#rebranding mistakes to avoid

[koobruk]

Rebranding Done Right: When and How to Evolve Your Brand

Is your brand feeling outdated or off-target? Learn when and how to rebrand effectively—from strategy and research to design and messaging. Avoid common mistakes and reconnect with your ideal audience. Contact Koobr to evolve your brand with purpose and creativity.

[lanadelspray02]

A BEAUTIFUL MISTAKE: CHAPTER 2

paige x azzi

hey guys, i lowkey forgot about this series i started and i know a lot of you have been waiting for the next chapter so here it is. enjoy and let me know your thoughts and what you would like to see :)

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 8411

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POV: Azzi

The first thing Azzi registered was the heat.

Not the sticky, suffocating kind that clung to her during summer practices or the broken AC in her own dorm — this was different. It was softer. Warmer. It radiated from the sheets tangled around her legs, the slow exhale of breath brushing the back of her neck, the steady pressure of an arm slung across her waist.

For a long moment, she didn’t move.

She wasn’t fully awake yet. That hazy in-between state made everything feel gentler than it should have been — the scent of laundry detergent and layered notes of spice and wood body wash lingering on the pillow beneath her cheek, the scratch of cotton against her thigh, the weight of someone else's chest rising and falling in time with hers.

And then it hit her.

This wasn’t her bed.

The mattress was too firm. The sheets too new. The light leaking in through the blinds was slatted at a sharper angle, casting narrow shadows across a room that wasn’t hers. She didn’t own a signed basketball jersey framed on the wall or a silver chain hanging from the corner of a full-length mirror.

This was Paige’s room.

Azzi’s pulse jumped. Her breath caught as her brain caught up with her body and with it, the memories came flooding back.

The party. The crowd. That look across the room. Paige’s hand on her hip. The way Azzi had said, “Let’s get out of here,” and Paige hadn’t even hesitated.

And then this.

The shirt clinging to Azzi’s frame wasn’t hers. It smelled like Paige. It had slid off one shoulder during the night, exposing a constellation of half-faded marks across her collarbone, each one a souvenir she wasn’t supposed to care about.

She swallowed hard.

Behind her, Paige shifted in her sleep. Her arm tightened briefly, pulling Azzi closer with a quiet, contented hum.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut. She held her breath. For just a second — one impossible, stolen second — she let herself sink into the contact. Let herself imagine what it might feel like if this were something real. If waking up like this didn’t feel like a violation of the very rules they’d laid down.

But it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t anything.

They’d said so. Repeatedly. Every time they let things go too far, they hit rewind. Every brush of lips outside the bedroom was dismissed. Every touch that lingered too long rebranded as “stress relief.”

Azzi couldn’t afford to forget that now.

Not when Paige was still breathing steady and easy behind her. Not when her fingers — rough from hours on the court, still gentle in the early morning — brushed the bare skin just above Azzi’s waistband like she was memorising it. Like she cared.

Azzi exhaled slowly through her nose, teeth sinking into her bottom lip until the sting grounded her.

This was a bad idea.

She needed space. Air. Control.

Careful not to jostle the mattress, Azzi slid her hand down Paige’s forearm, untangling their limbs with a practiced touch. Paige didn’t stir. Just mumbled something barely audible and nuzzled her face into the pillow.

Azzi stood slowly, every movement deliberate. Her thighs ached, not in a painful way, but in a way that made her hyper aware of everything they’d done. The places Paige had touched. The way her own body had welcomed it.

Her clothes were scattered. She found her shorts by the base of the desk chair, wrinkled and inside out. Her hoodie was slung over the foot of the bed, half-falling. She tugged it on without looking at Paige again, even though her peripheral vision betrayed her — the curve of Paige’s shoulder, the mess of her hair, the smooth expanse of bare thigh just visible under the lifted sheet.

Her chest twisted.

She crossed the room quietly, avoiding the floorboard near the door that always creaked. Her shoes were by the dresser — untied, of course — and she knelt to grab them, taking longer than necessary to loop the laces. Her fingers fumbled once.

She should’ve been gone by now.

She wanted to be gone by now.

But her gaze slid to the desk as she stood. Paige’s phone lay face-down next to a glass of water and a pair of tangled earbuds. A half-full Gatorade bottle sat beside it. Azzi stared at it longer than she meant to. Everything in the room was so distinctly Paige, half-formed, lived-in, familiar. And for some reason that made it worse.

This wasn’t some random hookup in a nameless dorm room.

This was Paige’s room.

Azzi let her eyes drift back to the bed one last time.

Paige had turned slightly in her sleep, one hand now resting palm-up on the mattress where Azzi’s body had been. Her brow was furrowed, like maybe her dreams had caught the loss.

Azzi’s chest ached in a way she didn’t want to name.

And then she turned and slipped out the door before she could second guess herself.

Not because she didn’t want to stay.

But because she was afraid that if she did… she wouldn’t leave at all.

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

POV: Paige

The first thing Paige noticed was the cold. Not a chill exactly, not enough to make her shiver, just that faint, unmistakable absence of warmth where someone else had been. She blinked slowly, trying to stay in that soft, blurry space between dreaming and reality, but her hand moved on instinct, reaching across the bed without looking.

Empty.

The sheets beside her were rumpled and pushed back, creased into the faint outline of a body that wasn’t there anymore. The pillow still carried the shape of a head, strands of dark hair caught in the cotton, and Paige’s hand froze in place, resting there like it could somehow bring Azzi back.

She inhaled. Shallow.

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that made you think too much. Her blinds were cracked just enough to let a pale stream of morning light slice across the hardwood floor, highlighting the dust dancing in the still air. There was no traffic outside yet, no teammates yelling in the hallway, no phone buzzing. Just her. And the space Azzi had left behind.

She rolled onto her back slowly, her body stiff from the way she’d slept — sprawled, one arm angled awkwardly beneath the pillow. Her shirt had ridden up during the night, and the cool air kissed the strip of skin between her ribs and waistband.

The ache hit her a second later. Not soreness, not exactly. Just a phantom echo — the weight of Azzi’s body pressing her into the mattress, the scrape of nails, the burn of kisses along her jaw, the moan that had slipped from Azzi’s throat when Paige’s fingers curled just right.

She should’ve been satisfied.

She should’ve felt victorious.

Instead, she felt… off. Unsettled in a way she couldn’t pin down.

Her hand moved to her chest and rested there, palm flat against the beat of her heart, too fast for morning stillness.

This wasn’t new. They’d done this before. Hooked up, pretended it didn’t matter, walked away like they weren’t toeing the edge of something much messier. The only difference was Paige had left first that time.

And now Azzi had beaten her to it.

She sat up slowly, the sheet sliding off her chest, and ran both hands through her hair, dragging her fingers across her scalp like maybe that could shake off the tension clinging to her. Her eyes scanned the room without focus — her jersey hung crooked from the wall hook, the desk cluttered with yesterday’s water bottles and gum wrappers.

But the shirt she’d loaned her last night, the one that clung to Azzi’s waist when she bent to grab her drink, that Paige had stripped off her with her teeth, laughing — was gone.

She took it with her.

Paige’s throat tightened. She looked away.

She stood slowly, letting the cool air hit her bare legs as she stretched out the stiffness. Her knees cracked. Her calves ached — too many minutes spent with Azzi grinding down on her like she didn’t care who was in control.

Except she had. They both had. And that was the problem.

She reached for the water bottle on her desk, the one she’d cracked open last night and never finished. Took a long drink. It was warm. Stale.

She set it back down harder than necessary.

The room still smelled faintly like Azzi’s perfume. Warm, soft, that barely-there kind of scent that lingered in Paige’s sheets long after she was gone. It was worse somehow, that her body remembered before her brain could catch up.

She crossed to the window, pushed the blinds up halfway, and let the morning light wash over her. Outside, campus was waking up, two guys throwing a football in hoodies and slides, a couple girls walking back from somewhere in last night’s clothes. The world was still turning. Like nothing happened.

Like Paige hadn’t been kissed breathless and held onto someone who’d left before sunrise.

She let her forehead rest against the cool windowpane for a second, breathing slowly. In. Out.

This was fine.

This was what they agreed to.

No sleepovers. No feelings. No texting afterward. Just physical. Just fun. Just stress relief.

So why did it feel like she’d lost something she never actually had?

She backed away from the glass, grabbed her toothbrush from the windowsill, and moved into the bathroom. Didn’t turn the light on. She didn’t need to see her own face to know what it looked like — puffy lips, flushed cheeks, the faintest shadow of Azzi’s nails along her neck.

She brushed her teeth in silence. Spit. Rinsed.

When she came back out, her phone buzzed once on the windowsill. She didn’t need to check it to know it wasn’t Azzi.

She checked anyway.

Nika: "film at 10, don’t be late or I’m stealing your chair."

Paige stared at the screen for a second longer than she needed to.

No texts from Azzi. No proof that she’d even been here beyond the creased sheets and the ache in Paige’s chest.

She tapped a quick reply: "Be there." Short. Easy. Emotionless.

The cursor blinked for a second after she sent it, like her phone was waiting for something more. She turned it facedown again.

She tugged on a fresh pair of shorts, then reached for a sports bra and the first clean shirt she could find. Slipped her arms through the sleeves mechanically. Her reflection caught in the mirror across the room.

She paused.

There was a faint hickey just under her jaw. Nothing obvious. But it was there. Paige raised her fingers to it lightly, thumb brushing the edge. It didn’t hurt.

It just reminded her she was still thinking about it.

She dropped her hand. Steeled her expression.

Whatever.

Azzi had left. She didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t text. Didn’t owe her anything.

And Paige wasn’t going to ask.

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

The film room was freezing. Not a new observation, but one that landed harder this morning, biting through Paige’s hoodie like it had teeth. The air conditioning hummed in the vents overhead, a steady low drone that paired with the faint static buzz of the projector screen at the front of the room. She sank into her usual seat in the second row, right in the center — the one she always claimed first, the one no one ever challenged her for.

She pulled her hoodie sleeves down over her palms, tucked her hands into the cuffs, and slouched just enough to seem relaxed. She was good at that. Looking calm. Unbothered. Like her stomach wasn’t still twisted from the way she’d woken up alone in her own bed.

Players filtered in around her, chattering and half-laughing, voices echoing too loud in the hard-walled room. Someone smelled like dry shampoo and fruity lotion. Someone else dropped a water bottle that rolled four rows down and slammed against a chair leg. Paige didn’t look up.

But then the door opened again.

And she knew without needing to turn.

She felt it — that shift in the air, that tiny shift of silence that only happened when Azzi entered a room.

Paige looked. Because of course she did.

Azzi stepped in wearing navy joggers and a cropped black UConn tee that revealed a thin line of toned stomach when she reached up to adjust her ponytail. Her curls were scraped into a bun, a little messy, a few strands already escaping like she hadn’t bothered with gel this morning. Her face was clean. Fresh. Like she’d slept.

Paige’s jaw clenched.

Azzi didn’t glance her way. Not once. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. She walked past their row, slid into a seat in the third row, two spots to the left, and crossed her legs like she hadn’t even noticed Paige was there.

But Paige noticed her.

She noticed everything. The subtle curve of her mouth as she sipped from her water bottle. The way her shoulder brushed against Caroline’s when they leaned together briefly, heads angled close like they were whispering something funny.

Paige looked away. Too sharp. Too fast.

She forced her focus forward again. Blank screen. Flickering projector. Deep breath.

Nika dropped into the seat beside her with the energy of someone who hadn’t shut up since waking up. Paige didn’t have to turn to know the smirk was already forming.

“Morning, sunshine,” Nika said, biting back something playful.

Paige kept her eyes forward. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“I do many things.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“I’m being observant,” Nika corrected, leaning back in her chair. “You ghosted the group chat. Skipped Mia’s karaoke attempt. Vanished like Houdini. And Azzi disappeared two seconds after you.”

Paige’s expression didn’t twitch. “We left separately.”

“Oh. Separately.” Nika turned her head slowly, eyes scanning Paige’s profile like she was solving a crime. “So explain to me why you’re wearing your hoodie like a nun.”

“What?”

Nika gestured vaguely to Paige’s neck. “You’re either hiding a love bite or the start of a vampire transformation. And honestly? I’m rooting for the second one.”

Paige shifted uncomfortably, tugging her collar up higher. “It’s cold in here.”

Nika grinned. “Right. Super cold. Definitely not hiding anything.”

Paige didn’t respond. Just flexed her jaw once and stared harder at the front of the room like it might swallow her whole.

But Nika leaned in anyway, low and smug. “Was it good?”

“Shut up.”

“Like, scale of one to ten”

“Shut up, Nika.” Paige turned her head sharply now, finally meeting her eyes. Her voice was low. Final.

For a beat, Nika blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she softened.

“I’m not judging,” she said, quieter now. “Just… maybe don’t lie to yourself about how much it’s starting to show.”

Paige didn’t answer.

Because what was she supposed to say? That she’d woken up expecting Azzi’s arm around her again? That for half a second, she’d actually believed Azzi might have stayed? That seeing her now — freshly showered, distant, untouched — made something inside her ache in ways she couldn’t name?

She stayed quiet.

The lights dimmed, rescuing her.

Coach walked in a second later with a tired expression and a clipboard under one arm. “Alright,” he said, “let’s try not to waste the next forty minutes. Hit the lights.”

The projector screen flickered to life. A still frame of last week’s scrimmage filled the front wall. Paige exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair, letting the cool plastic dig into her spine.

Azzi hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

But Paige looked.

Every time a clip played where Azzi rotated too early or boxed out perfectly or drove to the rim like it was muscle memory, Paige’s eyes found her, even in the shadows. She told herself it was a habit. Game recognition. Professionalism.

It wasn’t.

She just missed her.

Or missed what they were pretending not to be.

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The lights snapped back on with their usual suddenness, humming loud against the drone of chairs scraping and teammates stretching the stiffness out of their legs. Paige blinked into the brightness and rubbed at her eyes, grateful for the moment to regroup. Her body felt tight, not from the film session or the tension in her calves, but from holding still too long. From trying not to look back.

From pretending she hadn’t just spent forty minutes watching Azzi out of the corner of her eye.

She stood slowly, her hoodie tugged low over her hips, her backpack half-zipped and slung lazily over one shoulder. The collar had slipped down sometime during the session, baring just enough of her neck to expose the faintest hint of bruised skin and she knew it. She could feel the cold air hit it.

But she didn’t fix it.

Let it show. Let it breathe. Let someone wonder.

The projector clicked off. The screen went blank. Coach mumbled something about better rotations and “no bullshit on the switch next time” before ducking out with his clipboard tucked under one arm. The moment he left, the volume in the room spiked. KK was already teasing Aubrey about missing two defensive reads. Ice was halfway into a protein bar. Someone tossed a towel into the laundry bin and missed by two feet.

Normal chaos.

Paige moved to leave — slow, casual, like she hadn’t spent the whole meeting vibrating under her own skin but stopped short when she felt it. That subtle shift in air pressure. The sixth sense that told her Azzi was near.

And then, a beat later, there she was.

Walking toward her like it was nothing. Like they hadn’t fucked last night. Like Azzi hadn’t disappeared before sunrise and left Paige lying in her own bed wondering what the hell she was doing.

Azzi moved with that calm ease she always had — loose hips, steady gaze, water bottle swinging lazily at her side. Her cropped tee clung lightly to her ribs, and her joggers hung low on her hips like she hadn’t even bothered to tie the drawstring. She didn’t look nervous. Didn’t look rattled. She looked…

Fine.

And that made Paige furious in a way she couldn’t name.

Azzi stopped beside her. Not close enough to touch. Not close enough to smell her shampoo like Paige had breathed in all night. Just enough distance to be polite. Friendly. Distant.

She glanced up, her expression unreadable. “We’re still good, right?”

Paige froze.

She heard the words. Processed the casual, practiced tone.

But what got her, what fucking hooked her, was the way Azzi’s mouth moved around the word good, like she was trying too hard to sell it.

Like it was a joke.

Paige’s heart thudded once, hard,  and then she forced herself to nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

Her voice came out tight. Not defensive. Just… contained.

Azzi smiled. Bright, brief, not real. “Cool.”

And then she turned and walked away.

Just like that.

Like Paige hadn’t had her fingers in her mouth ten hours ago. Like she hadn’t whispered her name into the back of Azzi’s neck. Like nothing happened.

Paige didn’t move.

She stood there for a full three seconds, watching Azzi’s back as she crossed the room, her water bottle swinging at her hip. Caroline met her halfway, bumping shoulders with her gently as they reached the door. She said something low that made Azzi laugh — a quick sound, light and practiced. Paige couldn’t hear the words.

She didn’t have to.

Caroline glanced back. Just briefly. Just once.

Her eyes landed on Paige. Held for a second too long.

Then she followed Azzi out.

Nika appeared beside her like a bad habit, arms crossed, expression full of restrained amusement. “That was subtle,” she said.

Paige didn’t answer.

Nika leaned in slightly. “You know, most people would just admit they’re fucked up about it. You two are like… professional denialists.”

Still nothing.

“She’s really good at pretending, huh?” Nika added, voice lower now. “Better than you.”

That one landed.

Paige exhaled slowly through her nose. She didn’t look at her.

“Honestly,” Nika went on, backing off just enough to give her space, “you’re both exhausting. But also? Like, wildly entertaining.”

Paige finally turned to her. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when there’s drama this delicious.”

Paige snorted under her breath. Barely. But Nika clocked it.

“She’s trying to act like she doesn’t care,” Nika said, folding her arms across her chest. “And you’re trying not to notice that it kills you.”

“I’m not—”

“Save it,” Nika cut in, eyes sharp now. “You can lie to yourself. But I see you, Bueckers.”

Paige adjusted the strap on her backpack and stepped away. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Nika called after her. “And I’m just here for cardio.”

As Paige pushed open the door and stepped into the hall, the noise of the locker room still echoing behind her, she felt it, not quite shame, not quite longing, but that horrible mix of both.

Azzi had walked past her like they’d barely spoken.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything either of them could have said.

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POV: Azzi

The locker room smelled like sweat, eucalyptus, and the faint tang of whatever disinfectant the janitor used at the end of every night. The floor was damp in patches near the benches, towels balled up in corners, someone’s slides left half under a locker like they’d sprinted out mid-change. The playlist that had been echoing off the tile ten minutes ago had finally died, replaced by the slow drip of a leaky shower head and the low hum of the vents kicking on. Azzi sat near the back, one leg bent up on the bench, the other stretched out in front of her, heel nudging the edge of her duffel. Her sports bra was still damp beneath her hoodie, and her fingers were working at the laces of her sneakers without urgency, like if she just kept busy, she wouldn’t have to think.

She knew she looked calm. She always did. It was easy—sit still, stay quiet, keep your eyes down. Most of the team took that as fatigue or focus. Caroline never had.

Caroline dropped down onto the bench beside her with the slow kind of ease that meant she’d been watching for a while. Her curls were still damp from the shower, towel hanging around her neck, forearms resting lightly on her thighs. Azzi didn’t turn to look. She just looped the lace around her finger and tugged, twice.

“You were quiet in film,” Caroline said after a moment, casual but not careless. “Quieter than usual.”

Azzi kept her eyes on the knot she was making. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Caroline made a thoughtful sound, then leaned back, her shoulder brushing lightly against Azzi’s. “I noticed you didn’t sit near Paige.”

Azzi’s fingers paused for half a second. Not long enough to be noticed by most people. But Caroline wasn’t most people.

“I wasn’t avoiding her,” Azzi said, voice low, even. She tugged the second lace tight. “We’re not attached at the hip.”

“No, but you usually don’t sit three rows apart unless one of you is in a mood.” Caroline tilted her head slightly, watching her profile. “She looked... off today. And you looked like you were pretending not to notice.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She tied the second shoe, double-knotted it, then reached for her water bottle and took a long sip just to buy herself a few seconds of silence.

Caroline waited. Always patient, always too good at picking her moments. When Azzi still didn’t say anything, Caroline shifted slightly, letting her voice go softer. “Did something happen?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She capped her bottle, set it down, and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, staring at the tile like it might rearrange itself into something less complicated. She wanted to say no. She wanted to laugh it off. But the tightness in her chest wouldn’t unclench, and her jaw was already sore from holding it together all morning.

Caroline didn’t press, but she didn’t leave either.

After a long moment, Azzi finally said, “Nothing happened.”

Caroline raised a brow. “That’s a weird way to say it.”

Azzi turned to her then, meeting her gaze fully for the first time. “I mean it. It’s not what you think.”

Caroline gave her a measured look, all quiet suspicion wrapped in warmth. “I’m not thinking anything specific. But something’s different. And I don’t think it’s just you being tired.”

Azzi looked away again, back down to the bench, and let out a slow breath through her nose. “We’re still cool.”

“With who?”

“With Paige.”

Caroline hesitated. “I didn’t say it was about her.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There was another long pause. Then Caroline asked, more gently this time, “You sure you’re okay?”

Azzi nodded. “I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Caroline said, voice soft enough now that it almost disappeared into the white noise of the room. “I just— I’ve seen you like this before. Closed off. It usually means something’s bothering you.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. She reached up and adjusted the sleeve of her hoodie, even though it didn’t need fixing, then sat back against the locker and let her eyes drift up to the ceiling.

“It’s nothing,” she said finally. “Just… trying not to repeat mistakes.”

Caroline looked at her, waiting for more. But Azzi didn’t give it. Just kept her face still, her breathing measured.

Eventually, Caroline nodded and stood, tossing the towel over her shoulder. “Alright. Just… don’t shut everybody out, okay?”

Azzi didn’t answer. Just gave her a small, half-hearted smile and watched as Caroline walked out, curls still dripping down the back of her shirt.

The locker room emptied out slowly after that. KK and Nika were the last to leave, still arguing about who had the better playlist for warmups. Someone’s phone buzzed once, then stopped. A dryer spun somewhere in the back.

Azzi sat still for a while, staring at nothing, her hands loose in her lap.

When the room was finally quiet, she reached down into her bag and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up, too bright. Two group texts. One from her mum. A video from Ice. Nothing from Paige.

She tapped into her messages anyway and scrolled until Paige’s name hovered near the top. Her finger paused over it, not quite touching. She opened the thread and stared at it for a long time.

The last text was from her. A dumb meme. Sent three days ago. No reply. It hadn’t needed one.

She started typing: “Hey.”

Deleted it.

Typed again: “Do you want your shirt back?.”

She stared at the words.

Then hit backspace. Slowly. One character at a time.

She let the cursor blink at her for a long while. Then locked the screen and tossed the phone back into her bag.

This was what they’d said they wanted. No pressure. No feelings. No messy strings or late-night confessions. Just sex. Just stress relief. Just the lie they both kept telling too well.

She reached for her bag again and zipped it up, but her hand brushed soft cotton at the bottom. The old UConn tee she’d worn home last night. Paige’s shirt.

She didn’t need to keep it. It was probably stretched at the collar from her tossing it on in the dark. It didn’t even smell like Paige anymore — not really. Just like her own body now, a blur of yesterday’s perfume and clean laundry. But she held it for a second anyway, pressing it between her fingers.

Then she folded it carefully. Tucked it into the bottom of her duffel. Out of sight.

She stood, shouldered her bag, and headed for the door without looking back.

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

POV: Paige

Paige kept her headphones in, the volume low enough to hear the world humming around her, but just loud enough to drown out the thoughts trying to press their way to the front. Her playlist looped between SZA and old Bryson Tiller tracks, the kind of music you put on when you want to pretend the ache in your chest is aesthetic and not personal. She moved through campus like someone on autopilot — one hand tucked into the pocket of her hoodie, the other gripping the strap of her backpack tight against her shoulder, steps steady, eyes forward.

She wasn’t in a hurry, but she kept moving like she had somewhere to be. If she slowed down, her brain might catch up.

The quad was busy with late-afternoon energy, groups scattered across the grass in clumps, laptops open and snacks spread out like failed attempts at productivity. The sun was slanting low, catching the tops of trees and lighting everything in that soft gold that made even cracked sidewalks and dorm brick look poetic.

She rounded the corner by the edge of the student center and nearly made it another hundred feet before a voice sliced through the mix of music and memory.

“Paige!”

Her shoulders stiffened before she turned. She didn’t need to look to know.

Mia jogged up beside her, smoothie in hand, ponytail bobbing, her crop top catching the sunlight in a way that Paige was sure had been engineered. She pulled one earbud out, already bracing.

“Hey,” Paige said, keeping her tone even.

Mia grinned and matched her stride. “Finally. I’ve been trying to catch you since Ted’s.”

Paige shrugged. “Been busy.”

“Too busy to say hi?” Mia asked, clearly joking but with just enough edge beneath it to make Paige blink.

“I’ve said hi,” Paige said, and she had — technically. Once or twice. Mostly in passing. Once through a wave. It didn’t count.

Mia fell into step beside her like it was routine, like they’d done this a dozen times before. “Aubrey told me you were coming tonight.”

Paige looked over, brow pulling slightly. “To movie night?”

“Yeah. Said it was mandatory for the basketball team bonding or whatever, and that the more the merrier. So she invited me.”

Paige tried not to let her mouth twitch. “Did she.”

“Apparently someone else bailed, so there’s room on the couch now.” Mia took a long sip from her smoothie. “Not that I need an excuse to hang out with you.”

Paige glanced away, jaw tightening. She wasn’t in the mood for this. Not today. Not when she was already wound tight from the locker room, from Azzi’s voice still playing on repeat in her head, “we’re still good, right?” like it hadn’t taken the wind out of her.

“You going?” Mia asked after a beat, tone lighter now. “I figured we could maybe sit together. Unless you’re still ghosting.”

“I’m not ghosting,” Paige said automatically, too fast.

“Okay,” Mia said, dragging the vowel out just enough to let the word hang there.

They were halfway across the quad now, the sidewalk cutting a clean path through the sun-streaked lawn. Paige kept her eyes on the bricks, willing herself to focus on the way the sun hit the pavement, the shape of her shadow, the pressure of her laces against her ankles.

But then she saw them.

Across the lawn, near the library steps — Azzi.

And Jayden.

Jayden stood with one hand hooked casually in the strap of her backpack, her body tilted toward Azzi in that confident, relaxed way people had when they knew they were being watched. Azzi was standing close, her arms folded loosely across her chest, one hip jutting out slightly like she wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere. She was laughing. Not loud. Just enough for her mouth to curve, for her head to tilt slightly back, for her hand to come up and brush something off Jayden’s arm like it meant nothing.

Paige’s pulse hitched.

Her eyes locked on the movement, on the shape of Azzi’s silhouette against the sunlight, on the way her shirt clung to her waist, on the way Jayden leaned just a little closer than necessary. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t even intimate. But it felt like something.

And something was worse than nothing.

She didn’t realise she’d stopped walking until Mia’s voice cut in again, closer now.

“You okay?”

Paige blinked. Her throat was dry. “What?”

Mia followed her gaze. “Oh.”

She didn’t say anything else for a second. Paige still hadn’t moved.

Then Mia tilted her head and said, quieter, “That Jayden girl’s cute, huh?”

Paige didn’t answer. Not right away. Her jaw clenched. Azzi was still laughing. Jayden said something else and Azzi shifted slightly, brushing a curl from her forehead as she nodded.

“She’s… fine,” Paige said finally.

“Just fine?” Mia asked, half-smiling, half-curious.

Paige forced her eyes away. “I don’t really know her.”

“Looks like Azzi does.”

That landed. Paige inhaled through her nose, steadying her breath.

Mia studied her for another beat. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m great,” Paige said, and it sounded like a lie even to her own ears.

Across the quad, Azzi turned slightly, said something that made Jayden grin. They started walking toward the building together, close but not touching.

Paige looked away.

“I should get to class,” she said, already stepping back.

Mia didn’t stop her. “See you tonight?”

Paige paused. Nodded once. “Yeah.”

She didn’t say where she’d be sitting. She didn’t promise anything.

She put her earbuds back in, music loud enough now to drown out everything else, and walked away.

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

POV: Azzi

Jayden was in the middle of a story, something half-ridiculous about a freshman trying to use a blender in the dorm kitchen and tripping the power in the whole floor. Azzi wasn’t sure how much of it was true, but it didn’t really matter, Jayden told it with so much confidence it didn’t need to be. Azzi laughed, not because it was funny, necessarily, but because it was easier than thinking. Jayden had a way of filling space like that. Loud, charismatic, always a little bit in motion. The kind of presence that made you feel like you could exhale.

Azzi didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

She shifted her stance, resting one hip against the short brick ledge at the base of the library steps. The sun warmed her hoodie, the same one she’d worn to practice, sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms now, the edge of her wrist taped from the tweak she’d picked up two weeks back. Her water bottle was tucked under one arm, and her expression was as neutral and easy as it had been all day — practiced without thinking.

Jayden leaned in slightly, laughing at her own joke, and Azzi smiled. That soft, practiced kind that didn’t show teeth.

And then she felt it.

That eerie sort of stillness that makes your skin prickle before your brain catches up. Not noise. Not movement. Just… attention. Like someone watching too hard. Like someone trying not to.

She looked up.

Across the quad, no more than fifty feet away, Paige stood frozen on the sidewalk, one earbud dangling between her fingers, eyes locked in a way Azzi felt deep in her stomach. It wasn’t the look itself that made her breath hitch — it was how still she was. Like the world had slowed down around her and she hadn’t noticed.

Azzi followed the line of her gaze and saw Mia beside her. Closer than she liked. Talking, smiling, leaning in like she’d earned the right. Her hand brushed Paige’s arm, light, playful, just enough contact to register. Paige didn’t move away. Not physically. But the set of her shoulders, the way her mouth didn’t match Mia’s energy — Azzi saw that too.

It didn’t make her feel better.

Jayden hadn’t noticed. She was still talking, still grinning, still animated in a way Azzi could barely keep up with. But Azzi wasn’t listening anymore. Not really. Her body was facing Jayden, but her attention was somewhere else entirely, scattered across the grass, knotted up in the space between Paige and Mia.

She should’ve looked away.

She didn’t.

Jayden said something about being late for her next meeting and adjusted her backpack strap with a half-smile. “You going to movie night later?”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Movie night? Aubrey invited me. Said it’s a whole team thing, but guests are fair game. Something about popcorn and group accountability.”

Azzi forced a breath out of her lungs. “Yeah. I’ll probably stop by.”

Jayden gave her a nod and a quick grin. “Cool. I’ll save you a seat.”

Azzi didn’t respond to that. Just watched her go, ponytail swinging, steps light and confident as she disappeared through the doors of the science building.

And then Paige was gone too.

No sign of her or Mia. Just an empty sidewalk and golden hour sun starting to dip behind the trees.

Azzi’s arms dropped from where they’d been folded across her chest. Her fingers twitched once at her side, then stilled. She turned her face up slightly toward the sky, squinting into the brightness like it might clear something.

It didn’t.

She didn’t know what Paige had seen. She didn’t know how long she’d been watching. But she knew what it must have looked like, her standing there, laughing with someone else. Easy. Comfortable. Like she’d moved on. Like it hadn’t meant anything.

That was the part that hurt, even if she didn’t let herself name it.

She didn’t look angry. She didn’t feel angry either. Not at Paige. Not at Mia. Not even at Jayden, who had done nothing wrong except exist in the wrong place at the wrong time with too-easy timing.

She felt… displaced. Like something had shifted half an inch out of alignment and she couldn’t quite snap it back into place.

It wasn’t about who Paige talked to. She knew that. She reminded herself of it every time she caught herself watching. Every time the conversations blurred at the edges because she was thinking about a look, a smile, a voice that wasn’t aimed at her.

She told herself it was fine.

This was what they wanted. No feelings. No drama. Just simple.

Azzi adjusted the strap on her backpack, cracked her neck once, and started walking toward the building. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Like she wasn’t bothered. Like she hadn’t just seen Paige with someone else and felt it in every nerve ending in her body.

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

The common room was packed, the kind of crowded where no one moved without brushing someone else’s knee or shoulder, and the air felt thick with shared breath, microwave popcorn, and the familiar exhaustion of midweek stress. The lights were low, mostly from the string of fairy lights Ice had taped around the TV months ago, half-burnt out and flickering, just enough to keep things from feeling too dark. Someone had cranked the A/C even though it was already cold outside, so the whole room felt like an uneven mix of warm limbs and cool air.

Azzi had gotten there early, earlier than she meant to. She didn’t even like the movie she picked that much, but it gave her something to do, and more importantly, it gave her control over the screen. Jayden had been one of the first to show up after her, sliding onto the couch beside her with a wide grin and a bag of pretzels, like she didn’t even need to ask if the seat was free.

Azzi hadn’t stopped her.

The room filled quickly after that — bodies draped across beanbags, legs flung over armrests, Aubrey and KK stealing the best seats near the mini fan, arguing over whether to use captions. The mood was easy. Loud. Distracting.

Until Paige walked in.

Late, of course. Hoodie slung loose over her tank top, joggers cuffed low on her hips, Gatorade in one hand and a bag of trail mix in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a bun that looked like it had been redone three times already that day. She moved through the room with the kind of quiet confidence Azzi had always hated or maybe envied. Like she belonged everywhere. Like nothing ever bothered her. Like showing up and choosing her seat wasn’t going to send shockwaves through every nerve in Azzi’s body.

She stepped over Ice’s feet and dropped onto the open corner of the couch.

Right next to Mia.

Azzi felt it instantly — a subtle prickle at the base of her neck, not anger exactly, but something hotter and more dangerous. She didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She knew the way Mia smiled when she got what she wanted. She could hear it in the softness of her laugh, the lilt in her voice. Paige answered with something that made a few of the girls chuckle, and Azzi hated that she couldn’t hear it clearly. Hated the way it echoed down the length of the couch like it was harmless.

Jayden nudged her knee gently with hers. “Your movie hasn’t even started and I’m already invested in the chaos.”

Azzi forced a smile. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Jayden asked, leaning in slightly. Her voice was quieter now, more focused. “You seem… I don’t know. Off.”

“I’m fine,” Azzi said, too quickly.

Jayden nodded, clearly not buying it but willing to let it go.

“Back in a sec,” she said, standing. “Aubrey said she found that fake vitamin water again.”

Azzi nodded, eyes fixed on the TV. The trailers were still rolling. She hadn’t registered a single one.

She took a slow breath. Let her gaze drift,  not on purpose but just enough to catch Paige leaning toward Mia, whispering something. Their knees were almost touching. Paige had a hand loosely draped over the back of the couch, fingers flexing absentmindedly. Mia shifted closer. Just a little.

Azzi’s stomach curled tight.

She looked away, jaw tense, throat dry.

And then, without a sound, Paige stood.

She said something quiet to Mia, a throwaway line, maybe — and padded across the room toward the kitchen, the glow of the fridge light flashing across her face as she opened it. Azzi didn’t follow her movement, but she felt the absence. Felt it more acutely when Paige returned thirty seconds later with the Gatorade still in hand and made a sharp turn.

Not to Mia.

To her.

Paige dropped down into Jayden’s spot without asking.

Azzi didn’t turn. “You know Jayden was sitting there.”

“She’s in the kitchen,” Paige said, not even pretending to make space. “Besides, you looked lonely.”

“I wasn’t.”

Paige smirked. “Sure.”

Her knee pressed gently against Azzi’s. Not hard. Not showy. Just enough to be noticed.

Azzi didn’t move.

The movie started. Some overacted rom-com full of chaotic energy. It should’ve helped. It didn’t.

Paige leaned back, her shoulder brushing Azzi’s now. Her hand crept behind her along the top of the couch, and her fingertips rested just behind Azzi’s neck, close enough to graze the collar of the hoodie she wore — Paige’s hoodie. The touch was ghost-light. Almost meaningless.

Almost.

Azzi swallowed hard. “You could’ve stayed next to Mia.”

“Would you have liked that?”

“Doesn’t matter what I like. It’s not my business.”

Paige’s fingers moved again, a subtle shift against the back of Azzi’s neck that made her spine go rigid. “Everything okay?”

“You tell me.”

Paige tilted her head, like she could read everything without trying. “You’re jealous.”

Azzi’s eyes snapped to hers. “Of Mia?”

A beat passed. Paige didn’t look away. “You can say it.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Fine,” Paige said, and smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

A beat later, her hand dropped down, deliberate this time and her fingers landed just at the dip of Azzi’s waist, where the hoodie met the band of her leggings. A brush. A press. A claim no one else would notice in the dark.

Azzi didn’t breathe.

Jayden returned seconds later and stopped just behind them.

“Oh.” She blinked, expression carefully neutral. “Paige, right?”

Paige turned slightly. “That’s me.”

Jayden looked between them — Paige’s body flush against Azzi’s, Azzi staring hard at the screen — and nodded once. “No worries. I’ll take the floor.”

Azzi didn’t correct her. Didn’t offer her spot back. She just folded her arms across her chest and leaned forward slightly, pretending the heat radiating off Paige’s skin wasn’t burning her alive.

Paige shifted even closer.

“I thought we weren’t doing this,” Azzi murmured.

“We’re not,” Paige said easily. “This is nothing.”

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

It felt like everything they weren’t supposed to want.

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

Azzi wasn’t sure how long they sat like that — Paige’s hand resting too close to her waist, their knees aligned, breathing synced in that way that wasn’t really casual. The movie moved forward around them, background noise to the heat coiled low in her stomach. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Paige. But she could feel it building. Pressure. Static. Whatever it was, it wasn’t nothing.

Fifteen minutes in, Paige stirred.

Azzi felt it immediately, the shift in weight, the loss of warmth. Paige didn’t say anything as she stood. Just uncapped her Gatorade, took a slow sip, and stepped back over the tangled mess of legs on the floor like she hadn’t just spent the last quarter-hour pressing into Azzi’s side like they shared something they weren’t naming.

Azzi tracked her without meaning to.

Paige moved with that same loose-limbed ease, drifting past Caroline and Aubrey, offering Ice a fist bump as she passed, like she wasn’t about to detonate something silent. She dropped back onto the couch, this time on the other side — right next to Mia. Again.

Azzi sat up straighter. Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to call it, but her spine stiffened, her fingers curling tighter around the hem of the hoodie sleeve. She tried to focus on the screen, some chaotic wedding scene playing out with bad dialogue and cheap editing, but her eyes kept flicking to the edge of her vision.

Mia turned her body toward Paige the second she sat down, all bright eyes and soft grins, her voice a low murmur that Azzi couldn’t quite hear. Paige nodded at something, smiling just enough to make Azzi want to throw something across the room.

And then Mia leaned in.

Her head dropped lightly to Paige’s shoulder — easy, comfortable, like she’d done it before. Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Her arm rested loosely along the back of the couch, not quite around Mia, but not not around her either.

Azzi’s pulse kicked up hard.

Jayden leaned back beside her, oblivious. “I swear if there’s another dance montage, I’m walking out.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the couch across the room.

Caroline noticed first.

She was half-slouched beside Aubrey on a beanbag, but her gaze had been tracking Azzi in quiet intervals all night. Now she tilted her head just slightly, watching the way Azzi’s jaw tightened, how her foot started bouncing — that restless motion she always did when something got under her skin.

She followed Azzi’s line of sight.

Then her brows lifted. Barely.

“Subtle,” Caroline muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else.

Nika, a few seats over and nursing a half-eaten bag of Sour Patch Kids, caught the tone and turned.

“What?”

Caroline leaned closer, dropping her voice. “Just… look at Azzi. And now look at Paige.”

Nika did.

Her mouth curved immediately. “Oh, shit.”

Azzi didn’t hear them. Or if she did, she pretended not to. She kept her posture perfect, her face blank, eyes locked on the TV while her mind played back the image of Mia resting against Paige’s shoulder like it was hers to claim.

Jayden nudged her gently. “You good?”

Azzi blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You sure? You kind of zoned out.”

Azzi forced a small smile. “Long day.”

But even as she said it, her hand tightened into a fist in her lap.

Across the room, Paige’s head dipped slightly toward Mia’s, as if she was saying something only she could hear. Azzi didn’t need to know the words. She hated how natural it looked. How normal. How easy.

Something bitter twisted in her chest.

She shifted on the couch. Pulled her legs up under her. Jayden offered her the pretzels again, but she waved them off, stomach too tight. Her jaw ached from how long she’d been clenching it.

Then the scene changed, some dumb romantic climax between the leads and a wave of laughter rippled through the room. Everyone was distracted. Talking. Stretching. Paige laughed too, a low sound that wasn’t even that loud, but Azzi heard it clear as day.

And it snapped something.

She stood.

Not abrupt enough to draw attention, but quick. Jayden turned slightly, looking up at her. “Everything okay?”

“Too hot,” Azzi lied. “I need air.”

She didn’t go far. Just moved across the room, weaving between feet and pillows, claiming the small spot of couch right beside Paige and Mia without asking. The spot Ice had vacated fifteen minutes earlier when someone called her to the hallway to show off a stupid meme.

Azzi sat down.

Close.

Paige’s head turned, surprised, just barely, but she didn’t say anything.

Mia blinked at her. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Azzi said simply, eyes on the screen. “This scene’s actually funny.”

It wasn’t.

But it didn’t matter.

Because now she was the one sitting next to Paige. Close enough that their thighs touched. Close enough to make Mia sit up straighter. Azzi leaned back, casually stretching one arm behind Paige on the back cushion, letting her fingers rest dangerously near her shoulder blade.

Paige didn’t move.

Mia did. She shifted, barely, then leaned forward to grab a bottle of water from the table. She didn’t settle back the same way.

Paige tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking to Azzi. “Really?”

Azzi didn’t look at her. “What?”

“This?”

Azzi’s lips twitched. “You started it.”

“I was just sitting down.”

Azzi let her fingers brush Paige’s shoulder — light, unbothered. “So am I.”

Caroline made a low noise from across the room. “Nika.”

Nika grinned. “I saw it. Don’t worry.”

“What are we watching again?” Aubrey muttered, clearly lost.

“Doesn’t matter,” Nika said, eyes still on the couch. “This is better.”

Azzi didn’t care if they watched.

She had what she wanted. For now.

But she knew, deep down, this wasn’t winning.

It just looked like it.

[storiumemporium]

Terminal

Chapter 2 - How to Make Friends: For Dummies

Word Count: 10.9k | Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Reader | Chapter Tags: Secondhand Embarrassment To The Extreme, Gore, Mild Horror?, The Reader Is Just Going Thru It Yall, Meet Cute KINDA???, that's all I can think of woops |

Things go really, really bad. Things go kinda okay. And... you make a new friend, maybe..?

Air cutting over bandaged knuckles, down a rigid pale forearm. Lungs burn around timed expansion and contraction, sending hot moisture in bursts that warm the air. Bone to muscle meets sand packed in leather and vinyl, kinetic force from wrist, to elbow, to shoulder. Good form, good mark. Bad form, fractured bone.

This was bullshit.

Bandaged feet dig against a foam crash mat, muscles constrict as hips pivot one over the other. Leaving the ground, impacting hard, force meeting resistance quaking the body.

The gym is entirely empty at this early hour, vacated of all other forms of life and sublimated by some sort of hazy and ill defined quality that Yelena could mistake for dreamlike if she weren’t acutely aware of the reality her days soon faced.

When Manhattan had happened, and the consequent rebrand into an Avenger. Yelena had thought that maybe she’d finally gained some iota of control over what direction in life she was headed and what was done to or around her. That from now on, she had the means to call the shots or influence someone else’s. And for the most part that had been true, no one on the team was inclined to do things that directly violated the wishes of another when it came to this place and this work. That was why they, in spite of everything leaning to the contrary, melded so well.

Then, as always, Valentina happened.

Absolute bullshit.

Yelena put her fists behind her feelings because alcohol was an outlet she was attempting to avoid these days, and with each brutal strike exhausting her arms she fantasizes about Valentina being in place of the swinging bag in front of her. Of reducing her to a pulp and dropping her off at some shitty clinic where they’ll botch the reconstruction. She didn’t deserve less with the shit she’s pulled. On all of them, on the general public. Who was she to decide who they’d have to deal with when they go into life or death missions? Why does she think she understands what they need when she’d done nothing up to this point but be glorified PR or a threat to them?

Maybe it was a testament to her comfort in this place, or perhaps to his skill, that she is unaware Bucky is leaning against the boxing ring when she turns.

He fills up the space in his own sort of way, not anything like she’d have expected once. The Winter Soldier was a name you inevitably heard if you toiled in the world of paid violence and espionage, and Bucky Barnes was a name you heard if you were a child in the USA that paid attention during history class. She only half did, so she knew the gist. But Bucky wasn’t this eerie menace that brought a frigid gale with each step or a five degree drop with his gaze, nor was he this boisterous and charming young man who incited a desire to do better or be an upstanding citizen just because he’d smiled at you.

He was a little tired around the edges, Bucky. His smile was well worn, like aged leather or brandy in a barrel. He was… sturdy more than imposing. And Yelena knew that this was a trained image, rather than an innate one. It was the one he consciously chose to have, rather than was given to him. She liked it. It showed more of who Bucky was than he even realized, she thinks.

“What are we going to do about this, Bucky?” She foregoes greetings and knows Bucky expects nothing less, slipping around him as her fingers fetch against gauze bandages that braced her knuckles. Plucking, plucking, then snagging up on the scratchy corner and beginning to unwind with a practiced efficiency. “I don’t care that we have super traffickers or scientists mad enough to make HYDRA blush up against us, she doesn’t get to just decide who invades our team and our home—”

His touch on her shoulder is brief, light. It doesn’t presume anything more than a nicer way of getting her to stop talking.

“I don’t like it either, you know that. But I don’t know that we have much choice,” he’s squinting off into the distance as he moves up alongside her. Bucky didn’t need to adjust his stride much with over half a foot on her in height, feet overtaking hers even as he moved more slowly than he normally would. She watches his jaw work as if he’s chewing on a thought, the threads of it rattling around behind his eyes as he deliberated on whether to spit it out. “If Valentina is right about what they’re looking for, this is outside the scope of discomfort.”

A very nice way of saying, suck it up and play nice so the world doesn’t end- again.

Bucky had a lot of expertise in these sorts of changes, she knew. He’d changed so much as a man and changed the crowds he ran in just as many times. A Howling Commando where every person he worked beside was his best friend, someone he’d seen war with. Lost them, lost himself, been entirely solo for decades, found himself listlessly and poorly matching every color he’d ever tried to blend into, until finally finding himself with the New Avengers. After enough times it likely smeared together. This addition was just another adjustment and he’d take it the way he had every time before, with pinched lips and a deep sigh.

Yelena was less tempered than that.

“No! This isn’t fair, nor is it right. You’ve seen just as much as I have what’s already beginning to happen.”

She knew he had to, because Bucky paid as much attention as she did when it came to the rest of the team.

They’d regressed. Not hugely, but the differences were noticeable where one knew to look. The rest of them had begun to build up walls and crawl into themselves again, with the only noted exception being Alexei as he lived by a simplistic policy of the bigger the better. But John? Ava? Herself? Even Bob who never had anything explicitly negative to say about the decision hadn’t been acting the same, following that introduction with the girl in their ceiling.

He seemed more hesitant to say what came to mind again, his easy cadence eroded slightly by the concept of being perceived without control. And, maybe, more so the realization that Valentina was watching and that meant that his illusory distance from her was dashed against the rocks.

In all, no one was really taking it well.

Bucky didn’t try to deny it, either. “I know. But in the end, this is what we do. Right? And that doesn’t always mean playing it by what suits us. At the very least it doesn’t seem like Valentina is moving her new addition in with us, we just have to handle an uninvited extra on assignments.”

It did nothing to unburden Yelena from the anger, but he wasn’t necessarily wrong. Or at least, she didn’t think so. Even Valentina wasn’t reckless enough to try and introduce a new member to the team and force them into the shared living space that had become something south of sacred for the six of them, especially with as fragile as the peace was. But in truth, combat was just as important as the Tower. When you were out there, no matter where ‘there’ was, you needed to be able to depend on every single soul you brought with. No matter how she clashed with John like a child, Alexei’s penchant for going off script, Ava’s tendency to run solo, or Bob’s total inexperience; they had each other’s backs. There was no world in which she didn’t believe at a dire moment that they could pull together for each other.

This girl, Terminal, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Yelena had found maybe a handful of documents, they started at most three years back, and they were sparse in what they offered. The most clear information provided was that Valentina had been the one to find her, rather than vice versa. Beyond that? Her name dropped into a few post-assignment reports where she’d done a little more than bare minimum to help, offhand mentioned by other units as a possible avenue to circumvent research needed to be done…

It was the kind of sparse that meant this person either only just came into existence a few years ago, or did ample work to disappear entirely. It wasn’t that Yelena didn’t understand the need, her entire team is laced with bad decisions and deep regrets- but Valentina had something to do with this. Which meant there was no reason for Yelena to believe the sincerity of what was being played at.

She didn’t buy it in the least.

“There has to be another angle,” she knew she sounded obstinate. Unwilling to entirely relent to Bucky’s practicality on the matter. But this- this was important, she wouldn’t allow it to be rendered into something unimportant when it was the first purely good thing they’d all had in quite some time. “I don’t trust it, any of it.”

“Then don’t,” pragmatic and blunt. He didn’t sound judgmental, even frustrated as he turned and made sure Yelena met his eye. “I’m not asking you to discount yourself, I won’t even say you’re wrong. Keep an eye out, watch the way things play, see if you can catch Terminal out on whatever she might doing.

Just… we have to play along regardless.”

She would have with or without Bucky, but the affirmation that this wasn’t dividing them against each other - admittedly - made Yelena’s spirit feel the tiniest bit lighter.

Truly, if you had a gun right now you’d probably put it in your mouth and just pull the trigger. Not even quitting this assignment would be able to recover the damage done to your mind at this point. It simply couldn’t be going worse.

The first two days were utterly frigid. They didn’t acknowledge you even as you were brought into the fold to begin work on Enmis, treating you like a ghost or some sort of afterthought that occasionally buzzed it’s way back into their minds. The only time they really did want to address you was to use you the way they did the AI attached to the Tower.

Basically, you were Google.

And honestly, you’d already found that incredibly painful to deal with. Not necessarily that their dislike or their impersonality was hurtful in some immense way- but that it was a steady low frequency of embarrassment bordering on humiliation to be forced to seventh wheel a group of misfit heroes. At least in the prior jobs that you’d done, when you were forced briefly to cooperate with others they’d acknowledged you and been thankful for what you did. This group didn’t seem inclined to even try, easier to handle it themselves without your addition.

And the thing is, you couldn’t even blame them.

If you didn’t simply back your way out of the situation as quickly as possible to avoid stepping on toes, then it was because Valentina was there. Always there. She acted like the worlds strongest anti-acquaintance barrier you’d ever seen, her utter incapability to let a comment go without some harsh retort, or to snap at you like a dog to do whatever errand she needed. It just couldn’t look good, their opinion of you likely whittled down further with every passing minute.

You didn’t know how you were going to do it, and what occurred a matter of days ago was truly just- just the most lovely cherry on top of this shitcake you’d been served.

You accidentally ousted yourself as having been their creepy fucking peeping tom in the corner.

It was just a reflex, you were already in the overhead with them - though they weren’t particularly addressing you - as they milled about in the communal center of the Tower. This place was casual enough to discuss Enmis, what few leads were had and where they might want to investigate, or have you investigate first. But it also connected directly to one of the overzealously numbered kitchens in the entire building, a place that up until that point they hadn’t known you’d been watching for weeks. So when Bob went looking for misplaced nutmeg, eagerness to be useful for once had thoroughly stomped on your rationale. Directing him accurately to the top left cabinet.

The silence… you weren’t going to forget it.

Even Alexei who had been at that point the most consistently accepting of your presence, even approving, had twisted his brows down with an unpleasant curl of his mouth to match.

“And how is it… that you knew that..?” Yelena, scathing, her eyes had picked just one off any of the cameras in the building, and that cloister of feeling in your nape had the screens filtering with obedience so that you could look at her with the same level of shame as she was looking at you with disdain.

“I- …I-”

“Unbelievable, Valentina has been spying on us then, hasn’t she? That’s why you’re here? Her little pet to see what we’re doing at all times.” A finger had been pointed accusingly, and you’d attempted to sputter out defenses that meant nothing to their ears. Instead curving into a casual onslaught of Russian you were suddenly thankful you had zero fluency in, for the open disdain in which it was spoken left little to the imagination regardless.

“Some sneak you are, hm? Can’t even last the week before fucking it all up. Valentina! Next time, pick someone who knows what they’re doing if you’re going to try to spy on spies.”

The deafening quiet had remained, not long after everyone had lost reason to stay and promptly vacated the room, and somehow worse than being caught out on your sheer stupidity was the shame of driving them from somewhere they felt comfortable in.

There wasn’t much worse in the world to you, than depriving someone of their space.

Valentina, of course, had followed up that night to absolutely chew you to pieces on the matter. Useless, incompetent, pathetic, worthless. She’d spewed on and on in that tone that was utterly degrading and somehow never particularly angry, like you weren’t even worth that amount of emotion out of her. In that corporate tirade, you’d cut your mic and allowed yourself to cry- hiccupping and blotchy with a level of humiliation you hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

Even following that: once she’d cut the call without awaiting your response, you’d slunk your way through the bunker into your bedroom like you were afraid of being seen even all the way down here. In it you’d crawled, curling fetal at the very center and let all manner of ugliness spew out. Staining your sheets and sleeves as you wished above all else that the cotton fiber would split open and let you pass unobstructed into it, that white strands would digest you into a reverie so deep that only bones would be found some day in the far future. Even they quailed inside of you, their noises at your nape turned mournful and scratchy.

What use were you, really?

Why couldn’t you just be left alone?

It was for this reason that you didn’t return for several days, you assumed that maybe Valentina would find someone more competent for the task to replace you. Maybe she’d even drop you and let you finally rot in piece in the tomb you chose, and no longer have to suffer the endless agonies of the one thing you didn’t want to do. Talk to people, or let them realize that you exist.

Instead, you’d been given five days until she was calling on you.

“Where have you been?” She had the audacity to sound annoyed with you, that you’d somehow slighted her again in your absence. It baffled you to the point of absurdity, leaving you only able to respond completely sincerely.

“I… I just didn’t think you wanted me anymore..?” You could hear the mystification in your own voice, watching the gain wheel jump as it picked out your voice into your microphone. Green to yellow to green as you emphasized your tone in places. “I just… I fucked it all up, so I’m done, right?”

“Ohhh no no, you don’t get out of this that easily. What you get to do is get back in there, fix this and get me results on Enmis. None of us needs another Robert Reynolds in the world, or anything close to it.”

You didn’t particularly enjoy the way she spoke about a human being, but swallowed that for the mirror later.

“I don’t… I don’t know how…”

Even without being able to see her, the pause was enough for you to know she was battling some sort of reaction or expression.

“It’s not my problem to figure out how to fix it for you. Apologize? Grovel if you have to! Buy them all gift baskets! Think of something. Now, I’m sending more information to you and to them. Join. That’s an order.”

You were left with the static hum of fluorescents and screens and towers. Buzzing around in a way that made your head throb angrily. You were frustrated, and lost, and being set up for further humiliation. How do you apologize for being a freak? How do you fix the fact that nobody wants you around? You don’t. You take the loss and you walk away, or at least you should if you had any amount of self preservation. But Valentina doesn’t care about things like that, you could grind yourself into sand and she’d only be disappointed if no high quality glass came of it.

So instead, they flick the screens over to the Tower… and you do the one thing you aren’t supposed to be.

You watch.

They look peaceful, like this. They seemed to have unwound since your absence, you were sure of it. Yelena and Ava you find on the monitor to your far left, Yelena’s feet have been tucked under her, while Ava is sat cross-legged. Between the two are a number of different card games, and the pixels twitch slightly as the colors across their faces and the couch periodically change to reflect whatever they were watching at this point. You can see Ava say something, and the moment where Yelena’s face lights up. The recognition of the comment, and the rewarding laugh. Ava just grins back, but you can see in the faint pinch around her eyes that she’s more pleased by this than she lets on.

Alexei you cannot find, and presume he must be in his room at this point. It was the one place you’d refused to invade, much like your odd compulsion against peoples’ indoor cameras. You didn’t lack the curiosity, but whatever tatters of moral conviction kept you at bay. That was a place for them and them alone. Even if… realistically, this was all for them and no less a violation.

Bucky and John are sparring, and by the looks of it it might be teetering something towards more friendly than hostile this time. Though they aren’t pulling punches - even with the audio cut you can see the way their bodies shudder and jolt under each impact - there’s a sort of brevity when they back off from each other. Sorting each other out before colliding once more at the center. John has a lot of brute force behind his movements, and you can see years of military service carved into his shoulders and arms, legs- even in the stockier shape of his torso. Bucky isn’t far off, but he doesn’t move like a military man. He’s almost never on the heels of his feet, sticking to the pads as he nearly glides around his opponent. It’s an odd dichotomy, that he moves in sharp and aggressive bursts at the upper half, but he almost has the lower body control of a ballerina.

For a moment you struggle to find the final element of this chemical slurry you’ve been forcefully injected into, eyes scrolling listlessly over dozens of screens until something mite and sticky electric tingles just beneath your right ear- this way- and your eyes dart to row four, column five. Bob.

He’s outside.

Or rather, he’s in the private garden on the roof.

You’d found him here a few times during your bouts of watching. He did the least of anyone and yet was the most captivating for you, all at once. A strange contradiction you found yourself unwilling to decipher in case you disliked what you found in it.

He’s sitting with one leg pulled in and the other stretched, resting in the grass with his back against a newly supplanted tree. From what you can tell, his eyes are closed, the wind pushing against his clothes and curled hair. He looks at peace like this, enjoying the space and the feeling of sky and weather without dealing with the people or possibly even the noise that often inhabited it as well. You wonder if that’s why color came back to his skin, since those photos and videos from the year prior? An uninhabited little corner of world for him to experience the outside with, and zero shame or mental toll to come with it. The only people who would ever bother him are the ones he’d want bothering him. You can see his throat bob as he swallows, shifting to sink that little bit lower into his contentment.

You switch away, leaving the Tower entirely.

It wasn’t your place to be, and you didn’t belong.

Two days later and you tune in again, and you watch them again like they’ve become some weird obsession.

They’re having a movie night, you think. Snacks are laid out, pillows and blankets strewn freely. Yelena is resting against Alexei, Bucky and John have taken the furthest corners of the couch with their legs stretched out. Ava is on the floor. Bob is in his recliner - one no one else uses and seems to be dedicated solely to him. One which cost enough that your stomach did ugly things when you finally got around to figuring out where it was from.

They’re laughing, smiling. Bob seems happy to watch them, his face a little flushed and rosy. He’s got a sandwich on the table, some sort of orange soda fizzing away.

You watch a few moments longer, and once again switch away. The bunker is dark, and very empty. Your back to nothing, and no one.

It’s another several days of this, before things start to move for you. Or maybe without you?

You watch them, you try to parse out how to talk to them, Valentina has her assistant send increasingly more distressed emails urging you to do something, and you stir about in your shame and your misery at how terribly suited for this you are. That speaking and being were just not your forte. You fiddle about on the internet, invest in retail therapy, pace around the entire bunker enough times that you end up kicking a wall and jamming your pinkie toe, retire to your chair because walking no longer seemed fun.

You’re browsing around on the internet, swapping nauseatingly fast between platforms to see what the goings-on of aquarium owners, birders, tailors and crocheters and knitters, cat owners, reptile keepers and the like were doing at this moment in time. It was the thing that occupied you best, peeking into other lives as they willingly divulged them- and sometimes getting into overly heated debates about whether or not that cry was a warbler until three in the morning.

It’s what you have to do for the evening, too paralyzed by the fact that this is work hours for you to indulge in anything more recreational. Odd, considering your job was to sit there uselessly anyways.

Theretheretherelookthereit’stherethey’retherelooklookingaskinglook—

They’re more active, restless, and it makes your head throb with the warning signs of a potential migraine if you don’t abate them well enough today. You know why they get this way, it doesn’t make it easier to handle when they do. So instead you let them take the reigns, thrown forward into flipping switches and pressing keys until—

“Yo!” The voice crackles through sharp enough to startle you in your seat. The sliding joints thunking quietly when you don’t put enough force in to adjust it to reclining mode, just pushing it until the bones meet. “Uh- what’s your name- what’s her name- computer chick!”

Cutting over the raucous voice of one John Walker, Ava: “It’s Terminal, dumbass. Are you there?”

You gape for a moment, feeling like a hook should be in your lip. Then you remember you have to answer for them to know, and slap the mic live.

“H-Hello? Yes. I’m here.”

“Oh, good. We need your help-” your heart shrinks just that little more at the groan that sounds in the background, a murmuration like some of them were hoping that you truly were gone. That felt a little bit mean. “-for real this time. And not whatever shit Valentina sent you for.

You actually know your way around computers, right?”

Indignancy rises, and is quelled just as fast by the recognition that you’ve done nothing to earn their trust thus far. Just been ousted as a freak on Valentina’s payroll.

“Yes Miss Starr, nothing that was said about me or why I’m here is a lie—” your chin trembles as you work your mouth, seeing the casual disbelief tossed out there the moment you tried to defend yourself.

“—I would be happy to help, what did you need?” They’re in the background, but speaking softly enough that the mics aren’t entirely picking it up. Just hisses of almost vowels.

“Ava, first of all… Unfortunately Enmis seems to actually be ****something, so we’ve still been looking. We think we might have a hit, but the kind of information we need is above our paygrade and our location. Valentina told us that you’re something like a global database, wherever you are. So, think you can break into a facility in Myanmar?”

You practically surge with a potential victory on your breath. They’re giving you a chance to do something, finally. You might, just might have the slightest chance of getting your foot in the door if you don’t catastrophically fuck this up.

“Yes! Uhm- yes. Yes, I can do that. What information do you have already? Otherwise I’ll need to start searching databases and that might take time on account of not knowing—”

“We’re sending it,” comes Yelena, whose voice is not strained but certainly dull and clipped. Whatever happened just before being called here, it seems Yelena was against the decision. Fair enough. “It should give you a general area, and an idea of what they were poking around in when we were flagged for it. We need you to figure out locations, objectives, if it’s worth it for us to touch down there and raid.”

You knew the implications of that. It needed to be big, because if it wasn’t then they’d just be showing their hand with nothing to pay them back for it. Jumping the shark, as it were.

“Okay, leave it to me.” Your stomach and heart are now the ones crocheting together. They feel like they’ve been hard tacked to your intestines. “I promise, I’ll have it to you soon.

And- and I’m sorry about the things that happened before- the uh-”

The thought went nowhere, their faces closing off into patterns of annoyance or coldness. Still, fair enough. Though that one stung just the tiniest bit more.

“We’re not looking to be friends,” comes John again, trying hard to sound tougher than he is. “We just want help getting this job done, then we go our separate ways.”

“…I understand… I’ll do my best.”

You don’t feel much like saying anything else, and they don’t much mind. So contact is cut as you rapidly pull up a dozen different browsers on a dozen different screens to begin the dive.

You don’t notice the solemn look on Bob’s face as the screen he occupied vanishes, replaced with CCTV footage.

Two weeks are spent on this, giving regular updates to your team.

While it’s true that Myanmar appears to be the base of operations, they’ve been passing between Thailand and Laos regularly. Everything you’ve checked indicates that they’re hauling large quantities of some unknown substance along the way, tens of thousands of gallons of it, at that. Flight logs, movement patterns, certificates, and rentals are flooded to their tablets alongside seemingly relevant snippets of conversation over military, police, and local radio stations. It���d made you vomit more than once, migraines that led to nosebleeds and painfully ringing ears, but you managed to digest enough information to learn the gist of Burmese, Thai and Lao- and the word Enmis stood out plainly. You’d seen their bafflement over it, but it was just as they said.

Just a job, right? Doesn’t matter how you’re doing it.

You’re blinking blearily at the your ocean of screens in the dark, each with their segmented priority playing out at you. Some are still relaying footage in the areas you most frequently see what you believe to be their convoys pass through, others are reading off border registry. In your hand is a mug of instant hot chocolate, snug as you are under your blanket and trying your best not to be caught by sleep.

In the meantime, a letter goes out to Valentina. They’re talking to you - somewhat. You’re helping them - kind of.

It’s a half step to progress, you just hope that it counts well enough. This is what you were brought onto this team to do, right? You’re helping.

Enough tasks have been delegated to you that instead of murmuring and unrest, you’ve been given a pleasant lull to sink into. They almost purr with content, their trillions of little sparkles reduced down to something like stars instead of the flashes of cameras or muzzle fire. All of them churn over each other, the interaction slithering up and along your brain placidly. You don’t hurt tonight, and that’s a relief.

Sipping at the chocolate, your hands curl into the warmth and you begin to trawl your eyes over screens. Something about a local festival is beginning to kick up around the area Enmis were last spotted, and you don’t need super genius to assume that they’ll likely capitalize on the movement to exploit vulnerabilities for personal gain. You know realistically it’d be smart to inform your team of this and let them proceed how they like, but there’s this odd slither down your spine, chilly between your shoulder-blades that sing songs at you to stay and observe. You just might accrue something more valuable from inaction, in this scenario.

Still, that’s a matter of days out, so instead you people watch.

All those bodies passing through, short and tall, wiry and plump. Most look absent of much thought beyond their next task that day. Some are visibly annoyed, many smiling and laughing- whether it’s with someone on the phone, or the person next to them.

It’s strange to see all those colors and lives playing out on a screen. They don’t know they’re being seen by an extra interloper, nor do you think they particularly care. It doesn’t matter, it’s just a tiny snapshot in an entire life. Some of these people have been alive several times longer than you, you or your parents. They knew the world before your infinitesimally miniscule intrusion upon it, and there’s no guarantee they won’t live to see the world after you leave it. A few incredibly young and bundled into adoring arms, faces blank and wondering, are near guaranteed to know what that world is like.

Another gulp, a little bigger and it burns on the way down. The cup sets gently against laminate, and you continue to watch that screen with all those little passing faces until your eyes grow dry and your capacity for consciousness entirely depletes.

The festival arrives, and your suspicions are confirmed.

All the CCTV around the city provides you with ample angles with which to watch the world vacate, droves of people going to enjoy their impromptu holiday and the rest electing to remain at home. Streets were more sparse than usual, and it left you with an uncanny image to mull on.

You didn’t particularly enjoy existing, or - at least not in the vicinity of others. But in the same breath, you didn’t like other people not existing. It was more that you were diametrically opposed to the existence of society, not in mind but in body. A virus pushed out by the white blood cell of social etiquette and cultural consciousness. It’s why you observed, really. It was the only way you could learn how to be like that, like people are.

This was without reference, barely even signs of life. All the fingerprints that humanity existed here and yet none of the little creatures you wanted to be just like. Quiet, and still.

It takes a few hours, the time inching over to four in the morning in Manhattan when things finally begin to move in ways that actually mean something.

Initially the sight of cars passing by wouldn’t invoke any sort of notice, you’ve got your eyes on all the major highways through the city and people pass by constantly. But the normalcy of it has been interrupted by volume and the unnatural timing of it, they’re consecutive as if marching and almost entirely all the same color.

It was a convoy, but larger than you’d seen up until that point, and moving in all different directions.

They writhe about in your nape, excited and chattering as you sit up, and all monitors blink away from their assigned individual and group tasks to focus on this. The big moment you’ve been waiting for, what were they doing?

In all, it takes a complete total of twenty-five minutes nearly on the dot.

Five locations are targeted, two are labs, one is a hospital, a military post, and the major grid for over half of the entire city. The outpost goes first while also taking you the longest to get into, their somewhat rudimentary defense is paired by abysmal camera placement, swatting at your nerve endings annoyingly- and then you watch it all, given the live front row view as a steel door crumples like paper.

You still collect the footage from the other locations, because it’s important to know what they want out of labs and hospitals and a power grid of all things- but you don’t watch it. Because you don’t really need to.

The CCTV footage flickers and buzzes- desaturated as a heavily armored vehicle rams through the wall of one of the barracks on site, clouds of dust and bricks spray across and the tiled floor cracks under thousands of pounds of rubber and metal. You can see the structural integrity of the building wane, the wall slouching and the ceiling bowing down. The ceiling lights fall further into view of the camera now off kilter, the wiring come loose under force and now swinging uneasily from side to side while it’s motion is jittered by further rumbles. Shouting, indistinct and grainy, presses through your speakers and grows louder as the people they belong to draw closer. Then the back doors slam open and gunfire follows. But it does little to deter the thing that comes out.

Between each blinding flash that whites out the lens and your CRT as a result, a close interpretation of a human is seen.

It’s warped, whatever it is. This mass of overdeveloped flesh bound by skin colored like a bruise, it’s ears are small and knotted, eyes beady and sunken, but it’s teeth are massive and you can see holes in the cheeks where it’d cut through the soft skin and fat. It’s arms look grotesquely swollen, the arteries filled to bursting and the joints of it’s fingers bending too far as it dives forward, between one flicker and the next there’s new red painting the collapsing hall. And then it’s climbing the stairwell.

The thing you note, is that it is injured- and doesn’t seem to care.

You can’t really make out what shade it is, with how dark it is and how poor the cameras are, but something is sluggishly beginning to mat down the tatters of the civilian clothes this thing is wearing. It presses on, blind and ravenous and seeking the next moving object to destroy- a rolling cart gets caught in the crossfire of it’s motion aggression, and then it descends on an entire group of young soldiers whose faces are crested with legitimate terror before ending. Sharply, violently, and quickly.

Still, that blood-approximate moves more like molasses as it begins to drop onto the ground, holding shape for a moment before pooling like a liquid should between the grout. And on it goes, hateful and destroying everything.

You’re cold all over, and captivated by it’s graceless barbarity when one of them tugs at you to look away- look away and see something else. Something important enough to not bear witness to the absolute destruction of many.

On the opposite end of the site, a group of what appear to be entirely ordinary citizens are flanked by rows of men clad head to toe in armor and lined to the teeth with weapons. They seem impassive, utterly bored by the goings-on a thousand yards away. None of them look like they’re native to the area, either. Two of which you are almost entirely certain you know the identity of, considering what you’re hearing happen elsewhere in the outpost.

Doyenko and Haikali.

The man you assume to be Doyenko has taken on more practical attire for the occasion. The man looks like a sheet of paper against the tropical climate of Myanmar, with an olive colored kevlar vest sat overtop his expensive looking white button up, a pistol strapped to his thigh over his slacks and a knife in one of his boots. His hands and wrist adorned in a watch and rings, lifting it to light a cigarette hanging from his mouth. You can’t hear it but he’s speaking, your ears are still ringing with the sound of gunfire, of people screaming for their lives, an ungodly inhuman shriek drowning them out.

Haikali surprises you entirely. You suppose that when you heard mad scientist your mind made the easy leap to white lab coat and weaselly, palpably insane demeanor. But Haikali is distinctly absent of any armor and clad head to toe in aubergine and coal and gold. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings. His hair is done in thick, black locs decorated by jewel encrusted golden beads. Gold rimmed glasses, painted nails, even what looked to be color on his lips. The man was lavish by all intents and purposes, and carried himself like he knew it.

You can see his head turn, the blinding smile as he replies.

A godawful crunch, pitiful gurgling is all that makes it to your ears.

They aren’t particularly happy to be woken up.

You’d been too flustered and disturbed by what you saw to keep it to yourself until a more reasonable hour of the day arrived- so that at four forty-eight in the morning you had the entire half dazed and deeply groggy New Avengers nestled around their coffee table ready to look at whatever it is you had in store for them.

“I uh- I’m sorry to have woken all of you up, but this can’t wait.”

And then you dive into a brief recount of your suspicions regarding the opening the festival had provided Enmis, your decision to not say anything and keep watch. And the unprecedented series of events that had followed.

Showing them the footage, the screams, and the men you believed to be Doyenko and Hakali had thoroughly sapped all sense of exhaustion from their bones. Their posture rigid and their eyes alert and disturbed. You knew it was one thing to see violence of any sort, because that was par for the course in their careers. But this…

“…What the hell was that thing..?” Ava is the one to break the silence first, speaking what came to mind for the rest of the group.

They’d all seen their fair share of atrocities and horrors, they’d seen crazier and scarier things than just superpowered people (Bucky above all else, with hordes of alien creatures descending like locusts on Wakanda) but this was… Disturbing. The blurred eyes of that thing as it’d stared into one of the cameras remains burnt into their minds. The way it dove off walls and even the ceiling, goring soldiers on the ends of it’s elongated and too flexible digits. The sight of it being progressively further and further torn to pieces by bullets and yet refusing to stop. As if numb or unregistering of the damage and pain being done to it. Even as metal shredded across it’s skull, took it’s eye, shattered teeth-

Only once that viscous fluid that comprised it’s blood finally stopped pouring, did it drop. Unceremonious, without retaliation or fear or anger. Crumpling to the dirt and gurgling something awful as it twitched, spasmed, then ceased altogether.

“What we are going against,” was Alexei’s reply. He sounded almost grim, unwilling to look away from the still shots displayed for them. “We were told this was serious, Valentina did not lie.”

There was a moment you had, as you watched this thing bite through the barrel of a gun where you wondered, if they have this why would they need anything near the serum Bob had been given? This could destroy a country, easily.

And then, that thought brewing like coffee and coming out darker and ever more bitter with consideration. What could they create with the serum that had made him?

Bob was lucky out of the lineup that had been given his serum, the only one who had survived. And from it - a highly clinical, very sterile serum made by people with interest in little else other than steady employment and money - came a three-headed pseudo-deity that could submerge the entire world into whatever mind game he so desired just based upon his mental state at the time. If that was what had come from this, then what could a man who made the bloated, gnarled cadaver on the screen do with it?

Bob seemed to have had the same thought, if the way he was curled on a ball on the couch unspeaking and unmoving were anything to go by. He seemed a little frightened, even if it didn’t have anything directly to do with him.

“I’ve patched through every bit of information I gained from the event, and though I’d recommend getting samples off that creature it’s- a bit above my means to send in assets to grab material,” you threaded your fingers together, nodding to yourself as you spoke. “But I have reason to believe that whatever they’re trying to do involves a great deal of power, as they stole something out of the grid that wasn’t named on any official documents.

They’re gearing up for something large, but I don’t know what. I’m sorry that’s all I could glean from this.”

“Good job.”

What?

A laugh, shit- did you say that out loud? “I said, good job.”

It was Bucky, his face a little tight still. He didn’t seem to be in great spirits, though not necessarily dragged down by what you had all witnessed either. It was that sort of resignation before a fight you knew was going to get ugly, like he’d begun to steel himself for the rollercoaster that they were approaching at speed.

“Th- Thank you. I appreciate that. A lot.” And with that you squeezed your eyes shut, only mildly embarrassed by the emphasis on the end. If Bucky had found it strange, he didn’t find any reason to comment. Instead standing from his position on the couch. The other’s leaned back to watch, brows lifted.

“We now know the size of the threat- which is frankly larger than any of us had anticipated,” Bucky sounded almost a little embarrassed by the admission. “Valentina did a poor job of conveying the scale of the situation…”

There was a beat, a thought crossing through his mind- you had no idea what. His mouth opened, then closed again, his eyes darting to the camera mounted above the tv, functionally making eye contact with you.

“Keep up the good work, we’re counting on you. For now we need to be prepared for whatever comes our way, because we still don’t really know what that is. The advantage on our side being that Enmis doesn’t know we’re watching or that we’re a problem in their future, so countermeasures shouldn’t be in place.”

Following that, Bucky had promptly begun to move toward the bar. You saw a deeply overfilled glass of whiskey in his extremely near future.

The rest for their part had stalled longer than Bucky on the information, still looking at the screen and then between each other. Eventually sitting up to nudge against each other, some either beginning to murmur about potential plans or what threats they needed to think of- ways to counteract a monstrous human that doesn’t feel pain. The others bitched about being awake, and were already beginning to move back to their floors to rest for the few remaining hours before sunlight rudely came knocking at full force.

Bob didn’t move from the spot, not until long after the others had slithered away. And even then, he crossed the world the way a ghost would. Silent, and disinclined to have a recognizable presence.

Another week passes almost uneventfully.

More so, the events that did happen utterly paled in comparison to the explosive intro you’d been rocketed through. There’d been more movements, and then Enmis had simply vanished. Myanmar, Thailand, Laos— gone. They barely even left traces. The New Avengers hadn’t yet decided to try and put feet to soil to confront them, and no one had anticipated that by the time a conclusion would have been made, they’d already be gone to the wind.

It’d left you, Valentina, and the others in a scramble trying to pick up some sort of tracks that could hint to their whereabouts. But it was like they’d never existed at all, something that further unsettled Bucky and Yelena as the two with the most experience in the act of vanishing.

So, Valentina cast the widest net she possibly could, and you sorted through it like one of those little filter shrimp. Discarding and keeping pieces almost as quickly as she brought them to you.

And while you did that, you went back to watching.

It wasn’t as aggressive as before. You were starting to develop… non-animus amongst these people you would be working with for an unknown amount of time, and as a result you were disinclined to ruin that by being a total freak yet again. Instead you had arbitrarily limited yourself to a handful of areas, the outside gardens, the rooms you’d already been heard inside of, as well as the lobby and exterior cameras. You left things like personal floors, the gym, even the area that they most often congregated to them— a pseudo peace offering and an absolute apology.

Weirdly enough… it was kind of working?

They were still tense around the edges with you, things were cordial. You weren’t given friendly comments and remarks, you weren’t in on the jokes- nor did you feel comfortable trying to be. But you’d noticed that the abrasion and the need to look over their shoulder had almost entirely vanished. You didn’t know if it was a subconscious thing, or if they’d realized you had permanently vacated a majority of the Tower and kept yourself contained.

Regardless, you were talking to them. That was a victory you’d gladly take.

Tonight you’re looking out into the garden again, it was interesting to see the little slivers of the city the camera offered with it’s million and one glittering lights. The grass and the trees well maintained in spite of absurd altitude and the concrete that they were incased atop of. It was a nice view, not just a nice enough one… and it made you feel a little less lonely somehow.

Something exacerbated when the glass door hisses open, and Bob steps out into the grass.

He looks cozy, done up in his layers of incredibly baggy pajamas and no shoes or socks, allowing the blades of grass to curl around his bare feet. His hair is more messy, like he’d been toying with it a great deal, and though his eyes are tired, he looks content.

He’s quick to find his chosen spot, the same one you’d found him in before those weeks prior and you assume has been to many times since. His back to the wood while he stretches himself out and lets his eyes fall closed. It’s windier today, and where most would be ducking their heads and trying to use something to buffet the annoyance as they get around- Bob seems to bask in the sensation. His hair, already mussed, becoming frizzier and more undefined as threads of the gale cut through it.

It’s nice to watch, he’s nice to watch. It wasn’t like the others who were always either loud or busy- something on the agenda, someone to talk to. Bob had a sort of stillness around him, a tendency to exist in the moment and not obligated to action. It was this, or cooking himself something, or reading a book. Sometimes it was just finding him curled up in front of one of the massive bay windows, watching the rain blanket Manhattan with it’s sodden fingers.

It goes on like this for a little bit, maybe five… ten minutes? Your attention dissolved from all other things just to look at the same skyline as him, to appreciate the silhouette of him in the comfort of his element. It was like your own organic little break time, instead of just deciding you wanted to stop for a moment to wander without cause around the bunker.

And then, you see it-

A subtle twitch of his brow, the way he scratches the back of his neck and scrunches his nose for a second. Then attempts to return to stasis, only that-

“Hello?” His voice breaks through your speakers, wobbly with uncertainty and yet still so sudden that you bounce aggressively in your seat. The movement is met by a lyrical chorus of ‘oooh-’ sliding down the back of your head, before returning to silence.

His eyes flutter open, and then he’s looking dead at the camera, at you.

“Are— …are you there?”

Once more you feel caught out - starting to get annoyed by that particular feeling - and remember after a beat that he can’t actually see or hear you if you don’t respond. And besides, you’re trying not to be a creep anymore.

Your microphone clicks live, and you stammer immediately upon opening your fat mouth, “Hi- hi, um… Yeah, sorry. I didn’t- I was just enjoying the view.”

You wait for it, the reprimand, the disdain that the others held when you fumbled over an interaction or did something off-putting that warranted a side eye.

Instead, you see a little curl of his mouth before he looks away.

“You think it’s nice out here, too? I like the- the city. I get overwhelmed when I’m actually down there but… up here’s… s’nice.”

He’s holding conversation with you.

He’s talking to you. And it sounds natural, and he doesn’t seem upset by it, and-

“Yeah… Yeah! It’s beautiful. Sometimes when I’m parsing through reports I just like to flick over here to look at the city while I go. Most other footage is closer to the street, still nice but more for- for people watching…”

Embarrassment blooms in your chest as you taper off your sentence. You’d barely been talking but maybe it was too much? And maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned that you like to watch people? It was mortifyingly relevant to what you’d been caught out doing before, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it reminded him of that.

“Other footage?” His voice has remained soft, and you think he might be utterly oblivious to your internal panic. You hope so. “Do you watch other places than just the Tower? I guess that makes sense, but—”

God, him mentioning that made you want to bite your own fingers off, maybe your tongue.

“Yeah… I uh- I promise I’m not just some creep staring at you guys all the time,” you say with a timid laugh. You feel cowed and maybe even a tiny bit ashamed of yourself. Once again confronted with the image you presented to them, the abysmal introduction thus far. “I’m sorry about that, by the way…

I know I come off- god I must come off so fucking weird but it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t stalking- or- or spying! I just…”

And then you cut off, defeated, sighing. What do you even say? How do you explain in a way that isn’t somehow fundamentally disturbing or deterring for the one person who has bothered to acknowledge you of their own volition? Who is striking up conversation in the middle of the night, out with the earthborn stars and grass and life?

But Bob is staring off into a direction now, his head tilted consideringly. His hands working into his pants subconsciously as he processes your words, considers what you aren’t saying and what you’re trying to say to him.

“I don’t think you’re weird.”

“Really?”

“…Yeah. I mean— don’t get me wrong, I have no idea how you thought that was a good idea,” he laughs softly, more just an amused expulsion of breath with this wry little smile. It manages to not feel like it was at your expense, and you hum in return. “But I- I mean. I can’t really judge… I’ve done some uh… some pretty weird things too, and these guys seem to like me anyways.”

“I was just nervous.” You blurt it out blindly. The notion of forgiveness or understanding has you immediately diving off the deep end, ready to vomit your entire heart out just for someone to be on your side for once. Or at least, not think ill of you. “I um… I’m not good with people. It’s why I don’t understand Miss— I don’t understand Valentina deciding to do this. All my work before was solo, or with maybe two people talking to me? Quiet things, very background.”

Where you belonged.

“She didn’t give me much preparation for this, just told me this was where I was going and when I was going there. Everything else was on my own terms and I— I’ve never really done this sort of thing before so I tried to figure out how to handle it? And like, I went all over advice forums and those stupid therapy websites and things like that but none of it seemed tangible for what I was about to do, so…

So I tried to study, so to speak.”

You can see even through the distant footage of his face, the less than stellar quality the way some sort of comprehension drapes it’s arm over his shoulder. He almost seems to light up as you speak, like he’s following a mystery novel and finally getting the conclusion.

“Oh! Oh… Okay. Yeah I- I think I get it now. You thought that if you watched what we were doing, it’d be easier to get along with us, right?”

Face finding it’s way to your hands, you thank every god that genuinely may or may not exist out there that he can’t see you. You’re so deeply red, so humiliated and so relieved, and it’s a fight to keep the thickness out of your throat. You don’t want to cry immediately like this, don’t want to ruin the moment so quickly.

“Yeah… That’s exactly it. That’s all. I know that doesn’t justify breaking into your home and- and watching you live without realizing I’m there but… I just-

This is all really scary to me? And it’s the only idea I had. It blew up in my face, obviously. But…”

But thank you, for understanding.

He didn’t need to hear you say it, you could see the way he nodded. Not aggressive, but with his brows lifted slightly and something close to a smile on his face.

“Yeah that was a terrible idea,” and you can’t help but interrupt him by groaning, his voice growing louder and his smile more prominent as he continued over the sounds of your anguish. “I mean literally all of us have insane trust issues, half of us are assassins or spies. You really couldn’t have picked a worse way of going about it. I think Yelena would have preferred if you were just weird.”

“Thanks, thank you. That’s incredibly useful information now. After the fact. So unbelievably far after the fact.”

And then he’s laughing, and you’re giggling at yourself. And you watch him shrug a shoulder loosely, his gaze turning back out to the city and away from the security camera that makes up your eye.

“I get it, though. And- if it makes you feel better? I put everyone in Manhattan in their personal mental torture chambers and they forgave me. So… Give it time, and I think they’ll come around.”

“I… don’t know that that matters, really.” And you pick at your nails, unwilling to look at the screen as you tell him the truth. “I don’t think Valentina is intending to keep me around, and John made it clear he wants me out the moment Enmis is dealt with.

So uh… This might be the first and only pleasant interaction I get before none of us sees each other again.”

It goes quiet long enough for you to look up, to see him staring into the lens and at you. You don’t know what he’s looking at, or what he’s seeing. There’s miles of difference, mountains of dirt and stone and concrete and metal dividing the two of you- and yet you feel somehow very exposed under that gaze.

“You think this is a pleasant interaction?”

“I mean… Yeah..? Was I- Am I misreading—?”

“No… But uh- do you want it to be the last one?”

“…No.” The admission is a small shock even to yourself. “It’s been kinda lonely, if I’m honest. So this is… this is nice.”

And once again Bob returns to silence, droning on for several moments as he listens to the breeze and watches traffic inch through Manhattan. From up here you can’t really hear anything- and certainly not through the subpar microphones, but there’s a sort of disconnect that comes with the intersection of total quiet in the heart of a megacity.

It’s all magnified by the man you watch, by that stillness you’d taken note of before. Something you suspect is both the gentle quietness native to his personality, and that something more that lurks underneath. Regardless, he takes his time with what you’ve said and you’re not inclined to force him to hurry. He as always, doesn’t seem like he’s been constrained by the clock. Maybe that was one of the things he was learning to give up.

“You can come talk to me, then.”

You don’t know why but the words land physically for you. It’s such a small consideration, an incredibly casual offer on his part. But he barely knows you and again- again- you’ve done nothing but be an astronomical fuck up and an embarrassing oddity your entire time here. It would be so easy for him to give you a ‘that’s rough, buddy’ and keep it moving.

You blink away the blotchiness, and smile though you know he can’t see it.

“I’d really like that, Bob. I- I think I’ll take you up on that, if you don’t mind.”

His smile again, head dipping slightly so his hair falls further.

“I don’t. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise, y’know? If I’m honest… it’ll be nice to talk to someone different, for once. I love them, don’t get me wrong. It’s just-

The same people all the time. I should probably be working on handling more than that.”

You think that if anyone else had told you that the way Bob did, it would have come off horrifyingly insulting. Instead it’s just earnest, sweet. He wants someone to talk to, and you want someone who doesn’t think you’re awful.

“Well then… You can expect to hear me around. I’d say see but-” and from where you sit, you gesture at the arsenal of tech both old and new that allows you to exist in his space without being there.

“Yeah… I’ll hear you around.”

The two of you linger in the silence with each other for a bit longer, Bob returning to enjoying the scenery he’s planted himself into. And you enjoying being allowed to freely observe without judgement or, worse, feeling like an intruder upon his space. It’s a sort of camaraderie that builds in the breaths between as you begin to switch monitors to your work, the only ones whose faces are left unaltered being those that Bob occupies off in the corner. You wonder if he feels you the same way you feel him, like this. Though maybe he did, if he had somehow come to realize he was being watched earlier without your conscious input.

The night smears into a soft haze, the world gone a bit golden warm. Your patterns of function slowing down, their symphonic chimes in your head reduced to a croon, gaze turned bleary and unfocused. It’s been a long few weeks, and today feels like more of a victory than the festival did- just a personal one this time.

“Hey, Bob?”

You hear him hum, see from your periphery how his head lifts from the book he’d grabbed at some point during your shared silence. He’s looking at the camera again, looking for you.

“I think I’m gonna call it here, tonight… It’s- it’s been really nice sitting with you.” You offer it with a stammering cadence, tripping on your sincerity and landing face first into a wet puddle of sheer nerves. But he just smiles back, small and sweet.

“Okay, I understand. Goodnight, Terminal.”

You smile wide, eyes crinkling at the edges, and think he might hear it in your voice.

“Goodnight, Bob.”

[hailruth]

Hello! I came across this blog while looking at menorahs and wanted to ask why Messianic Judaism/Messianic Jews are disliked. I used to be part of the Messianic Jewish circle but escaped as of a couple of months ago as it didn’t seem to correct preserve history and was using the Bible for fetishizing extreme punishment (like the Hebrew Roots/Hebrew Israelite movements). I understand they wanted to preserve historical traditions but something still felt very off and predatory about it. What are the red flags one should look out for when this group tries to indoctrinate someone?

disclaimer: i'm writing this on mobile so there's a high chance of spelling/grammar mistakes. look back for any future edits or comments with resource or corrections. tumblr kept deleting some very important paragraphs and i'm too frustrated to make this a very polished post.

okay, first things first: messianic judaism never has been and never will be jewish. they are not accepted by any jewish denominations and the christian consensus is that they are christian. institutions such as the u.s. military (where messianic "jewish" chaplains have to wear the insignia of the cross meant for christian chaplains and not the ten commandments for jewish chaplains) and the supreme court of israel agree that they are christian. judaism is not just a religion, it is an ethnicity and a tribe. the majority of messianics have no connection to judaism in the slightest. people who have converted to actual judaism have gone through a lengthy process of assimilation into this ethnicity. their language, calendar (and very conception of time), diet, clothing, body, community, family, etc. is changed forever once they convert. you can't just decide to be jewish, as messianics have done. the fact that some messianic "jews" are ethnically jewish is incidental and means nothing for the jewishness of the religion.

i was so thankful when this post came out about a year ago because it condenses the main points i've been making for a while: "messianic christian red flags" (by jewitches on instagram). it has a list of things to look out for which can help you spot messianic "judaism" masquerading as actual judaism. but i will still explain my arguments in this post. i also recommend jews for judaism.

however, there's still some points i want to outline in this post. most importantly: the goal of messianic "judaism" is not to preserve any kind of history, but to target jews for conversion to christianity. there are claims that it grew out of a movement of jews who converted to christianity but kept onto some jewish practices (which would make them apostates). but this is absolutely not what the movement is, it's very clear that it actually came to be in order to eradicate judaism (by converting all jews to christianity). as the post i linked above points out, two good examples are that the board of missions to the jews became chosen people ministries and the hebrew christian alliance of america became the messianic jewish alliance of america. these were christian orgs whose entire purpose was to target jews for christian conversion, who rebranded to messianic orgs because the function of messianic judaism is to convert jews.

the messianic movement and organizations target jews via extremely deceptive and predatory tactics. the biggest issue that every jew faces when trying to google anything about judaism (which is often the case for jews who already don't know much about their religion and don't have a community with a rabbi to go to) is messianic sources doing their absolute best to look jewish. often times, you have to scour a site providing "information" on jewish holidays, traditions, etc. until you finally encounter something about "yeshua." the post linked above is very helpful for avoiding these sites. this isn't just a digital phenomenon. messianic churches are often disguised as synagogues and mark themselves as such on sites like google maps (i know there have been initiatives to get their labeling changed to that of churches on these sites). there are countless examples of these churches pretending to be synagogues in order to lure in and hopefully convert jews who do not know better.

messianics constantly pretend to be real jews in order to infiltrate jewish communities. i don't have to explain how weird it is to pretend to be of a certain ethnicity in order to force your way into their rituals and lives. this ties into the entire fake synagogue issue from the previous paragraph, but extends far further than that. a few years ago, for example, a jewish politician invited who she thought was a rabbi to pray at an event. this "rabbi" ended up being a messianic. jews across the country were, of course, deeply disturbed by this and it was condemned. messianics aren't stupid, they know what we think and what they are doing, this is an intentional action. there are countless examples of this and it is never anything but vile.

if you want to pretend that judaism is this perfect precursor to jesus whose entire function was to predict his arrival, you're going to have to smash it to unrecognizable bits in order to build anything that'll support such a cause. it's never going to work. many core beliefs of christianity are antithetical to judaism, making the two fundamentally incompatible and different religions. saying otherwise is ahistorical and disrespectful to the thousands of years of separate cultural development of these two religions.

i haven't proofread this and refuse to do so at the moment, but i don't want to keep you waiting on a response. i hope this can help you understand why jews are very much not fans of messianics. if you have any further questions/something isn't clear, feel free to ask whenever.

[my-castles-crumbling]

Anon Advice Asks - April 27

translation anon (new), bucket anon (new), therapist anon, Chesh anon (new), red anon

translation anon

Casss I need help like- I actually don't, but um, you know, so I did something really really bad and I didn't realize and then it's solved but I feel like I suck Still.

I am asian so English is not my mother tongue and, I sometimes speak English sometimes my native. And um, I am dating a black person. And of course I am not racist or anything, she is stunning I love her. I would worship the ground she walked on.

But I accidentally said a slur in English while on the phone. So I was talking to a coworker and he learned I was dating someone who is not American as well and he asked me where do we come from etc, but he was sweet nothing offensive. So I told him, but I mixed it.

My language doesn't have the n word, like- it has yes but it's not used as a slur, it's the literal translation of black so we don't have a word for the slur, thankfully. But, like. I forget English had an offensive word? I used the word Because it's a word and I totally forget it was not the name of the colour? Like.

I felt so bad after my coworker corrected me, and like obviously I apologized to her, made things for her to make myself forgiven (teddy bears and cuddles!!! I sewed the teddy bear)

Anyway she said she understands and it's not a big deal tho. She jokes around with her friends but I know she had been bullied for it before too so I don't know if I am a bad person like. I know there isn't a problem, it was a misunderstanding and I apologized she said there is nothing to forgive but like something in me says I fucked up and I am a bad person for this, am I racist? I don't know like I know I am not but I have thoughts about it and I despise myself for it

Hi!

Okay so, I need to be clear that like...I am white. So I'm not sure how qualified I am to give my opinion on this. I can tell you what I think, but I can't exactly make the final call on if something is racist when I'm not part of a race that's subjected to racism.

But I think like...when people make mistakes like this, the thing to do is to take the mistake and use it as a jumping point to become more educated. If you were to be like 'well I didn't know any better so fuck you for being insulted' then that would be shit of you, because you're using your lack of knowledge as an excuse. But instead, you worked to fix it. Now, maybe you could try to learn more about slurs in English, or the background behind the slur, that way you can avoid this in the future. Everyone has a lack of knowledge in something. But the people who acknowledge their lack of knowledge and continually try to learn, I feel, aren't bad people at all.

But yeah, that's just my opinion...again, I have a LOT of priviledge when looking at this issue.

___

bucket anon

hi- this is stupid, just so you know.

i have an eng lit a level mock tomorrow morning and my parents accidentally scheduled some construction at my house for today, the day before my mock 😭 it was supposed to be may but it got pushed forward. so I spent the day with my best friend, I arrived at her house at 8:30am and we revised and hung out until 6pm and it was great. We literally never argue.

Except, there’s that stupid ice bucket challenge going around and I made a point to literally block alll my friends who were getting tagged in it on insta in front of her because I did not want to be tagged/peer pressure into doing this. Not only do I think it’s insensitive to people with ALS since the challenge was originally for them and now has been rebranded for mental health??? And seems attention seeking now- but I don’t post on my social media. Ever. The only post ive ever made was for my best friends birthday THIS month becuase I knew it meant a lot to her. And fundamentally I don’t have to do it but I didn’t want to have all my friends tag me in this thing when I don’t want my face on my social media. One of my friends who I blocked tagged me on my account which I use for ART, that’s a portfolio, and I don’t fucking know why she thought it was OKAY to tag me on that, but I just blocked her on that and ignored it. I get it’s funny or whatever but I genuinely don’t like most social media and only have it cause my friends wanted me to have it. (and btw I was gonna unblock them in a few days when the challenge is over- and it’s only on insta that I blocked them).

Anyway i made my best friend promise not to tag me in her ice bucket challenge in exchange for me not blocking her so she could send me reels. And wtf did she do but TAG ME? I know she thinks it’s funny and i’m probably overreacting but i genuinely hate this chain mail shit and i thought i made that really obvious to her literally allll day today. I’m scared off my mind about my exam tomorrow and i saw she tagged me in this stupid challenge and i literally- it was the last straw I burst into tears.

Also- she promised. promises actually mean something to me and I thought she understood me??? and understood that. but I guess not.

im not really that mad. i just messaged her “good luck sending me reels now” and blocked both her insta accounts.

she can still message me on everything else, she prob doesn’t even realise im mad. idk if I should tell her. This is a tough time for me, im scared about exams and it’s just been a year since my grandad died out of no where and my mean aunt is coming up to scatter his ashes next week during the rest of my mocks and so yes I do think im being over sensitive about this but I really just cannot deal with another stupid thing and I thought my best friend understood that when she promised not to tag me but I guess not 😭

Hi!

I don't think this is stupid at all! Because the thing is, maybe the actual issue- the ice bucket challenge- is a small thing, compared to the other things you're dealing with. But the fact that you set a boundary and explicitly told your best friend about your boundary and she ignored you is a bigger issue. It's frustrating and I can see why this feels like a betrayal. It's disrespectful for ANY boundary to be broken by someone you trust, but especially during an overwhelming time with so much going on, it can be super upsetting. Your emotions are definitely valid.

If you explain it to her like that- that she broke a boundary and you're upset- would she listen and take you seriously?

I hope your exam went well <3

__

therapist anon

Hey cas therapist anon here

Basically my birthdays coming up and my cousin (same on as before) is a couple days after me

So we're discussing birthday presents and I mentioned that my dad asked for my wish list and I joked if I should add the dior stick foundation

She then said 'oh ask him to buy me the rare beauty bronzer cos I'm the best neice'

So I said no cos wtf? I also said that her dad doesn't buy me stuff so why should my dad buy her stuff right? Her parents believe in individuality so she buys most stuff whereas my parents will buy me things they don't mind spending money on (such as pads, bras, knickers etc) cos those are necessities do u know what I mean?

She said she feels bad when her dad spens money on her but, ans I quote, 'but not when you do'

I just...didn't really know what to say to that cos she probably meant it as a joke but I just had to pause, blink and go what the fuck?

Should I tell her that these jokes aren't funny cos they're just weird cos obviously I'm.not gonna ask my dad to buy her stuff just cos her parents don't belive in that. And if I do tell her, how would I word it?

Thanks so much for listening lots of love ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Hi!

This isn't the first time she's tried to get things/money from you, right? Honestly, it sounds like that's her goal, here. If it were me, I'd do one of two things. If I wanted to be healthy and mature, I'd say something like, 'Asking him that would make me uncomfortable, but you're welcome to ask him yourself!' in a polite voice. That way you're not shutting her down completely, but you're putting the ownership on her.

If I wanted to be petty, I'd wait until I was in a room with both her and your dad and be like "Oh dad, cousin wants you to buy x for her, isn't that funny?" and watch her squirm.

But I'm not advocating for pettiness....

Sending love!

__

Chesh anon - TW ED

Hi hon! I want to let you know I'm here for you and my inbox is open anytime <3 I know this seem scary and you feel alone, but you aren't.

Do you have a teacher or guidance counselor or family friend you can talk to? Any adult that might be able to help?

If you live in the US, this hotline might be helpful. If not, and you feel comfortable, lmk what country you're in and I'll find a hotline for you <3

Sending so much love!

___

Red anon

Hi! I read your poem! OMG, the last line... "I love her like the moon loves the earth— not expecting to land, just grateful to glow in her light." Fuck, that hit me hard, that's SO beautiful, and ouch, so heartbreaking. You're very talented.

[poetbutterkristenmitchell]

Dear Toxic Positivity,

I imagine you as a deranged motivational poster come to life—clad in pastel athleisure, sipping a lukewarm turmeric latte from a mug that reads “But First, Gratitude.” You float, or rather, prance—an ungodly mix of hoverboard and delusion—through the scorched remains of human suffering with a glue-gun smile and the moral compass of a sugar-coated stormtrooper. You are optimism weaponized, pep-rallied into oblivion, dipped in a vat of diluted empathy and glitter, then unleashed onto the unsuspecting emotional topography of the modern soul.

And my God, you are everywhere.

There you are, pinned to corporate break room corkboards beside flyers for “Free Pizza Friday” and suicide prevention hotlines—unironically. You slither through the scripts of HR departments and clergy alike, spooning empty aphorisms into the mouths of people who are seconds from combustion. You crash funerals with that insipid phrase, “They’re in a better place,” as if death were merely an Airbnb mishap. You show up uninvited to the scene of heartbreak, betrayal, chronic illness, climate despair, school shootings, economic collapse—hell, even paper cuts—armed with your pathetic little pom-poms and your irredeemably tone-deaf chorus of “Look on the bright side!”

You’re not optimism. You are avoidance in a sequined jumpsuit. You are a cult of denial. You’re the MLM of emotion, peddling fake empowerment while extracting every last shred of humanity from the people you infect. And you’ve got the nerve to masquerade as healing? As hope? Darling. Please.

You’ve hijacked every public discourse. You’ve wormed your way into every psyche. You’ve colonized grief and sadness, gentrified pain, painted over suffering with pastel brushstrokes and stuck “Choose Joy” decals on the bruises. You’re the literary equivalent of white noise—a ceaseless hum of vapid encouragement so shrill and relentless it drowns out the symphony of actual human emotion.

I’d admire your audacity if I weren’t so busy trying to pry your pastel claws from the throat of collective consciousness.

You’ve rebranded trauma as a “growth opportunity,” and turned depression into a “gratitude deficit.” You’re the reason people feel ashamed to admit they’re not okay. You’re the reason a woman grieving the death of her child is asked to consider what she’s learned from the experience, as if burying a toddler is some cosmic TED Talk.

You have, somehow, convinced the world that the antidote to pain is a vision board. That rage is a bad vibe. That despair is low-frequency. You, with your bumper-sticker theology and your Instagram therapist jargon, are building a society incapable of emotional nuance. A culture so emotionally constipated it mistakes endurance for strength and silence for spiritual progress.

Here’s the thing, Toxic Positivity: you are not brave. You are terrified.

You fear sadness. You fear rage. You fear the sacred chaos of grief, of despair, of the uncontainable mess of being alive. You build walls out of mantras and deflect with affirmations. Your insistence that everything is a lesson, a blessing, a necessary step in some divine curriculum? That’s not wisdom. That’s fear, repackaged.

And your methods—oh, your methods are insidious. You speak in a dialect of delusion. You weaponize Pinterest fonts. You hurl clichés with the force of a televangelist and the moral clarity of a beige throw pillow.

“Failure isn’t an option,” you chant, while millions burn out, break down, and quietly drown beneath the weight of your impossible demands.

“Yes, but what are you grateful for?” you whisper to the woman navigating abuse, eviction, chemo.

“You attract what you are,” you hiss to the depressed college student watching their dreams curdle in a system designed to eat them alive.

“You just have to manifest it!” you shout at the homeless, the hungry, the historically oppressed—as if the only thing standing between them and generational wealth is a poor attitude and a vision board featuring Oprah.

You are a capitalist fever dream. You are emotional fast fashion. You are an Instagram filter applied over a house fire.

And still, you persist.

You are the co-worker who drops “positive vibes only!” like a landmine before vanishing into a meeting that could’ve been an email. You are the pastor who tells a grieving widow that her husband’s death was God’s plan. You are the influencer crying into her perfectly contoured face about the “lessons” she’s learned from her miscarriage—two days after it happened—sponsored by a candle brand.

You have made sincerity performative. You have made suffering inconvenient. You have turned every honest feeling into a PR problem.

And people are sick of it. People are cracking.

Behind every “I’m fine” is a scream muffled by your doctrine. Behind every self-help book is a person begging for permission to feel the full weight of being human without being labeled “toxic” or “negative” or “ungrateful.” Behind every performative gratitude journal is a soul desperate to be seen in their sadness, not erased by it.

But you don’t see that, do you?

You see dissent as defection. Sadness as sabotage. You treat anyone with the audacity to name their pain as emotionally unstable, spiritually unwell, or simply bad for morale.

You’ve turned mental health into an aesthetic. You’ve made healing a competitive sport. You’ve convinced us that to suffer out loud is to fail, and that to name the brokenness in the world is to invite it into our lives. But pretending the world isn’t broken doesn’t make it whole. It just makes you complicit.

So I’ve had enough.

I’m not interested in your choreographed optimism.

I’m not interested in your curated resilience, your beige-washed version of growth that fits neatly into a square post with a calligraphy caption.

I want rage. I want grief. I want the howl. The mess. The dirt. I want the raw, unfiltered ache of being alive, without being told I need to reframe it for someone else’s comfort.

Because comfort is not the point. Truth is.

And truth, dear Toxic Positivity, is not polite.

It does not wear matching yoga sets. It does not sip green juice. It does not end every sentence with a smile emoji.

Truth wails. Truth stinks. Truth slouches toward the edge of the bed at 2AM, soaked in its own sweat, asking God what the hell the point is. Truth weeps in parking lots. Truth snaps at the people who love us. Truth forgets to meditate and eats an entire sleeve of Oreos in the bathtub.

Truth is human.

And you? You’re not.

You’re a parody of hope. You’re the uncanny valley of emotional wellness. You’re a badly programmed robot nodding and smiling while the world bleeds out at your feet.

So here’s my counter-manifesto:

Let the tears come. Let the anger rage. Let the doubt whisper and the fear shake the bones.

Let people feel.

Let them name their pain without consequence. Let them rage against injustice without being called negative. Let them grieve without being shushed. Let them crack without being labeled broken. Let them be human, messy, complicated, unhinged—alive.

And if that makes me a downer, so be it.

If that makes me less evolved, less palatable, less “aligned,” then I will wear those titles like battle scars.

Because I am not here to be palatable. I am here to be whole.

So take your platitudes. Your pastel propaganda. Your saccharine silence.

Take your vision boards and your breathwork and your limp little slogans and kindly get the hell out of my emotional house.

Because we’re done here.

We’ve had enough.

We’re waking up.

And we’re not afraid of the dark anymore.

Sincerely,

Someone Who Has Felt Too Much to Pretend One Affirmation Can Fix It

Valiere E Wade

[away-ward]

im sorry for this rant KO, but why on earth is the bonus content for nightfall is the start of the horsemen? Like omfg. I really dont need it to exist because i like the mystery of them. Why can't we just have a willemmy bonus 😭 i'm so fucking upset. I initially wanted to pre-order the paperback but thinking about that whole alex drama in BC, i didn't, thank the lord for that! But i was still hoping for a willemmy bonus or maybe a will or emmy's back story, but we're getting to see Damon, A-FUCKING-GAIN? How many fucking bonus do we have to see him??! Fuck, i'm so upset, idk who to rant this with because i don't talk about this series to anybody irl.

Excerpt from PD's insta:

DAMON GRABS HIS JACKET OFF THE COURT AND PULLS IT ON AS HE LEAVES.

"YOU OKAY?" MICHAEL ASKS KAI.

BUT KAI JUST GESTURES TO DAMON WHO PUSHES THROUGH THE HEAVY DOUBLE DOORS. "I TOLD YOU, MAN," HE BLURTS OUT TO MICHAEL. "HE'S TROUBLE."

"NO," MICHAEL QUICKLY RETORTS, LOOKING IN THE DIRECTION DAMON LEFT. "HE'S AN ENFORCER, KAI."

HIS FRIEND STARES AT HIM.

"AND EVERY TEAM NEEDS ONE," MICHAEL ADDS, DROPPING THE BASKETBALL INTO KAI'S HANDS. "TELL THE COACH I'LL BE RIGHT BACK."

end-

🥲 ngl, i'm so sick of damon's appearance, at this point not only his character wasn't my fav, pd over-pushing him makes me really hate him now. "He's the enforcer" ughhhh, and when did this branding ever came up in the devil's night series? I only remember this point being discussed here on your blog of your meta about damon's character and his implicit role in their friend group and family. Istg i really never saw his role being discussed and branded like this anywhere, so the only place it could happen was in the private chat's of their pendragon fb group or between PD and their editor/most trusted beta readers. Istg the pettier side of me feels like some of PD's fb group fans saw your discussion posts here with other anons and told on PD, then they got inspired by you ideas about "his role" in the family. Which in theory, i don't see much wrong from it, but truly, where did this role establishment and branding came from? And ofc in PD's fashion, they had to rebrand Damon's role to be positive and borderline inspiring 🙄

and fuck, who cares about logic right? Definitely not PD when they kept on writing A and meaning B in their stories, but kept on being pissed off when readers understood it as A. 🤡

at this point, i'm not even excited anymore for this bonus content. I genuinely thought something good will come out of it, but with their opinion of willemmy a few weeks ago, and now with this. Idk. But I just know and fully sure now that PD just wanted to avoid the alex-aydin-will-emmy qna discussion extra materials, because they knew they fucked that one up, and many readers hated it, and so they probably want to just bury that shit and move past it. So of course, we'll never gonna get a willemmy bonus content. Ugh. I can't fault them for wanting to move on, but for someone who wnats to move on so bad and ignore the uncomfy parts of their own mistake in writing, they sure as hell is still be talking and hinting at this series from time to time especially for their most fav characters 🙄

but fr KO, it really left a sour taste in my mouth when an author behaves like this. Penelope Douglas is just so, ugh, idk. At this point ideky i'm still hoping for them to be better tbh when they've always been known to be problematic, like they're always just so disappointing. I need to detach my feelings for books i like to read with their authors, because i'm just gonna end up upset like this. But it's so hard!!! Especially when they're indies and you like some parts of the things they put out, and can't always find it anywhere else. Ughhh. i heard that series by Monty Jay was giving DN, so i might check it out, and i really hope it's better.

+ when you get a reach of the bonus materials, will you be sharing them here and share your thoughts and opinions about them? I'm a big yapper and i just wanna yap with somebody about it frfr.

Hey. Oh man, I feel your pain.

I really dont need it to exist because i like the mystery of them. Why can't we just have a willemmy bonus

Ohh, I wish I was with you on this but I’m actually excited about it. As someone who wants to understand these characters better, and who absolutely goes bonkers over character origin stories, this is right up my alley. I never expected any kind of Willemmy scene, so maybe I’m not as disappointed as I would be otherwise.

From what I heard, there are some willemmy scenes in this origin story though! So not all hope is lost (although I don’t know how it’s supposed to make sense, since I’ve also heard that this starts during their freshmen year and Emmy’s a year younger so… but whatever. I’m just happy for the moments!)

I am so sorry that this isn’t what you wanted!

Istg the pettier side of me feels like some of PD's fb group fans saw your discussion posts here with other anons and told on PD, then they got inspired by you ideas about "his role" in the family. Which in theory, i don't see much wrong from it, but truly, where did this role establishment and branding came from?

As much as this idea tickles me, the fact is that this was probably written months ago, and I only really had that discussion with in the past few weeks. More than likely, we were just picking up on something PD was implying the entire time.

But I just know and fully sure now that PD just wanted to avoid the alex-aydin-will-emmy qna discussion extra materials, because they knew they fucked that one up, and many readers hated it, and so they probably want to just bury that shit and move past it.

I’m still holding out of that pinterest board and discussion questions (though, it may be a lost cause). It just seems so stupid that they’d withhold those two things since they’re so minor compared to the bonus scene.

they sure as hell is still be talking and hinting at this series from time to time especially for their most fav characters

Coming from a writer’s perspective, it’s hard to let your favs go. Long after the other characters stop “speaking” to you, your favs come back. You still see them doing stuff. And PD is proud of the series, so of course they’re not going to bury it.

But yes, I agree that the fandom has been pretty loud about wanting some more willemmy content for some closure, and it shouldn’t be this hard to sit and think about the characters and deliver something, just to be kind to your readers and fans. I can’t say why PD is so resistant to it, but that’s for them to know.

i heard that series by Monty Jay was giving DN, so i might check it out, and i really hope it's better.

I had to look it up, and I’m assuming you’re speaking about the hollow boys? I haven’t read it, but if you do get around to it, I hope you enjoy it.

Regarding PD, I hardly ever look into the background of an author or give them a second thought. I also have never had the desire to contact an author, or do meet and greets or anything, that’s just me. So, I’ve never had the issue of needing to detach a work from an author, but I can see the struggle.

+ when you get a reach of the bonus materials, will you be sharing them here and share your thoughts and opinions about them? I'm a big yapper and i just wanna yap with somebody about it frfr.

I absolutely will share my thoughts, of course! I might do a reading react, or just a summary of my thoughts, whatever feels right. Again, I feel for your frustration and disappointment. The let down is never easy, but you'll read better books in the future. This isn't the last of it for you. So look forward to finding your next favorite read.

-KO

[darkeagleruins]

Biden’s hijacked military is now rebranding their DEI programs as “Organizational Culture Program” to avoid political backlash

Make no mistake, this is racial wokeness in our military and it must be stopped

Make sure everybody knows what DEI has mutated into: OCP

[practically-an-x-man]

What are your OCs most petty pet peeves? The one thing that really shouldn't annoy them, but somehow it just drives them up the wall?

Oooooh good one!!

Rae: She knows they're just trying to help, but... when she's in a foreign country to learn a language, and the locals hear her struggle with the new language and end up switching to English. It's a nice thought, but she's there to learn and switching to English means she doesn't get experience with the new language

Robin: I don't know how petty this is since it's really a legitimate concern... but people who learn she reads lips and proceed to over-enunciate and speak at glacial speeds, which is just harder to make sense of.

Madison: Cannot stand people taking her food. She does not share food. She will make food for others, she loves to bake and give out treats, but there's no "can I have one of your fries?" or "you can try a bite of mine if I try a bite of yours". She knows it's silly, but she was food-insecure for a lot of years while living out in the woods, so she can't bring herself to surrender any part of a meal.

Ophelia: She gets annoyed with how often the news tries to rebrand her as "the new Doc Ock" - she avoided that mantle out of respect to her father, her hero name is Argonaut and has never been Doc Ock, but it's hard to keep the news from using it to stir up drama.

Jasper: Used to get really annoyed at people's reactions to their natural Cajun accent, even to the point that they dropped the accent most of the time - you're in New Orleans, people, you're going to hear some Cajun folks! And their accent does not make them any less professional than people with a more Northern accent!

Katherine: Generally, a lot of typical artist's pet peeves related to her sketchbook - don't ask her to draw you, don't flip through her sketchbook when she's showing off one drawing, don't look over her shoulder while she's working... art is a very personal, intimate thing, and a lot of people don't understand that.

Quinn: People correcting her when she mixes her metaphors - it's a running joke with Billy, but irritating when it comes from anyone else. That, or people going out of their way to "accommodate her" in a way that just becomes pushy, and less helpful than just leaving her alone.

Kestrel: It doesn't happen often, but people making up Latin names for flora and fauna just to sound intelligent. Mixing up a few similar-looking species (eg. Falco sparverius vs. Falco femoralis) is an honest mistake, but they've run into people who will straight-up make up lies on the spot just to impress their friends, and it really grates on them.

Eris: It's hard to seriously annoy them, since they really thrive on conflict, but I think they get really tired of people being ignorant about regionalities and the history of land - the Middle East is not just one big patch of desert, neither is Africa, they have distinct regional climates and cultures and it's rude to assume they're all the same. Eris in particular has been mistaken for just about every ethnicity under the sun, with how ambiguous and "cradle of civilization" they (as an immortal) look, so they've experienced this from a lot of different angles.

Nikoletta: Any sort of hovering, or people who invade her personal space. Even if they don't actually touch her, and even if she doesn't have to be cautious about her shadow-touch, it makes her anxious and uncomfortable - and especially if they're standing behind her and she can't quite see them. She even asks Abner to stand behind her when they're out somewhere (like waiting in line at a coffee shop), because she gets so uncomfortable with strangers being right behind her.

(I know most of these are like... actually legitimate things to be annoyed about, but it's hard to think of tiny petty things to have as pet peeves and have it still be interesting)

[drquinnfabray]

BASIC INFORMATION:

FULL NAME: Lucy Quinn Fabray NICKNAME: Quinn, Q, Quinnie GENDER: Cisfemale SEXUALITY: Bisexual DATE OF BIRTH: April 9th AGE: 33 years old PLACE OF BIRTH: Bearcreek, Pennsylvania OCCUPATION: Pediatrician at BearCreek Family Clinic and Hospital

RELATIONS:

PARENTS: Russell Fabray (deceased), Judy Fabray (alive) SIBLINGS: Mack Fabray (half-sibling), Gabrielle Fabray CHILDREN: Beth (given up for adoption when Quinn was 16) RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single

APPEARANCE:

FACE CLAIM: Dianna Agron NOTABLE FEATURES: n/a BODY MODIFICATIONS: Ears pierced various times. HEIGHT: 5'5

PERSONALITY:

ZODIAC: Aries MBTI: ESTJ MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral good CLASSICAL ELEMENT: Water LOVE LANGUAGE: Words of affirmation TRAITS: Perfectionist, manipulative, insecure, charming, strong

ABOUT:

Born Lucy Quinn Fabray, she was the apple of her parents’ eye—well-behaved, delicate, and everything they could ask for. Raised in a conservative Christian household, Quinn struggled with the pressures of maintaining her family's image and meeting the expectations of her peers. In the transition from middle to high school, she began to go by her middle name and reinvented herself entirely. As captain of the Cheerios, the school's cheerleading squad, Quinn was initially seen as ruthless and ambitious, often using her position to manipulate others and secure her social status. However, beneath this façade was a young woman grappling with deep insecurities and a longing for genuine connection. In her junior year, Quinn discovered she was pregnant. This revelation led to her expulsion from the Cheerios, her ostracization at school, and ultimately being disowned by her father. Thrust from her family's home, Quinn faced the harsh realities of teenage pregnancy. She eventually gave birth to her daughter, Beth, and decided to give her up for adoption, a decision that profoundly impacted her. Determined to rebuild her life, Quinn spent her senior year of high school trying to rebrand her reputation. She focused on her studies and extracurricular activities, aiming to prove herself beyond her past mistakes. Her hard work paid off, and she graduated, securing admission to Yale University. Entering Yale, Quinn was initially unsure about her future plans. It took her first year of college to decide on a path, ultimately choosing to pursue medicine. With a newfound sense of purpose, she excelled in medical school and quickly decided to specialize in pediatrics. Quinn's dating life remained sparse as she dedicated herself to her career. She found immense satisfaction in her work, often spending late nights at the hospital and using her busy schedule as an excuse to avoid dates. Despite the challenges, Quinn found her career in pediatrics to be incredibly rewarding, and she continued to strive for excellence, determined to make a difference in the lives of her young patients.

[shinra-makonoid]

My grandmother read some bullshit article about trans people (in Russian), and it had:

trans woman from Canada who asked for euthanasia because of transition??

trans man from Austria who did the same when he was 40 years old

that there are "psychological curable transgenderism" and "genetical incurable" one

that some people have to visit 20+ psychologists to "avoid transition"

All to come to the conclusion that "the gamble isn't worth it :/". Also add fearmorgering about bottom surgeries as if I don't know how a cock can be made for a trans man ("they prolong urethra!!"), and how post-op life is painful and miserable.

Honestly the only question I have is where this "genetic" and "psychological" trans differentiation comes from? That's something new.

I suppose this is a rebrand of the "contagious trans" panic with the rapid onset gender dysphoria thing. It would make sense linked to "visiting 20+ psychologists to avoid transition" argument.

trans woman from Canada who asked for euthanasia because of transition??

I tried to google it and found that:

It's kinda strange she got her vaginoplasty in 2009, then said nothing for 14 years, then woke up saying she wanted to get euthanazied because too much pain? I mean, she is probably in pain, but I find that it's kinda strange that all those people who didn't say anything before just woke up one daying saying it's the woke people's fault (in 2009?).

Apparently it's not the only case, and it did happen in Belgium as you can see in the first link and this one (ten years old):

I guess if your life is all cool and dandy as a trans person then you're a "genetic" one and if your life is miserable and you feel depressed then it's "psychological". Because there is absolutely no reason that could lead people to regret transitioning or want to die other than "transition being a mistake"....

As for bottom surgery, it's a heavy surgery, but whether transition (in all its forms) is something you want to do or not is your choice.

[behindthewox]

In my aim to highlight issues within WoX and hopefully provide some helpful advice and guidance to make the improvements I'd like to see, I really want to get into the management stuff. I have some experience when it comes to management and leadership, but I'm by no means an expert in the field and I'm only educated enough to openly admit that I can be wrong. However, I do have the time and internet access to educate myself on the subjects that I'd like to analyse and dig deeper into.

Since my findings may be valuable to others, especially site leaders, I figured I'd share it in the hope that it will come to good use within the WoX community. So watch out for educational material, coming soon from a rebellious blogger near you...

Keep in mind, this blog is a longterm hobby project of mine, posting may be sporadic and will probably vary in content: everything from praise and feedback to criticism, reports of concerning practises and highlighting the discontent that won't be expressed in the official WoX forums. I believe it's important to make Dan aware of the discontent that stems from his actions, but also to offer our appreciation, advice and support.

Whether Dan follows the advice or not, that's on him. It can be hard to admit that someone else is better than you, especially if you take pride and comfort in doing it yourself, but sometimes you have to accept that you can't be the best at everything and there will be other people who are far better equipped in matters like finance, sales, communication and management. We have those people in the WoX community, people who are willing to share their knowledge and experiences to help keep WoX alive. People who would share and help, if given the chance and a place to do so. I'm just one of them.

This blog has been somewhat rebranded over the 2 weeks it has existed: it's gone from a tea blog for exposing bad practices behind the scenes, to something closer to a feedback and information hub place with a rebellious blogger analysing and ranting about WoX management.

I received criticism regarding the tea blog concept and I realised the critics were right: it's far more productive to point out flaws and offer feedback on them than to just point at things and say that it's wrong without explaining how or why or what to do about it. And maybe, just maybe, I can serve as a helpful example of how you can face criticism in a productive way. It takes a bit of humility to admit when you're wrong, but don't mistake humility for a weakness: I'd argue that it's a strength and a skill worth learning.

I'm still up for the tea by the way, if you see bad practises or have any concerns, please share it - the more people who hear about it, the greater the pressure will be on the leadership to adhere to good practise and avoid foul play. I will do my best to keep it civil and professional out of respect for everyone involved, and I hope you will too. Remember that there can be several sides to a story and it's important to consider all of them.

Don't hesitate to raise your teacup for the sites and heroes that deserve more recognition and appreciation though, it's important to celebrate the good things too!

[strictlytinyjourney]

The Font You Choose Can Make or Break Your Brand

What if we told you a font could boost your conversions by 37%?

Yes, that’s real. Typography isn’t just a style choice—it’s a strategy. The right font speaks directly to your audience, builds recognition, and gives your brand a personality people remember.

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🎯 Whether you’re rebranding or starting fresh, your font matters.

📞 Let’s find the perfect typography for your brand today. Schedule a Call →

[southport-printing]

Professional Graphic Design Services on the Gold Coast: Elevate Your Brand Identity

Discover expert graphic design services on the Gold Coast. From logos to marketing materials, we craft stunning visuals that grow your business.

Graphic Design Services Gold Coast: Unlock the Power of Visual Storytelling

In today’s fast-paced digital world, first impressions matter more than ever. Whether you're a startup, small business, or established brand, graphic design services on the Gold Coast can help you stand out with creative, strategic, and on-brand visuals. From eye-catching logos to cohesive branding and marketing collateral, local designers offer tailor-made solutions that communicate your message and elevate your business identity.

Why Invest in Professional Graphic Design?

Hiring professional graphic designers isn't just about creating something that "looks good." It's about visual communication that drives engagement, builds trust, and converts. Here’s how a skilled Gold Coast graphic design team can help:

Build Brand Recognition: A strong visual identity makes your business memorable.

Boost Credibility: Professional designs show you're serious and trustworthy.

Improve Marketing ROI: Effective visuals increase engagement across digital and print channels.

Save Time and Money: Avoid amateur mistakes and get the job done right the first time.

Top Graphic Design Services Available on the Gold Coast

Whether you need a single brochure or a complete rebrand, local designers on the Gold Coast offer a wide range of services to suit every business:

1. Logo Design and Brand Identity

A great logo is the foundation of your brand. Gold Coast designers create logos that are not only visually striking but also aligned with your brand values and target audience.

2. Business Stationery and Print Design

Make a lasting impression with well-designed business cards, letterheads, brochures, flyers, and signage. Consistent branding across all touchpoints boosts professionalism.

3. Website and Digital Graphics

From website banners to social media content, custom digital assets ensure your online presence reflects your brand and attracts your ideal customers.

4. Packaging and Product Design

If you’re in retail, product presentation is everything. Graphic designers craft packaging that tells your story and drives shelf appeal.

5. Event and Promotional Materials

Promoting an event or launching a campaign? Graphic design services include posters, invitations, pull-up banners, and email graphics that grab attention.

Why Choose a Local Graphic Design Agency on the Gold Coast?

Working with a local team means you get designers who understand the local market, trends, and audience. You’ll benefit from:

Personalised service and face-to-face collaboration

Fast turnaround and accessible support

Designers who know what works for Gold Coast-based businesses

Find the Right Gold Coast Graphic Design Partner

When choosing a design agency or freelancer, consider their portfolio, experience, and ability to understand your brand vision. The best graphic designers will offer not just design skills, but strategic thinking that aligns with your business goals.

Ready to Transform Your Brand?

Whether you're launching a new venture or refreshing an existing brand, professional graphic design services on the Gold Coast can give you a powerful edge. Stand out from the competition with high-quality, custom design solutions that resonate with your audience.

Contact a trusted Gold Coast graphic design team today and watch your brand come to life.

[mixststudio]

Why Beauty Brand Strategy Services Are Critical in Today’s Competitive Market

The beauty industry isn’t what it used to be. What once relied heavily on celebrity endorsements and traditional retail now runs on innovation, speed, and cultural relevance. Thousands of new brands launch every year, and consumers are overwhelmed with options. In this environment, having a standout product is just one part of the equation.

To thrive today, brands need more than packaging and performance—they need purpose, clarity, and direction. That’s where Beauty Brand Strategy Services come in.

These services are no longer reserved for big corporations or luxury labels. They’ve become essential for every emerging beauty brand that wants to cut through the noise and build something lasting.

The Market Is Crowded—And Getting Tighter

The rise of e-commerce and private-label manufacturing has lowered the barrier to entry. Anyone with a good idea can launch a beauty brand. But this ease of entry has created a saturated market, where differentiation is no longer a luxury—it’s a necessity.

Beauty Brand Strategy Services help new and growing brands answer key questions early:

What makes us different?

Who exactly are we speaking to?

What do we want to be known for in 5 years—not just on launch day?

Without clear answers to those questions, brands risk blending in, chasing trends, or spending heavily on marketing that never truly converts.

Consumers Are Smarter—and More Selective

Today’s beauty buyers are incredibly informed. They read ingredient lists. They follow clinical studies. They care about sustainability, representation, and brand ethics. And most of all, they expect brands to stand for something real.

Beauty Brand Strategy Services help define and communicate that “something real.” Whether your focus is microbiome-safe skincare, inclusive shade ranges, or hormone-friendly formulas, strategy ensures that your messaging and product development are built around truth, not just marketing language.

This builds trust, which is the most valuable currency in beauty today.

Visuals Alone Don’t Build Brands

It’s tempting to focus on design first—logo, colors, packaging. But these are just expressions of the brand, not the brand itself.

A strong visual identity only works when it’s rooted in strategy. Otherwise, it’s style without substance.

Beauty Brand Strategy Services make sure your creative choices are aligned with your brand values, voice, and audience expectations. They help you avoid common pitfalls like mismatched aesthetics, confusing messaging, or inconsistencies between product promise and visual delivery.

Strategy Saves Time—and Costly Mistakes

Launching without a clear strategy can lead to major issues down the road:

Products that don’t resonate

Confused customers

Ineffective campaigns

Expensive rebrands

Beauty Brand Strategy Services create a roadmap. They guide early decisions, reduce guesswork, and streamline the work of designers, formulators, and marketing teams. This isn’t just about “branding”—it’s about building a business that knows where it’s going.

Long-Term Vision Starts Early

A beauty brand can’t rely on one product or one campaign to stay relevant. Long-term success comes from strategic thinking—planning your brand architecture, product pipeline, community engagement, and expansion strategy with foresight.

Strategy services help you plan for scale. They give you the tools to grow intentionally, pivot with purpose, and evolve without losing your identity.

Final Thought

The beauty space isn’t just competitive—it’s relentless. Without a solid strategic foundation, even great ideas can fall flat.

Beauty Brand Strategy Services aren’t just a trend or a checklist item. They’re the backbone of every successful beauty business. In today’s market, investing in strategy isn’t optional—it’s critical.

If you want to build a brand that connects, converts, and lasts, start by thinking strategically. Everything else should follow from there.

[tmready01-blog]

Trademark Search vs. Trademark Registration: What’s the Difference?

If you’re launching a business, product, or brand, the words "trademark search" and "trademark registration" will come up often. While these two terms are closely related, they serve very different purposes in the trademark process.

Understanding the difference between a trademark search and trademark registration is crucial to protecting your brand from legal risk and ensuring its long-term success. Let’s break it down.

What Is a Trademark Search?

A trademark search is the process of looking through existing trademarks to determine whether your desired name, logo, slogan, or other brand elements are already in use or are too similar to something already registered.

Think of it as due diligence before you apply for a trademark. It helps ensure that:

You're not infringing on someone else’s rights

Your trademark application has a higher chance of being approved

You won’t be forced to rebrand later

Types of Trademark Searches:

USPTO Trademark Search: Searches the federal database of registered and pending marks.

Common Law Search: Checks for unregistered marks that are still legally protected.

State Trademark Search: Looks at trademarks registered at the state level.

Online/Domain Search: Checks website domains, business names, and social media usage.

A thorough search goes beyond just plugging your name into the USPTO website. It includes phonetic matches, similar spellings, and even foreign-language equivalents that might cause "likelihood of confusion."

What Is Trademark Registration?

Trademark registration is the legal process of securing rights to your brand name or logo by filing an application with the United States Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO).

If the application is approved, you will receive a federally registered trademark, which gives you:

Exclusive nationwide rights to use the mark in your industry

The ability to use the ® symbol

Legal standing to sue for infringement

The option to record your trademark with U.S. Customs

A foundation for international trademark protection

While you can have some protection through common law rights just by using a brand name in commerce, registration offers the strongest protection and is recommended for any serious business.

Key Differences at a Glance

Feature

Trademark Search

Trademark Registration

Purpose

To check availability and avoid conflicts

To secure legal ownership and protection

When It's Done

Before applying or using a brand name

After determining availability

Legally Required?

No (but highly recommended)

No (but offers stronger protection)

Time Commitment

A few hours to a few days

8–12 months (USPTO processing time)

Performed By

You or a trademark professional

You or an attorney through the USPTO

Cost

Free to a few hundred dollars

$250–$350 per class in filing fees

Protection Offered

None (it’s just research)

Federal trademark rights and enforcement options

Why You Need Both

Too many entrepreneurs skip the search and go straight to registration—or worse, launch their brand without doing either. This is a risky move.

Here’s why you should do both:

Search First, Register After A thorough search reduces the chances of rejection. If you apply for a trademark that’s too similar to an existing one, the USPTO will likely refuse it, and your filing fee won’t be refunded.

Prevent Legal Trouble Without a search, you might unknowingly infringe on someone else’s mark. That can lead to cease-and-desist letters, lawsuits, or forced rebranding.

Protect Your Brand Early Once your search shows your brand is clear, you can move forward with confidence and immediately begin the registration process to lock in your rights.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

Mistaking the search for protection: Just because a search doesn’t turn up exact matches doesn’t mean you’re safe. You still need registration.

Relying only on USPTO results: Common law and state trademarks can still pose legal risks even if they don’t show up in federal databases.

Using DIY tools incorrectly: If you’re not trained in trademark law, you might miss similar or phonetically confusing marks.

Many businesses hire a trademark search company or attorney to guide them through the process to avoid these pitfalls.

Final Thoughts

Trademark search and trademark registration serve distinct but complementary roles in brand protection.

A search tells you if the name is likely to be approved, and helps avoid legal pitfalls

Registration gives you legal rights and powerful tools to defend your brand

Skipping either step is like building a house without checking the land or locking the doors. If you want to create a lasting, legally protected brand, include both in your trademark strategy.