#why does everything at some point find a way of making me tick

[pucksandpower]

All the Way Home

Toto Wolff x Lauda!Reader

Summary: growing up, you were the closest thing to a princess the paddock had, but then your Opa died and your father stole everything that was supposed to be yours while making sure to ship you far away from everything you called home … until a chance encounter with Toto brings back hope you were too afraid to feel for years

“You know,” Toto mutters, flicking a drop of latte foam off his blazer, “I think this is the universe telling me to stop drinking oat milk.”

You blink up at him, brows lifted, expression somewhere between mortified and amused. “Or maybe just … stop walking while texting.”

The coffee has already started to soak into his shirt. You’re holding what’s left of yours — lid cracked, brown ring around the rim, paper sleeve twisted halfway off. The crowd of students on Harvard Yard swirls around you like you’re a rock in a stream.

He squints at you. There’s something — some flicker of recognition behind his eyes. And for a moment you think maybe you imagined it, but then he tilts his head. “I know you.”

You’re already taking a step back. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” he insists. “I do. That voice. That accent.”

“Lots of people have accents,” you reply, sharper than you meant. It’s reflex. That blade in your voice — that edge you honed after years of learning how to disappear without actually vanishing.

He studies you more closely now. Tall and deliberate. Eyes narrowing like he’s squinting through fog.

You turn. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“Wait-” He reaches for your arm but doesn’t touch. “Please. Just a second.”

You stop. Only just. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Not commanding. Not pushy. Just … asking.

He exhales. “You’re her. You’re Niki’s-”

“Don’t,” you cut in. Quietly. But it lands like a punch.

Toto’s mouth snaps shut. You stare at him for a moment, jaw tight, chest taut with that old ache that always finds a way to crawl back up your throat.

You don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

He clears his throat, gestures vaguely to the now-soggy sleeve of his shirt. “You owe me a new coffee.”

You arch a brow. That old Lauda move. He sees it and his expression flickers. Something like heartbreak and wonder at once. “I don’t owe you anything,” you say, but it doesn’t have bite this time. It’s … tired.

“I was joking,” he says quickly, raising both hands. “Of course.”

You sigh. The cup in your hand is still warm, but it doesn’t comfort you. You glance down at it. Then back up.

He looks older. But grounded. Solid. He doesn’t wear grief like you do, but you can see it. There. Behind the smile lines. In the slower way he breathes.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he says, after a long pause.

“Clearly.”

“You’re a student?”

“Yes.” You hesitate. “A bit over a year left.”

Toto’s brows rise, impressed. “What are you studying?”

“Finance.”

He chuckles. “Of course you are.”

You shift, uncomfortable. “Why are you here?”

“Guest lecture,” he says. “Leadership series.”

You nod, even though you don’t really care. Not about that, at least.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he adds, softer now. “None of us knew where you went.”

“That was the point.”

His jaw ticks. There’s silence between you again, thick and humming. The background chatter of students, birds, bikes zipping by — it all fades for a second.

“I looked for you,” he says. “After Niki passed.”

You feel that pang in your chest again, sharp and raw. You push it down. “Well,” you say, “my father made sure no one would find me.”

Toto’s face hardens. “I know.”

You cross your arms. “Do you?”

“I know what he did. I tried to intervene, but-”

“But it wasn’t your fight,” you finish for him. You don’t mean to sound bitter, but maybe you do.

He takes that. Doesn’t flinch. “I wish I’d made it mine.”

You blink. That hits somewhere unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“It does.”

“No.” You take a step back. “It really doesn’t.”

He watches you, carefully. “Let me buy you another coffee.”

“I don’t want a coffee.”

“Something else, then.”

You hesitate. For a beat too long. He sees it.

You don’t know what it is. Something about his voice? His presence? The way he says it like it’s not an offer, but a peace treaty?

You look away. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t.” He shrugs. “I want to.”

You almost laugh. “What, out of guilt?”

“No,” he says. “Out of care.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

There’s a pause. He glances at your hand. The way your fingers tighten around the cup. The way your nails dig into the paper sleeve.

“How long has it been since you spoke to anyone from the paddock?” He asks.

You laugh. Just once. Dry. “Since the day I was forced to leave.”

“Anyone?”

You shake your head. “I cut everyone off.”

“But why?”

You look him dead in the eyes. “Because it was easier.”

His expression falters. Just slightly.

“I had to survive,” you continue. “And no one was going to save me. Not back then.”

He breathes out slowly. “I’m sorry we didn’t.”

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.”

“I know.” A pause. “But I still do.”

You look at him. For a long, quiet moment. This man who used to call you “mäuschen” when you would wander around the Mercedes garage in your soundproof headphones, gripping Niki’s hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. This man who used to sneak you chocolate and sit you on the pit wall during debriefs, even when it pissed everyone off.

You exhale.

“It’s been a long time,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

You nod slowly. “You should change your shirt.”

He grins. “That bad?”

“Very.”

“Will you be at the lecture?”

You snort. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have three final projects, a CAPSTONE defense, and a job offer for next summer I haven’t decided if I’m taking.”

“Impressive.”

You shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

“Where’s the offer?”

“London.”

That surprises him. He doesn’t say anything for a second. “You’d be closer to the team.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not why I’m going.”

He smiles. “Still. It’s a nice thought.”

You fidget with your sleeve. “I don’t know if I’ll take it.”

“Well,” he says, “if you do … maybe we talk again?”

You hesitate. That familiar voice in your head wants to say no. The one that’s protected you for years. But you look at him. And suddenly you’re eight again, in the paddock, sitting on Niki’s shoulders, watching Toto yell at a race strategist with one hand while handing you a juice box with the other.

Maybe you’re allowed to want a sliver of something soft again.

“Maybe,” you say.

He beams.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodbye, Toto.”

He gives you a little wave as you turn to go.

But just before you vanish into the stream of students, you hear him call out. “Hey!”

You stop. Half-turn.

His smile is lopsided. “You look just like him, you know.”

You don’t ask who. You don’t have to. You nod. Once. And then you’re gone.

But he’s still standing there, dripping coffee and smiling like someone just handed him back something he thought was lost forever.

***

It starts with an email.

You’re curled up in a library armchair, shoes kicked off under the table, your laptop balanced on your knees. The screen glows with half-finished spreadsheets and a cruelly blinking cursor in the middle of a thesis sentence that refuses to write itself.

Your phone buzzes. You glance down, expecting a reminder or another notification about graduation regalia, but it’s an email.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

Subject: An Apology, Properly This Time

You stare at it for a full ten seconds before clicking.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to say again how sorry I am — for the coffee, for the past, for losing track of you when it mattered most.

It was a surprise to see you, but a welcome one. If you’re willing, I’d love the chance to talk properly. Maybe I can buy you that replacement coffee after all.

Wishing you a good rest of the semester.

Warmly,

Toto

You roll your eyes. Warmly. He always did try too hard to be approachable in emails. You and Niki used to laugh at that.

Your fingers hover over the keys. You type three words.

I’m fine, thanks.

And hit send. Done.

Or so you think.

***

A day later, another email.

This time, the subject line is just your name.

Y/N,

I hope you won’t mind me writing again. I keep thinking about what you said or didn’t say. I know you don’t want to talk about Niki. Or the past. But not seeing you at races has been … strange.

The paddock still feels like it’s waiting for you to show up. Sometimes I catch myself turning, expecting to see you sitting in your old seat on the pit wall.

You were always there. Every race. Every season. You were a part of this world.

I suppose I just wanted you to know … we noticed when you disappeared. And I’m sorry we didn’t say so sooner.

- Toto

This one sits in your inbox all afternoon. You reread it between lectures. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Just nostalgia. But something in your chest cracks open just a little — hairline, nothing dangerous — and you find yourself hitting reply.

Fine. One lunch. You pick the place. I pick the time. You’re paying.

Don’t get used to it.

***

You meet at a little café near campus — somewhere he won’t be recognized, you hope. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the outdoor patio, awkwardly tall in a chair clearly not built for someone with his legs.

He stands when he sees you.

“You came,” he says, as if surprised.

You shrug, sliding into the seat across from him. “You wouldn’t shut up.”

He grins. “Persistent, not annoying.”

“Debatable.”

The waitress brings menus, but you barely glance at yours.

Toto peers over his. “You know what you want?”

“Anything that’s not ramen,” you mutter.

He chuckles. “That bad?”

“I’ve had instant noodles for dinner every night this week.”

There’s a pause. Then he looks up. “You don’t have to-”

“Don’t,” you say, sharply. “Don’t offer money. Or help. Or sympathy. This isn’t a rescue lunch.”

He nods slowly, lips pressing together. “Understood.”

A beat passes. The air between you cools. You open your menu again, mostly to avoid his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, “we would have taken care of you.”

You don’t look up. “You didn’t get the chance.”

Toto lets that hang in the air for a moment. He doesn’t push. That’s always been his thing. Niki used to call him the tactician. Playing the long game.

Finally, you sigh. “You know, I thought maybe the F1 world would forget about me. Or pretend I was never there.”

He tilts his head. “You really think that?”

You glance up. “Don’t tell me I’m some legendary mystery now.”

Toto smiles faintly. “Actually, yes. Sort of. You vanished. No one knew where you went. People asked.”

“Who?”

“Lewis. Nico. Valterri. Everyone at Brackley. People from Ferrari. Red Bull, even. You were … part of the paddock.”

“Were,” you say. “Past tense.”

He shakes his head. “Not for us.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

The waitress returns. You order something with actual protein and real vegetables, just because you can. Toto gets a quiche. You hand her the menus and fold your arms on the table.

“Fine,” you say. “You want the story? Here it is.”

He straightens slightly. He doesn’t interrupt.

“My father,” you begin, “never wanted me. Not when I was born. Not ever.”

Toto’s jaw tightens, but he nods for you to go on.

“I was an inconvenience. An accident. Opa … he took one look at me and decided I was his. That was it. He raised me like I was a second chance.”

Toto smiles, almost wistfully. “He adored you.”

You nod. “I know. I know he did.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.

“He brought me to every race. Every meeting. Every single Grand Prix. I knew the names of every mechanic before I could spell my own. You were all my family.”

Toto doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then he died. And everything stopped.”

You pause. The air turns heavier.

“My father used a loophole in the will. Something buried in the Austrian estate law. It took a week — one week — and everything was gone.”

Toto’s brows furrow. “Gone?”

“Everything Opa left me. Every cent. Every asset. The houses. The trust fund. Gone.” You laugh, short and bitter. “He even took the watch Opa gave me on my sixteenth birthday.”

Toto looks like he’s going to be sick.

You go on. “Next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Geneva with a suitcase and a pre-paid tuition slip. No more phone. No contacts. No access. Just silence.”

“But the team-”

“I wasn’t allowed to reach out,” you say. “He made it very clear. And honestly? I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

Toto’s face hardens. “You were a child.”

You smile faintly. “Not really. Not after that.”

He runs a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

You tap the table. “So yeah. That’s how I went from the paddock to scholarship kid eating ramen.”

There’s a silence after that. A deep one. Then Toto says, voice low, “We would’ve fought for you.”

You meet his eyes. “It would’ve ruined you.”

“I don’t care.”

You believe him. But it doesn’t change anything.

“You’re here now,” he says. “That’s-”

“I work three jobs,” you interrupt. “One in the library, one at the student union, and one grading econ papers. I live on black coffee and stolen WiFi.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You smirk. “Still think I’m the girl from the pit wall?”

“I think you’re stronger than anyone I know,” he says, quietly.

That hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

The food arrives. You both pretend to eat.

Finally, you say, “Why did you really email me?”

Toto blinks. “I told you.”

“No,” you press. “Not just guilt. Not just Niki. Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I think you still belong with us.”

You laugh. “You don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty good picture.”

You sit back, watching him. Measuring. “Lunch doesn’t mean anything,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not coming back.”

He nods. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Then don’t take it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You always this persistent?”

He smiles. “Only for people who matter.”

You look away. Pretend the food matters more than the ache in your chest. But for the first time in years, the ache feels just a little less lonely.

***

Toto doesn’t sleep that night. He tells himself it’s the jet lag. Or the speech he has to deliver tomorrow. Or the espresso shot he downed at 8 PM like he wasn’t fifty-something with a tendency toward insomnia. But it’s not any of those things.

It’s you. It’s the way you said it — flat, matter-of-fact, like you were reciting the weather. My father stole everything. I work three jobs. I live on coffee and WiFi.

He’s haunted by the image of you sitting across from him at that little café, shoulders squared like armor, voice steady in a way that only people who’ve had to grow up too fast can manage. Niki would’ve lost his mind.

Toto rubs a hand down his face and opens his laptop. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first. Then he types:

Niki Lauda probate case.

The search results light up instantly. Austrian court records. Legal filings. Estate dispute. It’s all there — cold, clinical, digitized.

He clicks through, heart in his throat. And then he sees it. Niki’s will.

Filed one week after the funeral. A scanned PDF, official letterhead, stiff legalese.

To my only granddaughter, Y/N Lauda, I leave all personal assets, properties, and financial holdings under the Lauda Family Trust …

Toto’s mouth goes dry. There. In black and white. Niki left you everything. Just like he said he would.

But there’s more. A new filing. Contested. Your father’s name plastered all over it. Lawyers arguing that the will was “not consistent with existing family arrangements.” That Niki was “mentally compromised” in his final months. That the Lauda Trust should revert to the immediate heir under Austrian inheritance law.

And somehow they won.

Toto leans back in his chair, stunned. The legal gymnastics are breathtaking. Technicalities stacked on loopholes stacked on decades-old clauses Niki probably never even remembered existed. And no one fought it. No one even appealed.

You were seventeen. Still in shock. Still reeling. And they took everything.

He exhales sharply, pushes away from the desk. Stands. Paces. Swears under his breath. Then he grabs his phone.

***

You’re still half-asleep when it buzzes. Four times. You groan, roll over, slap at the screen until you find the call.

“Toto,” you croak, voice hoarse. “It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

“I read the will.”

You sit up. “What?”

“I pulled the court records. Niki left everything to you.”

Your stomach drops.

“Toto-”

“They stole it,” he says. “Your father. His lawyers. They-”

“I know,” you snap.

Silence.

You rub your eyes. “I know. Okay? I read it too. Years ago.”

“You didn’t tell me-”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

He makes a strangled sound, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It matters.”

“No, it’s over,” you say. “The case is closed. It’s done.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then, “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“You’re lying.”

You grit your teeth. “Toto, I swear to God-”

“He left it to you,” he says again, quieter now. “He meant for you to have it. Every bit of it.”

You exhale, long and shaky. “And he’s dead. And I didn’t have the money or the power to fight them. So I lost.”

“But I do,” he says.

You freeze.

“No,” you say quickly. “Don’t.”

“You know I can help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not some lost cause you need to fix!” Your voice breaks. “I’m not a team project, Toto. I’m not a race strategy you can outmaneuver.”

His breath catches on the line.

And then, softly, “That’s not what this is.”

You close your eyes. “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose more.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Another long silence.

Then he says, quietly, “You’re allowed to let someone help you.”

You hang up.

***

You avoid him for two days.

It’s childish, maybe, but you’re exhausted. From finals, from pretending, from carrying this thing like it���s not heavy. And now there’s him. Toto. This immovable force from your past suddenly crashing back into your orbit, and he’s not like you remember.

He’s worse. He’s older, yes — but not in the way you expected. Not smaller. Not dimmer. If anything, he’s more. More commanding. More composed. But also warmer. Gentler.

It throws you off balance.

The Toto you remember barked orders, clapped shoulders too hard, handed you protein bars and told you to “eat something that isn’t sugar.”

This one … This one looks at you like you matter. Like you still belong. And that’s worse than anything.

Because you don’t. Not anymore.

***

You’re walking across the quad when you spot him.

He’s standing near the gates, sunglasses pushed into his hair, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to look casual but failing spectacularly.

You stop. Groan. “Seriously?”

He turns. Smiles.

“I thought you were leaving,” you say.

“Tonight.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk,” he says, clearly lying.

You walk past him. He falls into step beside you.

You glare. “You don’t know how to quit, do you?”

“No,” he says. “I really don’t.”

You sigh.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just footsteps on pavement. Then he says, “I talked to a friend in Vienna.”

Your jaw tightens. “Toto-”

“She’s a probate lawyer. And a pain in the ass. She took one look at the filings and said they reek of manipulation.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

You stop walking.

“I said no,” you say, firmly.

“I know.”

“And you did it anyway.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And not in that polite, professional, Toto way. This is something else. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Every wall, every scar.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone,” he says.

You hate how it sounds. Like kindness. Like care.

You look away. “You don’t get to care now.”

“I never stopped.”

That makes your breath catch.

He softens. “You think we all forgot. We didn’t. We were told you were … taken care of.”

You snort. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not the way you deserved.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, cold despite the sun. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you say. “This thing where you swoop in like some — some savior. You’re not responsible for what happened.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I can still do something about it.”

You shake your head. “I’ve already rebuilt everything from nothing. I have a life now. A plan.”

He steps closer. “And what if you could have your life back?”

Your eyes meet. The air shifts. You don’t say it, but he sees it. That flicker of longing. The one you’ve buried so deep it hardly breathes anymore. But it’s still there.

You look away. “You should go.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“Goodbye, Toto.”

He nods, once. “For now.”

***

That night, you sit on your bed, staring at your ceiling. Your laptop is still open to your resume draft. You have a final in two days. Your phone is dark.

And still — you can’t stop thinking about him. The way he stood there. Solid. Unshaken. Like he’d tear the sky apart if it meant fixing this for you. Like he cared. Really, really cared.

You remember being ten, sitting on his shoulders after a podium, Niki laughing beside you, champagne sticky on your shirt. You remember Toto carrying you out of the garage when you fell asleep under a desk during FP2. You remember trust.

And now? Now he’s a man. And you’re a woman who’s spent the last six years learning not to want things she can’t have.

You close your laptop and turn off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to let someone fight for you.

Even if it’s him. Especially if it’s him.

***

The subject line of the email reads:

Austrian Grand Prix — A Terribly Unconvincing Excuse to Kidnap You for a Weekend.

You open it, already sighing.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

I think you should come.

Not for the politics. Not for the will. Not for me. Come because it’s Austria. Come because it’s Spielberg. Come because the garage still has your name written into its bones.

Take a break. We’ll call it … strategic recovery. I’ll arrange everything.

- Toto

You stare at it for a long time. Your cursor hovers over “delete.”

You hit reply instead.

This doesn’t mean anything.

Y/N

Two minutes later:

Understood. But I’m still putting wine in your hotel room.

- Toto

***

The private flight makes you uncomfortable. Too much legroom. Too quiet. The kind of luxury you were once too used to and now don’t know how to exist inside. The flight attendant offers you fresh berries and coffee in a porcelain cup. You accept both out of guilt.

When you land in Austria, the air hits you differently. Sharper. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

It’s been six years. Six years since you left the track in tears and didn’t return. Since the headlines turned to nothing at all. Since you buried Niki and yourself all in the same summer.

Toto meets you at the entrance to the paddock.

“Welcome home,” he says.

You give him a look. “It’s not home.”

He lifts a brow. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

***

The moment you step through the paddock gates, time collapses.

People stop in their tracks. A Mercedes engineer drops his clipboard. Another one — the tall one with the silver hair, you can’t remember his name — just stares. His lip trembles.

You nod politely. Keep walking.

Toto walks beside you, a steady presence. Subtle, quiet, unmistakable. His hand never touches you, not quite, but it hovers behind your back like a safety net. Invisible unless you’re paying attention.

You are.

The Mercedes garage comes into view.

You stop. Your breath catches.

And then the crowd parts.

“Y/N?”

The voice is soft, stunned.

You turn. Lewis Hamilton.

He’s in red now — Ferrari. The suit fits him differently, like he’s carrying someone else’s legacy for a while. But his eyes are the same. Kind. Knowing.

“Holy sh-” He doesn’t finish. Just crosses the space between you in seconds and hugs you.

Hard.

You freeze for a beat. Then you melt.

He smells like sweat and tire rubber and something that’s always felt like safety. He pulls back to look at you, eyes wet. “You disappeared.”

“I know.”

“No one knew what happened.”

“I know.”

He studies your face. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Then nod. Barely.

“You’re here now,” he says.

It shouldn’t matter that much. But it does.

***

More people come. Mechanics. Engineers. James Vowles, now in Williams blue. Even Nico Rosberg takes a detour from reporting in the pit lane. They all say the same thing.

We missed you.

Where have you been?

Is it really you?

You smile until your face hurts. Nod until your neck aches. When someone asks if you’re back for good, you excuse yourself.

Toto finds you five minutes later behind the hospitality unit. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Just offers a bottle of water and waits.

You take it.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just a lot.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of a storage crate. He leans beside you.

“You knew this would happen,” you say.

“I hoped,” he admits.

You glance at him. “You’re not even pretending this was about rest.”

“Wasn’t my best lie.”

“No,” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

He grins.

***

By the time the day winds down, your nerves are shot. You let Toto walk you to your hotel room because you’re too tired to argue. It’s nice. Warm. The lights glow low. The view faces the hills.

There’s wine waiting. Of course.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says at the door.

You hesitate. “You could … stay.”

His brow lifts.

“I mean for a glass,” you say quickly. “Just a glass.”

“Right,” he says, smiling. “Just a glass.”

***

The wine is good. Too good. You’re on your second glass before you feel your shoulders loosen.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He’s in the armchair, his jacket shed, tie loosened. He watches you like he used to. Carefully. Kindly.

“So,” you say. “This was your plan.”

“Plan is a strong word.”

“Plot, then.”

“I prefer ‘gentle manipulation.’”

You laugh. You didn’t expect to. It surprises both of you.

You sip your wine. “It was nice. Today.”

He nods.

“Also horrible,” you add.

He nods again.

You stare into your glass. “I really loved it here.”

“I know.”

You trace the rim of the glass. “I was going to work for the team, you know? After university. Opa wanted me in strategy. Said I had the right kind of cruel.”

Toto smiles faintly. “He did say that.”

You swallow. “It’s like I lost him, and then I lost myself.”

You don’t mean to say it. But it slips out, raw and quiet.

Toto puts down his glass. You keep talking.

“And I didn’t know how to fight them. His lawyers. My father. They talked about trust funds and family trusts and implied Niki was confused when he wrote that will. And I was seventeen. I didn’t know who to call. I just … I shut down.”

Your hands shake. You place your glass on the table carefully. Toto says nothing. Just listens.

“I hate them,” you whisper. “And I hate myself for not fighting harder.”

He leans forward. “You were a child.”

“I was supposed to be smarter.”

“You were grieving.”

You blink hard. “I thought I could make it all mean something. Like if I just kept going. Got good grades. Worked hard. Became someone worth the Lauda name — maybe it would matter less that I lost everything else.”

Toto doesn’t speak.

You curl your fingers into fists. “But I still wake up sometimes thinking about the garage. The smell of rubber and champagne. Opa yelling at me in German because I forgot to zip up my jacket. You picking me up after I got too close to the pit lane.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

“I miss being part of something,” you say. “I miss belonging.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. You don’t know why it breaks you.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s just him. But the tears come fast. You curl in on yourself. Press your knuckles to your eyes. Try to swallow it down.

And then Toto is there. He moves carefully, slowly, like you’re a deer in the woods. He sits beside you on the couch and opens his arms.

You don’t hesitate. You fold into him like you’re made to fit there.

He holds you. Not tightly. Not possessively. But completely. Like you’re something precious. Something once lost and newly found.

You cry until your throat hurts. Until your chest unclenches. Until all that’s left is the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you.

Eventually, your breathing evens. Your hands unclench. And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He says nothing. Just brushes his thumb gently over your shoulder.

You don’t move. You don’t want to. Nothing happens. But everything changes.

***

Cambridge looks different after Spielberg. Quieter. Greyer. Like someone turned down the saturation on the world.

You sit at your desk, textbooks spread open, half-read papers blinking on your laptop screen, but nothing sticks. Not the words, not the purpose. Everything’s a fog of too-late thoughts and echoing memories.

You haven’t responded to Toto’s last message. It’s not that you’re avoiding him — though, if pressed, you’d admit that you are. It’s just that being near him feels dangerous. He makes everything feel too sharp and too soft at once. He makes it harder to pretend that you're fine with the scraps. With the half-life you’ve built out of what was taken.

So you pull back. You don’t text. You don’t email. You don’t call.

He doesn’t chase. But he doesn’t vanish, either.

***

The package arrives on a Thursday. A long, sleek box in matte black with no return address.

You almost don’t open it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. A mistake. You set it on the corner of your desk like it doesn’t matter. But an hour later, when your nerves fray and your hands won’t stop fidgeting, you reach for it.

Inside is a leather-bound book, thick and heavy. Handmade. The cover is etched with the words:

LAUDA: A HISTORY IN MOTION

Your chest tightens. It’s not just any book. It’s yours. Photos you didn’t know existed. Notes in Niki’s handwriting. Marginalia from strategy meetings, race notes, printed-out emails between you and the engineers when you were sixteen and insufferable.

You flip to the first page. A card rests inside, handwritten in firm, slanted script.

For when you miss home.

No pressure. No agenda. Just memory.

- Toto

You put the book down. You pick it back up a second later. Then you cry for the first time in a week.

***

Three days later, a message lights up your phone.

I’m in New York for business. If you happen to feel like taking the train down … dinner’s on me.

You stare at it.

You type: I can’t.

You delete it.

You type: Maybe.

You delete that, too.

You end up sending just: When?

His reply is instant.

Tomorrow. 8pm. I’ll send the address. No pressure. Just food.

***

The hotel is expensive. Of course it is. Glass and stone and sleek grey walls with too many sconces. You feel out of place in your jeans and boots. But when you knock on the suite door and Toto opens it, he smiles like you’re exactly what belongs.

“You came.”

“You invited me,” you say, shrugging.

“You still came.”

You glance around. “This room costs more than my monthly rent.”

“Technically,” he says, stepping aside to let you in, “it costs more than your yearly rent.”

You snort. “You’re disgusting.”

He pours wine. “I’ve been called worse.”

***

Dinner is on the coffee table, not the dining table. You’re both cross-legged on the rug, barefoot, chopsticks in hand, picking at spicy tuna rolls and soft dumplings like it’s a sleepover.

Toto watches you closely. You try not to look back too much. But it’s hard. He looks stupid good in casual clothes — black t-shirt, dark jeans, hair a little messier than usual. His laugh is soft and infrequent, but when it happens, it’s like heat curling in your chest.

He tops off your wine. You sip too fast.

“You okay?” He asks after a long silence.

You nod. He waits. You cave.

“I’ve just … never been looked after by anyone who didn’t think they were owed something.”

The words hang there. Soft and sharp at the same time.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s seeing every version of you at once. Then, slowly, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You never owed me anything,” he says.

Your breath catches. It’s stupid, but that one sentence hits deeper than any gesture anyone’s made in years.

You blink quickly. “You’re going to ruin me.”

He smiles faintly. “No, you’ve done that part already.”

You laugh. You don’t mean to. It spills out broken and surprised. You’re still laughing when you kiss him.

It’s instinct. Gravity. You lean forward without thinking. One hand on his cheek. His fingers on your wrist. His mouth is warm. Familiar and new all at once. He kisses you like he’s never known another language, like this is the only word he’s fluent in.

But just as you start to fall into it — just as your hand slips down his chest and he moves closer — he stops. Pulls back. Breath ragged.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “Shit. I-”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t apologize.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I want this,” he says. “God, I want this.”

You’re holding your breath.

“But not like this,” he adds, softer. “Not while you’re still unsure. Not while you think this is something you don’t deserve.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t think that.”

He tilts his head, eyes searching yours. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Because yes. Yes, you do.

Not always. Not when you’re with him. But the second he leaves, the doubt comes crawling back. That you’re broken. That you’re baggage. That you’re something people have to carry, not choose.

“You deserve to be kissed,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, “like you’re not a weight.”

You open your eyes again.

He’s still close. He kisses your forehead — gently, like a promise — and leans back.

You sit in the silence for a while. Breathing.

“You could’ve taken advantage,” you say quietly.

“I’d never.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s what breaks me.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch. He covers you with a blanket. Turns off the lights. Leaves a bottle of water on the table.

In the morning, there’s a note.

Didn’t want to wake you.

I’ll be back in Cambridge soon.

In the meantime …

Remember you were never lost. Just waiting.

- Toto

You fold the note and tuck it into the back of the book he gave you. It’s the first thing you’ve kept in years.

***

The call comes while you’re walking out of a seminar, your phone vibrating insistently in the pocket of your coat. You answer without checking.

“Hello?”

“It’s done.”

Toto’s voice is calm. Steady. There’s something final in it.

You stop on the steps, heart stuttering. “What do you mean, it’s done?”

“Check your inbox.”

You already know before you open it. You already feel it, like a shift under your skin.

The subject line on the email reads Final Settlement Agreement - Lauda v. Lauda

Your stomach flips.

“You didn’t,” you say. “Toto, tell me you didn’t go behind my back-”

“I told you I would take care of it.”

“You said-” You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady your breathing. “You said no pressure. That you wouldn’t interfere unless I asked.”

“I lied,” he says, bluntly. “I’m not sorry.”

You close your eyes.

***

It started two months ago.

You had mentioned it in passing — how your father’s lawyers had buried Niki’s will under a pile of counterclaims, how no one fought back. Because there was no one left to fight.

You remember the silence that followed. Heavy. Intentional.

Then Toto, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, had said, “Let me make this right.”

You’d shaken your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It should be.”

“It’s over.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d stood then, pacing, angry and cornered.

“I don’t want you to do this out of guilt. Or obligation. Or because you loved him.”

“I’m doing this,” he said evenly, “because someone should have the decency to protect you.”

You winced.

Toto took a breath. “I’m not asking for permission,” he said. “I’m just telling you you’re not alone in this.”

***

The legal battle is fast. Brutal. Clinical.

His team — six lawyers, two forensic accountants, and someone who used to work for the Austrian Ministry of Finance — descends like a controlled fire.

You never attend a single meeting. Toto won’t let you. Instead, he updates you in short bursts. Texts. Occasional calls. Never too much.

He’s panicking.

Tried to get the press involved.

We stopped it.

The judge reviewed the original will. It’s solid. Your father never stood a chance.

You don’t respond to most of them. You’re scared to feel hope. But it creeps in anyway.

***

When the settlement is finalized, your father demands a private meeting. Toto insists on being there.

It’s held in a sterile conference room in Vienna. You watch your father walk in, sunburned and stiff-jawed, flanked by two suits and an ego that’s been allowed to rot in peace for too long.

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods once at Toto.

“She wanted to waste it all,” your father says. “Planes. Champagne. Charity. That’s not what he built the company for.”

“She was seventeen,” Toto replies coolly. “What she wanted was time.”

Your father sneers. “You think this is noble? Giving it all back to a little girl who hasn’t worked a real job in her life?”

“I think,” Toto says, standing slowly, “that if you ever say her name with that tone again, I’ll bury you so far in litigation your great-grandchildren will need passports to find you.”

Your father laughs — short, bitter. “I could’ve gone to the press,” he says.

Toto slides a folder across the table.

“NDA,” he says. “If you breathe a word of this, the penalty clause will leave you selling furniture on Willhaben by spring.”

There’s a beat. Then your father signs. And just like that, it’s over.

***

The accounts transfer. The assets are returned. Property titles. Investments. Control of the Lauda Family Trust.

You are, technically, one of the wealthiest young women in Europe.

You should feel triumphant. You don’t. The moment the final document is notarized, you sit in Toto’s car in front of the legal office, staring at the streets you grew up knowing.

Vienna hasn’t changed. You have.

He’s silent beside you.

“You okay?” He asks eventually.

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t look okay.”

You laugh under your breath. “What does okay look like, exactly?”

He doesn't answer.

“I keep waiting to feel like her again,” you admit, finally. “The girl I was. But she’s gone.”

He turns to you. “You’re not gone.”

“I don’t know how to be her anymore. She trusted people. She believed the world would take care of her.”

“She was allowed to believe that,” he says gently.

You glance at him. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, “you don’t have to trust the world. You just have to trust me.”

That breaks something open in you. Quietly. Invisibly. Because it’s not a grand promise. It’s not a vow.

It’s a fact.

***

You don’t go back to Cambridge right away. Instead, you stay in Vienna for a few days. Walk old streets. Visit the empty house Niki left behind.

You don’t cry. Not until you find a scarf of his — still faintly smelling of aftershave — and sit on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom, holding it like a life vest.

Toto gives you space. But he doesn’t go far.

He cooks most nights. Texts you to remind you to eat. Doesn’t press when you go quiet, but he’s always there when you emerge, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On the last night, he pours you a glass of wine and hands you the scarf you left folded on the table. “You should take it.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

You hold it for a moment. Then press it to your face.

“It still smells like him.”

Toto nods. “Sometimes I still wait for him to walk around the corner.”

You look up. “Me too.”

He smiles, faint and sad. “He’d be so damn proud of you.”

You shake your head.

“No, really,” he insists. “He’d be furious about what happened. But he’d be proud of how you survived.”

You take a long sip of wine.

“It doesn’t feel like surviving,” you admit.

He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“It is,” he says. “And soon, it’ll feel like living again.”

You don’t believe him. But God, you want to.

***

You fly back to Massachusetts with a new bank account, a new title, and a legal team on retainer.

Everyone treats you differently now. You hate it.

So you don’t tell anyone. You don’t flaunt it. You keep wearing your old boots and your beat-up coat and sipping your $2 coffee because it still tastes better than the espresso in Vienna ever did.

But you write one check. One. To a foundation in Niki’s name. Quiet, unpublicized. Enough to fund STEM programs for underprivileged girls across Austria and the U.S. for the next ten years.

When the foundation director calls to thank you, you hang up before she finishes. You’re not ready for gratitude yet. You’re still learning how to hold good things without flinching.

***

Toto calls on a Wednesday. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He pauses. “You always say that.”

“It’s the safest answer.”

There’s a beat.

“Come to Hungary,” he says.

You smile despite yourself. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to drag me out of hiding?”

“No,” he says. “It’s become a hobby.”

You laugh. It feels like the first real one in weeks. You say yes. Not because you’re ready. But because maybe you want to be.

***

It starts with a knock at your door. No warning. No text. Just a steady, confident knock like he has every right to be here.

You open it in sweatpants and a t-shirt from the university bookstore, hair unbrushed, a pencil still tucked behind your ear.

And there he is. Toto Wolff. In Cambridge. On a Thursday night.

He’s in jeans and a black sweater, somehow making it look like formalwear, his hair slightly windblown, hands in his pockets.

“You flew here,” you say, deadpan.

“Yes.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he says simply.

“Did you consider texting?”

“I thought about it. Then I thought, no — she’ll say she’s busy.”

You fold your arms. “Because I am.”

He tilts his head. “Are you, though?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

He shrugs, like he can’t help himself. “Also, I missed you.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Then step aside. “Come in.”

***

You don’t go out. It’s raining, and you’re tired, and everything in you resists the idea of putting on makeup just to sit under fluorescent lights and be seen.

So you order in. Italian. Pasta and a bottle of red.

You eat at the small table in your apartment, legs tangled under the wood, like two people who’ve done this a thousand times.

He keeps looking at you. Not in a way that makes you self-conscious, just … quiet, constant awareness. Like he’s memorizing you.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your bowl.

“I know.”

You chew slowly. Swallow.

“Toto,” you murmur, “why are you here?”

“I told you. I missed you.”

“You’re not the kind of man who misses people.”

He nods once. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Silence.

Then you push your bowl away and rest your elbows on the table. “Why me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Because I care about you,” he says. “Because I remember who you were before the world got cruel. And I see who you are now, and I think you’re even stronger.”

You look down at your hands. “Toto-”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You exhale shakily. “You didn’t see what it did to me. What it still does. You come in and you fix things and you’re kind and capable and impossible not to trust, but-”

You break off.

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

He leans in, voice low.

“Do what?”

You look at him — eyes wide, raw, stripped of every defense.

“Let someone care about me without thinking it’ll cost me something.”

He goes still. Then he reaches out, slow and measured, and brushes a thumb against your cheek.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“You don’t owe me gratitude,” he says softly. “You owe yourself peace.”

Your face crumples. God, you’re so tired of being strong.

***

After dinner, he insists on doing the dishes. You try to stop him — he ignores you. It’s so normal it almost feels like something sacred.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Why do you do that?”

He glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Take care of everything.”

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“No, seriously. Why?”

He puts down the sponge, dries his hands, then turns to face you fully.

“Because I’ve learned,” he says, “what it feels like to be taken care of. And what it feels like not to be. And I’d rather be the one doing the taking care, if I can help it.”

You study him. The lines around his eyes. The way he says things without softening them.

“And what if I want to take care of you?” You ask quietly.

That makes him smile, just a little. A flicker of something. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

***

You sit on the couch, side by side. The rain taps gently at the windows. Your knee bumps his. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. “I meant what I said earlier.”

He nods, not asking which part.

“I want you.”

He turns his head. His voice is gentle. “You have me.”

“No, I mean-” You sigh, frustrated with yourself. “I mean, I want this. Us. Whatever we’re doing. But I don’t know how to trust it yet.”

He doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t pull or push. He just waits. And somehow, that undoes you even more than if he’d kissed you senseless.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know.”

You look down. “It’s not because of you. I just …”

“You’ve had to survive on your own for too long.”

You nod.

“And you learned not to need anyone.”

Another nod.

“But needing someone isn’t weakness,” he says. “It’s just proof that you’re human.”

You huff out a breath. “Spoken like someone who’s never had their world collapse.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You forget, I lost Niki too.”

You go quiet.

Toto shifts closer, but still not touching you.

“I know what it feels like to lose the one person who saw you. Really saw you. And then you’re left in a world where everything feels … too sharp. Too fake. Too loud.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you whisper.

“I noticed.”

You finally look up at him. And when he reaches out, slow and careful, you let him touch you. His fingers trail softly along your jaw, then sweep your hair behind your ear. His hand lingers there, warm and steady.

“I’m not asking for all of you tonight,” he says. “I’m just asking for now. For this.”

You nod.

Then, with aching slowness, you lean in. And he kisses you. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just a gentle submission to something that’s been building for months — years, even.

A truth you’ve both tried to ignore.

His mouth moves against yours with reverence. His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding you. You fist his sweater, afraid if you let go he’ll vanish.

But he doesn’t. He stays. And when the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I won’t let you be alone,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch, curled against him. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your cheek pressed to his chest.

No sex. No declarations. Just presence. Just the soft, steady rhythm of a man who made a promise without ever saying the words.

You’re safe now.

And for the first time in years, you believe it.

***

The wind coming off the North Sea smells like brine and smoke and burnt rubber. Zandvoort is alive, vibrating, a sea of orange and thunder. The kind of race weekend that doesn’t let you breathe unless you’re used to the air here.

You’re not used to it anymore. Not really. But you pretend you are. Because this time, you’re not sneaking in through a side gate, head low, eyes half-hidden behind sunglasses. You’re not here as a memory.

You’re here as someone real. Someone seen. Someone beside him.

You wear black, but the cut of the trousers is elegant, the blouse soft, and your posture straighter than it's been in years. You walk with Toto into the paddock at 10:47 a.m. sharp, his hand at your back as he nods to mechanics and engineers and PR staff who blink at you like a ghost just walked in and decided to stay.

But no one says it too loud.

Toto’s presence is a shield. And you walk with him like you’ve always walked beside giants.

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. You belong here. God, you almost believe it.

***

It doesn’t take long for the cameras to catch on.

By FP2, the rumors are viral. TikTok’s already clipped a shot of Toto brushing something — dust, or a leaf, or maybe just a phantom — from your shoulder. There’s a still image of you two laughing at something George says in the garage. A blurry video of you standing just slightly behind Toto during a pre-race meeting with the press officers.

Commentators pick it up like they’ve been waiting for it. By the time the race goes live Sunday afternoon, Sky Sports is in full speculation mode.

“… well, she’s certainly not a new face to the paddock,” one of them says lightly. “If you’ve been around long enough, you’ll remember her-”

But they don’t get to finish. Because Nico Rosberg cuts in, voice hard and deliberate.

“Let’s be clear,” he says. “She’s not some mystery woman. That’s Niki’s granddaughter. She grew up in the garage with us. I remember her playing UNO with our engineers during rain delays.”

There’s an awkward pause. Nico keeps going.

“She disappeared because people failed her. That’s not gossip — that’s fact. She was seventeen when her life got pulled out from under her. And now that she’s back? Maybe the more respectful thing would be to welcome her, not turn her into a headline.”

Even the producer doesn’t know how to cut him off. Nico leans back in his chair like he just did what he’s always done — drove straight through the bullshit with no brakes.

You watch it later in your hotel room, stunned.

Toto grins at the screen. “Remind me to send him a bottle of something expensive.”

***

The paddock changes after that. The questions don’t stop — but they get quieter. People look you in the eye when they greet you. Mechanics you haven’t seen in nearly a decade stop you in the hallway.

“You look like your grandfather,” one says, voice thick. “You always did.”

Lewis finds you again in the back corridor of the hospitality suite on Sunday evening, just after podiums wrap.

He’s still in his race suit, zipped down to his waist, red fireproofs damp with sweat. You’ve barely opened your mouth when he pulls you into a tight, quiet hug that lasts almost too long.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you more.”

He smiles, but his eyes are glassy. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You pause. Then nod again. “Better than I’ve been in years.”

Lewis glances behind you, toward where Toto’s voice carries from the other room. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wider. “I can see that.”

***

It’s late when you return to the hotel. The lights in the hallway hum gently. Your heels click across the polished floor.

He unlocks the suite door for you. You step inside. It’s quiet.

And then-

“I saw you,” he says.

You turn.

Toto stands near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, shirt undone at the throat.

“I saw you today,” he says again. “Really saw you.”

You breathe in slow. “I was terrified.”

“You didn’t show it.”

You step closer. “I didn’t want to.”

He studies you. “You were magnificent.”

Your breath hitches.

He takes a step. Then another. And another. Until his hands are cupping your face and your eyes are locked on his.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says quietly.

You nod.

His thumbs brush your cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another nod.

He leans in. And kisses you.

***

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The world stays outside.

His fingers are in your hair, at your waist, guiding without pulling, urging without demanding. You follow. The bed is too soft. The sheets too white. But his hands are steady, and you anchor yourself in the weight of him.

When your blouse slides from your shoulders, you think this isn’t about sex. It’s about being seen.

He doesn’t undress you. He undresses with you. Like it’s a slow collaboration. His mouth doesn’t take. It gives. Praise and patience, murmured reverence.

“Beautiful.”

“Every part of you.”

“You’re not broken.”

You tremble under the weight of it.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says against your neck.

“I want to,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to want this like it’s an obligation. You deserve to be wanted for you. No guilt. No debts.”

You look up at him — this man who’s so much older, so much taller, so much more — and you don’t feel young. You feel safe.

And when his mouth trails reverent kisses down your skin, when he touches you like he’s been dreaming of it for years — like it’s a privilege, not a right — you understand what people mean when they say worship.

It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You let yourself fall. You let him catch you.

You lose track of time. Of shame. Of the version of yourself who thought she didn’t deserve this.

After, you lie tangled together in the dark. His hand stroking your hair. Your fingers curled at his chest. He breathes, slow and quiet, like he could stay like this forever.

You whisper, “I don’t know what this is.”

He says, “It doesn’t have to be defined yet.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone. “But it’s real.”

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Very real.”

You fall asleep there — his arms around you, your skin still humming, your heart finally still. And for the first time in your adult life, the future doesn’t feel like something to brace for. It feels like something to reach toward. With him.

***

The email comes at 3:08 a.m.

You’re awake. Not because you can’t sleep — those nights are mostly over — but because you flew halfway around the globe on a long weekend, the world feels lighter lately, and you’re learning to hold it in your hands without gripping too tight.

You read it twice. Then again.

Dear Miss Lauda,

We’re pleased to offer you a summer position with the Petersen-Welling Foundation. Your application was exceptional, and we’re eager to have your voice on the upcoming F1 Heritage and Inclusion initiative …

You don’t smile at first. You just exhale. Slowly. Like you’ve been holding your breath for a very long time.

***

Toto finds you in the kitchen of the penthouse in Monaco — barefoot, hair tied back, his hoodie drowning you. He’s already showered from his morning run, towel slung around his neck, coffee in hand.

He pauses when he sees your face.

“What happened?”

You hold out your phone.

He scans the screen. His mouth twitches.

“That’s a hell of a line on your resume,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Harvard, Lauda, and now an F1 foundation. Soon you’ll outrank me.”

You roll your eyes. “I already do.”

He hums. “True.”

There’s a beat. You pick at your thumbnail.

He softens. “What’s the hesitation?”

You shrug. “It’s … a lot. Another adjustment. Another version of me.”

“You don’t need to become anything you’re not.”

You glance at him. “Even if who I am isn’t enough?”

His voice lowers. “You are more than enough.”

You look down. Then up again. “Harvard said they’ll work with the Foundation to let me finish the final term remote. Conditionally. Since I’ll need to be based in Europe.”

“And?” He prompts gently.

“I think I want that.”

He nods. “Good.”

You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“I was hoping you’d say yes.” He grins. “I already made a copy of my keys-”

You groan. “Toto.”

He’s smiling too much to apologize.

***

It doesn’t happen all at once. Because nothing between you ever does.

You don’t move into his life like a storm. You settle like sunlight across the floor — gradual, warm, steady.

First, it’s the right side of the bed at his house near Brackley.

You joke that it’s more like a hotel than a home. He tells you to put your books on the shelves. You bring two at first. Then twelve. Then your sweaters. Then the half-finished sketchpad you stopped using at nineteen.

“Is this permanent?” You ask one night, curled beside him.

“Only if you want it to be,” he answers.

Then it’s Monaco. His penthouse. Your toothbrush beside his. Your name added to the concierge’s approved list. The first time someone calls you Madam Wolff, you laugh for five minutes straight. He grins, wide and unguarded, and doesn’t correct them.

Switzerland comes next. The chalet is silent but not lonely. He lights the fireplace. You bake (badly). He eats your too-dense banana bread like it’s gold.

“This is dry,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course.”

You both laugh until it hurts.

***

But Austria is the hardest. The Lauda estate feels frozen in amber. Rooms locked. Curtains drawn. Silence echoing down marble halls.

You stand in the entryway, keys shaking in your hand. Toto waits beside you, quiet.

“I don’t know if I can go in,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

You pause. Then step forward.

The door opens with a groan.bIt smells like dust and memories.

The first room you enter is the library.

You stop cold. Nothing’s changed.

The old desk. The leather chair. The framed photo of you and Niki at age fourteen, covered in grease and pride, standing between Lewis and a smiling Toto.

You sink to your knees. He kneels with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve-”

Toto catches your face in his hands.

“You were a child. And they failed you. We all failed you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let’s bring it back to life. Together.”

***

You do. Not quickly. Not easily. But you do.

The internship is demanding, exhilarating, and so completely you. You organize roundtables on legacy, inclusion, youth development. You write memos late at night in Monaco, edit presentations in Brackley, fly to interviews from Switzerland, and finally host your first panel in Austria.

At the Lauda estate.

You host something here. By choice. It’s full circle and forward motion all at once.

The old house feels different now. Softer. There are photos of you and Toto on the mantle. A few of your old sketches, framed. Your books. Your grandmother’s piano.

A home. Your home. Not just because it has your name on the deed again. But because you live in it on your own terms.

***

The night after the panel, you and Toto walk the long slope behind the house. The air is cool. The stars are out. You carry your heels in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“You haven’t stopped working in weeks,” he murmurs beside you.

“I’m trying to catch up.”

“You don’t owe the world an apology for existing.”

You look at him. “Sometimes I think I owe Opa.”

He stops walking. “You don’t.”

You glance down.

“He’d be proud,” Toto says. “But he wouldn’t ask you to pay some imaginary debt to keep his memory alive. You do that just by being you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you say softly.

“Anything.”

You face him fully.

“Do you think I belong here?”

He frowns. “Here as in …”

“In F1. In this world. In your world.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes your wineglass. Sets it on the stone wall.

Then takes your face in his hands. “I think,” he says, “that for six years, this world has been missing something vital. And now it’s whole again.”

You blink too fast.

“I think,” he continues, “that you belong here more than anyone.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “But more than that … you belong in your world. Whatever shape that takes. Wherever you build it. And whoever you let into it.”

You don’t answer with words. You answer with your arms, sliding around his waist. Your cheek against his chest. His heart steady against your ear.

***

Later that night, back inside, you open your laptop. There’s an email waiting from Harvard.

Term completion approved.

Dean’s note: we expect great things. You’ve already begun delivering them.

You sit back.

Toto passes you a cup of tea and slides onto the couch beside you.

“Big news?” He asks, eyes amused.

You look at him. And then you say it. Not for the first time. But for the first time with full, undiluted certainty.

“I’m home.”

He sets his tea aside. Pulls you close. Whispers into your hair, “You always were.”

And for once, the past doesn’t pull at you. The future doesn’t scare you.

Because it’s not just about where you live or what you’ve lost. It’s about what you’ve claimed. What you’ve chosen. What you’ve built.

A home. A career. A future. A man beside you — not in front, not above — but beside.

And a life, finally, that is yours.

All the way home.

[lulujeno]

them as your older brother, finding out you have a crush on one of their members

— nct dream ᡣ𐭩

cw : some of them question ur taste in men but thats overall it, just some playful banter :D

a/n : really nervous for my exam tmr so i wrote this to calm me down ^^ gender neutral as always but it's a little shorter than my other one, hope you guys enjoyyyt <3

mark:

your crush on renjun wasn't that obvious at first

well that was until your youtube search history betrayed you

mark was borrowing your laptop one day and was so confused when the most recent searches was just renjun

"renjun fancam" "renjun cute moments" "renjun being mad at dreamies"

didn't put two and two together just yet but it was at the back of his mind for sure

would call you to visit the dreamies more often to see if his assumption was right okay scooby doo

you'd bring snacks and drinks most of the time, somehow always getting renjun's favourite stuff

texted you the moment he was sure that you do have a crush on his bandmate

you admitted it and since then he's been the #1 y/njun shipper

gives you updates about renjun

if it isn't obvious enough, he does approve of junnie (maybe a little too much)

renjun:

came to him one day for help since you were thinking of confessing to haechan

looked directly into your eyes and tells you you can do better than haechan

"haechan? of all people??"

proceeded to tell you that he already knows about your little crush

would tell you things that haechan likes or dislikes, even though he looks like he disapproves

secretly happy that its someone he knows really well and not some random douche

you'd notice jun's little ways of helping you get with your crush

you give him a small smile and he'd mouth to thank him later

would still nag to you because he really can't see what you see in his bandmate

"whatever makes you happy"

don't worry, he approved of haechan after seeing the way he treats you

jeno:

tried to act surprise when you said you found mark interesting

you hit him jokingly because of how bad his acting was

teases you about your crush

when you visit the dreamies he does that thing with his eyebrows and makes it really obvious that you like his bandmate

but for real though, he'd be really supportive and actually try to help you out

would still give you the 'don't get your hopes up' talk since he doesn't want you to be heartbroken

happy that you came to him for help with your little crush (you? not so happy because he's so obvious)

"mark did you see y/n's new hair?" "mark doesn't y/n smell good today?" "mark you're not gonna give y/n a hug too?"

you want to smack jeno every time he does it thank god mark lee is oblivious as hell

haechan:

thought that you were joking when you said like jaemin

realised that you were serious and suddenly theres plan a all the way till z to get you and jaemin together

one of then was to lock you both in a closet (in hopes that it ends with you guys kissing ONLY)

like jeno, tells you to not get your hopes up too high since the last thing he wants is to see his sibling cry over a MAN.

still questions why you like jaemin though, he thinks that that guy is weird

tried to tell you things to give you the ick about jaemin but it doesn't work

at one point he got too tired waiting for you to confess so he told jaemin himself

don't worry, he told you when he was going to spill the beans (yeah like 5 seconds before he said it)

jaemin:

jisung?? of all people??? that boy can't even take care of himself, how would he take care of you?

gives you a whole ted talk on why you should go for a real man like mark or jeno instead

ends up seeing what you see in jisung though

tall? deep voice? big hands? can dance? that ticks off everything in your list!

the talk ends with him being supportive and brainstorming ideas on how to make you guys a real couple

would straight up tell jisung that you like him

probably gave jisung a whole protective brother talk that scared the poor guy

tells you that it's the only way because things need to be clearly said to jisung or else he'd be too shy to initiate anything

asks for cat food in return if everything works out because he has children to feed!

chenle:

be fr, zhong chenle knows everything

so when you told him that you like jeno he did not bat an eye

tbh he was just waiting for you to admit it before going through with his plan

the plan? you accidentally tripping in front of jeno, landing on top of him, and kissing him

you just stand there thinking if your brother was actually stupid enough to think that it'll work

doesn't play when it comes to y/nno

but if jeno does end up liking you back suddenly chenle's favourite place is the gym

also doesn't play when it comes to protecting his sibling

warns jeno that if he breaks your heart then he will break other things!

jisung:

was appalled when he found out that you like chenle

chenle? zhong chenle?? his best friend of 8 years zhong chenle ???

give him a second to take it all in

finally connected the dots on why you keep asking for updates about chenle

would help you out in a subtle way

ways like making chenle sit beside you or asking chenle to call you instead of doing it himself

backfires soon after since he told chenle that you watch basketball

forgot to add in wives, you watch basketball wives not basketball itself

can't keep a secret for too long, especially one about chenle so give it 2 weeks tops before your crush finds out

fair to say it ended with both of them spamming you (one to apologise and the other? other reasons)

[elioas-diel]

gally the maze runner

🎀!who has a (not so little) crush on you

🎀::(first image, on the left) full creds to: estherscanon on pintrest!

🎀:: A/N: my trade marks are back!! i’ve really gotta update my last two posts - i still haven’t put my watermark on it yet.. haha whoops😭

this was requested by lovely: @rainydaydream-gal18 i hope you like it!

thinking about! gally who has a little crush on you ♡

🎀:: includes, glader!gally, how i think he’d act if he had a crush on you, fluff, headcanons, and you!

-🎀-

thinking about!gally before he knew he liked you, who gets frustrated - at the fact you’re on his mind too much. he’d grumble obscenities under his breath whenever he caught himself looking at you or thinking about you as he zones out, when he really should be focusing on his job

thinking about!gally before he knew he liked you, who unconsciously pushes himself harder when you’re watching or near him.

if its when he’s in the fighting pit: he’d roll up his sleeves to the point his muscular arms are bulging out the tight shirtsleeve - making up excuses when asked about it by his friends, saying things like:

“they just feel better when I go to land a punch - no biggie,” (but it isn’t a “no biggie,” those muscles are far from that and he knows it - lets just hope you realise it too)

he’d pull off more tactical moves and stronger throws of his fists.

or if its a normal day of building: he’d take things out of gladers hands, even shoving them out of the way, just so he’d be in your field of vision.

“gally- wait you just said I was positioned here a few minutes ago!”

“not anymore - go and help out, somewhere else shuck-face,”

thinking about!gally before he knew he liked you, who suddenly snaps/scoffs at you randomly. If you’re too close - at the teasing jokes you make, you know what? even at the sound of your voice.

you know and he knows that he doesn’t mean it, after all your good friends, but it starts to confuse you. which only makes him snap back even more.

its almost comedic.

but really it’s just a defensive mechanism to him - a barrier he puts up to help push down bubbling feelings that keep arising in his chest.

-🎀-

gally who thought he was pretty good at keeping his emotions in line, finally ends up cracking when he lets himself sit with his thoughts.

-🎀-

thinking about!gally who now knows he likes you, suddenly becomes ticked off by any guy who gets your attention - he might throw some shade or a sarcastic comment at them but shrug it off when you mention it.

though, if the glader you were speaking to, ever brought it up - he’d go and make a scene out of it.

pushing at gally’s chest a glader steps in front of him, “what the hell dude, what’s your deal?”

shoving the male in front of him slightly he scoffs back, “you wanna find out slinthead? c’mon keep pushing me, dude.”

thinking about!gally who now knows he likes you, does everything in his power to avoid you - whats he supposed to do with these feelings now? why does he keep acting out?

he doesn’t remember any trace of knowledge that taught him how he’s supposed to go about, whatever this even is!

while this existential crisis occurs in his brain, his demeanour does not show any signs of panic. His body seems to just run itself - his expression serious, and his body just a teensy bit more tense when he’s around you, whilst his consciousness suffers inside.

-🎀-

gally who isn’t the type to easily admit his emotions - finally admits that he likes you when his body takes full control and crashes his lips into yours.

this wasn’t how his little declaration of love was supposed to go - but all thoughts of worry slip away when you feel your body melt into his.

gally honestly was never going to get his way by expressing his feelings through his words so maybe his actions might show much he likes you?

but the funny thing is the fact you always knew - you had always liked him - from the moment you met him - but there was no way in this world you’d ever admit that. so imagine how relieved you felt when he finally made the first move.

at the end of the day though, you were as stubborn as he was, maybe thats what makes you so crazy for each-other?

-🎀-

[thekatebridgerton]

Drabble: Colin Serial killer modern au

On days like these Colin liked to remember that he wasn't born this way. He used to be good, kind, like Penelope. But after his father was murdered infront of his whole family, lets just say... Nobody came out of the incident quite right in the head. His siblings, well, they all found their ways to cope, just like he did.

It was hard to remember that he hadn't always been the Butcher of Mayfair, hungry for death and mayhem. But on days like today when he left his latest victim in the basement so he could go to the movies with Penelope, he could almost remember what it was like to have his hands clean.

Penelope Featherington, was the only person in his life who loved him unconditionally, she'd been his friend trough elementary school and college, supported him when he applied to the Scotland Yard forensics department. Held him when the grief over his father's death struck him too close. She accepted his unexplained absences, his strange nervous ticks, she understood him like any other. And her smile, gosh Colin would die for that smile. Yes his Pen was the only thing in his life he hadn't managed to destroy with his extracurricular hobby.

" So how was the gazette? Any new stories Lady Whistledown?" Colin joked helping Pen put on her coat.

" Oh you know the drill, the Butcher of Mayfair strikes again, and I was the lucky reporter to find the corpse of latest murder victim, at this point people in the gazette are starting to call me #thebodyfinder" Penelope grumbled

" Sounds exciting for your career then" Colin chuckled, Hyacinth liked to teased him about leaving Penelope dead people as gifts like some sort of animal showing off for his owner. And if Colin knew what love actually felt like, he might agree, but his family wasn't normal and he couldn't ask anyone else about it.

" Ugh don't remind me, Danbury thinks I've got talent to make it big in this field, but honestly I think I'm just unlucky, why does the Butcher of Mayfair dump his victims so close to my favorite coffee shop?" Penelope said getting into the passenger seat of Colin's car.

Colin agreed with her, she was indeed unlucky, so unlucky that she'd grown up to become a criminal investigation journalist just as her good friend became her biggest story ( Francesca theorized that Colin courted the press because he wanted Penelope's attention, Colin saw nothing wrong with that, what other serial killer should have her attention if not him? Nobody else deserved to have their work analyzed by Penelope, nobody but him)

"I agree with you on that, Scotland Yard is going crazy over the case, strangulation but no evidence, Sergeant Brimsley can't seem to stop talking about it" Colin commented offhandedly " But enough about work, tell me how did it go with your date yesterday, was he nice to you that Debling bloke?"

" Bad news on that front too, Alfred never showed up, can you believe it? And to add insult to injury I got the most patronizing text this morning saying he didn't think he was right for me and was leaving on an expedition to Antarctica" Penelope rolled her eyes showing Colin her phone with the aforementioned text " And here was I thinking that everything was going well, I mean he kissed me on our first date, he wouldn't have kissed me if he didn't like me right?"

Colin's hands tightened on the steering wheel, so Debling had actually kissed his Pen, that was such a bad news for the man " it's not your fault Pen, you're a wonderful woman, he's just a scumbag who didn't deserve you and I'm sure he's regretting it right now" Colin would see to it that he did. Of course considering that the man was tied up in Colin's basement and deeply sedated, it wasn't even a lie.

"Only you would say that Colin, honestly I wish all men were as kind as you, but for some reason I keep meeting all these losers who ghost me after the first date, maybe I should just give up on dating and focus on my career"

Colin chuckled " maybe you should just focus on me, you know I'll always take care you Pen"

Penelope's eyes softened "I know" and that smile was everything to Colin.

Yes Penelope Featherington was the only one who loved Colin for himself. Colin could safely say she was the brightest light in his life. And that's why anyone who got close to her had to die.

The Butcher of Mayfair simply didn't like to share.

An: I've been watching 'Dexter Original Sin ' and I'm not even trying to hide it

[nixthelapin]

A Jekyll&Hyde type akuma whose power is to bring out a hidden or repressed part of your personality (but like, making two of you instead of switching in one body), and when Chat gets hit suddenly there’s both “normal” Chat (I’ll get to that in a sec) and Cat Walker/Patte de Velours at the same time.

(Cue Ladybug freaking out upon learning they’re the same person)

“Normal” Chat looks the same, but is just a bit more intense (since this is Adrien’s way of “letting loose” to not be how he is as a civilian, he’s not too different, but because of the split he does lose some usual traits). I.e. *heavily* flirting with LB, going at it with the puns, more agressive and impulsive with the akuma, doesnt like following orders (especially with the remaining feelings of anger towards the partnership being put further into question as LB prefers CW), heart on his sleeve

Cat Walker is also not super different to the episode he was in, but is also more intense thanks to the akuma: all business- no nonsense, doesn’t laugh at jokes (even in a “I’ll laugh if you want” way, like in Kuroneko), cordial to LB, follows LB’s orders to a T (to the point of not making his own decisions in battle), calm and collected (almost emotionless, even with that plastered smile)

CN starts to hate CW as the fight goes on, because LB seems to prefer him (and she’s understandably getting annoyed with CN’s impulsivity). CN gets territorial, saying that he’s LB’s partner. CW: “then why did she replace you with me?” (Man, look at all the self hatred in Adrien’s psyche!)

So CN runs off and leaves them alone to fight the akuma. This ticks LB off even more, but she has an akuma to deal with- and she has CW- so she lets him go.

As the fight goes on, some of the same issues from Kuroneko occur, so she also gets frustrated with CW too.

Since he’s acting more extreme than normal (more like someone awaiting orders than a partner due to the Jekyll&Hyde thing), it causes more problems (like him waiting for her decisions leaving openings where he could’ve done something proactive)

She actually blows up at him, asking why he didn’t do anything (“I was waiting for you to tell me the plan!”), and she says he should be able to think on his own, he doesn’t need her to tell him everything, but- “I thought I was just being what you wanted.”

(He’s shocked and genuinely hurt- though it’s still pretty quiet emotion, subdued and apologetic)

And that’s when it clicks for her what becoming CW was back in Kuroneko. He was molding himself for her. And this version of CW is even more of that. She realizes just how much CN suppresses, not just for her, but for everyone- why else would this be a major aspect of his personality?

(Also, Patte de Velours? Velvet Paw? That’s basically saying he’s been declawed. Yikes.)

She makes CN get his butt back to the fight (or she finds him- he may have been doing something while away like talking with someone, maybe Alya or Nino, or Luka). CN and CW argue more, with insults. Then she goes on a whole rant/lecture to them about how important they both are, both to her and to each other, how they are one person, and their traits are both important, but each extreme is not great. Ex: instinct/impulse and service/obedience (the key is self control, so that your emotions aren’t controlling you, but neither is another person). He is allowed to be both! Neither personality is bad, and hating one is just hating himself- he can’t just reject a fundamental part of himself.

She makes them agree to work together to defeat the akuma. It’s awkward at first, but they get a rhythm by seeing where each one is needed in the plan (LB does still do that, but how they follow is more fluid now). Two cataclysms now! Yay! (Maybe they used their powers already and have to de transform, and they see themselves as Adrien- the same one, not different, and it gets through their skulls. Idk I’m spitballing).

They have a quick talk between the two about accepting each other, it won’t be easy, I’m nervous, we’ll be okay (“yeah, I think we will :)”), etc.

Ends with them combining back with the ladybug cure. Surprise! His outfit is combined too! (Honestly, I just want the ponytail with the fluffy hair)

LB and CN have a talk after recharging about everything. CN apologizes for lying about CW and explains why and how he did it. LB didn’t realize how much he hid. She never meant for him to change or hate parts of himself. He thought she didn’t like the CN parts of him, but LB promises that isn’t true. She admits she did get… annoyed, but never hate! She loves both sides of him. Besides, CW didn’t work out that first time, remember? (Though she very much leaves out her intense crushing being the deciding factor there)

CN admits he feels more, well, not whole, exactly, he’s actually still pretty uncertain about what all this means for “who he is,” but… he can at least say he feels less like he has to perform all the time. He loves being Chat Noir, but he is exaggerating a bit when he transforms, in part to be not like his civilian life. He tells her he’s not like that as a civilian, but he’s also not like Cat Walker. But he’s not really sure who “he” is yet. (What I’m getting at is Oblivio!Adrien- dorky, but not over the top, in love, trusts his lady to make the plan, but is still proactive, etc.)

LB says that’s okay, he doesn’t have to figure it out right away. But she’ll be there to help him figure it out.

END

[transmascmion]

Finished Umineko’s Question Arc episode 1- boy, this story sure seems like it’s gonna be fun! More thoughts below (spoilers obvi XD)

OK… so I’m liking the dilemma this story is setting up. Is the culprit of these crimes human, or a witch? And why do you believe the answer you chose, because of evidence, or because it’s convenient?

That is a really cool idea! And the scenes where we do see Beatrice kill add to the confusion. When They Cry is no stranger to unreliable narrators, but still… could there be other tricks at play?

Overall, I’m excited to see where this story goes! My current theory: I do kinda think it’s Beatrice. I mean, so far, we’ve seen her kill 2 ppl. I think the twist might be that she’s still human somehow.., ohhh idk that doesn’t make much sense huh?? XD

Like, I can’t think of any ways these could have occurred that the story hasn’t said- so interesting! They set it up in a way where they clearly want you to find a human answer, but it feels impossible! So fun! :D I won’t even be mad if it is just magic lol

As for the characters, I find them all fun and compelling. My top 3 are def Natsuhi, Maria, and Jessica. George and Battler are really cool too.

Maria’s change is a little scary XD but it makes sense- once everything is over, everyone will be ok and happy.

Natsuhi was truly the star of the later half, she took charge and even had Kinzo rooting for her. That scene made me so happy -

And I just love Jessica’s attitude lol. She’s kind, but strong and emotional. Can we talk about the variety and quality of Ryukishi’s female characters? No one does it like him I swear-

So I have no complaints with the characters, I really wanna see more of them!

I willl say, I do have only one slight issue with Umineko- the pacing, I guess, is kinda slow XD

Like it’s def better than Higurashi’s pacing issue- where it starts super slow. But once Higurashi stops being slow, it locks tf in XD

I appreciate the lack of ‘fluff’ (for lack of a better term) that Umineko gives us. It gets straight to the point, while still showing us the norm of this world.

But I feel like the story slowed at times. Specifically, between important events and murders. It wasn’t boring, per se, but I wanted more to happen faster I guys? XD like i spent at least 22 hours getting near the end of this story, and that’s about the length of one of Higurashi’s Answer Arc stories! X.X”

But again, not a deal breaker. I’m sure it’ll pick up more in later chapters/episodes :3

Also LOVE the sound design and OST oml it’s sooo good. The clock ticking and rain noises make for such good ambiance.

I really want to look up the song that plays during body discovery moments, the really hype one- but I’m afraid the comments will have spoilers 😭

SO excited to read more. But I know it’s gonna be a long ride…

I’ll have plenty of time to do so soon- since you’ve made it this far, I’ll share with you that I’ll be getting shoulder surgery early into next month- meaning I won’t be able to go to work or do much… EXCEPT READ VNs FOR WEEKS WOOOO (I also plan on playing more You and Me and Her at some point :3 )

[peppymintdreams]

A Fragile Thread

Andrew Marston x Darling

Andrew sat alone at his desk, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting sharp shadows on the walls of his otherwise empty apartment. Papers and open books lay untouched in front of him, forgotten as the deafening silence consumed the space. The clock ticked with an almost mocking regularity, each second dragging on longer than the last.

It had been three hours since you walked out. Three hours of agonizing silence that made every corner of the room feel hollow. Andrew had replayed the argument a dozen times in his mind, searching for the exact moment when it had spiraled out of control.

It had started with something so small. You’d forgotten your keys again—a tiny mistake, one you were known for, one he’d never minded until today. Andrew had scolded you, his tone sharper than he intended. You had fired back, frustration spilling over in a way that caught him off guard. The argument snowballed, words growing harsher, sharper, until you finally said the one thing he couldn’t erase from his mind:

"Maybe it’s easier if I’m not here."

He hadn’t meant for it to go that far. He hadn’t thought you’d actually leave. But when the door slammed behind you, the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. The apartment felt colder, emptier. He had tried to convince himself you just needed time to cool off, but as the hours dragged on, his resolve cracked.

Where were you? Were you safe? Were you angry—or worse, hurt?

Andrew clenched his fists and grabbed his coat. He couldn’t stay here, not when every passing minute made the knot in his chest tighten. He had to find you.

The night was bitterly cold, frost glinting like tiny shards of glass under the streetlights. Andrew wandered through the quiet streets, his mind racing. He checked your usual spots—the coffee shop you loved, the bookstore where you spent hours browsing—but each was dark and empty.

He was beginning to panic when he spotted you in the park. You were sitting on a bench, bundled in your coat, your face tilted up to the sky. From a distance, you looked calm, but as Andrew approached, he noticed the subtle way your shoulders hunched, your hands clenched tightly in your lap.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet.

You didn’t look at him. “Why does it matter to you?”

The bitterness in your tone cut deep, but Andrew swallowed the hurt. “Because it’s freezing, and you didn’t even bring gloves,” he said, gesturing to your trembling hands.

Finally, you turned to him, your eyes glinting with unshed tears. “I’m fine. You can go back to your perfect apartment and your perfect life, Andrew. I don’t need you to check on me.”

Andrew froze, stunned by the venom in your words. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You act like I’m a burden,” you said, your voice shaking. “Like I’m just some messy, forgetful person who’s always screwing things up. I know I’m not perfect, but you don’t have to rub it in all the time.”

Andrew felt his chest tighten as your words hit him like a physical blow. “That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve never thought of you as a burden.”

“You sure about that?” you shot back, your eyes narrowing. “Because it sure feels like it when you’re constantly pointing out every little thing I do wrong.”

Andrew’s composure cracked, his usual calm replaced by raw desperation. “I don’t think you’re a burden,” he said, his voice breaking. “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I hate myself for making you feel like you’re not.”

You blinked, startled by the emotion in his voice.

“I’m not perfect,” Andrew continued, his hands trembling at his sides. “I’m flawed, and I make mistakes, and sometimes I get so caught up in trying to keep everything together that I forget what really matters.” He took a shaky breath, his eyes locking with yours. “But you matter. More than anything.”

You looked away, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I just… I feel like I’m always disappointing you.”

Andrew’s heart broke at your words. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching out to cup your face. “You could never disappoint me,” he said firmly. “You’re human. You’re going to forget your keys, or spill coffee, or leave the toothpaste cap off. And I’m going to do dumb things, too, like snap at you when I’m stressed. But that doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

Your lip quivered as you looked down at him. “I don’t know how to believe that right now.”

“Then let me prove it to you,” Andrew said, his voice trembling. “Let me show you every day how much you mean to me. But please, don’t shut me out. Don’t walk away. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he looked down, unable to meet your gaze. “I can’t lose you.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold wind whipped around you, but Andrew didn’t move. Then, slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Andrew let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours. “No. I’m sorry. For everything.”

You stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, the world around you fading away.

Finally, you broke the silence. “Can we go home?”

Andrew nodded, standing and pulling you into his arms. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”

[narcissosbythepool]

PriceGaz Week

Day 6 - fantasy & "and I was a star spilled in your arms"

AO3

//

They’ve met in this spot in the woods for a year now – not every day, not even every week, but often enough that they’ve stopped pretending it’s a coincidence, and that they’re purposefully seeking each other out, a twinkle of hope in their hearts each time.

This time feels different. Price steps into the clearing, the setting sun filtering through the trees still enough to shine in his eyes. As he looks up he can see the first stars twinkling into being, as well as the faint image of the moon. 

It’s a lovely night, but he feels nothing but trepidation in his chest at the thought of the upcoming confrontation. The future of their relationship hangs on the question on the tip of his tongue. Even as he treks through the path stomped into the thick undergrowth, it’s all he can think of.

His lover appears in the clearing not long after. Gaz looks divine, as always – his silver-blue coat shimmers in the sunlight like dancing stars, and his long braids are thrown over his left shoulder, baring his neck in a way that makes Price’s mouth dry.

“John,” Gaz greets him, and never has his name sounded as sweet as it does on Gaz’s lips. Price flashes him a quick smile but his nerves prevent it from being a truly genuine one. Gaz picks up on it instantly, a frown forming on his lovely brow.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, stepping closer to where Price is waiting for him, and Price stands frozen in place, trying to find the courage to say what he’s supposed to. The elven man comes to a stop in front of him, and places a gentle hand on his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were a prince,” Price blurts out.

Gaz stills, his eyes widening. The tips of his pointy ears twitch just slightly.

“Oh,” he says, then casts his eyes to the ground. “I see. You figured it out.”

“Were you planning on telling me at some point?” Price asks. His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. He hopes Gaz can’t tell.

Gaz bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says, and Price knows it’s the truth.

He tips Gaz’s chin with his fingers. “Why?”

Gaz looks up at him and Price’s breath hitches. His eyes are brimming with tears, each of them silver like starlight, and instantly Price frames his face with his hands, wiping away at the falling stars with his thumbs.

“Fuck,” Gaz says, as un-princely as possible, and then huffs out a laugh. “I’m not crying to manipulate you.”

“I know,” Price says softly. “You were just surprised.”

“Ashamed,” Gaz corrects him. Then he sniffles and holds his head up high. “You’re right.”

“So you are a prince, then?” Price asks one more time, even though his suspicions have now been confirmed.

“Not the crown prince,” Gaz says. “Second in line.”

“That’s prince enough for me.”

Gaz looks at him, blinking silvery tears from his eyes. “Maybe so.”

“You know I’m not knighted,” Price says then. “I’m not of noble birth. I’m just a commoner and I could be—”

“I wouldn’t have put you in danger,” Gaz interrupts, firm. “I’m only the second in line. I can do pretty much whatever I want.”

Price gives him a steady look. “But I can’t.”

Gaz worries his lip again, a nervous tick. Price drops his hands to Gaz’s shoulders.

“There are… many obstacles between us,” he begins. “Not just this.”

“I don’t care about your lifespan,” Gaz says, “Elf or human… what does it matter in the end?”

“It matters to me,” Price says, sliding his hands down Gaz’s arms to clasp his hands. Gaz squeezes his fingers. Price squeezes back. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I’ll…” Gaz searches his face, as if looking for answers. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I’d rather you not deplete your magic for trivial things such as that,” Price says with a smile. “Death is death. Status is status. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.”

“I’ll marry you.”

Price blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ll marry you,” Gaz says, his eyes now resolute. “That will fix the difference in our positions.”

“I won’t become a consort—”

“I’ll make you my husband,” Gaz says and there’s finally some fire to him. “I’m the second in line. I can do whatever I want.”

There are still tear tracks shimmering on his face, like glitter. Gaz’s eyes are a challenge, a dare to defy him. Price should have known he was royalty from this expression alone. The thought of it makes him smile.

“My prince,” he says, brushing Gaz’s hair back behind his pointy ear. “It fits you.”

“What do you say?” Gaz demands, and there is an edge of nerves to his voice. “Will you marry me?”

There is a light breeze, coldness of the night settling in. Price looks at his lover and brings Gaz’s hand to his lips, presses the palm of it reverently.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says, and Gaz’s smile is as bright as the stars above.

Maybe it doesn’t fix their differences. But it is a start.

[astra-galaxie]

Sorry, sorry, one more question: what is something that genuinely ticks you off, your least favorite thing, for each season? It can be something that's isolated to just one case, or something season-wide. The sky is the limit!

Finally! An excuse to rant about some of my issues with Criminal Case! Thanks, asharkapologist!

Season 1 - Grimsborough

Am I allowed to say the Johnson family’s smiles? Those grins give me the creeps!

Jokes aside, I think my least favourite thing from Grimsborough was that we didn’t get a lot of character development. I know it's the first season, but I wish we could have focused on specific characters (especially the teammates) like we do in the following seasons. It makes a lot of their stories feel incomplete and lacking in uniqueness. I know it's not that big of an issue, but it annoys me that unless a character returns in later seasons, they never get a chance to get more development and time in the spotlight.

Season 2 - Pacific Bay

The geography. HOW DOES A DESERT EXIST NEXT TO SNOW COVERED MOUNTAINS?!?!?! WHAT IS THIS PLACE?!?!

I admit, I thought it was a cool concept when I first played the season, but revisiting it later in life made me realize how weird Pacific Bay is. Logically, there's no way the districts could exist beside each other. And I know MotP’s geography is a little strange, too, because of Coyote Gorge, but that’s just one district, unlike several. While I think some of PB’s district environments are interesting, having so many unique districts coexisting gives me the impression of trying too hard to make something stand out and just ending up making it confusing.

Season 3 - Save The World

While STW is in my top three seasons (it used to be number one, but MotP took that spot months ago), some things annoy me. One is that it was never explained how the Bureau had labs/offices everywhere they went, even in the smaller, lesser-known countries. It may be trivial and nitpicky, but I couldn't help but wonder. Did they have offices in every country? Did they just rent labs and transport their equipment everywhere they went? How bad was their jet lag?

(Okay, the last one had nothing to do with my original point, but you can’t tell me the Bureau’s sleeping schedules weren’t constantly messed up by the ever-changing time zones!)

Even if there had been an off-handed comment, it might not have been so confusing. I think it was only once stated that they visited a country’s Bureau HQ during “The Impossible Dream,” where it opened with the title card “At the Bureau’s Spanish office…” But do they have Bureau buildings everywhere or not?!

Season 4 - Mysteries of The Past

While I love almost everything about MotP, one part that annoys me is that we moved past the Flying Squad's initial purpose (taking down police corruption) almost right after the first district. Don’t get me wrong; I love the districts' plots and how they flow together, but for something as serious as police corruption (especially a city-wide one!), we dealt with it rather quickly! I never noticed until someone pointed it out to me, so now, when I revisit the season, I keep wondering why dealing with police corruption didn’t last longer or get focused on more!

I still love the season regardless of this fact, but I wonder how it could have changed if we’d focused on it longer… Using police corruption would have worked in districts like Crimson Banks with the gang wars and later on with the Rochester situation (I could see some of them paying off the police).

Season 5 - The Conspiracy

When I first played the season, it annoyed me how long it took us to learn what was behind the dome and get into the Ad Astra plot. The idea is cool, but whenever people talk about the dome before Misty Grove, I would think, “Come on! Can we find out why this is so important already?!” I get teasing, and foreshadowing keeps people in suspense (stars know I love doing it with my stories), but it was to the point where we were unnecessarily delaying the plot since, after the reveal, it and Ad Astra became the main focus of the season.

Season 6 - Trave In Time

The gameplay. I don’t know why they changed it to Travel in Time, but I HATED IT! It made it impossible for me to get immersed in the season like I did for others, and for a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to like it despite the incredible plot and characters. Eventually, the season grew on me, and I came to enjoy it outside of its gameplay, but I don’t know if I could make myself replay it… It's nice revisiting the lab analysis cutscenes, but beyond that, I have no desire to replay the game.

Season 7 - Supernatural Investigations

I hated how PS ruined George Mathison’s character development. I thought his story and development were amazingly written, and I loved the clueless-human/FBI-agent-obsessed-with-arresting-the-hunters-turned-ally storyline! It was an excellent plot for him! They should have kept Mathison like that and not added the “surprise plot twist” in the final case, which destroyed all that character development…

I also hated how generally rushed the ending was and how poorly they finished off the characters’ stories.

Season 8 - City of Romance

Cases 1-17 (/jk)

But in all seriousness, it might be quicker to ask me what I liked about City of Romance! I keep saying it has potential, and given the right rewrite, it could become a good season, but sadly, the canon one is very lacklustre… However, disregarding how rushed and unpolished the season is, I didn’t like how overly sexualized it was and how bad the representation was. Paris is the city of love, and love isn’t just sex; there are countless other ways it can be shown. I wished we could have seen better gender and sexuality representation like in previous seasons… And also not finish with the most rushed and confusing wedding in CC history, but that’s a rant for another day!

And that’s a wrap! I have other issues with the game, but I think I covered enough in this ask. Thanks for the request!

[therainscene]

Hey, thanks so much for your response!

I agree on the first point, that Mike would have told El he loves her anyway, but your answer - "so why did the writers feel the need to weave Will into Mike's love confession?" - relates exactly to the 2nd take, about Will's love not being portrayed as sad enough to ruin the Mike/El storyline in s4. I've seen mileven fans use the exact phrase you did to justify why Will won't end up with Mike:

Mike isn't a prize to be awarded to whichever Vecna victim would be made the happiest by him.

They say that Will doesn't get to have Mike just because he wants him, and that Mike and El have chosen each other time and again, every season, and so why would they change that going into s5? (Obviously the last part is silly, because stories do change and progress, but I'm more interested in the first part: that people do genuinely seem to read this storyline as purely romantic for Mike/El, and purely sad and unrequited for Will). The ambiguity that you mentioned is missed by many people.

And ok, on your last point ("Who cares why some people still ship Milevn?") - that's a sensible outlook. But for me, being in this fandom has become a sort of sociological experiment where I've learned a lot about human nature as well as just enjoying the show. I genuinely expected to come to fandom to share in byler and celebrate it with other fans, not be told I was insane - and as an artist and writer myself, it has made me question my own original works outside of this fandom, wondering how they will be understood or received in the wider world, because things that appear so clear and understandable to me within Stranger Things - like the ambiguity of this love triangle as we end s4 - are apparently hard for some viewers to grasp.

So this is what I meant by a fundamental difference in how people perceive the visual storytelling of the show, because milevens will say that Will was included in the scene of Mike's love confession (and woven into the Mike/El story as a whole) to show how sad Will's unrequited love is and make the audience root for him to move on.

At what point does this stop being a valid interpretation? I can never tell if mileven fans genuinely can't feel the chemistry and energy between Mike and Will, or if they are denying it, because for me, seeing the way Will's pain was portrayed made my pity for Will stronger than my need to see Mike and El reconcile. This combined with how flirtatious I perceived Mike to act around Will as the season progressed made me start rooting for byler despite the odds. But milevens will say that byler fans are biased towards Will, and are inventing that Mike flirted with Will at all.

I've studied art at college and worked in storytelling fields. I'm not a teenager who is easily swayed, and neither am I part of the queer community, so my investment is different to that of people who would like to see themselves represented in byler's sexuality storyline. And yet being in this fandom has been the first time I have ever started to doubt my own instincts regarding my understanding of a story.

In the end, perhaps it speaks more of the phenomenon of fandom itself than it does about the actual show, but it's just interesting for me as a writer and a human, from a sociological standpoint. I think it's important for writers to be interested in people and what makes them tick, and milevens sure do make me (morbidly) curious.

I can understand if you don't want to discuss this further but I thought I'd try, as I do love your theories and the way you think about the show. I haven't been able to find many people who want to talk about this aspect of fandom, and yet for me, it's the thing that makes me most intrigued.

Thanks for everything and keep up the great posts :)

[Hey, thanks for this follow-up. I misread the context of your previous ask, sorry; I assumed you were queer since your pinned post mentions queer theory. My bad.]

I'm sure you probably suspected this already, but the sociological phenomenon you're encountering is homophobia.

And I would say you're experiencing it first-hand: doubting your instincts because you keep being told you're insane for predicting a queer outcome you know is real, but can't prove is real.

This is how comphet operates: making people feel like they need to conjure up concrete, objective, undeniable proof of queerness before they're allowed to consider it a valid option, even though straightness and cisness aren't held to the same standard. (There's a reason "born this way" is a more popular saying than "who cares why we choose this lifestyle?") It's about gaslighting queers into staying closeted and straights out of becoming allies; not much more to it than that, I'm afraid.

The way some folks in this fandom treat Byler fans reminds me so much of the way I was treated as a queer teenager.

So I'm just not interested in engaging with their refusal to acknowledge the ambiguity in Mike and Will's story. As far as I'm concerned, taking their arguments too seriously is tantamount to ceding ground in the fight to live my life on my terms instead of theirs.

I guess the best I can do to answer your question is point you towards an older essay of mine which illustrates how giving in to homophobic patterns of thought just straight-up erased my ability to see the obvious queer truth that was right in front of me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[intrepidacious]

time after time [6]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.8k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it's been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying

a/n: this is quite possibly the scariest fic update i've ever made. a lot has happened since the last chapter was posted, and i won't bore you with all of it. suffice it to say, i missed sharing this story. thank you for being patient with me.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

six: butterfly effect

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

"You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm," Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

"What?" you said, crossing your legs. "Every newspaper in the city calls you 'Wilson and Barnes'. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?"

"Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world," Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

"Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo' last week." You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. "You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes."

He answered with an empty glare of his own. "And what does that make you?" he said, but not like a question.

"Nothing at all," you still grinned. "Everything is right in the universe."

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

"Aww." You tilted your head to the side happily. "You think I’m creepy."

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

"Give it time," Sam said without moving. "He doesn’t like new people."

"Neither do I," you murmured, and he snorted. "What?"

"Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there."

You crossed your arms with a pout. "You sound like my therapist."

"Mhm," Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. "You owe me fifty bucks for that."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up."

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. "You go to therapy?"

"You should try it some time," you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. "Helps with the stink eye."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals." You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. "We came up with a compromise."

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

"Sounds like a way to drag it out," he said.

You frowned into your cup. "It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit."

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

* * * * *

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

"How do you know when I’m lying?" you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

"What?" he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

"I’ve never been able to lie to you," you say. "What’s my tell?"

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

"You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too." There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. "What the hell is going on?"

"I’m trapped in a time loop," you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. "I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?"

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. "What?"

"I’m stuck," you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, "and you keep dying."

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. "How?"

You swallow heavily. "You got shot on a mission," you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

"No. How did you get stuck?"

"I …" You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

"It was an accident," you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. "What happened?"

"You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …" You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

"Please don’t look at me like that," you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes," you add when his mouth opens, "I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it." You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. "You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—"

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. "Did you break it?" he asks quietly.

"I’m fine," you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. "You’d grabbed my hand just before …"

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

"It should’ve been me," you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke."

"I’m not joking." You can feel your pulse in your ears. "They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago."

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

"I’d like to see you try," Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

"You’re doing it again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I doing?" His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. "Being noble."

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. "Don’t exactly feel like that."

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

"I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed," Sam calls from the other side. "Just … holler if you need me."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. "I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

"I need to come up with a plan," you correct him. "We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …" And hurt. "I can’t do it anymore, Buck."

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. "So what’s the plan?"

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

"New deal," he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. "Don’t do anything stupid."

"You know me," you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. "I’m serious, just—don’t."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn’t," he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. "But I trust you."

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

"Promise."

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

* * *

There’s been a change in the weather.

Not literally, no; of course not literally. Fuck, you long for a single cloud, a raindrop, a damn hailstorm to break the streak of endless perfectly sunny days that don’t fit your mood in the slightest.

But there’s a tinge to the sky that makes your stomach turn. It’s not very obvious to anyone who hasn’t looked at the exact same sunset for weeks on end, just a single strip of color across a storybook horizon. It looks like a crack.

"Do you see that?" you ask warily when you notice it for the first time, ominous and yet almost completely hidden by the trees and the buildings. Just dancing around the edge of your vision like another mockery.

"What?" Sam asks, eyes not leaving the path ahead.

"That … thing in the sky. What is that?"

Bucky stops and squints at where you’re pointing. "It’s called a cloud," he says dryly.

"With that color?" you murmur, but continue walking when he stops to turn to you, your wrist tingling. His stare is searing your neck, but you ignore that, too.

The best course of action, you’ve learned, is to shut your brain off as soon as you get out of the quinjet and just go through the motions, trying to ride out the mission like you’ve done dozens of times before. There’s a sort of autopilot you’ve fallen into after a couple of days, and it’s the only thing keeping you somewhat sane. Most days, it means it’s all over quickly, and you can’t help but feel glad about that.

You’ve given up trying to change your own actions to get him through the day.

But this …

It’s something new, and in all this monotony, that thought is both frightening and exciting. It distracts you enough to get you off script.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles like he always does.

"Remember how this was supposed to be a day off?" You kick one of the pebbles in your path with a sigh. "What happened to 'don’t worry, Y/N, after training the day is all yours'?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam says, checking his map for the thousandth time.

"You know what I mean."

"Don’t you have tomorrow off?" Bucky says over the intercom.

Tomorrow. "Right." It comes out somewhat strained, your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. "And why do you know that?"

Sam shakes his head and there’s a brief crackle of static in your ear. For a fraction of a second, you nearly dare to hope Bucky will give you an answer, even though you have no clue what it would be.

"They’re heading your way now," he says instead, "so get a move on."

And just like that, you’re back on track.

Quickly clearing your throat of the lump that has formed there, you say tonelessly, "I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again."

It’s taken you a while to get used to it. To the constant lying.

You’ve worn fingerless gloves on missions before, so that’s not raised any questions from the others yet, and your rings stay hidden away. You’ve been more reluctant to take them off since the one you lost on your bathroom floor vanished into thin air.

The other thing you’ve picked up on while endlessly repeating this day is that Bucky is less likely to catch you in a lie if he can’t see your face.

So you’ve made an effort of spending as little time as possible with him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stay in your room for the majority of the day, because he doesn’t remember it ever being any other way. Even today’s little exchange will be lost to the loop soon enough, just like that little pause he made, just like the bullet through his heart.

Still, when you wake up with a start on Friday, July 4th, you look at the sky first. Its perfect blue doesn’t soothe the sinking feeling in your stomach at all.

You’ve been waiting for something to change for weeks, and now that it’s here, you don’t like it at all.

"What did you expect?" Strange says with an infuriating composure once you’ve nervously recounted your experience. "I told you, time isn’t supposed to get stuck in this way. Of course your reality was going to act up sooner or later."

"I really feel like you should be more concerned about this," you mutter, letting a ball of green energy pass from your left hand to the right. It’s about the size of a quarter now.

"Honestly," Strange answers, "I thought something like this would have happened a while ago." He taps his fingers together. "Again. Slower."

"So what am I supposed to do then, just ignore it?" The green ball pulses with your indignation, turns around itself once and then sinks into your palm again.

"In all likelihood, it’s a one time glitch. If everything is back to normal today, I wouldn’t worry about it."

Your thumb rubs across the empty space on your finger. "Easy for you to say if you’re not the one who’s stuck in an endless hellscape."

"Aren’t I?"

You both roll your eyes at each other, but then you bite the inside of your cheek again, unable to shake the feeling of a whole new shade of dread. "What if it’s not just a one time glitch?"

The corners of Strange’s cloak roll up on themselves, and he doesn’t meet your eye when he says, "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It’s still early when you return to the present, too early for Bucky to be back from wherever he’s always going, so you decide to venture out of your room again, stretching your tired limbs. You’re pretty sure at this point that waking up on the floor is never going to feel fun.

Sam is in the kitchen as always, reading something on his laptop. He’s still sitting down, which means that it’s even earlier than you expected. You miss these early parts of the day, the calm before the storm.

If today were only made up of these few hours, you suppose, it might not be half so bad.

You pull up a chair next to him and lean a cheek against your hand. "What’re you doing?"

"Research." Sam sighs, rubbing his temples. "Remember that ULTIMATUM group?"

"Never heard of them," you say with a small yawn. "Is that an acronym? What does it stand for?"

Sam gives you a glare and your mouth twitches slightly.

"Anyway," he continues, turning his laptop so you can see the article he’s reading. "They’ve been more active again lately. Acquired a couple thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment through one of their contacts and then went underground again."

Of course, you know all this. You’ve been over it again and again, back when you were all still trading information like it could save Bucky’s life. Like there was a deeper meaning behind any of this damn loop other than the fact that you, and you alone, fucked up.

Useless.

You close the mental door on those thoughts and take a deep breath. You hate to admit it, but all of this sitting around with your thoughts bullshit you’ve been doing has actually helped you to clear your head somewhat—if only to make it through the parts of the day you can’t avoid.

"And now what?" you ask, pretending to just have reacquainted yourself with the topic.

"Now," Sam says, taking his laptop with him as he stands up and strolls over to the kitchen island, "I’m waiting for Torres to get back to me so we can decide our next steps once we’re all recovered." He gives you a meaningful look and you scowl.

Then, slowly, his words register in your brain, and you stare at his back as he stretches and then moves to make some coffee, wordlessly taking one of your mugs out of the cupboard as well as his own.

"You don’t seem too worried," you say hesitantly.

Sam shrugs. "Until we have a proper lead, there’s not much we can do. And I doubt they’ll be doing any actual damage any time soon. They’re a lot more covert than the Flag Smashers ever were."

"Right," you say, more to yourself than in response.

"Try that again, less convincing?"

"I don’t know," you mutter, slowly following him to lean against the fridge. "Just … what if Torres did find something? Should I be getting ready?"

Sam frowns. "Are you not telling me something again?"

You try to shake the thought, pulling your arms around you. "Forget it."

You don’t, though.

It keeps bugging you, because that day like any other day, he knocks on your door at 4:32 on the dot, and you go on that mission anyway. And even though this has been happening for weeks, you’re just starting to suspect that you are, in fact, still not getting the whole picture.

* * *

Catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone turns out to be more difficult than you first thought.

You’re still trying to get the timing exactly right a couple of days later, and you miscalculate enough to catch Bucky on his way upstairs.

"Hey," he says, his shoulders tense when he looks at you. There’s a restlessness to him that he’s not quick enough to hide; or maybe you’ve just grown more perceptive when it comes to him.

"Hi," you say, crossing your hands behind your back. "Where’ve you been?"

He shrugs. "For a walk."

You already know he won’t elaborate if you try poking, so you don’t. "Was it good?"

"Lotta people." He hesitates when you continue to not meet his eye, and then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

You swallow, ignoring the tingling sensation on your wrist. "Not particularly. Do you?"

Bucky’s jaw twitches. "Nah."

Somehow, you feel like that’s also a lie. Once again, you’re left wondering.

The silence between you stretches as you continue to not quite look at each other, until you finally clear your throat, nodding at the front door. "I’m getting coffee, do you want something?"

Honestly, it’s just an excuse as to why you need to leave before he notices something off again somehow, but Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

"Didn’t you just get some this morning?"

"So? I like coffee."

"Really. I never knew."

"Screw you."

You can hear him huff behind you, but thankfully the door falls shut before you can do anything stupid. Like turning around to face him, for example.

You miss his eyes.

Why won’t you look at me?

When the elevator doors open, you almost yelp into your delivery guy’s face. He stumbles a half-step backwards, somehow managing to keep a hold of the boxes precariously balanced on his arm while he’s reading something on his phone.

"Oh my god," he lets out, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just …"

"Early." You blink.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," you say, frowning only a little. "Wait, let me get that."

You quickly sign for the delivery and open the door with your keycard, holding it open for him. You’re not exactly afraid of burglars these days, and besides; you know this guy by now.

"If you could just go straight ahead and to the right, that’s where the kitchen is."

"Sure thing," he shrugs. "Thanks—"

His mouth snaps shut and he blushes a little as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

You’ve introduced him to Sam enough times you know he’s going to be fine, so you just smile and wave him in.

When you step out on the street, you instinctually look up at the sky. It’s outrageously blue, blatantly perfect for an endless Friday, and even when you squint, you can’t make out any irregularities.

It’s a tiny relief, but a relief nontheless.

Lucy is leaning against the wall just out of sight of the storefront, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as she rummages through her pockets. Her colorful makeup has begun to melt off in the sweltering heat, making the red-white-and-blue stars on her cheeks bleed into each other to look somewhat purplish.

"Are you off or on break?" you call over.

She lifts her head, the glare vanishing when she recognizes you. "Counting the seconds," she says. "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You sidestep a couple of pedestrians hurrying to cross the street and join her. "Not really."

"I hate you." She finally fishes a lighter out of her back pocket, sighing contentedly as she takes her first drag. "I swear, this day just won’t pass."

Fine. Maybe your chuckle is a little shrill. "I’m sorry."

Lucy waves you off with a gesture crude enough to make a young dad with a stroller send the two of you a dirty look. "You without your shadow today?" she asks, inspecting her nails.

You blink. "My shadow."

"You know. Your friend who’s been in here eight thousand times and still gets confused when he orders." A cloud of smoke vanishes into thin air. "Kind of the lingering type, isn’t he?"

"He’s old," you say, because for some reason nothing else comes to mind.

"Not that old."

"No," you agree, "not that old."

For a moment, you’re afraid she’s going to ask you to pass her number along to him, and you’re already scrambling to find an answer somewhere in the depths of your brain, coming up empty. That’s the problem with being able to unhave entire conversations; you don’t usually really have to deal with reactions if you don’t want to.

Without your powers, though, you’re stuck, and it’s making you wish you hadn’t come here at all.

Instead of any of that, she pulls a flyer out of her other pocket. "Sorin and Cass are doing a gig in Brooklyn next week, do you wanna come with? They’re still terrible, but they got a new bassist who seems alright."

You take the flyer, staring at it. "I didn’t know they’re in a band," you admit.

The truth is, you’ve never paid that much close attention to the people you work with. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

Lucy shrugs. "You’re always doing your own thing." It stings, even though you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean for it to. "It’d be fun if you came, though."

"I’ll think about it," you say, and your smile is a little unsure, but genuine.

So is hers.

"If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her emphasis hangs in the air between you like a dare.

You snort. "I feel like this isn’t quite their scene."

"You feel like or you know?"

"Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No." She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind her. "Knowledge is based on experience. On memories. Your feelings don’t sit in your head. And so they don’t make sense and they’re not necessarily true." She winks.

"You’re weirdly smart," you say, shaking your head.

"I know. It’s a curse." Lucy sighs. "Anyway, think about it. I gotta get back to hell."

"You know," you say with a grin, "I could really do with a frappuccino right about now."

"You know what you could do?" she answers in her sweetest customer service voice, pointing you down the street. "Get in a trash can."

Damnit. You might actually grow to like Lucy.

She taps her fingers against her temple and then shuffles back inside, a hot rush of air blowing out of the AC as the door opens. You fold the flyer up to fit into your back pocket, hoping you’ll make it to that concert one day, and then you walk on, aimless again for the moment.

* * *

Time passes while it’s standing still.

The problem is, at least for the moment, that by all appearances you’ve reverted back to square one. Going through your day as though any of this is even remotely normal, counting the hours and minutes to reenter the astral plane and feel some semblance of control again.

It’s been nice, really, if you’re ignoring the constant underlying feeling of dread.

Which you’re getting better at.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Rinse and repeat.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Even on days when you’re sure you’re making progress with your powers, every reset makes it just a little harder to keep dragging yourself onwards.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

"You look like shit."

Your head rolls to the side slowly, allowing yourself a glance while Bucky is still distracted with his arm. Concentration makes his brows knit, and something warm spreads in your chest.

"I’m so tired," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re grateful for it for once. Your eyes are stinging a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Not particularly."

"Do you want to talk about something else?"

You almost smile. "Like what?"

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. "Like the fact that you just planted Sam into the mat head-first and yet made a face like you killed a puppy?"

Sometimes you wonder how he still manages to slip in without you noticing, no matter how many times he does it.

"Did I?"

"Did you kill a puppy? I’d hope not."

Your body’s been getting stronger, anticipating Sam’s every move. At this point, it’s not so much training as it is an exercise in muscle memory; but how would he know that?

It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

You pitiful, selfish, useless bastard.

"You’re doing it again," Bucky says and you blink.

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

Something inside you twinges uncomfortably and you wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them into your chest. "That might just be me, period."

Bucky huffs. "Take the towel on the right," he says. "I already used the other one."

So you do.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with blah, blah, blah.

"I can’t do this anymore."

Strange watches you, but you don’t get up from where you’re lying, blankly staring at the ceiling, feeling like your chest is about to explode.

You don’t want to feel like something is tearing you apart every single time, even though you know it’s not permanent. There’s always the tiniest glimmer of hope that this will all be over soon.

Or maybe it’s dread.

"Maybe you can’t," Strange answers.

You blink, sitting upright. "What?"

"Maybe you are actually incapable of cleaning up your own mess. You’ve never had any training before, after all. Maybe you’re too weak."

Useless. Not good enough. Waste of time.

"If this is reverse psychology, it’s not working," you say through gritted teeth, pressing your eyes shut so tightly they don’t burn anymore.

Strange ignores you. "Maybe you’re going to be stuck in this loop forever. If that’s the case, there’s no point to keep trying either. Maybe we should just call it a day."

You can feel your breaths coming in shorter.

"Maybe you’re just going to keep failing to save anyone for the rest of your life."

"Stop it!"

An explosion of power goes through your body, bouncing off the walls and bathing the room in a ghostly green light. You cough and curl into yourself as you watch it billow, still echoing the words back at you, "too weak", "stuck in this loop forever". Your bones are heavy with exhaustion.

Strange crouches down next to you and a cup of fragrant tea draws itself up to the side of your face.

"You’re drawing the bulk of your power from pain. From a desire to fix things that you think you alone are responsible for when the truth is that each and every one of us is constantly creating reality."

"Fuck you," you mumble. When you sit up, your head is still swimming.

"You cannot keep this up."

"If I’m such a lost case, then why do you bother?"

"I’m trying to tell you that you’re not." He points at the walls, still covered by that greenish fog. "This is the strongest display of your powers I’ve seen from you yet, and it only happened because you were lashing out. Pain is not a sustainable source of energy. Imagine what you could do if you could be in control."

Do as I tell you.

"There’s no way to control my powers on a larger scale. It’s impossible."

"You keep telling me that, and yet you keep coming back. Why?"

You push yourself up to your elbows, wiping at your face. "Because I have to hope, right?"

"And there it is."

You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders.

The wizard himself stays quiet for another minute or two, before he asks, "Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? Helping you, even, nevermind your constant whining and your insistence that this won’t work, after you’ve spent your whole life running away from anything resembling actual responsibilities."

"I didn’t—"

"Answer the question."

"Because I created a time loop?" you guess.

"But you already know that this loop is just one point on the timeline. A single day, repeated endlessly, but going exactly like it was always supposed to, once resolved. So, without the time stone and my privileges as the Sorcerer Supreme, and with your protections still in place, how would I have found you?"

He knew exactly where and when to look for you. But he’s right, that shouldn’t even have been possible unless …

"I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"

"Of course there is," he says, surprisingly gently. "Time isn’t supposed to get stuck."

You sit with that for a minute, hiding your face in your hands as Strange stays silent. Finally, you take a deep breath and look at him again with newly sharp focus.

"So why don’t you just tell me how to do it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know that’s not how it works."

"Yes. It is. It’s literally what I do all the time."

"What you do is leaving realities you don’t like by turning backwards."

"That’s not true."

"Just because your motivations aren’t entirely selfish doesn’t mean you’re right."

You’re so damn exhausted. The frustration of this whole thing is really starting to scratch at your sanity, and there’s an ache in your chest as you stare at your own sleeping face, biting the inside of your cheek, thinking.

Strange snaps his fingers to get your attention back.

"I’m not a mind reader," he says. "Out with it."

"I want to see him," you say, getting up. The cloak flaps around you in a very satisfying way. "Bucky. It’s early this morning, right? Just before the loop starts again. That means he’s upstairs."

"And what’s seeing him going to do?"

You ignore him and walk towards the door, reaching for the handle. Your hand goes right through it. You try it several more times, to no avail.

"Heaven help me," Strange mutters behind you.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath. The circle of green tingles around your wrist.

Then, you walk through the closed door.

You fully expect to crash into the wood head first, but instead you feel the door moving through your noncorporeal form, and then you’re standing on the other side.

With a startled hum, you turn left, not waiting to see if you’re being followed.

You only hesitate in front of Bucky’s bedroom door. You’ve never actually been inside his room since he’s moved in; well, apart from that time he patched up your feet and you woke up in the astral plane for the first time. It feels odd to consider entering without him actually being aware of it.

Then again, there’s quite a few things at this point that he’s unaware of.

Before you can make up your mind, the door swings open just a little, and you automatically take a step back. Alpine sleepily slinks through the gap and trots off in the direction you came from, probably to sit in the kitchen and mope until FRIDAY activates the food dispenser again. On the stairs, she passes Strange who raises an eyebrow at you.

"Changed your mind?"

You glance into the room.

At first, you can’t find him. The bedding looks untouched, and there’s a brief flurry of panic that makes you step inside before you can keep questioning yourself.

Bucky is lying on the floor next to the bed, his hands balled tightly into an old throw blanket. It’s haphazardly draped across his torso, like he’s been trying to wriggle free during the night. He grimaces in his sleep.

Try the floor.

You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed.

"Can he hear us?" you ask quietly, not needing to look over your shoulder as you sink to the floor next to Bucky.

"No," Strange says. "Not until you put in a lot more work."

"Would he remember if I did?"

"I don’t know."

You do look back at him, then. "You know, considering your position you don’t know a whole lot of things."

You concentrate on your own hand until you’re starting to feel cool metal underneath your fingertips, ignoring the throbbing of your head. Carefully, you touch the crease between his brows, smoothing it out tenderly.

Bucky sighs a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir. Doesn’t stop quietly murmuring in his dreams.

"You feel better?" Strange asks.

"Not really." You’ve already reached out to him without it having any repercussions too many times. "But that wasn’t the point."

"What was?"

"Just …"

Comfort. He brings you comfort, even when he doesn’t know it. It’s the same reason you keep waiting for him to arrive in the gym in the mornings, even though you could probably hurry up and miss him.

Even if the loop never ends, it’s still good to see that it’s bringing him back like it’s supposed to.

How incredibly selfish, you think as you continue looking at Bucky and letting a quiet, hesitant wash of calm come over you.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes open.

You flinch backwards, but even though you’re almost face to face, he seems to stare right through you, his breaths heavy.

"Did I do something?" you say quietly.

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up."

You watch as Bucky drags a hand over his face and then gets up with a determined tick in his jaw, grabbing a notebook from the nightstand. He scribbles something down, hastily, like it’s threatening to get away from him if he doesn’t hurry. You don’t have to read it to know it has something to do with what he’s seen in his sleep.

When the words stop flowing, he sits on the edge of the bed for a minute longer, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Finally, he rolls his left arm a few times before pulling on a shirt and his running shoes.

He always goes for a run in the morning. You’ve made fun of him for it before, but you hadn’t put together that while Strange was trying to get you to clear your own head through sitting still, Bucky might be doing the exact opposite to get the same result.

The door clicks shut.

"Are we done with the spying, then?" Strange says.

"No need to get weird about it," you mumble and take his outstretched hand.

* * *

Something changes once you know that your situation actually has an end date, even though Strange either cannot or will not tell you how many more loops you’re going to have to go through until then. Even so, there’s a new assurance to your every step again, a determination grown from the knowledge that all this isn’t for nothing. That there is an out.

You can cling to that.

"What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop?" you ask, letting your legs dangle over the ledge of the roof.

"Ew, no," Lucy replies, shaking the few remaining ice cubes in her cup emphatically. "My shift was long enough as is, and I’ve been looking forward to my Sunday off all week."

"Fair point," you concede.

It’s early afternoon then, and you’ve found a quiet spot on the top of the Tower. If Lucy was at all confused why you’d shown up at the store right when she clocked out and asked her to hang out, she’s not showing it. Over the past couple of loops, you’ve learned that she really likes to go with the flow, and you appreciate that.

"If it’s not today, though," she continues, like she’s thinking aloud. "Imagine the books you could read. You could try out all that stuff that you say you want to do, and then you never have the time to actually do them."

It’s a good thought, but a lack of time has never really been an issue for you. "Nothing you do would really stick, though."

She squints against the sun. "You realize that’s a pro, right? No consequences whatsoever. I could cut my bangs again and they’d be gone the next day."

"You used to have bangs?"

"Never, and I’m willing to state that in a court of law."

You smile and lean back on your elbows. "If something good happened, that’d be gone, too, though. You don’t get to keep that, either."

"Yeah," Lucy says thoughtfully. "I’d still remember it though, right? It still happened. I could make it happen again."

"Maybe." Your thumb scratches the empty space on your pinkie. Even though you’ve turned your entire bathroom upside down, your ring is still gone, like it just up and disappeared from this reality. You can’t help but wonder if that rift in the sky from a few todays ago has anything to do with that.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

Lucy takes another slurping sip from her almost empty cup. "What would you do in a time loop?"

You can’t help but laugh. "I’d try to keep making the good things happen, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

It is.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" someone shouts behind you. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"Technically, we are baking," you say, nodding at Lucy and leaning back further so you can look at Sam upside down. "And we’re baking for you."

"Hi, cap," Lucy says, pulling her sunglasses off.

"Hey." Sam crosses his arms and fixes you with a very cap-like glare. "Why are you baking for me."

"Y/N said it’s for your birthday."

"My—" He cuts himself off, rubbing his temples. "My birthday’s in September."

"Whoops," you say, your grin just believable enough. "My bad, cap."

"You’re not funny," Sam says, "I hope you know that."

You know.

Of course, today isn’t actually his birthday, not even if time were allowed to pass normally. It is day forty-fucking-nine of the loop, though, which makes it your fiftieth time living through this crap and frankly, you all deserve some damn pie.

It’s not going to make a difference in the long run, of course, and yet you can’t help but feel like keeping count of those little markers of time helps to hold your head above water. Making the good things happen, even if they don’t change a thing and no one but you is going to remember.

So you simply say, "It’s turtle pie," because you know that it’s Sam’s favorite. "Hey, what’s the time?"

"Oh, it better be," he says, holding his phone up for you to read and then marching out of your field of vision.

Sadly, you’re just about a minute early.

"He could’ve stayed," Lucy says when you let out a frustrated huff.

"He has that thing at the Garden," you tell her distractedly, taking a mental note to stall Sam a little longer next time.

"There you are."

You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s voice, barely daring to move your head when he sits next to you, his back to the brink.

He never comes up here. That’s the whole point.

"Hi?" you say carefully, and a grin tugs at his mouth.

"Not you," he says, nodding to the ground in front of him.

You turn around fully to find Alpine taking a nap just a few feet behind you, her snowy tail wrapped around a flower pot.

You let out a relieved breath and ignore the small sting in your chest. Of course he’s not up here because of you. Why would he be?

"Gee, thanks," you murmur, quietly shifting around so your hands are hidden underneath your legs. "You sure know how to charm the ladies."

You glance back at Lucy, but she’s looking at her phone, her eyes once again indecipherable behind the large sunglasses.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?"

He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes.

So you do what you always do and you block it out. Dismiss and distract.

"Does Alpine seem weird to you?"

He tilts his head, his jaw tight. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," you say, staring at her. "She’s just been acting … odd, lately. Today, I mean."

And following you around in a way you’re pretty sure she’s never done before. Not before the loop, at least.

Bucky sighs. "Did you make her scratch you again? Because I’ve told you before that I’m not getting rid of her for enforcing her boundaries."

"First of all, I never make her scratch me, she does that well enough on her own."

"That’s victim blaming," Lucy says without looking up. Bucky snorts and you almost roll your eyes.

"Second of all, she’s up to something. I know it."

"Oh, yes," Bucky says dryly just as Alpine makes a small noise in her dreams, her nose twitching. "That’s the embodiment of evil right there."

"I don’t trust her," you mutter.

"And yet the cat’s the weird one."

"I hate you," you mumble, standing up. "I’m gonna go check on the pie."

"There’s pie?" Bucky says.

"Not for you!"

You turn at the door to see Lucy leaning in to show Bucky something on her phone; the frown has disappeared from his face, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d pull off his glove right now, it’d almost be like sitting in a park.

That’s good, you tell yourself as the door slams shut behind you with a bit too much gusto. Reminds you that there’s nothing special about you in particular, which is much needed, really.

Can’t wait to punch that one out of your system later.

Again and again and again and a—

"Whoa, whoa, you alright?"

You blink. Riff slumps to the ground in front of you, body limp.

Bucky stares at you in concern, his hand still on your shoulder. His lip has split open and there’s the usual bruise already forming on his cheekbone. You can’t help it. Your gaze is drawn down, your breathing shallow.

You screw your eyes shut to snap yourself out of it, but when you open them again, Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

"Never better," you whisper, and for a split second, you almost believe it yourself.

Liar, liar, liar.

* * *

At least, you suppose, reality seems considerably less broken these days. No more cracks in the sky.

You get your wake-up call when you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY …

"… FRIDAY?" you say into the silence of your room, your heart pounding wildly. This cannot be happening. Not now.

Not yet.

He got shot again yesterday.

A pleasant jingling sound rings out. "Good morning, Ms. Y/L/N."

You look at the clock on the wall. Ten to eight, just like every morning. "What day is it?"

"Today is Friday, July 4th."

You can taste bile in your mouth despite your relief. There’s an impatient thrum to the symbols around your wrist, like a noose that’s tightening.

What did you expect?

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

"Didn’t you set FRIDAY to wake me?" you ask Sam as you’re climbing the stairs, nerves on edge.

He looks at you weirdly. "I did. You’re up, aren’t you?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Didn’t sleep well."

That much, at least, is still true. Full nights of sleep are a long distant memory from before constant back-to-back repetitions. The only time your body shuts off is when you manage to sleep for a little bit in between your astral visits and the mission call.

"I hope you don’t think that’s an excuse," Sam says, bumping your shoulder, and you manage a tired grin.

"You wish."

Today, you let him win, even though your ankle makes an odd crack when you land on the mat. You’ll take care of it later.

"You look like shit."

Grief and relief, you’ve learned, both taste like salt and iron, but the latter is so much easier to swallow.

"That makes two of us," you say, sitting up slowly. "How was your run?"

"Good," Bucky says, putting the cloth away and stretching his fingers out. They catch a ray of sunlight. "What’s wrong with you?"

Not this again.

"Later, okay?" you answer, because that’s not a lie. "Let’s just … not, right now?"

"Alright," he says.

And, oh, you want to tell him again. Because he doesn’t press it. Because you miss having someone to share things with. Because you miss telling him the whole truth. Because you’re scared, and tired, and sick of losing him.

But those are egotistic thoughts, and so you keep them all to yourself and take the towel on the right.

There’s one good thing about this today. You make it to the living room just in time to finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s phone right when it pings with Torres’ message.

I can check it out on Monday if you’d like.

That’s it. No urgency, weirdly proper spelling, not even an exclamation mark.

In other words, you’re not sure what you expected but you’re no closer to answers than before.

"What does it matter?" Strange sighs when you tell him all of this with a frown.

"It matters," you reply, "because if we hadn’t gone on the mission, Bucky wouldn’t have died that first time and none of this would’ve happened."

"So what?" he says. "It’s already done."

"But if I could prevent it—"

"It already happened."

"I can make it not happen."

"You and what powers?" Strange says sharply. "Even if you did that, it wouldn’t stop the loop."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you’ve already seen first-hand that it’s bound to you and your powers, not to whatever you do or don’t do during the day. Karma is a fairy tale for those who don’t want to take responsibility for their actions."

"Do you really still think this is me not taking responsibility?" There’s a green flare that goes through you, hot and seething and making goosebumps crawl down your arms.

Strange smiles at the sight. "Let’s find out."

He extends his arms and slowly opens his fists until orange symbols dance across his shaky fingers. The band around your wrist prickles at the weight of his magic flooding the air.

Strange’s cloak nudges you towards the center of the room and your heart gives a heavy thud. "What, right now?"

"Would you prefer being stuck for a couple weeks more?"

"Of course not it’s just—I don’t feel ready."

"No one ever feels ready until they try."

And maybe it’s because it reminds you of something Steve once said, but it makes you step up, falling into the stance you’ve practiced over and over again. You breathe in deeply and close your eyes.

The pull comes easier now. Your powers have just been resting, nestled somewhere deep inside your bones like glowing embers, waiting for you to call upon them.

When you look at your open palm, the green wisps of your powers have curled up to the size of a ping-pong ball. You take another steadying breath and let it glide to the tips of your fingers, carefully letting it balance itself out for a second before moving your other hand.

"Good," you can hear Strange say quietly.

Slowly, carefully, you let the threads untangle until they’re just about to touch the green band circling around your wrist. You can feel the electric tingle of it, the soft beat of each passing second contained within, and you push past it.

You’ve done this before, so you’re not surprised when you feel the energy drain from your body almost immediately. Up until now, though, it’s just been trial and error, not expecting anything to happen. This time, you have Strange’s magic feeding some of his strength into you as well, and so instead of hesitating, you press on, your heartbeat speeding up.

The band around your wrist does the same.

"Don’t lose your focus." Strange’s voice sounds very far away, almost warped.

Very funny, you might have said, but you’re too busy watching it all unfold.

The whirring inside of your head grows louder as the circlet of time keeps rotating with accelerating speed, faster and faster until your eyes start tearing up and there’s something that looks almost like a crack.

You gasp quietly. At first, you think you might have just imagined it, but then the split starts growing, the symbols growing farther and farther apart as the band itself keeps spinning. Your pulse is beating in your ears. Your wrist feels like it’s being set on fire.

There are voices, then, quiet and fast, like you’re watching a sped up movie, music and noises and chatter and birdsong and a whooshing sound like something flipping right past you. Then, something like distant shots.

I’m getting Bucky out of this, you think as the green band continues rotating until suddenly, there is a shockwave of green light that takes up your entire field of vision.

You close your stinging eyes, keeping your feet firmly planted on the floor as your powers rush through you once more and then, with a shudder, settle down again, exhausted. The glare subsides. Something like a trickle of sweat runs down your noncorporeal neck.

"Did it work?" you ask, your voice rough, not daring to look for yourself. There’s no answer, though. "Doc?"

Slowly, your eyes readjust to the gloomy darkness of your room in the astral realm. The only source of light is the glowing green band continuing to circle around your wrist, the rifts stabilizing again like it’s clicking back into place.

You swear under your breath and turn around to ask what went wrong, but Strange is no longer standing beside you.

You’re all alone.

* * *

Three, two, one—

"Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

You catch the plastic cup before it drops onto the suit of the business man standing in line in front of you. "Here you go, sir."

He grabs his drink with a grunt and hurries back outside. One of these days, you might ask him why he’s in such a hurry, but it’s not today.

You’ve grown to adore the noise of the pre-noon rush. The cacophany of the whirring machines, the AC and the people is just loud enough to make your head calm down a little. Besides, being alone in a crowd has never been easier than when you know for a fact they are not going to remember you.

The drinks are starting to pile up at the hand-out, and because you feel bad for your colleagues, you start handing them out to people. You’ve been here a lot, after all.

"Tall hazelnut latte for Misty!"

Plus, it helps to keep your mind from wandering back to everything that’s going wrong.

Strange still hasn’t returned.

The astral dimension feels different when you return the day after your experiment, like someone’s been pulling invisible strings to make everything just slightly more disordered and dark.

It’s cold, too. You watch your body shiver in her sleep as you wrap your arms around yourself. The books are still there, shimmering slightly with the magic they contain.

"Doc?" you call out, and the vibrations of this place hum it back at you. There’s no answer.

The book at the top of the pile is still opened to a page, as if it’d just been left a moment ago, and you pick it up. The words glide around like they are looking to jump back into an inkpot, and you have to squint to make out any of them.

Incursion, the section header reads. Result of a contraction in a universe’s timeline. Can cause premature disintegration or collapse of any one reality within the multiverse.

"Just great," you say, slapping the book shut again. "I get it, alright? You can come out now."

But there’s no sound apart from your own heartbeat.

Your noncorporeal head is swimming with pressure as you pass through the closed door and into the hallway. The walls seem larger than usual, the stairs warping ever so slightly underneath your feet so that you can’t look at them for too long without feeling seasick.

Upstairs, the air doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The silence follows you, though, lingering in the grayish morning shadows like the remnants of a nightmare.

Bucky still mumbles in his.

You can’t make out what he is saying, and you wouldn’t have understood the words, anyway, but there’s sweat on his brow again. His fingers are tightly clutching the thin throw blanket like it’s shielding him from whatever he’s seeing in his dreams.

You take a step closer to him, desperate to do something, anything, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye.

Alpine is perched on top of the bed, complacently tucked into herself on one of the fluffed up white pillows like it’s really her room, not Bucky’s.

And she’s staring right at you.

You take a step to the side, then another. Alpine tilts her head, her large eyes fixed on you. They follow your gestures as you wave your hand.

A quick glance tells you that Bucky is still sleeping. You take a deep breath and conjure up a small dot of bright green light, letting it dance across your fingertips. Alpine uncurls herself in interest, her tail twitching.

"You can see me," you whisper, and the little spec of your power disappears.

The cat meows in disappointment.

Carefully, you move closer to the bed, reaching out your translucent hand until you place it on Alpine’s head.

She rubs against your palm.

You chuckle incredulously, scratching behind her ears. "You little devil."

Alpine seems particularly pleased with herself. She starts purring.

This is simply bizarre, you think as you continue petting her soft fur. You’re expecting a sarcastic comment from behind your shoulder any minute now, but it doesn’t come.

So, you lower yourself down on the floor next to Bucky, the tips of your fingers not quite grazing his arm as you swallow heavily.

And then you wait until he gets up.

It’s possible, you think as you watch him leave and then make yourself wake up too, that Strange is simply messing with you for the hell of it. You don’t like the timing of this, though. Your day still continues on and on and on, like it always does, but it seems just a little too pointed that this would happen right after you had your first hopes of getting out of here in a long time.

It doesn’t help that the reality glitches have decided to return with a vengeance.

Every day is still July 4th. You wake up with a start, you train, you get coffee, you fight over lunch, you take your astral visit, you go on that damn mission. It’s the details that start to get … fuzzy.

In the beginning, every single thing around you was the exact same every single day. Now, though, there are sometimes details that are just wrong. A different mug left on the drying rack. A mess all over the tables in the lab. Weird noises all over the Tower.

You don’t know what to make of any of it, and so in general, you follow Strange’s rule of thumb and simply ignore the things that are wrong one day and then right the next—which, thankfully, is all of them. You just go with it, telling yourself that this is simply reality malfunctioning a little, like a machine that needs oiling.

Weirdly enough, that doesn’t reassure you in the slightest.

But what else can you do?

You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him.

That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse.

Everyone’s back to their usual stuff again, and that’s that.

Another time, you’ve barely rolled out of bed and into your bathroom—"Rise and shine, McFly!"—when you’re suddenly jolted forwards and you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. Your stomach feels like it’s still turning, nauseous, as if you’d sat up too fast.

That feeling still leaves a bad taste in your mouth, sticking to the back of your mind like the blood you haven’t even had time to wash off.

The thing that demands most of your attention, though, is the pile of books waiting for you in the astral realm. Since you don’t have any control over the loop itself, you pour all of your energy into trying to understand the theory behind your powers. It’s giving you a constant headache, and it takes a lot longer than you would like to admit, but at least you feel like you’re doing something that’ll last.

Nothing else will.

There’s one last lonely cup sat on the counter next to your own, which signals that the rush is over for now. You can see Lucy wiping her forehead as you wave your goodbye, picking up both drinks on your way out and handing one of them to the guy just hurrying back downstairs.

"Here you go," you say without stopping, glancing at your phone. You haven’t stayed this late before.

"What the—" you hear behind you, just before the doors glide open and you’re greeted by the sound of traffic and a hot breeze of air.

If you’re lucky, you can make it back to your room without anyone seeing you. You’ve moved on to a particularly hefty tome about relativity, and you’d like to—

"Hey! Miss? Hold on a second!"

You look over your shoulder to see the delivery guy has run after you, cup still in his hand. His bike is leaned against a lamp post nearby, his cap dangling off one of the handles.

You found out a couple of weeks ago that he takes his break just after dropping off your order, but you don’t usually make eye contact anymore.

Now, he holds out his cup accusingly. "That’s my drink."

You smile. "Good for you."

"No. No, that’s not—I mean—how did you know it was my drink?"

And because nothing really matters and you really want to go home, you say, "It has your name on it, doesn’t it?"

You expect him to look at you with wide eyes, just like people normally do when you know things you’re not supposed to. His mouth will drop open, speechless, his frown will deepen, and you can wink at him and continue on your way so he can spend the next couple of hours wondering what just happened.

The cup falls out of his hand, but somehow he manages to catch it before it hits the sidewalk. When he looks up at you again, and his expression is unlike anything you’ve seen coming.

"But that’s not …" he says quietly. "Do you remember me?"

And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for.

* * * * *

"Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this," you said quietly, looking over the rim of your glass at the crowd.

"You complaining?" you heard Sam’s voice say over the little earpiece you were wearing.

"Not at all."

Apparently, people connected to terrorist organizations threw incredibly fancy parties.

You hadn’t felt this glamorous in a while, if ever, dressed up to the nines in a dark green jumpsuit with an incredibly flattering cut that you’d never had a reason to wear before. Despite your initial doubts about this whole thing, you felt great, for the first time in way too long.

"Are you gonna move any time soon?"

Well. Mostly.

At least Barnes cleaned up nice, you supposed; it almost made up for his grouchy demeanor.

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and got back to work. You let the crowd swallow you up, seemingly on your way to the restrooms, and then you stopped it all to slip upstairs unnoticed by prying eyes and cameras.

You didn’t hold it for very long; you had to rattle some doors, after all, and despite your espresso martini, it was still hard to tell if you could manage several redos back to back. After all, you’d only been back in the game for a couple of weeks.

It took you a few tries to find the right office, and locating the files was comparatively easy with what you already had access to. There it was, proof that ULTIMATUM had managed to secure most of the Flag Smashers’ previous supporters as well as some high brow weapon dealers.

While you copied everything onto a flashdrive, your eyes caught one of the designs. You frowned.

Even though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, something about it seemed just slightly too highbrow for an organization of the international bad egg committee that was supposedly still mostly underground. Your gaze started drifting through the rest of the office, noting the usual boring books and glass awards in the bookshelves on the far wall. You pulled open one of the desk drawers.

"You almost done in here?"

"Fuck!" You slammed the drawer shut again, getting your pinkie stuck in the process. "Damnit, where did you come from?"

Bucky pointed over his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you murmured, your eyes stinging at the pain.

Bucky looked nonplussed. "Can’t you just undo it?"

"Great input, thank you." The flashdrive beeped softly and you shut everything down again. At least you were definitely sober now. "What are you, anyway, my babysitter?"

"Wouldn’t have to be if you could check in on time," he answered, checking the corridors, then nodding for you to follow.

"Time’s a social construct," you murmured, but followed him, the flashdrive hidden in your fist.

You didn’t even make it to the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you?" a voice said right before several triggers clicked and you both froze. "I knew I’d recognized that arm. And who do you have with you here, Winter Soldier?"

No one, you thought, and then you yanked time backwards so forcefully you stumbled into the desk, your heart still racing. The copy sat at 57%.

You felt almost seasick with the rewind, but there wasn’t any time. "Keep going upstairs," you said into your earpiece.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I’m fine. Don’t come get me. Just keep going," you gritted through your teeth, trying to calm your breaths. 70%.

"Exit plan C, then," Sam said.

Bucky didn’t answer. You looked at your hands. There was a slight tremor to them, but nothing too bad. If you could get the nausea under control, you could probably make it past the cameras one more time.

You should’ve eaten more.

As soon as the flashdrive was done, you ripped it out and forced everything to a halt again. Your palms were sweaty as you hurried out of the office and in the direction of the staircase, your lungs burning. This didn’t feel like a good sign.

You stumbled over your damn heels and the noise returned for that moment you lost your concentration.

Not good enough.

Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you.

A small crowd had assembled at the bottom of the stairs. As you closed in on them, you felt a jolt go through you and suddenly found yourself surrounded by people as time attempted to right itself again. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm so hard you could feel yourself draw blood.

It went quiet again and you moved through them, almost blindly. Everything seemed to be spinning.

Behind your shoulder, you could hear several people talking, interrupted only by the world stopping around them every now and then.

"—d’you—see that—"

"—could’ve—sworn there—”

And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab.

chapter seven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[multi-lefaiye]

🦁 - dr. eden linnaeus (character)

🔥 - atja kedy'rar (character)

💀 - blade which strikes twice (character)

🐇 - jackrabbit (character)

🧛 - salvatore o'malley (character) / roadtrip with the vampire (wip)

🌪️ - modern ghost story (wip)

MY LONGEST YEAH BOI EVER

FINALLY REPLYING TO THIS HI- died for a while again whoops. anyway. thank you <3

putting these under the cut since it got a lil long :3 anyway!!!

eden: (an excerpt from one of my many lil eden wips...... my boy....)

In the world of the living once more--the real world, at last--time moves as it should. The sun rises and falls, the wind rolls storm clouds over the horizon, the moon and stars trek through the heavens… it’s as though the world was holding its breath, before, and now it can finally breathe freely again. Eden doesn’t need to count heartbeats anymore, can simply count the seconds as they tick by the way he normally would. There is no need, and he can focus his thoughts elsewhere. And yet, despite himself, he finds himself doing it again less than a day after their escape, tapping his fingers idly against the bark of the tree he’s leaning against. He’s more exhausted than he thinks he’s ever been, his legs trembling with the effort of holding him up. A logical, clinical part of him assumes he must be going into shock, the adrenaline of the battle bleeding out of him and into the grass beneath his feet. The rest of him is buzzing, skin itching as his thoughts go into overdrive. The forest around him is quiet--too quiet, even now that the bear-kin are dead, their corpses already stinking of rot and bile only a few feet away. So why is everything so loud? (Later, Eden will realize that he must have been having a panic attack. He’ll decide not to say anything about it to the others.)

atja: (for atja i'm gonna include some notes from the oneshot that aren't spoilers lol, but my notes for what he's comfortable discussing with the players in the first scene with them all together)

He has recently been appointed the overseer of Cera-Na, and has been extremely busy with his duties to his clan. He greatly regrets falling out of touch with his friends, but he simply hasn’t had the free time he once did. Which is why he invited them today, to hopefully rekindle that spark of friendship. (He’s very honored and grateful they accepted.) He is wearing gloves due to a recent injury in his hands--he does not want to disclose what the injury is, but he says it happened while he was working aboard the Omerya and fell from the rigging. Termil can back him up on this. Elder Lindo, his physician, has directed that he wear the gloves until they’re fully recovered. (He will be fidgeting with his gloves throughout the meal--a successful Insight check will determine he is not used to wearing them and finds them uncomfortable, and a successful History check from anyone who knows Atja will reveal that no one remembers him wearing gloves like this.) Since his appointment as overseer, he hasn’t been traveling on the Omerya with his mother--instead, he’s remained in Cera-Na and has been living in the Lighthouse. He’ll invite the players to join him in his quarters later if they’d like, though they may not have time amid all the festivities.

twice: (lil snippet i've had on the brain for a while, feat. twice's toxic ex boyfriend)

"Tell me who I belong to, sugar," Iliris purrs, carding long fingers through their hair. It's strange, Twice things, as much as they're capable of seeing anything as strange--Iliris likes to ask them questions like this, like he's trying to make a point they don't understand. But they can't deny how much they like it. They grin, wide and toothy, as they bury their face into his neck, a dog seeking warmth. "Mine," they growl, a quiet mantra under their breath. "Mine mine mine mine mine-" Iliris is the only thing, the only person, that really belongs to Twice and no one else. "That's right, sweetheart," Iliris says, the grin audible in his voice. "Yours and no one else's, darlin', forever." He doesn't say it out loud, never puts it into words, but Twice knows the reverse is true, too.

jackrabbit: (little snippet i've had on the brain for a while, from the perspective of his eventual boyfriend el) (at this point, el only knows him as jack)

El's grip on the shotgun wavers slightly as the stranger narrows his piercing, acidic green eyes. "You gonna shoot, or are you gonna let me through so I can help you?" Jack growls. Looking at him now, it's a wonder El ever thought he was human, not with those jagged teeth, that lashing tail, those curved talons- no, the man looming over him now is a monster, and El needs to kill it. But he can't make himself pull the trigger. Behind them, there's a crash, and Jenny screams. El's heart seizes in his chest, and the monster's expression darkens. "Make your goddamn choice, boy!" Jack spits at him. "We ain't got all night, and neither does your sister." He sounds more desperate than angry now, gaze flicking between the barrel of the gun and the door as he flexes his claws. El takes a breath. And he lowers the gun.

salvatore: (excerpt from a scene in his backstory i think is fun, with him hanging out with his besties pre-vampirism. besties is a strong word for it.)

"An' then I told the fucker, ‘Get lost, ya’ gee-whiz-lookin’ piece of shit, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes!’” The guys all laughed, clearly delighted at the violent turn his story had taken. “And then what?” Jimmy asked, leaning forward with nervous interest as his big brown eyes bugged out of his skull. He was young, younger than Salvatore even, and he had a youthful shine in his eyes most of the men around him lacked. If Salvatore was a kinder man, he would say the kid had no business running with men like them, and he would probably spare some of the darker details of this particular story. If Salvatore was a kinder man, maybe he'd try to cut the kid some slack. Of course, Salvatore had never claimed to be kind, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Well,” he drawled, sitting up in his seat, “he decided to be a tough guy and push his luck. So I showed him what happens to tough guys ‘round here.” He punctuated his statement by lifting one hand and holding it in the shape of a gun. With a sly grin, he mimed firing it at Jimmy. “Pop! Put one right between his eyes, like I said I would.” All around him, the guys roared with delighted laughter, while Jimmy visibly paled and leaned back. Salvatore didn't let himself feel the pang of guilt that shot through him as a large, meaty hand slapped him on the back. “God, Sal, you really are a mean son of a bitch!” the burly man next to him--some dipstick named Lenny or whatever--cackled. "Surprised no one's put a bullet in you yet, the way you act!"

a modern ghost story (wip): (also a scene that's on the brain! will this make it to the final story? who's to say. but i've wanted to write it for literal years so-)

"Holy fucking shit," Roach said, their eyes glued to the little clock on the dashboard. Their hands were shaking. It couldn't be... "You good?" Oliver asked, his voice characteristically gentle as he put a hand on their shoulder. It took them a moment to speak, their tongue glued to the roof of their mouth. When they did, their voice came out as a rasp. "It's midnight," they said. "It's- it's June 3rd now. It's my birthday." Oliver was quiet. He didn't know what to do with that information, Roach knew very well--fuck, who did? It's not like they ever told anyone the significance of the date, or why this mattered to them. The thought almost made them laugh, a burst of manic delight burning brightly in their chest. As best they could with their seatbelt still on, Roach turned to face Oliver, putting a hand on his as they beamed up at him. Just like them, he looked tired, but something in his expression was torn between cautiously hopeful and worried. The sight made them want to start laughing again. "It's my birthday," they repeated. "It's my birthday, and I'm still alive." Something dawned on Oliver's face, something like understanding.

[trappedinafantasy37]

🔥

"I wanna make Minthara nice!" "I wanna make Minthara good!" "I wanna make Minthara less evil!". Shut up. Seriously. Shut the hell up. Making the bad guy good is sooooo cliche and overdone at this point. Plus, Minthara is as great as she is because she is evil and is selectively nice to the ones she likes.

Baldur's Gate 3 is all about subverting expectations. So let's subvert expectations shall we. We shouldn't be talking about making the evil guys better. We should be talking about making the good guys worse. I want to make Wyll and Karlach evil. I'm gonna ramble a little bit...

The potential for a corruption plot is literally built into Wyll's storyline with him having a literal devil on his shoulders the whole time. I mean, we can kinda get a glimpse of how that corruption would work in Act 1 when it comes to Wyll facing Karlach. Not to mention, Wyll being the son of the Grand Duke and having his father and city turn their backs on him after sacrificing his soul to save everyone would also present a perfect opportunity for Wyll to just say "fuck 'em". But can you just imagine the story potential of Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard who is still pacted with Mizora? The absolute utter nightmare that would bring cause then the Hells would have control of Baldur's Gate?

The only real way to even play a corrupt Wyll is to do his origin. But it would be so much more fascinating to BE one of the influences in his corruption. This would also make his decision to break the pact so much more impactful and it would be HIS choice. Now I have always firmly held the belief that when it comes to his pact, it is always up to the player because Wyll will always make the same choice and he will always choose his father. So, it has to be the players choice if you want some different outcome. Wyll choosing his father may end up having him sell his soul to Zariel for eternity, but it doesn't corrupt him or change it. But, what if it did? What if we had the ability to have a negative impact on Wyll and this choice would be him making a choice of his soul in whether or not he wants to be a good man or to listen to the corrupting voices around him. Because, to his core, Wyll is a good man. But that good nature can be overpowered by the influences around him. If anything, this scene could play out similarly to how it does for Shadowheart and the Nightsong.

And Karlach, oh Karlach. I love my fiery ball of sunshine. But I find it so odd that someone who spent every single day for 10 years fighting a war isn't the least bit hardened by it. No anxiety, no PTSD, no paranoia, no trust issues. It's actually amazing that Karlach comes out as nice as she is from the Blood War, but is a missed opportunity. As refreshing as it is, I do find it strange that she comes out so trusting of people and having so much faith in others. If Karlach was a little bit more mistrusting and a little bit more paranoid, it would be an easy little thing to leverage into making her worse.

A lot of Karlachs story kinda reminds me of the main plot of Cyberpunk 2077 where you have a character who has a literal ticking time bomb within them. But I specifically wanna draw the parallels between Karlachs engine and the cybernetic enhancements. In Cyberpunk, there is this condition called "cyberpsychosis" in which someone just fucking snaps and goes bonkers and starts killing everything around them for no reason. There is no known reason as to why it happens and the only common element amongst all cyberpsychoes is that they have at least 1 cybernetic enhancement. There also is no way to prevent it from happening, no way to predict that it will happen, and no cure for cyberpsychosis. With Karlachs heart and a lot of her cardio vascular system having been replaced by an infernal engine, I feel like this would also serve great potential for internal corruption and have a fantasy version of "cyberpsychosis". Infernal magic is constantly coursing through her and she is literally on fire all the time. This should definitely have an impact on her. And the only way to prevent her from going full "cyberpsycho" is to do the upgrades with Dammon. Your decision at the grove and/or Last Light would have an impact on Karlachs future sanity.

She would be a ticking time bomb in more ways than one and it would be inevitable. Either she dies cause her enhancement gives out, or she loses her damn mind and you're forced to put her down. This is what would make her ending so much more tragic. It's already hard enough watching her burn on the pier. It would absolutely shatter my damn heart to have to put her down cause the engine corrupted her mind. The Avernus ending is damn near identical to the Sun ending in Cyberpunk 2077 as you have found a temporary way to halt the affliction, but no known way to cure it. Just the hope that there might be a cure.

How many times do we have to watch evil characters become better? Does that not get boring? Stop focusing on making evil companions better. Focus on making good companions worse. It's a hell of a lot more interesting but also adds a lot more nuance to their characters and makes them feel more alive. Especially when in all these cases, none of them are born evil or want to be evil, but are made evil by their circumstances. Being evil is easy, but being good is hard. Good is also what is expected of us. And I find it much more compelling to watch a good character fight the temptation of evilness, than to watch an evil character find annoyance in being good.

[harleiquina]

WTF?! AKA girl that studied Advertising doesn't understand how this happened.

Sooooo, Neil Gaiman, huh?

Disclosure: I started this in the following 2 weeks after the news broke (maybe earlier than that, I don't remember) but, hey, my job sucks and more often than not my brain was just too dead to even try and get back to this. And then even more claims appeared and Vera Wylde (AKA Council of Geeks) made 2 videos that pretty much alligned with my mindset (fun fact: now there are 3 videos now), still I had a few points that I wanted to address... and life got inbetween yet again... and now I'm done, I need to finish this otherwise it'll sit on my drafts for ever.

Fandom's still ablaze, people asking for more info are inmediately labeled as "SA supporters" other alleged claims surfaced and I wonder why none of the companies associated with the author are saying a thing about it... not even him has stepped foward to say anything and that is super odd.

In case you didn't know I've studied Advertising but decided against following a career in it because 1) my classmates work-ethic (or lack of) traumatized me, 2) I never really liked it (I just wanted to live off my Creativity), 3) because after spending 3 years learning every little thing that can make a person tick to buy something I can see certain patterns everywhere and 4) it is far too easy to make anyone believe anything and the idea of doing it and screwing people's lives as a job does not fit my own moral criteria.

That being said, don't you dare to think that this post is taking any kind of side or that I'm trying to push my career because I already gave you those 4 points of why I am not activately working on this field. All of this will be a head-first delve into how those 3 years in College shaped my way of thinking (basically a "no feelings, just bussiness") and trying to have a somewhat broader picture.

I just have a perspective that most of the fandom doesn't have and I wanted to share it.

Just in case, I am not looking foward to whatever conversations could occur from now on and most likely won't interact with any of them if I sense any kind of bad blood.

Full disclousure: even though I am a casual enjoyer of Neil Gaiman's stories I have zero idea of how he is or was back in the day. Everything I say is based off on my observations both in-fandom and from what I can see from my country (Argentina) that is located at World's End quite literally... we don't get much gossip here unless is something BIG.

First off, lets clear some air:

1. Writing about horrible things doesn't mean that someone a bad person. I mean....

(Disclaimer: even if I do find the meme funny... I have 0 knowledge of anime or how this two artists interact with life and their fans).

But in all seriousness... how many crime shows exist/existed and will keep on existing? How many gory horror movies? How many books, comics, operas, musicals and so on that portray horrible crimes? Do all of those authors have a secret life as criminals? I don't think so.

Yes, having an affinity to the subject might give you a better know-how but is not mandatory... writers investigate a lot as well.

Art is meant to be an exploration and more often than not artists will take universal fears and turn them into something good and innocent or take something pure and turn it into a bloody nightmare... is supposed to show another perspective without any predjudice and allow us play with the weirdest and commonly frowned upon things in a safe and contained space.

If you are not an artist, you can still use the art as a conduit for this... but please don't turn into an Inquisitor, you're no better than us I swear.

2. If a person is anti-censorship... is against ANY kind of censorship. You can't pick and choose what should be "good" or "bad" because that is also a form of censorship. Are there disgusting things out there? Yes. Do any of us have the right moral compass to condemn and/or ban something just because? No. (And even if I'm not very well versed in manga I can tell the difference between a work of fiction that has been drawn and actual p*rn that could've been produced by harming someone. Those things are not on the same level. Sick? Yes, but still unreal just like a lot of the NSFW drawings that I've seen in here).

3. The Zionism: many people came after Gaiman accusing him of supporting Israel because of some letter that was signed right after the Hamas' attack. Siding with the civilian victims is always the first reaction even if as a jewish he is supposed to know better the reality of things, this is not mandatory because maybe he doesn't engage in religion or geopolitics that much. Later he did posted on Twitter (according to some) a few links to assist people in Palestine, I know he did shared one or two Instagram stories with this as well and of course, lately posted about a friend that got jailed for protesting against Israel. However many still support the "he is a Zionist" because he -as many others- said that the solution would be for both countries to live at peace. So... it was an easy neutral response trying not to cater to either side whether if it conveys his real sentiment or if he did it to secure his position among his followers or because he didn't wanted to upset someone he might know/work for that thinks different or didn't wanted to get into a polemic bigger than himself is up for debate.

OK Lets put the little grey cells to work

Many claims that started to populate Reddit (mostly) seem to go all the way back to the 90s where stuff like this wasn't talked about mostly because he was just another DC writer and social media + cellphones with camera didn't existed.

I do wonder how did he presented himself back then.

Even if Sandman was a huge success, both comics and mixing them up with greek mythology makes it very niche (niche is an official Advertising word, I swear). So even if DC properties like Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and others were very well known and bought... I don't know how many of those readers jumped into Gaiman's Sandman and stick to it (I've even seen people in Tumblr complaining of "Gaiman's atrocity called Sandman") let alone how many thought of him as a genius.

Apparently he did had people showing up in signature events (were conventions a thing back then? I live in the other side of the world and have no idea) and apparently almost like a rock-star he had groupies following him. I am a rocker at heart, we all know about groupies but I really didn't needed to know that the literary kind existed as well, thank you very much.

There are two things I'd like to address here.

First of all that, given the nature of the movement, these girls were throwing themselves at him. It is still wrong to take advantage of it, but as we know men are needy AF so it only takes for one woman to be kind to them and they'll see how to get her to bed. Manly nature 🙄 That being said, considering that these were basically one-night-stands I don't think that he would've gone too far with any of them. Still...

The second point is... WHAT THE HELL WAS DC DOING? Probably many of you think "well, probably they are all perverts" and yeah, you have a point... but still you need to save face. You can't have one of your key writers (?) picking up girls in official events that you organized and take them to bed. Even with its ups and downs on the industry, DC had (and has) a prestige to keep. If we are thinking about late 1989 and early 90s they were riding the crest with Burton's Batman you can't have a scandal like this about to burst! It was just a matter of time till someone picked up on it and did something about it (think of a girl's family, group of friends, partner, what-have-you).

And even if Sandman was too niche it was still making good money for them... the possible movie rights were probably always in talks back then... and you'll risk that just because "men will be men"? WHAT KIND OF BUSSINESS DO YOU CONDUCT? Even if it is the 90's... you don't want to be associated with a sleaze bag. Not to mention that even with all of this he wasn't perceived as a "winner" among men as well... you know the type "oh, look how viril and manly he is... all the girls want him" kinda thing. So just why?

Did the publishers see it coming?

As I said the Reddit claims seem to be from the 90s (or at least from The Time With No Virtual Fingerprints) I've got yet to read anyone saying that he did a pass on them on a recent Comic-Con or book signing. (N: I started to write this before the third and fourth & fifth women came foward. However, the point sort of still stands)

This could be because 1) technology made it almost impossible to keep a secret or 2) because the publishers decided to open the umbrella before it started to rain.

If his reputation was well known it wouldn't surprise me that other companies might've put a clause in their contracts about his behaviour. Even we, working-class ants, have Codes of Conduct and Ethics in our mundane jobs... so OF COURSE this also exist in celebrities' contracts as well.

A publisher would never want to be involved into a scandal let alone a possible sex scandal with an author that doesn't just write "dark fantasies" but children's stories as well. You can't market a sexopath as a"kind and gentle uncle-like figure" that will read stories to your kids. I mean, with the right Ad team you can totally pull it off but it is A LOT EASIER if he just behaves.

Still you can't control a person's actions outside the professional enviroment AKA their personal life, and even if you must have a Ad team in case of any possible disturbance... they will focus more on the Company's Image than the person's.

In this case, Gaiman should have a personal Publicist. And for what I've seen I do think that he has a team but not necesarily a Publicist ready to tackle on a scandal, just a regular one that "gets him out there" and probably throws some ideas for posts and secures the Ads for any convention or media related project.

When you work with a public person you must work as Communitty Manager as well but the real trick is finding the right balance between your posts and your clients'.

The CM's posts will be very basic info for appearences in different events/media or new releases. What people really wants is a sneak-peak on a person's life and unless you are someone that is with them 24/7, it depends on this person's to do those posts (more often than not those who took those candid videos or photos are either friends/family or a super personal and close assitants). We do know that Gaiman has at least one assitant (plus representation for USA and UK, maybe someone else) how ever I have my doubts about him having a Publicist for his persona. Why would I say that?

Neil Gaiman has no socials

The joke has being going on for ages, regardless of how it was born it tells us that it is him who manages his own socials (at least the most "intimate" posts because with the whole Twitter/X/Xitter fiasco he did established that in that network he'll "be present" either by automated posts that depend on other socials or because someone who works for him will post tour dates on his behalf). The easiest one to pin point is Tumblr... nobody cares about Tumblr.

In light of all that has happened one of the most recent asks came to my mind: Someone once asked him if he was in a kink party some years back. Many rushed into explaining the Rules of Kink to the asker, some nicer than others but what stood out for me was... why answering this? Even with a "not really my thing, I left without participating" it was a lot easier to just leave it unanswered. He has stated that even if he had thousands of asks he'll pick a few of the newest ones and answer only if he thought they deserved to be answered. So why shooting yourself on the foot? Especially under the assumption that someone could say a thing or two about it. Like, fair enough whatever happens in there remains there... but if you are in it and you leave the door open with a half-assed answer... people will talk.

No Publicist in the world would've let that fly (not even in a niche site like Tumblr)... our job is to avoid this kind of loose threads that might be spun into something completely out of our control and opposite to the narrative we are aiming to.

Again...

Was he panicking about someone that saw him many years back in this gathering? Did he thought it gave him "cool points"? Did he thought that it was better to address it than letting the rumor running (and eventually die)? Was he half asleep and thought that he dreamt having answered and then forgot?

Why putting your neck on the noose?

Men 🤦🏻‍♀️

This little slip made me realize that he doesn't have a propper Publicist so the chances of them prepping some letter or statement about the situation are very slim. I'll talk about this later.

The Podcast

I can't really move foward without giving some space to Ground Zero.

But as I was writing this, Council of Geeks, (hosted by Vera Wylde, someone I've been following since long before their comming out and more often than not found to be very like-minded) a channel that I was hoping to tackle this, made a very well thought out video that I highly recommend. There are a few things for which I have my own hypotesis and if I remember, I'll write down in here.

Back to the first podcast I must admit that I did not listen to it because I have no time or will to do it (burnout from work is great!) and I am a better reader than a listener (my mind usually drifts off when I listen to anything even if I'm interested in it -doesn't happen with in person conversations, luckily probably because there is a face attached to the voice-). I did read several posts about it and the Rolling Stone article some cite as well. Aside from some personal observations, the core information remains the same reason why I trust that I can actually talk about it.

I will not discredit the testimonies since I have no reason to do so but I can talk about other stuff like how media dehumanizes terrible things and about some things that do cause some noise to me (noise in Advertising is when something disturbs the message and doesn't make it clear).

I know that all of you are moved by both stories regardless of how they were presented but the True Crime genre is sensacionalist AF and it thrives because people is morbid, and that's a fact.

When I had cable mom watched a few True Crime shows every now and then and I've always found them distasteful. The quick editing with effects, dramatic narration like "When Margaret woke up that morning, she could've never imagined that all her nightmares would come true" *cue to dramatic music* is very f#cked up. These are real cases, with real people involved, with people suffering for their loved ones... but for the networks is just entertainement, hours and hours to fill in their schedule + ad revenue. How many cases were actually solved after being on TV/a podcast? How many more people started to plead for justice after it was aired? These kind of shows are empty and milk on someone's suffering for a few bucks, it is never about justice, is never about exposing something/someone. Is all about money.

And for what I can see... this podcast is no different than others. Even the title "Master: The Neil Gaiman Allegations" is some Fifty shades of Grey sh!t that sounds attractive but considering the content it is in very poor taste to say the least.

When people (and I include myself) ask for a more serious take on the subject is because of this... we need information that is not meant to be consumed while eating popcorn and soda with a few breaks to clutch pearls and then move on with our lives.

If this was the only media outlet that opened the doors to both women they should've done better. It is a serious matter... a special report, lets say a 2 hr youtube video captioned "The True face of Gaiman" or "Gaiman's dark side" (or being 100% honest and title it "Gaiman's victims speak") would've erased any kind of doubt among ocassional listeners but no... they named it "Master" because it conveys BSDM, sex and trivializes the story to make it sound like erotica, not a real story. This wasn't an accident or a bad idea caused by inexperience... the name was chosen on purpose. They needed to get people's attention and get them on this "dark" and "taboo" world where this kind of practices (BSDM) is frowned upon. They wanted to predispose you to start this on the wrong foot.

But the stories are real! Don't try to silence the victims!

I'm not denying this, I'm just saying that Tortoise Media's Podcast doesn't care about the victims as much as you all seem to think.

They saw that Gaiman was involved so they picked up the story because they wanted clout, other media outlets (so far) passed on it because is a he said/she said case that is very hard to prove, reason why the police itself alledgedly decided not to move foward with it either. Does it suck? Yes. Does it mean that Tortoise is brave for bringing it up? No, they could've been... had they not give up to the need of making a freakshow out of it to get people's attention.

And like that Advertising trained me to be a Devil's Advocate.

The easiest way for me to show you how any Publicist out there would get things going to save his reputation is by using the tools that could (or eventually will) be used. So let us begin.

Missing context: Aside from the whole issue with the power dinamics (that we'll talk about it later) we don't really know how any of their first meetings really went. We know that it was the first day of work for the nanny... but was it really the first time they've met? If she was around Palmer, most likely they've seen each other before, maybe they've talked and hit it off... we don't know. Same with the first fan, they were writing each other for a year, we don't know what they ever talked about or how their relationship evolved. And this is aplicable in all cases. We were told the story from the first moment he became physical, not the real first contact. What does it matter? He's still a perv! Yeah, until context can tell you that he isn't... I've seen so many takes that all the sudden turned him into a scary monster lurking in the dark, preying on young little innocent girls... and never before he was ever addressed like that even by people that probably knew about his reputation or just plainly hated him for whatever reason. This is all made up by the narrative shown in the podcast (I mean the editing and narration) and the masses' imagination.

He stops when rejected: Three claims say that he stopped at the moment the woman/girl said no: the fan at the bus (even with his "I can get whatever I want" or whatever he said he did let her go when easily could've forced himself on her), the publisher that got kissed (or almost kissed) and the first fan coming foward that rejected his suggestion of a threesome... that one, yes is the same one with the UTI. I wouldn't be surprised if he convinced her that he would be careful or something like that just to get her on bed. It is very shitty and selfish of him... there is no justification there. Whether this stems from self-preservation (not wanting to be known as a r*pist) or because he does care about consent or maybe because he wasn't *that* horny those times and could let it go... the truth is that he did stopped when asked to.

Mental health. The whole "she's unstable, her memory isn't the best" kind of comment came out of his lawyer (the one that the podcast keeps on mentioning as "Gaiman's side" and probably they knew from the begining what lawyer it was but delivered his name a lot later to shock audiences once more that he has the same lawyer that many other men in the same position hired. As if a lawyer's reputation couldn't grant him a good starting point to get new clients whether they are innocent or not) so it is a case of a lawyer being a lawyer. But yes, people tend to remember things differently, ask any family memeber or friend about something that caused a major shock on you and you'll see that they might not even rememeber it at all, and if they do, probably they'll say that you overreacted or something like that. It sucks, but it happens. There is a possibility that what was perceived as an innocent flirting by Gaiman is also something more sinister by any of those women. Maybe the years changed the light of the events and something that they considerated "ok" back then is a "well... actually" now. People change. One thing I did wanted to bring up was the su!cide comment. It is poorly placed in the conversation (or in the part of the conversation we were allowed to see, again: lots of missing context) and does sound heavily manipulative... until you realize that he has spoken about his su!cidal past any time he got asked in Tumblr, interviews or other... and if he's willing to speak about it with a bunch of strangers online, he has spoken about it with people close to him and if she was going through it he most definetly brought up his experiences to talk to her. Still, we don't really know, maybe is a 50/50 situation. His Autism: I'm not a psycologyst, can't confirm or deny if he has it or not, but as a human (and a Publicist) I can say that is the lamest and worst excuse he could've possible thrown. Is just as bad as anyone excuses their behaviour based on their zodiac sign. Maybe he does struggle to notice tones of voice or intentions behind interactions but acting on those fake cues is a lot more related to being a man than autistic. Man think that if a woman is nice to him is because she loves him, man take the first chance to make a move just because she smiled at him. Let's not mix things up.

The Power Imbalance + Age Gap Let's address the Age Gap first because there isn't much to it either way. I was the kind of girl that would be repulsed at age gaps but eventually I realized that, as long as they are consenting adults and there are real feelings behind it... I don't care. I do feel nauseated when a 20 year old dates or marries a 80 year old "sugar daddy" because I can't conceive in my head the idea of a person wilingly turning themselves into a blow-up doll for a mummy only because the later is richer than God. It is disgusting and I do not endorse it. Any other case... ok, whatever, live and let live. The Power Imbalance is another story. You can't date someone you work with or work for. Every single company has this rule not just to avoid dramas but also to avoid any misbehaviour in the premises. But what about when is not for a private company, like in this case? It is still a no, because the "if you don't make me happy I'll kick you out" ghost shows up creating a hostile enviroment for at least one of you... what kind of relationship can arise from it? (to be fair, some people maybe gets turned on by it, what do I know? I'm aroace). My suspicious mind... I see a pattern in Gaiman's behaviour aside from the one everyone made up in their minds (him preying on any girl close to him, even though two are around his age): The "cool" writer: from his break-out to somewhere into 2010 or so. His "groupie prime" if you will when he could get any girl that was interested in him (students, fans) because possibly considered himself some sort of idol and/or rockstar. This is between his 26 and 50 years old, that check's out, is when men usually think themselves to be the center of the world and the sole desire of any women. The "I need to fly low": in the last 20 years or so, when he already stablished a respectful reputation among peers and fans so he needs to stop sleeping around and be more selective and secretive about his partners because it only takes one tweet, one photo or one video to destroy everything he is. Enter NDAs. I dare to say that being with women from his inner circle (AKA people that either worked for him or some way or another depended on him) was another "brilliant idea" he had to try and keep his image and reputation out of harms way. Still one question remains... what kind of people could he date? Just those on his same circle/league? You could argue that Palmer was some-where there but I don't think that she has as many fans as him and she's nowhere as well known. Maybe other popular author (if any of them fancies him)? An actress? another singer? a politician? Options are quite narrow so he would go to the "commoners" and then, by mere chance, he'll be the all-powerful bestselling author dating a poor woman and some will see a power imbalanced relationship and to others yet another Cinderella story.

Just as The Tortoise Media took the stories, edited them and packed them for your shock and horror... it can be just as easily spun into something else. Anyone could get any of this points I've made and turn him into a misunderstood man looking for a love that would be into BSDM as he is and, unfortunally for him, some of his lovers realized too late that they didn't liked it so now he's seen as an ogre when he did nothing wrong.

Mulder said it first ...

What could possibly happen

Am I reaching the end of this essay today (November 29th, 2024)? Are those angels singing? Please, tell them that I'm Agnostic, but I appreaciate the gesture. (Laurita on December 25th says: Oh! what a lie!)

At this point in time, Gaiman shows no proof of life, and most likely won't for another couple of months (maybe even for another year). His silence is not necessarily an admission of guilt. If he comes foward and gives his side of the story, he'll be the rich-white-author throwing crap at all these women and calling them liars, so he'll be a villain. If he admits that he has a problem (sex-addict or something like that) some people might be a little more simpathetic others will call him a liar and he'll still be a villain. There is no good outcome so, what's the difference? Is better just to remain silent.

We already know that Good Omens has been shortened to a special episode, Sandman was shot and will be released sometime in 2025 (most likely won't have another season not just because of Gaiman but because it was a struggle to secure the 2nd season for starters. The only way we could have a S3 is if the S2 is AMAZING and blows up all the numbers). The Anansi Boys... remains to be seen, supposedly it was shot, edited and is ready to be released so it is a matter of whether Amazon will pull a Warner Bros Vs Batgirl (just scrap the whole thing) or if they will pressure Gaiman to step foward and speak... but I don't think so because they didn't do it for Good Omens which, for what I can see, is a far more beloved franchise that needed to secure its fanbase so S3 wouldn't be a failure.

He did said a few times that he was writing a book, so maybe that's why it was a lot easier to stay away from social media... the thing is... will it be published?

I dare to believe that he is back in social media, doesn't interact but is watching, Hell, maybe he even has a fake account to test the waters! There was a rumour of him hiring a PR team to have bots and alter Google search and bury the accusations... I'd say it is a possibility but I had a client that bought bots and those are not as effective as you may think. They help boost views and such but they easily fade away. Maybe he did felt like throwing money to the garbage, who knows? Maybe it wasn't Gaiman himself but any of his "bosses" (publishers, networks) because it does feel more like a corporate move than a personal one.

The most sensible thing would be to go to Justice, present evidence and then let not just the Court but the Public make a decision (that could or not be aligned). The main issue with it is that many will see it as Gaiman trying to bring down a group of women instead of showing his side of the story, what will keep on adding ink to the stain. Is tricky but is the only way to have a sense of what could've possibly happened (because, of course, the only ones that know 100% what really happened are the parties involved and even that is not a reliable source given that everyone has their own version of the story based in their own feelings, predjudices and emotional baggage altogether).

My personal take

If you are still reading and haven't burst out of anger and left a thousand "k!ll yourself" or "typical mysoginist" or "defendor of SA" comments and/or reblogs, you are probably wondering "ok, I can see your point but what do you believe?"

I'm not surprised... nor heart broken.

Granted I was never a huge fan, just in the last couple of years I started to enjoy the adaptations of his stories more... but still, he doesn't have a huge impact in me. No author or creator has ever had it and I love plenty of artists.

There's something on the way I was raised, I believe, that turned out in me never putting people on pedestals. They are all human and there will always be something that will let you down on them. Most of the musicians and/or actors I love had drug issues, got into fights (some very stupid ones, others not so much), groupies everywhere, off comments that maybe should've never been made, opinions I do not share... I still follow them because sometimes they mature and realize their mistakes and do make a stand about it. And if they don't I can go "yeah, cool thing... but still this other thing still sucks" because I was taught that you can criticize something/someone you like, it is not a sin to do so.

I know that a lot of you think that absolutely all the stories he came up with were deacoys to have free access to girls... but... really? Whether you like his writing or not, he is capable of coming up with good premises mixing up diferent cultural myths and original ideas. The books are well plotted and thought out (nothing is 100% perfect, but that's how things are). Had you tell me that his books are obvious cash-grabs than can be written in less than a month with the premise "Plot? what Plot? this is just smut" I would've believed you. Any of us that loves writing (either original stories or fanfic) know how hard it is to create something half-way decent. Yes, some care about their audience and even go like "ho ho ho they will love that" but others just write because it is fun. Others do a mix of both. Looking at Gaiman's works, I hardly think that his main goal was to attract "goth girls" as someone said. What was the point of writing kids' books then? Get goth moms in the mix too or not losing his female fans just because they have kids now? Also many straight men like his writting too... is it collateral damage?

To me he is just a writer that in the worst case scenario has a dark side (note: not the BSDM part but the way he treats some women). As many others before him and as many others will in the future.

I hope that he does come foward and start to talk about it. But it has to be an honest interview, or better yet a press conference. Not something that anyone could've scripted and rehearse over and over again. People needs to see him either squirm, turn red, be uncomfortable to decide if he is being honest or not.

If it is all true, he has to be responsible for his actions. Undergo a program or something, show signals that he is sorry and is (honestly) trying to improve. Then and only then he can aspire to go back to where things were before all of this.

Even if he's done cameos everywhere, he's not an actor and nobody can fake for so long. I believe that the causes he supported did meant something for him. Many celebrities don't ever take a stand for anything and still have their fans and the money keeps on pouring in... nobody was forcing him into doing any of those campaigns and he had nothing to earn that he didn't already had (his fans would love him a little bit more, but they were already loving him anyway).

Rowling vs Gaiman (This is the end, I swear)

A lot of so called "feminists" are spewing their conspiracy theory of how everyone was dog-pilling Rowling "for just stating the thruth" while many are trying to save Gaiman "even if he's a r@pist".

Presumption of innocence first comes to mind, not to mention that many people saw Gaiman as like-minded, down to earth, good writer. Rowling was thought of as such until she didn't stopped and even doubled down on her irrational hate, amplified voices, donated money and fully supported (and still supports) a train of thought that is causing more damage than good. She could've just been an ideology-blinded author going "trans women aren't women" and called the day... she would've been just another author with a dark side that distresseses some people. But no, she is pretty much the face of a movement that puts people's safety and lives in danger.

The damage an entire movement can do to other group of people has no comparison to what damage a single man can cause in private.

I'm not saying that Gaiman's victims aren't worth a dime... I'm saying that if you care about people for real it doesn't matter if is one, twenty, a thousand or even a million, you have to care for all of them too... and yes, if you are of the religious type you must love and protect even to those that are not like you or share your views.

There's a witch hunt in this site (or at least there was one last time I checked) where if you had in your profile either the rainbow flag, or said that you were trans, your pronuns or anything that would identify you as LGBTQ+ and you were trying to make sense of everything that was going on, trying to figure out how to move foward and even trying to see a larger picture... a screenshot was taken and then posted elsewhere saying "look how the perverts protect themselves" and this blogs were 99.9% of the times RADFEMS.

In "the real world" the one that is away from Tumblr and any social media: Gaiman lost. Big time. It's done, there's nothing left to do.

Rowling is still being published and her properties are still being adapted and comercialized, the park's still thriving and all the merchandise they sell as well. There is no signal of cancelling going on outside of this site. And WB didn't let her go as quickly as they did with Johnny Depp, or Ezra Miller or Neil Gaiman now.

She still has her life, she goes to events, she gives interviews, she still can write and sell a book quite well.

She's not "suffering misogynistic attacks" from a rabid group of "wokes". She's perfectly fine in her castle enjoying her money as she has stated before.

Most likely Gaiman can also live the rest of his days off the money he's got so far. He could disappear forever to a small island in the middle of nowhere and that would be it, aside from the alledged damage he's caused (and he'd be careful not to be caught again, if he has a working brain) his power ends there.

Hers continues.

She is more of an active threat than he is.

[darkfluffydragon]

Cookie Run AU Ideas #5: Infoxication

This au is set pre-corruption, though it begins slowly. Knowledge is beloved by all, seen and treated as though he were a divine deity. While he may not want their worship, he cannot find it in himself to deny their gifts and affection. All he can do is return what they give him the only way he knows how, through knowledge.

He teaches them right and wrong, he teaches them the way of words, consequences and long-term results. He teaches them during day and plans what to teach them next at night. They continue and they continue and they continue, asking for more and more and more. And what can Knowledge do but obey?

His friends tell him to stop. They tell him to rest, that he can say ‘no more’. He does not have the heart to do that, yet he is so, so tired.

“Tell me, my creators, any god who will listen, tell me what I can do? What I should do?”

And his pleas are answered in the form of gold. Gold gears, splitting rifts, the eternal ticking of time. Time and her. She who appeared before him with her spinning eyes, and makes him fall. He descends, with no way of stopping, his thoughts fracturing under the countless lives he should not know, he cannot know for his mind cannot handle this everything.

He falls and he awakes, The Five Virtues The Five Beasts dammed to the hell that is a silver prison his friends surrounding him in worry. He cannot answer their calls, he cannot recall which him is this timeline’s him. Is he Shadow Milk Cookie? Is he Knowledge? Is he fated to corrupt under the weight of his own ingredients, under the weight of the cookies he thought loved him back?

How can he save his friends, if he cannot even keep the shards of his own self together?

At some point in the timeline, TK kidnaps SMC and forces him to work in the TBD :D PV will join him one day >:3

Croissant: TK: :) Croissant: that's the beast of deceit TK: Yes Croissant: What- What did you do to him? Why is he yellow? He looks traumatised TK: he needed to be in the TBD colour palette

also, I've thought up three more AUs since I last made that list lmao. System Error, My Student, and Practice Makes Perfect

[diana-fortyseven]

Why not enhance your fanfic reading experience with a fun challenge?

Generate your own Fanfic Reading Bingo Card and try to finish it over a timespan of your choice (e.g. during your next family gathering).

Details & instructions under the cut

Generate a new bingo card until you're (mostly) happy with the results. You can re-roll every single bingo field separately by clicking/tapping on it. When you have a card that fits your reading habits (or takes you out of your comfort zone, if you want to challenge yourself), take a screenshot of the card to keep it. Closing the page and reloading it will reset the card.

There are no fanfic-negative or bashing items in the lists. This bingo card is meant to be a positive experience and celebrate fanfiction and fanworks in general.

It's just a little practice piece I made for funsies mostly over the weekend, with some finishing touches earlier today. I will add more content over the next few days and weeks (and let's be realistic, probably months), but everything that's currently in there should already work as intended.

The bingo generator is responsive, which means it should work on desktop and mobile. The mobile layout isn't ideal yet, I'm trying my best to make it better (but I'd also still consider myself a newbie and I'm learning by doing).

The platform I'm using, Perchance, recently added AI options for their generators. This is a regrettable decision that I don't condone, and I'd like to emphasise that this generator is 100% handcrafted chaos.

Leaving the NSFW checkbox unchecked should remove all NSFW tags and tropes, but you could still come across content you find objectionable. Leaving the AO3 Tags checkbox unchecked removes all tags, but you could still come across tropes you find objectionable.

If you run into any issues or come across any bugs, please let me know. If you find something that should be in the NSFW category, but isn't, please also let me know. It's possible that I missed a few tags when I worked through the list. (But don't ask me to remove content you find objectionable.)

What do the checkboxes mean?

NSFW is basically what it says on the tin. If you tick this box, the NSFW tropes will be added to the mix. If you also ticked the AO3 Tags box, NSFW AO3 tags will be added.

AO3 Tags is also what it says on the tin. It's a list with roughly 1,000 AO3 tags. Around 250 of them are currently marked NSFW and can only be generated if you ticked both the NSFW box and the AO3 Tags box.

Stats & Meta currently only includes the lists "length" (contains wordcounts ranging from drabble to >500k) and "meta", which currently contains items like "a work with a song lyrics title" or "a work in a series". I will probably add other lists to that category at some point.

The already populated lists are:

challenge (various challenges and events like Yuletide, Whumptober)

creator (items like favourite author, anon creator)

discovery (various ways you could've found a fic)

fandom (ranging from tiny fandom to megafandom, also options like old fandom, inactive fandom, etc)

length (wordcounts from drabble to over 500k)

medium (items like podfic, fandom meta, fic with fanart)

meta (a fic's front-end and stats, also "citrus scale for rating" xD)

platform (where you read the fic)

reader (your relationship with the fic; is it your comfort fic, or your first fic in a fandom?)

style (chatfic, iambic pentameter, custom workskin, stuff like that)

trope (roughly 100 tropes)

tag (roughly 1,000 AO3 tags)

Lists that are currently planned, but empty:

canon (probably stuff like anime fandom, video game fandom, etc)

category (planned to add the AO3 categories and maybe Archive Warnings to this list)

content (might be scrapped, might be populated with some items moved over from other lists)

genre (what it says on the tin)

setting (where or when does the fic take place)

It's possible that I come up with more ideas for more lists at one point.

I had lots of fun making it, and I hope that you'll have fun with it. If you're using it, let me know when you got a bingo! :D

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