#Lead Full Stack Engineer

[ironwidowswife]

Warning: angst?

I don't know what I'm doing, honestly. BTW I made the photo, it's on Pinterest. My user is the same as this one because I can.

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Vi and y/n had always been inseparable.

Not in the soft, storybook way people imagined love, but in the loud, chaotic, beautifully flawed kind of way. Their connection was built on grease-stained hands and late-night takeout, bad jokes, shared silence, and a kind of love that didn’t need constant explanation. It had always been strong enough to survive anything.

Until it wasn’t.

Work had started chipping away at them.

Vi, sharp and dependable, had always taken pride in being the one people could rely on. A damn good mechanic. The extra hours, the last-minute calls—she told herself it was for them. For the future. But every minute she gave to work was one she stole from y/n. And lately, those stolen moments were stacking up. Days blurred. Nights stretched out like shadows. And more and more, Vi came home to a dark apartment and a bed that felt too cold.

Y/n had tried to hold them together.

She’d seen the distance growing, felt the silence seeping into their home. So she planned something—something small, but heartfelt. A home-cooked dinner. Vi’s favorite steak, seasoned just right. Candles flickering gently. A bottle of Vi’s go-to wine, breathing beside two glasses. A soft trail of rose petals leading to their bedroom—a quiet, tender attempt to remind them both of what still lived beneath the cracks.

She waited.

The hours dragged.

The candles burned low.

She checked her phone once. Then twice. Then lost count.

No message. No call.

Eventually, the wine began to sweat on the table. The food went cold. And y/n, heart sinking under the weight of quiet disappointment, slipped off to bed—alone again, curled up on Vi’s side, where it still smelled like her.

It wasn’t until after midnight that the door creaked open.

Vi stepped inside, the familiar sound of the door suddenly sharp in the silence. The air was thick with the fading scent of steak and melted candle wax. The lights were low, but just enough to see the table—still perfectly set for two. One plate untouched. One glass unused. The wine bottle sat like a witness between them, half full and aching.

Then she saw the petals.

Soft red against the floor, leading down the hallway.

An invitation she never showed up for. A message she never received.

Vi’s breath caught in her throat.

The guilt hit like a hammer—fast, hard, unrelenting. She ran a hand through her short pink hair, the ache in her chest heavier than any engine she’d ever worked on. She hadn’t even thought to check the time. One drink with the crew. Then another. Then laughter. And the bar swallowed her whole like it always did these days.

She followed the trail of petals with slow, dragging steps.

The bedroom door was closed now.

No warm light beneath the frame. No waiting arms. Just silence.

She lingered outside for a moment, fingers brushing the doorknob like it might burn. Her voice broke the stillness, barely above a whisper.

“Shit… I’m so sorry.”

But the words fell flat.

Sorry didn’t erase the cold dinner.

Didn’t rewind the hours y/n spent waiting.

Didn’t fix the cracks Vi kept pretending weren’t there.

And standing there, surrounded by what could’ve been, Vi finally felt it:

This time, sorry might not be enough.

[websterss]

THE WRECKONING — LOGAN MADDOX

SUMMARY: Caitlyn and Zac are hellbent on finding more information about their dad. As they snoop around, they come across an old Polaroid.

WARNING(S): ANGST LOTS OF IT, mentions of blood, car crash, sweet flashback that leads to angst.

WORD COUNT: 6,100

PAIRING: Logan Maddox x fem!Reader

A/N: I hope you like it! I feel like Logan seems like a tragic love story guy, so I gave him one. I had/have a plot twist in store/stored, but I think I like this as a oneshot. Also, I feel like Logan might've graduated in 2005, but I could be estimating wrong. I was going off Logan being in his twenties, possibly when Christian was like 16-17.

MASTERLIST

The garage office always smelled like motor oil and black coffee. A mixture of what Logan would faintly smell like. It was the one place Zac and Caitlyn weren’t usually allowed to snoop through. Which, naturally, made it the first place they ran to when he left to take a call.

"What are we looking for again?" Zac kept pulling back filing drawers.

It wasn’t even anything exciting; mostly old picture frames, receipts, faded diagrams, and random bolts, etc.

"Anything that can help us figure out where Dad is? Or what happened to him at least..."

Caitlyn poked through the shelves on the wall behind the desk until she found a brown old shoebox wedged behind a stack of engine manuals labeled 'Logan's personals'.

“This looks promising.”

Inside were Polaroids. Dozens of them. Some warped from time and heat. A few had grease stains. Teenagers leaning on half-built cars. Garage nights with beer cans in the corner. Logan, younger, looser.

And right to the side of the other ones sat a prom photo. Sitting neatly above a silk violet shawl.

And it wasn't just any prom photo.

It was Logan's, in a tux, with his arm around a girl in a violet dress. The shawl on the girl was the very same one stuffed in the box carefully. Her smile was wide and full of life. The two of them looked inseparable.

Caitlyn stared. “Whoa.”

Zac leaned in. “Dude. Uncle Logan went to prom? Who’s the girl?”

“No idea. But she’s pretty.” Caitlyn flipped the photo, seeing if there was anything on the back of it, but came up empty.

Caitlyn held the photo a little closer, brushing a thumb over the edge of it. “Who do you think she is?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper. It didn’t feel right to speak loudly in here, not when it suddenly felt like they’d just opened someone’s chest cavity by mistake.

Zac leaned over her shoulder. “I dunno. He never talks about anyone. Especially not back then. He barely talks about dad.”

“I think it's an old girlfriend,” Caitlyn said softly. “Look how he’s looking at her.”

It was true.

Even in a grainy Polaroid, Logan’s expression was clear, head slightly tilted toward the girl, lips curved into a lopsided smile that looked more real than any they’d ever seen him give. He was happy. Not tired-happy. Not satisfied-happy. Just… young. Full of life, full of love.

“Do you think she’s the reason he’s like… the way he is now?” Zac asked. “Why he never gets all sentimental?"

Caitlyn didn’t answer. She was staring too hard at the photo.

Then she looked down at the violet shawl beneath it, tucked so carefully, so deliberately. Her hand hovered over it but didn’t touch it.

They both turned at the sound of the office door swinging open. Caitlyn hid the photo behind her back.

Logan stopped in the doorway, mid-step, mid-sentence. “Phone’s being weird, I think I lost sig—” He froze. Eyes narrowed at their odd stances. Logan wiped his hands on a rag, one brow raised. “What are you two doing?”

“Uh…” Zac tried to cover. “Looking for… jumper cables?”

“By the tools, Caitlyn should know where it is.” Logan chuckles, gesturing out of the office. "What's wrong with you two?"

Caitlyn sighed, knowing they wouldn't be able to get past him. She held out the photo, no fight.

His expression faltered as soon as he saw what she was holding. Logan took it without a word. He stared at it for a second too long.

It was like time had stopped.

Logan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“Where’d you get this?” He asked, his voice unusually low.

Caitlyn gently spoke. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to snoop; we just wanted to find anything we could about Dad. It was just sitting in that box and-”

His eyes landed on the open shoebox next to them. The shawl was sticking out.

“-I haven’t seen this in years.” He murmured.

Zac scratched the back of his neck. “Who was she?”

Logan’s jaw worked for a moment. Then softer. “Her name was Y/n.”

“Was she your girlfriend?” Caitlyn asked.

Logan let out a small breath. Not quite a laugh. “Not that it's any of your business, but yeah. Yeah, she was.”

He took a seat at the edge of the desk, thumb brushing over the image like he could smooth the years out of it. “I thought I lost this...”

Caitlyn sat down across from him, eyes never leaving his face. “What happened to her?”

Logan didn’t answer right away.

When he finally did, his voice was strained. The words were knives just trying to leave his throat.

“Car crash. Happened a long time ago. I was driving. Stopped at a four-way stop. No cars in sight. I rolled forward-" He swallowed. His fingers curled slightly around the photo. "A drunk driver blew through the stop sign. Hit her side. Straight on.”

The room went still.

Caitlyn covered her mouth with her hand.

“She uh didn’t make it,” Logan said, quieter now. “The doctor said her lungs collapsed from the impact. There wasn’t much else they could do for her.”

No one spoke.

Zac looked down, the weight of the story suddenly making the office feel smaller. Heavy.

Logan stayed still, staring at the photo like it could transport him to that exact moment, wishing, hoping it would. He sat back slowly, eyes glassy.

Zac blinked hard. “I’m sorry, Uncle Logan.”

"It was a long time ago, kid, don't sweat it...” he said, brushing his fingers over the edge of the photo before setting it down carefully. He paused, staring at the image like it still didn’t feel real. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten her. I haven’t. Not a single damn thing.” He gave a weak breath of a laugh. “If anything, I remember too much.” Logan glanced at them, something raw flickering behind his eyes. “I just never figured out how to talk about someone who... stopped existing for everybody else but never stopped existing for me.”

"You loved her." Zac's grin widened.

“Yeah,” Logan said, voice low. “I did.”

“Then she won't just exist for you,” Caitlyn said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”

Logan looked at her, then Zac, then the photo. Maybe this was a memory meant to be shared, not hidden.

Caitlyn reached forward to grab it and stood it up against a brown frame. “You should keep it out. Not in a box. Keep it next to the one with you and Dad.”

Logan didn’t answer at first, but he didn’t complain about it being visible either.

Just stared at the two photos now side by side, the past and the not-so-distant past. One of him at seventeen, still grinning like he hadn’t yet learned what it felt like to lose everything. And the other, a little older, slightly broken but wiser, leaned over the hood of a car with his little brother, another someone he didn't think he'd lose in the nick of his youth.

The contrast, yet similarities, made his chest ache.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Feels weird. Like keeping a ghost on the shelf.”

Caitlyn smiled, just a little. “It’s not weird. It’s real.”

“Yeah,” Zac chimed in. “Besides, you keep Dad up there, and he's been a ghost all our lives so.”

Logan huffed a laugh through his nose, but it cracked something open.

He reached out, touching the photo, adjusting the edge of it so it sat the way he wanted it to beside the photo of Christian and him. His movements were slow, careful.

“I always thought if I let myself keep this out,” he said quietly, “it’d mean I was stuck. Like I couldn’t move on.”

“And now?” Caitlyn asked.

He looked at her. Then at Zac. Then back to the photos. “Now I think maybe… it just means I loved her the way she deserved to be loved.”

A silence settled over the office again. This time, it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

And as Logan stepped back, arms crossed but eyes softer than they’d been in years, Caitlyn bumped his shoulder.

“She probably would've liked that.” She said.

“Yeah,” Logan murmured, with a small, aching smile. “She would’ve.”

-

2005

The world smelled like summer.

Faint cut grass, a hint of gasoline still clinging to Logan’s fingertips, and the sweet trace of your perfume as you turned in slow circles in front of his car, trying to adjust the straps of your dress.

“Are you sure I don’t look stupid?” You asked for the third time, tugging at the fabric near your waist.

“You look beautiful, like out of movie.” Logan muttered, standing a few feet away, slack-jawed in his rental tux for his tall frame.

Your eyebrow raised. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” he said. “You just don’t like compliments.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already getting bashful. “It’s the heels. I feel like a baby deer.”

Logan smirked, hands shoved in his pockets. “Still the prettiest baby deer I’ve ever seen.”

You stepped closer. “That’s a weird sentence, Logan.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I’m not great with words.”

You smiled at him, soft and slow. “True, but you’re good enough for me.”

He went quiet then. Just looked at you.

Like he was trying to memorize everything, the way your eyes caught the fading light, the way your lip curled when you smiled. The way you stood close enough to him, but always made him feel like you were just out of his reach.

“You’re too good for this town.” He said suddenly.

Your expression shifted. “What?”

“You are. You’re gonna leave. Go somewhere far. Somewhere better.”

You stepped in and smoothed the collar of his jacket.

“Where's this coming from, and what if I don’t want better?” you asked. “What if I just want you?”

His breath hitched.

You weren’t the kind of girl who said things like that just to say them. When you spoke, your words held meaning.

Always had.

“I’d follow you anywhere, Logan,” you whispered. “But right now? I just want to dance in a high school gym with string lights and bad punch, and semi-good music, and let everyone know I’m there with you.”

He looked like he might say something, might cry, even, in that boyish, tight-jawed way of his.

Instead, he just reached forward and caressed his thumb against your cheek.

“You’re gonna wreck me.” He murmured.

You smiled. “Good.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy or breathless.

It was quiet. Certain.

Like he’d already decided you were the best thing he’d ever know.

-

The gym lights were low, all warm gold and strung-up fairy lights, casting halos on every couple swaying on the worn linoleum floor. The DJ was winding down now, slowing the night with some vintage track no one under thirty had requested.

Logan had one hand on your lower back, the other holding your fingers gently, like he was afraid to grip too hard. You rested your head against his chest, oil-grease still faint beneath the scent of a new cologne he over-applied.

You both moved slowly, easier than either of you expected.

“What do you know, we’re actually dancing,” you murmured against him. “You’re not stepping on me.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re leading.” He mumbled into your hair.

You grinned, lifting your head to look at him. “Would that bruise your masculinity?”

“Definitely. Keep going.”

You laughed quietly, and he leaned down, touching his forehead to yours. “I think I could do this forever.” Logan said softly, so quiet, only you could hear.

“With this song?” You teased.

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours.

“No. You.”

"Me? You'd do me forever. Sounds romantic. I'm in." You bite back your chuckle, seeing him roll his eyes at your childish jokes. His brow furrowed, but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

“You know what I meant,” he muttered, cheeks tinged with the faintest red. “And don’t make me take it back.”

You grinned, thoroughly enjoying yourself. “You’re not taking it back.”

“Didn’t say I wanted to,” he said, brushing his fingers along your lower back like he still wasn’t sure you were real to him, but you were, and he cherished every second of it. “Just… maybe I should’ve said it differently.”

“Okay...then how would you say it?”

He looked down at you. Eyes warm and blue, completely undone.

“I think if I had my way, I’d keep slow dancing with you until we’re old. Or until you get sick of me. Whichever comes first.”

You softened. The teasing faded from your lips.

“I don't think I could ever get sick of you.” You murmured.

Logan leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, your cheek, then finally your lips.

It was slow, deep, full of something that felt like a promise.

And when he pulled back, his voice was a little rough.

“But just so we’re clear, yeah. I would do you forever, too.”

You laughed into his chest as he held you tighter, smiling like he'd accept it if his face stayed stuck that way.

“Sir, you shouldn't say things like that.” He could still hear your smile in your voice.

“I don’t say most of the stuff I should.”

He kissed you again. Longer this time. Less careful. Not bothered if any of the chaparones reprimand him for not keeping it PG.

You melted into it.

Everything about that moment, the heat, the safety, the hum of music, and the smell of sweat and perfume and school waxed floors, it all pressed in close like the universe was holding its breath for you two.

And when the song ended, he didn’t stop swaying. Not for a while.

-

The music had faded into the background, just a low, lazy thump from someone’s backyard two houses over. The stars were clearer out here, nothing but trees and that soft breeze brushing through the open windows.

You sat sideways in the passenger seat, bare feet resting on the dashboard, toes pointed, relaxed. Your shoes were somewhere on the floorboard, probably under his seat. Your dress had slipped up a little, bunched around your knees. The borrowed jacket, his jacket, hung off your shoulders, the sleeves comically long, the collar dusted with his cologne.

Logan hadn't said anything for a full minute.

You felt his eyes on you, knew he was staring, but didn’t look over until the silence stretched just long enough to make you grin.

“What?” you asked, lazy and warm. “Not gonna tell me to take my feet off the dash?”

He smirked softly, voice low. “I should.”

“But?”

“But I’d rather leave ‘em there,” he murmured, eyes still on your legs. “Don’t think I’ve ever had anyone look this beautiful in my front seat.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and leaned your head back against the seat. “Flatter me again and I'll never leave.”

He turned to face you more fully, arm resting on the steering wheel, jaw ticking like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or fall apart again.

He shook his head. “How are you real?”

You laughed under your breath. “You’re dramatic tonight, Maddox.”

“I’m serious,” Logan said, still watching you with that smirk, trying so hard not to turn it into something more. “You don’t even know. You’re sitting over there like a whole dream, and I’m just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “—trying to remember how to breathe.”

You laughed, warm and free. “You’re laying it on so thick right now.”

“I’m honest,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

You nudged his shoulder with your foot. “Okay, Honest Logan, then be honest, did you actually like prom?”

He tilted his head and gave it a thoughtful pause. “My dancing sucked. I stepped on your foot twice tonight.”

“Three times." You said smugly.

“But,” he continued, shooting you a sidelong glance, “I liked seeing you all beautiful and happy. All of us together one more night before graduation. Dressed up. Laughing with our friends. Spinning you around under cheap string lights, looking perfect as always.”

Your cheeks burned. “Damn,” you muttered. “There you go again.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, quieter now. “You make it easy.”

Something shifted in the air. Your smile dimmed, softened. “You know, this is the best night I’ve had in a long time,” you admitted, your voice gentler. “Maybe ever.”

He blinked, his expression open, stunned almost. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You were quiet for a moment, fingers brushing over his knuckles. Then, softly. “I don’t want this to end. Ever.”

“It won’t,” he said. “We’ll get out of here. We’ll figure it out. Even if we don’t have a map yet.”

You smiled at him, full, radiant, sure. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

Logan looked at you, serious for a second. “Where?”

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

“If we could leave right now,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly against your knee, “no plan, no money, no anything, where would you want to go?”

You smiled softly, eyes flicking to the window like you could see the whole world from the passenger seat.

“Somewhere warm,” you said. “With water. Nothing fancy. Just... open. Quiet.”

“A lake?” He guessed.

You shook your head. “Yeah. In one of those tiny towns off the coast that smells like salt and has bad coffee and fishermen who know your name.”

Logan chuckled. “Sounds romantic, I'm in.”

“Someone has to be. I gotta balance out your grumpy realist energy.”

He smirked, glancing over at you. “Alright. Tiny town. Lake house. You, me, maybe a dog?”

“Definitely a dog.”

“What kind?”

You grinned. “The kind that’ll dig up all your socks and shoes. Golden retriever.”

He laughed an honest, full laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

And for a second, it felt like the rest of your lives were already beginning.

You sighed, reached down to find your shoes blindly under the seat, half-heartedly searching, then gave up. “This night would be even more perfect, though, if I hadn’t dropped Mom’s shawl earlier. She’s gonna give me hell.”

Logan looked over at you, already sliding his tux jacket more around your arms. “You’ve got this,” he said. “Just keep it on all night.”

You glanced down at it, too big, sleeves bunched, but warm. His. “But it’s yours.”

He shrugged. “It looks better on you anyway.”

You raised a brow. “You saying I pull off oversized jacket chic?”

“Better than I ever could.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. “Still… I liked that shawl. It was my mom’s.”

Logan paused. Then reached for the keys in the ignition.

He grinned. “Then let’s go get it.”

You sat up straighter. “What? No, Logan, it’s late.”

“So?”

You gave him a look. “It’s almost midnight. We should be inside Darren's after-party.”

He shrugged, tapping the steering wheel. “It’s prom night, party's not going anywhere. If we leave it in the parking lot, someone else’ll grab it. And I’m not letting you get screamed at tomorrow morning by your mom when I accidentally decide to bring you home late because you’re stubborn.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You just want an excuse to see my shoulders again.”

“Damn right I do.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile as he shifted the Mustang into gear. The engine growled to life beneath your feet.

“You’re trouble.” You told him.

He looked over at you, soft and sure. “Only for you.”

And then he drove.

-

The Mustang rolled to a soft stop, headlights casting two long beams across the mostly empty lot. A few stray balloons had found their way into corners. Glitter clung to the asphalt.

Logan turned off the ignition, the engine ticking softly as it cooled.

“I can get off and get it for you,” he said, smirking at you in the glow from the overhead lights. “You could get cuts on your feet, you don't even have your shoes on for one, or get mauled by a raccoon.”

You were already cracking the passenger door open. “I’d take both those things over facing my mom tomorrow without it.”

He laughed and stepped out of the car. You followed, bare feet hitting the asphalt, dress brushing your knees as you hugged his jacket tighter around your shoulders.

“Okay,” you said, eyeing the shadows. “Let’s divide and conquer.”

“You’re not going alone.” He said immediately.

You gave him a look. “It’s the high school parking lot, not the wilderness.”

He shrugged, walking with you anyway. “Still. Now, if I were a wrap, where would I be?"

"A shawl!" You corrected him.

The two of you made slow laps near the entrance, eyes scanning the pavement and the stairs where you'd been earlier. The air was cooler now, crisper than it had been when the sun was up.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until you spotted the shawl, crumpled and half-slipped under a bush near the steps.

“There!” You said, jogging forward in your bare feet.

Logan made a sound of protest but didn’t stop you.

You scooped it up, shaking off bits of mulch and glitter, then turned with a triumphant grin. “Got it!”

He raised a brow. “Worth it?”

You nodded. “Every bit.”

You walked back toward him, your shawl now clutched in one hand, the other still wrapped in the warmth of his jacket sleeves. He watched you with that look again, soft, still, a little in awe.

“What?” You asked, smiling.

“Nothing.” he shook his head. “Just… the way you look at me when you’re happy. I can't believe I get to call you mine.”

You blinked, caught off guard, not by the words themselves, but by the way he said it. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you broke into a soft smile, heartbeat thudding somewhere in your throat.

“I’m just picking up a shawl, Logan.”

He gave a slow shrug, his thumb reaching to caress your cheek. “Nah. You’re wrecking me.”

You rolled your eyes, walking past him toward the Mustang. “You keep saying stuff like that, and I’ll start to believe it.”

“Maybe that’s the point.” He said quietly behind you. "God, I love you..."

You stopped. Turned.

He was standing there, caught in the pale halo of the Mustang’s headlights, one hand in his pocket, the other running along the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that the words were out.

You didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t have to.

Your heart was doing that fluttering thing again, like it knew something your head hadn’t caught up to yet.

So you walked back to him.

Lifted up on your toes, and kissed him.

Just a soft press of lips. A pause. A promise.

When you started to pull back, his breath caught, and he leaned forward, chasing the warmth of you without meaning to. Like he’d already gotten used to the feel of it before he fully cherished it.

You smiled faintly against him.

“Take me to the loft?” You whispered.

His voice was low, hoarse in that way he only got around you. “Yes, ma’am.”

And with your fingers still curled in the front of his jacket, he opened the car door for you, his hands steady, his heart anything but.

-

The road was empty. Quiet.

You and Logan were still laughing, about what neither of you would ever remember. Something stupid. Something soft. You’d said something about how ridiculous he looked in a tie, and he’d countered with how you somehow managed to make bobby pins look sexy

Your legs were curled up in the passenger seat, Logan’s too-big tux jacket still wrapped around your shoulders. You were barefoot, your heels resting somewhere in the floorboard, forgotten.

The warmth in the car wasn’t from the heat. It was from the feeling. From the way he kept glancing over at you when you smiled. From the way his hand stayed resting on the gearshift like he was itching to reach for yours again.

He slowed at the four-way stop just past the gas station, engine humming low beneath you.

No cars in sight.

The whole world was asleep.

Logan rolled forward, easing through the road like he’d done a hundred times before. He turned toward you, another joke halfway up his throat.

And then.

His face fell.

Mouth still open.

Eyes going wide.

Two headlights appeared like ghosts, sudden, close, fast, coming from your side.

A blur of silver and screaming tires.

You barely had time to blink.

“Logan, what's wrong?” You whispered, brow furrowed, confused.

He reached out for you, out of instinct, no time to speak. His hand had barely wrapped around your neck.

And then the impact.

A sickening crunch of metal.

Screeching.

Glass.

Your side crumpled instantly. The sound tore through the night, echoing down the street like something unnatural. Logan’s scream was drowned in it, a desperate, guttural noise swallowed by steel and smoke.

Your body jerked violently.

The world flipped sideways. The window exploded into a thousand glittering pieces. The smell of blood hit the air before the smoke even cleared.

And just like that, the warmth was gone.

-

The world didn’t make sound anymore.

Not in the way it should have.

Not in the rumble of the engine, or how the music would hum low from the radio, not in how your laughter would echo through the car.

Just ringing.

Whirring, endless ringing.

And smoke.

Thick, choking smoke, curling up from the crumpled hood of his mustang like something dying.

Logan’s hands fumbled for the door.

He couldn’t feel the handle.

He couldn’t feel anything.

But he knew.

He knew.

He turned, neck stiff, limbs numb, toward the passenger side.

“Y/n—”

His voice cracked, raw and strangled.

You were slumped.

Bent sideways against the shattered door, dress soaked dark from the glass and the impact, face covered by half of his jacket. The passenger side was caved in nearly to the console. The windshield had blown out in a web of glittering shards.

“Y/n!” Logan’s voice was rising now. Sharper. Terrified.

He shoved his own door open with a grunt, nearly collapsing out onto the asphalt. His knees buckled. He scrambled across the front of the car, slipping on debris, lungs barely pulling in air.

The driver who hit you was gone. A coward.

No brake lights. No apology. Just two headlights and then nothing.

He reached your door. It wouldn’t open. Twisted, wrecked. Caved in deep.

He didn’t think.

He just moved. Pushing past the ache that ran through his whole body.

One hand braced against the shattered frame, the other tugging at the handle with everything he had. When it didn’t budge, he backed up and kicked at it, once, twice, three times, until it finally gave with a scream of metal and swung open just enough for him to crawl in.

“Y/n baby, hey,” he gasped, cupping your face. “Look at me. C’mon, you gotta look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered, just once. Your mouth parted like you wanted to speak, but no words came.

“No, no, no, no. Stay with me,” he choked, slipping his arms under you, pulling you gently toward him, cradling you like porcelain. “Don’t go quiet on me, okay? You’re alright. You’re okay.”

His hands were slick with red. It was on your dress. On your chest. On him. Running down your temple. Your arm hung too loosely against your side, much to his liking.

He looked around wildly. No one had come yet. No headlights. No sirens. Just silence. And the horrible ringing in his ears.

“Someone help!” Logan screamed into the night, voice cracking. “Help! I need help!”

But there was no one. Just you. Unconscious in his arms. Soft. Bleeding. Still.

He pulled you in tighter, pressed his forehead to yours, rocking you ever so slightly, even though he wasn’t sure if he should be moving you at all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking apart. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve—”

Your breath caught, shallow.

A gurgle.

Then nothing.

-

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. In the middle of the road. In the dark. Smoke curling around him like fog, the shattered glass glinting on your dress like frost.

His lip was split, and he could taste the iron. His jaw ached, one side of his ribs screaming from not having put his own seatbelt on. But none of it mattered. None of it mattered because you were in his arms, and you weren’t waking up. But you were still breathing, just barely.

Logan sat slumped against the side of the car, brushing blood away from your face slowly, his thumb gentle at your temple.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, voice dazed. “You’re okay. You’re fine.” His fingers were trembling as they smeared another splodge of red away. He pressed his head to your chest again, then again, trying to hear it. To feel it. It was there, very faint, but still there. Your heartbeat.

“See?” he whispered, nodding to no one. “You’re still here.”

His tears dripped onto your collarbone, mixing with your blood and sweat and perfume. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. To your forehead. Then pressed his cheek to your chest again, his ear flattening to your sternum, waiting for another tiny thump.

“Come on,” he begged softly, like he was trying not to scare you. “You’re the tough one. You always were.”

The blood kept coming, but so did your pulse.

Faint. Inconsistent. But there.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “We’ve got that tiny town, remember? Salt air, bad coffee, a dog that chews through all my shit—” His voice cracked through a laugh. His hand cradled the back of your head, shaking now. “Y-You don’t get to leave me. Not after tonight. Not after what we said.”

He didn’t realize his own blood had soaked into the string of your dress. Didn’t realize that sirens had started faintly in the distance.

All he knew was that you were still breathing, and he didn't want to let go of you. Not until someone pried you out of his arms.

-

He didn’t remember the ride.

Didn’t remember the paramedic trying to check the gash above his eye, or someone tugging gently at his shoulder to get him to let them examine his wounds. He hadn't even known he had any of his own. Not when he sat back and watched your arm dangling off the gourney.

He’d fought to stay by your side in the ambulance, shouting until someone gave in.

And now he was standing in the ER hallway under lights that felt too clean, too sterile, while your blood, dried in cracked patterns, was on his hands mixed with his own from the cuts he got.

His knuckles were scraped raw. His ribs throbbed. His lip was split and already swelling. But he hadn’t sat down.

He hadn’t blinked.

He hadn’t let go of your shawl they had handed him, now folded in his hands like something sacred.

The nurse had asked him three times to sit.

He didn’t even answer the third.

He just kept pacing, boots leaving faint streaks of red on the tile floor.

They’d taken you back. Hooked you to machines. Called codes he didn’t understand. And then nothing. Silence.

It had only been twelve minutes that felt like a lifetime.

The glass doors behind him whooshed open. Footsteps pounded across the tile.

“Where is she?!” Your mother’s voice cracked like glass across the ER.

Logan froze. He turned, slowly, like a man underwater.

Your dad was right behind her, his hand gripping her arm like it was the only thing keeping either of them standing.

Logan’s throat went dry. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Your mom’s eyes landed on him, and the color drained from her face. Her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of him. “Oh my god.”

Logan looked down. He hadn’t realized how bad he looked. Your blood was everywhere. On his arms. His neck. The front of his shirt was probably making him look serial killer-like.

“I—” he started, voice low and hoarse. “S-She was breathing, I felt it. Her heart—”

Your father stepped forward. “Where do they have, Logan?”

“They’re working on her,” Logan said. “She wasn’t awake, but she was still…” He couldn’t finish.

He clenched the shawl tighter in his fists like he could squeeze time backward. Your mom reached out, her hands shaking as she touched his face. Her fingers ghosted over the cut on his cheek.

“What happened?” Your mother’s voice was trembling, a raw edge underneath every word.

Logan’s eyes burned. He nodded, swallowing hard. “She lost your shawl in the school parking lot. I took her back to get it. She wanted to get it and said it was yours. Said it mattered.” He blinked, like the memory was stinging even in real time. “I told her she could wear my jacket all night, but she…” His voice cracked. “She wanted to go back for it.”

Your mom’s breath hitched. Her hand slowly lowered from his cheek.

Logan took a shaky step back, like he needed space to say it.

“I was taking her to—taking her home. There was a four-way stop. I slowed. I stopped. It was clear. There wasn’t a car in sight. No one and then…" He trailed off, eyes distant. Haunted.

“And then the lights came out of nowhere. I didn’t even hear it. I just saw it. I couldn’t stop it-”

Your dad looked like a man trying to keep his fists from curling, trying to stand still when his entire world was tilting.

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.

He choked. “I-I held her the whole time. She wasn’t gone. She wasn’t gone. She was still breathing.”

Your mother was crying now, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t curse him out. She just stepped forward and folded him into her arms.

He didn’t expect it. Not in a thousand years. Last, he was aware of was that your parents weren't quite fond of him, but tolerated him.

But the moment she wrapped her arms around his bloodstained shoulders, Logan collapsed.

Not physically. Not yet. But the weight, that unbearable, agonizing weight, cracked something wide open in him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve just told her to take my jacket for the night. I should’ve—”

“Logan,” she said softly, through tears. “She would’ve gone back anyway. You know she would’ve.”

He clenched his eyes shut and nodded. Because it was true, and that only made it worse.

The doctor approaching hadn't eased his mind either, not when he broke the news.

“Based on what we’ve seen, the impact caused significant trauma to her chest, enough to collapse both lungs. Symptoms would normally present as rapid breathing, a racing heartbeat… but when she arrived, her breathing was shallow, and her heart was already irregular. It’s possible she held on longer than we expected, maybe at the scene, maybe even on the way here. We did everything we could. Administered oxygen, performed emergency surgery, searched for internal damage… but there was just too much trauma. Too much damage to repair in time. I’m so sorry. She didn’t make it.”

That’s what the doctor had said.

Logan didn’t hear anything after that. Not the apologies. Not the medical jargon. Not the shit instructions on how to collect personal items or make final decisions.

Just those four words.

She didn’t make it.

He slid down against the wall in the hallway, bloodstained and silent, holding your mom's shawl in his lap, still faintly scented like you, tangled with glass-like particles and blood.

He hadn’t gotten up to see your body. Your parents had taken the lead on going ahead first. Saying he shouldn't let his last memory of you be this way. Telling him to stay.

Logan nodded numbly. Trusted it. Even as your parents left him alone to cry. Not realizing the weight of their actions. He didn’t notice they’d never let him say goodbye. They’d never plan to.

He didn't take into account that eventually his rush of adrenaline would ease out, and that sooner or later he would have passed out on the floor. Finally caving in to the horrid night he endured.

[failbettergames]

You dream of rain. You dream that the ink that is your flesh is running off the page, smeared into dark rivulets on the vellum. When you wake, you can still feel a stiffness in your back; as if your spine is being held tautly by yarn.

In the dark of the cabin, your mind enumerates sensations as your eyes adjust: The sway of the gondola. The vibration from the engine in the starboard nacelle above you, rattling slightly – still no replacement for the broken fuel intake.

The noise of water rapping against a porthole window.

Hello, delicious friends. It appears that time, very disrespectfully, has chosen to march on until it is very nearly April. The time has come to talk about our major future plans for Fallen London.

A new major storyline

Firmament is Fallen London’s next major expansion, a main story arc that adds on to the game’s ongoing progression. Acquire an airship – permanently, this time. Fly to the Roof. Explore the stalactite fields ruled by the Starved Men, the carved paths of the Moon-MIsers, the inverted jungles of the Antipelago, and more.

This expansion focuses on the Roof. Just like the unterzee gets stranger and darker as you zail away from familiar shores, so do the upper airs of the Neath contain more than what you know about. As these castles on the ceiling open to you, you will learn more.

Firmament will launch over the course of April, with a prologue becoming available on April 11th, and the full first chapter on April 18th.

While Firmament is in some ways a follow-up to the Railway storyline, we are aware of how long it takes to get to the very end of the game’s (current) highest-level story. When Firmament launches, you will be able to start it as long as you have already begun the Railway storyline and reached Ealing. While you will need to advance your railway further to access the latter parts of Firmament, there should be ample time to catch up on the Railway in between Firmament chapters.

New mechanics

The Railway arc added new advanced skills. During the Zeefarer cycle we added revamped Zee travel and the new Boon/Burden mechanic. This set of updates comes with its own mechanical expansions to the game.

New item slots

Airships make their return as full-fledged items. Much like zeefaring ships, they serve you mostly in air travel – Aerial Prowess and Aerial Armament also make their return. But we’re also adding a few other item slots, while we’re at it.

Adornment includes all manner of jewellery and accessories – rings, necklaces, earrings, neckties, brooches, and more. Previously, items in this vein would appear in slots like Gloves or Clothing, leading to the somewhat odd mental image of wearing your Pendant of Helicon Amber and nothing else. With this update, these items gain their own space, enabling more player expression and empowering players to reach slightly higher stats.

Several existing items will be shifted to the Adornment slot, slightly buffing them by allowing them to stack with other existing items. Adornment is intended to be a part of the game from relatively early on – around the later parts of Making Your Name. A new Bazaar store, selling Adornments, will be added in a future update.

Crew is a complement to both ships and airships. We’ve long wanted to give ship crews (distinct from the vessels themselves) a bit more personality. Are they experienced or green? Are they Admiralty men through and through, or a band of privateers and villains? These kinds of concepts never really fit the Companion or Affiliation slots, so we are creating a purposeful slot for them.

Crews will be made available in a future update, initially accessible to players who have a ship.

Luggage may seem like a slightly odd addition, but so much of Fallen London, and Victorian fiction in general, is about travel and the mystique of travel. A battered steamer trunk that’s been everywhere. A briefcase full of secrets. Phileas Fogg’s carpetbag. Luggage is intended as a midgame slot. In a future update, you will be able to assemble some initial Luggage items in the Bazaar Side-Streets.

New Skills

We are conscious of not adding too much complexity to the game, especially not all at once. Firmament doesn’t add a full suite of new skills, like the Railway. It adds one new skill, and two new qualities of a somewhat skill-like nature.

Chthonosophy, the study of the root of things, has already been teased – but you’ve not really been able to obtain it, thus far. It is the major new skill for Firmament, playing a role similar to the role Zeefaring had in Evolution.

Inerrant and Insubstantial join Neathproofed as its two other counterparts. Like Neathproofed, these will appear more as additive benefits; they help your checks with other skills, more so than being checked in themselves. They exist to add a little extra, to help differentiate otherwise-similar items, and to act as an occasional bonus. As part of Firmament, we are pushing to make more use of Neathproofed, and carve out that space for its new counterparts, also.

Roof Travel

I won’t go into too many details about Roof travel, other than to set expectations. Yes, there is a new map. No, Roof travel is not quite a fully-fledged activity like zailing is.

We aimed it at a sort of middle ground between Railway travel (which is convenient and fairly predictable) and Zee travel (which is a whole venture unto itself.) Traveling from point to point on the Roof mostly takes one action; very occasionally, two. But it is drastically more variable than rail travel. There’s a broad variety of different things you can encounter in the upper airs of the Neath. And as you progress this storyline, you will encounter stranger things as you travel through the air.

And other delights…

Of course, we have other things planned for the rest of 2024. Our usual festivals will run as usual. A new Estival. Monthly Exceptional Stories. Various other surprises, including a series of more grounded new stories set in London. But we’ll talk about these things in detail sometime after Whitsun, which should take place, as usual, in May.

[foone]

Imagine a butch who dates robotgirls and she's got the belt and carabiner "ready for business" look down, but all the stuff hanging from it is reverse-engineering tools.

A full set of screwdriver bits (including security torx and those weird tri-wing Nintendo ones), assorted spuders, those little rubber suction-cups you use to remove LCDs, a line flashlight, macro lenses, IPA wipes, chip pullers, portable hot air rework gun and a pinecil soldering iron, desoldering braid, a wide variety of ESD-safe tweezers, and one of those anti-stack wristbands but on a retractable lead like it's for walking a dog.

She left her backpack at home but it's got a stereo inspection station, a full set of lockpicks (including those tubular lock impresioning ones), and an aging ThinkPad with a bunch of USB adapters: every memory card format you can imagine, all the major hard drive interfaces, and even 3.5"/5.25" floppy disks thanks to a 3D printed enclosure with a greaseweazle flux imager (the Applesauce stays at home connected to her Mac Mini). A USB optical drive that can read and burn all the cd formats, and a as small plastic case of some blank CD-Rs, DVD-Rs, and Blu-rays. A bunch of USB flash drives, some blank, some preflashed with assorted tools and marked with little keychain labels: some linuxes, a warezed all-in-one windows installer, live distros for tails and kali and partionmagic and DBAN.

She's ready for anything.

[the-authoress-writes]

Up Where We Belong Part Two

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Up Where We Belong Masterlist

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties), some to-be-expected cursing, depiction of the beginnings of a panic attack (it doesn’t become a full blown one).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: I intended this to be a two part story, but as always, it didn’t turn out that way (my brain is like a mushroom farm at this point), and the third part of this (fingers crossed), is going to be the final part.

I’m choosing to look on the bright side and I’m telling myself I’m more than halfway done with this.

*sighs in frustrated writer*

This part is a little more MavDad than shippy, but it’s where this wanted to go, so…

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs)

I can’t stop, apparently.

So here we go!

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell had been expecting a normal day when he met her.

Or, well, as normal as a day could get for him.

It was a bright and sunny weekend at the Apple Valley Airshow, where Mav had just flown an aerobatic sequence for the gathered crowds in Bianca, his beloved P-51, and Bradley had not taken much convincing to come out for a day with his dad and the chance to see planes, despite the fact that he was already around them Monday to Friday.

Most aviators were plane nerds after all, and airshows like these were heaven for aviators like him and Bradley.

“You okay back there, Baby Goose?” Mav asked through the comms, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the engine of the P-51.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” Bradley breathlessly replied from the backseat, his exhale turning into a weak chuckle. “You’re crazy, you know that, right, Dad?”

“Your father and uncles might have mentioned that a few times,” Mav grinned.

He gracefully looped the venerable Mustang around and brought her smoothly onto the runway, mindful of the P-51’s unstrengthened landing gear, gently flaring the aircraft so she caressed the tarmac, unlike the unflared, hard landing he instinctively would have done in any Navy aircraft.

After an uneventful taxi back to the flight line, he pushed the canopy back and climbed out of the cockpit, Bradley a second behind him.

“At least we didn’t have anyone shooting at us this time around,” Mav half-joked, patting his boy on the back, once he’d also jumped down from the wing.

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” the younger man muttered.

“Come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, Brads.”

Bradley chewed the inside of his cheek, before amusement shone in his eyes, and he cracked a smile. “Okay, yeah, it was pretty cool.”

“She’s still got moves, huh?”

His son looked affectionately at the P-51. “Yeah, she does.

But it’s not the plane, it’s the pilot, isn’t it?”

“I’m willing to share when it’s this girl,” Mav grinned, patting her sun-warm silver fuselage.

After the two of them had stacked their parachutes and harnesses between the landing gear, Mav was busy putting the chocks on the wheels, when he heard a smooth female voice say, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Bradley replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

A low, rich chuckle. “Are you the owner?”

Bradley scoffed amusedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

Mav ducked out from beneath the undercarriage and under a propeller, coming face to face with a very unexpected, but not unwelcome sight.

The first thing he noticed about the woman standing before him was her air of extreme competence, which immediately had him wanting to know more about her.

(He was decidedly ignoring the memory of Halo saying he had a competency kink after he’d told some stories from when he was in relationships at a Dagger Squad get together [non-explicit; the Daggers, especially Bradley, didn’t need to hear… intimate details of his life, after all].)

A quick appraisal had him estimating her to be older than Bradley, but younger than him.

She was beautiful, with lips glossed just right, shining, lush hair that he could already imagine running his hand through, a smile he could look at forever, and a figure that ticked all his proverbial boxes, visible even with her long, loose brown cardigan and cream button-down shirt over black jeans.

But what hit him like Mach 10 (and he would know) was the spark in her eyes, keen and intelligent, and they held a warmth and passion that called to him.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand, ignoring the fact that he was stunned by this woman so he could attempt to be his usual self.

He’d been delighted to show her around Bianca, and he even went so far as to let her sit in the old girl.

Mav had not been expecting what she said about the book she was writing—her granduncle’s story hit home on practically every level possible.

He was absolutely honest with her when he said he wanted to help, but… he’d absolutely be lying if he said he didn’t give it with the hope that she’d call him in the first place.

It’d been years since he’d felt like this about someone, and he tried to stifle a smile as he recalled how they’d collided on Bianca’s wing, his quick reflexes preventing them from falling off the wing with a snapped-out right hand on the cockpit edge, his left instinctually protectively pressing her against him.

He’d never forget the way his heart raced as he realized their proximity, his battle-honed wits prompting him to swiftly move his hand before she could register his touch, though he kept his arm close enough to catch her if she began to slip off the trailing edge.

“What’s with that look, Dad?”

Bradley’s voice brought Mav back to the present, where he sat on his favorite chair in his hangar, Bianca’s flight log book in his right hand, pen in his left. “What look?”

Bradley shut the locker for the safety gear, the last thing on the P-51’s post-flight checklist, and strode over to the couch opposite. “You look sappy.”

“I’m just happy I had a great day flying in my girl, and with my Baby Goose, no less.” It was not a lie at all, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Any other person would have probably bought that excuse, but Bradley was one of the very few people he’d ever met in his life who could read him like a book in every situation, a skill unfortunately inherited from his father. “Uh-huh, sure, I think you’re just thinking about __,” his son incisively replied.

Mav absently bit his lip, “…That obvious, kid?”

“…It’s about as obvious as an F-14 in cloudless sky at 2,000 feet.”

“So, pretty damn obvious,” he squinted speculatively.

“Yeah.

You guys were like something out of a romcom, honestly.

Was that thing on the wing on purpose?” Bradley grinned.

“No, it wasn’t,” he smiled.

“Because you know, if you were any shorter, you might’ve ended up kissing her.”

Mav felt himself turn a little red, but was still amused despite himself. “Shut up.”

Heedless, Bradley continued, “You would have liked that, I’m sure.”

“You’re just as bad as your father,” he sighed.

His gosling’s grin turned sentimental. “Learned it from both of them.”

Bradley had openly called him “Dad” for years before, and again after their reconciliation, but statements like that never failed to warm his heart.

Helpless, Mav stood, and, going over to his son, stooped slightly to place a hand on his shoulder and a kiss at his temple. “Love you, Baby Goose.”

Before he could pull away, Bradley wrapped both arms tightly around him. “Love you too, Dad.

Mav was more than content to let the moment sit, the two of them still making up for almost twenty years of no hugs from the other.

Bradley eventually broke the silence with, “I’ll go heat up that pizza we got from the grocery last night, Dad, how about that?”

He frowned, pulling back, “I can do that, B,—”

“I’ll do it, Dad, you just sit and relax,” Bradley said, already walking towards the Airstream, and just as he was about to step inside the silver trailer, the kid fired off, “Think about your writer!”

Mav spluttered, looking incredulously at the Airstream’s door.

Bradley was really too much like Goose and him, he chuckled silently to himself.

The weekend’s end saw the two of them return to the duplex he and Bradley had bought together last year, sitting about fifteen minutes drive in the Bronco (about half that on the Ninja, at full Mav power) away from TOPGUN, where they were both posted as instructors; Mav himself permanently, Bradley, for a three-year period before his next deployment cycle.

Monday dawned, and he found himself glancing at the screen of his phone every time it dinged, so much so, that said son repeatedly glanced between him and the cellphone laid out on the Officer’s Mess Hall table over lunch.

“What?” Mav asked, confused at the younger man’s consterned expression.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my Dad?

You have not looked away from your phone since we sat down, Mav.

You used to have no idea what TikTok was, and now you look like Hangman after he posts a new photo on Insta, and I would know—God, he was insufferable that time in Sigonella.”

“…I’m guessing Insta is Instagraph?”

Bradley made a noise quite like his callsign. “l—you don’t even—Instagram, Mav, Instagram.

It’s like you’re expecting a call or so—” brown eyes excitedly widened as dots were abruptly connected, “—ohh shit; you gave her your number, didn’t you, your writer?”

Mav rolled his eyes, “She’s not my writer, Brads, but I… I did give her my number just in case she needed more help with—research.”

“Oh, research, sure, Mav; I bet you’d love to help her with her research,” the younger man chortled.

“You sound like your Uncle Slider.”

“Uh-huh—” Bradley brushed off, “we’re getting off topic here, did she say she’d call you or something?”

“No, she didn’t.

I told her to call if she needed me.” He wondered if, instead of being subtle, he should have just out and asked her to call him—or even just asked her out directly; the Maverick of over thirty years ago would have.

His son’s eyes comically widened. “Please, for the love of God, tell me you did not say it like that—that is as bad as you serenading that ex of yours with, of all the songs, “Abracadabra” by The Steve Miller Band.”

“Hey, that’s a good song!” Mav protested.

“It’s also creepy as hell—‘I wanna reach out and grab ya’?

Tell me you hear that?!”

Well, when the lyrics were said like that… “In hindsight, I hear it, no, I did not say it like that, and now who’s getting off topic, Roo?”

“Fine—so you were playing subtle, huh?” Bradley wrinkled his nose, tilting his head from side to side. “Well, we’ll just have to see if the subtle play works, because the Maverick charm was on max power, so you likely made an impression—”

“Thanks, kid?”

“—so I’d say… there’s a sixty-five percent chance she’ll call you,” was the determination.

Mav paused and raised an eyebrow. “Only sixty-five?”

“I’m taking into account the variable that she might not go for… people like you, you know.”

“…No.”

Mav could see both himself and Nick in Bradley’s shit-eating grin. “Old men.”

“An old man, huh?

Well, this is an old man who can still kick the asses of people less than half his age, and you too, Brads, six ways to Sunday, in the air or on the mats.”

A fork promptly got brandished daringly. “I almost had you when we did that demo on the death spiral two weeks ago, Dad, and if you hadn’t slipped my headlock on Wednesday, I’d have gotten you to tap out.”

Mav reached over and affectionately ruffled his son’s brown curls. “Almost only works with grenades, Baby Goose; now eat your shitty mashed potatoes.”

The week ticked by, and after every hop, he tried not to make it too obvious to Bradley, whose locker was right next to his in the Instructor’s Locker Room, that his phone was the first thing he checked.

By Wednesday evening, he was starting to lose what hope he had, and he ignored his son’s sad look as he surreptitiously looked at his phone.

On Thursday evening, Bradley slung an arm around his shoulder as they walked together to the parking lot. “I know I give you shit about being old, Dad, but you’ve still got more than enough charm and looks for women to be attracted to you.

I mean, you should have heard the stuff Phoe and Halo were saying about you during the detachment training—ugh, especially after Dogfight Football.

The thirst was real.”

At his confused look, Bradley continued, “Long story short, they said you were—bleh—hot.

I’m not repeating exactly what they said, even though I can, it’s all seared into my memory, unfortunately,” he finished, shuddering.

Mav laughed, “I’m sorry for the trauma, but, what, uh, brought this train of thought on, Baby Goose?”

He was pressed closer into a Hawaiian shirt-clad side. “I know you’re sad about not getting called by your writer.”

Knowing it was useless to deny it, he shook his head, “I won’t lie and say it doesn’t sting, because I really thought we had a connection, but it’s probably for the best, because I’m… well, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” his son adamantly stated. “Because you’re… kind and loving, with a heart about a billion sizes too big for his body, who gives so much of himself in literally everything—except maybe following orders; any woman would be happy with you.”

Mav reached and gave the vague vicinity of a shoulder a loving pat. “You give me too much credit.”

“No, Dad, you would make someone very happy—I want to see you happy,” Bradley squeezed a Nomex jacketed arm.

“I am happy, kiddo;” he cheerfully stated, “I can fly, I have the rest of the Flyboys, the Daggers, Bianca, and most importantly, I have you, my not-so little boy, who’s become a better man than I could have hoped.”

Bradley halted in his tracks, and tugged him into a hug with a laugh that could have been a sob. “Fuck, Dad, how do you just say shit like that?”

“Like what, that I’m so proud of you?” Mav beamed.

His son’s heatless “Shut up, will you, old man?” sounded suspiciously wobbly, but Mav chose not to remark on it, and hugged back before they continued walking after a moment.

“But back to my point,” the younger man pointed, “unless there’s something you’re not telling me about your relationship with Bianca, she doesn’t count as a woman in your life.

I know you have me, the Daggers, and the Flyboys, but it’s different from being in love and getting that love back.” Bradley suddenly snapped his fingers, “I know, I should start you a dating app profile!”

“Oh no, I’ve heard horror stories about dating apps, and I’m not desperate, Baby Goose.”

Bradley threw both hands up, “It’s not about desperation, Hangman has—okay, that’s not a good example—but you know, you need to put yourself out there more.

Meet someone.

Come on, Dad, please?”

The kid looked so hopeful, he couldn’t outright say no. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yes!

It’s not a no, I’ll take it.

I’ll look through the photos at the hangar tomorrow night—we gotta pick the right one—that can make or break things!

Maybe one of you in the dress whites or blues—or hey, ladies love the flight suit, and it’ll be even better if you’re in front of your F-18…”

At Bradley’s musing, Mav had a smile on his face all the way to his Kawasaki, and the whole way home, trailing in the Bronco’s wake.

After work early Friday evening, both men began the preparations for their weekly getaway to the hangar, packing their respective bags with whatever they deemed necessary for a two-day stay in the Mojave.

Mav was busying himself with checking his duffel before he hopped in the shower, when he heard clattering from his kitchen, and immediately, a dismayed “Damn it!” rang through the house.

“You okay, kiddo?” he called out.

“Yeah, I just—we’re out of Doritos!”

As amusing as it sounded, that did constitute a little bit of an emergency—the triangular chips were Bradley’s go-to snack, ever since he was a child, and he’d be bemoaning the lack of them the whole two days at the hangar if they really were out. “Did you check your kitchen?”

“I looked there first—we can’t leave without Doritos, Dad!”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You still have time to go grab some if you want, I still have to take a shower, Brads,” he offered.

“Good idea, I’ll just go to the store and grab some, be right back!”

“Okay, drive safe!”

“Always!”

Mav waited to hear his front door shut before turning for his bathroom and starting the shower, tossing his shirt in the hamper on the way.

A few minutes later, he’d just begun to rinse off when he heard a faint noise from downstairs; his phone was ringing, he realized.

He initially paid it no mind—he’d been getting scam calls the last few days, which always ended up disappointing him—but then… it kept ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

Hope suddenly bloomed in his chest, and he hurried to get out of the shower.

He nearly faceplanted on his own bathroom floor in his haste, stumbling when his lunge for his towel missed, but he was able to keep himself upright and the second attempt had the fabric in his hand, then around his waist.

Mav dashed out the bathroom and down the stairs, tapping the green “accept call” button.

“Pete Mitchell,” he spoke into his phone, trying not to sound like he’d just run a marathon while his chest heaved.

A slight pause later, a hesitant “Hi,” came over the phone, and his heart leapt. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

She had to be joking if she thought she was that easily forgettable. “__, right?

The writer,” he replied, pushing the dripping strands of his hair out of his face.

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions.”

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” he smiled.

The following invite to the hangar was twofold; he’d be able to help her without the hassle of dealing with emails or something like that, and he’d be able to gauge if she was actually interested in him.

He remembered the way she’d slightly frozen, when he stepped out from under Bianca, how she’d glanced at his hand when he’d extended it for a handshake.

But he’d been wrong about a great many things before, and he didn’t want to immediately assume she was interested, because everyone knew what the first three letters of assume were, and for all he knew, she really just needed help.

Regardless, he smiled while they bantered as easily as breathing; it was invigorating, and… maybe a little bit of a turn-on, if he was honest.

(Maybe Halo was right.)

Shortly after they said goodbye, Mav sent the address of the hangar with a “How does 3:30 sound to you?” to her number, and three beats after it registered delivered, a “That’s perfect—see you tomorrow 😊�� message came in, which had him sigh like a teenager as he leaned against the counter for a moment, before he pushed off to get dressed.

By the time Bradley came back with four grocery bags full of Doritos, from two different groceries, Mav was already dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans, ready to go. “You got enough Doritos there, Baby Goose?” he gawked at the sheer amount of chips.

“I’m restocking us, Dad, it’s not all for the weekend,” the younger man replied, emptying one grocery bag and a half into Mav’s snack cabinet. “I just need to put another bag and this half at mine, and the rest I’m taking.”

He bit down on his laughter and watched as his son dashed next door to stock his own snack cabinet, before returning in time to catch him staring at the “That’s perfect—see you tomorrow 😊” message on his phone.

“You’re looking sappy again,” Bradley squinted suspiciously at him. “It’s almost like you got a call from your writer.”

Mav tried to keep his face neutral, but as always, it was pointless with his gosling.

The kid’s eyes widened, “Holy shit, she did call you, didn’t she?!

Fuck, you still got it, Dad.”

He waved off, “There’s no guarantee she actually is interested in me like that, and she called me because she needs my help.”

“Oh, your help, of course,” Bradley grinned. “Well?

What’s the profile?”

Mav rolled his eyes. “She wrote a dogfight scene she can’t cut, and she wants to make sure the tactics are sound.

So I invited her to the hangar tomorrow so we don’t have to do any emails and stuff.”

The younger man whistled, impressed. “That was smooth as hell, Dad.

You have an idea of when she’s coming over?”

“1530ish.”

Bradley planted his hands on his hips with a sigh. “Well, that’s a good amount of time, but we’ll still have some work to do.”

“Work—what are you planning, Baby Goose?”

“We have to make the hangar a little neater than usual—make you seem like a responsible adult,” his son replied, as if it were the most obvious thing.

Mav burst into laughter while picking up his duffel. “If your father, your uncles, and nearly forty years in the Navy couldn’t do that, what makes you think spiffing up the hangar could?”

“Worth a shot, you never know—she might be fooled,” Bradley muttered, locking Mav’s front door behind them both.

“I heard that!”

When the afternoon set over the hangar the next day, now the neatest it’d been in a long time (admittedly, it wasn’t that bad, Mav just had a particular system, which didn’t much look like one in the first place), Bradley clapped his hands, “Now, I’m going to head into town, Dad.”

“What for?”

“Dad, your writer is coming in about ten minutes, and the last thing you need is me cramping your style, so I’m going to head into town, I’ll be back at around… let’s call it 2345–please don’t be naked when I come back—”

“Bradley!” Mav exclaimed, a little bit scandalized, though they were both hardly virginal.

“—and, and, prior notice of if I shouldn’t come back would be greatly appreciated.”

“Bradley!”

“What?

I’m just covering the bases.”

“There’s no bases to cover here, I’m just going to review her scene,” he replied.

“Annnd?” the younger man deadpanned.

“And then… we’ll see what happens.

But all I know is I’m not about to—whatever you’re thinking is going to happen.” Mav sighed, picking up a screwdriver that had fallen off the maintenance cart next to Bianca, and placed it back in the toolbox. “And I don’t… this probably isn’t going to go anywhere, because—I’m pushing sixty, kiddo, and really… I don’t think I have casual—anything—left in me anymore.”

Bradley slowly nodded, a proud look on his face. “Good for you, Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” he replied, nodding, mustache quirking up. “I’m happy you know what you want.

But you gotta be more optimistic than this, because who knows, this could lead to your more-than casual something.” Bradley slapped him on the arm, “Come on, where’s the ‘I’m going anyway’ Maverick Mitchell who proved he could fly a suicide mission on a crazy profile, with fifteen seconds to spare?”

Mav scoffed self-deprecatingly, “Doing crazy pilot shit; that makes sense to me, Baby Goose, but… relationships—I’ve always FUBAR-ed them.

Oh God, I don’t actually know what I was thinking, giving her my number—this was a mistake,” he muttered, thoughts beginning to spiral as his breathing picked up.

Bradley grabbed both his arms, squeezing them to ground him. “Hey—hey, Dad, look at me—look at me.

Take a breath.

You did not make a mistake, you made a connection with someone, you offered to help them, and she took you up on the offer.

At the least, you help someone in need, and you come out the other side with a friend; if everything goes well, maybe you get more than friendship.

But like you said, you’re just checking the scene she’s having trouble with, like she asked.

Don’t put pressure on yourself—just see what happens.

You got this, Dad.”

“I got this,” Mav murmured, partly confirming his son’s statement, partly reassuring himself, and partly asking if he did, indeed “got” it.

“You got this; come here.” Bradley pulled him into a tight hug, one to which Mav clung, while he got ahold of himself.

When he pulled back from his son’s embrace and repeated “I got this,” a minute or so later, it was still slightly shaky, but held some of the classic Maverick confidence.

“That’s the spirit.” The younger man checked his watch, wincing. “I don’t want to cramp your style, and I’m cutting it close, but I don’t want to leave you if you’re going to spiral again.

You good, Dad?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Bradley frowned.

“Yeah, I’ll just check on Bianca a little while I’m waiting.”

His son exhaled heavily. “You do that, alright?

Don’t get in your head—don’t think, just do, remember?”

“I remember,” Mav smirked.

“Okay.

I’m gonna go now.” Bradley cautiously backed out of the hangar, as if ready to pull him into another hug if he showed the slightest tell of another mental spiral. “Call me if I shouldn’t come back, and remember, 2345!

Please don’t be naked!!”

“Go!!” Mav chuckled, feeling mostly like himself again, if not slightly nervous.

“Love you!”

“Love you more, kiddo!”

Soon, the sound of the Bronco’s engine rumbled through the dry air before it faded, leaving the air still and silent except for the distant sounds of the Mojave.

Before his and Bradley’s reconciliation, he was used to the stillness and silence, a consequence of choosing to make the hangar his home a few years ago, upon his assignment as a test pilot at NAWS China Lake, despite the long commute; he’d never liked base housing, and avoided it like the plague.

He’d even found the stillness and quiet comforting in a sadistic way, thought it was maybe something he deserved in cynical moments.

But now, the hangar which Hondo had once referred to as his “Fortress of Solitude”, was a place of life, love, and joy, the old silence and stillness now the strange one.

Before he could think too much about his relationship with silence, he went to Bianca and started some busywork with her engine, allowing his mind to get lost—and more importantly, his body to relax—in the process.

He’d gotten so absorbed in his beloved plane’s maintenance that he almost missed the sound of an unfamiliar car pulling up to the hangar.

Immediately, his heart started racing again, but he’d accepted that for better or worse, this whole thing was going to play out as it would; if that involved him fucking something up, he just prayed he could fix it.

Moment of truth; the car door opened.

“Ghostrider, up and ready,” he muttered to himself.

“Hello?” she uncertainly called.

“In here,” he replied.

Mav swallowed thickly upon seeing her; he liked to think he had a decent memory, but his memory did no justice to her.

The desert afternoon light streaming in through the open hangar door haloed her in an otherworldly way, only making her even more beautiful to him, the breeze blowing her hair around and billowing her loose blouse.

His eyes were drawn to the little smile at the corner of her lips, and it was only because he’d been looking there, that he realized she was speaking.

“Hey, glad you could make it,” he brightly said, hoping that that wasn’t too out of left field from what she’d said, because he’d completely missed it.

Her smile widened, “Not going to miss it—for all I know, this is a one time opportunity.”

The replies that immediately came to mind sounded creepy, stupid, or worse, so he settled for, “Who said it was?”

She chuckled, lighting up her already sparkling gaze, biting her lip briefly before looking around the hangar, her eyes soon landing on Bianca. “Great place you’ve got here; must’ve been hard to get, though, with it being Navy land.”

“Not that hard when you’re got friends in high places.” Mav recalled the moment Ice and the Flyboys gave him the title to the hangar for his fortieth birthday, which they were celebrating along with his promotion to Commander.

She tilted her head slightly, and he realized that she probably heard the somber tone in his voice—remembering Ice was still hard, but it was getting better.

“Anyway, uh,” he clapped his hands, pushing forward, “you had a scene that needs checking?”

She blinked as if clearing her head, and raised the leather messenger bag on her shoulder. “I have my laptop right here.”

Mav gestured to his couch, and as they moved towards it, he prayed that he wouldn’t somehow make a fool of himself today.

To be continued…

Previous Part Next Part

Because the P-51 was an Air Force aircraft, her landing gear was not designed for hard, unflared Navy-style landings, which are flown in that manner for carrier operations.

However, even if naval aviators land on a full-length runway, carrier habits die hard, and if you watch planespotting streams, such as my favorite, L.A FLIGHTS, you can make reasonable guesses as to who was former Navy, as the landings will tend to have a shallower flare at landing.

Chocks

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

The trailing edge of a wing is its back edge, the edge closer to the tail—its opposite is the leading edge, the edge closer to the nose.

The chair I write as Mav’s favorite chair is the one he sits down in in the opening scene of TG:M.

As Mav is a Maverick in most aspects of his life, I thought it was perfect for Mav to be left-handed—and as Tom himself is left-handed, it couldn’t get more perfect.

The F-14 is notable as being quite large as fighter jets go, and she is practically impossible to miss in the sky, once within visual range; and she is sometimes called the Flying Tennis Court, a nickname she shares with the McDonnell Douglas/Boeing F-15 Eagle.

Bradley and Mav living in what is essentially the same house, having bought a duplex together, is something I can see them doing after they reconcile, because to me, these two are basically orange cats with separation anxiety, and I feel like they would be the epitome of healthy codependency, if that’s possible.

Mav power is a play on words/reference to the engine throttle conditions of fighter jets; Max power is the maximum engine power with afterburner (wet power), and MIL (which stands for Military) power is the maximum engine power without afterburner (dry power)

Do not quote me on this, but as I understand it, in the Navy, you don’t deploy all the time.

There are years you are given a land-based assignment, like Bradley being assigned to TOPGUN, before you are put back on ship deployments for a similar amount of years.

TL;DR: Deployment cycles in the Navy have you rotating between ship-based assignments and land-based assignments every few years.

NAS Sigonella

“Abracadabra” by The Steve Miller Band

I chose this song because of this piece of art by @woodsywarbler, and “Abracadabra” is my favorite song by The Steve Miller Band, despite the really creepy lyrics.

A death spiral is this little bit of crazy pilot shit, as shown in TG:M. (Timestamp 7:34)

Nomex is the flame-resistant material which flight suits are made of, and it’s also what Mav’s green jacket is made of.

Doritos came out in 1964, plenty of time for Bradley, ‘80s baby that he is, to develop a yen for them.

(Flight) Profile: a graphical timeline of the operational characteristics, configurations, and speeds of an aircraft along a flight path in a specific phase of flight or maneuver.

FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition (or Repair, people argue which word the last letter is)

Fortress of Solitude

Ghostrider was Mav and Merlin’s operational callsign during the Layton Mission, and again, do not quote me on this, but you get to keep the operational callsigns you received during notable missions, a detail alluded to in the TG:M screenplay, so Mav uses it here to psych himself up.

Taglist

@ohtobemare

@callsign-skydancer

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@tadomikiku

@malindacath

@aviatorobsessed

@lynnevanss

@djs8891

If you’d like to join my taglist, just send me an ask!

[out-there-tmblr]

Young zaundads wip (41)

***

Life settles into a routine. Silco tends to wake early and check with the harbour master for the ships scheduled to arrive. They work in the mines, in the wide tunnels of level one while they wait for the engineers to return. They eat in the mess hall at night and spend the rest of the evening exploring their worthless land, marking out the edges of it and planning how to build.

The land itself is uneven and steep, a crevasse leading to the mine and impossible to climb to riverside. It's clearly been used by the mine as a garbage dump because they come across a pile of junk, stacked up high. There's old devices, cogs and gears. There's pieces of steel, the type used to reinforce the mining shafts. Broken bits of wood and broken tools. It's a pile of resources, a chance to build something here.

Vander gets the others to help them sort through it. They separate it into stacks of building materials and machinery pieces, and Vander laughs at Connol and Benzo arguing over the same wrench.

"What are you going to do here?" Felicia asks as Connol and Benzo keep squabbling.

Vander shrugs. "Build. Build a market, I guess."

"Build homes," Silco says. "Stop paying the company for everything."

"What? You're going to build a town here?" Felicia asks, laughing. "Your own little fiefdom?"

"Our own kingdom," Vander says, like something out of a fairytale. "Somewhere you could build a life."

Silco waves a sarcastic hand at the rubbish around them. "The grand nation of Zaun. Built from discarded scraps on worthless land."

"But it would be ours," Vander says. "And if we weren't paying half our wages back to the company every night, the mines wouldn't be so bad."

It's Benzo that pulls him aside later that night, falling into step with him as they walk back to the mine. "No one's going to sleep here. Be full of the Grey every morning."

"So we only build a market," Vander says quietly. Silco's deep in conversation with Connol, something about heights and riverside, but Vander doesn't want to discourage these dreams if he doesn't have to. "It's still something."

***

The engineers return from Piltover and everyone gets moved up to level one while they take control of the elevator. It leads to a lot of grumbling amongst the miners. There's too many people working the same tunnels, it's harder to work and harder to meet quota. Vander pools his efforts with Benzo and Felicia, and together they manage to scrape by.

He's relieved that Silco's working with the engineers, helping them dig and blast the elevator shaft deeper. He has a moment of guilt the first night, and asks Silco if they should be working together, if Vander should volunteer to work on the elevator shaft.

Silco rolls on top of him, eye glittering with amusement. "That depends. How hard will it be for you to resist punching them in the face?"

"It's a challenge," Vander says, as seriously as he can while Silco's lightly scraping his nails over Vander's chest. "But I think I could manage it."

"Even if they spend half an hour talking about how the berries this year have been disappointing and they're sure last year's was sweeter?" Silco lowers his mouth to Vander's skin, sucking a mark right above his heart.

"I could do it."

"And if they start talking about someone in this house courting someone in that house, and how last time one of them married, there were fireworks and doves?"

"At the same time? Were they trying to kill the birds?"

Silco smothers his laugh against Vander's chest. He doesn't get to hear Silco laugh enough.

"It could be a topside tradition," Vander continues and Silco snickers. "Freshly barbecued dove."

"I hope not."

"You can never tell with Pilties."

"With that attitude, you should stay on level one, if you're happy there."

***

[sv3t1ana]

<< Master list ⋮ Next chapter >>

SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ protective!Sukuna, things are SHIFTING!!!, mentions of death, FLUFF, mentions of weapons

WORD COUNT ᯓ 1.6k (sorry - heist next chap)

Chapter 7.

You wake up in the kind of silence that feels unnatural.

It’s strange, getting dreamless rest lately and having full nights of sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up with you. Or maybe it’s something shifting in the world.

Sukuna mutters something about more prep work, and like always you roll your eyes at him before getting ready.

The next thing you know, you’re in passenger, the road stretching endlessly before you. Sukuna drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming idly against his thigh. The early afternoon sun glares against the windshield, streets quiet. Dead. No traffic, no pedestrians, just empty roads and the occasional stray dog sniffing at overturned trash bins. The kind of eerie stillness that makes you hyperaware of the weight of what you’re about to do.

You’re not knocking over a convenience store this time.

The safehouse comes into view, a rundown, abandoned-looking structure, rusted metal and cracked concrete. Sukuna pulls into the gravel lot, tires crunching as he kills the engine. As you go to open the door and step out, his voice stops you.

“Stay behind me.”

It’s not a suggestion.

He approaches the heavy metal door, knocking twice, then once more before it cracks open.

A man walks out, broad-shouldered, inked-up, and wearing a stained wife-beater. He looks like someone who’s seen more than his fair share of bloodshed. A half-smoked cigar rests between his fingers, the embers flaring as he exhales slow. His eyes flick to you before settling on Sukuna.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Sukuna grins, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a thick envelope of cash. “Yeah, yeah. You know I like to keep things exciting.”

The man peels back the flap, thumbs skimming the stacks of cash before nodding toward the staircase leading to the basement. “Same rules.”

The descent is dim, air thick with gunpowder. Bulbs hang loosely from the ceiling, barely illuminating the underground space, but even in the dim light, you can still see the arsenal lining the walls.

Rows of firearms, assault rifles, shotguns, compact pistols, anything and everything. Silencers reside beside neatly arranged magazines. Machetes and combat knives hanging in display, some pristine and others stained from use. A whole selection is dedicated to explosives, thermite charges, RDX bricks, and plastic explosives.

You drag your fingers along the edge of a semi-automatic pistol. Sukuna watches, arms crossed.

“Cute,” he muses, taking it out of your grasp and sliding over a SIG MCX .300 blackout. “Hope you weren’t expecting to scare anyone with that pea shooter.”

You pick up the assault rifle, flipping it over in your hands. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to carry something else? Maybe a fucking bazooka?”

Walking over to place your primary weapon and sidearms in the bag, you eye the box of armor sitting in the corner.

You toss him a vest. He catches it effortlessly, looking at you.

“Try not to get shot,” you say dryly. “Would be a shame to lose that pretty face.”

His grins sharpens. “You checkin’ me out, doll?”

You scoff but your face feels warm. You turn back to the shelves, fingers brushing over the cold metal of a C4 charge before picking it up. Grabbing the detonator, you set both into the bag.

The room is silent except for the sound of bullets clicking into magazines, a steady, meditative rhythm.

You’ve never been one to trust easily. Hell, you spent most of your life keeping people at arm’s length and watching your own back because no one else would. But here you are, standing across from Sukuna in a dimly lit armory, loading up for the biggest job of your life. And you realize, you’re not watching your own back. Because he’s watching it for you.

It’s not in the way he says things, because he isn’t the type to lay it out in words. It’s in the things he does, how he stands too close when you’re out in public, body angled ever so slightly in front of yours, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes. The way his fingers find your arm when you’re moving through tight spaces, guiding you without a word. How he never lets you walk on the side of the street closest to traffic, making you take the bed in the motel furthest from the door. Small things, quiet things. Enough that when you notice, your chest tightens with something foreign.

He’s focused, oblivious to the way your gaze lingers. His shirt stretches too tight over his arms, muscles flexing with every movement as he loads and unloads each magazine. Testing, counting. Like this is just another day. Like this isn’t the moment everything changes.

You first heard about him the way everyone did, through blood-soaked headlines and urgent news bulletins. His name wasn’t only whispered in the underworld, but broadcasted and stamped in bold letters across the country, a warning to the weak and an invitation to the reckless.

“Authorities urge civilians to report any sighting – Ryomen Sukuna remains highly dangerous.”

You remember sitting in a dingy apartment, one you got lucky to score that still had electricity. It was a high-stakes heist turned slaughter. A vault emptied in under five minutes. Two security guards executed, their bodies found lined up like offerings. A police shootout on the freeway that left cars flipped and burning, insides scorched beyond recognition.

Back then he was a ghost, a nightmare. The kind of criminal whose legend outweighed the truth, whose crimes bled into folklore until no one knew what was real anymore. Some said he carved a trail of bodies through every job, never leaving loose ends. Others swore he had inside men in the police, slipping through cracks like smoke.

You remember thinking to yourself, what a crazy bastard.

You weren’t afraid. Never afraid. More intrigued that he was out there, running circles around the same law enforcement that had their boot on your neck since the day you held a stolen wallet. But Sukuna didn’t just survive, he thrived. Tearing through the system like it was his for the taking.

That was nearly two years ago, and you never thought your path would cross his. Never thought you’d be here, preparing for a job he invited you on, loading magazines for something that will put both your faces on every goddamn screen in the city.

You look at him again, how his fingers move with precision over the rifle on the table, a scar cutting through his knuckles like a jagged promise.

Infamous fugitive. Highly dangerous.

You smile. They have no fucking idea.

The motel room is dimly lit, cheap walls muffling faint traffic from outside. Dinner was a quiet affair, takeout from a run-down ramen joint Sukuna claimed was “the only decent shit in this city.” You weren’t about to argue, especially when the broth was rich, noodles thick.

Things settled down. Plans were scribbled, checked. The weight of the heist pressed a little less, and he was knocked out cold.

He lay sprawled across the mattress, shoes still on, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Planning a bank heist from the ground up wasn’t exactly light work, but you’d never seen it wear on him like this. His head was tilted slightly to the side, pink hair an absolute mess from the way he kept running sweaty fingers through it earlier, too stressed to care. The sharp cut of his jawline softened under lamplight, the blank ink of his tattoos standing out stark against his skin. They looked fresh, even though you knew they weren’t.

You watched him, fingers tapping against your thigh. This was him without the hard edge, the razor-sharp smirk, the cocky bite of his words. He looked so unguarded.

Your lips curled into something wicked, sliding your phone from your back pocket. You bite your bottom lip to stifle a laughter as you pressed the button.

Click.

He shifted at the sound, brow twitching, but didn’t wake.

You stepped back, pressing a hand over your mouth as you stared at the photo. Blurry but unmistakable. The infamous Sukuna, all terrifying and bloodstained, dead to the world with his lips parted in sleep.

About an hour later, he stirred.

You were fresh out of the shower, towel-dried hair damp against your shoulders, sitting cross-legged on the bed, notes and scrawled out plans scattered in front of you. Your concentration broke when you noticed his movement, pushing himself upright at the edge of the bed, slow blinks of sleep dragging his expression.

You smiled, reaching for your phone and clicking it on before turning it to him. The lockscreen lit up, showing his face, relaxed, peaceful, utterly defenseless in sleep.

His gaze sharpened instantly.

“The fuck is this?” His voice rough with sleep, immediately irritated. “You got a thing for creepy shit like this?”

You leaned back, absolutely delighted at his reaction.

“What? It’s a nice picture. Thought I’d keep it for good luck.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a scoff and a growl. His eyes cut back to you, narrowing like he was internally debating whether to be actually pissed or not. You didn’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the smirk he was trying, and failing, to bite back.

“I don’t need some pathetic picture to keep me around.” His voice dropped. “You really that stupid?”

It was rhetorical.

Before you could come up with a comeback, he flicked your forehead, shoving himself off the bed, and making his way to the bathroom.

You grinned after him, thumb absently tracing over the edge of your phone.

taglist: @cutesytwt, @tojis-ball-sack, @gojoscumslut, @sukubusss, @vicravluv, @newasskid, @grignardsreagent, @garden0fyves

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

do you feel grateful for who you used to be before you wholly committed to your faith? theres a lot u did to reach out and experience things, like talking to people, listening to music etc. i wonder if those things brought you closer or farther from your goal when it comes to shaping you into who you are and leading you to your faith in the first place, and what it means for your future. apologies if this question sucks

hi anonymous;

sure, certainly, i can never be separate from my past and i can never know who i am without having been part of that past--much as it now seems alien and even distasteful: the poor relationship with my mother, how cruel i:d been to everyone i had a relationship with, the bigotries i:d harbored and grown, how i acted at the hospice, how i acted at the waterman, how i treated daniela before she died, how i pretended dieth barely existed in fear before he killed himself; how i opted for league over college, how i got into a bunch of silly arguments over flashfire political adoptions, how i spent all that time reading books in a car outside the grooming shop after school; how i ignored that girl who really wanted me to read her poem at lunch, and how i read it and said nothing to her; how i saw the bookmark tab full of gay porn on the living room computer and felt my skin crawl up all over itself, how i saw them kiss and wanted to puke, how i saw the diy surgeries over on 420chan and all the blood made me think of an evil snuck into the heart, how someone wanted me to listen to black metal and i thought it would promise my soul down to hell in the demons little torture cubical for eternity and was embarrassed to admit that much; how the homeless man questioned me in the bathroom cubicle; how my father i:d never really seen sent me stacks of burned pirated videogames; how i got to play diablo and other blizzard games at the capacity truck office and smell engine scents all day; how i saw the rats get bashed against a curb so the snakes would eat them--etcetera; there are all so many little molecules that there is no real point in pulling out one individually and trying to figure out the effect of it upon the whole: it is all just pebbles wedged together pressed into a road.

what it means for my future: likely that i will become more lonely, or maybe not; maybe i:ll fall in love and get lost into the confusion in fear of being unhappy and terror at death; maybe my mom will die and i:ll not have the strength of character to make sense of it and let myself disappear as most people do when the floor falls out;

it:s all just life, anonymous, and all equally how god expresses itself; take care

[yoitsjay]

Introductions

Pairings: none, fem reader

Summary: your the new stage manager for The Bad Batch Band, time for some introductions.

Warnings: none

Word count: 762

“So what happened with the old stage manager?” A louder gravelly voice asked out whilst setting up the drums to practice on. Wrecker, always curious as to conversations he definitely was a part of, but definitely was not paying attention too. A bored sigh followed his question, and the lead guitarist Crosshair spoke up next.

“We told you wrecker, she tried sleeping with Hunter, got rejected and quit.” He huffed, fiddling with the amp and the amp cords that connected the guitar to said amp so it made noise, like an actual guitar. Tech and Echo, the bassist and backup guitarist were kind of doing the same, glancing up when Wrecker and Crosshair started bickering.

Hunter’s voice then cut through theirs, and the two brothers went quiet to listen in. “Okay boys, enough. Our new stage manager will be here in a couple minutes. So let's greet her out front.” Hunter ordered, and led his brothers outside of the studio just as a beautiful bloody red 1967 pontiac firebird rolled up to the studio. The rims of the wheels were painted gold, which accented off the red beautifully.

Tech was fascinated with how well the car was kept, and whoever was in it must have loved old cars since the engine was basically purring before the engine shut off.

The door squeaked slightly as it was opened, and out you walked wearing a pair of black baggy cargo pants with several skull designs on the pockets on the sides, followed by chains and other silver accents that littered the fabric. You were wearing a fishnet top with sleeves that stopped at your hand, looking like fishnet gloves but full arm length, and overtop that you had a black body tight tank top which was tucked into the black cargo pants, a double holed belt keeping the pants secured around your waist. You also wore a few different types of necklaces, and your ears were riddled with different piercings in different locations.

You were wearing sunglasses, but they were just clip ons to your actual pair of glasses. Your hair was down, stopping at your middle back. Hunter noticed that you had a few rings and bracelets on as well, and he definitely loved your vibe, much more than the previous girl. “You must be our new stage manager, im h-”

“Hunter, I know. And these are your brothers Tech, Crosshair, Wrecker and Echo, and your sister Echo must be inside… I can't forget the cowballer.” you finished his sentence, flashing the boys a smile as you lifted the shaded part of your glasses. “Well there's lots to do and little time before your Cali tour starts so chop chop! i wanna hear you practice and then we pack to get on the bus which is waiting at the airport for us. The Marauder right? cool bus name.” You spoke hastily, opening the passenger door to your car as you leaned in, pulling out a clipboard and a large stack of paper.

“Come on! everyone inside!” You rushed, locking your car before following them inside.

Hearing them practice, and then getting them to the hotel closest to the music hall was no easy feat but you made it work, and even got them there early which never happened. Hunter liked the fact that whenever it came to omega you always got on her level to speak, and were just genuinely kind, again- unlike the previous manager.

You dropped your keys in the parking guy's hands, and lowered your glasses down your nose as you glared at him. "So much as put one scratch into her paint, and i’ll hang your head from my rearview mirror.” You hissed, probably making the poor dude piss himself as he grabbed your keys and went to park your car.

You waited for the rest of the boys to get here in their band bus, pulling up not long after you did. The concert wasn't until tomorrow, but once the boys and omega were settled into the hotel, you’d have some free time.

You walked up to the receptionist and grinned as she basically withered under your gaze whilst taking your information, passing you the keys to each room with shaking hands. You turned to Hunter and the rest of them, and started handing out their designated keys. “I got you and omega a double room, so you both have your seperate bedrooms but in the same room.” You explained as you handed Hunter the key before making sure you had your own.

“Alright! time to settle in”

Tag list:

Hunter tag:

Crosshair tag:

@nyctophobiart

Echo tag:

Wrecker tag:

Tech tag:

All:

@moomoog017

[sleekervae]

Solo Mode [2] jackson wang x fem!oc

Masterlist

Pairing: jackson wang/fem!oc

Summary: thin walls

Warnings: strong language, alcohol consumption, coding speak

Word Count: 2.4k

Heather hadn’t even brushed her hair.

She was running on four hours of sleep, a triple shot Americano, and the raw fury of knowing Marcus Tan was on today’s dev sprint Zoom call.

She sat cross-legged at her desk, still in her red hoodie and sleep shorts, eyes scanning lines of C# while the meeting intro dragged on. Her project—a procedurally generated survival sim with adaptive enemy AI—had been in the works for ten brutal months. She was two weeks out from the demo for Steam Next Fest. All she needed was the dev leads' sign-off.

And then Marcus spoke.

“This is ambitious, Heather,” he said, with a smug little laugh, like he couldn’t help himself. “But I mean—are you confident your NPC behavior tree can handle real-time pathfinding in an open environment without tanking the framerate? I skimmed your Git. The logic looks a little… over-engineered.”

Translation: You made it too complicated. Probably because you don’t actually know what you’re doing.

Heather’s jaw ticked. The other dev leads said nothing. Typical. Men with job titles like Senior Technical Advisor always got real quiet when it wasn’t their codebase getting picked apart.

She unmuted, voice calm, deadly.

“Marcus, it’s nice you skimmed my scripts. Must’ve been a challenge—especially since your own enemy AI gets stuck on geometry every time a collider shifts two units to the left.”

Marcus blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You hardcoded enemy patrol routes in an open world. Amateur hour. I ran your last build through my profiler—it’s a frame-dropping nightmare with memory leaks in every scene. But by all means, let’s talk about my logic tree.”

Someone on the call snorted.

Heather kept going, eyes flat. “If you’d like me to optimize it for you, I charge one-sixty an hour. Friends and family excluded.”

Marcus turned red. One of the producers gave a reluctant chuckle. “Well, thank you, Ms. Okimaw. That was… enlightening.”

Heather muted again, smiling like sunshine with a knife behind her teeth.

She was tired. She hadn’t eaten. Her inbox had a dozen flagged bugs and a texture artist in full meltdown.

But she’d be damned if she let some overhyped codeboy undermine her AI system on a Wednesday.

The hours slipped away like sand in an hourglass, only she couldn’t see the grains. She ate when she could—an apple, some crackers, a half-forgotten sandwich from the fridge—but food barely registered. It was just her, the code, the unyielding need to push through. If she could fix this one bug, nail this one algorithm, she’d feel like she could breathe. Maybe for a second.

In between lines of code, Heather brewed cup after cup of tea—peppermint, Earl Grey, chamomile, whatever she had. The smell of it wafted through her apartment, a strange comfort as she stared at her screen, fighting the heady mix of exhaustion and caffeine jitters. She answered a text from her sister about babysitting next weekend, briefly glancing at the request before dropping a response that could’ve been copied from a hundred other replies: "Sure. I’ve got it."

Her nephew, Theo could be sweet—when he wasn’t running around like a miniature tornado, causing absolute chaos. At a year and a half, Heather’s nephew, Theo, was at that age where everything was a discovery and a mess all at once. His giggle was infectious, but so was the mess he created. It was like a trail of destruction followed in his wake, but with those big brown eyes and that chubby face, it was impossible to stay mad at him for long.

Heather didn’t mind babysitting. She loved him, of course. But the reality of it always hit her like a brick. He was everywhere. He'd reach for her coffee mug, pull down her papers, knock over whatever stack of books she’d been meaning to look through. Theo's tiny hands were a constant reminder of the world she had to navigate through—soft, innocent, but wild in its unpredictability.

But she couldn’t say no.

The clock ticked toward midnight as she continued to work, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The only sound was the hum of her computer and the occasional scrape of her pen on a notebook when she needed to jot something down. When the code finally clicked—when the algorithm finally behaved, when the last bug was slain with ruthless precision—she sighed, slumping in her chair. Success, but at what cost? Her back ached, her eyes burned, and sleep was nowhere near close.

That’s when it came—barely audible, a small slip through the walls. Jackson’s voice, muffled by the thin insulation of their apartments, cutting through the quiet like a shard of glass.

“...I don’t know anymore, man. I can’t keep doing this...”

Her fingers stilled, mind still buzzing from the adrenaline of the work but now focused entirely on the strange sound from next door. Was he talking to a manager? A bandmate?

The words came through the thin walls, jagged, raw.

“I thought it was... everything. But now? It’s just a fucking routine. And I... I don’t know if I can keep going. Don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I feel like I’m drowning in it.”

He wasn’t slurring because he was drunk, not this time. But his voice was tired. Cracked.

“I can’t—fuck, I just—need to... fuck.” The words tapered off, a pause followed by a long, ragged sigh. Heather didn’t know if he was talking to someone or just talking to himself.

But it stopped her in her tracks.

She leaned back in her chair, hands limp on the arms, a cold lump settling in her stomach. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected to hear this—the kind of despair that wasn’t laced with bravado or the bullshit facade of a popstar. Jackson, the guy who pissed her off every day with his smug smile and excessive confidence, was human.

And that pissed her off more than anything.

She didn’t know why. Maybe because it made him seem so small. So fucking vulnerable—and she hated it. She hated that he was just like everyone else, fumbling through life, pretending to have it all figured out when really, they were all just—lost.

“Shut the fuck up, Heather,” she muttered to herself, swiping her hands over her face, trying to shake off the sensation. “None of your business.”

But it lingered, gnawing at her, and she found herself standing up before she even realized it, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn’t sure why, but she crossed to the room and stood there for a minute, staring at wall separating Jackson’s apartment from hers.

It didn’t make sense. This shouldn’t matter to her. She was pissed at him, irritated with him, ready to spit fire whenever he crossed her path.

But hearing him like that—it made her feel like a hypocrite. Because in her own way, wasn’t she just as lost? Just as messed up? Trying to make sense of her own future, trying to keep everything together despite the pressure?

She grabbed her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen before she scrolled past Marcus’ latest condescending email to find a playlist of the most aggressive songs she could think of. MCR, Rage Against the Machine, Korn, something to drown out the sound of Jackson’s broken words still echoing in her head.

But somehow, the music didn’t help. It just made her feel worse.

She sat back down at her desk, fingers trembling as she pulled up the next line of code—just one more thing to do. One more thing to fix. Because fixing things was the only way she knew how to cope.

It came to a point that Heather didn’t remember closing her eyes.

One second she was staring blankly at her screen, trying to convince herself that finishing one more function would help quiet the noise in her chest—and the next, her cheek was pressed against her arm, body curled awkwardly in her desk chair. The ambient glow of the monitor washed over her face, casting soft shadows against the clutter of mugs and scribbled-on Post-its.

It was quiet.

No music. No pounding bass. No drunken laughter seeping through thin walls.

Just blissful, dense silence.

Her breath evened out. Her shoulders slumped. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, Heather let go.

Then—

Click.

A metallic jangle.

Click-click-scrape.

Heather’s eyes flew open. The room was still half-lit from her monitor, but her brain lagged, trying to process the sound.

The door handle rattled.

“Fuck—what the—shit,” came a low voice, male, muttered, thick with frustration and maybe... alcohol.

Another jangle of keys, a clumsy scraping against metal.

Heather was on her feet before her body even agreed to be awake, every nerve in her spine snapping upright. She scanned the desk—no scissors, no box cutter—and grabbed the nearest thing in reach: a full-size aerosol can of deodorant.

Not ideal, but it could sting. If she aimed for the eyes.

Barefoot and tense, she padded toward the entryway, deodorant raised like a weapon, adrenaline flooding her bloodstream in slow, icy pulses.

The keys jangled again, harder this time.

“Fucking hell,” the voice hissed. “Why won’t it—? Shit—”

Heather flicked the lock and yanked the door open, deodorant raised.

And there he was.

Jackson fucking Wang. Hoodie half-zipped, sweatpants low on his hips, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blinking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

He had a ring of keys clutched in one hand and a sheepish, very slightly drunk expression on his stupidly symmetrical face.

“This,” she growled, “is not your apartment.”

Jackson blinked again, then frowned at the key he was holding. “No shit,” he muttered, like he was more annoyed at the key than her. “My bad. They all look the same in the dark.”

“It’s four a.m.”

“Is it?” He squinted. “Feels more like... two. Three?”

Heather stepped forward, deodorant still raised. “Do you make a habit of breaking into women’s apartments at dawn, or am I just the lucky one?”

His eyes tracked the deodorant can. “You gonna mace me with Old Spice?”

“It’s eucalyptus mint,” she deadpanned.

He smiled. Not a full grin—something half-lidded and exhausted, the kind of expression someone wore when they were too tired to lie.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Murder Eyes. Swear.”

“You didn’t scare me. You pissed me off.”

Jackson nodded, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Story of my fucking life.”

Heather stood there, not lowering the can, not stepping back. He looked wrecked. Not party-wrecked. Not fame-wrecked. Just... human-wrecked. Like someone who hadn’t slept. Who’d maybe had a few too many drinks and was using humor to hold his ribs together.

It made something unpleasant stir in her chest.

“Go to bed, Jackson.”

“Trying.”

“Try harder. Somewhere that isn’t my fucking door.”

He gave a lazy salute, then shuffled back down the hallway, keys dangling from one hand like a bell on a defeated cat.

Heather stood in the doorway for a moment longer, deodorant still raised, heart pounding loud in her ears. She watched him disappear into his own apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

Then—and only then—did she shut hers.

Locking it twice.

Just in case.

The taste in his mouth was battery acid and regret.

Jackson squinted into the sterile white glare of the penthouse window. LA sun was merciless, even behind blackout curtains. He’d left them cracked—some masochistic instinct that made him think punishment was good for the soul. Or maybe just his hangover-addled brain refusing to function like a normal person’s.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. There was a faint throb at his temple, and his body felt like someone had stuffed guilt and tequila into a protein shake and slammed it into his chest.

Heather. Fuck.

He could still see her—oversized red hoodie sliding off one shoulder, hair wild from sleep, eyes sharper than any blade he’d ever been cut by. Holding a can of deodorant like she was seconds away from macing him. Because he’d mistaken her door for his own at four-fucking-AM and tried to open it. Genius move.

Jackson flopped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Smooth, Magic Man.”

Except that part of him—the part he kept buried under tattoos and sarcasm and his relentless gym routine—couldn’t stop thinking about how small she’d looked, drowning in fabric and the hallway light shining like a spotlight. Like maybe she hadn’t fallen asleep. Like maybe she’d hadn't slept properly in days.

He should apologize. If he had her number, maybe he’d send a message. But he didn’t. And if he knocked, she’d probably open the door just to punch him in the face.

So instead, he thought about how the hell he got here.

The tour had been a glittering dream turned hellscape. Magic Man blew up faster than he could breathe. Every venue sold out. Every show a high—until it wasn’t. Until he couldn’t tell who was touching him anymore, who was calling the shots. Until the stylists, the labels, the handlers all blurred into one, squeezing every drop of charisma and charm out of him like a sponge they never intended to refill.

And Lia.

God, Lia.

She’d told him she loved him while packing her designer weekender bag to fly to Ibiza with some hedge fund asshole. She’d kissed him goodbye like it was his fault. Like he’d driven her to it. Too intense. Too emotional. Too everything. She’d said, “You’re exhausting, Jackson. I’m not your therapist. I’m not your anchor.”

Then she’d ghosted him for three months. When she finally resurfaced, it was with a carefully curated Instagram carousel captioned: “healing era 🤍”

He’d deleted every photo of her that night and punched a mirror.

So he’d come here. LA. Where no one knew what he was running from. Just another rich asshole in a penthouse with a liquor cabinet and a streaming mic.

Work out. Record a little. Sleep a little less. Hit the rooftop parties. Keep the edge off.

And now... now he had a neighbor with razor wit and bedroom eyes who wore socks with slides and made drinking tea look like a sacred ritual. Who hated his guts. Who he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Jackson sighed, grabbed his phone, and typed for Mildew's online ordering page. An iced American, two shots of caramel syrup, and a honey lemon scone.

He paid, threw down the phone and rubbed at his jaw.

“She’s either gonna throw it out,” he muttered. “Or use it to choke me.”

Still, part of him hoped she wouldn’t.

[phr3ia]

Love Game (Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader) [Chapter 25 : Confession]

(A/N : This is your theme song with Toji)

"What the hell, Toji?!" you groaned, covering your eyes with your pillow as Toji's loud knocks on the door rudely interrupted your much-needed sleep. "Why are you waking me up on my day off?"

Toji peeked through the crack in the door, smirking. "Wanted to wake you up for brunch, lazy bones." he said, his voice teasing.

You squinted at him, your vision blurry. "You're an asshole, you know that?" you grumbled, sitting up in bed, disheveled hair and a mess of blankets around you.

"You look like you've been run over by a truck, but hey, brunch is on me, so get dressed and let's go." Toji said, smirking.

"I need more time, Toji. I need to take a shower first." you said, rubbing your eyes.

Toji rolled his eyes, "Come on, you just need to wash your face and brush your teeth, and you'll be ready to go. You're not that bad." he said, his tone dismissive.

"I look like shit, Toji. Why would you want to parade me out in public looking like this?" you asked, gesturing to your rumpled appearance.

Toji's eyes roamed over you, and he gave you a once-over. "Nah, you look fine. Besides, you're beautiful as hell, no matter what you look like." he said with a cheeky grin.

Your cheeks instantly flushed red, heat creeping up your neck as you looked away from his gaze. "Don't act all nice and sweet out of nowhere, Toji," you said with a roll of your eyes, trying to hide your embarrassment.

"Get a move on, Y/N. I'm not waiting all day for you to get ready." He said, throwing your towel at you before pushing you towards the bathroom. "Ten minutes, and I mean it. I'm not joking around."

You huffed, but obeyed, entering the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. You heard Toji's footsteps moving away, muttering something about giving you some privacy.

[8 minutes later]

You emerged from your bedroom, smoothing out your dress, feeling surprisingly confident. Toji's jaw dropped, his eyes wide as they roamed over you.

"Wow, you put an effort into looking good for me today, didn't you? And you even took a shower!" he said, his tone teasing. "You're usually a slob when you're not working. I'm impressed. "

"I'm not dressing up for you, Toji." You shot back defensively, crossing your arms.

"Sure, sure. Just admit it, you look good, and you know it." Toji just grinned, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along with him.

You playfully tried to struggle, but he held on firmly, leading you to his car. "Wait, where are we going?" You asked once you were settled in the passenger seat.

"I'm taking you to an all-you-can-eat restaurant in Dogenzaka. I hear they have a great brunch buffet, so we're gonna pig out today." Toji replied, starting the engine.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "You're such a glutton, Toji."

He winked at you, revving up the car, and driving off towards the promised land of food. "And you need to eat more." He retorted, laughing, clearly enjoying the banter.

As soon as you stepped into the restaurant, your eyes widened, your pupils dilating at the sight of the endless array of food in front of you. "Toji, this place is a dream come true!" you exclaimed, your voice full of excitement.

Toji chuckled, watching your reaction. "Looks like I made the right call bringing you here, huh?" He said, patting you on the back.

You were like a kid in a candy shop, grabbing foods like fried rice, sausages, eggs, pancakes, and fruits, stacking them onto your plate. Toji watched you, raising an eyebrow.

Toji laughed, shaking his head. "Slow down, you're gonna get indigestion." He warned, watching you fill your plate with various dishes.

You glanced at him, your cheeks flushed, but you couldn't help but smirk. "I'll be fine, Toji. I can handle it." you said, biting into a juicy slice of watermelon, the juice dripping down your chin.

Toji shook his head, grinning. "You're something else..." he said, taking a seat beside you, grabbing a plate for himself. "But I guess that's part of your charm." Toji quietly thought to himself, staring at you with a smile.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

"Man, that was delicious. Thanks for bringing me here, Toji." you said, giving him a grateful smile.

"Anytime, Y/N." Toji replied, "So, any plans for the rest of the day?"

You tilted your head, thinking for a moment. "Not really, just gonna relax at home. But I'm bored. How about you? Do you have any missions lined up?"

Toji shook his head, "Nope. Nothing scheduled for today. I'm free as a bird."

"Well, since you're free, how about we go to the arcade?" you asked, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "I haven't been there in forever. I bet you're good at fighting games, right?"

Toji almost choked on his water at the suddenness of your invitation, his face flushing a deep shade of red. In his mind, he imagined the scenario playing out, and yes, it did seem like you'd be mistaken for a couple if you went to the arcade together.

He managed to recover and wiped his mouth, smiling sheepishly. "Arcade? Sounds like a plan. I'm pretty good at fighting games. I can teach you some tips if you're interested." Toji replied, trying to play it cool.

You grabbed Toji's hand and started pulling him along, your excitement getting the better of you. "C'mon, let's go! I want to play Street Fighter!"

Toji, on the other hand, felt like he swallowed a swarm of butterflies. His heart was racing, and his palms were sweating. He felt like a teenager on a date, but he tried to act as if nothing was happening.

You led Toji to the arcade, still holding his hand. "This place looks fun!" you exclaimed, your eyes wide and bright, taking in the sights and sounds around you.

"Alright, Toji. Let's see how good you are. Chun-Li vs Ryu. On!" you said, selecting your character.

Toji grinned. "Watch and learn, Y/N." he said, starting the match.

At first, the match was close, but Toji's character seemed to have a knack for dodging your attacks. After several rounds, you were losing, and your frustration began to show.

"Damn it, Toji! How are you so good at this?! I'm going to beat you next time!" you exclaimed, slamming the joystick with a huff.

Despite losing, the two of you continued to play, taking turns and having a blast. You even tried your hand at other games, from rhythm games to shooting games, and Toji was surprisingly good at them all.

"Man, I never knew you were this skilled in gaming, Toji." you commented, leaning against the machine, exhausted from all the playing.

"Well, I do have a lot of downtime between jobs, so I fill it up by playing these games." he explained, giving you a mischievous smile. "Plus, I'm competitive by nature, so I tend to practice a lot."

After a long day of gaming, Toji suggested a break, and the two of you stepped outside, the cool breeze hitting your faces. You followed him, intrigued by the sudden change. As you walked further, you found yourself at a seaside boardwalk.

"Toji, where are we going?" you asked, your curiosity piqued.

Toji grinned, pointing to a small ice cream shop. "Let's get ice cream, and we'll watch the sunset from the bench over there." he said, nodding towards a secluded area with benches.

You smiled, agreeing. Then a few minutes later, you sat down next to Toji.

"Thank you. This is a nice way to end our day." you said, taking a bite of your ice cream.

"No problem. It's always nice to enjoy the sunset." he replied, gazing at the horizon.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" you asked, gesturing to the sky as the sun slowly disappeared below the horizon.

Toji nodded, his gaze shifting from the sunset to meet yours. "Yes, it's beautiful." he whispered, staring at you.

You felt your heartbeat quicken, and your cheeks grew hot. You looked away, breaking the intense stare.

"So, um, thanks for today, Toji. You made my day." You said, trying to change the subject and break the tension.

Toji's eyes lingered on you for a moment before he looked away, "No problem. I'm glad I could make you smile today." He replied.

You smiled, relieved that the mood had eased. "I owe you one, Toji. For the brunch and the arcade. Next time, I'll return the favor."

Toji chuckled, "Next time, I'll expect a spa day, okay?" He teased, trying to lighten the atmosphere as he finished his ice cream.

You laughed "You know what, Toji? You're starting to creep me out. Did you see God or something? You're being way too nice today. It's a little unsettling." You said, trying to joke around. "I mean, it's not meant to offend you or anything. I'm just saying, you're usually not this kind."

"Why? Are you getting butterflies whenever I treat you nicely?" He asked, teasing you, making sure to emphasize each word.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your embarrassment. "No, I'm not getting butterflies. I'm just surprised, that's all. Usually, you're too busy being an annoying dickhead to care about anyone's feelings."

Toji couldn't help but laugh at your comment, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He leaned in, gently tousling your hair before pulling back, "Well, I'm not an annoying dickhead all the time. Sometimes I can be a nice guy too, you know."

You pouted, but you couldn't help but snicker. "You're still an annoying dickhead most of the time, but I'll give you this, Toji. Today, you redeemed yourself a little." You said, crossing your arms, but your tone held a fondness that betrayed your words.

"Mission accomplished." Toji said, giving you a thumbs up. "Now, I'll go back to being an annoying dickhead tomorrow. You've been warned." He teased.

"Whatever." you said, dismissing his threat with a wave of your hand. But after a pause, curiosity got the best of you, and you turned to face him. "Seriously, why are you being so nice to me lately, Toji?"

Toji hesitated for a moment, his expression serious. "Do you really want to know why?" he asked, looking directly into your eyes.

You considered his question for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."

He let out a breath, looking away before meeting your gaze again. "Are you sure?"

You nodded again. "Yes, I am."

Toji's voice was soft, but his words hit you like a ton of bricks. "I like you, Y/N." He said, his gaze fixed on yours.

You blushed bright red, stunned by his confession. Your mind raced, trying to process his words. "What... what did you just say?" You stuttered, looking away, embarrassed.

Toji shrugged, standing up from the bench, his hands shoved into his pockets. "I said I like you, Y/N. Does that need clarification?" He asked, trying to sound casual.

You looked back at him, your cheeks still burning. "You... You like me, Toji? Like... romantically?" You asked, your voice barely audible.

Toji nodded, "Yes. Romantically. And it has been a while already." he admitted, avoiding eye contact.

You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around his confession. "Wow... I don't know what to say."

"One month. Give me one month, and I'll make you fall in love with me." he said, locking eyes with yours.

Your blush deepened, but you shifted your gaze, trying to deny it. "I'm never going to fall in love with you." you insisted, feeling nervous.

"Alright. I'll change that." he said confidently.

Toji turned around, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Let's go home. It's getting late." he said, trying to break the tension.

Once you arrived at your apartment, Toji helped you out of the car, being the gentleman he claimed to be. You thanked him, moving past him to unlock your door.

You spent the entire night tossing and turning, your mind reeling from Toji's confession. You couldn't believe he liked you, and you couldn't believe that you, in turn, felt butterflies in your stomach at the idea.

In the end, you fell asleep, dreaming of a future where you were happily in love with a certain Sorcerer Killer.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

End Of Chapter 25 🥀....

@meowforluv @miizuzu @geniejunn @scorpiosugar @barelylivingirl

[mysteriouslyjovialcolor]

Spain 2021

-“First time a Haas car has outpaced a non-Haas car this season” Hello? Why did the Haas suck?

-“Hamilton, Bottas, Verstappen- sharing the top three on the grid” Mercedes-Max sandwich: 3

-Yesss!! Max leads!!!

-Charles got the jump on Valterri as well!

-“Leclerc up a place, Perez up two places now”

-YT: “Engine stopped. Engine stopped” No! Come on!!

-That’s a horrible place to stop too.

-This season has had continuous safety cars so far

-“We’re going to see more of the full safety car this year- it’s got sponsorship on it” Ha

-Eeeh that was such a bad stop for Giovinazzi (That’s two races in a row now)

-Double stack for Williams

-None of the top teams have pit though

-VB: “Think about what we can do differently to the cars ahead”

-“And he’s gone” Woah that was so quick

-“Fernando Alonso and Lance Stroll” That was very nice drivinggg

-Bad day for Alpha Tauri: Yuki out and Pierre with a 5s penalty

-Just realizing that Alonso and Stroll were fighting for p10. I thought they were higher.

-“These two have elevated themselves- Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton: they are absolutely flying”

-I know everyone else (especially the drivers) hate them, but I absolutely love DRS trains

-“Plan B for Charles Leclerc and Plan C for Carlos Sainz” Genuinely how many plans does Ferrari come up with?

-Williams pitting under safety car might’ve actually done them good

-Kinda annoyed Kimi didn’t pit then- he’d have ended in the points

-Not Daniel inadvertently helping out Max by pitting

-Lewis going long though, so anything can happen

-“Okay Lewis, box, box” Okay he didn’t go that long

-“Smart pit stop from the Ferrari crew” Hopefully that means a Leclerc podium

-Oh Valterri pit already?? That might mean no Leclerc podium

-“If you can follow Lewis and catch Verstappen” “We’ve got the charge of Mercedes-Benz now”

-Oh Kimi didn’t pit earlier cause he was on the mediums

-“So young Max Verstappen, have you just been nursing your tires or is the Mercedes just plain faster?”

-“Message from race control: no weaving on the straights” Daniel trying hard to get Checo off his tail

-Lewis pitting???

-“Could be Hungary all over here” 2019??

-Ah that was such an unexpected move

-These two really like their last lap battles

-“What a move” It was!! From such a long way back! Go Checo!!

-MV: “Yeah I don’t see how we can make it to the end” Should I cry??

-Smooth move from Carlos

-“Don’t hold Lewis up”

-Oh? I was going to say when does he ever, but Valterri held him back for quite a while there

-Mercedes always calling in Valterri towards the end for fastest lap

-“Do Mercedes really want to take the fastest lap off of Lewis?” Huh, good point, what’s going on there?

-I’m really manifesting Charles p3 here

-It would be a miracle, with Valterri on newer tires- never mind, p4 is okay too

-LH: “I might not have any tires left at the end” “Okay Lewis, we think Verstappen will have less” “Yeah, he definitely will”

-This might actually end like Hungary 2019

-Charles and Checo, both pitting for fastest lap

-We’re so not back

-That was such an easy move for Lewis.

-Don’t really know if Max should risk pitting for fastest lap now

-Oh he’s pitting, ok let’s go

-What a crowd of cars near Valterri - that’s crazy

-Lance Stroll! You’ve surprised me this race!

-Ayy Fernando’s lost so many places. That’s so unfortunate

-Mercedes-Max sandwich!!

[elspethdekarios]

Faerûnian 29 Day Writing Challenge: Day 11

A little late on this, but I'm such a sucker for a bath scene.

Slightly NSFW - Nothing explicit, brief mentions of nudity

Feb 11. Taking a bath together

Gale x Female OC

(At a lovely inn halfway between Baldur’s Gate and Waterdeep. Gale and Elspeth have stopped to stay the night, splurging on a nice suite.)

Candlelight flickers across the table, plates picked clean and goblets drained. It’s the best meal they’ve had since being kidnapped by the Nautiloid. 

“So,” El says, hand resting on her full belly, “is this our official first date?”

Gale smiles at her.

“I suppose it is. But–I want to do it properly when we get to Waterdeep. Like we talked about in Rivington, remember?”

“I do. Hundur sauce and all.”

“You’ll love it,” he says. “And you’ll love Tara, too. I know she can be a bit… protective over me. But she’ll warm up to you, once she sees how deeply you care for me. It’s all she’s ever wanted for me.”

His eyes get a bit watery at that statement. The immense amount of awe he has for Elspeth can hardly be contained. He looks at her like she’s the entire universe.

“I can’t wait to get there,” El responds. “To see it in person. To see how your cooking skills in a kitchen compare to that of over a campfire.”

“Prepare to be impressed,” he smirks. 

A waiter comes to the table and stacks the dishes in midair with a flick of their hand. “Anything else for the lovely couple?”

“No, thank you,” El says, pulling out her coin purse.

“Oh, no–it’s on the house,” the waiter says. “Word gets around. We know you’re the heroes of Baldur’s Gate! The heroes of Faerûn!”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I have gold–at least let me tip you.”

The waiter shakes their head as they walk away, dishes floating beside them.

“You’ve already saved our lives. Thank you, thank you both.”

Elspeth looks at Gale with raised eyebrows. He looks just as taken aback.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had that happen before,” he says as they get up from the table. The inn isn’t crowded, but they can feel the eyes and excited whispers of the patrons around the room. El puts a handful of coins down for the staff despite their protests.

“I think I’m going to write to Karlach,” El says. Ever since Wyll took Karlach back to Avernus, Elspeth hasn’t been able to shake a sense of complicated guilt. Karlach didn’t want to go back, but she didn’t want to die either. At least this way, they can work on a fix for her engine–a topic that has passed many of the hours of Elspeth and Gale’s journey to Waterdeep. Gale plans to do extensive research into infernal materials when they get there.

“Send her my love,” he says as they approach the stairs. “You know what? I noticed the barkeep’s extensive spirit selection earlier. How about I grab us a nightcap? Ever had Waterdhavian whiskey?” 

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well, maybe you shall try it tonight, if they have it. You go ahead. I’ll be up shortly.” He kisses her before they part.

Elspeth sits at the intricately-carved desk in their suite, quill in hand, now on page three of her letter to Karlach. She has no idea how much time has passed, but Gale still isn’t back, so it can’t have been terribly long. Her hand is starting to hurt–she hasn’t written much in the past few months. Rolling and massaging her wrist, she rises from the desk with a stretch and plops down on the bed. This is the softest mattress she’s felt in months. The Elfsong’s beds weren’t bad, not at all, but this one feels like floating on clouds, all the tension in her back fading away as she melts into the pristine white duvet. The suite is large, and includes a living area at the entrance, a small hallway leading to a magnificent bathroom, and the bedroom. The windows are draped with sheer lilac curtains that almost sparkle in the moonlight. Every piece of soft furniture is white, and all the wood is a dark-stained oak, most containing beautiful patterned carvings like that on the desk. The sheets are lined with a purple silk, the same material as the canopy that drapes around the four-poster bed. It reminds her of the bed Gale conjured up during their first night together, and she smiles.

“Hello,” she hears an uncanny Gale-like voice say. “I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep.”

Gale’s projection glows violet in front of her.

“Hello. Where is Gale?”

“That is precisely the reason I am here. He would like me to inform you of a most splendid surprise that he has been preparing, and apologizes for the delay in his return. Please meet him in the suite bathroom at your earliest convenience.”

“The bathroom?” El repeats.

“Yes. The bathroom.”

“Okay,” she says to the specter. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” says Fake-Gale before disappearing from sight, leaving a faint glow in its place. 

Elspeth smiles to herself and shakes her head at Gale’s grandiose gestures. Leave it to Gale to send an astral projection of himself to deliver a message to the next room over. He’s over the top in every sense of the phrase, and she wouldn’t change a thing.

As El approaches the bathroom down the hall, the air becomes humid and warm, clouds of steam spilling from beneath the door. Inside, the steam envelops her in a cloud of lavender, warm like a blanket fresh from a hearth. Through the fog, she is reflected by two large, silver filigree-framed mirrors on either side of the room, each next to a marble washing bowl and cabinet. Soft music plays from an enchanted lyre. There are candles burning, their flame a blurred light in the mist. An enormous clawfoot tub of sterling takes up the majority of the far wall, an arched window above it, where the moonlight shines perfectly onto the bath, and upon Gale’s face within it.

He is sunken up to his neck, his head resting on the edge, his eyes closed. Soapy foam floats on the surface, some sticking to his beard.

“I’ve been dreaming of this since the day we fell out of that nautiloid,” he says when the door clicks shut behind her. “Gods, there are few things as pleasurable as soaking one’s tired limbs in a hot bath.”

“I can think of a few,” she says as she steps closer, perching on the edge of the tub. He pulls his hand out of the water, taking hers. His skin is steaming hot against her cold fingers.

“As can I.”

“So the whiskey was just a ruse?” she teases, scooping up a dollop of bubbles on her finger and flicking it at him.

“Only partly,” he laughs, and reaches behind him to a stool with a bottle, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. He pours them both a drink, and they gently clink their glasses together in cheers. 

After a sip, Elspeth places her glass on the stool and begins unbuttoning her pale pink robe. Gale watches her, slowly sipping his whiskey. She shrugs the robe off her shoulders and it falls to the ground. She does the same with her linen slip, sliding the straps off and exposing her bare breasts before letting it fall on top of the robe. At the sight of her in only her bottoms, Gale reaches out a hand and hooks his thumb under the waistband, pulling them down on the side before she slides them down her legs. She steps out of them and into the bath.

He’s right. There are few things as pleasurable as the weightlessness of a bath, especially after traversing half the continent and sleeping on a bedroll for months. She lets out a sigh before settling in opposite him. He hands her the whiskey glass again. Under the water, his legs rest on either side of her body. She stretches out her legs on top of his, his free hand caressing down her calf, her ankle, her foot, and back up again before resting on her knee.

“Finish your letter?” he asks.

“Not yet,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “I want to get my feelings out, but I don’t want her to feel burdened by them. I just want her to know I’m thinking about her constantly. I wish we could just sit and have a chat whenever we wanted to, like we’ve been able to until now.” Another sip. “I have so much to say. I wish I could say it in person.”

“You will one day.”

“I know.”

“We’ll find a fix. If I can’t find it, I have connections in Waterdeep, and you in Baldur’s Gate. Dammon is still searching, too. We’ll find something.”

El nods solemnly.

“I’ll do everything I possibly can,” he says, giving her knee a quick squeeze. “I swear it. Together, we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“I have to believe that,” she declares to herself mostly, leaning back to rest her head on the lip of the tub. 

“Look at what we just did, El,” Gale says with his usual excitement and ambition. “Defeated an army. Defeated the Elder Brain. Saved the world–quite literally.”

He leans forward and looks deeply into her eyes. The bottom half of his hair is wet, and it clings to his neck and shoulders.

“If we can do all of that and live to tell the tale, we can certainly fix Karlach’s heart. I’m sure of it.”

Their bodies meet in the middle of the tub and Elspeth kisses him softly.

“Trust me,” he whispers into her ear.

“I do,” she breathes. “I’d trust you with the entire world.”

Gale grabs her drink and places their empty glasses outside of the tub before laying back and pulling her into him, soapy water sloshing with the weight of their bodies. Elspeth shivers at the cool air touching her wet skin.

“Are you chilly?” Gale asks. “The heat’s evaporated a bit.”

She nods and settles her head into his chest.

“Oh dear, we can’t have the hero of Baldur’s Gate catching a cold, can we?”

After giggling and rolling her eyes, El sees Gale’s hands glowing bright orange, and feels the water gradually getting hot again.

“Is this what they teach you in wizard school?”

“No,” he laughs. “No, I figured this one out on my own.” 

Gale pulls her into him, needing to feel closer than physically possible. The way they bond together in the Weave is the only way that urge to feel transfused into each other can be scratched. 

“Crushing… me…” El struggles to spit out the words as her face is squished more and more into his chest. He gives one more good squeeze before loosening his grip.

“Sorry.”

They take turns washing each others’ hair–first El, squeezing behind him in the tub, dipping his head into the water before massaging his scalp with shampoo from one of the fancy bottles he’s laid out nearby. He practically melts into her touch, his eyes closed, so relaxed it looks as if he might fall asleep.

“We can do this anytime once we get home,” he mumbles as she works the soap through his hair.

“You have a bathtub like this?”

“Slightly bigger than this, but yes.”

“Of course you do.”

“You know me,” he chuckles. “I can’t wait to get you there.”

She presses a quick kiss to his forehead as she lowers his head back to the water. “I can’t wait to be there.”

They switch positions, El settling between Gale’s legs as he repeats the routine–scrubbing, rinsing, untangling. It takes longer to wash her waist-length hair than it does Gale’s shoulder-length hair, but he doesn’t mind. He makes sure to rinse every last section before pulling her into his arms again.

She snuggles her head into the space between his neck and shoulder, Gale running his fingers through the golden-white hair flowing gracefully just below the surface of the water. 

“Like ribbons of starlight,” he muses, mostly to himself.

They lie in serenity until Elspeth drifts off into sleep. He stays awake, stroking her hair, admiring her courage, her beauty. Taking comfort in her soft snores against his skin. This is love, he realizes. True love–not whatever cheap imitation he had with Mystra, and certainly not any of the short-lived relationships he’d had in the past. Elspeth has seen his heart, the generous good and the self-destructive bad, and she’s never strayed from him. Never even hesitated. Once she told him she’d love him just as much if he had no magic at all. How could he have possibly gotten so lucky? To be kidnapped, tadpoled, wrecked on unfamiliar land, stuck in a portal–and the person who happens to find you and pull you out also happens to be your soulmate? He didn’t even believe in soulmates before meeting El. He never even thought Mystra was his soulmate–it simply is a concept that never truly occurred to him before now. He’s never believed in fate, but their serendipitous meeting is enough to at least make him question that.

He keeps the water hot until El starts to wake. She lifts her head and rubs her eyes before laying back down on his chest.

“Ready to get out, my love?”

She nods and rests her chin on his shoulder before lifting herself up to a seated position.

“Wait here,” Gale says as he stands up from the water and steps out of the tub. His barely-defined abs catch the moonlight. He dries himself off with a towel and wraps it around his waist before grabbing one for El. Flinging it over his shoulder, he reaches out both hands to help her stand up and step over the edge. He wraps the towel around her and picks her up in his arms, walking to the bedroom. He places her tenderly on the soft duvet, pulling it back for her to nestle underneath before climbing in on the other side and pulling her close to him. The candles have burned down, the only light coming from the moon as they drift off to sleep.

[muzaktomyears]

Secret life of the Beatles and the man who got them groupies and pot

Mal Evans was the Beatles’ fixer, roadie and confidant, but little is known about the man the Fab Four adored. Now a new book reveals all

For eight years, Malcolm “Mal” Evans was, in his way, as fundamental to the Beatles as Brian Epstein and George Martin. He was their long-time roadie and personal assistant, sometime lyricist, occasional performer and regular fixer at the height of the group’s fame and beyond.

Over the years he became friend and confidant — attending their weddings, fending off fans, procuring groupies, accompanying them on holiday, joining them on acid trips, going to India on their infamous pilgrimage to see the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. But Mal’s dedication to the “boys” and his own desire for stardom took its toll, leading to the end of his marriage and his untimely death in January 1976.

Until now, Mal’s life remained shrouded in mystery. Drawing on hundreds of exclusive interviews and with full access to unpublished archives — including his personal diaries, manuscripts and memorabilia which for 12 years were forgotten in the basement of an American publishing house — this is the first complete portrait of a complicated figure at the heart of the Beatles’ story. Just when you thought there was nothing new to know about the Fab Four, here comes the extraordinary tale of one ordinary man right in the middle of it all.

AT 27, MAL HAD FIVE YEARS on John Lennon and Ringo Starr and even more on Paul McCartney, who had turned 20 in June 1961, and George Harrison, still a teenager at 19. Mal – was the odd man out in more ways than one. He held a real job, as a telecommunications engineer for the General Post Office, and he had a home and a family. With his wife, Lily, he lived in Liverpool’s Allerton district, where they were raising their 15-month-old son, Gary.

It was a simple twist of fate that landed Mal behind the wheel of the band’s Ford Thames van on a January day in 1962. Neil Aspinall, the Beatles’ road manager, had fallen ill with flu. He was hardly the only person felled during that severe winter. During the last week of December, a blizzard swept across England and Wales, leaving snow drifts of up to 20ft in its wake.

By the time Mal and the Beatles began the long drive to London, around midday on Monday, January 21, the van’s brakes had begun to slip. During the early leg of their journey, brakes didn’t really matter. But it was on the journey home that disaster struck in the middle of the night. As Mal drove along a quiet rural road, the windscreen “cracked with a terrible bang”, as he’d write later in his Post Office Engineering Union diary. With the windscreen splintered, Paul observed as Mal “put his hat backwards on his hand, punched the windscreen out completely and drove on”.

Mal was left to contend with the gale-force winds now pummelling the van’s interior. The bandmates gathered up stray caps and scarves and wrapped them about their beleaguered driver, who had pulled a paper bag over his head to battle the cold. “It was perishing,” John later recalled. “Mal had this paper bag over his head with just a big split in it for his eyes. He looked like a bank robber.” Meanwhile, John, Paul, George and Ringo huddled together in the rear of the van, sharing a bottle of whisky while stacked one atop the other to generate much needed warmth. “And when the one on the top got so cold it was like hypothermia was setting in,” Ringo recalled, “it was his turn to get on the bottom, and we’d warm each other up that way, and keep swigging the whisky.” It was, in Paul’s words, “a Beatle sandwich”.

All the while, Mal and the boys maintained a steady banter to stave off exhaustion. As the Big Freeze raged — swirling both inside and outside the van — the Beatles regularly pestered their driver about how much further they had to go. “[Two hundred] miles to go!” Mal would reply, referencing the approximate distance between Liverpool and London. In the years to come, “It became our own private joke, and ‘200 miles to go, Mal’ was heard whenever things were tough.”

DURING HIS YEARS WITH THE BAND, Mal discovered that the best way to avoid being ribbed by the boys was to be ready for virtually anything. To this end, he carried around with him an ever growing doctor’s bag to meet the Beatles’ every possible whim. It was swollen with musical instrument paraphernalia — plectrums, guitar strings and the like — along with household items such as aspirin, chewing gum, a torch, crisps, biscuits, tissues and cigarettes, of course. As the years went by, he had another piece of luggage, which he lovingly called his “dope bag”: a brown suede bag with an om sign prominently displayed, complete with freshly rolled joints.

This began after Bob Dylan dropped by their hotel in New York in 1964 during their first tour of North America. Not long after Dylan’s arrival, the Beatles offered their guest a sample from their motley collection of pills — Drinamyls and Preludin (both uppers), mostly. But Dylan wasn’t having it, instead suggesting “something a little more organic”. At first, Brian Epstein demurred, sensing the Beatles’ apprehension.

That’s when Dylan said, “But what about your song — the one about getting high?” At that, he began singing the middle eight from I Want to Hold Your Hand: “And when I touch you, I get high, I get high.”

John quickly interjected: “Those aren’t the words. It’s ‘I can’t hide, I can’t hide’.”

Ringo tried Dylan’s marijuana first. A few puffs from Dylan’s joint left him smiling and suddenly marvelling at the way the ceiling seemed to float down onto him. Soon, they were all stoned. George recalled that, “We were just legless, aching from laughter.” And for Paul especially, the Beatles’ first brush with the devil weed seemed not only mind-blowing, but a moment of great import. To him, it felt exactly like the kind of experience that should be captured for posterity. Having dutifully provided his roadie with a pencil and paper, Paul ordered him to, “Get it down, Mal, get it down!” Despite being quite stoned in his own right, Mal managed to record the Beatle’s most insightful thoughts. The next morning, Mal retrieved the musings, which boiled down to a single sentence: “There are seven levels,” his notes read. Roadie? Bodyguard? Fixer? Now Mal could add “amanuensis” to his evolving portfolio.

AS EARLY AS 1963, it was clear that there was an unusual zeal among Beatles fans, one unbounded by the conventional social behaviours of the day. “As if attacked by a virus that changed their moral standards, teenage girls wanted sex with the Beatles and they didn’t care how they got it,” wrote Tony Bramwell, Brian Epstein’s assistant. “When they tried to grab a live one, crawl through windows or hide in wardrobes, they were sorted out by Mal and Neil Aspinall like M&Ms, to be sampled and tasted first. Brian — who was puritanical where his protégés were concerned — would have had a fit had he only known, but he was kept totally in the dark.”

At its height, the stage and its environs would take on the look of a battle zone. “Unconscious teenagers were being dragged out of the audience,” Mal wrote, describing a gig in San Francisco in 1965, “and we hauled them on to the stage for safety. Some were in a terrible state, bruised, battered, cut and unconscious. Their clothing was torn and their hair dishevelled. We put them backstage, where the casualties mounted into the hundreds as the show went on. A chain of policemen organised to get them to the first aid centre.” At one critical juncture, a fan hurled a metal folding chair onstage. Eventually, the situation became simply too dangerous for the band to continue. “It’s no good,” Brian was told. “You’ll have to cut the show. Only one more song.”

As the casualties mounted, Mal prepared to usher the Beatles to safety. “Sobbing girls lay slumped against the walls or huddled in the corners,” he wrote, “and I caught a glimpse of Joan Baez trying to revive some of them with smelling salts. Every artist in the show was backstage helping out and trying to get the fainting youngsters back on their feet.”

When the concert mercifully ended, the Beatles dropped their instruments, ran from the stage and climbed into an enclosed freight truck to make their escape. Afterwards, “Pandemonium broke out in the auditorium,” Mal wrote, “and I thought the whole place was going to collapse around us. But somehow, the police managed to keep the tide at bay, all the exit doors were thrown open and people were hustled out. The scene behind them was of devastation, with seats overturned, people still trying to get onto the stage and more people fainting.”

By the next morning, the Beatles and their entourage were winging their way back to London. But the perils of the band’s second North American tour would not be so quickly forgotten. For his part, Brian Epstein would chalk up the chaos and violence to lax security. But it was more than that, Mal realised. He had long felt that there was a dark side to Beatlemania, that not all the attendant hysteria could be understood as the simple byproduct of fandom.

Meanwhile, as the tours mounted up, for Mal the sudden availability of sex, seemingly free from consequences, represented an irresistible bonanza. After a lifetime of self-doubt over body issues and inveterate shyness, he simply couldn’t control himself.

“Big Mal was a demon for sex,” Tony wrote. “His stamina would have been remarkable in a harem. In the flat, sooty back streets of Birmingham or Manchester, he was a stud straight from the Kama Sutra. Like sacrificial virgins, a lot of the girls willingly accepted that they would have to do it with Mal to get to John, Paul, George or Ringo, and Mal knew it.”

Years later, John would liken the Beatles tours to Fellini’s Satyricon, suggesting that their worldbeating jaunts were a fantasia of sexual decadence. Lloyd Ravenscroft, the Australian tour manager, confirmed that the band members “had girls in their room, yes. That was in the hands of Mal Evans, who was very good at picking the right girls. It was very discreet and well organised.”

Mal became “a suave and smooth procurer”, in the words of Larry Kane, a broadcast journalist who was embedded with the band on one of their US tours, “able to spot a target with incredible intuition. It was as though he could pick up on the scent of women who were willing. Only rarely did I see him alone in a hotel corridor. At least his flair for recruiting included an understanding of the difficulties the Beatles could face if any female companion was underage or wronged in any way. If one could get an Oscar for safely procuring women, Mal Evans would have received the lifetime achievement award.”

Back home, Mal’s reunions with Lil and Gary were tempered by the infrequency of his correspondence and by the odd scraps of paper his wife had discovered in his suitcase — addresses and telephone numbers, invariably written in a feminine hand, from the “pen pals” he would meet on the road. Mal brushed off their significance, but Lil knew better. “It used to break my heart,” she recalled.

By 1968 — a year in which he had tried in vain to remake himself as a record executive — Lily’s mistrust of her husband had reached a fever pitch. By this point, she wasn’t just finding “silly groupie letters” in his suitcase, but also the occasional stray pair of knickers and other telltale signs of infidelity. She recognised that Mal was being seduced by overwhelming forces, impulses with which she could hardly begin to compete. “One minute he would be in Hollywood,” she said. “The next day he’d be back here cleaning out the rabbit hutch.”

Mal had emerged as a celebrity in his own right, thanks to publications such as The Beatles Book. “It was OK for him,” Neil Aspinall recalled, “going out in front getting the instruments ready. Dead popular he was. As they cheered and shouted at him he talked to them and made jokes. He didn’t have to physically fight them off, once it started.”

All shook up: the Fab Four meet Elvis

ON THE NIGHT OF AUGUST 27, 1965, Mal and the boys met Elvis Presley at the King’s Bel Air mansion. The 30-year-old superstar was in town to shoot the film Paradise, Hawaiian Style.

Prior to his coveted meeting with the King, Mal spent time with Colonel Tom Parker at his Paramount Studios office, where the roadie was lavished with gifts, including a gold-plated cigarette lighter and, to his glee, a white bathrobe emblazoned with “Girls! Girls! Girls!”. Mal not only appreciated Parker’s generosity, but recognised that he possessed “one of the most astute showbiz brains in America”, adding that, “He has wrung every dollar he can out of the Elvis situation — and who can blame him?”

As Mal was lounging in the Colonel’s office that day, the telephone rang. “That was a news agency, Mal,” Parker said. “It looks as though word has got out about Elvis and the boys meeting tonight. There’s a story in the London Daily Mirror. Now Reuters wants confirmation.” At that moment, Mal’s heart froze. “For a moment, I thought Parker was going to call the whole thing off.”

But the Colonel wasn’t to be deterred. With the so-called Memphis Mafia — a group of Presley friends and employees who served and protected the King — at his beck and call, Elvis’s manager instigated a complex system by which they changed vehicles several times before arriving at Benedict Canyon. As the Colonel looked on, Mal, Neil Aspinall, the Beatles’ press agent Tony Barrow and the Beatles ducked into a black limo. “For once,” Mal later quipped, “John, George, Paul and Ringo were ready to leave on time, and they climbed into the waiting cars at the bungalow bang on the dot.” Shouting, “Roll ’em!” out of his car window, the Colonel’s vehicle snaked its way through Hollywood, the convoy followed by a police motorcycle unit. By 10pm, the motorcade had arrived at Elvis’s house at Perugia Way. Incredibly, the Colonel’s plan had worked.

Mal was beside himself, feeling a combination of reverence and utter shock. After being served a large Scotch and Coke by one of the King’s minions, Paul beckoned Mal to meet his idol in the flesh. “Presley turned, and we shook hands. ‘This is your number-one fan, El,’ said Paul. ‘And he’s with us.’” Mal was thunderstruck by the sound of the King’s “strangely quiet voice” as he said, “Sure pleased to meet you,” to the roadie.

As the evening progressed, Mal marvelled at Elvis’s luxurious home, with its well-stocked cocktail bar and lounge, its thickly carpeted rooms, and, in the den, a massive fireplace with a copper chimney disappearing into the ceiling at the centre of the room. “Pretty soon the record player was working full blast,” Mal wrote. “Elvis played a whole lot of albums, many of them the Beatles, but modestly, perhaps, did not play any of his own. The noise was terrific, the drinks were flowing, the talk was animated, and, as I say, it was just like being at home with the lads from Liverpool.”

Eventually, Elvis picked up a bass guitar that was plugged into an amp positioned near the television set. “He began to strum away on the thing, playing quite ably, but he insisted that he was only learning,” Mal wrote. “Keep practising, fella. You’ll get to the top yet,” Paul quipped. As Mal looked on, “the most fantastic impromptu unrecorded session of all time” ensued when “El found some guitars for John, George and Paul and a set of bongo drums for Ringo, and they began to make the place rock with an hour of improvised beat music. It was fabulous.”

“There was only one hitch during the little concert the boys put on,” Mal later reflected. Nobody had a plectrum. “Mal’s got a pick,” said Paul. “He’s always got picks. He carries them on holidays with him.” Crestfallen that he had neglected to bring his well-travelled doctor’s bag, along with its ready supply of guitar picks, Mal scurried to the kitchen, where he fashioned pieces of plastic cutlery into makeshift plectrums.

Ringo and Mal tried their hand at pool, losing four straight games to members of the Memphis Mafia, while, “John lost $9 at roulette with Colonel Parker and Brian Epstein, who had joined us on getting back from New York.” In one of Mal’s favourite memories of that night, John pretended to be a reporter.

“Once, when I was talking to El, sitting on a settee, John came screaming up to us and jabbed an imaginary microphone under El’s nose and began to fire off a string of meaningless questions — which I must say were a pretty accurate take-off of some of the daft things that interviewers ask at our own press conferences. ‘What are you going to do when the bubble bursts, Elvis?’ he asked. ‘What toothpaste do you use? What time do you go to bed? Do you like girls? Who’s your favourite artist?’ ‘Yeah, yeah,’ chuckled El. ‘I’ve heard ’em all before.’”

Escaping from guns and a mob in Manila

ON THE MORNING OF JULY 3, 1966, the Beatles and their entourage left for the Philippines by way of Hong Kong. “Manila was our next port of call on our way back to England,” Mal later remembered, “and it was here, for the first time in my life, I was to experience real fear.” As it turned out, things were cockeyed from the outset. After attending their usual post-arrival press conference, John, Paul, George and Ringo were hustled out of a rear entrance and taken to the harbour, where they were ushered aboard a motor yacht.

“It was really humid, it was Mosquito City,” George reported, “and we were all sweating and frightened. For the first time ever in our Beatle existence, we were cut off from Neil, Mal and Brian Epstein. There was not one of them around, and not only that, but we had a whole row of cops with guns lining the deck around this cabin that we were in on the boat. We were really gloomy, very brought down by the whole thing.”

Things would get worse. After Brian succeeded in securing the Beatles’ return to the mainland, they ensconced themselves in the opulent Manila Hotel for the night. What the members of the band’s entourage didn’t know was that the Beatles had received an invitation from Philippine president Ferdinand Marcos and First Lady Imelda Marcos requesting their appearance at Malacanang Palace at 11 o’clock the next morning. Only, Brian and the Beatles never laid eyes on it. After an incident in America, at the British embassy in Washington, in February 1964, when the band felt they had been snubbed by upper class, titled guests, official requests for the Beatles’ presence were routinely ignored. Instead, the group went about their business in Manila, performing the first of two shows for 35,000 spectators at José Rizal Memorial Stadium and another audience of 50,000 later that same day.

For the moment, the band and their entourage hadn’t felt any blowback from having snubbed the First Lady, save for scathing news reports on Filipino TV. That night, the promoter arranged for a lavish party at the hotel, with numerous prostitutes on hand to cater to the boys’ needs. On the morning of July 5, Mal began to sense trouble when a pistolpacking member of the promoter’s staff requested autographed pictures of the Beatles. “I was in the middle of explaining that I had given away most of the photographs,” Mal wrote, “keeping a few for the plane crew on the way home, when I was cut short by the same gentleman brandishing a gun in my face and repeating the demand. I couldn’t give them to him fast enough. This was the prelude to a morning of terror.”

Mal could feel the tension rising as he sought out a truck to transport the luggage and gear to the airport. “The feeling in the air was that nobody wanted to be associated with us,” he wrote. “On arriving at the airport, I was informed by the police on duty that I couldn’t park near the airline gate, but in the normal parking area like ordinary people. Their attitude being, ‘Who do you think you are?’” When the band and their entourage arrived at the airport, Mal discovered that no one would help them, save for the KLM airline attendants, who processed their baggage.

Everything went to hell when they began making their way to the international lounge, only to be intercepted by a dozen Filipinos. “It was obvious that they were looking to cause trouble, and quite prepared to beat the hell out of us, because of the fiasco the previous evening with the First Lady,” Mal wrote. “They were standing on our toes, jabbing us with elbows, generally giving us a bad time, and the last thing we could do was hit back. Up to that point, they were just a nuisance and making us feel very uncomfortable. I would give my right arm for any of those boys, but under these circumstances, it was most inadvisable to retaliate in any way whatsoever.”

It was chauffeur Alf Bicknell who could no longer contain himself. Daring to strike back at the assailants, he was viciously attacked, ending up flat on the airport floor with a pair of cracked ribs. Despite his large size, Mal sustained numerous blows, as did Ringo, who was knocked down with a swift uppercut and crawled away as assailants kicked him. Things seemed to get worse as the group approached customs, where John and George were punched and kicked. Paul managed to avoid the brunt of the violence by sprinting ahead. Along with Alf, Brian suffered the most, sustaining a sprained ankle during the mêlée. At one point, Mal realised he was bleeding from his leg.

Mal would never forget the surrealness of walking across the tarmac after the violence they had experienced in the terminal. The ruffians were still in evidence, hurling insults and epithets as the Brits made their way to the waiting KLM plane. But the fans were there too, shouting, “We love you, Beatles!” and tossing bouquets of flowers at their feet.

Once on board the plane, Mal wrote, “We all gave a sigh of relief, thinking we were safe on neutral territory. We were all shaking, beads of fear running down our faces.” That’s when immigration officials boarded the plane, demanding that Mal and Tony Bramwell follow them back to the terminal.

In the immigration office, they found themselves once again at the whimsy of the mob, being jostled, pushed and shoved as officials demanded they fill out new immigration forms. As TV crews recorded their every move, the two struggled to complete the forms, their hands visibly shaking in terror. And then, just like that, they were being led back to the plane, once again experiencing a strange gauntlet of violence and insults on the one hand and the goodwill of the assembled Beatles fans on the other. After some 40 intense minutes away from their friends, Mal and Tony were back in their seats. “The last words we heard before the doors closed were, ‘We love you, Beatles,’” Mal wrote.

Mal Evans died on January 4, 1976. He was shot by the police in a California apartment as he brandished a rifle, having taken a suspected Valium overdose. His diaries and memorabilia lay on the floor next to him.

Extracted from Living the Beatles Legend by Kenneth Womack (Mudlark, £25), published on November 14. 

(source)

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA’s Perseverance Mars Rover Studies Trove of Rocks on Crater Rim

The diversity of rock types along the rim of Jezero Crater offers a wide glimpse of Martian history.

Scientists with NASA’s Perseverance rover are exploring what they consider a veritable Martian cornucopia full of intriguing rocky outcrops on the rim of Jezero Crater. Studying rocks, boulders, and outcrops helps scientists understand the planet’s history, evolution, and potential for past or present habitability. Since January, the rover has cored five rocks on the rim, sealing samples from three of them in sample tubes. It’s also performed up-close analysis of seven rocks and analyzed another 83 from afar by zapping them with a laser. This is the mission’s fastest science-collection tempo since the rover landed on the Red Planet more than four years ago.

Perseverance climbed the western wall of Jezero Crater for 3½ months, reaching the rim on Dec. 12, 2024, and is currently exploring a roughly 445-foot-tall (135-meter-tall) slope the science team calls “Witch Hazel Hill.” The diversity of rocks they have found there has gone beyond their expectations.

“During previous science campaigns in Jezero, it could take several months to find a rock that was significantly different from the last rock we sampled and scientifically unique enough for sampling,” said Perseverance’s project scientist, Katie Stack Morgan of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Southern California. “But up here on the crater rim, there are new and intriguing rocks everywhere the rover turns. It has been all we had hoped for and more.”

That’s because Jezero Crater’s western rim contains tons of fragmented once-molten rocks that were knocked out of their subterranean home billions of years ago by one or more meteor impacts, including possibly the one that produced Jezero Crater. Perseverance is finding these formerly underground boulders juxtaposed with well-preserved layered rocks that were “born” billions of years ago on what would become the crater’s rim. And just a short drive away is a boulder showing signs that it was modified by water nestled beside one that saw little water in its past.

Oldest Sample Yet?

Perseverance collected its first crater-rim rock sample, named “Silver Mountain,” on Jan. 28. (NASA scientists informally nickname Martian features, including rocks and, separately, rock samples, to help keep track of them.) The rock it came from, called “Shallow Bay,” most likely formed at least 3.9 billion years ago during Mars’ earliest geologic period, the Noachian, and it may have been broken up and recrystallized during an ancient meteor impact.

About 360 feet (110 meters) away from that sampling site is an outcrop that caught the science team’s eye because it contains igneous minerals crystallized from magma deep in the Martian crust. (Igneous rocks can form deep underground from magma or from volcanic activity at the surface, and they are excellent record-keepers — particularly because mineral crystals within them preserve details about the precise moment they formed.) But after two coring attempts (on Feb. 4 and Feb. 8) fizzled due to the rock being so crumbly, the rover drove about 520 feet (160 meters) northwest to another scientifically intriguing rock, dubbed “Tablelands.”

Data from the rover’s instruments indicates that Tablelands is made almost entirely of serpentine minerals, which form when large amounts of water react with iron- and magnesium-bearing minerals in igneous rock. During this process, called serpentinization, the rock’s original structure and mineralogy change, often causing it to expand and fracture. Byproducts of the process sometimes include hydrogen gas, which can lead to the generation of methane in the presence of carbon dioxide. On Earth, such rocks can support microbial communities.

Coring Tablelands went smoothly. But sealing it became an engineering challenge.

Flick Maneuver

“This happened once before, when there was enough powdered rock at the top of the tube that it interfered with getting a perfect seal,” said Kyle Kaplan, a robotics engineer at JPL. “For Tablelands, we pulled out all the stops. Over 13 sols,” or Martian days, “we used a tool to brush out the top of the tube 33 times and made eight sealing attempts. We even flicked it a second time.”

During a flick maneuver, the sample handling arm — a little robotic arm in the rover’s belly — presses the tube against a wall inside the rover, then pulls the tube away, causing it to vibrate. On March 2, the combination of flicks and brushings cleaned the tube’s top opening enough for Perseverance to seal and store the serpentine-laden rock sample.

Eight days later, the rover had no issues sealing its third rim sample, from a rock called “Main River.” The alternating bright and dark bands on the rock were like nothing the science team had seen before.

Up Next

Following the collection of the Main River sample, the rover has continued exploring Witch Hazel Hill, analyzing three more rocky outcrops (“Sally’s Cove,” “Dennis Pond,” and “Mount Pearl”). And the team isn’t done yet.

“The last four months have been a whirlwind for the science team, and we still feel that Witch Hazel Hill has more to tell us,” said Stack. “We’ll use all the rover data gathered recently to decide if and where to collect the next sample from the crater rim. Crater rims — you gotta love ’em.”

More About Perseverance

A key objective for Perseverance’s mission on Mars is astrobiology, including the search for signs of ancient microbial life. The rover is characterizing the planet’s geology and past climate, to help pave the way for human exploration of the Red Planet and is the first mission to collect and cache Martian rock and regolith.

NASA’s Mars Sample Return Program, in cooperation with ESA (European Space Agency), is designed to send spacecraft to Mars to collect these sealed samples from the surface and return them to Earth for in-depth analysis.

The Mars 2020 Perseverance mission is part of NASA’s Mars Exploration Program portfolio and the agency’s Moon to Mars exploration approach, which includes Artemis missions to the Moon that will help prepare for human exploration of the Red Planet.

NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, managed for the agency by Caltech in Pasadena, California, built and manages operations of the Perseverance rover.

TOP IMAGE:This mosaic showing the Martian surface outside of Jezero Crater was taken by NASA’s Perseverance on Dec. 25, 2024, at the site where the rover cored a sample dubbed “Silver Mountain” from a rock likely formed during Mars’ earliest geologic period.  Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/ASU/MSSS

LOWER IMAGE: Sealing the “Green Gardens” sample — collected by NASA’s Perseverance Mars rover from a rock dubbed “Tablelands” along the rim of Jezero Crater on Feb. 16, 2025 — presented an engineering challenge. The sample was finally sealed on March 2.  Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/ASU/MSSS

[syntax-minds]

Artificial Intelligence: Transforming the Future of Technology

Introduction: Artificial intelligence (AI) has become increasingly prominent in our everyday lives, revolutionizing the way we interact with technology. From virtual assistants like Siri and Alexa to predictive algorithms used in healthcare and finance, AI is shaping the future of innovation and automation.

Understanding Artificial Intelligence

Artificial intelligence (AI) involves creating computer systems capable of performing tasks that usually require human intelligence, including visual perception, speech recognition, decision-making, and language translation. By utilizing algorithms and machine learning, AI can analyze vast amounts of data and identify patterns to make autonomous decisions.

Applications of Artificial Intelligence

Healthcare: AI is being used to streamline medical processes, diagnose diseases, and personalize patient care.

Finance: Banks and financial institutions are leveraging AI for fraud detection, risk management, and investment strategies.

Retail: AI-powered chatbots and recommendation engines are enhancing customer shopping experiences.

Automotive: Self-driving cars are a prime example of AI technology revolutionizing transportation.

How Artificial Intelligence Works

AI systems are designed to mimic human intelligence by processing large datasets, learning from patterns, and adapting to new information. Machine learning algorithms and neural networks enable AI to continuously improve its performance and make more accurate predictions over time.

Advantages of Artificial Intelligence

Efficiency: AI can automate repetitive tasks, saving time and increasing productivity.

Precision: AI algorithms can analyze data with precision, leading to more accurate predictions and insights.

Personalization: AI can tailor recommendations and services to individual preferences, enhancing the customer experience.

Challenges and Limitations

Ethical Concerns: The use of AI raises ethical questions around data privacy, algorithm bias, and job displacement.

Security Risks: As AI becomes more integrated into critical systems, the risk of cyber attacks and data breaches increases.

Regulatory Compliance: Organizations must adhere to strict regulations and guidelines when implementing AI solutions to ensure transparency and accountability.

Conclusion: As artificial intelligence continues to evolve and expand its capabilities, it is essential for businesses and individuals to adapt to this technological shift. By leveraging AI's potential for innovation and efficiency, we can unlock new possibilities and drive progress in various industries. Embracing artificial intelligence is not just about staying competitive; it is about shaping a future where intelligent machines work hand in hand with humans to create a smarter and more connected world.

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