#without having to consider the alternative of

[artaline]

i think there are a few points op is making

skill acquisition generally requires being willing to be bad at something to eventually be good at something

people who rely on gen ai tend to not want to experience being bad at something

re: point 1 - in my experience with arts/crafts/learning languages/working in academia seems to be quite true. people (including myself) do not enjoy feeling stupid and incapable, but the only alternative is to just give up

re: point 2 - fuzzy subjective, but op in particular seems to be referring to "generative art" applications, and how that ties in to skill acquisition in the corresponding art field.

i don't particularly vibe with the last paragraph on "right to avoid all that" because, well, tbf, people do have a right to avoid all that by giving up/choosing other pursuits

I think there is also some layering of how skill in a particular field e.g. art can bring associated "social clout", and how people may want clout without putting in the effort, but tbf that has been true even without gen ai/llms, and it is why plagiarism is generally considered a problem

re: coding cli/classifying objects myconetted talks about is clearly not about skill acquisition - it is just a boring routine task, and one which ML/automation is good at.

re: seebs - i get your point of incidental/inherent discomfort. i do think that it would be great if people could acquire skills without feeling like shit in the process.

as someone who picked up coding as a kid and found it to be fun and rewarding and generally experienced rather low level of frustration with this stuff - i do think it would be great if it was like that for most people

same time, i am now learning to drive and wow does it feel bad to feel like you're making trivial mistakes over and over again. yes, it would be good if i could skip all that and outsource the driving to ai and focus on something else instead. but i do also know of the state of the art in that area, and i do not trust it to do that for me, so the point is kind of moot. therefore i gotta sit with the discomfort of being bad at the thing, because while giving up is an option, i would prefer not to

One thing I’ve noticed about AI users is that they are completely repulsed by the notion of feeling bad or frustrated for even the slightest moment

[firingstars]

siren’s song [one-shot]

avengers!bucky x avengers!reader

summary: bucky hears music through the vents of his room every single night, but the team refuses to tell him for his own protection. after all, they know the music is coming from you- a secret member of the team, who happens to be able to control minds.

warnings: 18+, mdni, no use of y/n, language, alternating pov’s, the avengers don’t like you/are scared of you, bucky is your biggest and loudest defender, steve is a meanie but he’s bucky’s biggest and loudest defender,, reader is a lil insecure and depressed but eh she’s a tortured™️ artist so what did we expect, reader knows sign language and is expressed in bold text throughout the fic

word count: 10.9k

a/n: apologies in advance for any inaccurate to semi-accurate music descriptions T_T i am a washed singer/musician that hasn’t done music since i switched over to the healthcare industry </3

masterlist

Everyone treats him as if he is something breakable. Fragile. That one wrong move, one wrong word– one wrong breath is enough to shatter him. 

In all honesty, Bucky can’t blame them completely. It took him a long time to get to where he is right now, and he still has to lie to himself to say that he’s doing okay. He still hopes that the lie will somehow manifest itself into truth if he tries hard enough.

Either way, it’s pissing him off.

The team acts as if they can’t hear the music that comes through the vents during random points of the day. Sometimes, it’s piano. Bucky can’t tell the difference between a violin or a viola, but he hears one of the two as well. There’s a low thrum of a cello every once in a while. He hears an acoustic guitar in the early mornings when the sun is barely breaking through the horizons.

Sometimes the melodies strike through his skin and grip his bones, never letting him go. Other times he’s soothed to sleep as if a gentle hand is caressing his head, lulling him to bed with each pluck of the string. He can’t deny that he’s enraptured by wherever this music is coming from.

At first, he thought Tony had F.R.I.D.A.Y playing music through the halls. He asked Tony about it– wondered why the music was played at such odd times without any rhyme or reason. Tony denied having any mood music and joked about him going crazy in the head. Bucky walked out of the lab without giving him another response. 

Then, Bucky realized it was strongest in his own room, and got softer as he walked towards the common areas. He realized that the music was connected directly towards his vent. His next realization was that there was a person that had to be playing each one of those instruments. 

Bucky dragged Steve into his room to show him the music next time it happened, demanding to know what was going on– to know where the music was filtering through from.

“What music, Buck?” Steve asked him, a polite look on his face. Bucky never wanted to punch him more– more than that day on those fucking hellicarriers when Steve was just a mission to him.

“Are you serious?” Bucky replied, eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling. “You don’t– you don’t hear that? The fucking– That’s Liebestraum No.3.”

Steve stared at Bucky, blinking at him like they didn’t speak the same language. Bucky let out a deep breath, frustration coursing through his veins as he did his best to not shout at the man that he considered his oldest, bestest friend.

“You don’t know who Franz Liszt is?” Bucky asked, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He was trying to practice the art of patience, but he was failing horribly with every passing second.

“How do you know who Franz Liszt is?” Steve retorted, almost looking worried.

“I had to do musical therapy as one of my– never mind. You seriously can’t hear the piano?” Bucky quickly said. 

“Buck… Have you been sleeping well? Should we move your room somewhere else? Stark did mention that you asked him about music the other day, too.”

Bucky hated that tone of voice. Condescending. Borderline patronizing. As if Steve was talking to a child. Like he was fragile.

“Steve, no!” Bucky exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “You know what– fuck. Never mind. Forget I mentioned anything.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. They lock eyes, Bucky frowning at him.

“What, Steve?” he grunted.

“Trust me– you’re better off not knowing.”

The music stopped coming through the vents for some time after Steve lied blatantly to Bucky’s face– Bucky knew they were all lying to him. 

It was the same way they lied to him about the extra set of plates and cups that he noticed in the cupboards of the kitchen that no one claimed– but showed obvious wear of use. When Bucky asked who used those, they all just shrugged at him and changed the topic.

Bucky noticed mangoes in the fridge once. No one on the team ate mangoes, but there was always a fresh stock of mangoes that got brought in with each produce delivery. He noticed that the supply in the fridge dwindled down every few days until there was nothing left. He saw the peels in the trash. Nobody on the team smelled of mangoes.

When it was Wanda’s turn to cook, she would put a serving of food to the side before calling for everyone else to eat. No one would touch it. Bucky noticed that it would be eaten and gone the next day. He asked Sam one time who ate it, and got brushed off like he was insane for asking the question.

They were doing the same shit they were doing when they first brought him onto the team and he hated it. 

Bucky knew that they were doing it to protect him. That this was supposed to be for him, and they only meant well, but fuck– he was getting tired of it. He would’ve thought that they trusted him by now. If anything, they were doing more damage to him than good by handling him with gloves. He didn’t even know what they were protecting him from. Someone else? Another person? He couldn’t voice this to any of them, not when he was already struggling to express himself. 

Soon enough, the music returned through the vents again. Softer this time. As if whoever was playing was afraid to take up space.

Bucky laid in bed, eyes falling shut as he let out a breath. The notes blanketed over him like a warm hug, wrapping around him and soothing his aches and pains. 

He was grateful that the lullabies were back. 

Bucky could return to his dreamless sleeps.

“Nice work today,” Fury complimented as you washed your hands. 

You watched as the sink turned from crimson to pink to clear. You used the brush from the sterile packet to scrub under your nails, removing any traces of dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids that you could have picked up from your interrogation. You shake your hands off in the sink, glancing through the mirror to look behind you. Fury's standing there, with a towel in hand for you.

“Thanks,” you muttered quietly in return, shutting the faucet off before turning around to take the cloth. He pulls it away from you for a second, and your eyes go to his face.

“That would have gone a lot faster if you had just used your ability on him first,” he told you, then lowered the towel into your wet hands. “Wouldn’t have to resort to all the mess.”

“It's a mess either way, Nick,” you replied with a sigh, drying your hands off. You throw the towel into the hamper of the locker room when you’re done.

“Have you made any progress with the team?” he asked, hands clasping behind his back as you followed him out into the hall.

“You’re funny,” you said, scoffing. 

“I would like to deploy you on missions with them, you know,” he clicked his tongue on you.

“And yet, when you have me do interrogations, you have me in a soundproof room and have all other agents clear the floor,” you pointed out, shaking your head. “You also have me several feet underground. Don’t even get me started on the fact that my comms channels are cleared on my field missions.”

“It’s a safety precaution, agent.”

“You’re scared, Nick. That’s okay. They are, too,” you said, your voice soft. “I don’t blame you or them. I wouldn't trust me either."

Fury stopped walking, leaving you a few more steps ahead of him. You let out a deep sigh as you stop in your place, turning around to look at him. You’re so tired. You want nothing more than to return back to the main compound. You want to shower off the interrogation, cry, and maybe listen to Erik Satie to pretend like you’re not a weapon.

“You don’t make it easy for us to not be scared of you,” Fury said, looking you in the eyes. 

“I’m just thankful that you talk to me,” you said, giving him a small smile. 

Fury lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “You said that you have control over it. You have given me no reason to not trust that you won’t mess with my head the same way that you do with our enemies. Does it scare the hell out of me when I see what you can do? Sure it does. And I thank my lucky stars that I recruited you for our side. Trust is a two way street, agent. You need to start building your side of the bridge, too.”

He started walking once more, leaving you in the hall by yourself. You watched as his figure turned the hall, listened to his footsteps retreat and disappear into the air before you decided to do the same.

You took the same route that you always do– the same back hallway and stairs that you knew the other members of the team didn’t take. 

It makes you laugh when you address them like that in your head. The team. As if you’re part of them. You were introduced to them a long time ago. Said maybe one, two– three full sentences to them before you saw the full distrust and distress on the faces of the original six members.

You really looked up to them. You heard stories of them during your time in captivity as a weapon. You daydreamed of them saving you from your lab, bringing you in, making you one of them. You thought about doing good for the world and rectifying the wrongs that you were forced to do under the hands of the captors that held you by the throat. 

It wasn’t them that saved you. There was no fanfare. There was nothing special about the way you were saved.

Your lab was hijacked by a smaller, less elite group of agents. Fury was the one that came to you. Read your file, saw that you were enhanced, and asked if you would like to be part of something better.

That ‘something better’ stared at you with disgust. 

It shattered your world.

You kept to yourself after that. They didn’t mistreat you by any means. Tony gave you your own floor in the compound once you all moved from the tower, and they left you alone. They ordered you mangoes and whatever else you asked for as long as you put the order in with F.R.I.D.A.Y..  

You couldn’t blame them.

This was a team of people that held secrets. People that had been pulled apart from years of pain, mistrust, and horrors that you hadn’t been around to experience yourself. It was only natural that they wouldn’t trust you once they found out what you could do. 

So, you worked alone. Your skillset was better for interrogations, and for solo missions. You were off field most of the time, but Fury still sent you out every once in a while. If there were some more time sensitive matters that needed to be fulfilled that were overlapping with the main team’s missions that couldn’t be handled by regular agents, he would deploy you.

If nothing else, Fury trusted you to do the job. 

You shut the water to the shower off, running a hand down your face as you shook the thoughts away. Fury’s words got to you today. You normally didn’t think about this anymore. It had been too long. New members of the Avengers had joined. Nothing has changed. Well– Wanda gives you food when she cooks.

You once asked her why.

She told you- “Even monsters need to eat.”

It was the only time you spoke to her. 

You pad through the open concept of your floor. You press a key of your piano, listening to the note bounce off the walls as you continue to walk. Your guitar is resting on the carpet beneath your unmade bed. Your cello and violin are neatly put to the side against the wall on their stands– and you vaguely think about the fact you need to clean your brass instruments soon. Your drum set remains neglected– you once received a noise complaint through F.R.I.D.A.Y and haven’t found the courage to pick up the sticks since. 

You go towards the mini fridge, pulling it open, and pause.

“Shit,” you muttered, pulling in a lip between your teeth. It was empty.

It slipped your mind to have F.R.I.D.A.Y. bring a new delivery of snacks directly to your floor. You know you don’t have anything in the cupboards either. You’re a few days off from the end of the month. You check the time.

It’s barely one in the morning.

With the location of the compound, you won’t get any luck by going into the city to get food and come back. You have another interrogation scheduled first thing in the morning. You have training sessions with a few agents that aren’t aware of your abilities all afternoon, and then another interrogation in the evening if the Avengers complete their early morning mission and bring back their target as per scheduled. If you leave the compound right now, you won’t get enough time to sleep and be okay enough for the amount of shit you’ll have to deal with tomorrow. 

Plus, your hands are itching to touch some strings tonight or you might go crazy.

You could forgo the meal. You really could.

The thought is immediately thrown out the window by a sharp pain in your stomach followed by a deep grumbling that you’re sure could wake up everyone in the compound.

You groan to yourself, reaching for a hoodie. You’ll have to head towards the common floors. 

As you board the elevator, you really hope all of the team members are sleeping. You’re not in the mood to run into any of them today. Usually, you only come up here when you know that they’re on a mission or away from the compound celebrating or just out having a good time together– without you. They should be sleeping. 

And yet– there he was. 

The main person that you were warned to steer clear of.

Stormy eyes landed on you– you, who stood there with damp hair, a zip up hoodie and a tank top with cotton shorts and slippers. Shit.

You watched as the man bristled. He held a half eaten plum in his vibranium hand, all muscles tensed under the black shirt that he wore. The dog tags around his neck glistened under the kitchen lights as his body turned, his back straightening as he moved to square his shoulders to size you up. He was taller than you thought, but you had only seen him from afar. He had also cut his hair short– it was nice. His beard was also reduced to stubble now. You wondered if he did it himself or had someone else do it for him.

You swallowed, and took a few steps. 

This was your place of work, too. You lived here, too. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, his voice almost in a low growl. 

You didn’t dare answer him. You were almost afraid to. Not that you would use your power on him by accident– but that Steve or someone else would throw you out of the one place that you could call home, even if this place made you feel like you were walking on glass.

You opened the fridge like you did a hundred times before, eyes scanning the shelves until your eyes landed on the fruit. There were two left. 

You could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head. One wrong move, and you were certain that he would act on command. This was his home, too. For all he knew, you were a stranger. And from what you knew– he knew nothing of you.

You were slow in your movements as you went for the cutting board and the drawer, grabbing a dull knife to cut open the mangoes. You saw him flinch out of the corner of your eye when you brandished the knife, and slowed your movements down even more. You really weren’t trying to die tonight. 

You just wanted some fucking mangoes. 

Once you were finished, you reached into the cupboards to grab your bowl and placed your fruit inside, dropping your used utensils into the sink. You turned around, locking eyes with the soldier. His breath hitched as you did, and you stared at him for a few moments. 

“I asked you a question,” he whispered. 

He sounded scared.

You held your breath for a few moments before releasing it. Then, you gave him a sad smile. You shook your head at him. No. He was better off not knowing. 

You tried to ignore the look on Bucky’s face before you turned away. 

You were warned. Steve warned you twice.

Before Bucky was brought to the compound, Steve visited your floor. Told you to never show yourself before Bucky. Said that he didn’t need you to mess with his head– that Bucky had already gone through hell enough and didn’t need it to happen again.

He came again, a couple weeks back. He told you that your music was loud. And it broke your heart. He told you to quiet down– that Bucky was asking questions. You felt as if your voice had been ripped from you all over again. You felt like you had been back in that lab.

That night, you played Prelude in E minor until your fingers cramped, and your tear ducts dried up.

Bucky had gone through several wars. His body had been modified without his consent over and over again. He was frozen, defrosted, then frozen again countless times. Lies had been shoved down his throat that he was forced to digest. He watched as his body and mind was broken and beaten, and he used to hold no regard for the state that he found himself in because he was trained not to care. 

Bucky cared now. He cared a lot. 

And he was losing his fucking mind. 

“Where do the targets go after we bring them back?” Bucky asked, removing his vest. He was dropping it off at Tony’s lab for inspection— something about Stark wanting to make some upgrades to everyone’s uniforms. 

“They go to interrogation,” Steve responded, putting his shield down on an empty table. 

“Who interrogates them?” Bucky pressed. 

“Fury, I guess,” Sam shrugged, but didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. He frowned.

“Since when the hell does Fury get his own hands dirty when he has an entire army of agents at his disposal?” he demanded.

“Exactly. Fury just delegates the task to someone, Buck,” Sam sighed, taking redwing off his back to inspect the damn thing. “What’s it matter to you anyway? We just handle the mission— do you want to do extra work or something?”

No. It was simply driving him crazy to be left in the dark.

Bucky didn’t respond, not when he knew that all answers would just lead him back into a circle. He left the lab, aware of how his teammates' shoulders sagged in relief at his departure. It was subtle, but he noticed. He always did. 

All of them were hiding something from him. None of them would say a single word. They were great at skirting the issue, deflecting, or simply just changing the topic. 

There was one person he hadn’t tried though. One more person that he was certain wouldn’t give him any bullshit, but would definitely never let him live it down. He knew that she would definitely tell the others if word got out, too.

He sucked in a breath and changed courses for the armory. She always spent time down there after a mission to look over her guns, make sure nothing was damaged or jammed. Bucky stood at the threshold of the door for a long time, staring at her back. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

Thankfully, she broke the uncomfortable silence first.

“I deleted the footage from this morning,” Natasha said, putting the safety back on her gun. 

“The footage?” Bucky echoed.

“Of you seeing our siren come out of her little cove to get her mangoes,” she clarified.

His eyes narrowed. Siren? Cove? 

“Explain.”

Natasha let out a breath. She put away the last of her gadgets and weapons in the case, locking them safely away before turning around. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Are you going to lie to my face like everyone else in this damn building?” he shot back.

“It’s for your own good, Barnes,” she sighed.

“Isn’t up to me to decide that?”

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours before she finally shook her head, relenting. She gestured towards the bench, moving to take a seat. Bucky sat down as well. Natasha said a name he’d never heard before– your name.

“We all collectively decided that we would keep her away from you,” she said, looking down at her hands. “Her abilities… let’s just say she wouldn’t need any fancy H.Y.D.R.A. machines to put your brain through a blender, Barnes.”

His spine straightened as his pulse quickened. He let out a slow breath, eyebrows furrowing.

“She’s enhanced– you called her a siren,” he said, the pieces coming together in his head.

“Whatever words come from her mouth– you can’t help but listen,” Natasha nodded slowly. “If she tells you to run, you run until your body gives out. If she tells you to scream, you’ll scream until your vocal chords are fried. If she tells your brain to explode in your head… well. She’ll be the last thing you ever see again.”

Bucky’s heart was pounding in his chest. 

“Does she– she has control over it, right?” he managed to force out. 

“Fury says that she does,” Natasha breathed out slowly. “Do I trust it? No. None of us do. She’s… part of the team, which is why she has clearance to the common areas. Fury wants her to be able to be deployed on missions with us, but none of us are comfortable with the idea of her using the ability with us on the field. She does solo work and interrogations, but otherwise I’m not really sure what she does here. I know Stark gave her an entire floor to herself. I think she blasts really fucking loud music. I think your vents are connected.”

Loud wasn’t the right word for it. Calming was a better word. 

Even when the music you played was sad or melancholic, he felt peace that he hadn’t been able to know in so long. Even if you were doing a simple scale to warm up your cold fingertips, you were able to pull him out of the depths of his own mind. You brought him ease that he had forgotten he knew how to feel.

“Where’s her floor?” 

You didn’t hear the elevator doors open, not with your headphones secured over your head. You had a day off today, and you decided to take yourself down to the city to pick out your first electric guitar. You spent a lot of time with the clerk at the shop, going back and forth between different brands of guitar, amps, and other things. 

You even learned how to be able to connect the electric guitar to headphones so you wouldn’t get another noise complaint from your resident fossil, Captain America. 

You sat on the floor, back against your bed, guitar on your lap with your laptop in front of you. You had your notebook beside it, ready to jot down anything that you felt was worthy of remembering for a later time.

Your fingers danced away at the strings, a smile fitting along your face as you closed your eyes. You were chasing the ghost of your past– the sound of your father’s amp crackling to life in the garage on a Saturday morning to wake you up. You, racing down the steps of the stairs as each note reverberated through your skeleton, screaming for you as you got closer and closer, distorting your reality as you–

You felt a weight in the room, breaking your immersion. You ripped the headphones off your skull, turning quickly, one hand reaching under your bed to where you knew you had a weapon.

Bucky’s hands went up in immediate surrender.

“I just want to talk,” he said, swallowing thickly.

Your breaths were still erratic, your eyebrows furrowed. Talk? What the hell would this man want to talk to you about? 

He was truthful though. Nothing about his body language screamed that he was on guard. His eyes were on you– more on the fact that your hand was still under your bed. You forced your breathing to even out and slowly dragged your hand back to where he could see it, and watched as his hands lowered back to his sides as well.

You watched as his eyes went from you to your room. His eyes rested on your bed– the sheets still not tucked in properly because you never cared to fix them after waking up. The carpet under your bed so your feet didn’t have to touch the cold tile of the floor first thing in the morning.

Across from your bed were two couches facing each other with throw blankets strewn about, with a coffee table in the middle, and a TV mounted on the wall. On the table were music sheets that you had forgotten to organize and put away. 

Right beside your 'living room' was your music area. You had several different instruments here, along with a full set up of production material for you to even record if you wanted to– because you did, sometimes. Only if you were in the mood for it. Not that you released anything. You were just bored by yourself, and you had the ability to do it.

And Bucky was standing in the middle of your makeshift dining-room-slash-kitchen. It was just a round table with a small fridge, half counter with a partial induction stove, and half sink area. You had a microwave to use, and some cupboards that you filled with snacks, plates, and utensils.

Suddenly, you felt self conscious over the fact of how lived in everything looked. You never had your area so closely examined the way he was looking at everything. Then again, you weren’t expecting any guests.

“Do you talk?” he suddenly asked.

You blinked. Your lips parted– and closed. You nodded in response after a few moments. Bucky’s eyes narrowed at you.

“Will you talk to me?” he asked, changing his question.

You shook your head immediately. Bucky let out a sigh, placing his hands on his hips. You could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out what else to say to you.

“Is it because of your ability?”

You didn’t hide the shock on your face. You don’t know who’s more stupid– the person who told him, or him himself. Why would he come here if he knew what you are? What you could do to him?

Either way, you nodded to him.

“This is gonna get really annoying very fast– Can you do sign language?” he asked, surprising you again. He must've read the surprise on your face and quickly added, “I can read sign language.”

“How do you know sign language?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“I'm 110 years old. A spy. Assassin. I think I need to know a lot of things,” he dismissed. “Are you the one that plays that music every night?”

“I am,” you replied. 

“You always play like you have something to say.”

“I believe music transcends all forms of language. We don’t need to be from the same country to be able to understand each other,” you quickly signed at him.

Bucky stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Almost as if he’s trying to process your words. You frowned, letting out a deep sigh.

“Are you here to tell me that it’s too loud? I’ll stop if it is. I’m sorry.”

“What? No! I’m just asking,” he spoke so fast it surprised you. The next words that came out were so soft that it almost didn’t reach your ears. “I– It helps me sleep. Don’t stop. I find comfort in your songs.”

Bucky wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained on the floor, staring at the plush of your carpet. Your lips were parted, but your heart was beating fast. You almost felt like crying. You wanted to cry. 

A shuddering breath fell from his lips, disrupting the air in the room.

“I’ll sit here quietly. Can you play something?” he whispered, lifting his eyes to look at you again. “Anything. I don’t care what.”

Slowly, you rose from your place on the ground, pushing the guitar off your lap. You pulled a chair from the dining table for Bucky to sit at as you went for your piano, opening the cover. You could hear him take a seat, feel his eyes on you as you straighten your back. Your fingers ghosted over the ivory keys for just a moment as you contemplated what piece to play for him, your mind shuffling through everything you learned as a child– none of them fit this moment.

You played Bucky original pieces from that point forward. Whatever came to mind, you played for him.

You lost count of the amount of times that Bucky came down to your floor. Sometimes he would bring you your mangoes, along with some of his plums. Sometimes there would be new fruits for you to try before you would go and start your performance for him.

“Have you ever tried calamansi?” he asked one day as he walked through the door. You had barely had a chance to look up from your music score. You were sitting on the floor, pen in hand, crouched over the coffee table. 

"A what?" you asked, eyes narrowing at him.

“Calamansi,” he repeated, putting down the orangey-yellow drink down in front of you on the coffee table, but not before putting a coaster under the glass. “It’s a fruit from the Philippines- we had a mission there, and I just got back. This is good. Drink it.”

You looked up at him as he took a seat on your couch. He crossed an ankle over his knee, a hand draping over the back of the cushion as he took a sip of his own calamansi drink, eyes still on you. Expectant. Waiting. 

You reached for the drink yourself, a bit weary.

He must’ve sensed your hesitation, or at least seen it. 

Bucky took the glass in your hand, swapping it with the one that he had already drank from. He drank that one, as well. You let out a small breath, giving him a smile. He returned it– he had no judgement on his face.

His smile only widened as surprise took your features with the first sip of the juice.

“See?” he said, pointing at the glass. “It’s good, right?

You could only nod in agreement before you both continued to finish off your drinks.

Bucky would often come at random points of the day. It was never at any set time. There had been times where he was already in your room, waiting for you to come back from an interrogation or a mission. Other times when you had been off from the day, and you had run into him in your backway hall, already heading down to your door. He would give you a nod at these times, and walk with you the rest of the way.

You had even grown used to waking up and finding him sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone or looking through files while waiting for you to wake up– sometimes you didn’t even play for him on these mornings. 

“Did you even sleep last night?” you asked him, exiting the bathroom after washing up.

“Late, but I slept well after listening to you play. It wasn’t classical last night. Guitar, right?” 

“I heard it on the radio the other day,” you sign with a shrug. 

“I liked it. Can you add it to the playlist?” he asked, handing you his phone.

Another private, personal moment shared between you two. You don’t remember who started it. You two had several playlists shared.

You taught him how to make playlists. He sent you a playlist of songs that he liked, and you listened to each song religiously. You made him a playlist of music that you listened to and would continue to add songs that you played for him. There was a third playlist that you both would add songs to whenever you both felt like it. 

“Any plans today?” you asked after handing his phone back to him.

“I’m hiding here, if that’s okay with you. Steve wants to run to the city and back. I don’t want to. He managed to get Sam to agree, but I think that’s fucking crazy,” he muttered.

You don’t hide the smile on your face as you nod at him, going through your cupboards to pull out instant oatmeal for the two of you to eat. He gratefully accepts, and you two start your morning off slow. He talks at you, and he will patiently wait for you to put down your spoon so you can sign at him. 

You notice the way he pays attention to both your face and your hands to make sure he captures the entirety of the emotion behind the words you’re trying to convey to him.

You notice that he does the same exact thing when you play your music.

You could feel his eyes on your face when you’re playing, and you know it’s not just his ears that are listening to you. You can feel his heart opening with each note that you hit with your fingers, with each string that is strung. You can see the weight of the world being lifted off his shoulders in a way that you never thought was possible. 

At some point, he abandoned the chair at the dining table and would sit beside you at the piano bench, his body keeping you warm. You didn’t mind it. In fact– you were the one that closed the distance, no longer satisfied with only your knees brushing against each other’s. Your thighs were fully pressed together now, and he could feel your muscles move as you pressed the pedal of the piano when you needed to.

“Your fingers don’t get tired after playing for so long?” Bucky asked you one night, his voice soft, afraid he would talk over the notes.

You smiled, glancing over to him. You met his eyes, shaking your head.

“You don’t even need to look at the keys to play either?” he asked, just as astounded. He sounded a bit breathless, in awe of you. 

You let out a small laugh. This time, you shook your head in disbelief. You thought he was cute, but you couldn’t say that even if you wanted to tell him. 

The piano’s final note faded on your fingertips, light and airy– you don’t remember the last time you played something in a more sorrow sounding tone. Though, Bucky does seem to enjoy your minor chorded music. He once told you that it evoked something deeper inside of him.

“What was that one called?” he asked you as you pulled on the piano cover.

“Another random piece from my mind,” you signed to him. 

“Were you a prodigy before all this happened to you?”

You paused, your hands freezing. Bucky caught it, his eyes widening. His hands quickly clasped over yours, warming yours up– comforting you.

“You don’t have to answer that. I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, awkward. “I fuckin’- shit. I was just talking without thinking. It was the music still in my head, doll.”

Your lips parted for a brief moment. You could see the panic in his eyes– the true regret he felt. He was scared you would pull away from him, maybe shut him out after all the time you had spent together. 

You swallowed, giving him a smile as you gently took your hands from his. 

“I was accepted by Julliard as an opera singer,” you signed. “My mother was a pianist. My father was a cellist. Music ran in my family. My brother was a scientist. He was the only one that didn’t do music… and he got involved with some bad people. People that–” 

Your hands clenched into fists mid-air. You sucked in a trembling breath, looking everywhere but him. 

And Bucky waited. Patiently. Like he always did. His attention never diverted from you. 

You knew he knew. You were still scared. You knew what was done to his mind, but saying it to his face… You were afraid he would run from you.

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself. You know you're about to sign like a madwoman, maybe too fast for him to even understand you. That's okay. You just need to get it all out, even if it's sloppy or messy. It's how you feel, and you hope it's enough for him to understand.

“They took my voice from me and weaponized it. It took me years to learn how to talk without hurting someone. I could hurt you, Bucky. I could do worse things to you than H.Y.D.R.A. ever did. I don’t know why you keep coming to see me. I’m not saying that I would ever do anything to hurt you. That is the last thing that I would ever do! I really like you, Bucky. I wouldn’t play all these songs for you if I didn’t like you so much, but you need to know that I am the last person on Earth that you should be spending all this time with when I am the one that could hurt you the most–”

Your hands are being forced down, and you feel the cool touch of his vibranium hand cradling your face with so much care you could almost cry. You didn’t have the time to– not when the soft, plush of his lips were against yours. Not when his fingers were intertwining with yours, squeezing your hand as if he were trying to tell you that it was okay. That he understood you. 

Your body reacted to him, allowing him to lead you in a dance to music that only the two of you could hear. Your heart was beating in time with his, feeling the trembling of his fingers against your face as if he was afraid of breaking you. This felt less of a kiss and more like a confession. You kissed him back all the same, feeling the fear that he felt too.

When your lips finally parted from each other, your eyes opened, and the song ended, you watched each other for a few moments.

“I don’t think you could do anything to ever hurt me, sweetheart,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours. 

You tried to pull your hand away from his, to reply, but he didn’t let you. He held on firmer, but not hard enough to hurt. Your eyes widened as your lips parted. You were helpless.

Bucky pulled his forehead away from you, to be able to look at your face completely. His eyes scanned your face, every single part of you was bare under his eyes. He was waiting, and your heart was pounding. He wanted you to speak to him. 

You pulled your bottom lip into your teeth for a moment as you steeled your resolve.

“I don’t trust myself to not hurt you,” you whispered, meeting his eyes. 

You watched as his face shifted– pure adoration. You felt warm under his gaze, unable to tear yourself away from his watchful eyes. The look on his face is unguarded. Soft. Reverent and absolutely beautiful. You didn’t know it was possible for him to look at you like this– for anyone to look at you like this. You were glad it was Bucky. You never want Bucky to ever lay his eyes on anyone else the way he’s looking at you at this moment.

Your heart only seemed to clamber even louder in your chest, ringing even louder in your ears. You don’t even remember hearing applause this loud at your most successful concert.

Bucky collects your face in both hands, and his lips peppered all over your skin. Your eyes, your cheeks, your nose. The stubble of his beard brushed against your skin, and you could only let out a soft laugh, hooking your hands around his wrists as he continued to kiss your face all over before he finally stopped at your lips.

“You sound like heaven, doll,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I was made to sound this way,” you murmured back. 

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. He pressed another kiss to your lips before wrapping his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. 

“I trust you.”

The words are etched into your bones, digging into your soul and burying themselves into the depths of your heart as tears begin to spring to your eyes. Bucky holds you tighter, swaying side to side slowly as his hands rub your back gently, soothing you.

You melt into his chest, into the comfort he gives you, ear pressed above his beating heart. This is your favorite song, you think. Right next to the sound of his laughter.

Music is played between kisses now. 

Your hands will be resting above his hands on the ivory keys, slowly guiding his to glide over the notes, only to hit the wrong ones as he turns to distract you with his lips.

Other times, you'll be sitting in bed together. His back will rest against the headboard, your back against his chest. Bucky's head will lean against yours as you strum along to your guitar, filling the space around you with romance, when his hand will come up and cup your face to demand your attention, guiding you to turn to him for a kiss.

Sometimes, your songs are completely disrupted with Bucky pulling you away from your instrument. He’ll replace your live talent with a song playing from the phone in his back pocket as he pulls you into his arms, taking one hand in his, while his other hand goes around your back. 

“Dance with me, doll?” he grinned at you. 

“Are you trying to relive your glory days, Sergeant?” you teased, hand hooking around his shoulder to press your body closer to his.

“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Music’s playing, there’s a pretty dame in front of me– it would be criminal not to dance right now.”

You could only laugh as he spins you around before returning you back into the security of his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. You only pretend to give him a hard time, and he knows it. You love these soft moments of intimacy, where he reaches for you first. 

“You would think after a month or two of dancing with me, you’d be less stiff, sweetheart,” he hummed in your ear.

“I’m sorry, not everyone was born in a time period where dance halls were the main source of entertainment,” you scoffed in response. 

Bucky laughed, squeezing you tighter to him. “I had a seventy year break. You have no excuses.”

“Fuckin’ old man,” you grumbled, only to let out a shriek as he pinched your side in retaliation.

“You should respect your elders,” he clicked his tongue at you.

“I’m going to put you in a nursing home,” you threatened, but there’s no real heat to your voice, obviously. 

He rolled his eyes in response. “I’ll be what? Almost 200 by the time that comes around? We’ll be in the nursing home together, baby.”

“You think we’ll still be together by then? Alive?” you asked. 

“As long as I have a say in it, yes,” he nodded. 

“You sound so sure,” you frowned at him. 

“And you’re pessimistic. That’s my thing. Get a new hobby.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. You can’t hide the smile on your face. “I bet you liked it better when I didn’t talk.”

“No,” he quickly denied, taking your face in his hands. The swaying stops, and you’re forced to look at him. “Keep talking. I like hearing your voice, even if you say stupid shit.”

“Me being scared for the future is stupid shit?” you raise an eyebrow at him.

“… Maybe not that, but I’ll still disprove you,” he dismissed. “You make me look forward to the future, sweetheart. So I need you here. I’m kinda planning my future around you. Can’t have you gone.”

“That sounds like a lot of pressure, Buck,” you whispered. 

“Good. Feel pressured,” he chuckled. “I need you to know you’re wanted. The songs you played before I came to you were so sad.”

You cringe a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he hummed, thumbs brushing over your cheeks gently. “Because I get it. I understand.”

“… I know,” you nodded. Because you do.

You’ve spent many nights away from the music since the confession, since your hearts started beating in unison, just laying in your bed and whispering to each other. 

He told you how he laid awake and listened to the music through the vents. How your songs managed to get him to sleep and calmed him down when nightmares plagued him. How you managed to comfort him in his darkest moments, when he felt worthless. 

And he thanked you for it all.

Bucky only chuckled  at you when you burst into tears. You apologized to him— saying it was so stupid to cry when he was the one that was hurting, but he was grateful you were crying for him. 

During your quiet moments together, he would tell you how your music made him feel whole. That you would piece him together slowly, as if you were performing a reprise to his soul like he was a song that had butchered by the wrong conductor. 

You told him he was getting cheesy with his analogies, but he would ask you if you thought he was charming. You would grin and tell him that if he kept it up, you might dedicate a whole concerto to him. 

Just like that night, Bucky had a smile on his face as he leaned closer to you, as he angled your head upwards to meet his lips in a kiss. Your eyes are fluttering shut in anticipation, waiting to feel the soft pressure of his lips—

“Did you do something to him?”

You pulled away at the booming voice that echoed off the walls of your floor, your breath catching in your throat. You look past Bucky at the same time he turns around, and he pushes you behind him, to shield you from the people that just walked into your sanctuary. 

“I asked you a question, agent. You better answer,” Steve demanded, his voice low. 

“She didn’t do anything,” Bucky said, reaching for your hand behind him. He squeezed it. 

“That’s what you would say if she did something,” Steve dismissed. 

“Steve,” Bucky said, exasperated. “She didn’t do anything!”

“How are we supposed to trust that? To trust her?!” Sam demanded, pointing at you. 

Dread filled your gut as you looked down. 

“I trust her!” Bucky shouted back. “She didn’t do anything fucking wrong! Why are you treating her like some sort of criminal?!”

“Bucky, are you even aware of what she can do? Do to your brain?” Steve asked. Then, he continued, voice accusatory, “She’s worse than H.Y.D.R.A. combined if she wanted to be!”

“But she’s not, Steve! She’s never been!” Bucky said, his voice pleading and desperate. 

Your heart was breaking. You couldn’t take this. You couldn’t listen to this anymore. Not just for your own sake, but for his, too. 

These were Bucky’s friends. People that he trusted, people that he cared about. He told you that he cared about them— even though he was frustrated with the way they were handling him. You didn’t want him to argue with them. Not over you. Especially not over you.

“Bucky,” you whispered, watching his shoulders tense. His head whipped towards you. “It’s fine.”

“What? No, it’s not.”

“They’re not gonna listen either way. Just go,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. “I’m not worth the fight.”

His eyebrows furrowed, and he almost looked offended over your words. You watched as his lips parted, about to say something to refute your words, but you slipped your hand out of his. 

The second you did, Steve was crossing the room, a hand on his shoulder to guide him out. You can see Steve muttering something to Bucky that you can’t hear, but you tear your eyes away. Sam is staring at you, gaze hardened. 

“We’ll have someone come and take your toys away by the end of the day,” he said, jaw clenched. “We’ve been getting noise complaints.”

You don’t bother responding, and he doesn’t bother waiting for a response. You’re left alone in the silence of your floor, feeling colder than before. 

Bucky’s head is getting scanned, even though he doesn’t fucking want to put his head in this machine. Everyone was pressing him to at least run through with it once, to at least be able to compare his scan with the brain scan results from your other victims.

He hates the way they phrased it. 

“I’m not a fucking victim. I was there on purpose,” Bucky grunted, clenching his hands into fists. 

“Terminator, why would you go visit the siren on purpose? Are you trying to die?” Tony asked, clicking away on the holographic keyboard. 

On the other side of the glass, Steve and Sam are grilling Natasha. Bucky has no doubt they’re yelling at her for telling him about the truth. Natasha’s face is steeled, and she’s not saying a single word in response. She's just letting the two men yell at her. 

Finally, the cap on his head ascends and Bucky gets the hell out of the chair. He exits the examination room, and goes into the fray.

“— irresponsible it is to expose him to that?” Steve demanded. “Answer me, Natasha!”

“Barnes is a grown adult who can make his own decisions,” Natasha said, her voice even. “And I told him the truth eight months ago. So clearly, he’s been seeing her of his own volition.”

“Or he’s been having his brain fucking scrambled for eight months, Nat!” Sam said, dragging a hand down his face. 

“She used sign language with me for half of those months,” Bucky cut in, everyone turning to look at him. “She didn’t speak a fucking word to me.”

“What?” Steve asked, eyebrows furrowing. 

“I made her talk to me,” Bucky said, voice rising. “I forced her.”

“This is for your own good,” Steve said, clenching his jaw. “She can—“

“She’s done nothing wrong! She can what, Steve? Hurt me? Guess what? I can hurt you. I have hurt you!”

Tension began to settle right over the room like a thick blanket. They could hear the slow breaths of everyone in the room. 

“Scans in,” Tony said, opening the door behind Bucky and cutting the silence in half. “Surprisingly— uh… His brain is completely clear. No sign of siren song or anything.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he released a deep sigh from his nostrils. He turned on his heel, heading towards the exit. 

“Where are you going, Buck?” Sam called out to him.

“To go comfort my girlfriend,” he grunted, fists clenched at his side. 

The lab doors slid open before he reached them, Fury and Clint walking in a second later. 

“No can do Barnes. Go buy her some flowers and chocolates later,” Fury said, dropping a file on the nearest table. “I need all of you on the field ASAP."

His eyebrow furrowed. “What?”

“Satellite feed shows movement in the abandoned mine shaft that Stark took care of a handful of years back in Arizona,” Clint said, sighing deeply. “We’re not sure if someone’s back in the lab down there or if it’s just a fluke, but we gotta go check it out either way. Can’t send a regular team since the tech down there’s pretty dangerous if it’s what we think it is.”

Bucky wants nothing more than to crawl into your bed and hold you in his arms, but that will have to wait. He, along with the others, moves to get suited up. Issues aside, there’s problems that need to be dealt with— problems that are definitely not a fluke. 

This underground site was a hotspot for seismic activity and every two fucking seconds their eardrums would start exploding in their skulls. Steve and Bucky were especially affected, with their heightened sound due to the serum pumping in their veins. 

Comms were especially ineffective, with the fact the frequency kept jamming the channel they were using. 

It was jarring. It fucking hurt. Bucky found himself on his knees, hands pulled over his ears with teeth gritted in pain before a fist would connect with his jaw that he didn’t expect while he was down. 

Bucky could faintly hear for Steve to shout at Tony over broken comms to find out where the machine was that created the sound waves and to break it, but Bucky was certain that Stark’s suit was having issues against the sonic cannon. 

Bucky couldn't tell how much time had passed as he was getting thrown around, beaten up by hands that he couldn't even open his eyes to see. He couldn't even rip his own hands away from his ears to try and guard his head. There was no room to think.

Silence suddenly splashed over him like a bucket of water.

He can hear his own breaths. 

Bucky lowers his hands, confusion rushing through his body as he locks eyes with Steve. Both soldiers have pure adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Then, they notice a new presence. You. 

Their eyes turned towards you, finding that you’re squatting down in front of an enemy, the poor man’s face held in your hand in a crushing grip. He was holding a gun weakly in his hands, trying to raise it to use against you, but it was really no use. 

You’re in your tactical gear— and it’s the first time Bucky’s ever seen you in it. A hood is pulled over your head, and a mask is pulled over your nose and mouth. All he can see is your eyes. You wear fingerless gloves, and there are holsters on your thighs with guns and daggers ready to use. 

“𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓅 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔,” you whispered, your voice like a charm. The air shifted, vibrated with your words- not like the sonic cannon that was used to disarm them moments ago. It made you irresistible. They cannot help but fall into your trap, unable to fight against your command. 

But you’re not speaking to Bucky or Steve. 

Your eyes are glowing, swirling blue like the ocean— pulling in your victims into your song. You watched as his lips went from pink to blue, then you let him go. His body fell limp to the floor with a hard thud. 

Both Bucky and Steve look around— all their assailants have stopped breathing. It’s only the two of them that are alive in this room. 

You stand up tall, staring at the body for a few moments before turning towards Bucky, pulling both your hood and your mask off of your face. Concern is all over your features. 

“You look like shit,” you breathed, holding his face in your hands. 

“Well. That’s what happens when you can’t fight back,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he leaned into your touch. “Why are you here?”

“Fury said he lost contact with you guys hours ago,” you quickly said, helping him to his feet. “I already extracted the others— they’re outside already. It’s just you two left.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked. He’s looking you over as if he can see through your gear. 

“Do I look like I’m hurt?” you asked, frowning at him. 

Bucky’s about to reply, to say something smart to make you smile. He doesn’t get the chance. 

“You can control it,” Steve suddenly spoke, both of you turning to look at him. He looks conflicted. Angry. Not with you. With himself. “You— You weren’t just speaking to that one agent.”

“… I wasn’t,” you nodded, then turned away from him. “Come on. With the amount of vibrations that just happened, there’s no telling when this mine shaft will collapse.”

Bucky and Steve support each other’s weight as you lead them out. Stray agents try to come at the three of you, but crumble to their feet with a single word from your lips.

𝒦𝓃𝑒𝑒𝓁.

𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓅.

𝐸𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽.

𝒟𝒾𝑒.

It’s silent in the quinjet when you’re all secured. The mine shaft fully collapsed with just enough time to spare, destroying everything and the remaining agents left inside. 

The entire team is staring at you both. No one has said a word since the jet took to the sky, and you definitely aren’t going to be the one to speak first.

So, you decide to keep yourself busy. You’re sitting beside Bucky, a med kit opened up on your lap. Bucky has his head leaned back against the jet wall, eyes closed as he lets you do whatever you want— which is taking care of him.

“You would make a great dog trainer,” Tony suddenly said. 

“Stark,” Bucky warned, eyes opening to glare at the man.

“I’m just saying. Does your ability work on just humans? Or all beings with a soul?” 

“Um. I haven’t tried… animals,” you said softly, cautiously. You put down the bloodied gauze to switch out for a new one. 

“You do talk normally! I thought you could only talk with sparkles and vibrations like sirens from folktales!” Tony exclaimed. You made a small face, frowning slightly as you cleaned the cut above Bucky’s eyebrow. 

“Is he always this annoying?” you whispered to Bucky.

“I would say you get used to it, but I just ignore him, sweetheart. He doesn’t get any better,”  Bucky whispered back.

You let out a soft snort, a smile fixing over your face. Bucky couldn’t help but mirror it as you placed the bandage on his face before moving over to his next wound. 

“She smiled. Did you see that?” Clint murmured. 

“I’m more floored by the fact Barnes smiled,” Natasha replied. 

“Jesus,” Bucky grunted, the grin on his face disappearing. 

“What happened to ignoring them?” you chuckled.

“I have a headache,” he replied to you. “A pounding one. None of these fucking idiots are making it any better.”

“Does tylenol work on super soldiers?” you murmured, rifling through the med kit. “Ibuprofen, maybe?”

“Probably not,” he sighed, looking at you. “I’ll try it though. Maybe a placebo effect will happen because I like you.”

You smacked his arm in his response, and he watched as a warmth crept up from your neck to your cheeks. 

Bucky ignored the bug-eyed looks from everyone else in the jet as he took the gel capsules pill from your hand, and swallowed it down without complaint. He settled back into his seat to allow you to finish poking and prodding at his face until you were satisfied— even though he knew he would be fully healed by the time the jet landed. 

Bucky would still kiss you later, and tell you he healed fast because you took care of him. You would believe him just because he said so.

“Debrief right away,” Steve ordered as the jet landed. Everyone grumbled as they got up, but they knew this was coming. The mission was a shitshow. You were fully prepared to go slink back into your corner of the compound when Steve’s eyes fell on you. “You, too.”

You paused, head whipping to Bucky a second later. He gave you a single nod.

You didn’t say a word during the debrief. You were stressed, even though all they were doing was arguing with each other over who took down the most agents before you came onto the field. 

You didn’t realize debriefs were so laid back. The team laughed with each other. They were all still in their gear, still battered and bruised, but they were happy they were together. Happy to come back home, to be able to sit around at this table and be able to banter like this. 

A bitter feeling was creeping up in your chest that you didn’t know how to stop.

You kept your gaze on the table, unable to make eye contact with anyone. You hoped they would all forget that you existed. You hoped to blend into the wall. 

You felt Bucky’s pinky brush against yours under the table. In the corner of your eye, you saw him. He wasn’t looking at you, but his body was leaning towards you. Slowly, his pinky hooked into yours, comfort rushing through your body in waves. 

“Well, I don’t know about you guys— but I am starved. Meeting over yet?” Sam asked, clapping his hands together.

“Sounds good,” Steve nodded.

That was all you needed to sprint out of your chair, the furniture clattering behind you abruptly as you raced for the exit. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you as you ripped the door open, running out. 

You heard Bucky call out your name, heard him stand, heard his footsteps rush behind you. 

You kept rushing down the hall, away from the conference room. You needed to put as much space between yourself and the rest of the team before you broke down. 

Bucky finally caught you by the arm, turning you to face him.

“Doll,” he whispered, hands on your shoulders. “What’s going on?” 

“What’s going on?” you echoed his words in a breathless whisper, trembling in his hands. You were so close to breaking, to falling apart. “What’s going on is that I hate your fucking friends. And I hate myself for admitting it out loud to you because I love you so much and I know you love them.”

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes searching your face as his hands slid down your arms slowly. You watch as he a slow breath escapes his lips as he nods. 

“That’s okay. You can hate them,” he whispered back to you.

“What?” you demanded, shocked. “They’re your friends, Bucky! How can you say—”

“I hate the way they treat you,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “You don’t think I’m pissed off? They find out that you’re useful, so they invite you to a debrief and expect you to just be okay with the neglect and silent bullshit they’ve been putting you through this entire time? I’m livid, too.”

“I don’t want you to fight with them because of me,” you murmured, swallowing thickly. “They only hid things from you to protect you.”

“And I’m choosing to argue with them to protect you.” Bucky replied, cupping your face in his hands. “Not because you need a white knight or because you’re weak, but because I love you. And I love you for you— not due to the fact that you made me or that you charmed me into it.”

“I would never charm you into loving me,” you quickly said, horrified as you grabbed onto his waist, desperate for him to know you were being truthful. 

“I know,” he said, chuckling. His eyes were soft as his thumbs grazed the tops of your cheeks.  “I told you. I trust you, sweetheart. I’ve always trusted you, even if others don’t.”

You let out a shaking breath, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“Now what?” you whispered to him. “What do we do from here?”

“I’ll join you on your solo missions,” he shrugged. “Not that you need my help. I watched you take down an entire room by yourself, but I don’t really feel like going on any missions with those asshoeles any time soon.”

“I don’t go on missions often, baby,” you said, frowning at him. “I usually do interrogations. I rarely use my ability.”

“Oh, so you do dirty work? I can do that, too. Is that why your hands are always scrubbed raw? You’re washing them too much? Let me do it for you,” he said, a grin finding its way on his face. 

“Buck,” you said, a soft giggle escaping your lips. 

“I’m serious, doll,” he said, humming. “Let me just move my shit to your room, too. I already spend most of my day with you, anyway.”

“Not like I can stop you.” You shook your head even though you were smiling. 

Bucky’s lips quirked up just a bit more before he leaned in, finishing the kiss that he wasn’t able to give you earlier. You sighed into him, relaxing into his touch. Bucky held you closer to him, tenderly. Gently. Just as he always did. 

“I’ll harass Sam to give back your instruments,” he whispered against your lips, making you laugh again. “Heard he took them away— fucking bitch. Doesn’t he know I need that shit to sleep?”

“I don’t think he does, baby,” you hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him again.

“I’m telling you,” he muttered, between kisses, “they’re all stupid. I’ll just keep you to myself at this point. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“You’re going to share me, Sergeant?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him as you pulled away from his touch briefly. 

Bucky paused for a moment, thinking over his words. Then, he tugs you back into him, lips meeting yours once more as your feet are lifted off the ground. He’s carrying you towards the back halls to your floor. 

“No. I’m not. Keep hating them, sweetheart. You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips, a smile on his face. 

masterlist

a/n: there was no smut in this fic bc it didn’t feel right given the characterizations i gave bucky and reader. if i write a second part to this, the smut would end up being super super soft and vulnerable bc the two of them are very very gentle with each other

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx let me know if you would like to be added/removed to my general bucky taglist :)

[dating-eveeything]

Cuddle game

Featuring: Parker

Fic type: fluff, scenario/headcanons

Purely self indulgent, I love him so much (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

Honestly, it's a hassle to get Parker to relax enough to cuddle. He's always pulling out boardgame after boardgame, raring to go as if it's the only thing he knows. And I mean, it is the only thing he knows.

Once introduced to the world of affection, there's no going back. Parker will follow you everywhere just so he can keep his grubby little hands on you. Reap what you sew, as they say.

He's still the ever energetic guy that wants to play games all the time, but now he's just more understanding of sometimes not wanting to play round, after round, after round. His feelings might still be a little hurt, but nothing a little cuddle can't help, right?

Parker runs on the colder side when it comes to body temp, and he uses that as a good excuse to leach off of you. He's the type of guy to rest his freezing cold hands on the back of your neck when you least expect it- but never during a game. He isn't a filthy cheater.

Speaking of cheaters, if he finds you trying to use cuddles as a way to persuade him into losing, or distracting him? Oh he's mad. How dare you use such evil tactics!

Yes, he'll fall for it every time, unable to resist your warmth, but that doesn't mean he can't do it without anger flowing through his bones

"You filthy fucking cheater..." He murmurs while wrapping his arms around you in return. His stomach and legs sprawled across the gameboard now destroyed and half-forgotten after you asked for a hug.

Parker knew it was a trap, yet he couldn't resist the allure of your arms around him- so he folded (almost immediately, might I add).

He'll never truly get over it, but accepts that it'll happen again and considers doing it himself once or twice. Though he'd never stoop to such a low level.

His skin is surprisingly soft, for being up in the attic for ages. He's got a few splinters on his hands, but his legs and arms are smoother than a bald man's head! He knows this, and enjoys when you smooth your hands over his arms while cuddling.

The way your hands glide up and down, and even trace his tattoos at times, really lulls him into melting into you more and more.

Cuddling is never truly comfortable, and it's not because of his accessories. He loves to sleep in the weirdest, most unfortunate positions known to man. This man has fallen asleep while doing downward dog and no one can tell me otherwise.

He really, really, enjoys resting on top of you. Whether you've got big on bazoomies or not, he's resting his head on your chest and rubbing up against you like a cat. It's his favorite thing to do.

He'll also take resting his head on your stomach as an alternative if you don't want the chest option. Albeit he does it in the most compromising way ever.

Your legs will be thrown over his shoulders and he's got his hands intertwined with his like it's chill. His head rests more over your pelvis than your stomach, but don't tell him that; he probably can't tell the difference.

Definitely a yapper. You could be half-asleep in the dead of night, and the only thing truly keeping you awake is Parker's voice vibrating from him to your chest- where you can hear it more clearly somehow. It's not uncomfortable by any means, but sometimes you've gotta grab his face and give him the most aggressive, demanding kiss that you can muster up at midnight.

Such a kiss gets him quiet for a handful of minutes, just enough time to fall asleep before he starts up his yapping again.

If you want him to be quiet for longer, you'll have to offer more than just a mere kiss- such as... Two kisses.

[ski0k]

every single person in the batfamily had the potential to become part of batman’s rogues gallery had bruce not taken them in and non-batman fans seem to forget that

like so many people look at dick grayson and see dc’s golden boy™ but forget that he’s a certified crash out that was out for tony zucco’s blood and was at a high risk of dying at the ripe age of ten. he was so mentally unwell he probably could’ve been a serial killer. meanwhile, jason todd had the BALLS to not only steal the tires of the batmobile, but also wack batman with a lug wrench when he ultimately got caught. not to mention he took over gotham’s criminal underworld at nineteen, and if bruce didn’t take him in, he might have done it sooner. then there’s timothy ‘stalker’ drake who was so extremely hyperfixated with batman he figured out his identity. imagine if the kid was obsessed with literally anybody else, like what if he hyperfixated on a literal VILLAIN??? don’t even get me started on how cassandra and damian both come from similar assassin backgrounds and were already on track for being batman’s ops since birth. it goes so far to even terry mcginnis. who knows what would’ve happened to him if he ran off to avenge his dad without stealing the batsuit?

I could honestly go on, but the point I’m trying to make here is people are so quick to point out how it’s weird for batman to be taking in kids, but they don’t realize that the kids he takes in were a danger to society and themselves. them going into a life of crime fighting isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative is them literally going into a life of crime instead or even a premature death

[belowablue]

I've Never Seen Brown Eyes Look So Blue - Post Breakup James Potter x Reader

Thank you Ethel Cain for this title. Angsty one guys. No happy ending. 931 words.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James sighed dejectedly at breakfast. He’d been doing that a lot recently. Ever since you ended things. 

Now Peter would say, “c’mon James its been weeks, surely you’re over her by now?” Then, like clockwork, Sirius would chime in, “Just go and get laid mate, that’ll smooth a lot of things over.” He’d give James a conciliatory pat on the arm and go back to his coffee. 

His friends tired to cheer him up everyday, and he was grateful for that but, 

‘They’ll never be able to fill the hole you’ve left behind’ he thought miserably. 

From your perspective, James should have seen the breakup coming from a mile away even without his glasses. When you’d first gotten together it felt like the whole world was bathed in a golden light. You were so happy you could hardly breathe. The two of you were so in love, nothing should’ve been able to come between you. 

Except James didn’t need anything to. He did it himself. He got too comfortable. Blew you off too many times to do other stuff, because he thought you’d always be there when he got back. He stopped talking to you so much. Not the regular ‘pass the marmalade please?’ But the deeper, meaningful talks you used to have late at night, curled up in a window somewhere. He stopped confiding in you. He stopped putting effort in. 

All in all, he took you for granted. 

You put up with it for a while. Forcing strained smiles when he came stumbling back through the portrait swearing on his life that he would come on the next date you planned- because it was always you doing the planning. You defended him to your friends, saying he was busy with Quidditch or his friends and you didn’t want to be the overly-clingy girlfriend anyway. Pretending it didn’t bother you when all the bouquets he got you withered and he never replaced them. 

Until you couldn’t stand it any longer. 

The kicker was your anniversary date. What was supposed to be your six months anniversary date. You considered yourself pretty low-maintenance and decided a picnic by the lake would be fine. You’d given James a good weeks notice and he nodded, grinning, telling you he’d be there. How naive you were to believe him.

You got all dressed up in your nicest clothes, lugged all the food and blankets and pillows across the grounds. Set everything up, making it all pretty. You even charmed a couple of candles to float when the sun set. You fussed around for what felt like hours until everything was finally perfect. Then you perched yourself on a pillow and waited. 

And waited.

And waited some more. 

You continued waiting for hours because the alternative was too painful to bear thinking about. 

Eventually you were forced inside when it began to rain. You’d gotten past the sad stage, now entering anger.

You stepped into the common room, soaked through, hair sticking to you, to find James, warm and dry, curled up in a circle with his friends laughing his head off. 

Catching sight of your bedraggled state, his laugher stopped quickly, “I was wondering about you. Where have you been?” 

He said it so innocently that your anger deflated, leaving you with nothing.

You stared. 

Concerned, he got up and came to stand in front of you, brushing hair out of your eyes. 

“Whats’s going on hmm?” He asked, so gently it was almost enough to make you melt right into his arms. Almost.

Wordlessly you handed your anniversary present to him. It was a pair of concert tickets to his favourite band that was playing in the holidays. It had been sold out for weeks and they were an absolute bitch to find but you did it, because you loved him. Fuck, you hadn’t even expected him to take you, predicting he’d ask Sirius instead and you were going to be okay with it because this time, this time you thought he would actually bother to show up. 

He took the tickets and his eyes lit up. “No fucking way,” He gasped, “How the fuck did you manage this you absolute angel!” The smile on his face was obnoxious. 

‘Don’t do it’ you silently begged in your head, ‘Please for the love of God don’t-‘

He turned away. He raced over to Sirius to wave the tickets in his face. “Look!” He crowed, “Look at this! Look what she’s found.”

The two of them began celebrating in front of the fire, jumping and laughing. Peter stared up at them, bemused. It was only Remus who had the thought to turn back to you. 

Standing in a puddle from your dipping clothes, shivering, your last labour of love being paraded around in James’ hands. 

You knew it was over then. 

You went up to the dorm and didn’t look back, not even when you heard James calling your name confusedly. You didn’t want him to see the tears mingling with the rain drops on your face.

Now when you walked past him out of breakfast, you pretended he didn’t exist. You had to start putting yourself first and that meant no more letting James Potter walk all over you. 

But you also couldn’t bare to look at him. Not when you knew you’d see such sadness in his eyes. You knew you’d melt and go running back to him. So you held your head high and marched on past him, ignoring the way his gaze followed you out of every room, watching you walk out of his life again and again. 

AN: guys I don't know what got into me to write something sad. Anyways.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Zepysgirl behind the cut; “the wet nurse omegaverse”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Bruce debates the best way to subtly interrogate the kid about nursing from Carl without making Clark feel like hell about it. The options are . . . not particularly plausible, put it that way. Especially given it’s already a miracle Clark hasn’t started hissing at the stray omega who smells like milk and nursing pheromones and his pups’ utter adoration and, despite being absolutely terrible at actually talking to her, has been making eyes at his mate on top of all of that. 

Even Superman can only have so much self-restraint.

Even Clark Kent can only have so much self-restraint. 

Bruce does want a better idea of how much the kid’s milk actually appeals to Kryptonian pups though, because if there’s any chance whatsoever of Lor still not actually getting enough nutrients right now, he’d really like to be forewarned. Just–very much so he would like to be forewarned about anything like that, yes. 

“I’m gonna go see if Alfred needs anything,” Tim mutters, folding his arms with a sullen expression again for . . . some reason, Bruce assumes. He’s just genuinely too exhausted to spare the processing power to figure out if Tim’s actually coming down with something or just being a teenager, so just makes a note to keep him in the manor tonight. He'll tell him he needs him to make sure things go alright with Carl settling in. Hell, that's not even a lie.

“Sure thing, sport,” Bruce says, because Alfred very obviously does not need anything and would in fact take being asked if he needed anything as a personal affront, so presumably Tim actually has something more nightlife-related to take care of right now. Or Young Justice-related; that’s an option as well, obviously. Warning his team about the extended presence of a not-in-the-know civilian in the manor in the way least likely to result in Impulse running over for more details in front of said not-in-the-know civilian would very much be a thing that Tim would see a need to leave the room for, and also might decide to prioritize now that there are adults available again and he doesn’t have to be concerned by leaving the pups alone with Carl–or Carl alone with Damian. 

Tim gives him a sullen look over the “sport”, which he has literally never once done before–usually he’s trying not to laugh when “Brucie” calls him that, in fact–and then jams his hands into his pockets and sulks his way into the kitchen. Bruce . . . definitely needs to recruit Dick to talk to him, yes. Even if he did have any faith in his own personal ability to find out what’s bothering someone who’s in a bad mood for undetermined reasons without aggravating said mood, with the current situation still technically ongoing, he doesn’t have the time. 

Well, not for the “wouldn’t aggravate said mood” approach, at least. 

“. . . you’re seriously that Lois Lane, though?” Carl asks, briefly glancing at Lois’s face one last time before looking back down to check on Lor, who perks up immediately at the attention and squirms around to kneel in his lap. Bruce is almost surprised it took him that long, considering. Maybe that’s those screamingly obvious alpha issues, though. 

Though Carl, again, didn’t react to him like he did to Lois, so maybe they're more specifically female alpha issues. 

Or, alternately, they’re especially strong male alpha issues. 

There are just very clearly issues there either way, though.

Bruce is too damn tired to be trying to build a psychological profile of a possibly-trafficked, possibly-underage wet nurse with an unexplained lack of pups in his life, but it is just very, very difficult to turn off Batman. Even when he is this damn tired it’s difficult. Possibly more difficult, actually, but that’s really not something he has time to deal with about himself this decade, so it’s just a problem he can handle in his fifties, he figures. 

Sixties, maybe. 

“Since the day after I was born, kid,” Lois replies with another wry little quirk of her mouth. 

“The day after?” Carl looks up at her just long enough to wrinkle his nose. Lois does not in any way clarify, just shrugs lightly and leans down to lightly scruff a touch of her sire-scent onto Lor too. Carl blinks–blinks visibly enough Bruce can tell past the opaque lenses of his glasses, in fact–and looks a little . . . 

Possibly Carl is not actually used to being around sire-scent, Bruce realizes. Or at least not this up close and personal, anyway, especially not with the sire scenting their pup while they’re in his lap. 

Well, that’s sure to help with the alpha issues, he reflects resignedly. 

Lor makes a grumpy little sound that sounds like a cross between a chirp and a whine and burrows into Carl’s chest, clinging determinedly to him, and then bites down hard on his collarbone. Bruce cannot imagine that being remotely comfortable no matter how many feral-bond-derived nursing hormones Carl has in his system right now, but Carl just watches Lor keep stubbornly gnawing on him with an outright soppy expression on his face and mutters, “Fuck, you are so cute, what the hell.” 

“Jejuuuuu,” Lor whines grumpily as his hands make fat little fists against Carl’s chest, the word muffled by his mouthful of collarbone but still clearly recognizable. Lois very briefly quirks an eyebrow at hearing it; Carl just wraps Lor up completely in his arms and appears to forget about her existence entirely in favor of nuzzling his hair. Lor immediately perks up again and shoves aggressively into Carl’s face in clear pursuit of being scented by him, essentially headbutting him more than anything else. The THWACK is very audible, and very loud. Lois winces sympathetically, and Carl looks besotted and doubles-down on nuzzling Lor even more thoroughly as he squeezes his arms tighter around him. 

He probably isn’t making a conscious effort to scent Lor–almost definitely, given his pheromones are, while not even remotely restrained, just adoring and affectionate and not directed into anything. Just–very bluntly and unabashedly honest, in his pheromones. 

Or capable of pheromone control developed to such a degree as to make Ra’s al Ghul look like a beginner, but Bruce is going to assume “honest”, for obvious reasons. 

[supi-wupi]

Second Place - Joshua

pairing: Joshua x Reader

synopsis: You’ve loved him since day one, but he’s in love with someone else. As you help him write love letters to his crush, he unknowingly discovers your unsent letters—confessions hidden in plain sight. 

Then; Everyone remembers when Joshua cried on stage, apologizing for something no one else could explain. You know the truth: he was apologizing to you. For breaking the promise. For choosing the group. For walking away without a word.

wc: 4.3k

genre: Angst, Unspoken/unrequited love, second chance

warning: Emotional angst, Unsent letters and misunderstandings, Separation/abandonment, Mental health struggle mentions, Heartbreak, mentions of exhaustion and burnout, joshua crying on stage, members confused, grievinga/n: This can be considered an alternative ending to my work ‘Penpal’, which you don’t need to read before this, it just gives background context to the name ‘Shuji’.

The studio always smelled like burnt coffee and citrus-scented air freshener—two things Y/N constantly relied on to stay awake through 3 a.m. writing blocks and last-minute composition tweaks. It was her quiet place, her second home. And lately, the only space where she could love him in silence.

Joshua.

She'd been writing songs for the group since before they debuted. First as an intern, then as a contracted lyricist, now a ghostwriter whose name was never printed but whose words shaped half their discography. No one questioned it. And she preferred it that way.

Well. Mostly.

It was easier to hide in the credits when the person you loved was singing words you wrote for someone else.

“Y/N,” Joshua called softly from the doorway. “You got a minute?”

She turned, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. He wore a hoodie half-slipped off one shoulder and held a notebook in one hand like he wasn’t sure whether to offer it or clutch it to his chest.

“Yeah, of course.” Her voice was lighter than she felt.

He stepped inside, hesitating. “So… I wanted to ask you for help with something. Again.”

You always do, she thought. But she smiled. “Lyrics?”

Joshua nodded, his grin sheepish. “It’s stupid, probably, but I wanted to write something for… someone. You know. Just something personal. You’re better with words.”

She didn’t ask who. He didn’t offer the name. But it didn’t matter. She already knew.

It had been the same for months now—Joshua appearing with half-formed verses and flushed cheeks, shyly mumbling about how this girl made him feel something he couldn’t explain. And Y/N, like a fool, would spend nights bleeding her heart into lyrics she could never claim as her own.

“Do you have a melody?” she asked instead.

He hummed the beginning of something gentle, a chord progression she recognized from their last jam session. It would make a beautiful ballad. A confession song.

It would destroy her.

“Give me a few days,” she said, reaching for her pen.

He looked relieved. “Thank you. Really.”

“Always,” she whispered once he’d left.

—

She stayed long after the studio lights dimmed, laptop screen casting a dull glow across her face. The chorus came easy—hearts in hands, breathless hope, longing wrapped in soft vowels and sweet consonants. She knew his voice well enough to mold the words into something that would sit right in his mouth.

That was the problem.

Every word she wrote tasted like love.

Her own.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 12/09/2017]

Dear Shuji,

You smiled when you read the lyrics today. You said they felt real. That they captured exactly how you felt.

You don’t know they’re about you.

You don’t know that every time you describe her, I think of all the things I’ll never be.

But I keep writing, because it’s the only way I can love you without ruining everything.

Yours,

Nie

—

Joshua found the letter by accident.

A week later, rummaging through her desk while she grabbed them both dinner, he was looking for a spare cable when he noticed the envelope tucked inside a draft folder. It wasn’t labeled, but curiosity got the better of him.

He read it once.

Then twice.

The handwriting was hers. The paper was old, the fold lines soft with time. But there was no name. No context. Only the nickname: Shuji.

His heart skipped.

Only one person called him that.

When Y/N returned, he smiled like nothing had changed.

He didn’t ask.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Not yet.

—

Joshua started to notice little things.

The way Y/N stopped looking at him when she spoke. How she paused before answering, like measuring every word before it left her mouth. The ghost of a smile that used to be automatic now took its time showing up.

But she still helped him write songs. Love songs.

She always did.

—

The melody they settled on was soft and simple—just guitar, piano, and breath. Y/N filled the gaps with metaphors that made Joshua’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain. He didn’t ask where she pulled those images from: The way she laughs into her sleeve, like hiding joy makes it stronger. Or: I loved you like a secret—loud and unspoken.

He thought maybe he was finally finding the right words.

Even if they weren’t his.

“I’m thinking of giving it to her,” he said one night, when she handed him the final demo. “Just… directly. Not through a release or anything. Just me. And her. What do you think?”

Y/N swallowed. “I think… if it’s honest, she’ll hear you.”

She didn’t tell him the honesty was borrowed.

She didn’t tell him that the verses were carved from her own heart.

—

Later, after he left with a hopeful smile and a folded-up lyric sheet, Y/N sat back and stared at the empty chair across from her.

You really think she’ll hear you?She’s not even listening.

She reached for the drawer.

She shouldn't read the old letters again. But she always did.

Except… one was gone.

Her hands froze.

She counted them twice.

And it was definitely missing.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 04/11/2019]

Dear Shuji,

You asked me what falling in love feels like. I didn’t answer, but this is what I wanted to say:

It feels like watching your favorite song play out in front of you, knowing you can’t join in. Like standing in the audience when you know the harmonies by heart.

It feels like writing lyrics about someone who’ll never read them—and hoping they never do.

Because then maybe, you can keep pretending they were yours.

I don’t want to pretend anymore. But I will. For you.

Yours,

Nie

—

He found this one in a second notebook—one she left on the piano bench in the practice room. The edges were worn, the ink faded. It was dated years ago, before he even realized she was the one gluing their group’s emotions together behind the scenes.

The nicknames again. The handwriting again. That same ache in the words.

He didn’t confront her. Not yet.

Maybe she’d written these for someone else. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Maybe he was starting to realize the truth and didn’t know what to do with it.

Still, he kept the letter folded in his bag.

Just in case.

—

Y/N noticed it first—the shift in how he looked at her.

Like he was watching her with a question on his lips he didn’t know how to ask.

But it didn’t matter. Not really.

Because the moment she saw him holding hands with the girl in the lobby—her—the one he’d been writing songs for… it all came crashing down anyway.

—

That night, Y/N didn’t cry.

She packed her laptop. Shut down the studio. Took the long train ride home. And when she got in, she did the one thing she swore she never would.

She started a new letter.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 07/02/2022]

Dear Shuji,

It’s not her fault. It’s not yours either. I should’ve said something years ago.

But I was always scared of being a burden you couldn’t put into a melody.

I was scared that if I told you I loved you, I’d lose the only part of you I was allowed to keep.

So I wrote you songs instead.

But you never heard me.

I think it’s time I stop writing.

I think it’s time I go.

Yours, almost.

—

She didn’t show up to practice the next morning.

Not in the studio. Not in the back room where she usually scribbled lyrics on her tablet with earbuds in, mouthing melodies no one else could hear.

Joshua didn’t panic right away.

Y/N had always been consistent, but not rigid. She sometimes needed air—walks at night, weekend disappearances for inspiration, quiet hours with her thoughts and no one else's noise.

But when she didn’t answer his texts by lunch—and her shared drive folder remained untouched, with nothing new since the demo he’d used for the girl—something in him shifted.

He told himself she’d be back.

She wasn’t.

Three days passed.

Then four.

When Seungkwan asked if she was sick, Joshua just said, “She’s taking a break.” It sounded better than I don’t know where she is, or maybe I’m the reason she left.

Because now, with every quiet hour that passed, the letters began making more sense.

He re-read them at night. Alone. In bed. Memorizing the curves of her handwriting like he used to memorize chord changes.

She hadn’t signed her name.

But it didn’t matter.

The letters weren’t a puzzle anymore.

They were a mirror—and he had never bothered to look into it.

—

[Unsent Letter — Dated 08/13/2021]

Dear Shuji,

They always say to write what you know.

But how do I write this? This knowing. This silence.

I know your favorite coffee order. The tempo your foot taps when you’re anxious. The way your shoulders tighten before you laugh. I know you want her. I know I’m not her.

But I still write you love songs like I’ve been asked to.

Like you’re not breaking me every time you sing them.

I love you so much it hurts. And I hate myself for it.

Yours,

Nie

—

He found that one in an old shared lyric book—one they used to keep between the two of them, back when they were still experimenting with writing as a duo.

It had fallen behind her desk. Tucked into the middle like a secret.

The page before it had a scratch melody he remembered vaguely. A soft ballad. It had made him tear up the first time he heard it.

He thought it was because it sounded like longing.

He hadn’t realized it was.

—

He messaged her again.

[11:03 PM] You wrote those letters, didn’t you? Why didn’t you say anything?

No reply.

[11:47 PM] Was I really that blind? Please talk to me.

Still nothing.

The next morning, he got an email.

—

Subject: For the Team From: [Y/N] To: [SEVENTEEN Staff + Members] Time: 5:26 PM

Hi everyone,

I’m officially stepping away from the group’s lyricist role to pursue something quieter. This decision wasn’t made lightly, and I’ll always be grateful for the years we spent creating together.

Please take care of yourselves.

With love, Y/N

—

The air left his lungs like a silent apology.

The rest of the team read the message with wide eyes and murmurs of she didn’t say anything. But Joshua said nothing.

Because he’d known.

Maybe not in time.

But he knew now.

And it felt like losing a song before he ever got to sing it.

He went back to the studio that night, even though the others had left. Just in case she'd left something else behind.

She had.

In the pencil drawer was one last envelope. No name. No date. Just folded paper, waiting like a confession.

His hands shook when he opened it.

—

[Unsent Letter — Undated]

Shuji,

I hope you don’t hate me.

I hope when you find these, if you find these, it’s because some part of you wondered.

Some part of you looked at me and thought, maybe.

If not… then at least now you know.

I wrote every song for you. Even the ones you asked me to write about her.

I loved you when you didn’t see me.

I loved you when you looked right through me to find her face.

But I loved you.

And I’ll keep loving you… just not here.

Yours, once.

—

He sat there for a long time.

Letter in hand. Empty studio. No background melody. No voice humming beside him.

Just silence.

And for the first time since debut, Joshua Hong had no words.

Joshua stared at the unsent letter in his hands like it held the answer to everything he’d missed.

“I wrote every song for you. Even the ones you asked me to write about her.”

His chest tightened at the words. Every song—every lyric—was a confession he’d been too blind to hear.

The studio felt emptier than ever, the echoes of her absence ringing louder than the microphones ever could.

He couldn’t let this be the last note.

—

The next day, Joshua sat alone in the practice room after everyone left, opening a fresh blank page on his tablet. His fingers hovered, unsure. He hadn’t written a lyric for weeks—not since Y/N left.

But this time, it wasn’t for anyone else.

It was for her.

—

[Joshua’s Letter — Draft]

Dear Y/N,

I didn’t know. I didn’t see the signs, the quiet tears hidden behind your melodies.

I was so focused on who you weren’t, I missed the person who loved me all along.

I’m sorry for the silence, for the songs you had to write alone.

If you’re listening somewhere out there, know this—

I’m trying to find my own words now. For you.

J.

—

He saved it, but didn’t send it. Not yet.

In the following days, he found pieces of her everywhere: a coffee cup on the corner of the studio desk, a half-finished notebook of lyrics, a familiar scent in the hallway air.

Each small thing a reminder.

And a question.

Why didn’t she stay to tell him?

He asked the members, careful with his words, hoping someone had heard from her.

They all shook their heads.

“She’s busy, probably taking time for herself,” Woozi offered quietly.

But Joshua knew better.

—

That night, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

“Shuji, it’s me. I’m sorry I left like that. I needed space, but I’m not gone forever.”

His heart pounded.

Could it be?

—

Joshua stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Four simple words that stirred a thousand questions—and a hope he hadn’t dared to feel in months.

He typed back slowly, carefully.

“Where are you?”

Hours passed with no reply. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain.

—

The next morning, a new message came:

“I’m still figuring things out. But I want you to know I’m okay. Maybe we can talk soon?”

Joshua exhaled, a mixture of relief and nervous anticipation flooding him.

—

He sat by the window, guitar resting in his lap, eyes tracing the skyline of Seoul as if searching for her in the distance.

The songs he once wrote for her now felt like letters waiting to be opened—pieces of his heart scattered across melodies and unsent words.

He knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. There were wounds to heal, misunderstandings to unravel, and time to reclaim.

But for the first time in a long while, Joshua felt a quiet promise flicker inside him—

A promise to try.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start.

—

Aftermath

Joshua never thought he’d be standing there, in front of the world, with his heart laid bare.

The moment was etched in everyone's memory—the moment when, on stage, under the bright lights, his voice cracked with emotion and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He apologized, not for the crowd, not for his fans, but for you. The promise he had broken. The way he had walked away from you, from everything, without a word.

The silence after the apology was deafening.

Everyone wanted to know the truth. What did it mean? What did he mean by it?

You knew. And that was the problem.

In the days that followed, the weight of what had happened didn’t lighten. Instead, it became heavier, suffocating in its own right. Joshua’s apology had echoed across stages, but you were still the one who had to live with the silence.

—

It wasn’t long before he started looking for answers in the wrong places. In places that were never meant to be discovered. You had hoped—no, you had expected—this day would come. You had written so many letters to him over the years, carefully pouring your heart into words that never saw the light of day. Letters meant only for him, but never sent, because to send them would have meant losing him entirely.

And now, they were all he had left.

He hadn’t meant to find them. He hadn’t meant to see the words you had written, the confessions buried in the folds of old notebooks and drafts. But now, he had them. All of them. The letters, the songs, the pain you’d tried so hard to hide.

—

Joshua had been spending every waking hour in the studio, lost in the music that was no longer his alone. The songs, the melodies, everything now felt tainted with the truth he had ignored for so long.

"Shuji, I'm sorry," his fingers hovered over his tablet screen. "I didn't see it. I didn't see you. I was too blind to realize."

It was a draft, but it was a start.

But even as the words took form on the screen, they felt like they were coming too late.

And then came the message.

The silence had been unbearable, and in the silence, you had left.

—

You hadn’t told him. You hadn't told anyone. You'd just slipped away. Packed up the parts of yourself you had given so freely, and left. You were no longer the invisible force behind the songs. You weren’t the lyricist, the ghostwriter—just a woman who had loved him too much to stay.

Your decision wasn’t easy. But it was necessary. The love you’d hidden for so long had taken everything from you, and you couldn’t afford to keep giving pieces of yourself away when he never once saw them.

Your last message to him was simple. A quiet goodbye in the only way you knew how.

"I’m still figuring things out," the words came, hesitant and soft. "But I want you to know I’m okay. Maybe we can talk soon?"

—

Joshua held his breath as he read your message. It wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for, but it was something. A sliver of hope. He stared at the screen, the weight of the words pressing against his chest.

"Where are you?"

The response came slowly. Hours passed before he finally got an answer.

“I'm okay. I'm not gone forever. But I need time. We need time.”

His heart ached.

Time. It was all he had left now. Time to undo the damage. Time to finally listen to the words you had been whispering for years.

Joshua didn’t know how to fix things. He didn’t know where to start. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t let the silence swallow everything.

As the days stretched on, Joshua found himself writing songs again. Not for the group. Not for anyone else. Just for you. They were the songs you had written for him, once. The lyrics you had poured into every melody, every note, every verse.

He had missed it. He had missed you.

And maybe, just maybe, this time he wouldn’t be too blind to see.

He hit send.

"Y/N... I’m sorry. I know I can’t fix everything. But I’ll spend every day trying to."

The message was simple. But the promise was everything.

And for the first time in months, the silence felt a little less heavy.

—

Joshua stared at his phone screen, his thumb hovering above the send button, unsure if the words would be enough. Would they ever be enough?

He thought back to the letters. The confessions you had written, the ones you had never shared. Your words were so raw, so beautiful, and yet he had failed to see them for what they were. The melodies, the lyrics—they had always been pieces of your heart, pieces of you, woven into songs for him that he had accepted without ever questioning.

But now, now that it was too late, all he could feel was the weight of every moment he had missed, every opportunity he had wasted.

He had heard the lyrics, but he hadn’t listened. He had felt the melodies, but he hadn’t understood. All of it had been a confession—an open secret—but he had been too blinded by his own self-doubt, too focused on the girl he thought he was meant to be with, to see you—the one who had been there all along.

The truth was a bitter pill, one he had swallowed too late.

—

It was a few weeks before he saw you again, and even then, it wasn’t how he imagined it would be. There were no grand gestures. No reunion at the studio or a dramatic confession at a concert.

It was just a text.

"Meet me at the café?" It was you, as simple as always. But this time, Joshua wasn’t sure how to feel. His hands shook as he read the message again, each word a reminder of everything that had led him here.

"Of course," he replied.

It was the first step. A small one, but the only one he could take.

—

The café was quiet when he arrived, the usual hum of conversation muffled by the early hour. He spotted you right away, sitting by the window, a cup of coffee in front of you, your fingers tracing the rim of the mug absentmindedly. You weren’t looking at your phone. You weren’t avoiding him either. You were just... there.

For a moment, Joshua froze, unsure of how to approach you. He had rehearsed a hundred apologies, a thousand explanations, but in the end, none of them felt right.

What could he say? "I'm sorry" felt so small in comparison to everything that had happened between you two. And yet, it was the only word that seemed to keep coming back.

You noticed him standing by the door, hesitating, and for the first time, you gave him a soft smile. It wasn’t the warm, easy smile you used to share, but it was something. Something that made his chest tighten.

“Joshua.” Your voice was soft, almost like you weren’t sure how to address him anymore. You had been so used to calling him Shuji, to speaking to him as someone who knew your every thought, every word. But now… now there was distance. The kind that couldn’t be crossed with a simple smile.

He walked over slowly, sitting across from you. The silence that hung between you felt thick, heavy, like something unsaid that both of you were too scared to voice.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked at him, your eyes tired, but there was something else there too—something he couldn’t quite name. “I’m doing okay. A lot of changes… but I’m alright.”

You avoided his gaze for a moment, your fingers curling around the handle of the coffee cup, as if it were the only thing anchoring you to the present. Joshua's heart skipped. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. It wasn’t the answer he needed. He needed you to say that you were okay because of him, that he had fixed something, made up for everything he had done. But the truth was that you had already made up your mind long before this conversation.

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just sat there, watching you, trying to gather the words that had been locked inside him for months.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, the words coming out in a rush. "I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a brief moment, there was something in your gaze that he didn’t expect—something like understanding. But it was fleeting.

“I know you didn’t,” you replied quietly. “But I couldn’t keep waiting for you to see me.”

Joshua’s heart clenched at your words. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, everything that had been left unsaid. The letters. The songs. The moments that had never been shared. It was too much, and yet, it was nothing compared to what he had lost.

"I was a fool," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I was so caught up in everything else, I never took the time to see what was right in front of me. I—"

“No,” you cut him off, your eyes soft, but firm. “You weren’t a fool, Joshua. You were just... lost. So was I. But I can’t keep pretending like I wasn’t waiting for something that would never come.”

Joshua swallowed hard, the knot in his throat threatening to choke him. "What do we do now?" he asked, voice rough.

You sat back in your chair, your gaze thoughtful, distant almost. “I don’t know. Maybe we take things one step at a time. But I’m not here to be your second choice. I need to find my own way now, too.”

The words stung, more than anything he had heard before. But there was truth in them. And that truth was something Joshua wasn’t ready to face. Yet he knew it was the only way forward.

“Then... I’ll wait,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “If you want me to. I’ll wait. Because I owe you that much.”

You didn’t say anything for a while. But when you finally spoke, it wasn’t to shut him down. It was a quiet agreement, a fragile understanding that neither of you was quite ready to step into each other's lives again, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, there would be a way forward.

“Okay,” you said, your voice small but resolute. “Maybe we’ll figure it out someday.”

Joshua nodded, the silence between you two more comfortable now, not full of things left unsaid, but things left to be discovered.

For the first time in a long while, he felt like he might be on the right path. Even if it wasn’t clear yet, even if it took time, he knew he wasn’t walking it alone.

masterlist ♪

[2000sangel]

I’ve actually had this one in my head for a few days: lightner!reader abruptly disappears from the dark world. For like,,, WEEKS. In the light world, they’re had to suddenly attend to and emergency situation or been in an emergency themselves (like ending up in the hospital or something) and they have no way to contact tenna and tell him that they haven’t just up and abandoned him! And so when they’re finally able to return home and get back to the tv world…. emotions might be running high >:3 💖💖💖

-✨

Hey so!! I want to be a little serious here and lay down a Warning for potentially toxic behaviors (and mentions of a loved one being at the hospital).

This is Hurt/Comfort but also a way for me to explore the Tenna BPD Headcanon which I'm not sure if I portrayed well without making him come off as awful or as like...'woobified' (I don't like that word, but I don't know how else to get my point across).

I was able to reflect on some things while writing this, too, so I hope it doesn't entirely suck. Enjoy! :,)

Tenna x Reader - Short fic - "Misconstruction"

This incident has taken everything out of you; between the constant worry following it, the trips to the hospital to make sure everything was okay with your loved one, and the never-ending anxiety of a call that might or might not come, after these two weeks…you're totally spent.

They're okay now, thankfully, and have also been relocated to a hospital closer to where you live, so you don't have to make a big amount of planning before deciding to visit.

What you've hated through this all though, is your inability to visit the Dark World and your partner, Tenna; obviously, your phone isn't reachable while there, and same thing applies to you as a whole. Plus, between this emergency and your usual work shifts, you haven't physically found the time to enter the alternate reality in two weeks.

So, even though you're exhausted, the guilt you feel overrides your physical state, and you enter the Dark World as soon as you have the first free afternoon.

The studio is as busy as ever, Darkners running left and right with either documents to sign or props that will be needed for the next show. You almost bump straight into some of them, apologizing profusely for possibly slowing down the crew.

It takes you a while to find Tenna; he's not on stage, as this is not the usual time he's on air, he's not in his private office or changing room either, and you haven't noticed him walking around the studio either -something quite easy to do, considering his size-.

What's left are the conference rooms, that despite having easy access to the rest of the place thank to being his partner, you obviously can't just barge into unprompted.

So you wait, seated outside the one he's usually needed in, as you can hear his voice coming from inside. You close your eyes now and then, and zone out out of tiredness, but manage to keep yourself awake until you hear the door being opened.

Some workers step out of it, wide eyed when they notice your presence- obviously they know who you are, so you don't really get why they must be acting like they've seen a ghost instead.

The Darkners make space for Tenna, who exits the room last; you immediately stand up, an apologetic smile appearing on your face, which slightly falters when he notices you and he doesn't reciprocate it at all.

“Oh. It's- It's you.”

He sounds conflicted, like he's feeling different emotions that don't necessarily make sense paired with one another. His body language suggests so, too.

“Of course it's me,” you decide to grant him an explanation straight away, though before you can do so he interrupts you.

“Where…have you been?”

“...I was about to explain, I had an-”

“No, scratch that, I shouldn't…I shouldn't even be talking to you right now.”

His choice of words surprises you, direct and…almost repulsed. You don't understand, but at the same time you understand completely.

Leaving without coming back for days, weeks…showing no signs of life whatsoever for that whole time; who knows what he must've thought and felt.

At this point your smile is completely gone, replaced by a frown.

“What…no, Tenna, let me explain before coming to conclusions…?” he's avoiding your gaze now, conflicted about whether he should be leaving or not, “Please?”

. . .

Eventually he leads you to his office, where you can talk more privately at least. He looks like he's barely holding it together as he sits behind his large desk, which you notice is a mess of papers, some of them crumpled.

You don't sit like you usually do, though, merely leaning on the opposing chair, the air tense;

“Do you know how you made me feel?”

He's speaking faster than usual as he massages the bridge of his nose, screen flickering;

“If you could just let me explain-”

“What kind of explanation could you possibly have?”

He's not quite yelling, but he does sound mad and like he's already settled on a very specific scenario that must've kept you from visiting him.

“An emergency!” you cry out before he can interrupt you once again, “I had a family member at the hospital, Tenna!”

You bring one of your hands to cover your mouth when he slightly jumps, taken aback;

“I-I had no way of contacting you and I couldn't risk them calling while I was here-”

“You could've done it for a short time-”

“What…” you frown, stopping yourself from reacting badly. You then take a deep breath, “Okay, maybe I could've…but just what did you think I was doing for all this time…?”

He looks extremely guilty, screen now completely black and antennas lopsided, he's even begun to shrink a little.

There's a short moment of awkward silence.

“A-An emergency…really?”

You blink.

“Yes, Tenna, I promise that's what it was. And then I had work, and I was exhausted, and I kept looking at my phone and hoping for good news. That's why I couldn't come, and…” Your heart beats faster as you consider saying something like ‘they’re fine now, thanks for asking’, but you decide against it; “...and I don't know. I don't know what you thought, but it wasn't that.”

Fixated on your monologue, you almost miss the sound of Tenna's breath hitching, his palms now covering the spot his eyes would be if he had any.

“W-Wow. I'm an ass, aren't I?” he digs his palms deeper into his screen, biting on his lower lip to choke back what you assume is a sob.

Despite the misunderstanding you had, you quickly walk to his side, grasping his chair and turning it so he's now facing you.

“H-Hey, hey, what's this? Tenna, what-”

“I just thought you left me!!” he blurts out, shrinking even more. You're basically the same height now. “I-It’s stupid after hearing your explanation but?! You're asking, so there's your answer…!”

You sense he's craving touch by the way he has slid towards you with his chair, so you tentatively hover your arm beside his waist;

“Maybe we can hug while talking, what do you think…?”

Your partner nods, all attempts to hide his sobs going out the window once your arms wrap around each other's bodies;

“Please…” he manages to say, and you hum to encourage him to continue, “...ju-ust, I don't even know, I think I need…”

“...Reassurance?” you suggest, and he nods against your cheek, “I love you, Tenna, and I'm sorry…if it happens again, I'll…I'll make sure to find a moment to warn you, okay?”

“I-I’m sorry too, for this, for earlier, for the mess, for not understanding- I'm just, a bad par-”

You stop him right there with a squeeze before leaning back so you can look at his face; he's frowning, cheeks glossy with pixely tears rolling down them. You've seen him sad, you've seen him cry before, but even though you're not exactly in the wrong here you feel a pang of guilt in your chest thinking about the fact that he must've thought you were abandoning him, deep-rooted issues surfacing because of something you could've somehow prevented.

You don't find it in you to completely blame yourself though, and neither to completely blame him. Some things you can't just expect or prevent from happening, you suppose.

“Don't. Don't say that, this is just…something that happened, okay? And you can't really compare to…other relationships.” You sadly remind him, and he sighs in understanding.

“I love you too…I'm sorry, again, I'll- I'll do better, won't cut you off anymore, or anything like that…ahah…and just,” he inhales sharply, “just say it if changes are needed, okay?”

You nod, glad that he's calming down enough to speak more clearly.

“Okay, Tenna, I promise I will. And you don't assume the worst immediately, right? Something like this could happen again. Just trust me when I say I wouldn't just up and leave.”

You're aware that when issues like this arise, some reassurance and a hug aren't enough to solve anything definitely at all.

Though you're one step closer to helping him through it, you assume. And both of your boundaries might need to be worked on later, too.

[lisssyyu]

Dried Blood - The Renaissance Project

PAIRINGS: VI × F!READER

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This au came after I rewatched ABSOLUTELY ALL "Jurassic World" MOVIES, so enjoy.. Let me remind you that English is not my native language, and if you see any mistakes or inaccuracies, please correct me! let me know if you like it and want a part two.

WARNING(S): —

TAGS: behavioral specialist!Vi ;; Jurassic World!au ;; drabble ;; arcane

туалет: 3.3k

часть : 1 ;; 2 ;; ?

In a world where Piltower technology and Zaun genetic engineering have reached unprecedented heights, humans have learned how to resurrect dinosaurs. The new Jurassic Park has been built on a remote island a project financed by the Kiramman family and others, not only for the sake of "scientific progress" and geopolitical prestige. Vi is a behavioral specialist working with velociraptors and other dangerous species, and you are a new ethologist specializing in the cognitive behavior of dinosaurs.

Vi was raised on the streets of Zaun, but was recruited into a research program when the people of Piltover recognized her talent for reading behavioral patterns in animals.

Although, to be completely honest, at the age of 19, she was caught trying to break into a biotechnology storage facility (the question of why she was there remains unanswered to this day). Instead of sending her to prison, one of the scientists, a renowned professor from Piltover and another financier of the "Rebirth" project named Anabel Grimm, noticed how Vi behaved with an aggressive chemosaur in a cage. She was calm and, to everyone's surprise, got away with just a couple of scratches.

She was offered an alternative: participation in an experimental program on "instinctive contact with unstable individuals." Not wanting to make her life worse by going to prison, she agreed.

Later, she was sent on probation to a remote pilot station where genetically unstable individuals were bred. There, she encountered the predecessors of dinosaurs for the first time. They were unsuccessful hybrids with predatory habits. Ugly creatures that had nothing in common with dinosaurs.

Over the course of several years, Vi proved that she possessed a "trainer's instinct" that could not be taught at the academy. Professor Grimm wrote a letter of recommendation for her to the Rebirth Project when the selection process for the island began.

Vi lives on the enclosure grounds. She has "her own" animals, especially a pair of velociraptors, with whom she has worked since she was young.

Vi even gave them names — Ship and Wouter. Vi has no formal education. Her access card is marked "1st class field expert."

Vi believes that trust and respect are more important than collars and remote controls. She enters the enclosures personally, without weapons, which greatly angers the management.

You came to the Park as part of the second wave of scientists those who don't just grow dinosaurs in test tubes, but try to understand what they become. As an ethologist who trained in the basements of the Piltower Academy and at field bases in Zaun, you have been obsessed with the behavioral patterns of animals, predators, and herbivores since your early years.

You were attracted not only by the scale of the project and generous funding, but also by the idea itself: to create not a prison for monsters, but a living, breathing ecosystem. And also, to observe how dinosaurs learn and grow. Now your day begins with your observation journal and ends in the enclosures, where claws scratch against steel and eyes watch from the shadows. Some of the park staff think you are too soft on the "creatures."

Vi is one of the few who, even though she calls your methods "theory for dummies," really listens. Especially when the predators responded to a gesture for the first time, rather than an electric shock.

• At first, Vi considers you too naive.

She has seen dinosaurs tear off interns' legs in a second and is sure that your interest in the creatures will fade as soon as you see them in action. She calls your notes and hypotheses "fairy tales for students." But one day, you enter the enclosure of a young specimen unarmed, and for the first time, it doesn't growl. Vi begins to see you differently.

• The two of you argue constantly.

You cite data, she cites her own experience. At first with irritation, then with enthusiasm. After a couple of weeks, the arguments become a habit: coffee, enclosures, swearing, ironic smiles. Your notebook and her rough voice are a strangely harmonious combination.

• Vi begins to wait for your notes.

Although she pretends not to. Sometimes you notice that she has taken your notebook, crossed out some of the formulas, and written: "If you think this works, let's check it out. Tomorrow at 7. Don't be late, professor." The moment you read it, you felt your face turn redder than a tomato.

[joejhang]

KEVIN DAY DISCOURSE

i actually didn't realise kevin haters existed but here it is. i am a defence attorney and my client is kevin day because the discourse i see about him is fucking crazy sometimes.

re: leaving the nest.

i literally just made a post about this but let me dig a little deeper into it. yes, i think leaving the nest in the way that he did definitely did fuck jean over hugely no one is denying that. yes, it was definitely a betrayal when you look at it from jean's pov. yes, there was probably another way of doing it that could've worked things out better (i have no idea what this would be but there might be something). yes, he did it fully knowing the consequences and what would happen to jean afterwards. yes, jean has every right to feel betrayed and to feel anger towards kevin, though i would argue his feelings for kevin in current canon are complicated and kevin's "abandonment" is only one factor in all of it.

however i said it in my post and i'll say it again here: genuinely what would you have him do? think about it for a second: riko has just beaten kevin half to death and broken his hand, literally shattered it with a racquet. even though kevin does recover, in this moment he (and everyone else) thought his career was over. and it's said by wymack, jean and neil that exy is the only thing kevin has in his life. it's what his life has revolved around since his mother's death. without the ability to play, jean makes it pretty clear that kevin literally would've killed himself. wymack also says that if kevin can't play, he can't survive. and that's if riko/tetsuji didn't get to him first. if kevin had stayed in the nest he literally would've died point blank. and jean probably would've as well, since he would have no one to keep his promise to then.

also it's actually insane to say you hate kevin or are angry at him for leaving the nest. would you genuinely have wanted him to stay there? at the place where he had been abused since he was a young child, the place where he was physically, emotionally and mentally broken through cult conditioning and violence? like it took immense desperation and courage to leave such an environment, where he had basically lived his whole life and built his whole life around. yes, it was selfish and had consequences for jean, but it wouldn't have been any better if he had stayed. if you're someone who is angry at or dislikes kevin for leaving the nest genuinely consider the alternative. it's literally so much so so so much worse. kevin stays and riko/tetsuji kill him for being dead weight or he literally kills himself, and then jean follows, and then aftg no longer exists because kevin day is literally the fucking catalyst for the whole thing. you can hold two truths in your mind at once. 1. it was a selfish thing to do and 2. it was the only thing to do. think about that.

re: his relationship with jean

i am fully aware that kevjean have a plethora of problems in the current canon. but i raise you this: almost all of them are because of the environment their relationship formed in. and while kevin is described to have mostly been the bystander in that relationship, kevin did not just get off scot-free in the nest either. jean specifically states that kevin suffered a lot in the nest, mostly emotionally and psychologically, and the damage and lingering effects can still be seen in tgr. i think what people need to realise is that kevin and jean were both bystanders to each other. neither of them were in any position to jump in and save the other, so before everyone starts bitching about kevin just "letting" riko hurt jean think about the fact that kevin doesn't "let" riko do anything, kevin is essentially riko's pet on a leash. riko is literally canonically described as kevin's "owner" do you guys really think kevin had any power to stop riko? and same with jean, he also "stood by" when riko broke kevin's hand and beat him half to death, and i don't really think either of them did anything wrong because genuinely what the fuck do you do in that situation. they were both so powerless and probably fucking terrified. they did the best they could by helping each other in the aftermath of all the abuse. can we free jean from the relentless babying and victimisation obviously he is a victim no one is denying that but kevin and jean's relationship (while obviously problematic and messy) was not one where jean was kevin's victim because i consider them both sort of joined in their suffering in the nest. yes to different degrees in different categories but the truth still stands: they were together in their suffering. i don't consider either of them victims of the other because that's just genuinely so unfair and uncharitable to both of them.

in regards to his current dynamic with jean, there are obvious issues. it's not quite a friendship, as they both say, and it has a lot of problems in its dynamic, because they're both aware of the nest's toxic hierarchy between them, and the difference in their "status" at the nest (kevin being a glorified pet and jean being merely property). it doesn't make for the healthiest or most balanced dynamic, but i think what's important to realise is that they both have very little control over it. what's also important to understand is that they don't really have ill intentions for each other. they don't wish harm upon each other and honestly i would say they care about each other and want the best for each other. people can be rubbed the wrong way about kevin's bossiness and the lingering bitterness between them in tgr but i honestly think that's just always been a part of their relationship. also kevin is literally always bossy he's the same way with andrew and neil they just respond to it differently. also i think kevin and jean were the closest thing they each had to a friend growing up, so i think that's important to take into consideration.

side note: i do think kevin was well aware of jean's feelings for him back in the nest. or he at least had his suspicions. but on one hand he was too focused on the court and the game to indulge an actual discussion about it and on the other hand it's probably better for both of them that it was kept mostly on the down low because it never would've happened or worked out anyway.

so tldr: kevin is undoubtedly a flawed, messy, imperfect character. he can often be selfish and sometimes "cowardly", if we're being particularly ungenerous, but sometimes i think the fandom takes on too much of neil's disdain for kevin and his coping mechanisms/responses to trauma. but the difference is, neil understands and just doesn't really care but i really don't think the fandom has thought this one through. you can hold two truths at once people. anyway yeah.

[cripplecharacters]

I've got some kind of undiagnosed disability that makes me need a cane to walk & was planning to have a charicter with the same issue in my book

I also wanted to give them a nontraditional mobility aid to use along side the cane, that being a small skateboard they carry with them to help them go faster

I, personally, do not have a skateboard that I use like this. Is there anything I should realsearch before I start writing

Hello!

Using a cane isn't a disability, it's the result of one. Without knowing what disability your character has (or anything about how it affects them/what symptoms they have), we're not really able to help much.

That said... I'm having a very hard time understanding how this would work as well as the purpose of it.

A cane is generally used as an aid for either balance issues or support (whether that's for chronic pain, limited mobility, etc.). For balance, it offers an extra point of contact with the ground which helps with stability. For support, it helps take the weight off of the affected limb which eases pain and limits the strain on the limb.

I can't think of a single situation where a skateboard would be a feasible alternative to a cane -- especially since it'd make their issue WORSE in most cases.

A skateboard wouldn't help with balance issues -- a character that uses a cane for balance would have a much harder time balancing on a skateboard.

It also wouldn't help at all for support. The point of a cane in this context is to take weight off of the limb. Using a skateboard would require them to not only put weight on the limb but also to put more pressure/strain on it.

It would also be incredibly inconvenient to carry a skateboard around all the time, especially since your character uses a cane the rest of the time. They'd only have one other hand available. Having to open doors when I'm holding a drink in my only "free" hand is enough of a pain -- I can't imagine having to lug around a heavy skateboard all day.

There's also the question of what you mean by using the skateboard to "help them go faster". This isn't the purpose of a mobility aid. When I use my wheelchair instead of my cane, it's not to "go faster". It's because my body needs more support that day. If your character is only using the skateboard to be fast, it's not a mobility aid. That's just a skateboard.

I'd also encourage you to consider why you want to give them a "non-traditional" mobility aid. There's a lot of stigma around mobility aids already -- especially ones that take up more space such as wheelchairs, mobility scooters, and rollators.

While some people do use a skateboard as a mobility aid (such as Robert Glover [link] and several others with sacral agenesis), it doesn't sound like something that would be feasible/accurate for your character.

That being said, we can't exactly provide specific suggestions for your character without knowing anything about their disability/how it affects them.

As an added note: some of our other cane-using mods decided to give the skateboard thing a try in the name of Science™️ and it uh... did not go well (though everyone is unharmed).

Cheers,

~ Mod Icarus

[autumnmobile12]

Ambush Simulation: Touya's Fighting Style

With the chapter of Ambush Simulation coming out soon, I wanted to talk a little bit about how Ambush Sim Touya fights in comparison to his canon self.

His technique is geared more toward quick, precision attacks rather than overwhelming fire. And once again proving that I never really left the Castlevania fandom, this fighting style was largely inspired by another character.

Trigger warning for gifs and flashing lights below.

When I was just starting to get back into the MHA fandom, I was coming out of Castlevania, so in protagonist vs antagonist fire-user fashion, I ended up considering the question: Who would win in a fight between Sypha Belnades and Dabi?

And there really wasn't much thought put into it before I realized, "It's Sypha. No contest."

...

One of the key differences that Sypha Belnades brings to the table is that even though her abilities are magic, not superpowers, she doesn't use fire the same way Endeavor, Shouto, and Dabi use fire. All three of the Todoroki guys rely on techniques that mostly involve blasting their enemies with tremendous heat and as much output as they can manage without overheating themselves. This is what marks them as the heavy-hitters on both the protagonist and antagonist sides of the conflict.

No shade to MHA, but Castlevania was a bit more creative (closer to firebending in ATLA but unique in its own way) when it came to fire manipulation.

Even though Sypha doesn't have Dabi's drawback of burning herself, she still uses her flames in moderate but effective outbursts. It's not explicitly pointed out in Castlevania, but we do get to to see her progress of improving her abilities and fighting styles over the four seasons. Instead of overwhelming power, Sypha focuses on strategic attacks and has an expert level of control over her magic, able to alternate back and forth between small-scale attacks to all-encompassing onslaughts with relative ease.

She also has an advantage of being able to control fire that she herself didn't make. As in, usurping someone else's flames, so she definitely has the ability to burn Shouto, Dabi, and Endeavor alive with their own fire. She burns a fire-breathing demon from the inside out using its own fire. Super OP as far as the MHA parameters of superpowers are concerned.

...

In Ambush Simulation, Sypha actually cameos as a Pro Hero from Romania. (Canonically, she's from the Iberian Peninsula, but most of her story takes place in Wallachia, now modern day Romania.) She's been mentioned at least once in the narrative.

Touya raised his eyes to the shelves above his desk, sweeping over his books, past the jade monkeys his students had given him, past the figurine of Belnades that Fuyumi had given him for his twenty-first birthday, and the polar bear plushie that sat on the top shelf gathering dust.

Dabi picked up some of her techniques from watching videos of her fight as opposed to solely relying on his father's methods, so rather than the wanton destructive flames he uses exclusively in canon, he fights more like this in Ambush Simulation:

And yes, she also uses ice, so Shouto would definitely have something to learn from her style, too.

Also, I just really...

Really...

Really...

Even just once...

Want to see Touya do this to a bitch.

[youzicha]

18, 11

18. Is the physicists' sought-for "theory of everything" a chimera?

You really should ask a physicist about this! As I understand it, the basic fact that makes it debatable is that there is some technical issue which means you can't handle gravity in the same mathematical framework as the other forces. But what lesson should we draw from that? I guess we should be less confident that they got the description of the other forces right. But even before gravity people were unhappy with renormalization theory ("it is what I would call a dippy process"—Feynman), and meanwhile, supposedly there are formalisms like string theory that can accommodate gravity, it's just that it's impossible to make progress without a particle accelerator the size of the solar system. From my layman's point of view, it seems like there's not so much philosophical lessons to be drawn from the fact that renormalization failed. In some alternative history some other mathematical approach could have been popular, but everything would still be underconstrained just from lack of experimental data...

Conversely, I guess there were physicists in the 1980s who thought they would recognize the ToE just by its mathematical elegance and solve fundamental physics in their lifetime, and that hope seems very chimerical now.

11. Is hip-hop/rap more political than the Eurovision Song Contest?

This question feels like a throwback to 2015! Like, the reason hip-hop is considered political is that it's associated with Blackness, and hence with questions of race which (along with sexuality) is the most contested political issue; meanwhile the Eurovision is avowedly "apolitical", and as we all know "to be neutral is to be complicit". But now in the 2020s with wars in Ukraine and around Israel, nationalism seems less harmless, so maybe even the stupid Eurovision pop music can become controversial again.

I think ultimately rap is an artistic form, not an ideology or a movement, so you can't really say that it's politically significant in itself. Otherwise we again end up in 2015 when everyone was briefly convinced that Hamilton had achieved the great unified theory of politics and music...

[anneapocalypse]

Omg Urianger x Ardbert??! That’s so juicy, pls tell me more

OKAY SO this sort of grew out of a longfic I am currently working on which explores Urianger's time working with the Warriors of Darkness from his point of view. The funny thing is, I initially wasn't thinking about Urianger having sexual tension with Ardbert (or Arbert, as he's called back then) but with Elidibus! I do think there's tremendous potential there too, especially since when Urianger meets Elidibus he is terribly isolated and lonely and probably most susceptible to an offer of companionship even from the most suspect of sources.

But once the Warriors of Darkness showed up I really felt Arbert becoming more the center of Urianger's focus. Urianger can never fully allow himself to trust an Ascian (even as he and Elidibus do form a rapport and a connection), but he can and does build trust with this hero from another world willing to do whatever he has to do to save as many as he can. How can Urianger not sympathize with that, honestly--it's an ethos very close to his own. And where Elidibus came in actively seeking Urianger's trust and taking his reticence in stride because it's his goal to gain and manipulate Urianger's sympathies... with Arbert there is distrust on both sides and ironically it's that very fact which makes Urianger more inclined to reach across and try to gain Arbert's trust.

Because once he understands what really is at stake, once he begins to accept Gerun as prophetic and then has it directly confirmed by Hydaelyn Herself via Minfilia, there is no chance of Urianger walking away--he cannot turn his back on the First, he needs to keep and maintain Arbert's trust, even as he is privately seeking an alternative to the path Elidibus has told Arbert is the only way. He sees that Arbert too is being manipulated, but he also knows that without direct intervention from Hydaelyn, he won't be swayed from his path. Arbert himself is jaded and struggles to trust, as he already has experience being manipulated and betrayed, but he needs Urianger's help, and Elidibus is actively encouraging their cooperation.

So they do build trust, and I think friendship, and behind all the machinations we see in canon, I think for Urianger it's also very personal. It's the salvation of a distant star he's never seen, yes. But it's also this group of adventurers who probably remind him a whole lot of people he knows and loves, people doing their best and sometimes failing and grappling with the consequences for a long time after. I don't think he ultimately saw his plan as a betrayal of his new friends but as the only way he could get them into proximity with the Warrior of Light, as they'd probably already refused to consider working with her.

I should say that in the fic, that tension never comes to fruition but just kind of simmers under the surface. Urianger doesn't find out for a bit that Arbert and his friends are already dead, but even apart from that, he's still very deep in a grief he hasn't really come to terms with, and I don't think either of them are even remotely ready for that kind of intimacy, emotional or physical, with another person. The spark is there, but the conditions aren't right for it to go beyond that.

In this same universe though, one day some time later Urianger will fall in love with the Warrior of Light. And eventually, Ardbert's soul returns to hers, and becomes a part of her. And maybe Urianger has some sense of that, and better understands why something about Ardbert always seemed so very familiar.

Thanks for the ask. :)

[kulupu-archival]

Original "Keep reading" text by the original poster, tselcoinsthings, for the purposes of archival:

Coined In Part To Help Describe How A Cubkid May Struggle To Eat When Fronting Or Struggle To Gain Front To Eat. It Helps Describe The Complex Relationship With Food That Comes From Having Those Experiences. The Bear Cub Symbol Is Meant To Offer A More Lighthearted And Pleasant Imagery Compared To The Trauma This Headmate Holds. Along With Referencing The Amount Of Care That This Headmate Might Need To Be Able To Eat Properly Similarly To How A Real Bear Cub Needs Over A Year With Their Mother Before They're Ready To Do Things On Their Own.

✦ "Coined" Sometime Between 11/20/24 & 11/25/24 ✦ Flag Made 11/30/2024 ✦ Posted Sunday, December 1st, 2024 ✦ Program Used - Microsoft Paint ✦ Colors Based Off Of This Palette And The Color #3D251E ✦ Divider Credits - @/archonfurina ✦ Flag / Alt Definition By Us ✦ Coining Post Made Before Ours By The Blog "froth-coins" (Disclaimer: We Did Not Intend To "Recoin" Their Term. Both Terms Were Made Individually Without Knowing About The Others Intentions. Consider This An Alternative.)

✩Cubkid

A Cubkid Is A Role For Littles/Syskids Or Otherwise Other Younger Headmates That Hold Or Carry Trauma Specifically Related To Food. This Can Be Any Sort Of Trauma Relating To Food.

Coined In Part To Help Describe How A Cubkid May Struggle To Eat When Fronting Or Struggle To Gain Front To Eat. It Helps Describe The Complex Relationship With Food That Comes From Having Those Experiences.

The Bear Cub Symbol Is Meant To Offer A More Lighthearted And Pleasant Imagery Compared To The Trauma This Headmate Holds. Along With Referencing The Amount Of Care That This Headmate Might Need To Be Able To Eat Properly Similarly To How A Real Bear Cub Needs Over A Year With Their Mother Before They're Ready To Do Things On Their Own.

✦ "Coined" Sometime Between 11/20/24 & 11/25/24 ✦ Flag Made 11/30/2024 ✦ Posted Sunday, December 1st, 2024

✦ Program Used - Microsoft Paint

✦ Colors Based Off Of This Palette And The Color #3D251E

✦ Divider Credits - @/archonfurina

✦ Flag / Alt Definition By Us

✦ Coining Post Made Before Ours By The Blog "froth-coins" (Disclaimer: We Did Not Intend To "Recoin" Their Term. Both Terms Were Made Individually Without Knowing About The Others Intentions. Consider This An Alternative.)

[dustlines]

Imagining the chaos that would spread if Tumblr had a feature that tracked how many people saw and chose to ignore 0-note posts.