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ms-demeanor · 2 months ago

Note

thoughts on using library computers to disguise your digital footprint? because if the machine gets wiped when you log out, and the library doesn't keep detailed records of what machine you were using when, then all someone else would have is IP data unconnected to a person and also mixed in with whatever else folks were doing on the library computers

The machine absolutely does not get wiped when you log out and there's very little chance that a library computer will let you fire up Tor. You're better off using a traffic anonymizer than you are trying to use public computers to cover your tracks. The IP address IS the big risk here.

Libraries are generally really good about protecting their patrons' privacy and I respect the hell out of them for that but computers log everything that you do and can be subpoenaed as evidence even if the library wants to protect user privacy.

Also, I love libraries but you should treat every public computer you come across like it has a keylogger installed on it because it might. Your city could have an overzealous city council that has more control than it should over the library board and has taken it upon themselves to add covenanteyes to the library computers. Your library crew could be fantastic but less tech-savvy than is ideal and may not realize it if malware is installed on one of the machines. The library may clear browser history twice a day but the ISP still has a record of where you went and what time you went there. Somebody could have literally plugged a keylogger into a USB port on the back of the machine.

The point of a traffic anonymizer is it hides where the traffic originated; each node knows where the previous hop came from and where the next hop went, but not what came BEFORE the previous hop or what happened after, or how long the chain was, so there is no way to tell if a message originated in the US or Brazil or Vietnam or Sweden. Sending traffic from a library does the opposite of this, and very clearly says "the person who sent this message did so from this geographic area; they sent messages from these five libraries so we know they're probably within X distance of these libraries" which is a hell of a lot easier to look for than "I can't even say what continent these messages originated from."

Let us say that you go to a library to log in to your protonmail account and email a journalist a link to a file that you've saved in cryptpad. You have the link written down so you don't have to go to a secondary site and you just go sit down directly at the computer and log in to protonmail and fire off your email to the journalist. The email is encrypted, so you know the contents of the email are safe. Let's say the browser history gets automatically wiped every time you close it, and you close it as soon as you stand up and walk away. Here's the incriminating information that generated:

IP address where you accessed your protonmail account

Your protonmail email address, the journalist's address, the time you sent the email, the subject line of the email

And here are the people who can be subpoenaed to share some or all of that information with the government:

The Library's ISP

The Library, who may not carefully track users but who do have event logs on the computers and traffic logs on the firewall

Protonmail

IF you only ever logged in to your protonmail account from that ISP one time, and if you've never logged in to your protonmail account anywhere that is close to your house or your job, you may be fine. But if you logged in to your protonmail on your personal cellphone at work so that you could send photos of documents to yourself, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you set up the protonmail account on a whim at a coffee shop, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you get an email back from the journalist and go to another local library to open it, there's some data tying that account to another local IP address.

And that gets narrowed down very quickly. "Who has access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents through working at this entity who also lives within a 100 mile radius of these three login locations? Is it 50 people? Is it 5 people? Of the 15 people who have access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents who work at this entity and live within 100 miles of the three login locations, who is likely to be doing the leaking? Do we fire them all? Do we interview them? Do we compare IP addresses that they've used to log in to work remotely and find that two of them have logged in at the coffee shop? Of those two, one has facebook selfies in a maga hat and the other has a less visible online presence. Let's check their traffic history. Did they check tumblr on a lunch break? Maybe once or twice? Maybe a few times? Sure seems like they are pretty dead-set against the administration. Let's double-check the access logs for this information. Let's review security footage. Let's install the monitoring on their workstation."

The thing is, they're not going to catch you leaking and then track down all the data you left behind to confirm it; they're going to see a leak and get a bunch of digital footprints and use that to narrow down suspect pools. They already know that access to the data is limited and will be reviewing prior access and carefully monitoring future access. You are already in their suspect pool by already being one of the people with known access to the data. Adding an IP address that is geographically close to you, even if it isn't your home IP address, to that is not going to make it *harder* to find you, it can only make it easier.

So just use Tor. You're safer using an anonymizer, which you likely can't do on a library computer. Create the leak email address when you're in a Tor browser, and only EVER access that email account from Tor.

Also I don't mean to jump on you about this, but between the post I've got about why you shouldn't use your work computer to torrent and the safer leaking practices post it's clear that people really don't understand what information they're leaving behind when they use computers and the internet, or how it can be a risk to them.

Accessing burner accounts from a clear IP address means that they're not burner accounts anymore, they're burned.

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deadsetobsessions · 1 year ago

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Hi! Party Planner! Danny has struck again.

——

Danny clambered onto the top of the building, eyes fixed onto the dimming Gotham City sky line. Electric blue eyes froze in concentration as his targets grappled into view. he quickly scaled the last rungs of the fire escape ladder to stumble onto the roof. Danny waved his arms, and his targets, catching sight of him mere moments later, began swinging towards him. Danny adjusted his bag strap.

“Hello, concerned citizen, what do you need assistance with?”

Danny faltered. Who the fuck was wearing Batman’s cowl?

Robin (with a sword) scowled at Batman before turning his attention back to Danny.

“Uh. Right,” Danny muttered, giving ‘Batman’ the most obvious and glaring side eye he could. Regardless, if the little Robin did not protest this Batman’s presence… it was good enough for him. “I’m a party planner.”

Robin spoke before Batman could. “And what of it?”

“The… uh, League of Evil or something, wait,” Danny fumbled while opening the bag and pulling out some papers. “Ah, Legion of Doom. Them.”

Little Robin and fake-Batman perked up. Fake-Batman tensed visibly. Danny grumbled. “Anyways, they’re contacting me- by they, I mean Lex Luthor- to see if I could plan a party in… God, why are Gotham’s names for shit so depressing?”

“Get on with it.” Little Robin snapped. Danny was reminded of Dani instantly and let it slide.

“Ah, right, they want me to plan a party in “Slaughter Swamp” on the seventh of next month. So… keep an eye on that, okay?” Danny asked Robin.

“Are you supposed to be telling us this?” Fake-Batman asked.

Danny shrugged, running a hand through his hair, practiced fingers brushing aside that little white streak of hair he got from the portal.

Little Robin’s gaze snapped up to his hair.

“It’s fine. They haven’t had me sign an NDA yet.” And, well, the devil is in the details but Danny is the devil.

“I’ll handle it.” Fake-Batman promised. Danny threw him a skeptical look.

“Uh-huh. Right.” He turned back to sword Robin, who looked torn between the supposed slight towards Batman and pride at Danny’s apparent trust in his abilities. “Look, here’s the stuff I have on them- copied them- and good luck and all that.”

He handed the file and some data in a usb stick to Robin, dipping away as soon as he could. He had a party to plan, and matching Luthor’s purple-gold aesthetic to Cheeta’s yellow and black spotted material wasn’t going to get done by themselves.

——

“Even the civilians outside of Gotham could tell you’re not Batman.” Damian scoffed as he watched their party planner slip back into his apartment.

“Hey, I thought I did pretty well!”

“I do not claim to know what hallucinogens you’ve inhaled, but do not come near me. I don’t want your stupidity to catch everyone else unawares.”

“Hey!”

“Get it together, Kryptonian. We still have half the night to patrol.”

Damian swung off, mind whirling along side Kent’s little hamster wheels for a brain. He’ll have to inform father. And Timothy. Red Robin had a grudge to settle with Scarecrow and will aid in Damian’s plot to obtain sugar gliders in exchange for the information. Yes.

——

Clark, thinking his Batman acting was bad: :(

Danny, has never met Batman: this can’t be Batman, he’s being midwestern polite

——

Also, I just want to say that the Flash has Georgia State patrol energy.

#batman #danny phantom #Damian Wayne #clark Kent #tbh it could prolly be another kryptonian guy #but still #Bruce Wayne #dcxdp #dpxdc #Danny’s midwestern senses pinging

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jayrockin · 7 months ago

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What's a bus line? And where did you find the knowledge on all the technology things that you draw? (Like the process of how Talita repairs the power for Bip)

A bus or databus is the means by which data is communicated between different parts of a computer system. You might be familiar with the Universal Serial Bus, aka the USB. The "bus lines" that were severed by the Runaway's collision transferred data between Bip's servers and the functions of the ship. Even on emergency batteries, Bip was unable to control important aspects of the ship like the thrusters and life support systems.

Also, I find out this stuff by relentlessly searching the web for the information I need and asking my engineer friends a lot of questions. Let's hold hands and watch this industrial tutorial for splicing medium voltage cables, together

youtube

#jayart #runaway to the stars #a hidden aspect of how long it takes me to make comic pages is the FUCKING RESEARCH

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theskywithin · 22 days ago

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SOUL ASTROLOGY - The Fourth House Through The Signs

This is where the soul stores emotional memory. A kind of energetic USB, holding all the data your body doesn’t remember, but your nervous system never forgot. Here lives the imprint of lifetimes: the ache of having been abandoned. The fear of being invisible. The longing to be held or the decision to never need holding again. This house tells you what still lives inside you from where you’ve been. It holds the climate of your inner world, your unconscious reflex to retreat, to protect, to collapse inward.

MY BOOK AVAILABLE HERE:

Fourth House Aries

There are roots here, scorched at the ends. A basement that remembers the sound of footsteps leaving and the silence that followed. You came back with a nervous system that flinches before it feels, shaped in lifetimes where stillness meant exposure and vulnerability was a closing door. So you learned to keep your center sharp. To protect yourself by becoming too loud to leave behind. You do not collapse inward, you bolt, you bite the air before it can bite you first. The ache beneath it? The body that wanted to be cradled and never was. The part of you that mistook resilience for self-worth because no one stayed long enough to offer you softness without agenda. This sign doesn’t wall off the emotional archive, it burns it every time it gets too close. And still, the soul wants to come home. To something that doesn’t ask for armor. To the possibility that safety doesn’t have to be earned in pain. There is nothing weak about resting. Nothing shameful about needing. You don’t have to fight your way back to yourself. You’re already there.

Fourth House Taurus

There’s a stillness here so thick it hums. A cellar lined with velvet walls and no clocks. You came back with a soul that remembers what it cost to be unheld, not in crisis, but in the slow erosion of never being chosen when it mattered. So you learned to keep your feelings like fine china: shelved, preserved, untouched. You don’t unravel, you settle. You bury grief beneath comfort, wrap longing in silence, tend to the ache by pretending it’s overgrown with calm. Even your collapse looks composed. But beneath the polished floorboards lives a hunger with no name. The part of you that clings to what doesn’t soothe you anymore, just because it stays. This sign doesn’t erase the emotional archive, it embalms it. And still, the soul wants to move. To stir. To remember that safety is not the same as stillness. That home is not a museum. That you are allowed to break your own rules if it means finally feeling what’s been stored in your bones for lifetimes. The earth won’t open. But you can.

Fourth House Gemini

There’s a hallway here with too many doors. Each one labeled with something clever, something partial, something that almost lets you in. You came back with a soul that remembers what it felt like to speak instead of feel. To name the ache before it could land. To rearrange your stories faster than the grief could catch up. In other lives, emotion wasn’t safe unless it was narrated, turned into meaning, conversation, trivia. So now your mind loops when your heart wants to open. You ask questions instead of resting. You change the subject instead of staying. The root system here doesn’t go deep, it branches, it splits, it seeks escape through the nearest metaphor. And still, the soul wants to feel. Not explain. Not entertain. Just feel. You are allowed to say nothing and still be understood. You are allowed to be held in a silence you don’t have to fill. Not every story needs a lesson. Some are just waiting for you to stay long enough to finish them.

Fourth House Cancer

There’s water here rising behind the walls. You came back with a soul that remembers what it means to feel everything before it makes sense. To sense the storm before it breaks. To carry warmth in your chest like a secret offering to a world that didn’t know how to stay. In other lives, you kept the home fires lit for people who never came back. So you became the hearth. You managed your emotional archive like an open door, always ready to receive, rarely asking to be received in return. And even now, your tenderness carries teeth. You protect what’s soft by retreating into it. You collapse inward like a tide that doesn’t trust the shore. But this house is not a shelter for others. It’s a return for you. And the soul is not here to be needed. It is here to be known. Let yourself be held by the feeling that asks for nothing. Let the warmth turn inward. Let the flood finally empty into your own name.

Fourth House Leo

There’s a throne here, covered in dust. A stage with no lights. You came back with a soul that remembers what it meant to be adored for the wrong reasons or not adored at all. In other lives, love came only when you shone. So you learned to shine first, ache second. You managed your emotions like a story that needed rewriting, bold where it broke, golden where it grieved. Even now, your softness arrives dressed in confidence. Even now, you glow before you speak. But the soul is not here to perform feeling, it is here to be fed by it. You are allowed to be messy in the dark. You are allowed to want love without earning it. You are allowed to fall apart without losing your worth. Some roots don’t grow toward light, they grow in it. And yours have never stopped burning.

Fourth House Virgo

There’s a cabinet here full of things you were never allowed to need. You came back with a soul that remembers what it meant to feel too much in a world that only rewarded composure. In other lives, you survived by tending to others, to the broken, to the pieces left behind. So you learned to keep your grief folded. To sweep your longing into corners. To process your emotional memory like a task: something to fix, not something to hold. Even now, your tenderness arrives with edits, your need wears a disguise. But this house is not a hospital. It’s a womb. And the soul is not here to be useful, it is here to just be. Let the dust collect. Let the boxes come undone. Let the feeling make a mess of you. Not every ache needs an answer. Some truths are only healed by being allowed to stay.

Fourth House Libra

There’s a mirror here that only reflects other people. You came back with a soul that remembers what it meant to maintain harmony in a house full of dissonance. In other lives, your safety depended on your symmetry. So you learned to make yourself pleasing before you made yourself known. You managed your emotional memory like a host setting a table, carefully, beautifully, without ever sitting down to eat. Even now, your feelings defer to context. You speak gently in places where you needed to scream. You collapse inward with grace. But this house is not a negotiation. And the soul is not here to be balanced. It is here to take up emotional space without asking who it might inconvenience. To stop smiling when the ache pulls heavier than the performance. Some homes don’t need to be beautiful, some just need to let you fall apart inside them.

Fourth House Scorpio

There’s a door here with no handle, and something breathing behind it. You came back with a soul that remembers the cost of being open. In other lives, love was entangled with betrayal. Safety turned, suddenly, into danger. So you learned to close the wound before it even bled. To bury your softest parts before anyone could use them against you. You don’t just retreat, you vanish. You don’t just protect, you fortify. And even now, your emotions move like smoke through locked rooms. You feel in secret. You trust in layers. You collapse inward without leaving a trace. But this house isn’t a fortress, it’s a mouth. And the soul is not here to hoard feeling, it’s here to let it rise. You are allowed to name what you buried. You are allowed to open what’s still trembling. Some homes were never abandoned, just sealed shut, waiting for you to come back with the key.

Fourth House Sagittarius

There’s a compass here that spins whenever you try to stay. You came back with a soul that remembers what it meant to feel trapped. In other lives, home was confinement and intimacy was a cage. So you learned to leave early, in body, in mind, in meaning. You managed your emotional memory like a migration route: traceable, lofty, just out of reach. Even now, your feelings come with explanations. You reach for perspective before presence. You expand to avoid imploding. But this house is not a theory. And the soul is here to root, to feel without reframing, to stay without justifying, to ache without turning it into a teaching. Some truths don’t live out there. Some are curled inside you, waiting for the day you stop running long enough to hear them knocking from the floorboards.

Fourth House Capricorn

There’s a staircase here that no one climbs. You came back with a soul that remembers being the strong one too early, for too long. In other lives, softness was a risk you couldn’t afford. So you learned to keep your emotions in lockstep. To fortify your longing until it passed for discipline. You built walls that looked like wisdom, ceilings that looked like ceilings, yes, but they were really the weight of everything you never got to feel. Even now, you translate emotion into effort. You retreat inward like an old building, intact, functional, empty. But this house is not a fortress. And the soul is not here to endure, it is here to feel. You are allowed to break without failing. You are allowed to fall into your own arms. Some roots aren’t meant to support others. Some are meant to feed you.

Fourth House Aquarius

There’s a draft here that never leaves. You came back with a soul that remembers what it meant to be different before you had the language for it. In other lives, you belonged to no one or you belonged at the cost of your truth. So, you learned to detach before you were dismissed. You managed your emotional memory like an archive: distant, organized, untouched. Even now, you watch your feelings from above. You explain when you want to cry, you offer insight when you need warmth. But this house is not a lab. It’s a lung. And the soul is not here to be understood, it is here to return to the place you left before you knew you’d left it. You are allowed to feel strange inside your own tenderness. Some homes aren’t built, they’re remembered, the moment you stop trying to float above the ache and finally land inside it.

Fourth House Pisces

There’s water here, but no source. You came back with a soul that remembers without knowing why, moods that linger with no beginning, grief that floods through other people’s shadows. In other lives, you survived by dissolving. You became the quiet inside the chaos, the feeling no one named but everyone leaned on. You didn’t retreat, you disappeared. You managed your emotional memory like mist: ungraspable, everywhere, impossible to contain. Even now, your tenderness spreads before you enter a room. Even now, you ache for things you’ve never touched. But this house is not a dream. And the soul is not here to float, it is here to take shape. You are allowed to feel without translating it into beauty. Some roots aren’t deep, they’re wide. They hold the whole ocean. And still, they belong to you.

#astrology #astro community #astro notes #astrology tumblr #astro observations #natal astrology #birth chart #natal aspects #astrology blog #natal chart #astrology book

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mckitterick · 23 days ago

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She Won. They Didn't Just Change the Machines. They Rewired the Election. How Leonard Leo's 2021 sale of an electronics firm enabled tech giants to subvert the 2024 election.

Everyone knows how the Republicans interfered in the 2024 US elections through voter interference and voter-roll manipulation, which in itself could have changed the outcomes of the elections. What's coming to light now reveals that indeed those occupying the White House, at least, are not those who won the election.

Here's how they did it.

(full story is replicated here below the read-more: X)

She Won

The missing votes uncovered in Smart Elections’ legal case in Rockland County, New York, are just the tip of the iceberg—an iceberg that extends across the swing states and into Texas.

On Monday, an investigator’s story finally hit the news cycle: Pro V&V, one of only two federally accredited testing labs, approved sweeping last-minute updates to ES&S voting machines in the months leading up to the 2024 election—without independent testing, public disclosure, or full certification review.

These changes were labeled “de minimis”—a term meant for trivial tweaks. But they touched ballot scanners, altered reporting software, and modified audit files—yet were all rubber-stamped with no oversight.

That revelation is a shock to the public.

But for those who’ve been digging into the bizarre election data since November, this isn’t the headline—it’s the final piece to the puzzle. While Pro V&V was quietly updating equipment in plain sight, a parallel operation was unfolding behind the curtain—between tech giants and Donald Trump.

And it started with a long forgotten sale.

A Power Cord Becomes a Backdoor

In March 2021, Leonard Leo—the judicial kingmaker behind the modern conservative legal machine—sold a quiet Chicago company by the name of Tripp Lite for $1.65 billion. The buyer: Eaton Corporation, a global power infrastructure conglomerate that just happened to have a partnership with Peter Thiel’s Palantir.

To most, Tripp Lite was just a hardware brand—battery backups, surge protectors, power strips. But in America’s elections, Tripp Lite devices were something else entirely.

They are physically connected to ES&S central tabulators and Electionware servers, and Dominion tabulators and central servers across the country. And they aren’t dumb devices. They are smart UPS units—programmable, updatable, and capable of communicating directly with the election system via USB, serial port, or Ethernet.

ES&S systems, including central tabulators and Electionware servers, rely on Tripp Lite UPS devices. ES&S’s Electionware suite runs on Windows OS, which automatically trusts connected UPS hardware.

If Eaton pushed an update to those UPS units, it could have gained root-level access to the host tabulation environment—without ever modifying certified election software.

In Dominion’s Democracy Suite 5.17, the drivers for these UPS units are listed as “optional”—meaning they can be updated remotely without triggering certification requirements or oversight. Optional means unregulated. Unregulated means invisible. And invisible means perfect for infiltration.

Enter the ballot scrubbing platform BallotProof. Co-created by Ethan Shaotran, a longtime employee of Elon Musk and current DOGE employee, BallotProof was pitched as a transparency solution—an app to “verify” scanned ballot images and support election integrity.

With Palantir's AI controlling the backend, and BallotProof cleaning the front, only one thing was missing: the signal to go live.

September 2024: Eaton and Musk Make It Official

Then came the final public breadcrumb:In September 2024, Eaton formally partnered with Elon Musk.

The stated purpose? A vague, forward-looking collaboration focused on “grid resilience” and “next-generation communications.”

But buried in the partnership documents was this line:

��Exploring integration with Starlink's emerging low-orbit DTC infrastructure for secure operational continuity.”

The Activation: Starlink Goes Direct-to-Cell

That signal came on October 30, 2024—just days before the election, Musk activated 265 brand new low Earth orbit (LEO) V2 Mini satellites, each equipped with Direct-to-Cell (DTC) technology capable of processing, routing, and manipulating real-time data, including voting data, through his satellite network.

DTC doesn’t require routers, towers, or a traditional SIM. It connects directly from satellite to any compatible device—including embedded modems in “air-gapped” voting systems, smart UPS units, or unsecured auxiliary hardware.

From that moment on:

Commands could be sent from orbit

Patch delivery became invisible to domestic monitors

Compromised devices could be triggered remotely

This groundbreaking project that should have taken two-plus years to build, was completed in just under ten months.

Elon Musk boasts endlessly about everything he’s launching, building, buying—or even just thinking about—whether it’s real or not. But he pulls off one of the largest and fastest technological feats in modern day history… and says nothing? One might think that was kind of… “weird.”

According to New York Times reporting, on October 5—just before Starlink’s DTC activation—Musk texted a confidant:

“I’m feeling more optimistic after tonight. Tomorrow we unleash the anomaly in the matrix.”

Then, an hour later:

“This isn’t something on the chessboard, so they’ll be quite surprised. ‘Lasers’ from space.”

It read like a riddle. In hindsight, it was a blueprint.

The Outcome

Data that makes no statistical sense. A clean sweep in all seven swing states.

The fall of the Blue Wall. Eighty-eight counties flipped red—not one flipped blue.

Every victory landed just under the threshold that would trigger an automatic recount. Donald Trump outperformed expectations in down-ballot races with margins never before seen—while Kamala Harris simultaneously underperformed in those exact same areas.

If one were to accept these results at face value—Donald Trump, a 34-count convicted felon, supposedly outperformed Ronald Reagan. According to the co-founder of the Election Truth Alliance:

“These anomalies didn’t happen nationwide. They didn’t even happen across all voting methods—this just doesn’t reflect human voting behavior.”

They were concentrated.

Targeted.

Specific to swing states and Texas—and specific to Election Day voting.

And the supposed explanation? “Her policies were unpopular.” Let’s think this through logically. We’re supposed to believe that in all the battleground states, Democratic voters were so disillusioned by Vice President Harris’s platform that they voted blue down ballot—but flipped to Trump at the top of the ticket?

Not in early voting.

Not by mail.

With exception to Nevada, only on Election Day.

And only after a certain threshold of ballots had been cast—where VP Harris’s numbers begin to diverge from her own party, and Trump’s suddenly begin to surge. As President Biden would say, “C’mon, man.”

In the world of election data analysis, there’s a term for that: vote-flipping algorithm.

And of course, Donald Trump himself:

He spent a year telling his followers he didn’t need their votes—at one point stating,

“…in four years, you don't have to vote again. We'll have it fixed so good, you're not gonna have to vote.”

____

They almost got away with the coup. The fact that they still occupy the White House and control most of the US government will make removing them and replacing them with the rightful President Harris a very difficult task.

But for this nation to survive, and for the world to not fall further into chaos due to this "administration," we must rid ourselves of the pretender and his minions and controllers once and for all.

#musk-trump regime #election interference #election integrity #election 2024 #election fraud #coups

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lusmeitli · 10 months ago

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Where light in darkness lies

Summary: How helping with a panic attack can lead to something more.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Panic attack, a hint of angst, fluff, a bit of fingering.

A/N: There aren’t a lot of explanations given. I have also taken a great deal of liberties to bend characters at my will.

9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9

The kettle seemed to take forever. Wasn’t there a saying… a watched pot never boils? Apparently, it applied to kettles, too. As the appliance imitated sounds of an imminent blast off, you poked the tea bag at the bottom of the mug with the spoon from one side to another, then clockwi–

Suddenly, everything was plunged into darkness.

“Curses.”

You stretched your hand out to hold onto the kitchen counter for something… tactile. Grounding. Darkness was your foe.

The familiar fireball under your skin licked up your back and across your chest. Its heat seemed to suffocate you. Breaths came out faster, shallower, harsher. Fumbling to try and find your phone on the counter your hands knocked something over. It shattered on the floor. The mug.

Not enough air. You just couldn’t get enough air into your lungs. The only sounds you heard was the pounding beat of your heart and the ringing in your ears. The panic rose up like a monster looming in front of you, a cruel smirk on its face, before it would open its horrifying hellmouth and swallow you whole.

And then you felt hands on you, whirling you around. Soft lips firmly pressed onto yours, moving with purpose and absolutely no hesitation. Its spark set a fuse alight, burning through your body until it reached your brain, sending a shockwave through you. It took your body a long moment to snap out of your onsetting panic attack and to respond to the kiss. You nearly sobbed into the lips, at the distraction and relief they provided, your hands fisting in a shirt, warm skin and contracting muscles under your fingers.

The heat you had felt moments before was gone. In its stead grew an all consuming need. A soft moan escaped somewhere from the back of your throat. It broke the spell. You heard the person kissing you take in a shaky breath, before their lips left yours and it was over. Several moments later the lights flickered back on. You stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space in front of you and the broken mug on the floor.

Your fingertips ghosted over the spot where lips had touched yours and a blush crept over your cheeks. In the corner the kettle clicked, the water now boiled.

*****

“Loki?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure it was him? I mean how can you tell?”

You brought a hand over the receiver, trying to shield the words so only your friend could hear.

“I, um, hacked into the security camera footage from just before the power cut. He had walked into the kitchen literally a second before it happened.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a heavy breath. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. Ain’t that something.”

“You’re right,” you huffed out, “I mean, this is me we’re talking about, right?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“But it is though, isn’t it,” you said, rubbing your tired eyes. “It’s just little old me. Even if it really was him, it probably just was some silly prank or a dare.”

*****

The Quinjet in the hangar was your favourite place to work. Even though today you were in the tail of the jet downloading the aircraft log from the Flight Data Recorder, which involved squeezing into a rather tight space. All that to plug in the USB cable and to then balance the laptop on the palm of your right hand, whilst operating it with the left. You had tried to talk to Tony about moving the access point, seeing as it was a weekly task, but Pepper had walked past and diverted his attention. Judging by the way he immediately stalked after her, he hadn’t heard a word you said.

Thirty-seven percent through the download, the power in the jet cut out and you cursed. Setting the laptop down, you fumbled for your phone, turned on the torch and made your way through the jet to inspect the fuse box you knew was located just outside the cockpit. No light came in from the hangar, which seemed odd. Maybe it was another power outage that affected the whole tower. You tripped and the phone slipped from your grasp, landing somewhere face up.

“Not again…”

The panic started to rise in you once more. You felt too hot, the air seemed stuffy and heavy. Your breath came out fast and ragged. Hands outstretched, you bumped into something hard. Something that shouldn’t be there. You gulped as hot dread shot through your veins and took a step back. With lightning speed slender fingers wrapped around your wrists, tugging you forward to bring you flush against the hard body. Instead of consuming you, the panic ebbed off. Your body knew this touch. Though firm, it meant no harm.

You felt their chest rise and fall, a lot slower than yours. Slender fingers trailed up your arm, over your shoulder and neck. His fingertips skirted over the skin of your throat, goosebumps erupted all over your body. Someone released a slow breath - presumably you.

The fingers moved into your hair and curled around the base of your head, tilting it up. And then those wonderful lips were on yours again. This time, he angled your head to deepen the kiss. The taste and feel of his tongue moving against yours robbed you of your bones and you faltered, glad that his hands held you pressed so tightly up against him. He seemed hungry, needy. His lips left yours, trailing a few kisses over your jaw, before he rested his forehead against yours, noses touching for a wonderful moment, your short breaths mixing.

And then he was gone again. Your hands fell to your side and you blinked against the bright light in the jet that hummed over your head. Yet again you were left wondering what had just happened and, more importantly, why.

*****

“It only affected the hangar this time.” You pulled a book off the shelf in the shop.

“More hacking?” your best friend asked, finger searchingly running over the spines.

Shaking your head, you thumbed through the pages. “My coworkers told me.”

“So you’re saying he did it on purpose?”

Shrugging, you put the book back. “He knows magic, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Honey, I love you, but before you go down that obsession-rabbit hole, it’s my duty as your bestie to warn you. Just please be careful. This is Loki after all. Hm, where is it?”

“Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

The pitying look in your friend’s eyes was almost too much. “Oh where to start… He’s a god, immortal and several centuries older than you,” she counted off on her fingers.

“Actually,” you mumbled, “he is mortal. Asgardians just have a longer life span of about 5,000 years.”

Your friend blinked, surprised. “Who told you that? Dr Google?”

“Thor, actually. He had to fill in a form for the Quinjet learner’s licence and we joked about his age.”

“I love you, but you’re weird. Happy rabbit hunting then.” A victory cry fell from your friend’s lips as she pulled out what she was looking for and pushed it into your hands. “You want spicy? Here you go.”

“‘Three Swedish Mountain Men’?” you read.

She wiggled her brows. “They’re hot and they like sharing…”

You rolled your eyes, but put it on the pile of books you were getting anyway.

*****

Late shifts were your favourite, because it allowed you to actually get work done, without the phone going off every other minute. The only thing you didn’t like about them was walking back to your room afterwards.

It was 3am when the lift doors slid open and your shoes softly squeaked on the dimly lit corridor. Nightlighting mode, as Tony called it. You hated it and walked faster. Rubbing your stiff neck and rolling your shoulders, you rounded the corner. Just a few more metres to your door. But someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into the refuse room, which was pitch black.

Cool fingers were placed on your lips signalling you not to make a sound.

You nodded your head and the fingers moved from your lips, slowly, tracing. Then both hands were in your hair. His fingers cupped your head and you felt his breath against your lips. Your hands were on his chest, gripping the front of his t-shirt. Soft cotton. You closed your eyes.

“Please,” you said so quietly you thought he didn’t hear.

But he had and his lips brushed against yours, light as a feather. Your head was swimming, your heart aching. His touch was soft and gentle. He had kissed you before, but it was as if he was now seeing you, in the darkness of the refuse room, for the first time. Taking you in, kissing every inch of skin that was exposed. His lips grazed the knuckles on your hand and a lump formed in your throat.

His hands cupped your head and you felt his fingers fiddle with your hair bobble, before the restraint was gone and your hair hung loose. His hands combed through the strands. You couldn’t remember the last time someone did that.

Your hands ran over his biceps, his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. You wished you could say something, anything, but you feared you’d spoil the moment, that he’d pull away. His lips found yours again and he angled his head, his tongue slowly dancing with yours. It was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

He changed his footing to come at you from a different angle, pressing his body flush against yours. He peppered small kisses on the corner of your mouth and down your throat. He seemed to have found a spot he liked, because he sucked on it, his teeth grazing, lips easing the light bite. Before he pulled away, he inhaled deeply at the crown of your head, and placed a gentle kiss on your hair. You felt safe, basking in his warmth. And like the times before, he was gone.

By the time your legs felt stable enough to support you again, you opened the door and walked back to your room.

A smile crossed your lips as you realised that this was the first time you hadn’t panicked in the dark.

*****

“Maybe he’s shy?” your bestie suggested as you sat on her couch, both spooning ice cream out of the same tub.

Loki and shy were not words you would have put in a sentence together. But then, sometimes you were wondering if his aloof stance was just for show.

“Have you tried talking to him?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I could never work up the nerve. He seems… so unapproachable in the light of day. Maybe it all really is an elaborate prank.”

“Or,” your friend leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “or he has the hots for you and just can’t find any other way to show it.”

You mulled this over for a while. “But why in the dark? Why isn’t he saying anything ever?”

“When do you see him?”

“At extended team briefings, but the Avengers come in last and sit at the front. Rogers requested it.”

Your friend rolled her eyes. “Any other time?”

“Well, in the hallways, but either he’s with someone or I am.”

“Meh. Where else?”

You leaned back, thinking. “In the canteen?”

“Okay, now we’re talking.”

“But, again, he’s always with someone.”

“Well… looks like you’re screwed.” She made a show of licking her spoon. “Or about to be screwed.”

She laughed as you threw a pillow in her face.

*****

It was just an autumn storm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for that it was five in the morning and had been going all night. You were standing by the window, looking out onto the soft glow of the city that never slept. Angry gusts of wind whipped big raindrops against the windowpane. Your breath misted against the cool glass. Normally, you slept through storms, but not this one.

The team had yet to return from a mission and you were worried sick. The mission was particularly perilous. You knew this because Tony had called you into his office, shut the door (something he never had done before) and told you that he couldn’t give you any information, but that ‘some serious shit is going to go down tonight’ and to trust - dramatic pause - him. It all was accompanied by a stare with which Tony seemed to try to convey a secret message. You guessed he didn’t mean himself, but Loki. Hence, you had chewed off all your nails for the last few hours.

When the door to your room opened, closed and footsteps approached, relief flooded through you. Not a moment later his hands were on your waist, pulling you back into his chest, his presence seeping through your pores. His arms curled around you, the slightly damp leather of his suit softly creaking, and your hands flew up to grip his forearms tightly. His head nestled in the crook of your neck, his lips soft against your skin.

“Thank heavens,” you whispered.

You couldn’t remember who moved first, but you found yourself up against the wall, his hands on your ass. Your legs wrapped around his hips that pushed into you; his mouth felt hot on yours. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. Desperation mixed with relief. A moan rang through the room - definitely yours - as you offered yourself up to him. And he took, greedily. His hands were everywhere on your body, pulling you close, pushing more into you, closer still. A disgruntled huff made it clear it wasn’t enough. And then his hands were under your hoodie, bare skin touching bare skin. A tug, a pull and the fabric was up and over your head, landing somewhere on the floor. His lips closed around your lace covered breast until he found your nipple and sucked on it.

Your hands weaved through his damp hair - if you had any fingernails left, they’d be scraping his scalp. Instead you tugged gently on the soft strands, eliciting a strangled moan from him. His hips rolled into yours, his desire evident and yours dampening your knickers. His hand slipped into your leggins, his fingers moving over the globe of your ass, slowly, squeezing, as his mouth was plundering yours.

The moment his fingers found your soaking centre, you both groaned. He slid two digits inside you, making you gasp. His hips rocked into you, the leather seams on his crotch providing friction for your clit. Your hands tried to fist in the leather, to get to feel his skin.

The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, taking you by surprise, propelling you into oblivion. Loki grunted, his movements became jerky, before he stilled and rested his damp forehead against the crook of your neck. His hot breath puffed against your skin, and he just stayed like that, letting you run your fingers through his hair in a comforting rhythm. Then he slid his fingers out of you and gently placed your feet back on the ground. His forearm leaned against the wall behind you as he kissed you thoroughly, with a gentleness that made your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Your thoughts were going a mile a minute and you were thinking of what to do or say now. Would he stay the night or would he vanish again, like always? You heard the soft creaking of his boots as he moved through the dark room and then back to you, handing you your hoodie. You took it, fingers brushing his. The moment you pulled it over your head, your bedside light was on and you found yourself alone.

Again.

*****

The APU of the Quinjet was situated - as in most aeroplanes - in the tail. One of the reasons you were in charge of the upgrade of the jet’s internal bleed ducting was that you were small and slim. None of your co-workers could squeeze in there (thank you, Tony, for prioritising sleekness over practicality). Ironically, there was no air conditioning in this part of the jet. Droplets of sweat gathered on your forehead as you lay under the engine with your torch and toolkit, religiously running through the protocols.

“Five more checks, Y/N,” you heard your colleague, peering down at you from the moveable steps he was standing on, holding up the upper engine encasing with another work mate. A whistling noise became louder. “Then we can test– what the hell?!”

You lifted your head just as a massive explosion tore through the hangar. The space where your co-workers had been a second ago was swallowed up by a fireball. It felt as if the jet was airborne, tossed to the side, then came to a sudden stop. Metal screeched and groaned.

Your head hurt. A lot. There was a ringing in your ears and you just couldn’t see anything. It was dark, so dark. You wriggled backwards but to your horror realised that you were stuck, trapped between the engine and the jet wall. It felt like you were burning up and you tried to shout, scream for help, but you couldn’t get air in your lungs, no matter how hard you tried. Then, mercifully, you fainted.

When you came to, you were in the medical bay. It looked like a war zone, people lying or sitting on the floor, waiting to be seen. Some of them with burns and cuts, others in the bays next to you with drips and field surgeons around them. You spotted your two work mates, both with minor burns and a few bruises, but thankfully alive.

A few stitches on your forehead, one arm plaster casted and in a sling, and a packet of painkillers thrust in your good hand by a disgruntled, stressed out medic later, you limped your way out of there. Anything was better than sitting around in the sick bay, where there were people who were much more in need of a bed than you were. It also helped with getting away from the sight of the body bags that were quietly carried past you. Six, you had counted. The biggest attack on the Avengers Tower so far, people murmured. And the deadliest one.

In front of the debriefing room, you were handed a tablet and sat down. It was standard protocol after an incident like this: you filled in your report and then talked it through with your supervisor. End of. So you filled in the boxes and waited outside Tony’s office for your turn. As you walked in and sat down, he looked at you.

“You okay, Y/N?”

You gave a brief nod. He blinked and then tapped a few keys on his phone, before taking the tablet you held out to him.

“Let’s get this over with.”

In the middle of your interview, the door suddenly burst open. A very out of breath Asgardian god almost stumbled over the threshold, a stony expression on his face. He was like a vision from your dreams, donning his leather suit, covered in dust and blood - not his.

His eyes roamed over you as he stood in the doorway, lingering on your arm in the sling and the stitches on your face for a moment. Then his eyes met yours. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t looked into one another’s eyes before, but this felt different. Intimate.

In four strides he was next to your chair. He stretched out his hand and you placed yours in his, as if it was a practised gesture between you two. A gentle tug had you standing up.

“Loki…,” you started.

“I thought you were dead, love,” he murmured, voice rough, lifting your good hand to his lips to ghost a kiss onto your scratched knuckles. Your insides melted at the endearment and his gesture.

“I give you a thousand thanks, Stark,” he addressed the other man, eyes never leaving yours, “for alerting me that my beloved is okay and with you. However, Agent Y/L/N will have to finish the incident debrief at a later point. I require her presence for an extremely urgent personal matter.”

“Get outta here already, Shakespeare,” Tony grumbled, trying to hide a smirk. “Who’s next?”

But Loki didn’t pay him any heed. He gently cradled your face, his thumbs caressing your skin.

And there, right in front of Tony, with the door wide open for everyone in the very busy hallway to see, right there was the very first time that Loki kissed you in the daylight.

~fin~

#loki fanfic #loki marvel #loki x reader #loki x female reader #avengers loki #loki fanfiction #fluff #angst

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greatkittencloud · 1 month ago

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TW: Mild Violence

Black Nova

Chapter 15

Location: RAF Base

Time : 0900 Hours

The warmth of the cabin was long gone.

The halls of Base buzzed faintly with lights and distant voices. Everyone was back in gear. Uniforms, weapons, the weight of duty settling on their shoulders like armor again.

Nova walked down the corridor, silent, sharp-eyed, back in soldier mode.

But something hung in the air.

Tension.

A hum behind the silence.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Only Price and Ghost stood in the dim room. A single desk lamp glowed. Outside, the base moved like clockwork.

Price didn’t speak at first. He just pulled a folder from a drawer slim, but heavy in implication and slid it across the desk toward Ghost.

Ghost didn’t touch it yet. “Something’s wrong?”

Price nodded slowly. “I got a call. While we were still at the cabin. Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

Ghost finally opened the folder.

Inside:

Timestamped images.

Encrypted comm logs traced to compromised frequencies.

One redacted document with Nova’s name tagged in the corner.

A USB pulled from a burner laptop marked with her initials.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"You think she’s the mole.”

Price’s jaw worked as he stared at the ops board. “I don’t want to. But the intel lines up. Out of thirteen missions, six were compromised.”

Ghost stood still, silent for a beat. “And she was on all six.”

Price nodded slowly. “Every single one.”

Ghost’s voice was tight. “That’s not proof.”

“No,” Price admitted. “But it’s a pattern I can’t ignore.”

Ghost clenched his fists. “She nearly died on two of those ops.”

“I know,” Price said, voice low. “Which either makes her innocent or damn good at selling the act.”

Ghost didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to.

Price looked around. “I want facts, not feelings. Until we’re sure, she’s grounded. No missions, no comms access.”

Ghost finally spoke, voice low. “You planning to tell her?”

Price’s mouth set into a grim line. “She’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Location : Base Gym

Time: 1600 Hours

Punch.

Breathe.

Nova moved like a machine fists slamming into the heavy bag, sweat dripping, breath sharp. The sound echoed in the mostly empty gym.

But not empty enough.

From the corner, she felt the eyes. A flicker of silence where there should’ve been movement. She turned just fast enough to catch Ghost stepping away from the glass, pretending he hadn’t been watching.

She frowned.

Noted it.

Later same day Soap looked up, halfway through a joke with Ghost and Gaz. Their table had space.

She started toward them and the laughter dipped.

Only a second.

But enough.

Price.

He was talking to a logistics officer down the hall — nothing major. Normal base chatter.

But when he passed her, he didn’t stop. No small talk. No briefing. Just a faint glance.

Neutral. Careful.

And that’s when she knew.

Something had changed.

Not one person had said a word to her directly but the silence was louder than any bullet she’d ever heard.

Her mask was still on.

But behind it, her eyes were burning.

Low hum. Cold blue lights. Surveillance monitors blinking.

Nova stood alone.

Gloved fingers flew across a terminal she was deep inside files. Her eyes scanned decrypted data faster than most could read.

“If I’m being framed… someone must have left a trace...”

A shadow shifted in the reflection of the screen.

Too late.

Nova sat in a stark white room, hands cuffed to the table. Her mask was gone. Expression unreadable.

The door opened.

Price stepped in. Grim. Stone-faced. Behind him Ghost, unreadable beneath the mask.

Price tossed a folder onto the table.

Inside: logs showing her unauthorized access. A second USB — this one found in her quarters, matching the one linked to the mole transmissions.

Nova stared down at it.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s not mine.”

“Then someone went through a lot of effort to make it look like it is,” Price said. “And right now, Command believes them.”

She looked up at him betrayed, desperate. “You know me.”

“I knew a soldier,” he said. “Right now, I’ve got a suspect.”

Ghost didn’t say anything. Just looked at her too long, too hard.

Then Price turned to him.

“Take the investigation. Full authority. I want truth. Whatever it takes.”

And just like that, he walked out.

Leaving Ghost.

And Nova.

Alone.

Thankyou for reading!

Taglist: @hyperfixiation-station , @massivescissorsthingperson , @sheepispink , @adalia-lovelace , @sweetybuzz25 , @kaoyamamegami , @warrior-xe , @n-ae-vis , @enfppuff .

#ghost cod #john price #john soap mactavish #cod fandom #cod x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #black nova #call of duty

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notinthislife50 · 22 days ago

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Chapter 16

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Back at the base, Tony’s hands flew over the keyboard, his eyes scanning the USB drive they had found at your location, hoping for an answer. He still couldn’t figure out what just happened. The last thing he heard was your voice.

“Tony, they found me!”

Then nothing. Nothing but silence had followed. The screen in front of him flickered, lines of data scrambling across his display, but there was nothing. No signal, no trace, just an empty line.

“FRIDAY?” His voice cracked. “Find her. Now.”

“I’m attempting to triangulate her position, sir,” FRIDAY responded. “There’s interference. But the transmission was abruptly cut off.”

“Damn it,” Tony muttered, turning to the others. “Get your gear ready. She’s out there and we need to find her.”

Natasha, Clint, and Sam were already on their way, Tony’s words had barely left his mouth before they were heading for the door. But Steve, the ever calm leader, stopped them in their tracks.

“Tony, listen this isn’t your fault,” Steve said, he tried to comfort. “We’ll find her. We just need to think.”

But Tony didn’t want to hear it. His jaw tightened. “I should’ve been there,” he muttered, more to himself than to Steve. “She’s out there alone, and I…”

“Tony.” Steve’s voice was firm now, a reminder to focus. “We’ll get her back.

Tony gritted his teeth, his mind already racing with calculations. “Right. well I’m going in first. No delays.”

Hydra Base – Your POV

You were strapped to a table, Electricity stillbuzzed through you, your body was stiff and shaking on the cold metal table. The bitter taste of blood on your tongue. Tubes were jammed into your arm, you weren't sure what they were....IV lines or worse, pumping God knows what into your bloodstream

“Shit” you muttered willing yourself not to pass out. You tried to breathe through it, tried to focus on the subtle movements of your surroundings. You could hear them now, two figures, maybe more, moving closer.

With all your remaining strength, you forced your eyes open. A figure stepped into the faint light, their silhouette barely visible through the haze of pain.

“I was hoping you’d be a bit more cooperative,” came the voice, it was familiar. You couldn’t quite place it. But you recognised it.

Back at Base pov:

Tony was pacing, his hands running through his hair. He couldn’t stand all the waiting around. He shot a quick look at Steve.

“Any luck?” he snapped.

Steve shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the map, trying to predict their next move. “We’re getting close. But we don’t know where she is yet. These Hydra bastards have too many holes.”

“We will find her,” Tony said, “And when we do, it’s over for them.”

YOUR POV

A door hissed open. It wasn't the usual grunts or masked interrogators. No this one wore a suit. Clean and crisp with the SHIELD emblem on the front pocket. “It took us a long time to track you, Y/A/N.” (Your avenger name)

Your stomach dropped. Zero the head of SHIELD stood before you.

“Oh, come now. You knew SHIELD and Hydra weren’t that separate. Especially after we tried to reclaim the Soldier and maybe trap the trickster god.” He tapped your temple lightly “But do you even know who you are? Why we kept you around once they disappeared?”

You stayed silent your gaze unwavering staring straight at him.

“A soldier who can crash networks, slit throats, and disappear without a whisper… What we didn’t expect was for you to grow a conscience. Join the Avengers.” He leaned in close, whispering your ear, “But it’s about time we changed who you’re loyal to.”

Avengers, Bucky and Loki POV

Natasha crossed her arms sighing deeply. “You all know we’re going to have to tell them.”

The room fell quiet.

Tony didn’t look up from the display. “Yeah.”

Sam let out a deep breath through his nose. “They deserve to know.”

Clint nodded grimly. “Well this isn't going to be pretty.”

Without another word, they were in the jet, heading straight for the only place they knew the two men would be.

The front door creaked open.

Bucky glanced out the window,shaking his head, “We really need a new safe house.”

Loki nodded, fiddling with his dagger between his fingers. “We’ve had more guests here than an Asgardian ball”

But the moment they saw the team’s faces tight, grim and silent they knew something was up.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, already moving forward.

“What happened?” Loki’s voice sharp but fear rising behind his words.

Steve stepped forward, his jaw clenched. “They got her. They have Y/N.”

Loki’s face paled, his illusion fading for a split second.

Bucky’s voice came out low and deadly. “Where.”

Steve met his eyes. “You need to come with us. Now.”

@staley83 @missvelvetsstuff

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alarwynnwhispers · 12 days ago

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✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɢᴇꜱ ✒️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ & ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ

ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ & ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ / ɴᴇɢʟᴇᴄᴛ

ᴀᴍʙɪɢᴜᴏᴜꜱ ʜᴏᴘᴇ / ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ

The fluorescent lights of the McLaren debrief room buzzed overhead like artificial thunder. Rows of data screens filled the space with cold blue light, casting angular shadows across polished surfaces. Lando Norris sat in a high-backed chair, shoulders slumped, as engineers and strategists discussed tire degradation, fuel mapping, brake bias, terms that once sang with possibility but now felt like shards in his chest.

He let the words wash over him, half-listening, his mind a fog of regret.

Between stacks of telemetry printouts and thermal graphs, nestled among team manuals and technical journals, a slim hardcover book caught his eye. Its leather-wrapped spine was scuffed gently, embossed with Lily's name in gold: Lily. Beneath it, something handwritten in Y/n’s elegant cursive made the title glow like a singular heartbeat in a room of machines: A Title for Lily.

His breath hitched.

He leaned forward, tugging at the corner of the book, as though the world might slow if it recognized his action.

But before his fingers could touch the leather, a hand, smaller than he remembered, snatched it away.

“Can we not snoop through my personal reading, Norris?” Lily’s voice was light, but the dry humor in it trembled. She tucked the book behind her back, moving it just out of his view. “It’s mine.”

He straightened, jaw clenching, the line between professional and personal fraying like thin wire.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though something in the tone, broader, deeper, felt not like apology, but entreaty.

She didn’t respond. She merely sat down across from him, back erect, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

I. OLD HUNGER

As the session wore on, Lando found himself drifting toward the table again, as if pulled by something he couldn’t quite name. The voices in the room—the engineers, the strategists, the pit wall consultants—blurred into a hum behind glass. He only half-heard the jargon, the clipped syllables of tire degradation, downforce ratios, race pace deltas. All of it washed past him, secondary to the thrum under his skin.

His eyes kept flicking to the side.

To Lily.

She sat at the edge of the room, cross-legged, almost casual, her arms folded across a worn paperback that was mostly hidden by the press of her elbows. But Lando saw it, had seen it from the moment he walked in. The edge of the cover was frayed, faintly curled at one corner like it had been handled too many times, thumbed through in quiet places. She wasn’t reading it. She was guarding it.

And somehow, that was worse.

Lando’s stomach tightened. His warning lights were blinking red, a sharp, internal alarm that pulsed in the back of his brain. Something about that book, something he couldn’t yet see, felt like it held gravity. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like it contained mass, like it remembered weight that he had forgotten to carry. A weight that once belonged to him. A truth, perhaps, camouflaged in fiction.

By the time the debrief ended, the room exhaled. People stood, stretched, closed laptops. The synthetic murmur of radio chatter faded as chairs scraped back, feet shuffled, and voices rose in casual relief.

But Lando didn’t move.

He stayed rooted to his spot, hands slow as they opened his laptop with a deliberate calm. The screen flickered to life, telemetry maps and performance graphs casting cold light across his features. He plugged in a USB drive, let it mount. Clicked on a replay file. He stared at it. Pretended.

But he wasn’t looking at the data.

He was watching Lily in the reflection on his screen, watching the shape of her as she gathered her things with quiet precision. The way her fingers lingered on her keys a moment too long. The slight dip of her shoulder. The tilt of her head, betraying that she knew he was still watching.

She was heading out.

And something inside Lando clicked.

He stood abruptly. The legs of the desk chair shrieked against the polished floor, jarring against the hush that had settled over the nearly empty room. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. Just moved—quick, but not reckless. Steady. Intentional. Like a man retracing the edge of a dream, trying not to wake it before he reached the truth.

He was within arm’s reach when he saw it again—the book, poking just slightly from under her arm, like it wanted to be noticed. The corner bent. A smudge of ink on the spine. His fingers twitched, reaching—

And then Oscar was there.

Tall, quiet, a presence like iron appearing in his path.

He hadn’t heard him come up.

“Thought you had something important?” Oscar’s voice was low, even, but it carried weight. A blade sheathed in velvet.

Lando froze.

Lily’s expression didn’t change much. Just the barest flicker of a reaction, lips curving into a tight, humorless smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

“He was just leaving style tips,” she said lightly, as if the air hadn’t just shifted, as if nothing about this moment carried consequence.

“Right,” Oscar replied. He didn’t smile. Just folded his arms, gaze unmoving.

Lando’s jaw locked. His heart thundered against his ribs like it wanted out.

He didn’t know what he had been reaching for—the book, a memory, a second chance.

But it wasn’t his to take. Not right now.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said finally, voice quieter than he meant it to be. And then he stepped back, spine straightening as he let them pass. He didn’t watch them go.

But he heard Lily’s heels echo down the hallway like punctuation.

And the weight of that book stayed behind in his chest.

II. A NIGHT SHIFT OF CURIOUSITY

Sunlight was already burning over Woking’s grey buildings when Lando returned home. The sky had turned a muted gold, casting long shadows on the pavement, the kind that should have felt warm but only made everything look colder. He barely registered the transition from car to door to room. Automatic. Robotic. Muscle memory. A few half-hearted data calls echoed in his head, clipped sentences from engineers he hadn’t really heard. A pizza box in the bin, its lid half-closed. The blinking light of the coffee machine pulsing in the corner like a dying star.

Every familiar thing screamed in silence.

Not home.

He stood for a long moment, just inside the doorway, before moving to the kitchen. The space was still. Too still. Like a life paused mid-frame. He sat down at the table without really deciding to, shoulders hunched forward, head bowed over a cold mug of coffee that had never been warm to begin with. The ceramic was slick with condensation. He didn’t drink from it.

The night came back to him in fragments, as if his mind didn’t trust him enough to hand it over all at once. Rain tracing crooked lines across glass. Y/n’s silhouette half-obscured by the trees, wind catching in her hair. The way she had stood there—distant, unreachable, beautiful in a way that made his chest ache. Then, the quieter things. The mornings. Light drifting through curtains. Coffee shared in silence. Trust given like breath.

Golden memories.

Terrible mistakes.

His phone buzzed, sharp and sudden against the table. The screen lit up with a group chat notification—team thread, nothing personal.

We need to talk—Friday, morning. Tell him not to skip. He’s looking worse every day.

He read it once, twice. Let it sit.

He didn’t type a response.

Instead, he reached across the table, pulling his laptop toward him with a slow, deliberate hand. The screen flickered to life, folders blooming open, data graphs reloading themselves in a cold, clinical rhythm. Telemetry files. Tire wear analytics. Sector timing overlays. None of it landed.

His eyes moved, but his mind didn’t follow.

One line repeated itself, etched into the back of his skull like it had always been there.

The name on the spine. A Title for Lily.

He blinked once. Then again.

His hand drifted toward his phone.

He tapped slowly until Lily’s contact appeared. Just her name. No photo. No heart or star emoji. Nothing soft about it. Just a single name that now held too much weight.

He pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.

Then stopped.

Call refused.

He stared at the screen long after the sound had gone, thumb hovering above the glass. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pressed down on him like something with teeth. Something coiled and restless slithered through his chest, cold and unwelcome.

The hunger didn’t go away.

Not for food. Not for sleep. For something else.

Something just out of reach.

He opened the message window. Typed a single word.

Please.

Then stopped.

Watched it blink in the blue-grey light.

And erased it.

III. CONFRONTATIONS AT HQ

Friday felt like Christmas. Sunlight poured through the cloud-thin sky in clean, piercing shafts, painting the ground in sharp angles of light. But the warmth never reached the skin. It was the kind of brightness that felt brittle, glassy, cold. The kind that made everything look clearer than it really was.

Lando entered the McLaren garage with something close to resolve burning in his chest. Not loud, not flashy, just a low thrum of purpose beneath the surface, steady as a drumbeat. The polished floor reflected his steps. Mechanics passed by with nods and data pads, half-aware, half-distracted. His pulse didn't waver.

Zak was already by the coffee corner, standing in close conversation with Andrea. Oscar leaned against a worktop nearby, arms folded, posture unreadable. And Lily stood at the edge of the group, silent, facing the machine. Her figure was still, carefully still, like someone bracing themselves before a wave.

She didn’t look up when Lando approached.

But the book lay there anyway.

Set down like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t the axis around which everything now turned. It rested atop a glossy health-and-wellness magazine, its cover soft with wear, the spine gently creased. Familiar. Undeniable. The words glinted under the overhead light.

A Title for Lily.

It glowed like a beacon.

He hesitated only a second before drawing in a breath. Steadying himself. Then reached.

But Lily moved first.

Her hand shot out, snatching the book in one quick, almost instinctive motion. She pressed it behind her back, her knuckles white around the binding.

“It’s personal,” she managed. Her voice was low. Tight around the edges.

He paused, hands held up in careful surrender, palms open to the air. “May I ask why?” he said quietly, like a question at the edge of something sacred. “It’s just… a book. I just—”

“You heard me.” Her voice cracked faintly. Not enough to break, but enough to tremble. “It’s mine.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then Oscar stepped in, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. His presence filled the space with quiet certainty.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice calm but decisive.

Lando’s jaw tensed. He looked past them—not at them anymore, but through the open space of the garage. Out at the organized rows of equipment, the white-painted walls, the tangle of wires and tire warmers and technical order. But none of it registered.

A flicker of desperation sparked low in his gut.

Mixed with something else.

Ignition.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched them go. The hallway stretched ahead, sterile and bright, and they disappeared into it without looking back.

Eventually, he followed. Not too fast. Not too slow. Each step measured like a countdown.

His heart thrummed with something primal and tangled.

Chase. Hunt.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

IV. DEFAULTS AND DENIALS

On the team bus, the engine was off, but the heaters hummed faintly, pushing stale warmth into the corners of the vehicle. The windows fogged lightly around the edges, blurring the grey world outside. Screens mounted along the aisle glowed with muted slides—mock-ups of liveries, sponsorship placements, data overlays—none of it absorbing enough to matter.

A tense silence clung to the space like static.

Lando sat hunched forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on the floor beneath him. He hadn’t spoken since they got on. The hum of the heater, the occasional click of a laptop key, the low murmur of someone adjusting their seat—these sounds filled in what his voice didn’t.

Lily sat across from him, back straight, hands folded too carefully in her lap. The book was beside her, resting innocently on the seat, its worn cover half-shadowed by her thigh. Still turned spine away, deliberately, as if protecting both it and him.

He didn’t look at her directly. Just asked, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s by her?”

There was a pause. A beat that stretched too long.

Then Lily nodded, but even that was slow, uncertain.

“It’s... something she wrote,” she said. Her voice was soft. Uneven. “Three months ago.”

It wasn’t enough.

The words drifted into the air and hung there, weightless, fragile. Lando’s breath caught. He didn’t move.

“It’s special,” Oscar said, stepping in from the row behind. His voice was firmer. Intentional. Like he’d been waiting for the silence to fray.

“It’s... not just a cultural item,” he added. “It’s emotionally freighted.”

That word landed like metal in the back of Lando’s skull. Freighted. Heavy. Loaded. Burdened with meaning.

He almost laughed, almost. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Of course it was freighted. Of course she wouldn’t write something light. Not after what happened. Not after the silence. Not after the vanishing.

He swallowed, the motion stiff in his throat.

“I just want to see it,” he said, the sentence low and cautious, as though any sudden movement might collapse what little remained between them.

Lily’s hand moved instinctively. Fingers curling over the book’s cover like a lock sliding into place.

“You don’t,” she said.

The words were gentle, but final. Not a warning, just a truth.

Lando closed his eyes. His jaw clenched. Breath stuttered in his chest like a car misfiring.

“Yes,” he said. Then again, quieter. “I— I do.”

V. LETTING IT SIMMER

Midday sun filtered through the bus’s tinted windows, casting diluted beams across the seats, soft gold warped by the glass. Outside, the world buzzed with movement—team members hauling equipment, prepping logistics, engines growling to life in distant corners of the paddock—but inside the bus, the tone remained subdued.

A handful of voices filled the space. They were talking about data sets, projected tire wear, aero efficiency at Spa. The hum of conversation wound around engine mappings and corner entry speeds. Someone pointed to a graphic on the screen—sector splits and overtaking zones. The rhythm of race prep, mechanical and precise.

But Lando barely heard any of it.

He sat there, nodding occasionally, offering a word or two when necessary, but his mind was nowhere near the Belgian Grand Prix. His focus splintered and reassembled, only to splinter again.

All he could think of was that book.

The way it lay beside Lily, so ordinary and yet... not. The way she had guarded it, not with aggression, but with something gentler—something protective. Reverent. Like the contents were fragile, or dangerous. Or both.

A book full of secrets.

A title still hidden.

And Y/n’s shadow clinging to every possibility.

The tightness in his chest returned, familiar now. A quiet ache that deepened with every unanswered question.

He stood abruptly, muttering something vague about stepping out, and made his way to the engineers’ lounge. It was empty, save for the low hum of the heater and the mechanical buzz of a screen left running in the corner. He let the silence settle over him, needing the isolation more than he expected.

He sat down with a tablet in his hands. Studied the circuit map of Spa. The high-speed curves, elevation changes, the delicate knife-edge of Eau Rouge. He traced lines of temperature curves, tire performance simulations, telemetry overlays.

But his mind kept skipping.

Back to her.

Back to Y/n. Back to Lily. Back to the book with the name he hadn’t read, but could already feel written on his skin.

On impulse, he reached for his phone.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment, debating how to phrase it—how to soften what could not be softened. But in the end, he didn’t dress it up.

He typed it simply, cleanly.

Lando: Need to see Lily. We need to talk.

It read as urgent.

He stared at it for a moment.

Then hit send.

The minutes that followed stretched, slow and thin. He tried to return to the maps, the charts, the simulations. He scrolled through past races. Looked at historical data. Nothing held.

Then his phone buzzed once.

A reply from Zak.

Zak: Talked. She’s not ready.

The words sank in with a quiet finality. No drama. Just a closed door.

Lando stared at the screen for a long while, the weight of rejection unfamiliar in its calmness. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t blame her.

He just… wished it had been different.

He set the phone down on the table, gently. No clatter. No frustration.

Alone again, surrounded by ghostly telemetry lines and the faint whir of a cooling fan, he let his eyes close for a beat.

Then, under his breath, a whisper. Not to anyone. Not for effect.

Just a promise sent into the stillness.

“Okay. But someday.”

VI. A TENTATIVE TIPPING POINT

Later that evening, after the final debriefs had drained the day of its urgency, after the credits rolled on another media cycle and the cameras packed away their curiosity, Lando found himself drifting, not toward the exit, not toward his room, but back into the quiet hum of the hospitality lounge.

The space had emptied, mostly. Just a handful of people remained, cloaked in the soft light of floor lamps and the low murmur of post-race conversation. Lily sat at a corner table, Oscar beside her, and across from them, a visiting sponsor, laughing softly at something that had already lost its edge.

But Lando didn’t hear the joke. He didn’t see the sponsor.

His eyes were fixed on the table.

The book lay there.

Its cover caught the light just enough to glint faintly. Its position was casual, too casual, placed like it was just another object, something harmless, forgettable. But he knew better. It radiated presence. Like it wanted to be seen, but only on its own terms.

He moved toward it again.

One step. Then another.

Lily’s head turned as she poured water into a glass. Her motion stilled when she saw him. The glass trembled slightly in her hand as it filled.

“Seriously, Lando,” she said. Her voice wasn’t sharp. It didn’t scold. It was soft, but it carried weight. And pain. That quiet kind, the kind that comes from love and exhaustion.

He froze, breath tightening. The need inside him surged again, but he held it back, let it settle like sediment in water.

“Why?” he asked finally. Just one word. But it felt like asking for a world.

She exhaled slowly, like she'd been holding it in for days. “It’s hers. Meant for me only.”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, as though walking toward something sacred.

“This could tell me where she is,” he said, voice low but urgent. “It could help me understand... what I lost.”

Her eyes flickered.

That was when Oscar rose a little in his seat, enough to place a hand on Lando’s arm. Gentle, firm, unmistakable.

“Don’t,” he said.

But Lando didn’t back away.

“I have to know,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “I owe her that much, don’t I?”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed with tension, with hurt that had nowhere left to go.

Lily’s gaze dropped to the table. Her hand gripped the edge of her chair like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment. Something in her expression cracked, quietly, almost invisibly, but Lando saw it. The way her lips parted. The way her throat moved, like swallowing glass.

“I...” she began, the word shaking slightly.

Then she reached, slowly, for the book.

Her fingers touched the cover like she was bracing herself against the past.

“Okay,” she said at last. “But not now.”

VII. NIGHT WATCHES AND FAINT HOPES

Alone in his hotel room, Lando sat hunched on the edge of the bed, hands resting between his knees, head bowed beneath the sharp glare of the ceiling light. It cast a sterile, unforgiving glow across the room, white, cold, clinical. The kind of light that flattened everything, even memory.

Its reflection gleamed faintly off the angles of his skull, catching in the damp strands of his hair still mussed from the day. Around him, the room was silent but for the steady, relentless sound of rain.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soothing.

It pounded the windows with a hollow rhythm, insistent, repetitive, like a dirge written for someone already lost. Every drop sounded like a countdown.

He didn’t move. Just stared.

At the ceiling. At the dull beige walls. At his own reflection in the darkened glass, ghostlike and strange, outlined by the storm.

The tablet on the side table was still on. The telemetry data scrolled by in looping silence, graphs rising and falling like flatlines. He’d replayed it. Paused it. Rewound and started again, over and over, until the numbers no longer made sense, and still they meant nothing compared to the ache sitting in his chest.

He rubbed at his temple, eyes heavy with exhaustion he refused to name.

Then, his phone buzzed once.

A message lit up the screen.

Zak: We have to fly for Spa in 2 hours. Stop chasing ghosts.

He stared at it. The words blurred slightly, not from tears, but from sheer mental noise. He didn’t type anything back.

Didn’t need to.

The answer had already carved itself into the silence.

He set the phone down face-first.

Closed his eyes.

And whispered into the empty room, to no one in particular and yet entirely to her—

“I will find her.”

VIII. MOMENTS BEFORE DUSK

At dusk, when the sky turned the color of rusted gold and shadows stretched long across the paddock, the rest of the team celebrated. Laughter rose in bursts from the hospitality tent, champagne bottles popped, hands clapped backs in congratulation. Another solid finish. Another race ticked off the calendar.

But Lando couldn’t taste the champagne.

He held a glass once, barely touched it. The bubbles stung his nose, the sweetness curled wrong on his tongue. He set it down and drifted.

Soon enough, he found himself there again, near the table.

The book sat waiting.

Same position. Same angle. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. His gaze didn’t hold urgency now. Not hunger. Not possession. It was quieter. Warmer. Worn.

Longing.

He didn’t reach for it. Not yet. He only looked, as if hoping that this time, it might offer itself freely.

But before his fingers could even twitch toward it, Lily stood.

She gathered her things without fanfare. Her movements were smooth, practiced, an exit rehearsed. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just slipped the book beneath her arm and walked away, her back straight, her silence firmer than any no she’d ever spoken aloud.

Lando remained there, frozen. His body upright, but his thoughts trailing behind her, pulled like thread.

Then Oscar appeared in the corner of his eye. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. Just shook his head with quiet understanding and placed a hand on Lando’s arm, guiding him gently back to earth.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he murmured.

Lando didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.

“I won’t stop,” he said. His voice didn’t tremble. It was steady, like stone worn smooth by time. Certain.

Oscar paused beside him, measuring the cost hidden in those three words.

“As long as it doesn’t cost you your life,” he said, low, almost to himself.

That night, hours after the crowd faded and the lights dimmed, Lando sat on one of the hospital lounge-style sofas in the back corridor of the hotel’s medical suite, where tired drivers sometimes went to recover, or just breathe.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t scroll.

Didn’t move.

Silence blanketed the room like static, and yet it wasn’t empty. It followed him, filled every corner with something weightless and watching. His breath slowed, but the ache in his chest remained sharp, coiled tight.

The book. The title. The promise tucked into pages he hadn’t seen. It brushed against his mind like an itch under skin, unreachable but ever present.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

There was something electric in the ache, something alive beneath the bone-deep sorrow. A charge in the air. A sense that revelation wasn’t far now, that every hour was winding tighter toward something inevitable.

And somewhere, in ink beneath that unassuming dust jacket, Y/n’s words sat waiting.

To be continued...🧡

✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴀ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ✒️

📝 Note from the Author: (a.k.a. the chaotic return of the girl who disappears like a plot twist mid-season)

HELLOOOO yes yes, this is the second post of the day because guess what? WE DON’T HAVE SCHOOL TODAY. Yasss surprise drop like I’m Beyoncé on a random Wednesday. HAHAHAHA. I am back for a little bit, back from the void, crawling out of academic hell like Lando trying to crawl into Lily’s personal space just to read a book like some Victorian ghost of regret. 😭📖

Lando’s been out here acting like the book’s gonna whisper her location if he stares long enough. Lily? Gatekeeping like her life depends on it. Oscar? Sir Oscar Piastri, MVP of cockblocking with dignity, standing guard like he’s defending the Holy Grail. And me? Writing this like I’m not supposed to be doing homework. But again, NO SCHOOL, so who’s really winning?

Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying this slow unraveling of Lando’s sanity. We love a man haunted by literature. If you’ve ever almost cried over a hardcover book with gold embossing... you are not alone.

I’ll vanish again eventually (probably when school returns like a horror movie villain), but for now, enjoy the drama, the tension, and Lando being one emotionally-charged "please" away from full collapse.

See you in the next one... if Lily ever lets go of that damn book. 📚

With love, me 🧡

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