#collapse 2011

[oacest]

Noel in an excerpt of John Robb's upcoming book

[nocoffeeplease]

[spacevixenmusic]

Source: ThunderCats [2011]

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[whynot-movies]

Real Steel (2011)

[saltlakehardcoreflyers]

[spaceaudio]

this is such a slap in the face to the users you have had this entire time

Tumblr’s Core Product Strategy

Here at Tumblr, we’ve been working hard on reorganizing how we work in a bid to gain more users. A larger user base means a more sustainable company, and means we get to stick around and do this thing with you all a bit longer. What follows is the strategy we're using to accomplish the goal of user growth. The @labs group has published a bit already, but this is bigger. We’re publishing it publicly for the first time, in an effort to work more transparently with all of you in the Tumblr community. This strategy provides guidance amid limited resources, allowing our teams to focus on specific key areas to ensure Tumblr’s future.

The Diagnosis

In order for Tumblr to grow, we need to fix the core experience that makes Tumblr a useful place for users. The underlying problem is that Tumblr is not easy to use. Historically, we have expected users to curate their feeds and lean into curating their experience. But this expectation introduces friction to the user experience and only serves a small portion of our audience. 

Tumblr’s competitive advantage lies in its unique content and vibrant communities. As the forerunner of internet culture, Tumblr encompasses a wide range of interests, such as entertainment, art, gaming, fandom, fashion, and music. People come to Tumblr to immerse themselves in this culture, making it essential for us to ensure a seamless connection between people and content. 

To guarantee Tumblr’s continued success, we’ve got to prioritize fostering that seamless connection between people and content. This involves attracting and retaining new users and creators, nurturing their growth, and encouraging frequent engagement with the platform.

Our Guiding Principles

To enhance Tumblr’s usability, we must address these core guiding principles.

Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Retain and grow our creator base.

Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Improve the platform’s performance, stability, and quality.

Below is a deep dive into each of these principles.

Principle 1: Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Tumblr has a “top of the funnel” issue in converting non-users into engaged logged-in users. We also have not invested in industry standard SEO practices to ensure a robust top of the funnel. The referral traffic that we do get from external sources is dispersed across different pages with inconsistent user experiences, which results in a missed opportunity to convert these users into regular Tumblr users. For example, users from search engines often land on pages within the blog network and blog view—where there isn’t much of a reason to sign up. 

We need to experiment with logged-out tumblr.com to ensure we are capturing the highest potential conversion rate for visitors into sign-ups and log-ins. We might want to explore showing the potential future user the full breadth of content that Tumblr has to offer on our logged-out pages. We want people to be able to easily understand the potential behind Tumblr without having to navigate multiple tabs and pages to figure it out. Our current logged-out explore page does very little to help users understand “what is Tumblr.” which is a missed opportunity to get people excited about joining the site.

Actions & Next Steps

Improving Tumblr’s search engine optimization (SEO) practices to be in line with industry standards.

Experiment with logged out tumblr.com to achieve the highest conversion rate for sign-ups and log-ins, explore ways for visitors to “get” Tumblr and entice them to sign up.

Principle 2: Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

We need to ensure the highest quality user experience by presenting fresh and relevant content tailored to the user’s diverse interests during each session. If the user has a bad content experience, the fault lies with the product.

The default position should always be that the user does not know how to navigate the application. Additionally, we need to ensure that when people search for content related to their interests, it is easily accessible without any confusing limitations or unexpected roadblocks in their journey.

Being a 15-year-old brand is tough because the brand carries the baggage of a person’s preconceived impressions of Tumblr. On average, a user only sees 25 posts per session, so the first 25 posts have to convey the value of Tumblr: it is a vibrant community with lots of untapped potential. We never want to leave the user believing that Tumblr is a place that is stale and not relevant. 

Actions & Next Steps

Deliver great content each time the app is opened.

Make it easier for users to understand where the vibrant communities on Tumblr are. 

Improve our algorithmic ranking capabilities across all feeds. 

Principle 3: Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Part of Tumblr’s charm lies in its capacity to showcase the evolution of conversations and the clever remarks found within reblog chains and replies. Engaging in these discussions should be enjoyable and effortless.

Unfortunately, the current way that conversations work on Tumblr across replies and reblogs is confusing for new users. The limitations around engaging with individual reblogs, replies only applying to the original post, and the inability to easily follow threaded conversations make it difficult for users to join the conversation.

Actions & Next Steps

Address the confusion within replies and reblogs.

Improve the conversational posting features around replies and reblogs. 

Allow engagements on individual replies and reblogs.

Make it easier for users to follow the various conversation paths within a reblog thread. 

Remove clutter in the conversation by collapsing reblog threads. 

Explore the feasibility of removing duplicate reblogs within a user’s Following feed. 

Principle 4: Retain and grow our creator base.

Creators are essential to the Tumblr community. However, we haven’t always had a consistent and coordinated effort around retaining, nurturing, and growing our creator base.  

Being a new creator on Tumblr can be intimidating, with a high likelihood of leaving or disappointment upon sharing creations without receiving engagement or feedback. We need to ensure that we have the expected creator tools and foster the rewarding feedback loops that keep creators around and enable them to thrive.

The lack of feedback stems from the outdated decision to only show content from followed blogs on the main dashboard feed (“Following”), perpetuating a cycle where popular blogs continue to gain more visibility at the expense of helping new creators. To address this, we need to prioritize supporting and nurturing the growth of new creators on the platform.

It is also imperative that creators, like everyone on Tumblr, feel safe and in control of their experience. Whether it be an ask from the community or engagement on a post, being successful on Tumblr should never feel like a punishing experience.

Actions & Next Steps

Get creators’ new content in front of people who are interested in it. 

Improve the feedback loop for creators, incentivizing them to continue posting.

Build mechanisms to protect creators from being spammed by notifications when they go viral.

Expand ways to co-create content, such as by adding the capability to embed Tumblr links in posts.

Principle 5: Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Push notifications and emails are essential tools to increase user engagement, improve user retention, and facilitate content discovery. Our strategy of reaching out to you, the user, should be well-coordinated across product, commercial, and marketing teams.

Our messaging strategy needs to be personalized and adapt to a user’s shifting interests. Our messages should keep users in the know on the latest activity in their community, as well as keeping Tumblr top of mind as the place to go for witty takes and remixes of the latest shows and real-life events.  

Most importantly, our messages should be thoughtful and should never come across as spammy.  

Actions & Next Steps

Conduct an audit of our messaging strategy.

Address the issue of notifications getting too noisy; throttle, collapse or mute notifications where necessary.  

Identify opportunities for personalization within our email messages. 

Test what the right daily push notification limit is. 

Send emails when a user has push notifications switched off.

Principle 6: Performance, stability and quality.

The stability and performance of our mobile apps have declined. There is a large backlog of production issues, with more bugs created than resolved over the last 300 days. If this continues, roughly one new unresolved production issue will be created every two days. Apps and backend systems that work well and don't crash are the foundation of a great Tumblr experience. Improving performance, stability, and quality will help us achieve sustainable operations for Tumblr.

Improve performance and stability: deliver crash-free, responsive, and fast-loading apps on Android, iOS, and web.

Improve quality: deliver the highest quality Tumblr experience to our users. 

Move faster: provide APIs and services to unblock core product initiatives and launch new features coming out of Labs.

Conclusion

Our mission has always been to empower the world’s creators. We are wholly committed to ensuring Tumblr evolves in a way that supports our current users while improving areas that attract new creators, artists, and users. You deserve a digital home that works for you. You deserve the best tools and features to connect with your communities on a platform that prioritizes the easy discoverability of high-quality content. This is an invigorating time for Tumblr, and we couldn’t be more excited about our current strategy.

[atalana]

actually because i keep seeing polls around that vastly underestimate how long most people have been on this site, might as well make my own!

you know the drill, more reblogs equals more votes!

[werspinna]

While Wolf speaks italian in her daily life, she specifically lives in Pisa and by the time when she uses italian as a regular language for her normal daily interactions after Leo had sold her to Asada, she specifically learned Pisa-Italian. At the time of Wolfs Life the town-language had yet not formed completly as this would only happen a century later when Pisa is eventually taking over by Florenz., however the specific Pisa accent is already hearable in Wolfs use of the language. She can understand “norm”-italian, but would have a hard time with certaine words and phrases.

The same would happen with her meeting someone who speaks modern german.Wolf specifically speaks the lowgerman spoken around Cologne in the 13th cetury, although due to Cologne beeing a massive tradingcenter she does have picked up different lowgerman words from the North (specifically from around the northsea and balsticum) which helps her in her daily interactions as after all the nothern lowgerman would become a few centurys later a widespread tradinglanguage for the hanseatic pact and had only been chosen by the Hanse because it was already used widespread as a tradinglangauge for centuriesthrough europe and russia. However, modern english and modern german did grew from lowgerman and have similaritys, but are also just the  same different languages. Eventually lowgerman is still closer related to modern english than to modern german, due to the reintreduction of lowgerman phrases and words during the hanseatic time into London-english and the fact that the accentuation of vocals is a lot of more similar than that of modern german. This also helped Wolf learning modern english faster when she joined the spider society. Eventually this means for her: She learned and speaks modern english well, but not perfect. However she would have  big problems speaking with a Modern Itaian Speaker and a modern german Speaker. Eventually the only langauge she can speak and that she would understand in modern day would be latin due to it beeing a dead langauge and not having changed much in the coming eighthundred years from her time. But that is again is a complete different problem since its obviously a dead language.

[quasi-normalcy]

Just struck by the fact that, in 2018, climate scientists posted a dire warning that the Earth had just twelve years to cut greenhouse gas emissions to avoid catastrophic global heating. There were protests; demonstrations. We have now breezed through more than half of that time, with nothing to show for it but millions of more tonnes of CO2 wasted on crypto mining and AI scams. The world nears the sixth mass extinction in its entire geological history and oil production is near record highs.

Struck also by the fact that, in 2020, there were mass protests against police murders of Black people; like, mass mass protests. "Defund the police" they said. "Abolish the police." Police budgets are up. Black people still get murdered by the cops en masse.

And then, this past year, there were massive protests against the genocide in Gaza. There were occupations of university campuses, there were protests outside of the institutions that enabled the mass murder in Palestine. Macklemore did a song about it, a good one. And the genocide continues apace.

On issue after issue, you can see the same pattern. Surely the massacre of children at Sandy Hook would drive sensible gun laws! Nope. Surely outrage over the Rana Plaza collapse in Bangladesh would drive changes in labour practices! Nope. Surely the #Occupy protests in 2011 would drive wealth redistribution! Nope. Surely the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico would drive better environmental regulations. Nope. Surely the 2008 financial crash would drive regulation of the stock market. Nope. Surely the record protests against the US Invasion of Iraq would move the needle, even a little bit. Nope. Over and over and over again, we see the capitalist elite (let us be frank) raping the world, over and over and over again, we see mass outpourings of rage and disgust in the streets, and over and over and over again, we see them shrug it off, fuck their mistresses, and go golfing.

And then, some guy who may or may not be named Luigi goes and shoots an insurance CEO to death. And suddenly they can't shrug this off. Some companies back down on their plans to make health insurance in the USA even worse; we're treated to panicked editorials in elite publications talking about how celebration of the murder showcases our culture of moral decay (as if this isn't a society that has been either denying or actively celebrating the most well documented genocide in history for the last 15 months; as if there aren't near daily shootings in American schools, occurring so often that they barely even make the news anymore; as if the dead CEO hadn't presided over a company that spread misery and death for the millions as a matter of business as usual); companies beef up security, hide the names of their CEOs. There is, in short, an actual response (though it remains to be seen how it will play out in the long run, but still an actual response). Decades of mass, peaceful protest, and they just ignore it. One guy with a gun, and suddenly it's the end of the fucking world.

What lesson are we supposed to draw from this?

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Warren G featuring Nate Dogg - Regulate 1994

Warren G is an American rapper, record producer, and DJ known for his role in West Coast rap's 1990s ascent. A pioneer of G-funk, he attained mainstream success with the 1994 single "Regulate". He significantly helped Snoop Dogg's career during the latter's beginnings, also introducing him to Dr. Dre, who later signed Snoop Dogg. After the success of "Regulate", American singer and rapper Nate Dogg became a fixture in the West Coast hip hop genre, regularly working with Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and Xzibit in the 1990s; his deep vocals became sought after for hooks, and he would expand to work with a larger variety of artists in the 2000s. As a featured artist, Nate charted 16 times on the Billboard Hot 100, and in 2003 reached number one via 50 Cent's "21 Questions". Nate Dogg also was notably featured on Dr. Dre's "The Next Episode" and Eminem's "'Till I Collapse" (poll #239). In 2015, Warren G released Regulate… G Funk Era, Part II, an EP featuring archived recordings of Nate Dogg, who died in 2011.

"Regulate" was released in the spring of 1994 as the first single on the soundtrack to the film Above the Rim and later Warren G's debut album, Regulate… G Funk Era. The album debuted at number 2 on the US Billboard 200 chart, selling 176,000 in its opening week. The single spent 18 weeks in the Top 40 of the Billboard Hot 100, with three weeks at number 2, and earned a Grammy nomination and a MTV Movie Award nomination. In 2017, "Regulate", certified platinum in 1994, went multi-platinum, propelled by digital downloads.

It employs a four-bar sample of the rhythm of Michael McDonald's song "I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near)", and also samples "Sign of the Times" by Bob James and "Let Me Ride" by Dr. Dre. "Regulate" starts with a read introduction referencing dialogue from the 1988 film Young Guns.

"Regulate" received a total of 75,7% yes votes! Previous Warren G polls: #20 "Prince Igor".

[aeolianblues]

‘Indie sleaze’ is not 2014, ‘Indie sleaze’ is not 2014, ‘Indie sleaze’ is not 2014, ‘Indie sleaze’ is not 2014!

It’s not tumblr-core and it’s not Lana Del Ray or 2013 AM, it’s not #girl interrupted, it’s not Ethel Cain (she literally is an artist of our time, what are you on about.)

It was 2001 with the Strokes on the cover of the NME every 2 weeks, it was cabaret night and English poetry with the Libertines in 2002, it’s those red and blue military jackets, it was the fucking grease in Julian Casablancas’ hair, it’s ’cocaine was the banker’s drug’ quoth Alex Kapranos, it was Don't Go Back To Dalston and the heroin, it was red and black horizontal striped tops and tight black shirts as evening wear, it was Russell Lissak’s mop top and a full page interview with London hairdressers in the NME in 2005, it was Jack and Meg’s saturated red and white dresses, it was glued glitter on the cover of Santigold’s first album, it was the sleaze and the sex of CSS’s music, it was ‘cold light, hot night’, it was the anti-Bush and anti-war stances of the bands at the time, it was America by Razorlight, it was Popworld on telly and Simon Amstel being a little shit to musicians, it was Karen O defying death on stage nightly, it was throwing up in shitty nightclubs on god knows what drugs, it was the fucking danger knowing this could all collapse any second—and rightly, it should. It was the godawful egos at DFA, it was knowing that while you were lucky to be seeing these bands live, you’d fucking hate them if you had to spend even a minute in their individual company. It was Amy Winehouse telling the world to get the fuck out of her business, it was Leslie Feist and Peaches sharing a dilapidated flat above a sex shop in Toronto.

It was horrible camera flash and red-eye editing softwares and putting your feet by the warm, spinning fans of your computer while it whirred away and downloaded your albums in *checks* 46 more minutes. It was horrible, it was dirty, it was gritty, we all hated it and thought the 90s were the last time music was good and that nothing good had happened since 1997. It was garishly bright clothes we were all embarrassed of by 2011, it was multiple layers and leggings and asking your mum to cut the itchy tag on the back of your low rise jeans only for her to snip your back. It was bell bottoms at the start of the decade. It being thankful that by 2017, no one would dream of wearing low rises anymore, please please, please let them never come back.

It was faux nostalgic of the past itself. It was ‘please make sure baby you’ve got some colours in there’ in your clothes. It was moral panic over emos. It was wanting to escape into a better past that you could see was visibly impoverished in the present. It was watching your favourite programmes become less and less relevant on air. It was watching MTV decisively die a horrible death. It was watching important venues and nightclubs get bulldozed. It was watching the last regular broadcast of Top Of The Pops in 2006. It was seeing how the 2009 financial crisis most definitely put a stop to independent music in the western world for a decade, it was watching the rise of bedroom DIY and electronic music. It was seeing the phrase ‘SoundCloud rapper’ being coined. It was the rise of Disney pop. It was counter-culture Justin Bieber hatred. It was the MS paint meme of those tumblr girls thoroughly unimpressed by the guy.

It was not using the words ‘indie sleaze’ at all, in fact. That’s a retconned word. It was garage rock revival. It was ‘post-grunge’. We didn’t care what it was called, we hated it all the same. It was a lead into a decade of despair and nihilism, it was the last hurrah for the music industry before it splintered into a thousand little online ecosystems, it was the last time we had physical community and any shared pop cultural moments. It was Live8 2005. It was the same as it is now, and it was a time that’ll never happen again, for better and for worse.

But one thing is for sure: it was decisively dead by 2014. Santi and Karen O’s 2012 collab was its last hurrah and it was dead by Comedown Machine by the Strokes (2013). It has nothing to do with 2014.

[tacobacoyeet]

nothing (but love) for you | tashi duncan x patrick zweig x art donaldson x reader | part 2

part 1 | part 2

a/n: welcome to the end! thank you for all of the love on part 1, my heart is *so* warm. you probably won't feel the same after this one, but don't worry. i still love you. life isn't all happy endings, after all.

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, smoking, drinking, cheting, a lot of anger, unspoken feelings, manipulation, hastily proofread, tashi mfing duncan

3 months until the 2011 US Open Final

The stadium hums with a restless energy, the kind that builds before something inevitable. The air is thick with heat and expectation, the crowd shifting in their seats, murmuring, waiting.

You tighten your fingers around the handle of your racket, the weight of it familiar, grounding. The fabric of the wrap is already worn down from the last two hours of play, threads pulling loose under your fingertips. Across the net, your opponent lingers near the baseline, adjusting her wristbands, rolling out her shoulders. She’s been doing that a lot more in the last few games. A tell.

You exhale slowly. You can feel the match tilting. You’ve clawed your way back into it after dropping the first set, grinding through point after point, willing your body to push past exhaustion. Your legs ache, your grip burns, but none of that matters. Not now.

Your opponent is ranked higher, more established, a staple of the tour. You? You’re still a wild card, technically. A question mark on the bracket. But no one watching believes that anymore.

Art is somewhere in the stands. You know without looking. He’s been at every match that he can, just like you’ve been at his. A steady presence, an anchor in the chaos of it all.

You settle into position, weight balanced on the balls of your feet. Across the net, your opponent sets up for her serve, bouncing the ball, eyes locked on the opposite service box. You know her game, know her tells, the way her grip tightens a fraction of a second before she commits to a shot. You see it now, the moment before she serves—a flicker of hesitation.

She’s tired. You both are. But she’s starting to break first.

You can feel it. And more than anything, you want to win.

The serve comes fast, but you’re faster. You return it deep, pinning her to the baseline. She grits her teeth, sends it back with pace, but you’re already moving. The rally builds—hard, punishing shots, both of you pushing the other to the limit. The stadium is electric, the crowd murmuring with each strike of the ball.

Then she hesitates.

It’s small, nearly imperceptible—a fraction of a second where her balance is off, where her shot doesn’t have the same bite. And that’s all you need.

You step into it, shifting your weight, and drive a forehand down the line, clean and precise, past your opponent’s desperate lunge. The ball rockets down the court, past her outstretched racket.

Winner.

Match.

The stadium erupts. The roar is deafening, the sound crashing over you in waves. You don’t celebrate right away. You drop your racket, chest heaving, hands on your knees as reality sinks in. You won. You fucking won.

Somewhere in the stands, Art is on his feet.

Later that night, the hotel room door swings shut, the latch clicking into place, but you barely register it before Art is on you.

It’s immediate, like neither of you had another choice. His hands are firm, one gripping your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he kisses you like he’s the one that’s breathless from the match. The adrenaline is still there, thrumming beneath your skin, mixing with something deeper, something hungrier.

You meet him with the same intensity, hands fisting into his shirt, yanking him closer like you need to feel every inch of him pressed against you.

He backs you toward the bed, but it’s messy, frantic—your heel catches against the carpet, and you both stumble, laughing into each other’s mouths before collapsing onto the mattress. His fingers tighten on your waist, his breath hot against your skin. "You played out of your mind today."

You shiver as his teeth scrape along your pulse. "Yeah?"

Art leans back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark, unfocused. "I mean it. You were fucking incredible."

Then he kisses you again, deeper, like he’s trying to burn every ridge of your lips into his own. You pull his shorts down, and he breaks from your face for a moment so he can take his shirt off before removing all of your clothes as well, tossing them around haphazardly. 

“I know they gave you a trophy already…” he murmurs, his lips leaving a wet, sloppy trail of kisses down your body. “But, I just don’t think that’s enough.” 

You grin down at him, your breath catching in your throat as you feel him bury his tongue inside of you. He knows you. Every part of you, inside, out and sideways. Your head, your heart, every crevice that makes you who you are. 3 years of having nobody but each other would do that to a couple, after all.

He works you right up to the edge, pulling his mouth away from you just before you can crash over. The protest that escapes you dies on your tongue, though, as he replaces his tongue with his cock, plowing into you. 

He’s made a habit of only marking you along your breasts and below—he knows better than to leave marks where they can be visible, as much as he wants to, so he has to settle for leaving them where only he can see them. He doesn’t really mind anymore, though. 

The room is full of noise, a symphony of moans and whines and I-love-you’s mingling within the air. Each thrust of his hips brings you closer and closer—another gasp of his name falling from your lips, your back arching harder. He swallows every noise you make as you come, his lips pressed against yours, both of you sparkling with the afterglow of your favorite post-match tradition.

Later, the room is quiet except for the steady rise and fall of your breath. The adrenaline has finally ebbed, leaving behind something softer, heavier. Art is lying beside you, one arm slung over his forehead, staring at the ceiling like he’s still coming down from it all.

You shift, stretching out a little as you flip to your side, your back to him. the ache in your limbs a reminder of everything—of the match, of this, of him.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Somewhere across the country, Patrick is lounging against the plush sheets of the hotel room him and Tashi are in, his eyes on her, stress and... something that isn't quite anger radiating off of her.

“It’s just a wild card,” Patrick murmurs to Tashi, playing with his phone as he lounges back on the bed they’re sharing. “You only ever study worthy opponents. He wrinkles his nose slightly as he repeats the statement she’s said a million times over, but she’s too focused on the screen before her to even notice.

“I am. I’m watching for Anna. Y/N just happens to be there,” Tashi replies, her voice steady. 

“You could just admit that you miss her, you know. Send a text.”

“I don’t miss her,” she quickly counters. A fat lie. She’s thought about you every single day since she left. “I’m trying to focus, Patrick.”

He doesn’t push any further. He knows better to bug his girlfriend when she’s got her mind made up on something. Instead, he quietly snaps a picture of Tashi, her back to him as she frowns at the TV, and sends it to Art as his weekly update text. ‘See you soon.’

2 months until the 2011 US Open Final

The morning air is still cool, the sun barely beginning to stretch over the horizon, hours before his opening match in the Canadian Open. Art moves across the court in quiet repetition, the rhythmic sound of the ball meeting the strings the only thing filling the empty space. He’s been here for over an hour already, sweat clinging to his skin, muscles burning in that way that keeps him grounded.

He doesn’t hear Patrick walk in, but he knows the moment he’s there.

Patrick doesn’t announce himself, just leans against the fence, watching. The familiarity of it is unsettling—how many times had this happened back at Stanford? Patrick showing up unannounced, standing there like he belonged, like Art should’ve expected him.

Art exhales sharply, tossing the ball up, sending a clean forehand down the line. “Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”

Patrick smirks. “Didn’t think you’d still be playing like you’ve got something to prove.”

Art ignores that. Hits another ball, harder this time.

Patrick lets the silence stretch before stepping onto the court. He doesn’t ask permission. He never does. “You gonna feed me a ball, or you just gonna keep pretending I’m not here?”

Art hesitates, just for a second. Then he bounces a ball, sends it Patrick’s way. A test.

Patrick swings, the ball cracking against his racket, shooting back over the net with ease.

And just like that, they’re rallying.

The first few strokes are controlled, careful. Feeling each other out. But it escalates fast, the way it always does. Art angles a sharp crosscourt shot, Patrick stretches for it, sending it back deep. They move like they used to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something neither of them forgot.

When the ball finally dies in the net, Patrick’s breathing hard, sweat clinging to his collar. He grins. “Still got it.”

Art shakes his head, trying not to smile. “Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, rolling the damp grip of his racket between his palms before finally speaking up. "How’s Tashi?"

Patrick's smirk falters for just a second before he scoffs. "Don’t make small talk with me like we don’t talk all the time."

Art shrugs, gaze fixed on a loose ball rolling near the net. "It's only ever weekly updates on our girlfriends. I'm rusty on conversation topics."

Patrick tilts his head, considering that. "Who’s fault is that?"

Art doesn't answer. He knows Patrick won’t push for one. It’s not like it’s either of their faults.

Instead, Patrick steps closer, tossing his racket to the ground with a careless thud. "You know, you still move the same."

Art huffs. "And you still play lazy."

Patrick grins. "And yet, somehow, I still win."

Art rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to fire something back, but Patrick is right there, close enough that Art can smell the sweat on his skin, the familiar warmth of him. The silence between them is thick, charged, stretching just long enough for Patrick’s smirk to fade into something else entirely.

"We still do this," Art murmurs, almost to himself.

Patrick watches him, unreadable. "Yeah. We do." He holds Art’s gaze, something unreadable in his expression. Then—

The space between them disappears in a breath.

Patrick’s mouth is on Art’s, hot and urgent, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. Art fists his hand in Patrick’s hoodie, dragging him in, the kiss deepening, something raw crackling between them as they stumble back against the brick wall.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It never is.

And maybe, Art thinks distantly, it never will be.

---

Tashi sits at the press room table, fingers laced in front of her, posture poised and composed as the A/C blows off some of the lingering sweat from her earlier match. The bright lights reflect off the polished surface, cameras flashing as reporters lean forward, waiting for their turn.

A moderator gestures to the next question. A reporter in the second row stands. “Tashi, congratulations on your win today. You’ve dominated the tour this season, and now with the US Open around the corner, there’s been a lot of discussion about a potential final against Y/N Y/L/N. Given your history together—junior doubles champions, facing off in the juniors final—how do you feel about the possibility of playing her again on such a big stage?”

Tashi doesn’t react right away. She reaches for the water bottle in front of her, unscrews the cap, and takes a measured sip. When she sets it down, she finally looks at the reporter.

“I think she still has a lot to prove.”

A murmur ripples through the room. The reporter presses on. “Do you think she’s capable of beating you?”

Tashi’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I think a lot of players think they can beat me.”

Another flash of cameras. More murmurs. The moderator moves to the next question, but Tashi doesn’t hear it. She already knows the headlines this will make.

And she doesn’t care.

Hundreds of miles away, the sun hangs low in the Cincinnati sky, casting long shadows across the empty practice court. You’re mid-drill, frustration tightening in your chest with every strike of the ball. The rhythm is off. Your grip feels wrong. The stress of the approaching WTA Western & Southern Open presses down on you, and no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it lingers. Art lounges on the sidelines, lazily tossing a tennis ball in the air, letting it fall back into his palm.

"So what are we thinking?" Art muses, tracking the arc of the ball. "Dinner at that sushi place near the marina, or are we feeling something greasy and tragic?"

You exhale sharply as you send the ball into the net. "Greasy and tragic sounds about right."

Art smirks, tossing the tennis ball in the air lazily. "So, burgers the size of your head and fries that’ll shorten our lifespan?"

You huff, stepping back to reset. "Basically."

"Figured. Though if you lose this match, I reserve the right to pick a salad place just to watch you suffer."

You glare at him over your shoulder. "I hate you."

"You love me,” he replies. You don’t have to say anything for him to know you reciprocate. 

You grit your teeth and serve again—too much power, the ball sailing long. You curse under your breath, rolling out your shoulders. Art’s eyes are trained on you, now, your movements growing tenser, harsher.

"You’re rushing it," he offers. "Take a breath."

"I know what I’m doing," you mutter, bouncing the ball hard against the court.

You serve again—another miss. Too long. Too strong. Too much. You breathe out with the sharpness of a throwing knife sailing to a bullseye, bouncing on your heels, your frustration creeping in. Art tilts his head, watching you closer now. You know what he's thinking. You’re pushing too hard, your agitation clouding your technique. But before he can say anything, his phone buzzes, breaking the moment.

He barely glances at it at first, but when his eyes catch the words on the screen, his smirk fades. His fingers tighten around the phone. He hesitates, then swipes to open it.

He doesn’t say anything.

You can’t miss the silence. "What?"

Art doesn’t respond right away, his expression shifting into something unreadable. He finally looks up, and after a beat, he turns the phone toward you. A Google Alert. Tashi Duncan dismisses Y/N L/N’s US Open threat: ‘She still has a lot to prove.’

Your heartbeat spikes. You snatch the phone from his hand, scanning the article. The words blur together, heat surging up your spine. When you look up, your grip is white-knuckled around Art’s phone.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you breathe.

Art sits up. "Y/N—"

But you’re already smashing your racket against the court, the frame bending on impact, the sound echoing across the empty practice court, each statement punctuated with the metal thud of the rim hitting the ground. "It’s been four years! Four fucking years! And still, the moment I might be a threat to her, she’s running a smear campaign! God, why can’t she just get off my dick?!"

Art rises to his feet, hands raised in a vague attempt to calm you down. "Come on, Y/N, you know how Tashi is. She’s just—"

"No, Art," she snaps, whipping around to face him. "It’s not just Tashi. It’s the way she’s always been. The moment I get too close, she shoves me back down. Every. Single. Time."

Art exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s never seen you like this before—not over Tashi, not over... anything. Not like this. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

You stop pacing. Your breath is still uneven, chest still rising and falling too fast. Your jaw clenches, the weight of four years crashing over you, pressing into your ribs, curling into your fists.

Then, finally, you exhale. The anger doesn’t leave, but it changes. Sharpens into something dangerous.

You’re going to make her eat her words.

---

Over the next several weeks, you’re unstoppable. You’re not just winning—you’re dominating. Match after match, opponent after opponent, you storm through the draw like you’re owed something. Like every point is a statement. The first few rounds are routine, your opponents barely managing to hold serve before you break them down, physically and mentally. By the time you reach the quarterfinals, the press has stopped calling you a dark horse, a questionable debutante. Now, you’re a certainty. Commentators dissect your footwork, your blistering groundstrokes, the way you barely react after each win, like you’re already thinking about the next one. You haven’t dropped a set. You haven’t even been pushed to a tiebreak. And when asked about your chances at the Open, you only ever give the same answer: "One match at a time."

Tashi, of course, is just as ruthless. But there’s a weight to the way she plays now. A sharpness in her movements that wasn’t there before. She breezes through her side of the draw, each match a masterclass in control. But her shots seem just a little heavier. Her serves a little faster. The commentators call it peak performance, but anyone who’s paying attention knows better. She’s making a point. She knows exactly who’s waiting for her at the end of this.

The narrative is already written. The world is waiting for the two of you to collide.

Art and Patrick watch it unfold from opposite sides of the world, but it may as well be happening in slow motion. They don’t need to talk about it—not really. They’ve seen this before. But one night, after another highlight reel of your and Tashi’s latest victories playing on ESPN, Art calls Patrick anyway.

Patrick picks up on the second ring. "Let me guess. You’re watching, too?"

Art exhales sharply. "Hard not to."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Patrick mutters, "This is bad."

Art lets out a humorless laugh. "This is inevitable."

Patrick groans. "So what do we do?"

"Hope they don’t kill each other before the final."

Patrick snorts, but there’s no real humor behind it. "And if they do?"

Art leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then we were probably always fucked anyway."

US Open Semifinals – Y/N’s Match

The stadium is electric, the crowd thrumming with anticipation. This isn’t just another match. This is the one that decides it. This is the match that will confirm what everyone already knows—that Y/N Y/L/N and Tashi Duncan are destined to meet under the lights of Arthur Ashe Stadium.

You stand at the baseline, bouncing the ball twice before your serve. Your opponent—ranked inside the top five, a veteran of the tour—adjusts her stance, waiting. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve steamrolled through this tournament, and tonight is no different.

You toss the ball high, swing, and the serve lands like a gunshot. Ace. The crowd erupts, but you barely react. You’re already walking to the other side of the baseline, resetting. One point at a time. One game at a time.

You take the first set in twenty-nine minutes. 6-1. Dominant. Your opponent tries to adjust, throwing in drop shots, slicing the ball low, anything to disrupt your rhythm. But you’re locked in. Footwork precise, groundstrokes heavy, relentless. The second set is tighter, but only barely. Your opponent holds serve twice before you break her down, sealing the match with a forehand winner down the line. 6-1, 6-3.

It’s over.

You don’t celebrate. You barely acknowledge the roar of the crowd. You walk to the net, shake hands, and then look up at the scoreboard, eyes flicking over the confirmation of what’s next.

Tashi Duncan is waiting.

Somewhere above the stands, Art exhales, pressing his hands together in front of his mouth. Patrick, seated a few rows down, sighs, rubbing his thumb over the edge of a cigarette pack in his pocket. He doesn’t pull one out—not yet. Instead, he shifts forward, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking upward. He doesn’t text. Instead, he looks up toward the box where Art is sitting and catches his eye. Then, without looking away, he jerks his chin toward the exit. A quiet invitation.

Art watches him for a moment, then pushes himself to his feet.

Outside the stadium, the air is thick with summer humidity, the sounds of the city muffled beneath the weight of what’s coming. Patrick leans against the railing, pulling a cigarette from the pack with his teeth before offering the pack to Art. He hesitates, then takes one.

Patrick lights his own first, inhaling deep before flicking the lighter toward Art’s. "So. It’s happening."

Art exhales slowly, watching the end of his cigarette burn. "Yeah."

Patrick lets out a humorless chuckle. "Think they’ll survive it?"

Art tilts his head, considering. "You asking if they’ll kill each other, or if we’ll survive watching them do it?"

Patrick huffs, shaking his head. "Little of both. Kinda hot, though."

Art shoots him a look, unimpressed. "Jesus, Patrick. You could find a way to be horny at a funeral."

Patrick grins around his cigarette. "Grief is a powerful aphrodisiac."

“Big word for someone who never finished college,” Art retorts. 

Silence stretches between them, the weight of years pressing down. Art takes another drag, lets the smoke curl in the air. "You ever think about how we got here?"

Patrick doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. "All the time."

Art hums. "Me too."

Patrick nudges his shoulder, smirking. "Guess we’ll see how it all plays out. But if they start throwing punches, I’m putting money on Y/N. There’s something about an angry woman that just does it for me."

Art rolls his eyes as he taps ash off the end of his cigarette. "Yeah. We will."

1 day until the 2011 US Open Final

The city hums with nervous energy. The anticipation is everywhere—headlines flashing across screens, analysts debating matchups, fans buzzing outside the venue. This final isn’t just another match. It’s history waiting to be written.

You barely sleep the night before. You spend most of it staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing against your ribs as Art snores beside you. When you finally give up on rest, you lace up your shoes and run. Through the quiet streets, past billboards with your own face on them, past bars playing reruns of your matches. No matter where you look, there’s no escaping it. Y/L/N vs. Duncan. The rematch the world has been waiting for.

You practice alone that morning, shutting everything out. Every serve, every groundstroke, every breath is meant to steady you. But your hands still shake when you grip your racket. You know what’s coming. Who’s waiting.

And you hate that a part of you is still waiting for Tashi, too.

The afternoon drags. Media obligations, a last-minute strategy meeting with your coach, stretching, ice baths—you go through the motions, but your mind is elsewhere. You catch glimpses of Tashi in press clips playing in the background, her name looped endlessly in tournament coverage. Every word, every highlight reel, feels like a countdown to impact.

By the evening, the weight of it all is unbearable.

Somewhere across the city, Patrick and Art sit at the dimly lit bar of your hotel, half-watching the TV above the counter. The broadcast is running through the tournament’s biggest storylines, and your semifinal highlights are on repeat.

Patrick swirls the drink in his glass, watching as your final shot lands cleanly on the baseline. "She looks good."

Art barely glances up. "She’s been good."

Patrick exhales, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass. "Think she’s nervous?"

Art finally looks at him. "Why do you care?"

Patrick smirks, but there’s something underneath it. "Because if she’s nervous, I know where she is right now. And if she’s where I think she is, I should probably go find her."

Art doesn’t argue. He just watches as Patrick downs the rest of his drink, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door.

Because he knows exactly where you are, too. And it’s not his turn anymore.

The practice courts are empty this late at night, but you don’t care. You need to be here. Need to hit something, need to feel the burn in your muscles, need to exhaust yourself enough that your mind will finally shut up.

But it’s not working.

Your shots are erratic. Some too long, some slamming into the net. You growl under your breath, reset, and try again. But you’re not locked in. You’re not you. Your body feels too tight, your head too loud, and it pisses you off.

The sound of footsteps behind you barely registers at first—until a voice cuts through the night.

"Jesus. You keep hitting like that, and I might have to switch my bet."

You freeze, your grip tightening around your racket. "Go away, Patrick."

He ignores you, of course. Saunters closer, hands in his pockets, watching you like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. "What, no warm welcome? I trekked all the way out here just to check on you."

"You went almost four years without checking on me, Patrick. Don't start now."

Patrick tilts his head. "Of course, you’re still too much of a saint to ever read Art’s texts," he chuckles a little. "You look like you’re about five seconds from either smashing another racket or collapsing."

You exhale sharply, tossing the ball up for another serve. It hits the net. Again.

Patrick snorts. "Yikes."

You whip around, glare sharp enough to cut. "Leave."

Patrick just leans against the fence, perfectly relaxed. "No."

Your breath hitches, frustration clawing up your throat. "Patrick."

"Y/N."

"I’m serious."

"So am I."

Your pulse is pounding. Your vision blurs. The rage, the pressure, the sheer weight of it all swells too fast, too violently—until it explodes.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Your voice cracks, echoing into the night. Your chest heaves. Your throat is tight. And before you can stop it, your vision is blurry, wet.

Patrick watches you for a long moment, the smirk gone, the teasing edge in his voice fading into something quieter.

You throw your racket down, the clatter of it loud against the court. Your shoulders shake, breaths uneven, and Patrick doesn't hesitate—he crosses the court in a few strides, pulling you against him. You don’t fight it. Instead, you fist your hands into his hoodie, pressing your face into his chest, and let the sobs come.

He rubs a hand down your back, his voice low. "She’s nervous too, you know."

You lets out a sharp breath, half-laugh, half-scoff. "Bullshit."

Patrick shrugs, his grip on you steady. "She wouldn’t have said all that about you if she wasn’t scared of you."

You stiffens slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "You’re just saying that to make me feel better." 

Patrick meets her gaze, uncharacteristically serious. "I don’t do that, and you know it."

You swallow, blinking up at him. Your chest is still heaving, your fingers still curled tight in the fabric of his hoodie. The anger has drained from you, but something else lingers, something hollow and aching.

"Do you regret it?" you ask suddenly, your voice quieter now.

Patrick frowns. "Regret what?"

"Leaving," you clarify. "Going pro."

Patrick exhales through his nose, considering it. "No."

You nod once, jaw tightening as you start to pull away, but Patrick doesn’t let you go. "But I regret how it happened."

You still.

His fingers flex against your waist, grounding, like he’s trying to make sure you’re really listening. "I regret what it did to us. To all of us."

You exhale sharply, something unreadable flickering across your face. "You and Art still talk."

Patrick nods. "Yeah."

"But not like before."

Patrick hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. Not like before."

Your throat tightens. "And me?"

Patrick doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s softer. "I should’ve called."

You huff a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Me too."

Patrick’s fingers trail up your arm, barely there, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "I’m here now."

You meet his gaze, something fragile and dangerous thrumming between them. "Yeah," you murmur. "You are."

And then you kiss him.

Your lips never leave his as he pushes you up against the wall, sliding his hand past the waistband of your shorts, his calloused fingers immediately finding the soaking wet expanse of your cunt. 

“4 years and I can still do this to you, huh?” he remarks against your lips, working his fingers into you. 

“Art’s going to be upset,” you pant, your eyes squeezing shut for a moment at Patrick’s touch. 

Patrick chuckles. “He won’t. He already knows.”

Your eyes pop open again, locking on his. “You hooked up with him? In Canada?”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. His signature smirk is the only confirmation you need before you smash your lips to his again. You swear you can taste Tashi on him, but it doesn’t change a thing for you. It might even make it better. 

He tugs your shorts down around your knees, lifting you up against the brick wall before he replaces his fingers with his dick. Each thrust of his hips feels like a different statement. An ‘I love you,’ an ‘I’m sorry,’ a ‘please come back.’ It may have been almost 4 years, but he still fucks you like it was just yesterday that you two were lounging on your twin XL bed, making out as you waited for Art and Tashi to join you. 

“Art isn’t the only one who loves you, you know?” Patrick pants against your neck, face buried there as he licks the sweat off of you.

“I know,” you reply. “I love you too, Pat.”

“Not just me, either. You know she d—”

“I know, Patrick.”

US Open Final – Match Day

The city is electric. The energy in the air is thick, buzzing with the weight of anticipation. Every headline, every interview, every whispered conversation has led to this moment. Y/L/N vs. Duncan. The rematch the world has been waiting for.

You wake up before your alarm. Not that you slept much anyway. The hotel room is quiet, the morning light bleeding in through the cracks in the curtains. You stare at the ceiling, feeling the pressure settle deep in her bones. Art just watches you—he knows better than to say anything. You can’t hear anything other than the pounding of your heart, anyway.

Somewhere across the city, Tashi is waking up too. Maybe she slept fine. Maybe she didn’t. But if you know anything, it’s that Tashi will walk onto that court like she owns it.

By the time you get to the venue, the buzz is deafening. Reporters, cameras, fans pressed against barriers. Tashi’s name is everywhere. Both of your names are everywhere.

You walk through the tunnels, headphones on, gum smacking, blocking it all out. Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag. You've been here before. Big matches, big expectations. But this—this is something else.

In the locker room, you change in silence. Tape your fingers, stretch, breath. Inhale. Exhale. The ritual of it all is familiar, grounding.

A knock at the door.

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

"You ready for this?" Art’s voice is calm, steady.

You let out a slow breath before looking over at him. "Yeah. I am."

Art nods, studying you for a second. He walks over to you, meeting your lips in a soft kiss, slipping his tongue past to swipe the spearmint gum from your mouth. Then, with a small smirk, "Make her eat those words."

Your lips twitch. "That’s the plan."

In another part of the stadium, Tashi sits in front of her locker, tying the laces on her shoes. She doesn’t look up when Patrick leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

"She’s ready," he says simply.

Tashi pulls the knot tight. "Did she tell you that when you fucked her last night?"

Patrick barely reacts, just exhales slowly, watching her. "You gonna be like this all day?"

Tashi finally looks up, gaze sharp. "That depends. You gonna keep pretending like none of this matters?"

Patrick tilts his head. "I never was. You're the one that's been lying to yourself."

Tashi doesn’t answer right away. Then, quieter, "I should've taken Art pro with me instead of you."

The call comes. It’s time.

Two players. One final. No more words.

Only the game.

The stadium is packed, the energy a living, breathing thing. The crowd roars as you and Tashi step onto the court, your names echoing through the air like a war cry. You don’t acknowledge each other. Not yet.

The warm-up is clinical. Measured. Tashi moves like she always does—effortless, fluid, composed. You keep your eyes down, focusing on each stretch, each motion, blocking out the weight of the moment.

The umpire calls you both to the net.

Finally, your eyes meet.

Tashi’s expression is unreadable, but there’s something in the way her grip tightens on her racket. You don’t let yourself react. Not to that. Not to anything.

The coin is tossed. You win, electing to serve first.

Play.

The first point is brutal.

Your serve is fast, precise, forcing Tashi to scramble on the return. You rally—baseline to baseline, blistering shots traded back and forth, neither of you willing to break first. The ball clips the net. Tashi adjusts. You slam a forehand down the line.

Winner.

The crowd erupts.

You don’t celebrate. You turn, walk back to the baseline, and ready yourself for the next point.

Tashi smirks, rolling her shoulders out. "Alright then."

In the stands, Patrick and Art feel like they’re 17 years old in the stands at the juniors all over again. Hands gripping each other’s thighs, eyes whizzing back and forth between you and Tashi. They already have both of your Facebooks. What are they vying for this time?

The game stretches long, deuce after deuce, both of you holding their ground. Tashi fights off break points with razor-sharp precision. You don’t flinch. Neither of you do.

It’s war.

Games slip by in a blur of power and precision, neither of you willing to give an inch. The tension thickens with each hold of serve, the rallies getting longer, more punishing.

6-5, Y/L/N.

Tashi steps up to serve, unshaken, and fires an ace straight down the T. You don’t move.

6-6. Tiebreak.

This is what it always was going to be. A fight to the last point. A battle neither of you can afford to lose.

Tashi bounces the ball once. Twice. Eyes locked on you.

You shift on your feet, exhaling slow.

One of you is about to break.

The tiebreak is brutal. Every point, every shot, every breath is weighted with years of history, of near-misses and buried feelings. You trade blows, neither willing to surrender. You hit a forehand winner; Tashi answers with an impossible crosscourt volley. Tashi slams an ace; You absorb it and send back a return that skims the baseline.

The rally stretches long, punishing. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you refuse to stop moving. Tashi is relentless, pushing you deeper, wider, testing every angle.

Then, the opening.

Tashi sends a forehand too high, too safe.

You step into it. No hesitation. No second-guessing. You coil your body, racket whipping forward.

A killer backhand—Tashi’s signature shot, the one she built her career on. But this time, it’s yours. And it’s perfect.

The ball rockets down the line, past Tashi’s desperate lunge.

Winner.

Match.

The stadium explodes.

You drop to your knees, chest heaving. The roar of the crowd is deafening, a blur of sound and light and disbelief. You did it. You fucking did it.

Across the net, Tashi is still. Her racket dangles at her side, fingers clenched around the grip. Her expression is unreadable, but you know her well enough to see the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders tighten.

You meet at the net.

For a second, neither of you speak. Your pulse is still racing, your breath shallow. Tashi stares at you, something flickering behind her eyes.

Then, barely audible over the noise, Tashi exhales. "Took you long enough."

You let out a breathless laugh, but before you can answer, Tashi reaches up—her fingers brushing against your wrist, fleeting, brief.

Then she’s gone.

You watch her walk away, the weight of victory pressing down on her ribs, heavier than she expected.

That night, the championship party is in full swing, and Art is really enjoying himself. He had spent the first hour of it with you never straying from his arms, all kisses and dances and sweet words being whispered in your ear. A little later, He keeps you in his periphery, watching as you move through the crowd, stopping to laugh with tournament officials, coaches, fans. You look good—radiant, victorious.

He’s mid-conversation with one of the event sponsors when he catches a familiar figure lingering near the balcony.

"You came."

Tashi raises her champagne glass slightly in response, eyes twinkling. "Did you think I wouldn’t?"

Art tilts his head, considering her. "Wasn’t sure."

She steps closer, the glow of the city lights catching the sharpness in her gaze. "Had to see it for myself. You celebrating her."

Art doesn’t flinch. "She's my girlfriend. We love each other." He means it. You truly do.

Tashi hums, noncommittal, swirling the champagne in her glass. "I know."

Art exhales through his nose. "What are you doing, Tash?"

Tashi smirks, tipping her head toward the elevators. "Come upstairs with me."

Art hesitates. He should say no. But when Tashi takes his hand and tugs him toward the elevators, he doesn’t resist.

Later, You and Patrick take the hotel elevator up together, your championship trophy in one hand, heels dangling from the other. You’re exhausted, but still humming with adrenaline and something else you can't quite place. You have a feeling you know exactly what’s waiting for you behind your hotel room door. 

The moment you step in, you don’t hesitate. Crossing the room in a few strides, you gently pull Art away from Tashi’s face and smash your lips down onto hers. Tashi grins into the kiss, slow and satisfied as she pulls you onto her. Patrick’s making quick work of his own clothes smirking at Art as he pulls yours off of you. 

Without wasting much time, your bed becomes a vessel for 4 sets of limbs tangled together. Tashi eating you out like you’re the best meal she’s had in 4 years. You are. Your mouth wrapped around Patrick’s dick while Art fucks into Tashi from behind. It’s almost impossible to figure out which body starts and ends where, which voice is making what noise to fill the cacophony in the room. All you know is that Tashi’s mouth on you feels so good, and that the four of you are not sleeping tonight, nor are you walking tomorrow. 

Every kiss, every touch, every breath feels like you’re making up for lost time. It’s not like the four of you haven’t been together before. What was Stanford for, if not that? Something about this, though, feels like so much more. It is. It’s love, and it’s sex, and it’s apologies, and all sorts of things that don’t need to be said out loud for all of you to understand them. More than anything, though? It’s right. It’s all four of you, exactly where you’re meant to be. Together.

364 days until the 2012 US Open Final

The morning sun is peeking past the curtains of your hotel room by the time the four of you are finally sated, bare arms and legs jumbled together like spaghetti. Your head rests on Art’s chest, his legs tangled with Tashi’s. Patrick’s fingers are absentmindedly rubbing up and down her arm, her head resting on your stomach as she gazes up at you. 

Patrick is the first one to break the silence, the sunlight catching across his raven curls as he turns his head to grin at you and Tashi. “You know, I think I finally get it.”

You raise an eyebrow, an amused frown gracing your features. 

“Dude, what?” Art replies, picking his arm up from where it’s laid across you to smack him. He’s more confused about how Patrick seems to have a natural talent for ruining the moment, but he’s not going to say that right now.

“You know, what you guys used to say?” Patrick replies, lifting his hand to flick a finger between you and Tashi. “It’s not tennis, it’s a relationship, or whatever the fuck. That’s what you guys did yesterday.” He misquotes in a high pitched voice, an abysmal attempt at an impression of you and Tashi.

You snort, looking down at Tashi. She’s glowing. You probably all are, but something about the way the sun is enveloping her is making your heart skip a beat. Your eyes lock with hers. “Something like that.”

“Yesterday was tennis.” Tashi replies. “Good fucking tennis.” She smirks at you for a moment before she stands, detaching herself from all of you to pull her clothes on before she walks toward the door.

"Don’t forget," she says, locking eyes with you over her shoulder. "Court time at 6."

-----

tagging @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glenussy

[unsolicited-opinions]

I used to sorta' like Qasim. He's knowledgeable, and sharp- so this is particularly disappointing.

This is misleading on several levels.

"Iran has no nukes"

Technically correct, but deceptive.

Iran has enriched uranium to 60% purity, just short of weapons-grade (90%), and per the IAEA, has enough fissile material for several bombs if further enriched.

U.S. intelligence confirms Iran could build a bomb within weeks if it chose to.

"Iran never attacked the USA"

Straight up false.

Iran-backed proxies have killed over 600 U.S. troops in Iraq using advanced IEDs

Soleimani directly oversaw these militias. Iran also backed the 1983 Beirut bombing that killed 241 U.S. Marines.

"Iran offered to revive the deal"

Misleading. Iran demanded all sanctions be lifted before compliance, violating the JCPOA’s sequencing. Talks have stalled repeatedly over Iranian non-cooperation

"Iran allows full IAEA inspections"

False. Iran has denied access to key sites and disabled surveillance cameras since 2021.

"No approval from Congress"

True, but a legal gray area and common for presidents to do through broad Article II powers for such strikes.

Here's just the times Obama authorized strikes in/on sovereign nations without prior congressional approval:

1. Libya (2011)

Operation Odyssey Dawn / NATO Operation Unified Protector

Objective: Stop Gaddafi’s assault on civilians during the Arab Spring.

No Congressional approval; justified under humanitarian intervention and UN Resolution 1973.

Widely criticized for exceeding the 60-day limit of the War Powers Resolution.

2. Pakistan (2009–2016)

Drone strikes targeting al-Qaeda and Taliban operatives.

Conducted without the consent of Pakistan's Parliament or judiciary.

Not formally approved by Congress.

Included the 2011 raid that killed Osama bin Laden in Abbottabad.

3. Yemen (2009–2016)

Drone and airstrike campaign targeting AQAP (al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula).

No Congressional authorization for strikes inside Yemeni territory.

Often coordinated with Yemeni government, but with inconsistent legal clarity.

4. Somalia (2009–2016)

Airstrikes and special operations against al-Shabaab militants.

5. Syria (2014–2016)

No explicit AUMF covering Somalia.

Legal rationale extended from 2001 AUMF for al-Qaeda affiliates.

Airstrikes against ISIS beginning in September 2014.

No Congressional authorization specific to Syria.

Justified under the 2001 AUMF against al-Qaeda, even though ISIS had split from al-Qaeda.

Rashid's narrative collapses under scrutiny. It weaponizes moral outrage by omitting critical facts, flattening decades of Iranian aggression, and falsely portraying Trump’s controversial (but not unprecedented) strike as genocidal warfare.

Trump may well have been wrong, but this is a shit argument he knows is shit and is deliberately deceptive.

That makes this propaganda.

[the-winter-spider]

Under Pressure | two

Bucky x reader Modern AU

Word Count: 6.9k

Warnings: Depression, Angst, mentions of su!cide

Part One

The days after Bucky left blurred together in a suffocating haze. Time had lost all meaning; the hours stretched endlessly, bleeding into each other until they were indistinguishable. Morning, afternoon, evening—it didn’t matter. You existed more than you lived, moving through the motions like a robot.

You told yourself you needed to get up, to move, to do something. So you tried. God, you tried. You Googled solutions like your life depended on it. “How to deal with depression alone,” “How to stop feeling numb,” “Ways to make life better.”

Meditation was the first thing you found, so you gave it a shot. You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, your back straight, your hands resting on your knees. The world around you was quiet—too quiet. Closing your eyes, you tried to focus on your breathing, in and out, in and out, just like the video said. But every inhale felt shallow, every exhale jagged. The silence wasn’t calming. It only made the noise in your head louder: This is pointless. You’re pointless. Nothing will ever change.

Next came exercise. You dragged yourself into old workout clothes that felt too loose, the fabric hanging from your frame. You stood in the middle of your apartment, pacing back and forth, trying to summon the energy to do something—anything. You managed a few jumping jacks, then collapsed onto the couch, your chest heaving, not from exertion but from the weight pressing down on you. Your body felt heavy, leaden, like gravity had increased just for you.

You lay there staring at the ceiling, hot tears slipping down your temples and pooling in your ears. You wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but your voice felt stuck somewhere deep inside you.

The darkness, though—that was always there. It wasn’t loud or forceful. It was subtle, enticing, warm in its own terrible way. It wrapped around you like a blanket, whispering promises of relief. Promises of escape. You don’t have to do this. You can stop anytime you want.

You hated it. But at the same time, you couldn’t fight it. You couldn’t resist the way it pulled you under, like quicksand swallowing you whole.

While you fought your battle alone, Bucky fought his own war just outside your door.

He’d lingered there more than once, standing in the hallway of your building with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The cold, sterile light of the hallway flickered above him, buzzing faintly. He told himself he shouldn’t be there. You’d made it clear that you wanted him to leave you alone. But he couldn’t stay away.

The weight of your words still clung to him, suffocating and relentless. He replayed that night over and over in his head: the way you’d yelled at him to go, the pain and anger in your voice, the way you’d looked so small as you stood there, refusing to let him in.

It broke him in ways he hadn’t expected. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to leave you feeling alone—or to actually leave you alone.

Once, he’d heard movement from inside: the scrape of a chair, the faint hum of a shower running. For a brief moment, relief flooded through him. He’d exhaled shakily, telling himself you were okay. But by the time he got back to his own apartment, doubt had crept in. What if you weren’t okay? What if the sound was just you existing, not living?

He couldn’t stop thinking about the people who were supposed to be there for you. Your parents. The ones who should have loved you unconditionally, who should have made you feel safe and valued. He hated them for failing you so profoundly. For being absent, for neglecting you, for leaving wounds so deep they may never fully heal.

He wanted to march up to them and scream. Tell them how deeply, endlessly wrong they were to let you believe you were anything less than extraordinary. To let you think, even for a moment, that you weren’t enough.

And then there was you. God, he wanted to tell you the same thing. He wanted to hold you, to wrap you in his arms and take all the sadness, all the pain, and carry it himself if it meant you could finally feel free. He wanted to tell you that you were everything. That the world was brighter, warmer, better just because you were in it.

But he didn’t. Because he’d promised to give you space. Because he was afraid that if he came back too soon, he’d only make things worse. And because part of him—an ugly, self-loathing part—felt like he’d already failed you the moment he walked out that door.

Still, staying away was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to go back, to fix it, to make you see what he saw. But he lingered outside your door instead, waiting. Hoping.

Bucky clenched his fists, his chest tight as he leaned against the wall outside your apartment. He dared to care. He dared to love. But he wasn’t sure if it would ever be enough.

Cause love's such an old fashioned word

---

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over the beachside restaurant. The waves lapped gently at the shore, the sound rhythmic and soothing against the soft murmur of conversation. String lights crisscrossed above the outdoor tables, their soft twinkle mirrored by the first stars peeking out of the darkening sky.

Natasha leaned back in her chair, a rare moment of unguarded laughter spilling from her lips as she sipped her drink. The cocktail glass glinted in the light, and her eyes crinkled at the corners—a look of pure, unfiltered joy. She had no idea what was coming, no idea that tonight was about to become one of the most important moments of her life.

Across the table, Steve shifted nervously in his seat, his hand brushing the small velvet box hidden in his pocket. His palms were damp, his throat dry, but when he glanced at Natasha, his nerves melted away. She looked so happy, so carefree, her face glowing in the warm light.

He cleared his throat, his chair scraping slightly against the wooden deck as he stood. The table fell silent, all eyes turning to him. “Natasha,” he began, his voice shaky but filled with determination, “you’ve been my rock since the day I met you. You’ve seen me at my best, my worst, and everything in between. And somehow, you’ve stayed by my side through it all.”

Natasha tilted her head, her brows furrowing in confusion, but a soft smile tugged at her lips as she watched him.

“I never thought I’d get so lucky,” Steve continued, his words steadying as his confidence grew. “Lucky enough to find someone as strong, as smart, as absolutely incredible as you. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”

As he spoke, his hand slipped into his pocket. When he pulled out the small velvet box and opened it, revealing a glittering diamond ring, Natasha’s hand flew to her mouth.

Gasps rippled through the small group seated at the table, and Natasha’s eyes widened, filling with tears as Steve sank to one knee in front of her.

“Natasha Romanoff,” he said, his smile soft and full of love, “will you marry me?”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Natasha’s lips trembled as she tried to speak, her hand still covering her mouth. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and she nodded vigorously, her voice breaking as she finally choked out, “Yes. Yes, of course!”

Cheers erupted from the table, applause filling the air as Steve slid the ring onto her finger and stood, pulling her into his arms. Natasha laughed through her tears, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go.

From behind the bushes near the edge of the patio, Bucky and Sam emerged, grinning like proud parents as they joined the group. They weren’t alone—several of Natasha’s coworkers had been waiting for the signal as well, and together they swarmed the table, their cheers and congratulations echoing under the string lights.

Bucky clapped Steve on the back, his grin wide as he said, “About time, Rogers. Thought you were gonna chicken out.”

Steve chuckled, his arm still firmly around Natasha. “Not a chance.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Steve and Nat—the only two people who could make the rest of us look like amateurs at this whole ‘love’ thing.”

The group laughed and raised their glasses, the sound of clinking glass filling the air.

But amidst the laughter and celebration, Natasha’s happiness faltered. Her eyes scanned the group, her smile fading slightly as she looked around. She was searching for someone. And she didn’t see them.

Her gaze landed on Bucky, and her expression shifted to one of quiet frustration. “She’s not here, is she?” she asked softly.

Bucky’s smile faded, and he shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly. “No. I haven’t seen her.”

Natasha pressed her lips into a thin line, turning to Steve. “You told her, didn’t you? You texted her?”

Steve’s smile slipped into something more serious. “I texted her,” he said. “Left her a voicemail. Even went to her apartment.” He paused, his tone heavy. “But… nothing. She didn’t respond.”

Sam stepped closer, placing a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it, Nat,” he said gently. “You know how she gets. She just needs time. She’ll be okay. She’s done this before.”

“I know she’s done this before,” Natasha snapped, her voice sharp but tinged with hurt. “I know. But friends are supposed to be happy with you. She should be here.” Her voice cracked, and she looked down at the ring on her finger, her tears threatening to fall again. “If it were her…” She swallowed hard. “If she were getting engaged, I’d drop everything. Just to be there for her.”

Steve stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. “Don’t hold it against her,” he murmured. “You don’t know what’s going on in her head. It’s not about you. It’s about whatever she’s fighting.”

Natasha let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Anyway,” she muttered, her voice clipped as she wiped her tears and forced a smile. “We’re celebrating, right?”

Steve kissed her temple, his smile soft but understanding. “That’s right. Let’s get another round,” he said, raising his glass.

The group cheered again, their voices loud and bright as they toasted the newly engaged couple. But even as Natasha laughed and smiled, her eyes lingered on the horizon, a shadow of worry flickering behind her joy.

Bucky stood nearby, his drink untouched. He caught Natasha’s glance and gave her a small, apologetic nod. He knew what she was feeling—because he felt it too.

As the party carried on around them, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

And love dares you to care for the people at the edge of the night

---

The high school was alive with energy. The halls buzzed with the usual pre-game excitement: students laughing and shouting, their faces painted with team colors, and jerseys swishing as they ran through the corridors. The air was electric, full of youthful adrenaline and anticipation.

But Bucky wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t swept up in the contagious thrill of game day.

He was pacing.

His boots scuffed against the linoleum as he moved back and forth, his jaw tight and his hands shaking slightly. His helmet dangled loosely in one hand, forgotten, while his other raked through his hair for the hundredth time.

“Man, relax,” Sam said, leaning casually against a locker with his arms crossed, his usual grin in place. “Maybe she’s just sick. People miss school all the time.”

Bucky froze mid-step, turning sharply to face Sam. “You don’t understand,” he snapped, his voice low but tense, like a wire about to snap.

Sam’s grin faltered, and he pushed off the locker, his posture straightening. “Then make me understand,” he said, his tone softer now.

Steve, standing nearby, frowned as he adjusted his jersey. “What’s going on, Buck? She’ll be back tomorrow, right?”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, running his hand down his face. His chest felt too tight, like it couldn’t expand fully, like every breath was a struggle. He glanced around the hall, making sure no one was paying attention, before lowering his voice.

“She’s not just sick, okay?” he said, his tone urgent. His eyes darted between Sam and Steve, desperate for them to get it. “She gets… sad. Not normal sad. It’s different. She told me…” His voice caught, his throat tightening. “She told me she has depression. Real, bad depression.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And sometimes it gets so bad…” He paused again, his voice cracking. “She told me she doesn’t wanna be alive anymore.”

The air around them seemed to still. Sam’s eyes widened, his easy going demeanor evaporating in an instant. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, the words barely audible. “She's only 17..”

Steve’s face darkened, his brows furrowing deeply as the weight of Bucky’s words sank in. “How bad, Buck?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted, his voice trembling now. “I haven’t heard from her since Tuesday. That’s three days. She always texts me back, always. Even if it’s just a stupid thumbs-up.” He shook his head, his movements restless. “Something’s wrong. I know it.”

Steve stepped forward, his hand landing firmly on Bucky’s shoulder. “Go,” he said simply.

“What?” Bucky asked, blinking at him in disbelief.

“Go to her,” Steve repeated, his tone steady and commanding. “We’ll cover for you. We can win one game without you. If anyone asks, I’ll say you had to run home for something. Just go. It’s Y/N.”

Bucky hesitated for only a second, his hand tightening around his helmet. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice cracking with uncertainty.

“Of course,” Steve said, his voice softening. “It’s her. Just go.”

Bucky didn’t need to be told again. He ripped off his gear, tossing it onto the bench as he turned and sprinted down the hallway. His heart pounded in his chest as he pushed through the school doors and into the cold evening air, the sounds of cheers and chants fading behind him.

By the time he reached your house, his lungs burned, and his legs ached from running, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even pause to catch his breath as he climbed the porch steps, his hand closing around the doorknob. It turned easily.

Unlocked. Of course.

The house was dark, silent except for the faint hum of the fridge. The emptiness pressed against him like a weight.

“Y/N?” he called, his voice echoing in the stillness.

No response.

“Y/N!” he shouted again, his voice cracking with panic as he moved through the house. He checked your bedroom first, his eyes scanning the unmade bed and the dimly lit corners. Nothing.

He flung open the bathroom door. Empty.

Then he felt it—a faint breeze brushing past him, carrying the smell of the night air. His stomach dropped as he turned toward your parents’ room, the door slightly ajar.

“Shit,” he whispered, his breath catching in his throat as he stepped forward, pushing the door open.

There you were.

Standing on the railing of the balcony, your arms outstretched slightly as the wind whipped around you. The sight hit him like a physical blow, his vision narrowing as fear gripped him.

“Sweet girl,” he said softly, his voice trembling as he stepped onto the balcony.

You didn’t turn around. You let out a sad laugh instead, the sound hollow and brittle. “You always call me the sweetest names, Bucky.”

He swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. “That’s because you’re my best girl,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “And you deserve the best. You hear me?”

You tilted your head slightly, your gaze fixed on the horizon. “Why do I feel like this all the time?”

He took another cautious step forward, his hand hovering near your ankle, ready to grab you at the slightest movement. “I don’t know, angel,” he said gently, his voice filled with desperation. “But I’d do anything to help you. Anything. I just need you to get down, okay? Please.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him, your glassy eyes meeting his. “I just don’t wanna feel like this anymore,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind.

A sudden gust of wind made you sway, and Bucky’s heart stopped.

“NO!” he shouted, surging forward and grabbing the back of your shirt. He yanked you toward him with all the strength he could muster, pulling you off the railing and onto the balcony floor.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his voice shaking as he wrapped his arms around you tightly. One hand pressed to the back of your head, the other gripping your shoulder as though letting go wasn’t an option.

You broke down, your sobs wracking your body as you clung to him. His lips pressed against the top of your head over and over, his voice soft and pleading. “Please don’t do that again,” he whispered, his own tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. I can’t lose you. I never wanna know what it feels like to lose you. Promise me, sweet girl. Promise me you won’t.”

Your voice was muffled against his chest, but you managed to choke out, “Okay.”

“Promise me,” he repeated, pulling back just enough to look into your tear-streaked face.

“I promise,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He nodded, relief flooding his features as he pulled you close again, holding you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Because to him, you were.

And for the rest of the night, he didn’t let go.

And love dares you to change our ways of caring about ourselves

----

The pounding on your door shattered the suffocating silence of your apartment. It echoed like a gunshot, jarring and relentless. Natasha’s voice followed immediately, sharp and furious, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Y/N, open the door!” she demanded, her tone full of anger and something else—hurt. “I know you’re in there. You’re always in there.”

You didn’t move. You stood frozen on the other side, your back pressed against the door, your breath shallow and uneven. Your eyes were glued to the blank, lifeless living room in front of you, the dim light casting long, eerie shadows across the walls.

“Don’t ignore me!” Natasha’s voice rose, her words pounding against your chest like the fists she was slamming against the door. “You don’t get to just hide! Not this time!”

Your fingers clutched the edge of your hoodie, trembling as tears pricked at your eyes. Her words were like bullets, each one hitting harder than the last, shattering the fragile shell you’d built around yourself.

“I can’t believe you,” she snapped, her voice cracking. “I thought we were best friends. I thought we were sisters. I thought I mattered to you.” Her voice wavered, trembling with emotion. “But no—you couldn’t even bother to show up. Not for me. Not for Steve. Not for any of us. Do you even care? Do you even care about anyone but yourself?”

The accusation tore through you like a blade. Your knees buckled slightly, but you didn’t fall. You stayed rooted in place, staring blankly ahead as hot tears began to fall, carving silent trails down your cheeks.

“Friends are supposed to be there for each other!” Natasha continued, her voice raw and desperate. “I would have dropped everything for you. I have dropped everything for you. But when it’s my turn, when I’m happy, you—” She broke off, her breath hitching.

You pressed your forehead against the cold wood of the door, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that you did care, that you cared so much it hurt. But the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck, tangled in the knot in your throat, suffocated by the weight of your guilt.

“Do you even know what that feels like, Y/N?” Natasha’s voice cracked, thick with tears. “To have someone you love not care enough to show up?”

Her words were a dagger, sinking deep into your chest. Your body shook with silent sobs, your hands gripping the fabric of your hoodie so tightly your knuckles ached.

Finally, her voice softened, the anger giving way to something far worse—disappointment. “You could’ve at least tried,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I deserved that much.”

Her next words were barely a whisper, but they hit you like a hammer: “I don’t think I can do this anymore….be your friend.”

The silence that followed was deafening, suffocating. You heard her take a shaky breath, and then the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall.

You stayed there, slumped against the door, the tears flowing freely now. Your body felt heavy, weighed down by the crushing guilt and the emptiness that seemed to expand inside you.

She was right. You should’ve been there. You should’ve tried.

But you didn’t.

The days that followed were a blur of silence and shame. Your phone buzzed constantly, the screen lighting up with messages and missed calls, each one a reminder of how deeply you’d failed them.

Sam: Hey, girl. Haven’t heard from you in a bit. You okay?

Sam: Look, I know you’re going through it, but you’re worrying me. At least text me back, yeah?

Sam: I miss you. We all do. Just… let me know you’re alive, okay?

The voicemails from Steve were harder to stomach.

“Hey, it’s Steve. Just checking in again. I, uh… I don’t know what to say that’ll make you answer me, but I hope you’re okay. Call me when you can.”

And then another, this time quieter, more hesitant. “Y/N. Please. We’re all worried. Just… let me know you’re okay.”

Sam again, his voice more urgent this time. “Y/N. Come on. Just one text. That’s all I’m asking for. We love you, okay? Don’t forget that.”

You listened to each one, your phone clutched tightly in your hands, tears streaming down your face. But you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. You didn’t deserve their worry, their care.

But it was Bucky’s name on your call list that haunted you the most.

Every night, you paced your apartment, your thumb hovering over his name, your chest tight with indecision. His name stared back at you, a lifeline you couldn’t bring yourself to grab.

You thought about his voice, the way he’d say your name like it was the most important thing in the world. You thought about the way he’d looked at you that night, his eyes filled with hurt and confusion as you yelled at him to leave.

You wanted to call him. God, you wanted to call him.

But every time your finger hovered over the call button, your breath hitched, and the doubts crept in. What if he didn’t answer? What if he was still angry? What if you dragged him down with you, and he finally realized you weren’t worth the effort?

So you didn’t.

Every night, you stood there with the phone in your hand, tears streaking your face, your breaths shaky and uneven. Every night, you almost called him.

But every night, you couldn’t.

And the silence grew heavier, the weight of it pressing down on you like it was trying to crush the little life you had left out of you.

This is our last dance

---

Bucky stood in front of his mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt for what felt like the hundredth time. His reflection stared back at him, but the man in the mirror didn’t feel like him. His hands trembled slightly as he fastened the last button, smoothing the fabric over his chest in a futile attempt to steady himself.

This felt wrong. All of it.

He turned to the dresser, where his phone sat just within reach. The screen was dark, but he could still feel the weight of your name sitting in his call list, just waiting. His fingers twitched with the urge to pick it up, to text you, to call you, to say he was sorry for walking out that night.

But he didn’t.

Because you’d been so hostile, so closed off. You’d shouted at him to leave, your voice breaking with pain and anger, and it had cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He knew you were hurting, but so was he. And as much as he hated himself for it, he hadn’t been strong enough to stay.

His thoughts drifted back to Natasha’s visit to your apartment earlier that week. She’d told him about it when they were sitting in Steve’s kitchen, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I gave her an earful through the door,” Natasha had said, her voice tight with a mix of anger and sadness. “I told her I didn’t want to be friends anymore if she couldn’t be there for me during my brightest moments. I know she’s going through it, Buck, but this… this was too much.”

Bucky had sat stiffly in his chair, his jaw clenching as her words sunk in. “And what did she say?” he’d asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Natasha replied, her voice breaking slightly. “She didn’t say anything. Didn’t open the door, didn’t even acknowledge I was there.”

Bucky’s fists had tightened at his sides. He hadn’t said anything, but the anger bubbling beneath the surface wasn’t for you—it was for Natasha, for not understanding, for expecting more from you when you were barely holding yourself together. But he didn’t defend you either. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how.

That night, unable to stop himself, he’d gone to your apartment. He’d leaned against the wall outside your door for forty-five minutes, straining to hear anything—anything at all. When he finally heard the faint sound of footsteps, relief had coursed through him.

But it didn’t last.

The relief was fleeting, overshadowed by the same helplessness that had plagued him since the night he left. He wanted to knock, to call out your name, to beg you to let him in. He wanted to wrap you in his arms and tell you that everything would be okay, even if he wasn’t sure it would be.

But he didn’t. Because you’d shut him out so completely, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

Now, as he stood in his room, the weight of everything pressed down on him like a stone. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not now. Not with everything going on. But he’d already agreed to the date with Olivia, and canceling felt like admitting defeat.

A knock at the door pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

He opened it to find Olivia standing there, smiling brightly in a simple dress and a leather jacket. Her blonde hair framed her face perfectly, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. She looked beautiful, and Bucky forced a smile in return, even as it felt hollow.

“Hey,” she said, her voice warm and cheerful. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing his jacket and keys. He shut the door behind him, his mind still lingering on you as they walked down the hallway together.

The restaurant was cozy and dimly lit, the air filled with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Olivia had chosen the place, and it was perfect—intimate without feeling stuffy, charming without trying too hard.

She was kind, funny, and easy to talk to. She laughed at his jokes, asked him questions about his interests, and smiled at him like he was the only person in the room.

But to Bucky, it all felt wrong.

As Olivia talked about her childhood, Bucky’s mind wandered back to you. He thought about the way you’d laugh when you thought no one was listening, how it was soft and genuine and lit up a room in a way no one else’s could. He thought about the late-night conversations you’d shared over takeout, your voice quiet and full of trust as you let him see pieces of yourself that no one else did.

And then he thought about the last time he saw you. The way your voice cracked when you yelled at him to leave, the hurt and anger in your eyes. The way you’d looked so small, so fragile, as you stood there, refusing to let him help you.

“Bucky?”

Olivia’s voice pulled him back to the present. She was looking at him with a mix of curiosity and concern, her smile faltering slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just… long week.”

She nodded, accepting the answer, but the concern in her eyes didn’t fade entirely.

Bucky felt a pang of guilt. Olivia didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve him sitting across from her, half-present, his heart and mind clearly somewhere else. She deserved someone who could look at her the way Steve looked at Natasha, who could give her all the attention and affection she deserved.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He couldn’t stop worrying about you.

And he couldn’t stop loving you.

As the date went on, he tried—he really did. He asked her questions, made jokes, even managed to laugh at a few of her stories. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always circled back to you.

What were you doing right now? Were you okay? Were you eating? Sleeping? Or were you standing on that balcony again, the wind whipping around you like it had that night in high school?

“Bucky?” Olivia said again, pulling him from his thoughts for the second time that night.

He blinked, realizing he’d been staring at his untouched drink for far too long. “Sorry,” he said again, his voice quieter now.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “It’s okay,” she said softly.

But it wasn’t.

And as much as he hated to admit it, Bucky knew this date wasn’t fair to her—or to himself.

This is our last dance.

---

The weight that had been pressing down on you for weeks finally collapsed in on itself, suffocating you, dragging you deeper into the endless darkness. You couldn’t see a way out, couldn’t imagine a future where you’d feel anything other than this crushing hopelessness. It was all-consuming, a void that devoured every thought, every breath.

Your apartment was cold and silent, the air thick with stillness, broken only by the shaky sound of your breathing. Desperate for something, anything to ground you, you reached for your phone and pressed play on the only song that had ever been able to reach you in moments like this.

The familiar melody of Under Pressure filled the room, echoing off the walls like a lifeline.

“Pressure, pushing down on me…”

You paced back and forth, the phone clutched tightly in your hand, tears streaming freely down your face. The lyrics sliced through you with every word, each note digging deeper into your already raw heart. This song had always made you feel lighter before, always brought a smile to your face when Bucky danced around the room, grabbing your hands and spinning you until you couldn’t help but laugh.

But tonight, it felt different.

You sank to your knees, your sobs growing louder as the music swelled, your chest heaving with the effort to keep breathing. You pressed the phone closer to your ear, as if Freddie Mercury and David Bowie’s voices could somehow pull you back from the edge.

The cold breeze from the balcony seeped through the glass door, brushing against your skin like a whisper. Your gaze drifted toward it, the sheer curtain fluttering softly in the wind.

For a moment, the thought crossed your mind.

It would be so easy.

But then, as if on instinct, you shook your head violently, your hands flying to your temples as if you could physically push the thought away.

No.

That can’t be it. You promised Bucky.

The broken promise hung over you like a specter as you stumbled to the bathroom, your legs shaky and unsteady beneath you. The light flickered when you flipped the switch, casting an eerie glow over the small space.

The broken mirror greeted you, jagged cracks splintering your reflection into a thousand fractured pieces. You stared at it, at the distorted, hollow version of yourself staring back. You didn’t recognize the person in the shards.

You opened the cabinet, your hands trembling as you reached for the bottle of antidepressants tucked away behind an old bottle of painkillers and a nearly empty tube of toothpaste. The bottle felt heavy in your palm, its weight somehow both grounding and terrifying.

You clutched it tightly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you backed out of the bathroom and began pacing the apartment again.

The music continued to play, Freddie and Bowie’s voices swelling with the crescendo:

“Why can’t we give love, give love, give love…”

You couldn’t stop hearing Bucky’s voice, the way he’d always called you sweet girl, his tone soft and warm, like you were the most important thing in his world. You heard him as clearly as if he were standing beside you, his words from so long ago echoing in your mind:

“Promise me.”

Tears blurred your vision as you collapsed onto the couch, clutching the bottle in one hand and your phone in the other. The weight of the pills was unbearable, as if they were the physical manifestation of everything you couldn’t carry anymore.

Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name in your call list.

You took a shaky breath, your hand trembling as you opened the pill bottle and poured a handful into your palm. The tiny capsules felt cold and smooth against your skin, the sharp contrast to the heat of your tears that dripped onto your hand. You swallowed.

Your other hand shook as you pressed Bucky’s name on your phone.

The line rang once. Twice. Each ring stretched out into eternity, the sound pounding against your chest like a heartbeat.

Finally, his voice came through, warm and familiar, but tinged with concern.

“Y/N?” he said, his tone rising slightly in alarm. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

You tried to speak, but the sobs came first, wracking your body as you pressed the phone to your ear like it was the only thing tethering you to the world.

You tried to speak, but the sobs came first, wracking your body as you held the phone to your ear. “Bucky,” you choked out finally, your voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said quickly, his tone steady but urgent.

You clutched the phone tighter “I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, the words breaking something inside you.

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then his voice came through, strong and determined. “I’m coming over. Right now. Don’t move, okay? Just stay where you are, okay? I’ll be there in ten.”

This is ourselves

-------

Olivia was everything someone could ask for—funny, kind, and effortlessly charming. She told stories with vivid animation, her hands gesturing wildly as she laughed at her own jokes. But no matter how hard Bucky tried to focus, her words barely registered.

The dessert had arrived a few minutes ago, but he hadn’t touched it. His fork lay untouched on the table, his hands clasped in his lap as he forced himself to nod and smile at the right moments. He laughed when he thought he should, added a comment here or there, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Because something felt wrong.

It was a gnawing sensation, deep in his gut, an unease he couldn’t shake. He told himself it was nothing, that he was imagining it, but the weight of it pressed down on him like a stone.

His mind kept drifting back to you. The way you’d looked the last time he saw you—tired, withdrawn, a shell of the vibrant person he knew. The memory clawed at his chest, the guilt twisting tighter with every passing second.

Olivia said something, and he forced a smile, but he was already counting down the minutes until he could leave. He needed to check on you. He didn’t know why, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

Then his phone buzzed on the table.

He barely glanced at the screen before his heart stopped. It was you.

Without thinking, Bucky grabbed his phone so fast that he knocked over his drink, the ice and liquid spilling across the table in a chaotic splash. Olivia gasped, startled by the sudden movement, but he barely noticed.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice rushed, already standing. “I have to take this.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes wide with concern but understanding.

He didn’t bother stepping away. He answered immediately, pressing the phone to his ear. “Y/N?”

All he could hear was sobbing—raw, broken sobs that sent ice-cold fear coursing through his veins. Then there was the sound of your uneven breathing, as if you were struggling to get air.

“Y/N?” he said again, louder this time, panic tightening his throat. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

“Bucky…” Your voice was faint, choked with tears, barely audible over the sound of your crying.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said, his voice trembling now.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered. His mind was racing, every nerve in his body screaming at him to do something, anything.

He fumbled with his phone, his hands shaking as he opened a text to Sam.

Bucky: Call 911. Send them to Y/N’s apartment. NOW.

Sam’s response came almost instantly:

Sam: What’s going on? On it.

“I kept your promise, Buck,” you said suddenly, your voice slurred and distant. “I’m gonna keep it, okay?”

Bucky was already out the door, his feet pounding against the pavement as he ran. “What promise, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice desperate as he weaved through the crowded New York streets. “Talk to me.”

“The one from high school…” Your voice was weaker now, fading. “Senior year.”

Bucky’s chest constricted. His mind flashed back to that night—the balcony, the wind whipping around you, the way he’d grabbed you and pulled you back with trembling hands. The memory hit him like a freight train, knocking the air from his lungs.

“You kept it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m so proud of you, angel. You hear me? I’m almost there. Stay with me, okay?”

“The pills, Bucky.... getting sleepy,” you murmured, your words dragging, barely coherent. “I’m sorry, Bucky. It’s better this way. For everyone. I just wanted to hear your voice one last time…”

“No,” he said sharply, tears streaming down his face as he sprinted through the crowded streets, dodging pedestrians and ignoring the blaring horns of cars. “No, baby, don’t say that. Don’t say goodbye. Stay awake. You gotta stay awake for me, okay? Please.”

You didn’t respond right away, and the silence on the other end was deafening.

“Sweetheart,” he said desperately, his voice cracking as his legs burned with the effort of running. “I love you. Please. I love you so much. Don’t leave me. Please. It’s all my fault—please, please.”

Finally, your voice came through, soft and faint, barely more than a whisper. “It’s not your fault… Never your… Love you.”

And then silence.

“No, no, no,” he said, his voice frantic, his chest heaving as he pushed himself to run faster. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the faint sounds of the emergency responders on the other end—the muffled voices, the banging on your door.

Of course now you lock it, he thought bitterly, tears blurring his vision.

When he reached your apartment building, the flashing lights of ambulances and police cars painted the street in harsh red and blue. A small crowd had gathered, their faces etched with curiosity and concern, but Bucky shoved his way through without hesitation, his lungs burning as he sprinted up the stairs two at a time.

“Move!” he shouted, his voice hoarse as he pushed past the officers at your door.

And then he saw you.

You were lying motionless on the floor, your face pale, your body lifeless as the paramedics worked over you. One of them was performing chest compressions, their hands pressing rhythmically into your chest, while another prepared an oxygen mask.

“NO!” Bucky screamed, his voice shattering as he stumbled forward, his knees threatening to give out beneath him.

One of the paramedics muttered, “Come on. Stay with us.”

Bucky’s world narrowed to the sight of you—your still form, the faint beeping of medical equipment, the paramedic’s steady rhythm. His knees buckled, and he grabbed the edge of the couch to steady himself, his vision swimming as the tears fell harder.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking, barely audible over the chaos. “Please, don’t leave me. I love you. I love you so much. Please.”

But you didn’t move.

Under Pressure

[charl0ttan]

Charlotte Genre Guide

My top 5 favorite/recommended albums from each of my favorite genres!

Stoner/Doom Metal

Master of Brutality by Church of Misery (2001)

Variations on a Theme by OM (2005)

Blood Lust by Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats (2011)

Soma by Windhand (2013)

Book of Rituals by Saturniidae (2023)

Dream Pop/Shoegaze

Love Songs for the Chemical Generation by Daniel Land and the Modern Painters (2009)

The Glow by Gold Celeste (2015)

Lucid Express s/t (2021)

Daydream Twins s/t (2022)

A Fusion of Two Hemispheres by Sphere (2022)

Vaporwave

无限渴望 by Virtual Dream Plaza (2016)

一人で by desert sand feels warm at night (2019)

Soul Visioning by MindSpring Memories (2021)

Dream Desert by desert sand feels warm at night (2022)

Desert Memories by desert sand feels warm at night & MindSpring Memories (2023)

Psychedelic Pop

The Satanic Satanist by Portugal. the Man (2009)

Multi-Love by Unknown Mortal Orchestra (2015)

Skiptracing by Mild High Club (2016)

Jinx by Crumb (2019)

Raw Honey by Drugdealer (2019)

Psychedelic Rock

Parachute by The Pretty Things (1970)

In the Mountain in the Cloud by Portugal. the Man (2011)

Nonagon Infinity by King Gizzard (2016)

High Visceral Pt 1 by Psychedelic Porn Crumpets (2016)

Face Stabber by Thee Oh Sees (2019)

Progressive Rock

Shine on Brightly by Procol Harum (1968)

Lizard by King Crimson (1970)

Crime of the Century by Supertramp (1974)

Hope by Klaatu (1977)

blomljud by Moon Safari (2008)

Hard Rock

Black Sabbath by Black Sabbath (1970)

The Man Who Sold the World by David Bowie (1970)

Restrictions by Cactus (1971)

Satori by Flower Travellin' Band (1971)

Pieces of Eight by Styx (1979)

Rap

Licensed to Ill by Beastie Boys (1986)

3 Feet High and Rising by De La Soul (1989)

The Low End Theory by A Tribe Called Quest (1991)

6 Feet Deep by Gravediggaz (1994)

Shade of Blue by Madlib (2003)

Funk

Hot Pants by James Brown (1971)

Fantastic Planet Soundtrack (1973)

Standing on the Verge of Getting it On by Funkadelic (1974)

Hustle With Speed by The J.B.'s (1975)

Directstep by Herbie Hancock (1979)

Jazz Rock

Chicago Transit Authority by Chicago (1969)

Aja by Steely Dan (1977)

Junta by Phish (1989)

A Thoughtful Collapse by Vathaken (2020)

Middle Hand by Tytus & The Left-Handers (2024)

Jam Band

Rhythms From a Cosmic Sky by Earthless (2007)

Summer Sessions Vol. 2 by Causa Sui (2009)

Solar Corona by The Machine (2009)

The Doomsday Machine by Electric Moon (2011)

299 by Bull of Heaven (2013)

Disco

I Remember Yesterday by Donna Summer (1977)

Dazzle by Dazzle (1979)

Hills of Katmandu by Tantra (1979)

Tako Tsubo by L' Impératrice (2021)

Chorus by Mildlife (2024)