#i wouldn't be able to do that on the spot!

[cherie-doll]

LADS: When You Don't Give Them A Kiss

༻ Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb ༺

₊˚✧ Xavier loves his goodnight kisses. Won't be able to sleep right if you don't give them to him. Which is why he immediately frowned the moment you turned away from him after only saying good night. He had already leaned in closer for you to kiss him when you had cut him off. He's frozen in place, surprised at seeing you laying your head on your pillow without a care in the world; ready to drift off to sleep. But how can you do that to him? Surely you aren't forgetting something? I mean, it's custom by now, you do it every night. It's embedded in his brain to do this, so why are you suddenly being so forgetful. He hesitates but eventually moves in closer, nuzzling into your neck as his arms come around your waist. You complain that it's too hot for him to be doing this, but his response is something along the lines of "too bad". You forgot something important to him so now deal with the consequences; he'll be all up on you throughout the entire night.

₊ ೀ Zayne has a strict routine as a doctor. He wakes up early despite having prepared everything the night before, and as organized as he is, he cannot leave without first feeling your lips on his. It's literally his number one priority every morning before he leaves. He can go the day with forgetting his lunch, or even combing his hair properly, but can no longer wait until he gets to you later that night. Sometimes you'll sleep in and not wake up to give him a kiss and he'll try hanging back hoping you awaken before he has to walk out the door. He's sat at the edge of the bed, his work clothes on and everything ready but just clinging to the hope you remember. And no he won't wake you up, he isn't careless and he'll feel bad if he does. As a hunter, you need that rest and he prioritizes that before his selfish desires.

༄༢ུ࿓ Rafayel will actually do his job for once and go to an art exhibition that Thomas has arranged for him if you give him a kiss. Sort of like a good luck type of thing that makes him feel like things will be tolerable if he remembers the warmth of your lips on his. But this time he's stuck waiting by the front door, tapping his foot against the floor as he impatiently waits for you to return. He brings out his phone to reread the message you had sent, you had gone out and were expected to come back in time to accompany him to art exhibition. But it seems you're running late and Rafayel isn't in the mood to meet up with you there. You call him and are immediately greeted by his attitude. You can hear the slight whine in his voice when he asks why you're not there yet. Truthfully, you feel a little bad to hear him be so distressed. Perhaps you'll make it up to him later.

ᨳ᭬ Sylus isn't letting you off the hook so easily. You came up to him while he was relaxed to tell him you would be going out. As usual, you come up to his spot on the couch and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You tell him you'll be back later and he hums, acknowledging what you've said. But he furrows his brows, his smile disappearing when you just leave to grab your bag. He looks up from his phone to see you ready to take off when you catch his gaze. Oh, if he were more gullible he'd believe that "what's wrong?" face of yours. But he knows you better than that. You can sense the amusement in his voice when he asks "Aren't you forgetting something?". You cock your head trying to keep up the act a little longer before you give in. He had a smug look on his face, knew you wouldn't actually dare to leave his place before properly saying goodbye to him. Plus you would never hear the end of it if Luke and Kieran found out.

❦ Caleb would probably believe your act for a minute max before realizing you're teasing him. After not seeing each other for a couple of days due to your busy schedules, surely a hug isn't all he's getting... right? Your bright smile won't distract him from what he's really after. You feign confusion when you realize his grip on you isn't loosening as you try to pull away from his embrace. You call out his name, annoyed as you make more of an effort to push him away. You're secretly fighting a smile from forming when he only pulls you closer. You huff, telling him to stop teasing you, but he swears it's you who's doing the teasing. He sways side to side with you in his arms, you think about how ridiculous you must look and catch some people staring and hear them exclaim about what a cute couple you two are. Finally, when you no longer want to deprive him you stand as straight as you can to reach his face and give him a kiss. He lets you go after and looks at you, "was that really so hard to do?"

[your-resident-boat-person]

... huh?! I was born in 2001, and I understood most of this perfectly fine. I have a bachelors degree in criminology, so I like to think i have a pretty good idea of how academic studies work, as well as how to spot a bad/flawed one. Initially, I was a bit suspect of the study for 2 reasons. 1) they specifically singled out English majors in college, and 2) they picked a passage from a book that dates back pretty far compared to what most people read nowadays. The problem with 1 is that in a study, generally, an important aspect is being able to generalize to a larger population. For example, if you interview 20 fishermen and ask them if they can identify a largemouth bass, it's likely that 100% of them will be able to. However, if you did that same study but with 20 random people off the street in a location that largemouth bass arent native, that number is likely to be significantly lower. This is why it's important to get both a very large and very diverse sample. But maybe they have a reason to SPECIFICALLY study college English majors. If I was conducting a study on reading comprehension, I would think that people who specify in the study of English literature would give obviously biased results, so maybe if I read the study, their reason for doing so would make sense. So, for the time being, my first problem was being ignored. My second problem, however, was bigger. The way people talk and write in 1853 London is VERY different from how people talk and write in 2015 America. It's still definitely the English language, but it's still very different from what most people are commonly exposed to. I study a lot of maritime history from roughly 1840 to 1970, and there have been some times when the things people have said have either made little sense to me, or, if I was unable to remember the exact wording, I wouldn't be able to recount what the meaning of the quote was. These things became less of a problem as I studied more and more history, and I became more accustomed to the way people talked back then. Again, maybe if i read the study itself instead of a Tumblr post summarizing it, I would suddenly understand something that makes these choices make more sense. But then both of these concerns went completely out the window when I actually read the excerpt from Bleak House. Now, again, I have a better grasp on how people talked 170 years ago than your average Joe shmoe, but I can't imagine that even without that knowledge that after reading those first few paragraphs, I would EVER imagine Dickens was trying to literally say "a dinosaur was walking down the street". Like has been said before, I don't think that this is a particularly easy read, especially the latter half, and there were definitely parts I didn't quite get, but remember that this study was performed on English majors. I feel like if there is any group of people that are equipped to read something difficult and understand it, it would be English Majors. I don't know. Maybe I'm just really, really good at this. At one point, a professor was actually so impressed by my literary analysis that he suggested I switch to an English major. So maybe my super-human understanding of history and god-like powers of literary analysis makes this passage child's play for a level 100 mafia boss like myself, but the fact that the results were THIS BAD is to me, indicative of a problem. I'd need a more generalized study to say that definitively, because maybe there's some strange reason that English Majors can't read that the rest of the population is immune to. I obviously can't speak for the rest of my graduating class, but I, at the very least, understood the passage relatively competently, and again, I was born in 2001.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[arc-misadventures]

Are You Writing This Down?

Blake: Hey, Jaune, I have a question for you.

Jaune: Shoot.

Blake: Would you... if given the opportunity... in a hypothetical scenario! Would you... sleep with my mom...

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Whaaa?

Blake: It's just... since I brought everyone to my home, and they've met my mother... Well, they've been acting... horny...

Jaune: Huh?

Blake: Well, when, Weiss met my mom, she sorta latched on to her as a positive mother figure.

Jaune: Makes sense, despite her reasoning, Willow wasn't able to be that good of a mother.

Blake: Nora latched on to, Mom in an attempt to fill in the gap in her from missing a motherly figure in her life.

Jaune: Oh, that may be good for her. Might calm her down. By a thousandth...

Blake: Ruby is also doing something similar. She misses her mom too...

Jaune: That's... understandable... What about, Yang?

Blake: Ughh! She keeps making jokes at me about becoming my stepmom!

Jaune: That's a shocker... Bar, Nora, the rest of my teammates aren't giving you trouble?

Blake: No. Ren has been absolutely respectful, and kind to my mother. And, Pyrrha is such a sweet when talking with her.

Jaune: Good on them.

Jaune: But, why are you asking if I would sleep with, Kali?

Blake: I know, Yang is only joking around. And, I know what, Ren's semblance does to his... libido. But you!

Jaune: Me?

Blake: You're a fit, muscular, a strong, viral young man... a human! I mean... if anyone is going to seduce my mom... It's going to be you!

Jaune: Thank you?

Blake: So, please, Jaune... Tell me the truth... in a hypothetical scenario! Would you sleep with my mom?

Jaune: Yes.

Blake: You would.

Jaune: Because, I already did.

Blake: You WHAT?!

~~~

Jaune: Haa... Man I need a bath... I really worked up a sweat helping out everyone in town... Now then... They use, Mistalian baths here in, Menagerie. That means I have to wash myself, then I can go into the bath... okay.

Jaune: Hmm hmm hmm~!

(Splash!)

Jaune: Okay... I hit the bath now, right?

: Ara ara~!

: You missed a spot. Please allow to wash your back, Jaune~!

Jaune: OH? Why thank you, Miss Bell... Ghack?!

Kali: Is something wrong~?

Jaune: Kali?! Y-Y-Your wearing nothing, but a towel?!

Kali: Well how else am I supposed to take a bath?

Jaune: Well... how about with me not in the same room?!

Kali: Oh, Jaune~!

(Thump~!)

Jaune: Eep?!

Kali: We both know that's not where this story is going~!

Jaune: I-It isn't?

Kali: Well? Are you going to touch them, and make this kitty purr, or what~?

Jaune: ...

Jaune: N-No one hears of this!

Kali: That's not going to happen, Jaune~!

Jaune: W-Why not?!

Kali: Because, Jaune... I'm a screamer~!

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Oh...

~~~

Jaune: So honestly, I'm surprised you didn't already know we did it, based on, Nora, and Yang's shit eating grins they knew...

Blake: No, not at all... But, what happened after my, Mom told you she was a screamer.

Jaune: Why do you want...? Wait...? Are you writing this down?!

Blake: Yeah. A young stud human seducing a milf cat faunas? Why wouldn't I write this doen?

Jaune: What the fuck?!

[callsign-swan]

Alone Together

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

Warnings: Slight thunderbolts spoilers

The last few years had been... content.

Everybody thought she disappeared, off the grid once her dad died. Some people tried to look; Happy, Pepper, some guy she was sure she knew but couldn't remember.

They didn't find her, she made sure of that. Wiped her name from every record, lived off of the small fortune her father had left her.

She wasn't a great engineer like her father, didn't spend her time making useful stuff like he did. She still made stuff, it just wasn't useful.

Spare parts, the basement was full of them. Scraps her father disregarded, that he didn't need. She was desperately trying to turn the scraps into something useful, but it wasn’t that easy.

So far, she'd built a computer. Well, she more rebuilt an old computer and used scrap metal to hide the wires. It was one of her proudest accomplishments.

Nobody knew she was in the basement. But it didn’t matter, since the old Avengers Tower had been vacant. If someone bought, she would have known.

(No, she didn't know that the tower had been bought. She didn't know that Valentina was moving in).

All of her details were still in the tower system; it was easy enough to hack into the intercom. She didn't do much with it, isolated it to the basement to play her music while she worked.

It was hard, trying to live up to greatness. It was even harder knowing you'll never be able to achieve it.

Rarely did she travel to other floors. If she did, she would have known about Valentina. If she did, she would have been arrested on the spot.

No daddy to bail her out this time. And Pepper wouldn't bother, she thought.

Maybe if she knew, she would have stayed in the basement, gathered up her things and moved out. She wouldn't have gotten in the elevator to get parts out of the floor. Parts her dad used to make machines to take off the Iron Man suite the second he stepped into the building.

Stepping into the elevator with an empty box in her hand and a screwdriver in her pocket, she pressed the necessary button. The doors slid closed and she began travelling up.

So many floors, but it took no time at all. That was her dad's doing. This entire place was her dad's doing. (Maybe that's why she couldn't leave it behind).

The elevator doors should have slid open to reveal nothing. An empty floor, exactly how the Avengers had left it. The bar her dad left nearly fully stocked before they moved to the compound.

But that wasn't the sight that greeted her.

People in the tower. There shouldn't have been people in the tower. Oh, she had fucked up.

They were mid fight, that much was obvious. The blonde guy in the ridiculous suit held Bucky's fist in his hand like he wasn't fighting a super soldier with a vibranium arm.

But the fight had stopped as everybody in the room stared at her. Goldilocks, discount Steve Rogers, blonde bombshell, soviet santa, mystery person and Bucky.

"You've got to be kidding me."

It was Bucky that said it, pulling his fist out of Goldilock's grip. In the moment of confusion, Goldilocks let him go, his gaze on her.

She resisted the urge to step back into the elevator. "I..." But she couldn't find the words. "What're you doing in my house?"

"Your house?"

She hadn't noticed the woman until now. Dark hair, grey in the front so pretty that it looked silver. Definitely dyed, but it looked good.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I bought this property and you are trespassing."

Her eyes went wide, grip on her empty cardboard box growing tighter. "Oh," she said, the air in the room becoming uncomfortable. But then she furrowed her brows. "Really? Because I've been living here for a while."

The woman's mouth dropped open. "How long- You know what? I don't care." She snapped her fingers. "Sentry."

Suddenly, she was moving through the air. Not of her own volition, she had no sort of power. In less than seconds, she was in front of Goldilocks, his fingers wrapping around her neck.

In her struggle, she gripped his wrist, tried to get out of his grip. But he was impossibly, terrifyingly strong.

There was something in his blue gaze that was soft. Suddenly, he let go of her. Her feet hit the floor and he stepped away from her. "Sorry, I... you don't deserve this," he mumbled.

Her hand found her own neck. He didn't have her in a strong grip, but it still hurt so damn much.

But she couldn't stop staring at him. Sentry. She had no doubt he had the potential to look terrifying, but he didn't in that moment. Regret shined in his blue eyes.

A hand grabbed her, pulling her back. She, along with Bucky, Discount Steve Rogers, Mystery Person, Blonde Bombshell, and Soviet Santa, ran towards the elevator.

They squeezed in and travelled down.

"What the fuck?" Bucky called as he pulled her out of the building. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

She pulled her hand out of Bucky's grip. "I've been living here, Barnes," she called back, shoving her hands into her pockets. The screwdriver still sat there, the cardboard box back in the tower.

"Why aren't you with Pepper?"

A scoff left her lips, sounding more like a child than the adult she actually was. But that was one of the reasons she was in the tower in the first place, because she was sick of everyone treating her like a kid.

She released a breath and looked back towards the tower. "What the hell was that?" She asked, completely changing the subject.

Bucky let her. He didn't have it in himself to argue. But he wasn't going to answer her.

"That was Bob," came a new voice.

Her eyebrows went up. "Bob?"

"Bob."

She swallowed thickly. "What the hell is Bob?"

***

The New Avengers.

The name had her stomach rolling. The world didn't need the Avengers, did it? The only reason they'd needed the New Avengers was Valentina's own doing.

But here they were, in the Avengers - no - Watchtower. Bucky let her stay. He gave her conditions to her stay, but he didn't kick her out, didn't drag her kicking and screaming back to Pepper.

As long as she pulled her weight. As long as she worked, did the necessary repairs when they were needed. Sure, she was nothing like her father, but she had her own skills.

Bob was just Bob. Hair now brown, soft sweaters, books. No more blonde hair, no more shadow monster man (yes, she knew Sentry is more than that, but that was her way of referring to it. That was of referring to it sometimes pulled a smile from Bob).

No super soldier serum, no specialised training, no... whatever Ava was. Sure, he had incredibly strong powers, but they were safely tucked away and Bob was happy.

The two didn't immediately find themselves drawn to each other. She was curious, sure, but Bob didn't remember. He didn't have the answers for her.

But they found themselves left behind during missions. There was nothing wrong with that - how were they supposed to help the team?

The first few times, they kept to themselves. She didn't mind the isolation, that was how she lives when the tower was empty. But she watched Bob. Just what he was doing, how he entertained himself. His life had been full of tragedy, just like hers had been. Individual tragedies, but it made her curious about him.

On the teams third mission, their third time alone in the Watchtower together, she sat beside Bob.

"Whatcha reading?" She asked as she toed off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her body.

Bob showed her the cover of his book, his finger slipped between the pages.

She patted her thighs, her fingers drumming against her skin. "Is it good?" She asked and Bob gave a nod.

Bob was a quiet guy. She'd learnt this through their limited interactions. But he wasn't usually this quiet. He at least had an answer for her.

So, she kept talking.

"You know, I lived here as a kid," she mumbled, laying back. Everything was different now it was the Watchtower. The bar her father so lovingly put in place was gone (but that was definitely a good thing).

Bob closed his book. "You're Tony Starks kid, right?" Her asked, one leg folded beneath the other, the other hanging off the edge of the sofa.

She gave a nod. "Yeah, grew up around the first round of Avengers," she mumbled.

Turning his head slightly, Bob let his hand rest in his wrist. He'd had a haircut since everything happened, him and Yelena in the bathroom with a pair of scissors. His hair was still a little bit wild, but it suited him.

"Why'd you live in the basement?"

Not the question she was expecting, but she didn't shy away from it. "Spent a lot of time in there as a kid," she answered. "Just felt right being in there."

It was more than that, clearly more than that, but Bob didn't pry.

He stood up. "Hungry?" He asked, watching as her eyebrows went up.

"You cook?" She couldn't help but ask.

Bob went to nod, but he stopped himself. "How hard can it be?" He tried, releasing a breath that suggested he didn't think it was going to be very easy at all.

She pushed herself up from the sofa. "I'll help," she said and went to follow him into the kitchen.

But Bob didn't move. "You cook?" He parroted.

A grin came across her face. "How hard can it be?"

Turns out, pretty fucking hard. Neither of them knew what they were cooking, and that was the first issue. The both of them were just pulling things out of the fridge and trying to decide what to do with it.

Chicken in a pan (plain and neither of them quite knew how to flavour it), spaghetti in boiling water (neither of them knew what to do for sauce), and a garlic bread pizza in the oven (the only promising part of the meal).

Bob pulled salt from the cupboard and seasoned the spaghetti.

"Fuck," she suddenly cried, fridge door open.

Bob raised his head, eyes wide as he looked at her. "What?" He asked, panicking slightly.

"This is John's boring chicken," she said, pushing the fridge door shut. Like she could hide the evidence if she just shut the fridge door.

"Shit," Bob replied as he turned it in the pan (one side finally looked cooked, but both of them knew not to trust it. Just a few more minutes and they'd check the inside).

"He's gonna kill us."

Bob nodded. "We're gonna die."

But then, they laughed. "If John really does try and kill us, you gotta protect me, okay?" She muttered, stirring the spaghetti in the boiling water. "All I got is this." She pulled the screwdriver from her pocket. She was never seen without it now.

"I'll protect you," he assured her, "I'll keep you safe."

Fear of John Walker was a great foundation for a friendship, as it turned out.

part one maybe?

[angelsforthenight]

im back and ready to push the submissive pathetic!vi agenda yet again... (nsfw)

jesus almighty i want you guys to imagine her perched over your bed, trembling hands gripping the headboard with her ass up. poor thing wouldn't even be able to shut up: strong puffs of breath leaving her lips every five seconds. you'd sit there waiting amusedly, as you know she'd be expecting something. her entire body is just gagging for it - trembling and wriggling uncontrollably.

she'd call for your name, her inferior voice laced in a meek tone. every single movement would just be so predictable. it's almost embarrassing.

"uh-uh. turn around." you'd say with a little smile never leaving your lips. how could it ever go? this is top tier entertainment, seeing your usual big, sturdy girlfriend be a puddle of goopy mess. vi does as you say with a whimper, as there's pretty much nothing else she can do. one wrong move and you're not touching her for another tedious thirty minutes. you watch as vi arches her back, dog-like whimpers spilling from the back of her throat. you continue this act until you start to feel a little bad. i mean, god, you can fucking see the arousal dribbling pathetically down her thighs.

"my baby doesn't like waiting does she?" you coo, rubbing the pad of your fingers against her sopping folds. vi can only whine in response, too anticipated to worry about speaking. but alas, you like to hear words of affirmation.

"answer." you mutter curtly, commanding at her as if she's a dog. she flinches at your change in tone, scrambling to pick up which right words to say. she really, really wants you to touch her after all, even when it's too hard to think.

"i don't... please touch me. c-can't hold it in much longer... i'll die..." she whines, her knuckles turning white from gripping the headboard as tight as she can. she's always too dramatic for her own good, but you can't help but love her for it.

you hum in response, your fingers finally easing in her waterlogged cunt. your index and middle finger easily slip inside, welcoming you in with excited flutters and the attempt to suck you in completely. a low, pleased moan punches out of vi; one that clearly declares 'finally.'

the pinkette vibrates with pleasure, incoherent babbles slewing from her lips, words you couldn't even begin to understand. it's as if you're stirring her brain into a slushy and you've only pistoned two of your fingers in!

it's absolutely world class when you add a third finger into the mix, pushing them in further. you've grazed against her g-spot for sure, because vi jolts as if electrocuted. an adorable little squeak leaves her lips too: clearly, she hadn't expected that.

"you doing okay?" you chirp.

"mmhmmm..." she drones in response. you decide to let it slide that vi isn't actually using her words, because you can tell that she's on the brink of making a mess all over herself. the rhythmic clenches of her pussy tell you everything you need to know, as well as the way her moans are turning into keens.

you press your fingers in and out consistently, the sound of wet filth overtaking the room like a pack of bees. before you know it, vi's shuddering violently, your name leaving her lips like a reverent prayer.

vi lets out an exhilarated sigh as her weakened body decides it isn't able to hold herself up anymore, slumping on the bed. you giggle and nestle on top of her - nestling on top of her and peppering chaste kisses along her back, coated in a film of sweat.

"thank you... thankyouthankyouthankyou...' she mumbles persistently into the sheets, still trembling a palpable amount.

"no need to thank me, handsome." you'd reply, whispering the words into her skin and hoping it somehow embellishes underneath.

a/n: HI GUYS im back teeheeheeee (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵) im very slooooowly working through your requests and i fear i might not do all bc some are too similar to my previous works, however pls do keep sending more! or not! i love anything u guys say in my inbox! (づ> v <)づ♡

[shinra-makonoid]

You know, if I do succeed in becoming a doctor, depending on where I end up to I'd like to specifically work in prison to care for prisonners, as they are one of the categories of people who are less able to access healthcare and more suffering from chronic illnesses (especially mental health issues and traumas, as the carceral system is inherently abusive which increase the probability of new crimes to be committed after). Because I think everyone deserve to have access to healthcare. How monstreous of me, it means I ""defend"" aaaaaaall the criminals. It's worse than you thought! My most preferred option though is cancer or palliative care (which can also impacts prisonners). But it's far too early to think about this and it could change.

I think you underestimate the cultural differences between you and the people I know surrounding the field, my friends, or the hypothetical "colleagues" that I will potentially have. Most of the people I know are against guns, think Americans are barbaric idiots, understand that crimes is a complex issues with several factors that are independant of someone being fundamentally "good" or "bad", and that killing is wrong. If you think the average person thinks like you, you're in an echo chamber.

I'm poor and always have been poor btw, I neither own a home nor a car, there's nothing of value to steal in my place. My loved ones have been threatened and attacked, feared for their lives, without having any means to defend themselves. I once faced a 2 meter father to defend a little girl from being abused, without any kind of weapon (I'm not even 1m70), which I'm sure you wouldn't ever have had the balls to do without hiding behind a gun like the sad cuck that you are. The fact is, you know absolutely nothing of me or my life and you're still creating some kind of weird puppet to get mad at or jealous at or whatever you are feeling. And it's embarassing, you guys are on your tumblr account hypothesizing about a literal stranger on the other side of the world who is trying very hard to make a difference to create a better place in his country, because said stranger hurt your little feelings. What the fuck are you doing to make your country better exactly? Nothing. You jerk off all day and talk about how you'll kill anyone stepping on your property lmao and I'm the one who talks big? The truth is that if you were in my spot you'd shit yourself dude, you have 0% of the balls needed to do a fraction of what I do in my life.

I know what people can do, how cruel and dangerous they can be. My position comes from a place of understanding and knowledge about those issues, not from being ignorant of it. I also know that you don't decrease the amount of crime through punishment or death sentences, and that people don't do crimes for no reasons. That the reasons need to be tackled for the crimes to go down, that we need to consider it as a public health issue rather than a stupid story of individual bad people and individual good people. And that it's not morally ok to kill.

Just read someone claiming that being ok with killing someone breaking into your house is a "facist usamerican opinion".

As a victim of a home break in, where I got beaten up for the sin of dropping a plastic bag holding snacks I had just bought, where I then had to witness an aunt and her daughter crying their eyes out tied to a bed, fearing they would get raped, myself fearing the same for them after I too was tied and gagged next to them.

And also as the son of another victim of a break in, who got stabbed in the gut and almost died of blood loss half naked right in front of his infant daughter.

I have to say

Kill all home intruders, if they have committed the sin of breaking into the place most safe for you and your family, with the intention of taking everything you worked so hard to get, not to mention the lives of you and your family, you have all the right in the world to respond with deadly force, no questions asked.

[lostwysteria]

(Part 10. Ok. I lied. This show is killing me and I need to cope.)

Masterlist

Ling ran over to the cameras, not knowing what to do, but knowing something was wrong. Wreck wasn't supposed to be there.

“Wreck! What are you doing here!?” Nice asked in shock as he stood up.

“Nothing much. I just wanted to pick something up. You see, i’ve been hearing some interesting new rumors. I wanted to verify them myself. It seems as if they were true, though. You really did replace me, huh?” The man asked. He moved fast and grabbed Homemaker, twisting his arms behind his back and encasing his arms and feet in stone, immobilizing him.

“Wreck! Let him go! Don't do this. Please.” Nice pleaded. He was frozen. He couldn't move closer and risk setting Wreck off. He could read the instability in his body language. He didn't know who to worry about more at that moment.

“Please? Ha! Don't make me laugh. All I have ever wanted to do was be by your side. When I couldn't be a hero with you, I became your villain. All to be close to you, my oldest friend. Now, though, you’ve really replaced me? No. I think I’ll be taking this pretty little thing with me. See what's so special about him. Have fun dealing with Enlighter’s little surprise.” Wreck said as the studio door burst open and a Fear Empowered man attacked.

Wreck absconded with Homemaker slug over his shoulder.

The cameras were still rolling. They caught everything.

…

Faejay @rockinrobin

OMG???? NiceMoon IS PLATONIC??? AND WRECK!!! OUR BOI WRECK IS IN LOVE WITH NICE???

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

MY SHIP IS MAYBE SAILING!? But did you guys catch that? Wreck became a villain to be close to Nice! I have told you guys before that I work with Heros and can allegedly confirm that they were childhood friends that had a falling out.

Holly @hollybellsring

@tiredfanfic

You have been trying to tell us something this whole time?????!!!!

Gegege @obscureanimefan

@tiredfanfic

Wait. You recently started writing NiceHome fics. Are you implying something????

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

Look forward to a WriceHome fic.

…

Ling felt nauseous as Wreck sped through some underground tunnels. He stayed silent the whole time. He didn't want to anger the already upset man.

They emerged in an older neighborhood. Wreck climbed up an old fire escape and into a messy apartment bedroom. He tossed Ling onto the bed.

He took off his helmet and plopped down next to him.

“So. Homemaker. What makes you so special, huh?” He asked almost casually. “Sure, you're cute as hell and give off some frankly killer milf vibes. But why replace me with you?”

“What!?” Ling choked. “It's not like that. I’m just his caretaker. I… I saved him from killing himself. I was on the same roof he was. I’d just gotten fired from my soul crushing day job. He cried for hours. I can't leave him.” Ling explained. “Nice needs you. Not being able to be with you is tearing him up.”

“What?” Wreck asked in a hoarse voice.

…

Nice wasn't too worried. He knew Wreck wouldn't actually hurt Lin Ling. Once he found where they were, Nice could settle things and hopefully get the ball rolling on that throuple he wanted.

Miss. J tapped him on his shoulder and handed him his phone. “His number is unblocked.”

A text from wreck was already opened

‘At our old place. I see what you do, now. Lin Ling is just way too good at this.’

Relief and then joy flooded his body. He knew that Wreck would see it!

…

Ling was cleaning up a storm. Wreck was lying on an old couch with a cold, damp washcloth over his puffy eyes. He had cried for three hours. He paused in his dusting and stirred the sauce for the spaghetti he was making.

“This place has never been so clean.” Wreck said from his spot.

“Sorry. I can't help it. Spotlessly clean, but still cozy is my compulsion. Part of my Trust Value.” He explained. He turned the stove off. The suce was done.

“Don't worry. I get it. I'm dating, maybe, Mr. OCD himself.” Wreck waved a hand dismissively.

It was at that moment a white blur came through the open window. Ling found himself on the bed from earlier. He was laying next to Nice who was smothering Wreck with cuddles and kisses. His hand was in Nice’s free hand.

“I would NEVER replace you.” Nice said fiercely.

“I know.” Wreck said, wetly.

“Tomorrow, I'm taking us all home.” Nice told both of them. “Tonight, though, we are staying here. I need both of you equally.”

[voodoochildthings]

Drizzle

Dean x reader

For @impala-dreamer's THROUGH HIS EYES – DEAN WINCHESTER WRITING CHALLENGE

When Dean sees your number flashing on his phone, he drops everything. Even though he knows you wouldn't do the same.

Word Count: 2 131

Tags: 18+ / hurt / smut and a broken heart, reader is emotionally unavailable

A/N: You might have spotted this one on ao3 already, but I'm so excited to share it over here in the through his eyes challenge 🤩

It's late afternoon, but it's already dark outside. The rain on the windshield is contorting the oncoming headlights into funny shapes when Dean feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He fishes it out, flips it open. He takes a sharp breath when he sees your name flashing up on the display.

"...Hi." His eyes are glued to the road ahead.

"Are you still in the area?"

"Uh, yeah, like two towns over. Why? Are you..." Dean shifts a little, trying to play it cool.

"Wanna come over? I'll text you the address."

"Yeah, sure, I can come over. I'm in the car right now," he says, glancing over at the paper bags with dinner for him and Sam on the passenger seat.

"See you in a bit." There's a click, and the line goes silent. A couple of seconds later, the phone buzzes again with a text message, reading Shady Oaks motel, Skinners Creek, R204. Dean turns around in the middle of the road, tires screeching, going in the opposite direction while he dials Sam's number.

"What's up, Dean?"

"Listen, Sammy, something came up. I got a thing that I gotta take care of, I'm not sure when I'll be back," he says, fingers anxiously drumming on the steering wheel.

"What? Now? I thought we were gonna have dinner, Dean, I'm starving!"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Go get yourself something from the vending machine, my treat. Talk to you soon," he says, and then hangs up before his brother gets another chance to protest.

He's nervous when he pulls into the motel parking lot. He gets out of the car in the drizzling rain, slams the door shut behind him. After a couple of steps he turns back, wants to fetch the burgers he had bought for him and Sammy. He goes to the passenger side door, reaches for the handle. Then he hesitates. What is this, is he going to bring you greasy burgers from some second class diner in a random ass town? He shakes his head, curses to himself and goes back to the staircase leading up to the upper floor.

When he reaches the door marked with the golden numbers 204, he tries to shake the raindrops off his jacket, runs his hand over his face and takes a deep breath. Then he knocks.

A couple of seconds pass, then he hears footsteps, and the door finally creaks open. The lights are low in the room, but he has no trouble recognizing your face. It's burnt into his retina. Your hair is up in a loose bun and there's a small cut on your left cheek, but you're still even prettier than the last time he saw you.

You smile as you welcome him inside. You close the door behind him and step over to the table, picking up a glass, take a big swig, emptying it. You run the back of your hand over your lips as you watch him take his jacket and shoes off.

Dean feels your gaze burning on his skin, and it makes him fluster a little. "So, the hunt go okay?" You watch him through hooded lids and nod. Then you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. So no small talk today.

Dean starts fumbling with his clothes, not being able to take them off as quickly as he'd like, and the visual of you in your jeans and the plain black bra he's seen so many times is not helping. Both of you start unbuttoning your jeans at the same time, and it's taking everything out of him to multi-task. He should be used to it by now. Getting naked and watching you peel yourself out of your clothes, unceremoniously revealing inch after inch of your beautiful, soft skin at the same time, but the truth is, he's not. He probably never will.

When you're finally both in your underwear, you walk over to him. You take his face into your hands and pull him in for a kiss. The moment you touch him, it's like a thousand volts zapping through him. Dean wraps his arms around you, fingers trying to reach every bit of skin they can get to. He kisses you back with all the passion in the world, hungry, open-mouthed. His tongue glides over yours, tasting you, before he moves over your jaw and down your neck, leaving a wet trail on you while he shuffles you over to the bed.

You plop down on the mattress, licking your lips as you tug at your panties while he does the same to his boxers. Them gone, he crawls over you, resuming his kissing. He can see the hunger in your eyes as you watch his erection bobbing up and down between his legs. He pulls the cups of your bra down, exposing your nipples, gently sucking on each of them. The moan it elicits from you is tiny, but it makes him shiver. Because he knows how rare it is. His hand goes to your breast, firmly grabbing on to it as his mouth wanders back up to your ear. He nibbles at it slightly, hungrily breathing in your scent. It's strongest right there, at the base of your neck. He bites at your skin as he whispers, "you taste so good, baby."

Even if he had his eyes open he couldn't have seen your expression because his face is buried deep in your hair. But he knows what it must look like when you quietly say, "don't call me that."

He freezes for a moment. He knows that's not the kind of relationship you have, and normally, he's fine with that. Well, he's not, actually, but there's nothing he can do about it anyway. So he goes along with it. But sometimes he just gets carried away, when he gets to touch you like this, feel you, smell you, his brain just wonders what it would be like if you were really his. He then apologizes. Quietly. And you resume what you were doing.

At some point, you turn around, on your knees, face pressed down into the pillow. You stick your ass up at him and there's not really any doubt as to what you want him to do. He'd much rather look at your face while he fucks you, but he'll give you what you want. Whatever you want. Funny how he's still thinking about your face, even with your pussy exposed to him like that.

He takes his dick into his hand, strokes a couple of times and runs the tip over your entrance. God, you're wet. It makes him smile. You might not have romantic feelings for him, but there's no way anyone could tell him you get worked up like that as quickly for any other guy. This is him, Dean Winchester, doing it for you. He teases along your slit for a little longer and then finally pushes into you. He hears the breath being punched out of your lungs as he pulls you onto him, fingers digging into the skin of your ass cheeks. When he's fully seated, he closes his eyes for a moment, inhales deeply.

And then he starts moving, fucking you like he knows you want him to. Your body rocks back and forth by the power of his motions. The mattress squeaks, but you don't make a sound. He knows that it's not because you're not enjoying it. The first couple of times it had made him insecure. He usually has the women he's with moaning in a matter of minutes. But that's not who you are. He's okay with that now. Even though he sometimes wishes it'd be easier to know what's going on in your head.

He thrusts into you at a steady pace, roughly, trying to pull you a little closer each time. He listens to your breathing, feels how your walls twitch against him now and then. He watches that muscle under your shoulder blade twitch from time to time. His hips keep smacking into your ass in a way that might even leave a couple of faint bruises tomorrow. You've never stayed long enough for him to find out.

When he sees your hand shooting down to your clit, starting to stimulate yourself, he knows you're close. He picks up his speed a little, drives into you even harder, and then he feels it. The hand that's not on your clit fists the sheets, you arch your back and your pussy clenches around him, making him almost blow his load then and there. But he's not gonna come just like that, he wants to drag this out. Just a little longer, now that he's got you under him. Your orgasm only lasts for a couple of seconds, Dean fucks you through it and then gently runs his hand over your back as your body goes limp. He knows you won't protest at that. You never do.

Dean slips out of you, lets you catch your breath for half a minute. He looks at you, drinking you in, lying there. Soft, warm, spent. In his bed. Well, not his bed. But still. The expression on his face is tender, almost loving, but he knows to get it back in check before he turns you around.

For you, he puts on a smirk, grinning that charming smile that's not honest but never fails to get a lady in the mood. He watches as you smile back at him. Yours is honest. He can tell.

He's still on his knees on the bed, between your thighs, his hand running up your leg and lifting it into the air.

"Any further requests?" He's back on his game now. He can be the sex machine you want him to be. He's not gonna slip up again.

"You could do that thing that I taught you to do," you say, licking your lips at him. Dean raises his eyebrows.

"You mean... with the thing?" You nod as he starts spreading your thighs. He marvels at the sight of you beneath him for a little longer, and then he kicks into motion.

"Alright. Let's do that, then."

Dean keeps you going for another half hour before he can't take it anymore, and then he comes, shuddering, movement stuttering. He grabs you tight when he does, as if he were holding on for dear life, and you let him. He then slumps down next to you on the mattress, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

You did eventually moan as you were approaching the third orgasm of the evening. He knows it's stupid, but it made him proud anyway. He looks at you, your chest heaving, his own breathing still ragged.

You look so pretty.

He wants to run his thumb over the cut on your cheek, nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and just stay there. Forever. But he doesn't, and he won't.

And then you get up, start looking for your clothes. He lies there watching you as you clean yourself up, get dressed, pack the few things you had lying around into your bag. He hears you say that he can keep the room if he wants, that you have to hit the road. And something else, he's pretty sure it's just polite conversation. He's still in a bit of a haze after coming like that.

Dean feels like he's unable to move, like he wants to get up, grab you and keep you, but he knows that he might lose you forever if he tries.

And then you're gone. He's still in bed, naked. He takes a deep breath. The sheets don't smell like you. How could they, he doesn't know if you even slept in them for one night or if you just got the room for what you just did.

He waits until he hears the engine of your car fading away outside and then gets up. Gets dressed, takes the almost empty bottle of booze that you left on the table, pulls the door shut behind him. He walks down the stairs, back over to the Impala and sits there, in the parking lot, while the rain continues to drizzle.

Dean leans back, clasps both his hands over his face and sighs. He scratches his head, turns on the engine and starts driving as he reaches over and fishes a burger out of the paper bag on the passenger seat. He unwraps it with one hand and takes a bite. It's fine. Of course, it's cold, it has been sitting there for hours now. So are the fries. But it's better than nothing, he won't complain. He never does.

[c4tluver02]

golden line

wc: 2.4k

warnings: none! hurt comfort happy ending lets go!!

summary: Finally getting a moment to talk to you, Steve is determined to get things fixed between the two of you.

a/n: i hope u guys enjoyed this little series!! <33 thank u for all the love on it !!!!!!!

part 1, part 2, part 3

How can I repay the due? The way you know me, love me, pull me through. ♫

After everything with Venca Steve accepted that things just wouldn't be the same. He would no longer be mad at the new normal. His new life would consist of sleepless nights all alone, no time for hobbies, stitched into a routine that wouldn't fail him. Nothing changing meant nothing could go wrong. 

This was all set in stone until you came along, and now Steve can't help but rethink his whole system. Maybe, somehow, Steve wouldn't have to feel so exhausted by all the weight he has to carry. That someone would actually want to do that for him. But now Steve is stuck in a constant state of stress for how he was gonna tell you all of this, without messing it all up. 

All of this has kinda forced Steve to open up more, ask his friends what to do instead of always having all of the answers. Robin was able to get through to him that you needed time. And maybe if the date you went on did go horrible, like he'd hoped, he’d be ready to pick you back up. 

Which it did by the way. It was just the worst and if Steve wasn't so pretty you’d swear off men for a lifetime. To get yourself all done up and have some guy waste your time felt like a slap in the face. The whole date all you could think about was how Steve wouldn't say that, or Steve would have done this. Being plagued by him was starting to drive you mad, like the way he so easily wrote you off and humiliated you wasnt enough for you to get over him completely. 

In hopes to at least start ‘mission get over Steve’ you decide to go to the store, ready to divulge in a whole carton of ice cream and cry out how sad you are of the way things ended. Whatever stage of grief involved you feeling sorry for yourself was what you were experiencing. Your red eyes in the grocery store matching a baggy outfit to show the world how broken you were feeling. Rejected, bad date, rock bottom. Next week you’ll bounce back but for right now you walk towards the ice scream section. That is until you hear a loud ‘ouch!’ come from an aisle that you were walking towards. 

Now you were really starting to feel crazy because if your delusions have truly melted your brain you would almost guess that it was Steve's voice. And when you hear Robin lecture him you feel your heart drop. 

“Do you always have zero class?” Robin scolds.

“I just tripped! I'm heartbroken, deal with me would you?” He pleads. And if a gun were to Rob's head, she would reply with a ‘oh I know’. Because to be quite frank, it's all she's heard about. 

He had asked her about the idea to go see you but Robin reminded him that maybe that wouldn't fix all his problems. That he could actually make things worse. 

Quick to get as far away from them you decide to go through the next aisle but it is humorous how bad of an idea that was. You try to turn as you see their cart come through before they do but you don’t make it in time. 

“I know but it-” The sentence stops before it really even starts. Both of you freeze, caught. 

Robin’s heart breaks, despite Steve saying he's sad, you actually look it. Eyes slightly swollen, your hair in a braid that's slightly falling apart, and an outfit that shows that you haven't left the house in a few days. 

“Are you okay?” Steve is quick to ask, walking towards you as you stand still in your spot. 

“Yeah, I just-I needed some reinforcements.” You say with a dry laugh, trying to not come off as embarrassed as you feel. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I was gonna actually stop by your house but I dunno- I mean I know how weird that sounds, but I couldn't get a hold of you and I wanted to make sure you were ok.” Somehow Steve got it all out with one breath. His hands are matching his words telling a story themselves. 

“You know where I live?” You are trying to ignore how he wanted to check up on you. 

“Well no but I was gonna look in the system.” He says scratching the nape of his neck, this isn't really coming out as romantic as it would have felt had he done it. 

“Oh.” You nod but you really don't know what to say, too embarrassed for the second time around Steve no wonder he doesn't want you. 

Robin walks up to meet you two in the middle. “We were gonna have a movie night if you wanted to join?” 

You let out a small smile at her invite, always okay with being the third wheel. And if we’re being real you could really use a win right now. It may not be a date night with Steve but hanging around two people who you know will make you feel good sounded nice. 

“Okay sure, yeah. If that's okay with you?” You ask looking back at Steve.

His round eyes go wide, not expecting you to say yes. “Sure, yes. Yeah that would be nice.” He doesn't even care that he's giving away his nonchalant facade with the big grin on his face. Simply happy with how this is going so far. 

As you scan all the snacks you three got for the movie night Steve toys around with asking how your date went but Robin beats him to it. 

“So how was your date with pool guy?” She pulls out her wallet and Steve hands you his card, already a step ahead of her with this at least. 

“It was ok, we weren’t a match but I got a free dinner.” You say with a shrug putting the last item in the bag. Admitting that it was a fail isn't an option right now, already letting them see you in this state was punishment enough. 

Steve takes the bags and you start walking out to the car. 

“I can meet you guys there?” You ask. A second to decompress how awkward this all is would be nice. 

“Okay see you there!” Robin says as she closes the door to Steve's car. You know they are talking about everything that just happened but you are sitting comfortably in silence. 

–

It only takes you about 5 minutes to get to Steve’s, his house being pretty close to the grocery store. 5 minutes to gather your thoughts about how this night might play out. Trying to think about every outcome possible to prepare but the short ride doesn't give you much time to think. 

“Rob open the door?” You hear Steve ask as you get out of your own car. 

“You ever heard of a please? Maybe a thank you?” Robin responds, even though she does open the door for him. 

You walk in only a few steps behind him and let out a soft thank you to her. 

“See at least she has manners, why am I not best friends with her?” You smile at her as she closes the door, you’ve missed this.

“So what movies did you guys get?” You ask sitting on the couch. 

“We got ‘The Exorcist’, ‘Jaws’, and E.T.”. Steve answers as he's placing all the treats you got on the table. 

“Pass, pass, and okay I could do E.T.” You smile digging into the snacks you got. 

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes at your opinionated response. “You aren't up for Jaws?” He asks while sitting next to you.

His couch isn't small but it isn't huge. The warmth of his thigh could be felt by your own, if he leans over at all he's in your personal space. 

“I think I should be asking you why you want to watch a movie about a shark that kills people.” You joke back. You're both acting like nothings wrong. It’s really not the time to get into a whole deep argument and for now that's okay with you both. 

“It’s a good movie, you should watch it.” He gives your knee a nudge and asks Robin to turn off the lights. It’s later in the evening and the sun is almost completely done setting which you thank in hopes that he can't see how flustered his small touch made you.

As the movie plays the three of you sit there making small comments in between scenes and eat your food. When the last 30 minutes comes you only hear the loud snores coming from Robin. Deciding to call it a night, Steve turns the TV off. It’s now completely dark and suddenly the fact that this has been the first time you both have been, basically, alone since the fight hits you all at once. 

“I should-”

“Can we talk?”

You both say at the same time. Steve is the one asking to talk and you nod thinking he's right. The smart adult thing to do is to talk. 

He puts his hand on the small of your back and leads you out to his backyard. The weather at night is perfect and the silence plus the small wave of the wind is relaxing. You sit on one of his long white chairs and he does the same with the other. 

“I’ve really missed you, y’know?” Steve starts. You almost wanna let out a sigh at how annoyingly mature he’s being about all of this. So open to say what's on his mind. 

“Me too.” You decide to copy. 

“I want you to know I didn't mean what I said.” 

Your eyes immediately shoot towards him. Trying to find out what game he's playing, what his angle is. 

“I am not, not, looking for something right now.” He wishes he could explain his feelings in a better way. “I know I said I wasn't and I thought I wasn't but then you came around and you changed everything for me.” 

This small silent treatment you’re giving is sorta killing him. The need to explain as much as he can to get on your good side again is all that's on his mind. 

“But then you left and you weren't coming around and the one time you do you're going on a date.” Steve lets out a huff, the anger coming back all too easily. 

“What did you think I was coming around for Steve? I liked you. I really thought we were on the same page. I mean the inside jokes and spending the whole day together.” Your usage of “liked” makes Steve wince. It hits him hard and every word after it is like salt on the wound. 

“I just, I didn't think I had anything to give anyone. All I know how to do is keep everything in all of the time so no one else falters.” Steve lets out a sigh, his vision blurring. “What would anyone want anything to do with someone like that?” 

You wish you were sitting next to him to give him a hug. To lend him a hand to squeeze, or maybe a shoulder to lay his head. 

“Steve, you know any of these people in your life would stop everything if they knew you were feeling like this.” 

“But then who's taking care of them? Someone has to.”  Poor Steve you think. A kid who was never cared for, only focuses on caring for others. 

This time you actually get up and move toward him. He scootches over and the weight of you both at the end of the plastic chair makes it lift at the top. Almost falling off Steve puts his weight to the top and you stay on. A laugh escapes out of you and soon enough he's coping. 

Silence falls between you for a few seconds. “I'm sorry you've been feeling this way.” It’s simple but it’s true. Steve is the last person who deserves to feel like this. 

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way.” He’s talking about a whole different feeling but nonetheless an awful one. 

You reach your arms to go around his shoulders and he lets his chin fall on your shoulder. His arms wrap around you in return and for the first time in weeks you feel at peace. 

“Would you stay the night? I have a spare room– Normally Rob sleeps in it but I'm sure she wouldn't mind the couch.” He asks lifting himself from the warmth of your shoulder. 

You and Steve still have a long way to go, more to get through but you’re ready to do it with him. Ready to share whatever baggage he might bring. 

“Yeah I can stay.” Giving him a warm smile, it really does numbers for his heart. 

His shoulders fall as he breathes out a breath of relief. Your forehead falls gently against his own and he closes his eyes. It allows you to really look at him, like how long his lashes are, and how pretty his lips purse out. 

“Cmon, let's go to bed.” You stand and lay your hand out for him to take. 

All of these emotions are hitting him all at once, exhaustion taking over as he does as you say intertwining his fingers with yours. 

You lay a blanket on Robin who is now fully stretched out on the couch and Steve locks the sliding glass door. You both walk up the stairs in silence but once you reach the top you both pause. 

“Can I sleep with you?” You ask. He offered you the spare room but right now you really don't want to be away from him. 

Steve is secretly thankful you did. He nods and you both climb into his bed. You guess the pros of being a rich kid is having a big bed, you both fit nicely. 

He wraps an arm around your waist and you snuggle your face into the crook of his neck. He smells like pine and chlorine from being outside this whole time. But it’s his heartbeat that easily puts you to sleep. The consistent rhythm being a perfect reminder of how thankful you are to have Steve. And the feeling of his hand going up and down due to your soft breathing is what puts him to sleep. Unsure of what tomorrow will bring but you'll deal with it together.

[fleurstruck]

close to temptation

pairing: jeonghan x gender neutral reader

genre: fluff, established (secret) relationship, forced proximity, secret relationship, idol au

requested: yes

"don't you think you were getting a little too close tonight?" you ask, a hand on your hip as you face the man himself. you shift your weight onto your right foot, tapping impatiently while he looks at you with that smug, lazy smile you'd grown to fall in love with. though your tone was cold, he knew the look behind your eyes, feistier than a feral cat. he's always liked that about you, that nerve and grit. jeonghan barely holds himself back, eyes peering down both sides of the hallway before he enters your hotel room.

the two of you were the mc's for tonight's award show, announcing the program and performances, giving out awards to other idol groups, and giving out an award to his group. it was the highlight of both of your nights. you couldn't lie if you said you didn't love the way he looked when he showed up to receive the daesang from your hands. that suit, the makeup, the way his hair fell perfectly around his face, and the immense pride radiating off the two of you, exchanging smiles that held a secret your fans were practically clueless to. 

he still recalls the way your fingers lingered a second too long on the award before letting go, the way you smiled at him, eyes shining with welling tears that you blinked away as quickly as they came, and the way you ran backstage, calling his name right before he was about to perform. heavens, you could tell he barely held himself back from upsetting the makeup artists and kissing you for good luck. you only rolled your eyes and offered a flying kiss instead, running back to a different part of the backstage for your cue. 

it was a little like torture, seeing you shine so brightly underneath the spotlight and only being able to watch from his spot in the stands. but you're here now, flicking his forehead while you pout. 

you always had that sort of spunk to you that perfectly complements his low energy allure. and it shines brightly when you plop yourself on your bed and reach out for him. "they won't know," comes his reply, approaching you and the bed and sitting next to you. you roll your eyes and he laughs. 

"so you haven't seen twitter yet?" he shrugs, going to reach for his phone from his pocket. "there are a lot of fans talking about us tonight." 

"who wouldn't? we're hot together," he replies, scrolling through a couple of the tweets and messages he's received from his members about the matter. just the standard fandom freakout, putting clips that are barely believable together, but he's got to admit that both of your fandoms are smarter than he gave them credit for. 

"jeonghan! we could've been found out!" your voice is complaining but the way you hook your chin on his shoulder and wrap your arms around his torso tells him you find it just as amusing as he does. jeonghan shuts off his phone and leaves it on the nightstand.

"but we weren't. and i got the biggest award of my lifetime presented to me by my gorgeous partner, and got to stay by your side the entire night. so, like, we win in two ways, basically." he smiles at you, kissing the corner of your lips. ugh, he knows you too well. 

"you're right…" you sigh in defeat. "and we looked really hot while doing so."

"we did, didn't we?" he chuckles. 

[technically-human]

I liked your comic for the DBDA zine! I always love the expressions you give the boys, and this time around was no exception. What a sad, sweet little scene💛

Thank you so much! That scene actually started as part of a fic! I got very stuck with this particular story, but here's the scene!

Edwin liked to walk.

While he often admonished Charles for his inability to stay still, the truth was that Edwin often found himself pacing their office, suggesting they go to that magic shop that was close enough to not warrant mirror hopping, and walking out with confidence before anyone could propose a different form of transportation.

Walking was simple, relaxing, and not the kind of thing one got to do in Hell. Not his particular Hell, anyway. Edwin once found a little corridor in Sloth full of people walking in a straight line, following some shiny light that was slightly faster than them. Anyone would have been able to reach it if they had put their foot in front of the other a bit quicker, but that place clearly didn't work like that. Edwin often thought, bitterly, that he wouldn't have minded that particular torture all that much. Of course, his own Hell was all standing so still that his whole body ached, and running until his legs burned so much that he felt they were melting under him, so perhaps it was a case of seeing the grass greener on the other side.

Regardless, Edwin liked walking, and so he didn't complain when the new case required almost an hour of hiking to rebury a dead body in their favorite place. That was a petition so common that he had allowed himself to zone out for most of the sentimental reminiscing, knowing that, even if Charles missed the instructions to get to the place, he would certainly recall –and retell– the sob story. Edwin could, in turn, retain all the actually useful information. Teamwork.

Dead people were very obsessed with their mortal remains. Edwin couldn't empathize, as his were reduced to a pile of ashes the same day he was dragged to Hell, and by that point he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Walking was pleasant, and he didn't mind grave robbing, and yet Edwin felt himself stop, Charles taking a few more steps before realizing they were no longer next to each other and that Edwin was definitely not listening to his recollection of the client's story. Charles quickly turned around and returned to his side.

“Edwin?”

“There are just so many…” he felt the words getting stuck in his throat, like blood when the creature punctured something in him with so much violence that he wasn't sure if he would choke or bleed out first.

Dandelions. They were surrounded by dandelions.

They were a common enough weed. They were virtually everywhere, not even London's concrete and filth being able to stop their growth. After a few months, he didn't feel like crying every time he saw one. Or, well, he felt like crying, but he didn't, and that was progress.

Charles looked around with an urgency that suggested he was trying to spot a threat, but his shoulders fell when he understood. Edwin noticed his friend's hand on his back, soothingly going up and down, but he still felt paralyzed.

“Sorry, mate. I miss her too,” he said.

Of course he did. Sometimes it felt to Edwin like Charles remained on Earth simply by the force with which he missed things. Food and murderous friends and terrible parents. When Edwin was dragged to the Doll House for the second –millionth– time, a part of him found it within himself to worry about what his absence might do to this boy. Still, Charles and Niko hadn't been close. Not the way Charles had been close to Crystal. Not the way Edwin had been close to Niko. Charles would be able to move on from this loss, but, for once, Edwin was unsure of his ability to follow.

Some things simply wouldn't happen, even if they had an eternity

[rei-ismyname]

Franklin Richards, Krakoan rebel

Franklin Richards hit puberty and explored his identity, sullen mutant style. His room is top-to-bottom decked out in cultural signifiers, from Lila Cheney and Dazzler to the iconic X. His blasé disinterest in Uncle Johnny's FF costume delivery is punctuated by declaring that he 'wouldn't get it.' Historically, he'd be pretty spot on, and the Fantastic Four have stood in opposition to Krakoan sovereignty and legitimacy from the get go.

Johnny doesn't take the bait on that, making an earnest if awkward attempt to engage Franklin about the nascent mutant culture that isn't present or especially welcome in the Baxter Building. It's not surprising Frank just can't be bothered, with Johnny equating hanging out on Krakoa as 'running away.'

Getting his ears pierced is the most extreme thing we've seen him do there - otherwise the kid plays D & D/tabletop RPGs with Glob, Pixie, Anole etc, lol. The sinister Mags and Chuck who (kinda fairly) were feared and distrusted by the FF are nowhere to be seen. Sure, it's a weird ethnostate with inherent danger but is it any more perilous than the Baxter Building?

Maybe - either way Krakoa itself seems to be a red letter for the Richardses. That X-Men outfit he's got himself must be salt in the wound. He IS at that age where he's in between dependence and autonomous survival, you know, a teenager. So if it wasn't this it'd be something else. There's a teensy double standard considering Valeria moved to Latveria to live with DOOM as a pre-teen, and she was there for years. Franklin is just hanging out with his friends, with a thousand superheroes in arm's reach. He's safe, ignoring Sinister or the Shadow King.

This was a really fun dynamic and I was so pumped when it was current - there are so many story hooks and character beats inherent to the situation that could have provided years of drama. Alas, Dan Slott and the X-Office did not agree on what to do with Franklin - member of two worlds.

Human and mutant. Hero and civilian. Born into the FF and to mutantdom in general. Young X-Man by choice, but he wasn't going on missions or taking orders. Poor kid was just figuring out who he is, and had made friends on Krakoa while immersing himself in mutant culture. Frank belongs to the FF office, and they and Slott noped out of Krakoa entirely.

During a high stakes cosmic shindig, Franklin's powers 'ran out.' He was no longer able to create universes and whatnot, but he assumed he still had an X-Gene. Everyone did. It's ridiculous and shouldn't exist, but that's how it works in the Marvel universe. When The Griever came to end everything, Franklin felt useless. Reaching for something, anything special about him to keep up with his Cosmic Rays/super genius family, his mutant identity and community was first. He sprinted to the nearest gate...

... and nothing happened. Only mutants can use Krakoan gates, and they didn't work for him. He found a different way to help, but nobody was able to fix his powers or give him answers. Aside from his father, the smartest man in the world, it's unclear who he asked - but he was devastated. He didn't give up though and still considered himself a mutant, even when cut off from his friends.

Mind your own business, fucko

In a diabolical twist of the knife for Franklin and anyone who was invested in those stories playing out, Franklin went to use the Forever Gate (a portal to anywhere in the universe and without) to get to Krakoa. Big bad Chuck stopped him cold and that was the end of that. It's believable behaviour for Chuck, but it wasn't written by the X-Office and I suspect they would have gone a different way. Or maybe I just wish.

😭😭. Seriously, how heartbreaking. Not just the mutant thing, not even primarily that. Kid just lost all his friends by editorial fiat, making them look like fair weather arseholes to boot. We're used to Chuck being shitty to children, but I feel like even he would balk at cutting off his non-family support network - even if only driven by realpolitik. Glob, Pixie, Anole? They're nice kids and I feel they'd keep in touch. Or maybe I just wish they would?

That's comics though, right? Franklin can grow, but only at home with the friends his parents provide for him in the Ivory Tower. The disappointment with what could have been - that's comics too. Franklin growing up with a foot in each world, challenging both to be better and having a diverse social life. Oh well, maybe one day.

[pinkyqily]

Summary: Your football season doesn't end the way you want but the ray of sunshine of a girlfriend you have makes sure to tell you otherwise.

Warning: nun just cute fluff, Lolo being an understanding and amazing gf, short fic, Angst at the beginning.

KYI'S RADIO: By popular demand here is the Lauren fic as always my apologies for posting this late not very authorish of me, happy reading readers and as always feedbacks are appreciated love y'all down bad 😛💕

𐑺 Lauren betts m.s 𐑺

You were hurt by this lost, first game of the season everything already going the wrong way for you and your teammates.

From start to finish, you just felt a wave of nausea as the game started, getting a feeling that it wouldn't end well.

And it didn't end well at all.

Defense being in shambles, leading to the other teams' attackers being able to mark target shot on goal, you not being able to block them, your teams strikers not being to get anywhere close to getting shot everything felt like it falling down slow motion wise.

Yelling wasn't going to do much so you tired your best but it wasn't enough to secure the first season win.

The locker room vibes weren't it. No one said a single word and just kept to themselves. All you wanted to do was just shrink.

As a gk, it was your job to block all those goals, but you couldn't. You had no energy left to drive and so you ordered a Uber to take you home.

You couldn't stand the judgemental look you kept getting, all that stress made you forget about how your girlfriend was visiting you so you where quite surprised to see her once you entered your apartment but felt a sense of comfort.

You couldn't hold in your tears any longer and just broke down crying on spot. she came closer to you and held wrapped her arms around you. as you sob your pain away

"Hey, it's okay. It's just the first game of the season you don't need to stress yourself out on it". Even though what she said was true tears just kept falling down your dark chocolate like skin.

You could only a get few words out through your crying.

"I know, but it just feels like everyone is super disappointed in me."

"Your feelings are justified but I don't think they are most of them are just gonna be mad at there own performance". She told you

"You're probably thinking I don't get you but I do, there's gonna be times like this in our career where all it feels like is we're disappointing so many people but everything is gonna be okay".

You where finally able to calm down a little bit after what lo said.

"Your big head always knows the right thing to say huh". You spoke looking up at her with a smile on your face she always knew what to say making you feel better.

You both stayed that way for a while until you had to go change into something more comfy. You both had made way to your bed looking sofa.

Lauren made sure to listen to you rant about the game without interrupting you, only spoke when she needed to cause her presence being there for you meant more than anything to you in that moment.

She brushed your braids out of your face and helped you put your bonnet on seeing that they were covering all over your face. The both of you feel deep into sleep with you laying on top of lauren having each other's legs wrapped around each other.

Just like music, Lauren was like the rhythm to it always finding a way back no matter the circumstances.

[piano-hoarder]

Mirror | Chapter 1

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Premise: Former HYDRA fem reader. 2018 post-Civil War (around when Homecoming would happen). The Avengers have all finally moved into the Tower again. Bucky has recently returned from Wakanda, where he got therapy and had his triggers removed. Former HYDRA y/n isn't taking it well.

TW: Anxiety, panic attacks, PTSD, trauma

Word Count: 3K

Chapter 1 - Panic

I couldn't sleep.

          He came back a month ago.

          A year was too long— and not long enough. I forgot about him. That was good. It was also the problem.

          Of course, I didn't really ever forget. I can't forget anything. But he was gone long enough that I could pretend I had.

          Now I couldn't pretend, and it was driving me mad.

          I gave up trying to sleep hours ago. Then I gave up reading. Now I was pacing, hands in my hair, breath too light, heart too fast. I hadn't been this unraveled since... since I ran away.

          My walls were closing in. I couldn't take it. I pace faster, fingers tapping against my thigh. I needed to do something— something productive. Get away...away from him...away from these horrid thoughts— Snatching a cardigan off the back of my desk chair, I left my room and headed down the hall.

The Tower was dark— at least the residential floors were, anyway. Some floors were never inactive. But they could have been on the moon for how silent and ghostly I felt now. Footsteps quick, but silent. I made my way to the elevator, pushed the button. The doors slid open.

          Then I froze.

          Silhouetted by the window at the end of the hall, a shadow exited one of the bedrooms. Silent, careful. Like a ghost.

          His bedroom. It was him.

          He turned, as though to walk towards the elevator himself, then stilled as he spotted me. His face was emotionless, gaze haunting. Terror seized my chest. We locked eyes, and for a moment, I was back in Siberia. The hall was cold stone. His arm glinted in the low light. A threat. He's after me.

          He didn't move. I stole my chance, suddenly regaining control of my limbs. I fled into the elevator. The doors closed, sealing me away from him. I sagged against the wall, able to breathe again, and pressed a hand to my chest. My heart threatened to jump out of my throat.

          The elevator lowered, doors slid open. I took a deep breath, straightening, regaining my composure, then walked across the hall. I punched in the code into the keypad next to the door and entered the room.

          The lab was dark, save for dim light from the full-length windows on the far wall, but lights flickered on as I entered.

          "Welcome, Private Y/L/N. Bad night?" F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice spoke over the intercom.

          "You could say that." I walked over to my workstation and slumped into my chair. My fingers found the wires of my most recent project, immediately picking up where I'd left off the day before. "I see Stark is actually getting some sleep tonight."

          "He left about an hour ago."

          "Never mind, then." I pulled up the holodisplay and began typing. I closed my eyes, code spilling out from under my fingers. I couldn't remember when I stopped needing to look. Probably after the serum.

          I finished the code, sent it, then moved back to my machines. My thoughts began to calm as my fingers danced across the hundreds of tiny wires. I didn't forget him, but he didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't come here; I knew he wouldn't— he'd be too afraid. I was safe in the lab.

          "F.R.I.D.A.Y., pull up a wireframe of Peter's suit, I want to make sure this matches."

          "Sure thing."

          A hologram of Peter's spider suit appeared in the air in front of me. "Remove fabric layer, leave just the wiring please." I resumed working. Line of code, to wire, to hologram, to line of code, and back again in a comfortable rhythm. I rubbed my eyes, wishing I had eyedrops. Sleep was unnecessary. Code, wire, hologram code, wire, hologram, code, wire... I just needed to—

          "Y/N."

          I jolted awake, face peeling away from the tangle of wires on the table before me. Tony stood over me, looking concerned. I groaned, pushing hair out of my face.

          "Fourth time this month, kid." He moved away once he saw I was awake, but there was a cup of coffee on the table next to me that hadn't been there before. My name was scrawled across the side. I picked it up, inhaling the steam.

          "I'm fine." I took a sip. Extra cream. I smiled—barely.

          "Beg to differ. I'd guess you've got... three days before total burnout. Maybe four."

          "Very funny. F.R.I.D.A.Y. tattled. You were up almost as late."

          He pointed a screwdriver at me, a superior look on his face. "My lab, my rules. I'll change the passcodes if I have to."

          I sighed, drinking more of my coffee. "I'm trying."

          "I've seen better."

          "What do you want? I can't change anything. Unless you want me to move out of the Tower—"

          "Out of the question. You'd die seconds after leaving the property." He squints, holding up a tiny device to the light.

          I snorted. "Surely I'd have at least ten minutes."

          "Mm... I'd give you three before you collapsed. And I don't have time to collect bodies off the sidewalk." He didn't look up from his work. "You need to be grounded?"

          "You know I'm older than you, right?"

          "You use that line on all the guys?"

          "Nah, I just show them my knives."

          "Careful—you might catch one that way." He pushed across the floor, rolling his chair to another table. "So. Grounded or not?"

          I sighed again. "I'll...find something else."

          "I'd prefer you didn't."

          Tony didn't elaborate, but I knew. He'd rather I were in bed. Sleeping. The thought made me nauseous. I looked down at my coffee, feeling guilty just at the sight of it. He was trying so hard.

          "I could talk to Wanda, I guess."

          His hands darted across his holodisplay. "Good. I don't want to see your sorry face here until you do."

          I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Dad." I stood, stretching and grimaced at the way my back cracked. "Tell Peter I say hi."

——

He han't moved. It was unnerving.

          I watched when he wasn’t looking, occasionally glancing to the corner where he sat, hunched in his seat. Back to the wall. Doors in sight. His eyes were the only part of him that moved— constantly watching everything. If that wasn’t a familiar sight.

          Apparently, he was doing a lot better, now that his triggers were gone; more sure of himself. He didn’t look more sure of himself. He just looked like a statue. A terrifying statue.

          I unsuccessfully ignored his presence as I moved to the table. I sat next to Nat, staring down at my plate and cursing myself for getting so much food. I usually looked forward to these weekly dinners. Stark called them "family time." Sam called them “Avengers Anonymous”. It was one of the only times we were all together and not in danger, so I should’ve enjoyed it. Thor was even there today. His boisterous laughter filled the room, louder than the chatter from everyone else. It was a small comfort. My leg bounced violently beneath the table.

          Someone poked my knee. I looked over. Peter, who'd been invited to today's dinner, was sitting next to me. He gave me a look. I rolled my eyes.

          "It's because he's back, isn't it?" he asked softly.

          I gave a sharp nod. “Ran into him last night.”

          Peter grimaced sympathetically. "Anything I can do?"

          I shook my head, pushing rice around my plate mindlessly.

          "Wanna see an idea I had?"

          I nodded.

          Peter fished in his pocket, pulling out a swatch of silky fabric. The entire thing was strangely metallic— reflective in a way that made it look almost invisible. I reached toward it, fascinated. "You're working on a holosuit?"

          Peter nodded eagerly. "Mr. Stark asked me to design an invisibility feature for his suits, like the quinjet— which wasn't hard. But I wanted something that I could wear, too, that didn't have to be rigid. It's vibranium weave."

          "Where'd you get vibranium thread?"

          Peter looked a little embarrassed. "Mr. Stark gave me a sample of vibranium to play with. I was trying to incorporate it into my web fluid— but I thought this would probably be a better application."

          I nodded, fascinated. The fabric was almost cold, and felt like water on my fingers. "I don't think your web fluid needs much help. It's fantastic already."

          He shrugged. "I was just playing around. It didn't work out— but I got this, so I figured it's a win-win."

          "Yeah." I handed the cloth back, giving him a grateful smile. "Let me know when you finish a full suit. I'd love to try it out."

          He grinned. "You got it," he said, returning the cloth to his pocket.

          I was left with nothing but to return to my meal. My leg bounced a little slower now. I forced myself to eat a few bites. Nat nudged me.

          "You good?" she signed.

          "No," I signed back. "Talk later?" She nods.

          I forced down a few more bites, washing them down quickly. My stomach cramps in protest. I push my plate toward Peter, and he eagerly scraped the rest of my food onto his own plate. I ignored the worried looks from everyone else—especially Steve—and leave, practically running to my room once I was out of the common room.

          I didn't miss the way Bucky's eyes followed me as I did.

—

The wall didn't have answers. It never did. I hunched over, pulling my knees to my chest. I glanced toward the chair beside my bed, wishing Wanda were there.

          Three nights she'd sat there, taking my nightmares as I slept. It worked. Too well. Her powers left a—a void in my mind almost worse than the nightmares themselves. One that was far too familiar. He wasn't there, but I'd still wake up gasping, clutching at my limbs. I'd almost expected to find frost on my skin.

          So last night, I’d begged her to stop.

          And anyway— I hated knowing that she was watching inside my head. When I'd moved into the Tower, she helped me with nightmares then, too. I threw up the first night.

          I tapped my fingers restlessly against my leg, hating Tony for keeping me from the lab. I'd considered bringing a project down to my room. The thought made me feel sick, so I discarded it. I needed to be in the lab. He was keeping me out and—and it was too much.

          I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to control my breathing. I had to get out. Even if it wasn't the lab— just not here. I stood up, pacing the length of my room. I idly wondered if there was a groove worn in the carpet yet.

          What to do? Don't dare bother Steve or Nat. Peter's out. Tony wouldn't be happy. No one else— no one else. And what if I ran into him? My breath speeds up with my footsteps. Not the roof—not Bruce's lab—not the basement—not the garage—can't leave—can't let someone see me like this—

          "F.R.I.D.A.Y.?" I said, voice shaky.

          "Yes, Y/N?"

          "Can you tell me— where is Sergeant Barnes?"

          "Bucky's in his room. He appears to be asleep."

          Breathe slow. Slow down, for heaven's sake. "Thank you. I'm— going for a walk. Please alert me if he leaves."

          "Will do."

          "And—monitor my panic attacks, please," I added, voice small.

          "Of course."

          God help us all. It's a miracle anything got done in that Tower. We were all a mess.

—

Three more nights away from the lab. A full week— Tony would be proud. I hated it.

          I left my room again. Wander. That was all I could do. I barely noticed where I went anymore. Just as long as it was away from him.

          I usually found myself in the training room by the end of the night. Normally I avoided it. Too many memories. Too many familiar sights. But I had to get my energy out somehow.

          Not bothering to turn on the lights, I went for the punching bag tonight. Why not? Simple. Mindless. Not too familiar. I grabbed some tape and wrapped my hands before laying into it.

          The first few minutes were fine, but as I settled into a rhythm, my mind took over. Red flashed in the corners of my vision. Cruel hands groped my skin. Russian echoed in my ears. I punched harder. Fists on leather. Nothing else. Drown them out. I closed my eyes.

          Then I froze. I'd heard a sound— something real. Not a memory. My eyes flicked open, but I didn't move. Someone had found me. I held my breath, watching as a grey figure stepped into the room.

          Oh, no.. It was him.

          His eyes panned the training room, stopping on me. No point trying to hide. There was never any point. Not when it was him.

          He didn't move. Just stood there, eyes locked on my terrified, ashen face. Why didn't he do something? I couldn't run. Heavens help me, I couldn't run. My eyes darted across his face, his features shadowed by the room, by his hair, by memories. It felt too familiar. Everything was too familiar. I felt made of fear.

          He stepped toward me. I jumped back slightly, breath trembling between my lips. I felt like a hare caught in a wolf's gaze. He stopped, watching me carefully.

          "Couldn't sleep?"

          His voice was all wrong. Familiar. Bucky. It was Bucky— not him. But heavens, they wore the same face. It was like he was taunting me.

          I didn't take my eyes off him. "No," I replied, my voice short. What does he want?

          He just nodded. Why did his face have to be so... blank? It was horrifying. Was he even human?

          Had he ever been?

          "What do you want?" I whispered.

          He looked down, something unreadable flickering across his expression. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

          "What do you want?"

          He looked ashamed. He shook his head, turning a little. "Nothing— nothing. I'm sorry. I'll go."

          My lips parted. Some of me—too much of me—wanted to ask. Did he remember?

         But I just watched. I didn't move. I waited, breath trapped in my chest, heart pulsing in my ears. I counted the beats to a hundred, and when he didn't return, sagged to the floor. Finally able to breathe again, I began to hyperventilate. Every inch of me was trembling.

          "F.R.I.D.A.Y.," I gasped, "get Steve—please."

          After a moment, her voice answered. "Captain Rogers is on his way."

          Curling up on my side, I pulled my knees into my chest. Smaller. Be smaller—closer—disappear—things are be better that way. Press in—squeeze out the fear— I began to detach, watching myself shake violently with short gasps, tears running down my cheeks. He's there—he's coming for me—watching—stalking—dolzhen bezhat'—closer—shadow always looming—slishkom blizko——

          "Y/N."

          I jumped violently, gasping. I stared up at Steve, eyes wild. I watched vaguely as he scooped me into his lap. My arms darted around his waist, burying my face in his chest as sobs tore from my throat. It's Steve—not him—just Steve—safe now—can't breathe—

          "Breathe with me, y/n. Come on. You've gotta breathe." His voice is far away.

          Can't breathe—can't see—can't run—too close—ne v bezopasnosti—he's coming— With effort, I forced myself to match the rise and fall of his chest. Not safe—have to hide... My hands tightened around Steve. Come on...breathe...closer...not safe...he's...gone...

          A shuddering breath escaped me. Steve... Steve was rubbing my back. My lips felt numb, face cold.

          "There you go... keep it up..."

          Slowly…too slowly… my vision cleared. Breath still shaky, but slow. I pulled back, revealing a snotty mess on Steve's shirt. I hiccupped slightly, wiping at my nose. "Sorry," I muttered.

          He brushed hair from my sticky face. "Don't worry about it. You good now?"

          I pulled my arms into my chest. "Better— I guess." I sniffed, brushing my eyes, wishing I had a tissue. Or five. "Thanks."

          Steve just nodded, watching me with that concerned look of his. "You wanna talk about it?"

          I looked down. "I can't do this, Steve. I can't— not with him around. And I don't want to be afraid of him. I know he's probably...going through the same thing..." The words hurt. "I can’t stand this— I don’t want to be scared anymore.” My voice was small. “I don’t know what to do.”

Bucky stood outside the training room, back to the wall. He was used to the darkness, but it felt particularly suffocating tonight. A red light blinked next to a security camera near the ceiling.

         As he listened to y/n’s soft, tearful voice from inside, every word was a needle between his ribs. He wished— he wished too many things.

          That he wasn’t a nightmare.

          That she wasn’t afraid of him.

          That he weren’t jealous of Steve.

          That the memories would just leave, instead of resurging every time he looked at her.

          He couldn’t help it. He saw how terrified she was. Like a deer in headlights. How many times had he seen that look before? Why did it hurt worse coming from her?

          Trapped—that’s what he was. Just out of reach. Like there was something…a solution…a way out of all this. But his fingers kept closing on air.

         There had to be a way to fix things. That was why he’d come here, why he’d followed her to the training room. A stupid, crummy little hope. That was why he was still here in the hall, why he couldn’t just leave her like this. But she seemed just as hopeless as he was. He knew he shouldn’t have listened.

         The glove on his left hand creaked slightly as he clenched his fists. His eyes darted toward the window as a bird flew across, temporarily casting shadow over the hall. He should leave. He was being… well. He was being like the Soldier. Hiding. Listening. It made him feel sick.

         Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets and retreated back down the hall, head lowered, eyes downcast. She wasn’t going to change. He wouldn’t, either, so why did it matter? It wasn’t worth trying.

         He decided it never would be.

[ambriel-angstwitch]

Yes big on the therapy. My girl needs lots of therapy.

Yes yes yes! She's gone through a lot, but she's still herself at the end of the day. But yes she's grown a lot since getting to leave.

Second, I love that interpretation. I definitely wanted it to be a little more relaxed with some of that tech wear inspiration seen in the skirt. But you put a lot more into it than I had put into the change of style. I 100% agree with that take now though. It's canon now.

The last point you made is pretty spot on. Her clothing originally made a sort of barrier between herself in the real world. The more she covered up the less people could see the "real her". That statement applied to both her relationship with her gender and her powers. She doesn't have to worry about trying to hide random flare-ups with her skin switching to exoskeleton.

She also while trying to pick feminine clothes it's important to note she never really wore skirts much before. This is because she always felt the need to have her outfits serve a utility as well as style. She felt she needed to be able to do any sort of physical activity at any moment. She was very active when she was at Gunntech even when not specifically told to train, it wouldn't be uncommon for her to engage in some sort of sport, or exercise.

Now she hasn't completely dropped that active nature of hers, but she's discovered that she doesn't have to be all the time. She doesn't feel compelled to. That's why her adopting a habit like knitting is important because she's allowing herself to be sedentary. She'll still work out, go on a jog or anything, but now it's only ever because she wants to. She doesn't have to work to prove that she's not a failed experiment, she doesn't have to stay perfectly capable or prove how capable she is. I think one of the earlier hobbies she tried out was joining a Tai Chi class because she was still stuck in that needing to be active and productive, but it was different than the martial arts she had learned before. Tai Chi forced her to slow down while still improving herself and not making her feel that fear of falling behind and failure. She actually liked Tai Chi a lot and still does it sometimes.

Yes her shorter hair is important! She actually didn't cut her real hair though. She felt a lot more comfortable wearing braids that were super long because they really enforced her femininity. Long hair is so strongly associated that she always wanted to get her hair done to be super long. This meant that she almost never let her natural hair show (even though her natural hair is gorgeous) because she felt her natural hair had been tied to when she had been a boy.

So not only has she let her hair be shorter, but she's reembraced letting her natural hair be shown rather than hiding it behind synthetic hair in braids. What you see is entirely her own hair.

So you're point about feeling more comfortable in her identity and not feeling like she has to prove anything is true, but there's a little more to it.

I hope I don't disappoint with my new drawings. I haven't started any yet but soon

Prompt 20 - Epilogue

I’m so happy to show Justine’s Epilogue look. I’ve had her Epilogue hair in mind since almost when I first created her. I’ve had a reference saved for awhile now. But it was fun to design an epilogue outfit since I hadn’t really thought of that yet. I also just love designing outfits so that’s a plus.

There is a timeline somewhere where I made Justine loose her arm because I almost did it this time because I was so sick of trying to make her hand look right.

I went through a couple possible lore options in my head. But I was a gracious created and i decided to let her keep her arm.

[just-jammin]

they say "art is limited and suffering can inspire it" but i don't fuckin' know how my suffering even works and i can't make art about it without making me sound like a whiny broken record