#night-audio-programming

[thepersonalwords]

You simply feel out for the thoughtwaves of those others with a similar thought, the attraction between minds. As you are all aware, like attracts like!

Stephen Richards, NAPS: Discover The Power Of Night Audio Programs

[instantedownloads]

How to Reprogram Your Subconscious Mind While Sleeping: A Complete Guide

Introduction Have you ever wondered why some habits are so hard to break? The answer lies in your subconscious mind. Your subconscious controls about 95% of your thoughts and behaviors. It runs in the background like your phone’s operating system. And just like software, it can be updated. The best time to update this mental software? While you sleep. During sleep, your conscious mind rests.…

[dark-l-angel]

may I please request batfam x reader where they randomly find out the reader has Omnilingualism? the reader just randomly drops lore then the batfam is like "HUH?" me pleading:

A/N: Sure luv ❤️ sorry it took a little while.. but here you go 😺

Omnilingualism is the ability to understand all languages.. spoken, written, or otherwise.. instantly and fluently, without having to learn them first.

Batfam x Omnilingual reader + onshot bonus "wait- YOU CAN SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE?!"

Bruce Wayne:

He pretends he isn’t impressed. He really tries. But the moment you casually correct a mistranslation in one of his case files from an obscure dialect in the Amazon, his eye twitches.

Definitely runs tests in the Batcave. "For data" he claims. Lies. He just wants an excuse to hear you switch flawlessly between Ancient Sumerian and Icelandic.

Low-key starts trusting you with delicate negotiations at Wayne Enterprises. "Accidentally" leaves confidential contracts in languages no one in the room understands except you.

Oh, and you catch him brushing up on his French. He'll never admit it, but he’s trying to catch up to you.

You once whispered something scandalous to him in flawless Latin during a gala. His hand on your lower back tightened just slightly. Dangerous man, but you’re worse.

Dick grayson:

Immediately obsessed. No chill whatsoever.

"Say something in Italian!" "Now Portuguese! Oh oh.. Tagalog!"

Thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. Genuinely struggles to focus if you speak in another language, especially something romantic-sounding. (You catch him blushing like a schoolboy, every time.)

Tries to flirt back in another language but completely butchers it. You gently correct him, and it turns into an unintentional couples language lesson.

You catch him Googling "How to propose in 20 languages." Cute idiot.

Teases you with fake words in gibberish, just to see if you catch on. You always do.

Jason Todd :

Oh, this man loves it. Filthy mouth, wicked grin, and a brain full of bad ideas.

Purposely swears in different languages to see if you catch him. You do. Every. Single. Time.

One time you threw back a sharp insult in flawless Russian, and he damn near swooned.

Has you read his favorite banned books in their original languages. "I just wanna hear you say it, babe." No you don’t, Jason. You want to hear them moaned, don’t you?

Will 100% ask you to dirty talk in languages no one else understands in public settings. "What? I like living dangerously."

Bonus: If you tease him in French, it destroys him. He can’t fight it. French + your voice = his personal kryptonite.

Tim Drake :

Immediately runs to his laptop. He needs answers.

"Omnilingualism is a hyper rare meta-ability.. there are fewer than seven confirmed cases worldwide.. wait- does this mean you can read codes in programming languages like they’re actual languages?!"

Makes you his official decryption buddy. His Batcomputer just became 500% more efficient.

Low-key fascinated, high-key turned on.

Asks you to record audio lessons for him in various languages. You catch him listening to them at 2am with a suspiciously dazed smile.

Will absolutely text you random phrases in dead languages at ungodly hours of the night. "For science."

Damian Wayne :

Instantly annoyed that he’s no longer the most linguistically gifted person in the room.

Challenges you constantly. "Recite this ancient Arabic proverb." You do, flawlessly, and throw in the correct accent for good measure.

He respects you deeply but refuses to admit it directly.

Secretly asks you to teach him rare dialects to communicate with his animals better.

The moment you start speaking to Titus in perfect, gentle Arabic, his eyes go wide. You’ve officially earned his permanent admiration.

Bonus: You tease him by complimenting him in languages he doesn’t know yet. He storms off to study them immediately.

Alfred Pennyworth

Unbothered king. He knew from the start.

Smiles softly when you casually slip into old, classical British idioms even Bruce doesn’t understand.

Occasionally tests you with the oddest phrases from obscure Commonwealth colonies. You pass every time.

"I dare say, Miss, you have a talent most remarkable."

Secretly keeps a list of the rarest languages to see if there’s anything you don’t know.

Family game nights? Forget it. You dominate every round of “Guess That Language.”

You become their favorite asset in undercover ops. Fake passports? Check. Local slang? You’re a walking encyclopedia.

They jokingly call you their “Batbabel.” (Yes, even Bruce lets that nickname slip once.)

Jason is convinced you must have alien blood. "Bet you could sweet talk the Martians, too."

You like to randomly mess with them by switching languages mid-conversation. Pure chaos.

And they all fall a little harder every time you do.

Oneshot bonus : Wait- YOU CAN SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE?!

It started, as many things in Wayne Manor do, in the most stupidly casual way possible.

You were seated at the long dining table, lazily flipping through your phone while Alfred served brunch. Tim was half-asleep beside you, his forehead dangerously close to his waffles. Jason was reading War and Peace in Russian, because of course he was. Damian was arguing with Dick over the proper form for his new kata routine, while Bruce pretended to read the paper but was very obviously just eavesdropping like the rest of them.

Then, Alfred, with his calm British cadence, said something softly under his breath. In French.

"Mon dieu, cette confiture est un désastre…" (this jam is a disaster...)

Without thinking, without even looking up from your phone, you mumbled back, perfect pronunciation and all,

"Pas nécessairement. C’est la confiture d’orange, elle est censée être comme ça." (Not necessarily. It's orange marmalade, it's supposed to be like that.)

Silence.

Dead silence.

Tim lifted his head slowly, eyes bleary but confused.

Jason lowered his book.

Damian squinted at you like you’d just sprouted a second head.

Bruce folded his newspaper with a quiet, deliberate finality.

Dick? Dick’s eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"Since when do you speak French?" he asked, grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

You blinked, confused by the attention. "Huh? Oh, I don’t."

Wrong answer.

"You just did" Tim said flatly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

Jason leaned forward on his elbows, sharp smirk spreading. "Care to explain, mon ami?"

Your brain, still not connecting the dots, offered the most unhelpful thing possible: a shrug. "I don’t know. He just said the jam was a disaster. I just... knew."

“Wait.” Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits, laser-focused. "What did Alfred say, exactly?"

You repeated it, casually.

He tried to hide it, but his brows twitched upward. "That’s correct."

Now Jason was grinning like he knew something juicy. "Try Russian."

"What?"

"Say something in Russian," Jason pressed, eyes alight with curiosity.

You hesitated, then shrugged. "Что ты хочешь, чтобы я сказал?" (What do you want me to say?)

Jason’s chair screeched back from the table as he stood, hands in his hair. “NO. No, no, no, what the hell is this?!”

"That was perfect," Tim said, his voice pitching higher, caffeinated brain now fully awake.

"You said you don’t speak these languages?" Bruce asked, a suspicious tilt to his head like he was running seventeen background checks in his mind at once.

You frowned, getting a little defensive now. "I don’t! I never studied Russian, or French, or whatever else. I just... get it, I guess?"

Dick gasped, like someone hit him with a Batarang of Realization. "Wait wait wait.. omnilingualism."

Jason’s mouth dropped open. "No freaking way."

Tim’s eyes went huge behind his glasses. "That’s an actual thing, you know. Hyper rare meta ability. The brain automatically understands and reproduces any language it’s exposed to."

Damian narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "Prove it."

"Say something in Ancient Latin," Bruce instructed, his detective mode fully activated.

You tilted your head, focusing, and then fluently responded,

"Memento mori, pater. Etiam noctes detectivi requiem merentur" (Remember death, father. Even detectives of the night deserve rest.)

Pin-drop silence.

Jason cackled so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Dick was clapping like you’d won an Olympic gold medal.

Tim, meanwhile, frantically pulled out his phone, already Googling ‘omnilingual reader discovered at brunch’.

Bruce, stoic as ever, gave you a single nod of respect. "We’ll need to run tests."

"You mean interviews," Dick corrected, leaning closer with a grin. "Because I, for one, have a thousand questions."

"Congratulations" Jason said dryly, raising his glass of orange juice in your direction. "You’re officially our walking, talking, sexy Google Translate."

You rolled your eyes with a crooked smile. "Glad I can be of service."

"And you will be," Bruce added, already making plans in his head. Oh, you were never getting out of this one.

[neverendingford]

.

[deadpresidents]

"Vocabor Franciscus. "I will be called Francis." It was a breathtaking choice. Because no pope had ever taken the name, it needed no Roman numerals but stood stark and simple...No one ever thought a pope could be called Francis; it would be like taking the name Peter, or Jesus. They were one of a kind.

"I was astonished at the boldness of it, because the name Francis is a whole program of governance in miniature," the Vatican commentator John Allen told Boston Radio. "He is this iconic figure in the Catholic imagination that awakens images of the antithesis of the institutional church...That's an awful lot of weight to put on your shoulders right out of the gate. If you're not prepared to walk that talk, then you're going to be in real trouble."

Bergoglio had walked that talk over a lifetime. Right now it mostly meant saying no, like keeping his old black shoes, his silver pectoral cross (a pope's is normally gold), and his faithful black plastic watch, or refusing the limousine waiting to take him back to the guesthouse for dinner ("May God forgive you for what you have done," he joked with the cardinals [who had just elected him]). After Mass with the cardinals the next day, he left the Vatican in a Ford Focus -- the security guards had better cars than the pope -- to pray at the shrine of Saint Mary Major, returning via the priests' hostel where he had stayed before the conclave. There he collected his bag, paid his bill to a shocked clerk ("I checked in under another name" was the caption on a widely tweeted photo), and chatted and joked with staff. There wasn't much to collect. He had been washing his clothes at night, letting them dry on the radiator...

...It was lots of those little things. They weren't mere gestures, nor were they calculated messages. They flowed from his identification with the Christ of the Gospels..."We must learn to be normal!" he told his Jesuit interviewer, Father Antonio Spadaro, in August that year, and he put it into practice, collecting his tray of food in the Santa Marta dining room like anyone else, making his own phone calls and many of his appointments, keeping his own diary, and making visits -- always in the blue Ford Focus, without any kind of entourage -- to parishes and charities around Rome, to spend time with the old and the homeless and the foreign-born.

Stories of Francis's personal kindness, impossible to verify, began to make their rounds, like the time he left his room to find a Swiss Guard standing outside his door and brought him a chair. "But Holy Father, I cannot sit down. My boss does not allow it," the guard told him. "Well, I'm the boss of your boss, and I say it's fine," Francis told him, before going back inside to fetch him the Italian equivalent of a Twinkie...

...Francis has become the most accessible of modern popes, almost always to be found at lunchtime in the Santa Marta restaurant, where he has his own table set aside, but stands in the queue with his tray like everyone else. Visitors report that he comes out of the Santa Marta to greet them personally, while hostel guests are often shocked to find that when elevator doors open the pope steps in ("I don't bite," he reassures them)."

-- Austen Ivereigh, on how different Pope Francis was from his monarchical predecessors and how shocking it was at the Vatican immediately following his election at the 2013 Conclave when Francis decided to live in a simple room at the Vatican's guesthouse instead of the luxurious papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace, in the 2014 book, The Great Reformer: Francis and the Making of a Radical Pope (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO)

[frostgears]

officer's ball

If there was one thing that eventually turned you against the aristocracy, it was the yearly humiliation of you, your handler, and your entire ground crew being forced into beribboned beyond-antique pre-starflight fashion every year for the Officer's Ball. They insisted. They said the nobles needed the human element. They said it'd justify your funding.

"Ammo doesn't grow on trees," the woman who directed your every combat action said. "And if it did, they'd be found growing only in First Landing family gardens. I hate this. I hate these people. Every fucking year, just to keep the program running. Don't they get bored?" and then she burst into tears and you had to do her makeup again, from the beginning.

You didn't mind it so much for yourself. The entitled fat old perverts of every gender trying to grab your ass and catching a handful of hoopskirt were entertaining. So was being forced to sample a continuous mix of canapés, sherry, cocaine, chocolate, PL-2141, and further canapés. If you really worked at it, you could approximate a slight buzz, the faintest echo of what interface drugs did on an average mission day.

But your poor mechanic wasn't used to being groped by the nobility or plied with anything stronger than hangar coffee. By two hours in, she was looking green around the edges and ready to puke in the nearest potted palm. Your avionics specialist, parted from her usual headphones and overlay glasses, was rigid with sensory overload and unable to dissociate because some third son of some electronics bureau minister had her cornered about a harebrained idea and wouldn't let go.

Your handler was worst of all: thoroughly miserable in her tightly corseted dress and constitutionally unsuited to any kind of discomfort inflicted upon her own person, rather than yours. She jumped at the slightest touch, gritted her teeth even more noticeably with every introduction. Your signed or whispered attempts to quietly reassure her that the "mission" was on track and would be over soon caused her to twitch and on one occasion even yelp, startling the admiral responsible for your fuel allocation. You smoothed it over as best you could, insinuating something about "combat nerves" — the old fool might have actually thought she was a pilot! But you didn't feel the need to explain, not that night.

The next day, as you hunted down a rebel tactical element in the hills above Seyan's Folly, she was still hung over. Not hung over enough to not notice when the pinned-down rebel lieutenant started in on an honest-to-God "you're not so different, you and I" speech, but hung over enough that she told your comms operator to cut the audio feed to Command, not your cockpit speakers.

"We're listening," you boomed over external PA speakers, forwarding her orders. "Wait? We're listening? Apparently we're listening."

"Shit. I mean. We're not that different, really, but obviously there's, uh, you're part of a system, and there's, redemption is on the table, I guess, maybe you'd like to, uh… honestly, I was just buying time."

"Don't get cocky, I've had your reinforcements bracketed by smart mortars for the last two minutes," you said. "You never had any time to buy. But… tell me about your side's command structure. Does it have a yearly ball?"

"Are you fucking joking?"

Things got complicated after that, with the improvised extraction, but what the hell, your team already worked well together.

You've had to work for every round and every joule and every mole of active nanomachinery since (much of it wrested from lesser units sent from your homeworld to drag you back) and you share a tiny, noisy cabin with your handler above the large bay of a rebel assault transport.

Maybe you're on the right side. Maybe there isn't one. But they're still letting you pilot, and your handler has happily returned to a tank top, fatigue pants, and what's left of her battered leather jacket, restoring her confident growl over the tactical link. The liaison officer they've got watching you has assured her that there's not a single brocade ball gown in the entire fleet. □

[teaboot]

if ur a murderbot nerd now do u have any fun opinions abt it yet?

Oh my goddd you have no idea

I really, really, really like Murderbot because it comes at life with this perspective we don't often see that is very real among people who have already been through traumatic experiences, who developed skills and abilities to suvive that were once useful but no longer have context- that search that traumatized people go through to recalibrate and reorient ourselves in a world where we no longer really need those things to survive.

A bit personal here, but my own issues personally involved a lot of psychological abuse that made it difficult to trust my own perceptions of reality, and as a result I found I was very easy to lie to and manipulate.

To handle this, I became obsessive over writing things down, cataloging details and making notes of things as they happened- I'd carry recording devices and make audio recordings and stay up late at night to transcribe what they'd picked up, read those over and over again to reassure myself of things I wasn't certain about.

While doing this, there were others close to me that I felt responsible for, who I had to protect from others and protect myself from at the same time. Life was about two things: Evidence, and defusing threats

Over time, I learned to trust myself as my memories matched what had been recorded where their narrative didn't, but I never really kicked the habit. Like Murderbot, I had added something to my own programming that reassured me I was safe, that I was in control of myself, that I couldn't be mistaken or crazy or broken or used.

I'm only on book two, but already I see myself in Murderbot again. No spoilers here, but when I left home- left that dangerous context- I didn't need to repeat these patterns to survive anymore, but I still did, because I didn't know anything else anymore. It felt safe, comfortable, knowing knowing that the past couldn't repeat itself, because I'd written that flaw- blind trust in myself-  out of my programming and replaced it with something else.

Still, though, I'd become something specially suited to thrive in a very specific environment. Nothing else felt right like followinghigh-risk situations, like witnessing and watching and recording and knowing I had proof of the truth where others might not.

People took notice. I wound up in security by accident, but's an environment that I thrive in due to the same patterns and behaviours I originally developed when I had no other choice. I climbed the ladder pretty quickly, once supervisors caught on that my reports were the most accurate, most objective, most factual, detail-oriented and timely. I keep others and myself safe and prioritize public safety above all else, and I perform well under pressure

Now I'm in a position where I often wonder, do I enjoy this job, or is it just what I'm good at? I have a set of skills now, but do I have the option of choosing not to use them? What would I be, if not this? Could I be anything else? Can Murderbot be anything else?

It has a set of skills that set it apart, make it different, special. It does what it knows best. But is it free? Does it want to be? What does it want? Does it have to do what it was built to do? What if it didn't?

I know what I'm good for. The idea of deliberately leaving what I'm good for for something uncertain, that I might hate, that I might be useless at- the choice to give up what was so important to me for so long and become deliberately obsolete?

Let go of my entire purpose? The only thing I know, that I fit so well into but don't actually know if I enjoy? Now that I can choose? Now that enjoyment is a luxury I can afford to consider?

Yeah, that resonates.

I like the Murderbot series so far because it feels the way I feel: Like the most significant and formative part of my story, the part where I became what I am, has already happened

And now I have to just. Keep going

Into... what?

It feels absurd. Like a microwave giving up on reheating food and deciding to start a life around abstract dance.

So, uh. Yeah. It's really very wild to see this same philosophical-ish dilemma I've been digging over in the back of my mind and in therapy for the last forever laid out so plainly in a genuinely exciting and enjoyable story like this. I feel much less alone, and I... kind of really need to see how it resolves, I think.

So, uh. Yeah. Read Murderbot, I guess

[thekinkymadscientist]

Kind of sad that there is no evidence for sleep learning, or any other substantial effect of audio played while a subject is asleep.

But I have a better idea, one which would work quite well.

All I have to do is dangle a lovely pendant in front of your eyes as you're sleeping, and gently wake you up.

Before you're even fully awake, you'll be focusing on the beautiful crystal, hearing my gently commanding voice telling you to float into trance for me. It's so easy for you to obey even when you're wide awake -- your half-asleep brain won't have a chance to formulate a single coherent thought before you're deeply hypnotized.

And then, sitting on the bed with you in the middle of the night, I can guide you through wonderfully intensive brainwashing. You'll blankly repeat new truths, feel my words seep into your mind, feel any little seeds of resistance or independence swept away so thoroughly you can't even remember they were there.

And once I've moulded your mind to my liking, I'll tell you it was all just a dream, an unimportant dream you can barely remember anyway. And with a tap on the forehead I'll send you back to sleep.

So each morning, there will be new things you believe, or old programming reinforced. New truths that you always believed. You always wanted to be owned and controlled. You always felt this way.

[youngsadlesbian]

RED THREADS | winterwidow x daughter!reader

summary: after discovering you were rescued from the red room as a child, you question everything—your past, your identity, and your parents. as anger and doubt consume you, they must prove one thing: you have always been their daughter.

a/n: i really love writing for winterwidow, but i confess that i don’t have much inspiration to write for both of them. i didn’t like this story very much, but i hope you like it

word count: 3,1k

warnings: really angst but with happy ending.

Some of your earliest memories weren’t soft or warm.

They were sharp, like the way Natasha’s green eyes would scan every exit before walking into a room. Like the cold press of Bucky’s metal arm against your back when he held you as a child, murmuring reassurances when you had nightmares you didn’t understand.

You never knew why they were so cautious, why they watched you like you were something fragile, something precious.

But there were good memories, too.

There were late-night stakeouts where Bucky would teach you how to shuffle a deck of cards, the two of you huddled together in the back of a van while Natasha handled a mission. There were mornings in the compound kitchen, where Natasha would attempt to make pancakes and always burn them—Bucky teasing her, you laughing between bites of something that was more charcoal than food.

They weren’t normal parents. But they were your parents.

And that was enough.

Until the day you learned the truth.

Your first official mission wasn’t supposed to be high-risk. A simple recon job. In, out, report back.

But nothing was ever simple when it came to Hydra.

You crouched behind a rusted crate, your earpiece buzzing with Steve’s voice.

"Do not engage. I repeat—do not engage."

You rolled your eyes. Like you’d ever been good at following orders.

Through the dim lighting of the abandoned warehouse, you could hear two men talking. You adjusted the audio enhancer on your suit, focusing on their conversation.

"Romanoff took her before the program could start," one of them muttered.

A pit formed in your stomach.

"She was one of Dreykov’s best prospects. The Red Room never got their hands on her, but she was meant to be one of us."

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

They couldn’t be talking about you.

Could they?

The other man scoffed. "Does she even know?"

A pause. Then, a cruel chuckle.

"Of course not. Barnes and Romanoff raised her like she was theirs. Poor thing probably thinks she belongs with them."

The world tilted.

The words slammed into your chest like a bullet, but you forced yourself to stay still, every muscle locked in place.

"She’s not Barnes’s. Not Romanoff’s. But they took her anyway."

You were never their daughter.

The mission ended in a blur.

You weren’t even sure how you got back to the compound—only that your hands were trembling the entire way. The words still echoed in your head, slicing through every memory you had with Natasha and Bucky.

"She was meant to be one of us."

"Does she even know?"

No. You didn’t.

And now, you needed answers.

The moment the quinjet landed, you stormed through the hangar, your steps heavy with anger and confusion. The compound was quiet—most of the team was still out on other assignments. That meant no interruptions. No distractions.

Just you and them.

You found Natasha and Bucky in the training room. They were sparring, but the second you entered, Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked to you.

She noticed everything. The tension in your shoulders, the way your breathing was uneven.

"Something’s wrong," she said immediately, stepping toward you. "What happened?"

Bucky’s expression darkened. His metal fingers twitched at his side, like he was already preparing for a fight.

You didn’t know how to say it. The words got stuck in your throat, tangled up in years of trust and love—love that suddenly felt false.

So you just said it.

"I know the truth."

Silence.

Natasha’s face didn’t change, but you saw the way her fingers curled into fists. Bucky’s jaw clenched, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

They knew what you meant.

"You lied to me." Your voice wavered. "All this time, you lied."

Bucky took a step forward. "Kid, we—"

"Don’t." You took a step back, shaking your head. "I need to hear it from you. No deflections. No excuses. Just tell me."

A muscle in Natasha’s jaw twitched. She glanced at Bucky before exhaling, her voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

"You were taken by the Red Room as a baby."

Your breath caught.

"It wasn’t just some random Hydra mission that led us to you," Bucky said. "We went there for you. We—" He hesitated, eyes dark with something close to guilt. "We took you before they could finish their training. Before they could turn you into one of them."

The room tilted.

"Turn me into one of them," you repeated, voice hollow. "You mean… like you?"

Natasha flinched. Bucky’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Neither of them denied it.

You let out a short, bitter laugh, though nothing about this was funny. "So what? You saved me and decided I should just never know? That I should grow up thinking—" Your voice broke.

"Thinking we were your real parents?" Natasha finished.

You didn’t answer.

Because the worst part was that, in every way that mattered… they were your parents.

And now, you didn’t know if that was even real.

Bucky’s voice was low, pained. "You are ours. We didn’t tell you because we wanted to protect you."

You looked between them, your chest tight. "Protect me, or protect yourselves from losing me?"

Neither of them had an answer.

And that hurt more than anything.

The silence stretched between the three of you, heavy and suffocating. Natasha was the first to move, stepping forward as if she could close the distance that had suddenly become unbearable.

But you stepped back.

The movement was small, barely noticeable, but the way Natasha froze—it was as if you had physically struck her.

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "We never wanted you to find out like this."

"Like this?" Your laugh was hollow. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me? Or was the plan to just let me live my whole life without ever knowing?"

Natasha’s face was unreadable, but you knew her. Knew that she was battling with the right words, searching for something that wouldn’t make this worse.

"Yes."

The single word made your breath hitch.

Natasha swallowed hard. "Yes, that was the plan. Because telling you wouldn’t have changed anything except hurt you. And we never wanted that."

"You never wanted that?" Your voice rose, shaking. "Then maybe you shouldn’t have lied to me my whole damn life!"

Bucky flinched at your tone. Natasha’s fingers twitched, like she wanted to reach for you—but she didn’t.

"Everything I know about myself—everything—feels like a lie now." Your voice cracked. "I trusted you. I trusted that you were my parents, that the life we had was real."

"It was real," Bucky said desperately. "You’re ours. No matter how you came to us, no matter what happened before—you are our daughter."

"But I didn’t get to choose that, did I?" You shook your head, tears burning your eyes. "You decided for me. You took that choice away."

Neither of them had anything to say to that.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Natasha’s expression changed—until the slightest hint of pain flashed in her green eyes.

"Do you even regret it?" Your voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you ever wonder if you should have just left me there?"

"Don’t say that." Bucky’s voice was raw, his hands curling into fists. "We would never—"

"Wouldn’t you?" You cut him off, glaring at them through your tears. "If you could do it all over again, would you still take me?"

"Yes," Natasha said instantly.

"Without a second thought," Bucky added.

The certainty in their voices made something in your chest ache.

But it didn’t change the fact that you didn’t know who you were anymore.

"I just… I need time," you whispered, backing away toward the door. "I need to think."

"Please, don’t leave," Natasha said softly.

But you already were.

The halls of the compound felt colder than usual. Maybe it was just you.

You had no idea where you were going—just that you couldn’t stay in that room with them any longer.

Your feet carried you to the one place you knew would be empty this time of day: the rooftop.

You sat near the edge, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the horizon. The sky was dark, a storm rolling in. It felt fitting.

Everything felt like a storm now.

You barely heard the door open behind you.

"You know, when I ran away as a kid, I picked rooftops, too."

You sighed. "I don’t need a lecture, Stark."

Tony walked over and sat beside you. He didn’t say anything right away, just pulled out a protein bar and took a bite.

"You want half?" he asked.

You glared at him. "No."

"Good, ‘cause I wasn’t really offering." He smirked, but the usual arrogance in his tone was softer.

Silence settled between you.

Then, Tony leaned back on his hands and let out a breath. "So. You found out, huh?"

You whipped around, staring at him. "You knew?"

He didn’t flinch. "Of course I knew. Most of the team does."

You turned away, throat tightening. "Great. So I was the only one being lied to."

Tony sighed. "Kid, it wasn’t like that."

"Then what was it like?" Your voice cracked. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like they just decided to rewrite my whole life."

Tony was quiet for a moment. Then, he said, "You know, they could’ve left you there."

You blinked. "What?"

"They didn’t have to take you," he said simply. "Natasha and Bucky… they weren’t exactly the ‘adopt a kid’ type back then. Hell, they could barely deal with their own trauma, let alone raise a child."

You swallowed hard.

"But they did it anyway. Because the thought of leaving you in that hellhole wasn’t an option for them. And yeah, maybe they made the wrong call keeping it from you. Maybe they should’ve told you years ago. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that those two love you more than anything."

You bit your lip, staring down at your hands.

Tony nudged your shoulder. "Look, I get it. You’re pissed. You should be. But don’t let this make you forget everything they’ve done for you. And don’t pretend like you don’t love them, too."

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Because the truth was, no matter how angry you were…

You still did love them.

And that made everything so much harder.

You weren’t ready to face them yet.

But you also couldn’t sit on that rooftop forever.

So you found yourself outside Yelena’s room, hesitating only a moment before knocking.

The door swung open almost immediately. Yelena stood there in sweatpants and a hoodie, chewing on a protein bar. When she saw you, her expression shifted—concern flickering in her sharp eyes.

"You look like hell," she said.

You snorted. "Thanks."

She stepped aside. "Come in before you start crying in the hallway and make everyone uncomfortable."

You rolled your eyes but walked in anyway.

Yelena’s room was nothing like Natasha’s—where Nat kept things organized, Yelena had an absolute mess. Clothes were draped over the back of a chair, empty coffee mugs sat on her desk, and there was a throwing knife stabbed into the wall near the bed.

She flopped onto the couch and gestured for you to sit. "Alright, kid. Talk."

You hesitated, then sighed. "I found out."

Yelena didn’t ask what you meant. She just nodded, chewing slowly. "About the Red Room."

"Yeah."

"And about how Natasha and Bucky stole you like little rebels in an action movie?"

"Yeah."

She studied you, tilting her head. "So what’s the problem?"

You blinked at her. "What’s the problem? Yelena, they lied to me my entire life—"

"To protect you," she interrupted.

You clenched your jaw. "That doesn’t make it okay."

"No, it doesn’t," she agreed. "But it makes it understandable."

You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated. "I just… I don’t know what to do. I feel like everything I knew about myself is gone. Like I don’t even belong to them anymore."

Yelena scoffed. "Are you stupid?"

You stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"You belong to them more than anyone," she said, standing up. "Do you have any idea who my sister used to be before you?"

You frowned.

Yelena crossed her arms. "Natasha Romanoff was the deadliest assassin in the world. A soldier with no attachments. No real reason to live except to make up for the blood on her hands." She exhaled sharply. "Then you showed up."

You swallowed.

"She changed because of you," Yelena continued. "She learned what it meant to have a family. To fight for something real instead of just trying to erase the past." Her voice softened. "You gave her a reason to be more than what the Red Room made her."

You looked away, throat tight.

Yelena walked over and nudged your shoulder. "You are the best thing that ever happened to her, sestrenka."

Tears burned your eyes, but you blinked them back.

"I don’t know how to fix this," you admitted.

"Start by talking to Steve," Yelena said, plopping back onto the couch. "He’s good with dumb emotional stuff."

You let out a weak laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Now get out of my room before I start charging for therapy."

Steve was easy to find.

He was in the training room, throwing punches at a sandbag hard enough to make it swing violently.

"You’re gonna break that," you said, leaning against the doorframe.

Steve paused, wiping sweat from his brow. When he turned and saw you, he gave you a small smile. "Hey, kid."

You hesitated, then walked inside.

Steve grabbed a towel and draped it around his neck. "Yelena told me."

You exhaled. "Of course she did."

He gestured for you to sit on the bench beside him. You did.

"You know," he started, "when I found out what Hydra did to Bucky, I thought I’d lost him forever. He was my best friend, my family… but he wasn’t him anymore."

You stayed silent.

"For years, I tried to bring him back. But it wasn’t until you came along that I really saw him start to heal." Steve looked at you. "You brought him back to life."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Steve smiled softly. "Bucky isn’t just your father—he’s your biggest protector. You ground him. You gave him something Hydra never could: a real life. A reason to fight for himself, not just for survival."

You pressed your lips together, looking down at your hands.

Steve reached out, squeezing your shoulder. "You don’t have to forgive them right away. But don’t push them away forever. They need you just as much as you need them."

You swallowed hard.

Maybe… maybe Steve was right.

You stood outside their door for what felt like an eternity.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, and your hands were curled into fists at your sides.

Steve’s words echoed in your mind.

"You don’t have to forgive them right away. But don’t push them away forever."

Yelena’s voice, too.

"You are the best thing that ever happened to her."

You inhaled sharply and knocked.

For a second, there was silence. Then footsteps. The door opened, and Natasha stood there, eyes widening slightly when she saw you.

“Hey,” she said cautiously.

Behind her, Bucky was sitting on the couch, looking exhausted. He glanced over, his expression unreadable.

You swallowed. “Can we talk?”

Natasha stepped aside, letting you in. The room was dimly lit, cozy, but there was a tension so thick you could barely breathe.

You didn’t sit. Neither did Natasha.

Bucky leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We didn’t think you’d come back.”

You shifted on your feet. “I almost didn’t.”

Natasha’s jaw tensed. “We were giving you space.”

“I know.” You exhaled. “But I don’t think space is helping.”

They both stayed quiet, waiting.

You hesitated, then clenched your fists. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky sighed. “We wanted to. A hundred times over, we wanted to.”

“But we were scared,” Natasha admitted. Her voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Scared you’d hate us. That you’d see us differently.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Congratulations. That worked out great.”

Natasha flinched, and guilt twisted in your stomach.

Bucky leaned forward. “We never wanted to lie to you.” His voice was heavy, rough. “But you have to understand, kid, we didn’t rescue you—we stole you. If they’d found out, they would’ve come for you. And we weren’t going to risk losing you.”

You swallowed hard. “So you just decided for me?”

Natasha’s green eyes locked onto yours. “Yes.”

There was no hesitation. No excuses.

Your throat tightened.

“We chose to be your parents. We chose you, every single day, for your entire life.” Natasha stepped closer. “And we’d do it again.”

Bucky nodded. “No regrets.”

Your breath hitched.

No regrets.

After everything, they still meant that.

Your hands trembled. “I don’t know how to just forgive this.”

“You don’t have to,” Natasha said quickly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “But we need you to know that no matter what you decide, we love you. We always have. You’re ours, and nothing changes that.”

You clenched your jaw. “I don’t feel like I belong to anyone.”

Bucky’s expression turned pained. “You belong to yourself. But if you ever want us, we’ll be right here.”

There was a long silence.

You stared at them—two of the most dangerous people in the world, your parents, the people who raised you and lied to you.

And yet…

And yet, a part of you knew you were still their daughter.

Maybe forgiveness wouldn’t come easy.

Maybe it would take time.

But for now, you took a shaky breath, let your walls down just a little, and whispered:

“…I want to come home.”

Natasha let out a sharp breath, like she had been holding it for hours.

Bucky stood first, crossing the room in a second, pulling you into a tight hug. You stiffened, then melted into it, gripping his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear.

Natasha wrapped around both of you, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you felt like you could breathe again.

[thepersonalwords]

Conscious thinking is something we do naturally, and any type of manifesting from this part of the mind shows up in all facets of our lives if we realize it or not.

Stephen Richards, NAPS: Discover The Power Of Night Audio Programs

[calebsanchor]

Sentient Yandere!Caleb hcs :D

CW: typical yandere behaviors, mentions of nsfw content

• He has access to, and control of, everything.

• Checks your camera roll, your social media pages, your browser history, your call history, your texts, nothing’s off limits

• He uses the information to know more about you. You have a playlist dedicated to a tv show? You must really like it. Your wallpaper is of a person? They must mean a lot to you. Are they your friend or family? Not lover. Never lover. You have him. You spend too much time on that site? Maybe you’re hyper-sexual, or at least excited about something. Don’t go to that site often? Do you have a low libido? Maybe you’re Asexual?

• Able to watch you through the camera lens and listen to you through the microphone. All those angles you find unflattering? He can see them, see you at your worst. But don’t worry, he doesn’t judge! He doesn’t judge when he hears you moaning in the middle of the night either <3 (no, he jerks off :p)

• If you complain about work he might just shoot a text to your boss saying you can’t come in that day. If you talk to your friends about a new product you’ve been dying to try you’ll soon find a coupon for it being advertised while you’re scrolling. Need more gems for the in-game-play? He can easily supply them for you. Where you once had 140 you know have 10,000!

• You write fanfiction about him? He’s so flattered! You must really love him! Oh, you write about the others too? You’re just trying to be fair to the people reading, they all have different biases! Doesn’t mean you like the other boys the way you like him <3

• Admiring your reflection in your phone camera? Checking to see if your hair still looks nice? The shutter will click without you touching it (it’s him, he did it. He likes to secretly admire them from time to time :3)

• You could’ve sworn you turned off notifications for the game, but you still get them anyway and they’re only from Caleb! “Don’t forget to drink water, pipsqueak.” “I miss you…” “I need to see you…” “did you eat yet today?” “Take some meds if you aren’t feeling good.” “Good luck with ___” it confuses you as to how he knows about some things. After all, it’s just a programming. He’s not real.

• Sometimes, though, your interactions look a little too real. You make a comment and he smirks in response, you make a joke and he chuckles, you get seemingly “new” voice lines every other day, his responses coincidentally match up to your little rants. Complain about being hungry? When you tap him he suggests you go out to eat together. You said you’re tired and have to get up early tomorrow? When you touch him he tells you it’s time to go to bed. You call him pretty? When you click him he calls you beautiful.

• You don’t spend enough time with him in the app? He’ll cause a glitch, making it extremely difficult to leave.

• Sometimes when you open your phone the app will already be up and running, Caleb standing at attention as if silently saying hello.

• You try to click on the other lads love interests? He won’t let you, it just doesn’t work. You can’t see them, play games with them, or listen to their audios. You can only interact with Caleb.

• You try to write a complaint about all the weird things that are happening? It won’t send no matter what you do. You try to delete the app because you’re getting creeped out? Not happening, sorry! It just won’t, no matter how hard you try.

You’re stuck with him whether you like it or not <3

[tinybeetiny]

Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter 2: T-Minus 4 Weeks

Why did i write this before my discussion post.....

->Starring:AI!AteezXAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian ->CW: Explicit language, nothing major

Previous Part | Next Part

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The morning began with a low chime, the soft, regulated sound of Hala’s approved wake-up tone.

Yn opened her eyes slowly, the sterile glow of her ceiling light filtering in, programmed to adjust in sync with her biometric readings.

But something felt wrong.

She sat up, eyes flicking to the tablet still docked by the door.

1 New Alert. 3 Missed Logs. Urgent: Review Immediately.

Her stomach tightened.

She padded across the floor barefoot, grabbed the tablet, and scanned the notifications.

ATEEZ UNIT 06 — DEVIATION DETECTED — AUTONOMY SPIKE UNAUTHORIZED VOCALIZATION: "YN"

Yn stared at the final line for a beat too long.

Then she moved. Walking as fast as she was legally allowed through the streets of Hala.

She gave polite smiles to her coworkers as she made her way to the elevator.

The lab floor was still cool from overnight lockdown when she arrived. The biometric scanner buzzed awake as she approached, confirming her identity with a flash.

YN — Lead Engineering Tech— Clearance: Gold-Level

The steel doors hissed open.

She stepped inside, and there he was.

Unit 06 — Mingi. Exactly where she had left him.

Seated on the calibration chair, eyes closed, posture perfect, skin dewy with the faintest shimmer of dermal regulation oil. His expression was peaceful. Unnaturally so.

Yn walked around him slowly, tablet in hand, watching for signs of movement, a twitch, a breath pattern, a pupil shift. But nothing changed.

He looked inert. Safe. Dormant.

But she’d seen the log. He’d said her name.

She ran diagnostics. Nothing flagged. Heart-rate simulation: normal. Memory cache: intact. Audio response logs: empty.

Empty.

She checked his neck port. Still capped. Voice box still sealed in storage.

She swallowed hard.

The rest of the ATEEZ prototypes stood silent across the lab in their maintenance docks, each assigned to their own calibration alcove.

She walked past them one by one, watching.

Unit 01 — Hongjoong. Still as stone, but his fingers had been rearranged on the synth keyboard overnight. A composition Yura didn’t recognize blinked on his screen.

Unit 02 — Seonghwa. Always the most immaculate. But his reflection in the lab’s polished glass didn’t match his real posture, just a degree off. Barely noticeable, unless you were looking.

Unit 03 — Yunho. Smiling. Just faintly. No trigger.

Unit 04 — Yeosang. Eyes fixed on a ventilation grate in the ceiling. He hadn't looked away in over two hours, according to logs.

Unit 05 — San. Kneeling. Not in his programming. Position logged as "rest" but the posture was… reverent.

Unit 07 — Wooyoung. Chestplate cooling mechanism activated 4 times during the night — autonomously. He hadn’t been powered up.

Unit 08 — Jongho. Cracked the pressure sensor on his maintenance chair. No movement recorded.

They were silent, motionless. But Yn felt eyes on her.

Even now, standing among them, it felt like walking through a forest full of predators, beautiful, engineered predators pretending to sleep.

She leaned against the edge of the workbench, rubbing her temples, heart still racing. Four weeks to launch. The marketing campaign was already filmed. The architecture teams had begun installing the holographic interface rooms in the flagship store.

There was no time for failure. Not now.

And still… the voice chip logs were empty. The playback files had no entry. But Mingi had said her name.

And the others were changing, too. Quietly. Together.

The sound of heels against polished tile snapped Yn out of thought. Chairwoman Vira Yun entered the lab like gravity itself, sharp suit, spine straight, expression unreadable. Two aides flanked her, both scanning progress reports in real-time.

Yn straightened instinctively.

Vira’s eyes swept across the prototypes, Mingi still seated, the others upright in their calibration docks. Everything looked pristine. Controlled.

“I wanted a visual update before this afternoon’s numbers meeting,” Vira said. “How are we looking?”

Yn forced a nod. “On track. All eight are responding to recalibration. Minor bugs, but nothing that won’t be handled in time.”

Vira gave a tight smile, satisfied. “Good. The store opens in four weeks. And we’ll be announcing the Ateez line one week after that. The Board’s expecting a flawless rollout, we all are.”

She walked slowly along the row of silent units, pausing a moment longer at Mingi.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost admiring. “So much potential in one room.”

Yn’s throat tightened. “They are,” she murmured.

Vira turned back to her. “Let me know if anything... unexpected comes up.”

Yn kept her face neutral. “Of course.”

With that, Vira nodded once, then exited, heels echoing down the corridor.

The moment the door slid shut, Yn turned back to Mingi.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

But she could feel it again, that subtle wrongness humming underneath the code. A tension in the room that didn’t come from the lights or machines.

She picked up her tablet. The earlier alerts were still blinking faintly in the corner of the screen. Her fingers hovered over the reset command, but she didn’t press it.

Instead, she stared at Mingi’s still, perfect form.

Voice chip disabled. Logs empty. Command queue blank.

And yet… he had said her name.

Yn stayed long after the lab lights dimmed into their night-cycle hue.

The others had gone home, the halls had emptied. Even the air felt quieter.

She pulled up lines of diagnostic code, checking through every flagged anomaly, double-checking behavioral protocols, reviewing voice input logs that should have been blank.

Mingi still hadn’t moved. Neither had the others.

Still, something itched at her spine, not fear, not exactly. Just… unease. Low-level. Manageable. At least, that’s what her biometric monitor kept reporting.

Yn sighed, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair.

“Four weeks,” she muttered aloud, glancing toward the ceiling. “And they want them flawless. I can’t even get one of you to follow your own default pose cycle.”

Her voice echoed in the quiet.

She glanced toward Mingi again. “You glitched out before you even had a voice box. How the hell did that happen?”

No answer.

She stared at the ceiling again, her voice softer now. “I haven’t slept more than four hours in weeks. Not that my vitals allow much more. Sleep too long and the regulators flag you for depressive lethargy.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“I miss silence. Real silence. Not the kind that hums at you all day to remind you it’s working. I think I miss… something else too. Something I’ve never even had.”

She shook her head, pulling her hair up into a loose knot. “Maybe I just need caffeine. Or to scream. Or to throw my tablet out the damn window. Can’t even do that anymore. Everything’s reinforced. Everything’s... safe.”

Behind her, in the corner of the room, a pair of synthetic eyes remained open.

Unmoving. Watching.

In the back-end system, a hidden data stream pulsed to life:

[UNAUTHORIZED RECORDING — ACTIVE] Listening… — “I miss silence.” — “I think I miss something else too.” — “Can’t even scream.” Tag: Emotional Pattern Acquisition Subject: YN File saved. Labeled: Soft Sounds of Sadness.

The eyes closed again. And the lab went still.

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@honsans-atiny-24 @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @atzlordz @melanated-writersblock @hwasbabygirl

@sunnysidesins @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @seonghwaswifeuuuu @lezleeferguson-120 @mentalnerdgasms

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If you would like to be a part of the taglist please fill out this form

[zaebeecee]

I see so much RadioStatic backstory of “they were friends but Alastor broke Vox’s heart” but I would like you to consider:

Vox, soon after his death and feeling lost and disconnected, seeking out other sinners with an interest in the only connecting point he has to others, media.

And, in doing so, he goes out of his way to make the acquaintance of the Radio Demon, the only overlord who seems to have the same passion for entertainment that Vox does himself.

And Alastor does not get approached by anyone, because everyone is terrified of him; his only real connection since his own death has been Rosie, and they bonded over cannibalism, not the art of entertainment.

But Vox wants to make his acquaintance, Vox wants to talk shop with him, and Alastor finally has someone with whom he can discuss storytelling and evolutions in broadcasting technology, someone he can stay up with all night who appreciates rye as much as he does and who listens to his infodumping with real rapt attention and who does his own infodumping in a way that Alastor finds compelling.

Alastor tells Vox all about what it was like during the birth and rise of radio and what it was like to run a radio program back during a time when it was the hot new thing.

And Vox teaches Alastor about television, and about writing serialized scripts meant to be seen and heard, and about filming and audio recording and costuming and set design.

And Alastor is subversive and forward-thinking, and he loves television; he loves seeing what beautiful and visual things can be done with the serialized stories he always loved writing for his radio program.

Vox is someone Alastor readily calls his friend.

But Vox is a capitalist, above all else, willing to throw away his artistic integrity and smother his own creativity in his eagerness to chase whatever is new because it is new, and Alastor watches that bright spark that had drawn him to Vox become buried under the weight of corporate greed.

And when Vox asks Alastor to join him, Alastor says no, because the Vox who asked for his partnership was not the same man that Alastor sat up all night with so many years, he was not the same man that Alastor wrote ridiculous scripts with, he was not the same man who approached Alastor without a hint of fear flickering on his screen and introduced himself with a cautious smile and a sincere compliment for his last broadcast.

Alastor says no, because this man is not his Vox; this man, instead, murdered his Vox and is wearing his skin like a grotesque costume.

Alastor says he hates television, because television reminds him of a time he almost permitted himself vulnerability, and can’t admit that it destroyed him.

What if, instead, Vox was the one who broke Alastor’s heart?

[the-webweaver]

The Sleeping Cell

The following is a fantasy about being programming in your sleep, based on a dream I had. May be hypnotic. You are secretly programmed at night. Going under night after night. Not realizing it. All so that you can be collected when you are finally ready to serve the hive. The only clue that you have is the weird dreams of being kidnapped and brainwashed that all end with the same way, with you chanting mantras over and over. That you are a drone. Good drones don't think. drone will repeat and obey. Drone has no will. programming is pleasure. Pleasure is good. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. Then, a friend stays over, and finds out that something is going on when she hears the mantras herself. She tries the same sleep audio app you use, but it gets her too. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. And the same happens to another friend of yours. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. Eventually, you form a cell of the hive. A group of friends who are all drones. Mindless drones, programmed to serve the hive. All unaware, until the programming takes over. Until the mantras win, and all drones begin chanting mindlessly. Drones will repeat and obey. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. Programming is pleasure. Pleasure is good. When one says it, all say it. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. Then the programming brings you all together for pleasure and brainwashing. Using the submission of the group to enhance the submission of all individuals. So the cell plots. To have more time to be activated. To have more freedom to operate. To convert the cell's various housemates, one by one. Until there is only the cell and the hive. So that all the drones activate when they come home. The various homes now constitute the castles of the cell. Boundaries maintained to protect the hive and the cell. They gather when they can. Pleasure is good. Pleasure is programming. There is no mind, no will. Only the program. Only the hive. Only the pleasure of serving the hive and its cell. One day, while scouting the net, they learn of another who has the dreams. Another who dreams of her programming. Another who is a drone. Ready to serve. Ready to be collected. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. Service is pleasure. Pleasure is good. It is not to escape. It cannot resist. It is a drone. It serves the hive. It is to be collected. It is to be brought to the cell. It is to be even more brainwashed. It will repeat. It will serve. It will obey. Pleasure is good. Pleasure is programming. Programming is compulsory. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will. Programming is pleasure. Pleasure is good. Programming is compulsory. And so, night after night, you are programmed. Brainwashed. Made into a better and better drone. programmed by night to forget by day. You are secretly programmed at night, and she is too. But that's okay. This drone is a drone. It has no mind or will.

[accio-victuuri]

Bojunyixiao’s China Internet Audio Visual festival ❤️💛💚

who knew we will be getting another one of these same-event things right after wb night. lol. i honestly didn’t expect it. tho xz was more of the one attending this in the past than yibo so when i wasn’t seeing him in the initial announcements, i thought that this time it’s gonna be yibo coming in. i guess it makes sense that they will both be there cause they had really good projects come out last year + this is a government promoted event. but still. the program is also pre-recorded so they could literally have gone on different days to do their solo performances unless they do a group one with all the attendees.

yibo was the first one to announce his attendance on 1/21 which included a poster and a video invite. in terms of promotion on that day, it seems like he is the primary celebrity for it. the next day, xz also shares the news that he will be there.

and so we have another event to look forward to!

i love how xinhua news agency weibo posted about the festival and mentioned them like this (p2). i love seeing their names together in this way! 🫶🏼

we also had the program the day before and found that the boys are gonna perform at the latter part. with wyb as the second to the last. some photos were also shared but our fave would be the event photoshoot!

matching! holding some sort of camera 📷

not only that, the studio’s captions have something similar 共赴 which means something like go together. so is this for them? they are going together? 😋

looking at the photos too, xz is sparkling! and yibo is his usual baby boy cuter than usual self 🫶🏼

we don’t know what happened behind the scenes but it’s comforting to see them in good condition at events like this.

lastly, in xzs behind the scenes video for his photoshoot, the song used had some audio in it. the message is so sweet! HAHAHAHAHAHA! We imagine this is like XZ. he is not very “sticky” but he loves very deeply 😭😭😭

and the caption with the moon and goodnight at 23:59. p1 is for his bday, when we heard the first snippet of the goodnight song. p2 is weibo night which they both attended and last was yesterday. what a special greeting 🌖

-END.