#still emptying the drafts folder

[a-vibing-potato]

Ohhhhhhhhh

[literaryslapshot]

LOVESTRUCK, WENT STRAIGHT TO MY HEAD ⎯ S. CROSBY

y/n just wants the best for her son, she thinks the program rule of no freshmen players on varsity is stupid. she just did what any mother would do...right?

coach!sidney crosby x teacher!single mom!reader

warnings: angst, smut (fingering, handjob, sex on a table), somewhat of an inappropriate relationship, single parent content, light talk of divorce, lowkey based off of "slut!" by taylor swift

word count: 4,244

a/n: look at that....i do still know how to write

The bitterness of the coffee wasn’t doing it’s job. On her third cup and it’s not even ten in the morning, Y/N waits for the next period of students to walk through her door. Taking in one of the few moments of silence she has, she refreshes the page on the sports page on the school website, itching to see her son’s name. 

Carter had tryouts with the hockey team last week, he had been talking about it since the beginning of the month. He was training every day to make varsity; in leagues ever since he was ten years old every single coach and spectator could not brag enough on how much talent he had. Y/N was pressured to send him across the country, even out of the country, to go to the top hockey camps but as a single mother she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear to send her baby off to some strangers for a few months, and she couldn't afford to move away from family either. 

But her heart dropped as she refreshed the page, pulled up this season's roster, and saw her son’s name and number on the junior varsity roster instead of varsity. She didn’t understand it, she was told by the coaches herself that he was the best kid on the ice that day. Why didn’t he make varsity? 

Her questions were interrupted by students flooding into the classroom for the start of the next period. She pulled herself out of her thoughts to then teach this class period. Reluctantly though. 

-

The final bell rang and that meant she was done for the day. Saying goodbye to her students Y/N started to gather papers and put them in the “to grade” folder to take home with her before tidying up some areas of the room. She anticipated her son’s arrival. Ever since moving up to high school he always stopped by her room at the end of the day to talk about school and help her carry things to her car. 

“I didn’t make it.” Carter said as a greeting when he walked in the empty room. His face was defeated, his tall slender frame was slumped over in sadness and his eyes welling with tears. Out of all people Y/N knew and saw how hard he worked to make varsity his freshman year. He skated over fifty laps a day, worked on shots in the garage until way past dusk, he also started to lift more weights. 

“Oh baby, c’mere,” Y/N pulled her much taller son in for a hug. There he broke and rested into his mother's arms like a little kid again. He softly cried before pulling away. 

“I don’t get it mom, they told me i’d make it for sure, why would he tell me-” “Don’t worry about it son, I will talk to the coach first thing in the morning. I promise. But for now you have to play the cards you were dealt,” Y/N consoled her son in the way moms know how. Gathering her bags she gave the heaviest one to Carter to help carry out the building. They continued chatting on the way to her car, talking about school and homework he had for the week. Carter was a special kid, he deeply cared about his grade and education. He remembers promising his mom when he was younger that if he ever got to play hockey in college that he would get his degree and not go to the draft early. 

Carter was a momma’s boy through and through. His dad lived an hour away so he spent the weekends there twice a month, but he’s at his mom’s house the rest of the time. Carter is also protective of his mom too. He never told her this, but he’s beat in a couple boys’ faces because they made some lewd comments about her. He’s respectful of her, more than any other man on earth ever has been. Y/N is very proud of how she’s raised her son. 

“Okay son, go to practice. Have a positive attitude, don’t do anything stupid okay? I know you’re frustrated but just go into practice and do you, maybe they got you mixed up with someone else. But-” she saw his facial expressions change and get tense, she knew that he was still angry inside, “hey, don’t get mad at them. Wait until I talk and then you and I will figure something out.”

They walked in opposite directions, Carter to the athletic building and Y/N back to the school for one more item in her classroom. Hustling as best she can so she can get home, she runs into the person she didn’t want to speak to until in the morning. Coach Crosby. 

She felt her body coil and tense up in anger at just the sight. She was supposed to wait until morning, but her tongue got the best of her. 

“Coach! Hey, can I ask you a quick question?” she pulls him to the side, into an empty classroom where the teacher had left for the day. 

“What’s up?” Sidney asked, sitting down on one of the wooden desks. He was wearing black joggers, a tight pullover with a school cap on. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how the material of his clothing clung to his toned body. He had been out of the professional league for at least two years, but he still kept up the physical shape of his body, and it was obvious by the way his pants were stretching at the seams on his thighs. 

“I really don’t want to be that parent, but can you tell me why Carter didn’t make varsity?” Sidney cocks his head to the side. He’s only been on sight three months and he’s already dealing with this. 

“Well, it’s my understanding that freshmen must be on the JV team, no matter how good they are. That rule was put in place before I got here.” He explained while crossing his arms over his chest, his muscles making his pullover look incredibly small on his frame. “He’s a good kid though, he’ll make great improvements this year and I'll look forward to having him on varsity next year.” Sidney said, trying to end the conversation and smooth things over.

“But…you’re the new coach. This is your program now, not someone else’s.” Y/N couldn’t really understand what he was getting at. Did he not see the potential in her son that everyone seemed to say? Did he not see the great player, the great athlete that Carter was? Maybe it was just her being a mother, and so obviously her child is the best compared to other kids. But she swore she didn’t want to be like those parents. She remembers being a kid in youth sports herself and hated parents who thought their kid should be player of the week every week. In her mind, she needed to earn player of the week because of her work ethic, not because her parents were board members. 

“Right but I'm not trying to ruffle any feathers my first year. This is barely my program, I need to establish relationships before I change things here,” Y/N takes a step closer to Sidney, her hands folded in front of her. 

“But you’re Sidney Crosby, who can say no to you?” God she feels horrible for doing this, she feels like…like some junior league mom whose husband has nothing between his ears. But she thinks, if she can just rile him up for a minute, startle him, then he’ll change his mind and put Carter on varsity. That’s her end goal, get her son feeling better. If that means pretending to be a horny college student again, so be it. “I mean really, they had to give you this job cause they trust you. So obviously you can do what you want, like putting my son on your varsity team.”

He sighs, looking down at his shoes. He knows what she’s doing…and he can’t believe it’s sort of working. He hasn’t had a woman flirt with him in heaven knows how long. He doesn’t even know how to respond to such a thing anymore. His life for the past almost twenty years has been nothing but hockey. Sidney’s family has been asking him for a long time when he is going to settle down with someone, but nobody ever scratched that itch quite like hockey did. But now? That he’s got a woman in front of him, a gorgeous one at that, who’s buttering him up? Maybe he’ll give in…just to see what it feels like. 

“Your son is a hell of a player, Y/N. He really could go far,” His words got heavier as she got closer, he could smell her perfume, he could feel her breath, he could see her chest move up and down with every huff she took- “so put him on your team, Coach.” she put her hand on his chest softly and she sighed feeling his stern muscles. “C’mon, what’s it gonna take? Dinner and a show?” 

His eyes, dark and blown, looked into hers and if he remembers what the term eye fucking means then that’s exactly what they were doing. His breaths became short but heavy as she left a heavy hand on his chest. She rubbed her thumb over his cheek, trying her best to work her charm that she used to have. She hopes she’s still got it. 

He thinks, thinks, and thinks. This is a bad decision. 

“My place, six thirty tomorrow evening. Give me your best sales pitch, and we’ll see about the show.” 

Sidney stands up and for a brief second his nose bumps hers, an innocent touch but it makes him take a deep breath in to calm himself down. He exits the empty class room and takes long strides to get to practice, glancing at his watch he’s already a few minutes behind. 

-

She’s eternally grateful that Carter is with his dad this weekend. How could she explain to him that she’s not really going on a date…but she’s going to his coach's house with plans to seduce him..but again it’s not a date. Of course, she’d have to leave out the seducing part. She put on her best dress that she had, it was pretty simple but it hugged her figure nicely. She made sure to spritz some extra perfume on as well. 

The drive to Sidney’s house is silent, it’s her having fake conversations in her head about what to say or what not to say. Debating on if her seduction speech was still on date or if it’s too cheesy now. She suddenly feels like she lives in the lowest tax bracket possible when entering his neighborhood; she's never seen so many fake lawns before. She’s actually never been on this side of town much, except to look at christmas lights when Carter was younger. Now that he’s older he doesn’t care for that stuff anymore. 

“Nice place you’ve got,” she said walking into his entry way. To her surprise Sidney dressed up a little bit, wearing a button up with a nice pair of slacks, the top two buttons undone for visual purposes of course. He takes her coat and her purse, hanging it up by the door. “What’s on the menu?” 

“Well, I figured I'd go simple with just spaghetti and toast, with dessert to follow if that’s okay.” Sidney went into his pantry and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “This okay?” He holds the bottle in the air and she nods her head, sitting at his kitchen bar watching him pour a glass. She takes a glance at the label and she’s taken back. On her teacher salary she definitely can’t afford that brand.

Maybe she’s in over her head here- she didn’t think about any of this stuff. Suddenly she’s this woman who doesn’t have much to her name, sitting in a millionaire’s kitchen drinking wine that costs well over two hundred dollars- but damn if it doesn’t taste good. 

They make small talk before heading into the dining room where he sets dinner onto the table for her, such a gentleman. Continuing the semi dull conversation she thanks him for making a meal for her, joking that she’s never had a man make dinner for her. Only half true, her dad growing up would make dinners for her family. But when she married Carter’s dad, she was the chef in the family. Not that she was complaining, it was just odd for her to be on the reverse side for the first time in a while. 

“I am sorry about that idiotic rule, Y/N. Carter can easily be a varsity player.” Sidney broke the minute silence after finishing off his second glass of wine that night. She huffs, finishing her plate and scooting it away from her on the table. Was she really about to do this?

“Is there anything I can do, sidney? C’mon my boy’s in shambles, he’s thinking that he’s not as good as everyone makes him out to be,” Y/N reaches her hand out to rest on his softly. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Y/N hoped he knew what she was implying and that she didn’t have to say it out loud. 

And he did. 

He understood every word she said and the words that were left unsaid. He knew what she was implying and he knew what she was getting at. But Sidney hated that he was willing to do what she wanted. Y/N was leaning forward on the table, getting close enough to Sidney where he could smell her perfume and her lotion mixed together, he could see a couple small freckles up close as he couldn’t see them from a bit further away. 

There were no words exchanged between them, his eyes kept drifting from her tinted lips to her lustful eyes, back and forth a couple times before resting his hand on her cheek and pressing his lips against hers gently. Immediately he felt a rush of arousal- it’s just a kiss, really? He silently asked himself. He hadn’t gotten this aroused in a while, a long while. 

Both parties leaned into the kiss, wanting and aching for more. They tasted wine on each other and felt each other’s temperature begin to rise. Sidney got out of his chair, lips still connected to hers, and got closer. She stood up, one hand cupping his chin and the other resting on his chest, and she leaned against the dining table. She hadn’t made out with someone in years, she hopes she’s doing it right. 

She gets pushed onto the table just by the force of his body so now she’s sitting on the wooden table, Sidney standing in between her legs with both of his hands cupping her face. He doesn’t care if he seems desperate or if he seems needy, or if this is totally wrong and against almost all of the words he signed in his contract, he can’t seem to get enough of her. Sidney feels her play with the buttons of his shirt and how she begins to pull the shirt up and out of his dress pants. It was easy since he wasn’t wearing a belt. 

He didn’t even know that she completely unbuttoned his shirt until he felt her hands roam all over his naked chest, her hands slowly raking up and down his toned muscles. He takes a breath and scans her body. Her skin is hot to the touch, her eyes are completely blown now and her lips are parted. “How do I get this off you?” he asked, taking a fist of the hem of her dress.

“There's a tie in the back,” she huffed out, not able to take her hands off his body. Plus, she wants him to take it off of her. 

“You tied this yourself?” he asked in shock, surprised at how she tied such a perfect bow on her back with such thin strings. 

“I’ve been tying, zipping, buttoning my dresses myself for the past twelve years now, safe to say I got pretty good at it.” God- has she been alone for the past twelve years? Nobody to love on, kiss on, touch on this wonderful body of hers? Sidney takes in a sharp breath when he pulls the dress off of her and he gives her body a quick scan over. Wearing a strapless bra that she’s almost spilling out of, she has on silk leopard print panties that he can’t help but notice a significant damp spot on. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, hands roaming over her soft skin. “Don’t make fun of me, it’s been a long time since I've hooked up with someone.” because that’s just what this is, a hookup. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“I haven’t since I got divorced, so it's the same here.” she hooks her leg around his pulling him closer. He pressed his lips against hers again this time most softly. His hand goes down to play with the hem of her panties, “you sure about this?” 

“Very sure, don’t mess with a pissed off mama sidney.” she pulls him down with her as she lays down on the table. He kisses down her body, she arches her back and lets him take her bra off. Tossing it onto the floor Sidney wraps his lips around one of her hardened nipples. She lets out a heavenly sounding moan at the action.

It’s been so long she could cum just from Sidney doing this for a couple minutes longer. One hand slips down over her clothed cunt, rubbing her sensitive and wet area. She arches her body into his, already she’s lost in a great euphoric high that she can’t even mumble words. All that’s coming out is moans and gasps. 

He removes his mouth and Sidney stands up, she watches up on her elbows as he takes his pants off and removes his boxers. She bites her lip at the size - the sight - of his hardened dick in his hand. She reaches out for it herself, “you’ll give me what I want, and I promise you won’t regret it.” he thought for a moment too long, she began to doubt herself but he spoke up, “deal.”

She licks her hand before taking a grip on his cock. Slowly she starts stroking up and down, keeping harsh eye contact with sidney. She gives him a nice squeeze and a twist of her hand which makes him throw his head back in pleasure. He can only do so much with his hand, it’s nice to have someone else for a change. Y/N scoots closer to him on the table, with one of his hands he works his hand over one of her breasts softly massaging it. She leans into his touch and continues to work her hands over his hard cock. 

He moves his hand from her breast down and slips it into her soaked panties. At first his fingers were a little cold but they quickly warmed up after being immersed in her sex. He circles around her clit a couple times, getting familiar with the female body again. He explores for a minute or two, his middle finger teasing her hole. The more he teases her the harder her grip gets on his cock. He pulls his hand out of her panties, they’ve never broken eye contact this whole time and he sucks everything off of his hand. God that was hot. 

Sidney removes her hand from his cock fearing if she kept going he would cum all over her hand and that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He’s panting heavy now, his body forming sweat on his forehead. He pushes her down onto the table with a palm on her chest lining his cock up with her entrance, “wait do I need any-”

She chuckles, “that ship sailed a while ago, just fuck me like you mean it coach.” 

With her permission she slides in and she lets out a long, loud, moan as he does it. He wants to hear that on repeat for the rest of his life, he swears. Sidney puts both hands on her hips, keeping her body steady as he rocks in and out of her, his hips meeting her every time. 

Sidney allows to feel himself in her warm, wet walls. He throws his head back in pleasure and she shuts her eyes tight. Her hands come up to her breasts to add to the pleasure, fingers pinching both of her nipples as she feels his huge cock pump in and out of her small hole. He feels like he’s three feet deep inside of her, he feels lost in how good she feels. His head grows foggy each time he squeezes her. 

Sidney hits the spongy spot in her tight cunt that made her gasp out in pleasure, she sang his name like a chant over and over which made him fuck her harder and harder. She warned him about her orgasm and he did the same, begging her to cum with him. A few more pumps of his cock he spilled his heavy load inside of her and she moaned loudly like a queen when he did. He pulled his cock out of her, watching his load spill out with it. 

Maybe it was the post orgasm haze she was in, maybe it was the lovestruck feeling she had the minute they began making out, but minutes later she’s standing between him and the cold shower wall. His forehead pressed against hers. His fingers knuckle deep in her cunt and a hand wrapped around her throat as hot water rained down on either of them, her cunt squeezing his thick fingers while she couldn’t even say anything but his name. That’s exactly what he wanted. 

The hot shower water kept her eyes shut but she knew that he was gazing at her. He was in awe of her facial expressions, how she bit her lip through a smile with every jerk he made with his hand, when she furrowed her eyebrows when she was on the edge of cumming, and how she cocked her head to the side while he kissed around her neck silently asking for more. 

He took his hand away from her pussy, licking the honey off his fingers. He stayed that close to her though knowing her legs were probably jello and she wasn’t able to stand for at least a minute or two. 

She took a deep breath, “got what you wanted?” she asked in a joking tone, moving her hand up and down his chest in the hot steamy shower. He chuckled, his hands never leaving her body. He palmed her breasts, he seemed to have a thing for those she contemplated, heavy lustful eyes staring into hers. 

“How many more you got in you?” he asked, spreading her legs with his thigh.

“I can give you as much as you want.” Y/N answered, her hands slowly roaming down lower and lower on his chest and stomach. 

“Then no, I didn’t get what I want yet.”

-

She woke up in Sidney’s bed the next morning with messy hair and sore muscles. Looking over on the nightstand the clock read 8:02 AM. She was glad that it was a Saturday and she was able to sleep in. She saw that Sidney was still asleep, he laid on his stomach with his head facing the other way. Looking over his back, studying the freckles, the faded scars. Y/N wants to stay in this moment for as long as she can. 

She hates to admit but she really fell for Sidney. Not because of how skilled he was in bed, or because he could do wicked things with his hands, but she shared a few heartfelt conversations with him before tryouts even began. 

He cared for the kids at school, the kids he taught and the kids he coached. He had a heart for the coming generation. He wanted them to have someone in their corner, and some kids don’t have that at home and he wants to be that. She got lovestruck in the past few months, sure she never planned on sleeping with him, she felt young again with how big of a crush she had. It went straight to her head, it all moved so fast. 

God if her mother were still here she could just hear the word “slut!” come out of her mouth if her mom found out what happened. But she wouldn’t care. She enjoyed it, and she was sure Sidney enjoyed it too. 

But still, she can’t help but think to herself what did I just do?

Sidney turns his head and sees that she’s also awake. Raising up he sees the time, 8:10. He doesn’t even care that he missed his morning workout session an hour late. He puts his arm around her and pulls her closer to him, tucking his head in her neck. With dry lips Sidney placed a tender lingering kiss on her hot skin.

It might be worth it for once, she thinks. 

feedback | masterlist | au tag

tagging mutuals to boost, let me know if you don’t want to be tagged! @fallinallincurls @nylwnder @bitchinbarzal @ilyasorokinn @leafsbabe @twinklelilstarkey @raysofcrosby @lcandothisallday

[ussgallifrey]

(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 32

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, dialogue taken directly from Captain America: Civil War and the Marvel Civil War comic, language, minor violence.

✦ Word Count: 10.8k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

✦ Author's Note: Heyyyy. Well, the fact is, I kind of checked out for a few months after everything that happened in November. I couldn't find it in myself to open up my drafts to read, let alone work on anything. But, after focusing on my family and my home life for a much-needed while, it felt like I was finally at a point where I could come back to this story.

I love this story. I want to finish this story. I have missed this story. And, quite frankly, it felt amazing to be able to push through this draft that's been sitting in a folder since September, 2024 and actually finish it. Welcome back to everyone who gets a random update at 2:15 AM. Sorry it took a while to get an update, but I have hope that I can get this story back on track now. Wish me luck and enjoy the chapter <3

[Master List]

Your curled fist hesitates over the cool surface of the smooth door for just a stretch too long as the internal conflict brewing since Steve left collides like a wave against the shore of your inner mind.

While you were silent in the moment, watching on as the team began to pull at the loose thread that wove you all together, in this instance, you would be pushing forward. This was far overdue.

You give three sharp raps to the door.

And, as the many times before this moment, you receive no reply.

Jamming your body against the frame, your lips nearly caressing the door itself, you announce:

“You’re going to open this door on your own accord, or I’m going to appear in that room in a minute. Either way, I’m coming in.”

Pulling back, you await his decision. You wanted him to have the choice to begin with; allow him that tiny crumb of control in the chaos.

Slowly, the locks click open and the door creaks inward.

Pushing against the threshold, you enter the darkened space - nearly tripping over an empty pizza box - as your eyes attempt to adjust to the low-lit space.

“How in the All-Father’s name did you manage to get a pizza down here?” you question, nabbing the grease-stained box from the floor before tossing it into an adjacent corner.

Several empty cans of energy drinks and crinkling plastic wrappers are stepped on as you force your way further in.

Pietro gives a heartless chuckle, “Never even saw me leave, did you?”

Squinting against the darkness, you can just barely make out his silhouette on the bed, stark white hair an eerie beacon.

“You have been getting faster according to Steve.”

“Huh. And… where is Mr. America?”

Pushing aside a game controller, you lean over to flick on the bedside light - illuminating the sheer destruction of his room.

This was not just the pathetic decorating attempts of a teenage boy.

No… this was…. this was…

Cronus, you didn’t even have words for it.

The bed and table were about the last of the fully intact items in the space. The TV was smashed, the floor holding the remnants of long-abandoned meals, and a deep rivet has been cut through the carpet from constant pacing.

“You know…” you scoot closer to the boy, his back still to you as he faces the opposite wall, “Wanda’s been worried about you. We all have.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t need her pity.”

“It’s not pity, Pietro. It’s… mutual grief. And secluding yourself in here isn’t - hasn’t - been the answer.”

A rogue sniffle is your only indicator before the teenager drops his head, a hand rubbing across his face as his shoulders begin to shake - from anger or sadness, you’re still unsure.

“It’s my fault, you know. I didn’t listen… I just… I opened my mouth and couldn’t stop,” he lets out a breathless huff of sour laughter as he, at last, turns to face you - the full scope of his anguish painted across his face like a sordid tale. Eyes rounded by deep agonizing purple shades, lips cracked and pale. A gaze too haunted for his so few years of existence.

“Felt like I was a big shot, doing the superhero thing. And I just… couldn’t shut my mouth. I didn’t even see the vest. I could have killed all of us right then and there,” he shakes his head again, tears springing to his eyes as broken laughter stumbles from his chapped lips. “Hell, I did really. You know, they still haven’t released the official death toll. But I heard estimates of close to eighty.”

“Hey,” you shush, reaching across the comforter to squeeze his hand tightly in your grasp. “That is not your sole responsibility to bear, okay? And if you had let us in before now, you would have heard Steve and Natasha and your sister tell you the same thing.”

He launches off the bed, digging his hand into the errant curls on his head as he huffs, “But I still did it! I know it, in here - ” the boy slams a fist against his chest; his heart.

“You’re not infallible, Pietro. You’re human; you make mistakes.”

“That have a death toll?” he snips.

Your lips form a tight crease as you adjust your posture, smoothing out the wrinkles on his bed.

“Sometimes, in this line of work, yes.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, working himself into a pace.

You let him have his moment as that same sort of frantic madness overtakes his young body. A wild and distraught look in his eyes mixed with the squeezing of his balled-up fists at his sides.

“You know,” you start, reaching a hand out to pull him back down on the bed. He plops down beside you, a little too easily moved. “You’re not the only person to make a costly mistake.”

“Rich,” he quips, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, “coming from a literal goddess.”

“What, you think the weight of my immortality makes me infallible?”

With a shrug, he looks away - discontent to meet your gaze.

Turning your body to face Pietro, you shift your weight to the left as you cross your leg over your right knee; bracing yourself.

“Well, if you must know, when I was quite young - okay, I know you’re going to laugh, so might as well get it out now - when I was about three hundred and thirty-four…”

The mutant chortles beside you, unable to help himself as he turns his head, “Wow. So young.”

With a blossoming smile, you gently push your shoulder into his, “Hush. When I was younger… I was sort of at war with my brother. We were always trying to impress our father, trying to one-up each other with heroic human battles and great feats of godliness and… just about anything you can imagine two war-based deities could think of.”

The distant memory of Ares pulls up like a scab from an old, never-fully-healed over scar.

It wasn’t often you spared a thought toward the banished god, but today, you made a small exception. After that chaotic moment in the kitchen with the rest of the team, a part of you wanted to feel the entirety of that sensation right now, in this moment. Let it sting. Let it burn. Let it make you hurt because of your own failings.

“I made… awful choices back then, Pietro. I was quick to anger, faster to judgment. You would not want to meet that younger version of myself.”

Before the words even come to the surface, you begin to wring your hands together. An soured acidic breath scorches your throat.

You needed him to understand that he was not solely to blame for poor decisions. That he should not have to carry the burden alone. Not with everything going on outside of the Compound. No, you needed him to trust you - to not run away again.

“Tell me… have you ever heard of the myth of Medusa?”

With a slight tilt to his head, he puckers his lips up in thought.

“Uh… woman who turns people to stone, crazy snake hair, right?”

A slight smirk curls at the corner of your lips as he gestures vaguely around his own head.

“Yes, that’s the one,” you nod, bracing your hands on your knees - knuckles clenched tight enough to the point of genuine discomfort. “So… my brother wasn’t the only family member I came to blows with. My Uncle - Poseidon, God of the Sea… we have a very difficult history. We were in a contest to see who would be the patron deity of this Greek city, and… I won. They named the city in my name: Athens. Bested by his own niece, a lesser god in his mind.”

With a shake of your head, you move to stand, walking a slight pace away from the teen as you grip your crossed arms.

“There was a temple in my name. Priestesses worked there, worshiping me day and night. Promising me their devotion above anything else. They were to never stray from their duties, never… be with a man.”

You can’t even meet the boy’s eye now, but you know he is fully focused on your tale.

“Well, one day… my uncle came to my temple and forced himself upon one of the priestesses, Medusa. She prayed to me for help, as I was her patron goddess.”

You barely notice the sensation of your nails sinking into your forearms before you blink away the entrenched emotion from many centuries ago.

“And what did I do? Young, naive, constantly angry, and too foolish to take just a moment to listen to any voice of reason? I cursed her for lying with a man,” your words become choked in your throat as you meet Pietro’s shocked eyes. “I turned her into a hideous monster who no man would ever lay his eyes upon.”

“And some might say it was a gift that I gave her in the end. Being able to protect herself from the terrible beasts that would dare to touch her in the way Poseidon once had. But it’s not the truth. I wanted her to suffer for breaking one of my temple’s laws. And for years,” your voice shatters at last as you wearily shake your head. “The image of the hideous gorgon was what was emblazoned upon my shield. She, in all of her terror, was my symbol.”

In the beat of silence that passes, Pietro sits up straighter on the bed. His eyes are chillingly cold as he looks up at you – reminding you of one simple truth: you deserved every part of what you are currently feeling. The guilt and shame; all of it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Your expression breaks as you stare down at the boy you had welcomed into your home, into your arms. The boy who reminded you of another - one with sunkissed laughter and trilling lute strings and radiant smiles.

“I’m telling you this so that you understand, even those of us who seem incapable of making rash and terrible decisions are in fact, and likely have, made such choices. That those choices do not define us. They make us better, stronger.”

Moving to rejoin him on the bed, you let out a long sigh – letting the centuries ease out with it like billowing sand in a desert breeze.

“It took me some time to realize where my decision had come from. The gods, they praised it - they cheered me on. Zeus himself was so pleased by my creative punishment, that he named me as his heir apparent over my brother. But the people… the people who had named their city after me… their worship waned and their ire grew. Only when I walked among them as a stranger did I learn their true feelings; their disdain for the immortals. It made me grow up, essentially.”

“And Medusa?”

A wisp of breath catches on your lips as your eyes cloud over with the hazy memory you had wished to keep locked away until the universe burned away into twinkling stardust and then complete nothingness.

“By then… it was too late. The demigod Perseus beheaded her, no less with my help. Pietro, please - ” your fingers wrap around his hand as you force his gaze. “ - this great mistake will not be your last, but you are going to learn from it. And the first step is speaking to Wanda and assuring her that she hasn’t suffered alone in this matter because that’s what she thinks has happened.”

He leans back, a perplexed look on his face, “No, she has to know, yeah? I wouldn’t keep my door locked and just - ”

“No one came in or out for a week, Pietro. And right now, she’s so terrified that because of Wall Street, the two of you are going to be taken away. And we are trying to assure her that you are both safe here, but it would be much easier if you were - ”

With a jerky nod, he squeezes your hand in return before standing up - smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you,” you offer him a smile as you stand up, cupping his cheek in the palm of your hand.

He leans into the touch, his eyes briefly fluttering shut.

“And, if you need to talk or vent, or Cronus, break something, please just… come to me. Or anyone else here. You’re not alone anymore, I promise you that.”

Looking a little taken aback by the statement, the teenager stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and offers you an awkward smile and nod before he exits the room.

Taking a look around at the disarray, you let out a long and shuddering breath as the weight of over three millennia comes crashing down upon you once again.

Looping the strand of auburn hair between your fingers, your blazoned eyes lift up to catch Natasha’s pointed gaze.

“So,” the assassin breathes out, glancing back down at her captured hand. “How far out of the comfort zone are you dragging me?”

You can feel the rumble of laughter from Wanda as you weave another braid down her back. The teenager smiles up at Natasha as she lays the first swipe of electric blue nail polish down upon the woman’s left index finger.

“Unfathomably far.”

“Wow, unfathomably.”

While you weren’t entirely sure how the three of you had wound up in this rather intimate position on the floor of the communal living space - the TV finally turned off; the news no longer on a constant loop - you weren’t entirely complaining about the arrangement.

Clint snorts from his relaxed position on the armchair - one foot kicked up onto the coffee table in front of him as he takes another swig of his beer.

“What, you want in on this?” Natasha questions her partner with an exaggerated batting of her eyelashes.

“ ‘m good,” he smirks.

With a secretive smile of your own, you begin separating three more strands of hair - now on the left side of Wanda's head.

To the best of your knowledge, the siblings had made peace yesterday and were now tentatively co-existing around one another once again. Glancing toward the kitchenette, you spot Pietro. His dark eyes take in the domestic scene spread out in front of him with a distant look upon his face.

You knew it would take more than a few encouraging words and pep talks to get him to peek out of his shell once again. Maybe if Steve was around, it would take a shorter amount of time. But the fact was, no one had heard from the supersoldier since he had stormed out of the Compound three days ago.

“You know - ” tilting your head back, a smile loosening on your features, you watch as Tony plops down on the edge of the sofa, directly behind you - his hand holding an imaginary brush as he mimics combing your hair, “I just love these sleepovers with you guys.”

“Hey,” Natasha sighs, flashing him a warning look. “Invites only, you know the drill.”

“Unless you want me to do your hair?” you question, glancing back at the billionaire.

Tony immediately lifts his hands up, “Please, I spent an hour on this.”

While the tussled locks of his dark hair appeared to be anything other than styled, the engineer hefts up from the couch and wanders toward the kitchen - avoiding the teenage boy’s eyes. Your own gaze follows his path across the room.

It felt like walking on eggshells anymore with the billionaire around.

Tying off the last braid, you gently pat Wanda’s back, “Think that does it.”

The young witch offers you a thin smile in return as she focuses back on painting the Widow’s nails a varying array of deep blues and emerald greens.

Stretching up from the floor, Tony’s eyes land on you - a silent beckoning there in his gaze.

When you move to the kitchen island, taking up residence on one of the metal stools, Pietro conveniently finds a reason to head toward the gym. You didn’t particularly blame him - things were awkward enough as is around here lately.

“So,” Tony breathes out when he notes the boy is out of sight, his voice low and steady. “Any word from red, white, and spangled blue?”

Your fingers clench down on your thighs as you shake your head, chancing a look up at the man standing beside the dark stone counter.

He huffs a lifeless laugh, shaking his head.

“Wonderful.”

As Tony crosses his arms, you watch as a sour expression clouds his features.

“You know, we could have handled it. We could have had a place in those meetings; those negotiations. Been there, done that before, you know?”

Giving a nod, your eyes follow the billionaire as he drops down onto the stool beside you - your backs to the rest of the room.

“It just pisses me off.”

“I know.”

Running a hand through his hair, he cranes his neck to look at you.

“I’m just sitting here thinking about what could be, you know what I mean? Like… we could have had a committee for oversight, no problem, no argument here. We could have put some people from our side on the board - like Rhodey… or hell, even Rogers. People who would have our interests at heart. If we had all just… sat on our hands and shut the hell up and… yeah, not make an ass of ourselves on TV with a grieving woman.”

The shape of your nails becomes a sudden point of interest as you avoid the haunted look in the dark eyes of Tony Stark.

For all of your own fallacies, you knew the man beside you was all too aware of his own weak points. Always trying to improve, to better himself and the lives of the people around him. Everything he did was out of a sense to protect the world; to protect the team.

“I mean…” Tony bites at his thumb for a second, gaze distant, “Opening up channels for negotiations is a cakewalk. A few sweet words here, some faux apologies there, a transfer of cash or the promise of a luxury car and, bam, you’re in.”

Shaking his head, he drums his fingers on the counter, mind clearly running faster than his own mouth can keep up with.

“Fuck, I just wish Rogers would have stayed around long enough to hear me ramble.”

“You know Steve,” you sigh, turning fully on the stool to face Tony. “Once he gets a thought in his head… well, you remember Insight.”

“Yeah, anything to do with you or Barnes, and the guy’s out of here.”

As your brow pinches, you question, “What does that mean?”

“Oh.”

Tony’s cheeks puff up like a fish for a moment before he looks away, swinging his feet back down onto the ground, “Well, you know. Favorite people and all. Do you know how many times he ran off when he got a not-so-secretive call about a Soldier sighting, or, better yet, when he got a little text from someone otherworldly and godly saying they were back in town? Yeah, wrapped around your finger, sweetheart. Or… thought he was.”

Absently kicking at imaginary dirt on the ground, the billionaire stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“You’ve tried, right? Texting him, I mean. Cause, trust me, he ain’t answering if it’s coming from my number.”

Glancing back down at the counter - you could almost count the number of tiny white and gold flakes in the pattern to avoid the conversation if you wanted to.

“Yeah, I sent a message or two.”

Letting out a low whistle, Tony rocks back on his heels.

“Ouch. Well, best case scenario he’s sulking it out with Wilson somewhere off the beaten path.”

You almost want to ask what the worst case scenario would be, but your mind has already conjured up a few choice images for your own anxiety to ruminate on. At least you hadn’t seen him on the nightly news. Yet.

Perhaps that was your biggest fear.

Steve putting all of his eggs in one basket and storming Congress to give the Senators a piece of his own ideals.

The SRA had passed through the Senate, now it was up for a vote in the House. And then it would only be a matter of time before the President was set to sign it into law. You weren’t even sure if Tony’s reach could stop that from happening now.

Meanwhile, the UN had continued its fifth day of meetings. There was no word on the Sokovia Accords yet. But you, and everyone else in the Compound, knew that the backing from the Eastern European ambassadors would be enough to get things moving toward an actual ruling.

“Stark.”

Both you and Tony look up as Hill enters the space.

Her commanding tone is such a scathing shift from the woman you helped in the hospital two years ago, that she’s almost impossible to recognize. A glance over your shoulder shows Natasha shifting to subtly crouch in front of Wanda as Clint stands up, arms crossed as he looms directly behind the teen.

“Was wondering where you’d wandered off to.”

“Big compound,” he quirks, tone flat.

She gives him a look that clearly says that she’s all too aware of the fact that he’s been likely avoiding her.

“So, any word on Rogers?” she questions, her gaze shifting from the billionaire to land firmly on you.

Maybe this version of the agent had always been there and you had just been too blinded to notice. Perhaps you could see the faint traces of her calculating demeanor when she admonished you at the Tower after fumbling the handling of the Abomination. Maybe you just had to be this cold and shut off to work in such a landscape.

“Sorry, co-director. No such luck,” Tony grins.

Crossing her arms, she stares down at the man beside you.

“And those calculations and algorithms you said you were running day and night? Even they can’t find him or Wilson?”

“Hey, convenience of modern-day technology, am I right?” Tony smacks his hand down on Hill’s shoulder, pushing past her.

“Well,” she turns on her heel, following the billionaire out of the room, “Maybe I should send down one of my techs to go over your computations.”

As their conversation and footsteps fade further down the hallway, it’s Clint who lets out a low whistle.

“Christ, who shoved a stick up her ass?”

“Hush,” Natasha reprimands, voice clipped and bitter.

Fidgeting with your hands, you finally swivel around and drop back to the floor. Sparring a glance down the hall before you decide to make your way toward the stairs.

But it’s the rather sudden and sharp - ow - that makes you freeze.

Looking back at the trio, your gaze immediately falls to Natasha’s pinched brow.

“Hey!” she barks, shoving at Wanda, “Get out!”

You’re on the teen in a flash, gripping her by the shoulders as you pull her back - her eyes fading from a misted red to their normal dark hue.

“What was that?” you question, directly in her face. “We’ve talked about this. No going into other people’s heads!”

Wanda spits, head lulling back as she peers up at you, “She knows where he is.”

Clint has a hand on Natasha’s shoulder, but she brushes him off as she shakily stands up.

“Is that true?”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Seriously?” she quips, avoiding your eye.

As your hands drop from Wanda’s arms, you swivel on your toe - turning to face the assassin as you stand up to your full height.

“Natalia.”

It takes a beat, barely more than a breath, before her piercing green eyes land on your face - heated and desperate.

“I don’t know where Steve is, Seven.”

“Liar,” Wanda chortles, shaking her head as she haphazardly moves from the floor to sit on the couch behind her.

“I don’t,” Natasha emphasizes for you. “I just… know where he might want to go.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Clint questions.

“Fuck, you’re just as bad as Hill,” she shakes her head. “He might have… texted me yesterday asking for an assist.”

“And you…” the archer prompts, arms crossed and eyes furious.

“And, I didn’t give him anything. I’m not halfway across the world, in case you didn’t notice - ” she pushes sharply at Barton’s chest - green and blue still-wet nail polish squishing together on the fingers of her right hand.

“He’s not even in the country,” you fumble to grasp with a shake of your own head. “He just… left.”

“Look,” she sighs, seeming to take pity on you – though why, you don’t know. “This whole situation has got him worried about… his past. Very important things from his past.”

You immediately catch her meaning.

“And, he’s sort of hyperfocused on that right now. Hell if I know why, he didn’t bother to say.”

“But he went to you,” you surmise.

Perhaps that was the thing that stung most of all.

For all of the closeness the team purported the two of you had, in the moment where he needed help, it hadn’t been you he had contacted. It had been Natasha. And yes, they had worked together at SHIELD and during the first initial year hunting down Bucky. But you two were…

Well, you weren’t entirely sure what you two were most of the time. There was no word for it in either English or Greek or Old Latin that perfectly encapsulated the relationship you shared with the supersoldier.

Profound. Important. Lasting. Trusting.

Incomprehensible to those around you.

You both had grown since your first meeting five years ago. Your lives had twisted together like the branches of a grapevine. Intertwining so deeply; so tightly, there was no separating one from the other.

At least, you thought you understood the scope of your relationship. Perhaps your silence in the matter several days ago had been too much for even Steve to bear. He was a man of swift action in the face of injustice - or what he believed to be an injustice. While you were more… calculated in your actions.

“Yes,” Natasha states, releasing a breath from her pale lips.

With a nod, you merely say, “Of course,” before you give a regarding look to the other two.

You can hear the calling of your name as you head down the stairs to your quarters. But no one bothers to follow after you. You almost prefer it. Almost.

“Come on, tell me you got something,” Tony grits, the faceplate shooting up on his suit as his feet make contact with the sidewalk.

Natasha flashes him an irritated glance as she furiously swipes, “Give me a break, alright? This is old-school construction; the walls are actually insulated.”

“Give me that,” he snaps, grabbing the device from her hands – nearly dropping it as the suit’s fingers are far more bulky than his own.

As you had been leaning against the dory for a moment, watching the two needlessly bicker with Pallas resting on your shoulder, you swipe the device from Tony.

“Hey! I was using that!”

Offering him only a side-eye, you quickly triangulate the device to sync up with Clint’s hearing aids. Handing the small electronic over to Nat, you answer, “Seventeenth floor, one window, four guards, and Sarkissian.”

Tony, squinting upward against the afternoon sun; likely calculating where exactly the room would be, nods a quick, “Good work, Double O.”

The operatives you had captured in the Las Vegas fight hadn’t exactly been very forthcoming with their information. No one wanted to be the rat on an expansive operation, of course. But, apparently, one of them had managed to become a little more talkative after another round with one of the SHIELD interrogators.

Ophelia Sarkissian was a name that had been looming in the background ever since Strucker’s prison break.

Stark had spent the day running every possible program to try and find her. And to, admittedly, get Hill off his back for an afternoon. Which had led your four-man team to this pseudo-business in the Bronx. Cronus only knows how long their operation had been running here without arousing any suspicious inquiries. A single upscale beauty boutique in a thirty-two-floor building; really?

From the moment you had landed on the street, there had been resistance. Clint was hit with something – venom, possibly - and dragged away while you had been fighting off the electrically charged attacks from the escapee who had evaded you all back in the desert. You had savored a moment of triumph when the Aegis collided with his jaw and sent him reeling backward into temporary unconsciousness.

Noting the growing crowd on the opposite sidewalk and adjoining streets, phones out and at the ready, Tony drops the faceplate back into place.

“I’m open to options here.”

But Natasha silences him with a shush, “I think I’m picking up something.”

There’s a bit of static over the broadcast, all coming in from Clint’s aids, but you’re able to make out the monologue perfectly.

“You’re destroying this country, Mr. Barton. You don’t mean to, of course. You think you’re helping with your coddling little welfare state. Your constant demand for equality. Whatever happened to exceptionalism? Whatever happened to rewarding hard work? Instead, we punish success. Case in point -”

Through Sarkissian’s accented and twisted swirl of words, you can hear the frustrated and almost bored groans from Clint. They must have something covering his mouth, but you can still hear the muffled sarcastic comebacks he tries to convey.

“Today’s businesses face unfair regulation at the hands of an overreaching government. Where the hell in the Constitution did anyone promise the masses clean air, anyway? Sounds like a free market demand for filtration systems and gas masks.”

“They just love to hear themselves talk, don’t they?” You ponder, tiredly glancing over at Natasha.

“Unlike anyone else we know, anyway,” she surmises, looking pointedly up at Iron Man.

The optical lenses blink in golden LED light as Tony tilts his head, “Not sounding like a plan yet, Romanoff.”

She just grins like a lazy cat in a stretch of sunlight, “I thought it was obvious.”

It takes a second, but then Tony is soaring upward – dust and debris billowing up in his wake.

“Men,” she sighs with a roll of her eyes before looping her arm through yours.

Sarkissian’s voice echoes through the speaker still, “The most important lesson in what drives the whole process is fear . Once you figure out what a person is afraid of, you’ve found a way to sell them something.”

In a flash, the sidewalk below your feet disappears and a darkened industrial room appears.

“I personally can’t wait ‘til we’re back to selling wars -”

Iron Man crashes through the window.

As the monologuer turns around, Natasha dips away from you, throwing widow bites in quick succession – taking out two guards. Before she can even bear her teeth or whip out a blade, you pull Sarkissian in with your spear, trapping her by the neck; drawing her in close.

The threat of Tony’s blasters is enough to keep the last remaining stooge from making any sudden moves, giving Nat the chance to untie Clint from the single chair sitting in the room. So typical, it was almost sad.

“OW! ” He grunts when she rips the duct tape from his mouth, “ Fucking , Jesus. Not even a goddamn warning.”

But she’s not paying attention to his complaints as she pats his checks. Even from a distance, you can see his eyelids drooping and his mouth curving downward.

“Check her, Seven!”

With one hand holding the spear steady, you dig through the woman’s pockets – ignoring her annoyed little heys and buy me dinner first – before finally wrapping your fingers around a small vial.

The contents are a soft blue, cloudy, and very untrustworthy based on appearance alone. You chuck it Tony’s way, giving him the chance to analyze it.

By the time Clint’s up and on his feet again – arm draped over Nat’s shoulders for support, the news vans have already appeared on the street below. Hill also sent a few prisoner transports along, having a team dragging the various guards out one by one.

Leading Sarkissian out with a single hand grasping her wrists together behind her back, you avert your gaze from the flashes of cameras and the calls of eager reporters.

The SHIELD agent who you meet up with clasps a pair of heavy cuffs over the woman’s hands, making them fully encased. You watch as she’s pushed into the back of one of the vans, mouth sealed shut of her own accord.

“That’s right. Single-handly, we have shut down a serious threat to this beautiful community.”

The doors slam in your face as you spin around – catching Tony excitedly gesticulating in front of a team of news cameras.

Slipping back to stand beside Natasha and Clint, you watch in a mixture of slight awe and horror as Tony spins the tale of the great battle that had occured just moments before. How a dangerous criminal mastermind was now set to live out the rest of her days behind bars. He waves to the crowd, blowing out a kiss to a random bystander across the street before ultimately returning to the team.

“Hear that?” he grins, “That’s the sound of people starting to believe in superheroes again.”

Turning to wave at the people once more – now being met with shouts and calls for more questions - you slide close to the billionaire, voice meant for his ears alone.

“Will you still be superheroes after all of this, Tony? Won’t you just be SHIELD agents when you’re all on the federal payroll?”

“Well,” he cranes his head to the side.

After a beat, he grabs your arm by the elbow and forces your hand into a little wave. A group of people standing in front of the pizza place scream out in joy.

“We’re a good distraction if anything,” he gleams.

Glancing back at the others, your worried expression is met with equally concerned gazes.

Hill is surprisingly smiley when you return to the Compound. Nat and Clint brush her off – wanting nothing more than to get the archer properly checked out in medical, just in case that antivenom didn’t work its way through his system properly – but Tony meanders about, talking up a storm with her.

You slip past, watching the strange occurrence take place with an uneasy swish in your stomach.

The twins are nowhere to be seen when you first enter the main living space – nor is Vision. The swirl of your godly wardrobe disappears in a halo of warm golden light as the now-familiar comfort of human attire appears once again on your body.

Wringing your hands together, actually unsure of what to do with the post-fight energy still curiously wriggling itself through your body, a sensible chuckle meets your ears.

Tony, down to his jeans and Metallica shirt, wanders in, shaking his head.

“Is that what I think it is?”

You follow his amused gaze down to the soft baby blue cuff of your sleeve. It takes a second before you begin to frantically pull the hoodie off your shoulders, eyes wide in horror; too stunned to even manage a single word from your panicked lips.

“Hey, hey - ” he steps forward, easing a hand down before you can entirely divest yourself of the garment. Steve’s garment. Cronus, how the hell did it even appear on your anyway? “- it’s cool. Fitting, really.”

Your chest relaxes as a sigh pushes its way past your lips. Slowly, you pull the sleeves back up, pulling the soft fleece closer to your body. From the hem of the hood, you can just pick up the familiar musk of Steve’s aftershave.

“Anyway,” Tony spares one final look at the piece of clothing, “I had FRIDAY working through those records we nabbed?”

He expectantly waits for understanding to hit you. When you nod in remembrance, he continues, “Turns out, this little group had a ton of off-shore bank accounts. And a bunch of messages to a Mister E.”

A shock of laughter bubbles out from Tony as he slaps a hand over his own mouth in awe.

“Oh, that’s brilliant. Mister E .. Mystery. Get it? God, wish I thought of that myself before.”

Changing gears before you can even pinch your brows – ready to admonish him for regaling his pre-Iron Man war-profiteering era – he intercepts:

“Anyway, I’ve got FRIDAY on the trail and she’ll figure out who their figurehead is in no time. In other news... job well done. Yay, Avengers.”

A smile creeps to your lips as Tony gently bats his hand against your arm, “Go, relax or whatever the hell it is you do in your off time. The knowledge that a large criminal organization is currently off the streets should be a reward in itself today.”

Not even bothering to see what choice you make, Tony saunters off down the hall toward the meeting rooms, whistling a jaunty tune to himself. It could be a Disney song or a bad rendition of “Back in Black”, you’re not really sure.

On your way to your quarters, you spy the twins in the small kitchenette. Wanda’s sitting up on the counter and Pietro’s spinning around on the floor laughing; truly laughing. Not wanting to interrupt their moment of possible happiness, you scoot past them to your own room.

Flipping the light switch, your quarters come to life.

Still as plain and immaculately clean as you had left it.

Kicking your shoes off near the door, you shuffle your way across the pale pink carpet before your knees hit the edge of the bedframe and you turn around. Dropping down on the bed, your hair halos out behind you. The mattress sags pleasantly under your weight as you breathe out a long sigh.

After a moment of pure silence, staring up at the tiny specks that make up faux constellations on the ceiling, your thumb begins to rub at the cuff of the hoodie’s sleeve.

Eventually, you draw in the open front to your nose – inhaling that warm smell once again. How exactly Steve’s clothing had disappeared from his room only to appear on your body was still a complete mystery to you. This had never happened before in the history of, well, your entire existence, frankly.

The aftershave is a woody scent, embedded into the owner’s clothing. Taking short sniffs, you can just make out the patchouli and cedar. Somewhere in there is the barest hint of clove. It reminds you of the soft mossy floor of your sister’s forest. The woods always held an earthy smell to them, especially on Olympus. Artemis’ realm seemed enhance the simple scent of the outdoors to be even more pleasing to the senses. But this fragrance, curled into the fabric of Steve’s hoodie, is something of its own making.

The only downside of it, actually, is the fact that it makes the ache of Steve’s absence even stronger.

Where you would usually turn to the supersoldier in the aftermath of a battle, there was no one. When you would plan out a fight, it was always with Steve. Even just now, passing the twins, you were reminded of the person missing at your side. The person who had helped you, for months, aid in the recovery of the two mutants.

It felt like a betrayal. You knew it wasn’t, and even more-so, you knew you shouldn’t be thinking alongside that line of troubling thoughts. But it ultimately did, deep down in your chest. That bitter little vein throbbing next to your heart seemed to scream out – traitor. Which was nothing close to the truth of the matter at all.

Steve had left to quell an argument before it reached a disastrous level – Tony had a way of bringing that out in people; particularly Steve. He was just cooling off. That was all. Looking for James Barnes was just a distraction point in the matter, surely.

Curling onto your side, you pull the fabric even closer to you, silently wishing that whatever wrongs that had transpired between him and the team could be undone so that Steve would return to the Compound at last. So he could return to... you.

Wrapped in the warmth of fleece, and with the featherlight pillow beneath your head, the aftermath of the fight finally pulls at your body – dragging you down into a light, dreamless sleep.

But it is broken all too easily, an hour later, by the sharp trilling of a buzzing cell phone on the nightstand beside you.

Through bleary eyes, you see an unknown number flash across the screen. You already know, however; deep down, that pulsing artery in your heart, you already know who it is. Flicking the phone open, you ask in an immediate rush of breathlessness:

“Are you okay?”

The distant flutter of a chuckle greets your ears as you sag back down.

“I’m okay,” Steve replies.

He’s okay. He’s okay. Steve’s okay.

But with that immediate sense of relief, you find yourself having to steady a breath. Trying to hold back the sudden swath of anger that wants to break free – you jerk. Where does he get off ignoring you, all of you, for days on end, just to call you out of nowhere and act like everything’s just fine?

Biting it back, your fingers dig into palm – feel that, that’s real. Those thoughts? That anger. That’s just a distraction.

“Where are you?”

“Out of my depth,” he snorts.

“Cronus, Rogers,” you sigh, raking your hand over your head.

“’Thena... I need your help. A favor, honestly.” His voice cracks on the final sound of your name.

From that alone, you know he doesn’t really want to be asking for this. Which must mean he desperately needs whatever help he can get.

“Anything,” you respond in kind.

There’s a beat of silence that passes between the two of you. In the distance, you can make out the honk of a car horn, the rustle of a breeze, the whispers from who you assume to be Sam.

“I need to find Bucky ... before Ross does. I, I know the Accords aren’t signed into law yet, but the SRA... it’s going to be voted on any day now, and I don’t want anything to happen to him while we just sit here. He’s been through too much on my account already.”

The words sink in slowly at first before the full scope of the threat resting above James Barnes hits you like a flash of lightning.

“I can send Pallas,” you suggest. “Actually, you should have just used the card and called me to you.”

Steve huffs a broken laugh, “Thought about that, honestly. Just, didn’t seem safe.”

“Okay,” you murmur, thinking over your options.

This was likely what he had contacted Natasha about. And if she couldn’t help... well, there was always Tony. But then again, that was probably one of the last people Steve would willing to go to for help right now. Especially with this.

“I... I might have something. But it’s back on Olympus.”

“Okay,” he eases.

A smile curls on your lips, “It will only take me a minute of your time.”

You can picture the way his features relax when he hears your answer, a grateful, “Thank you,” is pressed across the line. Followed shortly by a soft admission:

“I miss you, you know.”

For a moment, you try to picture him. Eyes soft but lidded, lips pressed to the receiver so Sam won’t hear, that easy smile he reserves only for you and you alone.

Your fingers loop around one of the strings on his hoodie, tugging aimlessly at it for a moment before you respond, “It’s only been three days, Steve.”

There’s a pause, a breath of space between two places, but still connected by that always present invisible force that connects you to him and him to you.

“I think that’s been three days too many, honestly,” comes the husky reply.

You linger there on the line, just listening to the sound of his gentle breaths. If you closed your eyes, which you won’t, and if you imagined for just a moment – which you didn’t dare – you could almost see him laying just in front of you on the bed, staring down at you with an expression that would make his sea blue eyes nearly black in the low light of your room.

“Just... give me a minute,” you murmur, placing the phone down on your pillow.

Steve gives a hum of acknowledgment. And then you’re gone. In a sparkling burst of golden light.

The building is just a street away from the main hub of the city. Where, if you were looking for peace and quiet, you would be in the wrong part of town. The traffic isn’t nearly as bad here though, but the noise does travel well past the boundaries of the Soviet apartment block.

“I thought we were going for a stealthy approach with this one. Instead, you’re going in like a walking billboard for the Avengers.”

Taking the stairs, Steve peers down the first corridor before answering Sam, “We don’t know what state of mind he might be in. Better safe than sorry.”

The strap of the shield digs into his fingers as he pulls it tight to his side.

This was really going to be their last chance to find Bucky and get him out of here. If anyone was going to take the fall for this, it would be Steve in his full Captain America regalia. Not Sam. Sam, who he had sent to the roof to keep an eye on the skies and neighboring buildings. Sam, with no uniform, who had strict instructions to make a break for it the minute things got nasty. If things got nasty. Which, God, he hoped they wouldn’t.

It’s three more floors of worn concrete stairs before the crackle of Sam’s voice breaks over the comms once again.

“What exactly was it that your girl did?”

In the hotel, Steve had remained largely vague about your role in this mission. Sharon had provided the city for them, but not the address. Even that was out of her jurisdiction.

“She had a...” a man steps out of his apartment, takes one look at Steve, and slowly backs his way back inside. Two locks slide closed.

He’s not insulted, in all actuality. Considering if the roles were reversed and he, all ninety some pounds of pre-serum Rogers, had seen a costumed renegade outside of his door. Yeah, he’d likely lock up and snooker down.

“A scyring pool, I think. It was something that allowed her to see whatever it was she was seeking? It’s not really my realm.”

Taking a look up at the final set of stairs, Steve grasps the shaky metal railing and begins the ascent. He had been tracking the door numbers this entire time. 607 had to be up here.

“What, and she just... had this magical thing th e whole time we were looking for cold, dark, and gloomy?”

That wasn’t something Steve particularly wanted to think about, in all honesty. In fact, he had resigned the notion to the back of his mind for the time being.

603, 604, 605, 606...

The last door is entirely unordinary. Just like the others.

Placing his head against the wood, he can’t immediately detect any movement from inside. Still, he knocks. Bracing himself for the moment his friend opens the door and sees him. God, what the hell will he even think? Will he even listen, or is this going to be like the helicarrier all over again?

A minute passes, and Steve still doesn’t hear any sounds of a gun cocking or glass breaking.

Ramming his shoulder into the door, it gives way almost instantly. Distantly, he wonders if it was even locked to begin with.

While the overhead lights are on above a single table and the small kitchen counter, the windows themselves are covered up – barely allowing a trickle of sunlight through the pasted newsprint. Steve treks in slowly, watching the floor for any traps as he takes in the abhorrent state of the single room.

The walls, once covered in green paint, are flicked down to the concrete, with splashes of dangling wallpaper only near the kitchen. There’s a lingering smell as well, possibly coming from the raggedy couch or... the lone mattress on the floor.

Jesus, Buck.

“He’s not here,” he speaks into the comm, turning in a slow circle – sweeping the room for any sign that his friend might still be somewhere in the shell of HYDRA’s weapon.

There’s a stack of newspapers on the dining table. When he flips over the most recent stack, there’s a picture of the explosion on Wall Street. The headline says something in a language Steve can’t read, but he knows what the article likely says.

Atentat la New York. Eficiența Răzbunătorilor în discuție.

Unable to look at the burning remains of the charter school for a moment more, he flips the page back down.

Moving toward the kitchenette, under a stack of protein bars, Steve spots it. A simple black notebook with a few red tabs sticking out of it. His curiosity peaked, he can’t help but pull it out.

The first page is blank, but on the second, he’s met with a picture of himself. A pamphlet from the Smithsonian exhibit, actually. On the adjoining page, a scribble of thoughts bursts out from the paper.

Captain America.

Captain Rogers Steve. Steve Rogers.

New York. New York City, apartment. One room. No windows. There’s a bed with a hole in the mattress and a chestdrawerbox

Whatever train of thought that had hit the writer, was quickly jotted out in a furious scratch of ink.

Hesitantly, Steve flips through the pages. Spotting bubbles of thought with facial sketches of himself. In uniform, and without. A smaller, skinnier version of a boy – a smile, but no upper facial features to be found; like the full image never came to mind.

And then there’s a change. From drawings of Steve and blurry New York skylines, comes a flurry of images of a sleek woman – curled hair and a smokey fixture over her face. If Steve had to acquaint it with anyone he knew, he would say the woman of Bucky’s fixation looked a lot like Natasha, but in a more classic noir style than anything else.

Two more pages follow the drawings, filled with news clippings and headlines.

One more page and Steve’s finger pauses on the page.

There. In perfect recreation is you.

A full face of details, unafforded to the other sketches. But amongst the premade lines of the notebook, your likeness comes to life. Steve gazes into your pencil-made eyes, the hint of a smile about to burst on your lips. Your hair is hidden behind a plain veil fluttering in an invisible wind. Below your neck, Steve’s eyes follow the detailing of a Red Cross nurse’s uniform fizzle out into the page.

Why is it, he wonders, that the sketches of himself and the mystery woman remain faceless, while this rendering of you is a near replica of the real person?

Something heavy sits on the page behind the drawing. Following temptation, he flips it over. Another series of article clippings, of you and the team. In your flowing white Olympian armor, eyes blazoned in the moment of battle.

Another, there with Steve, helping him out from a pile of rubble. His hand aches with the distant ghost of your touch.

“Put it down.”

Steve spins around, smacking the notebook closed. Silently chastising himself for not hearing the man’s approach.

Bucky, eyes wide and sweeping, adds a trembling, “Please.”

Steve, holding one hand up, places the book back down on the counter. Trying to show in any way he can manage that he is no threat to James Barnes.

And then he just stares, unable to help himself as he takes in his friend’s shambled appearance.

“Do you know me?”

Bucky blinks, glancing between Steve and the notebook resting on the counter behind him.

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

In his heart, he believes that isn’t the truth. The few words he spotted in that book are indicator enough, but he eases forward a step.

“I don’t want you to be nervous. But I know you have every reason to be.”

Bucky takes a step away, right hand curling into a fist. Left hand... tucked away into his pocket.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“We’re here to help you, Buck,” Steve soft pleads, pulling the helmet from his head. Let him see. Let him connect the pieces to the man standing in front of him.

“We?” he questions, glancing toward the window beside him with the stained ivory curtain swaying.

He really should think before he opens his mouth sometimes.

“A friend,” Steve amends.

Keeping his distance, Bucky begins to circle away from him, heading toward the dining table.

“You should’ve left me alone,” he murmurs.

Easing his hands onto his belt, Steve lays it out, “They know where you are. They’ve been tracking you for weeks.”

There’s a skittish look that crosses his friend’s features. A wild animal pacing a cage of their own making, expecting the hounds to break through in the next breath.

“We want to help. Buck...” he crosses the distance between them, grasping hold of Bucky’s right forearm. “Let us help you get out of here.”

Before he can form a response, Sam’s voice crackles in his ear, “There’s someone up here. I’ m compromised.”

Blocking the quick series of fists that come swinging at your face, you try to land a solid punch to the lower torso, but your target disappears.

“Hey!” you chastise, spinning around – managing to grab Pietro’s hand before he can fully connect it with your shoulder. “I thought the sparring rule was no using your speed?”

“That ,” he grins, pulling back, “was Captain Roger’s rule. You, my friend, never established such terms before we began.”

Smart bastard.

Offering him an exasperated huff, you hold up your hands, “Well, let’s say that we’ve now established it as such.”

In Steve’s absence, and with Pietro seemingly coming out of his shell in the past few days, you had offered to take over temporary training with the teen. Your time had largely been spent working with Wanda as you had been deemed the sturdiest candidate when it came to tolerating her untrained magic.

Pietro, without his speed as a factor point, had spent more time with Steve and Sam than anyone else. And, you had to hand it to the pair, they had taught him well.

“Alright, let’s get back in your ready position,” you begin, changing his focus back to the sparring session.

But before you can begin, both of your attentions are drawn to the exasperated scream that trails down the hallway outside of the gym doors, followed by Wanda’s screech of:

“Unbelievable! Bastardi!”

A blur of flowing black fabric and dark red hair goes blazing past.

Sparing Pietro a single look, you give him the nod that allows him to jump over the ropes and race out of the gym.

Resting on the swaying rope, sweat dripping down the curve of your back, you just shake your head. You weren’t sure if you even wanted to know what terrible news had unfolded in your temporary absence away from the TV.

The gym door swishes open as an awkward Tony Stark works his way over to you. His posture is too rigid, hands stuffed into his pockets, and a nervous sort of look sits in his eyes.

“What happened?” you ask, voice exhausted – not by the training session, but by the weight of the extenuating circumstances that had been plaguing the team for weeks at this point.

He glances around, rocking on the balls of his feet, “Did half of Paramore happen to storm past?”

Pulling away from the ropes, you drop down on the mat and slide your way to the floor, standing before the billionaire and offering him an incredulous, “Who?”

“The Wunderkinds.”

“Yeah, Wanda just... she went by a second ago. Why, what happened?”

You’re already anticipating the worst when Tony pulls out his phone. Likely news headlines conjure themselves up in your head. But, instead, you’re met with a photo.

Iron Man. In mid-flight. Faceplate up, but sunglasses resting on the lower curve of his nose. And... was that a smoothie?

As the phone is dropped into your hands, you scroll down ever-so-slightly.

@tonystark: Hey SnapTap, am I doing this right? #avengersinthewild #youknowwhoiam

“It’s brilliant, right?” he beams, snatching the phone back.

But you just blink, still trying to assess where the hell Tony’s mind went.

“That’s a word for it, sure. Why exactly are you jumping on this track after the whole no social media spiel you made Steve give Wanda the other day?”

Tony scoffs, looking almost offended by the question.

“You know, with everything that’s happened. With two pieces of legislation at our goddamn doorstep, I’m trying to do whatever the hell I can still do to try and change this clusterfuck of a narrative.”

Right. The grandstanding during yesterday’s operation. One hand on the wheel. Let the bills pass, but keep hold of the public’s opinion.

“I mean,” Tony shrugs, thumbing through his phone for a moment. “If the media wants the people to fear us; to plant unnecessary panic, then I figure we just show the world that we’re just like them. Relatable and all that. Kickass, but still approachable. Someone you’d want to pay a few thousand to hang out with for a day.”

Cronus, no wonder Wanda was furious – having to remove everything under the guise of security and privacy, only to have Tony turn around and do this overnight.

“Here,” the phone is directed back your way, a notes app opened up to a show a series of jotted-down names. “I already saved some handles for you guys.”

Your eyes scan over the list of proposed names:

@realathena

@hawkinthenest

@capattack

@assgardian

Disgust riddles its way through your body and you can only manage a shake of the head as you push the phone back Tony’s way.

“Come on, Seven,” Tony pleads in a tired tone, rubbing a hand at his face. “Look, you get the chance to come and go, right? This world ain’t working out for you, you can probably go off and find a new one. But this? This is our one and only world. And personally, I don’t want to see everyone have to give up their ability to fight or to hang up their suit. I’m telling you, every little bit helps.”

In his bleary eyes, you find only honest truth. And, knowing Tony, you are aware that he’s gone down every possible avenue – every scenario – to keep the team together, to keep their powers in their own hands.

And, give hell or high water, despite Ross and the entire weight of the American government, you knew Tony would do whatever was in his power to keep things as well off as he could manage.

“I... I’ll think about it, okay?” you offer, mentally hopscotching your way out of it entirely.

“Hey, that’s all I ask,” he beams. “We can do a little photo op. My treat. I’m thinking, you with your armor, or you and your little owl guy. People love a celebrity with a pet.”

Cronus, help her.

Nodding your head, you begin to back your way toward the practice ring, “Definitely something to think about, yes.”

Tony, grinning like the sly fox he thinks he is, just tuts in a knowing tone. As if to say, he would break you down, slowly, with much annoyance and pestering.

But then that smile begins to drift south; a true frown now resting on his face.

“What,” you question. “Have you already lost followers?”

He quirks a brow, “I’m one of the fastest-growing accounts, thank you very much. FRI? Can you get this on the big screen?”

You follow the question to the ceiling where the omnipresent AI lived (in your mind, anyway), before landing on the large TV pressed up above the row of five treadmills.

The same two reporters who have been covering the House vote and the updates from the U.N. are familiar to you now. And, where you expect to see some grand announcement of a bill passage or another righteous official ready to spout off for the microphone -

Your heart drops. A deep ache fills your stomach as you press your palms to your throbbing chest.

The reporter’s words are but a ringing in your ears as you watch Steve, in full uniform, pushed to his knees by a man in a military uniform bearing the American flag. Behind him, Sam’s being pushed and pulled by three other men – his flight pack nearly ripped from his body in such a way that you fear his shoulder has been dislocated in their carelessness. And then the camera – taken by an amateur reporter, clearly – lands on -

“Oh my, God,” you utter.

James is lying flat out on the ground, with a soldier pushing their full weight down upon his back as another handcuffs his hands behind him. He’s grunting, blood trickling down from a cut on his temple as he shudders and fights to breathe.

“Tony,” you urge – too many questions and demands to make them come out in a proper sentence. But he knows.

Dragging a hand down his face, he just shakes his head, “So much fucking ground to make up.”

“Anthony,” you bark, eyes blazing as you watch the live feed of the three men being loaded up into the back of an armored vehicle by armed and ready soldiers.

“I...” he just sighs, long and heavy, as if he had taken over for Atlas temporarily. “Uhm, shit. I’ll try and see which lawyers I can wrangle back. Who the fuck knows what can legally be done right now. I don’t even... Jesus, Seven. I don’t even know what to tell you.”

His eyes are soft and sincere as he manages out a choked, “Sorry,” before he pushes past the gym doors and takes to the stairs.

Left there, alone in the aftermath, your focus drifts back on the screen where the Secretary of State – fucking Ross - begins a press briefing.

“Today, a specialized team of American service members successfully captured a rouge party of dangerous super-powered individuals. At this time, Steve Rogers is no longer a threat to this nation or the country at large. And tonight, may the world sleep easier to know that known Russian terrorist, James Barnes, also known by his moni k er: t he Winter Soldier, has been taken to a high-security location until further notice. As long as we allow these individuals to roam freely, they will be a threat to you and your family. Today, justice prevailed.”

That night, unable to pull yourself away from the TV in the living room, you watch alongside Tony – who’s glued to his phone, trying to type out a series of favors to his last few lawyers – and Vision, as the Sokovia Accords emergency legislation is passed through the United Nations. Natasha, eyes unblinking, gazes at the screen as the anchors - after the U.N. coverage ends, announce that the SRA is up for a vote later tonight.

Somewhere, over the span of the ocean, your teammates – your friends – are being flown back to the States like wanted criminals. Strapped down, collared, heavily guarded.

Beside you, the remainder of your team, silently watches their lives begin to unfurl. And you, Goddess of Wisdom, have no solutions for them. No options. Nothing.

You’re helpless to save any of them.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

[crayonverse]

so of the og names and who i think(?) they became

janus krane -> maximus janus eleguard. obviously bc of his name and the description of his powers are the same

jackson hopps -> hugo mason. super strength leader also i fen thought i had named him hugo in the first draft his name just completely changed lmao

abigail piketon -> skyla probably? or floris. her powers listed arent close to anyone else but probably floris i think

victor ford -> oliver??? maybe??? powers aren't similar but i think its him

melanctha gataki -> mel addington .. melanctha is such a good name tho i really like it

zander lukas & harriet -> idk they all seemed very basic

oh my GDO i just found the original drafts for bfly characters

[fuctacles]

Steddie Twilight AU?

So I came up with this for @stmonstercalendar's Incubus Month, then decided that shapeshifting is kinda like being genderfluid, right, so I could hit the @genderthings Eddie Week prompt, but then it grew so this is part one I'm sorry in advance

Also I feel like it fits "no one like you" from my @steddiebingo card

M | 1104 | cw: your high school trauma may resurface | Incubus!Eddie, transfem Stevie, inspired by Twilight, part 1 of 3?, thanks @blasvemous for being an enabler and beta reader | Ao3

Dianne Harrington has always been planning to move as soon as the divorce was finalized. But did she really have to do it on the first day of school? She enrolled Stevie at the local high-school via phone calls and mail, but forgot to mention that not everything could be delivered by post. 

"What's that?" Stevie raises an eyebrow at the manila folder her mom hands her after entering the car. 

"Your documents; copy of insurance and last year's diploma. The school still needs it to finish up all the paperwork," her mom explains as she rolls out of their driveway. "Will you be okay to hand it to the principal, or should I do it?"

Stevie cringes at the mere thought of entering a new high-school with her mom at her side. 

"I'll be late to class," she complains. On top of not knowing her schedule and having to find the right classroom, there's no way she's going to make a good first impression. 

"It's your first day, I'm sure they'll understand."

"Did you forget how terrible high school is?" Stevie widens her eyes pointedly. 

"Oh, don't be dramatic." Dianne rolls her eyes. She reaches over her daughter to open the glove box. "Now, you can't bring your nail bat with you, but I have some pepper spray and brass knuckles you can take. With my permission to use wisely."

Stevie grins, happily digging through the glove box. 

"Thanks, mom!" She pulls out the brass knuckles and fits them on her fingers. "And they match my nails!"

====

Just as she'd suspected, she's late to her first class. At least the principal was nice enough to give her directions, and he had her schedule ready. She's starting with English in classroom 14. Corridor to the left and the first doors next to the staircase. Once she finds it, she takes a deep breath, fixes her hair in the reflection in a glass display on the wall, and knocks. 

"Come in!" A high, feminine voice invites her, and she pushes the door open. The open windows create a draft that raises some papers off the teacher's desk, who rushes to slap them back down. Stevie quickly closes the door. 

"Sorry," she whispers, looking around the class like she's already expecting judgment from the fellow teenagers. 

"Don't worry, I totally forgot about the windows," the teacher waves her hand with a smile, and Stevie breathes a bit easier. At least her first teacher seems nice. "You must be Stephanie, right?"

"Yes," she nods. "Stephanie Harrington, I just moved here."

"Well, welcome to Hawkins," her teacher smiles. "I'm Claudia Henderson, and I'll be your English teacher." Mrs. Claudia reaches out her hand, which Stevie shakes, albeit a little surprised by the gesture. She's more used to her teachers being dry and formal. "There's an empty seat next to Edward that you can take. Today we're only going over the readings for this semester, but if you have any books you've read over the summer, feel free to share it with the class." 

Stevie smiles sheepishly at the teacher. 

"Unfortunately, I didn't have any time to read this summer. Spent most of my time packing up."

"Completely understandable!" Mrs. Claudia nods sympathetically. "Hopefully you'll be able to find some time once you settle in."

"Yeah, hopefully," Stevie smiles back, but freezes once she properly looks at the Edward she was told to sit with. 

He has long hair and is dressed like a punk, black and denim and extensive jewelry, but that's not what she's focused on. His eyes are wide and spooked like he's just seen a ghost, and his hand is clasped over his mouth.

She takes a quick cursory glance over the rest of the class. They seem moderately interested in a new student, as she'd expect. With a small wave to her other classmates, she decides that the Eddie guy will just have to deal. Maybe she'll be able to find a different seat for next time. 

"Hi," she says, polite like she's been taught, before dropping her bag next to his desk. The guy seems to recoil even further away, pressed all the way to the wall and all about ready to jump out of the window. And yet, with his free hand, he gives her a small finger wave. 

Confused, she waves back. It seems like an olive branch, contradicting with his behavior. Maybe he's just not feeling well today. Stevie keeps to her end of the desk, leaving a considerable amount of space between them. She even discreetly sniffs her sweater, but it smells okay, at least to her. 

Edward spends the rest of the class pressed to his corner by the wall and not breathing. She tries not to take it personally, but it's really difficult. 

Especially when the bell rings, and he's the first one to jump out of his seat and escape the classroom, barely in the blink of an eye. 

She overthinks about it all the way to history class, where she bumps into a girl named Robin, and they seem to click instantly, despite their differences. Robin is a good distraction not to think about the maybe-attractive, definitely-weird guy from her first class. 

That is, until the lunch break. 

"Okay, what the fuck is wrong with that guy," she hisses to Robin as she stabs the french fry on her plate. "He's been glaring at me since the first class."

Right now, Edward is sitting at a table with three other, similarly dressed guys. He seems to be engaged n a conversation with them, but now and then, Stevie can feel his hateful gaze on her. 

"Who?" Robin follows her gaze. "One of the freaks?"

"Freaks? What's wrong with them?" Stevie frowns. 

"Nothing, they're just weird." Robin shrugs. "They're metal heads and fantasy nerds. I think they have a band, too?" she hums thoughtfully. "Nothing to worry about though, they just look scary."

Stevie scrunches her nose.

"Are you sure? I really don't like his vibe. The one with long hair? Edward?"

Robin spares a quick glance to the freaks table. 

"You mean Eddie?" 

"Eddie doesn't sound right," she says, to which, Robin snorts. 

"Why? Too normal?"

"Yeah," Stevie nods. "Too approachable."

"You don't think he's approachable?" Robin asks teasingly, and turns to give the boy another glance. She whips back around almost immediately. "Shit, he is looking this way."

The urge is stronger than her, so Stevie turns over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. He looks angry, and she can't tell for sure from the distance, but it seems like his nostrils are flaring, too. 

tags: @phantomcat94 @wheneverfeasible

FTH2025

[academicfever]

Study tips from a mid student;

This is geared towards research students mainly… but feel free to try out if u want regardless!

Make a gantt chart beginning of ur research semester. This is absolutely lifesaver… for sure there will be like a 1000 versions of ur thesis but having a rough timeline gives u the push and when u r down in the dumps u can actually visualise ur progress so far… which motivates me.

There will be like a lot of versions and corrections and drafts of everything u do. Starting with lit review . I’d highly suggest using one note and keeping track of every piece of article u r studying… u can arrange them according to themes when u r still looking for a topic… this way after 3 months of reading lit u wont feel like u r losing ur mind … because on paper u have nothing to show…

On a similar note , I’d suggest use mendeley to organise papers. U can annotate them there and login from multiple places like lab computer or ur pc etc. this way u know which ones u have marked and read and where to find what.

Don’t use ai for lit review … it’s a massive waste of time and gets u confused. Instead just start reading and u will get there … u don’t have to read every paper but skim through abstract and findings and u will know what to do next

Don’t delete any work ever… like from the first draft of ur lit review to the last draft of ur thesis … keep them all neatly in a folder… make sure to copy it in multiple places so u won’t lose it in case of emergency

Print out key papers u r using to build ur research around … like maybe 10 or 15 of them … this will give u a boost cuz for once u don’t have to sit in front of a screen…

Actually have a conversation with ur sv… talk to him like u r a newborn because we all r… in research world. Also make sure u communicate ur timeline with him very clearly… like when u want to complete what … because they r busy people and u don’t want to be stuck and frustrated waiting for their feedback… so at least make some key milestones clear to him and keep it in written document so u can refer back if he forgets.

Now when it comes to ur actual research and experiment or simulation, always start early… these things take forever and u will eventually have unexpected problems… so always start early … play around and see what happens …

Have some hobbies outside of ur research… it gets more difficult as time goes on… but plz escape once in a while to refresh ur brain

Academia doesn’t pay nearly enough to survive but I don’t care if u have to ask for help never compromise on nutrition…

I’ve seen so many people living in lab and surviving on ramen … ur body will eventually fail u… so don’t be frugal about nutrition… brain doesn’t work if it’s not healthy… and empty stomach puts u in a funk

When the inevitable doom hits about where this is all going or if ur research is worth the time and effort … talk to ur peers … always or ur sv even… they r there on the same boat and they will help…

Also don’t work 24/7 in ur lab… move around… it’s a massive boost for motivation…

work at most 7 -8 hrs a day … then take rest … because after that I feel like I don’t function well and it’s just dragging my brain …

Treat urself after a milestone like publishing a paper or completing a chapter… u totally deserve it .. and it is positive reinforcement!

I won’t pretend I’m a 4.0 gpa student cuz I’m not … but these things I wish someone told me when I was starting grad school and I hope it can help u… so all the best 💜

[marvelnatr]

Busy?

Warnings: jealous dark Nat, dom!Nat, Sub!reader, Daddy!Nat, oral r!receiving, strap on r!receiving, spanking, biting, possessive sex, degrading, daddy kink, brief use of gun from Nat, spitting, breeding kink and pinning. Minors DNI

GONNA SAY IT ONE MORE TIME MENTION OF SUGGESTED VIOLENCE

Natasha’s POV:

Looking over my files I noticed I was missing one of my pages. It must’ve gotten mixed up with Wanda’s, Carols, or Y/N’s when we were filling out mission reports. Grabbing the file I headed to Wanda’s room “hey Wands can I see your file? I think you have one of my papers” Wanda looked up from her book “yeah no problem, you know where they are”. Nodding I headed over to her desk, reaching in and pulling out this months folder. After a few minutes of looking I concluded it wasn’t there, carefully putting the folder back I looked at Wanda “thanks wands”. She nodded and mumbled a ‘you’re welcome’ too focused in her book to pay attention which I didn’t mind. Closing her door I walked down the hall and knocked on Carols room. Going in and doing the same thing I came out empty handed.

I had gotten back in my room, tossing my folder on my bed and sitting down to triple check I didn’t have the file before I texted Y/N. I was right. I didn’t have it. Picking up the phone I drafted a quick text. It was always a little awkward texting her since we broke up eight months ago. The inclination to call her a pet name has to be stifled. We broke up over a stupid argument which quickly turned into slamming doors and blew way out of proportion. When I woke up the next morning she was gone. Showed up to work and didn’t talk to me for months. We never really talked it over. She still looks at me with that same damn look yet she’s acting like she still hates me which drove me crazy. Staring at my phone I drafted a quick message

NR: hey y/n, I’m missing a file for our recent missions. I was wondering if you could look for it real quick for me? Thank you.

YN: she’s busy.

I stared at my phone for a second. My blood boiling a little at the thought of someone else with her at midnight. My emotions taking over I texted back

NR: What do you mean she’s busy? Where’s y/n?

YN: she’s busy. Goodnight.

I stared at my phone and texted back one more time

NR: give the phone to y/n.

I stared at my phone and waited for a few minutes. Receiving no answer made me more annoyed. Against my better judgment I grabbed my keys and headed to my car.

Y/N’s POV:

I pulled my phone out of my girlfriend of two weeks hands “oh my god babe don’t piss her off” she shook her head and poked me “you’re mine and she’s texting you”. I quickly laughed off her statement, and got up to get more water, trying to hide the red in my face. The truth is I’m not even sure if I am over Natasha or not. I miss her, I miss her warmth and her smile. I miss how we had our little routines. I miss our dynamic. I felt my girlfriends hands wrap around my waist as she kissed my neck from behind “what ya thinking about baby?” Putting on a smile I turned around and looked at her “nothing babe” she nodded gently and picked me up placing me on the counter and kissing me. My lips moved with hers but I didnt feel much. No sparks. No butterflies. No nothing. Just the motions.

I heard a knock at the door and leaned over looking at it. Backing away from me she winked as she went to the door and opened it. My face turning ghost white as she backed up. Natasha crossed the threshold of the door, the barrel of her Glock 19 pointed straight at my girlfriends face “who the fuck are you?” Her words flew from her mouth like poison as she glared at my new lover, my girlfriend spitting back in the same manner “I’m her girlfriend, who the fuck are you?”. Natasha’s eyes turned dark, her pupils dilated as she brought the gun closer to her head “fucking excuse you?”. I watched as she flinched, fear flooding her eyes. Starting to get up off the counter I spoke “Natasha knock it off”. Nats eyes fixated on mine while her gun stayed trained on the terrified girl standing in front of her “you’re fucking busy huh? This who you’re fucking busy with?”. Her dominance bled through her voice as I watched her. My voice coming out in a jumbled stutter as she glared at me “stay fucking put Y/N, I’ll deal with you in a minute”. Nodding I swallowed. That wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order. An order I should follow if I wanted to keep my head.

Natasha looked back at the woman “get your shit and get the fuck out, you have two minutes”. I watched as she scrambled to grab her keys and shoes while Nat followed her around with the gun. She was out the door in a little under sixty seconds, the door basically chasing her on the way out as it fell just short of clipping her heels. I watched as Natasha placed the gun on the coffee table. Her eyes watching mine as she took off her jacket, laying the leather artifact on the end of a chair nearby. We stared at each other for a minute. Silence falling over the room. I could tell she was reading me, something I was never able to reciprocate when it came to her.

After a few minutes she spoke up, annoyance lacing her voice “You got a girlfriend and didn’t tell me?” I watched her in confusion “what makes you think you had the right to know?”. Nats eyes got darker as she came closer to me “its fucking respect” I rolled my eyes “what? I was supposed to call you? ‘Oh hey Natasha by the way I have a girlfriend now after you broke my fucking heart’”

Natasha’s POV:

I glared at her, my hand making its way around her throat “you walked out, you remember that?” a silence fell over the room as she watched me, recalling the night in her head. Tightening my grip I seethed “your heart may have broke but mine shattered. So don’t fucking come at me with that Y/N”. I felt Y/N swallow against the mid of my hand. Her throat lightly pushing against it then relaxing as she watched me with fear in her eyes. Glaring at her I shook my head “so yes, I did want to know. She doesn’t even love you. I see the way she looks at you. You’re just a toy for her”. Anger flooded Y/N’s face “she does love me!” I laughed a little and questioned, my hand still around her throat “then why did she walk out so damn easily huh? Leave you with someone as dangerous as me?”. My ex lovers hand reached up to smack me. Her hand just shy of making contact with my skin, before she could I caught her wrist, gripping it in my hand “well that was dumb”

Y/N’s eyes widened as I felt her heartbeat quicken. Her pulse point pushing against the pad of my index and middle finger while my hand wrapped around her neck restricted her breathing a little more. Holding her wrist down on the counter I tilted my head “does she make you happy? Does she love you the way I could?”, the girls face was beat red as she breathed out, struggling to get her words out “n-no”. Loosening my hold I nodded “thought so. Tell me darling, do you want me back?” Y/N’s eyes turned subby as her mouth opened to answer. Moving my hand up I held her jaw, taking a minute to admire the small oval shaped red marks around Y/N’s throat from my hand. I smiled at her “go on baby, tell me” a whine fell from her lips “y-yes daddy” I rubbed my thumb over her bottom lip, her mouth opening as I smiled “such a slut for me hm? You missed me yeah?”. Y/N nodded and I smirked “go on baby, stick our your tongue for daddy”

Y/N stuck out her tongue as I smirked and leaned down, looking at her I spit in her mouth then smiled “hold it babygirl. Do not swallow. Do not let any drip out. Keep that tongue out and flat for me”, staying still she followed her orders. I chuckled as it threatened to fall from her tongue. Her eyebrows furrowing a little in worry as I watched her struggle. After a few minutes I stuck my fingers in her mouth “suck.”. Her lips wrapped around my two fingers, sucking as she looked at me. I smiled at her “so fucking pretty like this, sucking daddy’s fingers like a greedy little bitch”

A red tint fell over her cheeks as she continued to suck. Her tongue swirling around my fingers, I pushed down on her tongue, making her take my fingers in a little more. Tears pricked her eyes as she gagged slightly. I let out a quiet chuckle “atta girl, take my fingers, just like that pretty thing”. Y/N’s hips rocked on the counter, the desperate look in her eyes made me feral. Pulling my fingers out she whined, I lightly patted her cheek and tutted “oh it’s okay baby, lets see how wet you are detka”. My hand made its way down to her cunt, feeling her arousal seeping through her shorts. Moving the fabric to the side my cold fingertips trailed around her cunt. Goosebumps raising on the skin of her thighs. Placing my middle finger on her sensitive bud I rubbed in small circles, Y/N’s eyes rolling back a little as she let out a small moan “f-fucking hell” I smirked “feel good huh baby?” The girl nodded as another breathy moan fell from her lips, I smiled and removed my fingers “good”. Y/N whimpered “n-no please I need more” I laughed a little “go to our room baby”. Lifting Y/N by her hips I helped her off the counter. Smacking her ass as she ran ahead of me and I called out “position four baby”

When I got in the room I was pleased to see that she was indeed in position four. Completely stripped with her back flat to the bed. Her knees bent and legs spread, wrists together and rested above her head. She always looked so pretty like this. I went into the closet and looked for something to tie her wrist together with. Scoffing at the other womans horrible taste in clothing. Finding a tie I came back. Straddling Y/N “wrists”, holding up her wrists to me I tied them together then whispered “keep them there”. Y/N nodded and I watched her “you know damn well I dont take that head shaking shit, open your mouth and speak”. Y/N’s cheeks grew red as she whispered “y-yes daddy I’m sorry. I’ll keep my hands there”. I nodded and made my way down to her cunt.

Looking up at Y/N from between her legs I saw the desperation in her eyes. She knew better then to close her legs. As much as I would love to get the spreader bar watching her struggle to keep her legs open was just as equally entertaining. Leaning down I licked her cunt gently. Her arousal coating my tongue as I groaned “fuck I missed you baby, you taste so good my love”. Y/N’s back arched, her hands gripping onto each other as she moaned. Chuckling I began to eat her out, pulling her into me and burying my face into her cunt. Trying her best not to close her legs she squirmed. Breathy little moans falling from her lips till they became louder, turning into pathetic little pleas “p-please daddy, c-can I cum?” I laughed at her “cum? You want to cum?” She nodded as she squirmed “p-please”. Laughing I rolled my thumb over her clit. Causing pleasure to surge through her body just for me to pull off. Leaving her feeling nothing but too much all at the same time.

Y/N whimpered again “n-no please” shaking my head I rubbed her thighs “no baby, position two”. Sitting up she turned on her tummy. Scooting her hips to the end of the bed and she bent herself over. Y/N’s arms still above her head as I rubbed her ass “mmmm daddy missed making this perfect little ass red, it looks so pretty tinted in that crimson red color”. Just as I finished my sentence I landed a harsh smack to her ass, the sound of skin on skin contact ringing throughout the room along with a loud moan. Smiling I rubbed the outline of my handprint on her ass. Soothing the stinging sensation “you’re getting six baby. Count each and every one like a good girl for me will you?” Y/N nodded “y-yes daddy”. Taking my hand I spanked her again, harder this time. I a little moan fell from her lips “o-one daddy thank you”. I smiled, pleased that she remembered how to count her spanks, my hand switching over to her other cheek, landing an equally harsh smack to her ass. A small whimper fell from her lips. There was no denying it stung. The red color showing more and more on her tender ass. By the time she had finished her spanks she was close to crying. Oh how pretty she looked when she cried.

Rubbing her ass gently I climbed beside her, leaning down I whispered in her ear “such a good girl baby, you did such a good job for me” kissing her ear gently then nibbling slightly “you’re mine do you understand?” Y/N squirmed under me “y-yes daddy I understand”. I laughed a little “oh baby I don’t think you do, but you will”. Y/N watched me with a little confusion. Standing up I watched her “back to position four darling”. Tilting her head in confusion she began to open her mouth to ask a question, something she knew I was not very fond of her doing. I spanked her ass again “that wasnt a suggestion, you do as you’re told when you’re told to do it, is that understood slut?” A yelp sounded throughout the room as her legs kicked a little “y-yes daddy!” Nodding I lifted her hips “then get too it”. She quickly began to scramble into position as I sighed while looking for the toy I wanted “just as I finally think you’re starting to learn to follow directions, you have to be a little brat and fuck it up hm? Why can’t you just follow daddy’s orders?”. Y/N knew that was a rhetorical question. Her arms rested above her head again. I grabbed the breeding strap we had. Y/N always went feral when I pulled out this strap, and to be honest I did too. Worry flooded her eyes a little and I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion “what’s wrong baby?” A whimper fell from her lips “I-Its gonna be too big…I-I haven’t been stretching myself”

A low moan fell from my mouth. I loved fucking Y/N, but fucking her when she was tight was a whole other type of sex. The noises she made. The little screams falling from her lips. Leaning over her I straddled her “it’s okay babygirl, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, daddy will make it fit” hovering above her I held her wrists down with my hand. looking in her eyes as I teased the tip of the strap against her entrance then slowly eased the faux cock in her tight cunt. Y/N whimpered and gasped a small moan mixed with pain and pleasure fell from her lips as I coaxed “oh baby I know, I know love. You’re just so fucking tight for me hm? You look so god damn pretty like this baby”

I watched as her cunt took in my strap, leaning down to her neck I sunk my teeth into her soft skin. My canines bruising her sensitive area. The pain of my bite distracting her from my strap stuffing her tight cunt. As the pain turned into pleasure she began to moan “f-fucking hell daddy more please” groaning I moved my hands to her hips, pinning her into the mattress “you sound so fucking pathetic when you beg baby” her moans grew louder as I fucked into her, pulling her hips into me and making sure I bottomed out with each thrust. I groaned “such a whore hm? Letting me fuck into you while you moan and beg for more. Nothings ever enough for you. My little desperate cock slut” bucking her hips up she moaned “i-it feels so fucking good daddy”. Laughing I watched her, pushing my thumbs into her hips enough to bruise “you’re mine do you understand me? That bitch could never fuck you the way I do” arching her back she screamed a little “I-I’m yours daddy, p-please let me cum. I-I’m gonna cum” shaking my head I tutted “not yet baby” Y/N whimpered as I lifted her legs over my shoulders. Hitting an entirely new angle in her cunt. Her screams and moans rung through the room as I continued to brush her cervix with the strap around my hips. The strap rubbing against my clit allowing me to chase my orgasm as well.

Just before I came I groaned “go on baby. Cum” placing my hand on her lower stomach I came, allowing the strap to paint her walls with the fake cum “thats it baby, fuck such a good girl. Taking my cum like the cock drunk slut you are” cries and pleas fell from her lips as she squirmed under me, her legs shaking from her orgasm “d-daddy please, s-slow down, t-too much” chuckling I mocked “you wanted to cum didn’t you baby? Don’t act like an ungrateful little brat now, that would hurt daddy’s feelings” her eyes rolled back again as I fucked her through her orgasm. Working on trying to pull another out of her fucked out body. My hand made its way down to her sensitive clit as I rolled my thumb over the bud. Gripping at the tie around her hands she whimpered “d-daddy I’m gonna cum again” chuckling I rubbed faster, continuing to fuck into her “good, I want you too”. More mumbled incoherent pleas fell from her lips while I pulled her hips into me. It wasn’t long before she was clenching around my strap again. Those desperate big eyes watching me, pleading for me to let her cum. Tutting I shook my head “you know better, open your fucking mouth and ask me or you’re not cumming at all”. Y/N kicked her legs a little in protest, throwing a small tantrum as if she was a child. I quickly pulled out and landed a harsh smack to her cunt, growling as I looked down at her “don’t you ever dare do that again. You use your words, I haven’t fucked you that stupid yet”. She yelped once my hand made contact with her cunt. She was so distracted by the slap that she almost didn’t recognize she was no longer full of my strap. It was hard to keep my eyes trained on her and not watch the cum seeping from her cunt. Taking my fingers I leaned over her. My lips hovering close to hers, distracting her from realizing two of my fingers were trailing down to her cunt. As I spoke I fucked the fake cum back into her “use your words, do you understand babygirl?”. Y/N moaned and nodded “y-yes daddy I understand”

I kissed her then nodded, lining my strap back up with her cunt before fucking right back into her, I groaned as she easily took my thick strap “fuck, that’s better, all stretched out for me”. It wasn’t long before she was close to cumming again. I smiled at her as she begged and I rubbed her hip “such a good girl, look at you using your manners. Cum for me” gripping the sheets she came, screaming a little as I filled her yet again “f-fuck daddy t-thank you!”. Chuckling I fucked her though it, her body getting looser from losing control of it. Fear flooded her eyes as I continued to fuck her “n-no daddy no more please, I can’t” sitting forward I leaned over her. Burying the cock further into her cunt “color darling” squirming she watched me “green daddy…”. Tutting I watched her, grabbing her jaw “then baby, if it is green, why the fuck are you telling me it’s too much?”. Y/N whimpered “b-because it’s sensitive daddy” I shook my head, tightening my grip around her jaw “you know I love when you’re sensitive baby, it makes you cry such pretty tears for daddy”. Blushing she watched me as I rubbed my thumb over her lip “you’ll take one more like a good girl for me. And you’ll say thank you after. Isnt that right?”. Y/N watched me and nodded, starting to fall into sub space. Placing my hands on her wrists I began to fuck into her again. Holding her down.

Y/N did her best to squirm under me. Her tears were steadily flowing at this point from the sheer overstimulation. She looked so pretty like this. Her pleading to go faster. Her begging for more. Feeling her tighten she breathed out “p-please daddy can I cum?” I watched her “who owns you?”. Y/N whimpered “y-you do daddy I’m sorry”. Holding my jaw I looked at her “say it again” cries fell from her mouth “y-you own me d-daddy please!” Nodding I fucked into her “that’s right, I own you. Not that bitch you had in here earlier, not anyone else. Me. Don’t you ever forget that”. Nodding under me I fucked into her “good girl. Cum.”

[djarins-cyare]

I thought it would be harder to pick and then I saw "Be-All And Endor pegging bonus scene" and anyway here I am. 😍

Ahaha, I hoped someone would ask about this one from my WIP folder! 🧡💚

This is set several months after the main story ends. My plan was – and still is (eventually) – to write some random scenes from Din and Reader’s future in lieu of a sequel.

Several readers commented they would’ve liked to have read the scene in the final chapter where Reader tells Din to go shower and meet her in their cabin to cross off another item on their “things that’ll happen eventually” list, which suggests some type of ass play for Din, based on an earlier comment in chapter 37 where he indicates he’d be interested in trying it.

As usual, the smut slowed me down when I started drafting it. Honestly, I don’t think I know enough about pegging to adequately describe it, so I put it on the back burner until I could do sufficient research.

That said, when I got your ask, I went back and checked how much I had already written, and I realised I actually have a decent-length scene leading up to the smut… it just fades to black (again) when they’re about to start.

So, Kate, since it’s you and you definitely deserve a reward for all your cheerleading of Be-All (for which I’m forever grateful), I’ve decided to give you not just a snippet but the whole of the 1k+ word scene that I’ve got so far. I’m not posting it on AO3 yet – I’ll do that later once I’ve written the second half of it and converted the AO3 version into a series – so for now, please enjoy this Tumblr exclusive bonus content!

⚠️ Please note the following contains heavy spoilers for anyone who hasn’t read the original story!

Be-All And Endor Bonus Chapter (excerpt): The Solace

Rating: Mature (18+) Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader Word count: 1,150 Tags/warnings: References to sex, anal play, pegging (nothing explicit); brief reference to a past attempted SA; the dildo is referred to as a cock; some swearing and explicit language; one (1) Mando’a insult

You find the toy tucked away in the back of your drawer, hidden from prying eyes for weeks. Even though Din knows you acquired it before leaving Glavis, you’d insisted on keeping it a surprise until you could finally try it out.

But things had got in the way.

His painful Darksaber injury, worse than Nantoogen’s concussive blaster bolt on Endor. His discovery of that mythosaur marker in Kolzoc Alley, faded and ominous. His bitter disappointment at reaching the lowest level of the substrata and finding it empty. The thrill of uncovering hastily painted coordinates that revealed his tribe’s new location.

Just like that, your fun and games were on hold.

In the weeks since, everything that’s happened has overwhelmed you both – physically and emotionally – for better and for worse. The covert, the recognition of your union, your shiny new helmet… Din’s exile.

The Armorer’s final words and your defiant retort still ring tragically in your ears almost a day later, as if your helmet has trapped them there:

“You have not yet sworn the Creed; therefore, you are not an apostate. You may stay.”

“But I have sworn riduurok to Din Djarin and the gai bal manda to Grogu; therefore, I am a wife and mother. I am loyal to my clan and could never abandon them for a tribe that exiles one of its own despite his wish to atone. You taught me that loyalty and solidarity are the Way, and I will honour that. So, I thank you for your offer, but nariti lo’shebs’ul.”

You can still feel the sting of tears on your cheeks, still see Din’s dejected body stiffen as you told his alor to shove her offer up her ass. Amid the grief, you sensed a spike of shock – even pride – flicker within him for a fleeting moment.

Now back in hyperspace’s safe and superluminal embrace, you both need the relief of the release you’re about to partake in. But he needs it more.

He still hasn’t really talked. Not properly – not like you know he can. He’s been barely responsive, stiff, twitchy, and every subtle quiver speaks of his deep turmoil. Apostate. It’s an awful label. His inner storm has been yours to share through your connection, but you’ve resisted. You saw his need for solitude on Anantapar, so you’d granted him several hours alone in the cockpit – helmet on.

After several failed check-ins for food and comfort, it was to this suggestion alone that Din had responded. Once you’d assured him that Grogu was asleep in his cubicle, he’d immediately risen from his chair, awaiting instructions. You’d told him to shower and to meet you in the cabin without his helmet, where you’d unveil your purchase from Glavis.

Now, with a determined breath, you face the final hurdle: figuring out how to attach the damn thing.

You’d liked the look of the ‘strapless’ versions, but the vendor had advised that a strap would be best. More stability and a better experience for your husband, she’d insisted. Fewer distractions for you while it’s his turn, she’d winked. Fair point. You’re not sure you could concentrate solely on his pleasure with something nestled inside your pussy, rubbing your G-spot to distraction.

It takes a few minutes of fiddling, but you successfully secure the harness. It’s actually more comfortable than it looks.

You turn back to the drawer and run your fingers along the dildo’s length, marvelling at the silky texture. It cost a kriffing fortune, so it’d better be worth the credits. A snort escapes you at the thought that Nantoogen’s bounty reward paid for this. It’s almost poetic that the man who tried to sexually assault you has now purchased you your very own cock.

Once it’s nestled securely within the harness, you spend several minutes pacing around the cabin, watching it bob along in front of you. Kriff, you’re oscillating between nervous, curious, and aroused. It makes you feel… powerful.

You and Din have an established sexual dynamic, though, and he’s always in control, even when he’s seemingly not. He has also previously rejected the idea of using toys in the bedroom, fully confident that (for you, at least) he can do better with his own dick. But as much as he’s enjoyed taking your fingers in his ass on occasion, he’d eventually agreed that something more substantial would guarantee him a more gratifying time.

Given his general dislike of sex aids, you’d asked the vendor for a realistic dildo to match your skin tone, especially since you know he’s been attracted to men in the past. Hopefully, this will help him feel less like he’s having something plastic shoved up him and more like he’s enjoying someone’s body.

With the trusty Tatooine lube at the ready on the nightstand, you strip off everything but your bra and your new appendage, then perch on the edge of the bed and wait.

You’re so accustomed to every rattle on the Crest by now that even his bare feet can’t hide his ascent up the ladder, and your pulse quickens in readiness. You stand, wanting to present him with the full spectacle upon entry to the cabin.

Din steps through the door as it slides open, but he stops dead the second he catches sight of you. His uncovered gaze plummets straight down to your cock, eyes widening in surprise, brows rising in tandem with a sharp inhale.

He swallows, staring… staring…

You gulp, hoping… hoping…

And then you see it – the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s nothing compared to the wide grin you’re used to seeing on your husband’s face, but you reach out with your mind, trying to decipher that almost-smile. There’s still a heavy soup of grief, but there’s more now, too. Intrigue, anticipation… a hint of excitement. Sexual excitement.

“Do you like it?” you venture, gently steering him toward those positive feelings.

He swallows again and nods, still staring. “It looks… real.” Taking a careful step forward, he comes within touching distance yet still only uses his eyes. “I like how real it looks.”

A rush of relief pulses through you. Those credits were well spent.

With a grin, you comment, “Well, it doesn’t have balls, but I don’t need those to fuck you. My metaphorical ones are big enough.”

Din’s eyes finally rise to meet yours as he steps even closer, the smirk on his lips now more obvious, and you catch another spike of his pride over how you handled your exit from the covert. “I fucking love you,” he declares, pressing a hard, grateful kiss to your lips before pulling back abruptly. “Where do you want me?”

“On your knees, on the bed,” you command, knowing full well that this is an illusion of power he’s giving you. “I wanna see that tight little ass in the air.”

His smirk grows. “Yes, Sir.”

Mando’a translations, in case they aren’t obvious:

riduurok [REE-doo-rok] – marriage agreement

gai bal manda [guy bal MAN-dah] – adoption ceremony (lit. “name and soul”)

nariti lo’shebs’ul [nah-REE-tee loh-SHEBS-ool] – shove it up your ass

Notes:

“Trusty Tatooine lube” is a reference to the scene in the final chapter that I mentioned above – Reader picked some up before they left, which is why she suggested that particular activity as soon as they’d left the planet.

In case anyone’s forgotten, Din tells Reader in chapter 30 (after their shower sex) that whatever sex aids she used before he came along have no place in their relationship, indicating his general dislike of sex toys. I don’t think he’s a prude, but this version of Din has a preconceived notion that he needs to be the best lover he can be without any ‘cheating’. Reader could easily talk him into using toys on her, of course, simply by educating him a little better – just as she’s done regarding other things he’s been somewhat naive about. But here, she decides to respect his prior avoidance and give him an experience that feels as ‘real’ as possible. Perhaps this will help him realise that toys might be fun for her, too!

Reader also refers to having “seen his need for solitude on Anantapar”, which, as a reminder, refers to when he had a teensy bit of an emotional breakdown at the tail end of their honeymoon in chapter 38.

I adapted the lovely insulting Mando’a phrase from a previously existing phrase in Karen Travis’s novel ‘Order 66’ – Kovid lo’shebs’ul narit – which is supposed to mean ‘shove your head up your ass’, but the grammar is a little off. So I put the verb in the correct place and properly conjugated it, then removed the word for ‘head’ (it doesn’t need an object as she’s just said the word “offer”, so it’s clear what she’s talking about).

Holy crap, I’m scared now I’ve put this up. This is the first new Be-All content since July 2023! 😭 Fun timing, though, because I have another two Be-All bonus posts coming out in the next few days as the fic is about to hit a milestone, so stay tuned!

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[daydreamtofiction]

The Feature XXIII // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Series Overview | Previous Part | Next Part

Chapter Summary: (Female Reader) Ben and Quinn's relationship continues to flourish, but an unexpected encounter threatens to throw a spanner in the works.

Chapter Word Count: 6.3K

Chapter Warnings: Morally-grey reader, strong language, adult and sexual themes. Readers must be 18+

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The sun sat low behind the skyline, making the clouds blush, drenching everything in a gleaming golden hue. You sat with your legs crossed under the long table, laptop open in front of you as the conference room slowly filled with people, the murmur of conversation and scent of coffee drifting in with them. 

The chair beside you creaked and a hand quickly reached over to mash on your keyboard, forming a line of gibberish across the blank word document. You rolled your eyes, smacking the top of Nick’s hand before turning to him with an unamused glare. 

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Not like you to be the first one at a meeting.” 

“Mm, well I’ve been coming into the office to write. Been here all day,” you replied, sighing as you glanced back to the empty page on the screen. “Can’t focus at home. Too many distractions.”

“Tall, rich, handsome distractions…” 

“No,” you said bluntly, though there was a part of you that secretly agreed with him. “I just… If I try to write at home I just end up watching TV or falling asleep or… suddenly realising I haven’t seen my passport in a year and turning the place upside down to look for it.” 

“How’s it going?” 

“I found it, it was in an old makeup bag in my bathroom cabinet.” 

“Not the passport, dick head, the writing.” 

“Oh.” You sighed. “Well I had a few edits I needed to do for the gala article, then I wrote a listicle about moisturisers. Thrilling stuff.” 

He nodded. “You’re still fuming about your op ed, aren’t you.” 

“Yep.” 

Julia stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and making her way to the large windows. You watched as she lowered the blinds, shielding the room from the bright evening sun as she began to speak. 

“Hello everyone,” she began, her tone cheerful yet commanding. “Thank you all for coming in. Just a quick one today to delegate some coverage pieces.” 

You placed your fingers on the keys of your laptop, eyes fixed on her as she moved to the head of the table, Leo McGrath’s advice still ringing in your ears. 

“Let’s see,” she said, licking her thumb and flicking through a folder in front of her. “I need someone to cover an exhibition at the London Fashion and Textile museum this Friday-”

“I’ll do it,” you said. 

She arched her brow sceptically, before shaking it away and scrawling your name down with her pen. “Okay great. Then we also have a launch party for Roe - some influencer’s new makeup brand apparently-”

“I’ll do that too,” you said. 

A few of the other writers glanced at you in confusion, your willingness to volunteer so surprising that they couldn’t help but stare. 

“Okay…” said Julia suspiciously. “And Draft’s been invited to a Q&A for-”

“I’ll do it.” 

“Quinn, you haven’t even heard what it is yet,” she said, holding back the urge to snap at you. 

You heard Nick chuckling quietly to himself. You ignored it and gave a shrug. 

“Just… feel like taking on more work, that’s all,” you said. 

“Right, well the beauty launch and the Q&A are on the same night,” she replied. “One in Chelsea and one in Mayfair. So are you planning to teleport between them?” 

A murmur of reserved laughter rippled around the table. 

“Fine, well someone else can do the Q&A,” you said. “Or, y’know, I’ll figure out the teleportation thing.” 

Julia rolled her eyes, turning her attention to someone else. 

“You’re going to send her into early retirement,” Nick whispered to you. 

You breathed out a laugh. “I’m an editorial assistant’s worst nightmare.” 

You returned to your desk after the meeting, scrolling through pages of reviews to figure out which moisturiser would take the number one spot on your listicle. It was mind numbing, pointless, filling you with the temptation to find the worst rated cream and give it a glowing write up, just to mess with readers, see how many complaints you could rack up.

Your phone buzzed on the desk. You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the glare of the computer screen before looking down at it, your mood immediately shifting to something less weary. 

Are you still in work? It read.

I am, you replied, catching a smile before it spread across your face. 

Are you almost done? 

I can be done whenever I want. Why?  

I’m outside the building.

Your heartbeat quickened, and you grimaced to yourself in embarrassment. Yet still you packed up quickly, shoving everything into your bag and rushing to the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift.  

You stepped out onto the street, the air cold as it brushed across your skin, despite the glorious sky. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you glanced up and down the busy street, brow furrowed as you searched for him amongst the sea of pedestrians. 

A familiar black car sat idled further up the road, wheels bumped up on the kerb, tinted windows shrouding the driver in darkness. You made your way over to it, peering down as the passenger window lowered, just enough to reveal Ben smiling at you from the driver’s seat. 

“What’s this about?” you asked.

“I fly out tomorrow morning, wanted to see you before I go,” he replied. 

You felt your cheeks warm as you stepped closer to the car, glancing around at the bustling street. “This was risky of you.” 

“Only if you don’t hurry up and get in.”

You slipped into the car and closed the door quickly, throwing your bag into the backseat as he began to drive. 

“I didn’t think you were leaving until Wednesday,” you said. 

He shook his head. “I got my days mixed up, it’s tomorrow.” 

Your lips curled into a pout, like a disappointed child. He glanced over at you and gave a soft laugh, reaching over to place a hand on your thigh. 

“You know, there’s still time for you to change your mind and come with me,” he said. 

You exhaled a cynical laugh through your nose. “Yeah, I’ll just drop everything to follow you on your press tour.” 

He gave your thigh a gentle squeeze. “It would be nice to have you with me. Think about it; fancy hotels, big beds, deep bathtubs, me, completely at your disposal…” 

“Hm, tempting. But I have to work. Not all of us can just jet off whenever we feel like it.” 

He let out an exaggerated puff of air. “Who needs work? You don’t need to work. I’ll take care of you.” 

“Shut up.” You scoffed, giving him a playful shove. “You don’t mean that.”

He chuckled. “I know I don’t. But in all seriousness though, it would be nice to have you with me. You could write on the plane.” 

“Stop it,” you laughed. “I’m not coming.” 

He pulled into the carpark of a hotel you’d always admired but never been inside. It was breathtaking, a blend of grand architecture and modern details; glass and stone, steel and marble. It was a place celebrities went for drinks or a private brunch without having to worry about mere mortals and prying eyes, a threshold you’d never held the status to cross. 

It felt bizarre to walk with him so openly, to stroll through the foyer side by side without fear of being spotted; no flashing cameras, no screaming fans, no nosy reporters. An employee led you into a lift, and you couldn’t help but flash a suspicious glare at Ben as you passed each floor, wondering how long he’d had all of this planned. 

You stepped out on the top floor, following behind Ben as he made polite smalltalk with the employee on the way to your room. You found yourself fixing your hair and straightening your clothes as you went, as though the building itself was judging you; offended that you could walk its carpets in a pair of trainers, grace its corridors in some well-worn jeans and an old cardigan. 

When Ben opened the door to the suite, you felt your breath still for a moment. It was bigger than your entire flat; bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchenette and large, open living area. Beyond a set of glass doors was a private terrace. You stepped out into the fresh, cool air, taking in the London skyline as it wrapped around the entire balcony. 

The terrace was framed with warm, glowing lights and draping greenery, the city like a glittering tapestry as the sun began to disappear below the horizon. A table stood in the centre, a bottle of champagne resting inside an ice bucket beside it. 

You turned to Ben. “This is… subtle.” 

He smirked, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of one of the chairs. "You like it."

“Says who?” you teased, brushing past him to lean your elbows on the railing, taking in the view. 

He followed, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently back against him. “Me.”

Your mouth twitched with a smile. “If this is all a ploy to make me say it back…”

“You think I brought you here to trick you into saying you love me?” he asked, his tone soft yet playful, lips brushing against your ear. “I don’t need to hear it, Quinn, I already know you do.” 

The words made your stomach flutter, but you refused to let it show. “Bullshit.” 

He chuckled, spinning you around to face him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You found yourself staring up at him in awe. He was so confident, so certain. It had been a week since he’d said those words, yet he didn’t seem to care that you still hadn’t said it back; his ego unbruised, like he knew you too well, understood you better than anyone ever had. 

Your protest died in your throat when his lips grazed your temple, lingering there as he pressed his body against yours, hands sliding down to your backside.

“This isn’t fair,” you murmured, your fingers dancing over the buttons of his shirt.

“What’s not fair?” he asked, lips trailing down to your cheek, your jaw, before pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck. 

“You. Being so… smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, though the glint in his eye contradicted him. “Can’t a man treat his girlfriend to a nice evening without being accused of ulterior motives?” 

You shook your head, suppressing a laugh. “There you go again, saying we’re a couple.” 

“Because we are.” His grip on you tightened, his voice deepening. “If I asked you outright, you’d make me beg. And I’m not above begging, but I’d rather save that for… other things.”

You felt yourself growing hot as his lips found yours, forcing yourself to break away to mutter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are,” he countered softly, tilting your chin up with his finger and kissing you again. “If you weren’t mine, you wouldn’t keep coming back to me.”

He deepened the kiss, wrapping an arm around your waist, the other gripping the railing behind you. You slid your hands up to his face, feeling yourself melting into him, excitement and anticipation rippling in your core. 

For a man who’d been so strict in his abstinence, the past week had completely unravelled him. He was insatiable, his touch lingering even in the most innocent moments, his kisses turning deeper and hungrier with little provocation. He’d taken every opportunity to make up for the time you’d lost, and you’d welcomed it gladly, savouring the ache that would follow you in the aftermath. 

He broke away, pressing his forehead to yours. “Dinner will be here soon,” he whispered.

You exhaled a laugh. “You ordered for me?” 

“I know what you like.” 

You slipped away to one of several bathrooms, taking off your cardigan and zhuzhing your hair until it sat just right. It was easy sometimes to forget who he was; the money he had, the power he wielded, the status he held that didn’t just surpass yours, but eclipsed it altogether. Whenever it hit you, it would make you feel uneasy; the imbalance throwing you off kilter, making you wonder what he saw in you, why a man who had the world at his fingertips would let himself fall for a single grain of sand. 

When you returned to the terrace, you found him sitting at the table as a waiter lay out a spread of food in front of him; steaming plates and pretty side dishes, a basket of your favourite bread and the dessert you’d been craving for weeks. The smell drifted through the air towards you, making your stomach rumble, your mouth water with hunger. 

You hovered in the doorway as the waiter placed down the last few plates, tucking a tray under his arm when he was done and pushing a large trolley back towards the suite. You stepped aside to let him pass, allowing yourself a moment to take in his face, the name on his badge. Perhaps it was cynical of you to assume he’d go running to the papers, narcissistic even, to think he’d care to.

Ben stood up as you made your way over to him, pulling out your chair for you with a charming smile. 

“This looks amazing,” you said as you sat down, admiring the food in front of you.

He kissed the side of your head and returned to his seat. “Champagne?” 

“Sure.” 

“So,” he began, popping the cork in his fist. “Guess what happened today…” 

You narrowed your eyes, cocking your head slightly. 

“I am officially divorced,” he said, almost beaming at you as he filled your glass. “I got the final order this afternoon. Decree Absolute. It’s done.” 

“Oh wow, congratulations.” 

“Congratulations?” he replied, jokingly mocking your voice. “I’m free, Quinn. No more contractual obligations, no more interviews pretending my marriage was anything other than a glorified business transaction. I can finally move forward. With you.” 

You stifled a smile, instead tapping your finger against your lips with a contemplative hum. “I don’t know. Now that you’re a single man, the excitement’s sort of gone.“

“Oh is that so?” 

“Mhm. I mean, where’s the thrill in sneaking around if it’s not with a married man?” 

He smirked, his eyes flitting to your mouth as you took a sip of champagne. “You need the thrill, hm?” 

You nodded. 

“Well you know what would be thrilling?” 

“What?” 

“Coming to America with me tomorrow.” 

You threw your head back and let out an exaggerated groan, making him chuckle as he began to eat. 

“Was worth a try,” he mumbled.

You talked and ate until the sun went down, until the cold puckered the flesh of your bare arms and numbed the tip of your nose. You sat with your legs outstretched beneath the table, resting comfortably between Ben’s as you listened to him speak - not about work, or divorce, or the two of you - but about his family, his childhood, the things that made him happy and the last time he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. 

In the moments you were reminded of his fame, it was easy to feel starcrossed; like there was an entire ocean between you and no way to common ground. But then the moment would pass, giving way to a warm laugh or a tender touch, and suddenly in that ocean would be an island, where you both resided as equals; your own private paradise. 

His hand had found yours across the table, his thumb gently stroking your knuckles as he continued a sweet anecdote about his mother. You’d never been very tactile, finding the hand-holding and arms around shoulders completely embarrassing, the chaste kisses and legs brushing under tables far too soppy. But here you were, chin resting on your fist, the other hand in his, gazing at him as he spoke, without a speck of desire to pull away. 

You laughed softly as you watched him bring a glass to his lips, somehow missing his mouth and spilling champagne down his shirt.

“I’m not drunk, I swear,” he laughed, releasing your hand to pick up a napkin and dab at his chest. 

“What’s that, like a tenner’s worth of champagne you just spilled?” you teased. 

He laughed again, picking up the bottle and looking at it with a hum. “About… forty quid?” 

Your smile dropped. “Tell me you’re joking.” 

“What?” He shrugged. 

“You’re saying we’ve been drinking a £2000 bottle of champagne?” 

“I think it’s closer to three,” he said casually.

“Oh my god! Wh- I- Well then how fucking expensive was all of this!?” you gestured to the terrace, the food, the suite beyond the doors. “Jesus this is like the watch fiasco all over again.” 

“Which I notice you still haven’t worn…” 

You glared at him. 

“Quinn, it’s fine,” he said softly, taking your hand in his again. “I wouldn’t spend it if I didn’t want to.” 

“But why on earth-”

“Why do you feel like you’re not worth it? Like money spent on you is somehow a waste?” 

“Because…” You settled back slightly in your chair, eyes flitting around in thought. “Because it is.” 

His smile faded, his eyes creasing at the corners as he gazed across the table at you. “Do you really believe that?” 

You shrugged, a defensive edge sharpening your posture. “I do.” 

“Well you’re wrong,” he countered bluntly. 

You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued quickly. 

“I know this imbalance between us bothers you. I know you’re independent, and you don’t want to feel like I’m trying to buy you or show off or make you feel indebted to me. But that's not what this is." He gestured to your surroundings, the city lights twinkling in the distance. "If anything, this is me showing you that you’re not a waste - not of my money, or my time, or my affection - none of it’s wasted on you.” 

His sincerity was disarming, how quickly the evening had gone from joking and banter to complete seriousness. You tried to remain neutral, but your eyes betrayed you with a vulnerable glaze, making his face soften, his hand squeezing yours more firmly.

“You are so deeply rooted in my life now that I don’t see any of this as frivolous,” he said. “I just see it as… being with you. No different than sitting on the couch in front of the TV.”

You sighed. 

“What?” he asked quietly.

“I just… I don’t think I can get away with denying this is a relationship anymore, can I.”  

He laughed. “No. No, you can’t.”  

You laughed too, rolling your eyes when you saw a smile creeping across his face. 

“This- us-” he said. “It’s far beyond the secrets and the sneaking around and worrying what strangers might say about me in the fucking papers. I’m not saying I’m ready to go dragging you down red carpets with me, but I like to think that you see it… getting there, maybe, one day…” 

You drew in a deep, cleansing breath through your nose, trying to soothe the nerves creeping into your chest.

“I love you,” he said. “Whether you say it back or not, it doesn’t make it any less true. I love you, Quinn.”

You gazed across at him for a moment, at the warmth in his expression, the vulnerability in his voice. You swallowed past a lump in your throat. “That’s… unfortunate for you,” you said. 

He dropped his head with a deep, throaty chuckle. “I don’t know,” he replied, eyes meeting yours again. “I feel quite fortunate… Most of the time.” 

You scoffed, taking a sip of your - extremely expensive - champagne. 

He gestured with his head for you to come to him. You stood up and walked around the table, settling in his lap and draping an arm around his shoulders. He held you close with a hand on the small of your back, the other reaching up to brush a stray hair from your face as you leaned down to him, lips meeting in a deep, slow kiss. 

“You’re cold,” he whispered, running his hand up and down your bare arm. 

“I’m fine,” you replied.

He shook his head. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

You stood in the living area, staring up at a painting on the wall, head cocked to one side as you wondered if anyone would notice if you stole it. You shook the thought away as the sound of voices and rattling dishes emerged from the terrace, glancing over your shoulder to see the waiter from earlier wheeling away the remnants of your dinner.

Ben thanked him as he left, shutting the door behind him and sliding the chain lock in place. He spun on his heels to look at you from across the vast suite, though his large strides carried him over to you in moments. 

You ran your fingers over the pale yellow stain on his shirt as he wrapped his arms around your waist, and you wondered if you’d ever tire of his embrace, if he would ever tire of embracing you. You hoped not. 

“I have the suite for the night,” he said. “But if you’d rather go home, I can take you. I know you don’t have anything with you so I understand if you wouldn’t want to stay.”

“Hm, my tiny, messy flat or this stunning hotel with you,” you replied, pretending to deliberate with yourself. “What a difficult decision.” 

He laughed, kissing you on the cheek before stepping past you.

“Where are you going?” you asked. 

“Bed,” he replied simply. “Are you coming?” 

“Bed? It’s only half nine…” 

He raised an eyebrow as he backed up slowly towards the master bedroom, waiting for the penny to drop. 

“Oh,” you finally said.

“Yeah,” he replied, reaching out his hand in a gesture for you to join him. 

The car idled quietly on the road outside your flat building, the blue morning sky clear and bright, promising a warm day. You knew you had to leave, to climb out and get ready for work, but every time your hand so much as brushed the door handle, Ben’s lips found yours again. 

Your laugh came breathlessly as you finally pulled back, lips blushed and swollen from his endless kisses. “You’re going to miss your flight.” 

His smile was lazy and unapologetic as he yielded, dropping his head slightly with a gentle sigh. “Can I call you when I get to my hotel?” 

“Yeah, I suppose I’ll allow it.” 

He leaned in, and you couldn’t help but kiss him again, feeling his smile against your lips.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he muttered, his hand sliding through your hair. 

You laughed softly. “I’m sure I’ll manage. I took on a ton of work to keep myself busy.” 

He chuckled, but you quickly swallowed the sound with another kiss, leaning into him with more fervour. 

His hand dropped to the side of your face, the other firmly gripping your thigh; his touch making your stomach coil, the orgasms he’d given you last night still echoing in your core. So many orgasms you were sure you’d still be reeling for the next few days. 

You forced yourself to break away again, shaking away the fluster warming your cheeks. “Okay, you really are going to miss your flight if you don’t go.” 

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. His touch lingered, stroking your temple before trailing down to your jaw.

“Last chance,” he said. “You sure you don’t want to come with me?”

You hesitated as you looked at him. There had been no pressure in his voice, no coercion in his expression, only a gentle invitation, and you could see in his eyes that he already knew your answer.

“Not this time,” you said, the corner of your mouth curving into a small smile.

He gave a smile that matched yours, like the subtle shift in your answer hadn’t gone unnoticed. No longer a flat refusal or a guarded deflection, but something warmer, an unspoken ‘someday’. 

“Okay,” he said, leaning in for one last kiss. “I’m going to miss you.”

You smiled faintly, your usual sarcasm faltering as you replied. “I’m going to miss you too.”

“Two weeks,” he reassured, though you were uncertain which one of you needed it more. “Just two weeks and I’ll be back.” 

“Yeah, for three days,” you countered. “Before you have to go again.” 

“Well, we better be sure to make the most of those three days.”

You nodded, finally reaching for your bag and opening the door.  

You climbed out and closed it behind you, turning around to lean down and meet his gaze through the open window. 

There was a mournfulness to his expression as he looked at you, like it was physically paining him to let you go. And you understood, because you felt it too; already longing for his return before he’d even left. 

The back of your tongue felt heavy with the words you’d refused to utter, almost like they belonged there, ready to pour out of you like an impulse, as natural as a ‘goodbye’. But something made you swallow them, forcing them back down your throat with a sad smile. 

“Have a safe flight,” you said.  

His fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving yours. “Bye, darling,” he said, his voice carrying the same forlorn weight as yours.

“Bye.”

You stood on the pavement as he pulled away, watching the car until it disappeared down the street. Only then did you suck in a deep breath, letting it out in a long, slow sigh. You remained there a moment longer, staring at the quiet, empty road before finally turning to go inside.

You stared up at the distinctive orange building of the London Fashion and Textiles museum, accents of bright blue, vivid yellow and hot pink decorating its exterior. You pulled out your phone to snap a picture of the large poster hanging near the entrance - Ornamented: The Art of Embellishment in Fashion - as a healthy crowd filtered inside.

You meandered leisurely through the opening of the exhibition, taking pictures and scrawling quick notes in your book, the extra weight on your wrist catching you off guard whenever you raised your pen to the paper. 

The watch face gleamed beneath the soft lights of the museum, the gold bracelet strap shimmering every time you moved. It had sat safely in its box, tucked away in your underwear drawer since Christmas. Every now and again you would take it out just to look at it, perhaps even put it on, but you would always stow it away soon after, like a child secretly trying on her mother’s expensive clothes.

But you were Ben’s girlfriend now. A fact that made your stomach turn with fear and excitement whenever you thought about it for too long. And as his girlfriend, it somehow felt right to wear a piece of him when he wasn’t with you. 

You walked up to a display encased inside a large glass cabinet; an array of intricately beaded flapper dresses from the 1920’s. Time had discoloured some of them, loosened some seams and lost their sparkle. But still, you found yourself almost pressing your nose to the glass, admiring the meticulous patterns and letting your mind wander to the women who might have worn them. 

You crouched down to the ground, resting on your haunches to steady your notebook on your knee as you scribbled your thoughts. You were making a note of the designer’s name from a nearby placard when footsteps approached you, heels clicking on the concrete floor and stopping at your side. 

“Quinn, isn’t it?” 

You glanced up to find Faye Dennehy glaring down at you, her tall stature even more imposing from your hunched position below her. You felt your lungs empty, your heart thumping in a hollow chest as you rose to your feet, blinking at her a few times before snapping out of your stupor. 

“Yes, it is. And you’re… Faye, right?” you replied. 

It was clear that you both very much knew the other’s name. But if she was going to pretend otherwise, then so were you.

“It’s nice to see you with your clothes on this time,” she said, her light, airy tone masking the sharpness of her words. 

She didn’t know you could be mean. Extremely mean. Brutally, mercilessly, remorselessly cruel. She also didn’t know that you were currently pressing your lips together as a courtesy to her, holding back the venom trying to force its way out. 

You gave a weak, obviously fake chuckle. “Yeah that was… quite the morning, for all of us.” 

She nodded with a wry smile before turning her attention to the dresses. You let your eyes trail the length of her; the long a-line skirt and perfectly tailored blouse, the pointed toe heels and long, bouncy blonde hair. You couldn’t deny how chic she looked. She always looked chic. 

Bitch.

You shook the thought away and looked down at your notebook. 

“So you’re here for your magazine?” she asked. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead looking back up at her and clearing your throat. “Yep.”

“Mm. Well I’m sure you’ll give the exhibition a glowing review. You seem very good at painting things in a favourable light.” 

You smiled. “Ben already told me you didn’t like the feature I wrote about him.” 

“Oh he did?” She nodded, peering through the glass at one of the dresses as she spoke. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t like it. It just came across a bit… disingenuous.” 

“Disingenuous. Sort of like… PR relationships…” 

You noticed the muscles in her neck flex, but she remained calm, returning her gaze to you. “Sort of like that, yeah.” 

You closed your notebook and hugged it to your chest before moving towards the next exhibit. 

“Is that a Jaeger-LeCoultre?” Faye asked as you stepped around her. 

You spun on your heels to look at her, a blank expression on your face.

“The watch,” she said. 

“Oh.” You glanced down at your wrist, then back to her. “Yeah, it is.” 

She allowed a slight smile, letting out a short, contemptuous hum. “Expensive.” 

You feigned a clueless expression, doe-eyed and innocent as you shrugged at her. “Is it? I wouldn’t know, it was a gift.” 

“How thoughtful of him,” she replied bluntly, emotionlessly. 

“I never said who it was from…”

“Well,” she laughed. “I doubt anyone else you know could afford something like that.” 

You found yourself holding back again, biting the inside of your bottom lip until it tasted of iron. “Enjoy the exhibition,” you said, feigning kindness as you gestured around you. “I’m sure this theme’s right up your street. We both know how much you love embellishments.” 

You walked away without waiting for a response, blowing out a puff of hot breath and fanning yourself with your book until you reached the next display. On a small platform stood a row of mannequins, each one draped in a stunning jewelled sari. You squinted to read the placard beside them; the history, the significance, the craftsmanship that went into them. 

But you were soon disturbed again, letting out a huff before turning to Faye again. 

“Are you following me?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eye.

“I don’t know what you think you know about my marriage,” she began, speaking quietly, her tone curt. “But when he inevitably gets bored of messing around with you, I hope you have enough integrity to keep it to yourself.” 

“I have no intention of ever exposing you, Faye.” You shook your head. “But I’ll be sure to let Ben know you think our relationship is doomed to fail.” 

“Relationship,” she giggled.

You narrowed your eyes at her. 

“Is that what you’re calling it? A relationship?” she scoffed. 

“What else would it be?”

“You’re the fun, Quinn. The wild oats he sews before he decides he’s ready to settle down.” She gestured to your watch. “You’re the one he spoils, keeps sweet, flies out to whatever country he’s in because he feels like a quick fuck.” 

Her voice was so quiet, so soft, but the words were bitter and torturous. It made the back of your neck tingle, your ears burn, stomach twist.

“And I don’t blame you,” she shrugged. “He’s a celebrity. Who’s going to turn down the opportunity to have a fling with a handsome, charming actor? But what happens when that novelty wears off? When you realise how… wrong for him you are?” 

People were passing back and forth around the exhibition, buzzing with conversation, brushing shoulders, gathering at displays and moving on to the next. But the place might as well have been silent, bare, just the two of you in an empty room. 

You gave a clipped laugh, though no smile accompanied it. “How on earth would you know if I’m right or wrong for him? You don’t know me.“

“No but I know him,” she countered assuredly. “I know that he wants children, and he wants them soon. That’s one of the main reasons our marriage ended. Are you willing to give him that?” 

“Well actually, I’m three months pregnant right now, we’re very excited,” you replied dryly.

She narrowed her eyes. “No you’re not.” 

“Of course I’m fucking not,” you said quietly, rolling your eyes.

“And when he wants you to be, what then? When he comes to you a year from now and says ‘Quinn, I really want to be a father, and I’m not getting any younger’. Is that going to fill you with excitement, or dread?” 

You kept your face expressionless, but your heart was beginning to race, her words travelling right to the place where they stung the most. 

“He wants to live equally between here and America, did he tell you that?” she continued. “Are you willing to pack up your whole life and follow him back and forth? Give up your career? Live in houses you have no equity in? Drive around in a nice car you didn’t pay for?” 

She straightened her posture, chin raised with indignation. “Quinn the kept woman,” she taunted. “The trophy wife that the media never actually cares to learn the name of because she’s unimportant, insignificant when compared to him.”

You swallowed past a lump in your throat, though you couldn’t tell if it was made of sadness or pure rage. But still, you found a way to compose yourself, checking over your shoulders before stepping closer to her. 

“I know it must hurt,” you eventually said. “To be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. To be married to him, to convince yourself that ‘maybe with time he’ll see we’re meant to be’.” You lowered your voice, leaning in to speak slowly. “Yet still, after two years, the only time he’d willingly touch you was when there was a camera there to catch it.” 

Her face hardened, her eyes never leaving yours. 

“And I don’t blame you either, Faye. If I were you, I’d want to hurt the woman he actually loves too.” 

She forced a smile, blinking away what seemed to be tears forming in her waterline. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m warning you.” 

She turned away, beginning to walk off before stopping and looking back at you. 

“I may not have liked what you wrote in that feature,” she said. “But the way you wrote it wasn’t half bad. I just think it’d be a shame, for someone with so much potential to end up known only as the one that came after me.” 

You held her gaze until she finally turned around, disappearing into the crowd with a flick of her hair. 

You stood there for a moment, frozen, staring down at the spot where Faye had stood. The buzz of the exhibition faded back in, a cacophony of excited voices, camera shutters and footsteps. But it was still muffled, like there was a bubble around you, separating you from the rest of the world. Faye’s words echoed in your mind, breaking through the armour you’d built around yourself and burrowing down to the quietest corners of your soul, the places you didn’t like to visit. 

Quinn the kept woman. The one that came after me.

You wondered if she was right, if you could ever be satisfied living a life that always had to bend to the shape of Ben’s. He had never denied the pitfalls of his fame, never sugar coated the demand of his work or hidden his desire for a family, for children. Were you really holding him back from finding someone to share all of that with?

You took a shaky breath, closing your eyes to soothe the itch behind your lids, and with trembling hands, you opened your notebook and forced yourself to carry on to the next display. A collection of gowns embroidered with floral motifs, their petals moulded from delicate beads and sequins that seemed to bloom beneath the soft light. You traced the edges of one with your eyes, jotting down notes with uneven, messy handwriting.

Your watch caught the light again, the gold surface glinting like a mocking wink. You almost wanted to take it off, but instead you fiddled with it for a moment, recentering the face in the middle of your wrist.

By the time you finished your tour of the exhibition, your notebook was full, but you could barely remember anything you’d written in it. You slipped it into your bag, hoisting it over your shoulder as you walked toward the exit and out into the late evening air. 

The sun was still shining, but there was a bite to the breeze that made you shudder. You pulled a cardigan from your bag and shrugged it on before taking off down the street towards your car. You pulled your phone from your trouser pocket, looking up Ben’s name, thumb hovering over the call button as you walked. But you never pressed it, unsure what you would even say, where you would start.

*Tag List: @blondekel77 @evelynrosestuff @bakerstreethound @annesthaeticc @aephereal @sharp-cheekbones-locked @sherlux @veryladyqueen @graciebear47 @allurenia @jamerlynn @cottagecore-cat @aysamuka @thegardenerofeden @cumbercatchmebaby @inspirationalandrandom @turkisherlockian @swds @weepingdreamerpanda @elzabethann @childofgod215 @briecantopme @lovecleastrange @jaspearl31 @paola-carter @greatburger @azu21 @xourownsidee @hunterofshadows04 @asgardianprincess1050 @teddycrimson @sherlocksgirl91 @oliveoilthoughts @hai-kbai @shjl15 @bloodyxsaint @charleighsblog @stephenstrangeaddictions @omgstarks @sleutherclaw @bisciwri @theevilsupreme @druggedbyfiction @gwoods123 @classickook @coffee-d0t @strangeobsessed @januarycolor @strangeions @lonadane @downtownshabby @diabaroxa @stllbrln @thealleydog @cakesandtom @irisbutterfly @coffeebeing @lexlexigogh @mun7on @svntnpldis @belan-the-dilf-hunter @blxckdragonfly @detective-sherlocked @xdelulu @nicoletk @filmlock @bensherstrange @midnightramyeoncravings @coldnique @dearwatson @scailedandisolated @aphroditesdilemma @bergararyans @txylorrvelasco @classicrebound @hthrevr @happybunnyclumsyduck @c00letha @j3mj3rrica @ironstrange1991 @vi0letdaze @theothersideofthescreen @alessandra-cumberbatch @indiefilmfatale

[st4rgiirll]

for you page

— a few rookies rent a house near silverstone and secretly film chaotic f1-themed tiktoks. netflix finds out only after one of the videos goes viral. now there's a race to secure the rights before it hits mainstream media.

all credits in my main masterlist!! <33

oscar piastri stared at his phone in horror. "guys," he called out to his housemates, voice cracking. "we might have a situation."

logan sargeant and liam lawson looked up from where they were attempting to do the dance for their latest tiktok.

"define 'situation,'" liam said, still holding a makeshift podium trophy made from empty red bull cans.

"remember that video we made last week? the one where we recreated famous team radio messages using only cat meows?"

logan froze mid-dance move. "the one where i did christian horner's angry voice as a persian cat?"

"it has four million views. and netflix just called."

the infamous silverstone share house fell silent, save for the distant sound of their neighbor mowing the lawn – which they were pretty sure was actually lewis hamilton in disguise, trying to figure out what they'd been up to for the past three months.

their tiktok account, @ f1rookielife, had started innocently enough. just three young drivers sharing a rental house, making content to pass the time between races. how were they supposed to know their "day in the life of an f1 seat (starring an actual racing seat)" would go viral?

oscar's phone buzzed again. "oh god," he muttered. "now will buxton wants to do a dramatic piece to camera about it."

"delete the drafts folder," logan practically screamed, diving for his phone. "especially the one where we did 'mean girls' but it's all about porpoising!"

but it was too late. netflix producer sarah wilson was already sending screenshots. somehow, they'd found the video titled "pov: you're toto wolff's table during a race."

"my dad's going to kill me," oscar whispered, thinking of all the videos where he'd perfectly mimicked christian horner's dramatic monologues while wearing a red bull onesie.

liam was frantically scrolling through their content. "maybe it's not that bad. i mean, apart from the 'whose team principal is it anyway?' series... and the 'f1 drivers as vines' compilation... and that interpretive dance about ferrari strategy..."

there was a knock at the door.

all three rookies froze. logan, still wearing a fake mustache from their "by gawd, that's fernando alonso's music!" wrestling parody, looked like he was about to pass out.

the door opened to reveal daniel ricciardo, grinning his trademark grin. "guys," he said, holding up his phone, "your 'brokeback paddock' skit about the ferrari mechanics? absolute gold."

before they could respond, more notifications started flooding in.

"charles leclerc just duetted our 'i'm just a girl, standing in front of a strategy team, asking them to pit me' video," oscar announced, voice weak.

liam checked his own phone. "max just shared our 'dutch anthem but it's played on simulator pedals' post."

"guys?" logan was staring at his screen. "why is fernando alonso requesting access to our private backup account?"

another knock at the door. this time it was the netflix crew, cameras already rolling.

"we want exclusive rights," sarah declared, stepping into their living room, which was still decorated with various props including a life-size cardboard cutout of günther steiner wearing a flower crown.

"but—" oscar started.

"is that a script for 'keeping up with the karmines'?" sarah pointed to a notebook. "and... is that a storyboard for 'the real housedrivers of monaco'?"

liam tried to subtly kick their box of fake wigs under the couch. "we can explain..."

more phones buzzed. their latest video had just dropped: "if shakespeare wrote team radio (feat. special guest seb vettel as hamlet)."

"how did you get sebastian vettel to—" sarah began.

"he just showed up one day," logan explained. "said something about the youth needing guidance in sustainable content creation."

oscar's phone rang. it was zak brown. "mate," his boss said, "your 'mclaren mechanics do surgery on a diffuser' interpretive ballet? that's getting you a contract extension."

outside, they could hear the sound of more cars pulling up. george russell had apparently seen their "powerpoint presentations but they're about overtaking strategies" series and wanted to collaborate.

"look," sarah said, "netflix wants first rights to all of it. the behind-the-scenes, the bloopers, especially the 'real reason for porpoising' musical number."

"the what?" came toto wolff's voice from the doorway. nobody had heard him arrive.

liam quickly closed the laptop that was playing their latest project: "drive to survive but every dramatic pause is replaced with yuki tsunoda saying 'bruh.'"

"we'll give you creative control," sarah offered desperately, watching as more drivers and team principals began gathering outside the house. "just... please tell me you got that video of christian horner doing a dramatic monologue about his coffee machine."

"that wasn't us," oscar admitted. "that was actually just christian being christian."

another notification: their "formula 1 drivers as vines (part 43)" had just been shared by f1's official account.

"fine," logan sighed, accepting their fate. "but nobody sees the 'real housedrivers' footage until after i retire."

"deal," sarah said quickly, just as lewis hamilton walked in wearing a gardening outfit that probably cost more than their house.

"so," lewis said, pulling off his designer sunglasses, "about that 'fashion week but it's racing suits' series you've been filming in my garden..."

somewhere in maranello, charles leclerc was already practicing for their next video: "ferrari strategy meetings but they're taylor swift songs."

the rookies looked at each other. they'd created a monster. a very entertaining, potentially career-ending monster.

"at least we didn't post the 'kardashians but it's team principals' series," oscar whispered.

liam checked his phone one last time. "about that..."

the sound of toto wolff discovering his role as kris jenner could be heard all the way to brackley.

[inchidentally]

Inchie I know you're not as bothered by it but I'm so anxious about landoscar battles 😭 If race starts like Barca are the norm then I'm not sure what will happen. I know they're more maturely behaved but this is a different level and so much tension. (Ignore this if you want I just needed a place to vent!)

anon it's either rly good or rly bad timing for me to reply to this rn !! but I just got home and I need to unwind !

(this went completely all over the place I know you didn't ask for like any of this idk but I hope maybe it helps hearing my take on what I see happening ?? if that's what you meant ?)

I mean yes, the downside of Lando and Oscar working together and wanting the same things out of the car and speeding up McLaren's return to form after decades in the doldrums - and that they've said they want to be teammates for a long time - is that we are in for a LOT of inevitable stress. simply from law of averages etc! not bc landoscar will prove to be epically stressful themselves bc ironically, they don't have any of the ingredients to be one of the big explosive fall out type partnerships: they're not childhood besties, they didn't formulate some big codependent bromance, they're not locked in some sennaprost psychological intense warfare and neither of them are prone to explosive rages.

so it'll be tough for us when they're mad at each other and not getting along, but I just don't think they've got the hot blooded potential to give people the crazy show they're expecting even after a big coming together or an insane battle.

probably their fights will look like some storming past each other without looking, some pointedly avoiding each other at all times, an absence of PR media for a while from McLaren until things cool off. Bob Netflix will FINALLY get his content and ppl who stan solely for either driver will crash out worse than the actual crash lsafgjsalgfl (for me that's when I'll finally be able to go back and make my blog less of a mess by adding tags and emptying my drafts folder)

but fwiw anon, as far as what I expect from both of them tho !

poor Lando has ZERO filter and hides nothing on his face so on the one hand that's been great proof that even the hard times he's had with Oscar have never actually made him furious or resentful so far ! but it means that probably what we'll get from him is what we've seen from when he reacted to clashes and fights with Max: a lot of hurt, a lot of anger but never in a 'I want to punch him' way more a heat of the moment reaction way. he and Max are much closer than fandom thinks (and that I even once thought until that one anon got me looking into it) and battling with him at the front has produced the most emotion out of Lando for that very reason. BUT! Lando didn't have the added incentive of needing to work right next to Max every week and he STILL softened and talked to him and things were fine again <3

Lando feels everything with crazy intensity - but his desire for stability will always win out so long as the other person is willing to work it out. he's had his non-work friendships for fifteen years plus and Jon and Mark have been him for ten plus years - you KNOW he's had fights and difficulties in that time with those people. but they stay in his life for as long as they want to and everything comes good <3

Oscar's reactions honestly we probably won't see much more than a stormy, closed off expression and maybe some choice words - tho even there I could see Oscar choosing to just be very short with the press if he's not feeling fully in control of his anger. he'll never be as open to the public or press as he was before Alpinegate, that like innocence/openness is broken for good. so I can't even say we'll see much reaction from him other than he won't debrief or laugh with Lando if they're feuding.

but !! Oscar as we know has been more than just a normal fan of Lando's from a distance in the way that all younger drivers were. he didn't just tweet at him occasionally or leave comments and likes, he went out and found posts about Lando from 2014 on that had maximum one other like beside his own and he literally openly waited to get LN4 admin to talk to him again and he's known everything from Lando liking arts and crafts as a kid to reminding Lando of a video he did with Max for Quadrant. he was talking about being a fan of his before even Alpine and telling his mum how great it would be to be Lando's teammate since he's "so good" no one would expect Oscar to compete with him right away.

so while that would no more stop him competing against Lando on an equal level than it would for anyone else, it does mean that Oscar isn't going into any of this blind or deluded about what it will be like to directly compete with Lando for wins and a championship. and honestly he's so pragmatic that if he thought 'meh if Lando ends up hating me I won't care' then we wouldn't have seen him being the way he has with Lando. all that affection would've been just dismissed so he can focus on being competitive.

but instead he's allowed himself to stare and hearteyes and adjust to Lando's preferences over food and music even tho they give him no strategic benefit - he's taken up padel when Lando failed to make him play golf and now he plays as much padel with Lando as he does any other driver. their dads bond together in rooting for their boys and ohhh Chris' big strong hug he gave Lando after the Miami win and Adam rooting for Oscar from day one. and if you want to judge a teammate relationship then looking at the dads who have no reason to be buddy-buddy and every reason to favor their own son is a great measure.

like, that level of affection doesn't make any sense for a guy if he's ready to just bin it all and have a cold purely work-related relationship in single-minded pursuit of a WDC.

and like, talk to any Oscar fan who has been with him since before McLaren or look at his content from before then - Oscar is NOT cold or ruthless off the track and he holds onto his friendships the same as Lando. Logan, Guanyu and Liam are still his mates (and the way he looked after Logan who was essentially ostracized by the grid was very tender). Max F is still his mate. all his boarding school friends are still in his life. his only romantic relationship is going strong at 5 or 6 years now. Oscar's family are socially and personality wise the complete opposite of him and he grew up on the other side of the world to his sisters, but they all absolutely adore him (and will never let his head get too big lasfgsjag)

BUT ALSO there is the fact that what I'd suspected is actually kind of true is that Lando and Oscar have focused more on longevity together than having a big impact on fans or the media as teammates. they've grown their off track relationship SO gradually and naturally and carefully and that has worked so well for the times when they've clashed on track or things have worked against one and for another. and now them starting 2025 knowing that the stakes are the highest they can possibly be but !! they're saying they want to be teammates fighting for championships for a long, long time - and they've put pen to paper to prove it. that's literally working in full reverse of how teammates tend to operate - usually they want to establish the teammate relationship quickly so they can then focus on their own performance since keeping their seat depends WAY more on their individual performance than if their bromance is thriving. but landoscar have decided to work counter to that.

so that's a level of maturity and mutual cooperation that's actually pretty astonishing for two drivers barely in their mid-twenties.

and they've literally said over and over how they've discussed these scenarios and they know they're likely which again, that's more than any of these explosive grudge match partnerships have: the childhood or best friend teammates usually pretend they'll be okay and don't think about it and the others don't even care about the other side of the garage. either way it usually results in explosive ruptures bc there's been no strategizing on how to deal with it.

but yea, when there's inevitable landoscar feuding then fandom will divide even more and those of us who don't favor one over the other will probably have to refine who we follow. but honestly, there's way more of us who are okay with the web weaving that drama brings or who don't take it that seriously ! I'm personally both. ultimately I love exploring a relationship's complexity and reality - and I loOOOove seeing what fic authors do with it. (charlos has never once been less compelling to me even when their literal families were feuding like their relationship is so elizabethan it made complete dramatic sense slfgasjlfg)

and the inevitable question of how any given scenario would affect them long term (and as for the 2025 WDC bear in mind that as I've said, Oscar fans have just as much a claim to think that him wait in reserve after F2 watching friends get a seat before him and the massive hate he faced for years when he finally did get a seat has earned him the WDC first as Lando fans think him staying with McLaren loyally for so long through the toughest times means he's earned it first) as in would this be something they would hold resentment for for a long time, I'm like oh yea we literally will not know until enough time has past so why buy trouble now ??

Carlos has pissed Lando off enough for Lando to look daggers at him and storm away from him in the media pen in front of every media outlet, Lando ran the gauntlet of choosing his own success and need to prioritize himself over his image as bubbly friendly bromance with Daniel, and Lando has said that he's questioned everything good he's thought about Max's character during the ferocity of the WDC battle with him. and literally look at all of them!! right back to giggles and fun and friendship within days or weeks. and those are just the fights that we saw publicly - guarantee they've had more difficulties privately but again, it all comes good !

and Oscar has always been able to have tense, close battles with friends and keep things good and wholesome with them: Logan and Max F in particular! and while F2 and F3 are not a WDC battle, considering Oscar and Max financially had no idea how to progress it's pretty gd high stakes to want to win so that you can have a shot at F1 at all.

and with how much everyone wants Lando and Oscar to NOT be friends and NOT like each other I'm sorry but ?? Lando doesn't hide it when he isn't interested in someone let alone someone he doesn't care about. Oscar is exactly the same. if all this giggling and weird synchronization and spending time together outside work and collaboration with each other and "we'll grow old together" was actually just cold, empty race-focus with no friendship then it could easily be done in a 2024 Alpine way of having them do the PR entirely separately. bromances are not the priority fandom thinks they are lasgfjlagf these teams want championships they do not care if fans find their drivers cute together or think they're best friends. McLaren especially has dropped most of their well oiled PR machine after Daniel and the ten minute challenge videos and half hour recaps are all gone anyway. and what's so funny about that dinner story recently is that McLaren has a unique situation where outside of actually running the car, the two garages have a complete open door policy. both of the boys said they have identical wants for the car. and if Lando and Oscar didn't like each other, they could just end that policy and they'd have dinner at least at different restaurants and at LEAST in any of the many empty tables instead of right next to each other aslfgjasfgjlas. that was literally two drivers' teams debriefing so that they can just lean over and collaborate.

Lando and Oscar wouldn't come together in parc ferme - even after Hungary - to check in and debrief if they were blah about each other or disliked each other. they wouldn't learn each other and say things like "I know Oscar will answer like this so for the game I need to do the opposite" and Oscar wouldn't watch Lando closely to help him find the right words to the point where it's Their Thing. Oscar wouldn't change out his salmon for ham and adoringly let Lando "bully" him and have his way and Lando wouldn't wriggle and smile and wrinkle his nose over Oscar being awkward on camera. Lando wouldn't have said he was disappointed that Oscar didn't share a hobby with him like Carlos and Daniel do/did and Oscar wouldn't have taken up padel right after.

they have zero incentive to lie, Oscar sees no point in lying, and Lando is unable to lie.

so I'm sorry but I've run it all thru p thoroughly and this theory that they're a tinder box ready to blow up in flames doesn't fit them to me ?? I think it'll just be coldness and distance until they calm down and are able to work together again.

OH MY GOD I'LL SHUT UP but yea I'm fully prepared for periods of tension and stress and lots of oh god they're NOT happy w each other and not even trying to hide it. but I don't foresee it as being relationship-ending. I personally see it as things they'll talk about in the future as all part of their story together as "the strongest" teammate pairing and one of the longest running pairings, as they're calling it now and tbh I'm taking that from what they've said themselves and not just my crazy ahh <3

THIS WAS SO INSANE BUT ANON DID IT HELP??

[nessieart]

The Way Back. IV

WC:4.9k

eventual bucky x reader. maybe steve x reader. im still deciding dontshootme

Summary: These powers were meant to help people. Help The Avengers, your family. It felt like every time you used them, something bad always happened. Maybe someone has the answers, somewhere.

Masterlist

AN- not really proofread, all mistakes are my own. please enjoy!

Previously:

Howard nodded along, giving you soft, encouraging words whenever you would pause. He took the empty tea cup from your hands, placing it on the nightstand. he waited a moment more, searching for any lingering signs of tears or heartache.

He clears his throat, "Maybe you should look for a way back to your time, honey," he says quietly. His eyes dart away from yours when your head snaps up.

"But-"

"I know," his reassuring smile is sad and doesn't reach his eyes. "Maybe you just need the closure of seeing Tony okay," It's hard for Howard to talk about his son he doesn't have, only knowing about him from the stories you've told.

"What about you?"

"You need to stop worrying about everyone ese, Y/N. And worry about yourself."

You sigh. It feels like a weight is lifted off your shoulders, "I'll think about it, ok?"

Howard nods, his hands falling on top of yours and then squeezing, "Get some rest, kid."

The next few weeks go by quickly. You haven't made your mind up to visit the Sanctum or not yet. So, you throw yourself into organizing the Stark Expo. Contacting vendors and scientists, the list Howard gave you is long, and you wonder if even half the people will respond because of the war over seas.

You're surprised to hear back from almost all of the people on the list. Using Howard's blueprint of the grounds, you set the vendors and creators all throughout the area, making sure to place everyone just far enough apart to not be overwhelming.

One evening, Jarvis drops you off at the Expo fair grounds. Things were still in the process of being built, so you wanted to make sure everything was getting done the way you envisioned it.

"Don't worry about picking me up, J, I'll manage," you smile at him through the open window.

"Alright, Ms Stark. I'll see you later," his smooth English accent carries through the car, and then he drives away.

After entering the fair grounds, you notice a new recruitment banner across from where the main stage would be. A few people were lined up outside. Some were a little eager, while others seemed anxious.

Huh, that's new.

Towards the back of the line, one familiar head of brunette hair stands out, his head bowed low and hands shoved deep into his pockets. You hedge close, maybe it was just your eyes playing tricks on you.

"James?" You ask. You can see his side profile now, getting closer. His head shoots up, eyes wide as they move to focus on you.

"Ch-Charlotte? What, uh, what are you doing here?" Bucky looks up the line, then back to you, stepping out of line to make his way over.

"I could ask you the same thing," you nod toward the sign above. "Thinkin' of enlisting?"

Bucky stares at you for a moment, your arms wrapping around the folder full of permits and city code enforcement papers to your chest. One of his hands comes up to run through his hair. He seems exhausted but puts a smile on his face anyway.

"Well," his hand still in his pocket pulls out an envelope, "I've been drafted, actually," the smile doesn't reach his eyes you notice now, as he looks at the offending piece of paper in his hands.

"Oh, James," you place a hand on his forearm, "I'm sorry." You had no idea he was drafted, Steve never mentioned it.

Bucky shrugs, "My dad seems to be happy about it. Says it'll force me to grow up and take responsibility," he sighs. "My ma, not so much." He shrugs.

"And what does Steve think?"

Bucky shoves the envelope back in his pocket, eyes skating across your face and then off to the side. "He doesn't know. He's been trying to enlist since they opened the first doors for recruitment." Bucky grimaces, "But he's so," he stops and paces away from you, eyes lingering on the ENLIST NOW! sign.

After a few minutes of him being lost in thought, you step closer, peering up at him through your lashes.

"James?" When he slowly drags his eyes to you, you continue, "It's OK to be afraid. No one would think any different."

"Go out dancing with me Friday night," he says suddenly. You laugh, but it doesn't deter him.

You eye him when he turns to you fully, "I'll think about it, pretty boy." The grin he gives you is blinding. "But you have to invite Steve, and maybe I'll say yes." Bucky nods in agreement.

"Ms. Charlotte!" Someone calls, and you turn to see Dr. Erskine, clipboard in hand, and he waves. You return his smile and wave.

Before you walk away to talk to Erskine, you give Bucky a serious look, "tell Steve about the draft. He'll understand. You're his best friend, James, he can't stay mad at you for long." You squeeze his arm before you depart.

When you're halfway to the doctor, Bucky snaps out of his thoughts, "Charlotte," he calls, and you turn to him with a tilt of your head, "how do you do it? How do you know so much?"

You smile and shrug, "comes with the territory," you wink. When you reach Dr. Erskine, he shakes your hand with a smile. "Hello, Doctor, wonderful to see you again."

"Please, Abraham. And it is a pleasure to see you, my dear." He places his hand on the small of your back, ushering you inside the building. You spare one last glance behind you toward Bucky. His eyes are already on you. A light dusting of color goes across his cheeks at being caught.

"Friend of yours?" Abraham asks when he too looks back at Bucky.

Bucky ducks his head and moves to the back of the recruitment line.

"Sort of. A friend of a friend kind of thing."

"He is signing up for the Armed Forces?" Erskine asks. He leads you into his office, leaning against his desk. He offers you a chair in front of him. You sit, pulling at the paper edges inside your folder.

"Not exactly. He was drafted. Things don't really go well for him later in life. Seeing him like this - before - is nice," you absentmindedly say. You look up at him and forget who you're talking to. Eyes wide, as he tilts his head at you. "I- I mean. Shit."

Erskine gives you another once over. Your heart pounding against your rib cage. You could talk your way out of a lot of things. Being friends with Tony for so long and now Howard, you were really good with talking your way out of trouble.

But there was something kind in Abraham's eyes that made you want to tell him everything. Maybe you did, Howard was the only person who knows your secret. You suspect Jarvis does, but he's never brought it up.

"If-if I tell you something, you don't have to believe me - or maybe you'll think I'm crazy, but um-" you look up at him, his eyes still kind, he gives you an encouraging smile. "I'm from the future," you cringe a bit. At least with Howard, he was a man of science. And maybe a little science fiction. He believed you after he saw that faint glowing scar on your chest. He also claimed he was the smartest man alive. Of course, he'd believe you.

Sure, Erskine was a man of science, creating the serum that changes Steve's life forever, but -

You see him nod, eyes taking measured glances across your features.

He hums. It seems like ages before either of you say another word. He puts his clipboard down, hands resting on the desk, and he hums again. Then nods resolutely.

"I see," is all he says. And you're terrified of any word out of his mouth. Your eyes are wide and unblinking, glossy with held back tears.

"How far in the future, my dear?" He isn't condescending when he asks. It's genuine, and you stare at him for a long moment.

It's different telling someone else, someone other than Howard, or Jarvis. It makes it real. Even though literally being in 1943 didn't make it any less real. This seems almost freeing maybe?

"2018," you say quietly. There's a deep breath in, and he's on his feet. You still think the worse, despite the kindness in his eyes. You wish now more than ever, for your phone. Shoot off a text to Howard to come and save you. But there's no one here to save you, but yourself.

"Did we win?" Is all he says, "Do we - I mean -" he looks sad, looking down at his shoes.

"We do."

Bucky had waited for you after your encounter at the Stark Expo grounds. He wanted to meet up again. So you agreed for coffee the next day. And then agreed to go dancing with him and Steve a week from Friday.

**

"What do you mean, 'going out'? Out where?" Howard has his hands on his hips, brow pulled low over his eyes. He's across the room, but you can see him clear as day in the mirror of your vanity. "With who?" he takes a step forward, now crossing his arms over his chest.

"Friends," is all you give him. He scoffs.

"Since when do you make friends?" Where did -" he stops, eyes going wide, then narrowing. "Are these 'friends', boys?"

You scoff again, "they aren't boys, Howie," you fix a rogue strand of hair, rolling your eyes at him in the mirror. "They're friends of mine from -" You stop short because you've said too much now. Howard's arms drop to the side, eyes wide and pleading.

"Y/N, please tell me, it's not who I think it is…"

"it's just dancing, Howie," you turn to him. "I've been doing nothing but work to keep my mind off where I am. I'm stuck here, Howie! I can't ever go home! And I just want to live my life. I - I never got to just… be. I've been fighting for so long, and I'm tired. Howie, I'm so tired."

You look up, trying not to mess your mascara up with unshed tears. You sniffle.

"Can't ever..Y/N.." he takes a step forward, closer to you. "You didn't?"

You look down at your feet, "I went a few days ago," you say quietly. You shrug, "Just to make sure."

Howard paces in a circle, head leaning back as his hands come up to his face as he sighs heavily. The sound muffled, "You told me you changed your mind," his hands come down to rest on his neck and whirl around to face you. "You told me you wouldn't!" There's a glassy shine to his eyes, and he blinks away when you give him a look.

**

For some reason, the giant oak doors seemed ominous here, now, then they did while you lived here.

The New York Sanctum was more intimidating this time around than the first time you stood here with Stephen. You knock on the hard wooden door, the sound echoing and wood hard against your knuckles.

And wait.

The heavy door opens, you half expected Wong to answer with his usual bored attitude, but it isn't him. And you're in a time where you don't know anyone. The Ancient One probably isn't even here in New York. Not that that would ever stop her.

"May I help you, miss?" The man at the door says. He looks down his nose at you, eyes squinting and taking in your attire. As if slacks are a new invention, you roll your eyes.

"I'm here to see The Sorcerer Supreme," you muster up as much confidence as you can, lifting your chin a little higher when the man at the door scrunches his eyebrows in return.

"There is no one by that name here," his accented voice says harshly. He shifts to close the door in your face. "Now please, leave."

You stick your foot into the door before it closes, your hands glow blue for a moment, the Mystic magic forming around your wrists as you hold the door open with your palm. The man on the other side of the door stops, his eyes wide as he stares at your Magic.

You push your way in, side stepping the man and moving further into the foyer. Only a few relics are different in this time. There's no giant Hulk-sized hole in the grand staircase either.

Things are familiar, yet nothing is the same.

"You misunderstand me," you say. The man whirls around, slamming the door closed behind him, as you lean against the banister. "I wasn't asking to see her. I was telling you."

The man does his thing, arms coming around and stance wide to defend, the orange glow of his Mystic Magic spin around his palms.

"No, you misunderstand. I am the protector of this Sanctum, and you will not go further, demon!"

You scoff, "I'm not a demon, dude," rolling your shoulders as you stand," I'm from the future." Your Magic rolls down your arms in a blue glow, the Mystic symbols spinning around your wrists and fanning out to hover around your palms as you mimic his stance.

He doesn't seem to budge. Even with your admission, he goes to attack.

"That is quite enough, Roland," a soft but demanding voice says from the top of the staircase.

You really half expect to see Stephen, but the sight of the Ancient One brings a smile to your face, and tears spring up and burn the back of your eyes as you grin up at her. You turn from the man, Roland, shaking your powers from your limbs and bowing in greeting to your old master. When you stand back up, her eyebrow is raised in amusement.

"And who might you be?" She says as she descends the stairs. "You are no ordinary human if you can see past the perception filter of the Sanctum. And you are trained. Maybe not…" she hums, accessing you.

You wait as her eyes search you, looking for something off - or other - about you.

"My name is Y/N. I'm from 2018. We've met, or we will meet. In the future," you tell her. It's fast and jumbled as you try to get your words out coherently.

The Ancient One hums, arms crossing behind her as she stops in front of you. "How did you get here in 1943?"

"Madam, you can't posi -" Roland goes to interject, but the Anciet One just holds up her hand, never breaking eye contact with you.

"We - my friends and I - were fighting against a mad man," you shake your head at the memory. "He was - is - after the Infinity Stones. He already had 3." You take a deep breath. Willing yourself to continue, you haven't thought about what happened on Titan in a while. Trying not to think about the worst case scenario. Maybe Tony, Stephen, and Peter were okay as long as you didn't think about it.

"he took my friend. He has the Time Stone," At your words, the Sorcerer Supreme takes a step back, eyes widening slightly. You gulp, "my friend was going to give it to Thanos. The mad man with the stones, to-to save my life." You look down at your feet.

"Before the Stone could get to Thanos, I grabbed it, crushed it against my chest," at this you unzip your jacket, showing her the faint pulsing glow of the scar on your chest, "and then I was waking up in a hospital bed here in 1942. A year ago."

When you look back up, she's studying you again. Maybe to see if she can catch a lie, maybe. "What is it you want from me?" She asks cautiously.

"Use the Time Stone to send me back. I have to go back!" You plead. It's silent for a while. The Ancient One paces around the foyer.

She stops after what feels like an eternity, "This friend of yours, the one with the Stone. Is he the Sorcerer Supreme in your time?" Her back is facing you. She turns her head to look over her shoulder at you, and you nod.

"Sort of," you shrug. And when her eyebrow raises at your answer, you tell her. Tell her of how you met Stephen, how you both went to Kamar-Taj and your time together. She trained you to hone your powers. "I- I haven't been able to use them since coming to this time."

"You still haven't answered my question," she says softly, taking in your reaction closely this time. She nods solemnly. "Ah, I see," she holds a hand up when you go to speak, silencing anything else you have to say.

"I think I destroyed the Time Stone," you say after a while. The Ancient One led you to her study, a large room with bookshelves lining the walls. It smells familiar, old leather bound books and incense.

You sit in front of her desk without her prompting you. There's a small smirk on her face.

"So? Can you send me back?" Your leg bounces impatiently.

"I do not believe you destroyed the Stone. Though, I am surprised your - hm - Dr. Strange gave up the Time Stone to begin with," she began. She gave you another once over. "I do believe it sent you here for a reason. However, that reason may have yet to make itself known." She pauses again, eyes focusing in thought.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to try," she smirks.

You followed the Ancient One to the vault where the Eye of Agamotto is kept. The doors opened as she neared it. The Stone floats out of its cradle and hovers in front of you. It feels like an eternity as you stare at the Stone. You release a breath after it drops into your hands.

The room begins to glow green, and your powers pulse from the scar. It knocks your breath straight from your lungs. Your powers pulse again. It feels like your body has been asleep for the last few months. It's tingly, and you can finally breathe for the first time. Blood flowing to places you seem to have forgotten existed. Your powers beam to life, engulfing your hands in blue.

"Fascinating," the Ancient One mumbles, she moves around your body, accessing the dual glowing from you and the Stone.

"Now, what do I do?" You ask. The glow around the room seems to dim and brighten with each breath you take.

"Try what you did before. We may never know until you replicate it."

You nod, hands glowing a little brighter, you bring the stone to the scar on your chest. You feel a pull tug at the center of your chest, you think of Tony and Peter. Think of Stephen.

When the Stone meets your crystalline scar, there's a blinding green light and a ringing in your ears.

As the light fades, your eyes readjust to your surroundings. The Stone was no longer in y our hands. Your breath hitches at the thought of being back in your own time.

And then the light fades, and the room comes back into focus.

The Ancient One had a serious look on her face, thoughtful and determined. "I see," she says, waving her hands to show the Time Stone back in its place within the Eye.

Tears spring to your eyes, they burn as they come forth, then dribble down your face.

"I'm st-stuck here."

**

You step out of the portal in an alley, a block away from the bar Bucky had told you about. It took a lot of convincing on your part to reassure Howard you would be fine.

You fought aliens and Gods and murder bots. What could possibly go wrong on one night of dancing?

You laugh to yourself quietly as you make your way down the street. It felt really good to use your powers again. The flood gates opening and pouring out, your powers rushing forth felt like cold water on a hot summer day.

Refreshing. Revitalizing.

One day, you'll get used to people giving you odd looks. Only because of your clothing of choice this time, and not because you were an Avenger.

The bar comes into view, and there's a small pit of anxiety crawling up your sides. You inhale a deep breath to calm the sudden onslaught of nerves.

"It's just dancing," you mumble as you open the door. "It's just Steve…and," you glance around the dimly lit room. The music is moderately loud. It smells like smoke and alcohol, stale peanuts, and old beer.

You see him leaning against the bar, one elbow propped up holding a drink and his other hand in his pocket. "Bucky," you exhale.He looks young, is your first thought as you step into the bar more. He's handsome, is your second thought. Youthful and carefree, it's nice to see. It brings a smile to your face. The last memory you have of Bucky is him beaten, bloody, and broken, leaning on an equally beaten Steve as they walked away from you and Tony. Cold and heartbroken in Siberia.

You shake your head, dismissing the thoughts from your mind. Bucky's eyes scan the room, and they land on you. He straightens and smiles bright. It's lopsided and boyish.

"Hey, soldier," you greet him when you stop in front of him. Bucky ducks his head a little, not used to the title.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes roaming your figure. His eyebrows scrunch slightly.

"Charlotte, you - uh - you look ni- beautiful," you think you see a blush rise to his cheeks.

You chuckle, "thank you, James. There's one thing you need to know about me. I don't 'do' dresses," you smirk. He nods his head very fast.

In a sudden burst of confidence, Bucky leans in toward you, a hand hover over the small of your back. You have to tilt your head back to see his face.

"I mean it, you look beautiful, doll," his eyes sparkle as his boyish smrik grows. What a charmer.

"I bet you say that to all the girls, Bucky," you tease, placing a hand on his chest. You push him away slightly so you can order a drink for yourself, but Bucky steps back into your space, holding your hand to his chest.

He looks over your shoulder for a moment, then down at you as he lowers his face next to your ear.

"Maybe, but I'm here with the prettiest dame in Brooklyn tonight. And there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Oh, he's good. You bring a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh that wants to bubble out.

"Alright, soldier, buy a gal a drink first," you chuckle. It earns you a bright smile, and Bucky turns to get the bartenders attention.

As you gaze around the bar, you see a familiar head of blonde hair, then realize he's leaving. You turn to Bucky, "why is Steve leaving?" Bucky stiffens next to you. He looks at you from the corner of his eye. "James…?"

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, trying to give you his famous smile, "Don't worry about, Steve. You don't know him like I do. He'll be fine," he hands you your drink, and you glare at it.

"Bucky," he winces. He usually prefers people call him Bucky, but he's gotten used to you calling him James. He doesn't like it. He likes the way you call him James. He hates it.

You turn on your heel, letting out a frustrated sigh as you storm your way out of the bar.

"Charlotte!" You hear Bucky call out, but you ignore him, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

There's a street lamp right outside the bar, and another on the corner. That's where you see Steve. He's standing under the light, his shoulders slumped, and his hands in his pockets.

"Steve!" You call out as you speed walk toward him. He spins around, eyes frantic until they land on you.

"Charlie? What - "he looks behind you, maybe looking for Bucky, but you shake your head.

"What happened? I thought we were goin' dancing?" You give him a hopeful smile. He avoids your gaze, shuffling on his feet. "Steve?" You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it.

"I told Bucky I'd only agree to go out if you'd be there, too." Steve's head whips up to look at you, eyes wide. "So? Will you come back with me?"

Steve's eye shift between yours, "You mean it?" he asks quietly.

You giggle - down right giggle, something you never do, "Of course, I mean it, Tough Guy. You do look rather handsome, and I'd hate for all the ladies to miss it," you wink at him.

There's a blush creeping up his cheeks, and the street light makes it seem fluorescent. Steve follows you back to the bar, never once taking his hand from yours. He never really noticed until you both are back inside and standing next to Bucky again.

"Now, was that so hard?" You ask the both of them.

Steve goes to tug his hand from yours, "People are staring, Charlie," he tells you.

You snort, taking Bucky's drink from his hand and downing it in one gulp. It burns a little, but you welcome it.

"So what? Let them," you try to tug Steve to the dance floor, but he digs his heels in and pulls his hand free from yours.

"I - uh, I don't dance," he says as he sits on a stool.

"Oh."

Bucky pulls you to him with an arm wrapped around your waist, "C'mon, doll, I'll dance with ya." He grabs your hand and spins you in place and leads you out onto the dance floor.

You don't know how to dance to the upbeat jazz, but Bucky's a good leader, and you've only tripped over your feet a few times, but he doesn't seem to mind. He pulls you close a few times and dips his head down to run his nose along yours, but he always pulls back again when he swings you out for a dip or spin. It makes you laugh, your face hurting from smiling so much.

You and Bucky are out of breath when you catch up with Steve. He found a table in the corner out of the way. It's darker here, and Steve's nursing a beer as he eyes you both.

Bucky helps you sit, tucking your chair in, and he leans down between you and Steve. "I'll grab a round of drinks, be right back."

Your face still hurts from smiling so wide, and you turn to Steve, "I've never danced like that before," you say out of breath. Steve's brows furrow in question. Surely you've danced plenty, you're a sight to look at. Pretty and curvy in all the right places, lots of men would trip over themselves to get to dance with you. But he doesn't say any of that out loud.

From where you're sitting, you can see the majority of the bar, dance floor, and entrance. You can see Bucky leaning against the bar, ordering drinks, a playful smirk on his lips seems to be his default look.

"How come you came tonight if you don't dance?" You ask Steve. He fidgets in his seat. "It's OK if you don't dance, but sitting here watching people, watching Bucky dance with girls. It can't be fun."

Steve huffs and looks back towards the bar, Bucky looks over then, sending Steve a smile, then looks at you with a wink.

Before Steve could reply, the door to the bar bursts open. A frantic looking man paces around the entrance for a minute, and Steve turns to see what the commotion is.

You catch the man's eye, you jump up, chair knocking back and falling to the floor. Steve jumps and looks at you.

Howard catches your eye, you see him visibly relax, you both rush towards each other, and your hands immediately land on his face.

"Howie! What the hell?" There's a cut under his eye, and a bruise forming under the other, his lip is split, and his hair is a wild mess. There's a few faint scratches across his cheek, and oil or dirt smudges across his forehead.

His hands grip your wrists, and you notice a few of his knuckles are split. "Lab accident," he shakes it off. Code for something else. There's no lab at the house. Listen, honey. I uh -" he looks around the bar, noticing a few people staring and muttering. "I need your help, please?"

Your shoulders slump, "but," you look back to your table, Steve and Bucky have concerned looks on their faces. Howard squeezes your wrists, his eyes pleading.

"OK, Howie," you sigh, "I'll come with you."

"That's my girl," he smiles brightly, all previous signs of anxiety vanishing in the blink of an eye. Howard pulls you along, out of the noisy bar and across the street to his car. Fancy and flashy for this side of town.

Before you could reach for the handle, a call of your assumed name comes from the sidewalk across the street. You turn your gaze back to Bucky, and Steve, looking hopeful you'll change your mind and come back.

"Hold on, Howie," you tell him as you make your way back across the street. "I'm sorry, I- um, wouldn't leave if he didn't ask." Your eyes bounce from Bucky to Steve.

"Coulda told us you had a boyfriend, dollie," Bucky all but bites out. He doesn't meet your eye, glaring across the street at Howard, who was leaning against the hood of his car with his arms crossed. "Got yourself a rich fella, yeah?"

You snort, failing to hold in your laughter, "Oh, James, Howard isn't my boyfriend. He's my brother," you laugh again when he and Steve snap their heads to you. You cup one side of each of their faces, placing a quick kiss on their cheeks. In turn, they flush, cheeks turning hot as you retract your hands.

"Stark!" Howard calls from across the street. You can tell he was getting restless. You give Steve and Bucky a wink before you turn and jog over to Howard, "Yeah, yeah, Stark, hold your damn horses."

Bucky and Steve share an equally shocked expression, "Stark?!" they gape after you as Howard starts the car and drives off down the dark street at a very questionable speed.

**

Next>>

[detta-pica]

“You need to do your oldschool detective schtick,” Satoru says, still rubbing his leg. Suguru wants to do it for him. As much as they touch, reaching out to each other constantly, he always wants his hands on Satoru’s skin. Suguru doesn’t think he’s ever felt so covetous of anything else. And Satoru knows. He must know. There’s no way Suguru has managed to hide this when his aura floods with adoration at the most innocuous of prompts. Defeated, he picks a spot he can’t see--under the bed they’re resting on--and pulls at the hidden stores of magic that make up a part of his soul. Dragon jumps up onto the mattress moments later and immediately settles against Satoru’s side, purring with the subtlety of a lawnmower. Satoru laughs, sinks his fingers into the cat’s white, fluffy fur. The touch ripples across the very core of Suguru’s being, unfairly soothing for how many boundaries it crosses. “You’re helping,” Suguru says, as sternly as he can while a piece of his soul preens under Satoru’s attention. He grabs the thick file folders from the desk, full of information about the case, and begins spreading them over the empty bed. “Use your big brain for once.” “Well shit. With that kind of encouragement, I’d better.” Perhaps sensing Suguru’s momentary weakness, Satoru summons his own familiar, a slick black cat with purple eyes. Six takes a moment to brush up against Suguru’s shins, then retreats to one of the pillows. It’s funny that the cats not only look like their human counterparts, but also behave similarly. Dragon, clingy and obnoxious, sticks close to Satoru’s side, big blue eyes unblinking. Probably it says something about Suguru, since it’s his familiar. And Six’s behaviour should be a reflection on Satoru. Suguru has his theories about why the cats act the way they act. He’d rather die than speak them out loud.

Another witch AU snippet for WIP Wednesday. It's from a pre-time skip story that I've been sitting on for months now, but can't post.

I've realised that part 8 is going to be a lot longer and more complex than I thought, and I absolutely need to have it fully drafted before I publish any further stories in the series, in case I need to sneak in foreshadowing or adjust some things. So it might take me a little while.

In the meantime, I'm planning a little something for the 7th of December and Christmas Eve.

[storiesofsvu]

The Nanny w Benefits Ch 2

Rita Calhoun x Rafael Barba warnings: language, mentions of alcohol, sass and bantering.

Rita perused through the halls of the D. A’s office with ease, an extra coffee and bag of take out in her free hand as she nodded to Carmen before knocking on Rafael’s office door. She knew he wasn’t occupied, not bothering to wait before pushing it open, though she kept quiet while he wrapped up his phone call.

“Two coffees? What, you hungover?” He teased with a grin, that she scowled at.

“Fuck off. You weren’t the one Donnelly was practically feeding shots to all night.”

“Hey, that’s what you get for inviting her to your birthday.” He laughed in reply, pausing to thank her for the coffee, “I’m surprised you’re even in today.”'

“I had a motions hearing.” She let out a soft sigh, dropping into a chair across from his desk, “figured I may as well indulge in some msg riddled Chinese and drop this off.” 

Along with a couple of containers from the bag, she pulled out a folder, dropping it to Rafael’s desk. He opted for the food first, ripping apart the chopsticks and digging into the low mein before flipping the folder open.

“Are you hitting me with a pre-nup already?” This time Rita really did roll her eyes, half hating herself for even leaving her bed this morning. She easily could have sent in a junior partner to handle the hearing; it would have at least saved her the pounding headache.

“It’s our disclosure paperwork. All things considered we can’t just spring it on a judge that we’re married if we’re in the midst of a case opposing each other. It’ll look like we were irresponsible and didn’t disclose the relationship in a timely manner. The first draft of the pre-nup’s in my bag.” She muttered, tugging a container of orange chicken towards her.

“You seriously have it drafted?” He asked, a brow raising from the disclosure paperwork as he read through it, initialling the required pages.

“I’ve been re-drafting it every couple of years, depending on whom I was seeing, if I thought it might actually go somewhere, and depending on how my finances were looking.” She shrugged, mumbling over a bite of chicken, “and I’m not doing it to be pretentious. You just always had a stick up your ass whenever I tried to foot the bill back in college, I figured you would prefer to be an equal partner rather than my sugar baby.” Rafael snorted, rolling his eyes as he signed the last page, sliding them back over to Rita, “though I do know you have a soft spot for pricey suits.”

“I’ll take those as my anniversary presents then.” He teased back with a grin, diving back into lunch, “you do know that we don’t have to do this. Even if we did sign some drunken, void agreement back in law school.”

“I don’t feel pressured into it at all.” Rita replied, “honestly over the last couple of months I’ll admit I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She laughed, “c’mon Raf, you already know that I love you, even if it didn’t really work out in all the other departments, I still enjoy your company over everyone else’s.”

“Despite how much of a pain in my ass you are some days, I truly do feel the same the same.”

“And I believe your mother will be ecstatic.” She smirked and he huffed a laugh out.

“She most certainly will. She’ll be thrilled to know the two of you will be able to gang up on me at every holiday possible from now on.”

“It’ll be nice to come home to a friendly face for once, my apartment’s always so fucking empty and cold a lot of days I stay too late at the office to simply not feel lonely.” She admitted, digging into her lunch deeper.

“Maybe you shouldn’t live in a fucking penthouse then.” Rafael retorted and she shot him a glare.

“Please. As if you work late in this room because you like the smell of the carpet cleaner so much.”

“Coming home to a dark apartment has gotten rather depressing.” He sighed, “I suppose real estate is something we’ll be figuring out? Or do you have that in the pre-nup already?”

“It’s up for debate.” Rita replied, “I know we talked about kids recently, and all things considered, I wouldn’t say my place is suited for them, and we’d need space for them to have their own rooms instead my home office and yoga room. Plus, I’d like to make sure we’re in a good school district that’s still close enough to work for both of us.”

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to send them to private school?” Rafael asked with a raised brow and Rita chuckled.

“I don’t want to argue over pointless things like that. I figure give them an experience in both and let them choose by the time they get to high school. Gives them a little bit more freedom. And believe me, private school is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Why do I feel like this is too easy?” He asked, his head tilting as he looked across the desk at Rita and she let out a small laugh, chewing back a bite of food before she answered.

“Because we’ve been friends for decades, and we’ve constantly been involved in each other’s lives. Sure, our relationship failed when we were in our twenties and focussing far more energy on passing the bar, but we both understood that. Now? We’re successful, we’ve reached a high point career wise, we’ve stuck with each other, and we share a lot of opinions when it comes to family life.”

“As much as we disagree about work, we agree about everything else.” He smiled softly, then extended his hand over the desk, “why don’t you let me go over that pre-nup, and you can get home to a quiet dark penthouse to nurse the rest of your hangover.”

“God, I thought you’d never ask.” She laughed lightly, pulling a couple of other folders from her bag, “there’s a few real estate options in there I’ve had my eye on, let me know what you think, then we can talk about how the financials of that would work and maybe go check out a few places.”

“Sounds good.” He accepted the files, adding them to the pile on his desk, “now get out of here before your grumpiness settles in and you hate everyone.” He teased. Rita scoffed, gathering her things as she stood from the desk.

“Thank you. And call me if you have any questions or concerns.”

“I will.” Rafael smiled warmly as she moved through the office, though he called out right before her hand hit the door, “and Rita?”

“Yes?” She sighed softly as she turned back to him.

“I love you too.” He shot her a grin, “after everything, you’re still the one I’d like to put up with for the rest of my life.”

“How charming.” She replied dryly with a laugh on her cheeks before pulling open his office door.

**

You weren’t surprised when the address Rita texted you was one in Tribeca, or one of the fancier apartment buildings on the block. When you pulled the door open you saw her in the lobby, perched against the back of one of the couches, her attention on her phone. She was dressed more casually than at the interview, a more comfortable pair of leggings, and a looser beige blouse, her hair pulled back in a French braid. You weren’t sure how she looked so put together with two kids under three, but some women just managed to make it work. At the gust of air the lobby door let in when you entered, she glanced up, a soft smile breaking on her cheeks as she pushed off the couch.

“She’s perfectly punctual too, that’s what we like to see.” She greeted, pulling a laugh from you.

“I find that’s usually one of the most important parts.” You replied with a smile, and she gently nodded towards the elevator, guiding you up to their apartment. 

There was the usual small chit chat on the way, she asked how the rest of your week went, little life updates kind of thing. You were glad that conversation flowed easily with her, and that she seemed genuinely concerned about the care she was leaving her kids with. Not all parents, especially ones in Manhattan, were like that, you’d done your fair share of sitting or nannying for ones that only saw the kids once a week and didn’t seem to really give a shit. You weren’t sure what was worse, those, or the helicopter parents who didn’t even need a nanny, as they were constantly there. The ones who had a very specific menu of things that the kids could eat, and God forbid you ever fed them McDonalds.

It didn’t surprise you when she let you into the apartment that it was as lavish as one would be able to with young kids. A small entry way where you slipped out of your shoes, leaving your coat and bag hanging on the wall, there was a set of winding stairs off to the right, and down the hall opened up into the open kitchen and living room. Floor to ceiling windows lead out onto a mini terrace, a hall to your left lead down to what you assumed was a home office, and potentially a bedroom, another set of stairs at the end of it, you were sure the main bedrooms were all upstairs. 

“It’s gorgeous.” You commented and Rita hummed.

“My realtor has great taste.”

“Momma?!” A small voice called out and a tiny human popped up from over the back of the couch, medium brown hair and vivid green eyes just like his father. His head tilted at the sight of you with Rita, a little confused expression on his adorable face. “Thought you bring treat?” He pouted and Rita laughed.

“You can have a treat after dinner, how about that?”

“Dino nuggies?!” His eyes lit up and you chuckled.

“It is Saturday, isn’t it?” Rafael smiled, standing from the couch as he scooped the boy up. He too, was casual today, in dark jeans and a very cozy looking blue sweater, a little bit of scruff on his cheeks built up from the week. “You find the place okay?” He asked, his attention on you.

“Oh yeah.” You assured, “straight up off the subway from my place.” Suddenly coming to the realization, you jumped in to correct yourself, “not that you have to worry about me with the kids on the subway. I do drive, I just prefer not to in the city, parking’s usually outrageous and I hadn’t checked the situation around here beforehand.”

“Ai, it is perfectly fine to take these kiddos on the subway, how else will they get cultured to the city?” An older woman cut in dryly, emerging from around the bend in the kitchen, spatula in her hand, “you must be y/n, call me Lucia.” She smiled warmly, “can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“Mami…” Rafael sighed, “you don’t even live here.”

“At least I know how to be a proper host!” She shot back with a half grin, half glare “coffee?”

“Sure.” You accepted with a laugh, “just cream please.” You jumped slightly at Rita’s hand gently placed on your shoulder, pulling you back into the conversation.

“You don’t have to worry about using your car. Neither of us drive in this hell city, I’ve got a car service, they’ve got one set up with the kid’s seats whenever you need to go further than you’d like on the subway.”

“Are you new friend?” The boy suddenly cut in, a sparkle in his eye and you laughed.

“I suppose I am, as long as your mom and dad think it’s okay.”

“I doubt we’ll be having any issues against it.” Rita nearly smirked at you, then turned back to Rafael, “is Isabella up yet?”

“Haven’t checked, but she should be, otherwise she won’t go down tonight.”

Rita grimaced, pecking him on the cheek before disappearing up the stairs. 

“What’s your name?” The boy asked from Raf’s arms and you turned to him.

“I’m y/n.” You smiled, “and you are?”

“Damian!” He smiled brightly back, letting out a little giggle, “and I’m this many.” He held up two little fingers and stuck his thumb out.

“The thumb means half.” Rafael explained.

“Did you wanna see my toys!?” Damian excitedly scrambled in his dad’s arms, trying to get free.

“Uh…of course!”

Upstairs, Rita found little Isabella asleep, but she knew Rafael was right, as much as waking her up might make a fussy one and a half year old, it would be better than not getting her down later on. She gently picked her up, pressing little kisses to her hair as she did her best to smooth the bed head out. Isabella started to wake up, sleep lines pressed into her face, a ‘where the heck am I? I slept so good’ look of confusion on her face that Rita laughed at. She swiftly changed her and moved back downstairs to find you on the floor of the living room, Raf watching from the couch while Damian pulled every single toy of his out of the baskets to show you, explaining in great detail about who each of them were, in the most his little vocabulary could. She smiled at the sight, chuckling lightly at just how much of his father Damian had, the way he was practically pacing as he explained everything was very much Rafael in court, she also greatly appreciated the fact that you seemed to be fitting in very well right off the bat. She made a mental note to thank Olivia for the recommendation the next time she saw her.

“Think you really found a winner.” Lucia grinned as she handed Rita a sippy cup of milk for her daughter. 

“We certainly did luck out.” She mused, half holding the cup for Isabella as her teeny hands tried their best to get the drink into her mouth. “Didn’t even have to put an ad out, which was honestly what I was worried about.”

“You said she’s got teaching experience, right?”

“Yeah, eight years of it at P.S 258. I wasn’t worried, but I called them and everyone had glowing recommendations, said she was exceptionally well with younger kids, and that they all miss her like crazy. She’s been working with kids for over twenty years already, babysitting, coaching gymnastics, teaching dance, did a couple of summers at overnight camps, she’s done it all.”

“It shows.” Lucia grinned, “the question remains…can she cook? Or am I now meal prepping for one extra mouth each week?”

“Oh, I am not that bad.” She retorted and the older woman gaped, rolling her eyes.

“You lit the Dino nuggies on fire last week. Literal flames, Chica, you can’t be trusted.” She swatted at her arm and Rita rolled her eyes before moving into the living room to introduce you to Isabella.

It didn’t take long before the small girl had teetered over to you, plopping down into your lap as she sucked at her drink. By the end of the afternoon, you’d played with nearly all of the toys (and encouraged Damian to clean them up before he dragged you upstairs to show you his room and those toys), played a couple games of pretend, and watched a few episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Rita gave you a more in-depth tour of the apartment, making sure you’d know where most everything you would need was, as you talked through some of the details of the contract. She made sure to show you the guest room that would be your quarters, on the lower floor and slightly separated from the main area of the house for extra privacy. You’d have your own bathroom and mini kitchenette/living room combo, and she assured you that you could move whatever furniture in you wanted, and they had no problem throwing things in storage to help make you feel more at home.

There were multiple pleads for you to stay for dinner, and you assured Damian that as much as you loved Dino nuggets, you did unfortunately have your own places to be that evening, but that you would be back very soon. While the kids were distracted with the Abuelita you went over a few last minute things and rearranged some details in the contract before signing everything away. Rita and Rafael assured you that you could start moving things in whenever you wanted, to text them or Lucia to make sure the kids would be out and not a distraction while you did so, and you agreed on an official starting date. After one last bear hug with Damian, you bid them goodnight, and made your way from the apartment as they let out a collected sigh of relief that finding a good nanny was nowhere near as complicated as they thought it would be. Rita raised a brow as Raf turned back to her, a smirk on his face, 

“So clearly you think she’s cute.” He teased, prodding at her ribs and she scoffed, Lucia cutting in before she could defend herself.

“Yeah, you really don’t hold back, do you? At least get the work out of the way first.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She retorted, swiftly picking up the plates of nuggets for the kids before making her way to the table.

[intothedraft]

Around sixteen years ago, my sister and I discovered Limewire and downloadable custom content for The Sims 2 and we managed to brick the family computer, losing everything I’d ever written.

(Take this as a reminder to back up your shit.)

At the time I wasn’t too concerned. Sure it was a bit sad, but I hadn’t written a new draft of what was then called Dying Screams in around a year. No big loss. I’d have abandoned it eventually anyway.

But unlike the screams, this story wouldn’t die, and I rewrote it in 2011 with an updated plot because what I could remember of the old one was that it was childish.

We’ll get to that later. Skipping ahead to 2019, I was clearing out a desk in my parents’ house when I found a relic from another time:

The thing had been in a drawer for years and was scratched as hell, but somehow still worked. It wasn't everything. The timestamps show that I probably backed up my files to this disc around 2005.

(Again, BACK UP YOUR SHIT. MORE OFTEN THAN ONCE EVERY FEW YEARS.)

What it did contain is two drafts of the "novel" I wrote when I was 8-10 years old, as well as half-written sequels, blurbs for the books, quizzes about the characters, and empty folders I made very optimistically to fill with files related to the movie adaptation I was apparently going to make.

It also contained a book cover.

Since finding the files, I've skimmed through but haven't properly read them. Now I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that a query for another novel I've written, completely unrelated to this one, is sitting in the inboxes of literary agents, it's finally time to return to them.

I hope you enjoy this self-indulgent nonsense.

(Also, back up your current writing project. Right now, while you're thinking about it.)

[sergiosimptellitto]

Palinoia

Chapter 5: Hygge

hygge noun [ U ]uk  /ˈhʊɡ.ə/ us  /ˈhʊɡ.ə/ a Danish word for a quality of cosiness (= feeling warm, comfortable, and safe) that comes from doing simple things such as lighting candles, baking, or spending time at home with your family:

Záfiro knocked on Arturo’s office door, clutching a folder tight to her chest.

“Come in,” he said, not looking up. When he did, he softened. “Piccola. You look like you’re about to ask me for a kidney.”

She stepped in, hesitant. “Not quite. I was wondering if I could leave twenty minutes early today. Professor Fernando said he’d be in his office around five to receive my draft.”

Arturo nodded easily, scribbling something in his notes. “Of course. As long as you don’t faint on your way from hunger. Have you eaten?”

“I had coffee.”

“Not a food group.” He smiled wryly but waved her off. “Go. And if he gives you trouble, send him my way.”

The hallway outside Professor Fernando’s door was cold — poorly lit, half-deserted. She sat on the bench with her folder perched on her lap, legs crossed, watching the clock tick past the appointed time.

Five o’clock.

Five-fifteen.

Five-thirty.

At five-forty-seven, the hallway lights flickered.

At five-fifty-three, he arrived.

No hello. No apology. Just a dragging gait, a scratched briefcase, and a perpetual frown like he had bitten into something sour in 1982 and never recovered.

Záfiro stood quickly, nearly dropping her folder.

“Professor, I brought my draft—”

He blinked at her. “For what?”

“The theoretical framework for the urban displacement paper. You said to bring it by before tomorrow.”

He held out his hand.

She handed him the folder.

He opened it, flipped past the cover page, skimmed the first few lines. A grunt. Then a shrug.

“Okay. Let’s see how it unfolds tomorrow.”

And he walked away.

Just like that.

No notes. No comment. No even a proper look. Fifty-three minutes late — and she’d waited.

Later that night, in Marceline’s apartment, she let herself collapse onto the floor next to the bed, folder now empty beside her.

Marceline was brushing her hair out in front of the mirror. “He did that again?”

Záfiro just exhaled sharply. “He didn’t even read it. Just said ‘let’s see tomorrow.’ After I waited for an hour.”

From the kitchen, Marceline’s boyfriend Oliver called out, “Fernando?”

Záfiro nodded.

Oliver walked in, a beer in hand. “Yeah. He’s always been like that. My second year, he tore my homework in half. Just looked at it, said ‘too long’ and ripped it. In front of me.”

“What did you do?” Záfiro asked, stunned.

Oliver shrugged. “Nothing to do. It’s not personal. He’s just like that.”

Záfiro sat back against the edge of the bed. Not personal.

Why did that make it feel worse?

Záfiro could taste the bitterness. Not on her tongue, exactly, but behind her teeth, like a memory of something burned.

The feedback hadn’t even been bad. Ninety-five out of one hundred. Professor Fernando didn’t smile, but he didn’t scoff either. He scribbled a few notes in the margins, scratched his nose, handed it back without a word. She accepted the paper and nodded.

It was good. Objectively.

Still, she walked away feeling like she’d swallowed glass.

No makeup today. No curls. Her dress was one of her plainer ones — long-sleeved, a little wrinkled. She hadn’t even worn heels.

Not that it should matter.

But the next morning, something strange happened.

She had taken time that day. Winged liner, a new blouse, soft perfume. Not for anyone. Just... because she missed herself.

She was walking past the faculty wing when Fernando passed her in the hall. He stopped, nodded. “Good work, yesterday.”

Then: “I look forward to seeing the revision.”

Polite. Crisp. Nearly kind.

Her steps slowed.

A moment of confusion. Had she misjudged him? Had she been too sensitive?

And then the realization trickled in, slow as a migraine.

Oh.

Her jaw clenched softly.

That. I look good.

It wasn’t new. She had just — somehow — let herself forget.

Her mind rolled back like a rug being yanked up from the floor. Sixteen. First year in Mexico City.

Michoacán was far behind her — avocados, damp nights, clumsy uniforms. She was still figuring out the metro map.

Still getting used to the static on her tongue whenever she opened her mouth and people realized: not from here, not from anywhere they respected.

Her first panic attack hit her in a pharmacy aisle. Just sudden. Sharp. The colors too loud, the people too near. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t remember if she’d eaten. Her palms shook like she was starving.

And then, one day, she put on eyeliner.

Foundation, concealer. A velvet dress she found at a secondhand store. She used her mom’s lipstick — dried and cracked, but still a deep blood red. She didn’t feel like a person, exactly.

She felt like a vision. Someone else.

And suddenly, the panic attacks became mysterious.

People tilted their heads. Asked if she was okay. Called her “intense.” Called her “haunting.” “Tortured.” “The most fascinating girl in the room.”

Nothing had changed, except the shape of her lips and the curve of her lashes.

It was then she learned: beauty didn’t fix her. It just rewrote the story.

From “annoying” to “enchanting.”

From “unstable” to “tragic.”

From “lost” to “complex.”

Záfiro blinked, standing alone in the corridor now.

Fernando had turned the corner. He would never say it. Would probably deny it even to himself. But the shift in tone was obvious. Like he was finally speaking to someone worthy of effort.

She stared down at her shoes.

How much easier the world becomes when I am pleasing to look at.

Not easier, exactly.

But... less cruel.

And the worst part? She knew how to play the game.

Even now, she didn’t blame herself for it.

She just resented that she had to.

The eyeliner started to itch.

By the time she reached the third page of citations, Záfiro’s mascara felt heavy, cloying, like glue on her lashes. She blinked, pressed her fingers to her cheekbones, and stood up abruptly from the library table.

It wasn’t anything dramatic — just too much. Too much color, too much polish. Her makeup had always been armor, but right now it felt more like a mask she couldn’t breathe through.

So she went home. Washed it all off.

She kept things simple: a soft updo with a clip, just chapstick. A pair of fitted dress pants and a cardigan with a clean line. No embellishment, no perfume. She still looked like herself. But the self she brought into Arturo’s office that day wasn’t manicured into existence — it was the version of her that breathed easier.

He looked up from his desk, startled for half a second before smiling.

“Buongiorno, ragazza,” he said softly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She sat down without answering, setting her notebook on the table between them, like always. Only when he tilted his head at her expectantly did she speak.

“Is that man still teaching?” Arturo raised an eyebrow.

“Professor Fernando.”

His mouth flattened.

“Ah. Unfortunately, yes.” she exhaled through her nose. “He’s... like that with everyone, isn’t he?”

Arturo gave a wry laugh. “He tore my project in half once. First year of my doctorate.”

Her eyes flicked to his. “Really?”

“Mm.” He leaned back, arms crossed, tone light but with a trace of something bitter. “Said it was ‘ambitious without the spine to support it.’”

She snorted. “That sounds right.”

“You’re not the first he’s belittled. You won’t be the last.” He leaned forward again, hands folded. “But you — you are a brilliant, beautiful thing, piccola. Don’t let him get under your skin. You’re mine, you hear me?”

Záfiro’s breath hitched.

It was the way he said it — not possessive, not even flirtatious. Just… warm. Protective. Like he was reminding her of something sacred.

Still, something in her needed to ask.

“And what if I wasn’t beautiful?” she said, voice low.

His gaze didn’t flinch.

“Then you’d still be brilliant.”

She hesitated. “And if I weren’t that either?”

Arturo reached across the table, brushing a curl from her forehead before pressing a kiss — featherlight, reverent — to the bridge of her nose.

“Then you’d still be mine.”

There was nothing romantic in the moment. Nothing that crossed a line.

And yet, everything inside her softened.

He helped her with the rest of her homework like always, talking her through a tangled footnote, scribbling a diagram of structural argumentation in the margins of her page. His voice steady. His shoulder brushing hers when he reached to grab a book from the shelf.

The butterflies didn’t leave her stomach — she wasn’t sure they ever would. He still made her feel like a match had been struck inside her ribcage, flickering every time he said her name in that velvet, half-mocking way.

But today, the feeling was different.

Not fire.

Warmth.

She realized it slowly — in the way his fingers adjusted the stack of her papers without comment, the way he knew exactly when she needed a moment to think, the way his presence made the entire world feel... manageable.

She’d always craved love like a wildfire. Something bright and dramatic, loud enough to drown out her insecurities.

But this — this was like a blanket. Heavy. Soft. The kind you burrow under when the world is too much.

And Záfiro had always loved warm, fuzzy blankets. Especially the heavier ones — the ones that made her feel held, even when no one was holding her, the ones that for some reason dissipated her fears and made the troubles go away.

She glanced at Arturo again, now flipping through a thick volume beside her.

Yes. That’s what he had become to her.

Not a savior. Not a fantasy.

Just a weight she could lean against. A constant.

Someone who saw her at her barest and still said: you are mine.

Not because she was exceptional.

But because she was enough.

His.

Záfiro giggled — not in the coy, theatrical way that made heads turn in the hallway, but the unguarded kind. A real sound. The kind that slipped out when her chest wasn’t clenched and her guard wasn’t up.

“Yours?” she teased, tilting her head, eyes bright with a challenge she already wanted to lose.

Arturo laughed softly in return — the kind of laugh that didn’t need volume to feel full. “Sí, mia—”

He stopped.

They both did.

The word hung between them like a shared heartbeat. Mía. Mia. Spanish or Italian — it didn’t matter.

It meant the same thing. And for once, it didn’t mean possession.

He seemed to understand her pause, the way her brow lifted just slightly. So he spoke, quiet and steady:

“Not because I get to own you,” he said, “but because I get a part of you no one else has. Because I get to share moments with you that other people wouldn’t understand. That’s what makes you mine... and no one else’s.”

She stared at him — not the kind of stare you give a lover, but the kind you give a home you didn’t know you were walking toward.

“Can I give you a kiss?” she asked.

His nod wasn’t really a nod — more of a stillness, a gentle widening of the eyes, a flicker of something that made room for her.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek — nothing more than a smooch, soft and brief. But when she lingered, so did he.

And then he kissed her, just once, on the lips.

It wasn’t about heat. It wasn’t about surrender.

It was a seal.

No breathless urgency. No swelling soundtrack. Just the quiet sound of paper shifting on the desk and two people allowing tenderness into a space they had both armored for too long.

After that, they didn’t speak about it.

She kept scribbling, and he moved — quietly, gently — to sit behind her on the couch, one arm draped around her waist, the other resting lightly on the table beside her notes. His body was warm. Present. Unmoving. Holding her without confining her.

She leaned back just a little.

This was not lust. Not infatuation.

This was the opposite of all the flames that had burned her before.

This was warmth.

This was safety.

This was the quiet miracle of being touched not because she was beautiful or brilliant, but simply because she was her — in cardigan and chapstick, eyes a little tired, soul stretched thin but still glowing.

And in that moment, she didn’t need to be dazzling.

She didn’t need to impress anyone.

Not even him.

Neither realised who was the first one to fall asleep

But whe Záfiro was not conscious anymore, Arturo spread his legs and placed her between them, he made her lean to use his chest as a pillow.

This felt so beautifully domestic, so natural, so calm.

Even when she started drooling onto his gray cardigan, he smiled.

His.

He wondered what she dreamt about.

Not knowing it was actually a nightmare tonight

Strings swell in the background. Candlelight bounces off marble floors. The room smells like citrus, wine, and stress.

Záfiro is standing by a tall table, half-holding a flute of prosecco she hasn’t touched. Her mouth is dry. Her shoes pinch. Her coat is folded over her arm like an afterthought. She keeps nodding at conversations, responding with “of course” and “how interesting” while her mind does the math: how many professors are here, who’s talking to whom, and whether she should make a move.

Somewhere across the room, Arturo is laughing. Openly. Leaning back slightly, drink in hand. He has no tie on. Of course he doesn’t.

Her heart does that annoying thing again — the small, proud leap, as if it’s still impressed by him.

She looks away.

And that’s when she hears it.

“Gifted children rarely become gifted adults.”

The words drop like coins on tile.

She turns her head — subtly, carefully — toward the voice.

Professor Lucia Marchetti.

Black silk dress. Unsmiling. Too elegant to be accused of vanity. She speaks with the slow, surgical clarity of someone who doesn’t waste breath.

“They peak too early,” Marchetti continues, voice even. “They’re praised for thinking fast, not for thinking well. It’s why they crumble when met with real complexity.”

The small circle around her laughs — politely, nervously.

Záfiro can’t breathe.

“I’ve had many,” Marchetti adds. “Bright young things. Burnt out by their second thesis. Some of them get... romanticized, even pitied. I don’t have time for that.”

She sips her wine.

Then, without warning, she looks directly at Záfiro.

There’s no malice. Not even smugness.

Just a single, professional smile.

Thin. Polite. Empty.

Záfiro’s spine straightens on reflex. Her shoulders stiffen like ironed linen.

She forces a smile back. The kind she used to give to women at church who insulted her mother’s skin with compliments.

Her stomach knots.

She does not remember walking out of the room.

But she finds herself in the hallway, coat on. No one follows. The party continues behind velvet doors like a muffled opera.

She doesn’t cry.

She just starts walking home.

She’s highlighting everything in sight. Pink. Yellow. Blue.

“I’m not a burnt match,” she whispers to no one.

“I’m not a disappointment.”

The room is quiet, save for the scratching of her pen and the occasional, shallow breath.

Her coffee’s gone cold.

She hasn’t eaten.

Her notes are beautiful. Meticulous. Unreadable, almost, for how dense and over-annotated they are.

She’s copying whole paragraphs by hand.

It’s 2:17 a.m.

Then she wakes up.

The morning light didn’t spill — it crept, filtered through gauzy curtains and softened by the warmth of lived-in air. A kettle hissed faintly from the kitchen.

A clock ticked somewhere out of sight. The desk overflowed with papers, notes, a half-finished espresso. But for now, none of it mattered.

Záfiro was curled on the couch, her legs tucked under her, a knit throw around her shoulders. She looked impossibly soft — still in yesterday’s clothes, a little smudged around the eyes, but resting.

Arturo sat behind her, knees bracketing her frame, one arm lazily around her middle.

He was humming something low under his breath, half a lullaby, half a habit.

She was tracing something on his forearm with her fingertip. It wasn’t a word — just movement. Presence.

Then, quietly:

“Arturo?”

“Mm?” he muttered still half asleep, yet fully adoring.

She didn’t lift her head. “What’s Professor Marchetti like?”

The hum stopped.

Arturo breathed in, then out, through his nose. “Sharp. Demanding. Cold as marble and just as old-school.”

Záfiro didn’t flinch — but her spine straightened a little.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“You’ll have to defend your thesis in front of her,” he added, steady and plain.

Silence.

“But that’s not today. Or tomorrow. And when the time comes, you’ll be ready.”

“I just…” She shifted a little. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Piccola,” he said — softly, like the first sip of something warm.

She didn’t respond.

So he wrapped both arms around her now, pulled her gently into him. Let her lean her weight against his chest. She felt so light, he thought, and yet so heavy with all the things she carried.

“Listen to me.” His voice was quiet, low, but firm in a way that made her settle.

“You are not here to perform. You’re here to grow. And yes, Marchetti is formidable. But so are you.”

Záfiro shook her head lightly, barely a movement.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then to her temple. Then just rested his lips near her ear.

“You are brilliant,” he whispered. “Not because you overwork yourself, not because you panic into excellence. But because even at your most tired, your mind is alive. You see things others miss. You ask the right questions.”

“You don’t know that,” she murmured, eyes wet but calm.

“I do.” He gently rocked her now, just a little. “I’ve watched you build entire theories with coffee-stained fingers and two hours of sleep. I’ve seen how hard you love your work, even when it doesn't love you back. That’s rare, ragazza. That’s beautiful.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m trying,” she said, barely audible.

“I know,” he replied, firmer now. “But I want you to try differently. Try like you’re safe. Try like someone who has nothing to prove, only things to create.”

She exhaled. Let herself melt, just a bit more.

“And slow down,” he added, lips against her hairline now. “You don’t need to run. I’m here. You’re doing enough.”

She didn’t respond with words — just curled her fingers tighter into the fabric of his sleeve.

“I’ll help you prepare for Marchetti,” he whispered. “But you won’t do it out of fear. You’ll do it out of pride. Out of joy.”

“…you think I can do that?”

“I know you can.” He pulled back just enough to tilt her chin up. “And if you forget it again, I’ll remind you. Over and over, until it sinks into that stubborn skull of yours.”

That made her laugh — just a little. It sounded real.

He grinned.

“You are so good,” he whispered, thumb brushing under her cheek. “So, so good for me.”

That made her blush. Not shy — just warm. A flush that settled in her chest like peace.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“…I’m good,” she whispered.

He nodded, leaning in.

“And brilliant.”

She smiled.

“And beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the grin.

“I am,” she said.

“Yes, you are,” he whispered. “And you’re mine.”

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the quiet.

No fire.

Just warmth.

No war.

Just refuge.

“Calm down,” Arturo murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“¿¡Por qué eres tan estúpida!? ¿Qué hice para merecer una hija como tú?” mom said

“Do not overthink it” he added, his thumb grazing the side of her jaw.

She barely heard him.

“Well darlin’ aren’t you articulated for a Mexican girl? I approved of your project, enjoy Italy, you can meet a handsome rich boy in there, is not that what you go to college for?” said the man from the admission’s exam at the states.

“Go slower, bellissima,” he coaxed, his tone all velvet and weight, like he thought saying it softly enough would lull her out of whatever storm she was building inside.

But it was too late.

She couldn’t stop. Not now.

Her skin was warm under his touch, her breath came fast in her chest — not from desire, not even from panic. From resolve.

Even as he held her, even as he rocked her gently like something precious, her fingers twitched toward the pile of notes. Her mind was still listing tasks, rerunning failure scenarios. She was calculating the number of hours left in the night.

Arturo pressed a kiss to her temple.

She closed her eyes… but only for a second.

Then something inside her hardened.

She wouldn’t stop.

Not now.

Not even for him.

Especially not for him.

Not when there was still so much to prove.

Not when being still felt like surrender.

She curled closer, let him believe she was winding down. But inside, her thoughts were loud. Loud and bright and electric.

She made herself a silent promise:

She wouldn’t listen.

Not to his voice.

Not to his mercy.

Not to his love.

She would not slow down.

She would not step back.

She would do what needed to be done.

His kindness, no matter how sweet, would not derail her discipline. Not this time.

Let him call her stubborn. Let him sigh.

She’d rather be consumed by effort than comforted by softness.

Because she knew — in the marrow of her bones — that the moment she stopped pushing was the moment they would all stop looking.

And she needed to be seen.

Brilliant. Bright. Burning.

First it was her mother

Then all of the other children with her same condition that looked up to her, because she showed them that it was, in fact, possible.

Now this adoring man that circled her with his arms, pulling her close to a warm and soft embrace was looking in her direction.

And she would not disappoint him.

Even if it killed her.