#google slides arc

[utb-slop]

Yeah and yeah

Flo - @s0ckh3adstudios

Cas - @capt-marty

[meenaxskz]

you lost the handcuffs keys (bf!bangchan x reader)

drabble | bf!bangchan x reader au genre: light smut (just in case…but mostly crack) | crack warnings: mature suggestive content | language Summary: chan finally lets you take control in bed. you bring out the fluffy pink handcuffs and have the night of your life until it ends and you realize… you lost the keys. a/n : omg i know i vanished again i'm so sorry life’s been lifing but i promise i’m alive!! and actually working on a long hyunjin series 👀 you’ll see what i mean soon hehe. in the meantime, here’s a little chan x reader so you know i haven’t evaporated lol

tonight was your moment.

your villain arc. your dom debut.

chan looked up at you all smug and shirtless and said “i’ll let you be in charge tonight” and you said bet. you meant it with your whole chest.

you straddled him, whispered filthy things, and whipped out your secret weapon:

fluffy pink handcuffs.

he blinked.

you said “just trust me”

he said “okay babe”

you cuffed him to the headboard, kissed down his chest, and ruined him for like an hour straight. he moaned. whined. begged. called you “ma’am” at one point (he denies it now). 

and now it’s over…

you flop next to him, smug, breathless, glowing. he smiles at you, wrists still cuffed, all blissed out and ruined.

“okay” he’s panting “you can uncuff me now”

you reach for the keys. and pause. then check again.

“uhh…”

he raises an eyebrow “...what.”

“don’t panic” you say immediately. too fast. too suspicious.

“WHY WOULD I PANIC”

you sit up. open the drawer. then the other drawer. then under the bed. you pull the blanket off the bed. check under his thigh.

nothing.

“babe?” he watches you flip over a pillow aggressively “WHERE ARE THE KEYS”

“I DON’T KNOW”

“WHAT”

“I DON’T KNOWWWWWW” you scream fully flailing now “I HAD THEM AND THEN I DIDN’T AND I THINK I KICKED THEM INTO THE VOID”

he stares at you. full blown handsome disappointment.

“y/n” his voice calm but deeply scary “if you don’t uncuff me in the next five minutes i’m going to sue.”

you fake a laugh “for what??”

“improper horny procedure”

“okay no. no no no. we can fix this”

20 minutes later:

he’s still cuffed. still sweaty.

you’ve now tried:

a bobby pin

a paperclip

googling “how to pick handcuffs”

threatening the handcuffs verbally

blaming him for looking too hot and “distracting you”

“i’m gonna start crying” chan mutters “i can’t feel my left shoulder”

“shhh” you say, digging through the drawer again “i found something that might work”

“...what is that”

“...strawberry lube.”

he goes silent.

“i’ve watched macgyver. i got this.” he’s sweating.

“why do we have strawberry lube”

“...it smells good?”

“that is not…” he starts then exhales “FINE. FINE JUST GET ME OUT”

you lube the inside of the cuffs like a crazy person. he’s watching you. deadpan.

arms still cuffed. thighs still spread. dick still out.

it slides off. you shriek: “OH MY GOD I’M A GENIUS”

he sits up. rubs his wrists. squints at you.

“…don’t be mad” you whisper.

he leans forward slowly. grabs your waist. throws you onto the bed. you scream

“you’re not allowed to be in charge for at least six months”

“but babe. i freed you.!”

“...with lube”

you smile “i problem solved”

he groans “you’re banned”

“...but i already ordered a leash?”

“NO”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[luna-azzurra]

Emotionally Questionable but Artistically Valid Things To Do When You’re a Writer Losing the Plot (Literally or Figuratively)

Write your WIP’s obituary. “She lived a chaotic life, filled with plot holes, unresolved arcs, and one very confusing love triangle. She is survived by a Google Doc, 74 sticky notes, and a Pinterest board titled ‘vibes but make it pain.’” Bonus catharsis if you make it weirdly tender. Double bonus if you actually cry a little.

Make your WIP a dating profile. Age: Timeless. Location: Trapped in your brain since 2018. Looking for: A writer who won’t ghost me mid-draft. Interests: Slow burn tension, morally gray decisions, and long walks through traumatic backstory. Will it match with anyone? No. But you might remember why you fell in love with it in the first place.

Assign your plot holes a Hogwarts house. That one you keep ignoring? Slytherin. The subplot that’s doing too much? Hufflepuff with main character energy. The gaping logic error you swear you’ll fix later? Ravenclaw, but drunk. Somehow this helps. Somehow this feels like control.

Write a resignation letter from your genre. “Dear Fantasy, it’s not you, it’s me. Actually—it is you. The worldbuilding demands are emotionally abusive, and I just want to write messy little humans having conversations that ruin their lives.” You can always go back. Or not. You’re allowed to genre-hop like a chaotic frog with a laptop.

Host a fake podcast episode where you psychoanalyze your protagonist. Today on Therapy, But Make It Fictional, we discuss why Aiden cannot maintain a single healthy relationship, the consequences of childhood abandonment, and how trauma is not a personality trait (even though he tries). Record yourself. Don’t post it. Unless you do. I won’t stop you.

Put your WIP characters in a reality show. Big Brother: Emotional Damage Edition. Who cries first? Who forms a secret alliance? Who self-destructs on Day 2 because someone used their emotional trauma as a joke? (Yes, this is basically writing. Yes, this counts.)

Create an “Am I the Problem?” chart for your WIP. Spoiler: You’re not. The plot arc from hell is. But mapping it out like a true crime board will help. Use yarn. Use vibes. Use Google Slides if you’re a Virgo. Just externalize the chaos.

Write fanfiction… of your own book. That spicy scene you know you won’t put in because it messes with pacing? Write it. That “what if they shared a bed but didn’t touch” trope you secretly crave? Give in. You are your first fan. Be delulu. Be free.

Create a soundtrack for your villain’s redemption arc that will never happen. Include Lana Del Rey. Include Mitski. Include at least one angry violin solo. You don’t have to redeem them, but you can imagine them staring into the rain while “The Sound of Silence” plays.

Doodle your plot like a crime scene. Victim: Narrative Cohesion. Suspects: A surprise third act twist, a talking sword, and that one flashback chapter that broke the timeline. Go full corkboard-and-pushpins energy. You’ll either solve it or at least feel like an unhinged genius. Which is basically the same.

[the-winter-spider]

Lucky | Bucky Barnes

Bucky x Movie star!Reader

Part:2/2

Word Count: 17k

Warnings: Angst, ect

A/N: Found this in my google docs when i was looking for my layout of Yours, Always, it was supposed to be a long one shot but Tumblr wont let me post a 35k fic lol so its broken up in two parts, Its not proofreading it or edited.

First Part

Masterpost

---

Bucky leads you deeper into the party. Past tall glass windows that overlook the skyline. Past agents in sleek suits, Avengers in tailored jackets, CEOs trying too hard to blend in.

You clock it all without flinching.

But Bucky can feel the faint tension in your hand, the way your fingers flex slightly in his every few steps. Like you’re trying to stay rooted. Like this, even this, is still unfamiliar ground.

“There,” he says quietly, nodding toward a corner cluster of couches.

Steve is leaning back with a drink in his hand, laughing at something Sam just said. Sam is mid-story, animated as ever, gesturing with both hands like the fate of the world hangs in his delivery and next to them, half-listening and half-smirking, is Natasha, dressed in black, her heels kicked off and tucked under the couch, one eyebrow lifted in mild amusement.

They haven’t noticed you yet, until they do. Sam spots you first and his eyes go wide. “No,” he mouths. “No way.”

Steve follows his gaze. His expression shifts slowly, surprise, then curiosity, then something warmer. Something almost like… pride?

Natasha, she doesn’t flinch. Just leans forward, tilts her head, and narrows her eyes like she’s reading a file only she’s allowed to see.

Bucky clears his throat.

“Guys,” he says, like this is any other day. “This is Y/N.”

Sam’s already halfway on his feet. “THE Y/N?” he asks, pointing. “Like… you?” You smile politely, but something about the way he says it makes you laugh, an actual, soft laugh, slipping out before you can stop it.

“Depends which one you mean,” you say.

Sam grins. “I mean the one who ruined my life in that indie film where you died at the end.”

“Ah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I had to lie to my therapist about how much I cried.”

You laugh again. “I cried shooting it.”

Sam turns to Bucky. “Man, you didn’t say she was cool.”

Steve stands and extends a hand. “Captain Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You take it. “The pleasure’s mine. Big fan of your whole ‘punching Nazis’ arc.”

Steve chuckles. “Thanks, still working on the sequel.”

You’re all still standing in that gentle, easy circle when Natasha finally speaks.

“You’re prettier in person,” she says simply.

You blink, caught off guard. “Thank you?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Natasha replies, and smiles.

You smile back. “I like you already.”

There’s a pause and everyone laughs. Even Bucky, especially Bucky. The moment settles like it was always meant to be this way.

You’re curled into the couch now, drink in hand, laughing into the rim of your glass as Sam launches into a dramatic retelling of the time he got caught watching one of your movies on a quinjet, mid-mission.

“I swear to God, the mission brief was boring,” Sam says. “So I’m scrolling through the in-flight stuff, and boom, there you are. Staring out a rain-covered window. It was over after that.”

You grin, chin resting on your hand. “Which ones have you seen?”

“Oh, uh….The Last Goodbye,” he says, then adds immediately, “But also Glass Garden, Something in Autumn, The Moth Room, that space one, the one with the piano, what was that called?”

“Reverie,” Steve offers helpfully.

“Right! Reverie!” Sam snaps his fingers. “And Kingdom Come….And, oh, Marrow. That was dark.”

You blink. “You’ve seen all of them?”

Sam puts a hand on his chest. “Ma’am, I am emotionally invested.”

You’re still laughing when Sam says, “We actually just watched one a couple weeks ago. Me, Steve, and Buck, In The Quiet After.”

Your eyes slide to Bucky instantly, the laugh dying in your throat. “You watched it?”

Bucky clears his throat, nods. “Yeah.”

Your smile softens, eyes searching his. “What did you think?”

Bucky glances down for a second, then looks back up at you. “That you’re amazing.”

Your heart stutters behind your ribs. That word, amazing carries more weight than it should. But from him? It sounds like he means it.

Before you can say anything, Natasha leans in from the other couch, studying your lips. “What shade of red is that?” she asks casually.

You blink, caught off guard again. “Oh. Um, Monroe by Verre.”

Natasha nods, satisfied. “Figures. I use Vesper. Yours is more of a ‘kiss-me-in-the-dark-alley’ red. I like it.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Thanks.”

Steve claps his hands once, standing. “Alright, let’s get the ladies another drink.”

Bucky looks over at you, brow raised like he’s checking in, asking without words if you’re okay to be left for a minute.

Before you can answer, Natasha waves a dismissive hand. “Relax, Barnes. I’m not gonna bite her.” She leans back. “She’s safe with me. Now go, we’re thirsty.”

You nod, smiling at him, he hesitates slightly then follows Steve toward the bar.

Sam rises too, stretching. “I’m gonna go see if I can steal one of those mini food trays. The one with the prosciutto thingies. Don’t leave me out here without carbs.”

Now you’re alone with Natasha, she doesn’t say anything at first. Just sips what's left of her drink, eyes scanning the room, lashes heavy. Without looking at you she says, “You have sad eyes.”

You blink. That catches you clean in the chest. No warning, no preparation. Just the truth, dropped like a pin in the middle of a marble floor.

You turn to her, unsure what to say. But she’s already leaning in slightly, hand gentle as it lands on your knee, warm and grounding.

“I’ve worn that look,” she says. “It’s heavy. The world thinks it’s mystery. Men think it’s glamour. But really? It’s just loneliness. The kind that lingers even when you’re smiling.”

You swallow, no words come.

Natasha doesn’t press. She just sits with you in that silence like she’s been there before. Like she knows exactly how far down it goes. She says, quieter this time, “Sometimes people need to see through you to actually see you. It’s not a weakness.”

You don’t answer. But your fingers curl slightly into the hem of your dress, and for once, the tears that prick at your lashes aren’t from exhaustion. They’re from relief, someone saw you and didn’t look away.

Steve leaned against the counter, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye as the bartender slid two drinks their way.

“You like her,” he said, not accusing, more like just stating.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed across the room, on you, the way your head tilted back when you laughed at something Sam said, your hand still loosely curled around your drink.

“I care for her,” he said, voice quiet and rough. “A lot.”

Steve nodded once, like he already knew. He didn’t push.

Bucky kept watching you from where he stood, the soft curl of your smile, the way you were actually relaxed for once. The version of you no one else ever got to see. His chest ached with it, with the weight of wanting to protect something so fragile, so hidden.

Steve shifted, reaching into his blazer. “About her stalker, I know they have him but—”

Bucky turned slightly. Steve pulled out a slim folder, not thick but heavy in implication. “I’ve got the file, from when you asked before. You can take it after the party.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

Natasha approached, still barefooted and drinkless. She snatched the glass from Steve’s hand with a small smirk. “Mine,” she said, raising it toward him. Steve let it go without argument.

“I’m going to mingle,” Natasha said, glancing toward the dance floor. “Maybe scare a few billionaires.”

She turned to Bucky. “Be careful with her.”

That pulled his eyes up. “What?”

Natasha just stared. “I’m serious,” she said. “She’s about one sharp word away from crumbling.”

He bristled. “She’s stronger than you think.”

“I know she is,” Natasha replied evenly. “That’s the problem, people like her… they don’t fall apart when they should. They wait, they stack the weight until it’s too late.”

Bucky clenched his jaw.

Natasha leaned in slightly. “She’s been in survival mode so long she doesn’t know how to stop pretending. You’re the only thing I’ve seen her reach for that wasn’t scripted.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

“Relax, Barnes,” she added with a little smirk, “I’m not questioning you. I’m warning you.”

She turned, drink in hand, and disappeared into the crowd with all the quiet confidence of someone who’s seen too much. Bucky stayed there for a second. Two drinks in hand. Just… staring.

You were across the room, sitting alone now, Sam had run off for food or a drink or who knows what. Your posture was graceful, elegant even, but now that Natasha had said it, he saw it.

The quiet twitch in your fingers. The way you kept fixing the hem of your dress, then your bracelet, then the ring on your finger, all muscle memory. Nervous energy dressed up as poise.

Sam reappeared, triumphant, holding an entire tray of tiny hors d’oeuvres like he’d just won a war. Your face lit up, really lit up. Like a kid, like a person, like someone who has been told “no” for a long time and forgot what “yes” felt like.

You laughed when he offered you one with an exaggerated bow. Then you actually ate it, it was the first real bite of food you’d had in days, you reached for another and Bucky just stood there. Watching you come alive in real time.

Steve slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, nodding toward the couches. “Before you stare a hole through her.”

-

Steve was halfway through a story about how Bucky once punched a guy twice his size for stealing a kid’s lunch money, and Bucky, deadpan, fired back with a story about Steve getting his ass handed to him by a twelve-year-old with a skipping rope.

You’d laughed so hard you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. You were still laughing when it hit you, hard, the realization of it all.

It happened so quickly, most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Bucky did, he watched your smile falter just slightly. Your eyes didn’t crinkle the same way.

You glanced around the couches, at Steve and Sam, then the whole room. The warmth between them all, the way they moved like puzzle pieces that had already figured out where they belonged.

Family and friendship. Years of love and memory and stupid inside jokes and unspoken glances.

You had none of that. No one who remembered your birthday without a calendar invite. No one who knew what your laugh sounded like when you weren’t acting. No one who would talk about the time you stayed up all night building a pillow fort or snuck out to see a concert. You didn’t have stories like that because you hadn’t had a life like that,

Your whole face dropped. Not dramatically, quietly. Like the light inside you dimmed just enough for Bucky to feel it like a punch to the ribs. He swallowed. Something twisted behind his breastbone.

He didn’t want to see your face fall ever again, not like that. Not when you’d only just started to smile for real. He cleared his throat. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood, turned to you and did something he hadn’t done since the 1940s, since before.

“Dance with me.”

Steve’s glass paused halfway to his mouth, slowly, a grin stretched across his face, wide and warm, like he’d just watched a ghost come back to life.

“Really?” You blinked. "You wanna dance with….me?”

Bucky nodded, his voice was softer this time, low so only you could hear it. “You’re the only one I wanna dance with.””

Your expression broke into something unguarded, pure surprise wrapped in soft disbelief. You took his hand, his fingers curled around yours with so much care it made your chest ache.

He led you gently toward the open space near the center of the room, a place where the music swelled just loud enough to pull you both into something quieter.

You moved close, almost chest to chest. Muscle memory took over, he spun you once, your laugh trailing behind like stardust and pulled you back in with a grace he didn’t know he still had.

Bucky, he was smiling. Not the crooked half-lift he usually gave when he was amused or tolerating someone.

Sam stood there watching, eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that.”

Steve’s voice was soft. “In all the years I’ve known him… I’ve never seen that smile.”

The song changed, slower now more tender. But neither of you stepped away. You stayed in his arms, swaying like the world didn’t exist.

Your voice came barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”

His eyes glanced down at you. “It doesn’t have to, y’know.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

Bucky’s hands slid gently around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Then stay in it, with me.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. It was all in the way you looked at him like maybe you were starting to believe happiness wasn’t something made up for movies.

The night blurred at the edges, dulled by warm drinks, real laughter, and a little too much Asgardian liquor. Your hand was in his, fingers laced, and you stumbled a little in your heels when you reached the hallway. Bucky caught you without thinking, steady hands at your waist like it was instinct.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice low, thick with mischief.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? About what?”

“Your lips.”

That threw him. “My… lips?”

You nodded, smiling, drunk on wine and happiness. “I’m gonna kiss them.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, just stood there, caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation.

Your hands slid up to the back of his neck, soft and sure, and then you leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his, warm and slow and a little clumsy but real. His hands rose instinctively to your face, palms bracketing your jaw like you might disappear. He kissed you back like he was afraid to break whatever spell this was.

When you pulled away, your smile was quiet, a little dazed.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” you whispered, voice light. “Before I do something really embarrassing.”

He didn’t tease. Just opened the door to his room and nodded toward the bed. “Get some rest.”

You nodded too, suddenly shy, and padded inside, kicking off your heels. You curled onto his bed like you’d been there a hundred times, back to him, arm tucked under your cheek. You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t have to.

He didn’t watch you sleep.

He sat on the couch instead, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for the file waiting on the coffee table. The moment was still in his mouth, soft and slow and lingering, but the words on the page stole the warmth from his chest.

Elias Corrin.

He turned the page.

A series of disturbing notes, scrawled handwriting. Photos, too close, too focused. Mailroom logs. Security reports. Mental health history flagged. Prior arrests. Declared unstable. Released on condition of monitored care, care that clearly didn’t happen. A restraining order ignored. GPS trackers found on two former assistants. One note, timestamped just last week: If I can’t have her, no one will.

Bucky exhaled, slow through his nose. They said they caught him, they swore he was in custody.

But something about it didn’t sit right. Not with that last message. Not with how your shoulders still tensed when you thought no one was looking. He closed the file, thumb brushing the corner of the last page.

He looked over at you, asleep in his bed, curled into yourself like a secret and felt something quiet and sharp settle behind his ribs.

If he’d let himself believe in promises, he would’ve made one right then. Instead, he just stayed awake and kept watch.

You woke up disoriented. For a second, you thought you were home. The sheets were warm, soft. The light filtering in was gentle, not sharp like it usually was.

Your eyes caught the unfamiliar ceiling. The heavier weight of the comforter. The sound of someone breathing, slow, steady.

You sat up, blinking. There he was.

Bucky, slouched on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm tossed over the back. His metal hand was relaxed for once, not clenched like it usually was. His face was soft. Peaceful in a way you didn’t think he knew how to be, just like that, it all came rushing back, the party, the dancing, the kiss, the way you laughed like you weren’t scared of anything.

You reached for your purse and fished out your phone. It was a warzone. Dozens of missed calls, texts, emails. All from your team.

Some angry, some cruel.

Where the fuck are you.

Do you have any idea what you’ve done.

We protect you and this is how you repay us?

You think being seen with him is going to help your image?

God, you're such a dumb bitch.

Your chest tightened, not wanting to read the rest. You locked the screen and put the phone down like it might catch fire. Your fingers itched, and before you could stop yourself, you opened your browser. Typed your name.

Nothing.

No headlines, no photos, no video clips or shaky footage from partygoers. The Tower was clean, you knew it would be, but you still had a little part of you that didn’t trust it. You exhaled, the breath caught halfway up your throat.

You slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom. The makeup was still there. Smudged eyeliner, faded lipstick, glitter, clinging to your cheekbones. You leaned over the sink and turned the faucet on, cupping water in your hands and scrubbing everything away.

When you looked up at your reflection, there you were. No filters, no lashes, no red carpet armor. You left the bathroom and opened one of Bucky’s drawers. Took a pair of sweatpants that looked like they could fit two of you and a soft, worn t-shirt that smelled like him. You rolled the waistband twice and tied the drawstring tight, brushed your hair back with your fingers, and walked barefoot into the living room.

He stirred on the couch, blinking slowly.

When he looked up and saw you, no makeup, messy hair, standing in his clothes like it wasn’t the most vulnerable thing you could’ve done.

You held his gaze. “I gotta go home,” you said softly. “I’m in trouble.”

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You wanna eat first?”

You hesitated, nodded. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, Steve was flipping pancakes. Sam was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee straight from the mug. They looked up when you walked in.

You in Bucky’s shirt, sleeves past your hands. His sweatpants dragging a little at your ankles.

They both paused, didn’t say anything. Bucky followed close behind and shot them a look, sharp, silent, don’t start.

Steve smiled anyway, all soft and casual. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You slid onto a stool at the island, tucking your legs underneath you. “I don’t remember the last time I had breakfast that smelled this good,” you said quietly. You didn’t say it for sympathy. It was just true.

Steve plated pancakes, eggs, bacon. Sam pushed a glass of orange juice your way. No one made a big deal about anything. They just… let it be normal. It felt strange and kind of perfect.

After a while, after the food and the small talk and the brief moment where you forgot what waited outside, you stood, napkin in hand.

“Thank you,” you said to Steve, sincere. “For the food and….just everything.”

Steve just nodded. “Anytime.”

Bucky grabbed his keys. ��Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you home.”

When you got back to your house, they were already inside. Not waiting, just there like always, like they never left. The moment the door clicked shut, the noise started.

“You disappeared.”

“You embarrassed us.”

“You know how hard we work to protect your image? And that's how you treat us?! Like garbage?”

“I’ll tell you who's garbage!”

Bucky stood just inside the entryway, jaw tight, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word.

“You don’t answer your phone for one night and we have to put out ten fires.”

“You think people won’t talk?”

“Stupid girl.”

Gina steps forward, “Enough,” she said, voice sharp. “We’ll talk about this later. In private.”

They backed off immediately, like soldiers hearing a command. Not because they respected her. But because who else was in the room with them, Bucky.

Brett handed you a clipboard, like a weapon. “New schedule.”

You glanced at it, top to bottom, packed. Your eyes hit one line. Bold.

Nude Scene — 3 Weeks.

Clipped to the back: a single sheet.

Diet Breakdown. Daily Intake. Weight Targets.

You didn’t blink. Just nodded and held the papers at your side like they didn’t burn your skin.

“Phone,” Gina said.

You pulled it from your pocket, handing it over.

Just like that they were gone, moved to the kitchen, already fighting about something else. The second the door shut behind them, Bucky looked at you.

“Why do you let them treat you like that?”

You didn’t answer right away. “It’s easier,” you said finally. “If I push back, it just gets louder.”

He stepped a little closer. “You said you didn’t want to do that scene.”

“I say a lot of things,” you muttered, eyes still on the floor. “Doesn’t mean it matters.”

He frowned. “You don’t get to say no?”

Your laugh was soft and dry, “There are a lot of things I don’t want to do,” you said. “That doesn’t mean I get a choice.”

You didn’t tell him what you gave up to be at the Tower last night. That one night of normal, dancing, pancakes, his hands on your waist, it had a cost. You made peace with it already.

“Might as well suck it up,” you added. “Right? Give the people something they apparently can’t live without, my body.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he didn’t know whether to hug you or break a wall.

The door creaked open again. Leah stuck her head in. “Barnes. You can go, we don’t need you anymore today.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded, offered him a small smile the kind of nod you give when there’s no fight left in you.

“I’ll text you,” you said.

He nodded too, he hated that he did, he hated leaving you here. He turned for the door. Leah, behind him, smirked just a little. “No, she won’t.” and then she shut the door in his face.

---

The next day, you were on set, sort of.

It wasn’t a full shoot, just screen testing. Wardrobe, lighting, a camera rigged to capture how you looked under three different kinds of studio sun.

You sat in a folding chair in the corner, hair pinned up, silk robe over a vintage slip dress, drinking lukewarm coffee while a production assistant ran cables behind you. You looked tired, but not fake-tired. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

Bucky stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching the swirl of controlled chaos.

“What’s this one about?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bustle of the set.

You didn’t look up. Just took another sip of the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

“Some sad Hollywood star,” you said, flat.

He looked over at you.

You gave a small, half-laugh the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “Fitting, right?”

Bucky didn’t laugh, didn’t joke. He just watched you, the way your shoulders stayed tense even when you were sitting, the way your eyes flicked across the room like you were searching for something that wasn’t there.

“She’s famous,” you added, voice quieter now. “Everyone knows her face. But no one actually knows her.”

You paused, then gave a faint shrug. “It’s called Lucky.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, finally under his breath: “Doesn’t sound like luck.”

Later on that week, maybe two days, maybe three, Bucky knocked on your door. Not for work, not because he had to, they gave him the day off today.

You opened it in socks and a crewneck, eyebrows raised like you weren’t expecting him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward as hell, deciding after hyping himself up all day that he was just going to say it. “I was thinking,” he said, “maybe I could take you to dinner.”

You blinked. “Like…”

“Not as security,” he cut in, fast. “Just, me. Taking you out, like normal people do.” He looked nervous. “Like a date, I wanna take you on a date, it’s fine—”

He felt stupid like you might laugh, you didn’t. You smiled, that small, real one he was getting addicted to and said, “Yes.” So fast he didn’t even finish his sentence.

The place wasn’t fancy, it was barely even modern. A little hole-in-the-wall diner tucked down a side street in Brooklyn, the kind with cracked vinyl booths, fries that came in paper baskets, and a jukebox that only played songs recorded before 1975.

You wore jeans and a hoodie. Hair pulled back, no makeup and he couldn’t stop looking at you. Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what anyone else would’ve noticed. But because this was the first time he’d seen you like this, out and about. You looked… happy. Like you were in on a secret no one else knew.

You ordered pancakes for dinner and stole fries off his plate. You told him a story about a role you almost got when you were nineteen and how you sabotaged the audition on purpose because you didn’t want to play “a girl who dies from a broken heart.”

“Ironic now,” you’d said, biting into a fry.

He didn’t argue. But he reached across the table and nudged your hand with his and when your eyes met his, something soft passed between you. Just two people trying to figure out how to breathe again.

You didn’t rush through dinner, you lingered.

The two of you talked like there wasn’t a clock in the world, about music, movies, what Coney Island used to look like before it got cleaned up. You told him about your favorite director (he hadn’t heard of them), and he told you about the first movie he ever saw in theaters before the war.

“It was a double feature,” he said. “One reel broke halfway through, so the whole audience just sat there waiting like someone died.”

You laughed. “That’s very on-brand for you.”

When the check came, he tried to pay, stubborn about it, you told him you considered this your first official fight but you let him, just this once.

The sky was already dark when you stepped outside, the street was quiet. Empty enough to feel like it belonged to you then it started to rain.

Not a downpour, just that light, misty kind of rain that clings to your lashes and makes the streetlights look like halos.

You looked up at the sky, then back at him. “Of course,” you said, smiling. “Feels fitting.”

Bucky pulled off his jacket without a word and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat, and too big, and perfect.

He walked beside you in a black t-shirt, not caring about the cold or the rain. His hand brushed yours once, twice, until finally, he just reached over and held it.

Not tightly, not like a claim. Just enough to say I’m here and you didn’t let go, you never wanted to again.

You walked like that the whole way back. No security, noentourage. Just the city, the rain, and the two of you.

At your door, he hesitated. You stood there in his jacket, fingers curled at the sleeves, and said, “That was the best night I’ve had in… maybe ever.”

He smiled.You looked up at him, nervous suddenly, and said, “Wanna come by tomorrow?”

He blinked. “You mean, like—”

“Just come over,” you said, softer now. “I don’t have anything scheduled. No press, no meetings. I figured maybe we could… I don’t know. Be normal.”

Bucky nodded. “What time?”

“Ten,” you said. “Bring coffee.”

He smirked. “Anything but craft services?”

You grinned, stepping back toward the door. “Exactly.”

You started to turn toward the door, then paused. Looked back. “Hey, Bucky?”

He turned his head, eyes on you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

The name hit low in your stomach. You smiled, cheeks flushing, but didn’t look away.

“I’ve been in so many movies,” you said. “Played every kind of love story… but I’ve never had a kiss in the rain before.”

He paused, just a breath then his smile deepened. It wasn’t teasing, It was soft, slow, like something old and familiar settling into place.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands found your waist, yours lifted to his chest and then he kissed you, like something out of a movie.

Not like before. This time it was deeper, wetter, with the rain clinging to your skin and your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your heart.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, noses brushing, rain dripping from his lashes.

“Glad I could be your first, ” he murmured.

You smiled, barely breathing. “Hopefully my only.”

He let that linger between you. Didn’t say anything, just smiled, that quiet, just-for-you kind of smile that you were already getting addicted to.

You stepped back, still wearing his jacket, fingers trailing down his arm as you turned toward the door.

“See you tomorrow, Sarge.”

Bucky stood there after you shut the door, soaked to the bone, smiling like a man who finally had something worth getting caught in the rain for.

---

He showed up at ten on the dot. Coffee in hand. Hoodie slung on. That soft, unsure look in his eyes like he wasn’t totally convinced you hadn’t changed your mind.

You opened the door in his jacket, the same one from the last night and a messy bun that was maybe more sleep than style. Your eyes lit up at the sight of him.

“Good. You’re punctual. I like that in a man,” you teased, taking the coffee from him with both hands. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Bucky said, stepping inside. “Especially when it comes with threats about craft services.”

You smiled into the lid of your coffee. “You hungry?”

He shrugged. “I could eat.”

You’d already made eggs. Just because. Toasted two slices of bread, burnt the edges on one, blamed the toaster, he didn’t care he’d eat anything you made.

He sat across from you at the kitchen island while you finished scrambling the last bit of eggs in the pan. The light streaming through the windows caught the edges of your hair. He watched it for a little too long.

After breakfast, you disappeared for a minute. When you came back, you were holding a shopping bag. A mischievous smile spread across your face.

“Wig day,” you announced.

Bucky blinked, choking on air. “Wig what?”

You reached in and pulled out a bright hot pink bob for you and a ridiculously curly blonde one for him.

He stared at it like it might bite him. “I am not wearing that.”

“Oh, you are,” you said, already pulling yours on. “We’re going incognito.”

“I already have a disguise,” he argued, gesturing to himself.

“Buck,” you said seriously, walking up to him and holding the wig just over his head. “Please, for me.”

You hit him with the full force of a pout. The kind of expression that could level buildings.

He sighed. “If you ever tell anyone—”

“Swear on my Oscar,” you said solemnly.

He gave in and twenty minutes later, the two of you were walking hand-in-hand through the Saturday morning farmers market, you in oversized sunglasses and hot pink hair, Bucky in a blonde monstrosity and didn’t even try to blend in.

You were laughing before you even made it to the first vendor.

“God, this is so freeing,” you said, grabbing two honey sticks from a basket and handing him one. “This is the most fun I’ve had in public since I was seventeen.”

“Do people even recognize you?” Bucky asked, chewing on his stick.

“Not unless they’re really looking.” You popped yours into your mouth. “You’d be surprised what a wig can do. That and not smiling for cameras.”

He smiled a little at that.

You made him buy sunflowers, a whole bunch of them and when he rolled his eyes, you shoved them into his arms and said, “For the compound, It needs color.”

“Its gray.”

“Exactly.”

You made him try a slice of fresh peach from one of the stands. He groaned, visibly impressed. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You nodded, smug. “I have excellent taste, in fruit and men.”

He coughed, caught off guard, and you just kept walking like you hadn’t said anything at all.

A little boy walked by holding his mom’s hand, eyes wide. He looked up at Bucky’s wig and said, very seriously, “I like your funny hair.”

Without missing a beat, Bucky deadpanned, “Thanks, it’s natural.”

You lost it, laughed so hard you had to stop walking, one hand on your stomach, the other on Bucky’s arm for support.

“God,” you wheezed. “I think I pulled something.”

He smiled, not a small smile but the kind that showed just how old he was, wrinkles and all. He couldn't stop watching you, all teeth, all light.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

“You love it.”

“Maybe I do.” He whispered

You looked up at him then and for a second, it felt like a normal life. Like this wasn’t temporary. Like this was the part people forget to write about, the joy that lives in quiet places. In stupid wigs and sticky fruit fingers and hand-holding.

You walked a little closer after that and when the sun dipped behind a cloud, Bucky looked over and thought: Yeah, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

You got back to your house with sunflowers in one hand, a bag of peaches in the other, and your wigs still barely hanging on.

Bucky tugged his off the second the door shut. You kept yours on just to make him laugh one last time before finally giving in and tossing it onto the entryway bench.

“God,” you groaned, kicking your shoes off. “We looked like walking satire.”

“You bought them,” he pointed out.

“Exactly,” you grinned, “I have no one to blame but myself.”

He set the peaches on the counter and opened the fridge, standing there like he lived here, like this wasn’t weird and it wasn’t. Not with him.

You poured two glasses of water, handed him one, and nodded toward the back patio.

“Come on,” you said.

Your backyard was ridiculous.

Big enough for events. Empty enough to echo. Most days it just sat there, silent and underused, like a stage no one had written a scene for.

But tonight you made it yours. You laid a thick blanket right in the middle of the lawn, a bottle of water and two peaches between you.

Just you two and the stars, you dropped down first, looking up, arms folded under your head.

He hesitated briefly before lowering himself beside you. The sky above was endless, crisp and clear. You sighed. “So… that one’s called ‘The Sad Actress Who Bought Too Many Wigs.’”

He turned his head. “Is it?”

You nodded solemnly. “Legend says she cried on cue and never learned to cook.”

Bucky snorted. “Sounds tragic.”

“Deeply.”

He pointed upward. “That one’s Cassiopeia. Queen of vanity, everyone thought she was prettier than the gods.”

You squinted. “Is that a compliment?”

He smirked. “No comment.”

You laughed and rolled closer to him, propping your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into your side. He didn’t pull away. You kept pointing, making up fake names, dumb stories about the sky.

He chimed in with the real ones. Orion, Lyra, Andromeda. He told you about them softly, like they were old friends he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Eventually, you went quiet. Your cheek was against his shoulder now. His hand rested lightly on your waist, not holding you there just being there. You could feel his heartbeat where your arm brushed his chest.

You tilted your head, voice small, tired in a different kind of way. “Do you ever think we were meant to make it here?”

He was quiet for a second. “Not until now.”

--------

They were setting up for the next shot, bright lights overhead, crew darting around like bees and Bucky had been pulled aside by one of the stunt coordinators. Something about camera angles and needing a second set of eyes.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to keep you in his line of sight. You were across the stage with Leah, Brett close behind, flipping through notes and talking too fast. You were nodding along, too much, too quickl like a wind-up doll that forgot how to stop.

Then something changed. Your smile, the one you wore like armor slipped. Not all at once. Just… a flicker. A soft stutter in your face like something cracked. You said nothing, but Bucky saw it. He saw you and then you turned, walking off set. Not storming, just�� gone.

Bucky’s head snapped to follow you, heart picking up. He moved to go after you, but Brett stepped in, gesturing toward a mark on the floor. “She’ll be back, don’t worry about her trust me, she’s not worth it. Just being a diva again. This always happens when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Leah added without looking up from her phone, “Let her wear herself out. She’ll come back ready to work, it's nothing."

Something in Bucky’s chest clenched. “She’s everything.” He spoke, giving them the coldest look he could, they rushed away.

He barely finished what he was doing, his heart racing, barely listening then ducked out. The set was a maze, allways of prop rooms, makeup trailers, walls plastered with posters from old releases and peeling tape marks from years of taped call sheets.

It took him longer than he liked. But eventually, he found your dressing room. The door was cracked, he didn’t knock but didn’t barge in either. He just stood there, quiet in the hallway, watching through the sliver.

You were sitting at the vanity, that wide, glowing mirror with the bulbs lining every edge. The kind they use in every movie to say this is what fame looks like. But you didn’t look like the girl they all talked about. You looked empty.

Eyes glassy, staring at your reflection like you didn’t recognize yourself. Your back was straight, shoulders set, trained posture. The kind they drilled into you, but your hands were shaking in your lap and then the tears started.

No noise, no breakdown. Just quiet streams falling over your cheeks like they’d been waiting all day for permission. Then your breath hitched. Once. Twice and suddenly it wasn’t quiet anymore.

You were sobbing. Body curled forward, heels digging into the rung of the stool, hand coming up to cover your mouth like you were afraid someone might hear. As if feeling was the real shame.

That’s when Bucky moved. He stepped inside, gently, not saying anything. You didn’t see him at first. Not until the door clicked shut behind him, he locked it too.

You flinched, turned, eyes red, cheeks blotchy, makeup streaked down like melted glass.

“Sorry,” you breathed, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want anyone to—” You stopped, shook your head but it was just all too much and it was Bucky. So you let it out, finally. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Bucky froze, heart pinched in his chest.

You looked down at your hands like they weren’t yours. “I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m disappearing. Like they hollowed me out and left this thing behind and everyone keeps clapping for her but I don’t even know her, I don’t wanna be her.”

You were trembling now, but still trying to hold it in.

“They don’t care if I’m tired, or scared, or if I don’t wanna be touched. I just smile. I go where I’m told. I let them touch my hair, my face, my body and they say it’s mine, but it’s not. None of it is.” You looked up at him then.

“I don’t wanna be lucky,” you whispered. “I just wanna be okay.”

Bucky crossed the room in two steps. He didn’t grab you, he didn’t rush. He just knelt down in front of you and reached for your hands, carefully, like he was afraid to scare you off and wrapped both of his around yours.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Not like this, not for them.”

You looked at him, eyes swimming. “What choice do I have?”

“You have me,” he said. No hesitation.

You blinked.

He gave your hands the gentlest squeeze. “You have me.”

You stared at him, throat tight, hands trembling inside his. You wanted to say something, anything. But nothing came. Just silence and the hum of the dressing room lights above. His thumb brushed over your knuckles lightly, grounding.

“I didn’t think I would ever deserve to feel this way, ” he said quietly. “Didn’t know if I could, not after everything.”

You looked up slowly, surprised.

“I thought what I have was it, just Steve and Sam, I thought… maybe that was all I got, that this was it for me.”

“I didn’t think I deserve anything good,” he added, his voice rougher now. “Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve been.”

Your lip quivered. Not because of what he said. But because it was you he was saying it to.

“But then I met you,” he continued. “And I didn’t see it at first. Not the real you. Just the version they sell, all glam and armor. You were like… smoke. I couldn’t hold on to anything.”

You let out a soft laugh through your tears, the kind that hiccups on its way out.

He smiled gently. “But this? Right now. This you? The you that’s sitting here trying to breathe? That’s the one I want.”

You swallowed hard.

“I want this you forever or however long you’ll have me.”

You didn’t speak, couldn’t. Not with your heart beating like that, instead you took your hands out of his and tossed them around his neck and his went around your waist and you just held each other.

The doorknob jiggled, fast and impatient. Then came the banging. “Why is the door locked?”

You froze. Your body instinctively straightened. That trained tension snapping back into your spine.

Bucky pulled away, holding your face in his hands, and looked at you.“We can figure this out,” he said. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. You don’t owe them anything, you’re not a brand. You’re not a puppet, you’re a person.”

More banging.

“If you wanna stop, we stop.”

“Give me a second!” you shouted, voice cracking.

“We don’t have a second!” Leah’s voice, sharp and slicing through the wood like a blade.

You closed your eyes, inhaled. Wiped your face. “I have to finish today,” you whispered.

He hated it. God, he hated that sentence. Hated how defeated it sounded. But he understood it. He’d been there. He knew what it meant to survive one more day just to make it through the night.

So he nodded and you nodded back, he placed a kiss to the top of your head before standing up.

You turned back to the mirror, and stared at yourself like a stranger. You smoothed your hair. Blotted under your eyes, swallowed everything.

Three breaths.

You put your mask back on. Not the glamorous one, the functional one the one that let you live.

You turned to him. “Okay.”

He hesitated, then walked to the door, unlocked it. It burst open like a war zone.

“Oh my God, your makeup,” Leah groaned. “What the hell happened?”

She waved the makeup artist over like a soldier summoning backup.

Bucky didn’t say a word. He stepped back into the corner, jaw locked, watching them descend on you with powder and brushes like you were a problem to be fixed.

But you weren’t, he knew that now. You were someone trying to survive and he wasn’t going anywhere.

The sun was just starting to set when the last shot wrapped.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, exhausted but wired the kind of tired that lives in your bones. You kept looking at the car they’d sent for you, engine humming down the block, driver waiting, door open.

But you didn’t move. Bucky walked up behind you, silent as always.

You didn’t turn, just asked, “You heading home?”

He didn’t answer, just asked. “Why?”

Youlooked at him. “I don’t really wanna go back to the house,” you admitted, voice low.

He didn’t ask why. He just nodded once, then said, “It’s movie night at the Tower.”

You blinked. “Is that code for something?”

“No, just pizza and Sam forcing everyone to watch The Mummy again.”

You stared at him.

“Do you wanna go?” he asked, more careful now. “I never go. They’ll be shocked.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “Would that be… okay?”

Bucky tilted his head, like he couldn’t believe you were actually asking. “Would that be okay?” he echoed. “Sam probably won’t even watch the movie. He’ll just stare at you the whole time.”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing. “Okay.”

He smiled, small and soft. “Okay.”

You glanced once more at the waiting car, then pulled your phone from your bag and shot off a quick text to Leah: Don’t need a ride. Going home with a friend.

Then you turned the phone off, it was the most rebellious thing you’d done in years.

Outside the studio, you followed Bucky across the parking lot. The sky now streaked with blue and gold, the city soft around the edges.

Then you saw it, the bike, his bike. You stopped walking. “You’re kidding.”

Bucky turned, confused. “What?”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

“I mean, yeah. You thought I drove a Prius?”

You laughed and it echoed in the open air.

“If you don’t want to take it I can get one of the guys to come get us,” he offered. “We can Uber—”

“No.” You were already walking toward the bike. “I’ve always wanted to go on one.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

You nodded, already tugging his helmet from the handlebars.

“You’re gonna want to hold on tight,” he warned.

“Was planning on it.”

He handed you the helmet, watched you adjust the strap like you’d done it a thousand times, then swung his leg over the seat.

You climbed on behind him. Your arms slid around his middle like you were built to fit there.

He revved the engine, and the bike took off, smooth, fast, cutting through the night with wind in your hair and something wild in your chest.

You didn’t want the ride to end.

But it did with the Tower glowing against the skyline, warm and gold like a beacon. Bucky parked just outside and helped you off, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary at your waist.

You walked in together still laughing at something dumb he’d said when you passed a billboard with your face on it.

The elevator dinged open, you stepped inside and the second the doors opened to the communal floor, voices carried through the hall.

“I’m not watching The Mummy again, Sam!”

“Then get your own movie night!”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Every week,” he muttered.

You were still smiling when you stepped into the room both of you and it took about three seconds for all conversation to stop.

Sam’s mouth dropped open. Steve nearly choked on his drink. Natasha raised one eyebrow, very slowly.

Tony blinked. “Well, look who’s got himself a plus one.”

You stepped in carefully, wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big, still Bucky’s the one you stole the first night you were on lock down, the night he got to see a glimpse of you. You looked real, you looked like you.

“Hey,” you said, shy but calm.

Sam stood up like he forgot how legs worked. “I…you…again? Is this real life?”

“She’s not a unicorn, Wilson,” Bucky muttered.

Tony clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Proud of you, Barnes. First soul you’ve shown in seventy years.”

You smirked, cheeks flushed, and followed Bucky to the couch. Someone handed you a slice of pizza. Natasha tossed you a blanket without saying a word. You thanked her softly, when the movie started, you barely watched it.

Halfway through the second one, your legs were draped over Bucky’s lap, your head resting against his chest. His arm was around your shoulders. He wasn’t even watching or paying attention to the movie. At one point, he glanced down and found your eyes half closed.

“You can sleep,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the movie.

“I don’t sleep in front of people,” you mumbled, already drifting.

“’S’ just us.”

You didn’t answer because you felt safe enough to close your eyes and sleep.

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours. The sheets were soft. The room was quiet. Familiar, now. Too quiet for a Tower full of Avengers.

You blinked against the light seeping through the windows, sitting up slowly. Bucky’s hoodie was still wrapped around you and you definitely weren’t on the couch anymore.

You smiled to yourself, just a little, realizing he must’ve carried you in. A second later, you heard the bathroom door open, steam rolling out into the room and then he stepped out in just a towel, wrapped low. Water still dripped from his hair, sliding down his chest, his arms, every inch of him sculpted like a man made of war and time.

Your mouth dried instantly. You tried, god, you tried not to stare. But then he caught your eye and he smirked. His cheeks flushed just slightly. “Steve’s cooking,” he said, casually like he wasn’t standing there a walking Greek statue. “Do you wanna eat?”

You swallowed. “Uh…no. I mean…yes. I just…” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll eat.”

He nodded, turning back into the bathroom. “Just give me a second.”

You sat there in the quiet, heart still thudding in your chest like a traitor. When he came out, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt now, hair still damp but combed back, you stood and followed him down the hall.

The kitchen was already alive with the smell of something warm and buttery and Steve muttering to himself about how “Sam never remembers to buy enough eggs.”

You stepped in behind Bucky, barefoot, eyes still adjusting and they started clapping, Sam whistled.

You blinked. “What’s… happening?”

“You haven’t heard yet?” Natasha asked from the stool, sipping coffee with one brow raised.

You shook your head slowly. “I haven’t turned my phone back on.”

Steve gave a tight smile. “Friday?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” the AI chirped.

“TV on.”

The screen lit up above the counter and there you were.

Big and bold on a news segment, not a paparazzi shot, but a full-blown entertainment headline.

“—confirmed just this morning that Y/N L/N will be receiving the lifetime achievement award at this year’s Global Arts Guild ceremony…”

Clips started playing, you on red carpets, you in films. Montages of you crying, dancing, bleeding on screen every performance they could scrape together for the sake of a narrative.

Bucky looked over at you, you were still. Still watching, barely breathing. The music cut, then the anchor changed.

“But not everyone is celebrating…”

Images now of you on set arguing, looking exhausted, distraught, one clip of you snapping at someone off-screen, another where you were just… sitting, crying, not acting. They spoke over it all.

Critics questioning your mental state. Saying it was “ungrateful” to be sad when you “had everything.” Comparing you to people “with real problems.”

“Friday, turn it off,” Bucky said sharply.

The screen went black, silence rang in the room. No one said a word. You stood there, chest tight, face unreadable. Then you turned toward the stove, putting on one of your best performances. “It smells delicious.”

Steve’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together, regret softening his mouth. “I didn’t know they’d play that stuff,” he said quietly. “I just thought you’d wanna know about the award.”

You nodded once, calm and composed. “It's okay.”

He slid a plate toward you, warm and full. “It tastes even better.”

You smiled. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Steve’s hand brushed your wrist as you reached for the plate. “Of course.”

Across the kitchen, Bucky watched the way you sat down slowly at the island, fork in hand, holding yourself together like a paper bird in the rain.

He drove you home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, knuckles flexing like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

The ride was quiet. Not awkward, just heavy. Everything that had aired that morning was still hanging between you like fog.

When he pulled up to the gate, he didn’t cut the engine right away. He looked at you. You were already unbuckling, eyes on the road ahead.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked softly.

You gave a small, practiced smile. “Of course. I’m receiving the biggest award I possibly could. I’m living the dream, remember?”

He didn’t smile. He tilted his head just a little, brows drawn together. “You can tell me.”

You blinked and then a single tear slid down your cheek.

You wiped it away quickly with your sleeve. “I just think I need to be alone for a few days. Please don’t take it personally.”

He shook his head. “No, I get it.”

You turned to open the door, but he caught your wrist gently.

“Call me if you need anything, alright?” he said. “I’ll be here in a second.”

You nodded. He pulled you in, wrapped his arms around you, not too tight, just enough. His lips pressed against your forehead, soft and grounding. He stepped back and let you go. You walked up the steps and opened the front door, turning once to look at him.

He was still there. You gave him the smallest smile, and then disappeared inside.

The moment the door shut, your knees buckled. You didn’t cry right away, you didn’t scream, you just sank.

Right there in the front entryway, curled on the cold marble floor, eyes staring at the ceiling like it might answer all the questions in your chest. You didn’t know how long you laid there.

But eventually, the silence cracked open inside you and the tears came hard and fast, your palms pressed over your face as your shoulders shook.

When it stopped, you got up slowly and went to the piano. Your fingers hovered above the keys. Then pressed down, soft at first something mournful, aching. But it shifted, the sound built, heavier, angrier, not chaotic, but alive. In the middle of it, you realized something: You didn’t want to do this anymore, not like this. You weren’t going to.

You threw on one of those stupid wigs from the market, the blonde curly one this time and sunglasses. Hoodie up, disguise solid in your opinion. You went into a cell phone store, calm as ever. “I need a new phone, new number.”

The guy barely looked up. “You switching carriers?”

“No, just my life.” You paid in cash. That night, you sat on your couch in the dark, lit by the glow of your new screen and started making calls..

You slept 6 hours that night and Saturday morning rolled around and you called a realtor first thing.

“Yes, of course we can keep it private,” she said. “Off-market, no press, no walkthroughs.”

“How soon can we list it?” you asked.

She paused. “Depends how quickly you want to move.”

“Immediately, I want it gone.”

“And where are you looking to move to?”

You smiled faintly. “Something smaller, quiet. With a porch and a real kitchen.”

Saturday afternoon, you called the director of Lucky. You hadn’t signed anything thankfully, just did the screen tests.

“I’m not taking the role,” you said, calm.

There was a beat of stunned silence. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Just… give it to the next girl. I hope she kills it.” You hung up before they could ask why.

Saturday night, the old phone, the one you were supposed to use wouldn’t stop ringing.

Brett. Leah. Your team. Unread texts stacked like bricks:

What are you doing.

You can’t disappear.

You are under contract. You don’t get to do this.

Call us now or else.

Responses now or we’ll walk, you need us!!

So you called them. “You don’t have to walk. I’m parting ways.”

They reminded you of your contract fees, the legal hit, the money it was always about the money.

You didn’t flinch. “Who do I send the check to?”

Sunday morning became one of your favourite days. You already felt freer, and you couldn't wait to tell Bucky. You’d heard nothing from him not because he wasn’t trying, but because he was respecting you and your space.

But Bucky was freaking out on the inside, Steve told him not to worry.

“She’s fine, Buck, she’s a tough girl.” he said, calm, sipping coffee.

But Bucky was pacing, he hadn’t slept. That’s when his phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Can you come over?

He froze, then another message: It’s me. I got a new phone. My own phone.

His chest loosened, he turned to Steve. “She texted me. She wants me to come over.”

Steve smiled behind his mug. “Then what are you still doing here?”

He got there fast, you were already waiting by the door. Your hair was cut. Still long, but no longer the red-carpet glamour length. Just to your shoulders. You were barefoot. Wearing jeans and a plain tee.

You smiled, small but sure. “Come in, Sarge.”

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him slowly.

You were already in the middle of the room, arms crossed, bare feet tucked beneath you on the rug. You looked nervous, but there was something else in your eyes, something lighter.

He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but you spun around first, your voice lifting the silence:

“So… you’re fired.”

He froze. “What?”

You were smiling but he still looked stunned. He tried to say something again, but nothing came out, just confusion.

Before he could spiral, you stepped forward, both hands reaching out to grab his. “And before you start panicking, because I can see it written all over your face,” you said, gently, “let me explain.”

You gave his hands a small squeeze and guided him toward the living room. You both sat down on the couch, and for a second, you just sat there, facing forward, fidgeting with your fingers.

Your heart was thudding, saying it made it real, saying it to him made it real, but you were ready. “I turned down the movie.”

He blinked.

You kept going. “I broke my contract with Brett, Leah and Gina, the whole team. I have a new phone, a new number, only you have it.”

He stared at you, barely breathing.

“This house is getting sold,” you continued, voice shaking slightly now. “And at the awards… I’m announcing my retirement.”

You couldn’t look at him. You stared down at your hands, picking at a loose edge of skin by your nail, trying to stay steady.

“I’m done, Bucky. I’m really done.”

There was a long pause, his voice came in low and careful. “This is what you want?”

You finally looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, your voice didn’t shake. “This is what I want.”

His eyes softened, shoulders dropping like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You smiled, smaller now, but it reached your eyes. “There’s just one more thing I want.”

He tilted his head. “What’s that?”

You smiled wider, heartbeat climbing. “You.”

Your smile grew, his did too. Without thinking, he pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You giggled, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, foreheads nearly touching.

“You, Bucky Barnes,” you whispered, voice thick with love, “are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Something in him broke, not in a bad way, never in a bad way, not with you, but like a dam that had been waiting to fall, he didn’t speak but just one tear slid down his cheek.

You reached up and brushed it away.

He closed his eyes, leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

“I’ve never…” he started, but had to stop. Reminding himself to swallow and breathe. “I’ve never had anyone say that. Not to me, not like that.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then again pressing your forehead to his. “You deserved to hear it, every word.”

His arms tightened around you, like he was afraid to let go. Like he’d finally been handed something he thought he’d never get and he wasn’t about to lose it.

And you? You finally felt safe, you felt free, you felt like you.

-----

Monday morning the house was still the kind of still that only came after a long week of too much noise.

Bucky woke up in the guest room. He laid there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of something distant the fridge, maybe or the house itself breathing.

It was always like this here. Quiet, not in a peaceful way, but in a way that felt… empty. The ceilings were too high. The air too clean. No signs of life except for the woman asleep down the hall.

He sat up, bare feet hitting the hardwood. It was early. Light hadn’t fully made its way through the blinds yet, but he could see the faint glow of it creeping up over the hills through the tall windows in the hallway.

Your door was cracked open.

He padded down the hallway, moving like he had a hundred times before in a hundred different safehouses, alert, careful. But this wasn’t a mission. It was just you.

You were curled up in the middle of your massive bed, half-buried in the covers. One leg kicked out from under the sheets, hair a soft mess across the pillow. Face turned slightly toward the window.

You looked like someone who belonged to the morning. Not the cameras, not the lights, not for anyone else but him.

Just here….just you.

He didn’t come in. Just leaned against the doorway and watched for a minute, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Then you stirred.

A soft stretch, a furrow in your brow, a breath pulled in through your nose, slowly, your eyes opened. You blinked once, then again and then you smiled, slow and sleepy.

“Good morning, Sarge,” you said, voice gravelly from sleep.

It made something in his chest twist.

“Morning,” he said softly.

You yawned and rolled onto your back, your arm flopping out dramatically. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

“Too early?”

He smirked. “Little bit.”

You turned your head toward him fully now. “You watching me sleep, Barnes?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled again and tucked your hands beneath your head.

“Don’t make it weird,” you added, teasing.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, and finally stepped into the room.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying cat.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, already turning back toward the kitchen.

You sat up slowly, hair wild, sheets pooled in your lap.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called after him.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

Your voice was soft. “Thanks for being here.”

His jaw tightened, just a little and he nodded once. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanna be here and I’m not going anywhere.”

---

On Tuesday the sun was starting to fall, soft and gold, casting long shadows across the back patio. The heat of the day had slipped into something gentler, warm enough to still sting your skin, but lazy enough to feel like summer was finally exhaling.

You padded barefoot onto the tile, hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on your head. Bucky followed behind you slowly, his t-shirt loose, sweats hanging low on his hips. He hadn’t quite figured out how to be in a house like this, so clean, so open but with you in it, it didn’t feel so empty.

“Pool’s too quiet,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s depressing.”

You walked to the edge and dropped your towel, standing there in a black bikini that wasn’t even trying to be dramatic, just simple, flattering. You didn’t pose.

You just stood there in the sun like you belonged to it. He tried not to stare.

Tried.

You caught him anyway.

“Like what you see?” you asked, not coy, just curious, a small smirk pulling at your lips.

He didn’t look away, he didn't pretend, “Yeah,” he said simply.

You smiled wider. “Good.”

You dove in and disappeared under the water. Bucky watched the ripples spread, standing there for another beat before finally tugging off his shirt.

He didn’t say anything as he jumped in, just hit the water with a clean splash and surfaced to see you laughing.

He hadn’t heard that sound from you enough.

“You’re slow,” you called, floating on your back now.

“You cheated.”

You swam laps, you raced, you lost on purpose. You climbed up onto the edge just to cannonball in again. You teased him, splashed him, laughed when he tried to dunk you and failed.

In the deep end, you drifted toward him. The water was cool now, the sky streaked in purples and pinks. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, let your fingers slide down his neck.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He looked at you, then you kissed him.

It wasn’t heated, you weren’t there, not yet. It was soft. Wet lips and wet skin. Your hands resting against his jaw like you were scared he might disappear.

When you pulled back, he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

After dinner and fresh clothes, you sat at the piano with a towel still around your shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends. The living room was dim, the night coming in soft through the glass doors.

Bucky sat on the couch behind you, arms stretched across the back, fingers tapping lightly in rhythm as you played.

No lyrics, just music.

Something low and steady, with dips in all the right places. Sad, but not broken. Hopeful he liked to think or at least almost.

He closed his eyes.

When you finished, the final note hanging in the air like something unsaid, his voice came low. “Play it again.”

You didn’t hesitate, you just started from the top, you realized you would do anything for Bucky Barnes.

He sat there, still as stone, listening like he was hearing you for the first time all over again.

--

Wednesday morning was quiet until it wasn’t. You made the mistake of opening your laptop.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But your fingers had a mind of their own, typing your name into the search bar like you were bracing for a punch.

And there it was, headline after headline, stacked like a wall you couldn’t climb over:

“Y/N L/N FIRES ENTIRE TEAM: PR STUNT OR BREAKDOWN?”

“Former Publicist Speaks Out: ‘We Couldn’t Help Her Anymore’”

“Too Much Too Fast — A Cautionary Tale.”

“Not even The Avengers can save her!”

They didn’t care about facts, they cared about drama.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred. Your throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself. You didn’t even notice Bucky at first, not until the soft sound of ceramic on wood made you flinch.

He was standing there in the doorway with two mugs. One for him, one for you. He didn’t ask what you were reading. He didn’t need to, he could see it all over your face. He just walked over, set your coffee down without a word, and disappeared again into the other room.

You sat frozen, eyes still on the screen. Still seeing all the words: unstable, ungrateful, too much.

Then the sound of music pulled you out of the haze, the soft scratch of vinyl spinning up. Not your playlist, his.

Low, slow jazz. Ella Fitzgerald humming through the speakers like the world wasn’t trying to tear you apart.

He came back into the room and held out a hand. “Come here.”

You didn’t speak. Certainly didn’t argue, didn’t hesitate. You walked right into him like your body already knew what to do. Like this had always been the escape route you never knew you had.

His arm slid around your waist, his fingers laced with yours, and he began to sway barely moving, just shifting with the music. You let your cheek press against his chest.

The headlines were still on the screen across the room. But they felt a million miles away.

“You really know how to shut up a spiral,” you mumbled into his shirt.

“I’ve had practice,” he said.

He kissed your temple gently, like a period at the end of a sentence. “Steve told me to never type my name into any search bar.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, you hummed. “He’s smart, why he's the Captain.”

Bucky just held you tighter as the music crackled and the world faded. The silence inside your own head wasn’t heavy anymore, it was just filled with him.

---

The house smelled like citrus and sunscreen on Thursday, with hints of something sweet baking in the oven that you absolutely did not make yourself. Bucky was lighting the citronella candles out back. You were fluffing pillows on the deck furniture like it mattered. You wouldn't admit it but you were nervous, you never had anyone in your home before that wasn’t paid to be here, beside Bucky now. But even before he was paid to be here. So having Sam and Steve willingly wanting to come hang out with you, your nerves were out of control.

“They’re gonna love you,” Bucky said when he caught you anxiously smoothing out the same throw blanket for the third time. “It’s gonna be fine.”

You didn’t look at him. “They already know me.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, brushing your hand away so he could take over. “But I can hear your heartbeat sweetheart,”

You swallowed, remembering he was enhanced, you nodded. “Okay, yeah, right.”

You were still nervous. They showed up at 4:37pm, three minutes early, which somehow felt very Steve.

Sam walked in first, sunglasses still on, stopping in the foyer like he forgot how to speak.

“Holy shit,” he said slowly. “This place is insane.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Told you.”

Steve came in behind him, eyes roaming across the clean lines and open space, the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the backyard. “Didn’t expect this.”

You leaned against the banister, arms crossed. “What were you expecting?”

Sam shrugged, still glancing around. “I don’t know. More… velvet? Dramatic drapes? Maybe a spiral staircase.”

You snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no,” Sam said. “This is classy. It’s like if Restoration Hardware had a baby with a Bond villain’s hideout.”

Steve grinned, patting Sam on the shoulder. “Ignore him. It’s beautiful…It’s—”

“It's not me.” You cut him off, “They uh made me buy it, I’m selling, gonna find something more….me.”

Sam smiled, “You gotta have velvet at that place, screams you.”

By sundown, you were all out back Bucky’s arm slung comfortably around your waist, Sam mixing some kind of weirdly decent cocktails from the little bar cart you never used, Steve manning the fire pit like he’d trained for it.

“Alright,” Sam said, clapping his hands together after his first drink. “Somebody better tell me how this happened.”

“What?” you asked, smiling into your glass.

He gestured between you and Bucky. “This, you two. The world’s grumpiest man and Hollywood’s most untouchable starlet?”

You looked at Bucky. “We’re a romcom waiting to happen.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think we’re a romcom?”

“I think you’re the broody lead who doesn’t realize he’s in love until like… minute seventy-five,” you teased, glancing up at Bucky with a grin.

Steve let out a deep, genuine laugh. “That sounds about right.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his drink. “So, you excited for Saturday? Google told me you’re the youngest person to ever receive the award.”

You fidgeted with your glass, not quite meeting anyone’s eye. “I mean… I’m honored, of course. It’s huge. But I can’t wait for it to be over.”

Sam raised a brow. “Over?”

You exhaled slowly. “No more movies. No more red carpets. No more flashing lights, or interviews, or pretending to be something I’m not every day.”

There was a small pause. Sam blinked. “Wait, hold up. I think I missed a scene. What are you talking about?”

You glanced between them. “I’m retiring. I’m announcing it during the speech.”

Steve sat up straighter, eyes cutting to Bucky, then back to you. “That’s… huge.”

You nodded once. “Yeah, it is. But I’m ready. I never really wanted all of this…not in the way people think I did. I just want to breathe again.”

Sam looked honestly bummed. “Damn, you’re my favorite actress.”

You swallowed, guilt brushing the edge of your chest. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He waved it off, even if his face still read like he’d just been told his favorite show got canceled. “Nah, it’s cool. Whatever makes you happy. But I’m gonna need you to sign every single one of my DVDs. Make ‘em collector’s items.”

You laughed, “Of course, anything for you.” Bucky squeezed your knee gently, and when you looked over, he was already looking at you.

“Anyway,” you said, holding up the bag, “who wants to roast marshmallows?”

“Hell yeah,” Sam grinned, already reaching for a stick.

You burned yours on purpose just to make Bucky eat them, because you found out two days ago that he hates them crispy.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, chewing the blackened sugar like it might kill him.

“Character building,” you said sweetly, sliding another one onto your stick.

Steve was telling a story about the first time he ever saw Bucky try to flirt, something involving a newspaper stand, a broken heel, and a pie and Sam was howling.

The fire crackled and night got softer. Your head eventually found its way to Bucky’s shoulder, your legs tucked up under you.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The fire started to die down and Steve and Sam had claimed their guest rooms, you stood on the back deck with Bucky, looking out over your massive, mostly unused backyard. The air smelled like wood smoke and jasmine. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and he came up behind you, wrapping his around you too.

“This has been…” you started, then shook your head. “I don’t have the words for it, actually…”

He didn’t push. You turned in his arms, looking up at him, eyes searching his face in the low light, you swallowed heavily.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” you said quietly. It was the first time the words left your mouth. The first time you didn’t choke on them.

Bucky didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look surprised. He just smiled, “Well,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I’ll catch you.”

Your heart stopped.

“Because I’m already there, sweetheart.”

He kissed you like he meant it this time, not rushed, not hungry, just slow and deeply. Like he wanted to memorize it, like he didn’t care about anything except the way you tasted or the way your breath caught in your throat when his hand slid up your spine.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of patience that said he wasn’t going anywhere. That you weren’t just a moment he’d lose when the lights came up.

Later, you fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms, your limbs wrapped around him like you were afraid to let go. The sheets were kicked down to your ankles, skin warm from the heat you shared. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back until your breathing slowed, evened out.

You fit into him like the part of a story he didn’t realize was missing and now that he had you, he couldn’t imagine the ending without you in it.

-----

Friday started quiet. You were making breakfast in one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, one he claimed you stole but never actually asked for back. The sleeves hit your elbows, and the hem barely grazed your thighs. You kept dancing around the kitchen barefoot, humming along to a playlist you threw on without thinking.

Bucky was pretending to read the paper, but his eyes weren’t on the headlines, they were on you.

“Stop staring,” you teased, flipping a pancake, “it’s creepy.”

“You’re in my shirt,” he said, not bothering to look away.

You rolled your eyes. “You left it here.”

“You stole it.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“You know that doesn’t apply to my clothes, right?”

You turned around slowly, one brow lifted. “Are you gonna take it back?”

He just leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Not a chance.”

You spent most of the day in the pool. You dunked him once, and he swore vengeance for at least an hour after. You swore he cheated when you raced. He said you were just a sore loser. It was the kind of day that made the rest of the world feel like background noise.

At some point in the late afternoon, you collapsed into a pile of towels on a lounge chair, your hair still damp, cheeks warm from the sun.

“Everything’s gonna change tomorrow,” you murmured.

Bucky leaned over from the chair beside you. “Why do you say that?”

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Because once I say it out loud, I can’t un-say it. Y’know the retirement, the house, leaving it all behind.”

He was quiet for a second. “You’re not leaving everything.”

You swallowed. “It feels like I am.”

His hand reached over, found yours. “You’ve got me, that part isn't going anywhere.”

It was almost midnight when it shifted.

You were curled into him on the couch, both of you still wearing barely anything, skin warm from the day. You made a dumb joke about his middle name again, and he made a worse one about your acting in that one drama you hated. You pushed him, he pulled you back.

The laughter faded slower this time. Not awkward, just… softer. Like you were waiting for something.

You were already facing him, his palm against your bare thigh, thumb moving in slow, thoughtless circles. You traced a finger down his chest, eyes on the line of his jaw.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You did. Of course you did.

You kissed him first, slow and easy, mouths finding a rhythm you’d been circling for days. Weeks. Months. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t rushed, it felt more like relief.

When he lifted you into his lap, you wrapped your legs around his waist like you’d always belonged there. His hands slid beneath the shirt you were still wearing, his shirt, his fingers grazing skin like he was memorizing it. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye, your forehead resting against his.

“I love you,” he said.

You froze.

It wasn’t a whisper, itt wasn’t an accident. He said it like he meant it. Like he’d been holding it in for days, maybe longer.

You smiled, eyes glassy but steady. “Say it again.”

His hand cupped your cheek. “I love you.”

You kissed him again, harder this time and everything that followed was slow. Worshipful. Hands and mouths and sighs, skin against skin, all of it quiet and deliberate. He touched you like you were something precious. You held him like he was something you’d waited a lifetime for.

There were moments when neither of you said a word, just breathing into each other’s mouths and there were others when you couldn’t stop, when you told him how safe he made you feel, how real this felt, how badly you wanted him to stay. He didn’t promise anything he couldn’t give. He just stayed.

After, you lay on your side, head on his chest, your fingers tracing slow circles over the scar near his collarbone. His hand moved lazily along your spine, down to your hip, back up again. Your legs tangled beneath the sheets.

“I could stay here forever,” you whispered, not even meaning to say it out loud.

“You could,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I’d never stop you.”

You smiled into his skin. “I love you too, you know.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You deserve the world Bucky.”

---

The Saturday morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. You stir, the familiar scent of coffee and something delicious wafting in from the kitchen. Stretching, you realize the bed beside you is empty, the sheets slightly cool where Bucky had been. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you sit up, the oversized shirt you borrowed from him slipping off one shoulder.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you find Bucky at the stove, his back to you. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still tousled from sleep. The sight of him, so at ease in your space, sends a flutter through your chest.

He turns as he hears you approach, a spatula in one hand and a tender smile spreading across his face.

“Morning beautiful,” he greets, his voice still husky. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. “You really didn’t have to cook,” you tease, though the affection in your tone is unmistakable.

He sets the spatula down and crosses the room to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Yes, I do,” he murmurs against your skin. “Today’s a big day.”

Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness. Together, you sit down to a breakfast of perfectly cooked eggs, golden toast, fresh strawberries, and steaming coffee. The conversation is light, filled with shared smiles and the occasional brush of hands. Despite the significance of the day ahead, there’s a comforting normalcy in this moment, a grounding calm before the impending storm of the awards ceremony.

After breakfast, you retreat to your bedroom to get ready. The absence of a glam team, stylists, and handlers is both liberating and daunting. Standing before the mirror, you take a deep breath, embracing the solitude and the authenticity it brings.

You curl your lashes, apply a subtle touch of makeup, just enough to feel like yourself, not someone they’ve painted on you. No red lipstick tonight, just soft pink. Something gentle, something you.

Then you step into the satin cream dress you chose yourself. Your favorite, because of its quiet elegance… and because it has pockets. You slip your hands into them automatically, fingers brushing over the small carved bird Bucky made for you. It’s warm from sitting on the dresser, shaped perfectly to your palm. You slide it into your pocket and let it stay there, a piece of him with you, grounding you.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, checking yourself once in the mirror. You look like… you. Not just some actress, not a product but…you.

Your phone buzzes.

You cross the room in bare feet and check it: a message from Sam, full of emojis, clapping hands, a star, a winking face, a rocket, a slice of pizza. You laugh under your breath.

Before you can respond, another message comes through. A selfie of Sam and Steve on the couch, grinning like idiots. Behind them, the awards show is already playing on the TV. There’s popcorn in Steve’s lap. Sam’s doing peace signs with both hands.

You cover your mouth with one hand, not to hide your smile but to keep from crying. You’re not used to this. The support, the friendship. Love that isn’t transactional. For so long, you thought this kind of thing didn’t exist. Now you know better.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts, it opens and Bucky’s standing there. Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Tie just slightly undone and he’s holding something, a little velvet box in one hand, something he’s not drawing attention to. His eyes lock on you and he just stops.

He stares. Takes a slow breath like he needs to restart his heart.

“You…”

His voice is rough, low, and a little stunned.

“You look beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks warm. Your pulse skips.

“I mean it,” he says, stepping into the room. “You don’t even look real. You look like… like every dream I ever had before the war.”

Your eyes flicker down, shy and soft. “You clean up alright yourself.”

He walks toward you, slow. With one hand, he lifts the box and opens it.

Inside, is a delicate gold bracelet. Simple, elegant, with a single little charm, a star. He doesn’t explain it, you just know.

“For luck,” he says.

Your fingers tremble just a little as you hold out your wrist. When he fastens it, his thumb brushes over the inside of your skin, and you feel it down to your ribs.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He meets your eyes again. “Thank you,” he says back.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod.

“Let’s go get your goodbye.”

Opting to forgo the chaos of the red carpet, you and Bucky slip into the venue through a side entrance. The auditorium is a sea of elegantly dressed attendees, the air thick with anticipation. Cameras flash, capturing moments that will soon flood the media. Despite the grandeur, Bucky’s hand remains a steady presence on your lower back, grounding you amidst the whirlwind.

The ceremony progresses, awards presented, speeches delivered. Each moment brings you closer to your segment. Your heart pounds, a mix of excitement and apprehension. Then, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the crowd.

The screen illuminates with your name in bold, golden letters, accompanied by a swell of orchestral music. The montage begins, a journey through your career, meticulously curated to encapsulate years of dedication and artistry.

It opens with a clip from your breakout role, a younger version of yourself delivering a line that, at the time, felt like just another script but now resonates with profound significance. The scene transitions to a red carpet moment, flashes of cameras capturing your wide-eyed wonder as you navigate the newfound fame.

Next, a montage of roles showcasing your versatility, an intense courtroom drama where your impassioned monologue left audiences spellbound; a lighthearted romantic comedy, your laughter infectious; a gritty independent film, raw and unfiltered, revealing depths of emotion you hadn’t known you possessed.

Interspersed are behind-the-scenes snippets, laughing with castmates, moments of vulnerability during rehearsals, candid interviews where your passion for the craft shines through.

The montage crescendos with a recent scene, one that garnered critical acclaim. Your character stands alone, gazing out over a vast landscape, a single tear rolling down her cheek. The camera lingers, capturing the depth of emotion in your eyes, a testament to your growth as an artist.

As the screen fades to black, the audience erupts into applause, the sound thunderous and heartfelt. You sit frozen, emotions swirling, pride, nostalgia, a tinge of sadness. Bucky’s hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring.

Leaning close, he whispers, “That’s you. All of it and it’s incredible, you’re incredible.”

The applause echoes through the theater like a wave, rising and rising, refusing to settle. You sit still, breath caught somewhere in your chest, your fingers laced tight with Bucky’s. His palm is warm, grounding. You glance at him for just a second, long enough to see it in his eyes, that he means every word he just whispered.

You blink forward again, lashes damp, as the lights shift on stage. The host steps back into the spotlight.

He smiles, holding a small stack of note cards that he doesn’t even glance at.

“There are careers,” he begins, “and then there are lives and every once in a while, someone comes along who blurs that line so seamlessly that you can’t tell where the performance ends and the person begins.”

The crowd quiets again. No rustling, no coughing. Just breaths, held.

“We watched her grow up on screen. We’ve seen her fall in love, lose it, rage against it. We’ve seen her die a dozen different deaths and survive all of them in the hearts of her audience. She gave us everything. Every tear, every laugh, every look that didn’t need words.”

You feel Bucky’s thumb trace a slow circle over your knuckles.

“She made it look effortless. But it wasn’t, we know that now and still, she gave, and gave, and gave. For over two decades, she has captivated the world… and tonight, we honour her for it.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“She taught us that beauty isn’t perfection. It’s honesty. It’s vulnerability and she did it all while carrying the weight of fame with the grace of someone born to do it and the soul of someone who never wanted it.”

He pauses, lets the words sink in. You swear your heart stops.

“Please join me in celebrating a once-in-a-generation talent. An artist. A survivor. A woman who changed the face of cinema… simply by being real.”

He turns toward the front row.

“Y/N L/N, recipient of this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award.”

The room erupts. Bucky stands first.

The sound swells, applause, cheers, a few people whistling. Some are already on their feet before you even move.

But Bucky doesn’t rush you. He stays right beside you as you rise, his hand slipping from yours only when you’re steady on your feet. He whispers again, just before you go: “Go take what’s yours.”

With the carved wooden bird in your pocket and his love wrapped around your shoulders like a second skin you walk toward the stage.

The stage is gold-drenched.

Warm light spills across the floor, catching the satin folds of your cream dress, the one with the hidden pockets and just enough weight to feel like armor. You stand steady, heels grounded, the carved wooden bird nestled in your hand.

The glass award gleams beside you. The room is silent now, waiting. Holding its breath.

You inhale slowly. Feel the rise and fall of your ribs. The steadying ache of what it took to get here.

“I don’t think I ever believed I’d stand here. Not because I didn’t want to but because for a long time, I didn’t believe I’d survive long enough to see it.”

A pause. Soft laughter from the crowd, unsure, uncomfortable.

You smile faintly. But it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’ve spent more of my life playing other people than I have playing myself and that’s the thing no one tells you about this industry if you do it long enough, you forget where the role ends and where you begin.”

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

“I was good at pretending. I won awards for pretending. I got paid to smile, to be beautiful, to be likable. But I wasn’t any of those things. I was just… tired.”

You glance down at the bird in your hand. Curl your fingers around it.

“For a long time, I thought love wasn’t meant for people like me. Not the real kind, anyway. The kind that sees you, I mean really sees you and doesn’t run.”

Bucky’s chest tightens.

“I thought quiet meant failure. That if the cameras weren’t flashing, if the crowd wasn’t clapping, I was nothing. But then I learned something.”

You lift your head. “The quiet? It’s where everything real lives.”

“So… I’m stepping away. Tonight, I’m saying goodbye to all of it. I’m retiring. Not because I’m not grateful but because I’m ready to start living.”

Gasps and murmurs fill the arena, flashes from cameras and phones go wild.

You don’t flinch. “I’m done playing someone else’s idea of me. From here on out, I’m just gonna be me.”

The audience rises. Applause fills the room, crashing over you like thunder and you smile.

You reach for the award, fingers closing around the smooth glass.

POP.

A sound that doesn’t belong. It’s sharp and violent. The applause doesn’t stop, not at first. But your smile falters. The glass in your hand shatters and so does the world.

Your body jerks, like something pulled you backward. You stumble, a gasp ripping from your throat. Your eyes wide, disoriented.

You look down, the silk of your dress turns red, blooming like a rose from the center of your stomach. The warmth spreads fast, too fast.

The award fully slips from your hands and crashes to the stage in shards. The room turns into chaos, you barely register the screams. You only see him, Bucky. He’s already moving, another shot rings out, not at you this time, from Bucky raising his gun with no hesitation.

When he turns he sees him, Elias. He’s not in custody, he bets he never was. He’s in the back of the theater. A face twisted in obsession, mouth open in something like a smile, but it’s gone in a blink. Bucky makes sure of that, one shot. Clean. Between the eyes, Elias drops.

Bucky’s already on stage about to grab you when your knees buckle. He catches you mid-collapse, lowering you to the stage with shaking hands, already slick with blood.

“Hey. Hey. No—no, stay with me.”

He presses his hands to the wound, hard. There’s too much blood.

“Don���t do this, baby. Please. Please don’t—”

His voice cracks.

You blink up at him, eyes glassy. Your lashes tremble.

“I’m glad,” you whisper, voice a ghost. “That I got to feel something.”

Your hand reaches for his cheek, leaving a smear of blood.

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him.

“And I’m glad I got to feel it… for you.”

“No,” he chokes. “No, no, you’re okay. You’re okay—help is coming—just stay with me—please.”

Your breath hitches.

Once.

Twice.

Your eyes don’t close dramatically. They just… soften, drift.

Your hand slips from his cheek and Bucky, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you like something sacred. People are screaming, running. But no one helps and on a stage built to honour you, surrounded by flowers and flashing lights and the echoes of everything you gave all Bucky can do is whisper your name like a prayer he knows won’t be answered.

Everything goes quiet.

The carved wooden bird falls from your pocket, landing softly in the blood.

[shanastoryteller]

Hi, long time reader. Thank you for your incredible brain and bringing your writing into the outside world. You might have answered it before but I don’t remember ever seeing it. How many times do you read/watch/refer to your source material? Like, do you decide to rewatch a series once every couple of years or do you watch it once, get inspired and then mostly focus on your own interpretation

hi! thank you! :)

answering publicly because it got kinda long and i thought other people might be interested

it depends! usually on how closely a fic is in conversation with the source material and if i've consumed it recently. like for my dead boy detective fic, i'd just watched it, i didn't need to review anything, and i'm often inspired to write after reading/watching

i haven't read harry potter since maybe high school, possibly middle school. i was 13 when deathly hallows came out and i remember being so underwhelmed by it, especially since i hadn't really liked half blood prince either, and i don't think really reread it after. for siat i just use sparknotes or google something something if i can't remember because for a long time it was in pretty close conversation with canon. i'd literally read the sparknotes for a couple chapters, think about how i wanted that to go in my fic, and update the outline. my other hp fic i'd just google something if i couldn't remember

while writing lynchpin, which was very in conversation with canon, i'd literally watch an episode, or to a certain point in the episode, then go and write until that point. i had stuff and arcs in mind, but that's how i kept pace and made sure i didn't miss anything on accident. however, i haven't watched untamed since completing lynchpin, which was my first untamed fic, but nothing else has been so closely in conversation with canon

i didn't consume any canon prior to writing my avengers fic because what good would it do me lol. speak of her is directly after infinity war pt 2 which i've never seen. i just knew that tony died and i thought it was bullshit

at the rind was while i was in the middle of a house rewatch, but anything after season 4/5 i probably googled because that's when i thought the show started to decline

pour herbel oil was definitely in pretty close conversation with the canon. i did with nirvana in fire kind of what i did with untamed, watching any scene with yujin and figuring out how i wanted to slide it a little to the left

supernatural is probably one where i'm most frequently checking the source material directly. this is partially because i first watched it a looooong time ago (like watched real time through most of season 4, although i really hated what they were doing with dean, then fully fell off when season 5 started because i hated the direction it was going so much) and because the boys and their relationship have gone through so many arcs and cycles that i want to make sure i'm hitting them both correctly for the time period they're in. see something say something i'd rewatch the episodes with cases i was including, but not much else, but that fic is probably in the least conversation with canon. back was a direct result of me rewatching when the levee breaks and hating it. no safe investments was just me being like, i think dean should have crashed out waaaay more about sam dying the first time. once i decided to expand the great puzzle i rewatched season 5 so i'd know what i'm working with and it was a SLOG at times, especially early season 5, because the way sam is treated just fills me with rage. but it's like, if i'm going to have the boys dig themselves out of this hole of bullshit, i need to know how deep it goes

so the broad answer is usually not at all, except with specific fics that are in such close conversation with canon that i have to make sure i'm hitting the timeline/references right. i have a pretty good memory so unless we're getting that specific, i don't feel the need to review source material that i haven't in a while

[tonguetiedraven]

Rin was wrong about the Kyoto arc and most of you are too

But like Rin, you don't have to hold onto your assumptions.

With the slight resurgence in aoex popularity, I'm seeing a new rise in some fundamental misunderstandings about the characters and plot. I've been asked a lot of questions about a few certain characters over the years, and I've noticed that the base of the misunderstandings people tend to have with everyone originates in the Kyoto Arc.

What am I calling the Kyoto arc? Everything that happens in the second season of the anime and everything that happens after chapter 13 in the manga . (The point when the anime said let's go off and do our own wild thing and forget about the story and characters Kato is making! It'll be fun and totally not still be causing long lasting chaos over a decade later) and up to chapter 35. It's a 20 chapter arc, roughly. And honestly I think most of the manga exclusive Kraken arc should be included in the Kyoto arc because it is a direct continuation of Rin and Yukio's story line there, but I digress and we will get to that!

I am going to assume that you, the reader of this lengthy essay (I'm wordy and won't apologize for it, lol), are aware enough of the manga and Blue Exorcist to know that every episode in the first season of the anime after episode 16 is NOT CANON and does a poor job of depicting all the characters involved from Angel to Yukio. (There is no character with a Z, lol. So Yukio wins that role.) No one comes out looking correct in that. I know some people will argue that Rin is fine, but no. He is not similar to his canon hot headed, impulsive, loud, often violent/aggressive, and past avoiding self who would never have let his twin pull a gun on Kuro and would never have let Yukio leave after that without a fight. Sorry guys, they nuked him too. Just in a more pathetic victim way so people let it slide because he obviously needs to be protected from all the other meanies.

I am also going to assume you know character names. You can google them if you get confused  ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

Anyway, back on topic. I'm going to go heavily into the start of this arc and more broad as it goes on. The initial area is where most of the misconceptions start and they kind of carry through from then on meaning the entire rest of the arc and arcs there are a few flaws in the understanding of character motivations and reasons and some just basic plot stuff.

In chapter 13 of the manga, we get this tremendous clip

Just before this moment the exwires have found out that their classmate is not a human and is powerful.

You'll notice Shima leaning against the railing there. That's because he has a cracked rib and probably a concussion. Konekomaru is now sporting a broken arm, and Ryuuji got strangled out enough to be choking on blood. Shiemi was hypnotized and controlled and carried around like a possession by a demon king who tried to eat her eyes and kept taunting about making her his bride all while she was unable to move or do anything. There is not enough written about the truly terrifying kind of assault that is for the youngest member of their group, and that's without the tangle of a relationship Amaimon and Shiemi have in it.

It is vital that everyone take a second to think about that. Izumo and Takara were not there. They stayed in the camp. They didn't pursue Amaimon, Shiemi, or Rin. They chose not to fight or try to help. The Kyoto Trio did (because Ryuuji/Bon is impulsive and ran after Rin and Shiemi to help and the others followed him) and it took all of thirty seconds for the Demon King Amaimon to knock them all out without even really putting any effort into his attack.

They manage to get out of the forest and back to the pictured bridge with Yukio leading them out while the forest catches dramatically on blue fire. (Remember that the Kyoto trio grew up hearing about how much the blue flames of Satan destroyed their home and killed their family members. Their entire life was irrevocably changed because of blue flames.) And Rin and Amaimon are wildly fucking shit up. They even yeeted Mephisto who is a much higher ranking king.

All that leads to the Paladin appearing, Arthur Angel, who orders the exwires to be interrogated and checked by medics. (Honestly a step up for True Cross. They almost never remember medics.)

The Paladin appears and then Mephisto appears, and he has Rin in tow. Rin who is entirely feral and tries to lunge for the exwires. The traumatized exwires see Rin try and attack them with an entirely demonic face. They do not know anything about his story or Shirou or even ow he got here, but they can easily see that he's tied to Satan because of the flames and now he clearly wants to hurt. Hurt them.

Now in Rin's defense, he's not in his right mind. Mephisto sheaths the sword and the demonic part is forced to retreat and Rin passes out until he's slapped awake. At that point he's the Rin we know again (the exwires still have no idea what the hell is going on) and Angel takes him into custody. Rin looks over and sees his friends bloodied and bruised and sees Ryuuji with blood on his mouth staring with an unreadable expression.

It leads to this shot:

Question for the group: Who is Ryuuji asking this to?

Not Rin, that's for sure. It's Mephisto, in my opinion. Ryuuji is asking, quite understandably, why the hell the child of Satan was put in a class of ordinary students and why none of them were told about it. They just had a Demon King attack their class of exwires all of which were struggling against a simple moth and had to reseal it instead of exorcising it. A Demon King that attacked them because he wanted to do something to the son of Satan and they had no extra protection against that. Enough so that four of them are injured or traumatized.

(Also, if you get strangled do not yell and IMMEDIATELY seek medical help. There are a lot of terrible conditions and long lasting effects that can occur with strangulation.)

So at this point everyone is made to split ways. The exwires will get a small update from Yukio, and Rin will get put on trial for his life. Neither party knows what the other is aware of, and as far as we can tell, Rin does not remember that he tried very hard to lunge at and attack the exwires.

That does not mean that Rin did not lunge for and try to attack them. Not remembering trauma you caused someone else does not erase that trauma.

There is also this moment, and you best believe I am also here to defend Shiemi because she deserves it.

Go girl. You're so right. There's nothing funny about any of this. Not your abduction, not how assaulting that entire thing was, and not the fact that he was feral and that you're feeling like a lot of this is your fault. (And it was not her fault.)

Rin's defense in most bad situations is laughter and ignoring whatever the uncomfortable thing is. This rubs everyone around him the wrong way almost every time. And that's their right. I also truly think he doesn't know what he just did and doesn't remember much past drawing the sword and he's scared, and he's able to tell the vibes are bad and he's in trouble, but doesn't really get why/how. He is a bit (a lot) of an idiot and we love him for that.

Another vital thing to understand about Rin is that he sees the demonic and violent parts of himself as someone else. He is not that demon. He is not the guy that tore apart the forest, everyone is wrong. He didn't lunge after his friends, someone else did that. He isn't out of control of his flames, that isn't him. That demon with the flames and frightening strength and burning anger isn't him. They've got it all wrong. He's just Rin.

That is a big part of Rin's story. Rin accepting that he is all those things. He is the human and he is the demon and he is all the things that comes with both of those things. He is right and wrong and kind and cruel and caring and callous and gentle and dangerous. He is Yuri and Satan and Shirou's son, and he is complicated and trying his best and slowly learning to accept what he is and isn't.

Anyway, they split ways for a shitty night. Rin's is unquestionably shittier, but again, the rest of the exwires don't get told what the hell happened.

Anime only fans will already be noticing differences, but wait, there's a lot more that was missed/ skipped over.

The Kyoto trio are all at the hospital for the next few days and get a call about the temple having been attacked. Shima's dad and Ryuuji's dad were said to have been hurt in it.

This is the second hint we get that Ryuuji is not on good terms with his dad, and the mere mention of Kyoto visibly upsets him. That'll be important a little later.

Rin goes back to class with the girls but is pulled out by Yukio for his own individual classes with Shura before anyone can say anything. The cram teacher then explains the following:

The entirety of their school is giving them instructions on what to do if Rin goes wild because the exorcist and teachers all think he will go feral again.

Rin does not know they're getting this instruction.

We then see what Yukio told them is basically: Yeah, my twin has flames. I don't because I was too weak. I get tested daily for it. The koma (a nickname for Kurikara because you can't exactly go around calling a stolen sword by its name or people will catch on) sword sealed him. I don't know why we were allowed to live when True Cross has a very loud 'no Satan or Satan offspring allowed' policy. Kay, thanks, byyyeeeeee.

So no one is happy and no one really knows anything. Just Yukio who has always known everything and had the biggest emotional, responsible, and mental burden of everything about his brother. He was left holding the bag again. Responsible for a class he's the same age as, mourning his father whose death he doesn't know the full story of, responsible for killing his own brother if he goes feral, now ostracized even more by a community of exorcist he already didn't blend in with, and now made to bear all this. Yukio is a king for holding out for so damn many arcs without showing how bad his mental health was getting with all that stress.

At this point we see Ryuuji is placing the guilt for Konekomaru and Shima being injured on his own shoulders (Konekomaru tells him it was his fault that they were injured) and Shiemi is realizing that Rin became her friend as he was revealed and that she was never as much of a support or friend to either of them as she thought.

Meanwhile Izumo who, and I cannot stress this enough, did NOTHING in the fight and was not part of most of this and has at this point made NO effort to be friends with anyone past cleaning a shirt Rin loaned her, is judging all of them visibly.

A brief interlude of Toudou being a creep and Rin showing he cannot follow orders from absolutely anyone and making Yukio and Shura frustrated at how unpredictable and manageable he is, and we're now given the mission to go to Kyoto and help there.

Ryuuji is just so blatantly shocked and not okay with the assignment to his home. Like I genuinely don't think we have a shot of Ryuuji looking more shook and shit gets wild in this manga.

Ryuuji does not want to go back to Kyoto. He left on terrible terms with his parents and swore he would not return until he had his meisters and rank. He defied his parents in even going to the cram school and now he's being forced to return a bit busted up and long before he was ready. If you do not have a bad family dynamic, you can't really get how devastating this is, but try and imagine it. It's a tremendous source of stress and frustration for Ryuuji, and the main thing he's dealing with through this arc. He has a lot of history with his father ignoring and denying him and trying to control him, and it is not a healthy dynamic. THAT is what drives Ryuuji in this arc. Kyoto, the temple, and his father. It is NOT Rin. Rin is at the bottom of his list of things to be thinking about right now.

This is essentially Ryuuji's arc, and it is, quite simply, not about Rin for him. Rin becomes a part of it, but not until later. At the moment, it is Kyoto and the shame and frustration and resentment about that which is driving him forward.

Shiemi is melting under her own self loathing at this point. She is hating herself and has never been confident and always been prone to thinking poorly of herself, and shown she is unaware of when relationships are abusive with how severely Izumo bullied her and continues to bully her.

(And I could write another essay on how fucking misogynistic it is that everyone flocks to team Izumo when she's slightly nice to Rin and blatantly ignores the Shiemi abuse because well Shiemi is annoying anyway. Check yourself and ask why you feel that way if you do. Why is violence and cruelty okay against Shiemi? Why is it forgivable in her case but not in others?)

We all board a train to Kyoto and see each other for the first time. Rin has zero ability to ever read a room (we love him for it even if he will occasionally kill us with second hand embarrassment) and is acting like he didn't try to kill them on their last interaction and like everything is normal and there isn't a big and awkward elephant in the room taking up most of the train space.

THIS GOES DOWN DIFFERENTLY IN THE MANGA THAN THE ANIME. The manga stretches this scene out to give three characters very important breathing room while the anime cuts this far shorter and mixes up the dialogue some, muddying the motives.

Rin, not reading the room, sees Shiemi and calls out happily to her. Shiemi utterly freezes and can't decide how she should respond or what she should say. She has, as far as we know, never had a friend outside of her family and the twins. She doesn't know how to interact with them and she is drowning in guilt of failing them as a friend. A lot of that is because Rin said she wasn't his friend to the Kyoto Trio and because Izumo is always telling her she's failing as a friend and saying she doesn't like her. Izumo is a bully at this point. I will not back down on that point and will continue to reiterate it. You do her incredible arc a disservice to pretend otherwise.

That leads us to the confrontation:

Ryuuji does not show any sign of anger until Rin talks about Kyoto. Then it's instant grouchy face Grouchy face and grouchy boy until one of the other two interject and then he swallows all that Kyoto frustration right back down and stomps off to sit behind Rin with Konekomaru -- who has been given a talk by their superiors on what to do if their classmates loses his shit and goes feral on them and who lost his entire temple and family to the Blue Night -- voicing his worry about Rin losing control of his flames on a tiny train where there is no where to go.

Rin visibly deflates and sinks back on his chair Izumo, the drama queen who would deny being one, enters and sees. Now Izumo has conflicting reasons for her next act. She has been ostracized and bully quite a lot in her younger life, and that is part of why she is now an ice queen. She sees Rin and wants to help him feel better and is no more in the know of what the others are actually dealing with than Rin, and I dare say that was her first and primary motive.

However Izumo cannot allow herself to do something solely out of kindness to help someone. That is a weakness she will not allow herself and dangerous. Kindness and helping gets you hurt or killed by stronger parties and she has sworn off that in all cases but Paku. (No one quite knows what magic Noriko Paku possesses, but man does she, lol.)

So Izumo sits next to Rin and waits until after the debriefing about why they're here (meaning Ryuuji is now even more upset because yep, it's absolutely his temple and their miasma and their secrets and their weaknesses being discusses and revealed and flaunted) and they chat a little about the fact that lots of people have demon blood (*cough* FORESHADOWING *cough*) and then, after getting flustered about Rin complementing her and thanking her and getting buddy-buddy enough to use a nickname, she goes cruel and decisive and makes a pointed jab at Ryuuji, who takes it in stride for a moment, and then Shiemi, who visibly deflates thinking even less of herself and that Ryuuji does not take in stride.

Izumo did a kind thing in sitting with Rin, however, the others did not do a cruel thing by not sitting with him. They simply chose to give themselves a little space from a situation they were still struggling with. The cruelest one in the moment before she spoke was probably Konekomaru, and even he wasn't talking to Rin. He was nervous and scared and talking to his friends about Rin. None of them owed Rin anything. They did not owe him their time or space or attention. They are allowed to recover from their trauma and physical injuries while not having him constantly shove his over-excited puppy-energy self in their faces constantly and make everything all the more difficult for them while they try and reconcile that guy with the feral monster that wanted to take a chunk out of them and who was not in control of the flames they've grown up terrified of.

We see the story mainly through Rin's perspective, all the more so if you're an anime only, but that does not mean Rin is always an honest and reliable narrator. He is unaware he tried to hurt them and unaware of their own trauma. He can't imagine any of their actions and reactions aren't centering around him at this moment because Rin too is going through a lot of trauma and stress of his own that they don't know about.

What I find over and over again in this story is that people excuse any poor or selfish or cruel act of Rin's because of trauma and not being perfect, but they will not excuse it in any one else. This makes for a frustrating unfairness in expectations, and frankly, turns the story boring. If no one but Rin can make mistakes, or you choose only to see other's mistakes and not Rin's, you are robbing the characters and Rin of their complexity and growth.

Izumo was kind in sitting next to Rin, and she was purposefully cruel at the exact same time. This is who Izumo is. Kind and cruel for quite a long time. Brave and selfish. Confident and self conscious. Guarded while slowly falling in love and denying it every step of the way.

So the train ride immediately goes to shit and they get loud with Ryuuji calling her out (reminder, she can call them coward all day long but she did not leave the circle and didn't fight and has not stepped forward once in any of their missions to work as a group or fight until she had to)

And Shure (in the manga) wakes up and makes them sit in a different car of the train with bariyons on their laps as punishment. Konekomaru continues to stress, Ryuuji tells him to chill, Shiemi continues to hate herself, and Izumo continues to be purposefully cruel.

The bariyons get aggressive and one pins Shiemi to the ground. Rin does Rin and burns it without warning, freaking everyone out because wow! Blue flames are just suddenly everywhere. Ryuuji interferes because again, his temple was devastated by Blue flames and he has no reason to think they can behave differently and he is nothing if not determined to protect and help his team at all times.

Shiemi realizes Rin still has control of them and tells everyone to relax, and they do.

The flames are put out and Rin immediately attacks Ryuuji.

Rin demands trust and honestly, I could understand if he was unaware that he'd caused mayhem in the forest and tried to lunge for them, but if he was aware then he has to be smoking those flames of his because there is no reason to trust him at this point. He's lied (he didn't have a choice but they don't know that and reasons do not negate that a lie happened and we are now in the lies arc) and he has shown he is dangerous and that Demon Kings kind of follow him and will attack indiscriminatingly. (It's not like they know Amaimon is not allowed to kill them.)

Rin knows he won't hurt them and thinks that should be enough. No one else knows that they can believe this at this point. Ryuuji explains that Blue Flames have killed a lot of his people and that he can't trust someone who endanger his family. It is once again Kyoto he is thinking about and Kyoto he is worried about. They are on a train to Kyoto where Blue Flames destroyed a lot and now they're bringing the one guy with Blue Flames there and he keeps flaming up so it seems like what little he still has there is going to be devoured by flames.

Rin says basically, sorry that happened but it has NOTHING to do with me. This is a naïve thing to say and while technically right, is missing the point of what Ryuuji said. I can't trust you because you haven't shown me I can trust those deadly flames with you and they have absolutely devastated my home before.

The fight amps up more -- and again, Rin was the aggressor. They're both hot headed but he's the one that grabbed Ryuuji, not the other way around, and in a fairly close way to how Amaimon had grabbed Ryuuji and that can't be helping things. The fight gets louder and Konekomaru bravely intervenes and grabs both of their arms and tells them to stop. A bariyon choses that moment to cause chaos and try to kill Ryuuji and Shura has had enough and kills it but kindly doesn't kill the exwires for interrupting her nap twice over and the conversation is left entirely unresolved.

And for the next long stretch, they will not have that conversation resolved. They get back, Ryuuji is immediately accosted by his powerhouse of a mom, Torako Suguro who is pissed, and finds out that his dad has been absent and that things are going south fast in Kyoto.

From this moment on, Ryuuji will have one goal and that is to find his dad and save what few temple members he can. He wants to reunite his temple--that has always been his goal--and his dad's failure to lead and potential at being the traitor in their midst is causing what few of his sect are left to fracture even more. He is around Rin a few times in the next chapter, but his mind is never on Rin or their drama. He is wholly focused on Kyoto and the drama here.

This is where a lot of people misunderstand him. He is not avoiding Rin, he simply has a much bigger priority, as he should. This is his family and this temple is everything to him. We find out that Tatsuma has thrown their reputation in the mud and that he has caused a lot of their sect to abandon the temple, and that he has fought Ryuuji's hopes and goals every step of the way, and that he was the first to laugh at Ryuuji (which we know is an immensely traumatic memory for him) and that Tatsuma is actively working to avoid Ryuuji, and that he was at the Keep during the break in, and that several members of the Sect absolutely think Tatsuma is the traitor.

And if he isn't the traitor, then he is still failing them and running away from his duties. What's worse, we see a few of the sect (Mamushi specifically) even place some of the blame of the failure on Ryuuji.

Rin is seen working with the Kyoto trio on some kind of chore after they arrive, and actively being ignored and mistreated by the teachers. They absolutely deserve ire for the way they treat Rin like he's already gone feral and refuse to let him help.

Rin is being ostracized and thinks everything happening here is about him. He thinks the others are ignoring him and that they're upset about him. They're largely just... Not. Izumo and Shiemi are put on helping the large volume of patients and from what we see, Izumo doesn't chat with Rin again after the bus.

Shiemi sees this as a way to not let people down (she thinks she let everyone down in the forest. That it was her fault and she isn't good enough or strong enough or just enough to be their friends. Probably partly because the one friend she thinks she has is a bully.) and dives hard into work. She still doesn't know what to say to Rin and freezes up a lot.

That leads to a fantastic scene in chapter 18 with Izumo and Shiemi in the garden and Shiemi positively sobbing about being a useless friend and not being strong enough to help like she wants and Izumo telling her she's really strong and able to talk about friends and her emotions without getting embarrassed and that she's stubborn and strong as a weed and Shiemi, who has clearly not gotten enough praise in her life just glows and determines to be as strong and stubborn as a weed.

It's a vitally important moment for both these girls. Izumo is kind and doesn't turn it cruel and sees how strong Shiemi is and helps Shiemi see herself as strong too. Izumo has done a lot to break Shiemi down but she is also, arguably, the one that did the most to build her back up too.

She dives back into her work to the point she inspires Rin to try harder on his own training because he is lazy and she isn't, and he admires that.

At this point Shima has decided that to keep going on his own path in the laziest way he can manage that ignoring Rin was too much work so they're just going back to before and acting like nothing ever happened. Rin is drunk and insults him in this with the list.

Rin confronts Konekomaru later and finds out what happened to Konekomaru's family and Konekomaru begs Rin to leave Ryuuji alone because he is dealing with a lot of stress. Rin (correctly for once) realizes that Konekomaru will absolutely be his friend if he can show that his flames aren't a danger. If he puts in the work to get control of those, he can be friends. Rin goes off determined to do that.

Ryuuji and Shiemi are now the only two who haven't had their Rin moment, and they firmly busy in their own stuff. Rin still thinks they're avoiding him because they're mad at him and blaming him for the Blue Night stuff and they're simply not. At no point does he ever really seem to get that he's assuming stuff incorrectly about all this either.

Ryuuji does some not at all stealthy spying and follows Juuzou to the Keep to find most of the staff unconscious and gets himself in the middle of the theft of the Impure King's last eye. Mamushi betrays them to Toudou and states that it is because of Tatsuma that she is. That he has failed them as a leader and conspired with Mephisto by giving away the sacred relic of their temple (Kurikara) and letting the son of Satan have it.

She is not entirely wrong, and she is not entirely right. She is very wrong about Toudou, but they both escape to cause more havoc elsewhere and leave Ryuuji to finally catch up to Tatsuma.

We have been building for several chapters at this point that Ryuuji and Tatsuma do not have a great relationship. There is a lot of frustration and confusion and hurt in it. A lot of history and pain and Ryuuji is trying to get his dad to tell him anything. To deny the allegations if they're not true and do something to help with the fact that one of their members just left.

Tatsuma refuses to. We later learn why and it sucks, but it doesn't lesson the hurt in this moment. Being unable to explain something does not mean that your actions, justified or not, did not and do not hurt someone.

Ryuuji, seeing his dad turn his back on him without even a hint of an explanation to all the terrible accusations and all the pain and trauma around them, pleading for some kind of explanation to anything, plays the only card he has left.

His father has already all but disowned him for the cram school, so he returns that. He warns that if Tatsuma leaves now and like this, he might as well not bother to come back because Ryuuji will no longer (can no longer) consider him his father.

Rin, who has kind of snuck into this dramatic meeting, overhears this and has a violent trauma induced reaction.

Now, Rin has trauma and it is entirely understandable why hearing those words would make him react dramatically. That does not excuse the violence he reacts with. You enduring trauma and having triggers and painful emotions does not give you the right to inflict violence on someone else.

And inflict violence Rin very much does. Once again flaming up some too, not at all in control.

This was not Rin's fight to get in the middle of. I will die on the hill that others do not get to determine what a child can and cannot do in their own parent and child relationship. Others can offer opinions and advice, but they do not get to order or dictate the relationship. They are not part of it and cannot possibly know what it is actually like. This is the same sort of mentality that tells people who have had to make the immensely difficult choice to go no contact with a parent that they should try and make up because it's hard to be a parent like it's easy to be a child and under the parent's control and guidance. Ryuuji has a lot of reasons to have made that ultimatum, and while we will learn a lot more about why Tatsuma has failed as a parent and leader, the reason does not absolve or eliminate the failures. He has failed Ryuuji multiple times and at this moment, tied by a cruel fate, he has to fail and hurt him again.

He did not have to choose to do it this way though, and do not forget that.

And Rin knows nothing about their relationship. He is putting his own reactions and motivations on Ryuuji who does not have them.

Rin is in the wrong in this moment. I will not back down from that either. Rin hurt his friend and revealed himself, and in the next panels defied Shura and continued to try and fight Ryuuji and make him understand that you can't disown your father because you can't take that back--

And it is in this fight that Ryuuji is first made aware that when Rin talks about his dad, he has not been talking about Satan. Rin was raised by someone else. They still don't learn the real story yet, we're not really told when or if they do get the full story about Shirou, but you can see him realize something happened to whoever raised the twins, and it was bad.

Rin gets knocked out and arrested and Ryuuji is sent to ice his swollen face and he will have the injuries Rin inflicted on him here through the entire rest of the arc.

And I am now over 5k words so I'll try and wrap this up some. I'm going to have to post the Yukio half on another post xD

Rin gets a letter that tells him that Tatsuma and Shirou were in cahoots about the sword (look, Mamushi was partially correct) but that the sword did not have Karura in it like it was supposed to. He also finds out that Tatsuma wants him to kill the Impure King. Mephisto then shows up and locks him away giving him a death sentence. Yukio has to leave with that knowledge to try and stop the rising Impure King before he infects and kills all of Japan.

Tatsuma goes and shows that he had made a pact with Karura and that the Suguro line has always guarded the secret that the Impure King was kept sealed under the temple by Karura. That were he to be reunited with his eyes, he would rise again. Toudou wants to get Karura so he did all of this to get Tatsuma to reveal Karura.

Tatsuma is stabbed through the back of the throat and Karura mostly devoured, and the Impure King is rising and reforming and going to poison everyone.

Shura gives the letter to Ryuuji and Kurikara and offers the camouflage ponchos to go break Rin out if they want, and Ryuuji and Shiemi are the only two who do not hesitate for even a moment to go and rescue him.

The jail freezes them and gives nonviolent Shiemi a moment to shine. She confronts her own self doubts and goes to find Rin and coaxes him back out, showing she knows he won't be a danger to her by embracing him and his flames. She realizes that her fears and self loathing caused her to only think about her own emotions, and not how he was feeling (something Rin could also very much stand to do) and she immediately switches to comforting and encouraging him.

Rin busts the prison with style, Konekomaru says he's ready to be friends, Shima and Izumo state they're only here on Shura's orders, and

Rin still doesn't get it. He still has no idea what Ryuuji is dealing with or why he's upset about any of it. He has spent this entire arc trying to find his dad and trying to help the sect, and failing every step of the way. He has tried to help everyone around him in any way he can and show that he can be depended upon and trusted.

Rin has never opened up to any of them. Rin demands that they lean on him and listen to his advice and accept him entirely, and gives them nothing in return for that vulnerability and openness. He doesn't talk about his own life or emotions or thoughts. He keeps conversations light and easy and doesn't even tell them that he was raised by a guy that's now dead. He shoves himself in conversations and dynamics that don't concern him all the while demanding trust, and then will not let them in in return.

Ryuuji is seeing that so clearly now and it is hurting. How can you trust a guy who won't trust you back? How can you trust someone you thought was one thing who never showed you who they really are and still won't be open and real with you? Who has enough power at every moment to level half the world and is emotional and stupid and impulsive and won't be real with you?

Rin has been under a death sentence and told he had to keep his heritage a secret, but even outside of that, he really doesn't talk about himself. He doesn't open up to his friends like he expects them to open up to him. Neither brother is good at expressing themselves (and a lot of that is because they weren't raised to be that way. Shirou did his best but had a lot of limitations too.)

He demands they trust him wholeheartedly but will not trust them in return. Or he hasn't shown in any way that he does trust them.

This arc, at its core, is about lies and how those and trauma can and do make relationships messy. How even ancestral drama can go down the line and get us caught in cycles of it. But it also shows that we can do the work to get past them, and that it's messy and painful and loud and not always easy to see what's right and wrong while we do it, but we can get past it and move on together. We can make terrible mistakes and seek forgiveness and understanding and sympathy or empathy and try to do better. We can laugh in a field of disease and trust entirely on someone because we know we can even if the world is falling down around us and it doesn't make sense.

Neither Rin nor any of the exwires or Yukio are a villain in this arc. Even Mamushi and her cruel words and betrayal are not a villain in this arc. Everyone acts kindly and selfishly or in fright or confusion or in motives that are entirely misunderstood. They're all dragging their own emotional baggage with them and they're all getting tangled up and not listening, but they still strive on and strive to understand and talk it out when they can, because they care about each other and getting it right.

To act like it's as simple as "The exwires bullied Rin!" is naïve and robs Kato's story of so much richness and deprives the later arcs of so much character value she built starting here. Kato does a beautiful job of building all of her characters and giving them rich personalities and motivations and flaws and she shows us them through Rin sometimes, but she also gives them a lot of time without him at the forefront. She gives him flaws too, and a lot of wrongs, and that's why he's such a powerful and alive protagonist for our series.

You're free to dislike who you like and love who you like, but I do so encourage anyone who thinks the exwires were villains in this arc to really dive into the manga. Read through all the scenes and ask yourself why did Kato show that? Why is this character thinking that? Why did the character react that way? Kato gives us so much richness to dive into and to see so many people not do that and to take such quick and often incorrect or fragmented interpretations of the events is heart breaking and honestly robbing those people of a really good story.

Rin was wrong in assuming that everyone hated him and assuming that it was as simple as trust. He was wrong to try and force things and to try and force his own interpretations on others. It was only once he started to listen and hear what they themselves were saying that things got better. Now some of this is just the mess of the anime between season one and the start of season two, but a lot is just misinterpretation by the fandom. It can happen to anyone, but that does not mean it suddenly becomes factual because of that.

It's been at least six thousand words and I don't know if this came across as clearly as I wanted it to, but I hope it encourages those who haven't to dive in deeper. It's a rich arc with so many fascinating moving parts in it. I've barely brushed on Tatsuma, Juuzou, Mamushi, and Mephisto in this and their plots are all entirely interesting and add so much! Expect a Yukio and Izumo and possibly Shiemi follow up at some point, lol. Probably just as long though I'll try to be more concise.

If you read this far, thank you! You deserve to crash with the rest of the exwires in Toraya on a nice futon.

As always, look up my tag '#raven rambles' for more of my aoex meta and analysis.

[vacate-et-scire]

“Again?!” – Part 1

Tony Stark x Civilian!Reader

Synopsis: You spilled your drink on a stranger. Then you Googled him.

Warnings: [None I hope, pure fluff and kinda awkward situations] [foriegn reader you are not from the states in this <3] [fem reader]

w.c 1.8k

You’re gonna be late.

Not fashionably, not charmingly. Actually late.

You’d planned to be early. You needed to be early. Your first day at your first job since landing in the country—everything about it made your heart pound a little too fast. You’d practiced your introduction three times in the mirror this morning, brushed imaginary lint off your blazer until it pilled. You couldn’t afford to look like a mess. Not today. Not when you’re already nervous that every mistake you make will be noticed harder, judged faster, weighed heavier.

You don’t want to be the immigrant they talk about behind closed doors. You want to be invisible. Or better: impressive.

But no. Your subway stalled, your walking directions turned you in a circle, and now, to top it all off, your English is trying to abandon you under pressure.

You shove into the nearest café, praying the line is short. It’s not.

You order fast. “Matcha, cold, uh—ice. Please. Tall. I mean… medium?”

You’re not even sure what you just said, but the barista takes your card and you move to the pickup counter, clutching your phone with the directions still open. 9:12 a.m. You need to be in the building by 9:30. It's a ten-minute walk. You're cutting it close.

So when your name is called, you grab the cup too fast. Turn too sharply. And crash right into someone waiting behind you.

The drink goes flying.

The ice arcs like shrapnel. Matcha explodes across an expensive grey button-up, dripping down in streaks of soft green horror.

You freeze.

“Oh no,” you blurt, already lunging for napkins. “I didn’t—oh god, I didn’t see, I wasn’t—!”

The man takes a stunned step back, blinking down at himself. The drink has fully committed to soaking him. There's a single cube of ice clinging to his collarbone like a final insult.

You reach out helplessly with a napkin, then freeze halfway, not wanting to actually… touch him. Not now. Not like this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, too quickly. “I am late, I—first day, new job, I was not—my hand slipped, but I pay for shirt, I clean, please don’t—don’t be mad.”

Your words trip and tangle with your accent. You hate how it makes you sound so unsure.

To your shock, the man doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch. In fact, his mouth quirks upward like this is funny. Like this—you—are funny.

“Well,” he says, shaking out the front of his shirt like he does this sort of thing on the regular. “That’s one way to make a first impression.”

You flush. “Please don’t be angry. I don’t want to lose my job. I already… it’s already hard.”

His eyebrows tick upward. The grin softens.

“I’m not angry,” he says. “Trust me, I’ve had worse mornings.”

You frown. “You are… very calm.”

“Yeah, well. You look like you might actually cry,” he says, tilting his head. “Didn’t want to risk making you the one who ends up comforting me.”

You let out a helpless, mortified little noise and try to mop a bit of matcha off the counter. “This is so bad. I am so late now. I was trying to be professional.”

“Mm. How’s that going?”

You glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “I will cry. Don’t test me.”

He laughs at that. It’s warm. Easy. The kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’ve already won something just by making it happen.

You glance at the barista, who’s biting her lip behind the counter, eyes darting between the two of you like she’s watching a scene from a romcom.

“Here,” she says finally, sliding a fresh matcha toward you. “No charge. And… maybe next time don’t drink and drive.”

“That is not funny,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

The man takes the extra napkins she offers and dabs at his shirt without much concern. You watch a splotch of green sink deeper into his lapel.

“I’ll live,” he says. “Though if I turn into the Hulk, I expect a formal apology.”

You furrow your brow. “That’s not how Hulk works.”

He pauses. Grins. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

You don’t have time to ask what that means. Your phone buzzes in your hand: 9:17 a.m.

You curse under your breath and look up at him one last time, guilt gnawing at your stomach.

“I really am sorry,” you say again. “You were just… standing there. I wasn’t watching. It’s my fault.”

He shrugs, stuffing soggy napkins into a nearby trash bin. “You were in a rush. I get it. Maybe I should’ve worn green.”

You smile, despite yourself. “Thank you. For not yelling. Or suing.”

“Maybe I’ll save it for next time.”

“There will not be a next time.”

He just hums. Like he knows something you don’t.

And before you can ask his name—or offer yours—he waves a lazy hand and slips out the door, sunglasses already on, like this was all just another Tuesday.

You're left with your second drink, a ruined timeline, and a weird buzzing in your chest like the day just veered off script.

The second time you see him, your heart doesn’t race.

It stops.

You’re halfway out the same café—new drink clutched in hand, head down, feet steady—when someone steps aside to hold the door for you. You glance up.

It’s him.

No spilled drink this time. No crowd. Just him. Crisp charcoal suit, clean today. Casual expression. That same slightly lazy posture, like he has nowhere urgent to be despite the fact that he’s clearly the kind of man who always has somewhere important to be.

You freeze.

For a second, you consider backing away and pretending you forgot something. Or leaving the drink behind. Or vanishing.

But he speaks first.

“You made it to work alright, then?” he asks.

His voice is calm. Dry, but not mocking. Like it’s a question he genuinely wanted to ask, even if he didn’t expect to get the chance.

You nod once, too quickly. “Yes. I was… not too late.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Didn’t want to ruin your first day. That’d be a hell of a reputation to start with. ‘Green-shirt girl who cries and runs.’”

You don’t laugh. You barely even breathe. Not because you’re panicking—more because your body is trying to figure out what the right emotion is. Embarrassment? Suspicion? Wariness?

You settle on something closer to cautious politeness.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you say quietly, shifting your weight.

He reaches for his drink from the counter behind you, then glances back. “Tony.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he says. And that’s it. He gives you a small nod, steps aside, and lets you walk past him like you’re strangers again.

You exit the café like a normal person. Even wave a little, because you’re trying to seem polite. Calm. Unbothered.

It works—until you get halfway down the block, and the name Tony sticks in your head like a splinter.

Tony.

Something about it itches at your memory. Not the name itself. Him. His tone. His face. The way people had been glancing at him inside the café. That weird moment when the barista caught your eye and gave you a look—like how does she not know who that is.

You walk faster.

You wait until you’re inside the breakroom at your new job, alone, your paper cup sweating in your hands, and then you unlock your phone. Open a browser. Type just Tony —then delete it, realizing how stupid that is.

You try again.

Tony suit glasses goatee.

You scroll. Nothing.

You bite your lip.

Then finally, you try what you should’ve started with:

Tony New York.

You were expecting some lawyer. A CEO. Maybe an author. Something mild.

What you get is headlines. Dozens. Articles. Photos. Entire pages of search results that feel like someone just grabbed the edges of your reality and tugged.

"Tony Stark Re-Emerges at Stark Industries Gala""IRON MAN Makes Surprise Statement on Midtown Innovation Project""Billionaire, Philanthropist, Superhero—and Now, Bachelor Again?"

You scroll. Scroll again. Then stop.

There’s a picture.

It’s him.

It’s him.

Wearing a different suit, yes—but the same face, same smirk, same stupidly expensive sunglasses perched in his hair.

Your chest feels tight. Not like fear. More like… the ground moved, and now you’re not sure where your feet are.

You remember holding a crumpled napkin out to him like a child.

You remember telling him you didn’t want to lose your job. That it was already hard.

You remember offering to pay for his shirt which was probably worth more than your years worth salary.

You lock your phone and stare at the wall for a full sixty seconds.

You walked away from Tony Stark like he was just some annoying guy in your way.

You wonder if this is the kind of story people laugh about at parties—"this one time, some foreign girl dumped matcha on Tony Stark and didn’t even recognize him."

You wonder if he's told anyone yet.

And across town—

Tony is lying on a sleek leather couch, changed into a new shirt, and grinning like a man who just had a religious experience.

He has no idea what your name is. No way to find you. And that is, frankly, unacceptable.

“You should’ve seen her, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he says, tossing a balled-up napkin into the trash across the room. “Didn’t know who I was. At all. Looked me dead in the face like I was just another guy.”

“Unthinkable,” the AI deadpans.

“And then the drink!” he says, raising his hands up up like it was a magical moment. “Most people notice me before running into me head on and making a mess.”

“She seemed… distressed.”

“She was honest,” Tony says, pointing. “You know how rare that is? No fawning. No social climbing. Just genuine gult. I haven’t seen that in years.”

“She did say she didn’t want to lose her job. Perhaps you should let her go.”

“Oh no. ” Tony leans back again, fingers steepled.

“What would you like me to do?”

Tony taps his temple. “Find her.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. hums in a way that sounds suspiciously like disapproval. “You don’t even know her name.”

“She bought a matcha. Around 9:15 a.m. from that coffee shop on 43rd. Cross-check her transaction with security footage. Filter for panicked young women with very good hair and poor aim.”

“You’re really doing this?”

“Listen,” he says, folding his hands over his stomach. “You get doused in iced green sludge and walk away with a crush," He says the word mockingly childish "You ignore the universe. I’m not that guy.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s thinking it: She didn’t look at me like Iron Man. Or someone to suck up to. She looked at me like a mess...She was kinda right.. very right.

And he wants more of that.

To Be Continued…?

[nanamineedstherapy]

Domain Expansion: Codependent Tamagotchi

F!Pregnant Reader x Gojo Satoru

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

A/N: When your husband is the 'Strongest' but you’ve weaponized him into a Tamagotchi-toting simp. Enjoy this masterclass in psychological warfare (ft. Gojo’s ‘I live to serve’ arc). No spoilers, but someone does get a QR code tramp stamp.

[TikTok Video: Part 2—Gojo Satoru | Caption: “ Gojo husband maintenance log: 8 months pregnant, we have reached submission stage. ” ]

TikTok audio: Ariana Grande’s “ Be my baby x God is a woman ” sped up + reverb

The video opens slow. Cinematic.

Sunlight bleeds through floor-to-ceiling glass. The balcony’s windswept and expensive. The view? Definitely illegal. Somewhere too high for your accountant to approve.

Gojo Satoru.

Shirtless. Sprawled on a designer couch like an unpaid model in a fragrance commercial. He’s in low-waist grey joggers that should be a felony, casually multitasking—scrolling TikTok with one hand and updating a glowing confidential file on his tablet with the other.

It’s titled,

“Structural Reform Proposal v19—For Wife Only 🩷”

The subfolder glows faintly.

“Things That Need Fixing (Again).”

You approach. Pregnant. Dangerous. Vengeful.

He senses you. Of course he does.

His spine straightens half an inch. But he doesn’t look up.

Instead—

Gojo (dryly) says, “What are we doing today, my violently radiant wife?”

You drop a massive blond wig on his head. Bangs. Side part. Slightly tragic. “You’re Nanami now.”

Without missing a beat, he slouches deeper into the cushions. Wig sliding slightly off. Then in a serious, grim voice, he mutters, “I feel responsible for everything. The weight of your cravings, your mood swings, the socioeconomic collapse… it’s all my fault.”

You nod, solemn. “Perfect.”

You shove a glittering pacifier into his mouth.

He accepts it. No resistance. No blinking.

You drag a giant baby onesie over his head. It says “ MILF’s Emotional Support Weapon ” in Comic Sans.

Gojo, muffled, sighs, “Anything for the mother of my spawns.”

Temporary tattoos. You slap them on his arms—one reads “ World’s #1 Wife Addict,” and the other is a scannable QR code that links to your game’s latest teaser trailer. A game where both your husbands play morally ambiguous villains with god complexes. Subtle.

You yank his expensive watch off his wrist and replace it with a glittery pink Tamagotchi.

Then you whisper in his ear, “Your new cursed technique is emotional availability.”

He gasps. Actually gasps. “That’s… beyond special grade. That’s divine.”

You kiss his forehead.

He drops the pacifier to the floor. Then bows like a knight, “I am but your loyal simp. Take my life. Take my Google Calendar.”

The camera pans to you. Barefoot. Pregnant glow + villain era contour. You look like you could file for divorce and buy a private island in the same breath.

Voiceover:

“I have successfully trained the strongest alive. He no longer asks why. He simply… submits.”

You pan back to him. He’s staring now. Quiet. Intent. Wig still tragically perfect.

The Tamagotchi chirps.

Camera zooms.

Gojo speaks low, dangerous, feral. “You keep testing me like this, and I’ll knock you up again before the first ones even get here.”

Cut to static.

Top Comment:

@ThreeEyesDaddyKashimo: THAT LINE???? SIR????

@CloutSaveTheGod: I taught him everything he knows.

@PolyChaosCollective_Hakari: This marriage is a psyop. I’m obsessed.

@CEOofCursedEnergyCappyBaraYu: The tamagotchi really said, ‘Domain Expansion: Codependency.’

@TamagotchiTraumaTojisTesties: This is not husband content. This is weaponized submission. I fear them.

@TwoDicksKing: Your marriage is performance art, and I would pay for the Patreon.

---

A/N: If you cackled, gasped, or now need a ‘MILF’s Emotional Support Weapon’ onesie immediately, roast me in the comments. (Gojo’s ego needs CPR. Nanami’s watching this unfold like a war crime documentary.)

Previous Oneshot Chapter same situation but with Nanami Kento in a different setting [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter TBA

All Works Masterlist

[miwiheroes]

Day 37: Lightning Flashes

(so starting my analysis posts again has been a long time coming but im no longer titling it doing it every other day until s5 becauseeeee uh its just so much pressure so im doing it whenever i want bc thats much less embarrassing... also i'll still be updating my google slides with these posts)

So there is much, much to unpack about the love monologue scene so I'll be breaking it down in approx. 4 different posts. An establishing thing to know about this scene is that the monologue was never meant to feel like a totally positive thing for every character. From the beginning end of the season, the viewer is supposed to want the same thing as El -- for Mike to tell El that he loves her. However, I think by the love monologue, by the time that he actually does the thing that he wants: the viewer is no longer supposed to feel totally satisfied.

This is in keeping with the theme at the end of Season 4 -- they did not win against Vecna this time. And it's not just an unhappy ending for Max, Lucas, everyone in Hawkins, it's also an unhappy ending for Will, Mike and El. Well, I wouldn't say totally unhappy, but it's definitely not a successful ending for anybody, which is supposed to be a tonal shift after the endings of the other seasons which are all very "everything is solved and seems okay but there's still more to be done."

So: The writers need to try to make it seem less like a satisfying ending that the viewer is supposed to want. Instead, it has a slightly darker tone as a result of Will's feelings, the fact Will's feelings are fuelling the monologue, El's arc and of course the cinematography.

This is the moment after Mike says I love you:

With a lightning flash placed right at that moment (may I remind you, that this is all intentionally placed and there is absolutely no chance this is a coincidence, hello??) the viewer is supposed to be led to believe that this isn't the satisfying culmination of their story that had been expected beforehand. El's face does not look shocked, even.

I never expected her to look happy especially when she's literally tied up like this, but looking upset/ pensive throughout pretty much the whole monologue while there are lightning flashes, and the vines continue to tighten around her neck. They only begin to rescind after she looks over at Max, and when Mike reminds her to fight.

That, paired with the lightning, this confirms without even needing to hear what Mike has to say that this isn't supposed to be satisfying or relieving. This isn't supposed to be a romantic, intimate moment. Lightning doesn't do anything but forebode something dangerous. Having it as a background noise during a love monologue is a choice by itself, but having it ring loud and clear straight after Mike saying that he loves her - it's almost like the lightning is begging for the audience to recognise that this is a bad thing for both El and Mike.

Will telling Mike to say these words were a mistake - a misbelief and a self-sacrifice that was taken too far and ultimately will lead to more harm in the future.

I will talk more about other people being in the shots of Mike in my next post, as there is much to say about that - but I want to quickly compare the 'intimacy' from the monologue in S4 and the intimacy in Mike's monologue from S2.

Season 4: Lightning continues to flash, there is a lot going on with El being tied up and the red lighting, and while Mike is the obvious focal point of the shots, Will and Jonathan are cut back to, reminding you of their presence in the scene.

Season 2: There is no other sound other than Mike's talking and Will's breathing, the lighting is extremely stark to cause a sense of tension and urgency that Mike feels, no other characters are in shot or cut back to despite being in the shed. Will is in danger but his facial expression is still soft.

So for anyone that even tries to tell me that the love monologue completely trumps Byler probably needs to rewatch to get rid of their delusions because this is definitely not supposed to be a happy ending, it is not supposed to be satisfying in the least. I honestly don't think anyone was satisfied back in 2022 watching this unless they had the bias of already being a mileven fan from before S4. There were obviously other factors that go into this feeling of unsatisfaction in this ending, but the lighting and the non-intimacy feeling of this scene is super telling.

[akailycoris]

About Chapter 215

Well, doesn't this feel like the start of a wild ride!

We finally have a name for this mysteryous newcomer, but does anyone else feel like their name could possibly be... fake? Or is that just me? I don't know what it is, but something about it just doesn't sit right with me, like a piece of a puzzle that won't properly slide in:

MODRI VLADIS

Like, anyone familiar with the Harry Potter movies, remember in the 2nd movie when Tom Riddle shows that anagram of "I am Lord Voldemort" from his name?

Why am I getting similar vibes?!?!

And then this whole thing:

GOD, WHAT. A. MESS!

Literally and figuratively.

(-Also, like Master, like servant, just look at their faces, I'm bursting!!!-)

(-The hotel staff is very impressive too!-)

I think there are already a whole bunch of theories sprouting forward, like this being one of Sebastian's former contractors or someone is mistaking Sebastian for Vincent (which would be absolutely WILD!!!) or this is Joker, trying to remind Sebastian he cut his arm (which at least seems to track, in the sense that it does seem to be the same left arm that's being hurt).

In any case, I'm real pissed about how they're wasting blood they most surely got from other people, whom may not even be alive anymore.

That really angers me.

...

I'm still thinking of Beast though, mind you all. Maybe it's the whole deal with multiple Cinematic Records in a single body? From multiple people? But then why the fake name??

...

According to Google "The surname "Modri" most likely originates from the Slavic word "modrý," meaning "blue," potentially indicating a person with blue eyes or a connection to the color blue. It may also be related to the word "modri," which in some Slavic languages means "grocer" or "grain merchant". The name could also be associated with a traditional blue shirt or garment, or be a nickname stemming from physical traits."

As for Vladis, "The name Vladis is a Slavic name, often used as a diminutive or variant of longer names like Vladimir or Vladislav. It is derived from the Slavic words "vlad" (meaning "power" or "rule") and "mir" (meaning "peace" or "world"), thus translating to "ruler of peace", "ruler of the world", or "glorious rule". It's a strong and potentially confident name, often associated with leadership qualities"

That's a rather grand name. And a bit on the nose too, I feel, though I can't quite explain why, at this point. But I have a feeling it will prove to be so.

Either way, when I think of the colour blue in connection with Kuroshitsuji, I either think of Ciel and his blue eye, blue hair, blue clothes, blue ring that is a family heirloom or the Blue Cult arc.

Maybe I think about other things too, down the line, but these are the first to pop in my head.

Moving on, is this a confirmation thay this guy too, is a Bizarre Doll?

Also, you tellin' Ciel about whiskey and cigars???

Ciel-honey-in-my-milk-asthmatic-lungs-still-the-Queen's-Guard-Dog-Phantomhive...

Yeah, I'm not impressed either and this guy is just itching for a beating, isn't he?

Also, for another point that I & Ciel agree upon: SEBASTIAN IS A MESS. And THE LOWEST OF THE LOW.

At least he's feeling properly ashamed for bringing this whole mess about a potential past contract, into his current contract with Ciel, which, mind you, doesn't happen a whole lot.

...

Lastly, though, for what may later turn out to be one of, if not the, most important foreshadowing in the story, don't think we didn't notice that

YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION, SEBASTIAN.

WE'RE ON TO THAT, AREN'T WE?

[darkhourdread]

soo I forgot tumblr existed but i've been slowly making a lil Arc V fan game thing in google slides^^,,

The story is an alternate edgier version of what the events of Arc V couldve looked like after Yuya's Raging Dragon fight vs Serena/Ruri. In this story Akaba Leo realizes he needs to eliminate the threat of Zarc returning by any means necessary, even if it means being needlessly cruel.

Always been kinda too scared to write fanfics and stuff so.. I figured writing a story in more of a game/visual novel sorta format would be more my style and be sorta fun because I can have multiple endings and player choices :>

I managed to add a lil dueling minigame, I'm currently working on trying to make my dialogue fit with each of the characters (specifically their jp versions) and I plan to add custom sprites for when characters talk to eachother :)

I wanna find some people to help me test the dueling minigame and help check if im actually writing everyone in character TWT. ngl p scared ill accidentally write someone kinda weird, especially Yuto and mayyybe Yuri? I feel like having some criticism would help me make this lil project really cool :> If you're interested in it and/or dont mind lending me a hand to help me improve what ive got feel free to reach out :0

anyways thank you for reading QwQ

[utb-slop]

Guns

Daisy - @atlasdotpng

[pinazee]

Truer lies

Its interesting to see Shawn starting to deal with the fall out of pretending to be psychic for so long. I think that would really wear on him after a while, and im glad it did. Personally, as an overachieving teachers pet, i would want credit for all the smart things i did. But yeah, on top of that, it must be so frustrating that he cant just be like “I KNOW WHEN PEOPLE ARE LYING BECAUSE OF THESE TELLS, NOW CAN WE PLEASE JUST DO AS I SAY BECAUSE I KNOW THINGS??” Instead, he has to say its a psychic vibe and people roll their eyes because thats not evidence (fair). Shawn even had to convince gus to trust him this time- actually his plea was more than that. He was asking Gus to believe in him as a person. Like, please trust that i still know where the line is. I doubt he thought this psych stuff would last this long though. I expect he thought it would be a fun 3-6 months just like his dad did (and probably Gus too) but it turns out it never stopped being fun. So, what, like 3 years later-yeah, that has to get to you, and also exhausting, not only because his visions were quite physical in the beginning haha. He’s basically a fraud, and knowing who he is as a person, it has to tear him up inside every time he has to lie, especially to Juliet which we know later really bites him in the ass (which i cant wait for)

Speaking of juliet, i kind of wish she would have stood up for him a little bit with lassie, because he has a pretty good record of solving cases and making them look foolish in the process, despite all the silliness and flair for the dramatics. I kind of get why she’d still be on the fence, but i think she could have explained to him that hey, its not you i don’t trust, its this guy who has a reputation for lying. But i get that for the plot of the episode and for the sake of shawns arc they couldn’t exactly do that. I guess it says something that juliet and lassie did have his back in the end which was great. Like, we don’t always believe ya but we’ll be there anyways ;)

why did they both take this bit seriously though?? Hes clearly doing a bit Lol

Lassie may talk a big talk about hating shawn but he was running those hospital halls right beside jules when they thought shawn was injured ;) he loves him case closed.

What the heck is this thing supposed to be??? I googled old handheld games amd couldn’t find it.

Jumping to lieber being the murderer is kind of just bad detective work?? Like they jumped to that conclusion very fast, and frankly, they should have caught the double shadow. I know this is nitpicky but i couldn’t let it slide. Plus, overall i think its a bit meh, crime-wise. Like i was a bit lost with how lyin ryan fit into all of it and what the original crime was but its still fun. And lyin ryan was a fun character that im surprised didnt make a return too.

P.S Lassie likes a nice mustache. I wonder why he didnt keep his mustache that we saw in the flashback of the first ep?? He could have gone full Magnum P.I. Do you think the ex wife made him get rid of it?

[satirn]

zim or Jimmy for the ask game

zim !!

First impression: fell completely head over heels as soon as I saw him in augest of 2019. he hasnt left my brain since

Impression now: Im in love with him. i have 5 million pictures of him on my wall. i think about him everyday. if i could start a cult in his name i would.

Favorite moment: literally I could not choose even if i wanted to. all of them, all of them are my favorite. Zim in the mopiness of doom script reading will always be a banger tho

Idea for a story: look me in the eyes and ask this question again [might i recommend "Shades Of You" or perhaps "NGOD AR"/"You Are The Apple"??] [I swear the google slides im making for these aus are almost done]

Unpopular opinion: idk if this is nessesarily unpopular but yk what? fuck yall. i like zim redemption arcs and i like seeing him squishy and lovey dovey and i like zim domestication aus and i like seeing him become a kinder person and i like seeing him find joy and softness in the world and i like seeing happy endings for him because you know what? Zim is a state of mind not a frigid set of rules that we have to abide to whenever we depict him. canons whatever i want it to be. ill make him as ooc as i fucking WANT, cartoons are meant for telling STORIES and STORIES I WILL TELL. he can feel love and he will LOVE dammit. if god didnt want me putting zim in schmaltzy sickenly sweet situations then he could remove both of my hands HIMSELF.

Favorite relationship: LOOK ME IN THE EYES (and in my tumblr archive) AND ASK THIS QUESTION AGAI

Favorite headcanon: somethikg i love putting in my aus is that after they become friends eventually Dib shows zim a bunch of earth music and he loves it. I don't think zim would be the type of person to go out looking for music but he definitely likes dib's music taste. [ ...whicj you shpuld uhhh]

[photosofwhales]

Photos Of Whales

Photos Of Whales is an oc project created in 2024, with sights on becoming an RPG maker style game. The story is currently in its beta stages, with plot holes and character arcs still being worked though.

This blog will be used for storing information, gaining reach, and collaborating with other writers who can assist in the writing process.

Photos of Whales takes story inspiration from RPG maker games such as Farethere City and visual inspiration from Wadanohara and the Great Blue Sea. This, alongside literary works such as Moby Dick and the show The Good Place have all been used as jumping off places to create the story at it's current state.

WHAT IS PHOTOS OF WHALES [POW] ABOUT?

The concept, in its simplest form, is about a world in which there are separate afterlife’s created based on the location of the death, the will of the deceased, and the cause of their demise. Alongside this, everyone is gifted a “guide to the afterlife”, someone to help them settle in and get used to their new life in this strange new world.

POW follows Ophelia Yeon as she finds herself in the undersea world known as Beneath the Surface Tension alongside her two afterlife companions, Svart and Hvit, as she explores this new world, meets new people, and of course, takes pictures of whales. The major themes of the story involve escapism, betrayal, revenge, and the idea that it isn’t how you get the truth, but instead what you decide to do with it.

You can read more about the plot here

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE:

Death Misogyny and Racism Grooming [Non-Sexual] Murder Alcoholism Occult

LINKS

the official playlist

A google slides including concise information about the characters and plot

NOTE: I am no artist, so the art used for characters comes from either commissions, art given to me my friends, or picews.

[shsl-hubris-guy]

You say "unleashed the beast" as if this rewrite wasn't exactly what I wanted smh

Also I did allow for shuffling deaths around lol, I think you misread that

But aye the idea of Genocider being a fictive is actually really really cool, props for that

Even if you and I got some wildly different opinions (I don't like Celeste all that much sorgy) that was a pretty good read, so take this as a reminder to do the other games as well

Also unrelated but I do wanna doodle a lil smth for you since I got obsessed with your blog but who knows when I'll actually get the time to draw

Anyway, have a good one

- timeline autism anon

LMAO all good timeline anon! I was surprised by the restriction but this makes more sense lol. Still, I started under this level of restriction, and I will finish it like so! Though I have to admit, it'll probably be a lot harder to do with sdr2 in particular

(If you're at all curious, letting people shuffle places likely wouldn't have changed much for THH anyway, save maybe having Byakuya kill Taka and Hiro both and set up the whole thing. But I honestly like it better the way it came out anyway, so who cares lol)

Glad you liked the first one! Ik Celeste isn't for everyone, but she's so thematically strong with the rest of the main cast she seems like a strong move for me. Curious who you'd choose though?

You're gonna draw me a doodle? 🥹 timeline anon I'm honored just don't forget anon ask doesn't allow images

Anywho, let's try our hand at SDR2, shall we?

GOODBYE DESPAIR- ONE SWAP

I doubt I'll have nearly as much trouble with UDG and V3 as I did deciding this one, and that's mainly based in just how inter-connected the story of sdr2 and its survivors really are. Every chapter is pretty well-structured within itself with who lives and dies, and the survivors are all well selected as characters with strong arcs or just that have no reason to be targeted at any point. If any one game has the most overarching consistent story quality, it's SDR2, even if I think the other three games have higher highs and stronger individual moving parts.

That said, Sonia is getting the axe. Don't get me wrong; I really like Sonia! She's a very fun and endearing character. And it's not like she's a bad survivor pick by any means. However, Hajime, Fuyuhiko, and Akane all have really strong character arcs, and Kazuichi has to be alive until at least the ch4 investigation in order to fix that elevator. And since Gundham, Nagito, and Chiaki all have really important roles to play in their respective places, Kazuichi has to live by default. By process of elimination, Sonia is all that's left.

Once, a long time ago, I made a google slide about why subbing in Sonia as a survivor with Mahiru would be the best way to fix all my personal problems with SDR2, and later posted it on here. Problem is, that slide also included the changes I'd make to chapters 2, 3, and 4 as a result to make these changes fit. And, as you know, I'm sticking with the 'only one swap' for this story. One survivor and one dead character swap, everyone else stays in their respective places. So sadly, my Mahiru fix-it AU isn't applicable here. Then what's the solution? We swap one blonde for another, having Sonia die as the unexpected second victim in chapter 3 and allow for Hiyoko to finish her arc.

CH 1-2

There's not really any changes to be made here, to be honest. I believe Kodaka has actually confirmed on either twitter or bluesky that Hiyoko was originally going to live before being subbed out for Fuyuhiko, and you can kind of tell, especially in the second chapter. So I really don't see much point in changing anything about these chapters.

CH 3

The chapter 3 murder for this game has ALWAYS pissed me tf off. It's physically impossible for Mikan to have pulled off that kind of coverup with that much speed and precision, and I'm not even talking about clumsiness here. I'm talking her following immediately behind Hajime to watch him find Ibuki's body, run in behind him, unveil Hiyoko's body and hide the coverup, and destroy the camera, and use quick-dry glue to glue the doors shut in an extremely hot venue on a DESERT ISLAND, then run back to the hospital to meet Fuyuhiko, and then WALK AROUND THE ISLAND THE LONG WAY, all in the same timespan it took Hajime to SPRINT to the NEAREST NEIGHBORING BUILDING AND TALK BRIEFLY TO TWO PEOPLE. Fuck ch 3 murder plot frfr. So if I take this victim-swap as an opportunity to rewrite this entire case, well, then, just forgive me already!

In the game, Sonia was the one that found Hiyoko struggling with her kimono without Mahiru's help, and wanted to assist her. Despite that, Hiyoko wouldn't let her. It's Sonia herself who actually tells Hiyoko about the full-length mirror. So we can easily use this to motive-swap the reason why it's Sonia going to the music venue instead of Hiyoko. Hiyoko won't go outside, not for anything, so instead of telling Hiyoko about the mirror, she resolves to go get it for her as a gift.

I'm thinking Kazuichi, in all his definitely normal ways of crushing, sees her on her way out and asks where she's going, asking of she wants an escort even, and her telling him she left something at the venue and doesn't need help. He wants to go anyway but decides to not be weird about it and lets her go. Not only does this help triangulate the time she left, it also allows for Kazuichi to actually, you know. Have an arc. The guilt he'd feel about not having gone with her, only for Hiyoko and/or Fuyuhiko to tell him it only would've gotten him killed too and that it was better he didn't keep forcing himself on her could be good for him. Simultaneously, it's a really good setup for his increasing paranoia in the following chapter.

Now, let's say the murder itself ends up being pretty similar to how it happened in-game. The plan is to hang up Ibuki and make it look like her death was a suicide, Sonia just so happens to walk in on it, Mikan ends up forced to kill her out of necessity. All that works. The problem is the cover-up. So what do we do? I think we want it to look like Ibuki killed Sonia, then hung herself out of guilt. So all we really need to do, rather than go through all the steps of confusing the death order, is leave Sonia's body exactly where it is and alter the entrance to the venue a bit. Let there be a back door behind the curtains of the stage, and more importantly, let its existence be hidden and mostly unknown by the group. In fact, besides Ibuki and Mikan, have no one know about it until the investigation. I'm thinking that after finding the setup for the fake hanging live video, Hajime and Chiaki go back to look at the stage curtain again and pull it away, only to find the hidden back door, and have that be the final trigger for the trial to begin. Using this back door, Mikan could lock the front door and run out the back before Hajime ever shows up, then act out the hanging in the morning. Hajime wouldn't be able to open the door, he'd run to the hotel, and Mikan would just need to wait for Fuyuhiko and start looking in the same direction. She conveniently meets Hajime and Chiaki when they 'can't open the door' to the venue, and thus, an alibi is granted without all the strangeness of the cover-up that the official game had.

Hiyoko was Mikan's #1 biggest bully. We all know this. So I think her being alive to watch Mikan's breakdown would be really great for her character, especially when you see who Mikan did kill. On the one hand, Ibuki being the specific target Mikan chose is a FASCINATING choice from a character perspective. Ibuki was actually the one sexually objectifying her the most out of the cast prior to now, talking about how cute and sexy she was whenever she was upset and even going so far as to ask Mikan to take sexy photos of her when she fell in the salad position in the first chapter. Mikan, as we know, thrives on negative attention; it's why she got so attached to Junko, so her being associated with Ibuki after the fact and even getting ready for the beach day with her in chapter 2 made sense. Thus, her turning around and killing her, and then re-enacting it to look like a death of her own choice, is really, really interesting, especially when you realize that she only did so after regaining her memories. Ibuki did NOT treat her well, and she returns the favor when she remembers her actual beloved. Now we pair that with Sonia, who did literally nothing to her whatsoever. If anything, Sonia was one of the nicer members of the cast, as even if she doesn't like someone, she remains at least polite, with Kaz as a notable exception but hell, I think we all know why.

Hiyoko not only surviving Mikan's snap, but also being indirectly responsible for the death of Sonia, then, could push her over the edge in a really, really great way. Mikan emphasizing that killing her friends meant nothing, nothing because it was for her beloved, that it didn't matter who she killed, and perhaps most interestingly, that Hiyoko's jabs and prods and insults meant nothing, she had no power, only Mikan did, would go so, so hard. Imagine, Hiyoko leaving that trial and trying to regain some sense of control. Oh, I knew something was wrong with that stupid bitch, I survived, Sonia was stupid for walking into that, only to privately get crushed under the weight of it? Immaculate. I'm imagining something like a scene between Hiyoko and Chiaki where Chiaki gently tells her it's okay to be angry, but it's also okay to mourn, too, and maybe asking if she'd like to add Sonia to her memorial. Maybe Hiyoko tries to keep a brave face, but her true grief breaks through the cracks, and her insistence that she's not crying over it being a clear distinction from when she fake-cries to make people feel bad.

CH 4

The main changes are dynamic-wise, as the story itself from here on out is pretty airtight. For one thing, ch 4 had a lot of casual Sondham, with Sonia and Gundham going off together a few times and Sonia's disbelief at Gundham being the killer. So instead, I imagine this chapter would focus more on what Kazuichi and Gundham's dynamic would look like without Sonia, mainly in Kazuichi awkwardly trying to latch himself onto Gundham and Gundham NOT having a good time. Think to the cast pairing up when they wake up in the funhouse; in-game, Sonia and Gundham run off without telling anyone, but here, I imagine it'd look more like Kazuichi insisting on pairing up with Gundham, and when he responds in disbelief, Kaz says something along the lines of "Miss- I mean, Sonia- she trusted you more than anyone else, right? If we're gonna pair up, you're probably the safest bet." And Gundham sighs but lets him follow along, because Kaz is too much of a coward to kill anyway.

This frees up Chiaki to pair up with Mechamaru instead(we all know she was obsessed with his robot form), and leaves Hiyoko with Hajime. I'm not sure exactly how this would look, but most likely, it's Hiyoko being whiny and complainy and maybe even trying to run away from Hajime. When her hand is forced, though, I'm thinking an admission of survivor's guilt- people who get close to her die. It happened with Mahiru and Sonia; they stuck their necks out for her and paid the price. She lost her own father to people after her. So Hajime should just fuck off and get out of her way; she can take care of herself. And Hajime could, in classic Hajime fashion, call bullshit. He's literally the one who proved her innocence for Mahiru's murder AND got Chiaki to help her tie up her kimono before the trial. What happened to Mahiru and Sonia weren't her fault at all, and honestly, it's kinda conceited to act otherwise, ngl :/ I think mouthing off to someone who can actually match her energy here is what she needs. The more I think about it, actually, Hajime and Chiaki are the two opposing ends of what Hiyoko needed. Funny how that goes.

Anywho, I'd also like for Hajime and Hiyoko overhearing Akane and Fuyuhiko's conversation to be unskippable; that's such a strong moment for both characters, and making it skippable is such a disservice to them both.

One other thing for Kaz. Gundham being the killer would make him regress more, or so you might initially think. But Gundham's whole thing is anti-cowardice here. Letting themselves starve to death was the coward's way out, so killing for the sake of everyone's spirit would more likely inspire Kaz to really accept that his classmates are his friends first and to swear off his former cowardice forever. This also explains why he'd go forward trying to catch Nagito and save the group without it being just "to impress Miss Sonia."

CH 5

So you know how Sonia's whole thing in this chapter is knowing a fuckton about military weaponry and being shrugged off by the others in the investigation for seemingly no reason other than sexism? Well, I think it actually works a lot better with Hiyoko here. In the previous chapters, we've seen Hiyoko struggle to want to help the others over protecting herself, and the people she gets close to consistently dying. So in a new chapter where Nagito is running wild, Hiyoko wanting to actually get to work on the ruins and not being taken seriously feels more in-line with the way people treat her. She's a whiny, self-serving crybaby with like no physical strength, she certainly can't help in capturing Nagito! Plus, Hiyoko's whole thing is being perceived as a child, and her trying to take advantage of that to get what she wants. So seeing it actively work against her in that everyone tries to tell her not to help in catching Nagito and to stay out of it and stay safe would make for a good chance for her to prove herself. Maybe she doesn't know a ton about the military like Sonia would, but she has survived multiple attempted assassinations, and I think her insisting on being there when they catch Nagito and maybe even jumping and pulling Kaz away from the bomb right before it goes off would be a good defining moment of growth for her.

CH 6

Having Hiyoko there to confirm that she has no sister or family that looks like the picture is way better than having to take Monokuma at his word. Just saying. Also, Hiyoko hearing Mahiru in the final sequence just feels right. Maybe Kaz could hear Sonia and Gundham this way, too

I'm lowkey falling in love with this au we're making here help-