#* You take the man out of the city not the city out the man for real!!!

[soup-cansam]

I was talking to my own neighbor about this very thing, and we agreed that issue is that it’s always “those people”. As mentioned in this post, it’s the people who are some idea and not an actual person who can be hated. You see how when an immigrant gets taken from a community that voted heavily for Trump, they’re all saddened. They thought, surely, it wouldn’t be their neighbor, it would be one of those “criminals”, probably from some other city. My neighbor and I agreed that the challenge now is to make people see that there are no “those people”. There’s no distance or separation between them and the rest of humanity. All those walls have been built in their minds (or to be honest, they have allowed them to be built in their minds) by propaganda and lies.

The next question of course, is generally twofold: do our latest crop of Nazis and their fellow travelers deserve the kindness of being deprogrammed instead of punched in the mouth and, relatedly, will this even work? To the first one I would say I understand the anger. I myself am not fully (and man never fully) be past it. Unfortunately, we’re at a point where the boat is sinking. The waves are lapping over the gunwales and righteous anger won’t bail the water out, only action will. Do these people get a pass because they came to our side after being lead there by the nose? I don’t think so, but at the end of the day, we have vulnerable people to save. You can sit and stew in your anger or you can work in your community so everyone who needs protection has it.

And will this work? Will trying to convince people who have been taken in (allowed themselves to be taken in) by reams and reams of constant propaganda actually play out in real life? The answer, unfortunately, is: sometimes. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. You don’t have to be friends with anyone who would despise you, but changing people this deep into it takes time. You’re chipping away at their calcified worldview. You’re showing them facts that are incongruous with the lies they’ve been told. If all immigrants are lazy freeloaders, then what about our neighbor who runs his own business? If all trans people are evil pedophiles, then what about our friend down the street who bakes for anyone when they’re feeling ill or need help? If all socialists want to take away your freedom, what about the food pantry who give and never ask a single thing in return? A mind can deploy cognitive dissonance for only so long. It sometimes helps me to think of it as a psyop of my own. Subverting the enemy’s soldiers with kindness and love and bringing them to our side. I know that’s somewhat antithetical to the point of the post above, but I honestly don’t know how else to handle it some days. However you need to square it, remember that it does work.

And as the post said, say hi to your neighbors. Ask them about problems in the area and start working on those problems together. Even small things (“These fences around the neighborhood are falling to shit and you just know they’re not coming to fix them.”) bond you together in a way that cannot be so easily broken.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about some of the people I interact with. I have a coworker who I am pretty sure is a MAGA type, and she is also a lovely woman who is dreadfully overworked and so good at connecting to patients when they call. I can see the conflict on her face when she talks to me, a gigantic tranny dork who speaks Spanish and affirms the LGBT community, but can also talk to her about her cows and knows about guns and stuff. I can see the fear in the eyes of my former Young Men’s leader when he misgenders me and realizes that I’m not an ideology but a person he has known for a long time. I can see the way my extended family stop and stutter over political discussions when they realize they are talking about me. And I don’t know why but lately it’s just made me think about my neighbor as a kid.

When we moved to Arizona, we moved next door to a lovely retired couple - John and Lucy. John was a veteran of WWII, he had an M.D. and a Ph.D. in radiology, and he LOVED us to pieces. His wife, Lucy, was a sharp and gifted woman - well spoken, very observant, and VERY clever. I just know that she used that cleverness as a mom to great effect, because with my and my siblings she always managed to find a way to send us home with candy and treats for a week despite my dad’s protests. We loved them, growing up, and even though they have long-since passed away I love them still, and I love what I learned from them.

John was, as stated, a WWII veteran. He was enlisted as a rifleman, and later as a front line medic, starting at Point Du Hoc and moving inwards to France and towards the Rhine. He let me do a report on him in 6th grade where he shared war stories with me he had kept to himself his whole life - he said it was out of respect for his friends who didn’t get to come home and tell their stories.

He said he told me because he knew I could respect the memories of his friends.

He showed me his collection of medals, and which he’d kept hidden away in a sock in his attic because he’d feel an immense grief any time he saw them. He had wanted to be a doctor his whole life, prior to being drafted he was studying medicine and had taken the Hippocratic oath to Do No Harm. He saw his medals as a reminder that he had Done Harm.

After telling me his stories he was able to convince himself that while he had Done Harm, it was only because his only other alternative was, to him, cowardice. He chose to be brave even if it meant acting against his Oath because he felt that if he didn’t do it someone else would have to go in his place and he would be responsible for the harm that befell them. I don’t think that’s true, but for him it was and that was something no being on earth could have ever dissuaded him from believing.

He shared wild stories - melee combat on the beach, clearing artillery bunkers, receiving a Purple Heart for being injured in hand-to-hand combat with a Wehrmacht rifleman he said he felt pity for because they were the same age and he had to imagine the man he was fighting had been drafted just like him.

He shared how he was awarded a Silver Star for charging a machine gun nest, but shared that he was most proud of not killing anyone in the process. He threw a grenade with the pin still in it and when the machine gunners jumped to avoid being blown up they were killed by someone else so he didn’t have to do it. He took the machine gun and shot the other machine gun in that French field to pieces so he didn’t have to kill the people operating it. He said they were giving out Silver Stars like candy but I knew he was being modest.

He told me about being redesignated as a medic, about how he crawled for about 500 yards on his belly to rescue an injured tank driver, then threw him over his back and crawled the same 500 yards back (1000 yards total) to treat his injuries. He said he met the man in an Army hospital in England after his spine was broken by a high explosive panzer shell was fired through a hollowed out French farmhouse and landed about 20 feet away from him.

He told me about all the people he helped and saved as a medic, he told me about his work in radiology and research after the war. He showed me a hallway that was quite literally wallpapered with academic honors he’d earned as a researcher. He told me about how his first Fourth of July back was a horror show for him because fireworks and German artillery make very similar sounds. He told me about how he woke up in a cold sweat well over half a century later hearing the screams of German artillery men being burned alive with flamethrowers, or hearing his own voice apologizing to the young German soldier he stabbed in the heart at Point Du Hoc.

He told me that when he was asked to present at a medical conference in Germany 25 years after the war ended that he was so scared he couldn’t step off the plane, and that his wife had to hold his hand and lead/pull him with her. He said he was not scared because he was worried about being triggered, but because he knew that someone somewhere outside of that plane had the course of their life irreparably altered by his military service. That to someone out there he was the cause of immense suffering and harm. That some unwitting waiter could be the son of the Nazi Officer he stabbed in the heart with a 12-inch hunting knife. That some woman asking questions in the audience would be the daughter or widow of a man he sent to judgement with a .30-06. He was scared that they would hate him.

He knew what the Nazi’s had done, he knew better than anyone I’d ever met. He’d watched the documentaries, he’s seen the PoWs returning from camps, he’d seen the civilians massacred and tortured by their regime, but he also knew that among the monsters were people like him - idealistic 20-somethings who only wanted to make the world better and were ripped away from that life by the Nazi war machine. And he spent his whole life mourning the loss of innocence and peace that was forced on so many people by such a corrupt power.

To be honest I don’t know if I could do that, but he could. He told me he could still feel the dead and lost with him, both when he slept and when he woke. He told me he thought he’d go to his grave never having told a word of this to anyone. That the stories of him and his friends and allies would disappear silently with him and those like him. That he had wanted that until he realized that he didn’t have to sell out to share the stories - that he could give the stories away for free to someone who would love the people in them, and not just the content of them. He didn’t want his stories to be used as Patriotic Pornography by some TV network or magazine. He wanted the people he knew to be respected, he wanted their memories to be honored and loved, and he entrusted me, a 12-year-old “boy” to do that.

He told me for years afterwards that after telling me these stories that he slept better than he ever had. That by sharing the stories with someone who could hear Him over the din of victory and glory and honor and revisionistic history. Someone who could see the man in the story and not just see the plot of a battle being won. He wanted to be human, and he wanted the people he saw die to be human too - everyone, not just the people on his side. He wanted someone to see and to know the anguish of having to look someone in the eye as heartblood muddies the ground beneath them and hope that they understand that this was not an act of love or hatred but an act of desperation. To hope that you had just taken out One Of The Bad Ones instead of a medical student or a poet who had been drafted. He wanted me to see how hard he had worked since then to build a world without scarcity, to build a world of peace. He wanted me to know SO badly that the cost of violence, any violence, even necessary violence, is always ALWAYS paid by both parties involved.

I think about the rise of the new right wing - the new Nazi movement’s traction in politics, and I feel sad and scared - the world that Johnathan J Yobaggy, my neighbor, my friend, and my hero, worked SO hard to build is being done away with by people who do not understand the cost of the path they are entering. I can see brief moments of recognition in the eyes of some of the people I mentioned - The former young men’s president who immediately regrets misgendering me and hen he makes eye contact with me and sees Me staring back at him and not a faceless “ideology.” I can hear it in the voice of my uncle who quietly comes up to me to apologize for some homophobic comment he made absentmindedly. I can see it in the eyes of racists and sexists being interviewed on TV when they realize that they didn’t vote for a concept, they voted for a real thing. And honestly, I have mixed emotions about it. Because while I understand frustration with the status quo, the importance of basic human needs like affordable good and rent, and I know the fear that comes with feeling powerless, I also can’t help but grieve the endless wheel of history bringing us back to this God Damned Fucking Place again. I hope we can avoid this fate, not just for our sake but for the sake of everyone who has ever tried to make the world safer. For everyone who has ever tried to make up for human nature, for everyone who has ever placed themselves on the offering plate to protect others from the cruelty they know lies just under the surface of mankind’s tenuous grip on progress. I want SO badly for there to be a solution to this, for the people who idolize the Nazi party and the impact of fascism to see that the price of this path is paid in more than just blood but in soul. That they’re allowing themselves to be devoured too. I want for the centrists and the fence sitters and the idealists who want to “change it from the inside” to see how dangerous our politics have become. I want them to see that they’re losing the things that make them great in exchange for a security blanket that’s now become far far far too small to ever work for them again.

Safety found in the past is already gone, and safety found in the future is only as real as a daydream. That any ideology that promises that by “joining us now we’ll make things rough so we can make things safe in a decade” is a promise made by those who will not have to fight the battles they send you to.

I don’t know if America was ever really great, but as long as John was alive it felt great to me. There is no ideology that can replace a neighbor. No tax plan that can replace a friend. No grocery bill that can replace community and connection. No amount of budget cuts that can replace kindness. No amount of suffering from people I hate that will ever make more love. I don’t know how to make America great, but I know how to make my America great and it is not by selling out integrity and compassion and community and fucking humanity to make eggs and gas cheaper. It is by seeing and hearing the people around me. I’m not Mormon anymore, but I still know the value of mourning with those that mourn and comforting those that stand in need of comfort. I’m not Christian anymore but I still have Eyes That Can See and Ears That Can Hear. I want to make this all stop but I can’t stop the collective power of tens of millions of people so instead I listen to my MAGA coworker tell me about how sick her kid was last week. I make jokes with my Young Men’s leader. I hug my uncle. I let them see me fully, as a human and not an ideology. As a woman and not the concept of gender. As a whole person and not someone who can be easily summarized or boiled down into something short and quippy. And I let them know I can see them fully too, and I can see all their humanity as easily as they can see mine. I just have to hope that this works - that enough people can See and Hear the people in their lives who matter to them to bring them out of their personal world of forms and into the real world.

I am probably, honestly, just spiraling a little bit. I took my ADHD meds today and in addition to helping me focus they make me a little anxious so I doubt things are as bad right now as they seem. But just in case there’s any truth to the way things seem to be going, remember, and I mean this seriously: Be kinder to each other, be gayer, and read more Terry Pratchett.

And for the love of god day hello to your neighbor.

[fic-girlie]

Can you please write a fic for Harry where he takes you to a fancy lingerie boutique for Valentine's day and let's you pick out some sets. of course you try it on for him and make sure to put on a show just for him on the changing room. He ends up especially enchanted by a cherry red killer set and he has to take you right there and then

Red lace

Pairing: Harry Castillo x wife!reader Summary: Harry takes you lingerie shopping for Valentine’s Day, you try on a fiery red set, and he can’t resist taking you right then and there. Warnings: established relationship, lingerie shopping, explicit sexual content (+18), fingering, public sex (dressing room), unprotected sex, p in v sex, slight dirty talk

You’d never imagined Valentine’s Day could feel like this—electric and decadent, every moment laced with a delicious undercurrent of anticipation that made your skin prickle with excitement. Harry Castillo had always been a man who knew how to surprise you, but today’s plan was something else entirely. When he took your hand that afternoon, his dark eyes sparkling with that familiar, dangerous glint, you knew you were in for something unforgettable.

The boutique itself was tucked into a quiet corner of the city, a hidden gem bathed in soft, warm lighting that made the rich textures of lace, silk, and satin shimmer like treasures behind the glass. The faint scent of jasmine and vanilla hung in the air, wrapping around you both as you stepped inside, and Harry’s hand tightened around yours as he led you further in.

“This is where you get to pick whatever you want,” he said quietly, voice low and smooth, like velvet. “I want you to choose something… special. For me.”

Your heart fluttered with a mix of nerves and thrill as you walked past rows of delicate lingerie sets, each one more exquisite than the last. You could feel Harry’s gaze lingering on you, warm and intent, as if he were already imagining how you’d look in every piece you touched.

The mirrors everywhere caught your reflection—your pulse quickening as your fingers brushed over the soft lace, the silks slipping like liquid gold through your hands. Harry’s encouragement was quiet but firm, never rushing you, just letting you revel in the moment, savoring your every decision.

You settled on a few pieces, your fingers trembling slightly as you held a cherry red set—bold, fierce, and utterly intoxicating. The bra was a masterpiece of delicate lace and straps that seemed to trace the curve of your breasts perfectly, the matching panties cut to leave just enough to the imagination, teasing and daring. The color alone made your breath catch: it was like wearing passion itself.

Harry’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile as you turned to him, the set cradled in your arms. “That one,” he said softly, voice low, rough with desire. “Definitely that one.”

In the changing room, the world narrowed to just you, the smooth coolness of the boutique’s air against your skin a sharp contrast to the warmth pooling in your belly. The soft rustle of fabric as you slipped out of your clothes and into the delicate ensemble was almost a tease in itself. Every inch of the lace seemed to cling to your body, highlighting the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the slight dip of your waist.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, breath hitching at how different you looked—bold, powerful, utterly feminine. But it was knowing Harry was waiting just outside the curtain that made you want to do more, to put on a show just for him. You stepped from the shadows into the little light spilling through the edges of the curtain and turned slowly, deliberately, arching your back, giving yourself over to the pleasure of being seen like this.

“Harry,” you whispered, voice low and teasing, “how do I look?”

You could hear his sharp intake of breath through the curtain, the faint scrape of his fingers against the fabric as if he was trying to reach you without stepping inside just yet. The way he said your name—full of heat and need—made your knees weak.

The next moments were a slow, intoxicating dance. You slid your hands over the lace, tracing the edges, pulling the straps just enough to make Harry’s breaths hitch louder, feeling his gaze burning into your skin like a flame. You moved with all the sensual confidence the lingerie seemed to unlock in you, the thrill of his silent worship sending a tremble through your limbs.

And then, as if the pull between you became too much to bear, the curtain shifted and Harry was there—his hand resting against the wall, body close, eyes dark and hungry. The way he looked at you, the way his lips parted slightly as if he couldn’t get enough of what he was seeing, made your heart pound so loud it drowned out every other sound.

The moment Harry slipped inside the changing room, the air thickened with a pulse that had nothing to do with the boutique’s soft lighting or the faint scent of jasmine hanging around you. It was raw, hungry, dangerous—a hunger that had been simmering beneath his calm exterior ever since you stepped through that door, daring to wear that cherry red lace.

His hands found your waist first, fingers spreading wide over the soft, burning skin beneath the delicate fabric, as if memorizing the curves that were meant only for him. You shivered under his touch, every nerve ending alive, craving more of the electricity that crackled between you both. You leaned into him without hesitation, arching your back so that your chest pressed forward, exposed and enticing beneath the sheer lace of the bra.

Harry’s lips brushed against the shell of your ear, hot and feather-light, sending a delicious jolt down your spine. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he murmured, voice low and thick with need. “Like you belong to me.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid beneath the edge of your bra, teasing at the skin, slow and deliberate. The lace was delicate, but you could feel the heat of his palm through it—his touch so sure, so possessive it made your breath catch and your pulse race. You let your hands drift into his hair, pulling him closer, needing the weight of him against you, the roughness of his jaw as he nipped gently at the column of your neck.

Every movement was a promise, every touch a spark that ignited the fire between you two. Harry’s hands weren’t just exploring—they were claiming. His thumbs circled the hardened peaks of your nipples through the lace, drawing a soft gasp from your lips as your body arched into his, desperate for more. You pressed your thighs together, aching, wetness pooling where the lace met bare skin, the cherry red fabric doing nothing to hide the slick heat building beneath it.

His mouth followed the path his hands traced, lips capturing yours in a kiss that was fierce and consuming. The taste of him—sharp, intoxicating—drove you wild, and when his tongue slipped past your lips, you moaned softly, the sound muffled but heavy with desire. Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him flush against you, feeling the hard, undeniable evidence of his need pressing into your stomach.

With a growl, Harry’s hands slipped lower, sliding beneath the lace panties, the straps cool against his warm skin. He skimmed the curve of your hip, teasing the sensitive flesh just above the edge, before dipping his fingers between your thighs. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as he brushed against your wetness, slow and torturous, sending a shudder of anticipation spiraling through you.

“God, you’re already so fucking wet,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”

You opened your eyes to see him, dark and hungry, utterly enchanted by every inch of you. You wanted to give him everything—every ounce of your desire, every soft gasp and every heated moan that trembled at the edge of your lips.

Your hands traced the hard planes of his chest, pushing his shirt up, eager to feel the heat of his skin. Harry groaned when your nails grazed the thick muscle beneath, and in response, he slipped one hand down to cup your aching center, fingers spreading wide as he pressed firmly against your slick folds through the lace.

Your body responded with a shudder, hips pressing instinctively into his hand, seeking the friction that made your breath hitch. Harry’s other hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat to his lips. He kissed a path down, soft and burning, then sank his teeth in just gently enough to leave a delicious sting that made you gasp and tremble.

Then, with a sudden roughness that stole your breath, he pulled away from your neck, and you realized he’d started undoing the hooks of your bra, freeing your breasts from the confining lace. The fabric slipped away, revealing your skin to his greedy hands, which immediately returned to worship—palms cupping, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch, every stroke sending fresh waves of heat racing through your body.

You moaned, arching into his hands, desperate for the skin-on-skin contact you craved. Harry’s lips followed the trail of his hands, kissing and sucking at your breasts, the taste of you intoxicating and addictive. You reached down, slipping your fingers beneath his belt, fingers trembling as you unbuckled it, wanting him as badly as he wanted you.

His breathing was ragged as he stepped closer, pressing the growing hardness of his cock against the bare skin of your thigh, heat radiating from him like a living flame. You reached behind you, helping him peel off his pants and boxers, your fingers slick as they gripped the thick length that throbbed with need.

When he finally entered you—slow, deep, completely consuming—you cried out softly, the sensation of being filled, stretched, loved so fiercely it felt like it was breaking you open in the best way possible. Harry’s hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he began a slow, powerful rhythm that drove every nerve wild with pleasure.

The cherry red lace felt like a second skin, a vivid frame to your burning flesh, the color matching the flush spreading over your skin. Your bodies moved together, the boutique’s quiet elegance forgotten beneath the moans and gasps that filled the tiny room. Harry’s lips found yours again, kisses dark and possessive, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, as if he was trying to bury every last bit of his need inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, desperate for more of him, for every heated, urgent touch. Your hands roamed over his back, muscles taut under your fingertips, while he claimed your breasts with hungry kisses, biting softly, marking you as his.

The crescendo built slowly, each muffled  gasp and moan a symphony of raw desire, until finally, with a growl that vibrated through your core, Harry spilled himself deep inside you, holding you tight as the waves of pleasure crashed over you both.

You collapsed against him, skin slick with sweat, hearts pounding in perfect, ragged sync. His breath was warm against your neck as he whispered, “You’re mine… and I’m never letting you go.”

And as the cherry red lace clung to your trembling body, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

[cakypa120]

About Billy keeps dying au

Is it crazy to think that if an interdimensional portal were opened, Marvel who was reborn after being killed could meet up with fellow Leaguers from his past lives?

Like, is he reborn directly when he died, or does he kind of break through space and time and always be born in the same year he was supposed to be born? So does he generally have a standard age in relation to the infinite possibilities of Leagues?

Billy sighed. This wasn't how he'd pictured his long-awaited mission with the Flash of the new world. They were currently standing in the middle of another dimension's goddamn Gotham. And their home dimension was three dimensions away.

Flash: Where are we?

Marvel: Gotham. And also in another dimension.

Flash: Dude, when you said that mage could send you to other dimensions, I thought you were kidding.

Marvel: Well, now you're going to listen to everything about magic. That's the lesson.

Flash: Right. Shit, are we stuck here forever?

Marvel: No, we're just a long way from our home world. But I guarantee if we hurry, we'll make it in time for the free food giveaway at the Watchtower.

Flash: Then what are we waiting for? We gotta hurry!

Billy laughs. The Flash of the new world was young. And he had only recently been accepted into the Justice League. Barry was even different from his versions. Black-haired, blue-eyed, and curious to the point of insanity. The Bruce of the new world denies that he mentally adopted the guy, but Billy knows otherwise, Clark knows, and Diana knows too. No matter how much Bruce denies it, it is obvious that he has become attached to Barry. Billy is now eagerly awaiting Dick's arrival.

Flash: Do you have any ideas on how to get back to our home world, Gandalf?

Marvel: Did you just call me Gandalf?

Flash: Dumbledore?

Marvel: *pinches the speedster's cheek* Yes, I do, now calm down. We need to get to Fawcett. There should definitely be a portal there.

Flash: Why is there a portal in your town?

Marvel: Precautionary measure. Let's go quickly.

Flash: Race?

A shot rings out next to them. They turn around and see Red Hood. Billy quickly raises his hands up. Jason standing in front of them was the one who personally slit Marvel's throat when Billy was poisoned by magic and seriously damaged. Everyone wanted to save him then, to cure him, but it was impossible. Then Jason ended his suffering.

Jason froze when he saw Marvel. Just as bright, and just as big. He knew that Marvel would be reborn again. He knew, but doubts penetrated his heart. But now Marvel stood before him. A lump in his throat prevents him from breathing normally. Jason takes off his helmet and puts away his gun.

Jason: Holy shit, old man, you're really alive, huh?

Marvel: Alive as can be. Thanks for last time.

Jason: No thanks.

Flash: Guys? Anyone got something to tell me?

Marvel: Flash, meet Red Hood, he might show up, but we're not sure. Hood, this is Flash. Go easy on him, he's new to the hero business.

Flash: Hey!

Jason: Trying to mentor the new guys, huh, Cap?

Marvel: Sort of. Sorry, but we need to get to Fawcett fast so we can teleport back to our home dimension.

Jason: Try to stay out of sight of the other heroes. They didn't take your death very well.

Marvel: Got it, thanks for the warning.

Flash: Wait, you're dead?!

Marvel: Yeah, that happens sometimes. Now let's go, we need to get to the city quickly.

Superman: I don't think there's any need to hurry.

The three of them freeze and look up. Superman is hovering in the air, watching them like a hawk. Jason lets out a guttural growl and points his gun at the Kryptonian.

Superman: No need for violence, Red.

Jason: I wanted to tell you the same thing, asshole. I told you not to come to Gotham.

Superman: Sorry, but I couldn't ignore such a familiar voice.

Marvel steps in front of Barry. Clark has changed. A lot. This universe was especially violent. Rarely, but it happens. But Billy remembered a different hero. What else happened after he died? Now, the most important thing is not to lose control.

Marvel: Supes, how old are you? How is Lois?

Superman: She's okay. How are you? Still playing superhero?

Marvel: Of course, I'm not going to be thrown out of this job that easily. Well, Flash and I need to get back to our world, so we need to hurry.

Superman: Your world is here, Captain. You're staying here.

Billy didn't like the man's tone. Superman suddenly lunges at him, but Billy ducks just in time.

Superman: Marvel, don't make this difficult.

Marvel: What's wrong with you? Flash, run to Fawcett. I'll hold him off.

Flash: I don't want to leave you here!

Marvel: Flash. Run. That's an order.

Barry flinches at the hero's voice. Marvel rarely gave orders. He glances at the strange Superman, who was looking at Marvel like a dog looks at a bone. But an order is an order. Barry turns and runs.

Marvel: Clark, what happened.

Superman: A lot has changed since you died. Oliver's disability, Barry's coma. This world is losing its light. I just want to keep the light in the world. Will you help me?

Marvel: I don't belong in this world anymore.

Superman: You've already been killed here. Not there. You're safer here. Marvel, stay.

Marvel: Again, the answer is no.

Clark sighs, Jason tenses.

Superman: Then I have no choice.

Jason: Don't even think about it, son of a bitch!!

Clark attacks and pins Marvel to the ground. Billy watches in horror as the hero's eyes begin to light up. Jason points his gun, ready to fire. A sudden flash of light knocks Superman down. The Kryptonian flies away. And Billy looks at Barry.

Flash: Your hobbit saves the day!

Billy looks at Clark. Then he grabs Barry and teleports away, ignoring how loudly Clark screamed. His insides are burning from teleporting to Fawcett. He didn't like teleporting to other universes.

Flash: Dude, I don't like it here. Let's go home.

Billy nods and runs toward the old subway. Barry runs after him. There were many questions in his head, but he decided that he would ask them later. Now they needed to get home.

[rosie-posie1313]

George Clarke Fic Recs

06/08/2025

⭒ 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐘! By @tomsparkyr

following episode one of 'inside'

⭒ 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓! By @/tomsparkyr

following episode five of 'inside'

⭒ late night talking by @clarkeysbedchem

george yaps whilst you try to sleep

⭒ white noise by @/clarkeysbedchem

you live in a different city for uni which causes tension between you and george.

⭒ painting dates by @/clarkeysbedchem

after recording a podcast episode, george comes home with a bag full of art supplies.

⭒ My man by @w2soneshots

you watch George play in the sidemen charity match… along with all the trials and tribulations before and after the game.

⭒ shush, it’s a secret by @georgeclarkesgf

⭒ George Clarke smut by @/georgeclarkesgf

⭒  just like mummy  by @/georgeclarkesgf

⭒ Forgetful by @/georgeclarkesgf

⭒ Off Limits by @clarkeyzzz

george is secretly hooking up with max’s sister. what starts as no-strings-attached turns into something more

⭒ Hidden by @orchidniins

George dating ArthurTV’s sister

⭒ Finally Home by @/orchidniins

Where George is finally home after a long 2 weeks on tour.

⭒ Datenight by @clemswinecorner 

George and Y/N go on a date, without any of their friends knowing they’re dating. Or do some of them?

⭒ Flowers by @/clemswinecorner

Just a random afternoon at your boyfriend’s place

⭒ Neat by @/clemswinecorner

George and Y/N are dating, but no one is aware. It can make going out with their friends a bit… weird, a bit risky, but it works.

⭒ ❝ cuddle up to me ❞ by @clarkeybabey

clarkey loving a cuddle and the boys come home and tease him

⭒ hcs of being his gf while he plays in the charity match by @/clarkeybabey

⭒ come on over  by @forchencookie

you’re on a friend group vacation, enjoying the sun, the food, the warm weather, but not the pleasure of your boyfriend’s company… why is that? oh, well, you haven’t actually told the friend group about your relationship yet…

⭒ So Much Restraint by @whereforarthur

⭒ Musicians want to be the loud voice for so many quiet hearts by @/whereforarthur

reader is a famous singer and he basically follows her on tour and fans speculate they’re dating. he also gushes about her on the podcast and with Max about her songs and the shows fuelling the rumours

⭒ Wedding Day Bliss by @/whereforarthur

the whole wedding day leading up to the end of the night.

⭒ Possessive by @kislnd

george has to collect a tipsy y/n after a night out with her friends - there he is introduced to one of her old coworkers.

⭒ Platform Roulette by @wroetominter

In which George and Y/n are good friends, and she tags along for a platform roulette video.

⭒ number one fan  by @live-laugh-lenney

yn is the biggest supporter at wembley stadium for george during his appearance at the sidemen charity match.

⭒ Temptation by @/live-laugh-lenney

george misses his girlfriend, yn, so the sidemen bring her in during his time on ‘inside’… but her visit comes at a cost.

⭒ Take one  by @sweetfcwn

reader and George day in the life and the reader helps George film a you tube videos

⭒ mutual pining roommates by @fiftyfiftyfinchy

⭒ hey, sexy voice by @pretendyoucantseeme

⭒ beat it, punk by @/pretendyoucantseeme

you come home from work just as george is planning to head out, and you find yourself oddly turned on by his fit, so you might have to delay him for a little while.

⭒ Checked in  by @louistomlinsonslover

⭒ No so secret anymore by @tammyjackson50-blog

You and George have been dating for a few months, but you weren’t as careful as you thought, and fans started to suspect, and your friends weren’t helping either…

⭒ His favorite girl’s by @/tammyjackson50-blog

⭒ George Clarke Masterlist by @sdmnpact

⭒ 𝐃����𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 by @fallingforyouforeverr

⭒ emergency contact  by @georgeclarkeys

sometimes george is not as smooth as he thinks he is, but you are always there to take care of him

⭒ Nervous Laughter & New Faces  by @livvymd

⭒ Everyone Thinks They’re Dating—They’re Not. (Yet) by @/livvymd

⭒ Secrets in Doncaster: Part 1 by @the-internets-girlfriend

A soccer Saturday in Doncaster is spent laughing and drinking with friends… and the occasionally minion. However, can a secret go viral?

[comatosebunny09]

Got to thinking about you, as Sylus’ right hand (what’s new?) finding out you have an aggressive brain tumor—a result of you using your Evol to its max and neglecting your body, the stress.

You, stock-still in the neurologist’s office, the world muddled and swelling around you as he grimly tells you without surgery, you’re expected to live three more months. With it, your life expectancy increases to a year.

Either route is a death sentence, and because your cancer is something rare—something that lacks much research because not many Evolvers with the gift of illusion exist—there aren’t many known ways to stop it.

Where he anticipates tears, you bargaining for your life, hysterical, you merely huff. Smirk, a little in shock, but not surprised. You’ve toed the line of life and death long enough. Makes sense the Grim Reaper would finally catch up to you, collecting on a debt owed.

You refuse the surgery, much to the doctor’s dismay. It’s a gift to pass. You’ve lived long enough. This is your punishment for the brutality your hands have crafted. Besides, no one would miss you. Your place at Sylus’ side would be filled seamlessly, and you laugh bitterly at yourself, peeling your body from the armchair.

You keep this secret to yourself for another month. Don’t want to burden anyone with your weaknesses, with your mortality. You’ve never been one to crumble, one to show the cracks in the fissures of your psyche, so you continue trekking through each mission as usual. Attack them more aggressively, ignoring how your body slowly falls apart.

Sylus isn’t an idiot—he notices something’s off. He can smell it. You’ve utilized your Evol less and less these days. You’ve become sloppier. He’s caught you winded more than usual, sometimes struggling to maintain your footing. You have random spells of dizziness and nosebleeds, and the kicker comes when he notices you’ve been drinking less and less.

He corners you one evening on Lux’s rooftop, the city a sea of bokeh, a breathing, living thing below. You’re holding a handkerchief to your nose, the delicate silk stained a corrupted red, and the synapses in his brain fire off, burning like shooting stars across an inky night.

Kneeling, he catches your wrist before you can turn away—you always do. Always try to hide what’s happening to you. But he knows. He fucking knows something’s not right, and with eyes spooling with determination and concern, he takes the cloth from your hand, holding it to your nose in place of your fingers.

“Talk,” he orders, though it lacks its usual bite. It’s soft, almost coaxing, but you flinch nonetheless as if he shouted the word from the crest of a mountain.

You inhale shakily. Square your shoulders, unable to escape the intensity of his gaze. You can hide everything from the world, tuck it beneath the glam, glitter, and flirtation you don like a fur coat. Yet you can never keep things hidden from him. Not for long—he’s this nasty habit of reading you like the deckled, yellowing pages of a book.

You steel yourself, hands propped on the barrier’s edge you’re seated atop, knuckles bone-white. The clock is ticking, and there are two months left on the calendar to repay the wordless debt you owe to a man who gave you everything.

“I’m dying.”

And it’s unfair how the Earth still turns. How life continues its fickle rhythm, pulses like blood in a vein, while Sylus feels his world collapsing all around him.

[alaiasole]

♡ welcome back to solè’s bar ♡

tonight’s special: connie springer, paris nights, & a ring that changed everything.

→ connie springer x black!reader

→ fluff | proposal | modern au | anniversary under the eiffel tower

→ tags: f!reader,fluff,connie being in love(as he should)

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

so connie’s planning to propose. yeah, i know crazy. you guys have been together for three years, going on four, and he knows you’re his person. his soulmate. his everything. and he doesn’t see forever with anybody else but you.

he had this all planned out. the whole thing. months in the making. he bought the ring custom nothing off the shelf, because nothing basic could ever sit on your hand. and of course, he asked your parents for their blessing. told them he was ready to make you his wife. he meant every word.

he’s taking you to france paris, to be exact. the city of love. and like… what better place to ask the biggest question of his life?

he’s acting weird one night. pacing a little. scrolling through his phone like he’s checking something over and over. then he looks at you, all soft-eyed and fidgety.

“baby,” he says.

you glance up from the couch. “yeah?”

he scratches the back of his neck. “you know how our anniversary’s coming up?”

you nod, eyes narrowing a little. “uh huh…?”

he breathes out through his nose, like he’s trying not to grin too hard. “we’re going to paris.”

“CONNIE—YOU BEING SERIOUS??”

he laughs. “yup.”

“oh my god, i need to pack. i don’t got nothing ready. nothing cute enough for paris. oh my god.”

“baby—relax,” he chuckles.

“what you mean relax?! i need to pack right now.” you’re already halfway to the bedroom, suitcase under your arm like your flight leaves in an hour.

he just stands there in the living room, watching you with this look like he’s in awe. like he still can’t believe you’re his. and in a few days, he’s gonna be on one knee in front of you, in the middle of paris, asking the only question that’s ever really mattered to him.

obviously, you booked all your appointments for this trip you needed to look cute. anniversary in paris? yeah, no way you were going over there looking regular. but what you didn’t know… was that connie had already hit up all your people. your nail tech, your hairstylist, your lash tech, your esthetician even your tailor. he told them everything. that he was proposing. that it needed to be perfect. that you had to feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

first stop? nails.

you showed your tech a simple nude set you were thinking about.

“mm,” she blinked at the picture. “cute, but no.”

you looked up. “huh?”

“girl you’re going to paris. for your anniversary. this don’t say ‘romance.’ this say ‘routine.’”

you blink. “okay but i don’t want nothin’ crazy.”

she smirked. “trust me. i got somethin’ that screams luxe. this for the soft girls in love. lemme cook.”

and honestly? you let her. and she ate. you were staring at your hands like, damn, these look expensive as hell.

next was lashes.

you laid back on the bed and showed her your usual inspo pic.

“mm,” she goes. “no, we switching it up today.”

“what? why?”

she giggles, brushing your lashes. “’cause it’s your anniversary, duh. and you about to be in france. we doing a wispy hybrid. long and flirty. like you blinkin’ in slow motion.”

you raise a brow. “you tryna get me snatched by a parisian man.”

she laughs. “nah. just tryna make sure your man don’t take his eyes off you.”

hairstylist next.

you told her you wanted to keep it simple.

“…simple?” she frowned. “girl, no. we doing body. we doing volume. luxury. this a city-of-love hairstyle.”

you side-eye her. “okay, but you snappin’ a little too hard.”

she shrugs. “you tell me. i’m just making sure you look expensive.”

the esthetician?

girl. you walk in for your usual facial and she pulls out four different treatments.

you sit up like, “what are you doing to me?”

she goes, “girl, it’s your anniversary. and it’s paris. i need you glowing in every light. french sun? sparkling. hotel mirror? flawless.”

you just lay back, blushing. “y’all really tryna make me the finest one over there.”

she smirks. “you already are. i’m just enhancing.”

but the real moment?

your tailor. you asked her to make you something special for your anniversary dinner. nothing too extra, just a cute little something to wear while y’all ate under the lights.

you walk into her studio, and your jaw dropped.

“…what is this?”

she grinned. “your dress.”

you blinked, stepping closer. “yeah but like… damn.”

she giggled. “girl. you need to look good. okay?”

you’re staring at the silk, the details, the way it shimmers in the light. “you didn’t have to go this hard.”

she shook her head. “yes i did.”

“…why?”

she just smiled. “because i love you. now go try it on.”

when you got home and started packing, you were sitting on your bed like okay. why is everybody being so extra? all your appointments felt like something out of a movie. the upgrades, the glam, the little smirks and compliments.

but honestly? you didn’t think too hard about it.

it was your anniversary. in paris. of course they wanted you to look right.

and if this was how they were treating you now? you already knew this trip was about to be everything.

bags packed. passport ready.

you were about to be that girl in france.

you guys wake up early that morning sun barely peeking over the skyline, bags by the door, passports ready. connie keeps looking at you like he can’t believe this is real. y’all are really going to paris.

the flight is smooth. he’s knocked out for most of it, but you stay up watching movies and glancing over at him with his hoodie half-off his head, lips parted a little. he’s cute even when he drools.

when the plane lands, everything feels dreamy. you grab your bags, head through the airport, and hop in the car connie booked for y’all. paris is just… different.

there’s flowers on balconies. gold trim on the buildings. cobblestone streets. little cafés on every corner. everything looks like a movie.

you get to the hotel super luxury, obviously and connie helps you check in. the lobby smells expensive. like roses and bergamot.

when you get to the room, your jaw drops. there’s floor-to ceiling windows, a balcony with a view of the eiffel tower, and a massive bed with crisp white sheets. you both unpack, shower, throw on something cozy, and curl up in bed together. he’s warm, he smells good, and he falls asleep rubbing your back.

the next morning is the morning. your anniversary. the big day.

you both wake up early, bodies wrapped around each other, light pouring in from the windows. connie kisses your cheek. “happy anniversary, baby.”

you smile, sleepy-eyed. “happy anniversary, con.”

he already has the whole day planned. he orders breakfast up to the room croissants, fresh fruit, little coffee cups with foam hearts on top. you sit on the balcony, barefoot in robes, giggling and eating while watching the city wake up.

after that? it’s time to explore.

first stop: pont des arts — the love lock bridge.

you and connie stroll across the bridge, fingers laced together. people from all over the world are there, writing names on locks and clicking them onto the railings before tossing the key into the seine river below.

“we gotta do one,” connie says, already pulling out a lock from his pocket.

you blink. “you brought one?”

he shrugs, grinning. “of course.”

you write both your names on it connie + [your name] with a little heart next to it and lock it in place.

he wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your forehead before you toss the key into the water.

next stop: louvre museum.

you walk hand in hand through the louvre, getting lost in all the paintings and sculptures. connie pretends to analyze the art like he’s deep.

“you see the way her eyes follow you? it’s symbolism. she in love with me.”

you roll your eyes. “boy, that’s the mona lisa.”

“exactly. she got taste.”

he makes you laugh the entire time. y’all take pictures, kiss under marble archways, and spend way too long trying to pronounce the french captions out loud.

next: picnic in the jardin des tuileries.

connie surprises you with a little picnic in one of the most beautiful gardens in paris. he picked up pastries and drinks from a nearby café and lays them out on a blanket in the grass.

you both sit together, leaning against each other, watching the people pass by. the trees sway, the sun warms your skin, and everything just feels perfect.

then: shopping in le marais.

he takes you to le marais one of the chicest little shopping districts. boutiques, bookstores, vintage perfume shops.

he lets you pick out whatever you want. tells you to try things on, keeps saying “you look so damn good” under his breath while you do.

he buys you a necklace from a little jewelry store and puts it on for you, clasping it at the back and kissing your neck.

final stop before dinner: sunset boat ride on the seine river.

right before dinner, y’all get on a private boat and float along the river while the sun sets. the whole city glows pink and gold. he wraps his arm around your shoulder and you lean into him.

you see the notre dame, the eiffel tower, and the bridges glowing in the dusk light. everything is still.

it’s quiet. beautiful. intimate.

“best anniversary yet,” you whisper.

he smiles. “just wait.”

you just think he’s talking about the food.

you’re back in the hotel room, soft music playing in the background as the sun begins to set behind the parisian skyline. your ivory gown hangs from the closet door, and the glow from the golden hour light spills across the fabric like honey. you step into the dress slowly, smoothing it down your hips, your breath catching at how it hugs you in all the right places. your hair’s laid, lashes fluttering, skin glowing and for a moment, you just stare at yourself in the mirror. damn. you look… breathtaking.

the door opens behind you.

“baby,” connie’s voice is low, warm, in awe. you turn around and he’s standing there in a custom suit, dark and sharp, gold accents on the cufflinks that match your jewelry. his mouth is slightly open, like he lost his words the second he saw you.

“you look beautiful,” he says, walking closer. “fuck. you really mine?”

you smile, cheeks warming. “you clean up good too, mr. springer.”

he wraps his arms around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple. “you ready?”

“yeah. let’s go.”

the restaurant is luxury. gold chandeliers, soft candlelight, smooth jazz from a live band in the corner. the view from the rooftop is unreal the eiffel tower peeking in the distance, glittering like it’s in on the secret. you and connie are tucked in a private booth, the entire vibe drenched in elegance.

he doesn’t take his eyes off you all dinner. you order the most expensive wine, a truffle pasta, and some fancy little desserts you can’t pronounce. he keeps his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles as you laugh about memories from your first date, your second anniversary, the time y’all got lost in the city and ended up finding the best food truck ever.

“you know,” connie says between sips of wine, his eyes soft, “i still can’t believe it’s been four years.”

you smile. “me either.”

“you changed my whole life.”

your breath hitches just slightly, his voice is that sincere.

he leans closer. “i’m serious. you gave me something real. something solid. i look at you, and i see home.”

your heart thuds. “you’re gonna make me cry,” you say, laughing a little, but he just shakes his head.

“you deserve to hear it. every day.”

a waitress approaches the table and says, “excuse me, sir. we need you to come sort something out real quick.”

connie stands, kisses your cheek. “i’ll be right back, baby.”

you blink. “is everything okay?”

he squeezes your hand. “yeah. just something minor, i think. don’t worry.”

he disappears with the waitress, and you’re left sipping your wine, candlelight flickering across your glass. you glance at your phone, glance at the sky. you’re wondering what’s going on when the waitress returns.

“hi, ma’am,” she says with a smile. “your partner’s ready for you now.”

you blink. “ready for me?”

she nods, still smiling. “if you’ll follow me.”

you stand, butterflies fluttering hard in your stomach. not scared, just… thrown off. you follow her through the restaurant, down a narrow hallway, and out a back exit that opens to a private courtyard.

it’s quiet.

your heels click softly against the cobblestone as she leads you down a small path framed by trees wrapped in fairy lights. you’re confused, still, trying to understand what’s happening. but then… the music starts.

soft.

familiar.

get you by daniel caesar and h.e.r.

your heart stutters.

you round the corner and your breath leaves your body completely.

because there, under the glowing paris night, the eiffel tower standing proud and lit behind him, is connie.

there’s a soft carpet of rose petals leading to him. an archway draped in white chiffon. candles glowing in tall glass vases. a live string quartet off to the side, their music swelling through the air. and him.

he’s standing in the middle of it all, hands clasped in front of him, watching you walk toward him like you’re the only thing he’s ever loved.

you stop, frozen.

“connie…”

he holds his hand out. “come here, baby.”

you walk slowly, heart hammering. when you reach him, he takes both of your hands in his.

his palms are shaking.

you look up at him and his eyes are already glassy. your vision is starting to blur too.

he drops to one knee.

you gasp, both hands covering your mouth. “oh my god…”

he takes a small box from his pocket velvet, deep navyand opens it to reveal a radiant custom ring, catching the light.

he looks up at you. voice trembling.

“my love,” he begins. “i don’t even know where to start. i’ve been thinking about this moment for months and somehow, standing here in front of you, all the words feel too small. nothing feels big enough to describe how i feel about you.”

“you are the most beautiful person i’ve ever known. inside and out. you’re the calm in my chaos. the soft place i land. you’ve held my hand through every high and low. you’ve celebrated me. challenged me. loved me when i didn’t even know how to love myself. and that? that’s not something i take for granted. not for a second.”

“i remember the first time you laughed at something i said like, genuinely laughed and i swear , i knew in that moment i was already gone. i didn’t know how, but i knew i was gonna love you for a long, long time. and baby… here we are.”

“you’ve shown me a kind of love that makes everything make sense. when the world doesn’t feel safe, you are. when things feel too heavy, you carry them with me. you’re strong and soft at the same time. you’re my peace. my favorite everything. you are what home feels like.”

“i wake up every day more in love with you than the last. i look at you and i see my future. and it’s not just the big things it’s the little ones, too. the way you scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh. the way you say my name when you’re sleepy. the way you just… get me. without me saying a word.”

“you’ve made me better. made me whole. and i don’t ever want to do life without you.”

“so, i’m standing here… in paris, under this damn tower that everybody puts on postcards, trying not to cry too hard, just to ask you one thing.”

he breathes, heart in his throat.

“will you marry me?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“yes,” you whisper, nodding fast. “yes, yes, yes.”

he slides the ring onto your finger, hands still trembling, and stands up just in time for you to throw your arms around his neck. he holds you like he’ll never let go. kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

the music swells.

paris glows behind you.

and in that moment, it’s just you and him.

forever.

[sorryimananti-romantic]

The Leaders | Chapter XI

"lies, control, rules, numb, hatred, emptiness."

masterlist

ot8!ateez x f!reader, mafia au

chapter warnings: drinking, smoking, illegal businesses, mentions of war/military, drugs, gangs and corruption, things get fluffy with woogi, angst levels up with hj, smut mdni! (fingering, overstimulation), mention of bombing.

chapter wc: 10.7k

chapter synopsis: you continue to deal with clients at the warehouse with wooyoung and mingi and you find solace in each other’s company amidst the tough times. you meet ji chang wook of the sirens with hongjoong who helps you formulate a plan– to get assemblyman wi on your side before president lee does. in between all of this, you suspect that hongjoong and seonghwa are hiding something from you. seonghwa assures you that they will tell you when it’s time and you spend the night with him. things take a dark, dangerous turn, creating confusion and chaos.

prev chapter recap: you meet president son and lady kim with hongjoong and they confirm that they are the anonymous funders of the weapons channel. they also share their suspicions of president lee regarding president han’s assassination and reveal that he is the man behind strictland’s nuclear ops. you and lady kim share your fond memories of president han and she takes an interest in your pearl ring. hongjoong reveals that the sirens answer to president son and they have a meeting scheduled with them now. as per president son’s request, you find yourself with winter, an rv spy, as your bodyguard. you go to the warehouse and start to deal with unsatisfied clients with wooyoung and mingi. among them is ju seok tae, the nephew of mr. jang of eden news. hongjoong and seonghwa begin to look into your mother’s pearl ring with sunmi of maddox and co. and discover that all records of the ring’s purchase are absent which raises suspicion.

For most of your life, you had believed that there was a stark difference between the elites of Eden and the common man. 

There was no way that the elites breathed the same air, walked on the same ground and looked at the same sky as the common man. Those were the people of struggle and loss, of constraints and darkness. As someone living in Edenary which was a safe haven for the elites, you did not need to fret about the people that dwelled elsewhere. They could never look you in the eyes, your father told you, because you were an elite.

They did. They looked you in the eyes whenever and wherever you encountered them– be it in Edenary itself, in the warzones where your status meant nothing, or even post-treaty when they carried the burden of rebuilding Eden. They looked you in the eyes and showed you that as an elite, you shared the same struggles and constraints. You were not different. They were simply more empathetic than you because they did not choose to exercise their power to create a distinction between humans.

There was something about the common man that always pulled you in– your attention was always drawn towards how freely they laughed, as if they had no care in this world, as if the weight of this world wasn’t on their shoulders. The crescendo of their laughter was enough to make you realise that Edenary was not the paradise that the elites made it out to be. Edenary was a bound city where every man was on his own. It was a place where the people dressed their finest to hide the ugliness they carried within their souls. It was a place where you couldn’t really exhale loudly, lest people learned the secrets that your breath threatened to carry away with the wind. 

Edenary was a prison. You realised that your circumstances weren’t unique– each family in Edenary was caged in the walls of their homes, the walls that were built on the blood of the innocent. Each individual in Edenary carried with them the sins of their forefathers. Some carried those sins in their proud smiles or watchful eyes. Others attempted to conceal them with soft words and gentle touches. But there was one thing that these two shared– the fact that they were proud to be here, despite everything.

And that pride was a double-edged sword, and double-edged swords often turned on their wielders especially when the wielder found themselves surrounded by predators.

There was only one predator in the room right now, and it was you. Seated in the centre of the small, dark office room at the warehouse with only a card table separating you was your client, who was currently pretending that the bead of sweat trickling down his temple wasn’t annoying him. You swirled the red wine in your glass casually before shifting in the chair so your client got a brief glance of the two daggers and a gun snug on the belt against your thigh. 

You fixed your leather jacket and concealed the weapons when you were sure that he got a good look.

“It’s quite simple, Mr. Kudo,” you clasped your hands on top of your knees, not breaking eye contact. “You will lose more if you back out of your deal now. You should be a gentleman and keep your word, don’t you think?”

“The weapons project might shut down for good,” he warned with wide eyes. “There’s been rumours about the network closing. As someone from Utopia, I have to make sure that my country does not get involved if they start arresting everyone who’s been funding the project.”

“That will not happen, I assure you,” you replied calmly. “If that was the case, the identity of the person who got arrested for funding us would have been exposed. Isn’t that right?”

Mr. Kudo contemplated over his cigarette, shifting uncomfortably. “You’ll guarantee that if things start to take the right direction, me and my client can back out of funding before Utopia’s name gets dragged in the mud?”

“Absolutely,” you assured him. “In fact, we will be terminating our contracts with all foreign parties to ensure their animosity if things look bleak. Before any damage can occur.”

“And what’s the guarantee of that? How can I trust you?”

“The same way that I did not shoot you in the head when you walked in instead of your client and demanded that we hear you out. We excused your spies trespassing here– they’re still alive if you wish to take them back. Barely, might I add. I’d be making my decisions quickly if I were you, Mr. Kudo.”

You had to admit– you had a knack for negotiating, and seeing the man squirm and look as if he was about to burst the veins on his head was oddly satisfying. He nodded in resignation and you refrained from passing another comment on the man’s bruised ego, shaking hands and signalling Winter who had been stationed in the corner to let his spies go.

Winter accompanied the man outside and when he disappeared, you let out a big sigh, grinning when Wooyoung and Mingi walked inside, looking proud.

“We heard everything– it was a struggle to keep Wooyoung from laughing out loud,” Mingi said, shaking his head in amusement. 

“You did well!” Wooyoung patted your shoulder. “I told you this would work.”

What he meant by that was the leather, the weapons on display on your belt, and the bold red lipstick. According to Wooyoung, any man would get intimidated by such a combination, and you had to admit that he was right. 

“Plus, you look awfully hot,” Wooyoung tugged at your chin affectionately and you rolled your eyes but smiled anyway.

“I might do this more often. I feel confident in this getup,” you said, assessing your form. If all it took for men to get intimidated and fold under your glare was a daring outfit choice and the confidence that came along with it, you would definitely be doing this again. Winter came back and you smiled gratefully at her– the idea was Wooyoung’s, but it was Winter who got you prepared for tonight. 

A master spy for sure. You felt like you were wearing another skin during the meeting, and perhaps, that’s what you needed to do from now on. Wear different skins and trick people into granting your wishes.

“Well, this concludes the last client for this month?” You asked, recalling the list mentally. You had been dealing with a number of clients in the past two weeks, dividing and conquering for the most part. 

“Yes, looks like we’re finally getting a breather,” Mingi said as he adjusted his jacket. “Are you going back to the office?”

“Yeah, I need to report back and get updated about the other matters,” you pursed your lips. “Can’t talk about it on the phone– Seonghwa said the line might be tapped.”

“He wouldn’t be wrong,” Wooyoung agreed, the three of you moving out of the warehouse to the break area. “We usually rely on an informant doing the job for us and relaying messages when we fear getting tapped.”

“Oh? Who’s your informant?”

“Usually some kids from the orphanage, or one of the RV spies if they cooperate,” Wooyoung eyed Winter who was currently out of earshot, drinking from a can of beer. “Jaemin and Renjun could do that job for you– the pair is the best when it comes to trading information, and they’re reliable and inconspicuous. They’d give the RV spies some competition, I bet.”

“Jaemin and… Renjun?” You asked, the second name unfamiliar.

“Renjun is also one of the kids from the orphanage. I’ll see what he’s up to these days, but you can use them even if you’re back at the office and want to send us a quick message,” Mingi said and you nodded. The kids must really be trustworthy then. 

“Yeah, I have to get back to the office for the meeting with the Sirens, but I’ll probably need the kids to relay messages once I’m back here.”

“And when are you planning to leave, sweetheart?” Wooyoung asked. “Want me to drop you off?”

“I’ll get back with Winter in my own car tomorrow, and hopefully squeeze in a nap before things get hectic,” you passed Wooyoung a knowing look and he stifled a smirk, making Mingi laugh out loud. “I mean… we have the rest of the evening free, right? What are you up to?”

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung shrugged, “No plans… yet. I don’t think you want to go practising again.”

You groaned– you had been doing plenty of shooting practising with the boys and basic self defence with Winter in your free time here. That involved you getting roughed up in the process and while it was not a very enjoyable experience, it was necessary.

“We could go to the beach if you feel like it,” Mingi suggested.

“The beach?” You straightened. “I mean, if we’re all free,” you said and the boys nodded eagerly. “I would love to.”

The drive had to be more than an hour long, but it felt shorter because Mingi and Wooyoung kept you engaged in discussion, talking about everything but business. They managed to wring out details about your life in Edenary which you weren’t reluctant to share, just a bit hesitant since it really wasn’t much except a brooding father and an annoying brother. 

You told them about how Sector 1 and Edenary felt like two different worlds sometimes, but you had never felt as if you were free in Edenary. Somehow, Edenary was more suffocating which you realised on your trip with Hongjoong and Seonghwa back when you were to make the deal with Tiffany.

In exchange, you also managed to hear some stories from their past. Wooyoung told you about his family who lived in Sector 2, away from all the mess of the Crescents. He was on good terms with his family, as were the rest of the Crescents, and he often paid visits.

You learned that Wooyoung was Yeosang’s friend from before the war and as a strategist, he encountered Hongjoong which was how he met the rest of the boys. He was surprised to learn that you and Mingi were in the same squad and he was pretty sure you must have encountered paths with Mingi as a medic, since apparently, Mingi was usually the one who had to get nursed most often. While both of you did not recall ever encountering each other, it was still a nice thought. 

“It’s not that he got hurt often,” Wooyoung teased, earning a smack from Mingi who was driving tonight. “He just loved being nursed. He claims that he met every nurse in his squad which was quite a handful, right?”

“Must be why he does not recall seeing me then,” you pouted. 

“And why do you not recall seeing me? If we ever met, that is,” Mingi questioned.

“Because you have changed so much since,” you laughed at the memory of the photo that he showed you not long ago. “You were just a scrawny lad back then.”

“And now?” Wooyoung questioned, craning his neck back with a deep smirk to see how you would respond.

“Now…” you folded your arms, catching Mingi’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Scrawny grownup lad?”

“Unfair,” he muttered and Wooyoung shook his head.

“You’re a man now, that’s what she means,” Wooyoung explained and you hummed in agreement. Mingi was a man now– tall, strong and handsome. Nothing like the kid that he was during the war.

You finally reached the sandy shores that bordered Sector 2, the sea a bit clearer here since it was quite a distance from the port. You could still spot a few boats and ships in the distance, illuminated by the half moon that pulled the tides, making them crash loudly against the rocks. You shut your eyes and breathed deeply, relishing the smell of the salty waves with a smile.

“Why the lack of people?” You wondered, though you weren’t complaining.

“It’s kind of dangerous during the night. The tide is unpredictable,” Wooyoung explained. “But it’s always crowded during the day, and especially during the weekends.”

“Look,” Mingi pointed in the distance at a group of people. “Some people still come at night but it’s better to stay away from the waves.”

“Ah,” you pursed your lips. “Can we at least walk on the shore?”

“Definitely,” Wooyoung took one hand and Mingi took the other, almost in synchronisation. “We are your guards. We won’t let you drown.”

“If you let me go,” you warned as you walked deeper into the shore until the waves washed your mid-calves, “let it be known that you both make the worst guards.”

“No body, no crime,” Mingi shrugged and you tsk-ed, though the three of you ended up laughing. 

The pair swung your hands and did not let go even when you wished to tuck your hair back. They did that for you, only after laughing whenever you got smacked on the face by your own hair thanks to the fierce gusts of the wind. In return, you splashed them with your feet.

After a good, long walk, the three of you settled down on the sand to take a breather. You pulled your knees forward, not minding the sand that stuck to your bare legs– in fact, you quite liked where you were right now. The sound of the waves crashing against each other was soothing enough to make you feel content. 

“Do you think we’ll ever get such a moment of peace again?” You mused, digging your fingertips into the sand. “It feels like we have to steal these moments ever since the silver light project began.”

Mingi hummed in thought but it was Wooyoung who said, “I don’t think we can fully rest anymore, Luna. At least, not until silver light is a medicinal drug available in all hospitals of Eden, and the Strictland nuclear base matter gets settled.”

“It’s only going to get more chaotic with the elections coming up soon,” Mingi added. “President Lee must be anxious now. He’s going to suffer damage when the public learns what he’s been doing behind their back.”

Wooyoung straightened his back proudly. “I knew something was off about that man. I was right. But for once…” He faltered, mirroring your position and resting his head against his knees. “I wish I was wrong.”

You smiled in defeat. “The elites will suffer, we shall make sure of it. We will keep stealing these little moments of peace. Everything will be okay– no matter how trapped we feel, we must be in control of our life. That is all that matters at the end of the day.”

“Wise words,” Mingi said playfully and you grinned, the three of you soaking in serenity, tucking the memory of tonight in a corner of your heart. With Mingi’s hand intertwining with yours as he scooted closer, you let Wooyoung rest his head on your shoulder. The three of you huddled into a cocoon, cherishing the last few moments of peace before you would go back to being a Crescent and a Leader.

It was good to be back at the office, working alongside Jihoon and Eunha and getting the recent updates. Apparently, the boss’s nonchalance was slowly taking the shape of anger. You heard about how Hongjoong and Seonghwa had taken upon themselves to find the mole among all of the Crescent employees, which was quite the number. As someone who had witnessed Seonghwa’s methods firsthand, you shivered at the thought of what the others would be facing. You did not want to think about how Hongjoong would be navigating that course. 

The office was empty for the most part of the day, especially after Eunha’s shift that left you alone on the upper story. You unlocked Hongjoong’s room and decided to wait there, having done most of your work and knowing that the two would be arriving at any moment. You were surprised to see the mess on Hongjoong’s desk– Seonghwa was usually cleaning everything up, organising everything and making sure nothing was out of place. 

They must have been really busy or tired, you thought. You were aware that the two had been here in the morning so you wondered if they left in a hurry.

Taking it upon yourself, you started organising Hongjoong’s desk– also because the time would not pass. You hummed a tune that you had picked from Mingi, an addictive melody he was usually singing while he was absorbed in work. You put the extra documents in the cupboard and just as you closed it, the door opened, revealing Seonghwa.

“You’re here,” he smiled, “I was wondering if I left the door unlocked.”

“You would never,” you grinned, spreading your arms for the underboss who gladly held you, spinning you around and making you chuckle as you clung to him. He set you down and you tucked the long silver strands of his hair back. “Where’s Hongjoong? I heard that he was with you.”

“We parted ways to save some time but he’ll be back soon,” Seonghwa pressed his lips to your forehead. “How was the warehouse?”

“Fun, I’m not even going to lie about it,” you said and Seonghwa scoffed in amusement. “But it’s really good to be back. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Seonghwa kissed your cheek, lingering there. Your fingers tightened around the lapels of his coat in response and you found his eyes fluttering shut as he relished the feeling of being so close to you. Your heart warmed infinitely.

“Is everything alright at work?” You asked in a low voice as if you did not dare to interrupt his train of thoughts. However, you might have actually done that because he shook his head.

“Let’s talk about work when Hongjoong gets back, yeah?” Seonghwa looked you in the eyes, brows furrowed and you thought you spotted true yearning in his eyes. 

You smiled and nodded, meeting his lips with yours and losing yourself to the bliss that came along. It truly blew your mind that Park Seonghwa was a man who yearned for you. Perhaps, he could hear your thoughts because he held you all the more delicately and kissed you all the more passionately, proving that you needed to pay no heed to your silly thoughts.

“Are you here for the weekend?” Seonghwa asked when he allowed you to break apart for breath and you nodded. 

“I have to leave on Monday though,” you told him. “Need to tie a few more loose ends before I come back.”

“Good enough,” Seonghwa caressed your cheek. “That means we have time.”

“Time for?” You asked, though you already knew the answer, and Seonghwa confirmed it with a searing kiss, making you take steps back instinctively until your back met with the wooden surface of the cupboard. You laughed into the kiss but Seonghwa intended to swallow every sound that he could draw out of your mouth. He pulled away with a dangerous smirk, one that had your legs feeling weak and your grasp tightening around him.

“Love,” Seonghwa muttered, cocking his head and letting his hands trace the curves of your body until they met the little gap between your blouse and your skirt, cold fingertips finding purchase on your bare skin and making you stifle a gasp. “If you keep making such pretty sounds, I’ll only have to do better and see what other sounds you’re capable of making.”

You let out an elongated sigh, indicating that you did not really oppose that proposition. Seonghwa gave your waist a squeeze before tilting your neck with his other hand, leaving soft kisses and bites on your sensitive skin, letting your tiny whimpers fuel him until he could no longer take it, capturing your mouth in another kiss and doing wonders with his tongue. You let yourself get consumed by the feelings in that moment, hearing nothing but the sound of your lips and tongues clashing against each other, though you did think for a moment that perhaps, you heard the sound of dull footsteps. But who would dare interrupt you–

You pushed Seonghwa back gently, catching your breath and looking towards the door– shut. You were about to go back to kissing Seonghwa when you spotted a figure from the corner of your eye.

“Oh, carry on, by all means,” Hongjoong said, thoroughly amused. He was sitting cockily on the couch, having been enjoying the show for a few moments now. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You felt heat creep up your face and you looked away, positive your face was red as beet now. How could you both miss the sound of Hongjoong coming inside? There was no way you both were that occupied with each other to miss the sound of the door–

The smirk Seonghwa sent in Hongjoong’s direction gave him away and your eyes widened. Seonghwa knew that Hongjoong had entered, yet he had made no move to stop himself. On purpose.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Seonghwa’s raspy voice responded. Hongjoong’s own smirk only deepened and Seonghwa chuckled, finding your shock funny. 

“Relax,” Seonghwa whispered, pecking your cheek and then trailing his lips to the corner of your mouth. While your hands clutching his collar were an indication of your confusion, because were you really going to give the Captain a little show?, Seonghwa pulled your body flush to his and pressed his lips to yours in a deep kiss.

You didn’t initially respond, far too aware of the Captain’s gaze stuck on the two of you. He was in your vision, and you could see him. But the way he licked his lips, anticipating your move, had your head spinning as if you were high on some drug and you made a split-second decision, opening your mouth for the underboss and kissing him back even more enthusiastically, just for a few seconds, before pulling apart and resting your hands on his chest to tell him that this was enough.

All the while, your eyes never leaving Hongjoong’s. He didn’t seem fazed, only mildly amused. You looked at Seonghwa who seemed more surprised that you responded but his surprise quickly shifted into laughter, shaking his head in resignation.

“I’ve found out something new about you tonight, Luna,” Seonghwa whispered in your ear. “And I plan to make use of that very soon.”

Vaguely, you remembered Yunho once mentioning something about how Seonghwa enjoyed watching. You had been too oblivious to understand back then but now… it was clear that the underboss had a very specific kink.

“Shut up,” you muttered, smacking his arm before straightening your clothes and going to sit in front of the boss. “Captain. How do you do?”

“Oh, I’m fine now,” he scoffed, looking at Seonghwa. “Get back here, you lovesick bastard.”

You stifled a smile and Seonghwa plopped down on the couch in front of you, laughing shamelessly. Something told you that it was not Hongjoong’s first time being an observer, and the thought alone sent warmth and tickles in your body but you did your best to push those thoughts away.

For now.

“I’ve met with and sent some spies in Tiffany’s direction– wherever that is,” Hongjoong decided to take upon himself to break the awkwardness. “She’s pretty much disappeared. I don’t think she’s in Wonderland.”

“I personally think she’s in Halaland,” Seonghwa added. “Let’s not forget that she’s half-Hala and it is the perfect spot to hide given her circumstances.”

“Maybe not the best,” Hongjoong countered, “If she’s involved with the Strictland business. Though in retrospect… there are probably some people from Halaland who are part of the group vouching for Strictland nuclear ops to be a success.”

“I think someone of Tiffany’s standing won’t step out of the shadows until she wants to be found. All we need to do is wait,” you suggested.

“I don’t get why we’re waiting,” Hongjoong grunted. “She’s tempting me to go back to my old ways and pull out my sniper rifle from the basement of my house.”

“That’s mine,” Seonghwa huffed. “You ditched yours on the battleground.”

“What’s yours is mine,” Hongjoong shrugged. “What’s it doing in my house if it’s yours?”

“Uh, I get that you’re gangsters but let’s be civil for now– Tiffany hasn’t really attacked us yet. We received her advance payments. Silver light is in production. I’d rather wait for her to provoke us before making a move.”

“Fine,” Hongjoong nodded in thought. “While we wait, we’ve got a meeting with one of the leaders of the Sirens on Sunday. The meeting point will remain undisclosed. They’ll send a driver who’ll take us to the location. Luna, you’re coming with me.”

You nodded. “Who else?”

“We’ll take one bodyguard. Let’s take Winter this time,” Hongjoong said. “Taeyong will be tailing us just in case.”

“Got it,” you said. “Should we be candid with the Sirens about what we have on Strictland?”

“President Son says we can. They can be trusted and they already know a great deal,” Hongjoong scratched his chin. “Maybe they will provide us with the missing pieces of this puzzle.”

“I sure hope so,” you slumped back. “Because it feels like we’re going in circles. We can’t move forward until we know who can be trusted.”

“The answer is no one. Not a single person can be trusted,” Seonghwa sounded sombre. “We have to watch our backs. An ally means that we have the same goal. It does not mean that there is trust.”

And with that in mind, you prepared yourself for the meeting with the Sirens. While you got ready, Winter briefed you about the Sirens and their history, a very insightful account of her experience with the rebel group that was formed right after President Han’s assassination in 1966. 

According to her, it was never a one-man party. It always had a considerable number of members despite the police’s great efforts to quell their spirits. What was odd about the group was that they didn’t have a specific ‘leader’. There were a few people who claimed to be leading the group, one of whom was probably going to be meeting with you. 

Winter also added that there was suspicion that some of the leading members of this group had been President Han’s supporters or her private spies when she was alive. President Lee was not at all acquainted with any of the Sirens so President Han must have never shared anything about these people with her husband– or if she did, or in the case that President Lee found out later, he was doing his damned best to root out all members on the grounds that they never became an official group and remained a privately operating organisation. 

The ride to the location of the meeting was mostly silent, with Winter in the front seat next to the driver who you reckoned was a Siren himself. It took about 20 minutes to reach what was a plain looking house in a well-populated residential area. Clever, you thought, to have a meeting here to draw minimal attention. No one paid heed to the car so you figured that it was the driver’s own house.

You were right. As soon as you stepped inside, you were hit by the smell of herbs and butter. The driver led you to the backyard and you spotted a middle-aged woman, presumably the driver’s wife, standing in an apron and buttering trays to be fed to the oven with a small girl clutching at her knees. You didn’t dare to pass a smile to the two, finding the air in the house oddly unsettling.

Stepping out in the open air of the backyard, you were met with the sturdy back of a man with hair that needed a cut badly, smoke blowing from the tip of his cigarette. Upon hearing the sound of your steps, he turned and gave the three of you a long look, waiting until Winter stationed herself at the corner before finally breaking into a handsome smile.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the man who has done a great deal for Eden,” His rich voice sounded. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot on the grass. Hongjoong walked towards him and they shook hands.

“Good things, I hope?” Hongjoong asked.

“A little bit of both,” The man shrugged in good nature, turning to you. “And a woman of many names. How shall I address you, then?”

You bowed your head in greeting, glancing at Hongjoong. He definitely knew about your connection with Secretary Park then, but that was no surprise considering that the Sirens now answered to President Son. “Luna would be fine.”

“Lovely name for a pretty lady like yourself,” he pressed his palm over his chest. “I’m Ji Changwook. I don’t think we’ve ever had the chance to meet. Please, have a seat.”

The three of you settled down on the lawn chairs and the man of the house served you with wine and fresh garlic loaf from the oven. The three of you made small talk about the weather and politics for a few minutes. You watched the driver offer Winter some bread but she refused, trained not to consume anything especially when active. The driver only proceeded to stand alongside her, chatting in a low voice.

“I heard about your weapons channel facing some difficulties,” Mr. Ji said, lighting another cigarette and giving you both a look. “When do you plan to resume your activities?”

Hongjoong cracked his knuckles in thought. “As soon as we know what our enemies really want. It’s unfortunate that the weapons dealings had to be put on hold when clearly, it was only meant to aggravate us.”

“And?” Mr. Ji blew the smoke sideways. “Were they successful?”

“Not quite,” Hongjoong smirked but added. “It only means that we’re on the right path. They wouldn’t be wasting time attacking us if we were barking up the wrong tree.”

“And they will continue with their little attacks, though I must warn that you should be prepared,” the Siren leaned forward. “These people stop at nothing.”

“And who are these people?” You asked.

“Why, the elites, of course,” Mr. Ji cocked his head. “Who specifically, we are not sure. Secretary Park and President Lee, definitely. Major Sung of Strictland. They’re planning a hoax as we speak. Our president aims to create an opportunity to send his troops to Strictland and annex it.”

“Is that really true?” You asked. “That would be violating a lot of international laws.”

“Which is why he’s planting baits for Halaland. Just watch, and be prepared,” Mr. Ji warned. “President Lee has the military under his control, be fooled no more. He is planning to join hands with Assemblyman General Wi, probably promising him a presidential seat.”

“Is that why you called us?” Hongjoong asked. “You cannot convince General Wi, but we might.”

“Bingo,” Mr. Ji said, accentuating the syllables, his eyes twinkling. “The elections are not too far away. With the Strictland business, time will travel far too speedily and before you know it, you’ll be casting your votes. We are a rebel party– no politician would want to be acquainted with us, for the right reasons. However… you can shift the political tide to your favour.”

Hongjoong hummed in thought, probably planning in his head already.

“Ever thought of getting into politics?”

“I’ll be damned,” Hongjoong raised his hands in surrender. “What can the Sirens do for us?”

“We can help you resume your weapons channel, for now,” Mr. Ji offered and Hongjoong looked interested. “Under wraps, of course. Provide you with a little stability while you mess with the elites. If you need manpower, let us know. We answer to President Son and will be happy to help you.”

“Noted,” Hongjoong shook hands with the man. He settled back and took a deep breath before asking, “Can I ask how you know so much about President Lee’s movements?”

Mr. Ji smiled. “Just like your spies,” he said, pointing at Winter who simply grunted in mild annoyance, “We’re everywhere too. We were originally a group of few private investigators for President Han, but…” Mr. Ji met your eyes and held the contact. “We had to pause after her death for safety reasons. Anyways, our people are in the Eden Hall. President Lee is very queasy because of us and is making rash moves, so we are a little responsible for the recent messes, my bad.”

“No worries–”

“Safety reasons?” You asked, your question overlapping with Hongjoong’s. Hongjoong motioned for you to continue. “Were you being threatened for investigating whatever President Han put you up to?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Ji said, unconsciously looking towards Hongjoong and you didn’t miss the look they shared. 

“We’re on the same page,” Hongjoong interrupted your train of thought. “We will contact you soon with an update on General Wi.”

Mr. Ji nodded and Hongjoong got up, indicating that the meeting was over. You followed Winter and Hongjoong asked you to wait in the car, sharing a word with Mr. Ji. 

You did not know why but you could not swallow the bitter taste at the back of your throat. There was something that Mr. Ji knew about you, something that perhaps Hongjoong was aware about as well. 

Some things were definitely being kept from you. Was it because they did not trust you? Or was it some stupid excuse like your own good? You did not know, and you were not sure if you wanted to know. Hongjoong was always stressing about how you were a Leader now so you decided to let the matter go for now and give him some leverage. If something was being kept from you, they must have a reason.

However, Hongjoong was also a very observant man and he did not miss how you were lost in your own head. Now that you were in your own car with Taeyong and Winter in the front, he felt comfortable enough to brush his fingers against yours, making you look his way.

“Everything good?” He asked.

You nodded. “Just thinking.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly, understanding. 

“Don’t think too much.”

Not an order, but a request. You met Hongjoong’s eyes, his gaze focused on the contact between your hands. When he pressed his hand against the back of yours, you gave in and intertwined your fingers.

And that was enough.

“We’ve been summoned, we hear.”

“By a certain Miss… Madness?”

“Lunatic,” Jaemin corrected and you shot glares at the pair.

“That’s Miss Luna for you both,” you added, beckoning the boys to come closer. “You must be Renjun.”

The new informant boy seemed to be Jaemin’s age, the same mischievous glint in his eyes that curved as he smiled, long strands of hair framing his face. His getup was simpler than Jaemin– no cap but a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck over a plain set of clothes. 

“We bring news from the warehouse,” Renjun bowed and Jaemin followed suit and you chuckled at their theatrics. “It’s weird to deliver news to a new face, though.”

“Get used to it,” Jaemin told him. “The Captain likes her. She’s his first mate.”

“Ah, is that so?” Renjun asked innocently and you pressed your forehead against your palm.

Such innocent kids.

“Are you going to keep me waiting?” You asked and Renjun scoffed, muttering something about how he could see why the Captain took a liking to you.

“‘Production phase is almost over. Transportation is beginning soon. Please confirm– we’re occupied by security concerns’. Says Choi San.”

“Ah, I’ll relay the message to the boss and you can come back for an answer in the evening– or whenever you spot your Captain. Okay?” 

The kids nodded, waiting for any other instructions. You only dug out a handful of chocolates that you had received from Lady Kim from your visit to the Son Residence in Sector 2. The boys happily took the treat.

“Is this a bribe?” Jaemin narrowed his eyes.

“Give it back,” you ordered and the two broke into giggles, running away before you could take action, leaving you smiling for a while even as you went back to filing boring reports. 

It was just past 7 in the evening, which meant Seonghwa would be coming back any time now. Hongjoong had already left with Taeyong to have another meeting with the Crescent employees who were aware of the illegal side of the business. It seemed like Hongjoong was taking out his frustration on finding the mole– he was resolute, and he insisted that he had to be the one to get to the bottom of it, only allowing Seonghwa to tag along sometimes.

It was Yunho who was in charge of testing the Crescents’ loyalties and reminding them who the boss was around here. Since he was still in Edenary, due to come back in two days, Hongjoong was keeping himself busy in any way that he could, insisting that sitting idle and waiting for things to fall back to place was not his style. You wished Yunho was here– the boss was certainly a lot calmer when his reliable consigliere was around. Plus, Yunho’s presence alone relaxed not only Hongjoong but Seonghwa and you as well. 

You missed him. Even though you were always occupied by someone or something, you missed Yunho. It was interesting how big of a headspace he occupied, but it was also strange how you had made a space for everyone in your heart in a matter of a few months. 

You missed Yunho when you were stressed and needed to feel grounded. You missed San when you felt alone and wanted company– a friend. You missed Yeosang when you doubted yourself and wondered if you were at the right place. You missed Hongjoong– a lot, especially when you were at the warehouse– because he saw something in you that no one else did, and always reminded you of who you were. A Crescent. A Leader. An equal.

The door of Yunho’s office room opened with a knock and Seonghwa peeked inside before entering. He shut the door behind him, not taking off his coat but standing and watching you.

“What’s up?”

You missed Seonghwa whenever you felt lost. He always guided you back to the light. And right now, you felt lost. You couldn’t get the ugly feeling of something happening behind your back out of your head. You knew that Hongjoong would never betray you like that, but it had happened twice now– a private word with President Son and Lady Kim, and a private word with Mr. Ji. 

You were also conscious of the fact that if Hongjoong was up to something, Seonghwa might be the only person who would know. 

“Just a bit tired,” you admitted. All your energy was being used up by your gut warning you that something was amiss. If not with Hongjoong, then with someone else.

“Something is up,” Seonghwa cocked his head as he watched you and you gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Come here.”

Before you could process his request, you had already moved into his arms. You rested your head against his chest, hearing his firm heartbeat. Seonghwa wrapped his arms around your shoulders, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head and waiting for you to speak.

“I’m just being silly,” you began, and he stifled a chuckle, earning a smack. “But I think Hongjoong is hiding something from me. And if he is, you are too.”

Seonghwa’s expressions didn’t change in the slightest, his lips remaining in a small smile as he met your eyes, as if daring you to challenge him. “Whatever gave you the idea?”

“Hmm, you’re not denying it,” you pointed out. “Just a feeling.”

Seonghwa tucked your hair behind your ears. “Have you heard of the phrase, ignorance is bliss?”

“Seonghwa,” you warned, feeling your stomach churn in disappointment but he shook his head. 

“I bet you have,” Seonghwa continued. “Do you know why it is so true? Because what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“So it is something that could hurt me?” You raised a brow, your hands curling into fists subconsciously and Seonghwa wrapped his own hands around yours.

“No. We’re just looking into something, and if we end up finding anything of importance, you will be the first to know, I promise. But until we’re in the void, we’d rather stress about it ourselves, yeah?” Seonghwa planted a kiss on your forehead. “You’ve already got a lot on your plate.”

“I can handle more,” you pleaded but when he gave you a look, you muttered, “I know.”

“I know you can handle more, but we may be looking in a very wrong direction and we don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up or contribute to the confusion. There’s already too much going on.”

“I understand,” you nodded.

Seonghwa hummed. “How can I make you feel better, love?”

“Hmm… have you had dinner yet?”

Seonghwa smiled deeply, glad about the opportunity. “I know just the right place.”

Which was how you ended up in his house– awfully organised and neat, but still very homey, just as you had left it when San brought you home. You told him that you were getting deja vu since a certain lieutenant had also taken you home like this, though it wasn’t a dinner date. Seonghwa told you that he had heard all about it which made you blush deeply. 

Seonghwa had a lavish dinner in mind, so you washed up in the meantime and joined him in the kitchen, sitting on an empty spot on the counter and admiring his back as he cooked on the stove.

Seonghwa laughed deeply when he turned around, his gaze raking down your figure and taking account of your state– you had changed into one of his dress shirts, a white piece that barely covered your thighs. He met your eyes and raised a brow. 

“I’m not an easily riled up man, I must tell,” Seonghwa said casually, adding spices into the soup and tasting it, nodding to himself and turning the stove off. You didn’t miss the way the muscles in his jaw moved.

“But you’re all tense now,” you teased, hopping down and setting the table with him. He already had a bunch of ingredients and side dishes prepared so all he had to do was whip a quick dinner. You took a seat across from him, your bare legs no longer a distraction.

But his bare forearms were.

“Eat up, love,” Seonghwa set a piece of meat on your rice bowl and you passed him a look, taking a bite and praising his cooking skills. As you ate, Seonghwa told you about how he was basically the housekeeper here. The Crescents– Ateez– preferred eating at home instead of outside to avoid eyes. The Bar was their more frequented place since they had privacy there.

After the war, the eight of them lived together for quite a while in a small apartment, sharing rooms and focusing on growing their business. They only got separate places some couple of years ago, but they still could not let each other go. This house, he revealed, was everyone’s hangout place since Seonghwa maintained it so well. Took advantage of him, he complained, but the twinkle in his eyes said otherwise. 

“So no one minds, and anyone can come and go as they wish?” You asked, and he nodded. “It must be lively here then.”

“It’s lively even when only San is here,” Seonghwa chuckled. “He never sleeps alone.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the state of his room. He probably stays up all night with his pillows if he’s alone,” you said and Seonghwa laughed loudly.

“No, it’s not that he can’t sleep alone. It’s that he refuses to.”

“Ah,” you nodded in understanding, grinning. “Must be nice to have someone to go home to. I understand why San is like that. I quite like my peace and space, but it’s nice to not be alone.”

Seonghwa smiled at your words. “Yeah, you have a roommate, eh? You get along with her?”

“Yep. Wendy. Even though we barely have time now, it’s still nice to have some life in the house. She’s like you– cooks for us despite being busier than me, lets me crash in her bed even though I can sleep alone. She’s a wonderful friend.”

“You sound like someone who hates being alone,” Seonghwa pointed out.

“I don’t hate being alone,” you shrugged. “I just didn’t realise I was lonely until I met Wendy. I thought I would prefer my peace and quiet, but it turns out I just needed the right people in my life.”

“Ah, one of life’s greatest lessons,” Seonghwa grinned, the two of you chatting some more as you finished your food. You thanked him for cooking a lovely meal for you and offered to clear the kitchen while he washed up. Since he seemed to have no intentions to let you go, he accepted that and you started your job, making sure to place everything as it was before.

You were reading the notes taped to the refrigerator– grocery, reminders, silly scribbles, when Seonghwa snaked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and nudging your cheek with the tip of his nose. “What are you smiling at?”

“Whose idea was this?” You pointed at a silly doodle that seemed to be an attempt to capture Mingi’s facial features.

“Probably San’s,” Seonghwa chuckled. “I no longer remember because everyone uses it now.”

“Bet Mingi loves that,” you scoffed, your attention shifting to Seonghwa when he nudged your cheek again. 

You shifted in his arms, pushing him back gently until he leaned against the counter to match your height. You caressed his cheek lovingly, meeting his strong gaze and tracing the pad of your thumb over his bottom lip. 

When Seonghwa tugged you closer, you joined your foreheads and brushed your nose against his, gauging his reaction. You were aware of every little movement that he made and just when it looked like he was about to kiss you, you drew back.

“I’m still mad about the other night, by the way,” you said and Seonghwa shut his eyes, stifling a laugh. “I haven’t even kissed Hongjoong on the cheek yet, Seonghwa. How could you make him watch us… making out?”

“That’s on you,” Seonghwa challenged. “Don’t pretend you did not like it when he watched.”

You pursed your lips, caressing his neck absently. “Does Hongjoong… like me?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Seonghwa suggested. “Because you seem to hold him in high reverence… is that why you’re so afraid to make a move with him?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I just… I guess I’m waiting for the right timing.”

“And what about us?” Seonghwa smiled. “Did we have good timing?”

“Very good,” you grinned. “You’re somehow always there to pick up the pieces when Hongjoong breaks my heart.”

“Wish Hongjoong could see how I do that,” Seonghwa said in a raspy voice, capturing your lips in a searing kiss just a beat later. 

Just like in Edenary when Hongjoong had made you cry, Seonghwa was healing you up with his passionate kiss. He wasn’t wrong– you were afraid of doing something wrong with Hongjoong. He seemed to respect you too, or maybe he was waiting for you. Whatever it was, you could make sense of it later, for now…

You were hyper aware of Seonghwa’s hands on the small of your waist as he deepened the kiss and fell into a familiar rhythm with you. His plump lips tasted sweet and you thought you could kiss him forever, or let him kiss you until you would lose all sense of self. The movements of his hands up and down from your waist to your hips sent a trail of electricity in its wake, reminding you about how much you desired Seonghwa. 

It had taken you far too long to come here, but now that you were in his arms, almost bare, you planned to let yourself go.

Seonghwa perhaps understood that, picking you up in his arms and making you wrap your legs around him, your laughter ringing in the empty house as he steered towards his room. You only had a second to look around before he dropped you on the bed, his demeanor shifting noticeably. 

“Do you know what I plan to do with you tonight, love?” He asked, holding your chin and running his thumb across your parted lips. He didn’t need to hear the answer, for it was evident in your eyes. “Are we good?”

“Yes,” you breathed. 

“I’m going to kiss every inch of your body,” Seonghwa promised in a deep voice, making you shiver as his words registered in your being. “And then I’m going to make you mine.”

You nodded and he leaned down to kiss your mouth sweetly, the wet tendrils of his hair tickling your face when he drew apart just a fraction, reading your face. 

“You’re going to tell me if at any point you are uncomfortable, or simply want to stop. Understood?”

Your heart did a big flip inside your chest– just what were you getting into? Where was the gentleman? There was not a hint of the gentleness in the way he was grabbing your chin now, his gaze darkening. 

“Are you ready?”

You nodded almost absently, and Seonghwa shook his head.

“Words.”

“I’m ready,” you breathed, pulling his arm to bring him closer. “Have your way with me, Mr. Park.”

Seonghwa smirked so dangerously and slowly that your toes curled. You understood then– he planned to make a mess of you first before he would break you with his gentleness.

And he started by unbuttoning your– his shirt but he did not take it off, letting it fall sideways to reveal your bare chest. His eyes left a burning trail on your bare skin and he crawled forwards, making space for himself between your legs. With a lick to his lips, he lowered his face and met your lips in a searing kiss, gripping your waist as he moved his mouth against you, leaving wet kisses on your mouth before trailing his lips down to your neck, licking and sucking relentlessly wherever he decided was the right spot.

Perhaps the way you squirmed and moaned under him was indication enough that he was on the right path, sucking at the right spots and touching you just the way you needed to be touched tonight. He didn’t hold back his own satisfied moans, digging his thigh purposely on your clothed core, smiling against your neck devilishly when you let out a groan. He drew apart to watch you, cupping your flushed face and teasing your lips with his over and over.

“Seonghwa,” you breathed and he planted a sweet kiss on your mouth. You started to grind against his thigh, lifting yourself up better with your elbows propped on the bed while his hands went to cup and fondle your breasts. You repeated his name over and over like a chant and he kissed you after every breath, almost losing himself there before he pushed you down, making you lay flat on the bed. He trailed his lips down your chest, leaving kisses everywhere, running his hands lovingly across your body until he reached your navel. 

He looked up at you and waited until you gave another confirmation before he started spreading fluttering kisses along your thighs, nudging your clothed clit with the tip of his nose and holding you steady when your back arched in response. He hummed against the fabric of your panties.

“You’re already a mess, darling,” he muttered, teasing you further by tracing his thumb over your core. “And I haven’t even begun.”

“You’re something,” you breathed, sharing a laugh with him. His mouth ghosted over your throbbing core and it took everything in you to not take control of the situation. It’s not like you could either– his gaze remained challenging as if daring you to try. 

When you looked at him pleadingly, he finally gave in and slowly but surely removed your black panties, getting back between your legs and giving you one look dripping with lust before latching his mouth to your clit, making your legs squeeze against his head as a loud moan escaped your mouth. While he sucked and kissed relentlessly, you clutched at his hair, only fuelling him.

“Seonghwa– too much,” you said, feeling wave after wave of arousal course through your body and leaving a tingling sensation in your extremities, making your fingers and toes curl as you lay helpless and completely submitted to the underboss.

“You can take it,” he simply said in a raspy voice, licking up your slick folds and humming in satisfaction. 

“I can,” you told yourself, barely able to hold yourself when your legs threatened to squeeze shut. Seonghwa kept one hand as a brace on your thigh while the other played with your clit in circular motions as he dived his tongue deeper inside. A string of curses left your mouth while he toyed with you, the lewd sound of his lips making out with your cunt mingling with the breathy sounds of your moan that only grew louder with each passing second as the knot in your stomach tightened.

“Seonghwa,” you breathed. “I– I won’t last–”

“That’s okay,” he looked up at you, the sight of your wetness spread over his mouth and jaw making all strength leave your body. “Let it go.”

With that, he went right back to continuing his ministrations, his hands tightening around your thighs and the tip of his nose providing just enough friction as he swirled his tongue. You could do nothing but moan out his name as your vision went white with pleasure, release coursing through you as if it had been whipped out of you. For a few ecstatic moments, you were gone before you came back to Seonghwa gently cleaning you up with his tongue. 

He smiled at you and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before crawling upwards on top of you, tucking your hair back and murmuring in low whispers about how good you did for him, peppering kisses all over your face. 

And then he whispered something in your ear that made you shiver involuntarily, followed by more praise as his kisses began to feel laced with innuendo, his hands rubbing soothing circles preparing you for what was next.

“You can take another, right? I know you can.”

He proved himself right again and again, testing your capabilities and switching from holding you gently and making love to you, to showing you what he himself was capable of. By the end of the night, you lay limp in his arms but no other place could have been better. 

You were home, and you were loved.

Sometimes, you wondered what the fates had in store for you. The world did not revolve around you, but it sure felt like you were no more than a mere puppet in this twisted game of lies, control and hatred. A pawn in the big game of chess. Maybe the fates would lead you to the altar to be the sacrificial lamb soon. You wouldn’t be surprised.

Whatever the case was, you weren’t alone. You were sure Wooyoung and Mingi felt the same way as one of their crew members arrived at the warehouse to deliver news that had you all holding your breaths.

“What do you mean the MX warehouse was bombed?” You looked towards Wooyoung and Mingi who were equally shocked, if not more. Wooyoung got up slowly, the colour draining from his face.

“Yeosang and San– are they safe?” 

You felt your heart sink at the vulnerability in his voice– never had you heard his voice break like this in all of the two years that you had known him. 

“They’re safe and assessing the damage– they were not at the warehouse when the blast occurred,” Soonyoung assured and Mingi groaned in relief, rubbing his face. You sighed, finding Wooyoung’s hand and squeezing it in assurance.

“Hyungwon and Jooheon got injured, but nothing too critical,” Soonyoung revealed and you breathed ‘oh my god’. “A few soldiers also got injured, but no casualties.”

“And the goods?” Mingi asked.

“Safely transported before the attack happened,” he confirmed and Mingi collapsed back onto his chair in relief.

“Are we sure this was a deliberate attack?” Mingi inquired.

“Pretty damn sure,” Soonyoung admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “Our hitmen are after them, on their trail as we speak.”

“Okay, well,” Wooyoung got up, determined, hands in his pockets. “This changes things. I’m going to have to take matters into my own bloody hands now.”

“Wooyoung,” Mingi warned but he only shook his head and proceeded to dial the phone to order Seokmin’s presence in the office. He all but slammed the receiver down, gulping down his anger. You could understand why he felt that way. It was very well warranted.

As soon as Seokmin arrived, Wooyoung asked him to round all the workers present at this warehouse for he was going to conduct an interrogation to check if there was a mole right under their nose. Seokmin seemed to understand. He did not try to defend himself or the others, simply did what he was asked to. 

Considering the gravity of the matter, this seemed to be the wiser take, the first step to ensure their safety as a whole. If MX warehouse could be bombed, no place else was safe and they would have to make sure that security around this Pledis warehouse remained tight.

Mingi went to squeeze Wooyoung’s shoulder, muttering something in his ear and kissing the corner of his mouth before leaving. You took a deep breath and shared a nod with the older capo who must have decided to lead the interrogation in Wooyoung’s stead. Wooyoung was rubbing his face while he tried to calm his nerves, pacing in the room. You let him be for a few moments before you walked towards him in the corner of the room and held his hands.

“Everyone is safe,” you reminded him. “No one got hurt.”

“But they could have gotten killed,” Wooyoung looked at you dead in the eyes.

“That’s true, but they didn’t,” you insisted. “So take your breather and then straighten your shoulders. We’ve got to keep our cool.”

“I know,” Wooyoung sighed deeply, looking away. You let go of his hands to tuck his long hair away from his eyes, cupping his face in the process.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Vulnerable. His eyes gave away what he felt. He did not need to speak to tell you the rest, but he decided to try anyway. 

“Someone is deliberately targeting us,” Wooyoung almost whispered. “And I’m trying not to lose it right now. I could take out my weapons and round everyone up– anyone who was aware of what we were doing at the MX warehouse could be the mole, and that’s not a lot of people, Luna. We were betrayed by someone close, and I’m not sure I can forgive them when I find out their identity.”

You nodded in understanding. “Someone who was close to you… they must have been in quite the pinch to betray you and risk getting caught.”

“I don’t care,” Wooyoung announced, cupping your hands but keeping them where they were on his face, lowering them just a tad bit towards his neck. “We have a code. You break that, you lose your neck, friend or not.”

“But do you know what the mole has done in giving away the location of the warehouse?” You began and Wooyoung raised a brow in anticipation of your answer. “Exposed the pool of people who we need to look into. We can now use that pool to draw them out. We won’t need to find the mole– the mole will willingly walk into the trap now.”

“You’ve got an idea,” Wooyoung finally smiled. “I can see that in the twinkle in your eyes.”

“I’m tired of being the marionette, Wooyoung,” you admitted. “It’s about time we cut our strings and pull the player onto the stage.”

Wooyoung hummed in agreement, planting a soft kiss on your forehead as a thanks. “I’ll make sure Mingi isn’t terrorising our crew.”

You chuckled softly. “You do that. I’ll make some calls.”

You rang the main office and Eunha picked up, informing you that the ‘goods’ were safely transported to their new location. Seonghwa and Hongjoong seemed to be away, probably making their own rounds of interrogation. There were only a handful of trusted people who were aware about the new location of production of silver light, and that included the immediate bodyguards and hardly a handful of other people involved directly in its transport or safety. To think that the mole was so close…

It was time to make your move now.

However, any thoughts about scheming evaporated when Jaemin and Renjun came rushing through the warehouse in the dark hours of the night, right before you were about to leave with the boys to go home. The duo could barely catch their breaths and you watched them, baffled. 

“This is no time for kids to be out and delivering news, no matter how important it is,” you reprimanded, taking in their state. Sweat trickling down their foreheads, cheeks flushed from running, you assumed. “A call would have been fine.”

“No, it’s not the Captain who sent us,” Jaemin shook his head, going from leaning against Renjun to straightening a bit, flinching. “We got news, and it’s bad.”

“Well?” You frowned. “What is it?”

“President Lee has dispatched a troop of soldiers for Strictland,” Renjun breathed and you failed to contain a gasp. “It’s not on the news yet, they’re doing heavy censoring but it’s only a matter of time before the public learns–”

“Hold on,” you raised a hand, trying to make sense of that and failing. “How? Why?”

“Apparently, Halaland has ‘violated’ some terms of the Treaty of the Eight Hills,” Jaemin huffed. “I don’t know what that is about, but that’s what we’re hearing. Assemblyman General Wi seems to have joined hands with President Lee.”

“No,” you breathed. Your loud heartbeat sounded right between your ears. “What does that mean for us?”

The kids did not know the answer to that, but you knew. This was how it began in 1958, a simple accusation thrown in the air with no verifications and no credibility, triggering the events that lead to the long, bloody war. And with a troop of soldiers now on their way to Halaland? There was no way Halaland would just sit back and not retaliate. 

“Go home,” you instructed the kids. “Don’t stay out too late, and stay safe, you hear me?”

The kids nodded, sombre like nothing you had seen before from them. You passed a weak smile to Jaemin but he didn’t return the sentiment, pale. They only bowed and left, disappearing into the shadows.

You did not know how long you stood in the office room, thinking and thinking, when Wooyoung and Mingi arrived to let you know that the car was waiting.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mingi commented, “What’s wrong?”

You met their eyes and they waited for an explanation. However, nothing made sense anymore.

All you could hear was the ringing in your ears and all you could see in front of your eyes were the young and tired, weary soldiers who wished to go home but made a house 6 feet under the ground.

You would not let it happen again. This time, you had power. This time, you would wield it and make sure to protect your people.

“I become the bearer of the bad news yet again. Call the boys, Wooyoung. We’ve got a war to stop.”

next chapter

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[johannestevans]

what fucks me up about vetinari is that like.

vetinari in night watch is explicitly and continuously presented as this young man who is, you know, decently charismatic, has a privileged background, handsome, etc

and everything he does - and i mean everything - is about calculatingly becoming and being invisible. what makes keel impact him so hard is because he looks directly at him and looks for him

but vetinari wants to work from the shadows. we know as a man even later on that he is most comfortable doing any and all of his work out of sight. he likes to juggle. he loves sleight of hand magic. he likes puns and double entendres and encoded meanings.

i'm roasting him a little bit when i say that it's not just drumknott that's made for complementing vetinari, but there's an element of vice versa - like drumknott, vetinari is in many ways quite a fastidious, boring man who likes paperwork and clean margins and good stationery.

but drumknott, who moves on velvet shod shoes, who is so retiring as to appear invisible even though you know he's right there, who disappears from the memory as soon as he's out of sight, still gets to enjoy the privilege that vetinari sets aside when he comes patrician - invisibility and anonymity.

vetinari becomes patrician in many ways at personal expense - we see numerous times that there are many aspects of the job that he straight up does not enjoy or like, and he's always like "well, this is the worst job in the world, but i have to do it, and i'd best get a good democracy in place before someone kicks the bucket out from under me". the man doesn't sleep. he works 24/7 and octedays as well. he never relaxes even when he's recently been shot or stabbed or poisoned. everything is strictly scheduled.

and most of all, he is horrifically, continuously, constantly visible.

obviously he does work from the shadows - we know he disguises himself as stoker blake so he can have fun on the trains and fuck drumknott in the coal sheds and he certainly has other disguises and identities

but i just think it's so like. it's such an impact that one of the biggest things we see from night watch is a vetinari who has cultivatedly put his entire personality, vocation, and free time into becoming invisible and enjoying the work he can do whilst out of sight, how he can disappear from sight even in front of 10 people who are looking right at him

and he becomes patrician.

the most recognisable man in ankh-morpork. photographed in the newspaper, his face on the penny stamp. the man in the dusty black cassock who always has a spotlight over him wherever he goes. the man who can no longer become invisible under his own name and identity.

that's!!!!!! such a big sacrifice!!!!

obviously like. he's a fucking dictator, he's bonkers, he's sadistic and strange and such, but like... that's the impact keel had on him. that's the impact the events of night watch on him. he spent all his days learning how not to breathe and to blend into shadows that aren't there

and he threw all of that away because he knew he could and would do much better for the city - for the disc - by stepping into the spotlight instead, even though it's anathema to everything he prefers, and everything he is by his nature.

(and that's why, of course, that his consistent favourites - drumknott as his secretary and the rest of his dark clerks; william de worde as the reporter offscreen and out of sight, never the subject of scrutiny himself; moist von lipwig as the invisible and constantly transforming man; margolotta as the mysterious stranger in the castle on the hill - and those he meshes best with are still those who can become invisible and in many ways prefer invisibility. it's also why he takes such schadenfreude in vimes' misery as he becomes more and more of a public figure and is no longer the relatively anonymous copper he was in the events of G!G! and before)

forever abnormal about young vetinari in night watch. He's 18(?). He failed his stealthy movement module because the teacher never saw him in his classes. he taught himself to stand still. He hid four copies of "some observation on the art of invisibility" in "anecdotes of the great accountants, vol. 3" and manipulated Downey into burning the fifth. He won't shut up about keel to his aunt. "I think i saw a genius at work" "he stares into shadows. Interesting." He killed Lord Winder in the middle of a crowded room. When he saw keel "die" he killed four men with a lilac held in his mouth. He becomes the man who implements the reforms the glorious Revolution of the peoples republic of treacle mine road fought for. "Do it now or receive an aunts curse!"

[krupiika]

you take the man out of the city, not the city out the man

[napforalifetime]

The Care You Deserve

Sylus x gn!reader

Fluff. Just all the fluff. Mixed with patching up minor injuries. I wanna pamper and love this man. And so do you.

~1300 Words

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You did it once again. Your heart still pounding and breath rigid. You look over to see him. 

He stands tall, next to the ashes of the last wanderer dissipating.

The next stage of the hunters is cleared. You walk over, putting your guns away. You raise both your arms in the air. 

“Well done.”

A loud clap resounds in the arena as your hands meet in the celebratory high five. But before he can pull his hands completely away you hold on to them and pull them closer.

“Just like I thought… this just won’t do.”

Your thumbs trace over his bruised and slightly cracked knuckles.

“You know, I’ll never understand why you purposefully decide to throw hands with wanderers instead of using a weapon. I know you have plenty.”

You really did know. He had proudly dragged you along into plenty of his multiple armories across Linkon, the N109 Zone and even a few in other cities. He is stacked.

“Sweetie, you do know this is just a workout for me.”

Turning away from him towards the exit, you gesturing for him to follow.

“Ya ya I know, adrenaline junkie or whatever. You’re coming home with me.”

Even if you didn't see him, you could perfectly picture his smirk as he hums and follows after you.

~~~~~~~

The door closes behind the two of you and you’re ridding of the heavy combat boots as well as coat and weaponry. Sylus simply slides his jacket and shoes off. As soon as your gear is off you’re already moving towards the bathroom to get the med kit.

“Go sit down on the couch, I’ll be with you in a second!”

“So bossy”, he chuckles in reply. But even if he is teasing right now you know he’ll be sitting by the time you come back.

With a warm and wet towel, disinfectant and some salve equipped, you plop down next to him. You lift my hands palms up in between you two.

“Hand.”

He puts his hand in yours.

“Does this count as an instance of caring?”

Oh he’s so smug now, isn’t he. Show a little bit of care and it’ll go over his head. You look at his eyes and he’s already looking at yours. His beautiful gem eyes are so soft and affectionate. Only for you.

You stare deeper into him.

“Yes. What else would it be?”

As close as you are you clearly see his eyebrows and eyes raise a little. Then blink and now smile. Maybe his ears are even turning the tiniest bit of red. You were able to catch him off guard with honesty instead of the usual banter. Take that sucker! Unable to hold the grin back on your own face you start to softly dab around the open skin with the warm towel removing any traces of dirt and blood.

“hm…”

His hands are so big. They hold so much power and brutality yet are so gentle with you. They are so soft even through the callouses. They are proof of his hard work and dangerous life. 

As you finish up with the towel you still hold his hand up with one hand. The other reaches for the disinfectant.

“This may hurt.”

Although the simple sting from disinfectant may be nothing in comparison to all the pain his body has been through. You patched him up enough times to be a personal witness to that.

He just lets out a hum in approval. You continue to dab it everywhere as softly as you can, treating his hands with all the care you have. Those hands that have experienced violence, a fight for survival, that have likely never experienced what it feels like to be cared for.

Next was the salve. You spread it out in small taps and then continued to massage it in with feather light touches. Even if he can stand the pain, even if he can use his evol to regenerate and heal faster, you still wanted to take whatever burden off of what you could. This way at least the healing will go a little easier. You saw him fight with you and use his evol a lot, so he must have been either tired out to heal or saw those, admittedly simple, abrasions not worthy enough to use the extra energy.

“You don’t need to be so cautious. I won’t break.”

A beat. You look up.

“I know.”

And as if his words didn’t have meaning your gaze travels down to the now treated hand. Your mouth follows and with the lightest touch your lips graze his knuckles. His breath slightly hitches. First the middle one, then the index, ring and pinky. To round it all up you hold his hand with both of yours and caress the back of it with both your thumbs.

“And?”

Unknowingly you made his heart skip a beat and fasten. Meanwhile you just stare at him with defiance, spite and maybe a challenge. Why should you not be cautious with someone precious even if they wouldn’t break either way. Actions speak louder than words. And you wanted to scream at him how much he meant to you. Scream how much you admired him, somehow able to keep his caring heart intact through all the shadows of cruelty he had to walk. Scream what he means to you and engrain it in his skin so he could never forget. You give his hand a slight squeeze and lower it before grabbing the other one.

Sylus, the leader of Onychinus, the man who escaped Tartarus, a survivor of uncounted battles, didn’t know exactly how to handle this. Undone by this gentle, tender love and care. 

Now that you got his other hand you repeat the treatment. Soft dabs of the towel to remove dirt and blood.

So soft. As if he could break with a wrong touch. This touch however reaches beyond the physical and moves his person, his soul. A touch, so intoxicating that he could drown in it with no regrets.

He doesn’t even feel the sting of the disinfectant. He’s too absorbed in your eyes, even if they weren’t looking back at him. He was just admiring them and how they looked at him. 

Eyes are the windows to the soul and he just needed to see you. Have you close. Before he may have been okay if you didn’t want him in your life but by now he’s far past the point of no return.

The last step before your hands would part; the salve and the softest most gentle massage. He felt a tingle following your fingers. He wanted more. Needed more. He didn’t want to part this connection between the two of you yet, even if the treatment finished.

Everyone else had always seen him as a monster. Perhaps a challenge to overcome. For others he was a threat. They always looked at him with greed for power and money. He gave them what they deserved. In other words at times that included taking what they didn’t. Greed led them to strike deals they couldn’t fathom to the full extent. There was always contempt and fear in eyes that looked at him. He had always been different, austracised. 

But this? He would not let go. He would never tolerate losing any of it.

As your care finishes and your hands almost slip away he holds on to your fingers himself.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me.”

The mischief in his voice and eyes give future plans away.

“After all, I need to repay your kindness.”

And with this, it is now his turn to caress your fingers with his kiss.

[norristrii]

IN EVERY LANGUAGE, IN ANY PLACE.

You met him by accident in Monaco—bad parking, shared laughter, and a night where he taught you French. You never expected to see him again. But in Italy, there he was, this time, speaking Italian. And suddenly, it all made sense. It was him.

pairing. Charles Leclerc x fem! reader.

warnings. age gap (22/27), 8,1k words, google translated french & italian, teasing, suggestive (make out), sexual tension, one-night stand, soulmates kinda, reader wears dress.

music. Mystery Of Love & Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens.

MONACO FELT LIKE THE PERFECT PLACE to fix your struggle with French. After years of studying, somehow, the language still slipped away from you when you needed it most. It frustrated you, how much effort you had put into learning it, only to still feel lost in conversations. You told yourself that spending a week in Monaco would be the answer—that being surrounded by the language, hearing it every day, would finally make everything click.

That was what you told yourself, at least.

In reality, you had mostly come for the experience. Monaco was beautiful, exciting, full of life. The clear blue water, the elegant streets, the sound of laughter mixed with the hum of expensive cars—it was the kind of place people dreamed about visiting. And if improving your French was the official reason for your trip, it was just a bonus.

Still, despite your best efforts, English had taken over almost every interaction. Ordering coffee? English. Asking for directions? English. The one time you had really tried to hold a conversation in French, the waiter had simply nodded politely and responded in perfect English, like he knew there was no point in struggling through your accent.

It had been embarrassing—but also a relief.

You wanted to get better, you really did. But between the beauty of the city and the ease of slipping back into English, you weren’t sure if you were actually learning anything or just enjoying a break from reality.

Not that it really mattered.

If nothing else, it was a good excuse to be here.

Parking in Monaco was proving to be more of a challenge than you had anticipated. You had expected tight spaces, expected expensive cars lining the streets, expected to feel slightly overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of it all—but actually squeezing your not-so-small sports car into a ridiculously tight spot without scratching paintwork worth more than your entire life savings? That was a different kind of pressure. Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as you focused, adjusting the angle, inching forward with painstaking caution, all while trying not to imagine the disaster that could happen if you miscalculated by even a fraction.

And then, just to make things worse, someone was watching.

A man stepped out of the sleek black Ferrari parked beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone whose car was in immediate danger. He leaned back slightly, the sunlight catching the lenses of his sunglasses, making it impossible to tell exactly where he was looking—but you didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was amused. His smirk was obvious, practically dripping with enjoyment.

"You better not crash my car," he said, laughter easy, smooth, effortlessly confident, like this was nothing more than casual entertainment for him.

You exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as frustration flared in your chest. You had barely been in Monaco a few days, but the city seemed to be crawling with people like this—rich, cocky, completely at ease in a world where expensive cars and effortless charm were just a given. You muttered under your breath, resisting the urge to say something snarky. Just another arrogant idiot with too much money.

But he didn’t just walk away.

Instead, he stepped closer, taking his time, moving like he had all the patience in the world, like he had decided that watching you struggle was far too entertaining to pass up. His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket as he reached your open window, his posture casual, the smirk never fading.

"You want me to do it?" he asked, the words slow, confident, teasing—but not mocking.

You inhaled, turning to finally look at him properly, prepared to brush him off with some sarcastic remark—but then you saw him. And wow.

Messy brown hair, like he had just run his fingers through it. A mustache that shouldn’t have suited him but somehow did, framing his lips in a way that added to his already unfair level of attractiveness. Sunglasses shielding his eyes, but not hiding the way he carried himself, the easy confidence in his stance, the quiet amusement in the way his smirk deepened.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel as uncertainty flickered through your mind. Was this really a good idea? Letting a complete stranger slide into your driver’s seat and take control of your car? For a split second, an irrational thought crossed your mind—what if he just drove off? What if he disappeared down the street in your car, leaving you standing there, utterly humiliated?

But then, reality kicked in. You were in Monaco. This wasn’t some shady alley where people stole cars out of desperation. This was a place of luxury, wealth, and ridiculous displays of status. The man standing next to you had stepped out of a Ferrari—one that was probably worth ten times more than your own car. If there was anyone in this world who didn’t need to steal a car, it was him.

You sighed, finally letting go of that last bit of hesitation, exhaling sharply like the act of trusting him was somehow exhausting. "Better than humiliating myself any longer, I guess."

The moment the words left your mouth, he moved. Effortlessly, smoothly, like he had done this a million times before. There was no uncertainty in his movements, no hesitation in the way he slid into your driver’s seat. His hands settled on the wheel, adjusting for a brief second before shifting into gear.

And then—just like that—he parked.

Perfectly.

One smooth, confident motion. No back-and-forth adjustments, no struggle, no second-guessing. Just precise control, like he had been doing this since the moment he learned how to walk.

You stared, blinking, processing.

Well. That was humbling.

He stepped out of the car with the kind of confidence that only someone truly comfortable in their own world could have. His smirk hadn’t faded, and as he shut the door behind him, he glanced at you with a look that practically radiated smug satisfaction.

"See? Easy," he said, flashing a smile, like parking a car in Monaco’s ridiculously tight spaces was the simplest thing in the world.

You scoffed, crossing your arms but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. "Show-off.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered by your comment. "I’ve lived here my whole life," he said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "I know every parking space."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. "Every parking space?"

His smirk deepened, his sunglasses catching the light as he leaned casually against his Ferrari. "Every good one," he clarified, voice smooth, effortlessly confident.

His gaze lingered for a moment, sweeping over you before shifting toward your car’s plate, his smirk deepening with quiet amusement. There was something about the way he looked at you—like he was studying, piecing together details, making his own quiet assessments without needing to ask any questions.

"You’re not from here," he observed, his voice effortlessly smooth, carrying just enough intrigue to make the statement feel like it meant something more than just a simple remark.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly as you shifted your weight, arms crossing loosely over your chest. "Was my parking that terrible?”

The corner of his lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin, one brow lifting ever so slightly in a way that made it painfully obvious he was enjoying himself. "Maybe," he admitted, dragging out the word like he was savoring it, like he was deliberately teasing. Then, after a beat, he shrugged. "But also—your plate."

You glanced toward your car for half a second before looking back at him, the realization settling in. Right. He wasn’t wrong—your plate was a giveaway. A clear sign that you weren’t local, that you were just passing through, that maybe you didn’t quite belong here the way he obviously did.

And yet, there was something about the way he said it—the easy confidence, the teasing smirk, the way he made the most basic observation feel like it carried weight—that made you wonder if he was sizing you up for reasons beyond just where you were from.

Wow. He knew exactly how to charm a woman.

You shook your head slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you clarified, "No not at all. I'm just here for my studies."

Your tone was light, casual, the kind of response that was meant to keep the conversation simple, easy, without giving too much away. But somehow, saying it out loud made Monaco feel even more like an unfamiliar world—like you were an outsider dropping into a place that wasn’t entirely yours.

His smirk didn’t fade, but his interest sparked just a little more, like your answer had intrigued him in ways you hadn’t expected. He tilted his head slightly, watching you carefully, processing your words before responding.

"Studies, huh?" he mused, the word rolling off his tongue with casual amusement. "Let me guess—French?"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head, knowing he wasn’t entirely wrong. "Yeah, and before you say anything, yes, I know my parking skills weren’t helping prove that."

He chuckled at that, a rich, low sound that sent a flicker of something through your chest. His posture remained relaxed, his hands slipping effortlessly into the pockets of his jacket as he continued to study you. "I wasn’t going to say anything," he teased, but there was something in his tone—something playful, something knowing—that told you he absolutely was going to say something.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling softly, feeling the light breeze move through the streets around you. Monaco might have been full of cocky, charming men—but something about this one felt different.

His smirk lingered, and even though you had answered his question, it was clear he wasn’t quite done with you yet. He shifted his weight slightly, the ease in his posture never fading, and you could tell that this conversation—this interaction—was something he was enjoying far more than just idle small talk.

"So, a week in Monaco to improve your French?" he mused, the teasing edge still in his voice. "Bold choice."

You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. "I wouldn’t say bold," you corrected, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. "Necessary might be a better word."

He hummed, tilting his head as he studied you again, like he was deciding something about you that he wasn’t going to share just yet. "And how’s that going for you?"

You let out an exaggerated sigh, glancing around for a moment, pretending to survey your surroundings like you were searching for evidence of your progress. "Well," you started, dragging out the word, "so far, I’ve mostly spoken English."

His chuckle was immediate, rich, the kind of sound that felt entirely too warm for someone as effortlessly smug as he was. "Ah," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "So, failing, then?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed any real attempt at annoyance. "I wouldn’t say failing.”

His smirk deepened, and for a second, the moment stretched—comfortable, easy, natural in a way that caught you just a little off guard.

His smirk remained steady, the confidence in his stance effortless, like it was second nature. He leaned against his car with ease, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the way he was watching you—curious, amused, intrigued in a way that made it clear this conversation was far more entertaining to him than just polite small talk.

"What’s your name, pretty girl?" he asked, voice smooth, laced with something teasing, something knowing. "Maybe I can help you with your French."

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. There was something about him—the way he was so unapologetically confident, so comfortable in the way he carried himself, so assured in his approach—that made it hard not to enjoy this. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t shy. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"I’m Y/n," you said finally, letting the words roll off your tongue with the same casual ease, letting your voice carry the same playfulness, the same subtle challenge that told him you weren’t just going to let him lead this conversation. Then, after a beat, you tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flicker over him deliberately before adding, "And you, pretty boy?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—a flicker of something in his expression, barely noticeable but definitely there. Surprise.

But only for half a second.

Because then, just as effortlessly as before, his smirk returned, deepening like he had expected you to play along, like he had hoped you would. And suddenly, you were certain—he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

His smirk didn’t waver, but there was something in the way his head tilted slightly, like he was sizing you up, weighing your reaction, testing the waters of your confidence. He had expected you to flirt back—you could see it in the way his lips curled, in the amused glint behind his sunglasses—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t enjoyed the confirmation.

"Pretty boy?" he echoed, amusement dripping from his tone, his posture shifting just slightly, the casual confidence never fading. "I haven’t been called that in a while."

You shrugged, keeping your expression light, playful, effortlessly unbothered. "Well, I call it like I see it.”

His chuckle was slow, rich, the kind of sound that carried more meaning than it should have, like he was taking his time with this moment, like he was deliberately drawing it out. Then, in one smooth motion, he reached up, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—sharp, deep brown, filled with something that was equally teasing and analyzing all at once.

"Charles," he said finally, his name rolling off his tongue like it belonged here, like he belonged here.

Something about the way he said it told you this wasn’t just a name—it was an introduction. A moment meant to stick. A small shift in the atmosphere that hinted this wasn’t the last conversation the two of you were going to have.

Charles’ words hung between you, smooth and effortlessly confident, like he had extended the invitation knowing you wouldn’t refuse. He leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the smirk beneath them—felt the unspoken meaning lingering just behind his offer.

“So, Y/n—tonight on my yacht?" he suggested, voice easy, teasing, yet somehow carrying a quiet challenge. Then, after a beat, he added, "For a French lesson."

You raised a brow, crossing your arms, your lips twitching at the corners as you studied him. "French lesson, huh?" you echoed, letting the words stretch just enough to make it clear you weren’t fooled. "That’s the reason you’re going with?”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, completely unbothered by your skepticism. "You do need the help," he pointed out, the teasing laced in his tone impossible to miss. Then, with that same smirk, he shrugged. "Besides, is there a better way to learn than on a yacht, under the stars, with someone who actually speaks French?"

You exhaled softly, pretending to weigh your options, even though—deep down—you knew there was only one answer.

Charles watched you carefully, his smirk never wavering, the challenge in his eyes evident—even through the shield of his sunglasses. He wasn’t just inviting you onto his yacht for a simple lesson; he was inviting you into his world, into his Monaco.

And somehow, despite the little voice in the back of your head telling you to be rational, telling you that this was probably a bad idea, you still found yourself intrigued.

"Alright, fine," you finally said, crossing your arms, tilting your head slightly. "But only if you promise I’ll actually learn something.”

He chuckled, pushing off his car with a casual ease. "I promise," he mused, his voice carrying just enough mischief to make you question if he meant it.

Something told you that stepping onto that yacht wasn’t just going to be about learning French.

Charles’ smirk deepened ever so slightly, like he knew he had won—like he had expected you to say yes but still enjoyed hearing the confirmation. He reached into his pocket, effortlessly pulling out his phone, fingers moving smoothly as he sent off a quick message, probably setting things in motion for the evening ahead.

"You won’t regret it," he assured, slipping the phone back into his jacket, watching you with that same quiet confidence. "Meet me at the docks around eight."

You raised a brow, pretending to weigh the offer in your mind, even though you had already made your decision. "And what exactly can I expect from this so-called French lesson?”

Charles chuckled, pushing his sunglasses up slightly, the smirk never fading. "That depends," he mused. "Are you a fast learner, or do you need some extra motivation?"

There was something about the way he said it—something teasing, something layered—that made it clear tonight wasn’t just about learning French.

And somehow, you found yourself looking forward to it.

"I prefer motivation," you said, your smirk matching his, refusing to let him have the upper hand too easily.

Charles’ own smirk widened, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze, like he had expected that answer but still enjoyed hearing it. There was something about the way he carried himself—an easy confidence that never wavered, a natural charm that wasn’t forced but felt effortless. Every movement, every glance, was calculated just enough to draw you in without seeming deliberate.

He pushed off his car with a casual ease, adjusting his jacket like he had all the time in the world, taking a slow step forward. The shift was subtle—barely noticeable to an outsider—but you noticed. He wasn’t just moving closer; he was setting the pace, drawing out the moment, stretching the space between you just enough to make it feel intentional.

“Good," he murmured, voice smooth, carrying a teasing undertone yet laced with something undeniably confident. He let the words settle between you, his smirk never fading, his gaze locked onto yours. “Because I happen to be very good at motivation."

You raised a brow, refusing to back down, meeting his challenge without hesitation. There was a playfulness in the exchange, but also something else—something neither of you were quite willing to name yet.

───

The evening was warm, the air carrying the fresh scent of the sea as soft waves lapped against the dock. Lights from the yachts reflected on the water, casting a golden glow, making everything look just a little more magical. The docks weren’t too busy, just enough movement and quiet chatter to remind you that Monaco never truly slept.

You stood there, shifting slightly, adjusting the books tucked under your arm, as if they made this feel more like an actual lesson instead of… whatever this was becoming. Your black dress fit just right, hugging you in all the places that made you feel confident. It was shorter than what you usually wore, but tonight felt different. You had spent extra time getting ready, making sure everything was smooth, perfect, just in case.

Your eyes moved over the yachts, each one shining under the dock lights, sleek and expensive. Some were massive, almost too large to seem real, while others were slightly more understated—but only in the way Monaco’s wealthy could be. You wondered which one belonged to him.

Then, footsteps. Steady, calm, unhurried. The kind of walk that told you this person had all the time in the world.

You turned just as Charles stepped into view. He looked effortlessly put together, wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, the top few buttons undone. He fit here, belonged in this world, carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew he was charming.

His smirk appeared the moment he saw you, his gaze sweeping over you with easy amusement before flickering to the books in your arms.

“Not bad, Y/n," he mused, voice smooth, teasing. “You actually brought them?"

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Of course," you said, tilting your head slightly. "I take my lessons seriously.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or just entertained.

“Well then," he murmured, stepping aside, motioning toward the large, sleek yacht behind him. "Let’s get started."

Charles led the way up the dock, his movements easy, natural, like he had done this a hundred times before. As you stepped onto the yacht, the soft sway beneath your feet reminded you that this wasn’t just any boat—it was luxury, through and through. Sleek, modern, with soft lighting that cast a golden glow over the pristine deck. Everything was polished, elegant, effortlessly perfect.

You barely had time to take it all in before Charles turned to you, hands slipping into his pockets, smirk still in place.

“Make yourself comfortable," he said, motioning toward the seating area at the back of the yacht, where plush cushions surrounded a glossy table.

You exhaled softly, moving toward the spot, setting your French books down before settling onto one of the seats. The evening air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and expensive cologne—a mix that somehow suited the moment too well.

Charles took the seat next to you, leaning back, stretching his arm over the edge of the seat like he belonged there, like he belonged everywhere.

“So," he mused, eyes flickering toward the books before back to you. “Where should we begin?"

You raised a brow, tapping your fingers lightly against the cover of one of the books. "That depends. Do you actually plan to teach, or was this just an excuse to get me here?”

His chuckle was immediate, warm, amused. "A little bit of both," he admitted, flashing you a grin. "But don’t worry—I’m a great teacher.”

Charles wasted no time. The moment he settled into his seat, he leaned back, his smirk unwavering as he casually started speaking in smooth, fluent French—his words flowing effortlessly, his tone relaxed yet confident, like he was testing you, like he was enjoying watching your reaction.

You blinked, trying to catch at least some of what he was saying, but it was hopeless. His words blended together too quickly, too naturally, and before you could even try to keep up, you found yourself laughing, shaking your head as you lifted a hand in protest.

“Hey, hey—slow!" you said, amusement clear in your voice, your laughter slipping between the words. "I’m trying to learn, not get overwhelmed!"

Charles chuckled, his expression practically glowing with amusement, clearly enjoying this. He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider your request before shrugging.

“Ah, but learning under pressure is the best way, no?" he teased, eyes flashing with something both playful and smug.

“I ended with animals," you said, smiling as you flipped through the pages of your book. Somehow, despite all the effort, all the attempts at forming proper sentences, you had ended up learning random animal names instead of anything actually useful. It wasn’t exactly what you had planned when you stepped onto the yacht, but at this point, you weren’t sure if anything about tonight was going according to plan.

Charles raised a brow, clearly amused, his smirk deepening as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights cast a warm hue over his skin, making the teasing glint in his eyes even more noticeable. "Animals?" he echoed, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement.

You grinned, feeling oddly proud of your one solid takeaway. "I know how to say owl," you announced, sitting up a little straighter, ready to flex your knowledge.

“Chouette," you said confidently, looking at him like you had just won something.

But the moment the word left your mouth, Charles burst into laughter, shaking his head immediately, his whole body leaning back slightly as he let the sound roll through him.

“Non, non,” he chuckled, his amusement clear as he ran a hand through his hair, still grinning. "Your accent—what was that?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. "Excuse me?”

“Excuse you,” he teased, still laughing, his eyes shining with pure entertainment. "That was terrible.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing too, shaking your head as you grabbed your book again, flipping through the pages like you were searching for proof that you had said it correctly. "Fine," you huffed, pretending to be annoyed even though you were enjoying this far more than you should. "Teach me how to say it properly, professeur.”

Charles smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel too intentional. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something else—something neither of you were quite acknowledging yet.

“Gladly," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours for just a second longer than necessary.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He leaned in just a little more, closing the space between you, his smirk still firmly in place as he spoke again—slower this time, deliberate, letting the word roll off his tongue in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

"Chouette," he repeated, his voice smooth, rich, carrying that effortless charm that made even a simple correction feel like something more.

You watched him carefully, trying to focus on the actual lesson, but it was hard when he was this close, when the warmth of the evening mixed with the quiet hum of the water beneath the yacht, when the teasing glint in his eyes made it clear he was enjoying this far too much.

You cleared your throat, straightening slightly, determined to get it right this time. "Chouette," you tried again, mimicking the way he had said it, paying attention to the way the syllables should sound.

Charles tilted his head, considering it for a moment before nodding slowly. "Better," he admitted, though the smirk never faded. "Still not perfect, but better."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"I’m thorough," he corrected, leaning back slightly, finally giving you a little space—but not too much. "You wanted motivation, didn’t you?"

You exhaled, pretending to be exasperated, but the truth was, you were enjoying this far more than you had expected.

"Fine," you said, crossing your arms. "What’s next, professeur?"

Charles chuckled, reaching for your book again, flipping through the pages like he was searching for something specific.

"Let’s see… something useful this time, maybe?" he teased, glancing up at you with that same playful glint in his eyes.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, amusement playing behind his sharp gaze as he leaned back against the cushioned seat. There was something about the way he carried himself—unrushed, confident, like he had all the time in the world and was thoroughly enjoying the moment. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights reflected in his eyes, making his expression even more unreadable, more teasing.

"Quel âge as-tu? (How old are you?)" he asked, voice smooth, effortless, slipping into French like it was second nature. The words rolled off his tongue easily, and you wondered briefly if this was still part of the lesson or if he was just trying to collect details about you, learning bit by bit, pretending it was all just casual conversation.

You actually knew what that meant. For a split second, you considered whether he was testing you—gauging how much you had actually picked up from your lessons so far. Was he genuinely curious, or was this just another excuse to keep the conversation going, to shift things into something more personal? Either way, you weren’t going to make it too easy for him.

But you played along anyway.

"J'ai vingt-deux ans (I’m twenty-two)," you answered, keeping your voice casual, easy, like you weren’t thinking too much about the way he was watching you now. The words felt familiar, comfortable enough that you didn’t stumble over them, and you felt the smallest twinge of pride in that.

Charles raised a brow, nodding slowly, considering your response like it meant more than just numbers. He let the moment stretch for a second longer than necessary before finally speaking again.

"Vingt-deux (twenty-two),” he mused, rolling the words over his tongue like he was tasting them, testing how they felt in the space between you. "Not bad."

You smirked, tilting your head slightly, matching his energy. "And you?"

His smirk deepened, like he had been expecting the question, like he had been waiting for it. There was something unreadable in his eyes for just a brief second—something calculating, something amused.

"Vingt-sept (twenty-seven)," he said finally, the number settling between you in a way that made the space feel smaller, more intentional, like the conversation had shifted into something just a little more personal.

And for some reason, you didn’t mind.

You hadn’t expected him to be twenty-seven. Maybe twenty-five at most, but hearing the number settle between you made you reconsider. It suited him—the quiet confidence, the effortless charm, the way he never seemed unsure of himself. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly who he was, someone who had already carved out his place in the world and wasn’t wasting time doubting it.

And really, was it a bad thing?

Rich, pretty, older than you? That was basically everything you wanted wrapped up in one dangerously charming package. He had the kind of presence that made people take notice, the kind of energy that drew you in without you even realizing.

Charles must have noticed something in your expression because his smirk deepened just a little, like he could read your thoughts, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. His eyes lingered on yours for half a second longer than necessary, like he was quietly enjoying your reaction.

"Surprised?" he asked, voice low, teasing, as if he already knew the answer.

You shrugged, refusing to let him see too much, keeping your expression neutral even though you could feel the way the conversation had shifted slightly. "A little."

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, like he was figuring out the best way to keep this moment stretching just a little longer. "Don’t worry, twenty-seven isn’t old," he mused, his tone playful yet steady, as if daring you to challenge him. "I promise I’ll keep up."

He handed you a glass filled with crisp white wine, the cool surface pressing against your fingers as you accepted it. The golden liquid shimmered under the soft yacht lights, casting reflections that danced with the gentle sway of the boat beneath you. There was something effortlessly smooth about the way Charles moved, like every action was carefully measured yet completely natural at the same time.

"Comment trouvez-vous Monaco? (How do you like Monaco?)" he asked, his voice carrying that same teasing lilt he had kept throughout the night.

This time, you actually understood—or, well, you understood one word. Monaco. The rest? A blur of syllables spoken too fluidly, too easily for you to process.

Still, there was no way you were about to admit that so quickly.

You mirrored his movement, lifting your glass slightly before taking a small sip, buying yourself a second of time. Then, after setting it down, you smirked. "Monaco," you repeated, nodding as if that was a perfectly valid answer.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slowly, setting his glass down for a moment. "That’s it?" he teased, watching you closely.

"That’s all I got," you admitted, laughing lightly, swirling your wine in the glass. "Something about Monaco. Am I close?"

His grin widened, and he exhaled through his nose, clearly entertained. "Close enough," he mused, swirling his own glass gently before taking a sip. "I asked what you think of it."

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing out over the water, the city lights shimmering in the distance, the soft hum of waves filling the quiet spaces between words.

"It’s… surreal," you admitted after a beat, looking back at him. "Like it’s not real life, you know?"

Charles nodded slowly, studying you for a moment, his expression unreadable—but curious.

"It’s a world of its own," he said, voice softer now, reflective. "Some people come here and never leave."

For a moment, you wondered if he was including himself in that.

You swirled your glass absentmindedly, watching how the golden liquid caught the yacht’s soft lighting, reflecting the quiet glow of the Monaco skyline in the distance. There was something surreal about being here, about sitting across from Charles, about the effortless way the evening had unfolded.

"Just like you?" you asked out of curiosity, tilting your head slightly, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your glass.

Charles' smirk remained, but his eyes held something softer now, something thoughtful. "I was born here, actually," he said, the words coming out effortlessly, like it was something he had explained a hundred times before.

You blinked, processing his words as you set your glass down. Somehow, the idea of Charles being born in Monaco made perfect sense—but at the same time, it caught you off guard. You had always assumed people came here, drawn in by the glamour, the exclusivity, the effortless luxury. But for him, this wasn’t just a place to visit. It was home.

Charles leaned in slightly, his smile lingering, the challenge evident in his eyes. He had been enjoying this, guiding the conversation just enough to keep you engaged, watching closely as you navigated your way through each question, each attempt at forming sentences.

"But I want you to answer," he said smoothly, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his wine glass. "In French."

You took a breath, steadying yourself, determined not to let this moment slip. French wasn’t easy for you, and answering on the spot, with him watching, only made it feel more intimidating. But you weren’t about to back down.

Carefully, deliberately, you put your best effort into the answer.

"J'aime cet endroit, surtout maintenant (I love this place, especially now)," you said, the words coming out slower than his but clear enough, confident enough.

Charles tilted his head slightly, considering your response, his smirk deepening just a little, like he was amused by the effort, impressed despite himself.

"Not bad," he mused, taking a sip of his wine, eyes still locked onto yours. "You like this place… especially now?"

You nodded, meeting his gaze, holding onto the moment just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.

"Yes," you admitted, setting your glass down, fingers grazing against the rim absentmindedly. "The lesson is helping."

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Ah, so I am a good teacher," he teased, sitting back, watching you like he was still figuring something out.

Charles moved in, slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you with an ease that made your pulse quicken. His presence was impossible to ignore, his confidence effortless, like he knew exactly how close he could get before it became too much—except this time, too much was exactly what you wanted.

The wine had settled in your system, warmth spreading through your limbs, but that wasn’t what made you lean in slightly, wasn’t what made you hold his gaze with unwavering certainty. You wanted this. You wanted him. Even though, just hours ago, he had been nothing more than a stranger who happened to help you park your car.

His voice was low, smooth, carrying that undeniable edge of amusement as he spoke. "Tu es vraiment jolie, tu le sais? (You are really pretty, you know that?)”

And for the first time tonight, you understood every single word.

You felt your breath hitch slightly, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.

"You think so?" you mused, tilting your head slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened in response.

"I know so," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, carrying just enough certainty to make the air between you feel heavier, charged.

The hum of the yacht, the quiet waves against the dock, the distant sounds of Monaco—it all faded into the background. Right now, there was only this.

Only him.

Charles’ breath was warm against your ear, his words barely above a whisper, yet you felt them—every syllable, every hesitation. They weren’t just words; they were an unspoken confession, a quiet unraveling of the careful, effortless charm he had worn all evening.

“Je te veux un peu. (I kinda want you)”

It was quiet. Careful. As if he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it at all, as if he was testing the weight of the admission before fully giving in to it. Until now, every glance, every smirk, every lingering touch had felt intentional, like he knew exactly how far to push without giving too much away. But now? Now there was something uncertain, something raw beneath his teasing façade.

“Is it weird?" he asked, his voice softer now, lower, suddenly hesitant in a way that didn’t feel like him.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, to catch the faint flicker of uncertainty in his expression, something rare, something unexpected. The space between you was dangerously small, but neither of you moved to widen it.

“You only kinda want me?" you asked, arching a brow, a teasing lilt in your voice—because you weren’t uncertain. Not even a little. You wanted him. More than hesitant words and uncertain breaths. You wanted all of him.

Charles exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against yours in quiet confirmation. His smirk returned, curving just at the edges, but there was something different about it now. Something heavier. Something decisive.

“Okay," he murmured, voice lower, thicker, like the hesitation had finally melted away. “Beaucoup. (A lot)”

Charles' eyes held yours, dark with intent, his grip firm against your waist, like he already knew what was coming—like he had been waiting for it. The tension between you had stretched for too long, simmering beneath each teasing exchange, each lingering touch, each second of withheld restraint.

And then, finally—

“Embrasse-moi, Charles. (Kiss me, Charles)”

You barely finished the words before he acted.

He kissed you. Hungrily. There was no hesitation, no teasing buildup anymore—just pure, undeniable want. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, needing you closer, needing more.

His lips moved against yours with intoxicating urgency, fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he drank you in, as if he had decided in that moment that this wasn’t just desire—it was necessary.

The warmth of his body, the steady hum of the yacht beneath you, the rhythm of the waves against the dock—it all blurred into insignificance.

His fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress, his grip tight but controlled, holding you in place as if he couldn’t stand even the smallest bit of distance between you. The yacht swayed gently beneath you, the rhythm of the waves mirroring the way his lips moved against yours—deliberate, intense, possessive.

You sighed into him, your own hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer, matching his urgency, meeting his pace.

Charles exhaled against your lips, his breath uneven, his grip tightening at your waist like he was trying to steady himself, like he was savoring the way you fit against him.

"Dieu… (God)” he murmured against your skin, voice low, rough, nearly a groan. "Tu es dangereuse. (You are dangerous)”

Charles' lips moved slowly along your neck, warm and wet, leaving behind red marks that tingled on your skin. Every kiss felt like a spark, like he was setting your nerves on fire with every press of his mouth. He wasn’t in a rush—he took his time, letting each touch sink in, making sure you felt everything.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sound escaped your lips—half sigh, half moan. You could feel him smiling against your skin, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did. He always did.

“Fuck, Charles,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t just desire in your voice—it was need. His name came out like a prayer, or maybe a plea, heavy with everything you were feeling and couldn’t put into words.

“J’ai besoin de toi chérie, de toi tout entier (I need you darling, all of you),” Charles whispered into the curve of your neck, his voice low, velvet-soft, and full of quiet need. The words wrapped around you like silk, and a shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed—not just by the sound of his voice or the way his hands knew exactly where to rest, but by the simple, impossible truth of it all. This moment. This man. You had never imagined anything like it, not even in your most daring, secret dreams. Yet here you were, wrapped in the arms of a man older than you, powerful, undeniably attractive, and utterly, disarmingly real.

─── SIX MONTHS LATER

The sun hung high over Bologna, casting golden light over the terracotta rooftops, warming the historic streets and filling the air with the scent of espresso and freshly baked bread. The city was alive, bustling with movement—locals chatting outside cafés, tourists wandering with cameras slung over their shoulders, the distant hum of a violin playing somewhere in the maze of alleyways.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. It was just a stop—an indulgence before heading to Neapoli to see your friend. A chance to walk these streets you’d always dreamed of visiting, to taste, to experience, to collect fragments of a place you had admired from afar for years.

But then—something made you pause.

A car.

Sleek, polished to perfection, black with a striking red and white stripe cutting through the front. It sat at the curb, motionless yet demanding attention, gleaming under the afternoon light like an invitation you weren’t sure you should take.

Your steps faltered.

You knew this car.

You had seen it before—maybe in Monaco, maybe somewhere else, maybe in a moment that had slipped from your grasp but never really left you.

Nothing seemed more fitting in the moment than pulling out your phone, filming the scene for your friend. You had vlogged your entire trip through Italy—every stunning view, every hidden café, every little unexpected moment. So why not this?

You held up the camera, steadying your grip as you zoomed in slightly, capturing the sleek black Ferrari resting against the curb. The sunlight gleamed off its polished surface, accentuating the striking red and white stripe that cut across the front.

“Questo è così familiare… giuro che ho già visto questa macchina da qualche parte (This is so familiar… I swear I've seen this car somewhere before),”you murmured into the phone, your voice lined with curiosity and amusement.

A fleeting thought pressed at the back of your mind, an eerie sense of recognition tightening in your chest. This car—this exact car—you had seen it before.

You hit record, adjusting your grip on the phone as you zoomed in on the Ferrari parked near the curb. Its glossy black finish gleamed under the Bologna sun, the sharp red and white stripe cutting across the front like a signature—bold, impossible to overlook. There was something undeniably familiar about it, something that made your heart pick up its pace, something that pulled at your memory in a way that you couldn’t quite shake.

“Ragazza, giuro che sembra una follia, ma io conosco questa macchina! (girl, I think I sound completely crazy, but I know this car!)” you exclaimed, your voice carrying a mix of excitement and disbelief as you pointed directly at the car, ensuring it was fully in the frame. The words felt almost surreal as they left your lips, but deep down, you knew it wasn’t just some passing coincidence. You had seen this car before. You had been near it.

Without hesitation, you sent the video to your best friend, watching as the message processed before disappearing into the chat.

Your phone remained in your grip, screen still bright, messages from your friend continuing to flood in one after another. Each notification made the situation feel even more surreal, like reality was still catching up, like fate had decided to drop something unexpected right into the middle of your plans.

You could already imagine her reaction—her shock, her excitement, probably yelling at her screen, demanding answers you weren’t even sure you had.

But before you could even type out a reply, before you could take a single breath to process the moment, a voice slipped effortlessly through the space behind you.

Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Non mi hai detto che parli italiano. (You didn't tell me you speak Italian.)”

The words sent a jolt straight through you, freezing you in place.

Your fingers tightened around the phone instinctively, your heartbeat picking up its pace, the world around you suddenly feeling different—like the sounds of the city had softened, like the warmth of the sun wasn’t the only thing settling against your skin.

Slowly, carefully, you turned.

And then—

Charles.

Standing just a few steps away, effortlessly composed, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity, the faintest smirk playing at the edge of his lips. The sight of him pulled something deep from your memory, something tied to warm nights and whispered challenges, something you hadn’t expected to feel again.

Charles watched you carefully, his gaze steady, holding onto that slight smirk as if he already knew how this was going to unfold. His posture was relaxed, effortless, yet there was something undeniably focused in the way he looked at you—something quietly deliberate, like he was taking in every detail, like he was committing this moment to memory.

You felt the weight of it—the unexpectedness of his presence, the quiet charge lingering in the space between you, the way time seemed to hesitate just long enough to make you wonder if fate really had orchestrated all of this.

It had been six months since Monaco, since nights stretched out on a yacht, since whispered conversations and stolen moments, since something shifted in a way that neither of you had fully defined. You had left knowing there was no clear path forward, no promises, no expectations—and yet, standing here, looking at him now, it was impossible to pretend that nothing had changed.

“You surprise me, chérie," Charles said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the teasing edge to his voice not quite masking something deeper beneath it.

You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of your lips despite the rush of thoughts tumbling through your mind. "Seems like I’m not the only one full of surprises."

His chuckle was soft, amused, but his eyes held something more—something familiar yet entirely new.

“It appears fate enjoys playing with us," he mused, his voice lower now, more measured, more certain.

Charles hesitated, his gaze locked onto you with a quiet intensity, like he was studying you, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. The sunlight slipped across his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the ease in his posture, the familiar warmth in his expression—soft, careful, holding something unspoken.

It had been six months.

Time had passed—fast, slow, uncertain—and yet, standing here, in a city neither of you had planned to meet in, it felt impossibly like none of it had passed at all.

His gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, taking you in, as if he was looking for the parts of you that had changed, the parts that had stayed the same—the parts he had memorized without meaning to.

“Will you stay this time, amore?"

The words left his lips slowly, carefully, carrying something heavier than just curiosity. There was no teasing, no playfulness—just quiet truth. Just a question that felt more like an invitation, more like a possibility, more like hope.

You felt the weight of it press against your chest, the way the words settled into the space between you, waiting—patient, deliberate, meant to be answered.

Stay.

Six months ago, the idea hadn't even been on the table. Monaco had been fleeting, temporary—a moment suspended in time, something that existed separately from reality. And yet, now, standing here in Bologna with Charles watching you, waiting for an answer, it felt like an entirely different choice.

“I will.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! My first longer Charles fic!! If you’re italian/french and spot any mistakes in the translation, let me know!!

[fdelopera]

Queer Jews have been at the forefront of queer liberation since the beginning of the gay rights movement. And now most goyim are trying to shove queer Jews out of the civil rights movement that we have given our blood, sweat, tears, and sometimes our very lives to.

Same as it ever was. Jews do the hard work, and then goyim STEAL our contributions and slam the door in our face.

Queer goyim need to remember that many of the rights that they take for granted were secured for them by queer Jews like Harvey Milk who literally died for the cause of queer liberation.

.

Harvey Milk’s Jewish Identity

August 27, 2018

The Jewish identity of Harvey Milk—arguably the most famous gay man in modern history—was as important to who he was and what he did as his gay identity. In San Francisco where he became a prominent gay leader and politician in the 1970s, he often introduced himself as a “New York Jew.” He liked the upfront bluntness of the appellation; but it also described a personal history that was formative for him.

Harvey Milk was born on Woodmere, Long Island in 1930. His grandfather Mausche Milch had been a Yiddish-speaking peddler from Lithuania who’d made good in America, opening the town’s first department store and co-founding its first synagogue. Like much of Long Island in the early decades of the twentieth century, Woodmere had been a hotbed of anti-Semitism. In the 1920s, Mausche and several other Jews who wanted to affirm their American success tried to join the local country club—but they discovered it had a “no Jews” policy. Mausche helped establish a Jewish country club. In the 1930s, a music teacher was rejected for a position by the Woodmere School Board because she was Jewish. Harvey’s father Bill, together with other Jewish parents, fought the school board until she was hired.

Harvey learned not only those stories but stories about the Klan marching regularly on Long Island in the 1920s; he learned too of the German-American Bund, a Nazi organization that held huge rallies on Long Island throughout his childhood. In 1943, six days before his bar mitzvah, the Warsaw Ghetto fell. Harvey remembered all his life the adults around him explaining that the Jews of the Ghetto who fought to the end knew they were doomed, but “when something that evil descends on the world, you have to fight, even when it’s hopeless.” Such things left an indelible stamp on him. They affirmed for him his identity as a Jew, and they helped determine who he became as a political figure.

In 1947, on his own for the first time and a student at the New York State College for Teachers in Albany, Harvey sought to carry on the Jewishness he’d learned at home. He joined a Jewish fraternity, and he attended Sabbath dinners at the campus Hillel and meetings of the Intercollegiate Zionist Federation of America. Coming home for winter break one year, he visited a high school friend, a Catholic, whose family was hanging Christmas lights. “Here, let me help,” Harvey said, and he was given a section of lights to hang. Always a cutup—but also lest anyone forget who he was—Harvey fashioned his section into a twinkling Star of David.

Years later, when Harvey opened Castro Camera in San Francisco, he displayed his bar mitzvah photo prominently on a wall in the store. He loved to talk Yiddishkeit with his Jewish customers. Elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors and swamped with official duties, he was nevertheless visited often in his office at City Hall by Henrietta Abrams, an elderly constituent who called him her “little Jewish prince.” Henrietta, who’d learned of Harvey’s sweet tooth, baked him cookies and brought them to him on the bus. According to Harvey’s assistant, Anne Kronenberg, Harvey would usher Henrietta into his office, close the door, and together they’d munch cookies. Their talk was sprinkled liberally with Yiddish.

But Harvey’s Jewishness went far beyond such charming sentimentalities. He once declared, “Jews know we can’t allow discrimination—if for no other reason than we might be on that list someday.” There may have been a degree of wryness in the statement; but it also hints at how marked he was by what he’d learned in his youth of anti-Semitism. The Holocaust became a major metaphor in his speeches, decades after the tragedy. In 1978, Proposition 6 qualified for the California ballot. If passed, the Proposition would have prohibited gay people from working in any capacity in the public schools. Harvey was a leading figure in the fight against it. The witch hunts that its passage could trigger seemed to Harvey to have catastrophic potential; and his very emotional speeches often referenced the greatest catastrophe he knew. “I cannot remain silent anymore,” he told one audience. “There was silence in Germany because no one got up early enough to say what Hitler really was. If only someone did, maybe the Holocaust would never have happened.” He told another audience, “Just as Proposition 6 would prevent gay people from teaching in the public schools, so forty-five years ago did the German law prohibit Jews from teaching or holding any other civil service positions.” He gave fevered warnings: to ignore the deadly threat to which Proposition 6 would lead, he said, was “to be like Jews in Nazi Germany as they were being loaded into box cars and hoping they will be treated nicely and not put into the ovens.”

But the Jewishness that Harvey brought to his politics went beyond such frenzied fears. From his mother (who died of a heart attack in 1962 after delivering a twenty-four-pound turkey to a settlement house so the poor could have a Thanksgiving dinner) Harvey learned the obligation of tikkun olam. For him it meant championing not just the gay people who had been largely responsible for putting him in office, but all those who were discriminated against or oppressed. Harvey served on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors for only eleven months before he was assassinated. In that brief time, he fought hard to pass a strong gay rights bill—but he fought equally hard for rent control, for humane treatment of troubled youth, for the city’s divestment from apartheid South Africa. He fought for the rights of workers, women, the disabled, racial minorities, and senior citizens. Though as an adult Harvey Milk rejected the religion in which he’d been brought up, he adhered closely to one of its major tenets.

Lillian Faderman is a distinguished scholar of LGBT and ethnic history and literature. She has received numerous awards for her previous eleven books, three of which, Surpassing the Love of Men, Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers, and The Gay Revolution, have been named by The New York Times as Notable Books of the Year. Her latest book is Harvey Milk: His Lives and Death.

I’m having complicated feelings as we enter pride month. I’m a proudly queer and a proud member of the jewish community. And I feel like I’ve been shoved out of the queer community now. I mean it’s been a creeping feeling for years. The Jews that were kicked out of the Dyke March for having the rainbow Jewish flag. I’ve seen Jews that were forced out of other pride demonstrations for having this flag or just being visibly Jewish. Queer Jews deserve to exist as both. We deserve to feel safe in both spaces. We deserve to show our pride in both. We deserve to be visibly Jewish in queer spaces. But this year I feel too scared to go to pride events that aren’t explicitly Jewish. And that’s not a fun feeling. So yeah. I’m proud and scared again

The sad part is every single queer Jew I know feels the same way.

So happy pride month to every single queer Jew here. I love you all and I’m kissing you all on the forehead.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Laugh Tracks Part 2 !NSFW!

Avenger!Agatha 2.0 x Avenger!Reader

Word count: 10,012

Chapter warning (s): MDNI; Agatha with a sedative dependency, Agatha is still depressed, guys it's Endgame--yes Nat still dies rip, Agatha has major PTSD, reader comes back yayyyy, very emotional and passionate smut

Summary: It's been five years since Agatha lost you. Sedatives are part of her nighttime routine, isolation is her new normal, and grief consumes her whole. But now, there's a way to get you back, and it takes everything in her to start hoping again.

A/N: Hi! I hope you enjoy this little finale, we are never seeing Avenger!Agatha 2.0 again after this. We are solely sticking to Avenger!Agatha 1.0 and reader and their domestic bliss in their NYC brownstone that Tony paid for. Also, if any of yall are editors, I saw an edit with Tchaikovsky’s nutcracker pas de deux and I’m craving an edit of this mini-fic to that. Just an idea💕

Spotify playlist I listened to

Masterlist

Part 1

New York City

5 years after the Blip

The days get easier.

Not easy.

But easier.

New York City is dark and sullen. The once lively city has been reduced to eerie silence.

“I can’t believe I agreed to go to this thing with you,” Agatha grumbles.

“It’ll be good for you,” Steve says, opening the door to the support group meeting room.

There are four other people already there. The room is dark, with three fluorescent lights shining above the circle of chairs.

Steve takes a seat with Agatha beside him. He’s quiet, but he brings a sense of comfort to the room.

“Hey guys,” Steve says. “Welcome to support group. Remember, you can share as much or as little as you want. We’re here to give advice and listen and lean on each other. So,” he sighs, “who wants to go first?”

A man sitting beside Steve pipes up. “I guess, I’ll go. So, I…uh���I went out on a date the other day for the first time in five years. You know? I’m sitting there at dinner.” He looks at Steve. “I didn’t even know what to talk about.”

“What did you talk about?” Steve asks, smiling softly.

“Same old crap,” the guy shrugs. “Past five years, how things have changed. My job, his job. How much we miss the Mets.” He trails off, thinking. “And then, things got quiet. He cried as they were serving the salads.”

“What about you?” one of the members asks. “Did you cry?”

He nods thoughtfully. “I cried…just before dessert. But I’m seeing him again tomorrow, so…”

“That’s great,” Steve says. “You did the hardest part. You took the jump. You didn’t know where you were gonna come down. And that’s it. That’s those little…brave baby steps you gotta take…to try and become whole again, try and find a purpose. Anybody wanna go next?” The circle is quiet and Steve nudges Agatha. “Agatha? What about you?”

Agatha huffs and rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She sits up straight in her chair, arms and legs crossed. Her lips purse and her tongue darts in her cheek. 

“267 years ago, I lost my son, Nicky. He was six-years-old.” Agatha takes a deep breath. “I’m very experienced with grief,” she says, letting out a dry laugh before her face falls. “But, uhh…I don’t know how to cope with this loss. I knew her for over a century and…”

Agatha trails off, eyes going glassy before she blinks rapidly and chuckles. “I use sedatives almost every night because those are the only things that help me sleep…” She pauses again, and this time, the humorless chuckle turns into full blown laughter.

As tears start forming, Steve sighs, “Agatha…”

“I’m sorry!” she laughs, wiping her eyes. She stands up, still giggling to herself. Her hand gently pats Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sorry…I’m gonna–I’m gonna go wait in the car…”

When the passenger side door slams shut, Agatha laughs again. She presses her palms into her eyes, giggling quietly, but when she sits up she catches a glimpse of herself in the side mirror.

The dark circles under her eyes, her hair, stringy and unkempt–she’s a shell of what she used to be. Her laughter fades into quiet chuckles before broken sobs rake through her. 

And they don’t stop.

In the past years the tears have faded, replaced with a deep, unshakable anger. At what, she doesn’t know. Questions and thoughts linger in her mind throughout days as she watches reruns of sitcoms–your sitcoms.

She refuses to watch anything else.

Trillions killed. Why was she one of them?

She slowly regains her motivation, but not for much. She eats. She socializes–more or less–with what remains of the team. She takes care of herself, even if it’s the bare minimum. She’s surviving, but not living.

Trillions killed. Why wasn’t I one of them?

The days get easier.

But they’re not easy.

Never easy.

An hour passes and the tears are starting to ebb. The driver side door opens and Steve slides in without a word. As they drive, it’s quiet.

But it’s not a bad quiet. It’s the quiet that’s needed. It’s given to her out of respect. It’s a quiet that’s oddly comforting, even if Agatha is sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. 

On the drive back to the Compound, they stop at a diner.

“Why are we here?” Agatha asks, voice thick and nose red.

Steve shrugs. “Just thought we could get some dinner. I know that support group days make me hungry, and this was your first one so…”

Agatha scoffs. “First and last.”

It’s amusing how stereotypical the diner is–checkered floors and red booths with frosted glass windows. The sound of espresso machines and bells ringing mingle with the conversations of waitresses at the counter.

“I’m sorry about your son,” Steve says quietly, taking a drink of coffee. “I didn’t kn–”

Agatha cuts him off. “Nobody knew,” she says, picking at the food on her plate. “Except, you know…”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“How did you do it?” she asks, eyes still focused on a piece of waffle.

“What?”

“With Peggy,” she clarifies. “How did you get through it? When I lost Nicky I had…plenty of distractions, but…not this time.”

Steve takes in a painful breath. “I…don’t know. I guess, at some point, you process it and you learn to live life without them–you live life for them. I guess it’s different with you two, though,” he says, sitting back in his seat. “A century is a pretty long time.”

Agatha hums. “Yeah, it is.” She finally looks up at him, an amused grin on her lips. “Who knew we had more in common than just being hot?”

 __________

“You know, I’d offer to cook you dinner, but you seem pretty miserable already.”

Steve leans against a shelf that separates the kitchen and dining table. When he and Agatha walk in, Nat sits at the table, hands pinching the bridge of her nose as she holds back tears.

“You here to do your laundry?” Nat asks.

Steve gestures to Agatha as she takes a seat with Nat. “Nope. Just droppin’ off Harkness.”

“Oh, yeah, he forced you to go to that support group he holds every week,” Natasha chuckles. “How did it go?”

“I started laughing during it,” Agatha smirks. “I had to leave.”

Nat hums. “Did he take you to that diner after?”

“Yeah,” Agatha chuckles. “It was nice, though. Thank you, Steve.”

A chime rings out and a hologram is displayed above the table. Nat sighs and taps at the invisible screen, and a sudden, vaguely familiar voice is talking.

“Uh,hi! Is anyone home?”

Across the room, a screen is lit up, showing a man at the front gate of the Compound.

“This is Scott Lang!” he shouts, waving at the camera. “We met a few years ago at the airport! You know, in Germany?” 

The three of them watch the video footage on the wall, exchanging confused looks with each other.

“I was the guy that got really big,” Scott continues. “I had a mask on. You wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Is this an old message?” Steve asks slowly, eyes glued to the screen.

“No,” Nat breathes. “It’s the front gate.”

Scott looks more and more desperate.”I really need to talk to you guys!”

Agatha, Nat, and Steve stand there awkwardly as Scott paces and mutters to himself.

“I thought he was blipped,” Agatha mutters to Nat.

Nod nods absentmindedly, squinting as she watches Scott. “So did I.”

“Scott,” Steve says. “Are you okay?”

He stops in his tracks. “Yeah.” Then he pauses, rubbing his face tiredly. “Have any of you ever studied quantum physics?”

“Only to make conversation,” Nat shrugs.

Scott perks up. “Okay, so…five years ago…right before…Thanos…I was in a place called the quantum realm. It’s like its own microscopic universe. To get in there, you have to be incredibly small. Hope, my, uhh…She was my…” He pauses, swallowing hard before getting back on track. “She was supposed to pull me out. And then Thanos happened, and I got stuck in there.”

“That must’ve been a very long five years,” Nat says.

“But that’s just it,” Scott says. “It wasn’t. For me, it was five hours.The rules of the quantum realm aren’t like they are up here. Everything is unpredictable.” His eyes dart to the kitchen table where a sandwich that Nat was making lies on a plate. “Is that anybody’s sandwich? I’m starving.”

“Scott, what are you talking about?” Steve asks.

“So,” Scott continues, mouth full of bread and peanut butter, “what I’m saying is, time works differently in the quantum realm. The only problem now is we don’t have a way to navigate it. But what if we did?” 

He starts pacing again, getting increasingly excited as he goes. “I can’t stop thinking about it. What if we could somehow control the chaos, and we could navigate it? What if there was a way we could enter the quantum realm at a certain point in time but then exit the quantum realm at another point in time? Like…like before Thanos.”

“Are you talking about a time machine?” Agatha scoffs.

“No. No, of course not,” Scott says.”No, not a time machine. It’s more like a…Okay, yeah. A time machine.” When he sees the looks on the other three’s faces, he gets defensive. “I know. I know, it sounds crazy. But I can’t stop thinking about it. There’s gotta be…some way…” He sighs and his face drops. “It’s crazy.”

“Scott, I get emails from a racoon,” Nat says. “So, nothing sounds crazy anymore.”

Scott nods slowly. “So, who do we talk to about this?”

Agatha sits in bed against the headboard, knees bent toward her as she hugs your pillow against her chest. The only light in the room is the bright TV as she watches more reruns of a sitcom. 

There’s a knock on the door and Steve enters at her quiet, “Come in.”

She doesn’t look at him, not right away. Even when he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Agatha shrugs and responds with a hum.

“You don’t wanna do it, do you?” Steve sighs.

She looks at him now. “What?”

“The time travel thing,” he clarifies. “You don’t wanna do it.”

Agatha huffs. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it…I just…What if it doesn’t work?” Her fingers grip tighter onto your pillow. “You saw what happened after we killed Thanos…I can’t–” Her voice catches in her throat. “I can’t handle that again. It’s like I’m losing her all over again.”

Steve nods thoughtfully. “Yeah…I understand. But what if it does work? What if we are able to get everyone back?” 

When Agatha doesn’t respond, he sighs. “Look, I haven’t known her for nearly as long as you have. But I’ve known her long enough to know that if she was in your position, and she had the opportunity to try and get you back…she would jump on it in an instant.”

Agatha sighs, wiping away a tear and laughing quietly. “She’d probably take control of the entire thing.”

“She probably would,” Steve chuckles. His face drops and he swallows hard. “I know you don’t wanna hope. I can see it in your face. But I think you owe it to her, and you owe it to yourself, to try and get her back.”

“Myself?” she says quietly.

Steve nods. “You’ve lived a long life. You deserve to be happy, Agatha. I’ve gotten to know you in the past…what, eight years? 2015? You’re stubborn as hell. And more than anything, you always get what you want.” 

He stands up and heads back to the door. “If you want it to work, it’ll work.”

“I hate your optimism,” Agatha grumbles.

As Steve stands in the open doorway, he grins. “I know. I’ll be back in the morning around ten to pick Nat and Sott up. Just think about it, okay?”

The car doors slam shut. Tony stands outside on the porch of his cabin with his daughter in his arms. He doesn’t say anything, only acknowledging the four of them with a nod, but when they follow him in, he relents.

He pours five drinks when they’re back on the porch.

“Time travel?” he says, arching a brow.

“I know what it sounds like,” Scott says.

Steve scoffs. “Tony, after everything you’ve seen, is anything really impossible?”

“Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck scale,” Tony explains. “Which then triggers the Deutsch Proposition. Can we agree on that?” He hands Steve a drink. “In layman’s terms, it means you’re not coming home.”

“I did,” Scott shrugs.

“No,” Tony says. “You accidentally survived. It’s a billion-to-one cosmic fluke.” He begins to hand out the rest of the drinks. “And now you wanna pull a…What do you call it?”

Scott takes his glass and shrugs. “A time heist?”

“Yeah,” Tony scoffs. “A time heist. Of course. Why didn’t we think of this before? Oh, because it’s laughable. Because it’s a pipe dream.” 

“The stones are in the past,” Steve says. “We could go back, we could get them.”

“We can snap our own fingers,” Natasha nods. “We can bring everyone back.”

“Or screw it up worse than he already has, right?” Tony adds.

Steve’s face is cold. “I don’t believe we would.”

“I gotta say it,” Tony says. “Sometimes I miss that giddy optimism. However, high hopes won’t help if there’s no logical, tangible way for me to safely execute said time heist.” He takes a seat with his drink in a wicker chair. “I believe the most likely outcome will be our collective demise.”

“Not if we strictly follow the rules of time travel,” Scott counters. He sits down beside Tony. “That means, no talking to our past selves, no betting on sporting events.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Tony says, putting out his hand. “Are you seriously telling me that your plan to save the universe is based on Back to the Future?”

“No,” Scott sighs.

“Good. You had me worried there,” Tony says, “because that would be horseshit. That’s not how quantum physics works.”

“Tony, we have to take a stand,” Nat says, face falling. 

Tony looks up at her. “We did take a stand. And yet, here we are.”

Agatha’s chest burns with frustration. “Tony, we have a chance to bring everyone back!” Her voice begins to rise quickly. “And you’re telling us that you won’t even–!”

The door to the cabin opens and closes loudly, followed by the pitter patter of little feet. As Tony’s daughter runs over, Agatha stops.

“Mommy told me to come save you,” Morgan says quietly, climbing into his lap.

“Good job,” Tony groans, picking her up. “I’m saved.”

After the failed attempt with Tony, the second best option was Bruce. He was hesitant at first, but it took very little convincing. 

“Alright, fire up the, uh, van thing.” Bruce stands at a control panel for the time machine.

When Scott opens the doors an endless tunnel is displayed, glowing yellow and blue. Steve walks back into the room, head held high.

“Breakers are set!” he calls. “Emergency generators are on standby.”

“Good, because if we blow the grid, I don’t wanna lose, uh, Tiny here in the 1950s,” Bruce chuckles.

Scott’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Nat, who doesn’t look up from the tablet she’s typing on, snickers “He’s kidding.” She looks at Bruce and smiles. “You can’t say things like that.”

As Scott preps his gear, Agatha leans in close to Bruce, arms crossed and voice low. “You were joking right?”

“I…have no idea,” Bruce says awkwardly. “We’re talking about time travel here. Either it’s all a joke, or none of it is.” He turns away from Agatha and gives Scott a bright smile and a thumbs up. “We’re good!”

When Scott’s armor is secure Bruce starts up the time machine. “Alright, Scott, I’m gonna send you back a week, let you walk around for an hour, then bring you back in ten seconds. Makes sense?”

Scott hesitates and then scoffs. “Yeah. Perfectly not confusing.”

When Scott is brought back the first time, he’s a teenager–and terrified. “Um…guys? This doesn’t feel right.”

“Is that Scott?” Nat asks.

“Yes, it’s Scott!” he snaps back. A button is pressed and teen Scott is sucked back into the time machine. When he reemerges, he’s about forty years older than his original self. “Oh, my back!”

“Oh, god, you turned him into a senile old man!” Agatha grimaces.

“Can you bring him back?” Steve panics.

Bruce rushes around the panel, pressing various buttons. “I’m working on it!”

Scott is sucked back into the van, and this time what pops back out is a baby.

“That is a baby!” Agatha shouts at Bruce. 

“It’s Scott,” Bruce points out.

Agatha gestures dramatically as her voice rises. “As a baby!” 

“He’ll grow!” Bruce tries to reason.

“Bring Scott back!” Steve argues.

Bruce presses buttons and turns knobs. “When I say kill the power, kill the power!” Nat groans as she runs to the electrical box. A loud, electrical whirring sound is heard as the time machine fires up again. “Kill the power!” Bruce calls.

And the baby is gone, replaced by the original Scott.

He stands there awkwardly. “Somebody peed my pants. But I don’t know if it was baby me or old me…or just me me.”

It’s warm outside as Agatha stands against a pillar. Footsteps come up behind her but she doesn’t look, because she already knows who it is.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Steve sighs, standing next to her.

Agatha scoffs and lets out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “It won’t work,” she says. “Not unless Tony gets his head out of his ass.”

And right on cue, the devil himself is pulling up in his sleek, black Audi. The tires squeak as he slams on the breaks and reverses.

The window rolls down and they’re met with Tony's smug face. “Why the long faces? Let me guess, he turned into a baby.”

Agatha rolls her eyes as Steve nods. “Among other things, yeah. What are you doing here?”

Tony gets out of the car. “It’s the EPR Paradox. Instead of pushing Lang through time, you might’ve wound up pushing time through Lang. It’s tricky, dangerous. Somebody could’ve cautioned you against it.”

“You did,” Agatha huffs.

“Oh, did I?” Tony perks up. “Well, thank God I’m here. Regardless, I fixed it.” He holds up his fist and wrapped around it is a metal band. “A fully functioning time-space GPS.”

It takes two weeks to get the entire thing situated–test runs, building a quantum portal, figuring out what dates and planets to travel back to. But now, as the sun rises, Agatha stands on the platform with the rest of the team.

Gears shift beneath their feet as the platform turns on and helmets activate. And then, the portal opens, and Agatha’s stomach is in her throat. The twists and turns of the quantum realm make her nauseous, but she regains her bearings when she lands on her own two feet in New York City.

“Alright, we all have our assignments,” Steve says sternly. “Two stones uptown, one stone down. Stay low. Keep an eye on the clock.”

A loud thud and roaring pierces the air and everyone jumps. In front of them, a bigger, angrier Hulk jumps forward and smashes an alien with a car. 

Everyone looks at Bruce who ducks his head in embarrassment. 

“Maybe smash a few things along the way,” Steve says.

Bruce rips off his shirt. “I think it’s gratuitous, but whatever.” He goes into the street, groaning and attempting a poor impression of his past self.

When Bruce leaves, Agatha, Steve, Tony, and Scott form their plan–break into Stark Tower and retrieve the Tesseract and Loki’s staff. The breaking into part is easy, but the Tesseract is another story.

When they round the corner of the building they landed behind, everyone freezes–and Agatha…well, Agatha almost collapses right then and there.

Every Avenger but Bruce is gathered as one–Tony, Steve, Nat, Clint, Thor…and you. 

As the other three move back to hide, Agatha stays right there.

“Agatha, what are you doing?” Steve asks.

But she doesn’t respond. She takes a step forward to see you better. Her heart flutters seeing you again, tears prick her eyes, and her stomach twists in knots.

“She’s…” Agatha’s lips are parted as she gapes. Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s her first mission, she…”

Steve slowly comes up behind her. “Agatha, we need to go.”

Agatha doesn’t listen. Instead she takes another step, and another, and another. Tears stream down her face as she begins calling your name, but Steve’s arms are around her instantly and his hand covers her mouth. 

As he drags her back into the alley, she struggles against his grasp, cursing and screaming into his hand. Steve turns her around, hands grasping her shoulders.

“You can’t do that!” he spits out.

Agatha rips herself out of his grasp. “Let go of me!”

“I know you wanna go to her,” Steve says, voice calming. “But you can’t. She has a job to do just like us. Okay?”

Agatha doesn’t say a word, instead she sniffles and looks away with red, puffy eyes. And then she gives him a small nod.

Agatha and Tony not-so-discreetly fly up to the balcony of the lounge. Scott, in his ant size, rides on Tony’s shoulder.

They duck behind a divider, observing the 2012 Avengers as they corner Loki. 

And Agatha’s heart threatens to break again.

She watches you again, throat tight and eyes watering as you laugh at a joke Nat made. In front of Agatha, Tony scoffs. “Mr. Rogers, I almost forgot that that suit did nothing for your ass.”

“No one asked you to look, Tony,” Steve says in the ear piece.

Scott, still on Tony’s shoulder, radios through his own ear piece. “I think you look great, Cap. As far as I’m concerned, that’s America’s ass.”

Agatha peeks through the divider, observing the cut of 2012 Steve’s suit. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I gotta say, I agree with Scott. That’s America’s ass.”

“I thought you were a lesbian,” Tony says, turning his head to look at her.

Agatha scoffs. “Just because I’m a lesbian, doesn’t mean I can’t look. You have a nice ass, Steve.”

“See, Tony,” Steve says. “Harkness is a lesbian and even she agrees that I have a nice ass.”

Tony huffs and rolls his eyes. “Okay we’re getting off topic here.”

Without warning, the elevator dings and the doors open. Agatha and Tony sneak off quickly, hiding behind a wall that separates the lounge. They crouch down as they observe the interactions.

“Who are these guys?” Scott asks.

Tony watches carefully. “They’re S.H.I.E.L.D. Well, actually Hydra, but we didn’t know that yet.”

“Are you serious?” Agatha scoffs. “She told me they turned out to be Hydra, but she didn’t tell me they actually looked like bad guys.”

When the case to the Tesseract is open, Tony flicks Scott across the room. Both Tony and Agatha run out quickly, jumping off the edge of the balcony and flying down. They hover for a moment as Tony analyzes the building.

“Alright, Cap, got the scepter in the elevator, just passing the 80th floor,” he says.

“On it,” Steve says. “Head to the lobby.”

Agatha feels stupid as she looks at herself in the security uniform.

“Ugh, why are these things so itchy?” she complains, pulling at the neck cover.

“They’re just for a few minutes,” Tony sighs. “Just until we get the Tesseract.” The elevator in the lobby opens and the 2012 Avengers march out. “Thumbelina, do you copy?” Tony says. “I have eyes on the prize. It is go time.”

Scott’s voice crackles in the ear piece. “Bombs away.”

A large crowd is now forming and emotions begin running high as the Avengers begin arguing with the agents.

“Alright, Stuart Little,” Tony says quietly, “let’s go. Things are getting dicey out here.”

“Promise me you won’t die?” Scott says.

Tony’s voice is a mumble. “You’re only giving me a mild cardiac dysrhythmia.”

“That doesn’t sound mild,” Scott says.

“Just do it!” Agatha hisses. “We need to get out of here.”

As 2012 Tony convulses on the floor and the briefcase is left unattended, Agatha waves her hands and the metal case flies to her. She hands it off to Tony as they head for the exit, but when the door to the stairs bursts open, both of them are knocked down and the Hulk stomps in.

They lay on the ground, the wind knocked out of them as panic ensues.

“Where’s the case?”

“Where’s Loki?”

Scott radios through the ear piece as the both of them get up. “That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?”

Back in the alley, Agatha sits in the passenger seat of a beat up car with Tony in the driver seat and Scott in the back. Steve jumps down from a fire exit in front of the car.

“Hey, Cap,” Tony says. “We have a problem.”

Scott scoffs. “Yeah, we do.”

The situation is explained to Steve and the mood has dampened quickly.

“So what do we do now?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know!” Tony huffs.”Give me a break, I just got hit in the head with the Hulk.”

“You said that we have one shot,” Scott says, frustration boiling in his words. “This was our shot. We shot it. It’s shot. Six stones or nothing. Six stones or nothing!”

Tony hangs out the car window. “You’re repeating yourself, you know that? You’re repeating yourself.”

“You’re repeating yourself. You’re repeating yourself,” Scott mocks. 

“Oh, come on!”

“No, you never wanted a time heist!” Scott says. “You weren’t on board with the time heist!”

“I dropped the ball!” Tony says.

“You ruined the time heist!”

Agatha, who’s now outside of the car, and leaning against the hood, groans. “Oh my god, shut up!”

All three men look at her.

“Stop acting like children!” Agatha snaps. “It’s nobody’s fault! It’s done. There’s no going back. The mission…” Her voice is tight. “We failed. That’s it.”

“There have to be other options for the Tesseract,” Steve says.

“No, no, no!” Scott says, flipping out at the idea. “There are no other options! You heard Harkness, we failed! There are no do-overs. We’re not going anywhere else. We have one Pym Particle left–each. We use that…bye-bye, you’re not going home.”

Steve huffs. “Well, if we don’t try, then no one else is going home, either”

Tony gasps, getting out of the car quickly. “I got it! There’s another way to retake the Tesseract and acquire new particles!”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?” Agatha asks, rolling her eyes.

Tony ignores her and goes straight up to Steve. “A little stroll down memory lane. Military installation. Garden State.”

As they discuss their plan, both Scott and Agatha look at each other, confused.

“What are we doing?” Scott asks, but he receives no answer. “What’s happening? What is it?”

“Improvising,” Steve says. He hands the scepter to Agatha. “Get this back to the Compound.”

__________

Despite every Infinity Stone being in possession, the Compound is bleak. 

“Do we know if she had any family?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” Steve croaks. “Us.”

The fresh air on the dock does little to help with the shock of Nat’s death.

Thor walks up to Tony, sneering at him. “What?”

“Huh?”

“You’re acting like she’s dead,” Thor says. “Why are you acting like she’s dead? We have the stones right? As long as we have the stones, Cap, we can bring her back, right? So, stop this shit. We’re the Avengers. Get it together!”

“We can’t get her back,” Clint chokes. “It can’t be undone. It can’t.

Useless arguments play out as Clint and Thor debate the possibility of Nat being revived.

“It can’t be undone!” Clint insists. “A soul for the Soul Stone! That’s it. That’s the price.You can’t undo it.”

Agatha surprises herself with how affected she is by this. Five or six years ago, the only person she’d feel this way about would be you. But Nat was there. Nat picked up the broken pieces for Agatha. Nat was the one who forced her out of bed to keep living. Nat was the one who cared for her when she couldn’t care for herself.

“She’s not coming back,” Agatha mutters, sniffling. “She sacrificed herself for the stone, we have to make this right.”

All six Infinity Stones are locked onto the new gauntlet. 

Space.

Power.

Time.

Reality.

Mind.

Soul.

“Alright,” Rocket says. “The glove’s finished. The question is, who’s gonna snap their freakin’ fingers?”

Multiple people put themselves forward, and they’re all shot down. Thor even makes an excuse of being the strongest Avenger, and therefore he should be the one to snap his fingers–and he even breaks into tears as he begs Tony.

But in the end, it’s Bruce.

“The radiation’s mostly gamma,” he explains. “It’s like I was made for this.”

“Alright,” Tony sighs. “Bring everyone back.Don’t change anything from the last five years.”

Bruce nods. “Got it.”

Those with armor suit up as if they’re going into battle. Agatha stands beside Sott, a wary look on her face as a shield of purple is formed in front of them. Metal doors encase the room from ceiling to wall with loud thuds, and then it becomes quiet.

“Everybody comes home,” Bruce mutters.

Agatha’s heart is thundering in her ears. Everybody comes home.

Every person–and raccoon–in the room watches intently as Bruce slides the gauntlet onto his hand. It adjusts in size and streams of bright color swim up his arm. He collapses instantly, groaning loudly in pain as electricity crackles over his back. 

“Take it off!” Thor shouts. “Take it off!”

Steve holds out his hand. “No, wait! Bruce, are you okay?”

Bruce doesn’t respond, and groans and yells even more as he clutches the gauntlet with his other hand.

“Talk to me, Banner,” Tony says.

And then he nods. Bruce seethes, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He screams as he uses every last bit of strength in him to raise his hand. And then, he snaps. A white flash, and he collapses.

Tony, Steve, and Thor are on him immediately, but when the metal doors lift, Agatha’s head turns. There’s a ray of sunshine beating down into the small courtyard, and on the tree is a small flock of birds. She gasps quietly as she follows Scott.

“There are birds,” she whispers. “There haven’t…They haven’t been out there in years.” She looks at Scott, and she can’t help but smile, because the birds tell her everything she needs to know.

The Infinity Stones worked.

And you’ll be back in her arms by tonight.

__________

Your eyes flutter open against bright sunlight. You can still feel the imprint of Agatha’s kiss on your lips, but Agatha herself is nowhere to be found.

It feels like only moments have passed by–like you passed out and woke up again seconds later. But you know that’s not what happened.

Is she alive?

Where’s Agatha?

What happened?

You roll over quickly and steady yourself on your knees. All around you is confusion. Wanda lays on the muddy ground, Sam is just coming to his senses, Bucky and T’Challa have just reformed into their own beings, and no one knows what’s happened.

“Wanda?” you call out, and run over to her as she sits up. 

The last time you saw her was hunched over Vision’s lifeless body, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and Wanda’s slowly remembering what happened. Sam comes over, Bucky joining him soon after, and no one knows what to do. 

“Where is he?” Wanda panics. “Where’s his body?”

A ring of shimmering orange and gold manifests in the air with the bottom quarter ending on the ground. Inside is a portal to what looks like a grand entrance hall. A man walks through the arch, drawing robes. His face is stern, almost somber, and everyone exchanges glances.

The man takes a careful look at each one of you and nods at T’Challa. “Your majesty…”

“What the hell is going on?” Bucky asks. “Where is everybody?”

“It’s been five years,” the man explains, all too calm with his words. “Thanos wiped out half of all living creatures in the universe.” He turns to T’Challa. “Thanos is back. I need you to gather every soldier you can. We’re going to battle.”

__________

Blood trickles from her forehead and water rains down on her face.

It happened quickly–the stones, the birds, the explosion. 

Agatha’s head throbs as the sound of streaming water hits her ears. When her eyes open, her vision is slowly going back into focus, but it’s dark. 

“I can’t breathe!” Rocket’s small shrieks come from only a few yards away. “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”

James crawls from his suit of armor toward Rocket, lifting a sheet of rock from his body. Agatha sits up quickly and regrets it immediately as her head gets dizzy. 

“Rhodey!” Bruce stands on the opposite side of them, arms flexed above him as he holds up a piece of concrete. 

When the three of them look, a wave of water floods down, filling their pocket of rubble.

“Mayday!” Rhodes calls over the ear piece. “Mayday! Does anyone copy? We’re on the lower level! It’s flooding!” No answer. “Mayday! We are drowning! Does anybody copy?”

The water is rising quickly. Agatha’s head is tilted back as she tries to stay above water. 

Only one voice answers.

“Wait!” Scott’s voice is filled with static. “I’m here! I’m here! Can you hear me? Hang on! I’m coming!”

Of course it would end like this, Agatha thinks.

The stones worked.

You’re back.

But she’ll still never get to hold you again.

Scott manifests in front of them out of the blue–literally. He struggles in the water, but manages to stay afloat. “Okay, here’s the plan guys. I’ll make myself a bit bigger and I’ll gather all of you in my arms and make myself giant and bust out of here. How does that sound? Because if you think it could be better–!”

“Drowning!” Agatha yells, cutting him off.

“Oh, right!” he panics. He grows about four feet taller. The concrete crumbles around them, but the four of them move to Scott. His arms wrap around them tightly and then, with a press of a button, he’s growing again.

Scott’s hand catches all four of them and he balls up his fist. It’s dark, but when the sound of crumbling concrete dissipates and his hand opens again, portals fill the sky. Rings of gold give way to distant lands and below, in the rubble of the Compound, are thousands of people in battle formation.

Agatha’s eyes scan the battlefield as she hovers in the air. When she spots you, her world tilts on its axis. You stand beside Wanda, orange balls of magic radiating from your palms, but you never look up. You don’t see her.

Battle cries and screaming pierce the air as both sides sprint toward each other. Leviathans drift through air as Chitauri and Outriders storm the ground, but Agatha doesn’t care. Her eyes remain on you, even when dodging plasma rays and blades. 

But it doesn’t last long. Agatha loses sight of you after a Leviathan goes down and she searches frantically on the field of rubble. Clouds of dirt and flames block her view. All she desires right now is to see you again, but even in the air, she can’t spot you.

When she lands, it’s right by Steve, who’s wielding a giant axe. As she clears out the never-ending stream of Outriders, she watches Thor take the axe and hand him the hammer.

Agatha scoffs loudly and chuckles. “Look at you, pretty boy!” she teases. “We got Mister Chosen One over here!”

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes. “Alright, Harkness.”

“I mean, I knew you were a goody two-shoes,” she laughs. “But, really? The hammer?”

“Well, this hammer is about to save your ass,” Steve calls, and launches the hammer towards her. It misses her by inches and lands right in the face of a Chitauri before flying back into his hand.

__________

“Cap, what do you want me to do with this damn thing?” Clint’s voice radios over the ear piece as you and Wanda stand back to back.

“Get those stones as far away as possible!” Steve responds.

Bruce is heard next.”No! We need to get them back where they came from!”

“No way to get them back,” Tony says. “Thanos destroyed the quantum tunnel.”

A familiar yet vague voice radios over, “Hang on. That wasn’t our only time machine.”

As you knock down a swarm of Outriders you watch T’Challa, with the Infinity Gauntlet in hand, become encased in a tower of rubble. You call out his name and retrieve the gauntlet with a glow of orange from your hand, flying past the man whose aim is to get it. Above you, Peter is swinging from obstacle to obstacle.

“Hey, Parker!” you shout, and he looks down. “Go long!”

You throw the gauntlet and he manages to catch it with a web. When you land on the ground, your breath stops. Just a few hundred feet away, within running distance, is Agatha. You shout–scream–her name, and just as you start running, and just as her eyes lock on yours, you’re knocked back by an explosion.

Blue plasma rays shower the rubble of the Compound. You drag yourself a few yards to duck beneath the ceiling of a gold shield held up by a sorcerer. Your eyes scan the grounds, but you’ve lost sight of her. It’s nothing but smoke and dirt and concrete powder, all mixed in a whirl of flames.

When the explosions stop, it’s quiet. Eyes are immediately averted to the sky where the canons have begun firing at another object. A flash of light shoots through the sky before the space ship above begins falling. Mini explosions are set off, one by one until it’s landed in the lake. 

“Hey, Danvers,” Steve says, voice crackling over the ear piece, “we could use an assist over here.”

You don’t hesitate. You’re on your feet–then in the air. You watch Wanda fly toward the direction that Peter was going and you follow her quickly, still scanning the field for Agatha. With Carol taking the gauntlet, you assist Wanda with the Leviathans. More explosions fill the battlefield as Carol flies through machinery and debris, and you watch as Thanos sprints toward her, double edged sword in hand.

You call out Pepper’s name and the two of you, with two other women you’ve never met, charge at him. The combination of the magic and plasma rays send him flying back as Carol keeps flying toward the brown van. 

But he gets up.

And he raises his arm.

And the double edged sword is launched into the time machine.

You’re blasted back at least fifty feet by the burst of energy that erupts. And when you land, face first into the rubble, your head is pounding and your nose is bleeding. 

You don’t move. 

You don’t want to move.

You lay there, breathing heavily. Your eyelids are heavy as you watch the last ditch efforts of everyone against Thanos. 

Thor and Steve are violently thrown against the ground.

Carol is forced away by the Power Stone.

And then Tony gets up. 

Your eyes are slowly becoming too heavy to keep open, and you desperately want to close them. To sleep. To wake up when everything’s over. To wake up when Agatha’s there.

It’s quiet, almost drowned out from the ringing in your ears. But you know your name was just called. Tony is still fighting Thanos, Steve and Thor lay on the ground unconscious, Carol is nowhere to be seen. But then you hear it again. And again.

You roll onto your back and take in a painful breath–definitely a broken rib or two. Your name is called again, and even through the pain, you sit up. Your vision is slowly focusing and when you see that purple lycra jumpsuit and that frizzy, brown hair, you push the pain aside and climb to your feet.

You sprint toward her.

You don’t stop, not even when you stumble on a piece of concrete. 

Agatha throws herself at you with all the force of a semi-truck, completely toppling you over as she laughs and cries. She’s covered in dirt and dried blood matts her hair and stains her clothes. 

“Ow! Ow!” you say through a messy combination of laughter and tears.

“I’m sorry!” she cries. “I’m sorry!”

You wince, clutching your side as her hands hold your face.”It’s fine, it’s just some broken ribs…and a broken nose, I think. I’ll be okay.”

As you sit on the ground, you cling to her. Agatha’s hands grab at every inch of you, as if testing to see if you’re really back.

Her hands cup your cheeks. She presses kiss after kiss to your face and when she pulls away, her lips are trembling and her face is red and splotchy. Her thumbs gently caress your skin and she looks over you, letting out a soft cry. 

“You’re really back,” she croaks. Agatha presses a hard, tearful kiss to your lips. “God, I missed you.” Another kiss to your lips and she pulls you in closer than ever. As she holds your head, she buries her nose in your hair and inhales deeply. 

Nothing has changed. You still smell like the shampoo and conditioner you used that morning before going to the jet hangar. You still smell like your perfume–the perfume she occasionally sprays on her pillow to ease her to sleep at night. Even covered in blood and dirt, you’re still you. 

Agatha takes a deep, shuddering breath in and lets it out. “I love you so much.”

With your head on Agatha’s shoulder you can see across the field of debris. Thanos stands there, Infinity Gauntlet on, but his face has fallen. And then your eyes drift.

Tony kneels on the ground, hand raised, and when you focus on him, there they are.

All six Infinity Stones are locked in the glove of his armor.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god!”

“What?” Agatha asks quickly, pulling away.

And then he snaps.

A white flash and then silence.

Eerie, skin-crawling silence.

Ash and dust are now floating through the air as Thanos’s army crumbles. Agatha helps you up and the two of you make the walk toward Tony. The sight of him makes your stomach drop. He’s pale and his eyes stare straight ahead, struggling to focus on who’s in front of him.

Peter crouches down in front him, hands resting on the warm metal of his armor. “Mr. Start, can you hear me?” His voice is straining and stumbles through his words. “It’s Peter. We won.” He smiles through his tears. “We won, Mr. Stark. We won, Mr. Stark. We won. You did it, sir, you did it.” 

Peter starts crumbling, hands clinging onto Tony. “Mr. Stark…Tony…”

Agatha steps forward, her hands gently taking his shoulders. “Peter, sweetheart.” He stands up and curls in her arms, sobbing against her shoulder. Agatha holds him tightly, hand rubbing over his back. “I know,” she mumbles. “It’s okay.”

The weeks after the battle are a haze. With the Compound gone, the only other place is Stark Tower, but Pepper informs you that it’ll be shut down within the next month. So, that’s where those remaining stay until they can find a new home.

Two nights after, you’re woken up by the feeling of Agatha thrashing in sleep. You can see her breathing beginning to quicken and when your hand shakes her awake she gasps. Her eyes fly open and she sits up, hyperventilating and looking around.

“Agatha,” you say, trying to calm her down. “Agatha!” She stops when your hands grab a hold of her and force her to look at you. “It’s okay.” Your hands cup her cheeks, thumbs wiping away the tears that slipped free. “It’s okay,” you breathe. “It’s just a dream.”

The panic leaves her body and her eyes close. Her hand takes one of yours and she kisses your palm. “I’m–uhh–gonna go to the bathroom,” she rasps, and drops your hand. 

The door to the bathroom opens and shuts, and you’re left to sit alone in bed.

And these nights repeat many times.

You can’t leave the bed unless Agatha is up before you, otherwise she panics and searches for you frantically.

One night, you were gone for twenty minutes to get a glass of water. Agatha had been fast asleep when you left, but the second you opened the door the sound of sobbing hit your ears. You rushed in to find her curled around your pillow with red and puffy eyes.

She sits up quickly when she sees you and you climb into bed. “Agath, wha–?”

“Where were you?” she sobs into your shoulder as your arms wrap around her.

Your hands run through her hair as she cries quietly. “I’m so sorry,” you mutter. “I didn’t realize…I was just getting some water…I’m sorry.”

Tony’s funeral is intimate and quiet. You and Agatha stand with Wanda, Bucky, and Sam as you watch the flowers float along the water. Dinner is served–also quiet–and soon, you find yourself alone with Steve on the porch.

“What happened during those five years?” you ask, accepting a beer that he offers you. 

He takes a seat beside you. “You mean in general, or–?”

You open the beer and take a drink of it. “Agatha,” you say. “What happened with Agatha when I was…gone?”

“Umm, well…” He sits back, sips his beer, and nods his head thoughtfully. “A lot. Nat and I were usually the ones who were there for her. She, uhh…” He looks at you and sighs. “She wasn’t okay.”

“I figured,” you hum.

“She didn’t leave her room for almost a month,” Steve says. “And then, we killed Thanos, hoping to get everyone back using the Stones, and…she started isolating. Nat made sure she ate, helped her shower. The first year was…really, really hard on her.” Steve chuckles. “Last month, I took her to a support group I started for people to talk about the Blip.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you scoff. “And how did that turn out?”

“She started laughing during it,” Steve shrugs.

You take a sip of your beer. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I know she won’t tell you this,” Steve says, “because she’s Agatha and she doesn’t want to be seen as someone with feelings…but, uhh…she has to take sedatives to sleep.”

“Really?” you ask quietly, heart breaking at the mere thought.

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” you breathe, clearing your throat and drinking your beer. You wipe away a tear and then chuckle. “You know, the last time I saw you two interact was in Wakanda when she told you that your punches were sloppy.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, we’ve…we’ve gotten closer. I can see what you love about her.”

The screen door creaks open and Agatha steps outside. “Oh, good. There you are,” she sighs, clearly annoyed by someone inside. “Are you ready to go, or are you gonna crack open another cold one with Pretty Boy here?”

You stand up and hand her the beer, smiling as she immediately downs the rest of it. “Yes, I’m ready. Give me a second.”

When Steve stands up, you hug him tightly while standing on your tippy toes. “I love you…Thank you,” you whisper, watching over his shoulder as Agatha walks toward the car. Your voice is breaking now, and tears start to spill down your cheeks as he holds you tight. 

“Thank you, both, for taking care of her when I wasn’t able to.”

It’s cold and bleak outside when you move into your apartment the following month. It’s slow, but Agatha begins pulling away–physically, emotionally. But you’re still there for her when she wakes up screaming. You’re still in the kitchen making chamomile tea to help her fall back asleep. You’re still there, waiting for her to come back to you.

You’re there for her, but no one is there for you.

Not Steve.

Not Nat.

Not Tony.

Not anyone you called family.

But you don’t say a word, because Agatha needs you. 

And as much as you love and cherish her…it doesn’t feel mutual anymore.

You lay in bed at night, watching her sleep–the slow rise and fall of her chest, the quiet snores that slip out of her mouth. She looks so peaceful, but when you see her eyelids fluttering and feel her limbs twitching under the covers, you know what it means. She thrashes around, only startling awake when your hand touches her.

“Agatha, it’s okay,” you whisper, sleep weighing heavy on your shoulders. Your hands reach out for her, but she flinches and you pull away. “What’s the m–?”

Agatha recoils and balls up her fists, clenching and unclenching them repeatedly. “Just–it’s fine–I’m fine.” She gets out of bed and sighs as she opens the bathroom door. “You can go back to sleep, I’ll be a while.”

So, you listen to her, and you go to sleep.

That’s all you do.

Sleep.

But not in her arms. 

You sleep on your side of bed, tucked under the covers as Agatha lays facing away from you. 

It’s like she’s a whole different person. In the century that you’ve known her, she always had a hand on you–your lower back as you walked down the street, on your leg as you sat beside her reading, on your waist while sleeping. There was never a moment where she wasn’t touching you. And now there is.

You miss her.

You miss the old Agatha that would tease you for doing everything in a pattern of three.

You miss the old Agatha who would kiss you and touch you, and run her finger tips over the side of your waist, knowing how sensitive you are.

You miss your Agatha.

There’s a moment where you think she’s coming back. She’s slowly starting to smile again–starting to laugh again, returning to her wit, slowly but surely becoming herself again. 

You walk into the bedroom with a full basket of clean laundry. When the door opens, Agatha’s searching the closet for a pair of clothes.

“Oh, good, you’re up!” you chirp. “I was thinking that we could go get a late lunch or early dinner. Maybe around three?” You set the basket down on the dresser and lean against the doorframe of the closet, looking up at her. “Nowhere fancy, but I just don’t feel like cooking.”

Agatha passes you a glance. “Yeah, sure.” 

“Okay,” you mutter. “If you have anywhere you wanna go, just…tell me and we’ll go…”

You take her hand and squeeze it before reaching up and aiming to place a kiss on her cheek.

But she pulls away.

Your hand lets go of hers and drops to your side. “Why won’t you touch me?” you ask quietly.

“What?”

“You won’t touch me,” you say. Your voice is meek and you hold back tears. “Why?”

Agatha hesitates. “I don’t–what are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you say. The frustration builds quickly, and as hard as you tried not to, your voice ends up rising. “You won’t touch me, Agatha! You haven’t touched me in months! You barely hug me! Barely kiss me! You’ve pulled away from me! Why?”

“I’m sorry that I’ve been grieving for the past five years!” Agatha shouts back. 

Tears flood your eyes and you quickly bite back. “Well, I’m grieving right now!”

Agatha’s jaw tenses and her eyes flare. “What are you grieving? You didn’t lose anything! You didn’t spend five years by yourself!”

“You didn’t spend them by yourself!” you yell. “You isolated! Steve and Nat did everything to help you! He told me at the funeral, everything they did for you, and you say you grieved alone?”

The dam breaks and your vision is clouded with tears. “I am grieving alone! You’re the only close person I have left in my life, and you’re not even here!”

“Steve and Nat were two of my closest friends! They took care of you! I am grieving them, Agatha! The world that I lived in is gone!” Your throat is tight, but you continue. “The life I knew is gone! The family that I loved for ten years is gone! The Compound is gone! Our home is gone! You’re not the only one grieving, Agatha!” You take a deep, steadying breath and look her in the eyes. “It was five years for me too, even if I wasn’t here to experience it.”

Agatha opens and closes her mouth, but clearly doesn’t know what to say.

So you continue.

Tears continue streaming your cheeks. “I am devastated that you had to spend those years grieving. But I feel like you’re punishing me for it! I didn’t choose to go, Agatha,” you breathe. 

You sniffle and let out a sob, your voice strained as you practically beg her. “I want you back. I want you to do more than just hug me. I want your touch. I want you to kiss me!” You almost have to force your next words out. “I want you to love me like you did five years ago!”

Your head drops in your hands and your palms press into your eyes. “Oh, god,” you sigh, shoulders shaking. When you uncover your eyes, Agatha stands there, thinking of what to say. “I’m sorry,” you sniffle. “I just…Agatha, I miss you. I nee–”

You’re pulled into her arms immediately with a hard kiss on your lips. Your arms wrap around her tightly, tears mixing with spit and teeth and tongue. It’s impossible to get close enough to her. 

You both stumble to the bed and you fall down onto the mattress in a heap. You’re both gasping for breath as clothes are frantically ripped from one another’s bodies, and you almost moan from how good the skin-to-skin contact feels.

The both of you sit in the center of the bed. Agatha’s arms hold you as you sit in her lap, legs wrapped around her waist as you kiss her hard. Tears have begun to fall from her eyes now, mixing with your own and adding the flavor of salt to the kisses.

“I’m sorry,” she huffs into your mouth. Agatha presses a gentle, wet kiss on your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“I miss you,” you whisper, and kiss her again. “Touch me. Love me. Please, Agatha.”

Her hands pull your face in as she presses frantic kiss after frantic kiss to your lips. “I love you.” A kiss. “I love you so much.” Another kiss. “I love you so fucking much. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You pull her down on top of you. She straddles your hips as she kisses you, muttering quiet apologies between each one.

“I don’t care,” you mumble. You roll her onto her side and your legs tangle as you pull her in close. “Stop apologizing and kiss me.”

Hands grab and grope at skin. Agatha’s lips attach to your neck and she rolls you onto your back again. Her fingertips graze over your side and she smiles in the crook of your neck as you shiver.

You arch into her feverish touch as her fingers trail lower and lower. Your breaths are shallow with anticipation, and after almost two months (and five years), the touch that you’ve been craving so badly has returned.

You tremble beneath her, fingers digging into the pillow under your head. Agatha’s lips return to yours in a fiery passion of teeth and tongue and you gasp in her mouth.

“I love you,” you huff. “I love you, I love you, Agatha.”

Her fingers don’t change their pace. They’re steady, not quite slow, but enough to drive you to the brink as she presses into you. “I love you,” she mumbles, and kisses you hard. 

“I wanna cum,” you cry, lips brushing hers, and nails digging into her arm and shoulder. “I wanna cum, please!”

Your eyes squeeze shut and your jaw drops. Agatha kisses you hard as you shake and sob, grabbing at every possible thing to ground yourself.

She slowly fucks you through the aftershocks, pressing kiss after kiss to your face. “I love you,” she mutters between each one. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

When she brings her fingers back up, you don’t hesitate. With wide eyes, you take them quickly, sticking them in your mouth to lick clean. She watches you in awe–a look that she’d given you a hundred times before.

“God, you are incredible,” she breathes. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent like this–backs arched, breaths heavy, chests covered in sweat, and hands grasping at whatever they can reach.

Agatha’s thumbs softly swipe over your cheeks as the kisses slow and noses brush against each other.

“So much for an early dinner,” you say, stifling a yawn as you lay on your side facing Agatha.

“Did you really think I stopped loving you?” Agatha murmurs, pulling away just enough to look at you.

Her hand brushes through your hair as you sniffle. “No…I don’t know…I think I was just being dramatic.” 

You let out a quiet chuckle and Agatha shakes her head. “No,” she croaks. “You’re not. I…I missed you so fucking much but I didn’t even…I never asked about you once…how you were feeling…I’m sorry.” 

Your eyes, puffy from tears, soften as you look over her face. Your hand rests over her forearm in a comforting way to both of you. “Steve told me that you went to a support group,” you snicker. “And that you had to leave because you started laughing.”

Agatha rolls onto her back and groans. “Yes, I did. And it wasn’t as helpful as he said it would be. Is there anything else he told you?”

“That you can’t sleep without taking a sedative,” you whisper, still on your side and facing her.

Agatha’s head turns quickly to face you. “What?”

“It’s okay,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I wanted you to know that I know.”

Tears fill her eyes once again. “I’m sorry,” she rasps. “I told you that you did have to worry, but…I’m sorry.”

Your hand rests gently on her cheek. “Agatha, don’t apologize for the way you coped with your grief. I’m here now. We can grieve together.”

__________

You’ve never been more content.

You lay in bed, in the darkness of your bedroom with the only light being the TV on. You let out a quiet chuckle as you watch the sitcom you had seen a thousand times.

And the best part–Agatha’s arms are wrapped around you again.

Your face rests against her chest and her fingers run up and down your back. You can hear her heart beating beneath your ear and your eyes grow heavy. 

“I wanna get married,” she blurts out.

You look up at her, wide awake now. “What?”

Agatha swallows hard. “The night that we were supposed to go see a show on the West End…I was gonna propose to you at dinner. I wanna get married.”

“Agatha, I…” You smile softly and let out a sigh. “For better or for worse, right?”

Agatha leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your lips. And with the laugh tracks in the background, she smiles, muttering, “And ‘til death do us part.”

[peachyparkerr]

stay forever | patrick zweig x reader

a notting hill au!patrick zweig x shopowner!reader 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

note: based off the movie! patrick is the famous one, but is also an actor in this au!

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

patrick was at the height of his career, there was no where to go but up. he was the most famous tennis player in the world, with three Career Grand Slams, 4 Olympic Gold Medals, 2 ATP Final Championships---not to mention his Challenger circuit wins-- all by the age of 28. tennis championships landed him brand deals leading to magazine covers and billboards and full interview spreads in said magazines. which lead to now, taking a short hiatus from the professional tennis scene, he'd become somewhat of an actor. it’s more of a side hobby for him, but these directors are seeing something in him that he never did before. they’re calling him “a heartthrob”, and “a leading man—on screen and on the court”. he’s famous in a way he’d never expected, and sure sometimes it felt good to be adored and appreciated for more than just tennis, but it still felt surface level. he was starting to wonder what else there could be out of life.

the current movie he was in had based its production in london. he wasn’t needed on set this particular day and he wanted to see what a city as vast as that had to offer. he wandered down side streets, not drawing attention to himself, while exploring neighborhoods that seemed to be quieter or unknown. he wasn’t searching for anything in particular, rather just trying to enjoy time away from flashing lights and pretending all day long.

after leaving behind smells of fresh produce and baked goods from the farmers market he just walked through, patrick stumbles upon a quaint bookshop on the corner of the street. he takes a moment to appreciate the flowers growing over the top of the sign and the blue colored facade before entering. a bell chimes when the door opens and as he takes a step inside, and though the shop is on the smaller side, there are quite a few tall shelves stacked with an array of vintage, rare, and new books. he’s never been much of a reader but he feels some type of pull to this shop, to the books, and art prints being sold here in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. until he goes to check out and is met by what must be the shops owner, you.

the name on your name tag matches the one on the stickers he’s noticed on certain stacks stating your favorite picks in those sections. your smile, and the ease and eagerness at which you talk about the things he’s picked out as you ring him up is pulling at his heartstrings that he didn’t even know were there. when you finally meet his gaze for longer than a moment and he really gets to take you in. you’re radiating joy for the simplicity of reading, your smile is infectious, and your eyes are warm like the sun that’s suddenly shining through the window of the shop on what was a gloomy london day.

“is there anything else i can help you with, sir?” you ask, your tone genuine and friendly. the way you call him sir takes him back a little, usually people would have recognized him by now, but you aren’t making it a big deal. you have to know who he is, and he doesn’t mean that in a cocky way, it’s just that in magazine section you also sell some that have his face on it. but you’re treating him so human and it’s a relief.

he smiles back kindly, letting you know that there isn't anything else as you put all his items in a bag for him. he's about two seconds away from telling you that you're beautiful and asking for your number, but then a fellow customer asks him to sign the magazine with his face on it that they'd just bought. patrick's not one to say no to his fans if they're respectful, even if he's not in the mood. so reluctantly he signs it but when he turns back to talk to you you're already busying yourself with something else. he just about accepts defeat and leaves the shop with thoughts of you and "what ifs"' filling his mind.

for the rest of his free day, patrick wanders through other neighborhoods of london. he admires how different it is than other cities he's passed through, how the weather and coldness, though gray at time, isn't biting, and is more misty, at least this time of year. he takes a comfort in it for some reason. definitely not because he is inherently a lonely person, and he is finding himself romanticizing things more than usual. before he even realizes it, he's taking the long way back to his hotel, which just so happens to include passing through notting hill once again.

he's a bit in his own head, carrying what was a hot tea in his hand as he's walking, when he collides with someone else. he doesn't look up at them right away, because the remaining contents of his cup are spilling all over his shirt.

"oh my gosh I am so sorry! are you okay?" the voice says, a little panicked and embarrassed. it cuts through his thoughts, causing him to finally look up. its then that he realizes that its you. the beautiful, charming, bookshop owner from earlier.

"oh, its fine--" he barely gets out, although it is clear that it will leave a stain.

"are you sure? I feel terrible. my place is just around the corner, i can give you a fresh shirt so you don't have to walk all the way back in a wet one." you offer, and you sound so sweet, perhaps a little bit embarrassed, and he feels himself swooning internally. he feels bad that you feel bad, and he knows technically you're a stranger that he has only just met so he really shouldn't allow you to take him back to yours. but when some passersby start to piece together that it is indeed him, not patrick, patrick zweig the actor and tennis player, and they slowly start to make their way over to ask for a picture or autograph, he's already letting you whisk him away.

back at your place, you offer him an old oversized sweater to wear while you work the stain out of his shirt. you apologize for the mess of books spread across the table and unwashed dishes and folded laundry that you hadn't had the chance to put away. it seems that you think that you're a bit of a mess, but he thinks you're human in a way he hasn't seen in awhile. lately his world has consisted of so much glitz and glamor, people who want something from him or want him to do something. genuinity has been hard to come by these days for him, but here you are.

after you work as much of the stain out and throw it into the washer for a quick cycle, you brew him some hot tea and a comfortable silence eventually falls over the two of you. he realizes that he's sat in your home, and he still doesn't know anything about you.

"so, how long have you owned that bookshop?" he asks, wincing a bit because of all things he could've started with that's what he landed on.

"how did you know i was the owner?" you answer his question with a question, but you laugh a bit at his correct assumption and it takes some of the edge off for him. "a little over three years. i worked all through college, and after working for a few more years i was able to open it. "

"that's impressive." he compliments, and he means it. he's seen the shop for himself, and before he even met you he thought the place felt like coming home. a lot like you, he's starting to think.

"it's not much, but its mine, so thank you." you respond with a shy smile as you sip on your own tea. you're humble, something else he's not used to.

he asks about some of the books you have out and you once again talk about them highly, even if he can tell you're trying not to ramble so much, not that he minds. you ask him where he was coming from and what he saw throughout his day before he'd run into you, and he can't quite put a finger on what it means to him to not have to talk about work. after another beat of silence, in which he admires everything he's coming to know and observe about you, patrick speaks again.

"you didn't have to do all this for me." he says, scratching the back of his neck a bit nervous.

"what do you mean?" you ask in return tilting your head at him as if you're taking him in.

"you've been really kind to me. at the store, here, you've treated me like i'm normal. " he's not used to people not wanting something from him.

"are you not?" you ask, part laugh and part genuine misunderstanding.

"come on, you know what i mean, at least i'm hoping i don't have to sound like i have the world's biggest ego." he's embarrassed now, and he doesn't want to have to refer to himself as a "celebrity".

but you seem to finally catch his drift and your expression softens.

"i am being kind, because you are normal. i don't want to devalue your celebrity status, because from the work i have seen of yours i know you are very talented, but i also don't think that it means i am going to treat you any differently than i would treat any other person." your tone is gentle and honest, and it softens something in him too.

"i think what i mean to say is, i'm grateful. its been a long time since i've met someone who is kind just for the sake of it, and who treats me like i'm a person and not because i'm 'famous' or 'my status'." he puts air quotes around those words, but he tries to get across how appreciative he is not just for this day, but for you.

“you are a person. you don’t need to thank me, but you’re welcome. i’m just glad i could offer you a break from ‘your world’, even if it’s just for a little while.” you copy his air quotes and it gets a laugh out of the two of you. he wonders if he’s dreaming.

something shifts between the two of you. the air feels lighter with that in the open, and you guys end up talking about things with more ease as you wait for his shirt to finish in the wash/dryer.

"well, patrick--" you say as you walk him to your front door and he hands back the sweater he borrowed from you. hands brush. you address him by his first name since the level of comfortability between the two of you established that you guys can now be on a first name basis. he's reeling a little bit at the way it sounds coming out of your mouth. "good luck with your movie. and i hope that you find all the things that london has to offer."

when you say that he smiles big and absolute, in a way he doesn't think he has in a while.

"i will. i think i already am." when he says that, the air shifts again. you both pause for a moment, and before he realizes it, he kisses you. its soft, sweet, but over before any processing can really happen.

but you don't seem to mind, and neither does he because he does it again before leaving.

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

months and seasons pass. but whatever it is between you and patrick doesn't. he would be busy with his movie, and there would be busy times at your shop, but in the rare quiet, free moments--there was the two of you together. he admired how he could be patrick, not patrick zweig, with you. how much you love your shop and the quietness of notting hill, but sees how much of yourself exists within the shop. your soul is equal parts you and your passions, but is felt in every nook and cranny of that shop. so much so that he’s feeling you in the days that you’re not together. you cherish how he succumbs to the stillness of your world, and you don't downplay that he is amazing on screen or court or just as a human. when he comes by your place you bond over other books but not just that, you learn of shared art tastes and movies (that he isn't in) and music.

he's intuitive in a way you didn't expect, and you're enchanting in a way he thinks he's been searching for his whole life. this thing that is growing between the two of you isn't nothing, even if it goes unacknowledged at first.

you haven't talked about what happens when he has to go back to the states. and he doesn't claim you when people make comments about the fact you've been hanging around when he is on set or at interviews. you're not asking him to parade you, you just don't want to be nothing. maybe that is why it hurts so bad when you don't talk about it and he just...leaves. when he does go back to the states and you don't hear from him.

you busy yourself with the shop. switching out your recommendation shelves more frequently. making sure to stay on top of new releases. redecorating and reorganizing. you let your friends actually set you up on dates. all to keep your mind off of him as you curse yourself for believing he could've been different. but nothing fully sticks.

patrick has always been a coward when it came to love. he hadn't had much of it growing up, and even being "famous" and being "loved" by millions of people didn't fill that for him. you did though, or were starting to, and he couldn't face it. so instead of claiming you like he could've, he ran. and he was miserable. he tries for months back home to forget you, but he just can't. so in an act of spontaneity, or insanity, he halts production on the movie he was filming and flies back to london.

he shows up on your doorstep. no notice. when you open the door, you barely get a word in before he is stepping inside and rambling.

"i messed up. i was a coward. i should've done more. i was scared, and i know that isn't an excuse, but i was. you were real and it scared the shit out of me. and i don't deserve you, but i couldn't keep pretending that i didn't care, so i'm here, and i'm prepared to beg and plead and prove that i'm not scared anymore. i just want you." he blurts out faster than he realizes, pacing your living room, before coming to a standstill in front of you, attempting to catch his breath.

you are still registering not only that he is there, but everything he’s just confessed.

“you mean it?” you finally say after what feels like eternity for him. you won’t stand here and beg him to love you if he didn’t. he was expecting you to yell or tell him to leave, and he would’ve deserved that even if he would’ve hated it. but you’re calm. you’re looking at him like you’re still deciding if he’s telling the truth, but he won’t let you believe otherwise. not anymore.

“i do. more than anything.” he doesn’t hesitate. when you don’t say anything else, but the lines that formed between your eyebrows when you furrowed them disappear, he takes a step closer to you and holds your hands in his. he squeezes them three times and doesn’t let go.

“promise you won’t leave again?” you ask, looking at your joined hands before back up at him.

“i’ll stay forever if you’d let me.” and he really hopes you’ll let him.

lucky for him, you’re okay with that.

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

note (again): i had to feed the josh o’connor rpf some way finally i finished this wip! hope you enjoy! likes and reblogs always appreciated <3 tagging some of my mutuals aka the loveliest people i’ve been able to meet because of challengersblr and that inspire me always aka that everyone should follow!

@artstennisracket @newrochellechallenger2019 @voidsuites @gibsongirrl @jordiemeow @diyasgarden @jesuistrestriste @asheepinfrance @tacobacoyeet @cha11engers @imperishablereverie @coolgrl111 @slushfaerie

[bunni-v1]

Cowboy Caleb Agenda

Please, god, see the vision.

TW: Minor SA (reader is forced into a kiss by a random); Illusions to reader doing sex work; Caleb threatens someone; not edited, wrote this on a whim after hearing cole cassidy from OW speak

Info: Caleb x Reader; Cowboy Caleb Amen

Cowboy Caleb who's awfully favored by the people in your little town. Typically Cowboys like him were bad news, always bringing about trouble, causing fights in the name of good deeds. Not Caleb, though. He was the apple of the towns eye. Big, strong, clever, and real helpful. He rounds up the bad guys without breaking a sweat, helps with upkeep, and even visits the nearby city for supply runs for the older folks. How could anyone not like him?

The pretty upper-class girls always giggled when he passed by, whistling a tune to himself and paying them no mind. Everyone wanted a piece of him, but he had his eyes set on one prize. One very hard-to-get prize.

You were just a barmaid trying to make ends meet. Your mom died when you were little, of some disease, and your daddy was sick. You didn't have any family left besides him, so it was up to you to care and provide. His medicine had to come from the big city, so there was a commute fee on top of the already hefty price. You didn't complain about it, though, just picked up a few more hours and offered some extra services where you needed to.

It wasn't honest work, but it was definitely hard. Caleb respected it, really, he did. You were a tough lady, and that was admirable in and of itself, but it was frustrating. He wanted to care for you, provide for you - he could too, if you'd just let him. But no, you're too stubborn for that. Your daddy raised you good and strong, great for warding off other men, not so great for becoming your man.

You see him as just another Cowboy who wants a cheap fuck. Sure, he's nice and helpful, but he's still a man at the end of the day. They all want the same thing; it's just that Caleb is determined to appear like an upstanding man. He's playing the long game, toying with your heart like this, and you don't like being toyed with.

Every gesture, every declaration of affection, every gift is turned down just as harshly as the next. It doesn't deter him; in fact, he just thinks up new ways to bother you every time. The level of determination he's got is almost admirable, if not for the fact that it was so damn persistent. It didn't quite reach harassment, he would back down when you gave him your real mean glare, but it was a constant you'd come to expect.

He first starts to win you over on a less-than-great night. First off, the price of your daddy's medicine had gone up, meaning you were gonna be short unless you cut into the food budget. Then you'd broken one of your ma's old fancy dinnerware pieces trying to put things away quickly before work. Now, the patrons were rowdy - too rowdy - drinking too much too fast and creating messes that would take an hour to clean up at least. The last thing you needed was Caleb coming in to try and wiggle his way under your skirt like the other men here were doing.

He didn't, though, surprisingly. Only offered you a little smile and a nod when he saw your tired eyes. He stayed your whole shift, subtly keeping an eye on things until you shooed him out of the saloon with the other drunkards. You didn't realize he'd settled himself across the road while you closed up, didn't know he was still watching you, making sure you were alright. You had no idea how grateful you'd be to him for it.

All you could think about when you left the bar was how you were gonna ration food for the month without raising your daddy's suspicions. You weren't considering that one of your clients would be looking for you tonight. Not until he was shoving you against the wall, pressing his mouth against yours like it was his to take. He tasted like alcohol, and he smelled like it, too. You'd think someone so inebriated would be easy to fight off, but he had an iron-tight grip on you. The only relief you had was that, at the very least, you'd get paid for this. You could charge him more for making you get home late, too, which would solve the food problem.

He's thrown off you in the next instant, a spurred boot kicking his ribs hard. Caleb pulls him to his feet by his collar before he can recover from the blow, holding him up like he weighed nothing. It's scary, the look in Caleb's eyes. Flat, lifeless, empty. You don't think you like it. It didn't look right on him, not when you were so used to that playful smile that he only gave to you.

"Now I know your Mama raised you better than that," he states, low and dangerous, "You touch every lady you see like that?"

The man shakes his head adamantly, able to realize how badly he fucked up even through his drunken state. You would probably feel the same in his situation.

"So just the girl I'm courting, hm?" He hums, tilting his head in an almost playful manner. It's a shocking thing to hear, but it was said so genuinely that you have a hard time questioning it. Was everything he was doing genuine from the start? It's hard for you to believe, but maybe you could... maybe.

He tosses the man to the ground, spitting at him like he was scum, "Run home before I get the Sheriff on your ass, y'hear?"

You watch him scuttle away, tripping over himself a few times before finally managing to get on his way. Then you are alone with Caleb, and suddenly your small town just got a hell of a lot smaller. He lets you sit in your discomfort for a moment, or maybe he was just collecting himself, before tilting his hat to you slightly. A sign of peace.

"You alright, Miss?" He worries, hands twitching at his sides like he wants to check for himself.

You nod, "Yeah. Thank you, I would've been in deep shit if you weren't still around."

"You want me to help you on home?" He asks like he does every night, but this time you feel like saying yes. So, you do.

Your house isn't that far from the saloon, but you didn't feel too safe after what happened. Caleb, at the very least, would offer you the comfort you needed to get back to your place. You share some light conversation, and he manages to wiggle out what's been bothering you all day. He doesn't flirt with you a single time, and you find yourself missing the compliments now. He doesn't pass the steps of your porch when he waves you goodbye, but he stays until the door is fully closed and he hears the lock click.

It's a new side to him, quieter and more intense than the bold flirt you'd gotten used to. You hate the way his bold confession rings in your head all night long, and when you wake, and while you're making breakfast for your old man. You're too spacy as you spread the butter on your toast, jumping out of your skin when there's a knock on your front door. When you check to see who it is, all you're greeted by is a small package with a note attached.

It reads,

"Hey, little lady!

Sorry about the scene last night, as an apology, I got you a little gift to make up for it. Tell me if you need anything else, and I'll get it for you.

-Your Cowboy, Caleb

P.S. Consider this my first official act of courting you."

Not willing to unpack the way your heart is racing in your chest right now, you decide to peel open the package. You expect maybe some fancy necklace, or a silly souvenir from the city, Caleb seems like the type to like that stuff. What you see, instead, has you dropping the thing like it's burned you.

Three months of your father's medicine, and enough money to get you the good stuff at the food market. You pinch yourself, hissing at the sensation. It can't be real, but it is. What a gift. You can't tell if you're grateful or entirely offended by it. Is it sweet, or is it crossing a line? You can't tell.

Your father walks in before you can decide, peering at the box with interest. He eyes you curiously when you blink up at him like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar. He glances at the note on the table next to it, tilts his head, then smiles.

"Seems like my little girl finally has some admirers I have to fight off," he teases.

"Oh..." You grumble, rounding him toward the kitchen table, "You don't know anything, Daddy. Now, sit down or else you're not eating breakfast."

[zepskies]

UNRAVEL ME - Part 2

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Ahhh here we are at Part 2! Thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts on Part 1 and wanted to see more. I really, truly appreciate it since I'm trying some new things with this series. 🥰💗

Song Inspo: “Come Fly with Me” by Frank Sinatra

JVB Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 7.7K

Tags/Warnings: Some uncomfortable friction in this one, friends. 😬 But also more ethnic foodie adventures for Ben, some mini breakthroughs and bonding moments, angst, and more obnoxious flirting 🙄 (you know the drill). Chapter title inspired by a song in The Sound of Music: "Maria."

💜 Series Masterlist

💙 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 2: A Problem Like Chiquita

“What the fuck is this?” Ben says gruffly.

He examines the food you’ve ordered from the Colombian bakery like it’s college-level calculus, holding a fat, golden, crescent-shaped pastry pocket in his hand.

“Food,” you dryly reply. “That’s an empanada. It’s hella fucking good.”

You’re eating one as well. The meat grease comes off orange on your fingers, but that’s how you know it’s well-cooked and packed with flavor.

Colored grease = seasoning.

Ben's face strains with confusion, crows feet crinkling around his eyes, his mouth pulling at a frown.

"An empa-what?"

Restraining a sigh, you try to be patient.

"Em-pa-na-da," you repeat, articulating slowly.

He still looks skeptical as he eyes the thing in his hand, even if it does smell good, like paprika and cumin and other savory spices.

“What’s it made out of?” he asks.

“Ground beef? Pastry? Happiness?” You shrug. “My people make it better. But then again, I’m a bit biased.”

The man is hesitant, but he slowly takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully. After that first big swallow, it’s good enough for him to go back in for another bite, and then finish it off with a second and third one. He reaches for another empanada in the white takeout box. 

“Are they all the same?” he asks. 

You watch in amused satisfaction. “No, that one’s chicken. These on the left are beef.”

He makes a what do you know? kind of face, and he digs into the rest of the pastries. You smile slightly. The man can eat, that’s for sure. Your grandma would have fun feeding him.

“Sooo, when are you planning on hitting the road?” you ask. “Since, you know, Homelander and the government are looking for you.”

You checked the news while you were holed up in your room, waiting for the delivery you ordered through Doordash. According to every local news outlet, there’s now a full-on manhunt for Soldier Boy throughout the city. You find a clip on your phone and turned it toward him on the kitchen table to prove your point.

“Soldier Boy is armed and dangerous. The ‘see something, say something’ rule applies. If you would like to report a sighting of Soldier Boy, please call 1-800—”

Ben taps the screen and presses hard until the clip pauses. You take back your phone quickly before he can break it. He keeps eating, and you raise your brows at him. Your hands sweep upward in a what the fuck gesture. 

“Hello?” you prod. Is he going to answer you, or just keep stuffing his face?

“Could use a little more R&R before I head out,” he says. His expression remains stoic as he eats. You watch him incredulously, wondering when he’s going to have the balls to look up at your face. He never does.

The frustration that’s been building up inside you reaches critical mass. The dial pushes, pushes, pushes over until it cracks safety glass. You can almost hear the steam whistling in your ears, along with your drumming heartbeat.

You stand from the table, your chair scraping across the floor. You can tell the sound irritates his sharp ear as he glances up at you with a frown.

“You are a goddamn fugitive. You get that right?” you say, regarding him with an incredulous tilt of your head. “Now you’ve hooked me into this. I could get in serious shit because of you, and you don’t even seem to care! What…what kind of fucking superhero are you supposed to be?”

At the same time, you don’t know why this surprises you. Most of the supes you’ve met couldn’t care less about the average person. The entire purpose of Vought’s Legal Department springs to mind.

Still, you thought America’s first supe ever—the one who supposedly fought in WWII, pounded Nazis up the ass, and represented the ideals this country was supposed to be founded on—might actually give a shit. Yet again, it stings to be proven wrong.

Ben’s face had been verging on apathy, but now, he’s just as irritated and angry as you. He pushes back from the table and stands up to his full height. Even wearing your ex’s plain gray crew shirt and some threadbare sweatpants, the man’s frame is intimidating. He slowly steps closer until he’s looming over you.

There’s a warning gleam in his eyes as he grabs hold of your chin. His entire hand frames your jaw with iron strength, forcing a gasp out of you. You latch onto his wrist instinctively, even knowing it’s useless.

“You better watch your fucking mouth, sweetheart. Before that little attitude of yours gets you into trouble,” he says. Calm, controlled, or so he'd have you believe. The a spark underneath, an edge. A fragile fucking ego.

Your breathing shallows, but you refuse to bend. Not in your own home.

“Do it,” you snap. “Bat me around if it makes you feel like a man.” 

Ben’s gaze hardens, a shade incredulous too.

“You’re a little fucking crazy, huh? Not to mention a disrespectful brat.”

“Maybe,” you say. You know you’re taking your life into your hands. Your heart thuds a staccato beat inside your chest, but you meet his gaze unflinchingly.

You’re exhausted, stressed so bad that your hands wouldn’t stop shaking this morning while you were brushing your teeth. Your mind’s been spinning fractals of “what if” scenarios, wondering when the door of your apartment is going to get blown apart, with either laser beams or bullets flying in first, no questions asked later.

You’re at your fucking limit.

And when you look at Ben, you see the second skin of arrogance pulled on like the costume he wore as Soldier Boy. The kind that probably hides what he’s really feeling underneath, not wanting to deal with the reality of whatever choices led him here.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a selfish asshole. A fucking bully,” you add.

His hold tightens a fraction; his fingers press into your cheek, making you flinch and tremble inside. It doesn’t stop you from opening your mouth again. It just hardens your defiance, your glare of disgust while you’re forced to look up at his face.

“So far, I don’t see anything about you that’s worth respecting,” you say. “But I’m nobody, right? Not even a supe. Why should you fucking care what I think? Why should you care how I feel, or how easy it would be to hurt me?”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but the words carry the weight.

Darkened green eyes lock with yours, a silent battle of wills. You see the gears turning there, as if he’s weighing a decision in his mind.

Your cell phone rings. The sharpness, along with the insistent buzz, causes ripples through the Berlin Wall of tension. You glance over to where the phone lies on the dining table. The screen is lit up with the caller ID.

Dad calling…

You look up at Ben again. He watches you more impassively now.

You squeeze his wrist with both hands, hot tears finally welling up in your eyes. You’re not going to apologize or take back what you said, but you’re hoping there’s just one shred of humanity in him, however deep those layers go.

“Look, just...please,” you whisper. “Ben, please stop.”

The supe releases a heavy exhale through his nose.

His hand relaxes. He lets you go, like you’re not worth the effort of teaching you a lesson.

“Be careful, sweetheart. I might not let it go a second time,” he warns.

You stumble backward a couple of steps. You eye him while he walks away toward the living room. You make a cautious, sliding move to grab your phone with shaking hands.

You let out a subtle breath of relief before you answer the call, heading to your room all the while.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Oh, thank God. Gloria!” He calls to your mom in relief. “She’s okay! Christ, we saw what happened to Vought on the news. The explosion—”

“Yeah, they evacuated most of us in time,” you reassure him. Though you still hope he hasn’t seen the “hunt for Soldier Boy” yet. Nerves trill up your spine, making you toss in a joke to deflect. “I thought you didn’t like Vought News. Too biased.”

“Every channel in the world is showing that goddamn building on fire! I want you to come home. Now,” he says.

You heave a deep sigh and drop down into a seat on the edge of your bed. You touch your jaw, still feeling the phantom grip. It hadn’t been painful, exactly, but still tight enough to make you feel the asshole’s tempered strength.

“I…I can’t right now,” you reply. You mentally scramble for an explanation your dad will believe. He’s a stubborn, highly opinionated, very protective and traditional Dominican man. He’s never liked the idea of you, a young woman, being in New York by yourself, and this whole thing is exactly the kind of validation he’ll use to try and control your life…but that’s all beside the fact that you have much bigger problems right now.

“The whole Tower didn’t go down, which means my job is still here,” you say.

A heavy sigh of frustration reaches you on the line.

“Now you’re being stubborn just to be stubborn,” he says gruffly. “I’ll never understand why you had to go all the way to the most dangerous city in the country just to draw. Living in that piece of shit apartment you can barely breathe in.”

Your anger sparks. It’s a well-worn argument that you don’t feel like hashing out right now.

“Dad, I’m a graphic artist,” you remind him. “But I’m more than that now. I’m the Second Assistant Content Manager in Social Media.”

Part of you withers inside anyway.

Vince, your boss, has you on a five- to eight-year track for promotion to Senior Second Assistant Content Manager—which sounds even more pathetic in your head.

“Yeah, well, you could’ve been an ‘artist’ with no money here,” your dad insists, even as your mom reproaches him in the background.

You sigh. “Look, I’m fine. So you don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’ll check in soon.”

You hang up with him shortly after, feeling that familiar weight that tries to suffocate you after most conversations with your dad. You know he’s worried about you. That’s understandable. But why is nothing you do good enough? Why doesn’t he ever believe in you?

You toss your cell phone on the bed and rub at the ache beginning to pulse at your temples.

You don’t even know when you’ll be able to go back to work. You have a fugitive cooling off his little temper tantrum on your couch, and no idea what how you’re going to get through the next 24 hours in one piece.

You let out a long, slow breath. Okay.

When these narrow walls feel like they’re about to swallow you whole, one of your go-to cures is the record player sitting on the right-hand corner of your desk. It barely fits between your bed and the closet, but it’s the best you can make of a little home art studio.

You grab a record from your modest collection, Selena’s Dreaming of You album from 1995, and you get it going. Your favorite song is the very first one, “I Could Fall in Love.”

It's whimsical and romantic, a little bittersweet and angsty, but still beautiful, just like Selena’s voice. It washes over you as you lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling.

What the hell are you going to do? If you call the police, you’ll be dead before they even reach your door…

You could text one of your coworkers, your ex, or maybe your boss. They could get a message to Ashley Barrett, or even Homelander himself.

Though you have a sick feeling you know how that would go.

“How long have you been hiding Soldier Boy? You helped him escape, didn’t you?”

“I mean, yeah, but no! He forced me—”

Hot laser beams and blood and your body hitting the ground, with steam coming off your corpse.

“Fuuuuck,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. You take in a shuddering breath, but you can’t control the flood of tears that burn in your eyes, or the way your body shakes with quiet sobs. 

You don’t realize that a broad, shadowed frame lingers behind your door. He leans his shoulder on the wall while he sips a beer.

After a beat, he shakes his head and continues on to the bathroom to take a leak.

Eventually, you have to escape your room for something to eat. You cook something simple for dinner: sautéed chicken and onions, rice, and a can of black beans. Your mom would smack your ass with a wooden spoon if she knew you ate canned beans, but sometimes you just don’t have time to prep your pressure cooker and make them from scratch.

Your “guest” eats two whole piled-on servings, as if he hadn't polished off the rest of the empanadas from this morning. You watch from your seat across from him at the dining table, bemused, resting your cheek in your hand.

Part of you feels a little flattered that he seems to like your food. Your ex-boyfriend had been a white boy too, but while he was always polite about eating whatever you cooked for him, you could tell that he hadn’t really enjoyed the “kick” of the flavors. (Even though you promised you hadn’t added any spicy peppers, apparently he considered black pepper and paprika to be “spicy.”)

“Had a feeling you could cook,” Ben says, around a half-masticated mouthful of chicken and rice. 

“Mhmm,” you intone. “Again, when are you checking out of my little Airbnb?”

“I fucking told you. When I’m good and ready,” he says. He eyes you in annoyance, and even gets fed up enough to drop his fork-wielding hand to clatter against his plate. “You know what, I fucking fought for my country. I fought for this fucking dumpster fire, and what did I get for it?” 

You pause, your eyes widening when you look up from your meal. You finally see that he’s not as stoic and nonchalant about being in his situation as you thought. There’s a deep well of anger there behind his eyes. Anger and frustration, maybe even confusion.

“You know what, that’s it,” he snaps. “Consider me fucking done. Retired. Everybody else did.”

He goes back to shoveling food into his mouth. You tilt your head at him with a reluctant spark of sympathy. You realize that you don’t know much about him.

You know what he’s famous for. You saw the Vought-produced documentary about his life—his humble beginnings in a rags-to-heroism story, then his apparent “death” in 1984. But that was back when Vought had the world convinced that supes were born, not made.

Oh yeah, the truth of Compound V hitting the news had shocked you last year, so much that you wondered what else Stan Edgar and the rest of the board was lying about. You started sending your applications to other companies, trying to get yourself out of the cesspool, but that’s when your boss distracted you with a promotion, a new title, more money to keep you on board.

“You’re vital to the department. You can help us remind the world what Vought really stands for: equality, diversity, the American dream, and the way our hardworking heroes protect that dream every day.”

Not that you buy into that bullshit manifesto anymore, but it was hard to walk away from a ten-thousand-dollar raise. (One that only got you out of relying on your credit cards, and not much else.)

Now you realize they were buying your silence as well as their damage control. Nothing is more influential for modern PR than social media, and if you're good at something, you think it's your fucking job.

Come to think of it, the company must be really shaken up your boss hasn't reached out to have you put anything out for damage control. From what you saw on the news, half of Vought Tower is in a shambles.

Only the first few floors are safely operable, according to the email updates you keep getting on your phone, assuring you that everything's under control. You hold in a snort. Maybe Ashley's having Vince do all the PR shit himself, keeping a tighter leash on things until you all go back in to work.

You tap a nail on the rim of your beer as you watch Ben practically inhale another slice of bread drizzled in olive oil and crushed garlic.   

Considering the fact that this man is very much not dead, and he’s nowhere near as charming and chivalrous as his movies led you to believe, you also think it’s fair to assume that all the stuff you’ve ever read or watched about him is bullshit too.

Though if you’re ever going to get out of this situation, you’re going to have to at least try to understand him.

Consider me fucking retired. Everybody else did.

The words were bitter, angry, resentful…and lost? You still remember the way he looked last night on your couch, exhausted, like a weight on his broad shoulders was finally making him crack, and sink into the ground.

“Everyone thought you were dead,” you say, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Forty years, I mean…what happened to you? Where were you all that time?”

Ben glances at you, but doesn’t offer a reply. Instead, he continues to brood as he eats, with dark furrowed brows shadowing his eyes, shuttering his thoughts away tightly. You have a feeling that wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing up until now…it wasn’t good.

For the moment, you let go of your own frustrations with a sigh. 

“Look, I get that you’re in deep shit right now, but you know you can’t hide here forever,” you try to reason with him more calmly. “We’re in the middle of the city. They’re gonna find you, and then what’re they going to do to me for helping you?” 

Anxiety and fear climb up in your chest again, high enough to choke you. Tears well up in your eyes, though you try to beat it all down. The last thing you want to do is let him see you break.

“Do you really not even care?” you ask. 

Ben finally gives you a long look.

His gaze roams your face, and for once, you can hope that he’s considering how his actions are affecting you.

“Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart,” he says. He picks up his fork again and scoops another bite of rice and beans. “Whatever might come, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

You bite the inside of your lip, breathing in deep to reign in your tears. Somehow, you don’t believe him.

On the fourth day, you finally concede that Ben needs more clothes. He’s already stopped wearing underwear, since he claimed the borrowed boxer briefs from your ex was cutting off the circulation to his dick. 

Not wanting to hear his vulgar mouth anymore—or catch sight of him free-balling his sweatpants—you agreed to buy him a couple of things. He’s made you a list.

A fucking list.

You scoff at the brand names he got weirdly specific on. Tom Ford. Hugo Boss. The fuck? What does he think, you’ve got a side hustle selling crack? Do you have a mini money mint in your tiny closet? Have you got dollar bills growing out of your ass? 

He’ll have to be content with whatever you can find in his “super soldier” sizes at Target. You even pay extra for same-day delivery.

He allows you to leave the apartment just to go downstairs to accept the delivery. The building doesn’t have an elevator, so you have to lug several Target bags back up to the third floor. You struggle getting back in, having to basically throw yourself against the shitty door to get it to budge.

You make it through the threshold, just to find Ben snooping through your stuff. Every drawer and shelf in the living room is pulled open and messily rifled through inside. 

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask incredulously. 

“You mean to tell me you’ve got a gallon jug of tequila behind your TV, but you don’t have one ounce of reefer?” Ben remarks. 

You give him a weirded out look. First of all, no one says "reefer" anymore.

“I’m not a fucking pothead!” you actually say. You're already irritated and on edge as you set down the bags on the couch. 

“Bullshit. You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? You creative types always know how to let loose.” He attempts some flattery as he smirks over at you. “Looks like you’re not such a prude after all. Huh, Chiquita?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you notice then that he has an old picture of you and your ex-boyfriend, in a…compromising position. 

Your eyes widen. “What—give me that!”

You snatch the picture out of his hand, along with the whole black velvet box of random stuff under Ben’s arm. You haven’t opened that box in a few months, but even though you’re over your ex, you’re a sentimental person at heart.

You glance down at the old-school polaroid, your cheeks warming in a blush. It was last year’s Halloween party at his apartment, and you two had gone dressed as Woody and Jessie from Toy Story. For shits and giggles, you bought a miniature version of Woody’s hat and…well, you laughed harder than him when you found out it was a perfect fit for “Little Woody.” You even got him to let you draw a face on the head of his cock. What you were too drunk to realize at the time was that you accidentally used a permanent marker.

“What’s cowboy’s name?” Ben asks. His sinful smirk makes your blush flare hotter.

“August,” you reply, stuffing the picture back in the box and shutting it tightly.

Ben chortles, his brows raising as high as his hairline. “August? Jesus Christ. I’ll bet he liked it up the ass too, didn’t he? Am I gonna find a strap-on in that little treasure trunk?”

Your glare snaps up to meet his amusement.

“All right, enough. It’s none of your goddamn business.” You gesture wildly at the Target bags on the couch. “There, I got you some clothes. See if they fit.”

You turn with the box firmly in hand, aiming to hide it better in your room. You’ve been subjected to his presence all of five minutes today, and already you need a break from him. Ben says something that makes you pause, however.

“Thanks,” he says.

It’s so unexpected that you stop, turning to look back at him over your shoulder. Your mouth parts in surprise, but he’s already focused on rifling through the bags. He examines the pack of five boxer-briefs you got him, nodding at the size and the stretchiness of the waistband.

Smiling slightly, you continue heading to your room. After choosing a better hiding place for your keepsake box (in your nightstand, under your silk bonnet), you decide you need to decompress. You settle at your desk to draw, grabbing one of your large, half-used sketchpads.

Meanwhile, Ben has helped himself to your fridge and made himself a sandwich.

He’s bored out of his fucking mind.

He’s tired of the unfunny bullshit sitcoms on TV, and watching the news just keeps making him angry, because usually it’s about him, and the lies Vought keeps spinning about him. Ben’s also tired of seeing that sniveling, blonde fucking science experiment—and his brat son—on commercials and guest spots on late night shows.

So Ben shuts off the TV and wanders into the only other room in this place. Your room. The door is cracked open, allowing him to peer in and spy on what you’re working on. You glance over at him, your gaze catching on one of the new shirts you bought him. It may not be Tom Ford, but it’s comfortable, he supposes.

“She’s hot,” he says, nodding at the Dreaming of You vinyl record album you have propped up on your desk. A young woman’s face is framed in a red, smokey border. It seems to be your reference while your pencil moves across the blank page in precise, sweeping lines. The girl on the album has delicate features, a natural pout to her lips, an olive complexion, and rich brown hair. 

“Selena Quintanilla. She was beautiful,” you agree. “Her story was so tragic though.”

“What, she died?” Ben asks. 

You nod in confirmation, sadly. “Shot by one of her obsessed fans. It came out that the woman embezzled like, 60 grand from Selena while being the president of her fan club. Selena was going to fire her, and the bitch just couldn’t handle it.”

Ben hums in acknowledgement. She must not have been a supe. 

“I guess you never had that kind of problem,” you say.

“A crazy fucking fan? No,” he scoffed. Vindictive ex-girlfriend and a bunch of cocksucking, yellow-bellied shit stains for “teammates,” maybe. He shakes his head and watches your deft hand draw the delicate lines of the girl’s mouth. It reminds him of your pretty lips. Right now, you have the lower one pulled between your teeth in concentration. A strand of hair falls into your line of vision, brushing the page. His hand itches to tug it back behind your ear.

“You’re, uh…you’re not bad though,” Ben says, nodding at the sketch.

You give him a brief smile. It’s the first time he’s seen a glimpse of it.

“Thanks,” you say.

Ben takes a seat on the edge of your bed, not even noticing that he’s getting sandwich crumbs on the royal blue duvet. 

“That's not what you do for Vought, is it?” he asks.

You snort. “Sort of. I used to be just a graphic designer for Social Media. I started dabbling in content, giving them ideas for what to write to go with it. But after the whole Stormfront fiasco, I got a promotion."

You shake your head. "Now I wonder if the only reason they gave it to me was because I looked the part for their DEI phase. AKA: Homelander fucking a literal Nazi. Oh, yeah. He had to do a whole apology tour of damage control press for a whole damn year."

Ben frowns at that. Nazis? Fucking Nazis are back? Who the fuck is Stormfront?

"I help maintain the social media accounts of every member of the Seven," you explain. "I create the graphics, edit images, write bullshit captions like ‘That’s lit,’ when Starlight punches out the bank robber they literally placed in front of her face. I spin their messes and moderate whatever fuckery they might spew out while they're drunk, or high, or just plain fucking stupid, so they don't fucking cancel themselves..."

You sigh. "Basically, I help cultivate the messaging that Vought uses to convince the public that you guys actually care about them.”

You look up and meet Ben’s gaze. He could get annoyed with your accusation, but he can’t even muster up the energy to give a shit. Even if it proves you right.

“Marketing sells,” you say ruefully. “Reality doesn’t.”

You gesture at the small door next to your bed. “I’ve got a closet full of paintings that never sold on Etsy. I also have fifty grand in student loans from NYU, and a damn-near useless double major in Art and Communications. That’s right, fucking useless. Because all I’ve learned to do with my ‘art’ is sell people bullshit… So maybe my dad is fucking right.”

Ben remembers that conversation you had with your dad; he’d been pretending to watch TV, but his sharp ear caught every word. He heard an all-too familiar message.

A fucking disappointment.

“Daddy issues, huh?” Ben says. He feigns nonchalance while swallowing down the rest of his sandwich. “Why am I not fucking surprised?”

You shoot him an annoyed look, especially when you catch him brushing crumbs off his chest.

“Hey, would you stop eating on my bed?!”

For once, Ben actually gets you talking. You’re not so tense anymore, relaxing when he gives you your space in the room. 

An hour later, and he still hasn’t left your bed for any good reason. Your weird, one-sided heart-to-heart drawing session has turned into showing him your modest vinyl collection. He gets you to put on some Frank Sinatra while he pulls out the last two beers from your fridge.

“I have to go back to work soon, you know that, right?” you say. “I just got an email this morning. Apparently Homelander himself has requested all employees return to work tomorrow.”

You cover your face with both hands and heave a sigh. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to quit for months, but this is the best money I’ve been able to make since I got out of college.”

“Yeah, well, fuck ‘em,” Ben says. “Bunch of corporate fucking idiots.”

You glance up at him with a surprised blink, but his gaze moves beyond you. 

“You didn’t like working for Vought?” you ask. 

“They’re the fucking reason I got shipped to the Russians in the first place,” he says. His expression holds a darker edge.

Your eyes widen. “The Russians? Wait, what?”

Ben hesitates. He realizes that you might work at Vought, but there’s a lot you don’t know. It just reminds him of everything that company’s done to bury him, like he’s become their dirty little secret.

So he tells you. The real fucking story. The full story.

Well…all right, maybe not the full story. His instinct is to emphasize how Crimson Countess, Black Noir, and the rest of his team betrayed him, just to get him out of their lives. (Maybe he glosses over the reasons why.)

He explains how Stan Edgar conspired with them to replace him with Homelander, a shiny new toy that they could control, literally from conception.

“You seriously didn’t ask them what they were collecting your sperm for?” you ask incredulously.

“Hey, it was the ‘80s,” Ben says, crossing his arms in defense. “It was a different time. Back then, there was always weird shit going on.”

And maybe you were too high to care, let alone pay all that much attention. The thought coils through his mind. He stamps it down with a shake of his head.

“Whatever. It fucking happened,” he says with a growl. The longer he allows himself to think about it, the more the words spill out of him, even if his instinct is to shove it all back down. It’s a bit easier with you somehow, a normal nobody girl, who can’t really use this against him. All it might do is change the way you look at him. Maybe as less of a monster.

“So far, I don’t see anything about you that’s worth respecting,” you said. “But I’m nobody, right? Not even a supe. Why should you fucking care what I think? Why should you care how I feel, or how easy it would be to hurt me?”

What you said to him a few days ago—those words might’ve sunk into him deeper than he’d like to admit.

“Those fucking Commies had me down there so long, I forgot what a normal day felt like,” he says. “I lost track of hours, minutes, days…and in all that time, no one ever fucking even looked for me.”

It feels like a confession, the first real thing he’s told you.

And it works.

You finally begin to look at him with some sympathy. Seeing it in your eyes hits him with some satisfaction. Maybe if he keeps softening you up, you’ll treat him with that pretty mouth of yours.

“Wow, I’m…I’m sorry,” you say at last.

He pauses. You seem genuine. Even though it’s what he wanted, your pity still grates on his pride.

“What about your family?” you ask. “Do you have anyone you want to call? Anyone you—”

“No,” he says, glancing away. He rolls his shoulders, as if shrugging off your words. “I’ve been around a while, sweetheart. Anyone worth knowing is long dead.”

“Well…shit,” you say. He can tell you don’t want to say sorry again, but it’s bubbling up in your eyes. For all that fire you’ve got inside you, you’re soft too. Fragile.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Sinatra croons his final note, but the record keeps spinning until you get up to turn it off. A strange kind of silence reigns. He can still hear the rumble of your water heater, an argument downstairs between an old man and the young couple whose bedroom door faces his front door, distant traffic, and police sirens blocks away. If he allows himself to, he can hear it all. It’s too fucking much sometimes.

“All right,” he says after a while, sick of it all. “I’ve got an idea.”

He leaves your room, and you’re curious enough to follow him out. He opens one of your top cabinets in the kitchen and grabs the gallon of tequila he found this morning while you were sleeping. He rests it on the kitchen counter, shooting you a wink and a smile.

“Oh, no. Keep out of my booze,” you warn him.

“Look, we both need to relax,” he argues. Already he’s grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinet and giving each a generous pour of lukewarm Patrón.

You grimace. You give him a narrowed, annoyed look. It reminds him that he’s the one who keeps setting you on edge.

Still, you sigh. “Wait. I’ve got limes in the fridge.”

A few hours later, you’re getting drunk with this man and eating Chinese food on your couch. You dig out a collection of DVDs from the coffee table functioning as the TV stand, and you pick out at least twenty movies you claim he needs to catch up on—like The Matrix and Gladiator, Iron Man, and The Princess Bride. 

That last one takes a fair bit of your doe-eyed pouting and pleading for him to agree to. Surprisingly, he’s starting to soften up to you the “nicer” you are to him. It did help that you lowered the neckline of your pajama top a little, using a bit of cleavage to close the deal.

By the time the credits roll on The Princess Bride, you’re sighing and happy at the most romantic ending to ever be put on screen. Ben is leaned back deep in the couch with his arms crossed, looking all grumbly and taciturn, like you forced him to put on a dress or something.

“Oh, come on. You liked it,” you tease, bumping his arm. Ben eyes you in begrudging amusement.

“At least he’s a fucking man.” He gestures Westley, the farm boy turned pirate. “Though he did take that bitch back, even after she was gonna marry Humpertwat.”

You can’t help but snort loudly at his embellishment. It’s probably all the tequila that makes you laugh instead of wanting to smack him, but the more you replay it in your mind, the better it is to you. You end up folding over with a wheeze, tears of laughter forming in your eyes. You wipe them away, one after the other.

Ben stares at you in bewilderment. But after a while, his lips twitch upward. Your laugh is infectious. It’s also the first time he’s gotten to hear it.

“Aw, don’t rag on my girl Buttercup,” you say, still giggling as you prop yourself upright on the back of the couch. “God, I don’t think I’ve seen this movie since August…”

You cut yourself off, your mirth fading a bit. This used to be one of your favorite movies to watch together with your ex-boyfriend. He knew all the words too, so it would usually end up being a commentary of quoting every single line rather than actually watching the movie.

“What, the pussy liked this movie too?” Ben snorts. “Not surprising.”

“Hey, stop it. He wasn’t a pussy!” you argue, crossing your arms.

“Then why’d you break up with him?” Ben asks, with an irritating smile.

Your brows furrow. “Why do you think I broke up with him?”

He’s assumed right, but you still want to know why.

“Because unless he’s fucking touched in the head, he’s not letting go of a hot tamale like you,” he replies. His smirk evens out into something more suave. Or at least, he attempts it.

Again, you inwardly twitch in annoyance at hot tamale, but you won’t admit that his ridiculous version of flirting is kind of starting to work on you. His green eyes roaming your face and cleavage leaves little of his thoughts to the imagination. You clear your throat, fighting a blush.

“Look, August is…a nice guy. A decent guy. We’re still friends,” you say. He works at Vought too, in the Social Media department. He even texted you to make sure you were okay after Vought almost crumbled.

Though if he really cared, he would’ve fucking called. Or came to see me, you think wryly. It’s better that he hadn’t shown up to your place though. It would’ve been impossible to hide Ben, and you don’t want to know what the supe would’ve done to him to keep him quiet.

“But?” Ben says knowingly.

You sigh, tossing your hands up before you turn toward him on the couch. Your knees are bent underneath you. You’re a little too drunk to realize your knee is touching his thigh. You only somewhat notice that he shifts toward you too, with his arm draped across the back of the couch. His hand is close enough to touch your shoulder if he wanted to.

“It was always…nice,” you admit, gesturing vaguely with your hands. You tend to do that a lot. It’s one of the few Latina stereotypes you know you fit under. “But there’s was no real spark, no…”

Ben leans in, a suggestive smirk playing on his lips. 

“Passion?” he supplies. He raises his brows as eyes capture yours. “I get the feeling he didn’t do jack shit for you, Chiquita.”

And just like that, any kind of blushing arousal dies—swiftly falling into annoyance. You don’t like nicknames that remind you of bananas, melons, or any other tropical fruit.

There were kids in middle school who used to tease you, asking you if your parents worked in a mango factory. (Ignoring the obvious that you don't get mangos from factories. Dumb fucks.)

Your parents were just wealthy enough to put you in private school with a bunch of trust fund babies, and maybe a handful of foreign exchange students. Even though there were at least four other Latinos in the class, you were the only one with darker skin. You were the only one who had to take an aptitude test to get into the school—the only one who was there on a scholarship, not your parents’ connections and yearly donations to the school.

Being black and brown might be cool in social media nowadays, but not so much back when you were in school, where diversity was just an administrative quota to be filled. Not so much where you lived, where the rich snowbirds went on vacation, and looked at people like you like exotic fruit.

Ben senses your shift. His smile loses its flirtatious edge as it fades.

“Look,” you say sharply. “You think you’re being charming with that Chiquita thing or whatever, but I don’t appreciate—”

“Maria Felix,” he cuts in. 

“What?”

Ben cards a hand through his hair, sweeping it back. You’ve noticed the way it gets in his eyes sometimes, falling across his brow.

“Maria Felix. She was an actress in the ‘40s,” he says, his eyes turning slightly wistful at the memory. He even chuckles. “One of the hottest Latin women I ever met, with more ass than the Chiquita banana lady. That was my little nickname for her.” 

Your annoyance melts into a blinking deadpan. This man did not just—

“And Christ, she had a voice on her. Like butter and molasses.” He adopts an even more nostalgic smile, “Matter of fact, what she could do with that mouth. Could suck the nails right out of a board, if you know what I mean. A real fucking talent.”

“All right, all right! Enough,” you hold up a hand with a grimace…and yet, you’re curious. 

You grab your phone from the coffee table to look her up, and sure enough, María Félix actually was a Mexican starlet. In fact, she was one of the most successful actresses in Latin American movies in the 1940s and ‘50s. You realize then that this man truly is a walking time capsule. 

“What was she like?” you ask curiously. But again, you raise a hand. “Without the Pornhub sweaty bits.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he does tell you how he met María at an awards show in 1947.

“She was beautiful, elegant, with those soulful brown eyes,” he reminisces. His lips slip into a smile. “Until she got a couple of tequilas in her. Then she had a way with her hands that wasn’t so fucking ladylike—”

“All right. Pause,” you say, holding up a finger. A blush warms your cheeks. “Again, I don’t need the gushy details.”

He just smirks. “All right, fine. So what is it you do want to know?”

You sigh, but your curiosity does get the better of you. You want to know more about the people’s he’s met, the places he’s been, and you can’t help the way he’s hooked you, giving you a window into who he is. You know it can’t be everything though. He’s giving you the sepia tones, the highlights of his glory days.

You know there has to be a reason his whole team turned on him, and why every single member of Payback has been pronounced dead in the news over the past week. You know that this man is possibly the most dangerous supe in the world…

Well, second-most dangerous.

He’s threatened you, forced his way into your life, been the most obnoxious flirt imaginable, and has serious boundary issues…but he hasn’t hurt you. He’s never forced himself on you either, despite having the strength and every opportunity to do it.

So you listen.

He tells you about being friends with Frank Sinatra and partying with the rest of the Brat Pack. He makes you laugh with his stories about getting fucked up during the Woodstock years, his first experience with psychedelics at a Beatles concert, and how he used to have a guitar signed by John Lennon, even though he never learned to play it. 

“Crimson Countess used to complain about all the fucking ‘clutter’ in my apartment,” Ben huffs. “Look, if you can’t appreciate a bona fide John Hancock from a Beatle, there’s something fucking wrong with you.”

You actually agree. You know it’s the sentimental artist in you, but collecting things that mean something to you is awesome. You’d just about die if you even got to touch a guitar that John Lennon had played, let alone signed.

“How long were you with Crimson Countess?” you ask.

Ben’s mood begins to sour at the question. He takes another heavy swig from the whiskey he found in your kitchen. “Too fucking long.”

You watch him in curiosity, waiting to see if he’ll keep talking. After a while, he does.

“She fucking betrayed me,” he says.

You’d more than learned that earlier, back when he told you his team had sold him out to the Russians. Just like it isn't a stretch to think he killed her, along with the rest of his team. Despite how uneasy the thought makes you, even churning your stomach, you could understand why he did it. Forty fucking years...

Still, you’re a bit confused.

“Why though? All the movies you guys did together, all the interviews, and everything I ever read about you two, you seemed to be ride or die for each other,” you say.

Ben gives you a wry look. “Don’t believe everything you fucking see on TV.”

Your lips twitch humorlessly. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t seem to want to dig deeper into that one. You can’t really blame him.

“Well, um…as lame as it sounds, I’m sorry,” you offer.

“Like I said, you don’t have to feel fucking sorry for me,” he says. His voice is sharper, deeper. He begins to turn away from you, getting up from the couch. You surprise yourself by following his lead, reaching out to gently grasp his arm.

“Come on. Don’t take it that way—”

You get up too fast in your tequila-ridden state, making your brain feel like slush moving from one side of your head to the other. “Whoa, shit…”

With a grunt, Ben grabs you steady by your waist. He pulls you into him so you won’t fall sideways onto the empty glasses on the floor. You gasp and latch onto his arms on instinct. There you feel every firm ridge of flexing muscle under your palms and fingers. You feel the strength of his hands molding to the curve of your waist, the heat of his skin.

You tip your face up slowly, and your heavy breaths mingle with his as he looks down at you. A second more, and you think he might start bowing his head to meet you.

But just because you have sympathy for him, doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten why he’s here. You haven’t forgotten that he’s using you.

You clear your throat and drop your hands, stepping away from him. You’re a little surprised that he actually lets you put some space between you.

You take it for the opportunity it is.

“Uh, goodnight,” you offer. 

He stops you from leaving for a moment, closing his hand over yours. He smirks down at you and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, no doubt listening in while your heart taps syncopated beats.

“G’night, Chiquita.”

AN: Whew! 😮‍💨 Okay, a lot of back and forth in this chapter. A lot of Ben being a dick, of course, but how'd you like their little bonding sessions? In the next chapter, Homelander finally shows his assface...

Next Time:

“Since the incident at the Tower a few days ago, have you caught any sight of Soldier Boy? Have you heard anything about his whereabouts? Anything at all?” he asks. His blue eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your throat close up.

Sweat has already started to trickle down the small of your back and on your clammy palms, which lay flat at your sides.

“No,” you reply, in a miraculously steady voice.

He raises a blonde, solitary brow. His lips twitch. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. Your instinct is to keep your answers simple, uncomplicated.

“Then why is your heartbeat picking up faster?” he taunts, with a calculated wave of his gloved finger. “Just…ticking away, like a little drum.”

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