#or in case they might just be useful to anyone!

[nakylvr]

— DREAMER GIRL ✧ M.S

summary જ⁀➴ general hcs with lacrosse player!megan

warnings/tags જ⁀➴ hcs, lacrosse player!megan, sports medicine major!f!reader, fluff, suggestive, established relationship

part one | part two

• lacrosse player!megan who is on a athletics scholarship, and is nearly failing all her classes except physical education for obvious reasons

• megan who was known as the "literal player" of the lacrosse team despite never actually playing any girl before, she would just get scared and do something stupid to piss them off and stop talking to her

• megan who is actually terrified of being loved unconditionally, dealing with coaches, her mom, and school in general, she grew used to people loving her cause she was convenient, not cause they actually loved her – or they wanted something from her

• megan who watched you from afar in every class you two were in together, but never saying anything cause she was too scared to go forward with her first real crush in her life

• megan who learned info about you through daniela which was through chaewon, literally writing it down in her phone notes to remember the little things

• megan who opens up more the longer she's with you. even if she's slow, it's progress. she's still afraid of loving someone, thinking she isn't good enough for you, but your constant reassurance helps her a little bit

• megan who still texts some girls that are obviously trying to hook up with her, cause she doesn't realize that's what they want. you caught her one day and it caused the first real argument in your relationship, and it made her realize that she didn't want to lose you, not to anything or anyone

• megan who watches cooking videos to surprise you with something new if you're having a rough day or just cause she's bored and wants to do something nice

• megan who teared up when you showed her the custom jersey you got with her last name and number on the back, but grins widely when she sees you wearing it at a game

• megan who brings you to every practice and game, claiming she does better when you're around – and she is, actually to your surprise

• megan who is the chaos to your calm, she may be dramatic about everything, but she always ropes you into it and giving you the time of your life you never would enjoy by yourself or with others

• helping megan with leg exercises cause she's worried she might tear something again, coming up to you and quietly asking if you can help her out so she doesn't do something stupid and hurt herself (she has before)

• also helping megan study for tests and classes, leaving video/audio notes of everything in case she misses a class or doesn't understand it in class and needs it better explained, though sometimes it ends with her dragging you to your bed cause she "thinks you're hot when talking all smart"

• megan who buys the most random things when she's at away games, telling you it reminded her of you so she immediately got it, it ranges from cute little trinkets to some...other things

• megan who goes all out for your birthday every year after you start dating. she makes a cake, food, buys presents, or takes you out to some expensive fancy restaurant that she can barely afford, doing it cause she wanted to spoil you

• megan who always asks for a good luck kiss before a game and a victory kiss when her team wins

• cooking her favorite food when she's stressed and she just looks at you like you're her whole world (you are)

• megan who gets terrified whenever you two fight, worried that she'll say the wrong thing and lose you forever

• and when you do fight, she always takes the blame even if it isn't her fault. she can never stay mad at you, and will be the first to break the silence majority of the time.

• megan who hosts movie nights every saturday night for you both, making popcorn and buying a ton of snacks and drinks, setting up a fort in your living room and watching any movie you pick

• megan who kisses you like it's the first time every time, her hands shaking trying to find your waist and pull you closer, and her face bright red when you pull away

• megan who says "i love you" for everything, if you do something for her, when she's leaving for practice, or sometimes for no reason when you're cuddling in bed. she just wants you to know she loves you, more than anything else

[loomingspector]

I got a new idea hehehehehe (I haven’t seen it much, but that might be my own 'not searching' before I got the idea.)

But!

I really like the idea of the kids turning completely obsessive with Bruce. Not in a weird way. In the sense that, since legit every other parental figure in their life is dead/incapacitated/murdered. They only have Bruce.

So as they finally find solace in Bruce (in this hc it’s WetCatBattinson, cause he’s pathetic and l love him so much). They go completely insane with the idea that he could be killed, or even so much as hurt.

The first time they each see him stumble into the cave, and collapse onto the floor calling for Alfred, they all lose their minds. This is their new family and they can’t even protect it. They have to protect him. Protect him. Protect. Protect. Protect him.

Dick starts it of course, his family died in front of him, and he goes on a revenge spree. When he finally calms down and accepts Bruce’s genuine care for him, they go after him together. But when the worse villains then come on the radar. And Bruce gets severely hurt, Dick completely shuts down, he’s even more feral than before, screaming and yelling that he’ll kill everything, and he’s even freaking out at Alfred because Bruce seems uncomfortable in the treatment he’s doing. (he was resetting his dislocated shoulder).

Jason as well, he’s a street kid, and never really had true comfort, ever. And suddenly his life is a fairy tail, he has a strained relationship with his brother, but his new guardian seems to love him. It’s less sudden as it was with Dick, but no less than. It’s a gradual obsession, with everything he does, everyone he interacts with, goes to galas with, what is he doing when he’s not with Jason.

It certainly can’t be more important than him, certainly Bruce loves him more than anything, they’ve been fighting with their lives on the line together for so long now. Bruce loves him, more than anything right? Right?

He has to.

Jason loves him more than anything.

So Bruce has to love him just as much.

When Dick sees this child standing still, but absolutely seething when Commissioner Gordon put his arm around Batman when he was happy a case was finally over. And a small smile, was ever so slightly visible, on the otherwise emotionless Batman.

Dick recognizes that look, a look of deep possessiveness, one he saw in himself, before breaking off on his own in Blüd, but was sitting just beneath the surface. Bubbling up whenever he sees Bruce get hurt.

He pulls Jason aside, maybe making sure he doesn't go too far like he did, and lash out at the people near Bruce. He has to play this carefully if he wants to keep being right by his side. And to make sure Bruce is still happy. It would make him sad if his children went too far for him, even if they think it would be better for that scumbag who was flirting with Bruce, to die. They can't do that, not in public at least. They can uncover the scandals and make sure they're no longer on the guest list, but they can't go too far.

Bruce can't be sad.

Not because of them.

When Tim enters Bruce's life, his deep obsession has already been festering for so long. This is his idol, and he needs help. He needs Tim's help.

He needs him.

Like how much Tim needs him.

When he takes up the mantle, and Bruce is in his fragile mindset, worrying about Tim all the time, since he can't fuck up another time.

This is completely different from what Tim is used to. His idol worries about him, about what he eats, how much he sleeps, if he gets hurt and how he feels at all times.

This only fuels Tim's obsession even more, he's not just a hero, he's Tim's and Tim's hero alone. And Tim won't let anyone break him when he's spent so much time trying to build him up again. Nothing will get in the way of Bruce being happy, not the villains and certainly not some second rate annoyance at a gala, who's company Tim can make disappear overnight if he looks at Bruce that way again.

When Jason then comes back and the Titan's tower incident occurs, it goes a little differently.

Tim lets it slip that Bruce is his now, he doesn't need anyone other than him. He won't let anyone or anything make Bruce break down like that again.

Jason, like Dick, sees it. Sees this child become what he too was, and he ends up talking to him about what he means. Jason realizing that everything Talia told him, maybe wasn't as true as he thought, maybe Bruce really did care.

Tim might recognize this as a chance to make Bruce even more happy, so he doesn't have to read pride and prejudice while crying to the grave anymore. Won't have that shimmer of sadness in his eye anymore when he looks at the display case in the cave anymore. That Alfred decided was a good idea. It had been an interesting week when Tim uncovered that little titbit, but had shelved it when it had made Bruce sad that they were fighting.

So Tim will entertain the idea of Jason also getting space in Bruce's life, if it resulted it him being more happy. Like it did when Dick was there.

And Jason will take the time to uncover what truly happened while he was gone, maybe his parental love for Bruce wasn't as shallow as he had thought, while he was presumed dead.

So while Jason still finds fault in Bruce's methods, now it also has the undertones that if these scumbags continue to walk. They'll continue to hurt Bruce. And if Tim sends a list of people who needs a good scare for making Bruce uncomfortable, then nobody has to know.

When Damian makes his appearance, it seems to rock everything once again.

Damian has had to listen to both his mother and grandfather talk about this almost perfect specimen. How he was going to be the truly perfect one.

How could he not be obsessed with this man, he's supposed to be him perfectly, and then be even more.

When he finally meets him, he might start out wondering what was even special about him, but slowly he also starts learning why not giving in to killing is almost harder.

He starts seeing who he truly is as a hero, why people look to him as a beacon of hope.

While his obsession started extremely high, falling a little flat, but then taking on a new light, that almost makes it hard for it to not become even stronger than before.

Tim is now the one to see it, how Damian eat the same, trains the same, talks, and walk the same way as Bruce. Almost trying to entirely engulf Bruce's existence into his own. But it's also tittering on too much, it's worrying Bruce. And Tim can't have Bruce become sad because the new child, and if his disappearance would make him even more sad, he'll just have to show him the right way to go about this.

Tim talks to Damian about how it might not be a need to become Bruce, but because Bruce has now become what Damian has always needed in his own life, a strong force that would be the good for the many, taking not the easy way out, but the right way. An existence that sees Damian for what he is, and not what he needs to become.

Cassandras obsession is almost overflowing after a few weeks after being welcomed into the family. Never feeling safe, but now having a place that she can return to and call home. And people who accept her and her past. Working with her to make it better.

She strives to be better in the way her new parent wants her to. But also sees how this life is breaking him down, how he bleeds and hurts for the city, for the city to then still treat him like a criminal.

She saw how it was breaking him down when he couldn't be there for his family, and when the newspapers were speaking badly of his choice as CEO. And the sadness in his eyes when he's too late to a disaster, putting the blame on no one but himself.

Tim and Damian both see how she lingers in the shadows, how she'll put herself at risk to make sure more people get out safely, and how she doesn't seem to care about her injuries until Bruce would pull her to his side to protect her, which only seemed to distress her even more that he's focusing his time to protect her when she could protect herself.

They both sit her down, trying their best to explain how their health is absolutely essential to keeping Bruce happy, if they get hurt he'll be sad, so they cannot get hurt unless absolutely no other option is available.

They explain how to keep Bruce happy, what to avoid with him, how to get him out of situations he doesn't like in public. And how best, to make sure no one harms him.

No one will harm Bruce Wayne

not if his kids have any say in it.

(even if that someone is himself)

~~~~~~

This is a very rambling idea, but I really like obsessive characters. And it fits in my head that the kids absolutely have the potential of turning entirely obsessed with their new parent, since at this point, they don't have anything else.

I did the characters I'm familiar with most, since I'm not entirely clear on Steph/Barbara/Duke. And Duke/Barbara still have parents. Steph also had the potential for obsession when she wants to become Robin, but I'm not sure enough to write it out.

This might also be my more calm version of this take, so tell me if you want a little more feral one too hahahahah

my idea for this was also inspired by this post, by @siriusly-dc

as well as the wonderful fic ‘Your Beauty Is That of Gentle Winter, My Dearest’ By @ocyus-stuff

[itzariafiles]

who fell first v.s. who fell harder

— preference | fluff | gn!reader

— ft. k.bakugo, i.midoriya, s.todoroki, t.iida, h.shinsou, e.kirishima

— author’s note : first post, please be kind world!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

⭑ Katsuki Bakugo

You fell first.

Second week at U.A. and you were already head over heels for him. No one really understood why—it was Bakugo Katsuki, after all. Always yelling, always scowling, always furious at the world. He barely looked your way. Mina and Denki joked that you must have a death wish whenever you brought him up.

But then… things changed. Quietly.

For some reason, he never yelled at you. Not even once. Not even when you threw yourself in front of Tsuyu during a practice mission and ended up needing to be carried out of the building.

He just muttered, “Dumbass” twice, while lifting you up and walking you to Recovery Girl.

After that came the water bottles. Every time training ended, he’d toss you one and mumble, “Stay hydrated. I’m not carrying you again.”

Liar.

Kirishima was the only one who noticed he always kept an extra bottle, just in case.

The real turning point, though?

That poor boy from Class B who dared to ask you on a date.

Bakugo nearly exploded. Kirishima had to physically hold him back to stop him from lunging at the guy.

And before you could even respond, Bakugo grabbed your wrist and started walking.

You were stunned.

“Bakugo—what are you doing?”

“Me and you,” he said gruffly, eyes locked straight ahead.

“Date. Now.”

That night changed everything.

No one dared to tease him after that. Not when he made it so clear you were his. And he didn’t care what anyone thought.

He loved you loudly, fiercely, intentionally—until the whole damn school stopped questioning why you had fallen so hard for him.

And by then, he had already fallen harder.

⭑ Izuku Midoriya

He fell first.

He knew he liked you—really liked you—the moment you used your quirk to throw the ball so far that everyone realized: if someone was getting expelled that day, it definitely wasn’t you.

Admiration wasn’t the reason he noticed his feelings.

Most of your classmates were impressed by your control, your power, the precision with which you handled something so seemingly simple.

But Izuku? He didn’t reach for his notebook. He didn’t ramble about your technique or potential. He just… watched. No notes. No muttering. Just silence.

He saw the way your shoulders relaxed when it was over. The way you laughed at something Mina said, and how you smiled when Bakugo threw in one of his backhanded compliments. He noticed everything.

He never admitted it, but when he broke his finger to launch that ball across the field, it wasn’t just to prove himself.

Yes, he wanted to stay at U.A. Yes, he wanted to make All Might proud.

But truthfully?

He just wanted to stay long enough to see you again.

Even if that meant going through Aizawa’s “one of you will be expelled” threat every week.

(He was so relieved when no one actually was.)

But you—sweet, clueless you—you fell harder.

Everyone knew how smitten Deku was with you. And deep down, so did you. But when you called your mom late one night, asking for the recipe of a pastry you knew he loved, something shifted.

You spent hours in the kitchen baking batch after batch, trying to get it just right. You barely slept, but the next morning you showed up, cheeks red, handing him the best one you had.

You both blushed your way through breakfast that day, and when he smiled—really smiled—you knew you were done for.

Eventually, you started dating.

Yes, he is your biggest supporter. He loves you loudly and earnestly.

But you?

You’re his biggest fan—collecting every merch, magazine, and article with his name on it.

And he tries to act like it doesn’t get to him.

But it does.

And it makes him happier than he’ll ever admit.

⭑ Shoto Todoroki

You fell first.

You had already fallen for him years before he even looked at you that way.

It all started when your parents arranged for both of you to train when you were 8, to make out of you enemies who would eventually compete to be the #1 pro hero.

Both of you would fight each other, week after week. You, technically, weren’t allowed to exchange pleasantries—after all, you were there to compete. But you would always find a way to talk to him, about anything really. Once you started to talk about how much you missed eating candies, he didn’t answer, but a timid smile formed on his face.

As the years passed, you started to develop feelings for him. He would catch you staring for too long, you made it seem as if you were analyzing him or just zoned out, but deep down, both of you knew.

As both of you made it into U.A., your friendship finally had a chance to grow. To have actual, not rushed conversations. But you never pressured him, never talked about your obvious feelings, you knew he needed time to heal, as much as you did.

But, eventually, he fell harder.

Much harder.

Maybe it was during that night patrol in second year, when he almost got hit by debris and you shielded him without hesitation—burning the edge of your hero costume in the process. He didn’t say much that night. Just looked at you with those stormy eyes and asked, quietly, “Are you okay?”

Or maybe it was the moment he realized you had memorized his favorite tea, the exact way he liked it. That day, you passed him a cup without saying a word, and he froze, fingers lingering on the ceramic longer than they should have. You always noticed the small things—especially when he didn’t say them out loud.

It was never loud, the way he loved you.

But it was there—in how he always sat next to you during strategy meetings, how he started calling you after rough patrols, how he waited for you after every exam. You never asked him to. He just always did.

Eventually, one evening after training, when the sun was sinking low behind the U.A. dorms, he looked at you and said,

“You were the first person who treated me like I wasn’t broken.”

You looked at him, startled by the confession.

And then, softly: “You never were.”

He didn’t say anything back.

But that was the moment he knew he was yours—fully, irreversibly.

And that he had fallen far too deep to ever come back up.

⭑ Tenya Iida

You fell first.

Maybe it was the way he apologized with his whole soul after accidentally bumping into you in the hallway.

Or the way he always remembered to pull a chair for you before meetings.

Or how he waited outside your dorm when he knew you’d had a hard day—without saying a word, just… being there.

Maybe it was how fiercely protective he was of the people he loved. The way he fought for his brother’s name, for what he believed in, even when it left him bruised.

Or maybe it was after that mission, when you were gravely injured, and he carried you all the way to the nurse’s office, gripping you tightly, whispering your name, running faster than even he thought possible.

You didn’t remember it well—you were slipping in and out of consciousness—but he did. Every second.

And the next day, he came back.

With pastries.

And the neatest notes he had ever taken—if that was even possible, just so you could study.

And hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

He was kind. Loving. Unintentionally funny. A gentleman through and through.

Of course you fell first.

But poor Iida…

he fell harder.

He tried. Honestly, he did. You were both studying, you were both young—he told himself that again and again. But he never got past those two excuses. Not really.

He stayed up until 3 a.m. with Sato trying to recreate that chocolate cake you always praised, just to cheer you up after your injury.

He spent the entire night debating whether to visit you before classes.

He didn’t.

But he left the tray outside your door anyway, carefully arranged. And still came back later, awkward but devoted, with more pastries and a hundred unspoken words.

Somewhere between all the long hours, the careful notes, the conversations under low dorm lighting—

He fell. Harder than he’d ever thought possible.

For him, it wasn’t just affection.

You were a promise. A reminder that he could build something good in this world—with you in it.

And when he saw you cry once, quietly, under the staircase after another grueling day, something broke in him.

He sat beside you. Took off his gloves. Held your hand.

It was the first time he’d touched you, skin to skin.

And his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

From then on, he never tried to hide it again.

He memorized your schedule.

He read your favorite books.

He learned to brew your favorite tea, even though he didn’t like tea.

You noticed. Of course you did.

But you didn’t say anything.

Not until he showed up at your door one night, fists clenched, eyes wide, tie slightly crooked, and said:

“I know this may be reckless and horribly timed, but I am—truly, entirely—in love with you.”

You smiled.

Because by then, he didn’t need to say it.

You’d fallen first, but he made it impossible not to fall harder, too.

⭑ Hitoshi Shinsou

He fell first.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious.

And at first, he told himself it was just curiosity.

When he joined the Hero Course and became part of Class 1-A, you were the first to look at him—not like the guy with the “villain-ish” quirk, not like a threat to be watched, or a weapon to be handled carefully.

You didn’t treat him with stiff politeness or cautious distance.

You treated him like a classmate. Like a potential friend.

You laughed at his jokes, tossed back your own sharp comments.

You noticed when he pulled away from the group.

You called him out when he got too closed-off—but you always gave him space when he needed it. Just… quietly shared it with him.

The moment he realized something had shifted was probably stupid.

You complimented his eyes.

You had the audacity to step a little too close, stare straight at him like you were trying to see through all the walls he’d spent years building.

He had no idea what to say.

You just laughed—soft and satisfied—

and walked away.

He thought about it for days.

He didn’t understand what he was feeling.

But then he started bringing you extra snacks after training.

He slowed his pace just enough to walk beside you.

He stood just a little too close during sparring.

It wasn’t intentional. Not at first.

But for him, you were stronger than gravity.

He fell.

And he fell quietly.

But you?

You fell harder.

You knew it the night he texted you out of nowhere:

Toshi:

Hey. Don’t come to training tomorrow. You looked tired today. Take a break.

You stared at the message for ten minutes, rereading it.

He’d noticed. He noticed you.

And he was looking out for you, in his strange, quiet, Shinsou way.

You didn’t listen, of course.

You showed up to training anyway—just to see him roll his eyes when you winked at him.

After that, it was over.

You memorized the rhythm of his voice.

You learned the little signs—when he was overwhelmed, when he needed silence, when he needed you.

You started recognizing how he fidgeted with the capture weapon Aizawa was teaching him to use—especially when he was nervous about a mission.

You could always tell.

And somehow, that made you fall even harder.

He fell first.

But you fell deeper.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do with the way your hand lingers on his sleeve.

Or how his pulse stutters when you whisper his name.

He hasn’t said it out loud yet.

But you think…

He’s almost ready.

⭑ Eijirou Kirishima

You fell first.

When you heard him say he didn’t think he was “manly enough” to be a hero, you just wanted to hug him—wrap him up in every reassurance you had, tell him that of course he was manly enough to do anything he dreamed of.

You suspected your feelings then, but shoved them under the couch, hoping no one would notice.

Mina noticed. She always did.

When he laughed too hard at one of Denki’s terrible jokes and immediately looked embarrassed, you blushed.

Sero noticed.

You blamed the heat.

But when he stepped in front of a child during a villain ambush and said,

“Don’t worry. I’m unbreakable.”

that was it. You were done for.

But Kirishima?

He fell harder.

It didn’t show all at once.

It crept in slowly.

In the way he trained just enough to always be paired with you during sparring.

In how he memorized your favorite techniques so he could practice them with you.

In how his quirk—his actual, physical walls—cracked a little when you hugged him after a hard day, and how he turned bright red trying to play it cool.

The breaking point?

Someone else confessed to you.

And he just… walked out. Silent. Stiff.

He came back hours later.

Hands shaking.

Eyes soft.

“I know I’m not smooth like Todoroki, or cool like Bakugo…

but I think I’m strong enough to protect your heart.”

Boom.

Done.

Unbreakable?

Not anymore.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

steal this and katsuki bakugo will personally find you.

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[hekspiration]

Ehhh. *waggles hand*

At the end of the day, all disorders are part of natural variation. Which is not to say that natural=good. But neither is something statistically abnormal inherently bad or pathological. "It's only a disorder because of capitalism" is an extremely reductive, oversimplified way of making a much more nuanced point: that some forms of natural variation are unreasonably disruptive because of how rigidly our society is structured, and in many cases, there is an over-emphasis on pathologising and trying to "cure" forms of natural variation at the individual level instead of making our lifestyle less rigid. To put it bluntly: when lifestyle demands are so rigid that only a very narrow category of person can truly and consistently thrive in it on every level, and anyone who fails to thrive in even one aspect of it is labelled as having one disorder or another, then that's a sign of a problem with the lifestyle, not the individual traits of the people trying to live it.

My ADHD is disruptive on a number of levels and has severe effects on my quality of life, but this is a problem that can and should be solved at the level of addressing individual and systemic bias against neurodivergent behaviours, not (just) medicating me into some semblance of a neurotypical.

When a disorder would be far less disruptive if the majority of the population had it, because then society would be adapted to function around the limitations of the disorder (take something like red/green colour blindness, for example), it's a good sign that there's a lot of room for accommodation and adaptation on a societal level that's only missing because people can't be bothered or they're always clinging to the most efficient (read: cheapest) solution, even if it's one that throws a substantial chunk of the population under the bus. (And when you consider every possible trait on which "disorder" levels of natural variation exist - everything from sleep to mobility to food allergies - that's a LOT of people being doomed to function at suboptimal levels ostensibly for the sake of the "normal majority"!)

I reckon a lot of problems with sleep "disorders" could be solved by better housing, better housing quality (seriously: soundproofing tech. we have it), and more use of staggered schedules on every level, with more people hired to keep up the overall necessary level of activity. Stop and imagine for a moment how much better life could be if every street and apartment block was built to last instead of using cheap materials that need repairs every few years, if walls were actually as soundproof as walls can be, if trees lined every street to provide shade and natural protection against street noise and improve the air quality, oh, and if every apartment came with built-in blackout screens, because the need for quality sleep is universal, and excessive nighttime illumination has been shown to be a persistent cause of poor sleep quality - in everyone, not just night owls!

My own sleep quality took a severe dip precisely three months ago when the landlords of this house had all the windows replaced, and apparently the new windows are cheaper and worse, because I'm awoken by sounds from the street that never bothered me before (like car doors slamming shut on the parking spots outside). Naturally, as a tenant who has to put up or seek housing elsewhere, I have no recourse of any kind as long as the landlords are still technically within the letter of the law, and even complaining might get me evicted.

And yes, sorry, that's a capitalism problem....

one of the most enlightening realizations ive had was finding out that non-24 hour circadian rhythm people were a pretty large group and most of us have oddly similar cycles of usually around 28hr internal "days" and this masquerades as "insomnia" but if allowed to sleep and wake naturally we will just advance forward through time an extra 2-4 hours a day at a relatively stable pace. we can't go to school or jobs or even run errands on normal schedules without massive pharmacological and behavioral intervention. most of the people who have been diagnosed or figured it out themselves will report horrific, life-ruining disruption in their professional lives and terrible health from accrued lack of sleep. this disorder is most common in vision-impaired people which seems to suggest it's related to light cues. anyway just thinking about this as extremely loud yard work woke me up at 8am for the second day in a row

[fnzktn]

hype girl

abm!haerin x abm!reader

synopsis: she never said much. but every choice she made brought her closer to you.

includes: slowburn!!!, thesis💔, soft jealousy, slight favortism but she's never gonna admit that, r is oblivious to haerin's crush😞

word count: 9.9k

part of the shs!njz series

a/n: literally had to bribe my former abm bsf to give me the link to their thesis that won when we were in 12th grade so i could use it to this fic💔 worth it

the first thing people say about kang haerin is that she’s quiet. not in a cold way, not even in the sharp, untouchable way people might expect from someone who looks like her. just quiet.

quiet in a way that feels deliberate. in a way that makes you pay more attention to the sound of your own voice when you speak to her, like anything too loud might crack the space she keeps around herself.

she doesn’t talk unless she has something to say. she doesn’t walk in groups unless she’s needed there. she never lingers in doorways the way most of your classmates do, never stays behind to gossip or stretch out her presence just to be seen. and yet, somehow—she’s always seen.

some people think it’s because she’s pretty, which is true. she is. the kind of pretty that isn’t accidental. it’s practiced, almost polished, in a way that hints at structure. school-pressed uniform, hair always neat, minimal jewelry that still somehow looks expensive even when it isn’t.

there are campus stories—her parents run businesses you’ve seen on EDSA billboards. someone once said she modeled for a school campaign when she was in junior high. you’ve seen one of those posters in the admin building. her face is half-turned, eyes slightly downward, the edge of a smile on her lips. it doesn’t look posed. it just looks like her.

but it’s not just that. it’s not the beauty that draws people to her. it’s the silence. or rather—how she uses it.

haerin’s the student council treasurer. always on time, always speaking with just enough confidence to hold a room without overpowering it. she doesn’t argue with teachers, but she doesn’t shrink in front of them either. she listens. she folds her arms and tilts her head slightly when she disagrees. when she answers, her voice is calm. measured. decisive.

there are videos on her instagram story highlights—short clips of her dancing in a studio. muted lighting, big mirrors. she never tags anyone. no captions. just her. sometimes she posts on weekends and deletes them after a few hours. it’s always a little unexpected. it’s like seeing someone blink mid-statue. movement in the middle of all that stillness.

you don’t talk often. just sometimes. usually when you don’t understand something in fabm, or you need help finding a formula for business math. she never seems bothered by your questions, but she doesn’t exactly invite them either. she answers plainly. writes things down if you forget. slides her notes your way when you ask.

she’s always been kind. just… distant.

but then came the first day of inquiries, investigations, and immersion.

third period is supposed to start at ten. but at 10:03, the iii teacher still hasn’t arrived.

the classroom isn’t loud, but it isn’t quiet either. students half-slouched over their desks, refreshing gc messages and half-finished quizlets, poking at leftover food with plastic forks. someone yawns dramatically near the back. two boys in front are sharing one earbud each. your seatmate is drawing on the corner of their paper. from where you’re sitting, you can see three people using ai to finish their business case drafts. someone opens a bag of chips. it crackles too loudly. no one tells them to stop.

you’re sitting in your usual seat—third row from the back, by the windows. it’s a decent spot. close enough to hear but not enough to be noticed. you like it that way.

outside, the clouds are thick and slow-moving. the sunlight coming in is pale, almost watery. not golden, not sharp. just soft. a tuesday kind of light.

haerin’s seat is two columns away from yours, diagonal. she’s not doing anything, just flipping a pen between her fingers. there’s a reviewer open on her desk, but her eyes aren’t moving across the page. she looks like she’s reading, but you know she’s not. she does this sometimes—sits very still, lets the world move around her like she’s not quite part of it.

someone calls her name across the room. she blinks, looks up. nods. doesn’t say anything. then goes back to her pen.

the door clicks open at 10:06. finally.

the teacher walks in, holding a manila folder. they look serious. everyone starts sitting up straighter.

you reach for your notebook instinctively.

“okay,” the teacher says, not wasting time. “since we’ve already covered your research orientation last week, we’re moving straight to groupings.”

you feel something in your stomach fold in on itself.

groupings.

you glance around. a few people are already side-eyeing their seatmates, mouthing names. some groups are obvious. some are already forming under desks. haerin hasn’t moved.

“this semester, you’ll be working on your research papers in fixed groups of five,” the teacher continues, adjusting the folder. “the subject is designed to simulate a business environment, so we’re treating this like a project-based task. not just research, but immersion. you’ll conduct field work, you’ll propose your own focus, and yes—you will defend your findings by the end of the term.”

no one’s speaking anymore.

then, the teacher adds, “and to make this more interesting, we’ll be assigning leaders. four of them. the rest will be drafted—yes, drafted—into teams.”

groans. tension. disbelief. but nothing new. this teacher is known for curveballs.

“the four team leaders,” they say, reading from a small card, “will be…”

there’s a pause. a paper shuffle. then names.

you don’t hear your name. you barely react. not disappointed—just relieved.

but then, “kang haerin.”

heads turn.

she blinks once, sits up straighter. her pen stops moving. she doesn’t look surprised. she never does.

your teacher continues. “team leaders, you may now choose your members. one by one.”

and then—

“we’ll go in reverse order. kang haerin, you’re up first.”

you freeze.

she stands up, notebook still closed. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t even glance at anyone for a cue. just says your name.

calm. clear. definite.

your name. first.

your name leaves her mouth and lands in the room like a dropped pin.

not loud. not dramatic. not dragged out with emphasis or flair. just said. simply. like it made sense.

and for a second, no one reacts. the class seems to hesitate—like the name didn’t register because no one was expecting it. not even you.

especially not you.

your first thought isn’t even a thought. it’s more of a physical thing—like something invisible tapping against the inside of your ribs. a second of blank stillness before the wave reaches your head.

she called your name.

haerin. kang haerin. student council treasurer. the one who’s good at decision trees and breaking down amortization schedules in under ten lines. the one who always walks just slightly apart from everyone, like she exists on a different plane of focus. that haerin. she said your name. first.

you blink. you aren’t sure if you heard it right. maybe it was someone else with a similar name. maybe she meant to pick someone sitting near you.

but then people start turning.

not dramatically. just little glances. a few shifting shoulders. the sound of someone snorting quietly to your right. someone from the back whispers, “wait—what?”

your body doesn’t know what to do. your hands are suddenly too still. your notebook feels like the only thing anchoring you to your seat. you don’t move. not until the teacher clears their throat and looks at you.

“that’s one,” they say, making a note on the clipboard. “next?”

the rest of her group fills in slowly, but no one remembers their names.

not really.

because the surprise of your name hangs in the room longer than it’s supposed to, stretching through each new pick like a secondhand echo. your classmates shift back into polite focus as the other leaders begin to choose, but the tension has already cracked. now there’s an edge of curiosity under it. something tight and low and wordless. like you’ve been pulled into the center of a story that hasn’t even started yet.

you watch her. carefully.

after you, she calls a quiet boy from the top ten. next is a girl from the debate team—someone articulate, good under pressure. then, someone unexpected again, a transfer student who barely speaks unless prompted. and that’s five.

five people. including you and haerin.

when the teacher nods, announcing that the groupings are final, you nod too. but yours is automatic. you’re still looking at her.

there’s a stillness to haerin’s posture as she sets her pen down and folds her hands, like nothing about this morning has been surprising to her. like this was the plan all along.

you don’t know what to make of that.

the rest of the draft moves in a blur.

other leaders are called. names are picked. teams slowly form. you hear your classmates call out to each other, some joking, some groaning, some whispering predictions like they’re betting on exam scores. someone claps when two people who clearly wanted to be grouped end up together. the noise returns, gradually. the room fills with movement again.

but you stay quiet.

you can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone’s a little more aware of you now. not in any intense way—just in the corner-of-the-eye, side-of-the-mouth kind of way. glances that are too quick to be kind, too casual to be real. you catch someone whispering something to their seatmate, eyebrows raised. another girl leans forward to whisper, “since when were they close?”

you aren’t sure what to do with your face. you don’t feel smug, but you don’t want to look confused either. so you keep your eyes on your desk and your hand on your pen and pretend to take notes that don’t matter.

from the corner of your eye, you see haerin turning to the teacher to confirm your team schedule. her voice is calm. her hands are still. she could be discussing stock returns and she’d sound exactly the same. no shift. no weight. just certainty.

when the bell rings, people start rising immediately. the scraping of chairs, the shuffle of bags. your name’s been called three times before you realize someone’s waiting for you by the door.

you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. haerin’s already halfway down the hall, her steps slow, precise. she doesn’t wait for you. but you know you’re supposed to follow.

you catch up outside the building.

she’s walking beside the trimmed hedges, the sun catching at the edges of her hair where it’s tied back loosely. she’s scrolling through her phone, probably checking the new group schedule.

“hey,” you say, not too loudly.

she looks up. slows. waits for you to fall into step beside her.

you walk together for a few seconds. quiet. just the gravel beneath your shoes, the hum of the afternoon.

then you ask, carefully, “why’d you pick me?”

you don’t look at her when you say it. just keep your eyes ahead.

she doesn’t answer right away. you hear her thumb tap the side of her phone. she breathes in once. then—

“you were the only one who asked last semester if immersion could be off-campus.”

you blink.

“i remembered that,” she adds, tone even. “you asked about real-world application. no one else did.”

you’re silent. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you’re realizing you didn’t know she’d heard that. that she'd remembered it. you’d said it in passing. to the teacher. to no one, really.

she noticed.

“i thought,” she says, slower now, like she’s choosing her words as she walks, “that someone who asks questions like that… probably has ideas worth listening to.”

your heart knocks a little too hard against your ribs.

you swallow. nod. “okay.”

she hums softly. a small sound. almost a smile, but not quite.

then she pockets her phone, adjusts her grip on her bag strap, and says, “our first meeting’s on friday. i’ll message you.”

friday afternoon. room 302.

it’s a quiet, out-of-the-way classroom on the third floor, usually reserved for electives or teachers who don’t like being interrupted. the lights are dimmer here. the windows are dusty, only half-open. the air smells like paper and whiteboard ink and faintly of rain, even though the sky outside is still clear.

you’re the second to arrive.

haerin is already seated by the far window, a half-drunk bottle of water beside her, her hair tied loosely in a way that feels more lived-in than usual. she’s reading something—a printout, probably the class syllabus—eyes scanning, pen tapping once against the edge of her notebook.

she doesn’t look up when you enter, but she tilts her chin slightly, just enough to acknowledge that you’re there.

you sit two chairs across from her. not beside. not yet.

the rest of the group trickles in slowly. you know them, more or less—two boys, one girl, all smart enough to keep up but casual enough to get distracted when things get too abstract. one of them—the taller guy with the chain necklace who always carries an iced americano into class—is already talking about presentation templates before he even sits down.

haerin waits until they’ve settled. then she speaks.

“so,” she says, flipping her pen around, “we’re finalizing our direction today. whatever we pick, we commit to it.”

no one answers immediately. someone shifts in their seat.

then the girl says, “we could do something safe. like e-commerce growth post-pandemic. everyone’s doing that.”

the others nod. something easy. something passable. nothing risky.

you hesitate. the idea forming in your head is half-formed, but it’s there—has been there since last week. it’s not as clean, not as familiar. a little ambitious. maybe too much.

but it’s the only one you’ve been thinking about.

so you speak. quietly.

“what if we did something on small community-based startups?” they look at you. you continue, voice a bit more certain now. “like sari-sari stores that restructured after lockdowns. people who used to sell in-person but had to shift models completely. it’s still e-commerce, technically. but from the ground up.”

you feel the weight of silence right after.

the guy with the iced americano frowns slightly. “that’s… a bit messy, isn’t it? hard to quantify.”

“data’s gonna be hard to pull,” the girl adds. “and those places don’t keep records.”

you nod, slowly. already pulling back, already regretting speaking.

and then—

“it’s our strongest lead so far.”

everyone turns.

haerin isn’t looking at anyone in particular. just writing something down in the corner of her notes.

“the rest are surface-level,” she continues, voice calm. “this one has depth. and flexibility. and a unique angle for our defense.”

her words are quiet, but they don’t need volume. they settle into the space with finality.

no one argues.

someone says, “okay.” another nods. the iced americano guy leans back, quiet now.

you’re still processing.

because she didn’t just accept your idea. she claimed it.

not to be nice. not to make things easier, but because she actually meant it.

you glance at her. she’s still writing. doesn’t look up. doesn’t need to.

and for the first time, you think—maybe you’re not just here because she remembered something you said. maybe you’re here because she trusts the way you think.

the hallway outside the faculty office is quiet except for the low hum of electric fans and the occasional scuff of shoes along the tiles. the light through the windows is weak and diffused, more gray than gold, casting everything in the tired color of early morning nerves. it’s pitch day, a formal pre-immersion presentation for all iii groups, and the whole class has been instructed to show up in full business attire.

the result is a corridor filled with uneven collars, ill-fitted coats, and classmates swapping belts. you’re standing just beside a dusty mirror bolted to the wall, trying to fix the same necktie for what feels like the fourth time. the knot keeps slipping sideways, no matter how tightly you pull it.

your fingers are clumsy with the fabric—too stiff, too smooth, like it refuses to cooperate with the rhythm you vaguely remember from a tutorial you watched the night before. you try again. pull, loop, fold. no good. it still sags a little to the left. you sigh under your breath and glance at your reflection. not awful. but not great, either.

“you’re doing it wrong,” comes a voice just over your shoulder. low, steady, no trace of teasing.

you glance up. it’s haerin.

she’s already fully dressed, neat in a crisp navy blazer over a pale blouse, sleeves fitted just right, a pair of simple earrings you haven’t seen her wear before catching a bit of the light as she tilts her head. her hair is tied loosely at the back, a little messier than usual, but it suits her. she looks like she’s already been calm for hours. like there was no part of this morning that could’ve unsettled her. she’s looking at your tie now, not you.

“i know,” you say quietly, almost embarrassed.

she steps in without another word, raising her hands to your collar. “stay still.”

you do. you try not to breathe too loudly.

her fingers are light but certain as she undoes the knot, slipping it free in a single practiced motion. she moves carefully, not slow, not fast—just enough for you to feel each adjustment. the pull of the fabric. the brief press of her knuckle against your chest. the clean slide of the tie being straightened, tightened, tucked.

she doesn’t comment on how off-centered it was, doesn’t sigh or frown or act like she’s doing you a favor. she just works quietly, like it’s nothing new. and yet, the air between you shifts into something quiet and careful, like even she feels the weight of this simple thing being shared.

when she finishes, she steps back. “there.”

you look down. the knot sits perfectly now—centered, flat, almost sharp against your shirt. her fingers had only brushed your collarbone once, but it lingers more than it should. you glance at her. she meets your eyes for a second. there’s no smile, no expression of pride, just that familiar neutral calm. but something about the moment feels like it’s been folded and placed somewhere you’ll return to later.

“wear it like that from now on,” she says, not waiting for a response, already turning to leave as one of your groupmates calls her name from the other end of the hallway.

you watch her walk off, blazer catching slightly at her sides as she moves. you reach up once, touch the edge of the knot again, as if to prove it’s real. it is. still firm. still exactly where she left it.

the week after, she grows quiet.

not in a cold or distant way. just quieter than usual. a kind of gentle withdrawal. she still shows up on time for meetings, still replies to the group chats, still submits her deliverables without reminders. but her presence feels dimmed, like someone lowering the brightness on a screen. she listens more than she speaks.

she stares at her laptop a little longer between sentences. she doesn’t interrupt jokes, doesn’t offer side comments, doesn’t even give you that usual nod when you walk in a room. she’s not ignoring you. but she’s somewhere else.

the others don’t seem to notice. you do.

you try not to overthink it. but it follows you—through meetings, through class, through the way your eyes keep flicking toward her even when you’re supposed to be writing.

it takes until friday to ask.

you’re the last two left in the room after a group check-in. the others have already left for lunch, leaving papers half-folded on the desks and a bag of barely touched snacks on the windowsill. haerin’s packing slowly, folding her charger neatly, checking her usb twice before putting it away. her face is neutral, tired maybe, but not upset.

you stand there for a moment, watching her. “are you okay?”

she doesn’t look up. not at first.

“yeah,” she says after a second. it’s not curt. just soft.

you wait. she zips her case.

“sometimes i just get like this,” she continues. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

you nod, even though she still isn’t looking. “okay.”

a few more seconds pass. she finally straightens and meets your eyes.

“i didn’t mean to shut you out.”

you weren’t expecting that. not from her. not out loud.

you search her face—calm as always, but this time there’s something else there. something quiet and unguarded. not vulnerability exactly, but a flicker of honesty that feels new.

“i get it,” you say, and you do.

she nods once. doesn’t say anything else.

you walk out together. there’s no need to talk.

but the space between you feels different now. not wider. not heavier. just more real.

the immersion site is just two jeepney rides away — still within the city, though farther than most of your classmates are assigned. it’s a quieter part of town, nestled past the marketplace, near a line of low-rise apartments with rusting gates and cracked sidewalks. the streets aren’t unfamiliar, but they’re quieter than what you’re used to.

your group is assigned to a small home-based printing business run by a married couple and their niece. they take bulk orders for stickers and packaging from nearby cafés and shops, operating mostly through facebook and instagram dms.

everything is done in their living room — orders lined up on a folding table, samples stacked inside plastic drawers, handwritten records clipped together with binder clips. no official branding. no business cards. just a steady, humble system that keeps the orders moving. when they describe their process, it’s with phrases like, “we just figured it out along the way,” or “as long as the supplies don’t run out, we’re okay.”

they’re generous with their answers. open, even if they don’t fully understand why you’re asking what you’re asking. haerin leads the interview. she sits across from the couple with a small spiral notebook and a list of questions she barely glances at — she knows most of them by memory.

her tone is soft but confident, her posture straight without looking stiff. she listens closely. never interrupts. and when she does speak, her questions feel more like conversations than interrogations.

you sit nearby with the recorder, mostly quiet, logging timestamps and checking battery levels. your pen stays near the edge of your notebook, unused except for the notes you jot quietly between answers.

until something catches your ear.

it’s the fourth or fifth question. haerin is asking about when the business moved online, and the husband answers easily, saying it happened around june. but something doesn’t line up. earlier, they’d mentioned having a surge of graduation orders that came through dms, which shouldn’t have happened midyear. you glance at your notes. march. that’s what they said the first time.

you raise your hand a little, quietly.

“sorry—can i ask something?”

the couple pauses. the group turns. not startled. just slightly surprised.

you glance at haerin once — she nods — then look back to the interviewees.

“earlier you mentioned that you were already receiving graduation orders through instagram,” you say slowly, “but just now you said you moved online in june. did you start using digital channels earlier than that? maybe around march?”

the wife turns to her husband. he blinks. then nods, smiling like he’s only just now remembered.

“yes! you’re right. it wasn’t june — it was march. we only said june because that’s when we opened the new account.”

the niece laughs. “i told you it started earlier.”

the husband chuckles. “good catch,” he says, glancing at you. “thanks for clarifying. we always mix that up.”

your groupmate beside you scribbles the correction into their notes. you nod, quietly writing it down as well. the others move on. but for a moment, you feel something different settle into the air around you — something small, like the sound of a quiet switch being flipped.

from across the table, you feel haerin watching.

she doesn’t say anything. just picks up her pencil and draws a small circle next to a timestamp. that’s all.

but later, when the interview ends and the group is filing out of the house, tired but satisfied, she walks beside you for the first few steps. she doesn’t speak. doesn’t make it a point.

but she stays close.

someone suggests stopping somewhere nearby before heading back. no one argues. there’s a café at the edge of the barangay, tucked beside a small clinic and a dental lab. the kind of place students go to finish essays or kill time between errands. it’s narrow, air-conditioned, with a glass counter full of uneven brownies and labeled drinks in stickers. two fans spin lazily overhead. the stereo plays a soft acoustic playlist, half drowned out by the whir of the blender.

you take a table by the window. haerin sits across from you.

your groupmates are still near the counter, debating over who’s paying for what, distracted by iced coffee options. no one notices the way the sunlight lands gently across your table. your drink arrives first. hers, a bit later — something warm, even in this heat. she pulls out her notes before she even takes a sip.

you watch her underline a word.

“you’re still working?” you ask, not in criticism — just observation.

“if i don’t mark what stood out now,” she says without looking up, “i’ll forget what mattered.”

you nod. you understand that.

she circles a line. taps once near the edge of her page.

you glance at her again. “you noticed the timeline thing too, right?”

this time, she does look up. her eyes meet yours. “yes. but you spoke first.”

she says it plainly. not like she’s impressed — more like she’s confirming something. acknowledging it.

you don’t respond. not immediately.

she tears a small square from her paper. writes a timestamp in her sharp, slanted handwriting and slides it across to you. “use this when you cross-check your audio.”

you fold the paper without thinking and tuck it into your pocket.

you don’t talk much after that. but there’s no pressure to. the quiet stretches naturally between you. outside, a motorbike rolls past, followed by the slow, hollow bark of a dog. inside, the light is soft, and the fan hums, and for a while, the rest of the group just blends into the background.

when it’s time to go, she stands first. your straw wrapper is still on the tray. she picks it up and throws it away without a word.

the classroom is warm. not hot, not uncomfortable — just warm in that way old rooms tend to be when the lights have been on too long and the windows barely let the breeze in. it’s late afternoon, maybe an hour before dismissal.

your group is gathered around one of the long wooden tables in a half-circle, laptops open, papers fanned out. you’ve just presented your revised framework to the supervising teacher. this is meant to be the mid-point consult — where flaws are spotted, adjustments made, and promising directions are encouraged. but it doesn’t feel like encouragement today.

you’re halfway through explaining your proposed angle when the teacher leans back in his chair and frowns.

“i don’t think that’s feasible,” he says, tapping his pen lightly against the table. “how do you plan to measure something as vague as that? what are your indicators?”

you blink. “well—”

“and if you’re basing it on self-reported data,” he adds, interrupting, “how do you plan to account for bias? you’re not psych students. i don’t want assumptions passed off as findings.”

you nod, swallowing back the words you were going to say. you weren’t expecting praise — just not this. not this fast. you glance at your notes, unsure where to begin defending something that hasn’t even been fully shaped yet. your fingers fidget near the edge of the printout. one of your groupmates shifts uncomfortably.

and then, quietly — from your left “we’ve accounted for that.”

it’s haerin.

she doesn’t raise her voice. doesn’t sit up straighter. just speaks clearly, like she’s adding a line to a conversation she was always part of.

“the variable isn’t vague,” she continues. “it’s emerging behavior. it’s supported by existing business literature, especially in informal microbusinesses. we plan to isolate it by observing purchasing decisions over a fixed period. we’re not using abstract metrics. we’ve broken it down.”

the teacher raises an eyebrow. but says nothing.

“as for bias,” she adds, “we know our limits. that’s why we’re framing it as patterns, not conclusions. we’re not interpreting motive. just documenting action.”

she says it calmly. like this isn’t about proving anything — just about making sure something true doesn’t get misunderstood. her hands stay folded near her notebook. she doesn’t even glance at you.

the teacher leans forward again, slower this time.

“that’s a good point,” he says, more thoughtful now. “make sure to write that in the limitations. and don’t bury it. i want it on the first page.”

haerin nods. “yes, sir.”

he stands a few minutes later, dismissing the session with a reminder about submission deadlines. your group gathers their things. someone jokes about how intense that felt. someone else sighs in relief.

you don’t say anything. not right away. you’re still sitting where you were, watching her close her folder. she does it like it’s done — no celebration, no tension. just another task folded neatly into the afternoon.

as the others move toward the door, you linger behind. your bag’s half-zipped.

“thanks,” you say.

she looks up. “for what?”

you gesture vaguely to the space between you. “that.”

she shrugs. “i knew you were right.”

you smile, small, unsure.

“you don’t have to explain things perfectly the first time,” she adds. “that’s why we’re a group.”

it’s such a simple thing. said without weight. but it lands somewhere soft inside you. you don’t know what to say back, so you just nod.

she turns to leave, walking ahead of you by a few steps. not far. just enough that you watch her for a moment before following.

and for some reason, you feel lighter than you did before the meeting even started.

later that night, the group call drags past midnight. it starts as a discussion, turns into document formatting, and eventually dissolves into half-sentences and background yawns. someone falls asleep without leaving the call. someone else plays music too loud. you and haerin stay silent for most of it, cameras off, both of you working in parallel without speaking.

at 12:43 a.m., she messages you privately.

“your idea made the whole framework work. just so you know.”

the second immersion takes place in a busier district, not far from a university belt. the roads are uneven, lined with shops that never close, and people who never seem to walk slowly. it’s not unfamiliar, but the pace is sharper — everything louder, faster, more unpredictable. your assigned business is a compact booth that sells thrifted clothing and repurposed accessories. it's owned by two sisters in their late twenties, both former design students who decided to build something of their own after dropping out.

the stall is tucked inside a commercial strip between a milk tea place and a print shop. it’s barely wider than a classroom door. the walls are made of thin plyboard, painted by hand with swirling yellows and greens. shirts hang from the ceiling. bucket hats drape over plastic hooks. there’s a mirror framed with mismatched stickers and a glass counter full of mismatched earrings.

your group arrives in two batches. you’re in the first, along with haerin and one other. the sisters are welcoming, excited even, and they talk fast — explaining how they source items, how they price, how sometimes the business makes enough for rent and sometimes it doesn’t. you and haerin take turns asking follow-ups. she stays composed, unhurried. you find yourself adapting to her rhythm — letting her ask the questions that shape direction, then chiming in to fill the gaps.

at some point, one of the owners compliments the structure of your questionnaire. “you two are very organized,” she says, pointing to your clipboard. “most students don’t ask about our struggles. just sales.”

you glance at haerin. she says nothing, but nods once. you’re not sure if it’s meant for them or for you.

after the interview ends, your group decides to eat nearby. the others still haven’t arrived. the three of you step into the street — bright, noisy, overfull. it’s the kind of late afternoon that feels stretched too thin. cars honking, motorcycles weaving, people brushing past your elbows without pausing. you feel a little dazed by it.

you glance at her once. she doesn’t look back. just says, softly, “you ask good questions.”

you turn. not quite sure if you heard her right.

she’s still looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard—just something she said because it was true.

“you’re good at noticing things,” she adds, a little quieter. “you don’t talk much, but when you do, people listen.”

it’s quiet for a while after that.

the milk tea shop is cramped, overly air-conditioned. you share a table by the window, your drinks sweating between you. she takes your straw wrapper when you forget to throw it away. doesn’t say anything about it. just does it. later, when someone starts talking about deadlines, she passes you her checklist without being asked.

no one else notices anything. not the compliment. not the way your eyes follow her hands more often now. not how her voice sounds less distant when she’s speaking just to you.

but you do.

and you start to wonder if maybe she notices it too.

your group has settled into a rhythm. not perfect — but stable. every few days, you meet in the same corner classroom at the end of the second floor hallway, the one with the loose window lock and the flickering ceiling light that no one ever fixes. sometimes it’s too cold from the aircon, sometimes too warm when it’s turned off, and someone always arrives fifteen minutes late. but no one complains. you sit. you work. you try not to get overwhelmed by how much of the research still doesn’t make sense yet.

today’s focus is data sorting.

haerin is at the whiteboard, breaking the variables into columns, her handwriting small but sharp. the others are hunched over their laptops or fidgeting with printed transcripts. your group is quieter than usual. there’s something about messy data that flattens everyone’s mood. too many numbers. too many phrases that mean nothing unless you squint at them sideways.

you stare at your section of the spreadsheet. you’ve been trying to code your notes into usable insights, but everything looks off. inconsistent. like you missed something. you keep reading and re-reading your own writing, and the more you stare, the less confident you feel. there’s a margin note you don’t remember making. one timestamp doesn’t line up. you scroll too far, then lose your place.

one of your groupmates sighs. “none of this matches the framework.”

someone else adds, “i think we should just redo this part.”

your stomach sinks. they’re not talking to you directly. not even criticizing. but your fingers pause over the keyboard anyway.

you feel it. that low, quiet kind of doubt. it creeps in softly — the thought that maybe you’re dragging things down. maybe you’ve been silent too long. maybe they’re right to redo it.

you glance across the table.

haerin’s not looking at the board anymore. she’s looking at you.

“it matches,” she says, to no one in particular.

the others stop. look up.

“this part here,” she continues, stepping toward your end of the table. she places one hand lightly on the printed sheet you’ve been working on. “it doesn’t look like the rest because it was tracked by behavioral pattern, not by product type. that was intentional.”

you stare at her.

she taps one of your notes gently. “it’s consistent. just not with the parts you were expecting it to match. but it lines up with our first visit.”

someone frowns. opens the photo log. someone else flips through the observation record.

she stands there calmly, not defending — just clarifying. just stating something that needed to be said.

one of the groupmates nods. “she’s right. this part actually strengthens the framework.”

another mutters, “we should’ve started from this, honestly.”

you don’t say anything. just sit there, still, unsure how you feel.

after a few minutes, the others shift back to work. someone goes back to color-coding. another asks if anyone brought snacks. the conversation resets.

you lean slightly toward haerin as she returns to her seat.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, low enough so only she hears.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i know.”

a pause. “but you’re too quiet when you get unsure.”

you glance at her. her gaze stays fixed on the whiteboard. her voice doesn’t change.

“and i don’t like watching you disappear like that.”

you don’t know what to say.

so you don’t.

you just sit there beside her, quiet, feeling the air shift around that one line — like she handed you something you hadn’t realized you were missing.

by the time the session ends, the light outside has dimmed enough that someone finally notices the flickering ceiling bulb above. the group starts gathering their things. chairs scrape gently against the floor. someone jokes about ordering fries on the way out. no one moves too fast — everyone’s tired in that content kind of way, the kind that follows a day that wasn’t perfect, but felt like progress.

you’re slow to pack. you move your notes carefully into your folder, double-check your usb, uncap your tumbler and find it empty.

beside you, haerin closes her laptop with a soft click. she doesn’t rush. doesn’t speak.

but as you reach for your bag, she taps her knuckle lightly against the edge of your table.

you look up.

“don’t second-guess it next time,” she says.

her voice is quieter than before. almost like a reminder she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

you nod.

she slings her bag over one shoulder and heads toward the door, her steps unhurried.

you follow after a few seconds, her words still repeating in your head, like something written in the margins, half-faded but carefully placed.

the auditorium isn’t loud, but it isn’t silent either. it’s the kind of in-between sound that settles under your skin — a steady murmur of folders being flipped open, heels tapping against the aisle, the low whirr of a dusty projector bulb warming up on stage.

the air-conditioning is colder than it needs to be. the lights are too white, flickering slightly at the edges. a bottle cap rolls faintly across the floor before someone stills it with their shoe. it’s the last hour of the program. your group is next.

you sit in the third row with your hands locked loosely on your lap, fingers twitching beneath the hem of your blazer. you’ve adjusted your tie four times now, but it still feels crooked. your name tag is pinned too close to your collar. someone behind you sneezes. a teacher coughs. you’re not really hearing any of it.

haerin sits to your left. her legs are crossed neatly at the ankle, posture perfect. her folder is closed, clasped in her hand like she doesn’t need it. and maybe she doesn’t.

you’ve seen her recite her part so many times you could mouth it along if you wanted to. she hasn’t spoken since your group was called earlier, but she’s alert — eyes focused, shoulders still. calm in a way that makes your own breath feel too loud in comparison.

the current group presenting wraps up with a shaky thank you. the audience claps politely, and the panelists — three professors seated at a long table just below the stage — begin scribbling their final notes. they don’t look impressed. the emcee adjusts her mic, her voice low but practiced as she calls the next group.

“representing the ABM strand group four, under the research of kang haerin.”

you stand when the others do. haerin leads. you follow. your steps are quiet on the wood-paneled stage. your blazer pulls slightly when you bow. the lights aren’t blinding, but they’re bright enough to make your skin feel warmer than before. you try not to look at the crowd. you focus on the screen. then the panel. then haerin.

she’s already at the laptop, plugging in the usb. the title slide appears. she takes the mic, doesn’t test it, just lifts it calmly and says, “good afternoon.”

her voice doesn’t shake.

“the study we’ll be presenting today is titled ‘purchasing patterns in low-visibility microbusinesses: a behavioral lens.’” her tone is measured. no filler. no notes in hand. just the rhythm of someone who’s rehearsed something until it lives in her bones.

she outlines the context — a breakdown of your chosen stalls, your decision to focus on low-foot-traffic areas, the nuance of your behavioral angle. she paces her words carefully, not rushed, not drawn out. there’s something magnetic in how she speaks. not performative, not flashy — just sure. like she knows what she’s saying and doesn’t need anyone’s approval to say it.

the first slide clicks. then the second. your groupmate presents the methodology, the field structure, the decision tree behind your customer approach. then it’s your turn.

haerin looks at you once — just a glance — as she hands you the mic.

your fingers brush.

your hands are colder than they should be. the mic feels heavier than usual. you step forward and look at the screen, but not for too long. you inhale, just once.

you begin.

“for this segment, we’re focusing on a behavior cluster observed during our third immersion visit — specifically, patterns that deviate from predicted logic-based decisions.”

your voice doesn’t sound like much at first. it’s softer than you meant it to be, and the reverb in the room makes it echo oddly. but you keep going. you frame the deviation, then introduce your anchor subject — the customer who repeatedly chose the more expensive vendor out of habit, not price. you explain the three-site comparison, then gesture toward the color-coded map. it’s the slide you made. the one haerin told you not to take out even when you were unsure it made sense.

you reference it now with more ease than you thought you’d have. your language stays sharp. the panel doesn’t interrupt. one of them — the visiting lecturer — leans forward. nods, once.

you close your section with the phrasing you’ve practiced exactly three times. “we interpreted this behavior as spatial habituation under limited cognitive engagement — a response not to price or brand, but to perceived effort and routine anchoring.”

the room doesn’t react. not right away. you hand the mic back without looking up.

haerin takes it again, voice soft but even, weaving your points into the study’s final conclusions. she doesn’t repeat anything. just folds everything in, word by word. her final sentence lands cleanly, “we propose a behavior-first lens not just for customers, but for how microbusinesses position themselves in low-competition markets.”

you all bow. the panel doesn’t move.

then applause — not rushed. not loud. but held just a second longer than expected.

you step off the stage slowly. your hands are sweating. the group sits down again. no one says anything for a while. you wipe your palms against your pants once. haerin is already adjusting her name tag.

but after a few breaths, she leans in and whispers something only you can hear. “you didn’t even look at your notes.”

you don’t say anything. but your pulse skips.

the rest of the congress passes like a blur you’re only half in. the last strand presents — TVL, a case study with too many text-heavy slides. then comes a panel commentary segment, then closing remarks from the research coordinator. you nod when you’re supposed to. clap when everyone else claps.

and then the emcee returns to the mic, card in hand.

“we’ll now announce the recognition for best output and best presenter across strands,” she says, her voice bright, a little too rehearsed. “for best research study—”

a pause. then your group’s name.

“—ABM strand, group four.”

there’s a beat of silence in your chest before you hear the others beside you react. one of your groupmates exhales a sharp “no way,” then gets to his feet. someone behind you claps. someone else gasps a soft “wow.” your body feels like it hasn’t caught up to the words yet.

you stand slowly.

the host reads the next line.

“and for best research presenter—” another pause, “—y/n l/n, also from the ABM strand.”

you feel it land.

this time, you don’t move. not until haerin stands beside you, her hand brushing your sleeve. not until she nods once — not telling you to go, just reminding you that you earned it.

you walk up to the stage again. your name is called. you’re handed a framed certificate, the edges cool against your fingers. one of the panelists leans in as she passes it to you.

“you speak like you’ve done this for years,” she says quietly. “you paced it perfectly.”

you murmur something polite in return. you don’t remember what.

the camera flash catches you mid-blink.

you don’t look for her after the program ends. but somehow, she’s already waiting at the back hallway, where the noise dies down into faint applause and footsteps echo off the cement walls. you’re rebuttoning your blazer, still holding the award folder when you feel her hand on your wrist.

she doesn’t say anything. just rests her fingers there for a moment — light, almost unsure — before reaching past you to push open the door beside you. the small restroom tucked behind the curtain partition. dimmer, quieter, unused.

you glance at her once, but she’s already stepping in.

you follow.

the door closes softly behind you.

you stand there, a little too close. neither of you speak at first. the light above flickers faintly, casting a pale wash over the floor. your award folder is still in your hand. your collar is slightly uneven. she notices — straightens it with a quiet touch.

your eyes meet.

and for a second, that's all it is.

then she lifts a hand — not confident, not certain, but slow — like she’s still waiting for you to move away. when you don’t, she touches your face. just barely. her thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone, a careful, searching motion like she’s never done this before. maybe she hasn’t. maybe she has, but not like this.

you don’t lean in. not yet.

it’s her. it’s always been her.

she draws just a little closer. her gaze flickers to your mouth and back again. and then finally — only when she’s close enough to feel your breath catch — she kisses you.

gently.

not rushed. not deep. not even for very long.

just once. light and hesitant, like she isn’t sure she’s allowed to.

when she pulls back, she stays near. her hand hasn’t moved. she looks at you like she’s still somewhere inside that moment, somewhere between the breath she took and the one she forgot to exhale.

“you looked really good up there,” she says. her voice is low. steady, but quieter than usual. “i couldn’t help myself.”

she doesn’t smile. but she doesn’t look away, either.

and neither do you.

for a moment, nothing moves. the air feels heavier than it should — like even your breath might shift the balance if you’re not careful. her hand lingers near your jaw, still half-raised, but she’s not touching you anymore. her fingers hover like they forgot how to rest or retreat. her eyes flicker to your mouth again, just once, then stop halfway — as if thinking better of it.

she draws back half a step. not because she wants to, but because she thinks she should. her gaze drops to the folder you’re still holding, and for some reason, that makes her expression soften — like she’s only just now remembered where you are. what all of this just came from.

“we should go,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move.

you nod. or at least you think you do.

neither of you walks to the door. not right away. she leans back against the sink counter, arms crossed loosely now, but her posture isn't composed anymore. it’s a little messier — just slightly. the collar of her blouse has shifted beneath her blazer. the hand that kissed you now curls against her side like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

you stay where you are.

and for a while, you just look at each other.

there’s something quieter than silence between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full. like everything that needed to happen already did, and now you're both standing inside the space it left behind.

eventually, she exhales. “thank you,” she says.

it takes you a second to understand.

“for what?” you ask.

her eyes meet yours. and this time, there’s no hesitation.

“for making it feel easy,” she says.

she doesn’t explain. and you don’t ask.

because maybe you understand anyway.

you don’t leave right away. not until the hallway outside quiets again — until the echo of chairs being scraped across the auditorium floor fades into something distant. she straightens first, brushing a wrinkle off her skirt, fixing the loose strand of hair tucked behind her ear. you mirror the motion, slower. the silence between you doesn’t feel strange. just full.

when she reaches for the door, she doesn’t look back to check if you’re following.

she already knows.

the hallway is empty when you step out. the hum of the venue remains faint in the background — laughter in clumps, teachers calling attendance, someone’s name shouted near the exit. she doesn’t rush. her steps are even, light, as if she’s conserving the last of her energy. your pace falls in line with hers without thinking.

neither of you speak.

the folder stays tucked beneath your arm, its corner pressing into your ribs. your award certificate peeks slightly through the plastic sleeve. you catch your reflection in one of the windows you pass — uniform straight, tie slightly loosened now, cheeks still warm. you wonder if anyone would notice anything just by looking.

haerin doesn’t touch you again. but she walks close. close enough that your elbows nearly brush with every step. her bag strap slips once down her shoulder, and you almost reach to fix it — but she pulls it up herself.

when you reach the courtyard, she slows.

the group’s still gathered there, under the trees, trading food from their packed lunches, animatedly reenacting parts of the earlier presentations. they haven’t noticed you yet. your classmates are laughing about something. someone waves their certificate like a fan.

haerin stops beside a low stone bench and exhales.

you stop too.

“do you want to go back now?” you ask, voice quiet.

she looks at you. studies your face for a second like she’s memorizing something.

“in a bit,” she says.

so you sit down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. you rest your hands on your knees. she folds hers in her lap. the breeze moves through her hair. you feel her glance at you once, then look away just as fast.

and for the next few minutes, you don’t talk.

you just sit there together.

not waiting for anything. not needing to explain. just letting whatever this is — settle.

later that night, she messages you.

the event is minor — just a local showcase for the business track, held in one of the open halls behind the annex building. it’s loud, cluttered, not too formal. tables lined with folders and sample mockups. students huddled in clusters explaining brand plans to wandering teachers, a few alumni visiting, two unfamiliar faces from another senior high. everyone’s either in pastel polos or tucked-in uniforms, sleeves rolled up, name tags pinned crookedly to collars.

your group — the same one from III — had been tapped last-minute to present your now-award-winning paper as an example. not for judging. not for competition. just for show. a “model output,” they’d said. something for others to look at.

so you stand near the center table, beside the neatly propped-up trifold board, repeating the same summary you’ve now memorized by heart. your voice is calm. your hands stay still. you’ve done this too many times to stumble now.

haerin is just a few feet away, talking to a teacher who keeps nodding at your visuals. she’s in full student council mode — neat, composed, perfectly poised as she explains how the framework could be applied to local vendors. but she glances at you every so often. you catch it each time.

and you don’t think much of it — not until later.

you’re halfway through walking a visiting college rep through your feasibility metrics when someone new approaches your table. another student — not from your class. tall. unfamiliar. easy smile. they wait until the rep leaves, then lean slightly closer to your side of the table, gesturing to your summary sheet.

“you’re the one who spoke at the congress, right?”

you glance up. “yeah, that was us.”

“you were really good. like, actually made the topic sound interesting.” they smile, easy and a little too smooth. “kind of rare.”

you laugh once under your breath, polite. “thanks. we just rehearsed it a lot.”

“you didn’t look like you were rehearsing. you looked like you knew exactly what you were talking about.” they point toward the flowchart pinned to the board. “can you walk me through this part?”

you nod and begin to explain — outlining the data sequence, the way your group layered in comparison samples, your voice steady, hands gesturing just a little. they stay attentive. too attentive. and when you glance to the side mid-sentence, you see haerin.

she’s standing near the corner, not too far, one hand resting on her elbow, gaze trained directly on you.

you keep your explanation calm, voice even, but you can feel the weight of her stare. the other student smiles again. “seriously, you made this look easy. if you’re planning on taking business, i hope we end up in the same course.”

“i’m… not sure yet,” you say, half-distracted.

“well, you’d do great either way.” they step back just slightly. “and if you ever need help with mockups or design stuff—”

“hey.”

the word lands light but firm. you both glance up. haerin is at your side now, expression composed but unmistakably cool.

“we’re packing up,” she says to you, not looking at the other student. “you ready?”

you nod quickly. “yeah, let me just—”

“i’ll handle the rest,” she cuts in. “come on.”

you follow.

she walks toward the hallway behind the annex building, the quieter one where most students rarely go unless they’re cutting through. her pace isn’t hurried, but it’s not slow either. focused. when you reach the end, near the faculty lounge, she stops. you stop too.

she turns to face you fully now, her eyes sharp but unreadable. “you’re popular today.”

“that was just someone asking about the panel.”

“they weren’t asking about the panel. they were asking about you.”

“haerin—”

“you looked good,” she says. “too good.”

your breath catches, just slightly. “what?”

“when you explain things. when you stand like that. like you don’t even realize how serious you look when you’re focused.” her voice is quieter now. “people see it. they start thinking things.”

you don’t respond, unsure if this is irritation or something else. she takes one step forward.

“they think they can get close. like you’re available. like you’re theirs to impress.”

another step. she’s close now. just inches away.

“i don’t like it.”

you meet her gaze. “why?”

her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t blink. “because they don’t know you the way i do. and they shouldn’t get to look at you like that.”

you hold your breath.

“you’re mine,” she says. low. final.

and then she kisses you.

no hesitation. no asking. just her hand reaching up to your collar, the other at the side of your face, pulling you in with a quiet intensity that makes the whole hallway disappear.

it’s not rushed, not showy — just firm and certain. like something she’s been keeping in for weeks. her lips press warm against yours, lingering. and when she finally pulls back, she doesn’t move far. her forehead leans lightly into yours.

your eyes stay closed for a moment. then you open them.

“you’re bold today,” you whisper.

“i was being patient,” she murmurs. “you made it hard.”

you laugh under your breath, fingers brushing lightly against hers.

she doesn’t let go.

neither do you.

the convenience store is mostly quiet now. a few students linger by the window, waiting on rides. the overhead lights buzz faintly, casting pale reflections on the table between you. your tie is folded in your pocket. haerin’s hair is slightly mussed, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. your fingers keep brushing the condensation on the shared milk tea cup, half-watching the swirl of pearls at the bottom.

neither of you have brought up the kiss.

but it’s there. humming underneath everything. the shared glances. the way she sat beside you, not across from you. the way her leg stayed pressed lightly against yours. none of it accidental.

you look at her. “so.”

she stirs the drink once with the straw. “so.”

“you kissed me. again.”

“you let me.”

“you called me yours.”

she pauses.

“i meant that,” she says softly.

you turn slightly to face her better, cheek resting against your knuckles. “mm. i liked it.”

her gaze flickers toward yours, unreadable.

“but,” you add, “i feel like i should know what that makes us.”

she blinks. “…what?”

“am i just someone you kiss in empty hallways? or do you have a title in mind?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“but charming,” you counter. “and curious. what are we, kang haerin?”

her fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “you’re mine. isn’t that enough?”

“sounds like a placeholder.”

“it’s not.”

“then what am i? say it.”

she exhales. you can see the internal battle behind her eyes. not because she doesn’t want to say it — but because saying it makes it real. makes it more than just what’s been simmering between you since the first day of immersion.

she murmurs something, too low.

you lean in. “huh?”

“…you’re my girlfriend,” she says, clearer now. voice low, firm, not looking directly at you.

you grin. “one more time?”

she finally looks at you. “you’re my girlfriend,” she repeats. then adds, quieter, “do you want me to write it down, too?”

“maybe.” you lean back, smug. “school record. printed. laminated.”

she rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink. “you’re ridiculous.”

“but officially yours?”

a pause. then, “yes.”

“girlfriend,” you repeat, a little softer. “mine, too.”

you bump her shoulder lightly. she doesn’t move away.

outside, the street is emptying, headlights sweeping by in slow motion. inside, under the soft hum of cheap fluorescent light and a nearly finished milk tea, haerin reaches for your hand. doesn’t make a show of it. just lets your fingers slip together, quiet and sure.

and just like that, it’s official.

girlfriend. hers.

finally.

[mcsiggy]

The whole situation started because of this anon >> here << getting mad i draw most of the gods with darker skin.

This Ask Saying I'm changing the gods to be like pop culture characters is genuinely silly since if that's the fucking case, Jesus Christ is also considered a pop culture character since people like to use him in ways that don't depict him in his original version and even drawn fanart of him for CENTURIES.

you're allowed to not like how i depict Hera, but i'm not here to cater to every person who want's a specific version of her. make your own version of her for your liking and block me.

the fucking fact that me drawing the Greek gods, who can change how they look however they want, turn into animals, and even be concepts of things, like the sun and moon, is somehow more realistic and understandable than them having a darker skin tone is RACIST.

None of these fucking anons have given me any form of advice on where i can look up proper references for Greek culture in any way, shape, or form. I'm always up for learning if I made a mistake, but I do meant his that NOT ONE of these anons brought up how i draw the gods in whatever clothes or hairstyles or make up they're in is incorrect or not, no one brought up how i might be drawing the buildings anywhere incorrectly either, or anything regarding cultural norms over in Greece or anything relevant to respecting their culture.

All these anons are only bringing up how I draw the gods not looking Greek enough, all because I drew them with darker skin. I fucking bet if I had every one of the gods with olive skin or lighter, none of this shit would be happening to me.

I'm not erasing anything from someone, I'm not even taking anything from anyone! I'm no fucking pillar of Greek mythology trivia or knowledge, I can't even make a DENT in changing anything in the stories that have been around for thousands of years. I'm literally just some guy making a story I've never seen before with the Greek gods!

the fact that multiple anons and people have been making fun of me, insulting me and accusing me of not respecting the culture, all while giving me little to no advice on how i cam maybe work on respecting the culture shows they don't care about what they're saying, they just want to police me because god fucking forbid I design someone with darker skin and say they're Greek.

[loganwritesprobably]

Gentle Care (S.R.)

Synopsis: Reader suffers with endometriosis, and sometimes Spencer can’t be there to comfort them, but he still manages to be the world’s best boyfriend Tags: Spencer/GN!Reader, AFAB!Reader, reader has endo, fluff Word count: 831 Notes: For anyone unfamiliar, the combination of both gender neutral and AFAB reader means that the reader is specified as having female reproductive organs (so, in this situation, them having endometriosis suggests they have a uterus) BUT there are no gendered pronouns used so the fic can be enjoyed by women, trans men, non-binary people, and anyone else whom this might apply to

AO3 | Fanfic Masterlist | Request Rules | Fic Trades Guide

There was a lot of things that majorly sucked about Spencer’s job, and that was him being away during your period. He was doing important work, and you’d never hold it against him, after all you’d known what you were getting into when you started dating him, but it didn’t make the entire thing suck any less.

He was away on a case once again when your period started, and yet from however many miles away he was, he still called in sick for you to your workplace so you could sleep in. He was the best partner you’d ever had, so kind and thoughtful, always looking for new ways to make sure you were happy, healthy and well taken care of. On days like this one, where the pain was so bad that when you stood up to pee earlier that you’d nearly blacked out, the sofa is your best friend. Your apartment was small, with the kitchen and living room being one room, so the sofa was central to everything you needed, being the fridge, the TV, the bathroom and hot water for your hot water bottle. You’d tried to nap and taken pain killers, and for now you were just stuck suffering.

When Spencer wasn’t home it was harder to keep to your specialised diet that was supposed to help with your endometriosis, because you often let bad habits when it came to eating back in, resorting to takeout or girl dinners rather than full, healthy meals, designed to help you as much as they could physically and hormonally. It wasn’t even that you disliked any of the food, you didn’t, you just disliked dirtying that many dishes when you were the only one eating and then having to wash them too. Lots of work when you could just doordash taco bell again. You were just glad that your workplace was so understanding. Your manager’s daughter had endo as well, so she always allowed you to take what time you needed, and if ever you came in on a bad day, she’d just send you home.

You grunted softly and turned over on the sofa to face the back cushions, burying your face into it to yell, because even if it didn’t do anything physically it did help emotionally, and in your humble opinion that was half the battle. “What did the sofa ever do to you?” You heard a voice say, and you almost tripped over your own feet as you launched yourself upward to greet your lover at the door. Spencer reached out and managed to catch you with a laugh, though his face showed concern. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, squeezing your eyes against tears, both from pain and gratitude to have Spencer home. “I missed you.” You whispered into his ear, and Spencer reached over to pick up your favourite drink from the counter, offering it to you. “This is for you. I also know you’ve not been eating right while I was gone, so I’ll cook tonight. You just relax.” He said, leading you back to the sofa. You did cry then, overwhelmed by huge emotions. Spencer gave you a minute to calm yourself down while he refilled your hot water bottle with hot water, then when he returned it was also with tissues to wipe your face.

“Come on, let’s get comfortable and we’ll watch a movie.” He said, choosing not to comment on your tears, which was probably for the best. He understood, as best as he could without experiencing it, what you were going through and therefore he was able to work with your needs. He grabbed you the remote and handed it over to you, allowing you to pick out which movie you wanted to watch rather than going through the prolonged process of scrolling to find something or suggesting things. “You’re the best, do you know that?” You asked softly, and Spencer just laughed, pressing a kiss to your head. “I’m just trying to help.” He said, a light flush to his cheeks. “You’re really good at it. You always know what to say and what I need.” You replied, taking a long sip from your drink. You hadn’t even known that you wanted it yourself, and yet Spencer had just known, without even speaking to you. “Because I learned, and I did that because I love you.” He said, as if it were easy as breathing. Your friends often joked that you’d need to share him, because he was the only good man in over a hundred miles, but they’d need to find their own man because this one was yours. “I love you too.” Gently, you pressed your lips to Spencer’s, smiling all the while. When you separated, you started your favourite movie playing and settled in at your boyfriend’s side, getting as comfortable as you could in the circumstances.

You hated your period, but Spencer made it just that little bit more bearable.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @hyperfixationthingss @queenmimi2817

If you'd like to tip me you can head over to my Kofi

[loserabby]

Caitlyn mommy kink 🫢 who said that

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚.     𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 mommy!cait x gf!reader

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **

₊˚ 𓂃 ₊ ˚ ✧     cait's ambition and role as commander means she spends less time at home, you're understanding of the importance of what she does but it doesn't make the neediness any easier when you only see her in fleeting moments. you think you're doing well keeping yourself satisfied while your mommy's hard at work until you can't anymore — making cait realise how she's neglected you recently.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 :     canon compliant, established relationship, commander!cait, mommy kink, fingering (r!recieving), masturbation mentions, soft dom!cait, finger sucking, very slight dirty talk, use of nicknames (darling, sweet girl), gonna say VERY SLIGHT somnophilia as reader is half-asleep/sleepy but they're awake enough to consent — just in case for anyone 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 :     1,597k

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 :     ngl wrote the ENTIRE thing and it only occured to me THEN that you might have meant caitlyn having a mommy kink for reader... so honestly, just take it as it is and sorry if its not what was asked for oops. also !!! it's my first time writing in arcane, sorry if it's a little ooc i'm still trying to get a hold on how everyone speaks, mannerisms etc so i just wrote a little something to ease into everything.     [ read on ao3 ]

[ border credit ]     [ resources for palestine ]

The bed dips behind you, shifting as someone climbs into the silk sheets. You stir, disturbed by the movement and lift your head slightly to peer over your shoulder only for Caitlyn’s soft hand to gently rest on your shoulder, pressing you softly back down to the plush pillows. Despite the excessive size of her bed, you’d purposely slept closer to Caitlyn’s side of the bed so you’d wake when she finally trudged home.

“Everything’s okay, darling. Go back to sleep for me, okay?” She asks so sweetly if not slightly weary herself, carefully pulling the sheets over the two of you before she pulls your back to her chest. You can feel her bare legs tangled with yours, her strong arm protectively (or is it possessive?) over your lower waist, resting below your tummy as she rests her chin on your shoulder. You can smell the fresh scent of her body wash but beneath that the ever present scent of gunpowder you’ve come to associate with her, feel the silk of her chemise on the skin of your ass where your own chemise has risen up.

She’s been working so much lately, longer hours and more and more responsibility that you barely saw her anymore. Only in stolen moments in the night these days, where you’d be briefly woken by her coming home and leaving. You understood, it had took work to earn her position as Commander and Caitlyn was nothing if not a perfectionist, but this mission was also personal. Sometimes you worried she sunk too much of herself into revenge that she might lose herself to it.

But as much as you understood it, you couldn’t help but feel… Neglected for it. You only saw her through bleary eyes, only felt her touch when dazed by the fog of sleep, the press of her lips as the morning sun barely rose in the sky. You didn’t want to be selfish but you were getting beyond needy.

Burying your face into her pillow, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the scent that was just… Her as you rode your own fingers, clit grinding against the heel of your palm becomes a nightly routine, your pussy weeping as you think of her cooing in your ear gentle praises.

You’re not quite sure how many times in the last week you’ve had to get yourself off in total, nevermind how many times each night before you finally feel sated. It’s normally when your legs feel like jelly and your pussy drenched and dripping slick down your quivering thighs. 

Sometimes you hold pieces of her clothing to your face, inhaling her scent further to help bring you to the edge over and over, but the longer you keep doing that the more obscene it becomes. It goes from holding one of her shirts to your face to her panties at way too quick of a rate, a mortifying secret you hope Cait never finds out.

And once you’re done, once you think you couldn’t possibly wring another orgasm out of yourself thinking of her, you take yourself off to the en-suite and clean yourself up, slipping into bed after and pretending like everything is normal. Acting like your normal, dutiful self.

Only tonight? Tonight you musn’t of cum enough — although one would argue five times was certainly enough — because you’re whining under too gentle a caress of her fingertips against your lower belly above your sheer chemise, a low heat simmering just a touch below. 

Your ass moves back against her hips, grinding against her core like you’re looking for something specific. Mainly because you are, but it was wishful thinking she’d be wearing the strap to bed after a near enough twenty hour shift.

Caitlyn’s hand moves to your hip on her free side, stilling you as she laughs softly and with amusement. “Someone is needy. Tell me, darling, have you missed me?”

You whine sleepily, incoherent mumbling as you try desperately to move your hips again (despite knowing you’d still get no relief). “Mhm— missed y’smuch”

She makes an appreciative sound, head moving along your shoulder as she looks at your face — all scrunched up, eyes still shut from tiredness. If it weren’t for that familiar crease in your brow you always get when you’re so worked up or the way you’re softly panting, she’d tell you to go to sleep and wait til morning. “Missed your mommy, is that it?” she asks, hand lifting from your hip bone to reach up and brush hair from your face. She trusts you not to move without her say so and you don’t, trained ever so well.

Her lips press softly against the skin of your shoulders, listening to every hitch and quiver of your breath not broken by your needy mewling. “You’re not going to be able to sleep if I don’t take care of you, are you my darling?” She asks, your head shaking no softly in response. “And if I were to hazard a guess: if I were to reach my hand up here,” Her fingers graze the soft skin of your inner thighs, a soft tap to encourage you to spread your legs which you so easily adhere to. “I would find you… Ah, yes…  Soaking wet.”

Her touch sends a shiver down your spine, a soft gasp falling from your lips as your head falls back against her while her fingers drag slowly down your drenched slit. She teases gently, bringing your slick up to your clit before lightly circling your aching bud. “Sweet girl, have you been aching for me all this time? So messy, you must really be worked up, I’m surprised you aren’t begging like a pup for me. Much too tired I suppose?” Cait’s tired drawl as she slowly builds pressure against your clit, feeling it pulse against her. 

You nod in response, whining and grinding against her touch. “Pl-Please, mommy, I’ll be good. Need it… Need you, miss you, please” You babble incoherently, feeling how easily she’s bringing you to the edge already.

She’s peppering the side of your face in kisses, murmurs of good girl and so precious for mommy as two fingers sink into your pussy, her thumb taking over working your clit. You clench around the sudden intrusion, your arousal easing the slight sting as Caitlyn wastes no time stretching you open. 

You gasp at the feeling, having missed the sensation of her inside of you, your mewling and gasping eclipsing the filthy sound of your cunt squelching each time her fingers move in and out of you. It’s embarrassing how fast she brings you to the cusp of your orgasm, thighs clenching and body shaking, back arching away from her as you feel yourself gush down her hand.

“There we are, sweet girl, that’s right… Cum for me, darling, show mommy how much you’ve missed me.” She coos softly in your ear as she works you through it, only pulling her fingers away when you’re so overstimulated you’re arching away. 

She lifts her fingers to your mouth, lips dropping open without request as you kitten-lick her digits clean. “You taste wonderful don’t you, darling? Like a dream” You groan at her words, nodding softly in agreement until each one of her fingers has been cleaned by your tongue swirling around, swallowing all trace of yourself from her skin. You don’t drop her fingers from your mouth until she gently eases them out, idly sucking on them for a few moments for comfort.

“There we are, sweet girl. What do you say?”

“Thank you, mommy”

Her lips press to the side of your face, slight pressure behind the kiss before she brings her fingers from your mouth to brush your hair from your face again. “That should tide you over until morning, shouldn’t it?” She asks as you turn to face her, burying your face in the crook of her neck — inhaling her scent once more like it can ground you.

You nod, eyes closed and still pressed against her skin. “Miss you, never see you anymore” your words are muffled but she can still hear the ache, the longing in them. Her arms wrap around you, pulling you closer to her as she hugs you.

She knew she’d been focusing on work, knew she was sacrificing certain things to achieve others but she hadn’t realised you were one of the things she’d been unintentionally sacrificing. Time, intimacy, she only saw you in this bed, saw the echoes of you in the Kirraman estate whenever she wandered through its halls late at night or early in the morning. Your book left on the side table next to your favourite arm chair, your cardigan left in the mudroom no doubt from when a day became too hot in the gardens and you had forgotten to collect it.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Her lips brush a kiss to your hairline, breathing in the lingering scent of your shampoo and perfume. “You’ll have me tomorrow, and I’ll make sure I’m at home more from now on. Can’t have my favourite girl aching for me like this, can I?”

You can feel your cheeks heating at her words, but your heart flutters at the promise in her words. Another kiss presses to your forehead before she speaks again, “Go back to sleep, sweet girl. We’ll make up for lost time in the morning, okay?”

You nod, allowing the drowsiness of sleep to start to take you. “Goodnight Cait” you murmur, your hands curled into her navy locks.

“Goodnight darling”

[sooohunnie]

Hii can you write for Lucinda Lavish please

Have a great day pookie

yes!! same warning from the last (Might be OOC) but here it is!!

Forward

paring: Lucinda Lavish x GN!reader

summary: Despite your time with the Dateviators you haven't found anyone as of yet...but now that you have, you're still lost.

tags: First time meeting, Lucinda being Lavish, Reader being wholesome, reader wants that cookie so bad, Lucinda isn't used to affection, fluff, ficlet, GN!reader!!!

CW!!: Lucinda Lavish being Lucinda (aka sexual talk), OOC????

-----------------------

You were in the middle of dealing with Drysdale’s and Washford’s entire…situation. “Self-sworn-in marriage counselor” you would describe yourself to be. Unfortunately, however, you had to make a rain check on that, as when you went to examine one of them with your dateviators…

A gorgeous-looking woman appeared in front of you instead of the GILF you were expecting.

So now, for the past 15 minutes, you have been conversing with the embodiment of…well you didn’t know what exactly, but nevertheless you were enjoying yourself. After all the women in front of you stood with the confidence of one of those Brazilian carnival women. She was shiny and pretty, and everything you’ve ever wanted, really. 

Your time with the dateviators had been great—more than great even. It’s the most amount of social interaction you’ve had in a while! But despite having “date” in the name…you haven’t found yourself eager for one. None of the datables were quite your style, and you’ve begun fearing that this would be hopeless.

That was until you met Lucinda Lavish.

“I can reward you amply~” Lucinda’s voice drops into a lower tone as she leans in closer to you. Her hands were placed to accentuate her bosom.

Your eyes quickly look down, curious at what she was doing. But just as they did, they found her eyes again. This seems to make Lucinda smile wider.

“Amply~” She emphasizes.

You couldn’t exactly tell what she was getting at, but she seemed just as eager as you, “Reward?” you ask tentatively.

“Yeah~” She purrs, “Anything you want~”

You think about it for a second. Anything? Well…if that were the case…

“Can we go on a date?” You ask with an excited smile on your lips.

Lucinda buffers for a second, “I—uhm…”

“I mean if you want—” You emphasize, “We can always just hang out here—whatever you want!”

Lucinda’s brow furrows, her eyes squinting, “I mean—I was offering a little cop and feel. But sure a date—what were you thinking? Maybe a visit to a motel? Naked twister?”

“Talking!”

“...talking?”

You nod your head eagerly to the dismay of the women in front of you.

“I mean there’s not much there—uh.” She has to think for a moment, “...you sure you don’t want me to just talk to you sexy?”

“The only talking I would enjoy would be talking about you!”

She seems to get a bit irritated at that, scoffing as she turns away. You blink, most definitely confused. Don’t people usually like talking about themselves? She seemed way more into the former option of sexy talk.

You step a bit closer to her, “Are you mad I don’t wanna be sexual with you?” you ask genuinely, “Cause if that’s the case—I mean I can try—”

“No. That’s already passed.” She sighs gently, “...Why do you want what I want?”

Was that a bad thing to do? Putting the person’s needs you wanna get with ahead of yours?

“Because I want you to feel important?” you shrug, “I mean I’m not very good at this dating stuff but you seem interesting…and you're really pretty…I wanna know you.”

She blinks, before looking away, “I guess I’m not used to that.”

You move to take her hand into yours, “I’d be willing to get you used to it?”

That gets her red, it’s a blush that didn’t even appear when she was all sensual before.

“You’re…forward.”

You look away confused for a second, was this really more forward than inviting someone to touch your boobs?

“I’ll proudly be forward if it means I get to know more about it.”

Her cheeks reddened even more, “But what if there isn’t anything?”

“We can figure you out together then.”

Immediately you feel your face being covered by her hands as an embarrassed shout comes from her.

-----------------------------

I was really inspired by that one scene in Inside Job with Brett unionizing and legalizing sex work. Uhm I like Miss.Lavish and I hope I did her a bit of justice!

I love women - Hunnithan!!!

[intrepidacious]

time after time [10]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.2k

chapter warnings: another mystery gets revealed; canon-typical violence; grief; angst and miscommunication but also a surprising amount of fluff; oh, and time-fuckery. i've missed my time-fuckery 😈 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's not friday but i got a new haircut and we're in the endgame now (if you'll excuse the pun) so let's do this

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

ten: about time

You liked the anonymity the big city granted you, even though most days, New York felt almost crushingly huge. The crowds swallowed you up and spat you back out again, feeling dizzied and hollow. Sirens wailed and traffic buzzed and life around you hummed in constant cacophony.

But more people meant a better chance of flying under the radar, and that was exactly what you wanted.

No, what you needed.

Even more so now that you were back in the vicinity of the limelight.

"You know," you said as the building caved in on itself, walls going up in flames one by one. "Sometimes I wonder why anyone still lives in this place."

Sam snorted.

"Seriously," you said, taking your place between him and Bucky again. "Rent is outrageous, the streets are crowded, and every other week another catastrophe happens that insurance companies will weasel their way out of covering. So what’s the point?"

"You didn’t grow up here, did ya?"

You weren’t used to Bucky reacting to your rhetorical questions at all, let alone without venom in his voice. Most of the time, you were sure he tuned you out entirely.

"Why," you said in lieu of answering.

He shook his head. "I’ve been gone a long time and there’s a lot of things that changed, but there’s a feeling you get … that’s still the same. Can’t find that anywhere else."

Like home, you thought with a familiar pang in your heart.

"Can I ask you something?" you asked, kicking a pebble as you were walking. It flew across the sidewalk, landing just in front of Bucky’s shoes. He stepped over it.

"Is there a world in which you’re not gonna if I say no?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

He frowned, clearly not having expected that kind of question. But it tugged at you still. Always had, like a whisper in the back of your mind; what if you chose wrong? What if you irreparably ruined the way things were supposed to go? What if—

"I don’t," Bucky replied.

"Me either," Sam said. "I mean, millions of possible worlds and this is the one we get? I don’t want that to be fate."

You turned towards him. "What if the other options are way worse?"

"Like what? Wait, no, don’t answer that. I’m having an alright day."

"Don’t wanna think about how we might all be puppets pulled by invisible strings with no free will to speak of?"

"Y/N," Sam said, the levity from his tone missing now, tilting his head.

To your right, Bucky’s hands were clenched at his sides, his back very straight. Shit.

A wave of guilt rushed through you, unexpected and brutal, thoughtless, "I didn’t—"

"It comes down to choices," he said, very calmly. "What we are and aren’t able to do. What we know. Who we trust."

You swallowed heavily and dropped the idea of attempting a redo. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t have worked, anyway. "You know, Steve said something similar when I asked him once," you said instead. "About people and choices."

Bucky pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "I bet he did."

Maybe fate, in that one case, would’ve been a kinder option.

For a second, you tried to imagine a universe in which the past had worked out differently; where the Soldier never inhabited that dark place at the edge of Bucky’s mind.

You would’ve gotten along great, you know.

You tried to imagine it for a moment; meeting him back in a time before, walking through the streets of New York City side by side in silence with an easy smile on his face. You doubted he ever smiled at all now.

Besides, there was no point in imagining universes that never would’ve been, anyway. Out there, there was a world in which he’d died a happy man, years or decades ago, and you … you’d still have been alone, just as you were now, floating between realities. Staring at thin air and wondering about what could never have been. That was the only thing constant in your life, the one certainty amidst mediocre decisions and timeless space.

Maybe fate was just an ugly torture; or a sorry consolation.

"Right," you said as the wall of journalists rounded the corner. "I’ll see you back at the Tower."

Bucky clapped Sam on the back. "You got this, Cap."

"You’re both assholes."

You dispersed in opposite directions, and you pulled out your headphones as you headed towards the nearest subway station, putting your playlist on shuffle.

"A long, long time ago … I can still remember how that music used to make me smile …"

It punched the air out of your lungs, and for a moment you stopped in the middle of the street, the world around you pausing in shock. Your vision blurred as slowly, movements and noise returned around you, people bumping into you and cursing as you stared at your screen, the song stuttering back to life note by note.

To your own surprise, you found you were smiling.

Happy accidents, indeed.

* * * * *

It’s never happened, you tell yourself. You’ve gotten quite convincing over the past half hour. Dodge Sam’s kicks, feign to the right, ignore the fact that you just kissed Bucky.

Your rush of Sanctum-induced energy has burned down to a simmer at the very back of your mind again, and even though you should probably examine that and its implications, you’ve not been able to focus all morning.

It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s not going to say anything about it because it’s never happened.

Why, then, when he says your name, does it make you want to bolt?

"Y/N," he says again.

You let out a breath. "Barnes."

This was a mistake. You should’ve just stayed in your room. Should’ve packed your things and just left, moved to Canada, or maybe asked for asylum in Kamar-Taj. Surely, Wong would’ve taken pity on you a second time.

Then again, what good would any of that have done? The loop would never let go of you that easily.

The symbols around your wrist tingle, and you fight the urge to scratch. You can feel that Bucky is staring at you, but you can’t look at him. You can’t.

"You done?" you say with faux lightness. "Don’t worry, I know which towel to take."

Pretend is what you’re good at. No matter how tiring it is, you’ve done it all your life. There’s no other way to cope with realities that are no longer real.

Unfortunately, Bucky’s never been inclined to let you get away with lying. "Stop it," he says now.

He sounds tired.

You slip out of the ring, keeping your head down, refusing to yield, "I’ll see you for coffee?"

His hand closes around your wrist and you freeze mid-step. "We need to—would you please look at me?"

You square your shoulders and finally turn to face him. His eyes are wide, intense, pinning you down like you’re a rare kind of butterfly. Your heart skips a little, and you hate yourself for it.

"We need to talk about this," Bucky says.

You hide a wince. "Do we have to?"

"Yes! You—" His cheeks are tinged a soft shade of pink, but you can’t tell if it’s from his run or frustration. You’re certain he’s never looked at you like this before, bewildered and almost betrayed—"You kissed me."

The sentence drops a chasm between you, reality mended against its will. It’s not real, but it was; and you’re not the only one that remembers.

"I know," you say quietly.

The admission conjures the memory again in even more horrific detail. You can still feel the way his entire body froze up against yours, blood curdling in your bones as the scene replays over and over again. You’ve only just started to become friends on equal terms, and now you’ve gone and thrown something like that at him.

What a colossally stupid thing to do.

Bucky’s hair is mussed, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly. He searches for something on your face, and you cannot tell for the life of you what he sees. "And it reset the loop."

You blink. So that’s what this is about. Inadvertently, you’ve found the most ill-timed literal loophole of the century. No one died during the last Friday; you didn’t even have to go on the mission or throw yourself off a building. The solution, it appears, is as simple and as complicated as a kiss.

Truly, there couldn’t have been a worse way to make him aware of your feelings.

Then again … what does Bucky know, really? Nothing. He’d caught you in a moment of weakness, is all. A temporary madness. Not a big deal at all. So why make it one?

Your feelings aren’t his burden to bear.

"Look at it this way," you say, with a too-bright smile. "We found a way around you catching a bullet at the end of every day. It’s not like it has to mean anything."

You want to take it back almost as quickly as it comes out, but there’s no way for you to take back the things you say anymore. You both know that, and you let it hang in the air for a while.

Bucky swallows. "Well, did you know that this would happen?"

You want to laugh. Out of all possible reactions he could’ve had, you didn’t see this one coming. "How on earth would I have known that?"

His eyes flit between yours, confirming your honesty. "I don’t know, I’m just—this is a lot to process."

Ah. Ah.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste iron. "Take your time, then," you say and turn to leave, but he still doesn’t let go of you.

"Twe—Y/N, come on, give me five seconds here."

"No, it’s fine." An odd kind of hurt rushes through you, making every sentence come out sharp and poisonous. "I love the fact that you were immediately willing to jump off the roof every day but the thought of us kissing is something you need to think about. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me."

"I know that," Bucky says, his flush darkening, "but call me old-fashioned in that I don’t generally like kissing people transactionally."

So you’re people now.

"You’re old-fashioned," you confirm, freeing your hand from his grip. "This isn’t fun for me either, okay? But since this is literally a matter of life and death, I think it’s a damn good compromise. We don’t have to make this a whole thing."

"Well, maybe it should be a whole thing."

"What does that even mean? This doesn’t change things, not really."

"This changes plenty. You think you like me, don’t you." It sounds like an accusation.

You take a half step towards him. "Why are you saying it like that?"

"Because you don’t, actually."

With a pang, you remember before. The constant bickering, the passive-aggressive notes, your rolling eyes and his glaring. Before, when your feelings were easy and surface level, when developing a crush on James Buchanan Barnes would have seemed as likely as receiving a Nobel prize.

Or unraveling reality because he took a shot that was meant for you.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have taken you this long to decipher what had tenderly started a very long time before Bryant Park. It was there already, in every time you’ve waited for him first thing in the morning, in every cup of coffee and desperate attempt to save him. You see him stone-faced in the quinjet, picking the lock of the public library, guiding you over broken pieces of glass on your bedroom floor, sitting down on the couch next to you, every version of him on this day already so deeply nestled into the very core of your heart that it’s hard to believe it might’ve ever been otherwise.

And so you say, "Of course I do."

"No, you don’t," Bucky says, that tick in his jaw reappearing. "This is just—I don’t know, trauma bonding."

For the first time since the loop started, you actually do want to kill him. "Oh, get a grip, Barnes."

"We’ve never spent this much time together—"

"We fucking live together—"

"—let alone the fact that this whole situation is a nightmare—"

"—and even if we didn’t, I don’t understand what your problem is right now—"

"—so you’re bound to think there’s more to it than—”

"—and also can you stop telling me what I think?"

You stare at each other, unblinking, both of you daring the other to break the silence. Finally, Bucky relents.

"I’m just saying that you wouldn’t be … acting this way if we weren’t the only two people that are aware of what’s happening to us."

You shake your head, slowly. "That’s not true."

His logic is flawed, but can you fault him for that? You’re used to being the person that remembers; you’ve had so much more time to make up your mind, on Friday and all the days that came before.

"You can’t stand me, remember?" Bucky maintains, his back straightening. "Because I do."

"Things changed."

"No." He presses his lips together. "No, not this. You’re wrong. You don’t … like me."

Your shoulders slump, but you don’t look away from him, even as your cheeks burn. "I do."

Even as he backs away from you and your heart aches so badly you want to scream, even as his wide eyes freeze over, slowly, as he regards you in all your fucked-up, sweaty glory. Expecting rejection doesn’t take away from the pain as it happens in real time; and yet, you find yourself meeting it with your head held high.

Somehow you know that even if you had access to your powers right now, you wouldn’t reach for them.

"You can’t do this to me right now," Bucky says, voice devoid of any emotion. "It’s not real."

You let out a joyless laugh and step up to him again. This time, he doesn’t retreat; only watches you with careful, vacant eyes as you put a hand right over his heart. It’s racing under your touch. "Does this feel not real to you?"

He swallows. "It’s temporary. This world is falling apart."

It always is, you think. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you blurt, "We should go out, then."

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. "What?"

"Out," you repeat, your cheeks flaming. "While were not getting shot at."

"Are you—are you asking me on a date?"

"I’m not actually sure," you say, dropping your hand. "But I can’t keep letting you die, I just can’t. And if that’s the way that you … that we …"

You’re being stripped naked under his unwavering eyes, and you just don’t know what it means. The band around your wrist hums lowly through your blood as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palms.

"If we want to figure this out—whatever this is—we should spend more time together."

"Time," Bucky repeats tonelessly.

"You know what I mean. I mean, maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ll find out we’re never going to get along, but at least I don’t have to watch you die for a couple of loops. Like I said, it doesn’t have to be a big deal," you reiterate, your throat tightening. "Other than you not having to get shot every day. And who knows, maybe we’ll end up as friends after all this."

"Right," Bucky says, frowning. Not budging. The tips of his ears are burning.

There’s a flicker behind his eyes, like he’s keeping himself from saying something else.

Tell me.

Hope is a terrible, dangerous thing, and it only gets people hurt.

"Fine," he says at last. "Let’s try."

* * *

"Big lesson number one: All the time travel in the world can’t make someone love you."

Out of the corner of your eye, you steal a glance at Bucky. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes calmly focused on the screen, his expression neutral, his back very straight.

You keep twisting your rings around your fingers and waiting for the blood to stop rushing quite so loudly in your ears.

Your run of terrible ideas, it seems, continues on as you pretend to be invested in the movie while hyperaware of Bucky’s presence next to you. The two of you are next to each other on the same couch, much like you were during the fireworks; only this time, you’re very careful not to touch.

This is what you get for stupid suggestions: awkward silence and the sinking feeling of regret. After all, isn’t more time stuck together kind of the last thing the two of you need right now? Shouldn’t you be doing something to try to end this, once and for all?

Because although you’ve already spent a lot more time with Bucky during these past couple of Fridays, you’ve not done it aimlessly since you lost an afternoon at Bryant Park.

That look on his face he got during that loop is long gone, lifetimes away, and you can’t decide if it’s better or worse that he doesn’t even remember getting it in the first place.

Still, it’s remarkably similar, in some ways. The quiet ease you feel next to him, despite it all. The slight frown between his brows as the movie continues blabbering on in the background. This mix of uncertainty and reassurance rushing through you, making your heart rate go up.

Tell me. What? What did it mean, then? What would it mean, now?

It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t mean anything. It cannot mean anything. You’ve established as much.

Alpine slinks around the couch table and jumps up onto the sofa next to you, pawing at your arm until you let her climb into your lap. She doesn’t settle, exactly, but she keeps tracking the movement of your hands with her head. It distracts you for a while, and you smile as you readjust your position to scratch her head.

She smells a little like Bucky.

"This is so stupid," you finally say. Normally, it’s easy for you to poke fun at the inaccuracies of time travel movies, but this one is … different. You’ve always had a soft spot for it, even though you could never point out why. Maybe it’s the underlying melancholy of its rules that connects to the very core of you.

Right now, though, the characters on screen are having marathon sex and you want to die.

"You’re the one who picked it out," Bucky reminds you, taking a sip of his coffee.

And yeah, fine. In your defense, though, all of his suggestions were at least seventy years old and you had to veto with something to avoid another Hitchcock, or worse, a silent film.

Alpine is still restless in your lap, tapping the inlets in Bucky’s arm like they’re a piece of thread she’s playing with. Without warning, she jumps right over, landing in the crook of his elbow with feline precision.

Unexpectedly, Bucky winces, picking her up with his other hand and putting her down on the floor. She lets out an accusatory cry, bumping her head against his leg.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"It’s fine," he hisses, looking the opposite of fine. "It happens sometimes. It’s the, uhm." He rolls his shoulder. "Not all the connective tissue healed properly."

"Can I do anything?"

"No, it’s okay. You might wanna just … this is kinda gross."

He grabs the metal arm by the joint and gives a sharp twist. With a whirring, metallic sound, it detaches from its socket, fingers frozen in their strain. It thumps onto the space between you on the couch, and Bucky sighs as the weight disappears from the old scars hidden under his shirt. He doesn’t look at you as he rubs the aching muscles, his jaw tensing even more at the pressure.

You watch him as softness blooms painfully in the pit of your stomach, warm and fond and impossible.

"I’m disappointed," you say at last, your voice cracking ever so slightly.

His fingers halt for just a moment before digging into his skin even more tightly. "I know it’s not—"

"I’m waiting for the gross part," you interrupt him. "I thought you’d have blood bags installed that were gonna explode or something."

An incredulous huff of a laugh escapes him. "That’s your definition of gross?"

"Don’t forget I’ve watched you die literally dozens of times," you remind him, tracing the golden lines laced through the vibranium. It seems less invasive, now that they’re not attached to him. "And I like your arm," you add quietly.

Bucky keeps looking at the screen, but you know he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye. You can feel it.

"It’s grotesque," he says.

"It’s impressive," you correct, absent-mindedly reaching for his pinkie. "But that tracks."

He stays silent for so long, you almost start to believe he’s not heard you at all. Finally, though, he clears his throat and asks, "Is he ever gonna tell her he’s a time traveler?"

It takes you a moment to remember the movie. "I don’t think so."

Bucky nods, producing the small notebook he always carries from his back pocket. "He’s a dick."

You snort and return to your side of the couch. "I know, right? We can watch something else if you want."

"Nah, it’s fine." He flicks through his notebook, jotting something down in the back.

"Do these keep?" you ask when he pockets it again.

"They don’t," he says simply, redirecting his attention to the screen.

You hum, attempting to lure Alpine closer with a shiny bit of chocolate wrapper. She’s decidedly uninterested.

"Were you so bored with the play you decided to ask me to marry you afterwards?"

"Something like that."

"I haven’t even asked," Bucky says and you flinch.

"Huh?" you say, a little shrilly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh. Yeah. Mostly normal again, I think."

His gaze flits to your hand as it goes to play with the pendant around your neck before returning to your eyes. "Anything … weird?"

You kissed him you kissed him you kissed him you—

"Not really." You clear your throat.

"I think you’re right, by the way," Bucky says.

"About what?"

He keeps staring straight ahead, his pen tapping against his thigh. "It doesn’t have to mean anything."

Even though it was your suggestion in the first place, it stings a little. You can’t help it.

"If Wong’s right, we’re already running out of time," Bucky continues. "We can figure everything else out once we’re out of this loop, but for now we should just focus on getting this right."

You hesitate. "You’re making it sound like we haven’t been doing just that all along."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know."

There’s something you’re missing staring you right in the face, but the problem with going through the same day so many times is that you’re running out of things to do. There’s only so much to do in these limited few hours you get before it all starts over again, because everything apart from the two of you stays the same every time.

Bucky’s arm glints in the morning sun like it’s threaded with gold string, his shoulders relaxed, and a different memory stirs in your mind.

That’s a lot of dedication when you could’ve just asked.

"What would you normally be doing right now?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You trying to get rid of me already?"

"No. I’m saying you’re usually more unpredictable."

"Thank you."

"Not really a compliment. Sam has more going on on every given day than the two of us combined, but at least he’s consistent. You’re the one with no hobbies."

"What do you do for fun then?"

"I … Fuck you."

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he blushes.

"So, say there’s no time loop today, no mission, you have no memory of any of this shit. Normal July 4th. Where are you going?"

"Where am I going?"

"Before you remembered, when I didn’t tell you that you were going to die, you always disappeared for hours every morning. And then after Sam’s speech, you were gone again until the mission."

It’s another piece of the puzzle that you’re still missing.

Bucky contemplates you, taking another sip of coffee. His mouth does the little twitch again. "And you’re telling me you’ve never asked me that before?"

"Oh, I did," you reply. "A lot. I also tried following you once and you called me a shit spy."

"Well, you are." There’s a hint of a smile in his voice when he reaches for his arm. "Get your shoes, then."

* * *

It’s a long train ride down to Brooklyn, but it doesn’t feel like it. You manage to get a seat after a few stops, and because Bucky hasn’t said a word to you since you were standing on the platform, you take to watching the people around you.

It’s exciting, in a way, to be in a new space for the first time in a while. Not to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You’ve been making little pockets of time for yourself every now and again, walking different routes home after getting coffee or varying the time at which you leave, but it’s not the same as venturing into a different part of the city. There’s been too much going on for you to have even considered that.

"Are you going to tell me where we’re headed?" you ask after a while, when he has to step over your legs to make room for a stroller.

"Now where’d be the fun in that?" he answers, and then he turns silent again.

A small child is hugging a Mickey Mouse plushie to their chest and pointing at the window, wailing loudly. A girl with a septum piercing and at least three tote bags over her shoulders manages to maneuver a cello case and a scooter onto the carriage, leaning both against the back of some seats before taking out her phone and calmly starting to scroll. An elderly lady watches the whole affair, mumbling to herself disapprovingly, then resumes her knitting.

You catch Bucky already looking at you when you glance up at him. Something about it makes your cheeks heat and turn away quickly.

You remember that his government-issued apartment used to be somewhere near Flatbush, and you have a fleeting thought that this might be where you’re headed, even though that doesn’t really make sense. He still doesn’t make any attempt to move when you pass it by, continuing to stare out the window, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around the handrail above your head.

Finally, the train rolls to its last stop, and you make ready to get off with the rest of the passengers.

"Coney Island, huh?" you say as the heat on the platform slaps you across the face.

"Coney Island," Bucky repeats affirmingly. His hands are back in his pockets, and he doesn’t elaborate, even though you notice the significance in the way he says it.

Two words titling another subchapter in the mystery book that is James Buchanan Barnes.

You follow the masses streaming towards the water and a sigh dislodges from your throat. It’s been way too long since you’ve properly heard the ocean.

The beach is already swarming with people despite the fact it’s not even noon yet, filled with raucous laughter and music playing, but the sound of crashing waves is unmistakable. It fills you with a sense of longing, though for what you’re not sure.

Bucky keeps his hands tucked away as the two of you stroll along the boardwalk, dodging people left and right, until you have to grab hold of his sleeve in order to not get pulled away. His shoulders tense slightly, but he lets you, leading you towards the pier as if he, too, feels the pull coming from the sea.

You can’t figure out the look on his face. It’s like a weight has fallen off him when you left Manhattan, despite the crowds being considerably more dense down here, and yet there’s an anticipatory tension to his frame that you’ve only seen him assume in combat.

You clear your throat and he washes his face off it. "Is it usually like this?" you ask.

"It used to be not quite so bad," Bucky says, which isn’t quite what you asked. "Not this loud at least."

"What?" you shout teasingly. It earns you an eyeroll.

Thirty, you think. Took him long enough.

"We used to come here every summer," he continues, bending down to pick up a perfectly round pebble from the side of the road and weighing it in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. "Ate hot dogs until we were sick. Rode some of the rides if we could afford it. You know them fortune teller automatons? My sisters were obsessed with that."

Maybe you should recount the days you’ve been stuck in the loop, because this feels like an early birthday present. You hold on tightly to his sleeve, not wanting to interrupt the unusual flow of words. Bucky’s smile is miles away. Decades away.

"Becks came with us every year on the fourth, even when she was little. The twins never liked crowds much, but Rebecca loved it all. The noise and the excitement." His mouth tilts up in a grin. "One year, she was desperate for one of those giant stuffed teddy bears you can win," he says, nodding at one of the booths up ahead, "but we were all down to our last couple’a dimes, so she pretended she didn’t want it after all. Steve went, 'Hold on a minute', and he somehow won her that damn bear with two shots."

"Always the hero," you say quietly. Somehow, he hears you through the commotion.

"Yeah." He stops walking, then, leaning against the metal railing of the pier, letting the people flow past you. "The two of us would come here every year before the war, rain or shine, unless one of us was sick."

Nostalgia makes him seem younger, despite the tired eyes and the stubble on his cheek; or maybe this place is its own sort of time capsule and he’s just filling in that space he used to occupy.

"He kept it up." You’re not sure if you should tell him at all, if it helps or if it only makes this day a little more painful. But you figure that if it was you, you’d want to know. "During the Blip, he was always gone for his birthday. Only came home in the evening, I never asked why, though. I figured he just wanted—what?"

Bucky’s snickering. "You know today isn’t actually Steve’s birthday, right?"

"What?"

"He panicked during one of those press tours they had him do in ’41, said his birthday’s on the fourth. Everyone just ran with it without double-checking." He shakes his head. "I mean, Captain America born on Independence Day? The headlines practically wrote themselves."

"But—when’s his actual birthday then?"

"January 4th. Punk made himself half a year older than he actually is."

You laugh. "Of course he’s a Capricorn. That makes so much sense."

Bucky looks at you with raised eyebrows. "Was that a cap pun?"

You shove his arm and immediately regret it when your elbow hits vibranium. "That was terrible," you say. "The point is, he didn’t forget about your tradition."

"That was a while ago, though. 'Specially for him." He ducks his head. "I don’t know. I just wanted to see if …" He huffs mirthlessly. "Don’t think I’d even really want to see him. Not sure what I’d say to him if I did."

"How about, 'Hey, I’m stuck in a time loop, nice to see you?'"

He smiles as you lean against the railing next to him, your shoulders almost touching. "He’s done with that life. It’s fine."

You don’t know how he bears it. Being left behind already hurt bad enough for you, and you only knew Steve a couple of years, or maybe not at all. It sounds too painful, to be forced to keep wondering what if.

"I disagree," you say.

The silence that follows should be heavy, but the sea swallows it up; and so it floats. Around you, life goes on. People are shouting and fighting and laughing. Over at the boardwalk, a couple of buskers are just starting their set. A familiar melody drifts up to you, and it makes your heart ache a little, even though it’s not sad at all. It reminds you of Nat’s smile.

You watch the shadows that you cast over the water and you think, Dance with me, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t want to ruin this moment.

So instead, you close your eyes and you breathe it in.

* * *

You spend what feels like hours at the pier, ebbing and flowing alongside the crowd in companionable silence, the only two people alive that are aware this day is like a snake biting its own tail; beautiful and sharp-teethed.

"Do you think we should head back?" you ask finally.

"You wanna head back?" Bucky says in lieu of an answer.

"We should. What if something happens to Sam again?"

He watches you, contemplating something for a moment, before he says, "He’s not gonna go without us today."

Torres’ message comes back to your mind, the lack of urgency in it. It seems, in the beginning, you’ve gotten a lot of things wrong, and you’re only just starting to chip away at those miscalculations.

Another memory, again of that day in the park.

I’m good, I didn’t end up going …Wanna just go home?

Home.

If the mission doesn’t have to happen today but you always go anyway …

"Do you ask him to go?"

He doesn’t answer, but you know his face so well by now.

"Oh, Bucky."

"Mission’s the easiest way to shut my mind up." He laughs dryly. "So, you see. Nothing about this is your fault. I pushed the first domino. Everything else happened after that."

You tug on his sleeve until he looks at you. "If I’m not allowed to blame myself, then you aren’t, either." Something twists in your gut. "Does that mean we’re not going on the mission today?"

The other question, the one you’re not asking, hangs in the air. Bucky swallows.

"It’s still early," he says.

"Right." You turn around and lean against the railing, looking at the booths on the other side of the pier. "Well, we’re here."

"I’m not riding the Cyclone with you."

You shudder. "Yeah, no thanks. Do people actually willingly go on that death trap?"

"Some idiots do," he smirks.

"Well, that’s not how I’m gonna go down, so no. I was thinking something like that." You point in the direction of one particular stand you walked past earlier.

Bucky follows your line of sight. "I thought you didn’t want any shooting today."

"That was before I saw that I could win a giant stuffed dragon."

"You know you can’t cheat, right?" He falls into step besides you with familiar ease, his hands back in his pockets.

"Let me rephrase that. That was before I saw that you could win me a giant stuffed dragon." You smile innocently and he laughs.

"I got banned from these things in ’36 but I’m sure you got this, sweetheart."

You nearly trip over your own feet as heat spreads in your chest. Bucky turns and looks at you in amusement.

You force yourself to ignore it, even though your heart is beating wildly. "That’s such a brag."

"Maybe I just want to see how your aim’s coming along."

Not at all, as it turns out. You walk away from the shooting gallery fifteen minutes later with a little plush keychain that looks like a sleeping bear, pouting.

"You could’ve helped me out," you grumble. "Instead of acting like they have your picture still up there ninety years after the fact."

"You never know. Besides, this is … cute."

"Oh, shut up, Barnes."

The keyring clacks against the back of his hand as it magnetically sticks to it. Your fingers brush as you keep holding onto the little bear. Bucky shakes his head.

"Besides," he says, gently tugging you along with the keyring still stuck to him. "You couldn’t have kept him."

He’s not wrong. Everything around you is set in stone in a way that permanence itself has lost all meaning. How can things ever be expected to change in a closed experiment?

You look around and marvel at all these lives around you, happening in just this way every single day in this loop, and yet this is the first time you’re truly aware of them. All these small, magnificent people around you, and yet it still boils down to the two of you.

"Listen, Y/N …" Bucky clears his throat, not looking at you as you keep walking. "There’s a dance to these things, and I’m not … you and me, we’re not …"

His cheeks are a dark shade of pink.

"I don’t think I follow," you say slowly.

"No. Of course. It’s just that … you should know …" He trails off again, mumbling something in Russian.

Your head is already whirring from the constant noise of the past couple of hours, but your heart is pounding faster again, something irrational like hope spreading wild and dangerous in your chest. He regards you with a sidewards glance, his eyes darkening like you’ve seen several times before now, the corner of his jaw twitching in that way of his; and so it’s easy to say it.

"Tell me."

You’ve asked him over and over, time after time, and you still haven’t gotten an answer. Weeks, months of this question that’s entirely meaningless in the grand scheme of things and yet refuses to leave the back of your mind.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, like the words are on his tongue but he needs to contain them just a little longer. His eyes trail over your face and off to the side, settling on something with a frown. "You have a …"

Thinking it’s a bug, you look at your arm and blink.

There, just below the elbow, someone has written four words in careful, slightly wonky letters. You don’t have to twist your arm to read them; you’ve done it many times.

No self-deprication. Скажи ей.

Familiar and slightly smudged under the heat of the afternoon sun, like they’ve been there all along. Like you’ve never washed them off your skin at all.

Memories meant for other timelines.

"Sorry." Bucky exhales slowly, then drags his other hand through his hair. "Think you’re up for another stop?"

Once again, you’re no closer to finding out what on earth he’s wanted to tell you all these times.

"Depends," you say, reminding yourself that you have no right to be disappointed. "Is there going to be coffee?"

"I’ll buy you some on the way." He takes a look at his wristwatch. "We have one last stop."

* * *

When you get to the cemetery, the sun is just setting on the horizon and the gates are locked. It doesn’t faze Bucky in the slightest. He just continues walking along the fencing until he reaches a couple of newspaper boxes lining it.

"After you," he says.

You stare at him. "No."

"Yes."

"You realize this is so illegal, right?"

Bucky shrugs. "I’ve done this dozens of times and they’ve not caught me yet. I’ll give you a lift."

"Again, I hate your ideas."

You place your foot into Bucky’s interlaced hands and only wince slightly when he propels you up. You come to a wobbly halt on top of the box, grabbing onto one of the spikes to keep your balance.

Bucky’s arm brushes your side when he climbs up next to you and nimbly jumps down on the other side of the fence. You sigh.

"You couldn’t have just busted the lock?"

"Probably." He opens his arms. "Come on. I’ve got you."

With a murmured curse, you take the leap. You crash into him, stumbling, his hands steadying your shoulders. You inhale involuntarily, letting yourself be surrounded by his presence for a moment before stepping away.

"I got it," you mutter.

You walk in silence as Bucky leads your way. Above your heads behind you, a passing N train rattles by.

It’s a beautiful sight, even though it’s sad. Rows upon rows of gravestones lined up as far as the eye can see, with paths crisscrossing between them.

Finally, he halts close to a spot in the shadow of an evergreen tree. You step up next to him to read the names on the stone, recognizing only the last one right above the inscriptions on the bottom.

REBECCA PROCTOR BARNES, 1926-2024

You remember the time right after he moved into the Tower; the odd hours, the baking, the candles, the silence, the long hair. The tear in his shirt. Your heart twists in regret, your mouth dry.

Bucky’s lips move with words you don’t hear, and then he pulls off his gloves and takes something out of his pocket, bending down. You recognize the pebble he picked up at the beach. He puts it down on the gravestone, then straightens again.

You reach out for his hand and squeeze it in silent condolence. Instead of letting go, he interlaces your fingers. His hand is warm.

Several minutes pass before he tugs on your hand again, pulling you to a bench a few steps back. You’re not sure what to say, and so you stay quiet, biting the inside of your cheek until Bucky bumps his shoulder against yours.

"I think this might be the longest time you’ve shut up since I met you."

You scowl at him. "I was trying to be respectful."

A small grin flits across his face. "There’s a first time for everything."

Another train passes resoundingly, an oddly mundane sound in such a solemn place; still, it adds to it, in a way. It makes you think of putting your loved ones on a train, then waving them good-bye; just for now.

"Where are your parents?" you ask softly.

"Back in Indiana. They moved to take care of my dad’s parents and then stayed to manage the house and all that." He closes his eyes. "I’ve not been there since I was fifteen years old, but I still remember the way the trees smell in summer right after it’s rained."

"And the twins?"

"Mira got married, moved out of state, died while I was in cryo. Jo was in a car crash in ’58. Apparently, she drove races."

You settle your head against his shoulder. "Did they have children?"

"Miriam did. I have a great-niece who’s an architect in Seattle."

"Fancy."

"Right?" He sighs. "It was always Becks and me, though, when we were kids."

"Do you come here a lot?"

"Not as often as I thought I would. But it’s good to remember things."

"Tell me about her."

You can hear his smile when he speaks again, and it’s almost better than seeing it. "She was exactly the kind of little sister you’d read about in novels. Pigtails. Sweet. Annoying as hell." He chuckles. "One time when she was nine, she ate so much cotton candy she was sick all over Steve’s shoes. And that made him sick."

"Gross," you comment, which makes him huff in amusement. Good. "You must miss her a lot."

"Yeah. I do." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "You’d have liked her."

The admission blooms in your stomach, warm and wistful at the same time. "Somehow, I don’t doubt that."

"Do you have siblings?"

You sit up straight again. "What?"

Ask me tomorrow.

"What?" Bucky asks.

"Why did you ask me that?"

He looks at you like he just can’t figure you out. "I don’t know, it seemed appropriate."

"It’s just … you asked me before. In the loop."

"I have?" His brows knit. "Is it important?"

You hesitate, then shake your head. This day has been full of surprises you can’t make sense of; what’s one more? "I guess not."

"Well?" He looks at you expectantly.

"When I grew up … let’s just say super powers don’t exactly run in the family."

It comes out slower this time, your memories of the past, and Bucky listens just as carefully. You twist your rings around your fingers, over and over again.

"When you can do what I can do … even with my family around, I never felt like I could actually be a part of them. They never really understood what my powers meant and I … I think it scared them. Which I get now, after a shitton of therapy, but try explaining to a six-year-old why her dad never really talks to her."

"That’s horrible."

"I know. But I’m fine now." Strangely, unexpectedly, you find that you really mean it, too. "And then after that … I mean, you know. Those five years I had at the Compound were the first time I felt like I had a real family. We were all kind of broken together."

Bucky stays silent but you can tell his attention is still focused on you.

"I wasn’t in a very good place when you and Sam found me. I’d just lost everything. But then … that mission happened, and I was needed again even though you despised me—"

"I didn’t—"

"—but the truth is, fighting with you was the most fun I’d had in a long time."

"Ditto." He’s still looking at you as if he’s searching for something. As if he didn’t know all your secrets now. Finally, he looks away, clearing his throat. "It’s getting dark."

You nod. "Give me one second."

He watches you let go of his hand and walk back towards Rebecca’s grave, pulling out your keychain and setting it down as well. It looks like the little bear is resting its head on Bucky’s pebble.

The look on his face is heartbreakingly unreadable when you return, and it makes your insides clench in desperation. You come to a halt in front of him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"We won’t make it ’til midnight," you say.

"Probably not," Bucky agrees.

"And I don’t want to have to go on that mission."

"Me neither."

Your eyes lock.

"Are you going to lose your mind again?" you say quietly.

He looks at the ground between you, hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket again. "No promises."

You swallow heavily. The anticipation makes you near dizzy, even though you’ve agreed that this doesn’t mean anything.

Your breath still hitches when his lips fan over yours, barely touching at first, just hovering, testing the waters. Like either of you have anything to lose. It’s making your stomach flutter.

In the end, you’re the one who leans in properly. You intend for it to be a short peck, but it’s just too tempting to linger, careful, soft, slow. He tastes like your coffee order: a little sweet and a little bitter.

You could see yourself becoming addicted to it.

The thought makes you break the kiss, your hands still on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt.

Bucky’s eyes open heavily, dark and blue and confused. His cheeks are flushed. "We’re still here?"

You are. You’ve made a fool of yourself. He’s going to die, anyway.

In a panic, you take a step backwards, blinking, wrapping your arms around yourself. Between one blink and the next, you realize you’re sitting in bed, the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Your lips are still tingling.

* * *

Something has shifted.

You can feel it in the air, humming like it did at the Bleecker Street Sanctum, vibrating with something akin to anticipation. The colors of the astral plane, warped and peculiar as they always are, feel sharpened, more insistently vibrant in their hue.

What now? the walls seem to ask, curling towards you as soon as you’re not looking at them directly; a presence hovering over your shoulder, close enough to feel its strange, otherworldly heat.

You reach for your necklace and feel its magic pulsating slowly and steadily, reassuring you. These ghosts cannot harm you in here; not yet, at least.

And yet, you feel this place quivering with kaleidoscopic impatience, straining against some invisible malevolence unraveling its very core with needle-pointed talons.

Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime.

The symbols around your wrist are prickling, and when you examine them more closely, you notice they have started to lift off your skin, sitting there loosely like a worn-out bracelet.

"Y/N!"

Between one blink and the next, you’re squinting at an unforgiving midday sun, and you tumble backwards against a solid chest. Bucky’s arms come up to steady you as you take a gulp of air. It feels like you’ve been holding your head underwater.

"What are you doing up here?"

Slowly, confusion settles into your bones as you take a look at your surroundings. Somehow, you’ve gotten up to the roof again.

"I don’t know," you gasp, twisting in his hold. You can feel your pulse rushing through your ears. "I don’t remember."

You’ve not been able to forget anything in decades, and now it’s like that easy cord of memory has been snapped at some point between the astral plane and here. Gone, like that time has never existed in the first place.

Bucky studies you carefully, his face sober. His hands firm around your forearms, grounding you. It’s what does it, you’ve realized. The loop doesn’t snap back as long as you’re touching.

That doesn’t mean anything, though.

The important thing is, you’ve not woken up blood-soaked in nearly a week.

"You wanna go back downstairs?"

For a moment, the sky turns wild behind his head; you smell magic and fire as purples and greens and oranges swirl around in lazy, misty clouds, the stars glittering impossibly at the corner of your vision.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens and it all fades away until nothing remains but the intense blue of his eyes. You wonder if he might’ve noticed the colors, too, if he’d just looked away from you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Yeah, that’s a good call."

His gaze flickers down and then leaves you, and it makes you want to restart the loop right then and there. Or at least have him look at you like that again.

It can’t mean anything and you know that, but if hope kills him, then let it break your heart into a million pieces. You welcome the ache. It’s much better than the alternative.

Curious, how you used to feel like you’ve known him for so long, through textbooks and newspaper articles and anecdotes told on long Campus nights. It’d always been hard for you to recognize the person from those stories in the man who was living just a few doors away from you and emptying your fridge. Hell, most days it was difficult to even imagine him capable of a smile.

But things are different now.

Over the course of this one, endless day, you’ve met a side of Bucky you’d barely believed existed before. A gentler person than he usually lets on, even towards you. Funny, too. Stubborn and capable, vicious, loyal, brave. So much more than meets the eye at first, not just the memory of a person, but a real, breathing, flawed, wonderful human being.

He’s got no clue, you think, how easy it is to fall in love with him.

"You wanna go back downstairs?"

You stare back at him, and a shiver runs down your spine. His brow starts to furrow, and so you nod. "Sure."

There’s no time to overthink this, especially not if time starts acting up again. And so you ignore the nausea in your stomach and the fact that, when Bucky holds the door up for you, the sun catches one of your rings in a way that gives it a soft emerald sheen for just a second. When you try to reach out for your powers, anyway, there’s that same surge of emptiness you’re already so familiar with.

Another fluke, then.

Or even more things that are starting to slip through reality’s cracks.

"So you’re both stuck in a time loop," Sam says skeptically.

"No way," Peter pipes up, eyes wide and astonished. "Like Palm Springs?"

"Really? Palm Springs? What’s wrong with Groundhog Day?"

"What, like—like the musical?"

Sam looks at you accusingly. "Who’s the kid again?"

"You gotta get with the times, bud," Bucky smirks, absent-mindedly scratching Alpine between the ears.

"That’s the million dollar question," you reply, turning to look at Peter. He’s tapping his fingers against his leg, his gaze flitting between the three of you. "Because whenever we tell you about this, you’re not surprised that we know you, you’re surprised we remember you."

He chuckles awkwardly. "Is there a difference?"

"There is," Bucky says.

"You’re not aware of the loop," you continue, tilting your head, "so you might be a symptom of it starting to break down."

"Thank you?"

"It would explain why you think we would know you. Maybe you’ve slipped in through some other part of the multiverse."

"Oh," Peter says, blinking. "Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—no, that’s not what’s happening here."

"I know this is a lot."

"It’s not. I mean, I get what you’re saying but this is not a multiverse problem in—the way you’re thinking."

You’re starting to get a headache. "So you are aware of the time loop?"

"No! That’s all—wow. I’m, uh, look …" He coughs, sitting up a little straighter. "So we’ve actually—it’s a bit more complicated than that because, well, there was this—"

"Ever been to Germany, kid?" Bucky interrupts.

All three of you turn to stare at him. Alpine continues to clean her paws.

"I … yeah, once," Peter replies, a curious look on his face. "Through an internship, why … why?"

Bucky nods, his expression unreadable. "He’s a dead end."

"Hey!"

You glance at Sam, but he frowns at Bucky, too. "How do you know that?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Wanna share with the group?" Sam deadpans.

"I’m good."

You rub your temples with an exhausted groan. If Peter doesn’t have anything to do with the loop brushing against other realities at all, you’re quickly running out of ideas. And time.

You manage a vaguely apologetic smile when Peter comes up with an excuse to leave, then continue to stare blankly at your own hands, twisting your rings around your fingers over and over again. They remain relentlessly black.

What’s the point, you think, and not for the first time. What the hell are you supposed to do when every path you start on leads you back in a damn circle like that stupid snake swallowing its own tail?

It used to be a comfort to know you’ll make it out of the loop somehow, but geez, you’d love to be as certain you’d succeed in not destroying the whole multiverse in the process.

Unfortunately, that outcome seems less likely with every Friday that passes. You’d have to make your move soon, but you don’t know what it is. You don’t know how. Even with the majority of the pieces of this day laid out, you still can’t make out the big picture. You don’t have all the answers.

So what’s the fucking point?

"Okay," Bucky says, leaning over the back of the couch until he can look at your face upside-down, "what the hell is going on with you?"

* * *

"I really don't think this should be our priority right now."

"And I think I definitely want a distraction," you say. "How do you feel about sage green?"

"I don't recall," he says pointedly, and you immediately regret your new honesty policy.

"I'm fine, I promise," you say, putting another paint bucket into your shopping cart. You’ve decided that since nothing fucking matters, you’re going to repaint the living room. "Careful, or I'll start thinking you worry about me."

"Will you stop pretending like you don't know I do for one second?"

You ignore him, staring at the shelves intently. "How about lilac?"

"Y/N," he says in that tone.

"Bucky," you echo.

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" you ask, choosing a particularly ghastly shade of canary yellow just to spite him.

He grabs the wiring of your shopping cart to stop you from escaping into the next aisle. "Look at me."

So you do. "I’m fine, Buck."

It’s just that you’re skirting towards an emotional breakdown the likes of which this loop has never seen before. No big deal.

"What are we doing here? Literally, why are we here?" The metal squeaks as it dents between his fingers. "What are we even trying to do if you won't let me in?"

"What do you want me to say?" you ask in exasperation. "That I'm terrified? That I don't know what's happening? You know that already. I've never been an enigma to you. I remember every detail of my life in full technicolor, and it's been exhausting, but this … forgetting things, that's worse."

"You think I can't relate to that?" Bucky says, and your fingers twitch. Old habits.

"That's not fair."

"Neither is you saying we’re in this together and not acting like it. Why are you still trying to carry everything on your own?"

"Because it’s my responsibility—"

"No, it isn’t," he interrupts. "Even if I did die that first time, it still wouldn’t be your responsibility or your burden."

"Burden?" you say thinly. "You think your life is a burden?"

"Twelve."

There's a pull in your stomach at the old nickname, even though you know its intended meaning now. It's making you realize he hasn't used it since your trip to Avengers Campus. "Don’t Twelve me right now."

"Where is everyone?"

You turn around.

The aisles surrounding you are completely empty, like the few other shoppers that have been in here with you have just vanished off the face of the earth. You frown, leaving the cart behind to look around the corner. The store feels bigger, somehow, now that no one else is here. Your steps echo on the laminate flooring; in the distance, there’s some tinny music playing through the speakers, but there’s no other sound.

"I don’t like this," you say.

"Stay right there," Bucky says, stepping up next to you.

You scowl at him. "Did you just pull a gun out of your pocket? Do you always bring that thing when you go shopping?"

"I don’t," he says. "Do you usually wear your tac suit?"

"I’m not—" You look down. "Okay, something is very, very wrong here."

The aisle has grown in length, like you’re walking through an endless, brightly lit tunnel lined by bare shelves. When you look back, it stretches just as far in the other direction, the exit barely visible on the horizon. In a way, it’s very dreamlike, reality warping to create this odd alternative of itself.

"Stay behind me, at least," Bucky says, raising his weapon. He’s still in his civilian clothes, but a stern look has washed over his face.

"In your dreams, Barnes."

He rolls his eyes.

There’s only one way to go and so you continue walking, the aisles crossing yours continuously seemingly leading nowhere. Finally they disappear altogether as the shelves morph into a sort of avenue which shrinks down even more, the lights dimming. Your feet hit granite.

"This is impossible," you say.

"I think this is what Wong meant," Bucky replies grimly.

"We need to go back right now," you say, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, there’s only darkness and stone. "Bucky—"

He pushes you out of the way as a shot sounds through the tunnels, and one moment later you’re swarmed by white jackets on all sides. You curse, rolling to the side and reaching for the knife on your thigh. It’s not there.

"We need to get out of here!" you shout, using your fist instead. Your pendant pulsates around your neck, but when you reach for your powers, there’s still an invisible wall barring you from using them.

"I thought you wanted to pick out paints," Bucky yells back.

"I don’t understand why you’re so mad about the—"

"I watched Groundhog Day."

If it could, time would freeze. You’re begging it to. "No."

"Yeah," he says, shooting at a white jacket. A spray of blood speckles their uniform. "It’s funny. A little fucked up, if you asked me, but when you get to the crux of it—"

"We’re not having this conversation again," you say, punching another one of them in the face. "We’re not."

"Why not?" Bucky demands. "I’d love to have been a part of it as well."

You let out a frustrated scream. "It’s not gonna work like Groundhog Day."

"You don’t know that. Unless you’re not telling me something."

"For fuck’s sake," you yelp, barely evading a knife aimed at your stomach, "do you really think I’d keep it from you if I had slept with you?"

Bucky twists the gun out of someone’s gloved hands and shoves it into yours. "You’re keeping something from me and I want to know why."

You’re back to back now, both of you trying to catch your breath. With the moment of surprise gone, your opponents are circling you now, waiting for your next move.

And you find yourself breaking.

"Your ma liked Voltaire," you say. "Your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip and your favorite coffee order is mine. If you drink it black, you do this thing with your mouth that I’ve never seen anyone do, and it’s weirdly sweet." You let out a breath. "You have a fucked-up sense of humor, which I think is great, and you watch Hitchcock movies even though you don’t particularly enjoy them, which is just so stupid, and I’ve never met anyone who gives better hugs than you. Satisfied?"

You can feel him straighten behind you. "You’re deflecting," he says.

With a frustrated groan, you shoot at the next white jacket breaking formation. "Maybe I want things to be as simple as a damn movie as well, but they’re not. It’s fictional. Four o’clock!" You duck and Bucky hits the one coming from the side over the head with his arm. "It’s a bunch of writers coming up with a bullshit idea of love saving everyone’s problems once again. The girl falls in love with the guy, the loop ends, la-dee-dah-dah, day over."

"Yeah, that’s way more absurd than what’s happening here."

"Well, clearly it’s not fucking worked out so far, so if you have any other suggestion, I’m all ears."

A beat passes.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to stay vigilant. It’s out there now. You need to get out of here.

Bucky sounds very far away, even though he’s right there with you. "What are you saying?"

Your vision swims slightly, and you blink through it. Shoot. Kick. Protect. "Don’t," you say, shaking your head. "Don’t play stupid with me right now, I swear—"

"Y/N—"

"It doesn’t matter, alright? It doesn’t change shit because we’re still stuck in this nightmare that keeps getting worse, and it doesn’t matter what I feel because you don’t feel the same way anyway, and I’ve just been trying to—"

"I do."

You fall silent, staggering on your feet at the emotion in his voice.

"I do," he repeats. "I have."

"What?" Your voice cracks on that single word.

His magazine runs out and he throws the gun away, cursing under his breath. "You think every movie should be ten minutes shorter, as a rule. You don’t really like your job, but you’ve also never sat still for a minute in your life and you’d rather be miserable than ask someone else for help when it comes to money or, well, anything. You hate being alone with your thoughts, but you also wouldn’t admit that with a gun to your head."

Like magnets, you turn at the same time, reaching for each other. There’s blood on his nose. Your hands are shaking.

"I’ve been in love for you for months now and it’s been literally fucking killing me."

Tell her.

The tear falls.

"So stupid," you whisper.

He looks at you in that same way he has countless times before; you’ve never been able to put your finger on the emotion in his gaze, but now you know. You know.

And then a shot rings in your ears and you sit up in bed, the sun in your face, music blasting,

"—when I’ve known this all along—"

Your door slams shut behind you as you run across the hall to the elevator, repeatedly hitting the button to go down.

"Are you okay?" Sam shouts from the doorway just as the doors ping open.

"Fine!" you shout back, naked feet almost slipping as you hammer on the button to go to the lobby.

You can’t wait for Bucky to get back. You’re going to have to find him. Surely, he can’t be that far from the Tower anymore. Maybe you should’ve changed out of your pyjamas, you think on your endless way down, besides, you don’t know at all which direction to go, unless—

The doors slide open to reveal Bucky on the other side, panting. His blue eyes lock onto yours immediately, mirroring your own feelings of terror and hope.

"You still remember, right?"

"Yeah," he says, and your last resolve crumbles to pieces.

You both move at the same time.

It’s a little like having your powers back, because the world around you stops and ceases to exist. Nothing else is real except Bucky’s arms coming around you and pulling you into him, his mouth crashing into yours, your back pressing against the elevator wall.

Nothing about your previous brief, careful kisses could have prepared you for this one. It’s desperate. Neither of you is holding back anymore, all things laid out in the open and expressed in every starving touch. You want to live in this moment forever, breathing him in, swallowing every sound he makes.

When you finally have to come up for air, you involuntarily tighten your grasp on his hair, your eyes shut tightly, afraid you’ll be zapped right back to your bed. Instead, you feel Bucky chase your lips with his own, breathing heavily, his arms still steady and firm around you.

You look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, soaking all of him in. "Don’t let go," you whisper.

He steps even closer until your chests are fully touching, and he catches you easily when you wrap your legs around him.

"Never," he mumbles into your mouth, and then he kisses you again.

* * * * *

There was a package on the kitchen table.

It was addressed to you, which was concerning since you hadn’t actually ordered anything. Even if you had, you’d have used a fake name and had it sent to a p.o. box.

You’d rather be overly cautious than risk getting caught over a clothing delivery.

It wasn’t a very large package, only about the size of a shoe box. Still, you didn’t know what to make of it. You just stared at it from a safe distance.

"Are you gonna open it with your mind?"

You flinched slightly at Bucky’s voice right behind you. "You did this," you said sharply.

He crossed his arms, looking at you with something like a challenge in his eyes. "Do you wanna look inside before you kill me?"

Frowning, you ripped the package open to reveal a metal container. When you put it down on the counter, the locks unlatched with a low hiss. Inside, there were six simple, perfect black rings in differing sizes.

You turned to Bucky again. "What is this?"

"They measure fatigue. At least that’s what they’re supposed to do. May I?"

You were stunned enough to nod without thinking, watching him take one of the smaller rings out of the box. He reached for your hand and slid it onto your pinkie. It was a perfect fit, cool against your skin, just like his vibranium palm. You could feel your pulse rushing in your ears.

The ring turned a beautiful emerald green on your finger.

"Mazel tov," Bucky said. "You appear to be awake."

Your mouth was very dry. He was still holding your hand. "Who did you tell about me?"

"No one. Only that I know someone whose abilities are tied to their energy, and who could use a way to track that more easily." He dropped your hand and leaned against the counter, observing you. "So you’ll be able to tell how many redos you can manage without fainting."

Your thoughts were racing, confusion and awe taking the place of your left-over anger. You put another one of the rings on and watched it turn green on your finger.

"Thank you," you finally whispered. "You don’t know what this …"

Bucky nodded as if he did. "Consider it a peace offering."

"You—this is—can I hug you?"

He looked stunned for a second, stunned and maybe something else, but then he tilted his head and you wrapped your arms around him before he could take it back. It was a bit weird at first, awkward and stiff, until then he carefully put his arms around you, too, gently pulling you in.

Oh, you thought, this is nice.

Bucky’s head was touching yours and the scent of his shampoo made you slightly dizzy. When you let go of him, there was a strange look in his eyes, one that made you take half a step back with an embarrassed chuckle.

"You’re a good hugger, Barnes," you said.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look away, either.

That’s what made you do it: that look. You didn’t know what to make of it, and suddenly you didn’t feel ready to let go.

"Consider it a peace offering."

You looked at your hands. The ring on your pinkie had maintained that glorious shade of emerald green, but the other had turned black. You laughed a little.

"This is incredible," you told Bucky earnestly. This time, you didn’t stumble over your own words. Instead, you watched his face. "Can I give you a hug?"

It wasn’t just surprise that passed over his features, but you couldn’t pinpoint the other thing. His arms enveloped you again and you sighed a little, burying your nose in his shirt until the warm smell of him was all you breathed in. It was just you and him in that moment, and your ever wandering mind was strangely soothed by that thought.

You didn’t let go when you had last time. You just stayed where you were with your eyes closed, letting Bucky rub the lightest circles on the flat of your back. He could probably feel your heartbeat, but for some reason you didn’t care.

"For the record," you mumbled after a while, "I’m thankful, but I’m also still annoyed with you, so this doesn’t change anything."

You could feel him hold back a surprised chuckle and it made you giddy even as he drew away.

"Wouldn’t expect anything else, doll." He takes another step back as if he’d only just noticed how close you were still standing. "Anyway, at least now we’ll know whether bringing you along will actually be useful."

And there it was, albeit with the usual venom in his voice. Maybe he really did mean it as a peace offering. You were willing to believe it for the time being.

"You’re a strange man, James Buchanan Barnes," you said quietly, shaking your head. Hiding your smile.

"Says the time witch."

You gasped in mock surprise. "Did you just call me a witch? Does that make me one of the Big Three?"

Bucky groaned. "It’s not a thing."

You ignored him. "I want a giant black hat for my birthday so I can scare little kids on Hallowe’en. Ooh, and a cauldron. Sam!" You turned to face the opening door. "Bucky finally admitted it!"

"Admitted what?"

"That I’m one of the Big Three!"

"Big three pains in my ass, maybe," Bucky muttered, the tips of his ears turning red.

"There’s just three?"

"Shut up, Sam."

You slipped on the rest of your new rings in delight and watched them each turn a slightly darker shade of green. The one you’d put on earlier stayed black, though, at least for now, as if to remind you the moment had happened.

It wasn’t breaking your promise, you told yourself. After all, he hadn’t shared anything with you at all. If anything, it had been the other way around.

It was just going to stay yours until you figured out what it meant.

chapter eleven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also fun fact, my chapters are long enough to crash my drafts whenever i try to post so if you made it to this point, please do consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog. i don't get anything else out of writing this, and i really do love every single one of them.

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 84 Legacy Posting

Oh boy, here we go dear void. Short entry this time (by my standards at least).

Editor's Notes: First Page: 対峙する二人... [taiji suru futari...] "The two face off..." Last Page: 想い乗せた一撃が届く... [omoi noseta ichigeki ga todoku...] "A decisive blow brimming with emotions reaches him..."

A Declaration

Go, Chihiro, go!

And here we have the ultimate rebuttal to Samura's stubborn insistence on solving everything by himself: Chihiro has a personal stake in all of this as the son of Rokuhira Kunishige. He doesn't have to bear the burden, but he's refusing Samrua's (misguided) kindness and taking everything on.

I do like the framing of all of this duty as the choice of the children involved. Usually there's a heavy tilt towards "children should be responsible for their parent's mistakes/burdens" or "children must choose their own paths", but Kagurabachi threads the needle and says "it's not that simple".

Chihiro chooses to honour his father's wishes. He understands very well the pain that he's taking on, and he's learning that his father isn't the infallible man he looked up to when he was younger, but he decides to do it anyway. Meanwhile, Hakuri decided to tear it all down- and it wasn't framed as him shirking his duty or atoning for his father's sins. It was the right thing to do. So far, Iori wanted to be like Samura and protect him. Her decision might change depending on how this fight turns out, but it's not going to be some heavy-handed message about how she's responsible for what he did.

It's always framed as a choice the kids are making based on what they know and believe. They aren't responsible for their parent's actions but choose to act based on the results of them. I love it. I'll admit my life experience makes me extremely skeptical of stories that try to say kids must fix the problems their parents caused- it's a strong bias I always have. So Kagurabachi framing things as kids consciously choosing to do what they can to make the world a better place is very satisfying. People are trying to say "no you don't need to, live your life" and they're saying "I want to help make the world a better place". Well, Hakuri was denied his chance, but it was a good thing in that case. Regardless, inter-generation cooperation is the way to go!

Echoes

The future is now, old man.

There's something to be said for how goddamn stubborn Samura is. It's beyond reason, right? Like holy shit you're blind not deaf, listen to all the people who care about you and want you to live instead of going on some suicidal atonement mission. Your freakin' daughter wants and needs you in her life! The little girl you promised your ex-wife you'd protect!

As a friend mentioned, Samura's mindset strongly echoes someone who's mentally ill. I'm pretty sure everyone's been down in the dumps once in their life- everything sucks, nothing's okay, and it never will be. But we get over it with some time and (ideally) support. Samura, though, is in the fucking depths. Anyone who's thought the world would genuinely be better off without them, that's him. The mind is a shitshow sometimes and it will tell some of us "hey, they love you, so stop being a burden and make their lives easier by offing yourself already". Which is a bunch of nonsense but it's compelling nonsense that feels right. Nothing really gets through that fog without treatment and a hell of a lot of persistence.

So while it's a bit annoying as a reader to see this guy dig in his heels and refuse the hope that everyone around him's trying to shove in his arms, I get it. He's guilty AF about the past and feels like he can't be redeemed- and that his presence is a burden on Iori. So if he dies and takes out the Sword Master with him then yay yippie everyone can be happy.

It's not that simple nor is that actually a good solution (which I talked a bit about last chapter). It's just the one that feels right to Samura so Chihiro will literally have to break Tobimune to stop this guy.

Which he... might have done this chapter? Maybe he just nicked or fractured it? It looks like Chihiro's will got through to Samura at least a little bit. Only breaking Tobimune in full will really stop Samura in full but maybe damaging it will give Iori and the Masumi an opening to be heard.

The Masumi!

I missed you guys too!

Not much to say other than I'm glad they're in this fight and that Ro pointed out the obvious: if Samura healed his own goddamn eyes, then the Masumi's ninja tactics wouldn't be much of a hindrance to him. But he wants to remain blind (symbolism!) and so he can't see what's really important. But Ro's got a more accurate measure of him now that one of his sunglass lenses is broken. Really nice touch in the art this chapter.

One MORE Thing, Jackieee

Is that Chihiro's "aura", as the kids say?

Samura trying to spare the kids is noble, yes. Gone over that a bunch. And Chihiro's rebuttal is basically an emphatic let us get hurt.

Parents often try to prevent their kids from experiencing the same problems in the same ways that they did- abuse, war, etc. They generally want their kids lives to be better than theirs were.

But.

If those parents who had rough lives don't get help and work on their own issues, they will just pass the trauma on in a different way. Like here: Samura tried to spare Iori, but he just reinforced her trauma of loved ones leaving/abandoning her. He needs ALL the fucking therapy and to give a massive apology to her- then commit to working on his issues.

Because as sympathetic as he is, as understandable as his actions and beliefs are at this point, they're still wrong. He's doing wrong by Iori, Inori's memory, Chihiro, Uruha, the Masumi, even Kunishige's memory at this point. What Chihiro's trying to get through to Samura here is, in my mind, the idea that it's better to live with the pain and stay with what you find hope in than give it all up and assume it'll improve other people's lives. Just fucking live, bro! Iori needs you even if you've got a mountain of grief that makes you want to die. She needs you as you are and who you can be, not who you think you are. Share that pain with her so she can understand and help you.

Obviously this isn't advocating for parents to treat their kids like therapists or act like emotional vampires (been there, it screws a kid up). But being open that you're not okay is okay. Letting Iori know you've got a bad past that you need to overcome is okay. Letting her find ways that she wants to help is okay. Share the past and prevent a warped future in truth. Because right now Samura's just sending Iori (and the other young people who care about him) down a different fucked up path than the one he was on instead of truly creating something better.

Okay... hoping for glimpses of Hakuri and Uruha and maybe even Azami next week, but not betting on it. Take care of yourself dear void- you deserve it.

[atiny-for-life]

Regarding Wooyoung's weight

Since all the pre-filmed content has been coming out, I've been seeing more and more Atiny become worried about Wooyoung's weight loss and the way he talked about achieving it (namely, by simply not eating).

First and foremost, I hope all of you can keep in mind that the majority of this content was filmed before the album was even released, meaning the way he speaks there might no longer reflect the way he would talk about this now.

Additionally, I also want to make it clear I won't be trying to diagnose him with anything, just as I won't say he should be doing this or that because he's an adult who can do with his own body whatever he pleases.

However, I also won't downplay the negative impacts not eating has on the human body, because of the current "skinniness trend", so let me say this: For one, calorie deficiency causes your energy levels to drop significantly, leaving you more easily irritated and overstimulated, fatigued and achy. Too little body fat will also leave your body incapable of regulating your internal temperature, meaning you'll start feeling cold constantly and you'll eventually grow thicker peach fuzz across your entire body as your body attempts to protect itself from hypothermia. Your body will also lose its ability to regulate your eating, meaning you may stop feeling hungry in the long-term, even if you do eventually return to regular eating habits. Starving yourself for a prolonged period of time, or even just severely restricting your fibre intake, can also lead your gut bacteria to start eating the mucus layer protecting your gut which can lead to inflammation and, eventually, infection. And yes, severe starvation can, of course, also lead to organ failure and death - that's the worst case scenario. So if you, or anyone you know, is struggling with disordered eating, please do not downplay it - address it, seek professional help if you can/need to. Here is a link to a comprehensive list of international resources.

All the above listed side-effects of crash-dieting are well-known and yet, both the modelling and Kpop industry are continuously pushing idols to not eat as I've talked about before here, so I won't go over the same talking points again.

Instead, I want us to acknowledge the way Wooyoung has been talking about his eating habits since all this content was filmed and as fans have been expressing their concerns to him, because he doesn't live in a bubble - he knows we worry and why we worry and he's clearly receptive to that "feedback" (I'm not sure what else to call it):

For one, he's already acknowledged his weight loss and has expressed he's been trying to stop losing weight:

And most notably, he's also been bringing up his meals almost every time he comes on Fromm since then (which is where all these translated messages are from). I do firmly believe he's doing this to ease fans' minds and to show he stopped the unhealthy "dieting" method he was using to drop his weight before:

Now, does this mean he has a healthy relationship with food now? Ultimately, I don't know and there's also no way for me to know because I don't know him personally.

However, I can take some guesses based on what he's shared with us over the years, plus some additional input from the industry he's been a part of since before 2018.

For one, Wooyoung is a very fixated person. He leaps from hobby to hobby, he hyper focuses on one thing and then eventually moves on to the next, and this could very well extend to his dieting. He was intent on getting "skinny" for this comeback so he did whatever he felt was necessary to achieve this and now that his fanbase has expressed their concerns to him and this comeback is over, he's been trying to ease our minds instead by eating regularly again.

Some of you may think it's far fetched for me to believe he might think like this, but other idols like Jooheon from MonstaX and Zhang Hao from ZeroBaseOne have done the same so it's not uncommon in the industry. However, in their cases, fans haven't expressed their concerns in the same way so I've never seen either one acknowledge how worrisome and unhealthy this crash-dieting is.

People also often point to Wooyoung's first large weight loss between the Treasure and Fever series as the start of his weight obsession, and while I don't know if "obsession" is the right word, it is noteworthy that he's apparently been on a year-round diet ever since which is... not great? But we also don't exactly know what he means by "diet".

It might simply mean he's not eating what he wants whenever he wants, which I think applies to a lot of people who don't have a crazy fast metabolism.

Now, you may think because of the truly insane amount of exercise he does as a dancer and with all their touring, that he'd automatically work off anything he eats, but unfortunately - or fortunately in some cases, the human body is crazy good at adapting to your lifestyle. An extremely active person can burn the same amount of calories as someone else who simply sits around a lot, which is why, when a really inactive person starts working out, they'll see rapid changes at first but then that progress will slowly begin to plateau - that is often the point where a lot of people get discouraged and also why a health-based mindset is essential for turning exercise into a habit.

For a better understanding of this, I recommend this video:

Now, why am I telling you this? Because I think it's important to keep in mind when any idol, including Wooyoung, talk about managing their weight. For people with such an extremely active lifestyle, their bodies will long since have adapted to it, meaning they'll burn calories differently from the average individual with a less active lifestyle, so you can't always apply your personal experiences with eating and exercise to them.

On a final note, here is what I hope you'll primarily take from this post:

One- The content being released at the moment is largely pre-filmed so we cannot and should not assume it's one-to-one with his current mindset.

Two- Wooyoung has clearly heard our concerns and is seemingly back to eating regular meals again, so if you want to express your worries to him, please keep that in mind.

Three- If you have anything to add or disagree with me, please feel free to leave your thoughts in the reblogs or replies.

[satsuha]

i see a lot of people in the octopath fandom attribute every official/ingame artwork to ikushima naoki (ikusy) so i just want to put a spotlight on some of the other artists who worked on the series, especially in octopath 2 which was a much more collaborative work than the first game!

i'm basing my knowledge on who did which artwork off the artists' notes from the two artbooks, which means i might misattribute or miss some artists' contributions but unfortunately there's no better way to tell 😔 also, artbook scans credit to @octopathartbooker, their account is always such a lifesaver when i want to show things from the artbook!

while ikushima IS often the main artist associated with team asano's work, for octopath 2 he's actually only credited for character design (as is the case with triangle strategy). in terms of art used in the final game, he drew the cover art and the final illustration shown after completing the game, as well as the crossed paths illustrations.

both day and night character artworks were actually drawn by urushihara tatsuaki, who also did the ingame character portraits for triangle strategy. he also did all of the character ending illustrations.

another prominent artist who works on these games is morimoto shizuka, (follow her twitter here) who is responsible for the iconic pixel sprite style of the hd-2d games! she also seems to have designed all of the prominent npcs as well as the subjob outfits for every protagonist in both octopath games.

miscellaneous npc design in octopath 2 was handled by both urushihara and yoshiura rina (section [i] by urushihara and [ii] by yoshiura)

one maybe lesser known fact is that ikushima also did background concept art for the octopath games! he seems to be credited for all of them in octopath 1, while in octopath 2, the work seems to be split between urushihara and yoshiura, the two credited artists from team asano for the game. specifically, urushihara did work for hinoeuma, toto'haha, wild/leaf/brightlands, while yoshiura did work on the crest/winter/harborlands with additional work on the interiors of the wild/bright/leaflands. in general urushihara's work seems to be more atmospheric, while yoshiura focuses heavily on building details and interior design

the dungeons (including vidania) seem to have been designed by the acquire and extreme corp. artists, with comments from iizuka mika and uchida hiroshi

another point that i think is so cool is that they hired francesca baerald (twitter and instagram), an italian cartographer/artist to design and draw the maps of both orsterra and solistia!

part of the reason i wanted to make this post was because many of the promotional artworks for team asano's games are now split between ikushima, urushihara and yoshiura, and i see urushihara's ingame artwork especially frequently credited to ikushima instead so i wanted to clear some things up! ikushima's promotional art is almost always signed with his pen name "ikusy", while urushihara signs his with "T.UR"

(by ikushima naoki)

(by urushihara tatsuaki)

yoshiura's original style is quite different from the other two so i don't see people credit her work to anyone else, but i do want to spotlight her recent promotional artwork because i think they're just sooo pretty and i'd love to see her take on a team asano game as lead artist in the future!!

another lesser known fact is that the scenario writer for octopath, futsuzawa kakunoshin, is a mangaka and has also done some promo artworks for the games! additionally, while octopath 1 has 5 scenario writers in the credits, cotc and octopath 2 are only credited to futsuzawa.

[ao3holidays]

June 30, 1937

The world's first emergency call telephone service is launched in London using the number 999

Related Tag: Minor Injuries

Boom, Boom, Pow! by LilaVaporizer9000

If anyone asked the Batfamily which Robin had the funniest ’joining the family’ story? Well, everyone would start with, “Well it seemed like Jason had the spot taken for good after having the audacity to try and jack the Batmobile’s tires and hit Bruce with his tire iron.” And then they’d say, “But then tiny Tim decided to try and steal the whole thing.” Or: When Tim is 11 he figures it’s not hurting anyone if he. Ya know. Takes a picture in the Batmobile. But then the power goes to his head and all of a sudden he’s hacking the Batmobile and tearing through Gotham on a rescue mission.

On our skin be our stories by JulieArchery107

In the bedroom Bruce and John read each other's skins like diaries.

Bite the Bullet (Break Your Teeth) by calamityin

There was a long, painful silence where Dick couldn’t hear anything except his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He felt himself getting dizzy, the height of the building making his stomach swoop, and he felt himself worry that perhaps he was developing a fear of heights. If that were the case, he would accept it as karma for what he was doing. or; Dick makes a misguided decision and forces himself to live with the consequences.

5 times his hyungs had to carry Changkyun because he couldn't walk himself and the 1 time they carried him just for fun by fluffy_mx

Sometimes Changkyun can't walk himself, so his hyungs help him out. Or, another maknae-centric MX-fic because I got a request and I thought 'well, why not?'.

Band Aid by Earthshine

Tim can never say 'no' to Bart, even when it might be the most sensible thing to do. But, when he tears up his hand while skateboarding and Bart is VERY insistent on being his White Mage, what else can he do?

[crazysandwich]

Tony Stark’s Legacy Isn’t Up for Debate

Okay, I need to talk about Tony Stark because I need to get this off my chest. Fair warning, this might be a bit controversial.

Disclaimer: I haven’t watched Ironheart yet, and I know I’m reacting to a single line taken out of context. Also, no spoilers in this post aside from that one line I’ll be talking about. So if you haven’t seen Ironheart yet either, don’t worry. I’m not going into anything else from the show. But these are just the thoughts that came to me after hearing it. I’ve seen a lot of clips on TikTok around the line, “Do you think Tony Stark would be Tony Stark if he wasn’t a billionaire?” and honestly, my issue here is mostly with the writing. Not with Ironheart as a character. Again, I haven’t seen the full series so I’m not judging her. But this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this pattern.

There are a lot of great characters in the MCU with so much potential for good storytelling. But can we stop diminishing the impact that the original characters had? Specifically, Tony Stark, in this case. Let’s be real. He was a big deal. Huge. And we shouldn’t forget that. Move forward, yes. Create new stories, yes. But don’t erase what came before.

Lately, it feels like some writers are trying to push Tony into the background or treat him like a secondary figure. That just doesn’t sit right with me. You can’t rewrite the fact that he had one of the most significant character arcs in the MCU. Fans remember his story, his growth, his sacrifices, every iconic line.

And let’s not forget, Tony Stark’s entire arc was about proving he was more than just a billionaire. Yes, that was part of his identity, but it wasn’t the full story. Over ten years and multiple films, he showed again and again that he was willing to put others before himself, that he could grow, take responsibility, and make real sacrifices. That was the core of his character growth. From a self-centered weapons manufacturer to someone who snapped his fingers to save the universe. He didn’t just coast on his wealth. He evolved. That’s why people connected with him. That’s why it hurts to see that reduced to just "billionaire" as if that was all he ever was.

We literally turned “Tony Stark was able to build this in a cave! With a box of scraps!” into a cult quote. It was so iconic that it even got referenced again in a Spider-Man movie. Did the writers, producers, or anyone at Marvel forget how big of an impact that had? Why are they trying to downplay him now? It comes off as disrespectful.

Again, no hate to Ironheart. I’m excited to watch the series, and I’ll go in with an open mind. But this weird energy around dismissing Tony Stark needs to stop.

It’s not even just this show. I remember The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (which I loved, by the way, one of my favorites), and there was that part early on where it’s revealed the Avengers weren’t on a traditional salary, despite Tony’s financial support. And I get it, it’s part of the plot, but come on. He literally funded their headquarters, tech, suits, operations, and probably their living expenses too. The man gave them two whole buildings. What more was he supposed to do, run payroll on top of all that?

Yes, a formal salary would have been nice, but let’s not act like he left everyone high and dry. It feels like the writers are using him as an easy target lately, and I don’t get it.

Anyway, this turned into a full-on rant, haha. I just had to share these thoughts. Not sure if anyone else feels the same. Once again, no hate to Ironheart, I believe she has a lot of potential, and I have high hopes for the series. Just please stop disrespecting the OGs. If you want to create better and newer characters, do it. But don’t erase the ones who built the foundation.

[fullmoonlovestuff]

Here comes a long post you have been warned! I just saw the "more proof of him being gay"..... Here we go....

The "proof" people claim to have is really just them relying on stereotypes. They see him liking and following attractive men, and suddenly they think they've been right about him all along.

It’s always things like:

“Didn’t you hear? He called himself a ‘bougie bitch.’”

“Didn’t you see him air-lick a glowstick like it was a dick?”

Things like that...

They say his personality and voice have changed!.. because now, apparently, he’s not trying to "pass" as straight anymore.

These are the types of comments I get when I ask: “What actual proof do you have?”

It’s literally all just based on stereotypes. That’s their "evidence"..

He calls himself a bougie bitch? Pedro has always been a bit sassy and playful. If these people met some of my straight guy friends, they’d assume all of them were gay too. They’re even sassier than some of my queer friends and regularly call themselves things like "bitch" jokingly. That’s exactly why I don’t take those kinds of things as indicators of someone's sexuality.

The glowstick thing? Didn’t the DJ do the exact same move as Pedro? You know, the DJ who.... oh right... has a girlfriend. Also, wasn’t Pedro just mimicking Prince? A man he openly calls an idol, who also did that kind of thing on stage regularly, Prince who was with tons of women?

His personality has changed? No, it hasn’t. He’s the same person I first saw back in 2014/2015. He’s probably always been this way.

His voice has changed?

Yes, that’s true!!. but it’s not because he was trying to sound "straight" before. This is a man who once said his version of heaven is a multi-gendered orgy. That’s not exactly someone trying to conform to heteronormative standards. Plus, voices naturally change with age. He’s also been a smoker (used to i am not sure if he still is)!!. and when he played Javier Peña who smoked a lot, that affected his voice too. Let’s not forget he’s an actor!!. he’s done many different voice styles for different roles, and sometimes those vocal habits stick for a while.

Sorry for the long post!!. I just wanted to lay this all out in case any of those people who keep saying these things come across it.

And to be clear: there is nothing wrong with being gay. He might be! But constant stereotyping isn’t proof of anyone’s sexuality. Please stop acting like it is... its also extremely Homophobic if you ask me.. and damaging towards straight men who are soft-spoken, kind and emotional open.

This!! It’s honestly exhausting to see how quick people are to reduce someone’s whole personality ... and I feel really sad for him (even though I guess he doesn’t really care about those people). It’s also sad how they always cling to certain things. They don’t see the full picture. Just what fits into their version of the story. And that’s such a shame, because he has so much more to offer than what they reduce him to.