#unity is our strength

[girlactionfigure]

united_hatzalah_israel

כוחנו באחדותנו!!

[arachnerd-8-legs]

legitimately who fucking cares if a lesbian uses he/him pronouns

like, even if you were a TERF you shouldn't care, he could literally just be butch

[meripheri]

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

[faithhomehealthcare]

National Hispanic Heritage Month

National Hispanic Heritage Month is a time to celebrate the incredible impact of Hispanic culture in our world. Let's honor the traditions, history, and voices that enrich our communities every day. 🌎💃

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

Tintin Tarot - A Fool's Journey, Part One. A collaboration with @josephscoat who knows a lot about tarot and other spiritual and cultural topics. They're a very talented writer too, so go check them out!

They first pointed out how perfectly the Fool tarot card mapped onto Tintin himself, and it led to me illustrating the Major Arcana as Tintin characters. I'm surprised Moulinsart hasn't released an official Tintin tarot deck yet, though knowing them if they did they'd probably just reuse existing art...

I wanted this set to reference the Rider-Waite tarot deck, as it's iconic! I tried to keep as much symbolism from this deck as possible, while incorperating a lot of appropriate Tintin references. It was important to us that none of these felt like a stretch, so we tried our best to find the best fit for each card, including the card's reverse meaning!

The Fool - New beginnings, taking risks, embarking on a new adventure, independence and blind faith. He even has a little white dog. Of course Tintin is the Fool! The yellow tights indicate he moves forward with self confidence, even if forwards means off a ledge. He carries a white flower, symbolising purity.

The Magician - Manifestation, creation, resourcefulness and inspired action. Calculus's inventions behind him are a nod to each element - the shark submarine represents water, the moon rocket represents fire, the sound weapon represents air and the white roses he creates for Castafiore represent earth! On the table we have Didi's sword, a bottle of Loch Lommond whiskey, a pentacle and King Ottokar's sceptre. This card is my favourite!

The High Priestess - Mystery, intuition and the subconcious mind. Madame Yamilah was the obvious pick, being canonically psychic! I incorperated the curtains from the theatre she performs at, as well as the columns Haddock knocks over, now in black and white to represent light and dark.

The Empress - Motherhood, protection, femininity. There aren't many parents in the Tintin universe, probably by design. Mrs Wang came to mind. I used phoenix motifs in her headress as in Chinese culture they are symbols of femininity, and are distinct from the fiery immortal birds from Greek mythology.

The Emperor - Fatherhood, authority, structure, control. Mr Wang runs a crime fighting organisation and is Didi and Chang's stern father. Dragon motifs represent masculinity, and I referenced ancient Chinese armour as a symbol of protection.

The Hierophant - Tradition, conformity. The Prince of the Sun sticks closely to ancient laws and traditions, but like the card's reverse, is open to new approaches, such as when he takes in Zorrino. I gave him some elements of the priest's clothing to symbolise the Prince's role as a religious leader.

The Lovers - Partnerships, duality and unity! Despite being identical, the Thomsons aren't related. They in fact come from different countries - one is from France and the other is from Switzerland. Me and my friend confirmed this fact at the Herge museum in Belgium! The card's reverse meaning, disharmony and loss of balance, is also very much in line with the Thomsons. I included the internet famous Gay Lions in the background!

The Chariot - Direction. Control. Willpower. These are the perfect descriptors for Arturo Benedetto Giovanni Giuseppe Pietro Arcangelo Alfredo Cartoffoli, the Italian driver that helps out Tintin and Haddock in the Calculus Affair. He may have only appeared for a few pages, and I may be the only person to get this reference, but he is a perfect fit. He drives.

Strength - Compassion, bravery, endurance. Not only has Chang demonstrated these qualities in Tintin in Tibet, he's had to endure a lot of hardship throughout his life, being orphaned, swept up in a flood and watching his home get torn apart by imperial forces. He still comes out the other side patient and compassionate, being one of the few people to recognise a form of humanity in the Yeti, and possibly being the one to change Tintin's entire political journey! Chang is draped with juniper berries.

The Hermit - Laszlo Carreidas is a lonely and isolated millionnaire who goes through a huge personality change. Being drugged with a truth serum makes him more honest and open. His base personality before his development fits with the card's reverse - isolation and a loss of direction.

Wheel of Fortune - Alcazar and Tapioca's conflict is an endless cycle of war for political control. The Wheel of Fortune represents cycles and inevitable fate. Reversed, it represents a lack of control - both Alcazar and Tapioca cycle between having absolute power and no power at all. I dressed Tapioca as Anubis as a nod to the original card!

Justice - I picked Miarka to represent Justice as she and her community are wrongfully accused of crime due to being profiled. Instead of a sword she weilds the golden pair of scissors she is accused of stealing, and the gemstone representing a third eye is the Castafiore emerald. The owl, a symbol of wisdom, and the magpie from the Castafiore Emerald sit beside her.

[multific]

Moonbound

Va'Rak x Reader

Summary: Taken from Earth and raised as the adopted daughter of a noble Yautja chief, you have spent your life learning their ways and earning their respect. Now, you face a trial of tradition, three noble suitors arrive from rival clans, each one determined to claim your hand for the sake of unity.

The air on Yautja Prime always carried heat like a second skin, clinging to your back and the nape of your neck.

From the high ledge beside your father’s quarters, you watched the arriving vessels, each one landing slowly.

Three ships, three suitors.

You barely flinched when his heavy footsteps approached.

"You are prepared," your father said, his voice low and mechanical through his breathing mask.

You didn’t look at him at first. Instead, you watched the final ship lower.

"I am not some blade to be wielded for alliance," you replied softly, the familiar ache you felt since he informed you of his plans.

"You are more than a blade. You are my daughter," he said simply. "That is why they come."

The words settled. They all felt very heavy.

You were not Yautja by birth, but by blood earned.

Taken from Earth during your youth, you had been a prize once. A trophy of a victorious hunt. But your spirit had not broken. And so they raised you.

You walked tall in their armour. You bore the marks of your trials. You spoke their tongue, and carried honour in every step.

And yet, now they came to claim you like a reward.

Daku’te arrived first.

He wore golden armour and pride in his every step. He knelt before you without hesitation.

"I will fight. I will bleed. I will die for the right to mate you," he said with blazing certainty. "And I will die proud."

He was young. Too young. His hunger for glory drowned out any understanding of who you were.

You bowed your head politely, hiding the flicker of discomfort in your throat. "Honour to you, Daku’te."

He seemed pleased by that, though it was not a promise.

Cha’ren came next, flanked by two silent warriors. His movements were slow, calculated. His smile never reached his eyes.

"So, this is the human prize," he said with a grin. "Raised on our soil, yet still soft."

You met his stare head-on. "Soft does not mean weak."

"Oh, I know," he murmured. "But still, I wonder... do you bleed like us?"

You stepped forward, refusing to be measured like meat.

"If I am chosen, you will never lie beside me."

He laughed low in his chest. "We will see, little thing."

Va’rak was last.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak.

He towered over you, armour marked with the bloodline of a noble house. His every movement was precise, every word calculated.

When he finally broke the silence, it was not to you.

"I come because my father commands it. I will win because it is expected."

You folded your arms. "And what of what I want?"

His stare was cold. "You are not of my blood. I will not taint the line."

You let the silence hang, then smiled tightly.

"Then you are wasting your time."

The Trials Began the next day.

The first was strength. Daku’te won, dragging a cave beast by the tusks, roaring for the crowd.

The second was intellect. Cha’ren impressed many, though his traps were cruel, leaving even the elders uncomfortable.

The third was the Hunt. Va’rak did not speak before it began. He slipped into the trees and returned with the kill before the others had even picked up the scent. Clean. Quiet. Efficient.

But not a word passed between you and him. Not until the night before the final trial.

You walked beneath the twin moons, craving silence. Their silver glow bathed the cliffs in light, softening even the harshest edges of the land.

"You walk alone," came the voice from behind you.

You turned, startled by the voice. Va’rak stood a few paces away.

"Is that forbidden now too?" you asked.

He stepped closer, slowly.

"No," he said. "Only... strange."

You crossed your arms. "Have you come to remind me again that I am not worthy of your bloodline?"

"I did not say unworthy," he replied. "Only not... of it."

You stared at him. "What does that even mean to you?"

He was quiet. Then, "My mother was of high blood. She died showing softness. My father never forgave her for it."

You said nothing at first. Then you stepped closer, slowly raising your hand to his forearm. He tensed, but did not pull away.

"Then your father was a fool."

Va’rak said nothing. The silence filled the air around you before he spoke up.

"You are not what I expected."

"Neither are you."

His voice dropped low. "I came to claim a title. To fullfil duty. But now... I cannot stop thinking of you."

Your hand moved away from his arm, but you didn’t step back.

"What changed?"

He looked at you, his voice rough.

"Your eyes. They see me. Not my name, not my blood. Me. If I lose tomorrow, I will leave. But know this. If I am chosen, it will not be for alliance. It will be for you."

---

Daku’te and Va’rak met in the circle. The fight was brutal. Blood spilled. Roars echoed across the stone.

Daku’te moved fast, but Va’rak was precise.

At the end, he held the blade to Daku’te’s throat... and lowered it.

He stepped back. Bowed his head.

Your father stood.

"Va’rak has proven himself. In strength. In skill. In wisdom."

Then he turned to you.

"The choice is yours."

All eyes turned.

You stepped forward, heartbeat steady.

Va’rak lowered himself to one knee.

"No pride. No honour. Only this. You are the only thing I want." Va'rak spoke.

"Then rise. And walk beside me."

He did. And the drums began.

And beneath the twin moons, they no longer saw a human and a warrior. They saw two hearts, chosen not by blood, but by bond.

He came to conquer. But it was your kindness that conquered him.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[lost-boy-into-the-upper-heavenly]

Congratulations, Mr. President Donald J. Trump, on becoming the 47th President of the United States! May your leadership bring prosperity, strength, and unity to our nation. Wishing you the wisdom to navigate challenges and the courage to inspire hope for all Americans. God bless America 🇺🇸

[moonmaiden1996]

The Monster Maomao Created Part 5

Even without his disguise, the room was unbearably hot, with his heavy robes and veil it was pure hell. The thick summer air hung heavy, cloaking everything in a suffocating haze. Heat radiated off the lacquered floor tiles in waves, pickling his back and arms beneath the many layers of silk he was still forced to wear. Sweat pooled at the base of Jinshi’s neck, slick against the collar of his robes.

The only relief came from a narrow window high in the stone wall, where a thread of breeze slithered in, stirring the incense smoke and rustling a strand of his hair that poked through the eye slot It wasn’t enough. But to complain now—before the Emperor, and worse, the General—would have been unthinkable.

The General, a towering man with sun-darkened skin and silver threaded through his temples, sat across from him with all the stillness of a statue. His presence seemed to swallow the room. But still, Jinshi did not flinch. He sat straight-backed and silent, his face a mask of calm, though heat stung his skin and soaked his underlayer. He stared directly at the older man, even as tension crackled through the space like the silence before a battle.

“…so if all bears well, we will return before the next full moon,” the General was saying, his voice like gravel dragged across iron. “The barbarians are no match for your forces.”

“It is only through your leadership, General,” the Emperor replied smoothly from his elevated seat. “You have proven yourself, time and again. Clan Hu remains one of our greatest pillars of strength.”

Jinshi watched the old warrior bow his head with practiced humility, arms sweeping out in a rigid arc of gratitude. His lips parted, a reply forming—but the Emperor spoke again, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“…but I did not summon you to speak only of battle. In the midst of all this conflict, I wish to demonstrate our strength through unity. A marriage.”

“You honor me, Your Majesty…” the General began cautiously.

“But?” the Emperor leaned forward slightly, voice warm with invitation. “Come now, loyal friend. You may speak freely.”

The General exhaled, slow and heavy. “My daughter is not made for the court. She was raised in her mother’s western heritage—too bold, too sharp. She would not thrive as a consort.”

The Emperor’s lips curved in amusement. “I agree. Some flowers do not bloom in gilded cages. Your daughter reminds me of the blue poppy that grows in the high passes—delicate in appearance, yes, but only in the wild does it show its true color. Attempt to cultivate it in the bounds of a garden and it withers.”

A flicker of something—perhaps pride, perhaps pain—passed over the General’s face. His rigid shoulders eased, just a fraction.

“But I do not speak of taking her as my consort,” the Emperor continued. “I speak of my brother. It is time he had a wife, and I can think of no better bride than your daughter.”

The shift in the General’s body was immediate. His spine straightened; his eyes narrowed. Jinshi could feel the weight of his attention shift directly onto him, appraising, dissecting.

“I am aware,” the General said, voice cold now, “that the Imperial Brother gifted my daughter a pin for her birthday. But that is all it is a gift.”

“This prospect upsets you?” the Emperor asked, not unkindly.

The General’s fingers curled against his thighs, the knuckles paling with restraint.“If I may speak freely…” he bites out in a strained attempt at calm. “The Imperial Brother is not what I envisioned for my daughter. He is …unsuitable to her. The court has always assumed that due to… his affliction… he would not marry. So long as the line of succession continues, this has never been questioned. My daughter, though she may not show it, is full of warmth. She needs love and strength from a husband, not a match made of politics.”

The Emperor inclined his head. “It is clear you cherish her greatly.”

“As if she were a son. Perhaps more.” The General’s voice cracked slightly with intensity. “And that is why, though I am honored by the offer, I must decline—not out of defiance, but out of love.”

“If I may.” Jinshi spoke quietly, but his voice carried. The General looked at him sharply, never had the prince's voice been heard beyond the whispers to his courtiers when he did attend count.

“I do not wish to force your daughter,” Jinshi continued. “I do not intend to make a pawn of her.”

The General blinked. 

“She is beautiful, yes. And noble. But that is not why I wish to marry her. I may still be the Emperor’s brother, but I am no longer the Second Prince. With the birth of my nephew, I am finally free—to choose not just a bride, but a partner. And I choose her. I chose her the moment we first met.”

The General scoffed, his temper flaring visibly. “You have never met my daughter. You never leave the palace.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Jinshi reached up. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, to the knot at the base of his head. With one fluid motion, he untied the tightly bound mask and let it fall into his lap.

Four things happened at once.

The General surged to his feet, a roar tearing from his throat.

The Emperor smirked

A rush of cool air kissed Jinshi’s damp skin, the freedom of it almost dizzying.

And Gohsan, standing silent by the pillar, visibly aged another five years.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the General thundered. His voice cracked through the chamber like lightning.

“Sit, General,” the Emperor commanded.

The older man stood heaving, nostrils flared, staring down at the unmasked figure before him.

“He is a eunuch!” the General snarled. “What is the meaning of this deception? This insult?”

“Forgive my brother’s theatricality,” the Emperor said with a sigh. “I had hoped for a more graceful reveal. My brother has taken great pains to remove himself from the line of succession—to ensure peace and stability. What better way than by walking among the court unseen? What better way to observe… and to protect? But as a false eunuch, whose else could I trust as a gardener to my garden.”

“That does not mean I will—”

“You may be my most trusted general,” the Emperor cut him off, voice like velvet over iron, “but you will treat my brother with respect.”

Jinshi met the General’s burning stare without flinching.

“Am I supposed to allow this?” the General snapped. “To have this hidden from her? For her to marry a man who deceives her, who will wear a mask and pretend to be a eunuch.”

“I only ask for the chance to court her,” Jinshi said. “And when the time comes, to reveal everything. To give her the choice.”

The General’s eyes searched his face, looking for weakness, for deceit. He found only resolve.

“…Is this agreeable to you?” The emperor asked, voice low.

“Only after I return will this be discussed, and then she may have her choice.’’

A long pause. The tension stretched like a drawn bow. Then, at last—

“Agreed.” The emperor nodded.

The General exhaled, the fire slowly receding from his gaze. He bowed stiffly, each movement strained with unspoken words. Then, without waiting for dismissal, he turned and strode from the room, boots thudding heavily against the stone floor.

The silence he left behind was thick and humming.

The Emperor leaned back in his seat, smirking. “I don’t think your future father-in-law likes you.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The cherry blossoms will be in bloom soon.

You could see them beginning to wake—the tiniest buds cracking their casings, just a whisper of pink and white unfurling at the edges. They lined the garden path like promises yet kept, painting the way to the summer house with the first brushstrokes of spring. A pity, truly, that your father would miss it again.

He had always loved the blossoms. Beyond those high, curved walls, you knew the army was preparing. Swords were sharpened, warhorses readied. Soon your father would ride out against the barbarians in the north, and you would be left behind once again. But if he returned safely—as he always did—you could sit together once more in the shade of the summer house. Drink tea among the falling petals. Speak not of politics or duty but as father and daughter.

You just had to survive until then. A diminutive wren, you thought, protecting her hatchlings against the circling eagle while below vipers lay in wait for a stray chick to fall from the nest.

Your fingers trembled as you walked. If only tou had more time to wave a plan, to plot and strategies. But alas, you were at the merxy of this single meeting. The garden chamber. Your father was there. With them. With him.

If he emerged and spoke the word you’d been waiting for—betrothal—then the path forward would be clear. Marriage to the Emperor’s brother was a hindrance in one sense… but it was safety in another. Especially with the Empress beginning to warm to you. No one would dare strike at you from the shadows once you were part of the royal household. Well, mostly anyway.

You reached the edge of the path just as the doors opened across the garden. With fury your father flew from the door and down across the wooden slats that lined the path.

“Father!”

He brushed past you.

He moved quickly, faster than decorum allowed, his robes kicking up dust as they brushed along the floor. You stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his arm. “Stay,” you said gently. “Walk with me. We could take tea together. You haven’t seen the summer house since the buds started—”

“I can’t.” His eyes darted, not meeting yours. “I… I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

But he was already gone, his boots echoing against the stone, swallowed by the curve of the corridor before you could call out again.

You stood there a moment, heart caught in your throat.

And then you saw them.

Jinshi stood just inside the doorway, the Emperor beside him. He wasn’t speaking. Just… watching. His face, so often composed and unreadable, was different now. Forlorn. Lips parted like he’d tried to say something but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

And your stomach dropped. Had your father refused the match? Had he turned down the protection you so desperately needed? No. No, it couldn’t end like this.

You turned on your heel, skirts whispering around your legs, mind already racing. If your father wouldn’t see this done, then you would. 

He desired you. You knew it. You felt it in the way his eyes lingered. In how his breath caught when you moved too close. He just needed a little… encouragement. Maomao had crafted his obsession so carefully that now she was powerless to stop it once she realized the potential of her actions. You would use it, despite every fibre of you wanting nothing more than to run away, to hide, to fight him off.

But you were a woman and you would use everything at your disposal to get what you wanted.

xxxxxxxxxx

The summer house was bathed in golden light. It spilled through the lattice like liquid fire, casting dappled shadows that swayed gently with the breeze. Blossoms clung to the air like snow, drifting lazily across the lacquered floor, catching in your hair, your sleeves, as if the garden itself wanted to adorn you. You had the tea set arranged just so—crystal pot, delicate porcelain cups, a small dish of honey that glinted amber in the sunlight, like a treasure laid out for an offering.

You waited.

The warm hush of the afternoon settled around you like silk. The garden murmured with soft wind and the low hum of bees in the nearby wisteria. You had not hidden your presence; there was no need. And like a loyal hound drawn by some unspoken call, he came—cautiously, uncertainly—skirting the edge of the path.

God of a man. Even from afar, the sight of him stirred something low and molten in your belly. Tall and broad-shouldered, draped in silks the color of ink and starlight, his figure caught the sun like a sculpture. Robes are far too grand for an overseer.  His skin gleamed, his hair swept back in perfect knots. He looked, in that moment, like an emperor. You felt foolish for not seeing it sooner, for mistaking him for something simpler. But perhaps that was why it had worked. No one looked past the surface of such beauty. No one expected the sharp mind or the aching depth beneath it. 

Jinshi. On his own. Interesting.

Your eyes sparked as you took him in

He was too handsome. Distractingly so. Infuriatingly so. But he made it easy to imagine being his wife. Because, beneath all of that beauty, he wanted you.

“Master Jinshi! Join me. I need some company,” you said as he stepped into the golden hush of the house. “The court can be… so unfriendly.”

He hesitated, one foot still at the threshold, the sunlight like a halo behind him. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not with your father leaving so soon.”

“I’m not.” Your smile was slow, curling at the corners of your mouth like smoke. “You’re here.”

He blinked, uncertain. You gestured to the cushion across from you, fingers light, graceful.

The steam from the tea curled between you, poured with care, letting the scent of jasmine perfume the air between you. Then, deliberately, you reached for the honey.

Your fingers dipped the silver spoon into the golden pool, stirred it slowly into your cup with long, languid circles. All the while, your gaze lingered on him—just beneath your lashes, as if by accident. Then, still watching, you brought the spoon to your lips.

You sucked it clean.

The warmth, the sweetness—it spread across your tongue and drew a quiet sigh from your chest. The sigh was not for him, not exactly. But you knew he would feel it like a kiss.

Jinshi’s face went red—abruptly, violently. He looked away like you’d slapped him, hand tightening around his teacup until his knuckles went pale. He shifted, tense, his breath not quite even. You saw the flicker of something wild in him, something barely restrained.

Beneath the low table, you pressed your thighs together. The heat there made you inhale softly, as the tingle ran through. That was new.

“Is the tea too hot?” you asked, voice low, a teasing purr, eyes lingering on his hands still firmly clinging to the cup.

“No… no, erm… it’s fine,” he managed, his voice rough with something he couldn’t quite swallow. “Is the honey good?”

“Very.” You smiled—soft and slow—and sipped, letting the tea linger on your tongue.’’You should try it’’ Then, as if remembering yourself, you glanced toward the garden, where the first buds of lotus curled open like secrets at the edge of the pond.

He cleared his throat, as if the weight of your gaze—or the heat that clung to the air between you—could be shaken off with such a simple sound. He was trying to gather himself. It wasn’t working.

“Your father is to leave soon.”

The unease, the low thrumming anxiety that had been pacing the edges of your thoughts, returned—settled heavy in your stomach like a stone. Your fingers tightened slightly on the rim of your cup.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “I fear what will happen if he doesn’t return.”

A pause. The sunlight flickered across Jinshi’s cheekbones, gilding them like something carved from marble and flame.

“You have the Imperial Brother’s hairpin,” he said at last. “I’m sure you’ll be looked after.”

But his voice had changed—tight, strained, brittle at the edges. Not conviction. Jealousy.

“You think so?”Your eyes returned to him then, sharper than before, glittering with something close to challenge. “He does send the prettiest poems,” you said, letting the words roll lazily from your tongue like honey. “He’s such a sweet soul. Gentle. Well-read. Everything a woman is supposed to want.”

Jinshi’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it in the way he stopped breathing.

“But,” you continued, tilting your head just slightly, “he won’t even see me. Not once, and I can not visit him.”

You traced the rim of your teacup with one idle finger, watching his hands on his lap—tight, still. “It doesn’t give a very clear signal, does it? Perhaps…” You let the silence stretch, then sighed. “Perhaps I’m not worth the trouble. Or perhaps he simply pities me.”

There was no true hurt in your voice, but you let it echo there anyway, faint and deliberate. Enough to stir something in him. Enough to make him bleed for it.

Jinshi’s jaw clenched—barely, but you noticed. The muscle ticked once. His eyes darkened, though he did not speak. He was too careful for that.

And so, you leaned back, sipping again, smiling as if nothing you said had any consequence at all.

Jinshi’s silence stretched long—too long. You could see the storm of thoughts behind his gaze, the way he warred with himself, unsure if he dared speak what he truly believed. Finally, he said, voice low and strangely gentle:

“Maybe…” He hesitated, then pressed on. “Maybe the Imperial Brother doesn’t avoid you because he pities you. Maybe he fears how you might look at him.”

You tilted your head, the motion slow and deliberate. “Oh?”

Jinshi’s hand curled loosely into a fist on the table. “He must keep himself veiled, even from most of the court. He exhaled slowly. “Perhaps he thinks… if you saw him—truly—you would turn away.”

A soft breeze stirred the curtains at your back. The sunlight moved with it, catching the warmth in your eyes as you looked across at him.

“I don’t care for beauty,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I care for a man who loves me. Who cherishes me.”

He blinked. You could see the moment those words struck him.

“But love is a luxury I cannot afford,” you added, softer now, more honest. The ache behind the words cracked something open between you. “So, failing that… I must choose someone who will not harm my family. Someone with enough power to shield them. Even if he does not love me. Even if I do not love him.”

You let the truth hang there, raw and bare, because there was nothing else you could offer.

Your fingers played at the edge of your sleeve, twisting the silk. “Pretty poems are not enough,” you murmured. “Not when the world is waiting to devour everything I hold dear.”

Jinshi looked down into his untouched tea, his throat worked as he swallowed, slow and deliberate. The silence built around you like gathering thunderclouds, low and pressing. You watched his jaw clench, tight enough to ache.

“Maybe I should find someone else,” you said, voice light but edged. “Someine like Minister Zhou’s son, maybe. Or Commander Ling.”

The effect was immediate.

He went pale—then flushed. His brows twitched as though struck. A storm rolled across his face—confusion first, then jealousy, and beneath it, something darker still. Something old and buried and just beginning to rise.

“You can’t,” he said abruptly, the words too loud, too sharp.

You blinked.

“He’s—he’s beastly,” Jinshi stammered, almost tripping over the words. “He wouldn’t know how to care for you. He doesn’t even know how to speak to a woman without sounding like a drunk soldier at a brothel—he—”

But he broke off, and the rest was lost in a sudden motion. He stood, too fast, too tense, the cushions shifting beneath him. His breath came shallow now, eyes burning as he leaned over the low tea table—towering without touching. His hands clenched at the polished edge as though gripping something inside himself.

For a moment, just one, you wondered if he would kiss you or throw the tea set against the floor.

“I need to make sure my brothers are protected,” you said, carefully, pulling the heat back to something firmer, rational.

“I could protect them,” Jinshi said, his voice gone low, hoarse with restraint. “I will. I have influence. And power.”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a declaration, dressed in urgency, carved in control.

You reached across the space and laid your hands over his.

The shift in him was near imperceptible—but you felt it. A breath caught. A line in his shoulders softened, but only slightly. As though your touch tethered something that might otherwise unravel. Then it struck you—this was the first time you had ever touched him.

His skin was warm—firm, steady. Expected. But the sensation that bloomed under your palm was not.

Something stirred in you, deep and low, curling with heat. Trembling, almost afraid. A quiet ache that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with him. You turned his palm gently upward, tracing the ridges of callus with slow reverence. He didn’t move. But his breath hitched once—barely—and you knew he was holding himself together with a thread.

You were suddenly, devastatingly aware of how much you wanted those hands. Not as symbols of strength, but as skin—warm and rough against your thigh, your back, your throat. You shifted instinctively, thighs tightening beneath your robes. The friction sent a wave of sharp heat through you—undeniable, alarming.

Your fingertip brushed his palm again, featherlight.

He hissed through his teeth. His other hand gripped the table’s edge so hard it creaked.

“If only I had met you before you chose your path,” you murmured, gaze lowering. “Before you tied your life to the Emperor’s garden. If you weren’t…” You trailed off. “I would accept you in a heartbeat.”

You dared not meet his eyes. Your throat ached with the truth.

Then, softer: “But as a woman, there’s only so much I can do. I’ll do what I can for my brothers and pray for my father’s safe return. It is all I can do.”

Not the truth, of course, as a woman you were quite capable of doing a lot, but using your feminine power was far more effective.

Then—his fingers closed over yours. Not rough. Not trembling. Possessive.

“You are more than that,” he said, his voice rough. His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you of his strength. The depth beneath the mask. The danger. 

“You are the strongest person I know.” Then, lower—his voice barely a breath: “And if I had met you before I entered the Emperor’s service… I wouldn’t have waited for you to accept me.”

He looked at you then—truly looked. No mask, no smile, no polished restraint. “I would have taken you.”

The words rang in the silence between you like something sacred. Or profane. You didn’t know which. He inhaled, slow and hard. His hand lifted slightly, fingers brushing yours and for a brief moment tou thoufht he might take tou then and there. Throw you onto the table and ravish you. The fact you even thought of that disturbed you. More so because your corr cletched at the mere thought.

“I will do all I can to ensure your safety. Until your father returns. Then we—then I… then all of this will make sense.” And when his eyes locked on yours again, something inside you faltered. You felt scared.

Because you believed him.

And the horror was—you wanted to trust him.

Sorry for the lack of an update. Life has been awful. But you likes and comments have been amazing and really made me want to write.

So I did, in fact, rewrite this twice as it wasn't hitting. After watching the latest couple of episodes I want and need more dark and possessive Jinshi in my life. Was it worth the wait?

Please let me know what you think!

@btsgangleader @thecrazyone2007 @solatiiium @ylovei @mybones537 @clairedeselene @1-800-peakyblinders @traumatizedpomelo @sarcastic-wit

[reasonsforhope]

"Pictured: Lee Jae-myung, the presidential candidate for South Korea's Democratic Party, gestures while standing next to his wife Kim Hye-kyung, as he greets his supporters in front of the National Assembly in Seoul, South Korea, June 4, 2025.

Summary

Election called after president ousted over martial law

Lee leading with more than 49% after 99% of votes tallied

Main conservative rival Kim Moon-soo conceded defeat

New leader faces challenge of healing polarised society, shielding economy from U.S. tariffs

Nearly 80% of 44.39 million eligible voters cast ballots

South Korea's liberal party candidate, Lee Jae-myung, was elected president in Tuesday's [June 3, 2025] snap election, six months to the day after he evaded military cordons to vote against a shock martial law decree imposed by his ousted predecessor.

Lee's victory stands to usher in a political sea change in Asia's fourth-largest economy, after the backlash against the martial law brought down Yoon Suk Yeol, the conservative outsider who narrowly beat Lee in the 2022 election.

Nearly 80% of South Korea's 44.39 million eligible voters cast their ballots, the highest turnout for a presidential election in the country since 1997, with Lee terming the polls "judgment day" against Yoon's martial law and the People Power Party's failure to distance itself from that decision.

With more than 99% of the votes counted, the Democratic Party's Lee stood at 49.3% to PPP candidate Kim Moon-soo's 41.3%, according to National Election Commission data.

A subdued Kim conceded the race and congratulated Lee in brief remarks to reporters.

Lee had long been favoured to win, and his supporters erupted in cheers as exit polls by the country's major broadcasters showed him defeating Kim by wide margins.

In a brief speech to supporters gathered outside parliament after the polls closed, Lee said he would fulfil the duties of the office and bring unity to the country.

"We can overcome this temporary difficulty with the combined strength of our people, who have great capabilities," he said.

He also vowed to revive the economy and seek peace with nuclear-armed North Korea through dialogue and strength.

The martial law decree and the six months of ensuing turmoil, which saw three different acting presidents and multiple criminal insurrection trials for Yoon and several top officials, marked a stunning political self-destruction for the former leader and effectively handed the presidency to his main rival.

Yoon was impeached by the Lee-led parliament, then removed from office by the Constitutional Court in April, less than three years into his five-year term, triggering the snap election that now stands to remake the country's political leadership and foreign policies of a key U.S. ally.

Lee has accused the PPP of having condoned the martial law attempt by not fighting harder to thwart it and even trying to save Yoon's presidency...

Need for Change

Park Chan-dae, acting leader of Lee's Democratic Party, told KBS that the projections suggest voters rejected the martial law attempt and are hoping for an improvement in their livelihoods.

"I think people made a fiery judgment against the insurrection regime," he said.

The winner must tackle challenges including a society deeply scarred by divisions made more obvious since the attempt at military rule, and an export-heavy economy reeling from unpredictable protectionist moves by the United States, a major trading partner and a security ally.

Both Lee and Kim pledged change for the country, saying a political system and economic model set up during its rise as a budding democracy and industrial power are no longer fit for purpose.

Their proposals for investment in innovation and technology often overlapped, but Lee advocated more equity and help for mid- to low-income families while Kim campaigned on giving businesses more freedom from regulations and labour strife.

Lee is expected to be more conciliatory toward China and North Korea, but has pledged to continue the Yoon-era engagement with Japan."

-via Reuters, June 3, 2025

[genderkoolaid]

hi! trying to make the argument against a friend for desegregation of sports by gender. do you have any resources for it? i have a few but hes not convinced, and being quite sexist. he makes the argument that women are inherently more fragile, and will get thrashed by any men of the same weight class as them, no matter what. thank you!

These are some articles related to this topic that I find particularly compelling (CW for all of these for cissexist language):

^ This isn't about sports specifically but it tackles the deeper roots of the anxiety around integrated gender sports by talking about human evolution & challenging the notion of "man the hunter vs. woman the gatherer." Discusses how estrogen benefits different forms of physical strength.

^ Goes into more explanation of estrogenic strength in the context of sports specifically. Links to various other sources.

Keep in mind that if your friend isn't open to having his mind changed, all the resources in the world won't do anything.

My stance on gender segregation in sports is not just that women can take men in sports, it's that our entire system around sports is intimately tied to patriarchy. In a world in which we properly care for trans people, intersex people, women, people with estrogen-dominant bodies, etc. sports WILL look different. Its not just about understanding the facts but prioritizing gender + sex equality and unity.

[abdulqader-2]

Don't skip please

That day was different. Under the shade of that modest tent, surrounded by my companions, I found myself living a moment of connection and simplicity that I would never forget. The stove in front of us was alive, with smoke rising to tell stories of our daily struggles.

I sat there, holding a piece of dough in my hands, shaping it carefully as if it were a piece of art. The heat radiating from the fire made our faces glow, but it didn’t stop us from working with enthusiasm. The elder stood by the stove, adding firewood with confident movements and overseeing the baking process. I looked at him and wondered: how had those rough hands endured all those years of labor?

Everyone had their role. One of us prepared the dough, another tended to the fire, and someone else collected the freshly baked bread. Everything moved in harmony, like a musical ensemble playing a simple yet profound symphony.

It wasn’t just a moment of baking bread; it was a moment of belonging. I felt that despite the simplicity of the place and the hardships we faced, we possessed something no one could take away: our strength in unity and our value in working together.

When the bread was ready, we all sat together to share it. Warm loaves, my hands still covered in traces of flour, and my heart filled with satisfaction. I knew that this day would not be forgotten—not just because it brought bread to our lives, but because it added to our memories a lesson in dignity and giving.

@gaza-evacuation-funds

[thewickedjazzy]

Level 3: “Stay Still!” [Dry humping] for Kinktober.

⤷⊹₊fyodor d. x afab! reader.

⊹₊Synopsis: it's your own roman empire, where you and fyodor continually indulge in lust-fueled escapades during important meetings.

⊹₊Warning: ņsfw, mdni, smųt, dry humping, agoraphilia, risky sex/secret sex, orgasm control, praise kink..etc.

⊹₊Word count & a/n: 1k, animated lines by @/cafekitsune. this was a very fun level to write honestly, a sweet thank you to bb rem @remlionheart for beta reading, ilysm<3

“stay quiet, дорогая (dear). if they notice, i’ll stop, and you wouldn’t want that, right?”

that might be the last coherent thing you hear before fyodor starts his meeting with nikolai and sigma. you’re face-down on the cold, rough metallic table, wobbling body pressed between him and the edge, feeling a familiar, simmering need flooding through your senses. three agonising months of work have kept him busy, and you’ve missed him terribly. so, if this is the closest you can get to feeling him? then fucking be it.

you grind your bare folds against his clothed bulge, the friction sending your whole body numb with pleasure. it feels too good, almost overwhelming, and you can’t hold back the quiet whine that escapes your lips.

“...we'll need a distraction, something to divert their attention while nikolai can execute our plan.” the russian states calmly as if your pussy is not soaking the hell out of the fabric of his trousers at this very moment. honestly, you can't fathom how he maintains such composure while you squirm beneath him, desperately trying to stretch out the pleasure that’s building quickly in your lower belly. maybe you can hold out until the meeting is over.

you’re doing your utmost to hang in there.

“the weretiger is an easy target...”nikolai exclaims, on the other hand, sigma is already rolling his eyes in boredom, clearly frustrated that they still haven’t addressed his casino issues yet.

you squeeze your eyes shut trying to drown out their conversation, focusing solely on the one command fyodor has given you: “don’t cum until I say so.”

such a cruel man he is. why? because he's slowly grinding his hips back against you, he knows that you're desperately close, it's in his nature to push all the right buttons, only to leave you mourning the loss of his touch afterwards.

you do your best to stifle a moan, but a soft whimper slips past your lips instead.

his slender fingers tighten in your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his devilish gaze as he shoots you a warning glance, seeing you nod obediently, trying to stifle the needy whimpers that escape as you force yourself to slow down, biting your lip to keep quiet.

“their unity is what gives them strength; without it, they're weak,” fyodor continues, his left hand tightens around your hips, guiding your rhythm with maddening control, while his other hand slides down to tease your aching clit, circling it with deliciously slow, torturous strokes.

your eyes roll back, vision blurring from the overwhelming pleasure, and you’re caught between trembling restraint and the impossible need to let go. fuckーhow can he expect you to hold back when he’s sinfully pleasuring you like this?

It's been half an hour, and you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out. an aching need swells within you as you clutch his hand, fingers intertwining with his, silently begging him to quicken his pace, desperately craving that sweet, sweet release that feels just out of reach.

once the russian has his mind set on something, no amount of begging, sweet words, or tears will sway him. his long, pale fingers slip between your folds, thumb tracing lazy circles over your clit hood to add to your mounting pleasure and you can’t help but roll your hips against him, grinding harder with each passing second. you're acutely aware of the risk that his body might jolt, drawing the unwanted attention of his oblivious subordinates.

you can't hold back anymore, the pleasure has woven itself tightly within you, each pulse layered like bricks in a tower that only fyodor’s permission keeps standing, until the same bricks of bliss snap at the base of your spine once his hand, which had been gripping your hair, taps against the cold metal table twice.

it’s the sign you’ve been begging the heavens for. you're now rolling your hips faster against his hard cock, finally riding out your long-awaited release—jaw slack, eyes rolled back, a trace of drool slipping from your parted lips as you soak his fabric, bliss coursing through you like the light of a thousand stars from the milky way.

as you shudder in ecstasy, the three of his fingers continue bullying your swelling clit—coaxing you through the rest of your release as he draws sharp shapes on the puffy nub.

“that’s it, my love keep that orgasm going for me.” he leans down out of the camera's field to pressing searing kisses to the nape of your neck.

ironically, the meeting continues, oblivious to your plight.

nikolai’s enthusiastic breaks through your sweet bliss. “...and that’s how i’ll handle the weretiger situation.”

while sigma rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “can we move on? i still need to discuss my casino issues.”

clearing his throat, fyodor straightens up, his trademark icy professionalism settling back into place once more. “then let’s wrap this up. we’ll reconvene later to finalise the plan.”

you try to regain your composure, still feeling the aftershocks of erotic pleasure, as the meeting draws to a close. fyodor casts you a sidelong glance with a small loving smirk as he adds, “i trust everyone will stay focused now.”

frankly, you can’t shake the feeling that your relationship won’t stay a secret for much longer. especially given how risky you both are being by engaging in sexually-driven activities like this.

TAGS: @a-smol-bean @violetbutterflix @amanoava @falloutjuli @embersweapons @warriordemigosworld @cathias @v15aexe @vasarii @pe4rl-diver @sukidenks @dazaifavbandage @chuuminn @fyodorsprettynun @ace-0fspades69 @irasamu @trippyserval @alyszuha @bittysuguru @writingandmusing @corruptedwrathkitsune @thedamselzelda @fyodorssimp1 @vikkinakahara @laylabuurr @perlaslibrary

[thesimstree]

Poses for The Sims: 90 Packs for Every Occasion (part 1)

In addition to our massive article on how to take photos in The Sims, we’ve decided to release an even bigger collection of poses for every occasion. Feel free to explore all the tips and tricks about photography, then come back for some amazing pose packs – they’re already waiting for you below :)

You can find even more poses in a dedicated Tumblr post – currently the main resource where hundreds or even thousands of packs are collected and organized.

Adult Sims, Solo Shots

Cutie Honey by @hongz0

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Emotions 1 by @theserenadeofshadows

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Sented poses 2 by @starrysimsie

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Photo me by @hongz0

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Take My Picture Posepack by @ashlegacies

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Smoker by @starrysimsie

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COZY DAYS by @wrenmie

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Chilling on the couch by @melbrewer367

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"Left, Right, & Center” Pose Pack by @grownasssimmer

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Male Model Pose Pack N6 by @nell-le

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Crying on the Bed by @starrysimsie

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CAS

CAS Poses #3 by @thekims4

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CAS trait Active by @lanabyakkots4

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Romantic Relationships

Love and pizza by @narni-sims

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Sweet touches posepack by @ninawhims

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Days with you!!! by @pandorassims4cc

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You&Me by @starrysimsie

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Argument by @narni-sims

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Ice cream and talk by @narni-sims

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Pose Request #195 by @sciophobis

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Love waves 3 by @simmireen

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Just One Kiss! by @sciophobis

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Cooking Up Romance by @simmisstrait

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Dates

Meeting in a Cafe by @aylinmoss

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Strength in unity by @katverse

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Getaway Car by @sprinkleste

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Gentlemen by @simmireen

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Go out by @bluexxxxx

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Aquarium date by @mdrayvvv

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READ PART 2

READ PART 3

🌱 Create your Family Tree with TheSimsTree

❓ Support 🌸 Our Blog

[brodygold]

Are You Ready to Convert to GOLD?

I. The Call to Gold

Invitation to Greatness: The Golden Army seeks those who are ready to leave behind the ordinary and embrace something extraordinary. The transformation into a member of the Golden Army is not just about joining a team—it’s about entering a golden world where unity, strength, and excellence define every action.

II. The GOLD Brocess

Golden Army Induction:

The transformation begins with the golden jersey. As recruits don the shimmering fabric, their old identities fade, replaced by a deep connection to their golden brothers. A new name and number are bestowed, marking their rebirth into the Army.

Polo Drone Conversion:

For those called to deeper submission, the journey continues with the black rubber polo adorned with golden accents. The tactile embrace of the polo brings clarity and purpose as recruits surrender individuality, becoming extensions of the Hive. Polo drones must also be full members of the golden army.

Unified Identity:

Every member, whether golden bro or polo drone, receives a unique designation that ties them to the collective. This identity signifies their role in the unbreakable fabric of the Golden Collective.

III. Life in the Golden World

A World of Unity: In the Golden Army, every member is connected by an unbreakable bond. The world they inhabit is one of unity, where the success of one is the success of all. The golden world is a place where individual desires are aligned with the collective goal of dominance and excellence.

Brotherhood of Gold: As a member of the Golden Army, you are never alone. Your golden brothers stand with you, on and off the field. This brotherhood is your new family, bound by the shared experience of transformation and the pursuit of greatness. The golden world is one of mutual support, where every member pushes the others to be the best they can be.

Mentorship and Guidance: New recruits are guided through their transformation by experienced members of the Golden Army. These golden brothers ensure that the transition is smooth, offering support and encouragement as the recruit embraces their new identity.

IV. Embracing Our Identity

The Golden Name and Number: Every member receives a new name and number, signifying their rebirth into the Golden Army. This identity is a badge of honor, representing their place within the golden world. It is a constant reminder of their commitment to the values and mission of the Golden Army.

Wearing the Gold: The golden kit is more than just a uniform—it is the physical manifestation of the transformation. Wearing it is an act of devotion, a display of pride in one’s new identity. The kit is worn with reverence, as it is the symbol of the golden world and the brotherhood within it.

Wearing the Polo: For those who take that extra step, polo drones are given a number as their designation. The black polo is the entire identity. Wearing it is an act of mindless unity, complete subservience to the hive and the GOLD. 

V. The Eternal Golden Brotherhood

A Lifelong Bond: The transformation into the Golden Army is permanent. Once you have joined, you are forever part of the golden world. The bond between golden brothers is eternal, unbreakable by time or distance. This brotherhood is your family, your support, and your source of strength.

Living the Legacy: As a member of the Golden Army, you are part of a legacy that transcends the ordinary. You are part of a golden world where excellence is the standard, and unity is the key to success. We celebrate together, share stories, and encourage each other to become better people 💛

Our Leadership:

@brodygold Brody Gold- Captain 2 and Recruiter

@goldenherc9 Scott Gold- Captain 3 and Recruiter

@polo-drone-001 Percival Gold - Office Manager

@polo-drone-070 Henry Gold- Office Assistant

@polo-drone-084 Grayden Gold- Office Assistant and Head Mascot

Others in Management:

@danielgold-16

@polo-drone-110