#data mus

[lookforpornography-mastrubation]

LOOK FOR PORNOGRAPHY FOR MASTRUBATION

LOOK FOR PORNOGRAPHY TO MASTRUBATE TO

[lynns-bonkle-blog]

Metru Nui Archives data log 36012: The Head

Log author: Spiritual Researcher Vizuna

The Head, as it wishes to be called, is, well, a head. Specifically the head of a Class-02 Toa, or maybe Class-03? I'll have to ask Surgical Director Gogot after I've finished writing this, then I'll put it as an addendum.

The Head was... challenging to deal with. It litters its speech with profanity (which, for professionalism purposes, has been expunged from this data log), threatened the lives of both me and my colleagues (though these threats appeared to be empty based on its lack of any limbs or weapons), and claims to have once been one of the few Toa to ever come from Xia, though as my... interview with it (and subsequent research) indicates, it is mostly lying about this.

The following is an audio-to-text transcript of my attempt at inverviewing The Head:

Vizuna: Apologies for taking so long. I couldn't find my archival tablet, so I had to borrow the Chief Archivist's one. Now, how did you get into this state? The Head: Wanna find out, [EXPLETIVE DELETED]? Vizuna: I admire your attempts to threaten me, but they won't work. Answer the question, please. The Head: Ran into an... old friend, see. Tried to kill me, but couldn't finish the [EXPLETIVE DELETED] job, not for lack of trying... Vizuna: I see. What do you mean by that? The Head: Eh, it'd take too [EXPLETIVE DELETED] long to explain, and I'd have to repeat myself. Especially since you [EXPLETIVE DELETED] Le-Matoran don't even seem to remember what [EXPLETIVE DELETED] colours you're meant to have. Vizuna: Why y- [SLOW INHALE] I am not a Le-Matoran. I am a Bo-Matoran. You should know the difference; you are... were a Toa of Air. Right? The Head: What the [EXPLETIVE DELETED] are you talking about? How would you know that? Vizuna: Your eyes are... red, but now I look at them, they're not... they're not the same as... The Head: Yeahhhhhh, now you're starting to [EXPLETIVE DELETED] get it. Vizuna: ... This interview is over. I need to check something.

Now, those who don't know about Matoran mythology may not be aware of Shadow Toa; powerful, illusiory constructs that a Makuta can manifest, though very little is known of them, as they are rarely used.

The only source I have access to that describes a Shadow Toa is an ancient text, written in ancient Matoran, which contains the following passage that I have partially translated into modern Matoran, with any words that have multiple definitions having both listed: "Be Toa's eyes as the setting suns, moreso than capricious Le or [steadfast/durable] Fe, armour dark, then ally is Toa not; for is instead illusion from cruel Kra. Only ceases after confront truest [self/friend]."

Translating this fully into modern Matoran is difficult due to the ambiguity in the grammar and certain words having multiple definitions, but I gave it a try because why not: "If a Toa's eyes are bright red, moreso than the pinkish-red of a Toa of Air or the reddish-orange of a Toa of Iron, with dark armour, then they are not an ally; they are instead an illusion from cruel Shadow." The next section is a bit more ambiguous; it could mean "It immediately ceases to exist when it is confronted by its true self", or "It can only be killed by a close friend", or maybe some combination or rearrangement of those. Maybe something else. Who knows?

But what I want to note is that part about red eyes and dark armour. The Head has eyes that match that description perfectly, and while it lacks any armour or a mask, the metal it is made out of does look darker than usual, at least compared to what I've seen from the few Toa I have met, which makes me wonder if The Head is, in fact, a Toa of Shadow.

Before I move onto the next section, I also need to address something interesting that last line. Both interpretations point to Shadow Toa being based on existing Toa; "truest self" could refer to the one that it was recreated from, while "truest friend" could refer to another Toa who is particularly close to them. Which means that The Head could have been based on an actual Toa from Xia, though I didn't want to deal with the Xian council's excessive bureaucracy just to access a list of registered Toa with no clue which one The Head was copying. This will come up again later.

Getting back on track, since I had an example of a rare phenomenon in my possession, I decided to try giving it a soul-scan to see what I could learn.

Souls are a form of elemental and life essence, generated in the cerebral crystals (also known referred to with the more casual term "brainstalks") of most beings and transported throughout the body via elemental conduits. Souls also what give eyes, cerebral crystals and heartlights their distinctive glow, though the actual colour of said glow comes from the surrounding protodermic biomineral that those components are made out of, which tints the otherwise blindingly white soul-light; even De-Matoran and Toa of Sonics, with their white biominerals, have their soul-light filtered slightly to make their eyes, cerebral crystals and heartlights glow to a lesser degree than if they were isolated.

Souls are comprised of six different "pieces", which affect the shape and appearance of the soul and the being it belongs to; they are Unity, Duty, Destiny, Light, Darkness and Element. The first three obviously relate to the being's connections to the Three Virtues; Light and Shadow have unknown purposes at time of writing, though it appears to have some correlation with the being's personality, as Matoran destined to become Toa usually have higher Light, and Makuta naturally have higher Darkness.

So I put The Head in the soul scanner (it tried to resist, but the most it could do was try to bite my fingers), activated the scanning mode, and went back to my office to water my plants and rearrange my tablets while I waited for the scan to finish.

As soon as I saw the results, I knew that I had to download them to the archival tablet so I could include an image of them here, because they would have been too bizarre to be believable, but it also undoubtably proves my hypothesis of what The Head is.

The Head somehow has 0 Unity, Duty, Destiny or Light, but its Darkness is so high it caused an overflow. This thing is (was?) definitely a Shadow Toa.

Now that I had this evidence at its true origin, I was ready to re-confront it, along with a secret weapon...

The Head: Oh good, the [EXPLETIVE DELETED] finally decided to give me the attention I [EXPLETIVE DELETED] deserve. Vizuna: Yeah, yeah, let's cut to the chase. I know what you are. The Head: [EXAGERRATED GASP] Oh noooooo, you managed to [EXPLETIVE DELETED] figure out "what I really am". You guessed it earlier; I'm a [EXPLETIVE DELETED] Makuta, and I am to be [EXPLETIVE DELETED] feared! Vizuna: You're a Shadow Toa, based on a Toa from the island of Xia. You were struck down in battle, but managed to survive as a damaged head due to not being defeated properly. The Head: Wait, how did you f- Vizuna: A combination of ancient writings, and a summary of your soul's construction. And to further prove it, I brought this. The Head: A [EXPLETIVE DELETED] mask? What's that going to do? Vizuna: It'll let me know who'll get the privilege of shutting you up for good.

At this point, I ran out of audio-recording space on the tablet (sorry about that, Etoku; I replaced the memory module before returning it to you), but when I put the mask on The Head, it turned dark-grey, so I will be requesting access to the Xian council's list of registered Toa and looking for any Toa of Ice or Sonics.

Now, a lot of fellow spiritual researchers might hate me for what I am about to say, but I am going to destroy it, because there's a lot that we're going to learn from how it reacts to being exposed to its original

Artifact information:

Categories: Living, Supernatural

Current location: External Warehouse 7434-B, "To Be Destroyed" section.

End of log.

Addendum by Spiritual Researcher Vizuna: I went to ask Surgical Director Gogot about The Head, but according to the other surgeons in the dissection lab, he's currently busy; some slackers from Le-Metru somehow managed to get into the Mutagenics gallery, and he's taken the sole responsibility of dissecting what's left of them.

Addendum by Spiritual Researcher Vizuna: Ok, so it's been a week, and Gogot still isn't available; according to the off-duty surgeon who answered the door when I went to ask, he won't be available for at least a month, maybe longer, and since I didn't want to subject any... less experienced surgeons to The Head's nonsense, I will just wait until he's finished. In lighter news, I managed to finally get a copy of the Xian council's list of registered Toa, and I've had letters sent to the Toa that The Head was mimicking, as well as what the list claims is their closest ally, so hopefully they'll respond soon to... dispose of it. Also it means I won't need Gogot to ID the type of Toa that The Head came from.

[sentient-rift]

(Suddenly, Thanos snaps his fingers and wipes out half the universe.)

"Oh, not again..."

"Seriously?! We're doing this again?!"

"Curse you, Thanos!!"

"Not on my watch! The Infinity Stones won't work here!"

(RiFT snaps his own fingers and reverses the effect.)

"WAAAAAAH!! THANK YOU, RiFT!!! I REALLY HATE THAT MEME!!!"

"Of course. No meme is going to take my friends away from me."

[thesecondsanctuary]

for the main uty ost bracket, im planning on adding little bios for each track with their seed, where theyre played, and any trivia regarding the track. though im not sure what trivia i should and shouldnt add. i think im just going to add stuff that relates to the actual music (eg justice having a snored rendition by interacting w sleepo) rather than stuff relating to release dates or file oddities

[paarksunghoon]

Jake finally taking you after months of uncertainty whether you like him or not. Pushing you against a wall, rough and passionate making out, and him being a softdom. Pleaseeeeeeee.

It all started with a stupid semester project.

Jake hates group work. He hates relying on people and he hates when his partners don’t complete their portion of the work. Jake thinks they’re lazy and good-for-nothing, even though he knows he’s being dramatic. He hates being the only person to contribute to the Google doc and he loathes it when the grade is dependent on everyone as a whole and not individually.

He meets you in Advanced Research Methods. It’s a required class for mathematical and physics majors in order to graduate, and Jake has pushed off taking it for as long as he could because he hates the idea of researching data with a partner. He knows the professor well enough to assume that there would be group work (he assumes correctly) but absolutely nothing could’ve prepared him from laying eyes on you for the first time.

When Dr. Kang announces the partners for the semester-long research project, Jake’s tapping his pen against his leg when he starts to hear names being called out. His ears perk up when he hears his own. When your name is said, Jake looks up and finds that you’re staring right at him.

You look so put together. Jake doesn’t know what it is about you that makes you look like you’ve got it all figured out. Maybe it’s because your hair looks particularly neat compared to all of the other people sitting around him. Perhaps it’s your laptop and notebook right next to it. Whatever it is, he finds himself a bit nervous to inevitably approach you in order to begin working on the project.

Dr. Kang allows the students to mingle and get to know one their project partners during the last ten minutes of class to exchange information. When you take initiative to walk to where Jake is sitting and occupy the seat next to him, he finds himself stuttering.

“H-Hey,” he says pathetically. You’re prettier up close.

“Hi! Jake, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Here’s my phone. Why don’t you put your number in.”

Jake’s hands are almost shaking as he holds your phone between his hands and settles with ‘Jake Sim - Research Methods’ as his contact so you remember him. When he hands it back to you, he watches you type away before he feels his own phone buzz.

Unknown Number: hi! it’s yn.

He saves the contact quickly before class ends and the two of you decide to wait until the next class to set a time to meet to work on the project.

Jake’s worries about group projects disappear when he begins working with you. You’re punctual, never a minute late when the two of you agree to meet after classes to work on it. You contribute to brainstorming sessions and crunch data numbers like you’re the best at it. Jake finds that he’s able to divide up the work evenly and sleeps at a decent hour because he doesn’t have to stay up late to finish an extra portion.

Your intellect is attractive to him. You’re able to explain difficult theories and statistical processes to him better than any professor he’s ever hard. Only, it becomes hard to listen to you talk because he keeps staring at your lips.

They’re so kissable. Jake wonders what they must feel like against his own. He imagines grabbing your face with his hands and planting one on you when you talk about SPSS but he doesn’t act on it, fearing that he may make you uncomfortable. Jake loves it when you start to wear shorter dresses and skirts because the weather is warming up. He likes seeing your thighs stick to the seats and watching you pull the fabric down to prevent flashing everybody.

As the months go by, he realizes he’s learned a lot about you. You’re not from around and you dream of working in astrophysics one day. You love the color green and you’re obsessed with tangerines to the point where he bought a bag just to present you with one at every session. You’re a night owl and you love all kinds of music except country, and you prefer coffee over tea.

Jake also knows that your body is gorgeous. Your legs look stunning in shorter skirts and your tits look beautiful when they almost spill out of your crop tops. He knows what your thighs look like when you sit and how your skirt rides up to accommodate the new angle you’ve put yourself in.

It messes with his head because sometimes, he swears you might like him, too.

You laugh at his corny math jokes and ask him to hang out with you on the weekends. You let him buy you coffee and meals when it’s late into the night. You let him walk you home and you even allow Jake to nap on your bed when he comes over to work on the project after long, hot days.

It all comes to a boiling point one Thursday evening when he’s alone with you in your dorm. Your roommate is gone until Monday and Jake is sitting on the bed whilst you’re sitting on the desk chair, stretching your arms above your head until your shirt rides up. He can see your skin and wonders how soft you must be.

For just a moment, Jake wonders what your bare skin would feel like against his palms. Your breasts look plush to the touch and he’d bet anything that your pussy would feel so amazing against his fingers and cock when you’re wet. He imagines sliding his dick in and out of your tight hole, pumping until he’s coming inside of you and making you messier than before.

But he regrets this thought because he’s half hard in his sweatpants and there’s no way to hide it.

“I, uh, think I’m gonna head back to my dorm,” Jake announces as he puts a notebook in front of his crotch.

“Already?” You turn around and pout at him. “But you got here thirty minutes ago.”

Jake shuffles to the door. “Sorry, Y/N. I think I’ll do my portion there.”

“Jake, I really need you here to complete my part. We’re supposed to turn in the second half of the report this week and I need your help to do it.”

God, you sound so hot when you’re asking him to stay.

He panics when you stand from your seat to approach him as he motions to open the door. The sound of your chair scraping against the floor startles him until he drops the notebook that’s been covering his semi-hard dick. You gasp.

“Are you hard?”

Bashfully, Jake sighs and tries to back away from you. “This I why I wanted to leave, okay? I…I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You look at his crotch and then back up at him. “Why are you hard?”

Jake’s face heats up even more. “I-I don’t know.”

“Jaeyun.” Your voice sounds so delicate saying his name like that.

“It’s because I like you and you’re wearing shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, okay?!” He sighs. “I’ve liked you since the second time we worked on the project because that’s when I knew I could rely on you. Everything else was just circumstance and now I need to go to my dorm so I can take care of this.”

“I can help,” you tell him. You say it just shy of confidently and he can’t tell if you feel bad for him or not.

“You don’t have to say or do anything. I already made this weird.”

You force yourself to stop looking at his cock. Knowing Jake, he’s too embarrassed to realize that your proposition is genuine and that you’ve harbored a crush on him since becoming partners with him too. So you muster up enough courage to press your lips to his and hope the message is clear.

Jake’s eyes widen against your mouth and you pull back after a few seconds to see the astonished look on his face. “I like you too, dummy. Have since you started bringing me tangerines after knowing me for two weeks.”

“Really?”

You nod. “Mhm. Can I kiss you again?”

Jake captures your mouth in a kiss the way he wants to—his hands grab your jaw and he pushes his lips against yours until he’s turning you. You feel your back hit the hard wall and gasp into the kiss, allowing Jake to lick your bottom lip with his tongue. The sensation dances across your chest and you gush out a stream of wetness at Jake’s urgency.

“Could’ve been kissing you all this time,” he mutters against your neck as he drags his lips down your skin. “Feel what you do to me.”

Without detaching himself from you, Jake puts your hand on his hardened cock and hears you whimper at the feeling. He coaxes you to squeeze him through the fabric and moans against your neck when you do.

“Such a good girl, listening to me like that.” He pulls away and pushes his hips into your palm. “I’m always hard for you.”

“R-Really?”

“You’re so hot, Y/N. You have to know that.”

Jake doesn’t let you respond. He grips your waist and pushes his plump lips back on yours and kisses you with fervor until your own lips have become swollen. The two of you emit breathy moans in the quiet of your dorm room and your free hand pushes Jake’s sweats down until his cock springs free. The hand around his dick collects the precum that has oozed from his swollen head and you smear it over his skin.

“Fuck me,” he moans to himself. “You’re perfect.”

“Your cock is perfect,” you choke. “So big.”

“Yeah? Can you spit on it for me?” You do as he says, leaning forward until a wad of it touches his slit. Jake smiles at you lustfully and squeezes your hips. “Good girl. Always so good, aren’t you? Makes me wonder how good you’ll be for me when I fuck you.”

“I’ll be so good,” you whine as you twist your hand up and down his length. Jake resumes kissing your neck and the electricity makes your pussy quiver. “I want you inside of me now.”

“Now? You think you’re wet enough?” You nod. “We’ll just have to see, now won’t we?”

Jake’s movements are hurried as he pushes your shorts down until they’re at your knees. You aren’t lying. You’re really wet. The cute baby pink panties you wear are soiled and he feels it when his fingers come in contact with the fabric.

The short whimper you let out is enough for Jake to short circuit. He doesn’t believe this is real. Even less so when you maneuver his cock until the tip it pushing against your covered core, gathering your wetness to coat his cock.

“Fuck, you really are perfect,” Jake whispers against you. He pulls back to watch as you stroke him while keeping the tip plush against you as if to coax him into fucking your hole. Jake’s mouth hangs open at the delicious sensation of the wet fabric against his cock head and decides you’re wet enough to take all of him.

He relishes in your gasp when he forces you to turn around. You push your ass towards him and Jake slaps your right ass cheek with his big hands until the sound reverberates in the room. Jake pulls your panties down until they join your shorts halfway down your legs and pushes his cock against you.

“How are you so fucking wet?” he mutters.

“It’s all for you.”

“Fuck yes it is.”

Without bothering to pull his sweatpants off, Jake uses his hand to slide the tip up and down your slit until you’re arching your back and clutching the wall to the best of your ability. The wet splashes make him even hornier and he pushes the head into you until you envelop him.

Slowly, Jake pushes into you inch by inch and holds you by the waist. He rubs your bare skin and coos at you when you wiggle your ass to get more of him. The pain feels exceptional. You can’t remember a time where you fucked someone as big as Jake and you don’t want to live without his cock inside of you like this.

Jake takes his shirt off to prevent it from obstructing the view of his cock disappearing into your pussy. He pushes himself inside of you until he’s completely sheathed and catches you by surprise. Jake silences your moan with a kiss to your mouth and rubs soothing circles on your waist, kissing you like his life depends on it while you get used to the new stretch.

He pushes his tongue against yours and uses the spit to coat his lips. You taste exactly like the pink lemonade you’ve been drinking all night and the innocent flavor makes his hips buck into you.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Please, Jake. Don’t make me wait.”

He obliges. Jake fucks into you with all his might and his strong, muscular arms hold you in place as you push your chest against the wall and hold onto the door handle. The string of moans you let out is surely loud enough to let the neighbors know what’s happening behind the door but neither of you care about that right now. Jake wants to make you come and he’s slinging his hips into you from an upward angle, bending his knees to make sure his cock impales your g-spot.

“You’re so hot,” he moans. “I think about fucking you all the time.”

“M-Me too,” you confess.

“Yeah? What do you think about?”

“I think about—Ah!—Fingering me in class and eating my pussy.”

“Fuck yeah. I can do that for you.” Jake grips your hips tighter. “I can make you cum.”

“Make me cum, Jaeyun,” you plead, pushing your ass back. “I wanna cum on your cock.”

Jake pistons his hips into you until you’re parallel to the floor, holding onto the handle for dear life. He pushes into you so hard that you’re afraid you’d fall if it weren’t for his strong grip on you. Jake pushes and pushes, saving his orgasm until you come first.

It hits you like a tidal wave crashing over the shore. Your orgasm is long and drawn out as he keeps his brutal pace. Your release seeps from between the two or you and drips down his balls. Jake bites his lip at the tingling sensation and smacks your ass when you clench around him.

“Use me to make yourself cum,” you tell him. “Please, Jake. Please cum for me.”

“Say less, Princess.”

His orgasm follows shortly behind yours. Jake pulls out after five more thrust and pumps his cock until his cum spurts all over the globes of your ass. The warm, thick liquid feels so good against your skin that you push your bare pussy against him until Jake is letting his hot cock rest on you too.

When he regains his breath, he spots a roll of paper towels and gives your cheek a quick kiss before cleaning the both of you up. His touch is gentle, juxtaposed to his fucking just a few minutes prior. Jake cleans himself up before wiping the cum off of you and wiping your pussy gently too. He coaxes you to change into fresh undergarments and lets you collapse onto the bed with your eyes on him.

“I really do like you,” Jake says. “I didn’t say that just to fuck you.”

You pull him down and kiss him until all that’s left is soft pecks and the sound of lips smacking. Jake lets you pull away to lay on top of his chest and you feel him kiss the crown of your head.

“Sleep, Y/N. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

comments and reblogs are appreciated! x

[jayblanc]

Chinese Censorship of the 2023 Hugo Award Nominations

Back before the 2023 Hugo Nominations were conducted, I noted that the Chengdu Worldcon Hugo committee had inserted a worrying clause indicating that local government officials could invalidate nominations for breaching the norms and standards of China. I suspected this would result in arbitrarily applied censorship to control the ballot. I am sad and unsurprised to discover I was correct.

The 2023 Hugo Nomination vote data has been published (https://www.thehugoawards.org/2024/01/2023-nominating-and-final-ballot-statistics-published/), and includes notation where nominations were excluded from the ballot. Those with normal reasons, such as being in the wrong category or not being published in 2022 are identified with their reasons for exclusion. This time there are a number of nominations that are merely marked at "Not eligible".

Here is the list of those nominations, that would otherwise have been placed on the final 2023 Hugo Award Ballot.

Babel - R.F. Kuang - Best Novel: Very likely excluded for referencing student revolution, and the use of language and translation as coercive tools of oppression. Color the World - Congyun "Mu Ming" Hu - Best Novellette : A story about perception of, aid of, and discrimination against disability. Congyun Hu has left China and now lives in New York. Fogong Temple Padoga - Hai Ya - Best Story : Either there is something in the original Chinese that was not translated, there's a taboo subject that elides my reading, or this otherwise innocent looking near future tale of cultural building restoration was written by the wrong person. The Art of Ghost of Tsushima: Dark Horse and Sucker Punch Games - Best Related Work : The video game Ghost of Tsushima was subject to directed social exclusion for it's depiction of the Mongol invasion of Japan. Sandman, Amazon Studios: Best Dramatic Presentation (Long and Short) - A diverse and divergent cast, includes subject matter and social issues that are currently taboo in China. Paul Weimer - Fan Writer: Publicly Critical of holding a Worldcon in China. Xiran Jay Zhao - Astounding Award: Qualifying work "Iron Widow" is reimagined story of Chinese Empress Wu during a fantasy/mechanical alien invasion.

This raises a lot of questions as to if this basically taints the process, and what can be done about it.

[kmlottin]

Earn it - Kylian Mbappe one shot

CQ universe but can be read independently

8.1k words - porn with a tiny plot

As usual, let me know what you think 😇

Warning: rough sex, bit of degradation

This is your favorite game.

The slow burn kind. The one no one else knows you’re playing. The one that lives between glances and gestures, between the weight of his stare and the echo of your touch. You don’t need to break rules to make him suffer. You just have to bend them. Gently. Slowly. With precision.

Your uniform is immaculate. Hair tied back. Work shirt fitted in all the right places, badge clipped to your hip. Professional. Composed. Just like always.

But your lip gloss is a touch glossier than usual. Your scent, warm vanilla and skin, lingers a little longer when you pass. And when you enter the training complex that morning, you don’t glance at him.

You know he’s looking.

You always know.

It starts in the treatment room. That’s where you plant the seed. A hand that lingers. A press of your knuckles just a little too close. A question asked with a low, knowing hum.

From there, it escalates, each moment more intentional than the last.

Because Kylian never gives in first.

He waits. Watches. Withholds.

You’ve learned that if you want the kind of night you crave, the kind that leaves your thighs trembling and your voice hoarse, you have to get under his skin first.

You have to provoke him.

So you do. Every word, every look, every movement today is for one purpose only: to light the fuse. To set him off. To make sure that by the time you show up at his apartment tonight, he won’t be able to think straight.

Because what Kylian doesn’t say is louder than anything.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even let his voice dip into that low, sinful place you know he saves just for you.

And it drives you wild.

He pretends he’s in control. He pretends you don’t affect him. So you push. You tease. You light little matches under his skin just to watch him smolder.

You don’t do it to be cruel. You do it because you know how this ends. The nights are always hard, deep and messy. He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something.

Like every withheld reaction, every quiet stare, every moment of restraint builds until it snaps, and he snaps with it.

And god, you love that moment. You’re already aching by the time the day begins.

Because you know exactly how it ends.

With you, stripped and spread, being completely ruined by the man who’s kept his mouth shut all day.

That’s the game. One where you always win.

You spot him the moment you walk into the physio room, legs stretched out, shorts riding up, sweat slicked skin catching the light in all the best ways.

And you pause.

Because it’s always the thighs.

You loved the way those thighs felt. Pressed between yours, clenched beneath your palms, braced on either side of you as he fucked you so deep you couldn’t think. They’re the anchor in moments when everything else blurs, strong and steady, always trembling with restraint as he holds back just long enough to make you beg.

You blink hard, clearing the image.

You’re at work.

He’s at work.

Another physio is leaning over him, logged into the tablet, scanning injury data from the last match. Kylian isn’t paying attention, phone in hand, posture relaxed, but you catch the subtle way his legs shift as you approach. The flex of muscle beneath his skin. The slide of his hand down his quad.

Like he knows you’re looking.

You clear your throat. “Need a switch?”

Your colleague glances up. “God, yes. I’ve got a player waiting in the ice baths. You okay to finish his stretch protocol?”

You nod easily. “I’ve got it.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. You just move toward the table, sliding into position like it’s routine. Because it is.

Except it isn’t.

Not with him.

Kylian doesn’t say a word as you settle onto the stool between his legs. His shorts are high on his thighs, and now that you’re this close, you can see everything, the deep curve of muscle, the slight sheen of sweat, the twitch when your knee brushes his as you shift.

“Left leg?” you ask, just to confirm what you already know.

“Yeah.” His voice is low, even. “Hamstring’s tight.”

Of course it is.

You hum, reaching out to test the muscle, fingers pressing into the back of his leg, but your attention’s already drifting. Because the front of his thigh is tense. You know it’s harmless but it’s like he’s flexing just enough to tease you.

And you can’t help it.

Your eyes flick down. Your fingers itch.

So you say it. “I think we should check your thighs.”

He blinks. “My thighs?”

Your tone stays neutral, professional. “There’s a bit of imbalance happening. Front vs. back. Could be affecting tension overall.”

Which is technically true. But also completely unnecessary.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Very,” you say, already shifting to the front. “Just a quick check.”

Your hands trail up from just above the knee, slowly tracing the thick line of his quad. The skin is warm beneath your hands. Firm. Responsive. You apply light pressure and feel the way the muscle twitches under your palm.

“Sensitive?” you ask, tone light.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts, his thigh twitching under your touch.

You glance up.

He’s looking at you now.

Not smirking. Not playful. Just watching. Carefully. Like he’s trying to figure out how far you’re going to go.

You press a little higher. Your hand slides just under the hem of his shorts, still appropriate and still in bounds, but just close enough to the edge of something more. Something dangerous.

“Here?” you ask, feigning focus.

His breath hitches, so quietly you almost miss it.

“No,” he says, voice tight.

But his eyes don’t leave you.

He watches you silently and intently. His jaw tightens.

You keep your eyes on your work.

“Feel that?” you ask, pressing higher. “Tension right here.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“No,” you murmur, fingers pressing deeper, thumb brushing dangerously close to where the fabric of his shorts barely covers him. “I’m sure of it.”

His breath catches.

You don’t look up.

Because if you do, he’ll see it, the flush in your cheeks, the bite of your lip, the fact that you’re absolutely dripping under your trousers and playing it off as professional concern.

You shift again, and your knuckles brush his cock through his shorts, just once, just enough to register the shape of him. The size.

You freeze.

So does he.

Then, his head drops, slow, onto your shoulder. One soft exhale against your neck.

The moment is hot and human and entirely unprofessional. For one second, he’s not the composed athlete or the dominant boyfriend you’ve love so heartedly. He’s just a man overwhelmed. Breathing heavy into your skin, letting the weight of your teasing settle into his spine.

It’s almost sweet.

Which is exactly why you ruin it.

“We should stay professional,” you whisper, voice teasingly soft, head tilted slightly toward his.

His head lifts slowly.

The look he gives you could level a city.

But you’re already pulling back, rising from the stool, with a satisfied little smile. “You’re good for training.”

His thigh is still tense beneath him. His cock, you’re sure, even more so.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just watches you walk away. Hips swaying so you know his eyes burn into you.

And in your chest, in your pulse, in the throb between your legs, you know it for certain, you’ve just made your opening move.

In the cafeteria, you choose your seat carefully. Right across from him. Enough space to look casual. Close enough to lock him in.

Kylian doesn’t look up when you sit. Doesn’t shift. Just keeps eating. Calm and cool, focused on his food like he didn’t just spend fifteen minutes under your hands in the treatment room, breathing heavy against your neck.

You rest your arms on the table, fold your hands, and watch him.

You’re not subtle.

And he doesn’t pretend not to notice.

His eyes flick up once. Linger. Then drop back to his plate. He spoons in a bite of rice, jaw tight, forearms flexing as he chews.

The table around you is full, staff, players, conversation buzzing in the background. Modric talking to Rudiger about tactics. Someone on the far end is laughing. No one’s watching you. No one even thinks to.

But he knows.

You know.

And that’s all that matters.

You reach for the fruit on your plate, a perfectly ripe peach, soft and blushing, and take your time cutting it. Slow. Methodical. You pierce a piece with your fork, lift it to your lips, and bite.

The juice runs down your thumb.

You keep your eyes on him the entire time.

He looks up just in time to see your tongue dart out, licking the sticky trail slowly, deliberately. You don’t smile. You don’t break eye contact. You just tilt your head, chew, and hum softly at the taste.

“So sweet,” you murmur. Just loud enough for him.

His grip tightens around his fork. His eyes narrow, not much, but enough. Like he’s starting to calculate the price you’re going to pay for this.

You send him a text under the table.

You: Thinking about my mouth again?

You watch his phone vibrate beside his plate.

He doesn’t open it. Doesn’t look at you.

But the corner of his mouth twitches. Just enough to thrill you.

You reach for another bite, dragging your fork slowly through the fruit. “You’ve been quiet today,” you say, voice light, knowing.

Kylian lifts his gaze, slow and deliberate. “Not much to say.”

You pretend to consider that. Then your foot slides forward under the table, brushing against his shin, lingering just enough to be noticed.

“I’ve been thinking about tonight.”

He stares at you.

“You’re going to fuck me hard,” you say, calm as anything. “You won’t last five minutes before you have me on my back.”

He doesn’t react.

But his phone buzzes again, and this time he reaches for it.

Kylian: Keep talking like that. See what happens.

You bite your lip, pleased. Thrumming.

You: You’re going to lose your mind tonight. Just saying.

No reply. Just that unreadable look. And the tension in his jaw that tells you everything you need to know.

He’s already half there. Already picturing it.

You eat another bite, smug now.

Everything is going exactly to plan.

You’re practically humming.

The sun is warm on your face as you walk down the back corridor, your work bag slung over one shoulder, cheeks flushed, a stupid little smile tugging at your lips. Everything today went perfectly.

Every glance. Every word. Every tiny, deliberate brush of your hand against his skin.

He didn’t push back.

Didn’t say stop. Didn’t even try to resist.

He just watched you with that locked jaw and dark gaze, took every hit like a challenge, like he was already mentally flipping you onto your stomach the moment he got you alone.

That’s how you know you’ve won.

He’s going to break tonight and now you’re reaping the reward.

You’re already imagining how it’ll go.

He’ll open the door, already hard, white tee and grey joggers. He won’t even say hello. He’ll push you against the nearest surface, the wall, the counter, maybe even the floor, and slide into you like he’s starved for it. No pretense. No warm up. Just pure need.

You’ll be on your back in seconds.

You bite your lip.

God, you can’t wait.

And after? Maybe you’ll eat. That Lebanese place you both like. Maybe he’ll order shawarma and fries and you’ll curl up on his sofa in nothing but his shirt, legs over his lap while he feeds you between lazy kisses.

You’ll probably fall asleep on him too.

That’s the best part. The quiet afterward.

You’re still replaying lunch in your head, the peach, the text, the way his knuckles whitened around his fork, when his voice catches you off guard.

“Hey.”

You turn and he’s there, striding down the hallway, still in his training gear. Curls damp. Hoodie slung loose around his frame. His eyes sweep over you, slow and shameless.

You slow your step. Tilt your head. “Couldn’t wait, huh?”

He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t smirk. Just looks at you… and it’s there. In his face. The quiet intensity. The want he hasn’t touched yet.

Your pulse spikes.

You step closer, low and conspiratorial. “You’ve been patient.”

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes dipping to your mouth. “I know how to wait.”

“Not for long.”

He says nothing.

But then he leans in just slightly, lowering his voice like a promise. “Wear the red lace tonight. The one with the straps.”

Your lips part, slightly. A beat of surprise. Not because of what he says, but because it confirms everything you’ve been building toward.

So you smile. Beaming now. Bold.

“Thought you didn’t care what underwear I wear”

“I care about everything when it comes to you.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The red lace. The one with the straps.

You stand there in the golden light of the hallway, stunned for half a second, hand curling loosely around the strap of your bag.

Then your smile widens. Ridiculous now.

Because the night is going to be perfect.

You’re going to tease him a little more. Maybe straddle him right after he eats. Maybe suck him off first, slow and sloppy. Maybe he’ll moan your name into the mattress and leave bruises on your hips.

You already know how this ends.

You text him on the way out, fingers tapping fast.

You: Don’t make me wait. I’ll be dripping the moment I walk in.

No reply. You don’t need one. Because tonight, everything is yours.

The elevator hums softly as it climbs, familiar in its quiet rhythm. You shift your weight from foot to foot, staring at your reflection in the brushed metal walls. Kylian’s T-shirt hangs loose on your body, skimming the tops of your thighs. Beneath it, the straps of your lingerie press delicately against your hips, a private secret under all that softness.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open into the familiar quiet of his hallway.

You step out, heart beating a little faster now. Not nerves, just heat. Anticipation. The kind that lives in your thighs and flushes your chest, the kind that builds after a day like today, after every long look and silent reaction you teased out of him like pulling thread from a seam.

His door is already cracked open.

You smile.

Of course it is.

The apartment smells like him before you’ve even stepped inside. That warm, clean, masculine scent , cedar, spice, and the slightest hint of something citrusy from his shampoo. It clings to the air, to the cushions, to your memory.

The lights are low, golden. His shoes are by the door. Your hoodie tossed over the back of the kitchen chair. The kitchen counter is spotless except for two glasses of water and a folded takeout menu.

Comfort curls around your ribs.

This space, his space, doesn’t feel new anymore. It feels shared. It feels like evenings spent laughing with your legs over his lap, eating fries from the same container. Like lazy Sunday mornings tangled in sheets, brushing your teeth at the same sink. Like sex and routine and quiet familiarity.

But something’s off.

Kylian doesn’t get up when he sees you.

He doesn’t say anything, either.

Just sits there, legs wide, one arm stretched across the back of the sofa, eyes flicking briefly toward you before shifting back to the television. A match is playing. Premier League. The volume low, just audible enough to fill the silence between you.

You blink.

He barely reacted. No smile. No heat. No hands on you, pinning you to the door like you imagined. You’re not pinned to anything. You’re just… standing.

You hesitate near the edge of the rug, your T-shirt shifting over bare thighs. His eyes drag over your body again, slow, unreadable, but he still doesn’t move.

You clear your throat.

“Should I take off my heels?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods, still watching the screen.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know where to put them.”

His voice is flat. Calm. Like he’s commenting on the weather.

You blink again, caught off guard.

Something in your chest stutters, not fear, not disappointment, just… confusion. This isn’t what you pictured. You imagined intensity, grabbing, heated kisses against the wall. His fingers digging into your thighs the second the door shut. You wore what he asked. You followed every step.

So why does it feel like he’s playing a different game?

You slip out of your heels slowly, placing them near his. The hardwood floor cool under your bare feet. But the rest of you burns with confusion, with anticipation, with something thick and taut you can’t quite name yet.

His shirt clings to the top of your thighs, soft cotton, oversized, hiding the lace beneath. You know what he asked for. You wore it underneath without question.

The red set.

The one with the straps.

You’re already aching, ready to be pinned against the nearest surface, ready to feel the sharp bite of those straps under his grip.

But still…

Nothing.

Your fingers curl into the hem of your shirt.

You’re about to ask what’s wrong, when he finally speaks again.

“Come here.”

Two words.

Low and Firm.

Relief flutters in your chest. Okay. So it’s just a slow start. Maybe he’s being coy. Maybe he wants to build it up. You take a step forward. Then another.

He pats his thigh once.

Your breath stumbles.

You blink.

You pause in front of him, searching his face, but he doesn’t look at you. He’s still half focused on the TV, a slow replay cutting across the screen, but his body is entirely still. Waiting.

You hesitate, your voice uncertain. “Do you want me to sit on you?”

His jaw flexes, and he finally glances at you.

“I said come here.”

Your knees brush his, then settle to either side of his thigh as you straddle it gently. You lower yourself down with care, still confused but hopeful. Your hands press to his shoulders instinctively, waiting for his mouth to find yours. Waiting for his hands on your hips.

He still hasn’t touched you. Not a single hand. Not a single word.

And then you realise he’s wearing shorts. Not sweats. Not joggers. Just skin. Bare thigh.

Your lace panties drag across the warmth of him as you settle into place, and the pressure is instant. Thick muscle, flexed just slightly. Enough to feel. Enough to send a jolt right through your spine.

Your hips twitch. You gasp. And still, he doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t even look at you.

Just watches the screen, adjusting the volume a notch higher.

“You’ve been dripping for me all day,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Let’s see what you do with it.”

You wait.

For his hands. His mouth. Something. But there’s nothing.

And you suddenly realise, this isn’t the night you planned for. This is his game now.

The heat of him spreads fast.

And you’re suddenly aware, painfully aware, of how wet you are.

The lace between your legs is already soaked, the straps pulling tight against your hips as you shift again without meaning to. The friction sparks instantly. It’s not much. Just pressure. Skin to skin. But it’s real.

Your hips twitch.

You freeze.

His eyes are still on the television.

One of the players makes a bad pass. He scoffs, barely audible.

“You did this,” he says, not even looking at you. “All day. Touching. Staring. Texting me in front of other people like a little brat.”

You swallow.

“Kylian-”

He finally looks at you.

Just once.

“Ride it.”

Your lips part.

“What?”

He turns back to the screen.

“You want my cock?” he asks casually, like he’s asking if you want a glass of water. “Earn it.”

Your body goes still.

You wait. For his hands. For his mouth. For him to take you the way he always does, rough, unrelenting, messy.

But he doesn’t move.

He just leans back a little further into the couch, spreads his legs slightly wider, and adjusts the volume like you’re not sitting on his bare thigh, dripping for him.

You blink.

You’re not sure what’s happening.

Is this a test?

Is he teasing?

You shift again, the lace dragging over his skin, slick, hot and way too much. You bite your lip to keep from moaning.

Still, he doesn’t react.

You move again, and the friction is sharp, this time a moan escapes you.

He looks at you and then, his fingers move.

Finally.

They slip beneath the hem of the T-shirt you’re wearing - his shirt - and begin to lift. Slow. Measured. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grab. Just peels the fabric up inch by inch, until your stomach’s bare, then your ribs, your chest, your shoulders.

He pulls it over your head and lets it fall to the floor.

He looks. Really looks.

His eyes drag from your face, flushed, wide eyed, down the column of your throat, over the swell of your breasts caged in red lace, across your stomach, your hips, to the place where your thighs are spread wide across his leg.

You’re barely breathing.

The room is dead silent.

He stares like he’s drinking you in. Like you’re art. Like you’re his.

For a second, you think he’s going to touch you. That he’s finally going to grab your waist and pull you into him, kiss you like you’ve earned it, fuck you like he’s been waiting all day.

But instead, he blinks once, slow.

And says,

“Go on.”

A beat.

“Show me how bad you want it.”

You start to move because you don’t know what else to do.

At first, it’s small.

Just the subtlest shift of your hip, a slow, cautious drag of your soaked lace over the hard, warm muscle beneath you. Your body jolts at the contact. The friction is too good. Too sharp. Your breath stutters.

But he doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t even flinch.

You swallow hard and move again, a little deeper this time, rolling your hips more deliberately. The lace pulls tighter around your core with every grind. You feel slick building, sticky and hot between your thighs, clinging to his skin like a confession.

You glance up at him, hoping he’ll finally look back. That maybe, just maybe, he’ll grab your waist. Say something. Give you that little thread of control back.

Instead, he adjusts his arm against the back of the couch and changes the channel to another game.

You blink, confused.

Your hands come up, almost without thinking, fingers brushing the front of his hoodie, gripping lightly at the fabric.

“Kylian…”

He doesn’t answer.

So you try again. Try to coax him with touch.

Your hands slide up to his jaw, brushing over the rough edge of stubble. You tilt your face toward his, your lips just a breath away.

But his head turns, not toward you. Away.

Back to the screen.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

He’s not ignoring you.

He’s choosing to.

You falter, your hips slowing instinctively as your hands slide uselessly back down to his chest. Your face presses against his collarbone, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels intimate.

You try to say something, anything.

But then his phone buzzes.

And he answers it.

“Wesh.”

Your body goes still.

You lift your head, blinking, stunned.

He’s on the phone.

While you’re straddling him. Grinding. Dripping.

You stop moving.

Completely.

Your legs are trembling, your thighs shaking, your pulse fluttering like you’ve just been slapped.

He doesn’t react to your stillness. Just shifts slightly under you, adjusting the way his thigh presses up into your heat, and hums casually into the phone.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just watching the game.”

You stare at him.

He looks back at you.

And for a split second, you think he’s going to hang up. Say something. Pull you in. Give you something.

But all he says is “Go on.”

Two words. Soft. Even. Brutal.

He turns back to the game.

You feel it down your spine, the weight of the moment. The humiliation. The understanding that this, this, is all you’re getting.

He’s not going to meet you halfway.

He’s not going to pull you in.

You have to give yourself away.

Piece by piece. Grind by grind.

You close your eyes.

Exhale slow.

Then move again.

Your hips roll forward, slower this time, deeper, dragging your soaked lace along the curve of his thigh until the pressure makes your thighs tremble. You circle once, twice, your breath catching every time you pass over that spot that sends sparks straight up your spine.

It hurts now, how badly you want it. How much it aches to not be touched. Praised. Held.

You’re doing it all for yourself. Because he told you to.

Because you asked for it.

And he’s still on the phone.

You move again, slow and cautious, lace dragging slick across the curve of his thigh.

Your body jolts at the contact. But this time, you don’t shy from it.

You chase it.

Your hips roll again. Then again. A little deeper each time. The rhythm builds, pressure mounting with every stroke of wet lace against his bare skin. It’s not perfect, you stutter, your breath catches, but it’s real.

The shame is still there.

But it’s shifting.

Beneath the embarrassment, beneath the ache of not being touched, is something worse, or maybe better. A steady, rising throb that has nothing to do with proving anything.

You like how it feels.

The warmth of him. The firm press of muscle. The raw friction of it.

You’ve been staring at his thighs all day. Fantasising about this. Wanting this.

And now it’s happening.

And he’s letting it.

That’s the real torture. The way he lets you do this. Like he’s indulging you. Like he knew this would happen from the moment you walked into the treatment room and offered to take over.

He knew exactly what you’d need.

What you’d end up doing.

And now that you’re here - soaked, panting, grinding on him - he barely reacts.

He ends the call with a low hum, tosses his phone onto the couch beside him.

You slow down, breath hitching, waiting for something.

For him to pull you in.

Tell you you’ve earned it.

Touch you.

But instead, he picks up his phone again.

Unlocks it.

And starts to scroll.

No smirk. No performance.

Just scrolling. One thumb, slow and relaxed, flicking over the screen.

Like you’re not even there.

You grind harder.

Not to get his attention, but because now you can’t stop.

Your hips start to rock in a steady rhythm now, dragging your soaked panties against his skin with wet, obscene friction. You press harder, circle deeper, chasing the way your clit pulses when you move just right.

You watch his throat bob with a swallow.

But still, his eyes don’t leave the screen.

Your moans are soft, shaky, slipping between your lips without permission. You brace your hands on his chest, trying to ground yourself as your legs start to tremble.

He hums. Smirks at something on his feed. Scrolls again.

You lose track of everything.

The room. The silence. The fact that he hasn’t looked at you in minutes.

None of it matters now.

Your body moves on instinct, hips grinding in tight, needy circles, dragging soaked lace over his thigh, your wetness smeared warm and sticky across his skin. Your breath is shallow, your chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

He’s still scrolling.

His phone sits loosely in one hand, thumb drifting up the screen at a slow, steady pace, eyes locked somewhere far from you.

But you don’t care.

Not anymore.

Because this- this is yours now.

The tension in your core tightens, sharp and immediate, and you let your head fall back, lips parting on a gasp as your thighs squeeze around his leg. Every pass over that perfect spot sends heat lancing up your spine.

You’re soaked.

You’re shaking.

You can’t stop.

Your hands slip up to your chest, fingertips brushing over the straps he asked you to wear, the ones cutting into your skin, framing your body like an offering. You palm your breasts through the lace, thumb brushing over one nipple, and moan.

It’s soft. High. And so so desperate.

But he doesn’t even blink.

And you don’t care.

You roll your hips harder, chasing it. Letting your other hand slip down to your thigh, grabbing for purchase as your body rocks with the rhythm of your own pleasure. There’s nothing delicate in it anymore. No more pretending.

You’re not seducing him.

You’re using him.

And it feels so fucking good.

Your eyes flutter shut. You press your chest into his, dragging your lips over the side of his neck without even meaning to. You can feel your slickness on his skin, hot, wet and everywhere.

“Kylian-” you gasp, not to get his attention, but because it’s all you can say. All you have left.

The heat coils tight in your belly. Your moans turn breathless, broken, each one closer than the last.

And still, he scrolls.

Still doesn’t touch you.

And yet still, you come.

It hits like a shiver, a full body, soul wringing climax that rips through you with a moan caught in your throat, your body pulsing hard and fast against him. You collapse into him, hips still twitching, your thighs soaked and trembling.

For a second, the world is silent.

And then you hear his voice.

Low. Calm. “Is that all you’ve got?”

You’re still breathing hard.

Slumped over his chest, thighs twitching around his leg, your whole body buzzing with the kind of release that feels earned. Stolen, even.

You don’t expect softness from him now.

But you don’t expect this, either.

He shifts beneath you, adjusting the way he’s sitting, relaxing back into the couch like nothing just happened. You half expect him to say something, to drag you closer by the hips, maybe even kiss you like a reward.

Instead, he picks up his phone again. Not like he’s checking on you. Like he’s got something important to show you.

For a second, he doesn’t move.

And then he exhales, calm and deep, like he’s just taken a sip of water.

“Finally,” he mutters. “You stopped whining.”

You barely manage a glare.

But then he does the unthinkable.

He turns his phone toward you.

You blink, still catching your breath, when he suddenly angles the screen toward you.

“Look.”

It takes you a second to focus. Your vision’s still fuzzy, your body still high.

“I was gonna show you this earlier,” he says, completely deadpan.

You blink.

It’s a reel.

A fucking highlight reel.

You blink again, incredulous. It’s a slow motion clip of him scoring in a past Champions League match, cutting through defenders, burying it in the top corner, sliding to the crowd.

He’s showing you himself.

You look up at him stunned, exasperated, still panting.

“Are you serious?” you breathe.

He smirks, completely unbothered. “Clean footwork.”

Your jaw drops. “I just came on your thigh.”

He shrugs. “You looked good doing it.”

You stare at him.

Then roll your eyes.

“You know what? Clearly, I don’t even need your dick.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “That so?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Shame,” he says, locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch. “Because you were about to get it.”

Your stomach flips.

He finally looks at you, and this time, there’s nothing distant in it. Just intention. Heat. The kind of promise that makes your thighs ache all over again.

“You sure you don’t want it?” he asks, voice low and unreadable.

You hold his gaze for a second longer.

Then shake your head once, breathless and defiant.

“No.”

His smile is slow. Dangerous.

“Okay.”

He sets his phone down.

Then, still sitting back, he lifts his hips slightly and pushes his shorts down, slow and almost casual. You catch a glimpse of him, hard and heavy, already slick at the tip. He doesn’t rush. Just slides them off enough to free himself, letting them rest low on his thighs.

Slowly, he grabs you.

One hand wraps around your wrist. The other slides to your hip.

You let out a breathless gasp as he pulls you to your knees on the couch, turning your body with practiced ease. Before you can catch your balance, he guides you forward, bending you over the backrest, your chest pressed to the top cushions, your knees sinking into the seat.

You’re fully exposed now.

Your ass arched, your back curved, your cheek resting against the fabric.

The straps hug your body, twisted slightly from how quickly he turned you, and your panties, soaked and clinging, are stretched tight over your core.

He stands behind you.

“Just like that,” he mutters, rough and quiet.

You feel the weight of his gaze, the pause, the drag of his eyes down your back, over the curve of your ass.

Then the warmth of his hand, flat against your skin, smoothing over one cheek before spreading you open.

You gasp.

And then his cock is there, heavy and hot, dragging through your slick with slow, lazy precision like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You really sat here,” he murmurs, dragging a thumb through the wetness, “and told me you didn’t need my dick?”

You whimper, hips jerking, but he doesn’t push in. Not yet.

He just slides the tip against your entrance. Over and over. Slow. Teasing.

“You’ve gotten spoilt,” he says, almost conversationally. “You always do this. You think you can mouth off in the locker room, send pictures to my phone, tease me in front of the others… and I’ll still fuck you when you show up looking pretty.”

His hips roll forward just a little.

Just enough to almost breach you.

You whine, trying to push down, to take more, but his hands lock your hips in place.

“You used to earn it,” he murmurs. “Now you think you can demand it.”

Your breath catches.

“And the worst part?” he leans in, voice dropping to your ear, “I still gave it to you. Every time. Because I knew what you wanted before you even said it.”

He sinks in.

Deep.

All at once.

You cry out, body arching, arms reaching behind for him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t give you rhythm. Just stays there, thick and full and stretching you open, holding you in place like you’re something soft he’s deciding what to do with.

“This what you wanted?” he whispers. “This what all that teasing was for?”

You nod. Frantic. Whimpering now.

He pulls out, slow, then pushes back in just as deep.

“You’re spoilt,” he says again. “And I let it happen.”

You moan.

“But not tonight.”

His hips start to move.

Not rough. Not fast. Just controlled. Decided. Every thrust deliberate, steady, maddening, dragging the sound from your throat with every inch.

You reach for him again.

And he lets you.

Just barely.

Because he’s still going to fuck you like you don’t get to ask for anything.

Because you don’t.

Not until he says so.

He thrusts again, slow, steady, every inch dragging, like he wants you to feel him learn your body all over again.

You gasp, trying to push up on your elbows, to look at him, but the moment you shift, he grabs the thick strap wrapped around your waist and yanks you back down.

You cry out.

The sound leaves you before you can stop it.

“Stay where I put you,” he demands, not even winded. “You’re not in charge right now.”

His hand doesn’t leave the strap. He uses it like a handle, controlling your position, your movement, how deep you take him. And it’s not just physical. It’s deliberate. A reminder.

This body? This lingerie? This control?

All his.

He leans forward, just a little, eyes dropping to where the red fabric wraps around your chest, just above the swell of your breasts.

One strap sits tight across your sternum, just enough to pull at the shape of you.

He slides two fingers beneath it.

Pulls.

“You wore this so I’d look,” he says softly. “So I’d grab you. Use you. Drag you back where you belong.”

His hips snap forward, still not fast, but harder. Enough to make your hands cling to the sofa for balance. You’re too sensitive. Too stretched. And he’s not slowing down.

“You act like I’m the one that can’t behave,” he murmurs. “But you’ve been eye fucking me all day.”

You moan, breath catching.

“And I let you.”

He thrusts again, deep and devastating.

You try to respond, try to say his name, but your voice breaks on the inhale.

“You think I don’t notice the way you act?” he whispers. “The way you touch me when no one’s looking? Smile like you’re innocent when you know exactly what you’re doing?”

He grabs the strap on your waist now. Pulls.

Your hips lift automatically, body following his grip like you’re wired into him.

“You don’t ask anymore,” he breathes. “You just take. You use me.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “I- I know-”

“And I let you.”

He leans in, forehead pressed to your spine, breath ragged.

“Because I love it.”

That’s what breaks you.

Not the strap. Not the cock. Not the words.

But the softness underneath it all. The way he says it like a confession, like a truth that’s always been there, sitting under the dominance like an open hand.

His thrusts don’t falter.

But now he’s looking at you.

Seeing you.

“You get everything you want,” he whispers. “Because I belong to you.”

You barely manage a nod. Your mouth is parted, panting, eyes glassy, hands fisting a cushion somewhere around you. You can’t see him,not fully, but you feel his presence everywhere. Inside you. Over you. Around you.

And he’s not even close to done. He reaches forward to take you further.

His fingers slide up the side of your face, across your jaw, until they’re hooking under your chin. He pulls gently, guiding your head up and back toward him.

“Open your mouth.”

You blink, breath caught.

He tightens his grip on the strap digging across your ribs.

“Now.”

You do.

Tongue out. Neck arched.

And you feel him lean in, his body still moving behind you, slow, deep thrusts that keep you wide and shaking ,as his breath brushes over your lips.

Then, he spits.

Slow. Controlled.

It lands heavy on your tongue, and you whimper, body shivering from the heat of it, from the act itself, from the fact that he’s fucking you and feeding you at the same time like it’s all part of the same ownership.

“Swallow it,” he says.

You do.

And he smiles, low and satisfied, like you’ve just proven something.

“Good girl.”

He grabs you by the hips and flips you again, this time onto your back, the straps twisting tight across your stomach, your chest, your thighs. You’re spread and exposed, skin flushed, cunt soaked, body molded to fit him.

Your breasts are still caged.

He reaches up, pinches the thin strap holding them in, and pulls.

You gasp as your breasts spill free - soft, heavy, flushed.

He doesn’t even hesitate. His hands are on you immediately, thumbs brushing your nipples, rolling them until you’re arching into his palms, moaning, shaking again.

He leans over your chest, dragging his mouth over one nipple, then the other, tongue slow and wet.

“You get this cock whenever you want,” he mutters, mouth still full of you. “Don’t even have to ask anymore.”

You’re squirming under him, thighs twitching.

He grinds into you deeper, cock still buried, still pulsing, still holding back.

“You don’t beg.”

He thrusts once, hard.

“You don’t plead.”

Another thrust, deep and smooth.

“You just show up,” he growls. “Wear something slutty. Say something bratty. And I give it to you.”

You’re moaning now, louder, helpless and wrecked.

“And the worst part?” He leans down, lips brushing your jaw. “You use me like I’m the toy.”

You try to deny it.

You can’t.

Because he’s right.

You fuck him when you want. Tease him. Flash a little skin, and he breaks. Every single time.

“You walk around like you’re in charge,” he breathes, grinding deeper, “and you know what? You are.”

His mouth brushes yours. “Until you’re like this.”

One more thrust, slow and devastating.

“On your back. Soaked. Fucked out.”

His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it just enough to make your legs kick, your breath stutter, your pussy squeezing tight around him.

“Because I always make sure you come before I do.”

His cock twitches inside you, thick and deep, and for a moment, you think he’s close.

You feel his breath hitch.

His hips stutter.

You arch into him, moaning against his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re pulling him into the finish.

He pulls out. All the way.

You cry out, a frustrated, choked little sound that echoes between you.

“Kylian-!”

He hushes you with a hand at your throat, holding you still. Holding you his.

“You don’t get to come easy tonight,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “Not after the way you acted.”

He slides the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it slow through the slick mess between your legs, not pushing back in. Just stroking. Teasing.

You gasp. Squirm. Your thighs tremble.

Your hips rise instinctively, trying to catch him, trying to do anything. You’re soaked. Open. Wrecked.

And he’s still denying you.

“You think I’m just here for you to fuck when you’re bored,” he says. “You get wet, you put on a show, and I roll over like it’s mine to give.”

He taps your clit with the head of his cock.

You jolt.

“But it’s not yours.”

You try to speak. Try to argue. But nothing comes out.

He leans closer. Breath hot. Thumb brushing your lip.

“Say it.”

You blink up at him, wrecked. “Say what?”

“Say you’re spoiled.”

You whimper.

“Say you use me.”

Your breath catches.

“Say I make you come whenever I want. However I want.”

You nod. Frantic. “I do- I’m spoiled- I use you- please, Kylian, please- ”

He grabs your hips hard.

And finally, he thrusts back in.

All at once.

You scream.

His cock slams deep, wet and thick and perfect. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hold back. Just drives into you, all of him, every inch hitting the deepest part of you, fucking you like he owns you. Because he does.

“You like being used, don’t you?”

“Yes-!”

“You want to be filled?”

“Yes, yes-”

“Good.”

His grip tightens.

“Because you’re mine.”

He fucks you deep. Hard.

There’s no rhythm anymore, just want.

His hips snap forward, dragging his cock along every soaked, overstimulated part of you, and your body reacts like it’s craving it. Your legs shake. Your back arches. Your fingers claw at his arms like you can’t get him deep enough.

“Kylian-”

Your voice breaks.

Because he’s relentless.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whimper. “I’m- fuck- I’m yours- ”

His grip tightens on your hips, forcing you open as he thrusts deeper, grinding into your body like he’s trying to bury himself inside you permanently.

“You think I don’t see it?” he pants. “The way you look at me?”

You’re gasping now, barely hanging on.

“You want this cock whenever you want it.”

Thrust.

“You don’t even ask.”

Thrust.

“You just take it.”

Thrust.

“And I let you.”

He moans, deep and low, the sound guttural and raw, like it’s being ripped out of him.

“But tonight-” he growls, “it’s my turn.”

And then he breaks.

He buries himself inside you, so deep it knocks the air out of your lungs, and his body locks, every muscle pulled tight as he groans your name and spills into you. Hot. Heavy. Endless. You feel it flood you, pulse after pulse, warmth spreading deep where no one else has ever touched.

He holds you there.

Still. Full. His.

And you come again.

Not from his fingers.

Not from friction.

But from the way his cock pulses deep inside you, hot, thick, spilling into you as his hips twitch and his grip tightens like he’s scared to let you go. That moment, that sensation, is what tips you over.

The heat. The stretch. The claim.

Your walls clamp around him, body locking, vision blurring as your orgasm rips through you like it’s been waiting for this exact second to break. You sob into his shoulder, shaking, wrecked, absolutely owned.

He breathes your name. Moans it. Quiet and ruined.

And then you hear him whisper, almost reverent-

“Mine.”

Neither of you moves for a long time.

Your legs are still shaking. Your skin’s flushed. You can feel his cum spilling slowly between your thighs, thick and warm, but you’re too soft to care. Too held.

Kylian’s still inside you, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. His breath is low against your shoulder, chest pressed to each other. And for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your heart.

Then slowly, he moves.

Pulls out with care, cupping between your thighs to catch the mess. You whimper at the loss, and he murmurs something quiet against your neck. A kiss. A shhh. His version of I’ve got you.

You feel his hand slide along your thigh, across your stomach, undoing each strap with a kind of reverence that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t tug. He peels you out of the lingerie like he’s unwrapping something precious.

Like he’s grateful you gave it to him.

Once the last piece is off, he slips his hoodie over your head and helps you into it, pulls the sleeves down over your wrists, zips it halfway. You breathe in the scent of him and sink deeper into the fabric.

You don’t even realise you’re dozing until he nudges your jaw with a kiss.

“Hey.”

Your eyes flutter open.

He moves so his arms are sliding under you.

“C’mere.”

His voice is rough, low, the kind of voice that still hums with aftershock, but softened now, full of care.

You let him lift you easily, your body pliant, your skin flushed. He settles onto the couch with you in his lap, your legs straddling his hips, your chest pressed to his. His hoodie is loose around your shoulders, oversized and warm and completely his.

He tucks your hair behind your ear, lets his hand drift along your back, slow and grounding.

Then he asks, “Was I too rough?”

You blink, caught off guard by how soft he sounds.

Your breath stutters, and you press your forehead to his. “No. Kylian, no. It was perfect.”

He searches your eyes, just for a second. Just to make sure.

And you mean it. Every word. You feel it in your bones. The ache in your thighs. The mess between your legs. The warmth in your chest.

“It’s what I wanted all day,” you whisper.

His exhale is almost a laugh, relieved and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “But I like hearing you say it.”

You smile against his lips.

Then he shifts slightly beneath you, reaching for his phone where it had fallen beside the cushions.

“Alright, spoiled,” he murmurs, thumb swiping the screen, “what are we eating?”

You blink down at him, dizzy in love. “Are you seriously on Uber Eats right now?”

He smirks. “You wanted Lebanese.”

“You knew?”

“You think I forgot about the potatoes?”

You giggle, tired and light and soft all over, and curl closer as he taps through the order. One hand scrolling, the other resting on your thigh, tracing lazy circles into your skin.

You’re still warm. Still full. Still his.

And when he hits ‘place order’ and puts the phone aside, he pulls you in again, chest to chest, your bodies completely tangled, and whispers into your hair,

“Next time… it’s your turn.”

You smile against his neck.

“Promise.”

Masterlist

[probablyasocialecologist]

A German court handed Elon Musk’s X a legal defeat, ruling that the platform must immediately provide researchers with access to data on politically related content ahead of the country’s Feb. 23 election. The court decision, seen by POLITICO, was issued Thursday and marks one of the first major judicial tests of the European Union’s Digital Services Act (DSA), raising fresh questions about X’s compliance with European regulations ahead of Germany’s federal election. The lawsuit, brought earlier this week by Democracy Reporting International (DRI) and the Society for Civil Rights (GFF), accused X of blocking efforts to track potential election interference by not granting them access to key engagement data — including likes, shares and visibility metrics — that other platforms made available to researchers.

7 February 2025

[buckets-and-trees]

I love that Steve and her mom got to connect and build a better understanding. And loving the development of the marriage. ❤️🤍💙

I'm so glad you enjoyed that! It was a chapter that was a uniquely fun part of the story for me to explore with them - as much about our reader as it was about Steve and her mom.

This chapter has many more married moments...

Red, White & True: Pittsburgh & Harrisburg [13/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 9.1k Summary: With only two weeks until Election Day, the truth behind photo-gate finally breaks on national news, potentially changing the game for all the campaigns. Steve changes the energy for his own campaign when he addresses his largest crowd yet, and afterwards, the two of you get to spend a few quiet moments together before hitting the next campaign stop.

Content/Warnings: political policy discussion, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Author Notes: It's been a long time since the last update, and that's what I'm blaming on delivering such a long chapter with the muse! I really almost split this one in half, and I did cut a couple of scenes (that I hope to include later), but I had to keep the rest here as it is.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[OCTOBER 20 - LATE MORNING - PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA]

“Don’t look at me like that,” Steve said. 

“Like what?” you countered.

He turned his head squarely to look at you, arching an eyebrow. “I can feel the disapproval in your gaze.”

“I’m not…” you huff, “I’m not disapproving, I’m just not convinced you’re getting enough sleep at all.”

Outside, the autumn landscape blazes in a riot of crimson and gold, the trees lining the highway creating a fiery corridor that seems to mirror the intensity of the campaign trail. You've been on the road for what feels like an eternity, crisscrossing the country in a blur of rallies, town halls, and fundraisers.

Steve looks down at the speech notes spread across the small tray table over his lap, the papers covered in handwritten revisions and highlighted passages. The light of the late morning highlights the fatigue etched into his features - subtle shadows beneath his eyes, the slight droop of his shoulders, the way he keeps blinking a little too deliberately as if fighting to keep his eyes open. 

"I'll sleep after the election," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that half-smile that usually makes your heart flutter. Today, it only deepens your concern. 

Across the aisle, Bucky scoffs silently, his metal arm whirring as he flips through a stack of polling data. The sound is barely audible, but the judgmental raise of his eyebrows speaks volumes. You catch his eye and share a moment of mutual exasperation. 

"Election Day is still two weeks away," you remind Steve, your voice gentle but firm. 

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up in endearing tufts. "I'm fine. The serum—" 

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," you interrupt, narrowing your eyes. "Super soldier or not, you're still human." 

Bucky snorts, not bothering to hide his amusement this time. "She's got you there, pal." 

Steve shoots him a betrayed look. "Whose side are you on?" 

"The side that doesn't want to see you faceplant in the middle of your speech at the rally this afternoon," Bucky retorts, setting down his tablet. 

Steve scrubs a hand over his beard. "I just need to finish these revisions. This speech is crucial – Pennsylvania could make or break us." 

You reach across the table, gently taking the pen from his fingers. "And that's exactly why you need to rest. You can't win Pennsylvania if you're running on fumes." 

His shoulders slump slightly, a rare moment of vulnerability that makes your chest ache. "I can't afford to waste time sleeping when there's so much at stake." 

"It's not wasting time," you say softly. "It's making sure you're at your best." 

"Fine. I'll rest," he concedes, though his eyes drift back to the speech notes in front of him. 

“This is why you have an impeccable speech writing team,” you remind him, gently tugging the notes from his hands, which he allows, though with a deep frown. 

Bucky stands, you hand the notes to him, and he heads to the back of the bus where said speech writes are clumped together. 

As Bucky disappears, Steve's eyes follow him briefly before returning to you. The campaign bus sways gently as it rounds a curve, sending a shaft of sunlight through the window. It catches in Steve's hair, turning the blond strands to burnished gold, and for a moment, he looks almost like the propaganda posters from the 1940s—Captain America, illuminated and larger than life.

But then he blinks, and he's just Steve again. Tired, stubborn Steve, with worry lines creasing his forehead and that particular set to his jaw that tells you he's still mentally revising that speech.

"Elspeth's been with you since your announcement to run. She knows your voice better than anyone."

"Elspeth's going to think I'm micromanaging," Steve mutters, but there's less conviction in his voice now.

"She will, but Elspeth's used to it," you counter with a gentle smile. "And she always anticipates your edits."

"I know," Steve admits, his voice softening. "Elspeth's brilliant. It's just..." He trails off, his eyes drifting to the window where Pennsylvania's rolling hills pass by in a blur of autumn splendor.

You understand what he can't quite articulate—the weight of responsibility he carries, how deeply personal this campaign has become. Not just another mission, but perhaps his most important one yet.

"Each face out there," Steve continues, "they're looking for something real. Something true." He turns back to you, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. "I can't give them polished words that don’t hold their weight.”

“Steve, you’ve meant every word you’ve said on this campaign - probably every word you’ve said in your whole life - and you’ll continue to say the right thing whether it’s what’s been written or something you know should be said in the moment.”

His eyes burn more intensely at your words, and your chest swells. That fire is one of the things that has drawn you so much to him these past months. 

Once you catch your breath again, you say, “But only if you’re well-rested.”

Steve shakes his head and chuckles softly. “I see you refuse to relinquish your point.”

“Part of my wifely duties,” you tease. 

He looks down at your hand on his arm and covers it with his own. 

"You know," Steve says after a moment, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of your hand, "if I'm not working on this speech, I'd rather spend the time with you than just sleeping."

The tenderness in his voice makes your heart skip. Will he always have this effect on you?

"We've barely had a moment to ourselves since Cincinnati," he continues, his eyes softening as they meet yours. "Three rallies, two fundraisers…”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” you interject. “Fifteen minutes of shut eye. That’s what? The equivalent of three hours of super soldier sleep?” You put even more sarcastic teasing into your tone.

“You know what, Mrs. Rogers?” His voice is stern, but his grin matches yours. 

"What I know is that you need to—" 

Your retort is cut short by an eruption of noise from the back of the bus. Raised voices cascade forward like a wave, punctuated by gasps and exclamations. 

Steve's posture changes instantly, fatigue forgotten as his body coils with alertness. His hand squeezes yours once before releasing it, already half-rising from his seat. 

"Everyone shut up!" Jake's voice booms over the commotion. "Just shut up for a second so I can—"

The campaign manager’s fingers fly over the remote control for the bus's sophisticated video system, the multiple screens embedded up and down the large vehicle flashing to life as Jake gets the system to tune into CNN. 

"—breaking news just coming into CNN," Wolf Blitzer's voice fills the campaign bus, commanding everyone's attention. "We're following a major development regarding those controversial photographs that surfaced last week." 

The entire bus falls silent. Your blood runs cold as Wolf's face fills the screens, his expression serious. Steve's hand finds yours again, gripping it tightly, and you’re grateful for something to hold onto. 

"For those just joining us," Wolf explains, "on October 12, Fox News aired what they claimed were exclusive photographs showing the wife of presidential candidate Steve Rogers entering a Planned Parenthood clinic. The images appeared to show her in what Fox commentators described as a 'visibly pregnant' condition."

Your stomach twists into knots. Those fabricated images had been a nightmare—more than a crude photoshop job showing your face pasted onto someone else's body, they were crafted so well that you would have believed them yourself if not for knowing that you’d never been pregnant. 

“Mrs. Rogers responded almost immediately claiming the photos were fake and then turning her comments to focus on the services Planned Parenthood provides; the need for better healthcare, access, and education for women’s health in America; and then later the same day, the way women are targeted for political points.”

You held your breath, waiting for what he would say next. 

“While the Rogers-Young campaign focused on their platforms and messaging, the debate over these photos died down, but it still hasn’t gone away. We have new sources, however, that have confirmed that the photos were given to Fox News by the Coalition for Strengthening the Families of America Today - or CSFAT, that the photos were created with extremely sophisticated artificial intelligence, and that CSFAT obtained them from former Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross.”

The bus erupts in chaos again—a mixture of outrage, relief, and vindication washing over the campaign team. This is exactly what Bucky had managed to uncover the week before. Jake is already on his phone, barking orders, while Elspeth starts frantically typing on her tablet next to communications director Lisa, no doubt drafting potential statements. Bucky's face has darkened dangerously, his metal hand clenching into a fist. He and Steve exchange another look, and Bucky shakes his head. 

Steve had no doubt been asking if Bucky had leaked the information. 

Wolf Blitzer continues, "CNN has obtained exclusive emails between Ross and CSFAT leadership dating back three months, discussing what they called 'strategic image deployment' ahead of the battleground state swing. Ross has not responded to our requests for comment, but his former chief of staff confirmed the rumors that Ross and Rogers always had a terse relationship that was never repaired, even after the reversal of the Sokovia Accords. The Justice Department has just announced they are opening an investigation into potential election interference."

The screen splits to show a panel of commentators, one of whom immediately jumps in. "This is unprecedented, Wolf. Using AI to create false images of a candidate's spouse to suggest she terminated a pregnancy—clearly targeting conservative voters who might otherwise support Rogers and dissuade them from moving away from the Republican—it crosses a dangerous ethical line in political campaigning." 

"What's more disturbing," another panelist adds, "is that Ross has up to this point vocally claimed that he wasn’t supporting any campaign. This appears to be a personal vendetta that he’s latched onto the Republican Party to wage against Rogers." 

Steve's jaw tightens as he watches, the muscle in his cheek twitching. His hand remains firmly clasped around yours, his thumb now moving in slow, grounding circles against your skin. 

"I knew it," Sophia hisses from behind you. "I knew it was Ross."

Jake raises his hand, silencing the growing murmurs. "Everyone, listen up. This is our true October surprise. This changes our strategy for Pittsburgh. We need to be ready to answer questions simply, directly, and then pivot directly to our core messaging. Strong but dignified. No gloating, no goading.”

Steve's eyes haven't left the screen, where the news ticker rolls beneath the panel discussion: "BREAKING: ROSS IMPLICATED IN FAKE PREGNANCY PHOTOS." 

"Good advice," Steve says to Jake, his voice steady despite the storm you can feel brewing beneath his calm exterior. "But I'll be addressing this head-on." 

Jake's expression tightens. "Steve, we need to be careful about—" 

"Not to score political points," Steve interrupts, his gaze finally breaking from the screen to survey the bus. The entire campaign team has gone quiet, watching the exchange. "But this isn't just about me or the campaign anymore. 54This is about deliberately using technology to deceive the American people." 

You squeeze his hand, understanding exactly where his mind is going. Steve has always been wary of how easily information can be manipulated in the digital age—something he's witnessed evolve from wartime propaganda posters to the sophisticated disinformation campaigns of the modern era.

"My wife was deliberately targeted, and everyone should be concerned about this kind of deception," Steve continues, his voice taking on that resonant quality that makes people stop and listen. "They can do this to anyone."

"We’ll reframe the Convention Center speech," Elspeth says, through a moment of silence that had formed after Steve’s declaration. 

Steve nods at her. "This is our chance to talk about truth, integrity, and the future of information in American democracy."

Jake paces the narrow aisle, phone still clutched in his hand. "The press is already blowing up. Everyone wants a statement." 

"Let them wait," Steve says firmly. "We do this right, not rushed." 

[OCTOBER 20 - EARLY AFTERNOON - PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA]

Ninety minutes later, the David L. Lawrence Convention Center thrums with an energy that feels almost tangible, like electricity crackling just beneath the surface of the air. Twenty thousand people fill the enormous space, their collective presence turning the cavernous hall into something intimate and alive. The steel beams arching overhead—a nod to Pittsburgh's industrial heritage—gleam under the red, white, and blue lights that bathe the crowd in a cool glow.

You stand in the wings, watching as Mayor Ed Gainey approaches the microphone. The buzz of the crowd ebbs slightly as he raises his hands, though the anticipation remains palpable, a living thing that breathes and pulses throughout the hall.

Steve stands beside you, his shoulders squared, his focus absolute. The fatigue that lined his face on the bus has ebbed away for now. “Ready?” he asks. 

You reach out to brush your fingers against his, and he tangles them together. You look up at him and nod. “Let’s do this.” 

Mayor Gainey's voice reverberates through the convention center, his words riding on waves of anticipation. "Pittsburgh has always been a city that knows the value of truth!" His declaration brings a surge of applause. "When the steel mills closed, we faced hard truths and rebuilt. When our rivers were polluted, we faced those truths and cleaned them. When our economy needed to evolve, we embraced new truths and transformed!" 

The crowd responds with thunderous approval, a sea of signs bobbing like buoys in an ocean of supporters. From your vantage point, you can see the handmade offerings: ROGERS FOR AMERICA and TRUTH, JUSTICE & THE AMERICAN WAY alongside cleverly repurposed vintage Captain America propaganda posters updated with campaign slogans.

"And today," Mayor Gainey continues, his voice swelling with pride, "we stand together as Pittsburghers, as Pennsylvanians, as Americans, to welcome a man who has fought for truth his entire life. But first—" he pauses, a warm smile spreading across his face, "I have the distinct honor of welcoming to the stage someone who has become a powerful voice in her own right during this campaign." 

The crowd's energy shifts, a ripple of recognition moving through the packed convention center. 

"Someone who has shown grace under fire, who has turned personal attacks into opportunities to speak about issues that matter to all Americans." Mayor Gainey's voice rises above the growing applause. "Please welcome the woman who has stood shoulder to shoulder with Captain Rogers through every step of his campaign—not just as his wife, but as a champion for healthcare, for education, and for the future we all deserve—ladies and gentlemen, the next First Lady of the United States!"

The roar that sweeps through the convention center hits you like a physical force.

You blink and then look up at Steve who looks just as humbled as you feel. You figured the mayor would say positive things, but neither you nor Steve had any idea the mayor would give tantamount to an endorsement.

Mayor Gainey steps back from the podium, applauding enthusiastically as you feel Steve's hand at the small of your back, a gentle pressure urging you forward.

"You've got this," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

You climb the steps up to the stage, stepping out from the wings, blinking against the sudden intensity of the stage lights. The crowd's reaction surges again, a wave of sound that crashes over you as you cross to center stage. 

Mayor Gainey embraces you briefly before stepping aside, leaving you alone at the podium facing the sea of faces. For a heartbeat, the enormity of the moment washes over you—twenty thousand people, all waiting for your words. The lights are blinding, the noise deafening, but as you adjust the microphone, a strange calm settles over you. 

These people, many of whom have traveled hours to be here, aren't just cheering for you; they're cheering for what you have been working to represent, for the vision of America that Steve and his running mate have been fighting to articulate.

"Thank you, Pittsburgh," you say, your voice steady despite the frenzied fire of nerves in your chest. The crowd quiets, though the energy remains electric. "Thank you for that incredible welcome. And thank you, Mayor Gainey, for those kind words." 

You take a deep breath and look out across the sea of expectant faces.

"I wasn't scheduled to do more than introduce my husband today," you continue, a small smile playing at your lips. "But I think we've all learned that sometimes plans change. And I won't take much more of your time, except to say this: the truth matters. It has always mattered."

A knowing murmur ripples through the crowd, and you can feel them with you, present in a way that transcends the physical space between podium and audience.

"I'm not here to dwell on deceptions, or to point fingers. I’m here today to bring to the stage a man committed to honesty, to people, to hard work. A man who has faced impossible odds before, and who will face them again, because that's who he is." Your voice strengthens, finding its rhythm. "A man who believes—who knows—that this country deserves leaders who will look you in the eye and tell you the truth, whether it's easy or hard. Whether it wins votes or costs them."

A swell of applause rises and falls quickly as people are eager for your next words.

"And I promise you this, he’s worth your vote. He will carry your votes with him every single day of your his presidency if you put him into the Oval Office. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my husband, Steve Rogers!"

The applause erupts into something seismic as Steve strides onto the stage, his presence immediately filling the vast space. His smile is warm as he embraces you, holding you just a moment longer than protocol might dictate. His lips brush against your ear. 

"That wasn't in the script," he whispers, the pride in his voice unmistakable. 

"Not everything that needs to be said is," you whisper back.

As you step away, the crowd's roar intensifies. Steve approaches the podium with that particular gait of his—purposeful, measured, shoulders squared—the stance of a man who has carried the weight of responsibility for so long it's become part of his physical bearing. 

You move off to the side of the stage, watching as he raises his hands, waiting for the cheers to subside. It takes nearly a full minute before the crowd lets him speak.

"Thank you, Pittsburgh," Steve begins, his voice cutting through the remaining applause like a warm current. "And thank you to my wife for that introduction." 

He pauses, his eyes finding yours across the stage, a brief moment of connection before he turns back to the crowd. 

"As some of you may have seen on the news today, there's been a development regarding the photographs of my wife that circulated last week." His tone shifts, becoming more measured, more deliberate. "It's been confirmed that they were fabricated—created using artificial intelligence and distributed as part of a coordinated effort to mislead voters - to mislead you."

A ripple of murmurs and scattered boos crosses the audience. 

"I could stand here and talk about who was behind it or why they did it," Steve continues, his hands resting on either side of the podium. "I could spend my time expressing outrage over having my wife's image manipulated for political gain. But that's not why I'm here with you today."

His voice drops slightly, taking on a resonance that makes the massive convention center feel suddenly intimate, as if he's speaking directly to each person in the room. 

"I'm here to talk about something more fundamental. Something that matters to every single American, regardless of who they plan to vote for in two weeks." Steve pauses, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "I'm here to talk about truth. About reality. About the fact that these campaigns aren’t games to be won.”

A hush falls over the audience, the kind of attentive silence that comes when twenty thousand people collectively lean forward to listen. 

"I was born in 1918. When I woke up in this century, one of the first things that amazed me was the access to information. When I was a kid, you might get news once a day from the radio or newspaper. Now, it's constant, immediate—a miracle of technology." His expression turns solemn. "But with that miracle comes responsibility. And today, we're facing a crisis of truth unlike anything in our history."

Steve's voice resonates through the convention center, commanding the space with a quiet authority that has nothing to do with volume and everything to do with conviction. 

"I've seen propaganda before," he continues, "posters of me selling war bonds, films edited to shape public opinion. But what we're facing now is different. When technology can create images, videos, and voices indistinguishable from reality—when what we see can no longer be trusted—the very foundation of our democracy is at risk." 

You watch from your spot backstage, feeling a surge of pride mixed with something deeper—the recognition that this is Steve at his most authentic, speaking not as a candidate but as a man who has witnessed a century of change.

"Some will say I'm old-fashioned," Steve says, "that I don't understand modern politics. Maybe they're right about the first part." A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd. "But I understand something fundamental about democracy: it depends on informed citizens. And you can't be informed if you're being deliberately misled." 

The crowd stirs, murmurs of agreement rising and falling like waves. 

"I'm not here to tell you who to believe or what sources to trust," Steve continues, his voice growing more passionate. "I'm here to ask you to question. To verify. To seek out primary sources and diverse perspectives. To remember that convenience should never trump accuracy." 

He pauses, his eyes scanning the crowd with that piercing intensity that makes each person feel seen. 

"I'm running for president because I believe we can do better," Steve says, his voice gaining momentum like a wave building strength. "Not just in how we govern, but in how we communicate. In how we disagree. In how we find our way back to a shared understanding of reality."

Steve's hands grip the podium more firmly, his knuckles whitening slightly. You recognize this gesture—it's what he does when he's restraining stronger emotion, channeling it into focused energy.

"I've spent my life fighting for this country," he continues, his voice dropping to a deeper baritone that carries to every corner of the convention center. "Not for a flag or a piece of land, but for an idea. The radical notion that people should govern themselves, that we can come together across our differences to build something greater than any one of us could achieve alone."

The crowd hangs on his every word. The usual campaign energy has transformed into something more reverent, more attentive. 

"That idea—that experiment in democracy—it only works when we share a basic understanding of facts. When we can disagree about interpretations and solutions, but not about the fundamental reality we're all facing." Steve's voice grows stronger, more resolute. "The fabricated images of my wife weren't just an attack on her or on me. They were an attack on your right to make informed decisions based on truth." 

The convention center is utterly silent, twenty thousand people captivated.

"I've been asked why I don't fight dirtier in this campaign," Steve continues, a wry smile briefly crossing his face. "Why I don't hit back harder when I'm attacked. The answer is simple: because that's exactly what's tearing us apart. 

"The constant escalation, the dehumanization of our opponents, the willingness to say or do anything to win." Steve's voice rises, filling the convention center with a passion that resonates in your chest even from where you stand backstage. "I refuse to contribute to that cycle. Not because I'm naive, but because it’s not a future I want to be a part of. It’s not the future I want for our country.”

You watch as Steve straightens, his shoulders squaring as he blazes forward with this crowd hanging onto his every word.

"Now let me yell you what I do want for our country,” he says, and then Steve pivots seamlessly into the stump speech of policy points he had planned to give all along, pointed highlights about healthcare, climate change, housing, immigration, and the economy.

You take a deep breath, realizing you’d been holding your breath, just as captivated by Steve’s words as everyone else in the convention center.

Jake steps up next to you and hands you a bottle of water. 

You smile and take it wordlessly. 

“That’s why I signed onto this campaign,” he says. 

Your smile grows. 

“Don’t get me wrong, the paycheck is nothing to sneer at,” Jake adds, “but I can negotiate a nice fee from any campaign. But it’s candidates like Steve that made me want to be a political consultant and run campaigns in the first place.”

“There’s no other candidate like Steve though,” you respond. 

"That's absolutely true," Jake acknowledges, his gaze still fixed on Steve as the crowd erupts into applause. "In twenty years of doing this, I've never seen anyone who can speak from the heart like him and still hit every policy point without sounding rehearsed."

You nod, watching as Steve gestures emphatically, his conviction radiating across the convention center. The crowd responds with another wave of cheers, signs bobbing like a multicolored tide.

"He believes every word," you say softly.

"That's why he's exhausted," Jake replies, a hint of concern threading through his professional demeanor. "So many candidates turn it on for the cameras and speeches, then collapse into cynicism or retreat behind closed doors. Steve's the same person in private as he is up there."

On stage, Steve has reached the crescendo of his speech, his voice rising not in volume but in intensity, his words binding the audience together in a shared vision. 

"He's always been that way," Bucky interjects, stepping up next to both of you. "The weight of the world on his shoulders and the determination to carry it."

"After Pittsburgh, we have a three-hour drive to the hotel in Harrisburg," Jake says, checking his watch. "You two make sure he actually sleeps. We need him at full strength for the final push."

You nod, your eyes never leaving Steve as he reaches the conclusion of his speech. 

"I'm not asking you to vote for me because I was Captain America," he says, his hands gripping the podium. "I'm asking you to vote for me because I believe in an America where we face our challenges together. Where we don't hide from hard truths or difficult conversations. Where we remember that our neighbors aren't our enemies, even when we disagree.

"Two weeks from today, you'll make your choice," Steve continues. "Whatever that choice is, I ask only this: make it based on truth. Make it based on substance. Make it based on the future you want to build—not just for yourself, but for generations to come in this, our United States of America!"

The crowd erupts into a thunderous standing ovation, the sound rolling through the convention center like a physical force. Steve stands tall at the podium, allowing the moment to crest before raising his hands in a gesture of gratitude. The campaign's playlist begins to blast through the speakers as red, white, and blue confetti rains down from the ceiling, catching the stage lights and transforming the air into a shimmering curtain.

"Thank you, Pittsburgh!" Steve's voice rings out over the roar. 

You watch as Steve moves away from the podium, waving to the crowd, his smile genuine despite the exhaustion you can still see lurking behind his eyes. Mayor Gainey returns to the stage along with several local officials, all eager for that crucial photograph with the man dangerously close to leading in the Pennsylvania polls.

"He nailed it," Bucky murmurs beside you, his eyes tracking Steve as he navigates the crowd of dignitaries with practiced ease. "That part about propaganda—he's been wanting to say that for weeks."

The backstage area has transformed into organized chaos—staffers darting between equipment cases, security personnel murmuring into earpieces, journalists hovering at the edges hoping for a quick comment. Through it all, Steve moves with that particular grace of his, giving each person his full attention despite the crush of bodies and demands.

"We need to get him moving toward the exit," Lisa says, appearing at your side with her ever-present tablet. "The press line outside is getting restless, and we're already going to take heat from them for not fielding any questions on the way in.”

Steve walks toward the edge of the stage where you're waiting, and his eyes find yours immediately. The public persona slips just slightly—enough for you to see the exhaustion he keeps ignoring creeping back in around the edges. He reaches for your hand as he descends the steps, his fingers lacing with yours immediately. 

You reach your other hand up, curling it around the side of his neck, and pull him in for an enthusiastic kiss. Steve's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, his body solid and warm against yours. When you finally break apart, his eyes are bright despite the fatigue.

"You were magnificent up there," you tell him, your voice low enough that only he can hear. 

His expression softens, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face with gentle fingers. "I meant every word."

"I know you did.”

"We need to move," Lisa urges from behind you, her voice slightly tense with the pressure of maintaining the schedule.

“You heard her,” Bucky intervenes, backing her up, “move it along, love birds.” 

You bite your lip to suppress a giggle, your happiness at a peak in this moment. The energy from the enthusiastic and enormous crowd, Steve’s powerful speech, nailing your own impromptu changes for his introduction, but mostly from still being pressed close to Steve, the warmth of the spontaneous kiss lingering on your lips. 

Steve's hand finds the small of your back as you both begin moving toward the exit, navigating through the backstage labyrinth. Security personnel form a discreet barrier around you, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.

"Two minutes with the local press, then straight to the bus," Jake instructs, falling into step beside Steve. "We touch on the Ross revelation only if directly asked. Otherwise, it's healthcare and manufacturing for Pennsylvania."

Once you’re back on the campaign bus and rolling to Harrisburg, you are able to easily coax Steve to “rest” in the back of the bus. 

The door to the private quarters has barely clicked shut when Steve's hands are at your waist, spinning you around, backing you against the wall with an urgency that makes your breath catch. His mouth finds yours, hungry and insistent, the restraint he shows in public nowhere to be found.

"I've been wanting to do that all day," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with desire.

Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer as if the inch of space between you is too much to bear. "Just today?" you tease, gasping as his lips trace a path down your neck.

"Every day," he corrects, his hands framing your hips, rubbing circles with his thumbs over the smooth fabric of your blouse. "Every minute."

"Steve," you breathe, your body responding eagerly even as your mind reminds you of his need for rest in this rare break in the schedule. His lips are tracing a path along your jaw that makes coherent thought increasingly difficult. The gentle sway of the campaign bus adds a dreamlike quality to the moment.

Your hands move to his chest, not quite pushing him away but creating just enough space to look up into his eyes. The blue of his irises has darkened with desire, but you can still see the shadows beneath them, the slight redness that speaks of too many late nights and early mornings. 

"As much as I'd love to continue this," you say softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "you're supposed to be resting." 

A flash of stubbornness crosses his features, and you can't help a small laugh tumbling out. 

Steve makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm fine," he insists, but the way he leans into you betrays a hint of the exhaustion you’ve been worrying over all day. 

"You're running on fumes," you counter softly, tracing one finger over the delicate skin beneath his eye where the shadows have deepened over the past week. "We have a three-hour drive to Harrisburg. That's three precious hours you can sleep."

"I'd rather spend them with you," he murmurs, his lips finding a sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you shiver. "Awake."

You close your eyes, momentarily lost in the sensation of his touch. The campaign bus hums beneath you, the rhythm of the highway creating a gentle, rocking motion that feels oddly intimate in the confines of the private quarters. 

"What if we compromise? You sleep," you suggest, your fingers now working at his tie, loosening the knot. "And I'll be right here beside you."

His hands cover yours, stilling your movements. "That's not much of a compromise," he points out, a hint of amusement in his voice despite the fatigue etched into his features. "I agreed to rest. Not necessarily to sleep."

"Alright," you continue, slipping the tie from around his neck and draping it over the hook on the back of the door. "We can rest together. Just lie down. Talk. Be still for a while."

Steve studies your face, his expression softening. "Just talk?" 

"Just talk," you confirm as you edge past him to the tiny bunks. It will be a cozy fit for the two of you, but you know neither of you will mind. You scoot in and get situated with Steve climbing right in behind you. He goes in for a kiss, and another laugh bubbles up from your chest, even as you melt slightly against him. "You're impossible."

"And you're wonderful," he counters, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "Especially when you're watching out for me."

Your expression softens. "Someone has to."

Steve's playfulness fades slightly, replaced by something more vulnerable. "I know I push too hard sometimes."

"You always push too hard," you correct gently. "I’ve only known you for five months, and I know it's who you are."

He sighs, resting his forehead against yours again. "The stakes feel so high."

"They are high," you acknowledge, one your hands coming to rest on his chest as he settles on his back and you curl up to his side. “But that crowd we just came from was incredible. And you connected so well with them. I can feel a shift.”

"You really think so?" Steve asks, his voice lower now, a hint of uncertainty threading through the words that most never get to hear from him. You certainly didn’t for your first months together.

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, taking in the fine lines around his eyes, the slight furrow between his brows that never fully smooths away these days. "I do. The way they responded to you... it wasn't just political enthusiasm. It was something deeper."

Steve's hand finds yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. "Pennsylvania is the key. If we can flip it..." 

"We can," you assure him, settling back down against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear is comforting, a metronome counting out the moments of this rare peaceful interlude. "But not if you collapse from exhaustion first." 

Steve chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. 

"And it wasn't just the content of the speech," you say, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt. "It was you. The way you speak—it's like you're having a conversation with each person in that room individually."

"That's how my mother taught me to talk to people. 'Look them in the eye, Steven, and speak from your heart.'"

"Sarah Rogers sounds like she was quite a woman."

"She would have loved you," Steve says.

You feel his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, his breathing beginning to deepen despite his resistance to sleep.

"What would she think of all this?" you ask softly. "Her son running for president?"

Steve is quiet for so long you nearly wonder if he's already drifted off, but then his voice comes, quieter now. "She'd probably say I was being stubborn again, taking on more than I should." You laugh softly together. "But then she'd roll up her sleeves and ask how she could help."

You smile against his shirt. "Like mother, like son."

Steve tips your chin up, and kisses you again, softly. 

The kiss lingers, soft and unhurried, a gentle contrast to the frenetic pace that has defined your lives these past months. His lips move against yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, and you find yourself melting into him, the campaign, the polls, the speeches, the turmoil all forgotten in this moment of connection.

When you finally break apart, Steve's eyes remain closed for a moment longer, his lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks in the dim afternoon light.

"Tell me something," you murmur, settling back against his chest, your head tucked perfectly beneath his chin. 

"Hmm?" His voice vibrates through his chest against your ear. 

"Something I don't know yet. Something from before." 

Steve's arm tightens around you, pulling you closer as the campaign bus rumbles beneath you. 

"Before," he repeats, his voice taking on that distant quality it sometimes gets when he reaches back across the decades. "You know, when I first woke up in this century, I kept a list." 

"A list?" 

"Things people told me I needed to catch up on. Thai food. Star Wars. Disco." A gentle laugh rumbles through his chest. "I was so focused on what I'd missed that I barely thought about what I remembered." 

You trace idle patterns on his shirt, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your fingertips. "And what do you remember most clearly?" 

Steve is quiet for a long moment, his breathing deep and even. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. 

"The smell of apples cooking down with cinnamon in my mother's kitchen," Steve says, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "The way sunlight looked filtering through the clotheslines strung between tenements. The sound of kids playing stickball in the street." 

You close your eyes, trying to picture it—Brooklyn before the war, before skyscrapers and smartphones, before Steve became Captain America. 

"We didn't have much," he continues, his fingers absently stroking your hair. "But there was a richness to life then that's hard to explain. People looked out for each other because they had to. Mrs. Calabrese from the third floor would watch me when my mother worked late shifts at the TB ward. Mr. Goldstein at the corner store would save bruised fruit for us at half price." 

"It sounds wonderful," you murmur. 

"Parts of it were," Steve says, his voice soft with memory. "And parts were harder than anything you can imagine. The winters when we couldn't afford enough coal. The Great Depression was more than the physical lack. There was a constant worry about having enough." 

You listen intently, feeling privileged to hear these pieces of himself that he rarely shares with others.

"But there was something real about it all," he continues. "When you have so little, you appreciate everything more intensely. A warm meal. A new pencil. The first sunny day after weeks of rain."

"That's why this matters so much to you, isn't it?" you ask, lifting your head slightly to look at him. 

Steve's eyes meet yours, clear and focused. "I've seen what happens when people lose hope. We lost so much hope after the Snap, and some things are better since we brought everyone back, but the new chaos and unrest has cast its own shadows." His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. "The Depression, the War—they taught me that systems matter, that leadership matters. That the decisions made in far-off offices change lives on streets like the one I grew up on. I wanted things to work out without me because I’m just an Avenger, but Pepper persuaded me we needed to try for a president who isn’t a politician."

You settle back against his chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. “She’s masterfully persuasive. She convinced me to marry a stranger.”

He laughs and his arm tightens around you. “Well, that seems to be a pretty good call so far, so maybe this other thing will work out, too.”

You smile against his chest, and you’re both quiet for a moment. 

"Tell me more about Brooklyn," you prompt gently. "About your home." 

You continue talking softly together until you both fall asleep, though you’re not sure if it is you or him who drops off first. 

[OCTOBER 20 - EVENING - HARRISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA]

You are alone when you wake up. 

You sit up quickly, slightly disoriented. The light in private quarters of the campaign bus are dim, but you can see through the window that night has fallen. The bus is no longer moving.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bunk and gather the shoes you had discarded earlier, slipping them back on your feet. You move to the tiny bathroom, and grimace slightly when you take in your appearance. It’s not bad, but it’s definitely nap-rumpled. 

Someone must have heard you bustling around, because there’s a soft knock on the door that you recognize. 

“Come in,” you call out, and you see Sophia open the door over your shoulder in the reflection of the mirror. 

"Hey, sleepyhead," she says. "We're in Harrisburg."

"How long since we arrived?"

"Maybe an hour,” she answers. “There were press interviews before the event tonight, so the rest of the campaign went on ahead, and we’ll catch up. Steve insisted we let you rest.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Of course he did. Did he at least sleep for more than five minutes?”

“He said to report to you that he promises he slept for at least an hour,” Sam says, appearing behind Sophia. 

You repress a Cheshire grin as you deduce that Sam elected to stay back to wait on you with Sophia. But you only just manage it. 

"And did he?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. 

"Did he what?" Sam asks, a smile playing at his lips. 

"Sleep for an hour," you clarify, reaching for a brush to tame your hair. 

Sam and Sophia exchange a knowing look. "Let's just say Bucky confirmed he was out for at least ninety minutes, which might be a campaign record," Sophia says.

You nod, satisfied, and start to brush out your hair, assessing what needs to be done to make yourself presentable again. Surprisingly your blouse isn’t hopelessly wrinkled from being slept in, but your blazer hasn't fared well. Why didn’t you think to take that off before slipping onto the cot?

Probably because slipping one thing off might have been too tempting for both of you to slip off more clothing…

"Here, let me help," Sophia says, noticing your predicament. She rummages in one of the cupboards built into the wall of the bus, pushing aside emergency supplies and campaign materials. "Aha!" she exclaims, pulling out the travel steamer. 

"Always a lifesaver," you tell her, gratefully shrugging out of your blazer and handing it over.

As Sophia gets to work on your blazer, you quickly freshen up your makeup and fix your hair. There's a comfortable rhythm to it, a routine that's become familiar over these past months on the trail. The three of you move around the confined space with practiced ease, Sam stepping out to take a call while you and Sophia discuss the evening ahead.

You’re Future-First-Lady presentable in next to no time, and then you, Sophia, and Sam get off the boss and hop into a waiting SUV. 

Once you’re buckled in, Sam hands you a sandwich and a bag of chips. “Saved you something to eat. You slept through dinner."

Your stomach growls on cue, and you laugh. "I guess I did."

Sophia passes you a bottle of water and a bib as well. You don’t question it, learning early on you can only safely eat slowly or with a bib on the campaign trail, otherwise it’s almost guaranteed there will be some kind of spill. Better safe than sorry. 

You take a grateful bite of the sandwich, realizing just how hungry you are. The SUV glides through the darkened streets of Harrisburg, the city lights sliding across the windows as you make your way toward the venue for tonight's town hall. There are Secret Service SUVs escorting both in front and behind your vehicle. 

"How far is the venue?" you ask between bites. 

"About fifteen minutes," Sophia replies, her eyes fixed on her tablet as she scrolls through the latest updates. "Traffic's light." 

The driver has the radio on, and one of the familiar voices of NPR's news coverage fills the car: "—continuing coverage of the breaking news regarding the fabricated photographs of Steve Rogers' wife. CNN reported earlier today that former Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross has been implicated in creating and distributing AI-generated images purporting to show Mrs. Rogers at a Planned Parenthood facility for an abortion procedure. Ross evidently financed the operation and gave the photos to CSFAT, who then gave them to Fox News last week.”

You frown, and you know you’re not the only one, but no one seems inclined to change the station either, everyone too interested in hearing what they’ll say next. 

“In a speech he gave at a rally in Pittsburg earlier today, Steve Rogers called for Americans to seek out truth, committing to always deal in truth, even when truths are difficult to share. Meanwhile, this afternoon, the message coming out of the Democratic camp has been increasingly strident. At a press conference in Detroit, Senator Jason Monroe, the Democratic nominee, made his own statement.”

The audio cuts directly to a clip of Monroe. 

"This kind of technological deception represents a new low in American politics," Monroe declares. "I call on my Republican opponent to immediately and unequivocally denounce Thaddeus Ross and the Coalition for Strengthening the Families of America Today. Their creation and distribution of AI-generated photographs is not merely dirty politics—it's an attack on our electoral process itself."

You grimace as the radio continues broadcasting Monroe's remarks, but continue to listen with Sophia, Sam, and your driver as you eat your sandwich.

You know Peterson can’t denounce CSFAT without hemoraging “family values” voters, even if they don’t lean as extreme as CSFAT does. 

"The American people deserve to know whether the Republican Party condones these tactics," Monroe continues, his voice sharp with practiced outrage. "And whether Governor Peterson was aware of or involved in this deception. Until we have clear answers, I believe this casts a shadow over the entire Republican campaign." 

You exchange glances with Sam and Sophia. Monroe is doing exactly what Jake and the rest of your campaign team had expected - trying to turn this revelation into a broader attack on Steve's running mate and the Republican Party as a whole.

"That's rich," Sam mutters, shaking his head. "Like Monroe's Super PACs haven't been running misleading ads for months." 

Monroe's voice continues from the radio. "I'm calling for a joint statement from all candidates condemning the use of deepfakes and AI manipulation in political campaigns. This isn't about politics anymore. It's about preserving the integrity of our democracy."

Sophia scoffs. “Of course, he wants to call for a joint statement. If he can organize it, it looks like a win for him.”

“Peterson won’t do it, he’ll say Monroe’s just trying to score points of his own for proposing and organizing the statement,” Sam says. 

“And all Steve has to do is say a joint statement isn’t needed when that’s what Americans should expect from any presidential candidate,” you add. 

“Exactly,” Sophia pumps her fist in the air. 

The NPR host returns: "We should note that there is currently no evidence suggesting Governor Peterson or the official Republican campaign had any knowledge of or involvement in the creation of these images. The Justice Department has opened an investigation, and Ross has not yet commented publicly on the allegations."

"Can we turn it off for now?” you ask the driver. 

“Absolutely, Mrs. Rogers,” he responds, switching the radio off. 

You turn to Sophia. “I know we’re concerned about the seven major swing states that can go red or blue a the tip of a hat, but with this fighting for the sake of capitalizing on a political fight, can we expand to states that were in that sixty-percent majority range?”

“Snag the people who might be ready to be independents but have kept with their party because there’s only been the two major parties for so long,” Sophia concurs. “I think Jake will still want to keep Steve in the seven swing as much as possible, but he’d see the wisdom in moving you into more of that next circle and be up for adjusting the schedule.”

Your heart aches for a moment. Early in the campaign, you and Steve frequently campaigned together and separately, but more and more since September, you’ve stuck together, and you’ve wanted to. When you were congenial members of a campaign team who happened to be married for the political positioning, it hadn’t mattered. 

But now the idea of campaigning separately from Steve, even for a few days, twists something in your chest. Your feelings for him have evolved with startling speed from reluctant respect to genuine affection to something much deeper—something you're still getting used to naming, even in your own mind.

"I think that's a great strategy," you say, pushing past the flutter of emotion. "Especially if we target suburban areas where voters might be feeling torn between party loyalty and policy preferences." 

Sam gives you a knowing look that you choose to ignore, focusing instead on finishing your sandwich as the lights of downtown Harrisburg grow brighter through the windows. The SUV slows as it approaches the historic Forum Auditorium, its classical columns illuminated against the night sky. 

"How many people tonight?" you ask. 

"About fifteen hundred," Sophia answers, checking her tablet. "Town hall format. Prescreened questions until the end, Charlie and Zoey Young are already there, and you and Zoey will join Steve and Charlie on stage with the candidates fielding the questions.” 

"Town halls are his strongest format," Sam adds with a smile. "People connect with him even more when he's answering their questions directly."

You nod, brushing crumbs from your lap and carefully removing the bib. There's something comforting about the routine of it all, the seamless transition from one event to the next, each with its own rhythm and demands. 

"And what's the mood?" you ask, knowing Sophia will have already checked in with the advance team. 

"Energized but not rowdy," she replies. "Local issues are dominating—healthcare access in rural areas, the opioid crisis, infrastructure. The Ross story is buzzing, but it's not overshadowing everything." 

"Good," you say with a nod. "That's what we want." 

The SUV pulls up to the rear entrance of the auditorium, where security personnel immediately surround the vehicle. The familiar choreography unfolds—doors opening, earpieces murmuring, a path clearing through the hustle and bustle.

The backstage area of the Forum buzzes with the controlled chaos that defines campaign events—staffers with headsets, local officials waiting for their moment, journalists hovering at the edges of secured areas. You spot Jake immediately, his tall figure bent over a tablet as he confers with Lisa and Elspeth.

And then you see Steve.

He's standing at the edge of the stage, peering out through the curtain at the gathering crowd, his back to you. 

Even from this distance, you can read the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself with that perfect posture that never quite relaxes. He's wearing the navy suit you picked out together a few weeks ago, the one that brings out the blue in his eyes.

Bucky stands beside him, saying something that makes Steve laugh—a genuine laugh that transforms his face, erasing the campaign weariness for just a moment. The sight makes your heart skip, and you find yourself smiling automatically. 

Steve turns, sensing your presence with that uncanny awareness he always seems to have. His eyes find yours across the busy backstage area, and his face softens, lighting up with a warmth that still catches you off guard sometimes. You make your way toward him swiftly, navigating through the crowd with practiced grace.

"You're here," he says when you reach him, his voice warm. 

"Exactly where I'm supposed to be," you reply, reaching up to straighten his already-perfect tie, just for the excuse to touch him.

Steve's hand finds yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in that gentle way that has become so familiar. And even though you’ll have the rest of the evening together, you’re already missing him, certain that you’ll be getting off to separate cities tomorrow. 

Lurking in the darkest corners of your mind is an even bigger concern that you’ve been ignoring as much as you possibly can…

Steve has been gaining momentum - it’s been compounding since day one - but he’s still an independent presidential candidate in a system that’s been voting between two parties for over two hundred years. Everyone on your team, thousands of volunteers and supporters across the country, you’re all fighting tooth and nail and working towards victory. 

But what happens if the very realistic possibility is realized and he doesn’t win? 

next part: Boston & New York

I apologize for another long wait for this one. (haha, don't worry, I KNOW anyone who made it to here isn't going to hate me for the length!)

...and even though it was long, the only pieces I could have taken out were their married moments, and I just genuinely didn't want to, so I hoped all of you enjoyed getting to just spend some soft time with them. I could've cut down what we saw of Steve's speech, too, but I didn't want that, either. 🥹 I love potentially-President Steve. Therapeutic for me, and I love getting to let him show his leadership and desire to do good in a different way than his superhero work.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[purplephantomwolf]

Savoring the Finish Line

Chapter Five

Synopsis: You are a bakery owner. One day Max Verstappen comes into your bakery.

Note: This is not an accurate portrayal of how the real people in this act. I do not know them personally, so I will not be portraying them accurately.

Warnings: Panic attack mention

Previous Chapter: Chapter Four

Masterlist

I AM REWRITING THIS FROM AN OC STORY. IF I MISS ANYTHING, PLEASE LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT! THIS IS CHAPTER 5 OF 5 OF ALREADY WRITTEN CHAPTERS. THEY ARE NOW ALL POSTED.

March 19, 2022

     The flood lights are bright against your eyes. “Night races are beautiful,” you hum to yourself. You walk along the paddock an hour before qualifying is supposed to start. You watch all the engineers, drivers, and working personnel rush about. You hum to myself, walking towards the Red Bull garage. 

     “Good evening, Y/n,” Max says, stopping his conversation with Christian Horner and Geri Horner. You jerk to a stop, surprised. 

     “Hello, Max,” you smile at him. Both the Horners look between us

     “Christian, Geri, this is Y/n, the woman who owns the bakery I told you about. Y/n, this is Christian and Geri Horner,” Max introduces us. 

     “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. and Mr.  Horner,” you say, extending my hand. Christian shakes your hand. 

     “Please, call us Geri and Christian. Any friend of Max’s is a friend of ours,” Geri says, pulling you in for a hug. You blush and nod, as you pull away from her. 

     “So, Max has told us that you own a bakery?” Geri asks you.

    “Yes! It’s a small bakery in Monaco called Delicieux Gateries,” you grin, always happy to talk about your bakery. 

     “What do you sell?” She asks, starting to walk into the hospitality. 

     “Well, I sell all sorts of things. There’s croissants, kouign amanns, scones, macarons as some of my most popular selling items,” you list off, following after her. 

     “You say my and I, do you work at the bakery by yourself?” Christian asks, appearing behind Geri. 

     “I’m the only full time employee. I have this older couple who works the front of the bakery for me part time, but I do all the baking,” you explain. Max comes up next to us. 

     “How are Louis and Estelle doing?” He asks. 

     “They’re doing good! They’re watching Elise and Lacey for me this week,” you answer. Geri and Christian exchange small smiles, and you grin at Max. Max glances at his watch and nods to Christian. They start the descent down to the garage to get ready for qualifying as you and Geri continue talking about your bakery. Suddenly Max comes rushing back into the hospitality. “Will you wait for me after qualifying? I want to make sure you get back to your hotel safely,” Max asks upi. You blush and grin. 

     “Sure, you might find me asleep here, but I’ll wait in here for you,” you smile. 

     “Great, good, awesome,” Max says, fumbling over his words. He rushes back downstairs, as Geri lets out a laugh. You turn to her blushing, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush. 

     “Oh sweetie, that’s just too cute,” she smiles. You nod, blushing. 

     “I should probably go down to make sure I’m in place before all the excitement starts. It was nice meeting you, Geri,” you say. 

     “It was nice to meet you too, Y/n. I’ll make sure to stop by your bakery some time when I’m in Monaco,” she says. You nod, grinning. You head down to the garage, getting into place. Max looks over at the area for guests and smiles when he sees you. You send him a quick thumbs up, smiling. He blushes, quickly looks back at the data and his race engineer. 

     You grin as the lights go green at the end of the pitlane. You take a deep breath, breathing in the smell of rubber and fuel. It smells wonderful. Max pulls out of the garage, sending a big vibration through your body from the roar of the car. Your eyes flick between the screens and the track. You smile when Max makes it into Q2 easily. You have no worries about Max making it into Q3. You bop my head along to the music playing throughout the paddock as you wait for Q3 to start. 

     You frown as you hear Max on the radio saying something about his tires being fucked when he goes slow. “That’s not good,” you mutter. Max goes out for his last lap. You cross your fingers as he crosses the finish line. “Yes! Let’s go, Max!” you cheer as he finishes P2. The garage claps and cheers at his results. 

     The garage starts to clear of the other Red Bull guests. You linger, trying to stay in the garage as long as possible. Eventually the engineers start leaving too, so you head up to the hospitality. You take a seat at one of the tables, waiting for Max. 

******************************************************************************

     “Y/n,” You hear your name whispered. You jolt up, looking around. You rub your eyes, trying to get rid of the tiredness. 

     “Oh, hi Max,” you grin, spotting him squatting next to your chair. You stand up, grabbing your bag. “Ready to go?”

     “Yeah, I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” Max says, looking guilty. 

     “It’s okay! I’d rather have someone to walk me back this late at night, than go back by myself,” you shrug. Max looks relieved. 

     “Which hotel are you staying at?” He asks, grabbing your bag from you. You start to protest him carrying it, but he gives you a stern look and you stop. 

     “The Hilton,” you answer, walking out of the hospitality. 

    “Oh, good! That’s just down the road from my hotel,” he smiles. Max leads you out of the paddock. “Did you enjoy today?” He turns to you. 

     “Oh, yes! Congrats on starting P2 tomorrow! You were amazing,” you gush. 

     “Thank you,” he grins, as you arrive at a car. 

     “Is this your car?!” You gasp, looking at the Aston Martin car. 

     “No, it’s just on loan to me for the weekend,” Max replies, “All my cars are back in Monaco.” 

      You nod, “Makes sense.” Max opens your door for you, and you slide in. You run your hands along the seat, marveling at it. 

     “Do you like it?” Max asks, sliding into the driver’s seat. 

     “Yes, I’ve never been in such an expensive car,” You look over at him. He pulls out of his parking spot, and you admire him as he drives to your hotel. 

     “Thank you for the ride back, Max,” you thank him as he pulls up to your hotel. 

     “Of course, Y/n. I’ll see you tomorrow? I can drive you back after the race,” Max looks over you, hopeful. 

     “I would like that,” you smile at him. 

     “Okay, then I’ll see you tomorrow after the race. Hopefully I’ll see you before the race too,” Max says. 

     “Hopefully! Good night, Max,” you say, opening your door.

     “Good night, Y/n,” he says, as you shut the door. He watches you walk into the hotel before pulling away. You head up to your room, falling into bed. You sigh happily, before quickly falling asleep. 

******************************************************************************

March 20, 2022

     You thank the driver of the taxi as you climb out. You scan your pass to get into the paddock. You walk past the Ferrari hospitality and spot Carlos outside. Louis is a big Ferrari fan, so you figure getting Carlos’ signature on his hat would make him super happy. “Excuse me, can you please sign my hat?” You ask Carlos. He quickly signs it, before heading inside the hospitality. You head inside the Red Bull hospitality. You sit at one of the tables, waiting for it to be closer to 6 to head down to the garage. You’re reading an article on your phone when the chair next to you is pulled out. YOu look up and see Geri sitting down. “Hello, Mrs. Horner,” you greet her. 

     “Please, dear. Call me Geri,” she waves her hand. 

     “Okay, hello, Geri,” you say. She laughs and greets you. 

     “Are you having fun this weekend?” Geri asks you. 

     You nod quickly. “This is the most fun I’ve had since I opened my bakery. I haven’t taken time off since then,” you answer her. 

     “Oh, honey. You must be working yourself to death then. You should take some time off,” she says, looking worried. 

     “I am looking at hiring another baker, that way I can take time off. It’ll be nice to not have to work every day,” you explain. She nods, smiling. The door to the hospitality opens, and Max walks in. He’s deep in conversation with someone, so you just wave to him when he looks over. He waves back, before heading down to the garage. 

     “So tell me, how did you and Max meet? I know Max, and he wouldn’t give out garage passes to just anyone,” Geri asks, turning to you. 

     “He came into my bakery having a panic attack. I helped calm him down, The garage pass is a thank you from him. I told him I didn’t need them as a thank you, but he refused to take them back,” you tell her. Her eyes get a worried look when you say the panic attack part. 

     “Thank you for helping him. Do you know why he was having one?” Geri asks, looking concerned. You shake your head no. “Okay, thank you,” she sighs. You glance at the time. Seeing that it’s 15 minutes before the race is supposed to start, you stand up, Geri standing up with you. 

     “It was great talking to you, Geri. I hope we can talk again after this weekend,” you smile. She pulls you into a tight hug. 

     “I’m sure we will,” she grins, letting you go. You head down to the garage, getting into place as the national anthem finishes. You excitedly slide the headset on. 

     Max enters the garage, a concentrated look on his face. The thought of how cute he looks when he’s concentrating enters your mind. You shake your head at this thought. You cannot start liking this man, he’s so far out of your league, you think. Max slides his helmet on and climbs into the car. There’s a muffled roar of engine as he pulls out of the garage. 

******************************************************************************

     The lights go out and Charles goes across the track to block Max from taking P1 at the first corner. You gasp as Esteban and Mick collide, spinning Mick around. You let out a relieved sigh when Mick continues on. You always get so worried when cars collide. 

     Hamilton slides as he pulls out of the pits, trying to warm up his tires. You smile and clap your hands once when you see Zhou pass him. Hamilton quickly passes Zhou again. Max pulls into the pits, and you watch as they put a new thing of soft tires on his car. It’s amazing to watch the pit crew work so quickly. 

    Charles comes into the pits, and you bite my fingernails as you watch them do a slower stop then Max’s. “Come on, Max,” I whisper as Max comes down the main straight. You groan as Charles comes out in front of Max. They battle all throughout the lap. The Red Bull garage breaks into cheers when Max passes Charles and then groans when Charles passes him back. The two drivers repeat the same fight on the next lap. You groan as Max locks up on the third lap of the fight, not letting him take the lead. 

     Max comes in for a second pit stop, putting on medium tires this time. Charles does the same thing the next lap.You groan as Charles comes out in front of Max again. Max is angry as he comes on the radio, complaining about how he took it easy on the out lap, when he could be ahead. “I’m never doing that again,” he says. 

     Max comes into the pits again, and as he pulls out of the pits, he complains about the steering. You hold your breath as I listen to his radio, hoping everything is okay. You gasp suddenly as you see Pierre Gasly pulled off to the side. He leaps out, as his car catches aflame. The full safety car comes out, and the cars bunch up. Max keeps coming on the radio complaining about the steering. 

     You groan as Max gets a poor restart after the safety car. Your hands clasp together as you pray that Carlos doesn’t pass him. A few laps pass, when suddenly Max comes on the radio asking about the battery. Max is tumbling down the order. “No!” You gasp, hand flying up to cover your mouth in shock. “He was doing so well,” you pout, “He was so close to finishing.” He pulls into the pits, and you just know he’s going to be angry. He climbs out of the car, and walks back into the garage. Suddenly you hear a shout and your head flies to the track. Sergio Perez has lost the engine and spun around. You’re shocked that Red Bull has had such an awful start to the season. 

     The race finishes with a Ferrari 1-2, but you couldn’t care less at this moment. You know Max is going to be upset, and you just hope he knows there’s nothing he could’ve done to prevent it. You wait in the garage until after the podium ceremony, waiting to see if Max comes back in. Eventually you head into the hospitality. You take a seat to wait for Max.

Next chapter: Chapter Six

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

Taglist:

@freyathehuntress

[sentient-rift]

🌋 ((Your Solo at my Laplace lol

"What can I say about that Laplace that I haven't already said about mine? There are a lot of words that come to mind when I think of Laplace, such as 'Annoying,' 'Troublemaker,' and occasionally 'Jerk.'

"...With that said, if your Laplace is anything like mine, then the Best word that describes him is... 'Reliable.' I can always count on him..."

*Laplace gets all fuzzy inside.*

[catpriciousmarjara]

Personal pet peeve: When a particular character has a lot of paperwork and such associated with their job and it has been established in universe that the work is extremely hard, complicated, and tedious but then in fanfic another character in another job position takes up this character's paperwork and does it perfectly. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.

Paperwork is not some nebulous pile of papers so easy that anyone can just waltz in and fill it up just like that. Paperwork, especially for large organisations, requires specific training and knowledge. A particular situation might have at least ten forms associated with it depending on how it happened, when it happened, who were involved, who were affected, who filed the initial report etc. It could be form A.1, it could be form B8, it could be G3 or D-3.2e, and then it has to be filed away in a specific way under a specific designation. At times it could be completely nonsensical but still necessary and part of proper procedure....all of that requires training and experience. Someone from a totally unconnected role can't just take over this position and do an excellent job at it, unless it has been previously established that they too had prior training and guidance in this.

Example: Cale(KRS) and Basen Henituse in Trash of the Count's Family. Kim Rok Soo before trasmigration into Cale Henituse was a team leader who has experience with important official documentation and paperwork for the Company. Basen Henituse is established to have been send to territory heirship classes and doing well in them. These two people being able to take on the other's paperwork load is not at all farfetched. (Same with Cale and Alberu though the latter would still have to sign and seal his insignia separately in the end.)

So no someone who's untrained can't just take someone else's paperwork and just breeze through them unless they are like supernaturally intelligent to the point of figuratively downloading all the necessary data and information directly into their brain or something.

Let's not even talk about how the character might have a particular way and organisation of doing things and someone else taking over their workload without permission might just mess that order up and their well intended actions might end up doing more harm than good.

Look at MXTX's Shang Qinghua or Ling Wen. As I'm reading SVSSS right now let's take it as an example.

Someone who can conduct and lead an audit: Shang Qinghua, specifically trained as an auditor. Yue Qingyuan- can possibly fill in for a specific kind of audit.

Someone who cannot conduct an audit: Literally every other Peak Lord on Cang Qiong. Not trained for it. Should not be in charge of it.

Someone who can file in medical paperwork: Mu Qingfang, head of medical operations in the sect.

Someone who can't do that: his Peak Lord colleagues. At most they'll be able to file in incident reports and other such forms that guardians of patients will have to fill in at a hospital.

People involved with merchants and associated business transactions: Shang Qinghua(logistics expert-procurement logistics), and for large contracts, Yue Qingyuan(Sect Leader). Other Peak Lords depending on the goods. For example the Zui Xian Peak Lord when they are negotiating prices for the raw materials or equipment for alcohol brewing or Wei Qingwei when they are sourcing metal.

Someone who can handle annual budgeting: Shang Qinghua. Person who allocates the funds according to the final budget- Yue Qingyuan.

Persons who can't do that: His colleagues who are definitely not trained in finances and accounting.

And so on and so on.

Shang Qinghua was invited back to the sect after literal treason because nobody else could do his job. That should tell you that people without specific training can't just take over the paperwork of another person's job unless their own jobs are connected enough to be sufficiently similar that they can handle it.

So no someone like Shen Qingqiu who's a scholar and tactician primarily, can't take the entirety of Shang Qinghua's or Mu Qingfang's or Yue Qingyuan's paperwork and fill it in for them, no matter how intelligent he is. Though I'm sure Yue Qingyuan would let him sect be damned lmao.

You see things like this in many other fandoms as well. Innocuous forms that anyone can fill in are okay but complicated paperwork for auditing, budgeting, logistics, diplomacy, business transactions, internal affairs, etc? No way. That all takes time to familiarize with before even properly filing them let alone actually doing them.

This is of course a personal pet peeve as I mentioned from the beginning. People are free to write what they want, read what they want, like what they want. This is no way an accusation towards particular individuals. It's just that for me it breaks immersion pretty quickly.

[saywhat-politics]

The top official's departure is the latest in a wave of exits from senior officials whose agencies have come into the crosshairs of Elon Musk's Department of Government Efficiency.

Feb. 17, 2025, 8:26 PM MST

By Yamiche Alcindor and Raquel Coronell Uribe

Michelle King, the top official at the Social Security Administration, left her position this weekend after she refused a request from Elon Musk's Department of Government Efficiency to access sensitive government records at the agency, according to two sources familiar with the situation.

White House spokesperson Harrison Fields confirmed that King was no longer the head of the agency in a statement.

[styrmwb]

References to Previous Final Fantasies in Dawntrail

Or, how 9 + 11 + 6 = 14, somehow. (SPOILERS, OBVIOUSLY)

I've played every mainline FF, plus a few others, so one of my favorite things about playing XIV is seeing what they do with previous FFs, and how they incorporate it into the world/story. Dawntrail very very much did this, to the point that I could literally predict plot points before they happened. (THIS IS NOT A COMPLAINT I LOVED THIS)

So I figured I would put down my fanboying in text form, for people to read the insanity of a madman who has played too many JRPGs from a single series.

Note: I have not completed every single side quest, but I have done the entire MSQ, every dungeon, and 3/5 of the role quests. This isn't a complete collection, just what I noticed :)

V

Krile's "real name" is Maya. The original Krile in FFV was Krile Meyer Baldesion. (XIV might also have the middle name but I don't remember! I'm gonna put it here regardless!)

VI

Valigarmanda is the first Esper you encounter in VI, right at the start of the game. Its summon attack is Tri-Disaster. I really liked how they kept it frozen in ice, just like the original, and because Tri-Disaster is a SMN ability, they changed it to Tulidisaster to fit the Tural location.

Pictomancer was first in VI as well, being Relm's job. She even got to be in XIV as well, being credited as the Archon who created the art (HA). Shoutouts to the Relm reborn joke it needed to happen

IX

One of the two most important games in this expansion. There is A Lot here.

The preorder bonus/deluxe edition had a Wind-Up Zidane and Garnet, the two main protagonists of FFIX.

Alexandria is lifted directly from IX. The name, the style of the buildings, and even the castle with the crystal popping out of the top, shown in the dungeon and in Yesterland in Living Memory.

(This is the Dissidia NT version, but I wanted a picture that showed the castle and the roof architecture)

Solution Nine is named after one of Zidane's Dyne abilities. While not direct, Living Memory, the final zone, is very reminiscent of Memoria, the final dungeon of IX. I wonder if you can get a special sword by completing the entire MSQ in under 2 hours?

Living Memory also features quite a few locations from IX. The Canal Town looks very similar to Treno, and features a location called the Daguerreo Medical Collection, named after the city as well. Underneath Proto Alexandria in Yesterland, where the data terminal lies, looks very similar to the part of Alexandria Castle where Steiner can grind to level 99 (I don't know how else to describe it if you know you know). In the Windspath Gardens lies the Cleyra Museum of Nature, also named after the IX city.

Some quest text in Living Memory tells you about other locations in the Unlost World. Lindblum, the city that holds hunts and is very technologically advanced; Conde Petie, where the Dwarves are from (mentioned by a Milalla who said he was from there), and the Iifa Tree. There might even be more here, that I either missed or haven't done yet.

Another quest has you go on a treasure hunt for a password. This password? "I Want to Be Your Canary", the play from FFIX.

Solution Nine has a couple buildings with monsters from IX as signs. One building features a Mu (Which is also mentioned in Living Memory), and another building features Yans, both friendly and not friendly.

Another monster that I noticed a reference to was the Gimme Cat, which is featured on the popcorn in Living Memory. It's also mentioned as an energy drink, but called a "Gimme Bat" instead? I guess it does have bat wings.

While XIV doesn't have any direct plot important characters from IX, the ones we do have are very reminiscent of its cast, and clearly are done like that on purpose.

Otis is Steiner (with maybe a little tiny bit of Beatrix depending on how you look at it). Captain of the Knights of Alexandria, he speaks in an older fashion, similar to Steiner, and is very loyal to his princess.

Sphene is an interesting mix. The most obvious one is Garnet, both being Queens of Alexandria, being named after stones, and loving their people. The other one, which might be argued isn't intended, is Garland.

(No, not those guys. The other one.)

Garland in IX is an artificial being whose purpose is to continue his world's life. To do this, he would try to fuse Terra (his planet), with Gaia (the main planet), and control Gaian souls for Terra instead. What did Sphene do? Try to fuse her reflection with the Source, to use their souls for her own people. I personally think this is a very clear similarity.

In general, because of this similarity, the latter half of Dawntrail shares very similar themes with IX's plots, dealing with death and souls. I also think it's pretty funny that both start out pretty happy and cartoony, and end fairly depressing and existential.

Another plot point used in the MSQ is the play sequence. While IX's is based off love, and XIV's is the history of Alexandria, both feature a sword fight scene. (99 out of 100 nobles approve).

Finally, several songs from IX are used in Dawntrail. In the above mentioned play, Swords of Fury plays, just like the original. And a few scenes later, Vamo'alla Flamenco (previously used for the DNC quests) plays, though it should have been during the sword fight!! Prima Vista Orchestra and Fleeting Life are used in several scenes, usually involving Sphene. Something to Protect also appears, but in a scene I can't recall. Finally, the Court Jesters' theme gets a remix as the main song in the Strayborough Deadwalk.

X

There is a singular joke in Heritage Found made about dodging lightning bolts right before the flash so they don't hit you. The person who wrote this line wanted to induce PTSD in as many people as they could with only a single line of dialogue.

XI

The other most important game in the expansion. In a way, Dawntrail FEELS like it could have been an XI expansion in another lifetime. I might be looking too much into it, but I feel as though this was foreshadowed back in the first patch of Endwalker, as Dawntrail takes A LOT from the Treasures of Aht Urhgan expansion.

In Endwalker, the Alzadaal's Legacy dungeon was based off of the Alzadaal Underwater Ruins in Aht Urhgan. The dungeon used many models from XI, such as the Rampart, the Xzomit (hell yes!), and the Acrolith. The dungeon had a visual similarity, as well as the areas in the dungeon being named after zones in Aht Urhgan (Bhaflau Thickets, Arrapago Reef, and Mount Zhayolm). I know this is Endwalker and not Dawntrail but trust me it's important for the foreshadowing.

Gulool Ja Ja was a boss in the Besieged mode of ToAU, leading the Mamool Ja Savages to assault Al Zahbi. Both incarnations of this character are VERY different from each other.

Similarly, Gurfurlur was also a boss in Besieged, leading the Troll Mercenaries. It's very funny to me that both of these warmongers became such nice people in Tural.

The Yok Huy as a whole are actually Trolls from XI. The different name I assume coming from the fact that Trolls are already an enemy in XIV, in Labyrinthos.

While this isn't direct, and is probably unintentional, the fact that the final boss in Vanguard was a naga/lamia like entity only makes me wonder if it was somehow a callback to Medusa and the Undead Swarm, the last remaining Besieged invaders.

Zoraal Ja is a Notorious Monster in the areas around Aht Urhgan.

To continue on with Mamool Ja facts, Mamook is an area in ToAU. They don't look very similar, but they do both share the title of Autarch as their ruler. Mamool Ja in general come from XI, so it's no surprise that in the expansion that well, expands on them, it uses XI for inspiration.

This next one might be a little insane. The general plot of Treasures of Aht Urhgan, is that after killing Promathia, a god that wishes to end all life, the Adventurer goes to a completely different area to have a relatively calmer adventure. Here, they meet a female member of royalty named Aphmau. Her brother, Razfahd, unable to rule over the country, has a conquering nature, and uses an Automaton body to control Alexander for his goals. This... can't be a coincidence, right?? We kill the Endsinger, who wanted to end all life, go to a completely different area to have a relatively calmer adventure with our female member of royalty, Wuk Lamat, and we fight against Zoraal Ja, her war hungry brother that is unable to rule, so he uses the power of Alexandria (a mech suit) for his goals. You... you see what I'm cooking here right??? RIGHT!?!?!

To piggyback off of this, Wuk Lamat very much fits the role of the XI heroine. A girl who is very clearly the main character of the story, and hangs around you more than anyone else.

Edit: one last thing that I forgot to put down before posting, one of the hunts uses the Magic Pot model from XI. We love Magic Pot.

I THINK that should be everything I found? I know for a fact we're going to get more since the Alliance Raids are based of off XI (I'm so excited)

XIII

A couple enemy models were used from XIII.

The Silver Lobos in Urqopacha use the XIII model. I'm fairly sure they've never been used in XIV yet, but I could be wrong.

Similarly, the Strayborough Deadwalk uses the Gremlin/Ahriman enemies. I do not think they've been used before this, feel free to yell at me if I'm wrong :)

Type-0

While not like, direct, the concept of erasing the memories of anyone who has died (especially seen as a blessing) was a major plot point of Type-0's world.

I think that's everything? My memory isn't the greatest, so I'm sure there's something I noticed that I missed, and again; I haven't done everything, so there might be even more out there that I've yet to find!

Please, feel free to comment anything else that you may have noticed, and hopefully you enjoyed reading :)

[carpedzem]

it has been 3 hours firefox doesnt want to start

mu pc is testing my patience today

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A bowl of avocado spread sculpted into a pattern, topped with olive oil and garnished with symmetrical lines of nigella seeds and piles of pomegranate seeds; a pile of pita bread is in the background. End ID]

متبل الأفوكادو / Mutabbal al-'afukadu (Palestinian avocado dip)

Avocados are not native to Palestine. Israeli settlers planted them in Gaza in the 1980s, before being evicted when Israel evacuated all its settlements in Gaza in 2005. The avocados, however, remained, and Gazans continued to cultivate them for their fall and winter harvest. Avocados have been folded into the repertoire of a "new" Palestinian cuisine, as Gazans and other Palestinians have found ways to interpret them.

Palestinians may add local ingredients to dishes traditionally featuring avocado (such as Palestinian guacamole, "جواكامولي فلسطيني" or "غواكامولي فلسطيني"), or use avocado in Palestinian dishes that typically use other vegetables (pickling them, for example, or adding them to salads alongside tomato and cucumber).

Another dish in this latter category is حمص الافوكادو (hummus al-'afukadu)—avocado hummus—in which avocado is smoothly blended with lemon juice, white tahina (طحينة البيضاء, tahina al-bayda'), salt, and olive oil. Yet another is متبّل الأفوكادو (mutabbal al-'afukadu). Mutabbal is a spiced version of بابا غنوج (baba ghannouj)‎: "مُتَبَّل" means "spiced" or "seasoned," from "مُ" "mu-," a participlizing prefix, + "تَبَّلَ" "tabbala‎," "to have spices added to." Here, fresh avocado replaces the roasted eggplant usually used to make this smooth dip; it is mixed with green chili pepper, lemon juice, garlic, white tahina, sumac, and labna (لبنة) or yoghurt. Either of these dishes may be topped with sesame or nigella seeds, pomegranate seeds, fresh dill, or chopped nuts, and eaten with sliced and toasted flatbread.

Avocados' history in Palestine precedes their introduction to Gaza. They were originally planted in 1908 by a French order of monks, but these trees have not survived. It was after the Balfour Declaration of 1917 (in which Britain, having been promised colonial control of Palestine with the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire after World War 1, pledged to establish "a national home for the Jewish people" in Palestine) that avocado agriculture began to take root.

In the 1920s, 30s, and 40s, encouraged by Britain, Jewish Europeans began to immigrate to Palestine in greater numbers and establish agricultural settlements (leaving an estimated 29.4% of peasant farming families without land by 1929). Seeds and seedlings from several varieties of avocado were introduced from California by private companies, research stations, and governmental bodies (including Mikveh Israel, a school which provided settlers with agricultural training). In these years, prices were too high for Palestinian buyers, and quantities were too low for export.

It wasn't until after the beginning of the Nakba (the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians from "Jewish" areas following the UN partition of Palestine in 1947) that avocado plantings became significant. With Palestinians having been violently expelled from most of the area's arable land, settlers were free to plant avocados en masse for export, aided (until 1960) by long-term, low-interest loans from the Israeli government. The 400 acres planted within Israel's claimed borders in 1955 ballooned to 2,000 acres in 1965, then 9,000 by 1975, and over 17,000 by 1997. By 1986, Israel was producing enough avocados to want to renegotiate trade agreements with Europe in light of the increase.

Israeli companies also attained commercial success selling avocados planted on settlements within the West Bank. As of 2014, an estimated 4.5% of Israeli avocado exports were grown in the occupied Jordan Valley alone (though data about crops grown in illegal settlements is of course difficult to obtain). These crops were often tended by Palestinian workers, including children, in inhumane conditions and at starvation wages. Despite a European Union order to specify the origin of such produce as "territories occupied by Israel since 1967," it is often simply marked "Israel." Several grocery stores across Europe, including Carrefour, Lidl, Dunnes Stores, and Aldi, even falsified provenance information on avocados and other fruits in order to circumvent consumer boycotts of goods produced in Israel altogether—claiming, for example, that they were from Morocco or Cyprus.

Meanwhile, while expanding its own production of avocados, Israel was directing, limiting, and destabilizing Palestinian agriculture in an attempt to eliminate competition. In 1982, Israel prohibited the planting of fruit trees without first obtaining permission from military authorities; in practice, this resulted in Palestinians (in Gaza and the West Bank) being entirely barred from planting new mango and avocado trees, even to replace old, unproductive ones.

Conditions worsened in the years following the second intifada. Between September of 2000 and September of 2003, Israeli military forces destroyed wells, pumps, and an estimated 85% of the agricultural land in al-Sayafa, northern Gaza, where farmers had been using irrigation systems and greenhouses to grow fruits including citrus, apricots, and avocados. They barred almost all travel into and out of al-Sayafa: blocking off all roads that lead to the area, building barricades topped with barbed wire, preventing entry within 150 meters of the barricade under threat of gunfire, and opening crossings only at limited times of day and only for specific people, if at all.

A July 2001 prohibition on Palestinian vehicles within al-Sayafa further slashed agricultural production, forcing farmers to rely on donkeys and hand carts to tend their fields and to transport produce across the crossing. If the crossing happened to be closed, or the carts could not transport all the produce in time, fruits and vegetables would sit waiting in the sun until they rotted and could not be sold. The 2007 blockade worsened Gaza's economy still further, strictly limiting imports and prohibiting exports entirely (though later on, there would be exceptions made for small quantities of specific crops).

In the following years, Israel allowed imports of food items into Gaza not exceeding the bare minimum for basic sustenance, based on an estimation of the caloric needs of its inhabitants. Permitted (apples, bananas, persimmons, flour) and banned items for import (avocados, dates, grapes) were ostensibly based on "necessary" versus "luxury" foods, but were in fact directed according to where Israeli farmers could expect the most profit.

Though most of the imports admitted into Gaza continued to come from Israel, Gazan farmers kept pursuing self-sufficiency. In 2011, farmers working on a Hamas-government-led project in the former settlements produced avocados, mangoes, and most of the grapes, onions, and melons that Gazans ate; by 2015, though still forbidden from exporting excess, they were self-sufficient in the production of crops including onions, watermelon, cantaloupe, grapes, almonds, olives, and apples.

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Ingredients:

2 medium avocados (300g total)

1/4 cup white tahina

2 Tbsp labna (لبنة), or yoghurt (laban, لبن رايب)

1 green chili pepper

2 cloves garlic

2 Tbsp good olive oil

Juice of 1/2 lemon (1 1/2 Tbsp)

1 tsp table salt, or to taste

Pomegranate seeds, slivered almonds, pine nuts, chopped dill, nigella seeds, sesame seeds, sumac, and/or olive oil, to serve

Khubiz al-kmaj (pita bread), to serve

Instructions:

1. In a mortar and pestle, crush garlic, pepper, and a bit of salt into a fine paste.

2. Add avocados and mash to desired texture. Stir in tahina, labna, olive oil, lemon juice, and additional salt.

You can also combine all ingredients in a blender or food processor.

3. Top with a generous drizzle of olive oil. Add toppings, as desired.

4. Cut pita into small rectangles or triangles and separate one half from the other (along where the pocket is). Toast in the oven, or in a large, dry skillet, stirring occasionally, until golden brown. Serve dip alongside toasted pita chips.