#Campaign for Life Gala

[timmydraker]

Tim who is scarily good at the Hitman games.

Everyone is good with it mostly, excluding Cass who won’t play it, with everyone having completed the first few missions at least during a training exercise made by Jason who was hiding an injury and came up with the idea on the spot.

This is how they find out that not only does Tim already have all the games, he’s finished them all, got all the achievements and has over 2,000+ hours.

Turns out it’s what he plays when he feels his mind is running too rampant and needs reigning in. He knows all the secrets and has a spreadsheet made up of all the ways you can complete a mission per chapter. He has a strategy for each type of assassination from getting someone else to do it, killing everyone, making it look like an accident, ect. He’s even managed to kill every soldier in some chapters without getting caught and somehow managed to save Diana from being shot by 47?

It’s kind of scary watching him seamlessly navigate around any new map that comes out and complete all missions under a self imposed time limit.

(His record is 1 minute and 27 seconds)

Bruce is naturally worried and it isn’t helped when the response to these concerns is, “would you rather I do it in real life?”

Tim can do it in real life, came closest with Captain Boomerang, and he has at least thirty ideas of how to kill everyone in his life subconsciously. He doesn’t want to, nor will he ever act on it, but it’s sort of… fun.

It’s like puzzle solving but with higher stakes and Hitman is a good way to test his theories without actually killing anyone.

If playing Hitman made him test how sneakily he could drug people by putting sugar in peoples drinks at Galas when he was nine, that’s just childish curiosity. Plus, it made him put out a campaign when he was older to prevent drugging because he himself knows how easy it is, so win win.

At least he didn’t shave his head like he thought about, though that was only because a certain acrobat did it and made Tim realise how unstylish it was if it wasn’t natural.

At the end of the day playing Hitman made him a better Robin and helped him sneak around the League of Assassin’s base that was filled with people even 47 would struggle against.

And he won the training exercise.

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Neglected!Meta!Reader x Yandere!Batfam ☁️ Part Five

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One ☁️ Part Two ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Six ☁️ Part Seven ☁️ Part Eight

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Starting to realize I need to slow down, things are really getting complicated and I want everything to be included. Including proper warnings and important plot details and to really keep things more polished.

A/N: Also, going through the doubts on my writing, but we is gonna persevere, y’all. I’m going to take some time to focus on Obsessions.

Warning(s): Yandere themes, Obsessive behavior, Kidnapping, Vomiting, Slight Stalking

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

After running Date’s life, Tim starts to investigate Reader full throttle. Before it was just something he did to relax between cases when he couldn’t shut off his brain. Now, he didn’t want to miss anything. Not a single detail. He’d also been having trouble digging up an information on reader’s small town.

Apparently, they weren’t up to date on their technology. Can’t hack computers for information if the computers don’t exist. Still, it was nice to find out about Reader’s childhood. (Making notes for Bruce to add certain flora and fauna to the Manor’s garden and looking up any restaurants in Gotham that he could possibly take Reader too. You know, as friends.) But, Tim was nothing if not stubborn.

Reader, having a bit of whiplash from Dick’s comforting and sudden departure starts trying to fill their time by hanging out with Cassandra, Duke, and/or Stephanie.

They also call back home informing Nana about the Date incident. Surprisingly enough, Nana was sympathetic. (Though Reader couldn’t help thinking she was using that condescending small town sarcasm. Maybe they’d just been in Gotham for too long?) Regardless, Nana lends a comforting ear and even talks about BFF and their older brother, Childhood Crush, to Reader in an attempt to distract them. Telling them what the two have been up to. (How much they miss you. They can’t wait for you to come home visit.)

Reader, however, is a tad more concerned with Younger Brother. Making sure to ask how he is fairing and if he could come visit them in Gotham for a bit. Just to give Nana and Grand Daddy a much needed break since their age is catching up with them. (Aren’t you so sweet? Caring so much for your real family.)

But, Nana brushes reader off. No need, he’s been hanging out with Childhood Crush and BFF. They’ve really taken him under their wing. (They’d make great a great partners. Don’t you think, dear?) It does arouse Reader’s suspicions, but when they call their Younger Brother, he sounds… fine… Said he was having more fun with BFF than Childhood Crush, but that’s a given. (BFF knows Reader best, and won’t let anything happen to him or Reader.) They’re probably overthinking things about things back home. (That pang of homesickness just doesn’t seem to go away.)

At school, however, things were changing.

Damian wasn’t lying to himself about scaring off Reader’s friends. A few started to avoid Reader suddenly. But, a few, mostly the wealthier ones, stayed close. Not at all bothered by Damian’s sudden campaign. Some even introducing Reader to their closer circles.

Reader’s happy to have more friends, but the loss of Date and Reader’s more down to earth friends weighed on them. Reader’s new group felt like an isolated bubble cage that encloses tightly around them (and wouldn’t let them go.)

Bruce has been pretty strict about who Reader spends time with since the gala. But, Reader, going stir crazy when Cass, Steph, and Duke, respectively, are to busy (have patrol and missions), decides to ask Barbara if they can hang out with her. (A stranger is better than nothing.)

Tim’s seems to be too busy with whatever he’s doing. (He’s technically spending time on Reader, rather than with Reader.) Reader loves Alfred, but they’re always helping him cook. Dick’s gone off on some errand in Buldhaven or Gotham (Reader can’t remember, they’re a bit annoyed by how finicky he can be with giving Reader attention.). Jason might actually choke reader if they suggest hanging out. And, Reader is still pissed at Damian for being a rude little shit (Plus, they suspect he has something to do with their friends leaving them. They just can’t prove it.)

Barbara agrees to bring Reader to work with her at the Gotham City Library. Fully expecting Reader to mostly stay to themselves or possibly sneak off. (As members of the family are prone to do.) She is pleasantly surprised that Reader actually tends to stay by her side. Of course, Reader goes and gets a few books to curl up with. But, they quietly chat with Barbara, occasionally assisting with task, and mostly just enjoy silent companionship.

Reader doesn’t expect Barbara to entertain them, they can entertain themselves. They just don’t want to be alone at the moment. (Reader hates being alone when they’re sad. Hate. Hate. Hates it.) Barbara finds the silent and soft companionship to be a balm for the soul, so to speak. There’s no pressure. No duty. Just companionship. (It’s eases her mind how Reader is willing to stay safe. They’re not being dramatic or doing something foolish. I can get used to this.)

After the day is over, Barbara reports how Reader behaved back to Bruce. (Didn’t wander, stayed close by, wasn’t rude or sarcastic. That Gala had to have been a fluke. It has to be those horrible friends of Reader’s corrupting them.) If anything, it builds a level of trust with Bruce that Reader can be cautious and they won’t have to worry about them leaving. (Running away. Ha!)

Bruce decides Reader deserves a little more trust. (He wants to spoil his child.) Giving them more leeway to spend time in Gotham. But, only with members of the family. Which would be fine, if they were available. There’s, unfortunately, been an Arkham Breakout.

The entire family is on high alert for the next few days, especially since Joker escaped this time. (Hell, no. The family isn’t risking it. They won’t allow it. If Joker does something to Reader he’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Batman won’t stop anyone for killing him this time if he dares.) The family prioritize his capture, even recruiting the Gotham Sirens and the Superfamily to get the job done. It’s probably the fastest Joker’s ever been caught. (Joker is definitely pissed over the matter. And, will be making it everyone’s problem next time he gets out. What are you protecting Batsy? What are you trying to hide from me? Are we not friends?

Reader gets a brief introduction to Clark Kent during this ordeal. Before, Reader had only seen Conner and Jon around the manor hanging out with Damian and Tim respectively. (Conner would always try to flirt, which annoyed Reader. And, Jon was avoid on principle of being near Damian. Though, Reader was nice if they caught him alone in the manor. Which was growing more frequent recently.)

Clark is charmed, surprised by the Reader having grown up in a Smalltown. For Reader, it’s nice to meet someone who understands the longing for simplicity. Though Clark personally felt like he had something bigger to achieve outside of his town. Still they appreciate each other’s mindset. (Clark also wouldn’t mind inviting Reader out to the Kent farm. It would be fun to annoy Bruce. Plus, Reader is clearly struggling in Gotham. He’s not wrong.)

With Joker locked up, the family relaxes… Somewhat. They still have the rest of the rouge gallery to catch and have to work overtime to do it. Hardly any of them are seen outside the Batcave, which Reader is eighty-four percent certain is in the library.

Reader spends a lot of time pacing the halls. Looking at the paintings and furniture. It’s lonely. It’s like living in a house that’s haunted by ghost you’re supposed to know, but don’t. (If I have to live in a house haunted by ghost, I’d rather be haunted by the ones that loved me. I wanna go home. I want Momma and Daddy. I hate being alone. I hate it here.)

Stephanie, however, having made plans with Reader, finally gets a chance to take them out into Gotham. It takes a nearly a week, but they do manage to get out into the city together. Stephanie showing Reader all her favorite sights, pointing out landmarks and fun things. It’s possibly the funnest day Reader’s had since coming to Gotham. Arcades, Ice Skating, food trucks, street performers, it’s all new and exciting.

Nothing good last in Reader’s life it seems.

In broad daylight, Reader is forcefully grabbed and thrown into the back of a truck.

There’s a massive down side to being Bruce Wayne’s child. You easily get taken hostage and held for ransom.

Stephanie is helpless. She can only watch it happen too far away to make it to Reader in time. The horror and fear on Reader’s face made her stomach turn violently.

She immediately called Barbara to start tracking the vehicle and the thugs, sending an alert out to the entire family.

Once done she couldn’t stop herself from letting the disgust and shame bubble from her gut out on to the pavement. Just the thought of Reader being hurt making her physically ill. (Give them back. How dare they take what’s mine? It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left them alone. They’re helpless without me.)

[idunnodudeijustwokeup]

I only want the fab 5 (+ Kori later on) when they are absolutely insane about each other. The most ride and die you will ever find.

They will never hesitate to square up again anyone who says anything bad about their team mates (and best friends (and lovers)), consistently checking in with each other even (and especially) when they are not meant/ supposed to.

I want them so fucking codependent but also completely unaware bc what do you mean you don’t constantly update your friend group everytime anything happens. What do you mean you don’t just break into your best friends house and sleep in their bed with them when you feel sad. What do you mean you keep secrets from your friends. What do you mean you don’t join your friends when they shower so you can continue your conversation. What do you mean you don’t know where every single scare on your best friend comes from. What do you mean you don’t call their dad a stupid motherfucker to his face. What do you mean you don’t know everything about your best friends.

I want them to have so many inside jokes that they are basically speaking a different language. I want them to share clothes and makeup and accessories to the point where nobody really remembers who owned what first. ( I want everyone to wear the other people’s merch always)

I want them to speak about their siblings like they are shared between the five of them. I want Tim to ask Donna a question when he is too embarrassed to ask Dick, and Cassie to ask Dick when she doesn’t want Donna to know, etc.

I want the mentors to be the other people’s aunt and uncles. ( I want the mentors and adults in their life to have a group chat where they try and help each other keep track of what their kids are doing bc gods know they won’t just tell them, so whenever they have a sleepover or a mission in one persons city, they let’s the rest of the mentors know. I also want the mentors to constantly send ‘baby’ photos and videos of their ‘kids’ in the group chat)

I want the dating history within the group to be so fucking confusing that you need a collage level lecture to understand it from the outside.

I want all of them to be married to other titans, but nobody really remembers who is married to who, especially since most of them are married to multiple people. ( a mix of Vegas weddings, undercover missions that took a turn, space rituals and traditions they got court up in, bets that were won and lost, and very intense dnd campaigns)

I want their private group chat to have more encryptions and protections than pentagon and the batcomputer put together. I want the GC to be filled with Drunken voice notes, homemade memes, pictures that should never see the light of day, secrets and jokes that would get them into soooo much trouble.

I want them to bring one or two titans along to family and work events. I want people to bet on which of the friends will go with Roy vs who will go as Dicks date to the fancy Galas, bc you can bet your ass they will be there as arm candy on their arms. (Having your friends at the Gala is the only thing that makes going to these Galas bearable). I want them to sneak out every time and go to a random fast food restaurant.

I want their fighting styles to be so engrained in each other that it is impossible to figure out who thought who what, and which of them was the first person to introduce this move into the equation.

I want outsiders to look at them and be confused if one of the OG titans are standing alone without one of the other titans. Do you see the vision?

[woodland-gremlin]

Meeting the Kids

Today was the day that Dick’s boyfriend, Danny, would be introducing him to his three kids. He has heard so much about the gremlin trio that he could recite how Danny adopted them and what they are like forwards and backwards in his sleep at this point. And as he fidgeted outside of his boyfriend’s apartment in Fawcett that was exactly what he did.

Ellie is Danny’s biological daughter that was officially put under his guardianship when he was emancipated at 17, but unofficially he has been watching over her for much longer. She is the oldest of the three, being 11. Exploring and causing untold amounts of chaos, usually with her two younger brothers, is her bread and butter in life. Will not hesitate to turn that controlled chaos onto you if you hurt her family, if the stories of what she does to her sperm donor is an indication. Tales of all the places he has traveled when he was in the circus and stress he has caused Bruce at galas are his best bet to not getting pelted with glitter the moment he walks in the door.

Billy is the most recent addition to the family after living on the streets for the last few years. He is the middle child at 10 years old. Being forced into foster care, which is a death sentence according to Jason, and living on the streets, which is apparently better than foster care (again according to Jason), has made him vary of adults. The only reason he trusted Danny enough to be adopted, was through a long campaign of food, a safe place to sleep that he could leave at any time, the other kids, and a few private emotional moments. From the stories he is a sweet kid whose swearing could make a sailor blush. He brought some of Alfred’s homemade food and stories of Jason for him.

Damian was taken in 6 years ago when Danny was 19. His birth family was in a cult, raising him as its heir before trying to sacrifice him to some higher being, when Danny found him. Even with the ruff start he is very in touch with his home country’s culture, Danny even getting in touch with people from his culture to teach the whole family so they can better understand and respect it. He is the youngest of the trio at 9 and loves animals. He has also seemingly inherited Danny’s adoption tendencies when it comes to said animals. He is also the most likely to challenge him to a duel for Danny’s honor, he does it to every potential partner of Danny's, much less one actually dating him. Mentions of Batcow while accepting said duel should help Damian at least tolerate him.

All three of them are the stars of Danny’s life. Dick has heard all about the bullshit Danny gets for being a father of three, two which are in the double digits, at 25 and how protective the Nightingale family is of each other. And that isn’t even counting his older sister, who he has met over the phone, and all the others claimed extended family. How often Danny has broken up with his partners over the kids or said kids driving out those partners if they didn’t think that they were good enough for their dad. So, no Jason, he wasn’t being paranoid, considering that they ran the last one out in tears, covered in neon, biodegradable glitter and paint, he was being practical!

What Dick did not know was that as he was panicking and making plans the gremlin trio was making their own plans. Plans of his demise.

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (56/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: True friends help you pack - and help you when you're spiraling.

Warnings: a bit angsty (because girlie is scared because of the gala), but Lando to the rescue!!!

Word Count: 2.7k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: three chapters to go! feedback is appreciated!

You’re not sure what hell looks like, but you’re pretty confident it involves a half-zipped suitcase, a missing camera lens, and a red dress that still has the tag on it. 

The room is a disaster. Not just messy, but cataclysmic. Clothes spill from every corner like they’ve been ejected from a cannon. Shoes are scattered in a chaotic constellation across the floor – heels without partners, sneakers tangled in scarves. Your makeup bag has given up on containment, its contents strewn across the floor and your bed like war casualties. Your phone charger is tangled with your hairbrush in a twisted knot of frustration. You‘re one more wrinkle away from abandoning the entire trip and sending Charles a „sorry, I’m staying in bed forever“ text. 

And the dress – the red dress – hangs limply from the back of a chair, as if mocking you with its still-attached price tag and the elegance it demands that you’re pretty sure you don’t possess tonight.

He’s already in Maranello, of course. Two days ahead for media stuff, tux fittings, and some vague „Ferrari family obligations“ you didn’t ask too many questions about. You’d received a voice message from him earlier, soft and sleepy, his accent curling around the words like ribbon:

Miss you already. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Bring the red dress. I love you. 

You want to bring the red dress. Really. But the thought of stepping into that gala, of being on the arm of someone like Charles – with all eyes watching, all cameras poised – makes your stomach twist into itself.

You’re halfway through trying to decide wether a second pair of heels is overkill or just responsible planning when the front door opens. You don’t look up from the mess you made, simply because you texted him half an hour ago to be a good friend and come help you. 

„Packing of having a crisis?“, Lando asks, stepping over a pile of shirts. 

You just lift a hand and gesture vaguely at the battlefield you’ve created.

He steps carefully over a cascade of blouses and sidesteps a rogue mascara tube with practiced ease, holding a suspiciously bright smoothie in one hand and a calm expression in the other. He surveys the room like a pit lane strategist staring at a car wreck and sighs. „Okay. You’re not allowed to touch anything else.“

Lando puts his drink down and kneels beside the suitcase, already unfolding and refolding like it’s a pit stop challenge. You just sit there and watch him work, marveling – not for the first time – at how he can turn your absolute chaos of life into something resembling order. 

„You found my missing camera lens?“, you ask, blinking in disbelief as he holds it up. 

„It was in one of the side pockets of the camera bag.“ He looks at you. „Honestly, are you okay?“

“No,” you say plainly. “And I still have no clue what jewelry to bring that won’t clash with that dress.” You point to the red fabric draped over the chair like it’s cursed. “And Charles will look like he walked out of a Dior campaign, and I’ll be the awkward plus-one-slash-klutz, praying not to trip on a carpet and end up in Vogue for all the wrong reasons.”

„You’ll look incredible“, Lando says, casually but with more weight than the words probably deserve. „trust me. All you have to do is show up. The dress is just backup.“

You smile in spite of yourself. He always knows what to say, somehow threading the line between sarcasm and sincerity with Olympic-level grace, like he has a map of your panic and knows exactly where to land.

You lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes, echaling through your nose. You don’t want to cry, but you can feel the tension pooling in your chest, just beneath the surface. The kind that’s not really about heels and jewelry or which clutch makes the red dress. It’s about, well, everything else - the attention, the expectations, the invisible weight of standing beside someone like Charles.

„I hate how insecure this makes me“, you murmur. „I hate that I feel small around all of this. And I’m scared that I’ll feel the same way around him, even though he’s never done anything to make me feel that way.”

Lando’s still by the suitcase, rolling your necklace into a pouch like it’s made of glass. He doesn’t speak for a second, and when he finally does, his voice is soft. No jokes this time. 

„You’re not small“, he says. „You’re just going to stand in a very bright light from now on. That’s all. It makes everyone feel exposed.“

You open your eyes and turn to look at him. He’s put the necklace away and leans forward, elbows on his knees, gazing at the floor like he’s trying to find the right words underneath your clothes. „I’ve seen the spotlight mess with people“, he continues. „Even ones who seem like they were born for it. Charles … he carries it well. But that doesn’t mean that it’s easy for him either.“

You furrow your brow.“ „He never talks about how hard it can be.“ That’s not true. You remember how he told you how lonely he sometimes gets when the two of you were at his favorite spot in Monaco. But you obviously don’t tell Lando that. 

„That’s because he’s trying to protect you from it. Trust me, I know what that looks like.“

Your heart clenches a little at that, because you’ve seen – and felt – it, too. The way Charles keeps certain thoughts behind the softest smile. The way he protected you up until now, so you don’t receive the negative comments that will inevitably come when the public finds out you’re his girlfriend, no matter how kind you actually are. 

„I just – I don’t want to disappoint him“, you admit quietly. „Not tonight.“

Lando shifts closer and bumps your shoulder with his. „You couldn’t if you tried.“

You glance sideways at him. „You sure?“

„I’d bet my McLaren on it“, he smiles. 

You raise an eyebrow. „Your actual car or your team loyalty?“

Your friend smirks. „Okay, fine, a Mclaren. Maybe a Hot Wheels one. Let’s not get crazy.“

You laugh despite yourself, and something inside you unknots a little. The weight of everything doesn’t vanish, but it feels lighter with him here. Like if you fall apart, there’ll be someone to help you put the pieces back together – maybe even fold them neatly into your suitcase. 

„You always do that“, you say, still smiling as you lean shift and lean back on your hands, gazing up at the ceiling like maybe it has all the answers needed. 

„Do what?“, he asks, reigning innocence as he returns to tucking your skincare into a zip pouch. 

„Turn a full-blown meltdown into something that feels … survivable.“

He shrugs one shoulders, not looking at you. „It’s a gift. Like folding fitted sheets or making you eat when you forget to.“

You toss a crumbled sweater at him, but he catches it effortlessly, grinning. Then the grin fades just slightly as he glances over at you. 

„Seriously though“, he says, voice quieter now. „I know this world can feel like it’s built for someone else. Like you’re crashing the party, pretending you belong.“

Your stomach twists. „Exactly.“

„But you do“, he continues. „Not because of how you look or what you wear, but because of who you are when all that gets stripped away. That’s what Charles sees. That’s what I see.“

You blink, caught off-guard by how much that hits you in the chest. 

For a second, you don’t speak. The room feels still – quiet, but full of something real. You’re suddenly aware of how close Lando is, how much space he always seems to give you while somehow making sure you’re never actually alone. 

„I don’t say it enough“, you finally say, „but I’m really glad we met at the supermarket and became friends.“

He shrugs again, trying to play it cool, but you see the faintest smile tug at the corner of his mouth. „You say it enough. In your own weird way. Usually when I rescue you from fashion-related disasters or emotionally charged spirals involving the idea to leave Monaco and move to Australia.“

You smile softly and shake your head, then tilt it toward him. „You really think I’ll be okay tonight?“

Lando doesn’t hesitate, I know you will. You’ll walk in, wearing that red dress, and Charles is going to look at you like no one else in that room even exists.“

You bite your lip, nervous and hopeful all at once. 

„And if you do trip, with or withough camera in hand“, he adds. „Just make it look intentional. Vogue girls do it all the time.“

You look down, picking imaginary dust off your leggings. „You think Vogue girls fall?“

„Oh yeah, constantly“, he says with absolute fake authority. „They just call it ‚off-beat elegance‘.“

You roll your eyes, reaching for your suitcase. „Off-beat elegance“, you repeat, trying not to smile. „I swear you make this stuff up as you go.“

He grins. „It’s a skill. Very underappreciated.“

You’re brushing your fingers through your hair, trying to make sense oft he growing chaos on your bed and inside your head, when Lando suddenly says, casually but pointedly, „You ever think about it?“

You glance over at him. „Think about what?“

He tosses a pair of heels into the suitcase with a soft thud and looks at you, eyes just a little more serious than his tone. „That job I offered you. The McLaren one.“

You blink surprised. „Now? You’re bringing that up now?“

„You’re spiraling“, he says, unapologetic. „About the gala, about being the ‚awkward plus-one‘, about Charles looking like a Dior model. So yeah. Now.“

You sink back beside him, crossing your arms over your knees. „I’m not –"

He lifts an eyebrow. 

You sigh. „Okay, maybe a little.“

He leans back on his hands. „I meant it, you know. About the job. It wasn’t just some throwaway offer.“

You look at him wary. „I thought it was. You were joking like, „someone who takes photos like they’re straight out of a dream“.“

„Yeah, that was the line“, he admits with a small smile. „But only because if I was too serious, you’d shut it down.“

You stare at the floor, chewing on your bottom lip. „I didn’t shut it down“, you say quietly, eye fixed on the tangle of charger cords and socks by your feet. „Charles did.“

Lando shrugs, not in a dismissive way, just easy. „Yeah. I figured he might.“

You frown. „You’re not – offended?“

„Nah“, he says, leaning back on his hands again. „I knew it was bad timing. I mean, middle of a three-way phone call on New Years Day? And Pierre told me that the two of you finally found each other? Not exactly a contract negotiation vibe.“

You huff a laugh. „You did pitch it when we just got into our apartment.“

He smirks, then shakes his head slightly. „Whatever. But I was serious, you know. I wasn’t just throwing it out there because I thought it would be fun to work with you.“

You raise an eyebrow.

„Okay“, he amends. „Also that. But mostly because I think it’d be sick to have you come shoot for us at Woking. Headquarters are changing a lot. New tech, new faces, more storytelling. Zak wanted someone who actually knows how to make things look – real. Like they breathe.“

You stare at him, surprised by how genuine that all sounds. Lando isn’t joking now – not in that half-sarcastic, half-serious way he usually does when he’s talking about important things. He’s just – being honest. 

„Woking, huh?“, you say, letting the word settle. It feels unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. 

„Yeah“, he says, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his hoodie. „We’ve been doing this big internal shift – kind of trying to reset how we tell our story. Less glossy, more grounded. Real people, real work. Honestly, it made me think of you immediately.“

You smile, a little caught off guard. „I thought you only saw my stuff when Charles and Kika posted it.“

He gives you a look. „Come on. Sure, I’ve seen your stuff on their Instagram, but I trust you.“

You sigh, curling your legs up beneath you. „So what exactly would I be doing? Not that I’m considering it.“

He smiles. „You’ll work in Woking, like I said. Come to HQ, hang out, shoot whatever catches your eye – engine builds, sim sessions, Oscar being weird in the cafeteria. Whatever you think will give a good insight on how the team at HQ is like. Anything to make the team seem a little more approachable.“

You raise your brows. „Thats – actually really cool.“

„It is“, he agrees. „And look – I know your thing with Charles is like carved in stone or whatever, and I’m sure that Charles and you will work great together. I’m just – trying to look out for you.“ He purses his lips. „Giving you something that’s just yours.“

You nod slowly, feeling something shift in your chest. It’s not pressure. It’s a possibility. 

Then, like always with Lando, the moment softens, before it can grow heavier. He leans back again with a huff, stretching his legs out across the floor. „Alright“, he says. „Emotional vulnerability quota reached. Back to chaos.“

You laugh under your breath, grateful for the shift. The air feels easier now, like something’s opened and aired out between you. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling absently. You sit cross-legged beside him, folding one of your jackets into a neater square just to keep your hands busy. 

„Oh“, he says suddenly, holding the phone closer to his face. „Guess who’s in Italy.“

You glance over at the screen. „Who?“

„Elena“, he says, thumb hovering over her story. „Didn’t she say she was staying in London this weekend?“

You shrug. „I haven’t talked to her since we went to the club“, you reply, scooting closer. He taps through her stories, and sure enough – there she is, framed against golden Tuscan hills, wine glass in hand, grinning into the sun. 

He taps through a few more of Elena’s stories – sweeping vineyards, a blurry photo of a cheese board, close-up of an Espresso – and then hands you the phone like it’s evidence. 

You squint at the screen, then smile. „I should text her“, you say suddenly, already reaching for your phone. 

Lando raises his eyebrow. „Yeah?“

„Yeah. Charles is still in Maranello tomorrow and once the gala’s over I could use a day off from it. Something that feels like real life.“ You glance down at your phone as you start typing. „Just lunch. Something easy.“

You: hey, just saw your stories – Italy looks like a dream. wanna do dinner tomorrow night if you’re free? I’ll be in Italy as well x

You hit send and set the phone down, feeling something settle in your chest – not obligation, not pressure, just something small and grounding. Like reconnecting with someone who has nothing to do with Formula One. 

Lando watches you, smiling faintly. „That’s good. You need that stuff. Normal things.“ He purses his lips. „So, I helped you pack, so I deserve something. A thank-you coffee? A snack? A parade?“

You laugh. „You want a parade?“

He shrugs „A tiny one. Like – a snack parade.“

You throw a sock at him, and he catches it with mock offence. „I take it back. No parade for you.“

Your friend grins, and you both dissolve into laughter, the kind that lingers in the air like sunlight through an open window. 

The gala still looms ahead. The dress, the cameras, the careful choreography of taking Charles‘ pictures and being seen. But for now, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor with Lando, laughing like you’ve known him forever – it all feels manageable. 

And maybe, more than that. It even feels a little bit like everything will turn out the way it should be. 

[mmochammoss]

Without You

Shouto Todoroki wasn’t used to missing people. Not really.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, he cared deeply, sometimes too deeply, it was just that he wasn’t used to being allowed to care. He had gone so much of his life being calm, quiet and aloof, he would have never imagined he could have become the person he is now. The person you turned him into.

From the moment Shouto first heard you speak he found you absolutely alluring. You had this energy around you, it was magnetizing. He found himself always wanting to be near you. And when he couldn’t be you were always on the front of his mind. You wanted to be a hero just like him, so you both pushed each other towards that shared dream. But you also pushed him in other ways. You pushed him to speak his mind and find his own voice. You pushed him to socialize and learn to collaborate better with others. And more than anything you pushed him to find what he really wanted out of life and make it his. But all he had ever wanted was you.

That only made the hurt that much worse when you left.

You weren’t supposed to leave forever. Not that you had. But the few weeks you’d promised turned into a few months. And those few months turned into longer stretches of time, until Shoto couldn’t quite remember the last time you’d curled up next to him or kissed him goodnight or heard you whisper I love you against his skin. And it was killing him. It shouldn’t have been. But it was.

Because you hadn’t officially been together.

Not really.

But everyone around you knew better.

From the moment you graduated U.A., you were practically inseparable. Shoto, the stoic rising star. You, the radiant powerhouse everyone adored. You complimented each other perfectly. Fire and drive, warmth and steadiness. After missions, you’d collapse in each other’s arms without hesitation. After interviews, you’d grab each other’s hands beneath the table. You spent nights in his bed and let him nap on your chest. You kissed when you said goodbye, when you said good morning, when you said nothing at all. And you told each other how much the other meant to you. How much you loved them, as often as you could.

You were everything to him.

And then you left.

America needed heroes, and you were just the kind of hero they wanted. Brave, dazzling, charming, confident. You told him it would just be a few short weeks. That it was a temporary assignment. That it was only until your agency opened a branch in New York. That you’d be back soon.

But soon never came.

You stayed. He stayed behind. And the world kept spinning.

Now, months later, you were still overseas, flourishing on the front page of every American newspaper, headlining every hero broadcast with a smile that reached millions.

Shoto watched every broadcast.

He watched all your interviews, every mission highlight reel, every commercial campaign. He knew the sound of your voice through a screen almost better than he remembered it in person. He listened to your laugh in reruns. He pressed his fingers to photos of you on his phone and whispered things you wouldn’t hear.

He never told you how bad it got.

Not when he tossed and turned in bed, looking for your warmth. Not when he caught himself whispering to your contact photo before falling asleep. Not even when the press asked about you and he had to answer with a carefully trained smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He thought he could endure it. You were chasing your dream, after all. He’d never stand in the way of that.

But the ache was constant.

So when his agency forwarded him an invitation to the international hero summit being held in New York, he RSVP’d within minutes. It would only be a short trip. Fly in Friday morning, attend the event Friday night, and fly out Saturday evening. But he didn’t care.

He didn’t even ask if you’d be there.

He just knew he had to see you.

The Hero Summit Gala was, to no one’s surprise, an opulent affair. Photographers swarmed the crimson carpets outside the glittering Manhattan venue, hounding Japan’s elite as they entered in a flurry of tailored suits and custom-designed herowear. Todoroki hadn’t cared much for the spectacle.

Until he caught sight of you.

You were standing beneath one of the grand chandeliers inside the marble foyer, radiant in a deep navy gown that hugged your figure like it had been stitched with his fantasies in mind. Your hair was swept to one side, exposing your neck and collarbone, adorned only by a silver chain he recognized as the one he’d given you last year for your birthday.

You looked like a dream. One that had never stopped haunting him.

“Shouto,” you gasped, spotting him as he approached.

He couldn’t stop the soft smile that pulled at his lips. You launched yourself into his arms and he caught you without hesitation, inhaling the scent of your perfume, his hands gripping your waist like it was the first real breath he’d taken in months.

“God, I missed you,” you murmured against his neck.

He squeezed you tighter. “You have no idea.”

From that moment on, you were inseparable.

The two of you gave interviews side by side, posed for red carpet photos like a real power couple, and clinked champagne glasses at your table during the ceremony. You’d leaned into him when presenters made jokes, resting your hand casually on his thigh. He’d trailed his fingers down your back under the guise of reaching for drinks. Every little touch felt experimental yet so natural. Like relearning how to walk on your own.

When you dragged him to the afterparty, something he would’ve avoided under normal circumstances, he followed without question.

The club was a mess of pulsing lights and low bass, filled with pros from around the world letting loose after a weekend of panel talks and policy debates. You were in your element, laughing with friends and colleagues, sipping something sweet from a frosted glass. Shouto didn’t even try to socialize. He just kept you in his line of sight, leaning against the bar and letting himself watch.

He’d almost forgotten what you looked like when you laughed like this. Open. Radiant. And so unbelievably beautiful.

You found him eventually, tugging him by the wrist toward a quieter corner of the venue. “C’mon, Shou. You can’t just stand around and look pretty all night.”

He followed. Of course he did.

You ended up tucked into a velvet-lined booth together, your legs pressed against his, your hand curling lightly around his bicep. The alcohol warmed your skin. The music vibrated in your chest. And when you turned to him, pupils blown wide and smile so fond it made his stomach twist, he couldn’t do anything but kiss you.

He gently cupped your cheek and pressed his lips softly to yours. You immediately kissed back, firmer and fiercer. Shouto chalked it up to the alcohol but God, he could have taken you right there. You pressed a manicured hand to his chest, slowly breaking the kiss and looked up at him. Adoration written all over your features.

“I really missed you,” you said again, and this time it sounded different. Closer. Heavier.

He reached up, brushing your hair out of your face, knuckles grazing your cheek. “Me too.”

There was a moment. The kind that swelled and held its breath between heartbeats.

But then your phone buzzed.

You checked it, groaned softly. “Shit. My agency’s got me on call for a morning patrol debrief. I’ve gotta head out.”

He tried not to look too disappointed as he grabbed your hand, guiding you to your feet and out of the booth. “I’ll walk you out.”

You gave him that look again. The one that made him feel like the center of your universe. You both left through the back exit, slipping into the quiet of the city.

In the cool air, you stood in front of him, phone and keys in hand, face backlit by the yellow glow of the streetlights.

“I had fun,” you said.

“So did I.”

You leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep embrace. He buried his face into your neck breathing a bit of your perfume in again, savoring your scent. As you pulled away your lips gently brushed. Not by accident. Not really. It was like you both couldn’t help it. You kissed him again, this time soft and slow. Like each kiss was an attempt to make up for lost time. He kissed you back like it was already too late.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, he stared at you with something fragile in his expression.

“I should go,” you whispered. “Call me when you land, okay? Love you.”

He nodded as he whispered a quiet ‘love you, too’, but he didn’t let go of you just yet. He pressed one more kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple, and then, when your breath caught, he pressed a third and last kiss to your lips. Just once. Just because he had to.

And then in an instant, he was alone again.

You left him there, hard and lovesick on the curb, watching your taxi disappear into traffic.

He went back to his hotel room in a daze.

The room felt colder than when he left it.

Shouto stood at the door for a moment, staring blankly at the still, dim space. The silence pressed in around him. No laughter. No perfume. No warmth. Just the hum of the AC and the distant noise of New York traffic.

He set his suit jacket on the edge of the bed and sat down slowly beside it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His hands twitched slightly where they hung between his legs.

He could still feel you on him.

The imprint of your lips lingered on his cheek. Your perfume clung to the collar of his shirt. And the ghost of your touch rippled on his skin, in his chest, his thigh, and especially his lips.

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

He’d told himself that coming to New York would help. That one night together, one morning, would be enough to hold him over until your return. He’d tried to pretend that just seeing you again would soothe the ache in his chest. That it would make the distance feel more manageable.

But it hadn’t.

If anything, it only made things worse.

Because now, he remembered what it felt like to hold you close to him. To see the curl of your lashes against your cheek in the light of the night. To hear you giggle into his neck as you tugged him closer. To share little things like drinks and secrets and glances that said everything without a single word.

And he didn’t want to forget again.

Not when every second spent apart had been agony.

He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaling a shaky breath.

His phone buzzed beside him on the bed.

[You]: have a safe flight, shou. i’m really, really glad i got to see you again. I love you my shouto❤️.

He stared at the screen, throat tight.

‘My Shouto’.

His fingers hovered over the keypad before he slowly brought the phone to his ear and hit call.

You picked up on the second ring.

“Hi lovey,” you answered, a little breathless, like maybe you’d been waiting for his call too.

His voice cracked the moment he spoke. “I miss you.”

The line went quiet for half a second.

Then you said, “I miss you, too Shou.”

His head dropped into his hand, eyes clenched shut. “I’m sorry. I know you have to work, I know you’re doing incredible things out here and you love it. But this… this is killing me.”

Your voice was soft. “Shouto…”

“I’m trying to be supportive. I am,” he said, voice breaking more with every word. “But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t hurt. I’m not okay. I miss you every goddamn day. I miss sleeping next to you. I miss hearing your voice in person. I miss waking up and knowing I can find you in the same room.”

You didn’t say anything for a while. But he heard your breath catch, like maybe you were crying.

He swallowed hard. “I know it wasn’t about me but still…it kills me to know I wasn’t enough to make you want to stay. But I want to be enough for you to come back.”

You inhaled like you were about to say something, but went quiet again. The line hummed as both of you sat in silence letting his heavy words hang in the space between you both.

You sniffled a bit on your side of the line. “We should both get some sleep. You have your flight and I’ve gotta be up pretty early…” He pinched the bridge of his nose as you spoke. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t take this.

“Alright,” he responded quietly. “I’ll talk to you later. I love you.” He didn’t even wait for you to say it back before he hung up.

He stood.

He couldn’t do this over the phone.

He pocketed the device, and walked out the door with one thing on his mind: you.

You weren’t expecting the knock.

You’d just started washing your face, still in your nightshirt, hair tied back, trying to steady your breathing from the phone call he’d just ended. You had barely wiped the tears from your cheeks when the knock echoed through your apartment again, firmer this time. More urgent.

You froze.

And then you knew.

You padded to the door, fingers curling around the knob as your heart pounded against your ribs.

You opened it.

And there he was.

Shouto. Still in his dress shirt and slacks, no jacket, tie askew, hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold or the effort or maybe just the fire burning in his chest. And his eyes…

God.

You’d never seen him look at you like that before.

“Shou—”

He didn’t let you finish.

His mouth was on yours in an instant, stealing the breath straight from your lungs. He backed you into the apartment with desperate, uneven steps, kicking the door closed behind him without ever breaking the kiss. His hands cupped your jaw, your waist, your back, like he couldn’t figure out where to touch first because he needed to touch all of you at once.

You whimpered against his lips and his body jolted like you’d shocked him. He groaned, low and wrecked, and kissed you harder.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered against your mouth. “I can’t leave like this. I can’t—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. His hands shook as they clutched your waist. “Shouto—what are you—?”

“I can’t go back,” he said, voice breaking. “Not if you’re not coming with me.”

You stared at him.

He looked absolutely ruined.

“I know you’re doing amazing here. I know you're happy here. I know this is your dream. But I—” he dragged his hands through his hair, tugging. “I’m so fucking miserable without you. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I miss your voice. I miss your touch. I miss everything.”

“Shouto—” your voice cracked.

“I miss holding you,” he said, softer now. “I miss knowing I can roll over and find you there. I miss your laugh and your coffee orders and how you always take my clothes. I miss you.”

You couldn’t breathe.

His hands returned to your face, cupping it so gently it made you tremble. “Come home,” he begged. “Please. Come home with me.”

You swallowed, eyes already wet. “I can’t just leave, Shou. You know that.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “Then let me stay. I’ll cancel my flight. I’ll… I’ll figure it out. Just don’t make me leave you again.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

And when he kissed you again, it was like drowning.

You gripped his shirt and dragged him down into you, lips and teeth and breath and everything you hadn’t said in months. You stumbled back toward the bedroom, your shirt bunching around your waist as he grabbed you, his hands were everywhere. Your hips, your back, your thighs.

He pressed you to the wall on the way, kissing down your neck like he was starved.

“You don’t know how hard I’ve tried” he growled into your skin. “To ignore this, to act like I’m fine when I’m not. I’ve been thinking about you every night. Watching every video. Saving every photo. Fuck—”

You moaned, clinging to his shoulders.

“You don’t even know,” he gasped. “I’ve touched myself to your commercials. To your interviews. You’ve been everywhere and nowhere all at once and I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

You pulled him into the bedroom.

He didn’t even wait for you to hit the mattress before he was pushing your shirt up over your chest, groaning when he saw you weren’t wearing a bra.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breath hitching as his eyes roamed hungrily over your bare skin. “You’re so gorgeous.”

Then his hands were on you. Palming your breasts with shaking fingers, squeezing gently at first like he didn’t trust this was real. Then firmer. Rougher. Thumbs flicking slowly over your nipples, watching with hooded eyes as they pebbled under his touch.

You gasped, arching into his hands. “Shou—”

He ducked down and pulled one of your nipples into his mouth without hesitation, hot and wet and perfect. He sucked greedily, tongue swirling, moaning as your fingers tangled in his hair and tugged. His free hand slid up your side to cup the weight of your other breast, massaging it as he devoured you.

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this,” he mumbled against your skin, switching sides, nipping at your other nipple before sucking hard enough to make your knees go weak. “Missed every fucking inch of you—fuck—your so perfect.”

You could barely breathe.

He laid you back gently, like you were precious cargo, still trailing kisses across the slope of your chest, licking and mouthing and sighing against your skin like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Let me show you,” he whispered again, voice rasped with need. “Let me show you what being without you has done to me.”

You nodded, dizzy with want, heart pounding.

And then his hands were sliding down, gripping your thighs, parting them as he settled between them. He kissed up the inside of your knee. Then the softest part of your thigh. Then lower.

“Shouto,” you breathed, already trembling. “Please.”

He didn’t answer.

He just moaned as he licked a long, slow stripe through your folds and buried his mouth between your legs like a man starved.

You were moaning in an instant.

He licked into you like he was reclaiming something he’d lost, savoring the taste of you with soft, filthy groans that vibrated straight through your core. His tongue swirled over your clit with just enough pressure to make you twitch, then flattened to lap at you again like he couldn’t get enough.

“Shouto—oh my god—” you whimpered, one hand fisting the sheets, the other buried in his hair, keeping him right where you needed him.

He looked up at you through his heavy, tired eyes and moaned again at how ruined you looked, louder this time, like your voice alone was a reward.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he said, voice gravel against your skin, licking another slow stroke up your folds before circling your clit again with obscene precision. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you. Every night. Fuck.”

You cried out, thighs trembling. He gripped them tighter, spreading you open even more, locking you in place like he was preparing to devour you whole.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve needed this, how badly I’ve needed you,” he confessed, eyes burning into yours from between your legs. “Waking up hard. Calling your name in my sleep. I’ve wanted to eat you alive for months.”

“Shou—please—don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered.

And he didn’t.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, lips soft but greedy, tongue flicking in quick, practiced strokes that made your vision blur. He took his time, pulling more moans out of you with every motion, each one making him work harder. He alternated between messy licks and firm, focused pressure until your hips were stuttering against his face and your thighs were clenched around his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered when your back arched off the mattress. “Please, love. Come for me. Want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

Your whole body went taut before breaking all at once. Crying out his name as you came hard, legs shaking, chest heaving, body wracked with pleasure.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even close.

He licked you through it, every last tremble, sucking soft and slow now, coaxing out every drop of your release like it was ambrosia. Only when your hand tugged weakly at his hair did he finally pull away, breathing hard, mouth wet, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He crawled up your body and kissed you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and groaned against his lips.

“Fuck, I love you,” he gasped. “I love you so much it’s fucking killing me.”

You tangled your hands in his dress shirt, still hanging open, his chest bare beneath it, and pulled him flush against you, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“I want you,” you said. “I want you so bad, Shou, please.”

“Yeah?” he rasped, rocking his hips forward so you could feel how hard he still was. “You want this cock, love?”

You nodded, already grinding against him. “I’ve missed you too. S’much. Please Shou, let me make you feel good.”

“Fuck,” he growled, sitting back on his heels as he unbuckled his belt. He quickly shoved his pants and briefs down in one motion, desperate to free himself for you.

His cock was flushed, heavy, already dripping at the tip, and the second it was free, he gripped the base with one hand and fisted it slowly, groaning as he stared down at you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured. “You’ve ruined me.”

You sat up slightly, eyes locked on him, voice breathless. “Then let me ruin you some more.”

He laughed, wrecked and sweet, as you dragged him down on top of you, his cock sliding between your slick folds.

He lined himself up and paused, forehead resting against yours.

“I need you to say it first,” he whispered. “I need to hear you say this is what you want.”

You cupped his cheek, kissed his lips. “I want you. All of you. Please, Shouto.”

He groaned at the sound of your soft pleading. He started to press inside you slowly, hissing through his teeth at the heat, the tightness, the way you stretched around him like you were made to fit him.

“Holy shit,” he moaned, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel so good. So perfect. I can’t—fuck—”

He bottomed out with a low, broken groan, holding still for a second, like he needed time to adjust to just how badly he'd wanted this.

Then he started moving.

Thrusting deep and slow at first, grinding into you like he wanted to savor every second. You gasped beneath him, nails digging into his back as he fucked you like he needed it to mean something.

Because he did.

Everything about this. Every kiss, every moan, every snap of his hips, was worship. Desperation. His love for you turned tangible.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, angling his hips so every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you. “So beautiful. So fucking perfect. I can’t get enough.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to his body, his voice, his rhythm.

“I love you,” you whispered between gasps. “I love you, Shouto.”

He choked out a sound. Half moan, half sob, and picked up the pace.

Your second orgasm hit harder, your whole body locking up beneath him as you came with a cry, clenching around him so tightly he almost followed you right then.

But he held on.

Just long enough to whisper, “Where do you want me?”

“Inside,” you gasped, clinging to him. “Please—need to feel you.”

He shuddered at your words, letting his orgasm wash over him as he fucked into you once, twice, three more times. Then came with a ragged groan, spilling inside you as his whole body trembled from the force of it.

You held each other as you came down, limbs tangled, chests heaving, sweat slicking your skin.

He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

Then he whispered, almost brokenly, “Don’t make me go home without you.”

————————————————————————

Requests are open!! <3

[sunday-bug]

A Cure for Jealousy

Pairing: Congressman Bucky x fem reader

Content: filth, BJ

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

🖤

Synopsis: Bucky gets jealous of you talking with another man at his fundraising gala, and you reassure him there’s no need for jealousy.

This one is short and spicy! Enjoy!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

"What's wrong?" You ask, looking down at Bucky's vibranium hand wrapped around your upper arm. He was dragging you out of the hotel ballroom with determination.

"Not here," he growls out.

"Fine, but you're kind of hurting me," you say, annoyed. His grip immediately loosens without completely releasing you.

"Sorry," he mutters. You finally reach the exit and step into the nearest room - an empty supply closet. He shuts the door behind you and releases your arm. A small automatic light buzzes to life above you, lighting the small space with a dim yellow glow.

"Yeah? What the hell was that about?" You demand with fire in your eyes. "I was having a conversation, and you just tore me away... it was kind of rude, Buck."

"You were having a conversation. He wasn't," he scoffs.

"What?!" You ask, exasperated. "We were talking about your campaign."

"Is my campaign under your dress? Because he was basically undressing you with his eyes!” Bucky whisper shouts. "And he bought you a drink!"

You let out a small laugh and widen your eyes, "Oh my God, you're jealous."

Bucky steps as close as possible to you without touching you, "What if I am?"

"That's ridiculous," you spit out, still fuming. "Now can I go back in there and finish my conversation? He could be a huge donor for you."

"No," he steps in front of the door, blocking your exit.

"You gonna keep me trapped in here all night, then?" You question, crossing your arms across your chest.

“Maybe,” he admits as his eyes darken. “You look incredible tonight, by the way. That dress, mmm…” Bucky places his hands on your hips, pulling you into him, and you feel your attitude soften.

“Do you have the room key?” You ask nonchalantly.

Bucky pats his jacket pocket, “Uh, yeah. You forget something up there?”

You giggle before flashing him a suggestive look, “Nope, but we’re going to get this out of your system right now so you can focus on tonight.”

Bucky kisses you and lets out a groan, “Honey, you know I’d love to, but I can’t disappear for that long.”

You look around the small closet space, “Fine, right here is as good as anywhere.” You palm his hardening cock through the fabric and kneel down before him, unzipping his pants. You pull down the edge of his boxers and watch his hard length spring free.

“Doll…” Bucky whispers, brushing his flesh hand down your cheek.

“No need to be jealous, Buck,” you whisper back, taking him in your mouth.

“Mmm,” he groans, fingers entwining in your hair. “You look so gorgeous right now.”

You look up at him, playfully licking up the shaft of his dick before taking all of it down your throat. Your eyes start to water.

“Mmm… I’m sorry for being a dick, baby. God, this feels so good. I know you’re my girl. Only mine,” he moans again as you pick up speed, “my good girl.”

Bucky pulls at the back of your hair with his vibranium hand and wipes the tears from your cheeks from taking him so deep with the other. You cup his balls and squeeze gently.

“Fuck, love… I’m gonna cum,” he pants.

You keep up your hard work and are rewarded, swallowing all of it down. You wipe your eyes and stand up.

“No more jealousy, okay? I’m yours, baby,” you reassure him with a kiss, “Only yours.”

“I love you, I know. I’m sorry,” he replies, holding you close.

“How’s my makeup?” You ask, letting him survey you.

“You look perfect,” he says, kissing your forehead.

“Good. Now let’s go get that donation, Congressman.” You sidestep him and exit the closet, licking your lips once more to taste him.

[buckybarneswife125]

Jealousy, jealousy

Summary: Bucky is yours.

You are so proud of James, how far he’s come. He went from the world’s most feared assassin to a future congressman. You love that man to bits and you are so happy for him.

However, the more campaigns he has, the more people see him, and that wouldn’t be a problem except for the amount of people thirsting after him.

That’s not to say you don’t understand, I mean Bucky is the best of the best, but that little green monster always rears it’s ugly head at the worst times.

Like tonight, it is a very important gala for Bucky, it’s an opportunity for him to gain support and more votes. It’s imperative that you are on your best behavior — Bucky already said that when you get home he will reward you for that.

You were in the restroom when you heard someone talking.

“Future congressman, James Buchanan Barnes, taller in real life, has great teeth…”

“He’s 110 years old,” her friend, you’re assuming, replied. “And I’m pretty sure he’s married,” her friend continued.

“Not for long,” the first woman shot back.

You bit your lip so hard it drew blood. If it weren’t for the fact that Bucky’s entire career rests on how you act tonight, you would’ve ripped her hair from her head for that comment.

It’s not that you think Bucky would ever cheat on you, no, you know he loves you right down to your bones. It’s the audacity of these woman who believe they can have any man they want. Especially if he’s yours.

You walk out of the small stall, make your way to the sink and make a show of removing your large 10 carat dimond wedding ring to wash your hands, and that immediately gets the women’s attention.

“My god, that ring is gorgeous!” One of them exclaims, you recognize her voice as the one who wanted Bucky.

You smile sheepishly, “I know I’m very lucky.”

“Do I know you from somewhere?” The friend asks, “you look familiar, what’s your name?”

You hide your smirk, “Y/N Barnes.”

The color drains from the wannabe man-stealer’s face. “O-oh my god, I’m so s-sorry,” she fumbles. While her friend stands there beat red shaking her head.

“Oh no worries, I get it,” you say as you slide your ring back on and examine it your hand.

The rest of the night goes without a hitch and on the car ride home you tell Bucky what happens, he just laughs.

“I would never leave you for those shallow women, or anyone for that matter. I’m all yours, doll.”

You believe every word

Thank you for reading 🫶🫶

[urbaebarnes]

Ok but since Thunderbolts is coming out soon, how about something where Reader is either his campaign manager, or secretary, or like his handler when he makes appearances and somehow Bucky trusts her more than anyone else on his staff, so he invites her as his plus one to the Gala.

If you want to make it angsty/throw in some action, you could have Valentina sabotage his date at the gala by slipping something in her drink or having her goons tail reader home afterwards. 👀👀👀

Anyway, hope this gives you some inspiration! No pressure to use this tho

AHHHH i actually lysm for this!! thank you for sending me this and basically i got carried away so i'm gonna be splitting this up into like 2/3 different parts which should be out soon!

anyway i basically have the first half of the request in here and the rest will be in the next one! i love love love this idea so much and the new pictures that came out of him in thunderbolts has me in a chokehold like okay we see u babes

also i know very little about UK politics and even lass about US and my limited knowledge of media officers all comes form F1 so this probably makes no sense if your a professional in any of them but shhh its okay we move

Two Hearts: part 1

congressman bucky barnes x pr manager fem reader warnings: no use of y/n, she/her pronouns used, probably curse words (maybe not idk) word count: 1.3k words

You’d started out as his PR manager, for the first few months, that’s all you were to him, and he swore by that, he really did. But somewhere along the way, you’d become something much more, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It didn’t start when you first entered the office, you were a breath of fresh air to the mundane office, but you were just new. Your desk was filled with little trinkets colourful sticky notes plastered over the frame of your computer monitor. But all Bucky thought was that you were sweet.

But then you had to start coming places with him, and doing interviews just off camera so he could look to you for help, and all of a sudden your sweetness became a buoy, something to desperately grasp onto as he felt he was sinking into the depths of the interviewer's questions. Even if you didn’t need to step in, your presence was always calming enough that he knew exactly how to handle it, a situation he’d found himself in too few a time in his life.

So what, you became something along the line of a friend for him, someone he could confide in and sort of trust. Which meant a lot coming from a man who spent months trying to let goddamn Sam in, and you did it within a few weeks.

Somehow throughout the campaign, he couldn’t stop himself from letting you weasel yourself into the list of his most dearest. Between your reassuring smiles and little gifts and honestly just you, Bucky felt like you could very possibly be his person. Sometimes you could just be there and it would put the tiniest of smiles on his face, sending you a little wave across a crowded bar- and yeah Sam would take the piss out of him for it, but he’d gotten past Sam’s endless teasing a while ago.

That bar had become a weird sort of crossover point for your and Bucky’s life outside of work. Sometimes you’d sit with your friend when you finished a little earlier or occasionally a group, Bucky noted he never saw you with a boyfriend but wasn’t really sure why his brain would even think that. He and Sam would meet there after long days at work and oftentimes, you and your friends would be regulars in the crowded building, lazing by the bar as you drank together.

You’d never talk to each other in there, but it seemed that the other was constantly in your eyeline, always watching, subtly checking in. But after a few of these nights, Bucky couldn’t stop his eyes wandering to your figure all night. Sam was twittering about something or another, and he tried to focus, he really did, but how was he supposed to do that when you were sat a few seats away, looking so captivating.

Sam had stopped talking halfway through, not that Bucky had noticed, and instead started laughing as he watched the unusually stone cold exterior of his friend crumble as he longingly stared at your back. “Dude, you're whipped!” He’d managed to get out between his breathless laughs.

Sam’s words had managed to catch his attention, gaze flicking from you to him as the words set in and his brow furrowed. “What- I’m not-”

Despite his protests and insistent denials of having any sort of interest in you in that way, Bucky Sam persisted and eventually, it took more energy to deny it than let Sam have his fun - or at least that’s what Bucky said to himself. And sure that little flutter in his chest he felt whenever you smiled felt as if it grew every single goddamn day, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to admit that he had a crush on you.

But even if he did, it would be wrong and immoral, he was trying to represent a need for change, present to the country why he could be trusted, and you were supposed to help, not make him fall into some strange tango of emotions with you. But you did, and it wasn’t your fault, he didn’t think he could fault you for the goddamn end of the world if you caused it.

So when he needed a plus one to a gala, you were the only logical answer. He trusted you above everybody else who worked with him, and maybe he wanted an excuse to see you outside of your office or press conference or interview rooms. Bucky wanted a glimpse of you he’d seen at the bar with your friends, he just wanted a taste of the life he wished he could have with you.

Your office was a place he’d enjoyed being in more and more as the past few months had occurred. The photo frames on your desk were scattered and everything had a slight messiness that brought a feeling of coziness. He’d often find reasons to linger in there, so it wasn't out of character when he appeared one day.

“Morning.” You greeted him with a smile after his polite knocks, sipping on your coffee, one hand wrapped around your kermit the frog mug whilst typing out an email to a news agency with your other. Bucky had nodded, he was usually less talkative in the mornings -which you’d taken a note of to move any media prep to the afternoons. You blew on the steaming mug before tilting your head, “You good?”

He’d sat himself on the sage green couch tucked in the corner of the room and smiled softly at you before relying. “I have a question for you.”

Immediately, you placed your mug on the coaster and stopped typing, letting your arms cross over the wooden desk, elbow brushing the wrapper of one of those breakfast bars you liked so much. He’d made sure to stock up the kitchen after finding out your habit of snacking on them. “Ask away.”

Now, Bucky Barnes wasn’t generally a nervous man,or at least not when it came to women, but you managed to make it seem like asking you to be his +1 was a life or death event, as though the decision itself would alter the way the earth spins on its axis. Which to him, it may well have.

Bucky avoided your eyes, glancing just past your head at the drapes that were tied beside your large windows looking out into the city. “That gala I have to go to next month, the fundraising one, I don’t- erm…”

You let out a sigh as you leant forward on your arms, lips pursed. “Bucky, you have to go. It’s too late now, I can’t get you out of it, if you’d told me a few days ago then maybe but-”

“No, no, you have it wrong.” He quickly interrupted, shaking his head, “No, I was going to say that I don’t have a plus one, and I would be really grateful and forever in your debt if you’d possibly…” He trailed off again, scrunching his nose and finally meeting your eyes, “Go with me?”

You blinked once.

Then twice.

And finally a third time before you managed to move your head, looking behind you out the window once before looking back at him. “What? You want me to-?” You stopped abruptly, seeing the serious look on his face, his eyes looking straight at you, as though reading your mind.

You’d wondered if he had that superpower a few times before, especially when you first started, which would’ve been a nightmare seeing as at the beginning of your role here, you struggled to hold yourself up when around him. Bucky Barnes was -to put it simply- gorgeous. Everything you’d ever looked for in a man was right in front of you in the body of your boss, and if he could read minds, well you’d ruled that out seeing as you most likely would’ve been fired by now.

Your voice lowered as a small smile made its way onto your lips, knowing it probably meant nothing, but at the same time, it meant everything to you. “If you’d like me to, I’d love to.”

[insidekatmind]

A Place That Wasn't His~Levi Colwill

Wearning: fluff,angst.

Request: yes!

You always wondered what it would be like to have someone by your side who didn’t have to shine as much as you did. Someone who could follow your rhythm without stealing your spotlight, without making you feel like you were competing with someone in your private life. Then he came along.

Levi Colwill, a talented young footballer, but not yet a global star. Handsome, confident, with that relaxed air of someone who has all the time in the world to become a legend. The proposal of a relationship of convenience came as a well-packaged deal: you, an international icon, a media favorite, an influencer, an actress, a singer – whatever you are – and him, the promised golden boy of English football. Merging your images would benefit both of you.

At first, it worked.

The cameras loved him by your side. The photos of your travels, the appearances at events, the narrative of the perfect couple. He was your Levi, always elegant in tailored suits, with the right watch on his wrist and the charming smile of a good boy. In his own way, he began to enjoy the role: the status of the star's boyfriend guaranteed him more attention than he would have had with football alone. Sponsorships, exclusive invitations, the world of celebrity opened up to him with a first-class ticket.

But Levi made the mistake of believing it too much.

He thought people loved him for himself and not for your shadow. He believed he could become an independent icon, that his beauty and charm would be enough. He began to answer reporters too confidently, to act as if he were the star of the relationship. He accepted fashion campaigns in which your name was not even mentioned, he began to talk about himself as if he were bigger than he was. He confused adoration for you with a reflection of him.

And then, reality hit him like a ball in the face.

A small scandal, a rumor spread by some tabloid: "Is Levi Colwill too sure of himself?" The comments on social media began to change, from flattery to annoyance. “What does he do besides be her boyfriend?” “No one talked about him before.” “Without her, who would he be?” His image began to fade, just like his contracts, just like his presence at your events.

And you, well. You watched him crumble.

The exact moment he realized he’d overestimated his worth. That he’d believed he could be like you, that he could dominate the narrative, when in reality he’d always been an accessory on your arm. Nothing more.

His confidence cracked. He stopped looking for cameras, avoided paparazzi. The gala dinners became rarer. At one point, he even stopped speaking in public, leaving you on stage without protest.

And when you saw his gaze drop, his jaw tighten, you knew his humiliation was complete. He’d wanted too much. Now he knew his place.

[misshoneyimhome]

What’s up, buttercups! 🌸

Chapter twelve… and things are definitely getting a little more heated, huh? 😏 I feel like we’re finally stepping into a space where we can turn the tension up and play with a bit more spice—so I’m super curious to know what you think 🙈

Just a quick note: I’m currently going through some personal stuff and juggling a busy work schedule, so if I’m a little slower with updates or replies, please know I’m doing my best and still pouring as much heart as I can into this story 💕

As always, thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Happy reading! 💕

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ smut: tied up, oral sex (f receiving), edging, fingering, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex, cumshot

Word count: 7.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten ; Chapter eleven

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter twelve: a royal game of chess*

::

“Dearest Toronto Readers,”

A royal game is underway—and we’ve all been invited to watch.

Last night, beneath the glittering chandeliers of the gala, our King and Queen moved across the ballroom like seasoned players on a chessboard. Each glance, each lingering touch, calculated and deliberate. Together, they silenced the rumours. For now.

But behind every flawless performance is a motive. And behind every motive? A truth begging to be uncovered. Are they reigniting something real—or just preserving the illusion long enough to win the crowd back?

The Queen looked radiant. The King looked smitten. And yet, the whispers still echo: are they lovers, or just loyal allies in a crumbling campaign?

What we are witnessing is no simple romance—it’s a royal game of strategy.

White strikes first. And checkmate is coming.

The only question that remains: will it be a win or a loss for the crown?

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

_

Saturday –

The sun filtered through your curtains like it had no respect for boundaries—soft and golden, spilling across your bedroom in a mocking warmth that made everything feel deceptively calm. It painted gold across your sheets, lit your skin with something too gentle, too romantic for the weight tangled in your limbs.

There was a heaviness in your bones that sleep hadn’t touched. You blinked against the light. Your mouth was dry. Your body sore in that deep, secret kind of way—your thighs still trembling faintly, the inside of your elbow tender where his grip had lingered a second too long. Your skin prickled with the memory of his touch. Your throat? Dry from all the words you hadn’t said. From the ones you had swallowed down instead of speaking out loud.

But it wasn’t just lust curling under your skin this morning. It was confusion. Shame. And something worse—something quieter and harder to admit. That slow-blooming ache behind your ribs, that whispering feeling you’d tried so hard to ignore.

Because last night hadn’t been fake. Or performative. You hadn’t been playing a role. You had wanted it. Wanted him. Badly. Recklessly.

And now, the only thing worse than what you’d done… was how much you wanted to do it again.

Your hand groped through the tangle of sheets until it found your phone, half-buried near the edge of the mattress. The screen was lit with unread messages, notifications blinking like warning lights—like your life was trying to catch up to you faster than you could catch your breath.

Of course, the group chat was already on fire.

Jess: okay WHAT THE FUCK is going on. i thought you guys were like??? cooling off??

Maya: was last night cooling off?? bc from where i was standing it looked VERY on.

Jess: pls tell me the gala wasn’t just for PR or do i need to text Auston and ask myself??

You let your head fall back into the pillow with a groan, phone hovering above your face, the screen too bright and your thoughts too messy. You typed. Deleted. Tried again. Your fingers felt clumsy.

You: idk what’s going on. it’s a mess. we didn’t plan any of that.

The typing dots appeared immediately.

Jess: you okay tho? like actually okay? or are we breaking into his condo later?

Maya: say the word and I’ll bring wine and a crowbar.

You smiled. Barely. But it was something. You loved them. Even when everything else felt like quicksand, they were solid ground.

You: I’m fine. Just tired. It’s a lot.

You peeled yourself out of bed with the kind of sluggish determination reserved for emotional hangovers. Limbs heavy, skin too sensitive, like you’d been rubbed raw inside and out. You padded into the kitchen in an oversized tee, arms crossed over your stomach like you were trying to hold yourself together.

The apartment was still. The hum of the fridge. The faint creak of floorboards underfoot. The way the light cut across the floor in stripes. You didn’t bother turning on music or the TV. Silence felt deserved.

You moved through the morning like muscle memory had taken over: toast in the toaster, egg cracked into the pan. The sizzle felt too loud in the stillness. Coffee brewed behind you, and the smell was grounding—dark, bitter, real. You wrapped your hands around your chipped constellation mug like it might warm more than your palms.

And there he was.

Auston.

The memory crashed into you, sudden and vivid. His hands. His mouth. The way he’d whispered your name like it meant something. The tension in his jaw before he kissed you. The way he looked at you like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. The hallway. The silence that followed. The taste of him still blooming on your lips like an aftershock.

You shook the thought off and forced yourself to eat. Tiny bites. A sip of coffee. Another. But you could still feel it—last night clinging to you like a second skin.

And then your phone buzzed again.

Mum calling…

You considered letting it ring out. But something told you that wouldn’t make anything easier, so you answered on the third ring.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she chirped, far too bright. The tone that always meant she was about to bulldoze through whatever objection you had lined up. “Just checking—do you want the roast, or should I do salmon instead? Auston strikes me as a roast man…”

“Mum,” you interrupted, already wincing. “We might need to… rain-check dinner.”

A beat. Then her voice sharpened with suspicion. “Rain check? Why?”

You exhaled slowly, setting your half-eaten toast down. “Things with Auston aren’t as great as they might seem. It’s… complicated.”

There was another pause. Longer this time.

“Oh,” she said finally. “So, what?”

“What do you mean so what?” you snapped, the words tumbling out too fast.

“I’m not cancelling dinner,” she said flatly. “Your siblings are finally coming. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Mum—”

“Don’t ‘Mum’ me. I’ve already cleaned the good glasses.”

You rubbed a hand down your face, eyes closed. “Can we just wait until this makes more sense?”

“Nonsense,” she replied. Her tone was calm. Cutting. Unyielding. “If he’s going to be in your life, he should be in our lives. And if he’s not? Well… then we’ll know, won’t we?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The call just ended with a half-hearted “don’t stress the Yorkshire pudding,” though you both knew she already had.

Sink or swim. And you were already half under.

And not even two minutes later, another message appeared.

Stephanie: Hey, girl! Game tonight and the girls are going. You in? Also… you looked fucking hot last night.

You read it. Twice. A third time.

You wanted to say no. Wanted to crawl back into bed, bury yourself under the duvet, cry about things you weren’t supposed to feel. Put on a movie and forget. Let the world spin without you.

But something tugged. A thread that hadn’t snapped yet. Something small and stubborn and painfully alive.

You didn’t respond immediately.

You just stood frozen in the kitchen ten minutes later, one hand around your mug, the other bracing against the edge of the counter like it could keep you upright. The silence buzzed louder than any playlist could’ve. You were surrounded—by noise, by pressure, by people asking for answers you didn’t have. A mother who wouldn’t bend. Friends who were trying to understand. Stephanie, already halfway out the door in heels and a grin.

And then, the one you couldn’t pin down.

Your phone buzzed again.

Auston: You coming tonight?

The question was simple. Innocent, even. But the weight behind it pressed into your ribs like a thumb.

You stared.

You: not sure. Steph just asked.

His reply was instant.

Auston: Kay.

So simple. So casual.

But your fingers hovered over the screen. Your breath caught. Your heart did that flutter again—that impossible stutter that had nothing to do with PR deadlines and everything to do with the way his voice had broken last night. The way he’d touched you like he’d needed the confirmation that you were still his to reach for.

And maybe this wasn’t about optics anymore. Maybe it never had been.

Maybe this was just about you. And him. And the dangerous, unstoppable thing blooming between you despite everything it could ruin.

And maybe… just maybe… you weren’t ready to walk away.

Not if he wasn’t.

_

The media scrum was already forming by the time Auston stepped onto the familiar white Leafs logo in the centre of the dressing room. He moved like he always did—purposeful, confident, with the easy poise of someone who had been here before and knew exactly how to play the game.

Reporters had their phones raised, recorders clipped to lanyards, some already half-shouting questions as he approached the backdrop. He tugged on the collar of his quarter-zip, gave a subtle nod to the team’s media manager, and settled into position like a seasoned actor hitting his mark.

This part had always been the easiest.

He liked the spotlight. Never said it aloud, but he did. He liked the control of it—the ritual. The way a question could be spun. The way he could shut it all down with a single smirk or shrug or “we’ll take it one game at a time.”

Today was no different. In fact, it was almost too quiet.

“Everyone’s looking forward to the game, Auston—feel like the chemistry’s starting to click again?”

“Can you talk about what’s been working so well on the power play?”

“Four wins within two weeks—what’s changed for the group?”

Nothing about you. Nothing about the photo. Nothing about the gala or the rumour mill or the very public, very dramatic week he’d just come out of.

Auston answered smoothly, firing off practiced lines without hesitation. Something about momentum. About the boys gelling. About staying focused.

Not one question veered off course.

The plan was working.

The Benchwarmer had done its job—redirected the public eye with just enough flair to turn chaos into curiosity. The media, once frothing at the mouth for personal drama, had backed off. No one wanted to be the one who poked the bear. Not when the Ice King had returned to form on the ice. Not when a single wrong question could get them frozen out.

Auston’s eyes scanned the group, already calculating the end of the session.

He liked this version of control.

But as he offered one final answer and stepped away from the microphones, something still tugged at him. A weight beneath the surface. A restlessness.

Because even if no one else was asking about you, even if the cameras weren’t zooming in anymore—he was still thinking about you. About the way you looked last night. 

He shook it off. Tugged at his sleeve. Made his way toward the tunnel where the rink waited, quiet and cold.

The media hadn’t asked. But that didn’t mean the questions weren’t there. And right now, Auston had more of them than ever.

_

The lights inside the arena always felt different on Saturdays. Sharper. Hungrier. Like the whole building was conspiring to expose every flicker of emotion, every lingering glance, every thread pulled too tight. The electricity didn’t just buzz—it pulsed. And tonight, it felt like the walls themselves knew that secrets were sitting close to the glass.

You slid into your seat beside Stephanie in the players’ wives and girlfriends’ section, your movements smooth and automatic—like muscle memory had taken the wheel while your mind kept looping through the past twenty-four hours. You moved with quiet grace, the kind born of long practice: spine straight, ankle crossed, coat draped over your shoulders like soft armour. Your outfit was intentional—tailored jeans, a plum knit that hugged just enough, a glossed lip touched with defiance. Not for attention. For control.

Control was your anchor tonight. Not charm, not flirtation, not even the polished version of yourself you’d once wielded like a blade. Just poise. Just enough polish to say: I’m here. I belong. I’m not breaking.

Stephanie nudged you lightly in greeting, her smile easy and warm in that effortless way she had. Within seconds, she was chatting behind you—boots admired, weekend plans traded. The laughter that followed sparkled like champagne. It felt comforting.

And you had to admit—being around them felt natural. The girls. The partners. The inside jokes and quiet eyerolls. The practiced grace with which they moved through wins and losses, spotlight, and silence. Somewhere along the way, you’d found a rhythm with them. A softness. It didn’t erase the storm inside you, but it dulled the noise.

So, you smiled. You leaned in when someone cracked a joke. You nodded along to talk of spa days and travel plans. And for a moment—just a breath—it felt like you belonged.

Then the lights dimmed.

The crowd stirred, like the air had changed direction. The low murmur thickened into something denser. Charged.

And then—he appeared.

Auston fucking Matthews.

The way he emerged from the tunnel was almost cinematic. Helmet down, shoulders rolled back, body language casual in that way only born from absolute confidence. Stick resting in one hand like a sword he didn’t need to brandish to be feared. His stride purposeful, his gaze focused—but you knew him well enough to spot the shift. The way his jaw clenched a second too long. The flicker of his eyes mid-shift in momentum. The subtle tilt of his chin, searching.

And then he found you.

Just a glance. Brief. Surgical. But it cut clean.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t offer anything. You kept your lips soft, your expression unreadable.

And in return, he gave you the same. It was all part of the performance now. The grand illusion.

The game kicked off with that same intense pace that always came with rivalry nights. Leafs versus Oilers. A little extra tension in every check, every whistle. Each near miss elicited sharp gasps from the crowd, and you clapped when it was expected, leaned into Stephanie’s shoulder when she let out a half-laugh, half-groan after a puck clanged off the post. But your attention? It never really strayed.

Like always, Auston was magnetic on the ice—commanding the play with that effortless rhythm that made him impossible not to watch. There was a precision to his movement tonight that bordered on aggressive, but it wasn’t careless. It was sharp. Focused. Like the game had sunk under his skin and he was playing not just for points, but for something more.

Still, not once did he look up again. Not for almost two periods. Not until the second intermission.

He skated by the glass near your section with deliberate ease, his stick resting lazily against his shoulder, posture unbothered. And yet, when his eyes finally flicked up—just for the briefest moment—they landed on you like he’d been holding his breath the entire game. Like you were the exhale.

And for one suspended heartbeat, you saw it. Not the distant, calculated mask he wore for the world. Not the cool indifference you’d both agreed to perform. No, this glance was something molten. Heavy with everything you weren’t allowed to name.

And then it was gone.

Buried. Erased. Like it had never existed.

The third period came and went in a blur of adrenaline and tension, and when the final buzzer blared, signalling a narrow 4–3 win for the Leafs, the entire section erupted around you—clapping, cheering, standing. Stephanie let out a squeal, bouncing beside you with glee.

“God, I hate how nerve wracking a one-goal win is,” she said, eyes wide with a mix of stress and excitement.

You nodded, forced a smile—small but convincing—and tucked a stray hair behind your ear, not trusting your voice to say much more. You didn’t know if it was the adrenaline of the crowd or just the echo of that look he’d given you, but your hands were trembling slightly where they gripped your coat.

And then Stephanie turned toward you with that knowing grin, like she already had the next move planned. “Come down with us?”

You blinked. “Where?”

“Locker room hallway. Just for a second before we head out. Everyone’ll be there and Micthy really wants to say hi.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then you surprisingly found yourself nodding, and followed her.

The hallways backstage was colder than you remembered—sterile and echoing, fluorescent light bouncing off too-clean floors. Players’ family members, friends, team staff and media techs milled about with the kind of casual buzz that always accompanied a win. The air was thick with sweat and body spray and the faint static of proximity to fame.

You kept your smile pleasant, your posture smooth. Exchanged hellos. Shook hands. Someone handed you a glass of sparkling water and you took it even though your stomach felt too tight to drink. You engaged in a brief chat with one of the MLSE community liaisons about the upcoming charity skate. You asked the right questions. You said the right things.

Right up until you didn’t. Because that’s when you heard it.

A voice you recognised immediately, even though it had only ever spoken to you in the most passive-aggressive tones. The brunette from yesterday morning in Auston’s doorway. 

“I mean, come on. Why would he even bother with her?” she said, laughter simmering beneath her words like poison. “She’s… forgettable. Just some glorified assistant playing dress-up and craving a good fuck. Cute enough in daylight, I guess. But honestly? She’s just using him.”

The words landed like splinters—small, sharp, precise.

You didn’t move. Didn’t turn. But your entire spine pulled taut like a drawn wire, shoulders locking into place. A single glance to Stephanie confirmed that she’d heard it too. Her jaw clenched, but she stayed rooted beside you.

But then you heard another voice. Deeper. Closer. Sharper.

“Why do you have to be so mean?”

It was Auston. His voice didn’t rise, but somehow it silenced the entire hallway.

“Just because she’s actually kind,” he continued, each word slicing clean. “She’s smart, and she actually gives a shit about people. She shows up. She works her ass off. She’s funny. And she’s been through a lot of shit.”

You felt your breath catch—held it like a secret against your ribs.

“She’s not just a good fuck.” He let that line sit for a beat—long enough to stun. “She’s everything you’re not.”

The silence that followed was dense. Immoveable.

So, when you finally turned your head—slowly, carefully—your eyes found him immediately. Standing just past the doorway, one glove still on, hair damp and curling at the ends, cheeks flushed from effort and fury. His chest rose and fell in sharp exhales, but his eyes… they were soft. And locked entirely on you.

And for one long, staggering moment, it was just you and him in that hallway. Everything else—the brunette, the girls, the media staff still folding cords—faded into a blur of white noise.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. A moment suspended in glass.

And then, without another word, you turned back to Stephanie. Smiled. Said something light about traffic. Let your voice float above the tension like nothing had happened at all.

If you looked up the word mess in a dictionary, it might as well have come with a photo gallery of your face beside Auston’s, each of you frozen mid-glare, mid-glance, mid-smirk. Nobody knew what was going on anymore. Not the team. Not the coaches. Not even the women in the wives and girlfriends’ section who usually had everything figured out before it even happened.

Stephanie had stared at you with the same look a dog gives a squirrel crossing the street—confused, mildly betrayed, and a little worried you were about to do something reckless.

Because you didn’t fold into Auston’s arms after the win.

You didn’t beam with pride. Didn’t run into his orbit like some predictable PR storyline. You clapped. Smiled. Said something about traffic. And that was that.

But the confusion wasn’t theirs to untangle. It was yours. And his. And the tangle had only grown tighter with every move he’d made.

Because Auston didn’t play chess like a strategist. He moved with instincts.

First, he’d asked for space. Backed away just enough to make you question if he even remembered what the plan was anymore. Then—jealousy. Cold and sudden, when you’d been spotted with Ryan, and Auston had looked at you like you’d betrayed some silent oath.

Third move? A brunette. Beautiful. Model type. Seen leaving his condo the next morning, looking smug and satisfied like she knew the mess she’d walked into.

Fourth—cold again.

Fifth, he’d shown up and dropped the words in love like it meant something. 

Sixth, he’d ruined you in a hallway. With just his mouth. Like he was trying to etch his name into every nerve ending you had.

Then he froze again. Like he hadn’t just shattered every part of your carefully constructed control.

And now tonight, he’d defended you like you were the only thing in the world worth protecting. His voice calm. Sharp and deadly. Like he meant every single syllable. 

It was too much. Too inconsistent. Too everything.

And so, before you could let the night end, before you lost your nerve and let things slip back into the murky silence of maybe-later and we’ll-talk-soon, you sought him out.

The carpark was quiet, save for the low hum of a nearby floodlight and the occasional distant thud of equipment being loaded out. He was standing by his car all alone, half-lit, half-shadowed, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He looked up the second he heard your footsteps.

You stopped a few feet from him.

“We need to do something,” you said, your voice calm and steady. “Because this isn’t working. My mum still thinks you’re coming to dinner. She hasn’t caved.”

Auston exhaled, jaw tensing. “So, tell her I’m not.”

“That’s not the point,” you snapped. “The point is you keep doing this—One minute you want distance, the next you’re showing up talking about love and dropping to your knees like we’re… something.”

He crossed his arms. “And you? You haven’t exactly been consistent either. Besides, that was the point, right? For you and your career.”

You laughed once—low and bitter. “Oh, come on. You get to defend me in front of your fling like you’re my boyfriend and then go back to ignoring me? It’s not just about my career, Auston… it’s about me and how you treat me.”

His brows furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

“You act like you don’t care,” you continued, “about any of it. The media. The sex… I’ve given you parts of myself… I’ve trusted you. But you just act like you don’t give a fuck... and then you say things like falling in love. You give me a fucking orgasm in a hallway, and then you ghost me the next day like it didn’t happen.”

He flinched slightly at that.

You stepped forward, heart pounding. “And tonight… what the fuck was that? What am I supposed to do with that? You stood up for me like I mattered. And now you’re just standing here again—silent.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said, voice low. Honest.

“Of course, you don’t,” you breathed, tired. “Because you only know how to speak when it’s about hockey. Or when you want to get a girl into bed.”

That one landed.

His lips parted slightly, like he might defend himself. But nothing came out.

You shook your head. “You want to know the worst part?”

He looked at you.

“I was actually starting to like you…”

_

“A post-game sighting. A locker room hallway turned battlefield.

Tonight’s Leafs win wasn’t the only headline—our Ice King made waves off the ice, too. Witnesses caught a tense exchange with the brunette (yes, the one last seen leaving his condo) and a not-so-subtle jab aimed at our Queen.

But what froze the hallway? The King’s reply.

Sharp. Unfiltered. And dare we say… protective.

Was it love or loyalty? 

Matthews wasn’t alone—Marner, Nylander, and Rielly were all in view. No one interrupted. Though Mitch reportedly smirked like a man who already knows the ending.

So, we ask: was this chivalry… or checkmate? - The Benchwarmer”

_

The moment you stepped inside your apartment, you had to pause. Just breathe.

You shut the door behind you with a soft thud, pressing your back against it like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The weight of the night pressed down hard—your lashes still damp with fury, your fingers curled into your palms like they were trying to hold something back. The air in the room felt too still, like even the walls were holding their breath.

You tilted your head back against the wood, eyes fluttering shut as your heartbeat pounded behind your ribs like a second voice screaming through the silence.

Because one minute, you’d been arguing with Auston in the carpark—half-conversation, half-meltdown—and the next, his hands were gripping your waist and he’d pushed you back against his car like it was instinct. Like he couldn’t not touch you.

His mouth had crashed into yours—urgent, unrelenting—biting the words right out of your mouth before you could finish them. And you’d let him. At first.

You’d kissed him back like you needed it to survive. Like maybe it was the only way to finish the sentences that always got stuck between you. There had been teeth, heat, the scrape of his hand against your spine as he tried to pull you impossibly closer. Your hands had twisted in the collar of his coat before shoving hard at his chest.

“Don’t,” you’d snapped, breath ragged. “Don’t act like that fixes anything.”

He hadn’t listened. Not at first.

Instead, Auston had leaned in again, grabbing your wrist when you tried to turn away. You’d pushed back. He held his ground. 

But you’d shoved harder. And that time, you’d broken free, and you walked away. You didn’t look back.

But now, standing here in the quiet of your apartment, your pulse still thundered like the fight was unfinished. Like it hadn’t really ended at all.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, your voice shaking as you finally peeled your coat from your shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

But you barely had time to take a step further into your apartment before there was a knock. A single, deliberate knock making you freeze.

Slowly, you turn around like the air had thickened around your legs. You hesitated at the door, heart threatening to claw out of your chest as you opened it.

Auston.

He stood there without a word. No expression. No smirk. No flicker of anger or apology. His face was blank—cool, unreadable—the kind of calm that came just before a storm.

He didn’t say anything, and you didn’t either.

Not right away.

The silence between you crackled once more, electric and impossible to ignore. And when you didn’t shut the door… when you didn’t slam it in his face or tell him to piss off… he stepped forward. Into your space. Into your home. Into your line of fire.

You took a step back instinctively, heart tripping over itself.

The eye contact never broke.

He closed the door behind him, slow and sure, the soft click of the lock a sound that echoed far louder than it should have.

“Aus—” you tried, your voice catching halfway up your throat.

But he cut you off.

“Think you can play me like that?” he said, voice low and steady. Too calm. “Yell at me in a fucking parking lot, say your piece, and then just walk away like you won?”

You stared at him; throat tight. “I didn’t win anything. That wasn’t—”

“No,” he interrupted again, stepping closer, his presence eating up the space between you with unrelenting precision. “No more talking.”

Your breath hitched. He was close. So close you could smell the sweat still clinging to his skin beneath the faint hint of his cologne. So, close his energy was wrapping around you like a net—tangible, thick, impossible to escape.

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out.

And that made Auston smile. Just the faintest twitch of his lips. Not smug. Not cruel. Just controlled.

He leaned in, slowly, his mouth brushing the edge of your ear, breath hot and unforgiving.

“Guess I need to remind you who’s in charge,” he murmured, making you shiver.

Because he wasn’t asking. He was stating. 

Your heart stuttered as he pulled back, his eyes raking over your face with the kind of hunger that wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. Raw. Ravenous. He looked at you like he could see right through the mask, past the coat of control you’d worn all night, and into the core of whatever it was you were trying so desperately not to feel.

But still… he didn’t touch you. Not yet at least.

He just stood there—so close the heat radiating off his body made your skin tighten, so still it made your breath catch. Waiting. Watching. Letting the silence stretch like a thread between you, delicate and dangerous.

He was waiting for your next move.

For you to back down. To run. To say something sharp and sarcastic that might give you back the upper hand. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Your eyes flickered away for just a second, instinct kicking in to look anywhere but at him.

But he wasn’t having it.

Auston’s hand came up, not rough, but firm. He cupped your jaw, tilting your face back toward him with a kind of command that didn’t ask—it told.

“Look at me,” he said, low and steady.

You did.

“You wanted me to teach you about sex,” he continued, voice dark and even, like every word was laid with velvet and steel. “About pleasure. About what it means to actually feel something.”

He leaned in, just enough for your noses to almost touch.

“Well…” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “Here’s a lesson for you.”

Your breath hitched, lips parting, but before you could say anything—before you could even form the thought to speak—he kissed you.

Hard.

Not hesitant or questioning, but with intent. Like he’d made up his mind the moment you walked away in the carpark.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threaded through your hair as he tilted your face toward him, deepening the kiss until it stole every ounce of breath from your lungs. The other hand found your waist, pulling you in so tightly your chests collided, your curves fitting into the sharp lines of him like they’d been carved that way—like you were meant to bend around him.

Your fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him closer—he was already impossibly close—but just to hold on. To ground yourself against something solid. Because that was what he felt like. Solid. Unmovable. Unrelenting.

You didn’t know how long he kissed you like that—just that at some point, between the short gasps and the quiet, desperate noises leaving your throat, he started to walk you backward. And you let him.

You let him back you through the small corridor of your apartment, bumping into the edge of the couch, knocking your hip into the counter, never once breaking the kiss. You let him reach down, lift you by your thighs, and carry you toward your room like he already knew the way.

By the time your back hit the edge of the mattress, he wasn’t even winded. He looked at you like a man possessed—eyes dark, chest heaving just slightly, his own shirt half off, hair a mess from where you’d tugged it.

But he still wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He looked around briefly—calculating, focused—and then his eyes landed on the belt looped through his dress trousers. He pulled it free in one swift, fluid motion, the sound of leather sliding against fabric sharp in the quiet.

“Lie down,” he said, voice low and calm. “Arms above your head.”

You did.

Not because he asked. But because you wanted to.

He climbed onto the bed after you, trailing his fingers up your stomach as he pushed your shirt further until it bunched just above your eyes, soft cotton darkening your vision and exposing your body all at once. You were left in nothing but your lacy knickers, bare and waiting beneath him. Your arms extended above your head, and he took the belt and looped it around your wrists—firm but not cruel, enough to bind you, not break you.

“Keep them there,” he murmured. 

And then—he began.

It started slow. Almost sweet. A brush of his lips against your hipbone, the trail of his fingers skimming down your ribs. Then his mouth—hot and wet and patient—moving across your stomach, your thighs, avoiding the places that ached the most with infuriating precision.

He teased you like he had all the time in the world. Like every moan from your lips was a victory. He kissed and nipped, tongue dragging across the edge of your panties, lips pressing against your inner thigh in a way that felt reverent and maddening.

“So, you didn’t like it when I turned you into a mess with just my mouth…” he whispered in a low growl. 

When his fingers finally touched you—just the pad of one dragging over the damp lace—you whimpered, hips twitching upward.

But he didn’t give in. He pulled away.

Again.

And again.

“Fuck, Auston,” you gasped, tugging at your restraints instinctively, hips lifting in search of something—anything.

But he just chuckled darkly, eyes full of wicked amusement.

“You’re not ready yet,” he said, breath warm against your core. “Not until you ask.”

He slid your knickers off slowly, delicately, like unwrapping something too precious to rush. And then he looked up at you, mouth hovering just inches from where you needed him most.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice like gravel.

You squirmed. “You.”

He didn’t move.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you whispered, breathless. “Please.”

A moment of silence. 

“Good girl…” he murmured, and then he dove in.

His tongue was ruthless, confident, tracing over you with devastating precision. He mapped your body like he already knew the coordinates, like he’d studied every reaction and memorised each one. When you moaned his name, his grip on your thighs tightened. When you bucked your hips, he pinned them down, flattening his tongue and dragging it in tight, deliberate strokes until you were shaking.

And just when you were teetering on the edge—his fingers joined in.

The stretch, the pressure, the pace—it was almost too much. He worked you open slowly, carefully, coaxing every sound from your throat, every plea from your lips. He edged you with expert cruelty, pulling back each time you reached that cliff, only to bring you right back with his mouth and his hands and that dark, endless look in his eyes.

You begged. You swore. You writhed beneath him, wrists straining against the belt, head thrown back as wave after wave of pleasure built, crested, and then retreated just before you could tip over the edge.

He was playing you like a pawn—but he knew the board, and he knew the game. In just a matter of weeks, Auston had learned your body better than you knew it yourself. Every gasp. Every twitch. Every unspoken plea. He read you like strategy—like instinct.

He pulled back slowly, leaving you flushed and breathless, your body humming from the teasing, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a marathon.

Without a word, he stood to undress completely—methodically, purposefully. The way he shed each layer felt deliberate, like he was shedding the tension too, the confusion, the noise. Just him now. Just you. Nothing else in the room but heat.

“You think you can be good for me?” he murmured, voice low and rough as he knelt back between your thighs, one hand stroking along his own length, slow and firm.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mouth was open, but no words came.

He smirked, just a little—dark and knowing. “Mm. I think I need a little more than that.”

And then he slid your leg up, anchoring your ankle to his shoulder, his body pressing forward until you felt the weight of him aligned with you—poised, patient, inevitable.

He entered you slowly. Torturously slow. Like he wanted you to feel every inch, every inch of him reclaiming every inch of you.

Your breath caught as he pressed into you, inch by inch, his grip tightening just slightly on your thigh where it rested against his shoulder. There was nothing rushed about it—not in the way his hips moved, not in the way his eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every stutter of breath, every flicker of emotion.

It was unbearable. It was perfect.

The first full thrust made your back arch off the mattress, a low, involuntary sound tumbling from your throat. He was deep—so deep it felt like something inside you was being rewritten.

He held there for a moment. Let the weight of it settle. Let you feel him. All of him.

And then he moved.

He started slow—almost maddeningly so—like he was still studying you, testing the limits of what you could take. Each roll of his hips was deliberate, calculated, as though he was savouring the way your body reacted to him. The slight arch of your spine, the shallow gasp that slipped through your lips, the tremble in your thighs that betrayed just how badly you needed more.

But it didn’t last.

The composure frayed, the control slipped, and then he was moving—harder, faster—each thrust hitting deeper, rougher, more purposeful. It was like something cracked inside him. Some last thread of restraint unravelled, and in its place came this need. This hunger. He wasn’t just fucking you—he was claiming you. Showing you exactly what happened when you pushed him. When you walked away.

When you made him feel.

Still, there was nothing cruel in it. It wasn’t about hurting you—it was about making you feel everything. Every inch. Every intention. Every flicker of emotion he still didn’t have the words to say.

One of Auston’s hands slid up to your throat, his palm pressing lightly, thumb brushing the underside of your jaw in a gesture that was more grounding than it was dominant. The other roamed—up your thigh, grazing your hipbone, mapping the soft curve of your waist, until he settled just beneath your breasts, his fingers spread wide to anchor you beneath him.

The belt still held your wrists above your head, tight but not painful, leather biting faintly into your skin. Your shirt was bunched just high enough to obscure your vision, forcing you to feel everything else more acutely. The slick sound of skin on skin. The pant of his breath. The way his name tumbled out of your mouth like a vow and a curse in one.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, his voice fraying at the edges. “You drive me fucking insane.”

You moaned in response, helpless beneath him, the tension inside you building so tightly it felt like your body might snap.

“You think I’m cold,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm slowed—just slightly, just enough to make you ache. “You think I don’t feel any of this.” His hips rolled into you hard, and you cried out—“does this feel fucking empty to you?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even breathe properly.

“I see the way you look at me,” Auston grit out, voice rough and laced with something darker. “Like you want me and hate me all at once.”

His hand slid back up to your throat, tilting your face with gentle but firm insistence, even though the bunched fabric still blocked your sight. You couldn’t see him—but you felt him. Felt the heat of his breath, the intensity of his stare searing into you like a brand.

“You can’t fucking hide from me,” he growled.

Then suddenly, he pulled out.

You gasped at the loss, your body twitching from the emptiness, your thighs trembling. His hands let go of your throat and leg, lowering it from his shoulder as he leaned back—just far enough to watch the sight of you spread out, wrecked, and waiting. He inhaled sharply, gaze raking over you like you were something holy and ruined all at once.

“Look at you,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Such a fucking gorgeous mess.”

And then he was back—thrusting into you again, hard and sure, without hesitation. Your entire body jolted, a ragged sound tearing from your throat.

“This pussy,” he snarled against your ear, his rhythm brutal, “belongs to me.”

You sobbed his name, legs nearly giving out from beneath you as he moved with punishing purpose, one hand gripping your hip to hold you in place, the other slipping between your legs.

“Aus—” you cried. “I’m gonna—”

He stilled inside you instantly, pulling back just enough to make you sob again.

“You’re gonna come,” he growled, voice sharp, “when I say. Not before.”

A smack landed against your inner thigh—sharp, just enough to sting—and you gasped, pleasure and frustration knotting tight in your belly.

Then he fucked you again—harder, deeper—until the bed creaked beneath both of your weight, the air thick with ragged breaths and low curses. When his fingers circled your clit again, there was no more teasing. Just relentless pressure and perfect timing.

You were unravelling fast, every nerve ending alight.

“Are you close?” he rasped, barely holding on.

“Yes,” you whimpered, “Yes—God, yes—please—”

“Then come for me,” he commanded, the words like a spark against the tinder.

And you did.

You broke for him. Completely.

Your whole body arched, pleasure surging through your veins like wildfire. You called his name with a desperation that wasn’t just a simple release—it was a wave coming crashing over you.

Auston groaned, hips jerking once, twice—and then he pulled out, his body trembling as he jerked himself onto the skin of your lower stomach, coming undone above you.

He stayed there for a heartbeat longer—kneeling between your thighs, chest heaving, his head dipped low as though he needed a second to collect himself. The air between you was thick, pulsing with heat and something far more dangerous than lust.

His hands, which had just moments ago commanded and claimed you, softened as they moved to your wrists. Fingers steady, he untied the belt slowly.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he brought your hands to his mouth without a sound—kissed the inside of your left wrist first, slow, and steady, then moved to the right. 

Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling unevenly, a rush of warmth stinging your throat as you tried to ground yourself in the silence. 

You slid your shirt completely off and sat up slowly—still blinking away the blur from where the fabric had been tugged over your eyes. Your vision sharpened, found him in the low light.

He was watching you.

Not staring. Not inspecting. Just… watching. 

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Eventually, you stood and padded barefoot to the bathroom, the air still thick with heat and something unspoken. You cleaned yourself up in silence, running warm water over your hands, dabbing gently at your skin with a cloth. You caught your reflection in the mirror—hair messy, lips kiss-bruised, eyes tired but alert.

You barely recognised yourself. But not in a bad way.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, you found him lying there like it was the most natural thing in the world—stretched out in your sheets, bare from the waist up, one arm draped across the pillow where your head would go. His eyes found you instantly.

He had made himself comfortable. He hadn’t even asked permission. He didn’t need to.

You crawled back into bed without a word. Slid beneath the sheets and let your body settle into the space beside his. Close, but not touching.

Still, the quietly wrapped around you both like a second blanket—thick and tentative, but not heavy.

And then, in that gravel-soft voice of his, he spoke. Low.

“We’ll join the dinner tomorrow with your family.”

There was no question in it. No hesitation. Just a statement. A certainty.

You turned your head toward him, startled by the confidence in his tone.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just stared up at the ceiling like he already knew this was the next step. Like it had been coming all along.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why or what this meant or how the hell you were supposed to explain it to your mother.

You just breathed. Slowly. Deeply. Then let your eyes close.

_

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

Moves have been made. Pieces shifted. The scoreboard may show a win, but this city knows better—this is the calm before the storm.

Our Queen arrived at Saturday’s game dressed not for show, but for war. Polished, poised, unreadable. She sat among the royals like she belonged there—because she does. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but it didn’t need to. Presence is power, and last night, she made hers count.

And the King? He dominated. On the ice, yes—but off it, too. Not with charm, not with subtlety, but with something sharper: a defence so direct, so cutting, that the whole hallway seemed to still. A warning disguised as chivalry. A claim disguised as concern.

But was it love? Or something more dangerous—pride? Possession? A desire to maintain control of the narrative he once walked away from?

For now, the Queen holds her ground. But this isn’t the end—it’s a pause before the play resumes. And while the Ice King may have protected his Queen this time, we’re left wondering:

Is he back for good… or just buying time?

Every fairytale ends in fire or triumph, and black moves next.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

[journalsfromjupiter]

I think it’s time for Upper East Side!Suguru 🤭

◃─────────────────────────────────────────▹

Ever seen a Calvin Klein Ad?

All lean silhouettes in low lighting. Dark, tousled hair. Angular jawlines sharp enough to cut glass. Minimalist black-and-white. Skin, silk, and a thousand dollars of quiet attitude.

Yeah. That’s pretty much Suguru. 

The luscious dark hair—usually tied back in that signature low bun like he’s too cool to care, but of course he does. The sharp cheekbones. The eyebrow piercing that’s somehow elegant. The kind of toned body that doesn’t look like it came from a gym, but from walking around shirtless in a $3,000 loft while listening to obscure vinyl.

It makes sense that he’s had at least ten modeling offers—Calvin Klein, Tom Ford, Hugo Boss, even freaking Berluti once asked him to do a winter campaign.

He turned them all down.

“Too much attention,” he’d said, scrolling lazily through the proposal emails over brunch one morning. “Also, they wouldn’t let me wear my rings.”

You’d expect someone who looks like him to be a playboy, a walking thirst trap with commitment issues and a rotating cast of forgettable dates. But that’s not Suguru.

He’s chill. Too chill, sometimes. A go-with-the-flow type. The kind of man who’ll show up to a black-tie event in a silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest and still somehow look more put-together than everyone else.

Where Satoru is all charm and chaos, Suguru is calm and collected.

It’s like watching two halves of the same coin.

Satoru dazzles, winks, and lights up every room.

Suguru just is—steady, magnetic, and low-key dangerous without even trying.

It's frustratingly effortless.

Which makes sense, because he’s handsome as fuck. Like, most girls start drooling before he’s even opened his mouth. And yet, Suguru doesn’t need to try. His charm is in the quiet moments, the genuine laughs, the way he remembers your café order even if he’s distracted by his phone.

But when he does speak? Low voice. Casual wit. Razor-sharp when he wants to be, disarmingly thoughtful when you least expect it.

He’s more substance than show. Which, in this world, is rare.

He’s closer to his family than most people up here. His parents are old-school Upper East Side, involved in high-end art dealing and curation—think MoMA board members, Met Gala committee regulars, dinner parties with Rothschilds. They expect him to follow in their footsteps, naturally. They talk about “legacy” over smoked salmon blinis and subtly shame Satoru for being “so American with his money.”

Suguru shrugs it off. He’s not against it. Art isn’t the worst thing to spend a life around, and he’s got a good eye. But it’s not him, not fully.

When Satoru insisted they live in the same building, Suguru didn’t even fight it. Not because he was convinced—he rarely is—but because Satoru would’ve found a way to do it anyway. So now he lives in the penthouse just below his best friend’s.

Which...is a decision he regrets almost every weekend.

No amount of ceiling-thumping or blasting Arctic Monkeys can block out the unholy symphony of whatever the hell Satoru gets up to above. 

Suguru tried to resort to noise-canceling headphones and passive-aggressively gifting him a soundproofing consultant for Christmas. (Satoru laughed and asked if he was jealous. Suguru preferred not to answer.)

He also tried making a noise complaint once. The doorman just laughed.

So, Suguru spends most weekends either at your place or hanging with Shoko, pretending he’s not mildly traumatized by the acoustics of rich people sex.

And honestly, as fast-paced and sharp-edged as life is on the Upper East Side—where power is currency, and appearance is everything—Suguru moves to a different rhythm.

He’s not trying to win the game.

He just wants to feel real in a world built on façades.

He likes the quiet moments between the chaos. The way you roll your eyes when he compliments you. The way Shoko makes instant ramen like it’s a love language. The way he can sit beside you on a balcony and say nothing, and still feel like the world makes sense.

Suguru doesn’t chase anything. He lets things come to him.

◃─────────────────────────────────────────▹

I’m drooling over him rn if I’m honest. Like. Unwell.

It's only gonna get worse from here. Shoko or Nanami next??? 😉

xoxo,

𝓢𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Wrapped In Red [Commander Fox x Fem!Reader]

Warnings and Information: When a long-time friend of yours in the Galactic Senate invited you to one of the upcoming galas, you envisioned a night of lavish apparel, drinking, dancing, and dodging the attempts of too-friendly senators. Added security had not been a part of it, but it’s non-negotiable following an attempt on your friend’s life. Fortunately, you can make the best of a bad situation by making friends with your bodyguards — Clone troopers of the Coruscant Guard, including Marshal Commander Fox himself.  Second Person POV, undescribed Fem!Reader, save for the color of her dress and accessories. Reader is the friend of an unspecified senator nicknamed “Aspen”. Political assassination attempt [off-screen, more focus is on the aftermath]. Brief reference of a riot and (civilian) violence against Clones. Elements of the ‘Lady/Knight’ or ‘Bodyguard Crush’ dynamics. Forced proximity. Reference and allusion to alcohol. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. Star Wars and real-world swearing. Some use of Mando'a. Prompt is highlighted in red. Requested by @returnofthepineapple from her previous account. 

Word Count: 10,817

For the past couple of years, you’ve been living a quiet life on one of Coruscant’s neighboring planets. Though you were born there, the hustle and bustle of Coruscant proved more than you could handle as you grew older. You longed for some place less choked by pollution, politics and power-mad bastards. 

So, just before the outbreak of the Clone Wars, you spread your wings and left the labyrinth-like nest. 

People dear to your heart still lived there, so you never left Coruscant completely behind you. 

One such person—a childhood friend—you’ve managed to remain quite close with in spite of your relocation, and their involvement in the Galactic Senate. Rising through the upper echelons in the political scene to make it into a senatorial position had taken time, but the friend you knew best as Aspen had never been the type who could be easily swayed from their goals, or their sense in doing the right thing. 

Thinking of you often, Aspen liked to send you invitations to some of the millions of events taking place on Coruscant at any given time. Mostly small things, like seasonal markets or something related to various hobbies and interests. 

“A certain someone I know would love the concert they're holding in the entertainment district this coming Zhellday!”

“Blast… I’m going to be busy that day! But you’re the best, Aspen.”

On rare occasions, the invitations Aspen gave you were to much bigger things than crafting workshops or concerts. 

The most recent of these larger invitations is to an upcoming gala being held at the very end of the month, meant to cap off the long proposal period of very important—yet divisive—bills and other legislation to the Republic. You knew from past experience this would be a very, very long month for Aspen with no shortage of headaches. They were probably ready to beg you to attend the gala if it came down to it. 

It took only a short moment of thought before coming to a decision upon receiving the electronic invite; hoping to surprise them with good news, a message was left with a member of their senatorial staff. 

Hey, Aspen, just thought I’d let you know I got your invitation to the upcoming gala. I know you’re busy, so you don’t need to convince me to attend. I’d be happy to come and see you. The gala sounds like fun. Already looking forward to it! 

You’ve attended a few parties with Aspen in the past, but you can’t recall one of this scale or importance. There were the small fundraisers where you ate so many jogan fruit tarts together you were nearly sick. Promotional campaigns where bets were made on how many flutes of champagne Aspen’s competitors would end up sucking back before the end of the night. Public appearances where you stood beside (or in place of) your childhood friend’s family to support and celebrate the hard work they’ve put into the planet you called home for a long, long time. 

Making the kind of differences Aspen hoped for in the galaxy would often be an uphill battle. You’ve regularly joked it was a good thing that they’ve always been a fan of climbing in all the time you knew them. 

By the time you made it to Coruscant, less than a week before the gala, you were faced with the horrible discovery of just how close Aspen had come to falling from those lofty heights.

You’re planet-side for all of five minutes—busy wrestling your things together in the spaceport terminal—before you find yourself face-to-helmet with a pair of white-armored men. By the way they had begun marching in the direction of the baggage claim from the moment you got there and the deliberateness of their stride, you had the feeling they were not simply on patrol. 

These soldiers—Clones—part of the Coruscant Guard, judging by the red paintwork, had been waiting for you.  

The rest of your luggage continued to sit on the revolving conveyor belt as you spoke with the shocktroopers for the next few minutes, trying to figure out what was going on in spite of the travel-fatigue. Anyone who’s spent a significant amount of time on Coruscant has seen more than their fair share of regular commuters and far-away travelers getting stopped by terminal security forces, so that in itself is not out of the ordinary. 

Getting stopped by members of the Guard, those who dealt with riots and political escorts… That was more unusual. It meant whatever was going on was pretty karkin’ serious. (You’re not in trouble, are you?) Comply. Be polite. They don’t sound angry yet when they start asking basic questions to confirm your identity. 

Starting with your name and date of birth, one of the troopers brings up his datapad clipped to his utility belt to verify your answers against information in their database. The other silently gathers the rest of your baggage from the carousel the next time it comes around, preventing some petty criminal from getting their hands on whatever's inside. Between giving the troopers the requested information, a million thoughts race all at once while wondering whether or not you’ll be asked to come with them soon enough. Unless the Corries are hurting for work so badly that they’re now working spaceport security, whatever this is about is undoubtedly serious. 

In a shaken voice, you try to find answers once there is a suitable lull in the questioning.

“Can I ask what this is about…? Am I in trouble?”

The trooper with the datapad in his hand turns to the other, saying nothing, but raises his shoulders and gestures with his free hand as if to say “How much do you think we can tell her?” to his partner. You grow all the more nervous as the silent exchange continues, the partner shaking his head at the first. 

“Not here.” the second trooper says, his head wagging sharply to suggest it isn’t a good idea. 

The first makes a hurried promise before he’s interrupted by the second. “You’re not in trouble-” 

“But you’re not safe, either. We can explain more once you’re about the gunship. We need to ask you to come with us.” (Gunship? Safe? Oh fuck.) The same trooper, nodding to a bag by your feet now says “Sayber, take the duffle bag. I’ve got the suitcase.” before instructing you to follow them. 

Struggling to match their militant stride, you want to do little more than shrink out of discomfort feeling hundreds of eyes trained on you as you march back the way the shocktroopers came through the crowded spaceport. Doing your best to ignore all the many faces glittering with curiosity, you instead focus on the LAAT/i emblazoned with the crest of the Guard lazily bobbing in place as it hovers over a part of the terminal’s platform. 

Aside from the pilot, there are three more soldiers. Two are waiting in the craft itself; another waits on the ground, hands planted firmly on each hip. 

He must be who Sayber and the second, nameless Clone now walking beside you report to, judging by the stance and differences in his armor. On his helmet, you see stylized wings painted above a black visor guard, framing the visor itself. Two ‘capes’ of flexible armor hung from his utility belt, swaying in the downdraft of the ship just behind him, and the left shoulder armor has an antenna of some kind. 

If you had to guess his rank, he’s either a captain or commander. “That didn’t take long at all.” he calls to his soldiers, tone neither impressed or surprised. “Have you and Naran verified she’s who we were sent to retrieve?”

“Yes, Commander Thorn. She matches the descriptions we were given.” Sayber, the trooper on your right, replies confidently. 

All the same, he and Naran show their superior the datapad, allowing him to look at the information for himself. Confirmed with the commander, you’re given the go-ahead to board. Naran and Sayber board first, one securing your luggage while the other helps you into the gunship. 

As soon as you’re aboard, the commander orders the blast shields closed. The sound of which makes you wince, but being so on-edge, you’re grateful for the feeling of extra security it brings soon after. As you’re being shown an overhead handrail to use in case the inertial compensator isn’t enough to keep you from being wobblier than a newborn bantha, you’re advised not to lock your knees once the military repulsorcraft takes off. 

“Flight shouldn’t be too long, but, because even the most routine escorts have surprises we have to ask: do you get airsick, ma’am?” Having met them just a short time ago, you can’t yet tell Naran and Sayber apart, but you’re pretty sure this is Naran who’s rooting through the on-board medical kit for something. 

“O-oh, I-”

Your hesitation and the commander’s interruption is enough for one of them to toss an airsick bag your way, just in case. “Nothing routine about this escort, boys. We’re gonna be wrapped in red tape for a while, so we should start getting used to it.” The pilot is signaled to take off from the spaceport and begin making his way to a coded location a few moments later. 

The word ‘escort’ is nothing unfamiliar to you, having gone through this song and dance one of the last times you came to support Aspen’s senatorial workings. But red tape creates enough dread to ice over your veins before it begins pooling hot and sour in your guts. 

“C-can I ask what’s going on now?” 

What’s happened that’s made all of this a necessity?

Naran, remembering the promise he made back at the terminal, begins to carefully explain the situation with a slight halt in his voice. Each word is chosen carefully, like perhaps he’s unsure just how much he can say, or how you might react. 

“Someone—we’re not sure who—tried to end your friend Senator Aspen’s life shortly before you got to Coruscant… They’re shaken, but ultimately unharmed. We were asked to bring you to the same secure location by one of the other commanders.” 

The remainder of your flight aboard the gunship goes by without another word. The troopers know this is difficult information to process, and you can’t think of a single thing to say about any of it. It’s hard to be afforded a moment of silence to reflect on any of this with the guttural drone of the engine eating up any sound below a stage whisper, but the soldiers around you do their best. It’s a small act of kindness to you. 

Until you step off the gunship, this will be your last opportunity to have any kind of time to yourself before you’ll be so caught up in red tape you would practically be wearing the stuff.

Upon arrival, Sayber and Naran once again wrangle your luggage for you to speed up the process of disembarking. 

The less hindrances you had the better. You needed to see Aspen. And Aspen needed to see you. Having a friendly face by your side made confronting calamity a little more bearable, someone wise once told you. (Or, maybe you read that somewhere on the holonet…) In this state of heightened adrenaline, thoughts become muddled and disjointed as Commander Thorn ushers you past several armed security guards down a long hall. 

You can only imagine your friend will be in a far worse state. 

“Senator Aspen is in here,” Commander Thorn explains, stopping in front of a modified blastdoor. “The two of you will be kept here until a security detail has been finalized.”

“That’s fine… Thank you, Commander Thorn.”

Commander Thorn wastes no time, waving you in ahead of him once he’s completed keying in the clearance code. Inside, you find your friend crumpled into a low multi-seater, face in their hands as the person seated on the other end of the couch appears to be explaining something either to them, or to the other armed guards posted in the corners of the panic room.  

From the armor kit, you know the man is another Clone like Sayber, Naran and Commander Thorn with a singular glance. But you’re less concerned with who he is right at this moment, never having been more relieved to see your friend than you are right now. 

“Once she’s here, I would like everyone to-”

“Aspen!”

The other Clone immediately falls silent as Aspen gets on their feet in a flash, all but vaulting over the caf-table in order to meet you half-way. Mutually crushing the air out of the other’s lungs in the strength of your embrace, neither of you can properly express just how grateful you are to see the other. Jumbled, rapid words give way to tears seeping into one another’s shoulders before long, so occupied with comforting each other that no attention is paid to the troopers being swapped out with Naran and Sayber once they have brought in your belongings. 

In a tight, choked voice your friend begins apologizing to you once they’re calm enough to speak. “I’m so sorry that we had to meet like… like this… but it’s so, so good to see you.” Pulling away, you get a better look at their face for the first time and your heart clenches painfully. They look so scared. So deeply shaken. Yet here they are, apologizing to you for something that’s hardly their fault. 

“Had to be the longest hour of my life, waiting here with the Commander for you to get to Coruscant…” Aspen continues, taking your hand to guide you to sit beside them on the multi-seater where it would be more comfortable than standing. “I wanted to talk to you. So badly. Just to hear your voice and find a little solace after- After everything.”

“I’m guessing you couldn’t?”

Your friend shakes their head no. “Not exactly. We weren’t sure if it would be safe to. I’m sor-”

It’s you who shakes their head this time before explaining why a second apology is not necessary. “Hey. I understand. The important thing was trying to keep you safe after you were almost… hurt. Or worse.” The simple fact your friend was unharmed—still living and breathing in front of you—was an incredible blessing.

“Your friend sounds like a smart woman, Senator Aspen.” 

Reminded of his presence after you’ve been paid a compliment, your friend quickly begins the process of trying to compose themself in order to begin proper introductions. “Y-yes, she very much is… Commander, this is my very dear friend I was trying to tell you about earlier when explaining who your men needed to find.” The second Commander nods in polite greeting, refraining from saying anything until introductions have been finished. 

“And this, my dear friend,” Aspen says in a well-practiced this-is-important tone of voice, “is Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. I believe he’s been tasked with security after what nearly happened.”

At this point, Commander Fox has gotten to his feet and taken a look at something on Commander Thorn’s datapad before consulting his own. “That would be correct, Senator.” Holding himself with purpose, this second commander standing beside Thorn differs from him in more ways than just the color-inversion of his chest armor, and the additional Corrie Crimson on his armor alone. “I am here by order of the Chancellor to create a strong security detail for you, and your friend, in light of the attempt on your life almost an hour ago.” His voice, while not too different from the Clones you’ve met today thus far, had strong tonal qualities of duty and seriousness that commanded a great deal of attention from everyone in the room. 

You’ll ask about “that” detail in just a moment. Right now, you’re more surprised there’s no fear or unease when he says he’s here to enact the Chancellor’s will. This comes naturally to him.

“Sorry, I just want to make sure I heard you correctly: you said by order of the Chancellor?”

Nodding stiffly, Commander Fox confirms his orders. “Yes ma’am. As the Marshal Commander, I’ve been asked by Chancellor Palpatine to personally ensure your safety at all times until it is no longer deemed necessary. While he understands the upcoming gala expects to see many high-profile guests, he was rather disturbed to hear what had nearly happened to Senator Aspen, and insisted upon a constant security presence.” 

“I may or may not have tried politely refusing the Chancellor’s offer.” Aspen explains to you, chuckling somewhat shamefully. “And he was right to insist upon my refusal; it was fifteen minutes after the attack and I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly… I… Well, I think Commander Fox or Thorn has the pictures.” 

Nodding less stiffly than before, Commander Fox takes one of the datapads and shows you a collection of the holo-stills and frames taken from nearby security feeds of the destruction left by the attack. While you look at the horrible state of Aspen’s senatorial office, the main window broken with thick shards of transparisteel strewn across the floor, your friend explains that they managed to escape the attack unharmed by sheer, dumb luck. 

“I survived because I tripped, if you can believe it.” 

Blaster marks have burned the back of Aspen’s chair and several spots in the floor. The main desk, made from a much heavier, more-solid material, is riddled with blaster burn in comparison. While you’re not an expert by any means, the window pane’s shatter pattern suggests that the weapon used by the would-be assassin was likely high-powered, or of uncommon caliber. 

“It was just a split second before the first shot. After that, I hid in front of the desk as best as I could until members of the Coruscant Guard showed up. All that Corrie Crimson surging into my office must have scared them off because the firing stopped almost as soon as the Guard got there.”

Dumb luck. Dumb luck saved your friend before the Corries came to protect them. 

Facing the whole emotional gamut as you view these stills, Commander Fox puts the datapad away the very second you cannot stand to see more, shaking your head no, no, no. 

Outrage and disgust blooms in your chest, acidic and bitter-hot. You had too many questions to ask all at once. Crime scene analysts had cordoned off Aspen’s office, currently combing over everything for the most minute of clues. Would they be able to figure out who could have possibly wanted to kill your friend? Did anyone see who it was before they got away?

What was the motivation?

Uncertain of the answers to the other questions, Aspen could only offer partial answers as to ‘why’ someone might have tried to kill them with much hand-wringing. 

On one of the planets the Republic has been hoping to change the neutrality status of, there had been a riot almost a month ago now that’s still so tightly wrapped up in red tape largely in efforts to keep details away from the press while investigations are still on-going. Because of that, Aspen can’t say who they believe started the riot, or for what reason. But they can tell you that several Clones were nearly beaten to death as a result, and the rioters responsible have been charged with destruction of government property for the time being. 

Aspen was spearheading an effort to re-file those charges under a different crime that they believe more accurately reflects the rioters’ intentions that day. Attempted murder. While the effort has seen a lot of support in the Chambers, there are a fair number of senators still dragging their feet on making a decision. 

A small handful of influential senators have had a far less positive reception to this effort the longer Aspen has encouraged these changes. Matters that were becoming complicated when some of them were beginning to react in ways that suggested hostility have now become even more complicated with the introduction of a botched assassination. 

Planning for the gala has gotten a whole lot more complicated as well. If it’s even going to happen at all…

“Did the Chancellor say anything about cancelling the gala at the end of the week?”

“Too many high-profile guests coming from across the galaxy to change anything at this point, I imagine. Some of them have been making preparations for half a year, or more.” Aspen explains, fruitlessly massaging their temples over the thought of it. “Great galaxies, I do not envy whoever is in charge of organizing security for that mess…” 

Commander Thorn politely clears his throat. “Will likely be me, now that Commander Fox is overseeing your security, Senator.” He quickly adds, “Or, it could be Commander Thire. We’ll get it sorted.” after sharing a fleeting glance with his fellow commander. 

Aspen winces sympathetically. 

“I’m so sorry…” 

“Don’t be, Senator.” Commander Thorn says. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer than before, careful sympathy lacing every spoken word. “We’re sorry that your plans to get ready for the gala are going to have to be changed.”  

“How soon will that be?” Aspen wonders.

“Once Commander Fox has your security detail finalized.” 

Your friend makes a low sound in their throat, smiling grimly. “Very soon then, I imagine… May I ask what we can expect, Commander Fox?” 

In a calm and deliberate voice, Commander Fox explains that as investigations are being conducted, he and other members of the Guard are going to be accompanying the two of you everywhere leading up to the gala. They’ll be your security as well as your escort force; you’re going to be spending a lot of time under their watchful eyes and ready hands.

So if there are any reservations, now is the time to say something. 

You look to your friend and make a quiet offer after considering the Commander’s words. “You’re the one who invited me here, so I’ll follow your lead, Aspen.” You’ve known each other long enough to trust their judgement. If it was decided it would be safest for you to go home, then you would take a rain check on this visit and come back to Coruscant another time. 

While you’re prepared not to create more trouble for everyone, Aspen’s selfless nature rears its sweet head even in the wake of an attack. Turning to Commander Fox, who stands straight-backed as he is patiently awaiting a verdict before the two of you, your friend asks one final question of him. 

“I know plans will change, but will the security detail mean I can still help my friend prepare for the gala, Commander?”

Commander Fox takes less than a moment to think before deciding that would be a reasonable use of the service. “If that’s what you wish, Senator.” He nods politely not only to Aspen, but to you as well, you notice. A small gesture of professionalism, as well as respect. 

“Then we accept.” Aspen says, sealing your shared fate for the rest of the week leading up to the gala.

Though the two of you have only just met, the feeling that you’ll come to like this man has already begun to spark.

From the moment Commander Fox put the security detail into action, you decided for yourself that you would make the most of this situation and make conscientious efforts to get to know everyone making up this task force better going forward. Not only would it be polite, but it would make it easier to remain in close-quarters with these men for a long period of time when they were no longer strangers. 

The full team consisted of two parts: Clones who had been hand-picked to be stationed with Commander Fox full-time, and those who would be rotating through the force on an as-needed basis. That meant there would likely be more than a few soldiers you would get to know very well by the end of the team’s lifespan. 

Maybe even become friends. 

Already, you and your friend were making great progress getting to know Naran and Sayber in particular. These two soldiers—who were part of the permanent assignment—are not merely patrol partners like you had initially assumed when you first met them. They explained they were batchmates, meaning they had been created and trained together at the same time on the world known as Kamino, out in Wild Space. 

Naran and Sayber completed their training six months ago; stationed on Coruscant for five. It explains why their armor looks so new, and why the paint lacks much chipping, fading or transferring. They’re young, and have only begun breaking it in. There’s a term Clones like to use that pretty much means the same thing as “rookie”. 

“We’re not exactly a couple of ‘Shinies’ anymore, but we’re still fairly inexperienced compared to other brothers in the Guard… I’m not exactly sure why Commander Fox assigned us permanently.” Sayber confesses to you in a moment of quiet. 

Commanders Fox and Thorn are busy, following protocol to secure the room where you and Aspen will be sleeping; the batchmates are supposed to be focused on keeping their eyes on the two of you in the meantime, but Sayber’s curiosity is stronger than his worry over being “caught” bothering you by his superiors. 

Something that Naran quietly fumes with frustration about. (“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, di’kut…”) He much prefers to stay on task and engage only when addressed. It might take more time before he opens up to the two of you compared to his brother and patrol partner, who happily does more than enough talking for the two of them. 

You can expect to meet more of the Guard starting tomorrow; the rest of the day will likely be focused on getting the two of you settled in before any of the pre-gala preparations and errands can be conducted. Some will have to be done separately. Others can be done together, such as the shopping for a dress (on Aspen’s insistence), given that they are performed during set hours. 

And they will always involve an escort of no less than two troopers. 

You will not be permitted to wander around Coruscant, alone, at any given time. 

“Dammit. Sounds like getting some Hyellian musical noodles around two in the morning is out of the question, then.” you remark softly in jest during the first review of the safety plan once the Commanders have completed their protocol, shrugging animatedly in an oh well fashion. Won’t be the end of the galaxy. 

His review disrupted, Commander Fox’s dark T-shaped visor lifts from the screen and fixes itself upon you, quietly regarding you over the top of the datapad in his free hand. 

The thought that you just karked up strikes you in an instant. 

Thinking you’re being serious, Fox speaks seriously in turn. “I was unaware this was something I needed to account for. Forgive me, ma’am.” Your hammering heart skips a beat rather uncomfortably as he begins to pull up the keyboard on the device’s HUD, and your face grows hot with embarrassment. 

“No, I-! I was only making a joke. I’m sorry, Commander, I shouldn’t have.” 

Asking him to accommodate a silly little tradition of yours every time you made the trip to Triple Zero would create more work for everyone. Taking unnecessary risks. It would be selfish. 

Fortunately, you won’t have to worry about making fewer jokes just because Commander Fox has a stronger no-nonsense personality than you might be accustomed to for very long. Members of his own Guard have a way of softening the tension to keep things from getting quite so abrasive. 

“Grizzer and I could always make that run for you, ma’am.” There to listen in on the review, the ARF trooper that was assigned to guard the perimeter of the ‘safe house’ by the name of Sergeant Hound drops the lead to the massiff in question after issuing a command word. “Su!” The quadrupedal reptilian settles on their hindquarters, long tongue lolling between dagger-sharp teeth. 

“It’ll help her earn a turbodog once this is all said and done. Tradition of ours, for the big jobs.” 

Maker: it will take some getting used to being called or considered part of a “big job” like this. 

After a long moment, you decide to accept. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” Since he was kind enough to offer, you make sure to give Hound an especially grateful nod. 

Commander Fox adds the offer to the approved actions he’s compiled once the exchange has finished, and moves swiftly on. There has been a lot of ground covered, and he intends to cover more before someone will be sent to collect that night’s dinner order. It’s evident enough that he’s a serious and hard-working man. He would have to be, seeing as he’s the Marshal Commander appointed to lead the Coruscant Guard. so…

So it comes as little surprise that any offer or invitation for a breather, a single moment off his feet has been turned down time and time again as the afternoon bleeds into the evening. Even in the securest of spaces, Commander Fox turns down reprieve and refreshment with the same four words. 

“No thank you,” either followed by Senator or ma’am. 

Your kindness refuses to falter in the face of his stoicism, but you’re smart enough to recognize when to let it go at the same time. 

“Okay. May I offer it to Naran and Sayber instead, then?”

Dinner had been sourced from 79’s in the entertainment district; largely finger foods made in outrageous portion sizes, meant to be shared between large groups. Aspen had ordered a slider for each of you, and a basket of protato wedges to share. There had been a slight mix-up, and the two of you ended up with a third slider and more than double the wedges that you could possibly hope to eat by yourselves. Trying to sort out the error was met with the offer to go ahead and keep the food as they were pretty slammed tonight. 

“If you wish, ma’am.” Fox replies, voice as politely disinterested as before. “I’m certain they won’t object.” 

True to form, the batchmates eagerly unseal their helmets before gratefully accepting the offered food, granted unspoken permission by their commander. It’s the first time you see any of the Clones’ faces since the start of all this unfortunate excitement. “Thank you, sir. And thank you ma’am!” Sayber exclaims. His broad grin brings out a dimple in the tanned left cheek, adding to how he looks far, far too young for this armor. 

He and Naran carry the food to the only other table in the room in order to eat, wasting no time in coming up with a way to halve the slider and wedges between them. While his men eat, Commander Fox discreetly consults the datapad he has clipped to the utility belt from which his dark kama hangs. What he’s reading is a mystery, but you could probably assume it had to do with either you, Aspen, or his shocktroopers. Maybe it was the safety plan and security detail for tomorrow. Maybe it was unrelated. 

Regardless, this seems to be the only sort of reprieve he allows himself. Once he’s finished, the tablet returns to the Commander’s hip and he reassumes position. 

His posture is meticulous, yet somehow almost elegant. Hands folded behind his back and chest high, the crimson commander does not budge so much as an inch from his post in the time it takes Naran and Sayber to put everything away. Only once they clean up and reseal their helmets will Commander Fox drop this extra rigidity. 

Fox’s earlier refusal now appears more purposeful than before when this time it is Naran who thanks you and his superior for the food. The shocktrooper’s words are met with a “Don’t mention it.” so softly spoken, it would be hard (but perhaps not impossible) to mistake it for a command. 

From this singular display of momentary tenderness, Fox has told you more about himself that he might realize: if you hope to have a better chance of befriending the commander, how his men are taken care of will likely be very important over the coming days.

Following that first night on Coruscant, you fell into a routine within a short couple of days. 

Waking up an hour (sometimes more) before Commander Fox arrived with the day’s security detail, you would quietly prepare for the day ahead of you just to have a small bit of time to yourself. Just you and Aspen. Together, you’d take this opportunity to have more intimate conversations without your second shadows in red and white armor present; to reflect on the days behind you.

And puzzle out a curious pattern beginning to develop… 

It was hardly surprising that there would be the most to say of Commander Fox out of all the Corries. You spent the most time with him. Not only was Fox the lynchpin to your collective safety, but the only time he was ever away from your side (save for using the ‘fresher) was to allow each of you to sleep for the night. 

He was by far the most reserved member of the Corries you’ve had the pleasure of meeting; the most aloof and strictly professional, all for good reason. Not only was he dealing with the Chancellor’s orders for a very serious situation, there was so much red tape for him to navigate through on a daily basis. It wouldn’t feel right to either of you to ask Commander Fox to behave in a more-friendly manner for the sake of protecting your own feelings. 

But more recently he was starting to become more warm with you, no longer just his soldiers. 

You’ve seen how he is with the younger soldiers in particular, like Naran and Sayber. Reminding them again and again to not tense their shoulders quite so much. Answering their many what-if questions. Encouraging the two of them to play a bit of holochess against you or the senator in his stead. 

Now Commander Fox was thanking you for your offers when turning down the invitation to take a short break or have something to eat. He was no longer passively listening to conversations you would have with the other Clones, but joining in on the rare occasion. You were no longer just ‘Senator Aspen’s friend’ or simply ‘ma’am’ when speaking of you, or being addressed. 

When Commander Fox began to use your name, that’s when things became a little more interesting. 

Aspen started to gently tease you after that, suspecting you were becoming somewhat charmed by the crimson commander. The gala was in two days. Your friend had promised to help you buy a formal dress here on Coruscant in order to save you luggage space. Neither of you certainly expected to have an audience, and Aspen wanted to make sure that you’d be okay with potentially being seen by Fox and a dozen or more Clones in a fancy dress or two.

Yes, the Guard was always, always very respectful of you both, but perhaps it might be a bit embarrassing. Or feel strange. Maybe you would feel self-conscious in front of Fox in particular… Something they promised was perfectly normal while you were busy getting ready together this morning as you waited for Fox and the Guard to arrive. 

“You’re saying that you think I have a crush on the commander?” 

You take a brief pause from tidying things on your side of the room, wondering whether or not you’d heard your friend correctly. Commander Fox was by and large what you might consider a “strong and silent” type of man, slow to let someone into their comfort zone, teasing the other person along inch by inch. Did Aspen really think that’s what was going on with you? That you were intrigued by some kind of thrilling mystery in interacting with someone like that?

“Well… Sort of.” Aspen admits with a soft laugh. “This kind of thing happens a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s Baby’s First Bodyguard, or you’re a seasoned professional when it comes to dealing with armed escorts. A lot of senators and diplomats tend to form some kind of feeling for the people who are there to protect them.”

You try to mask your doubt with a joking accusation. “Are you trying to feed me banthashit right now?” Is this truly as common as Aspen says it is, or are they trying to help you feel better in their typical selfless fashion? 

Sensing your doubt, Aspen promises they are telling the truth. “It really does happen all the time, sweetheart. It’s happened to me too! You know I wouldn’t lie about that. And you know I’m not going to judge you for feeling things for the commander, or possibly having a crush, either, right?” Before you can answer, you hear the sound of a distant LAAT/i, followed by several soldiers speaking at once. 

You’re going to have to wrap this up, quick. “Of course. I’ve known you for a long time, Aspen. I trust you.” They’ve always been a good friend to you; there’s never been a reason for doubt or distrust. 

Briskly getting up, Aspen helps you tidy and put away the last of your things not a moment too soon. Just as everything has been put away, Commander Fox makes himself known with four firm raps on the other side of the door. Here forty-five minutes exactly before the first of the boutiques is set to open, as discussed. 

The usual pleasantries are exchanged after Aspen has gone to answer the door. The ‘good morning’s and asking if the two of you slept well. Asking if there was anything either of you needed before joining the others back at the gunship and getting on your way. 

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you. Nice to see you, Commander.” 

Perhaps surprised by your choice of greeting, Commander Fox has a brief moment of pause before he’s able to reply. “You as well, ma’am. Very well. No need to inform our pilot of anything, then. We can be on our way.” Nearly positive you’re not imagining it, while still rather factual, there seems to be more warmth in Fox’s voice this morning. 

He’s still all-business, encouraging everyone not to waste any time getting to the gunship, but now his tone is less stern and terse compared to the days before. He almost sounds… friendlier. Maybe Fox just needed three days to thaw out before warming up to you. Could be that he’s in a good mood because his men are in a great one this morning, most of them comfortable enough around you by now to talk about last night’s boloball victory in whispers. 

Whatever the case may be, it makes you a little less nervous about the prospect of going shopping with such a large security detail. 

Commander Fox’s brightened demeanor hardly changes for anything. 

Even Sayber can’t ruin it by forgetting his training and speaking out with excitement while you and Aspen steadily shop around the first of the formal boutiques for a suitable dress. His reason for doing so was more than forgivable: right around the time you began reaching for a gown in a sort of pomegranate red, the young shocktrooper cried out “HAH! Eat your heart out, Police Inspector Dan Tivo! I knew the Corries would find a lead in the investigation before him!”, much to the disturbance of the other patrons. 

There would be much apologizing to do—Sayber for breaking protocol and to the shop for causing any additional inconveniences—before this would start to become the point where things really began looking up. 

The red tape would not yet loosen itself from you, but with any luck it should soon begin to lift.

Whether you believed it was a curious coincidence or not, you decided to go with the red gown you had been reaching for around the time news broke of the lead in the investigation. By cleverly pairing it with a few ivory accessories, you curated an overall image that would come close to matching with much of the Coruscant Guard. 

This way, you could quietly sort of “mark” the time spent in their company in the week leading up the gala without outright wearing any one Clone’s personal markings, or the iconography that belonged to both the Guard and the Senate. 

You also can’t pretend it was no small relief to have so many of these big decisions taken care of so quickly, or all at the same shop in a busy fashion district. What had been planned to take nearly all day was completed in the span of less than two hours. 

And the next two days went by in a feverish blur with Commander Fox working harder than ever to truly make sure your security at the formal event would be nothing less than ironclad. 

His men even claimed he was aiming to be better than beskar: creating plans for every possible situation and even going so far as to form redundancies. Mapping out where and when you would arrive at the gala venue. Choosing who would be watching over you and Aspen separately, and who would be watching both of you. How he can continue to take care of your needs. Until the time comes and the suspect behind the botched killing has been caught, Commander Fox has sworn to remain at your service, no matter how trivial the request. 

Or how foolish you feel to ask. 

With hours to go and anxieties rising, there are times that involving him in the hustle-and-bustle process of getting dressed up becomes simply unavoidable. With every instance, your gratitude for this man only continues to grow stronger than before. 

Dropped an earring under the dresser and it’s too far for you to reach? Naran and Sayber will need to lend him a hand, lifting the furniture aside so he can search for it on his hands and knees.

Hands shaking too much, and the clasp on your necklace giving you trouble? He’ll help you put it on - he only asks that you hold your hair out of the way for him. 

Turning over the string of delicate Castilon pearls, you move to stand in front of the commander. The most straight-forward way to secure the necklace will be to turn your back to Fox and allow him to fit it from behind. “Thank you, Commander. I can’t seem to get my nerves under control at the moment...” you explain, grateful he won’t see the soft flush breaking across your face as his dexterous fingers latch and unlatch the tiny set of claw clasps with relative ease. 

In his voice you hear the very same tenderness he imparts to the youngest of his brothers as he softly encourages you to relax. By the time you take a deep breath and count to five ‘battleship’s, he’ll have this taken care of. You’re going to be just fine. Ordinarily you would be, were it not for the electric ripple in your skin every time you feel the smooth material of his raven-dark gloves brush against you. 

Understanding the tensing under each feather-light touch is only a reflex, the Marshal Commander casually remarks that you’ll be hard-pressed to find a senator, dignitary or diplomat that isn’t a bit on edge or nervous about the gala. Fox says it in hopes of it serving to soothe you, rather than make you more nervous. 

“There you are,” he concludes once he’s finished securing the three-strand necklace. You allow him to check the matching earrings to make certain they won’t come loose for good measure. “I admit I may not be the best man when it comes to these kinds of things, but I give it my best effort.” 

Fetching your ivory clutch, you can at last turn to thank him once Commander Fox reports the ivory accessories are both secure. “Thank you, Commander. Fortunately I’m not looking for the very best, only a bit of help. I would say that it’s hardly a contest that you’ve been among the very best in providing an immense amount of help this week.” Your favorite pair of shocktroopers share in Aspen’s giggling amusement as Commander Fox maintains his professionalism rather than fully internalizing the compliment you’ve tried to pay him. 

“Thank you, ma’am: but I don’t believe I can take all the credit. My men have shown around-the-clock commitment to this assignment that I couldn’t be more proud of.” 

With a boisterous laugh, Sayber bravely advises his superior officer on what to say. “Now’s not the time to be all modest and humble, sir! No buts – just tell her thank you!” He’s close enough to still being considered a Shiny that Sayber can get away with speaking to a brother of higher ranking in a semi-teasing manner, and he knows it. 

Commander Fox knows it too. “You’re right, you’re right…” he relents, beginning to fix parts of his armor in a bid to stall for more time. Starting with the vambraces, he straightens them out like he’s adjusting a pair of cufflinks. “Thank you, ma’am. It is my hope that both you and Senator Aspen have felt nothing less than complete assurance in the security force I have tirelessly maintained.”

Finding it satisfactory, Sayber quickly concludes with “That’s better, sir!” after you and your friend confirm there have been no concerns in your armed escorts at any given point. 

There isn’t much time you can afford to waste, having to take alternative transport that would be kinder on any formalwear than a gunship. While helping you board the other transport, Naran politely comments on the care you’ve put into your appearance for tonight and offers his hope that you have a nice time. Doing so now just in case he doesn’t get a chance later. The same sentiment is then offered to Aspen as they are helped aboard after you. 

Fuck. You’re really gonna miss these guys when all of this is over. 

You’ll miss Naran and Sayber’s playful bickering, the way they shout “Ulyc, di’kut!” at each other when the other does something foolish. You’ll miss the pilots who have flown you over the more beautiful parts of the upper-city when there’s been time to kill; like Umate and Monument Plaza, even some of your old haunts from before. 

Miss the games of fetch with Grizzer to reward her for a good job, the meals that have been shared, and the stories of how these boys got their names. 

But most of all, you’ll miss the crimson commander.

It didn’t matter that he was rather aloof and distant. How he kept things almost strictly business. That he’s never once taken off his helmet in front of you. Only ever nodding, never showing you if his smile dimpled his left cheek like most of his brothers. Or that he never told you how he came by “Fox” for his name. Whether it had been one he claimed, or something he earned. 

Because that wouldn’t be what you’d miss Commander Fox for. 

You’d miss him for never drawing more attention to himself than he had to, shying from such spotlights in the interest of giving them to his brothers instead. Miss him for the unwavering politeness he’s had for you, treating you no differently than he would for another galactic senator, or even the Chancellor. 

All this security, all this red, had been the most reassuring feeling you’ve had all week. And it won’t be easy to say goodbye, to any of it. 

Or to Commander Fox. 

Between the sound of spirited chatter, ceaseless pop-and-chop of photographers’ camera shutters and lively, swelling music, entering the formal venue before the official start of the celebration proves easily-overwhelming near-instantaneously. 

Getting here early offers you time to acclimate. Elation and excitement should eventually find you, but there will be time to find somewhere to cool off, if necessary. It also serves as a chance for the Chancellor to visit with Aspen, hoping to speak and hear how they’ve been since Commander Fox had been appointed for protection, as well as to ask about his performance. 

The visit is kept brief, but your friend stresses the shared satisfaction you have in all Fox—and the rest of the Guard for that matter—has done for you before agreeing to speak more privately and at-length the following morning. The Chancellor is not here to detract from the hopeful enjoyment of the occasion for either of you; soon enough you are left free to enjoy the entertainment and pursue the available catering. 

It became apparent most of the music played tonight came from Naboo, much like the Chancellor - written by some of her people’s most respected and well-known composers. And much of the food was extravagant, tables showcasing what your own credits could never hope to see with plate after plate of hors d’oeuvres beyond your ability to even name. Same went for the drinks when you were unable to locate any cards or signage. 

The Commander quickly proves rather knowledgeable when you blindly select a sparkling crystal flute, scrutinizing the bubbling contents with a puzzling expression after it fails recognition by smell alone.  

“What’s this…?”

“Prized champagne provided by Pantora, ma’am. It’s recently proved rather popular.” Fox explains, hands moving from carefully held at his side to folded neatly behind his back as he approaches closer to the table. 

“And what about the tall and skinny glass, or the one with a short stem and large bowl?”

An erroneously-named Mantell mixer in the highball glass, supplied from a different planet in the Mid Rim. The snifter is a robust brandy reportedly of Wayyl origin. Commander Fox can only tell you what he’s heard when it comes to if they are any good, refraining from making any kind of decision for you or presuming what you would like. There are other drinks reported to be stationed throughout the venue, if none of them appear to be to your liking. If you would prefer something non-alcoholic, he knows where the sparkling cider can be found. 

You decide you’ll be starting off safe with the cider, for the time being. Less decision fatigue than coming up with an unfamiliar, strong drink to try. He again helps with identifying the human-suitable foods for you and Aspen to sample. That’s when you realize Fox is utilizing sensors and scanners built into his ‘bucket’ rather than strictly being knowledgeable upon a sharp pause in his explanation. 

“The cured meat is supposed to pair best with… no, wait. Damn artificial intelligence pulled up a recipe blog.” 

And rather than pressuring you to engage every instance, Aspen encourages you to go explore the venue instead of listening to them catch up with many of their fellow senators. Knowing who you’ll likely prefer for company (but might be too bashful to openly say), they give you their “blessing” to take Fox as your escort in the meantime. 

“Why don’t you go exploring for a while, dear friend? Just so I don’t bore you; I promise I’ll let you know if Senator Amidala or Chuchi are able to stop by before I catch up with you so you can decide if you want to say hello. I’ll ask Naran and Sayber to stay with me in the meantime. Perhaps the Marshal Commander can go with you… If he doesn’t mind?” 

The commander offers a cordial nod prior to replying. “Not at all, Senator Aspen.” He would be happy to, in fact. And though he will not be leading you, Fox is even offering to take you by the arm. 

You can attribute it to his work ethic and find it applicable etiquette for such a grand event. Considering there is both a chivalrous and protective tone to such a gesture, this is not a measure of control through the imbalance of a power dynamic. He is not here to dictate where you are permitted to go. 

Simply put, he’s here with no other intentions but to accompany you no matter where you go, and to comment as necessary as he listens to whatever you have to say. So when Commander Fox finds you quiet after some time, he surprises you by asking what’s on your mind. 

“Thought you would be making a small amount of commentary, ma’am. Something weighing on your thoughts?” 

Blinking in surprise, you chew over the thought of how honest you should be. “Well… there is something.” Unable to see through that impassible visor and faceplate, the hope of seeing this particular Clone’s face flickers anew. 

“S-someone…” comes the clarification. 

“Senator Aspen?” 

It’s less of a risk for him to hazard this guess, but it doesn’t make the mark. 

“No. No, not my friend.” 

After a pregnant pause, you confess that it’s him that weighs on your thoughts when he does not ask. “I can’t… I can’t get you out of my mind.” Your reasons are innumerable, and strange even to yourself. You’re not sure what explanation you can give Commander Fox that would likely not be found comforting, innocent or even sane. 

So you expect him to politely pull away. To put up walls of professionalism stronger than before. To kindly but firmly establish some boundaries. (Hell: it would hurt, but you could understand if he didn’t do it so kindly.) If you were slowly stoking the fires to a potential friendship, you might’ve just gone and done the one thing to completely stomp it out. 

And by hearing yourself say it, it sounds far more romantic than you might have intended it to. “Wait, sorry- I… I meant that very generally.” Attempting to clarify this now feels like a weak excuse to cover up that you’re backpedaling, but it’ll keep you up at night far longer if you don’t at least try. 

Commander Fox, surprisingly, does not suggest he is the least bit perturbed. Not by your admission. Not by your apology. Not even by the way you try to create distance from him yourself and begin to anxiously attempt to pull your arm free. 

An earnest “I believe you.” is all that is needed to stop you in your tracks. The gala, now well in full-swing, feels as though it is slowing down around the two of you as you feel very foolish – just staring at the red-armored commander. “I know what that sounded like. But I believe you.” he continues, now with insistence. 

“You-? You do?”

Starting with the soft use of your name, he again promises that he does - even going on to say why. 

“I’ve spent all week watching how you treat and interact with my brothers. Hearing how you speak to my men. And you’re always kind. You make honest efforts to remember their names and have a friendly word to say. Always expressing appropriate gratitude. All of it shows that you care about them, that you’re a good person.

“And good people are often honest people.” 

The work Commander Fox does for the Chancellor, the Senate, all of Coruscant… it’s thankless. What work he is thanked for is done with insincerity, often disingenuous and callous and empty. Senators like Aspen are a rarity. Ordinary people, people like you, are the most likely to thank him for his work outside of his bonds within the GAR. 

But you’re different even among ordinary people. You have truly meant your thanks each and every time he’s done what’s been asked of him. And you wouldn’t yet know it, but it has led to Commander Fox becoming so hopelessly wrapped around your little finger in the reddest thread in hopes of tasting such genuine kindness. Such a response couldn’t be conditioned or trained out of him. 

He may be a Clone, but he was not a perfect copy. Not of Jango Fett. Not of any of his brothers. It was part of that Factor H as described by Fett more than a decade ago to the Kaminoan cloners, likely before the commander’s own creation. 

‘H’ for ‘Human’. And humans… they have a base, instinctual need for forming connections with the people around them. It’s why isolation proves so detrimental. As a soldier, it was an unspoken expectation to simply not acknowledge those kinds of consequences to his formative years. 

Created in a high-tech petri dish. Decanted from a tube. Together forged by fire with a living sea of brothers. Getting planted on the singular-most crowded planet in this entire kriffing galaxy, where his failure to protect the heart of the Republic meant having to listen to more reports of dying vode. 

But tonight, he’s here, thinking of asking to dance in all of his blood-red armor with one of the most beautiful women at the gala. Having lost a complete sense of elapsing time, the two of you had been standing just on the inside to a respectably-sized dance floor when the venue appeared to be cueing up for either the first, or another of the largest shared dances. 

There’s no time to be coy about asking if you want to join your friend waiting off to the side, now that they and his shocktroopers have found the two of you. It appeared Aspen intended to have joined you, but it was now too late to step into the designated floorspace. There would still be time to step out. 

“Would you like to join your friend?” Fox politely offers. 

Historically, you and Aspen had platonically partaken in these duo-dances together owing to your closeness and long-stand friendship. Usually at some point during the night if Aspen was preoccupied with other senatorial attendees, but often at the first available opportunity. Dare you ask for another of their blessings to break a long-standing tradition?

“Aspen, I think I-”

“Go. There’ll be other dances!” Aspen urges, interrupting. They’re smiling, a promising sign you had worried for nothing. 

Hopeful, Commander Fox extends his hand out to you. A quiet offering. An implied invitation. If you’re going to accept, it has to be soon. “Another dance, then.” you promise to your friend, carefully trading off items like the ivory clutch in order to free up your hands. 

Naran suggests a crucial change before you can take the commander’s outstretched hand and join him further into the showfloor. 

“Sir! Your helmet!” 

“Right, right.”

This song with a famously long lead-in allows for the ordinarily simple unsealing and removal of the commander’s headgear to transform into something a bit more preformative, if rather hurried. With a polite doffing befitting of the high-class nature of the event, Fox removes the recently-polished helmet and allows you to see his face for the very first time since meeting earlier that week. It is then directly taken by Naran away from the dance floor, surrendered to his care and subsequently forgotten not long after. 

Following Fox, he leads you slightly deeper into the dancing crowd with a rhetorical “Shall we, ma’am?” where the two of you assume the appropriate starting position just before the lead-in concludes, and the dance number finally commences.

As a ballroom piece common to the Core Worlds, you’re given more than enough time to study the charming face of your dance partner as the two of you step through the poised and elegant choreography. 

While there is perhaps some truth to the erroneous adage “If you see one Clone’s face, you’ve seen them all!”, you are wholly committed to determining what little traits set him apart from his brothers while you have the chance. And kindly, the commander allows you to do so, encourages you to do so. 

“Do I look like you imagined?”

Mostly yes. But also, no. 

While he had the same round ala to his nose, there was faint scarring across the bridge you hadn’t yet seen in any of his brothers. (You would find others; one cutting into the arch of his right brow, and a freshly-pinked nick that tucked under his jaw on the left.) Fox’s eyes were the same, soulful brown; with an additional intensity that was hard to completely identify. A soft five-o-clock shadow along his jaw, now that you hadn’t expected. Or the touches of gray blending out in the dark waves and tight curls of his hair. 

You admit you’re starting to wish he’d taken off his helmet sooner, even though he was only doing his job… A long-suffering job that allowed you to even be here to begin with. If it wasn’t for him, your long visit home just to see Aspen would never have happened. Not the way it did. Without him, without the Guard, your friend would have asked you to take the first shuttle returning to your new home. 

You can’t even begin to fathom how you could possibly thank him enough for everything they’ve done to protect Aspen and get you to this point. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Fox pledges, both his voice and his smile tender. The dimpling in his left cheek is the most pronounced amongst any of the Guardsmen. A golden warmth that softens the watchful depths in his eyes. All of it brightens your heart with euphoria, pulse already keeping time to the soaring peaks of the strings’ music. 

When the song calls for those assuming the position of the dance’s “gentlemen” to pull their partner close, the Marshal Commander fits you so perfectly against his armor in order to make himself heard. 

His voice becomes softer—fonder—in the delicate shell of your ear. 

“But I know you’ll probably try...”

As the music begins the winding-down, Fox’s vambrace begins to squeal - an abrupt, demanding tone disrupting the pleasant, vulnerable moment between you. Needing to answer it, you assist him by depressing the instructed buttons after lowering the volume per his instructions. 

“CC-4477 to Commander Fox! We have the suspect behind Senator Aspen’s attempted assassination in our custody!” 

Fox does not reply right away, but rather he eyes the open comlink with a degree of great pride. But there is also great reluctance. After everything you’ve told him, after everything he’s told you, the long-shot he’s taken in asking to dance with you amidst all this formality and decorum, he has to leave now?

“Well done, Thire. Tell Commander Thorn-”

No. 

No, maybe just this once, he can get away with not answering a summons instantaneously. His duty may be to the Republic, but as a man of his honor his duty is also still to you. As of now, he is still charged with protecting you and the senator. It becomes socially acceptable to leave the gala without staining one’s reputation fifteen minutes from now, after these large, shared dances. His men can handle the suspect until then. 

Fox will not allow your standing to suffer now simply because of him. 

“Sir?”

“Tell Thorn I’m still wrapped up pretty tight here. Might take fifteen minutes to disentangle her and Senator Aspen from the gala. Maybe more.” Fox’s focused expression changes to one of warmth when the word “her” parts his lips, while his voice retains its authoritative tone. 

There’s a long silence on the other end of the comm before Thire comes up with a reply. 

“Understood, Commander. Thire out.”

Breathless and head light, you’re reeling with relief and elation that they’ve captured their suspect. This is the beginning of the end of Aspen’s nightmare. Your nightmare. But where there is joy, there too comes sorrow, knowing your time in Commander Fox’s company is coming to an end. Maybe not tonight, maybe not in the morning. But soon enough, you will part ways and return to your regular lives…

“I can’t believe they got the guy… Thank the stars, it’s finally over. If we need to leave so you can-”

“No, mesh’la,” Commander Fox interrupts you before his voice turns almost pleading. The song may now be over, but there is still music that can be danced to. Still time that he can spend with you. “Let me be a selfish man for once… Fifteen minutes is all I ask.”

Maybe fifteen minutes… can be a good place to start. 

Everything will still be there after fifteen minutes. The suspect, his men, the senator… but the clock will start to run out with you after fifteen minutes. And he’s not ready for that. 

“Okay. Fifteen minutes. We’ll… work out what comes after that.” 

When you’ve spent most of your service dealing with red tape, it’s going to take more than fifteen minutes to unwrap all of it. 

So you’ll make those minutes a very good place to start…

Thank you for making a request for my 200 follower event, Pina! Ended up longer than I initially anticipated even after everything I cut out of it, but I hope you enjoyed it! I apologize for the unexpected delays, so I hope this was well worth the extra time it took me to write it in order for you to read it! And in case anyone is curious why I chose the name "Aspen" for the name of our senator friend here, I took inspiration from the Greek word for shield, 'aspis'. I thought it felt fitting for a story focused around Fox working hard to protect even a complete stranger, being the dutiful and brave man he is. ❤️

Taglist: @callsign-denmark @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit

@dukeoftheblackstar @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636

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2024.06 ~ Top 10 longest fics posted on AO3

1. When you are ready to go on... but you go back by Sakura521 [M, 175k]

►After the battle of Hogwarts ended Harry thought he could finally be done with all the drama and just have some quiet and peace, but when a freak accident strickes him down he really thinks it would be permanent this time... But he wakes up again in a otherworldly place he rolls with it and goes back in time in hopes to fix everything and no one has to die except the really bad guys. [...] Harry Potter will save everyone and make sure all his loved ones lives a perfect happy life. And if he finds something special for him too, well, he is the savior after all.

2. Beholden by @faith2wood [E, 123k]

►Draco Malfoy might not be a killer, but it turns out he's an effective painkiller. If stopping pain was all Draco's touch did, things might not be so complicated, but either way Harry can't afford to be choosy.

3. Return to Sender by @draykray [E, 113k]

►While dealing with the repercussions of his father's imprisonment, Draco Malfoy receives a desperate letter from his arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. He replies, careful to keep himself anonymous, but their tenuous correspondence can only last so long as sixth year approaches, and with it, all the trouble Draco has been so carefully avoiding.

4. The BFF Plot (Harry Potter RWRB) by Gingit [E, 107k]

►Harry and Draco are forced to pretend to be friends after a little... incident at a fundraising gala involving a cake and a little too much alcohol. Neither of them is happy with the arrangement, but their respective senses of duty to family and an electoral campaign keep them both cooperative. As they reluctantly get to know each other better, they learn that maybe they have more in common than they thought, and the pretend friendship turns into something more. [...]

5. Alliges Duplicia: Bound by @talesfromanuntoldstory​ [E, 102k]

►Harry and Draco both go back to Hogwarts for the 8th year. Harry goes because he skipped his 7th year, and Draco goes because he failed his. They get stuck working together on a Potion’s project because they both skipped the same class in which pairs were chosen. Due to the clumsiness of another student, their brilliant work turns into a disaster when, somehow, their magical energies get bonded together, which forces them to stay in close proximity to each other. [...]

6. To What We Owe Our Miseries by @writandromance [?, 100k]

►A rare Daily Prophet honour, bestowed upon both Harry and Ginny, disturbs the dependable routine of their lives between league competitions. [...] The arrival of Blaise Zabini, a fellow honouree, catches Ginny’s attention when no one else can. Harry’s thrilled for her, but the matchmaking would be much more painless if he didn’t have to endure the constant presence of Blaise’s companion, the inexpressive, pejorative Draco Malfoy.

7. Reasons to Trust by @alcohen [M, 89k]

►Of all the possible ways to redeem himself in his own eyes, Draco Malfoy chose to become a therapist. Rebuilding one’s self-esteem isn’t an easy thing, though, and the real turning point comes when he runs into Harry at a gay bar, and, to Draco’s surprise, he doesn’t seem to hate him anymore. /// This is a story about finding acceptance, gaining and then losing trust, and ultimately choosing to rebuild it from the ashes.

8. Enduring by @mykkitno [E, 88k]

►During Yule of Harry’s fifth year, he finds something in the Chamber of Secrets that answers questions he hadn’t realized he had, but he keeps the knowledge hidden until he can’t anymore. Resorting to Dark Magic isn’t something he thought he’d do, but the changes it wrought aren’t ones he regrets because the alternative would have made things worse.

9. Nightmare by chrysaetius [T, 82k]

►After the war, some of the students have returned to Hogwarts for the 8th year. Students who had their own common rooms and dormitories have been coupled as roommates due to McGonagall's excuse of 'uniting the houses'. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have started sharing a room. They try to ignore each other despite the mutual hatred. Harry has nightmares at night and he's not able to move past them. One of these nights, Draco decides he's had enough and tries to wake Harry. However, he suddenly finds himself in Harry's dream. Or rather, his nightmare.

10. Narcissa Malfoy, Fairy Godmother by @duchessdulce [T, 81k]

►Narcissa was a pureblood supremacist. Narcissa had a Muggle friend. These things were both true. /// Also: It’s fifth year for Harry Potter, and Malfoy’s eleven-year-old cousin has just started at Hogwarts. When Harry begins to suspect that the girl is actually Muggleborn, he can’t rest until he finds out what Malfoy is really up to.

※ HONOURABLE MENTIONS :

11. The Truest Lie by Zoythren [M, 43k]

►Harry knows something is wrong with Malfoy and he intends to find out what. He expects it to be a Dark Mark on his arm, and a horrible task. What he doesn't expect is finding a Draco Malfoy that is almost impossible to stay away from. What he doesn't expect to find his for his school rival to show him all the truths no one else dares to say out loud. What he doesn't expect to find ... is everything.

—

※ Word count: 1k ~ 15k

※ Word count: 15k ~ 40k

Ballad of the Mantis by @tessacrowley [E, 27k]

The Dangers of a Muggle Flat by Justlikewriting [M, 21k]

Eternal Reunion by Splashstorm [E, 38k]

Think of Home by SpicyNoodleJun [G, 36k]

i was having visions of sugared pastry (cooked up in clarified butter) by infectiousdisease, solifuge [M, 33k]

Protego Fragor by nutmeg223344 [G, 22k]

Sweet Lies by L_hyuga [E, 17k]

your braids like a pattern by @hoko-onchi-writes [E, 31k]

—

Ongoing Fest/Exchange

※ Fics would be listed elsewhere.

Buddy Fic Challenge (1)

HD Mpreg 2024 | @harrydracompreg

HP Daddy Knows Best 2024 | @hpdaddyknowsbest (1)

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Lights Camera Drarry 2024 | @lcdrarry

Severitus Big Bang 2024 | @severitus-big-bang (1)

Siriusly Hozier Fest | @imsiriuslyreading (1)

[bellaserina]

4The first photo was grainy.

A long-lens paparazzi shot taken from across the marina: Charles in a white T-shirt and baseball cap, leaning against a yacht railing. Isabella was beside him, barefoot, laughing into his neck. His hand rested on her thigh, hers tangled in his curls.

The caption read:

MONACO’S GOLDEN BOY SPOTTED WITH ITALIAN SUPERMODEL ISABELLA MORETTI — F1’s quietest bachelor no more?

It hit the internet like a wave, then became a tsunami.

By morning, every outlet had it — Daily Mail, GQ, La Repubblica, even obscure motorsport blogs that never usually cared about fashion. The photo was everywhere: cropped, filtered, dissected. Some fans were thrilled. Some were brutal. A few headlines said power couple. Others called her a distraction.

The problem wasn’t the photo.

It was that they hadn’t chosen to share it.

Isabella paced the floor of the Milan apartment, phone buzzing nonstop on the table. Her agent, her publicist, the fashion house she was set to walk for in Paris next week. Everyone wanted a statement. A spin. An angle.

“Are you okay?” Charles’s voice came through the phone, calm but tight.

“No,” she snapped, rubbing her temples. “I’m not okay, Charles. My agent wants me to deny it. The team at Dior is threatening to pull me from their spring campaign. They think dating you makes me... unreliable. Distracting.”

Charles was silent for a beat. Then: “Do you want to deny it?”

She froze.

“No,” she whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to be exposed like this.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“I know that too.”

She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, eyes stinging. “They don’t want me with you, Charles. They want you to date a Monaco princess or a corporate heiress. Not me. Not a girl who once shoplifted from a Milan corner store just to eat.”

He didn’t flinch. “And what do you want?”

She swallowed. Hard.

“I want to not be afraid,” she said.

Silence again.

Then: “Come to Monaco.”

“What?”

“Come now. I’ll send a car. Don’t think. Just come.”

When she arrived, it was raining. Of course it was.

She walked into his flat wearing black sunglasses and a hood pulled tight — and Charles, watching her from the doorway, saw right through it. He didn’t say a word. Just opened his arms.

She went to him like she always did. Like muscle memory. Like surrender.

They didn’t speak until she was dry and warm and curled on his sofa in his hoodie, a glass of wine in her hand, the press storm howling just beyond the walls.

Charles sat across from her, jaw tight. His phone had been ringing all day — team PR, sponsors, journalists. He’d silenced it all.

“You’re not just my secret anymore,” he said. “And that was never fair to you.”

She looked up, guarded. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we don’t hide.”

Isabella blinked. “Charles—”

“I’m not asking you to give up your privacy. Or your life. But I am asking you to let me stand next to you when the cameras come. Because I’m not going to pretend you’re not the best part of mine.”

Her throat caught.

“I don’t want to ruin your image,” she said softly. “You’re the golden boy.”

“I don’t care if I burn it down,” he said. “If I’m not happy, what’s the point?”

They sat in silence for a long while — not uncomfortable, just heavy with choice.

Then Isabella leaned forward.

“Okay,” she said.

Charles blinked. “Okay?”

She smiled. A little wild. A little scared. “Let’s do it. Let them look. Let them talk.”

“You sure?”

“No,” she admitted. “But if I’m going to fall, I’d rather fall standing beside you.”

He reached for her hand.

“Then let’s fall,” he said.

Three days later, the world had a new headline:

CHARLES LECLERC & ISABELLA MORETTI GO PUBLIC

The F1 driver and Italian supermodel confirm romance with joint appearance at Monaco benefit gala.

She wore a champagne-colored gown, slit high at the leg, hair slicked back in waves. He wore a tailored black suit, no tie, a hand resting proudly at the small of her back.

The flashbulbs exploded.

And for the first time, neither of them flinched.

Because love — real love — is louder than any headline.

next

[frownyalfred]

Do you think there will be a point in the main fic line where we see Jason revealed to the public again? Bc I know as of asoh and I think NW, Jason being revived is still a hidden thing publicly, but in the elseworld gala fic, Jay is already back in society. What kind of plan do you think the pack would make for something like that, and what’s the story they would tell? Do you think the family would feel the need to do public interviews with the press in order to dissuade theories from getting too far? Maybe that could be a good way to include Lois a bit more as Clark’s friend being the best one in a huge newspaper to be trusted with whatever story the pack decides to tell. I’m just genuinely so curious about how that would be handled and any struggles that would come with Jason going back into society for the first time as an adult.

(Maybe something about a near death that they’d thought he’d never recover from, brain damage, maybe some presentation sickness that they thought would never get better, etc etc. idk something that gives a good reason for Jason being gone while also not making it seem like Bruce’s constant mourning was some sort of “display”?)

Yes absolutely! It’s the kind of media campaign that will take a lot of work and allies to pull off. Lex will lead it, Bruce and Jason will be the two focal points in public, and people like Lois and Leslie can help back it up from the sidelines. If they time it right, Bruce goes back to non-barebones active patrols right around the same time so the story doesn’t make as big a splash because Batman blowing a huge gang hideout etc makes headlines too. Because imagine the media blitz of Batman being back, Bruce Wayne having twin pups, AND Jason Todd being alive, all at once.

But yeah, my goal for the ninth wave sequel is for it to be about Jason returning to public life, and all that entails. Being an omega in Bruce and Lex’s public world. And who that attracts. Suitors etc, but also Talia and Ra’s - finally checking in on their wayward alpha.