#Tuscany Experience

[federicagiordanophotography]

[gilsart]

love how you give italy eyebags <3

Man’s tired…

my mans tired of fascists ruling this country (just as i am)

[whencyclopedia]

Galileo Galilei (1564-1642) was an Italian mathematician, physicist, astronomer, and natural philosopher. He created a superior telescope with which he made new observations of the night sky, notably that the surface of the Moon has mountains, that Jupiter has four satellite moons, and that the sunspots of the Sun, under careful observation, reveal that it is a moving sphere. Besides astronomy, Galileo conducted many other scientific experiments over his long lifetime as he was greatly interested in physics. Testing age-old theories and coming up with new ones after meticulous experimentation, the scientist fell foul of the Catholic Church for questioning the accepted Ptolemaic view of the universe. Found guilty of heresy in a trial in 1633, Galileo was obliged to live his final years under house arrest at his villa in Tuscany. His discoveries and, above all, his approach to experimentation and testing hypotheses made Galileo an influential figure in the Scientific Revolution.

[37sommz]

❁ : she's dreaming . . .

✼. masterlist — taglist — request. ✼. genre: angst & suggestive (18+). ✼. wc: 3.6k.

it’s been weeks since michaela has thought about that night in tuscany. but with the season freshly over, the guilt starts to the submerge her. and all at once, jenson is everywhere and nowhere at all. 

✼. warnings: suggestive but not smutty. language warnings. not proofread (lol). mclaren papaya mentions.

✼. notes: she’s kind of an asshole in this one but you would too if you have jenson!brain. angst again bc i have no self-control. the true honest beginning of the jenson arc is here!! experimenting with the formatting a little bit idk how i feel though.

000.⠀⠀DECEMBER 14, 2020    ›    Monaco.

"Mm, you're so fast," Olivier murmured into her ear, his breath hot and ragged.

Michaela's eyes snapped open, the racing of her heart not entirely from passion but the echo of her fastest lap point from Abu Dhabi yesterday. She pushed him away gently, laughing at the odd choice for dirty talk the Frenchman had chosen. Under the soft moonlight of their Monaco hotel room's balcony, she leaned the full weight of her body against his stronger, half-naked form.

"What's so funny?" Olivier asked, a playful smirk playing on his lips. "It's true, you're so fast."

Michaela couldn't help the smile that tugged at her own lips. "You're so odd," She quipped, tracing her fingers along the taut muscles of his abdomen. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension between them.

Olivier leaned in, kissing her neck gently. "Seriously though, baby," He said, his voice dropping into a more serious tone, "I'm so proud of all you've accomplished this past season."

Michaela giggled once more as the bliss of Mediterranean air swirled and enveloped them in a haze that tottered between love and lust. His hands were everywhere and committed to nowhere all at once as she released the smallest of whines in anticipation of his next display of passion.

Her eyes fell upon the McLaren team's official merchandise laid out on the nearby table—she had worn it earlier today on their flight as she had gone straight from their factory in Surrey to her vacation in Monaco. The polo, though a symbol of hope, was also a stark reminder of the conversation she'd been trying to avoid. Olivier had been much too eager to take it off his girlfriend of a year and Michaela pretended not to notice though it stung nonetheless.

"Your new McLaren gear, I see," Olivier said, his hand pausing mid-caress as he followed her gaze to the shirt. "You're really going to wear that papaya orange next season?"

Michaela stiffened, feeling the joy of their intimate moment dissipate like mist in the early morning sun. "What's wrong with papaya orange?" She asked, trying to keep the defensiveness out of her voice.

Olivier rolled his eyes. "It's not exactly my color, chère," He mentioned with a laugh, his hand still playing with the strap of her lingerie. "But if you’re contractually required to wear it, I guess I’ll put up with it."

Michaela's smile faltered. "It's not just about the color, Olivier," She said, her voice firm. "It's about my future in the sport. This is a big deal for me."

If Olivier heard her, he gave no indication of any kind. His hands continued to caress his girlfriend's skin as his lips wandered the expanse of her shoulders and up her neck.

Michaela pushed the topic away, the moment feeling too delicate to be sullied by their ongoing argument. Her thoughts grew hazy as his touch grew more insistent. But the nagging feeling remained regardless. Was it really so hard to support her dreams?

Their bodies intertwined, Olivier's hands explored the curves of her body, setting her alight with a passion she knew was genuine. Yet, her mind was elsewhere—replaying moments from her second Formula 1 season—the smell of rubber, the roar of the engines, and the sweet taste of success at her third-place finish in Tuscany.

It was that podium finish, the first for a woman in history, that had brought her to Jenson's arms. The English former champion had congratulated her, and she had been drawn to his easy charm and the understanding in his eyes. The memory of that night grew clearer, the whispers of betrayal echoed through her mind like the rustling of leaves in the Monaco night.

Her cheeks flushed with a mix of arousal and guilt as Olivier's hands grew more intimate. The scent of the champagne they had gotten drunk on just moments earlier wafted through the air, a cruel reminder of her infidelity. She closed her eyes tightly, willing the image of Jenson out of her thoughts. But his touch remained etched in her skin, a silent confession that grew louder with each breath she took.

"Are you okay, darling?" Olivier asked, sensing the sudden tension in her body.

Michaela took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts of Jenson to the back of her mind. "Yeah," She lied as she forced a smile. "Just a little tired."

Olivier's eyes searched hers for the truth, but she averted them, focusing instead on the horizon where the last signs of daylight kissed the water. "You're sure?" He whispered, his voice laced with concern.

Michaela nodded, her throat tight with the weight of her secret. She didn't want to ruin the night—not yet. But the conversation had left a sour taste in her mouth, one she couldn't ignore. "Let's just enjoy tonight," She murmured, leaning into him again. She turned to face him head on, willing her hands to travel the length of his well-defined chest to cradle his face in her hands.

Olivier could not help but notice the plea in Michaela’s eyes, his own filled with a hint of doubt. But he kissed her deeply, his tongue seeking hers in a motion as fiery as the passion that had brought them together. The tension between them melted away as they gave themselves over to the moment. Their bodies synced in a rhythm as familiar as the purr of an engine, each movement speaking volumes in a language only they understood.

Michaela's guilt weighed on her like the gravity of indecision, but she pushed it aside, focusing on the here and now. The sound of their breathing grew ragged, their skin slick with sweat, and the world outside their love faded away. For a brief moment, she was free—free from the pressures of her new contract, free from the whispers of doubt, and free from the haunting memory of her indiscretion with Jenson.

As the night grew darker and the air grew thicker with the scent of their love, Olivier whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice a gentle comfort that seemed to resonate with the distant waves. But his words were hollow echoes of a support she desperately craved. With each moan of pleasure, she felt the gap between them widen, the truth of her actions with Jenson a heavy burden she wasn't ready to share.

Finally, unable to contain the storm brewing within, she pulled away before either of them could finish, her eyes searching his for something—anything—that could make this right. "Olivier, can we talk?" She asked, her voice small and trembling.

Olivier's eyes stilled upon hers for a moment before nodding, his own smile faded into a look of concern. "Of course, chère." He stood to his full height, totally unprepared for the ensuing conversation.

Michaela took a deep, shaky breath, the cool Monaco night air raising goosebumps on her flushed skin. "Every time I talk about my future with McLaren, you get so... distant," She began, her voice tight with emotion. "I can't help but feel like you're not as excited for me as you say you are."

Olivier's expression shifted into a mix of confusion and defensiveness. "What are you talking about?" He asked, reaching for her hand. "I've supported you every step of the way."

Michaela's gaze dropped to their intertwined fingers. "But you don't get it, do you?" She said softly. "You don't get what this means to me."

Olivier squeezed her hand gently, his brain scrambling for understanding. "I'm trying, Mickey," He said. "I really am."

Michaela felt a lump form in her throat. "You shouldn't have to try," She whispered. "You should want to be there."

Olivier's brow furrowed as he sat beside her on the balcony's chaise lounge, the moon casting shadows across his concerned features. "What are you saying?" He asked, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration.

Michaela took a deep breath, the scent of the ocean mingling with the faint smell of the city's nightlife. "I'm saying that every time I bring up McLaren, you change the subject or make a joke about it," She replied, her voice growing stronger with each word. "It's like you're not really here for me."

Olivier looked genuinely surprised. "I just don't want to lose you," He admitted, his voice low and sincere. "When you're in the middle of the season, you're so focused on winning that I feel like I'm just... an accessory."

Michaela's eyes widened with shock. "What? No, you're not," She protested, though the sting of his words resonated deep within her.

Olivier looked away, his jaw clenched tight. "Maybe not now," He said, "But what about next season? With McLaren, you'll be even more consumed by the sport. I won't be able to compete with that."

Michaela felt the anger simmering in her chest, her eyes flashing with intensity. "Is that what this is about?" She demanded, her voice rising. "You're jealous of my career?"

Olivier sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair. "No, Mickey," He said, his voice weary. "It's not about being jealous. It's about feeling... irrelevant."

Michaela's anger tapered off, replaced by a sudden rush of sadness. "I'm sorry you feel that way," She said, her voice cracking. "But my career is my life. You knew that going into this."

Olivier's expression grew dark. "But what about us?" He countered. "Is there no room for me in your career?"

Michaela felt the sting of his words. "Of course there is," She said, her voice thick with mounting emotion. "But you have to support me. That's what being in a relationship is about."

Olivier leaned back, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. "And what about when you're too busy with your races and your parties?" He asked, his voice accented with a bitterness she had never heard before. "What happens to us then?"

Michaela felt the weight of his question like a gunshot to the stomach. She knew she couldn't give him the answer he wanted to hear—not without admitting the truth about that night in Tuscany. "You've never wanted to go with me," she said, her voice whispering. "How could I know you wanted to be there if you've never been excited, Olivier?"

The tension grew thick as the silence stretched out between them, the only sound the distant hum of the city below. Olivier took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in the moonlit air. "You're right," He finally said. "I've never felt truly welcome."

Michaela's eyes searched his, desperation pooling in her heart. "That's not true," She protested. "For fuck's sake Olivier, you've spent more than enough time with Giovinazzi, Gasly, and Sainz. How could you be unwelcome?"

Olivier shrugged, his eyes on the sunset. "It's not the same," He murmured. "They're all your colleagues. I'm the boyfriend. The one who's supposed to be there through thick and thin, but every time you win, you're in the arms of some other man. Every time you sign a new deal, you're wearing their colors, not mine."

With a grunt he lifted himself from the chair. Hastily he slid the door to their room open, trekking inside without as much as a glance towards his girlfriend. Sighing to herself, Michaela grabbed hold of the dreaded papaya polo, throwing it on and adjusting her lingerie underneath.

"Where are you going?" She called out as she stepped into the room.

Olivier didn't respond. He was already at the mini-bar, pouring himself a drink, the amber liquid sloshing into the glass with a sound that echoed in the room. His broad shoulders were tense, and his back was to her, a clear indication of his mood.

Michaela felt the anger build within her, but she knew this wasn't the time for accusations or defensiveness. She approached him slowly, her heart hammering in her chest like a drumline. "I didn't mean for it to be like that," She spoke with a tremble in her voice.

Olivier took a swing of his drink, not turning around. "It's just the way it is, isn't it?" He said, his voice cold and distant.

Michaela stepped closer, her heart pounding. She could feel the distance growing between them with every beat. "No, it's not," She insisted, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You can come with me to every race, every event. I want you there."

Olivier downed the rest of his drink, his eyes never leaving the floor. "Do you?" He asked, his voice barely audible. "Or do you just want me there so you don't feel guilty?"

Michaela felt the force of his words like a slap to the face. She stepped back, her hand falling to her side. "What are you talking about?" She asked, her voice shaking.

Olivier turned to face her, his eyes dark and accusatory. "You tell me," He said, his voice low and menacing. "What happened in Tuscany? Why couldn't you answer any of my calls that night?"

Michaela's breath hitched in her throat. The memory of Jenson's arms around her, his whispers in her ear, flooded her mind, inescapable. "Olivier, that's not what this is about," She said, her voice strained.

He took a step closer, his eyes piercing hers. "Isn't it?" He demanded. "Or is it because you found someone else to fill the void when I couldn't be there?"

Michaela felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn't expected the conversation to turn this way—not here, not now. "What are you saying?" She whispered, her voice shaking.

Olivier's gaze was unwavering. "I know you, Mickey," He said, his tone even. "You don't do well with being alone in your big moments. And when I couldn't be there for you after your big day..."

Michaela's eyes grew wide with horror. "You think I cheated?" She managed to choke out.

Olivier's jaw tightened. "Did you?" He asked, his voice a knife's edge of accusation.

Michaela took a deep breath, her eyes searching the room for escape from the accusation. "Olivier, please," She begged, her voice shaking. "It's not like that."

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Isn't it?" He asked, his voice a low growl. "You tell me, Mickey. Did you or did you not spend the night with someone else when you should've been celebrating with me?"

"Celebrating with you?" She suddenly scoffed, remembering the circumstances that led to her fall in the first place. "Was I supposed to spend the night locked away in my hotel room getting drunk with you on Facetime?"

Olivier's eyes searched hers, looking for the lie she knew he wanted to find. "It's not like you to avoid me, especially after a good race," He said, his voice strained.

Michaela felt the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, straightening her spine. "I needed to be with someone who understood," She finally confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Olivier's eyes grew wide with shock, his handsome features contorting with disbelief. "Someone like who?" He spat out, the venom in his voice palpable. "Huh?"

Michaela took a shaky breath, her heart racing as she met his gaze. "Jenson," She whispered, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Olivier's eyes narrowed into slits, his fists clenching at his sides. "Jenson Button," He said through gritted teeth. "Your fucking teenage crush? Must have been a dream come true." The words left his mouth with an element of disgust. He reached for the bottle of alcohol again, pouring himself another glass.

Michaela felt the tears finally spill over her lashes as she watched him. "It was one night," She insisted. "I was just so... happy, and you weren't there."

Olivier took a long pull from his glass, the liquid fire burning down his throat. He slammed it down on the table, the sound echoing through the suite like a bullet. "One night," He repeated, his voice thick with anger. "That's all it takes to replace me, huh?"

Michaela felt the sting of his accusation, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "It wasn't about replacing you," She said, her voice trembling. "It was about feeling seen and supported."

Olivier scoffed, turning away from her to refill his glass. "That's bullshit," He spat. "You're just saying that as an excuse."

Michaela felt the rage build within her, a rage fueled by his accusation and her own guilt. She stepped closer to him, her eyes blazing. "How dare you?" She hissed. "You have no idea what it's like to be me. To be the first woman to stand on that podium. To be the most scrutinized athlete in a sport that's been dominated by men for decades. To be torn apart for the whole world to see every single time I step outside."

Olivier's expression softened, the anger in his eyes slowly giving way to something else—regret. "I do know," He said, his voice hoarse. "I see it every day. The way you're treated, the way they look at you." He took a step closer, reaching for her, but she stepped back, the gap between them feeling like an insurmountable distance.

Michaela wiped at her tears, her eyes glaring. "You don't know shit," She said, her voice shaking. "You don't know what it's like to be me. You don't care what it's like to be me."

Olivier's hand fell to his side, his shoulders slumping. "Michaela," He began, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.

"Don't," She said, her voice thick with emotion. "Don't you dare try to act like you understand."

Olivier took a step back, his hands rising in surrender. "I'm sorry," He whispered. "I just..."

Michaela didn't let him finish. "You just what?" She challenged, her voice shaking with emotion. "You just don't get it? You just don't care?"

Olivier looked at her, his eyes pleading. "Michaela, baby," He started, but she was already shaking her head.

"Don't call me that," She said, her voice cold and unforgiving. "Not now."

Olivier's hand fell to his side, his eyes peering into hers. "What do you want from me?" He asked, his voice filled with pain. "What can I do to make this right?"

Michaela took a deep, shaky breath. "You can't," She said, her voice cold. "Not unless you truly support me. Not unless you understand that my career is as much a part of me as you are."

Olivier's eyes swelled, the depth of his love for her clear despite the anger and hurt that clouded his features. "I want to," He said, his voice honest. "But I need you to be honest with me. To include me."

Michaela felt the anger drain from her body, leaving only the heavy weight of her secret. "I know," She whispered, her eyes dropping to the floor. "But I was scared."

Olivier took a step closer, his hand reaching out tentatively to cup her cheek. "Scared of what?" He asked, his voice gentle.

Michaela leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against her cool skin. "Scared of losing you," She admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Scared that you wouldn't understand the pressure, the need for... something more."

Olivier's hand dropped from her cheek, his eyes unable to pull themselves away from her. "More than what?" He asked, his voice tight with unspoken fears.

Michaela took a deep, trembling breath. "More than just being my boyfriend," She replied, her voice a whisper. "Someone who understands the thrills and the agony. All of it."

Olivier's expression grew solemn as he took her in, his thumb gently brushing away the tears that trailed down her cheek. "I want to be that person," He said, his voice earnest. "But you have to let me in."

Michaela looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I don't think I can."

Olivier's hand stilled on her cheek, the room growing colder despite the warmth of the night outside. "Why?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Michaela swallowed hard, the pull of emotion weighed down on her chest. "Because it's not just about the racing," She said, her eyes never leaving his. "It's about the parties, the sponsor events, the constant scrutiny. And you... you've never been a part of that."

Olivier's jaw tightened, his thumb brushing away another tear that slipped down her cheek. "So, what are you saying?" He asked, his voice a mix of anger and sadness. "That I'm not good enough for you?"

Michaela's eyes gazed into his, the pain in her heart reflected in her gaze. "No," She said, her voice a whisper. "It's not about that. It's about you being you. And me being me. We can't do that and exist in this world together."

Olivier's hand fell away from her cheek, his eyes dropping to the floor. "What does that mean?" He asked, his voice thick with unfamiliar emotion.

Michaela took a deep, shaky breath. "It means that my world is changing," She said, her voice wavering. "And I don't know if there's room for us in it."

Olivier's eyes tore themselves from the floor and back to her face, the pain in his heart mirroring the ache in hers. "Is that what you want?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Michaela's heart felt like it was shattering into a million pieces, the weight of her words heavy on her chest. "It's not what I want," She said, her voice trembling. "But it's what I need."

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[hopefulwonderlandrunaway]

911 Lone Star Season 5 done right (in my head, this is what happened):

1. Owen stays in Austin as a Fire Chief. He never left his son.

2. TK never left his job. (Heartbreaking and totally unnecessary decision). He even became a senior paramedic with Nancy. Maybe he even does what Cap does in the field and saves lives like in season 3.

3. There was no adoption. Enzo never went to prison, and we saw flashbacks of him raising TK and why TK loves him so much. Jonah will visit TK and Carlos more often but he stays with his dad.

4. TK and Carlos go on a 2nd honeymoon after the challenging first year of marriage and Carlos does everything to make up for lost time. Maybe Tuscany like he wanted in season 4 🥹

5. We saw Andrea.

6. TK helping Judd with his addiction cause you know, HE has experience! (That would be such an amazing arc - the little brother helping his big brother out with his sweet, understanding, compassionate character).

7. Carlos isn’t as cold and distant as we saw, he actually struggles but he communicates with TK and tries better.

That’s it 💔

[exitrowiron]

New Zealand Day 2

After the jetboat/kayak adventure, Beth and I decided to go for a run. I looked in Strava and found a route close to our lodge but didn't notice that it wasn't paved. It was a very uneven dirt path and within a few minutes I'd completely rolled my ankle and sustained a serious sprain. Bummer.

Fortunately my injury didn't completely disrupt the Day 2 activities. Our travel agent had hired a personal guide/driver to take us for a short hike followed by wine tastings at several wineries. Beth did the hike without me while I joined a work call and then we headed to our first winery.

I should tell you that Beth and I are not big wine drinkers. If you offer us a choice between an ice cold Diet Coke or glass of good wine, 95% of the time we will choose the Diet Coke. But the wine in this region is well known so figured we should try it while we're here. We did the same thing in Tuscany and enjoyed the experience.

Because the tasting had been pre-arranged, it was just Beth and I and the winery rep and it kinda felt like a lower stakes time-share vacation sales pitch. The price list is front and center and the unspoken expectation is that in exchange for the 'free' tasting experience, you will buy some wine to be shipped to your house. Fortunately we discovered several that we liked and now our wine loving friends will be receiving some of New Zealand's finest for Christmas.

[n7punk]

i think a way you can explain the difference between people who were very secure financially and everyone else is that i asked for water at my doctor today and they brought me back bottled water (already expensive) and it was in GLASS and proclaimed to be Tuscany spring water and so of course my first instinct was "how can i keep/steal this bottle" and if that thought would never even occur to you in passing, then i think we're going to have very different experiences moving through the world

[jone-slugger]

Wrote this for @voyagerweek! It's my favorite episode, Scientific Method :) You can also read it on AO3

A Vulcan Friendship

When she rings the chime to his quarters, Kathryn is uncharacteristically nervous. She shouldn’t be: this is Tuvok, after all. Her trusted advisor; her oldest friend on her ship; her Security chief, with thirteen department heads reporting to him. She cringes at her own words. They resound in her head as if she was saying them at that precise moment, angry, demanding. Crazed.

They haven’t really had the chance to talk about it. Sorting everything out and supervising the recovery of her crew has been her top priority.  

But she still remembers his words in her ready room when she told him she’d go to renaissance Tuscany to rest. I will join you for a glass of wine.

Of course, she hasn’t had time to go spend time in the holodeck. She isn’t even sure if he was serious in his offer of company.

Vulcans aren’t supposed to lie.

So she tells herself, and so she hopes, for she wouldn’t want anything to ruin her finest friendship aboard. Not even those aliens.

Tuvok appears at the other side of the door to his quarters, the purple lights illuminating half his face, his expression emotionless, as always.

She smiles.

“May I come in?”

“Of course, Captain”.

She follows him to his couch and sees the incense still burning on his table. It seems this experience has left everyone rattled. Even stoic Tuvok.

“Is there anything I can assist you with?” he asks, dutiful as ever. He doesn’t seem angry at her outburst in her ready room.

Vulcans aren’t supposed to feel.

That’s what her mind provides, but even she knows that’s not strictly true. They might not show emotions, or be governed by them, but Vulcans definitely feel. For a second, she wishes he were a Klingon. At least with them one could always know if something had offended them.

“I think I owe you a glass of wine in renaissance Siena?” there is a questioning tone in her suggestion, as if she were afraid of simply stating it—afraid that he might consider it an order, and not what it is: an attempt at mending anything that might have been broken during the silent alien invasion.

His eyebrow rises ever so slightly, as if wondering about her true motives.

“I merely suggested it, but it was not meant to be an obligation, Captain”.

“It’s no obligation. It’s an invitation. If you’d like to join me, I would be happy”. And grateful. And relieved.

“It would be an acceptable use of my time”, Tuvok agrees and a smile lightens up her face.

“Great! I’ll book a couple of hours on the holodeck”.

“I shall join you then”.

Kathryn nods, satisfied. There is not much else to discuss—not there, anyway. Thus, she walks out of his quarters, satisfied. Happier. Lighter.

-----------------------------------------------

Renaissance Siena is as beautiful as Kathryn remembers, and the inn she has been wanting to try for weeks does not disappoint. Tuvok joins her as soon as she calls for him, dressed in clothes of the era, and his characteristic neutral expression.

Wine soon starts flowing.

He drinks as much as her, but Vulcan physiology is stronger. She is tipsy faster than she thought she’d be. Maybe it’s time to stop drinking before she regrets it.

Or maybe she could have one more glass.

It’s the sweet, cozy haze of alcohol what makes her finally open up and tell him everything she’s been meaning to. Not that she couldn’t do it without the alcohol. But it definitely helps.

“Tuvok, I treated you quite badly th-the other day”, her words slur just a little, enough for him to close the bottle with a cork and give it to a waiter that walks behind her.

“You were being the subject of cruel experimentation, Captain. You were not yourself”.

“I feel miserable thinkinggg just how bad I treated you”.

“As I said, it was not your fault. I do not blame you for it”.

“Still. You didn’t deserve it. I knew better than that”. She tries to hug him, but he retreats, not completely comfortable with the display of tactile comfort.

He offers a hand, instead.

She squeezes it immediately, holding on to it like a lifeline. It is quite an important gesture for a Vulcan. Her friend. With his hand, he is wordlessly telling her that he is not angry, that she shouldn’t be too hard on herself, that this time she shouldn’t allow guilt to consume her. That everything is okay between the two of them.

“I’m rrrr-really sorry that I snapped at you”, she finally lands in her apology. “I hope you can forgive me. It was unprofessional of a cap'n.”

“There is nothing to forgive. And, as such, you should not concern yourself about it anymore”.

Tuvok stands up, and helps her follow suit.

“I believe you are quite intoxicated, Captain. I shall accompany you to your quarters”.

The suggestion seems acceptable, so she leans into his arm and allows him to lead the way.

“Tuvok… you’re my best friend”.

“I, too, share your sentiment, Captain”.

The hangover tomorrow is certainly going to be monumental, but today, at that very moment, Kathryn feels at peace.          

[sageandred]

Carlos getting the answer to who his father's murderer was is closure to the curiosity he's had this year. But it will never make it better. The last scene is a perfect dialogue for the conclusion to this storyline.

Carlos waking up in a panic- Him still having this struggle and his inability to sleep, even after the resolution is an important note.

-Carlos is a problem-solver (as in he thinks in a way where there are clear steps to "fix" his problems/to guide his emotions). It could be the detective in him. He is a planner and it is so like him to "everything is going according to plan"(or "I must complete step A before I get to step B" his way through) his dad's investigation, so that it consumes him until he finds the truth.

"I thought if I figure out who did this, it would make the pain better, but it's worse."

I think if we go back to Carlos' initial hesitance from wanting to raise kids, it makes sense for Carlos; we know him to want to "do things right" and to doubt himself, so much so, that he puts his life on hold (to please his family's idea of him & his sexuality, to look after his best friend, etc). But you can tell there's two different showrunners. Rashad has taken the tarlos kids debate and made it more about not being in the right place in life, but in 4x12, while the same reasonings are an underlying cause, the issue is presented as more as Carlos' desire to experience more with the distinct possibility that he could never want kids (in a lengthier, solo-topic post, I could give my full thoughts on this, but all of this COULD be direct effects of avoiding). In 4x12, this is when Gabriel is still alive and the "not the right time" excuse that he uses cannot originate back to finding closure to Gabriel's death. Both of these scenarios have the same underlying cause on Carlos' end, but the former presentation in season 4 dresses up the issue with circling around the real reason and no immediate resolution at the end of the episode (which is the episode's purpose and couple's "compromise") that I now could honestly see for how some people thought Carlos' hesitancy = genuine disinterest to wanting to ever be a father. I guess what I'm trying to say is Rashad took a direct approach towards the issue, while Tim danced around the subject (could have been intentional for Carlos' avoidance, could have been not executed well; I'm not trying to get into a discourse for that part right now, but...) With Carlos, there would always be something stopping him.

Taking life as it comes, not waiting for when you think you are ready when you kind of know you are ready (in Carlos' case for wanting "the right time" for most siutations that arise with him, not that having a kid doesn't require planning in most cases/logicics-wise that aren't just down to avoiding life steps that seems to occur with Carlos) are general rules of thumb to uncertainties of living. Carlos had to come to that conclusion after his father's death and AFTER trying to conclude something of meaning of his dad's tragedy and STILL coming up with this outcome of no resolution...of no ending to an ultimate life-altering event, and no guarantees to the future he has dabbled about, like traveling to Tuscany or hiking. And it hurts...but it's such a real message!

Another thing that's occurred to me-on the topic of tarlos' involvement in this set-up: Carlos says he hasn't been able to look at the last photo of Gabriel since the day before he died (and not being able to reminiscence because of that pain). But..but, TK when Gwyn died was able to look at her pictures with him when he was little, once a bit of time had passed. That's another little parallelism of tarlos, really highlighting the differences in how they deal with things. Carlos waiting roughly a year and a half before he could view a camera-roll memory with his dad kills me. And TK realizing that after death, your loved ones live on, and having updated struggles even this year that led to talking with Tommy shows the growth in his grief journey...that still shows his grieving.

In thinking about TK's mom's death vs Carlos' dad's death. They were both murdered. But TK's mom's was accidental, which he had resolution on to who did it. And his view on that "last piece being gone" is something he would not have thought in the immediate aftermath of his mom's death. But here is this line now, where he can help Carlos through his sadness, because he's been through it and come to his own realizations in a similar way. And that's beautiful.

And Carlos coming to the conclusion about being a dad, like his dad, who he always saw as a work man and someone he idolized as a loving husband to his mom, despite never having the parental bond where he could be sensitive, is the full circle of this father-son relationship journey, because of how complicated their relationship was.

"You were my dad. And I hope you'll be with me as I become one too."

-And, thus, Gabriel lives on in him through this journey, as he tells him FIRST.

[the-fell-family]

Hello!

I'm from Italy, so I wanted to ask you if you've ever been there together and, if so, what's the fondest memory you have of that experience?

And, if you've never been there, would you like to visit? Maybe when the baby's older?

Thank you for your time, I apologise if I made any grammatical mistake. Have a lovely day :)

Hello! We have visited a few times over the years, but Tuscany always is a favourite location. The food and wine is just... Beautiful. The scenery too, of course.

We may visit again, once our cherub is a tad older.

Please don't apologise for your grammar, dear. You worded everything perfectly. - Aziraphale

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: March 8/24

Happy Friday everyone!! It's a shorter weekend for those of us in North America, so may as well spend all the time you got with one of these fantastic fics added to my MFL list!! Enjoy! :D

RECENT MFLs

Freeing from the Chains by writingismydivision (G, 1,552 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TFP, Angst with Happy Ending, Good Friend Molly) – It was like being held by chains, to be in love with him.

Echoes of the Heart by reveling_in_mayhem (T, 4,478+ w. || 3/8 Ch. || WiP || Magical Realism AU || Hurt/Comfort) – Sherlock Holmes is nine years old when he makes a wish. John Watson is twelve years old when he starts to dream of a boy with sad eyes. Sometimes, the wishes we make come true. Sometimes, eventually, we wish for something different. This is the story of how one wish changes the lives of two boys forever.

My heart is yours by Lock_John_Silver (E, 5,864 w., 2 Ch. || Holidays, Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Fluff, Light Dom/Sub, Wedding, Love Poems, Wedding Rings) – During the holiday in gorgeous Tuscany, John makes a decision for this year's Christmas. Their last night in Italy doesn't change his mind in the slightest.

Oyster and Mushroom Soup by meet_me_in_samarra (M, 8,922 w., 3 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Awkward Flirting, Oblivious John, Humour and Crack, Internet Seduction Advice, POV Sherlock, Clueless Sherlock, Getting Together, Cooking) – What does a helplessly pining but absolutely clueless Sherlock do in order to woo an oblivious John? He turns to the internet for advice on the art of seduction and notes the experiments in his secret laboratory journal. Sherlock's second try to win over John involves a lot of special cooking recipes. Part 2 of the Sherlock´s Secret Laboratory Journal series

The Acquisition Of One John Watson by lookupkate (E, 17,976 w., 16 Ch. || Serial Killer AU || Serial Killer John, Vigilante John, BAMF John, Infatuated Sherlock, First Kiss) – Sherlock watched John looooooong before they ever met. John has a secret.

[arealphrooblem]

Retirement

Synopsis: After years of building his criminal empire, Villain has only one desire left: to walk away, preferably with his spy and the only person he trusts.

The exhaustion that had hounded and haunted him steadily for years finally came to a head at a little villa in Tuscany. The quiet murmur of an engagement party echoed behind him as he leaned against the railing of the balcony, taking in the glowing sunset that everyone else seemed content to ignore. Every so often he would sneak glances at his spy, stunning in an elegant off shoulder gown he picked for her, as she worked the crowd.

She had been pulling off the act of her life for close to a decade, pretending to be his young, beautiful, sweet but clueless wife at functions like these, gathering intel that he later used to brutal efficiency in his deals with the major players of the underworld.

Fondness blooms in his chest, a stubborn steady heat not unlike the Tuscan sun, at the sight of her giggling with father of the bride to be, plying him with more wine and loosening that tongue. Suddenly the lack of her attention felt unbearable.

“Darling,” he called, catching her eye immediately. No matter how distracted she seemed on the surface, she always had a preternatural awareness of her surroundings, including him.

“Come look at this sunset before it slips away.” He beckoned her to him and she excused herself with a bashful smile. The man she spoke to looked over at Villain with an appraising eye, as if smelling a weakness in their love.

His spy sauntered over to him with natural catlike grace that he never failed to appreciate, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. They long since dispensed with the awkwardness of causal public intimacy. Even so, Villain felt a tiny flutter in his chest each time she did so.

“Did you find anything of interest?” he murmured, gazing out at the clouds.

She leaned their arms together, brushing her nose against his ear. Gooseflesh ripped down his arm, hidden safely underneath his linen button down.

“He jokes about the mounting cost of the wedding. I think some of his investments hadn’t borne the fruit he thought they did. And his daughter plans to drain him of quite a lot of money for her nuptials. He will be vulnerable to buy out a couple months after.”

The way she could calculate so much on such little information made her priceless beyond measure to him. Many other criminal kingpins have tried to poach her over the years, but she remained loyal to him. He wondered what made him so deserving but never dared to ask.

Then she giggled, part of the facade of the mooning couple, and nudged his shoulder with hers.

“You look tired, sir,” she said, her voice light but her gaze serious. The only person who could see through his mask. “Shall we retire in a giggling fit and let them make their own conclusions?”

“You know me so well,” he said, offering her a wan smile.

They made their excuses, his hand just low enough on the small of her back to broadcast a certain message behind their early departure. He wondered, as they drove back to the hotel, if she knew what very real feelings smoldered in his guarded heart. It wouldn’t surprise him, as so little escaped her notice. But if she did suspect, she never acted upon it or so much as hinted at it.

Their hotel rooms connected through a door in the middle. His spy peeled off to her room in the hallway, always desperate to change out of her dresses and wipe off her makeup in the shower. Left to her own devices, she never cared much for primping or enhancing her appearance. But as his “wife” she chose to look as close to the feminine ideal so coveted by the petty, shallow men of his rivals.

Villain found her stunning either way, but he much preferred seeing her in her natural state. The two of them lived under a series of masks and layers. To see underneath even one of them showed a trust that few on this Earth would experience.

He leaned back in the arm chair in the sitting room, nursing two fingers of fine whiskey, a bottle of red wine waiting for her with an empty glass. The exhaustion tugged at him. For years, playing the game, teasing power and wealth with each victory, fueled him. But now the thought of continuing felt overwhelming. At forty three, he was not old, but the thought of continuously spending all this energy to stay on top, to keep the throne he built for himself, felt like a young man’s game anymore.

“What’s wrong?”

His spy made no sound as she stepped light as a cat over the wood floors. She squeezed the ends of her hair with a towel, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Are you getting sick,” she asked again, settling into the chair next to him.

He shook his head, reaching over to pop open the wine bottle and pour her a glass.

“No, I’m not sick,” he said, handing it to her.

She accepted it with a skeptic hum, eyebrows raised. After a generous sip she set it back down and returned to drying her hair, a ritual he had witnessed many times before and yet now enchanted him. Her hair had a natural wave to it before she attacked it with products and a straightener.

“I’m thinking we should buy out his jewelry business first,” she said, back to business. “It’s newer and created by him and not inherited so he will have less sentimentality about it. Plus I would bet my life half his stock at least comes from the black market so we will gain all those contacts.”

“That is if the wedding breaks him and if he can be blackmailed to sell and if someone doesn’t get to him first and all of that remains months away.”

“Always stay five steps ahead. Is that not our creed?”

She took another sip of wine, the look in her eyes edging on concern. He ignored it, knocking back the rest of his whiskey and focusing his gaze on the flames in the fireplace. After one minute or several minutes — his mind terribly far away — the touch of fingers on his chin, firm and guiding, snapped him from his thoughts and forced his gaze to hers.

“Out with it,” she said softly.

It should terrify him how easily his mask breaks with her. How transparent it has become. Her mask remained like frosted glass, where he could see the shapes of her emotions and take an educated guess. But him? She peered through him as if he were a stream of clear mountain water.

“Does this not ever get tedious for you?” he asked. “This game. These plans. The work never stops.”

Her tranquil mask stayed firmly fixed but he noticed some tension in the rigid line of her jaw.

“Those kinds of thoughts are not a luxury I can indulge in,” she said carefully after several long moments. “The work must be done, regardless of how it makes me feel. The alternative is so much worse than tedium.”

“If you could indulge in that line of thinking, how would it make you feel?” he asked, persistent. A dog with a bone.

She licked her lips, a rare nervous tick, drawing his attention to the traces of blood red lipstick still in the crease of her skin.

“How does it make you feel?” she asked instead. Always taking her guidance from him. Always following in his shadow.

“I feel . . .like retiring.” He finally admitted.

Her eyebrows jumped up her forehead. It wasn’t often that he could surprise her anymore, but this took her aback.

“Retirement? At our age?”

Perhaps she did feel different, ten years his junior and still out for blood.

“My empire is built. There is nothing left to do but maintain it. And lately the thought of that is just . . .exhausting. I find myself thinking of just walking away.”

Horror broke past her mask before she tamped it down. “You can’t just leave.”

Me. The word hung unspoken in the air between them, thick and heavy with the childhood pain she would only admit to in hints and whispers. And he could only hear it because of how twined their lives had become, the very real intimacy in a false marriage.

“I can and I will,” he replied. “I have more than enough wealth to last me the rest of my life. I will gladly hand my empire over to you and squash any that threaten your leadership. I would only ever be a phone call away for you.”

Deep unhappiness twists in the lines of her forehead, in the corners of her mouth. “I thought we were partners.”

“You are more than capable of running things yourself. You rule from the shadows as it is.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. The Villain was a cruel man by necessity and habit and he indulged in it now, a final test. A way to gauge her reaction to his next offer. So far the thought of being apart from him seemed unbearable to her. How far would that loyalty extend? Did she only care when it gave her more power? Would she mourn the loss of him or the loss of their success?

 “Is that what you want? To abandon everything we’ve worked for and leave me stuck to clean up the resulting mess?”

Only one person in the entire world was allowed to speak to him with such disrespect and get away with it and this was the first time she used such an opportunity.

“What I want,” he said slowly, “is to live in peaceful solitude in a cabin in the Swiss Alps. To see people only in the market. To walk a rambling trail out to a crystal clear lake any time I wanted.”

He took a calculated risk — his favorite hobby — and clasped her hand in his. “And I want you to come with me.”

Bare longing crossed her face, more intimate than if he had actually seen her naked body.

“And what would I spy on out there in the middle of the mountains,” she whispered.

“My wife would not need to spy on anything. She could spend her days however she liked.”

The implications were bright, as if he lit them with neon, but she stubbornly refused to look.

“You want to keep up this charade even in retirement? Be something for old ladies to gossip about in town?”

“The charade doesn’t interest me. I much prefer authenticity.”

Her gaze bore a hole in him, trying to piece it together. Purposefully obtuse.

“I need you to spit it out in plain English,” she said, voice shaking ever so slightly.

No more hiding for either of them, it seemed.

“I want to marry you. No play-acting — the real thing.”

“Why?” She looked so lost, so off-kilter. Her perfect mask crumbling in the face of such unpredictability.

He pressed a kiss, lingering and tender, on her bare knuckles.

 “Why? What do you think drives a man to wish to marry?”

“Many reasons — cover, business, security, continuing family lines —“

“I love you,” he said.

She stared at him in uncharacteristic shock. “The terror of the criminal underworld — talking about marriage and love. You must be joking.”

“I’m not.”

Her gaze flickered over him as precise as a scalpel, dissecting him for motive, for the slightest hint of insincerity, and he offered himself up gladly to her scrutiny.

“Why me?” she finally asks, rare and precious vulnerability slipping out. He treasures it more than gold.

“Who else could it be?” He flipped her hand over, tracing the life lines with the tip of his finger. He does not miss her soft intake of breath at the touch. “Who else do I trust more than you? Who else commands my respect? Who else knows and understands me? Who else is as brilliant and stunning and perfect as you?”

A bright flush glowed on her cheeks at his praise, so rarely given and never in such abundance. It rendered her speechless and he flinched inwardly at that.

“I realize that I have cultivated myself into a person that never considers love. It’s true that I have not felt it in a long time. But I assure you that I would not pull you into a cold marriage devoid of affection. If, of course, it’s possible you should even want such an arrangement.”

What a humiliatingly stilted proposal. He used to pride himself on his ability for smooth negotiations but in the face of her, in the stakes of their potential happiness, he retreats back into a stumbling teenager.

She, in her rare shows of kindness, reached out and cupped his face. Her fingers feel cool against his face — dear God was he blushing?

“It’s possible,” she said softly.

He swallowed, feeling like a boy again, heart pounding treacherously in his chest. “Is that a yes?”

She tucks a stray lock behind his ear, fingernail catching on the shell of it, and desire swooped low in his stomach.

“I get to pick out my ring,” she told him.

He smiled, small and genuine and rusty. “Anything you want.”

She matched him with a smile of her own. “I like the sound of that.”

[under0-0s]

The 300 Million Con. A Solo-Stark Mission. (From the Journals.)

( Listen to the music to enhance the reading experience. )

The wind on the coast of Tuscany tasted expensive—like it had passed through too many cigars and too many closed deals before it ever touched the sea. Somewhere below, laughter twisted out from the thousand lights of Villa Luce d’Ombra, perched like a jewel with a rotten heart on the cliffs above the Tyrrhenian Sea. The villa had been silent for years, but tonight it breathed like a beast—each flicker of a chandelier a heartbeat, each echo of laughter another shiver of muscle under velvet skin.

It was Don Emilio Cavazza’s birthday. And while the world pretended he was a harmless tycoon with a fondness for rare art and rarer wine, Tony Stark knew better. Because somewhere under the layers of music, marble, silk gowns and billion-dollar egos, hidden in plain sight like a secret whispered in Latin, sat the thing Stark was here for—the painting. The one veiled behind gold-thread curtains, guarded by ex-SAS mercs wearing diamond-studded cufflinks and tailored suits.

But it wasn’t just any painting.

Beneath that canvas, locked behind what Cavazza had so poetically dubbed “La Profeta Silenziosa,” were seven of the rarest, most dangerous, most illegally acquired diamonds in the world. Stark had nicknamed them "The Seven Sins"—each one stolen from a separate high-security transfer. They weren’t just gems; they were war potential. He knew because he built the sensor tech buried in them. Stark-grade mineral refinement. Nanocarbon lattice weaves. These weren’t pretty stones. These were weapons. And Cavazza was giving them to himself as a birthday gift, fused into the canvas like offerings to a false god.

The irony?

Stark had built the transport armor they were stolen from.

He didn’t tell Pepper. Didn’t call Nat. Didn’t so much as ping Rhodey. This wasn’t a team mission. This wasn’t world-saving. This was a man looking at the cracks in his own legacy and deciding he was done letting monsters wear his mistakes like medals.

At 11:42 PM, Tony hovered at 15,000 feet above the villa. His HUD cast sharp, surgical light across his face. Below, the world looked soft and stupid—full of glitter, music, and lies.

“FRIDAY,” he murmured. “Update.”

“Guests in place. Twenty-four armed guards inside. Six snipers in rotating positions, two drone sentries overhead. And yes, the birthday boy is still bragging about his ‘gift.’ He made a toast about how even the devil needs art.”

Tony’s breath steamed in the chilled titanium of the helmet. “Cute. Put a bow on my entry. Make it noisy.”

“You sure you don’t want to—”

“FRIDAY. Drop the bass.”

And with that, he dived.

There was no ceremony. No flourish. Just raw, beautiful, deafening descent. The suit ignited, streaking like a meteor. The wind howled. The air ripped. Then—

CRACK. The first pane of security glass gave way with a hiss and a scream, shards flying outward like a shattered halo.

CRACK. The second pane followed. Thicker. Reinforced. An obsidian-black screen meant to repel rocket fire. It collapsed under him like sugar glass, catching sparks that trailed after him like the tail of an angry comet.

CRACK. The final layer—Stark-tech composite. Invisible until you were too close. Stolen. Reverse-engineered. Cavazza’s people had used it to wrap the painting in an energy barrier built to resist Stark weapons.

Tony hit it with everything.

The sound didn’t register like a break. It registered like a judgment—a full-bodied, choir-level roar of vengeance and metal, splintering the last shield and driving Iron Man downward—

Into the champagne pyramid.

Glass rained. Champagne sprayed. Forty levels of imported crystal shattered upward and outward in a single operatic moment, and Tony landed in the middle like a fallen archangel, standing as the last tier exploded across his chestplate. The bubbles fizzed out in slow motion, reflecting firelight, moonlight, and absolute rage.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Not as the stunned crowd screamed and scattered. Not as men reached for guns, or whispered frantic orders into earpieces that now only crackled static—FRIDAY had already taken them offline. Not even as Don Emilio Cavazza slowly turned, eyes wide, realizing the devil had RSVP’d after all.

Tony’s faceplate hissed open.

His hair, soaked in Dom Pérignon, clung to his forehead. His eyes weren’t joking. There was no quip in the line of his jaw.

“I’m gonna ask real slow,” he said, voice the calm before the atomic storm. “Where. Are. My. Diamonds.”

A pause. Cavazza recovered quickly. He smiled, the kind that politicians and mobsters wear in court.

“They’re mine now. Art, Stark. You wouldn’t understand. What’s legacy without—”

BOOM. Tony’s pulse beam shot sideways, obliterating a gold-framed mirror. Glass snowed down. Screams echoed.

A single pulse shot from his hand, knocking three guards backward into a piano, which exploded in discordant horror. Screams erupted. Guns fired. The party devolved into madness.

“I said where.”

Guards opened fire. The orchestra panicked. Tony moved like lightning in a bottle—repulsors lighting up the floor, micro-missiles knocking men backwards into dessert tables and marble fountains. One poor bastard got sent flying straight into a twelve-foot ice sculpture of Cavazza’s face, reducing it to a cold smear across the tiles.

The room erupted. Weapons drawn. Bodyguards swarming like flies. Someone screamed in Russian. Another in Neapolitan. Tony ducked left, fired off a kinetic pulse that took out two guards and sent a third flying into a birthday cake the size of a Smart car.

Bullets began flying. He deflected them lazily with micro-shields, strolling toward the painting like he was window shopping. The guests scattered, cowering behind marble columns and caviar stations. Over the comms, FRIDAY piped up. “Should I inform the Italians?” “I am informing them,” Tony grunted, repulsing a merc through a violinist’s cello. “The hard way.”

As chaos bloomed, Tony pushed forward. He punched a man so hard he hit the wall and slid down like melted wax. Lasers danced. One of the drones tried to engage from above—FRIDAY hijacked it midair and turned it on its owners. Blood sprayed in arcs against white columns.

And in the center of it all—still standing—was the veiled painting.

Tony danced through it like a storm—repulsors flashing, micro-drones slicing through weapons, EMP bursts disabling communications in a 200-meter radius. He moved faster than rage. Cleaner than war. He kicked someone through a wall. Threw another into the fondue station. One of the snipers tried to draw a bead from the chandelier—

Boom. Stark sent the entire fixture crashing down.

The air was thick with smoke and glitter and spilled vintage. As he neared the painting, Cavazza lunged toward him, knife in hand. Tony didn’t even look—he caught the wrist mid-air and crushed the blade like a toy.

He stalked toward it through smoke and broken violins. One guard lunged, screaming. Tony caught him mid-leap and tossed him like trash. Another went for the canvas.

“Big mistake,” Tony muttered.

He fired.

The repulsor blast didn’t hit the man. It lifted him and threw him backward into a chandelier, which fell in a golden crash.

Now there was only the painting.

Tony stared at it.

For a moment, he just breathed.

Then, slow, almost reverent, he reached out and pulled the veil away.

Beneath was a nightmare: a faceless angel weeping, its hollow eye sockets shimmering with seven perfectly mounted diamonds. Stark’s diamonds. Not just embedded, but wired. Each one connected to a hidden mesh of energy conduits, designed to power something. A message? A weapon? A sick form of poetic justice?

It didn’t matter. Tony didn’t flinch. Didn’t marvel. He just muttered, “FRIDAY. Extraction protocol.”

From his gauntlets, precision magnetic claws extended. He removed each diamond with surgical skill, depositing them into a vacuum-sealed chamber embedded in his chestplate. The gems clicked into place with quiet finality, each one reducing the scream in his head by a fraction.

Then he turned.

Cavazza lay on the ground, bleeding, staring up with hatred.

Tony knelt.

“You stole from me,” he said, voice low, helmet off, face lit by fire and reflection. “You stole something that could’ve broken the world. That’s not art. That’s suicide in a nice frame.”

He leaned closer.

“Happy birthday.”

Tony didn’t look back. The Seven Sins rested in his chest, humming quietly. Legacy reclaimed. Mistakes avenged.

And somewhere, deep in the cold between stars, Tony Stark allowed himself a breath.

The moon above him stared through the ruin he’d made of the glass ceiling.

“FRIDAY,” he said, chest heaving, “I’m going home. Get me a toothbrush. And a dry-cleaner who won’t judge.”

He hovered upward, repulsors roaring to life. The suit hummed like a beast coming down from a frenzy, soot and smoke curling off his shoulders as he ascended past the dripping chandelier ruins, past the slumped bodies, past the flutes and fountains and the shattered empire of a man who thought he couldn’t be touched.

And as he disappeared into the Tuscan night, a soft laugh echoed in the HUD, FRIDAY’s voice faintly amused. “Successful mission, boss?” “Define ‘success,’” Tony replied, flicking a shard of glass from his wristplate. “I ruined a party, stole a billion-dollar painting, got sprayed with 200-year-old champagne, and didn’t kill anyone.”

Pause.

“Yeah. Classic Stark.”

TAGS BECAUSE I HOPE THIS LIVES: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @strange-little-spy @sillybigbird @itzzkaylaaa @crazyinlovewithfandoms @thatone-midgardian @insomniac-lifestyle @multiverse-peterbparker @over-bi-the-wayside @the-winter-soldier-official @lunamarvels @hydra-failure @strange-little-spy @the1-and-only-peggycarter @clintbarton-thearrowguy @thund3randrain

[siena-sevenwits]

Goodness of the Day

Rehearsal!

We did the read-through of the first half of Twelfth Night. Some kids really caught the humour of it. A favourite moment was when Sir Andrew Aguecheek said, "I was adored once," and Sir Toby Belch improvised a disbelieving, "Eh..."'

So proud of the kids who have been doing Shakespeare with me for a few years now and who really brought their experience to the table. So many have grown so much. They've worked so hard.

One of my girls had to ask to be excused from rehearsal for ten minutes, because she had a phone call scheduled with a college recruiter, and I just felt so happy for her - I hope she's accepted to a school where she can thrive. I've taught her one course or another since she was in middle school, and can say she deserves the world.

Somebody reached out to me about an opportunity I thought I had already lost. Pleasant surprise!

I treated myself to Italian food out, and it was fantastic. Blackberry Italian soda. Hot crusty roll with a soft, soft inside. Caesar salad. Pasta very flavourful. Kind young waiter. Lots of fun knick-knacks around the restaurant, and lots of mental remarking to myself, "I went in there," re: all the photos of landmarks in Tuscany. It always feels so decadent to go to a sit down place by myself, but it was just wonderful, and I enjoyed every moment.

I tried to avoid traffic by taking a different route, and got very turned about, but managed to get back on track. It was such a relief when I made it back to the main road and was past the worst of it.

It's going to be a crazy busy next few days, but the busy-ness is only there because I have gainful work, and that's a good thing.

Water tastes so good when I'm thirsty.

[lilitcafe]

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Their carefully curated selection showcases beers from renowned breweries and local craft makers, making it an excellent spot to discover hidden gems. Beer lovers can rely on the knowledgeable staff at Lilit Cafe to recommend new varieties or help them find their all-time favorites. This personalized approach ensures every customer leaves with a beer that suits their preferences and occasion.

Explore a World of Fine Wines

If wine is your passion, you’ll be delighted by the wide array of options at Lilit Cafe. As a trusted beer and wine store in Bethesda, MD, Lilit Cafe offers a handpicked selection of red, white, and sparkling wines from regions across the globe. From the vineyards of Napa Valley to the rolling hills of Tuscany, every bottle in their collection tells a story of quality and craftsmanship.

Whether you’re looking for a robust Cabernet Sauvignon, a refreshing Sauvignon Blanc, or a celebratory Champagne, the wine experts at Lilit Cafe can help guide your selection. They are passionate about pairing the perfect wine with your meal, mood, or special event. And if you’re new to wine or simply curious, their team is happy to share tips on tasting notes, food pairings, and more.

A Unique Cafe Experience

What sets Lilit Cafe apart from other beer and wine stores in Bethesda, MD is its dual identity as both a retailer and a cozy cafe. While you shop for your favorite beer or wine, why not stay and enjoy a freshly prepared meal? Lilit Cafe serves a delectable menu of dishes that pair beautifully with their beverage offerings.

From flavorful appetizers to hearty entrees and indulgent desserts, every bite at Lilit Cafe is crafted with care. Whether you choose to dine in or take your meal to go, their menu features something for everyone, including vegetarian and gluten-free options. Combining great food with an excellent selection of beer and wine, Lilit Cafe transforms every visit into a memorable experience.

Supporting Local and Sustainable Choices

In addition to offering premium beer and wine, Lilit Cafe takes pride in supporting local and sustainable products. Their commitment to the community is evident in their partnerships with local wineries and breweries, ensuring that customers have access to fresh, high-quality options. This dedication to sustainability and local collaboration not only benefits the environment but also supports the vibrant Bethesda community.

Conveniently Located

Lilit Cafe’s central location at 7921 Old Georgetown Rd, Bethesda, MD 20814, United States makes it an accessible and convenient choice for anyone in the area. Whether you’re a resident of Bethesda or just passing through, this inviting store is easy to find and well worth the visit. With ample parking and a warm, welcoming atmosphere, Lilit Cafe ensures that your shopping and dining experience is as stress-free as possible.

Why Choose Lilit Cafe?

If you’re searching for a Beer and Wine Store In Bethesda MD that combines quality, variety, and exceptional service, Lilit Cafe is the perfect choice. Here’s what sets them apart:

Unmatched Selection: From rare craft beers to fine wines from around the world, Lilit Cafe offers an unparalleled variety of beverages.

Expert Guidance: Their knowledgeable team is always ready to help you find the perfect drink for any occasion.

Local Focus: Lilit Cafe proudly supports local breweries and wineries, bringing the best of Maryland to your table.

Exceptional Dining: Enjoy a delicious meal while you shop, creating a one-of-a-kind experience.

Convenience: With its prime location and excellent customer service, Lilit Cafe is designed with your needs in mind.

Visit Lilit Cafe Today

Ready to explore the finest beer and wine store in Bethesda, MD? Head over to 7921 Old Georgetown Rd, Bethesda, MD 20814, United States today and discover why Lilit Cafe is a local favorite. Whether you’re searching for the perfect bottle, enjoying a meal, or both, Lilit Cafe promises an experience that’s both delightful and satisfying.

For more information or to inquire about their offerings, don’t hesitate to call them at +1 3016545454. Lilit Cafe is more than just a store—it’s a destination where great flavors and great moments come together. Visit today and raise a glass to the best beer and wine experience in Bethesda!

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Yvette Heiser Travel with Taste: Mastering the Art of Food Photography on the Road

Traveling opens up a world of culinary delights, and what better way to capture the essence of these experiences than through the lens of food photography? Whether you're a seasoned travel photographer or a food enthusiast with a passion for visual storytelling, mastering the art of food photography on the road can elevate your travel experiences to new heights. In this article, inspired by Yvette Heiser's insights on "Essential Qualities Every Travel Photographer Must Have we explore the fusion of travel and taste, delving into the captivating world of food photography and its role in documenting culinary adventures around the globe.

Embracing Culinary Diversity: The Intersection of Travel and Food Photography

As a travel photographer, the irresistible charm of varied cuisines and culinary traditions offers a unique chance to encapsulate the essence of a destination. From savoring street food in bustling markets to indulging in fine dining experiences at local eateries, every dish tells a story, and food photography serves as the visual narrative. The vibrant colors, textures, and intricate details of a well-prepared meal offer a rich tapestry of visual content that can transport viewers to the heart of a culture. Yvette Heiser talks about Food Photography, illustrating how this art form captures the soul of culinary experiences in her insightful discussions.

The Artistry of Food Photography: A Visual Feast for the Senses

Food photography is a delicate art form that goes beyond simply documenting a dish; it involves capturing the essence of flavors, aromas, and the cultural significance of a meal. Through skillful composition, lighting, and attention to detail, a travel photographer can transform a simple meal into a visual masterpiece. The interplay of natural light with the textures of food, the arrangement of ingredients, and the context of the dining environment adds depth and dimension to the visual narrative, inviting viewers to embark on a journey that engages all their senses.

Unveiling Culinary Destinations: The Role of Food Photography in Travel Documentation

In the world of travel photography, food becomes a captivating subject that captures the essence and spirit of a destination. From the vibrant street food stalls of Bangkok to the rustic trattorias of Tuscany, food photography becomes a means of preserving and sharing the essence of a place. Through evocative images of local delicacies, traditional cooking methods, and the conviviality of dining, a travel photographer can create a visual diary that encapsulates the spirit of each destination, inviting others to embark on a gastronomic adventure.

The Tools of the Trade: Tips for Mastering Food Photography on the Go

Mastering food photography on the road requires a combination of technical skill, creativity, and an understanding of the unique challenges posed by different environments. From selecting the right camera equipment and lenses to making the most of available lighting and composing captivating shots, a travel photographer must adapt to varying conditions while maintaining the integrity of the culinary subject. Additionally, embracing the local culture and engaging with chefs and food vendors can provide insight and authenticity to the visual narrative.

Conclusion: Capturing Culinary Adventures Through Food Photography

In summary, the amalgamation of travel and culinary exploration presents abundant prospects for travel photographers to hone their skills in the realm of food photography during their journeys. By immersing themselves in the varied culinary experiences, comprehending the artistic essence of food photography, and capturing the spirit of culinary destinations, photographers have the opportunity to craft a visual banquet that honors the convergence of travel and gastronomy. Therefore, seize your camera, embark on a voyage of flavors, and encapsulate the essence of culinary escapades through the captivating art of food photography. It's the perfect time to travel in search of taste and relish the visual wonders that await worldwide.