#mostly because she has no where else to go

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xvi)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, ghosts, ptsd

A/N: this was 10k words long before i brought it down to 9.6k. anyway. we're starting to wind down with this series. isn't that so insane.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Dawn comes, and brings with it not birdsong. Not the gentle patter of rain. 

A loud, sharp knock on your door.

You roll out of bed to check your phone. 4:58 a.m.

You half expect to find the building on fire.

No one else would be stupid enough to pull this stunt on you on the second day of the year. 

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing there like he’s already been up for hours. Hoodie, boots, duffel in one hand, a to-go cup in the other.

“You’re up,” he says.

You stare at him. “You just woke me.”

He tips his head. “We’re leaving in ten.”

You’re not even sure you heard this loser right, considering it was 5 in the fucking morning. 

Still, you ask as patiently as you can, “Where.”

“Route 7. There’s a ghost on the highway.”

You just look at him, wondering if he had been replaced in the middle of the night by an alien with a death wish, because what the fuck is this.

He looks back, steady. “Ghost bride. Wants to hitch a ride.”

“And she must hitch one at the ass crack of dawn? Not at like, 3pm?” 

He shrugs. “It’s a long drive.”

“I haven’t packed.”

He holds up the bag. “I did.”

You recognize it as the one you keep ready for field work, though you can’t remember where you last left it.

“…You packed for me.”

“Check it. I guessed on the jacket.”

You take it, slowly. “But the camera’s not charged.”

“I charged it.”

“Tripods?”

“Loaded.”

“SD cards?”

“In the glove box. Readers too.”

You can’t stop staring at him. “Is this a trap?”

“There’s a folder on the front seat,” he says. “Case notes. Highlighted.”

“Highlighted.”

“Active case sightings.”

“What is happening?” You stare at him. “Are you trying to impress me?”

His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. “Is it working?”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you point at the cup. “Is that coffee?”

“No. Peach mango tea.”

“…For me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No.”

That is probably the most normal he’s been in this whole interaction.

You don’t say anything for a moment. He doesn’t fill the silence.

He looks like he might, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

Then he turns and walks down the hall.

“Your cup’s in the car,” he calls over his shoulder.

You glance down. The zipper’s already half open. Inside, you can see your camera, tucked into its spot like it’s been handled a hundred times. Neatly packed. Memory cards in their pouch. Gimbal foam-wrapped. Chargers coiled.

You don’t know what to do with any of this.

The road unwinds slowly in front of you, all gray light and low fog. He’s been driving for over an hour. 

Neither of you have spoken much since the first gas station, and even that was mostly about fuel grades. A lot, considering he dragged you out of bed to be here. 

Ghost bride, tragedy at the wedding leads to it being called off, dies on her way home. Now haunts the highway, shows up in people’s car, waiting for someone to drop her to her favourite diner. Stuff you’d dealt with before, which is why Bucky dragging you out of bed for this made no sense. 

The sun's just starting to bleed into the sky when you say it.

“Does this have anything to do with the meeting yesterday?”

He shifts his position. Not much, but enough.

“No,” he says, too flat. 

You hum quietly. “Right.” 

You let the silence stretch.

You glance at him. “You didn’t say much after it.”

“Didn’t have much to say.”

You haven’t seen this Bucky since the first meeting you had with him all those months ago, all monosyllabic and short sentences. 

He turns up the heat on the AC, one arm leaning on the window.   

You turn your head to the outside, watch the mist slide past the trees.

Something stretches tight between you. Like a drawer packed too carefully, threatening to spill.

You think about the look on his face yesterday after Maya logged off the call. How he just stared at the blank screen.

You think about the way he’d said, “Guess that’s that.”

You glance at him now, and he’s still got that same set to his jaw.  

He just keeps driving, hands steady and eyes on the horizon.

“There’s no way this road used to be called ‘Lover’s Bone Trail’,” you say instead, poking a hole into the tension in the air.

“That’s what all the articles said.”

“And we, as a community, have just decided to keep it?”

“It’s historical. Named in 1874.”

“It was the 1800s. Everything was like a euphemism for syphilis. Men wore ten layers of wool and died from looking at soup wrong. Why are we respecting that?”

Bucky has no answer to that.

“So,” you say, suddenly loud because you guess you had to do this the old fashioned way, “if she shows up, I’m pulling over. She’s coming with us.”

“You’re not the one driving.”

“Technicality.”

“No,” he says. “That’s literally how driving works.”

“She’s a bride,” you say, ignoring him entirely. “That means she’s into commitment. I think I have a shot.”

“You think she’s your type?”

“I think I’m her type. She keeps climbing into strangers’ cars in the middle of the night. She sounds fun. I think I could win her over before she disappears.”

“Win her over to what.”

“To our side. She could help us with b-roll.”

Bucky exhales. “She’s going to latch onto your soul and suck the nutrients out of your bones.”

“Great. Finally some passion in my relationship.” 

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “You could just admit you’re jealous of my hypothetical ghost wife.”

He mutters something like “I’m begging you to shut up” but there’s the barest, traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You lean your head back against the window, pleased. “If she asks what we are, I’m saying I’m single and looking.”

“You don’t even know what she looks like.”

“She’s a bride. How hard can it be.”

“You can’t just stop for every random on the street.”

“I can. And I will.”

“We are not putting a stranger in the car while it’s still dark.”

“If she’s dead, what’s she gonna do?”

“She could be a con artist.”

You grin. “So am I. We’ll get along great.”

You flash him a cheerful thumbs-up like that clears you of all responsibility.

Bucky shakes his head with a small tug at his lips. 

“Fine,” you say, “if she gets in the car and asks what we are, what do you want me to say?”

“Coworkers.”

You scoff. “We’re in a car at sunrise. You packed my jacket. This is essentially foreplay.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You’re deeply troubled.”

“You knew that when you signed the contract.”

He mutters something under his breath. You ignore it.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if she climbs in here and asks, I’m gonna say we’re eloping.”

“You’re gonna tell a dead bride that we’re eloping? You want to get us killed?”

“Yessir. You going to stop me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back smugly. “Didn’t think so.”

He shakes his head, one hand adjusting the rearview mirror with resigned energy.

“Do you think we'd be one of those couples that get married and divorced over and over again? Because it’s fun and chic?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Like Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.”

He narrows his eyes. “We’re not even dating yet and you’re talking about divorce.”

“Dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“I’m calling dibs on being your first divorce. I don’t care you who you date–” blatant lie “--so long as I'm the one you're getting married and divorced to over and over.”

He doesn’t respond. But his ears are a little pink.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your face like evil Kermit. 

Bucky’s been pretending not to notice for fifteen miles.

He should be used to this by now. He is used to this. But he doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

Because the problem is that he’ll either lose his mind or kiss you so hard it resets both your trauma timelines.

So instead he stares straight ahead. 

“If we see her, I’m slamming on the brakes and proposing.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “You’re still not the one driving.”

You shift a little, pull your legs down, twist the sleeves of your hoodie into knots around your fingers

He sends a glance your way. “You should sleep.”

You look at him sideways. “You trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” Blatant lie.

Outside, the horizon’s cracking open with light. The fog’s burning off slow. The road stretches ahead like it’s daring you to say something next.

“If I die on this trip, I want you to taxidermy me.”

A beat passes as Bucky processes what you just said.. 

“No,” he says slowly, like it’s a boundary he’s had to establish before.

“I’m serious. Tasteful pose. Keep me in the studio.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Where would you put me then?”  

“I’m going to bury you in a ditch.”

“I’d crawl back up Michael Jackson style.” You sit up slowly and stretch with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows they’re an acquired taste and has already been acquired.

You’ve had enough caffeine to kill a Victorian child and still your brain refuses to slow down.

Still, you tediously continue, “If I die before you, you’re not allowed to get remarried.”

“We’re not married.”

“I just think if I die, you should live a quiet, devoted life. Maybe take up baking. Get weird about birds. But never move on.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Focuses on the road.

You keep going.

“If you die before me, I’m gonna be insufferable,” you say. “Wear your hoodie for five years. Cry at vacuum commercials. Start getting into knife-throwing or something.”

He lets out a breath.  

You smile, wicked and tired and radiant with nonsense. “Also, I’m going to lie about you. So much. You fought bears. You once ate glass to win a bar fight.”

“I’ve never even been in a bar fight.”

“Gotta fill in the gaps.”

And yet again, he doesn’t say anything. You’re sitting there with crumbs on your shirt spewing absolute madness without even blinking. 

He tells himself to focus on the horizon, on the mission.

But all he can feel is the heat of you next to him. The way you’re always like half-feral. And how every word you say has him unraveling by degrees. All he can think is that god, you’re annoying, and god, he wants to kiss you so bad he could drive you both off this road just to make it stop.

You turn to him suddenly, serious. “If I do die first, you can’t carry a picture of me in your wallet. That’s boring. You can carry my teeth. Like, in a pouch. Just in case.”

“In case of what.”

“You never know,” you say. “Might need them.”

He glances over. “You’re carrying your own teeth.”

“No,” you say. “I give you my teeth. It’s symbolic. A gesture of trust. Of love.”

“A bag of loose teeth is not love.”

“You just don’t get symbolism. Anyway. If you don’t do it, I’ll know you never really loved me.”

He finally glances over. 

Your grin widens. “See? That’s the look. Perfect. Do that when journalists ask if you still hear my voice.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes lingering over you for a second too long. 

“You’d look good with a parrot, by the way. For your widower era.”

He looks at you and it takes a millisecond to realise somehow this is– different. 

Messy. Like all the gears in his head are clanging against each other at once.

“You good?” you ask after a beat of him not moving.

He exhales sharply, before giving a curt nod. “Fine.”

You’re still watching him like you’re about to say something else when it happens.

You blink, and that’s when it flashes past the passenger window.

White and tall. Not a blur, but more like a flicker, the kind you catch just out of the corner of your eye. 

Pale fabric snapping in the wind. A veil, maybe. A dress.

You sit bolt upright.

“HEY.”

He jerks slightly, hand tensing on the wheel. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? You twist halfway in your seat, finger jabbing at the back window. “Did you not see that?!”

“What are you talking about?”

“We passed her.”

“Passed who.”

“The bride!”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “There’s no one there.”

“She was right there. You just— I told you to keep your eyes open!”

“I was watching the road.”

“You were looking at me.”

“You were trying to give me your teeth.”

You’re still facing backward, peering through the fog. “I think she posed. That’s so hot of her.” 

He squints. Checks the mirrors. Nothing. Just the stretch of empty road behind you. 

You turn in your seat, trying to spot her through the trees. “She probably thinks we’re rude.”

“She probably doesn’t exist.”

“She posed.”

“She didn’t pose.”

“I know a theatrical ghost when I see one, and that bitch was hitting angles.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He parks.

You’re already out of the car before he unbuckles. Camera bag over your shoulder, boots crunching on gravel, one hand raised.

“Miss Bride!” you call. “Sorry, my cameraman was too busy making googoo eyes at me to notice you the first time–”

“Shut up.”

“--but we’d love a second to talk if you’re free. Perhaps even consider holy matrimony.”

Bucky rolls down the window to watch you. 

“Turn around.”

Bucky, sitting in the car, door shut, hands on the wheel, does not even flinch.

“No.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not going back.”

You stomp over to his window. He hits the button and rolls it down.

““She was right there,” you say, stabbing a finger into the air.

“She’s not now.”

“Because we drove past her.”

He shrugs. “She’s got legs. She can catch up.”

“She doesn’t have legs, she’s floating.”

“She can float her way over.”

“Bucky.”

“If she’s that into this, she’ll show up again. Get in the car.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, marching around to the passenger side. “You’re so fucking difficult.”

You throw the door open, toss yourself in.

He starts driving, non-chalant, like he hasn’t just disrespected the very fabric of journalism.

You stare at him. He stares ahead.

“Can’t believe I saw a literal ghost bride and you’re acting like it was a pigeon.”

“Both of them are mobile. She can come over if she wants.” 

Your voice is all sullen when you say, “She liked me. We had a moment.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell all her friends.”

You glare out the window. 

He’s been driving for forty minutes.

The forest has thinned. The fog has burned off. The sun has the audacity to shine.

No sign of her.

You’re on your third rewatch of the dashcam footage you weren’t even filming at the time.

“There’s a shadow at timestamp 7:08,” you say, zooming in. “Could be a veil.”

Bucky doesn’t look. “Could be a bird.”

You turn to him. “You have no imagination.”

At another point, you put on music that is, frankly, emotionally manipulative. Minor keys. Whispery vocals.  

He turns the volume down without asking.

You turn it back up.

Another twenty minutes pass.

Still nothing.

Just road. Crows. One gas station.

You sigh.

“I think she broke up with me.”

“She was never dating you.”

“We had a moment.”

“Your entire moment lasted less than five seconds.”

“People fall in love in less.”

“Name one time.”

You stare pointedly at him, daring him to say it.

He does not.

Instead, he says: “We’ll stop at the next town. You can film the local haunted mailbox or whatever.”

Another mile passes.

You peer out the window one last time, hopeful.

Nothing.

“You’re buying me breakfast,” you say like it’s punishment.

As if that wasn’t the plan anyway.

Since it’s on Bucky’s dime, you order too much food. It’s half out of spite. Half because the menu actually looks good. 

Bucky’s halfway through his toast, mind elsewhere.

You point your fork at his plate. “What should our last video be about?”

Bucky’s mouth goes a bit dry but he swallows the bread nonetheless. 

“Don’ care. Pick whatever.”

“Wow, can you contain your excitement? I can't handle it.”

He gives you a brief smile.  

You take a sip from his mug. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a rash.”

“Charming.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table. He doesn’t flinch.

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head. “One more after this. That’s it.”

“It is.”

You eye him. 

He shrugs, picking a crumb off the table like it’s something to do.

“What next?” he asks you, tone casual but voice gruff. 

You watch him for a beat before saying, “I mean, I always figured I was gonna bounce after this. It was a fun gig.”

He nods once, making no motion to argue. Like you said you were going to pick up groceries.

“So, you know. Big change.”

“Guess so.”

You give him a look. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. ‘Wow, I’ll miss your witty insight and looking at how sexy you are." Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My mother raised me not to lie.”

You throw a balled up straw cover at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on his plate.

You pick up your fork again. “So what are you gonna do with your newfound freedom?”

He sets his cup down. “Sleep for a week. Punch the next person who says ‘content strategy.’”

“Bold of you to assume anyone talks to you voluntarily.”

“You never shut up.”

“I bet you had a countdown. Big red Xs on a calendar. ‘Only three more episodes with the loud one.’”

He doesn’t respond. You glance up.

His face is unreadable.  

You flag down the check with a raised hand.

“Anyway,” you say, lighter again. “One more, then I ride off into the sunset. You get your life back. Everybody wins.”

He watches you slide on your jacket, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that what you think? I get my life back?”

You pause, one arm halfway in a sleeve.

He pays the bill without asking even though he very defiantly he said he wasn’t going to.  

You finish putting the jacket on. Adjust the collar like it’s suddenly very interesting.

Outside, the morning’s sharper now. Colder, even though the sun had taken its rightful place in the sky. 

You walk toward the car. He follows.

Just before you get in, you say, “I don’t think you hated all of it.”

He opens his door. Doesn’t look at you. “Some parts were tolerable.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I can take it back.”

“You won’t.”

The doors shut.  

Bucky turns the key. The engine grumbles awake. He checks the mirrors like he’s doing a final perimeter sweep before war.

And then he goes rigid.

“...Huh.”

You’re adjusting your seatbelt. “What.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just stares into the rearview, deadpan.

You lean over. “What.”

Still nothing.

“What?” you ask again, sharper. 

He sighs. “There’s someone in the back seat.”

You blink. “Sorry what?”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror.

You twist around.

White dress. Veil. Pale as moonlight.  

You turn back slowly. Face forward. Stare straight ahead.

“Is she... buckled in?”

“Nope,” he says, straight laced.

“She should be buckled in.”

“That’s not a priority right now.”

“I don’t care. That’s a moving violation.”

He adjusts the rearview. Avoids eye contact with her. 

You whip around again. She hasn’t moved. Just sits there, hands folded, gaze unfocused.

“Now what?”.

“She’s not screaming,” Bucky mutters. “So that’s a good start.”

“Oh great, we’ve upgraded from ‘screaming banshee’. Love that for us.” You stare at her a bit longer before deciding on, “She’s probably just hitching a ride.”

“A ride to where? Hell?” Bucky just adjusts the AC like that’ll fix the ambient death in the backseat.

She’s still there in the rearview. Still pale, still backlit like she brought her own horror movie fog. Face slack. Eyes a little too bloodshot, like she’s been awake since 1834.

You watch her for a second.

Then look at Bucky.

Then back at her.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “According to literally every story ever written about this woman, she just wants to be dropped off at the diner.”

He nods. “Which we’ve done.”

“Which we’re currently leaving.”

Another second passes while you both contemplate.

“What if she didn’t see it?” you pose.

“She’s sitting in this car. We’re in the parking lot. She has eyes.” 

“I’ve seen her eyes. She has bad eyes.”

You squint at her reflection. Her stare doesn’t waver. Doesn't blink.

“Okay. So if she saw the diner, and didn’t leave, does that mean–”

“She’s defective?”

“I was going to say she doesn’t have money.”

You reach down, grab the diner’s leftover bag from the floor and rifle through it.

You hold the takeout container up so she can see it in the mirror.

“Hey,” you say, “We have pancakes. They’re lukewarm, but edible.”

She stares.

“Real maple syrup,” you add, like that’s going to help. “I think.”

Still nothing.

Bucky glances in the mirror, then back to the road. “Well, you offered. Now what.”

You close the container, before twisting in your seat to face the back. “Okay, so what do you want?”

No answer. Just red-rimmed ghost eyes.

“Maybe she just wants to hang out.”

“She is bleeding from the eyes, Buck.” You lean forward, rub your hands over your face. “She wants something else.”

You glance back at the mirror. Her stare is heavier now. Expectant.

You squint. “What can we do for you? What will help?”

Her eyes narrow just a little.

You look at Bucky.

“She’s got that look,” you mutter. “The one you get when you think I’m about to say something stupid.”

Bucky nods. “That’s ninety percent of the time.”

“What if we brought her to the wrong diner?” You turn back to her. “Is that it?”

Nothing.

You lean back in your seat, defeated. “What the hell are we supposed to do with her? What’s the plan here?”

“I thought you wanted to marry her.”

You turn back around. “Girl, you wanna get married? I’ll do it, I don’t care. I love you.”

She doesn’t reply.

“Wow, rejected,” Bucky says flatly. “I thought you were soulmates.”

“Shut up.” You glance back at the mirror. The ghost bride stares, unmoved. Slightly annoyed. Still bleeding from the eye sockets.

You squint. “Try flirting with her.”

There’s a beat of silence so dense you can hear the engine hum in self-defense.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Give her a little smolder. Ask if she, I don’t know, haunts here often.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s literally haunting us, Bucky. The least you could do is be polite about it.”

“She’s dead.”

“So’s your dating life. You have nothing to lose.”

He glares at you.

You grin. “She might respond to compliments. What’s the worst that happens? She leaves from embarrassment?”

He glances up at the mirror, then back at the road.

You can see the moment his soul gives up.

“Fine.”

You bite back a smile.

Bucky clears his throat. Just once.

Then, directed at the mirror with the bone-deep enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint, he turns around. 

“So, uh–”

You lean in, eyes gleaming.

“You... look nice. In white.”

A pause.

Nothing happens.

He presses on, deadpan. “Timeless. Very... Victorian. Suits you.”

You press your mouth closed so tight it hurts. God forbid you laugh. 

Still nothing.

The ghost bride doesn’t blink. Doesn’t so much as tilt her head. Like even in undeath, this is the worst pickup attempt she’s ever witnessed.

“Tell her she has... striking bone structure,” you whisper.

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, Barnes. Show some respect.”

“Fuck off.”

You both look at the mirror again.

“I think you offended her,” you say.

“I think she’s always looked like that.”

“She probably wanted something more old-fashioned. A sonnet. A duel. A goat sacrifice.”

“She got a compliment. That’s the most effort I’ve put into any relationship in the last decade.”

You hum. “Explains a lot.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “You want to flirt with her?”

“I can’t. I’m already married to the grind.”

He groans audibly.

“Well,” you say, “we tried.”

“She’s still here.”

You tilt your head. “Ma’am, are you lonely?”

Another beat of silence passes.

In a quick second, she raises her eyes to you. 

Bucky and you exchange glances. 

“It it because you miss your husband?” 

Her eyes grow more bloodshot. Your eyebrows furrow.

“So, not him. Do you not like him?”

She does something that looks somewhat similar to exhaling.

“You said there was a tragedy at the wedding,” you muse. “Did something happen between you both?”

She inhales, noise coming out like a wheeze. 

You only stare at her for a while.

“He left you at the altar?” you say, voice gentler now.  

Bucky’s brows furrow. 

A second goes by with no change.

The ghost lifts her head a fraction. Her mouth twitches, barely.

You almost miss it.

You hum. “So you walked out?”

Another blink.

“Let me guess,” you say. “Everyone else went home to gossip and you– what– ended up at the diner? That your favourite place?”

She doesn’t nod. But she doesn’t look away.

Bucky glances at you. “She died on the way. Heel got caught crossing the road. Truck didn’t stop.”

You wince, looking back at her.

“You didn’t get what you wanted, did you?”

She looks tired. Deflated even, from what you’ve known her in the last few minutes.

“Okay,” you say, after thinking for a second. “Alright.”

You don’t explain further. Simply open the door, step out, and head into the diner.

Bucky stays seated, watching the mirror.

She doesn’t move.

Just watches you through the glass.

You’re gone for a minute. Two.

Then the door swings open again.

You’ve got a receipt in hand as you walk around the back, open her door like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

She looks at you.

And for the first time, Bucky watches her move.

She slides out of the car in one smooth, silent motion. Her veil doesn’t rustle. Her feet don’t touch the ground.

She drifts toward the door.

You get there first, hold it open for her, but don't follow.

He sees the waitress behind the counter glance up, not surprised at all. She nods once, like it’s routine.

And when the faint trace of the ghost steps through, the waitress turns, grabs a menu without reading it, and just pulls out a chair. Pours syrup into a little ceramic pitcher. 

She sets a fresh plate of pancakes at the far booth in the corner.

You waits until the ghost is fully inside.

Then let the door shut, before walking back to the car.

Bucky twists in his seat.

There’s no one in the backseat. 

But unlike the mirror, the booth isn’t empty.

The ghost sits.

You climb back into the car. Quiet. Still watching her.

Bucky looks at you.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He turns back to the window.

Watch her cut into the stack, careful. 

And for a brief second, she looks young.

 

The road is long again.

You thumb the edge of a candy bar wrapper and let your foot rest against the dash. He hasn’t spoken in a while.

Eventually, Bucky shifts in his seat.

“How’d you know what she wanted?”

You glance over, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“I didn’t,” you admit. “If that didn’t work, I would’ve tried something else.”

He falls quiet again.

You watch the blur of trees sliding past the window. Shadows flickering over the dash.

“People don’t really try to figure it out, you know?” you say. “They just assume. Oh, she’s lingering, so she must be angry. Must be tragic. So let’s banish her, cleanse her, salt the windows. But I don’t know, maybe she wanted something else.”

He hums under his breath. A sound like he’s chewing on the thought.

You’re ten minutes down the road when it hits you.

“Fuck.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “What now.”

“I didn’t record it.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky drags a hand over his face. 

“I was moved,” you defend. 

“That’s not a setting on the camera.”

“Okay, well excuse me for having a heart.”

There’s a pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a laugh.  

 You stretch, bones cracking like old wood, and glance out the window. The sky’s brighter now, the sun finally winning the fight against the fog.

“So,” you say, casual. “I guess we’re heading home now.”

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You look over. He’s got the same expression he always has when he’s plotting something. His face is bare, unreadable, but with that slight tightness at the corner of his mouth.

You stare. “Are you kidnapping me?”

His eyes don’t leave the road. “Would I have bought you breakfast if I were?”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to trick me would say.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but in that direction.

You narrow your eyes. “Where are we going?”

He shrugs.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s actually the slogan of most kidnappers.”

“Most kidnappers don’t let you pick the music,” he says dryly. 

You pause before reaching over and switching the playlist to something you know he’d hate.

He doesn’t argue.

Suspicious.

He finally stops at a fucking cabin.

The sign isn’t even painted properly. 

Just a piece of sun-bleached wood swinging lopsided over the door. Letters barely legible. 

It’s a lodge or gift shop or something, with a coffee shop right next to it.  

“Why are we stopping?” you ask, brows raised as he turns off the ignition.

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just gets out, door shutting with a solid thunk, and starts walking toward the little building.

You scramble out after him. “Okay, I thought you ate lunch at like 5pm. Didn’t realise you were hungry.”

He doesn’t slow down. “Let’s go.”

You stare at the back of his head. “You’re being weird.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just pushes the door open and holds it for you. The little bell above it gives a jingle, bright and alive.

Inside, the air is warm and smells like baked apple, butter, and a little woodsmoke. A few tables. Worn chairs. Mismatched mugs on a shelf by the register. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Just walks toward the counter like he’s been here before.

You follow, slower now. Cautious. Trying to put pieces together that don’t quite fit yet.

There’s a small table near the window. Sunlight filters in like it’s being polite about it. He stops there. Waits.

“Okay, I want a croissant, if you’re buying,” you tell him. “And one extra one because you keep taking bites from mine even though you say you don’t want one-” 

Bucky knocks on the counter, pretty loudly for his standards. “Hello?”

You’re about to ask again what the hell is going on when the back door swings open.

You freeze.

Not metaphorically.  Your entire body stops moving like someone yanked the cord out.

She looks exactly the same.

Same cardigan. Same sleeves pushed up. Same towel draped over her shoulder, like she’s been mid-shift since the day you left.

“What the fuck,” you say quietly.

She stops just short of the counter and smiles like no time has passed. “Hey.”

Bucky, beside you, clears his throat. “Ma’am.”

Mrs. Mullens nods at him, warm and amused. “I was wondering when you were gonna make it.”

Your head whips toward him. “What on earth– what do you mean–”

She steps forward and folds the towel over one hand. “Well, he tracked me down. Told me what the plan was and so I invited him right over.”

You stare at him.

He stares somewhere over your head, suddenly very invested in the far corner of the café.

“This whole trip was… what?” you ask. “A set-up?”

“Don’t blame him,” Mrs. Mullens says gently. “Second I heard, I told him to get himself down here and bring you with.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You don’t know what to do with your face.

Bucky shifts on his feet. “I’m, uh, gonna give you two a minute,” he mutters. “Wait in the car.”

He turns before you can stop him. Just raises one hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.

You feel like the floor’s been tilted, and everyone else got a headstart adjusting.

Mrs. Mullens watches you quietly, like she’s got all the time in the world. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

Her expression doesn’t flicker as she reaches out to hold your forearms. 

“Well,” she says, scanning you up and down. “There you are.”

You feel something in your chest cinch tight and then loosen all at once.

“Hi,” you manage.

She still smells like flour and cloves, soft in the way that nothing else in your life ever quite let itself be.

“Come on,” she says. “Sit with me. Let me make you something.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Still the same order?” she asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you say. “Still the same.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a plate, the way she used to make it when you were seventeen and underfed and too proud to admit it.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “You really stayed the same.”

“You look taller,” she says, sitting across from you.

“I’m not.”

“You sure? Your feet used to swing off that booth.”

“I was like, eighteen.”

“You were seventeen,” she corrects, smiling.

You blink. “You remember?”

“I remember everything,” she says, a little amused. “You showed up with two shirts and a backpack like you’d been chased cross-country.”

You laugh under your breath. “Sounds about right.”

“I gave you the Monday morning shifts because you were too twitchy on Sundays. You always smelled like metal. What were you even doing back then?”

“Nothing good,” you say, without really thinking. “But I liked being here.”

“Did you? You were terrified of the espresso machine. Thought it was gonna explode if you pressed the wrong button.”

“It hissed at me, Mags.”

She laughs, full-bellied and familiar.

It’s been years. You should feel different, older, hardened. But with her sitting across from you in that same cardigan and kind eyes, you feel like the same version of yourself that used to sneak biscotti from the back and cry in the walk-in freezer when everything felt too loud.

“I know,” she says. “But you needed something to keep your hands busy. Didn’t think you’d stay longer than a week.”

You lift one shoulder. “Didn’t plan to. It just happened.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Sometimes that’s the best kind,” she says. “When you don’t notice it while it’s happening.”

“I still don’t know if I’m any good at staying.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.” She hums. “Some folks are just built for motion. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Never felt like I was built for anything.”

“Then I guess you get to make it up as you go.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t push.

You glance around the café. It’s not the same one you left, but it might as well be. Same vinyl booths. Same laminated menus that stick a little when you peel them open. The clock on the wall ticks one second behind, and the radio hums something mellow and familiar from a back room.

“I liked the old place,” you say eventually.

She doesn’t look up from where she’s stacking sugar packets. “So did I.”

“What happened?”

“Rent happened,” she says simply. “And my knees don’t like the city anymore.”

You nod. “This place is nice too.”

“I like the light,” she says, finally glancing out the wide front windows. “Good for the plants.”

There’s a little succulent lined up by the sill. A tiny herb pot, something leafy and stubborn. You remember the basil plant she used to keep behind the counter. It never survived more than a few weeks.

“I thought you might’ve moved further,” you say.

“I tried,” she replies. “Didn’t stick.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “Missed my regulars.”

“Do you ever think about moving again?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No. This feels right. Feels enough.”

You don’t know what to think about that. 

But something about the way she says it quietly and certain, makes you think maybe one day, it won’t feel so impossible.

She folds the towel in thirds, slow and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world.

“He said you spent the day driving,” she says, “showed up back home with half an hour left for the day to get done.”

You huff. “Snitch.”

She chuckles.

“And you just gave him the new address?” you ask.

“Well, I asked him who he was first.” Her eyes soften. “Then he told me he was with you, and that was enough.”

You fiddle with the edge of your napkin. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or write. Or—”

“I know why you left,” she says, cutting in gently.

You blink.

“I figured you’d come when you were ready.”

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

She reaches across the table and sets her hand on yours.  

“You did what you needed to do,” she says. “And you survived. That was always the only thing I ever wanted for you.”

You look at her, the lump in your throat rising too fast.

“I thought about calling. A dozen times.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I told myself I would, after things settled. But they never really did.”

“I know.”

“I felt like I owed you more.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” she says, gentle but firm. “You stayed as long as you could.”

You exhale, slow and tight. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.”

“I know,” she repeats with the same patience as the previous hundred times.

“It just–”

“I remember,” she says. “You got real quiet the last few weeks. Used to stare out the kitchen window like the world was shrinking on you.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t know how to make it easier,” she says. “So we did what we could.”

“I didn’t know how to thank you,” you add, quieter now.

“You just did.”

You laugh once, short, a little embarrassed. “It’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

“I left,” you say. “Just took off. No note.”

She tilts her head. “You think that erased everything before it?”

“No. But it– it undid it. I left the state,” you say, eyebrows pulling together in frustration. “Just because you offered me a room. That’s insane.”

“You were always going to leave. I knew that when you came in.”

You look up.

“You walked in that first day like someone who already had one foot out the door,” she smiles, hand still resting over yours. “You didn’t owe me anything. I was just glad I got to know you for the time I did. You were always my favorite.”

You scoff. “You said that to everyone.”

“I lied to everyone else.”

You blink.

“You knew that already.” 

“I hoped.”

You glance out the window to get your bearings.

Mrs. Mullens follows your gaze. “He’s still out there.”

You follow her gaze. Bucky’s slouched in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, sunglasses on. He looks like he’s trying to nap and also like he’s making sure he can see the door if it opens.

“Is that your…?”

“Friend,” you say quickly.

She lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s fine,” you add. “Mostly grumbles. Pretends he doesn’t like things.”

“He doesn’t talk much, huh?”

“Not unless he wants to argue.”

“He’s cute.”

You snort.

“He yours?” she asks, lightly.

You shrug, avoiding the question. “He drove me here.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says, grinning.

You look away.

“He seems steady,” she adds. “Even from here.”

“He is,” you admit. “More than he knows.”

“You always did pick the prickly ones,” she says, amused.

You huff a laugh, the ache in your throat a little lighter now.

“Why’d you say yes?” you ask. “When he called.”

She stirs her tea, quiet for a moment. “Because I missed you.”

You stare at her.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” she says. 

You nod slowly. You can’t meet her eyes.

She watches you for a beat too long. “You think you’ll stick where you are now?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Time’s almost up on this one. It was never supposed to be permanent.”

“Seems like you’ve got people now. Makes things easier.”

You stare at the guy in the car, shifting in his seat. 

“Not always.”

“No,” she agrees, “but it makes them worth the trouble.”

You both sit there a while, the sun warming the tabletop. The world doesn’t demand anything from you just yet.

She leans back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap. “You know, I’ve got a room upstairs here, too.”

You blink.

“Not fancy,” she adds. “Small.”

You don’t say anything.

“Could use the help. These joints aren’t what they used to be. I’ve got a dishwasher who always misses a spot and the young ones never sweep under the tables right.”

Your face pulls into a smile.

“Think about it,” she says, tone still easy. “Doesn’t have to be forever.”

You watch her, unsure if the ache in your chest is guilt or hope or something else entirely.

“It sounds good,” you say quietly. “Actually good.”

She tilts her head, like she’s trying to read your thoughts. “You don’t have to make the call right now. But if you need a soft landing, this is still one.”

“Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

You look down at your hands. “Why didn’t you get mad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She blinks like she’s surprised you’d even think that. “You were never mine to keep. I was just glad I got to know you while you were here.”

There’s a warmth in your ribs you didn’t know you were missing until it showed up again.

She reaches below and comes up with a little paper box, folds creased neatly at the corners.

“Take these,” she says, setting it down. “Eat them before they go stale. Or don’t. Your call.”

You reach for it. “You didn’t have to–”

“Don’t start,” she says lightly, ““I baked too much this morning.”

You open the box and peer inside.

Biscotti. Lemon glaze. Just like she used to make them.

“These still your favourite?”

Your chest stings.

“Thank you,” you say again, quieter now.

Outside, the sun’s starting to shift.

“I’m really glad I came,” you say, voice low.

“Don’t wait so long next time,” she says. “You come back when you want to. No pressure.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” she says.  

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She reaches over and gently pushes the box of biscotti toward you. “These’ll hold for a few days if you keep ‘em in a cool place.”

“I remember.”

“‘Course you do.”

You finally pick one up and take a bite.

It tastes exactly the same.

The screen door swings shut behind you with a thud and a jangle of the bell.

You stand still for a second outside the café. 

Gravel crunches gently beneath you. The sunlight’s warm, dappled. The smell of coffee and baked sugar lingers in your sleeves.  

It should be easier to walk away than this.

It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Not like you haven’t packed lighter and left faster. Sometimes with the door still swinging behind you. Sometimes before the people even noticed you were gone.

But you’re not moving.

You turn back briefly, gaze catching on the shape of her through the window, apron tied neat, still wiping down the counter like you were never even there.  

And for the first time in a while, you feel… stuck.

Not in the bad way.

Not Leviathan-trapped. Not time-loop-clocktower-stuck.

Anchored.

For a moment.

You drag yourself toward the car on legs that feel heavier than they should, biscotti box clutched under one arm like it’s going to make this easier.

Bucky watches you through the windshield but doesn’t move. His elbow is propped lazily on the open window frame.

He doesn’t ask, only looks.

You stop beside the car. Pull in a breath.

“Hey,” you say, a little quieter than you mean to.

He rolls the window down a little further. “Hi.”

You rest your forearms on the top of the window. Your eyes are a little tired. Your voice is a little warm.

“She asked me to stay,” you say.

His face doesn’t change, not really. But his grip on the steering wheel falters for a beat.

“Said I could pick this place as my next job, live upstairs if I wanted.”

A long second ticks by. Then another.

“Oh,” he says.

You finally look at him. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I mean, sounds nice.”

“It is,” you say, eyes drifting back to the building. “Peaceful. Kind of perfect, honestly.”

He nods slowly.

The wind whistles soft between you both.

“I told her it sounds great,” she says. “Told her I’d love to do it.”

Bucky’s jaw shifts. He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what would come out.

The world stills around the silence like it’s holding its breath. 

And then, quieter. “So… you’re staying?”

The words are small. Stiff. Like they don’t quite know how to fit in his mouth.

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head back and stare at the cloudless sky, lips pressed together like they’re holding something in.

Then you glance toward the café again. At the little chalkboard sign that’s still got the special written in cursive. At the potted plants by the door that have managed not to die.

At the open window, and the breeze that carries cinnamon and clove and lemon zest like a memory.

And you turn back to him.

“I told her I’d come back,” you say. “I’ve got some more videos to shoot.”

His shoulders relax just a fraction.

He swallows, nodding like it means nothing. Like it’s good to be reminded of obligations.

His hand comes off the steering wheel, flexes once. Settles again.

And then you lean in closer than you need to be.

And you press your mouth against his cheek in a long, steady press. A kiss that lingers just a second too long, enough to burn.

You feel his breath hitch.

“You’re kind of insane, Bucky Barnes,” you say when you pull back, voice rougher now. “Thanks.”

You hand him the box through the window. “I got you some biscotti”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just looks down at it like it’s heavier than it is.

He shifts it from one hand to the other, then looks up at you again.

You don’t look away.

“You seriously considered it?” he asks finally, like he’s trying to make it sound casual.

“Yeah.”

The answer’s easy. Too easy.

“You still thinking about it?”

You pause. Then nod. “A little.”

And you both sit in that silence.

The breeze kicks up again. A bird chirps somewhere in the trees nearby. The world keeps turning.

You let your fingers drum once along the car door. Then twice.

“I liked it there,” you say finally. “It was warm.”

He nods, barely perceptible. “It’s a nice place.”

You rest your chin on your arm and peer at him. “You ever want that? Quiet place, job that doesn’t involve crawling through basements looking for dead guys?”

He considers that.

Then shrugs. “I think I used to.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just like knowing where my shoes are.”

You grin at that.

You let your arms fall and step back. Gravel crunches. Sunlight warms your shoulders.

“I’ll come back,” you say again.

He just nods.

You start to walk around the car, toward the passenger side. You slide into your seat, pull the door shut. Clip your belt.

The car hums to life beneath you.

He pulls out of the lot slow and easy. 

The café disappears behind you.

The road hums under the tires. Pine trees slip past in long green blurs. 

You’ve both been quiet since the bakery. The box of biscotti sits unopened in your lap. You pick at the corner of the lid, folding it in and out.

You break the silence first.

“So.”

Bucky flicks his eyes over to you, then back to the road.

“Summoning the ghosts of Christmas past and all that,” you continue. “Worked.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts his position in the seat. 

Things have changed for him the past year. He’s come to realise that the world doesn’t follow the rules he was taught it ought to follow. 

You exhale, watching your reflection ripple in the window glass. “It was her. Ghost of Christmas past.”

He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. “That’s why I went looking for her, you know. After. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thought if I found her again– I don’t know.”

He waits.

“I wasn’t thinking. I just left.” You glance at him. ”I didn’t start this series really expecting to find any. But I guess the world’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” 

He’s quiet. More than usual.

The muscles in his jaw twitch like they’re trying not to.

You turn slightly in your seat to look at him. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.  

Then, after a minute that stretches too long: “I’ve been seeing one.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Months now,” he adds, softer. “Maybe longer.”

You don’t say anything at first.

“Is that what you were talking about on the ship?”

Bucky exhales, jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You wait.

He doesn’t meet your eye. Keeps his attention on the road ahead. “I didn’t want to say anything. Thought maybe it was in my head. Hallucination. Stress. Y’know. Old habits.”

“When did it start?”

“After that episode with that doll,” he says.

It falls quiet for a while as you piece it together. The comment about hallucinations, freaking out after the doll episode, the way he looked at the children’s ward–

“Bucky, is a kid haunting you?

He looks at you wearily. “You think I’m insane.”

You watch him for a second, eyebrows tugged together.

You reach over, hand resting on his face, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes close briefly under your touch.

“I believe you. Trust me, I do,” you say intently, before hesitantly asking, “This kid… are they yours?”

“No. No, I don’t have a kid.” He sighs. “It’s my sister.”

“You’ve been seeing Becca?”

“Yeah,” he glances at you. “You don’t think I’m lying?”  

You shake your head. “I don’t think you have any reason to lie.”

 The sun hits the edge of his cheekbone and shadows the rest of him.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice cracks slightly. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

“How do you know it’s her?”

And so he tells you about the doll. The paper she threw at him in the mansion, the ouija board, the cornfield, the mirror on the ship.  

The fucking tarot cards.

“Tarot cards? From that stupid video?” you ask in confusion. 

“The Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man. I got in touch with this fuckin’ reader who said if you were haunted by someone, and couldn’t move on, it might be because we hadn’t made peace.”

He exhales, and you see it then. The look on his face like it’s been carved out of regret.

“I think she’s mad at me,” he admits. 

“Why would she be mad?”

“I don’t know. For dying. She had to figure it out without me. I wasn’t there for her.”

“You were just a kid too, Buck,” you say quietly. “You didn’t have a choice.”

He doesn’t respond.

You glance sideways. “You’ve never told anyone else, have you?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you think talking to Steve would help?” you ask. “He knew Becca too.”

“What’s he gonna think?” Bucky replies. “My brain’s been fried enough times. I don’t really know what’s real or not.”

You offer him a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s Steve. He’d believe you if you said you were a ghost.”

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from him. Barely there, but it’s something.

You shift in your seat, grabbing onto his hand.

“We’ll figure this out,” you whisper. “Thank you for telling me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. 

He opens the door and steps inside.

He pauses just inside the entryway, eyes scanning a room he already knows by heart. No sound except the faint hum of the refrigerator and a distant car alarm outside. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the entire way back.

Alpine’s already on the table, licking her paw like she pays the mortgage.

“Do you want to know what it's like,” she says, in the dark, “living with a man who keeps all the lights off like it’s a crime scene?”

“Turn it on if it bothers you so much,” he grumbles. 

“You know what I did today?” she asks, still not moving.

Bucky doesn’t answer as he drops his keys in the bowl and shrugs off his jacket.

“I sat on the windowsill and watched the neighbour’s cat get fed twice,” she says. “They gave her actual tuna. Not the shredded cardboard you buy.”

He heads to the sink and fills a glass of water. The faucet squeals.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Just sips.

“Two full servings. A little parsley on top. I think there was lemon involved. Meanwhile, I have to beg for dry pellets like a Dickens orphan.”

He places the glass on the counter. She eyes the smudge it leaves.

“I get it,” she says. “Something tragic probably happened. But you live like you’re actively trying to make this place uninhabitable.”

“Because I am. I tell you to get out all the time, you clingy demon.”

He sits down in the nearest chair and rubs the back of his neck.

Walks to the fridge. Opens it. Closes it again.

“I’d ask if it was a long day but you look like this all the time,” she calls out. 

“Don’t start.”

She jumps down from the table, lands with a soft thud. “Bit late for that.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

Alpine watches with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t cry in public, did you? Because I can’t be seen with you if that’s–”

“Alpine.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He pours himself a glass of water, ignoring her.

She hops up beside the sink. “You look miserable.”

He points at her. “You’re supposed to be a support animal.”

“I support you being less lame. So far, complete failure.”

He drinks.

She sniffs at the glass. “Is that water? You okay? Should I call someone?”

He sighs, leans against the counter, and finally looks at her. “Why do I keep you around?”

She tilts her head. “Because I’m the only one here who doesn’t let you get away with your sad orphan Victorian chimney boy routine.”

He holds her stare for a moment longer, then turns away, muttering.

Alpine jumps back down, tail curling behind her. “Go on then, brooder. Back to your man-cave. Try not to repress anything new while you’re in there.”

Bucky flips her off without turning around.

The floor is quiet when he finally heads inside.  

He walks down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, head tipped forward just slightly. When he reaches the landing, he notices it.

A bowl of strawberries.

It’s on the little table outside his room, covered with a plate.  

He stares at it for a moment, then picks it up, turns it slowly in his hand. The fruit is fresh. Still cold from the fridge. He knows where it came from.

He doesn’t go inside his room.

He turns around and walks back down the hallway to the other door. Raises a hand, knocks twice.

Steve’s voice comes through, muffled as he pushes the door open. “Yeah? Oh, hi, Buck.”

Steve’s in his sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. He has his glasses on, one arm slung casually on the back of a chair like he was reading something before being interrupted.

“Didn’t see you all day,” Steve says, stepping aside to let him in.

“Busy,” Bucky mumbles, stepping in and holding up the bowl. “You left this outside.”

Steve glances at it. “I did. They’re fresh.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, but he breathes a little easier. He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s forgotten what to do with himself.

Steve watches him. “Everything alright?”

“Can we talk?”

Steve straightens a bit. “Yeah, of course.”

They both sit. Steve curls one leg under himself. Bucky holds the bowl of strawberries in both hands.

For a long time, he doesn’t speak. The wall clock ticks quietly behind them. Somewhere, a car honks.

“You good?” Steve asks.

Bucky lets the silence stretch a second longer. 

“What do you do when you fail the ones you love?” he asks finally.

Steve doesn’t move. He just watches Bucky carefully, gaze quiet.

“Well,” he says, “you apologise the best you can.”

Bucky swallows. “How do you live with the guilt?”

Steve takes a moment. Then he leans forward, rests his arms on his knees.

“You bring them fruit,” he says. “And make reminders to ask them about things they care about. You show up in a way that lets them know they matter. And you hope that makes up for failing when they needed you.”

Bucky stares at the bowl in his hands.

There’s a lump in his throat that won’t budge. He’s not sure how long it’s been there. Days. Weeks. Longer.

“You think it’s enough?”

“I think it’s something,” Steve says. “Which is more than nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

They sit for a while longer.

Steve nudges the bowl slightly closer. “They’re fresh.”

Bucky picks one up.

They’re tangy. They stain his lips red.

He eats another. Then another.

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[girl-singing-in-the-wreckage]

William Afton character rambling (SOTM spoilers ahead)

I see a lot of people complaining that Afton’s character has “changed” and that he’s “turned him from a villain with a backstory to a one dimensional villain who’s just evil to be evil.”

I hate to burst your bubble, but he’s always been that way. The point of William Afton as a character is that he’s a total loser who hides in a fucking rabbit suit. He’s not some overpowered supervillain, he’s a loser obsessed with becoming overpowered and knocking people off their pedestals so he can take it over.

Why do you think he targets children? They are smaller than him, easily manipulated. Adults are mostly killed by him in a secondhand way (possessed animatronics that he manipulated into doing his bidding), but he’s never the one doing that work.

Why do you think he sends Michael to the bunker? Because he doesn’t care if Michael dies. He knows the risks, but he views his own son as more of a tool.

The Silver Eyes straight up describes him as someone who spent a some of his life mistreated (whether that be he came from an abusive home, or something else), and rather than growing from that and being good — he “takes on the bitter mantle of sadism himself.” If you read between the lines of TSE trilogy, the journals are pointing out that he’s so obsessed with Henry’s abilities that it’s essentially just the incessant rambles of a madman. What does he do? He kills Charlie, which effectively drives Henry to kill himself. With Henry gone, William starts ripping his shit from him.

Sounds familiar? That’s literally what happens in SOTM. Edwin is just TSE Henry with a fake mustache slapped on him. William snatching shit and causing downfalls isn’t a new concept, it’s at the core of his character. He’s an evil man for the sake of self-serving to get what he wants. He doesn’t care about what he has to do, or who he has to knock out of his way, he only cares for himself. The people he surrounds himself are just stepping stools he uses to boost himself, and when he doesn’t need them, he rids of them (we see this in the movie with Vanessa. When she stands in the way of getting to Abby and Mike, he tries to kill her).

William is literally a grown up, bratty kid who throws tantrums when things don’t go their way.

He isn’t a villain born from tragedy, William Afton is a villain of his own making because he likes it that way. He gets joy out of destruction and taking things for himself.

And before anyone tries to bring up “but fnaf 4 is showing that his son died!!” I beg you to put yourself back in the fnaf 1-4 era where one of the biggest questions was “why the hell do nightguards keep coming back night after night?”

Because fnaf 4 wasn’t showing William’s motive, it was showing Michael’s motivation and why he goes through hell to try and undo everything. Michael made a mistake that he’s trying to redeem himself for. A child’s death wasn’t what marked the downfall of William Afton, William did it to himself by being a shady, selfish businessman.

[pinkaditty]

Drunk Ghouls (Frostheim Part 1; Jin Kamurai and Tohma Ishibashi)

starting this off by saying THIS WAS SUPPOSED 2 BE LOW-EFFORT! A FEW PARAGRAPHS PER CHARACTER AT MOST! why do i do this 2 myself. note that these will probably vary in length per character bc i want 2 try. 2 keep it short. (update: i failed.)

woke up at 4:48am with a dry mouth thinking about haku nibbling my ear. anyways. that snowballed in2 this. enjoy.

a/n: also. side note that’s completely irrelevant but. im. so sick. of there not being enough words within language 2 express feelings i want 2 convey in my writing. does anyone else have that issue or am i just insane?? i complained about it 2 my therapist and she said “well. you know. you can make up words. shakespeare did and he really was ‘just some guy’.” and you know what. i might start fucking doing that. if some english white boy with black teeth and homosexual urges can make up words then so can i. i spent hours looking 4 a word that meant “to reluctantly pity someone/thing” but apparently that is a word that does not exist and im frustrated because saying “you felt reluctant pity towards [subject]” does NOT hit the same as “you felt [epic awesome word meaning ‘to reluctantly pity someone/thing’ here] towards [subject]”.

ok. im done. sorry.

summary: the ghouls are drunk. you are tasked with taking them back to their dorms.

cw: the ghouls are drunk!!!! some angst (?) in jin’s part, improper use of medication in tohma’s part, drunk ghouls, some fluff. never proofread, as usual. might be slightly ooc bc im never confident writing these ghouls and these are. unusual situations for them.

JIN:

Quite frankly, you don’t know what he was doing at Rui’s bar. And you don't care. You might be a little bitter that your initially relaxing evening got turned into yet another errand for the King of Frostheim. But, whatever. There was nothing you could do about it. If you didn’t bring the King back to his castle, who would?

He can hardly manage to support his own weight, so he's mostly leaning on you. You would've suggested he use his sword, but no chance were you going to let him swing that thing when he couldn’t even stand upright. He's quiet for most of the walk back. He'd occasionally groan in response to a killer headache, or gasp if he felt like he was going to vomit, but otherwise, he hardly made a sound. He kept his breathing even and his expression seemed quite flat. You wouldn't know he was drunk if he wasn’t tripping over the stone path and leaning his weight over you. 

When you finally make it to Frostheim and into his bedroom, you haphazardly shove his limp body off your shoulder and onto his bed, on which he collapses without much complaint. You'd wanted to purposely ignore the state of his room so you wouldn't feel any semblance of pity towards him and reluctantly end up cleaning. You figure you could at least close his curtains so he isn't rudely awakened by the sun when it rises. But if you're being honest, you might want to leave them open so he gets his morning interrupted to rectify your interrupted evening. 

Just as you’re about to head over to his curtains, you feel a hand close around your wrist. With an iron grip, Jin yanks you onto his bed. In moments, you find yourself wrapped up in his embrace, your cheek awkwardly pressed against his chest and your arms stiff at your sides, held there by his grip. You struggle, already aware that you don’t stand much of a chance, but protesting anyway. “Can you let me go?” Your words are unfortunately muffled with half of your face pressed into his chest. You don’t want to sound combative in the event he gets annoyed and you have to deal with annoyed drunk Jin instead of just drunk Jin, but you’re tired, it’s late, and you can hear the call of your bed in the chapel. It has never been more alluring. 

Jin hugs you tighter to his chest in response, curling himself around you. You still, realizing that this may be a case where struggling will only make the “knot” tighter. “...No.” You feel his lips move against your hairline, making you shiver slightly. “Stay here.”

An order from the King is an order that you have the rare privilege of ignoring. You suppress your urge to struggle against his grip and use your words instead. “...I have classes in the morning.” The most basic excuse ever, but maybe he’d care about your education. “I’m still not well-versed in anomalies yet, and I only have so much time to learn—” Jin growls at the implication of the curse eventually ending your life, “—and I don’t want to fall behind.”

Jin is silent for a moment, and his grip loosens just slightly. It’s not enough to escape, but it allows you some wiggle room. You try not to move, remaining still. He appears deep in thought. If you play your cards right, maybe you’d get back to the chapel sooner than expected. 

Unfortunately, luck is not on your side. Jin ends up pulling you closer, and you’re right back to square two, his body curled around you and you pressed against his front. “You will have time.” He speaks against your hairline again, his warm breath puffing against your forehead. You muse that you’re lucky you can’t smell the booze on his breath. You helplessly sigh, yielding to his grip and loosening your tight shoulders. You weren’t going to be free anytime soon. You’re submitting yourself to your fate when he adds “...I’ll hire you a tutor. Stay here.”

For a moment, his offer strikes you as thoughtful. But then you’re reminded that the reason you’re here is because he refuses to let you go, which isn’t very thoughtful. Regardless, with his arms cinched this tight around you, you couldn’t complain much for fear of him squeezing the life out of you a bit too early. 

You grumble, but ultimately relent, unable to fight against his superhuman strength and his ability to solve all his (and your) problems with money. You lay there, not reciprocating his affection but not resisting it either, becoming less and less sure of how much time has passed. You wish you had access to your phone or something to keep you busy. You were too awake, pressed flush against the King of Frostheim, whose body temperature was quite warm from an entire evening drinking and whose light cologne was beginning to tickle your nose. You were overly warm, wiggling your nose to keep from sneezing, and craving your bed. This was becoming miserable. 

Jin’s breathing slowly becomes even. You know it would be rash to assume he’s fallen asleep, but if he’s distracted enough, maybe you could slip away. As you start to move a little bit, trying to very gently shimmy yourself out of his grip, you hear him murmur something.

“Please…”

You freeze. Was he still awake? You can’t look up, still pressed to his chest and your head directly underneath his, but you can listen. You stay still, hoping by some miracle he falls back asleep. His breathing sounds uneven again and you can hear his heart loudly thumping against his ribcage.

“Just stay here with me… Just a little while longer…”

Something in you lurches suddenly. That’s right. The great Frostheim King has experienced a deep loss before. You weren’t there to witness his reaction when the news got out, but you had heard about it. The loss of a parent was something one tended to carry for the rest of their life, especially if they were close. 

Idly, you wondered if he feared the rumors the news attempted to spread. His mother had succumbed to a hereditary illness. Did he fear that one day, he, too, would have to watch his world crumble around him, unable to make sense of anything anymore? Did he fear that his cognitive function would rot along with his ability to express emotion properly? Did he fear the loss of himself as much as he hated the loss of his mother? Did he see himself in that grave instead of his mother? 

A begruding empathy fills you. You didn’t like how Jin called you “servant”. You didn’t like how Jin found it perfectly acceptable to order you around. You didn’t like how he would interrupt your routine simply because he believed his needs mattered more. And yet. Your thinking reminds you that he’s still human. You aren’t sure if it’s this fear that drives him, or if it’s what keeps him awake at night and makes him sleep through the day, but it’s still a fear, isn’t it? A real, reasonable fear. He’s still a human. A human who made a deal with a demon and proceeded to devour said demon, permanently changing him, but a human nonetheless. The fear was real and it was reflected in his heartbeat, still thumping loudly against his chest. 

You sigh, relaxing into his grip again. Slowly, you lift one of your arms as best you can under his iron grip and place it on his side, minimally reciprocating his grip. Maybe some comfort would do him some good, even if lackluster. 

He seems to relax into your touch almost immediately. You still aren’t sure if he’s awake or not, but his grip gets more comfortable, though not any less tight. You sigh again, considering this a half-victory at best.

As you relax into his chest, you note his heartbeat slowing down. His breathing slowly becomes even again. You don’t really want to smile at having successfully calmed down Jin himself, but you allow yourself a small curve to the corner of your lips. 

Eventually, his steadily beating heart and even breathing lull you into a peaceful doze. At least with his head above yours, maybe he’d be the first to suffer the morning rays. 

TOHMA:

Seeing Tohma drunk is like learning vampires were real. You’d never completely written off the possibility, but learning it’s a concept with genuine merit instead of a mere myth is more jarring than you’d expect. And lugging Tohma across campus back to Frostheim proves to be quite challenging. His days in Vagastrom were well-reflected in his crushing weight, and his particularly long legs made it hard to maneuver yourself and him simultaneously in a way that prevented either of you from toppling over. Next time, if this ever happens again, you’re getting a wagon. Lugging a long-legged beefcake across campus wasn’t doing wonders for your back.

He hardly makes any noise, and seems more uncomfortable than anything. He doesn’t resist your help, but squirms uncomfortably when you try to support him at his waist, and winces at any loud noise on campus. You wonder if something’s wrong with him, but can’t be bothered to pay too much attention when you’re already breaking your back trying to get him back to his dorm. 

When you finally tumble inside his room at Frostheim, he shrugs himself off of you, cradling his head. You’re offended for a few moments at his lack of thanks, but you notice his stumbling beeline towards a pill bottle on his dresser. Time seems to slow as you recognize the medication. Alprazolam. The same medication Leo exposed Tohma for taking regularly. It takes a moment for the dots to connect, but once they do, a small surge of panic shoots down your spine. He probably shouldn’t be taking those, not after drinking alcohol. 

“Tohma—”

Too late. He gulps a few down—dry, at that—and promptly shuffles over to his bed. He crumples onto it and eases himself onto his side, pressing his fingers into his temples, his face twisted into a pained expression. You groan inwardly. 

You have half a mind to drag him off to Mortkranken to see Yuri—or Professor Nicolas, at worst—but your back hurts at the mere idea of that and you were sure Yuri would be less than happy to see another Frostheim student in need of treatment at his dorm. You watch him carefully, peering at his unmoving form. If you were lucky, maybe you wouldn’t need to. Ghouls heal quicker, and hopefully the effects of the alcohol would wear off faster. Regardless, you couldn’t leave him alone, lest he spontaneously stopped breathing due to the combined effects of the alcohol and the medication. So it looks like you’re stuck here for a while.

Tohma hardly seems to notice that you’re in the same room, and barely responds when you hesitantly seat yourself next to him. The smallest flicker of acknowledgement in his expression, and that’s it. His eyes are screwed shut, and his usual sardonic smile is long gone, replaced with a pained frown. Witnessing Tohma’s emotions clear on his face was an unusual sight, but you’re aware he can probably feel your gaze, so you turn away. You make sure to glance at him on occasion, ensuring his body still rises and falls with his breathing. 

You aren’t sure how much time passes as you sit there, watching Tohma out of the corner of your eye. But after some time, he slowly relaxes, the tension melting from his expression and lifting from his shoulders. He gradually takes on a more relaxed position, moving his hands from his temples and blinking his eyes partially open, his lips slightly parted with light exhales. He doesn’t move much apart from that, still in a fetal-like position. 

Trying not to disturb him too much, you lean over him just slightly, checking his complexion. His gaze slides over to you, though he makes no other move to acknowledge you. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem any paler than he usually is. His breathing has remained steady. You assume the Alprazolam kicked in at last, but it appears some of the alcohol is still in his system, what with the slight pink flush on his cheeks, and his bangs sticking to his forehead. You find yourself reaching out before you know it, but quickly retract your hand. Surely he’d be fine. Maybe you were overthinking it.

You turn away and breathe a sigh of relief. You’re readjusting your position, wondering if you should leave or not, when a gloved hand takes hold of yours. You turn to Tohma questioningly, but you don’t resist as he pulls your hand towards him. You freeze up when he places a chaste kiss to your knuckles, before the ghost of his usual, haunting smile reappears on his face. You pray internally that him kissing your knuckles wasn’t a sign of impaired judgement and rather an honest reaction. You’d prefer that over really having to drag him to Mortkranken. “Thank you for taking the time to look after me, Miss Inspector. I apologize that you have to see me in such a state.” Well, at least he doesn’t sound out of breath. That must be a good sign. And, finally, you’d got your thanks.

You simply shake your head, signaling to him not to worry about it. You stretch your hand in his grasp and press your thumb into the center of his forehead. As if on cue, the flimsy smile he put on melts away, replaced by a more neutral, calm expression. You think you might prefer him like this. 

You can’t very well leave with his hand still around yours, but you aren’t actively complaining. You had already accepted you would be here a while. You yawn, feeling your own exhaustion catch up with you. You stretch, or at least, do the best you can with one of your hands held hostage. 

Tohma speaks up again. “May I make a selfish request, Miss Inspector?”

You turn back towards him curiously. The look in his eyes is surprisingly earnest despite the lack of any active emotion twisting his face. You would think he was about to confess something serious, with the way his blue eyes seemed to zero in on you. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, instead pulling your hand closer to him again. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss your knuckles again, and you stiffen, preparing yourself. However, Tohma flips your hand so your palm is facing up, and gently places his cheek within your palm. You look at him questioningly, not pulling away. You wonder if this is better or worse than simply receiving another kiss to your knuckles, because you’re honestly not sure. Any more signs of this and you might actually haul him to Mortkranken. 

“I’m terribly sorry to be requesting so much of you. But if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could stay with me tonight.” You’re partially caught off-guard by his bold question and partially wondering how he manages to maintain such eloquence when drunk and under the influence. You try not to let too much of a blush color your face, turning away from him slowly to make it look like you’re mulling the question over. The warmth of his cheek in your palm was surprisingly soothing. The weight of him was already becoming familiar. It was strange. 

Well, not much point in resisting this, anyway. You’d already accepted you’d be here a while.

You sigh, tilting your head towards the ceiling before slowly leaning back and easing yourself onto his bed next to him, letting that be your answer. You think you feel the gentle press of lips against the corner of your palm, but you pretend to ignore it, even as your cheeks color. 

If you both fell asleep like this, hopefully he’d still be breathing by morning.

if i made up new words using my limited knowledge of latin, french, and creole and put their definitions in my masterlist and used them in my writing would that be too much. am i crazy.

ok real quick: in case it wasn't like. glaringly obvious. tohma's written to have anxiety here. i know he claims to take those pills for headaches BUT i wouldn't be surprised if he has some level of anxiety.

OK ANYWAY i wrote these two fics bc i felt inspired. drunk ghouls. what might they do? kaito and luca will come out but i have no idea when. and then ill move on 2 vagastrom.

shameless note as per usual that i love likes, but especially comments, tagged reblogs, and asks detailing how much you liked my work! let me know if you enjoyed it!

songs i listened 2 while writing this:

here (in your arms) - hellogoodbye (cute song about falling in love and enjoying the time you spend with said person in their arms. felt fitting 2 the theme.)

taglist: @cupcakesmoothie @aayakashii @sunskosh @despairingy-obsessed @glamorousspoon @mmy-meow @dailyvahine @diluxama @obscuarysghoulnextdoor @disassociationdive @andy-solo1 @luna-v-roiya

want 2 join or be removed from the tkdb taglist? let me know!

[thatbuddie]

'i didn't know where else to go'

Mel looks small and dim when Frank opens the front door to greet her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Her arms are wrapped tightly around her stomach. Her voice is low, as if she doesn’t want to disturb the very few stars the Pittsburgh sky is letting them see at three in the morning. As if, more likely, she doesn’t want to disturb Frank’s family sleeping only a floor above them. 

But in the quiet of the night, her erratic breathing is the loudest sound he has ever heard. It starts and splutters and stops and restarts all over again every few seconds. Her face is dry. Her lips are pressed in a tight line. He knows what someone looks like on the verge of a breakdown. He knows what she looks like on the edge of a breakdown. 

Wordlessly, he asks her to come in by extending his right hand out to her. 

Wordlessly, she accepts his invitation by threading their fingers together and squeezing them so tightly his bones grind painfully. 

Everything else in the world ceases to matter as soon as he has her in his arms. He closes the front door mostly on instinct, the routine of it ingrained in his brain so deeply he doesn’t even have to think about it. There is nothing else he can see except her, and her pain, and the vulnerability she is trusting him with. 

She has never been more honest with him. She has never been more real. 

He’s been lucky enough to see her naked, sighing and writhing and giving herself away to the pleasure of his hands, and his mouth, and his body. He’s touched her in places he knows no one else had explored before. That all required trust, absolutely. 

But standing fully clothed with his arms around her shoulders, her face buried in the crook of his neck, and her hands gripping his sleep shirt by the back, is the most intimate they have ever been. 

A noise from upstairs —halfway between a squeal and a groan— threatens to disturb their peace. But all he does is press their bodies closer together as he lets his lips lightly rest on top of her head. He murmurs, “I’m here,” and he feels her shudder against him, her lips grazing the tendon of his neck as she exhales. 

A mere ten feet away, just up a short flight of stairs, Frank’s entire life lies in stillness.  He knows his wife is curled up on herself on her side of their bed. He knows this because that is where he left here only a couple of minutes before, his own side of the bed most definitely still warm from his body. Every minute that passes, the coldness settles more and more over those sheets. 

His children were peacefully sleeping when he checked on them just minutes before, their little bodies perfectly safe inside their cocoons of blankets, their little minds hopefully perfectly safe in their cocoon of dreams.

“Frank,” Mel whispers, loosening her grip on him as she tries to disentangle from their hug.

He gently shushes her, moving one of his hands to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling with her hair as he begins to sway their bodies side to side, the movement somewhere between a repetitive shooting motion and a silly awkward dance. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he says, and he means it like he has never meant anything else in his life. 

Her arms move slowly to circle his neck, and then, finally, he feels the moment she lets go of every fear and doubt. Her whole weight sags against his body, and his arms are the only thing holding her upright. 

Frank tightens his grip on her, unwilling to ever let her go. He knows his crushing hold might not be the most comfortable for her, but there are things one simply must entrap with force and conviction:  love, dreams, happiness, the future. 

“Frank,” she murmurs again, and this time he can feel the tears leaving her eyes as they wet the side of his neck and the front of his t-shirt.

He doesn’t say anything, just begins massaging the back of her head with his fingers as he keeps swaying their bodies left and right, left and right. 

It’s late. There’s no rush. She’s upset, she needs him, and he has been wanting her for so long he has completely forgotten what his life looked like without her in it. 

They have time. 

[blackberreh-art]

not to go full nerd but the person who hates your nikola is… interesting! because this is the physical description we’re given of her

“She appears as a plastic female mannequin dressed as a circus ringmaster, although she can disguise herself as human using stolen skin and a 'borrowed' voicebox.” (obviously more could’ve been said in detail, but iirc the main description we get is from the department store episode, where she mostly just says she’s a ringmaster with a whip)

anyway your inflatable boob joke was very funny and prudes can suck it 🥰

Haha thank you! Yeah its. Whatever. I try to keep my designs as canon accurate as possible and that leaves a lot of leeway for like - literally ANYTHING else lmao. So what if the mannequin has joints and the ringmaster outfit is the kind sold in a sex shop //shot

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day One (3PO) 3 of 3

@lostinsixam, @igglemouse, @simstagramsomeone, @daedriyth, @ashubii, @simscici

Lara: Thank you, thank you! Just wait for my next comeback! *laughs*

Abigail: *shocked* Wha-HOW?! Is this real life?

Lara: Whether it’s luck or talent, I really put a lot of effort into it! As did you Abby

Abigail: I just wish I was in a better mood today

Lara: I'm sorry. We only get one date this round so I hope you feel better by your turn

Abigail: Maybe I'll grab a snack

Lara decided she wanted to go to the beach for her solo date.

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Lara: Just being here already makes me feel super lucky, honestly! *laughs*

Deanna: Such a compliment *winks* What's the luckiest or unluckiest thing that has ever happened to you?

Lara: If I had to pick a memorable moment, it would be the time I accidentally set one of the DJ equipment pieces on fire. I was still pretty new at it, and a friend had kindly given me the chance to play at one of his shows. But after the DJ booth caught fire, the party turned into complete chaos. Luckily, it was an open-air venue and no one got hurt… so in the end, I guess I was lucky after all, right?

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Lara: I like to believe that we’re truly free to choose what we want to do, when, and how we want to do it

Deanna: Can I ask what makes you believe that?

Lara: The idea of a pre-written destiny for my life feels a bit limiting. It’s a romantic notion, sure, but I’d rather choose who I’m going to love than live in the uncertainty of whether someone out there is the one

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Lara: Hmm... definitely San My. I love the big city vibe! The lights, the busy routine, the parties… But Tomarang is really charming too, and I’ve heard the night market is a major highlight. So I think I’d choose to live there as well! Oops, I picked two worlds *laughs*. I’m a bit indecisive... there are just so many fun and amazing places to live!

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family

Lara: I wouldn’t mind living in Tartosa or somewhere nearby. After all, we can always travel to other places for vacation, right?

Deanna: I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Lara: Respecting that you don't like to travel much,I’m okay with that too. Traveling occasionally for vacations is normal and even healthy, but even I couldn’t handle traveling all the time. To give you an idea, I don’t go to concerts that are far from where I live; the ones nearby are a whole different story! *laughs*

Abby has picked the park for her date this round.

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Abby: *smiles awkwardly* Well... let's just say if luck favors the bold, then I'm 100% unlucky.

Deanna: What's the unluckiest thing that has ever happened to you then?

Abby: I once tried to prank my sister by putting hair dye in the shampoo bottle, but then I forgot about it, and went to take a shower that night... Let's just say cheese yellow is not my color.

Deanna: *laughing* Oh no! Cheese yellow is the worst

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Abby: I don't believe in destiny, not the mercy of some Watcher

Deanna: Can I ask what makes you believe that?

Abby: Not because I don't think is impossible, but because the thought of someone else having control over my own life freaks me out. So yeah, I prefer to believe we create our own destiny.

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Abby: Nordhaven, for sure, it has such a cool vibe without being too much like a big city. But honestly, any Simrope world would be fine by me.

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable though

Abby: I get it. I too like being close to my sister, and even my friends. The idea of being constantly on the move isn't appealing to me either. So I think finding a place that we both feel good about, and puts us on equal grounds is key here.

With the dates concluded it's skill time back at the villa. The contestants get four hours today to focus on a skill of their choice. Kennedy and Lara both choose to work on their charisma. Hedging her bets Abby chooses to study fitness. Getting more specific Kay, Callie and Jerrica all pick studying rock climbing.

While Deanna is prepping food for everyone I catch up with her about the dates.

Devin: Last round you had to wait and wait for a date with Lara. You get it first this time

Deanna: *smiling* it was nice to spend time with her and Abby. Abby in particular impressed me

Devin: Oh?

Deanna: I know she woke up sad and she was a bit gloomy on the date BUT she pushed through it. She was chatting and flirting despite her mood which felt nice

Devin: Any sentiments?

Deanna: *sad sigh* Not this time. I mean friendship and romance increased but they weren't gold level dates

Deanna fixed everyone dinner. At this point autonomy is set to full again. Deanna will not start conversations, it's up to contestants. Deanna is locked out of all bedrooms but the rest will have access to beds for sleeping and computer distractions.

The group is so quiet I check twice that I did in fact toggle on full autonomy. No one talks to anyone while they eat… maybe they've run out of goodwill for the day?

Deanna: I just want to say, I know you didn't technically win but I loved your song

Kennedy: Shucks

Deanna: I'm sure one of the challenges will go your way

Kennedy: *blushes* Thanks

Abby: *gets even sadder*

Lara: *decides to comfort eat extra fruit salad*

Kennedy goes to bed early, followed soon by Callie. After doing the dishes Jerrica goes to play on a computer, so does Kay. I guess they all really didn't want to talk. Abby talks! To herself… in the mirror… to cheer herself up so she's excused from the odd behaviour.

Lara: De, can we talk

Deanna: Sure. What's up?

Lara: I'm just feeling bad about our date. I know it didn't go as well as it could have

Deanna: Everyone has off days. And hey we still got closer

Lara: We did! But umm... I wondered if I could try out another song?

Lara serenades Deanna who swoons. Maybe they didn't have a mindblowing date but let's not forget Lara has a solid lead at this point. Although with her solo date for the round done other contestants have room to shine.

Beach venue found on the gallery by Chellsdi Park venue by @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants Villa renovation by @paracosmic-sims

[afroslacks]

Hello! Can I request a drabble or whatever you'll like. How about possibly the reader had feelings for Micheal to everyone it was so obvious but he kinda brushed it off because he got with lorvey. Now they have to work together for sinner.. and he realize how much he was in love with her. is it too late????

Listen to Brent Faiyaz - Wherever I go ( Or not)

Your current project is Sinners. You’ve always admired Ryan Coogler’s work, so when he called offering you a part, you immediately said yes. Your management rearranged everything to fit the project into your already hectic schedule—and now, you’re in Louisiana.

As you arrive at the cast meet-and-greet, you look around and take in the faces you’ll be seeing for the next nine months. You sip from a water bottle while sitting in your seat when Wunmi walks up to you.

“Hey, how’ve you been?” she asks, settling into the vacant seat next to you.

That’s such an odd question, considering you’ve been smiling and enjoying yourself. Your brow lifts. “Great. Why do you ask?”

Wunmi fidgets with her fingers and glances around, almost like she’s searching for someone. “No reason,” she squeaks—obviously hiding something.

You cap your water bottle and place it on the table. “Wunmi…” you begin, preparing to pry the truth out of her.

“Alright, fine. Ryan didn’t tell you this, but Michael B. Jordan is going to be our leading guy—he’s playing both twins,” she blurts, exhaling with relief.

Your heart stutters, skipping a couple of beats at her confession. “Oh.”

Wunmi’s brown eyes study you. “It was supposed to be a secret, but I couldn’t help it,” she explains, gauging your reaction.

Not many people know the history between you and Michael. Sure, there were a few sightings of you two on dates, but no one knew the full story. You always had that will-they-won’t-they energy. It wasn’t quite Ross and Rachel from Friends, but it was close. You started as friends, and over the years, feelings grew—but the timing was never right. You were too busy, he wanted to have fun (and you didn’t fault him, because you wanted the same), long-distance became too much, or you both were still growing.

Eventually, you had the conversation: you’d hold off on a relationship, and if it was meant to be, it would happen. But it was hard to hold off when people could feel the tension and yearning radiating between you two. Whether in close-up or in passing, people always thought you’d make a beautiful couple.

“I’m good. Thank you for letting me know, Wunmi. I know damn well Ryan wasn’t,” you joke, glancing around in anticipation of seeing him again after so long.

Moments later, Michael walks through the door—gold chain, waves on swim, and a signature smile.

“Hello, everybody,” he says as the room erupts in applause and excited chatter.

You're focused on calming your pounding heart at the sight of him. He looked good in his twenties, sure—but now, in his thirties, there’s an overwhelming pull you try to suppress. As he walks further into the room, his eyes find yours immediately. He doesn’t even try to interact with anyone else.

Wunmi glances between the two of you. You curl your lip in a smirk, trying to appear calm, cool, and collected.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asks, nodding at you.

“I’m good. Nice to see you, Bakari.”

His cheeks flush slightly—only a few people call him by his middle name, mostly family. So when you say it, it flusters him just a little. Michael has always thought the two of you should’ve gotten together years ago, but you weren’t ready. You had your reasons. So he stepped back, tried something new. Lori Harvey wasn’t a bad choice, but it wasn’t the same. With you, it was different—his mind always circled back. He hated how public things got with Lori, and the way the media treated him after the breakup felt... off.

But even through it all, no matter where he was, he kept up with you—quietly.

“Well, looks like you’ll be stuck with me for nine months,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to bring back the playful tone of your old dynamic.

“Boy, I ain’t worried about you,” you scoff, waving him off.

Wunmi sits quietly, observing the spark crackling between you two.

“Alright, lil’ mama. We’ll see. I mean—we’re going to be playing love interests,” he says, secretly giddy about the chance to explore something more now that you're both single and available.

“I can be very professional, Michael.”

His eyes darken, softening with familiar longing. “What if I don’t want you to be?”

Your body temperature spikes—right in front of Wunmi, no less.

“Sorry to break this up,” Wunmi cuts in, grabbing your arm and pulling you away. “You two could’ve at least waited until we started filming,” she scolds playfully.

a/n : WHY ARE THE SINNERS FICS SLOWING DOWN :(

[tobyisave]

random question: do you have any favorite headcanons for any drv3 characters? (specifically kokichi but HEADCANONS ARE HEADCANONS, TELLME EM ALL >:3)

Naturally!!! I'm actually working on a little series of "refs" for some V3 characters where I'm putting a lot of my headcanons that involve their physical appearances. And then there's some stuff I still want to save for future writing.

But here's some random bullets pulled from my headcanon doc for now! Mostly Kib & Kokichi...

K1-B0

I have an OC for the protoype of K1-B0 (the one that injured the professor). His name was K1-A (Kiia) and Kiibo was taught to view him as his deceased older brother until he was old enough to learn that they actually lived in the same body.

K1-B0's voice comes out of speakers, but it isn't a text-to-speech sort of thing. Instead he has a constant background process that calculates his voice based on the position of his tongue/lips/mouth and a couple digitally simulated muscles for 'sending air' and 'contracting vocal folds' etc. Nerve signals he sends to those "muscles" don't do anything but go into these audio calculations. This is why he can make nonverbal sounds like screams, 'oof's, and breathing pretty naturally. But if something foreign is involved it won't affect his voice - eg if you put a hand over his mouth, his voice wouldn't come out muffled. Basically, go look at Pink Trombone (https://dood.al/pinktrombone/).

^^^ He isn't very conscious of how his voice works, so when he tries to sing he reads all this stuff about "using your air" and tries to create sound physically by sending his hand-dryer air through his mouth. That's why it's awful and makes Shuichi throw up.

Instead of fans he's cooled with tubes of blue coolant. If he was murdered this is what I'd draw for his blood.

The processes that keep his body functioning (analogous to our heartbeat etc) are separate from the processing unit in his head. They take place in an "autonomic processing unit" or APU which is in his chest.

It takes him like at least 10 seconds to go from standing to sitting or sitting to standing, balance is difficult for him in general.

He doesn't experience disgust, attraction, or cuteness (things I see as biologically based that I don't think his programmers thought of). He has a good sense of what is considered attractive or cute due to socialization. He's a little more clueless about what's considered "gross" because people don't like to talk about these things, but he starts to learn during the killing game.

He didn't have a gender but upon reflecting during the killing game he starts to identify as male. Likewise, he didn't have a sexuality but started to figure it out with Miu later. He's kind of okay with she/her but would be offended by people using "they/them" for him because he thinks it's robophobic at first.

He learned to use a lot of robot words even though he doesn't have any particular reason to use them. For example talking about "logic" all the time, "I'll save that to my memory bank" & referring to remembering something as "getting a hit." And my personal favorite, saying "100%" with seemingly no basis.

He's a philosophical zombie. Not a very generous headcanon but I find it interesting.

Kokichi

Physically speaking, he looks extremely plain and forgettable. I draw him with like two freckles to emphasize how unremarkable his face is. He doesn't like having markings on his face/body though because it makes him feel less like a 'blank slate.'

He has 0 sense of identity and is generally very unhappy with life. I think that unhappiness would be much more obvious outside of the killing game, because the game gave him a sense of purpose that he normally lacks.

^^^ There's very few things he considers to be constants/part of his identity, and everything else he considers part of some facade or another. What I have written is this: liar, smart, crazy (mentally ill), crazy (zany), gay, & a couple moral beliefs. But whatever those things are, they're the only things he's prideful about.

He thought Kirumi's murder scheme was pretty well-planned and it inspired him to create another murder where the body was destroyed.

Right before he died, he couldn't help turning his head away/hiding his face against the platform. So the press hit his shoulder first and then the side of his head.

Non-despair: When he's older he has generally decided to act more agreeable, but he's restless and misses the days when he got to be a giant prick as god intended. He does something dramatic to upend his life several times a year, just in a way that's less destructive to other people.

Kokichi is the Ultimate Lucky Student for this class. He just took the liberty of making up another talent for himself.

Alternative older crack headcanon: he wasn't scouted as the Ultimate Supreme Leader, he's like the Ultimate Glassblower or some shit like that because he got into the Ultimate program by lying his ass off and the evaluator was impressed enough with his commitment to the bit that they let him in.

Another crack headcanon: Kokichi is a heavily revised version of an OC Tsumugi made when she was 12 for a Komaeda selfcest roleplay forum (I call it "the Maedaverse"). He was Komaeda's little brother who had terminal Liar's Disease.

Shuichi

He's great at solving cases because he can't stop thinking about them for weeks on end until they're solved with 99% certainty. He loses massive amounts of sleep and his grades drop slightly during these times.

Sometimes he'll dig up old cases and solve them from scratch, then check this against the real verdict to affirm that he didn't wrongfully accuse someone years ago and that he isn't a stupid idiot who does everything wrong.

Shuichi's uncle sent him to a counselor when he was ~7 years old because he was getting unreasonably anxious about his parents being overseas for the first time. This is the same counselor that he and his uncle sometimes refer clients to --- Shuichi always wonders if counseling will really help them, because it didn't do much for him back then.

He never understood how his parents could get so caught up in their love for each other that they neglect him, but for a brief moment when he's with Kaede, he gets it.

He's straight, and then later a lesbian.

He's not attracted to Kokichi, but is slightly jealous of Kokichi's “lithe body” (which is a phrase he says twice for some reason). These thoughts make him uncomfortable and confused, but he attributes that to the fact that he doesn't like Kokichi hitting on him (also true!).

Crack headcanon me and @cloudysonder have: The random "no that's wrong!" "that's true!" "that's not true!" that you can make him say throughout the game are his verbal tics. This is why everyone knows to ignore them and continue the conversation as though nothing happened.

Himiko

She mostly socializes with younger kids since they're less judgmental about her mannerisms (and more likely to shower her in praise), so she's used to having an easy time making people believe her "real magic" spiel. It's just having a very low success rate in the killing game because everyone here is her age.

^^^But also her master told her never to "ruin the magic" and she adheres to this strictly.

She became massively depressed around age 10 for no apparent reason, which made people pretty unsympathetic to her. Then she was bullied in middle school. She was probably bullied in elementary school too but she didn't actually notice that happening because it wasn't overt yet.

She and Kiibo explore religion together postcanon.

Also postcanon, she's a lot more liberal with her interpretations of what Angie and Tenko would want for her than the others are with their lost friends (especially Shuichi who worries about distorting Kaede's image).

Other

Tenko always loved cats as a kid. She still wears that pink collar + bell because of this, and despises any insinuation that it's sexual.

Tenko would also dress less femininely after she unpacks some of her hangups on gender. Currently she views girls wearing boys' clothes as "giving in to the enemy."

Crack headcanon(?): Kaito is secretly really weak. Team DR gave him all the astronaut smarts he needs, and the *memories* of being yoked, but they didn’t pick an actor who was athletic because they knew they were going to poison him. So he just sits down to do 100 pushups with Shuichi the first night and suddenly realizes he’s made of noodles.

[enchaentingly]

        “ oh, sorry. ”  the pinch between her brows falls, slowly, the confusion melting into a fuzzy, almost acceptance. of course she believes irene, why would she lie? allie has this habit of leaving heaps of heavy hope in the arms of others, at least irene doesn’t have to carry them anymore. she refuses to let disappointment find her, and instead she finds something else to be excited about. she just works here, irene’s not a witch, it’s mostly just retail and she’s right but- the knowledge still has to be there, doesn’t it? it’s another bundle of questions that tucks near her heart, wraps around irene’s name.

        don’t sell yourself short. out of a few words, allie finds the world waiting for her. it’s so nice, the kind of nice she doesn’t deserve. because, really, it’s not true. she isn’t good for anything more than wishing. she keeps trying, it’s why the journals pages keep finding things to fill them. that’s her trying. to learn, and to grow, to be something more than lost. but it makes more sense the other way, for allie to stay a lost little thing. irene deserves more than speechlessness, but allie doesn’t want to argue anymore, and she can’t find anything to pull on, so she hopes her eyes say enough.

        her eyes flicker to watch the other’s movements. she puts space between them, fidgets with the little things around them irene’s trying to leave, allie, you have to let her go home-  “ how did you learn about it all? ”  she winds, unwinds a strand of her hair around a finger as the question cuts through, clear as the breaking day. like a sunlight that streams through an exhausted room, she can’t stop it. the curtain of curiosity won’t go back to where it belongs. she doesn’t mean to keep her here, daisy chained, really. she promises, she doesn’t. 

        allie holds out her hand, tries a soft offer that she hopes is just a gentle touch of clingy, not so much that it’s suffocating. irene always closes up when anything’s about her, and she’d barely made it through one wall, she can’t pry open another tonight. she doesn’t want to, anyways, you’re supposed to be let in. softly, allie tries, instead,  “ walk me home? ”  because she’s forgetful, because she slips into bouts of whimsy that has her ending up lost, because irene knows that, and she’s kind. another night, when allie hadn’t already messed up, they can try the other way. and it’ll be irene’s turn to share, again.

Irene doesn’t look up right away. Just busies herself behind the counter — adjusting the jar of salt that doesn’t need adjusting, flicking the lamp switch one more time as if that’ll stop the buzzing (it won’t). But mostly, she gives herself a beat. A breath. Just long enough to make sure the lie stays smooth on her tongue, as effortless and worn-in as it’s always been. “I’m not a witch,” she says again, steady, like she’s said it a thousand times — because she has. To strangers. To threats. To people who cared too much or not at all. It never mattered which. It always had to sound the same. “I just work here.” She shrugs, easy and practiced. Like it’s all just coincidence. Like she’s just a woman with a few too many books and a mild intolerance for nonsense.

“Most of it’s just retail.” Her voice is lighter now, teasing around the edges — not mocking, not with Allie — but carefully disarming. “Witches don’t exactly come with HR departments, but someone’s still got to track the moon cycles on the wall calendar.”

The spell wrapped around her hums, faint but firm — the kind that runs deep in the bones, silent and airtight. Designed to slip under notice, to keep the sharp edges of her magic hidden beneath skin and smile and plausible deniability. No slip. No shimmer. Nothing for Allie to feel but what Irene allows.

And that’s safer. For both of them.

Still, the way Allie’s looking at her — bright and soft and full of unguarded belief — makes something uncomfortable shift beneath her ribs. Not guilt, not exactly. Just the ache of being seen too closely, even through a lie.

Her eyes flick to the notebook again when Allie speaks, and for a second, something gentler passes over Irene’s face. Just a flicker. Almost fond. Almost sad.

“You’re better at more than just wishing,” she says quietly, almost like she’s saying it to herself. Then, a little clearer: “Don’t sell yourself short.”

It’s not the kind of thing Irene says often. She doesn’t do comfort well — not the sweet kind, anyway. But for Allie, she tries. Maybe because Allie’s the only person she’s ever met who could make magic out of other people’s words and believe it was enough.

A breath passes, and Irene clears her throat, nudging a candle wick back into place with the edge of a matchstick.

“Still. Keep an eye on what you write in that thing,” she adds, back to dry again. But not cold. “The walls here like to listen. And your kind of magic… the hopeful kind? That’s the sort that sticks.”

She glances up, finally meeting Allie’s gaze, steady and unreadable.

“And trust me — not everything you wish for is something you want coming true.”

[mordacitatis]

picked up a stray and didn't manage to offload her onto a friend and now unfortunately I love her too much to let her go

[r0semultiverse]

How Homestuck Beyond Canon Candy Timeline has/will have parallels with Homestuck proper around and during the events of [S] Game Over

Jane Crocker heavily aligned/influenced by with Crocker Corp. Notice how her neck accessory looks very similar to the Crocker computer tiara. There's also the circuits surrounding the button, which are reminiscent of Crockertier Jane's visual mind control effect by The Condesce.

Jane also kind of looks like The Condesce with how she's silhouetted here.

The head of Crocker Corporation on a large Crocker space ship. A ship which I would like to point out looks eerily similar to the ship that The Condesce flies around in except the forks/sporks are facing the opposite direction and it's got black on it instead of mostly red.

Jake dying at the hands of Crocker influenced Jane and coming back to life parallels with this Jane coming close to killing Jake, but stopping right before death. Same green text too.

The cast of characters surrounding this time in the comic are also similar.

We also got the whole Crocker laser beam of death being hinted at which we've absolutely seen before.

I talked about this in one of my previous theories, Jake is getting a better grasp of his hope powers; so, I think we could see another hope explosion again in some capacity out of Jake's concern for Tavvy.

I could also totally see Jake being held hostage by one of the Crocker Clones A.K.A. the Brig Boys and Kanaya cutting them up with her chainsaw (hopefully avoiding Jake).

This is more of a little side detail, but Vriska is once again on the sidelines while this massive important fight takes place because she's trapped in her own personal Hell this time.

CHARACTER DEATH FLAGS - I don't know how to organize this post and there was a lot more potential evidence to this than I thought there was going into it.

Let me preface this with the fact that the existential split between Meat and Candy sometimes seems to try to course correct itself and much like certain peoples DNIs, it doesn't want any doubles. We see this with Dirk, Dave (he died even if he ascended to ultimate self afterwards), June/J/John, Terezi(seemingly), Meenah (her other self is in the black hole with Lord English so we can't necessarily confirm death but yknow), Aradia (is just Aradia), Gamzee, Calliope (that is a whole complex situation), and Rose (if her future sight is correct, but we'll get to that). Those are the only examples I can think of at this time, but it's absolutely a repeating pattern of the universe sort of course-correcting to have only one of each of our main characters exist at a time. This, at least in the cases of Dirk, Dave, & Rose seems to be related to the ascension to ultimate self, but we can't really say if that's why the other characters only get one existence at this time.

Karkat has has at least 2 deaths from around this time, one involving Crockertier Jane as well which could be a sign of things to come.

Rose's death flag is that she has literally foreseen her death in her future sight. She is thinking about Kanaya and Roxy in the same thought process while seeing her own death, feeling full of regret (even though she's trying to repress her own feelings) about her relationship to Roxy and Kanaya. Very similar to her being regretful as she was dying in Roxy's arms. I'm also guessing the bullet that hits her will be from Jake's gun, just throwing that out as a possibility.

ROSE: What... ROSE: Happened to me? ROXY: the witch got u ROXY: with her fork ROXY: but youre gonna be ok ROSE: Oh. ROSE: That's nice. ROSE: *Cough.* ROXY: maybe you uh ROXY: shouldnt try to talk now ROSE: You saved me, didn't you? ROXY: ... ROSE: Thanks. ROSE: But, ROSE: She's gone, isn't she. ROSE: For good, I mean. ROXY: ? ROSE: I saw her die. ROSE: And. ROSE: It's a shame how... ROSE: *Cough.* ROSE: A shame that I never even... ROSE: Got to tell her... ROSE: I loved her. ROXY: who?

ROSE: Kanaya. ROSE: But... ROSE: You too, mom.

Kanaya also has a death flag here in getting hit by The Condesce's laser beam of death, but it's more of a maybe given that we see Rose's future vision of Kanaya holding her body in her arms. Keep in mind though we also had this bit of dialogue about the reliability of future sight right before we saw that vision.

JADE: dont forget im more than a little versed in future sight myself ok JADE: i dont care how credible it seems, you cant depend on that information!

Jake and Jane are also on the chopping block potentially, but I can't think of a way at this time, unless Kanaya mistakes Jake for one of the clones amidst her rage and ends up cutting through him along with the Crocker clones. The one pictured below was done by Aranea who is out of the story. Maybe Meenah's trident hits Jake somehow or something, I don't know. We also have meat Jake and Jane who are doing more okay.

On top of the parallels to the doomed timeline that was [S] Game Over, we also had Vriska say that this reality was fake and didn't matter. I'm paraphrasing and I don't know if we'll get a doomed timeline situation yet with the 4 kids still in it, but I just thought the amount of parallels was interesting & worth pointing out.

I also wanted to get this out before the next update in case it's related to the flash animation and any of my predictions come true.

Alternatively I think the flash animation will be Ultimate Dirk kick starting his SBURB home brew session on Deltritus. He probably has all the tech and narrative powers to do it based on what we've seen, they just need a species they'll both be satisfied with as the players for the session.

[riverside-lavender]

i could write an essay on how the character’s clothes in one piece show their emotional journey. i think about it so much.

[lesbiansanemi]

The sheer desperation and frenzied manner that I keep telling myself “just one more week just one more week just one more week” to keep from snapping and going fucking insane is honestly getting concerning

[makereadgrow]

RIP Joann, now what?

I wanted to make a post I could copy and paste and or link when I see folks asking where to buy fabrics when Joann is gone. I sew a lot, generally between 100-200 items a year and I don't do it on a big budget. Stores are not in a particular order.

Notions:

Wawak.com - start here, mostly stay here. Wawak is a supplier for professional sewing businesses and have the prices that show it. I will not pay for gutermann Mara 100 anywhere else. I buy buttons, tools, thread, and most elastic here.

Stitch Love Studio - this is where I buy lingerie supplies https://www.etsy.com/shop/StitchLoveStudio?ref=yr_purchases

Fabric:

Fabric Mart - this is one where you want to sign up for emails and never buy unless its on sale. They run different sales every day and they rotate. Mostly deadstock fabrics but I buy more from here than anywhere else. Fantastic customer service and if you watch you can get things like $6 wool suiting or $4 cotton jersey. https://fabricmartfabrics.com/

Fabrics-Store - again, buy the sales not the full price. Sign up for the emails but redirect them to a folder because it is TOO MANY. They stock linen or good but not amazing quality. https://www.fabrics-store.com/

Purple Seamstress - This is where I buy my solid cotton lycra jersey. They have other things, but the jersey is what I'm here for. Inexpensive and very good quality. If you ask she will mail you a swatch card for the solids. https://purpleseamstressfabric.com/

LA Finch - deadstock fabrics with a fantastic remnant selection https://lafinchfabrics.myshopify.com/

Califabrics - mix of deadstock and big brands, easy to navigate and always seem to have good denim in stock. https://califabrics.com/

Boho Fabrics - good variety, nice bundles. I have also gotten some really great trims from here. https://www.bohofabrics.com/

Firecracker Fabrics - garment and quilting fabrics, really nice selection and great sale section. I've bought $5 yard quilting cottons here several times. https://www.firecrackerfabrics.com/

Hancock's of Paducah - Quilting fabric and some limited garment fabric. AMAZING sale section. Do not sleep on the sale section. This is my first stop when buying quilting fabrics. Usually the last stop too. Not particularly speedy shipping. https://www.hancocks-paducah.com/

Itokri - This is something a little different. Itokri is an Indian business with incredible traditional fabrics. Shipping to the US is expensive, but the fabric is so inexpensive it evens out. I generally end up paying like $30 for shipping. Beautiful ikat and block prints. https://itokri.com/

Miss Matatabi - this is a little treat. This isn't where you go to save money, but there are so many beautiful things in this shop. Ships from Japan incredibly quickly. https://shop.missmatatabi.com/

Lucky Deluxe - Craft thrift store, always has an incredible selection and fantastic customer service. I need to close the tab fast because I never go to this website without finding something I need. https://www.luckydeluxefabrics.com/

Swanson's - the OG of online craft thrift stores, but I find their website harder to navigate. https://www.swansonsfabrics.com

Honorary Mentions: I haven't shopped at these places yet but I have had them recommended and likely will at some point.

A Thrifty Notion - https://athriftynotion.com/

Creative Closeouts - https://creativecloseoutsfabric.com/ being rebranded to sewsnip.com on March 1 - quilting deadstock

Hawthorne Supply Co. - I just got this rec and I think I need to not look too closely or I'm going to slip with my debit card. https://www.hawthornesupplyco.com/

This is not an exhaustive list of everywhere you can buy fabric, or even a full list of where I shop. There are SO many options out there in the world. You also need to think outside the fabric store box. I thrift men's shirt fabrics for quilts and sheets for backing fabric. I don't do a ton of in person thrifting and my local stores don't get a lot of craft materials but every thrift store is its own universe and reflects the community it is in. Go out and find something cool.

Oh and final note: Don't shop at Hobby Lobby.

[dear-ao3]

so. as you may know it’s christmas eve. as you probably don’t know i am eastern european. and probably the only real tradition anyone holds onto is christmas eve. normally my great aunt does all the food and very begrudgingly sometimes lets everyone help make like. one thing.

well.

this year. the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four. she decided she was done cooking and it was up to everyone else.

so i got a phone call from my mom a few weeks ago being like hey so. you’re making the cake. got it? good.

the cake in question is a walnut cake. i was entrusted with my great aunts recipe about seven years ago. i’ve made it twice. the first time i fucked up the frosting quantity. the second time i fucked up the eggs. both times were passable at best and notably! my great aunt did not taste either of them.

and i have to make this cake. on christmas eve. it is dessert. for everyone. my extended family will all be eating the cake. the walnut cake. on christmas eve. even my great aunt.

so yesterday, december 23 if you are counting, i went on the annual Last Minute Christmas Food Shopping Trip with my father, watched him climb into the case to get his half and half like he does every year, and stressed about my cake as i made sure i had all of the ingredients.

then. we went to my great aunts house. where i was met with Trial Number 1: The Cognac

this cake has cognac in the frosting. not a big deal really. except for the fact that my mom hates that there is cognac in the frosting. (my mom is hell bent on making christmas eve dinner vaguely healthier. no one else agrees.) and i was to be making the cake in my moms house.

also important to note: we (as in my parents) do not own cognac. mostly because none of us drink.

so my great aunt is like oh i have to give you the cognac. cause she knows. i am baking the cake. the walnut cake. (my dad told her. he is a traitor). and i say okay. sure. this won’t be a problem at all.

so she gives me. a shot of cognac. and when i say a shot. i mean an Entirely Full Shot Glass of Three Hundred Dollar Cognac. in a jar. for the cake. the walnut cake. that i have to make.

upon bringing the cognac home my mom says no we’re not putting that in. the cognac sits on the counter in its jar. no one touches it.

then i was met with Trial Number 2: The Frosting.

this recipe requires a pound of chopped walnuts. first. i couldn’t even find the walnuts. my sister and i searched high and low and in every cabinet we could find but no nuts. i called my mom. and said mom where are the walnuts? and she said. “they’re in the nut bag behind the basement door.”

oh of course. how could i have missed the nut bag? a holiday bag full of bags of nuts that was half hidden by wrapping paper and also behind a door?

in any case. could i have used a food processor? absolutely. did i? no. half because i forgot and half because i didn’t want to accidentally grind the walnuts into a paste. so i enlisted the help of my younger sister to chop the walnuts By Hand while i embarked on the real devil: the frosting.

which remember. is supposed to have cognac.

so i cream my butter. i add my sugar. i’m careful not to over sugar. i taste it a million times. i add my coffee and my vanilla extract (instead of cognac. which is still sitting on the counter) and it was all going so well until. the butter rebelled.

now remember. one time when i made this. seven years ago. i made too little frosting. so i made more this time. and i thought i had all my conversions right but evidently i did not because suddenly there was too much liquid in my frosting and it split.

the frosting for the walnut cake that everyone was going to eat. on christmas eve. the very next day.

i felt like a contestant on great british bake-off getting smited by the tent.

so i did the logical thing and shoved the whole mess into the fridge hoping that it would sort itself out overnight.

then it was time to face Trial Number Three: The Cake Itself.

as i have said this cake is a walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake that has been at christmas eve longer than i have been alive. and it requires no less than ten egg whites. which i whipped and i added to my walnuts and shoved the whole thing into the oven in my two baking dishes.

only to discover no less than 40 minutes later that the batter in the pans was Not Even (despite my best efforts). so i cooked one longer than the other and hoped that i hadn’t monumentally fucked up the walnut cake. like i had the frosting. which was in the fridge. and i was ignoring.

which leads to Trial Number Four: The Egg Yolk Cake

see i had ten egg yolks. i didn’t know what to do with them. my mom said flush them. my dad said make a custard. i proposed making egg nog. my mom said she didn’t want it in the house cause it was too fattening (a blatantly incorrect statement. please, if you are reading this, go drink a glass of eggnog. or some other fun festive drink. food is for the soul.) so i produced a recipe for an egg yolk pound cake. i made it. i still don’t know if it came out good cause i haven’t tasted it. i hope it did. but that was not the point. the point is the walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake.

and the following morning i was met with Trial Number Five: The Frosting Part 2

first i threw my failed frosting back in the mixer and it immediately secreted a brackish combination of vanilla extract and coffee so i did the only thing i could. facetimed my dad and said “father there are problems abound.” and he gave me the fatherly advice of “make it again.”

and so i did.

with more correct measurements. still scared it would split at any second.

though it didn’t.

and i didn’t add the cognac.

maybe no one will be able to tell???

my mom said that if anyone asks the first batch of frosting failed and i had to toss it. this is technically true.

but i had frosting. i had two uneven cakes. and it was time for Trial Number Six: Decorating

decorating cakes is easily in my top ten least favorite activities. decorating the christmas eve walnut cake is easily in my top three least favorite activities. because i am terrible at decorating cakes. and also because it has a filling.

the filling is jam. and i once again made the wrong choice because i put the jam on first before the frosting. which to be fair is what the directions say. but as everyone knows, the directions in recipes you get from your eastern european great aunt are not the real directions. so now i had to smear butter cream. on top of jam. for the filling of the walnut cake. for christmas eve. that we would be eating in a few hours.

and we didn’t have a cake plate. we had a large dish.

i had to use my fingers. i had to use three spatulas. i got jam everywhere. but i did it. and as soon as i set the top cake on top of the filling i realized my monumental mistake: i was supposed to trim down the cakes.

so now they were uneven. and lopsided. and there was nothing i, a mere mortal tasked with the impossible task of making christmas eve walnut cake, could do about it.

so i continued to spread my frosting. which i had enough of. and tried and failed to not get jam everywhere.

in the end it was almost presentable. not great. slightly lopsided. and definitely not as nice as any of my great aunts cakes.

which left me with Trial Number 7: Chilling It

our fridge was being taken up by other important christmas eve things (though not as important as my cake. the walnut cake) so i had to put it in the car. which was fine because there is snow on the ground.

i covered my cake. the walnut cake. in tin foil and hoped i wouldn’t accidentally squish it. and then i went outside. i tried to steal my moms shoes to walk outside. she was not impressed.

“you know, saph,” she said. “some of the time you’re pretty great. the other half of the time you’re really weird.”

i could not agree more.

i put my cake on the trunk. prayed to the cake gods and went inside.

on the one hand if the cake is good, i will be stuck making walnut cake for christmas eve for the rest of my life. on the other hand, if it sucks i will never have to make another one.

Trial Number Eight: The Tasting still waits.

[reasonsforhope]

"Claire Cao was only a senior in high school when she saw a vital need in her community — and filled it. 

In 2024, the teenager spent her time outside of school volunteering at Blanchet House, a Portland-based nonprofit that serves people experiencing homelessness through food donations, clothing drives, and mental health assistance programs. 

As she logged hours as a Blanchet House student ambassador, Cao soon realized how difficult it was for community members to keep track of shelter openings, rotating food service programs, and available mental health resources. 

“During one afternoon meal service, I met Dano, an unhoused man who shared his struggles with accessing basic services like food and shelter,” Cao said in a recent press release. 

“Left disconnected from essential services, Dano described his struggles of not knowing where to go or which shelters had available beds.”

Combining her love for technology, law, and public policy, Cao pulled available resources into a database and created the ShelterBridge app, which connects users to shelters and services in their area. 

“ShelterBridge wasn’t simply inspired by Dano — it was inspired by the realization that access to resources is a fundamental need that we, as a community, can do a better job of providing,” Cao emphasized. 

“I wanted to use my skills to build something that could bridge that gap, ensuring that no one falls through the cracks simply because they don’t know where to turn for help.”

In addition to linking users to services in their area, the app also has a rating system similar to Yelp. This system allows people to leave star ratings and reviews on shelters, food services, hotlines, and legal aid. 

The ratings not only help users differentiate between services in their area — but they also provide invaluable feedback to the nonprofits, organizations, and government programs that service them. 

“We've been asking for an app like this for a number of years now,” Scott Kerman, executive director of Blanchet House, told Portland news station KGW.

In mid-January, Cao won the 2024 Congressional App Challenge in Oregon’s First District for her work with ShelterBridge — outcompeting 12,682 student submissions. 

Since the app first launched, Cao and her growing ShelterBridge team — which includes enterprising high schoolers and college students from across the nation — have expanded services to California, Philadelphia, Seattle, Los Angeles, and North Carolina. 

“Claire and the team she’s working with deserve all the credit in the world because they're doing something that frankly nobody else has really stepped up to do,” Kerman said. 

“To have the kind of technology that we use every day with hotels and other kinds of reservations [to] help people get into safe, supportive and dignified shelter would be a game changer for our community.”

Although the app started as a class project, Cao said ShelterBridge’s success has far surpassed her expectations. 

“I do hope to keep it up,” she told Oregon outlet KOIN 6 News, as she looked ahead to college and beyond. “I’ve made a lot of efforts to expand it to other cities as well — and it’s something I can mostly do from a computer or my laptop at home.”

-via GoodGoodGood, March 21, 2025