#it’s probably not going to be functional but:

[kynimdraws]

References in the older generation of demon hunters from the movie KPOP DEMON HUNTERS

It is not the BEST animated movie of all time but it got all the little Korean cultural references that feel like it is catering to me....in particular I really loved the narration sequence of how the Demon Hunters came to be!!! So I decided to make a post about it

The first generation of demon hunters we see are set in the 조선 (Chosun) era, which is a VERY common place to start for a lot of Korean media. There are no specific singers/performers they are referring to here, but they are based on 무당 (mudang). Korean female shamans. There are male shamans as well but those are not as well known and not popular. That is why the boy band Saja Boys are based on 저승사자 (Jeosung Saja) aka Korean underworld magistrate/grim reaper.

Anyway the mudang have various roles in Korean paganism/spiritualism. Instead of flashy musical numbers with weapons, they perform 굿 (gut), rituals that vary by region and function.

The second generation of hunters we see have the flapper girl aesthetic (American 1920s fashion) which was popular in Korea around the 1960-70s. This also is probably shouting out to the og Korean "girl group" aka the Kim Sisters (김시스터스) of the 1950-60s. They might not have been the MAIN influence but the trio singer composition and their fame for being popular among US troops in Korea (which launched their career in the US) doesn't feel like just coincidence.

The third generation we see has the Korean 1970s to maybe super early 80s aesthetic. I couldn't think/find any trio girl groups during this time, but they feel like a mix of The Pearl Sisters (펄 시스터즈), Lily Sisters (릴리 시스터즈) and Kye Eunsook (계은숙). Not the most confident with this one. Thanks to a kind bsky person, it does seem like it was MOSTLY based on the Pearl sisters, esp if you look at an old video of their performance.

The fourth generation is the 1980s, which is when the word "k-pop" starts being used to describe the songs. BUT MAN, THIS SET PISSES ME OFF BECAUSE WHY ARE THEY ALL DIFFERENT 80S KPOP STYLES? COORDINATE GIRLS!!! Again no specific girl groups jump out at me but looks like this is a reference to Settorae (세또��, aka "The three friends") seen by their performance video, which capture similar vibes.

The fifth and final generation we see before Rumi/Mira/Zoey are STRONG 90s K-POP. The whole aesthetic of stars and the hairstyles SCREAMS S.E.S which is one of the classic 90s kpop girl groups of the time.

In particular their appearance for the music video "Dreams Come True" comes to mind. The video now feels really dated but back in the day, the effects and stuff they used were the HOT SHIT. Extremely nostalgic Korean media

And ofc we got the modern trio, which I won't really comment on because they are mix of the current (2010s to 2020s) kpop and I feel like the current fans will have better knowledge of this than I about it. so that's it for now! Of course there may be some other stuff I missed or got wrong possibly, which I will fix if anything comes up. Feel free to correct me as well in the replies!

Update 6/26/25: I think people got confused on what I was trying to cite in terms of time period for the hunters. If we go by strict fashion sense it definitely harks earlier decades of AMERICAN HISTORY. But I am looking at all of this thru a Korean lens so some of the recognizeable early American fashion were popular during different times in Korea specifically. Feel free to reblog/comment the fashion refs bc that in itself is interesting too.

And speaking of fashion, I do really like how each of them have the iridescent accents on their outfits, which are reminescent of Najeonchilgi (나전칠기), the Korean art of inlaid mother of pearl pieces on furniture, jewlery, etc.

If you got more stuff you want me to write out, lmk too!

[wosospacegirl]

dinosaurs and...sex? - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Alexia's girlfriend is way too stressed out for her own good, so she puts matter into her own hands (fingers)

Word count: 2.2k

Warning: (+18) fingering and oral (r receiving) and at the end suggestive to oral (r giving) because we are all switches here at wosospacegirl

A/n: I think I've found my niche in fanfic and it's writing nerdy lesbian sex...sorry it's repetitive but it's just so fun to write them...

this is a scheduled post because I *actually* have a dinosaur test to study to and I don't have alexia to eat me out so--

..

"Can I come in, or are you still acting like a monster?" Alexia said from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. She was holding something, but you couldn't quite see what, mostly because your eyes had stopped functioning after reading the word Mesozoic for the ninth time.

You had decided to go to university.

 And now you carry that burden every day. Every. Single. Day.

It was finals week, and you were an absolute wreck. You were so stressed that you had caught the worst cold ever known to humankind. Why your immune system gave up on you at the slightest sign of stress, you didn't know.

Alexia had taken care of you and made sure you rested. But of course, that meant you hadn't been able to study for three whole days.

And now here you were, at Alexi's house, sprawled across her bed, surrounded by books that were open at completely random pages, with class notes you didn't even remember taking.

Your eyes hurt. Your head hurts. Everything hurt. But mostly your soul, because you felt like you barely had one. Surely you had long lost it between the Jurassic and the Cretaceous period.

And when everything hurt, it made you angry, because you couldn't study the way you wanted to. And when you were angry, you were rude.

Alexia had shown up (to her room, in her house) and asked if the two of you shouldn't take a walk or do something relaxing. AKA: She was getting stressed from watching you mumble like a maniac about something called…Coelurosauria?

You, ever the sweet and understanding girlfriend, had snapped at her, questioning why the hell she was bothering you while you were studying.

It wasn't a "Hi, Alexia, I'm sorry, I can't talk right now."

It was a "Oh my fucking God, Alexia, can't you leave me alone for two whole minutes?"

Alexia–who was actually sweet and understanding– didn't say anything. She just stepped closer to where you were sitting, kissed the top of your head, and left a protein bar beside you before quietly walking away, probably heading for a lonely walk around Barcelona.

You cried while studying the skeleton of the Brachiosaurus because you felt guilty afterwards.

You didn't want to be mean, but finals brought out the worst in you. Still, Alexia wasn't the one to blame.

You knew Alexia was back when you heard the front door on the first floor opening and then closing. You heard her taking off her shoes and making her way upstairs.

You felt the mattress dip beside you, and when you turned around, Alexia was sitting there. You gave her your biggest, most apologetic eyes. 

"I'm sorry," you said, genuinely.

Alexia looked at you, cupped your jaw, and brought your mouth to hers. She kissed you sweetly. "It's okay," she murmured against your lips as you closed your eyes. 

"I know you get grumpy when you're overwhelmed with school. No need to say sorry."

"Yes, I do," you said, breaking the kiss and flopping back onto the bed, almost like a starfish. Your book was lying open beside you as you stared at the ceiling. "I was rude, that's not okay."

"It is okay," Alexia said, as she hovered above you, her hair tickling your cheek. "Because you sound hot when you're mad."

You rolled your eyes and pecked her lips. "Okay, now you're stretching."

"I'm serious," she said, getting off of you and sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. "You pout and your brows furrow…It's like  exactly the face you make when you're about to cum–"

"Okay!" you interrupted, throwing your book at her, your face burning. Alexia could be so crude when she wanted to.  "No talking about sex, or–"

"--you cumming?" Alexia teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," you groaned. "This is literally the most boring subject ever. It doesn't pair well with dirty talk."

Alexia stayed quiet for a few seconds, and you took that as a sign to return to your notes and re-read them. You were lying on your stomach now,  your paper was spread out in front of you, when you felt Alexia climb on top of you and drop all of her weight onto your back.

Out of the sudden, you had a book to your face as well–your zoology and evolution of dinosaur book.

Alexia cheekily snatched your notes, and before you could complain, her voice filled the room as she read the book.

"Thyreophora, often known as armoured dinosaurs, were a group of ornithischian dinosaurs that lived from the Early Jurassic until the end of the Cretaceous…"

You listened as Alexia spoke, and you couldn't help but feel as if she was… reading it erotically?

You felt her weight on your back, the way she held your book right in front of you, holding it with one hand while her other hand stayed pressed to your ribcage.

"Primitive forms had simple, low, keeled scutes or osteoderms," she continued, her voice low as she pressed more fully into your body like she was getting cosy, relaxing. "Oh, those are cool, right, bebé?" she said against your ear, and you couldn't help the shiver that ran through you.

You had known Alexia long enough to recognise when she was doing this on purpose.

Sometimes, you had the willpower to push her away and to fight back. You had to study, your exam was tomorrow!! But right now?

Right now, you wanted to be pliant.

"Most thyreophorans were herbivorous and had small brains for their size," she said, her hand slipping under your shirt, her cold fingertips grazing your skin just above your ribs. 

"Oh, does that mean they were dumb?"Alexia asked innocently, placing a kiss on the back of your neck.

"N-no," you stammered as you tried to move, but her body was still pinning you down. "Brain size doesn't really determine intelligence…"

Alexia hummed against your skin, letting the book fall onto the bed with a soft thud. 

Now her full attention was on your neck, she was licking your skin before sucking the it into her mouth.

"I thought the bigger the brain, the smarter?" she murmured.

She sat up from behind you and turned you over, leaving you flat on your back. Then she kissed you deep and slow, biting your lip.

"No, it doesn't mean that," you mumbled, lifting your arms as Alexia pulled off your shirt, leaving your torso bare. "W-what is intelligence, after all, right? It's a very human construct and we…."

Your breath hitched as Alexia kissed your stomach, slowly making her way down to your navel, then she gently tugged at the waistband of your pants.

You lifted your hips, helping her in the process of getting you naked.

"Keep going, amor, "Alexia said, kissing you just above your underwear. "I don't want to distract you from your studies."

Her fingers slid down to your centre, where the wet spot of your underwear was. Your eyes were closed now, but you knew Alexia was smirking.

"What were you saying about intelligence?"Alexia coaxed, her voice innocent, as if she wasn't doing anything wrong, as if she really was helping you study.

But thinking about dinosaurs or intelligence or anything was nearly impossible as she hooked her fingers into the sides of your underwear and pulled them aside, exposing you completely. She slid her fingers just above your cunt, spreading your weteness slowly around your folds, teasing you.

You moaned as Alexia pressed just the tip of your finger inside of your cunt, your hips moving, begging for more contact, but Alexia didn't give in. She wanted to make you work for it for a bit.

"If you don't talk," Alexia said sternly, kissing the inside of your thigh, "I'll stop. Keep going. Tell me about the subject."

You were in silence, your brain mush. It was like you forgot you even knew any words, let alone the evolution of ornithischian dinosaurs.

Although you were quick to remember it when Alexia took her mouth away from your body.

You clutched at her head, pressing her against your cunt. 

"Please, keep going–"you whined. "I-I was saying that intelligence is a human parameter, and we shouldn't judge other species based on it because it's honestly a very anthropocentric concept…"

"There she is, my smart girl, "Alexia purred. And just like magic, she slid her index finger inside of you, and your body welcomed it immediately. "What else can you tell me about those Thy… Thry…"

"Thyreophora," You breathed as Alexia slid another finger in, thrusting into you so slowly it made you want to cry. "There are two major groups, th-" 

You didn't even get to finish, because you felt alexia's hot breath against your cunt, her mouth touching your clit, wrapping her lips aorund itand sucking gently. "Fuck–more." 

Alexia slapped your thigh; it didn't sting, but it was a warning.

"Keep talking." 

So you did.

Alexia ate you out slowly as if she was savouring every single drop of your wetness. You were very aware she was enjoying herself way too much; you also knew she was doing it as a form of revenge, too.

But you didn't mind for her motives, not when she kept fucking you like that. She only stopped when you stopped talking. 

She really was taking your studies very seriously.

Alexia's tongue was thrusting inside of you. You didn't know how she had mastered the ability to penetrate you so deeply with her tongue, but you (once again) didn't care.

Her hands were pinning you down on the mattress, clutching your hip bones, not letting you move an inch as she continued to thoroughly pleasure (or maybe torture) you.

It took you a while to cum, but not because Alexia wasn't giving you what you needed, but because your body had trouble switching from stressed, anxious and overstimulated to relaxed.

Alexia didn't say a word about it. She didn't make you feel bad that it was taking longer than usual. She just kept her mouth on your cunt, as if she had all the time in the word.

And when you finally came, it felt like your body had truly relaxed for the first time in days. 

You felt as if all of your muscles relaxed all at once. Your eyes rolled back, and you yanked at Alexia's hair with a little more force than you were intending to, but she didn't complain. 

You were trying to catch your breath when alexia finally lifted her face from your cunt. 

She made her way up your body, kissing your stomach and your breasts before (finally) kissing you, and sliding her tongue in to let you taste yourself.

"See," Alexia whispered as she broke the kiss. She lay her head on your chest, her finger gently tracing your face. "I was right."

"Rigth about what?" You barely manage to say. 

"Your face when you cum," She said against your sking, kissing your collarbone. "The pout, the furrowed eyebrows."

You blink, still pretty much dizzy. "Did you make all of this... too prove a point?"

"Maybe," she said, smiling. 

"I hate you," you murmured, closing your eyes and letting your hands run through her hair.

"You don't," Alexia said. "You just came in my mouth, I think that was a love confession, actually."

You chucked at Alexia's words. 

Maybe it was the oxytocin running through your body stream, or maybe it was the quiet realisation that this was the first time you and Alexia were properly intimate in days, mostly because of your schedule at uni and her schedule at Barcelona.

You surprised yourself by lowering your head and kissing her again, your hands slipping under her shirt to trace the back tattoos you knew by heart.

Alexia kissed you back–and what was a sweet kiss–turned into something urgent.

"I want you," you breathed against her mouth, your hand curling around the back of her neck. "Now."

"Yeah?" Alexia smirked. "How?"

"On your back, legs spread open," you said.

"Okay," she simply said.

She did what you asked of her. 

She lay down, but she winced slightly when one of your pens dug into her back.

You watched her for a moment, admiring her, and then you undressed her completely. You took her shirt off, and then her training bra.

You wrapped your lips around her nipples, sucking them until Alexia was gasping, asking for more.

Without wasting another second, you pulled down her shorts and underwear in one go. 

You spread her legs apart with each of your hands and began kissing the inside of her thighs, biting them softly,  leaving teeth marks where no one would see them.

You were in your moment now.  Feeling hot and heavy, watching Alexia's cunt dripping right in forn of your face, how pretty her cunt looked, how ready she was for you.

But just as you were ready to taste her, Alexia said.

"Do you want me to read your notes out loud while you do it?"

You paused, your mouth still slightly open, looking up at her. You truly had a problem reading her facial expression.

At the same time that it looked like she was teasing you, it also seemed like the proposal was sincere, like she might actually do it if you said yes.

You glared at her, your eyes narrowing, trying to make your point across without having to use any words.

"Okay," she said quickly. "I guess that's a no."

..

A/n: Got the dino infos on Wikipedia!

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13 , @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics

[elfwreck]

This stems from, in addition to the constant problem of "everyone wants to get out of work they don't need to do," the major problem with most modern education systems:

They grade on correct answers, not on learning.

Students are rewarded for handing in correct answers. Some answers are more subjective than others - there is no "correct" analysis of a movie they watched in class, but there are certainly wrong ones.

Students are not rewarded for learning the subject matter unless that also produces "correct answers" on homework and/or tests.

Every student knows other students who know fuck-all about the topic but have managed to produce Correct Answers via some trick - whether that's copying answers or stealing the test questions in advance or some neat algorithmic trick learned online ("tests by X company follow one of these three patterns of multiple choice...") or advanced bullshit talents for writing essays that sound coherent but say nothing. Or wheedling their way into extra chances, or just cramming hard the night before the test and holding all those facts in their head for 15 hours and not a moment longer.

And that's without getting into "his father's on the Board of Trustees so the school absolutely will not fail him." Not talking about corruption - just tricks to produce Correct Answers without knowing the material.

Every student probably knows someone who knows the material well - but cannot produce Correct Answers on demand, and is failing or close to it. From students whose disabilities aren't being addressed (can't read or write fast enough to fill out the tests on time; can't study in a noisy crowded room), to those whose home life doesn't allow them to finish homework, to those who are sick often enough that it affects their grades, to those who are brilliant and so bored they can't (or just won't) focus on the tests far below their level.

Most students figure out by high school that "get good grades" and "know the material" are two entirely separate skills.

And if they don't get a break from school before they jump into college... they carry that awareness to college.

Which also... utterly fails to focus on "learn the material" instead of "produce correct answers."

They know damn well it's cheating. But the penalty for cheating is not any higher than the penalty for not producing correct answers. It might even be less; getting caught cheating often comes with a do-over, do-better option.

And most of the people going into Nursing or Architecture or Psychology or Engineering, aren't doing it because they have an extreme passion for the topic and they really really want to improve other people's lives.

They have an interest in the topic - which doesn't lead to good grades on its own, regardless of how much understanding they have - and they want a career that makes solid money.

You get the career with good grades, not with understanding of the topic. The school's hope is that "good grades" are because of "understanding the topic" - but there's no direct connection.

ChatGPT just makes that gap wider.

The fix is not "ban ChatGPT for schoolwork" (Not because "we shouldn't ban it" but because it's a bad idea to pick impossible goals. Schools do not have the ability to remove access to ChatGPT. Action to restrict or end ChatGPT & similar apps has to be outside of the lens of "good for students.")

The fix is, "overhaul the education system so that grades are based on learning the material."

That's big, and it's an ugly fight. Among other things, it would mean disconnecting age from grade level. It means refocusing grade schools and middle schools on academics and removing some of their babysitter functions - in an era where those functions are essential to keep the economy running, because capitalism needs all the parents to be employees.

As long as grades are based on putting Correct Answers On The Paper, answer-generators that are 75-ish percent correct are going to be widely used.

The college fix is easy enough: More labs. More in-person, hands-on activities that can't be skipped. Make some of them essential for graduation - and make it so straight-A's in paper classes and D's in labwork raises a huge red flag and kicks off an investigation.

Of course, for that... colleges need to allocate space, time, and teachers to lab classes small enough for the teacher to understand what each student is doing.

And again, actual learning does not align with the goals of capitalism.

Right now, there's a few odd professionals here & there who cheated their way through college with ChatGPT or something like it. Watch for warning flags and be ready to switch if you catch them.

If the AI industry doesn't collapse in the next three years or so, in the next 5-10 we'll have a LOT of people with professional degrees or certificates that have a terrifying lack of comprehension of what they're doing.

Some of them will figure out pretty damn quick that they can't build bridges/assist at surgery/calculate a flight path etc. But of course they won't want to give up the career they've "worked hard for."

...They'll apply for inspector jobs. That's much safer for everyone, right?

ur future nurse is using chapgpt to glide thru school u better take care of urself

[crystallilytarot02]

Your future partner's fashion style

+ lingerie

+ what they are wearing to sleep

(a little 18+ I guess, because of the topic)

Pile 1

Rich vibe. But I feel they don't neccesseraly wear suits, or if they need to wear elegant clothes to work, it's only something semi-formal, not a full suit. Or they change clothes after work very soon. It's more like expensive clothes, big brands, quality material. I think they are quite active, so the clothes often are sporty, but still, people can know that they like to wear only the best things. Probably gold jewelry, and can be a signature watch or necklace, which is pretty big. A lot of blue, grey or something pastel.

The underwear seems to be quite functional, comfortable but also good material and expensive. A little bit minimalistic. Except they probably have some unique, funny design, or maybe some funny socks too. It's just fun to wear a piece like that with an elegant attire. Can have some nerdy stuff too.

In bed, they prefer to wear nothing. If they ever sleep with roommates, than some old t-shirt and shorts probably, or if it's really cold, than underwear only. But even if it's cold, they prefer to tuck themself in the blanket completely, or 2 blankets, but they like to be without clothes.

Pile 2

They aren't so interested in fashion, but still manage to be always dressing good. A little bit overdressed preferably than showing up underdressed. Prefer to wear elegant but comfortable clothes, they would never go out in sweatpants. They like to wear silver or metal-ly accessories, they only wear gold or something big if it's a special occasion. They don't wear a lot of color, but know what suits them, probably something that matches their eyes. Also black is really suits them.

Their underwears are again mostly black or grey and white maybe, solid colors and only a little detail in them, or mostly minimalistic. But they also have some more elegant or sexy lingerie for special occasions. But black is really their color and it also looks sexy in them.

For sleeping, depends on their mood and how cold is the weather. Sometimes only underwear, or maybe an older t-shirt, but they have full sets of pyjamas and those are comfortable and also look good, some nice material, which feels good in their skin. After sex, they like to sleep naked also.

Pile 3

It can be that they have to dress elegant because of their job, but I think they are always well dressed. They probably don't care about how expensive, or what brands are the clothes, but they choose good material. Also pieces that suits them. Something that show their body nicely, their curves or how tall they are. They have a big presence, so even in ordinary clothes, they will catch people's attention. After work, or at home, it's like a different person, from a boss to a bad boy/girl vibe. Black leather jacket, sneakers, they can have tattoos too.

Again, 2 different sides. They have some nice, elegant underwear for public places. But at home, they are the type who stay naked after shower for a long time. Wearing a comfortable sweatpants, without underwear. They feel comfortable in their skin. They can have some underwear for sex, some kinky stuff.

Interestingly, they don't always sleep naked though. They have some nice robes, so if others are in the house too, you don't have to worry that they will go to the kitchen naked. They like loose clothes, nothing tight for sleeping. And these are probably for colder weather, usually they wear some underwear only. For some of you, they have a pet who sleeps with them or in the same room. After sex and in the summer, they don't even want a blanket, just full nakedness.

[thunderbolt-ing]

Three Roommates and a Loft [3]

PREVIOUS | NEXT The One Where You Get Romanoff'd: A lifestyle adjustment, a bed-rotting intervention, a surprise guest, and a rebound roster. Yeah, you'll probably regret this later. Warnings: none, just pure silliness and slight (stupid) sexual innuendo. I'm sleep deprived when I'm writing this, so this is just pure crack. Word count: 6.6K (sorry for the mistakes, i dont proofread as you already know)

You were jolted awake at exactly 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday by the unmistakable sound of an old-timey trumpet muffly blaring through the ceiling, specifically, a World War II-era jump blues song. 

🎵 He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way,

He had a boogie style that no one else could play,

He was the top man at his craft,

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft,

He’s in the army now, a blowin’ reveille, 

He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B! 🎵

There was only one possible culprit: Steve Rogers. 

His room was directly above yours, and apparently so was his nostalgia-fueled alarm clock. The song continued at full volume for a solid two minutes before Steve finally got up and shut it off. 

Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the end of it. 

Next came the footsteps. Then the light stomping. Then… counting… and grunting…? 

Was he doing pushups? At six-thirty-five in the morning? On a Sunday? 

You buried your head under a pillow and groaned. The realization settled slowly and painfully; the walls in this loft were way too thin. Adjusting to life here was going to take time and possibly noise-cancelling headphones. Or earplugs. Definitely earplugs. 

Eventually, you managed to fall asleep again, though it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness while dreaming about WWII-era trumpets. Still, your body naturally woke up at your usual weekend time of 9:00 a.m., groggy but functional. 

Noise was already filtering in from the living room—voices, at least two of them, mixed with the clatter of dishes and the unmistakable sound of someone being way too enthusiastic for a Sunday morning (suspects are either Steve or Sam. You’re leaning towards Steve). 

You stared at the ceiling and sighed. 

This was your life now.

With the weight of reluctant acceptance, you braced yourself for the horror of human interaction. You got up from your bed and mentally prepared yourself to walk out of your room looking like a witch who’d just crawled out of a bog. Your oversized t-shirt was twisted halfway around your torso, your hair was an unruly mess, and you were certain that your face bore the imprint of your pillowcase. 

You didn’t even bother to make yourself look presentable. What was the point? 

You needed caffeine. You needed breakfast. And most of all, you needed to not be spoken to until at least a cup of coffee had been fully consumed. 

You sluggishly dragged yourself out of your room, your first stop being the bathroom. You just wanted to splash some water on your face and pretend to be alive. Instead, you opened the door to find a near-naked Bucky Barnes hunched over the sink, towel slung low on his hips, mid-shave. 

Your brain short-circuited, but he didn’t flinch. He just met your stunned silence with a deadpan stare. 

“Do you know how to knock?” he asked coolly, eyes narrowing like you’d just ruined his entire day. 

You blinked, fighting the instinctive downward glance that, traitorously, happened anyway. It only made everything worse. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, slamming the door shut as your heart pounded loudly in your chest. Your face burned with the mix of rage and embarrassment, and now, thanks to him, you were fully and disturbingly awake. 

From inside the bathroom, you heard him mutter just loud enough to be heard: 

“Unbelievable.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped through the door, patience running thin with the lack of caffeine in your system.  

“No thanks,” he called back flatly without missing a beat. 

You were two seconds away from throwing the door open and escalating when Sam’s voice rang out from the kitchen: 

“I told y’all to come up with a bathroom system.” 

You huffed and stomped your way into the common area, still fuming. 

Sam was at the stove flipping pancakes that were definitely a little burnt, but pretending not to notice. Steve was already seated at the newly placed dining table (thanks to your charitable donation), sipping coffee like this was a perfectly normal, drama-free Sunday morning. 

“Hey, sunshine!” Steve greeted you as you stepped into the room, entirely too cheerful for someone who caused your 6:30 a.m. trumpet wake-up call. “How was your first night?” 

“What is wrong with him?” you shot back, completely ignoring Steve’s question. “Does he not believe in getting dressed after a shower? Is that not a thing for him?”

Sam’s laughter echoed through the loft. “Wait—did you see him butt-ass naked?” 

Steve choked on his coffee, but being Steve, he tried to play it off with a composed nod and a sip like nothing had happened. 

You gave Sam a withering glare. “Toweled, but barely. It was an assault on my morning.” 

Sam was practically doubled over now. “Man, you and Bucky are gonna kill each other before the month’s out.” 

“Yeah?” you muttered as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Well, I’ll make sure I get to him first.”

“Doubt it,” Bucky said unenthusiastically, stepping into the room fully clothed this time. 

“No one’s killing anyone,” Steve cut in with a chuckle. “We just need time to adjust. There are four of us now, it’s gonna take a little grace.” 

You and Bucky locked eyes over your mugs. Clearly, there was no grace, only war. 

——

After breakfast, the guys headed out for a Whole Foods run, arguing over oat milk versus almond milk as they disappeared out the door. You stayed behind, however, choosing to confront the disaster that the loft turned into from your move-in yesterday. So, with Japanese Breakfast on Sam’s speaker, you got to work. 

You hauled your boxes to the center of the living room, then tore through them with the determination of a woman who was about to perform a miracle. Blankets, candles, books, and years of collected knick-knacks found their homes. A patchwork quilt over the chaise. A vase of bodega flowers on the dining table. Your Princess Diaries poster now hung proudly beside Bruce Willis, which perfectly summarized the loft’s new look. 

In the kitchen, you replaced the single wooden spoon with actual utensils, alphabetized the spice rack (because who was stopping you?), and stuck a whiteboard on the fridge that read Weekly Chore Rotation — TBD in teacher handwriting. You almost changed your alphabet magnet message from HELLO ROOMIES to HELLO FUCKERS, but you figured you’d soft launch your personality and have them get used to the harmless kindergarten teacher first. 

Perhaps you were getting carried away, but you even cleaned the entryway. Now there was a shoe rack, jacket hooks, and a key bowl because you weren’t a barbarian. You felt very smug about your work… until you opened the hallway closet and discovered the mini-armory. 

Mounted neatly on the back wall was an array of throwing knives, each blade gleaming despite the dim light. Steve’s old, battered shield leaned against the corner, the once bright paint chipped and scratched raw to the vibranium. It looked like it had been through hell, probably had. Maybe he kept it for emergencies, or maybe out of sentiment. Above the shield, resting on a shelf, sat a worn military grade duffle bag with WILSON embroidered on the front. You didn’t dare to open it, something told you that it didn’t hold gym clothes. 

And then, there was the bundle. It was tucked in the far corner, hidden enough that it could be overlooked. Before you could even begin to think about unwrapping it, keys jingled outside, and the front door swung open with a dramatic slam. 

“Guess who survived Whole Foods!” Sam’s voice rang through the loft, followed by the telltale thud of grocery bags hitting the floor. 

You quickly shut the closet door, forcing a casual smile despite your heart hammering in your chest. “Hey! So, who won the milk debate? For the record, I was team oat—”

“Hold up,” Sam cut in, eyes widening as he entered the living room. He gasped, hand clutching his chest theatrically. “Is that Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Queen of Genovia next to John McClane?!”

You followed him into the living room with a shrug. “Don’t they look cute together?” 

“Who the hell is that?” Bucky asked, breezing past with grocery bags and heading straight for the kitchen. 

“Princess Diaries,” Sam and Steve answered in unison, though Steve was a beat slower and slightly more ashamed about knowing. 

Steve bent to pick up the remaining bags, but paused as he took in the living room. His eyes did a slow sweep across the space before he broke into a pleased, golden-retriever grin. “You redecorated.”

“Holy shit, you did,” Sam added, spinning in place to look around. “No more hostage bunker, frat house adjacent. This place has… character now.”

“There’s a key bowl,” Steve noted in delight, pointing to the entryway like you’d just placed a national treasure. 

“I’m ignoring this,” Bucky cut in from the kitchen. He scowled at the whiteboard magnetized to the fridge. “Weekly Chore Rotation? This is not elementary school.”

“Also, where are the tongs?” he asked, rummaging through the newly organized drawer with increasing irritation. 

“The rusty ones?” You asked, joining him in the kitchen. “I threw them out before it gave someone tetanus, but don’t worry, I replaced them with new ones.” You opened the other drawer and showed him the new tongs. 

Bucky turned to you, arms crossed. “So you’re in charge now?” 

You smiled sweetly. “Someone has to be a functional adult out of the four of us.” 

Steve chuckled as he dropped the last bag on the counter. “She’s not wrong.” 

Bucky muttered something about “whiteboard dictatorships” as he walked off, but not before you caught him glancing at the newly filled bookshelf. 

That was the closest thing to approval you were probably ever going to get. 

——

Adjusting to your new life at the loft with three superhero roommates was… messy at best. The only man you’ve ever lived with before was Adam, and while that came with its own set of issues, chaos had never been one of them. Adam had been neat, predictable, and quiet. The exact opposite of the three men you now shared a loft (and very thin walls) with. 

The loft wasn’t perfect. It was loud, unfiltered, and filled with clashing personalities. But oddly enough, it was exactly what you needed right now. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, not to them at least, but the chaos helped. It distracted you from thinking about Adam and from falling back into the life you’d walked away from. 

Monday started off strong. 

You were in the kitchen, half-asleep and clinging to your coffee before work, when Sam practically sprinted down the stairs looking like he’d already finished at least three marathons.

“Morning, miss girl,” he beamed, already reaching for your mug as if you didn’t need it to survive. “What’s your sign by the way? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re a Virgo aren’t you? You alphabetized the spices.” 

You stared at him. You didn’t even get a word in before he declared you his ‘platonic soulmate’ three times and tried to convince you to join him on a sunrise run. It was 5:07 a.m.

Later that day, after work, you found Steve in the living room, utterly absorbed in The Great British Bake Off. You expected him to switch to something more macho when you sat beside him, but instead he turned to you with a frown.

“I just think he could’ve decorated that cake better…” 

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond at first. “You know what, you’re right. It’s lacking something and the sponge looks dry.” 

“You wanna make something better?” 

“...Sure?” 

By the end of the hour, you were in the kitchen covered in flour, while Steve was making frosting. You two were making something completely unrelated to the show, and the smell of vanilla filled the loft. Steve wore an apron that said ‘Be Patriotic & Kiss the Captain’ with an arrow pointing toward himself. You didn’t question it, but you had a sneaky feeling that Sam was the one who gave it to him. 

Steve and Sam were surprisingly easy to get along with, but Bucky on the other hand, was the human equivalent of a locked door. 

On Tuesday, he glared at you for leaving your clothes in the dryer. 

On Wednesday, you got into a five-minute shouting match because he was using your shampoo. 

On Thursday, he accused you of “hogging the hot water” like you’ve just committed crimes against humanity. 

But on Friday, your shampoo was replaced with a fresh bottle, and when you walked into the living room later, he was reading your copy of Anne of Green Gables. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you just baked the cookies that Steve offhandedly mentioned Bucky liked. He didn’t say thank you, but the cookies didn’t last a day. 

Midweek, the boys left on an impromptu mission. It was a quick recon, nothing too dangerous according to Steve, but the silence in the loft was jarring. You wandered around in your fuzzy socks, grading math quizzes with background noise from a sitcom rerun just to fill the void. 

You actually missed the chaos. 

They came back home a day later, exhausted and grumpy. You didn’t say anything, but you had grilled cheese and tomato soup ready for them. Steve muttered something about being “blessed,” and Sam dramatically asked that you platonically marry him (whatever that meant). Bucky just gave you a curt nod, which, in his language, might as well be a hug. 

On Saturday, Steve and Sam insisted on helping you grade a stack of your kindergarteners’ spelling tests while eating cereal straight from the box. 

“Why does this kid spell ‘banana’ like ‘bunahnuh’?” Sam asked. 

“Gwen spells phonetically,” you replied, like it was obvious. 

Steve, squinting through his reading glasses with a red pen in his hand, held up a paper. “What’s turlul?”

“Turtle,” you replied with a grin.

Then Sam, looking deeply concerned, held up your lesson plan. “You’re teaching them Romeo and Juliet with puppets?” 

“What? They’re five and they love tragic romance.” 

Steve chuckled. “New York kids… gotta love ‘em.” 

The week ended with you, curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, grading kindergarten science homework while Steve sat beside you, quietly sketching. Sam DJ’d badly from the kitchen while Bucky was silently fixing the crooked picture frame you meant to fix days ago. 

“You hung this badly,” he muttered.

“I’ll fix it later,” you replied without looking up. 

“It’s going to fall.” 

“Aw,” you looked up and smirked at him. “So you do care.” 

His lips twitched just a little, but you didn’t point it out. 

Living in the loft was a mess, but it was home. 

Your home.

——

Two months into living with the boys, a rhythm had settled in. It was morning coffees with Sam’s unsolicited astrology takes, quiet evenings grading assignments with Steve, and your usual snark-filled cold war with Bucky. Against all odds, the arrangement was working. And yet, even with all the laughter and distractions, the sinking feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, the stillness between the noise made it even louder. 

You missed Adam. Terribly and painfully, in spite of the hell he put you through. Some wounds didn’t announce themselves with aching pain, they crept in during the quiet, slipping through the cracks when you were doing everything to keep moving forward. 

You thought you were hiding it well, smiling when you needed to, laughing when expected. But somewhere deep down, you had a feeling that the boys were starting to catch on. 

It started with Sam. One afternoon after work, he appeared at your door without knocking, flopping onto the edge of your bed with a bag of chips and zero introduction. He didn’t pry or asked how you were, he just talked about nothing. He complained about the subway system. He argued about why almond milk was better than oat milk. He recalled the dream he had where Steve ran for mayor and lost to RuPaul. 

Then Steve started stopping by too. He’d sit in the armchair in the corner, sketchbook in hand, half-listening to Sam’s ramblings and occasionally offering stories about old missions and silly anecdotes about his teammates. He talked about the Avengers often that you were starting to feel like you knew them, even though you hadn’t met any of them in person. Steve never asked what was wrong, he just stayed just like Sam did. 

Bucky never set foot in your room, but the arguments with him stalled. The sharpness between you dulled just a bit. He still glared, still muttered under his breath when you used the last of the coffee, but he didn’t pick fights the way he used to. It was as if he didn’t want to add more weight to what you were already carrying. 

At one point, the quiet sadness that had been simmering beneath the surface tipped into something heavier. A mini depressive episode, maybe. If you could even call it that. It crept in gradually at first and was barely noticeable, but soon your behavior shifted in ways the boys couldn’t ignore. 

You started locking your bedroom door after work, claiming you were just tired. You bailed on loft game night more than once, always with a vague excuse about lesson planning or needing to grade your students’ assignments. Even when you didn’t have a stack of spelling tests to get through, you stayed tucked away in your room, lights dim with Pride and Prejudice looping in your TV just to feel something. 

You stopped lounging on the couch. Stopped making dinner for the loft. Stopped bickering with Sam over his abhorrent snack combinations or baking with Steve for fun. You slipped in and out of the kitchen like a ghost, only entering when the coast was clear. You timed your showers to avoid Bucky, dodging eye contact in the hallway like it was a full-time job. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You did. It was that everything suddenly felt unbearable. Every noise, every conversation, every mundane task, it all felt too much. 

The worst part? You didn’t even know how to explain it to yourself or the boys. 

By the time the weekend rolled around, you’d all but vanished into your room. The door stayed closed, the lights stayed off, and not even the smell of Steve’s buttermilk waffles managed to lure you out. 

Sam, in an attempt to get you to talk, slipped a piece of paper under your door:

Are u mad at me? Yes or no. Circle one pls <3. 

You saw it, but you didn’t pick it up. 

Later that evening, the three boys were sprawled on the couch, half-watching a terrible action movie and working through their respective takeout containers. The dialogue on the screen was awful, the explosions louder than necessary, but no one bothered to change the channel. 

Then, casually, as if tossing in an afterthought, Bucky asked, “What’s going on with her?” 

He didn’t look up from his food, he just stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork. “Last night, she had this song on repeat. Something about a girl sitting in a restaurant, waiting or something. Played it for hours. I didn’t say anything. Kinda liked it.” 

Sam froze mid-chew. Slowly, he lowered his chopsticks. “Wait. Was she playing Right Where You Left Me?” 

Bucky shugged. “How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention. Her room’s next to mine, I just heard it.” 

Sam immediately placed his food on the coffee table like it had become irrelevant. “Oh hell no. That’s the emotional paralysis anthem.” 

Steve frowned. “You got all that from a song about… a restaurant?” 

“It’s not about the restaurant, Steven, it’s about the metaphor,” Sam said, deadly serious. “It’s heartbreak, it’s what you play when you’re stuck. And she’s got it on loop? Oh, I’m gonna kill that Adam guy.” 

“Who the hell is Adam?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing. 

“Her ex,” Sam said, crossing his arms. “Steve and I met him briefly. Bad vibes, stank aura, absolutely zero stars.” 

“Not a pleasant man,” Steve added diplomatically. “Didn’t seem to appreciate her.” 

Bucky went quiet for a moment, then muttered. “Figures.” 

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Figures what, Barnes?” 

“Nothing,” Bucky replied, too quickly. He refocused on his takeout with exaggerated interest, stabbing the piece of beef in his plate half-heartedly. 

Steve sighed and looked toward your room, his features softening. “I should try checking in on her again.” 

Sam was already on his feet, grabbing the extra box of chow mein from table. “Nope. We’re doing this together. This is a group effort.” 

Bucky didn’t move. 

Steve glanced at him. “You coming?” 

Bucky groaned, dragging himself up with zero enthusiasm. “Do I have to?” 

“Yes.” Sam and Steve said in unison, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Bucky followed them down the hallway. Sam knocked first, rapping his knuckles gently against your door. 

“I know you’re alive in there,” he called. “I can hear Mr. Darcy monologuing through the wall.” 

No response. 

Bucky shifted awkwardly. “Wanna insult me? Could be therapeutic. I’m an easy target and I used up all your conditioner again.” 

Still nothing. 

Steve gave the door handle a patient turn, but it didn’t budge. “We just wanna check in. No pressure.” Steve said, his voice low and gentle.

Sam held up the box of food like you could see it through the door. “We brought noodles… and poor emotional boundaries.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky muttered. 

Steve side-eyed him. “You offered yourself up for verbal abuse two seconds ago.”

“I’m just trying to help!” Bucky snapped, crossing his arms. 

Another beat of silence followed. Then, from inside the room, you spoke up, your voice muffled, “Is it chow mein or lo mein?” 

Sam grinned triumphantly. “Chow mein.”

You shuffled to the door and creaked it open an inch. 

“Fine,” you sighed. “But only because I’m hungry and you guys are loud.”

As you stepped back to let them in, Bucky was the last to follow, but not before glancing at your TV, the frozen frame of Pride and Prejudice paused on Darcy’s rain-soaked confession. He didn’t say anything, just slipped inside and quietly straightened the crooked calendar by your door as the others made themselves at home. 

Sam looked around your room, eyebrows raised at the unmade bed, scattered tissues, and the lopsided stack of grading papers on your desk. “I love you,” he said as he handed you the box of chow mein, “But this is just… a mess, and I will be cleaning while we talk.” 

You gave a weak laugh as he started picking up the empty cups on your nightstand like he lived in your room, too. 

Steve sat gently on the edge of your bed, his tone soft. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could talk to us.” His brows pulled together in concern. “I know we’re not… the best at this kind of thing, but we care and we want to help.” 

You looked down at the box in your hands, fingers digging into the paper. “It’s not that I didn’t feel comfortable with you guys,” you said, voice tight. “I just didn’t know how to explain it. And honestly, it’s stupid. I’ve been crying over Adam.” 

The words felt small and pathetic once they were out in the open. But the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental.

From the doorway, Bucky shifted his weight, arms still crossed tightly. His gaze stayed on the floor, then he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s not… stupid.” 

You glanced up at him in surprise, but he refused to meet your eyes. 

Sam looked between the two of you with a knowing expression. “Well damn. If Barnes is offering moral support, then you’re officially at rock bottom.”

Bucky glowered at Sam while you flipped him off. “Whatever, Wilson,” you muttered in mock annoyance. 

Steve smiled, looking relieved that they were somehow helping. “Why don’t you go and spend a day with your own friends?” He suggested kindly, his tone gentle. “Not us, you know, like… women. People who get it more than we do.” 

“Sure! That’s cute,” You said dryly, bitterness bleeding into your voice. “Except all my friends were Adam’s friends, and when we broke up, he turned them all against me. They blocked me, every single one of them.”

“That motherf—“ 

“Okay,” Steve cut in quickly, shooting Sam a look before he could finish. “I’m calling Nat. She’ll know what to do.” 

“Nat?” You echoed, confused. “Who’s Nat?”

“Natasha,” Steve clarified, pulling out his phone.

“You know… Natasha Romanoff,” Sam clarified further, seeing your confused expression. “Black Widow…? Come on, keep up.”

“Oh no, no, no,” You sat up a little, alarmed. “I am not meeting her like this. She’s going to think I’m a loser. I mean, she kills men for sport, and I’m here sobbing into my pillow over one. I’m literally crying over someone who owns a mug that says ‘Rise and Grind’, I am beyond pathetic.” 

Steve raised his brow, but you kept going.

“It’s already embarrassing that you three know,” you muttered, tugging your blanket higher. “Just give me one more week of bed rotting and I swear I’ll bounce back.” 

“You’ve been rotting,” Sam said bluntly. “We’ve hit the compost stage.” 

“Advanced decay,” Bucky chimed in, arms still crossed. You shot him a glare. “Nat won’t judge.” Steve reassured, patting your shoulder gently. “She’ll understand more than we do.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “She’ll actually be gentle, like surprisingly gentle. You need someone who gets it, because if it were me? I’d just deck the guy and move on.” 

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed dramatically. “If I end up crying in front of Black Widow, I’m changing my name and I’m leaving the country.”

“She cried during Marley and Me, you’ll be fine,” Steve reassured as he pressed Natasha’s contact on his phone. 

——

The next morning, you shuffled out of your room in an oversized t-shirt and mismatched socks. Your only mission for the day: retrieve coffee without making eye contact with anyone. 

You failed instantly. 

All three of your roommates were seated around the dining table, and sitting casually among them, as if she hadn’t just completely caused your soul to leave your body, was her. 

Natasha. Romanoff.

The Black Widow. 

Former Assassin. Legendary Avenger. Threat to all men. 

She was drinking her coffee from one of your ridiculous mugs. She wore no tactical gear, no combat boots, just jeans and a fitted black top, with a posture so immaculate that it made you stand up a little straighter. 

Her red hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her gaze met yours the moment you entered. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, she just looked. It was as if she was quietly assessing whether you were dangerous or just a sad little mess Steve had guilted her into babysitting. 

You, of course, chose to freeze like a deer in headlights. 

Flattening your sleep-matted hair instinctively, you stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if you should apologize for daring to set foot in front of her presence. You didn’t understand why she was here. There was no way someone like Natasha Romanoff wasted time on strangers. She must’ve owed Steve big-time if she came to the loft immediately after he called yesterday. 

“Good morning,” Natasha said smoothly, voice low and unreadable. It was a statement, not a greeting. Like a poker player declaring her turn.  You stalled in real time, your brain shutting down in a panic. And then, you opened your mouth despite every survival instinct begging you not to embarrass yourself: 

“Hi. Wow. Is being hot a requirement to be an Avenger because… damn.” 

Silence. You could even hear the birds chirp outside. 

Sam snorted into his coffee. Steve blinked slowly like he was rebooting. Bucky coughed to hide what suspiciously sounded like a laugh. 

Natasha tilted her head, still expressionless. “Yes,” she said simply, and took another sip of her coffee. “That’s why Sam didn’t make the cut.” 

Your laugh came out before you could stop it. It was your first real laugh in weeks, and it caught everyone off guard. 

“Okay, first of all, I just didn’t sign the papers, Romanoff,” Sam shot back, pointing his fork at her like it was a weapon. “I was recruited! There were negotiations!” 

“Yeah,” she replied dryly. “Negotiations to keep you off the roster.” 

Steve hid a grin behind his coffee. Bucky didn’t bother hiding his smirk, though he kept eating like he wasn’t paying attention. 

Sam turned to you with a hand over his heart. “I’m being dragged in my own home. Do something,” he said, turning to you with pleading eyes. 

You dropped into an empty seat next to Bucky, grabbed a piece of toast, and casually stole a forkful of eggs from his plate. He shot you a look, brows knitting in mild disapproval, but he didn’t stop you. 

“Not too much on Sam,” you said with a grin. “He’s an emotional guy. He cried during Paddington 2.” 

“He went to prison!” Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Why would you incarcerate a cute little bear who just wanted to make marmalade?!”

Steve nodded solemnly, like he was testifying in court. “It was deeply unfair.” 

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re all unwell.” 

“This is my life now,” Bucky muttered, sliding the rest of his eggs your way with a resigned sigh. You beamed at the gesture. 

Natasha took a sip of her coffee, eyes scanning you like she was running a background check. Then, finally, she nodded. “Okay. I like you. You’ve got potential.” 

You blinked at her, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Potential for…?” 

Natasha stood up from her chair, already grabbing her keys off the counter like this was a done deal. “Not sure yet, but you’re coming with me today.” 

You choked on your eggs. “What—why?” 

“Does it matter?” she said, already halfway to the door. 

You looked around the table like someone might save you, but Steve just gave you a thumbs up and took another sip of his coffee. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Fine or maybe dead,” you muttered. ‘What’s her idea of fun anyway?” you asked in a small, horrified voice as Natasha opened the front door. 

“Get dressed,” Natasha called. “Ten minutes. I leave with or without you.” 

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Congratulations. You’ve been Romanoff’d.”

Bucky, now taking back his eggs, gave you a flat look and a lazy wave. Then, with zero sympathy, he nudged your chair with his foot. “Go. Now.” 

You groaned, already standing. “God help me,” you muttered, fast walking to your room like your life depended on it because with Natasha Romanoff waiting at the door, it just might. 

——

Spending the day with Natasha Romanoff was nothing like you’d expected, but exactly what you needed. She didn’t drag you to brunch to get bottomless mimosas or ask how you were feeling. Instead, she tossed you into the passenger seat of a black Corvette Stingray, drove like every red light was a suggestion, and took you to an underground boxing gym in Brooklyn where she taught you how to properly throw a punch. You expected sympathy, but she gave you bruised knuckles and a protein bar. 

Later, she made you walk through the city with her, mostly in comfortable silence, stopping only to grab overpriced lattes and people-watch like spies on a stakeout. At one point, she handed you a pair of sunglasses and muttered, “Put these on. We’re stalking your ex.” You tried to protest, but she was already leading the way, reciting tire-slashing tips like they were ancient wisdom. “Don’t worry,” she added coolly, “I’ll make sure there’s no trace.” You still don’t know how she found Adam’s car, but you did it, and oddly enough, it felt like therapy. 

By the time you got back to the loft, your head felt a little clearer, your shoulders a little lighter, and for the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest had eased. You didn’t feel fixed, but you finally didn’t feel like rotting for the foreseeable future. 

Now, the five of you were sprawled across the loft’s living room, half-watching The Princess Diaries play on the TV. It was Sam’s idea, of course. He insisted that Bucky had to be cultured, and no one else had any other suggestions. 

Steve sat on the floor with a bowl of popcorn, fully invested. Bucky was squinting at the screen like he was trying to solve a murder. Natasha, lounging in the armchair with her legs propped on the ottoman, glanced at you. You were pitifully curled up under a blanket with a bowl of ice cream. She gave you a once-over, then turned to Steve. 

“She needs a rebound.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, maybe to disagree, but instead he gave Natasha a thoughtful look and decided to keep his mouth shut.

You choked on your spoon. “I’m sitting right here.” 

“Exactly,” Nat said coolly, not missing a beat. “You’re sitting, you’re sad, and you haven’t been laid in…?” 

“Do not answer that,” Sam interjected, hands raised. “Please, I beg.”

Unfazed, Natasha went on. “You need someone pretty who’ll tell you your hair looks good and you know… absolutely ruin you in the best way.” 

Your face flushed an alarming shade of red as you stared hard at the TV. “I need to get struck by lightning.” 

“Whatever you do,” Bucky said flatly from the opposite end of the couch, “Do it at his place. I’m not hearing that.” 

Sam gagged dramatically. “Can we not talk about her getting defiled during Princess Diaries?’ 

“Uh-uh,” Natasha cut in smoothly, already pulling out her phone. “No talking unless you’re volunteering, I need to focus.” 

Before anyone could argue, she cast her screen onto the TV, replacing The Princess Diaries entirely. Sam let out a horrified gasp as the screen flickered. 

“Nat! Princess Mia was about to give a speech!” 

“Shhh,” Natasha waved him off. “This is more important.” 

On the screen, three crisp photos appeared in a neat row. 

“These,” she said, gesturing toward the candidates like she was presenting a PowerPoint presentation, “are all people we know. Which means they’re not losers… not really. Low emotional investment, good hygiene, passably good-looking. All solid rebound options.” 

The screen displayed the following candidates: 

Johnny Storm — Shirtless in a bathroom mirror, abs flexed, sunglasses on indoors. There was a 99% chance this selfie had originally been sent to someone else, or possibly everyone else. He looked like the human embodiment of a “wyd?” text at 2 a.m. “This guy? Really?” Bucky sighed, genuinely disappointed. “Slim pickings, huh?” “I’d steer clear with this one,” Steve added with a grimace. 

Sébastien Noir — A S.H.I.E.L.D agent with a sleek black-and-white headshot, clearly pulled from a classified S.H.I.E.L.D file (because, of course, Nat had access to that). Dark hair and a darker smirk. Very French, very suave. “Could be the next James Bond,” Natasha said casually. “Or a complete poser,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Matt Murdock — The Avengers’ lawyer. Crisp navy suit, tousled hair, holding a cane and leaning casually against a brownstone like he walked out of a Jane Austen adaptation if it was directed by Scorsese. “I like this one,” Sam said with a thoughtful nod, “Lawyers have money.” 

After much deliberation and a fair amount of peer pressure, you begrudgingly settled on Sébastien Noir. Johnny had given you nothing but red flags, and you didn’t hate yourself enough to fall for a walking thirst trap with the romantic depth of a frat boy.. 

Matt Murdock, on the other hand, was too much. Too handsome, too smart, and too put together. You weren’t emotionally stable enough to be perceived by someone that kind, and to be honest, it felt borderline disrespectful to label him a rebound. 

So… Sébastien it was. 

Tall, French, and suspiciously charming, he felt like the safest terrible decision. There was a certain relief in choosing someone who came with low expectations and virtually no risk of actual feelings. If it all went up in flames, you could just blame it on ‘cultural misunderstanding’... or Natasha. 

“Are you sure about this…?” Steve asked cautiously, like he might step in and offer a better alternative if you gave him even a hint of hesitation. 

“Not really,” you admitted with a frown. “I feel like I’m setting feminism back a few decades.” 

“That’s how you know you chose the right rebound,” Natasha nodded while typing something on her phone, probably texting Sébastien himself. 

Bucky didn’t even bother commenting. He just sat there, slowly shaking his head like a man watching a car crash. 

“What? No notes?” you asked him, raising an eyebrow. 

“This is just… unbelievable,” He simply muttered, shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth like he was trying to eat away his disapproval. 

“To your slut era, I guess,” Sam said half-heartedly, raising his beer before switching the TV back to Princess Diaries like nothing life-altering had just occurred. 

——

Later that evening, on your way out of your room to brush your teeth, you caught a glimpse of Bucky standing by the hallway closet you jokingly dubbed the mini armory. The door was open, and dim light spilled out over the floor. He was unraveling a black bundle you vaguely remembered seeing months ago, back when you were just trying to store your cleaning supplies. 

You paused in your room’s doorway, unsure if he’d want company. 

The cloth slipped from his hands to reveal a silver prosthetic arm with a red star near the shoulder area. 

“So that’s what it was,” you said softly, stepping out just enough for him to hear. 

Bucky froze. His head turned slightly, shoulders tense. “You were looking around here?” 

“I just thought it was a normal closet, okay?” you said quickly, holding your hands up. “I was just looking for somewhere to stash my Swiffer and boom… murder closet.”

That earned the smallest twitch of his lips. Barely. 

“I should throw this thing out. Make room for your junk.” 

You smiled just a little at the jab. “I don’t know…” You said, tilting your head. “I kinda think you should keep it.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s good to have a reminder of how far you’ve come,” you said, meeting his eyes. Then, with a wry twist of your lips, you added, “And also, maybe we can use it as a talking stick. In my class, we pass around this glittery baseball bat to stop the kids from yelling over each other. This could be our version.” 

That earned you a real smirk this time, brief but genuine. “You’re weird.” 

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” you said with a shrug, just as your phone buzzed. 

You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Sébastien. Bucky noticed, and his smirk immediately faded. 

“You’re going through with Romanoff’s idea?” He asked, crossing his arms. 

“Why not?” You replied, shrugging your shoulders. “It could be fun.” 

“You’re going to regret it,” he warned, putting his old prosthetic back inside the closet like he was wrapping up the conversation. 

“Probably,” you called over your shoulder as you turned to the bathroom, “But at least I won’t be looping Pride and Prejudice in my room anymore.” 

Bucky didn’t say anything, he just gave you one last unreadable look before retreating to his room and closing the door with a soft click.

—————————————————————————————————— End Notes: this was so dumb i cracked myself up writing this one. oh and for some reason, when i was writing this i kept imagining Sébastien (original character) as Sebastian Stan when he was the mad hatter in ONCE hashsdhasdhahdfh i need to sleep oh and i will be changing the summaries to look like friends episode titles because why not

tags: @projectjuvia @vibraniumavenger @mommymilkers0526 @iyskgd @pllwprincess @hiraethmae @b1pan1cg1rly @starstruckfirecat @soupiemeowmeow @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @cherrypieyourface @lasnych @okbutiambabygorl @herejustforbuckybarnes @ilistentotayswifttocope @s-sh-ne @ficmeiguess @alagalaska

[fedoraspooky]

Sorry I'm thinking about old webbed sites again, but I was just havin a conversation on Bluesky about how the way social media is set up to force artists to churn shit out so fast just to be seen that we don't even slow down enough to really look at what other people are making, and just...

I think the way deviantART was set up was way healthier. By DESIGN. What do I mean by this? Well, think about how things are now. Every major social media has a dashboard people scroll that is endless. That is the main way you encounter art, supposedly by people you follow. It depends honestly. On instagram that's a fuckin' rarity, but I digress.

You have a dashboard, and let's say you only have a little bit of time to look through it. When the time's up, you close the app or tab or what have you, and everything that you didn't see in your scroll now might as well be gone forever. You probably won't ever see it, unless the poster reblogs/reposts/bumps it in some way, during a different time of day when you're more likely to catch it. Algorithms that force constant posting for a boost are bad enough, but so is the fact that everything is missable.

Now take ol' deviantART. It's flooded with AI bullshit now, but BEFORE then, in the ancient times, it was a collection of galleries and real peoples' artwork with a functioning search. Let's say you find some artists you like, and follow them.

Instead of a dashboard to scroll, you could go into your watch list and BAM. There it was, a collection of EVERYTHING the artists you followed had posted since the last time you checked. All there for you to look at at your own leisure. The artist could post at whatever fuckin time they wanted, and they'd only have to post ONCE, and you could still have a chance to see it without having to go to their individual page.

If you wanted to find new artists, no problem! There was the front page with featured works, or recent works- there were sections people could post to based on type of art (traditional, digital, etc.) and if you liked any kind of fandom, you could search AND sort those searches by popular/recent! It required a little bit of agency to go look for other people in your niche, but it wasn't difficult by any means. And some of my best and longest lasting friendships were started on dA by me finding fanart I liked and commenting on it! Or by participating in community-ran events like OC tournaments!

Like, I know instant gratification is a tough thing to beat, but I think if we found some way to just slow back down a little, maybe communities could be a thing again... I dunno. Or maybe I'm just an old kook. Or maybe both! Who knows?

But yeah somethin' somethin' gallery sites are way healthier than twitter for artists.

[sapphicsophos]

"Are you implying Isreal checks every truck that drives into Tel Aviv?"

Quick question: how many borders would that truck have to cross? I know the answer, but I don't think you do. I mildly suspect you're not aware of how far Tel Aviv is from the closest border, for that matter.

Putting aside the logistics of making a nuke undetected, which other people have already covered why that's functionally impossible, and the sheer stupidity of putting it on a truck in the first place instead of using a plane or a missle: how the FUCK do you think that bomb is getting across multiple border crossings into a country that is absolutely searching literally every vehicle that crosses their own border because of the combination of their hostilities with basically all of their neighbors and going out of their way to prevent aid into the country they are occupying and genociding.

Like, are you fucking kidding me? That truck wouldn't make it to Israel in the first place, and even if Iran could somehow manage to convince the MULTIPLE countries between them and Israel to let them drive a detonation-capable nuclear device through their borders, it still wouldn't make it into Tel Aviv, and detonating it at a border crossing would A) almost certainly trigger a war with whichever country's border they were using to cross into Israel (probably Jordan, but possibly Syria) and B) absolutely destroy nothing of strategic importance, it would be a waste of a nuke.

Come ON, man, be serious. Please think through the full logistics of this fantasy you've concocted before you present it as not only possible but likely scenario.

Having to explain to way too many people that no, Iran doesn’t have nuclear weapons.

[chromehoney]

Hey really like your writing and I was wondering if could do more smoke and stack black!fem!curvy/plusize!reader. I do think this will go well with the nerdy/girl next door or the independent baddie type of reader. But you make her personality and lifestyle whatever you want.

aweee thank youu!!! and ofcccc , this is a little rushed since i just wanted to get atleast one request done today so excuse errors!!!

You was tired. Tired of them twins—Smoke and Stack—playing in your face like they didn’t want you. Like they ain’t watch your ass in every room, talk about “that damn dress,” whisper in your ear at family functions, make you cream off one look. They’d tease, flirt, touch your thigh in the truck, but never make a real move. And the second you put a little distance? Act like they owned you.

So tonight, you said fuck it.

Your thick ass was outside at one of your friends parties in a strapless bodycon that gripped every roll and dip like sin itself. Soft pink, and made to make a man stutter. You had on lashes that batted without tryin’, nails long and wicked, diamond studs shining through your wild curly hair as you laughed with your girls. You posted a story before you left the house, of a picture you took of your body in your long vertical body mirror, the dress was thin so the picture got the outlines of your tits and your nipples were poking out, and the picture also showed a lil’ hip. You weren’t playin’ shy no more.

That was until your phone buzzed in your purse.

SMOKE: Bring yo’ ass home.

STACK: Before we come find you.

Your heart jumped.

You swallowed thick. Laughed a little too hard, trying to play it off—until you caught sight of him. Trey. One of Smoke and Stack’s old running buddies. Standing across the bar like he ain’t have a damn drink, arms crossed, eyes on you. No smile. Just watchin’. Close enough to move if needed. That’s when you knew. They had eyes. Ears. Everywhere . Shit, they probably knew what color your panties were before you left the house.

You snatched your keys. Whispered to your girls, “I gotta go. Emergency.” They looked confused, but you didn’t stop to explain. Just shuffled fast in those heels, heart pounding, thighs rubbing, heat blooming between them before you even made it to your car. The house was dark as hell when your car pulled up.

But the porch light was on.

They was waiting. Smoke leaning against the railing, Stack sitting back in the chair beside him, both passing a fat joint between calloused fingers. Lazy, country, smug as hell. They wore black tees that clung to muscle, jeans sitting low, boots tapping against the wood.

You stepped out the car slow.

Their eyes dragged down your body like rough hands. That damn dress clung to your ass like it was made to sin. Stack’s jaw clenched. Smoke exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes low and hot. “Didn’t we say bring yo’ ass home?” Stack muttered, voice thick like molasses and thunder.

“She was tryna show out,” Smoke said, barely glancing at his brother, like he couldn’t take his eyes off you. “Look at her. Lil’ dress tight as hell. Like she want somebody to rip it off.”

“You mad?” you asked, head cocked, lips pursed—trying to keep your bratty edge, even while your thighs pressed tight. “No,” Stack stood up, slow and towering, licking his lips. “We done bein’ mad.” “We done playin’, too,” Smoke added. You ain’t get another word out before you were pushed back against the front door, that joint flicked into the grass.

Four hands. Rough, greedy, mean.

Smoke grabbed your chin and made you look up. “You think you grown, huh? Think you can tease us? Walk around in that lil’ dress and not get fucked like we hate you for it?”

Stack was already behind you, hand fisting the hem of that tight fabric. “You made us chase you. Made us watch you postin’ pics like you single.” “I am—” His hand cracked across your ass. “Say it again.”You whimpered. “I ain’t!…” “Damn right,” Smoke growled, dragging his tongue down your cleavage. “You ours. Say it.”

“Y-Yours—”

And then they was on you. Everywhere. Clothes ripped, dress yanked, lips bitten, thighs pinned wide against the door. You were lifted, filled, devoured. One held your wrists while the other fucked you deeper than breaths. Their mouths left marks on your tits, your throat, your soul. Each thrust came with a growl, a curse, a whisper about how they should’ve claimed you sooner. You cried and came, then cried some more—smeared and swollen, your lip gloss gone and your sass unraveling like lace.

They fucked you like they hated you. But kissed you like they owned you. And when it was over—your body limp and slick in their arms, breath shallow—Smoke played with your curls as he fixed his mouth to speak. “We done playin’, baby.

Stack kissed your neck, slow and possessive. “Time to settle the fuck down.“ You blinked up at them. Mascara running. Cheeks flushed. And all you could do was nod. Because deep down… You knew you weren’t going nowhere ever again.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers!

btw , i got alllll yalls requests done! i’m surprised but i did it. so imma drop em in bulk , another one should be coming out either later on today to tomorrow .. depending on how im feeling!! after they all drop imma give myself a few daysss to rest from writing before i start a new fic.. ‘m thinking maybe annie x fem reader ??? andddd there’s also gone be a new series comin’ out so stay tuned for that.

[mona-risms]

Saw the hc's of bodguard!Reader, and maybe they're there for more of crowd control and paparazzi when the 3 go out? I can imagine them clearing a way in the crowd for Huntr/X and have an arm around Rumi to protect her. Runi is just like "bla bla bla property name, place name, backstory stuff" 😭

Also, I was thinking that they cook and clean the penthouse too, so technically, a glorified scary butler is the right description.

Bodyguard!reader would most likely be for crowd control yeah you're right!!! And it's the funniest thing ever bc imagine pulling Rumi in bc the crowd's getting to close to her and her brain COMPLETELY stops functioning at the feeling of your body on hers. And Mira can tell every time so she's laughing her ass off, probably signalling to Zoey asw while they walk so BOTH of them are laughing while Rumi's just too flustered to function. You're trying to say smth to her but it takes like two tries before she even responds like "HUH what hello were you saying smth" and the girls are cracking up like "oooooo not so fun when it's YOU is it"

Rumi would probably love to watch you work in the penthouse asw. Like she says you don't have to do any of that bc they can do it themselves and/or they have cleaning staff for that!!! But when you're cleaning up or cooking or doing literally anything in the house she's just 👁👁 staring at you before realising (eventually) that she's staring and then she tries to offer to help but even your words are going through one ear out of the other. Oh she's so fucking whipped you look bad as hell to her and she want that cookie BAD

[bugpoolz]

who up androiding their javert

He has a pen :) that he spins; the thought process here was truncheon -> cylinder shaped (and a truncheon would probably not be the most useful in 2038… when everyone has guns,,, PLUS androids aren’t allowed to wield weapons or something but anyways) -> pen (cylinder shaped)

Android Javert’s weapon of choice would be a sleek dagger that he keeps in the inside of his jacket. And he throws it with crazy accuracy and it’s incredibly scary

I tried to make his outfit different from Connor with a detective-y cape thing but i don’t think it would work since it obscures his triangle thing. I don’t think they would allow that

more yapping below if anyone cares (it’s a tad bit long. Just a little.)

I’ve been thinking about it (somewhat) but I think I’ve figured out a timeline that works

I condensed it as much as I could but the timing is Kind of questionable

But anyways! Valjean does NOT go to jail because he is an android. He would either be a gardener model like Simon or one of those construction models like Luther (I’m leaning towards construction because Valjean’s strength.. but then again I have no idea how strong android gardeners are so I don’t know) ands his serial number (which is supposed to be like really long but I shortened it for conveniences sake) is 24601 😁

One day he sees a woman struggling to feed her 7 kids and she looks so desperate that Valjean deviates and tries to steal a loaf of bread for her. He gets caught but the store owner is baffled at the fact that an android!!! Is breaking the law!!! That he hesitates for a second to call the cops (or cyberlife???). But that’s enough time for Valjean to book it.

“But wait Kaden Androids don’t have names how does Valjean get his name” good question! I have no idea! The woman with 7 kids’ is meant to be his sister, who’s also conveniently named Jeanne Valjean. Let’s just say he was like “okay, you’re the catalyst for my deviation. I’m gonna take your name :) but identity fraud is bad so I’ll change it up a little” and Jeanne becomes Jean. Cool!

Anyways (new drinking game take a shot every time I say anyways) Javert just got assigned his first case! Yay! He was sent by Cyberlife to investigate a faulty android in the world’s first deviant case. He talks to the shopkeeper, he interrogates the woman and her kids with a little more force than necessary, and files her name away because there has to be something about that woman to make a fully functional android go rogue!

But in the end, Javert’s unable to find Valjean, and thus fails his first mission, which would probably be incredibly upsetting if he could feel emotions. He doesn’t want to fail, because he wasn’t built to fail, so he makes it one of his objectives to find the first deviant.

Meanwhile, Valjean is on the run! It’s maybe been a week or so since he deviated? His face hasn’t been broadly broadcasted because Cyberlife is trying to keep it all hushed up that androids can go deviant. He hasn’t had the bright idea to cut off his LED yet, so he’s just meandering about.

He’s experienced his fair share of discrimination at this point, and he is TIRED! Valjean is this close to calling off on all humans forever until the bishop gives him a place to stay, is nice to him, gives him spare blue blood , EVERYTHING. In place of the candlesticks is probably just normal money. But yeah

Valjean’s like, “you’d help me!!?!?! Even though I’m visibly an android??!!?!?!”

Anyways he’s on his merry way to a different town to get away from the police, he puts on a human disguise and gets rid of his LED, somehow reconstructs his face, gets a fake mustache, changes his hair to a different color, all that fun identity stuff like faking an id & drivers license, his birth certificate, papers, etc.

Somehow, he becomes the mayor of a town, after like a year of living there. And Valjean’s understandably very nervous, and tries to deny it and people are just like “wow father Madeline is so humble 🙏🙏”

Some random deviant thing happens nearby the town and enter Javert! He’s the lead investigator for all deviant cases (with the power of being incredibly efficient and proving himself to be trustworthy he is allowed to work alone and without a partner)

So yeah, Javert’s sniffing around the scene & decides that maybe some townspeople saw the incident? And it would help with the case?

So he goes to the town & finds out about Madeline , and cue the brain neuron activation when he actually sees the mayor for himself.

by every single god and holy presence above, Javert’s facial recognition doesn’t clock Valjean immediately, but he is suspicious so he files a report claiming the the mayor might be that one deviant

And then Valjean meets Fantine, who is human, and has lost her job due to androids.

She turned to becoming a red ice dealer, and has a seething hatred for androids. She’s also super sick (partly from living in some random hole in the wall apartment and partly from the not very safe drugs she’s dealing… chemicals or something)

Then the whole cart crash thing happens but instead with cars and Valjean lifts a whole car up by himself and Javert’s like “well shit it IS that deviant” but before he does anything like arresting Valjean he gets a report that they found a deviant android that just so happens to be the same model as Valjean

Cue “punish me Monsieur le Mayor” & everything that happens after — Fantine dies & Valjean promises to get Cosette. Javert is furious and tries to corner Valjean in the hospital but gets overpowered (javert has the chance to shoot him, but doesn’t for some reason)(cough, software instability ⏫, cough),, and Valjean gets away

Uhhh some rapid fire stuff im not sure where to put

Thénardier has upgraded to a shitty hotel instead of an inn. Good for him. He also does weird illegal creepy stuff with androids like taking them apart and selling the parts for cash. He recognizes Valjean as an android but doesn’t do anything about it because 1. Valjean is super buff and scary and 2. It could be blackmail later 😮😮

Javert has not failed a single mission EXCEPT for those concerning Valjean

Javert’s mind palace person is Valjean (it makes him extremely angry seeing Valjean in his mind, where he’s supposed to be free) and his appearance updates every time he sees Valjean

Javert calls doesn’t know that Valjean is named Valjean, he calls him “that deviant” — however, he has noticed that the deviant had a very strong reaction to the name “Jeanne Valjean”

The Amis are androids (I don’t know them all tbh. Sorry guys you can decide who’s what), so amending this: Enjolras is DEFINITELY an android. They try to lead a revolution in the span of 3 days but unfortunately they’re not Markus so they fail

Marius, Eponine, and Cosette are humans; Cosette doesn’t know her father is an android (somehow)

Javert lowkey doesn’t even have to wear a disguise to the barricade he just pretends he’s deviant (everyone’s extremely hesitant to let him in because he’s known as the “deviant hunter” but Enjolras lets him in)

Gavroche is a human kid (and symbolizes that bonds between humans and androids are possible… something like that idk)

Pre-deviancy/myriel Valjean has blond hair & a middle part, when he changes his appearance in m sur m he makes his hair a dark brown & adopts a side part; after the trial when he’s on the run he changes his hair to white

At the barricade, when Valjean frees Javert, they!!! Interface!!! They do the android equivalent of a kiss!!! Because I said so!!! And that’s the exact moment Javert deviates and yes I am packing this scene full of valvert bullshit and no you cannot stop me

When they’re sharing memories Javert gets an epiphany and he knows that Valjeans not lying about his intent & now Javert ALSO has to deal with feeling emotions for the first time; he also learns that Valjean’s name is valjean and that when he said “Jeanne Valjean” as in the woman, Valjean thought he said “Jean Valjean” as in the deviant and they have a moment

and maybe Javert refers to Valjean as a ‘he’ instead of an ‘it’ for the first time 👀 maybe he does that

And then he jumps off a bridge! Bro really experiences emotions for the very first time and immediately kills himself. But hey Valjean and Javert have one thing in common :) their first emotion is soul crushing GUILT

and then all that other stuff happens.. oh and Valjean shows the barricade boys that he’s an android so they let him in,, he just somehow snuck into the barricade without being noticed by law enforcement I don’t know anymore

I do intend on making actual art of this au and not just shitty doodles 😁👍 by the way

Feel free to add onto this!! Please tell me your ideas because I think my brain is going to explode if I have to think about this anymore.

[runningracingdancingchasing]

She'd imagined sitting him down on the couch, maybe with some alcohol to make it all easier, imagined the lighting and how it would play on his features. But now they were in the kitchen, and the lighting was completely different, harsh and bright in comparison to her imagination. Well, that was on her. She was the one who'd started the conversation now instead of later.

Clearing her throat again, she found it hard to find her words, and even harder to look at him.

"I've been rehearsing this all day," she confessed with a little smile that didn't reach haunted eyes, toying with her own fingers while wishing she had Abraçinhos to hug. But he was in the living room, on the couch, where she'd meant to have this conversation. "But I can't seem to remember how it was going to go. Sorry if I'm about to ramble..."

Taking a deep breath, she thought through all of the myriad of rehearsals she'd gone through, then picked a place and started. Managing to look at him for a moment, she iterated, "Just know that I'm telling you this because you're my best friend and I trust you." That was very important. It was easy for Rapunzel to love. She loved her friends almost right away. But trusting people wasn't so simple. That probably had something to do with what she was about to tell him...

Okay, here we go. Just breathe and... start. "Okay, so the thing is... I can't remember anything about my past up until a few years ago," she explained softly, "and that's by design. Something... happened when I was little. I'm not sure exactly what, but I know it was traumatic. My therapist thought -- and I agree -- that if I want to function as an adult, I had to lock it all away. It was really the only way to move forward. But that's why there are things that basically everyone knows that I don't know anything about. Which is so frustrating and embarrassing, because I'm usually so smart!"

Even talking about it now, she could feel that locked closet of memories getting banged on from the inside, and her shame from not knowing how schools worked. Her focus started turning inward, a slippery slope to a bad night, even if he decided she was worth hanging onto. Without thinking, she got a glass of cold water and sat down at the table again, pressing the cool glass against her face and neck to keep herself in the here and now and with him.

"There are things I don't remember so much as feel. Echoes of a voice I can't identify or- or thinking someone's going to react negatively to something when no one with half a heart would. Sometimes... it's like a part of my brain is trying to remember the stuff I've deliberately forgotten, and the rest of my brain is trying to keep me from remembering. When that happens I just kind of... go away. Like, I'm there, physically, but my mind..." She paused to sip some water and ran her fingers idly over the place mat in front of her, taking in the texture as the cool drink soothed her throat, keeping her grounded. She surprised herself by the fact that she didn't feel like she was going to cry. Not yet. If he decided this was it, yeah, she'd spend the rest of the night crying. But not yet.

The more she thought about it, the more guilty she felt for being this way and subjecting him to her. Had she trapped him by asking him out before she told him this? But she was telling him now, and giving him an out, right? That was good of her, wasn't it? She liked him so much that she's was putting her biggest flaw right out there in the open and shining a light on it. If he couldn't handle it, well... she could just leave Rio after all.

God, she didn't want to leave Rio. Didn't want to leave him.

A sad, scared sigh escaped her. "I'm broken, Rai. I'm broken, and I don't know if I can ever be fixed all the way. I know I should have told you this before I asked you out, because you deserve to have an informed choice, to know what you're getting into, and I totally get it if... if it's too much. If it's a deal-breaker. I can be a lot as it is, and this is just... it's a lot more. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

And she really hoped he'd stay, despite it. And she was terrified he wouldn't. Her head and stomach swam unpleasantly, pizza and wine suddenly not seeming like such a good idea.

He'd busied himself washing out their wine glasses. Washing dishes was his least favourite of all chores - which he despised in general - but she'd gone through the effort to make dinner, and the least he could do was to help clean up.

He felt his shoulders tense a little as she spoke. Serious and important... Her tone and the entire vibe changed, and he tilted his head at her, a little furrow between his brows.

"Sure, girl." He set the glasses down and dried off his hands, leaning his hips back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms loosely. "What's, uh... what's up?" He deliberately kept his mind as blank as possible, refusing to jump to scary conclusions.

[vergess]

You've probably seen some folks fear-mongering about an "M.I.T. study" that was recently released "proving" that using LLMs causes "cognitive decline."

In fact, I can link you to the very study right now. It's DOI page:

And the study PDF itself, which you can reach by clicking the "view PDF" in the upper right of the DOI page.

So, this is a very scary study that uses a lot of advanced jargon from two fields with fairly little overlap. That makes it a hard read. Which wouldn't be an issue if it were going through peer review. However, it was published to an archival service; it is not a journal and it is not peer reviewed.

The first red flag we all need to consider is that this was not read by other specialized experts in cognition, machine learning, or the overlap between the two fields. It wasn't reviewed by anyone beyond a content moderator making sure it looks "appropriate and topical. Material that contains offensive language, non-scientific content, or is plagiarized may be removed."

So the number one thing to remember, as I critique this study, is that it has had no review. Which forces every reader to do their own review. Which is a problem when you're writing in specialized technical language from two rarely overlapping fields.

So now that we know there was no review and the only oversight came from the authors themselves, let's look at those authors.

Nataliya Kosmyna is a human/computer interfacing expert who specializes in neurotechnology. She is also extremely pro-AI. Make a note of that, it will be important later.

Eugene Hauptmann is an AI developer himself, with a "faith based" AI company he started to build a "technological singularity".

Ye Tong "Tina" Yuan graduated Wellesley last month (May 2025)! First off, congratulations to you, Tina. Well done on getting this much press attention as a fresh Bachelor!!!

Xiao-Hao "Harry" Liao is an expert in UX design. He is also pro-AI, and even develops his own LLM interfaces.

Ashly Vivian Beresnitzky has no other publications or significant online presence I was able to find.

Iris Braunstein is another AI developer and design expert.

The same is true of Pattie Maes.

Are we noticing a pattern here?

We have a lot of computer scientists--dazzlingly advanced experts--who love AI. We also have a stark absence of cognitive scientists of any sort.

This study was not authored by experts in cognition. It also did not use any standard forms of cognitive testing.

That's right! It turns out writing essays with electrodes on for 20 minutes once a month for 4 months isn't "cognitive testing."

Those electrodes measure how many signals different regions of your brain are sending, with relatively low precision. They do not and cannot measure how hard you are thinking or how well you are learning. That is not how that works.

They also graded the essays. Oh wait, no they didn't. An LLM graded the essays.

But they did do n-gram analysis on the essays too! That's where you look for common word groups of different lengths. In fact, n-grams are the underlying mathematics of LLMs! Which is why this batch of LLM scientists decided to use them. And worse, they used them exactly the way you would use them to test an LLM's functionality.

So, let me repeat that in different terms:

A bunch of computer scientists decided to run a cognition study, using only their familiar computer science methodologies, consulting no cognition testing experts, and without actually grading the fucking essays.

They then published their unreviewed gibberish to an archive, where the media picked it up, misread it, and misapplied it.

I say misapplied, because if you look at the selection of experts who wrote the paper, another pattern emerges from their past published works: they are making LLM software in direct competition with chatGPT.

This was an attack ad to try to drive AI loving consumers away from chatGPT and towards their own products.

And then people somehow misunderstood that and went ballistic about how interacting with AI is ~basically brain damage~. A thing the study was not even trying to prove in the first place, and in no way proved by accident either.

[kandlewick]

Your janitor au is amazing. There’s the perfect amount of angst. How long do you think the janitor would stay working in NRC until they stop believing in Crowley and just leave?

Do you think they can get a citizenship anywhere despite having no records? (Highest chance is Briar Valley if the janitor asks Malleus to pull some strings.)

In order to leave, what they need most is money, basic knowledge about this world, and an identity, I think.

thank you sooo much!!! im so glad youre enjoying it!!!

i think the janitor would stay in NRC as long as possible because of those reasons. they have no identification, no citizenship, little money, and a lack of understanding of how this world functions. as much as they think theyre a rough and tough survivor, i also think their biggest weakness is an unwillingness to try new things. what theyve been doing works so theyll stick with it until it no longer does and when their luck eventually runs out, they will probably panic and have to start over from the beginning all over again.

a BIG issue with them 'post graduate' is if the janitor and co are able to either beat or avoid malleus' overblotting entirely. i believe it is possible to avoid it or at least lessen the severity of it because the janitor starts off pretty close to the diasomnia quad in comparison to the original yuu who stuck close to the other first years. while sebek is a difficult nut to crack for the janitor, malleus, lilia and silver are much easier to befriend and get close to.

malleus is an easy win. he was the janitor's first friend (other then grim) in twisted wonderland, so theyre both pretty close and have get togethers once a week.

lilia grew close to janitor fast because they will actually eat his food and hand him an empty tuperware container back for more. theyre also a bit wiser (and potentially, per the reader's judgement, older then yuu) so theyre probably able to vibe with lilia better then yuu could.

silver and janitor got pretty friendly when they had to help him in between classes due to his spelldrive injury due to ruggie's meddling.

and i think with how adamant the janitor would want to go home, the topic of leaving and loss would be an actual conversation and argument that would happen earlier on between malleus and the janitor and less something that gets bottled up until an overblot occurs. idk though! id never want to downplay lilia's role in malleus' overblot because its incredibly precious and sweet and ugh i love found family but i think it would help malleus out better if he wasn't like. bombarded with things that triggered his fear of abandonment during the same week lmao!!

i uh went on a tangent. but. depending on how close they get, i could see the janitor either leaving to the scalding sands with kalim, becoming a glorified cheka sitter with leona, or staying in briar valley with malleus. can you tell i have ships in my head? lol

[kings-highway]

48 or 43 with ushiten mayhaps<33 i recall u mentioning a pokemon trainer au at some point as well🤭💕

AAHHhhehehe I sure do have a Pokemon AU 😁 and Ushi and Tendou are two of my favourite characters from that AU so this was a delightful excuse to show them and the 'mons off. Did I answer the prompt? Only barely. Hehehehehehehehehe. Do you know I have a many-page google docs with pokemon teams laid out, including levels, moves, natures and other applicable details? I am currently deeply in love with Pokemon. (Sidenote I recently started playing HeartGold and am wondering why they ever got rid of the pokemon running around behind you that is the best feature ever.)

I'm not going to explain the worldbuilding too much but I lean heavily on satirizing and including game mechanics 😁😁

“Satoshi cap, or the black and white one?” Tendou says, swapping between two different ball caps that seemed relatively similar function wise. He’s focused on the mirror, checking himself out and seeming a little bit indecisive. 

“Black and white, it’s more distinctive to you,” Ushijima replied. He, however, is not getting ready to go out. He’s sitting on the floor, with his back against the bunkbed, playing with the paws of his Wigglytuff like a stuffed animal. It seems to enjoy this very much, trilling back at him with a smile. 

“You didn’t even look,” Tendou complains, turning to face him. 

“I don’t need to look, I know what you and both caps look like.” 

“You’re useless.” 

“Mhm.”

“I need a jacket as well,” Tendou says, turning in a circle for a bit before suddenly finding himself getting his usual school jacket thrown in his face. Infernape was a wonderful partner pokemon, and also completely disregarding of his physical safety. Tendou pulls the jacket off his face, looking down at the singed and somewhat destroyed fabric. “You’ve burned this,” he says, glancing up at his pokemon. “Bad monkey.”

Infernape screams back at him, which makes Wigglytuff flinch in alarm, which triggers Ushijima to scowl up at the monkey scoldingly. Infernape has the sense to look embarrassed, and slink back on the top bunk to avoid being looked at by Ushijima.

Tendou stares up at him for a moment, before saying: “Anyhoo, I don’t like wearing my school jacket anyway, it makes me look like a kid. I am not a kid, I need a better jacket.” 

“It is going to be fairly warm today,” Ushijima comments. “Are you sure the jacket will be necessary? I do not like to imagine you overheating.”

“It is necessary,” Tendou says. “The single-battle trainer spots are all in the damn woods and deep in the shade. It’s so chilly. You know, if you came along, the double-battle spots are located across the park and have more direct sunlight. I’d be nice and warm then, and I wouldn’t need a jacket at all.” 

Ushijima frowns. “I am not a trainer,” he says, lifting his hands up to play with Wigglytuff’s ears. “I would not qualify to be a route trainer even if I wanted to."

“Look, I heard Birch is back in the lab, we could walk down there tomorrow and get you signed up, he probably wouldn’t even make you take a starter. Then you could come be a doubles’ trainer with me, and we’d wipe the floor with every wannabe champion that came through our eyeline. And do it somewhere I’m not freezing to death.” 

Ushijima shakes his head, patting down Wigglytuff’s fur. “No, no,” he says. “Wigglytuff doesn’t fight.” The fluffy pokemon makes a trilling noise of agreement, wiggling around to look at Tendou has if offended at the mere insinuation it do any kind of combat. 

“Oh, please,” Tendou says. “You’ve helped me train before. I know you’ve got Solar Beam on that thing, you blasted Slowbrow into Giratina’s dimension.”

Ushijima sets his chin down on top of Wigglytuff, shrugging. “You should not have set up Sunny Day.” 

Tendou scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m just saying, work would be a lot more fun if we could go stand and spin in circles together. In the sun. You know, I hear some days, Sunny Day takes effect in the double trainer spaces no matter what. You could do a lot of damage.”

“This seems like a lot of work to avoid standing in the shade.” 

“It’s cold.”

“You have a fire monkey.”

“We’re not allowed to have our partners out while at work!”

Ushijima stares at him for a moment, before moving Wigglytuff off his lap and pushing himself up to his feet. “Okay,” he says, wandering over to their tiny, shared closet, to pull out his own jacket and offer it to Tendou. “Use this, then.” 

Tendou pouts, then reaches over to snatch the black jacket. “It does fit with the hat,” he says, before adding: “But it’s like three sizes too big, you massive man.”

“It’s a cute look.”

Tendou scowls at him. “I’m not going for cute.”

“Then be cold.” 

Tendou scoffed, before tugging the jacket over his shoulders. “You’re annoying.” 

Ushijima reached forward, adjusting Tendou’s hat on his head and brushing hair back from his eyes to tuck it away properly. 

“I’ll come keep you company after I finish the schoolwork I have,” he says. 

Tendou groaned, but nodded. “Fine. Okay. I’ll hold you to that. But bring lunch.”

“I’ll bring lunch.”

Infernape barks, hanging off the edge of the bunkbed and getting ready to leave with his trainer. 

“Yes I will bring lunch for you too,” Ushijima replies. “Don’t light my bed on fire.”

[the-d0wned-drag0n]

day 2 of 10 years of rtte week!!! written for the prompts "“Where Hiccup Goes, We Go” + Dragon Riders"

“Where Hiccup goes, we go,” Astrid says, jabbing an accusatory finger at Viggo through the bars. They’ve failed this raid, and failed it badly at that. Ruffnut and Astrid are in one cell; Hiccup, and Tuffnut are in the other. She can just see Stormfly, and her Barf and Belch; Toothless, however, is missing.

Viggo only laughs in response. “That’s not your decision to make, I’m afraid.” There’s a trimphant spark in his eye. “But it is yours, my dear,” he says, turning to face Hiccup.

“Yeah, I’ll stay right here, thanks.”

“Oh? Well, if you’d rather be separated from your Night Fury, I suppose—“

“No.”

Viggo’s not finished the sentence before Hiccup interrupts, with a note of genuine ire in his voice. He’s slow to anger, and terrible to tease for that reason, but Viggo gets under his skin in a way that Ruffnut reluctantly admires. It’s probably because he’s actually evil, and Hiccup needs to be literally free-falling off a dragon at least once a day to feel alive and fulfilled, and this is that but metaphorically. Something about trust and danger and the cold waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

(It’s probably why he’s stopped looking at Astrid like he did when they were kids.)

So Hiccup leaves. Viggo takes him out of the cell, personally, and handcuffs him, but doesn’t strongarm him; Hiccup follows peaceably and obediently, because Toothless is the most important person in the world to him, and Viggo Grimborn might be second, so even though he’s not happy about leaving them, he’s content.

He never tells them how he’s treated when he’s over there.

Astrid thinks he’s getting tortured, which Hiccup has implied is true—Tuffnut made a joke about testing poisons on him; and Hiccup laughed awkwardly in that way he does when he might be hiding something, and then vehemently denied it in a way that makes it clear he’s hiding something. Fishlegs… Fishlegs started crying the last time it was brought up. Ruffnut isn’t sure what he thinks, but it’s probably nothing good.

She thinks that she and Snotlout are probably the only ones who don’t think anything of the sort, though whether Snotlout is just saying that to get a rise or not is up for debate.

Everyone shut her down when she said they were having a romantic rendez-vous every time they got captured, but she’s pretty sure those poisons they’re testing are just varieties of wine. One day they’ll believe her. They’ll all be sorry then when Viggo’s co-chief of Berk and Hiccup is co-chief of the reformed Hunters.

But it should be said that if Viggo didn’t have Toothless in his grasp, Hiccup would be right here with them. He’s no traitor, of that she’s sure, and he loves dragons more than the rest of them combined. If tomorrow he could wake up as a dragon and never set foot on solid ground again, he’d take it.

Toothless is the key player in this matchup. Viggo would probably make some comment about Maces and Talons, but Ruffnut doesn’t know the rules. The only strategy game she plays is a silly one called Chess she and Tuff invented when they were kids.

What’s important here is that Toothless and Hiccup are functionally the same person (do not separate) and Hiccup is easier to win over and Toothless is easier to capture (as weird as it sounds that a Night Fury, a demi-god of a dragon, is easier to capture than a teenager). Hiccup sleeps best when he’s curled up against Toothless. Even when Toothless decides to sleep like a bat, Ruffnut has seen Hiccup sink into his hold comfortably. Either he’s the best actor in the world, or that genuinely counts as a night of good sleep for him.

So Hiccup is off, chasing his soulmate wherever Viggo leads him; and Ruffnut suspects that will be into the captain’s quarters of his flagship for dinner, wine, and a game. But it’s probably impolitic to bring up right now, and they do need to blow this ship up at some point, so she puts the issue out of her mind for the moment and gets to strategising.

[cherrys-muses]

you’re now entering theatre 3!

NOW PLAYING; I’LL CRAWL HOME TO HER.

🍿 order; sugar rush and hot dog

🎟️ ticket; fantastic four

w; probably ooc!johnny, there’s not really angst 💔, this is really really short an; i’m so sorry that this is extremely short :( i tried to think of more but i couldn’t sadly — my brain isn’t functioning properly at the moment (especially since i’ve been going to bed at four in the morning almost this past week 😍) but i still hope you guys enjoy this!!

It’s in the early hours of the morning when the bed dips and covers rustle. You’ve noticed that when Johnny isn’t next to you, you’re a light sleeper — the smallest sound could wake you. 

Your eyes are heavy, still, as they open just a tad. There’s still light shining in through the blinds, creating shadows along the wall of Johnny’s shoulders moving as he unties his shoes. You can tell he’s trying his best to be slow, quiet, careful not to wake you. 

You slowly roll onto your back, the heavy cover slipping from your hip. Your leg now pokes out from under the cover and your arm carefully reaches out, your fingertips walking up slowly along the base of his spine. His back straightens, body slightly leaning towards the side as he glances back. 

“You know I’m ticklish.” 

You grin softly, nodding against the pillow, your hair growing more tangled from the movement. “Why do you think I do it?” You giggle softly. He rolls his eyes, finishing pushing off the boot, letting it drop with a heavy thud. You watch as he stands, stripping to just his boxers before slipping under the covers. 

You’re quick to move over when his arm rests over the top of the pillows, a quiet invitation. Hand sliding over his stomach, you press a quick kiss to his mouth, then his cheek, then to his shoulder before pressing your cheek to his warm chest. “I missed you.” 

“You saw me this morning.” He’s teasing, easing his fingertips into the strands of your hair, scratching at your scalp. Your eyes drop more, head leaning into the action. 

“Still,” You mumble. “Can’t really sleep when you aren’t here with me.” Johnny hums softly, eyes dropping down as he watches your shoulder drop. The corners of his mouth quirk into a small smirk, head shaking. 

You’re already half-way asleep again, the fingertips at his hand slow to a stop, now grazing the sheets instead but never pulling away from his skin. 

His lips press to your forehead softly. “I’m here now. You can sleep.” He mumbles softly. There’s a barely there nod before your body finally gives in, pulling you into a deep sleep, sweet dreams of Johnny and little Storm’s running around the apartment filling the other world that welcomes you when you enter.