#that they expect me to already just understand this stuff

[thebarneschronicles]

Closer to Home

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: As you settle into your new role as the team���s “girl in the chair,” helping Sam and Bucky with their missions, you find yourself increasingly drawn to Bucky's intense presence. His brooding silence is matched only by his watchful eyes, and despite his gruff exterior, your kindness begins to chip away at his walls. When Bucky insists on walking you home one night, clyou chalk it up to his old-fashioned sense of duty and think nothing of it. But as the night unfolds, you realize there’s far more behind his actions than just good manners, and your growing feelings for him may not be as hidden as you think.

A/N: This was supposed to be something else ENTIRELY. But it just unravelled and here we are! Please, feel free to let me know your thoughts about it! B xx

--

Your relationship with Bucky hadn’t started with fireworks or dramatic confessions—it began like any other normal relationship: after drinks and a movie.

It was a quiet evening, the kind that felt heavier after long hours at your desk. You were finally wrapping up for the night, shrugging on your coat and slinging your purse over a shoulder. The clock had just ticked past 10 p.m., though it hardly felt late to you. Still, your shoulders sagged under the tension of the day—hours spent poring over intel, trying to uncover scraps of information that might help Sam and Bucky on their next mission.

“You shouldn’t be walking home alone.”

You looked up to find Bucky leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. His voice was gruff but not unkind, his blue eyes shadowed but steady.

“It’s just a few blocks,” you replied, already bracing for the argument.

His jaw tightened—a subtle shift, but one you’d come to recognize as the start of his infamous stubborn streak. “Doesn’t matter. My ma would haunt me if I let you.”

That earned him a laugh. “Your 'ma' sounds like quite the character.”

“She was,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It disappeared as quickly as it came. “C’mon, grab your stuff. I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue further, mostly because you were too tired to win, and partly because there was something oddly comforting about his protectiveness, even if it came wrapped in brooding silences and sharp glances.

Being around Bucky had taken some getting used to. You knew about him, of course—who didn’t? But nothing had prepared you for the sheer intensity of James Buchanan Barnes up close. His unrelenting stares, his quiet presence that somehow filled a room, and the way he seemed to carry the weight of entire worlds on his shoulders.

When you’d first joined their team as the “girl in the chair” (a term Sam insisted on despite your repeated protests that you were, in fact, a woman), you hadn’t known what to expect. Your days as a research journalist had been left behind in favor of a role that felt more like a sidekick to two superheroes. Never the hero, always the support.

“It’s not nothing, though,” Sam had told you once, catching you mid-eye-roll during a particularly grueling debrief. “You’re saving lives too, y’know. Every name, every address you dig up? That’s someone else’s tomorrow you’re protecting.”

Still, the job came with its own toll: exhaustion, migraines, and a constant ache in your wrists from hours of typing. But it also came with a quiet sense of purpose—and Bucky’s occasional company.

At first, his silences had been intimidating, his brooding presence almost oppressive. But you met him with unwavering kindness—bringing him coffee when he looked like he needed it, or letting him retreat into your office to escape Sam’s chatter. Slowly, the silences grew shorter, and the stares softened into something more watchful.

Now, walking beside him under the soft glow of streetlights, the quiet felt less like distance and more like understanding.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “is this a one-time chivalry thing, or do I get an official escort service from now on?”

Bucky snorted. “You’re assuming I’m doing this for you.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, grinning. “Who else is benefitting from my safe arrival home?”

He glanced at you, a spark of humor flickering in his eyes. “Sam’ll never let me hear the end of it if something happens to you. Man loves his lectures.”

“Ah,” you said, mock-serious. “So I’m saving you from Sam’s wrath. Got it.”

He didn’t answer right away, but his pace slowed slightly, his hand brushing the base of your spine as you turned a corner, like he was directing towards home. “Maybe I just like making sure you’re okay,” he muttered.

Your heart stuttered at his words, a quiet ache blooming in your chest, but you didn’t dare press him further. Hope was a dangerous thing, a fragile spark that had burned you one too many times before. It was safer to tuck it away, to pretend his words meant nothing more than what he’d said—a simple gesture of kindness, nothing deeper.

You were friends, after all... right? Or at least, friendly. He was kind to you, yes, but Bucky Barnes was kind in a way that felt carefully measured, like a soldier fulfilling his duty. He was a gentleman through and through, the kind who’d been raised to believe it was his responsibility to make sure no lady faced the dangers of the night alone.

“His mah would’ve expected nothing less,” you thought wryly, your lips tugging into a faint smile.

He was a man out of time, after all. Decades removed from the era he was born into, yet somehow still anchored there, even now. You wouldn’t have been surprised if the rules he followed were the same ones ingrained into him all those years ago. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier to believe that than to let yourself hope he cared for any reason beyond habit or honor.

“Almost there,” he said, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His hand hovered near your elbow, steady and sure, as if ready to catch you should you stumble.

The steps to your door loomed far too quickly for your aching heart, bringing an abrupt end to your time with the brooding soldier. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if your body was reluctant to leave his quiet, steady presence.

You paused on the final step, its height almost eliminating the difference between you and Bucky. It gave you just enough courage to look up at him, your fingers nervously twisting around the strap of your purse.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He dipped his head in a single nod, his icy blue eyes flickering down to meet yours. His expression, as always, was unreadable, cast in shadows under the dim streetlamp. “Anytime.”

The simplicity of his reply made your chest tighten. You nodded in return, swallowing hard as your heart hammered in your throat. Turning away from him, you fixed your gaze on your front door, willing yourself to move forward, to end the moment before it unraveled you completely.

Friends. That’s all this was. It had to be.

So why did it feel so wrong to turn your back on him? Why did it feel like you were forcing yourself to betray something deeper, something unspoken, simply by walking away?

Your hand was on the doorknob before you realized you’d stopped moving, the quiet war between your heart and your mind reaching a fever pitch. You squeezed your eyes shut, battling the urge that rose in you like a wave.

Don’t do it. Just go inside. Let him leave.

But the battle was already lost. Before you could stop yourself—before logic could wrestle control away from the reckless beating of your heart—you turned. Your feet moved without permission, carrying you back down the steps toward him.

It wasn’t a decision so much as a pull, steady and undeniable, the words slipping from your lips as if carried on a tide of longing you couldn’t resist.

“Would you like to come up for a drink?”

The words tumbled out unbidden, your voice trembling just enough to betray how desperately you wanted him to say yes.

His reaction couldn’t have been more Bucky if he tried. His eyes shifted, and you swore you could see every emotion flash through them—surprise, hesitation, something a lot like longing—before they settled back into the stoic mask he always wore. Quiet. Unimpressed. Broody. And yet…

“I wouldn’t mind a beer.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, shaky with relief, and you motioned toward your door. “Well, come on then. I’ve got a six-pack that’s been waiting for some company.”

His presence filled the small apartment in a way that made your breath catch, the air somehow heavier, more electric. How many times had your silly, stubborn heart conjured up this exact scenario? Late at night, Bucky standing just inside your door, peeling off his worn leather jacket and tugging off the gloves that shielded both metal and flesh. Then, as if he’d done it a thousand times, he’d settle into a corner of your couch, legs spread, shoulders sinking back into the soft fabric like he belonged there.

“There's Heineken, Bud, and Corona,” you said, your voice only slightly betraying your nerves as you toed off your shoes and dropped your keys and purse by the door. “I think I might even have some whiskey stashed away somewhere. What’s your poison?”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze trailing lazily around the room before settling back on you. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Your stomach flipped, and you nodded, biting back the grin threatening to stretch across your face. “Sure thing,” you said casually, though you were certain the flush creeping up your neck gave you away.

You turned toward the kitchen, your heart doing an embarrassing little leap as you busied yourself rummaging through the fridge and cabinets. The clink of bottles felt absurdly loud in the quiet apartment, every moment stretching with the weight of his presence just beyond your line of sight.

“Nice place,” he called from the living room, his tone casual but laced with something warmer.

“Thanks,” you replied, grabbing two beers and popping the caps off with practiced ease. “I’d say make yourself at home, but it looks like you’ve already got that covered.”

When you re-entered the room, there he was—exactly as you’d imagined so many times before. His jacket was draped over the back of the couch, his gloves neatly set beside it, and Bucky himself sprawled out comfortably. His metal hand rested casually on his knee, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes met yours.

“Here you go, Mr. Barnes,” you said, forcing a steady smile as you handed him the green bottle.

“To your first visit,” you began, raising your own bottle in a toast. You couldn’t help the way your gaze lingered, taking in the sight of his broad frame on your couch, the casual way he sat, the sheer presence of him filling the space. Warmth pooled low in your belly, and before you could stop yourself, you added, “May it be the first of many.”

His smirk deepened at that, a flicker of amusement flashing across his features. He raised his bottle silently, going for a sip—but you stopped him, your hand darting out to rest on his.

“Wait!” you blurted, your palm lightly pressing against his larger one.

His frown was slight, his gaze shifting between your hands before settling on your face. “Why?”

“You have to look at me when we cheers,” you explained, your voice a little breathless, a little unsure of what you were doing but too far in to back out now.

His brow arched. “And why’s that?”

“Bad luck if you don’t. Years of it.” You shrugged, suddenly feeling the ridiculousness of your own words but refusing to back down. “I mean, I can’t even count how many years... Probably best not to risk it.”

For a second, you thought he might argue. But then he chuckled, a soft sound that sent a flutter straight to your chest. “God knows I’ve had enough of that already, haven’t I?”

You giggled, your laughter bubbling out, light and carefree. The fact that he played along felt like a victory, a small but monumental crack in his stoic armor.

With a glint of something softer in his eyes, he tilted his head toward you, his gaze locking with yours. “Alright, doll,” he said, his voice quieter now, warmer. “Let’s do it properly.”

Eyes steady on yours, he clinked his bottle against yours, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet room. And then, he didn’t look away—not for a second—as he took a slow sip.

You followed suit, the contact between your eyes and his making your heart race so fast you thought it might burst. The heat in his gaze was steady, grounding, and yet it sent a thrilling, electric charge through you that made your knees nearly buckle.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, the faintest curve to his lips as he lowered his bottle.

“Much,” you replied, somehow managing to keep your voice steady, even as your pulse thundered in your ears.

The air between you seemed to shift then, heavier but no less comforting—a new tension that simmered beneath the surface. If Bucky noticed the way your gaze lingered on him, the way your breath hitched every time his hand grazed your knee as he reached for another beer, he never said a thing.

He was the perfect gentleman, as always. Even when you slid closer on the couch, settling beside him on the plush cushions - even though there were a whole three other seats available to you. Even when you turned toward him, resting your head on your palm, your eyes tracing the strong lines of his face while you rambled about the mission reports piling up on your desk. He didn’t even glance at your neckline when you leaned over him to grab the remote, though you couldn’t help but steal a quiet inhale of his scent—clean, warm, unmistakably him.

“Alright,” you said, breaking the quiet. “I feel like I’m torturing you by making you listen to all this. Do you feel like watching something?” Your tone was cheery, light, but your heart raced at the thought of sharing something as simple and intimate as watching a film together.

With your eyes fixed on the TV, you missed the brief hesitation in his expression—the flicker of doubt that crossed his face and quickly vanished. Yet, neither the guilt, the fear, nor the pain that lingered in his soul seemed strong enough to stop him from embracing what you offered so openly: a chance to simply be. For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky seemed just a little less burdened by the shadows of his past, a ghost of his old self and a lot of his new one urging him to give in.

“What’s on Netflix?” he asked, his voice low and casual.

Your head whipped around so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “How do you know what Netflix is?”

His lips quirked into a rare, genuinely amused smile, the kind that made your stomach flip. “I’m old, but I’m not that old, doll.”

“You’re 106,” you shot back, arching a brow.

“And yet, I still know what streaming is,” he countered, the smile growing. “I’m not living under a rock.”

“Well, I am impressed, Mr. Barnes,” you teased, settling back into the cushions. “What else do you know about modern technology? Please tell me you’ve at least heard of TikTok.”

His expression shifted into something closer to a scowl, but the playful glint in his eye betrayed him. “I know about TikTok,” he said, sounding almost offended. “And dating apps. God, the horrors,” he added, shaking his head dramatically as he glanced at his phone like it was some sort of ancient relic.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and genuine, filling the cozy space between you. But beneath the humor, your stomach twisted with an unexpected knot. Dating apps?

“What about dating apps?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the curiosity in your voice was hard to hide.

Bucky groaned, slouching deeper into the couch as though the thought of them physically pained him. “I don’t know, doll. They just seem... unnatural. All these profiles and swiping left or right, like you’re picking a product instead of a person. Not my thing.” His voice held a certain distaste, and the casual way he said it made you wonder if he was speaking from experience—or just his own strong sense of principle.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the questions bubbling up inside you. Had he ever used them? Was he speaking from personal experience, or just from watching the chaos unfold around him? Your thoughts shifted uncomfortably, and you tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

“I get it,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s... kind of weird, honestly. It’s like shopping for a date, but with less... quality control.” You shot him a teasing grin, but the tightness in your chest was hard to ignore.

Bucky chuckled, the sound a low rumble that was soothing, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Exactly. I mean, if I’m gonna meet someone, I’d rather it be... I don’t know, real? Not behind a screen.”

For some reason, his comment made your heart stumble, a traitorous beat skipping out of rhythm. You quickly dropped your gaze to your beer, hoping the reaction wasn’t written all over your face. Was he hinting that he preferred real, in-person connections? That he’d rather... meet someone like that?

You cleared your throat, feigning casual interest to mask the swarm of uncertainty rising inside. “So, how would you go about it? Finding a date, I mean. Is Sam your wingman?”

Bucky nearly choked on his beer, shaking his head vehemently. “God, no! Can you imagine? He’s too busy being Captain America to care about my love life... except when he’s accusing me of flirting with his sister.”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, and your chest tightened with something sharp and unwelcome. Jealousy. You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to chase it away. “I didn’t know you liked Sarah,” you said, and to your horror, the disappointment in your voice was impossible to hide.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the shift in your tone. “She’s great,” he said with a thoughtful nod. Then his lips curved knowingly. “But not like that.”

The heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks was impossible to ignore, and Bucky’s sly grin told you he’d noticed. Your relief collided with your curiosity, the two tangling into a dangerous need to know more. “Oh,” you started hesitantly. “So... if not her, then who?”

He took another sip of his beer, the pause deliberate. “Had one date with the waitress from that Asian place we always order from. It… didn’t go well.”

Your brows furrowed. “And you haven’t tried again since then?”

“Not really.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, the movement deceptively casual. “You know how it is these days—apps, algorithms, everyone judging you by a couple of photos and a bio. And who’s lining up to date a former assassin, huh? People know too much, too soon. Real connections don’t happen that way.”

The self-deprecating edge in his voice made your heart ache. You tilted your head, studying the way his vibranium fingers tapped lightly against the beer bottle. “Maybe,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the nervous thrum beneath your skin, “you’re looking in the wrong places.”

His gaze snapped to yours, sharp and searching. “Oh yeah?” he asked, voice low, almost daring. “And where do you think I should look?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his question, his attention. “Maybe a little closer to home,” you murmured, eyes resolutely fixed on the beer bottle in your own hands.

The silence that followed was electric, charged with unspoken possibilities that hung in the air like static. His gaze lingered on you, steady and intense, and you could feel it even without looking up. It made your pulse race in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.

The truth was, you weren’t sure if you were just caught up in the moment—or if there was something more lingering in his words, in the way he was looking at you now.

You wanted to ask. The question burned on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. But a part of you hesitated, afraid of the answer. What if this was nothing more than friendly banter? What if pushing further shattered the comfortable connection you’d built?

“Closer to home, huh?” Bucky’s voice was a low rumble, breaking the silence but not the tension. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, and for a moment, it felt like he was closing the space between you. “And what does that mean, exactly? You got someone in mind for me, doll?”

There it was—that nickname. The one you pretended to hate but secretly adored. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the corner of your mouth twitch, betraying the smile you tried to suppress. His voice was so close it warmed you from head to toe. “I’m just saying,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral, “maybe you’re overthinking it. Sometimes the best things are right in front of you.”

His lips quirked, his expression softening as if he’d caught onto something unsaid. “You think so?” Bucky asked, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

You dared to turn your head and glance at him, and the way his blue eyes locked onto yours stole whatever breath you had left. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I know so.”

The moment stretched between you, fragile and heavy with unspoken words. You swore he was leaning closer, his gaze flickering briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. And suddenly, the question burning in your chest felt inevitable.

“Bucky…” you began, voice trembling slightly, unsure of what you were about to say—or what he might say back.

“Yeah, doll?” Bucky’s voice was gentle, a thread of warmth in the charged air between you.

You hesitated, but the weight of your emotions was too much to carry any longer. “Is this a date?” you finally blurted, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself.

For a moment, his expression didn’t change, and then he shook his head slowly. “It’s not,” he said, his voice steady but quiet.

Your chest tightened, and the disappointment hit hard, like a blow you hadn’t braced for. You tried to mask it, but your face betrayed you, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the rejection. The ache in your heart grew with every second of silence that followed, the room feeling colder with each passing beat.

What you missed was the storm raging behind his steel-blue eyes—the internal battle he fought against his demons, the ones that screamed he wasn’t good enough for you. Wasn’t good enough for anyone. He’d carried those ghosts for too long to ignore them now. But he wasn’t blind.

He’d noticed the way your smile softened when it was meant for him, brighter and warmer than it ever was for anyone else. He’d seen how you fretted over him after missions, your hands fluttering with concern even at the smallest scratch on his skin. And he’d felt the hope radiating from you tonight when you’d invited him over, your words laced with a vulnerability you rarely showed.

Bucky knew. He’d known for a while. And that knowledge both terrified and thrilled him. Love, in any form, was fragile—he’d learned that the hard way. But tonight, sitting here with you, he realized he couldn’t keep running from the possibility of it.

He wanted you. Your laughter, your kindness, your stubbornness, your touch. He craved all of it. And maybe he didn’t deserve it, but for once in his long life, he wanted to try.

Bucky set his beer down, his movements deliberate, and leaned closer. His flesh hand brushed against the back of your arm and the touch sent a shiver up your arm. 

“It’s not a date,” he repeated, voice low but filled with a quiet resolve that made your breath catch, hurt twisting at your heart.

Your brow furrowed, the downturn of your lips impossible to hide. “Heard you the first time…”

“This isn’t a date,” he pressed on. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he added, “But it could be.”

Your heart skipped, his words hanging in the air like a lifeline. “Bucky…”

Cutting through your hesitation, his gaze locked onto yours, unflinching, steady. “If you want this… if you want me, I’m yours. I want to try.”

The vulnerability in his voice left you breathless, stealing any coherent thought you might have had. For the first time in what felt like forever, hope blossomed in your chest, warm and radiant. You didn’t hesitate this time, your lips curving into a soft, trembling smile.

“Is this because you’re afraid of the apps?” you teased, the quip breaking the intensity just enough for you to breathe. But your voice wavered slightly, and your eyes glistened with the tears threatening to spill. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal your virtue?”

Bucky chuckled, low and genuine, the sound sending warmth curling in your chest. “I’m not a damsel in distress, doll,” he said, his tone playful as his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. The simple touch sent shivers down your spine, and you leaned into it instinctively.

“And you’re also not the big bad wolf you think you are,” you countered softly, your voice tinged with both affection and defiance.

“Well, technically…” His lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “I am the White Wolf.”

You rolled your eyes, the tension breaking into something lighter, something safe. “He jokes,” you said, shaking your head. “He could be kissing instead…”

His grin softened, and for a beat, he just looked at you, his hand still lingering near your face. Then, as if your words had given him permission, he leaned in, closing the space between you in a way that felt both inevitable and extraordinary.

“Guess I’ll take your advice for once, doll,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your lips.

The moment his lips touched yours, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. His kiss was gentle at first, a question rather than an assumption, as though he wanted to be sure this was what you truly wanted. His warm hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your cheekbone, while his vibranium hand rested lightly on your knee, grounding him in the moment.

You sighed into the kiss, your hand instinctively reaching up to thread through the short hair at the nape of his neck. The movement drew him closer, and he obliged, deepening the kiss with a soft groan that sent a shiver down your spine. His lips were soft yet firm, moving against yours in a way that spoke of patience and restrained hunger, like he was savoring every second of this moment.

His vibranium hand finally moved, finding your waist with surprising tenderness. The cool metal was a stark contrast to the heat of his other hand through the fabric of your shirt, but it pulled you to the reality of him—both the man he was and the one he’d fought so hard to become.

When you parted briefly for air, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths mingling with yours in the small space between you. His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and brimming with emotions he didn’t have to say out loud.

“Doll…” he whispered, his voice rough and full of awe, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

But you weren’t done. You weren’t ready to let the moment slip away. Sliding your hand from his neck to his jaw, you tilted his face back toward yours, brushing your lips against his again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him. He responded immediately, his grip on your waist tightening as his mouth moved against yours with more certainty, more passion.

The kiss deepened, growing warmer, more insistent. Your bodies angled closer together, his presence consuming your senses. You could feel his heartbeat against yours, steady and strong, and the faint rasp of his stubble as it brushed against your skin only made the experience more intoxicating.

You weren’t sure how it happened—one moment you were pressed against the back of your couch, his hands and lips demanding your full attention, and the next, you were straddling his thighs. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as your harsh breaths mingled, the taste of his tongue intoxicating and impossible to resist.

For all his claims of being a man out of his time, Bucky Barnes knew exactly how to touch a woman. His hands were a perfect dichotomy: one warm and strong, the other cool and unyielding, but both equally firm and commanding. His touch left no room for doubt or hesitation, responding to every unspoken plea you hadn’t yet found the words for.

And his kiss? God, his kiss. You could write sonnets about the way his lips moved against yours, the way his tongue teased and claimed you, coaxing a need from you that you hadn’t known you were capable of. None of your wildest fantasies could compare to the reality of him, his body pressed against yours, solid and capable. The things it could do—what it was doing, what it promised to do—set your whole body alight with yearning.

You kissed him harder, deeper, needier, your hips moving instinctively against his. His groan rumbled low in his chest, a sound that only made you crave him more. But just as your movements grew more desperate, his vibranium hand clamped firmly on your hips, halting your rhythm. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, gentle but insistent, forcing you to break the kiss.

“Doll…” His voice was rough, laced with a warning that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

You blinked at him, still dazed, heat crawling under your skin as you realized what you’d done. “Yes, I’m sorry, I know—I’m sorry,” you stammered, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

His breaths came heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours as his steel-blue eyes bore into yours. The hunger there mirrored your own, and the restraint in his grip only made you want him more.

Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile, your own need warring with the desire to break the tension. “Seems like I really am trying to steal your virtue, huh?” you joked, your voice light but shaky as you turned your head to press a soft kiss to his palm.

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through the hunger. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, his hand slipping from your jaw to trail gently along your cheek, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips.

Your free hand wrapped around his vibranium one, your thumb tracing the grooves of the metal. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with promise as you leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the charged silence stretching as his hands anchored you, holding you steady but never pushing. His restraint was palpable, and you knew without a doubt—if you wanted more, he would give it to you willingly. But only if you asked.

You wouldn’t, though. Not tonight.

Instead, you leaned in, brushing soft, sweet kisses against his lips, your movements unhurried and tender. Each kiss felt like a promise, an unspoken assurance that there was no rush, no need for anything more than this moment. It took superhuman strength—the kind he had—not to let it escalate.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips tingling and your cheeks warm. His eyes searched yours, and the way he looked at you—like you were the most precious thing in the world—made your heart swell. His thumb grazed your cheek, his smile soft and genuine.

“How about that movie?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes betrayed a depth of emotion that made your breath catch.

You laughed, the sound breaking the last remnants of tension and filling the cozy space around you. “Alright, fine. Let’s find something to watch, then. Any preferences?”

“Anything but those baking shows Sam keeps trying to get me into,” he muttered, his lips quirking in faint exasperation.

A giggle bubbled out of you at the mental image of Sam dragging Bucky into a world of frosting, sprinkles, and delicate pastries. The idea was so absurd yet so perfectly Sam that you couldn’t help yourself. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, your lips lingering just long enough to feel the faint rasp of stubble. “Deal. No baking shows.”

As the two of you settled back onto the couch, scrolling through movie options, the tension between you shifted again—this time, it was softer, lighter, wrapped in a warmth that felt safe and steady.

Bucky stretched his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers absently brushing against your shoulder as you leaned into him, your body naturally seeking his. And for the first time in a long time, you noticed something different about him. The shadows that usually haunted his expression seemed to have lifted, replaced by something quieter, something calmer.

Here, with you, Bucky wasn’t the broken soldier or the ex-assassin haunted by his past. He was just… himself. And in that moment, you realized that’s all you’d ever wanted him to be.

[jeannyjaykaydeh]

PMS

Alastor x Reader

Alastor comes down the hotel stairs into the lobby and sees you sitting next to Angel Dust on the sofa. There are lots of bags and packaging scattered around you. Curious, the radio demon raises an eyebrow and walks towards you.

When he reaches you, he sees that the contents of the package are a lot of fast food: burgers (with double toppings), fries, fried noodles, spring rolls, sandwiches, doughnuts, pizza - and you stuff everything indiscriminately into you like a ravenous animal.

Alastor stands directly in front of you, his hands clasped behind his back. With a slightly amused, but above all judgemental smile, he looks down at your pathetic figure sitting on the sofa with her mouth full and chewing.

Readers: Whaff?

Alastor: What are you doing here, my dear?

Reader: I'm... eating?!

Alastor: Oh, I can see that, sweetie. But I wonder why you don't eat something... something edible?

Disgusted, he takes an empty bag between his thumb and forefinger and lifts it up. He shudders a little in disgust as he sees the stale and smelly frying fat oozing out.

Reader: It is edible. It even tastes pretty good. Try it.

Alastor (laughing pejoratively): Oooh, fuck, no! No! No, no, no, no! No way! Absolutely not! No!

Reader (shrugging her shoulders and continuing eating).

Angel Dust, who has been scrolling on his smartphone the whole time, looks up and grins wryly.

Angel: Man, Smiles, ya don't understand.

Alastor (turning his gaze to Angel and raising an eyebrow): Hm?

Angel: It's called PMS. She's heading towards the end of her cycle, and it's a stressful hormonal journey full of mood swings and weird cravings.

Angel (getting up from the sofa, leaning over to Alastor and whispering to him): I should warn ya about her mood swings. One wrong word and she'll tear ya to pieces. Even yer status as a radio demon won't help, trust me.

Alastor (turning to you with a sigh): And you think that eating this... TRASH will help your hormonal balance, which is already out of control?

Reader (narrowing her eyes): Maybe I'll just eat you if you don't shut up, you walking strawberry shake!

Alastor (under static noises and with a very, very slight hint of nervousness): Ohoho! All right, all right. We don't want any trouble here, do we?

Alastor raises his arms defensively and leaves the lobby.

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

A little later - you're sitting on your bed in your room, hugging your pillow and trying to fight your depressed mood. PMS is so annoying!

Then there's a knock on your door.

Reader: Yes?

Alastor (entering your room and approaching you with elegant steps): Well, well, well, who here feels blue and looks as miserable as sin?

Reader (narrowing her eyes in annoyance): If you've come here to annoy me, then I have to tell you that you've picked absolutely the wrong time to do so.

Alastor (laughing): Haha! Who do you think I am? As if I'm such a heartless monster.

Silence between you. You look at him with a raised eyebrow.

Alastor (shrugging his shoulders): Well, let's not kid ourselves. I am a heartless monster. Most of the time, anyway. Ahaha!

Then he holds out his hand and expects you to let him help you out of bed.

Reader (sceptical): What are you up to?

Alastor: I have a little surprise for you. Just trust me, darling.

You take his hand and let him lead you to his room.

A large, elegantly laid table with all kinds of dishes awaits you there. Homemade and freshly cooked, high-quality and expensive ingredients, prepared in a vitamin-preserving way and it smells fantastic.

Your jaw drops when you see this large table with the delicious multi-course menu.

Alastor looks at you and giggles.

Alastor (putting his hand on your chin to gently close your mouth): Well, that's no reason to be so theatrical, sweetheart.

Reader: Did... Did you cook all this?

Alastor (snapping his fingers and suddenly wearing the uniform of a waiter. Approaching your chair and pulling it back to offer you the seat): But of course I cooked it myself, my dear. Please, sit down and help yourself. I'm sure this meal will help you with your current condition.

Suddenly you burst into tears - it's hard to tell if you're moved or if it's because of your PMS.

You rush over to Alastor and enthusiastically throw your arms around his neck.

Reader: THANK YOU! THANK YOU, THANK YOU SO, SO, SO , SO MUCH! I love you!

Alastor is completely surprised by your emotional outburst. His eyes widen and he makes a static noise.

Alastor (patting your head): But of course you do, baby. Of course you do.

Alastor (mumbling a little later): I love you too.

[housecow]

Wait can you still get actually cute stuff at torrid? I feel like they changed into Old Lady Clothes Mart mode a couple of years ago. Plus their clothes don't last anymore and wear out almost immediately 😭

i’ve heard this opinion SO many times and i just don’t understand it??? i’ve admittedly only started shopping there for around a year now though, i used to exclusively thrift my clothes or hit up clearance in straight size stores i knew had XL/XXL lol.

however, no clothing store nowadays is going to cater exclusively to a single style (even if it’s just what’s considered fashionable) unless they have a niche market, want to go out of business, or have incredibly unsustainable fast fashion type clothes. i’ve seen so many ppl talk about how torrid just doesn’t have the “edgy” stuff they used to, which makes me laugh so hard bc be real. their older clothes were ugly as fuck and there’s a reason they’re moving onto other things

and like. i guess torrid has a lot of “old lady clothes” but so does every other place available to plus size women, lol. but you can find cute stuff literally anywhere if you try hard enough. torrid is fantastic for the basics—statement pieces may not be easy to find there if you don’t use their online site, but if you’re willing to spend good money on some quality pieces from (usually) independent clothing stores, that’s not an issue.

as for quality, wtf are you on??? have you bought ANYTHING “plus size” from shein, amazon, or old navy recently?? that’s the stuff that falls apart—you get that shit and threads are already loose. I have several dresses and pants from torrid that’ve held up BEAUTIFULLY since buying them last year, and the sweaters i recently ordered are so much better quality than i expected!!

when people say this, i assume they don’t pay attention to what fabrics they’re buying lol. sorry not everything can just be thrown into the wash and dryer without regard for materials 🤷‍♀️ maybe try to take care of your clothes?

[tinseltrinkets]

I just want to talk about how absolutely wonderful and beautiful this scene is

“There is one thing I know in my bones: there is no force in this world that can control you. You will never be a passenger.”

I am primarily a JayVik shipper but I don’t undermine Jayce and Mel’s beautiful relationship. Even if they weren’t lovers or aren’t at this point, they’re companions, they’re friends.

We usually see male romantic interests say stuff like “you’re beautiful” or “I’ll always protect you” in lines that are meant to be the pinnacle of their love for a female romantic interest. A lot of the time it’s lines that take away autonomy from the female romantic interest or emphasize some sort of otherworldly ethereal quality that makes her out to be only a “girlfriend” or “wife.”

Jayce’s line to Mel is empowering her. Not even empowering, but rather expressing the power he knows she already possesses. It isn’t from a place of patronizing or possessive love, but a deep admiration and understanding of her autonomy and personhood. It’s not from a boyfriend to a girlfriend or from a man to woman, but from a human to a human.

And it is deeply personal. He’s not just flattering her, the emphasis isn’t on him being a smooth talker. The weight of this line comes from her strengths as well: her ability to break from the cycle warfare and power mongering expected of her, her intellect and wit, her warmth, the list goes on.

Jayce knows this about Mel and he wasn’t just attracted to it but respected it, admired it.

This is one moment that solidified Jayce as an ideal man for me and makes me so happy that Mel got to hear this.

[wings-of-ink]

Anon Ask response below! Very slight chapter 5 "spoiler" info too.

I thought I'd respond this way since I've rather liked being able to respond in chunks throughout the ask! ^_^

I saw the ask about bear related nicknames for Oswin, and I imagined my own MC (Winfred, I had mentioned him before) trying to call him any of that. But it doesn't work for him. Mostly because Winfred is taller and broader than Oswin, so if anything, Winfred resembles a bear more. A teddy bear, perhaps, given how sweet and kind he is, but a bear nonetheless.

I remember your Winfred! I love that, lol. So Oswin can be the honey to Winfred's bear?

Also, on a similar line of thought, I always think it's hilarious but very cute how protective the group is of my MC. Because, sure, Winfred is in a terrible unfair situation. But they don't know that at the beginning (except for Oswin), and my MC surely doesn't look weak nor frail. So it's funny to read how they all want to protect him so much. Yet, it's also so endearing. Winfred is such a sunny kind of character, I do imagine he is hard not to love.

That is adorable. They are all convinced that no matter how someone appears, they deserve a hand up when faced with troubles. Zahn is like an angry kitten putting on a brave face for Winfred, lol.

Speaking of love (I know I'm rambling at this point, sorry), I am heartbroken for Winfred. Because he used the chance to confess his feelings, and Oswin stopped him. And I don't know how Winfred would process that. Not entirely at least.

I've seen that theme in a few asks. I completely feel that, it's valid for MC's to feel heartbroken or rejected. It'll play out though and on the way home, Winfred will get to figure out how he feels about that.

For one, I know he won't force the topic again. He is understanding that Oswin needs time to tell him everything, so he'll understand he doesn't have to speak about love with Oswin just yet. However, I do imagine he could end up feeling resigned. In the sense he would interpret Oswin refusal not as Oswin feeling guilty about being loved by him, but rather as a declaration of an obvious fact: Oswin doesn't love him (which we know it isn't true, but Winfred doesn't know that). And since my Winfred's heart is wholly devoted, entirely and irrevocably owned by Oswin... It means Winfred probably would accept he'll never experience romantic love.

Awe, he's really going to go through it then. That is sweet, and it sounds to me like they sort of love in the same deep way.

Now, this is tragic and all, but I do imagine a funny scenario where Winfred —convinced Oswin doesn't, can't and will not ever love him— will try to find a partner that could make Oswin happy. Assuming Winfred survives, of course. Mostly because Winfred loves Oswin so much, that he prefers to see him happy with someone else than miserable. And maybe, if Oswin finds someone to love, then if Winfred died he would not feel as much pain, or at least would have someone to support him... I realize this stopped being funny to turn sad, guess I'm too fond of angst to stop myself.

LOL It's a sweet notion even if there is an underlying sadness to it! Oswin would be so torn up about that too.

In any case, I know you released chapter 5 recently. But I feel I need more and want to read chapter 6 as soon as possible. Especially so because the conclusion of chapter 5 shattered my expectations of how the story was going to go. I expected the journey to last until MC found a cure, not that they would return home. And that's not taking about the magic stuff that's going on. There is so much to learn about this world, and I'm hooked.

I miiiight have an outline going already.... :D I am really excited to write it too! I need to make some corrections to chapter 5 of course still, but I can't help but outline 6 to satisfy the "itch." The trip home is just to re-group though, so never fear, Winfred will be off to find answers again after a plan is made. I'm glad you love learning more about the world too, because there's some really fun info coming up! ^_^

Of course, don't pressure yourself. And remember to drink water too.

No worries! I'm making sure to take pretty good breaks before I really get into writing like normal. Winter is a very sleepy time for me and I know my limits. When I feel the spark, I poke around in my documents though. And I always have my water thermos at the ready!

Have a nice day!

You too my dear! Thank you for stopping by and sharing your thoughts! ^_^

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Across The Ropes… a Zilla Fatu x Oc fic.

Chapter 1: Elation

The locker room was empty, save for Zilla Fatu. He sat on the bench in the corner, his head down, his elbows resting on his knees. The echoes of earlier celebration—congratulations from his peers, slaps on the back, the energy of the crowd—had faded into silence. Now it was just him, his gear bag at his feet, and the weight of everything he’d worked for pressing on his shoulders.

He wiped the sweat from his face with a towel, but it didn’t stop the sting in his eyes. A tear slipped free, warm against his cheek. He let it fall, staring blankly at the floor.

His final match at Reality of Wrestling. The place that had given him a second chance, a purpose. And yet, all he felt was a hollow ache.

“You’re in your head too much, Isayah.”

The familiar voice broke the silence. Zilla looked up sharply to see Booker T standing in the doorway, arms crossed. The older man’s presence filled the room, a mix of authority and warmth that Zilla had always respected. Booker stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Zilla quickly wiped his face, but Booker had already seen the tear. He sat down next to Zilla on the bench, his expression soft.

“I’m proud of you, man,” Booker said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done the work. You’ve earned this. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

Zilla forced a smile, but it barely lasted a second before fading. His jaw clenched as he stared at the floor.

“What if I don’t make it?” he asked, his voice showcasing doubt.

Booker frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Zilla shook his head, his fingers curling into fists. “What if I don’t live up to it? All of it—what people expect, the family name, everything. What if I end up screwing this up?”

Booker hesitated. He knew Zilla wasn’t just talking about the pressure of WWE. He leaned back, his expression careful. “This about your old man?”

Zilla swallowed hard and nodded.

Booker sighed deeply, leaning forward with his hands clasped together. “Listen, your dad was a great man in his own way, but he had demons. We all do. You’re not him, Isayah. You don’t have to carry all of that.”

Zilla’s voice cracked. “But what if I can’t escape it? What if… it’s just in me?”

Booker’s face softened, and for a moment, the veteran was silent. When he spoke again, his tone was steady, almost fatherly. “You think I don’t understand that? I’ve been there too, kid. I’ve made my share of mistakes. But I had people who pulled me out, gave me a reason to fight for something better. And now, you’ve got that same chance.”

Zilla didn’t look up. The words hit home, but they didn’t erase the fear gnawing at his chest. Booker studied him for a moment, then nodded, as if coming to a decision.

“How about this,” Booker said, his voice breaking through the tension. “A friend of mine—professor over at the college—he’s hosting a seminar tomorrow. Addiction in sports. He invited me to answer some questions, talk about the stuff we’ve seen in this business. Why don’t you come with me?”

Zilla frowned, finally meeting Booker’s eyes. “To do what?”

“Tell your story.”

Zilla shook his head almost immediately. “Nah, man. I can’t do that. That’s not me.”

Booker leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. “It is you. You’ve lived it. And there’s somebody out there who needs to hear it. You don’t have to be perfect to make a difference, Isayah.”

The younger man hesitated, running a hand over his face. He didn’t trust himself, didn’t trust his words to matter. But Booker’s voice carried the same conviction it always had, the same belief that had gotten Zilla to this point.

“Think of it as doing one last thing for me,” Booker added, his tone softening.

Zilla exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the request. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely audible. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

A slow smile spread across Booker’s face. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He clapped Zilla on the back, his pride evident. “You’re gonna do good, kid.”

Zilla tried to return the smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The fear was still there, clawing at the edges of his resolve. He didn’t know if he could live up to Booker’s belief in him—or if he could outrun the shadow of his father’s legacy.

But for now, he had made a promise. And for Booker, he’d keep it.

—

Zilla pulled into the Rice University’s School of Social Sciences Department parking lot, the engine of his grey Camaro purring as he slowly came to a stop. He got out, adjusting his black collared polo and dark jeans, making sure his outfit was as sharp as ever. His white Nikes gleamed under the midday sun, and the lingering scent of Versace cologne clung to the air around him as he made his way toward the entrance.

He noticed Booker speaking with another man, an older figure dressed in a neatly pressed suit. Zilla recognized him immediately—Professor Carter, the head of the Psychology Department, and the man who had been running the seminar on addiction that Booker had invited him to. The two men seemed to be in a deep conversation, but as Zilla approached, Booker caught sight of him and gave him a small wave.

“Zilla!” Booker called out, motioning for him to join them.

As Zilla approached, Booker slapped the older man on the back with a grin. “This is Professor Carter, head of the Psychology Department. Carter, this is my guy, Zilla.”

The professor smiled warmly, his hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fatu. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Zilla shook his hand, nodding. “Pleasure’s mine, Professor.”

Professor Carter’s eyes twinkled as he glanced past Zilla for a moment, scanning the surroundings. “I believe I see my star student coming this way.” He paused for emphasis. “She’s going to be the best psychiatrist Texas has ever seen. You’ll see.”

Zilla looked over, intrigued by the professor’s words, and soon enough, he saw the girl Carter was referring to.

She was walking toward them, a slight, thick figure with a certain quiet confidence in her stride. She was dressed casually—light blue jeans, a black oversized cardigan with large white stars dotted across it, and a white tank top. Her black platform Vans added a bit of height, and her short curly hair barely grazed her shoulders. She wore light mascara on her lashes, and her pouty lips were highlighted with a subtle gloss. Over her shoulder, she carried a red bookbag, which appeared to hold a laptop and a few thick books.

Zilla felt his gaze linger on her longer than he intended, his mind momentarily distracted by the way she moved, the way she held herself, and the natural ease of her presence. He didn’t even realize he was staring until the girl stopped just a few feet from him, her smile soft but playful.

“He doesn’t speak much, does he?” she said, breaking the silence with a light chuckle, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Zilla blinked, snapping out of his daze, and felt a sharp nudge from Booker. The older man shot him a knowing look before turning to Dahlia with a warm smile.

“This is Zilla,” Booker said, “The man of the hour. He’s had a hell of start in his career in wrestling, but he’s here to share his story today.”

Dahlia smiled softly and extended her hand toward Zilla. “I’m Dahlia,” she introduced herself, her voice calm but confident. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Zilla, still a bit caught off guard, shook her hand with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you too,” he managed, his voice a little rougher than usual. He could feel the weight of her gaze, but he quickly looked away, feeling a mix of nerves and curiosity stirring within him. He wasn’t used to someone like her—someone who seemed both sharp and approachable at the same time.

Professor Carter chuckled softly at the awkward moment. “Dahlia’s been in the program here for the last three years. She’s the kind of student who challenges you, makes you think deeper about addiction and its psychological impact. I’m sure she’ll have some questions for you today that’ll make you rethink things yourself.”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow playfully. “I’m not here to interrogate, just… to learn.” She turned toward Booker. “Thanks for the invite, by the way. I’m really looking forward to hearing Zilla’s perspective.”

Zilla nodded at her, his mind still somewhat scattered from the interaction. He could tell she was different from the usual crowd he was used to—more thoughtful, more intense. The way she looked at him made him uneasy, almost like she could see through his exterior.

“Glad you’re both here,” Professor Carter said, motioning toward the seats set up for the seminar. “Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and Zilla, we’re grateful you’re willing to share your story.”

Zilla nodded again, walking toward a chair near the front, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He knew this was going to be hard, but if there was anyone who could handle it, it was him. As he settled into the seat, Dahlia took the chair next to him, her presence almost magnetic. She hadn’t said much yet, but Zilla could feel the tension between them, an undercurrent of curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite place.

Professor Carter adjusted his glasses and turned to the audience. “Today, we’re going to be discussing addiction in sports, the pressure athletes face, and how these issues can affect not only their careers but their personal lives. And Zilla, well, his experiences will shed light on just how deep these struggles can go.” Professor Carter then gestured to Zilla to start speaking.

As the room settled, Zilla leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The light from the overhead lamps reflected off his sharp features, but his expression was distant, as if he was somewhere else—somewhere in the past. He inhaled deeply, his chest tightening before exhaling slowly, trying to steady the nerves that were creeping up on him.

It wasn’t easy, this part. Talking about the things that had haunted him for years.

“I made a lot of stupid mistakes,” Zilla began, his voice low but steady, eyes focused on the floor in front of him. “When I was 15, I got charged with aggravated robbery. I was young, reckless, and angry. Got myself locked up for six years. My life was a mess—steering me in all the wrong directions.” He paused, the weight of the words sinking in. “I wasn’t proud of it. Hell, I hated myself for a long time. But that’s how it was.”

He glanced up at the audience, the faces staring back at him now. It felt different to speak in front of people who weren’t in the wrestling world, who didn’t know his story. But he couldn’t keep hiding from it. He’d made it this far—he owed it to himself to finally be honest.

“When I got out, I decided to follow in my dad’s footsteps,” Zilla continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Wrestling was the only thing that felt real, the only thing that kept me from falling back into that same shit. I wanted to be like him, even though I knew… deep down, it wasn’t going to be easy.” His fingers drummed softly against the armrest, as though trying to anchor himself.

His gaze shifted to the side, staring at the blank wall. He could almost hear his dad’s voice in his head, his late father, Edward Fatu, the man who had become a wrestling legend under the name Umaga. But Zilla’s voice shook slightly as he spoke his father’s name, the weight of that loss still fresh.

“But there was always this fear…” Zilla’s voice cracked for a moment before he cleared his throat, composing himself. “Fear that I’d end up like him. My dad… he struggled. I mean, he struggled with addiction, just like a lot of wrestlers do. He had painkillers in his system when he passed—hydrocodone, Soma, Valium. And on top of that, his heart and liver were already shot. The combination of those drugs and his heart disease… that’s what killed him.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, feeling the air in the room shift. The mention of his father’s death never got easier, no matter how many times he said it aloud.

Zilla looked up then, meeting the eyes of the small crowd, but his eyes were distant. “The toxicology reports said it was a heart attack brought on by acute toxicity from all those substances in his system.” He swallowed hard, the memory of his father’s body being carried away like it was just yesterday. “And that’s what terrified me. I didn’t want to end up like that. I didn’t want to let wrestling—or anything—become the thing that killed me.”

He turned his attention to Dahlia, who had been quietly observing him, her expression unreadable. Something about her gaze made him feel exposed, as though she was seeing parts of him he’d tried to keep buried.

“I was afraid to wrestle at first,” Zilla admitted, his voice becoming softer, more vulnerable. “Afraid of what it could do to me—afraid of what it could do to my body, my mind, the way it consumed my father. But there was something in me that kept pushing me to step into that ring, even when I didn’t feel ready.”

His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white as he fought back the urge to let his emotions spill over.

“It wasn’t just about making my dad proud anymore,” Zilla said, his voice firming up. “It was about making sure I didn’t follow his path. I wanted to be something more than what he was. But some days… I feel like I’m just one bad decision away from losing everything.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Zilla’s breathing. He looked at the audience, his mind swimming in the past, but also feeling a strange sense of relief from speaking it out loud.

Professor Carter, who had been quietly listening, nodded slowly, as if processing everything Zilla had shared. “Thank you for your honesty, Zilla,” he said, his voice calm but sincere. “Not many people can talk about their struggles with that level of clarity. It’s clear that you’ve worked hard to make a name for yourself.”

Zilla managed a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m still working on it,” he said, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and doubt. “But I know one thing for sure: I won’t let my father’s mistakes define me.”

As the silence lingered in the room, Zilla shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of having opened up like that. He didn’t expect it to feel like this—like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, but it was also a strange kind of emptiness, like he had exposed too much of himself in such a short time.

Dahlia’s gaze was still on him, her expression unreadable. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but something told him she understood. She had her own story, her own struggles. Zilla could see the curiosity in her eyes, but also something else—something more.

As the seminar came to a close, the room filled with a mix of murmurs and applause. The audience had asked their questions, and Zilla had continued to answer them all—the raw truth about his struggles with addiction, mental health, and the shadow of his father’s legacy. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been necessary. His chest felt lighter, even though the weight of everything still lingered.

Zilla sat back in his chair, wiping a hand over his face. He couldn’t believe he’d just bared himself to a room full of strangers, but somehow, he felt a sense of release, a small victory.

He noticed Dahlia again as she spoke to a group of students near the door, her animated expressions and easy smile contrasting the weight of the questions she’d asked him just moments before. She was different. The way she carried herself, the way she seemed to ask questions that went deeper than the surface—it intrigued him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle nudge from Booker, who had silently approached him, a grin on his face. “What’s on your mind, Zilla?” he asked, his voice soft but knowing.

Zilla shifted in his seat, still looking at Dahlia as she laughed with the other students. “Nothing,” he muttered, then hesitated. “Just… thinking.”

Booker raised an eyebrow, following Zilla’s gaze. “Yeah, I see you thinking. She’s something else, huh?”

Zilla sighed, feeling a heat rise in his cheeks despite himself. “She’s… too smart for me,” he admitted, his voice low. “I’m just some guy from Houston, a wrestler trying to make it. I don’t know if I’m her type.”

Booker chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’re something else.” He paused, considering Zilla for a moment before speaking again. “She interviewed me for her educational podcast a while back. Real sharp. You know what? Why don’t you go talk to her?”

Zilla blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Talk to her? I don’t know, Booker. She’s not like the other people I’m used to talking to.”

Booker leaned in, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “You really gonna back down from this? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Zilla glanced at Booker, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I don’t know… She’s… ethereal. Like she’s not from this world or something.”

Booker let out a hearty laugh, slapping Zilla on the back. “You’ve been talking to her for the last hour, and now you’re acting like she’s untouchable? Man, go for it. What do you have to lose?”

Zilla shook his head, laughing nervously. “I don’t know, man. It just feels different. She’s… out of my league.”

Booker’s tone softened, the humor in his voice replaced with a bit of seriousness. “Zilla, if you let fear hold you back, you’ll never get anywhere. She’s smart, yeah, but you’re not here for her to grade you, you’re here because you have a story to tell. Don’t let her intellect intimidate you. She probably respects what you’ve been through more than anyone.”

Zilla exhaled deeply, turning to look at Dahlia again. He watched as she gestured enthusiastically to one of the students, her hand sweeping through the air as she spoke. There was something magnetic about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t just the way she carried herself, or the sharpness of her mind. There was something in her energy that seemed to pull at him. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a sense of urgency—like he had to take a chance, or risk losing the opportunity forever.

“I guess you’re right,” Zilla muttered, standing up from his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the nerves that were suddenly tightening in his chest.

Booker gave him a reassuring nod. “Go on, then. Don’t leave her hanging.”

Zilla took a deep breath, his heart pounding as he made his way toward the group of students. He hesitated for a moment, watching Dahlia’s smile, the way she seemed so at ease in a room full of strangers. But then, with a determined step, he pushed through the crowd and walked right up to her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice sounding more confident than he felt. “Mind if I steal you for a second?”

Dahlia looked up, a surprised but not unwelcoming expression on her face. “Oh, hey, Zilla,” she replied, her voice light, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “Sure, what’s up?”

Zilla scratched the back of his neck, feeling the weight of the moment settling in. “I don’t know if this is weird or anything,” he began, “but I wanted to say… I appreciate the questions you asked earlier. You made me think about things I don’t usually talk about. You’re different, you know that?”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve been told I ask too many questions,” she said with a soft laugh. “But, you handled them well.”

Zilla’s heart skipped a beat as he looked into her eyes. There was something in the way she looked at him—something that made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t in a long time. “I don’t usually do this,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But… I don’t know, I wanted to talk. Maybe over coffee? Or something.”

Dahlia’s expression softened, and for a moment, Zilla thought he saw something flicker behind her eyes. “I’d like that,” she said. “Maybe we can trade stories. I’d like to hear more about your journey, Zilla.”

As Zilla stood there, staring into her warm gaze, the nerves that had plagued him moments before began to fade. He wasn’t sure where this would go, or what the future would hold, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might be taking the right step.

“How about Agora? I could use an Americano.”

Zilla chuckled, shaking his head. “Agora, huh? Never tried it, but I’m always down to try something new,” he replied, his voice light with intrigue. Dahlia’s enthusiasm was contagious, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Dahlia’s eyes brightened, her smile widening. “Trust me, it’s worth it. It’s a cozy little spot, perfect for conversations like these.”

Zilla raised an eyebrow, half-teasing, half-genuine. “Conversations like these, huh?”

Dahlia shrugged with a playful grin. “Yeah, the kind that aren’t rushed, where you can actually hear each other think.”

Zilla smiled softer this time, his gaze flickering to her before he glanced back at the car. “I can get on board with that.”

They made their way out of the building and onto the warm campus grounds. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the walkways, the fading light wrapped around them like a golden blanket. Zilla couldn’t help but notice how her easy stride seemed to match the rhythm of the day, like she was completely at ease in her own skin. His attention lingered on her without meaning to.

“You live on campus?” Zilla asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

Dahlia nodded. “Yeah, been here for a while now. It’s convenient, you know? Close to everything. I don’t mind the commute, plus it’s easier on the parking.”

Zilla smiled. “Yeah, parking at the university can be a nightmare.” He led her toward the Camaro, still in awe of how easily they slipped into conversation.

Dahlia laughed, pushing her hair back slightly. “Exactly! But I do take the metro around town, actually. It’s simpler and saves me the hassle of looking for parking everywhere. Plus, it gives me time to think, listen to music… just zone out.”

Zilla smirked. “Metro, huh? You seem like someone who makes the best out of everything.”

She shrugged with a small, thoughtful smile. “I guess. It’s the little things. Makes it easier to deal with the bigger things.”

Zilla nodded, impressed. “I respect that. I wish I could find time for those little moments.”

As they reached his car, Zilla unlocked it and opened the passenger door for her. The soft warmth of the afternoon air mixed with a cool breeze as Dahlia climbed in, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the space between them.

“Well, I guess that makes you my chauffeur for today, huh?” she teased, winking at him as she buckled her seatbelt.

Zilla chuckled, getting into the driver’s seat. “I suppose so,” he said, starting the engine.

The drive to Agora was easy, the streets of Houston winding around them. Rap music played quietly through the car’s speakers, filling the gaps in conversation as Zilla navigated through the city. Every now and then, their laughter mixed with the music, making the time pass faster than expected.

After a while, Dahlia glanced over at him. “So, Zilla,” she began, her tone soft but probing. “I know we talked a bit at the seminar, but what made you decide to get into wrestling? I mean, with everything you’ve been through… it’s not exactly a simple career to jump into.”

Zilla’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, the familiar weight of the question settling on his chest. He stared at the road ahead, unsure of how to answer. His dad—the legacy of it all—always lingered just beneath the surface.

“I guess I was always around it,” he said slowly, his voice thick with the past. “My family, the business. My dad, uncles… all of them. It felt like a way to carry on, even when everything else was falling apart. But it wasn’t easy. After everything… after the mess I made of my life, I wasn’t sure I could do it. But in the end, wrestling was the one thing that felt like it was meant for me.”

Dahlia nodded, her gaze never leaving him. “It sounds like it was hard for you, carrying the weight of your family’s expectations, along with the fear of becoming your dad.”

Zilla glanced over at her, a little surprised by her insight. “Yeah, it was. I was afraid of it, to be honest. I didn’t want to end up like him. But wrestling… I had to face my own demons. And I realized I couldn’t just let his legacy be a shadow over me forever.”

Dahlia’s expression softened, but there was an intensity in her eyes as she spoke again. “Your dad, he… died from an overdose, right? I mean, that’s part of what you’ve had to come to terms with.”

Zilla’s chest tightened as the memory resurfaced, the image of his father’s untimely death haunting him as always. “Yeah. The toxicology report said he had hydrocodone, carisoprodol, and diazepam in his system. Mixed with the heart and liver disease he had… it killed him. It was a heart attack brought on by the drugs, and it… it fucked me up. Made me question everything.”

Dahlia’s gaze softened. “That’s a lot to carry. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Zilla gave a small nod, his throat tightening slightly. “Thanks. It still hurts sometimes, you know?”

They drove in silence for a moment, the weight of Zilla’s words hanging in the air. Dahlia was the first to break the silence.

“So, what about you, Zilla?” she asked softly. “What about your own mental health? You’re carrying a lot, I can tell. Have you tried to talk to someone? Maybe professional help?”

Zilla stiffened for a second, not used to talking about his own struggles, but Dahlia’s earnestness made him feel comfortable enough to open up. “Yeah, I’ve been to therapy a few times. It helps, but there’s always this fear in the back of my mind. What if I end up like my dad? What if the pressure gets to me and I just… break?”

Dahlia’s voice was quiet, but it held a deep understanding. “You’re already doing something about it, Zilla. You’re here, talking about it. That’s a step in the right direction.”

Zilla looked over at her, his eyes searching hers for sincerity. He could see it—she meant it. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like someone truly understood.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice steady. “I needed to hear that.”

They pulled into the parking lot of Agora, the warm afternoon light casting long shadows over the building. As they got out of the car, Zilla looked over at Dahlia, feeling a strange sense of calm.

“So, this is it, huh?” he asked, his tone lighter than before.

Dahlia smiled, her eyes bright. “Yeah, just follow my lead, and you’ll love it.”

Zilla laughed, following her to the entrance. For the first time in a while, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he was starting something new. Something that wasn’t just about the past or the weight of expectations. Something that was about him.

Zilla and Dahlia approached the front counter, the soft hum of chatter and the clink of mugs filling the air. The barista, a young woman with short brown hair and a bright smile, looked up as they approached.

“Hey there!” she greeted them warmly. “What can I get you two?”

Dahlia didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take an Americano, please.”

Zilla, glancing at the menu briefly, added, “I’ll take the hot chocolate.”

Dahlia pulled out her cash, handing over the exact amount for both drinks. Zilla watched, amused by her casual confidence. As she handed over the bills, he raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I feel like the girl now.”

Dahlia laughed, her smile genuine. “Oh, please, it’s just eight bucks.”

Zilla shook his head. “Still, I could’ve paid.”

Dahlia shrugged, not missing a beat. “It’s fine. You’re my guest.”

“Right,” Zilla teased. “Your guest who feels a little out of place now.”

They moved to the pick-up section of the counter, waiting for their drinks. The friendly barista soon handed them their cups, each one topped with frothy cream. Dahlia, taking her Americano, motioned for Zilla to follow her as she led them to a more private table tucked away in the corner.

As they settled into the cozy corner, the soft buzz of the café providing a background hum, Dahlia raised an eyebrow. “Not a coffee fan?” she asked, eyeing his choice of hot chocolate with a curious glance.

Zilla shrugged nonchalantly, stirring his drink. “Whatcha mean?”

Dahlia smiled, leaning back in her chair. “I mean, everyone here seems to be all about the coffee. You’re the only one with hot chocolate.”

Zilla chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m not everyone. I don’t mind coffee, but sometimes I just want something sweeter, you know?”

Dahlia nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. I like my coffee strong, but there’s definitely something comforting about hot chocolate.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and watching the afternoon light fade outside the café windows.

Zilla, unable to hold back a playful grin, finally broke the quiet. “You’re really into your coffee, huh?”

Dahlia laughed, her eyes lighting up. “You could say that. It’s kind of a ritual for me. Helps me focus, clears my mind. Plus, it’s just… comforting. Kind of like a constant in all the chaos.”

Zilla’s gaze softened, recognizing the depth in her words. “I get that. You’ve got a lot of different things going on in your life, huh?”

Dahlia smiled, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah, it feels like it sometimes. But it’s all part of the journey, right?”

Zilla nodded, leaning back in his chair, his eyes still on her. “Yeah. Sometimes, it’s hard to see where you’re going, but you’ve just got to trust the process, I guess.”

Dahlia’s smile was gentle but knowing. “Exactly.”

The conversation lingered for a while, flowing naturally between them. Zilla felt an ease he hadn’t expected. There was something about Dahlia’s perspective, her ability to make the heavy things feel lighter, that kept him drawn in.

As they continued to chat, Zilla found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—he was starting to enjoy this journey after all.

Zilla leaned back in his chair, swirling his hot chocolate absentmindedly, his curiosity piqued. “So… what about you, Dahlia? What’s your story? I mean, you’ve been through a lot, right? You seem like you have a lot of wisdom for someone your age.”

Dahlia’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes dropping to the surface of her drink as if weighing whether she should share. She took a slow breath before meeting his gaze, her tone steady but tinged with an honesty that caught Zilla off guard.

“Well, I was a ward of the state from the time I was born until I turned 18,” she began quietly, her words soft but unwavering. “I was bounced around between foster homes, group homes… you name it. Never really had a stable place to call home. It was… tough, you know? Always feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere.”

Zilla’s eyes softened as he listened, his earlier teasing tone completely gone. “That sounds… rough.”

Dahlia nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “Yeah, it wasn’t easy. But when I turned 18, I had to file for FAFSA to apply for college. That’s when I had to contact my mother for the first time, and I… I don’t really know what I was expecting. I had only met her twice before, so I was kind of looking for some kind of connection, I guess.” She paused, her lips pressing together in thought. “But when I finally tracked her down, I found out she’d overdosed not long after. I never really got to know her.”

Zilla sat silently for a moment, letting her words sink in. He could feel the weight of what she was saying, the gravity of having to face that kind of truth. He opened his mouth to say something but paused, unsure of how to respond.

“That’s… a lot to carry,” he said quietly, his voice full of empathy. “I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. Not having that family support, then trying to figure out who you are…”

Dahlia shrugged slightly, though her eyes looked distant, as though she were caught between the past and the present. “It’s not easy, but… I think it’s part of who I am. I had to learn to rely on myself, to trust my own instincts, and that made me want to help other people. That’s why I’m studying psychology. I want to understand how the mind works—why we do what we do—because I never really had the answers growing up. And maybe I can help someone else find those answers before it’s too late.”

Zilla’s heart clenched as he listened, admiring her strength. “I think you’re doing a hell of a job figuring it out. Not a lot of people could go through all that and still want to make something positive out of it.”

Dahlia smiled, though it was tinged with a quiet sadness. “Sometimes, you don’t have a choice. You just keep going because that’s all you can do. But… yeah, it helps to know that some people see it. It’s not about the struggles, you know? It’s about how you choose to keep going in spite of them.”

Zilla sat back in his chair, his own thoughts swirling as he processed her words. There was something about Dahlia that made him feel like he wasn’t the only one carrying a heavy past. They were two people, from two very different worlds, but in that moment, it felt like they understood each other in ways neither had expected.

“Well,” Zilla said after a moment, his voice warm, “I think you’re gonna make one hell of a psychiatrist, Dahlia.”

Her smile returned, more genuine this time, and she gave a small nod. “Thanks, Zilla. That means a lot.”

As they sat there, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, the conversation drifted into more lighthearted topics. But Zilla couldn’t shake the feeling that he was starting to build something real here. Something unexpected. Something that made him want to keep going, just like Dahlia had said.

Dahlia leaned forward slightly, her eyes curious as she took a sip of her Americano. She had listened to Zilla’s story and his struggles, but now it seemed like she wanted to know more about his life, the side of him that wasn’t just about the past.

“So… wrestling, huh?” she asked with a soft chuckle. “You never really explained that part. I mean, you’ve been through all this stuff, and now you’re in this… tough world of professional wrestling. What’s that like?”

Zilla took a deep breath, his fingers tapping against his cup absentmindedly. He had been so focused on talking about his struggles, his past, but he hadn’t really delved into the part of his life that had become his escape. His identity.

“It’s… intense,” Zilla said, his voice dropping slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s a rush, you know? But it’s also a grind. You work your ass off, you get banged up, and you still have to get up and do it again. I’m leaving Monday morning for a few matches. It’s a crazy schedule—constant travel, no real downtime.”

He let out a low sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been doing it since July 2023. But it’s all I’ve known since I was a kid. It’s what my old man did, and it’s… it’s what I’ve been trying to do, too. I wanna make a name for myself, but at the same time, it’s like… I’m carrying this weight, you know? Trying to live up to something that’s bigger than me.”

Dahlia watched him closely, sensing the internal conflict in his words. She had seen a lot of people in her life carry burdens they couldn’t shake, but Zilla’s seemed different. It wasn’t just about the past—it was about living up to an ideal, a legacy, and trying to balance that with the man he wanted to be.

“Sounds exhausting,” she said quietly, her tone sympathetic. “But… you’re doing it, right? You’re making it work. That’s gotta mean something.”

Zilla nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s hard, Dahlia. I mean… I’m trying to carve my own path, but the shadows of my father and what he went through—they still follow me everywhere I go. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m just repeating the same mistakes he made.”

Dahlia’s gaze softened, her lips parting slightly as she considered his words. She had been there, in her own way—fighting against her past, trying to figure out how to move forward. “It’s okay to be afraid of that. To wonder. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed to repeat it. You’ve got the strength to change, Zilla. I can see it in you. You just have to believe it, too.”

Zilla met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. It was a look of understanding, a look that said they both knew how heavy it could feel to live in the shadows of their own histories. But in that moment, it also felt like the first step toward something new—something better.

“Well,” he said, breaking the silence with a small chuckle, “I’ll try to remember that next time I’m getting tossed around in the ring. But it’s hard to think about anything when you’re getting slammed into the mat.”

Dahlia laughed lightly, the sound filling the space between them. “Yeah, I can imagine. But hey, at least you don’t have to get up for a lecture on Monday.”

Zilla smiled, appreciating her attempt to lighten the mood. “True. I don’t think I could survive a 9 AM class after a match.”

They both sat back in their chairs, their conversation drifting into a more casual tone as the afternoon sun continued to pour through the café windows. But Zilla found himself thinking about her words, about the quiet strength she seemed to have. Maybe they weren’t that different after all. They both had pasts they were running from, but they were still trying to move forward. Together, they might be able to figure out where they were going.

“Anyway,” Zilla said after a beat, his voice softer now. “Thanks for letting me ramble. I usually don’t talk about this stuff with anyone.”

Dahlia smiled, her eyes warm. “You don’t have to thank me. I like hearing your story. It makes me think… maybe we all need to talk more.”

Zilla raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

Dahlia leaned in, her smile playful but sincere. “Yeah. Sometimes the hardest part is just saying it out loud.”

Zilla thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Guess you’re right. Maybe I should try it more often.”

“Maybe we both should,” Dahlia agreed, her voice barely above a whisper, as if sharing a secret.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet connection between them stronger than any words they could say. The future was uncertain, but somehow, it felt a little less daunting now that they had each other’s stories.

As the daylight began to fade, the golden hues of the afternoon shifted into the soft pinks and purples of evening. Zilla glanced at the window, watching as the sky darkened, the city lights beginning to twinkle in the distance. It was a peaceful moment, the kind that made him forget about everything else.

“Time really does fly,” Dahlia said, a small smile playing on her lips as she glanced at the clock on the wall.

Zilla looked back at her, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I actually had a really great time,” he admitted, his voice more sincere than he had intended. It wasn’t something he said often, but there was something about today—about her—that felt different. Easier.

Dahlia’s smile widened at his words, and she started to gather her things, the light rustle of her bag reminding him that their time together was coming to an end. “Well, I do have to catch the metro back to the university,” she said, her voice carrying the slightest hint of reluctance. “I’ve got some ramen waiting for me at my dorm.”

Zilla raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. “Well, why cut it short?” he asked, leaning back in his seat.

Dahlia paused, raising an eyebrow at him in confusion. “Whatcha mean?”

Zilla leaned forward, lowering his voice just slightly. “The Burger Joint’s not too far from here. Best fries in town.”

Dahlia chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m on a fixed income,” she replied, but there was a playful tone to her voice as she waved him off.

Zilla didn’t miss a beat, interrupting her before she could say more. “Dahlia, it’s a date,” he said, the words coming out with surprising confidence.

Her eyes widened for a brief moment, and then her smile softened as she let the words sink in. “Oh… I thought this was a date,” she said, teasing him with a knowing look.

Zilla chuckled, a light flush creeping across his cheeks. “This whole day could be a date,” he replied, feeling a warmth settle in his chest at the thought. It wasn’t often that he let himself be this open, this… honest. But something about Dahlia made him want to be more.

Dahlia’s cheeks flushed a soft pink at his words, her lips curling into a shy smile. “Well, in that case,” she said, standing up with a quick glance at her watch, “I guess I’ll let you treat me to some fries.”

Zilla grinned, his heart lifting at her playful response. “Come on,” he said, standing up as well, his voice a little more upbeat now. “Let’s make it a date, then.”

Dahlia laughed softly, her eyes sparkling as she gave him a look that was both warm and a little teasing. “Alright, Mr. Date. Lead the way.”

As they walked out of the café together, Zilla felt the weight of the day lift from his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about his past, or his future, or the struggles that had always been on his mind. He was just… present. And for that moment, it was enough.

The cool evening air greeted them as they stepped outside, the sound of the city buzzing softly in the background. Zilla didn’t know where this would go, or what tomorrow would bring, but he knew one thing for sure: this moment, with Dahlia, was something he wasn’t going to let slip away.

After their dinner at The Burger Joint, Zilla and Dahlia walked outside, the cool night air filling their lungs as they made their way back to her university. The streets were quieter now, the noise of the city replaced by the hum of distant traffic and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.

—

Zilla pulled into the entrance of her dorm building, the bright lights casting a soft glow on the path ahead. He parked and got out, walking around to open the door for Dahlia.

As they walked together towards the building, Dahlia turned to him, her voice soft as she hesitated for a moment. “Would you…?”

Zilla didn’t let her finish, his response coming almost instinctively. “Yes,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at her.

Dahlia blinked in surprise, then let out a laugh. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

Zilla shrugged, grinning. “Yes to everything.”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she smiled and led him inside. As they reached her room, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, gesturing for Zilla to follow her in.

Zilla stepped inside and immediately noticed the empty bed on the other side of the room. It looked untouched, the neatly made sheets a stark contrast to the casual comfort of her space. Dahlia locked the door behind them and gave a casual shrug.

“My roommate’s in Switzerland right now with her sugar daddy,” Dahlia said, her voice playful as she moved to her mini-fridge and grabbed a bottle of Sprite.

Zilla laughed, settling onto the edge of her bed. “That’s… quite the setup,” he remarked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Dahlia grinned and sat beside him, the soft fizzing of the Sprite breaking the quiet as she opened it. She handed him the bottle, and he took it with a smile. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp, casting a gentle warmth over everything.

Without saying much, Dahlia turned on the stereo. The room filled with the mellow, soulful sounds of Luther by Kendrick Lamar and SZA, the music weaving its way around them, adding an intimate vibe to the atmosphere. The smooth rhythm seemed to settle the air between them, and Zilla felt an unusual calm as he leaned back slightly, looking over at her.

She sat next to him, her presence easy and warm, and Zilla couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment. It was simple, nothing extravagant, but it was real. Dahlia’s smile as she took a sip of her Sprite made him feel a little lighter, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel weighed down by his past or his future.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a night quite like this,” Zilla said after a beat, his eyes meeting hers.

Dahlia looked at him for a long moment, the music continuing to play softly in the background. “I’m glad,” she said quietly. “I think it’s good for both of us, you know?”

Zilla nodded, not sure how to respond, but the way she looked at him made him feel like he didn’t need to say anything. Sometimes, silence could speak louder than words.

He leaned back against the wall, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he finally broke the silence. “You know, I was kind of nervous when you first asked me to come with you to that seminar,” he confessed. “But I’m glad I did.”

Dahlia smiled, her eyes softening. “I’m glad you came too.”

As the music continued to soothe the room, the soft melodies of Luther creating a comfortable silence between them, Zilla couldn't help but notice how the moment felt suspended in time.

Dahlia's eyes were on him, their connection unspoken but tangible. His heart seemed to beat a little faster in his chest, as if it had been waiting for this very moment.

There was something about the way she looked at him, something that made him feel safe yet uncertain all at once. The weight of their shared stories, their experiences, hung in the air, and Zilla felt an overwhelming urge to act on the feeling that had been building between them.

Without thinking too much, Zilla leaned in, his body drawing closer to hers. He paused for a moment, eyes searching hers as if looking for permission. Dahlia's gaze softened, and before either of them could second-guess it, Zilla's lips found hers in a soft, tentative kiss.

The kiss was gentle, almost like both of them were testing the waters, unsure yet drawn to each other. Zilla's hand rested lightly on his love handles, his fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt as if grounding himself in the moment. It was intimate, but there was a hesitancy in it, a softness that made everything feel new, delicate.

He pulled her a little closer, his lips moving gently against hers, a deeper connection forming with every passing second. The world outside seemed to disappear as Zilla focused only on the warmth of her body pressed against his, the rhythmic beat of his heart that somehow seemed to sync with hers. The kiss became more than just a gesture-it was a moment of vulnerability, of quiet understanding.

Dahlia responded, her hands moving to rest lightly on his chest as she matched his movements. Zilla could feel her breath against his lips, the way she leaned into him as if she, too, wanted this closeness. The tension in the room shifted, and for the first time in a long while, Zilla didn't feel the weight of his past or the pressure of his future. There was only this moment, only her.

It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a kiss that held the weight of unspoken feelings. Neither of them rushed it, savoring the quiet connection that formed between them. Zilla's hand moved from his side, gently cupping her cheek, his thumb grazing the softness of her skin.

Everything felt right, in a way he hadn't expected, like a quiet certainty that whatever happened next, they had this-this connection, this understanding-between them.

And for a moment, that was enough.

[a-s-levynn]

Okay i'm gonna say it. And i genuinly do not mean this as a personal attack on anyone, simply as something to consider.

If what any given band decides to provide as content to their audience is not enough for you, try to get a hobby. Seriously. You are way too focused on one thing. We joke about being obsessed with stuff here but there is a fine line between fixation and unhealthy dependance.

Go read a book, watch a movie, pick up a series, start writing, learn to draw, start playing an instrument, go start skating, play a video game. Start collecting stamps if that's your thing. Anything. Literally anything. If you can't fill out your time with anything else but what one single band/artist/whatever gives you, you need to expand your horizon.

You can't expect literal strangers to give you anything they don't want to give, just because you are bored. And just think for a second, how much would you be willing to give up to entertain an audience, half of which can't even understand "please don't focus on our persons, listen to our music. all we have to give is in there." How much of your privacy would you be willing to sacrefice on the long run for people who don't even listen to what you say?

We've seen so many negative outcomes. Musicians literally been driven off of the internet by fans who couldn't get enough. Yes, Sleep Token is officially anonymous, but they already had so many breaches of their personal space even like this. They really do not need to give more ground to the so called "fans" who cannot respect and accept them as regular human beings.

The Sleep Token camp established from the get go what they give is what you get. Nothing more nothing less. And the crew and background people give exactly the behind the scenes content that the first anon says they would like to get. For example Thom Pike gave a lengthy interview on the FOH engineering. The techs of both IV and III gave rig rundowns. George Lever spoke a little about working with the Sleep Token project on multiple occasions. There have been collabs already, you just need to look for it. Live collabs by IV's with BMTH and Issues. Vessel tracking piano for BFMV years ago.

If this "side content" that the very much existing collabs or the crew provides is not filling that need for behind the scenes content, then again, it is something to think on why. Is it because it's "only" the crew and not the guys directly? Because if it is the reason, again, maybe rethink what you are saying.

Sleep Token is not a boyband. They are here to give their audience music not to be celebrities. They do not owe you, me or anyone anything. As musicians they only supposed to put out music to their best ability. Giving interviews and filming random videos for your or anyone's entertainment would take away time from what they could use for refining their next song or album.

I don't know about you, but i'd rather not hear an other word from any of them, if the next album is on the same level of quality as the previous was. And i'm saying that as someone who thoroughly enjoyes the Drumeo content II gave us. But he gave it because Drumeo is, at the end of the day, an educational platform. That interview mainly was not an entertainment piece. Because there is a difference.

I already feel like i talk about these things to much lately, but alas..

Idk if this will be controversial but the band’s secrecy makes me antsy sometimes.

I’m absolutely not implying anything about identities or the people behind the masks, but I wish to high heaven we got more content from them sometimes. BTS videos on the production process or live performances, magazine or video interviews, more covers or collabs or even solo performances like II did. Yknow, the stuff that other bands tend to do. I know there’s never going to be an increase in content like this but I can dream </3

It honestly has me conflicted. On the one hand I appreciate that it links to their concept and that in itself is something I love a lot, but on the other I just need MORE from them cause I love them too much T_T

.

[wewontbesleeping]

this assignment I’m working on is soo hard bc the topic is like. highlight a surprising impact that a business (the one that you chose for a completely different topic for a different paper) has had on your community. like. am I supposed to LIE? because there isn’t a surprising impact that this restaurant has had on my community?????? what am I supposed to write about ??? it’s a restaurant???????

[crystalcanis]

guess who just got diagnosed with complex ptsd

[strawbrains]

Ngl still hurt by the anon who said my partner and I are both too feminine to tell im the butch despite the photos in question being from halloween and everything

[watery-melon-baller]

lads it's so fucking frustrating when you desperately want to learn and understand something but u just can't fucking get ir

[gregmarriage]

my brother said he’s willing to give succ another chance. on one hand, this is extremely good news. on the other, he just doesn’t understand it, like i do

[rpgbabe]

girl love is so pure and i honestly just wanna cry sometimes bc i dont have that...................................................... and probably never will</3

[mishtershpock]

.

[floral-hex]

It’s hard to make music when you have no instruments or software or skills or talent and also you don’t actually know how to play anything or make music and you’re dumb as hell

[orcelito]

Ykno the common critique I've seen around is that trimax fights r hard to follow & such. And I've always had the kind of thought of like "I mean sometimes it can be confusing, but if u stop to study it it's really not that bad"

Having a fight analysis post kinda blow up tho I'm seeing ppl comment over and over in the tags about how hard it is to keep up with the fights... and I'm just like. Is it really that confusing? Like genuinely. I thought it was one of those overblown fan critiques but it seems like a Lot of people agree with it.