#Weekend Lockdown in UP

[daddy-long-legssss]

had my personal assessment for work and it went well but i still felt like i could burst into tears at any given moment.

[lipstickontheglass1985]

the upside definitely is that its physically impossible to feel lonely under these conditions. which considering the wave of loneliness im usually feeling around november is awesome. yayy 👍

[foxgloveinspace]

…

[danjlayton]

every day i miss the rh experience 💔

[ccupcakqs]

— Miss America & Mr. Melbourne ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: not proof read, tooth rotting fluff, oscar's a huge softie pairing: oscar piastri x first daughter!reader a/n: from a request, idk not my best fic in my opinion

it starts with a mistake.

not the kind that causes chaos, or lands you on the front page of every newspaper in the country. just a soft, silly kind of mistake. the kind that might make the secret service frown, but won’t trigger a full lockdown.

it’s miami. it’s hot. it’s loud. it’s crowded in that way that makes your security team nervous, and you restless.

it’s also the first time in six months that you’ve managed to convince your father’s chief of staff that you don’t need a formal schedule for the weekend. technically, you’re attending the grand prix in an “informal diplomatic capacity,” which just means you’re allowed to smile for cameras but not say anything interesting.

so instead of sitting in a hospitality suite with senators and ceos, you wander.

in sneakers. in sunglasses. in a bucket hat you stole from one of the interns.

you ditch your detail for a little while — not recklessly. just enough to breathe. they know where you are, roughly. you’re not reckless. just tired of being watched.

somewhere around turn nine, you find a wall of orange — and duck behind it.

it’s just a canvas divider, separating the mclaren hospitality area from the paddock walkway. you’re not supposed to be here. no one says anything, but you know the rules.

still, it’s cooler in the shade. and quieter.

until someone steps around the corner.

he’s tall. not imposing. just… tall. clean lines. race suit unzipped and tied around his waist. dark hair damp from his helmet. and eyes — bright, amused, gold-flecked — that land on you like he already knows something you don’t.

he blinks. you blink.

"this is… definitely not the red bull lounge," you say, deadpan.

he huffs a laugh. “no, not quite.”

and that’s the moment it begins.

not with fireworks. not with recognition. just with a stranger behind a curtain, on a hot saturday in miami, looking at you like you’re not the president’s daughter — just a girl.

and for the first time in a long while, you feel like one.

he doesn’t ask who you are.

maybe he doesn’t know. or maybe he does, but decides not to make it weird. either way, you’re grateful.

you lean your shoulder against the canvas divider, squinting at the pit lane past his elbow.

“you’re oscar,” you say. not a question.

his lips twitch. “you’re not supposed to be here.”

“neither are you,” you counter, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“i drive here.”

“i walked.”

he raises a brow, like he knows that isn’t the full story, but doesn’t press. instead, he glances over his shoulder, makes sure no one’s listening, and lowers his voice just enough to feel like a secret.

“you’re supposed to be in the ferrari suite.”

“that obvious?”

he shrugs. “you’re wearing a mclaren hat.”

you blink. reach up. realize you grabbed the wrong one from the hospitality desk.

“shit.”

he laughs. it’s quiet, but genuine.

you’re not sure why you’re still standing there, tucked behind a canvas wall with him. you could leave. your phone is buzzing with unanswered texts from your detail. someone probably wants to escort you back to a Very Important Room with air conditioning and filtered water.

but you don’t move.

because he’s not asking for anything. he’s not telling you to smile. not pretending to be impressed. just standing there, easy in the heat, looking at you like you're not a headline or a talking point.

“want a drink?” he asks.

you hesitate. “are you offering because you’re polite, or because you actually want me to say yes?”

he tilts his head. “a little of both.”

you follow him without thinking.

the mclaren motorhome is busy, but not overwhelming. people nod as you pass. no one stops you. oscar slips a staff badge lanyard over your neck without comment.

you sit in a shaded lounge while he brings you two cold cans of something citrusy and sparkling.

“thank you,” you say.

“you’re welcome,” he says. “you looked like you needed a moment.”

you do. more than a moment, really.

you sip your drink, letting the coldness ground you. he sits beside you, not too close, elbows on his knees, looking out at the crowd beyond the glass.

it’s the first time in weeks you haven’t felt like you’re on display.

and somehow, it’s oscar piastri — quiet, sharp-eyed, soft-voiced oscar — who gives that to you.

you watch him from the corner of your eye.

he doesn’t fill the silence. doesn’t try to entertain you. just exists, calm and steady, like he doesn’t mind sharing this exact moment with you.

you think, maybe he’s like this on track too. focused. unshakable. maybe you want to stay a little longer.

you’re not sure how long you sit there with him.

five minutes. maybe twenty. long enough for the tension in your shoulders to dissolve, for your pulse to stop ticking like a countdown.

no one interrupts.

when you finally glance at your phone, there are a few texts. nothing urgent. nothing on fire.

he notices. not nosy, just observant.

“should i be worried the cia is about to drag you out of here?” he asks.

you huff a soft laugh. “wrong agency. but yes, probably.”

“do i have to pretend i didn’t see you?”

“only if i pretend i didn’t see you either.”

he smiles, and it’s boyish. not for show. not political. just… real.

you haven’t seen many real smiles lately.

outside, the sun shifts. the sky softens from harsh afternoon to gold-tinted early evening. track activity slows. the noise pulls back.

you let your head fall gently against the wall behind you, the cold can still sweating in your palm.

“do you like it?” you ask.

he looks over. “f1?”

you nod.

he considers it.

“i love it,” he says, simple and certain. “but i don’t always like it.”

you understand that.

it’s how you feel about politics. about the white house. about your title. a thing that shaped your life but doesn’t always feel like it belongs to you.

he doesn’t explain the difference. and you don’t ask. it’s enough that the words exist between you.

you watch his hand flex on the rim of his can. long fingers. calm rhythm. thoughtful, the way people are when they don’t speak just to fill the air.

you glance back at the track.

“can i ask you something?”

he nods.

“do you get scared? before races?”

he doesn’t flinch.

“sometimes,” he says. “but mostly i get quiet.”

“quiet?”

“yeah.” he leans back a little, turns his head toward you. “like everything goes still right before i go.”

you swallow. that feels familiar too.

“does it help?”

he shrugs. “it makes me honest. like i know what i want. and what matters.”

you look at him a second longer than you probably should.

you think he’s telling you something he doesn’t say often.

you think you’ll remember it later, when things feel too big.

he finishes his drink, tosses the empty can into a nearby bin, and stands slowly.

“i should go debrief,” he says. “and you… probably have to go be very important again.”

you nod, lips tugging up. “i guess i do.”

he reaches down, then pauses.

“is it okay if i—?”

you hand him the lanyard before he finishes the sentence.

he slips it off your neck gently. doesn’t brush your skin. doesn’t need to.

“thanks for not calling security,” you say lightly.

“thanks for hiding in the right curtain.”

you both linger.

then he says it — casually, like it doesn’t weigh anything:

“see you around?”

you say yes, even if you don’t know if you will.

but you hope you do.

you get escorted back to your suite twenty minutes later.

your detail doesn’t scold you. they’re used to your disappearing acts by now — quiet, timed, harmless escapes that never last longer than an hour. still, you can feel them tracking every step. the weight of duty presses in again like velvet ropes around your ribs.

you change. you debrief. you shake hands with people who pronounce your name like it’s a title instead of a person. one man tells you you’ll make an excellent diplomat someday. you smile. it doesn’t feel like a compliment.

your mind drifts back to the canvas curtain. to citrus sparkling water and the sound of his voice. to the way he didn’t try to impress you, and somehow impressed you more because of it.

the rest of the night moves on. more press. more photos. more smiles. you’re good at all of it. you always have been.

but every once in a while, you catch yourself turning toward the crowd, wondering if you’ll see a familiar face.

you don’t.

not that night.

the next time you see oscar, it’s accidental.

or maybe it isn’t.

you’re in monaco, two weeks later, at a glittering reception hosted by someone who owns three yachts and two national banks. you’re wearing pale silk and borrowed diamonds. your name is on the guest list twice — once as your father’s daughter, and once as an independent delegate for an international youth diplomacy council.

the latter sounds more impressive, but everyone here only cares about the former.

you’re standing by a high window, watching the lights skim across the harbor, when someone steps up beside you with a glass of something golden and fizzing.

he offers it to you without looking. you take it without hesitation.

“you clean up well,” you say.

he smiles at the reflection in the window. “so do you.”

his voice is just the same — low and unhurried, like nothing about this world startles him. it steadies something in you.

“do you do this often?” you ask. “stumble into galas like a romcom lead?”

“only when the girl behind the curtain might be there.”

your chest tightens. soft. stunned.

you look up at him fully now.

he’s in a tux. sharp black lapels. no tie. hair a little unruly, like he hasn’t been able to stop running his hand through it. he looks like every girl’s favorite daydream and none of it seems to reach his head.

“you remembered me,” you say, mostly to yourself.

he turns toward you slightly. “i haven’t forgotten anything.”

the room spins slowly. laughter clinks through crystal. cameras flash across the marble hall behind you. and somehow, it’s all quiet.

quiet like he said. quiet like the moments before the lights go out and the race begins.

you don’t know how long you stand there, just looking at each other, framed by crystal and gold and candlelight.

he watches you like he did in miami — calm, certain, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, beside you. and maybe it’s the champagne or the dress or the way the evening feels stretched like a ribbon between something old and something new, but you lean in.

not much.

just enough to ask the question without words.

he answers without hesitation.

his hand finds your waist. your palm finds his collar. his mouth finds yours, slow and warm and sure.

it starts soft.

curious. familiar in a way that surprises you both. the kind of kiss that makes your stomach drop and your lungs forget what they’re supposed to do. you breathe into it like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks — since miami, since the curtain, since that first stolen moment in the middle of a crowd.

and then it deepens.

his hand curls tighter against your side, pulling you closer. your fingers slide into his hair, tilting his face toward you like instinct. your lips part. he follows. and suddenly it’s a kiss that says i found you again. i remembered. i wanted to.

he tastes like champagne and adrenaline. like gold light and something just a little dangerous beneath the stillness.

it doesn’t feel careful. not anymore. it feels wanted.

his mouth moves against yours, slow but intent, and your back presses against the tall glass window behind you. you think you hear him exhale — shaky, barely-there — and it makes you want to pull him even closer.

he kisses like he’s been waiting.

you kiss like you finally let go.

your heart drums wild in your chest, but nothing about this feels uncertain. the world outside might be watching. people might be whispering. the press might have opinions and headlines already drafted.

but none of that reaches here.

not where his hand slips up, thumb brushing your jaw, not where his lips linger when the kiss breaks, just barely.

you stay close, foreheads pressed, breathing like you’ve both just crossed a finish line you didn’t know existed.

he’s the first to speak.

his voice is low. rougher than before.

“i think i’m in trouble.”

you smile, breathless. “me too.”

he’s still close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. the glittering lights of the gala blur behind his eyes, but the moment feels sharp, real, like you’re both finally breathing after holding it in for too long.

“so,” he says, voice a little rough, “how do we not mess this up?”

you laugh softly, a breathy sound that feels like relief. “i don’t think we have a choice but to try.”

he grins, that same boyish smile that makes the world seem less heavy for a minute.

you shift slightly, the silk of your dress whispering against the marble floor, and suddenly the noise of the party fades. there are conversations and music, but they feel distant — like they’re happening underwater, muffled and far away.

“you make it easy,” you say quietly.

“you make it worth it.”

there’s a pause, warm and full. his fingers trace the small of your back, steady and sure.

you want to believe him. want to believe this isn’t just a stolen moment but something that could stretch beyond the track and the spotlight and the expectations.

but there’s still the world waiting outside.

“we should probably get out of here before someone notices,” you whisper, not quite ready to pull away.

he nods, eyes darkening just a little. “yeah.”

you don’t move yet. you just let your fingers lace with his.

there’s a soft kind of promise in the way your hands fit together, and for once it’s not about duty or diplomacy. it’s just two people — no titles, no cameras, no racing or politics — just the quiet hope of what might come next.

you slip out of the gala through a side door, the warm mediterranean air wrapping around you like a blanket. the party’s hum fades behind you, replaced by the distant lapping of waves against the harbor.

oscar keeps his hand gently on your back as you navigate the narrow cobblestone streets. neither of you says much. words feel unnecessary. the night is full of quiet possibility, the kind that lives in stolen moments away from cameras and expectations.

you find a bench tucked under an olive tree. the scent of salt and jasmine hangs heavy in the air.

he sits close, close enough that you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. the kind of closeness that doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand — just is.

“what’s your favorite part of all this?” you ask.

“the quiet,” he says without hesitation. “the seconds when everything slows down. when it’s just me and the car and the track. no noise, no distractions.”

you nod, thinking about your own favorite quiet moments — the rare times you slip away from the spotlight, the press, your security detail. the rare seconds where you can breathe without performance.

“do you think we can find our quiet?” you whisper.

he turns to you, eyes softening. “i think we have to.”

the world might be loud. complicated. relentless.

but maybe here, now, it can be different.

you lean into him, the gentle press of your forehead against his the softest kind of promise.

for now, that’s enough.

the next days blur into a whirlwind of noise and schedules, but you carry that night with you like a secret warmth beneath your skin.

at the paddock, the world spins faster. flashes, interviews, racing strategy — all the things that pull at you in different directions.

oscar’s there, always present but never intrusive. a steady presence in a storm of chaos.

you find small ways to steal moments. a quick smile across the garage. a touch on the small of your back when no one’s looking. whispered jokes in hallways bustling with engineers and team principals.

there’s an unspoken understanding growing between you. one that doesn’t need words because it’s written in glances and quiet proximity.

during one race weekend, after a long day in the heat, you find yourself sitting beside him on the steps of the hospitality area, your legs stretched out, racing shoes dusty.

“you look tired,” he says softly.

“you don’t?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

he shrugs. “race day is always draining. but moments like this help.”

you close your eyes, savoring the rare stillness.

“promise me something?” you say after a while.

“anything.”

“that no matter what happens out there on track… or off it… we’ll keep this. this quiet space we’ve found.”

he smiles against your hair. “promise.”

and in that promise, you find a quiet kind of strength.

days fold into nights, and every quiet moment you share with oscar feels like a small rebellion against the chaos surrounding you.

one evening, after dinner, the paddock is already dark and humming with the distant noise of late-night team meetings.

you walk together toward the motorhome, the cool air brushing past you like a whisper.

oscar’s hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours gently. you don’t pull away.

“sometimes,” he says softly, “i wish this part wasn’t so complicated. that we could just be two people — no expectations, no headlines.”

you squeeze his hand, the same thought crossing your mind.

“me too,” you whisper.

he stops walking, turns to you, and the glow of the lights paints his face in soft gold.

“but maybe the best parts are the ones we fight for.”

you nod, leaning into him. it feels like home.

he kisses your temple, warm and steady, a silent promise that no matter what, you’re not alone.

and for a moment, the world outside fades to nothing but the two of you.

you stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a long moment, the weight of the world outside forgotten, if only for a little while.

“we’ll figure it out,” you say softly.

“together,” he agrees.

the paddock buzzes faintly around you, but inside this bubble, there’s nothing but steady heartbeats and slow breaths.

he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze gentle and sure.

“thank you for taking the risk. for sneaking behind the curtain.”

you smile. “thank you for letting me.”

there’s a promise in the silence between you — not just for now, but for everything that’s to come.

and as the night stretches on, you know this is just the beginning.

you never expected the quiet to feel so loud.

after the grand gala in monaco, after the nights spent walking narrow streets and stealing moments away from cameras, you find yourself craving the silence between the chaos more than anything else.

oscar is always there, steady and calm, like the eye of a storm you never want to leave.

today, you meet at a small café tucked away from the bustle of the paddock. the smell of fresh espresso and warm pastries fills the air.

you sit opposite each other, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes.

“you ever get tired of all this?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to the busy paddock around you.

he shrugs. “sometimes. but then i remember why i do it. why every race matters.”

you nod, understanding too well the weight of expectations.

“it’s hard,” you say softly. “to be yourself when everyone’s watching.”

he smiles, a little sad but honest. “you make it easier.”

you laugh quietly. “good. because i’m not going anywhere.”

he reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours.

“me neither.”

and in that simple touch, you find a world of promise.

the weekend races blur into a rhythm you almost get used to — the early mornings, the roar of engines, the intense focus before each qualifying lap.

oscar is always nearby. sometimes it’s just a glance, other times a quick squeeze of your hand. small gestures that say more than words ever could.

one afternoon, you find him alone by the pit wall, watching the sunset turn the sky a shade of burnt orange.

you sit beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask softly.

he shrugs. “how lucky i am to have found this — found you.”

you smile, heart fluttering.

“you’re the only thing that feels real.”

he turns to you, eyes shining.

“same here.”

the world feels quieter then, like it’s folding around you both.

and for once, the noise of the season can wait.

after the race, the paddock starts to empty, teams packing up equipment, engineers exchanging tired smiles.

you and oscar find a quiet corner near the garage. the air is cool now, touched with the faint scent of fuel and rubber.

he leans back against a tire stack, pulling you close by the waist.

“race days are intense,” he murmurs, voice low.

“but moments like this make it all worth it,” you reply, resting your head on his shoulder.

he kisses your hair softly, a silent thank you for being there, for understanding.

you both stay like that for a while, savoring the calm after the storm.

no words are needed. just shared breath and steady heartbeats.

and the quiet promise that this is only the beginning.

days stretch on, the pace relentless, but the little moments you share become your anchor.

one evening, after a long day of interviews and media appearances, oscar finds you alone on a balcony overlooking the circuit.

the sky is painted in soft pinks and purples.

he slips his hand into yours without asking.

“sometimes,” he says, “i forget how lucky i am.”

you squeeze his fingers gently. “me too.”

you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

the world fades away — no cameras, no schedules, just the two of you in the quiet.

he turns to kiss your temple, slow and sure, a reminder that no matter how loud life gets, you always have this.

you and oscar stand side by side as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and lavender.

he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“this,” he whispers, “is what i want to remember. not the races, not the pressure — just us.”

you smile, heart full.

“me too.”

the air hums softly around you, the world slowing down just enough to hold this moment.

you press your cheek to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

in the silence, there’s a promise — of more stolen moments, of soft laughter, of love growing quietly but fiercely.

and as the stars begin to twinkle overhead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms under the fading sky, everything feels quiet and right.

the chaos of the world — the cameras, the expectations, the endless noise — fades to a whisper.

in this moment, there is only you and oscar.

two people who found each other behind the curtains, in the quiet spaces, in the stolen moments.

and maybe that’s all you really need.

because love, soft and steady, is its own kind of victory.

[tetrafelino]

I read one (1) short novel once and now not a day goes by without me lamenting not having the time to read more Gabriel Garcia Marquez books

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.”

Bat boys x reader:Giving birth unexpectedly!

This is a filler headcannon. I will post works next week hopefully.This is inspired by the way i had my son;In our car in a campsite😭😭.wrote this while my partner and son are asleep (Finally.)💛Enjoy!!

Bruce Wayne –

Gives birth in the Batcave during a lockdown

• Bruce has contingency plans for everything. Protocols. Staff. Medical equipment. Even a direct line to the best OB-GYN in Gotham, complete with a private hospital suite prepped and waiting.

• So when you go into labor two weeks early during a surprise cave lockdown triggered by a bio-threat alert, Bruce realizes just how little plans mean in the face of reality.

• “Of all the days to trip the emergency security seal…” he mutters while trying to override the system that locked down the Batcave.

• You’re pacing in the command center, gripping his arm mid-contraction, and Bruce—THE Batman—is rattled. Not visibly. But his jaw is tighter than steel, and his voice keeps lowering into that clipped, deadly tone.

• “The ventilation systems are sealed. Medical wing is sterile. We’ll stay here.”

• He clears the armory’s examination table, then covers it with sanitized cloth from the medkit. Everything becomes clinical—measured.

• But then you cry out in pain and fear, and that cold steel in his voice breaks just slightly. “I’m here. You’re safe. I promise you—you’re safe.”

• He’s no doctor, but his hands are steady. He follows the steps like a soldier disarming a bomb, all while keeping your eyes locked with his.

• When the baby finally comes, Bruce catches them with reverence and holds them for a moment before laying them on your chest. “Hello,” he whispers, as if stunned. “You’re early. Just like your father.”

• Once the lockdown ends, Alfred is the first to arrive. He says nothing when he sees the scene—just places a blanket over your shoulders and smiles at Bruce. “Master Wayne, it appears your most impressive legacy has just begun.”

⸻

Jason Todd –

Gives birth in a remote mountain cabin during a snowstorm

• You and Jason were supposed to be taking a quiet getaway in the mountains—no crime, no city noise, just peace.

• But a snowstorm traps you both in the cabin, and you go into labor with no service, no landline, and no neighbors for miles.

• Jason tries to stay calm, but his hands keep flexing like he wants to punch the storm into submission. “You’d think after all the crap I’ve survived, I’d get one weekend off,” he growls while boiling water on the stove and digging out the first aid kit.

• The fireplace crackles as he builds a makeshift birthing space with every warm blanket he can find. He holds you through the worst of the contractions, whispering calming reassurances that are so unlike the man most people know.

• “You’re not alone. Not for a second. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”

• You scream through it. Cry. Curse. And Jason stays right there, steady and strong, letting you dig your nails into him without complaint.

• When the baby comes, he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you reach up and brush his cheek.

• “They’re perfect,” you whisper.

• Jason looks down at the tiny, red-faced bundle and chuckles—half disbelief, half raw emotion. “You know… I’ve cheated death, escaped hell….but this is the scariest, most incredible thing I’ve ever done.”

• The storm finally ends the next morning. Jason steps out onto the porch with the baby swaddled to his chest, looking out over the snowy mountains and whispering, “No better place to start over.”

⸻

Tim Drake –

Gives birth in the WayneTech server room during a tech emergency

• Tim was showing you around the newly renovated WayneTech R&D floor when the unthinkable happens: a massive tech breach hits the servers, and your water breaks at the same time.

• Alarms are going off. The elevators are frozen. And you’re gripping a rack of prototype tech while Tim stares at you in utter disbelief.

• “I—uh—okay. Okay. Baby. Yes. Not now, but yes.”

• He immediately drops into triage mode. He reroutes power, uses an emergency system override to lock down the room for privacy, and hacks a medbot to assist.

• You’re lying on a pile of foam floor tiles, breathing through a contraction while surrounded by glowing server lights and the hum of computers.

• “So…this isn’t exactly the sterile birth plan,” you groan.

• “Statistically speaking, no,” he deadpans, then flashes a smile. “But the lighting’s dramatic.”

• He talks you through each contraction, quoting snippets from baby books and software manuals alike, as if he’s compiling his own parenthood operating system in real-time.

• “You’re doing amazing. I don’t know how you’re handling this with only 20% battery and no Wi-Fi.”

• You scream again. “Timothy!”

• “Right, shutting up.”

• When the baby finally arrives, he goes silent. Truly silent. No jokes. Just wide-eyed, overwhelmed wonder.

• “They’re… ours,” he whispers, staring down at this impossibly tiny human like they’re a miracle.

He wraps you both in his jacket and sits on the server room floor with the baby in his arms.

Dick Grayson –

Gives birth in a subway car

• Dick had planned everything. He mapped out the fastest hospital routes, kept emergency bags packed, and even memorized breathing techniques like he was preparing for an Olympic sport.

• But fate has a flair for drama, and on a completely normal afternoon ride through the Blüdhaven subway, your water breaks in the middle of a crowded train.

• At first, you thought it was just a Braxton-Hicks contraction. Dick was even joking about the train delays. Then you grabbed his arm and said, “Dick… I think it’s happening.”

• All the blood drains from his face. “Happening like… happening happening?”

• He immediately takes charge with a surprising level of calm—because behind the charming, goofy exterior, Dick Grayson is a born leader.

• “Alright everyone, I’m going to need some space. My partner is about to give birth. Please—back up and someone call emergency services.”

• Someone tries to film, and Dick glares. “Unless you want a lawsuit and a shattered phone, put it down.” The phone disappears instantly.

• He helps you lie down on a bench in the mostly-cleared car, cushions your head with his jacket, and holds your hand like a lifeline. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

• Between contractions, you keep asking if the train is moving. It isn’t. Power outage. Of course.

• “You had to propose to me on a rooftop, and now our baby’s coming in a subway,” you groan.

• “What can I say? We’re just a very public transit family.”

• You scream at him to stop making jokes. He doesn’t. It’s the only thing keeping him sane too.

• When the baby is finally born, the train lights flicker back on—almost poetic. Dick holds them like the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

• “Hey, little one. Welcome to Blüdhaven Underground.”

• When help finally arrives, you’re both surrounded by a circle of subway strangers who are all a little teary-eyed.

• Dick doesn’t let go of either of you for hours. “I’ve done a lot of things in tights and under pressure… but nothing as incredible as this.”

⸻

Damian Wayne aged!up

Gives birth in an art gallery during his solo exhibition

• Damian, now 26, has traded the Robin mantle for a quieter life—he’s a respected artist known for surrealist pieces that blend traditional Middle Eastern motifs with Gotham’s harsh modernity.

• You’re 8 and 1/2 months pregnant when he unveils his latest collection in a sleek, intimate art gallery downtown. The night is supposed to be a celebration of his evolution as a person and creator.

• But the gallery is warm, and crowded, and you’ve been on your feet all night admiring his pieces with other guests. That’s when you feel the sharp, unmistakable pain of labor.

• “Damian,” you whisper, grabbing his hand. He thinks you’re just tired until you add, “It’s happening. Now.”

• His whole face changes. Not panic—just immediate, tactical focus. “We need to leave. Now.”

• But the contractions are fast and furious. You’re not making it to the hospital. A horrified gallery intern runs to grab supplies, while Damian helps you to the quietest room—a stark, white-walled exhibit space filled with his paintings.

• Ironically, the piece behind you is called Rebirth.

• Damian sheds his jacket and lays it beneath you. He calls Talia first—yes, his mother. Say what you will, she knows how to keep her cool in chaos.

• “She’ll be fine,” Talia says over the phone. “Trust her. Trust yourself.”

• He gently presses his forehead to yours between contractions, speaking to you in soft Arabic—his most vulnerable, instinctual language. “You are strength. You are life.”

• He coaches you through the birth with focused determination and awe. When the baby arrives, it’s quiet for a moment… then a cry. He exhales shakily.

• The first thing he does is lay the baby on your chest, whispering reverently, “My finest creation.”

• Someone tries to enter the room, and Damian growls, “You will not disturb them.” The door shuts. Fast.

• Later, he paints a piece inspired by that night—an abstract image of you and the baby, surrounded by the negative space of a blank canvas. He titles it Origin.

• “I thought my art was complete,” he says quietly, holding your hand. “But nothing I ever make will compare to the life we just brought into this world.”

[dizzyduck44]

I love this for him.

Some of us have been here since he was a shy 17 year old, playing online for days on end. When he didn’t drink, because he never went out. He admits he grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. For the last few years of his schooling he was home schooled. His weekends were spent at a racetrack, not out with his friends.

He spent lockdown alone and actually freely admitted he didn’t mind it as he preferred his own company. This is the boy who was excited about his cheap bulk buy of socks from Amazon.

As he grew up he had this magnetic, engaging and charming personality, but was in lots of ways the wallflower.

It’s great to see him finally start to enjoy his success, be that flash cars, fashion, partying with his friends, chasing 6 girls at a time or travelling the world. He has grown into the personality he had and is making up for all those years as a lonely teenager on his own. It’s like seeing someone finally realising who they are meant to be in life.

And the best bit? He’s doing it without all the old F1 driver playboy tropes. He’s not lounging on a yacht in between races and bringing a different model to each race. He’s not getting photographed being carried out of parties and clubs. Eddie Irvine or James Hunt he is not. Instead he’s just doing the usual early 20s things (remember he is still one of the babies on the grid), albeit with a far bigger budget than the rest of us.

[httpsserene]

groceries — 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒 & 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 lando norris & oscar piastri & fem!black!reader drabble. fluff. attempt at banter. dialogue heavy. no physical description of reader. could be platonic or pre-relationship. covid lockdown mentioned. baking soda vs powder plagiarized from reddit; thank you redditor fowler311.

synopsis: you know a thing or two about baking, because you’ve baked a thing or two.

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ qatar, you were magnificent until you weren't. this post alone is me putting good energy in the atmosphere for the boys in abu dhabi. is this platonic or not? idk, it's up to you—i just happened to write it. (college semester is over !!! i will be so active you'll wish i never came back xxx) no part two requests, pls 🥺 enjoy reading, loves < 3

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

you grocery shop on saturday night because no one else living in monaco would consider doing the same. usually.

as you’ve been grabbing items off the shelves, you occasionally stumble across two young men—they’re the only other customers in the store with you this evening. 

the first time you shared an aisle with them, you offered a polite smile before redirecting your gaze to the various shapes and brands of pasta. the second time, you shyly murmured an “excusez-moi” and they apologized immediately while stepping out of the way, allowing you to grab a pack of chocolate chips. the third time, your polite smile widened in amusement, as you watched the man drowning in an oversized hoodie shadow-box his friend, who remained unfazed at the whooshing fists as he inspected a carton for any cracked eggs.

the fourth time, you realize that the two men are lando norris and oscar piastri—the driver lineup of the mclaren formula one team. and, they’re arguing about the difference between baking powder and baking soda, very loudly. in aisle three of carrefour. at eight in the evening. on a saturday night.

surely, these two have more interesting plans for their weekend besides grocery shopping.

“they can’t be that different, can they?”

“hmm. once is soda, and the other is powder. that’s quite different, i reckon.”

“yeah, but, they both start with ‘baking,’ so, i figure they’re more similar.”

“if they’re similar, why would they make two different products?”

“greed? consumption—oh, no, wait—consummate? no.”

“consumerism?”

“consumerism! that’s it.”

“i would agree, but i don’t think that’s the case with these two.”

“well, think harder. it’s freezing in here, osc.”

“i think you’re iron deficient.”

“what?”

“never mind—look, mate, this is your fault, really.”

“woo-oooow, i can’t believe this! so, you’re blaming me now?”

“you wrote the list, lando! how is your handwriting so terrible that i can’t tell if you wrote ‘baking soda’ or ‘baking powder’?”

“first of all, you told me to write the list! nobody writes grocery lists anymore, grandpa! secondly, why would you make the dyslexic kid write the list? it’s cruel and unusual—you know i can’t spell for shit.”

“lando. the word ‘powder’ has two more letters than ‘soda.’ i know that you know that. how did you make—whatever the hell that says—look like it could be either one?”

“osc, you’re hurting my feelings. are—are you saying i’m stupid?”

“i literally never said that. the word ‘stupid’ didn’t even come out of my mouth, you muppet—“

you bang the front of your cart into the end-cap of the aisle, sending a few rolls of bagels to the floor. your cheeks warm as their banter halts and heads snap over to look at you awkwardly rushing around to pick up the floor bagels. the last package rolled unbelievably far to knock against lando norris’s shoe. aren’t you just lucky?

you see lando press his lips together to avoid laughing (you appreciate the effort), and he dismisses your apologies as he scoops the bagels off the floor and moves to help place them back on the shelf.

“uh, t-thank you,” you stutter, as oscar piastri walks over just in time to catch a roll that was eagerly looking to return to the supermarket floor. the two men offer smiles in return—lando’s wide and gap-toothed, oscar’s boxy and toothless.

“soda spreads and powder puffs,” you blurt out, because you left you brain-to-mouth filter at home. maybe they sell replacements here. in the aisle furthest away from the two formula one drivers, preferably.

“what?” lando questions, a matching look of confusion plastered on his teammates face.

“sorry, i overheard your conversation,” you shrug, trying for nonchalance, “baking soda influences spread and browning, whereas baking powder provides puffiness and lift. they’re both leavening agents but, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate and baking powder is a mixture of sodium bicarbonate and an acid. soda needs and an acid to activate but powder needs moisture and heat. so—i guess which one you need depends on what your trying to make.”

you think you failed to portray nonchalance, if the perplexed expressions the two stare at you with are any telling.

oscar blinks, “…we’re trying to make chocolate chip cookies. i tried to convince him to buy cookie dough but he wanted to make them from scratch, even though neither of us can bake.”

“it’s more fun if we do it from scratch,” lando crosses his arms huffily, “you didn’t have to tell her that we’re absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, though.”

“i reckon she already knew that from overhearing our lack of knowledge about baking ingredients, lando,” the australian chuckles quietly, shifting the shopping basket from one arm to the other.

“do you have the recipe on you?” you ask kindly.

oscar hands the scorned grocery list over without complaint, “it’s my mum’s recipe. sorry if it’s hard to read—you’ll have to blame him for that.”

lando scoffs in indignation, “you’re exaggerating, oscar. my handwriting isn’t that bad, is it?”

you feel them watching as you decipher the hieroglyphics that are lando’s letters. you bring a finger up to trace underneath the scrawl, eyes squinting to force the words into focus—oscar snorts and lando sighs in played-up dejection.

“i can understand what you’ve wrote just fine,” you smile at lando, “i’ve seen worse. you know, my younger cousin’s handwritting is miles more dreadful than this.”

the brit knocks his shoulder against oscar’s teasingly, “hah! maybe you just can’t read, osc. have you thought about that?”

you tap your finger against your chin in thought, “—but my cousin is like, five-years-old, with terrible fine motor skills. so, i wouldn’t say that’s a fair comparison.”

the two are caught by surprise, laughing delightedly at your ribbing. the sound of their amusement is contagious enough for you to crease with your own giggles.

“i didn’t expect to be bullied in a carrefour’s on a saturday night by a stranger,” lando says with a grin, after he’s calmed down.

“sorry,” you shake your head playfully, properly introducing yourself before continuing, “i forgot you usually spend your time here arguing about baking soda. which—by the way, your mum’s recipe calls for both baking powder and soda, oscar. which is very smart and unique! in most cookie recipes, most people usually opt for baking soda alone, for the spread of the batter. but, your mum must’ve liked her cookies puffier and fluffier as well! anyways, that explains why it looks like lando could’ve written either word here—because he meant to write both.”

they thank you profusely for helping them overcome the challenge of lando’s handwriting, oscar returning to the aisle to place each ingredient in his basket.

“sorry, could you grab me one of the baking soda, as well?” you ask, “that’s the last thing off of my list tonight.”

“we’re all done, too,” the australian walks over with your box, hesitating briefly before you gesture for him to drop it in your filled cart.

the duo walks towards the registers with you, lando asking, “are you a baker?”

“no,” you chuckle, “i had a phase during lockdown.”

“ah, i should’ve known,” he teases, “i mean, that’s how you know that baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber—“, oscar echoes his teammates ‘sodium carbon-fiber’ with a soft smile, “—just a baking phase, right. makes sense.”

“oh, come on, lando norris,” you scold him jokingly, “baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber and an acid. keep up—we’ve been over this already.”

you separate from the two as you near the registers, unloading your cart onto the conveyor belt and exchanging polite conversation with the cashier as you hand over your stack of reusable bags. you don’t realize that they’ve waited for you until you start to think about the logistic of carrying all of your groceries home.

“uh,” lando pushes oscar forward with a firm hand on his back, the tips of the australian’s ears are reddening, “would you like help with those? we don’t mind holding a few.”

“would you mind?” your shoulders sag in relief, “i do this in one trip routinely but i don’t think that’s happening tonight. i only live about four blocks over—my doorman will help me get them all up to my flat, so i won’t be keeping you longer than necessary.”

that’s how you find yourself walking home, on a saturday night, with two formula one drivers holding the bulk of your groceries in their arms. you’re going to the casino directly after you put the groceries away because your luck is too good to miss out on right now. your doorman heads inside to grab a cart as soon as he catches sight of you. your two helpers exchange a glance in your peripheral vision as you come to stop in front of your building.

“well, this is me,” you start, pausing to thank your doorman, gabriel, as the boys carefully unload the bags onto the cart, “thank you for the assistance, you are both too kind.”

“mr. norris and mr. piastri are always kind,” hums gabriel, winking at the two men, before rolling the cart inside.

“wait, what? you live in the same building as me?” you’re flummoxed. you knew the rent was too expensive, but you didn’t think it was formula-one-driver-expensive.

“i live here,” lando reveals, holding the door as he lets you and oscar walk inside, “osc doesn’t. i feel like i would remember your face if i’ve seen you here before. what floor are you on?”

“i don’t know if i should tell you that,” you side-eye them flippantly, “i fear for my safety.”

“well, i shouldn’t have told you that i live here,” lando sniffs.

“gabriel blew your cover, mate,” oscar rolls his eyes, “also, she would’ve found out anyways. we would’ve had to follow her in to make the cookies in your apartment.”

your doorman squeezes into the first elevator with your groceries, while you and the boys opt for the second. oscar’s hand hovers over the button while he waits for you to clue him in, pressing lando’s afterwards.

lando clears his throat as the elevator begins to rise. “seeing as your thrilling saturday night activity of grocery shopping is over, what are the rest of your plans for tonight?”

scratching at the nape of your neck, you say, “don’t judge me anymore than you have tonight…i was thinking about watching the entire how to train your dragon trilogy.”

oscar gasps quietly, his eyes bright, “i love those movies.”

“would you like to come up to my flat and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch with us? and watch the movies, too?” lando’s question is sweet, and his eyes are earnest.

“i feel like it would be very dumb of me to visit the apartment of a man i just met in the grocery—formula one driver or not.”

“sorry, i can see how it’s weird. better safe than sorry, i know. i promise we’re not like going to try anything, or we’re not, like, serial killers or anything. oscar’s too polite for that, and i’m too squeamish. seriously, it would be just for the cookies. we didn’t have a baking phase in lockdown like you did, so we’re lost on a lot more than the different between baking soda and powder. sodium carbon-fiber and acid, or not. if it’s uncomfortable for you, that’s fine. maybe we can plan for another day when you know us better.”

“yep,” oscar offers in support of lando’s statement.

you smile, “you remembered about the acid this time.”

the elevator dings before softly jerking to a stop on your floor. the doors begin to slide open, “honestly? i think i’m more afraid about you guys possibly burning our building down rather than killing me in cold blood.”

you step out of the elevator, seeing gabriel waiting by your door with the cart.

turning back to face the two men, you survey them with a serious gaze before breaking into a grin, “don’t turn on the oven without me. that part requires adult supervision. let me put my groceries away and then i’ll be right up.”

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Antiusurpation and the road to disenshittification

THIS WEEKEND (November 8-10), I'll be in TUCSON, AZ: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Nineties kids had a good reason to be excited about the internet's promise of disintermediation: the gatekeepers who controlled our access to culture, politics, and opportunity were crooked as hell, and besides, they sucked.

For a second there, we really did get a lot of disintermediation, which created a big, weird, diverse pluralistic space for all kinds of voices, ideas, identities, hobbies, businesses and movements. Lots of these were either deeply objectionable or really stupid, or both, but there was also so much cool stuff on the old, good internet.

Then, after about ten seconds of sheer joy, we got all-new gatekeepers, who were at least as bad, and even more powerful, than the old ones. The net became Tom Eastman's "Five giant websites, each filled with screenshots of the other four." Culture, politics, finance, news, and especially power have been gathered into the hands of unaccountable, greedy, and often cruel intermediaries.

Oh, also, we had an election.

This isn't an election post. I have many thoughts about the election, but they're still these big, unformed blobs of anger, fear and sorrow. Experience teaches me that the only way to get past this is to just let all that bad stuff sit for a while and offgas its most noxious compounds, so that I can handle it safely and figure out what to do with it.

While I wait that out, I'm just getting the job done. Chop wood, carry water. I've got a book to write, Enshittification, for Farar, Straus, Giroux's MCD Books, and it's very nearly done:

https://twitter.com/search?q=from%3Adoctorow+%23dailywords&src=typed_query&f=live

Compartmentalizing my anxieties and plowing that energy into productive work isn't necessarily the healthiest coping strategy, but it's not the worst, either. It's how I wrote nine books during the covid lockdowns.

And sometimes, when you're not staring directly at something, you get past the tunnel vision that makes it impossible to see its edges, fracture lines, and weak points.

So I'm working on the book. It's a book about platforms, because enshittification is a phenomenon that is most visible and toxic on platforms. Platforms are intermediaries, who connect buyers and sellers, creators and audiences, workers and employers, politicians and voters, activists and crowds, as well as families, communities, and would-be romantic partners.

There's a reason we keep reinventing these intermediaries: they're useful. Like, it's technically possible for a writer to also be their own editor, printer, distributor, promoter and sales-force:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#intermediation

But without middlemen, those are the only writers we'll get. The set of all writers who have something to say that I want to read is much larger than the set of all writers who are capable of running their own publishing operation.

The problem isn't middlemen: the problem is powerful middlemen. When an intermediary gets powerful enough to usurp the relationship between the parties on either side of the transaction, everything turns to shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/12/direct-the-problem-of-middlemen/

A dating service that faces pressure from competition, regulation, interoperability and a committed workforce will try as hard as it can to help you find Your Person. A dating service that buys up all its competitors, cows its workforce, captures its regulators and harnesses IP law to block interoperators will redesign its service so that you keep paying forever, and never find love:

https://www.npr.org/sections/money/2024/02/13/1228749143/the-dating-app-paradox-why-dating-apps-may-be-worse-than-ever

Multiply this a millionfold, in every sector of our complex, high-tech world where we necessarily rely on skilled intermediaries to handle technical aspects of our lives that we can't – or shouldn't – manage ourselves. That world is beholden to predators who screw us and screw us and screw us, jacking up our rents:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/yes-there-are-antitrust-voters-in

Cranking up the price of food:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

And everything else:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

(Maybe this is a post about the election after all?)

The difference between a helpmeet and a parasite is power. If we want to enjoy the benefits of intermediaries without the risks, we need policies that keep middlemen weak. That's the opposite of the system we have now.

Take interoperability and IP law. Interoperability (basically, plugging new things into existing things) is a really powerful check against powerful middlemen. If you rely on an ad-exchange to fund your newsgathering and they start ripping you off, then an interoperable system that lets you use a different exchange will not only end the rip off – it'll make it less likely to happen in the first place because the ad-tech platform will be afraid of losing your business:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-shatter-ad-tech

Interoperability means that when a printer company gouges you on ink, you can buy cheap third party ink cartridges and escape their grasp forever:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Interoperability means that when Amazon rips off audiobook authors to the tune of $100m, those authors can pull their books from Amazon and sell them elsewhere and know that their listeners can move their libraries over to a different app:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/07/audible-exclusive/#audiblegate

But interoperability has been in retreat for 40 years, as IP law has expanded to criminalize otherwise normal activities, so that middlemen can use IP rights to protect themselves from their end-users and business customers:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

That's what I mean when I say that "IP" is "any law that lets a business reach beyond its own walls and control the actions of its customers, competitors and critics."

For example, there's a pernicious law 1998 US law that I write about all the time, Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the "anticircumvention law." This is a law that felonizes tampering with copyright locks, even if you are the creator of the undelying work.

So Amazon – the owner of the monopoly audiobook platform Audible – puts a mandatory copyright lock around every audiobook they sell. I, as an author who writes, finances and narrates the audiobook, can't provide you, my customer, with a tool to remove that lock. If I do so, I face criminal sanctions: a five year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine for a first offense:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/25/can-you-hear-me-now/#acx-ripoff

In other words: if I let you take my own copyrighted work out of Amazon's app, I commit a felony, with penalties that are far stiffer than the penalties you would face if you were to simply pirate that audiobook. The penalties for you shoplifting the audiobook on CD at a truck-stop are lower than the penalties the author and publisher of the book would face if they simply gave you a tool to de-Amazon the file. Indeed, even if you hijacked the truck that delivered the CDs, you'd probably be looking at a shorter sentence.

This is a law that is purpose-built to encourage intermediaries to usurp the relationship between buyers and sellers, creators and audiences. It's a charter for parasitism and predation.

But as bad as that is, there's another aspect of DMCA 1201 that's even worse: the exemptions process.

You might have read recently about the Copyright Office "freeing the McFlurry" by granting a DMCA 1201 exemption for companies that want to reverse-engineer the error-codes from McDonald's finicky, unreliable frozen custard machines:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

Under DMCA 1201, the Copyright Office hears petitions for these exemptions every three years. If they judge that anticircumvention law is interfering with some legitimate activity, the statute empowers them to grant an exemption.

When the DMCA passed in 1998 (and when the US Trade Rep pressured other world governments into passing nearly identical laws in the decades that followed), this exemptions process was billed as a "pressure valve" that would prevent abuses of anticircumvention law.

But this was a cynical trick. The way the law is structured, the Copyright Office can only grant "use" exemptions, but not "tools" exemptions. So if you are granted the right to move Audible audiobooks into a third-party app, you are personally required to figure out how to do that. You have to dump the machine code of the Audible app, decompile it, scan it for vulnerabilities, and bootstrap your own jailbreaking program to take Audible wrapper off the file.

No one is allowed to help you with this. You aren't allowed to discuss any of this publicly, or share a tool that you make with anyone else. Doing any of this is a potential felony.

In other words, DMCA 1201 gives intermediaries power over you, but bans you from asking an intermediary to help you escape another abusive middleman.

This is the exact opposite of how intermediary law should work. We should have rules that ban intermediaries from exercising undue power over the parties they serve, and we should have rules empowering intermediaries to erode the advantage of powerful intermediaries.

The fact that the Copyright Office grants you an exemption to anticircumvention law means nothing unless you can delegate that right to an intermediary who can exercise it on your behalf.

A world without publishing intermediaries is one in which the only writers who thrive are the ones capable of being publishers, too, and that's a tiny fraction of all the writers with something to say.

A world without interoperability intermediaries is one in which the only platform users who thrive are also skilled reverse-engineering ninja hackers – and that's an infinitesimal fraction of the platform users who would benefit from interoperabilty.

Let this be your north star in evaluating platform regulation proposals. Platform regulation should weaken intermediaries' powers over their users, and strengthen their power over other middlemen.

Put in this light, it's easy to see why the ill-informed calls to abolish Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (which makes platform users, not platforms, responsible for most unlawful speech) are so misguided:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

If we require platforms to surveil all user speech and block anything that might violate any law, we give the largest, most powerful platforms a permanent advantage over smaller, better platforms, run by co-ops, hobbyists, nonprofits local governments, and startups. The big platforms have the capital to rig up massive, automated surveillance and censorship systems, and the only alternatives that can spring up have to be just as big and powerful as the Big Tech platforms we're so desperate to escape:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/23/evacuate-the-platforms/#let-the-platforms-burn

This is especially grave given the current political current, where fascist politicians are threatening platforms with brutal punishments for failing to censor disfavored political views.

Anyone who tells you that "it's only censorship when the government does it" is badly confused. It's only a First Amendment violation when the government does it, sure – but censorship has always relied on intermediaries. From the Inquisition to the Comics Code, government censors were only able to do their jobs because powerful middlemen, fearing state punishments, blocked anything that might cross the line, censoring far beyond the material actually prohibited by the law:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/22/self-censorship/#hugos

We live in a world of powerful, corrupt middlemen. From payments to real-estate, from job-search to romance, there's a legion of parasites masquerading as helpmeets, burying their greedy mouthparts into our tender flesh:

https://www.capitalisnt.com/episodes/visas-hidden-tax-on-americans

But intermediaries aren't the problem. You shouldn't have to stand up your own payment processor, or learn the ins and outs of real-estate law, or start your own single's bar. The problem is power, not intermediation.

As we set out to build a new, good internet (with a lot less help from the US government than seemed likely as recently as last week), let's remember that lesson: the point isn't disintermediation, it's weak intermediation.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/07/usurpers-helpmeets/#disreintermediation

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en (Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0, modified)

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xi)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, ghosts,

A/N: hai. we're into the double digits. thanks for sticking around this long!! jsyk there are like 17 parts planned to this series so

Previous part || Series masterlist

This is a dream scenario.

It’s the weekend, which means he should be out somewhere fighting off bats in a haunted cave or sitting in a dark room muttering Bloody Mary’s name fifteen times like a broken tape recorder because you insisted the first three didn’t work.

Instead, by 5 p.m., he’s in bed. With a book. There’s even a cup of coffee sitting beside him, growing cold. 

Really, he should be enjoying this. It’s rarely this quiet, and especially as the sun went down, the absence of your shenanigans, the lack of you dragging him into another bullshit horror hunt should be greatly freeing. 

But something feels wrong.

Because something went wrong in his childhood, and then something very definitely went wrong in his adulthood, Bucky feels uneasy with the peace.

He turns a page. At least, he thinks he does. He’s not sure he’s actually read a single word. Gun to his head, he would not be able to tell you the plot.

By 6 p.m., his eyes have zeroed in more on the door than the actual book in his hands.

His phone is on full volume, waiting for a notification. He made sure his floor access was open. His windows are not blacked out. He has even left his door cracked open slightly, which feels wrong to the fundamental fibres of his being. 

Nothing.

By 6:30 p.m., his coffee is still half full and lukewarm. God, he did not like that drink. The only thing he's done is flipped through pages for the sake of feeling like he’s accomplished something.

By 6:37 p.m., he’s out the door.

His grumbling is only half-hearted, which he hates. There is something much heavier that sits in his chest. Anticipation. Worry. Fucking blergh. 

He’s never been on your floor before. He knows you share it with Nat, the way he does with Steve, but he's never actually visited it. Sure he regularly makes sure you're dropped off to your floor now , but he hasn't actually stepped foot there, no matter how much you invite him in to your bedroom.

He assumes it’s similar, just with fewer World War II relics and less The Price Is Right. 

By 6:45 p.m., he’s knocking loudly on your door.

There’s no answer.

His jaw tightens.  

He wouldn’t blame you if you had just upped and left. He just thought Maya would beat you to it, because the second the article dropped, it was like the Avengers personally made it their mission to have the next week become a shitstorm of them making headlines for the most insane things. He thinks she's on sick leave. Or she should be, at least.

Clint posted a picture from inside a JP Morgan bank vault. Nat walked straight into a national live broadcast and joined in on a debate she had no context to. 

Sam did something. Bucky wasn't sure, but he saw Maya rubbing her temples and assumed it was bad.

Then, after Steve gets in an argument online and matches donations to Planned Parenthood and ends up donating nearly 100K, Maya declared a state of emergency. 

Every single one of them was put on lockdown, all social media passwords were changed, and every future press interview was canceled.

Bucky never even got the chance to plan what his disaster would be.

But even after all that, he had heard from you. Big, congratulatory messages flooding the group chat. Dumb memes. Responses to inside jokes no one else understood.

So where the hell were you now?

He bangs his fist against the door again.

Nothing.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. He raises his metal hand, just one second away from really turning the door into a pile of splinters-

It swings open before he gets the chance.

And there you are, staring at him like he’s the crazy one. The audacity. 

“Wha– oh.” You blink at him. “Why are you trying to break into my room?”

For a moment, it is just two idiots staring at each other.

Finally, he lets out a low, “What’s wrong with you?”

You raise a brow. “Could you be more specific?”

Only then does he really look at you.

The skin under your eyes is darker than usual, your arms crossed tightly over your oversized sweatshirt. Official Avengers merch, two sizes too big and the same colour you got him because you insisted you had to have matching fits. There’s a slump in your shoulders that wasn't there before.

“No video today?” he asks gruffly.

“Nah,” you sigh. “You’re free to do whatever.”

He stares.

You stare back.

“What?” you demand.

“Is this because of the news?” he asks slowly.

“I’m just tired, Buck.” You rub at your temple, like you're already exhausted with the conversation. “Haven’t I annoyed you enough this week?”

Logically, he should be happy about this. You did annoy him. Constantly. Every day. Even off the clock.

So why the hell is he still standing outside your door?

“Don’t you have something better to do?” you ask, leaning against the doorway. “I thought you were watching True Detective with Steve.”

“Dunno where he is,” Bucky mumbles. Which is a lie, because Steve was very much in his room, waiting for him but Bucky had ghosted him to instead come be a clown outside your door. 

You squint at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shifts his weight. “Thought you were dead.”

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. “Why? ‘Cause I didn’t come knocking today?”

He doesn’t respond.

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wait. You came looking for me because you missed me?”

“I didn’t–” he starts, then immediately gives up halfway through the sentence because he already knows he’s lost.

Your grin is too smug. “You came all this way because you missed me.”

His entire body tenses. “I just came to check.”

You press your lips into a thin line, fighting back laughter. “That is so cute. Just say you’re in love with me. I’ll even kiss ya if you ask nicely.”

Bucky turns immediately on his heel. “Goodbye. You can die now.”

You laugh outright at that, and he shakes his head as he stalks back down the hall. Which is good. Which means things are back to normal. He can go find Steve and get done with the stupid fucking vampire show or whatever--

“Actually--” your voice calls out behind him. “D’you wanna come in?”

His body actually stops.  Turns back slightly, warily asking over his shoulder, “…Why?”

You shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “No pressure. I was just gonna watch old conspiracy theories and figure out whether they’re legit or just old Avengers missions. You can sit in the corner and brood or whatever it is you do.”

“I do not brood,” Bucky says, brooding. 

“Sure, buttercup.” You wave dismissively. “See you next week, then.”

Bucky stares for a second longer, then pivots.

Then pivots again.

Finally, with a deep sigh, he walks back toward your door.

Bucky doesn’t expect your room to look like his room. His room, by standards, was the second worst room in the Tower, only second to Clint’s fucking swamp dungeon. 

But he also doesn’t expect it to look like this.

It’s too empty.

A bed, a desk, a laptop. A single, half-empty mug on the nightstand.

The only thing that makes it yours is the box shoved in the corner overflowing with fan mail, little gifts, and trinkets from people. Stickers, keychains, neatly folded letters– even a framed cross-stitch that says "if we die, we die together."

Which he doesn’t remember you saying, but sounds exactly like something you would. The thought makes his chest feel weird. 

But beyond that, it looks like a room doesn’t require much time to be packed up.

Something about that sits wrong with him.

“You’ve done a lot with the place.”

“Finally get you into my bedroom, and the first thing you do is insult my interior design,” you say. You gesture at the lamp on your desk. “Look at that lamp. I got it from the same trashcan I found Alpine in. It’s got character.”

Bucky squints at the lamp. Now that you mention it, the shade is bent at a weird angle and the base is slightly burnt.

“Really livens up the space,” he tells you.

“Thanks, I try.”

You flop onto the bed, stretching your arms overhead with a sigh. 

He hesitates for a beat before finally settling onto the floor, knees pulled to his chest.

You blink. “Why the hell are you sitting on my floor?”

“I’m comfortable,” he grumbles.

“You– I have chairs.” You gesture to them. “They’re free, I swear. You do not have to do this.”

“I’m good.”

You narrow your eyes, but let it go, shifting to sit near the edge of the bed. Your knee almost bumps his shoulder.

For a moment, there’s just the hum of your laptop, the faint flicker of the TV waiting on a selection screen.

“How are ya?” he asks, voice lower than usual.

“Mighty fine. You?”

He gives you a look.

You blow out a breath, arms crossing loosely over your stomach. “I’m fine.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Your lips curve up in the corners. “We can change that. Wanna sleep with me now?”

Bucky doesn’t react. At all.

Which is worse. Because he should roll his eyes. Should scoff. Should grumble some insult under his breath.

But he doesn’t. Your smirk falters slightly.

You clear your throat. “God, you’re no fun.”

“Why’d you call off the video shoot?”

“Why must I work all the time? Why can’t I take a simple break without being interrogated?”

He just keeps looking at you. It’s that new kind you’ve noticed him doing now. The kind that lingers half a second too long, that feels heavier than it should.

You shift. Rub at the edge of your sleeve.

“It’s…” You hesitate. “Not been the best week.”

Bucky adjusts how he sits. He doesn’t doesn’t dig, only keeps his eyes trained on you. 

You take a deep breath, then force a grin. “Been watching Glee compilations till, like, 1 a.m. Pretty sure that’s the real issue.” 

Bucky makes a low, unimpressed noise. Still, he lets it go—for now.

Instead, he asks, “So what’s your plan?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“For making yourself feel better.”

That makes you pause. What’s the plan? Like he’s already factored himself in, as if whatever comes next includes him.

You open your mouth, then shut it.

“Paranormal shit.”

You weren’t even thinking about it. It just… happened, probably because he’s here and it’s the subconscious working in mysterious ways. 

But Bucky’s reaction is not what you expect.

He does not shut it down instantly. Call it nonsense. Leave the room. All of which he has done before, to varying degrees.

Instead now he looks at you like he’s used to it. Like he’s thinking about it.

Something in your stomach tightens. You beat it down with a stick. 

You grin. “Oh, you want to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “What paranormal shit?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to agree.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“You told me so with your eyes. You gave me signals.”

“You’re insane,” he mutters. "I did not give you signals."

But you suddenly perk up like it’s given you an idea. 

“What?” he demands.  

“You ever talked to ghosts?”

Kinda.

“No.”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing today.”

“What?”

“Ouija time, baby,” you say, already moving towards the box in the corner. “Now I don’t have a board but fear not. I shall make one. Custom-built. And then we will auction it off for a lot of money when you fake your death.”

“Why do you already sound like you’re prepared for that?”

“Because I am.” You rummage through the box. “Let’s see. We’ll need a marker, some cardboard–”

“You got a ring we can use?” he asks with a sigh.

“No, ‘cause you haven’t put one on me yet.” 

Bucky shuts up after that. 

You grin, pulling out a shot glass and wiggling it between your fingers. “Classy, right?”

Bucky stares at it. “Has that been used before?”

“Any remnants are just a little treat for the ghosties” you reply, flopping onto the floor and immediately getting to work, drawing out letters in marker.

Bucky watches you, something unreadable flickering across his face.

This is so fucking stupid.

Still, all he does is shifts to sit properly, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you finish drawing out the board with little squiggles decorating the corner and everything. 

He doesn’t even realize how close he’s leaning until you glance at him, something teasing and careful in your gaze.

And for a second– just a second- maybe he forgets how to breathe.

Then you smirk, knocking him right out of it. 

“Alright, soldier,” you say, grinning. “You ready?”

Bucky gives you a flat look.

The room is quiet, except for the hum of the TV and the scritch-scratch as you add in finishing touches. 

You hold up the board.

It’s terrible.

The letters are uneven and the numbers are already smudged from where you’ve dragged your sleeve over them.

You sit back, admiring your work, before grabbing the shot glass and plopping it in the center.

You nod solemnly. “It’s ready. Now put your hands on the planchette.”

Bucky sighs deeply, metal fingertips touching the top of the glass.  

You clear your throat dramatically. “Spirits, if you are here, make yourselves known.”

Silence.

Bucky nods. “Guess that’s our answer–”

The shot glass suddenly shoots out.

His muscles tighten immediately. His fingers twitch like he’s ready to grab a knife out of thin fucking air.

You, however, fail miserably in hiding a grin.

Bucky’s eyes narrow immediately. “You’re pushing it.”

“I am not,” you lie.

He stares.  

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I cannot believe I am wasting my night on this.”

“You’re just mad that the ghosts like me more.”

Bucky does not dignify that with a response.

“Put your hands back there, boy.”

So he reluctantly places his fingers back on the shot glass.

You clear your throat again.

“Oh great and powerful spirits, what secrets do you have for us?”

Silence.

Bucky watches unamused, watching as the letters spell out in lightning fast speed:

Y - O - U - R - 

A pause.

M - O -M.

Bucky lifts his hands and leans back.

“That’s the ghosts talking, not me.”

Bucky just sits there, silent.

You wiggle your fingers dramatically over the board. “Maybe you’re the problem. Maybe the ghosts just don’t like you.”

Bucky snorts, “Right. I’m the problem here, not the fool who used a shot glass to talk to them.”

“The shot glass is genius, alcohol is an ice breaker in most social situation."

"What about this is a social situation?"

"Well it's you, me, and a couple of babes from the underworld. By definition it's a social situation, and a cool one at that."

“Why aren’t your ghosts talkng to us then?”

“Maybe they’re ageist.”

Bucky glares at you.

“You’re practically ancient. Maybe they just hate old people.”

“Maybe if I was a centuries-old spirit and the first thing I heard from the afterlife was your voice, I’d go straight back to hell.”

Your mouth falls open, before you let out an outraged scoff.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from–”

You stop mid-sentence when Bucky shifts, leaning back slightly, arms stretched behind him, his body loose and relaxed. 

There’s a stupid smile ghosting at his mouth. 

“Oh my God.” You latch onto it instantly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up just enough to expose the solid cut of his forearms, the angle of his jaw sharp against the dim glow of your terrible table lamp. 

His expression is too neutral, too blank. Like he’s waiting for you to react.

Something about it catches you off guard. It’s not intentional. It’s not even anything. But your stomach tightens anyway.

And suddenly, you’re aware of how close you’re sitting, how he feels bigger in the small space, how there’s this awful, annoying sense of recognition curling at the edges of something you’re not ready to name.

Bucky notices the way your expression shifts even if it was just for a second, his eyebrows knitting together. 

You clear your throat immediately. “Anyway. Let’s ask them something real.”

“Oh, now we’re asking real questions?”

“Spirits!” You slap your hands onto the board. “What is Bucky’s deepest, darkest secret?”

He rolls his eyes.

The shot glass has not moved in half an hour.

It’s honestly humiliating at this point.

You refuse to acknowledge this.

Bucky, however, has fully accepted it.

“So what now?” he asks, leaning back against your bed, fingers drumming idly against his knee.

You stare at the board. “Maybe it’s a slow connection.”

Bucky blinks. “Slow how?”

“Like two bars, not four?”

“You think ghosts have bad WiFi?”

“I don’t know, Bucky, I’ve never died before.”

“I have. WiFi’s not the issue.”

You shove his shoulder. 

Bucky’s stupid smirk does not fade. 

 “Can we pack this up, or are you going to keep going until your humiliation kink ends?"

"I see you've been thinking about me and kinks in--."

"Stop talking."

You narrow your eyes at him, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘fascist’, but place your fingers on the shot glass.

Bucky does the same.

You inhale deeply. “Spirits, is there anything you would like to say to us?”

Silence.

“Maybe they don’t know English.”

“Sure.”

“Should we try Morse code?”

“No.”

You hum, ignoring him. “What about—”

“Hey spirits. What’s the real reason why this one’s hiding from everyone?” Bucky cuts in smoothly.

It just slips out.

He looks as surprised as you do, but he recovers way quicker. 

He keeps his eyes on the board, like maybe if he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, it won’t become a big deal.

The shot glass doesn’t move. Of course. 

But you pull your hands away first.

Bucky watches, quietly, as you sit back, pressing your palms against your thighs.

“That’s a dumb question,” you mutter.

Bucky hums. “Yeah?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

A beat.

You force a grin and shove the Ouija board aside.

“Well,” you announce. “That was disappointing.”

He stretches his arms over his head, not looking at you as he says, “You’re avoiding.”

You pause mid-movement. “Avoiding what?”

“You know.”

You freeze for just half a second, then shake your head, laughing awkwardly. “I haven’t–”

“You have,” he says simply.

It’s the certainty in his voice. Like he already knows the answer, and he’s just waiting for you to say it out loud.

You sigh. “It’s stupid.”

Bucky shrugs, looking back at the board. “Not what I asked.”

A moment passes.

“It’s the name thing,” you say finally, voice flat.

“The name thing?”

“Maya’s trying to relaunch me. Or, like, reintroduce me. Whatever.” You wave a hand. “She’s planning this whole… thing. New identity, new codename, new brand. Something public-friendly.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“She’s just doing her job,” you say quickly, like you’re cutting him off before he can say anything reasonable. “I get it. I do. But it pisses me off.”

Bucky hums. “Why?”

“It’s dumb,” you mutter, kicking at a loose thread in the carpet. “I shouldn’t care this much. But now, instead of just letting me deal with it, I have to make it a thing. I have to let everyone see me deal with it. They want me to launch like I’m some new product. Like they get to decide what version of me gets to exist.”

Bucky is silent for a long second.

Not because he doesn’t get it, but because he does.

Finally, after a while, he leans back slightly, “So what do you wanna do?”

You blink. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Or you just don’t like your options?”

Your mouth presses into a thin line.

Because hes right-- it’s not that you don’t know what to do. Stay silent? People fill in the gaps themselves. Let Maya spin it? You become someone else’s project. Reject it outright? You’re the problem.

It’s not even a big deal. It’s just a name. A stupid PR campaign. But every option feels like losing. Like a trap.

You exhale. “I just don’t wanna think about it right now.”

Bucky nods. Like that answer’s good enough.

And for some reason, that makes your shoulders loosen a little.

For the first time all week, it feels like someone actually heard you.

You shift, stretching your arms dramatically. “Anyway. That’s my tragic backstory.”

Bucky exhales sharply. “More tragic things have happened to you.”

“Yeah, like some blue-eyed Avenger-boy not asking me out.”

“No.”

“Let me have my moment.”

A silence rests lightly. 

“Alright,” he mutters. “What dumb shit are we doing next?”

“I don’t know. You want pizza?”

“I meant about your situation.”

You sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Nothing. It’s fine. It’s not like I have a choice, anyway.”

Well that’s not entirely true. 

It’s an idea that creeps up a little too fast. It makes him worry about how much influence you’ve actually had on him. 

Bucky hums. “You’ve got one more option.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He tilts his head, casual, almost lazy. “Yeah.”

When he finally tells you, your entire expression changes.

Slowly, deliberately, a grin spreads across your face.

“Oh,” you say, “you are evil.”

Bucky just leans back on his hands, completely at ease. “I had nothing to do with this.”

Twenty minutes later, the board is still on the floor. 

The shot glass is still doing absolutely nothing.

You and Bucky are back to arguing over whether or not ghosts have good taste in movies when your phone explodes with a call.

You barely have time to read the caller ID before--

“You released a fucking internet poll?!” Maya’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud and borderline hysterical– but not in a bad way.

Bucky immediately presses his lips together, suppressing a smirk.

You, however, grin like a criminal.

“Define released,” you say, like this is the most casual thing in the world.

“Oh, you know exactly what you did.”

“I do,” you agree easily. “But I like hearing you say it.”

Maya groans. “You put your entire name change up for a public vote.”

Bucky coughs into his hand.

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And?!” Maya lets out a breath, “They're all chaotic fucking names and the poll already has two hundred thousand votes.”

Bucky immediately stares at you.

You blink, turning to look at him dramatically. 

“Two hundred thousand?” you repeat, voice too calm.

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

You grin.

“Oh, I’m so famous.”

Bucky groans, while Maya is losing her mind on the other end.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “Why are you like this.”

You shrug, flipping onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I would say I was born this way but I was created. In a test tube and everything.”

Maya scoffs.

And Bucky, for some reason, has a look on this face, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

Then, after a second, he mouths, “Have an actual conversation.”

You roll your eyes but tilt your head back toward the phone.

“Alright, fine,” you sigh. “Lemme step out. Yell at me in private.”

Maya exhales. “It’s not yelling.”

“It’s a little yelling.”

You roll onto your feet, shuffling toward the door

“Back in a sec,” you tell him.

Bucky just nods, watching as you disappear into the hallway.

And just like that he’s alone. Sitting on the floor. Next to a completely useless Ouija board.

And he doesn’t know why, but his fingers twitch.

Not because he believes in it. Not because he thinks it’ll work. 

But… just because. 

Instead, he just shakes his head, rolling his shoulders back. 

“You’re losing it, Barnes,” he mutters under his breath.

But then, without warning-

The shot glass moves.

Bucky immediately stiffens, staring at the door but you’re still having an animated conversation with Maya, fingers pressed into your forehead. 

Bucky’s gaze drags back to the board. 

He doesn’t move an inch. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just watches as the glass drags itself across the board, slow and deliberate.

One letter.

Then another.

J.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

A.

His stomach twists.

Then–

M.

And the shot glass tips over. 

His heart stops.

And suddenly, he’s not in your room anymore.

He’s eight years old, sitting on the floor of a Brooklyn apartment, scribbling nonsense into a notebook while Rebecca Barnes, all of six years old, with messy braids and jelly-covered fingers, sticks a homemade label on his lunchbox.

“Becca.”

“What?”

“That’s not how you spell James.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

Bucky presses a hand against his face. “Mom—”

 He blinks.

The board is in front of him again.

The shot glass is still. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at it.

His head feels weirdly light. His chest feels too tight.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Bucky keeps still, in a way that says nothing happened.

Because if he doesn’t deal with it now, then it isn’t real. And if it isn’t real, then he doesn’t have to think about it.

You flop onto the bed, letting out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Well,” you exhale, dragging the word out. “That was a wild experience.”

Bucky registers the words, but not the meaning.

It’s like he hears you, but the sound is coming through the wrong frequency.

“Yeah?” he mutters, barely processing it.

The sound of your voice fills the space, but it doesn’t quite pull him in.

“Oh, yeah.” You roll onto your stomach, kicking your feet behind you. “First, she yelled at me. Then she was impressed, which honestly I think pissed her off more.”

Bucky nods. Because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

You’re still talking. That should ground him.

And yet his mind is somewhere else entirely.

The air feels off. Like the word JAM is still written in front of him.

“--already drafting apology emails before I even hung up.”

Bucky blinks once, twice.

He knows he should be engaged, responding, moving.

But instead, he just mutters, “Yeah.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

Bucky blinks. Finally, he fully snaps back.

His eyes flick toward you, registering you properly for the first time.

The way you’re watching him now, eyebrows raised, like you’ve been waiting for him to catch up.

He searches for the last thing you said.

Finds nothing.

Shit.

You press a hand to your chest, looking deeply entertained. “Are you ignoring me?”

Bucky scoffs. “Not right now specifically.”

“What was the last thing I said?”

Bucky opens his mouth. Then closes it. 

“Wow. Incredible.” You clap your hands together once. “I’m heartbroken. Betrayed. Ignored.”

Bucky shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah this must be what he felt like."

"Wow."

"No, no, it’s fine.” You wave a hand, mock casual. “I’ll just go die then.”

Bucky groans. “I’m back.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you need to space out again, just know that I have an open window–”

Bucky balls-up the ouija board and tosses it at your head.

You shriek.

He’ll think about it later.

Whenever later is. 

The laptop screen flickers in the dim room, casting weird shadows against the wall.

You and Bucky are back on the floor, legs stretched out, backs leaning against the bed, watching one of the most ridiculous conspiracy theory videos you’ve ever seen.

The narrator speaks with the conviction of a man who has nothing to lose.

“--and that’s why I’m telling you, there’s no way the Pentagon incident was just a gas leak. Witnesses reported a mysterious figure in black who allegedly disappeared into the shadows–”

“That was Nat.”

You pause the video. “What.”

Bucky doesn’t even look away from the screen.

He gestures lazily toward the blurry figure circled in red.

“That’s her. Right before she cut the power and knocked out two guards. The whole thing took, like, a minute.”

You stare at him.

Then at the screen.

Then at him again.

“I fucking knew it.” You gesture vaguely at the screen. “I called this years ago. Everyone told me I was an idiot. ‘Oh, the footage is too blurry, you can’t even tell if it’s a person.’ Amateurs.”

“Feel validated?”

“Oh, hugely.”

He shakes his head, amused.

You squint at the screen. “What else? What’s real, what’s bullshit?”

Bucky thinks for a second.

He points to another clip.

“Alright, see this?”

A new segment starts playing, showing grainy footage of someone scaling the side of a high-security building.

The narrator’s voice kicks in again. “--but the real question is, who was this shadowy figure? And how did they evade detection when–”

“That’s me.”

You blink.

Bucky nods. “Stockholm. 2012. Whole mission went sideways, had to improvise.”

You exhale, pressing a hand over your face.

“Oh, my God.”

Bucky smirks. “Something wrong?”

“You’re telling me that a significant percentage of government cover-ups are just you and Nat running errands?”

Bucky shrugs. “I wouldn’t call them errands.”

“What would you call them, then?”

He thinks about it for a second.  

“Side quests.”

You nod slowly.

“Right,” you say. “Of course. Are the lizard people real?”

Bucky huffs a short laugh. “I’m not answering that.”

“Wow. Interesting.” You stroke your chin. “You didn’t say no.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. You grin.

The videos keep playing, but neither of you are really watching anymore.

The narrator is still droning on, something about classified operations and shadow governments, but the energy has shifted.

Your eyes feel a little heavier now.

Bucky can tell.

You’ve stopped fidgeting, stopped making comments, stopped cracking jokes at his expense.

You’re just there, leaning into his side, slowly sinking deeper into the moment.

He exhales, tilting his head back against the bed, letting himself relax, too.

The silence between you is comfortable. Easy.

And before he fully registers it, your head is in his lap.

Bucky freezes.

It happens so smoothly that for a second, he wonders if you even realize what you did.

You don’t say anything.

Just curl up slightly, tucking your arms under your head, pressing your cheek against his thigh like it’s nothing.

Like this is normal.

Bucky forces himself to breathe.

To not react too much.

To not make it something. Because it’s not.

Right.

The glow from the laptop screen flickers, illuminating the soft edges of your face.

Something in Bucky’s chest tugs.

You sigh, voice quiet, almost lazy.

“Thanks for hanging out with me,” you murmur. “I needed that.”

Bucky swallows.

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles.

And then before he can think too hard about it, his fingers brush lightly over your scalp.

A small, absentminded gesture.

Barely there.

But you don’t move.

Just breathe slower. Sink deeper.

Bucky knows he’s going to regret this later. His back is already complaining, his brain is already filing this away for future analysis.

But you look too at ease to move.

So he stays right there.

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[evermore-fashion]

Did I make a mistake?

As you're all well aware of I said goodbye to my blogs and Tumblr thinking my decision was final. However after reading all your wonderful messages I started to have doubts about my decision. So for the last few weeks I've been trying to pinpoint why I thought I had fallen out of love with high end fashion as well as Tumblr itself and the answer has been in front of my face for the best part of four years. A broken down friendship that has been plaguing my mental health… until recently and I'm going to finally explain why. I had a best friend for the best part of 15 years that went downhill both slowly and unexpectedly. We met on a forum back in 2005 and hit it off instantly. We then met up and went on various holidays, attended concerts together, did mini weekend breaks away and got to know each other's families really well. More importantly they were the only person in my life who knew about this blog and shared my love for high end fashion. Like most friendships though it had its ups and downs but no matter what we always gravitated back towards one another, until March 2020. A week or so before COVID and lockdown took hold of our lives they told me they had met someone. I was genuinely happy for them, except for the fact they had let slip that I was the last person to know. This broke my heart and their trust as they continued to let slip more details that indicated that I was being pushed out in favour of a new crowd (aka university friends who they had told me they disliked a few months beforehand) alongside their new partner. They stayed with their partner on and off throughout COVID and I was either pushed out the door or let back in depending on their relationship status. The relationship came to an end for good towards the end of 2022 and as always I was let back into their life with plans for 2023 being made. However I held back knowing the hurt it would cause me if things suddenly changed again. This was also my breaking point with them as I wanted to protect my heart from anymore hurt, and I believe this is where my love for creativity began to faulter. Whilst I found my love for gaming I felt this mental block around Evermore-Fashion and Evermore-Grimoire which I thought was down to my passions changing. I was clearly wrong. The friendship was up and down for another six months, until last summer. They had got back in contact with me despite the fact they had started acting cold towards me which manifested in a crap Christmas and Birthday. Yet I was still willing to hear their side of the story, but it never came as they ghosted me and I haven't spoken to them since which hasn't been fun to deal with both mentally and emotionally. Although I now fully believe this is what was killing my spirit and everything I had loved for so long. Anyway fast forward to January 2024, I've said goodbye to my blogs and Tumblr when lo and behold I come across a social media post that changed everything. The ex friend had written something personal that contradicted everything they had told me (over their relationship break up) which not only angered me but it lit a fire under my butt to stop stewing in the "what ifs?" as well as holding on to a small bit of hope that they'd finally apologise for treating me like a piece of shit on the back of their shoe for so long. Not only that but I started to miss why I enjoyed being online in the first place. I checked out Vogue to see what was occurring during Paris Fashion Week and I yearned to share the Spring 2024 Couture collections on Tumblr (even though I still think it's still a toxic cesspit). Yes I could easily start this up on Wordpress or Instagram but let's face it, Tumblr is still the easiest place to start blogging creatively. So here I am. The fog surrounding my love for fashion has lifted alongside the mental and emotional baggage I've been holding on to for far too long. There's just one thing I'm still wondering though… do you guys forgive me (as I feel like I've messed you all around ) and is it okay to come back? 🥹

[mamawasatesttube]

yknow how sometimes dogs will hunt things and be like look i did so good!!! yayyy i got you this!!! bc theres a comedy story in my mind in which krypto decides he likes kon's friends and wants to give them presents too! and. well.

krypto leaves a dead bird on tim's pillow and tim goes oh shit fuck is this an oblique threat that someone's discovered my identity as one of the bird-themed heroes in gotham? but then why's it a fucked-up looking pigeon and not a robin or a rook (if youre like me and like tim taking on the name rook later)??????? and why is it so mangled and burned what does it mean is this a threat of a specific way someone wants to kill me?!?! who could it have been from?! when did someone even break in and why didn't they trip any of my alarms?!?! fuck i have to cancel my plans with kon and bart later shit i don't even know how i got compromised so i don't dare see either of them in public i don't want to risk them--fuck fuck fuck how did this happen i don't understand and why is it a pigeon and

meanwhile krypto is just like. :3c i did so good i am SUCH a good dog i leave him presents :) yayyy!!! i even cooked it for him. with heat vision! yaaayyy!!

so tim phones up kon like "listen we can't meet up this weekend i'm so sorry i think i've been compromised--" and goes on about how he needs to go on lockdown alert mode until he figures out what happened and who found him out and meanwhile kon's just. go back. the pigeon. describe that again.

tim describes the fucked up mangled burnt pigeon. and kon, who has dealt with his fair share of Superdog Presents and thought they'd come to an understanding about "krypto you can't do that you'll DECIMATE local wildlife" and such, just narrows his eyes. turns to the dog bed next to him. goes ……………………….. krypto.

and krypto's like :) wag wag wag :) yes thats me :) wag wag :) im good dog :) he is SO pleased with himself. thats one mystery solved!

this ends in tim, haunted, sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table while ma frets over him and makes him hot chocolate, kon wraps him in a blanket, krypto licks his feet, and lois is just like. yeah. been there. just be glad it wasn't sea monsters.

[wilwheaton]

a year later, a photo and memory dump from star trek the cruise vii.

One year ago today, Anne and I were on Star Trek: The Cruise. I had a good time looking at the pictures I took, so I made a blog on my blog with some pictures and some memories.

This month has been such an awful year, my sense of time is … “weird” is the best I can come up with … in a way it hasn’t been since the lockdown days, when every day felt like Friday, and it never felt like the weekend. Anyway. When I woke up this morning and plucked the rectangle of doom from its charger, I fumbled it (like you do) and bumped the screen with my thumb as it slipped from my hand…

[sweetimpurity]

I Think I'll Keep You 3

Notes: Thank you for your patience and your kindness! I've been finishing school and I'm graduating next week so I'm BUSY! But I love you guys and I hope you enjoy! I recommend rereading the last section of Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 next chapter>>

w.c. 8k. rated p for plot

Miguel storms back to his dorm, across campus, clutching his jacket around his bare torso. Feeling like an absolute idiot for losing his cool. Losing control. What is it about you that makes him act this way?

It’s like you’re trying to knock down the walls he’s built around himself all his life. Running to his building as rain starts to sprinkle, he makes it to the lobby, rushing around, pacing in the elevator getting up to his floor, his mind on total lockdown. As the doors open, he steps out, eyes widening, heart thumping, instantly seeing Peter and a few other teammates down the hall walking his way. Before another thought crosses his mind and before they can spot him, he steps back into the elevator as the doors are closing, slamming on the buttons for the lobby. His heart beating out of his chest. 

It’s starting to pour by the time he gets back downstairs, racing out before anyone he knows will see him. He’s sure they’ll get a bloody nose if anyone tries talking to him now. He keeps his head down, pushing through the doors outside and walking in the freezing rain, running at a certain point, crossing the courtyard and running to the other side of campus towards the athletic building. His Nikes splash in shallow puddles along the uneven parking lot, his dark eyes squinting as rain pelts down from above. His long legs bring him closer to the doors, closer to sanctuary, out of the freezing rain. Soaking his jacket, his hair, dripping down the bridge of his nose, fluttering in his eyelashes. 

He pushes through the doors, sighing audibly in a mixture of relief and annoyance and realizing how fast he was running. He pushes through the next set of doors, walking down the dark hallways of the building. Sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum as he reaches the team's locker room door. Rain drips down from the curls that flopped onto his forehead and down the nape of his neck. Droplets glistening off his cheeks and his nose as he flicks on one of the locker room lights. He has no idea why he came here. Maybe it’s just the only place no one else is. 

He runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back from the cold rain, a few stray hairs springing out around his face. His mind flashes with images of you. Your smile, the pink tint of your lips, the peachy soft roundness of your cheek. His breath is heavy and his cheeks flushed from the cold. He gets to his locker, figuring maybe he should just… just do anything… 27… his fingers slip over the lock as rain drips from his curls… he could run around the field until he passes out…15… the color of your eyes… he could work on those drills he just gave the team the other day…10… the joint of your hip… the team does have a big game coming up this weekend… the lock won’t unlock… 27… the crook of your neck… he could go back to his dorm and work on that grant proposal he’s been needing to start…15…he could go to the lab and keep working on his thesis project… your gasping whispers of his name… 10… he could go to you right this second and tell you he’s sorry… 27… maybe that would make things better…15… the sound of your whimpers… the pitch of your moans… he could kick a ball around until it fucking pops… holding you close as you come down… 10!!... kissing you as you’re trembling… Why won’t the lock unlock? “Fucking unlock!!” He bellows and tugs on the lock in anger. His anger is blinding, numbing, controlling… his fist slams into the front of his locker. The bang of impact ringing throughout the empty locker room.

Instant pain shoots up his arm but he doesn’t care. He hits the locker again… and then again… and a few more times until the pain is too much to bear. Bang. Bang. BANG! Until his knuckles are worn raw. Punching, beating, denting the big “C” painted on the front of his locker. Captain. Leader. But he feels like a fucking loser. Punch, punch, PUNCH! Until he can’t anymore. “Ah… fuck!” He grunts and clutches his hand. Knuckles busted and fingers tingling hot and numb. “Fuck fuck ah… ngh…” He winces and groans in pain. “Shit…” He sighs and slumps his shoulder against the lockers. His hand throbbing and searing, clutching his hand to his chest in pain. His head rests against his locker, and he can feel the dents from the punches against his arm. Squeezing his eyes shut in pain and trying to stop the tears. Clutching his right hand and beating himself up in his head for being such a baby… for freaking out… for having feelings like this. Even when he’s alone, he won’t let himself cry over this. 

“Ah…” He winces, looking down at his hand, trying to move his fingers but the instant swelling makes it practically impossible. Hissing softly at the pressure and pain between his knuckles. 

Maybe this was necessary. Maybe this was the only way he’d slow the fuck down for one second to get his head on straight. He’s standing there and going over the events of tonight in his head. All that shit with Dana… then seeing you, kissing you, touching you… leaving because he couldn’t bear to listen to what you were saying. It was too much. It was too real. And the kind of conversation he actively tries to avoid. He can hardly remember what you said, it all feels like a blur right now. He can’t even remember what he said right now either. Probably some douchey stuff. “Ow, fuck…” He sighs and winces, holding his hand close to his chest. 

He sits in silence only when he catches his breath enough to suppress the sounds of pure agonizing pain. He feels embarrassed. He thinks you probably hate him now too. You must. How could you not after the shitty things he said. Sighing, he sits down on the bench in the middle of the locker room. His hair still dripping down the back of his neck uncomfortably. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He thinks to himself. Watching the purple bloom over his fingers and feeling the searing hot pain. 

Why did I just do that? Freak out. Is it because he knew what you were about to say? That you… you might be in love with him? After all the needy nights, the sneaky meetups and the lazy mornings, why is he so afraid? He can’t help but think of one specific morning... a week before you'd left… after a long night entangled in the sheets.

“You’re so warm…” You had said. Wrapped in his arms after sleeping beside him all night long. Naked and soft in his thick arms. His chest pressed against your back, his head resting in the crook of your neck. He smiled softly to himself, wrapping his arms a little tighter around you. He wanted you to feel warm. He wanted to be the one to warm you. 

“You’re so soft…” He hummed into your neck. Nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. You smiled, feeling so wanted, so safe and secure. No one had ever made you feel this way. And Miguel just kept doing it. When you were in his bed, he was always holding you. Always touching you. The sex was usually rough and desperate, and that was good… that was… incredible. But there was something about seeing him like this. Soft and quiet with all his attention on you. You were just dreaming of the day that these hookups would turn into something more. Trying to be patient but feeling like it would happen very soon.

“That tickles…” You whispered, squirming in his grasp as his breath and his lips tickled your neck. “Shhh…” He shushed you ever so softly, encasing you tighter in his arms and grazing his lips all around your neck and your shoulder. Knowing it’s tickling you, that it’s making you squirm. “Hah…” A soft puff of tense air left your lips at the feeling, unable to resist the urge to squirm and escape his tantilizing torture. “So sensitive…” He whispered, his hand coming up to softly grasp your throat, his lips moving up the side of your cheek before going back into the dip of your neck, biting down softly. You’d never experienced something so intimate, so romantic. You just closed your eyes, accepting everything he’s giving as you usually do. Except right now it feels like he’s giving it just to you. It’s for only you to have. His arm that’s under you wrapped around, his fingers teasingly tracing down your hip. 

“Hey, don’t start anything. We both have class soon…” You said with a smile and he nipped at your shoulder. “Mm.” He grumbled defiantly into your neck, breathing in your scent, your shampoo mixed with the sweet smell of your skin. When was he not trying to start something? To fill you up and keep you in his bed all day after having you all night. “You’re not making me late to class again…”  You said softly, still smiling as warmth spread over your cheeks. He smiled as you brought that up again. You just couldn’t seem to let that go. “It was one time…” He hummed playfully. “One too many…” You said with a sort of mischievous smile. “One too many…” He echoed your words in a breathy laugh, scoffing at your teasing. His voice is deep with sleep, fingers brushing down your chest, against your soft plush tummy and to your side, his fingertips pressing pleasantly to the little love-handles at your back, up to your shoulder blades and down your arm, his fingers encasing the back of your hand, so gentle, so soft. You’re still crushing on him hard except this time around he’s fucking you like he owns you and holding you like he made you. He sighed against your neck. 

“You know what’s better than being late?... Staying in bed…” He said all smugly. “You know what’s actually better than being late?... Being on time…” You retorted back and he laughed softly. He can play this game. “You know what’s better than being on time?...... Staying in bed.” He repeated and it made you laugh. “You already said that one!” You pouted, feeling the vibrations of his laughter against your back. “You know what’s better than staying in bed?... Going to class…” You said quick and giggled. It didn’t really mean anything anymore but it was fun and you wanted to win this back and forth. “No way, that’s undeniably incorrect.” He smiled, leaning up on his elbow to look more at your face as you were laughing. You looked so cute. He just couldn’t resist. “You know what’s better than going to class?” He asked and you turned back a bit to look in his eyes. “What.” You brow raised knowing he was about to say something stupid. He really wanted you to stay in bed. He smirked. “Sex with me…” It made you roll your eyes when he said it. You should have known. He smiled and moved to climb more on top of you, looking down right into your eyes. The blush that washed over your cheeks and the way you tried to look so unimpressed. “You know what’s better than sex with me?” He whispered. Was there such a thing? “Sex with you.” 

You looked up into his eyes. The tension got thicker the longer he just looked at you. Your eyes rolled again, trying not to break out into a big smile. He said it so easily. Before you could even form another thought his lips were on yours. His hand coming to your cheek, fingers soft upon your face. He kept it quick, knowing you actually didn’t want to be late for class. He was only teasing. But he kissed you again… and then again. Soft pecks. That kiss he kept doing. Like his lips couldn’t stop coming back for more. Your eyes fluttered open when you realized he’s not stopping. “Mm!” You hummed, pressing softly against his shoulder and he finally relented, pecking your cheek before getting off of you. Chuckling and laying beside you on his stomach, hooking his arm under the cold side of his pillow. 

Your phone buzzed on his bedside table. Catching both of your attention. You picked it up, opening it for the first time this morning. He watched over your shoulder as you unlocked the phone and went to your messages. He tried not to look too much. He did glance at the screen a few times. A certain tension building inside him. Wondering who could be texting you. He wanted to ask, or just outright look at who was texting you but he didn’t want to seem like he cared. His dark eyes flicked to the side of your face, the wisps of hair around your ear and your hairline fanning to your cheek, the slight blush from sleep and his flustering touch. The thought of anyone else seeing you like this, being with you like this…. It made him want to kill any guy who so much as looked your way. Or texted you first thing in the morning…

“My mom is just… driving me crazy…” You sighed and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Your mom?” He managed to say, physically feeling himself relax finding it was just your mother texting you. The knot in his chest unraveling. He remembered you talking about some plans to go home for the weekend. A family reunion type of thing. 

“Yeah she’s… I love her but she gets sort of… crazy when it comes to plans…” You said and sent one last text before setting your phone back on the bedside table. “Well she just probably wants to see you…” He said and it brought a smile to your face. “Yeah… I just feel bad when she tries to take care of everything...” You said softly. Thinking of your mom, the kind of brave and determined woman she’s always been. “I told her, I don’t need anything fancy, I just need to see her and dad and my siblings and that’s it. And we have all the time in the world once I’m there. I mean… until it’s time to come back to school obviously…”

“Yeah…” He said softly, but it sounded like his mind was somewhere else. 

You have a large family. Lots of siblings. And Miguel doesn’t have that. He has one brother of course but he doesn’t even speak to his parents unless he needs to. It was interesting for him to hear about the conversation with your mom and your relationship with her. How you always spoke of your family with such love and tenderness. He’s never experienced anything like that in his life. 

“You have such a…big family.” He said softly. You couldn’t really tell with what tone he was saying it. Whether it was simply an observation, a judgment, or some sort of longing. “I do…” You sighed with a smile. You are the oldest of six which Miguel was flabbergasted to learn. “It’s not something I expected, but once you told me, it made sense.” He stated. And you couldn’t help but be curious as to why he thought that. You turned over on your side to face him more, his eyes meeting yours and the look on his face was a little surprised like you caught him off guard turning around like that. Making a direct connection with him. “Made sense, how?” You asked with a smile, curious about how he sees you. His face felt hot. The way it got hot a lot when you looked at him like that. Like his body knew something his brain didn’t. So he tried to explain while he feels like the wind is being knocked out of him. “Well… you… are very…” He starts and you’re expecting him to say what a lot of people say. That you’re dependable, you’re mature, you’re independent, helpful, capable. Because that’s how everybody has always seen you. Like anytime anyone looks at you, they’re trying to get you to help them in some way. “…patient.” He said. And you’ve never heard that one before. You smiled softly at him and he felt relieved. “Five siblings, I mean you’ve got to be patient, right?” He said and smiled, trying to make it all just a light joke, looking around a bit and away from the way you’re gazing in his eyes. But what he said was pretty profound. Tells you he’d thought about you and the kind of person you are. He’d thought about more than just sex with you. You looked in his eyes, a smile dancing on your lips. It distracted him a bit. 

“How does that make you feel?” You suddenly asked him. “What.” He asked, not knowing really how to answer a question like that. “How does my patience make you feel?” You reiterated slowly, looking right in his eyes like you’re staring right into his mind. He thought, getting distracted by that look on your face. The look that for some reason let him know whatever answer he gave you would never be the wrong one. 

“It…makes me…feel….”

“Fuck.” He sighs, the memory dissolving in his mind as he shoves it away. How could he be so stupid? Why did he say that kind of stuff to you? It’s like he doesn’t even remember that being him. Like he’s looking at someone else’s memory with you. He becomes someone else when he’s with you. But you looked so happy and he remembers how warm and soft you were. Holding his swollen, mangled hand, he winces at the pain still throbbing. It’s not getting any better, it’s only getting worse. 

It’s radio silence for the next few days. Midterms come and over the week you’re finishing up exams and tutoring students to do well. More students than ever are taking advantage of the tutoring program that you basically resurrected from the dead. So that’s a good feeling at least. You’ve been spending basically all your time in the library, both doing your own work and meeting with any students that need help. And just hanging out with a few tutoring friends. There are some new tutors that just joined the club a few weeks ago and it’s made this whole thing much more fun, hanging out with people that are like minded in that way. Wanting to help other people. 

You haven't heard from Miguel. You don’t know what became of him on Sunday night. And he didn’t reach out or anything on Monday to talk. Discuss what happened. Will you ever talk to him again? Or do you have to pretend none of this ever happened and he never existed in the first place. Your Sunday night heartbreak turns into Monday numb and Tuesday rage. Now it’s Thursday and you’ve thought of all the things you’d say to him if he showed his face again. But deep down you know it’s only the kind of thing you’d never be able to say. Like scripting the perfect comebacks in the shower and kicking yourself for not thinking to say it in the moment. 

It’s hard not talking to him. Not seeing him basically everyday. Because before this past weekend you were seeing him every second you both had to spare. You’re mad at him but you miss waking up in his arms. You miss the late night texts, him wanting you, coming to you and making you feel things you’ve never felt before. Maybe you’re delusional. Was that all this was? Sex and pillowtalk? After what he said Sunday night it seems that way and he made you feel bad for ever thinking otherwise. You’re not stupid, you know that friends with benefits exist and fuckbuddies are such a common thing. And you didn’t even need to be his friend if he really didn’t want you to be! There was never even a need for some conversation about labels because to you it just seemed so obvious! No one could fake that desperation and need. That wanting passion you both shared. The things he said as you gave him everything. Your body, your thoughts, your heart. His whispers of wanting you and how good you make him feel. 

Of course he felt good. He was fucking you raw almost every night and you let him because you’d fallen in love with him. But were you even friends to begin with? Did he see you as anything more than a body to do whatever he wanted with? You thought he wanted you. You were his. He told you that. 

This week has been hell but you push forward. Trying not to isolate yourself and staying in touch with some tutoring friends. Unfortunately, Miguel is so popular that you always find yourself running into his friends too. But you’re realizing more and more that no one knows about you. It’s like Miguel didn’t want anyone to know he was with you. Not even his closest friends. 

You’re sitting in the library for a tutoring session. Last minute cramming before the last exams later that day. Typing on your laptop, a student at your side and helping him on a calculus study guide. Elbow leaning on the table, watching him work, checking what he’s doing as he’s doing it. “Simplify it first, then use the formula…” You say softly and he does as you say, erasing some and correcting himself. “And then just the same on the next one?” He asks and you nod. Patient. That word is in your mind. Remembering when he said it. You were a little too patient with Miguel. 

Miguel’s watching all of this happen. Standing behind the library door, hidden mostly and only peering in through the window in the door. He finally caught up to you after days of trying to get to you. He tried multiple times to catch you in the library this week but he always missed you. Every night he debated texting you but ultimately decided he wanted you to text him first. Mostly because he had no idea what to say. He just wanted you back. For things to go back to the way they were. He’s pissed himself off. In his mind it’s like he’s convinced himself you don’t want to talk to him. 

The library is mostly empty except for you and your tutee. He wants to get you alone right now but doubts he can. Especially when you’re in the middle of doing something. But what you’re doing can’t be as important as what he needs to say to you. As important as him. His hand is aching badly as it has all week since Sunday night. Hidden in his pocket. He hasn’t done anything about it. He’s been taking ibuprofen but it’s not doing much.

If he has to wait hours to talk to you, then so be it. He won’t let this go on any longer. You’re going to talk to him whether you have anything to say or not. Somehow he’s managed to turn his desperation into anger. He leans against the wall outside the library door. Staring at the pattern on the floor. Fidgeting with the seam inside his jacket pocket. Sighing deeply, he feels uneasy thinking about what he’s going to say to you. What you might say to him. He’s got to act tough so he doesn’t lose control of the conversation. If he does he’s sure he’ll lose you. Because he knows deep down that he’s the asshole here. It’s his fault. And he’s scared to beg you for another chance. 

These feelings are foreign to him. Never before has he acted this way over someone and he doesn’t know why. Is there something wrong with me? He thinks. That always seems to be his first thought. A while goes by and his mind swirls with thoughts of you.

He’s lost in thought and only glances up as he hears the doors at the end of the hall swinging closed. Someone must have walked by him. He pushes off the wall, instantly going to the window in the library door and seeing you’re finally alone. His heart thumps in his chest. Clenching his swollen bruised hand in his pocket. He sighs and forces himself to walk inside. 

He gets halfway to you before you suddenly look up. Stopping him in his tracks. And it’s like he suddenly feels like he’s doing something wrong. Eyes locked and breath caught in both your chests. 

It’s been four fucking days. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. And now he’s here. You look away first. Back down to your laptop to continue typing. And he continues walking, stopping at the edge of the table across from you. 

It’s silent. Not a word dared spoken until…

“I need to talk to you.” The tall man finally speaks, towering over the table. Silence follows as you think about how to go about this. You thought about this moment all week. All the different scenarios and possibilities. You imagined melting into his arms as you’ve done a million times by now. But thinking back to all those moments it’s like none of that ever mattered because it didn’t matter to him. How can you trust him again when he treated you like he wanted you and then told you, you were never supposed to happen. After he finally spoke, it lit a fire inside you. “I’m busy right now.” You say softly, keeping your eyes locked on your laptop screen. While this time away from him has been hell and you’ve been heartbroken over this, he’s also been a total dick. You don’t want to let him get away with it. You don’t know how you’re going to do that but you try not to bend completely to his will. Your attention is directed back to your keyboard, typing away and ignoring him. All those comebacks are stuck in your throat. Miguel frowns, watching you. 

He’s been trying all week to find you. To talk to you. Trying to find sneaky ways so that he doesn't have to beg for your attention. And now seeing you ignore him. He wants your attention and he’s gonna get it. 

After a few beats of heavy silence, he walks around the table. You don’t look up, not even sparing him a glance. Glaring at your laptop screen and seeing his movement in your peripherals. He silently walks to the seat right next to you. Pulling it out and slipping down into it to sit beside you. His hands shoved back into his pockets as he sits like he intends to stay. 

“Y/n… hey...” He says gently, trying to get your attention. Turning in his chair slightly to face you more, his knee pressing softly into the side of your thigh. He can see your anger, he can feel it too. “I’m not talking to you.” You say without looking at him. “Well I’m talking to you…” He says so softly, one could mistake the tone for sweet nothings. You sigh, closing your laptop with a click, you grab your bag. Ready to just leave and brush him off if he’s not going to take the hint to leave you alone. “No…no.” He says softly and reaches across you, taking your bag, lifting it over and onto his side. So you can’t get to it. 

An annoyed huff escapes your lips, crossing your arms and staring straight ahead to avoid him. You’re not good at confrontation. Never had to do something like this before. 

His hand comes up to brush your hair back behind your ear. The backs of his fingers brushed across your cheek. And you brush his hand away when he does it. Is he really trying that right now?

“Stop it.” You sigh, pushing his hand away absentmindedly so he opts for resting his arm on the back of your chair. “Come on… let’s talk about this.” He says and you’re starting to fume inside. Now he wants to talk? After you begged him not to leave, begged him to talk to you Sunday night? You look over at him angrily and he keeps his arm around the back of your chair. His broad shoulders give him an advantage. “What do you want?” You glare at him and he sighs. He knew you might be angry but he’s never seen you look at him that way. “Why did you even come here? Just to make things worse?” You frown and keep your arms crossed, closed off from him. “I came here to speak with you.” He says calmly, trying to maintain the control he’s been losing all week. “Well you’re not doing much speaking.” You sigh. A beat of silence follows. 

“I want you to come over… tonight…” He says in that soft tone again. In his mind the both of you just need some time and things can go back to normal. “We can cool off and then you can come over and we can just move on from this.” He says and leans back a bit as if that’s that. Everything’s fixed? 

“What are you talking about?” You look at him like he’s from another planet. “Can’t we just move on from this?” He asks, patience running even thinner. “This has gone on long enough… I’m tired of it… come over…” He says again and he doesn’t even realize how disappointing this all is to you. 

You sigh softly. Feeling let down. He couldn’t even apologize. Couldn’t fix the problem he created. He didn’t come here to explain, or apologize, or to check up on you. The words just start to flow now. 

“So you just came here to get your dick wet, is that it?” You say and stare him dead in the eyes. But his expression changes, brow raises in a certain surprise. He wasn't expecting you to say something like that. 

“No… I… I wanted to…” He starts but it’s like he can’t find the words. “I just wanted to see you.” He says feeling like he’s teetering on a very dangerous line right now. And silence follows. 

Why must he be so confusing? It’s like he’s making it your fault that he has no idea what he wants or how he feels. This week started with you feeling so small and insignificant. You told yourself that he’d never talk to you again after the things he said. That he really regretted being with you. That you were never supposed to happen. Just like he said. But now he’s back and he doesn’t even apologize? He just wants to act like none of it ever happened? Like he didn’t break your heart? 

“Why did you ask me to tutor you? That day?” You suddenly ask as it’s something you’ve been wondering and these are the things he’s not good at talking about. He knows all of this started with him acting like a greedy douchebag but he didn’t expect to feel this way towards you. He doesn’t want to tell you the real reason he invited you to his dorm a month ago. The real reason being he wanted a quick easy fuck with someone who seemed eager and innocent. He feels like a fucking jerk. “I don’t know…” He sighs and shakes his head, looking down at the table then back up at you. All your words just seem to come spilling out now.

“Well you knew that I liked you...” You state as if it should be obvious. “What do you mean?” He asks and your brow furrows. Is he serious? “You… you knew that I liked you. When you asked me to tutor you? A month ago??” You ask hopefully, trying to confirm what you hoped to be true. You had thought he knew you had feelings for him all this time. You even hoped those feelings were returned. “N-no I… I mean I assumed maybe you might have. I didn’t really think about it too much” He says a bit nervous about where this is going. His cool control slipping. But everyone likes him so it just makes sense that you would like him too. That’s why you didn’t refuse him. And it’s all getting twisted up in his head. “Didn’t think about it? Like… it wasn’t important to you whether I liked you or not?” 

And the silence falls over the both of you right then. “Well then what is this? What have we been doing?” You frown at him, waving your hands in the air a bit because you just can’t understand how you got to this point and he just keeps acting so oblivious. And he’s losing control. 

“No. Wait. I didn’t say it right. I-” 

“Why did you start doing all this then? If you didn’t even like me in the first place?” 

His eyes go wide, not having an answer that wouldn’t make you feel even worse. “I don’t know…” He says again. He doesn’t seem to know a goddamn thing. “Was it just to string me along?! Is this all just a joke to you?! Are you trying to make fun of me or something?” You press for answers, feeling more heartbroken the longer he doesn’t give you a real answer. “No! It’s not! I am not trying to make fun of you!” He exclaims, shaking his head. This isn’t going how he wanted. This is spinning out of his control and he’s on the verge of all this collapsing. If this happened with anyone else he’d just forget it ever happened in the first place. But he couldn’t forget you if he tried. He doesn’t understand that feeling. 

“You’ve just admitted you didn’t even like me when you first started this… and after a month of me giving you nothing but sex, you still just ‘don’t know’?” 

“No, that’s not what I mean.” 

“That’s exactly what you just said! And apparently I was never even supposed to happen in the first place.” You throw his own words back at him and he scoffs before scrambling to explain himself in a way that won’t make you hate him even more. 

“I freaked out… I don’t know why I freaked out. Can’t you just forget it? What I said was stupid I don’t even know what I was thinking…” He insists. “Seems like you were thinking a lot actually. That this was your plan all along. You don’t want a relationship, you just want a fucktoy…” You scoff and stand up from your seat, to which he immediately stands up too. His earlier confidence is crumbling. 

“Come on, I was… drunk!” He scrambles to justify his outburst Sunday night. 

“You said you weren’t drunk or were you lying about that too?” You move past him to grab your backpack from where he put it trying to keep it from you. 

“Can you just come over? Let’s forget about this, this is a waste of time.” He begs and follows you around as you’re collecting your things off the table and shoving them into your backpack. 

“I don’t think it’s a waste of time…” You say softly and shove your computer inside. “Yeah, well I do… you have wasted my time!” He raises his voice, trying to get a rise out of you but when he sees your disapproving expression he knows that wasn’t the right move. With one last zip, you’re starting to leave the empty library. And he follows frantically.  

“W-Wait! Just wait… w-what do you want me to do? You want me to block Dana’s number? I’ll do it!” He’s speaking fast and frantic, reaching for your hand and holding it to stop you from leaving him.

“I don’t want you to block Dana’s number… I don’t care.” You sigh, completely over all of this. It’s too confusing. He’s a mess you’re not sure you want to be a part of. 

“I’ll block her right now… you can watch me do it!

“Oh my god… enough…” 

“Please.”

“Enough!!” 

“I’ll cut her off… I don’t even want to see her anyway, I hate her…and we didn’t fuck on Sunday if that’s what you think!”

“Dana is not the problem”

“Dana must be the problem.”

“I’m telling you, she’s not!” You yell at him. And he finally shuts up, watching you wide eyed as you keep scolding him.

“Do you even hear yourself? D’you ever think that the problem might just be you? Are you incapable of just apologizing or do you genuinely not believe this is all your fault??! All of your problems just have to be other people’s problems right?!” And he flinches as you yell. 

He’s stunned by your words and the volume with which you just scolded him. He knows he deserves it but he just can’t stop himself from arguing. He doesn’t want you to hate him even though he deserves it. 

“Well I’m not perfect, okay? I can’t be…I can’t be perfect.” He pleads softly, holding onto your hand like a lifeline. A silent plea for you to not let go of him now.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect!” 

His eyes stay wide. Staring at you like you’ve just told him a deep dark secret. 

“I’m asking you to stop being a selfish asshole!!” 

Your voice doesn’t echo in this place padded with old books and hardwood. It's sturdy and final. And finally it seems like you’re getting through to him. Maybe he’s understanding.

“Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same. Do not tell me I was making it all up in my head. I’m not the one misreading things. You are.” You say. Your voice is softer now. Fragile as you can see he’s thinking about all that you just said.

Tell her you’re sorry, Miguel. He thinks to himself. He knows everything you’ve said is what he needs to hear. He knows he hurt you. What he said was not okay. And now he’s made you upset and angry too. 

“You’re right I… about everything…” He mumbles. Sighing and looking down. His fingers slipping away from your hand. Letting it go. Letting you go. 

“I… I’m sorry.” He finally says. And you let his apology sit. Allowing yourself time to decide if you’ll accept. If he deserves it. The silence is deafening. 

“I-I just…” He sighs deeply. At a loss for words. He just feels so stupid. Rubbing his forehead down to his cheek frustrated. Sighing ashamedly as he tries to think of what to say that could fix this. “You asked me… to tell you what I’m feeling and I-I don’t know…” He says softly. And you stare at him wide eyed as he admits this.

“What is that?” Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts for a moment. Looking back up at you confused. “Your hand.” You say, your eyes locked on his busted hand as he rubs his face. He pulls it behind his back. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy. “It’s nothing I-” He painfully clenches his hand behind his back. The guilt is overwhelming. Please don’t feel bad for me. He thinks to himself. You’ve been far too patient with him. 

“Show me.” You demand softly, looking in his eyes. And you’re serious. He sighs softly and brings his hand out, holding it out sheepishly to show you. The hand that’s held you, the hand that’s touched you… it’s cut up and bruised. 

“What happened?” You ask sternly with a hardened expression when you finally see the cuts in his knuckles and the bruises. His hand is mangled, swollen, purple and clearly would cause anyone lots of pain. “Don’t lie to me.” You sternly say. And he doesn’t dare lie to you again. “I just… punched my locker.” He looks down ashamed. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him like this. Broken and defeated. It’s not a good feeling, you don’t like seeing him like this. “When did this happen?” You ask firmly and he answers in a sigh. “Sunday.” Shoving his hand back in his pocket. It makes sense that he would have thrown a fit after he stormed out Sunday night. He must have been going about his week with his hand like that and not doing anything about it. “Did you go to the hospital?” He shakes his head at your question. Averting your gaze. “It’s gonna get worse if you don’t.” You insist and he just nods. For fear of his voice breaking if he found any words.

“I’m sorry Y/n… I’ll just go…” He says softly and steps back, and once again it’s like everything inside him is telling him to leave. You stand there. Not wanting to stop him this time. Watching him as he goes. 

“You should go to the hospital.” You say soft and serious as he walks past you. Staying still and not attempting to stop him from leaving. You’ve made your point. And he didn’t win. But neither of you won tonight. He nods softly and keeps his head down, walking past you to leave the library. And he’s going to try his hardest not to bother you again. You’re so kind, so patient, so real. And he fucked up the one good thing he had going on. The one thing that made him feel good. Instead of belittling you, he should have acknowledged that he has some messy feelings of his own. 

So he leaves. And you’re left standing in the library. You stood up for yourself. You told him off. But why do you feel so empty? Maybe it was seeing him so broken. When it comes to things that are good for him, he seems to forget himself. 

He leaves the library silently. Walking down the dim hallways of the building and then outside. It’s raining again. It’s been raining pretty much all week. Pulling his hood up, he walks down the front steps of the academic building. Walking through the rain and not even bothering to run this time. Letting the rain pelt his sweatshirt, soak right through to his skin. He feels so stupid. He feels confused. And he feels sorry. But you deserve better than him. 

Getting back to his residence building, he gets in the elevator. Staring at the floor and leaning his head against the wall as it travels up to his floor. He scoffs when the conversation replays in his head. His own words echoing and hearing himself act like such a dick. He didn’t know what other way to approach you other than to try and make things go back to normal. He wants things the way they were.

But he’s realizing the way things were is not fair to you. It’s not like all month the two of you just happened to cross paths. It’s not like you were sleeping with each other because there was no one else. It’s because neither of you can stay away from the other. It’s this messy obsession fueled with fire. He could touch you blind and know the pulse at your throat, the tips of your fingers, the plush of your stomach. He’d know the whispers of your voice, the fan of your breath over his cheek, the taste of your tongue. So then why is he so afraid? If he’s memorized every shimmering stretch mark, every inch of your skin, the sound of your voice, then why does he keep pushing you away? 

He wants you to be his… but he wants to be yours just as much. 

Miguel sighs as the elevator finally dings and the door opens. He keeps his head down, walking down the hall to his door. Unlocking it and walking inside. His hand hurts like hell. The cuts are just starting to heal but his fingers are still busted and swollen. It’s hard for him to open and close his hand all the way. 

His phone rings, vibrating in his pocket as he peels off his wet hoodie and kicks his shoes off. Pulling it out from his pocket, he sees who’s calling. He didn’t expect it to be you. And it’s not. It’s his Father. 

His heart sinks further, letting it ring, staring at the caller ID. This is the last thing he needs right now. Sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his vibrating phone in the palm of his hand, his eyes start to sting. Hot tears welling up and brimming in his eyes. When the ringing finally stops he drops his phone on the bed and drops his face into his hand. A shaky sigh trembling in his chest, swollen, hurting fingers clenching painfully on his lap. His arms wrap around himself, leaning over and down into his bed. He’s so tired. And he’s alone again just like always. He doesn’t feel bad for himself, he feels bad about himself. What is it about him that drives everyone away? You just answered that question for him tonight. It’s just him. 

...

“It… makes me… feel… steady? Like… like there’s nothing to worry about. Or like… y’know…” He sighed, flipping over to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling as you looked over at him across the pillows. The words felt trapped in his chest but they flowed like a river from his lips. “Like things feel slow...in a good way.”

…

He remembers saying that. He remembers meaning every word. Right now he feels anything but steady. He's collapsed.

His tears dry after a while and he keeps trying to just fall asleep and forget all of this. Even for just a few hours. But he can’t seem to just fall asleep. His head hurts and all he wants is to rest for once after this shitty week. But his running mind won’t let him. 

His eyes crack open to check the time, his alarm clock blaring red in the darkness of his room. 2:17am. “Ugh…” He sighs, letting his head fall back onto the covers. He’s been sitting like this for hours now. 

Knock knock knock. 

He hears the knock on the door, flinching and sitting up slightly on his elbows. Watching the door and wondering if he’s hearing things. But there it is again. Three soft knocks. 

“Miguel?” Your soft voice sounds from the other side of the door and he sits up completely. Eyes wide and heart thumping. This is his last chance. He can’t mess it up this time. He immediately gets up and turns on his desk light, running a hand through his hair and going to the door, unlocking the bolt and opening it. He doesn’t care if it seems desperate, he is desperate. 

He looks smaller somehow. Or maybe you just feel bigger in some way. He’s staring at you as he stands in the opening of his door. And his immediate instinct is to try whatever he can to make things better. 

“Y/n… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t hav-”

“Put your shoes on.” You shush him softly. You didn’t come here for an apology.

“What?” He steps forward, not understanding your request. It’s 2am and you’re both half asleep anyway.

“Put your shoes on please.” You say again. “And a hoodie or something, it’s cold outside.” 

His brow furrows in confusion but he’s not going to argue with you right now. You’re here and talking to him so that’s what matters. Using his one good hand, he pulls his sneakers on at the door, grabbing his hoodie off the back of his desk chair. “Where are we going?” He asks and passes through his door to you. He’d go anywhere if it meant he could be with you right now. A soft hopeful expression on his face. “We’re going to the hospital.” 

To be continued…

images from pinterest

Taglist: @miguels-cock-piercings @queerponcho @club-danger-zone @bossva @softcrayon

@m4dyy @nommingonfood @bruhhvv

@jessies-unrelagated-thoughts @mauvecherie-writes @haveclayeveryday @kimivixen

@jadeloverxd @chiikasevennn @mvlanchqly @resident-cryptid

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@francesca-the-1st @migueloharacumslut @daisy-artfield @peachey-pie @izakopanyi2

@rinnako @ohara-whore @migueloharasbbm @razertail18 @laysmt

@tojiragdoll @maiyart @wazawazooo @mun-2996 @marshhbs

[unsuperingyournatural]

it's the beskar, isn't it?

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

masterlist

You were almost at the end of the press day, and it showed. Hours of cameras, handshakes, soundbites, and smiling just a little wider than you felt. But this last interview felt looser, more relaxed. It was just the three of you—you, Pedro, and the journalist—in a small studio space with two chairs and a crew that had clearly been at it all day too.

Pedro sat beside you, half-sunken into his seat, one leg stretched out comfortably, the other lightly bouncing in place. He looked like he belonged there, like the chair had formed around his body. He was relaxed in that Pedro kind of way—composed but never stiff, warm but not performative. His energy had mellowed, his eyes still bright but softer now, especially whenever he glanced over at you.

The interviewer smiled brightly as she held up a cue card. “Okay, final segment. This is the fun one. Ninety seconds of random questions, no time to overthink, just say whatever comes to mind. You ready?”

You nodded, adjusting slightly in your seat. Pedro gave a mock salute, his grin crooked.

“Alright,” she said. “Who goes first?”

“Ladies first,” Pedro said immediately, turning toward you with a flourish of his hand. “Always.”

You gave him a playful side-eye. “How generous.”

The interviewer glanced at her timer and smiled. “Here we go. What’s your go-to comfort food?”

“French fries,” you said without hesitation.

“Favorite city you’ve ever worked in?”

“Florence.”

“Last song you sang out loud?”

“‘Espresso,’” you said, already cringing with a laugh.

Pedro choked on a breath, visibly trying not to laugh out loud. “You are so real for that.”

The interviewer chuckled, but didn’t slow down. “Alright,” she said, flipping her card, “one a little more playful. If you were into roleplay, which one of Pedro’s characters would you want him to dress up as?”

Without thinking, you blurted, “Din Djarin.”

There was a beat of silence. A pause so perfectly timed it could’ve been scripted.

Pedro turned toward you slowly, brows high and eyes wide. His mouth parted slightly, caught between amusement and disbelief. The interviewer gave a nod of impressed approval, her expression somewhere between amused and intrigued.

Your heart dropped. You blinked, cheeks starting to warm. “Wait. You said cosplay, right?”

The interviewer gave a grin that was all teeth. “Roleplay.”

You groaned softly, your hand flying to cover your face. “Same thing,” you mumbled through your fingers.

Pedro broke into a full, unrestrained laugh beside you, doubling forward in his seat. “Oh my God,” he said between chuckles. “I wasn’t ready.”

You peeked at the interviewer, who was clearly enjoying every second of it. “Great. That’s gonna go viral,” you muttered.

“There are probably at least three different fanfictions being written as we speak,” she teased.

Pedro sat up, still grinning, and reached over to lightly brush his fingers down the center of your back, his touch brief but warm as he shifted in his chair. He leaned toward you just enough to be heard without the mic catching it all.

“Guess I’ll be asking Jon and Dave if I can take the helmet for a weekend,” he said under his breath.

You gave him a warning look and lightly swatted his arm. “Stop.”

He threw his hands up. “Just kidding. That thing is on lockdown. You think they trust me with it unsupervised?”

He was clearly enjoying himself now. The grin on his face was pure trouble. “But good to know. The Mandalorian, huh? So what is it? The beskar? The cape? The mystery? No, wait,” he said, eyes lighting up, “it’s the Vibroblade.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands again. “Oh my God. Would you stop?”

Pedro laughed again, one hand patting your shoulder with mock sympathy. “You brought this on yourself. You could have said Oberyn. But no. You said the guy who never takes his helmet off.”

“Because I thought she said cosplay!” you said, muffled behind your hands.

The interviewer was nearly crying with laughter now. “Honestly, this might be my favorite interview of the entire tour.”

You finally looked up, still flushed, your eyes narrowing at Pedro’s smug, delighted expression. He caught your gaze and only grinned wider.

“I’m never living this down, am I?” you said.

“Absolutely not,” he replied cheerfully. “But I will be respectfully obnoxious about it.”

There was nothing left to do but laugh, your cheeks still burning as Pedro leaned back in his chair, practically glowing with amusement. He looked over at you again, a soft warmth behind the teasing.

You knew, deep down, this story would never die.

And somehow, despite everything, you were okay with that.

Even if he brought it up for the rest of your life.