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zealouswerewolfcollector · 2 days ago

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Dug into my drafts for @russingon-week. Sort of a follow up to this conversation between Fingon and Fingolfin and this one between Fingon and Maedhros about thralldom, trust and betrayal.

1609 words, M, implied Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: violence, minor character death

On Ao3

The guard standing before Maedhros’s door was gone, which should not have happened without Fingon’s knowledge. Behind the door, something crashed. It took a fraction of a second for Fingon to draw his dagger and kick the door open.

Maedhros and the guard, locked in a struggle, turned to him. The guard was the first to recover. He pulled Maedhros to him and put the knife against his throat.

“Close the door,” he told Fingon.

Fingon did. It creaked like brittle ice breaking underfoot.

“Let us not be hasty,” Fingon said, approaching, his gaze trained on the pearl of blood on Maedhros’s throat.

“You will not convince him,” Maedhros said.

“Quiet!” the guard yelled.

The bloody pearl rolled down the knife and another one took its place.

“Do not come closer,” the guard told Fingon.

Fingon stopped and raised his hands.

“I am not going to hurt you,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Let us talk. Will you tell me your name?”

The guard hesitated for a moment, frowning as if he was trying to remember. “Alwedon,” he said then quietly. “It was Alwedon, but I have none now.”

“I am Findekáno. Fingon in the language of your people.”

“I know who you are.”

“Alwedon, please do not do anything careless. Whatever has happened, whatever is on your mind, I shall help you. I give you my word.”

Alwedon’s hand shook around the knife. Fingon imagined his feet frozen and stuck to the ground, so he would not try to lunge for the weapon and wrestle it away. A corner of his mind was trying to understand how Alwedon could have slipped past their defenses, joined their forces, and volunteered to stand guard at Maedhros’s door without anyone suspecting anything.

“What would I do with your word?” Alwedon said. “Give me your dagger instead.”

“Do not be foolish, Findekáno,” Maedhros said.

Alwedon’s knife pressed closer to his skin. Whatever color was on his face was swiftly draining away. His knees were close to buckling. What would happen if he fell? Would it confuse Alwedon or startle him into striking? Would Fingon be quick enough to stop him?

Slowly, he put his dagger on the bed, taking the opportunity to come a few steps closer to Alwedon and Maedhros.

“I have no other weapons,” he said. “Now it is your turn. Will you lower your knife? I am here. I shall help you.”

“You cannot reason with him,” Maedhros rasped. “He is what you suspect me to be.”

“Russandol, please!”

“He speaks the truth,” Alwedon said. “I am no longer myself. I cannot fight it.”

“You must,” Fingon urged. “You can. Do you have a family, Alwedon?”

“Family? I think… I had a brother. Yes, a brother.”

“Think of him. Think of meeting him again. I have a brother too. I would never be the same if I lost him. Think of returning to your brother. Returning to yourself.”

“It is not possible.”

“There must be a way. We only have to find it. Trust me, please, I shall do my best to find it. Do you believe me, Alwedon?”

Fingon could plainly see the struggle in Alwedon’s eyes. Despite what his instincts were screaming, he did not move. He had learned patience.

A thin red ribbon was adorning Maedhros’s throat when Alwedon lowered the knife. Tiny rubies slid down his neck. He shook and did not fall. He lived.

Fingon let out a breath, running a hand over his face. But his relief was brief. A low moan shook him, and he jerked his head up in time to see Maedhros pull the dagger he had left on the bed out of Alwedon’s eye. The body must have made noise falling, but Fingon didn’t hear it as though it fell on soft snow.

For a moment, he and Maedhros stared at each other, his bloodied dagger clutched in Maedhros’s hand.

“Why did you do it?” Fingon whispered.

“There was no saving him. He was a thrall.”

“He lowered the knife.”

“He was still eying it. He could have attacked you next. What use would there be to kill me? You must have been his true target.”

“You cannot know that!”

“I do,” Maedhros said, gesturing with the dagger. “Why are you dismayed? Is this not what you will do to me if I turn out to be enthralled?”

Fingon breathed through the ice water.

“Give me the dagger,” he said.

Maedhros looked at it as if he had forgotten he was holding it. He did not move.

“Russandol, please,” Fingon said, “give it to me.”

Slowly, Maedhros extended his hand.

“Here,” he said.

Fingon had to step over Alwedon’s body to reach it. He forced himself to look at him, to commit his face to memory. He remembered none from Alqualondë.

The moment he moved to take the weapon, Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled him to his chest with surprising strength, pressing the dagger to his throat.

Fingon opened his mouth to say something, but he was falling into an ice well. The cold froze his lungs and his tongue, swallowed all his words. Instead, Maedhros spoke.

“Despite all your fears and doubts, still you are not cautious enough,” he said. “Taking the dagger from my hand was a mistake. You should have told me to drop it and move away.”

The dagger stuck to Fingon's skin, cold with blood, but Maedhros’s chest behind him was warm, and so was Maedhros's arm around his waist. Fingon swam to the warmth and resurfaced.

“Will you drop it now if I ask?”

A heartbeat, two, three. Maedhros’s fingers slowly loosened around the hilt, and the dagger fell by Fingon’s feet.

Maedhros’s right arm was still wrapped around his waist. Fingon breathed out, didn’t move.

“You should not have taken the risk,” Maedhros said. “You should not have waited for me to drop it. You should have remembered what I told you about my weaknesses.”

“I remember.” Fingon turned in his hold to face him. “Your shoulder.”

His hand hovered over Maedhros’s right shoulder but didn’t touch it. Maedhros still flinched as if the non-touch pained him.

“Your ribs.”

The back of Fingon’s hand brushed over the place Maedhros had shown him.

“Your right knee.”

Fingon bent down and caressed the knee with a thumb. He picked up the weapons and rose. Maedhros was swaying. What need Fingon had for his weaknesses when he could bring him down with a gentle touch?

He caught Maedhros before he could fall and guided him back to bed. For a moment, he, too, was overcome with knee-buckling weariness, the kind you feel when you trek over uneven ice for days in search of your camp while the cutting wind is blowing against your face, the kind when you cannot take a moment to lie down because you will never rise again. Fingon closed his eyes and rode out the wave. The exhaustion relented, and sudden, dizzying clarity took its place.

Fingon called in people to deal with the body and with the cut on Maedhros’s neck. He sent someone to his father with the news. The sooner he knew about it, the better. Maedhros was watching the commotion with an absent, empty gaze as if he had not just killed someone and deemed himself justified.

Fingon had to recount the events to Fingolfin when his father arrived in haste. He left out what happened after Alwedon’s death. There was no need to lessen Fingolfin’s almost non-existent trust in Maedhros.

“How can we be certain,” Fingolfin said, “that he did not kill that poor Sinda to silence him? Perhaps he could have told us something about him. Perhaps we could have learned how far the Enemy’s hold reaches. Was it truly necessary to kill him or was it his unrestrained bloodlust that drove him to slay the wretched soul?”

“He was in thrall to the Enemy,” Fingon said. “There was no saving him. He was going to attack me next.”

It seemed to placate Fingolfin, and he agreed to allow Fingon to return to Maedhros’s chambers again without a fuss. Maedhros’s unseeing gaze brushed over Fingon when he closed the door behind him.

“You lied to your father,” he said mildly.

“Not unless you lied to me.”

“I have told you,” Maedhros said, “you should not believe a word I say.”

“So you have.”

Fingon sat on the edge of the bed. It made Maedhros blink and finally focus on him.

“Where is your dagger?” he asked.

“I left it outside.”

Maedhros stared, more shaken than he had looked with a knife at his throat.

“Did you not see what happened here?” he asked. “What I did?”

“I saw it all very clearly.”

“I slaughtered someone.”

“I was there.”

“I threatened you.”

“I remember.”

“Then why?” Maedhros whispered.

Fingon shrugged.

“By treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass,” he said. The same stubborn determination he had felt when he had heard the Doom roused his heart again. He smiled at Maedhros. “If I am to be betrayed, so be it. I shall not live in fear.”

Like your father. The words never left his lips. Once, he would have flung them at Maedhros without remorse and felt righteous. Now he was silent.

Maedhros looked at him for a long time. Fingon held his gaze and wondered once again what he was looking for. A sign of deceit? Reassurance?

“I envy you,” Maedhros said finally and added nothing else.

But when Fingon moved closer to him and offered his hand, Maedhros grasped it like a man drowning.

#silmarillion #fingon #maedhros #russingon #russingon week #this is how they flirt #i had some tears in my retina welded shut today with a laser #but i still had to post this because i love these guys #(it was a very minor surgery #it just sounds cool)#zwc fic

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raven-6-10 · 1 day ago

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@zombiefishgirl

"You need to start talking to your wife," his cousin says. Illario always knew how to pick a moment to start a conversation. Like say, when Lucanis is elbow-deep in the guts of a deer they've just killed.

Lucanis looks up at his cousin then around the meadow they're currently in. But no, it seems the servants minding the horses are far enough they cannot hear them easily. Still, his cousin should know better than to have this conversation here. And besides, he does talk to Mara.

Except Illario snorts when he hears it like Lucanis just said something funny.

"No, you don't," he disagrees. "You talk at her, you tell her when she's supposed to show up for your public dates or those dinners and operas you drag her to. But you don't talk to her.

"If you did," Illario continues before Lucanis can protest, "then Stella wouldn't need to take Mara with her to make rounds around Rivain."

"... I thought she invited her because she wanted to introduce Mara to her potion suppliers?" That was the reason that was given when Stella first raised that idea.

Illario give him a look that screams he can't believe he's related to such a fool as Lucanis. It's a very distinctive look, though usually Caterina is the one turning it on them; Lucanis remembers it well from their various teenage escapades. It's made more potent now by the fact Illario's face and hands are liberally splattered with blood from him helping Lucanis take the carcass apart.

"That was the official reason, yes," Illario finally says. "The other reason is that Mara is very obviously overworked and stressed, because you and Teia decided to play some stupid game of tug-o-war over her!" He points his hunting knife at Lucanis as he practically hisses. "What the fuck are you, five?! You know better than that! Mara deserves better than that! I thought she is your friend! That you love her!"

Lucanis actually flinches at that.

"Listen-"

"No, you listen," Illario cuts him off. "I don't fucking care what your excuses are. You will stop treating Mara like that. Or I will let Stella test her new recipes on you. She has a few non-lethal ones that she's eager to see in action." That's a very serious threat. If anything, Stella's non-lethal concoctions are worse; many of them straddle the line between irritating and humiliating. As Juliana Valisti has found out on few occasions. "So I advise you to shape up. Before my wife decides to intervene." With those words Illario grabs the parcels of meat they were preparing and gets up to hand them off to one of the servants. They will need to fit all of that into the saddlebags.

While his cousin might have a point regarding Mara's stress levels, Lucanis doesn't need his comments on how to treat his wife. Especially since he seems to have outdated information. So when he gets back, Lucanis starts talking.

"Teia and I, we came to an accord regarding Mara" - mostly because of Tav yelling at them both but Illario doesn't need to know that -" right before Stella took her to Rivain, in fact. We both decided we will let her have more time to herself. So you don't have to worry about her being overtired, since I'm no longer taking her to all those parties." After a thought, he adds, "and I'm not accepting that many invitations in the first place either. Just one or two smaller events every other week." Compared to how hectic the first couple of months were, that was practically nothing.

"And you explained all of that to Mara, of course?" Illario's tone makes it clear he already knows the answer. "Oh, no, you didn't, did you? Because when have you ever explained any of your decisions to anyone that wasn't Caterina," he continues. "So first you take her everywhere, showing her off and forcing her to socialise when you know she doesn't like it. Well, I hope you know, since you don't seem to be paying any attention to Mara's wants. And then, after weeks of such behaviour, you do a complete turn around without any reason and start ignoring her, instead spending time with all those contacts and nobles.

"Did I get it right, cousin?"

Silence is his only answer.

"Talk to your wife. Actual sentences with actual words that actually explain your reasoning, cousin. And ask for her opinions before you do something. Maker's breath, your decisions affect more than just yourself now, in case you've forgotten that!"

#dragon age #da: the veilguard #wedding bouquet (hides the knife)#my ideas #fic #fanfiction #fanfic #illario dellamorte #lucanis dellamorte #rookanis #illarook #in the background

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respectissexy · 9 hours ago

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This is a LONG post about how to combat Incel beliefs online and in the people you know.

I’ve had a long-term fascination with Incels, and at times have belonged to some online communities aimed at deradicalizing them. Here are some of the facts, statistics, and logical arguments I’ve accumulated in a few years of having these conversations with self-identified Incels.

I want to make it clear that there is no point in having these arguments with the “women should all be shipped to government-run rape camps” kinds of Incels. I’m talking more about the “I’m going to die alone because I don’t have 100k for leg lengthening surgery” variety, who are in the pipeline but not all the way there yet.

Even within that, if you're a woman, don’t bother having this debate with someone who is incapable of having a respectful conversation with a woman – if you catch a whiff of “that’s exactly what a lying femoid would say,” just cut your losses. The people you want to target are people you have a strong pre-existing relationship with (“my little brother has started watching terrible YouTube videos”) and people who admit to being unsatisfied with their worldview (“believing in the Blackpill is making me miserable, I just want to be normal, but I keep getting sucked back in because I find it so convincing.”)

When you’re trying to deradicalize someone, it helps to meet them where they’re at by admitting anything they’re correct about.

The two Incel beliefs that I freely admit are correct are: it is easier to get sex/romance if you’re conventionally attractive (more on why this doesn’t mean everyone else should give up later) and, there are plenty of hideously sexist and depraved men who get pussy all the time, so it’s obviously not true that the only reason some people are Incels is because they have bad attitudes towards women. (I call this “sex and love are not a meritocracy.”)

Someone who is capable of engaging with you in good faith will usually become much more relaxed and willing to listen if you concede these two points – which, I cannot stress enough, are obviously true. There is no point in trying to sell someone on the idea that respecting women is the true key to getting laid. Anyone with eyes can see that some men who respect women don’t get laid and plenty of men who get laid don’t respect women.

In only the loosest possible order (roughly moving from the world of provable facts and statistics to the world of more theoretical logical argument) here are some common responses to standard “Incel” or “blackpill” arguments.

The sexual marketplace favors women. Women are all out there fucking Chad while increasing numbers of men are sexless. There are way more virgin men than virgin women.

Between the ages of 20-24, 14% of men and 12% of women self-identify as virgins. This is a 2% difference. Source: https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/03/on-late-in-life-virginity-loss/284412/

It's over for you if you didn't date/have sex in high school or college.

While 14% of men are virgins between the ages of 20 and 24, only 5% are still virgins in their late 20s, and only 0.3% are still virgins by 40 (and this number includes the voluntarily and religiously celibate.) So even if you are a virgin at age 22, your chances of having sex by age 40 are around 99.7%. You are statistically MUCH more likely to be a "late bloomer" than a lifelong Incel. (Source: The CDC quoted in the article above) Also, only about 50% of people have had sex by the time they graduate high school. So whether you do or not, you're completely normal either way. It's a coin flip. Source: The CDC https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/pressroom/nchs_press_releases/2017/201706_NSFG.htm#:~:text=The%20data%20represent%20all%20teens,%2C%20the%20percent%20was%2044%25

The average modern young woman has had sex with dozens or hundreds of men, and an inexperienced man could never satisfy her!

Some women have! But while the average lifetime number of sexual partners for both men and women varies by study, it is consistently fewer than 10. I find this belief is often based on poor statistical reasoning – a friend or acquaintance tells you that she hooked up with a guy this weekend and a different guy two weeks ago, so you extrapolate that she’s been fucking two different men per month since becoming sexually active, and assume her number must be in the hundreds. Most people have a varied sexual career that includes some casual hookups, some FWBs or flings, some dry spells, and some periods of long-term monogamy.

To the extent that the average “body count” may have gone up in recent decades, this is likely less because today’s young people are uniquely promiscuous and more because they tend to settle down with a life partner later – if you become sexually active at 17 and marry monogamously at 30, you will probably fuck more people in your lifetime than if you became sexually active at 17 and monogamously married at 24.

I would add here, it is really important to try to ground people in the statistical reality of typical “body counts” rather than going whole hog on trying to convince them that body counts don’t matter. It’s perfectly understandable to feel that someone who’s had 0 sexual partners and someone who’s had 100 may have different enough attitudes towards sex that a relationship between them might not work out. “You’re actually misogynist trash if you’d be intimidated to date a woman who had 100 past partners” is less effective for our purposes than “It’s possible that you wouldn’t be compatible with a woman who had that many past partners – you may not want her and she also may not want you! – but that’s just one example of the many reasons people can be incompatible that don’t come down to one of them being Bad and Unloveable.”

Women are much more harsh and shallow than men, as evidenced by the studies where they rated 80% of men as Below Average on OKCupid. Women only message the most attractive men.

That study has been reported in SUCH a misleading way that it actually proves the opposite of what Incels think it proves. Although women WERE harsher in their ratings, they were actually MUCH MORE LIKELY THAN MEN to message users whose photos they didn't rate that high in attractiveness – possibly reflecting that women are more likely to realize that how you feel about someone’s picture isn’t a perfect predictor of whether you’ll find them attractive irl. (Just anecdotally speaking, most women I know report that men don’t take great pictures of themselves, so they may be giving them wiggle room for that.) The percentage of messages that goes to the most attractive women compared to the average woman, is much more extreme than the ratio for men. Source: https://techcrunch.com/2009/11/18/okcupid-inbox-attractive/?guccounter=1&guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8&guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAJxteLDlJ-ORw_Sw-tDDYhHv0Xnvaco4Vk-d3mPRZg_Cu9ckzOf9FS-vbGz75_mnw7-uyqoldlf7-wEmbLo4KiFsvzkbw9kn9X3qTDZC9-ubfR9EXH54a0QVJ1QkyK1xK8osO_M9mGyNRK-ShWwPoEGt9ROicoGA4bIFnQnRe0cO

If you're not in the top 20% hottest men, no woman will ever want you.

71% of men between the ages of 25 and 44 have been married. It is mathematically impossible for 71% of men to be in the top 20%.

Women spend their youth fucking hot Chads and then settle down with ugly men later after they 'hit the wall'.

People of all genders tend to prioritize attractiveness more in a partner when they're young, their bodies are at Peak Sex Hormone, and their relationships are more about fun and passion than building a life together. People of all genders tend to increasingly prioritize stability, compatibility, and other life-building qualities once they're looking for someone to settle down with and start a family. This isn’t a conspiracy, it’s just smart.

Looks obviously matter! It’s not true that dating is all about personality and respecting women! There is a middle ground between believing that looks don't matter at all and being fully blackpilled. "It's easier to get a girlfriend when you're tall and hot" is straightforwardly true, but so is, "regardless, literally millions of men who aren't tall or conventionally hot get laid and have loving relationships." I always say it like, being super conventionally attractive may mean you get to date on easy mode, but refusing to play the game because you didn't get to play it on easy mode is YOUR choice.

I’m too afraid to actually talk to women, but I can just tell that they all hate me!

It's impossible to judge whether you're actually unsuccessful with women if you never talk to them. If you aren't actually shooting your shot with the women you like, then you are “volcel” regardless of how you see yourself, just the same as how if you were unemployed and never applied to any jobs, that would make you unemployed by choice. Imagine you had a friend who was always complaining about how miserable it is to be unemployed and bemoaning all the things that make him unemployable, but then you found out he'd never applied to a single job -- or applied to fewer than ten before giving up altogether. That's most Incels, as far as dating is concerned.

For what it’s worth, this is why pickup artistry sometimes works much better than you would expect it to. Despite the obvious manipulation and general weirdness of pickup artist tactics, the fact remains that if you take a guy who was previously sitting in his bedroom hoping for pussy to fall from the ceiling, and you convince him to go out and hit on a bunch of women, his chances of getting laid will increase. Going out and talking to the people you find attractive is no guarantee of getting laid, but it is generally a prerequisite.

I saw a bunch of Tweets and TikToks from women belittling short men and saying they’d never date one! Some of them had hundreds of thousands of likes!

You simply cannot take things that assholes say on the internet personally. I'm a 34 year old woman with Bipolar Disorder and 11 tattoos. Do you know how many heavily-liked Tweets there are about how women over 30, women with mental illnesses, and women with tattoos are untouchable garbage that no self-respecting man would ever entertain a relationship with? And yet... I'm married. Turns out a bunch of keyboard warriors raving about how no man would ever want me didn't actually prevent men from wanting me. You probably would think I was being a little unfair if I told you that seeing those posts made me despise all men, and a little unrealistic if it made me give up on dating. Literally ask any woman with blue hair and a septum piercing if men IRL find her as disgusting as men on the internet say they do.

If you read all this, thank you! And as always remember that I block absolutely everyone who annoys me on my posts, so if you feel moved to argue that anything short of trying to persuade avowed Incels to adopt full-bore sex-positive feminism is capitulation, or that we should just kill them all, or whatever, just remember you'll be arguing with yourself. Peace and love on planet Earth.

#incels #sexism #deradicalization #rhetorical tactics

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is-this-blasphemous · 5 hours ago

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I'm curious Mr. ITB?

Why this site from hell?

Why preach to us demons?

Surely by now you are aware that the vast majority of us here are not Christians, and in fact would take committing blasphemy to be a mark of pride.

We are anti theists, maltheists, satanists and pagans aplenty around here. We are not ignorant of the message of Christianity, we're critical of it.

It is not that we don't know right from wrong, it's that we don't derive that knowledge from the same places you do, and nor do we want to.

Not to say that I am unhappy with your presence here. You are a kind man, and I appreciate the perspective you offer. I just know my convictions differ from yours is all.

I am just confused. Why persist, surrounded by minds which you must know you cannot change?

You have posed a wonderful question, my child. One that I have been pondering myself for quite a time now. I am gladdened to now have an opportunity to share some of my meditations

At first, I had told myself that my purpose for coming to this site from hell was pure altruism. That I would come to save as many souls as possible. That I could be a guide for all those who were willing and teach those who have known nothing but darkness about the light

And while I still think that may be part of what keeps me here, I think the more honest reason, the main reason now, is simple curiosity. I wish to understand those who dwell here. Not as prospects for conversion or salvation, but just for the people they are. I may not always agree with their actions, views or ways of describing The Good Shepherd, but I do so enjoy hearing from their unique and often quite amusing points of views

In summary, I do not believe one learn to love thy neighbors if you do not first get to know them. And as the almighty loves all his children, I wish to learn to love them all as well

#asks

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swiftjay23 · 12 hours ago

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Heaven Help Me

Pairing: Fallen Angel! Sunoo x Reader

Genre: Fantasy, Romance, Bittersweet, Fluff-to-Angst-to-Fluff, Crack

Vibe: Warm skin, cold wings, soft smiles in secret; choosing love over eternity. Also listen to Ocean Eyes and Birds Of a Feather if you want the complete deal. I LOVE Billie arghhh <3

Word Count: 4867

🗂🕯️ Taglist: (To my wonderful followers, those who reblogged some of my posts, and one who wanted to be added to the taglist<3)

⟡ @tashmonellloveskpopboybands,⟡ @yuriloveshee,

⟡ @kookiesnkim, ⟡ @picklemafia, ⟡ @add-this-to-that,

⟡ @xxjoyridingxx,⟡ @enjakey, ⟡ @noidnoentry, ⟡ @avadie,

⟡ @enhaheart8, ⟡ @yourislandgirl, ⟡ @meowwwon, ⟡ @saodk

⟡ @inlovewithparkjisung, ⟡ @verycutesyverymindful,

⟡ @fleurdelises, ⟡ @queenvash, ⟡ @tyongielee, ⟡ @amzingjellyfish

You stared at the gooey mess on your counter that was a fork five minutes ago.

The toast wasn’t coming out, and you weren’t about to lose a bagel to bad machinery. So you did what any perfectly rational, non-caffeinated adult would do grabbed the nearest thing within reach, which happened to be a fork (why? you didn’t know), and jabbed it into the toaster slot like it owed you rent.

It sparked. It fizzled. It melted.

Now you had five forks.

You sighed. “Classic.”

You didn’t care much—this kind of thing happened more often than it should. But your neighbor? She cared. A lot. In fact, she cared enough to report you to building security at least three times a week. You were on a first-name basis with two of the guards and the intern.

God.

You weren’t even hungry anymore. The rain had started. And now you were forkless and toastless.

How could your day possibly get worse?

You shoved on your sneakers and bolted out the door, hoping to avoid another awkward “no ma’am I’m not starting fires” conversation.

Meanwhile… Somewhere a little higher.

"You have to protect her," God said.

Sunoo stared at Him in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” God replied calmly.

“She’s a walking hazard sign,” Sunoo argued. “She tried to fix a toaster with a fork. If you send me down there, she’s going to get electrocuted within the hour!”

God didn’t flinch. “Then make sure she doesn’t.”

“Why me?”

“Because she’s yours.”

Sunoo froze. “Mine?”

God’s gaze was steady. “Lee Y/n. You’re her guardian. She’s your assignment now.”

“But,” Sunoo tried again, grasping for logic, for mercy, for a loophole. “Why not just let her be?”

God turned, offering no further answer.

You didn’t believe in angels.

You believed in things like black coffee, weird coincidences, and the ability to laugh even when everything was falling apart, but angels? That felt like something you outgrew when you stopped watching cartoons and started paying rent.

But then he caught you.

Your shoelace had betrayed you again. Middle of a rain-slicked street, paper bag of pastries flung into the air, your balance a goner. And just before the ground could do what it does best, he appeared, arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close like you were precious cargo. Warm. Solid. Gentle.

“Gotcha,” he said, voice soft but confident. Like this wasn’t his first time.

Your heart stuttered. “H-Holy sh—” What you had meant to say is, HOLY SHIT YOU'RE GORGEOUS.

“Language,” he said gently, smirking. You could have swore you're heart did summersaults right there and there You were going to pass out. Not from the fall, but from his face.

You blinked at him. Up close, he looked like a painting. Skin soft like it had never seen sunburn. Soft brown hair, rain-slicked and curled at the ends. Skin too flawless to be human. Eyes like still water. Calm.

“I, sorry, I don’t know how I—” you managed to mumble. He tilted his head, smiling. “You fall a lot, don’t you?” You narrowed your eyes. “Wait... have we met?”

He stood straighter, suddenly cautious. “Not exactly.” “And yet you’re catching me like you’ve done it before.” He looked like he wanted to say no. But his silence said otherwise.

A breeze passed between you. Light filtered through the clouds just enough to make the rain look silver. And for half a second, you swore, swore, you saw something shimmer behind his shoulder. Like the edge of something vast. Feathered. Flickering.

He caught your stare, then looked away. You stepped back slowly. “Who... are you?” His voice was quiet. “Just someone who’s always been around.”

You opened your mouth to speak, ask more, accuse him of being weirdly poetic, but he was already walking away, hands shoved into the pockets of a cream sweater too clean for this weather.

“Hey!” you called out. “You didn’t even tell me your name!” He paused at the corner and glanced back, eyes gleaming.

“Sunoo, and don't you worry dear, we're going to be seeing each other a lot more often.” And then he was gone. Well, that was weird.

A handsome stranger shows up, saves you, stuns you speechless, casually reads your mind, and leaves?

Totally normal. Totally fine. Not unhinged at all.

-0-

You didn’t see him for three days after that. Not that you were keeping count.

Not at all.

You definitely weren’t counting the times you almost burned your tongue microwaving tea or tripped on your own shoelaces again and instinctively looked around like he might show up.

He didn’t.

Instead, you started hearing things. A faint whoosh behind your shoulder. The soft creak of your windowsill. Your plants were standing straighter. Your toaster hadn’t tried to kill you since.

Part of you was convinced you’d imagined the whole thing.

Until you woke up in the middle of the night and found a feather on your pillow. Not just any feather—long, shimmering, white with a faint golden glow. You touched it. It vanished.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, “I’m either insane... or something weird is really going on.”

The worst part?

You weren’t sure which was scarier.

You were swept from your feet. You weren't even sure if he was real. It was a dangerous game. An addictively dangerous game. The kind that tasted like sugary lollipops and cigarettes.

-0-

There were worse things than being assigned to Earth.

Demons, for example. Or wrath training. Or watching over finance bros.

But you? You were a new category altogether.

Sunoo stood perched atop a streetlamp, invisible to human eyes, eyes narrowed as you attempted to pry a stuck piece of toast from the toaster using, oh dear God, a knife this time.

“No,” he whispered to himself. “No, no, no.”

He vanished in a flash of gold and appeared in your kitchen just in time to phase the metal object out of your hand. You blinked, looked around, and muttered, “Huh. Weird.”

He exhaled.

“Weird?” he repeated to no one. “You almost zapped yourself into next week and it’s weird?!”

He faded back out before you could see him, retreating to the rooftop above your apartment. It was raining now, gentle droplets catching on the tips of his wings.

He groaned, flopping onto the ledge. “I’m going to be smited.”

The wind rustled, carrying whispers from higher above. Celestial static.

“Is she alive?” “Barely,” he muttered. “Good. You’ve only been down there three days.” “It feels like three years. She tried to fight a vending machine with her bare hands yesterday.” “That’s not fatal.” “She climbed on top of it!”

The voice paused.

“You’re attached already, aren’t you?”

Sunoo sat up slowly, eyes dark with something that was definitely not attachment.

“…She talks to her plants,” he said.

Silence.

“…She named them after BTS members.”

More silence.

“…She sings when she thinks she’s alone. And she makes up the lyrics.”

A pause.

“…She makes jokes in elevators to strangers. And gets awkward when they don’t laugh. But she laughs anyway. She laughs like she means it.”

The voice softened.

“You’re falling.”

Sunoo closed his eyes. Rain hitting his skin. Wings slowly dimming.

“She’s gravity,” he whispered. “How am I supposed to stay above her?”

Sunoo watched from above over every assignment he was supposed to keep alive. You weren’t supposed to be this interesting. Guardianship was supposed to be boring. Keep them safe, keep them healthy, don’t get involved.

But you laughed too loudly. And cried during commercials. And sang badly in the shower. And named your basil plant Taehyung.

He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop hovering. Couldn’t stop noticing how his wings beat faster when you smiled at your reflection, even when your eyeliner was crooked. Angels didn't have hearts, because they too, had once died to become what they are, but Sunoo could swear there was a faint drumming against his chest every time you waved at the little kid across your balcony.

He told himself it was fine. He told himself it wasn’t personal.

But he knew. Even if he never touched you. Even if he never said a word. He was already falling, and he also knew, that he would never be forgiven for it.

Then silence.

Except, below, your kitchen.

Oh sweet Jesus.

You were trying to shove your hand in the toaster because the knife had bent under your wrath.

Sunoo nearly exploded out of his skin. He was not to be exiled because you hadn't been taught basic conductivity.

“NOPE. Not today.”

He swooped in, wings disguised, fists clenched. He knocked on your door.

Silence. Then soft footsteps. The lock clicked.

You cracked the door, peering out. Eyes wide.

“…Sexy stranger?” you blurted. Sunoo blinked. “…Sexy stranger? Really?” You blinked again. “You're real?” He sighed. “Unfortunately.”

When you still didn't let him in, "May I come in?" in the politest way he could muster. You didn't have to know he was plotting to baby proof your whole apartment.

"Also, can you stop electrocuting yourself? Trust me babe, there are better ways."

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, fingers still clutched around the edge of your door like you were waiting to wake up. He looked the same as earlier, cream sweater, damp curls, those obnoxiously celestial cheekbones, "Who are you?" you finally blurted out, you didn't mean that in a rude or condescending way, but now that you rethought, you were going to go and vent about it to your personal diary, 'How could I say that to sexy stranger??'

"Oh, honey." His eyes gleamed dangerously, "I wouldn't tell you even if I knew."

“This is a dream,” you mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you dream of sexy strangers often?”

“…No. But if I did, they probably wouldn’t show up at my door to save me from electrocution.”

He gave you a pointed look. “Then stop putting your hands in toasters.”

You huffed. “Okay, wow, someone’s judgy for a hallucination.”

“I’m not a hallucination.”

You blinked. “That’s exactly what a hallucination would say.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can I come in before you light something else on fire?”

You didn’t even answer, just stepped back and opened the door wider. He entered like he belonged there. Like he’d done it before. Which, terrifyingly enough, he might have.

You followed him into the kitchen, where the toaster sat, still sullen and slightly smoking. He walked straight up to it, poked the edge with a single glowing finger, and the whole machine hummed softly… then popped out your toast.

You gasped. “It works?!" then turned to him, "Are you like, IDK, Batman or someone?"

“It’s not supposed to,” he muttered. “It’s completely fried. Like your fork. And your knife. And possibly your neurons.”

“Okay,” you said, eyes narrowing. “I get it, I’m a danger to myself and others-”

“I never said ‘others.’” He glanced over his shoulder. “Just yourself.”

You paused. “…That’s somehow worse.”

He looked at you then. Full-on. His eyes weren’t just calm. They were deep. Like the sky. Like still water. Like looking at something endless. “I’m not here to judge you,” he said softly. “I’m here to protect you.”

There was a silence. A real one. No banter. No smoke. Just you and the boy who dropped out of the clouds. You asked quietly, “What are you?” He tilted his head, "Do you not get it? I-"

"Please?" you asked, softly, curiously. “I’m a guardian angel.” Wow, he folded fast. You blinked. Then blinked again.

Then burst out laughing. “No, seriously,” you said. “Are you, like, part of some... cult cosplay group?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He just stepped forward.

And slowly, like the air was unzipping, two gossamer wings unfurled from his back. Soft white. Shimmering with gold veins. Glowing faintly in the artificial light of your apartment kitchen.

Your breath left you. Holy. Shit. He was real.

You stepped back until your shoulder hit the fridge. “So... you’re really an angel?” He nodded once.

“And I’m... what? Your little chaos project?” “No,” he said firmly. “You’re my person.” Your mouth went dry. “That sounds suspiciously romantic.” “It’s not supposed to be.” His voice lowered. “But it’s becoming a problem.”

You didn’t even have a joke for that.

Your heart was thudding so loud, you were pretty sure he could hear it. And Sunoo? He looked at you like he already knew every version of you, the part that cried at commercials, the part that forgot to water your plants, the part that was just... trying to keep going.

You swallowed. “Are you going to keep saving me from small appliances?”

He smiled, something wistful pulling at the edge of his mouth, "Sadly, so consider your friendless ass and mine as friends." You gasped dramatically, "I thought celestial heavenly being aren't suppose to swear?!" You said it like it was a crime, that made him chuckle. "What God doesn't know, doesn't hurt him." his eyes sparkled mischievously. And HOLY RABID CHICKEN, you just melted like your fork right there.

-0-

Over the past few weeks, Sunoo had saved you more times than you had melted your forks (which- you must admit- was a lot-) and you increasingly found yourself oddly....

attached?

But you knew it was fruitless, this was forbidden. It could either end in both of you being separated for eternity, or have Sunoo become a fallen angel, which you were sure he didn't want.

And he definitely didn't like you back, you were too chaotic for your own good. It's just a little crush.

Yet you found yourself thinking about him every moment.

There was the umbrella incident.

You had once again forgotten your own. The sky cracked open as you left your apartment, clouds leaking like broken pipes. You cursed under your breath, already soaked, and turned to head back—

-and someone was holding a white umbrella over your head.

You froze.

“Hey,” Sunoo said, casually, like he hadn’t materialized out of nowhere. “You really need to invest in waterproof shoes.”

You turned to him, startled. “You, you scared me!”

He offered the umbrella handle to you. “Then maybe stop standing in the middle of the street.”

“You’re always around at the weirdest times.”

He shrugged. “Or maybe your life is just always weird.”

You took the umbrella. Your fingers brushed.

Static. Not the dangerous kind. The kind that made your heart do a tiny cartwheel.

You didn’t ask him to walk with you. He just did.

And somewhere between your third sarcastic comment and his dry reply, you realized it felt natural. Too natural.

Like he’d been walking beside you your whole life. And you couldn't help... but think, that maybe, just maybe, your life had found it's purpose.

And you were afraid of losing that purpose.

-0-

It happened fast. One minute, you were arguing with a barista about why cold brew should not cost the same as your rent, and the next, the light above you exploded.

Glass. Heat. Crackling wires.

You didn’t see it. You didn’t have to.

Because Sunoo was already there. He’d shoved you back instinctively, one arm curling around you, the other raised just in time to shield you from the burst. The shards never touched you.

But him? You hadn’t noticed at first. Not until you got home.

“Sunoo,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing at the red seeping through his sleeve, “are you bleeding?” “No,” he said.

You pointed. “That’s literally blood.” “That’s ketchup.” “Sunoo.”

He groaned, collapsing onto your couch like a teenager who just got grounded. “Okay, fine, it’s a little cut.” You knelt beside him. “Show me.”

“I’m fine.” “Sunoo.”

He looked at you. Really looked. And you saw it again, that flicker of something in his eyes. Worry. Shame. Something like… guilt?

Slowly, he pulled his sweater sleeve up. Your breath hitched.

There, along the inside of his arm, was a long gash. Shallow but angry. Raw. Already bruising. “Oh my God,” you whispered. “This—this happened because of me.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It happened because of gravity. And light fixtures. And a really overpriced coffee shop.”

You stared. “Sunoo.” His voice softened. “It’s not your fault. You’re not a problem, Y/n, You’re a person. People get protected.”

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he would do it again. A hundred times. A thousand.

And that? That made your throat burn more than any scraped elbow ever could. Without a word, you stood and went to your bathroom. Rummaged through your cabinet. Returned with a first aid kit you’d never opened.

“Give me your arm.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shut him up. You sat beside him, close. Close enough to smell the faint scent of rain still clinging to him. Like he never really left the clouds.

You dabbed at the cut gently, your fingers brushing his skin. He didn’t flinch. But he watched you like you were something sacred.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve healed from worse.” “Well, congrats,” you said. “You’re healing from this one with me.”

Sunoo was quiet for a long time. Then, in the softest voice, he whispered, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

Your hands paused. “What?” “To angels,” he said. “You’re dangerous.” You looked up. He was already looking down at you. “You make us fall.”

Your heart beat faster, you put a hand on his chest to make him hold his position. Unlike others, who believed Angels shared every humans heart, you didn't. And needless to say, you were surprised to find a faint thud against your palm. You weren't alone, though, Sunoo was alarmed too.

He jumped up quickly, ignoring the blood from his wound now staining the sleeve of his crisp sweater. "I-" he pushed past you gently, "I need to go." "Sunoo.." you whispered, softer than the feather you had encased on your nightstand.

But Sunoo was already out of your door, and when you went to call for him, he wasn't there. but the space he left behind didn’t stop glowing. Your heart was in as many pieces as the exploded glass.

-0-

You didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the blood, or the glass, or even the way your toaster was still humming mysteriously on the counter.

It was because you couldn’t stop thinking about the look on his face. The one right before he left. Like he’d said too much. Like he’d felt too much.

Your fingers still tingled from touching his skin. Your palm, where his heartbeat had echoed faintly against it, felt scorched. But angels didn’t have heartbeats. Not unless they were—

Don’t go there.

You buried yourself under your blanket and stared at the ceiling until morning.

-0-

Sunoo didn’t return.

Not the next day. Not the one after. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. That you were fine. That your kitchen hadn’t tried to murder you all week, and maybe that meant you were doing great.

But your apartment felt quieter. Your plants drooped. Even the air had lost that faint scent of rain. Even your reflection in the mirror looked… lonelier.

There were no feathers on your pillow. No umbrellas appearing from nowhere. Your toaster stayed stubbornly intact. And the rain didn’t shimmer anymore.

You tried not to miss him.

But you did.

You tried writing about him in your journal. Just to get it out. But every time you tried to describe him, your pen stalled. What were you supposed to write? Dear Diary, I think my guardian angel has abandonment issues?

Or worse—I think I made him bleed, and now he hates me. So you stopped trying. And you waited.

-0-

Up above. Sunoo felt heavier. His eyes were dimmer, the clouds were heavier, and his wings were shedding. His wings had never shedded before. He didn't beg to come back, he didn't beg to leave. But he didn't beg to stay either.

He remembered the way he had said you name before he left you, he had seen the timed you didn't water your plants anymore, he had seen the way you wrapped yourself up in your blanket instead of getting up in the morning.

-0-

The next time you saw him, it wasn’t a miracle. It was a breakdown. You were on your roof. It was raining again. And you were crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that quiet, slow kind that happens when the world is too heavy and your heart has no more space. And then he was there.

No wings. No glow. Just Sunoo. Soaked to the bone. Breathing hard like he’d been running. “Why are you—” “I couldn’t stay away.” You blinked. “You left.” “I know.” “You said you wouldn’t.” “I lied.”

Your voice cracked. “Why come back?” “Because you’re the first thing I’ve ever wanted for myself.” The silence that followed was the kind that cracked the sky. He stepped forward. You stepped back. “I can’t do this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m still here.” You looked at him. Really looked. And realized how human he looked.

Tired. Cold. Real. “I’m scared,” you admitted.

“So am I.” You stared at each other like the world might end any second. And maybe it would. But right now, you reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

There was no kiss. Not yet. But the distance between you had never felt smaller. And somewhere, far above the clouds— Something cracked. Not like thunder. More like wings breaking, a few shimmering white feathers dropped to the ground and hissed. Sunoo didn’t fall that night. But Heaven began to notice.

he visits didn’t stop.

Sunoo kept showing up. Sometimes for a moment. Sometimes for hours. He brought you lemon cake once. Said it reminded him of you, sweet, a little messy, and impossible to hate.

You told him that was the worst compliment you’d ever received. He just grinned.

But there were rules now. No touching too long. No looking too long. No wanting too much.

Heaven was listening.

He said he could hear it sometimes, the whispers. Faint cracks in the clouds. Static in his ears. You said that sounded horrifying. He said it sounded worth it.

You didn’t kiss. Not even when you wanted to.

Not even when he looked at you like you were more precious than all the stars he’d flown past.

-0-

He fell.

You didn’t see it happen. You didn’t witness the sky tear open or hear the trumpet-blast of wings being ripped from grace. But you felt it. The ground shook.

The streetlight outside your window flickered violently. Your glass of water cracked down the middle. And your body jolted like something had just been severed in the air above.

Then the knock came. Soft. Familiar.

You opened the door expecting... someone else. But there he was. Same boy. Same cream sweater. Except now, he was drenched. Mud on his knees. Skin scraped. No glow. No wings.

Just… Sunoo.

Human. You found Sunoo in your hallway, collapsed and drenched, steam rising from his skin like divinity was trying to burn itself out of him. His wings—what was left of them—flickered with dying light, feathers singed and curled at the ends.

The fall should have killed him. It didn’t.

You dropped beside him, hands trembling. “Sunoo—Sunoo, look at me—please—” He groaned, barely conscious. “It’s alright,” you whispered, “you’re here. You’re safe.”

His eyes opened slowly. And for the first time, they looked human. No glow. No shimmer. Just pain. “I remembered something,” he rasped.

You froze. “What?” His voice cracked. “Your laugh.” You blinked. “What do you mean?” “I heard it. In the fall. Before everything. Before this life. It was you.” He stared at you like he was seeing you clearly for the first time. “You’ve always been the reason.”

You didn’t understand. But something inside you did.

It was like the world shifted sideways. Like the cracks in your memory finally opened wide enough to swallow you whole. A flash:

You, standing in a garden not built on Earth. Dressed in light. Smiling up at him, your hand in his. Another—

Sunoo kissing your forehead as fire bloomed in the distance. Whispers of rebellion. Of punishment. Another—

God’s voice. Cold. Final. “You are no longer my daughter.” “You will forget him. He will forget you.” “You were never meant to touch the sky.”

And then— Silence.

You gasped, stumbling back, your mind reeling. “I—oh my God.” Wait no, was it, Oh My Father? But that just didn't sound right.

Sunoo’s eyes widened. “You remember.” “You, we—” You both said it at the same time. “We’ve done this before.”

And suddenly the pieces fit. The inexplicable pull. The familiarity in his gaze. The ache that had never made sense, until now.

“I’m not just your assignment,” you breathed. He nodded, voice thick. “You were mine. Before. Before Heaven. Before the fall. Before everything.”

You looked down at your hands. “And I’m not just human.” Sunoo’s voice was barely a whisper. “You were His daughter.”

Silence echoed louder than thunder.

Outside, the storm was dying, but inside, something else was rising. A memory. A prophecy. A punishment disguised as mercy.

You were never meant to find each other again. But you had. And now? Now Heaven was unraveling.

Sunoo reached for your hand—not glowing, not divine, just his hand. Human. Fragile. Real. And you took it.

Because love like this doesn’t die.

Not even when God Himself tries to erase it. He looked up at you with eyes full of things he didn’t know how to name.

“I messed up,” he whispered. “You’re bleeding again,” you said.

He laughed once, humorless. “Guess I better get used to that.”

You stared at him. At the way he shivered slightly in your too-warm living room. The way he kept his hands in his lap like he didn’t trust them anymore.

“What happened?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “They told me I had to go back. That I was getting too close. That you were... distracting me.”

“And?” He looked up.

“I didn’t go.” You blinked. “I told them I couldn’t. That I wouldn’t leave. That I—” He stopped. His throat worked.

“That you what?” you asked gently. He exhaled, slow and shaky.

“That I would rather fall than stay away from you.” You stared, "You told God, father- you would rather spend a mortal life with me rather than in paradise?"

He smiled, bitter and soft. “Here I am. Fallen. Probably damned. Definitely mortal. And all I can think is... I hope you’re not mad at me.”

You stepped closer. “You gave up eternity for me?” “I didn’t even hesitate,” he said. “That’s the worst part.” You didn’t know whether to cry or kiss him or scream. So you did the only thing that made sense.

You took his hand. And this time? There was a heartbeat. A real one.

Slow. Steady. Human, as if it was testing how much pain a hundred broken hearts could hold. You pressed your forehead to his. “I don’t know what happens now.”

Sunoo smiled, something quiet and infinite in his eyes. “We live. Messily. Dangerously. Probably with at least three more toaster accidents.” You laughed through your tears. “And if Heaven sends a retrieval squad?”

He grinned. “Then we run. But not before you finally buy a fire extinguisher.” And just like that.

Your guardian angel became yours in the only way that mattered. Not because he saved you. But because he chose you.

You leaned in. He didn’t back away. His eyes were shimmering, not with light, not anymore, but with something braver, and more ambitious than you had ever seen him.

You pressed your lips to his.

Not sweet. Not perfect. Just real.

Like forgiveness. Like fire. Like every life you forgot and every version of him that still waited at the gates.

He kissed you back, and something inside you clicked. Not like lightning.

Like a lock. Like a door that had waited centuries to open.

Somewhere, far above the clouds, past the stars and the soundless halls of Heaven, God paused.

And for the first time since your banishment, He did not speak.

Because He knew.

No command could unwrite this. No memory wipe could bury it. He shook his head in disbelief, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He turned his back.

Sunoo had fallen. And you, you had risen.

Not back to Heaven. But forward. Into something more.

Two exiled hearts. One broken rule. And a love so stubborn, it burned brighter than grace.

Outside, the storm finally broke. Inside, he rested his forehead against yours, chest still rising too fast.

“You’re really here,” he whispered. You smiled, tears still clinging to your lashes. “You fell for me.”

Sunoo’s thumb brushed your cheek. “You caught me.”

And somewhere behind you, quiet, nearly invisible, your toaster sparked. But this time, neither of you moved.

"The toaster's malfunctioning again." you chuckled wetly, Sunoo smiled teasingly, "Heaven help me."

The End

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fru1t4fr0gs · 9 hours ago

Text

You and Me - Chapter 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You wake up in the back of a van in Berlin with Steve, Sam, and the man with the cat costume from the roof. Reunions happen, some more tense than others, as the rest of the team finds out you're alive.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, Swearing, PTSD, Mentions of violence, Reader and Bucky are protective of each other to the point of being a little feral about it, Reader is Tony Starks kid for extra drama (Reader is still a full grown adult - we make the timeline work because we are in charge), Ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: Not a ton of action in this one, but I liked fleshing out the reader's personality a little bit more now that you're interacting with more than just Bucky. There's also a little backstory thrown in this chapter. Let me know what you guys think! Feedback is always appreciated!

BERLIN

You wake up in the back of a van, head resting on Sam’s shoulder. Your throat is dry and you still feel dizzy, but clarity comes to you more quickly than it might have before. Point two for superpowers, you guess.

“She’s up.” Sam says as you pick your head up off of his shoulder. “Mornin’ Sleeping Beauty. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

The aches and pains you feel from that one simple movement tell you that the serum may not have given you the accelerated healing you know Steve and Bucky have, but your bruises do already feel days old. Not immediate healing, but faster than normal. Noted.

“Where’s Bucky?” You ask, panic twisting in your gut as you glance around the interior of the van. You’re not wearing handcuffs, which is definitely surprising but not something you plan to complain about. He’s not here. Just you, Steve, Sam, and the man you saw trying to kill him not too long ago. Your mind begins to race, rapidly jumping to dangerous conclusions.

“Three cars behind us.” Steve says, voice low and calm like he can sense your spiraling. When you look at him, you see a thousand questions in his eyes, though his face is still and straight as ever. “He only cooperated when he saw you were safe.” Steve hesitates for a second, as if he’s debating whether or not to tell you the next part, before he speaks again. “You passed out when Sam picked you up. When he saw you like that, he was…well, it was bad.”

You flinch, the idea of Bucky seeing what must have looked like your corpse after all of that fighting making bile rise in your throat. From the bruises you can feel littering your body, you can’t have been a pretty sight. “Did he, uh…” you start.

“He flipped a van.”

Oh. Yikes. “You know Bucky,” you say awkwardly, trying and failing at a casual smile. “He…worries.”

This silence is nothing like the silence with Bucky. There’s no comfort to it. You feel like you’re going to crawl out of your skin.

“So, what’s this guy supposed to be?” You ask, nodding towards Cat Guy sitting in the seat in front of you. “Other than…super into cats.”

“Careful, he’s a king.” Steve warns, and you decide to just add that information to the growing pile of confusing things that can be dealt with later.

“Of course he is.” You grumble, before meeting Steve’s gaze with a defensive look. “What? The guy threw me halfway across a roof while dressed like a cat, and now you tell me he’s a king? I have questions.”

The explanation that follows doesn’t really make you feel better. You got enough information from the newspaper and Steve’s conversation with Bucky before, but knowing that Bucky was blatantly framed for this murder raises questions that you’re worried to answer.

“He didn’t do it.” You say, knowing T’Challa won’t believe you but trying anyway.

“You cannot know that for sure. People lie. Assassins more than others.” The surety in his voice makes you clench your jaw, frustration gnawing at you.

“Trust me. What we were doing during the time they say the explosion happened isn’t something you can exactly sneak off to Vienna in the middle of.”

“And there’s a mental image that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.” Sam mutters. You shoot him an apologetic glance.

“I have no reason to trust you, either.” T’Challa says simply, and you can’t argue with that. You want to, but what is there to say? The only interaction this man has had with you involved you trying to fight alongside the man he’s convinced killed his father.

The rest of the car ride drags by, and you fidget the entire way there. Steve and Sam fill you in on what you’ve missed during your time in hiding. The cleanup of HYDRA agents, the explosion caused by Wanda, the Accords. You can feel both of their eyes on you, assessing the changes and likely looking for evidence that you too might turn into a ruthless killing machine on a dime. You can’t imagine that the possibility seems very high, as you pick at the seams in your pants and gnaw on your lip, bruised and battered.

You nearly leap out of the van when it pulls into the parking garage, eyes searching until they land on a car unloading something from the back. Maybe he’s in-

You freeze, and turn to Steve. Your voice is low. Angry.

“Why the hell is he in that giant glass cube?”

“For safety. Both his and ours.” A voice says behind you, and you turn to see a very put together looking agent standing a few feet away.

“Great. No need for that. Let him out.” You snap, sharper than steel.

“Not a chance.” He says, tone casual and authoritative in a way that makes his face look very punchable. “He’ll need to go through several psych evals. And so will you, until we can ensure that you haven’t also been compromised by HYDRA.”

Sharon introduces him as Agent Everett Ross, and you would feel bad about barely sparing her a glance if it weren’t for the anger making you fingers twitch by your sides.

“Put us both through all the psych evals you want. Lock me in a padded cell for all I care. I’m not cooperating for shit while you’ve got him locked in a bulletproof box like some kind of feral zoo animal.”

“Stand down.” Steve says, calm and clear, and you whip your head around to glare at him. Instead, your eyes fall on Bucky, and the anger in you deflates.

The silent conversation between the two of you is brief, but you see the message clear in his eyes. The plea.

Cooperate. If you pick a fight, if they try to take you down, that box might not be able to hold him. And that would just make everything a hell of a lot worse.

Your eyes soften, and you want nothing more in the world than to unlock that stupid cage and wrap your arms around him. He looks wrong in there, like a dangerous weapon put on some kind of fucked up display. That weapon woke you with kisses this morning. Told you your bedhead looked adorable and listened raptly as you described movies he’s never seen because you didn’t have a TV.

Fine. You can cooperate. For him. For now.

He looks at you, only at you, and mouths three words: “You and me.”

You mouth them back, heart constricting in your chest.

“See, that.” Ross says behind you, making your teeth clench once more. “That’s something we need to keep an eye on.”

This is going to be a long fucking day.

“You’re alive.” Natasha says simply, walking beside you and Steve as you’re escorted down the hallway. It’s just two words, but you can hear the meaning behind them. The surprise. The relief. The concern about what you might have gone through during the time everyone thought you were dead.

“Yeah, people keep telling me that.” You say dryly, eyes still staring straight ahead as you walk. They wheeled Bucky away to some basement sector, and you’re still under arrest. Kind of. And now, on top of all of that, you need to prepare yourself for what’s waiting for you behind the door at the end of the hall.

She pulls you aside, nodding a dismissal to the guards as Steve and Sam continue through the door. You know what - who - is waiting on the other side, and you can’t find it in yourself to be ready for it.

“Are you okay?” She asks, in that borderline clinical way she has. You pause, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides, and try to take a steady breath.

“I don’t know.”

She nods, accepting your answer like it was the one she expected. She doesn’t ask more questions. Doesn’t push or pry. You’re grateful for that.

She doesn’t need to follow your eyes to the door behind her.

“He’s not handling it well.” She says, blunt and simple, and you’re grateful for that too.

“Can’t imagine he would.”

NEW YORK - A FEW YEARS AGO

Mr. Lin got robbed. At gunpoint. And while he tries to play it off like he isn’t too bothered, like he can make the money back easily, you know he’s in dire straits. Not only that, but he’s as shaken up by the situation as one might expect.

Anyone would have done what you did. He is your landlord, after all. He’s never been anything but nice to you, and in a way he’s the only family you have left.

Speaking of which…

You drum your fingers on the table, looking around at the interrogation room. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you feel like you might be sick with the amount of anxiety constricting your stomach and lungs, but you keep your face as placid as possible, leaning back in your chair and eyeing the security guard across from you. They’ve had you here for hours, but this isn’t your first time in one of these situations. You grew up poor, and your skills make stealing things, like parts for your projects, both easy and necessary. This isn’t even the first time you’ve robbed Stark Industries. It is, however, the first time you got caught.

You can’t talk your way out of this one. You know what’s coming.

This was a stupid, stupid risk. But you were cocky. Way too cocky. You thought for sure you could get away with this one.

What a dumbass.

You look to the security guard, and decide that it might be a good idea to break the ice.

“So did they give you the job because of the mustache? Or did it grow like that to match your occupation?”

He doesn’t answer. Geez. Tough crowd.

The door opens. You try your hardest not to freeze.

Tony Stark walks in, radiating the casual confidence he’s always seemed to have in press conferences and interviews. He’s looking right at you. Really looking in the way you know means you’re fucked.

He found it.

He comes right to the table, and places a small metal device on it. “Wanna tell me what this is?”

You blink, having expected something else. Okay, maybe he didn’t find it. You pick up your device, no bigger than your palm, and turn it over in your hands. The other side of it is fried, showing evidence of the malfunction that landed you here.

“This is what I used to lapse your security tapes and silence your alarms.” You say simply.

“Why did you try to rob Stark Industries?” The guard asks suddenly, loudly, like he’s a cop in a movie on the brink of getting a murder confession out of a perp. Oh, so he can speak.

“I needed parts.” You answer, unable to take your eyes off of Stark. He seems to be doing the same thing. Assessing you as you assess him. Acting just as casual as you are, enough so that you can’t tell what he knows. If he knows anything at all.

Apple doesn’t fall far, you guess.

“And what, may I ask, do you need my technology to build?” He asks, voice even.

“A security system.”

“For Mr. Lin?”

Ah, shit.

“Yup.” You pop the p on the word, still playing casual despite the effort it’s taking to keep your hands from shaking. “You know him?”

“Is Mr. Lin secretly the president? Or made entirely of diamonds?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

You grit your teeth, protectiveness churning with irritation in your stomach. “Just a friend.”

“A friend who needs a security system more complicated than the one protecting the Museum of Natural History.” Stark deadpans, and you offer him a humorless smile.

“Who says I can build something like that?” You ask. It’s a challenge. To see what else he might know.

“Well, for starters, this does.” He snaps his fingers, and men come into the room carrying…fuck. That’s your stuff. That’s all of your stuff.

The gadgets dropped on the table range from a robot that pours your coffee to a small, thumb sized machine that, when touched to any phone or computer, will fry the inside of it completely.

“You raided my lab.” You say, and it’s not a question. You saw this coming, and you’re still pissed. But he hasn’t pulled out the one thing you’re afraid he found yet. Not yet.

“Your lab is the basement of a Chinese restaurant. And considering that a good portion of this stuff has been stolen from me, I feel pretty confident in my rights to take it.”

“Theft like this is grounds for twenty years in federal prison.” The guard snaps, and Stark drops a hand on his shoulder.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Carl. Can I call you Carl?” His words are flippant, eyes not leaving you.

“Actually, my name is-“

“Thanks Carl. I’ve got it from here.” He offers him a pat, and the officer looks a little flustered as he accepts the dismissal and leaves the room.

You sit there. Just you and Stark. In silence.

You don’t have to say it, but you do anyway.

“You went upstairs.”

There’s a crack in Stark’s cool demeanor. For just a moment, you can see how much the discovery has rocked him. You would be proud of yourself if you didn’t know what was coming.

He just sits down, pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, and places it on the table.

Your mother had never been secretive about where you came from. She told you when she thought you were ready, and gave you the option to seek him out if you wanted. You didn’t. You had your reasons. Tony Stark was a war profiteering douchebag who never called your mother back. Sure, they had been dumb teenagers, but still. You didn’t want anything from him. You still don’t.

When he went missing and was presumed dead, you regretted never telling him. When he was found, you almost did.

And then he announced he was Iron Man, and you chickened the fuck out.

And now he sits before you, with a folded DNA test you had taken last year just to be sure. That you had left on the messy counter of your apartment like an idiot.

You look at him. He looks at you.

“Nice to meet you, dad.“

BERLIN - PRESENT DAY

“I think it goes without saying that I don’t approve of the boy you brought home.”

Okay, so it’s going to be one of those conversations. Avoiding the serious emotions with quips and sarcasm. You can do that. In fact, you prefer it. You and Tony haven’t exactly had the most touchy-feely emotional relationship. You get along well, better than you ever expected, but there’s still an underlying sense of awkwardness there. How could there not be?

“What can I say?” You shrug, “I’m a sucker for a bad boy.” You glance at the monitors, trying to find him on one of the cameras. There’s nothing, and you’re sure they did that on purpose. “Let me go see him.”

“Not happening. You’re not leaving this room until we finish your psych eval.”

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back in your chair. “You’re giving me the evaluation? That sounds crazy unethical. I thought you were all about rules now.”

“Where were you?” The pretense of casualness drops so quickly that you pause, and you can’t fully place the emotions in his voice. When you meet his eyes, however, you see them all. There’s anger, concern, and so much grief there that you feel a surge of guilt punch you square in the stomach. It nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“I couldn’t come back.” You say, searching for some kind of understanding and finding only barely-concealed anger and hurt. You notice then that he looks a little thinner. There are subtle bags under his eyes. “For all I knew, I would be walking right back to HYDRA. I had to hide. And considering the warm welcome they’re giving me now, I wasn’t wrong to.”

“I would have protected you.”

“Like you’re protecting Bucky?” You snap, sitting forward in your seat.

Tony’s composure cracks, just a little. “You mean the guy who killed hundreds of people? Who, the last I heard about him, had stabbed you to death in an alley?”

“That wasn’t him.” You say, anger rising in your chest.

“Well he sure as hell did it.”

You suppress a frustrated groan as you sit back again, hating that you almost feel like a petulant child. This conversation feels a little too “But daddy I love him.” For your liking.

He softens, eyes scanning your face. His voice has lost a bit of its edge when he speaks again.

“What did they do to you?”

You want to reply with something sarcastic. You want to keep your walls up. But you’re so tired, and the chaos of everything has worn you down a little too much. Most of all, despite everything, you did miss him. You missed all of them.

“They…” the words catch in your throat, memories of metal tables and needles flooding through you. You blink them away. “They gave me a serum. Part of one. They said it’s a new one they’ve been working on.”

The corners of his mouth turn down in concern.

“They didn’t finish.” You say, fighting the urge to fidget. “I got out. Made to Bucharest before I found Bucky.”

He nods, once, and then stands up. You stand with him, ready to follow him out of the room and try to shake off this moment of vulnerability.

But he doesn’t leave. He hugs you.

You and Tony Stark don’t hug. The closest you tend to get to hugs is hours spent working alongside each other in a lab. Comfortable companionship.

“I’m glad you’re okay, kid.” He says, and you can hear how much he means it in the subtle crack of his voice.

You nod, and when he pulls back he looks you over one more time, like he’s reminding himself that you’re really back. Really alive. You damn near hug him again.

And then he leaves, telling the officers outside the room that he gives you a clean bill of mental health, and you’re left sitting there, biting back the sting of tears.

He meets with Steve after you, and it doesn’t go well.

You sit in the room with him and Sam, fingertips tapping on the table. There’s a…feeling, like something isn’t quite right. But you don’t know if it’s the serum or the emotional exhaustion from the day and it’s the Not Knowing that’s making you lose your mind. You got used to the serum in the day-to-day. You know before the toast is going to burn in the toaster. You feel it before a speeding car whips around a corner. Once, you were even able to yank Bucky out of the way before a pigeon pooped on his head.

But this is different. You haven’t been in a truly stressful situation in months, and the fighting and emotions and anxiety of the last twelve hours feel like they’ve made your instincts fray.

You talk to Steve. You talk to Sam. You fill them both in on bits and pieces of the last few months, but you can’t make yourself focus over the electric hum running through your veins.

And then Sharon comes in, flicks the monitor on, and you finally see him. He’s still in that stupid cage. You wonder how uncomfortable he must be.

And then you hear the voice, and you flinch.

You’re on fire.

Your palms tingle, your body chills, and you can barely hear them all talking through the ringing in your ears. They’re piecing something together, but you already know. You can feel it in the overwhelming wrongness in the air, invading your senses like a sickeningly sweet perfume.

You stand too quickly. Your chair knocks backwards. Their eyes lock on you. Yours lock onto Steve’s.

You don’t have to say anything. Your eyes must hold every piece of information necessary. He knows. Something is wrong.

And then the power goes out, and you start moving.

Previous Chapter

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jikookonlyfans · 3 days ago

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Analysing my favorite Jikook moment

Here's the moments that caught my eye with Jikook. I'll be putting my 50 cents into it...or let's just say, my 80 cents. If that even exists.

What are my qualifications, you say...

So this moment, that I thought about a lot.. believing that a lot of people actually did too, is one of my favorites. Why? It is simply because it gave me time to pause. And think. Ask myself a question ; what the hell was that? 🤔

So I looked into every little bit of movement I could get my eyes on. So case study 🥴

Flinch of the year

Jimin and JK were partners in intense frontline military service for a year, suggesting a deep bond forged under high-stress conditions. Their closeness is evident in JK’s habit of massaging Jimin's neck to ease his chronic pain, and Jimin typically leans into these massages, indicating trust and comfort.

Then, a casual post-military hangout, JK places his hand on Jimin's neck to start a massage. Jimin flinches about one second later, before the massage begins, but then stabilizes, stays still, and continues chatting with JK as if nothing happened. JK doesn’t react to the flinch and proceeds.

Crucial details :

•Jimin's flinch is delayed for about ½second and is not immediate.

•Jimin is accustomed to his chronic neck pain and usually leans into JK’s massages, not away.

•The flinch doesn’t disrupt their interaction. both carry on casually.

While I cannot possibly tell why exactly he flinched, I can say what I know.

They were obviously at the front lines. And I think that says a lot more that we need to. It is a highly risky place to be at. So during the almost 2 years, this kind of place and training heightens sensitivity and vigilence. Even though Jimin trusts JK, the unexpected placement of JK’s hand might have triggered a subconscious defensive response, especially if Jimin was momentarily distracted or not anticipating the touch, which we can tell he wasn't...looking at the fact that he was busy talking and narrating stuff.

Jimin's chronic neck pain could have been particularly bad that day, making his neck more sensitive to touch. Even though he’s used to JK’s massages, the initial contact (before the massage began) might have caught a tender spot, prompting a reflexive flinch. But as we all know, or care to observe : Jimin's neck pain has caused him to lean into Jungkook's massages a lot more time, instead of running away from it. So this cancels out.

Possibility 3, after a year of intense military service, Jimin might be grappling with readjusting to civilian life or processing emotions tied to their shared experiences. The flinch could reflect a brief emotional guard. A moment of vulnerability or discomfort with physical closeness in a new, non-military setting. Which is definitely 50/50. The first 50 owing to the fact that, they indeed have to adjust because no one comes from the military looking like they had a 2 year vacation. The other 50 owes to the fact that he had a buddy in the military (Jungkook), so even if adjusting is inevitable, it's not that much that he needs a full blown out readjustment.

Or, Jimin might not have expected the touch at that exact moment, especially if he was distracted by their conversation or the setting. A sudden hand on his neck, even from a trusted person, could prompt a startled reaction, especially in a post-military context where situational awareness is heightened, and the timing too. They were not alone in that room, with the stuff and us–the viewers.

Eyes

Eye movements can reveal cognitive or emotional processing. A dart to the left often (though not universally) suggests accessing memories or internal reflection, as the left side of the visual field is linked to the right brain hemisphere, associated with emotions and past experiences. Jimin’s eye dart as he leans into the massage could indicate he’s processing something emotional. A moment of pain, or even relief as he relaxes into JK’s touch.

And after all that, he relaxes anyway. And he continues. And this fact is also a crucial detail. The part of the brain that controls how reflective he is, made him pause for a moment, reflect and then continue. While this is not a very important detail right now, it shows in a lot of overthinkers (yes, I am boldly declaring that Jimin has shown signs of deep thinking before, continues to show them even to this day, and will in the future. But we'll not talk about this today. If you disagree, bite a wooden table and break your teeth, 😤)

So it is not shocking that he acts like that, and creates an awkward vibe before continuing normally. He got touched, flinched, thought about it for some time,then went on. Finally, allowed the massage to continue.

It's something that a lot of people don't really care to consider. But the fact that the massage continued even after all that ..shows trust.

1. Jungkook didn't stop even after seeing the initial discomfort of Jimin. He trusted enough that their dynamic is something Jimin is comfortable with. Because they do it all the time, they've been doing it all these years. So he knew Jimin would eventually give in, or that if he was uncomfortable, he'd have avoided it altogether. And this also shows that Jungkook knows Jimin well enough to understand how Jimin communicates. Jimin can shove his hand off, or shake his head to tell him “No”...and when he didn't, it tells him that Jimin said, “ it's okay... continue ”❤️😭❤️😭❤️😭

2. Jimin, the reflective person.. ALLOWED it to continue, indicating that his brain caught the “safe zone” and leaned into it. Even if he did think about rejecting the massage offer, he did not. Why didn't he? I guess we'll never know.

But, I've been on Tumblr for years now. And the amount of people I see in here with little faith in this relationship is appalling. Disgustingly annoying. I could spent an entire day on this, but it wouldn't make sense, so even if it was just a little...saying something wouldn't ruin anything. This is for all the people who “believe” with a fraction of their heart. For all those who continue to get gaslighted by people who know nothing.

People don't need to think Jimin gets beat up just because of that flinch. Yes, it was a dramatic flinch, but it doesn't showcase violence in any way.

Let's look at it again.

#dramatic as hell #but it's just jimin Jimining #and Jungkook jungkooking #park jimin #jikook #jikookonlyfans #jikook analysis #military service

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niobiumao3 · 10 months ago

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Why does Tech need to be uniquely dead in the 'it didn't stick' death franchise?

Echo, Gregor, Palpatine, Maul, Boba Fett, Ventress, Fennec, all of them somehow could be brought back but not Tech! No way! Just none!

If the position is 'no it should stick for once' okay I can even understand that but that's what should be SAID, not 'IT'S JUST NOT POSSIBLE'.

Sorry but like. It's extremely possible. It's called 'yeah he didn't die'. That's all that was done for Gregor and Echo. NO OTHER explanation was given. At. All.

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb tech #cannot believe this is STILL a conversation #you can want him to stay dead #but you should say that #not 'OH YOU SEE IT'S UNPOSSIBLE'

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wolfofproendos · 6 months ago

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saw a very hateful post, so i just wanted to say that:

those who are introjects of bad people: you are not bad for using your source's name. you are not bad for identifying just a little bit with your source. you are not bad for seeking out fanart, and sourcemates. you are not bad if you do not want to disconnect (yet) from your source. you are not bad for being an introject of a bad person.

#( 🐺 ) grooming session #🌗 @ 🐺#plural positivity #pluralgang #the original post couldn't even dare to say introjects. just was like “fictives! *lists both fictive & factive sources*"#smh just say introjects.#the whole post was also directed @ jimmy fictives. like. from mouthwashing. and was basically telling people to disconnect from their sourc #sorry. that post just made me angry. i cannot believe we are still having this conversation.

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britneyshakespeare · 8 months ago

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Had the extremely upsetting experience of a mutual of like 6 years going off on me for occasionally making posts about supporting Harris because apparently that makes me a g n cide denier who refuses to learn and grow, with all of my views just being assumed not even from what I've told them I believe or what I've posted before, but just because I DON'T post particularly the kind of things they THINK I should be. When I pointed out how much they were just completely assuming about stuff I'd never talked to them about, I was told it doesn't matter what I do in real life or "care" about if I simply disagree with their conclusion and vote for her anyway. Like they were absolutely not sorry for the level of maliciousness they not just assumed of my character, but for some reason thought appropriate to bring directly to me before unfollowing me. No apology whatsoever for how discomforting or upsetting that might be and certainly no acknowledgment that I could disagree with them and still be a good person. I just got another even longer rant about how they fundamentally can't fuck with me because of this one thing, no matter WHAT else I do in my real life (which I pointed out that they do not know), and how I'm directly supporting fascism.

Like seriously what is it about Tumblr that makes people think they know someone based off of occasional posts? There were just such DEEP assumptions they were making of me and going off of very little or absolutely nothing. Around the time I first became mutuals with that person I used to express my personality and beliefs and talk about what was going on in my life a lot more openly, but I've significantly scaled back on doing that in many ways for many reasons. One of my major ones is privacy and the way I've had strangers outside my followers and following circles just find random things I say and dogpile me for it. I was fundamentally changed after some T Fs did that to me like 3 years ago. I also just didn't have many conversations w that person anymore (I message people in general on here like 10x less than I did circa 2018-2019, which I'm somewhat sorry about!). My point is to say I think this person felt comfortable assuming that they knew me, especially who I am in 2024 at the age of 25, much better than they actually did.

One of the specific things they accused me of was being afraid of learning and growing (because I don't perform social media activism on here like they think I should). Like AFRAID to take criticism. When again I've never received criticism from them or had to respond to any criticism on here before as pertaining to my views on... well, absolutely any of the issues they accused me of not caring about. They essentially treated it as if the only thing in the world I cared about was the US election and characterized me as the most out-of-touch liberal they could possibly imagine, because I'm not "pushing" Kamala Harris to be better (Oh?? Should I do that on here?? Does she read my blog??).

And most hypocritically what they said was that I only *sometimes* *vaguely* post pro-Harris things (I often post like 5 or fewer things in a day though?). But here's the kicker. "Because I know I'll get shit for it. And rightfully so."

Really????? Not a single person, anon or not, in my messages or in a tagged post or anything, has ever given me shit before for saying who I'm voting for. I'm actually NOT afraid of "getting shit" for that opinion, I just don't start fights with people who are anti-voting. And why should I??? I genuinely don't believe in trying to change the minds of strangers on the internet about that sort of thing. I'm just not confrontational about it; that is so not the same thing as being "afraid of getting shit." I'm not posting ENOUGH about my support for Harris, therefore I'm afraid. But therefore they can also make all these assumptions about me being their strawman for an ignorant Harris supporter.

I'm afraid of getting shit but I still post anyway? But if I weren't afraid of getting shit I'd be posting a lot more?? This is ALL based on their assumptions of what my blog *should* look like, based on what I really and truly believe. My level of posting every now and then is an accurate gauge of my feelings on complex, sensitive, global issues. Because I'm voting for the Democratic presidential candidate and I'm ok sharing pretty much just that little glimpse of myself.

I really don't think that person knows just how inappropriate and insulting that is to just say all of that to me. Like they really know what's going on in my head. Their first message began and ended with like "I'm sorry I love you I just can't take it anymore" but they clearly weren't sorry enough to try and be more respectful to me, and they didn't love me enough not to default to extremely ungenerous assumptions and attacking me based off of those instead of any actual words I've said that they take issue with.

Online radicalization is real and it's not necessarily bad because your political views can start to fall well out of the contemporary Overton window. The way you find it appropriate to treat people whose views, however common, seem to fundamentally misalign with yours... that does matter. You can't just assume the worst of everyone and then act on that in how you approach them as individuals. And then be shocked that you don't stay friends with them. You can't be confrontational with someone about an issue you've never had an honest conversation about, and then expect them to take your bad faith in them as reasonable well-meaning criticism.

I'm afraid of criticism??? I'm afraid of criticism. No I'm not. This person and I have never had an issue before where they criticized me and I got harshly defensive. It was ALL projection. The entire tone of their messages was as if all their anti-voting posts recently were somehow in communication with the occasional go-vote-for-Harris posts that I make. That's not a conversation. I don't post for your satisfaction. I don't post in "response" to my mutuals I disagree with. I just post what's on my mind, sometimes, about some things. I really again can't stress enough how baffled I am by this