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bluemerakis · 5 months ago

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ skin covered in ego ❞

❝ all the stars ── ၊၊||၊|။||||။၊| ── kendrick lamar ft. sza ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem!supe!reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, dual pov, angst, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v, fluff, just sappy drama actually. pls lmk if i forgot any :)

synopsis ─ a retrospect of how soldier boy meets his saving grace—a superhero he’d been forcibly co-partnered with during payback’s prime. throughout their time spent together, she helps to refine all the fragments of him that have always lingered within, but had lacked the grip to pull together into something whole—respectable. eventually, with her influence, he reinvents his image into a sense of self he can claim without pre-programmed shame, and in the process, he discovers just how pivotal her existence is within his formerly, self-centred universe.

word count ~ 9.2k

based on this fic

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ʿ Skin covered in egoʾ

Vought-American’s council room felt suffocated with the aged, bronze statues looming in every corner of the space—a dramatic glorification of countless Vought-owned Supes, both old and new alike, that you’d neglected to learn the names of. Like honourable guards, they perched on their metal posts with watchful eyes meant to convey a sense of security and comfort. But instead, the weight of their rusted, faux eyes compressed your lungs to the point of shallow, jittery breaths, and the impressive height on them made you feel belittled. Judged.

Misplaced—like you’d never measure up to all the virtues of Supe life that their metal forms had come to embody.

The unwelcoming, inanimate atmosphere was only given a certain life by the company’s executives, who’d personally received you at the doors and guided you into this room. But there’d been no genuine sentiment beyond professionalism to warm their welcoming smiles, and every advance they’d made in becoming better acquainted with you had felt orchestrated—robotic. It’d done little to soothe your unease, and everything to feed the mental monster fear-mongering your better judgement.

Now, in the midst of the council room, the executives were fanned out all around you in a formation that should’ve made you feel caged in—like you were about to be fed to something far worse than the statues’ lingering jaws of judgement. But even then, you didn’t seize any wise instinct to flee. You felt immobilised by dread—the dread plaguing the idea of new beginnings. Your new beginning as Payback’s newest, super-abled member.

The title should’ve left you feeling honoured. Where you should’ve celebrated the letter housing the formal invitation, you mourned the loss of the comforts you’d come to call home. Where you should’ve marvelled at the idea of getting to work with Vought-American’s renowned Supe team, you harboured only a nagging fear of never measuring up to their standards. Where excitement should’ve imploded within at the mere idea of meeting the Soldier Boy, only panic arrived to brace every inch of your mind.

You were terrified.

And what didn’t help your rattled lungs was the way the doors to the room seemed to part with a dramatised creak, displacing the tense silence momentarily—only to replace it with an overwhelming air of self-righteousness as the man you dreaded meeting finally strode into the room. It was as though all the air in the room parted and pressed up against the walls to accommodate his demanding existence, and all at the expense of everybody else unlucky enough to share the space.

Clad in the iconic green uniform you’d seen advertised across countless costume stores, Soldier Boy marched a line that drew directly toward you. His jaw was perched on some invisible stage of importance, his hardened eyes finding yours in a cynical standoff. His broad shoulders were braced with a practiced composure as he covered the length of the floor, and it only added to the overwhelming demeanour you were sure he’d forged for the sole purpose of intimidating everybody below his pay grade.

As he drew up before your waiting form, you found yourself rooted to the spot—frozen with the uncertainty of how to approach the figure you’d come to know as America’s icon. But thankfully, you were shielded from Soldier Boy’s grilling glare as the executives all around you stirred, taking turns to greet the leader of Payback with more enthusiasm than they’d showed you.

You took that moment to gather your wit, but your attention didn’t falter from Soldier Boy, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he came off as a dull, painful contrast to his bustling higher-ups. He seemed disinterested, gloved hand outstretched to deliver curt, half-hearted shakes—if only to fulfil the duty of formalities that must’ve come hand-in-hand with his position of import. It was so unlike the charming and chatty persona you’d grown used to seeing through on-screen commercial airings, but his aloofness didn’t seem to phase the executives.

It shouldn’t have surprised you, either. Meeting your heroes never went to plan. Reality wasn’t something that could be as carefully scripted as the faux media aired from every corner of America—and like that, you knew that Soldier Boy’s cheery personality was all an act. It’d fooled you, that’s for sure.

As you stood there, unable to tear your gaze away from America’s Sweetheart, you couldn’t help but seize the close-up company to study every detail about him—his sharp features rigged with enough tension to fuel an army, the captivating green of his eyes framed with a hard stare, and the soft, light brown hair that seemed to effortlessly catch the room’s light. And yet, for the long-standing reputation of war he’d forged his name within, there was not a single scar carved into his fair skin to reflect the records. But it didn’t make him less rough and raw.

And admittedly, he was breathtakingly beautiful—like he was made to be more of a God than a disciple.

Everything about him laid a siege on your lungs—made breathing the same air as him feel impossible. But you were forced to adapt when his attention finally forsook the executives to pin you down, and for a second, you saw him squint with a curiosity that mirrored your own. But the fraction of transparency he’d let weaken his carefully-curated mask was blinked away before he furthered his advance on you, effortlessly clearing a line through the loitering executives.

Subconsciously, you held your breath as you watched his taller frame stagger up to you. He drew up before you with an arm’s length of space to spare, the shy space breaching your bodies quickly becoming infused with his strong cologne. His gaze was intense as he searched between your features—enough of a silent interrogation to make your skin crawl with the urge to buckle your head. But you didn’t. You feigned bravery by holding his quiet challenge with a fragile determination, just hoping that he didn’t catch the subtle bop of your throat.

Your apparent boldness must’ve been an amusing feat on your part because the corner of Soldier Boy’s lips hitched with a light smirk. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything, but it did everything to thicken the air circulating between your faces. You wished he knew what was going through his mind as he scrutinised what felt like every inch of your face. It was intense—slightly uncomfortable, but you continued to hold his attention out of a petty need to prevail. Your head only buckled to shed his glare when movement on his part caught your eye, his hand finally neglecting his formation to lift in the offer of a greeting.

“What’s your name?” He asked—the sound unexpectedly sonorous. Dulcet. Composed. It’s not an octave you’ve ever heard broadcasted across the radio—so you figured it must’ve been a genuine detail about him. Something worth remembering.

Hesitantly, you reached out your own hand, drawing it rigid to still the nerves before you slid your fingers across his palm. Instantly, his own fingers seized your hand in a firm grasp—but he didn’t shake on it. It made you lift your head with mildly-alarmed curiosity, and when you met his gaze once more, you saw that same look of scrutiny he’d branded you with upon his arrival.

“Does the mouth on you talk, or’s it only there for the sake o’ pretty smiles? Which you still haven’t graced me with, by the way,” He said smoothly, features now polished with the same charm he often weaponised amongst his fans—as if you were some fangirl he’d expected to swoon under his influence.

You uttered a mental scoff at that. You’d be damned to let Soldier Boy believe your otherwise muteness was owed entirely to his presence—and while it definitely played a role, it wasn’t the singular circumstance holding your tongue hostage. Today had been extremely overwhelming. Draining. It had put a damper on your mood—and clearly made you come across as a meek thing star-struck into silence. But you were far from it, and if you were to work alongside Soldier Boy for the foreseeable years to come, you’d rather not have his first impression of you be a doting fangirl.

You firmed up your own grip on his hand, which the Supe acknowledged with a hitch of his brows and a subtle jut of his lower lip. “She speaks,” you replied eventually, thankful that the sound was clear and not breached by a quiver. “And she smiles when she’s smiled at, which I don’t seem to remember you doing, either,” you added with a certain spunk.

Soldier Boy grinned at that—perfect, white teeth blooming into view. But it didn’t last long, and it certainly wasn’t as authentic as the action was made to be. It quickly simmered into a laxity of his jaw, tongue poking out to drag across his lower lip—like he was attempting to understand you. “Alright,” he conceded ambiguously, his grip on your palm unrelenting. “Fair enough—and if you’re goin’ to be joinin’ my team, you better keep on makin’ points as valid as that,” he huffed half-heartedly, eyes making a bold dip toward your lips. “And some more,” he muttered distractedly.

You pretended not to notice his wandering, flirtatious eyes, your own gaze steadfast at eye level despite the faint hint of self-consciousness burning your body hot. “Our team,” you corrected thickly, which made the Supe’s attention snap back to you with a newfound focus that banished his play-boyish desires from existence.

“The hell you mean our team?” Soldier Boy demanded tensely, his voice roughened with a note of disapproval as he finally released your palm in disdain—like he’d touched something revolting. But he didn’t wait for your answer as his head swivelled to drink in the idling executives, and the glare on him must’ve been scathing because a few of them were instantly averting their attention—like students who didn’t want to be picked on by the prying teacher.

You watched the Supe retreat a stride as he sought to confront the only people in the room with more power than him—in title, at least. If it came down to getting physical, god bless their souls.

“The fuck is she on ‘bout, huh?” He snapped, his voice resonating across the room. “Payback’s mine—I built this team up from the fuckin’ ground. I own each and every one o’ those sorry shits—turned them into somethin’ worth a damn! So if you think I’m just gonna step aside and let some dreamy-eyed rookie take the credit, you better think again—or somebody’s gettin’ their useless fuckin’ head bashed in.”

You grimaced at the temper on him. It took one hell of an ego to speak so confidently about one’s ability’s, and you didn’t doubt Soldier Boy harboured enough of it to represent the entire male population. It made you wonder how his super suit could contain all six feet of it.

The executives had warned you about his temper prior to this meeting, and the likelihood of an outburst once the news finally reached him. You’d taken it with a grain of salt—unconvinced that the leader of Payback could be so comparable with a teenager grappling with puberty—but as you stood observing his slightly feral stance, you decided, then, that you’d seen it all.

Feeling as though you should have some say in this—being a new addition to the team in question—you cleared your throat with enough purpose to turn all the heads in the room. Soldier Boy abided last, as though it was a mockery of his importance to spare you the light of day. The Supe turned his body fully to face you, and the displeasure radiating from his rigid stance made you clench your jaw with careful consideration. The last thing you wanted was to ruffle his invisible cape the wrong way. You didn’t need that sort of drama on your first day—and you certainly had zero desire to entertain a feud that would taint the rest of your days with Vought-American.

You offered Soldier Boy a tiny nod of thanks—a peace-offering, but the Supe merely lifted his chin, as though undecided on his standpoint with you. You took your lower lip into a brief bite before releasing it with the first clause of your peace-treaty.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” you began lightly, taking a few steps toward him until you were returned to the personal vicinity from before.

“That so?” He mocked bitterly, watched you with careful eyes almost turned scornful. But he didn’t falter an inch from his position, so you figured that he was listening, anyway.

You lifted your hands in a steadying gesture. “Look, I’m not here to steal your spotlight—”

“Nobody’s stealin’ my spotlight, sweetheart,” he cut in with a scathing huff, and an equally heartfelt frown to accompany it.

Your nostrils flared with a breath of patience, providing the pause you needed to reason against the urge to strangle him. “Like I said,” you continued tensely. “Not here to steal your spotlight. The only reason Vought decided to recruit me is because I’ve been gaining attention with my most recent feat—”

“Yeah?” He interjected, arms coming up in a cross as his head tilted with the slightest interest—but somehow, it still felt like a mock. “And what’d ya do to get on Vought’s radar? Campaign for the destructive feminists? Screamin’ some free the nipple bull-shit at the top o’ your lungs?” He paused at that, lips drawing into a slight pout as his eyes flickered skyward. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he made some silent concession. “On second thought, they might be onto somethin’ with that,” he stated, eyes finding yours in a mischievous squint—like he sought to get a rise out of you.

You weren’t going to let him rub your hair the wrong way, so you disregarded that comment entirely—but it didn’t stop the word dick from blaring at the back of your mind. “It was a fire,” you clarified, which apparently was a detail mundane enough to make Soldier Boy’s lips draw back with disinterest. “Started in the park of a neighbourhood I used to patrol frequently. Burned right through to the nearest house, and the family got caught inside. Parents and three kids—one barely old enough to walk.”

As the Supe listened, the judgmental furrow in his brow didn’t relent, but there was some new interest to his attention because his chin jerked in your direction. “So?” He prompted. “What’d you do—tell it to fuck off? You a wind-whisperer or somethin’?”

Far from a wind-whisperer, but I know a few ways to tell you to fuck off, you remarked silently. Your tongue poked at the inside of your cheek in a summons of patience. “It’s easier to show than tell,” you said tensely, the explanation so ambiguous that Soldier Boy frowned questioningly.

“Well, we don’t got all fuckin’ da—” his words caught in his throat as he sputtered on some invisible lump, his arms uncrossing in a state of panic. Almost instantly, his cheeks flushed with a deep red only elicited by a lack of air, and the veins usually tracing his temple in secrecy now bulged with a concerning thickness. His eyes—bloodshot in the state of his asphyxiation—flickered to you with a primal fear that you didn’t believe he’d ever worn, before his attention dropped to the hand you’d brought up in a focused clench.

Decidedly satisfied with your display, you relaxed your flexed fingers, and it was the singular permission that the Supe needed to draw in a large bout of air, his chest rattling with a series of coarse coughs. He staggered over slightly, but caught himself just in time to remain respectable.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he choked out, frown lines carved into his forehead as he lifted his head to glare at you past stray strands of his bangs—freshly escaped from the prison of his collected hairdo. “Alright. . .” He murmured hoarsely, fashioning caution—and wiser words—as he straightened to full height and faced you once more. “I’ll admit, that’s not the worst parlour trick.” You knew that it was Soldier Boy for that was impressive, so you accepted it with a satisfied jut of your chin. Then, the Supe’s index finger lifted in your direction in a stern scolding. “But don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned.

You smirked at that, crossing your arms with the intent to negotiate. “Stop doubting my capabilities and I won’t have to,” you countered smugly.

Soldier Boy glanced around the room with a clenched jaw, as though unhappy with his dwindling sense of control, before turning to face you again. “Yeah, whatever,” he relented with a sniff, but you could have sworn that there was a shade of red still lingering in his cheeks. “So I take it you choked the shit outta that fire, too?”

“Mhm. Saved the whole family. Some guy saw the whole thing and reported it to. . . whoever the hell makes things like this happen. Next thing I knew, a Vought-American letter’s in my mailbox. Apparently, I left quite an impression on the public, and they thought it’d be good for the scores—having me partner up with the Soldier Boy.“

“The public is gonna love it!” One of the executives chimed in eagerly, as though seizing the opportunity to quench the lead Supe’s ruffled fire once and for all. But when Soldier Boy slowly turned to cast him a glare, he wilted back into silence.

Turning back to you, the Supe scoffed. “What—so we’d be like America’s next, hottest couple?”

You paused at that, mulling over the title. Admittedly, it had a certain ring to it. “You could put it that way,” you said thoughtfully. “Because if there’s one thing this country loves—it’s Supe scandals.”

For the first time, the lead Supe showcased an emotion other than scorn and condemnation—he laughed, genuinely laughed. “Ain’t that the goddamn truth,” he agreed gruffly, head briefly tilted to the ground as he considered your words with ridicule. “God bless fuckin’ America.” Then, he lifted his eyes to you, and they softened with just enough tolerance to come off as respect. “Whaddya say then?” He asked. “Ready to take on the role, sweetheart?” There was the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips—like he was eager awaiting your reply.

“First of all, drop the sweetheart thing,” you told him flatly. “It’s not flattering, and it’s certainly not the panty-dropper you think it is.”

Soldier Boy’s brows lifted with brief offence at being called out, but then his chin dipped in surrender. “Fine. You got somethin’ else you prefer? Cause you still haven’t told me your name.” His eyes glinted with something mischievous as he added, “sweetheart.”

With a light shake of your head and a weakly amused smile, you offered him your name. He rolled it over his tongue once or twice, then winked in acknowledgment once he’d mentally marked it down.

“A beautiful name, but I still think sweetheart suits ya,” he wondered aloud.

You couldn’t help but smile at the nerve of the Supe. He’s attractive—he knew it, and so did you. And you also couldn’t deny the way some primal part of you seemed to flutter at his attention, but you were wise enough to know that it wasn’t exclusive—nothing ever was when it came to him. “Well, I guess it’s a shame that you’ve named every other woman you come across sweetheart,” you scoffed.

Soldier Boy’s smirk deepened, like he enjoyed your nerve. “What—you callin’ me some sorta floozy?”

You shrugged innocently. “If you really have to ask that, I think you know the answer.”

His chest rattled with a chuckle—you figured you should’ve started a tally of all the times you got the Supe to laugh. You might’ve been able to pawn it off to some museum showcasing historical events to behold.

“Yeah, alright,” he murmured half to himself, then sobered his attention as he cast you a scheming glance. “Just one last thing,” he said.

“What?”

Soldier Boy leaned into your vicinity—close enough to feel his breath flush your nose with warmth. “Think you can handle being tethered to my side ‘round the clock?” He murmured lowly, a smug smirk poking through as he eyed you like an object of desire.

You braced your chin with a boldness to match his. “Can you handle me?” You countered levelly, arms coming up in a cross as you searched his sultry stare.

“Damn right I can,” he murmured even softer than before—more like drawled, but it was no less intense. His attention snagged on the view of your lips for a few, hot seconds before fluttering back up to your eyes.

You stole your own glance of his lips, and you wandered whether they were good for anything other than offending every person he came across. “Really? Sure I won’t take your breath away?” You jabbed lightly, casting him a heavy-lidded stare.

Air jetted through his nostrils in an amused sound, his tongue poking through to sweep across his lips. “You already have,” he admitted with a heavy stare. “And I don’t think you’re quite finished yet, either.”

Those words took you by surprise, your head recoiling a measly centimetre, but Soldier Boy seemed perfectly content with his choice of words—unmoved by your reaction. With a mildly flustered swallow, you shook your head lightly. “You’re trouble, Soldier Boy,” you remarked carefully, but a fraction of a smile still managed to slip through.

“Ben,” he corrected, lips wound thin with a devilish smirk. “And you may be right—but I’m all the right kinds of trouble, sweetheart.”

ʿ Get to talkin', I get involved, like a rebound

Got no end game, got no result, got to stay downʾ

The first week at Vought-American had been quiet on the mission front, so you’d spent most of your time exploring the compound, though not without unsuccessfully shaking Ben’s company. More often than not, the lead Supe got his fill of entertainment by trailing around after you like a sheet of toilet paper you’d accidentally tracked from the bathroom. It drove you insane, but he was relentlessly clingy, so he’d gotten his way and stuck around.

And what made it worse, was that—against your will, you’d come to tolerate him. But as the weeks turned to months, tolerate became appreciate, and it wasn’t long before appreciate became crave. Coming to terms with the fact that you actually sought out Ben’s company had been a jarring moment in your character arc. You’d made yourself the promise—when it all began—not to let the faux title of America’s Power Couple influence your heart. But beneath all the Supe makeup, you hosted a very human heart that thumped loud and clear, and it was the ultimate weak link that betrayed your own.

You’d tried hard to fight the urges that had jumped you without any prior warning, but it felt impossible to escape when you were attached to his hip every other day—if not to cover one another in adrenaline-worthy missions, then to pose for the camera as the duo that America had come to adore. The news of your partnership had taken to the headlines almost immediately, and it meant that there was no going back on it—meant that you truly were stuck with him now.

Most of the public had voiced their adoration for your relationship, and as part of the act to make it believable, Vought had sent you both to events as a couple forced to act in love. There were shared hugs, hands draped across your waist during idle chatter, glances exchanged with intense passion, and lips contacting with a point to prove—and it’d all made it difficult for you to not join in on the public’s swooning.

In stark contrast to your own, very clear struggle with the push on professional boundaries, Ben seemed elated by it all. Marvelled in it, even. He seized every opportunity to make casual remarks that burned your cheeks hot, or made sure to hover his hand a fraction too long when lightening the load on your palms. He could see right through you, and he’d made true on his word to pose the trouble he’d warned you of.

One night, he’d taken it a step—one giant leap further.

After a late night, last minute meeting with the executives, you and Ben had exited the room in tandem, and it wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere past walking you back to your suite. But it did. It did—from the moment he cut in front of you with an earnest look morphing the features you’d come to memorise in the midst of your growing infatuation. And it did when he took the step that pressed your bodies close together, exchanging heat like a symbiosis that had always meant to exist. And it did when his hand came up to frame your jaw with a gentleness you’d never seen him practice, his lips lowering onto yours with a point that invalided your every pre-conceived notion on his capabilities.

You should have pulled away—if you’d known what was good for you because you knew that Ben was no role model for long-term commitments. And you knew that your heart would be the first to find that out somewhere down the line. But because you chose to listen to what was good for your body, instead, you pressed your lips against his with a force that made you an equal accomplice to bad decisions.

You should have pulled away, but you didn’t.

ʿ It's the way that you making me feel like nobody ever loved me

Like you do, you doʾ

The door to Ben’s suite slammed closed behind you before his hands seized your waist firmly, his lips hot on the trail to provide all the reinforcement needed to corner you against the nearest wall. With a passionate lack of care, the length of your back was pressed flush against the cement as his palms glided over the meat of your hips, squeezing the anatomy with an appreciative firmness before they glided to the underside of your thighs.

His lips feuded with your own in a sloppy and heated make out, then dipped into the divot of your chin when he buckled an inch to gather the momentum needed to hoist you up. Your arms instinctually found his neck in a vice grip, legs coming up to wrap around his waist as he successfully—and effortlessly—lifted you into his grasp. His head leaned back into yours to slur a brief kiss across your lips, large palms tightening around your thighs as he turned and steered the both of you toward the nearest sofa.

You were blind to where the sofa began, but Ben lowered your form just enough for the armrest to graze the small of your back before you were tossed a very short distance into the cushioned length of the couch. The thud of your back against the sofa knocked a breath from your lungs, but you weren’t afforded the chance to replenish it before the Supe came crashing down on you with one motive in mind: devouring you.

His lips crashed into yours once more, one hand curling around your nape, tussling your hair as he pressed you further into his famished lips, while the other skilfully worked at undressing you. And it wasn’t long before he was dragging a wet trail of kisses down the arch of your neck, around each perked bud of your breasts, and down the line of your abdomen.

“Fuck, Ben, it feels so good,” you breathed out appreciatively, head burrowing back into the sofa and toes curling into the material as he flicked and dragged his tongue through your folds—tracing all sorts of patterns he’d perfected through prior experiences you’d chosen to bar from your mind.

His tongue was rough—impatient, and it did a splendid job at summoning your high. But his hands trapped your thighs against the sofa to deny the buck of your hips that would’ve given you the last push you needed to fall into the abyss of pleasure, and before you could complain, he pulled you up at the wrist and spun you around.

Positioned ass up and face down, he smoothed over the skin of your ass with an appreciative hum. “You look good like this, sweetheart,” he remarked crassly—only because he knew it’d burn you the darkest shade of red. And it wasn’t long before he slid himself into your welcoming entrance, his thrusts driven with by purpose—rough, quick and straight to the point.

He fanned a hand over the small of your back, pressing you further into the sofa while the other found firm grip at your hip. The space was filled with a raw skin-on-skin percussion that sounded primal—shameful, almost, but you were so far lost to the drilling of his tip against your cervix that you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You craved him—craved the way he made you feel. And you showed him through the slurred moans pouring from your mouth with every snap of his hips against you.

His broad chest pressed against your bare back as he brought himself to your ear. “Jesus, you’re somethin’,” he growled, his thrusts intensifying to the point of flattening your lower half against the sofa. “You’re everythin’,” he husked against your hair, one hand coming up to wrap around the front of your neck while the other tightened into a bruise-worthy grip at your hip, and as he pummelled you into the cushions, all you could think about was how you never wanted this to end—and you also hoped that the sofa wouldn’t break.

ʿ You kinda feel like you tryin' to get away from me

If you do, I won't moveʾ

You counted another night in Ben’s bed, where raked your gaze over his sleeping form, and it marvelled you that he could look so at peace with himself—with life. In waking times, where he constantly barrelled from one mission to the other, he gave the sort of impression that he didn’t know a second of peace—like he’d been made solely for war and conflict. So seeing him like this—it warmed something inside of you. But the feeling didn’t linger when you swallowed thickly with a guilty realisation.

You’d lied to yourself.

What was supposed to be a once-off, one-night stand had turned to weeks of ritualistic, late-night visits. Almost every other night, you and Ben were tackling one another—a battle of bodies and orgasms. It wasn’t supposed to go beyond that first night—and once it did, you’d told yourself that it wasn’t supposed to go beyond a physical relationship.

But it had—for you, at least. You hadn’t exactly had the nerve to ask Ben whether he saw you as anything more than a warm body to pass time—didn’t think you could handle that punch to the gut. But it’d been slowly eating you up inside—the uncertainty of it all.

Deciding that it wasn’t tonight’s problem, you cosied up beside his sleeping form, eyes drifting closed to summon a sleep that would quell your mental misery. It took a while, and after a few tosses and turns, you’d settled in with your back facing Ben. And at some point—just as you started to swoon with the first glimpse of dreams—Ben’s hand shifted to wrap around your waist. That singular action provided all the comfort you needed to slip off into easy dreams.

The days following that night had taken a complete detour in energy. Ben had been uncharacteristically distant and curt—almost as though he’d reverted back to the hardened persona you’d thought you’d worked your way through with the weeks spent at Vought—with the time spent at his side. You had no concrete idea on what had installed the distance between you, but you suspected that the Supe had come to realise the feelings you bore for him outside of a night of fun.

It must’ve deterred him because he kept your every interaction short—filled with nothing but droning reports and information about the next missions to come. It was agonising to endure, and you wanted nothing more than to go back to the way things had been before.

But they didn’t.

Back in the warmer days—prior to the current, cold ones that currently hosted you both as strangers—you would find Ben waiting outside your door, craving more than what your body had to offer him. Company, chatter that wasn’t rehearsed down to the last line, and friendship. He didn’t have many friends—you’d once told him that directly in the heat of an argument, but hadn’t looked too marred by it. Despite his ego, he could admit that he wasn’t the easiest person to tolerate.

But you had learnt to, and maybe that had played a role in morphing your relationship of pleasure into a relationship of the mind, body and soul—all at once. And you realised then, that maybe Ben did share all of your finer feelings. It would certainly explained the way he’d suddenly turned his back on everything you’d once shared. As much as you wanted to chase after him with the question armed at the ready, eager to gun down the excruciating tension, you chose to offer your surrender, instead.

Ben wouldn’t come around with your pestering. He had his own things to figure out. And when he did, you could only hope he’d take the initiative of returning to you—unshielded, unhardened, vulnerable. That he’d acknowledge the truth that hung over both your heads like a brooding storm cloud—the truth that what had started out as a hollow title of professionalism had been filled to the brim with countless banter, near-death experiences, and shared warmth that warranted a type of closeness only this lifestyle could provoke.

That you were more than partners—more than two people playing make believe for the public eye.

That you were in love.

You could only wait and hope that he’d see it, feel it, and own it.

ʿ I just cry for no reason, l just pray for no reasonʾ

On the drive to the next mission, the vehicle’s air was thick with tension. Ben manned the driver seat, so there wasn’t much opportunity for his stare to forsake the road ahead—but when it did, it never lingered on you for more than a second.

He gave nothing away, either. He’d gone back to being as mysterious as when you’d first met him, and it made your heart ache. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, head turned to gaze out of the window as though it could shun the taunting reality into non-existence—but it didn’t.

Each passing second of silence weighed heavier than the next, and Ben said nothing, did nothing to alleviate the crushing force of it. So all you could do, as you found yourself drinking in the buildings and trees whisking across your vision, was hope and pray that he’d live up to his title, act the soldier and put an end to this misery by confessing his feelings for you.

But you couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that it was a day you’d never come to outlive.

ʿ I give thanks for the day

For the hours and another way, another life breathin'ʾ

The mission had taken every wrong turn possible, and you’d been caught in the cross-fire of the enemy’s newest anti-supe contraption that had left you severely wounded—injuries that not even your super-abled body could resolve.

Your vision was mostly blurred with the severe bloodloss, so you couldn’t make sense of the shapes whisking past your vision as medics carried you through Vought’s compound. The pain festering at multiple sites upon your body was debilitating and brutal, almost enough of a force to persuade you into letting go of life entirely—but a hand kept you grounded, tethered, through the dragged out minutes that it took to set you down on that operating table.

Ben’s frantic face appeared in front of yours, but most detail of his features were lost to your disorientation. His lips moved with words that sounded distant, and your face scrunched with the frail effort to try and perceive them—but you couldn’t. Darkness began pressing at the corners of your vision, threatening to drag you into a sleep that had no return. You caught the way one of the assistant’s placed a hand onto Ben’s shoulder, tugging at him with a passion that the Supe didn’t permit—if evident by the way he straightened up to send his fist flying into the assistant’s face.

Guards showed up to contain him, and he cast you one last glance with a mouth gaped around a shout you couldn’t acknowledge. You wanted to reach out to him, to tell him you’d be okay, but you couldn’t. The world weighed heavy on you now, blanketing you with a darkness that felt comforting—tempting you into fluttering your eyes closed for a much needed break.

And you listened.

For a while, there was nothing. You floated through endless, dark matter, ceasing to exist in the bottomless space. And then a light beamed through, so blinding that your eyes screwed shut to avert the assault, and when you opened them again, you were greeted with the view of Vought’s hospital. You blinked many times, fighting off the haze that had consumed you for god knows how long, and when you finally mustered up the strength to lift your head, you found Ben nestled at the side of your bed.

His cheek was settled into the cross of his arms, his eyes sown shut in a steady sleep. You don’t know how long you’d been asleep, and how long he’d been camping it out beside your comatose form, but what you did know, is that you were thankful to have survived the whole ordeal. Thankful to see another day—to see Ben here with you.

With great effort, you reached out a hand to brush through his hair—and he’d always been a light sleeper, but this time, he didn’t stir. Not immediately, at least. It took a few surfs of your hand through hair before his eyes fluttered open to drink you in, and it was then that you noticed just how deep the skin beneath his eyes had sunken—as though the wait he’d endured to acquaint you in the land of the living once more had burned through everything that he was. Exhausted him to the point of a humanly slumber.

Instantly, Ben collected himself into a sit, hand reaching to grab yours fiercely. “You’re okay,” he breathed, his green eyes brimming with raw relief, and slightly teary along the edges. “Jesus, I thought I’d lost you,” he choked out gruffly, jaw clenching around his worst fear.

You smiled weakly, warmly, sympathising with his pain as your own eyes grew teary. “I’m right here,” you murmured meekly, your voice cracking with the prolonged disuse. “I’m not going anywhere,” you added in a soft, broken whisper.

Ben’s composure cracked at that, and instead of responding with words he had no experience utilising, he leaned himself toward you to place a chaste kiss on your forehead. When he pulled back to gaze at you, something in his expression shifted, and he felt compelled to speak, anyways.

“You wouldn’t stand a damn chance, anyway, ‘cause I’d follow you all the way to the edge of the earth—holdin’ that fuckin’ lifeline that’s keepin’ you tethered to a sorry dick like me. ‘Cause I’m selfish—and ‘cause I’m nothin’ worth a damn without you.”

Your heart imploded at that, the tears that had been idling about your eyes now cascading down your cheeks uncontrolled. Ben’s hands shifted to cradle your face with an unfamiliar tenderness—one that you could, and would, grow accustomed to—as he leaned himself down to place a kiss on your lips.

When he came face to face with you once more, his eyes brimmed with adoration. “Fuckin’ hell, I love you—I do. I’ve been a real pussy ‘bout it these last few weeks, but I do,” he murmured.

“I know,” you told him gently, leaning your cheek further into his hold. “I’ve always known—I just needed you to be the first to say it. You needed to decide what you wanted for yourself—”

“You,” he cut in instantly, earnestly. “You—god, you’re all I want. Nothin’ else—nobody else.”

You smiled weakly at that. “Then I’m all yours.”

ʿ I did it all 'cause it feel good

But wouldn't do it all if it feel bad

Your recovery was slow, but Ben had been by your side through it all, handing off missions to the rest of Payback while he nursed you back to full health within the comforts of his suite. Nothing you asked of him was ever too much, and it made you burn with a newfound love for him—made you fall in love with him all over again.

Better live your life

We are running out of timeʾ

Little did you know that the next mission to come would be as heart-breaking as the last. You and Ben had gotten split up in the midst of Niaguara, and the gunfire was so heavy that you’d lost tabs on his whereabouts during your attempt to take cover. All around you, bullets whisked through the air. It was defeaning—overwhelming, and you almost thought it’d never end short of claiming your life.

And then the scene around you only intensified when an aircraft suddenly blared overhead, and your head tilted back against the brick wall shielding you from death as you tried to get a glimpse of the structure. But when you saw what dangled from the aircraft—a contraption immobilising and holding Ben’s unconscious form captive, your heart seized up on the spot with such panic that a bullet might as well have pierced right through it, ending all that you were.

And you almost wish it did—that you’d been put out of your misery right there and then because as you watched the aircraft grow smaller with the distance, you weren’t sure you’d ever see Ben again.

And like he’d told you back at the hospital—that wasn’t a life worth living

ʿ Love, let's talk about love

Is it anything and everything you hoped for?ʾ

As soon as you’d recouped with the rest of Payback, they’d enlightened you on who the aircraft belonged to—that is was the Russians that had kidnapped Ben. It sparked some sort of hope within you, knowing that you had a lead to follow, and you’d taken it upon yourself that evening to plan out his rescue with Vought’s executives.

It was then that the jarring truth of it all had been revealed, that Ben’s kidnap had been staged by the company—and Payback—itself. You’d been outraged and overcome with an anger you hadn’t thought yourself capable of, doing something regrettable in the process.

It all happened so fast—your hand curling into a fist that drained the lungs of the closet executive to the point of no return. It only hit you once his body dropped to the floor, never to stir again despite the remaining, panicked executives rushing to his aids. And they’d cast you horrified stares, something that told you you were done for if you didn’t make a run for it now—so you did.

You didn’t look back as you fleed the compound, not once, but you made a beeline toward an office you knew held all the information of Vought’s dirty secrets, adding another body or two to your fatality count to acquire the files that would lead you directly to the Russian compound holding Ben captive.

The journey there had been a hassle, almost enough to make you want to give up—but then you pictured how helpless and afraid Ben must’ve felt, and it fuelled you with the power you needed to keep on going. You needed to see him again. You would see him again.

You’d managed to gain access to the compound under the alias of a compound v scientist, and given your very real knowledge and experience on the sciences, it was an easy role to assume—and one that brought you all the more closer to seeing Ben again.

But the circumstances of your reunion was far from ideal—Ben strapped to an experimenting table while a lab assistant approached you presenting a vile of poison you were to inject into his veins, all without a single guess about what it’d do to him. How it’d completely remake him. But you did it, anyway because your compliance meant building trust with the Russians, and trust paved way toward power—influence. And that meant that you could take control of these sessions—keep him safe.

So you grabbed the needle and approached Ben, who drank you in with an amalgamation of relief, betrayal and fear all at once. But the minute you sank that needle into his arm—all his emotions sobered up into one, single thing. Hatred. And it ate away at everything that you were, and continued to do so in all the years that passed.

But despite the heartbreak, you kept at it—kept on returning with needles of poison you’d modified with just enough care to spare him disastrous side effects, finding solace in that fact to ignore the way each dose completely remade him. You weren’t sure how much of the Soldier Boy you’d come to know and love would be left by the time the Russians concluded the experiment, but you did know that you were doing a necessary evil to keep him safe from something far sinister, should you be taken off the experiment.

And thankfully, that day never came. You’d made contact with a group known as The Boys—who launched the plan to free both yourself and Ben from the compound in exchange for a favour that only Ben could fulfil. Once he’d done it, you were both free to pursue your newfound freedom, and to rekindle the bond that the tragic years had eaten away at. And you were given the chance to explain that everything you’d done to him had been done from a place of love—as fucked up as it sounded.

And it wasn’t a type of love you’d ever dreamt of knowing—of showing him.

ʿ Or do the feeling haunt you?ʾ

Ben watched your lip quiver with the memories of the harmful emotions and experiences that he hadn’t been around to shield you from. The time with the Russians had broken him in every manner physical—all part of the plan to build him up into something far more lethal. But you? You’d been mentally reconstructed.

As you delved deeper into your experience working under the Russians, he listened to you speak with a heaviness he didn’t usually acknowledge—not him, super-abled Soldier Boy, strongest man alive with nary a concept on humanly burdens. Emotional and physical. But the words that slunk from your mouth settled over him like a deadweight that had him feeling—for the first time ever—like he was helpless in escaping it. Like he was weak.

He felt weakened by the guilt of knowing what you had been forced to endure. The strength you’d mustered up in order to stick poisoned needles into his arm, and the strength you’d needed to keep your chin elevated with the memory of the goodness in your heart. And he felt weakened by the guilt of knowing, there and then, just how much you truly loved him.

It was crushing.

He’d never mastered the depths and tides of his emotions, but you’d taught him how to surf the currents with just enough control to remain afloat. And it was a regrettable skill on some days—days like this—where he was forced to feel things he’d perfected the art of ignoring for. Because now, he felt it all.

And it haunted him—the way you love.

The way you love him. The way you’d do anything for him. The way you’d bargained away years of your life to ensure that the years of his were bought and secured. The way you’d once promised you’d stick with him through it all, and the way you’d followed through. Because deep down, he didn’t feel like he deserved any of it.

The guilt of knowing your love—it haunted him.

ʿ I know the feeling haunt youʾ

Ben found his lips wandering every inch of your skin with a need to memorise the taste of your flesh. He pressed kisses the soft apples of your cheeks, to the bridge of your nose, to the fragile sheets of your lids after you’d simmered into a symphony of pleasure. And because he’s greedy, he even found his nose burrowed into the crook of your neck while his lips branded the arch—where he inhaled the scent of you and surfed a wave of ecstasy that put the bona fide drug to shame.

You were an assault on his senses, disorienting every sensible instinct he’d spent years forging. His instincts were critical. They made him strong and driven and deserving of his title as a soldier. But you. . . you were like a foreign scent that had wafted beneath his unassuming nose—a scent that he just couldn’t ignore. A scent that triggered some other, unexplored instinct within him, and it compelled him to blindly follow you. Allowed himself just enough slack to be consumed by you.

Once he'd worked his way into the wet warmth between your thighs, his thrusts were slow and sensual. Patient. He wanted to savour every second of you-more like needed to. He gripped one of your thighs with a firm gentleness, the other arm venturing beside your head to prop himself up as he carried his hips toward yours. Your hands curled around the muscle of his biceps in a sensual line, moans spewing from your lips before your palms flattened over the toned contours of his back—nails gripping his flesh to keep yourself grounded against his ascension-worthy movements.

He took his sweet time feeling on, listening to, and indulging you. And once you begged him for more, he delivered. He nurtured your high with a quickened pace, releasing your thigh to join the other you'd wrapped around him. He settled both arms on either side of your head, and there, he hovered himself over your lips, pressing scattered, incomplete kisses to the tender flesh while he focused on the tension connecting—and threatening—to end you both.

“Just like that, Ben,” you breathed into his ear, your hand curling around the nape of his neck, where you clung to him like any other hair embedded within his skin.

“Yeah—I got you,” Ben grunted against your lips, air jetting through the slits of his grit teeth as he endured the overwhelming storm of pleasure. He pressed a firm kiss to the corner of your lips, eyes briefly flickering up to where your expression contorted with each of his thrusts. And he studied everything—the bold furrow of your brows, the lustful haze glazing your eyes, and the way your nose scrunched with every other prod of his manhood. You were breathtaking, and it drove him feral. “I got you,” he repeated—promised.

He felt as the hand you’d furled around his neck drifted up the expanse, fingers ploughing through the field of his hair to entangle with the unruly strands. His eyes fluttered closed—however briefly—at the way you tousled his hair. The sensation was overwhelming, hypnotising—almost enough of a physical persuasion on his shoulders to release a year’s worth of tension. You’d had that effect to you from the moment he’d met you, and somehow, it’d always worked on him.

It wasn't long before you finally let go of yourself, and he tossed a line of his own to match. Then, you were briefly smothered by the weight of his panting form before he rolled himself over to the side and pulled you into his arms. You instantly took to nestling his one arm in the crook of your neck, and his other moved to drape loosely across your waist while you drifted into an instantaneous sleep.

As Ben laid there, curled around the fragile body he’d tucked into the safety of his grip, he felt like he’d been reborn—like the hands the Russians had forged to meld iron could now cradle fragile glass without instilling a single crack. Like he’d been modelled into something—somebody more than his upbringings. Somebody worthy enough to be bestowed with the highest honours of loving you.

It amazed him, really, how you’d unintentionally strolled into his life with zero intention to take up space within it. And yet, you’d managed to selfishly hog every inch of his heart—making him feel things that forced him to reminisce the misery of humanity and feelings. You filled his heart with adrenaline that was unlike any he’d ever hopped himself up on amongst the battlefield. That adrenaline was potent—wired him to flee the dangers constantly gunning for him. But this adrenaline—the type only you could get his heart to muster—it drew him in like a whirlpool that would swallow him whole given the chance.

It made him want to do anything but flee.

Your grit, your wit, and your unwillingness to let him dangle from the rope he’d hung himself from had left more of a mark on him than the binding of his trauma. For once, he actually craved to memorise the lines left behind by the cuffs you’d unknowingly slung around his wrists—tugging him along after you like a dickless mutt begging for some long-lost action. And he blindly followed. He didn’t question it. For once, he didn’t want to question it.

He only wanted you.

God, admitting it made him feel like a goddamn swooning pussy—but you’d once smacked him across the shoulder for saying that aloud. He’d get better at it—the whole holding hands and professing feelings thing. He would. Admittedly, it was difficult following through on a resolution so soft he could have throttled it between two firm fingers—but he’d made you a promise, and it served as an armour that shielded his word against any intrusive impulse he’d allowed to jab at his life for far too long.

As he laid there, savouring the bare warmth of your body pressed against his with every hushed breath, he couldn’t have pictured a more ideal view. He’d once thought it a big, stinking pile of bull that one person could demand everything that you were—that somebody could ever matter that much to warrant his unfaltering devotion. But now, he knew it to be true. He knew it with every glance he stole of you.

The thought of losing you haunted him.

It haunted him with the same fear that the solar system would regard the loss of their sun with—the singular body drawing in and holding everything together. Making it whole. Complete. Functional. In the same way, you’d become a sort of North Star in the black expanse of his heart, orientating the soul he’d thought he’d lost ahold of a long time ago. You kept him grounded and guided. Safe.

And in all that he was and ever would be—everything that you’d thought him capable of—he’d devote it to keeping you safe, too.

Even if it killed him.

Because the thought of having you plucked from his grasp was one that he couldn’t entertain without a debilitating dread. Life without you wouldn’t be truly living—it would be boiled down to fruitless survival. It’d be the misery he’d been trapped in before you came and snagged onto the latch that finally set him free. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t be forced back into that cage.

So, the arm he’d loosely strung around your waist neglected all careful consideration as he pulled you tighter against him. You stirred briefly with a groan so soft and slurred that he might as well have imagined it—but he clung to it like a mantra of just how real this all was. It was selfish, maybe, trapping you against him with a fervour that wouldn’t have him letting up anytime soon—but he did it, anyway.

Ben wasn’t supposed to be human enough to be marred by anything. Physical wounds could scarcely be inflicted, but scars couldn’t be left behind. It was an exhilarating reality—one that made him feel invincible. Fearless. But you—the thought of letting you go, it was unbearable. Crippling. Fear-worthy.

And it haunted him.

──────────────────────

a/n ─ first of all, i was on my sza shit more than usual and the lyrics of this song resonated with me and the sb’s unfinished story i was thinking about. i had always wanted to do some sort of story portrayal for how he and fem!supe!reader met, sooo have this ig?! second of all, i did not forget about wrapping this fic up, i just got severely demotivated and side-tracked. oopsie. i swear i’ll post the last part some day. for now, it’s rotting in my drafts, unedited and with a few gaps that need to be filled. my motivation comes and goes like the auroras, so that’ll come when it comes lmfao. thirdly, i hope you guys enjoyed this. i started out feeling great about this, but i’ve been sitting with a massive migraine as i finished it, so it feels like ive placed words that dont quite click. idk? 🤷‍♀️ also im like 8 followers from 700 so take this as my wtf thank you sm gift!! 😭 this is not proofread bc it’s 1 am and i have class tomorrow so actually i apologise for the horrendous amount of errors you’ve likely come across—i’ll fix it tomorrow, i just wanted to get this out like i promised

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @honeyryewhiskey @florchids @floralscented @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @whisperingdaze @st4rmarley @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @chi-raz @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @beelzebzb

want to become part of the taglist for any future soldier boy works?

other works ─ the boys masterlist

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tianshanb · 8 months ago

Text

A head canon of mine that baby damian was ALLOWED to be a baby. Just with extra assassin trianing.

Like you know those parents that start their kids on sports, or languages, or instruments as babies etc. Talia just started him on assassin training early. But he's just a baby

Cue dmaian walking into training with a pacifier and clutching a blanket.

Just imagine damian with a tiny wooden sword copying the moves of his instructor. Once it's break time, he toddles to the other corner of the room where he plops down on a bunch of pillows and blankets waiting for him, and most importantly, his bottle. Training is tiring he needs a drink 😤

He may also take a nap mid lesson cz he's just a babyyyyy. He brings his favorite plushie to "watch him" when he train. Instead of playing house he plays secret assassin mission with the toys.

As he grows older. 4 to 6 years old. The pacifier is gone by then, and he no longer brings his toys. The new instructor seeing this mature soul in a child body confidently walking up to you with their nose turned up... the illusion is shattered when they open their mouth and half their teeth are missing. Then, mid trianing damian take a drink from their sippy cup thats batman themed (it was a gift from his mama from her latest mission).

Yep just a child.

7 years old is when his training gets super hard. That's the age where your viewed as starting to mature.

I imagine at this age where Ra's is like finally he's old enough to start his real trianing, and Talia is no longer the one responsible for him. This continues to increase in difficulty until he's 9. And shaped off to batfam.

But hoenstly:

Sword trianing?? Imagine this aggressive toddler swinging this sword around. A thing about babies is they LOVEEE swinging shit around, hitting things, throwing things. So training would BE fun.

Eventually he'd had to learn how to break his fall, how to get tackled, etc. Dmaian just sees it as a game and it makes him giggled. KIDS enjoy being tossed around. Like roughhousing is a thing for a reason, the same reason why people throw babies in the air when they play with them.

When he goes to the batfamily. He's just a random 9 year old. One thing about why I can never take the little guy seriously is no matter how intimidating and scary you wbat to seem... your voice will still be that of a child. Another hc is when he's angry he gets on his tippy toes cz he's soo tinyyy. I imagine an argument geting super heated and finally dmaian doing on his toes and suddenly whoever he's arguing with can't take his seriously cz he smol, like this big 👌, and missing some teeth. He has a bed time and can't watch horror movies, like seriously are u arguing with him?

Another thing is Talia had limited screen time and access to devices and technology. She also had parent control on every device. Bruce just does not have that. Dmaian is going to Bruce, and being excited, he's old enough to use a device without parental supervision, or the parent app is so excited that he's seen as a grown-up! (In reality, Bruce just firgot. He never had kids this young with smartphones existing). He's bragging to tim about it one day when bruce overheard, and he's like, hold up a minute.

Extra:

This idea came to me once my friend told me about a student she has. Me and her are tutors and she tutors math. At her centre, there is no specific grade, everyone just advances through the levels as long as they pass the previous level.

In her group, there is this 2 year old toddler who's parents put in tutoring since he was 18 months old. This baby is dropped of by his parents, walking in with a pacifier in his mouth with the clip on to shirt thing. Sometimes in his pj's and sometimes clutching his 'blankie'.

This little dude does advanced algebra. That's right HIGHCHOOL LEVEL ALGEBRA.

He's barely toilet trained 😭 and he asked for help to go to the bathroom, his grip on the pencil is shaky, he still baby talks... but I bet he's better than u at maths.

#baby damian wayne #damian wayne #batfam #batman #talia al ghul #damian wayne centric #hes just a little guy #hes just a baby #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #headcanon #fanfic ideas #damian is smol!#league of assassins #damian al ghul #dc comics #dc

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

Text

𝒱𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓉 𝒱𝑜𝓁𝓉𝒶𝑔𝑒

Authors Note: Hey lovelies! Here is another Met Gala one-shot with Lewis. I absolutely bombed the exam I did today for a subject, so I think I’ll stick with ranking 2nd in Advanced English…Anyway hope you enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: When a rising starlet and Lewis Hamilton share a charged encounter at the Met Gala. One stolen night spirals into a whirlwind of intimacy, headlines, and the possibility of something real behind the glamour.

Warnings: sexual content

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Met Gala had always been a spectacle. But this year, it pulsed with something else. Intention.

The theme “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” was already being heralded as one of the boldest and most meaningful in recent memory.

It wasn’t just fashion. It was reclamation. A symphony of threads and tailoring that spoke of history, joy, diaspora and resistance. Art. Identity. Legacy. This wasn’t a red carpet. It was a runway of remembrance.

And for you, it was your first time attending.

Not your first time being photographed, fame had wrapped itself around you quickly and unapologetically over the last two years.

Your debut album went platinum within months, it’s sound hailed as both sultry and sharp, a new voice shaped from old soul. Then came the film that earned you standing ovations from Cannes to TIFF, your name whispered like a secret the world had just learned to pronounce. You were no stranger to flashbulbs.

But the Met Gala was different. It didn’t care who had a box office hit. It didn’t need a Billboard number one. The Met asked for presence, for interpretation, for myth-making and tonight - you answered.

You arrived alone, by choice.

Your car pulled up to the entrance beneath a wave of glowing cameras, the hum of anticipation already thick in the air. Your stylist gave you one last nod as the door opened, and you stepped out. Planting your heels onto the plush carpet like you were anchoring a story that had waited generations to be told.

The media gasped around you.

You didn’t walk. You glided. Every inch of your obsidian velvet gown caught the light like liquid stone.

It was sculpted, with a high neckline and shoulders sharp enough to cast shadows. The sleeves tapered into long, almost glove like silhouettes and the skirt spilled behind you in organza waves - sheer in certain angles like smoke curling through keyholes. Tiny gold beads were hand sewn into the velvet in patterns that resembled constellations, though only those who knew would recognise them as symbols from African diasporic mythologies. Wisdom. Protection. Transformation.

You were both a woman and a monument. You knew it.

The cameras didn’t stop. They roared. Names were shouted. Flashbulbs erupted like lightning strikes against the buildings facade. You paused mid carpet perfectly and deliberately. You turned your head slightly, and gave them the look. The one they’d put on Vogue’s Instagram within seconds. The one that said, “I’m not here to be seen. I’m here to be remembered.”

And then. you felt it.

Not the flashes, not the crowd. Something else. A shift. Like gravity realigning.

You didn’t see him immediately. You felt him.

It was the kind of awareness that travels through skin before it reaches your eyes. A pull. A hum. Like your name was being whispered in a language you’d never heard, but somehow understood.

And when you turned slow, cautious, like you were afraid it might not be real - he was already watching you.

Lewis Hamilton.

He stood beneath the museum’s lights, mid pose just off centre in a halo of fashion editors and photographers. But he was still. Still in a way that made the rest of the world feel like it was moving too fast.

He wasn’t smiling. But his lips curved like he might. Just for you.

His look was lethal in its elegance. The bespoke cream suit by Wales Bonner hugged his frame like second skin, fluid in cut but firm in posture.

A poetic structure. Gold pins traced the lapel like medals of honor, each representing a Black British. His stack of rings glistened in the light, leaving a spark throughout the room. The chainlink detail around his collarbone caught the light just once as he shifted slightly. Subtle, powerful.

But it was the beret that made him dangerous.

Tucked over his dark braided bun with effortless defiance, it crowned him with quiet authority. He looked like a man who had studied revolution and then tailored it to fit.

And his eyes? They never left you.

For one suspended moment, time held its breath. The sound of voices blurred. The flashes faded to static. There were only two people in the museum’s grand entrance now and one unseen string tying them together across a sea of velvet and marble.

You didn’t look away.

Your chin lifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge him. Just enough to say, “I see you, too.”

His jaw shifted, a slight clench. Not tension, just focus. Like he was memorising you. Like he’d wait through a hundred other introductions just to reach yours.

And then, your cue came.

Your name was called by a nearby handler. The moment still thick with heat shimmered, stretched and finally broke as you walked toward the steps, the hem of your gown dragging galaxies behind you.

You felt his eyes follow.

Even as stylists gathered around him. Even as Anna Wintour herself passed nearby. He watched you ascend the carpet, like you were a prophecy walking into frame.

And for the rest of the night you felt it. Every glance across the exhibit floor. Every quiet step he took in the corner of your eye. The air between you never cooled.

It just waited, patiently for the moment it could ignite.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The rest of the carpet blurred into motion and noise.

You posed, pivoted and smiled on instinct as if your body was moving like a trained rhythm. Your angles memorised from a hundred other carpets.

Yet tonight, every flash of the camera, every shouted question from the press or every click of a stiletto heel beside you felt muffled. Like the world had been draped in velvet too. You floated through the chaos and somewhere beneath it all, his presence still anchored you.

You didn’t have to look to know it, Lewis was still watching.

Across the carpet, he hadn’t moved much. Just a few steps, a brief handshake, the kind of pauses required by social expectation. But even in the blur of celebrity arrivals and camera flashes, the shift in his focus was obvious. Deliberate. Palpable.

"Over here, Lewis!" “Lewis, give us a smile!” “Look left! Look left!”

But he wasn’t really looking at them.

His gaze, unbothered by the frenzy around him kept finding you. Kept staying on you. There was no pretending otherwise.

And social media, as always had clocked it first.

@f1fashiondaily: Is it just us or is Lewis Hamilton absolutely mesmerised by [Y/N] tonight? 👀🔥 #MetGala2025

 @celebwatcher: This year's Met Gala couple we didn’t know we needed??? Hamilton hasn’t stopped staring at her 😭

 @vogueupdates: The velvet, the gaze, the tension. We’re witnessing something ICONIC unfold between Lewis Hamilton and [Y/N].

You stepped inside the museum with a final camera flash at your back and a steadying breath in your lungs. But his eyes, those warm steady eyes, followed you like a hawk.

Inside, the chaos softened.

Candlelight flickered from golden sconces and low arrangements of wildflowers in jewel tones. The museum air hummed with jazz and murmurs and the exhibit hall glowed with reverence. It felt holy, almost. A sanctum of style and ancestry.

You moved slowly, letting your fingers trail near but not quite touching, a hand embroidered kaftan displayed behind glass.

Everything in the exhibit was curated like poetry. Lewis’s touch as co-chair was everywhere. Each mannequin and spotlighted detail whispering something about roots, revolution and remembering.

You were lingering by a Zoot suit, its lapels embroidered with subtle resistance when you felt him again.

Not a sound. Not a brush of fabric. Just a change in the air behind you, warmth.

“That one was my grandfather’s era,” a voice said low and deep behind you. “He used to say that wearing a sharp suit was like putting on armor.”

You turned slowly.

Lewis Hamilton stood just behind you, close enough that you could see the gold threadwork gleaming along the edge of his collar. Close enough that your breath caught before you could stop it.

He was impossibly composed, yet somehow charged. Electricity in human form.

The soft lighting kissed the sharp cut of his jaw, the smooth cream of his tailored suit. That same gold Ghana pin gleamed on his lapel simple, potent. And his scent - spiced vetiver with something rich underneath, wrapped around you like silk smoke.

“Was he into fashion?” you asked, your voice quiet, but steady.

Lewis tilted his head. “He was into dignity. Suits were part of that. Velvet, especially said it looked like royalty if you wore it right.”

His eyes drifted over your dress, deliberate. A slow, admiring pass from collarbone to train. It wasn’t crude. It was reverent.

“He would’ve loved your gown,” Lewis said. “No question.”

You exhaled a small laugh, part surprise, part delight. “Is that a compliment from you, or from him?”

His grin was instant, slow and confident. “Both. But he’d have said it first.”

Something bloomed between you then, not quite flirtation. Something weightier. Deeper.

You turned back toward the exhibit, but he stayed beside you your steps falling into sync. He pointed out pieces with the casual ease of someone deeply involved but never showy. He told you about the designers, the silent icons and the Black tailors who shaped red carpets without ever stepping on one. His knowledge wasn’t performative, it was passionate.

“I’ve never seen someone wear history so casually,” you murmured, eyes still on a piece.

He looked at you, sharp and sudden.

“You’re doing the same,” he said.

The words wrapped around you with a softness that sank straight to your skin. They weren’t a line. They were recognition.

You tried to respond but found yourself tongue tied in a way you hadn’t been in years. So instead, you just walked. Letting the silence between you say what your words couldn’t.

Occasionally, a flash would break through from the corners of the room, photographers grabbing what they could. A few guests glanced over, murmuring as they passed.

But in the space you and Lewis had created, the rest of the world barely existed.

By the time dinner began and seats were assigned, you found yourselves separated. A table and two clusters of celebrities between you. But he found you across the room. Every time you lifted your head, his eyes were waiting.

It became a silent rhythm; Look. Find. Hold. Release.

Like a game. Or maybe a warning.

By dessert, you’d stopped trying to talk yourself out of it.

Later, as music swelled and guests began to migrate toward private afterparties, rooftop lounges or secret downtown clubs. You drifted toward the museum exit. The cool of the evening air was beginning to pull you back to earth. The night had been more than you expected. More than you were ready to let go of.

And then you heard him again.

“Leaving already?”

You turned, and he was there. Framed in shadow and golden hallway light. Hands tucked into the pockets of his cream trousers, his braided bun slightly tousled now beneath the soft dip of his beret. Jaw sharp. Gaze sharper.

You tilted your head. “Thinking about it.”

His eyes skimmed yours for a long moment, unreadable. Then -

“Come to mine instead.”

Your breath caught, not from surprise but from the calm certainty in his voice. There was no arrogance in the offer. Just the same quiet focus you’d seen in him all night.

“To…?”

He stepped a little closer. Not touching. Just near. “My suite. It’s quiet. No cameras. Better view. Champagne that doesn’t taste like regret.”

You raised a brow. “That your standard pitch to everyone tonight?”

His smirk was lazy as he tilted his head, knowing. “Just you.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve laughed and shaken your head, disappeared into the waiting black car outside.

But instead, you stared at him.

At the way his eyes held yours like a promise. At the way the air between you had already decided.

And then, you nodded. Once.

“I’ll come,” you said.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Inside, your body was a riot.

Thoughts blurred into pulses, heat coiling low in your stomach, every glance from Lewis replaying like a highlight reel.

Your skin still burned from the way his hand had brushed your lower back exiting the Met. Or from the slow way his eyes had swept over you during dinner, like he hadn’t already memorised every inch.

Now, in the plush darkness of the SUV the silence between you pulsed with thick tension, magnetic and growing louder with every breath. The soft hum of the engine was the only sound until a curve in the road made your knees brush.

Neither of you moved.

He turned his head slightly, eyes catching yours in the shadow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. There was something loaded in that look. A question. A promise.

When the car pulled into the private entrance of the hotel, it felt like crossing an invisible threshold.

The flashbulbs were gone. The red carpet miles behind you. Here, it was just shadows and soft light and the heavy thud of your heart echoing in your ears.

He held the elevator door with a hand pressed to the metal, letting you step in first. When he followed, the space felt smaller than it should have. Your back was to the mirrored wall, his broad frame taking up too much air. His scent of amber, smoke, something expensive wrapped around you.

Still, no words.

Just that look.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

The penthouse was warm and modern dark wood, creamy walls, floor to ceiling glass revealing a skyline full of flickering lights. Candles flickered along low tables, already lit by some thoughtful assistant. A single jazz record played softly in the background, the needle slipping through honeyed saxophone.

You stood at the window, arms folding in front of you needing a second to breathe. Your reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, gown still clinging to your frame, makeup still pristine. But inside? You felt undone already.

Behind you, you heard the pop of champagne.

Then his voice, low. “Here.”

You turned.

He was holding a glass out to you, the golden liquid catching the candlelight. You took it, fingers brushing, and the contact sent a flutter down your spine.

You sipped.

“I didn’t think you were the afterparty type,” he said, eyes not leaving your face.

“I’m not,” you answered honestly, lips brushing the rim of the glass. “But you’re not a party.”

His smile came slow, like honey spreading across warm toast. A smile with weight, and heat. “I like the way you say that.”

He stepped closer. Two feet between you. Then one.

“Tell me something real,” he said. “Just one honest thing.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t let people in like this. Not fast. Not ever.”

He nodded, gaze dropping briefly to your lips before lifting again. “Me neither.”

That look held. Lingering. Wanting.

You stepped into him, fingertips grazing the front of his jacket. The fabric was structured, precise, but beneath it was the steady rise and fall of his chest. “You looked” you murmured, fingers brushing the silk lapel, “unreal tonight.”

His hand found your waist. The heat of his palm burned through the velvet. “So did you. From the second I saw you.”

Then quieter, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud “I couldn’t stop watching you all night. You walked in and it was over.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed him.

His lips met yours with a restraint that lasted all of three seconds. Then it gave. Like a dam breaking, like breath being held too long. His hand slid up your back, then into your hair, tilting your head just right. You moaned softly into his mouth, parting your lips, letting him in. The taste of him was warm, rich and darker, something distinctly Lewis.

When he pulled back slightly, your lips barely apart, you whispered, “Do you want me?”

He exhaled roughly. “I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you. Do you know how hard it was not to touch you all night?”

“Then touch me now.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, deeper now walking you backward slowly. You felt the edge of the window behind you. Cool glass against the backs of your arms but the rest of you was burning. His hands found the zipper of your gown. “Let me see you,” he said, voice thick.

You nodded.

He undid the dress with excruciating care. The zipper slid down your spine with a hiss. The velvet pooled at your feet. You stood in heels and delicate lingerie, soft blush rising to your cheeks but not from shyness. From power. Because of the way he looked at you.

Like you were the only thing in the world he wanted.

“Fuck,” he whispered, stepping back to take you in.

Then he was on you again, lifting you easily mouth at your throat, hands firm on your thighs. He carried you toward the bed with ease, laying you down onto the plush sheets like he was setting down something precious.

You reached for his jacket. “Your turn.”

He let you undress him piece by piece. Jacket, shirt, chain and belt. Each new inch of skin revealed made you ache. His body was lean and muscled, inked and golden under the candlelight. When you slid your hands down his chest, he made a sound - low, guttural.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, lips trailing down your stomach, tongue tracing just under the edge of your bra.

His mouth found your breasts first kissing, teasing, worshiping with slow and deliberate attention. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers and the sound you made pulled a dark smile from him.

“More,” you whispered, arching into his touch.

His hand slid between your thighs, stroking you through the fabric of your lace underwear already soaked. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he groaned, “and you’re this wet?”

“For you,” you gasped.

He kissed down, tongue finding your inner thigh teasing you until you whimpered. Then he slid your delicate underwear down with both hands and buried his face between your legs.

You cried out, thighs clenching around him.

He moaned into you, slow firm strokes of his tongue that had your back arching off the bed. He held you in place, one hand anchoring your hips while the other splayed over your stomach as he worked you open. You came against his mouth breathless and gasping, fingers in his braided hair with your hips trembling.

But he wasn’t finished.

He slid up your body again, kissing you deeply letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he rasped. “Now.”

“Yes. Please, yes.”

He entered you in one smooth aching thrust and you both froze for a second, the stretch, the fullness, the pressure of it all hitting at once. His forehead dropped to yours.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured.

Then he began to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Intentional. Then faster, harder, matching your rhythm as you met each thrust with your own. Your name left his lips again and again, broken and reverent. His hands never stopped moving gripping your waist, your hip, your breast, your throat, his touch everywhere, like he needed to feel all of you at once.

When you came again, it was loud. Shaking. Almost overwhelmed.

He followed with a groan so deep it felt like it echoed in your chest.

You stayed wrapped around each other, trembling and sweat slick, his breath ragged against your collarbone. One arm held you close. The other stroked down your spine.

After a while, he tilted your chin up.

“That wasn’t just the gala,” he said, voice quieter now, eyes softer. “That was something starting.”

You brushed your thumb along his lower lip. “Feels like we’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

“Maybe we have.”

You curled into him. His arms pulled you closer like he had no plans of letting go.

Outside, the city glittered like a thousand unspoken promises. But inside, wrapped in his warmth was something rare.

Not just sparks. Not just heat.

Something real. Something beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It wasn’t the sun that woke you, it was warmth. The kind that wasn’t just under the blankets, but wrapped around you in the form of a body which was strong and still asleep beside you.

You blinked your eyes open to golden light filtering in through the tall windows. The city had softened overnight. No longer glittering with chaos just glowing. Quiet.

You turned your head.

Lewis lay on his side, one arm flung across your waist with his face buried against your shoulder. His braids were slightly tousled, one soft strand falling across his forehead. The sharp, regal lines of his face had softened in sleep. No cameras, no crowd, no mask. Just him.

Your chest swelled with something that almost hurt.

This was the realest he’d ever looked.

You shifted slightly, and his arm tightened around you instinctively, like his body already knew you belonged close.

“Don’t move,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “You’re warm.”

You smiled. “You’re clingy.”

“I’ll be clingy as hell if it means waking up to this.”

You turned to face him fully. His eyes opened slowly, warm brown still heavy with sleep but focused. On you.

“Hi,” you said, voice low.

He smiled, lazy and boyish. “Hi.”

A beat of silence passed, stretched by the weight of what last night meant. Neither of you had said it yet, but you both felt the shift. This wasn’t just a fling. This wasn’t a drunken mistake blurred by champagne and candlelight.

This was the start of something. And that realisation made the air feel sacred.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I did,” you murmured. “Better than I have in a long time.”

“Good.” He traced a finger down your arm, eyes drinking you in like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You looked unbelievable last night. But now? Like this?” He shook his head with a breathless laugh. “I think I’m in trouble.”

You leaned in, kissing his jaw gently. “You are.”

He rolled onto his back, pulling you with him, your body draped across his chest. “I was scared it would feel different in the morning,” he confessed quietly. “Like the night would wear off, and I’d wake up and I don’t know. Panic.”

“Do you?”

“No,” he said. “I feel like I’m exactly where I should be.”

You were quiet for a moment, resting your chin on his chest, eyes on his. “That scares me, too.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Because I wasn’t looking for this. But now that it’s here, I don’t want to pretend it’s not real.”

His fingers slipped under your chin, tilting your face toward him again. “Then don’t.”

He kissed you slow, morning sweet, lazy in the best way. It was a kiss that didn’t rush. A kiss that said we have time. We have space. We’re not running anymore.

When he pulled back, he smiled. “Stay today.”

“I have meetings - ”

He cut you off with another kiss. “Cancel them.”

You laughed against his mouth. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“I’ll make it worth it.” His hands slid under the sheet, finding your waist. His touch was soft, but promising. “Stay in bed with me a little longer.”

You bit your lip, already melting. “Just a little?”

His lips brushed your throat. “I’ll take what I can get.”

And so you stayed.

Wrapped in sheets and skin, exchanging stories and slow kisses, hands tangling under sunlight and soft murmurs. He told you about the gala the nerves, the weight of the night. You told him about how you almost didn’t go. How you weren’t supposed to fall for anyone.

And how quickly, he changed that.

At some point, he sat up to grab a room service menu, glasses sliding onto his nose. You didn’t think it was possible to fall harder until you saw him reading options aloud like he hadn’t just wrecked you twelve hours earlier.

You lounged across the bed in one of his shirts, watching him with a smile.

“I can feel you staring,” he said without looking up.

“Good,” you replied.

When breakfast arrived, you sat cross legged on the bed, eating pancakes and fruit while he fed you bites off his fork and wiped syrup from your lips with his thumb. At one point, your foot tangled with his under the tray and the shared look between you was all heat again.

“Careful,” he warned with a smirk. “I’m trying to behave.”

“Are you?”

“Trying. You’re making it hard.”

You laughed, and he pulled you into his lap, kissing you again. This time, deeper. Hungrier.

The plates were forgotten. The sheets shifted again.

And the day stretched on not in obligations or headlines, but in moments. In touches. In whispered confessions. In the kind of morning you don’t just remember, you relive in your mind a hundred times after.

Because it wasn’t just the night that changed everything.

It was the morning that proved it wasn’t just a dream.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t expect it to happen that fast.

By the time you stepped out of the penthouse elevator just past noon wearing sunglasses, Lewis’s jacket draped over your shoulders and yesterday’s heels in your hand. It had already begun.

Your phone notifications pinged. Then again. Then again.

A missed call from your manager. Three texts from your stylist. Dozens of notifications lighting up your lock screen like fireworks. You didn’t even need to unlock it before seeing the words

TRENDING #1: Lewis & [Y/N] — Met Gala’s Most Unexpected Couple

“Oh no,” you muttered.

Beside you, Lewis still cool, composed, but scanning his own screen with a growing furrow in his brow just hummed low in his throat. “Well,” he said. “So much for subtle.”

A black SUV waited outside the private entrance. Paparazzi hadn’t spotted you yet, but it felt like only a matter of time. You ducked into the car beside him, silence swelling between you like a held breath.

Inside, your phone kept lighting up. And you couldn’t look away anymore.

Your name was everywhere.

Photos from the Met Gala red carpet. Zoomed in screenshots of Lewis staring at you from across the steps. A slowed down clip of him offering his arm during the exhibit walk through. The shot of him standing too close as you gazed at a velvet zoot suit. Headlines screamed it -

“A New Power Couple? Lewis Hamilton Caught in Candid Moments with [Y/N]”

“Velvet, Stares, and That Kiss: Sources Claim Hamilton Left Gala With Rising Star”

“‘He’s Never Looked at Anyone Like That’ Fans React to Hamilton’s Rumored New Flame”

And then came the more…invasive ones.

A blurry, grainy shot taken from god knows where Lewis’s hand on your lower back, the hem of your dress peeking out as the two of you stepped into the penthouse elevator. Not scandalous. But intimate. Enough to set fire to the speculation.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Lewis glanced over. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” You leaned back into the leather seat, heart pounding in your throat. “It’s a lot.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I should’ve warned you.”

“It’s not your fault.” You looked down. “I just I wasn’t ready to be dissected like this.”

He reached over, took your hand in his.

His grip was steady. Grounding.

“They’ll move on in a few days. They always do.”

You swallowed. “Unless we give them something real to keep watching.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Is that what we’re doing? Giving them something real?”

You met his eyes. “Aren’t we?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. We are.”

Your phone buzzed again this time, a DM from someone you hadn’t spoken to in months. The kind of message that only came when people sensed the air shifting around you. Fame had always been a double edged sword. Now, it felt like you were holding both blades.

You turned the screen off and placed it face down.

“I don’t want to be part of a spectacle,” you said quietly.

“You won’t be. Not if we control the story.” He exhaled. “You’re not a fling. This isn’t gossip. If people are going to talk, let them talk about how I respect you. How you own every room you walk into. How I’ve never met anyone like you.”

You looked at him, stunned by the honesty, the weight of it.

“But that means stepping into this with me,” he added. “Even when it gets messy.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached for his hand again, lacing your fingers with his.

“I’d rather it be messy and honest than perfect and fake.”

He smiled, the tension in his jaw softening.

“Then let them talk.”

The car pulled up to your original hotel downtown - a discreet location, but even from inside the tinted windows, you could see it. A small crowd forming. Photographers with long lenses. Fans holding signs.

You hesitated.

Lewis turned to you. “Want me to walk you in?”

“I think - ” You adjusted your sunglasses, sat up straighter. “I think I want them to see me with you.”

A beat passed. He nodded once.

And when you stepped out, the flashbulbs exploded. Voices shouted your names. Questions flew.

But all you could feel was his hand in yours.

He didn’t let go.

Not when the flashes got too bright. Not when a reporter yelled something about “rumored romance.” Not even when a gust of wind blew your hair wildly around your face, catching your laughter in the chaos.

Because in that moment, standing beside Lewis Hamilton in front of the press, the world watching and spinning madly around you -

And you, weren’t afraid anymore.

#lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #lh44 #x reader #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #met gala #lewis hamilton x you #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #f1 #f1 drivers #f1 fic #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic

227 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 5 months ago

Note

Oneshot Request: Imagine, Jayce has a younger sister (age gap of 2-3 years) and he ships Sis Reader x Viktor sooo badly. Like, he tries everything, that these two finally become a thing. When Sis Reader x Viktor are after a looong slow-burn-romance-thing in a relationship, Jayce switches from the supportive, older brother to the "Hurt my baby sister and I throw you of the bridge". What would Sis Reader and Viktor too stunned to speak xD

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜᴍᴀᴋᴇʀ

ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ!ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ!ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 2530 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴄᴏᴄᴋʙʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ (ꜱᴏʀᴛᴀ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ɪ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴᴏɴ!

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 | ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ

Jayce had always been a meddler. Y/N had known this better than anyone, having grown up with him constantly poking his nose into her business. Viktor, too, had quickly learned this once he and Jayce began working together. But neither of them could have foreseen just how far Jayce would go when he decided they should be together.

It started subtly enough—small comments here and there.

“Hey, Y/N, did you know Viktor’s favourite tea is chamomile? You should bring him some next time you’re in the lab. He’d love that.”

Or, “Viktor, don’t you think my sister’s the perfect blend of brains and beauty? Honestly, if she weren’t my sister, I’d set her up with my best friend. Oh, wait—that’s you!”

Y/N would groan, cheeks aflame, while Viktor shifted uncomfortably, his grip on his cane tightening as though it might shield him from Jayce’s relentless teasing. But Jayce didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down.

He began orchestrating scenarios to throw them together. “You two can handle this project alone; I’m swamped,” he’d say, conveniently forgetting to show up for their meetings. He hosted dinners and somehow always managed to seat them next to each other. He even pulled blatant stunts like disappearing mid-lunch with a wink and a mumbled, “You two need some alone time.”

“Jayce, this is getting ridiculous,” Y/N hissed at him one evening as they sat at a dinner he’d arranged, her seat—of course—right next to Viktor’s. Jayce shot her an innocent grin that fooled absolutely no one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied smoothly, though the mischievous twinkle in his eye betrayed him.

Meanwhile, Viktor tried his best to remain neutral, though the faint blush creeping up his neck was impossible to miss. He’d never been one for open displays of affection, but being caught in the orbit of Jayce’s scheming made things more complicated than they needed to be.

It wasn’t as though they didn’t like each other. In fact, Y/N and Viktor’s connection ran deep. They shared quiet moments in the lab, bouncing ideas off one another late into the night. Viktor appreciated Y/N’s sharp mind and her unwavering kindness, and Y/N admired Viktor’s brilliance and the depth of his character. Their bond was undeniable, built on a foundation stronger than even the most advanced Hextech core.

But there were obstacles. Viktor hesitated, fearful that his health and the demands of his work would burden her. Y/N, for her part, worried that crossing the line from friendship to romance might jeopardise everything they’d built. And so, they tiptoed around their feelings, hesitant to take the leap.

Jayce, however, was having none of it.

One day, Jayce stormed into the lab with the determination of a man on a mission. “Alright, that’s it!” he declared, startling both Y/N and Viktor, who had been quietly working at opposite ends of the room. “You two like each other. Everyone knows it. Just admit it already!”

They froze, wide-eyed and completely caught off guard, Viktor nearly dropping the tool in his hand while Y/N slowly turned to glare at her brother.

“Jayce, this is hardly—” Viktor began, his voice tinged with discomfort, only to be cut off.

“I’m not leaving until you confess,” Jayce announced, crossing his arms and planting himself firmly in the centre of the lab like an immovable object.

“Jayce!” Y/N’s voice was a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. “You can’t just—”

“Confess!” he demanded dramatically, pointing between them like he was officiating a duel.

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath, while Viktor nervously adjusted his grip on his cane. The two exchanged a quick glance, a silent conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat.

Finally, Y/N let out a long sigh and folded her arms. “Fine. You want the truth?”

Jayce straightened, his grin triumphant. “Yes, finally!”

She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her options, before shrugging. “We’re already dating.”

The room fell silent, and for a moment, it was as if Jayce hadn’t fully processed what she’d said.

“You’re… what?” he finally sputtered, his grin faltering.

“Dating,” Viktor repeated softly, though his tone was more resigned than triumphant. He glanced at Y/N, then back at Jayce, as if bracing for an explosion. “For a while now.”

Jayce blinked, his gaze darting between the two of them. “Wait. How long is ‘a while’?”

Y/N exchanged another glance with Viktor, who gave a tiny shrug. “Not that long,” she hedged. “Just… a few months.”

“A few months?” Jayce’s voice shot up an octave. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Exactly,” Y/N said with a pointed look, “because of this.” She gestured to the dramatic scene unfolding around them. “Do you know how unbearable you’d have been if we’d told you straight away? You’d have taken all the credit!”

“Of course I would’ve!” Jayce said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Because it’s true! I’ve been trying to set you two up for ages!”

“That’s precisely why we didn’t tell you,” Viktor said, his voice dry but laced with a hint of amusement.

Jayce’s jaw dropped, his hands flying to his hips. “So you mean to tell me that I did all the work, and you two didn’t even have the decency to let me gloat about it?”

“We were sparing ourselves the torment,” Y/N replied flatly.

Jayce groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. All this time, I’ve been orchestrating the perfect set-up, and you were already together.”

“Well, not everything revolves around you,” Y/N teased, unable to hide her smirk.

Jayce stared at her, then at Viktor, before finally throwing his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Fine! But I’m still claiming partial credit for this.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.”

“And,” Jayce added, his tone suddenly serious as he stepped closer to Viktor, “now that I know, let me make one thing perfectly clear.” He placed a heavy hand on Viktor’s shoulder, his gaze narrowing. “If you hurt my baby sister—even by accident—I will throw you off the bridge. Are we clear?”

Viktor froze, his grip tightening on his cane as his lips parted in stunned silence. “I… Yes, of course,” he stammered.

“Jayce!” Y/N exclaimed, shoving her brother aside. “What is wrong with you?”

“What?” Jayce said defensively. “I’m just making sure he knows the rules.”

“Your rules are insane,” Y/N shot back, though her voice lacked any real heat.

Viktor, still processing, looked between the two siblings, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “I appreciate… your concern,” he said carefully, his voice tinged with dry humour.

Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is exactly what we were trying to avoid.”

Jayce just laughed, his smug grin practically lighting up the room. “You can’t avoid me forever. And hey, now I get to say I was right all along!”

One evening, Y/N and Viktor were in her flat, quietly enjoying the rare tranquillity of each other’s company. They were cuddled up on the sofa, Viktor’s arm draped loosely over her shoulders while she rested her head against his chest. The soft glow of the lamp lit the room in a warm, golden hue, casting long shadows that danced gently across the walls. A forgotten cup of tea sat on the coffee table, its steam now dissipated as the pair lost themselves in the quiet comfort of the moment. Viktor’s slender fingers traced absent patterns along Y/N’s arm, his touch soothing and familiar, while she smiled softly, her eyes fluttering closed.

The peace shattered as the door burst open without warning.

“Oi, you two better be dressed!” Jayce bellowed, covering his eyes dramatically with one hand as he stormed in, his heavy footsteps echoing across the room.

Y/N jolted upright in alarm, nearly elbowing Viktor in the ribs in the process. “Jayce! What the hell are you doing here?” she shouted, glaring at her older brother.

Viktor, who had been startled but managed to maintain his composure, arched a brow and deadpanned, “Perhaps next time, you could try knocking? Just a suggestion.”

Y/N snorted at Viktor’s sarcasm, but her frustration returned as Jayce peeked through his fingers with a smirk.

“Relax,” Jayce said, lowering his hand with an exaggerated sigh of relief when he saw they were fully clothed. “Just doing my duty as a protective older brother. Wouldn’t want to accidentally walk in on something scarring.”

“Jayce!” Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I cannot believe you.”

Jayce, grinning ear to ear and clearly unbothered, strutted over to the sofa like he owned the place. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he plopped himself down between them, making himself comfortable as the sofa sank under his weight. Y/N and Viktor, now separated, exchanged equally exasperated looks.

“What’s up, lovebirds?” Jayce asked casually, slinging an arm along the back of the sofa and stretching out with an air of smug satisfaction.

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Jayce, seriously? Don’t you have your own flat to bother people in?”

Ignoring her entirely, Jayce turned his attention to Viktor. “So, Viktor,” he began, his grin widening, “how’s it going? Treating my baby sister right, yeah?”

Viktor leaned back slightly, his expression both amused and weary. “I was under the impression that I am, though I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m mistaken.”

“Good man,” Jayce said with a nod, clapping Viktor on the shoulder. “Because if you don’t…” He leaned in with mock seriousness. “You know what happens.”

Viktor tilted his head, his tone dry. “Let me guess—‘the bridge’?”

Jayce’s grin turned positively wicked. “Exactly! You’re catching on. I like that.”

“Jayce,” Y/N snapped, shoving him in the side with her elbow, “leave. Now.”

“Not until I’m satisfied,” Jayce replied smugly, refusing to budge.

Y/N sighed heavily and leaned back against the sofa, folding her arms. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re were cuddling,” Jayce pointed out with mock horror, waving his hand between the two of them. “What happened to ‘no PDA in front of me’?”

“Oh well I'm sorry that I wasn't expecting you to barge in here!” Y/N shot back, her voice rising in frustration.

Jayce shrugged nonchalantly. “Details, details.”

Viktor, now fully embracing the absurdity of the situation, chuckled softly. “He does make things… lively, I’ll give him that.”

“Don't encourage this,” Y/N muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose as Jayce stretched out even further, looking far too pleased with himself.

“What can I say?” Jayce said with a self-satisfied grin. “I’m the perfect mix of annoying and lovable. You’re welcome.”

Y/N groaned audibly, slumping back against the cushions. Viktor turned to her, his lips quirking into a faint smile before glancing back at Jayce. “So this is part of dating her, I take it?” he asked, his voice dry with amusement.

“Oh, absolutely,” Y/N said, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “Welcome to the chaos. You’ve been warned.”

Jayce leaned forward, clapping Viktor on the back again with a grin. “You’re basically family now, Vik. Get used to it.”

“Lucky me,” Viktor murmured, his words edged with dry humour, though the warmth in his voice was unmistakable. He shot a sideways glance at Y/N, catching the faintest glimmer of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Y/N let out an exasperated sigh, her head resting comfortably against Viktor’s shoulder. She closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the rare, peaceful serenity of their quiet evening, before speaking in a soft, almost resigned tone. “You’re never going to let us have a peaceful evening, are you?”

Jayce, unfazed by the irritation in Y/N’s voice, leaned back with a smirk plastered on his face, the twinkle in his eye as mischievous as ever. “Not a chance. I personally do not wanna be an uncle just yet,” he said dramatically, folding his arms over his chest as he settled even more comfortably on the couch. “And I’m sure Mama doesn’t want to be a grandmother either,” he added with a wink, as though the suggestion of the future was an absurdity he found utterly amusing.

Despite her earlier frustration, Y/N couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at her lips. She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes flicking briefly to Viktor, who had to fight back a grin of his own at Jayce’s antics. As maddening as her older brother was, Y/N couldn’t help but be amused by his antics. His chaotic, overbearing nature, his complete disregard for personal boundaries—it was all familiar, and in its own way, endearing. This was Jayce, the one who’d always been there, pushing her buttons, teasing her endlessly, yet somehow making everything feel... just a little brighter. Infuriating, sure, but undeniably hers.

“Are you done?” she asked, though her tone had softened, and her eyes were starting to glint with a fondness she couldn’t quite suppress.

Jayce, entirely unperturbed, leaned back even further, his arms casually draped across the back of the sofa as though he owned the place. “Not a chance,” he replied cheekily. “I’m just making sure you two know what you’re getting into.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, her head

sinking back against Viktor’s shoulder again as she let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I swear, you’re like a shadow that never leaves.”

Jayce’s grin only grew wider as he leaned forward slightly, looking at her with a knowing glint in his eye. “You love it, admit it. No one’s ever bored when I’m around.”

Y/N sighed again, but there was no real heat behind it this time. “I swear, Jayce, you should’ve been a plague. No one can get rid of you.”

“Don’t think of me as a plague,” Jayce said dramatically, his hand pressed to his chest in mock hurt. “I prefer ‘your ever-loving, annoyingly good-hearted older brother.’”

Viktor, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, raised a brow and gave Jayce an amused, exasperated look. “I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on what I’m getting into,” he replied dryly. “I’ve been warned.”

Jayce leaned in, lowering his voice as if imparting a secret. “It’s not just a warning. It’s a life sentence.”

Y/N groaned in mock defeat, now fully resigned to the fact that Jayce was here to stay. “This is my life now, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” Jayce confirmed with an exaggerated nod, looking overly pleased with himself. “And don’t you forget it.”

Viktor chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement as he looked over at Y/N. “You really didn’t warn me enough, did you?”

She gave him a playful eye roll. “You really thought I could prepare you for this?”

Jayce stretched out dramatically, his legs sprawling across the couch, as if making himself even more at home. “You’d be surprised how adaptable you get. I’m like the chaos you can’t escape.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. Even if she’d never admit it aloud, she wouldn’t change her chaotic, overbearing family for anything.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #jayce x platonic!reader #jayce x you #jayce x y/n #jayce talis x reader #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n

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johnalexcooper · 1 month ago

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Advancing Your Career: How Health and Social Care Courses Can Make a Difference

In the evolving landscape of healthcare and community services, the demand for well-trained professionals in the health and social care sector is greater than ever. With growing awareness of mental health, ageing populations, and diverse healthcare needs, the UK has seen a significant rise in opportunities across both public and private sectors. This has led to a surge in individuals enrolling in Health and Social Care Courses UK-wide to build rewarding, impactful careers.

Whether you're a school leaver exploring your options, a care worker seeking formal qualifications, or a career-changer inspired by a desire to help others, health and social care courses offer an accessible pathway into a meaningful profession.

Understanding the Health and Social Care Sector

Health and social care is a broad term encompassing services that support individuals’ physical, emotional, and social well-being. This includes hospitals, residential care homes, community support organisations, and private domiciliary care. Professionals working in this field assist individuals of all ages, from newborns with disabilities to elderly people requiring palliative care.

The UK government continues to invest in this sector due to increasing demand. As a result, the workforce needs qualified professionals equipped with the skills and knowledge to meet regulatory standards and deliver high-quality care.

Why Choose Health and Social Care Courses UK?

Choosing a Health and Social Care Course in the UK can significantly enhance your career prospects, opening doors to various roles, including:

Care Worker

Support Worker

Healthcare Assistant

Social Worker

Youth Worker

Residential Support Worker

Mental Health Practitioner

The UK offers a wide range of accredited courses that are designed to fit different career stages and educational backgrounds. From introductory diplomas to advanced degrees, learners can progress step-by-step toward specialised roles.

Key Benefits of Studying Health and Social Care

1. Career Flexibility

Health and social care roles span a wide variety of settings, including hospitals, schools, community centres, and private homes. Completing one of the many Health and Social Care Courses UK can provide you with the flexibility to work in different environments or specialise in a specific area, such as elderly care or mental health.

2. Skills Development

Courses are designed to develop both practical and theoretical knowledge. Topics often include safeguarding, communication skills, anatomy and physiology, equality and diversity, and care planning. These skills are transferable, valuable, and applicable across numerous sectors.

3. Job Security

The healthcare sector is known for offering excellent job security. As health and social needs grow in the UK, so does the requirement for trained professionals. Qualifying in this field can significantly improve your employment stability and job satisfaction.

4. Personal Fulfilment

Perhaps one of the most significant benefits of working in health and social care is the sense of purpose it provides. Supporting others through their challenges—whether physical, emotional, or mental—can be enriching.

Types of Health and Social Care Courses Available in the UK

There are multiple paths available depending on your experience and career aspirations. Some popular course types include:

Level 2 & 3 Diplomas

Ideal for beginners or those already working in care roles who wish to formalise their training. These qualifications cover essential subjects like personal development, duty of care, and promoting independence.

Foundation Degrees & Higher National Diplomas (HNDs)

These qualifications provide a balance between academic study and practical skills. They're perfect for those aiming to work in supervisory or managerial roles.

Bachelor’s Degrees (BA or BSc)

For those seeking to become social workers or healthcare managers, a full undergraduate degree can provide in-depth training and greater career options.

Postgraduate Courses

Advanced roles in leadership, research, or specialised care (such as mental health or public health) often require postgraduate qualifications.

Short Professional Courses

These may include certificates in dementia care, autism awareness, or safeguarding. They are ideal for continuous professional development (CPD).

Entry Requirements and Learning Options

One of the reasons why Health and Social Care Courses UK are so accessible is the variety of learning options available:

Full-Time and Part-Time: Suited to different lifestyles, whether you’re studying full-time or working while learning.

Online and Distance Learning: Many institutions offer flexible online learning options, enabling you to study at your own pace.

Apprenticeships: Learn on the job while gaining nationally recognised qualifications.

Workplace-Based Training: Some providers allow learning directly in a workplace setting with real-world experience.

Entry requirements vary depending on the course level. While introductory courses may require minimal qualifications, higher-level degrees typically ask for relevant A-levels or equivalent qualifications.

Funding and Financial Support

Studying in the UK often comes with access to financial support through:

Student loans and grants

Employer sponsorships

Apprenticeship funding

Local authority support for those already employed in care roles

This makes training more affordable and accessible for individuals from different economic backgrounds.

The Future of Health and Social Care in the UK

The future is promising for professionals in this field. As the UK faces increasing healthcare needs, particularly due to ageing demographics, the focus on preventive care, community health, and inclusive services will only grow stronger. With innovations in digital health and greater emphasis on mental health, the role of trained health and social care professionals is vital.

By enrolling in Health and Social Care Courses UK, you’re not only investing in your personal development and career progression, but also contributing positively to society.

Final Thoughts

The decision to pursue a qualification in health and social care is more than just a career move—it’s a commitment to making a meaningful difference in people’s lives. With the variety of Health and Social Care Courses UK offers, individuals at any stage of life can take the first step towards a fulfilling and secure career.

Whether you're starting or advancing in your profession, the opportunities in this sector are vast, diverse, and impactful. Now is the perfect time to begin your journey.

#Health and Social Care Courses UK #Construction Training Programs UK #Health Care Certificate Program UK #Awareness of Mental Health Disabilities UK #Dementia and Learning Disabilities UK #Basic Life Support UK #NHS and social care sector in the UK #Communication Course UK #Communication Awareness for Healthcare Professionals UK #Duty of Care Course UK #Healthcare and Adult Social Care Course UK #Equality and Diversity course UK #Fluids and Nutrition Course UK #Handling Information Course UK #Health and Safety Course UK #Infection Prevention and Control UK #Privacy and Dignity Course UK #Safeguarding Adults Course UK #Safeguarding Children Course UK #Understand Your Role Course UK #Work in a Person-Centred Way Course UK #Your Personal Development Course UK #Care Skills and Competencies Program UK #Advance Care Planning Courses UK #Bladder Care and Management Course UK #Bowel Care and Management Course UK #Care after Death Course UK #Care Planning Training Course UK #Diet and Nutrition Course UK #Duty of Care Awareness Course Uk

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whencyclopedia · 5 months ago

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Education for Girls in Ancient Rome

The upbringing and education of girls in ancient Rome are rarely addressed in ancient sources. A young Roman girl from an affluent family married very young, often in her mid-teens, and girls, according to tradition, were brought up solely for marriage and to bear children. A Roman girl's formal education, mainly dictated by the prospect of early betrothal, was short-lived.

"Sappho" fresco, Pompeii

Carole Raddato (CC BY-SA)

Although education was seen as crucial to self-advancement, the Roman education system was directed towards a young boy's 'career' in politics or in the Roman law courts. It prepared the boy for his entrance into public life and was key to him obtaining a prominent position in Roman government and society.

The Roman Education System

Formal education for children began at about the age of seven years; girls from affluent and elite levels of society would have received an elementary education at home from a private tutor, as would the boys. However, if a father did not employ private tutors, children may have been enrolled in schools outside of the home. This early education for both sexes would have included reading, writing, maths, and Greek and Latin literature. Plutarch (c.45-50 to c.120-125 CE) writes of nine-year-old Pompeia, daughter of Pompey, proudly reciting verses to her father from Homer's Illiad (Quaest. Conv. 9.1.3).

On completion of this elementary level, boys aged around 12, progressed onto classes at the school of the grammaticus, where they would develop and refine their writing and speaking skills as well as study philosophy, astronomy, and natural science; it is here that boys also began their preparation for oratorical studies. Girls did not attend the schools of the grammaticus. At the age of 15 or so, having possibly assumed the adult toga as part of a Roman boy's rite of passage, boys then moved on to the rhetor where they would learn to become skilful orators, study law, politics, astronomy, geography, Roman and Greek literature, philosophy and mythology. The wealthy young males might then further their education by joining fellow Roman students in Athens and other intellectual centres in the Far East. Roman girls by the age of 15, could already be married, could already be mothers, and if not, they were being prepared to be such.

#History #RomanRepublic #RomanEmpire #RomanEducation

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theresattrpgforthat · 1 year ago

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hi! have you seen the TTRPGS for Palestine bundle yet? and do you have any recommendations from it

https://tiltify.com/@jesthehuman/ttrpgs-for-palestine

THEME: TTRPGS for Palestine

The TTRPGs for Palestine Bundle is going from April 12 to May 7, so there's not much time left to get it, but here's some recommendations of some really awesome games that you can find in it.

Gubat Banwa, by makapatag.

GUBAT BANWA is a Martial Arts Tactics and War Drama Tabletop RPG where you play as martial artists poised to change the world: Kadungganan: the cavalry, the wandering swordsmen, the tide turners, the knights-errant, the ones to call in darkest night in a world inspired and centering Southeast Asian folklore.

Witness, grand warriors, honorable gallants that trudge and toil under kings and haloes. Witness, KADUNGGANAN, that refulgent name. That blasted name: WITNESS NOW. The end of days is upon us: and the new world MUST BE BORN. Bear your blades, incant your magicks. Cut open your tomorrow from the womb of violence. Inscribe your name upon the very akasha of this world.

Gubat Banwa is designed for fans of 4th edition D&D, with in-depth character abilities that make you feel both unique and powerful, in a colourful and flavourful world full of vibrant cultures and clashing conflicts. The game uses an action economy with different action options carrying different weights, which also reminds me quite a bit of Lancer. If you want a game that pushes you to strategize with your friends and weigh your advancement options carefully, you want Gubat Banwa.

Gun & Slinger, by Nevyn Holmes.

GUN&SLINGER is an RPG geared for short, episodic sessions about a weapon and a wanderer. A Maestro and two players (Gun and Slinger) set out into a dead planet mutated by a god's forgotten child and hunt strange bounties, investigate the world and unlock hidden powers. During play, they seek to learn the nature of what’s hunting the Slinger, figure out why the Gun is sentient and discover how the world died.

This game is specifically for three players, using the rules of Go Fish as a resolution system. Gun & Slinger is all about using your resources to the best of their ability, and your resources might exist on your character sheet, but they also exist as cards in your hand.

What really intrigues me is the lore that’s baked into your character sheets. One of you is a wanderer in a twisted world, tempted by strange powers that guarantee to change you into a monster. One of you is a sentient magical gun, borne by that wanderer and designed to deliver death and pain.

Gun & Slinger has expansions included, allowing you to instead play as a wanderer possessed by a demon, a mech and a pilot fused as one, or someone who bears a cursed sword. I think the fact that it requires a small table and the fact that the characters’ lives are tied together makes this a high-stakes, terribly intimate game.

Apocalypse Frame, by Binary Star Games.

In a ruined and terraformed world where most of humanity is under the yoke of a brutal regime, the former workers of a once-remote factory - now known as The Collective - have risen up to create a future of freedom from oppression. You are an Ace - a highly skilled pilot referred from a Division in The Collective and assigned a humanoid combat vehicle known as a Frame. You and your Strike Team of fellow Aces must take on The Collective’s greatest threats, ensure its survival, and carve a path for its continued success.

Apocalypse Frame takes mechs and fits them into the LUMEN system, which centres competency as well as fast but effective rounds of combat. The game includes a variety of different threats, allowing you to tailor your campaign to your group’s tastes, and the tailoring doesn’t stop there. You choose both a division that your character belongs to, and then one of three mechs within that division, allowing players to share similar fighting styles but differ in weapons. You can also modify your basic frame, adding general modular systems alongside systems and armaments that can come with your mech, making character creation and progression exciting for folks who love tweaking and tailoring to their heart’s content.

If you’re a fan of Armored Core or Battletech, you’ll want to check out Apocalypse Frame.

Here, There Be Monsters!, by wendi yu.

No matter what they tell you, there’s still weirdness and wonder everywhere. You just have to know where to look. At the edges and cracks of ‘normal’ life we exist, we persist, and we resist: the monsters, the magicians, the anomalies, the freaks, and the outcasts. We gather in the shadows, trying our best to live our lives in a world that, when it doesn’t exactly fear or hate us, doesn't even believe in our existence.

here, there, be monsters! is a rules-lite response to monster-hunting media from the monsters' point of view. It's both a love letter and a middle finger to stuff like Hellboy (and the BPRD), the SCP Foundation, the Men in Black, the World of Darkness games and the Urban Fantasy genre in general. It is an explicitly queer, antifascist and anti-capitalist game about the monstrous and the weird, in any flavor you want, not as something to be feared, but to be cherished and protected.

Here, There, Be Monsters is a love-letter to anyone who has been made to feel monstrous, as well as an homage to media such as Hellboy, the SCP Foundation, and Men in Black. It’s urban fantasy meets organized power structures, and as the monsters, you’re here to burn those structures down.

This game uses descriptive tags to slap onto your characters to represent what they can do. You can choose from a number of different monster character backgrounds to give you guidance towards, and there’s plenty of monsters both in the base game and in the game jam wendi ran back in 2022. If you want a game of power, anti-capitalism, and punching up, this is the game for you.

Pale Dot, by Devin Nelson.

Pale Dot is a collaborative storytelling game for 2-5 players about a crew of non-human cosmonauts leaving their planet to explore a strange solar system, finding threads to unravel the unknown along the way. It is fantastical, surreal, and perhaps very unlike humanity’s own ventures in space exploration. Though one thing is universal: leaving home is terrifying, dangerous, humbling, and a catalyst for changing one’s perspective.

Pale Dot is a GM-less game where players work together to create an alien setting and subsequently envelop it in cosmic mystery, embodying cosmonauts called Dustlings, as well as one of 5 different settings. During their journey they will be able to travel to 24 different locations within their solar system, each with several prompts for improvisational scenes. Each player will also have to manage the integrity of their cosmonaut and their shared ship while avoiding space's many perils.

The cover for Pale Dot gripped me the first time I saw it; a tiny creature in an astronaut suit, looking up in fear at something in the sky, as vegetation blooms inside their helmet. You play as the Dustlings, non-human but sentient species exploring the Cosmos, a strange, horrifying and wonderful universe that changes those who venture into it.

Mechanically, Pale Dot uses a GM-less structure similar to Dream Askew, but there feels to be a much bigger emphasis on the setting your cosmonauts explore, rather than the cosmonauts themselves. Your characters are assembled traits, drives and equipment, almost all of which can be expended to cause or solve problems. Each player is also responsible for at least one setting element, such as The Cosmic Wilderness, The Wondrous Endeavour, or The Omnipresent Danger. As you visit locations, different elements will be prompted to influence the scene, while your cosmonauts try to navigate the scene and try to finish the mission. If you want a game that is collaborative and evocative, I definitely recommend Pale Dot.

Fractal Romance, by Ostrichmonkey Games.

A never ending abstract landscape of rhythm and soft glamour. Wander the halls, rooms, and chambers. Encounter strange Denizens and get to know them better; befriend them, fall in love, just chill. Try and fill out your own blurred edges. Fractal Romance is a tabletop role playing hangout. You will pick up a character to play and explore the Fractal Palace, generating its infinite sprawl and the Denizens that inhabit it, as you play.

Fractal Romance is all about searching; for something you need, something you want, or even for who you are. It feels rather surreal, perhaps like a dream dimension that you are moving through. The game uses a deck of cards to generate rooms, as well as the denizens of this gigantic, dream-like palace. This game uses rather simplistic playbooks, each asking you to choose three descriptive words, and then uses cards to fuel your character’s actions: you have things you can always do, things that cost a card to do, and things that you must do in order to draw another card.

If what you want out of a game is a chill time with friends, moving from one vibe to another, and generating emotional stories for your characters, you might want to check out Fractal Romance.

Himbos of Myth and Mettle, by huge boar.

You are big. Big arms, big tits, big thighs, big brai- you're big where it matters. In addition to a heaving, throbbing body, glistening lightly with a thin sheen of pleasantly fragrant perspirant, you have one singular unifying trait - come hell or high water, you are going to help.

Himbos of Myth & Mettle is a high fantasy, high camp role playing game of epic proportions (of body), for 2-5 players, one of whom will act as Game Guide. The rules center around a simple roll under mechanic and prioritize narrative flair and cinematic descriptions. Himbos is inspired by many classic fantasy properties (and could be considered OSR adjacent) , but leans towards a more garish, salacious and queer (gay or odd, pick your fighter) style of play. It is designed with comedy and flamboyance in mind, but is not without it deeper and darker touches. It's definitely not grimdark, but there will probably be blood. Think classic fantasy pulp in style, but contemporary sensibilities, modern rules-lite mechanics, and a player philosophy centred in helping, kindness and being fucking hot.

I’ve heard rave reviews for Himbos, and I think the idea of leading an entire group of well-meaning but possibly over-ambitious adventurers is a great set-up for a game full of laughs. Himbos is very much designed for a light-hearted evening of fun, flirting, and fucking up (but in the best way).

Other Games from the Bundle I've Recommended:

Space Taxi, and Creation Myths, by GothHoblin.

Caltrop Core, by Titanomachy.

Souvenirs, by Rémi Töötätä.

Thunder in Our Hearts, by Marn. S.

Eldritch Courts of Some Repute, by AlanofAllTrades.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #palestine bundle

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sureenglish-english-academy · 2 years ago

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SureEnglish, English Language Training Institute

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whats-the-word-again · 3 months ago

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Hekate Propylaia

"She who is before the gate"

"I call upon Hekate Propylaia, the Guardian, She who protects the gate, the unyielding Goddess who ends all hostility, to protect me and mine, to guard and keep us safe. Powerful Goddess, Gatekeeper, Foremost One, hear my plea and prayer, stand before me, hold all evil at bay with your relentless fire." - Prayer to Hekate Propylaia (modern-day)

I've found myself getting more and more into my Hekate worship, and I'm very happy about it. I had once fallen into the trap that Hekate was "scary" or "too advanced", something I think many worshippers have gotten into their heads. From the small time I have been worhsipping Her, I can certainly say this is not the case; She is wonderful.

Liminality. Something heavily associated with Hekate, and one of the many aspects I find quite interesting and comforting about Her. The grey area was always more comfortable. Hekate Propylaia, I think is an epithet that embodies that liminality - of course Lady Hekate has many epithets that embody this, but Propylaia feels right to me. It feels like standing at a gate and not knowing what's on the other side, but not willing to turn back - it feels like the entrance and exit - like the beginning and end - like the true middle ground. A liminal space, with Hekate at the centre.

Liminality is so present in every part of our lives, the "in-between stages" are everywhere. And honestly, are we ever not in an in-between phase? From day to night. From waking to resting. Child to adult. We are always meeting these milestones, these gates to pass through, and as we learn more and do more - Hekate is there.

A small portion, but one I want to still touch on is liminality in a gender sense. Hekate has many forms, and many names, and there is never one point where Hekate is just one. She is many, and She is blurred, and She has many off-shoots and directions to percieve Her in just like a crossroads. Hekate represents the "not-straight-forward" and I think that's a wonderful thing.

Anyway, that ramble over, I just wanted to let you all know the little Hekate worship rabbit hole I've been down as of late. I may have repeated things so please excuse that, it's late at the time of writing.

A poem for Hekate Propylaia - by me

I walk this earthly plane And lay awake at night, watching Asteria shine, To hear the hounds of Hekate sing Of Her glorious domain; as She watches From the gate which She tends, Ushering in the frightened and the lonely Into Her wonderful home of Liminality.

I hope everyone is having a lovely Spring / Autumn Equinox [depending on your hemisphere]! And may Hekate Propolos guide you, Hekate Dadophoros light your way, and Hekate Propylaia show you the right doors in these uncertain times.

Hail Lady Hekate!

Brown header + footer: @/the-aethetics-shop Brown heart dividers: @/adornedwithlight

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gardens-light · 10 months ago

Text

The Intern

With the alliance between the Autobot's and the U.S government straining by the day, clearly something needed to be done to restore faith and trust- despite the classified operations of N.E.S.T successfully defeating the Decepticons over two years ago. Therefore, Major Lennox and his commanding officers created TTF- Transformers Talent Forge. An internship offered to only the most skilled and promising personnel within the U.S Defence Force , providing an opportunity of a lifetime to work side-by-side with N.E.S.T and the Autobots...

Content: Mild Coarse Language. Events takes place in 'Transformers- Revenge of the Fallen.' Autobot/Ratchet x F/Human reader. Reader Insert.

Intern Series- Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 (End)

Word Count- 3,500K

N.E.S.T- Diego Garcia. 8:30am

"Come on, Private! Keep up!"

"Ye-Yes, sir." Snapping out of your daydream gaze, running after your lieutenant.

Pulling the strap of your military duffle bag a little more over your shoulder. Trying not to stare at the sights and sounds that surrounded you in the hangar, as you followed Lieutenant Smith's footsteps. Roughed up concrete lined the floors, only the unpredictable pattern of tyre marks 'decorated' what once was a smooth surface.

Various military personnel roaming around tables and various stations filled with all sorts of gizmos, gadgets and computer systems lined either side of the hangar. Creating an almost 'catwalk' like feel for the concrete flooring which ran through the middle.

"Alright, so this is where we communicate with the JCS. And this area serves as the Autobots' hangar."

Your curious gaze wandered over the various vehicles which was casually parked on the left side of the hangar.

"The living quarters are to your right. Third door down. But once introduced to our Major, you'll be debriefed further and provided a map- this place is like a maze. I don't know what it's like where you're from Private, but here. Every day's different. So learn quick and learn fast." Lieutenant Smith slowly halted, facing you with a smile. "But don't think you'll be going through this alone. You're among family now-"

"Excuse me!" a commanding tone filled the hangar, drawing your attention to the scaffolding-like structure which stood in the centre of the military space. Lining up perfectly with the concrete 'catwalk.'

"And just like any other family household, we occasionally have our fair share of rodents." Lieutenant Smith whispered into your ear, causing a smile to tease the corner of your lips.

Complete awe flashed across your features, eyes widen as your gaze soaked in the sight before you.

H-Holy shit... that's Optimus Prime!

"With this so-called AllSpark now destroyed, why hasn't the enemy left the planet like you thought they would?" Director Galloway questioned the Autobot. His voice holding a firm tone, as he adjusted his glasses once coming to the landing of the scaffolding-like structure. Which brought him and other military personnel more to Optimus' height.

"Forgive the interruption, General." Galloway's scowl expression faced the monitor before him. Seeming not to care that he was talking directly to the Pentagon, "but after all the damage in Shanghai, the President is... hard-pressed to say the job's getting done. Now... under the classified Alien/Autobot Cooperation Act, you agreed to share your intel with us, but not your advancements in weaponry.-"

"We've witnessed your human capacity for war." Optimus' smooth yet authudicating tone rumbled throughout the hangar, his words almost holding a sharp edge. "It would absolutely bring more harm than good-"

"But who are you to judge what's best for us?-"

"With all due respect, we've been fighting side by side in the field for two years!" A small chuckle came to you, as Major Lennox's familiar tone came to your ears.

"We've shed blood, sweat and precious metal together!" Lieutenant Smith called out.

"Soldier! You're paid to shoot. Not talk."

Lieutenant Smith rolled his eyes at Galloway's snarky comment. His unamused expression turning to you as he whispered, "don't tempt me."

"And the... newest members of your team. I understand they arrived here after you sent a message into space, an open invitation! Come to Earth! Vetted by no one at the White House!-"

"Let me stop you right there, Mr. Galloway. It was vetted right here." A voice from the Pentagon crackled through the monitor. "And in my experience, the judgment of both Major Lennox and his team, has always... been above reproach-"

"Well... be that as it may, General. It is the position of the President when our national security is at stake... no one... is above reproach." Galloway turned his attention back onto Prime. "Now... what do we know so far? We know that the enemy leader, classified NBE One, aka, Megatron. Is rusting in peace at the bottom of the Laurentian Abyssal, surrounded by SOSUS detection nets and a full-time submarine surveillance."

"We also know that the only remaining piece of your alien AllSpark is locked in an electromagnetic vault. Here on one of the most secure naval bases in the world! And since no one can seem to tell me what the enemy is now after, well.. there's only clear conclusion!... You! The Autobots!" Galloway's glare narrowed. "They're here to hunt you!"

You begun to slowly shift your weight from one foot to the other. The smile fading upon your lips as the atmosphere within the hangar begun to grow tense.

"What's there to hunt for on Earth besides that? 'The Fallen shall rise again'?... It sounds to me like something's coming. So... let me ask, if we... ultimately conclude that our national security is best served by denying you further asylum on our planet. Will you leave... peacefully?"

All eyes turned on Optimus. The tension grew thicker. You could almost hear everyone hold their breaths as all hung onto his answer.

"Freedom is your right. If you make that request, we will honor it. But... Before your President decides, please ask him this... What if we leave and you're wrong?"

A heavy sigh escaped your lips. Why do I have a feeling that I've came at a bad time?...

Optimus straightened his posture as Lennox ran a hand through his short, brunette hair. "That's a good question-"

"Major! The intern is here!" Lieutenant Smith shouted from the ground. A small smirk teasing his lips, knowing his voice briefly deafened Mr Galloway while he awkwardly climbed the steps down.

"Here... let me take your things." You looked at the lieutenant, holding out his hand. Simply gesturing towards the scaffolding stairs with a slight nod. "You'll be fine."

Taking a couple of deep breaths before handing over your duffle bag, your heart slightly picking up pace as you climbed the stairs. Flashing the soldiers a weak smile, as their curious gazes turned away from their monitors and onto you.

"So, is it every day that the government comes round to bite your asses?" your cocky tone slightly eased the tension in the air. Greeting Lennox with a salute as his soft gaze fell onto you, a relieved smile teasing his lips.

"At ease, Private. No need to be so formal... nah, they don't come by often. But when they do, it's just my ass that gets bitten." A small chuckle left Lennox as he embraced you with a warm, tight hug. "Ah Valkyrie... it's been so long. How you've been? Keeping out of trouble?"

"You know me, Lennox." You looked up at him with a warm smile, slowly breaking away from his embrace. "Trouble just seems to follow wherever I go. Speaking of which... things gotta be bad for you to pull some strings to get my name picked."

A nervous chuckle escaped his lips, lowering his voice to just above a whisper as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. "You have no idea." Guiding you a little closer to railings, Lennox cleared his throat and gestured to the Autobot. "Allow me to introduce you to the leader of the Autobots, Optimus Prime. Prime... this is Private Y/N, aka 'Valkyrie.' She's the intern I've personally chosen for Ratchet."

Swallowing your nerves, your heart fluttered a little as Prime's stern gaze softened. A welcoming smile spreading across his face plates as his blue optics settled upon you.

"A-A pleasure to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure is all mine." His smooth, calm tone melted your nerves. Causing a sweet smile to tug at your lips, "I've heard a great deal of good things about you from Major Lennox. He said you're quite an experienced medic, and had been... trained specifically for field duty, correct?"

"Correct. I've been serving the U.S military for three years. My experience varies on and off the field."

Optimus nodded in approval, a glimmer of hope flickered within his optics. "Regarding your earlier observation, I won't lie that things have been... difficult here. My medical officer, Ratchet has been... having issues with the interns assigned to him." Exhaustion crept into his words, rubbing his temples. "He's... not exactly impressed with them, and it's gotten your superiors... annoyed to say the least."

Lennox gave you a weak smile, "and... I figured, if anyone could work with Ratchet, despite his... rough edges, it's you. You're one of the best damn medics I've ever fought alongside with! And you know I've seen my fair share of skilled personnel during my career."

Your curious gaze flickered between the two, " so basically... you picked me because the Autobot keeps kicking out his inexperienced interns... how long have they lasted?"

Optimus and Lennox hesitated for moment, giving each other nervous glances before the major finally spoke up. "The longest was a week... the shortest was two hours."

"What?-"

"He's just... very strict with his demands. But you out of anyone would understand how a unit are highly dependent on the medical expertise of their medic!" Lennox gave your shoulder a comforting pat, "you've got what it takes, you've been out there! And to be fair it's not just him. The previous interns were... problematic too- but! I have full faith in you!-"

"Behind Ratchet's gruff exterior and sarcastic tone, lies a soft spark and a bot who genuinely cares for his team." Optimus assured, "you just... need to chip away at his concrete walls. Are you... familiar with Cybertronian biology? Or at least came up close to our kind?"

"Unfortunately... no. But that's why I'm here, to learn and become apart of this team." A small smirk teased the corners of your lips. "But as for getting 'up close' to your kind... does shooting a Decepticon in the face count?"

Optimus coughed out a chuckle, the air almost getting stuck within his vocal processor while Lennox tried to hide his smirk.

"Well... I suppose I should introduce you to Ratchet." Lennox spoke, finally clearing his throat and composing himself.

Optimus simply nodded, giving the pair of you a warm smile as Lennox gently guided you away from the railings and back towards the stairs of the scaffolding.

---

Approaching the neighboring hangar, which was surprisingly on the smaller side than the previous. Lennox paused before opening the medbay doors, giving you a slight glance over his shoulder. "You... might wanna wait out here for a minute. Ratchet... hates surprises."

"He's that bad, huh?" crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.

"No. No, it's just..." a heavy sigh left Lennox. "The... 'higher ups' are constantly breathing down my neck and second guessing our whole operation- not just N.E.S.T, but the internship too. Surely you heard Galloways bullshit."

"I did... but I won't add further stress by poking and prodding you for information about what's going on. I'm sure I'll figure it out."

Lennox gave you a weak, appreciative smile before entering the medbay, leaving you outside as you subtlety peeked your head around the corner of the large door frame.

"What have you done this time, Ironhide?" the major attempted to keep his casual tone, as his footsteps echoed upon the tire-marked concrete flooring.

"Blasted Decepticon punk got a lucky shot at me!" Ironhide snarled as he man-handled the large cannon that refused to retract back into his forearm. An annoyed expression flashing across Ironhide's face plate while sitting at Ratchet's peds, a small huff escaping him as the medic pushed his servo away.

"That's what you get for being reckless during the mission." Lennox took a deep breath before turning his attention onto the Autobot medic. "Ratchet... I have someone important that I'd like you to meet."

The yellow and red Autobots' annoyed glare briefly flickered towards Lennox, before turning back to Ironhide's arm. "And who, exactly, do I need to meet right now?"

Lennox hesitated for a moment. "Your... new intern..."

Ratchet immedictly paused, his glare narrowing onto the major. "What?! You know I-" a heavy sigh escaped the medic as he stopped himself from arguing. Closing his optics tightly while pinching the bridge of his nose, "... who is it?"

"Private Y/N but she mainly goes by the nickname, 'Valkyrie.' She's a personal friend of mine- we fought alongside together back in my old unit during her first two years of service. You'll like her."

For the love of Primus, please tell me that this some sort of joke. Ratchet's servo ran down his face plate, Lennox's unfaltering expression caused the Autobot to let out a frustrated sigh. Great... another intern to get in my way. Just what I need! "... bring her in then."

Lennox briefly glanced at you over his shoulder, his hand giving a small gesture behind his back.

Taking a deep breath and composing yourself for a moment, before entering the medbay. Greeting both Autobot's with a professional smile, saluting once you reached Lennox's side. "Pleasure to meet you, Medical Officer Ratchet, sir. I'm looking forward to working with you."

Ratchet's skeptic expression slowly melted away, as his optics soaked in your appearance. Your polite yet professional tone made his shoulders relax, your body language and how your military uniform framed your toned and confident physic, grapsed Ratchet's attention. The suttle scars upon your skin was Lennox's proof that you were indeed experienced within the field.

She's certainly not giving me a awkward smile, or hiding behind Lennox. Perhaps... she's not gonna be as bad as the others.

"Likewise... Valkyrie... Welcome."

A low purr emerged from Ironhide's engine, as his optics roamed over your relaxed frame. His voice just above a whisper, "oh... she is a babe- ah!"

Annoyance flashed across Ratchet's optics, his gaze narrowed onto Ironhide as he whacked the weapons' specialist upside upon his helm. The medic's free servo clutched onto Ironhide's forearm tighter than necessary, causing the gun-metal coloured Autobot to wince in pain.

"Anyway..." attempting to ignore your confused expression, Ratchet's attention returned to Ironhide's arm. Picking up one of his tools from a nearby table, and adjusting a bolt within his comrade's inner circuits, "I assume Lennox has debriefed you..."

"Only that I'll be working alongside you. Learning and understanding what it's going to take to patch up you Autobots."

I suppose that's a good starting point. "You're going to be helping me in the medbay, yes. Though for your first day, today I'll just get you to learn basic Cybertronian anatomy. And depending on how the day goes, I might get you to watch how I treat the common injuries we get." Ratchet's optics briefly flickered at you, "and I mean, just watching. Don't try anything unless I say so. I've... had some rather eager interns in the past that didn't know how to stay put."

You gave the Autobot a firm nod, "understood. I know how annoying it can be, when someone's trying to stick their nose into your work."

A small, suttle sigh of relief escaped Lennox as he witnessed Ratchet's expression becoming more... neutral. A genuine smile teased the corners of the medic's lips, his optics softening. Fucking finally...

"Well... I'll leave you two, to it." Lennox whispered, patting you on the back. And giving Ratchet a 'I-told-you-so' smile, before leaving the medbay.

"I believe Lieutenant Smith placed your belongings on a desk over there." Ratchet gestured towards a stainless steel desk, it's 'human size' looked almost like dollhouse furniture, compared to the hologram monitors and workspaces that was more to Ratchet's height. Your duffle bag almost drowned under the piles of folders and paperwork, "apologies for the mess. But... feel free to settle in. Once I'm done with Ironhide, we'll start your training."

You briefly gave him a sweet smile, before approaching the desk which was somewhat tucked neatly away in the corner close to you. Ratchet continued fixing and adjusting the stuck cog within Ironhide's forearm, the gun-metal Autobot wincing as his cannon finally retracted.

"Hm... Perhaps your interns should of been femmes from the start- ah!-"

Ratchet's glare bore into his comrade's optics, a low snarl rumbling in the back his vocal processor. As the medic's grip upon Ironhide's forearm tightened, scratching his paint, "shut. It!"

The weapon's specialist pulled his limb away, but his teasing smirk never leaving his lips. His flirtatious gaze lingering on you for a brief moment before turning away, and finally leaving the medbay.

A heavy sigh left Ratchet as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Taking a moment to compose himself before looking at you, only to raise an optic ridge. Annoyance should of bubbled within his chassis, as his gaze watched you organize the mess upon the human-sized desk. Taking a brief glance into the files, before you placed them in their respected piles.

Instead, curiosity peaked his interest as you seemed become distracted by a particular folder within your hands. Ratchet's spark subtly pulsed a little quicker, as his optics soaked in your focused expression. It was as though he seemed to... admire your interest...

"That folder you have there... might be classified."

"Oh!" quickly snapping the folder shut, surprise slightly flickering across your features as your wide eyes witnessed the medic kneel towards you. The realization of the size difference between you becoming more obvious than before, "sorry. I was... just curious... about Megatron."

"I... understand your curiosity. But those papers relating to Megatron are restricted for a reason." His firm tone matched his body language, holding out a servo towards you.

Only for a mixture of appreciation and surprise flicker within his optics, when your soft gaze looked up at him. A sweet apologetic smile spreading across your lips, as you held out the folder towards him. The object looking comedicly out of place within the palm of his servo. She... didn't argue or protest? Just... accepted the restricted access...

"He seemed like one tough son-of-a-bitch."

A small hint of concern eased into you, as Ratchet's servo curled into a tight fist.

"You... could say that." Ratchet's tone slowly changed back to his gruff demeanor, but his words held a sharp edge. "He was one cruel and sadistic bastard. He and the Decepticons would stoop down to any level! Even if that level is tearing out the still beating spark of their foe!"

Sympathy and concern softened your features. The hidden memories reckoning within his words, tugged upon your heart strings.

"I've... had my fair share of encounters with him. Almost came close to... deactivation more than once because of him."

A small moment of hesitation stole your voice before you could squeak out your question. "De...activation...?"

A heavy sigh escaped Ratchet, as his optics briefly looked away from you. It's probably best if she hears it from me, than the others. "In 'our' terms... it basically means death. I've... came very close to it by Megatron's hands."

Ratchet's spark fluttered as you placed a hand over his closed digits. Your gentle touch sending warmth throughout his frame, causing his shoulders to relax. A stuttle heat slowly spread across his faceplate, as his processors burned your sweet, comforting smile deep into his memory core. Why... does she make me feel... so-

"Badass ice-cream truck coming through!-"

"Excuse me. Excuse me!-"

A small yelp of surprise escaped you, as two playful voices suddenly disturbed the air as a 1930's Chevrolet truck came into view. The pink and white paint almost completely faded away, only to be overtaken by dirt and rust.

The back of your legs pushed up against the stainless steel desk, as you leaned backwards. Confusion washed away your previous expression, as the voice's came from the singular vehicle. Ratchet closed his optics as annoyce begun to bubble back up within him.

"That... would be Skids and Mudflap..." the medic sighed.

Your confused yet curious gaze followed the 1930's ice-cream truck roam around the other side of the medbay hangar, leaving new tire-marks upon the concrete flooring as it circled two Mini Coopers. The red and green colours shining like new, polished metal compared to the truck.

"Hold up-"

"Those are nice. Yeah baby, it's upgrade time-"

"Yeah, sir yeah! Look here, it's my booty call right here!"

You looked at Ratchet with a puzzled expression. Giving the medic a silent question as he rubbed his temples, do they... even know what a 'booty call' is...?

The sound of turning cogs, whirling gears and shifting positions filled the air, making your eyes widen as the truck separated into two small Autobots. Possibly coming to Ratchet's waist if they stood next to his 20ft frame.

"Time to get my sexy on with the green-"

"Green? No, the green's mine! I call green!-"

You quickly reached for Ratchet's servo, your touch barely covering the tip of his digit, as the medic remained knelt beside you like a protective giant. A small gasp escaped your lips as Skids tackled Mudflap to the ground, causing violent vibrations to echo throughout the hangar and beneath your feet. You winced at the sound of metal clashing against metal, as the twins fists collided. Another vibration echoed through floor, like a ripple through water, as Skids grabbed his brother into a headlock, flipping the younger Autobot over his frame and forcing Mudflap onto his back.

"I got the green!-"

"That hurts man!-"

"It's supposed to hurt. It's an ass-kicking!"

Another heavy sigh escaped Ratchet as he tried to compose himself, still rubbing his temples while his free servo still welcomed your soft touch. For Primus sake...

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