#and it's not even the focus of the series as a whole

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eleven

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Boarding School Era is over after this chapter. Are we going to miss it? *Everyone drops to their knees and starts wailing*

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It starts like this.

Harper Grace Whiatt is half an hour into her English Literature exam when the cramps start.

She frowns, drinks some water, and glances around anxiously at her classmates. Heads down, full focus. Pens flying. The low, scratchy murmur of papers turning.

She looks down at her stomach, round and heavy on her thighs, and thinks, No. There's no way.

It's probably Braxton Hicks again. It has to be. She's been getting them on and off for weeks. The nurse and her midwife said it was normal. Said it was her body preparing and practicing.

But twenty minutes later, when she's halfway through the third question—something about dramatic irony in Macbeth, which she's managed to write exactly two and a half paragraphs on—it happens.

It's not like in the movies. No gasping, no screaming, no dramatic splash of water across the floor. Just... a slow, horrible trickle. Warm and humiliating and sudden. It puddles under her, darkening the plastic seat beneath her uniform skirt.

She freezes. Blinks.

And then the next cramp hits.

This one is different. Sharp, low, deep. Her whole body folds with it, involuntary. Her hands fist around the metal sides of her desk, her pen clatters to the floor, and—

Yep. She's crying.

The invigilator is already standing. Someone's chair scrapes back. Everyone is staring.

And then Oscar is there.

Up from his seat across the exam hall, papers forgotten, stepping over bags and chairs like none of it matters. He's kneeling beside her desk before the invigilator even manages to speak.

"Hey. Harp." His voice is tight. Controlled. He's trying not to panic, and failing. "You okay?"

She can't answer. She just shakes her head, because the pain's ramping up now, another contraction building low in her spine. She clutches the underside of her belly with one hand and his forearm with the other.

Oscar looks up. His eyes are wide and he's breathing fast. But he sounds steady when he says, "She needs an ambulance. Now."

"Out of the exam, both of you—" the invigilator starts, flustered.

"I don't give a shit about the exam!" He snaps, louder than anyone's ever heard him. "She's having a baby."

Someone swears.

Sam stands up from the back row, nearly knocking over his chair. "What? Now?"

"She's thirty-five weeks," Oscar says through his teeth, arm already around her shoulder, helping her stand even as she leans into him. "It's early but it's happening."

"Matt, get the nurse!" Someone yells.

Jane's already halfway down the row, pushing past a stunned Alfie and hauling Harper's bag up off the floor.

The whole room blurs.

But Oscar holds steady. He keeps one hand flat on Harper's lower back, the other gripping hers like a lifeline, and he says quietly, just to her:

"I've got you. You're okay. We're okay."

And somehow, through the tears and pain and mortification, Harper believes him.

—

The ambulance lights blur red and white against the stone front of Haileybury as the doors slam shut behind them.

Harper is strapped onto the stretcher, still in her school blouse, damp and wrinkled and stuck to her back. Her skirt's bunched under the curve of her bump, and there's dried tears on her cheeks. Oscar sits beside her, gripping the side rail with white knuckles. His tie is askew and one of his shoes is half-on, like he didn't have time to fix it when he sprinted from the exam hall.

He hadn't.

The paramedics are talking in a calm, professional blur—"thirty-five weeks... irregular contractions... possible rupture..."—but it all sounds like background noise.

Oscar fumbles for his phone. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks on the first ring.

"Dad—"

Chris' voice comes through immediately, sharp with concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"It's Harper. She's in labour. Her water broke—during the exam, we're—we're in the ambulance. I don't—" He cuts himself off. His throat is too tight.

"Okay, okay—fucking hell. Listen to me, son. We're in Barcelona—Oscar, breathe, alright? We're getting the next flight over. Me and your mum, we'll be there as soon as we can. Just stay with her. Don't you dare leave her side, Oscar Jack Piastri. You hear me?"

Oscar just nods even though his dad can't see him. "Okay."

He looks at Harper. She's gripping his fingers in both hands now, her face pale and pinched, her breaths going tight again as another wave of pain hits.

"Hurts," she whispers. "I want it to stop."

"I know." He presses a kiss to her knuckles, helpless. "You're doing so good, Harp. Just hang on. We're nearly there."

—

The hospital is all bright lights and sharp corners and words they don't understand.

She's whisked into a room. Oscar stays beside her, even when a nurse tells him to wait. "No. I'm staying. I'm her—" he stumbles on the word. What was he? Boyfriend? Partner? Father of her child? He'd only turned sixteen last week. "I'm staying," he repeats, and no one stops him.

There are too many people. Too many hands. Too many questions.

"How far along did you say she is?"

"Thirty-five weeks, four days."

There's a hundred people surrounding them suddenly. Harper's skirt is cut off, her tights too, and then there's another flurry of movement.

"She's breech."

"Baby's presenting bottom-first. That's not ideal, given mum's small stature."

"She's how old?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, Christ."

Harper is shaking. One of the nurses places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We're going to take care of you, sweetheart. But we need to move quickly. Your baby girl isn't in the right position, and your contractions aren't doing their job right now."

"I don't—" she gasps. "I don't know what they're supposed to do."

One of the doctors crouches down to their level. "Okay, here's the deal. We need to deliver your little girl and we need to do it soon. Right now, given your size and age, the safest way is a caesarean section. It's surgery, but you'll be awake the entire time, and we'll be right here with you. Do you understand?"

Harper looks at Oscar, then back at the doctor. "But I didn't even pack anything," she says weakly. "I didn't bring anything with me."

Oscar wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "We'll get it after. It doesn't matter. I promise it doesn't matter."

"Okay. Harper, darling, you're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine," the doctor says gently. "We just need to get a move on."

"Can he come?" Harper asks, voice small.

The nurse nods. "He's dad?"

Oscar nods. So does Harper.

"Then of course can come. Dad, let's scrub you up."

They wheel her out. Oscar walks beside the gurney like he's not entirely sure where his feet are taking him. He's barely heard the words "breach" or "c-section" before today. He still had an hour left on his exam. Somehow, he's only wearing one shoe.

None of that matters.

The fluorescent lights blur overhead, and he holds her hand the whole way.

—

Oscar's never known this kind of silence before. Not even on the grid, not even at the start of a race when every nerve is coiled and waiting.

This is different. The air is sharp with antiseptic and adrenaline, and the lights above the operating table buzz faintly, almost drowned out by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the low hum of voices murmuring things like "scalpel" and "next layer."

He's sitting on a stool next to Harper's head, hidden behind the curtain that separates them from the surgery. She's pale and half-dazed, the drugs making her eyes heavy, her fingers curling weakly in his hand.

"You're doing good," he whispers, even though he's not sure she can really hear him. "You're so brave, Harp. I swear, I've never seen anyone braver."

And then one of the nurses says something quietly—"we're ready"—and the stillness breaks.

There's a sudden shift in the room, a new focus. Oscar hears the surgeon say something about "gentle traction" and "legs first." And then:

"Here she comes."

Oscar stands, just enough to peek over the curtain. And there—

There she is.

Tiny. Pink. Furious.

There's blood, and there's motion, and she's slippery and folded up like she was curled into a puzzle piece—but she's alive. She's squirming, kicking, red-faced and loud.

Oscar's mouth drops open. His whole body goes still.

Then she cries.

A shrieking, furious wail that pierces right through him.

And he's crying before he even realises it.

"Oh my god," he whispers, voice cracking hard. "Oh my god, she's—"

The midwife glances at him, softening. "She's got lungs, this one."

Another nurse is already wrapping the baby in a towel, suctioning her nose gently, checking her fingers, her toes, everything so careful and practised.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" One asks.

He doesn't answer—just nods, stumbling forward on shaking legs. They guide his hand to the scissors, show him where to snip.

His hands are trembling so hard he misses the first time.

"Easy," the nurse says gently. "There you go."

He cuts.

And just like that—she's theirs.

Someone brings her over, naked and still squalling, and lays her down on Harper's chest.

Harper is crying now too, dazed and exhausted and blinking like she can't quite make sense of it all. Her hand comes up, instinctive, resting on the baby's back.

"She's so small," she whispers, her voice cracking like wet paper. "She's so small, Oscar."

"I know," he says.

He's still crying.

He crouches beside the bed, resting his forehead against Harper's arm, one hand on his daughter's tiny spine, the other still clutching Harper's fingers.

No one tells them what to do. No one says anything at all for a while.

And for a second they can pretend that it's just the three of them.

—

The recovery room was quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind that made Oscar's ears ring with the silence.

Harper was asleep, her head turned slightly to the side, pale against the white hospital pillow. She hadn't said much since they'd moved her out of surgery — just held their daughter to her chest until she'd drifted off, finally, like her body couldn't handle being awake a second longer.

Their baby — their actual baby — was in the little heated bassinet beside the bed. Still tiny. Still pink. Still real.

Oscar sat in the chair pulled up close, one hand resting on the plastic side of the crib like he couldn't quite stop touching something that proved all of this wasn't a dream.

He hadn't slept. Didn't even know what time it was.

But then the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head in.

"Are you Oscar?" She asked gently. "There's... well. There's kind of a group of teenagers, your age, I suppose, downstairs. Insisting they're all somehow your next of kin."

Oscar blinked. "Wait—what?"

"They're being very persistent. One of them's threatening to call Ofsted — although I'm not sure what they think that would do."

Oscar let out a tired, stunned breath. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

⸻

The moment he stepped into the corridor outside reception, he heard them before he saw them.

Sam. "You think I won't scale that fucking desk?"

Jane, sharply. "Obviously we're family. Can't you tell? We're quadruplets!"

Matt. "Sam, don't—okay, Sam's climbing the desk—"

Alfie. "Christ. You're all going to get us kicked out."

"Oi!" Oscar called across the room, humiliated and warm all at once.

The four of them turned in unison.

Oscar barely got a word out before Jane had practically launched herself at him.

He caught her, stumbling back a little, and then the rest of them joined in — Alfie clapping his back too hard, Matt wrapping an arm around his neck, Sam hovering awkwardly until Oscar yanked him into the circle too.

For a second, just a second, Oscar let himself lean into it.

Just stood there in the middle of a huddle of teenage arms and deodorant and half-tied ties, and let himself feel.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were wet and he hadn't even realised he was crying again.

"She's okay," he said thickly. "They're both okay. The baby... she's really small, but she's okay. They said her lungs are strong. She—she cried. She was loud. Harper's asleep now. She's okay too."

"Jesus," Matt muttered. "Did it all go alright?"

Oscar gave a weak, crooked smile. "They cut her open. Like—she didn't have to push or anything. A C-section. They didn't even let us wait. She's—Harper's so small, and she was in so much pain, and I didn't—I couldn't do anything."

Sam looked at him for a second. Then just pulled him into another hug, wordlessly.

Jane leaned her head on Oscar's shoulder. "You did exactly what you were supposed to, Osc. You got her here. You stayed with her. You held it together."

He didn't say anything. Just nodded, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes.

Matt cleared his throat. "So... can we meet her?"

Oscar shook his head. "Not yet. She's... she came early, and they don't want too many people near her while her immune system's still new. But—soon. You will. She's got this frowny face, like Harper. It's mad."

Alfie grinned. "Glad she didn't inherit your ugly mug."

"I bet she's gorgeous," Jane added.

Oscar looked at them all, his ridiculous, chaotic, loyal little found family. "Thanks for coming," he mumbled.

"Don't be stupid," Jane said. "Where else would we be?"

They stayed until the nurse kicked them out.

—

Harper woke slowly.

Not all at once, the way she did from nightmares or Oscar's too-early alarm. This was foggy and sore and strange — her body aching in places she didn't even have names for.

The lights were low in the hospital room. The air smelled of antiseptic and warm baby skin.

And her daughter, her daughter, was curled against her chest in a bundle of soft blankets and quiet huffing breaths.

Oscar sat beside her on the bed, one knee pulled up, his fingers gently stroking the baby's back. He looked up when he saw her stir.

"Hey," he whispered, voice thick with softness.

Harper blinked slowly. "Hey."

"Sorry. I just— put her on you. She was crying and she's already been fed, so I think she just wanted to be with you," he stumbled, and the relief in his face almost too much to look at.

She shifted slightly, wincing. Her stomach felt heavy and wrong and tight, like it had been sewn back together with fishing line.

"I can't remember it," she murmured.

"What?"

"The birth," she said. "The—surgery. Everything's blurry. I remember pain, and crying, and being so scared. And then... nothing. Just waking up here."

Oscar nodded. "You were... out of it. They gave you something once they decided to go for the C-section."

Her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the baby. Oscar reached out, steadying her.

"You were amazing," he said. "I know you don't remember it. But you were so brave."

She shook her head. "I was terrified."

"I know." He swallowed. "So was I."

He hesitated, then told her everything — how the nurses had run with her down the corridor, how he'd had to stop at the surgery doors and wait in scrubs, alone, cold with fear. How he'd been shaking when they finally let him in, when they raised the curtain and let him sit beside her head and hold her hand.

"You kept asking if she was okay," he said. "You don't remember that?"

Harper blinked hard. "No."

"You were half-asleep, but every few minutes you'd whisper, 'Is she okay? Is she okay?'"

He paused.

"And then... they pulled her out. And she cried. Loud. Screamed, actually."

Harper gave a broken little laugh, her free hand brushing at her cheeks. "That's my girl."

"They put her on your chest, and you smiled," he said. "You were still sort of out of it, but you smiled. I cut the cord. My hands were shaking so bad."

"I wish I remembered," Harper whispered.

"I remember enough for both of us," Oscar said softly.

There was a pause. Harper looked down at the baby, at her tiny scrunched-up face and her head of soft downy hair.

And then—loud footsteps. A voice.

"Oscar!"

It was his mum.

Nicole burst into the room first, Chris a step behind her, both of them breathless from the corridor. Oscar barely had time to turn before his mum was pulling him into her arms, hugging him tight, stroking his hair like he was five years old again.

"Oh my god, sweetheart," she said. "Oh my god."

He let himself go limp in her arms, the tension pouring out of him all at once. A full-body exhale.

"Is she okay?" Nicole said, already moving toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. "Is Harper—"

"I'm fine," Harper said weakly. "A bit... sliced open. But fine."

Nicole was already at her side, brushing Harper's hair off her forehead, looking down at the baby with wide, reverent eyes. "She's beautiful. Oh, sweetheart. You did it."

And Chris — always more reserved — stood at the end of the bed and gave a slow, stunned shake of his head. "Jesus, Oscar," he murmured. "You're a dad."

Oscar gave a dazed, lopsided grin. "Yeah."

Chris clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

He nodded. Then swallowed. "Now that you're here."

Harper blinked up at them. At Nicole. Her bottom lip trembled. "Thank you for coming."

Nicole squeezed her hand. Leaned down and kissed her forehead. "You're our babies. I'm just sorry we couldn't be here sooner."

—

The hospital room was dark, save for the low yellow glow of the lamp near the cot. Outside, the corridors were quiet, the world hushed and sleeping.

Inside, Harper sat upright in the narrow hospital bed, her legs stretched out stiffly under the thin blanket, her daughter nestled in the crook of one arm and a bottle in the other. Oscar sat behind her, his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped gently around her — like if he let go, she might come apart.

The baby suckled softly at the bottle, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling near her face. The only sounds were her quiet drinking and Harper's occasional, sniffling breaths.

"I'm sorry," Harper whispered.

Oscar shook his head against the back of hers. "Don't be."

"I just— I couldn't do it. I tried. I really tried. The nurse kept saying I was doing it wrong, and then she latched wrong and it hurt, and then she just— screamed and screamed and— I just want her to eat. I don't care if it's not my body feeding her, I just— she was hungry and I couldn't— I didn't—" Her voice cracked, her whole body trembling against his.

Oscar tightened his arms around her, leaning in closer. "She's eating now," he said quietly. "She's fine. Look at her. She's okay."

"She deserves better," Harper whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Oscar sat there silently for a moment, his hands splayed protectively over her ribs, one of them gently stroking up and down her arm.

"You're seventeen hours out of major surgery," he murmured. "You're holding her. You're feeding her."

"I just wanted to do it right."

"She's eating. That's all that matters."

Harper wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her hospital gown, sniffling again. "Do you think she'll hate me?"

Oscar let out the smallest, broken sound. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. "No. No, Harp. Never."

The bottle clicked as the baby finished the last of the formula. Harper tipped it gently away, cradling her daughter tighter, staring down at her flushed, soft face.

"I think she looks like you," she whispered.

Oscar smiled faintly. "She's got your hands."

They sat like that for a while — in borrowed pyjamas and rumpled clothes, huddled together in a too-small hospital bed, holding this impossibly small person who had turned their whole world inside out.

"She's so little," Harper whispered, voice cracking again.

"So are we."

She let out a soft laugh that was really more of a sob, and Oscar buried his face in her neck.

Neither of them said it — how scared they were, how much it hurt to feel like they weren't enough, how wildly, madly they loved this baby they barely knew. But it was all there, in the way Oscar kept holding her even after their daughter had been gentle burped and promptly fallen asleep. In the way Harper didn't flinch when he took the bottle from her hands and leaned forward to kiss the top of their daughter's head.

It was 5:47 a.m., and they were still just kids.

But their baby girl was warm and full and safe.

And that was enough.

—

Clementine Grace Piastri was born on the day the rest of England's Year 11 students sat their English Literature GCSE.

Oscar and Harper both failed the exam, having missed most of the questions — for fairly obvious reasons.

Their friends sat the paper in the aftermath and passed with flying colours; even Matt. 

Jane and Sam were given the honour of being Clementine's "godparents", a title they took far too seriously far too quickly.

And when Harper received a text from her mother asking for a photo of her granddaughter, she didn't hesitate.

She blocked the number.

[sorcerersandskillusers]

How BSD flips power fantasy on its head

One of my favourite things about BSD and it's power system is that "stronger" characters are often much worse off than weaker ones.

Abilities aren't some power fantasy that makes their users lives better, in fact those with the strongest abilities tend to suffer the most because of them.

This is a rule baked into the ability power system, we are given a set of "rules" for ability users in the untold origins but the one that sticks out to me most is this:

Skills do not always make the possessor happy.

Think of the bsd characters with the most powerful abilities and how they have affected their lives.

Chuuya: Probably the strongest combat ability user alive right now, but his ability led him to be manipulated and used first by the sheep, then by the mafia. In stormbringer we see how badly Chuuya wishes he had no ability, that he was just a regular kid like the Sheep.

Yosano: Her ability is insanely strong; she is probably one of the most useful ability users on the planet and is a big part of how the ADA can stand a chance against much larger groups. But her ability was exploited, and she was forced into a horrific position where the lives of those near her became cheap.

Q: Incredibly dangerous ability which led to them being imprisoned for years by the Mafia and then put through horrible torture by the Guild.

Fukuchi ability made him the ultimate soldier, which meant he not only had to watch al his comrades die around him, but he was also used as to commit unspeakable evils for the sate of the state which eventually drove him to form the Decay of Angels.

Akutagawa: His skill is incredibly strong, able to cut through anything physical even space itself, but that power lead to him being conditioned by Dazai into a living weapon who had no value unless he killed and whose worth was tied to his usefulness to the mafia.

Lucy, Kyouka, Sigma, Atsushi, Mushitaro… and tons more characters were all exploited for their abilities, either through force or manipulation.

And it’s not just abilities, there is also a running theme of the smartest characters in the series suffering debilitating loneliness because of their inability to connect with other people. Characters like Dazai, Ranpo and Shibusawa are all shown at one point or another to be unable to relate to other people making them feel alone.

Dazai concluded that the problem was in him and that there was no point in continuing to live. Ranpo nearly fell into believing that the whole world hated him and if Fukuzawa had not saved him he might have ended up similar to Fyodor.

Shibusawa decided that normal humans were inferior to him and became obsessed with finding something that could surpass his own mind.

We don’t know what is going on with Fyodor but I’m 100% sure it is far from healthy.

Overall I just find it really interesting that unlike a lot of series where being powerful is normally just better, bsd tackles the isolation that comes with being different and makes being a powerful ability user seem like a nightmare. But thats why the main focus of the series isn't in indavidual power, but in the power gained from support and trust in others.

[stellaspectral]

okay i read your latest bayverse raphael x female reader (don’t know when you’ll read my request so i’ll add that it’s the one where she ask raph for things to draw in her sketchbook and the brothers are watching them and teasing raph) and i want to ask a continuation to that! i’m not the anon who asked that request but it was sooooo cute and funny and my heart melted and i need moooooore! maybe the reader ask if she can draw raph because she thinks he’s handsome and he just short-circuits because what? the girl of his dreams finds him, a giant-mutant-talking-turtle with anger issues, handsome!?!? and then maybe the reader finds the courage to ask him out on a date because she can see that raph is really insecure and he would probably never ask, but she likes him a lot too and she wants to start a relationship with him. i just need more fluff and softness between them and someone who will show to raph that he can be loved even if he doesn’t think so! if you add some teasing but very happy for him brothers in the background again i would be very happy! you write their personalities so well, i was grinning and kicking my feet the whole time!

A/N: I’m so happy you enjoyed Drawn to You enough to request a follow-up! For anyone who hasn’t read it yet, please do so—because this sequel won’t be as impactful without its context!

I didn’t make Raph’s brothers appear quite as prominently as last time. Because I’d like to think Leo told Donnie and Mikey to give them some breathing room so Raph and the reader can figure things out. Gotta have the oldest look out for his younger brother after all—though even he can’t resist a little teasing himself. 😉

Sketched in My Heart (fluff/mild angst)

❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, mutual pining, insecurity, mild angst, confessions, teasing siblings, and some light swearing. All characters are aged-up.

You’re back on your perch on the couch in the lair.

Already, you’ve sketched a few things: one of Leo’s katanas resting beside a meditation mat, the lava lamp on the stand beside you, and a mug with Sensei-tional Brew written on it (a gift from Mikey to Splinter) on the coffee table. But you find your attention drifting.

In his room, Raph is delivering a series of powerful strikes to the punching bag—the one you had drawn a week ago. You recall how adorable he was describing each tear and flaw in the material. But it isn’t long before you start watching him, how the muscles beneath his skin coil and release like massive springs. How he moves with a brutal but captivating grace.

He finishes a combination with a final, resounding thwack, making the chains suspending the bag groan as it swings wildly. For a moment, he stands, chest heaving, sweat highlighting the planes of his formidable physique. He turns, wiping his brow with the back of his hand—and his eyes meet yours for a split second before he glances away.

Your pulse skips like it always does when Raph catches you staring. Softly, you clear your throat and look down at your sketchbook, pretending to adjust a detail, even though your pencil hasn’t touched the paper in at least five minutes. You take a breath and attempt to focus on your art, but it’s no longer a good enough distraction.

You steal another glance at Raph. He’s toweling off now, muscles flexing with the motion. You bite your lip as it hits you all over again; how can he not know what he does to you? The guy moves like a walking tank and has the gentlest soul hidden under all that metaphorical armor. You want to draw that—the real Raphael.

And maybe, for once, say out loud how you see him.

You stand up before you can chicken out, sketchbook in hand, your legs carrying you across the lair before your brain catches up. “Hey, Raph?” you ask, gently tapping the frame of his open door.

He startles a little, caught mid-dab with the towel. “Oh—uh. Hey,” he says, voice rough but soft in the way it always is when it’s you.

“I was wondering …” You chew on your bottom lip, then force yourself to look him in the eyes. “Would you mind if I … drew you?”

His towel pauses halfway to his broad shoulder. “… Huh?”

“Like—you, you. I just …” You take a breath, clutching your sketchbook like a shield and hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you feel. “You’re … really handsome. And you don’t have to pose or anything! Just be you.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide. He’s short-circuiting. You can see it—Raph, the brawler, the bruiser, the guy who once stood toe-to-toe with Shredder solo, is now rendered momentarily speechless by your words. His towel hangs forgotten in his hand and he looks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. “You … think I’m handsome?” he finally says, like the idea never even occurred to him before.

“I know you are,” you say, softly but firmly.

He makes a noise—something between a cough and a choke—and turns half-away, rubbing at the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool. But failing miserably. “I, uh … yeah. Sure. If ya want.” His voice is lower now, shyer. “Don’t see why ya’d wanna draw me, though.”

“You’re strong. And you carry so much on your shoulders, but you still protect everyone. That’s amazing, Raph.” You flush a little but push on. “And yes, you’re really handsome.” You offer a small, tentative smile. “And I think you should see how I see you.”

You don’t think it’s possible, but somehow his face gets so red, you think it might match his mask.

He swallows, a visible bob in his throat. The hand holding the towel clenches, then slowly unfurls. His gaze, which had skittered away, flicks back to yours, wide and uncharacteristically uncertain. The usual hard glint is missing, replaced by something softer. “Damn. That’s … that’s somethin’, alright.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a yes, then?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. What the hell—draw away.” He backs up and flops onto the floor mat with a heavy thud. “Just don’t make me look all broody like Leo in meditation, alright?”

You grin, finding a spot to sit nearby before flipping to a fresh page. “No promises, but you do have that tortured soul thing going on,” you tease.

“Ugh,” he groans. “You sound like Mikey.”

He shifts a little, trying to find a comfortable position on the mat, one arm draped loosely over his knee. His other hand toys with the edge of the towel, still fidgety in a way that makes your chest ache with affection.

You set your pencil to paper, letting the first strokes flow. You sketch his strong jawline, the furrow in his brow that never quite smooths out, and those eyes. Even when they’re avoiding yours, they hold a thousand emotions.

He stays still, though you can tell it’s not his natural state. Occasionally, his eyes flick to your face, then dart away again like he’s trying not to be caught looking. You pretend not to notice, even as your heart thuds louder with each glance.

After a while, you break the silence. “You know, you don’t always have to carry it all alone.”

He blinks, looking like you caught him off guard. “Huh?”

You look down at the sketch, then back to him. “The weight, the anger. The way you think you’ve got to be the strong one all the time.” You offer him a gentle smile.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales a slow breath. “Yeah. I know. I just …” His gaze drops. “Sometimes it feels like I gotta be the wall. So nothin’ breaks through. For the family, you know?”

“I get that,” you murmur. “But walls don’t just keep things out. They can trap things in, too.”

He looks at you again, and this time, something in his face softens. Like a wall starting to crumble. “I ain’t used to people seein’ past the tough guy stuff,” he admits.

You hold up the sketchbook and turn it toward him. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”

His eyes widen as he sees the drawing. It’s not perfect; some lines are rough, a few details unfinished. But the likeness is unmistakable. And more than that, it feels like him. Strong, yes. But thoughtful. Kind. Gentle. You didn’t just draw what he looks like.

You drew what he is.

He stares for a long moment, jaw slack. Then he huffs a breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You got me lookin’ like I’m worth a damn.”

“You are worth a damn, Raph.” You meet his eyes and don’t look away. “You’re worth everything.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged, full of something neither of you have quite named yet. And honestly? It’s also about time someone did put it into words.

Raph’s voice is a low rumble when he finally speaks. “You really think all that?” He gestures vaguely between himself and the sketchbook, still looking a little dazed.

“Every word,” you confirm.

You see the flicker of disbelief in his eyes, the way he almost shrinks into himself, as if your praise is a physical weight he’s not used to carrying in a positive way. He’s so used to criticism, to being the tough one, that genuine affection seems to throw him completely off balance.

His gaze drops to the floor, and he mumbles, “Nah, c’mon. Don’t say stuff like that.” The insecurity is palpable, a heavy cloak he wears too often.

And that’s when you know. You can’t wait for him. He’ll second-guess himself into oblivion, convince himself he’s not good enough, that you couldn’t possibly mean it. But you do.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you take a deep breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling thick. “Raph,” you begin, your voice a little shakier than you’d like, but you press on. “I really like spending time with you. And … and I like you. A lot.”

He looks up at that, his eyes wide and searching yours. The blush that had started to fade from earlier creeps back up his neck.

“So,” you continue, forging ahead before your courage can desert you, “I was wondering … if maybe … you’d want to go on a date with me?” You rush the last few words out, then clamp your lips shut, waiting, your own cheeks heating up.

The silence stretches as Raph just stares, his mouth opening before closing again. You, on the other hand, feel like your heart is trying to escape your chest with how fast it’s beating. Self-consciously, you wipe your sweaty palms on your pants but still refuse to break eye contact as you wait for his answer.

“A … date?” he finally chokes out, his voice cracking on the word. “With me?” He points at himself, as if to clarify which giant talking turtle with anger issues you could possibly be referring to.

“Yes, Raph. With you,” you say, a small, hopeful smile playing on your lips. “Unless over six-foot-tall, red-masked ninja turtles with a surprising soft spot and impressive muscles are forbidden from dating?” You try for a light tone, hoping to ease the shock radiating off him.

He runs a hand over his head, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route or perhaps a hidden camera crew. “But why?” he asks, his voice raw with confusion. “I mean, look at me. I’m … this.” He gestures to himself again, a wave of that familiar insecurity washing over his features, momentarily dimming the hopeful spark you thought you saw.

“I am looking at you, Raph,” you say, your voice soft but firm, full of all the sincerity you feel. Gingerly, you move closer. “And I see someone amazing. Someone brave, and loyal, and yeah, a little rough around the edges,” you concede with a gentle smile, “but someone who cares so damn much it practically pours out of him. I see you. And I like what I see. A lot.”

Finally, he grins and shakes his head sheepishly, chuckling softly. “You really don’t quit, do ya? Seriously. A date?”

You nod. “Yeah. We can start small. Grab a slice. Watch a movie. Or, you know, sit in awkward silence and pretend we’re both not nervous wrecks.”

Raph stares at you for another beat. Then, slowly—carefully, like he’s touching something fragile—he reaches out and taps the edge of your sketchbook with one large finger.

“I ain’t good with words,” he says, apologetic. “But yeah. I’d like that. A date. With you.”

Your smile widens. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, the word husky and full of a warmth that makes your insides melt. “Really.”

Just as sweet relief and giddiness bubble up inside you, a voice shatters the moment.

“Oooooooh, Raphie’s got a giiiiirlfriend!”

Of course, that sing-song taunt could only belong to one turtle: Mikey. He stands in the doorway, cupping his hands around his mouth like he wants to announce the news to the whole sewer.

Raph jumps about a foot in the air, whirling around at him. “MIKEY! GET OUTTA HERE, YA LITTLE SNOOP!” he roars, his face instantly turning a shade of red that rivals his mask.

Close on his heels, Donnie peers inside, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time before someone found your emotionally repressed, brooding rage charming.”

“Get outta here, ya knuckleheads!” Raph snaps, balling his fists. “Ain’t you got somethin’ better to do than spy on people?”

“Spying? Us?” Mikey feigns an offended pout, placing a hand over his plastron. “Never!” He flops dramatically onto Raph’s mat, right next to your sketchbook, peering at it with stars in his eyes. “You drew him? Like one of your French turtles?!”

“MIKEY,” Raph snarls, lunging toward him, but Mikey rolls away with a laugh, skidding to a stop against the wall.

Leo appears beside Donnie, arms crossed and expression stern in the way only an older brother’s can be. “Alright, enough. Show’s over,” he scolds, nudging past Donnie to lean down and pat the back of Mikey’s shell. “Let’s give them some space.”

“Awww, but we just got here,” Mikey whines as he stands.

Leo sighs. “You’ve caused enough chaos,” he says, steering his chuckling, protesting brothers outside of the room. Before stepping over the threshold, Leo’s eyes flick toward you, then to Raph, his expression softening with understanding.

Though even Leo can’t resist a bit of teasing.

“We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

Mikey is still making kissing noises as Leo herds them out. He gives the two of you an apologetic smile before firmly shutting Raph’s door, the room suddenly becoming silent. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again.

Raph groans, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to erase the past sixty seconds from existence. “I am gonna pulverize them,” he mutters, before looking at you with a grimace on his face. “Sorry ‘bout that. They’re … a handful.”

“Well, they are your brothers,” you point out. “Endless teasing is practically an unspoken clause in the sibling contract, right?”

“Yeah. You get used to it. Mostly.” He glances towards the closed door, a muscle working in his jaw as if he can still hear Mikey’s teasing. “They ain’t ever gonna let me live this down.”

You smile gently, closing your sketchbook and setting it beside you. “Maybe not,” you agree as you reach out to brush your fingers lightly over the back of his hand. “But I think that just means they’re happy for you.”

He looks down at your fingers, as if processing the sensation. Then, almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders ease. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, glancing at the door again, “they’re happy they got fresh teasing material for the next decade, more like.” But there’s no actual heat in his words. “Guess you’re right, though. S’pose they’re happy … in their own annoying way.”

He shifts his gaze back to your hand on his. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns his palm upwards, fingers brushing against yours. You gently lace your fingers with his, a pleasant jolt shooting up your arm. He clears his throat, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, then quickly darting away again, a faint blush still dusting his cheeks.

“So, uh … this date thing,” he says. “You’re sure, sure?”

You bring your other hand up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the slightly rough skin just below his mask. His eyes widen at the contact, but he leans into your touch. “I’ve never been more sure about anything,” you say earnestly.

He swallows, his gaze locked on yours as he brings his free hand up to cover yours on his cheek, holding it there. “Damn,” he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. “You really know how to knock a guy off his feet, don’t ya?”

“Only the deserving ones.”

A small, almost shy smile touches Raph’s lips. “Deservin’, huh?” He looks down at your intertwined hands, then back up at your face. “You got a funny way of lookin’ at things. A good way.”

“I just see what’s there,” you murmur, your thumb continuing its soft caress on his cheek. He leans further into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

When he opens them again, there’s a new resolve, a flicker of excitement. “So … this date.” He clears his throat again, the blush still present but fainter now, more like a warm glow. “When were you … uh … thinkin’?”

“Whenever works for you. We could keep it simple. Your lair’s got character,” you say, a teasing glint in your eye, “but maybe somewhere a little more private for a first date? My place, if you’re up for it? Or if you know a quiet spot topside …”

“I know a few spots. Rooftops, mostly. Quiet. Good view of the city. Nobody bothers ya up there.” He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes, as if offering to share something personal.

“A rooftop sounds perfect,” you say softly. “And tonight, maybe? If you’re not too tired.”

“Adrenaline’s still kinda pumpin’, actually.” He pauses, then adds, “Tonight sounds … yeah. Good.” He hesitates then, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting yours again, earnest and a little vulnerable. “I ain’t exactly a pro at this whole datin’ thing. Just so ya know. Might mess it up.”

“You won’t mess it up.” You squeeze his hand. “We can just … be. Talk. Look at the stars. No pressure. The most important part is just being together, right?”

His eyes soften, the last vestiges of his tough-guy guard seeming to melt away in the quiet intimacy of his room. “Yeah,” he breathes. He lifts your joined hands, his gaze fixed on yours, and slowly, he brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there. “Tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” you echo, your heart swelling.

He holds your gaze for another long moment. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he lets go of your hand on his cheek, though he keeps your other hand firmly in his. “I should, uh … probably clean up a bit more. Before we … y’know.” He gestures vaguely at himself, looking a little self-conscious.

“Take your time,” you say, giving his hand a final squeeze before slowly withdrawing yours. You pick up your sketchbook, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. “I’ll wait out on the couch.”

“Won’t be long.”

You return to the communal area and find your perch on the couch again, giddy as you replay the last hour in your mind. Thinking of the feel of his hand in yours, the tenderness in his eyes, the brush of his lips. You open your sketchbook, flipping back to the portrait of Raph. It’s still unfinished. But in a way, that feels right. There’s more to him yet to draw, more to learn, more layers to peel back.

And tonight, under the stars, maybe you’ll start to uncover them.

[maybe-boys-do-love]

I wasn't obsessed with The Ex-Morning to start, but I trusted it would hit me eventually. You see, the thing I love about Lit Phadung as a director is that he never tries to be above the classic Thai BL aesthetics. The production hallmarks are all there: dialogue-heavy stories with generic comedic scoring and stable cameras theatrically focusing on people rather than any dynamic or poetic cinematography. He chooses works that bring broad, obvious characters to life for us. The work of his I've seen--the full SOTUS series, Love Mechanics, Love in Translation, and currently The Ex-Morning--is remarkably unpretentious, always skirting the line of cheesy. This all sounds hardly complimentary. And yet. And yet!

A few episodes in, his series begin to unobtrusively swell like a tide moving in with the density of the characters and thematic subtext. Episode 6 in SOTUS S inspired me to research and write a whole 20 page essay on the 4 Act structure. Episode 3's where The Ex-Morning hooked me. An example of a master at work in episode 3, we get the shipping-moment where Tam grabs Phi's hand, a perfect example of how Lit layers quiet symbols amongst the cheese of romance. The narrative set-up here gives us classic BL. Blatant skinship edited and closely framed to make it impossible to miss or misread its romantic implication. We even have a fujoshi observer to remind us the gaze we're meant to use.

fighting certain urges about the hair on Singto's hands

But P'Lit and screenwriter Aof--who I've argued appears to have adapted these techniques from P'Lit's work on SOTUS--layer this shot with other visual information. In zooming to the hands, the ring, the mala bracelet, and the act of writing get secretly highlighted amongst the yaoi content. The show has not pushed us hard to think about their meaning yet, but there's been a subtle focus on jewelry and accessorizing already and the Buddhist themes have been an emerging question, too. It's just one of many examples in the series where the questions of materialism, emotional attachments, authorship, and queer embellishments arise without hammering the audience over the head with it.

And then on top of these visual strategies, Lit consistently draws out overwhelming performances from his actors that imbue what might otherwise be camp with a raw humanism, heightening the stories beyond run-of-the-mill romcom plots. With their flawed, conflicted characters and unflinching portrayals, they're tests of empathy.

It's no surprise he's launched the careers of several renowned pairs--Kristsingto, DaouOffroad, YinWar (not their first outing, but the one that elevated them past their peers). In a P'Lit world you get to play a full range of emotions, and he's not interested in requiring violence or high-concept plots to experience those feels. It's pure romcom, with the full breadth of its possibility, which is something I adore.

Lit's not an auteur by the traditional definition. His vision's not singular, his work not so marked by his idiosyncrasies to be easily chosen out of a lineup of his peers. I think it's better for that. He intricately crafts his works so that you don't have your attention drawn to its craft or intricacy, letting the story and characters, which at first might seem silly, take hold of your soul.

[theconstantsidekick]

Avengers: Age of Ultron ft. Static (5) | s.r

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings)

Genre: Angsty as hell

Summary: Steve just found out his girlfriend, Y/n Stark, has powers that are powerful enough to swallow the world whole. The Maximoff girl poked the bear, Y/n snapped, and now it’s raining trauma, trust issues, and pink lightning.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, yet to be codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Violence, Some Actual Violence but not bloody

a/n: was i supposed to be working on the next part of thunderbolts*? yes. was i moved to write this simply because of an edit i saw? also yes. the heart wants what it wants, alright?

Avengers : Age of Ultron ft. Static (4) | Series Masterlist | The Avengers (ft. Static) | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

“Cap!”

Steve hears someone calling for him, distant but insistent, cutting through the haze of music—his and Peggy’s song.

He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.

“Wake up!”

Not yet.

“Cap, wake up!”

The moment he opens his eyes, the world slams into him. His ears are ringing. His body feels heavy, sluggish. He squints against the dim, flickering light and flexes his jaw.

A figure hovers over him.

“Sorry,” Barton mutters. He almost sounds like he means it.

Steve brings a hand to his face, fingers brushing his jaw. The pain is dull, but Barton’s got a hell of a right hook.

With a groan, he pushes himself up.

“We gotta move, Cap,” Barton urges, offering a hand. Steve takes it, steadying himself as he stands. “The Hulk’s out.”

Steve exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, pushing past the lingering fog in his mind. “Where’s Romanoff—?”

Barton cuts him off. “She’s down.” Before Steve can protest—not sure to what—Barton adds, “Tony’s already trying to contain the Hulk—”

“But—”

“We’ve got a bigger problem.” Barton’s voice is grim.

Steve’s stomach tightens. “Bigger than the Hulk?”

Barton hesitates. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Spit it out, Barton. While I’m still young.” There’s a joke in there somewhere. He doesn’t think this is the right time to point it out, though. 

And clearly neither does the man in front of him, because then Barton straightens. “Your girlfriend has superpowers none of us knew about.” His expression gives away absolutely nothing. “And whatever the Maximoff girl did—it set her off.”

Steve feels like he’s been hit. Not just punched—wrecked.

Y/n.

His Y/n.

And just like that, everything clicks into place. The moments of hesitation, the way she always seemed to almost tell him something before changing the subject. The way her eyes darkened when certain topics came up. The nights he caught her awake, lost in thought, as if she was carrying a weight too heavy to share.

He knew she was keeping something from him.

But he never thought it would be this.

Not powers. Not something so big.

A sharp pang hits his chest—betrayal, confusion, something deeper, something uglier.

Why didn’t she tell him? Did she think he wouldn’t understand? That he couldn’t handle it?

Or was it worse than that?

Did she choose not to tell him? Did she never plan to?

And then another thought creeps in, colder, heavier: Has anything between us been real?

Barton keeps talking, oblivious to the way Steve’s world is tilting beneath his feet. Or maybe all too aware of it…

“When I woke Thor up, I told Tony I was sending him to help with the Hulk,” Barton says. “Tony said—” He clears his throat, a nervous tic more than anything. “He said our best bet at handling the Y/n situation is our heaviest hitter.”

Steve forces himself to focus, even as his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“What are you saying?”

Finally some emotions bleed through, Barton’s face is tight with something close to guilt. “I’m saying Tony thinks if we don’t stop her now—and I’m quoting him here—she’ll swallow the world whole.”

Steve’s stomach turns. That can’t be right. This would mean that she doesn’t just have powers, no. They are so catastrophically strong that the God of Thunder might be the only solution.

And Tony doesn’t exaggerate when it comes to threats. If he said those words—swallow the world whole—then whatever’s happening, it’s bad.

Steve swallows hard, forcing the mess of emotions down, locking them away like he does everything else. He can’t afford to feel this right now. There’s no time for the pain gnawing at his ribs, the panic clawing at his throat.

If Y/n is out there, if she’s a threat, then he has to stop her.

Even if it kills him.

His grip tightens around his shield. “We have a location?”

“Fifteen clicks west.”

“Civilians?”

“None. It’s a forest.”

Steve nods and turns, already moving.

“Cap.” Barton’s voice stops him mid-step. He doesn’t turn, but he listens. “I think she made a conscious decision to head to the forest.”

Steve exhales. 

That means something. 

He doesn’t know what yet, but it means something.

Without another word, he presses forward.

He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting to see when he got there, but he knows it wasn’t this. He couldn’t have ever imagined this. 

The clearing hums with a strange, unnatural energy.

Steve slows, boots digging into the soft, torn-up earth. Trees sway like they're caught in a silent storm, the air thick with a pressure he can feel in his bones. Every step forward feels heavier.

And then he sees her.

Hovering above the ground, balanced on disks of pink light, the space beneath her feet warped and shivering. Above her, the sky itself has been torn open—a portal stretching wide, pulsing with static and colors not meant for human eyes. The sound it makes isn't quite thunder and isn't quite wind. It's deeper. Older.

And wrong.

Thor is already there, hammer in hand, charging the storm around her with lightning. He tries to push through, to reach her, but the energy shielding Y/n tosses him back like he’s nothing more than a leaf in a gale. Each time he rises again, a little slower.

Steve clenches his jaw.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t react.

Her head is tipped slightly back, her eyes a glowing, vacant pinkish-white, like she’s trapped in some nightmare she can’t wake from.

He should move.

He should call for backup, even if he isn’t sure what good that would do.

He should think like a soldier.

But he just stands there for a beat longer, looking up at her, feeling something crack open in his chest.

He'd seen her fight before—grit, quick reflexes, faster with her mouth than her fists most of the time.

But this—this wasn't fighting.

This was power. Raw, terrifying, uncontainable.

Tony’s words in Barton’s voice echo in his mind: Swallow the world whole.

He believes it now.

He believes it because he can feel it—the way the earth trembles under her, the way the sky itself recoils.

And even knowing all that... he can’t help but think she’s beautiful.

Not soft, not gentle.

Beautiful like a storm is beautiful. Like a wave big enough to drown whole cities.

The part of him that had seen a quiet future once—a dance in a hall with a woman in red lipstick and kind eyes—aches in the back of his mind.

A part of him still reaches for that simplicity, that life he left frozen in time. A part of him reaches for…

No.

No. No. 

There isn’t time for that right now.

Steve tightens his grip around the shield, forces himself to move, even as the storm claws at him.

“Y/n!” he shouts into the howling static.

For a moment—barely a flicker—her head turns.

He sees it.

He knows he sees it.

She's still in there. Somewhere.

That’s all the invitation he needs.

He sets his jaw and pushes forward, straight into the storm.

“Y/n!”

His voice tears through the static, cracking like thunder.

No answer.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. The disks of light beneath her feet pulse once—sharper, harsher—and the storm ripples outward, blowing him back a step.

“Y/N!” he roars, lungs straining, but her eyes remain fixed on something far away, something not of this world.

He stumbles forward, shielding his face from the wind that bites like shrapnel. The pressure is crushing. Like gravity itself is breaking.

Off in the distance, across the clearing—Thor rises.

Steve barely catches the blur of him lifting off the ground, a streak of light and fury as Mjolnir crackles with divine charge. He hurls it straight into the heart of the storm.

It strikes the shield around Y/n with a boom that splits the sky.

The energy buckles—just for a second—then rebounds violently, sending Thor hurtling through the air. He slams into the ground fifty feet away, carving a trench through the earth.

Steve instinctively moves, breaking into a run.

“Thor!”

The god of thunder groans, lifting himself slowly. Steam rises off his shoulders. His cape is torn.

Steve reaches him, helping him to his feet. “You alright?”

Thor nods, slow and shaken, brushing dirt from his armor. “I’ve fought in plenty of wars throughout the galaxy—” his gaze lifts toward the woman floating above the chaos, “—but I have never seen power like this.”

They both look up.

Y/n remains motionless in the eye of the storm. Unreachable. Unshaken. A figure of light and fury, crowned in something ancient and unrelenting.

Steve’s voice drops. “She’s in there.”

Thor says nothing. But his silence isn’t doubt—it’s fear.

“She’s in there,” Steve repeats, as much to convince himself as anyone else.

Bzzzt.

“You’re right, Cap,” Tony’s voice crackles through the comm. No jokes this time. Just a tight, clipped breath. “She is.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Stark, what the hell is going on?”

“Hell is the correct word,” Tony answers. “Listen, I’m a little busy keeping the Hulk from giving the skyline a face-lift, so I’m gonna make this quick.”

There’s static, then a breath that sounds like he’s somewhere dark, somewhere wrecked.

“She’s not in control,” Tony says. “Not even close. The teenage mutant emo witch scrambled her head like an egg, and whatever’s spilling out now? It’s not just power—it’s memory, fear, everything she’s spent her life locking up. It’s all coming loose.”

Steve glances up again at the storm above her, the portal yawning open like a second sky.

“She didn’t want this, Steve. Not like this.”

He says it fast. Like if he slows down, he won’t be able to keep talking.

“You’re the only one who might still get through to her.”

“It should be you,” Steve says. Quiet. Stubborn.

“I can’t,” Tony replies. Fast. Final. “Not now. Thor’s the only one strong enough to hold her off. And I’ve got front-row seats to the Hulk’s rampage—only thing standing between him and a civilian bloodbath is me and the suit.”

Another pause. Quieter now. Almost—almost vulnerable.

“She’ll listen to you.”

“You’re not looking at what I’m looking at,” Steve tells him, looking up at the sky.

“Damn it, Rogers! She’ll listen to you because it’s you!”

Well, shit.

When they first got together, Tony kind of hated the whole thing. It was never a secret that Tony kind of hated Steve, and by extension hated the fact that his sister didn’t. 

Steve got it. It was practically tradition—you’re supposed to hate the guy dating your sister. He respected that. Still does.

Over time, Tony mellowed into something resembling acceptance. Not thrilled, not supportive—but he’d tease Y/n, make gagging noises whenever he caught them being soft, throw barbed comments Steve’s way with just enough bite to be brotherly.

Steve never expected more than that.

He ever expected Tony to fully accept it—accept them.

But now it seems, he already had.

Tony’s voice drops to a near-whisper. “You gotta bring her back, Rogers. Before we lose her.”

Damn it.

He steals himself.

He clenches his fists and turns to Thor. “Can you contain the fallout? Make sure she doesn’t get closer to the city?”

“I can try,” Thor states, sounding fairly more sure than his words would signify.

He nods. “Alright, you go do that.”

“And what will you do?” Thor asks.

“Something I was desperately good at before we started dating.” Steve looks off to his left, up high. “I’m gonna try to get her to look at me.”

With tasks divided, both of them head off in the opposite direction. Thor flies up into the sky, meanwhile Steve begins climbing up to a cliff—the closest he can get to her.

All he can think of as he climbs is—

Why didn’t she tell me?

His fingers dig into the rock, half from effort, half from how damn loud the question is inside his head.

Was it him? Did he say something? Do something?

Did she think he couldn’t handle it?

No. No, he’d told her—he’d said she could talk to him. That he wanted her to. He meant it.

Unless she didn’t believe him.

Unless—she never really planned to tell him at all.

That thought hits harder than he expects. His foot slips for half a second, sending a scatter of pebbles down the cliff. He catches himself.

Maybe he should’ve pressed harder. Pushed past the dodges, the jokes, the way she’d always shift the topic when he got close. The way she’d laugh, look at him knowingly over a beer bottle, and say, “Don’t go digging, Rogers. You might not like what you find.”

He hauls himself up another ledge.

The insomnia. The nights she couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling like it was screaming at her. The way she flinched—just slightly—when anyone mentioned powers. Or Hydra. Or the word control.

Suddenly, and all at once, he remembers the look on her face—at the hospital after Fury’s assassination. Wide eyes. Ashen skin. Terror, sharp and visible, when someone said Winter Soldier.

He remembers the bridge. The ambush. The way she stood between Bucky and everyone else, not afraid—furious. Vengeful. Familiar.

The lawyer who somehow knew exactly what Hydra did to his best friend.

She always knew too much.

Before he did.

Before anyone did.

But he didn’t want to pry. He told himself people get to keep their secrets. That she'd tell him when she was ready.

He thought that was kindness.

Maybe it was just cowardice.

Because deep down, he knew. He knew. She was holding something back. And he let her.

He let her.

And now here they are.

The world split open like a wound and she’s at the center of it.

His lungs burn. The wind howls. His heart’s somewhere between furious and aching.

And yet—

And yet—

She’d offered. She’d asked him to move in with her. Her exact words—God, it was what Tony 

had guessed: “I happen to have a place. You should move in.” She sounded so timid—he’d never ever seen her timid before.

And he said no.

Because he didn’t want to impose.

Jesus Christ.

He makes it to the top of the ridge. Stands. Wind clawing at his suit. Shield strapped tight.

Up ahead, Y/n is still hovering in the storm. Surrounded by chaos. Held aloft by raw, terrifying light.

You didn’t trust her with your baggage either, he thinks.

You said you liked Brooklyn. You said you didn’t want to impose.

Maybe she heard that loud and clear.

He doesn’t know who he’s mad at. Himself. Her. The world. Ultron. Fate.

All of it.

None of it.

She’s not the Y/n he knows right now—but he’d know her anywhere.

And he has no goddamn idea what to say.

But he knows he has to say something.

“Doll,” he calls out—soft, shaky.

No response.

He steadies himself, plants his feet against the wind. “Doll!”

Her head twitches, barely a flicker of recognition.

And then—

“Steve?” Her voice is small. Timid. A child lost in a storm. Like she’s afraid of what she might find if she looks.

Steve's heart damn near breaks.

“Doll, you gotta stop this,” he pleads, stepping closer, even though the cliff edge ends and there’s nothing beneath him but air and chaos. “You—you gotta stop, please, baby. Please.”

“I—” She looks around suddenly, like she’s seeing everything for the first time. Or maybe nothing at all. “Steve—I—” Her eyes are wide, wild, wrong. Like she’s stuck between two realities, slipping in and out of something he can’t see. Her breath catches. “I… I can’t,” she finally chokes out.

“You can’t what, doll?” he asks gently, carefully, like she’s a spark about to go off.

“If I—if I stop—if I stop—they’ll find me,” she breathes. “I can’t let them take me again, Steve. I can’t go back!”

“Doll,” he says, firmer now. Grounding himself like she’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart. “Baby, listen to me—”

He steps toward her again. No ledge. No plan. Just her.

She’s hovering, suspended in light and terror and something ancient clawing at the seams of reality—but she’s an arm’s reach away, and if it’s her, you best believe he’s gonna try.

“Listen to me, alright?” he says. “No one’s taking you anywhere.”

“No!” she screams, and the sound fractures the air like a bomb going off.

Lightning arcs out from her fingers. The portal behind her pulses—uglier now, twitching like a raw nerve. The trees behind him shatter. Her body jerks like she’s trying to contain something inside and failing, miserably. “I won’t go back. I’m never going back!”

“Y/n…” he says again—quieter, like he’s scared his voice might break her more.

And just like that—her rage collapses.

It folds in on itself and slips into something horrifyingly fragile.

Tears spring to her eyes, and when she speaks again, her voice doesn’t belong to a god.

It belongs to a girl.

“You don’t understand, Steve,” she whispers. “I can’t go back. I won’t—I barely made it out the last time. And if they find me again—if I go back—I don’t think I’ll survive this time.”

Her hands are shaking.

Not glowing.

Not clenched into fists.

Just shaking.

She’s trying to shrink herself smaller. As if that might save her from whatever her mind is showing her.

And Steve—Steve has never seen her afraid before.

Never.

She’s been furious. Ruthless. Sarcastic, reckless, impossible.

But never scared.

Not even when they were surrounded by aliens on the streets of New York. Not even when they were on the run from S.H.I.E.L.D. which was secretly infiltrated by Hydra. Not even when he asked her once, stupidly, if she was okay and she shot back, “Do I look like I need saving, Cap?”

But this—

This is fear.

Raw. Childlike. Crippling.

And it wrecks him.

He still doesn’t know what she’s seeing. What the hell Wanda’s spell has done to her mind. Who she thinks is coming for her.

But he knows this.

He knows how to hold the line.

And he knows what it means to stay when someone’s falling apart.

“Hey,” he says, voice shaking. “Y/n, look at me.” She does. Barely. “I need you to hear me, alright doll?” The wind hisses low around them, a breath held by the world. “As long as I’m here—no one’s gonna touch you. No one’s gonna find you. No one’s ever gonna hurt you again.” She shudders. Her lip trembles. “I swear to you,” he continues, “on my life—on the shield, on Brooklyn, on everything I’ve got left—I will keep you safe.”

Y/n shakes her head slowly, tears streaking down her cheeks, catching faint glints of light from the storm above.

“You don’t know that,” she whispers. “You can’t promise that. You can’t protect me—not from them. I—” Her voice breaks. “No one can.”

The wind picks up again, as if her fear fuels it.

And Steve, God help him, just smiles.

Soft. Steady. Like he’s been handed a suicide mission and decided it sounds like a good afternoon.

“Come on, doll,” he says gently. “When have you known me to turn down a challenge?”

She stares at him.

Still afraid. Still not fully here. Like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if what’s waiting below is safety—or another trap.

But for the first time since this nightmare began—

She’s looking at him.

And in her eyes, something wavers. Something flickers.

Not power.

Not rage.

Recognition.

Steve takes a step closer—slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal, or something holy. He lifts his hand—not reaching, not yet. Just holding it out.

“Come on, doll,” he says softly. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Her lower lip trembles. Her eyes fill all over again.

But she nods.

Small. Barely there. But real.

Steve breathes. Not relief—not yet. Just enough to keep going.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, voice quiet, fierce, and impossibly tender. “I promise, baby.”

The portal groans above them like the sky itself is exhaling.

Y/n floats, barely stable now—like her body’s starting to remember gravity. Like the nightmare is splintering at the edges. She looks down at him, eyes shimmering with a pain so old, it feels fossilized.

“Why are you even here?” she whispers. Not accusing. Just… tired. Broken. Small. “Why are you still here?”

And that’s it.

That’s the question.

The answer he’s been holding in his chest since before the tower, before Sokovia, maybe even before he knew he’d fallen for her at all.

Steve steps closer, hand still outstretched. His shield long forgotten at his back. Just a man now. A man in love.

“Because I love you,” he says.

No hesitation. No heroics. No shield between them.

“I love you, Y/n. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ll always be here.”

Her breath catches. A choked, fragile sound.

And he says it again—like a vow, like a lifeline, like it’s all that’s keeping the sky from falling: “You’re safe with me.” He extends his hand, palm up, steady in the howling wind. “I promise.”

Y/n looks at it.

Then at him.

Slowly—instantly—the power radiating off of her begins to fade.

The shield of pink static peels back, dissolving like fog at sunrise. The air clears. The storm silences. Even the sky seems to be holding its breath.

Her eyes meet his.

She reaches.

So does he.

Fingertips outstretched.

Inches away.

“Barton? You have the shot?” Tony’s voice crackles over the comms.

Steve’s body goes cold. “What?”

“I do,” Barton answers, steady as steel.

Y/n flinches mid-air, still reaching.

“Take it,” Tony orders.

“No!” Steve bellows—but he’s too late.

The arrow hits with a dull, sickening thunk, embedding itself in her neck.

She gasps.

Her hand jerks mid-motion—never quite reaching his.

Her face contorts in pure disbelief. Then heartbreak.

“You… promised…” she whispers, not even trying to hide how shattered she is.

The pink disks beneath her feet sputter out.

And then—

She falls.

“Y/n!!” Steve’s shout is raw, broken. He dives without hesitation.

He catches her in midair, arms wrapping around her as they plummet. His shield snaps beneath them just in time—he twists their bodies so she lands on him, not the earth. The impact roars like thunder.

They hit the ground. Hard.

Dust and wind rise around them in a choking spiral of silence.

She’s not moving.

He’s still holding her.

That’s the last thing he remembers until he jolts awake in the Quinjet.

“Run and hide?” Tony’s voice filters in through the haze.

“Until we find Ultron, I don't have a lot else to offer,” Maria Hill replies over the comm.

“Yeah. Neither do we,” Tony mutters, and ends the call.

Steve blinks hard. Then the memory slams back into him.

“Y/n!” He sits up fast—too fast. Pain screams across his back and ribs, but he doesn’t care. “Y/n? Doll?”

“She’s fine, Cap. Jesus,” Tony snaps from behind the cockpit, where Barton is flying the jet. “Calm the hell down before you open up something you just broke.”

Steve’s already scanning the jet.

Banner’s a few feet away on the floor, pale and shaking, wrapped in a thermal blanket. Natasha sits close beside him, silent but watchful. Thor stands off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest. His armor is streaked with dirt, one knuckle bleeding. He doesn’t speak.

But he’s watching something.

Someone.

There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze—concern etched into the hard lines of his face. Worry he’s not bothering to hide.

Steve follows his line of sight.

And that’s when he sees her.

Y/n.

Lying still in the makeshift med bay at the rear of the jet. She’s got an IV in one arm, a sensor clipped to her finger, and a faint red mark blooming near her neck where the tranq hit. Someone’s tucked a blanket around her legs. Natasha, if he were made to guess.

She looks… small.

It’s in such high contrast to the force of nature he’s used to, such a far sigh off from the woman radiating power that had Thor shaken, and for a second, Steve forgets how to breathe.

He is on his feet in a heartbeat. “Calm—Are you fucking kidding me!?” he explodes, rounding on Tony. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking we needed to contain her,” Tony shoots back, voice clipped and sharp. He doesn’t even turn around—just stays seated, facing forward.

“I had it under control!” Steve insists. “She was listening. She was coming down.”

Tony finally turns, slow and deliberate. The smirk on his face is hollow and sharp. “And what if she changed her mind? What if the next surge brought that forest down? You have absolutely no clue the kind of blast radius she’s capable of encompassing.”

That shouldn’t upset him, but Steve’s hurt all the same. “You said I was the only one who could help her!”

“And you did!” Tony claps once, mocking, bitter. “Mission accomplished, Cap. What do you want—a medal?”

“What I want,” Steve is fucking enraged, “is an explanation as to why you didn’t fucking tell me about your goddamn contingency plan of shooting at my girlfriend?”

“Your gir—” Tony’s enraged too now. Steve can see it. He knows they aren’t related to each other by blood but in this moment their resemblance is uncanny. “It was a fucking tranquiliser, Rogers. I didn’t tell Barton to put a bullet in her head.” Steve’s blood runs cold. He thinks he might just have to fight her girlfriend’s brother. But then Tony adds, “Which is what she would have wanted.”

Motherfucker.

“How can you say that—?”

“He can say that, because he knows me,” comes a frail voice from the corner of the quinjet. His eyes turn to Y/n instantly. He rushes over before he can even register her words. But then she turns to Tony and continues, “And it’s what he should have done.”

“Fuck off,” Tony dismisses, strong and forceful.

“That was the contingency plan we agreed on,” Y/n accuses with what Steve presumes is all the venom she can muster in her weakened state.

“I didn’t agree to jack shit! It was your contingency plan, not mine! And it was fucking stupid contingency plan!” Tony bites back, matching her beat to beat.

“Tony, you know it’s the safest way out! I could have—”

He cuts her off, finally pissed enough to get to his feet. He stares her down, “You could have burnt the whole world to the ground, Y/f/n and I still would not take the goddamn shot. I am not going to put you down like a rabid dog, ever.” 

And that’s when Steve sees it—he sees Tony break. He’s loud, he’s practically yelling. But his eyes… Tony’s eyes reflect the same emotion hers did when they were out on that field—it’s fear. Crippling, debilitating, paralysing fear.

This wasn’t Tony choosing strategy. It wasn’t control. It wasn’t ego.

It was the only thing he could do to keep her alive.

Even if it broke every bone in his body to make the call.

If nothing else, Steve gets at least this much.

Apparently, so does she it seems. Because she sighs then. Her stance changes, so noticeably, so drastically that it throws Steve off. 

“Alright,” she says easily, still feeble. “Alright.” She nods at him, just once. An unspoken invitation. But Tony hears it loud and clear. He walks over to her slowly. She pulls him into a hug—protective, firm. She wraps her arms around him like she’s anchoring him in place. Tony hesitates. His hand hovers behind her back like he’s still not sure this is real—like he might crush her if he holds on too tight.

She ruffles his hair gently.

That’s all it takes.

He holds on like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You did good, Tones,” she says to him softly, kissing him on the temple. “You did good,” she reassures him. “It’s over now. Okay? It’s over now, peanut.”

And then her eyes lift, meeting Steve’s over Tony’s shoulder.

No words.

But everything’s said anyway.

That nothing will ever be the same between them again.

Find the Static Verse Masterlist here. Read The Avengers (ft. Static) here.

[virtuallovemoon]

Wayne Family Adventures season 3 rant

Ok this is rant/critique of my feelings on this season of WAF which TL;DR I did not like it. this will also contain spoilers for this season so if you haven't read it be warned

My first problem is that this whole Joker arc was way to long it should've have been way shorter, because it drags on gets repetitive very fast. For example most of season is just Bruce pushing away the bat family one of the members gets hurt either psychically or emotionally Bruce feels bad apologies then procced to pushed away again. it's only when Damian gets hurt and the family has pillow fight does Bruce allow them to help. Even afterwards it's still very repetitive.

The season goes down hill the more it goes on. I personally think this arc should've ended after Dick and Bruce's fight with the joker and having a few chapters focusing on the aftermath, then return to the slice of life formula the series is known for. let's be real we don't need a arc about family drama the mainline comics already have that covered.

Just to add on the repetitive aspect the season starts the same season 2 ended with Duke being kidnapped and Bat family coming to help him.

an other aspect I hate is they feel the need to give mostly everyone arc/focus this season it was fine at the start with Duke, Barbara, Jason, Bruce and sort of Tim but then get pushed to side, or in Tim's case get chapter then get tossed aside.

The part that bugs me the most about it at the end where Tim leads the bat family which I was excited for since Tim is my favorite but it goes nowhere. what should have been was make one of the Batgirls lead the Bat family since they get a lot of focus in the end.

the last part I want to bring up is that there's to many damn characters in Bat family and Non Bats Like Luke, Kate and Helena do nothing at all and Azrael who finally gets introduced does nothing at all. I also hated that Starfire wasn't introduced sooner she was just there to remind people she was a part of the outlaws.

So an other TL;DR it was to long, repetitive unfocused and boring and my least favorite season of WAF I will probably write a review for each of WAF to make thoughts more clear

[wolveria]

The Jedi's Gambit - Ch 13

Pairing: Cad Bane x Obi-Wan Kenobi

Series Warnings: Explicit sexual content, violence, medical procedures, Force shenanigans, enemies to lovers

Chapter Summary: Obi-Wan decides what to do with the Sith artifact, and Bane isn't happy.

AO3

Obi-Wan was slower to wake than usual, his limbs heavy and warm with sleep, a pleasant weight around his middle. Only when he opened his eyes and saw blue fingers loosely curled around his hand over his stomach did he remember.

And if that wasn’t enough of a reminder, the hard length against his backside certainly was.

Obi-Wan’s teeth dug into his bottom lip to keep any noise from escaping. He would love nothing more than to indulge in the desire coiling low in his belly—there was no use in denying its presence after last night—but there was something he had to take care of first.

As carefully as he could, he unwrapped Bane’s fingers and put his arm back against his side, wincing as he slid partway across the bed and his own erection strained against his trousers.

Bane did not take his absence unnoticed. He stirred, mumbled something in his sleep, and Obi-Wan quickly returned to his side. He cupped a hand along his cheek and spoke a quiet command.

“Sleep.”

It wasn’t a simple verbal suggestion; Obi-Wan nudged him with the Force, urging the bounty hunter back to sleep.

He resisted, even while mostly unconscious, and his eyes were red slits, blurrily trying to focus on Obi-Wan’s face. Guilt churning his stomach, Obi-Wan pressed his lips to Bane’s, soft and apologetic as he sent the suggestion once more, this time without speaking a word.

Bane relaxed, his eyes closing and his lips growing lax into the kiss until he was completely submerged once more.

Obi-Wan pulled back, taking in the appearance of the sleeping bounty hunter one last time. He hoped Bane could forgive him for what he was about to do.

After getting dressed and leaving instructions with both the medical and personal droid, Obi-Wan departed the station. Dex’s ship groaned at being moved, as if it too was voicing its concern over the merits of this idea, but he didn’t hesitate to plot his next course. There was nothing to do but wait.

Obi-Wan hadn’t had a lot of time to reflect since this whole misadventure began. It had been one crisis averted after another, and now that he had a moment to breathe, Obi-Wan didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

Well, he knew what he was doing at that precise moment: removing the source of Bane’s sickness. He didn’t like the idea of leaving, but Bane could use the sleep, and it would keep him from attempting to stop Obi-Wan.

Todo had listened to the Jedi’s instructions while wringing his hands like a distressed grandmother, but he knew the droid was dependable. Obi-Wan had thought him too flighty to be useful at first, but he had to admit he might have been in real trouble if Todo hadn’t grabbed the Sith artifact from Bane.

Thankfully, droids didn’t seem to be affected by dark side objects. He’d handed over the artifact without question, dropping the jagged, blood-red crystal into the lead-lined box Obi-Wan had held open, clasping it shut with a final thud.

Over the lulling thrum of the sublight engines, Obi-Wan’s thoughts turned to Quinlan Vos of all people. On their journey to Nal Hutta to track down Bane, Quinlan had mentioned that the bounty hunter had wronged him in the past. He’d teased Obi-Wan on more than one occasion, promising to tell the story, but he had yet to make good on that promise. He was beginning to wonder if Quinlan hadn’t embellished his run-in with Bane just to get a rise out of Obi-Wan. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

And then there was his Padawan, so full of anger when it came to the bounty hunter’s repeated escapes. Where Anakin had wanted to lock him in a cell and throw away the key, Obi-Wan wished to grab Bane around his lean shoulders, look him in the eye, and shake some sense into him.

But Obi-Wan knew Bane well enough by now to realize that wasn’t the way to reach him. Patience, honesty, and a high tolerance for prickly words seemed to be the charted course to earn Bane’s trust. It was with that navigation in mind that Obi-Wan acted now, though Bane wouldn’t see it that way.

Nor would the Council. Obi-Wan was disobeying them again in regard to the bounty hunter, and now in regard to the artifact. The Council would want it in their custody, to study it or lock it away. He couldn’t trust that his fellow Council members would understand that such measures wouldn’t be enough.

Not if Bane was going to get better. And Obi-Wan suspected that argument would move no one other than himself.

So, it was without regret that Obi-Wan placed the lead-lined box into the garbage chute, aimed the opening toward the star that blazed off his portside, and jettisoned the Sith artifact into the fiery destruction of the system’s sun.

Its journey would be accelerated by the star’s gravity well, and Obi-Wan didn’t need ship radar to tell him when the dark object was destroyed, incinerated down to the components of its atoms. There would be nothing left of its insidious pull, no shadow of the Force to poison the life around it.

Obi-Wan felt it, the moment the artifact burned out. He took a breath that felt as if it had been withheld for a long time, and he plotted a course back to the station.

His heart was lighter, freer, the heavy presence of the jewel gone from his mind. Obi-Wan had come into the barest contact with the object, and even he noticed its absence. He could only imagine what Bane would be feeling, and that uncertainty filled Obi-Wan with a nervous kind of anticipation.

His arrival to the station was… anticlimactic. He docked the ship and returned to the living area without any alarms or curses flung his way. Obi-Wan reached out with his senses, trepidation filling his steps at the lack of a furious bounty hunter coming out to face him, but he found Bane still fast asleep.

Obi-Wan paused in the doorway, taking in the sight in front of him, as if committing it to memory. Bane, lying on his stomach, slightly curled on Obi-Wan’s side of the bed, gripping the blankets against his chest with his head partially buried in the pillow.

Obi-Wan smiled. The sight looked far too alluring, so he stripped off the jacket and vest and crawled back into bed. He had to nudge over the bounty hunter, who didn’t so much as move over as he did curl around Obi-Wan’s body like a reptile around a sun-warm rock.

He knew the moment Bane was awake, because he stiffened, and when Obi-Wan opened his eyes, the bounty hunter was glaring back at him from inches away.

“Good morning,” Obi-Wan said, as if Bane wasn’t glaring murder at him.

“What are you doin’ in my bed.”

Obi-Wan blinked, his amused smile dropping from his face.

“You… don’t remember last night?”

Bane’s brows furrowed, and then he rolled onto his back, frowning up at the ceiling.

“I remember. Doesn’t answer my question.”

Obi-Wan sighed and then rolled toward the edge of the bed and sat up. Seemed he was done sleeping in for the day. As he pulled on his boots and stood to replace his other pieces of gear, he sensed Bane’s stare on his back, though his mood was locked down tight behind his shields.

“Think you can stomach some breakfast?” Obi-Wan asked, pointedly not answering Bane’s question. “I’m a bit peckish myself.”

Obi-Wan felt that glare turn mean, and Bane growled something in Durese.

“Such language, Bane,” he said with renewed cheer. “Profane words stem from vulgar thoughts. Keep that in mind the next time you compare my mother to a Hutt’s backside wrinkles.”

Bane made a choked noise behind him, and Obi-Wan smirked to himself as he left the bedroom.

By the time the bounty hunter entered the kitchen, disappointingly wearing his entire ensemble, including the body glove and tubes, Obi-Wan had managed to boil something on the stove that resembled tea. He prepared two cups, as well as two packaged MREs, and brought them over to the table where Bane sat hunched, his gaze wary as he watched Obi-Wan from under the brim of his hat.

So far, so good. Bane seemed unaware of the fact the Sith artifact had been destroyed, if his lack of threats to Obi-Wan’s person was anything to go by.

Bane took the cup of tea with a narrow-eyed look, but he still took a sip without complaint, at least until the liquid touched his tongue. Then he turned his head and spat, right there on the floor.

“You tryin’ to poison me?!”

Obi-Wan sighed.

“You’re not going to die. Just drink it.” But after he took his own sip, Obi-Wan made a face as the bitter liquid triggered his gag reflex, and he carefully scooted the cup away. “On second thought, those leaves might have turned. When was the last time you went shopping?”

“Don’t exactly have time to go on a supply run, now do I.”

“No, I suppose you’d want to lay low while carrying something as hot as a Sith artifact.”

Bane simply rolled his eyes, and Obi-Wan relaxed. Not even when he brought up the artifact did Bane notice its missing presence.

Apparently, the bounty hunter had other things on his mind. His voice went smooth, almost teasing as he poked at the contents of his food packet.

“So. We gonna pretend I didn’t break yer cherry back on that freighter?”

Obi-Wan choked on the food he’d just spooned into his mouth. Once he swallowed down the mushy rations, he said, “I assumed you didn’t deem it noteworthy enough to give it a second thought.”

“Funny. Was thinkin’ the same about you.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, brows raised.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t kid when it comes to—”

“No, do not finish that sentence.”

Bane’s lips pulled into a delighted smirk, and Obi-Wan wished the expression wouldn’t make his stomach flip like it was trying to do tricks.

“I slurped you up like a tasty dish on the Delano, and ye still blush when I say somethin’ halfway interesting.”

Obi-Wan pretended to focus on scraping the food out of its package.

“I distinctly recall being able to elicit some fascinating noises out of you last night, and I didn’t need to use my words, either.”

It was Bane’s turn to choke as Obi-Wan continued to eat his meal, his expression the picture of innocence.

***

Obi-Wan’s hope that the artifact’s absence would remain unnoticed slowly perished. By the end of the day, the bounty hunter paced the length of the lounge, his shoulders hunched, his hands flexing and clenching at his sides.

Obi-Wan winced at the pain it must be causing his broken knuckles, but he didn’t budge when Bane abruptly changed direction and stalked right for him. He stopped only a short distance away, his chest rising and falling in agitation.

“What did ye do with it.”

“I’m not sure what you—”

“Don’t lie to me, Kenobi.” His hands curled into claws, though they remained next to his thighs. “You did something to it. I can’t… I can’t feel it anymore.”

Obi-Wan stared at him for a moment, and then he said, “I took the ship, headed to the nearest system, and threw it into the star.”

Bane’s face actually lost some of its color.

“You didn’t.”

Obi-Wan spread his hands, a gesture of pleading for rationality, but by the growing wild look in Bane’s eyes, he wouldn’t find any.

“It was slowly killing you, Bane. No matter how far I moved it, I could sense its iron grip on you, how it would never relinquish its claim no matter the distance.” Obi-Wan’s voice dropped, his expression firm. “It was either you, or the artifact. And I chose to destroy the artifact.”

Bane’s trembling, which had started roughly an hour ago, grew worse as he took a step forward, a growl clenched in his teeth.

“You idiot. You’ve killed me anyway.”

“Bane, if you would just—”

“You don’t get it, ye kriffin’ asshole! I’m dead!”

Obi-Wan ignored the insults, knowing they weren’t personal. Bane was like an alcoholic who had been cut off from his supply. He knew the withdrawal would be ugly, far uglier than it would be with a simple physical addiction.

“Because of your employer, I take it?”

Bane actually closed his eyes with the force of the shiver that wracked his body.

“The holocron,” Obi-Wan said, watching his face carefully. “The children. It was him, wasn’t it?”

When Bane shook his head but said nothing, Obi-Wan strode forward and gently gripped his shoulders. The tension under his hands felt hard enough to snap.

“Give me a name.”

Bane opened his eyes, looking down at Obi-Wan with a pained expression. It hurt Obi-Wan to even witness it.

“Don’t got one. Didn’t ask. Never met him in person. It was always through a communicator or a middleman. But… even still, he managed to… inflict his displeasure from a distance.”

A pit formed in Obi-Wan’s stomach.

“It’s the Sith Lord, isn’t it? You’re working for him.”

Bane shook off Obi-Wan’s hands, and he crossed his arms over his chest as if to protect himself.

“Nah, I’m finished. Even if I survive the shakes, he’ll find me.” Bane’s eyes grew as hard as cut rubies. “And then I’ll really regret I wasn’t the one you didn’t chuck into the sun.”

“He won’t find you,” Obi-Wan said, his voice solid with certainty. “You asked for protection, and we’ll provide it. Technically, you did hand over the Sith artifact.”

Bane was less than convinced by the curl of his lips.

“If you think the Jedi can hide me, you’ve never met a Sith before.”

“Not only have I met a Sith Lord, I’ve defeated one. Possibly this Sith Lord’s old apprentice.”

That caught Bane’s attention, and he appraised Obi-Wan with a look that might be impressed if it didn’t also come with a lingering sneer.

“It was stupid of ya to destroy somethin’ like that on account of my discomfort. That thing was priceless.”

“A life is priceless. A thing is just that—a thing.”

“Maybe someone else’s life, but not mine. It ain’t worth bantha shit, and yer a useless negotiator to trade it fer the artifact.”

That was a little too much for him to swallow, and Obi-Wan’s mouth hardened into a scowl.

“I don’t understand you, Bane. I really don’t. Just when I think you might be reasonable, when I think we come to some sort of understanding, you do something to sabotage it. It’s like you can’t help but self-destruct. You almost died for this artifact, for this Sith Lord who you’re clearly terrified of, and you refuse to do a thing to help yourself, let alone help me keep you safe.”

Bane’s eyes narrowed the longer Obi-Wan spoke, and by the end his face was creased in unfriendly lines, the hint of sharp teeth behind his lips.

“You done?”

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair, and said, “For the moment. How quickly I need to repeat this tune depends on your capacity for being reckless and stubborn.”

Now Bane did expose his teeth, took a step forward, and jammed the pad of his injured finger against Obi-Wan’s chest.

“It weren’t recklessness that made me shove a gem into my oil sac. There wouldn’t have been a problem if the clones didn’t decide to have their fun with me.”

“The same way the guards had ‘fun’ on Coruscant.”

Bane’s mouth clamped shut, and Obi-Wan sighed.

“Did you think I didn’t notice your injuries? The Jedi didn’t do that to you, so that leaves the clone troopers.”

“Ain’t you smart. Nothin’ gets past those pretty blues of yers.”

Obi-Wan didn’t take the bait, but it was a close thing. His patience, already spread too thin these days, was yanked and tugged with each barb and caustic insult.

“Why did you do it?”

“Same reason I do anything,” Bane snarled. “I was paid.”

“You used your body as a smuggler’s vessel, Bane. I don’t believe even you are that desperate for money.”

Bane slipped so close the brim of his hat brushed the top of Obi-Wan’s head.

“How would you know, Kenobi? You ever been hard up for cash? So down on yer luck that you’d do anything to keep from starvin’, even if it meant weeks of sleepless nights after?”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond, startled into silence.

“No, you don’t understand a damn thing. Don’t know what it is to be helpless, to know what it is to have nothing, and then to have that kind of power at yer fingertips. The jewel gave me that. Forget livin’ a cushy retirement with the money I would have made, I’m talking real power. The kind only you Jedi and those Sith bastards get to have.”

The words were out of Obi-Wan’s mouth before he could stop them.

“The Sith artifact didn’t give you a connection to the Force! You already had that!”

Bane took a step back, but his expression was confused more than it was surprised, his brows furrowed and his mouth pulled into a frown.

“You… you don’t know, do you?” Obi-Wan’s voice dropped into a near-whisper, as if saying it quietly meant the realization would be less of a shock. “Bane… you’re Force-sensitive.”

Bane’s confusion curled into disbelief and anger, but Obi-Wan wouldn’t let him retreat from the truth.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? You’ve always been able to keep pace with those of the Order, even stay a step ahead of us. You truly believe it’s your weapons and tech that make that possible?” Obi-Wan shook his head. “You resisted a mind probe from three Jedi, two of which are members of the Council. It’s no wonder you were able to hold the Sith artifact within your body without your mind being torn to tatters. Your mental shields are exceptional, and only a lifetime of discipline could have saved you from succumbing immediately—”

“Stop talkin’,” he snarled, his eyes a little too wild. “You don’t know what the hell yer sayin’.”

Obi-Wan ignored him and continued.

“You grew up on Duro, didn’t you? Which is Republic space. One of us must have sought you out when you were a youngling.”

Bane glared but said nothing.

“Which means, either you were turned down when tested, or you were inducted into the Order as an Initiate and failed to make it to Padawan.”

Bane’s eyes narrowed further, and Obi-Wan sensed he was searching in the wrong direction.

“Or… you weren’t found by one of us. Our records state you were born on Duro, but that doesn’t mean you grew up there. If you were taken out of Republic space—”

Bane growled, and yes, Obi-Wan had found the mark.

“You were never tested. If you had been—”

Apparently, that was too much for Bane to hear. The fist he threw at Obi-Wan was easily sidestepped, and when he struck again, the Jedi slipped behind him and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. He tried to be careful of his injured hand, but Bane’s attempt to break his hold was violent and frantic.

He was beyond words, a deep snarl in his throat, and Obi-Wan said, “Do we really need to do this? I’d rather not piece you back together after you attempt to fight me again.”

Bane went stock-still.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Obi-Wan winced.

“That… did not come out as intended.”

“I didn’t ask for a pity fuck, and if I did, you’d be the last person I’d need it from.”

“That’s not—”

Bane shoved against his grip and snarled, “Get yer goddamn hands off me, Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan did as asked, regret laden in his words as Bane rubbed his wrist.

“Bane, please. Just listen—”

“Get out.”

Obi-Wan blinked, startled at the deep, utter contempt in Bane’s tone. There was loathing in his eyes, something that was too uncomfortably close to hatred.

“Bane—”

“Get out!”

Obi-Wan backed up a step at Bane’s sudden movement toward him.

“Don’t want ye, don’t need ye, and I sure as shit don’t need yer righteousness stinkin’ up my station! Get! Out!”

Something twisted in his chest, an invisible knife that cut deep despite the fact he couldn’t see it.

“Bane—”

His eyes were deadly slits, his voice just as lethal.

“If I see even a hint of you again, I’ll take you out myself.”

“You don’t… mean that.”

Bane took another step toward him, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but retreat in the face of the overwhelming hostility radiating from his mind.

“Fine, I’ll spell it out for ya.” Bane’s face twisted, his teeth bared as he continued to advance. “I can’t stand the sight of you. Never have. Yer good for a tumble in the sheets, but not even that can make you tolerable fer long. Yer nothing to me, Kenobi. Nothin’.”

Obi-Wan backed to the threshold of Bane’s living compartment, his throat aching enough for it to hurt to breathe.

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Obi-Wan finally said, his voice without strength. “Thank you for making yourself quite clear. You’ll have to excuse me; I’ve always been a slow learner.”

As if Obi-Wan had reached across the short space and slapped him, Bane flinched. But he didn’t say a word as Obi-Wan turned and walked away.

He felt horribly disconnected from his own body as he traveled down the empty corridors, and he went through the ship’s airlock without truly seeing, some part of his brain going through the motions while the rest of him remained frozen in place.

Once inside, Obi-Wan went through the exit docking procedures, and without allowing himself the chance to unfreeze, he entered the coordinates for Coruscant and escaped into hyperspace.

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I like about Leo is that he’s honestly really chill? It’s easy to remember the moments where he’s being obnoxious or excitable but I feel like most of the time he’s incredibly “go with the flow” and has an overall affable demeanor.

[gilbirda]

hot take but we as a society need to be more comfortable about discussing "icky" parts of history, and even telling the side of the "bad guys"

hear me out

history is written by the victors, and will be heavily biased. The defeated will be painted as evil, deviants and/or like they have always been "the bad guys".

Reducing people to "the bad guys" does a huge disservice to the opportunity of learning from the past, because it creates a distance between the modern reader and the actual events, it creates the comfortable position of "I'm not like the bad guys, so i will never make their mistakes"

I think is important we understand how and why people believed in something, and where did things turn a certain way. Yes. Even "the wrong side". Even the nazis. Even those people you are thinking about, whoever they are.

Because you are not immune to propaganda and it's so so so so important to understand what happened and how did we get to those points before we fall to the same techniques again and again.

"Learning from the past" isn't deleting the ugly parts or cringing when someone brings up war. Thinking otherwise is a huge mistake and precisely what someone who wants to make the same mistakes wants you to think.

[wintaebear]

will someone point out to jack that he too was going to get the ring for boss by marrying rosé? and he only didn't because of romantic qualms and not moral ones?

[bluetiefling]

interesting how often the ones claiming that galadriel's season 2 arc was perfect and everyone who doesn't think so is just too haladriel brainrotted or something are the same folks who openly say it's fine if she were to just... fade into the background in season 3 or disappear outright. sorry I actually do think it's sexist for galadriel to be introduced as the central protagonist only for her to be gradually phased out so that gil-galad and elendil or elrond or whichever legendarium dude can have more to do.

[dawnleaf37]

Yoyle Berries and Yoyle Metal Speculation

when an object eats yoyle berries, they turn into yoyle metal. It’s possible that these berries were genetically modified to produce this effect

with an infinite supply of objects through recovery, and an infinite supply of yoyle berries through farming, this would lead to an infinite supply of yoyle metal

yoyle metal is extremely strong. This is obviously useful for a lot of reasons, like making extremely resistant mechanisms. Id like to focus on space ships for a reason I’ll explain in a moment

yoyle metal is extremely freeze resistant but NOT extremely heat proof. This could be a use to melt yoyle metal’d people into a useable liquid metal for shaping into more useful components/mechanisms. Possibly heat-proofing could be added in through later processes

with yoyle metal being so freeze resistant, this would make it excellent for surviving the cold vacuum of space. Above mentioned heat-proofing later process may make it more resistant to solar rays as well (although such part is purely speculation)

[maraschinotopped]

ive been staring at the naqtube channel page just doing analysis thoughts in my head for like 15 minutes and ive just been hit with the realization that Damn this is not normal. normal people dont do this. either the mental illness or the mild sickness is doing something to me right now.

[cloudbends]

I did Not just cry over this

[pharawee]

Things I get distracted by while I'm making a genuine effort to finally catch up with Thamepo (it's me, not the show): 13 minutes of behind-the-scenes material from the Reset pilot with Bom Tanawat randomly taking over in the middle of the video.

Oh, and Winner and Shell are in it too. 🥰

[herefortheships]

I swear to you, I likely would not have ever shipped or thought Itakugi had a chance at going canon if it wasn't for that scene where her heart skips a beat, when faced with a girl who was in love with Yuji.

Like?? What was the purpose?? Only people with 0 literacy will say "Oh it's just that she didn't want Yuji to have a gf before she had a bf, she said it herself 🙄". One thing is what the character will say verbally and another is author intent. Show vs tell is KEY in fiction, and what that scene heavily hints at is that Nobara had feelings for Yuji she wasn't aware of before. So I just don't understand Gege at all. Why even write that scene that way if they weren't endgame? Why even plant that seed? I liked Yuji and Nobara's friendship just fine as it was and didn't think there was a chance at anything more between them UNTIL that scene happened. Seriously....

Anyway, this is just me ranting after checking out the JJK epilogue. I don't even want to tag this. I'll just tag the ship, because honest to God I don't want to interact with 14 year old antis in the JJK fandom 😅.

I HATE it when main characters end up with random characters who had either never shown up in the story, or showed up once or twice in the ENTIRE series and barely interacted with the other character. Authors forget that what matters to make a story pay off is that it concludes in a satisfying way with what the audience sees and experiences. Maybe the character knew the other character 12348438 years ago and was besties with them, but if the audience did not see those gazillion years of friendship and love between those characters, they are not going to care. We care about the story and characters we experience, not about random characters and moments we didn't experienced with these characters.

Again, Show vs Tell. You want to SHOW the audience how these characters come to care about each other, not TELL them. You can tell all you want, but if I didn't SEE it playing out, I simply cannot care.

I want to edit this real quick here, before someone like replies or something: I know Yuji didn't flat out end up with Ozawa, but that scene between them kinda hints at it. We see them meet up again, which, again, hints at them being the endgame eventually. We don't really see who he ends up with exactly. One could argue the same for Itakugi in a sense, since they do show up as adults together, but the scene with Ozawa being in an epilogue kinda hints at them being endgame in a more solid way, which prompted this rant. Ok carry on. lol