#as well as the resignation certificate

[icannotgetoverbirds]

shitty image id: a screenshot of an email from quitmormon confirming the recipient's resignation. end shitty image id.

It's done.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You sigh and back up through the file explorer. Come on. Your frustration bubbles up until you feel sweat on your scalp. You squint at the screen, searching for what you need. You blow out through your lips and reach for your mug. The white one with the small agency’s logo on it. 

“Mr. Brenner,” you pivot your chair as you put your cup down, “I can’t find the Dubeau files. I was almost finished--” 

“Dubeau? Never heard of ‘em,” he doesn’t look away from his screen. You tense and nod. 

“Of course, sir, I must be misremembering.” 

You don’t argue. Not out loud. Just like always, you roll over and take it all. You hold it all in. When you lost something, you resign yourself to it. When you miss the train, you sit down and wait for the next, and when you’re told something is a certain way, it must be. And if not, you’ rather wait for the truth to leak through then speak up and make yourself the fool. 

You click around the files. That means you can move on. There’s a backlog of accounts to get through as it is. Ever since Wallace quit, you’ve been doing his work too. It was so unexpected. Strange how abrupt that was. He left his jacket behind but he still hasn’t come to get it. Well, once you find a better firm, you’re out the door just as fast. 

“Carson. It needs to be done,” Brenner says as he clicks his mouse lazily. 

You glance over. You can see the reflection of his screen in the glass of his framed accountant certification on the wall. It doesn’t look like a spread sheet. The colours move and you try not to think about what they resemble. 

“Got it, sir.” 

“What about Williams?” Geraldine suggests. 

Brenner clucks, “delete that. Thought I already did.” 

The tapping of keys continues. Geraldine is old and slow. Her work is reliable but not timely, and Brenner, the senior accountant, tends to do better at sweet talking clients than the paperwork. 

You focus on the Carson file. Like many of the clients, it’s a mess. Assets all over. Photos of wrinkled documents and few of loose cash on indeterminate surfaces. You don’t ask questions. You just figure it out. The place isn’t your first choice but with zero experience, it’s the only way you’ll have any. It’s a pathway to a better destination. 

The office is stagnant but for the clacking of keyboards and clicking of mice. Only Brenner’s heavy huffs and Geraldine’s incessant sniffling interrupt. You lean on your elbow as you compare your two monitors and input values. 

The front door opens and Geraldine stands. She deals with the walk-ins. She enjoys chatting with them. Sometimes too much. You suspect she doesn’t get much conversation with her two cats. 

“Oh, hello, aren’t you a strapping young man. My, oh, I know you,” she chimes, “Mr. Rogers. Yes, I recall.” 

The man sighs in response. You glance over as Mr. Brenner stands so quickly that his chair rolls back into the wall. He clears his throat and hurries around his desk. You haven’t seen him react like that for anyone. 

You stare at the man across from Geraldine. He’s tall and well-dressed. He wears a pinstripe suit with a pressed white collared-shirt, a sleek grey tie down his chest. Despite his tailored attire, his hair is overgrown, his beard too. There’s a permanent stitch in his forehead. 

Rogers... it sounds familiar. 

“Sir,” Brenner extends his hand as he approaches the other man, “how are ya? What can I do for ya today?” 

The other man looks at him dully and ignores his handshake. He sniffs and peers around at the beige walls. The place is enough to drive anyone mad. 

“I need an accountant.” 

“I didn’t know you were looking? Brian--” 

“Shut up about Brian,” the man snarls. “I’m not hear to chat.” 

“Well, I can take care of it--” 

“You won’t,” Rogers insists. “The things you click on, I don’t need that risk. It’s off the books. No digital trail.” 

“Right,” Brenner agrees, “Wallace is... gone--” 

“Didn’t ask,” Rogers turns away from him and looks past the empty desk to you, “her. Come on.” 

He snaps then curls his fingers. Brenner bounces on his heels anxiously, “um, right, but Geraldine is more experienced--” 

“She’s wearing orthotics. I need someone who can run around,” the man snaps.  

“Yes, sir, of course, sir. I don’t mean to overstep,” Pete shows his palms. “Get your bag, sweetie. You’re gonna help Mr. Rogers for the day.” 

“More than a day,” he says as he checks his watch. 

“As long as you need,” Brenner agrees. 

You save the spreadsheet and slowly close down the Excel sheet. You wheel back in your chair, unsure, and reach beneath for the leather briefcase you splurged on when you got the job. When you still thought it was a professional office. 

“I heard about the engagement,” Brenner lowers his voice but the place is too small not to hear, “Sorry, buddy, that’s tough--” 

“I didn’t ask what you think,” Rogers bristles. 

You peer over again and find him staring. Impatiently. 

“Right, right, was just saying--” 

“And I’m not your buddy,” he growls. 

“Of course, sir,” Brenner preens. “I’m digging the new look. Growing out the hair. Very in vogue--” 

“Enough,” he waves past Brenner to you. “Let’s go. Boss is waiting.” 

You get up and snap the clasp on the plum briefcase as you shuffle in your kitten heels. You approach the man as you grip the handle and offer your other hand formally. “Hi, sir,” you introduce yourself. “What can I help with?” 

“We’ll get to it. For now, stay close,” he looks at his watch again. 

“Glad to be of service, sir,” Pete says. “I’ll waive the invoice--” 

He’s once more ignored as Rogers spins and marches for the door. Tension curdles in his wake and you look around. Brenner gives you a toothy cringe and shoos you, “don’t keep him waiting and for god sakes, smile.” 

You raise your brows as Geraldine returns to her desk. She sits stiffly as she rubs her hip and offers a sheepish look, “good luck, dearie.” 

Their nervous demeanour fills you with dread. Who exactly is this Mr. Rogers and why are they all so afraid of him? You can only be sure that you should be too. 

[leonw4nter]

HAIII!!! I saw that ur requests r open!! Can u write a death island x gn!reader where the reader squeezes his cheeks n' it's all fluffy n' cute? I feel like behind all that muscle is baby fat that's just MEANT to be squeezed - 🐰

It Only Takes Half A Bottle of Whiskey

DI!Leon x GN!Reader

“Details of the mission coincide with the objectives laid down to consider this mission a success and therefore, I would like to consider this case closed and marked successful. Congratulations to our very own agents Kennedy and L/N.”

The room erupted in claps, lips spreading into relieved smiles. The last mission was not easy, many undertakings taken in order to see the mission to its success and one of the many measures taken was a false marriage between you and Leon, complete with a wedding and wedding bands, as well as expertly fabricated marriage certificates in order to pass as ordinary newly-weds who had normal jobs as IT technicians. The entire ordeal took almost 2 years, which seems plenty to the average person but an incredibly short notice to agents assigned on this demanding commission. Despite the mission being over, you two still had to uphold the married couple facade and keep working on the IT company before drafting letters of resignation in order to not rouse any suspicions with the people who had grown to know and be familiar with you and Leon. One of the procedures involved coming home together holding hands as you passed through the exit, getting in the same car, living under one roof, and retiring in the same bed.

As soon as you two get home, you rush over to collapse on the couch with a loud exhale before taking the glasses off of your face and setting them beside you. You recline your head and run a hand through your hair, eyes shut as you try to block out the noises of the world. Leon removes his dress shoes and walks around the duplex in his black socks, his shoes in one hand and your shoes in the other as he returns them to the shoe cabinet before walking back to the couch and sitting beside you. He takes your glasses and sets them down at the coffee table in front of you and takes his seat, letting out a loud sigh of his own as he gets the remote and turns the TV on to a cooking channel. Shrugging his jacket off, he turns his head to observe you for a moment only to see your eyes staring into the white ceiling of the dim living room.

“You tired?” He asks as he folds his jacket and places it on the arm of the couch, too tired to get up and place them in the bedroom or think of changing into loungewear. You nod, sitting back up as you wipe a hand across your face before reaching to get your glasses and put them back on.

“I need a drink after all that shit,” you groan as you undo one more button of your button-up. Leon hums and turns his attention back to the chef cutting the carrots, which is short-lived as he tilts it again to face you.

“I’ll help you to bed, how’s that sound? It’s better than alcohol.”

“Help me to bed after I have a nice, cold, glass of double-black whiskey.”

With that, you get up from the couch and walk up to the alcohol cabinet to get the glass. As you open the cabinet, you feel a warmth press against your back and see a strong arm reach up for 2 glasses. Leon closes the cabinet door with his free hand and sets two glasses down. His action scared you for a little bit since he walked with virtually no noise and you only felt his presence when his muscled front pressed against you, effectively trapping you in if he planned on hurting you but thank god he didn’t. He takes a jug of apple juice and pours it into his glass instead of the whiskey, which you aren’t too surprised about; he’s been 3 months sober. You just stare at him, admiring the way his arms looked amazing with crisp white sleeves rolled up until his elbows, a hand resting on the marble as he takes the glass and drinks the juice. He raises an eyebrow when he spots you staring in his peripheral, setting the glass down with a small clink against the kitchen counter.

“Like what you see?” He asks with a lazy grin and a wink. You turn your attention back to the glass he set in front of you, staring at it so intensely you would have shattered the glass with the daggers you were shooting with your tired eyes.

“You wish,” you retort as you pour the dark liquid into the glass and toss in a block or two of ice before taking a swig and feeling the liquid burn its way into your system despite the coldness that the ice offered. You hear Leon softly chuckle before having another drink of his fruit juice, his soft gaze watching over you as you take sips and loud sighs after you swallow the amber liquid. You take the tall bottle and your heavy-bottomed whiskey glass and sit down on the wooden floors, placing them down beside you. You take another swig and look at Leon, patting the space beside you.

“Sit,” you say.

“You’re saying that like I’m a dog,” your ‘husband’ responds.

“C’mere, boy! C’mere!” You teasingly say in a higher pitched voice, clapping with both your hands to beckon him to sit beside you.

Leon rolls his eyes but sits beside you, propping one knee up to rest his hand on as he looks at your glass.

“Good boy,” you say with a sly grin.

“Okay you’re a freak,” he says as he jokingly begins to sit up again but not before your free hand shoots up to grasp at his wrist.

“Okay, I’m sorry I won’t do that.”

“Right.”

“Please? Please? C’mon Leon, don’t be boring.”

“Fine.”

You smile and chuckle softly as he sits back down beside you, knuckles occasionally brushing against each other. You two sit in complete silence, the silence interrupted only by the sounds of breathing and sighs. Your gaze fell on the gold band wrapped around the base of your ring fingers, studying the way the light reflected off of the smooth surface. Eventually, your gaze flitted to Leon’s right ring finger to admire his own ring.

“It looks damn good on him,” you thought to yourself. “Damn, marriage is a good look for you, Kennedy.”

He absent-mindedly fidgeted with his ring, tilting and adjusting it; that’s what he always did when he was deep in thought or bored. You noticed it became a habit as soon as you two had to wear these rings everywhere, even on side missions. Although he could remove it when you two were in your own home, he chose to keep it on which you followed suit since it only felt right.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The whiskey soon started tasting like water and now you were down to unbuttoning the second button of your work shirt. It was a little harder to keep your head up now and your lids were threatening to close. You leaned your head on Leon’s shoulder, not missing how you felt him tense up despite your inebriated condition.

“Leon, ’m sleepy.”

He looked at you, seeing how the whiskey caused your cheeks and ears to burn pink like a Fuji apple. Your lids were droopy and your eyes were glossy, an obvious sign that you were drunk and done for tonight. He chuckles softly as he adjusts you so he could carry you to your shared room.

“I’m fine, Leon.” you confidently slur as he lifted your frame up and out of the kitchen.

“Nope, you’re not. We’re going to bed now.”

“C’monnn… I can handle my… liquor like a champ...”

Leon gave you a stern look before setting you down on your side of the bed before making a quick trip back to the kitchen to fetch you a glass of water and pills to take. Despite the frequent jokes he made to make you feel a lot more comfortable in his presence, you would be lying if you didn’t enjoy this authoritative side of him outside of the field. He comes back and sets them on your bedside table, making it near enough without making the water prone to spilling due to your uncoordinated state.

“Anything else you need?” He almost slipped up and called you ‘honey’.

“Bath.”

“Gotcha.”

Since it would prove to be too difficult to get you cleaned up right now, he settled on finding a basin and a rag to wash you with. After asking your permission, he removed your garments before wiping you down to let yourself feel a little more clean before a proper bath in the morning and dressed you in a clean shirt and sleep shorts before freshening himself up to get in bed with you and calling it a night. After a few minutes, he got on his side of the bed but still kept some distance so you wouldn’t feel like your privacy was being invaded. He shifted, moving as gently as he could so the mattress wouldn’t move along with him and disrupt your sleep. He finally managed to lay on his side, his arms crossed and his eyes shut but he still kept his ears active. He suddenly remembered something and opened his eyes again; he turned around and glanced at you.

“Good night,” he said.

Normally, he’d add a sappy nickname like “sweetheart” or “honey” at the end to make his husband act feel more natural for him but he decided not to this night since he felt weird. Weird in a way that if he said it, he’d jump out of bed and dive out of a window and plummet into a pool of pink and red heart balloons while glitter bombs went off around him. He knew what he felt but he didn’t want to give it a name and properly label it; he wasn’t even sure if you saw him the same way he saw you. When you didn’t give any kind of response, he turned around and sat up to look at you through the dark, the white streetlights being the only source of light beaming in through gray curtains. He inched closer to see you and placed a finger just underneath your nostrils, hoping to feel a soft gust of warm air be expelled. When he felt that, he placed a finger on the pulse point of your neck before concluding that you really are fine, just deeply asleep.

He chuckles to himself, smiling softly as he extends a hand to brush some hair away from your forehead. Before he can stop himself, that small gesture turns into him adjusting the duvet so you wouldn’t sweat under warm bundles of fabric sometime in the night. Now, he’s trapped in your arms when you quickly extend your arms above you and yanked him down to your body. All while your eyes were still shut.

He could easily escape and retreat back to his side of the bed and really call it a night this time but he doesn’t. He decides to stay like that for a bit and he knows why but then again, he doesn’t want to name the reason.

“Y’think you’re so slick, Kennedy,” you groggily mumble. His head is pressed against your chest, his arms extended from his side in an awkward position, and he subconsciously holds a breath in.

“Jus’ tell me if you wanna cuddle,” you slur. “I know y’wanna coz I wanna too.”

You pull him off of you and lay him back down on his side of the bed, frozen in shock and baffled at how things have taken for a turn. He lays still and watches you silently with wide eyes, observing you. You crawl near him and stare at him at the side… well, an excuse of a stare since your lids were drooping and you couldn’t seem to get your eyes to focus nicely on him. You sat up and placed a hand on his stubbly cheek, gently rubbing on the bristly cheek with a soft thumb. He tensed at the delicate feel of your hands on his face, handling it with so much care as if he’s a fragile piece of artwork. A pop of color spreads on his cheeks and the tips of his ears as you look him in the eyes as if you’re trying to count all the specks of gray he didn’t know his eyes had while trying to fish out a well-hidden feeling within his weary soul.

“Ow!” Leon yelps when you suddenly pinch a cheek of his just as his eyes were about to close and savor the wholesomeness of the moment. “What’d you do that for?!”

“Y’ve got… puffy cheeks. I love that in a man.”

“Puffy cheeks?”

You give his cheek a poke before pinching them again, this time much softer than the first since we voiced out his discomfort. You continue poking and pinching the skin bristly with coarse hairs, occasionally squishing them together to make his lips puckered up. He relaxes eventually, letting you knead and feel his face. He probably had more wrinkles on his face than most men his age do and he knows he doesn’t have the best skin ever and he’s thankful that you’re drunk enough to not notice the blemishes on his face. He wants to let his hands rest on your waist and just let you do your thing but he decides against it; you’re drunk and you aren’t in the clearest headspace right now. Although his intentions with wanting to perch his hand on your waist is nothing sexual, he still doesn’t want to proceed with that.

“Gosh, your spouse after me is going to be sooo lucky,” you mumble. “You’re so sweet, kind, sexy as fuck… you’re also intimidating sometimes but you’re like a teddy bear.”

“Teddy bear, huh?”

“A teddy bear with… a teddy bear strapped with guns, bullets, and knives.”

“A teddy bear that can’t get through airport security, basically.”

His response makes you laugh a little louder than it should have, a hand falling to your chest and you throw your head back. Leon didn’t think his joke was that funny until you laughed and chortled, grinning and beaming like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore if no one else laughed at his lame jokes as long as you did. And what did you mean “spouse after me”? Would he be able to find someone else after your “marriage” is dissolved? He fears that he wouldn’t love as truthfully and wholly as he does with you, that his soul would always look for you in the people he’d see. What if he wants his spouse to be you, even after this mission? “Agent L/N” is for everyone to praise but at the end of the day, Y/N will be his to love. You adjust yourself and nearly plop on his side, tucked underneath his arm with one hand still on his face. Slowly, you grow drowsier as sleep pulls you deep in its embrace.

“Just… for yawn tonight,” you softly whisper while safely tucked into his side.

“You can… forget this, if you want.” Another yawn before you totally fall asleep again.

“Gosh, that hangover is going to kill you tomorrow.” Leon whispers as he adjusts the sheets over your sleeping frame again.

He shifts in the bed, making sure the arm you’re laying on is still; he wants to move it around and get circulation back in that arm again but he’d deal with a purple arm in the morning if it meant giving you a nice rest before the alcohol in your system hits you like a train tomorrow. He gazes at the ring on his hand one last time and feels a surge of joy and pride in his heart, hoping that you feel the same when you look at your own ring.

NOTE - Before I update y'all with stuff going on in my life rn, I just wanna thank 🐰 anon for this request, I hope you liked it <3 OKAY. So I was gone for almost a month because so much happened in the time that I wasn't posting much-- I passed an entrance exam to a school I will transfer to after this year is over (I'm still in the process of passing requirements), I decided to start a Chris Redfield mochiposting IG account, I got lost in another town with my classmate while walking to a groupmate's house (a man was following us both but luckily nothing bad happened to us), I got sick twice in a row in a single month (1st time: screamed too much during a sports fest, did not drink water bc there was no water around the place; 2nd time: I was running low on sleep and did not have time for a break bc of the things I was doing), I had two infections in two different systems in my body (the same time as I got sick in the aforementioned stuff :3), and had my first ever sleepover at my BFF's house (slept at 4am cb we were eating and cooking so much while watching Demon Slayer). I also nosebled while watching filmvxq's (on TT) edit (the one w Take My Breath Away as the audio) and got really lightheaded... this isn't the first time btw <33 I also nosebled over a Vergil edit and I don't know how I keep doing this <33 My neck hurts so much and I have a crippling sushi addiction. SPEAKING OF SUSHI (what I'm about to say next has no relation), I got this TikTok about tubifex worms in a dirty sewer just before I took a bath and I was so disgusted, I was fighting for my life trying not to think about the worms while I was drenched in water. Also, my grades release next Friday and I hope those grades are somewhat sexy bro I can't go to another school with the nastiest math grade... I'm very number stupid... NEWAYS, that's all and thank you for reading my fics!!!! I <33333 UUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!

The dividers are made by @cafekitsune , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[astolfofo]

I lowkey kinda feel like writing smth for dr ratio but take this idea for now:

Revisited the 36 questions musical (music in it is so banger my god). Imagine you're one of dr. ratio's old classmates. An academic rival if you will. You part ways with him after high school. You could not imagine going to a university with him. You pity the poor students that do.

But he does come back into your life. You've seen him occasionally at your job. YOu do your best to ignore him, treat him like you would with any other colleague that you might have known. At an arm's length. You're not friends with any of them. You certainty would not treat him with more kindness than you would with any other person. Suffice to say, although petty, you had never gotten over how he was just always just barely a mark or two above you.

That was until you realized that the distance between you two was so great, that he was now your boss. You found out he was a professor in a university through the grapevine of your coworkers who can't stop swooning over him. You tried to ignore them, focus on your work, but today, they were loudly announcing that he was going to be the manager of your department. Strange, you think to yourself. He had never seemed to have an interest in your line of work. He had always been highly theoretical. You had turn to be highly practical. He was one meant for the sciences, while you could only surmount to doing practical application. You'd have imagined he would be doing things that were beyond what the mundane could comprehend. He shouldn't be here.

But he was.

WHILE being a professor at one of the top universities. Countless accomplishments, probably a wall full of certificates and awards. You had grown not to care about things like that. But it still felt that he was invading the one thing you were good at. Still though, you wouldn't let it bother you. In the worst case, you'd switch companies, maybe move somewhere else and he wouldn't be a problem anymore.

But Dr. Ratio seems to have different ideas. Management under his hand was very different. You were immidieately promoted to the highest rank, below manager. Much to your distaste, you had told him multiple times to promote one of your coworkers. They had much better qualifications for becoming a manager than you did. But alas, your protests always came to deaf ears.

Suddenly you were crushed by work, tons of pressure, and under his scrutiny. He was a big fan of doing big, risky projects. Ones that you'd always be responsible for if you failed. You'd try to politely deny his requests, but he'd insist, threatening that you'd be fired if you didn't pull through.

At one point you had just had enough.

You coldly place your resignation onto his desk. The box of your belongings was balanced between your hand and your knees.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"My resignation. I'm leaving." You say simply. "Don't try to convince me to stay. Working under you is simply not something I am suited for."

He seems uninterested. He raises an eyebrow at you. "Is that so? I was under the impression that you were doing quite well."

You didn't know whether you wanted to laugh or scream in that second. You were sure your hair was going to turn half-white before he picked up a goddamn clue. You suppose passing out three times and looking like you had your eyes punched wasn't a strong enough indicator.

"Ah... well... I'm flattered you think that way, but I really think it's time for me to move on...."

"And your plan after this is...?"

"Oh. Maybe work at someplace else." You lie, "I have a few options I can choose from, I'll probably end up working at one of those."

Dr. Ratio looks at your face, and then looks up and down. You stand there akwardly waiting for his approval to leave. You began counting down seconds. If he wasn't going to let you leave in the next two minutes, you'd walk out the door yourself.

"Why don't we sit down and talk first? Before you leave."

What? "Oh no sir.. it's fine... really..."

"It's been a few years since we've last seen each other and talked, hasn't it? I was wondering when you were going to approach me again. It's just a shame it's in this way."

He turns around and puts the sheet of paper into the shredder. You look back at him wide-eyed, debating on whether you would just walk straight out.

"Why don't you set your things aside? Maybe put them back on your desk? It's not like you'll be leaving soon. Unless you want to retire now?"

You open your mouth preparing to yell every curse word you can at him.

"Save your insults for later. Now tell me why you pretended not to recognize me for the past year I've worked here."

[deadpresidents]

Hypothetically what do you think would have happened if the january 6 rioters had gotten to pence or pelosi before they got safe?

At this point, I almost dread answering questions like this anymore because I know the kind of hate mail it will unleash for the next few days, but it's important to keep talking about what happened on January 6, 2021 since so many people are trying to normalize it. That includes many people whose lives were in danger that day, as well as the former President who tried to hold on to power by encouraging his supporters to launch a violent insurrection and is now referring to those who have been brought to justice for attempting a coup as "patriots" and "hostages".

I genuinely believe that there were people in that crowd who would have killed Vice President Pence, Speaker Pelosi, and certain Congressional leaders if they had reached them on January 6th. I think there are people in that crowd who were ready to hold lawmakers hostage. Why else did they have handcuffs and zip ties? To help the Capitol Police maintain order? (Oh yeah...that's right, thanks for reminding me: they violently attacked the police -- some even beat police officers with the "Blue Lives Matter" flags that they brought with them.) Now, I do not think that everybody who was at the Capitol on January 6th -- or even the majority of those who took part in the insurrection -- were willing to go that far. I think a lot of them got swept up in what was happening and went with the flow. That doesn't excuse what they did. The flow that they got swept up in was still a fucking insurrection, and anyone who took part in that deserves to be held accountable. But I think there were certain elements embedded throughout that crowd that were much more organized and prepared to fully execute their plans for a coup after disrupting the certification of the Electoral College votes.

I actually think Vice President Pence was probably in more danger than even Speaker Pelosi or some of the Democratic leaders because Trump was so actively calling him out in the days and hours before the insurrection. I think that's why Pence is so adamant now about not supporting Trump. I mean, think about how disgustingly loyal and subservient Pence was to Trump throughout those four years until basically the first few days of January 2021. But even as other Republican leaders are crumbling and offering their allegiance to Trump again in 2024, Pence is standing by his decision not to endorse or support Trump, and I think that's because he realizes that Trump absolutely almost got him (and his family, who were with him in the Capitol on that day) killed on January 6th. Shit, even Mitch McConnell has folded and endorsed Trump again despite the fact that Trump has spent the last three years not only insulting him but also making racist attacks and questioning McConnell's wife's loyalty to the United States all because Elaine Chao had the audacity to resign from Trump's Cabinet in the wake of the insurrection. Yet Mike Pence -- who spent the better part of four years following Trump around like Paul Heyman follows Roman Reigns...

...THAT same Mike Pence is steadfastly refusing to endorse Trump because he has personal experience about how real of an existential threat Trump is. Some of those people at the Capitol were very serious about following through on their chants to "Hang Mike Pence", and not only does Pence realize that, but he also knows now that Trump -- who refused to take actions that would have helped clear the Capitol more quickly -- said "he deserves it" when hearing about those chants.

That's what is so scary about the insurrection, its aftermath, and the Trump Republican Party's redefinition of what happened that day. It almost worked. They stormed the United States Capitol and invaded both chambers of Congress. They carried Confederate flags into the United States Capitol -- even the fucking Confederate States of America didn't successfully invade Washington, D.C. and plant their flag in the Capitol. They were willing to hurt and probably kill some of America's elected leaders. And the people who helped plan and instigate the events of January 6th have spent the three-plus years since then learning from their mistakes and figuring out how to be successful next time. And guess what? "Next time" is only a few months away.

[lu-is-not-ok]

So is everyone gonna just ignore the fact that the leaked Document that PM sent over to the Union states that Vellmori was the one to resign herself and was the one who didn't want the info being spread around?

Like, I'm not saying PM handled this shit well, because they absolutely didn't, but the whole thing of her being fired is apparently just a straight up fucking lie.

And, if the Document PM sent to the Union is to be trusted (which, if they lied about that, I imagine that would be even more legal trouble than is worth for them with all this shit going on), that means that everyone being mad at PM for not saying anything more is being mad at them for Following Vellmori's Wishes.

Again, I'm not saying that PM handled Any of this well. They absolutely should have made sure that Vellmori didn't feel so threatened that she felt the need to resign. They absolutely fucked up in that department.

But the main thing people focused on, Vellmori's firing, allegedly just wasn't even real.

What the fuck is even going on anymore.

//Btw, here's the source for the translation of the Certificate of Contents that PM sent to the Union and which was later leaked.

[nothoughtsjusthoffstrahm]

I was just thinking and... Guys, I realized,,,

Strahm was actually the last thing that linked Hoffman with his own humanity

Because look, 🙏 when Strahm's still alive when he and Hoffman keep playing that cat and mouse game you can clearly see that he still keeps having doubts about whether he should be doing what he's doing, about whether what he's done so far is good or wrong, is it really any justice or not really - I think what proves this the most is that scene at which he looks at Angelina's picture and afterwards throws his promotion certificate(?) on his desk with evident resignation and something that looks like disgust even

It's only when Strahm ends up dying, when Hoffman looks at his dead body that it seems like something clicks inside him - his expressions when he's looking at it, then when he's picking up his hand, all of his conflicting emotions and thoughts seeming to flicker right in front of his eyes at that moment

As if the moment he saw what he's done to Strahm, as if the moment he basically lost someone that kept insistingly showing him that what he's doing is wrong, that looked at him with disgust for what he was doing, that beat the sh*t out of him for that - see, that's what I'm often talking about also, like I usually do joke about it in a "Hoffman is a wh0re" manner, but actually it very much seems to me that Mark wanted Peter to beat the sh*t out of him, he enjoyed it, because a part of him knew he deserved it for the things he's done so far

But going back to my point - the moment Strahm died, the moment he saw his smashed body was the moment when his humanity has been torn away from him as a person completely, the moment when any good nature and reason left him, because it's Peter's insults, remarks and him not wanting to let him get away with this was what was keeping him grounded to his own doubts about all of this

In a way, I feel like you can even say Strahm's death was also the death of Hoffman's good and rational, as well as careful side

The fact that he had an actual real opponent, that he saw an actual real enemy in Strahm that could make him pay for his actions very much keeping him grounded as well, because with their cat and mouse game he knew he couldn't let his guard down, because he knew Strahm's way too intelligent and it's clear that he very much respected that

The moment Strahm died Hoffman also felt like he could put his guard down, because he felt like he didn't have an actual, real opponent anymore that could stand in his way the way Peter did

The only opponent he ever held any regard for and thought was worth any effort was Strahm.

[seikkoi]

ᴏᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ | ᴛᴏɴʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

18+ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ

content/warnings: named reader, explicit sexual content (very end), alcohol consumption, mentions of financial issues, employer/employee relations, explicit mentions of mental health issues (reader has the anxieties™), mentions of physical injuries, set in canon universe before aou.

genre: mostly angst ngl, sm*t at the very very end

word count: 7,463 im sorry

a/n: lightly inspired by the song 'october' by rothstein

dedicated to: the lovely @alessandraavengers

"Maybe you should worry about yourself, Stark. I've been doing just fine before you decided to make my job your business."  Tony's jaw clenches, and a shaky hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.  “My business is your job."

I won't complain,

I will be decent, 

though it will be freezing,

I welcome the rain.

The hands of the clock on the wall ticked silently, a sign of the building’s expense. You clutched a leather binder filled with papers in your lap as you sat. Everything you had to show for the last seven years of your life. Countless awards, certificates, recommendations—the expensive bachelor's and the bank account-draining master’s. Your leg bounced on the dark mahogany, steadily increasing frequency as seconds turned into minutes.

Ironically, this would also be interview number seven. For the job you were least qualified for. You applied for close to twenty at this point, all well below your skill, but you were desperate. You had barely a year of experience—quitting your first job one year out of school after one-too-many sixty hour work weeks. The moment you turned in your resignation, dread and regret over your choice in profession filled you. It held you down, sleeping and rotting the days away. Eventually, reality set in, pulled you out of bed and back into the corporate world. 

Turns out, lack of experience and ‘quitting with notice’ is less than ideal.

You hoped a step down in prestige would result in less stress. All your fantasies of a top floor corner office and luxury disappeared like ash under a light rain. You always held expensive tastes that you couldn’t sustain unemployed.  But the stress wasn’t worth it. All you needed now was to pay the bills. Too quickly ‘over-qualified’ or ‘under-experienced’ became your least favorite words. You had to fight back the dread every time you checked your email. 

Just when you’d started pondering entry-level positions, a notification came through for a new vacancy ‘Fit for your skillset!’. To your dismay, the description sounded no different than the job you left. More grueling expectations and personal sacrifice. On top of that, you still were under-experienced by their requirements. Not to mention who it was for. Overworked employees typically miss most current events, but far too much has been going on with this company to make even you pay attention. Working for such a high-profile, drama-ridden company might be even worse.  But after weeks and not so much as an offer letter, you had to try anything. On the plus side, at least it paid well.

Three days later, you found yourself inside of Stark Tower, wishing the silent clock would move faster.

Square breathes, internal mantras—nothing worked. Your heels still made a gentle clack against the floor. Thankfully, the general noise of the front lobby kept it from being a nuisance. 

What you swear is eons later, your ears prick up to a similar click growing near you. You turn your head as a tall blonde approaches the small waiting area. She stops at the front desk a moment, making your heart skip a beat when the receptionist points to you. 

‘Just relax, you know what to say.’ you thought to yourself. ‘They won’t hire you if you’re a nervous wreck.’

You manage to muster what little confidence you had left after weeks of rejection to stand and straighten your dress as she greets you. Thankfully, the smile she extends is friendly enough. The hand you feel is soft and manicured too— acute tells of an easy life.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Ms. Potts, I’ll be bringing you up to meet Mr. Stark.” she says, turning and heading further into the lobby.

‘Maybe this won’t be too hard. Maybe this job won’t be like the last.’

-

During the entire elevator ride to Mr. Stark’s office, Ms. Potts spews out factoids about Stark Industries but you’re too busy rethinking your entire interview strategy. Something about a cave, Obadiah Stane and a wormhole whizzes through your ear to no reaction. It was nothing you hadn’t already read in the weekly papers, nor did it ease you one bit. 

You were even more taken aback when you realize you’re descending, and the silver doors open to a spacious garage. The faint sound of movement echoes, source unseen. You turn to Miss Potts, who only gives another pleasant smile and gestures into the concrete space.

Sure, the whole world knew Tony Stark was a bit eccentric. You knew that well enough when you applied. Hell, it probably explained the vacancy. Maybe this was some type of strategy, or just his nature. Either way, something was screaming at you to tell Miss Potts you had changed your mind, go home and apply for anything else. 

Then, you remembered how badly you wanted success. You couldn’t accept anything less.

The elevator closed quietly behind you as you exited, looking for the source of the noise. There’s cars (some ridiculously new and some pathetically old), studded workbenches, and chaotic piles of robotics and machinery strewn about. You have to round the corner to find him, behind a small bar tucked away from the metal mess everywhere else. 

He’s turned away from you, seated at the bar with eyes glued on a few papers before him. An ornate pen signs away without pause. You’re certain the sound of your heels against the floor gave you away, but you’re sure to clear your throat to not shock him. 

Mr. Stark, clad in a grease-stained white tee and dark denim, shifts in the barstool slightly to give you a cursory look. You can tell immediately his mind is lightyears away from the present situation, focused elsewhere. On a lighter note, you notice how much kinder he looks in person. All the magazines and op-eds made his face harsh, never smiling. 

“You’re the one who applied for assistant thingy right? Miss…” Stark trails off, scanning back through the papers in front of him. There’s a slight slur in his speech, one that forces you to remember the early hour.

“Cassian.” you interrupt his search and he laughs, abandoning the papers for a shiny glass on the counter.

He brings the amber liquid to his lips before he speaks again. 

“Right, Cassian, look—” The glass finds its way back to the solid surface despite his sway. He stands once it does, facing you with a wide smile. “You’re hired!” 

With that, you’re left more dumbfounded, staring at the billionaire as he sauntered over to one of the cluttered workbenches. 

“I’m sorry, sir, I really don’t understand—” You turn towards him as he walks by, not sparing you another glance.

When he reaches the middle of the garage, he lets out an exhausted sigh. The familiar regret seeps in, turning your nerves up another notch.

“The woman that probably brought you here—Pepper, she used to be my assistant, and handle all the tabloid bullsuit.” he mutters, fiddling with a wrench from the bench. 

“After the whole ‘tower nearly blowing up’ situation, she’s taken a step uh-out of my life. For better or worse. I didn’t wanna hire anyone else, she’s convinced I can’t manage my own life— we compromised.”

You start to speak, trying to formulate the right words to say. Stark pays it no mind, tossing the wrench back down gently.

He pivots towards you, and you see the stress in his eyes. You can see why she’d quit-hell you were starting to wish you never applied. The name ‘Stark’ proliferated in the papers these days.

“Offer letter is signed, on the bar, job’s there if you want it.” With that, he walks across the garage, past you into the elevator. 

The electronic ding! sounds, leaving you in the garage alone without another word. You’re convinced this is a terrible idea- even before whatever that just was.

Something sparks your curiosity to look at the signed papers, and put a dollar amount to this madness. You walk back to the bar, grabbing the stack of papers with a faint ring of water in the corner.

You’re certain you’re dreaming when you count the number of zeros. 

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were ready for retirement at the ripe age of twenty-six.

This was a new type of demand. Running nearly every aspect of Tony Stark’s life didn’t eat your soul, but it ate at your mind. You could spin embezzlement or drunk-driving into a heartwarming story- alien attacks and Hydra were a whole new ballpark. 

It was almost refreshing. Spinning stories for shitty people and tailoring public statements for the goal of maximum human exploitation never quite sat right with you. Handling Stark’s life just felt like defending someone who deserved it. It felt more honorable working for him than a greedy tech firm.  (There are some questionable times when he doesn’t, but you don’t bother with those).

The righteousness helped the uncharted territory be more than manageable. Still, making Stark’s technology enterprise mesh well with his role as Iron Man felt like a hero’s feat on its own. The media would come up with any number of wild conspiracies about Iron Man, most of them disparaging to his image. 

Stark was legitimately aiming for good things in the world. The weariness in your bones kept you craving more simplicity and ease, nonetheless.

You sunk down into the leather couch of the conference room, watching as the board members filed out in quick order. The room was filled with the golden ray of sunset— soon to turn pitch black. 

Officially done with the day’s meetings, you forgo any workplace formalities and kick off your heels, despite your boss’s presence. 

A light chuckle at your exhaustion breaks the silence, Stark slumping into the empty space beside you. You raise an eyebrow when he wriggles at the lavish tie around his neck, tossing the garment to the floor next to your heels. 

“What, you can kick back but I can’t?” he jests, undoing the top two buttons of his black dress shirt. 

You give a ‘fair enough’ shrug, leaning back to start mentally processing the last ten hours.

You found yourself staring at his exposed neck as your mind trailed off, his head leaned back, eyes shut. His jaw is tight, forehead pinch in a now-familiar focus. Stark looked nearly as drained as you, still you knew better than to try and equate things. Honestly, you considered yourself semi-lucky to only have to make things look nice for the cameras and not be present for them. In the evening glow, though, he looks close to ethereal.

You shift your eyes at the thought.

You two sit in comfortable silence as the sun moves behind the New York city skyline. 

You’re doing mental math on how soon you can retire when he fills the void with a question.

“Regret taking the job?” he asks, unmoving. 

You add ‘potential mind reader’  to his list of skills. 

“Some parts are better than others.” It’s as honest of an answer you can give without sounding ungrateful for the opportunity (or thinking about the alluring glow on his skin).

He laughs again, turning to meet your eyes. This would mark the first time you’re under a heat lamp from his gaze, irises tired and alluring. 

“Seriously,” 

Clearly your answer isn’t convincing, because he turns to his side on the couch to fully face you. 

“You aren’t regretting this? Because lately you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.” he says with a lazy grin.

You thought you were doing a good job of burying your issues beneath walls of smiles. Hearing otherwise hurts your resolve a bit, especially from Stark. He had enough on his plate without worrying about you.

“It’s just…a lot,” 

Despite how you felt, you couldn’t lie about it, not to his face. 

“But it’s not your fault, it’s not you.” you swiftly add upon seeing his somber grin fade away.

“Ha, isn’t it though?” A dramatic sigh escapes his mouth like a deflated balloon, running his hands through messy brown locks. “This..rollercoaster I’ve put myself on.” 

“Rollercoasters can be fun.” 

“You hate it.” Stark faces you once more, propping his arm up on the back of the couch. 

“Wouldn’t blame you if you quit.”

The suggestion pulls a laugh of your own. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

Stark makes a genuinely puzzled face, to which you spend the next minute or two explaining why you quit your first job, the weeks you spent rotting away after. You had hoped to never recount such a sad time outloud, but you couldn’t stand him feeling at fault for your lack of enthusiasm. 

Ease passes through you when it seems to comfort him a bit.

“Maybe I hire you for something else, maybe pay you to not deal with this shit.” he says, laughing.

You brush off his joke with another short laugh. “Wouldn’t that be something? Really, it’s fine. Just need a long hot shower.”

You start to stand, but are stopped when a hand graces your thigh. 

“No jokes, I know what it’s like to get more than you signed up for. If money’s all that’s keeping you here, trust me that’s not an issue.”

You give a flustered smile, trying not to focus on how warm his hand was. 

“It’s not all that’s keeping me here.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

“You know it’s just a dinner, right? Like just food, maybe music, high probability of dessert?” Stark taunts, noticing your trembling leg from behind his phone screen.

The car seems like it’s moving way too fast, even though you can very clearly see the speedometer under 25 miles per hour. 

“Yes, I know what dinner is.” 

You let out a deep sigh, trying to regain the ground under your feet. The part Stark conveniently forgets is that it is a very large gala he’s dragged you along to, and not just a normal dinner. You can do normal dinner, not a one hundred plus person dinner with reporters and red carpet. He’s also not considering the part where he didn’t tell you about it until two hours ago.

“Oh, that’s a relief, thought you might jump out the window.” he pockets his phone, turning to you. “I can just have Happy take you home, you know.”

“No, no, this is…excitement. I’m excited. Totally ready.” you’re really trying to convince yourself, but it only makes Tony snicker.

“These things are really boring, promise. That’s why you’re here, keep me from falling asleep.” 

Out the window, the street lights start to turn back into normal orbs instead of blurry splotches. The car pulls up the curb with enough ease for you to take in the venue. It's a marble hall, one you feel suddenly underdressed for. You make a mental note to tell Stark never to give you this little notice again. Perhaps you should save yourself the trouble and head home. 

Stark could behave himself, right? 

The black window tinting your view disappears when the door is pulled open. You hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t beside you anymore, now holding the door and gesturing to the entrance. You get your first good look at the suit he’s wearing, tailored and jet-black. The flattering seams are a decent enough distraction to join him on the sidewalk. 

Stark places both hands on either of your shoulders, giving you a playful shake. 

“You look amazing, I look amazing, please stop worrying. It’s starting to spread and I can’t eat on an upset stomach.” he forces himself into your gaze, searching your face for the supposed ‘excitement’.

A deep breath, then a second passes through you, staring at Stark's eyes until you can manage a curt nod and still legs.

“See, you’re gonna be just fine.” he exclaims, dropping the hands from your shoulders and already smiling for the line of photographers waiting by the door. 

You follow unsteadily, praying this is a speedy event. You could do this for an hour, maybe two. Stark takes notice of your delay, turning back to you just before reaching the first nerdy cameraman.

“Hey, what’s the issue with this? If your not comfortable with the cameras, you know we can just go around—”

“It’s not that,” you interrupt, gripping your clutch with sweaty palms. 

“Then what?” he asks sympathetically.

“There’s like a hundred people in there, Stark.” you admit with a long sigh.

“And I’m one of them, what’s the worst that can happen if you're with me?” He turns and props his arm out towards you. “Miss Cassian?” he says, dragging out your name.

You want to roll your eyes at his constant unserious nature, but instead you take another deep breath, loop your arm through his, letting your fingers wrap around the satiny fabric on his bicep before taking slow steps forward.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

Bright bulbs of light flickering in blinding succession. In every direction, microphones with human mouthpieces spew their hurried questions. Your boss answers in his typical Stark way, earning only more adoration and curiosity. You come to humor yourself with the questions they ask. Always seemingly random, from his favorite brand of whiskey to his opinion on migrant detainment in the Mediterranean. 

You stand to the right as he smiles and poses for them. You almost hate how good he looks in the cold wind, face most definitely beaming behind designer snow-white frames. Outside of that, you admire his patience, knowing this winter vacation (where he didn’t have to be Iron Man for once) was leaked and now semi-ruined.

It would’ve been a well needed break for you as well. Three months of non-stop press releases, conferences, and meetings were wearing you ragged. Late nights were occupied with drafting memos and wishing you chose a career with less work. While you hated the time work took away, you unfortunately began to admire the work you did. Working for Stark turned out to be more desirable than you thought. You imagined dealing with another frustrating, reckless CEO- not a charming, witty superhero. Regardless of the long hours and chaos, you loved helping put more good into the world. 

Finally, as snow starts to fall, he answers a final question on if he’ll change the color of his suit before turning to enter the cabin.

“Mr. Stark— Iron Man, won’t be taking any more questions, excuse me, thank you.” 

You tried to squeeze past incessant reporters and fans, barely making it through the hotel front door if it weren’t for security. The commotion outdoors gets muffled by the tall wooden doors. You sigh and lean against them, shutting your eyes for a moment.

“Feeling alright, Cassie?” 

Stark’s voice makes you open your eyes to see him standing in the foyer. This would be the fourth time you feel his eyes burning through your skin. You expected him not to be upstairs in bed, asleep already, not in front of you, eyeing you with his hands buried in his pockets. 

The place he chose spared little expense, clearly for starlets like Stark looking for a lush, woodsy escape. Wooden walls covered every inch, adorned with fancy art and a modern fireplace in the living room.  The color reminds you of the tower lobby, a deep mahogany. 

“Yeah, just remind me why I’m here and not at home in my heated apartment.” You keep your voice light as you hang your coat on the rack by the door. 

Stark gives a playful scoff, too used to your sarcasm to take offense. 

“A certain former assistant thinks I need a babysitter on my own vacation.” He turns on his heels, heading towards the kitchen with a renewed energy (surely only now remembering he’s supposed to be relaxing). 

“She’s not wrong.” you agree only because Stark re-emerges from the kitchen with a tall amber colored bottle and two glasses. 

You can’t help rolling your eyes at his stiffened jazz hands, tossing yourself onto the plush armchair by the fireplace. The cold seemed to wrap itself around you, not leaving despite your proximity to the fire. Stark chose to sit on the side table next to you, rather than the wide array of more comfortable seating options. You’d gotten used to him entering your personal space since your talk in the conference room. You took it as a sign of his narcissism more than anything.

“Not sure I’m meant to be a drunk babysitter, Mr. Stark, ” you quip as he starts pouring.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he winks, offering you one. “And come on with the ‘mister’—making me feel old over here.”

It’s bothersome how little he has to say to change your mood. Something about being with just him, away from press, deadlines or state secrets, pulled you in and kept you coming to work everyday. In this moment, however, his solitary presence made you anxious. You’d have to get through this sabbatical without the chaos of the world bringing you back to reality. The real world, littered with expectations.

Free of any reason to decline, you take the glass. You and Tony do a lazy toast, clicking the glasses together before taking a sip. The peaceful quiet envelopes the cabin, save for the crackle of the fireplace. 

“You okay?” you ask upon seeing the weariness in his face, contrasting the grin he held.

“Better than okay,” he finishes the rest of his drink, pouring another faster than you take a second sip. “Happy to be away from everything, ‘get in touch with the great outdoors!’ as they say.” 

You laugh at the dramatic mocking tone he uses, extending your arm out when he makes a gesture at your empty glass. 

“I hope your atleast being slightly genuine, Mr. Stark.” you say once the glass is full once more.

“When am I ever not, Miss Cassian.” he draws on your name with the same mocking pitch as before.

You fake a wince at the taste of your own medicine, which amuses the hell of the already tipsy Stark. 

“I see what you mean, felt fifteen years added on instantly with that,” you admit, chuckling at his demeanor. 

“Hence why I’m such a nice guy and call you Cassie like a normal person,” he states smugly, taking another sip from his glass.

“Oh really, Tony? ‘Cause you only gave me that nickname after I explicitly told you no one ever calls me that.” you laugh.

“Yes and that was a great loss to the universe that I fixed,” Tony turns his head to meet your gaze, eyes sparkling (you tell yourself it’s just the alcohol and nothing else).

The both of you stay there silent, eyes locked for what quickly becomes far too long and the awkwardness makes your attention back to your drink. You finish the contents, hoping that the liquid would cool your now burning skin. 

You internally remind yourself that this is just how he is- a playboy philanthropist turned charming hero, nothing else. 

“Sorry, I know this isn’t really much of a vacation for you. ‘Know you wanna be at home, away from Stark Industries,” he deflates a bit, pouring a third drink.

“No, it’s not like that,” you interject, speaking softly, “I really don’t mind being here, and it’s still a good break from meetings and all that other tedious shit.” 

He takes a sip, seemingly mulling over your words. “Give any more thought to my offer?”

You let out a small laugh, thrown off by his sudden mention of it. You were certain then that he wasn’t being anything near serious. 

“What, you paying me to not be here? I didn’t think that was you being serious.”

“It’s a win-win, no? You get a salary, I don’t have to drag you along for this rollercoaster, Pepper doesn’t worry, everyone’s happy.” 

Clearly you’re left silent for too long, because Tony stands before he speaks again. He seems conflicted, running his hands over his face and through his hair.

“Look, I don’t need to see you miserable, I guess.”

“What, who said I was miserable?”

“Anyone would be dealing with me.” 

TWO DAYS LATER

After a few days, an air of melancholy had hung over you. Two days of nothing turned into endless overthinking about your life. Every decision made seemed to rattle in your bones, looking for a place to be. You tried to tell yourself it was normal to feel lost, to feel as though everything you’ve ever done was pointless. This was the first time you’d had room to think, of course everything would be overwhelming.

That didn’t help, but whatever red wine Tony brought did. 

You found it on night two, cracking open the second bottle when Tony comes downstairs. You gave a sluggish hey that gave away your state immediately, but you were too absorbed in your thoughts to meet his eyes. 

“Didn’t take you for a wine connoisseur.” he mutters, sitting in the chair across from you. 

You don’t bother with a response. In fact, you wished that he’d go away. Seeing Tony lately just reminded you more of the life you were sure you wouldn’t have. You were certain you made all the wrong choices, took all the wrong paths.

“Cassian?” he leans forward, forcing his face into your point of view. “Kinda' freaking me out here.”

“You ever think about what your life would be like if you weren’t,” you trail off for a moment, slurring slightly. “I don’t know—you?”

He laughs and it feels infectious, closing your eyes to hopefully shut up the twist in your stomach.

“Me, specifically? Who knows? Maybe I’d be a pilot, or own a hotdog stand.” he goes silent at your lack of reaction to his joke, resting his chin against his hands.

“Why, thinking about faking your death and adopting a new identity?”

The red liquid in your glass coats your dry throat. You’d love to start over. Go back and see what the other paths held. Then, the deep pit of your stomach turns, remembering how different and worthwhile working for Stark made you feel.

“What if I did everything wrong?” you ask quietly.

If you did, a small part of the anxiety in your gut assures you that it was worth it to find your way to him.

“Define ‘wrong’.”

“Not what I imagined, I guess”

To help someone who wanted to do so much to help the world.

“Well, what do you want from life?”

You go silent again. “I don’t know.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

With nothing to prove you,

and if I should lose you

—It won't be in vain.

On the last day at the cabin, you feel a genuine sense of sadness at the thought of leaving. 

Fourteen days with no reminder of the outside world had you the most relaxed in years. Bliss was all you felt waking up each morning to no phone calls, no emergencies, and no meetings. You forgot what it was like to just exist, to not have your thoughts bogged down by deadlines. You had even forgotten the benefits of good company. The demanding nature of your job meant little social life, and you didn’t realize until nearly two days in that you had been craving it. What surprised you more was that you received that good company in the form of your boss. Tony seemed to go out of his way to fill any voids of silence with quips and self-deprecating jokes to make you laugh. Clearly to spare himself the awkwardness of your dissatisfaction. 

Nothing changed about personality, but removing the dark shadow of responsibility made him visibly less wound up. It must have done the same for you, because you spent most of these last two weeks laughing (or catching up on well-needed sleep). You tried to avoid him lately, not wanting to add fuel to the fire you could feel growing for him. Opting for weeks of solitude with him was possibly not the wisest route.

Retroactively, if you had all this sudden free time at home alone, you probably would’ve gone a little crazy. 

You must be wearing your solace on your face, because that night, during dinner, Stark asks if something is wrong.

“Is it a bad thing if I don't want to go back to New York?” you chuckle at your own absurdity, scraping the last bits of food into the trash.

“Is it worse if I agree?” he smiles, looking up from his own plate. 

“Not excited to go back to being an Avenger?” you ask honestly, sitting back down at the kitchen table, next to him.

“Ha, excited’s the wrong word.” he sits back in his chair, letting out a sigh. “You’re not jumping to get back out there either.”

You give an agreeing nod, resting your head in your hands when you start mentally going through all the tasks waiting for you tomorrow. 

“You don’t have to go back like I do. You can get away from all this.”

When you look up, Tony’s eyes are glued to the floor. 

“You know, you can just fire me if it’s that much of a bother to you.” you say sharply. 

Truthfully, it was starting to come off as a subtle hint to leave rather than concern. It muddied whatever imaginary connection you maybe thought you’d fostered over these last few weeks. All the little touches and extra concern bounced around in the back of your head like a live grenade. You didn’t know how much of it was aimed towards you, or just his charismatic nature. Maybe there was never any charisma, and he was the same as any other CEO.

“Cassie, that’s the last thing I want.” he says, like he’s offended, and you want to laugh at the audacity.

“Could’ve fooled me.” you retort, standing to exit the kitchen.

Tony intercepts you at the doorway, however, clearly scrambling for words to ease the newly-created tension. All it really does is annoy you more, seeing those brown eyes pleading silently. Either way, you can’t get past. 

“I—This is too much for anyone to handle. I can barely handle it and that’s because you do so much behind-the-scenes for me. A lot of people have reached their wits end with me and I don’t want that with you.”

It sounds painful for him to say, and despite his soft tone, it’s the most serious you’ve ever heard him be.

“I think you’re worried a bit too—”

“I’d rather not be the reason you spend weeks in bed, okay?” 

Frozen in the doorway, your anger still boils. It felt like the thing you were most ashamed about being thrown in your face. You want to go back to that conference room and never tell him a thing. It’d save you the confusion, save you from all the mixed signals. He couldn’t mean it. You remember the way he reluctantly submitted to Pepper and hired you. Tony didn’t care, he never wanted you here in the first place. You felt stupid for thinking anything else.

"Maybe you should worry about yourself, Stark. I've been doing just fine before you decided to make my job your business." 

Tony's jaw clenches, and a shaky hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. 

“My business is your job, can’t you see I’m trying to be supportive?” 

You almost start to regret your words, but you can’t stand the way he looks at you like some fragile thing. 

For the fifth time, you're hot under his gaze, but it does nothing besides flare your anger more.

“I don’t need your support, stop acting like you have any idea what’s best for me.” you snap, taking a step closer.

To your surprise, Tony closes the remaining distance, and you have to look up to maintain your glare. Tony's expression shifts from concern to frustration, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Clearly, you don’t even know what’s best for you. Forgive me for giving a damn.” he scoffs.

You roll your eyes, deciding to just put an end to this conversation. In his frustration, Tony left a wide enough gap for you to try and snake through. Your heated exit must’ve been obvious, because he steps back to keep you in front of him.

“Seriously?” your fists clench at your sides, heat spreading up your arms to your cheeks. 

“Why are you still here?” he softens a bit, but not entirely folding his arms over his chest.

It’s not enough though— your irritation is unchanging even under his tender gaze.  It was easier to stay angry and pretend like he wasn’t the only thing keeping you. To not admit that you didn’t want to abandon him.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you retort through gritted teeth, motioning at the logged walls around you.

“Damn it, I thought it’d help, Cassie!”

The severity of his words leaves you speechless. You never heard him really raise his voice, let alone come close to yelling.

“But, clearly, I shouldn’t have bothered.” Tony moves from the doorway, taking fast steps past you towards the main door before you can say anything.

In an effort to keep him from storming out, you reach out for his arm as he brushes by. Instantly, he pulls away as if you're made of open flames. You try to show the hurt on your face, but now that your anger has started to dissipate, you notice a similar transformation in Tony. To your benefit, though, it keeps his feet firmly planted. 

“I’m not some broken person you need to protect.” you admit, avoiding the potential anger still in his eyes. 

“Wow, really? Didn’t know.” 

Always with the jokes and sarcasm. You lift your head to Tony’s expectant gaze, causing you to sigh heavily.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he states dryly, leaning back against the kitchen table. “Why are you still here?”

“You keep assuming I hate my life.” 

It’s his turn to roll his eyes, rather dramatically in your opinion. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” he responds, mocking your words from earlier. “You avoid me like the plague lately, and I don’t know how you expect me to just see you unhappy and say nothing”

“That has nothing to do with work-”

“Then what is it?” 

There’s something else in his eyes, something like the sparkle you saw all those months ago. 

You look at him with pleading eyes of your own. A sense of entrapment overwhelms you, stuck with the choice between potentially ruining everything or, well, still potentially ruining everything. You wish he really could just read your mind and understand. Understand that you didn’t want to leave him, that you were avoiding him to protect your own, admittedly fragile, heart. 

"Can't you just accept that I don't want to leave?" you manage, your voice barely louder than a pin drop.

Your heart flutters as he steps closer, though it shouldn't surprise you; he's never been one to respect personal space, and an argument wouldn't change that.

"No, I need to hear you say it," his tone is low, almost taunting, and his unyielding gaze sends another wave of fluttering through you.

"I don't want to leave you."

In the next second, Tony's lips crash against yours, pinning your back to the wall with a heavy thud. You don’t notice, the world fading with the taste of vanilla on your tongue and the scratch of his beard on your chin. Your thoughts become a blur as Tony's teeth graze your lips, and his hands squeeze your waist, pulling you closer, the arc reactor pressing into your skin. 

When the kiss ends, you're both left panting, yet he still clings to you, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’re going to run away. 

“I told you- the last thing I want is for you to leave.” he says sternly, voice still low. You can’t see his face, buried in the crook of your neck, but the heavy breath on your skin makes you lightheaded.

“Tony-”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s wrong to think I know what’s best for you. I just want you to be happy.” 

“I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I care about you too much for that, Cassie.”

“I’m your assistant, Tony.”

Tony gently cups a hand under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his, his thumb caressing your cheek. He studies your face intently, searching for any signs that he should stop while he's ahead. You stopped counting how often he leaves you a mess with his eyes, and try your best not to stare at his swollen lips.

“Then tell me you don’t feel the same.” he whispers.

A beat of silence passes, the fire crackling in the next room uninterrupted. 

“I…can’t.” you answer hesitantly.

The confession hangs heavy in the cabin’s stagnant air. Your mind racing a thousand miles per hour, waiting for the dream to end. 

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Doing this wrong, ruining everything.” Your eyes squeeze shut from embarrassment.

Tony laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said, before kissing you again. It’s soft and slower than before, calloused hands still cupping your face.

“I think you’re the one who worries too much. When has anything bad happened to you when you’re with me?” Tony suggests, grinning, his eyes filled with warmth. 

You want to mention an office party a few months ago, where a drunk attendee threw up on your shoes, but you let him make his point. 

“Let me do the worrying for a bit, sound good?”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You felt like you traded seasons getting back to New York at the start of spring. You hadn’t gone home, instead staying in the tower at Tony’s request. You didn’t mind it at all, being surrounded with more comfort than you could ask for. 

Tony made it his personal mission to keep you away from all things work related, despite how many times you told him you enjoyed helping him. One small problem being that he left for a mission a few days ago, and you haven’t got the faintest clue where he was or when he was returning. The first day, you relished in a bit of solitude, reading books that sat on your shelf the last two years untouched or catching up with friends that you lost touch with. To your relief, most understood your reason for disconnecting, and the books were captivating. Now, however, it was day three, and you were starting to do the one thing he asked you not to— worry.

Just as the rain starts to splatter the tall windows of his penthouse, you’re considering reaching out to Fury or Hill to make sure he’s at least still breathing. The only thing that stops you is the ding! of the elevator, turning your nerves back down to zero.

When you meet him at the door, a wide smile breaks out on his face—surprised you’re still there.

“How was it?” you ask, as Tony drops his bag and moves towards you. You feel slightly awkward in this new territory with him, shifting your weight anxiously.

“We’re getting closer to the scepter. Hydra’s pulling out all the stops these days.” 

As Tony steps into the light, a deep freshly-stitched cut under his right eye comes into view. Before you can say anything about the cut, you notice the large bandage on his arm, and a matching bruise crawling up his shoulder.

“What the hell happened?” 

Tony slowly peels off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch behind you. “Oh, this? This is nothing, you should see the other guy.” he says with a flashy grin.

You’re busy scanning for more injuries, eyes raking for more bandages and stitches. Tony doesn’t let you continue for long though, taking your hands in his.

“What’d I tell you about worrying?” he teases, stroking your hair and planting a quick kiss on your lips.

You give an annoyed sigh, wishing he didn’t irritate and charm you in the same breath so much.

“I think it’s natural to worry when you’re bleeding.” you gruff, letting Tony pull you into a tight embrace. 

“Then I’m not doing my job, am I?” You don’t protest when his hands roam over your body, placing light kisses against your neck. “Let me take your mind off things.”

The light kisses on your neck turn into heavy bites, leaving marks along your collarbones. He creates his own path along your skin, sighing softly as his mouth finds every inch of skin your pajamas didn’t cover. You’re a panting mess as he trails down your body, twisting a hand into his messy locks. 

When he kneels before you, you feel unsteady on your feet. You wish you could say you two had gone this far already, but Tony considered himself a self-proclaimed gentleman and insisted you wait. It seems three days away from you was enough for the chivalry to fly out of the window. 

He stops for a moment, fingers hooked in your shorts, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the inside of your trembling thigh.

“Cassian?”

“Mhm?” You mumble, shutting your eyes. Nerves and anticipation mix terribly in your stomach, making you unable to process the desire on his face. You feel the fabric of your shorts slide down your legs with your panties. The cool air doesn’t help you any, rendering your skin sensitive and Tony’s hand feel like a furnace. 

“Relax, doll.”

You suck in a breath as his lips wrap around your clit, body stilling— the hand in his hair tightening. Weeks of Tony’s insistent waiting had you thinking your first time with him would be slower- you were ill-prepared for the way he runs through your folds with absolute filth. He moans into you, keeping a tight hold on your thighs to hold you close. 

He’s quick—grazing teeth against your clit as his tongue laps at your entrance— just to drag the tip of his tongue against your length and return your clit to start the cycle all over again. You feel the wetness coating the inside of your thighs, saturing his scratchy stubble on your skin. 

You bring your free hand to the back of the couch as he continues, sighing into your core and sending shockwaves up your spine. You try to maintain some type of balance, legs growing shaky again in pleasure rather than anxiety for a change. 

“Tony, god, that’s-” You’re cut off by your own moan when you feel Tony insert a finger into your soaking cunt, rocking slowly as his mouth finds its way back to your clit.

He pulls away a moment, letting his thumb keep the pressure against your sensitive bud. Your head tilts back, nails digging into the leather behind you. Out of your view, Tony wears a smug grin, pleased to see you taking his directive to heart. The middle of the living room might not have been his first choice, but it’s well worth it. Besides the fact you taste like heaven, it’s worth hearing every sound escape your lips.

Getting caught up in that, however, caused him to loosen the grip on your thighs. When his fingers curve inside you, your hips jerk against him. The calloused fingers tighten on your legs, to your slight dismay.

“Easy, doll, I got you.” he mumbles, returning his focus to eliciting more intoxicating moans from you.

Tony renders you a complete mess sooner than you’d like to admit, gasping above him as the warmth in your core grows overwhelming. If you told yourself a year ago that your boss would have you panting and begging, you wouldn’t believe it. Regardless of belief, his tongue pulls plea after plea from you. Your stomach feels painfully coiled- mind absorbed with the wet, filthy sound of Tony’s mouth on your cunt.

With another curve of his finger, you sent over the edge—crying out Tony’s name like a prayer and abandoning the hand tangled in his hair to hold yourself up. Tony lets you ride out your orgasm against his fingers, kissing the damp skin between your legs and muttering soft praises. 

It’s not until you sense him standing again in front of you that you open your eyes. You immediately want to take it back when you see the shit-eating grin covering his shiny face. The sight sends a new wave of desire through you, staring at his mouth with your lips parted, panting softly. Did he have to look so good constantly?

“As cute as you are when you’re worried, I think I prefer this look on you.”

[perhaps-in-anotherdream]

[CN] Victor’s Nostalgic Memories Date (Eng Translation)

“You’re my first.”

“You’re my first, too.”

⌚Warning⌚ This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 旧忆之约, that is yet to be released on the global server! ♡

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

─  

【Subbed Video】    

[Heads-up]: Read the transcript for reading, but  PLEASE DO WATCH THE VIDEO!! THE BGMS, THE VOICE ACTING, EVERYTHING!! (also, yes, I’ve made my real-time reactions 🤪)

───────

【Transcript Version】

【Chapter 1】

Not long ago, Victor received a commemorative book.

The sender is his alma mater, Loveland Central Elementary School, which is about to celebrate its 100th anniversary.

The book is filled with old photos of his school. With unending excitement, I relentlessly search for that familiar figure among them.

Little Victor holding up his award certificates with a composed demeanor, hoisting the national flag with aplomb, or standing on the winner’s podium during the sports meet… all these are images of him I haven’t seen before.

MC: Model student, flag-raiser, long-distance running gold medalist… how many more surprises does this man have in store that I still don’t know about?

?? (Victor): What are you muttering to yourself this time?

I look up and find that Victor has entered the bedroom without me noticing.

MC: I can’t help but feel sentimental~ After all, you were that “kid from someone else’s family” when we were little.

–

[Tidbits]: The term MC uses here is “别人家的小孩,” I guess you’ll understand this better if you are an Asian/ of Asian descendance/ have Asian parents LOL; it’s often used to describe how parents spur their own kids into working harder by often mentioning “the other kid” as a role model who usually excels in many aspects~ :> And MC playfully follows this with– he belongs to her/ they’re a family now. So, she can take pride that “the prized boy” is all hers 🤣💕 (aside from the obvious knife about MC being regretful of missing out on each other’s lives, which comes later~ 🥲)

–

Victor: Someone else’s family?

Watching his cool and collected expression as he arches an eyebrow, I cheekily walk up to him.

MC: Hehe, but now you’re mine~

As I notice him smiling slightly, I can’t help but be insatiable and pull him along to join me in flipping through the photo album.

We have just flipped through a few photos of the “Campus Singing Competition” when the person beside me seems to have seen something, causing his pupils to quiver ever so slightly.

Following his gaze, I catch a glimpse of a young kid with dramatic stage makeup, sporting a red dot on the space between his brows.

Before I can take a closer look, the commemorative book in front of me is abruptly snapped shut.

MC: Wait!

Hastily, I clutch his hand down and carefully inspect the photo. There is actually a small caption below it that reads–– “Little Victor, photographed by Dad”

Astounded, I snatch the book and examine it closely–– the child’s solemn expression, with furrowed brows, is unmistakably identical to that of a certain someone I know so well.

I stare at Victor in utter disbelief, while he seems to have already resigned himself and closed his eyes.

MC: Hahahaha–– you’re so cute, hahaha!

Victor: …stop laughing, give me back the book.

MC: Alright, but you have to agree to one condition of mine.

Victor: ...you sure know how to make demands.

MC: Don’t want to agree? Well, then I might just turn you into an emoji pack, huh?

Victor takes a deep breath as if he has reached the limit of his patience. He then takes out his phone, quickly taps on the screen, and holds it to his ear.

Victor: I had planned to bring a certain someone along to visit the school when I’d sign the contract to donate to the school building.

Victor: But since the photos seem enough to satisfy you, I think I’m gonna talk to the school about reducing your title to a colleague.

Hearing his words, I immediately grab his arm, displaying a sincere expression.

MC: Why didn’t you tell me about the building donation before? I’m not laughing anymore, I promise!

He arches an eyebrow and moves his phone a few inches away, as if waiting for me to offer a bigger bargaining chip.

I narrow my eyes and steel myself.

MC: I’ll give you three of my embarrassing childhood photos!

Victor: Deal.

Hearing a muffled chuckle in my ears, I suddenly realize what’s going on. I seize his phone and, sure enough, find that the screen is still locked.

MC: …you’re so childish, Victor!

Despite my reproach, he remains composed and raps my head.

Victor: He who touches ink becomes black, you know?

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 2】

Victor: …wish strips?

An old metal box is gently placed on the table, inside of which is stacked with many pieces of weathered papers, tinged with a yellow hue.

After the completion of the donation contract signing, only three people remain in the empty conference room— the two of us and the principal.

Principal: When I learned that you were coming back, I inquired with your homeroom teacher about anything that might have been left behind from back then, and she really found it.

Even as I try hard to focus my attention on their conversation, an inevitably innate urge drives me to reach out and flip through the wish strips with my fingers, looking for a certain one.

Soon, a weathered piece of paper catches my eyes, with meticulously and neatly penned six letters that form the name “Victor.”

However, before I can reach my hand for it, a large hand with slender fingers lands on top of the paper––

Forced by the seriousness of the atmosphere we are in now, I can do nothing but watch helplessly as Victor nonchalantly slips the note into his pocket.

Victor: If there’s anything else you need help with in the future, please feel free to contact me again.

Principal: Thank you, Little Vic. Despite your remarkable achievements in the outside world, you still haven’t forgotten your alma mater.

–

[Tidbits]: I’m freaking crying, haha–– look at his Principal still calling this grown-ass man “小李 (Xiao Li)” aksdknld– the sheer adoration you can’t let go of despite the admiration a person has achieved from you– 🥺 

–

Victor: You’re too kind. On a different note, I wish to take my girlfriend on a tour of the school later. I wonder if it would be convenient?

Principal: Absolutely! You two are welcome to wander around and have a good time.

–

It’s summer vacation, and the campus is absolutely empty.

The continuous symphony of cicadas seems to transport me through countless summers, carrying me to the past that belongs to him.

Hand in hand, we walk beneath the shade of the sycamore tree, retracing the journey captured in old photos, from the faintly plastic-scented crimson athletic track to the library, and eventually arriving at his former classroom.

–

MC: Where would you sit back then?

Seeing him pointing to a seat in the back row, I press against the window frame and peer inside, yearning to glimpse that small figure across the boundaries of time and space.

MC: Do you have any special memory from your elementary school days?

Victor: What do you mean by special?

MC: Copying homework? Not paying attention in class? Or maybe… puppy love?

It seems like he’s heard something that displeased him; a slight frown creeps onto his face, and he gives me a subtle, scrutinizing look.

Victor: [strikes immediately LMFAO]  Your elementary school life was this eventful and colorful? It seems like I underestimated you a little.

MC: Of course not; I didn’t do anything of the sort! I’m just simply curious about your school life~

Victor: It was like any regular elementary school student’s life–– attending classes, doing homework after school, and occasionally playing soccer. Nothing out of the ordinary–– 

Suddenly, the sound of a series of brisk footsteps interrupts his words. Before long, two kids carrying backpacks appear at the far end of our sight.

Little Boy: Did you check? If you forget to bring your homework again, I won’t come with you next time.

Little Girl: I’ve really brought it this time! Where should we go to do our homework today?

Little Boy: The library.

Little Girl: But we need to stay quiet in the library, and I won’t be able to talk with you there.

Little Boy: …let’s go to the burger joint then.

Watching their departing figures from behind, I tug at the corner of Victor’s clothes.

MC: Have you ever done homework together with other kids?

Victor: Might have done some group assignments at some point.

MC: With you sitting next to them, their study efficiency must have gotten a massive boost. I’m really envious of those classmates who had the chance to do homework with you…

Hearing me say this, Victor’s face takes on a curious and contemplative expression.

Victor: Don’t be envious. I’ve got an idea.

MC: What do you have in mind?

Victor: It just so happens that I have to work tonight. You can bring in your unfinished proposal, and we can “do homework” together.

MC: …I’ll pass. Even a dummy can tell the difference between a friendly invitation and being supervised by a capitalist.

As we are talking, I see the kids from earlier run out of the convenience store in front of the school gate.

With delight on their faces, they share a pack of crisp instant noodles. The savory and crispy aroma from afar feels as if it reaches the tip of my teeth as well.

Just like me, Victor turns his head toward the source of the noise. Upon seeing his reaction, I immediately reach out and take his hand.

MC: Wanna go to the convenience store? It’s my treat!

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 3】

The store is not big, but it boasts a diverse selection of snacks arranged on the shelves.

However, my eyes are drawn to a seemingly ordinary pack of candy tucked away in the corner. Memories of my elementary school days rush back, when this candy was all the rage for playing pranks, and I also couldn’t resist tasting it once myself––

Even at this very moment, the fast secretion of saliva in my mouth is a vivid reminder of its “special” flavor.

Filled with curiosity, I pick up the candy and shake it at Victor.

MC: This candy used to be so popular back in the day. Have you ever tried it?

Victor: Nope, I haven’t.

MC: Your childhood is missing just a little something, then.

Victor: If being a glutton is your yardstick, you probably had the most complete childhood in the whole world.

Listening to his playful banter, I silently make up my mind to tease him a little. I grab the candy and settle the bill.

Just imagining the look on his face when he tastes the sourness makes me involuntarily curl my lips into a smile. However, realizing that his gaze is fixed on my face, I hasten to temper my smile.

MC: Victor, may I fill in the missing pieces of your childhood?

Victor: No need.

Ignoring his attempt to decline with a shake of his head, I affectionately bring a candy close to his lips.

MC: Come on, give me some face! I never asked any boy students out for snacks back when I was in school. You’re my first.

Upon hearing my words, his motions pause momentarily, and he stares at me fixedly with downcast eyes.

Just when I think he’s going to reject me again, he softly lets his lips part, lowers his head, and eats the candy from my hand.

I instantly widen my eyes, not wanting to miss any nuance of his expression. But all I see him is chewing the candy nonchalantly without any changes in his demeanor.

This isn’t right… could they have changed the recipe? Puzzled, I pop a candy into my mouth, but as soon as it touches my tongue, I grimace from the sourness.

MC: Sss! So sour!

Victor seems to can’t hold back and bursts into laughter.

Victor: Mmm, it’s indeed sour.

MC: You did that on purpose!

As my indignant glare meets his eyes, he arches an eyebrow in response.

Victor: You sure have a talent for turning the tables. But speaking of doing it on purpose—

Victor: Back when I was in school, I never teased or played with any girl students, either. You’re my first, too.

The candy in my mouth still gives rise to an unending stream of sourness, yet I can distinctly taste a sweet flavor.

Victor: So happy that you’re in a silly daze?

Upon hearing his teasing, I  realize I’ve been rooted to the spot and giggling like a silly person this whole time. I quickly pretend to be composed and divert the topic.

MC: I was thinking that we visited all the locations where each of the old photos was taken, except for one that slipped through the cracks!

MC: Where was that adorable picture of you with the red dot between your brows taken?

Victor: Why do you always apply your surplus obsession in places where it’s not necessary?

MC: Humph, it took me so much effort to get you to bring me here. Even if I have to dig the school three feet deep today, I’ll definitely find it!

Seeing me steadfastly staring at him, he lets out a sigh and helplessly takes my hand.

Victor: My alma mater had to spend so much effort to reach the lifespan of a hundred years. I’m not letting it be dug up by you.

—

We’re obviously supposed to be searching for the location of the photo. However, Victor brings me back to his old family home, which is currently empty.

Before I can even ask anything, my gaze is captivated by a rather extravagant box of jewelry on the foyer table.

As I let out a small gasp of surprise, Victor also glances over, and his expression turns somewhat speechless.

Victor: Aunt Grace purchased these during her trip abroad. She said you might get tired of seeing me in formal attire, so I should occasionally change things up…

MC: Pfftt! Why didn’t she just send them to you directly?

Victor: Because I declined. She probably planned to take a roundabout approach and ask my dad for help.

MC: Well, that works out perfectly. There’s no need to bother Uncle.

I “obligingly” pat my chest as an expression of “taking responsibility” and put the ornaments in my bag.

MC: But you didn’t especially bring me here just to pick this up, right?

Victor shoots me a wordless glance and then points toward the flower house ahead.

–

Victor: Not just the head is slow, the eyes are slow too.

MC: Hey, you meanie…

After a few seconds, I’m suddenly taken aback, my eyes widening. I pull out the photo from the commemorative book and compare it to the flower house before my eyes. To my surprise, it turns out to be exactly the same.

MC: This photo was actually taken at home?

Victor: After I came back from the performance, the teacher notified us that we needed to take a photo.

MC: But I thought you would remove your makeup right after the performance!

Victor: You’re right. I did wipe it off as soon as I got off the stage. But my dad deliberately used a red seal ink paste to reapply that dot.

Seeing the awkward look on his face, I can’t resist the urge to tease him and fish out the lipstick from my bag.

MC: How is it fair if you just make do with a red seal ink paste? Since the other kids have it on, you should too.

Victor: …I should not have told you.

He firmly grasps my unruly hand, but I use my left hand to snatch the lipstick and persistently keep inching closer to him. At this point, I’m practically draped onto his body.

Just as the lipstick is about to touch his forehead, he suddenly looks behind me.

Victor: Dad, you’re back.

I jump off him in a panic, and with my eyes closed, I immediately bow towards the entrance.

MC: Hello, Uncle!

After waiting for quite a considerable amount of time without any response, I’m beginning to feel slightly puzzled when I hear a soft chuckle from above me.

Victor: Turns out that there are still ways to restrain a certain someone’s out-of-control unruliness.

I raise my head and see that there is no one at the entrance.

Seeing the smirk of triumph in his eyes, I let out a “humph” and decide to turn the tables against him. At this moment, I coincidentally spot the wish strip peeking out from his pocket because of our earlier playful fooling around.

But he’s guessed my intentions, and almost simultaneously, he presses his fingertips on the slip of paper along with me. This results in a brief standoff as neither of us releases our hold.

The silent confrontation lasts for a few seconds until I pout, and that’s when I hear him let out a resigned sigh of compromise. I finally have my wish fulfilled and get my hands on his wish strip.

The paper has already yellowed and become brittle, but the carefully and neatly written words haven’t faded even a bit during the overlong passage of time––

“I want to grow up fast so that I can find her.”

Caught off guard by intruding into the “secret” of his past, I somehow feel a mixture of indescribable emotions flooding my heart.

How come he never mentioned to me that he had such a wish before? I can’t help but lift my eyes to look into his.

And he stares at me for a long, long time, as if he too wants to glean something from my expression. His lips twitch, but he doesn’t utter a single word even after a long time passes by.

Seeing him hesitate like this, I decide to be the one to break the silence first.

MC: Haha, I didn’t expect your wish to be so sincere and honest.

MC: But don’t worry, who didn’t have some little secrets in their childhood? I’ll just pretend I didn’t see it!

Victor: Little secret?

He doesn’t seem to have expected me to say this, causing him to evidently be stunned for a moment. But soon, a glint of playfulness sparks in his eyes.

Victor: Well, that’s a shame. I was originally going to share it with you, but since a certain dummy isn’t curious––

Victor: I guess I’ll just have to leave it be.

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 4】

He has really done what he said, not uttering a single word of explanation.

He even seems to be in high spirits as he grabs a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, as if he does not feel my indignant glare fixed on him at all.

Victor: Let’s celebrate together.

MC: Celebrate what?

Victor: I’m really lucky; my wish has come true.

With a hint of tenderness crested between his eyebrows and in his eyes, he uncorks the wine bottle. “Pop”–– the celebration begins, but I feel as if it’s my heart that has begun to deflate.

I push down the bitter feelings in my heart and take a sip of my drink.

MC: Congratulations to you, then.

Victor: Why does this “congratulations” sound a bit like you’re saying it against your will?

Being relentlessly pressed by his step-by-step advances while he is greatly amused, I suddenly feel a mix of embarrassment and anger soaring into my chest.

MC: How should I congratulate you then? Do you want me to take a photo of you for comparison to prove that you’ve grown up properly, just as you wished?

Victor: Sure, how do you plan to take the photo for me?

Originally, it was just an impulsive remark I made out of anger. But his reply suddenly causes me to choke, rendering me momentarily speechless. I can’t help but feel a little itch in my teeth.

However, upon glancing at the extravagant jewelry box in my bag, I narrow my eyes.

The next second, I push him onto the couch and start “hanging” all the jewelry on him without even asking him.

Victor: …are you decorating a Christmas tree?

MC: Since we are taking new photos in the once familiar place, you naturally have to dress up enough like an adult to give them the true value of commemoration.

However, I gradually realize that the ornaments on him don’t look over the top at all; instead, they make him look even more exquisite.

Seeing this, I wickedly pull open a section of his collar, exposing a large expanse of sculpted muscles that charges into my eyes. I can’t help but gulp at the sight.

Victor: Is this how a certain dummy defines an adult?

MC: Why? Can’t I do this?

Hearing his soft chuckle, I huff in anger as I mutter under my breath.

The next second, my wrist is clasped in place, and I find myself falling into his arms. That familiar scent of his hems me tightly.

Victor: Of course you can. But I think there’s still a bit of room for enhancement.

His warm breath grazes my ear now and then, making my heartbeat accelerate involuntarily.

Realizing that my chance to counterattack is slipping through the cracks, I inwardly compose myself and tilt my head slightly, forcefully suppressing my racing heartbeat.

Aiming my gaze at the lipstick on the table, I immediately come up with a plan.

MC: You’re absolutely right; there’s still room for enhancement. It was my bad. I still need to mark you like an adult––

I grab the lipstick and apply several thick coats on my lips, then seal it with a big kiss on his cheek.

The corners of his lips twitch slightly, seemingly evident that he didn’t anticipate my move at all. After a brief moment, he just casually leans back against the couch.

Victor: Have you finished all your preparations for taking the photo?

Looking at his face painted with the mark of my kiss, I nod in satisfaction.

He raises an eyebrow at my reaction, then pulls me closer to him once again.

Victor: Now it’s my turn.

Victor: Photos that hold the true value of commemoration should be taken alongside the witness testimony who made my wish come true.

MC: Witness testimony? Me?

Victor: Is there a third person here?

Victor rubs his temples helplessly, but the smile hanging at the edge of his lips seems to validate the daring conjecture harbored in the depths of my heart.

MC: The “her” you wrote about in your wish strip… it’s me?

Victor: You dummy, who else could it possibly be except you?

Without a moment’s hesitation, he admits it candidly.

In this instant, my heart feels as if it has been drenched.

The mottled wish strip in front of me is akin to the tip of an iceberg I have somehow peered into. It reminds me that in places I’ve never seen, millions of emotions lie buried that I still don’t know about and have yet to fathom.

And those deep eyes of his, which have been fixed on me all along, are so honest and sincere without the slightest concealment, make me surer than ever that––

The impact of our childhood encounter, the bond that forged our destinies together, perhaps runs much deeper than I had ever imagined it to be possible.

It turns out that I have already had my place in his past long ago.

By the time I speak again, my tone has already become joyful.

MC: Ah–– it turns out I had already become your heart’s desire so, so early on. I must have had quite the charm back when I was little, huh~

Victor: …I really underestimated how thick-skinned you can be.

He laughs involuntarily and watches me quietly for a while. The light in his gaze becomes even deeper and more earnest.

Victor: But MC, when I say “I’m lucky,” it’s not because I found the little girl from my past.

Victor: It’s because of the fortunate circumstance–– that little girl turned out to be you.

I instinctively find myself rooted to the spot, feeling a tingling itch sprouting in my heart, as if a wobbly little flower has blossomed within me.

It’s not until he takes hold of my hand that I finally snap out of it. Accompanied by the silky smooth touch of his fingertips, an English word takes form on the glass wall of the flower room –– Morii.

MC: What does it mean?

He lowers his gaze to look at me, his eyes seemingly concealing a subtle smile.

Victor: Originally, for me, those past days were nothing but ordinary moments, days that I would never want to look back on.

Victor: But the moment you stepped inside and looked around, those old times suddenly came to life again.

Victor: Perhaps it’s the gift of a certain dummy; you’ve always made me want to keep holding onto these moments that exist because of you.

His gentle voice is reminiscent of a feather landing in my heart, creating concentric ripples of waves.

I find myself unable to contain my giggle and lean in closer to him.

MC: Then let’s keep holding onto it.

He is slightly stumped for a moment but soon understands the meaning of my words and turns on the camera, aiming it at us. From beginning to end, those eyes of his gazing at me have held a perpetual interplay of tender and fervent glimmers.

Lifting myself up on my toes, I approach the figure that is also drawing closer to me.

Two throbbing hearts appear to have traversed the confines of endless dusty time, seeking solace in each other’s arms time and time again.

Right at this moment, the flash of the camera lights up.

────────

[Tidbits]: Didn’t wanna break the immersion, so kept it for the last here. The word Victor led MC to write together, i.e., “Morii” means the “desire to capture a fleeting moment that cannot be retained.” It’s basically the ephemeral nature of life, the reminder of everything inevitable. It’s like a time in which you expect the least, a time in which that moment spontaneously confronts you, but there is nothing you can do to preserve it— and the desire to do all you can to keep that moment to yourself is “Morii.” And if you know Victor and Victor x MC’s story, I’m sure you understand why it’s so important that they wrote it together, or rather MC instinctively followed his strokes without asking why— (இ﹏இ`｡)❤️

—

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

[Anika’s Long Analysis & Ramblings]

───

[dutch-and-flemish-painters]

Joseph Octave van der Donckt - Portrait of Albert Gregorius - 1795

Franciscus Joseph Octave van der Donckt (30 June 1757, Aalst - 16 August 1813, Bruges) was a Flemish portrait painter, miniaturist and pastellist. He is also referred to as Jozef Angelus Van der Donckt, as well as several other variations, too numerous to list.

Albert Jacob Frans Gregorius, or Albert Jacques François Grégorius (26 October 1774, Bruges - 25 February 1853, Bruges) was a Flemish-Belgian portrait painter and Director of the art academy in Bruges.

He was born into a poor, laboring family. His drawing abilities were observed by François van der Donckt, a local portrait painter who took him in, gave him his first lessons and helped him enroll at the art academy. Gregorius was there from 1791 to 1793 and won several awards.

In 1801, he went to Paris, where he was apprenticed to Joseph-Benoît Suvée, who was also from Bruges. Not long after, Suvée went to Rome to become Director of the French Academy, but Gregorius was able to find a position in the studios of Jacques-Louis David. In 1805, he was back in Bruges, making preparations to enter the Prix de Rome, but fell ill and was unable to participate.

After his recovery, he returned to Paris and remained until 1835. He soon established a reputation as a portrait painter and formed an association with other expatriate Flemish artists ("De Club van de Belgen"). After exhibiting in the Ghent Salon, he entered the Paris Salon in 1812 and would continue to display there annually until his departure. In addition to the usual French nobility, he is also known for his portrait of August Wilhelm Schlegel, which is now on display at Coppet Castle.

At the age of 61, he received an appointment as Director of "De Vrije Academie" (now "De Stedelijke Academie") in Bruges. He served until 1852, when he was forced to resign after clashes with colleagues, students and city officials over his conservative approach to art. His best-known student was Ford Madox Brown.

Curiously, on his death certificate he was described as a "widower", but his wife's name was unknown. It has been speculated that he was briefly married during his long stay in France and had no close relatives he cared to notify.

[lostlibrariangirl]

June 13, 2024

165/366 Days of Growth

No matter how much I study, the feeling that I am behind is always there 😅

Reviewing about vulnerabilities and threat actor's (so glad I did the MITRE ATT&CK learning path on AttackIQ Academy), so the classes are OK until now.

Also doing some Linux classes in Alura course as I know almost nothing about Linux 🤡

I love having my daily matcha to help me through the dawn study sessions. These last ones were so beautiful 🍵

Well, now is work time, as I am helping my boss with our Scrum Master stuff (the last one resigned a month and a half ago 😔) ... And yes, I did a Scrum Master certification at the beginning of the year, I am doing well, but to be a developer and a SM at the same time is making me feel so tired 😴

[childotkw]

What was that HP AU where Harry accidently creates an island cult and becomes a "Dark Lord" on the side? Can I have more of that please? :)

His age was the first thing Voldemort noted about his would-be rival.

He had known that going in, of course. Had had a file with Harry Potter's life cleanly printed out in his hands within a day of hearing about the other's activities in and around the Mediterranean - but reading twenty in neat ink on a line was different to seeing a young, fresh-faced boy standing across from him.

"Mr. Potter," Voldemort greeted, cordial for all the way his magic writhed around him in silent warning. "How nice to finally meet you."

Potter watched him calmly, blinking slow like a cat and appearing unruffled by the ambush. He had excellent control over his emotions, Voldemort grudgingly admitted. Not a hint of fear or unease to be seen.

"Lord Voldemort," Potter returned politely. The two girls on either side of Potter - darker skinned, thin in the way that suggested long-term starvation, and both even younger than he was. It was ridiculous, was this entire operation run by children? - stiffened at his name, their expressions tightening not with fear but with frustrated caution.

It was not the reaction he was used to receiving.

"It's an honour," Potter continued, and though the words were sincere the tone was bland and uninterested. "What brings you to this little shindig?"

He gestured vaguely around them, at the glittering chandeliers and glamorous robes, seemingly ignoring the nervous way eyes shifted over their small pocket of the hall. The noise had dropped around them slightly, people pretending not to strain their ears to hear what would be said.

A server, either brave or stupid, approached them with a tray, her mouth quivering ever so lightly. Potter reached out and took a glass with murmured thanks, taking a sip as his two companions - bodyguards? Assistants? He needed more information on Potter's circle - declined.

Voldemort accepted one as well, though unlike Potter he was not foolish enough to drink. A tongue ducked out to clean away the residual champagne from his bottom lip.

Those green eyes never left him, and that quiet intent was so at odds with the air of impassivity Potter wore like a coat.

"Oh, once I heard of your attendance, I admit my curiosity demanded to be sated," he answered with a gilded smile. "I just had to see the up-and-coming Dark Lord for myself."

More than one of their audience inhaled at that, the pretence vanishing in an instant. Every eye snapped to them, wide and oozing fear.

The two girls on Potter's side sneered, righteous indignation spreading across their narrow faces.

Potter merely tilted his head. "I've never once claimed to be a Dark Lord," he said, still calm, still unbothered.

"And yet," Voldemort said, shrugging elegantly while inside he seethed.

This was supposed to be his rival? This boy that had barely scraped through Hogwarts, who had run from Britain before the ink was even dry on his graduation certificate, and now couldn't even do him the courtesy of lying well.

Potter shifted his weight and the two girls tensed, eager anticipation on one's face while resignation settled over the other's, and then the boy had the audacity to say -

"It's hardly my fault that you're doing such a poor job that people are already looking to replace you."

Off to their side, someone choked.

[17-noodlebird]

Meet

Dr. Plantair the Science/Physics Teacher

Voice Actor: Bill Nye

~~~~

Dr. Plantair is the Science & Physics teacher of Craniumville U, who represents the jaded, tired, and done-with-life teachers who constantly get disrespected by the class to the point of becoming easily frustrated with everyone and everything, and even refusing to help the good noodles who only want a good education. Whatever passion Dr. Plantair may have had was completely drained away by years of the disrespect and lack of appreciation for the work he does, and is taking it out on even the innocent folks in the process. He could've been a happier man had it not been for Professor Barnwell's rigorous standards upheld in Craniumville U, and the fact that he could've just picked a better career path that he was actually good at and not a life of thanklessness from a job that pays well but doesn't bring fulfillment. Although he had to resign and hand over his teaching certificate due to the verbal abuse he inflicted onto his students, the consequences of it all might have done him a favor in the end, but who knows? Maybe he'll finally be a real scientist and achieve fulfillment and happiness?

~~~~

[antiquatedsimmer]

It was barely 3 a.m. when they arrived in Chestnut Ridge. The quaint town had grown significantly since Lucile’s last visit as a teenager.

Lucile hated to admit it, but Silas had once again, been right about another thing: their family was sheltered. Compared to the thick woods of the Bramblewoods, Chestnut Ridge felt almost like a city. The town center bustled with shops and vibrant streetlights, open spaces for socializing, and well-paved brick streets, all adorned with beautiful plant life.

The plan had seemed perfect:

Sell off their looted items.

Arrive at Chestnut Ridge after a few days' travel.

Secure room and board.

Find jobs.

Purchase a permanent living space.

But upon arrival, Josephine and Lucile found themselves struggling with part 3. “Maybe this was a mistake…” Josephine groaned,

“There were bound to be bumps in the road,” Lucile gently reassured.

“Lucile..." Josephine's voices was coated in a film of annoyance, " we’ve been wandering around for nearly three hours now. "

" I’m exhausted.”

Lucile glanced around the empty streets, her lips pursed in thought. “Well, it is absurdly late. Everyone’s just asleep. I’m sure something will open up once people start waking up.”

Josephine’s eyes lit up at the sight of a small building. “Oh! This place looks like it might offer some room and board. "

Josephine pointed to a two story building further down the road, Lucile then wrapped an arm around Josephine and steered her toward what looked like a possible bed and breakfast. “We just need some energizing coffee.”

“And a bed,” Josephine added bluntly.

“And a bed,” she laughed.

The business was quiet, with only a few patrons just starting to trickling in as the first light of dawn began to crest over the ridge. They found a table, and Josephine shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “So, what exactly are we going to say?”

“I’d like a coffee?”

“No! You know…” Josephine trailed off,

“Oh! I suppose maybe we could just use my name.”

Josephine’s face fell flat. “Darling, I already have your last name. I know we’re tired, but this is a serious matter.”

"I am being serious, Technically, Harrington was my father’s name. Doyle would be the safest choice. Coombes or Harrington would just give us away.” Josephine bit her lip in anxiety then Lucile reached across the table, her touch gentle as she sought to reassure her.

“We’re not criminals, Josie. We’re just two women carving out our own paths. Choosing a name that’s not tied to your wedding certificate will make things simpler.”

Josephine leaned in, her voice hushed with concern. "Do you think we should move farther out? Maybe to a bigger city?"

Lucile shook her head. "We can’t afford that, Josie. Besides, fewer faces mean fewer chances of being recognized if they put out a notice on us. Given how Silas and your family treated you, I doubt they’ll go to that much trouble. Out here, the land is vast, and there are plenty of places to hide if it comes to that."

“Do try to relax,” Lucile said with a reassuring smile. In response, Josephine let out a deep, resigned sigh. “I suppose you’re right…”

Their conversation paused as the waitress arrived, setting their breakfast before them. Lucile took a grateful sip of her coffee, the warmth soothing her nerves. Josephine mimicked her, though with less enthusiasm.

“Let’s not linger too long. My bacon smells… off,” Josephine remarked, wrinkling her nose.

“Really? Everything smells fine to me,” Lucile replied, taking another generous sip.

[ammg-old2]

A new sound wafts through the open windows at night in this town near the front line: children hollering at each other down the block, even long after dark.

The markets are full. Sales are surging at the local bike shop. Red tulips, planted by hand, are bursting open everywhere.

It is remarkable — “Unrecognizable,” one city official said — how different this small town in eastern Ukraine feels from a year ago. Last summer, Pokrovsk was a spooky landscape of boarded up houses and bushy yards. No one was around. Now it’s hard to take a few steps without passing someone on the sidewalk.

Nothing has changed outside Pokrovsk. The front line is still 30 miles away. Ukrainians are still dying in droves. One of the biggest armies in the world, that of the Russian Federation, is still bombing cities while they sleep and trying to take as much territory as it can, at a terrifying cost.

But what has changed — and it reflects something broader happening in small towns across this vast country — are people’s calculations. How much danger are they willing to accept? What is the best for them and their families? How should they accommodate the war on a daily basis? The answers to these questions seem different this year, and without consulting each other, many people have reached the same decision.

It is resilience, yes, but perhaps also something a little less shiny: resignation.

“The war is here. There is no safe place in Ukraine. So you might as well get on with it,” said Dr. Natalia Medvedieva, a family doctor who tried living in a safer place in western Ukraine with her son but came back here a few months later.

And home is home.

“It’s hard to describe what is so special about home,” said Pavel Rudiev, an engineer at Pokrovsk’s small train station. “It’s where everything is familiar, where you know people, where you have friends.”

When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, this principle didn’t hold. More than 13 million Ukrainians — a third of the country — fled from their homes. But as time went on, it became harder to stay away.

“I was running out of money,” said Iryna Ilina, a fitness instructor and beautician, sharing a common struggle of the displaced. She recently returned to Kramatorsk, another city not far from the front line where she owns an apartment. She was having trouble covering her rent in Pavlohrad, the safer city where she had been staying.

Many people said that when they were displaced, it was hard finding work. “And I need to work,” Dr. Medvedieva said. “I have my life.”

Since last summer, at a pretty steady rate, Ukrainians have been returning. More than 5.5 million have gone home, according to the International Organization for Migration, and not just to large cities like Kyiv, the capital, or Dnipro, but to small places as well, even those right behind the front line. While the exodus at the beginning of the war was dramatic and widely covered, the homecomings have been more gradual and haven’t generated nearly the same attention.

Of course there’s concern. Dr. Medvedieva keeps a bag packed with her documents, money and some clothes. Viktoriia Perederii, a veterinarian, who returned to Pokrovsk last year after trying to live in central Ukraine, said that many families bring her their pets to get clean health certificates for international travel in case they need to leave in a hurry.

“It’s difficult to evaluate the risks,” she said. “There is no safe place in Ukraine. Look at Uman,” she added, referring to the recent missile strike that killed 25 people in a city that, until that moment, many Ukrainians had considered perfectly safe.

At this time of year, Pokrovsk is basking in spring. White cherry blossom petals delicately flutter through the air and pile up along the curb in handsome drifts. The long side streets, lined by modest one-story homes with peaked roofs, smell of freshly turned earth. In the gardens out front, women in aprons and headscarves plant flowers — not something you do if you’re about to pack up and flee.

“Business is good,” said Larysa Titorenko, a seed vendor at Pokrovsk’s busy central market. Her racks of happily decorated packets were moving fast — marigolds, melons, radishes, carrots and about eight varieties of cucumber.

Then tears flashed in her eyes. Her daughter’s house had recently been destroyed in a frontline town not far away. “I’m OK, really,” she insisted, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

This duality is everywhere. People in war do something that most in the world don’t have to — they keep two big thoughts running in their heads at all times: live life as fully and richly as possible and, at the same time, plan for it to be turned upside down.

Since last summer, the Russians have sliced away at Bakhmut, pushed closer to Avdiivka and leveled Marinka — all towns about an hour’s drive away. The front line is inching closer. You constantly hear dull thuds, almost like doors closing.

But people carry on as if it’s a faraway thunderstorm. At a pond-side park near the town center, teenage girls make halos out of dandelions, as they have for eons, and TikTok dance videos.

Nearby, men pump iron at an immaculate outdoor gym with rows of high-quality weight machines, exercise bars and even padded arm-wrestling tables. With wide stances, they strut around, cheeks red, chests puffed out. If you Photoshopped out the occasional tank getting towed past on a car carrier, it might look like California.

Before the war, the population was about 50,000. It dipped to around 30,000 last spring, when so many people across the country fled west. Now it’s back up — to 57,000, actually, said Serhiy Dobriak, the head of Pokrovsk’s military administration. Beyond the residents who have returned, others from surrounding hot spots, Avdiivka or even Mariupol, have flocked in.

Before the war, Pokrovsk had big plans. A billboard rising from a muddy intersection shows a schematic drawing of new office towers and lots of lights. “But we got to be realistic,” Mr. Dobriak said. “We will most likely be a militarized zone.”

No one here expects the war to end soon. “Years” is the reigning prediction. Some worry that the acceptance of it, this notion that life should go on regardless of it, means there will be less pressure to end it.

A military convoy chugged past an intersection, leaving behind a wake of diesel haze. Not far behind, a boy pedaled furiously on his bike, determined to catch up to his friends.

It was evening, warm, and the air was crisp, feeling wonderful on exposed skin. It is such a magnificent time of year that no one wanted to go inside, even with curfew approaching.

[evita-shelby]

A different sort of man

III

Gif by @crackshipandcrap

The business side is similar, but very different.

The house was different as well, all done with the strange elegance and mysterious charm of its lady.

They were wealthier, Miss. Smith had come with a dowry worthy of a queen and her portion of her family’s shipping company.

They had a boy, Charles Henry, named after his uncle and her late father, and five or six months older than his son. He was dark haired, blue eyed and had his mother’s freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his little nose.

This one was truly his, no doubts at all. Charlie had his mother’s eyes and Clive Macmillan’s last name.

Grace had refused to let his name be on the birth certificate, their affair swept under the rug because she wants the approbation of people who laugh at her from behind their hands.

“Does your family like me?” he asks the witch who looks full of life and love even in the photographs on his desk.

“Mixed bag, some of the more uptight ones think you’re new money trash and English ---my grandfather was a proud Irishman and my grandmother is from old money--- , some quite like you as a person.” Eva answered as she wrote down most of the codes to the safes. “I would ask if the Burgess-Caron clan like you, but I know those type of people and won’t bother asking you to confirm.”

Grace’s family didn’t even let people know they were Irish, moving to London and other parts in England the first chance they got.

“What happened to Grace in this future?” he finds himself asking.

He was curious what happened to the woman who had made him so weak and vulnerable that he went back to her.

“Dead, she made too many enemies and was shot to death in New York. I would feel bad for her, but she tried to have me killed for ratting her out, so.” Eva said with a shrug.

Her loathing of his wife was oddly charming.

Come to think of it, no woman he knew actually liked Grace.

“I should warn you, there is no version of your wife that lives past 1925.” Eva sobered up suddenly as she pulled a book from a sofa. “Danny Owens’ widow paid a great deal to curse her, married to you or no, she won't live to see spring, I’m sorry, Thomas.”

“Don’t be, Polly told me the same. Said Grace reeked of death since the day she saw her at the Garrison.” He was resigned to it, sure it would pain him, but no witch he visited could undo the curse.

The only thing you can do is make her happy in the little time she has left, the last one had warned.

Even then, Thomas was failing at that.

“Who is Eva?” Grace asks hiding her jealousy rather poorly.

How do you say the woman I am married to in a different life who got drunk and fucked around with magic last night?

“A woman with a shipping company and an affinity for witchcraft, used to live in Watery Lane. Sent Polly to sweeten the pot and see if we can get in her good books.” He lied smoothly.

“You promised to trust me, Thomas.” Grace warned looking close to tears.

Did he promise her that? Sounds like a lie.

Much like the supposed love they share.

He had asked Polly if he knew why he loved Grace, and even she couldn’t seem to find an answer to it.

With Eva, he knew why he loved her. Polly had even known before they did.

There was no substance to them, this Tommy and Grace.

Nothing beyond physical touch and empty words like it had been when they first met.

God, this Thomas has a miserable life.

“Had a dream about her, I remembered her family’s company is the second largest in the Atlantic and crazy enough to invest in mine if I play my cards right.” He had been relieved to know Eva did exist here, that her family’s company was real and that even here she is friendly with Linda.

“You said she was your wife and had a son five months older than Charles.” She said pointedly.

“Are you jealous of something I dreamed up while I was drunk, love?” he plays the sort of in love husband and tries to see if he can get her to dismiss this all as nonsense.

He doesn’t get to hear an answer because then Mary comes with a letter.

If you want me so badly, come meet me yourself.

-E.