#a lot to me....everything.... to be precise...

[purlturtle]

"Out in public" will NEVER be a safe space free of triggers.

That's just it.

As a person with triggers, I can do my best to make certain spaces *that I control* free of those triggers. I can make sure there are none in my room/apartment/house, for example.

I can *not* control public spaces; even just the hallway outside my apartment, or someone else's room in a shared accommodation. I will always have to be aware that I am in a place where I *might* come across triggers - and I HAVE TO BE okay with that.

Like, either I have a friend with me who can trigger-warn me IRL, either before I get there or while they're with me ("look away real quick, there's X there."). Or I do research, like with doesthedogdie.com. Or I have coping strategies for what happens if I do get triggered. Or I go to therapy to slowly adapt to life with this trigger, and work on desensitizing. Or any/all combinations of the above.

It is nice if a space works to be trigger-free, absolutely appreciated - but also absolutely impossible, because EVERYTHING can be a trigger. And a lot of things are a trigger for one demographic but an empowering move for another demographic! (This, by the way, is also very well illustrated by that TERF rallying cry of "women-only spaces" that get policed by how a person looks, with the argument that "a person who looks like a man could trigger women who have had violent experiences with men". Which nicely includes a lot of pre-op trans women, or trans women who can't or don't feel like passing for TERFs etc. DO YOU SEE THE PROBLEM.)

There is no sensible or feasible way to *demand* that public spaces be trigger-free. If you use your own personal triggers to *demand* (not talking about asking, talking about demanding specifically) that a space accommodate you *over other people*, that's a problem. See two paragraphs above for other ways you need to behave. If you use any kind of trigger to police the behavior of others, when you do not have that trigger yourself, that is even more of a problem - for precisely the reasons OP describes, and because *out in public will never be a safe space.*

the people who go "we shouldn't be so open about nudity because it could trigger someone's dysphoria" are like two steps max removed from "fat people being fat in public could trigger someone with an ed". like peoples' bodies are not the problem here, trying to restrict someone else's body because of how you personally feel is indistinguishable from conservative praxis. i'm sorry if that sounds harsh but there is basically no interpretation of "we need to control the bodies of [demographic]" that does not fall down the slippery slope of fascism.

[dismalflo]

Flo, I saw this ask and thought I should shoot my shot and request this idea that had been stuck in my head. Soooo, dearest, can I request a Reggie fic or drabble wherein he was asked to babysit Draco? I just know he’d be so scared and caring at the same time. 😭🫶

thank you for requesting tally, my love! <3 this is much more serious than it should've been haha

Regulus Black x reader ✩ 1.4k words

cw: fluff, mentions of regulus' childhood

The sound of a muffled voice catches you off guard just as the front door clicks shut behind you. Regulus has never been one to talk to himself – not even when he’s pacing the floor, deep in thought. A frown begins to carve its way onto your face as you toe off your shoes and step further inside.

“Reggie?” you call out, but the silence that follows is absolute.

The living room looks like a stranger’s attempt at recreating yours. Familiar shapes in unfamiliar places. The cushions, usually arranged with an almost obsessive precision, are scattered across the floor. A trail of half-eaten snacks litters the coffee table, accompanied by the telltale shine of spilled juice. You blink at the mess.

The voice again – clearer now. It’s coming from the kitchen.

You follow the sound, and there he is: standing in front of the open fridge, shirt rumpled, hair tousled and standing in places where it looks like he's been tugging at the roots.

“Regulus?” you say again, softer now, more coaxing than questioning. At the sound of your voice, his tense shoulders drop, just slightly.

“Amour.” He exhales the word like a lifeline, turning to face you. There’s barely a moment to register this rare, almost rakish version of him before your eyes catch on the small blond child nestled against his hip, one gummy fist curled in Regulus’ collar.

Draco.

You blink. Regulus is holding Draco.

Before you can shape a single question, he’s already unraveling the explanation in a hurried string of words. 

“Cissa asked if we could babysit–last minute. I think she meant more you than me,” he says, too quickly. His voice is tight, a touch higher than usual. His eyes, normally sharp and composed, are wide and unmoored. “I was going to call you but then she just… dropped him off.”

You’ve seen Regulus face down a lot of scary things. You’ve seen him walk away from most of his family, piece together something tentative with Sirius and rebuild himself after all of it.  But this – this nervous wreck of a man clutching a toddler – is a rare and oddly endearing sight.

“Right,” you say, pressing your lips together, not quite succeeding at suppressing a smile. You step closer, now barefoot on the cool floor.

“Don’t laugh,” he pleads, already hearing it in your breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And that’s all it takes. The laugh escapes, light and delighted, before you can stop it. It bubbles up and spills over and, miraculously, draws a giggle from Draco, who’s still tucked snugly into Regulus’ arms.

You look at the little boy, noting the way his sticky hand is practically glued to Regulus’ collar, cheeks flushed and round with sleep or sugar, probably both.

“Hi, handsome,” you coo, brushing the back of your finger across a soft, baby-plump cheek. “How are you?”

The response is a delighted babble, animated and incoherent, followed by a suspiciously adult-sounding huff. Regulus looks vaguely betrayed. You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to the underside of Regulus’ jaw where the tension knots visibly under his skin. His breath catches for a moment, a small shudder passing through him like he’s been holding himself too tight for too long.

“Has he been fed?” you ask quietly, brushing a damp curl from Draco’s forehead.

Regulus exhales, a long, weary sigh that seems to carry the weight of the entire day. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough, “tried a bit of everything from his bag.” His eyes flicker with something soft – relief, maybe, that at least that part is done.

You reach up and place your hand on his back, just between his shoulders, and start to rub small, soothing circles. The tension there is a stubborn thing, slow to leave.

“Have you eaten?” you ask, your fingers stilling briefly, just to emphasise the point.

His brow furrows like the question confuses him. “He’s the baby,” he says slowly, like that explains everything. “Why would I—”

You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You haven’t taken your eyes off him since he got here, have you?”

Regulus blinks, caught. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again like he’s trying to defend himself but can’t quite find the angle.

 “Of course I haven’t,” he says, slightly indignant, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “What if he gets hurt? What if he chokes on something or hits his head or–or just falls apart? What if–”

A small, startled grunt stops the slow build of panic, followed immediately by a sharp tug to his hair.

“Ow–Draco, no,” Regulus hisses, eyes squeezing shut in pain as the tiny hand fisted in his dark strands tugs again with all the surprising strength toddlers seem to have.

You hide a laugh behind your hand, stepping in without hesitation.

 “Alright, sweetheart,” you murmur, and with careful fingers, you begin gently unfurling Draco’s tight grip. 

Regulus’ breathing stutters, speeding up with little rhythm, again as your touch lingers, your fingers brushing his scalp, then down the side of his face, smoothing over the tense edge of his jaw like balm.

“Deep breaths, love,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes and does as you ask, drawing in a shaky breath and letting it out slowly. His shoulders sag as though he’s just remembered how.

You wait. You’ve always known how to wait through his spirals – how to anchor him gently, without force. The panic that once clung to him like a second skin is rarer now, appearances few and far between. But when it returns, it still hits hard and sudden.

Draco babbles something against Regulus’ chest and then lets out a sneeze, his tiny limbs jolting at the sound. Regulus immediately shifts, instinctively protective.

You give him another moment, watching the tension drain in slow increments.

“Do you want me to take him?” you ask softly. “You can make yourself something to eat, yeah? Get your bearings.”

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. You see the conflict flicker in his eyes – torn between pride and exhaustion, between trust and a still bubbling anxiety.

He looks down at Draco, who is now happily smearing a faint line of drool across his collarbone, and then back at you.

You add, gently, “It’s completely up to you. Whatever you want.”

Regulus swallows. Then, quieter than before: “If that’s alright.”

Your smile deepens as you stretch your arms out for the baby. “Of course it is.”

He passes Draco over with such careful, lingering hands, like he might dissolve without his touch. You settle the boy on your hip, your body already swaying, instinctive. Draco sighs, content, and nuzzles into your shoulder.

Once he’s sure Draco’s weight is secure in your arms, Regulus lingers a moment, brushing a thumb over the baby’s socked foot like he’s reluctant to let go completely.

“Go make a sandwich, Reggie. Or heat up the leftover soup–unless that’s what’s all over the coffee table?”

He glares weakly. “Juice.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Regulus watches you for a moment longer before turning toward the counter, finally moving to make himself something – toast, probably, the only thing he reliably trusts himself not to burn when distracted.

And even with his back to you, he can’t stop glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

There’s something about the way you hold Draco, confident and instinctive. Your cheek brushing lightly against blond curls. The way you sway just the smallest bit on your feet, calming without thinking. And the baby, usually fussy with unfamiliarity, is content. Quiet. Safe.

It hits him harder than he expects.

Regulus has spent his life navigating things no one should have to. Tiptoeing through rooms where love came with conditions, where softness was foreign and fleeting. And yet, here you are. Patient. Steady. Effortless.

He’s seen you in a hundred different lights. But this? This is something else entirely.

He turns toward the fridge with a newfound stillness in his limbs.

Draco sighs dramatically against your shoulder, like this has all been terribly hard work for him too. You chuckle, gently rocking side to side.

Regulus pauses with his hand on the fridge door, glancing back one more time. “You’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet.

You meet his eyes over Draco’s head. “So are you.”

He huffs softly, the closest thing to a laugh he’s managed all day. “I feel like I’ve aged ten years in two hours.”

“You’ll bounce back.” You smile, and his heart stutters.

masterlist <3

[x-press-it]

Doll

Some names bruise deeper than others 🎞️🖤🌹✅

Soft!Bucky Barnes x Tech Girl!reader

Summary: Bucky’s been flirting with the team’s tech girl for weeks. She’s sharp, funny, always a step ahead of him—and their slow-burn flirtation has become the highlight of his days. They tease, they banter, they orbit closer. Until one word—just one—shatters everything. He doesn’t know why. Not at first.

What follows isn’t an apology. It’s a lesson in patience. In gentleness.

This is a story about trauma and tenderness. About how the wrong word can reopen old wounds—and how the right actions can help them start to heal.

Content Warnings: Heavy angst with happy ending. Pet names (Doll, Sweetheart.) Mention of alcohol and smoking (sort of). Mentions of car accident, loss, grief, emotional abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, references to non-consensual dynamics (no explicit scenes), trauma processing, dissociation, and complex PTSD.

This story handles survivor experiences with care, but please prioritize your own well-being if these topics are sensitive for you.

If I forgot some, please tell me, I'll add them.

Reader Notes: No Y/N, no physical description of the reader, but the protagonist has an established backstory, which is why this is written in the third person rather than the second.

English isn’t my first language so there might be typos/weird sentences…

Notes: Teased it in my last sneak peek.

I wrote this because I needed to.

In so many stories, Bucky uses the pet name “Doll”—and every time, it pulls me out of the moment. For a lot of people, it’s harmless or even sweet. But for some of us, it’s a word that’s been used to belittle, to erase, to control. To make us feel small. Breakable. Replaceable.

This piece was born from that. A quiet defiance, maybe. A reclamation.

I wanted a version of Bucky who doesn’t just avoid that word—but understands, why it hurts. A version who listens before he touches. Who knows that softness is stronger than rage, and that surviving isn’t something broken—it’s something sacred.

I’ve woven some of my own past into this story, in small, careful ways. Not enough to spill it all, but just enough to be honest. If any part of this resonates with you—you’re not alone. You’re never alone. And you deserve the kind of love that asks nothing of you.

Stay safe.

Edit: Did a few light touch-ups here and there for flavor after a few hours of sleep ^^"

Need some music? I’ve got you.

Word Count: 11.5K

Late afternoon settled over the compound—heavy, and still. The kind of slow quiet that only came once training sessions ended, when the sun dipped just enough to bleed through the glass-paneled corridors and dust danced in the light, glittering. Most people were elsewhere—burning off steam in the gym, sneaking snacks from the kitchen, or finally, blissfully, leaving work behind in the common room.

But not her.

She was still tucked in her little office, a soft pocket just off the main hall that people playfully called the tech wing. The glow of three monitors flickered against her face, casting her features in shifting blues. Empty mugs—too many—stood forgotten near the edge of the desk, the scent of something like plastic burnt in the wiring lingering faintly in the air. Her fingers flew across the keys, quick and precise, trying to breathe life back into a line of code that refused to behave.

A soft electronic beat pulsed low through her speakers, something calm, ambient, the kind of music that filled the silence and kept her focused.

Then—three knocks.

Firm. Intentional. Steady.

She didn’t bother to look up.

“If it’s about your playlist, Mr. Stark,” she called, a little dry, “I’m still not giving you clearance to hijack SHIELD servers just to blast AC/DC in the showers.”

Silence.

Then a voice that didn’t belong to Stark—lower, raspier, but with a curious kind of softness too. Like it wasn’t used to being gentle but tried, just for her.

“Wasn’t planning on singing in the showers,” it said, a touch of humor curling around the words, “but now you’ve got me thinking about it.”

Her hands stilled. Slowly, she lifted her head toward the door.

Leaning against the frame, like the space had been made for him to fill it, was James Buchanan Barnes. He had a tablet in one hand, the other casually shoved into the pocket of his jeans. The sleeves of his dark blue Henley were rolled to his elbows, exposing the metal gleam of his left forearm and the soft, warm skin of the right. His hair was messier than usual. Shadows clung to his jaw, under his eyes. He looked tired.

Tired in the way people looked when sleep didn’t come easy. Tired but in that unfairly handsome in the late afternoon light kind of way.

“You're not Stark,” she stated, finally.

He smirked, faint and crooked. “Glad you noticed.”

He lifted the tablet a little, like a peace offering. “I think I broke this. Or it broke me. Not sure which came first. Either way, it’s not working.”

She blinked once, lips twitching despite herself as she gestured for him to hand it over with an extended hand in his direction. “Let me guess. Forgot your password again after the last security update?”

“You change the rules every month. Feels like sabotage... or emotional warfare.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but there was a glint of mirth in them.

“It’s protocol, Barnes. Not everything’s a conspiracy. And no, you can’t pick ‘password123’ again.”

He stepped into the room like he belonged there, slow and easy, closer than necessary.

Close enough for her to catch that faint mixed scent of leather, metal, and the trace of gunpowder that seemed woven into his skin. But there was something else too, something warm. Something that didn’t belong to the soldier, but to the man underneath. The man who looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

He set the tablet gently in her open hand, fingers faintly brushing against hers, then didn’t move away. He stayed there, hip leaning against the edge, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze lingered on her—quiet, watching, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

“Gotta make sure you keep your job,” he said, voice low and a little too smooth. “Figure if I keep breaking shit, you’ll have to keep fixing it.”

She arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”

He tilted his head. “Is it working?”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head as she started navigating the menus of the tablet, fingers brushing the screen, tapping through the security prompts.

“You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Lucky me, doll.”

Her hands stopped mid-type.

The word—that word—hit like a knife between her ribs.

The smile she’d almost given him fell away. Her whole body seemed to still, breath caught somewhere just out of reach. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the screen, as if it had turned to stone beneath her hands.

Like she was watching things only she could see. Things replaying in her mind.

Like if she didn’t move, maybe the past wouldn’t catch up.

“Don’t,” she finally said.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Bucky’s brows knit, confusion creasing the space between his eyes as the teasing ease dropped from his voice. “Sorry?”

Her gaze met his. Steady. Flat. But underneath the emotionless surface was something sharp. Cold steel lined with something rawer, still bleeding.

“Don’t call me that.”

There was silence—thick, uncertain.

He straightened, just barely, but enough to show the shift in the air hadn’t gone unnoticed. He didn’t understand it yet—but he felt it. Like a tremor before a quake.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, quieter this time. Almost careful.

She gave a nod. A small, controlled gesture. But it wasn’t agreement. It was containment. A leash on a storm.

“I’m not a doll, Barnes.” Her voice didn’t shake, but there was an edge to it, like glass stuck in an old wound, reopening it from the inside. “I’m not some… pretty thing you can pick up and carry around when you’re bored and drop when you’ve had enough. I’m not yours to name like a toy. So don’t call me that.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw clenched, and for once, James Buchanan Barnes—the man made for war, the ex-assassin, the soldier who never seemed rattled—looked like he realized he’d just stepped into a minefield.

“…Okay,” he said at last. Rough. Honest. A little wrecked around the edges. “Okay. I won’t.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy. Suspended.

Not awkward. Tense. The kind of silence that presses on your chest like guilt. Like grief. Like something fragile had cracked between them and neither knew how to glue it back together.

She didn’t look at him again.

She turned back to her work, face set in lines too still, too clean. No more teasing smirk. No more jokes. Just methodical typing, every keystroke measured like it mattered more than him standing there.

A wall had gone up.

Solid. Impenetrable.

Laced with barbed-wire—built not just to keep him out, but to make sure he felt it if he ever tried to cross.

Bucky lingered there just a heartbeat too long. Long enough to feel the absence of whatever had been there before, curling around them like smoke.

“…Right,” he murmured, shifting his weight like it suddenly didn’t sit right in his own skin. “Thanks for helping.”

No answer. Just the faint tap of her fingers on the cool surface and the cold glow of the screen.

She typed until the lockout cleared, then set the tablet on the desk quietly. No flair. No flourish. Just another problem solved.

“Here. Done.”

Flat. Dismissive.

Already, her hand was moving back to her keyboard. Like he’d never stepped inside. Like his voice, his smirk, his mistake, had never touched the air.

He watched her, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Something that twisted low in his stomach. Coiling like a cold snake.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe a sarcastic you’re welcome, maybe a glare—but this quiet dismissal? It made his skin itch in a way any mission, even the most crazy and suicidal ones, never had.

He picked up the tablet slowly, fingers brushing the spot she’d just touched, like it might give him back a piece of the warmth he’d just lost.

“…Alright. I’ll, uh. See you around.”

Still nothing.

And maybe that was the worst part.

He turned—quiet, always quiet—but it felt different this time. Like he was walking out of a room that had shut him out before he ever left it, like whatever had been forming between them had just died on the operating table.

He reached the door.

Paused.

Something tugged at him—not her, not a sound, just something. Regret maybe. Or the echo of her voice, her words, in his bones.

Hand on the doorframe, he looked back over his shoulder. Just once.

She hadn’t moved. Still typing, still half-hidden, shielded behind her monitors, like they could make her invisible. Like it was safer not to be seen.

“…I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said, softer now. The kind of softness that came from standing in the wreckage of something you didn’t realize was breakable. “I’m sorry.”

Then he left.

The door shut softly behind him.

Only then did she stop typing.

Her fingers hovered uselessly above the keys, shaking, and for a long second, the only thing that moved was the slight fall of her chest as the breath she’d been holding slid out in one long, deflating exhale.

The screen in front of her was still glowing, lines of code sharp and insistent—but she didn’t see any of it.

Instead, her mind replayed every word. Every look. The sound of his voice when he said that word.

And then—after she’d lashed out—how his mouth had tightened. Not anger. Just shock. Confused. Hurt.

Because it wasn’t him she was angry at. Not really.

It was everything else. Everything before.

The way it had hit too close to old wounds, too identical to how she had felt all those years ago. All the names she’d been given without permission, the way she’d once been someone’s possession instead of a person. The way she’d let it happen, because it was what was expected of her. But also just to feel loved. Just to feel seen. Just to feel alive again… not just a fucking walking corpse…

And now Bucky—of all people—had said it, not knowing what it unearthed in her. Not knowing how deep it could cut.

And it wasn’t fair, not to him. He hadn’t deserved the frost she’d wrapped around her voice like a knife.

But the words had come out anyway.

And now all that was left behind was the low, dull throb of guilt.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, the stiff material creaking beneath her, and closed her eyes like that might somehow keep the ache from spreading.

“…Shit,” she whispered, barely audible.

Her eyes lingered on the closed door.

She had overreacted. He probably hadn’t meant it like that. And he deserved more than a sharp silence—sharp enough to slice back. Meant to hurt. Meant to make him feel it. To make him bleed the way his words had. It hadn’t been fair. But in that moment, she’d wanted it. A blade to skin with his name on the steel, deliberate, designed to cut deep.

And then she was moving—almost without thought, her body pulled forward like a string had yanked tight in her chest. She pushed up from the chair like staying still might break her open.

He’d looked hurt. Not wounded like in a fight. Hurt, like he’d been trying and she’d shut the door anyway.

Not defensive. Not cocky.

No.

He looked guilty.

Just sorry.

She stepped into the hallway with quick, urgent strides, rounding the corner like she could still catch him.

And she did.

But he wasn’t alone.

Natasha Romanoff leaned against the wall like she owned it—casual, elegant, unshakable. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, and something he said made her smirk, the kind of smirk that knew things—intimately. Bucky tilted his head toward her, his expression soft. At ease. Like nothing had gone wrong today.

A low, honest laugh escaped him. The kind of laugh she hadn’t heard from him directed at her, ever.

She stopped walking.

Just… stopped.

From this far away, the words were a blur, but the picture was clear enough. Natasha’s hand drifted lightly to his arm, and Bucky didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch. His lips tugged into a crooked grin similar to the one he had given her earlier, before she had slammed her armor into his face.

It made something twist sharply in her stomach.

They looked right together.

Easy.

Whole.

And suddenly, she felt like a jagged edge in a world of smooth pieces.

Natasha could take a nickname like “doll” and spin it into something smart and flirty. She could disarm it. Own it. She didn’t carry the same kind of ghosts. She didn’t freeze up. She didn’t bleed out over nothing.

Her jaw clenched. Her hand curled into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm like maybe pain would keep the rising tide at bay.

“Never mind,” she muttered, her voice hollow.

She turned.

And this time, she walked slower—like her bones were heavier now, filled with something bitter and sinking. The fight had drained out of her legs. The words she’d meant to say sat unsaid in the back of her throat, sour and sharp.

She didn’t look back again.

But the image of them—smiling, close, fitting—stayed with her, burned into the backs of her eyes.

She returned to her office like she was retreating, not walking. Like the door would protect her from the ache clawing up her spine, in her chest, at her heart.

The code still sat unfinished on her screen. Her chair waited, still turned from when she’d pushed out of it in a rush.

But the warmth was gone.

The quiet playlist felt different now—too quiet. Too cold. Too impersonal.

And the taste in her mouth?

Still there.

Still bitter.

Still lingering.

Bucky was still laughing at Natasha’s comment.

Or at least, it looked like he was.

The sound was there—low, familiar, warm enough to pass. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not the way it should have.

Like his body knew how to go through the motions, but his mind had lagged behind.

Still caught somewhere else.

On someone else.

Like he’d brushed past barbed-wire, and the sting lingered at the back of his mind.

The next laugh came quieter than the one before—softer, thinner, as if whatever had sparked it was already fading from his grasp. A moment, gone before he could hold it.

Just a quick movement.

His gaze drifted, pulled by something he hadn’t meant to notice.

Just a flicker.

The ghost of a shadow at the edge of the hall.

A retreating blur of familiar fabric. The shape of her hair catching the light before vanishing around the corner.

He squinted. Tilted his head. Leaned slightly, like maybe—just maybe—that would call her back into view.

But there was nothing.

The hallway was still.

Silent.

His body—his whole weight—shifted. He turned, instinctive and slow, like his chest was tugged by a thread he didn’t fully understand.

But—

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice cut through the haze, sharp enough to pull him back. “You see a ghost or something?”

He blinked, the mirage fading like smoke, turning his focus back to his friend. “What?”

“You looked like you saw a ghost,” she said, raising one brow. Her gaze flicked toward the hallway, curiosity tugging her attention for half a beat—like she was trying to catch whatever he’d seen—before sliding back to him.

She leaned in, casual and unshakable, crossing one leg over the other like she had all the time in the world. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Too fast. A deflection polished by habit.

He shook his head, like he could physically toss off the tight pull still lingering in his chest. “Thought I saw someone, that’s all.”

“Mmm.” That sound told him exactly what she thought of that answer.

Nat never bought his I’m fine, especially not when he served it up that quickly.

Her eyes flicked to the tablet tucked under his arm, and her mouth curved into a smirk—sharp, knowing, amused.

“Wait… Let me guess.” She pointed at the device like it held a piece of juicy gossip, a secret she was dying to unwrap. “You went to see the tech girl, didn’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw ticked despite himself. A flicker of a reaction, small enough most wouldn’t notice—but Natasha did.

“I needed my password reset,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” she teased, her tone sugar-sweet with a razor underneath. “Password resets and awkward flirting?”

“There wasn’t—” He exhaled hard through his nose, shifting his grip on the tablet. “It wasn’t flirting.”

Natasha gave him a look that practically screamed sure, sweetheart.

“You flirt with her every time you walk into her office,” she said, arms folding. “And she flirts back.”

“She didn’t this time,” Bucky muttered.

Soft. Quieter. Like the words hurt to say out loud.

That paused her.

The teasing faltered, just enough for something else to slip through—curiosity, maybe. Concern. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it changed. Tilted. Recalculating. Like she was reevaluating the board mid-game.

She didn’t press.

Just leaned in and tapped the tablet with one perfect nail. “Careful, Barnes. Those quiet ones? They’ll wreck you if you let them.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

His eyes had already wandered back to the hallway.

Back to the place where she’d been.

Or where he thought she’d been.

And the space was empty.

Too empty.

Like something had been there a moment ago—someone—and now it was gone.

Like something delicate had cracked open in his hands—something that had trusted him to hold it gently.

And he'd shattered it, without meaning to.

And now all that was left was the echo.

He didn’t even know what he’d done—how he’d broken it.

Just that it had once been his to protect.

And he hadn’t.

It’d been days, and the moment still lingered like a bitter taste in Bucky's mouth.

Sharp.

Metallic.

Like blood he hadn’t meant to draw.

He’d catch himself thinking about her in the most random moments—mid-mission briefings, quiet breakfasts, even when he was watching something dumb on TV just to fill the silence. It crept in without warning: the way her whole body had changed in an instant. The way her eyes had gone blank. Like a switch had flipped.

One word. That’s all it took.

Doll.

He hadn’t even meant anything by it. It had slipped out, natural as breathing. A soft note in a playful conversation that had felt—up until then—familiar. Safe. Like something they were building, brick by careful brick.

He’d called a hundred women “doll” in his life—before. Before everything. Before he forgot how to be a person. Before he became a weapon, a tool. The Winter Soldier.

But she… she’d looked like he’d hit her, like he’d stabbed her in the chest. Like he’d peeled open something she’d been trying to keep buried.

And he couldn’t stop replaying it. Couldn’t stop feeling it. That flicker in her eyes, the way she pulled inward like she was bracing for a blow.

So that evening, when the compound had gone quiet and her shift technically ended half an hour ago but a soft glow still shone under her office door, Bucky made his way down the hallway.

He carried two glasses and a bottle of honey whiskey he’d picked up days ago. Not for himself. He didn’t even drink much these days.

She’d mentioned it once. A passing comment to one of her colleagues in the cafeteria while stirring sugar into her coffee—something about how she liked to unwind with a glass after a long day. She’d smiled when she said it. Not one of those polite workplace smiles, but a real one. Tired around the edges, but honest.

Unarmored.

It had stuck. Lodged itself somewhere under his ribs, like a fragmented bullet, and refused to leave.

He stopped in front of her door, heart tripping over itself in a rhythm that felt unfamiliar. The light beneath the frame didn’t move. No shadow. No footsteps. Just stillness.

He knocked, soft. Two taps with his knuckles. No metal. Just skin and hesitation.

“Come in,” she called, distracted.

The door slid open, and Bucky stepped inside. The soft click of it closing behind him felt final. Too final. Like walking into something he couldn’t walk back out of.

Her office was dim, lit mostly by the eerie glow of her monitors—three screens reflected in her glasses, alive with what looked like moving lines of code that made no sense to him.

She didn’t look up at first.

He stood there, silent. Just watching. The way her brows knit together, how her lips pressed into a thin line when something didn’t behave the way she wanted. She was always beautiful, but like this? Focused, brilliant, unaware of him?

It made his throat ache.

When he finally took a step forward, she glanced up. And there it was—that beat of hesitation. Too long to ignore. Like she didn’t know who he was to her anymore. Like she didn’t know who she was to him.

Her fingers didn’t stop typing, not completely.

“Locked yourself out of your tablet again?”

Dry. Not cruel. But void of the warmth they used to pass back and forth like a shared cigarette.

Bucky lifted the bottle slightly, the glasses clinking gently in his other hand. “Nope,” he said, voice as easy as he could make it. Like he wasn’t standing there with a fucking apology trembling in his chest. “Thought I’d come bury the hatchet.”

She raised a brow, skeptical. But she didn’t tell him to get out.

“I mean,” he added, moving up to the edge of her desk, “I can’t have my favorite tech person mad at me. Who the hell would I go to next time I need something fixed? Tony? He’d make me do a favor first. Probably something humiliating.”

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it was like watching a smile die in real time. It didn’t land the way he wanted. Not all the way.

His own smile wavered. Just a flicker—but enough. The tightness between his brows gave him away. And she noticed. Of course she noticed.

She always noticed.

The way his shoulders were too stiff beneath the hoodie he wore like armor. The way his fingers curled too tight around the neck of the bottle like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

He was trying. Really trying.

And for a moment, that office wasn’t filled with the hum of computers, or the glow of code—it was just them. Standing in the space between what they had been, and whatever came next.

And it hurt.

Damn, it hurt.

And that nagging thought she’d had since she saw him with Natasha—he’s probably into her, that makes more sense—started to crack just a little.

Because this wasn’t a man who’d brushed it off.

He looked like he’d been carrying the scars he made on her barbed-wired armor around every single day since.

Worn them like a weight. Quiet. Invisible. Heavy.

Licking them like a wounded animal.

When she didn’t immediately reply, Bucky didn’t push. He just set the two glasses down gently on the desk and unscrewed the cap, the scent of honey and oak drifting into the room like a peace offering.

“I, uh… sorry, I didn’t bring ice cubes,” he added quickly, pouring the amber liquid into the glasses without looking at her. “Figured it probably wasn’t the best idea with all this tech stuff around. And, y’know, didn’t have enough hands anyway.”

He let out a breath—short and low—like maybe he'd practiced that line in his head and still hated how it sounded.

He offered a small, sheepish shrug, like he wasn’t sure if he was being charming or just awkward. Maybe both.

Maybe he didn’t know how to be either with her anymore.

The bottle gave a soft clink as he set it aside. He slid one glass toward her without forcing it, without asking if she wanted it. Just… placed it within reach. Like a gesture more than a drink.

A way to say, I’m still here. If you want me to be.

He leaned against the edge of her desk, turning his glass slowly in his hand, eyes down on the rippling whiskey like it might give him the courage to finish the thought.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about the other day,” he said, quieter now. “I know I probably stepped on a landmine without realizing. And I didn’t come here to make you explain it. You don’t owe me that… or anything for that matter.”

He finally looked at her again, blue eyes steady but softer than usual. Still haunted, maybe—but this was a different kind of ghost behind them.

Not the kind that came from bloodshed or war.

The kind that came from hurting someone you care about and not knowing if you’d ever be let close enough to make it right.

“I just… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said simply.

No excuses.

No charm.

Just truth.

And it hung in the air like a thunderbolt.

She sighed. The kind that slipped out before she could catch it, heavy with everything unsaid.

Everything she'd swallowed down for days.

All the old pain she thought she’d buried deep enough to forget.

Bucky glanced up at the sound, gaze searching her face like he was bracing for another verbal grenade. But she didn’t detonate this time.

Instead, she leaned back in her seat, finally dragging her eyes from the screen to him. Her fingers curled around the glass, still warm from his hand, and she stared at the whiskey for a beat before lifting it to her lips.

Just a small sip. Just enough to chase down the lump in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, the edge in her voice softened now. “For this.”

He nodded, barely a shift of his chin, like he was afraid moving too much might make her retreat again.

Like he knew exactly how delicate the moment was.

How close it hovered to unraveling.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, but her voice was steadier. Quieter, too.

“I, uh… I overreacted,” she said. “You didn’t know. It’s just… that word. It reopened something. Old wounds.”

Her fingers tightened a little on the glass, then relaxed again. She still didn’t offer more, didn’t owe him more. But even that sliver of honesty was already a lot.

More than she’d given most people in years.

And Bucky, who’d been holding his breath like a soldier waiting for the next bullet, exhaled.

“Okay,” he said gently. “I get it.”

There was a silence, but it was a softer one now. No tension. Just the space between two people who were cautiously lowering their armor again.

Piece by piece.

Careful. Quiet.

“I won’t call you that again,” he said, voice quiet but steady—an understanding, not a question.

Because yeah, he cared.

And maybe… maybe he always had.

“Good,” she said simply, eyes steady on him now. “Don’t.”

There wasn’t a tremble in her voice, but there was weight.

Years of it, maybe.

A decade buried, folded behind a single word.

And it landed like a stone in his chest.

He nodded once, slow and sure.

“Okay,” he said. No argument, no pushback. “I won’t.”

Another silence bloomed between them. But this time it wasn’t uncomfortable—it just was.

Like static in the room that hadn’t quite found a frequency yet.

Like grief and grace trying to coexist.

And maybe, in that fragile quiet, something had started to mend.

Not fully. Not yet.

But the first stitch had been made.

She sank into her chair a bit more, eyes drifting, unfocused, as if pulled into some memory only she could see. The kind that still had claws, and fangs, and spikes—that still drew blood when she looked too long. Her thumb slowly traced the rim of the glass, absent and automatic—something to do with her hands while the rest of her tried not to splinter under the weight of it.

Bucky didn’t move, just stood there, sipping quietly, like he understood she needed the silence more than the sound. Like he knew how not to crowd someone who was fighting ghosts of their own.

Because he did.

When she blinked herself back to the present, the first thing she noticed was that he was still standing. Still watching. Still there. The sight of it twisted something in her chest—something sharp and untrusting.

She frowned softly. “You’re making me feel like I’m being interviewed by HR.”

He arched a brow, puzzled, until she reached over and tugged a second office chair with her foot. The wheels squeaked softly against the tile, loud in the quiet room, like a tiny protest from the world outside their tension.

“Sit down,” she said, nudging it closer to him. “You’re giving me a neck cramp.”

He huffed something between a laugh and a sigh—like even that simple sound carried a weight he didn’t know what to do with—and took the seat, lowering himself into it like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to make himself comfortable here. Like comfort was something he had to earn in her kingdom now.

She watched him over the rim of her glass again as he took another sip. Watched the way his fingers curved around the drink like it was something to hold onto. Watched the crease in his brow that hadn’t left since he walked in. Like he hadn’t let himself breathe since the last time they spoke.

Something about the way he sat, the way his shoulders held tension even now—like he was still waiting for her to push him away—made it harder to dismiss him.

She could feel her brain trying to pick apart the code. To debug the situation. Trying to determine: Is he doing this because he genuinely cares? Because the thought of hurting me kept him up at night?

Or was it just another tactic, another mask? Something polished. Practiced. The way others had smiled at her before they stole something they had no right to.

Or worse—maybe he wasn’t just trying to take something. Maybe he wanted to keep her. Add her to whatever collection he had, like a thing that looked good beside all the others.

Conquests. One-night stands. Girls. Women.

However he was calling it.

His eyes met hers just then—maybe he felt her watching.

Or maybe he was always watching her—just not head-on. Quietly. Like he didn’t want her to notice.

Like a habit he couldn’t shake.

But he didn’t look smug. Didn’t look like a man who thought he was halfway to a victory.

He looked… guilty. And maybe a little sad. Like something inside him was unraveling in slow, silent threads.

That was harder to fake.

She took another sip and quietly asked, “So… why come back? You already said sorry.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Careful. Like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt.

He didn’t answer right away.

The question hung in the air between them like a challenge—but not the sharp kind. Not the prove it kind. The kind that said: I want to believe you. Please don’t make me regret it.

Bucky stared at the whiskey in his glass for a beat, rolling it gently in his hand like he was looking for answers in the amber. Then he exhaled through his nose—slow, the kind of breath you let out when you finally stop pretending something doesn’t hurt.

“Because I meant it,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. “And because saying it once didn’t feel like enough.”

She didn’t move, didn’t look away—just let him speak. Let the words fill the spaces left by all the things unsaid.

“I keep thinking about the way you looked that day. Like I’d flipped a switch in you. One word, and you just… shut the door.” His jaw tensed. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t have, but I still did it. And I hate that. I hate that I did that to you.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed slowly, but she stayed silent, giving him room.

Maybe because part of her wanted to believe this wasn’t just him trying to make peace for his own gain. That it wasn’t some move to ease his guilt or smooth things over just enough to get what he wanted.

Maybe because something in his voice—the strain of it—sounded like it came from the same kind of broken she knew too well.

He continued, fingers tightening just a little around the glass. Like he needed the sting of it to stay grounded.

“It’s not just guilt. It’s not just wanting to make things right so it doesn’t feel awkward the next time I need something fixed.”

A faint, dry smile tugged at the corner of her lips at that, but she stayed quiet.

Not because she didn’t want to speak—but because if she did, she wasn’t sure what might spill out.

“I kept thinking… if it hurt me that much to see you like that, to know I caused it—then it’s not just some fleeting thing, or whatever.”

He looked up at her again, eyes clearer now, like something inside him had clicked into place.

“I care about you.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t come with a grand gesture or heat behind them.

Just quiet truth. The kind that ached in the silence after.

The kind that left no place to hide.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, the drink forgotten in his hands.

“And I know we don’t know each other that well. But I want to. I want to figure this out—whatever this is.”

Her chest tightened, a flutter blooming somewhere between fear and hope—two old ghosts that never showed up alone.

Fear, because she’d been here before.

Hope, because somehow this felt different.

It always feels different, doesn’t it?

But this… this carried a tremble, like her ribs were bracing against something breaking open.

A part of her already wanted to run.

Another part had never wanted someone to stay so badly.

Bucky looked down again, then back at her, softer now.

“So yeah. I brought the whiskey to say sorry. But I stayed because I’m not ready to give up the way you smile at me when you’re in a good mood. Or the way you tilt your head when you’re trying not to laugh at something dumb I said.”

His mouth twisted into the faintest smile, but it was lined with something older than regret—like he was letting her see a crack in the armor he always wore.

“I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you, even if I never really had you to begin with.”

She studied him for a long, quiet moment.

Eyes narrowed. Teeth pulling lightly at her lower lip, the rim of her glass cradled like it might hold her together. Still, she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Her gaze was pinned to his like a lifeline, her brain still trying to catch up to the weight of his words.

She was weighing them—each syllable scraping softly against the bruised corners of her trust.

And he didn’t try to smooth over the silence this time. Didn’t offer more to cushion the blow.

Just let her take her time, the flicker of a frown still ghosting between his brows—quiet, pained, like he was already bracing for her to push him away. For her to close the door for good this time.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she gave the faintest little nod, like she’d just negotiated something with her own heart and barely won.

Slowly, she extended her right hand toward his—flesh, not metal. Human.

Trembling, just a little.

Open.

Tentative.

“Apology accepted,” she said, voice soft, brittle at the edges like it had cost her more than he’d ever know.

He blinked, caught off guard—like part of him had already accepted that she wouldn’t.

Then he reached out without hesitation, fingers curling around hers—not possessive, not desperate, but careful. Gentle.

A handshake, yes—but not formal.

It felt like something sacred.

Like a wound being touched for the first time and not flinching.

Like trust.

Then her lips tugged into the faintest smirk as she added, “But next time, I expect ice cubes.”

Bucky gave a quiet huff of a laugh, deep and rough in his chest, and without letting go of her hand, he met her gaze and said, serious and low, “There won’t be a next time. I won’t hurt you again. Not if I can help it.”

And her smirk faltered, melted—softened into something unguarded and warm. Something real.

She held his eyes a second longer, like she was memorizing the way he looked when he promised something with his whole chest and nothing to hide behind.

Then she pulled her hand back gently, the ghost of his touch still clinging to her skin, and leaned into her chair with a slow sigh that carried too much.

Her glass caught the light as she took another sip, something inside her loosening—just a bit. Just enough.

Outside the office, the compound had gone quiet for the night.

Only the low hum of life carried through the halls—voices behind closed doors, footsteps, laughter too distant to reach them.

Everyone else had already folded into comfort and routine.

But in this small pocket off the main hall, in the quiet breath of the tech wing, something else had taken root.

Something raw. Unspoken.

Understanding.

And maybe, the first thread of something that could hold.

It didn’t happen all at once.

But slowly—over shared tech fixes and clinking glasses of whiskey—with the whiskey stones she bought him a week after their little peace talk (“so you don’t have to carry ice around like a caveman,” she’d teased with a grin that caught him off guard and made him stare a beat too long before looking away.)—something shifted.

One afternoon, she helped him pair a Bluetooth speaker. He could’ve figured it out eventually, maybe, but he didn’t try that hard. Not when it meant sitting next to her on the small couch of her office, her leg brushing his every time she leaned forward, her breath close enough to fan over the side of his neck. The speaker crackled to life with one of his playlists—some old blues mixed with newer instrumentals—and she smiled like she hadn’t expected his taste to be so… gentle.

He didn’t say it, but that moment stuck with him. Her presence curling into the corners of his space, not intruding—just being. Like it had always belonged there.

She helped him figure out an app on his phone once too. Something dumb Tony had insisted everyone use to sync schedules across the team. They’d sat side by side on the couch in the common room—half solving the tech issue, half just… talking. Laughing.

And somewhere in the middle of her showing him how to swipe notifications without accidentally opening seventeen windows, she’d leaned into him. Just a little. Unthinking.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched. He just… let her.

And it felt nice.

Safe.

Like falling into something warm and steady, that smelled faintly of aftershave and motor oil. A kind of safety that didn’t come from walls or weapons, but from someone.

There was no big declaration. No flashy move. Just a moment—quiet and utterly unspectacular—when he looked at her across her desk one day and asked softly, “You wanna have dinner with me sometime?”

She blinked, unsure she’d heard him right. “Like… dinner dinner?”

He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled beneath the stillness of the room. “Yeah. But not restaurant dinner. Something real. Just you, me, and good food. You don’t have to dress up unless you want to.”

“Do it for yourself,” he said, and his voice had dipped���playful, but still sincere. “Not for me. Though—”his smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, eyes a little darker now, “I’d probably stare either way.”

And now, here she was.

Standing in front of a house he’d texted her the address to, her hands light against the hem of her simple black dress. Something soft. Something that made her feel good. It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t a mask. Just her. A version of herself she was still learning to like.

She’d fixed her hair loose around her shoulders, makeup just enough to bring out her features—but nothing too precise. She’d adjusted the neckline three times in the reflection of her car window, cursed her reflection once, and still nearly turned back twice.

But she didn't.

The house wasn’t massive. Wasn’t even particularly Bucky, not at first glance. But there was something lived-in about it. Quiet. Cozy. Like maybe it had belonged to someone kind, once, and he’d borrowed it for the night because he didn’t want dinner to feel like a mission.

Still, her instincts hadn’t shut off entirely.

She’d texted her best friend the address with a joking "If I go missing, tell the Avengers Bucky Barnes killed me. JK. (Probably.)"—just in case. Old habits died hard. Trust didn’t come easy.

Now, she stood at the doorstep, breath catching somewhere between her ribs. She reached up and rang the bell.

The chime echoed inside—too loud, too final. Her heart did a strange little jump, not from fear but from something messier. Like her body was trying to brace itself against how much she might want this. Him.

She smoothed her dress again, hand brushing across her stomach. The nerves were stupid—unfounded. She knew she didn’t have to be nervous with him. He wasn’t the type to judge, not about things that mattered. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He made her want to melt. And she didn’t know how to armor herself against that.

Didn’t know how to be held without flinching.

Not yet. But maybe… tonight.

The door opened with a soft click.

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes, in clothes that straddled the line between effort and ease. Dark slacks. Button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, top buttons open like he couldn’t pretend to be someone else even if he tried. His hair was pulled back, low and neat—but a strand had escaped and brushed his cheek, softening the hard line of his jaw.

He was smiling—until he saw her.

Then he just… stopped, like he hadn’t seen her in years.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to look away.

His expression stilled—unguarded, open—like someone had unplugged his brain. No words. No movement. Just breathless, caught, like she’d just knocked the wind out of him and he didn’t quite remember how to exhale yet.

His gaze moved slowly, almost reverently—from her shoes, up her legs, the curve of her dress, to the exposed line of her collarbone. It paused, just briefly, around her mouth—then snapped up to meet her eyes, like he was afraid he’d lingered too long.

“You’re…” He blinked, shook his head just enough to break the spell. “Stunning.”

She rolled her eyes, but it was a flimsy shield at best. Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile, one she didn’t try to hide as heat rose in her cheeks. She stepped past him, lightly brushing his arm.

“Yeah, yeah, smooth talker,” she muttered, but there was no edge in it. Only breathless warmth.

He laughed low in his throat and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. “Just being honest,” he murmured, and something in the way he said it made her feel like maybe he wasn’t just talking about her dress.

Then the scent hit her.

Warm. Inviting. Delicious.

Garlic. Herbs. Something roasted and slow-cooked with care.

It was the kind of smell that clung to the edges of a home—not just a kitchen. The kind that made your shoulders relax without you realizing. Made you forget everything else for a second.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the steps. “Dinner’s upstairs.”

She followed, heels tapping softly on the worn wood, one hand brushing the railing as if grounding herself.

“Just so you know,” she said as they reached the second floor, “I gave the address to a friend. In case you planned to, you know… murder me or something.”

He glanced back at her, amused, and she caught a flicker of something warmer behind it. Not offended—not even really teasing—just… touched. Like he understood exactly why she’d done it, and didn’t blame her.

“Smart move,” he said.

There was a beat of silence. Then that little crooked smirk crept in.

“But I’d have to find someone else to fix my tech if I did. You’re too useful to kill.”

She snorted. “Wow, what a romantic sentiment.”

“You’ll learn to love it,” he tossed over his shoulder, and pushed open the rooftop door.

And it was her turn to stop.

The air shifted—cooler, crisper. It curled around her like a soft breath, brushing past the nerves she hadn’t been able to shake and carrying them off like petals in the wind.

The rooftop was surrounded by half-walls, high enough to offer a sense of privacy but low enough to let glimpses of the city sneak through. But she barely noticed any of that.

Because this… this was all she could see.

Strings of warm LEDs hung overhead, like stars caught in a gentle net. They dipped and arced, soft light pooling like smooth gold over a small table for two. Candles flickered along the low ledge—some in jars, others floating in glasses—casting delicate shadows that swayed with the wind.

The table was already set. A bottle of wine waited.

Two plates. Two chairs.

And from the corner, a small Bluetooth speaker played low, calming music—instrumental, familiar, something soothing that settled into her chest like a lullaby.

She blinked, recognition dawning.

“Wait,” she said, glancing at the speaker. “Is that the one I helped you pair?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish now, the confident version of him slipping just slightly. “Yeah. Thought it’d be better than whatever playlist Stark tries to blast every time someone mentions the word ‘date’.”

She looked around again, her eyes wide—overwhelmed in the way that made your throat ache a little. Like something inside her wanted to reach out and hold the moment still.

“Bucky, this is…”

He scratched his jaw, his nerves suddenly so visible she wanted to cup his face and tell him he didn’t need to try so hard.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she whispered. “No, it’s… perfect.”

He smiled, and it was small, unsure—but real. One of those smiles that didn’t quite reach the surface until someone else pulled it out.

“Good. I wanted it to feel right. For you.”

And it did.

Not like some grand, glossy gesture meant to impress.

But like something carved gently out of quiet intention. Thoughtfulness. A space made with his hands—not just for her, but because of her. She hadn’t expected that, but it fit him so well now that she knew what lived under all that armor.

It felt like someone seeing you for who you were and saying, stay anyway.

He pulled out her chair, a little awkwardly, but with both hands—one gloved, one not. That contrast always made her heart stutter a little.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Her fingers brushed his ungloved hand as she sat—warm against warm, skin against skin—and the touch lingered longer than it should’ve.

She met his gaze, something soft and searching behind her eyes, as if she were still trying to convince herself that this wasn’t some dream she’d wake from.

That maybe, this time, she didn’t have to keep running.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Let’s.”

Dinner was amazing.

Not the kind of amazing that called for flashy praise or dramatic sighs—no. This was quieter. Softer. The kind of amazing that lived in the silence between bites, in the small hums of contentment shared without needing words. In the way her eyes kept drifting to him, like she couldn’t quite believe Bucky Barnes had made all this happen. Like something in her chest kept stuttering every time she remembered this was real.

At one point, she teased him—something about bragging over dancing and never following through—and without even thinking, he’d taken her hand. The soft music still whispered from the speaker, and they ended up swaying together, barely more than a slow lean into each other, like gravity had softened just for them. No steps, no rhythm—just the warmth of his chest against hers and the weight of her head resting lightly near his collarbone, like maybe this was the only place in the world where she felt truly still.

Eventually, the dance melted into something quieter.

They’d ended up on the bench near the rooftop’s edge, tucked beneath a soft throw blanket that smelled faintly of fresh laundry. She was curled against him now, shoulder pressed to his side, head leaning on the solid comfort of his arm. He was so warm. So steady. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything—just let her be. And somehow, that silence between them felt more intimate than any kiss.

Each of them held a glass of whiskey, the stones clinking gently when she lifted hers.

He caught the sound and gave her a small, crooked smile. “I still can’t believe you got me whiskey stones,” he said, voice low and rough-edged with amusement.

She tilted her head, giving him a smirk. “Told you I expected ice cubes next time. Had to make sure you’d be ready.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm against the cool night. They both took a sip, the amber liquid a soft burn in their throats, grounding them in the now.

A pause settled in—stretching long and quiet beneath the faint twinkle of stars. The city murmured far below, all its noise dimmed by the distance, like they were tucked inside a separate world entirely. A delicate pocket out of time, untouched and safe.

She shifted just slightly, tilting her head to look up at him from beneath her lashes. Her voice came quiet, fragile in its sincerity.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “It was perfect.”

He glanced down, and for a second his smile looked almost bashful, like the compliment hit somewhere deeper than he expected.

“Had help,” he admitted. “Natasha gave me pointers. And I, uh… I watched so many romcoms.”

She laughed into her glass, the sound breathy and light. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. If I see one more Christmas-themed love story with a baking competition in a small town, I swear I’ll lose it.” He grimaced in exaggerated pain. “I think I got diabetes just from the dialogue.”

She giggled, nudging his side with her shoulder. “Worth risking your life for me, huh?”

He didn’t answer with a joke this time. Instead, his smile softened. Quieted.

“Yeah,” he said, without a flicker of doubt. “I’d do anything for you, sweetheart—”

And then he froze. The word still hanging in the air like the tail end of a wish he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. His eyes snapped to hers mid-sentence, wide and uncertain, like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

“Shit. Uh—sorry, is that okay? I didn’t mean—‘sweetheart,’ I mean. Not like… you know... ‘doll’ or anything.”

She blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden stammer, then gave him a look—half amused, half touched. One brow arched just enough to tease, lips tugged into a soft smile.

“Sweetheart’s fine,” she murmured, her voice dipped in warmth. “Actually… I kinda like it.”

And Bucky—God, the relief that washed over him was palpable. His shoulders eased just slightly, like he’d been bracing for rejection and found only kindness waiting.

“Good,” he said, voice soft now. More reverent than relieved. Like it meant something more than she realized.

She turned back, resting her cheek against his shoulder again, and he leaned in, gently tilting his head to touch hers. The stars shimmered faintly above, distant and unbothered, and the whiskey sat cool and heavy in their hands.

She exhaled, slow and deep—only now realizing how long she’d been holding her breath.

“About the ‘doll’ thing…” she said, voice barely louder than the breeze brushing their faces.

He didn’t hesitate. Just turned slightly, watching her with that careful, open steadiness he gave her when she needed space to fall apart.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Not if it’s hard.”

“I do,” she said. There was no waver in it. Just quiet determination. “If we’re gonna go further, you have to understand.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded—slow, steady. And then his flesh hand came to rest on her shoulder. The brush of his thumb was gentle, grounding. Not pushing. Just a tether. A silent I’ve got you. A promise she could feel echo in the bones of her chest.

He knew this was going to hurt. And he was ready to hold space for every word of it.

She stared out at the night for a long moment, then looked down at the amber liquid in her glass before exhaling slowly.

“I’ve never talked about it before,” she admitted quietly. “Not to anyone.”

Bucky stayed silent, listening.

The city pulsed far beneath them, distant and quiet. She didn’t look at him when she began, eyes fixed somewhere past the stars—like the past had curled its fingers around her throat, and she had to look away just to breathe.

“Twenty years ago, I was with someone. We were young, in love. Thought we had all the time in the world. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good, in that messy, sweet, figuring-it-out kind of way. We had plans, dreams… For almost five years, it felt like one of those movies you probably tortured yourself with to plan this date.”

He smiled faintly but didn’t interrupt. His presence wrapped around her like quiet armor.

“And then it all just… stopped.”

Her voice caught—just for a second. Just long enough to fracture the air between them.

“There was a car accident. He didn’t make it. I did.”

Bucky's thumb stilled for half a beat, then resumed that slow, soothing motion. Like he was reminding her she was still here. Still breathing. Still held.

“And I had to relearn everything after that. How to be alone. How to breathe when my entire world had been gutted.” She shook her head, lips pressing together like they were holding back a scream. “I was broken. Physically, emotionally. For a while, it felt like I’d died too, just… kept walking.”

The kind of pain that rewrites your bones—that was what clung to her voice. Her eyes. The slump of her shoulders.

A long breath left her lungs, like it had been stored there for years. She swallowed hard, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to say.

“Then, someone stepped in. A mutual friend. We grieved together. He helped me relearn how to laugh. And eventually, I needed to feel something. Alive. Touched. Human. So after six months, we started… sleeping together.”

Her voice was soft, steady now, like she was reciting a memory she’d rehearsed a thousand times in her head. But every word still carried weight, dragging behind it invisible chains.

“It was supposed to be casual. No strings. I just needed to feel alive again. I had just lost the man I thought was the love of my life. I wasn’t ready for anything else. Didn’t know if I ever would be, even. And I thought he got that.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. The stones inside barely moved, held fast despite the tremble in her grip.

“But he didn’t. He’d been in love with me for years—long before the accident. And I didn’t know he saw that moment as his opening.”

She let that settle between them like ash from a long-dead fire.

“He started telling me he loved me. Every time. Over and over. And I didn’t answer, not at first. But after a while… I felt guilty. I was confused. And tired of hurting. So one day, I told him I loved him too.”

She shifted slightly—not to move away, just to ease the tightness in her chest, like the weight of what she carried had started pressing too hard against her ribs.

“It wasn’t a complete lie. I did love him, in a way. Like a friend. Like someone who helped me through hell. And I thought… maybe that could be enough.”

She stared up at the stars now, her voice flat but fragile. Every word like ice pressed to skin.

“Problem was, my parents were moving to another country. I had been staying with them during my recovery, and now I needed to choose. Either go with them to a place where I barely knew the language, or find a place to stay…”

She closed her eyes for a moment, lashes trembling.

“So I moved in with him.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Colder.

“And that’s when the nightmare began.”

Bucky said nothing. His hand hadn’t left her shoulder. But he was coiled beneath it all—tight and still, the kind of stillness that came before a storm. She could feel him tense, holding back—every instinct in him probably screaming to ask what happened, to hunt someone down, to protect her retroactively—but he just waited. Gave her space. Gave her control.

She took another sip of her whiskey, needing the burn this time. Then she looked down at the stones inside and clenched her teeth.

“He got possessive. Intense. I was still grieving. Still tired. But he didn’t care. He always wanted more. And I just… let it happen. Sometimes he’d coax me into things. Other times, I just… lay there. Looking at the ceiling. Making grocery lists in my head while I waited for it to be over.”

Bucky’s grip tightened, just barely—but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move. Just let her talk.

Just let her finally let it out.

“It lasted almost five years,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know how to leave. I had no energy. No will to start again. And society doesn’t exactly hand you a roadmap. I was almost thirty. Everyone else was getting married, having kids. And I thought… maybe this was it. Maybe this was what I was supposed to settle for.”

Her voice broke just slightly, then steadied—like a dam with a thin crack, barely holding back the flood.

“I worked. He didn’t. He drove me to the office and picked me up every day. Always there. Always watching. And then his best friend got married. And I just knew he was going to propose. I could feel it.”

She took another sip of whiskey, like it could burn the memory away—but it didn’t. Nothing ever did.

“I couldn’t breathe at the thought of being trapped like that forever. So I packed what I could carry and left. Moved in with a friend until I could stand on my own again.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Absolute.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes shimmered with tears, with the weight of what she’d shared. They weren’t dramatic tears—they were quiet, the kind that slip down your face when you’ve forgotten how not to hold things in.

“So yeah. That word? It takes me back there. To that grim apartment. Lying on my back. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering if this was all life had left for me.”

She let out a breath—shaky but freeing, like she was finally letting the ghosts out with it.

“I’m not there anymore. But it lingers. Like the bitter taste of ash.”

She let the silence drag for a few seconds, then added, quieter than before—like the words might shatter if she said them too loud:

“And it changed how I saw men.”

He still didn’t move. Still let her talk, knowing it wasn’t over. He didn’t dare rush something that had taken her years to hold together.

“Because before things turned bad, he was sweet. Funny. A good friend. The kind of guy you trust without even thinking about it.”

She exhaled a short sigh through her nose—the kind that sounds like regret. Like someone blaming themselves for not seeing the wolf hiding beneath a familiar smile.

“So now… when someone approaches me, I can’t help it. I overanalyze everything. Every word, every look, every shift in tone. Waiting for something to crack.”

She gave a weak smile—not quite bitter, not quite sad. More like it had just worn out.

“I didn’t do that with you. Not at first. Not until you called me... that. Then I froze... lashed out... to hurt you in return as a defense mechanism. Because it hit a place I thought I’d buried.”

A pause. Then, softly—too softly:

“But I know you’re not him. Or at least… I hope to whatever higher power you’re not.”

That last sentence hung in the air like mist—fragile and trembling. The kind of hope that comes from someone who’s been used too many times to ever trust their own instincts again.

Bucky looked down, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately. Just stared ahead into the night, whiskey untouched now, caught in the weight of everything she’d just given him—everything she'd carried alone for far too long.

And beneath it all, something dark and hot simmered in his chest. A fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It curled in his gut like fire licking at the edges of his restraint. Every word she’d spoken echoed like a wound reopening inside him—but he kept it there, buried. Contained. Because this wasn’t about him. Not now.

He could scream later. Break something later. She didn’t need rage. She needed someone steady. Someone who would hold her pain without adding to it.

So it took a long moment before he shifted, jaw still clenched, eyes burning with emotion as he set his glass down on the small wooden table in front of them.

Then slowly—carefully—he turned toward her.

His vibranium hand came up, gentle in a way that seemed impossible for something made out of such a hard material, and tilted her chin until their eyes met.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Roughened by emotion. Almost breaking.

“You’re safe with me. If you want me.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“I’m not perfect,” he went on, quietly. “Not even close. I still wake up choking on my own nightmares, remembering things I did when I wasn’t even me. I still feel like I’m something broken. A weapon. A relic from a world that should’ve stayed buried.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, soft as a feather—like he was afraid she might vanish if he touched her too hard.

“I don’t feel like I deserve ninety-nine percent of what’s come my way. Including you.”

His voice dropped even lower, like it wasn’t meant for the world to hear.

“But I’d do anything for you. No strings. No expectations. Just whatever you need.”

A long breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers. Like he was anchoring her to this moment, offering her all the steadiness she never got before.

“I wish I could erase all those years. The ones that made you feel like that word could strip you bare. I’ve seen hell too. Lived it. Carried it in my bones.”

A self-deprecating laugh—low and worn, like it had been dragged through the dirt.

“Still do, if I’m being entirely honest.”

His fingers curled slightly at her cheek, as if grounding himself in the present—because if he let go, even for a second, he wasn’t sure where his mind might spiral.

“But you, you made it through your own. You clawed your way out. You’re standing here. Breathing. Laughing. Trusting, even just a little.”

He gave the faintest shake of his head, in awe—but there was grief in his eyes too. For all the years neither of them could get back.

“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

His voice broke slightly at the edges—too full, too raw.

“And I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone more.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile—small, almost fragile. Not bright, not giddy. But real. The kind of smile that only comes after surviving something you never thought you’d crawl out of.

There were tears in her eyes, unshed but shimmering in the moonlight. And it wasn’t sadness, not really. It was something softer. Something quieter. A deep exhale after holding in too much for too long.

Because he hadn’t turned away.

He hadn’t doubted her, or minimized her, or changed how he looked at her.

He’d just been there, listening with his whole heart. And when he spoke—it had been like sunlight through broken glass. Gentle. Honest. Whole.

Her throat tightened, and she had to clear it softly to ease it. Even then, it didn’t help much. Her heart was pressing up against her ribs like it wanted to be seen for once.

She set her whiskey glass down beside his on the small table with a quiet thud, then reached out and rested her palm against his cheek. The cool metal of his arm near her skin steadied her somehow—but the warmth of his flesh cheek beneath her fingers made her chest ache in ways she didn’t have a name for.

Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, and her gaze stayed locked to his—steady despite the emotion shimmering behind it.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you.”

His breath hitched—just enough to tell her this meant as much to him as it did to her.

“With the nightmares. With the strings. With everything you are. The good. The bad. The sweet. The bitter.”

Her voice trembled just slightly, like it might break if she tried to hold back anymore.

“All of it.”

And then she leaned in, slowly, her eyes fluttering shut as her forehead brushed his. She felt him lean in too, breath warm against her skin, his own eyes closing as their lips met.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss. It wasn’t hurried, or rough, or hungry.

It was slow. Deep. A quiet promise shared in silence, sealed with warmth and trembling reverence.

He kissed her like she mattered.

And she kissed him like he was home.

They stayed like that for a long time—lips barely parted, foreheads resting together, breath mingling between them. Like two pieces of something shattered long ago, trying to remember how they once fit.

The world didn’t rush them. The rooftop felt like a quiet sanctuary far above the heartbeat of the city. Somewhere soft and safe, tucked away between constellations and the low, distant hum of life.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

His arm wrapped around her, pulling her gently into his side. Her head came to rest against his shoulder again, her fingers still loosely curled near his chest, like she was holding onto the moment with everything she had.

Their glasses sat forgotten on the small table beside them, amber liquid catching the faint glow of the rooftop lights—a quiet testament to the things they’d let go of tonight.

The stars shimmered above, uncaring and eternal.

Below, the city breathed—cars passed, lights behind windows turned on or off, music drifted faintly from a nearby building—but up here, time had slowed to a hush.

Just the two of them.

A woman who had learned to live again.

A man who never thought he could be wanted.

Two souls stitched back together by quiet strength and patient hands, sharing warmth beneath the endless sky.

From a distance, the rooftop looked like just one more light among millions, glowing gently in the dark.

But for them, it was their own safe little world.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

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[shinylipglosss]

Jensen Ackles x M!Reader

Ask

Your heart swirled inside you when you finally saw him. It had been years in the making. Now, you can meet Jensen.

He was in a skin-tight black shirt, the kind that clings to his round biceps. It was painful to only watch. As he conversed with a fellow fan, the cords in his forearms twisted. It was as if he wanted you to see them.

A fire lit within you, one that irresistibly clawed at you; it fought to get out. Your desire was palpable when it was your turn to meet him. You were completely crestfallen when he told you he hadn’t a lot of time. So all you could get was a simple hug and picture.

When his arms pulled you close to him, your brain became mush. Your mind scrambled to talk to him, but you found it impossible. Your body unconsciously memorised the shape of his, like it simply knew you would want the mental image.

You had watched all his stuff, sex scenes included, so you knew exactly what he looked like in bed. You yearned to see his sweat-slicked body pounding you senselessly—muscles tightening when he reaches his climax.

“You alright?” The handsome man peered down at you, smelling like an amalgamation of liquor and cologne—the expensive kind. It took everything in you not to whine with desperation at his voice, the deep sound resonating with your entire essence.

“‘Course.” You choked out, practically prying your eyes off the veins on his hands.

“C’mon, i wanna show you somethin’, before our time’s up.” With that, he whisked you away from the main room. Your cheeks heated watching all the other fans seethe with jealousy.

That ‘room’ was a small janitor’s closet. At the look on your face, Jensen was quick to defend himself. “It’s the only place we won’t be watched.” His breath was hot against your face, only adding to the pink of your cheeks.

“Why am i here?” In that moment, your longing for him forced its way out of you; giving an unnecessary look at his lips. A thick tension formed between you two. You were suddenly awfully aware of the way his body was mere inches from yours, how it was so much stronger than your own.

His lips crashed against yours like opposite magnets: destined to touch. His stubble scratched against you in a way that made you only crave it more. A hand pushed you deeper into the kiss and you resigned yourself to his tongue, instead feeling his hard-worked chest.

“We haven’t got long.” Was the first thing that fell out of Jensens kiss-swollen mouth after he stopped infiltrating your mouth. A single second without him in you and you almost begged for him back.

“Then we’ll be quick.” You huffed, helping him pull his shirt off. Mouth watering at the sight before you, you worshipped his nipples—tongue swirling around the pink rose buds.

He threw his head back violently, moving his hand to the back of your head. You smirked at his sensitivity. It didn’t take long before he forced you off him and slammed you against the wall, fumbling for his zipper.

With a powerful spit on your tight ring, he lined himself against you and pushed. You cried out causing his hand to clamp your mouth shut. “Good boy,” He growled out. “do you feel me?” You nodded desperately, not only did you feel him thrusting deep into you, you couldn’t feel anything else at all. He was the only thing.

His fingers traced the small of your back whilst muttering about how good you felt. Jensen placed both hands on your hips, pulling himself out of you and holding his tip at your rim before slamming right back into you. A gasp left your lungs uncontrollably. You were physically glued together. When he tried to pull back you pushed yourself against him.

His—what you could only assume was long—length hit your special spot with precision. Your body ached with need. You wanted him deeper—closer.

He growled, grabbing your hair. His arms cupped you and pulled up so you were right against him, a metal band around your waist. “I’m close.” His soft but firm voice chilled you. His pace began to quicken after his warning. Jensens hands were heavy on your hips. His breath hit against your ear. You could feel his chest rise and fall.

With one final deep thrust inside you he came. Long; thick spurts of liquid gushed from his tip and went straight to the depths of your hole. You grasped at Jensen, flinging your arms wildly. He took hold of your flailing arms and held your hand as he ejaculated in you.

“Thanks for coming today,” He breathed, a hint of humour in his voice. “but your time’s up.”

[bear-yawns]

𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘.　kimi antonelli · #12

　　　kimi has been trying to get your attention for years, frustrated at the fact that you only seem to recognize your brother's race results. is he really that invisible to you?

genres : fluff ... slight enemies to lovers ... reader is ollie's sister ... kimi antonelli x fem!reader.　request : anon for kimi + "did i... did i kiss you last night? i can't remember." for the 100 event　word count : 2.1k.　warnings : alcohol consumption (both reader and kimi get drunk) ... good old liquid courage helping reader out (could be read as underage drinking depending on the laws, but in australia and italy its both 18 so let's say it's not underage drinking lmao).　 note : i started writing this ages ago like literally right after australia and it's taken me this long to revisit the fic and finally finish it </3 but it's here now so yay!!　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

Kimi woke up with a buzzing headache. He had to attribute it to the alcohol consumed the night before while celebrating his race result in Melbourne. Twelve points scored on debut. It was certainly an astounding feat. Even now, articles were still being released praising the performance of the eighteen year old. Kimi couldn’t be happier. With a race as unpredictable as that to start out the season, any driver would just be happy to finish it without crashing. Almost getting a podium felt amazing.

Even with the pain burning across his forehead and slight ringing in his ear, Kimi couldn’t help but smile as soon as he woke up. Simply put, yesterday had been everything he could’ve dreamed of. There was still so much more to work towards, but just for now, he felt totally weightless, like he was floating through the clouds. Nothing could touch him. Nothing could bring him down from this high. For once, Kimi felt on top of the world.

That was, until it all came crashing down as soon as his eyes fell on you.

So much for nothing being able to bring him down from his high.

Anyone who had ever seen you and Kimi in the same room knew that you didn’t quite get along well. It wasn’t extreme hatred or anything, but you had always gotten on each other's nerves since you were little. Worst of all, you just couldn’t seem to stay clear of the other. 

Being Ollie’s sister, you were always there at races in Prema and even now in F1 as well. Kimi could not evade you. He saw your face everywhere.

He got along well with Ollie, but he often wondered how you could even be related to him. You were so different. Ollie was hardworking and precise while you always seemed laidback without a care in the world.

It didn’t stop you from being put together. Somehow, you were always effortless with whatever you did. Kimi never knew if you were trying hard or if everything just came naturally. The public loved to plaster the words prodigy next to your name. As someone who had been called a prodigy himself for many years, maybe there was something about you that intimidated him.

Perhaps he felt threatened by you— by your seeming perfection throughout every challenge. He knew how much he truly struggled to live up to the expectations set for him; how filling a seat that used to belong to Lewis Hamilton was pressure he wasn’t ready for. Until the race in Melbourne yesterday he was so sure he would crack under it all as soon as he got into the car. 

Some days he felt that maybe he just wished he was a little more like you. You were in the same situation at times; both of you had lots of expectations thrown at you, and endless pressure to perform under the hardest circumstances. Maybe he wasn’t made to handle the pressure. He didn’t want to find himself crumbling under it all when someone like you would surely shine. 

Besides your connection to Ollie, you had no real spot in the world of Motorsport. You didn’t drive, nor were you interested in engineering or strategics. Yet whenever you were outside of your own world, you found your way into Kimi’s. You were always there at races— often one of the first faces he saw when he stepped out of his car. He didn’t know why his eyes always seemed to find yours before anyone else's, or why he couldn’t get his brain to stop being annoyed whenever he did see you in the heart of the crowd. He felt relieved when you missed a race, as if it was finally a time for him to relax and not care about the result. But then the obvious questions arose in his brain. 

Why did he care about you being there? Why did he hate to see you cheer so proudly for your brother? Why did it sting when you didn’t cheer him on the same way?

But those questions were all old in his mind; all had their chance to linger for months and drive him slowly mad when he realized he wasn’t ready to face the answer. The main question that plagued Kimi’s headache-stricken brain right now was how the hell you had ended up falling asleep in his arms. 

Your head lay against his bicep, effectively trapping him. There was no way he could get up without disturbing your sleep, and for some weird reason a part of him was screaming to let you continue dozing. So he did. He lay completely still, eyes tracing the outline of your figure, quieting his breaths that seemed deafening against the silence of the room, as if they too might wake you up.

You were still in the outfit you wore the night before to celebrate the first race of the season, cheering on your brother of course. And even though your hair was a bit messy and your face bare of any makeup, you looked perfect in Kimi’s eyes. So full of life even though you were fast asleep. So comfortably situated in his arms as if you were meant to be held by them, even though this was certainly the first time he had been this close to you. 

The moment should’ve been peaceful, but to Kimi, it was anything but. His thoughts were racing faster than his car could go on track and he gulped as denied feelings he had kept down for so long floated up again. He tried to press them down once more, hide them for a while longer. Once you woke up he could make sure you pretended none of this ever happened and life would go back to normal. But he wasn’t sure he could do that— wasn’t sure that reality would be one he was able to accept. 

As his headache cleared and the events of the previous night settled in his memory a bit more intelligibly, he remembered exactly how he had gotten here in this bed with you securely in his arms. 

He had been a bit tipsy. Not fully drunk, but definitely enough to not think quite clearly. And you had been overconfident in finding yourself in places you shouldn’t have been. Such as, attached to Kimi’s arm; lips finding their way onto his. 

At least, he was nearly sure that had happened. He vaguely remembered the taste of tart cherry on your lips that was likely from whatever you had been drinking during the party. And you must have refused to leave his side to go back to your own hotel room to have ended up in his arms the entire night. 

And at that realization of his, your eyes fluttered open. You stared at him for a second, first in shock, and then in realization. You gasped and sat up straight, finally letting Kimi relax the muscles he had tensed to keep still.  

“Did I… did I kiss you last night? I can’t remember.”

Kimi’s breath hitched. So he wasn’t just making that part of the night up. His silence was enough of an answer for your question. 

“I’m sorry. I must’ve been more drunk than I realized,” you whispered in embarrassment, slipping a bit further away from Kimi once you realized just how close you had been lying to him. He bit back the words on his tongue that wanted to tell you to stay where you were, that he didn’t mind the closeness. 

“It’s fine. It was just one kiss,” Kimi assured quietly. 

“Are you sure it’s fine? You don’t sound sure,” you said pointedly. And you would be right about that. Kimi really wasn’t sure it was fine; not about the kiss, but how he wished it would happen again. How he wished it wasn’t just one kiss. How he wished that it hadn’t just been a drunken mistake on your part. Was it fine that he felt this way?

Kimi took a breath, “Why did you kiss me?” 

You were hesitant to answer. Some anxious part of you didn’t want him to know how long you had wanted to kiss him before this; how many months you had spent harbouring a secret crush on him. You went with the half truth. 

“I guess I just wanted to congratulate you on your race result. Your drive was incredible yesterday.” 

Kimi could tell that wasn’t the entire reason.

“You never seemed to care before now. You only ever celebrated Ollie’s achievements, even when I scored higher than him,” Kimi reminded you, sounding a bit hurt even though he didn’t mean for it to come across that way. “Has it changed now that I made it into F1?” 

“Ollie’s my brother—” 

“So I have to become family just to get you to cheer for me?” 

You sighed, “I didn’t mean it like that. I was happy for you before this race. In all of F2 I did want you to succeed as well,” you defended, explaining the situation you hoped you wouldn’t have to touch on. Your feelings around Kimi were complicated. 

“If you were happy for me, why did you never show it? I thought you hated me all this time because you never spared me more than a glance. I tried so hard to get your attention at the beginning and prove that I was an amazing driver like they all said I was, just for you to not even look at me. I was happy whenever you weren’t at a race cause it felt like I could finally breathe and drive just for the team without you on my mind for once.” Kimi was rambling at this point, his voice frustrated but earnest and still somewhat soft. Even if he was upset with you, he couldn’t raise his voice. And before he realized it, he had spilled much more than he ever meant to. He went quiet when he realized your eyes lingering on him, observing him so carefully. 

“All this time, you wanted my attention?” you asked. 

“It was all I wanted.”

You let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, covering your face with your hands in disbelief at the truth. It was comical, really, just how badly you both had misjudged each other. 

“So all this time… you were trying to impress me? And I was trying to avoid you because I thought it would be easier than getting close to you,” your voice got quieter as you trailed off. “I knew I could never stay friends with you. I’ve liked you for so long. That’s why I kissed you last night, Kimi,” you confessed, nervous but somewhat at peace with how everything was coming to light. It was nice to not have to hide it anymore. Even if he rejected you immediately, you would be at peace with it.

Kimi went quiet at your admission. You watched his adam’s apple bob down in a rushed swallow, his eyes darting away from your face as heat crept up his neck. You looked down at your hands, nestled in your lap above the covers. Your fingertips fiddled with the duvet on the bed, picking at the soft fabric absent-mindedly.

“So… what happens now?” he asked. Your eyes met his— those golden brown irises that always stuck in your mind, taunting you, teasing you, torturing you.

You took a breath, “I’m not drunk anymore, so there can be no excuses this time. If I kissed you again right now would you—”

You never got the chance to finish your question, much less prepare for the suddenness in which Kimi’s lips found their place on yours. With your mind clear of the alcohol and the atmosphere being the complete opposite of last night, you allowed yourself to truly enjoy the feeling, knowing it would stick in your mind forever. You could barely recall what the kiss last night felt like, but you were sure it couldn’t hold a candle to the tenderness with which Kimi kissed you now.

His hand on your jaw, thumb ever so lightly stroking your skin to the same rhythm his lips danced on yours to. His patience was contrasted with your eagerness as your fingers laced through his hair, pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss in whatever way you could.

At that moment it felt like nothing else mattered. Not the countless headlines and articles about Kimi’s incredible debut, not the next designer brand deal you would shoot for, not even the possible aftermath of you and Kimi becoming a thing. You didn’t care about how your brother would react or if he would approve or not. It wasn’t his place to butt in with an opinion either way. You knew from the way that Kimi kissed you that he was yours now, no matter what anyone said. Nothing could make you happier than that realization. 

Perhaps it wasn’t just Kimi floating on cloud nine, for there seemed to be another result even more satisfying than finishing P4.

kimi taglist: @divierses,, @lxvemaze,, @revelauver

[algebraic-dumbass]

Math explainer time!!

I'll do the complex dimension first because it's easier.

I *could* give fully rigorous formal definitions that are 100% correct but this would turn into a college lecture real quick and that's not my aim. So I'm gonna be handwaving quite a bunch of stuff, but keep in mind you can do everything precisely.

So what do we even mean by dimensions? Well, let me explain what we mean when we say a plane is "2d". Consider these two vectors in the plane:

There's two things we can do with vectors to get new vectors: we can scale them by a number, and add them together.

(side note: I'm kind of saying vectors and points are the same thing. If that bothers you, pretend i'm saying "thing that has two coordinates" everytime i'm saying "vector").

Imagine I only have access to the vector u. If I try to scale it, I'll be able to reach a whole line of vectors, but not the entire plane.

However, if I know about u and v, then I can get any vector in the plane, just by scaling u by some number, scaling v by some number, and adding them together:

This is what we mean when we say the plane is of dimension 2. We need two vectors, no more, no less, to be able to describe every other vector of it.

Okay, now on to complex dimension. I'm going to assume you've heard of complex numbers. Complex numbers are often represented as a plane, because they have "two coordinates", as in, any complex number can be written as x + iy, with x and y real numbers.

Since complex numbers are a plane, they are of dimension 2 in the sense that I just described.

But what if... I allowed myself to scale vectors not just by real numbers, but also by complex numbers?

That's right! Pretend this is the complex plane, and consider this vector, who corresponds to the real number one:

If I want to get any complex number using this vector, that's very easy. To get the vector representing x+iy, I can just scale this vector representing one by the number x+iy. So if I allow myself to scale vectord using complex numbers, I only need one vector to get everything. This is what it means to say the complex plane has complex dimension 1.

This does not fully answer what I mean when I say the shape I sent previously has complex dimension 1. That is because I haven't really told you how to get the dimension of any shape. Basically I've been talking to you about the dimension of a vector space (from the hit game Linear Algebra). This whole "adding and scaling vectors" fails for more complicated shapes; consider the surface of a sphere. We want to say the surface of a sphere has dimension 2, but there is no notion of "vectors", much less "adding" and "scaling". The solution here is that if you imagine zooming in veeeery close to the surface of the sphere, it would look like a plane. And we know how to tell the dimension of a plane, and we know that it is 2, so the dimension of the surface of a sphere is 2.

Similarly, that's what happens with the shape I sent above (it's called a Riemann surface). If you zoom in on it, it looks like a complex plane, so it has complex dimension 1.

Disclaimer: you might be tempted to conclude that anything that looks like a plane has complex dimension 1. There are some technicalities here I am not going to get into. However, the opposite is true: if something has complex dimension 1, then it will look like a plane (have real dimension 2).

Now there remains the bunch of points (actually an elliptic curve, curve meaning "dimension 1") I sent and the field with 23 elements. Basically us math people really like to generalize stuff. So we abstracted away this whole "number scales vector" thing, and now the numbers can be a lot of things! We only require that what we call our "numbers" form something that we call a "field". I am not going to go into more detail because this post is already really long, but basically, you have "other numbers" and working over them gives you a new notion of dimension, just like how passing to complex numbers from real numbers changed our notion of dimension.

Side note: if you know about modular arithmetic, the field with 23 elements is specifically the integers modulo 23.

End note: the whole "zoom in on it" thing is more or less the basis of differential geometry. It does not (to my knowledge) work for more exotic things such as the bunch of points I sent. To really define the dimension of this, you need even more advanced tools, of algebraic geometry. Math gets complicated fast, but I hope this post inspires you to learn more about it!

you should learn about theoretical physics. It's like math you'll love it. index promise

if it was like math then it would be called math. and if it is like math, i'll learn about in anyways. i don't care for the links to the real world i use math as escapism

[mutable-manifestation]

Ghost Chirps AU Part 5

Part 1 & 2

Part 3

Part 4

***

While “Jason” (i.e. Alfred with an empty jet that Jason will meet up with later in order to “arrive” in Amity) hops a private jet, Red Hood is busy searching the Fenton home from top to bottom.

The local police move slowly, and by the time they arrive Jack and Maddie Fenton are both tied up and disarmed in their living room under heavy guard.

They hadn’t been restrained immediately, Batman talking him into giving them a chance to implicate themselves first.

Hood let him take the lead, but he didn’t even get a chance to ask a question, being cut off at the first indication he might want to talk about their “work.” Less than 60 seconds in, and the pair had outright confessed to violating the meta protection acts - and in tedious detail.

The questioning didn’t suffer any from them being tied up.

Far from the mulish silence or crocodile-tear laden denial of most criminals, they instead doubled down, insisting that nothing they had done was illegal, then jumping to the assumption that they were “possessed” - and boy had it been a nasty surprise when the whole house came alive trying to attack them with a quick verbal command.

Well, trying to attack Hood. And only him, for some reason.

One laser also freed the Fentons, who turned out to have even more weapons built into their suits. 

Somehow. 

Despite them being skintight.

That had been a pain, but Red Robin was able to hack the system using one of the couples’ own devices while Hood dodged - and kept the stray fire away from the others - leaving everyone else to recapture the pair. A blessedly simple task once they found out the lasers would splash harmlessly off of their armor (save for a gross film of green goop left wherever they grazed).

They take turns knocking each unconscious to change them in order to properly disarm them - Batman and Nightwing taking Jack first, followed by Orphan and Spoiler dealing with Maddie. 

The only non-weapon laden clothing they own turns out to be pajamas. 

This is around when the police show up, looking hesitant.

They, too, cite the “Anti-Ecto Acts.”

Oracle had debriefed them on the supposed Acts and “Ghost Investigation Ward” on their short drive over. Both were utterly bogus - the Acts had never even been proposed, let alone been approved as law, and the so-called “GIW” had no ties to the government.

The Fentons had been furious and denied the information intensely when told, but the cops mostly just looked relieved.

Apparently there’d been a lot of property damage by the GIW and Fentons both that had supposedly been dismissed under the Acts as “necessary in the pursuit of ecto-scum.”

For the Fentons, half of this damage was in the form of broken fire hydrants, cracked sidewalks, and totaled cars - they’d never been good drivers, before, the cops disclosed, but they’d become even more negligent since the ghosts began appearing, to the point they had to have a news segment warning when they would be on the road.

The lack of fatalities thus far had been nothing short of a miracle, they claimed.

“Of course there haven’t been any fatalities!” Mrs Fenton defends. “Our work is to protect people from those things, not make more! Officers, listen to reason-” Hood snorts disdainfully -”The Red Hood is clearly a ghost! All our systems targeted him the moment they came online - and they only target ecto-entities. He’s clearly taken these heroes under his sway - why else would they be working with a murderer!? You have to do something before he starts up his killing here in Amity!”

The officers look at him a bit hesitantly, but Batman is unmoved and gives the cover story Hood had outlined back in the alley.

Any concerns the locals have are quickly assuaged.

But for the whole explanation, Jason is trying not to shake even as he falls apart in place.

Their little website called them ghost-hunters, making it pretty clear what “ecto-entities” meant. 

Their system supposedly only targets ecto-entities.

The system had only targeted him.

The system only targets ghosts.

Jason had died.

A lot of his family members had died, too, granted. 

But Jason was the only one who seemed to come back wrong - anger sticking in his throat and never quite fading, an inclination towards violence even when he wasn’t angry well beyond what he’d ever felt before, and a sea of other emotions (that he would never acknowledge aloud) and triggers for those emotions that he always struggled to make heads or tails of.

He doesn’t have the meta gene. He knows that. He knew that.

He just assumed that the test missed it, because he knows he doesn’t know magic - the All Blades being the only exception - and he couldn’t think of another explanation at the time.

But he came back wrong.

And as he stands there, he wonders if he came back at all, mind on Solomon Grundy.

Wonders if he isn’t just some ghost, wandering around possessing his own corpse.

He jolts, as the thought strikes him: what about Danny?

If he’s a ghost and chirping is a ghost thing then what about his KID!?

Absently, he notes that Bruce has started interrogating the cops on what they meant by “ghost attacks.” 

He ignores the discussion, hustling for the door in the kitchen down to the lab.

He slams and locks the door behind him - in Red Robin’s face - as he descends, making a b-line for the computer he’d seen when the Fentons had dragged them all down there to start bragging about their crimes.

The only thing Oracle could get out of the whole building was things that were openly available online; direct connections were impossible.

Opening up the screen, he gets to cracking.

Going for the surface level files first, it turns out he doesn’t even need so much as a password to find what he wants.

One of the video game sub-files has an unrelated file in it: ghost notes.

There are plenty of other notes, of course, but he’d only been skimming to start, looking for anything hidden.

The Fenton parents were too open to bother, of course, with plenty of more obvious files strewn haphazardly across the home screen, but it’s always better to check. That there is a hidden file means it was likely made by either Danny or Jazz.

And it’s a treasure trove.

Sub-files for rogues, allies, conditional allies, and “halfas” were what greeted him.

The last being the only term he didn’t recognize, he clicked.

6 files: Clones, Danny, Dani, Dan, Vlad, and Red Hood.

He clicks his own file.

What greets him is a picture of himself 4 days ago, looking just to the left of the lens in an alley that he distinctly remembers searching for the kid in.

Just below is text.

~~~

??? Name: Red Hood

Species: probably a halfa

Status: Nnnneutral? I think? I know, I know, heads in bags. But Valerie tries to kill me all the time! And we’re allies sometimes! Hood- uh- looked for me? Okay I guess I can’t really judge this yet but please read the first met section before you judge please you guys?

First met: Aug 17, 2005, was in Gotham to bother Batman, stopped to think a bit on some fire escape - decide on the first prank yknow - but then my ghost sense went off. It felt like a halfa so I thought “oh cool, must be Dani” so I chirped, but then Red Hood - who was chasing some guy down an alley at the time - froze and looked around. I dropped visibility and chirped again and yeah, he definitely heard it. Humans can’t so he’s definitely a halfa - no glow so he can’t be a full ghost and it felt nothing like an overshadowing. 

Ended up following Hood around the rest of week - forgot to prank Batman, damn - and playing hide-and-seek with the chirps. It was really funny. But he very obviously doesn’t know he’s a halfa. But the guy is, like, scary levels of smart, so I’m sure he’ll figure it out on his own now that the chirp thing made it clear that something is up. Hopefully.

I figure I can go back in winter break - he should have it figured out and let his emotions process enough by then to at least hear me out when I explain the AEA and GIW and everything, then it won’t matter so much if he can, like, track me by voice or something if I talk since we’ll have MAD by then.

Despite his reputation, the people living in his haunt seem to love the guy. I can see why. On top of the whole smart he’s actually really nice to people he’s not shooting in the knees (which only even happened one time in the week I was there? It was actually pretty relaxing - most quiet week I’ve had since the portal opened THANK YOU TUCKER for hacking the portal hatch to be inoperable for a week). 

Where was I? Oh yeah, he’s actually surprisingly nice to people? So like, I think he’ll probably hear me out if I go back and be polite? I hope. Hate to leave the guy in the dark and him end up on the GIWs dissection table for “lots and lots of painful experiments.”

Not that those guys could even catch the Box Ghost. But uh, Hood doesn’t seem to have powers either? Or if he does he doesn’t know about them I don’t think - he only used the chirp the whole time I was their - not even to cheat with moving around.

Seriously. That guy's acrobatics could make Freakshow’s contortionist green - er, red??? - with envy. Actually wait, aren’t contortionists and acrobats different things?

SAM NOTE: help^?

Powers: 

?

~~~

Jason leans back, breathing deeply.

“Not a full ghost,” “not 'overshadowed'” - a term that sounds likke some kind of cousin to possesision - “definitely a halfa,” “humans can’t hear chirps.”

Halfa. 

Half. 

Ghost. 

Half Ghost.

It should sound absurd - you can’t be half alive and half dead.

But Jason has seen the Lazarus pits, has met Solomon Grundy, has met aliens and bullshit magic and can pull magical swords out of his own damn chest.

Half alive. Half dead.

Hopefully not just a fancy way to say possessing his own corpse.

He doesn’t have time to deal with every file - he’ll “confiscate” one of their USBs with a copy of everything for himself before leaving the rest to Batman & co, of course, minus the halfa files (a small part of him wants to shove his condition in Bruce’s face and demand he kill the clown again even though he knows it’s a futile hope, but the rest - the same part that snapped and denied and refused to say he was a meta less that a day ago now - cannot stomach the thought of even more rejection. Of a Bruce that believes he’s a monster. Of a Bruce that mourns him even while he’s right there. Or at least, more than he already does.) - but while the files copy he take the time to look at Danny’s.

The image has two people, Danny Fenton on one side and a version of the kid in a black hazmat suit with white hair, tanned skin, and painfully familiar green eyes. And floating.

~~~

Human Name: Danny Fenton

Ghost Name: Danny Phantom

Species: Halfa (half-human, half ghost)

~~~

It’s the section after that that makes Jason’s breath catch in his throat.

~~~

Death: The Portal Accident

So like, there was no audio (thank GOD I do not want to hear myself screaming) so. Details: When the portal didn’t work when they plugged it in mom and dad left for fudge, Jazz went to try and talk them into a more realistic career choice than ghosts. Sam and Tucker came over and Sam dared me to climb in and check it out - it was broken anyway so no harm. Except it wasn’t broken, just that my parents put the on button inside. Which I caught myself on when I tripped on a wire.

Anyway, electrocution! 

(T - Danny for the love of god be more serious, the cheerful tone is creepy)

(D - Hey! I’m the one who died! Shouldn’t I at least get to write my own epitaph)

(S - …Danny this is not an epitaph. You don’t even HAVE a grave)

(D - wow way to rub it in Sam)

(T - yeah Sam)

(S - ugh! Whatever, just stop with the chatting in official files)

(T - “official”)

(S - Tucker.)

(T - shutting up now)

Electrocution! I got zapped to death, but the ectoplasm from the portal was also opening up on top of me and a lot got bonded to me I guess (S - probably because of the electricity with how you ended up with some of Vortex' powers for a little while) at the same time said electricity was reviving me? - probably getting my heart beating again or something, I was a little busy screaming to pay attention (T - yeah okay we're going to Nasty Burger after this. And playing Doomed) - not that it would’ve mattered without the ghostification preventing me from melting me all the way to death.

Status: Me!

Powers:

Chirps! (ghost echolocation of some kind! humans can't hear em - halfas can, of course, in either form)

Form Change (really Sam? This barely counts)

Human form

Ghost form (no need to breathe)

Flight (last clock speed 210mph) (T - and climbing. Dang dude)

Invisibility (S - don’t forget shareable.) (Shareable. sigh)

Intangibility (Shareable)

Ecto Rays (eyes & hands) (T - and butt) (D - dude! I’m deleting that. Tucker why can't I delete it. TUCKER) (T - bow down in awe of my ksill) (S - ksill) (D - ksill) (T - yeah okay it’s permanent now) (D - aw man!)

Ghost Sense (S - why do we never test your range?) (D - no need? They always make themselves obvious or are being sneaky specifically to annoy me so *shrug*) (S - I still think we should test it)

Power Absorption (that time with Vortex’s weather powers)

Cryokinesis (Wayyyyy to much ice. NOT testing max output on that) (T - yeah frozen city was enough, let’s not cause an ice age. Tech needs some cool but too much is still bad and I just upgraded Patricia)

Ghostly Wail (cone of destruction, very exhausting - always at max output. Not to be used)

GHOST FORM ONLY (but really just never)

Cartoon Body (D - what???) (S - Freakshow literally turned you into a puddle and you just turned back and were fine. I don’t know what else to call that) (D - okay fair. but:)

GHOST FORM ONLY

Physical Enhancement (better strength, speed, stamina, durability, reflexes, balance, etc much better than human) (T - why does this look like dnd knockoff stats haha)

GHOST FORM ONLY (S - obviously mr last place in PE)

Resistances (pretty solid on the overshadowing, avoided being taken in by Ember until targeted, didn’t get turned to stone during the Medusa thing) (S - which was pure luck! Be careful!)

Ecto Electricity (ghost stinger, but I really don’t think this counts Sam. I mean I just. Make my ecto zappy. But it’s still just ecto) (S - so is your ICE and you don’t just call that "just cold ecto") (D - fine, but it feels overly specific) (S - maybe writing it all down will make you stop. Forgetting. POWERS!) (D - come on Sam that was a lucky hit! I was distracted! And it turned out fine!) (S - Fenton…) (D - oop okay doing fire now)

Ecto Fire (made Dash’s shoes melty that one time by make the ecto hot) (T - really needs more testing)

Tech possession (chasing Technus into computers, not very tested)

Ghost form only, i guess?

Overshadowing (control people, copy their voice, invade dreams - the control one erases the person’s memory so they don’t know they were overshadowed just lost time. I hate Walker. SO much) (T - rip Danny’s reputation, you’ll be missed)

Probably ghost form only

Duplication (T - That’s optimistic) (D - I’M WORKING ON IT OKAY!?) (S - pretty sure it just falls under cartoon body until you can actually separate) (D - :( betrayal)

Probably ghost form only

More? (D - ugh I hope not) (T - hey don’t say that, maybe you’ll get a power to make the JL give a crap about Amity) (D - honestly I’m getting pretty close to letting Boxy loose in Gotham) (S - Danny, don’t stoop to their level!) (D - it's only box ghost!) (T - I mean he has a point)

~~~

Jason changes his mind, seeing the commentary, and deletes the entire hidden file from the computer as soon as his copy is made. He can go over everything and bring any important info to Bruce separately, the bat’s can just chew on the parents’ files for now.

Once the original files are thoroughly and irretrievably removed he pockets his shiny new USB, makes a second one with all the official files, and heads back up and out - carelessly brushing past a thoroughly irate Red Robin with a pair of firemen and broken jaws of life. And not a scratch on the door; impressive - just in time to get Oracle’s text that he’s got 2 hours and 16 minutes to be at the location on his HUD so he can “arrive” to Amity.

And a fresh set of civilian clothes will be waiting in the plane, Alfred as reliable as ever.

“Files,” he says, tossing the safe USB to Batman and interrupting his interrogation of the police officer.

He catches it effortlessly of course, but the officer stops paying attention to him to jolt at Hood’s reappearance - even outside of Gotham his reputation is fierce.

“I sent a copy to myself. I’ll review them and give you an overview, but other than that consider this the end of my involvement in this little shitshow,” he says, continuing smoothly to the door. “I’m heading back to Gotham.”

Now, he has a little over two hours before Jason Todd needs to arrive in Amity Park. He only needs to lay hands on a laptop that he can isolate from Babs’ influence and he should be able to review the Halfa files in full before he "lands" - after he figures out just why the kid has a grudge against the JL.

[kindnessoverperfection]

ADHD really does put everything at equal levels of importance, huh? Like I'll have an email I need to write that'll take maybe 10 minutes, and getting that done will alleviate 6 months of stress. Then I'll notice a sock on the floor I need to put away. Then I'll get the strong conviction that it's up to me to cure cancer. And my brain will tell me that I need to do all of them at once, start and finish them all in the time span of 0 seconds, and my executive dysfunction will throw up its hands and do none of the above.

[all-pacas]

HERE WE GO, i love this episode.

one of the most interesting lines to me, of the entire episode, is when house and wilson are discussing chase. wilson is of the not-unfair view that house should stop playing with chase and just fire him, but house is fairly dismissive of the idea: all he did was save his job, he shrugs. this echoes something he says to cameron back in control, when she says chase is worried about his job: i want chase scared, house tells her. i want chase doing everything he can to save his job. these two lines by themselves do everything to explain why house lets chase off the hook, some cursory harassment in this episode aside.

it's also a theme we'll see in the future for house, both with his employees and his friends: house wants people to prove, time and time again, that they want to be around him. he nearly fires taub for being torn about the job, he starts the great s6 team reshuffle by trying to force everyone to beg him for employment: but we also see it time and again with wilson, i think, the way house keeps putting wilson in positions where he has to actively chose house (over his career, wife, girlfriend). in an odd way, house reveals that chase's ratting was exactly what he wanted from chase: not the ratting per se, but chase willing to throw out the possibilities of respect and good will just to stay in house's department. chase passed the loyalty test. chase can stay.

speaking of future episodes, and something insane i'm kind of obsessed with: in s2's the mistake, stacy puts the date of kayla coming to the hospital (and rowan chase's death) at may 11th, 2005. this episode aired on may 3rd; love hurts aired on may 10th, and we know that episodes tend to "happen" around their air dates. while we can't really talk about that episode now, it's kind of insane that chase is a few days out from his father dying as he's actively trying to win his way back into house's good graces, right??

BUT, let's talk about cameron now. as big of a defender of cameron as i am and always will be, i've always found her to be slightly… off… in this episode and parts of the next, in a way that's hard to explain. i think the key point comes to house at her door, talking about how he has been looking at applicants. cameron makes a joke about him objectifying them, and house laughs awkwardly and tells her he needs her because she keeps him in his place. and… does she? this is not a joke we've ever heard cameron make before (she's actually fairly outraged, and justifiably, when he tells her she was hired for her looks). nor does she usually "keep house in his place:" she argues with him, but has spend most of s1 acting as his largest and most loyal supporter; foreman and chase are both more likely to argue with house than she is. at the same time, i can't say it's entirely wrong (actually, in s4/5, cameron does spend a lot of time acting in precisely this way); it feels like we are seeing an intended characterization more than an actual one. more on that next episode.

her asking house on a date is very silly, but very cameron: she mentions things were awkward between them, failing to mention she is largely the instigator of that; she comes the closest she ever does to admitting her own feelings for house in demanding a date from him, but still tries to frame the situation as one where she is a passive figure, where all of this is house's idea. she's still protecting herself, she's still controlling the situation to protect herself. cameron really has not given house an inch in this entire arc, and i do wonder how differently things might have gone if she had, if she were a little less afraid of leaving her comfort zone and a little less eager to yank house out of his own. as we've just seen with chase, house is very susceptible to people making their desire to be around him obvious. cameron isn't actually doing that! she is framing it as house's desire to be around her, which isn't untrue but is so much scarier.

but as silly as cameron is, i still can't really blame her for believing she has a shot. house has been very contradictory around her, and showing up at her apartment twice to ask her back isn't exactly a subtle hint of his feelings. on the one hand, with retrospect, we know house would (and will!) do this for almost all of his team at one point or another, but that doesn't make the gesture meaningless. she's always pretty eager to read house as the person she wishes he was (wishes she were too, i think), and… it's not exactly mixed signals when he shows up at your door telling you he needs you around.

i want to jump to s3 and the fwb arc so badly here, so indulge me for a second: it is fascinating, and also so incredibly funny how cameron ends up repeating history in s3 when she propositions chase, only with her in the role of house. she tells him no feelings will be involved and that she has no interest in him, but spends months giving all sorts of mixed signals. when chase tells her he likes her, she brushes him off, and so chase becomes cameron, telling her that he knows she has feelings for him, and continuing to pursue her despite her denials. he is fired (where cameron quit), but just as when cameron quit, chase takes a moment to let cameron out of her obligation and feelings; cameron then shows up at his door to win him back. beat for beat, the two arcs match. the crucial difference is that cameron, unlike house, is able to reciprocate. while at first cameron tries to get chase to go back to work ("house will call and yell at you for not being at work monday"), as house does here, cameron is also able to muster up the strength to make a confession of feelings. it's fascinating. and maybe that's why i can never hate the hameron arc in s1: cameron will later do it all over again, but this time, she'll do what house can't.

house md rewatch: 1x19, "kids"

or the one where cameron's absence is so obvious that it causes a meningitis outbreak.

i'm qualifying this one as another stepping-stone episode for me, personally. i liked a lot of pieces of it, and obviously we get some major plot movement with cameron and house at the end, but i think we've entered Full Speed Ahead to the finale atp.

we open and close 1x19 with house and cameron, offering us a framed narrative that gets punched straight through at the end when cameron makes her shocking demand: a date! that's what it will take to get her back into PPTH. even without any foreknowledge, we can safely assume it's a loaded request with some pretty disastrous results incoming. but still, i have to say - i really hated this.

i see the plot and character resonance here. if i'm pretending like i haven't seen the resulting date (which i don't hate, despite disagreeing with the initial premise here), i still understand that a "date" will function more like a forced confrontation/dissection between 2 characters who have been struggling against the social norms of Having A Crush. it's not a role that either performs well, so good for cameron for trying to find a middle-ground, i suppose, but i sincerely can't get past the 2000s tv of it all. surely there could have been a more interesting way to do it. it's one house md's most daring attempts at breaking and/or redefining a trope, and i think this time it just falls flat.

i wish we didn't get to know cameron through this season-long dynamic with house, and i cannot wait for the deeper forays we get next season. i apologize for that negativity lol i just had to come clean about it. my patience has all but worn thin for this saga between them.

though i did like the visual representation of cameron being unable to progress forward by running in place on a treadmill to open the episode. she wasn't really going anywhere, was she?

as well as how house's acquiescence (HEAVY on the acquiescence) to her demands to come back mirrored how he asked her why she liked him. there are always bits and pieces to be appreciated, even amidst what i'd call rubble lol.

BUT! cameron's absence from this episode was very impactful in a way that i really enjoyed. after flubbing another attempt at soothing things between them, house is confronted with his worst nightmare: a clinic full of people who genuinely need his attention. watching chase and foreman fumble around, lacking the sensitivity that cameron carries so naturally in her practice, was an odd moment of solidarity between them, especially when they were so thrilled when house relieved them.

no such solidarity exists long term, however, since house dials his beef with chase up to 11. to me, it felt as if he was preaching cameron's noble high-road tendencies to chase, but vindictively, thus missing the point, when he forces chase to go through a medical glossary throughout the episode. of course it doesn't take - nobody can be like cameron, despite house's greatest wishes. house even dismisses the ingenuity of one of chase's ideas, which gets him the most upset, in the same way that cameron's ideas were often dismissed.

overall, he's clearly goading chase to crack and lash out in anger, like he's been so quick to do lately, and though chase gets increasingly aggravated, he maintains his cool.

i also really enjoyed the subtle callback to chase being raised catholic. he's replaced a bible for a medical textbook, replaced a stringent teacher and/or father with his surrogate father figure, who so happens to be the figurehead of chase's career in medicine, analogous to a church. good stuff.

it's wilson's preaching that breaks through to house on 2 fronts, both of which implicate cameron in the scene i've already mentioned. during fruitless interviews, it's very clear that house is looking for nobody but cameron, a way that he can a) preserve his normal and b) be around cameron, ofc, because he likes/cares for her. superficially, wilson is motivating house to be honest with cameron for once so he can stop indulging his habit of pushing people away.

but wilson also makes the point to broaden the conversational horizons (love you and your moralizing platitudes, honey). he clarifies that house has "a history" of pushing people away and that he's talking about "every woman you've ever given a damn about!" in the face of house's jabs over perfection, he warns that "you're gonna wind up alone, house."*

this speech doesn't solve the problem entirely, ofc, but it points house in the right direction, and he finds solace/confirmation of his next steps in the patient, mary. mary is steeling herself in the face of horrifying circumstances - being traumatically pregnant at 12 years old - and insists that her parents, her team, don't need to know what she's going through. house preserves her privacy, but sees her give in to her parents just before he goes back to cameron's house:

house sees the strength in mary and, due to this show's hilarious habit of equating life-altering medical trauma to petty interpersonal issues, is inspired to be honest and "ask for help" in his own way. with that in mind, i like what house brings to the table when he returns to cameron. he's reflected and grown and saved a kid's life along the way. the understanding that, though he may technically be strong enough to subsist alone, he doesn't always have to, is pretty profound. too bad he won't hang onto it lol.

i need to shout out cuddy, like always, for 1) managing this absolute hellacious situation in her hospital; 2) putting up with house and wilson's shit the entire time; and 3) immediately understanding the urgency when house explains that the patient is bleeding into her brain and forcing open an operating room for her. i love that cuddy's strong instincts are such an integral part of her character, such that i find myself taking them for granted sometimes.

overall? neat episode. again i apologize for the splurge of negativity in there. i like what the house/cameron arc says for them by its end, but it is Taking Too Long for me.

major hilson posting below (i would put another 'read more' section break if i could!):

*okay so what's crazy about the "you're gonna wind up alone, house" exchange is not that it ends up being just NEARLY true, but wilson's emphasis on women. idc if i'm grasping at straws that haven't even been manufactured yet because it's still season 1. in the conversation, they're talking around each other; wilson is trying to pin house down amidst all his attempts at obfuscating, but wilson is physically moving through the scene, working, driving the dialogue:

i have made MANY posts (lots during my live blogging era) of how house and wilson often invert visual shot compositions/dynamics. in their case, usually whoever is seated and looking up is in charge of the conversation, and the person trailing behind is usually the subject of the conversation (think 4x14). and here's how the conversation plays out (with some omissions for brevity):

"you always find some tiny little flaw to push people away."

"...when i do decide to push you away, i hope there's a small person kneeling behind you so you fall down and hit your head." this is crazy btw. think of all the people house subsumes in wilson's life.

"you had the perfect person. and you blew it."

"cameron is so not perfect."

"well nobody's perfect."

wilson being house's imperfect "good side" holds weight here. nobody is perfect, admitted by the faulty personification of that perfection meant to contrast house at every turn but, again, forever failing in that regard. even visually the roles have been assigned - wilson's prestine white coat vs. house's sloppy black coat.

we have also now firmly established that these 2 have seen each other thru many failed relationships, and in an episode defined by the loss of one (house's relationship to cameron), i think this is relevant. in a conversation about house's tendency to remove people from his life, the audience has a subtle laugh about how these 2 seem to be eternal friends despite that tendency, and it's wilson who genders things. wilson introduces the subject of women, even though they interviewed a male candidate earlier.

what i'm getting at is that wilson is house's perfect person, of course. i think 1x19 builds a funny, unimportant setup for this subtextual joke really well, actually, but if i break my own rules and invite outside context into this post, this joke stands the test of time.

[madaqueue]

SNOWED IN ✧ QUINSU

twelve days of selfshipmas ✧ day six ✧ snowed in

cuddling, baking, movies in bed, watching the snow fall

quinn: babyyyyy come back to bed

suguru: i have to take the cookies out, my love

quinn: but it’s so cold without you :((

suguru: …i guess they could wait one more minute

(we burn the cookies, laugh about it, and make another batch)

[boxwinebaddie]

too sweet by hozier came on and it was especially painful for me bc u'd think it's a jk abt rs song....but its Actually a rs about jk song

which, um, Ow

[skylarbee]

you can poke your head behind the mountain peak, don't have to mean that you've gone into hiding

[astralhope]

While I was rewatching the first Zexal episodes, I noticed something interesting: aside from stuttering his name the first time they met, Yuma never referred to Astral by his name until episode 6. He only referred to Astral as “ghost”, “spirit”, or “this guy”, or simply “you” when talking directly to him. At the beginning of episode 5 Yuma is saying to Kotori and Testuo that Astral had repeatedly told him the day before to call him Astral. Furthermore, since Kotori and Tetsuo didn't have any idea that Astral had a name, shows that Yuma had never said his name while they were around.

I don't think that being called like that was a bother to Astral initially, (he wasn't even sure that Astral was his name when he crashed on Earth), but, probably, after knowing the name of the place he was from (and that he had a mission to fulfill), he started to have a more strong sense of himself and wanted Yuma (who was the only person who could see him) to call him by his name (and also wanting Yuma's friends to use his name and not calling him “ghost”).

In this scene, Yuma says Astral's name, but he is just repeating what Astral had said to him.

The first time Yuma calls Astral by name properly and directly to him is during episode 6, after Tokunosuke took control of Leviathan Dragon and Astral's condition worsened. And after that, he calls Astral's name two more times, trying to get him to answer.

Astral, instead, tries to use Yuma's name from the start... with poor results.

But in the next episode, when talking to himself, he refers to Yuma with his correct name (while Yuma calls Astral a ghost or similar even when he was talking to himself).

Astral calls Yuma with his correct name for the first time during episode 3, when he tells Yuma to duel against Mr. Ukyo because he has a Number.

It's kind of ironic that it took more than one episode to make Yuma and Astral say the other's name, seeing how the more the show progresses, the more these two end up screaming each other's name.

[amelikos]

The Horizons stage show in AnimeJapan 2024 (last year) was interesting and the bits with Friede and Amethio's VAs are still on my mind. They got to talk about their battles and their characters in general. (The event took place one day after the initial broadcast of HZ044 and before chapter 2 ended and thus reflects the events of the anime at the time.)

Either way, Horie Shun (Amethio's VA) talked about how Amethio changed through his battles with Friede. How Amethio battled out of a sense of duty at first, but gradually, feelings of frustration and his personal desire of wanting to win began to develop inside of him.

And Yashiro Taku (Friede's VA) talked about how through his encounters with Amethio, Friede grew to respect/acknowledge his will/conviction even though they had different objectives at the time.

Very interesting insights from their VAs, hopefully the same this year too.

[simcardiac-arrested]

zavijava info PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!! PLEASEEEEE ZAVIJAVA COME HOME ... PLEASE .... umm um um ill tell you about umm . tma au im making for nastya if u tell me about her .PLEASE!!!!!!!

so she is definitely a star of some kind. i mean she is an angel but in that story in particular The Stars are kind of angels. like they’re otherworldly beings and they jus kinda hang out. cosmically. it’s a different dimension separated from the human one but like, obviously stars still exist for humans, they just don’t do anything crazy because the rules of the world dictate that their realities shouldn’t interact. angels can observe the other world from far up above yet they still exist on a different level. But tbh zavijava had never enjoyed the otherworldly ethereal whatever lifestyle—she just didn’t feel like she fit in there. she is a #1 humans fan though so she knows that’s where she’d fit in. so she does just that. she fits in perfectly :) and normally :) yay :)

[i-havenothingelsetopost]

genuine question, do you like maths?? i have a vague feeling i saw your post of tags or something that said something about it but i cannot figure out if it was in fact you or if it was even positive ahahah

Yeah that was me! I don't go looking for math problems, but when I happen to do them, I tend to enjoy it. Wasn't always this way — elementary school math was about speed and memorization and I hated that — but I had a really good teacher in upper secondary school, and it became about creative problem solving. It feels the same as writing a poem in meter or managing to untangle a really bad knot in a ball of yarn.