#Strategic Brand Handling

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake’s Coworkers (ft. The Fenton Family)

It’s not that Tim doesn’t like the Batfamily. He tolerates them just fine. Damian is great for sparring (if you like sparring with a tiny murder machine), and Jason’s brand of dark humor isn’t too bad once you get used to it. Dick’s a bit too much sometimes, but overall? Fine. Totally fine.

But the thing is… they’re just his coworkers.

And it never really clicks for the Bats until Danny Phantom joins the Justice League and everything starts unraveling.

———

The revelation comes during a League meeting. They’re strategizing about some ghost-related chaos, and Danny floats into the Watchtower, bright and glowing.

“Oh, hey, Tim,” Danny greets casually, giving him a little wave.

Tim doesn’t even look up from his tablet. “Sup.”

Superman looks between them, confused. “…you two know each other?”

Danny grins. “yeah, he’s my brother.”

Dead silence.

“WHAT?!” Bruce’s bellow shakes the entire room.

Tim finally looks up, unfazed. “What? Did you think I just spawned into existence?”

“You have a brother?!” Clark sputters.

“Two siblings, actually,” Tim corrects, utterly nonchalant. “Danny’s the younger one. Jazz is the older one. She’s great. Super organized. Kept me alive in middle school.”

Bruce’s eye twitches. “Why—why am I only learning this now?”

Tim shrugs. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Relevant?” Diana repeats, incredulous. “You’re the brother of Danny Phantom and it’s not relevant?”

Danny, who’s been munching on some ectoplasm candy, jumps in: “Honestly, Tim’s always been kind of private about his personal life. We just figured it was his way of coping with the whole ‘raised-by-rich-neglectful-aunt’ thing.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tim interjects, glaring at Danny. “Thanks so much for dumping me with Aunt Janet, by the way.”

Danny shrugs sheepishly. “Mom and Dad panicked! They thought you’d get ghost-napped next!”

“Uh, correction: Aunt Janet left me to raise myself, so that plan was awesome.”

Bruce, trying to keep up, interrupts: “Hold on. Your parents left you with Janet Drake?”

“They didn’t know she sucked at raising kids,” Tim deadpans. “And to be fair, they did call. A lot. I just didn’t pick up.”

Jason, who has been cackling this entire time, leans forward. “Wait, wait, wait—so you’re telling me that the Replacement’s entire family is a bunch of ghost hunters?”

“Yup.” Danny pops the “p” with a grin.

“You’re kidding me,” Steph says, borderline hysterical.

Tim sighs, clearly over it. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Jazz keeps the parents in check, Danny handles the ghost stuff, and I… stay out of the way. It’s fine.”

“FINE?” Damian glares. “Drake, you’ve been fraternizing with ghost hunters while working with a vigilante group, and you think that’s fine?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Dami, chill. It’s not like it affects work. You’re my coworkers. They’re my family. Separate categories.”

Cue collective Batfamily malfunction.

———

Later, Danny is chilling in the Batcave, feet kicked up on the Batcomputer, chatting with Alfred. The rest of the Bats are still spiraling.

“Tim, we’ve lived together for years!” Dick exclaims, sounding genuinely hurt. “How are we only your coworkers?”

“You’re not my family,” Tim explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Danny and Jazz are my family. You guys are my teammates. It’s different.”

Jason throws his head back, laughing. “Oh my god, Replacement, you’re stone cold.”

“I’m not cold,” Tim argues. “I just don’t think we need to make it more complicated than it is. We work together. That’s enough.”

Meanwhile, Danny is wiping tears of laughter off his face. “Oh man. Jazz is gonna love this.”

[kenzdolls]

KEIGO TAKAMI RELATIONSHIP HCS .

⌗ pairing: keigo takami (hawks) x gn! pro-hero! reader ⌗ tags: hawks x reader, keigo takami x reader, keigo x reader, mha x reader, bnha x reader

⌗ side note: [this is a re-fixed post to align with my new theme for my blog]

FIRST TIME MEETING:

▹ he clocks you immediately during a hero meeting. it's not just your hero costume (though, let's be real, he appreciates a good design). he's sizing you up strategically, noting your power, your demeanor, and how you interact with the other heroes. it's professional... at first.

▹ your first real conversation happens during a joint mission. maybe you're both tracking a villain known for their swift escapes, and you end up covering the rooftops together.

▹ he'll make a comment about your performance in the mission. he will call you by 'miss/sir', as it is only professional. but he will compliment you, no matter what goes wrong.

▹ he's observant. he notices small details about you – the way you handle your quirk, the way you interact with civilians, even the brand of coffee you're sipping. this info goes straight into his mental file labeled "things i find interesting about [reader's hero name]."

▹ he's testing the waters, dropping subtle hints. a casual "maybe we should grab coffee sometime and compare notes?" is pure hawks – playing it cool while secretly wanting to know everything about you.

HIM FALLING IN LOVE:

▹ he starts "coincidentally" showing up where you are. training facilities, hero galas, even that one yakitori place you love. he'll play it off as being in the area, but we all know better.

▹ teasing. SO MUCH TEASING. he'll poke fun at your hero name, your costume quirks, anything he can get away with. but it's always lighthearted and playful, never mean-spirited. it's his way of gauging your reactions and pushing your buttons (in a good way, of course).

▹ feather messages become your new norm. they arrive at your agency, your apartment, maybe even during a stakeout. short, silly notes or helpful Intel, always signed with a mischievous feather flourish.

▹ he seeks you out specifically during large gatherings. he is a social butterfly, but he will try to talk to you. he will always try to have you close to him than other people.

▹ he starts confiding in you about the commission, about his doubts and worries. he doesn't do this with just anyone. you're earning his trust, and with keigo, that's a BIG deal.

HIM AS S/O:

▹ dates are never stuffy or predictable. think rooftop picnics with a city view, late-night patrols fueled by convenience store snacks, and impromptu karaoke sessions. he keeps it fun and spontaneous.

▹ he’s 100% a TOUCHER. a hand on your back, a playful nudge, a casual arm around your shoulders. nothing too intense, but always a reminder that he's there and he's into you. he’s a simp.

▹ PDA is subtle but sweet. no grand gestures, but you might find him absentmindedly playing with your hair while you're talking, or leaning in close to whisper something in your ear.

▹ he sends you pictures of chickens. sometimes he “finds” them on the side of the street. or see them in the pet store. if he does see chickens, he will send it to you.

▹ he opens up more about his past, about his fears and his dreams. he is still guarded, but he lets you see glimpses of the real keigo takami, the one behind the wings and the bravado.

▹ he's fiercely protective. Not in a controlling way, but he's always looking out for you, making sure you're safe and comfortable. he'll take on any villain who dares to threaten you.

▹ he makes corny jokes, especially chicken/bird-related ones.

▹ he will make you feel the safest you've ever felt in your life. after everything he has went through, he will try to protect you with his life.

▹ falling asleep on his wings is the best thing ever. just don't be surprised when you wake up covered in feathers.

© kenzdolls 2025 — don’t post, copy, or plagiarize my work.

[calypso-rt]

AHHHHHHHHH need more corporate!reader and blue collar!rafe. i'm melting 🫶🏻

the other side II

part 1 -> here

absolutely love writing for these 2

You don’t expect to see him.

Not here. Not in your world. Not in the steel-and-glass quiet of your twenty-fourth-floor office where everything is curated and clean and the elevator dings politely when it opens.

But there he is.

Standing just past reception, holding a paper bag with a grease stain near the bottom, wearing boots that scuff the marble floor and a button-down that’s not quite buttoned right.

Your assistant, Alexa, doesn’t know what to do with him.

You watch from your office as she leans forward, smiling nervously, gesturing toward you. Rafe doesn’t seem fazed. He nods once, then glances through the glass wall of your office like he’s already seen you.

Like he knew exactly where you’d be. You open the door before she can buzz and he grins when he sees you. Not cocky. Just easy. Warm.

“Afternoon, corporate.”

You blink. “You… brought lunch?”

“Looks that way.”

He steps in like he belongs, and your office shrinks around him. He’s too broad for the doorframe. Smells like summer air and engine oil. You suddenly feel very aware of your own reflection in the glass, the high collar of your blouse, the pin still holding your hair back, the way your heels echo on the tile when you shift your weight.

He glances around briefly then looks back at you. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your Wall Street wizardry or whatever it is you do up here.”

“Strategic brand management,” you correct, though your voice softens against your will.

He holds out the bag. “Figured you probably forgot to eat. Looked like the type.”

You take it. It’s warm.

Your fingers brush his again. You wish they didn’t always feel like that, so solid, so sure. You swallow.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say. “I only brought you lunch to say thank you. It wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t an invitation?” he finishes, one brow lifted.

You flush. “I just meant it wasn’t… some exchange. You don’t have to match it.”

Rafe shrugs. “I know.”

“Then why?”

He tilts his head, smile faint but real.

“Wanted to.”

You hold his gaze. He doesn’t look away.

And maybe it’s something in the steadiness of his voice, or the way he’s here, here, in your world, where everything is filtered and scripted and safe, but your heart does that thing again. That hitch. That skip.

You glance down at the bag in your hands. “Let me guess. The same sandwich I brought for you?”

“Actually,” he says, looking suspiciously proud, “I asked the girl at the counter what you like to eat.”

You look up.

He smirks. “She said quinoa.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. Full and real and startled.

He grins. “That laugh just made my whole week, by the way.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You keep saying that,” he says, stepping back toward the door. “And yet…”

“And yet?”

Rafe turns, hand on the door handle, half in shadow and half lit by the sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“And yet you keep letting me in.”

The quiet stretches. You don’t fill it. He watches you. Thumb tapping once against the door.

Then, voice easy: “You busy Friday night?”

Your mouth parts slightly. “Why?”

He shrugs, all nonchalance. But there’s something behind it, something careful. Intentional.

“Thought you might wanna trade boardrooms for bonfires. Beer instead of your sad little lemon water.”

You raise a brow. “You’re asking me out.”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I am.”

You fold your arms. Try to look disapproving. “Was the quinoa a bribe?”

“Only a little.”

You should say no. You don’t belong in his world. He doesn’t belong in yours.

But you think of the way he said your name that first time, like it wasn’t just something you told him but something he’d kept. The way his hands are always a little dirty, but they always, always show up holding something gentle.

You nod. Slowly. “Pick me up at eight.”

He smiles.

And for the first time, he doesn’t call you corporate.

He just says your name.

Soft. Like he’s been waiting.

You almost expect him not to show. Not because you think he’d flake, he wouldn’t, but because you’re not sure this part of your life is real yet. The him part. But at 8:00 sharp, your phone buzzes.

I’m here.

And you don’t even have time to think before your heart leaps in your chest. You spot him from the window first. Leaning against his truck, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bouquet that looks a little too wild, like maybe he grabbed it from some roadside stand five minutes ago. The stems are uneven. The paper’s crooked. It’s perfect.

You smooth your dress one more time, something soft, not corporate, and make your way out.

The moment his gaze catches yours, he goes utterly still.

And then, he smiles. Slow. Helpless.

“Jesus,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Look at you.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. “You clean up well yourself.”

He grins, but there’s a flicker of nerves behind it, like this matters more than he knows how to show.

“These are for you,” he adds, gently thrusting the flowers forward. “They, uh… don’t match your usual vibe, but—”

You take them gently, fingers brushing his. “I love them.”

Something in him eases. He looks like he might melt, right there on the sidewalk.

You expect the diner. A dive bar. Something casual. Instead, he surprises you. Twenty minutes out of town, you pull up to a tiny old greenhouse that’s been converted into a little café, half garden, half glass walls, strung with warm fairy lights and flickering candles.

You glance at him, stunned. He watches your reaction like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

“You said you liked surprises,” he says quietly. “Figured you deserved somethin’ good.”

You can’t speak for a beat.

Because no one’s ever done this for you, not like this. Not so carefully. Not so… earnest. And it’s in the way he holds the door for you. The way he looks at you the whole time, even when the hostess tries to make polite small talk. The way he pulls your chair out, waits until you’re settled before he sits down. Like this is the most important thing he’s done in years. You talk over flickering candlelight, the warm scent of herbs and woodsmoke in the air. The stars outside blur against the glass.

He barely touches his drink. Barely looks away from you.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he says softly at one point.

You tilt your head. “Which part?”

“That you shouldn’t have to shrink to fit anywhere.” His voice is rough, quiet. “You—you walk into a room and the whole damn place should make room for you. I see that every time I look at you.”

Your breath catches and he watches you like he can’t believe you’re really here. Like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he looks away. And then softer, more unsure: “Do… do you even know what you’re doin’ to me right now?”

Your heart stumbles.

“Rafe,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” His voice is hoarse.

“I think you’re doing the same thing to me.”

When he walks you to your door hours later, his hand hovers at your lower back, not possessive. Protective. Like he’d break himself in half before letting anything happen to you.You turn to face him, the door at your back. His gaze drops to your lips, then lifts. And God, the way he looks at you, like you’re the first good thing he’s ever had the courage to want.

“I was scared,” he admits softly. “You coulda had anyone, sweetheart. You still could.”

You shake your head. “I wanted you.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Then hardens, turns to purpose.

He steps closer, tilts his head. “You sure?”

“Very sure.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not rough. Not wild. It’s reverent. Like a vow. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“You just tell me when you want more, baby,” he whispers. “I’ll be here.”

And somehow, you know he means every word.

Taglist (tagged anyone asking for more of these two): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf,

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 5

Summary: A celebration of Amarantha's victories in Illyria reveals just how bad the Empire has become.

Content Warnings: Blood and Descriptions of Injuries; Crucifixions and Mentions of Torture; Slavery

Pt 1, 2, 3, 4

--------

Sleep is elusive. I find myself staring at the ceiling, watching the cream colored walls change colors as the sun slowly begins to rise. 

I have to be the worst mate in history. Well, my Father murdered his mate, so maybe a close second. Even if Rhysand did reach into my head and use me to brand them, I’d still held that iron, hadn’t fought it like I should have. Now, I can’t even say I made it right by getting them the hell out of here! I’m now actively giving them ways to stay, not just in the Empire, or in the arena, but in the middle of a game with my Father they can’t possibly hope to win. I should have pressed the issue harder. I should have ignored their call and waited til morning when Anise had found passage out of here and hauled them onto the ship. I most definitely should not be calling for a tailor as soon as the sun is up to make sure they’re fitted for clothes for this stupid parade. 

I’m tempted to think Rhysand has found a way to make me do this for him, but I know he can’t reach me this far. The tether in my chest that links me to them feels strained from being so far away. It’s as if it’s a living thing beneath my skin that knows there’s too much distance between us. 

Anise worms her way back into my room as I dismiss the tailor and tell her to send the healer my way for a report on the injuries the Illyrians finally let her treat once I’d left their room last night. 

“I found what you were looking for,” she says as she shuts the door. I expected her to find an excuse not to do what I’d asked, especially after she’d given me the royal inquisition about what I’d been doing once I came back through the secret entrance last night. But her emerald gaze sweeps conspiratorially over my empty room, even as she hands me something that smells like a contraceptive tea.

I try to pass it off on my bedside table. “You know I don’t need this.”

“Drink,” she sits herself on the edge of my bed with a sigh. “Can’t have a boat disappearing into the Wastes while you grow with child.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Anise!”

She shrugs, “I suppose your Father would kill it anyway.”

“Get to the point, Anise.”

“Drink the tea first.”

To appease her, I pinch the bridge of my nose to avoid the awful smell and force the amber colored liquid down my throat. 

“There’s a merchant ship that takes the long way around the Wastes to reach the Human Lands. Passage can be acquired for a hefty fee.”

“Not a problem,” my stomach rises in my throat and I have to take a moment to let it settle before finishing the tea. 

“There is a matter of it only being available for another three days before it’s gone for six months.”

That complicates things. How am I supposed to convince them in the next three days that they need to be on that ship?

“Thank you for looking,” I pass the, now empty, cup back to her. “I will need you on standby. Hopefully, I can find a way to convince them to get on board before it’s too late.”

Anise chews on her wooden thumbnail. “There’s a rumor, around the house, that they’re insurrectionists, is that true?”

I push the curtain blocking the bathroom aside. I might as well change and prepare for the parade now. If I give myself enough time, maybe I can slip back into the secret passage and strategize with my stubborn set of mates on how we handle today. I don’t like going into this blind, and I certainly don’t like having to be responsible for their well-being knowing that they’re just winging it. 

How have they managed to get this far?

“More or less,” I say as I slip my sleep clothes off my shoulders. I frown at my reflection in the mirror. Too thin. Too pale. I need to get back into training; I need to get some color back into my face. All my clothes hang a little too much off my shoulders. Mother would have never let me hear the end of it if she knew how long I’d wasted away in this house over her. She hated mourners. Hated having an excuse not to be on top of training, in every area of life. 

“And what-” Anise comes to stand in the doorway, frowning at the outfit I’ve chosen for the day. She snatches it out of my hands before I can put it on and comes back with something cobalt instead. “-do they have on you?”

“I don’t follow?”

“What are they using against you to get you to do this for them?” She fusses over the loose fabric, lining the seams up along my shoulders, tucking in loose bits of cloth here and there, slipping other strands through a golden belt around my waist. 

“You think they have some kind of leverage on me?”

“I think this is unlike you. I think you’ve been a shell of a person locked in a dark house for months and months and suddenly now you care about parties and parades and those gods-awful Games. It is strange. I think I should send for a Healer to look at your head.”

I let her fidget and fuss so she has something to take the edge off her anxiety. “I went to plenty of parties and parades… before…” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. 

“You went for her, because she forced you too, this is different. You keep insisting there is nothing sexual happening, yet you drink the tea and sneak into their rooms and won’t tell me what’s going on.”

I turn away from the mirror to look at her, reaching for her gnarled hands. “They’re good males, I just want to help them, is all. Father doesn’t exactly smile on simple favors.”

She huffs, “Your heart has always been bigger than your head.”

“I feel… kind of like I’ve been asleep for a long time and when I woke up I didn’t recognize who I was in the mirror. I’m just trying to find myself again.” It’s the closest to the truth as I can get. “I’m sorry that I’ve worried you.”

She frees herself from my grip to touch my cheek gently. “Just promise me that you will be careful. If anything were to happen to you…”

“I promise.”

She nods then takes my shoulders and spins me back to face the mirror. “Good, then let’s fix this awful hair of yours!”

Better to have her focusing on making me presentable than all the possible dangers we have to face just by leaving the room. I feel terrible, leaving her in the dark about it all, but I can’t tell her the truth, not yet. It is too soon; it leaves too much to chance. I still have hope that I can find a way by the end of the day to convince them to get on that boat and then she will never have to think about it again. The worst will be behind us.

--

I may have underestimated just how bad this was going to be.

For one thing, I didn’t anticipate Amarantha showing up at the front gates before I had a chance to slip into the Illyrians’ room. Let alone bring a whole entourage of slaves and guards, all painted in her colors and dressed for the parade. The sight of her in my sanctum makes me want to start hurling things at her head, but I manage to keep a poker face as she dismounts from her chariot, pulled by a white horse with a speckle of gray across its glossy coat. One of Father’s prized war horses; a gift from a battle years ago. 

“General, you honor me with this surprise visit,” the words taste like bile. Why is she here in my place of refuge? She’s never bothered to venture this far away from the Capitol before. 

She glances around warily, like something might pop out of the sprawling gardens and bite her. “I came to check on your progress.”

“How kind of you.” I intentionally don’t draw attention to the path that leads to the guest house. “Would you like some refreshments? You must be tired from your journey.” The last thing I need is her poking around. 

“No. We need to be on our way. I assumed you’d need help leading your new pets out.”

“Not at all. I have everything under control.” Bitch.

She grins but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good, then let’s get moving, shall we? Don’t want to keep your Father waiting.”

This is all happening a lot faster than I anticipated, but I will have to make the most of it. Her being here means they were right last night, I really had thrown Father off his game. Now he’s trying to compensate by sending her to feel out how I’ve managed this far. I keep my shoulders back as I tell one of the guards to bring the males out. I must remain in control. 

I must keep my well-trained mask of courtly manners in place.

That’s a lot harder when the second curveball of the day comes hurling my way: I’d sent my tailor with an order to find my mates suitable pants, boots, and tunics. We weren’t going to have the time for anything fancy. With a few more hours I might have been able to find armor suitable for a Gladiator to wear out in public. A moot point one way or the other, because they wouldn’t have worn it. Not one of them is wearing the outfit I selected. In fact, I’d barely call the swatch of fabric adorning their bronze skin clothing. It’s closer to a toga, one half of the beige fabric pinned over their left shoulders, draping down in gentle waves down their waists, where it eventually falls to their upper thighs, one side slit nearly all the way open. It leaves half their tattooed chests bare, the swirls of tattoos on stark display. There’s so much open across Rhysand’s ensemble that I can very clearly see the curvature of his ass if he’s standing in any direction that’s not looking at me directly. 

It is an effort to keep my jaw off the floor. What the fuck are they doing?

I don’t know if the guards attached leashes to the gorsian collars around their throats or if they did that themselves; at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me.

“I’ve underestimated you, Highness,” Amarantha says.

The words might as well have been spoken by a fly, they don’t even register. I can’t stop staring at them, at the miles of bare skin and muscle on display. Ember did a good job putting them back together last night, the bruises fading, the smaller cuts and scrapes nothing more than a swatch of fresh skin. Rhysand’s arm is still bandaged, as are Azriel’s wings, but they do not drape on the floor today. They all stand ready, heads high. The posture feels like a challenge; they should be defeated, they lost the battle, they’re chained here to me, but they don’t look it. They command the space around them.

I feel a flash of pride when I look at them. Even with all my training, I’d never be able to be this confident. Despite all their losses, they haven’t given up.

“I might have to challenge your claim on them,” Amarantha says, her gaze lingering too long on Rhysand for my liking.

Something ugly and possessive rears its head inside me and all I see is red. My hands ball into fists at my sides as my powers flare in my palms. Keep it together! Keep it together!

“And miss the parade in your honor?” I say as sweetly as I can. “My Father would be so disappointed.”

She sneers at me, perfectly white teeth flashing, “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge for me, would it, Highness?”

I’ve never shown anyone the full extent of what I’m capable of; it would be too dangerous to unleash that much power on the world. It won’t do me any good now to try and boast about what I keep hidden beneath my skin. “You’ve done enough fighting, save the challenges for your Attor.”

She huffs as she climbs back into her golden chariot. 

It’s not really a victory, but it is the best I can hope for. Time will be the only thing keeping her in check today. If it wasn’t for the parade, she might be tempted to keep pushing the issue, and as much as I’d love an opportunity to shove a blast of obsidian power through her chest, I have bigger issues to deal with. I can’t let her get in the way of the plan. 

My mates watch the exchange closely. Azriel hovers a little closer than someone supposed to be shackled to me should. His shadows are missing. Hidden somewhere, maybe behind his wings to avoid detection, or the sunlight, but the intensity in his gaze reminds me that there isn’t anything happening he isn’t aware of. 

Rhysand gives me the subtlest of nods as the stable boy brings my own horse out. Anise must have sent them for me; she’s undoubtedly watching from the window. I have never been more keenly aware of how many sets of eyes are watching my every move, which is saying something, considering I’ve never left this house without a squadron of guards or some form of chaperone. Every breath I take feels like it’s being monitored, which is unfortunate, because the next issue of the day becomes the moment I realize the guards left with the wagon yesterday and I don’t have any other horses. How am I supposed to get them all the way across the Capitol?

I’m out of my element. It’s one thing to freeze in front of some guards who don’t know me well enough to see the panic in my eyes, it’s entirely another to in front of Amarantha, who can smell fear like a fucking bloodhound. She won’t stop grinning at me either, like she’s a cat watching a mouse creep slowly up to a baited trap. We’ve just started this, I can’t already fail!

The invisible force that is Rhysand slips right into my mind again as panic freezes me in place. My body moves for me, tethering the leashes in my hand to the saddle of my horse. 

Amarantha’s grin falters.

I am not making my mates walk behind me the entire time! This, somehow, feels worse than the brand!

 But I can’t fight his grip on me. My shields were low enough, I’d forgotten to enforce them, he’d slipped right in and taken control just like he had yesterday. I can’t do this!

“You can,” that silky smooth voice is like a caress against the inside of my skull as he moves me into the saddle of my horse. 

I can feel Cassian’s glare between my shoulderblades, as if he’s imagining exactly where he’d drive his sword. The tether that links us feels even more frayed than it had yesterday, as if someone is taking a knife and swaying it away fiber by fiber. Worse, that someone is me. 

Rhysand brushes a mental hand down my spine and my whole body trembles as if it had been physical. “It’s all right. You’re just doing what we asked you too.”

Amarantha starts moving, the grin now a full scowl. This is not at all how she thought this morning would go. I’m grateful she’s so distracted by the failure that she isn’t paying attention to the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. This is beyond cruel and unfair!

“We’ve endured a lot worse than this,” he explains as he uses me to get my horse moving. 

The collars around their throat rattle as they get yanked along behind me and I think I might never get that godsdamned sound out of my head as long as I live.

“When we lost that battle in Illyria, they kept all of my soldiers chained together, naked and bleeding in the snow. They made them watch as they burned our cities to the ground, with their families locked inside the Temple.”

Revulsion rolls its way through my stomach, as I flick my gaze to Amarantha; she’s always been a monster, she’s never bothered to hide it, but I’d never known the gory details. Father praised her for doing whatever was necessary to win, I knew that involved a lot of shed blood, but I’d never seen the true cost of her victories.

Maybe I’d never wanted to see. It had been easier to just keep my head down and accept that this was how the world I lived in worked. I’d been too terrified of what might happen if I challenged it; hell, I’d been too terrified of what would happen to even look at it. It had always been easier to turn and hide from it, withdrawing into myself where the monsters couldn’t reach me. How many people have I hurt by turning a blind eye?

“Amarantha made Cassian pick which of his men would live. Five out of every group of ten to be taken as slaves. The other five to be crucified. She did it in waves, five for every city we stopped at for supplies. Five to be a warning to the other Courts. Until we came to the Arena; then the question became which of us would fight and die. He chose us, so that, at least, the rest of his men may find a chance to escape.”

Rhysand won’t loosen his grip on me enough to let me turn in the saddle to look at them. He probably thinks I’ll lose my nerve if I do. My chest aches for them and what they’ve had to endure on the way here.

“If you hadn’t stepped in yesterday, Hybern would have killed Cassian and Azriel.”

“But not you?” His hold on me is not so strong that I can’t, at the very least, talk back to him. The connection soon becomes soothing, instead of like fighting against adamant. As time goes on, I can begin to feel the distinction in the tethers that link our souls. While they are still thin, and tangled in the heart of it, there is a glittering, starlight lined piece that leads me to him, and the connection feels like it builds on top of itself little by little as we go. Maybe the bond is not, totally, unsalvageable.

“I caught a glimpse in Hybern’s head. He was too far away for a good look, but I saw enough. At least for a little while, he wants me alive. I don’t know why. I assume to make a bigger display of my failure than Amarantha has already made, but I can’t be sure. I think that he might have let me live yesterday and killed them as punishment for speaking out. Judging by the way Amarantha’s acting today, I think that she expected to get me as a prize afterwards.”

My teeth clench involuntarily at the thought.

“I know that what I’ve asked of you is uncomfortable. It will be a hard role to play, but it is not without advantages.” Despite Cassian’s misgivings during their argument last night, him and Azriel had seemed to be in agreement that they needed me for this. If I cannot spare them entirely from pain, at least I can keep them out of Amarantha’s claws. A tiny victory, but still a victory. 

The road ahead of us is long, physically speaking the trek into the city is several miles, and figuratively because there’s a lot of hoops to jump through and masks to wear and angles to work. This will not be an overnight endeavor. That ship with their freedom quickly feels like its slipping out of my reach. 

“But are there not advantages to leaving while you have the chance?” There is nothing but a long, winding road lined with hills of rolling wheat between us and the outskirts of the city, I might as well make my attempt now.

“Not if it means abandoning my people.”

Stubborn male. 

“This will be your Empire one day, do you not feel responsible for the people within it?”

As the sun continues to climb, so does the temperature. Sweat begins to bead its way across my hairline.

“It will not be my Empire,” I counter; especially considering what I had bargained to ensure their freedom. “My Father doesn’t think I know it, but he added a clause to his will that states, in the event of his death, my husband will take the throne.”

Through the mental connection, I feel him stiffen behind me.

And maybe because I’m desperate for any possible chance to push them towards that ship, I add, “And make no mistake, my Father has already chosen which male to pawn me off to.”

Anger flashes its way across the bond. A sign, I should think, that he at least knows there’s something there. 

“He would leave you no choice?”

The question is laughable. For all the terrible things my Father has done, he truly thinks he’d still care about my consent in any aspect of my life? “He pretended for a while that I did, but his displeasure was always made clear. Not that it matters, now. I’ve already agreed to marry whoever he wishes.”

A growl works its way down the bond between us. “Why?”

“Did you think he would spare your lives for free?” A low blow and I know it, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how Cassian had called me a spoiled little princess who’d never felt the effects of this Empire. My suffering has been nothing compared to theirs. No life time could ever compensate for that kind of torture. There is no contest here. But I am not immune to my Father’s whims either and I need them to understand that this is not the better option. They need to be on that ship. And if they feel the bond at all, if there is any push to be near me, I need to use it to get them to see how dangerous it is to be around me. I can shield them a little bit. I can stand between Amarantha. I can stay my Father’s hand on occasion. But it will not last. Nothing lasts long against them. 

Rhysand is silent for a long time. Long enough that I feel his grip on me slip away, allowing me to turn my head and watch the three of them. They’re keeping pace easy enough, even with the bandage around Cassian’s thigh and the added weight of the bandages around Azriel’s wings. But it’s their eyes that catch my attention: Glazed over like they’re not seeing me at all. I’ve seen that look before, when the twins reach into someone’s head. The collar must limit his ability to reach out to more than one person at the time. He’s withdrawn to speak with them instead.

I keep my shields down, waiting for him to come back, praying to the Mother that it worked, that they’re at least, reconsidering this foolhardy notion of theirs. 

Amarantha’s men must have cleared the streets on their way down here, usually, the twisting pathways of hard packed earth are crowded with carts and beasts of burden as they tend to the budding wheat stalks, but there are none. It is a strange silence, there are usually workers singing in between the rows as they weed and water and remove pests from the grounds. No birds sing. It’s as if the whole area knows a red-headed predator walks among them.

I find myself studying her, careful not to let the rage I feel at the thought of what she’d done to my mate’s rises back to the surface. Silence has always been dangerous for me, it gives me too long to think. And right now, all I can think about is how easy it would be to blast her in the back of the head with the dark ether that prowls beneath my skin. One of her slaves carries her helmet, the dark horse hair plume billowing in the warm summer breeze. None of her guards rides close enough to block the blow. Sure they’ll be an issue afterwards, but they won’t be able to save her.  She’d be nothing more than a blood stain in the rode.

And then what? What would it help? It can’t erase what she’s already done to them. Even if I could take out the guards and we all made a break for that ship, Father would never let it go. He’d blame them, probably lie to the people and say I’d been kidnapped or brainwashed into doing it, and then he and everyone in the Empire would hunt us down until we were dragged back or killed. They’d never have any rest. No, I need to get them to get that ship and I need to find a way to make sure that no one comes looking. 

My head hurts. This is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. There’s a lot more pieces to play than just moving them onto a ship. I resist the urge to rub my temples. How could someone’s life become so incredibly complex in less than 24 hours? 

Rhysand finally returns, his arrival a brush of night kissed shadow that contrasts the summer heat. “Why did you agree to help us?” His voice sounds farther away, it must be a tremendous effort to keep this up for so long around that collar.

“Because I didn’t want to be like him.” That is as close to the truth as I will allow myself to admit to anyone. 

His mental hand brushes down my spine, caressing, soothing. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments to savor it. I should not let myself indulge it. I should push it away before he has time to understand why it means so much, but I can’t. I really am a broken, selfish thing, but I can’t push him away like I should.

“Has he given you a time frame for the marriage?”

“No, but I’m sure he will soon.”

As we crest a hill, the walled edges of the capitol finally come into view, Father’s crimson banner billowing from the parapets. As we draw closer, I can start to see another banner hanging from the great, stone walls: Amarantha’s familial crest, emblazoned on a black banner, the great beast in the center, edged in crimson. The shape of the crest always bothered me. The edges were never smooth and even, like someone had put too much ink on the pen, letting it bleed. Maybe that was the point. Amarantha’s whole family line had clawed its way to power by shedding someone else’s blood. 

It’s jarring to see her banner hang next to my Father’s. No one has that kind of power in the Empire. Not even my Mother had the sway to earn a banner in her name, no matter the exploits she’d brought within the Capitol’s walls.

My stomach twists. 

“Then we may need to rush our plans a little.”

I pretend to fiddle with something in the saddle so I can look back at him. Sweat drips down his forehead, trailing lines down his exposed chest. There is nothing short of sheer determination etched into every line of his face.

Beside him, Azriel keeps pace, shadows peeking out from behind his wings in agitated waves. A look that would be intimidating on its own, but only worsened by the promise of violence in his eyes.

So much for making the ship.

“Don’t be rash and do something stupid,” I retort, as the sound of trumpets draws my attention off of them. There’s a cluster of horses and people waiting up ahead. As we draw nearer, I can start to make out the familiar faces of Father’s Praetorian Guards. Then Brannagh and Dagdan, atop their auburn steeds, bought at a hefty price from the Autumn Court. And finally, in his own golden chariot, pulled by a prized war horse, a golden laurel wreath atop his salt and pepper hair, stands my Father.

I swallow the lump in my throat. 

“I mean it, Rhysand,” I snarl when he doesn’t answer me. “If you do something stupid now he’ll kill all of you. No pleading on my part will save you.” 

I’m suddenly not sitting on the horse anymore, the world around me spinning and twisting and the trumpets and horns starting to play along the roadside sound like execution bells. My stomach rises in my throat; heart echoing to an octave that sounds like beating drums. I can’t see them, I can’t see the parade of people assembling all I can see is my Mother in those awful, dull gray robes, stripped of all the finery she always adorned herself, walking right to the executioner's block in chains.

“Breathe.” I must have been holding my breath because the memory comes to a grinding halt before I can rewatch her head roll off her shoulders and Rhysand is back in my head, gently shaking the memory from my grip. 

“It’s over. You’re all right. Take another deep breath for me.”

My horse won’t stop moving and I swear my Father doesn’t blink the entire time he watches us approach. That slate gray gaze, so similar to my own, is empty and cold and it pierces through me like an ice pick. 

“We’re not doing anything today, remember? Just observing. We need to see what we’re up against.”

I have to fight every instinct not to turn and look at him. I need to keep my head up, I need to not look like I’m going to throw up all over the floor. I cannot ruin this. 

Father’s mood shifts when he turns his attention to Amarantha, and smiles. “General,” he calls out, the horde of people surrounding him parting so he can move to greet her. “I see you had no issues on your way here.”

“Dick,” Rhysand hisses as I sit there getting ignored. 

“Please, just stick to observing. I can’t…” I shake off the memory as best I can, embarrassed that I showed him in the first place. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

The bond flickers with understanding, a moment of shared grief passing between us. I don’t know what else he has lost, but the emotion that flits between us is enough to show me it’s not mere pity. “Don’t worry, there’s not going to be room to do anything in this crowd,” he assures. 

And he’s right, starting at the open gates is a whole crowd of people, all waving flags and streamers and cheering. The whole city is packed against the main road, held back by a thin barrier or red tinted magic. Every house in the Capitol has to be empty. Someone has thrown roses down onto the road, the perfume so strong I can smell it from here.

Behind us, more beings begin to arrive. I note some of Amarantha’s commanding officers and a few Senators. A couple of the Lords who have bent the knee and submitted to Father’s reign follow. 

Amarantha stands a little straighter as they approach, preening under all the attention. 

A steward with a very long scroll shuffles around in the chaos, trying to organize everybody into rows, his shrill voice echoing above the crowd with a little help from some lesser magic. Drummond has been in the service of the Empire since my great-grandfather was Emperor, he’s gotten pretty good at getting people to listen to him. 

We’re quickly organized into sections, with Father and Amarantha in the front and everyone following in line behind them by rank and station. There is a large gap in between where Father and Amarantha ride and where I sit with my mates, just ahead of the other nobility. My birthright keeps me close to the front, but the gap between me and them is noticeable. I am not a part of their inner circle, I’ve only ended up ahead of they’re favored elites because I have the face of the Illyrian rebellion chained to my horse. It is not as if I want to be close to them, in fact, the distance helps me breathe a little easier, but the space between my Father and I has never felt so visible. We are two ships on opposite sides of an ocean. Mother used to whisper, when she thought I couldn’t hear, that the Goddess had cursed him by giving him me. Not only was I not the son he’d prayed for, I was not even a daughter he could benefit from having. He’d tried to hide that from his closest confidants, it’s why he allowed the River House. It kept me close enough to not become a problem, and far enough away to hide his shame. It used to bother me, now I can’t help but wonder if perhaps there was a reason I’d never belonged here. Maybe the distance had given me the eyes I’d needed to see my mates for what they were. If I had been born different, if I had become someone like Brannagh or Amarantha, would I have ended up here?

My musings are interrupted by Dummond as he side-steps Cassian, giving the General a far wider berth than necessary as he looks back and forth between his scroll and us. “Hmmm, should be a enough room I suppose?” He mutters, pen furiously scratching in the margins of what looks to be a very well filled out list. 

Cassian’s wings suddenly unfurl behind him, as if he’s stretching his arms, the great, leathery membrane catching the early afternoon sun, as the spiked tip catches Dummond in the back of the head hard enough to make him drop the scroll.

The aging elf gives a yelp of surprise as he skitters after it like it’s made of gold. “Gods-damned Illyrian brute!” 

“Cass,” Rhysand warns as the guards shift in our direction.

“What? My wings were cramping,” Cassian counters, looking smug, even as he snaps his wings shut behind his large body. I could watch him do that all day. If I’d had the supplies, I’d attempt to paint the way the sunlight reflects the hints of red and blue, highlighting all the scars that map their way across his wings. How many battles do you have to fight to have scars like that?

Dummond scurries past us to intercept a caravan of wagons, keeping his precious scroll clutched tight to his chest this time. He’s always been a little skittish--who isn’t around my Father?--but today looks like it’s worn down his nerves. I can practically hear his knees shaking as he directs the wagons down the little path that converges on the mainroad. The closer it gets, the louder the sound of rattling chains becomes.

Grief consumes me, so hot and heavy the three of them might as well have screamed themselves hoarse down the bond simultaneously. It is an effort not to grasp at my chest, as if they’re pain is a physical wound I can hold in my hands. I don’t need to see what comes our way to know what it is, but their arrival plays out in slow motion ahead of us. The wagons are all built to be moveable cages, walls of gorsian stone bars holding in too many bodies to count. There’s a padlocked door at the back of each and when a guard swings it open, a jumble of winged bodies tumble outward. Chains clank and rattle and male after winged male gets shoved into even lines ahead of us. They’re all a mess of blood soaked bandages and dirt; the number of wings more twisted than Azriel’s had been is too high to number. Once a wagon is empty it is directed out of the way and another takes its place, just as full as the last. There has to be at least a hundred Illyrians, all shackled and beaten ahead of us.

Dummond stays a healthy distance from them, counting down the numbers on his list to ensure they’re all in place. Not that it would be necessary, none of them fight it. Most stand with their heads to their bare chests--gods above half of them are still naked! 

Rhysand has withdrawn himself from my head again, but I can still feel his pain down the bond just as well. These are his people, and he can’t save them from this.

Cassian’s pain soon turns sharp as a blade, rage pulsing down the bond. 

I wish I had the words to comfort them; the power to make this all stop, but I am as helpless as I always have been. No words will soothe this offense.

How could Father do this? 

Dummond carries on as if he is organizing cattle. The guards use the butts of their spears to keep any male that moves too far from the group back in line. Their force is excessive. The blow knocks the already beaten males into each other, causing a domino effect that brings a third of the Illyrians down into the dirt. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear the whimpers of pain; hear the coughing and wheezing that comes from untreated injuries and illnesses that only come when too many people are crammed together for too long.

There isn’t enough time to process the full scope of what’s happening before a set of trumpets starts blowing from the city’s outer walls. Shit it’s starting!

It’s like a bad dream as the procession begins to move, Father and Amarantha first. There are mages positioned down the fairway, their hands outstretched towards the sky as they weave colorful ribbons of magic like streamers above our heads. The bands move in time to the music, flashing in Amarantha’s colors first, then Father’s. Small children throw more roses into the street as the Emperor and esteemed General make their way into the city.

“All hail the Emperor!” Roars the crowd. “All hail Amarantha the Conqueror!” 

Conqueror. The Illyrian captives are forced to follow after them, shuffling on bare feet and boots that are falling apart across cobblestones that have to be burning as the sun continues to rise across the cloudless sky.

There are small children in attendance, sitting on their parents shoulders, waving miniature versions of Amarantha’s crest. This feels like the most heinous part of the whole ordeal; are we to encourage this brutality in our children? They let their toddlers throw roses and dance along to the music, enthralled by the light show that flashes overhead as the procession moves through the city. 

Dummond makes sure to leave plenty of room between the last row of Ilyrians and us, as if they’re scared to let them get too close to Rhysand. As if, the mere proximity of him might incite an uproar all over again. 

At this point I’d welcome it. I’d happily watch the whole procession go up in flames.

Power rumbles through my veins and I’m forced to tear my gaze away from the crowd to keep anything from escaping out of my skin.

“Steady,” Rhysand warns as we inch closer to the front gates. The crowd continues to cheer and celebrate ahead of us as the procession follows the path to the Imperial Palace several miles into the city. It will be a long road ahead of us, yet it feels like it’s been happening for ages.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry is not strong enough an emotion. No sorry’s will ever be enough.

“Do you see why we need your help?” He counters as a wisp of Azriel’s shadow crawls up my shoulder and dives beneath my hair. The little ether of power slithers like a snake up around my ear, hidden under my hair, observing with a gentle hiss. I wonder if he’s using it to see what’s coming ahead of us.

The road up ahead makes me wish he wasn’t here to see any of it at all. Being on the horse gives me a vantage point, lets me see around the corner we take to get to the heart of the capitol. The crowd has thickened even further here, bodies pushing up against the magic barriers, chanting and shouting to be heard. Except, the closer we get, the clearer the jumbled words become. As Amarantha’s chariot passes through, the noise soon turns from cheers and celebration to boos and curses. It’s the first hint that something is about to go terribly wrong and I feel my powers once again flair in defence.

The shift in the crowd is not the worst of it, even when they start hurling rotting vegetables and rocks at their captive entertainment. Blood splatters as someone gets hit in the head, nearly knocking down a whole row of males in the chaos.

I don’t even have time to flinch before Rhysand is once again holding me in place in the saddle. This time I’m not sure if it’s my nerves or his. The bond bleeds like an open wound between us, agony dripping into my consciousness.

More of Azriel’s shadows cluster beneath my hair, sitting like a snake, coiled and hissing as we go deeper into the city. This crowd will easily become a mob given the slightest provocation.

“Traitors!” The crowd shouts. “Send the Illyrian dogs back where they belong!”

The guards keeping the Illyrians in line don’t do anything to quell the crowd, letting rotting tomatoes and hearts of moldy lettuce get hurled like projectiles at a group of wounded males too beaten to fight back.

My stomach sits like a rock in my throat.

The deeper we get into the city, the worse it gets, and not just because there are more people here, but because, as we draw up to the center of town, there are crosses along the walkway, all holding a male with wings nailed to the cross beams. 

The males in the front of the line freeze at the sight. One of them wails and falls to his knees, only to be forceable hauled up by the Praetorian. 

“Crucify the lot of them!” The crowd roars.

“Send the bastards back to the arena!”

A rock comes hurtling towards my head so fast I don’t even have time to shield, my only saving grace Azriel’s shadow that goes flying out in front of me to catch it and let it fall to the ground beside me. Rhysand won’t turn to let me thank him; won’t let me do anything but keep my eyes straight ahead of me. Not even when I hear the sound of something hitting one of them.

I’d cry if I had the ability, but he seems to have locked that away from me too. I feel like a statue as we continue forward, slowly crawling towards the Imperial Palace, unable to move or react. Even as we pass closer to the bodies, blood still dripping from open gashes across their tattooed chests. Some of the males are, mercifully, already dead, but the street is long and the number of them soon becomes hard to track when you can just make out the ones still gasping for air. This is by far the worst thing I’ve ever seen the Empire do.

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to find my Father, waving cheerfully to the crowd ahead of us, as if this is some sort of game. How could one man be so cruel? 

“Remember how I said you could ask me about that boat today?” Rhysand says, but his voice is strained. I can feel his pain as if it is my own and I don’t know how he, or any of them, is even upright. It’s debilitating. I feel it crawl into every crevice of my being. My muscles fight the hold he has on me to try and curl up into a ball to avoid it. 

“Still think it’s a good idea?”

Like he can feel my gaze, the Emperor turns to catch my eye, one brow furrowed as if in question. For the first time in my life, I don’t shy away from the appraisal. Pain has walked alongside me my whole life, it has been a companion I have learned to hold hands with. But this? Having to live with the knowledge that these are wounds inflicted on my mates because no one has stood up to the Empire?

I’ve accepted a lot of shitty things in my life. I looked the other way when I couldn’t. But no more.

This ends. 

And it ends with me.

“No. I don’t.” I snarl.

I can feel Rhysand’s grin through the bond. “Then welcome to the Rebellion, Princess.”

--------

Tag List:

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

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Thank you all for your patience I know this chapter took me a little longer than usual to write! <3 As always, if you want to be added to the tag list let me know =)

[incloudcity]

omg your pwhl player x quinn hughes fic is sooo good! i could read a whole series on them, really liked your writing, and hope that you'll maybe do a part 2 to that one? 🩷🩷

offside 2 | qh43

requests are open a/n: hehe kinda left it open-ended, would love to see where y'all would want them to go from here. also i have no idea whats up with the tumblr spacing you guys dont even with me

You sign with Vancouver quietly. A press release, a few reposted highlights, and a thirty-second welcome video where you say you’re excited to be here. You don’t lie, but you don’t oversell it either.

You’ve learned how to be strategic with your enthusiasm.

The city is familiar but not nostalgic. You walk past restaurants you used to haunt during the campaign, ignore the flashbacks. They’re not important. Not anymore.

Your agent texts you after the announcement: Bet he knows already. You don’t ask who she means.

You practice like your spot depends on it. It doesn’t—not technically—but you don’t believe in comfort. Not in this league. Not with your name. You skate hard, tape tight, zero flash.

The media tries to bait you with old questions. You don’t bite. They try again. You skate away.

You’re deliberate now. Not difficult.

You meet Brock in a team facility hallway, half by accident. You’re leaving physio. He’s coming out of a video session, still chewing gum, still in that backwards hat he wears like it’s contractually obligated.

He grins when he sees you. “Finally. The myth, the legend, the PR nightmare.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re still using jokes from 2023?”

He laughs. Doesn’t take offense. Doesn’t take much seriously, by the look of it.

“You’re friends with Hughes,” you say after a pause, because someone had to name it first.

Brock shrugs. “I’m friends with a lot of people.”

You don’t ask what Quinn told him. You don’t want to know.

But Brock watches you the way some people watch warmups—like they’re not taking notes, but they are.

You see Quinn again for the first time in a shared training facility. Off-ice day. Your team’s lifting. His is doing some half-hearted stick-handling drills in the corner. You catch him in the mirror first.

He doesn’t do a double take. Doesn’t flinch.

Just nods once. Professional. Bored, even.

You return it.

The girl beside him—tall, polished, the kind of pretty that’s designed for optics—leans in to say something to him. He smiles at her. It’s not fake. Not full either.

You pretend it doesn’t hit somewhere you thought had scarred over.

Later, Brock nudges you on your way to the parking lot. “She’s PR-adjacent,” he says, meaning the girlfriend. “Met her at some Canucks event. Works in branding.”

You glance over. “Why are you telling me?”

Brock shrugs. “Not sure.”

The friendship happens slowly. Brock’s the kind of guy who doesn’t mind silence, which you appreciate. He’s also observant. Too much so.

“You don’t talk about him,” he says once, over a post-practice burrito.

“You don’t talk about your stats either,” you shoot back.

He nods. Accepts it.

Doesn’t bring it up again.

The tension starts to show in the gaps. Eye contact that lingers too long. Jokes that skirt the edge of inside. The way you and Quinn pass each other in corridors like ghosts. Like you never fake-dated. Like you never fell asleep on the same couch with his jacket over your legs.

But Brock sees it. Of course he does.

One night, your teams have staggered games at the same arena. You stay after yours, hoodie pulled low, unnoticed in the back row. Quinn’s on the ice. Fast. Clinical. Distant.

He looks up once during warmup and finds you. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

Brock finds you after the final horn. Offers you a ride back.

You sit in silence the whole way. Until the red light at West Georgia.

“He’s not over it,” Brock says, without turning the music down. You don’t answer. He doesn’t expect one.

Two weeks later, it breaks.

You’re in a locker room hallway, after a city outreach event. Media’s gone. Team buses are delayed. You’re answering a text when you hear him behind you.

“Wasn’t expecting you to sign here.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Neither were half the front offices, apparently.”

He smiles, a little. It’s tired. Careful.

There’s a beat. Then another.

“Brock says you’re fitting in.”

You tilt your head. “You asking or checking in?”

He doesn’t reply.

You shift your stance. “So. That’s your girlfriend?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait.

He doesn’t elaborate.

Typical.

You look at him long enough to remember every headline they wrote about you—too cold, too calculated, too much. Then say:

“You look good together.”

He flinches, barely. “She’s easy to be with.”

You nod. “And I’m not.”

He doesn’t correct you.

Doesn’t have to.

The silence sits between you like it used to—dense, unspoken, honest in the worst way.

You don’t say goodbye when you walk past him.

He doesn’t stop you.

But that night, your phone buzzes once. Unknown number. No name.

Still think about Calgary. No follow-up. No sign-off.

You don’t respond.

But you don’t delete it either.

[doumadono]

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST PRO HERO DABI & INTERN!BAKUGO A warm welcome - pro hero!Dabi - headcanons NSFW Sidekick!Reader - pro hero Dabi headcanons (NSFW)

Touya Todoroki's hero name is Dabi, no question.

As a pro hero, he takes being a total shithead to a whole new level, being a jerk with a hero license and flashy gear that screams "I'm better than you."

He's the biggest fuckboy on the planet, and as a pro hero, he takes it to a whole new level. He's bedded countless models, actresses, and even fellow pro heroes, and he's far from finished.

He has a custom-painted motorcycle with blue flames, because anything less wouldn't be cool enough for him.

Piercings and tattoos everywhere; he has his ears, nose, tongue, nipples and dick pierced, and his sleeves are adorned with huge tattoos, so are his back and neck.

He's the ultimate PR nightmare, and his publicists practically live in their offices, working overtime to clean up after his never-ending chaos. Sure, he fights villains and saves lives, but his brand thrives on scandals, keeping his publicists working overtime to handle the fallout.

Despite his scandalous reputation, he's a smooth talker when it comes to the media and public, effortlessly playing the role of the good guy when it suits him.

A certified narcissist, he loves to pull the "do you know who I am?" and "my father will sue you" cards.

When it comes to drinking, he's in a league of his own. This man can and will outdrink anyone, even Endeavor, leaving no doubt about his legendary tolerance.

Dabi's strategic mind and tactical prowess make him a formidable force on the battlefield, earning him the respect of both allies and adversaries.

Pro Hero Dabi is known for his unconventional methods, often bending or breaking the rules to achieve his goals. His willingness to operate in morally gray areas sets him apart from traditional heroes.

Despite his cocky and rebellious attitude, Dabi possesses a keen intellect and a deep understanding of human nature, allowing him to manipulate situations to his advantage.

Despite his outward bravado, Dabi is fiercely loyal to those he considers allies, willing to go to great lengths to protect and support them, even if it means defying conventional hero ethics.

Dabi holds an unbreakable bond with his younger brother, Natsuo, whom he regards as his closest and most trusted friend.

After meeting you, his current girlfriend, Pro Hero Dabi has undergone a significant personal transformation. Your presence in his life has prompted him to adopt a more mature and responsible demeanor. His commitment to you has motivated him to address his tendencies towards excessive drinking and flirting with others, as he strives to be the best partner he can be for you.

Those close to Dabi have noticed a significant change in his behavior, witnessing his earnest efforts to improve himself for the sake of your relationship. His commitment to personal growth and positive change reflects his deep investment in you and your future together.

In his free time, Dabi enjoys playing the electric guitar, and he takes particular delight in performing on his customized Fender Stratocaster.

[formulafanfics13]

Okay, now a cliché. The reader is Tsunoda's girlfriend and is taller than him (whether it's a lot or a little, it's your decision, diva ❤️). They both love each other and this difference is insignificant to them. At a Red Bull event, a businessman decides to ask Yuki "if he can handle you" and says that he (the businessman) can handle you better. Tsunoda gets furious but doesn't have time to answer, because the reader hears everything and says that she is MORE THAN SATISFIED WITH YUKI (in every sense), so satisfied that she even "screams" (😌) Yuki is proud and actually makes the reader scream in the hotel room.

Yuki short king 4ever ❤️

I love writing for Yuki, but I just feel that I never really know what to write!

Scream for me - YT22 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: At a Red Bull rooftop event in Tokyo, a sleazy businessman tries to humiliate Yuki by questioning if he can “handle” his taller, confident girlfriend — only for her to destroy him with a savage, orgasm-laced monologue in front of half the paddock. Fueled by pride and need, Yuki drags her back to the hotel and makes her scream his name over and over, proving exactly who owns her body, soul, and every inch of her voice.

Warnings: dom!Yuki Tsunoda, size kink (height difference), public humiliation (of a third party), possessiveness, rough sex, oral (f receiving), mirror sex, degradation (light), overstimulation, praise kink, dirty talk, orgasm control, cocky dom energy, mild exhibitionism, paddock chaos

 It started as a good night. Swanky rooftop bar, panoramic view of Tokyo glittering beneath the stars, Red Bull branding discreet but everywhere. Yuki stood beside you with one arm resting possessively on the small of your back, still in his tailored navy suit, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you bite your tongue. He looked stupidly good. Stupidly short, too, compared to you in heels, but he didn’t care. He never had. He was Yuki fucking Tsunoda. He drove cars like a demon and fucked like a god. The height thing? Please. Irrelevant.

You stood taller than him in your black satin dress, hips tilted, clutch dangling off your wrist. He loved it. Loved how your legs looked in heels, how your body pressed down on his when you kissed him, how the world looked at you and assumed all the wrong things until he had you under him moaning like a prayer.

He especially loved how you never let anyone treat him like less. Which was why the moment started to curdle, it felt like poison in his throat.

The businessman was older. Oil money. Or maybe crypto. One of those Red Bull "strategic partners" who wore a suit that cost more than Yuki’s Monaco rent and a Rolex that could blind a man in daylight. He’d been staring at you for the past ten minutes while pretending to talk about aerodynamics. Now, drink in hand, he tilted toward Yuki with the kind of smirk that always meant bullshit was coming.

“So,” the man said, his accent thick and condescending. “Tell me… how do you handle her?”

Yuki blinked. “What?”

The man smiled wider. “She’s tall. Strong. A lot of woman. I mean-” he laughed, like they were friends. “Can you even handle that?”

Yuki went silent. Body tensing. Fire building. The man didn’t stop. “A woman like her needs someone who can take control. Not be intimidated.” His voice dropped, disgusting and smug. “I could handle her better than you ever could.”

Before Yuki could breathe, you spoke. Loud. Clear. Cutting. “Funny,” you said, spinning around slowly. “Because I’m more than satisfied with Yuki.”

The conversation around you stopped. Heads turned. The businessman blinked, stunned. “In every way,” you added, smiling with venom. “In bed. In life. In ways that would make you cry.”

Yuki swallowed. You weren’t done. “In fact,” you went on, stepping closer to the man with a casual tilt of your hip, “I scream. Loud. Almost every night.” Someone coughed. A Red Bull comms intern dropped her phone. “Sometimes,” you said sweetly, “twice.”

The businessman looked like someone had slapped him with a wet fish. Red down to his fucking collar.

“Now if you’ll excuse us,” you purred, lacing your fingers through Yuki’s. “I’m going to take my incredible boyfriend back to our hotel and let him fuck me until I can’t remember your name.”

Yuki didn’t speak. He just turned, hand clutched in yours, and followed you out with fire in his chest and the kind of cocky smirk that made half the Red Bull garage cheer as the elevator doors shut behind you.

He didn’t even wait for the room service menu to be set down. The second the door clicked shut, Yuki had you pressed against the wall, mouth on yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip like he was trying to mark you from the inside out.

“You scream, huh?” he muttered between kisses, hands already on your hips, sliding up your thighs. “You scream for me?”

“Every fucking time.”

“Then scream for me now.”

He spun you around, pulled the zip of your dress down so fast it burned. You gasped, arching as the satin peeled off your body. His hands roamed your back, your ass, gripping like he was trying to memorise every inch. You turned to face him, lips already kiss-swollen, bra discarded, nipples hard from his stare alone. “Bed,” he growled. “Now.”

You backed toward it. Crawled onto the mattress with that bratty little smirk he loved, legs spread just enough to show him what was his. He watched, chest rising fast, pupils dark with hunger.

“You want me to scream, Yuki?” you teased, voice breathy. “Then earn it.”

He did. He pulled your panties off with his teeth, tongue already dipping between your legs before they hit the floor. His hands locked around your thighs, holding you open like a fucking feast. And then he ate. Groaned against your cunt like it was his last meal, tongue dragging slow and deep, lips closing over your clit with obscene precision. You were already whimpering.

“Louder,” he said against your skin, “I want everyone in this fucking hotel to hear how wrong that bastard was.”

You did. You moaned his name so loud the walls shook. When he pushed two fingers inside you, curling just right, your legs trembled.

“Yuki-fuck-fuck-”

He didn’t stop. Just switched angles, tongue still on your clit while his fingers fucked into you like punishment. The orgasm hit so hard you gasped like you’d been shocked.

And still, he kept going. “Another,” he said, voice low. “I’m not done.”

You came again before you could argue.

By the time he pulled away, face soaked, you were wrecked. Mindless. Sprawled across the bed like a girl who’d been worshipped by a god. But he wasn’t finished. He grabbed you by the hips, flipped you over, and pressed you against the hotel mirror.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, cock hard and leaking against your thigh. “Look how pretty you are when you scream.”

You moaned as he slid inside you, deep, rough, claiming you in one sharp thrust.

“Say it,” he growled into your neck. “Say who fucks you like this.”

“You-Yuki-fuck-you-”

He grinned. Pulled out, slammed back in. “Louder.”

“You! No one-fuck-no one fucks me like you-”

“Good girl.”

He set a brutal pace, fucking you hard enough to make your toes curl, your legs shake, your lungs give up trying to catch breath. The mirror fogged. Your screams filled the room. Your nails scraped the glass. And when you came for the third time — barely coherent, fucked dumb and dripping down his thighs — Yuki finally groaned against your skin, hips stuttering, and came with a moan that sounded like victory.

You collapsed together, breathless, tangled in sheets and sweat and pride.

“Still tall,” you whispered, lips swollen, “still screaming.”

Yuki kissed your shoulder. “Still yours.”

And when you woke up to a text from the Red Bull press team asking you to “keep it down next time”, you sent them a wink emoji and went back to sleep.

Because yes, you screamed. And yes, he earned it.

[vixellaivy]

Things i did to make U.A better (Mha Dr)

Campus & Facilities Enhancements

24/7 Mega Library: (I'm a book lover also love the vibes of a library definitely will be more motivated to study)

A vast, open-all-hours campus library built specifically for students to study, do assignments, and conduct research.

▸Why? Work-life separation is encouraged — students rarely study at home. I did this because i hate studying at home. I want it so that when i get home i can relax and don't stress over school works.

Also, i scripted that all the assignments group project and stuff are done here. For example in my hero class we're required to do a report after a mock battle so i do that here. 24/7 because I'll definitely cram sometimes here.

▸ Research nooks, hero case archives, and group study rooms included.

Campus Shops & Cafés: (why not, also another study spots)

On-campus cafés, small restaurants, and snack kiosks cater to dorm students.

▸ Perfect for nighttime studying or relaxing after training.

▸ Business students can help run these as part of real-world practice.

Academic System

Grade-Based Subject Weighting:

Every subject has custom grade breakdowns (e.g., written work, simulations, group projects, final exams).

▸ Promotes time management and responsibility.

▸ Encourages teamwork, strategy, and self-reflection.

Replaced Traditional Subjects with Hero-Relevant Ones:

Replaced Subject New Subject

Home Economics Heroic Psychology & Mental Resilience

Art Hero Costume Fashion Club (Elective)

Literature (1 slot). Quirk Science & Evolution

P.E. Quirk Fitness Club (Elective)

OR: I'll definitely choose between these

Heroic Psychology & Mental Resilience:

Understanding trauma, mental health, and stress in both heroes and civilians.

Includes crisis support, therapy basics, and emotional stamina.

Law & Justice in Quirk Society:

Teaches quirk laws, arrest protocols, and rights in quirk society.

Includes guest lectures from hero-law enforcers.

Public Communication & Media Strategy:

Handling public image, press interviews, and crisis PR as a hero.

Prevents scandals and hones hero branding.

Quirk Science & Evolution:

Scientific look at quirk origins, mutations, limits, and technological enhancements.

Deepens understanding of personal and villain quirks.

Hero Ethics & Tactical Philosophy:

Explores moral dilemmas, the thin line between hero and villain, and the weight of saving lives.

Hero Analysis:

Strategic breakdowns of past battles, villain quirks, and rescue tactics.

Includes group simulations and villain scenario planning.

Student Government + Event Planning

U.A. Student Council – Structure & Power

Purpose:

The U.A. Student Council isn't just for events and clubs — it's a **student-led administrative body that works alongside faculty to:

Maintain order and morale

* Oversee major school-wide events (like Sports Fest, internships, interschool competitions)

* Represent student concerns to the staff

* Approve club funding and operations

* Handle conflict resolutions (like a disciplinary board)

Council Hierarchy:

Position

Student Council President- The face of the student body. Leads meetings, interfaces with the principal, handles inter-departmental coordination.

Vice President -Oversees internal affairs makes sure all year levels and courses are heard. Handles emergencies if the Pres is unavailable.

Secretary -Keeps track of minutes, schedules, announcements, and makes public bulletins. Tech-savvy.

Treasurer -Handles club budgets, event funds, and market simulations (works closely with Business Course).

Hero Course Representative -Represents hero class interests — training fairness, dorm safety, student requests for gear upgrades, etc.

Support Course Representative - Speaks for support students — lab access, invention rights, project resources.

Business Course Representative- Ensures fair profit share in student business events and tracks project grading impact.

General Affairs Officers -Rotating roles that include dorm reps, club ambassadors, or special projects.

What They Actually Do:

Daily Duties:

* Hold meetings (weekly)

* Inspect club logs and request forms

* Mediate dorm or student issues

* Monitor public board of student concerns

* Assist with emergency drills or visitor management

During Events:

* Help design the Sports Festival structure

* Organize booths, coordinate timing

* Approve hero performance demos

* Help broadcast or moderate matches (media course synergy!)

Disciplinary Roles

* Can call mini-tribunals for things like:

* Unauthorized use of quirks in public

* Vandalism or damage to dorms/school property

* Bullying or harassment reports

* Final punishment decisions still rest with teachers, but the council investigates.

Election Process:

usually happens in the first few weeks of school.

* Campaign Season is huge — includes speeches, public interviews, even mock debates.

* Quirk use is allowed *with regulation* during campaign videos.

* Voting is by year and course — winner must appeal across departments.

* Teachers *can veto* a candidate if they’re too disruptive, unsafe, or academically unstable.

Support & Business Course Integration

Business Course Final Project:

Students must market, manage, and profit from support-tech or hero-themed items.

▸ Collaborations with Support Course students are common.

▸ Graded based on creativity, sales, and public response.

Support Tech in Everyday Life Booths:

Students invent gadgets for civilian use and test them during on-campus events.

Sports Festival Expansion

Multi-Grade & All-Day Event:

All hero year levels compete in shifts.

Students not fighting/the ones who lose early can attend booths, relax, or support peers.

Business Booth Integration:

Business students run vendor stalls during the festival.

▸ Graded on earnings, pitch quality, and customer response (counts for 50% of final grade).

Evening Market Vibe:

After battles, hero students and visitors enjoy food stalls, games, merch — like a summer festival.

Group Work & Real-Life Hero Tasks

Regular Hero Reports:

Every hero training exercise comes with a written reflection or analysis — just like real pro paperwork.

Group Projects Across Subjects:

Promotes teamwork between departments (Hero × Support × Business).

Simulates agency collaboration in the pro world.

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| Chapter 2 is already out!!

| 3.6k words

| A/n: I read the book “Really Good, Actually” by Monica Heisey and after binging a bunch of romcoms, I decided to finally start and post one. A lighthearted story, with some romcom vibes, that I’d actually been thinking about writing for quite a while. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry for any mistakes, it's the first one I've ever written and as it's obvious, English is not my first language. Enjoy <3.

Chapter 1

Back when life was simpler, and all you had to worry about were Tupperware containers, briefs, and whether you’d make it to the 7 p.m. Pilates class.

Some mornings, you wake up with this strange sense of clarity, like everything’s aligned. The coffee’s just right, the subway arrives on time, no one crushes your toes with a pair of impossible stilettos in their rushed way to their fancy offices.

This is not one of those mornings. You’re not sure if it’s because of the weird dream (the one where you’re marrying Louis, your ex, except he’s the one wearing that wedding dress you kept eyeing, and of course, his mother steals your spot at the altar), or because you ended up arguing with your own mother again, over text, at 12:47 a.m.

But something’s off.

You feel it in the way your toothbrush slips out of your hand, at least three times. Or how your coat gets caught on the door handle right when you’re running late. Also in the fact that, for some reason, you’re wearing two completely different shoes and don’t notice until you’re already in the elevator.

You don’t go back to change them. After all, no one looks at your feet in a marketing agency. Unless you work in fashion. And you don’t work in fashion.

You work in “emotionally driven brand storytelling strategy.” Which is just a fancy way of saying you come up with excuses for people to buy things they don’t need.

At 9:08, you get to the office. You know this because the biometric check-in clock reminds you, like a threat. You throw on your jacket with the defeated air of someone who already knows there’s no hot coffee left for her.

There are two people in the office's kitchen: Lucía, who always looks like she’s either about to cry or fall in love, and Guillermo, who speaks with an exaggeratedly British accent that no one really understands.

“Morning,” he says without looking up from his phone.

“How are you?” you reply, not because you care, but because silence feels even more aggressive.

“Busy. So busy. We have that pitch with the Swiss skincare brand at eleven. And then there’s the meeting.”

Ah. The meeting.

Your boss had announced it yesterday on Teams with the gravity of someone introducing the new Messiah:

“Tomorrow, we have an important meeting. Very important. Like, potential long-term strategic client important. I need your best brains, team. Bring attitude.”

You head back to your desk, a white table that’s far too small, which you share with three other people and a dying plant everyone pretends not to be turning their backs on.

On your screen, thirty-seven tabs are open. Nine are unfinished briefs, three are online clothing stores, and one is a search for: “how to tell if you’re having an emotional breakdown or just sleep-deprived.”

You take a deep breath. Open your calendar. The event is there:

10:30 – Confidential meeting.Subject: Project Star.Attendees: Management, PR, you.

You. Lowercase. Like a typo someone forgot to fix.

You try to focus. Take a sip of your coffee (cold). Open the Excel file with your corporate smile, the one you once practiced in the kitchen mirror. But it doesn’t last.

Because at 10:28, you get a direct message from HR:

Marta (HR): | Head up to Room 5. They’re all here. Including him 👀

Including him.

Who is him? And why that emoji?

Room 5 is the good room. The one with the Scandinavian sofas and the fancy capsule coffee machine. It’s almost always empty, as if reserved for things that matter. Or for people who earn more in a year than you will in your entire career.

When you walk in, the first thing you see is your boss, wearing that smug “I closed this deal even though I didn’t do anything” smile. Then three people you don’t recognize. Suits. Serious. A woman holding a folder full of documents, and two men who look like they haven’t laughed since 2017.

And then you see him.

He’s sitting in the corner of the sofa, staring at his phone like it’s blowing up. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, expensive watch. The kind of person who doesn’t need an introduction because you’ve already seen his face twenty times—on bus stop billboards, Nike campaigns, and a live-through nightmare involving penalty kicks and your grandmother’s best friend, who is Argentine.

Kylian. The footballer. That one.

Your first thought was: He’s even better looking in real life. Your second was: Don’t look impressed.

Your boss catches your eye and motions for you to sit down.

“This is Y/N, our trusted creative director,” your boss says in that tone he uses when he’s trying to sound cool and young, despite he is entering his middle 50’s. 

You smile as best you can. Your heart’s pounding like it’s doing cardio on your behalf.

Kylian looks up. And for a fraction of a second, he looks at you.

Not in a “who are you?” kind of way, but more like “right, so you’re the one who’s supposed to fix this.”

You sit down on the opposite end of the sofa. Far enough not to seem intimidating. Close enough to pretend you’re not trying to seem anything at all.

Your boss clears his throat. That thing he always does right before saying something that sounds like a headline but means absolutely nothing.

“Well, as I was saying, this is a special project. A unique opportunity to… rewrite the narrative.”

“Rewrite the narrative” is his new favorite phrase. He’s been using it ever since someone said it at a networking event and he jotted it down on his iPhone, right next to gems like “pivot from authenticity” and “emotional capital.”

“Kylian is entering a new chapter,” he adds, as if talking about a divorce or a spiritual awakening. “His team wants to work on his personal brand from a more honest place. More connected. Something… human.”

Kylian says nothing. Still staring at his phone. Like none of this matters. Like he’d honestly rather be out training in the rain or under 600-watt studio lights.

One of the women across the table finally speaks. She looks like she handles PR. Her voice sounds like one of those self-help podcasts that tell you everything happens for a reason while selling you a course on productivity.

“We want people to meet the real Kylian. Not just the athlete. The boy who grew up in the suburbs, who loves art, who’s investing in cultural initiatives for young people.”

The boy who loves art. Right. Like every bored millionaire who collects neon sculptures and Warhol prints they don’t even understand.

“We’re thinking of a series of documentary-style content—something intimate but visually strong. Also, a small social media campaign where he speaks directly to the audience. No filter.”

Your boss nods, enthusiastically, as he adds.

“And that’s why we have Y/N. Our top creative. Brilliant. With a unique sensitivity. She knows how to connect with difficult audiences. She’s worked with NGOs, tech start-ups, an inclusive pottery workshop…”

Your name, your career, your work, it all sounds like it’s being read out loud at your professional funeral. You smile. Because that’s what’s expected.

You turn toward Kylian. He looks at you. Finally. As if he’s only just now mentally arrived in the room.

“You write the scripts?” he asks. His voice is deeper than you expected. Like someone who doesn’t rush his sentences.

“I write the ideas,” you reply. “The scripts too. But if everything goes well, no one will remember the words. Just how it made them feel.”

You’re not sure why you said that. Maybe because it sounds like something a brilliant creative would say. Maybe because you’re just a little tired of being treated like a walking PowerPoint.

He nods. Says nothing else.

Your boss clears his throat again. There are more details, of course: deadlines, photo shoots, potential trips, a budget no one dares to say out loud. Words like “engagement,” “authenticity,” and “rebranding” hover in the air like LinkedIn mosquitoes.

And you, meanwhile, are sitting there wondering how this even happened. How you went from creating ad campaigns for titanium frying pans to looking into the eyes of someone who’s probably going to be the next football legend.

At the end of the meeting, he stands and everyone follows.

You stay behind a little longer, unsure if you should head back to your desk or pretend you need to go over your notes.

He turns at the door. Gives you a quick glance. Like he’s not sure whether to say goodbye.

“So, I guess I’ll see you soon,” he says.

And without thinking too much, you reply: “Looks like it.”

Later, in the office kitchen and dining area, Lucía looks at you like you just had dinner with Brad Pitt, her eternal crush.

“So? What was he like? Was he nice? Did he talk to you?”

“He asked me one question.”

“And? How was it? Can you tell he’s French?”

“Not really. You can tell he didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs. “So basically, just like you. Soulmates.”

You pour yourself more coffee. Even though it’s already noon and you know you shouldn’t. But you need something to remind you you’re still awake. That this wasn’t just a celebrity reality show fever dream.

Your boss messages you on Teams:

“Great impression. He liked you. Work your magic.”

Work your magic. As if it were that easy. As if magic weren’t, almost always, just logistics and anxiety.

You spend the afternoon going through the briefing. They’ve sent you a 17-page document titled: “A New Era: Humanizing the Legend.”

The title alone makes you want to jump out the window.

The phrases are full of vague objectives: — Position an emotional identity. — Connect with non-sports audiences. — Turn notoriety into relatability.

There are black-and-white photos of him. One with a vintage bike. Another reading a book with no title. A third holding a little girl (his niece, according to the caption). You wonder which parts of all this are real. And which ones you’ll have to invent.

You start jotting down notes. On a post-it, you write:

What if instead of pretending he’s “the guy next door,” we show him as someone who also had to fight for what he truly wanted? Distance as truth. Fame as fracture.

You like that sentence. Fame as fracture.

You stick it to the edge of your monitor. Right next to another post-it that says: – Call the dentist. – Stop stalking Louis. – Buy tampons.

The next morning unfolds like the mornings of the past six months: fast, half-hearted, with a light drizzle of anxiety—which today, for obvious reasons, feels slightly more intense.

You’ve been summoned to a more intimate meeting. Proposed by his PR manager. Just you, the PR manager, and him.

It’s in a coworking space in Chamberí that looks like a Pinterest café with people-pleasing issues.

When you arrive, they’re already seated. He’s wearing a cap. And sunglasses. Indoors. As if he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies. Dry. Tired. Then silence.

The PR manager talks for eleven straight minutes. You know it because you count it mentally. He nods occasionally, as if he’s listening. But you watch him and know he’s not really there. So you go for it.

“Sorry. Can I ask something?”

They both turn to you. The PR manager, with a thin smile, the kind that expects you to compliment her long monologue where she’s said everything and absolutely nothing. The kind of monologue that’s made you consider requesting medical leave and handing this project off to someone else, if all future meetings are going to be like this.

“Do you actually want to do this?” you continue.

He blinks. “This?”

“Yeah. The campaign. The rebrand. Are you actually interested in it, or are you here because someone told you to be?”

The PR manager shoots you a look that could be categorized as brand sabotage.

Kylian, however, laughs. A short laugh. But a real one.

“Does it matter?”

“A lot. If you’re not into it, it’s going to show. And if it shows, everyone’s going to see it. And if they see it, they’ll call you fake. And, then we’ll have to redo the whole campaign, but this time using the drama as the hook.”

He looks at you. “All right. I’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“To care.”

You nod and make a mental note: Functional sarcasm. Potential sense of humor. Possibly shy (or just reserved, does he not like me? If so, bad start). Possibly just fed up.

They send you clips of him “for inspiration.” Interviews. Matches. Viral moments.

There’s one in particular. A phone-recorded video on a plane. He’s on his phone. Someone off-camera asks if he’s nervous about the final. He answers:

“No. I’m tired.”

Tired. Not in a physical sense. Existentially tired.

That’s the crack. That’s where you can slip in.

The next day, he shows up at the office. Unannounced. Wearing a watch that probably costs more than a year’s rent on your flat, and the look of someone who Googled “how to dress normal” this morning and gave up halfway.

It’s four in the afternoon. You’re working the late shift today, you swapped with Mireia so you could work in a quieter environment, with fewer people to distract you while you try to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to frame this project.

“I’m here to work with you,” he says, walking toward your desk. The desk you’ve been saying for over a month now that you’ll tidy up, because honestly, it’s starting to get embarrassing. And now the embarrassment is fully devouring you from the inside out.

“Did you bring ideas? Proposals? Do you want to change something in the project?” you ask, because you’re not entirely sure why he’s here.

He doesn’t trust me, does he?

To be fair, your boss didn’t exactly sell you very well. And you wouldn’t trust someone either if they looked like they hadn’t been laid properly in five months and seventeen days (which, if asked, wouldn’t be too far from the truth), to run the documentary that’s supposed to reinvent your public image.

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. Definitely doesn’t trust me. You think. Or maybe his PR manager sent him to spy on you, because she also doesn’t trust how you do your job, especially after you, let’s be honest, gently shredded hers the other day.

He grabs a spare chair and sits next to you, stealing Pablo’s seat, who’s now watching the interaction from the water machine like it’s a live episode of something he didn’t know he needed.

“These ‘meetings’ usually happen with PR,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be here. They can send you the details.”

“I don’t care,” he shrugs. “It’s a project about my life, right? I should know what’s being said. And what’s not.”

Then, with just the right amount of cheek: “Got any coffee? Pour me one.”

You stare at him. Did he just tell me to make him coffee? Like I’m his assistant?

And you stare a little longer. He holds your gaze, half-smirking, half-testing. That kind of expression that doesn’t fully commit to being rude or polite. As if he hasn’t decided which version of himself is most useful in a Madrid office on a Tuesday afternoon.

You inhale. Slowly.

“We don’t have personal assistants here.”

You get up. Walk toward the coffee machine without looking back. Spine straight. Jaw set. Your version of saying don’t mess with me without saying it.

“Then make us both one,” he adds from your chair, like that somehow makes it better.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Dry. More of a stylish snort than a laugh, really.

“Sugar? Or do you want me to draw your logo in the foam?”

“No sugar. I'm in season, gotta watch the sweets.” He says it softer this time. Almost like an apology.

When you come back with the two mugs, he’s already leaned into your monitor. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the project timeline you’d left open.

“All this... you do it alone?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Did you think I had a team?”

Now he turns. Looks at you fully. Something’s shifted in his face, like irony was the password to get into his world.

“No. It’s just... a lot.”

You shrug.

“It is. But hey, at least no one makes me chase a ball for a living.”

He laughs. An unexpected one. Brief. Almost sweet. And that’s when it hits you: He’s not just looking at you. He’s watching you. Like he’s trying to figure something out about you that’s not in your resumé.

The next forty minutes, you work in silence. Or at least, what passes for “working” when two people are hyper-aware of each other and there's a quiet tension in the air that neither of you knows how to name yet.

Every now and then, he asks something. About the script tone. The order of the clips. Whether his accent is “too French” for a voiceover.

“Do you think I should speak Spanish in the videos?” he asks.

You consider it.

“If you want people to see you’re making an effort, yes. If you want to sound perfect, no.”

“I want to sound real.”

“Then leave it as it is. With mistakes. With pauses. With ‘ehh’ and ‘I don’t know.’”

He nods. And something opens there. Just a crack. A window slit. But it’s real.

He’s smarter than he looks. You realize that somewhere between the conversation on narratives, social media, and how to show vulnerability without sounding like a performance. He has opinions. He asks. He listens.

And you... You’re confused. Because you don’t know if this is still work. Or if you’re slowly being pulled into the gravity of it all. Of him. Of this moment.

At some point, he laughs at something you say and looks at you like you’re brilliant. Not beautiful. Brilliant. And for some reason, that disarms you more than any physical compliment.

The next day, at 10:36 a.m., the unofficial break time for Lucía, as if the universe had conspired for this conversation to happen, Lucía shows up at your desk with a cookie in hand.

“Was it real? He was here? Pablo told me.”

You raise your gaze to meet Lucía’s eyes, like she’s reached the juiciest part of a novel she can’t stop reading. You simply nod and turn your attention back to the monitor of your computer.

“So, how was it?”

You glance at your empty coffee cup resting next to the mountain of discarded post-its, all with ideas that still don’t quite fit this project. Ideas that seem to wander like echoes, failing to capture the essence.

“Strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?” Lucía insists, now sitting on the edge of your desk, making it feel like an interrogation. 

You sigh, gathering your thoughts.

“Strange ‘I want him back.’” You admit, letting yourself be pulled into that mix of confusion and realization you’ve been keeping to yourself.

You told her about that strange back-and-forth, that feeling you couldn’t quite describe, but Lucía, after hearing it, defined it as “professional flirting in disguise.”

“We’re not flirting.”

“Of course you are. It’s just that instead of telling him you love his smile, you told him his current storytelling is weak and redundant.”

“Because it is.”

“And he looked at you like he wanted you to write his biography and emotional resume.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Girl, I’m telling you, as a friend and as someone who’s seen all the seasons of The Bold Type, that guy cares more about your feedback than winning the Ballon d'Or.”

Exaggerations aside, something was there. A subtle thread of mutual curiosity, something that was growing without you realizing. And now, here you were: immersed in a project that would last several weeks, working alongside him. Defining the tone of his communication, developing digital pieces, planning interviews… All while trying to maintain your composure and stay focused on your workday.

You’ve come to the conclusion that it all boils down to the fact that you were bored.

You could say it was the algorithm. You could blame a well-executed digital strategy. You could use any excuse, really, and not be lying. But deep down, you know it was that. Boredom. The deadliest of mental states.

And there you were, last night, a Wednesday, with your emergency bun and a lopsided dinner in front of you, watching a video of Kylian Mbappé talking about motivation in a square format with black-and-white subtitles. He wore a white shirt, the collar a little stretched, and several buttons undone. And you wore what was left of your self-esteem and a glass of supermarket red wine.

The worst part is, the video wasn’t bad. The worst part is, it actually seemed sincere. It was in English, with a strong accent and a hesitant intonation, like he was afraid of offending the language. He said things like, "you can’t be your best version if you don’t know who you are," and you nodded. YOU NODDED. After that, you turned off your phone as if it had slapped you and went to bed without washing your face. Because boredom doesn’t just make you vulnerable; it also makes you lazy.

You told Lucía the story as if it were some ridiculous anecdote. Something to laugh about during her unofficial coffee break. But Lucía, who is not just your coworker but your version with steroids, looked at you as if you’d said something important.

“Girl, what if this is a sign?”

“A sign of what?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That you need a change. Or a quickie. Or both.”

[n1ght0f-nyx]

mha boys with their quirkless au! jobs- Headcanons

i got bored and im procrastinating actual fics so here this is ig!! characters- izuku midoryria, katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, denki kamanari, ejirio Kirishima, fumikage tokoyami, koji koda, mezo shoji, tamaki amajiki, hanta sero, tenya iida

Izuku Midoriya - Detective or Analyst

Majorly detail-oriented, he over-prepares and strategizes with backup plans for his backup plans.

Known for highly detailed reports; they’re both impressive and a tad overwhelming.

Can get totally absorbed in research, like spending entire days analyzing social media for clues.

Frequently says, "The clues were there—you just had to look," as if narrating a detective show.

Runs on coffee and protein bars, completely invested in his cases.

His desk looks chaotic with notes and photos scattered everywhere, but he knows exactly where everything is.

Becomes the “did you know?” person at social gatherings, sharing obscure trivia.

His obsessive streak makes him revisit case files repeatedly.

Gets overly excited about new gadgets, especially anything with a “zoom and enhance” function.

Katsuki Bakugo - Personal Trainer or Chef

Commands with intensity, whether grilling someone in the gym or grilling steaks in the kitchen.

In the gym, he pushes clients to their limits, which they both dread and love him for.

He’s as knowledgeable about nutrition as he is about weightlifting—skip his advice at your peril.

Takes skipping leg day personally, calling it "a disgrace to all athletes."

Wins every cook-off but hates it when people compliment his food; he’s all business in the kitchen.

Runs his kitchen like boot camp—there’s no messing around under his watch.

Works out even on his days off; he’s fueled by the grind.

Secretly rolls his eyes at fitness influencers but will do a protein shake tutorial for cash.

Yells, “Do you want to stay weak?!” if he catches anyone cheating reps.

“Self-care” to him is just a mental strength exercise; you toughen up or move out.

Shoto Todoroki - Lawyer or Therapist

Reserved and perceptive, he’d be a formidable lawyer, calm and unshakable in court.

Not overly enthusiastic about his work, but he knows he’s great at it.

While people think he’s distant, he’s actually very empathetic and insightful.

Straightforward yet gentle, his clients appreciate his no-nonsense therapeutic approach.

As a lawyer, he’d specialize in taking down the unjust, handling high-stakes cases with ease.

Owns a vast collection of ties, barely noticing the variety himself but others sure do.

Prefers listening, making his quiet presence seem mysterious.

Treats himself to something small after big victories, like a quiet solo ice cream celebration.

Misses jokes occasionally, but people find his delayed reactions endearing.

Known for offering thoughtful advice, especially to those questioning life choices.

Denki Kaminari - DJ or Social Media Influencer

Natural at hyping up a crowd, making DJing feel effortless.

All about good vibes, even if it means playing crowd-pleasers more than deep cuts.

Boasts a huge social media following, constantly interacting with fans.

Always a few days behind trends but plays it off like he’s an innovator.

Gets sidetracked on live streams, responding to comments like he’s hanging out with friends.

Calls his fans “Denki-squad” and treats them like his close pals.

Buys flashy gadgets that he half-understands how to use, just for the aesthetic.

Always “goes live” if anything remotely exciting is happening around him.

Knows every meme song, dropping them like he's got an internal playlist.

Excessive with hashtags, yet somehow it works for his brand.

Eijiro Kirishima - Firefighter or Construction Worker

First in line to respond to an emergency, he’d run into a burning building without hesitation.

Embodies responsibility, always ready to go above and beyond.

Dedicates free time to community projects like building playgrounds.

Known for drinking multiple protein shakes daily to keep up his strength.

Takes pride in being reliable, volunteering for extra shifts to support the team.

Appears in firefighter calendars, where his popularity skyrockets.

Has a small following of neighborhood kids who adore him.

Constantly cracks dad jokes, his hearty laugh always filling the room.

Gets good-natured ribbing from his friends, but his solid character makes it easy to take.

Saves lives like it’s just another day, then heads to the gym for an after-work workout.

Fumikage Tokoyami - Poet or Author

Writes in dim, cozy coffee shops with dark, atmospheric vibes.

Known for abstract poetry that sometimes only he fully grasps.

When he’s not writing, he’s buried in gothic literature.

Runs a mysterious blog where he posts poems and eerie stories.

Takes his coffee black, no sugar—anything else would compromise the flavor.

Friends think he’s enigmatic, though he’s simply introverted.

Dresses like every day is a moody poetry reading, favoring dark attire and unique accessories.

Quietly garners a following for his “haunting” works but never tells a soul.

Rarely performs live, but when he does, he’s met with enthusiastic finger-snaps.

Keeps a journal that’s practically sacred—he won’t let anyone read it.

Koji Koda - Park Ranger or Vet Tech

Gentle with every creature, treating each animal encounter like a treasured interaction.

Knows endless animal facts, stopping hikes to point out specific birds and plants.

Considers the forest a second home and refers to animals by names he’s given them.

Animals instinctively trust him; he’s practically an animal whisperer.

Loves natural remedies and can talk about herbs like they’re magic.

Has a way of convincing people to adopt pets because they’re just “so cute.”

Blushes when praised for his kindness; it’s just who he is.

Popular with kids who love his animal knowledge and gentle nature.

Known for leading long, informative nature walks, always taking his time.

Prefers animals over people most days and has countless photos of rescued animals.

Mezo Shoji - Wilderness Survival Guide or Youth Counselor

The “quiet giant” on outdoor trips, guiding with a protective watch over everyone.

Preps gear meticulously, never forgetting a single item.

Has a knack for discovering secluded, scenic camping spots.

Amazing with kids, his steady nature makes him a beloved camp counselor.

Has a calm, reassuring vibe that draws people in effortlessly.

Knows endless survival skills; always has a tip or trick in his back pocket.

Enjoys nighttime hikes, talking about constellations in a thoughtful, poetic way.

Treats each trip like an important bonding experience, bringing the group together.

Carries spare marshmallows because he knows someone always forgets.

Compassionate and patient, especially with less outdoorsy folks, quietly setting them at ease.

Tamaki Amajiki - Marine Biologist or Florist

Thrives quietly in his element, tending to ocean life or delicate blooms.

Committed to preserving marine habitats, he’s passionate but too shy to boast.

His deep knowledge surprises people when he speaks up, making an impact.

Friends are amazed by his niche knowledge—he could ramble about coral reefs for hours.

His floral arrangements are carefully crafted, almost reverent in their precision.

Quietly determined to protect the environment, joining cleanups or advocacy events.

Adds hidden messages to flower arrangements, though few notice the subtle artistry.

In marine biology, he’s published numerous papers on sea creatures, always under the radar.

Works with kids effortlessly, they love his gentle explanations.

Finds joy in rare plants or marine life, though he blushes if anyone mentions it.

Hanta Sero - Event Planner or Stunt Coordinator

Organized to the last detail, he keeps his events running like clockwork.

Can handle last-minute emergencies with a calm, “I got this” approach.

In the stunt world, he’s dedicated to safety, while making things fun and exciting.

Adrenaline junkie, he loves ziplining, bungee jumping, and anything that feels risky.

He’s a great listener, always taking others’ ideas to make events inclusive.

Stays cool under pressure, adapting quickly to whatever comes his way.

Good at making tiny changes on the fly, never losing sight of the big picture.

Finds the best deals for supplies, he’s got a knack for party logistics.

Ensures killer sound systems, knowing good music elevates any event.

Somehow pulls off a laid-back vibe even while he’s juggling a million tasks.

Tenya Iida - Professor or Physical Trainer

The professor who hands out a 20-page syllabus but genuinely believes it’s necessary.

Known for his strict yet fair approach, he challenges students but offers support.

Obsessive about lesson plans, updating them constantly for “maximum efficiency.”

In the gym, he’s relentless about proper form and discipline.

Can’t handle slacking, probably shuts the door precisely five minutes after class starts.

Students tease him, but they secretly appreciate his rigor and dedication.

Motivated by improvement, he’s always seeking ways to upgrade his methods.

Hyped to offer inspirational speeches that are almost intimidating in their passion.

Puts extra time into student support; he’s the go-to for anyone serious about self-betterment.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Arrogant Ex-Husband - Chapt 1

Character: Mob!Bucky x Model!Reader

Summary: In a strategic alliance marriage arranged for political gain, reluctant bride Y/N, dreaming of a modeling career, finds herself unwillingly wed to James 'Bucky' Barnes, a reluctant groom.

Words Count: 1,816

Series Masterlist with Prologue and Moodboard

Main Masterlist || buy me Ko-fi 🥹💓

Y/N stared out the tinted car window, the city lights flickering in the distance. Her father, a seasoned politician, clenched his jaw as he spoke into the phone, his voice seething with anger.

"Unbelievable! I trusted you, Rick. Trusted you with our family's reputation, and this is how you repay me?" Y/N's father barked into the phone, the tension in the car palpable.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably in her seat, stealing glances at her father's furrowed brow and the visible strain in his eyes.

The weight of the scandal involving her step-brother was evident (private video got leaked), threatening to unravel her family's name and her father's political career.

"What do you mean you can't contain this? I need a solution, not excuses," her father continued, tightening his grip on the phone.

The distant hum of the city echoed the frustration in the car. Y/N caught snippets of her father's conversation as he navigated the chaotic political landscape.

"You know what's at stake here, Rick. My candidacy, the family legacy — everything! I can't have this scandal tarnishing our name."

The car sped through the city streets, the outside world oblivious to the turmoil within the vehicle. Y/N's father listened intently to the voice on the other end, occasionally gritting his teeth.

"Handle it discreetly? No, that ship has sailed, Rick. You need to fix this, and you need to fix it now. I don't care what it takes. If you can't, then don't bother showing your face again."

The call ended abruptly, leaving the car in silence except for the distant sounds of the city. Y/N's father took a deep breath, trying to collect himself, but the frustration lingered in his eyes.

"Y/N," he finally spoke, turning to his daughter. "We need a solution, and it seems Harold Barnes is offering one. I don't like it, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

Y/N nodded, her gaze shifting to the city lights, knowing that the path ahead was fraught with challenges and unexpected alliances. The weight of the situation settled on her shoulders like an unshakeable burden.

There was a helplessness in her eyes, a silent acknowledgment that she couldn't escape the intricate web of family ties and political obligations.

Suddenly, Y/n received a message from her best friend, Honey, telling her that there was a casting for a famous brand that had just opened. 

Of course, Y/n wants to join; her eyes lightened up. Her father noticed it. He grabs her phone and puts it in his shirt pocket. He said something that hurt her dream. 

"Forget it, you're going to be a rich wife. Why would you ever want to be a model?"

That's hurt Y/N's feelings. 

Did her father forget that his former wife used to be a famous model? 

Did he also didn't know what his daughter wanted?

In the confined space of the car, surrounded by the distant glow of the city, Y/N felt the suffocating lack of freedom.

The walls of her father's decisions closed in on her, leaving her with no escape. Her once-promising dreams were now tethered to the demands of a family in disarray, the consequences of choices she didn't make.

It was her step-brother who ruined her father's image. But why it has to be her who fixes the mistakes?

Y/N sighed heavily. What could she do?

Her father didn't even care about her anymore since she brought his mistress into the house without apologizing that because of his adultery, Y/N's mother took her own life.

************

As the car moved through the city's labyrinthine streets, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, her every move dictated by a situation she had no control over.

The path ahead seemed like an unpredictable journey, with the enigmatic figure of Bucky Barnes's grandfather looming as both a lifeline and a shaper of her destiny.

When the car arrived at Barnes Residence, Y/N and her father were welcomed by Harold Barnes, a formidable figure with a commanding presence.

The imposing mansion, nestled in the city's heart, exuded an air of authority that matched the reputation of the Barnes mafia family.

As the car stopped, Harold Barnes stepped forward to greet them. His steely gaze assessed the situation, and a subtle nod conveyed acknowledgment and expectation.

"Senator [L/N], Y/N," Harold greeted with a firm handshake for Y/N's father and a courteous nod to Y/N.

Though measured, his voice held an undeniable weight that spoke of years spent navigating the intricate world of politics and organized crime.

"We appreciate your timely arrival," Harold continued, his tone hinting of formality. "Please, come inside. We have much to discuss."

Y/N exchanged a brief, uncertain glance with her father before following Harold Barnes into the opulent residence, where shadows seemed to dance across the grandeur of the mafia leader's abode.

The air hung heavy with unspoken agreements and the looming presence of a pact about to be forged. 

In the expansive Barnes Residence, as Y/N's father engaged in a serious discussion with Harold Barnes, Y/N found herself wandering through the mansion's labyrinthine halls.

The grandeur of the house overwhelmed her, each room a testament to the power and history of the Barnes family.

As she strolled, she saw a slightly ajar door, a subtle invitation into the unknown. Driven by curiosity and the need for a momentary escape, Y/N couldn't resist the urge to take a peek. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open.

*****************

The room beyond was dimly lit, the shadows playing on the edges of the walls. In the center, bathed in a pool of muted light, sat Bucky Barnes in a wheelchair. His presence carried an air of solemnity, and for a moment, their eyes met in an unspoken exchange.

Though physically present, Bucky seemed to inhabit a world of his own. The room, filled with an unspoken weight, held traces of a life altered by unforeseen circumstances. Y/N hesitated, sensing the vulnerability in his gaze.

The silence between them spoke volumes, a shared understanding of their challenges. In that fleeting moment, Y/N glimpsed a complexity in Bucky that transcended the public perception of the disgraced figure.

There was a story etched in the lines on his face, a narrative that begged to be unraveled.

Harold was about to call the butler when he saw Y/N wavered to enter the library room.

Ever perceptive, Harold Barnes noticed Y/N's hesitation at the library entrance. With a measured stride, he approached her, a silent acknowledgment of the delicate situation unfolding.

"Y/N," he said in a voice that held both authority and understanding. "Allow me to introduce you to Bucky Barnes." With a gracious gesture, Harold opened the door wider, revealing the dimly lit room and the figure in the wheelchair.

Harold followed suit as Y/N stepped into the room, guiding her toward Bucky. The air in the library seemed to shift, carrying an unspoken weight that Harold acknowledged with a subtle nod.

"Y/N, meet Bucky Barnes," Harold said, his voice a low hum in the quiet room. "Bucky, this is Y/N [L/N], the daughter of Senator [L/N]."

His gaze meeting Y/N's once again, Bucky offered a nod of acknowledgment. His eyes were complex, a silent invitation to understand the unspoken stories that lingered in the room.

Sensing the need for a private exchange, Harold excused himself with a nod. "I'll leave you two to talk. Take your time," he said before quietly closing the library door, leaving Y/N and Bucky in a space where the echoes of their shared circumstances seemed to resonate.

Y/N offered an awkward introduction in the hushed library, her voice breaking the stillness. "Hi, Bucky. I'm Y/N." Should she continue her introduction by saying, 'I’m also your future wife. Next week we will get married.'

Bucky remained silent, his gaze steady yet revealing little. The weight of the unspoken hung in the air, threading through the quiet room.

Feeling the need to fill the silence, Y/N glanced around the library briefly before her eyes settled on Bucky's face. Despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't help but notice his striking features—handsome, yet marked by the complexities of a life altered.

As her gaze traveled to his left arm, the room seemed to hold its breath. There, in the dim light, she observed the bionic limb, a symbol of both strength and vulnerability. Y/N's eyes lingered, recognizing the silent struggles etched in the contours of that prosthetic.

As Y/N's gaze lingered on Bucky's missing left arm, she sensed a shift in the atmosphere. Bucky, wise to her scrutiny, felt a twinge of discomfort and offense.

The unspoken vulnerability that Y/N had observed seemed to boil over into a harsh reaction.

"What, never seen a guy with a missing arm before?" Bucky's words, laced with bitterness, cut through the silence. His eyes, once steady, now held a glint of wounded pride.

"You probably think I'm some kind of freak, right?" His tone grew sharper, the pain beneath the surface manifesting as anger. "Well, get used to it. This is what I am now."

Y/N, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere, tried to find the right words. Before she could respond, Bucky's words turned more cutting.

"And what's your game here, huh?" Bucky's voice escalated, the accusation palpable. "Marrying me for my family's wealth? Just like your father, always after power and money."

The words hung in the air, a heavy accusation stung with a truth Y/N hadn't expected. Bucky's resentment, fueled by his insecurities, lashed out, and in that moment, the library became a battleground for emotions too raw to be contained.

As Y/N absorbed the harsh words, an apology caught in her throat. Unable to face the hostility, she whispered, "I'm sorry," before swiftly leaving the room.

The door closed behind her, leaving Bucky alone in the dimly lit library. As the echo of her departure lingered, an unexpected pang of regret stirred in Bucky's chest. He couldn't quite comprehend why he had lashed out with such venom. She hadn't done anything to deserve his bitter words.

Now alone with his thoughts, Bucky replayed the scene in his mind. The realization of his unjust accusations settled heavily on his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, grappling with a surge of remorse that, though unexpected, held a raw truth—he shouldn't have said those words to her.

Bucky gazed at the window behind him, overwhelmed with guilt for involving an innocent woman in his troubled life. The agony of losing his left arm was unbearable, and the need for therapy for his leg added to his suffering.

He felt like a villain as if he had intentionally trapped an innocent woman in this marriage.

The weight of his actions pressed down on him, and the city beyond the window seemed to mock the dramatic turmoil within his soul.

At that moment, Bucky couldn't escape the feeling that he was playing the role of a heartless antagonist, making an unwitting woman suffer in the shadows of his pain.

Author Note :

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Chapter:

1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7, 8 , 9 ,10 , 11, 12 , End

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[lorelune]

aventurine with a reader who is his handler. your primary job? risk analysis. you were an intelligentsia guild member-- once, before your talent for mental statistical computations were fully discovered. being quietly brilliant was much easier than being loudly so. where you could once toil away on private research on the ipc's dime, you now trail behind aventurine, attempting to mitigate all the damage that ripples around him.

(this is particularly difficult as aventurine is a man cursed with luck so good that it's a statistical anomaly. prediction is useless. calculations must be made on the fly and you must pray you are accurate, lest the strategic investment department end up in some amount of personal of fiscal debt themselves.)

aventurine had assured you initially that you didn't need to keep such a close eye on him. and at first, you'd believed him. he is one of the ten stonehearts, and well-regarded despite the rumors and brand on his neck. it's-- it's not your business anyway. to pry. you trust him.

and truthfully, he does keep a good handle on himself. he gets out of all of his gambles in one-- piece. sort of. he either skirts disaster with no room to spare or he takes on the disaster with his own two hands and grit and fucking wins.

and truthfully, if that was the only thing you had to analyze about aventurine, your job would be quite easy. he's lucky. he wins.

however-- there's just so much more to it than that. factors and variables that aren't affected by aventurine's uniquely good fortune. there always is. but what is and what isn't is hard to suss out. it-- it all constantly changes and hence you have to be in aventurine's shadow and hope that your mind is fast enough to deduce and calculate at the speed that aventurine cuts typical odds down to aventurine odds.

which is to say, that exhaustion follows in your shadow.

aventurine isn't a horrible boss. as much as you're his handler, he's yours. there's a semi-silent, mutual duty you both carry. aventurine makes sure you stay in his shadow, just out of sight and out of danger (so, he can position himself in front of any bullets, stray or otherwise. because they will never hit him.) and you make sure that he does not inadvertently cause a firestorm half a galaxy away.

it works. it's tenuous, most of the time. because aventurine thinks getting close to you is his greatest gamble (one cannot use luck to mend a broken heart). and because you recognize that, for all of your risk analysis and statistical understanding of the universe at large, at some point, you will be in aventurine's wake at the wrong time. and your luck, in conjunction to his endless luck, will run out.

it's a statistical inevitability.

[biancasaidstfu]

I think Luke will be there in Paris Fashion Week and I am 98% sure Antonia will be present too. They will probably make one last outing as a "couple" and then disappear throughout summer with occasion content implying that they are together before they start to distance themselves in August.

I think September will make it certain that they are "no longer together" and unless Nicola and Luke are papped, they won't confirm their relationship before November/December earliest. In fact, they might not confirm it at all this year since Luke's Viana premier is set for December. Seeing as it would be the only project of Luke to reach the fans this year, it makes sense that they do everything to keep the focus solely on Luke rather than Luke and Nicola.

During the S3 press interviews, there is a huge difference in the questions asked to Nicola compared to the ones asked to Luke. I personally feel that there are a lot more questions that should have been asked to Luke because that man yaps beautifully. I love his answers to well-thought out questions and the ones pertaining to Colin. His understanding of the characters he plays is fascinating and should be asked more because those are the ones we would love to hear about. I know Nicola got a bit more publicity mainly due to her various advocacy lines and pending/upcoming confirmed works so I really think that they will do their very best to keep the focus solely on Luke and his work. Plus let's not forget, Nicola's play is starting in December too, so she will most definitely want the focus to be on that rather than her relationship.

Honestly, if they don't disclose the relationship by early next year, I think they will out themselves during or around the Bridgerton press. Or Shondaland has to be extremely creative and arrange the press content with minimal Luke and Nicola interactions on camera because they aren't fooling anyone. Seeing how stubborn they are, I would say they might go as far as to cite "conflicts in schedule" as an explanation and that will not go well with the fandom. Polin is one of the strongest fandoms in the Bridgerton verse so Shondaland should be utilizing it to their advantage. The fact that we didn't get any Luke and Nicola content officially during BAFTAs has people side-eyeing the whole thing. One side is firmly on they are beefing, while the other is on they are in a relationship and trying to hide it. Shondaland would have to handle it very strategically since the last thing they would want is to have the Polin brand ruined. Then again, the lukewarm one year Polin anniversary celebrations give me the dread that they might.... (Well, let's not give them any ideas)

Hell, I have given a lot of ideas above, haven't I?

Well, if any of the above happens, I am going to blame it on the teams. They lurk here. It will only prove that we are right about everything. If the opposite happens, well, we are the Tortured Lukola Department for a reason. Hit us!

I am already mourning over the fact that we might not be getting the October 3rd content from Luke this year and the thought of it makes me want to crawl 6ft under the ground and cry. I mean, we are being robbed day and night here! No official grid Polin selfie so far. Luke barely shows a sign of life every month and it's usually with a like or a follow/unfollow. Nicola has all but retreated from the public to the point that it's all business, ads and advocacy posts now. I miss my chronically online relatable Queen. Talk about torture. No one warned me life was going to be like this. No one prepared me for this day.

*sniff*

Here's an idea. Since we know they lurk and take tips and whatnot, shall we give them some crumbs? How about we come up with a list of questions we would like interviewers to ask Luke and Nicola, that:

1. Hasn't been asking in any interview before

2. Not related to any "glow-up" comments or such about their physical appearance

Cue the anon the keeps saying “Lukola 2026/27”

Let’s come up with questions y’all.

[wordsnstuff]

Why does screenwriting have such a weird format? I know it's standard for scripts of all kinds, but it's also alien? It almost looks like it's designed for someone to write quickly??

Why are screenplays the way they are?

Screenplays are interesting pieces of writing because while they can read very beautifully, and quality is apparent in some scripts more than others, it is a medium that is extremely purposeful. The script is not the final destination of the idea, and that is what you have to remember. The script is, more than anything, a map. It gives the cast, crew, and producers the necessary information to get a sense of the story so that it can be adapted effectively. Therefore, the quality of a script is judged by a completely different rubrick:

Adaptability: Scripts are naturally going to go through many changes to serve the filmmaking process. Filmmaking is a fundamentally collaborative process so other members of the group must be able to effectively interpret the script well enough to make strategic improvements. Scripts are definitely works of art in their own right, but the design must account for adaptation into a completely different medium and you will not always be the person making executive decisions on how that is to be done.

Clarity: Creative liberty is acceptable in a lot of forms of writing, and style is definitely apparent in a screenwriter's work, but that is primarily to be found in how they practically form the elements of the story, rather than how it is delivered in words. The clearer your meaning and intent in a script, the easier it will be for the other people you're collaborating with to interpret and translate into the next medium. Even if your work is meant to be experimental, abstract, or avant garde, the script is the place where you make sure everyone that is inside of the production understands the point, so that they can help you make sure everyone outside of it is confused in the desired way. Your talent and style can be showcased in the way you demonstrate the particular brand of humor or suspense or drama in the descriptions, dialogue, and dialogue cues.

Efficiency: Format is extremely strict in the industry because it is a collaborative medium that often brings together hundreds of crew members who are all from different backgrounds/experience. The one thing that must remain consistent and reliable is the legibility of the script. The gaffer and the producer alike must be able to pick up the script and find what they need to learn in order to fulfill their role. The format of the script denotes specific crew member's cues in specific places so they know how to find what's expected of them quickly and efficiently. While on larger productions, there's often many directorial positions who are coordinating and communicating with the crew members who handle more detail oriented jobs, that isn't always the case.

My advice, if you're looking to gain experience in writing scripts that are actually meant to be adapted is to practice self-discipline, pragmatism, and distance. Your script won't always belong to you. There isn't the autonomy in screenwriting that you have in prose. Learn the rules of screenwriting, then learn how to enhance them in your own way.

Best of luck,

x Kate

–

Masterlist

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[cyjammy]

Vox and Valentino: A Display of Trust

VALENTINO AND VOX

Not going to lie, I was the most excited for this dynamic and it just barely beats out Vox and Alastor’s rivalry. For four years they were both the big unknowns only seen for about 30 seconds in the pilot.

There were theories about their dynamic that I hoped to god wouldn’t be true in the show.

Because they didn’t make sense, they looked friendly with each other when they hunkered down for the extermination. And there was no way one sinner (Val) could create an empire alone.

AND I’M SO HAPPY THAT DID NOT HAPPEN.

Valentino being hot headed and brash was not on my 2024 bingo card, but I’m here for it.

(Yes, he’s a bad person. So is everyone else in the show. Alastor hangs out with cannibals and most likely participates. It’s a show about Hell.)

I LOVE HIM. I love everything about him down to the voice, the fluctuating emotions, the drama, the possessiveness — ALL. OF. IT.

I love me some fucking drama and I was LIVING for the back and forth between him and Vox.

Valentino is in charge because of the power he has.

He’s not a words guy, he uses action. He refuses to change his ways because that’s what got him to the top. He’s ready to hunt down Angel just for moving out.

Mind you he still goes to work and fulfills his side of the contract, Valentino just can’t handle not having control.

Micromanaging Angel’s life down to the smallest of details. Controlling who he can talk to, what he can wear.

He wants his plaything back in his sight, he doesn’t want him getting defiant. He wants his leash short so he doesn’t get any ideas.

And the way he gaslights the fuck out of Angel hit hard. Getting away from an abuser and then having the distance you finally need to heal, but being forced to be in contact with them is so restricting that it hurts.

Jesus that was fucking with me.

You don’t necessarily have to be smart to manipulate people, and Val knows that. Val plays the part of the fool so people underestimate him.

He feigns impulsiveness.

When asked for strategic advice he plays dumb.

That’s calculated, and it may just be written off as idiotic, but that’s probably what he wants.

He has to be playing dumb, there is no way he has survived this long by pure luck.

Vox makes do with him by his side because Val can gain trust and place sinners under his spell.

That makes him a valuable asset. Vox supplies the equipment and Valentino supplies the merchandise.

Because that’s all he considers those who are under his employ.

They’re things to be sold to an audience.

But Vox might not see the subtle ways Val messes with him.

Val’s a bratty, unsympathetic, monster that will do anything to get his way. With the guidance of someone with a more grounded personality removed from his issues is when he is able to see reason.

And Velvet can’t even do that, only Vox.

That shows respect and trust.

Even when Vox was spelling it out for him slowly it wasn’t a slight against him, it was a reminder and it held no malice.

If it did, Vox would have lost his temper as he did with Alastor. He kept himself measured for Val and reigned himself back in.

He may know that it won’t get him anywhere after dealing with him for so long. If Vox didn’t see Valentino as a worthwhile investment, he wouldn’t even go through the effort.

Vox knows the best way to get Valentino to listen.

Valentino is extremely self centered. Vox speaks in a way that makes Val want to care, while still making sure it benefits him as well.

“OUR brand”

“Any idea what YOU would look like chasing random whores around town”

“OUR image”

Their partnership is of the upmost importance. Vox needs to make sure the empire remains, that the Vs have their power. That they’re on top.

And that’s a goal Valentino can get behind.

Valentino backs off with disappointment, because he enjoys violence. And he wanted there to be a show.

So instead he throws out something that could really get under Vox’s skin.

Alastor.

Val could have used this information to cripple Vox, make him vulnerable during a time where he needed to stay focused.

But instead, he uses it now.

Val was bored, he knew how Vox would react, and he wanted a show.

And a show he received. Pressing all the right buttons to see his partner go mad.

I want to see more of Valentino. So far his actions could be read as surface level — dumb and erratic — or strategic.

As of now, I’m assuming he knows what he’s doing.

Anger clouds your judgement and both Vox and Val were subject to that effect within a few minutes. That doesn’t necessarily mean Val is a fool and that Vox calls ALL of the shots.

Val acts idiotic around his colleagues because he knows they won’t take advantage of him. Until I see how he is around Angel Dust outside of those voicemails or around his other employees is when that can be settled.

I’m hoping this is a strategic play, because that would be an amazing use of misdirection. All the signs are there, and it could be so.

I also love how Vox is never fearful of Val and vice versa. They both would take steps toward each other that would be misconstrued as advancing toward violence.

Neither flinch. They look a bit surprised, sure, but never scared.

The respect is there and I love the relationship Val and Vox have.

[mariacallous]

One of the things enterprise storage and destruction company Iron Mountain does is handle the archiving of the media industry's vaults. What it has been seeing lately should be a wake-up call: Roughly one-fifth of the hard disk drives dating to the 1990s it was sent are entirely unreadable.

Music industry publication Mix spoke with the people in charge of backing up the entertainment industry. The resulting tale is part explainer on how music is so complicated to archive now, part warning about everyone's data stored on spinning disks.

"In our line of work, if we discover an inherent problem with a format, it makes sense to let everybody know," Robert Koszela, global director for studio growth and strategic initiatives at Iron Mountain, told Mix. "It may sound like a sales pitch, but it's not; it's a call for action."

Hard drives gained popularity over spooled magnetic tape as digital audio workstations, mixing and editing software, and the perceived downsides of tape, including deterioration from substrate separation and fire. But hard drives present their own archival problems. Standard hard drives were also not designed for long-term archival use. You can almost never decouple the magnetic disks from the reading hardware inside, so if either fails, the whole drive dies.

There are also general computer storage issues, including the separation of samples and finished tracks, or proprietary file formats requiring archival versions of software. Still, Iron Mountain tells Mix that “if the disk platters spin and aren’t damaged," it can access the content.

But "if it spins" is becoming a big question mark. Musicians and studios now digging into their archives to remaster tracks often find that drives, even when stored at industry-standard temperature and humidity, have failed in some way, with no partial recovery option available.

“It’s so sad to see a project come into the studio, a hard drive in a brand-new case with the wrapper and the tags from wherever they bought it still in there,” Koszela says. “Next to it is a case with the safety drive in it. Everything’s in order. And both of them are bricks.”

Entropy Wins

Mix's passing along of Iron Mountain's warning hit Hacker News earlier this week, which spurred other tales of faith in the wrong formats. The gist of it: You cannot trust any medium, so you copy important things over and over, into fresh storage. "Optical media rots, magnetic media rots and loses magnetic charge, bearings seize, flash storage loses charge, etc.," writes user abracadaniel. "Entropy wins, sometimes much faster than you’d expect."

There is discussion of how SSDs are not archival at all; how floppy disk quality varied greatly between the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s; how Linear Tape-Open, a format specifically designed for long-term tape storage, loses compatibility over successive generations; how the binder sleeves we put our CD-Rs and DVD-Rs in have allowed them to bend too much and stop being readable.

Knowing that hard drives will eventually fail is nothing new. Ars wrote about the five stages of hard drive death, including denial, back in 2005. Last year, backup company Backblaze shared failure data on specific drives, showing that drives that fail tend to fail within three years, that no drive was totally exempt, and that time does, generally, wear down all drives. Google's server drive data showed in 2007 that HDD failure was mostly unpredictable, and that temperatures were not really the deciding factor.

So Iron Mountain's admonition to music companies is yet another warning about something we've already heard. But it's always good to get some new data about just how fragile a good archive really is.