#the absent one 2014

[delicatebarness]

𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 | 𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 𓂃🖊

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

Summary: Across every universe, every timeline, James 'Bucky' Barnes exists. And in each of those worlds, there is always... you. Two souls bound together by fate, destiny... But what if, in this universe, time runs out for you?

Warnings: Violent | Choking | Dissociation | WW2 | Multiverse | Implied Smut | Panic | Nude References | Language! | Let me know if I missed anything ♡

Word Count: 2.8K

Masterlist

A/N: Inspired by this post from @buckyismysafehaven Thank you for hearing my thoughts out and letting me write this. Happy Reading ♡ Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated. ♡

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The Battle of Washington, D.C.—Spring, 2014.

Your lungs burned.

You weren’t sure how you got here. One second, you were running—blade drawn mid-sprint. Then, he caught you as the wind cut past your ears and slammed you against the hood of the nearest car. Your head snapped back against the metal, vision blurring into white flecks that flickered like static.

His gloved, metallic hand was around your throat, lifting you off the cracked road like you weighed nothing. Your fingers clawed him. Nails catching between the metal plates of his wrist, but his grip was unrelenting—whining slightly under the pressure.

He didn’t flinch.

Somewhere behind you, Steve yelled, calling out to you, hoarse with panic. The thudding of your heartbeat was so loud in your ears, it drowned out the sound of his footsteps. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Natasha limping toward you. A bloody hand pressed against her ribs, gun drawn in the other.

It didn’t matter. There was no time. Not now.

He had you.

The Winter Soldier had you.

You always wondered what death would be like. What would it look like? Apparently, death had steel-blue, cold eyes boring into you silently. His head tilted as he studied you, silently.

“Go a-ahead,” you coughed, the words hitching in your throat. “Kill me.”

Your eyes locked with his, and for a second, something shifted in them. Something… green. A shimmer, rippling across the blue ocean.

And then—

Your world shattered.

Glass imploded around you both, the edges crystallised, and sliced into fragments. 

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

You hit the ground hard.

The wind knocked from your lungs as your shoulders slammed against cold, polished tile. You scraped your nails against it while your lungs grasped for air. 

Above you, fluorescent light flickered, shadows casting against cabinets, a fridge, and a sink piled with dirty dishes. A faint whistle of a boiling kettle could be heard in the near distance. 

A kitchen.

You coughed again, reaching your hand up to your chest. The lack of tactical gear startled you. 

“What the hell—” you breathed, struggling to sit upright. There was no Kevlar. No thigh holster. You were sitting in sweatpants, a loose, oversized t-shirt, and bare feet. 

Suddenly, a shadow shifted from behind you. Then, a right hand appeared in front of your face—waiting.

You blinked.

The man was tall, dressed in jeans and a red Henley covering his broad shoulders. His left arm was absent from the mid-upper arm down, the Henley sleeve neatly pinned and cuffed. 

You didn’t recognise him.

Not really.

Not at first.

But those eyes. The steel-blue, sharp eyes. The same ones that bored into yours, only seconds before your world collapsed around you.

Instinctively, you flinched. Trying your best to scramble away, only to have your back hit against the lower cabinet door.

His expression was unreadable.

He didn’t move. Just stayed still, holding his hand out toward you. 

“Are you—” he started to ask, his voice cracking like he had spoken aloud in who knows how long. He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?” 

You swallowed hard. 

Pressing yourself back against the cabinets, your body trembled against the wood. Your chest heaved, trying to draw a breath into suffocating lungs. The man in front of you—the Winter Soldier—hadn’t moved, still.

Until a voice—your voice, echoed from the hallway. You were laughing. 

Both your heads snapped toward the sound. And your heart hammered against your ribcage as you scrambled to your feet and toward the sound.

“Wait—” the Winter Soldier, if that was even his name, called out. 

You didn’t listen. Your feet had already moved you through the doorway. Past a hallway of framed photos and awards. A white cat slept on the stairs. A basket of mail that looked like it was addressed to you. Yet under a different surname.

And there you were. 

No, not you. But another version of you, a slightly older you. You stood in front of a tall man, his hand on your waist as you looked up at him. You were happy here. A bright, easy smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Dressed in nothing but a white button-up shirt, a matching black lace underwear set visible underneath, and barefoot. 

And him—he looked similar to the man in the kitchen. The Winter Soldier. Only, now, he wore a white undershirt, black tailored suit pants, and his long hair slicked back. And now, his left side was adorned by a sleek black and gold metallic arm. 

He kissed you.

It looked comfortable like he did it a hundred times a day. 

The soldier came up behind you. Silently, he watched the other yous, too. As you sat down on the plush, expensive-looking couch, pulling your—her—feet up under her. He—the other Winter Soldier—followed. Relaxing, he spread his legs and wrapped an arm around your—her—waist, pulling her closer. His metal hand held what looked like congressional briefing notes.

A congressman? Was this Winter Soldier a congressman?

Neither of your other selves noticed your presence. You took a slow, unsure step forward. 

“Hello,” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “Excuse me—”

No response. Not a side glance. 

You moved in front of yourself, reaching out. Your hand passed straight through the fabric of your—her—shirt like a mist.

“What—what the fuck!” you gasped, jerking your hand back.

“They can’t see us,” the Winter Soldier murmured from the other side of the couch. 

“Yeah? No shit.” You stood, straightening your spine as you looked up at him. “What the fuck did you do to us? What is happening?” 

“I think this has already happened,” he said, gesturing around the homey living room. “To them.” 

You blinked, staring dumbfounded at him. “So what, we’re… ghosts?”

“We’re not dead.” 

“Aren’t we? I’m sure you only had your hand wrapped around my throat, like what… less than five minutes ago?” you snapped. “And now we’re… married? In a house, and you’re a fucking congressman?”

The man didn’t answer.

However, the living room scene continued to play. You shook your head as your counterpart asked what time a dinner reservation was for. Stepping away from the couch, you watched him smile, telling her not to worry, and that he had already called to confirm. He reached out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. She leaned into his chest and called him Bucky.

“Bucky?” you looked at the Soldier, eyes wide. “You’re Bucky?” 

He nodded.

“No… No, I don’t understand this,” you said, pacing around the coffee table. “I don’t know you. I didn’t even know your name until just now… Steve,”

“What?”

“Steve… he doesn’t know it’s you.” You clenched your fists at your side, knuckles whitening. “Take me back,” you demanded. “Take me back, right now.” 

He stepped closer to you, reaching his hand out and resting it on your shoulder.

You should’ve pushed him away.

“I don’t think we can.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

The moment those words left Bucky’s mouth, the world cracked again. Only this time, there were no visuals. No audio. But you felt it. The pressure shifted, and your heart fell to your stomach. 

The once quiet, domestic living room rippled, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air. White uniforms, painted with splashes of blood and dirt, brushed past you in a small medical tent. A nurse with a clipboard in hand rushed through Bucky, and the groan of a soldier echoed somewhere in the distance. 

“Where are—” you breathed, staggering backward. Bare feet slipping against dirt. 

Bucky’s right hand reached out, catching you as if it were his instinct. “World War 2,” he muttered, gaze flickering between the olive-coloured canvas hung overhead, cots lining both sides of the tent—some empty, others occupied by wounded soldiers. And then, in quick bursts, his chest rose and fell. 

At the farthest end of the tent, another version of you knelt beside a cot. Smudged dirt and blood flecked over her cheeks, and her hair was pinned underneath a white cap. You watched her fingers working quick and steadily to stop a bleed on the soldier’s side. 

This version of you spoke calmly, commanding. A confidence that you had never possessed yourself.

Your thought was cut short. Bucky stepped closer to you. He had seen himself.

The fabric of his soldier’s uniform was stained with grime and sweat. His collar sagged open, and his pants were torn, caked with mud and blood—it didn’t look like his own. Unlaced heavy boots dangled at the end of the cot, scuffed and uneven. Dog tags settled against his chest. His jaw was tight, and his brows were knitted together tightly.

“This must have been before the train,” Bucky spoke quietly, beside you. 

You tilted your head toward him. “What do you mean?” 

“Look,” he nodded back toward the other you. You froze watching this version of Bucky reach a left hand to the nurse version of you’s cheek as she gently pressed a gauze into the wound. “I—he’s—whole.”

You didn’t respond.

There was an ache deep in your chest. 

Your nurse counterpart smiled and leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to Bucky’s lips. 

She didn’t fear him.

She was in love with him.

And that was when the wind outside the tent shifted. The canvas rippled, and lanterns flickered violently. A few completely blew out. You felt that sickening feeling in your stomach again, and a static screech filled your ears. 

You pressed your hands over your ears, squeezing your eyes closed.

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

When you opened your eyes, you screamed. But your voice was swallowed by a motion. Falling. Through nothingness. Green and blue light blend as one.

Bucky was next to you, his right hand reaching for you. The wind whipped past your ears as you tried to make out what he was saying. His lips moved, but no sound.

Then–

You landed hard on your feet, and the scent of beer hit the air. Music pounded, muted in the distance. A dressing room? 

Bucky called out to you, only it wasn’t your Bucky. 

Your gaze snapped toward the dressing room door, where your hands gripped his hair. His lips, his mouth leaving a mark on your neck. A graphic tee was already half off his back. A groan against your skin, and your legs wrapped around his waist as he pushed deeper inside you—

The scene swiped away in front of you.

Gone.

Replaced with another.

A new scene.

A new, calm Suburban?

There you were, standing in a matching pajama set by your mailbox. A white cat brushed against your bare legs. You waved, smiling with a coffee in hand. Directly across the street, Bucky—shirtless, grey sweatpants, waving back with a black and gold left arm. Again. 

It felt like a Sunday morning. 

Swipe. 

A high school corridor? 

Teenagers rushed around you, lockers clanging. One slamming shut, revealing a younger you, slammed against a cold metal locker as another Bucky grabbed your face. His lips were hungry against yours. His leather jacket opened, and your fist clenched around the black material. Pulling him closer. 

You both laughed breathlessly.

Young, stupid, and in love.

Swipe.

Bright colours, two-dimensional.

You looked at Bucky, a smile lighting up your face as he grinned beside you. His eyes were wide, and the softest shade of blue you’d imagine. 

He laughed. 

And the sound caused your stomach to flutter.

A literal bubble appeared above his head.

“Are we—in a comic book?”

You giggled. “This is so fuck—”

Swipe.

“—ed.”

Dust was scattered across solid ground. Everything was quiet, and the silence got louder as you both looked around. Gray sky. Ash fell from nowhere specific. Silhouettes of cracked buildings, jagged and hollow, loomed in the distance. 

Everything was… dead.

A void. 

You stood closer to Bucky. He held his arm out, as though to shield you. But from what? There was nothing here. Not a bird, nor a tree. 

There was no you or him. There wasn't anything.

Your mouth went dry. You both stood frozen in disbelief.

It is as if this world rejected existence.

Suddenly, a golden circle opened ahead of them, and someone stepped through it. A bald, calm, and assured woman emerged cloaked in saffron robes, over her chest hung a large, eye-shaped necklace, crafted from a metal that you couldn’t place.

Bucky’s arm—his only one—guided you farther behind him, gently. The glow from the portal cast a shadow along his sharp jaw. 

“I am not here to hurt you,” she said in a soft echo through the void. 

“Who are you?” Bucky asked, curiosity and caution mixed in his quiet tone.

She looked at you, her eyes reflecting centuries' worth of knowledge. But then, she turned to Bucky, his gaze fixated on her. “I am the Ancient One. And I believe it is time that you understood what is happening here.” 

She lifted her hand, slowly. Her fingers create deliberate shapes. And the necklace opened into two halves, responding to her, and revealing a pulsating, green glow.

The same glow that you remember seeing in the Winter Soldier’s eyes before you got here, wherever here was. Spreading across her wrist and arm, the green light illuminated a series of glowing runes.

And as she twisted her wrist, everything—the different versions of you, every world, and many more—rushed past you. 

Hundreds. Thousands. Short clips passing in a single heartbeat. 

Bucky rode a motorcycle with you on the back. You and Bucky kissed in the rain. Riding a dragon. At a Stark Expo in the 40s. You and Bucky as parents, cradling a newborn. Your wedding day. As actors, influencers, and small business owners. 

All of them. You and him. Together.

When it came to an end, both you and Bucky dropped to your knees among the dirt. Your heart pounded, and a blush crept up your chest as your pinky finger wrapped around his.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice hoarse as he turns toward your hunched-over body. His face was etched with concern in every line. 

You give him a small nod. 

The Ancient One kneels before you both. Her robes pooled around her as her knees touched the ashened earth. “The multiverse cannot function with you.” 

You stare up at her, still trying to catch your breath. “I don’t–I don’t understand—”

“In every timeline, every possible thread of reality—you two find each other. Your bond is fundamental. A fixed point in time.” 

“Like an anchor?”

She looks at Bucky, offering a small, reassuring smile. “It doesn’t matter how it starts. Or when. Or why. Where that connection doesn’t exist, the universe's foundations begin to unravel.” 

You stood, shaking your head. “This—you’re insane. We don’t even know each other.” 

“In time,” she says softly, compassion flickering over her eyes. “You have loved one another over thousands of timelines, all in different ways. Over and over.” 

Bucky lifted his head, his knees still planted in the dirt and dust. “Why don’t we remember it?” 

“Memory is a fragile thing. But connections? They endure,” the Ancient One straightened, taking a step back. The green runes on her arm dimmed, and the necklace closed again. 

Another golden circle opened behind her, the edges sparking. The ground beneath your bare feet began to shake, and unsettled dust floated around you and Bucky. 

“You can’t stay here much longer,” she says, already stepping back through the portal. “But when the time comes, you’ll remember what matters.” 

And just like that, the portal closed. 

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

The pressure around your throat returned. Only now, the hand wrapped around it felt different. The grip was still firm, but the tremor weakened it. His face was close enough to see the steel-blue storm in his eyes. 

They were no longer cold.

No blank stare. 

No longer the empty gaze of the Winter Soldier.

Something human.

He stared down at you, his chest heaving like he had just woken up from a dream. Or maybe startled by a nightmare. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, his eyes full of confusion, and he searched your features.

“You’re—” he whispered, the words breaking in his throat. The sound was scratchy and raw. “You’re h-here—”

It was him.

Bucky.

You’re Bucky. 

The man who held onto you on dragonback. Who rescued you from a horde of undead. Who kissed you in the rain like the world would end if he didn’t have you. And sometimes, it did.

You lifted your hand, reaching for him. Your fingers faintly graze the edge of his mask. Pushing it just enough to see the man you remember.

But then, he flinched.

His full-body jolting.

Something behind his eyes slammed shut.

He was gone. 

You fell from the car—a dead weight—onto the road, discarded at his released grip. And with blurred vision, you watched him leave. The mask that covered his face fell as he looked back.

You tried to call for him.

But he was gone before your lungs remembered how to breathe.

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

Masterlist

Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated. ♡

[mostlysignssomeportents]

America and “national capitalism”

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in LA TONIGHT (Feb 19) for an event with WIL WHEATON in LA, and in SEATTLE TOMORROW (Feb 19) for with DAN SAVAGE. More tour dates here.

Thomas Piketty's 2013 unexpected bestseller (a 750 page economics book translated from French!) Capital in the 21st Century, offers a very convincing explanation of our political decay, and it continues to serve this purpose as the decay undergoes alarming acceleration:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

Let me sketch out that argument really briefly for you here. Absent any kind of government intervention, markets make investors richer than workers (AKA "the rate of return on capital exceeds the rate of return from growth" or "r > g"). This is true even for extremely powerful workers who get very, very rich indeed. Piketty illustrates this in many ways, but my favorite is the Parable of Bill Gates, Liliane Bettencourt and Bill Gates (again).

Bill Gates founded Microsoft in 1975 and he stepped down as CEO in 2000. In the intervening 25 years, he built the company into the most profitable firm in human history and grew very, very rich. This is Market Lore Canon: found a successful company, grow rich.

Now, Bill Gates started with a bunch of money – he comes from a wealthy family – but he grew his personal fortune over those years in extraordinary ways, and not by investing it, but rather, by founding a company and working at it.

Now consider Liliane Bettencourt, who, during Bill Gates period as Microsoft CEO, was the richest woman in Europe. Bettencourt was born very, very rich, heiress to the L'Oreal fortune. Unlike Gates, Bettencourt didn't have a job. She just sat around, while financial planners invested her family money. Over the 25 years when Bill Gates was growing Microsoft from zero to the most successful company in planetary history, Bettencourt made more money than Gates. Gates made his money by doing something. Bettencourt made her money by emerging from a very lucky orifice and just hanging around.

But here's the kicker: after Bill Gates quit Microsoft, he became a professional investor. He stopped doing a job and started investing in companies where other people were working. Over the next 13 years, Bill Gates (investor) made more money than Bill Gates (Microsoft CEO) made in his 25 years of doing a job. He also made more than Liliane Bettencourt.

That's what r > g means: that even the most successful worker in human history can't make as much as a person who merely has a lot of money, and the more money you have, the more money you make.

If you think about this for a second, you can see how it'll play out: in economies both good and bad, the people who emerge from lucky orifices will get wealthier than anyone else, wealthier than the people who do things that grow the economy. And because they're getting wealthier faster than the economy grows, they come to command ever-larger shares of the economy, so that even when the pie gets bigger, their slices gets bigger still, and the remainder that we all share isn't just proportionally smaller – it's actually smaller. We don't just have less relative to the rich – we have less relative to our parents.

For Piketty, this is an iron law of markets, born out by analysis of hundreds of years' worth of capital flows. He devotes many of those 750 pages showing how even the most profitable sectors of the economy at any given time are disproportionately benefiting investors, even relative to the most successful managers and workers at any given time. This is where oligarchy comes from: it is the natural end-state of a market economy.

But (Piketty continues), oligarchy is intrinsically destabilizing. For one thing, once the fortunes of Bill Gates' or Liliane Bettencourt's are large enough, growing them by even, say 1% requires that some capital come from other rich people, because 1% of Bill Gates's holdings will eventually exceed 100% of the holdings of everyone who isn't insanely rich. So, over time, rich people eventually have to fight with each other in order to keep getting richer – see, for example, World War I.

That's not the only way extreme wealth inequality creates political instability. Once the 1% are sufficiently wealthy, they capture government, and the only policies that can be enacted are those that don't gore some aristocrat's ox, and once the rich become super rich, they own all the oxen. So sensible policies that are needed to ensure an orderly, stable society (for example, limiting war bond repayments to a sustainable level that won't bankrupt the economy to make wealthy bondholders even richer) become impossible, and then you get societal collapse (see, for example, World War II).

The backbone of C21 is a time-series of 300 years' worth of global capital flows, painstakingly assembled by Piketty and his grad students. This time series shows the same pattern emerging over and over: as the rich get richer, they capture more and more of the state's policy-making apparatus, triggering more wealth-friendly policies, which make them even richer, and makes their grip on policy stronger. This continues until inequality reaches a tipping point, and then you get a rupture, like the French Revolution, or the World Wars. These are orgies of capital destruction, and because nearly all the capital is in the hands of the rich, when the dust settles, they emerge with much less capital and much less power. Society is shattered, but it is more equal, and this means that we can once again make good policies that help us rebuild a society that benefits everyone, not just the rich (the French call the 30 years following WWII "the 30 glorious years").

But, if this society doesn't include some kind of mechanism to address the fact that capital is still growing faster than the economy – even a post-war boom economy – then eventually the share of wealth held by the rich will reach a tipping point, and we'll see policies that benefit the wealthy crowding out policies that support human thriving, and the rich will get richer, and they will feud with each other, and society will destabilize, and we will face collapse.

So, let's talk about Ronald Reagan! By the late 1970s, the share of wealth held by the top 10% had grown significantly from its post-war low point. With all that excess capital, the rich started spending money to promote candidates and policies that would make them richer. At a certain point, they have enough money to buy Reagan's presidency, and we get a deregulatory bonfire: lower taxes for the rich, looser rules for finance, fewer protections for workers, less spending on social programs.

This makes the rich richer, even as wages stagnate. The next 40 years are a procession of ever-more-wealth-friendly policies and politicians – not just the Bush years, but also Bill Clinton's welfare bill and Obama's foreclosure crisis – and the rich get richer and everyone else gets poorer. Monopolies consume the American economy. GDP goes up, because the corporate sector is super consolidated and it's jacking up prices and slashing wages, leaving more for profits and dividends.

Society grows progressively less stable. Policies that benefit the wealthy at the expense of everyone else – ignoring the climate emergency, slashing the safety net, starving infrastructure, etc – dominate. Inequality worsens. No one can afford a house, health care, or university. Your life's savings are stolen by a subprime mortgage, or a pension-fund raid, or bitcoin grift. Instability worsens. Policies that benefit the wealthy at the expense of everyone else – endless imperialist wars, noncompete agreements, private equity rollups – multiply. Wages stagnate. Inequality increases. The rich get richer. One political party is captured by finance ghouls. The other one is also captured by finance ghouls, but welds them into a coalition that includes virulent, apocalyptic racists.

Which brings us to today, and Trump, and imminent collapse, and Elon Musk and his child soldiers, and JD Vance, and the whole fucking thing.

Today, Piketty posted some pointed thoughts on the situation in Europe in the face of rising American fascism and belligerence:

https://www.lemonde.fr/blog/piketty/2025/02/18/trump-national-capitalism-at-bay/

It's common for Americans to write off Europe because its "economy isn't growing" the way the US economy is. Piketty points out that this is a mirage: American economic growth is due to rising prices and plummeting wages, which is great for the share price of giant American companies whose cartels and monopolies make everyone except the tiny number of Americans with substantial stock market portfolios much poorer: "When measured in terms of purchasing power parity, the reality is very different: the productivity gap with Europe disappears entirely."

Once you adjust US economic figures to account for this, it's clear that America truly is in decline – the real US GDP has lagged China's since 2016. China now has an adjusted GDP that 30% higher than America's, and it's on track to double US GDP by 2035.

The US is losing control of the rest of the world, and Trump is accelerating this phenomenon. Take de-dollarization: the US (and only the US) can make as many US dollars as it wants, so for so long as things around the world (oil, say) are available for sale in USD, the US can buy them on better terms than any other country in the world:

https://stephaniekelton.substack.com/p/trade-isnt-money-for-nothing

What's more, the fact that dollar-clearing takes place at the Federal Reserve gives the US the ability to spy on and control other countries around the world (think of US SWIFT sanctions on Russia after the Ukraine invasion, or the vulture capitalists who forced Argentina to pay up even after it defaulted on its debts). Trump's pro-bitcoin policies are intrinsically anti-dollar policies. The rest of the world was already increasingly nervous about the way that the US dollar is a vehicle for soft power around the world, we're already seeing a lot of oil denominated in rubles, and now Trump is encouraging the growth of a shadow currency that will make it even easier for transactions to take place without dollars (notably, cryptocurrency will help America's ultra-rich evade even more taxes, and commit even more bribery):

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/what-happens-when-economic-coercion

Trump is also waging war on the CIA and NSA. Good riddance, sure – but these are also major sources for projecting US power around the world – think of the NSA's mass surveillance program, in alliance with the "5 Eyes" countries whom Trump is setting out to alienate.

Then there's trade. The US has pushed pro-oligarchic policies on the world through its trade deals. To access US markets, foreign governments must enact punitive laws that make it easier for US giants to loot their economy, like IP laws:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/15/beauty-eh/#its-the-only-war-the-yankees-lost-except-for-vietnam-and-also-the-alamo-and-the-bay-of-ham

and investor-state dispute settlements:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/27/korporate-kangaroo-kourts/#corporate-sovereignty

Not all the profits of giant US companies arise from ripping off 99% of Americans. Some of those profits come from ripping off foreigners, but that's only possible because foreign governments have passed looter-friendly policies in exchange for tariff-free access to US markets. Now that the US is shutting that down, there's no reason to allow America to continue stealing from your citizens.

As Piketty says, Trump dreams of a "national capitalism." National capitalism is a disaster, even compared to global capitalism:

the strength of national capitalism lies in glorifying power and national identity while denouncing the illusions of carefree rhetoric about universal harmony and class equality. Its weakness is that it clashes with power struggles and forgets that sustainable prosperity requires an educational, social and environmental investment that benefits all.

National capitalism walls its oligarchs off from the possibility of draining the riches of other countries, limiting them to domestic looting. Eventually, all the wealth in the country is held by its looter class, and the only way they can grow is by attacking each other. No one has more direct, recent experience with this phenomenon than Europe, a wealthy trading bloc of 500m. Trump has demanded that the EU commit 5% of its GDP to building up arms and its standing armies.

Piketty says this is a dead end. As the US is abandoning its role as global rule-of-law haven and transaction clearing house, the EU has an opportunity to become a very different kind of world power:

Europe must heed the calls from the Global South for economic, fiscal and climate justice. It must renew its commitment to social investment and definitively overtake the US in terms of training and productivity, just as it has already done in terms of health and life expectancy. After 1945, Europe rebuilt itself through the welfare state and the social-democratic revolution. This project remains unfinished: on the contrary, it must be seen as the beginning of a model of democratic and ecological socialism that must now be thought through on a global scale.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/18/pikettys-productivity/#reaganomics-revenge

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

EFF https://www.eff.org/files/issues/eu-flag-11_1.png

CC BY 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed.en

[vivmaek]

LUNAR PHASES

The moon acts as a guiding light within the night sky and humans have used it to orient themselves within time and space since the dawn of our existence. However, our connection to the moon goes beyond practicality. Looking up at the moon evokes a sense of comfort, and its beauty is inspirational. As much as our planet has changed, for better or for worse, the moon remains consistent with its cycles. This sense of stability offers us wisdom, and each period of the lunar cycle represents a different stage of growth.  I was inspired to write this post after reading a fascinating article that is titled, “Effects of different phases of the lunar month on humans.” The Author, Ujjwal Chakraborty, explored the ways in which the lunar cycle exerts influence upon human psychology and physiology. Chakraborty states, “The altered autonomic neural activity and cardiovascular activity during different lunar phases is probably one of the fundamental causes of the changes of human physiology.”(2014) The autonomic nervous system regulates heart rate, digestion, respiration, blood pressure, and sexual arousal. Any changes that occurs within the autonomic nervous system is going to affect human behavior. To see a spiritual phenomenon be explained through scientific research is incredibly thought provoking; this leads me to believe that the spiritual meanings attached to each lunar phase must hold a certain amount of truth to them. If anyone is interested, the article can be found here. Chakraborty has a few other articles dedicated to lunar research that are also quite compelling. If this information intrigues you, I’d recommend looking into “The Transylvania Effect.”  

I. Lunar Phase Personalities

Click here to calculate the lunar phase you were born under.

✰ New Moon - Individuals born under this phase tend to be psychic and are gifted in their ability to acknowledge the unseen. They represent new beginnings and trust their inner instincts. This can make them rather impulsive at times. New moon babies seek out adventure and are dedicated to the process of learning. They want to experience all that life has to offer them and are not afraid to dream big. This is the only phase of the moon that is absent of light, and because of this new moon babies naturally stand out from the rest. They also make for efficient leaders because their emotions and ego are in alignment. However, they’re not the types to seek attention and would prefer to work behind the scenes. Their introverted qualities and reserved nature spark a lot of intrigue. People born under this phase can find potential within any endeavor and always have a fresh perspective to offer up. Learning how to embrace the unknown is a major life lesson for these types. 

✰ Waxing Crescent - These types can appear timid, but once you get to know them they are incredibly lively individuals who are full of curiosity. They prefer to stick to the things that they know and might struggle with accepting change. People born under a waxing crescent moon might get stuck within the past at times. Being courageous is something they struggle with. However, they still feel a desire to go out and explore, but they will approach these adventures with a practical mindset. Waxing crescent babies are attached to their comfort zone and are good at maintaining this even when chasing after new experiences. They are also good at finding the right people to associate with. Security is everything to these types, and they prefer to build deep relationships with people who will be in their life for a very long time. I’ve noticed that these individuals might feel more awkward than they come across. They are perfectionist and struggle with self criticism, they might get stuck within their own head during social exchanges. 

✰ First Quarter - There are not many individuals born under a first quarter moon, which makes these types out to be rather unique. These people are the “main characters,” and they know it. They are not afraid to take charge of their own lives and are highly ambitious. Individuals born under this phase are not dependent upon admiration or attention. The only person they’re looking to impress is themselves. First quarter babies embrace challenges. The more challenges a situation throws at them, the more likely they are to succeed. The type of person  who never backs down, they love putting their skills and talents to the test. Someone looking for a solution is going to be drawn to an individual born under a first quarter moon. Their strong personalities invoke action within other people and they serve as a source of inspiration. These individuals become unstoppable once they develop patience and learn how to wait. 

✰ Waxing Gibbous - A sense of maturity is immediately evident within these individuals. They are natural caretakers and people often seek them out to be nurtured. Waxing gibbous babies have a calm presence that elicits a sense of peace within others. These types maneuver social situations with grace and making friends comes easy to them. They inspire other people to be better, and some might try to emulate them. Other people notice their potential and can see what they’re capable of achieving, but individuals born under this phase struggle to see it within themselves. They might feel life they somehow always fall short or will tell themselves that they are not “enough.” This is the opposite of how people are perceiving them. They must learn how to care for themselves in the same way they care for other people. Developing a deep sense of self love is vital for waxing gibbous babies. 

✰ Full Moon - Individuals born under this phase are filled to the brim with energy. They might come across as more aggressive than they intend to be. Learning how to gain control over their emotions is a major life lesson for these types. Full moon babies might feel as though they are being pulled in two opposite directions. Their ego and emotions are not in alignment, they feel stuck between passion and logic. Sometimes they will chase after their desires even if that's not what's actually best for them. They can see themselves going in many different directions and it can be hard for them to choose just one. This indecisive behavior frustrates other people, especially those who depend on them. These individuals will find more success once they develop a sense of consistency within their lives. Their sense of creativity is deserving of focus and should not be overlooked. As much as their spontaneous nature might frustrate people, they also bring with them a sense of excitement and this is greatly appreciated. 

✰ Waning Gibbous - People born under this phase are often sought after for their wisdom and ability to teach. These old souls are great at communicating their thoughts and learning comes easy to them. It is unlikely that they will have to be taught the same lesson twice, they are not the types to make the same mistakes over and over again. However, being judgmental of others may be a struggle. These individuals need to understand that not everyone is going to learn as quickly as they do. They might become frustrated watching their friends running into the same issues over and over again and will offer up unsolicited advice. It would be best to let people come to them, people will ask for help if they need it. These types tend to place themselves within positions of authority and might struggle with their listening skills. They’re often caught lecturing people when really they should be listening. 

✰ Third Quarter - These types are sentimental individuals who are capable of finding deep meaning within everyday life. They hold an appreciation for the little things and show gratitude for what they have. Third quarter babies become easily attached, it can be hard for them to move on from the past. They take things slowly and aren’t likely to be caught up within a rush. Their loyalty is often taken for granted, as well as their kindness. They are commonly found within their own little world. Nostalgia maintains a strong hold upon these types. However, this connection to the past can create unpleasantries within their present life. They may be quick to forgive, but that doesn't mean they’re over it. Sometimes this can be unfair, third quarter babies need to learn how to let go of the past when it's for the best. 

✰ Waning Crescent - The ultimate day dreamers. Waning crescent babies have an extremely active imagination and are highly creative. They often have visions of what's to come and very little takes them by surprise. People are drawn to their deep insight and are attracted to their unconventional personalities. These types have a mystical presence, it seems as if they are from another world. Their opinions are uniquely theirs, which can sometimes lead to them being outcasted. However, they thrive when alone and oftentimes complete their best creative work during these moments. Throughout life, they remain true to themselves and are not afraid to embrace their eccentric qualities. They have lots of unconventional wisdom to offer. Many of these types are psychic and are in touch with the spiritual realm, but don’t quite realize this. Learning to embrace and trust their intuition is a big lesson for these types. 

II. Living in Alignment with the Lunar Cycle

✰ New Moon - Plant your seeds. This is a time to set new intentions and begin new projects. Take it easy by planning a relaxing night in so you can get in touch with yourself. Forget about the past so you can focus on what's best for the present moment. Journal about your hopes and dreams and think about the steps you can take within the next week to get closer to your desires. Burn a white candle, and incorporate the smell of tangerine, lemon, and jasmine into your routine. 

✰ Waxing Crescent Moon - This is the time to be productive. Make sure to partake in healthy habits, give yourself an extra hour of sleep by going to bed early. Continue to build upon the goals you set for yourself during the new moon. Practice meditation to remain focused within daily life. Eat a meal that would be beneficial for your health. Burn a green candle and incorporate the smell of bergamot, cedarwood, and ginger into your routine. 

✰ First Quarter Moon - Take time to focus on what's working for you and what isn’t. What tweeks need to be made within your daily routines and habits? Try to complete any tasks you’ve been putting off under this lunar phase. Go for a walk and listen to music that energizes you. Burn a red candle and incorporate the smell of patchouli, lemon and ylang ylang into your routine. 

✰ Waxing Gibbous Moon - Practice patience and journal about the times in your life in which you persevered. Focus on the progress you’ve made thus far and show gratitude for what you have. Try to complete whatever preparations are needed for the next few days so they will run more smoothly. Burn a yellow candle and incorporate the smell of rose or juniper into your routine. 

✰ Full Moon - Celebrate all the work you’ve completed by doing activities that bring you happiness. Have a fun night out with friends, take yourself out to your favorite restaurant. This would be a good time to focus on socialization. Make an effort to show your friends and family  some love. Burn a pink candle and incorporate the smell of sandalwood, cardamom and cinnamon into your routine. 

✰ Waning Gibbous Moon - Take time to reflect on the lessons you’ve learned within the past couple weeks. This would be a great time to declutter your space. Make an effort to let go of any disappointment or minor inconveniences that have been bothering you. Be kind to yourself and journal about the opportunities certain failures have brought you. Burn a light blue candle and incorporate the smell of lavender and tea tree into your routine. 

✰ Last Quarter Moon - Remove yourself from your burdens by engaging your mind with relaxing activities. This would be a good time to sit within nature. Read a book, watch one of your favorite tv shows or movies. Journal about recent frustrations so you can get them off your chest. Practice forgiveness for yourself and for others. Burn an indigo candle and incorporate the smell of peppermint and eucalyptus into your routine. 

✰ Waning Crescent Moon - Prepare yourself a comfort meal and draw a hot bath. Stretch your body and practice breathing exercises. Give yourself a massage or ask someone else to give you one. Focus on what you are drawn to as well as the desires that are developed while in a state of relaxation, try to write them down. Burn a purple candle and incorporate the smell of frankincense, sage, and lavender. 

[ghstyles]

Firsts | FWFW extra

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

WC: 5.2k

Summary: Harry and Y/N discuss the time they lost. They touch on ‘firsts’ they experienced, and Harry is upset he wasn’t there

Based on this ask

FWFW Masterlist

Main Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

The evening had settled into a comfortable rhythm, the way it often did these days. Three months into their reconciliation, Harry and Y/N had developed routines that felt at once new and achingly familiar. It was as though they were remembering rather than creating them.

Tonight found them in the library of their London home, a fire crackling in the hearth to ward off the November chill. Harry lounged on one end of the oversized leather sofa, his long legs stretched out before him, a half-empty glass of whiskey balanced on his knee. Y/N sat at the opposite end, her feet tucked beneath her, nursing a glass of red wine.

They'd been trading stories for the past hour, filling in the blanks of the decade they'd spent apart. It had started innocently enough with Harry recounting an early tour disaster involving a broken guitar string and an overzealous fan, Y/N sharing anecdotes about the various odd jobs she'd worked to support her family after her father's death.

As the night wore on and the drinks lowered their usual guards, the conversation had turned more personal, more vulnerable.

"Do you remember that summer when we were sixteen?" Y/N asked, swirling the remaining wine in her glass. "When your family rented the house by the lake?"

Harry's expression softened, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Course I do. That was the summer I taught you to swim properly."

Y/N laughed, the sound warm with memory. "You were such a show-off, diving off those rocks."

"Only because I wanted to impress you," Harry admitted, his gaze fond as it rested on her face. "Did it work?"

"Maybe a little," Y/N conceded with a smile. "Though I was more impressed when you stood up to those boys who were bothering me at the village festival."

Harry's expression darkened slightly at the memory. "Wankers," he muttered, taking a sip of his whiskey. "I wanted to do more than just tell them off."

"My hero," Y/N teased gently, reaching across to squeeze his ankle where it rested near her hip. "Even then."

A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional pop and crackle of the fire. Harry seemed lost in thought, his thumb absently tracing the rim of his glass.

"I thought about you," he said suddenly, his voice quieter than before. "After that summer. After my mother made sure we never returned to that house."

Y/N's heart squeezed at the admission. "I thought about you too," she confessed. "I kept expecting to see you the next summer, and the next. I didn't understand why you never came back."

Harry's jaw tightened, the familiar tension that always appeared when his mother was mentioned. "She knew I liked you. Said you were...a distraction. That I needed to focus on my future, not waste time with 'some village girl.'"

The bitterness in his voice was palpable, even after all these years.

"It wasn't just that summer, you know," Harry continued after a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire rather than her face. "I thought about you during all the big moments. My first major award, the first time I played Wembley...even stupid things, like the first time I got properly drunk or when I got my first tattoo."

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, imagining a younger Harry carrying thoughts of her through the milestones of his extraordinary life.

"I wondered if you were watching," he admitted softly. "If you ever saw me on TV or in a magazine and thought about that summer too."

"I did," Y/N assured him, setting her wine glass on the coffee table so she could move closer to him on the sofa. "I saw everything. Your first album, that ridiculous haircut you had in 2014..."

Harry laughed, the sound breaking some of the tension that had built between them. "Hey, that hair was iconic," he protested, reaching out to tug gently on a strand of her own hair. "But seriously...you kept track of me?"

Y/N nodded, settling against his side as his arm came around her shoulders. "How could I not? You were everywhere. And then suddenly you were this massive star, and I was just..."

"Just what?" Harry prompted when she trailed off.

Y/N shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed. "Just the girl who used to know you. Before."

Harry's arm tightened around her, pulling her more firmly against him. "You were never 'just' anything to me," he said firmly. "Even when I was being a total prick to you during those first months of our arrangement."

Y/N smiled against his shoulder, recognizing the apology wrapped in his words. "You had your moments," she acknowledged lightly.

They settled into another comfortable silence, Harry's fingers idly playing with the ends of her hair. The fire had died down slightly, casting the room in a soft, golden glow that made everything feel slightly dreamlike.

"What about your first?" Harry asked suddenly, the question seeming to surprise even him as it left his mouth.

Y/N lifted her head from his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion. "My first what?"

A faint flush colored Harry's cheeks, visible even in the dim light. "Your first time," he clarified, his voice carefully neutral despite the intensity that had appeared in his eyes. "You never told me about that."

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt change in topic. "Oh," she said, sitting up slightly. "Um, it was nothing special, really. I was nineteen, at university. His name was David and he was in my English literature course."

Something flickered across Harry's face. A tightening around his eyes, a slight clench of his jaw.

"Was he..." Harry began, then seemed to reconsider his words. "Were you together long?"

Y/N shook her head, increasingly aware of the tension radiating from Harry's body beside her. "A few months. He transferred to another university the following term."

Harry nodded, his expression still carefully controlled. "And after him?"

Y/N studied his face, beginning to understand the direction of his thoughts. "There were a few others," she admitted quietly. "Nothing serious. No one that lasted."

Harry's gaze dropped to his glass, his thumb resuming its restless circuit around the rim. "Right," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "Course there were."

Recognizing the hurt beneath his attempt at nonchalance, Y/N reached out to take the glass from his hand, setting it beside her wine on the coffee table before turning back to face him fully.

"Harry," she said gently, waiting until he looked at her. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture she'd come to recognize as a sign of discomfort or frustration.

"It's stupid," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

"Tell me anyway," Y/N encouraged, placing a hand on his knee.

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his internal struggle visible in the furrow of his brow. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reluctant.

"I just...I hate that I missed it," he admitted. "That someone else was your first. That I wasn't there."

The raw honesty in his voice made Y/N's heart ache. She moved closer, taking his hand in both of hers.

"Harry..."

"I know it's ridiculous," he continued, the words coming faster now. "I know it doesn't matter. I've been with other people too obviously. But sometimes I think about all those years we lost, all the firsts we could have had together, and it just..."

He trailed off, shaking his head as though frustrated by his inability to articulate the feeling.

"It hurts," Y/N finished for him softly.

Harry nodded, finally meeting her gaze. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "It fucking hurts."

Y/N shifted to straddle his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, bringing their faces level. She cradled his face in her hands, thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones.

"Listen to me," she said, her voice firm despite its softness. "Those people, David, the others, they weren't you. They were just...placeholders. Attempts to find something that felt half as real as what I felt with you during that one summer when we were sixteen."

Harry's hands came to rest on her waist, his grip tightening slightly at her words.

"Every relationship I had failed because none of them were you," Y/N continued, her gaze steady on his. "None of them made me feel the way you did, the way you do. They were first in chronology only, Harry. They were never first in my heart."

A flash of vulnerability crossed Harry's face, so raw and honest that it nearly took Y/N's breath away.

"Really?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N nodded, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. "Really," she confirmed. "And as for all that lost time..."

She pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze directly. "We have now," she reminded him. "We have tomorrow, and next week, and next year. We have all the time in the world to make new firsts together."

The tension in Harry's body began to ease, his hands sliding around to the small of her back, drawing her closer against him.

"What kind of firsts did you have in mind?" he asked, a hint of his usual playfulness returning to his voice.

Y/N smiled, relieved to see the darkness lifting from his expression. "Well, we've never been to Paris together," she suggested. "Or gone skiing. Or ran a marathon."

Harry's lips curved into a smile, his thumbs tracing small circles at the base of her spine. "Those all sound good," he agreed. "What about more immediate firsts?"

His meaning was clear in the sudden heat of his gaze, the slight shift of his body beneath hers. Y/N felt an answering warmth bloom low in her belly.

"I'm listening," she murmured, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Harry's smile turned wicked, his hands moving to cup her hips more firmly. "We've never made love in this library," he pointed out, his voice dropping to a register that sent shivers down Y/N's spine. "Seems like an oversight."

Y/N pretended to consider this, though her racing pulse betrayed her affected nonchalance. "The sofa is rather comfortable," she acknowledged.

"And the door locks," Harry added, his thumbs now slipping beneath the hem of her sweater to find the warm skin beneath.

Y/N leaned forward, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "And I've never had sex in front of a fireplace before."

A low groan escaped Harry's throat, his hands tightening on her waist. "Now that," he said, his voice rough with desire, "is a first I'd very much like to remedy."

Without warning, he stood, lifting Y/N with him as though she weighed nothing. She laughed in surprise, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her the short distance to the plush rug in front of the hearth.

He laid her down with unexpected gentleness, the firelight casting golden highlights across her skin as he helped her out of her sweater. His own shirt followed, revealing the familiar landscape of tattoos across his chest and arms.

As Harry settled over her, his weight supported on his forearms, Y/N reached up to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips.

"I love you," she told him softly, the words still new enough to send a thrill through her when she said them. "Past, present, and future. All of it. Every version of you."

Something fierce and tender flashed in Harry's eyes as he bent to capture her lips in a kiss that spoke of possession, protection, and profound love. 

"You're mine now," he murmured against her mouth, his hand sliding down to grip her thigh, hitching it higher against his hip. "And I'm yours. And I plan to make up for every second of those ten years we lost."

Y/N arched beneath him as his lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Starting now?" she gasped, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

Harry lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire as they met hers. "Starting now," he confirmed, his voice a low growl that promised delicious things to come. "And I'm going to take my fucking time about it."

As his mouth descended to her collarbone, then lower still, Y/N surrendered to the exquisite sensation of being thoroughly, completely loved by the man who had always held her heart, even during the years they'd spent apart.

Lost time could never be reclaimed, but new memories could be created—first upon first, moment upon moment, building a future together that would render the past nothing more than prologue to their real story.

And as Harry's talented mouth and hands drew gasps and then cries from her lips, Y/N knew with absolute certainty that their best firsts were still ahead of them.

---

Later, much later, they lay tangled together on the rug, a throw blanket hastily pulled from the sofa draped across their cooling bodies. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a soft, red glow that made Harry's skin look like burnished gold where it pressed against hers.

His head rested on her chest, her fingers lazily combing through his tousled hair as their breathing gradually slowed to normal.

"That was definitely a first," Y/N murmured, amusement coloring her voice. "I don't think I've ever...quite like that..."

Harry chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin. "Told you I'd make it memorable," he said, pressing a kiss to the curve of her breast.

"Mmm, mission accomplished," Y/N assured him, stretching languidly beneath him. "Though I may never look at this library the same way again."

Harry propped himself up on one elbow, his expression smug as he surveyed the evidence of their passion. Clothing scattered across the rug, the cushions from the sofa knocked to the floor, and Y/N's wine glass miraculously still upright but entirely forgotten.

"Good," he said with satisfaction. "That was the plan."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," Harry countered, bending to steal another kiss.

"I do," Y/N agreed when they parted, her tone more serious. "I love all of you”

Something vulnerable flickered in Harry's eyes, a glimpse of the insecurity that had sparked their earlier conversation.

"Even though I wasn't your first?" he asked, his attempt at a light tone not quite masking the genuine question beneath.

Y/N reached up to cup his face, making sure he was looking directly at her when she replied. "You're my last," she told him firmly. "That's what matters."

The tension in Harry's expression eased, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Your last," he repeated, as though testing the weight of the words. "I like the sound of that."

Y/N smiled back, her thumb tracing the curve of his lower lip. "Besides," she added with deliberate lightness, "we have plenty of firsts still ahead of us."

"Like what?" Harry asked, settling back down beside her, his arm draped possessively across her waist.

Y/N pretended to consider, her fingers trailing along the tattoos on his forearm. "Well, there's our first Christmas together, properly together, I mean."

Harry nodded, his expression warming at the thought. "I've already got your gift," he admitted. "Been planning it for weeks."

“Harry...it's March,” Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. "No hints?"

"Not a chance," Harry replied with a grin. "You'll just have to wait."

Y/N made a face at him, then continued her list. "There's our first anniversary, of this, I mean. Us being real."

"Three months down," Harry noted, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Lifetime to go."

The casual certainty with which he spoke of their future sent a warm glow spreading through Y/N's chest.

"Our first vacation together," she continued softly. "Our first home that we choose together, rather than just me moving into yours."

Harry's eyes brightened at that. "We could start looking," he suggested, his enthusiasm evident. "Something that's ours from the beginning."

Y/N smiled, touched by his eagerness. "I'd like that," she told him.

A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional pop from the dying fire. Harry's hand had begun a slow, absent-minded caress along her side, from ribs to hip and back again.

"You know," he said after a while, his voice thoughtful, "when I think about it now, maybe it's better this way."

Y/N turned her head to look at him, curious. "What do you mean?"

Harry shifted slightly, propping himself up again so he could see her face properly. "If we'd been each other's firsts back then, if we'd never lost those years, we might not appreciate what we have now as much."

Y/N considered this, surprised by the insight. "That's...actually quite profound," she acknowledged.

Harry's lips quirked in a self-deprecating smile. "Don't sound so shocked," he chided gently. "I do occasionally have deep thoughts."

Y/N laughed, stretching up to kiss the underside of his jaw. "I know you do," she assured him. "And you might be right. Maybe we needed those years apart to become the people who could make this work."

Harry nodded, his expression turning serious again. "I know I did," he admitted. "I was a mess after my first album took off. Arrogant, selfish...I wouldn't have been good for you then."

"And I was too lost after my father died," Y/N confessed quietly. "Too focused on taking care of my family to have anything left for anyone else."

Harry's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining on the blanket between them. "So maybe the timing is perfect," he suggested. "Maybe now is exactly when we were meant to find our way back to each other."

Y/N squeezed his hand, feeling a sense of rightness settle over her. "I think you might be right," she agreed softly. "Though I still wish..."

"What?" Harry prompted when she trailed off.

Y/N sighed, a wistful smile touching her lips. "I still wish I could have seen you perform for the first time," she admitted. "Your very first show. I bet you were terrified."

Harry laughed, the sound rich with memory. "Absolutely bricking it," he confirmed. "My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the microphone."

"I wish I'd been there," Y/N said, her tone tinged with regret.

Harry studied her face for a moment, then sat up abruptly, the blanket pooling around his waist. "Wait here," he instructed, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before standing.

Y/N watched in bemusement as he crossed the room naked, disappearing through the library door. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, then the distant sound of a drawer opening and closing.

A few minutes later he returned, a small black device in his hand. As he settled back beside her on the rug, Y/N recognized it as a portable hard drive.

"What's this?" she asked, sitting up and pulling the blanket around her shoulders.

Harry held up the drive, a slightly sheepish expression on his face. "I have videos," he explained. "From the early days. My mum filmed a lot of it, and then the label had people documenting everything once we started getting attention."

Y/N's eyes widened in understanding. "Including your first performance?"

Harry nodded, a soft smile playing at his lips. "Including that," he confirmed. "And a lot of other firsts. First TV appearance, first award show, first stadium concert..."

He held out the drive to her, his expression suddenly vulnerable despite his earlier confidence. "I want you to see them," he told her quietly. "All of them. If you want to."

Y/N took the drive, cradling it in her palm as though it were infinitely precious—which, in many ways, it was. A record of all the moments she'd missed, offered now as a gift to bridge the gap of those lost years.

"Harry," she breathed, looking up at him with eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. "I don't know what to say."

He shrugged, though the casualness of the gesture was belied by the intensity in his gaze. "Say you'll watch them with me," he suggested. "Tomorrow night, maybe. We can order in, make a proper evening of it."

Y/N nodded, too moved to speak for a moment. When she found her voice again, it was thick with emotion. "I'd love that," she told him. "Thank you."

Harry's smile was soft, almost shy. "I want to share it all with you," he said simply. "Even the parts you couldn't be there for."

Y/N leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips that conveyed all the love and gratitude she couldn't quite put into words. When they parted, she brushed her thumb along his cheekbone, marveling at the man before her. So different from the boy she'd known, yet somehow still the same in all the ways that mattered.

"I love you," she told him, the words feeling both familiar and new each time she said them. "

Harry's arms came around her, pulling her against his chest as he lay back on the rug, bringing her with him. "And I love all of you," he murmured against her hair. "Yesterday, today, and every tomorrow we have coming."

As they lay together in the dying firelight, the hard drive safely set aside on the coffee table, Y/N felt the last lingering shadows of their time apart begin to recede. They couldn't reclaim the past, but they could share it with each other. It wasn't perfect. It was better than that. 

It was real.

Harry's expression had just begun to settle into contentment when Y/N shifted against him, propping herself up slightly to look at his face. Something in her eyes, a mixture of shyness and mischief, caught his attention immediately.

"What?" he asked, his lips curving into a curious smile. "You've got that look."

"What look?" Y/N countered, feigning innocence despite the telltale flush creeping up her cheeks.

Harry reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering against her skin. "The one that says you're about to either tell me something important or completely upend my world," he explained, his tone light but his eyes attentive. "Possibly both."

Y/N bit her lower lip, hesitating for a moment before she spoke.

"I was just thinking," she began, her fingers tracing abstract patterns on his chest, following the lines of his tattoos, "if it makes you feel any better about all those firsts we missed..."

She paused, meeting his gaze with a softness that made his breath catch.

"That day in the woods, right before you left for good. Remember that?"

A shadow of recognition passed over Harry's face, followed by something warmer, more intimate.

"Course I do," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cover hers where it rested against his heart. "Last day of summer. I snuck away from that ridiculous garden party my mum made me attend."

Y/N nodded, a small smile playing at her lips at the accuracy of his memory. "You wore that blue button-up shirt your mother insisted on, but you'd rolled the sleeves up and undone the top buttons the minute you were out of her sight."

Harry chuckled, the sound rumbling pleasantly beneath her palm. "Bloody thing was choking me," he recalled. "And it was so hot that day."

"It was," Y/N agreed, her eyes taking on a faraway look as she traveled back to that August afternoon. "We went to that clearing by the old oak tree. The one with the rope swing."

"Where you always refused to go higher than the second knot," Harry teased gently, his thumb stroking across her knuckles.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though her smile remained. "Some of us had a healthy respect for gravity, Harold."

His laugh was genuine this time, warming her from the inside out.

"We stayed out there for hours," she continued, her voice softening. "Just talking about nothing and everything. You told me your mum was making you go to some posh boarding school in the fall."

Harry's expression sobered slightly at the memory. "I didn't want to go," he admitted. "I begged her to let me stay at the local school, but she wouldn't hear of it."

"You were so angry," Y/N remembered. "I'd never seen you like that before."

Harry's jaw tightened briefly. "It wasn't just about the school," he confessed. "She'd told me that morning we wouldn't be coming back the next summer. That she'd found a 'more suitable' vacation spot in the South of France."

Y/N's eyes widened slightly. "You never told me that part."

"Didn't want to ruin our last day," Harry said with a small shrug that didn't quite disguise the old hurt. "Thought if I didn't say it out loud, maybe it wouldn't be real."

Y/N's heart ached for the sixteen-year-old boy he'd been, forced into a life he hadn't chosen, separated from the things, and people, that mattered to him.

"You looked so beautiful," Harry murmured, reaching up to cup her cheek. "The sun was setting behind you, turning your hair to gold, and I just...I couldn't help myself."

"You kissed me," Y/N whispered, turning her face slightly to press her lips against his palm. "Right there by the stream, with the crickets starting to sing and the fireflies just beginning to come out."

Harry's thumb brushed across her bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement. "Best decision I ever made," he said softly.

Y/N met his gaze steadily, her heart racing as she prepared to share the piece of herself she'd kept tucked away all these years.

"It was my first," she told him quietly. "My first kiss, Harry."

For a moment, Harry went completely still, his eyes widening fractionally as her words registered.

"What?" he breathed, searching her face as though looking for confirmation that he'd heard her correctly.

Y/N nodded, a shy smile curving her lips. "You were my first kiss," she repeated. "I'd never kissed anyone before that moment."

A complex mix of emotions flickered across Harry's face. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, sitting up slightly, bringing them even closer together. "I would have—I don't know, made it more special or something."

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head at his concern. "It was already perfect," she assured him, reaching up to smooth the furrow from his brow. "You were perfect."

Harry caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm that made her breath catch.

"I had no idea," he said, his voice tinged with wonder. "I thought—I assumed you must have kissed other boys before me."

Y/N shook her head again. "There was only you," she told him softly. "I was shy, remember? And none of the boys at school made me feel the way you did."

Something fierce and tender flashed in Harry's eyes at her admission.

"So I was your first," he said, a note of satisfaction entering his voice as he pulled her closer, until she was practically in his lap, the blanket slipping to pool around their waists.

"You were my first," Y/N confirmed, her arms sliding around his neck. "And if things had been different—if your mother hadn't taken you away, if we'd had the chance..."

She didn't need to finish the thought. The understanding that passed between them was perfect and complete.

"You would have been my only," Harry murmured, completing her unspoken sentence. "My first and my last."

Y/N nodded, suddenly finding it difficult to speak around the lump in her throat.

Harry drew her impossibly closer, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

"I didn't know," he said again, his voice rough with emotion. "That day, that kiss, it meant everything to me. But knowing I was your first..."

He trailed off, clearly struggling to articulate the depth of what he was feeling.

"Does it help?" Y/N asked softly, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Knowing you were the first person to kiss me?"

Harry pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his green eyes dark and serious. "It shouldn't matter," he admitted. "It's ridiculous that it does. But..."

"But it does," Y/N finished for him, understanding completely.

Harry nodded, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he agreed. "It does."

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, drawing her in for a kiss that was at once achingly tender and possessively claiming. When they parted, both slightly breathless, he rested his forehead against hers once more.

"You were fifteen," he murmured, a hint of teasing entering his voice. "Practically ancient for a first kiss."

Y/N laughed, lightly smacking his shoulder. "Excuse me for having standards," she retorted.

Harry's answering laugh was warm against her skin. "High standards," he agreed, his hands sliding down to her waist. "The highest."

"I was waiting for someone worth waiting for," Y/N told him, her tone light but her words utterly sincere.

Something in Harry's expression shifted, the teasing fading into something more profound.

"Thank you for telling me," he said quietly, brushing a soft kiss against her temple. "It means more than you know."

Y/N nodded, understanding the complex tangle of emotions behind his simple words. The pride, the possessiveness, the bittersweet joy of knowing he'd been her first in at least one significant way.

"I wanted you to know," she told him softly. "That even though we lost all those years, even though there were others after you...you were still my first. The one that mattered most."

Harry's arms tightened around her, his face buried in the curve of her neck. For a moment, they simply held each other, the weight of the past and the promise of the future suspended between them.

"I love you," Harry murmured against her skin, the words simple but weighted with everything he felt for her. "I think I've loved you since that day by the stream."

Y/N's hand came up to cradle the back of his head, her fingers gentle in his hair. "I love you too," she whispered. "I always have."

As they sank back down onto the rug, their bodies entwining with renewed purpose, Y/Nx knew that this, what they shared now, was worth every moment of waiting, every heartache of separation. They might have missed some firsts, but the ones they'd shared had shaped them both in ways neither could fully articulate.

And as Harry's lips found hers again, she knew with absolute certainty that the best firsts, their firsts, together, were still to come.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Reblogs and comments are appreciated :)

Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite @drewrry @inlikea-coolway @jerseygirlinca @nosebeers

[jeonscatalyst]

Q: Which of the Hyungs gives you the best conform and the most attention

Jungkook: Jimin hyung. (2014)

Q: How were you able to overcome the harsh trainee life?

Jungkook: Jimin hyung comforted me and listened to my worries. (2013/ 2014)

Q: Who is the easiest hyung to talk to?

Jungkook: Jimin hyung. (2015)

Q: BTS relationship chart.

Jungkook about Jimin:

“All nighter friend”. All the time it’s just the two of us doing something at night. I don’t know what we do. (2016)

Q:Who do your feel your heart is most connected to?

Jungkook: Jimin hyung…….there’s something we just get about each other both on and off stage. (2019)

Q:Who knows you best? (2018)

Jungkook: Jimin hyung

Q:What comes to your mind when you think about the members (2021)

RM: Leader

Jin: 30

Yoongi: grandfather

Jhope: dance

Jimin: charming/ attractive

V: friend.

Q:Describe each members charm in one word (2021)

RM: Dull/ absent minded

Jin: Interested

Yoongi: Interested

Jhope: Positive

Jimin: considerate/ thoughtful

V: Lonely

Q: What are the members to Jungkook? (2020)

RM: Leader

Jin: oldest big brother who feels like a friend.

Yoongi: My oldie

Jhope: My bro

Jimin: my “You are me- I am you”

V: my commonality.

(Jungkook fetches and gives a pair of sleepers to a manager standing barefoot) (2022)

Members especially Hobi….”wow Jk that is so thoughtful. That is amazing

Jungkook: “I always do what Jimin hyung does”.

Jungkook about Jimin: (2015/2016)

TO JIMIN: He has an extremely reliable existence. He gives me strength, provides me motivation and hyung tells me I do the same for him. We are similar in our mutual love for the stage. Our relationship is of mutual synergy. I am grateful to him for having passion and for continuing to hold onto his dreams.

Jungkook to Jimin: (2015/2016/ 2017)

He is my catalyst

Jungkook describing Jimin: (2015/2016)

“Ah Jimin hyung…he has a very kind personality. He also treats me to lots of good food. His eyes when he smiles are so pretty. There is no one else on the team who is as charming as he is.

If I were a girl, I would want someone with that personality…let’s go with Jimin hyung. If I were a girl, I would date Jimin hyung.”

Jungkook about trips he took with Jimin ( 2023)

“These are the best trips I have ever had in my life”.

“ I want to go back to the first day of our trip”

“Let’s do this till we are 50”

There is nothing clearer!

[redemptive-truth]

A Time to Pretend | Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 4)

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 7K

Author's Note:

I'm a day late, I am so sorry! Had too many adult things to deal with pop up yesterday -- plus my husband and I are traveling to Florida for the week, so packing took far too long.

Enjoy this next part! Little bit more emotion, little bit more of a deep dive into both characters. This is a slow burn so be patient with them -- I personally don't think Bucky would fall hard and fast right away especially right after the events of CATWS.

And thank you so much for the comments and praise! The feedback means everything :) If you are not on the tag list, and want to be added, let me know!

______________________________________________________________

Part 4: June 2014, West Virginia

She spent part of the night unpacking, taking quiet inventory of the place. The weapons were the first priority—tucked into drawers near entry points, behind cupboard panels, in the closet behind the coats. Just in case. She sent off a few messages to the people who might wonder where she was—Maria, a few old friends from work. Nothing detailed, just enough to keep suspicion off her back.

The exhaustion from the drive and the sleepless night before hit her hard once the night fully crept in. Despite the unfamiliarity of the house, sleep came quickly, pulling her under before she could dwell too long on the past.

She hadn’t spent much time here before, really. Just a few childhood visits with her father: a week here and there during hunting season, or for quiet, firelit weekends in the fall. She remembered counting stars with him under thick wool blankets during the fall, eating hot dogs roasted outdoors – but after he died, she hadn’t returned more than once or twice. It felt too empty. Too haunted.

She wouldn’t tell Barnes that, though. No sense in layering guilt onto everything else he was already carrying. He had enough ghosts of his own.

The sun was high in the sky when she woke. Her muscles ached from the restless travel and heavy sleep, and her hair was a mess when she shuffled out of bed. Barnes’s door was open. The bed inside looked untouched—pillows and folded blankets stacked neatly on the floor instead.

Her stomach twisted at the sight. She knew what that meant, she’d seen it before. A lot of vets couldn’t handle sleeping in beds when they got home. Too soft. Too uncomfortable.

She found him out back, sitting on the steps of the porch, the morning air still clinging to a bit of chill. He had one of the new flannels on, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair was a mess, slightly damp from washing, and he hadn’t shaved yet—but he looked calmer. Grounded.

She stepped outside and sat next to him without saying a word. He didn’t look at her, but she knew he’d heard her coming before she even touched the screen door. She could tell by the way he straightened slightly as she approached, his shoulders tensing a bit once her footfalls were heard.

“How was the floor?” she asked, her tone light.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. Not quite a smile, but not a frown. “Better than you’d think.”

She gave a soft hum. “Yeah, I slept on the floor for a few months after my first tour. Beds felt too… fake. Took me forever to get used to them again.”

That earned her a glance. His eyes flicked to her, expression curious. “You served?”

She nodded, brushing a leaf off the step beside her absentmindedly. “Army. West Point grad. I was in until I was twenty-six. Best and worst years of my life.”

He twisted his hands together absently, metal one covered with a black glove. She noticed, but didn’t comment.

“Lot’s changed since I was in,” he murmured after a pause.

She laughed. “Yeah, I bet women weren’t exactly getting combat roles back in the forties, huh?”

He shook his head, looking into the distance at something she was sure wasn’t there. “No, ma’am.”

She smirked. “Technically, that means you’d have to salute me, then.”

That got him—a faint smile, almost shy, tugging briefly at his mouth. “Hopefully you’re not one of those officers who made the grunts do push-ups for breathing too loud.”

She grinned, “You remember some of the fun stuff then, I see.”

He shook his head, the smile lingering just a second longer. Then, softer, with something like respect in his voice: “Just impressive, is all.”

Her chest tightened a bit at that, unexpected warmth settling behind her ribs. She leaned back on her hands, letting the morning sun warm her face for a moment before speaking again.

“I’m gonna head into town in a bit,” she said casually, eyes scanning the treeline in the distance. “Pick up some groceries, supplies. This place hasn’t exactly been lived in for a while. We’re out of almost everything but coffee and canned soup.”

Barnes didn’t say anything, but she saw the slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment.

“I was also thinking… I’ll stop by the library,” she added, glancing over at him. “Pick up some books. Stuff that might help you catch up on the world. History, politics, pop culture—whatever you’re interested in.”

That made him look at her fully. His brows pulled together slightly, not in suspicion, but in something closer to confusion. Or maybe hesitation.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said after a second. “You’ve already done enough.”

She shrugged, brushing some hair out of her face. “It’s not a big deal. I figure you’ve got a lot to piece together. Might as well give you some tools.”

He looked back toward the woods, jaw tight. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “Start wherever you want. No pressure.”

A beat passed. Then, quietly, he muttered. “Books might be good.”

She smiled faintly. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I used to read a lot. Before.”

There was a pause between them. A heaviness in that word—”before”. Lost time.

“Well,” she said, standing up and brushing off her sweats. “Anything in particular you want me to look for?”

He shook his head, his lips twisted. She couldn’t tell if that was apathy or just an unwillingness to open up. “No idea what’s even out there anymore.”

“Fair enough,” she said, stepping toward the door. “I’ll surprise you. Maybe something that would really knock your socks off. Like space travel. You know about that?”

He shot her a look, a mix of displeasure and amusement. “HYDRA had me frozen and brainwashed half the time, but I still saw more than you think.”

She snorted. “Good point! You were born before the Depression. You’re pretty much dust now.”

She caught the ghost of a smile on his face before she turned away — small and barely there, but real. It was the first one that looked like it didn’t hurt him to wear.

The drive into town was quiet—just miles of thick woods and winding roads until she hit the sparse heart of the county. The town was tiny, home to fewer than a thousand people, most of whom had been born here and would die here. Folks kept to themselves, didn’t ask questions, and liked it that way. It made for the perfect place to hide someone like HYDRA’s former greatest weapon.

Not surprisingly, the town just had one grocery store. She stocked up on enough food to last them at least a month and grabbed a few extra sets of clothes and some basic toiletries she figured Barnes might need. Nothing flashy. Just essentials.

Barnes wouldn’t know - no one really did - but her inheritance from both her parents’ was enough to last her nearly the rest of her life without working again. She hadn’t touched it beyond putting herself through Westpoint. Everything she earned and used so far had been with her own money. Given what was going on now – hiding on the fringes of society – she supposed she would rely on the money if it came down to it. She hated the idea of it, hated not working for herself, but it wasn’t like she could get a steadily paying job out here without raising flags.

After the store, she made a quick stop at the small, locally-owned gun shop nearby. She replenished her ammo and picked up a few more weapons—nothing out of the ordinary for this part of the country, but enough to keep them safe if anyone did come looking. She didn’t expect HYDRA to find them out here. But she wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

And while she wasn’t a super soldier with a vibranium arm, she was experienced and had killed her fair share of men. Out here, especially if HYDRA was still searching for him, owning weapons and staying armed wasn’t unusual—it was just practical.

The town’s library sat on a quiet corner just off the main road, nestled between the post office and a feed store. It looked like something out of time—a squat brick building with ivy creeping up the sides and a rusted bike rack no one had clearly used in decades. Inside, it smelled of paper and wood polish, the faint must of forgotten old texts lingering in the corners. She was the only one there aside from an elderly librarian with silver hair and glasses perched on her nose, who barely looked up from her crossword puzzle when the door creaked open.

She wandered the narrow aisles, trailing her fingers along the spines of anything of interest. Most of the books here had to be decades old – donations from personal collections, worn hardbacks with yellowed pages and fading jackets. Perfect, really. She wasn’t about to hand Barnes a stack of books filled with pop culture references and modern slang. He needed to catch up, yes, but gently. Gradually.

She gathered a few well-worn copies of classics: Steinbeck’s East of Eden, Capote’s In Cold Blood, a beat-up edition of Catcher in the Rye. She added Fahrenheit 451 and Slaughterhouse-Five to the pile. Maybe they’d resonate. Maybe they’d just give him something to think about that wasn’t his own past.

She paused at a shelf marked “NON-FICTION – HISTORY”, running her hand over the titles until she found a slim book on the Cold War and another on the civil rights movement. She hesitated over Vietnam: A Retrospective, then added it too. He’d missed all of that. The decades had passed without him. He deserved the chance to fill in the blanks. If he wanted to. Plenty to keep him busy.

By the time she pulled back into the long gravel driveway, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting gold rays through the trees and stretching shadows across the yard. Barnes was outside still, stripped down to just a pair of dark pants and a dark tank top, the latter clinging to him with sweat. He stood at the edge of the clearing with an axe in one hand, a growing stack of split logs at his feet.

His metal arm caught the fading light with each swing—gleaming like liquid steel. He was precise and methodical, like he could handle the blade with his eyes closed. She didn’t doubt that he could.

She watched him for a moment through the windshield, how mechanical the movements were—and yet how human he looked. Sunlight caught in his unkempt hair, muscles coiled tight with each clean strike. He was a man clearly built for war — or transformed to be one — and still somehow oddly ordinary.

She unloaded the groceries quickly, hauling bags inside and setting everything down on the kitchen counter. When she stepped out onto the back porch, Barnes glanced at her from the corner of his eye, pausing his movements. He stared at her for a moment intently, looking like he might say something. Instead, he turned back to his work, driving the axe down into another log with brutal precision. Everything about him seemed uncertain - the hesitant, stiff way in which he stood, the drawn look on his face. She doubted he had had any social interaction beyond whatever HYDRA conditioned him with, beyond the torture. Hopefully, in time, he would open up more. Learn how to speak up.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with a faint smirk. “I see you found a job for yourself.”

He didn’t look at her when he replied, just shrugged one shoulder and split another piece clean through. “Might as well be useful.”

“Hey, you’ve got free range here,” she said, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna police you. But if you're working, I’m not paying.”

That earned her the ghost of a smirk, though it was fleeting. She nodded toward the house. “I left some books on the table for you—classics mostly. Stuff from the '40s and '50s. Figured they’d make more sense than, you know, the Internet.”

He finally glanced at her properly, sweat dripping from his brow, the weight of his stare heavier than it should have been. Soft. “Thank you.”

There was something sincere in the way he said it, not just polite gratitude, but something quieter…more complicated. Maybe he wasn’t used to people thinking of him like that. Maybe he didn’t expect anyone to.

She gave him a small nod, brushing her hair out of her face. “Don’t mention it.”

She stayed in the doorway, eyes drifting instinctively—curiously—to the metal arm gleaming in the sun. It was hard not to stare. The plates caught the light like a mirror, fluid in motion even as they cut through solid wood like it was nothing. But it wasn’t just the shine or the tech that drew her attention—it was where it ended, where steel met flesh.

There, along the skin of his left shoulder and upper ribs, were ridges of faint scars. Scratches, indentations—places where skin had been torn, healed badly. She could tell even from where she stood that it hadn’t always been a clean graft. It looked like it had hurt. Probably still did.

And the scratches looked a lot like marks from human nails. Like he had tried to claw his own arm off long ago. The thought made her stomach twist.

Barnes straightened suddenly when he noticed her looking, spine stiff. He didn’t look at her right away, just pulled in a breath through his nose. “I can keep it covered,” he said gruffly, grabbing the shirt he had slung over a nearby railing. “If it bothers you.”

Her gaze snapped up to his face. “No. No, it doesn’t bother me.”

He stared at her with furrowed brows, skeptical, as if he wasn’t sure if she meant it.

She took a step off the porch and into the yard, hands in her sweatshirt pockets. “It’s just…” Her eyes dropped to his shoulder again, softer now. “Does it hurt?”

That stopped him. His mouth twitched slightly, and his eyes followed hers to the thin red scars where metal fused to skin. For a moment, he didn’t speak and stood there silently, like he had to search for the answer within himself.

“Not the way it used to,” he said finally, voice quiet. Drawn. “But yeah. Some days it still does.”

Her heart ached quietly in her chest. Not with pity, but with something heavier – empathy, maybe. Or the recognition of pain that never really goes away.

“You don’t have to cover it,” she said again, firmer now. “You don’t have to hide anything here.”

Something passed across his face—surprise. Or discomfort. She wanted to think that it was gratitude that looked too raw to name.

He gave a tight nod and looked down, shifting his weight slightly. “Alright.”

She let the moment sit, the quiet thick with things neither of them said. Or had the heart to ask.

“Let me know if you need painkillers,” she added after a beat, saying something just to break the silence. “I keep some inside.”

“Will do.”

And then he turned back to the axe and wood, his movements a little slower, more deliberate. Like he was still turning the conversation over in his mind.

—————————————-

The next couple of weeks passed in a quiet, predictable rhythm. She’d wake early to an empty house, the sound of birdsong and the wind through the trees her only company until Barnes returned from his morning run. Always gone before sunrise, always back by the time the coffee finished brewing. She never asked where he went. She got the sense he wouldn’t answer anyway.

He spent the rest of the day keeping busy. Working out with a near-militant intensity, chopping wood even when there was already plenty stacked, rebuilding parts of the house that needed some care, or sitting silently on the back porch with one of the books she’d brought him. She introduced him to the television, keeping it simple—just the local channels, a handful of news networks, the occasional old movie. He used it sparingly. Never seemed interested in the headlines or sports, rarely changed the channel once it was on.

He barely spoke.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part. At breakfast, over the clatter of pans and the hiss of bacon, in the afternoons when she passed by him reading, when they ran into each other in the house. But outside of dinner, he said almost nothing – just communicated with shrugs, nods, and grunts.. And even then, it was only a handful of words exchanged while they ate. She couldn’t tell if it was dislike or distrust, or maybe just the weight of realizing things from his past he didn’t know how to carry yet.

Still, he was staying. That, at least, mattered.

He looked more at ease here, if not exactly comfortable. He didn’t flinch at every noise anymore. He spent hours outside, sitting under trees or walking the edges of the woods. But he refused to do anything with her. She invited him to hunt, but he declined every time. The same went for trips into town or even the solo runs she took at dusk. Always a quiet, firm no. If she got more than a full sentence out of him each day, it was a miracle.

In the third week, she made the mistake of pushing.

They were eating dinner—a simple meal of grilled steak, potatoes, and greens. The silence wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t easy either. It had never been easy. She never knew what to say, when to ask things…it was like a constant dance of avoidance.

She cleared her throat softly and glanced at him across the table. “Do you…” she hesitated, fork halfway to her mouth.“Do you remember anything more from your past? Has anything sparked your memory?”

Barnes stilled. His fork hovered over his plate, unmoving. Metal creaked softly and she glanced at his left arm – the metal looked stiff, like he had his hand clenched in his lap. His jaw locked hard enough that the tension in his neck was visible from across the room.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t blink. When he spoke, it was flat. “Just past…missions. People I killed. Things I’ve done.”

She froze. The bite of steak she’d just cut sat like lead in her mouth. Her throat closed up, and she reached for her water, trying to swallow it down, heat rising up her neck.

“I—” she started, unsure of where the line was. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

He looked up then. His eyes weren’t cold, but they were hollow. Tired.

“No,” he said. Quiet, but firm.

The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable. She nodded slowly, backing off, pushing a piece of potato around her plate with the edge of her fork.

And then, for whatever reason that came over her — there was a fine line between boldness and stupidity — she decided to risk it.

“You know none of it was your fault, right?” she said softly, not looking at him directly when she spoke. “What HYDRA did… they controlled you. You didn’t have a choice.”

The effect was immediate. And exactly what she had been afraid of.

He stilled. The fork in his hand trembled slightly as his grip on it tightened. Slowly, he looked up at her, expression darkening like a storm rolling in.

“Don’t,” he said, voice quiet still — but it wasn’t calm. It was a warning.

She didn’t back off. “I’m just saying—”

“I said don’t.” His voice cracked louder this time, rough and raw. “Don’t tell me what was or wasn’t my fault. You don’t know. You can’t know.”

He stood up, the air between them thick with a sudden and terrible heat. His breathing had grown sharp, his shoulders tense. His metal hand was clenched so tightly around the edge of the kitchen table that the wood beneath it began to creak—splintering slightly under the pressure.

“I remember all of it,” he hissed, not looking at her now, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. The anger in his eyes was a cold, churning sea. “Their voices. The faces. What I did to them. I felt it. I watched it happen. I couldn’t stop it. Doesn’t matter if they were pulling the strings—I was still the one holding the goddamn gun.”

The table gave a sharp crack. She flinched, eyes darting down to where his metal fingers had sunk into the edge of the wood, bending it inwards like aluminum foil. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“Barnes,” she said gently. “Hey—”

Then he saw it.

His breath hitched. Slowly, he uncurled his fist, staring at the damage he'd done. At his hand next. The rage drained from him in an instant, replaced by something worse—shame, hollow and heavy.

He backed away from the table like it had burned him, blue eyes wide, chest heaving.

“I didn’t…” he started, barely above a whisper. She tried to meet his gaze, doing her best to keep a neutral expression to not frighten him more, but he wouldn’t look at her. Guilt was tangible in the air around them, all of it exuded from him. He looked utterly lost…like he had no idea what to do.

Then, without another word, he turned — fast and silent — disappearing down the hallway. She heard the door to his room shut with a quiet finality.

She waited a few minutes before she followed, heart hammering, uncertain if she should even try. But something in her gut told her she had to. She moved slowly down the hallway and stood outside his door, the wood scarred slightly near the handle, like it had been slammed too hard too many times. She hesitated, then raised her hand and knocked.

“Barnes?” she called gently, voice barely above a whisper.

No answer.

She rested her knuckles against the door, just listening. No footsteps. No breath. He was either holding completely still, or…no, he was still there. She could feel it somehow. His presence sat behind the door like tangible tension. But he wasn’t going to answer her. Not tonight.

She sighed quietly and stepped back. She wasn’t going to push him. It was her fault this had even happened this way. She should have held her tongue.

She cleaned up the table quickly and in silence, doing the dishes with her mind churning. There was no way she was equipped to undo decades of guilt. She had no idea where to start. Maybe she was in over her head here — she wanted to do the right thing for the broken man a few doors away…but what the hell could she offer him?

Her feet felt like bricks when she walked back to her room. The house felt colder now, hollowed out and echoing in a way that hadn’t been there this morning. Maybe she had crossed a line. Or maybe the wound was just too deep.

She curled under the covers, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the shadows from the trees outside dancing across the wood-paneled walls. Her chest ached, not just for him, but for the silence that sat like stone between them.

—————————————-

Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under, despite the hours she spent tossing and turning. But this time, it wasn’t the soft call of birdsong that woke her. It was a loud crash, sharp and jarring, somewhere nearby.

She bolted upright — heart pounding — groggy but alert. Her vision swam with dark spots as she reached for the glowing screen of her phone on the nightstand. 2:03 A.M.

Her first thought was that she’d imagined it — just another dream, maybe. But then came another sound. A thud. Heavy. Muffled.

Barnes.

Instinct took over. She grabbed the handgun from her nightstand, flicking the safety off with practiced fingers, and slipped out of bed. Her bare feet made no noise on the cool hardwood as she crept toward the door. She paused only to press her back to the frame, listening. The house was still save for the occasional creak of old wood. But she could hear it now — soft shuffling, the distinct sound of movement coming from Barnes’s room.

Without a word, she turned the doorknob to Barnes’s room slowly. Silently. No announcement. If someone was in there with him, if he was in trouble, she wouldn’t risk giving them any warning.

She let the door fall open just a crack first, letting the shadows shift. Then, she eased it open further with the barrel of her gun, breath baited, body tensed and ready. The room was dark, lit only faintly by moonlight filtering in through the half-closed blinds.

She stepped outside cautiously, eyes adjusting to the dim light. That’s when she saw him —Barnes, tangled in his sheets, chest heaving, sweat slick on his brow. He was thrashing, legs kicking at the blanket like he was trying to escape from it. A lamp had been knocked off the nightstand and lay shattered on the floor, the bulb cracked and flickering weakly.

It wasn’t an intruder. It was him. Having a nightmare.

She exhaled slowly, lowering the gun and placing it quietly on the dresser. “Barnes,” she said softly, approaching the bed. “Hey—Barnes, it’s just a dream.”

He didn’t hear her. His eyes were shut tight, lips parted as he murmured something she couldn’t quite catch—words in Russian, maybe? His face was twisted in pain. She saw his metal hand claw at the air, fingers twitching violently.

She reached out, hesitating for a second before placing her hand gently on his shoulder. “Bucky,” she said again, louder this time. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

The response was instant—and brutal.

His eyes snapped open but there was no recognition in them, only sheer panic and adrenaline. Before she could even speak again, his metal hand shot up and clamped around her throat, cold and unrelenting. The weight of him sent her stumbling back onto the mattress as he rolled over, pinning her halfway beneath him, grip tightening.

She choked, instinctively grabbing at his wrist, trying to break the hold desperately. “Barnes—” she rasped, her voice strained. “It’s me…you’re okay. You’re with me.”

Nothing. His grip on her throat tightened, his eyes dead and unfocused, like he was still in the middle of his nightmare. She gasped, straining for air, clutching at his arm desperately. “Bucky….stop….please.”

For a few terrifying seconds, he didn’t let go. His breathing was wild, ragged. But then, thankfully, something shifted. His eyes flickered at his name, recognition starting to bleed into them—first confusion, then horror. Another moment passed and the haze cleared out of his blue irises, clarity seeping back in quickly.

“Shit—” he released her at once and backed off like she physically burned him, his whole body trembling. “Shit, I—I didn’t—I didn’t know where I was—”

She sat up, coughing, hand instinctively holding onto her neck. “I know,” she said, her voice hoarse. She swallowed hard, doing her best to sound as collected as possible. “You were dreaming. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he whispered, folding in on himself near the edge of the bed. His hands—both of them—were shaking. “I could’ve killed you. I nearly— Christ, I…”

“You didn’t.” She reached out, slowly, carefully, and placed a hand on his shoulder again. He flinched, but he didn’t move away. “You stopped. You’re here. You’re not him anymore.”

But he still couldn’t meet her eyes. He just stared down at the broken lamp on the floor, jaw clenched, shame practically radiating off him in waves. Her neck was throbbing, and her heart was certainly still pounding a war tune in her chest, but she willed herself to keep it together enough to calm him down. The night had already gone bad enough, she didn’t need this driving him over the edge to leave.

She sat beside him slowly, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder. “What just happened… it’s not uncommon,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “I’ve known a lot of soldiers who’ve gone through it. Hell, I’ve been through it.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered over to her for the first time since letting go of her throat. There was doubt in them—guilt, too—but she held his gaze.

“I used to wake up screaming,” she continued, brushing a hand over her neck subconsciously. “I once put my fist through a bathroom mirror because I thought I saw someone behind me. I’ve bolted out of bed with my heart going a thousand beats a minute thinking I was back in the desert. The brain can’t always tell when you’re safe after coming home from war.”

He said nothing for a while, just sitting there silently, watching her. The room was filled with the hum of silence, heavy but not cold.

Finally, his voice came, low and cracked. “It’s most nights. The nightmares.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “How long?”

“Since HYDRA,” he said, staring down at the floor. “Since I got out. They never stopped. Sometimes I don’t even remember them. Other times it’s… everything. Like I’m still him. Like I never left.”

Her heart gripped in her chest. “You did leave. You got out.”

His jaw clenched. “Doesn’t feel like it. Not when I’m in it. And now I’ve hurt you…I could’ve killed you. I shouldn’t be here…with you. You’re not safe around me.”

“No,” she said, firm this time. She turned more to face him fully, forcing him to look at her. She grabbed his flesh hand in her own tightly, like the contact would anchor him. “Don’t say that.”

He shook his head but looked down at their hands, guilt still stamped all over his face. His skin was warm against her own. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” she interrupted. “More than you think. You weren’t awake. You weren’t yourself. It was a reflex, Bucky. That wasn’t you choosing to hurt me.”

His brows pulled together, like he was trying to fight her words. “I’m not safe.”

“You are,” she said again, her voice gentler now. “You’ve been here days and haven’t so much as raised your voice. You barely even talk. And tonight wasn’t your fault.”

He looked at her, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “But I could’ve.”

“But you didn’t,” she asserted. “That’s the difference.”

He looked away, running his metal hand down his face, exhaustion prevalent in his expression. Like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She reached out and squeezed his forearm, warm skin and cold metal beneath her palm. “You’re not the man HYDRA made. You’re someone who survived them. You deserve peace, Bucky. Just like anyone else.”

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders starting to melt, just barely. The haunted look in his eyes dulled, but it didn’t disappear. “I’m sorry,” he muttered again, glancing down at his hands. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know where I was. I swear.”

She offered him a small, tired smile. “I know. You already apologized.”

“I just…” he shook his head. “I’ve hurt enough people. Last thing I wanna do is add you to that list.”

“You haven’t,” she said softly.

He looked over at her then, really looked, something gentler replacing the tired expression in his eyes. “You said my name.”

She blinked. “What?” He gave her a small shrug. “Back there. You said ‘Bucky.’ First time you’ve said it.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, caught off guard by the observation—and by the way he said it. Her ears felt hot suddenly. “I—I guess I did.”

He didn’t tease her, didn’t smile, but his expression softened just enough. “I like hearing you say it. Makes me feel like a person again.”

The words caught her off guard in a different way. She cleared her throat, not trusting her voice for a moment, then shifted a little on the edge of the bed. “You are a person, Bucky.”

He looked away, but she saw the way his jaw relaxed a little at her words. Not a full surrender, but close.

She glanced toward the window, focusing on the moonlight spilling through onto the wood floor. “Do you want me to stay?” she asked. “Just until you fall asleep.”

He hesitated — he always hesitated — but after a beat, he gave her a small nod. “If… if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

She let go of him, shifting to sit up straighter and get a little more comfortable on the bed. He didn’t lie down right away—just leaned back against the headboard, his hands loosely folded in his lap, gaze distant.

The room was dim, bathed only in the soft spill of the moonlight through the window, but even in the low light, she could see him clearly. He was all sharp lines and quiet strength — lean, dense muscle stretched beneath pale skin marked with faint scars that caught in the light like stories left untold. His arms—flesh and metal—rested easily at his sides now, but the coiled tension in his frame never fully faded. He looked like he was always prepared to run. Or fight. Or both.

His hair, still long, hung in clean, damp strands that brushed against the curve of his jaw, and though he shaved only occasionally, he often wore a layer of rough stubble that suited him. Rugged, unpolished. Real.

There was nothing soft about him. And yet, something about the quiet way he held himself now, the way his expression loosened just enough to let the silence settle, struck her as deeply human. Undeniably masculine too. Undeniably him.

She didn’t realize she was staring until he shifted slightly, and she looked away, pretending to adjust the blanket beneath her. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

After a few minutes of silence, she spoke again, her voice quiet in the stillness. Trying something to distract his mind. “Do you remember anything from…before HYDRA? Like childhood stuff?”

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Some,” he said eventually. “Not everything. But a few pieces are coming back.”

She watched him from his side, eyes locked onto his face. “Like what?”

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, thinking. “My ma’s hands. She used to pull my ear when I was getting mouthy. And the smell of my old apartment building—like boiled cabbage and laundry soap.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, barely there. “I remember running down the fire escape with Steve when we were kids, trying to catch pigeons. Dumb idea. We fell into a garbage can.”

She grinned. “Sounds like a good memory.”

He nodded slowly, eyes distant. “Yeah. I think it was.”

She shifted a little closer, the bed creaking softly beneath her as she leaned in, just enough that their legs were nearly touching. Close, but not quite. She was careful with touch — he didn’t usually respond well to it. The hand-hold from earlier had been a first…for both of them. A fragile kind of milestone.

“Tell me more,” she said gently. “As much as you can remember. I want to know it all.”

He turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate. His blue eyes met hers, and something in them changed. Less guarded. More open.

His shoulders eased up and the tension in his frame began to melt. He let out a long breath, sinking a bit deeper into the headboard, like he’d finally stopped bracing for the worst. He was quiet for a long moment, gaze cast toward the window again. The moonlight traced the angles of his face, catching in his lashes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“I remember a night before I shipped out - couple of days before,” he said. “Back in Brooklyn, with Steve. Went to the docks with some guys we knew, drank cheap beer under the stars. It was freezing, but none of us cared. We were just… having fun.”

She leaned in, her arms resting on her thighs. “Were you scared? Of going to war?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. I was. Not that I ever said it out loud.” A soft huff escaped him. “I remember putting on that uniform for the first time, thinking it would make me feel bigger somehow. Braver. But all it did was remind me of what I was leaving behind.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Late nights at O’Malley’s,” he said, a faint smile flickering. “Dancing with girls I barely knew. Laughing too loud. Getting into fights just because I could win them.” His smile faded slightly. “I didn’t have much, but I had… freedom. Friends. We were just kids havin’ some fun..”

“And then the war came.”

He nodded, something dark flickering in his eyes. “Everything changed. I changed.”

She watched him for a moment, then asked gently, “Do you remember what you wanted? Back then. Before the war.”

He let out a slow breath. “I thought I wanted to be something. A name. Someone people remembered.” He glanced at her, eyes shadowed with something heavier. “Careful what you wish for.”

Her heart ached at the weight in his voice, but she didn’t look away. “You are remembered. Maybe not in the way you’re thinking. But you’re a hero. There’s a whole exhibit in the Smithsonian with your name on it. You’re a war hero.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just sat there with his head down, the silence stretching between them again — but not uncomfortable.

“I used to dream about opening a garage,” he said finally, looking back up at her. He was making direct eye contact now, taking in every detail of her tone and expressions. “Fixing cars. Maybe owning something that couldn’t be taken from me. Thought it’d be a good life.”

She smiled softly. “I could see that. You, in coveralls, covered in grease.”

That actually earned a faint, genuine laugh from him. It was a gorgeous sound, husky and deep. “Yeah? That your type?”

She rolled her eyes but gave him a sharp smile. “I’m just saying it fits.”

Bucky leaned back a little further into the headboard, the tension in his frame easing, if only slightly.

“You ask good questions,” he murmured.

“Lots of time spent sitting in tents,” she said with a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Nothing to do but talk to the same people every day for months on end.” Their shoulders brushed lightly, and she noticed—almost with surprise—that he didn’t tense or pull away. “I’m sure you did the same.”

Bucky’s eyes drifted, not toward her but somewhere far beyond the room, seeing something she couldn’t. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “I think we did. I went to that exhibit you mentioned. After… D.C.” His fingers flexed lightly in his lap. “Helped me remember a little. Some of the guys. The war. What it felt like.” He turned to look at her, his eyes clearer in the moonlight. “Guess we got that in common, huh?”

She scoffed, biting gently at the inside of her cheek. “Your war was a little more impactful than mine.” Her voice was casual, but her gaze had dropped, heavy now. “I lost friends for pretty much nothing. Lost some of myself too, if I’m being honest. But at the time, it felt like the right thing to do. Like I was helping.”

There was a pause. Then his voice, soft, softer than she’d ever heard it from him.

“Doesn’t make you any less of a hero.”

The words hit harder than she expected. She looked at him, and his expression was steady, sincere.

“None of that takes away from what you did,” he added.

Now it was her turn to fall quiet, eyes drifting into the blur of memory. The weight of years pressed on her chest in a way she hadn’t felt in a while. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the second, the warmth of his presence beside her pulling her into something calm, something safe.

He didn’t interrupt her silence. He sat with it, respected it.

But after a moment, his voice returned, tentative. “Was that…the Medal of Valor I saw back at your place?”

Her breath caught slightly, just for a second. The haze of sleep threatened, but his question pulled her back.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It was.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his brow knitting. “Was it your father’s?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head, her eyes still half-lidded from sleep but her voice steady. “No. It was mine.”

He blinked at that, genuine surprise flickering across his face before giving way to something softer. Respect. “You don’t seem like the type to bring that up.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly. “It was a rough mission. One we barely got out of. Two of my team didn’t. I just happened to be the one still breathing when the dust settled.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze settling more fully on her. Not as a soldier or some distant past version of herself—but as someone present, vulnerable. Real.

“You got it for a reason,” he said gently.

She let out a breath through her nose, not quite a laugh. “Sometimes it feels like a mistake. Like I got it because I lived and they didn’t. I didn’t do anything heroic. I just made it back.”

His voice was quiet but firm. “That’s exactly how I feel now. Now that I’m remembering.” She turned to him slightly, eyes meeting his.

“Every name,” he said, “every face from the war, from the missions after… I remember all of them. And I’m still here. Don’t know why. Don’t know what for. But I get it.” He paused, then added, “Survivor’s guilt doesn’t mean you didn’t earn what you’ve lived through. It just means you still care.”

Something in her chest ached at that, something she didn't realize until now. The likeness between them. The commonalities.

She nodded, the movement small — almost imperceptible — and settled deeper into the bed beside him. It felt strangely good to be next to him. Comfortable. The most relaxed she had felt in months, really.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

He gave a faint nod, blue eyes focused on her. “Anytime.”

—————————————-

tag list: @frog-fans-unite @multifandomneeerd @hiraethmae @chocopaintus @eviaandjacks @mawmaster @cokewhoreio @quartzbimd @0cr4b @bridgeoverstrawberryfields @torntaltos @kreishin @iyskgd @miss-chuchu @resting-confused-face

[annaswrites00]

The Chase

DR3 x reporter!reader

(2.7k)

Summary - A rookie reporter. A seasoned driver. Between the races and the interviews, something electric builds until neither of them can outrun it anymore… warnings… suggestive content

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Barcelona - 2015 - Pre Season Testing

The paddock was waking slowly, light diffusing over the sea of trailers and tents like warm honey spilled across cracked pavement. You stood just beyond the bustle, clutching your microphone , the nervous weight in your stomach shifting between anticipation and something else—something taut, almost electric.

Daniel Ricciardo was already there, near the Red Bull garage, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his team jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched the mechanics fuss over the car. The famous grin was absent this morning, replaced by something quieter, a calm sharpened by focus.

Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second before you crossed the short distance. Your voice was softer than you’d planned.

“Good morning, Daniel.”

He turned, eyes catching yours like a spark against the dim. For a moment, the world around you—the hissing of the pneumatic guns, the murmur of last-minute preparations—seemed to fall away.

“And you are,” came his smooth question.

“With F1 TV,” your reply was soft and quick.

Daniel’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to pin you down in his mind. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, he nodded.

“F1 TV, huh? That means you’re the new voice we’re all supposed to get used to.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how close you’d stepped. “Something like that.”

He stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward the cluster of engineers and the car itself. “Well, rookie, think you can handle the heat out here? It’s not all fun and games.”

“I like a challenge,” you replied, matching his tone with a confidence you only half felt.

Daniel’s eyes twinkled, that mischievous glint returning. “Good answer. I’ll hold you to that.”

Before you could find the words to reply, the cameraman’s steady presence drew near, a quiet interruption to the charged stillness. He moved with practiced ease, his equipment slung over one shoulder, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Morning,” he said, nodding respectfully to both of you. “Ready to get this started?”

Daniel’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the trace of a smile softening his features. “She’s ready,” he said, voice low, rich with something unspoken.

The cameraman positioned himself carefully, adjusting the camera lens as the first light filtered softly through the Red Bull awning. The morning air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of fuel and freshly warmed rubber—a smell both harsh and intimate.

“2014 was your first year with Red Bull, yeah?” You began, voice measured, like a calm river cutting through stone. “That must have been quite the shift—from Toro Rosso to the main team. How did it feel?”

Daniel exhaled slowly, eyes distant, as if recalling the weight of that transition. “It was… a different pace. Everything accelerated. Expectations weren’t just whispered anymore—they were shouted. You learn quickly that the margin for error disappears.”

You moved a little closer, feeling the warmth of the sun mingling with the quiet tension in the space between you. “Did that pressure ever feel like too much? Like it might break you?”

His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching. “It could have. But there’s a kind of clarity that comes with it. Like standing at the edge of a cliff—terrifying, but also… freeing. You either leap, or you don’t.”

The cameraman captured that moment—Daniel’s quiet strength framed by the soft light and the hum of the paddock awakening around you.

He then shifted his gaze toward you, his expression thoughtful. “And you? First year out here—how do you keep steady when everything’s moving so fast?”

You considered the question carefully, voice calm but edged with vulnerability. “I try to find stillness where I can. Moments of quiet amidst the chaos. It’s the only way to keep from being swallowed whole.”

Daniel’s smile was slow, genuine. “Good answer. That kind of balance—that’s what separates the noise from what really matters.”

The interview carried on. You got in a few more questions about 2015, the upcoming season, what Red Bull supposedly had in store.

Daniel’s gaze drifted toward the car, its sleek lines shining under the rising sun. “Expectations don’t really get lighter. If anything, they pile up, brick by brick, until you wonder how much more you can carry. But you get smarter about carrying them. You learn where to let them rest, and where to fight them.”

Your pulse quickened, the way his voice softened when he talked about battles, about control. You stepped a fraction closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his.

The cameraman, sensing the intimacy, silently adjusted his angle, giving you both a little more space—though the air remained charged.

“I bet not many people see that side of you,” you said, eyes locked on his. “The part that’s fighting, learning, struggling.”

Daniel’s smile was slow, teasing, but his eyes held a deeper fire. “I’m not exactly good at hiding it. Just good at picking when to show it.”

Your laugh was quiet, almost a breath. “I’ll make it my job to see more of that, then.”

He lifted a brow, amusement and challenge twined in his gaze. “Is that so? Rookie reporter, already aiming to unravel the great Daniel Ricciardo?”

You shrugged, eyes bright. “Someone’s got to. Otherwise, you’d just be another name on the grid.”

Daniel’s grin returned—warm, genuine, and a little dangerous. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re interested.”

You met his look, the briefest flicker of heat sparking between you. “Maybe I am.”

The tension hung there for a heartbeat longer before Daniel’s phone buzzed, pulling him back to the day’s demands. He sighed softly, stepping back but not breaking eye contact.

“Alright, I better get going before the engineers start thinking I’m slacking off.”

You nodded, your own smile lingering despite the sudden professional barrier sliding back into place.

“Thanks for this, Daniel. Looking forward to seeing what you do this year.”

“Likewise, rookie.” His voice dropped just a notch, intimate and promising. “Don’t be a stranger.”

As he walked away, shoulders squared and that unmistakable Ricciardo bounce in his step, you felt the weight in your stomach shift again—this time, a delicious anticipation.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Hungarian Grand Prix - July 2015

The sun beat down relentlessly over the Hungaroring that July afternoon, the heat shimmering like a mirage above the asphalt. The paddock was thick with the familiar scents of burnt rubber and sweat, the air dense and heavy as if the track itself was holding its breath.

You stood near the Red Bull garage, the hum of celebration buzzing faintly in the background. Daniel Ricciardo, fresh from the podium, was wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel, his race suit half-zipped, the unmistakable grin—equal parts triumphant and mischievous—curling on his lips.

“Third place,” you said, stepping forward, the microphone in your hand feeling suddenly light in the stifling heat. “Not bad for a day that started so hot and sticky.”

Daniel laughed, a sound full and easy despite the exhaustion. “Not bad at all. Hungaroring always tests you, but today it felt… right.”

You caught the sheen of sweat glistening on his sun-kissed skin, the way his eyes sparkled beneath the heavy lids, alive with adrenaline and relief. The paddock noise seemed to dull around you, narrowing to just the two of you in that moment.

“So,” you began, voice low, “how does it feel to stand on the podium here? After all the pressure, the heat, the noise?”

He paused, gaze steady on the horizon, where the crowd still roared faintly. “It’s like… everything else disappears. The heat, the pain, the doubts—they melt away for those few moments. You just own it.”

You stepped a little closer, the space between you charged and tight like a taut wire.

The ambient noise of the paddock crept back in—the chatter, the clatter of tools, the distant cheers—but in this pocket of time, there was only that quiet exchange, like a breath held between two people who understood the weight of what they did here.

“Any regrets today?” you asked, voice low, wanting to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

Daniel thought for a beat, then shook his head. “No regrets. It’s a step forward. Sometimes that’s all you can ask for.”

You smiled, feeling something deepen in the space between you—a shared understanding forged not just by words, but by the unyielding heat of ambition and the fleeting relief of victory.

The cameraman gently reminded you the next segment was ready, and Daniel glanced at the approaching crew, the race day duties pulling him back.

He straightened, the mask of the professional slipping back into place, but his eyes held that spark—the promise of more to come.

“Thanks for sticking with me,” he said, voice low enough for only you to hear. “This year’s going to be something.”

You returned the smile, heart a little lighter despite the heat pressing down. “I’ll be watching. And I’ll be asking the questions that matter.”

He nodded, the quiet confidence of a man who knew his path but welcomed the challenge.

As he turned to the crew, you stood for a moment longer, the July sun warming your face, the taste of that fleeting, electric moment lingering like a secret you both shared beneath the relentless Hungarian sky.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Singapore Grand Prix - September 2015

Singapore buzzed with a different kind of energy—electric, raw, and suffused with tension that matched the tight, unforgiving circuit winding beneath the floodlights.

You found yourself near the Red Bull garage again, the after-race clamor swelling around you like a tide. Daniel Ricciardo emerged, still in his fireproof suit, the faintest traces of sweat gleaming on his brow, his smile a flicker of triumph tempered by exhaustion and something heavier.

“Second place,” you said, voice steady but carrying the weight of the season’s unspoken charge. “Your best finish this season. How does it feel after the race?”

Daniel huffed a breath, dragging his towel across the back of his neck. “Feels… complicated.”

“Really,” your voice was laced with genuine curiosity.

“One step closer. Still not there yet. Fans love a neat story. A clean win, a hero’s ending. But second place?” His smirk deepened, dark and knowing. “That’s where things start to get interesting.” He stated.

Your heart skipped, not from the heat of the paddock but from the weight of his gaze—the way it lingered on your mouth before sliding back up to your eyes.

“And here I thought you didn’t care about stories,” you teased, pretending to check your notes when really you just needed a second to collect yourself.

Daniel’s voice dropped, the noise around you blurring into a hum. “I care about the right ones.”

The space between you buzzed, the months of interviews, brief touches, quiet smiles, and loaded silences tightening around you now, thick and inevitable.

Your cameraman cleared his throat from a polite distance, but didn’t approach. You’d trained him by now—he knew when to give you room.

“So,” you pushed, your voice soft but challenging, “what’s the right story here? The second-place podium? The battle with Seb? Or the one where you’ve been—what— circling something all season without actually getting there?”

Daniel’s grin was slow, dangerous, his tongue darting briefly across his lower lip as if savoring the tension. “Maybe I’m just pacing myself.”

“Or maybe you’re avoiding the finish line altogether.”

His eyes flicked to the side, noting the crew still milling about, some glancing your way, but none paying close enough attention. He leaned closer, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your cheek.

“You think I’m the type to back off when it matters?”

You held your ground, even as your pulse drummed high in your throat. “I think you like the chase more than the catch.”

His laugh, low and rumbling, vibrated somewhere deep in your chest. “Rookie,” he murmured, “you have no idea what I like.”

The weight of the moment hung thick between you, months of teasing and half-dared confessions threading through the charged silence.

Daniel glanced toward the garage, then back at you, something unspoken settling in his expression.

“Come with me,” he said, casual on the surface but edged with heat.

You hesitated only long enough to flick your microphone off and murmur to your cameraman that you were done for the evening.

Daniel was already moving, weaving effortlessly through the paddock, his pace just quick enough that you had to keep up. No one stopped you. No one questioned it. Maybe they’d seen it coming. Maybe they hadn’t.

His driver room was tucked in the Red Bull hospitality area, small but private, door clicking shut with a quiet finality behind you.

For a beat, neither of you spoke. The distant noise of the paddock bled through the walls, but in here, the air was thick and still.

You opened your mouth to say something—something light, maybe, something that could buy you time—but Daniel was already stepping in, closing the distance with a kind of surety that made your breath catch.

His hands came to rest lightly on your waist, fingers curling just enough to remind you of their strength. His grin flickered, sharp but lazy. “Still think I’m avoiding the finish line?”

You swallowed, your hands finding the rough fabric of his race suit, still damp and smelling faintly of fuel and heat and him. “I think you’re about to prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped, velvet-soft. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. All those interviews, all those almosts…”

Your pulse thundered as his thumb brushed a slow, deliberate line just under the hem of your shirt. “Almosts build character.”

Daniel’s mouth quirked into something darker. “Almosts build tension.”

You didn’t flinch when he pressed you back until your hips met the edge of the small bench lining the wall. Instead, you arched slightly into his touch, drinking in the rare sight of him—helmet hair mussed, fireproofs clinging to his frame, skin still humming with post-race adrenaline.

“I should probably tell you,” you whispered, your voice trembling just a little from the tight coil of anticipation, “this could complicate things.”

His hands slid lower, coaxing you closer. “Sweetheart, things have been complicated since Barcelona.”

His mouth found yours before you could shoot back a reply, and it was not a gentle kiss. It was months of restraint snapping in half, of barely-there touches and lingering glances finally crashing together.

You moaned into him as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. His lips were hot, demanding, the scratch of his stubble delicious against your skin as he mapped a trail along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with the zipper of his race suit, and he laughed, breathless, the sound curling low in his throat.

“Impatient?” he teased, lips brushing your ear.

You tugged his undershirt up, savoring the press of bare skin beneath your palms. “Months of buildup will do that to a girl.”

“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your collarbone, his voice molten. “Good. ’Cause I’m not planning on taking this slow.”

He helped you out of your shirt in one swift motion, his hands sliding reverently over the newly exposed skin like he’d been imagining this exact moment for longer than he’d care to admit.

When he lifted you onto the bench, you hooked your legs around his waist instinctively, your breath catching at the unmistakable press of him, hard and insistent, between your thighs.

His kisses deepened, rough and searching, his hands everywhere—your ribs, your waist, your thighs—as if trying to make up for all the time you’d spent carefully not touching.

You broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Daniel…”

His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin. “Say it again.”

You shivered. “Daniel.”

His eyes darkened, the weight of your name on your tongue sending something feral through him.

“Been waiting to hear you like that,” he rasped, before capturing your lips again.

The world outside—the paddock noise, the season, the weight of what came next—faded into nothing.

Here, in the quiet pulse of his driver room, the only thing that mattered was the exquisite unraveling you allowed yourselves—finally, completely, without restraint.

And somewhere, tangled in the heat of it all, you both knew this wasn’t the end of the chase.

It was only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Thanks for reading!!!

[antochios]

How You Get The Guy · ꒰wattpad edition꒱ 、LEE ANTON

3735 ──── anton x fem!reader. fluff, humor, slightly suggestive, high school au, 2014 au, bad boy x good girl au, werewolf au, mafia au. strong language, brief bullying, alcoholic mother, absent father, mention of sexual harassment, brief mention of cannibalism, just a lot of dumb shit

note! reader discretion is advised. please remember this fic was written in a satirical manner and is not meant to be taken seriously. p.s. i genuinely enjoyed writing this so lmk if y’all wanna see more of this genre from me and if it made you laugh

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You wake up in your room that’s unique and not like any other teenage girl’s, it’s decorated in fairy lights, posters of niche bands like One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer, books scattered on the floor with cracked spines because you’re a bookworm living in her own little world.

You stretch your dainty arms and turn off the alarm, then climb out of bed wearing your oversized sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder for no reason.

You slide on black leggings and your favorite sweatshirt (the only tops that exist for these types of main characters) that makes you look effortlessly cute in a Tumblr-core way. You smear on some chapstick, a whisper of mascara, and the tiniest flick of eyeliner.

So natural. So raw. So real. Some people would think you’re definitely wearing foundation, concealer, contour, brow gel, two blushes, highlight, lip gloss, and lip liner. But that’s just the way you look. It’s your biggest insecurity.

You throw your hair up in a messy bun because you don’t care about looks—it’s also why you hadn’t showered in five days. You didn’t care about smell either apparently.

You grab your copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, your comfort read that you carry everywhere, because you’re not like other girls—you can read.

As you walk out the door, the sky is grey and moody, just like your childhood trauma backstory that will never actually be addressed and only mentioned once before fading into obscurity.

High school was a social war zone, but you step into the hallway like Katniss Everdeen entering the arena.

You see her—Becca, your best (and only) friend. She’s funny, loud, effortlessly cool, and fully aware she’s only here to serve your plot.

“Hey, nerd,” she grins. “This is the part where I’m supposed to randomly hype you up but the author can’t think of anything.”

You smirk. “She’s lazy like that.”

The two of you walk down the hallway, and you notice all the other girls are wearing crop tops and lip gloss while you, different as ever, feel a sense of superiority over them because you have a bland fashion sense and read books written by middle-aged white men.

And that’s when you run into a wall, because it surely couldn’t be someone in the middle of the hallway.

You go flying backwards like a feather, and land on your tiny, delicate, suspiciously perfect body.

You look up, ready to apologize to the brick wall you collided with like the good girl you are. Such a pure soul. So innocent. So kind.

But it’s not a wall.

It's him. Anton Lee. Six-foot-tall bad boy with shaggy hair, which is another way of saying he’s an entitled asshole but since he’s conventionally attractive he won’t be held accountable for his shitty behavior at any point in this story (an example of pretty privilege btw).

There was just something about him that made people blindly forgive him even though he doesn’t apologize in the first place.

He’s wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, black combat boots, and a scowl. You can hear Green Day playing faintly in the distance. Or maybe that’s just his aura.

“Watch where you're going, princess,” he says, voice low, smooth, and emotionally unavailable.

You blink your anything-but-brown orbs (main characters were not rich in melanin during this era) with specks of mystery and trauma at him.

“You bumped into me,” you say, bravely and beautifully. “That’s rude.”

Anton smirks. If this were a cartoon your eyes would’ve popped out of your skull in heart shapes.

“Feisty,” he mutters, his gaze lingering on your lips for absolutely no reason. “Didn’t know they let good girls talk back now.”

He chuckles. It’s unfairly attractive.

Then he walks away in slow motion—probably to stare at a swimming pool and think about his dark past.

You and Becca exchange wide-eyed glances.

You’re about to say how that was emotionally significant when the mood shifts.

Like, high school villainess is about to be introduced into the plot shifts.

You hear it first.

The click-clack of designer heels on tile. The whoosh of a locker door slamming just a little too hard. The high-pitched cackle of someone who has never been told “no” in their life.

Becca mutters under her breath, “Oh no. It’s her.”

And that’s when you see her.

Brittney Van der Von Lipgloss, the Queen Bee. Head cheerleader, part-time model (according to her bio on Instagram), full-time menace. Her dad owns three car dealerships. Her mom sells essential oils that don’t do anything. She only drinks Starbucks. She smells like Chanel No. 5 and cruelty.

She struts past her posse—Tiffany, Tiffany 2, and Kelsey-with-a-Z—and “accidentally” sticks out her foot.

You go flying.

Again.

Because gravity is more of a suggestion when you’re the protagonist of these stories.

You crash to the floor with a thud.

Brittney stands over you like a fashionable sleep paralysis demon, popping her pink bubblegum with sinister delight.

“Oops,” she says in a tone that suggests she’s never meant a single apology in her life. “Did I trip you? My bad, princess.”

She says it like Anton, but evil.

You scramble to your feet, your dainty, trembling hands clutching your emotional support caterpillar book. Becca reaches for you, but Brittney blocks her with the power of Mean Girl Confidence.

“Listen, Ugly Betty reboot,” Brittney says, leaning in close enough for you to smell her peppermint latte. For a moment you think she might kiss you. “I saw you talking to Anton.”

You blink, stunned. Your orbs are flickering between fear and embarrassment.

“So?” you say, because you’re brave now. You spoke to a boy once.

Brittney narrows her perfectly drawn-on eyebrows.

“So here’s how it works, loser. Anton is mine. We’ve been fake-dating for three months for attention. Everyone knows he only talks to girls with modeling contracts. And you? You wear clothes from Walmart and read books for kids.”

“It’s classic literature,” you say weakly. “He eats through the food, but he’s still hungry. It’s a metaphor.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “A metaphor for how pathetic you are.”

She steps even closer, the hallway growing unnaturally quiet like everyone’s just waiting for a slap or an anime transformation sequence.

“Stay away from him. Or I swear, I’ll make your life even more irrelevant than it already is.”

Then she spins on her Louboutins and walks away with her girl gang in perfect formation. Ariana Grande plays faintly in the distance.

You turn to Becca, who looks more personally offended on your behalf and definitely would’ve thrown hands with Brittney in real life but for the sake of the plot was a bystander.

“What the hell? Is she gatekeeping Anton?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you whisper. You do that a lot for some reason. Maybe it’s because speaking in a regular and normal voice might cause your petite body to blast off into the sky.

Becca helps you gather your book and shattered dignity. The bell rings as you rush to class.

You weren’t just falling for Anton—you were falling into the plot of a Wattpad fanfic. And you were falling hard.

You arrive home after your Anton encounter / hallway humiliation / being threatened by Regina George if she drank Bang energy drinks. You step inside your suburban two-story house—because apparently trauma doesn’t exist unless it’s in a house with granite countertops—and you’re immediately hit by the smell of regret and boxed wine.

Your mom is passed out on the couch with a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on her chest and a half-empty bottle of something suspicious in her hand, you can’t be too sure if it’s alcohol judging by her drunken state. She stirs just enough to slur:

“I’m selling you to a British boy band.”

Classic Mom.

You trudge upstairs, dramatically flopping onto your bed in slow motion, staring up at your cracked popcorn ceiling like you’re in a music video with twelve views.

“Why me?” you whisper to the void, though the void is probably busy reading The Fault in Our Stars.

Your dad left when you were five to “invest in the future.” He’s somewhere in Florida selling NFTs to alligators now. But it’s fine. You’re not bitter. You’re just severely neglected by your parents but in a hot way.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes. It’s Becca.

BECCA: “Get your melancholic butt over here. We’re going to a Jackson Wang party.”

YOU: “I’d rather stay home and listen to my favorite band The Chainsmokers.”

(Are they even a band?? Pls tell me we all just collectively don’t know anything about them)

BECCA: “Nope. Not tonight. Tonight we get revenge.”

YOU: “Revenge?”

BECCA: “Hot revenge.”

YOU: “Fine. But I’m bringing my book.”

BECCA: “If you bring The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a high school party, I will unfriend you.”

Cue the makeover montage with “Problem” by Ariana Grande playing in the background even though I don’t have the rights. Becca pulls out an entire Sephora store from under her bed and goes ham on you.

Three hours and one overly specific author beauty vision later, you stare at your reflection.

“I look… like other girls.”

“And that’s okay,” Becca says. “Other girls are fun, cool, and pretty.”

Surely that can’t be. They don’t read. And everybody knows reading makes you interesting.

It smells like Axe body spray, bad decisions, and unfinished homework. You arrive with Becca who IMMEDIATELY disappears to go “do shots with the drama club” because she’s fun and deserves better.

You, meanwhile, are standing by a fake plant like a Sims character with no social bar. You take a deep breath. You’re just going to chill here and think about whatever niche obsession you currently have.

That’s when he appears.

Jason Jock Johnson (you know the one). The overly confident quarterback who once called you “book girl” and tried to rate your body like it was a car at a dealership.

He sidles up with a red solo cup and that grin that says “I peaked in eighth grade.”

“Hey,” he says, already too close. “Didn’t expect to see you here even though I saw you walk in. Wanna go somewhere quieter?”

Your inner monologue screams NO, DO NOT TRUST THIS MAN!

But your out-loud voice, stupid and plot-driven, says:

“Of course I’ll go to a secluded area with you even though you have a past of making unwanted sexual advances towards me.”

So you go upstairs. To a bedroom. Alone. Like every dumb girl in every YA story who apparently doesn’t believe in crime.

Jason Jock Johnson closes the door behind you. The lights are dim. The music is muffled. Your bad decision senses are tingling.

“I’ve always had a crush on you,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not like other girls.”

And just as you’re about to open your mouth and say “That’s not even a personality trait,”—

BOOM.

The door slams open like a hurricane of hormones and fanfic logic.

There he is.

Anton.

Six feet of brooding muscle and mildly villainous romantic tension. His eyes are glowing red. Like, literally red. Because he’s an alpha werewolf.

“Get away from her,” Anton growls with his sexy baritone despite the fact he speaks in the tone of a librarian in real life.

Jason Jock Johnson goes pale. You blink dramatically like an early 2010s YouTube beauty guru.

“Anton??” you gasp. “How did you—”

“I could smell him on you,” he says grimly, flexing his jaw. “You’re mine. I claimed you when we locked eyes earlier today. You’re my mate now.”

“Wait—WHAT—”

Anton doesn’t answer. He just grabs your wrist (because wrist-grabbing was considered romantic back then) and drags you out like the protective but problematic love interest he was written to be.

Down the stairs. Out the door. Onto his motorcycle.

You don’t even get to say goodbye to Becca. But it’s okay, because she probably saw this coming in Chapter 1.

“Where are you taking me??” you yell, the wind whipping through your frizzing hair but that’s okay it will randomly style itself again later in the chapter.

Anton looks at you through his black helmet visor and says:

“To my mansion. You’re not safe here.”

“But—what about school?”

“School’s for people that don’t read. You’re mine now.”

And as the night swallows you both whole, you clutch your caterpillar book tightly and whisper to yourself:

“I hope he doesn’t take me to a mansion and keep me in a luxurious room against my will.”

He does exactly that, which you’re slightly grateful for since you halfway expected him to take you to a wolf den. But no.

He takes you to a massive gothic mansion, tucked in the woods, like if Bruce Wayne got bit by a werewolf instead of a bat.

“This is where you live?” you ask, eyes wide, clutching your worn-out Eric Carle book for emotional support.

“Yeah,” he says, casually parking his motorcycle between a Lamborghini and an armored SUV. “It’s nothing special.”

It’s literally the size of a small nation.

“But you’re… seventeen?” you blink.

“I’m also a mafia boss,” he shrugs. “Let’s go inside.”

He leads you up the marble stairs, past two spiral staircases and a crystal chandelier that looks like it cost a thousand souls. Inside, a line of identical servants bow in unison like a K-pop music video.

You’re ushered down a hallway that probably has its own zip code.

“This is your room now,” Anton says, opening the door to reveal what can only be described as an Instagram influencer’s dreamscape.

You step inside and audibly gasp.

The room is massive. The bed looks like it could fit eight emotional support book characters. And there’s a walk-in closet.

Inside, there are racks and racks of clothes, shoes, glittery dresses, designer heels, mysterious accessories, matching sets, handbags, and a whole mini snack bar—complete with a bored-looking worker in a pressed vest whose name tag reads “Eunseok.”

He bows politely. “Miss. Welcome.”

“What… how… why do you have women’s clothing?” you ask in a whisper, eyes shimmering with wonder.

Anton looks at you, unblinking.

“I’m a cross-dresser. But feel free to borrow anything. Your fashion sense is triggering my trauma response.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

“Get dressed. Dinner’s at eight. Formal. Don’t wear those ugly ass sweatshirts anymore.”

He walks off, leaving you to process your new life in what is essentially a luxury hostage suite.

You find the exact right dress, because of course it’s there. It hugs your perfect Wattpad body like it was made for someone genetically edited by Pinterest. You step in front of the full-length mirror for one last look—

And that’s when you notice.

Eunseok has never left.

He stands beside the closet door, hands folded, nodding slowly with the solemn approval of a seasoned anime butler.

“Good choice,” he says.

You feel validated on a spiritual level.

You float downstairs like the delicate, little dove you are, finding Anton already seated at a long, dark dining table. He’s wearing a black dress shirt (unbuttoned just enough to be criminal), sipping red wine like it’s blood. Or maybe it is blood. It’s unclear.

Two servants (Sohee and Wonbin) appear from the shadows like they’ve been summoned.

They place two trays in front of you.

Yours has steak, potatoes, and sparkling apple juice because Anton knows you’re not young and turnt like other girls and don’t drink alcohol.

His has a raw steak. Still mooing.

“So,” you say, stabbing your potato nervously. “Do you, like, eat people?”

Anton laughs—a deep, sexy laugh like (red?!) velvet and tax fraud.

“Yes. Hannibal Lecter is my fairy godfather.”

There’s a long pause. The tension is thick. The candlelight flickers. Somewhere in the background, a violin starts playing itself.

“Why me?” you whisper.

Anton sighs and looks up at you with those cold, tragic, tormented-by-his-past eyes.

“Because,” he says, voice low. “When we locked eyes… I felt it. The bond. The mate bond.”

You shiver.

“You’re the first person who ever made me feel… warm.”

“Well, you were literally just eating raw meat.”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

He reaches across the table and touches your hand (let’s ignore the part where they’re sitting at a long ass table so this is physically impossible). His werewolf senses are triggered.

You both gasp as the room explodes into slow-motion sparkle filters and thunder crashes outside despite the calm summer night.

The mate bond activates(?). The point is y’all zinged like in Hotel Transylvania.

Suddenly, your hand is tingling. His eyes start glowing again. He pants slightly. You don’t understand what’s happening but also you know exactly what’s happening.

“We can’t,” Anton growls, standing up so quickly the chair explodes behind him. “If I stay in the same room as you much longer… I won’t be able to control myself.”

You blink up at him.

“Control yourself like… in a bad boy way or in a call the cops way?”

“They’re the same thing. Writers just romanticize sexual harassment when it’s done by the male lead.”

He storms out of the room, his tragic backstory leaking behind him like cheap cologne and repressed childhood trauma. You sit there, stunned, fingertips still sizzling from the mate touch, a servant (Sohee) silently replacing your drink with a Capri Sun.

“This is all happening so fast,” you whisper to yourself.

Eunseok appears from the shadows, now wearing a tuxedo jacket. “This is only the beginning, Miss.”

Everything was perfect as you waited for Anton’s return.

The candlelit dinner. The tingling werewolf bond. Eunseok nodding at you silently every time you blinked. You were this close to becoming a literal Alpha Wife when suddenly—

The chandelier began to flicker and the mansion groaned.

Not like a spooky-haunted-house groan. More like a “oops, the magic spell is expiring and this fantasy is about to collapse faster than your father’s Bitcoin investments” groan.

The walls started cracking. The house trembled.

Anton came running out from wherever he just was, dramatic wind sweeping through the dining hall even though all the windows were closed. His hair rippled like an Herbal Essences commercial.

“No…” he whispered. His glowing red eyes darted toward the ceiling.

“No what?” you asked, standing too quickly and nearly falling into the fondue fountain that had appeared out of nowhere (because magic, you guessed).

“The spell. It’s fading.”

Random things exploded out of existence. The Servants screamed as their aprons vanished into smoke and suddenly—

“WHAT THE HELL? Where are we??” Sohee cried, now dressed in full idol makeup and a RIIZE-branded bomber jacket. “WHOSE TRASH ASS HOUSE IS THIS?”

“BRO, I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A COMEBACK,” Wonbin screamed. “IS THIS NOT INKIGAYO?!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Shotaro yelled behind him. “I WAS DOING FAN SERVICE!”

Suddenly, all the “servants” stopped what they were doing, blinked, and slowly realized—

They were Riize.

Anton turned to you dramatically and clenched his fists.

“It’s time you knew the truth,” he said. “I’m not a werewolf-alpha-mafia boss-crossdresser. And they were never servants. They’re my bandmates. I’m…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, tears forming in your beautiful orbs.

He looked at you, eyes gleaming.

“I’m a K-pop idol.”

You gasped. Loudly. Academy Award-worthy gasping.

Because of course he was.

Because this was still a Wattpad fanfic, and it was law.

The golden walls around you cracked. The marble floor beneath your limited-edition ballet flats (thanks, spell closet) peeled into weather-worn linoleum. The chandelier exploded like a firework from a Spirit Halloween dumpster. Everything turned back to what it had always been.

Old. Abandoned. Depressing.

Much like your trust in the education system.

The walls were faded to gray. The once-grand hallway was now covered in cobwebs and unpaid electric bills.

Anton shook his head sadly.

“My fairy godfather—Hannibal Lecter gave me until midnight to live this dream,” he whispers, shirt somehow becoming even more unbuttoned. “And now—“

BAM.

The front door (now just a crooked slab of plywood) slammed open.

One Direction. In the flesh.

That’s right. Harry, Zayn, Niall, Liam, and Louis all in coordinated outfits with tragically dated haircuts walked in slow-motion like they were in a music video no one asked for.

“We’re here for Y/N,” Harry says, flipping his hair like it paid his rent (it did).

“Her mother sold her to us in 2013,” Niall adds helpfully.

“WHAT?!” you gasped, clinging to Anton as your beautiful orb-eyes welled with tears.

Anton growled. Literally. Fangs bared. “HER MOTHER SOLD HER TO US TOO.”

“Yeah!” Wonbin adds, holding up a laminated receipt. “We have receipts!”

Suddenly it’s a boyband standoff. Hair gel vs. guyliner. Ripped skinny jeans vs. oversized leather jackets. Shit was about to go down. Fan cams were about to be made.

But then-

CRASH!

Brittney and Becca crash through the side window, somersaulting and landing like they trained with the cast of Charlie’s Angels (2000). Dressed like Kay and Jay from Men in Black if they wore cat-eyeliner.

“EVERYONE FREEZE!” Brittney yelled, flashing a badge. “Cringe Police!”

“This is a cringe sting operation,” Becca says. “And you’re all under arrest for unauthorized use of alpha-bond tropes and cliché backstories.”

“Wait,” you whisper. “You’re working together?!”

They turn to each other and kiss. The room collectively gasped. Lesbian representation wasn’t supposed to exist in this genre but true love conquers all.

“Lesbian lovers actually,” Becca confirms. “And we’re getting Thai food after this.”

Everyone is confused. Emotional. Mildly aroused.

As the fanfic threatens to collapse on itself like a dying star of clichés—

A golden beam of spotlight suddenly shone through a hole in the roof, the angels sang as Jackson Wang descended from the heavens.

“Y’all. Why are we fighting when we could be partying?” he says, shirtless for no reason.

Everyone blinks.

And just like that — the old abandoned house transforms into a lowkey illegal warehouse party. Smoke machines. Laser lights. Jackson DJing. And Eunseok was still working at that snack bar like his life depended on it.

And there, in the middle of the madness, Anton found you.

“You’re my mate,” he whispers.

Your breath hitched.

“I knew it the moment you body slammed into me like a Disney Channel plot device.”

You touch his chest (because this is fanfic law). He leans in.

“Even if the magic fades… even if One Direction sues me… even if your mom sells you to BTS next…”

“I want you to be mine.”

You kissed.

Suddenly Pixie Hollow descends.

Yes. Tinkerbell and her fairy gang sprinkle golden fairy dust on everyone while “Party 4 U” by Charli XCX played like a siren song from the year 3012.

Everyone is crying and dancing and floating. Even your trauma healed a little.

And you and Anton live happily ever after.

© 2025 antochios, all rights reserved. i do not give permission to modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize my works on any platform. network : @kstrucknet.

[komsomolka]

Moscow’s main priorities were to ensure that Russia maintained its strategic naval base in Crimea, and to prevent NATO expansionism that would cement the pro-Western/anti-Russian government in Kiev. A referendum was arranged in Crimea for seceding from Ukraine and reuniting with Russia. [...]

The West challenged the legitimacy of the referendum results by contesting its legality and validity. The Western media repeated the arguments of Washington, which dismissed the argument of self-determination as the referendum was “held at the barrel of a gun” and contested the legitimacy as there was an absence of international observers (US Embassy in Ukraine, 2014). However, independent polls from Western countries corroborate the referendum results that the overwhelming majority of Crimeans desired to rejoin Russia. In a report by Forbes, it was revealed that all polls demonstrate that Ukrainians, ethnic Russians and Tatars are all overwhelmingly supportive of having transitioned from Ukraine to Russia (Rapoza, 2015). International observers had been invited but Western states refused to send them to deny legitimacy for the referendum.

Another argument against the legitimacy of the referendum was the issue of legality, as it did not have support from the new government in Kiev or the UN. This is the strongest argument against the referendum, although the legality is somewhat murky as Crimea had significant autonomy and even its own parliament. Moscow countered the legal issue by referring to the precedent of Western support for the illegal secession of Kosovo in 2008. [...] President Obama made an eloquent speech that rejected any comparison between Kosovo and Crimea that followed the liberal democracy versus authoritarian frame. Obama contrasted the two referendums by arguing that the referendum in Kosovo was transparent and had the oversight of international observers. According to Obama: “Kosovo only left Serbia after a referendum was organised not outside the boundaries of international law, but in careful cooperation with the United Nations and with Kosovo’s neighbors” (Morrison, 2014). However, the description of the referendum in Kosovo was entirely fictional as there never was a referendum in Kosovo. Yet, Obama’s false claims were largely absent from the Western media. Stuenkel (2020: 164) observes: “For those who are more critical of the United States, the West’s alarm over Crimea is merely proof that established powers still consider themselves to be the ultimate arbiters of international norms, unaware of their own hypocrisy”.

The Budapest Memorandum of 1994 is also presented as a key legal agreement breached by Russia, which is one of three identical memorandums that provided Ukraine, Belarus and Kazakhstan with certain guarantees from the US, UK and Russia in return for abandoning their nuclear weapons. However, the agreement was breached first as economic sanctions were imposed on Ukraine in February 2013 to pressure the government to accept a settlement with the opposition, and thereafter the West undermined Ukraine’s sovereignty by backing the coup. Matlock (2021), the last US ambassador to the Soviet Union, argues that Washington’s argument ignores that NATO expansionism triggers the legal doctrine of rebus sic stantibus, in which an agreement becomes inapplicable due to fundamental changes of circumstances.

The Budapest Memorandum called for the signatories to “respect the independence and sovereignty and the existing borders of Ukraine”, and to “refrain from economic coercion designed to subordinate to their own interest the exercise by Ukraine of the rights inherent in its sovereignty and thus security advantages of any kind”. The West frequently cites the Memorandum to demonstrate that Russia changed the “the existing borders of Ukraine”, although neglecting “economic coercion”, “sovereignty” and “independence”. When the US placed sanctions on Belarus in 2013, Washington insisted the Budapest Memorandum was not legally binding and that economic coercion did not breach the memorandum as it was designed to protect human rights [...].

Economic sanctions are used to undermine governments and instigate either change of policies or regime change, to the advantage of the US. However, when all power interests are framed in the language of values, the US can exempt itself from international agreements.

Russophobia: Propaganda in International Politics by Glenn Diesen.

[bourbonbiscuit]

something is rotten inside of me.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

——————————

a short and sweet playlist inspired by sam winchester.

ft a brief explanation behind each song.

——————————

𖤐 track one: forwards, beckon, rebound. adrienne lenker. songs (2020).

- this song has always reminded me of him. the lyrics fit him perfectly imo. we all know how unclean he feels, how he feels like he kills anything he loves and this song feels like it would heal him just a bit. It would make him feel seen.

- “I’m not afraid of you now.” “villain and violent, infant and innocent.”

𖤐 track two: scott street. phoebe bridgers. stranger in the alps (2017).

- sam is a lonely man. all he has is his brother who isn’t even a guarantee with all the things threatening to separate them. there’s a looming horrid fear of being truly alone in both his and dean’s character. loss haunts them both like a shadow. they have no home, they’re strangers in the world they try to protect. i think this song feels like that.

- “walking scott street feeling like a stranger.” “it’s too much shit to carry.”

𖤐 track three: house song. searows. single (2023).

- this song is sam personified to me. every lyric, the hollow production, the way it sounds like it’s being played in an abandoned room. it’s so him. honestly if you listen to one song from this playlist please make it this one.

- I really struggled to pick just a handful of lyrics for this song so that’s why the playlist is named after one of said lyrics. please listen to this song.

𖤐 track 4: grown up. leith ross. motherwell (2020).

- let’s hear it for absent father of the year john winchester! (loud boo’s). I hate john so much for what he did to both sam and dean and I had to slip in a song about growing up too fast and looking back at your childhood. I couldn’t help myself teehee.

- “praying to a god I don’t believe in, to grow tall.” “oh what a terrible burden, all my decisions are mine.”

𖤐 track 5: i know the end. phoebe bridgers. punisher (2020).

- I wanted this playlist to slowly get more angry and loud as it went on. This is admittedly a transitional track into the heavier side of the playlist but I genuinely believe that it fits in so well with Sammy. That empty feeling is still there, that unending yearning that I associate so closely with him. As I’m writing this I’m realising it actually fits better than I originally thought. Good job me.

- “a haunted house, with a picket fence.” “slot machines, fear of god.”

𖤐 track 6: the old gospel choir. modern baseball. you’re gonna miss it all (2014).

- this one is a little on the nose. sam has died. a lot. he’s also dug his fair share of graves. this one is also kind of related to Jess because the fact that he still thought about her haunts my every waking hour. It’s a break up song sure, but there’s something final about it.

- “there’s a tombstone in the brush, with your name on the front.” “every tremble in your voice still echoes in my ears, one good night of sleep per year.”

𖤐 track 7: be quiet and drive (far away). deftones. around the fur (1997).

- personally, I think I cooked with this one. this song reminds me of the show as a whole, this idea of running away from something that you can never escape. They’re running constantly, whether it’s from god, the devil, their deepest fears. Yeah. This goes hard.

- “this town don’t feel mine.” “I don’t care where just far.”

𖤐 track 8: interstate love song. stone temple pilots. purple (1994).

- continuing the theme of running away, this time it’s specifically about his avoidance of love. Every time he opens his heart the person he dared care for dies, everything he touches rots. A bittersweet love song about love left behind? oh yeah, that’s sam winchester core right there.

- “like a hand rusted in shame, so do you laugh or does it cry?” “leaving on a southern train only yesterday.”

𖤐 track 9: only shallow. my bloody valentine. loveless (1991).

- this track is pure vibes, yes the lyrics fit him but this one is more about the actual music itself. It feels like him. I couldn’t help myself but to throw in a couple heavy tracks toward the end cause let’s face it, Sam has a lot of unchecked rage.

- “look in the mirror, she’s not there.”

𖤐 track 10: first it giveth. queens of the stone age. songs for the deaf (2002).

- I will admit… this one is self indulgent but I have a case for it! the chorus lyrics are just reiterating what I said previously. Everything he loves eventually comes to ruin. First it giveth, then it taketh away. That sam summed up in a single line. There’s something raw about this track. Something unbridled, something painful. And if that isn’t just like our lovely Sammy.

- “you’re so cruel, more than me.” “i want some of all of you.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

there you have it! quick disclaimer this is heavily catered to my taste in music so it might not be for everyone and that’s okay! please let me know what you think and if you give any of these songs a listen share your thoughts!

these are not songs I necessarily think sam would listen to but they do remind me of him!

unfortunately I do not have a link to this playlist because I am an Apple Music listener (derogatory) which I do apologise for. however if this gets any traction I’ll be happy to make it up on YouTube! I will most likely make a dean version at some point if you guys would enjoy that let me know!

enjoy my lovelies xx

**pics are not mine found on pinterest!

[olderthannetfic]

I am a VERY gay trans guy. Like, incredibly gay. Call me Faggy McFaggatron. Anyway, I’ve always been really confident and comfortable with my gender. I’ve been on T since 2018, and I’ve been meaning to get top surgery. Anyway, I need to know if any other queer people, especially trans men, can relate to this:

I cannot read or get into LGBT romance. Like, at all. I tried to read and watch BL, I really did, but it just didn’t click with me. I tried f/f romance, and it also did nothing for me. Romance is by far my favorite genre ever, I have stacks of romance manga and old books I’ve been collecting since 2014, but I just can’t get into it if the couple isn’t cishet. For some more context, I don’t really have any “ships” because I pretty much just consume romance content, so I obviously pair the couple together. I also can’t really get into non-canon ships, unless they do something super innovative or interesting. I have not one, not a single m/m or f/f ship. Is this what it’s like for straight cis girls who read BL?

And for anyone curious, I don’t really see myself in the male character (obviously because I’m gay) or the female character.

Idk I just feel kinda bad about it??? I wanna support queer writers and artists and queer media but it just feels so wrong because I can’t bring myself to care about it.

--

People like what they like.

But if we want to psychoanalyze, I'd guess it's either that you like feeling like you're nowhere near the narrative personally and/or that there are specific genre markers in these works that are absent even in the romancey queer stuff you've tried.

[fallloverfic]

Thoughts on To Be Hero X Episode 8: The Cyan Girl

Neat episode!

(This is the artist who makes a lot of the art if you want to follow them on twitter^)

Anyway, spoilers below:

The (mostly) 2D is honestly really great. Again, the 3D is fine, but I just prefer 2D animation. It looks so much nicer.

I know Liu Zhen is in fantasy China asking how there are air disasters in these times because he's living in an age of heroes who can presumably save any vehicle in the air, but air travel is still generally the safest way to travel (even without heroes), absent, well... massive firings and cuts in air traveling services, and a lack of investment in updating and maintaining equipment and training and hiring and retaining knowledgeable personnel rather than running them ragged until they burn out and run on skeleton crews using old, faulty ,and minimal equipment with an increased chance of failure, on top of firings and cutting investment in weather tracking. -side-eyes the Trump-Musk administration on the coattails of the Reagan administration demolishing not just the Federal Aviation Administration, but also the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration- And oh look, yet another plane crash. This is also ignoring plane disappearances, such as what happened in 2014 with Malaysia Airlines Flight 370.

You don't need someone to save you if things work as designed in a way that keeps people safe. An accident is what you get a hero for, not a norm (also you put in place systems and people to recover in an accident before you need like an act of god like a hero with magic powers coming to the rescue; this is part of why Apollo 13 was one of the most successful failures; pilots have training, ground crews have training, these are in place to prevent issues, we don't generally just toss people into the air and hope they land safely without harming anyone else). You don't leave a faulty system in place just because there are supposed to be heroes there to save it in time.

Anywho, I see Liu Zhen has been here five seconds and already has a boyfriend, even if he's evil and maybe caused Cyan's crash for some reason, maybe to make a hero he could use for his own gain or just generally cause a disaster he could exploit somehow for his own hero journey? It's making me think of Mr. Glass in Unbreakable, setting off accidents so that a hero would emerge from one of them.

Liu Zhen's former boss at the newspaper reminds me too much of Agnes Joubert from Tiger & Bunny (the producer for Hero TV) and it was deeply distracting while watching the scene with her. The whole idea of "don't report on or even investigate bad things because the hypothetical of hurting trust in institutions" is so painful. There's a big pushback in a lot of spaces with this. It does more harm than good, almost always. And usually signals you're willing to pass the rod to someone else to suffer. After all, what if someone you cared about was on that plane? Or you? Or the next plane? "They need proper guidance" is so creepily fascist, treating the public like an errant toddler that needs to be managed, rather than something that needs to be informed if the biggest safety net is failing in a major way.

If it's an accident, you ensure it doesn't happen again. You ask why it happened. You don't just pretend nothing really went wrong and can't be fixed, especially when people die.

The long montage of "everyone is awful to Cyan" is so tragic. I do appreciate the show is touching on the horrors of child celebrity. There are so many issues these days with children being used by parents for clout, and how so much of children being online these days is a risk for them from a privacy angle and something they have to tackle when they're older and aware of the issues, leading to trauma and broken families. Not to mention so many children trying to be famous and screwing up big time in ways they'll likely regret later, or just generally being set up for later failure. The Internet is ostensibly forever and there are bad actors everywhere, and some things we don't want people to see or remember.

The scene in the Cyan religious building where she's singing initially actually reminded me a little of Diva Plavalaguna singing in The Fifth Element.

Even the later scene where Cyan and Luo reveal themselves to sing the pop song felt like where Diva Dance switches from somber to vibrant.

So Liu Zhen is Queen's (Liu Yuwei's) father. I wonder where her mother is? (Or is she adopted?) Also, as amazing as Liu Zhen is for sticking up for the truth, he also is kind of enabling abuses of his underage child by getting her involved in professional stuff like that. Yes, teenagers do internships. But also you're getting your underage child into contracts, what in the world?

I wonder what the scandal Mr. Matchstick and Ms. Blazing Fire were involved in was? Yet more mysterious incidents to consider, since we still don't know what the Hero Smile incident was.

Based on what we see of them in the opening, they're actually reminding me a bit of Firefly and Volcana, two fire villains in the animated Justice League series

Obviously there's some visual comparison, but it's kind of funny.

I want them to be happy T-T

The full song^

I really think Luo is going to die. Having been on a lot of stages and used roller skates and knowing this show, my heart was beating so fast when they jumped off the stage and rolled down those stairs. It's okay though, for now the skates won't kill them, but maybe the dean will.

They deserve the world, though. Calamity Luo and Lucky Cyan.

RIP their friend who was helping T-T I hope he's not smushed.

Great episode! Looking forward to Episode 9!

(Ken reminds me of Athena Cykes from Ace Attorney mixed with Sonia from Pokemon lol)

More thoughts:

Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5, Episode 6, Episode 7, Episode 8 (You are here), Episode 9, Episode 10, Episode 11, Episode 12, Episode 13, Episode 14, Episode 15

[sim0nril3y]

Saturday Night Football

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: You can't help but notice that Simon is a little distracted one a nice evening in the pub, so you make it your mission to distract him too. Note: Set in 2014 Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), teasing, implied smut, Simon being his usual guarded self, canon-typical swearing, football talk (British Football), Simon would be a Man United supporter not a doubt in my mind.

The pub was fairly rowdy for an early Saturday evening and even as you sat opposite Simon he seemed unreasonably distracted and honestly a little irritated. Happily, you were sat chatting as you realised his eyes were fixed on something behind your head, then realising his mistake and forcing himself to focus on the conversation, nodding his head and asking another set of questions that would get you off onto another tangent.

When he didn’t react as you made a risqué little comment you finally decided to find out what was happening behind you that was hoarding his attention. “Ah…” You muttered softly, seeing the Saturday night football game on the television screen. “I see…” Then turning your attention back towards Simon with a quirked brow. “I didn’t realise that you liked football.” You mentioned sipping at your wine and watching him sigh. “I only watch the United games…” Glancing over your shoulder you could see Manchester United were indeed playing against Manchester City.

Easily you shrugged your shoulders and commented. “You should have told me; I’d never forced you out if you wanted to watch the game in peace at home.” His eyes set on you suddenly then. “And pass up spending time with you?” A pinch formed between his brow before you slipped around the table to slide into the seat beside him. “Mm… I was thinking more that we could have curled up on your sofa and watched the game together…” Leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jawline. “Maybe you’d have an old Man U shirt I could wear~”

A soft groan pulled from deep in his throat before turning his attention fully towards you then. “Behave…” He muttered softly and you giggled as you happily sunk into his side, accepting a strong arm around your frame pulling you closer to him. Your eyes focused on the screen. “He’s fucking diving.” Simon grumbled out beside you and like a good puppy you echoed. “Yeah, he’s fucking diving…” His dangerous eyes set on you then and you grinned softly.

The game continued and you mentioned absent-mindedly. “He’s handsome…” Looking at one of the United players. “You think so?” He smirked softly taking a sip from his beer. “Yeah, but in a way too pretty and would take more time getting ready than me, kind of way.” You scrunched you nose then. “No, I like my men a little more rugged.” Leaning in you kissed the corner of his mouth sweetly. “Hard and tough.” You spotted the way Simon adjusted himself slyly beneath the table.

“Pretty girl, if you don’t watch your tongue, I’m gonna give you hell once the game is over.” It was a warning and one that you were more than willing to ignore as you daintily placed a hand on his thigh. “Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.” More of a threat this time and instead of pushing him further you simply patted his thigh and leaned a little harder into his side. “Si, I thought you liked it when I didn’t think~”

Simon was up in a second, it was almost erotic watching the way he downed his remaining pint in a hearty couple of chugs. “Up.” He commanded lowly and you smiled up at him. “My wine…” You gestured to the quarter you had remaining in your glass when his hand clasped your jaw and made you gaze up at him. “Up.” The second you were up on your feet Simon was pulling you from the pub and the second you were outside you were thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. “I warned you, pretty girl.”

Masterlist | Ask | 04-09-2023

[furinana]

The intriguing manga story arcs of SMTIV

"What the hell happened to Flynn?!", everyone thought.

[DISCLAIMER: spoilers for SMTIV, SMTIVA and the manga adaptations ahead!]

1) Overview

Shin Megami Tensei IV -Prayers- and Shin Megami Tensei IV DEMONIC GENE are the two SMTIV-based manga that were originally serialized by shonen magazine V-Jump to promote the game in mid 2013 until late 2014.

The mangaka responsible for -Prayers- was Masataka Miura while DEMONIC GENE's was Ikumi Fukuda (who was later hired to draw the cutscenes for SMTIVA).

Both works were supervised by SMTIV director Kazuyuki Yamai. The total amount of both combined are 31 chapters.

2) What are they about?

They are self-contained arcs that are each a "retake" of the beginning of SMTIV except in alternate timelines, with Jonathan in -Prayers- or Walter in DEMONIC GENE serving as the protagonist.

Flynn is absent from the Samurai prentice group and gets replaced by a different manga-exclusive deuteragonist for each story: Jonathan's rival Asuma that pursues revenge after his parents got killed by demons by devouring them in -Prayers- and Walter's childhood friend Gina that is unknowingly an artificially-created angel made in Reversal Hills 12 years prior in DEMONIC GENE.

Role-wise, Asuma and Gina aren't so different from each other; they both grew as Casualries that met Jonathan and Walter as kids, serve as motivators behind their actions throughout the story, and most notably, their sense of self becomes twisted into obsessively chasing and executing demons.

Jonathan and Walter's relationship with Asuma and Gina in each respective's arc is what gets centered over everything else, although Flynn still is an odd yet intrinsic part of the puzzle that redetermines Jonathan and Walter's original alignments of the game even when he's not an active participant of the plot.

3) Is reading the manga necessary in order to understand the original SMTIV?

Both manga stories have inconsistencies and different takes on what the original game built on, so it's certainly a bit tricky to define what might have been leftovers of underdeveloped aspects of SMT4 and what was inserted specifically for the adaptations.

Naturally, arbitrary changes are commonly done in adaptations as they are made for promoting to a wider audience, hence the general pre-skepticism (specially considering Megaten media) is earned.

But what if I tell you that... they have nonetheless

>>>>IMPORTANT supplementary material that enables a more complete understanding of SMT4's scenario and worldbuilding?<<<<

Picked your interest enough? I promise it'll be worth the read.

4) What do these stories bring to the table?

For examples of not-mentioned-in-game trivia that don't contradict SMTIV info, we have...

Akira's parents receiving the same fate as Flynn's (and his past life's in the scenario draft)

Navarre's inability to swim being an existing trait prior to SMTIVA

However, these are just bite-sized ones. The real juice comes from the ones next...

4.1) The potential true reason behind Navarre leaving the prentice group in the game

The fact that Navarre stays with the main cast in both manga arcs raises the possibility that Flynn's presence seems to be what catalyzed his resentment and refusal to continue being a Samurai in the game.

We can theorize that Navarre becomes deeply uncomfortable with Flynn "passing" as a Luxuror better than himself despite being a Casualry, which doesn't happen with Walter (or any of the other manga-exclusive characters).

4.2) Different perspectives on what makes someone interested in the Literature

In the game, while Jonathan says he's an avid reader of Mikado tales and Isabeau shows passion towards manga, both never heard of "the Literature" previously. We are shown that many Casualries (among them Issachar) become Literature enthusiasts due to the medium providing a voice and space for them to realize and discuss the oppressive societal structures they're inserted into.

Meanwhile, we see examples of Literature readers with other motives in the manga: Navarre reads them for clout and entertainment, the relic-obsessed Stan is an aficionado for foreign knowledge to the point of being jailed by the Monastery and senior Samurai Ys takes advantage of their potential to gain power and authority over others (and consequentially corrupting Asuma along).

Mikado is meant to be a direct parallel to Europe during the Middle Ages, where the Church played a significant role in education and culture hence much of the written texts available were produced specifically for didactic purposes focused on religious and moral themes.

Fictional stories, in comparison, were seen as frivolous or less important, and more importantly, usually only had themes of interest to the higher castes that also were the ones with more leisure time and the means to read in contrast to the common folk that were subject to labor-intensive lifestyles and alienated from anything that wasn't practical knowledge.

This background is important to fully grasp the big deal of the Black Samurai organizing sabbaths and spreading a Literature that finally "appealed" to the lower castes in SMTIV that interestingly also happened to be the one that causes mayhem within their society.

4.3) The lost nuance behind Mikado's laws

Particularly for whom they are made for; there's a clearer understanding on the way the Monastery skirts around the dogmas according to their own interests (which is, again, paralleled to the Church and the State being closely linked historically).

Something interesting to reflect on is that it's left up in the air in both games what was truly on Akira's mind when he set those laws as Aquila (or whether he set them at all) due to none of the events that surrounded him being shown to the player in real time, but rather told via NPCs or flashbacks (manipulated by Stephen) through Nanashi.

As we know, the duology conveys the idea that Akira/Aquila was of deceitful nature. He seemingly made a deal with Fujiwara and Skins that he would pretend to ally with the angels in order to outsmart them, while being labeled as a traitor by everyone else in the CDF (and later the Hunters). Akira would however get killed by the Heralds before his plan reached completion; Mastema, the morally dubious angel that he made a pact with, acted as his back up plan and imprisioned his murderers with Flynn's help as shown in the Clipped Wings DLCs. The narrative that "Akira was always secretly on Tokyo's side" is what gets emphasized, as if almost set in stone.

Considering that the Heralds were inherently of the philosophy that All Are Equal Before God (since the system of castes gets eliminated once the Heralds come back), it raises the question: was Akira intentionally developing a society where seeds of insurgency could germinate? Or was all of this just the normal consequences of human nature in followers gradually ignoring the teachings and starting to exploit others under religion imagery after losing their guides? We are left without a clear answer. Either way, we can be assured Mastema 100% had a hand in both possibilities. 👇

Mastema in the myth

A thought-provoking figure from the Book of Jubilees, an apocryphal retelling of Book of Genesis and Book of Exodus, the angel Mastema is hypothesized to be a step in developing the concept of the Devil as independent from God during the Second Temple period. By substituting YHVH's malevolent role with one of his angels, God is abolished from evil actions.

Jubilees narrates the genesis of angels on the first day of Creation and the story of how a group of fallen angels mated with mortal females, giving rise to a race known as the Nephilim. Their hybrid children, the Nephilim in existence during the time of Noah, were wiped out by the Great Flood. God granted ten percent of the disembodied spirits of the Nephilim — as demons — to Mastema to try to lead mankind astray after the Flood until the final judgment.

In other words, Mastema's duty is simply to tempt men to sin and if they do, he accuses them before the Throne of God. While not initiating the process of sin, Mastema and his spirits lead humanity on to greater wrongdoing. This is related to the Biblical function of Satan, where men can achieve righteousness if they are tempted and resist.

It was Mastema who urged God to test the piety of Abraham (as Satan did with Job) by demanding Isaac as a sacrifice:

“Then Prince Mastema came and said before God:  ‘”Abraham does indeed love his son Isaac and finds him more pleasing then anyone else. Tell him to offer him as a sacrifice on an altar.  Then you will see whether he performs this order and will know whether he is faithful in everything through which you test him.’” -Jubilees 17:16

Although a prince of evil, Mastema is subservient to the Lord and never harms His servants, therefore he does not fear imprisonment along with the Nephilim. Whenever Mastema acts, it's only by God's permission, or Mastema is immediately restrained. In cases when harm actually befalls God's people, Mastema is not associated with the act.

Throughout the Book of Jubilees, God's loyalty to the people of Israel remains unshaken. Mastema might be understood as a figure of evil befalling the non-Jewish nations. As such, the text inverts the audience's expectations by nullifying the power of the agent of evil as long as they stay loyal to the Jewish tradition. Yet, Jubilees assert that, ultimately, evil is caused by God, as it is God who explicitly grants Mastema demons. God allows evil to exist, but only for a limited period of time, without committing evil himself.

4.4) Further clarity on parallels between Tokyo and Mikado

The Ashura-kai is the Monastery as the top of the chain that thrives off exploiting those below them and whose rules are absolute. The Hunters are the Samurai as the expendable soldiers that rely on their own strength.

And the red pills are the Literature, appealing to the most disadvantaged in their cries for being released from structural oppression. And you certainly remember what happens to people that consume them.

4.5) The circumstances behind humans-turned-demons are given more weight

Marginalized people are much more vulnerable to becoming demons, shaping into "targets" to be feared by others when they stop taking injustice passively and rebels against the system that preys upon them.

The hole in the utopic world opens accordingly: law-enforcement kills the very people it claims to protect, as shown by Asuma, a previous Casualry, becoming another cogwheel that contributes to disruptive emotions to arise that killed his parents in the first place as he became a Samurai — including in himself.

4.6) There's emphasis on Walter not knowing the mystic language (in other words, he knows English but not Japanese).

It's not made very clear whether Walter is illiterate for both languages or if it's just the mystic script that he can't read; he's presented as someone that doesn't care for books but we aren't shown Burroughs saying aloud what's written for him either.

Either way, Walter's ignorance and reliance on technology is an important aspect that emphasizes how Casualries can remain "pure" and not fail into rebellion as long as they keep away from knowledge and ways to acquire it.

Observe the double meaning behind Gina, the artificial angel, whose friendship with Walter is centered on checking up on him and making sure he "stays in line".

What attentive players realize by this point is that another key element that distinguishes the Literature shown by the Black Samurai is that they're books written in the common tongue of the very first people of Mikado (aka the children from Tokyo that were forcibly taken by the angels and later were joined by Akira and his group). The angels wished to officialize English as the only language of Mikado, a commentary on Western imperialism that leads to erasure of cultural knowledge and practices.

4.7) More background on the intents behind Reversal Hills

It's left ambiguous if the manga-exclusive angel Abdiel had other purposes for bringing Gina to Mikado, but considering Mastema had been taking part in allowing the Reverse Hills experiments since then, there's a similar theme in Gina's creation to the reveal in the Explosive Epidemic in Mikado SMTIVA DLC where the Law side aimed to breed a "superior" race of humans made with angelic genes.

The Gauntlet Ritual symbolizes why the plan of a 100% pure civilization made to be inherently subservient to God failed: because of Flynn's past life fusing with Masakado, Akira and the CDF were able to escavate through Masakado's body and build the Sky Tower to reach Mikado, thus crossbreeding with some of the genetically-altered kids of the cocoons hence giving birth to humans with Tokyo blood mixed in that are able to use the Gauntlets previously owned by the late CDF users (although some might argue that there's also an element of reincarnation involved). It's therefore understandable why the angels would desperately desire for a weapon like Gina to "clean the contamination" that Akira's group left on Mikado.

Across the eugenism spectrum we have Hiruko as the "defect" born from the experiments. If Gina is the model breed in the eyes of angels, Hiruko represents the filthy, deformed, therefore undesired aspects that embody their vision of what makes an Unclean One. If Gina is the perfect result, Hiruko is the fusion accident.

On a minor note, Hallelujah as a Nephilim (he's a fallen angel x human hybrid, remember) shares similarities to Hiruko from existing indirectly from Mastema's deeds and regarding harboring feelings of alienation due to being seen as a living threat to humans.

By the way, there's a possible myth reference in Hiruko: her name in Japanese translates as “Leech Child” and is associated to the misconceived firstborn of the creator couple Izanami and Izanagi, who considered the child inadequate due to its physical impairment and set it adrift in a reed boat. The term "Hiruko" implies that the baby had limbs that were distorted in a way similar to the shape of a water leech. Some theorize that Hiruko could have been a malformed fetus known as a hydatidiform mole, which is a pathological pregnancy with abnormal growth due to chromosomal abnormalities.

If you were someone like Hiruko, your only foothold in the world would be to find others similar as you; accept that everything was set against you from your birth, embrace that you'll always be seen as a threat and, ultimately, use this "demonic treatment" as your source of strength. She felt attracted to Walter as she saw a kindred spirit that would also be useful for her goals of destruction, and naturally tried to move him away from her loathed foil, Gina.

We can make suppositions that even Gina's close bond with Walter may be related to an instinct of spreading her genes across multiple generations in order to gradually cleanse Mikado from any emotions that could trigger rebellion.

4.8) Explanation on how magnetite works in the world of SMT4

In real life, magnetite is a commonly occurring iron oxide (Fe3O4), the most magnetic naturally occurring mineral on Earth. In the Megaten franchise, magnetite (usually abbreviated as MAG) is a mystical energy source used by demons to manifest and maintain physical bodies. As a game mechanic, magnetite has functioned in a variety of ways, appearing most often as points that get consumed when the player explores dungeons with demons summoned within their party.

Interestingly, -Prayers- gives spotlight to the SMTIV's deeper approach to its usage in the storyline itself despite not being an actual game mechanic in the duology compared to previous games titles:

This might be one of the most underappreciated aspects of the manga considering how intrinsic magnetite is for the full picture behind several key events of the duology, such as humans suddenly turning into demons, Flynn filling the chalice for Masakado, Shesha absorbing souls disguised as Flynn, YHVH getting dethroned, the Demon Gene spreading in Mikado, it goes on.

Asuma, blinded by his resentment against the existence of demons, turns into a demon himself due to his own magnetite and thus commits to endless cannibalism towards those he loathes the most. Not realizing his misguided feelings were being used as a smoke screen, he let Ys become a powerful entity by the same system that caused him suffering.

Magnetites react to emotions, feelings, instincts, thought and will; as such, humans naturally attract them into their bodies and are the richest sources of this substance.

Magnetite becomes the medium for humans to either embody, expel or transfer their own desires. And as mentioned in the Explosive Epidemic in Mikado DLC, magnetite also spreads like contagion.

And for last, let's talk about something that deserves its own session...

5) The rabbit hole regarding what Flynn represents

5.1) Interconnected fates

Jonathan and Walter have visions and dreams with a Flynn that is "aligned" to each's respective alignment (and would later manifest in front of them). The main thing a reader will notice is the reversal of roles compared to how it works originally: in the game, Flynn receives visions of Jonathan and Walter pledging for him to side with each while in the manga Flynn is the one compelling them to go further on their roles of Law and Chaos pieces.

Nanashi has a strikingly similar dynamic with Flynn's past life that aligned to Neutral in the timeline of SMTIVA (although in his case it seemed to be Stephen showing him such); this being a recurring element even outside of the manga opens up the hypothesis that whether a character plays an active or passive role possibly depends on which perspective we're looking at in SMT4's universe, leading to the interpretation that all parties involved are unreliable narrators: in other words, there's no 100% objectivity regarding who is influencing whom (and highly likely it's by design).

5.2) Role of Game Master

In both stories, the reason Flynn isn't present as he normally would be in the games is because "Flynn" exists outside of the timeline as he's the one manipulating it to his own desires.

The label many readers come up with is that he's "a New Game Plus!Flynn"; in -Prayers- he comes bathed in light and aids Jonathan on becoming a selfless hero that saves humanity through faith as if he came straight from the Law route's ending while in -Demonic Gene- he's covered in darkness and creepily smiles as he encourages Walter towards a path of solitude focused on personal strength as the one that beat the Chaos route.

Symbolically, the omniscient depiction of Flynn we see represented in the manga serves as a metatextual "follow up" to the very scene where Flynn gets introduced as the player character.

The manga makes explicit that Flynn's personality and goals are also flexible according to the flow, which shows his SMTIVA depiction is just one among many as every player has their own version of him when playing. Flynn's role as blank state protagonist implies he's a man that can shape many, if not infinite, possible worlds.

5.3) Ability to overwrite

Flynn subverts the outcome Walter and Jonathan reached in their game routes; in here, he reappropriates and pushes towards a less destructive approach of both, although under arguably contrasting moral stances.

In -Prayers-, Flynn preaches for Jonathan to take the power away from someone that egotistically claims to be God and that Jonathan should fight in behalf of humans from both Tokyo and Mikado; meanwhile, in DEMONIC GENE, Flynn tells Walter to not fall to the trap of being used for someone else's goals and lose his own freedom. -Prayers-'s theme works under a genuine altruistic logic for Law while DEMONIC GENE's emphasizes true individualism for Chaos.

Ys is a stand-in for YHVH while Hiruko is a stand-in for Lucifer. It's a confirmation that, from the very start, the approaches we see towards Law or Chaos in the games were flawed even from the perspective of a Flynn that would go down in those paths.

Both manga adaptations imply that Flynn as a character has always had an inherent sense of dissatisfaction towards the very idea of humanity not being given autonomy, hence harboring a zeal on altering fate even if it takes irreversibly distorting his own sense of identity and relationships with others.

6) Final words

I'm sure many of you are still unsatisfied and will be wondering by the end of this post things like... "Did Manga Flynn meet the Great Will?" "Did Manga Flynn accomplish to climb to Übermensch levels like Stephen (and Nanashi in Massacre) did?" "Did Manga Flynn finally learn not to confuse tights with seaweed?"

And all I say is... Probably? Don't underestimate the power of living through many life cycles, folks

[gemmser]

Worm x BNHA

It is honestly fascinating how easily some of Worm's characters can be transposed to their counterparts in BNHA.

The backstories of Taylor Hebert and Izuku Midoriya are very similar: both are betrayed and bullied by their until then childhood BFFs because of a need to appear and feel strong, soon after they start to interact with superpowers (manifesting a quirk and making a cooler superhero friend). Katsuki Bakugo in this case is a bizarre fusion of Emma and Sophia. Furthermore, both have an absent parent in their lives, with the other always having to worry about their safety, both protagonists care little about their own well-being, both have a martyr complex, both get at one point mistaken for a villain because of their appearance. Hell, both even get to rescue a captive child from an underground gang-leader's complex.

Now, I understand that some of these similarities come from the shared DNA of Standard Superhero Teenage Protagonist™, as well as having been made in roughly similar times ("Worm ended in 2013, BNHA started in 2014. Welcome back Worm."). Still, it's remarkable how much these characters mirror each other, yet serve as foils in other ways.

This all leads to my thesis that a bnhaAU! of Worm would be very interesting to read. You could have Taylor enter a superhero academy whose principal is a short, blood-lusted, hyper-intelligent mastermind (Nezu to Accord); have her homeroom teacher be a gruff, rationality/efficiency obsessed mentor (Eraserhead to Armsmaster/Defiant) who's constantly bothered by an unserious jokester (Present Mic to Assault); there would also be a female comic relief teacher who gets killed of mid-story to show how dangerous the threat is (Midnight to Mouse Protector). I could go on and on placing various characters in roles that fit them very well, yet are subtly different and cause delicious character interaction. And that's just the Vanilla BNHA setup, you could also employ popular BNHA fanfic tropes (afo!Midoriya Hisashi to glaistig uaine!Annete Hebert, anyone?!)

The two biggest uncertainties I have are:

Where to place the Undersiders? You could have them as fellow students, or maybe as sympathetic villains like in canon. Depends what you want to do with the story and how much you want Taylor to suffer.

What are Taylor's powers? Still bug control, or is she powerless at the start? If she's powerless, there is a lot of story potential in having her be the Inheritor of a kinder, more heroic Butcher. Mmm, the angst of having to consensually euthanize your mentor in order to pursue your dream of heroism...

...This is a plea for someone more talented than me to write this, by the way.

[thinkingimages]

Excerpt from from 'Some Say Ice', published by Mack © Alessandra Sanguinetti/Magnum Photos.

"Since 2014, Alessandra Sanguinetti has been returning to the small town of Black River Falls in Wisconsin, creating the photographs that would come to form the stark and elliptical series Some Say Ice. The same town is the subject of Wisconsin Death Trip, a book of photographs taken by Charles Van Schaick in the late 1800s documenting the bleak hardships of the lives and deaths of its inhabitants. Sanguinetti first came across this book as a child, and the experience is engraved into her memory as her first reckoning with mortality. This encounter eventually led her to explore the strange relationship of photography and death, and ultimately to make her own visits to Black River Falls. The austere, sculptural scenes and ambiguous, uneasy portraits that make up Some Say Ice depict a place almost outside of time. Presented unadorned by text or explication, the photographs are touched with the spirit of the gothic as well as the unmistakable tenderness familiar from Sanguinetti’s series The Adventures of Guille and Belinda. By bringing undercurrents of doubt and darkness to the surface of her images, Sanguinetti alludes to things absent or invisible, playing on atmospheres both real and imagined, as well as the ghostly possibility of undoing death through the act of photography. With its title inspired by Robert Frost’s famous poem equivocating on how best one’s inevitable death might be met, Some Say Ice is a humane look at the melancholic realities underpinning our lives, seen with glacial clarity by one of the world’s foremost photographers."