighter each day. You’d told yourself this was about helping him, about showing the world who he truly was, but somewhere along the way, it had become so much more.

You thought of the way he had laughed at your jokes, the way his face softened when he spoke about his family. The way he’d hugged you that day—not out of desperation, but out of something real, something unspoken.

It didn’t matter if it hurt, you decided. Even if you risked your own heart, even if you never dared to tell him how you felt, it was worth it. Seeing Bucky Barnes slowly come back to life was worth everything.

---

Brooklyn was alive with its usual hum of activity when you met Steve Rogers the next afternoon. The air was crisp, the kind that turned your breath into soft clouds and made your cheeks tingle. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the old brick buildings in a golden glow, the shadows stretching long across the cracked sidewalks.

You stood on the corner, nervously gripping the strap of your bag as you waited. When Steve appeared, his presence was as steadying as you’d hoped. He walked toward you with his familiar purposeful stride, his jacket zipped against the chill, his face carrying that calm resolve that had a way of grounding you.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice warm and low. He offered a small smile as he stopped beside you. “What’s this all about?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you turned to look at the house across the street. It was small and worn, its brick facade faded with age. The shutters were hanging slightly crooked, and the front yard was overgrown with weeds. A “FOR SALE” sign stood askew in the yard, weathered and forgotten, as though it had been there far too long.

“Steve,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “I found something. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I thought I’d talk to you first.”

His gaze followed yours, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight of the house. His expression shifted, a flicker of recognition softening the lines of his face.

“Is that…” His words trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Bucky’s childhood home.”

For a moment, Steve said nothing. His jaw tightened, his blue eyes fixed on the house as memories seemed to flood him. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared slightly, as though bracing himself against the weight of it.

“I checked,” you continued, your words spilling out quickly to fill the silence. “His sister, Winnie, passed away about four years ago. The house has been on the market ever since, but no one’s bought it. It’s in rough shape—it needs a lot of work—but it’s still standing.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hands clenching briefly at his sides. “Why are you showing me this?”

You shifted on your feet, suddenly unsure. “I just… I thought maybe it could be something for him. A place to ground him. Something familiar, something that’s his. He doesn’t have much that feels like it belongs to him, and I thought…” You trailed off, your voice faltering.

Steve finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “You really think this could help him?”

“I do,” you said earnestly. “It’s more than a house—it’s a piece of his past, something real. I know it’s falling apart, but it’s his home, Steve. It could be a step toward helping him feel like he belongs somewhere again.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on yours, thoughtful and a little heavy. He turned back to the house, his eyes scanning every worn corner, every crack in the foundation. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll talk to Tony. See if we can figure something out—a loan, or whatever it takes.”

Relief washed over you, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Steve glanced at you again, his expression shifting into something quieter, more introspective. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. “Of course I do,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been through so much, and he’s still here. Still trying. I just want him to be happy. To feel like he has a chance at a life.”

Steve tilted his head, studying you closely. “That’s not what I meant,” he said gently.

Your cheeks flushed, and you glanced away, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured. “What matters is that he’s okay. That he’s well.”

For a moment, Steve didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but kind. “You’re good for him,” he said simply.

His words stayed with you as you walked back through the bustling streets of Brooklyn, the hum of the city blending with the thoughts swirling in your mind. You didn’t know what the future held—for Bucky, for you, for the fragile connection growing between you. But you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You’d do whatever it took to see him smile again, to see him find a piece of peace in the chaos of the world. Because he deserved it. And, selfishly, because you wanted to be there when he did.

---

That evening, the soft glow of your desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over your workspace. Outside, the city hummed with life—a soothing backdrop of distant horns, muffled conversations, and the rhythmic click of your pen against the edge of your notebook.

The second article about Bucky had been surprisingly fun to write, a departure from the heavier pieces you’d drafted before. You wanted this one to show a different side of him—a side that wasn’t defined by war or pain, but by the charm and warmth that still lingered beneath the surface.

---

Title: James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Own Casanova

If you’ve heard whispers about James Buchanan Barnes being a ladies’ man back in his day, let me tell you: they weren’t whispers—they were practically shouts. The legend of Bucky Barnes, the heartthrob of Brooklyn, is as true as it is amusing.

“I didn’t try,” Bucky tells me, a smirk playing on his lips, his tone so casual you almost miss the confidence behind it. “It just… happened.” He shrugs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And really, it probably was. A young James Barnes had it all: the looks, the charm, the grin that could disarm you faster than any weapon. But Bucky wasn’t just about turning heads—he was about making connections, about making people feel seen. He wasn’t just a flirt; he was the guy who actually cared.

“So,” I asked him, leaning forward, “what made you such a hit? Was it the hair? The smile? The whole ‘knight in shining armor’ thing you had going on?”

“Maybe the smile,” he said with a chuckle, clearly amused by my curiosity. “And the fact that I didn’t talk much about myself. Women like a good listener.”

There it is, folks. The secret to Bucky Barnes’ success: shutting up and letting the other person shine. Revolutionary, isn’t it?

But let’s talk about dates. Because when Bucky Barnes took a girl out, it wasn’t just a night—it was an experience. “What did dates look like back then?” I asked him, ready to be transported to the days of big band music and soda fountains.

“Well,” Bucky began, leaning back with a distant look in his eyes, “you’d pick her up from her place—on time, always on time. You’d take her to the movies, maybe grab ice cream after. If you really wanted to impress her, you’d go dancing. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but…” He trailed off, a small smile playing on his lips.

“But you pulled it off anyway,” I finished for him, grinning. He just shrugged, not confirming but not denying it either—a true master of mystery.

Bucky’s approach to dating wasn’t about grand gestures or flashy moves. It was about the little things: remembering her favorite flavor of ice cream, pulling her chair out for her, walking her home at the end of the night.

“So you were a gentleman,” I teased, my pen tapping against my notebook.

“Always,” he replied, his smile softening, and for a moment, I could see the man he used to be, unburdened by the weight of the years.

I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask. “Do you ever miss those days?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Things were… simpler. You didn’t have to think so much about how you were being seen. You just… were.”

But while the world may have changed, some things haven’t: Bucky Barnes still has that same charm, that same wit, and that same ability to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the room.

So, what’s the verdict? Is Bucky Barnes still Brooklyn’s Casanova? I’ll let you decide. All I know is that he could probably win over the entire city if he tried.

And between you and me, I’m not sure he even has to try.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. You sat across from him, watching as he read, your nerves buzzing quietly beneath your skin.

He finished, setting the notebook down with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re making me sound like some kinda heartthrob,” he said, shaking his head.

“You weren’t?” you teased, leaning forward with a grin.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “It’s funny, reading about myself like this.”

“Funny good or funny bad?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Just… funny,” he said, his voice lighter than you’d heard in a while.

You couldn’t resist pushing a little further. “I’ve gotta say, I’m kinda curious what it’d be like to go on a date with you. You know, for research purposes.”

Bucky looked at you, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners as a smile spread across his face. “Maybe one day,” he said quietly, his tone sincere.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you managed to play it off with a laugh, shaking your head. “Guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

---

Meanwhile, in the Avengers’ lounge, Steve and Tony were deep in conversation about your discovery of Bucky’s childhood home. Steve’s voice was steady, but you could hear the undercurrent of hope as he laid out the details.

“The house is still there,” Steve said, his hands clasped in front of him. “The porch, the brickwork—it’s rough, but it’s intact. It hasn’t been sold yet. And I think it could mean something to him.”

Tony sipped his drink, his expression skeptical. “You sure he’d even want it? Barnes doesn’t exactly strike me as the nostalgic type.”

Steve nodded slowly. “He wouldn’t, not at first. But if it was his project—his space—it could help. He’s been looking for something, Tony. Something to anchor him.”

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, fine. I’ll make the arrangements. But it has to be his decision. If he’s not 100% on board, we pull out.”

Steve smiled faintly, his relief palpable. “Agreed. I think he’ll come around. Especially if she’s the one to tell him.”

Tony’s smirk returned, his tone light but teasing. “Ah, our Winter Soldier Whisperer. Why am I not surprised?”

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. And deep down, he knew Tony was right. If anyone could make Bucky see the value in reclaiming a piece of his past, it was you.

---

You sat in your car outside the gym, the world around you fading into a blur of streetlights and distant sounds. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached, but it was the only thing grounding you in the moment.

“Bucky, I found something…” You tried the words aloud, your voice trembling slightly. No, that was too abrupt. “Bucky, there’s something I want to show you…” Still wrong—too vague.

With a frustrated sigh, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against the wheel. You had spent weeks planning this moment, rehearsing it in your head over and over again. But even now, with everything in place, doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if he thought you’d overstepped? What if this wasn’t what he needed? What if you were about to ruin everything?

Taking a shaky breath, you reached for the apple pie on the passenger seat—a small gesture, something to soften the conversation ahead. You stepped out of the car, the cool evening air biting at your skin as you walked toward the gym, clutching the pie like a lifeline.

---

The gym was quiet, dimly lit, the faint scent of leather and cleaning solution hanging in the air. Bucky was sitting on the bench, his head tilted slightly as he watched you approach. His expression softened when he saw the pie, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

“This feels like a bribe,” he said, his tone lighter than you’d expected.

“Maybe it is,” you teased, setting the pie on the bench between you. “But I’m hoping it’ll earn me some goodwill for the questions I have.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly. “Alright. Fire away.”

You tucked your notebook beside you, deciding this moment was better left unwritten. “Tell me about the house you grew up in,” you began, your voice gentle. “What did it look like?”

For a moment, Bucky’s expression shifted, his gaze growing distant as memories surfaced. “It was small,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Brick on the outside, narrow hallways on the inside. The kind of place where you could hear everything—Ma cooking in the kitchen, my sisters giggling through the walls, no matter how hard they tried to be quiet.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The porch swing creaked every time you sat on it. Dad always said he’d fix it, but he never did. Ma loved it that way, though.”

“What about your room?” you prompted gently, leaning forward.

He huffed a soft laugh. “Not much to it. A bed, a dresser, a desk in the corner. Rebecca used to sneak in during thunderstorms. She’d bring her blanket and curl up by the foot of the bed. I’d pretend to be annoyed, but…” He shrugged. “It felt safe.”

“And the holidays?” you asked, your tone warm.

His smile grew, brighter now. “Ma went all out for Christmas. She’d bake for days—cookies, pies, the works. The house always smelled like cinnamon and sugar. Rebecca and Winnie would string popcorn for the tree. It was messy, but we loved it.”

As he spoke, you watched the tension ease from his shoulders, the weight he always carried seeming a little lighter. His voice held a softness, a warmth you hadn’t heard before, and it made your heart ache in the best way.

When he finished, you hesitated, your hands twisting nervously in your lap. “Bucky,” you began carefully, “can I show you something?”

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

“First, promise you won’t get mad,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with nervous laughter.

“That bad, huh?” he teased, though his tone was gentle.

You shook your head. “It’s not bad. I just… I don’t want you to think I overstepped.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s see it.”

---

The drive to Brooklyn was quiet, the tension in the car thick but not suffocating. You glanced at Bucky occasionally, but his gaze remained fixed on the passing streets, his expression unreadable.

When you pulled up to the house, your stomach twisted in knots. You parked the car, your hands trembling slightly as you turned to him.

“Why are we here?” he asked, his voice cautious.

You gestured toward the house—the faded brick, the crooked shutters, the porch swing that still hung from rusted chains. The “FOR SALE” sign that had once stood in the yard was gone, replaced with a crisp new one that read “JUST SOLD.”

“That’s your house,” you said softly. “Your childhood home.”

Bucky’s entire body seemed to go still. His eyes were locked on the house, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight.

“I found it,” you continued, your words spilling out in a rush. “I was looking for your family, but… there wasn’t anyone left. And then I found this. It hadn’t been sold yet, so Steve and Tony bought it. It’s yours now, Bucky. You can do whatever you want with it—fix it up, sell it, anything. It’s your home.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. His hands rested on his knees, his knuckles white as he gripped the fabric of his jeans.

“Bucky?” you said hesitantly, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry if—”

Before you could finish, he turned to you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that made it hard to breathe—but you didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Thank you.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held him tightly, your own emotions spilling over. The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the weight of the moment, in the enormity of what it meant.

When he finally pulled back, he brushed a hand through his hair, his gaze returning to the house. “I never thought I’d see it again,” he said quietly. “I figured it was long gone.”

You smiled through your tears, your voice soft but steady. “It’s not perfect, but… it’s still standing. Just like you.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he shook his head, glancing at you. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Well,” you said with a grin, “I’ve got vacation days to burn, and I’ve been looking for a good project. So if you need a hand…”

He smiled then—a real, genuine smile that made your heart skip. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Taking your hand, he led you toward the house. The front steps creaked under your weight, the familiar sound drawing another soft laugh from Bucky. He didn’t say much as you walked through the door together, but his eyes said everything.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a piece of his past, a foundation for his future.

And for the first time, it felt like he was ready to build on it.

---

When you told your boss you were taking a month off, her reaction was as dramatic as you’d expected.

“A month?” she repeated, lowering her mug of coffee and staring at you like you’d just announced plans to join the circus.

“Yes, a month,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. You’d rehearsed this conversation in your head a dozen times.

She blinked, setting the mug down on her desk with a soft thud. “Are you… okay? You’ve never taken more than a long weekend. What’s this about?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your bag, but you held her gaze. “It’s personal,” you said finally. “But it’s important. Really important.”

She tilted her head, scrutinizing you with the kind of look that could unearth secrets. “Alright,” she said slowly. “But if you come back and tell me you’re quitting, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you.”

You laughed, though the thought had crossed your mind more than once. “Noted.”

---

When you told Bucky about your month-long leave, his reaction was priceless.

“A month?” he repeated, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yes, a month,” you said, echoing your earlier conversation with a grin.

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging. “Besides, I figured you could use the help. Just don’t expect miracles—I’m not exactly Bob Vila.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and soft. “Just having you here is enough.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

---

Part 2

[southtopaz]

PSYCHO KILLER - SCREAM

Summary: in which Iris Morris has to navigate her personal relationships while surviving a psycho.

Warnings: Fem!reader, angst, mention of violence, swearing, mention of death, Tara Carpenter x Fem reader, multiple parts.

Word count: +2,5k

A/n: this part will follow the events of Scream 6 but it will take place two years later from Scream 5. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical mistake.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18.

After Tara and Iris stepped out of the room, they made their way downstairs, where Sam, Kirby, and Wayne were deep in discussion about a plan to catch Ghostface. The plan was simple: walk through a public area, wait for Ghostface to call, and then trace the call to pinpoint his location. Iris couldn't shake the feeling that the plan was almost too easy, but at this point, they had nothing to lose.

As the three of them ventured into the nearby park, the sun shone brightly, casting a warm glow over the scene. Families were scattered across the grassy areas, children laughed as they played, and couples strolled hand in hand. The contrast between the carefree atmosphere and their dangerous mission felt surreal.

Tara and Iris walked side by side, their silence punctuated by an unspoken tension that hung in the air. Every time they caught each other's eyes, a rush of awkwardness washed over them, causing both to quickly look away.

"You two should have stayed with the others," Sam said sternly, glancing back at them as they walked.

"That's not going to happen," Tara replied defiantly, her tone firm.

"And miss all the fun? Nope, Sam, I want to be there when we catch him," Iris added.

"Yeah, same," Tara chimed in, her gaze fixed on the ground, unable to meet Iris's eyes for more than a fleeting moment.

Sam shot them a puzzled look, her brow furrowing as she sensed the weird tension between them. "Okay, what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Iris feigned innocence, her heart racing.

Sam gestured between them, her expression shifting to one of concern. "This... whatever the fuck is going on. You two are acting weird."

"We are not acting weird," Tara protested, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Iris said at the same time, still avoiding each other's gaze.

Sam studied them closely, her curiosity piqued. "You," she pointed at Iris, "went to talk to her," then she turned to Tara, "and then you two spent a big fucking amount of time upstairs, and now you're both acting like this? Like Tara was all red when you guys came downstairs!".

She paused, her eyes widening as realization dawned on her. "Shut up, like shut the fuck up."

"Sam, no," Tara began, her voice rising slightly in panic.

"You're telling me..." Sam's grin widened, amusement lighting up her face.

"I'm not telling you shit, we have things to worry about like catching a fucking psycho that wants to kill us thank you very much" Iris shot back, quickening her pace to escape Sam's gaze. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, mortified that the woman seemed to realize what went down between Tara and her.

"This is the funniest shit ever" Sam declared, unable to contain her laughter.

"You know Sam? Maybe Ghostface has a fucking point".

Sam laughed for a moment before she redirected the conversation back to their plan. "Alright, alright. Focus, everyone. We need to stay on track here." She gave Tara a proud pat on the back, making the girl smile softly.

"Anyways, there's no point in all of us putting ourselves at risk," Sam continued, changing the topic of conversation.

"We're not," said Tara simply. "We're your backup."

"Hey, Sam." Kirby's voice crackled through the phone, breaking the silence that had settled over the group as they walked. "Stay frosty out there, okay?"

"We're good," Sam replied, her voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of tension. She glanced around, her eyes scanning the park, taking note of the families picnicking and the joggers weaving through the paths. It all felt too normal, too peaceful for the chaos they were entangled in.

Nearby, Wayne sat on a bench, pretending to read a newspaper. His posture was casual, but Sam could tell he was hyper-aware, eyes darting around to ensure they weren't being watched. He had insisted on keeping a close eye on them, and Sam appreciated his presence, even if it felt stifling at times.

As they continued their stroll, Iris trailed behind Sam, her mind wandering. The sun warmed her skin and Iris felt tempted to buy an ice cream cone as it seemed like the only time they actually wanted Ghostface to talk to them was the one time he didn't feel like it.

Minutes passed in silence as they walked, and just as Iris was about to complain, Sam's phone buzzed, cutting through the tranquility. The sound was sharp and jarring, Sam pulled it out of her pocket without hesitation, her heart racing as she glanced at the caller ID. Once again, it displayed Richie's name.

A chill ran down her spine, but she took a deep breath, steeling herself. "You're gonna die, you know," she growled into the phone, her voice surprisingly calm despite the fury simmering beneath the surface.

"No, you're gonna die, Samantha!" Ghostface shot back. "Choking on your own blood when I hack up your sister and your friends."

"Unless we find you first." She shot back, her grip on the phone tightening. She could feel her pulse quickening as she glanced at Iris and Tara, both of them looking around the park, their eyes darting from one person to another, searching for anyone who seemed out of place.

"For a mastermind, you're not very bright,"

Ghostface's voice came through, smooth and taunting. "Waiting for me to call, desperately hoping I'm nearby so the police can grab me? But I'm not nearby. I'm a step ahead of you idiots, as always. Be seeing you, Samantha." With that, the line went dead, leaving a silence that hung heavy in the air. Sam's breath came in short bursts, and she clenched her jaw, fighting back the rage that threatened to consume her.

"How the hell did he know about our plan?" Iris exclaimed, panic rising in her voice. "Someone must have told him."

"Did you get the location?" Sam spoke to Kirby, struggling to keep her voice steady.

"Yep," the FBI agent replied, maintaining her calm. "Geolocation is coming through right now. He's on the Upper West Side, in an apartment halfway across the city."

"On West 96th?" Tara interjected, her heart racing.

"Wait, how did you know that?" Kirby asked, a hint of disbelief in her tone.

The realization dawned on them simultaneously, the air thick with dread as they processed where the killer was calling from and who he was targeting next.

"Gale," they whispered in unison, horror etched across their faces.

Without a moment's hesitation, the four of them took off running, adrenaline propelling them forward. "My friend Danny is on the West Side," Sam panted, fingers flying over her phone as she messaged him. "He can get there faster."

"Yeah, or he could finish her off!!" Wayne shot back, his voice laced with urgency. "Is it possible he's the killer?"

"We'd be dead without him, so I'll take my chances," Iris replied, fear fueling her stride. As Tara ran alongside her, she subtly pointed out a police car parked on the street. Both of them exchanged a quick glance before sprinting toward it, leaving Sam and Wayne to argue behind them.

Iris and Tara dove into the car, and Tara scrambled for the driver's seat, her palma sweating as she rifled through the compartments for the keys.

"Are we about to commit a felony?" Iris asked.

"Yep. You ready?"

"Okay cool just making sure" Iris found the keys and tossed them to Tara as she buckled her seatbelt. Tara immediately started honking the horn, glancing back to see Sam still engaged in conversation with the police officer.

"Sam!" Tara shouted over the blaring horn. She honked again, urgency pulsing in every beep. "Get in!"

"What is she doing?" Wayne demanded, noticing Tara behind the wheel. His concern deepened as he watched Sam bolt toward the car, his expression laced with disbelief.

"Hey! Get out of my car!" the older man shouted, storming toward them. "What do you think you're doing? That's an official vehicle! HEY!"

"I feel like we should use the sirens," Iris suggested, rolling up the window to muffle Wayne's protests.

"Did you really think we were going to steal a police car and not use the sirens?" Tara shot Iris a playful smirk as she pressed the button, the blaring sirens instantly echoing through the air.

Wayne began banging on Iris's window, desperation written all over his face. "Do you even have a license?"

"Sorry, bro, can't hear you!" Iris mouthed exaggeratedly, dramatically pointing to her ears and shaking her head.

"Let's go!" Sam urged, glancing around as Tara slammed the car into gear and sped off down the street, the sound of sirens fading in the distance.

In the backseat, Sam anxiously dialed Gale's number again, frustration mounting as the call went straight to voicemail.

"She's not answering!" Sam exclaimed, her voice tinged with desperation. "Can you drive any faster?"

"I can try!" Tara replied. She swerved around a sedan, the tires squealing as she weaved between cars, almost like it was a fast and furious movie.

"Jesus christ Tara, try not to get us killed please!" Iris shouted from the passenger seat, gripping the handle as they picked up speed.

They burst into Gale's apartment to find Ghostface looming over her, as he pushed a knife to her face while the older woman fought with every ounce of strength she had to stop him.

"Hey fuckface!" Sam shouted, as she quickly snatched a gun from the floor and shot at Ghostface a couple of times, missing him by inches. She didn't kill him but it distracted him long enough to break his grip on Gale.

Iris and Tara rushed to Gale's side, panic flooding their senses as they took in her injury. Blood was pooling beneath her, and it seemed impossible to stop it.

Iris quickly tore off her jacket and pressed it against Gale's abdomen, her hands shaking. "Gale, stay with us! Come on, don't give up," she urged, desperation lacing her voice.

Tara squeezed Gale's hand tightly, her eyes wide with fear. "You're going to be okay, we're right here. Just hold on!"

"Oh, shit, Gale!" Sam exclaimed, dropping to the floor beside Iris to help apply pressure to the wound. "I'm sorry. I should've known that he was gonna come after you."

Gale opened her eyes briefly, locking gazes with them. "He didn't get me. Tell Sidney he never got me," she said, her voice steady yet haunting, as if she was coming to terms with her fate. Then, her eyes fluttered shut.

"Gale!" Sam called out, panic rising in her chest.

"Don't you dare, Gale!" Iris pleaded, desperation filling the air.

"Out of the way!" a paramedic shouted as they burst into the room, urgency written all over their faces.

"Move! You've got to move!" Tara cried, gripping Sam's shoulders and pulling her back, the older girl unwilling to accept the reality that Gale might be gone.

"Got a weak pulse, we gotta move now!" the paramedic said as she assessed Gale's condition. The three girls collectively exhaled in relief, tears spilling down their cheeks as they sobbed quietly, clinging to hope as the paramedics worked swiftly to stabilize Gale.

Gale was rushed to the hospital, and the entire group hurried there, anxious for updates. They filled the waiting area, each person lost in their own thoughts. Just then, they spotted Danny sprinting through the hospital doors, urgency in his stride.

"I got here as fast as I could," he panted, but Sam could only stare at him, her mind racing and words escaping her.

"Did you?" Tara questioned suspiciously, her eyes narrowing. Iris felt a knot tighten in her stomach; Danny was supposed to be close to Gale, yet he had arrived much later. It didn't look good.

"I'm sorry, I—" Danny started, but he was interrupted.

"I'm scared, you guys," Mindy suddenly spoke up, her voice trembling with fear. "I really don't want to get hurt again."

"Neither do I," Chad added, his own voice quaking.

Mindy turned to her twin brother, concern etched on her face. "I don't want you getting hurt again, either."

"I know. I know." Chad leaned his head on Mindy's shoulder, drawing comfort from her presence.

"We're going to be fine. We have to be," Iris spoke up, trying to reassure her friends but she wasn't sure anyone believed her. Tara leaned against Mindy as well, and Mindy extended her hand, prompting Iris to join them.

Iris looked at Sam, who stood nearby, her expression failing to show anything other than despair. She rubbed Sam's shoulder in a comforting manner.

"So, what do we do now?" Chad asked, making eye contact with everyone in their friend group, searching for answers.

"Maybe he gets to win this time," Sam's voice came out soft, causing the room to go still. Everyone turned to her in disbelief. "He wants to punish me."

Sam stood up, her lower lip trembling as the weight of her words sank in. "Me," she reiterated. "So maybe I just let him."

"Are you insane, Sam?" Iris shot back, her disbelief palpable. She couldn't understand where this was coming from.

"I'll just give myself up," Sam continued, as if she hadn't heard Iris. "If this is what I have to do to keep you all safe, then it's worth it."

"No, we're not doing that, Sam!" Tara exclaimed, rising to her feet to close the distance to her sister. "You went back to Woodsboro to protect me and every single day you make the decision to protect me. None of us would even be alive if it wasn't for you. You have to let us protect you this time"

"No," Sam shook her head, her resolve unwavering.

"Yes, we're a team. Remember?" Tara urged, her voice rising as the others began to stand as well.

"We have each other's backs, now and always," Iris added, stepping closer to reinforce her point.

"Actually, we're a family," Mindy interjected, her expression firm.

"Let's go! Core Five! Come on!" Chad declared, his enthusiasm breaking through the tension as he clapped his hands together and raised one hand in the air.

"Core Five!" Mindy echoed, joining her brother, and the others quickly followed suit, hands in the center.

"Core what?" Danny asked, a bemused smile on his face.

"It's an us thing," Chad shrugged, dismissing the confusion with a grin.

"He's going to keep coming after us," Sam said, her voice trembling as fear crept in.

"Then we kill the bitch" Iris replied, as if it was that simple.

"Isn't there somewhere safe we could just hole up in?" Ethan chimed in for the first time, his tone unsure.

"No, he'll just keep finding us," Tara countered, her expression darkening.

"Great," Ethan muttered, clearly frustrated.

Tara paused, deep in thought, before a glimmer of hope crossed her face. "Maybe we can use that though."

She grabbed her phone and quickly dialed Officer Bailey. The group exchanged glances, unsure of what her plan was but trusting her instincts. Tara put the call on speaker so everyone could hear.

"I'm getting my ass chewed out for not dropping the case, and now you want me to do what?" Officer Bailey's incredulous voice crackled through the speaker.

"We want to lure him to a secure location and trap him," .

"And then what?" Bailey asked, skepticism clear in his voice.

"We execute him." Tara declared like it was a normal thing to say, but maybe to them it was. After a moment of silence from Wayne line she spoke again. "Are you going to help us?"

"Let's kill the son of a bitch." Wayne's voice sounded angry. "Now, I'm stuck here, but Gale gave us the cards to the theater. It's got heavy surveillance and security cameras, but we can use that against him. I'll tell Kirby to meet you there, and I'll join you as soon as I can."

"Got it."

"And remember, travel in public," Wayne added. "The more people around you, the less chance he has to take a shot at you before you get there."

They hung up, and the group moved toward the door, setting the plan in motion. Iris lingered back a moment, turning to Tara with a smile.

"What?" Tara asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

"Great plan,"

"Thanks," Tara replied as they made their way toward the subway station.

"So, execute him?" Iris raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. Tara rolled her eyes at the theatrics. "And then you say I'm the sadistic one?"

"Don't lie to me, you kinda dig it," Tara shot back, echoing what Iris had said a few hours earlier.

Iris burst into laughter. "Oh, you have no idea."

[yourdailykitsch]

Taylor Kitsch Was Sleeping on the Subway Before He Was Cast in 'Friday Night Lights'

Taylor Kitsch, 43, is a Canadian actor best known for his roles in "Friday Night Lights," "Savages" and "American Assassin." He stars in the Netflix Western miniseries "American Primeval," which starts Jan. 9.

Beginning in the fourth grade, I loved talking in front of my grade-school classes. We had public-speaking contests, and I'd get up and tell improvised fictional stories.

Some kids spoke about penguins or polar bears, but I made up funny stories about nightmares. Classes often voted for me as their favorite, sending me on to compete on the assembly stage. If the audience there voted for me, too, off I'd go to compete against other schools.

I was a class clown, always trying to make people laugh. While I had zero interest in drama in school, public speaking planted a seed for acting years later.

My family first lived in Kelowna, British Columbia, but I don't remember much about it. My parents divorced when I was 1. My father, Drew, had been a race-car driver and then worked in Guyana diamond mines before going into construction.

Following my parents' separation, my two older brothers - Brody and Daman - and I lived with my mother, Sue. When I was 5, we moved to Anmore, a rural area north of Vancouver. My mom held a few jobs to pay the bills.

Three years later, my mother had a serious boyfriend, Peter, who was older than her. We moved into a double-wide, ugly blue mobile home with four bedrooms in a trailer park.

The surrounding area was forested, so I often played in the woods with my best friend, Paddy. All those trees and quiet provided me with a sense of calm and wonderment. The woods were an adventure and an escape.

Peter was a gentle soul and taught me to play soccer. When I was 12, he and my mom split up. I was a mess, angry, and not totally understanding. I was emotional when Peter and I had to say goodbye.

I insisted my mom drive me a half-hour to his house so I could spend weekends there. This continued for several months until I was told he'd died.

Peter was a big guy and incredibly athletic. He never yelled, and he taught me it was acceptable for guys to express their feelings. That was a huge help. As a kid, I was so freaking insecure. I didn't know where to put my energy when I felt things.

In high school, I was good in subjects I liked - English and history. The rest was a mystery. At the University of Lethbridge in Albert, someone told me to major in finance. I took a semester of macroeconomics, which was ridiculous for me.

After a year, I left. I was lost. I'd hoped hockey would be my ticket, but an injury at age 20 ended that dream.

Then my mom tricked me into meeting a modeling agent in Vancouver. He sent my pictures to IMG Models in New York. They signed me, and I moved there in 2002. While acting wasn't part of my grand plan, it seemed like a logical offshoot.

I took classes, but I was super cocky at first, which angered my acting coach, Sheila Gray. She kicked me out of class, and said, "Come back when you're ready to listen and study." That was the nudge I needed.

I returned to Sheila a few weeks later and dug in. My passion for acting grew as I uncovered my love of a challenge, leading to self-discovery and belonging. That's when I realized acting was more than just a craft. It was a career.

Most helpful were sheila's classes on improv and scene study. Chris Forberg, my friend and modeling agent who knew I was studying, saw that I'd stuck with it and thought I would make a better actor than model. He offered to introduce me to a few acting managers, and that's how I found Stephanie Simon, who is still my manager.

Though Sheila let me take classes for free, I didn't have a visa so I couldn't work. I lived on friends' couches, slept on the subway and coached clients on nutrition for cash.

Eventually, I went to Barbados and worked construction with my dad for nearly two months before returning to Vancouver. I bought a small car and drove to Los Angeles but had to live in the car. I soon returned to Vancouver again.

In 2005 I auditioned on tape for the TV series "Friday Night Lights" and was cast. The studio got me a visa to work in Austin, Texas, where the series was shot. That was my big break.

Today, I live in a wood-and-steel contemporary house in Bozeman, Mont. I also have a 22-acre property outside of town on top of a mountain that I'm developing into a foundation and a drug-and-alcohol healing retreat for veterans and kids.

Three months ago, one of my brothers was on Facebook and came across a photo of Peter at his 93rd birthday. I was shocked. Just before Christmas, we paid him a surprise visit and stayed for two hours. He was grateful. I left him a card thanking him for his influence on me. And for teaching me about kindness.

Taylor's Hike

"American Primeval"? I play a weathered loner who helps a woman and her son fleeing their past cross the violent West in 1857.

Your dad and mom? He passed last year. My mom lives outside of Vancouver.

Fireplace? It's a long, contemporary, black steel gas model. I turn it on every morning when I have my coffee.

Home splurge? I recently bought a nice Breville Barista coffee machine.

Bozeman too chill? If you're bored up here, it's your fault. I just went on a 7-mile waterfall hike. It helped clear my head after a long stretch on set.

[hellsite-proteins]

can i request the lyrics to numa numa? english doesn’t seem to tend towards reasonable structures, at least that i’ve seen so far, so i’m curious if this is any more reasonable

sure thing! this song had a lot of u's and o's that i had to remove, but even after that it does look different from english to me with a lot of i's, m's and n's, although that could also just be the repetition. also this song is an absolute bop!

letter sequence in this ask matching protein-coding amino acids:

MaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaAlsaltsntenhaidcSitergiireameaprimestefericireaAlalsntePicassTiamdateepsisntvinicDarsastiinticernimicVreisaplecidarnmanmaieiNmanmaieinmanmanmaieiChipltasidragsteadinteiMiamintescdechiitaiVreisaplecidarnmanmaieiNmanmaieinmanmanmaieiChipltasidragsteadinteiMiamintescdechiitaiTesnsatispncesimtacmAliireameasntefericireaAlalsntiarasiePicassTiamdateepsisntvinicDarsastiinticernimicVreisaplecidarnmanmaieiNmanmaieinmanmanmaieiChipltasidragsteadinteiMiamintescdechiitaiVreisaplecidarnmanmaieiNmanmaieinmanmanmaieiChipltasidragsteadinteiMiamintescdechiitaiMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaMaiahiimaiahMaiahmaiahaaVreisaplecidarnmanmaieiNmanmaieinmanmanmaieiChipltasidragsteadinteiMiamintescdechiitaiVreisaplecidarnmanmaieiNmanmaieinmanmanmaieiChipltasidragsteadinteiMiamintescdechiitai

protein guy analysis:

i absolutely love how this structure turned out. don't get me wrong, i don't think it looks like a "real, naturally evolved" protein in the slightest. there is a lot of diversity in how proteins look, but if this one were real, it would definitely be a pretty recognizable structure. this is mostly due to what i've decided to call "temu beta barrels", although i am taking alternate name suggestions. these rectangular tubes of beta sheets make sense from a computational perspective; there is a mix of polar and non polar residues so it makes sense to use beta sheets which have residues pointing in alternating directions, and parallel beta sheets are less stable, so more strands are needed, which works out well from the repetitive parts of the song. still, this looks nothing like beta barrels, which are one of my favourite structures and are made of a tube of twisted beta sheets. more so than most of the peptonominations i generate, i'm really curious about whether this would be stable in real life, and whether it would even be possible to synthesize and purify this.

predicted protein structure:

cartoon representation

cartoon with side chains

cartoon, coloured by hydrophobicity

examples of beta barrels

[storm-and-starlight]

so a while ago I saw this post going around that talked about, like, when you're picking names for genderbent characters, sometimes just going with the masculine/feminine version of their original name isn't going to work because the context and connotation is completely wrong, and I was like yes! good! excellent! but it used some batfam characters as examples and the name it picked for a genderbent Damian went so completely against the tone of the name "Damian" that I immediately went "nope I'm doing this myself" so uh. here's the Storm version of a genderbent Batfam + reason why I chose those names.

Bruce "Brucie" Wayne -> Elizabeth "Beth" or "Lizzie/Bessie/Buffy" Wayne OR Berenice "Bunny" Wayne Elizabeth, at least in my head, feels like the same kind of "classical english name" as Bruce -- it's well-known, not particularly tied to any one era, relatively formal, and makes sense for an old-money family that doesn't really have East Coast WealthyTM names (think Throckmorton). "Beth" feels like a good parallel to "Bruce" in that it's a short, workaday name, and there are plenty of silly nicknames for the ditzy socialite side - I am enormously amused by the idea of Beth Wayne, Batwoman, going by Buffy in public, but if that's too much of a reference "Lizzie" or "Bessie" also exist. Berenice, meanwhile, is on here largely because of the nickname "Bunny", which is even better, imo, than Buffy. Bunny Wayne. It delights me. (Berenice is. fine. It's a bit fancier than Bruce, imo, which may or may not jive with the tone of any given fic, but it probably wouldn't be my go-to.)

Richard "Dick" Grayson -> Dorothy "Dotty" or "Dolly" Grayson I pulled this one directly from the original post bc I really do like it and think it works well - it's all about the nickname. It needs to be something that was once a legitimate, unremarkable name that is now a deeply ridiculous thing for someone to unironically call themselves and Dotty and/or Dolly are about as close as you can get to that without it being. actual slang for penis. "Dorothy" also works well as a counterpart for "Richard": a well-known, somewhat old-fashioned name but one that's still in use in modern times.

Cassandra "Cass" Cain/Wayne -> Cassander "Cas/Cass" Cain/Wayne This is one where I actually do think just using the masculine version of the original name works quite well. Cassandra is a name from Greek myth, and given Cass's history and parentage, I think that that context is one of the most important things about how that name works with her character: it's a non-English name, pulled from a culture commonly treated as a "lost golden age of civilization", it's long, it's complicated, it's elegant and a little bit strange. "Cassander" was the name of a king of Macedonia, according to behindthename.com it's the masculine version of the name Cassandra, and to me it has that same sense of slightly eerie elegance.

Jason "Jay" Todd -> Jessie "Jess" Todd This one is more about sound and and vibes than anything else - Jason is a well-known, plain, fairly workaday name that gives me the impression of someone who is strong and no-nonsense, and Jessie (not short for Jessica) gives me the same impression, especially if she habitually goes by Jess in public. Also, they're very sonically similar, and I liked that.

Stephanie "Steph" Brown -> Sidney "Sid" Brown OR  Zachary "Zach" Brown I'll be honest, I don't know nearly as much about Steph Brown as I would like to, so this one is based mostly off of sound, nickname quality, and some context - Stephanie sounds relatively modern, to me, it's a name that wouldn't fit a pre-1980's character (at the earliest). I went with "Sidney" and "Zachary" because they both also have that relatively modern feel with a well-known short form. "Sidney" is here because it starts with S and I think "Sid" fits okay? with the character despite being pretty sonically different from "Steph", "Zachary" because it has a closer sonic feel to "Stephanie" despite the name "Zach" being a little further, vibes-wise, from "Steph".

Timothy "Tim" Drake -> Cordelia "Cora" Drake OR Theresa "Tess" Drake Okay, okay, listen. I know "Cora" sounds nothing at all like "Tim" BUT. in my heart. the name fits the character better than any others I could find. "Timothy" feels very Victorian Boy's Name (or like. animated movie about talking animals set in the 1920's/30's) to me, and in modern days it's a longer, very formal name that's basically never used full-length, but the shorter form is plain, well-known, and still very common. "Cordelia" was also popular in the Victorian Era, would be a familiar-but-uncommon name to most people, and having "Cora" be the everyday name I feel just. fits the character well. Theresa is on here as a closer-sounding alternative because "Tess" is the closest I could get to "Tim" without just stealing Tamara's name (although come to think of it, in an "everyone is genderbent" world just swapping Tim and Tam's names would be very funny), and it has that same "common short form of an uncommon, slightly old-fashioned full name" element, and because "Tess" is a better fit for the character than the other two candidates ("Tori", short for Victoria, or "Tilly", short for Matilda - I liked those two because they give me the same vibes as Timothy, but the short form is the more important part).

Duke Thomas -> Blue Thomas Okay. I know, this sounds nothing at all like "Duke", but again. in my heart. same vibes. It's a name that's very modern-sounding without being Trendy, it's a single syllable, it's a name that is also a common word, and just. idk, they feel similar to me. A little bit cool (in multiple definitions of the word), a little bit laid-back, like they'd both work as nicknames for a 1920's jazz singer. You get it.

Damian Wayne -> Alecto Wayne Yes. I know. Hear me out on this. The original name proposed for a genderbent Damian is what prompted me to make this post in the first place (and no I'm not saying it because I don't want to rag on OP too much) because Damian, as a name, has. just. so much meaning and so much context that is so important to my perception of Damian as a character. It's a Greek name, meaning "the tamer" - it's clearly non-English - it's strange and unusual and stands out among a modern American crowd - it's older, darker, dangerous - it's pulled from a long-gone civilization that for a long, long time was treated as one of the pinnacles of human achievement and yet was just as fucked up as any other society and often was significantly more so - and, most importantly, it is such an Edgelord of a name. It's the name of the overdramatic bad guy in a vampire play (not movie. play.) who stands in a tower drinking blood out of a jeweled goblet. It's a name given to a baby who was raised by assassins and the grandchild of an immortal assassin bent on destroying civilization in an attempt to make the world better. Damian is a sharp prickly pompous brat of a ten-year-old and part of that is looking down at a little kid with a sword with a name like Damian. It's just. how do I even explain this. it makes perfect sense for the League to have named him like that and it makes perfect sense that part of his personality is trying to live up to that and yet he can't because he's like ten. I picked Alecto because of all the names I found, it was the only one that gave me that same, immediate sense of "this is the name of a villain in an overdone fantasy novel, with over-the-top Meaning and Symbolism". It sounds Sharp and Strong and while recognizable, it's clearly not something people are typically actually called. It's Greek, meaning "unceasing" - it's the name of one of the Furies. I just. It works. (I know it's gonna get read as a TLT reference. I don't care. It's use in TLT is exactly what I mean by "it's the name of the villain in an overdramatic fantasy novel" tbh).

[muninnhuginn]

using the spy x family anime vs manga translations of examples of translation vs localisation

[vaedar]

𝐎𝐎𝐂; 𝐎𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞

      Thanks to a convo with @jaesasyrax, I thought it might be nice to share a detail I like to employ with Vaedar, as opposed to for example, Rhaegar. When it comes to talking in the Common Tongue, Vaedar will not use as much of the wording style or even sentence structuring as native westerosi and/or those who grew up in Westeros. He fully dominates the Common Tongue, but High Valyrian is structured pretty differently so it’s expected that when he talks, the manner of speech will also be different. 

For example, the most obvious ( that maybe my closest partners have noticed or not ) where Rhaegar might use the term ‘mayhaps’, Vaedar will simply do either ‘perhaps’ or ‘maybe’. Rhaegar could say ‘You seem lost in thought’ Vaedar might say ‘Lost in thought, you are’ or ‘Lost in thought, aren’t you?’. This is a byproduct of having High Valyrian as his mother tongue, a head-final language. Not to mention that he does have an accent, because unlike Rhaegar, who was brought up with both High Valyrian and Common Tongue, Vaedar learned the Common Tongue after instead of alongside his mother tongue. 

This would also apply to the verses where he’s a lord of the Old Blood in Volantis, though his High Valyrian would differ since it would be heavily influenced by the Volantene Bastard Valyrian. In his immortality verse, he would be able to more naturally structure his speech in Common Tongue as westerosi do but still one with a good enough ear would be able to discern the speech and accent being from a non-native speaker. 

[lclrgsl]

incredibly self conscious about one day posting a fexi fic, but I also want to do it very much?