#and then they all had character development

[halogenwarrior]

I would like to add to this: I know it gets often said that fans gravitate towards male characters and pairing up male characters because of wanting relationships with equality of power, with people countering how these stories have stereotypically gendered power dynamics all the time, just with two men. And I think the key is it's not about equality of power, but equality of sincerity.

The thing is, a lot of people (especially in the fan fiction writer demographic, but really a lot of humans in general) love sincere, powerful emotions in their fiction, and that's what often draws them to characters. They love seeing characters struggle and suffer, whether in a tragic tone or them ultimately triumphing over it, they love seeing characters have strong emotional bonds with each other deeply meaningful to their arcs where they would do anything for the other person (this particularly relevant to the reference I was making to fans writing shipping stuff), and they love both characters who wear their emotions on their sleeves and characters who don't, but have cathartic emotional transformations that forces them to face their emotions in their darkest times rather than just being stoic with unexplored depths 24/7, and perhaps growing into greater empathy and openness.

And the problem with this is that all of these forms of sincerity, in fictional narrative (in the qualities women are portrayed with) and in real life (in the qualities women are stereotypically ascribed), have been historically weaponized against women to show them as more sincere in those ways than men and portraying that as a negative thing. Women breaking down under intense suffering being used to "put them in their place" or fetishized, romances or other relationships between a woman and a man where the woman is so sincere about her love for the man that it absorbs her whole character and leaves nothing of dignity, competence or other facets of the self while the man is not all that sincere and just sees the woman as one small facet of his life, relationships between a woman and children where their deep love for the children is exploited narratively to show she should be nothing but a vessel for them without individuality, passionately emotional women shown as hysterical and unworthy of respect, less outwardly emotional women whose development into opening up more is inextricably tied to them becoming passive, feminine and "knowing their place" rather than having active goals and "cool" qualities.

So this leads to a situation where people are understandably jumpy about any of these narrative tropes being applied to women because of this weaponization of them, and try to make female characters in an insecure manner that avoids them. But all of these expressions of narrative emotional sincerity they are avoiding still remain things people find very compelling in characters and their stories, which means there is a whole range of narrative beats people are avoiding in women, and often in an annoyingly "meta" way (i.e woman who is guarded and strong not so much because her particular personality, life circumstances and outlook made it that way or she is trying to put on a front to herself or other people within the story, but because she is trying to prove something to the audience and always seems halfway through the fourth wall). And as long as there is a constant avoidance of things that tend to be compelling and popular in characters due to their sincerity and emotional resonance, when it's a woman, women are going to be less popular.

And if someone does include those beats, even if they do it in a way that avoids the sexist weaponization that has often historically come with them when they are used on women, with their arcs basically being the same as male characters who had the same beats and characterization and are loved for it, people are so paranoid and tired of seeing it in women that they see them as a misogynistic stereotype anyway, and the character fails to get "credit" or love for it even when they are well-written. Because people often tend to laser focus on a given trope as sexist in the most literal sense, like an A.I would view it, rather than realizing it's the particular framing behind it that makes it sexist (or racist, etc., this happens with all manner of bigoted tropes) and if you took away the framing it would just be a neutral character trait or story beat. For example, the whole discourse around the "serious, practical woman in comedy show or media where people are doing exciting things " and the "manic pixie dream girl", which seem like opposite tropes but are really united in how they deny the man humanity. The problem isn't that the woman is serious, it's that they are serious in a genre where the exciting, funny or uncouth things are used as the medium to explore the character's humanity and make them interesting, so them refusing to participate in it makes them not be as human or interesting. The problem isn't that the woman is silly and free-spirited, it's that the narrative has no interest in the internal thought process, background and outlook that led them to be like that and just uses them as a vessel for a man's development (which leads in the worst case to real women who have those superficial traits but obviously not the narrative framing to be called manic pixie dream girls). As a result of all this you have things like posts I've actually seen where someone explicitly said "I would hate my favorite male character if he were a woman because he suffers so much in the narrative" (even though the suffering is part of why they love the male character). The fear of weaponization of sincerity makes people dislike it in a woman when they would like the same thing in a man, even when in this particular case it is not having the weaponizing framing and is literally just a gender swap of the male version.

There's something extremely depressing to me about how many people just don't want to get weird with female characters the way they do with male characters.

Like, I can kind of see why a lot of people feel weird about writing about bad things happening to female characters, but what it leads to is everyone putting female characters up on a shelf where you can admire them but you can't actually do anything interesting with them because that might be sexist or just make people feel bad. And I think that's actually a whole lot worse in the long run.

[hhoneylemon]

“i have so much to tell you”

mark grayson x gn!reader

summary: mark’s just gotten his powers and is excited to test them out. while flying in the middle of the night, he remembers someone who would enjoy this just as much as him.

based on this post by @wordsofwhimsy

mark stands in the kitchen of burger mart, smiling to himself as he flips burgers on the little grill.

his shift was mostly uneventful, giving him time to think. he’d have to finish his english work when he got home. speaking of english—why did he have homework again? the assignment was so short.

his nose scrunches as he tries to remember, though it doesn’t take him long. you had made a joke about one of the characters in the book you were reading in class, causing the both of you to become sidetracked for the rest of the period. you’d read five pages in the entire class period and managed to answer one of the comprehension questions before mark made some corny joke that made you laugh.

oh, that laugh of yours. mark smiled to himself, setting the spatula to the side. he even lets out a dreamy sigh that has his coworker side eye him from the drive thru window.

mark stands up straighter at that, focusing on flipping patties once more. he decides he never wants to look that coworker in the eye again. he’s pretty sure that girl is in his calculus class, too.

a few minutes later, the manager appears in the back room to survey how mark and his coworkers are doing. the man lets out a grunt as he notices the dwindling of customers. it’s getting late, the sky already black and dotted with stars.

“grayson. take the trash to the dumpsters.”

“yes sir.”

mark gathers the trash, collecting the bags and tying the tops off to carry them easier. he resorts to dragging them, remembering the time his coworker—a poor starter named kyle who quit that next night—tried carrying them to the dumpsters and the bags burst on him.

he groans as he throws open the dumpster lid, huffing as it closes and he has to reopen it. he slings one bag inside, grunting as he swings it over the lip of the dumpster. he then reaches for the second bag, throwing this one with much less care. it goes flying into the night sky, far higher, faster, and farther than should be possible.

mark adjusts his burger mart hat, grinning to himself.

“it’s about time.”

( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

after dinner with his parents and a shower to wash away the grease of his job, mark lies in his bed. he’s trying to fall asleep, but it’s rather hard after night that he’s had.

he’s been waiting his whole life to become like his dad. with the promise of being trained the next day, he wants to fall asleep as quickly as possible to be able to get those lessons. alas, his brain simply won’t let him rest. he rolls over multiple times, sheds his sleep shirt, lies still for a few minutes. nothing.

rolling onto his side, mark grabs his phone from his bedside table. he checks the time. 12:16.

he sighs and sits up, legs tangled with his bedsheets. he can’t take this any longer. he spends a few seconds untangling himself from the sheets before making his way to the window. he climbs out and stands on the roof, marching his way to the ledge.

he looks down at his yard, then to the sky. a slow, shaky breath escapes him. if he’s like his dad, he can fly. all of his powers would develop at the same time, right? even if he can’t fly, maybe he’s invulnerable and it won’t even hurt if he falls into his backyard.

he paces between his window and the ledge a few times before sighing and making his decision. oh well, right?

mark walks back to his window once more before turning and sprinting to the ledge. his eyes squeeze shut as his feet no longer touch down on a safe surface and—nothing. he slowly opens his eyes.

he’s floating.

he grins, whooping hysterically as he shoots into the sky. he’s so glad that he didn’t kill himself, or break a bone at the best. that’s not even the best, honestly, how humiliating. he can imagine going to school with a broken arm, everyone asking what happened. ‘oh yeah, i jumped off my roof!’ he’d sound like a psychopath.

mark flies shakily, almost falling a few times. he keeps changing his stance, trying to find something truly comfortable. nothing sticks out just yet. just as he considers flying through chicago, a thought strikes him.

do you know who would enjoy this? do you know who should get to experience this with him?

he flies a few miles, the wind mussing up his hair and biting at his cheeks. he’s laughing to himself as he spins midair, regretting it almost immediately when he catches a mouthful of air, drying out his mouth. he frowns the rest of his way to his destination, terrified of more mouth assaulting his mouth. it’s bad enough the wind is stinging his eyes and making it harder for him to see where he’s going.

he finally arrives at where he was trying to go. he stops midair outside of a house, lowering himself to find the correct window. he raps his knuckles against the glass, fighting away a smile.

moments later, you’re there, opening the curtains. your eyebrows furrow when you see him, even mouthing something in confusion. you unlock the window and slide it open, leaning out just enough to look at him face to face.

“mark? it’s after midnight, what are you doing here?”

you don’t get a response. instead, you get hands grasping at your underarms and pulling you through the window. next thing you know, wind is screaming past your ears as mark zips into the sky with you in his arms.

once he deems the two of you at a height great enough, he floats himself into a sitting position. he settles you on top of him, your legs bracketing his torso as he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you tight and safe against him. it’s technically not ‘safe’ since he has such little flying experience, but it’s more safe than if he kept carrying you by the underarms. 

laughter bubbles out of you as mark flies the two of you around like that, staying above the skyscrapers of chicago to keep the two of you out of harm. the sound escaping you causes mark’s heart rate to increase in speed, his eyes widening slightly.

he realizes he could do this forever. you above him and in his arms while he flies around to his hearts content. those pretty brown eyes observe you, the moon illuminating all of the complimenting features of your body and making it seem like you’re glowing.

technically, this isn’t right. what if there was a plane and the two of you got hit before he could move? what if some villain shows up and thinks you’re heroes and tries to kill the both of you? what if he nesses up and drops you?

when you pull back to look up him, flashing that beautiful smile, he decides he doesn’t care about the dangers. he could live in the moment forever and he’d be content. as long as it’s you by his side, he’ll make all of the wrong decisions without looking back.

his brain shuts off when your eyes twinkle under the moonlight, crinkling up at the sides as a breathy laugh escapes you. he had dropped a few feet without realizing, the feeling of your stomach dropping making you laugh. without thinking, he leans in and captures your lips in his. one arm stays steady around your waist, the other loosening so that his hand can trail up your spine and cup the back of your neck.

when you kiss back, mark feels every burden he’s ever had lift off of his shoulders. he’s lighter than a feather. he’s lighter than air, even.

this is it, he decides. this is where he can die. in your arms, kissing underneath a million stars. scratch that, how could he die? he can’t do that to you. he’ll find a way to become immortal so that he can do this as many times as there are stars in the sky.

you pull away, catching your breath. mark grins, leaning his forehead against yours. you smile, though there’s obvious confusion in your gaze.

“how?”

you gesture to the sky. that’s fair. he couldn’t imagine what it was like on your end, all of the confusion and awe. he just offers a breathy laugh that’s filled with admiration, his eyes twinkling as his fingers play with the hair at the nape of your neck.

“i have so much to tell you.”

i love writing mark fluff <3 he’s just such a little loser. there are a few thoughts about him i wanna write but i struggle with a little, yknow? i think he has his own kind of confidence, i tried incorporating that into this but 🤷 i hope you percept it. this was 1.4k words :)

masterlist

[becauseheartsgetbroken-hs]

Do you have any harry fics you’d recommend on here and on wattpad?

you asked for fic recs and i took the assignment very seriously (maybe too seriously? lol) my friend so here's a list that i think you'll vibe with:

on wattpad:

duplicity by happydays1d (i know, i know i always talk about it but this one has me absolutely feral. 😭 it’s dark, dramatic, and addictive in a “just one more chapter at 2AM” kind of way lol. but what really got me? the character development. 🥹 like, watching these characters unravel and rebuild themselves is truly amazing. i’ve been thinking about them way more than is normal hehe - plus duplicity harry is my pookie 🥹)

complicity by happydays1d (it's sequel to duplicity - if duplicity wrecked me, complicity came back for the emotional leftovers lol)

*also bonus recs if you find yourself enjoying a julez (happydays1d) binge reading (like me):

malignant, hideaway, devotion (it's her earlier work and while they have more like a "chaotic fanfic energy" vibe, they’re a blast to read. also i think it's super fascinating to see her growth as an author - major props to her! ��)

*moving on*

devil's due by petit_cerise (okay, so i didn’t connect with this one as deeply as the others - but that’s 100% a me thing. a ton of people love it, and i still had a great time reading it.🥰 it's beautifully written and the drama is like on fire.)

flower girl by @sushirrrry (my bestie laur @daydreaming-laur recommended it to me and it’s such a beautiful story: soft in some ways, gut-punching in others and the characters feel so real)

*also these are on my TBR and I’m dying to get to them, i just haven’t had the time (or emotional strength) yet lol:

aerial by peanutboyfriend (this one’s been haunting my TBR thanks to my friend dreea @fkinavocado , she has amazing taste and if she says it’s great, i believe her. 🙌)

nine blue signs by littledovedoll (someone recommended this to me on here a couple months ago and it’s been quietly sitting on my list ever since. i haven’t read it yet, but my friend laur @daydreaming-laur has and she loved it - and honestly, if laur’s into it, that’s all the endorsement i need 🥰)

stall by MysteryMixtapes (this one’s is also a classic but i haven’t read it yet - i know, i know - but it’s been on my radar forever. everyone who's read it seems obsessed, and the hype has me very curious.)

cherry by fuxkingharrry (everyone says it’s so well written and basically great. so yeah, i have to read it!)

on tumblr (a mix of old loves and new finds):

okay so some of these are like classics 💕 (the kind that stay with you forever and you come back to them every now and then) and others are more recent gems i’ve come across. they’re a mix of series, one shots and blurbs bc i didn't know what you'd preferred:

404 by @freedomfireflies (well obviously, this wouldn’t be a proper rec list if i didn’t mention @freedomfireflies 💖 her writing just hits! there’s always so much heart, tension, and ✨vibe✨ in her words. this one is one of my absolute favs - it’s sharp, emotional, and laced with just the right amount of angst. the writing is so atmospheric, and the tension? *chef’s kiss*.)

pillow talk, the playboy, the angel and the fae by @freedomfireflies as well. (well she has this uncanny ability to get inside her characters’ heads and make you feel everything right along with them and basically if she wrote it, I’m reading it. that's it.)

butterfly boy by @looselucy (okay, butterfly boy is everything. i’m talking laughing, crying, full-on emotional rollercoaster. it's just so well written with so much heart. amazing, truly!)

a toast to the future by @narryffdreaming (toast to the future is one of those fics that’s just.. wow 🤯 dani has this rare talent for making her characters feel so real, like you can practically hear their thoughts. it's actually mind-blowing how she can dive into those layers of complexity while still making it feel so natural.)

teach me by @jarofstyles (listen- teach me is so hot like really hot 🔥 the writing is so smooth and it really sets the mood.)

off limits by @harryslittlefreakk (fire. this one has that perfect mix of steamy tension and just a hint of angst that makes the whole thing like so hot.)

enigma by @heartateasee (the angst? top-tier. the misunderstandings? so deliciously painful. the tension? you could cut it with a knife. loved it.)

talk nerdy to me also by @heartateasee (what can i say? HOT, HOT, HOT.)

no loss by @adorebeaa (like, flirty banter? great. sexual tension? off the charts. would read it again in a heartbeat- she absolutely nailed the vibe✨)

hawthorn also by @adorebeaa (hawthorn is like watching a movie in your head like it's amazing)

truth or dare and sex tutor by @gurugirl (her writing feels always so effortless. she just knows exactly how to make every story hit just right.)

something old by @didhewinkback (i read it a while ago and i’m seriously thinking it might be time for a reread - that’s how much i loved it. honestly, it’s the kind of story that stays with you long after you’ve finished it, and i can’t wait to dive back into it again)

harry and Y/N are in the same ballet class, and they hate each other by @jawllines (let’s just say that this one had me feeling things. like, I’m over here blushing and squirming in my seat because that harry? holy hell.. 😩 he had me weak in the knees.)

oh also this one by @jarofstyles (it had me blushing and kicking my feet - loved it.)

press play by @cloudyluun (well, if you like your fics with a big dose of passion and intensity, this one will definitely leave you flushed in the best way hehe)

his angel by @ghstyles (it's the perfect mix of a little dark and a little soft hehe it keeps you totally hooked!)

player, do anything, make her regret it and valerie by @watchmegetobsessed (her writing is sharp, creative, and emotionally rich. every story feels fresh. she’s just so talented.)

it's you by @ijustmissyouraccenths (the writing is so good, the vibes were on point and now i’m super curious to check out more of her work. definitely keeping an eye on her stuff from now on.)

okay so… i definitely got carried away. like, hard. 🥲 i started this thinking i’d rec a few fics and i ended up here lol i had so much fun putting this together (shoutout to 1d for soundtracking the entire chaos and keeping me emotionally charged through it all lol) i know i forgot some amazing stories and authors, and for that i'm so sorry! seriously though, how lucky are we to have writers who pour so much talent into these stories? 🥹

anyway, hope you find something here that makes you feel things or just gives you a really good time! 😍 let me know what you think, and happy reading friend! ❤️

[hittmeandtellmeyouremine]

rafe catching puddin grinding on his pillow? she said she discovered it by watching those movies by herself without rafe knowing

pairing: puddin!reader x older!rafe

warnings: mdni, lottie do not read, smut (sort of), dry humping, ddlg themes, use of 'daddy'.

word count: 1.2k+ words

a/n: what show was i talking about? 😏

rafe had been so busy with work, wrapped up in some 'goat island' deal that was stressing him out like no other. as much as you miss him, you also know he needs his space. he specifically told you that once this passed, his attention would be all yours again.

and boy did you want that.

to soothe the growing boredom that was festering as a result of his absence, you decide to scroll through netflix in search of something to occupy yourself. usually rafe did this but you finished the last show he put on for you and he was busy, so now you had to do it yourself.

you scroll through what's trending on the platform, finding a show about a bookstore owner who develops feelings for a girl he meets. you like books, you like love. seems easy enough.

the title card for the streaming platform plays and you focus your eyes onto the screen. in the back of your mind, all you could think of was rafe and his approval. wait until you showed him the show you found.

it was interesting enough. the main character was a little odd and very flawed but you liked it, somewhat. very different from everything else you watched, surely more mature. you desperately wished rafe was there to watch it with you.

your thoughts of him were put to a stop when you saw the girl start to kiss her boyfriend. not just a nice kiss either, no. it was how rafe had recently started kissing you. you sat up, moving towards the edge of the bed to get a better look.

they were doing what you wanted to with rafe.

you watch as her boyfriend settles himself between her thighs, moving against her with calculated movements. it wasn't the best angle, but you got the point. your eyes lit up as you watch the moment progress, yearning for that connection.

wait. that was it?

it was over before it really even started, she looks disappointed too. the narrator made a comment about her not finishing which you connected to what rafe made you feel, that one night.

her boyfriend was an asshole, making everything about himself and seeing himself out without giving her much time to protest the matter. you frown at the scene, thinking maybe you didn't like this show after all.

you glance towards the door, not hearing any sort of verbal indication of rafe's arrival. you sighed and turn your attention back to screen.

wait. what was she doing?

her eyes focus onto a green pillow, kind of cylinder shaped. you don't have much time to question it before she settles the pillow between her legs. she's moving against it like she was moving against her against her boyfriend. not only that but she looked happier.

your pupils dilate as you watch, the pleasured gasp leaving her lips making you crave that feeling. maybe you did like this show after all. rafe hadn't given you a taste of that feeling again, not since the night his hand was buried between your thighs. you missed it, to say the least.

surely if she could feel that way by herself, so could you. right?

you nibbled on your bottom lip, debating the matter. you did have a pillow similar to that one and it was longer too. plus, rafe was so busy. he wouldn't be coming back to you anytime soon. you turn around, eyes darting between the pillow and your open door.

the pillow was between your thighs a few seconds later, your body kneeling over it experimentally. the girl was laying on her back but this seems like a better fit, somehow.

your eyes glance back over to the doorway one last time, listening for rafe. there was no sign of him though. and sure, you could close the door but then you wouldn't hear if he was coming.

you slowly begin to drag your hips on the pillow, pressing it between your thighs and keeping it there with a somewhat firm grip. it was an odd sensation at first, you didn't get what the big deal was.

that was until the pillow notches a certain part of you that had you crying out, biting your lip as you caught yourself. it was a blissful feeling, making you angle the pillow to continue it.

the friction was something you didn't fully understand, but it felt like how rafe's fingers felt and that was all you needed to know.

small cries leave your lips as you continue to grind against the pillow, the show long forgotten by this point. you imagine it was rafe instead, touching you and making you feel good. the thought made you moan a bit louder, so lost in th-

"enjoying yourself, puddin'?"

you yelp, jumping and stopping your movements all at once.

rafe leans against your doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. there was a slight smirk on his face.

"whatcha watchin', baby?" he asks, stepping into your room and looking at the tv.

"i-"

you try to answer him, you really do, but how were you supposed to when he just caught you using your pillow like that.

"i can explain, daddy" you start.

"explain what, puddin'?" he cocks his head at you, eyes flickering to the pink pillow between your thighs.

"t-the girl on the show, she was doing it and it looked like it felt good and i-"

"did it? feel good?" he asks, standing at the edge of your bed now.

you hesitate on answering.

"puddin', i asked you a question" he says. "daddy's not mad at you, i just want to know"

"yeah, it felt nice" you say quietly, suddenly feeling guilty.

you pull the pillow from between your thighs, orgasm long forgotten by now. you sink into the bed, legs folded beneath you.

"why'd you stop?" he questions.

"i don't know, feel like i did something bad" you mumble.

"why's that, puddin'?"

"because you weren't doing it with me" you answer.

truth be told, rafe liked watching you squirm. he liked seeing you so curious , so desperate. it stirred something inside of him, knowing that you were still thinking about the other night.

"i taught you how to make yourself feel good though, did i not?"

you nod slowly.

"and you found a new way to do it on your own?" he adds.

you nod again.

"why is that such an issue?"

"i don't want to do it on my own" you whine. "i want to do it with you"

there it was, the reason you were all pouty and pissy. god, your loyalty was truly something else. so loyal to him that you felt guilty for getting yourself off.

such a good girl, his good girl.

"come here" he said, sitting on the edge of your bed beside you and pulling you onto his lap.

"you can make yourself feel good, without daddy. i don't mind" he reassures.

his hands move down to your thighs, squeezing lightly and digging his thumbs into the curve of them.

"i'd prefer if you asked me to help you out, but maybe you don't want that?" he tests.

"no, no. i do" you shake your head.

"i just want my girl to be happy," he coos. "but do me a favor and don't watch this stuff by yourself anymore, yeah?"

you nod obediently.

"i want to be the one who teaches you how to feel good, together—puddin' and daddy" he says, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

"okay, daddy"

"good girl"

-

[accessible-tumbling]

[ID:

Image 1: a youtube video by Corridor Crew titled "Did We Just Change Animation Forever… Again?". The thumbnail shows a white person with a prominent frown and slicked back brown hair transforming Animorphs-style into a progressively more cartoon version of themselves, yelling as they lean towards the camera. The in-between phases of the transformation simplify textures, and add 2D lines both around features and wrinkles to intensity emotion. A grawlix that reads "Holy $#@*!" adds emphasis to the thumbnail.

Image 2: Sad Officer K reaction meme. K from Blade Runner 2049, played by Ryan Gosling is illuminated in pink light as he stands in front of a blurred blue background. His nose appears broken, covered with a bandage with blood dripping down his face & neck. He looks up despairingly offscreen.

Image 3: tumblr tags that read

that's not what democratizing /means/

JFC

can we bring back the word 'poser' into out vocabulary?

cause these guys are posers

they're tryign to walk like a duck and talk like a duck but they will never ever be a genuine duck

they're exploiting the in-group they claim to respect and promote and be a part of

for a shitty cash grab and short term benefit

seeing this is like seeing a yuppie in a suped up vanity truck trying to relate to a grease covered mechanic

at least when John Lassiter flunked out of 2D animation we developed 3D animation

this is literally not animation

it's literally just filters

Image 4: tumblr tags (continued from image 3) that read

they didn't innovate anything 'again' [written derogatorily] they just fed more work they don't have rights to to a machine

they're expressing no talent by doing this except for grifting

these are not friends of the artists

they're new generation art thieves like a thousand others with /Way Less/ knowledge than themselves

and they put themselves in /That/ group themselves

just

just JFC

Image 5: two replies from @AmiiboAcid that read

What the hell does the strike have to do with this? Animators aren't on strike

Writers and actors are on strike. They wrote a short-film and then acted in it themselves. It's a live-action film made by human hands, with the AI only being used for special effects. The strike has nothing to do with this.

Image 6: a reply to @AmiiboAcid's message by @feast-of-the-rabb1t that reads

it does because Disney and Warner Bros are currently refusing to recognize the unionization efforts of their animators, firstly, and secondly it's at the very least tasteless to so blatantly use something (AI, in this case) that their coworkers (the writers and actors) are actively being threatened with, if not maliciously apathetic

Image 7: a reply to @AmiiboAcid's message by @SaccharineOmens that reads

it's because one of the /Big Reasons/ actors and writers are striking in the first place is because studios want to use 'AI' to replace them, and these guys are like 'AI can replace these other jobs too lol!' so it's just extremely tasteless for them to do that at a time where their peers and coworkers are trying to get 'AI' regulated

Image 8: a reply to @SaccharineOmens' message by @AmiiboAcid that reads

This isn't using AI to replace writers or actors. Using AI for visual effects has already been used in many other films (at least if you count machine-learning as AI) such as Spiderverse. It's a perfectly defensible use case for AI and employing dogmatic arguments where it does not fit does not further your cause whatsoever.

Image 9: a reply to @AmiiboAcid's message by @feast-of-the-rabb1t that reads

the scripts for interpolating the line overlays the characters had in spiderverse are not at all like what this is supposed to be, and SaccharineOmens is spot on in calling out these guys for essentially trying to out-swim the shark (AI and tech bros) by sacrificing the swimmers next to them. They are essentially painting a bit '/Eat Me/' sign on an industry that isn't unionized the way the writers or actors are, and is therefore much more vulnerable to this exact kind of exploitation

Image 10: a stil from the Sony Imageworks Animating Miles video linked by @SaccarineOmens that shows two versions of a simplified model of Miles Morales. The left model, captioned "predictions from machine learning", shows a grey 3D model of Miles frowning and baring teeth with determination, with parts of his nose outlined digitally with a varyingly thin ink brush. The right model, captioned "Adjusted predictions", shows the same model in the same pose, but with the outlines subtly tweaked. parts of the corner of the nose are made less rounded, lines are repositioned, line thinness is altered, and the lines on the nose bridge are slightly reshaped. The two captions are written in cartoon-style text boxes.

Image 11: Andy Serkis in a blue motion-capture suit for the production of Lord of the Rings. He is perched crouching on a rock like Gollum, wearing skintight spandex with thick black gloves, with dots painted on his face.

Image 12: A combining of the This Is Fine dog-in-a-burning-house meme and the Wow-cool-robot-missing-the-point meme. The background is a colourful line drawing of a burning house, upon which is superimposed a Gundam robot firing a projectile labelled "we created a flamethrower!" over a person's head. The person, failing to notice or care about the flamethrower issue (or the surrounding burning house) looks at the robot and says "wow!! cool technology!!"

/end ID]

In the middle of a strike.

[artyphex]

Watching Stolas become one of the most despised characters in the Hellaverse fandom not long after I joined the fandom has been an absolutely WILD experience, and I don't mean that in a good way.

Because I still have not figured out why the opinion of Stolas as a character has flipped so drastically and with such intensity, especially because up until the Full Moon, the general opinion of him used to be way more favorable.

It’s cause we’ve watched Blitzø’s development over the last season and a half while Stolas’ development has just started

Blitzø was… not exactly hated but given a lot less grace because the joke was he sucked! He was selfish and mean and LOUD about it and it was funny!

Meanwhile Stolas seemed very sweet in comparison, or at least less actively mean.

But then the show realized it wanted to have like. Character arcs. So it started to show a different side of Blitzø. It showed us he was AWARE of his awful behavior and used it as a self destructive shield. No one can hurt you if no one loves you right? And no one can love you if you’re an awful person. Maybe it’s miserable. But it’s safe

Suddenly we’re a lot more sympathetic towards Blitzø, we see more of why he acts the way he acts and we feel for him.

Meanwhile Stolas…

Stolas is in my opinion someone who wants to be compassionate, and is in the way he knows how. But he’s so disconnected from others because it’s how he was RAISED. He never had control of his life. He was brought up told he was above everyone and MUST act like it. Which he didn’t love doing, but did, and eventually stopped noticing it.

This has left Stolas well meaning, but painfully unself-aware. So he comes off condescending, dismissive, and thoughtless because he IS. But unlike Blitzø, it isn’t deliberate. Stolas is just now learning just how detached he is from the reality of most people and he doesn’t know how to cope.

And that’s where we’re left with Stolas. He hadn’t improved because we simply haven’t gotten there in the story. We look at all of Blitzø’s development and feel frustrated with Stolas’ LACK of development but the truth is it’s coming, we just haven’t gotten there yet.

It’s more frustrating to me that people haven’t realized that, and have determined “Stolas bad” from it instead. But fandom flip flops a lot like this. I survived season 5 Jon vs Martin who’s wrong debates I can survive anything.

[linderosse]

For me, Link and Zelda from the Skyward Sword story are my favorite versions, I really like this kind of doomed love, but I always felt that Zelda's character had more room to develop. Like, can she remember her past memories of being a goddess? Does she feel guilty for taking advantage of Link? Will she be able to get along with the rest of her companions as she once did when she returns to Skyloft? or will her people begin to worship her as a true god? And Link, what would he think?

This is a very, very good question!!!

I’ve been saving it in my inbox for quite a while— but now I finally get to answer it.

Sun is a complex character for sure.

She’s Hylia reborn; the incarnation of the goddess who fought the first Imprisoning War. She remembers most of it— the war, and how it ended. But like she says in the game, she’s also still herself; still sunshine and clouds and freedom and sass; still the same Zelda that Sky fell in love with. She is both at once, and that kind of contradiction has the potential to weigh someone down.

Fortunately, Sun in Wisdomverse has had a lot of time since her adventure to figure out how she feels about her new/old identity. She’s long since made peace with that duality, and is comfortable being both Hylia and Zelda.

However, various others across the eras may react to her differently because of her identity as the goddess Hylia.

Let’s go over them!

(Warning: This is pretty long, but I had a lot of fun writing it. Enjoy!

And don’t worry, there’s a tl;dr at the end for the folks who want it. :)

The people of Skyloft

I’d say most everyone is now aware that Sun is Hylia reborn. Some of the townsfolk do revere her as a goddess, but others treat her mostly the same. Sun usually prefers that, since it can be difficult to form connections when people put you on a pedestal. Her closest friends know that, and hang out with her as normal.

Sun also makes an effort to be a leader as well as a goddess. Her status as an incarnation of Hylia gives her an advantage, but she still has to work to earn people’s trust— especially with a proposition as bold as moving to the world below. Right now, she’s focused on building a life for her people on the surface. More on that in Wisdomverse :).

Wild

This is also why, in the Wild|Sun comic, Sun refers to the past actions of the goddess in third person. Wild knows that Sun’s the reincarnation of Hylia (in TotK, the goddess statues’ voice will remind him of her). But Sun doesn’t want to remind him of that at the moment; doesn’t want her identity as the goddess to put distance between them.

Still, when Sun speaks, she does so with the authority of Hylia herself. She can truly attest to Hylia’s faith in the heroes who share the spirit of the man she loves. Wild knows that, and appreciates the reassurance.

Sky

Sky has long since forgiven Sun for “using him.” He doesn’t regret the adversity he faced, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. Sun was always a goddess to him.

But Sun hasn’t fully forgiven herself for Hylia’s plan; for leveraging Sky’s emotions to get what she needed and save the world. She reckons a fragment of that guilt will always be lodged in her soul.

Flora

Wild is at least mildly religious, but Flora is not. Flora believes that the goddess existed, of course, but she no longer prays to her, and prefers to live life on her own terms.

Flora hasn’t yet worked out what to think of Sun as a goddess, now that they’ve met. They’re friends, and they still hang out, but that internal tension still pulls at Flora— the question of “For all those years, why didn’t you help me?” Wild privately thinks that the goddess tried; and was able to help Flora release her abilities when it mattered most. But that isn’t enough for Flora. Flora has currently compartmentalized it— treating Sun and Hylia as two different people. Eventually, though, Flora will need to search for answers: with Sun, and within herself. Sun does not know that Flora feels this way.

Wild again

For that matter, it was probably really strange for Wild, the first time he met Sun. Kind of like if a mildly religious modern Christian got to have a chat and go skydiving with Jesus. I’m not Christian, but I am religious, so I can imagine how weird but potentially cool that might be.

This is actually a thing for a lot of Links and Zeldas in Wisdomverse/LU; many of them get to meet their heroes. Dawn meeting Fable for the first time probably felt something like an American meeting George Washington— same thing with Hyrule and Legend, or Legend and Four.

Of course, there’s a bit of tension there for some of the other pairs, due to relevant events. It’ll be fun exploring that when the time comes— in both The Secrets We Keep, and in Wielders of Wisdom :).

Tl;dr:

In short, it’s clear that Sun remembers.

In Wisdomverse, she has access to some of the memories and a portion of the powers she did as Hylia (like the sealing ability she used in Wielders of Wisdom Ch1), but she prefers people to treat her as Zelda most of the time.

Sky has forgiven her for using him, but Sun hasn’t forgiven herself. Wild thinks she’s cool, and Flora has a bit of repressed frustration about her. The people of Skyloft appreciate her, but still wouldn’t blindly follow what she says.

Sun is both Hylia and herself at once, and comfortable in that identity.

She’s one person— she’s Zelda— and that’s enough for her :).

Masterpost

[aquicat]

Astrid! Her decent into paranoia is really well done. When you first meet her, she seems so well put together, but by the end, she's a wreck. It makes you wonder how much of the original composure is a mask. She's someone who's had power taken away from her all her life, and when she finally gets it, she won't let go - and it ends up being her downfall.

I love how she changes her mind throughout the questline! I love how she's initially enthusiastic about Cicero's and the Night Mother's arrival, but becomes detestful of them when she realises they threaten her power. I love how she initially says you can't go to Volunruud, but changes her mind once she's thought things over.

She's the most dynamic character in the questline. None of the other characters (even Cicero) have as much meaningful development within the course of the questline.

STOP this is the feminism checkpoint. you have to comment something you like about a flawed female character. or explode

[thenamesmobu]

Into The Code

YIPPEEEE I CAN FINALLY POST THIS ON ITS OWN

Some of you may've read that I'm revamping my original/TSP AU into the current writing standards I have. I'm not proud of how it all looked from the one I made 2 years prior. In the previous iteration of the AU, I made and added some developments and changes that I'm not satisfied with looking back at it now. So here I am, tweaking and fixing things here and there for this rewrite of my AU.

Character Introductions

The Narrator, Devin

A man left torned and misshapened after the things he's witnessed. Desparate for a form of control and stability to the things around him, it manifests in the form of him creating these "narratives" that he forces 'Stanley' to endure. Unlucky for him, 'Stanley' is a one stubborn and defiant "employee".

The "Employee", 'Stanley'

A headstrong individual whose daringness and audacity cannot be faltered. After being subjected to so many "Endings", so many "stories", he has had it. His audacious personality is what came up of this treatment.

[michanvalentine]

Apologies if I’m being pedantic or repetitive, but today I found myself reflecting again on the importance of that gesture—on the strength of the message, the beauty it carries within. Tav/Durge says to Astarion, just before they reach the site of the ritual: “Show them the kindness no one ever showed you.”

It’s an act of immense power. Becoming what no one has ever been for you—a guide, a refuge, a savior, a gentle voice—means breaking a chain. In this case, a generational one, since Cazador represents a twisted father figure. It’s an act of rebellion against the pain endured, but also one of deep healing. Astarion isn’t just rewriting his own story: he’s becoming living proof that the harm he suffered didn’t get the final word.

It’s the transformation of absence into gift, of pain into strength. And that’s exactly what Astarion does when he kills Cazador and frees all of his victims: he chooses not to perpetuate the pain, not to let it pass through him to wound someone else. And in doing so, his gesture becomes symbolically even more powerful—because it’s no longer just rebellion, but responsibility. He becomes what Cazador never was: someone who uses power to save, to protect. Just as Tav/Durge had declared back in Act 1: those who have power have a responsibility to protect the weak. And in that moment, Astarion is the one who says, “I’m not the one in the dirt.” He is, quite literally, the one holding the knife by the handle.

And I know that many people either appreciate Astarion’s alternate path or just see him as a complete piece of shit with no character development who should be staked the moment he shows up—but I can’t help lingering instead on the heartbreaking, poetic beauty of this moment, so full of hope.

I actually think it’s the most crushing, most definitive victory a survivor can achieve. The harm that was done to us—fuck it—doesn’t win. I am above it. I am so much more, greater, better than you and everything you did to me. I can move on, somewhere else. Far away. Or, to put it in Astarion’s own words: “I’m still here. Fuck you and everything you did to me.”

[therebelcaptain]

“Andor S2 will make you see Rogue One differently” has been such a common refrain in the interviews with Tony Gilroy on the season. As someone who’s loved the film since day one, I don’t think pitching it that way is necessarily a good thing.

Some may feel the changed viewing experience enhances Rogue One, but there is a degree to which certain narrative choices read as Tony Gilroy still viewing the film as something to be fixed. We all know he was brought in for rewrites, but the narrative that he “saved” Rogue One feels overemphasised and fails to acknowledge that the story and characters existed prior to his involvement. His additions may have improved things in certain aspects, but he didn’t create Cassian Andor from nothing. Rogue One is the result of many people’s imagination and efforts—from John Knoll who pitched the story, Gary Whitta who further developed it, Chris Weitz who wrote the initial script, to Gareth Edwards who directed it, to name just a few key figures—to diminish any of that feels wrong to me.

I realise that there’s a lot of people who haven’t seen Rogue One as many times as I have or even read the novelisation, but there are a lot of choices made for Cassian’s character arc that genuinely don’t make sense in the context of the film. While I understand how trauma has been motivating a lot of his actions and is well worth exploring, the fact that *a mere year before Rogue One* he’s actively saying he’s done and only stays with the rebellion because Bix essentially forces him to makes no sense whatsoever. Cassian’s arc in S2 is something that would make sense much earlier in the timeline, maybe over the course of a year, not in the years directly lead up to Rogue One. It honestly feels like a misunderstanding of what his character arc was in Rogue One to begin with.

His unwillingness to follow orders and respect the chain of command a year out from Rogue One completely undermines the significance of him not following through with assassinating Galen Erso and going to Scarif with Jyn. Those are big moments in the film for a reason. It’s hard to feel the weight of those specific choices knowing that only a year prior Cassian was essentially telling Draven to fuck off and let him do whatever he pleases. General fucking Draven of all people.

As much as I want to withhold judgement until I’ve seen the whole of S2, it’s hard to remain optimistic about Cassian’s arc at this point. Had there been another season maybe some of this would’ve felt more earned, but at this point I’m not convinced. I wonder if more people will understand these criticisms and frustrations when they go back and watch the film again, but maybe they won’t.

[gyzym]

HELLO AGAIN, here with some ANSWERS to some QUESTIONS I have gotten about Fall Into You! (If you do not have questions about Fall Into You, I am also, Ron Swanson style, available for questions about my other areas of interest: cooking, crocheting, spending too much of my day identifying birds via the Cornell bird scientists' app, things like that.)

I am in [a location outside of the US or UK], can I still buy the book?

YES! I do not have preorder links for every place yet, these things move in mysterious ways, I will add as I have them! But for now, you can also preorder in:

Canada

Australia

Brazil

France

Germany

Italy

Spain

India

I prefer a physical book; will I be able to order one?

YES! Physical books will be available for preorder as soon as the cover is done, and you better believe I'll be back to let you know 😄

I prefer an audiobook; will I be able to order one? 

YES! The audiobook is being recorded RIGHT now, a very talented voice actor named JORDY HOPE is reading it, at some point in the near-ish future I will be able to share a CLIP, I am SO EXCITED ABOUT THE AUDIOBOOK. I am myself an audiobook person (and a podfic person, shoutout to all the absolute heroes recording those) so I am THRILLED to say that we're planning on a simultaneous release here, so the audiobook should be available alongside the text version on release day 😄

Am I going to be able to order this book through other platforms?

Okay this one is HARDER TO SAY, because it's out of my hands and up to my publishers! My part of this process is largely typing words in a feverish haze and then being amazed and delighted that anyone enjoys reading them; because of this, my publishers wisely do not leave me to handle any of the business calls, as I possess no business skills. But I have been told that the best path to broader accessibility on other platforms is the book doing well on this one; my fingers are extremely crossed I'll be able to offer news here at some point! 

Is this novel secretly a thinly veiled fanfiction with the serial numbers filed off and if so, will you tell me which fandom/pairing it originated as? 

NO, it is not, so I cannot! I'm not casting aspersions or saying I'm above this, to be clear—I have read many delightful books that had their bones in fandom, and many delightful fanfics that might as well have been original novels in terms of both quality and diversion from canon, and there is at least one book concept I plan to execute at some point that was originally ideated for fandom. And ABSOLUTELY you will find, in Fall Into You and probably all my work forever, tropes and structures and stylistic choices I love from fic, because I love fic and find those tropes and structures deeply enjoyable to read. 

But this story is not and has never been fanfic, except in the sense that creativity doesn't exist in a vacuum, so all work draws from somewhere, so in the same way everything is a sandwich if you get broad enough in your definition of sandwich, everything is fanfic of something if you look at it right. The setting of Fall Into You, for example, is based on a real apple farm in Northeast Ohio that I've been visiting since I was a child; Will, our protagonist, isn't based on any specific pre-existing fictional character, but he WAS exactingly designed on the concept, 'Someone who could be well-rendered by Andrew Garfield circa roughly 2016,'; Casey, our love interest, was built to answer the question, "What if Bill Paxton's character in classic 1996 movie Twister* was queerer and hotter and instead of chasing tornados, he had only developed the similarly self-destructive habit of attempting to fix things (places, relationships, people) which have been badly broken?" This is a question concerned parties (me) have been asking SINCE roughly 1996, and data suggests that those parties (again, me) are pleased to have finally drawn such conclusive results. 

Didn't you write another book that one time? 

Yeah, you're not pulling that from nowhere, that novel is out there! But it's out of print, and was published under another name, with a photo of what I used to look like, in the uncomfortable years RIGHT before I finally let myself acknowledge I was trans and began pursuing transition. These were my egg cracking years. All trans people are different people, and there are many there who feel differently about this sort of thing than I do personally! For some folks, the cracking of the egg is swift and relatively clean, and/or they are able to look back on that period, and the previous iteration of themselves, with the fondness of a seasoned artist looking back on their first finger paintings. Those people are so valid and I am genuinely quite happy for them.

My own crackening, however, was more of a, "What's this mess on the floor—ew, has someone dropped an egg? Is that even an egg? God I better make sure no one sees this until I know what happened here, surely I'll be in some sort of trouble otherwise, how do you know what an egg looks like after it's been smashed—wait, where's my egg? Oh my GOD, is that MY EGG?? Oh god, oh fuck, oh hell, oh no—" sort of a situation for a hottttt minute there. I'm not ashamed of who I was or what I wrote back then, I haven't scrubbed traces of my old name or face off the internet, I don't care what people know about the years before I was living as myself. But they were messy years, especially towards the end, and I'm not hugely interested in discussing them. Wading around in that period of my life feels, to me (not speaking for all trans people! just for me!) like having to rehash my most embarrassing teenage moments in front of a live studio audience. So you won't see me pointing people towards it, because to do that would suggest I was interested in having that conversation, which I'm just not. No hard feelings, no need to scrub it from your memories, no disavowals; just a case where the author of that book is metaphorically dead in more than just the usual way. 

Will there be advance reader copies?

YES! Soon! If you're on NetGalley and would like to be sent one, please let me know 💜

Okay, HOPE THAT CLEARS THINGS UP, wishing you all LESS INTERESTING TIMES 💜

*If you think you want to talk to me about 2024's Twisters, a film that did nothing for deeply (some might say 'unsettlingly') devoted fans of the original Twister—I promise, I swear to you, no you don't lmao. 

HELLO TUMBLR 👋 i am ENORMOUSLY excited to say: i've written a book! and i'm writing two more! and they're all queer romcoms! and the first one, FALL INTO YOU, will be out in JUNE. there is a LOT of my heart in this novel, and i absolutely can't wait to share it with you 💜

if you've ever enjoyed my fanfic, particularly stories like What We Pretend We Can't See and I've Got Nothing to Do Today But Smile, then you'll love FALL INTO YOU. it's full of ROMANCE and JOKES but also REAL, MESSY PEOPLE with PROBLEMS and TRAUMA, because those are the stories i love telling! it's chock full of things i adore: set on an APPLE FARM in NORTHEAST OHIO, main characters who hate each other more or less immediately, gratuitous depictions of food, and they were ROOMMATES?, people healing wounds they didn't even know were still open, AND MORE.

i'll be sharing more about this book in the weeks to come (i promise i will try so hard not to be obnoxious about it 🫡 ), and about the next two as we get closer to publication! but until then, i just want to say: the fic stays UP and the author stays GRATEFUL, always. i am honored and humbled by your readership, and really proud of the work i've done for and with fandom, and that's not a tune you're ever going to see me change.

okay, thanks so much for reading!! hope you're all well; i'll just be here having one of the coolest and most surreal days of my life 😂👋💜

EDITED TO ADD 4/29/25: for those who have been kind enough to ask, you can PREORDER Fall Into You here in the US (or here in the UK)! Will have info to you ASAP on options for folks in other countries, this is all as new to me as it is to you, but will keep you very posted 💜

[spidey-webs]

DC fandom is so strange.

You got one portion of the fandom insisting Bruce hates Hal and thinks he sucks (in general or at being a hero), which is completely incorrect no matter what version of the characters you’re looking at.

And another portion of the fandom that ships them, which is not baseless at all, but somehow the ship is completely divorced from that base anyway. Like they canonically do have a dynamic one can easily make shippy, but that is not at all what any Batlantern I’ve seen invokes.

Like. Bruce developed a whole batshit psychological complex of perpetual distrust over Hal’s descent to madness. So much so that if you made a list of events in comics that canonically completely rewrote Bruce’s entire worldview, character, and relationships, Hal becoming Parallax would probably rank only below deaths of his family based on how different his philosophy is before and after. Pretty much everything people know about modern Batman has some of its roots in Bruce’s fucked friendship with Hal.

But. That just. Never comes up ever??? In fandom?? On either side?????

I guess part of the problem is the disjointed nature of comics, where it’s not always easy or even possible to follow the narrative through line of character relationships between titles and writers and retcons. And on top of that, comics used to be a lot more subtle, with subtext and unspoken themes, which maybe not every casual reader will pick up on. But even considering that, the…blindness to Hal and Bruce’s canon, super messy decades spanning history is bizarre. They had one of comics’ sloppiest friend breakups ever and not even the shippers talk about it??

[mintedwitcher]

do you remember how tommy was jealous of the firefam? do you remember how buck said that especially during the hard times, it is good that somebody has your back? it is laughable in retrospect. look at season 8 now. long before bobby's death, the show decided to stop writing the characters as real friends. this has become even more apparent in the latest episode. people talk shit about the buckley parents but they willingly went to therapy with buck and had his back ever since from what we have seen. to see them having more character develoment than eddie, who has not developed nor learned a single thing since season 3 💀 so i say: tommy, no need to be jealous! i think the firefam doesn't deserve its name anymore! maybe it IS time for buck to leave and start his own little family unit with tommy. i think he would be happier actually.

!!!!!!!!!! anon I am kissing you on the forehead (with consent)

yes, exactly. the "firefam" has been dead in the water since season 4/5 at most, and even before then, Buck was never really part of it. He was always on the outskirts. Bobby kept him included, but the rest of them? they have ties to each other, not so much to Buck. they had to be reminded and scheduled to visit him while he was recovering from getting hit by fucking lightning.

at this point I genuinely believe Buck should transfer out. let him join a new team, let him make actual friends, give him a support system who ACTUALLY care about him, and not just what he can DO for them. he'll stay connected to the 118 through the job and through Maddie, but he doesn't need to be in it anymore, not when he's being treated like the unwanted child all the time. he's grown so much since season 1. it's time for him to outgrow the 118.

(also yes of course Tommy should be part of Buck's new family bc he deserves to have someone who loves him the way Tommy does.)

[effieotto]

i can’t ever be angry with Sunrise on the reaping, when Suzanne Collins finaly broke the illusion of responsibility being black and white that this fandom drowned themselves on for ten years. Not when she managed to tell us that, even though the majority of District Twelve were political victims who relied on utter submission and obedience as a result of fear, there were the groups who enjoyed it —who’d fun in watching the Games and gambled about tributes chances of surviving, not any different than the dirty rich sponsor. Not when she made sure to approach the Capitol through the new understanding of how intelectual submission and the false sense of safety could create the illusion of freedom that was powerful enough to manipulate some Capitols to do exactly what Snow wanted them to do, while still believing they were ever giving a choice on the matter. Not when she had to watch this fandom segregating Capitol and District for ten year, with the argument that they were both different breed thus they “could never be the same because they were both raised in extremely different conditions and ethos”, and then made sure to spell out that those people didn’t fit in boxes of good and bad. That they were complex people and the ideological discussion can’t ever be widespread. That not all the Capitol supported the Games to it’s depths, and not all District was against the Games to it’s depths. And i am grateful for that! You’ll never make me hate this!!!

She saw how little we understood about society and how primitive we’re to develop empathy, then she created Wyatt’s father and Effie Trinket and Drusilla and Plutarch and Proserpina and Panache and the guys who gambled in Twelve and the woman with cat ears and Louella and Silka and Wellie and Great Aunt Messalina and crackhead Magno and Burdock and Lenore Dove and the Peacekeepers who didn’t want to look after Haymitch because they wanted to go to the after party and Woodbine and Willamae and Sid..

Those were people, those were complex individuals, those were imperfect characters that were perfectly described by Haymitch’s innocent teenager eyes and you can pry this gift from my fucking dead body..

[artficlly]

oh gosh, thank you so much lovely??? i've always had a bit of a soft spot for soft/gentle!bucky, especially in the context of smut. i just think it's so cute to imagine him as kinda hesitant and embarrassed until he gets his confidence and becomes a complete menace. i dunno, i just like his character development of still staying true and kind despite all that has happened, where he could become cold and cruel but he's really a sweetheart beneath it all.

lessons in lovemaking [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.

What the hell had Fury been thinking?

You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.

By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.

Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”

“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”

Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.

A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.

“Fuck.”

With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.

“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”

“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.

Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.

An aftershave-scented stone statue.

The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”

Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—

A sound.

Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.

You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.

Oh.

The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.

Barnes didn’t move.

For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—

Did he just—?

You both looked down at the same time.

And there it was.

The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.

You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.

Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.

—

It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.

It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?

You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.

“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”

Silence.

You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.

“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”

Silence.

Motherfucker.

"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—

"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"

The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.

Barnes was not decent.

Not in the way you’d expected.

He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—

You felt your stomach drop.

Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.

Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.

"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.

He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"

You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.

"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."

“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.

“Barnes, you need to breathe.”

Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.

“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”

By some miracle, Barnes listened.

He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”

His whole body tensed.

“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”

Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.

Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.

“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”

Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.

“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.

“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”

Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”

“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”

He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”

A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”

His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.

“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”

His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You’re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”

Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face. 

“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”

“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”

Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”

Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.

“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.

Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.

"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"

You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.

"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"

At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.

You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."

His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"

"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"

Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."

Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.

The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.

The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.

Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.

Then—

Barnes cleared his throat.

You turned.

He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.

You didn’t give him one.

Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“There,” you murmured, satisfied.

You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.

Barnes hadn’t moved.

You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.

Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” you asked.

There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”

You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.

You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.

—

A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.

A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.

Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?

Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.

Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—

Barnes.

Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.

Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?

The realisation hit like a freight train.

He was having a sex dream.

Jesus.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—

“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.

He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.

His eyes flickered downward.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.

You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.

What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.

“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.

Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”

The door slammed.

Then, the soft click of the lock.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.

You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Silence.

You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”

A pause. No response.

“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”

Another pause. This one stretched longer.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting. 

You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.

You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.

But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?

There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.

But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?

So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.

Terrifyingly well.

The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.

“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.

You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”

“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”

“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”

A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece. 

“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.

“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”

A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.

“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”

There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.

For the first time, the door cracked open.

Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.

“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.

With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you. 

“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”

His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”

“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper. 

“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.

You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”

“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”

Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.

Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.

Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you. 

Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.

You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.

Fine. Message received.

—

The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.

Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence. 

God, the man had a staring problem.

You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.

You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.

And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.

The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.

God, you missed Egyptian cotton.

Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.

“Nothing—” he stammered.

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”

He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.

You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”

You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm. 

“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.

You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”

“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”

You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person. 

“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.

His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.

“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”

Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.

Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.

“I want to take you up on your offer.”

You tilted your head. “My offer?”

Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”

He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.

Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.

You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.

“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.

“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough. 

“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.

You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.

His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”

Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile. 

“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”

“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.

“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”

His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. 

“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”

You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”

For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”

You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw. 

“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.

“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.

“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”

Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin. 

“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.

His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.

Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.

“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again. 

“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.

This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.

You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.

You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.

“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.

The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.

“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.

You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.

“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.

“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” 

You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”

You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”

He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”

“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”

Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.

“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.