#project: retina

[project-retina]

Oh my god it’s the ghost of that pathetic fucking loser

"Hey now-- now that's not very--"

"FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUC-"

[gallerypeice]

[ ---A Critical Error Has Occurred--- ]

[norristeria]

Thy Trophy ! LN04

━━━━━━ Part of the LOVESICK IDOLS anthology!

SUMMARY 𝄡 Lando Norris will happily be your trophy boyfriend, even at his own event.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x A-List Actress! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff, Light Angst ( blink and you'll miss it ).

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 5.5k.

NOTE 𝄡 This is my first fanfic, and I wanted to find a happy middle between traditional writing and smaus⏤it's kind of a mess and the end is rushed but whatever. Way too many mythological references in this... Let's say that it is because Y/N is going to star in Nolan's Odyssey, alright? <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The printed words of the screenplay formed an unintelligible jumble that even your reading glasses could not unravel.

From the living room, Lando’s voice pierced the walls and lulled you into a sleep you refused to surrender to. Two hours ago, Christopher had sent you fifteen new pages of dialogue for you to learn; there was no way you were going to put this off until tomorrow—Mr. Nolan was not to be kept waiting, least of all for a project as Herculean as The Odyssey.

The book lay in your lap, long since abandoned on a page of the sixth book. Even Odysseus’ shipwreck on the shore of Scheria could not captivate you; it only drew you further into the depths of exhaustion.

A sigh pulled you away from the galleys and Phaeacian currents. Soon, the blurred but familiar silhouette of Lando filled your tired retina.

You did not need to see him to know he was tormented. His hunched shoulders and dejected gait spoke for him. Without a word, you placed the blue script on the couch and removed your glasses.

“What's wrong?” you asked softly.

Lando plopped down on the couch beside you, making Homer's work bounce off the floor. Already forgotten in the face of a loved one's urgency, neither of you thought to pick it up.

“The FIA wants to do this big event to launch the new cars.”

You frowned and let your fingers brush against his thigh to calm him down. When he was nervous, Lando fidgeted, as if his entire body was trying to express his anxieties when his words failed.

“Isn't that what happens every year?”

“It's different. They want to make a ceremony of it this year. At the O2, no less. With a red carpet and all that crap.”

If Lando shined under the cameras of the paddock and—even if he did not dare admit it—those of Drive To Survive, unforeseen events such as this one filled him with a sense of anxiety rooted in the comments that, for the past few months, malevolent people had been sowing on the Internet.

“Well, it's your lucky day. I happen to know a thing or two about ‘red carpets and all that crap.’ I could give you a few tips before the big night,” you giggled as you leaned over the coffee table.

Your cup of coffee, like the book, had been forgotten.

You grimaced when your lips tasted the cold brew.

“Or you could come with me.”

The cup clattered against the table and rattled the knick-knacks. A drop of coffee splashed on Homer. Another shipwreck for Odysseus, bitter and cold this time.

“This is… a big decision, Lando,” you finally spoke, taking care to articulate each syllable—as if its mere pronunciation could delay the inevitable.

If you want to live happily, you've got to live secretly. Those were the words you had been told repeatedly since your early days in the film industry. A motto that had ingrained itself in your skull and never left since then. Cameras belonged on the set, not in the intimate sphere, for they only consumed what was precious and left nothing but heartbreaking ashes.

You refused to let your love for Lando be reduced to a burnt film strip.

“I don't know.”

“Please, love.”

You picked up the Odyssey and slipped in an old receipt as a bookmark—a mere distraction, an attempt to waste time. Praying for the mundane to fight the unexpected, your fingers mechanically traced the curved waves of the cover, but even the sea could not drown the hurtful words of your former relationships.

“People will talk," you insisted. "They won’t care about the car or you, only about us, and I don't want that.”

Your ever-growing notoriety had destroyed many relationships, platonic or not. The jealousy and envy of men—such fragile, sensitive creatures—always took you away from Elysium fields and damned you to the infinite solitude of the Asphodel meadow.

You would rather plunge into the Styx than see Lando give in to the vices of the male ego.

A head came to rest on your chest and drew you out of your ruminations. In a loving reflex, your hand buried itself in Lando's brown curls. He sighed and nestled against your breasts, until you could not distinguish where he and you began.

“Let them talk and come with me. Please.”

For a few minutes, you said nothing, your gaze fixed on the cup of cold coffee and the Odyssey. What could you say, after all? None of your arguments would pierce Lando's will; the year you had spent at his side had taught you that. 

“When?” you asked, at last.

“February 18th.”

You tugged at a brown lock and watched it fall back into a curl before leaning over to kiss his forehead, just above a mole that—like all the others—you had come to love. You remained there for a while, lulled by Lando's familiar scent and the sensation of his warm skin against your lips.

A sigh rattled your chest and landed on your lover’s tanned flesh. He shivered at the sensation.

“All right, then.”

Lando straightened up and nearly head-butted you.

“Really?!”

“I can still change my mind.”

“Nope. Too late. You can’t take it back now.”

He caught your face between his hands and planted his lips against yours, murmuring a plethora of thank you that soon vanished in the fervour of his kisses. One of his hands slid from your thigh to the small of your back and pulled you closer to him.

As he abandoned your lips for your jaw, then your neck, Lando's head abruptly fell back against the couch when you pushed him away. Stunned, lips aglow, he watched you step over him and disappear into the hallway.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Already, his voice was but a mere afterthought as your thumb scrolled through your contact list.

“I need to call my stylist," you mumbled. "If I'm going to face your fangirls and internet, I might as well do it in an archive gown.”

The car’s tinted windows were already losing the battle against the camera flashes. The separation was purely psychological—a fleeting moment of respite before the leap of faith, for the eyes were already overwhelmed by the blinding light. The poor souls forced to endure it became knockoff Tiresiases, prophets doomed to foresee the same immutable future: the night would be intrusive.

Already, hands had torn through the finely woven tapestry of personal space. Famous or not, dozens of fingers had dressed you, styled you, and painted you into an icon—one the vultures would immortalize, and the admirers, worship. Even now, pairs of hands fluttered around you. They adjusted your gown, retouched your makeup, and tamed the few rebellious strands that had escaped hairspray and pins.

This routine, you had come to associate it with film sets and glitzy events such as this one. The familiar motions helped you slip into character—that of the perfect public persona. Flaws perished under the burning lights, leaving only idols sculpted by the frenzied cult of fame.

You had grown to resent the offerings and prayers people scattered on your path daily. Fame had been born from your love of cinema—an unintended consequence, not a pursuit. A tragic heroine of the modern age—one among many in the industry—you had long cursed your fate.

Then, one day, a devotee had placed you at the centre of a liturgy of love you had never foreseen. Suddenly, you were no longer a damned Sibyl, but an Aphrodite, revered by one and only man.

Around you, the hustle continued, yet the quick movements of your stylist and makeup artist unsettled you less than Lando’s gaze, which burned hotter than the camera flashes. You felt his eyes wash over your glittering skin, your diamond-draped neckline, and, at last, your lips, rouge passion.

You—as much a Tiresias as a Sibyl—read with ease the subtle signs on your lover’s face.

Love birthed habit and familiarity, and nothing was more familiar for you than the spark in Lando’s eyes—desire, burning and bold, a need only touch could soothe.

When he lunged toward you, you slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed him away.

“I spent two hours getting my makeup done, Norris. Keep your filthy paws to yourself.”

He whined.

“Come on. Just one kiss!”

“No.”

He groaned and settled for a kiss to the back of your hand.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered against your skin, before letting your hand drop gently on his thigh.

In a vain attempt to escape his adoring gaze—and to let the flush on your cheeks fade—you dove into a flurry of caring gestures, becoming yourself a pair of doting hands. You straightened Lando’s collar, tucked back a few curls that had fallen across his forehead, and smoothed the wrinkles of his black jacket, tracing the firm shape of his shoulders with your fingertips.

“Such a handsome man.”

He smiled, his eyes sparkling with joy. It was hard to believe that only a month ago, he would have fought tooth and nail to avoid this Dionysian chaos. Now, he wore his confidence like a second skin—one you almost envied.

You turned your head and let your eyes wander to the window, beyond the glass: towards the Others, their gazes, their judgments.

“Ready to face Hell?” you joked, but it fell flat as anxiety slowly nested in your chest.

What if they didn’t take it well? What if they accused you of stealing the spotlight? What if they hated you for dating their favourite driver?

Lando caught your hand. His lips found their way between the diamonds and gold of your bracelets, warming the curve of your wrist with a kiss.

“With you by my side? Always.”

Your fingers intertwined. The weight of his hand in yours was a quiet anchor. Lando tilted his head, silently asking you if you were ready. No, you wanted to scream—is anyone ever truly ready for such event?—but chose to keep silent and nodded instead.

“Remember. I’m here with you,” Lando said before knocking twice on the window.

The door opened and Chaos swallowed you whole.

Lights and voices coiled into a thick fog, numbing your senses, but you forced a smile onto your painted lips. Already, you could feel Lando drifting away, caught in the fervour of the event, in the euphoria of the moment—today, he was the one being celebrated. Who could resist the sweet intoxication of adoration?

“This way, Lando!”

“Lando! Can you sign my cap?”

“I love you!”

Photographers and frenzied fans screamed at the top of their lungs to be blessed with a second of his attention. His name echoed through the crowd, and you felt pure joy seeing him so loved by others. The world had not been kind to him lately; knowing the internet did not mirror reality eased your anxious but loving heart.

Throughout the first rows of fans, your pinkies remained entwined, a constant reminder of each other’s presence—a silent I won’t let go. But soon, you let go, allowing Lando to shine. Alone. This was his night, his moment, and you did not want to pull him from the spotlight with your mere presence. Already, you could feel the atmosphere shift, hear your name travel through the crowd.

“Lan– Oh my god, is that...?”

“Y/N!”

You waved to the young girls but stepped no closer, instead motioning toward Lando with a nod, as if to say Look at him. Not me.

Farther down the red carpet, your lover had not yet realized he now walked alone, but his body, already, was feeling your absence; his fingers clenched, seeking yours, but found only empty air.

You did not look away from Lando’s back. Unwittingly, he had become Orpheus, and you, a Eurydice. Don’t turn around, you wanted to scream. You did not want him to see the space between you both—a shield against strangers, harsher than the Gods in their judgment.

But, for Orpheus would always be Orpheus, Lando looked back when his hand closed on emptiness one too many times. He searched for you in the crowd and frowned when he saw you so far behind.

An event coordinator, headset on, clipboard in hand, tried to usher him to the photocall but Lando refused to budge, his green eyes locked on yours. He reached out a hand.

You shook your head, smiling softly.

It’s your moment, you mouthed.

I don’t care.

Beside him, the coordinator was growing impatient, muttering into his headset and tapping his foot, while photographers shouted incoherent words—a chaotic mix of both your names. You knew they were after the most expensive shot of the night—and what better than that of the industry’s newest couple?

Please, he mouthed again.

Your heart skipped a beat. Who could resist those eyes? You hesitantly stepped toward the photocall.

Toward him.

The flashes exploded.

“Y/N! Y/N, I love you!”

“On your right!”

“Gorgeous, darling! As always!”

“Smile for me!”

When you reached his side, Lando did not hesitate. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear, as the crowd screamed and the cameras flashed.

Lando had yet to let go of your waist; you had become his constant solace in this labyrinth of glitter and pretense—his own thread of Ariadne, which he had woven stitch by stitch around his heart as a makeshift armor. You clung to him just as fiercely, already bored out of your mind.

“One last interview, and then we head inside,” he whispered before brushing a soft kiss on your cheek.

You stifled a sigh of relief. You had long since lost count of the interviews given, the rehashed questions, the trite answers Lando conjured with effortless charm. This red carpet felt more and more like a descent into the Underworld, inhabited by souls too curious to be sincere. The Asphodel Meadow stretched endlessly before you both; how much longer would you be condemned to wander through it?

As if sensing the flicker of frustration rising in you, Lando’s thumb stroked your hip gently as he guided you into yet another round of questions. He had become your Charon, steering you across the wreckage of media frenzy.

The journalist, another face in the crowd but far too cheerful for your liking, greeted you with a brightness that strained your already-fake smile.

“What an entrance! Everyone is talking about you both!”

What could one possibly reply to that? Luckily, Lando stepped in, offering a polished response that seemed to please the journalist, judging by her eager nodding.

You envied Odysseus and his wax; you were forced to endure the endless, hollow songs of sirens—human in form but no less vicious—ready to devour your words and regurgitate them in some twisted new order designed to wreck your image.

For the briefest second, you entertained the thought of diving into the Styx, never to return. You would rather drown than suffer through their tiresome, invasive questions.

The woman before you asked yet another question, but you tuned it out, choosing instead to scan the crowd of other attendees. You quickly spotted Oscar and Lily and offered a discreet wave, which they returned.

A pang of jealousy shot through you as the couple passed unbothered by journalists—no one bombarded them, no one tried to wring secrets from their mouths. They were allowed to breathe. They were allowed to simply exist.

You, however, felt suffocated by the scrutinizing stares multiplying around you like spores. These reporters didn’t care about Formula One—they were after a good story to tell. A good story to sell.

All the years you had spent mastering the art of answering dull questions seemed to vanish, buried beneath the indignation of seeing Lando’s victories silenced in favour of your love story.

A gentle squeeze at your waist pulled you away from your bitter thoughts.

"Sorry, what were we saying?" you asked, hoping your shining smile would suffice to make the reporter forget your lack of manners.

“I was just asking what you're wearing tonight,” she repeated.

“Oh!” Your hands instinctively smoothed down the satin of the dress. “An archive by John Galliano for Dior.”

“We didn’t expect anything less from you. As always, you look stunning! I love this pink, though I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed you’re not in orange!” the journalist chuckled.

You silently thanked your acting classes, and all the hours spent perfecting your fake laugh.

“No, I decided to go for something a bit more… discreet tonight. But I’m sure you’ll have other chances to see me in orange from now on.”

“Oh? Is that so? Should we expect Y/N L/N on the paddock this year?”

Lando’s gaze burned the side of your face, just as attentive—if not more than the journalist—to your reply.

It was a question you had not dared broach before. Cloaked in secrecy, some subjects had been left in dusty corners. Two months ago, the idea would not have even crossed your mind—for there was no way you would have shown up at a Grand Prix and sparked rumours.

But tonight, revealing your relationship had reshuffled everything. You no longer had to hide. You could love each other freely—for the better, or worse.

“Who knows?” you answered with a sly smile. “Maybe. I have to support the future world champion, after all.”

You did not need to look to know Lando was rolling his eyes, lips turning into a bashful smile. His hand squeezed your waist.

He adored when you loved him loudly.

“Do you think he has a chance to win this year?" the journalist asked. “He did finish just behind Max Verstappen last season.”

“I hope so. I believe in him, at least. And no matter the outcome, I’ll always be proud of him. He’s an amazing driver.”

You reached for his hand where it still clung to your waist, intertwining your fingers just as a PR staff asked the journalist to wrap it up.

“Have a wonderful evening, lovebirds! And Y/N, I hope to see you on the paddock soon.”

The champagne struggled to make its way down your throat. You had hoped to find some courage in the golden bubbles, but the cameras that tracked your every movement left a bitter taste on your tongue and spoiled the sparkling pleasure.

You set your glass down—too abruptly—spilling a few drops onto the pristine white tablecloth and catching others’ attention. Lando’s hand found your thigh, stroking and wrinkling the soft pink silk.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered back, brushing a drop of champagne off your wrist. “Just… the fucking cameras.”

He hummed and dabbed at the champagne with his napkin. You watched him do so, heart threatening to burst out of your chest. He did it without a second thought. The casualness of it all, the tender touch with which he wiped your skin, made you blush.

You felt a sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck, but the gleam of a camera lens snapped you back to reality.

On the stage, bathed in red light, Jack Whitehall was shouting something about the show going on or some other nonsense. You had not listened to his monologue, too busy being hyper-aware of your own body, your every breath and blink.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the camera crew starting to move. One of them crouched directly in front of you and aimed his lens at your face.

In the blink of an eye, you straightened your shoulders, tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear, and put on a careless, effortless smile. It was as if your small breakdown had never happened, already pushed back to let Y/N the movie star shine.

Still, a crack appeared in the perfect illusion when your eyes flickered to the massive screen overhead.

It was still broadcasting Jack’s face, but a chill crawled up your spine—a bad feeling taking root in your chest⏤as your gaze wandered to the cameraman at your feet.

“That is when you know your sport is ridiculously minted. When you book the O2 for an event to announce the colour of a load of cars that are all exactly the same as last season. The only new thing this year is Lando Norris’s girlfriend—who is probably the only person in this room who doesn’t need an introduction. Y/N L/N, everyone!”

Your eyes had not left the screen and, soon enough, you were staring back at your own face. Next to you, Lando clapped and whistled, as thrilled as the rest of the crowd.

His stupid antics eased your nerves. Lando had always known how to calm you—a magical skill that he abused sometimes, using it against you during arguments or to have his way.

How grateful you were for it tonight.

You smiled and waved at the audience, praying for them to move on, but Jack was not done.

“When she walked in, the whole room stood up so fast I thought a tax inspector had entered the building!”

The joke pulled a genuine laugh out of you—perhaps the first of the evening. Lando lit up at the sound. He grabbed your hand and kissed it with a dazzling smile.

When your eyes met—his, full of pride, yours, mortified—he winked. The cameraman—and the entire arena with him—did not miss it, sending everyone into a frenzy when it replayed on the screen. You even heard a few awes from the audience, which did not help your embarrassment one bit.

You only let yourself breathe again when the cameras finally drifted away, Jack having found a new soul to torment.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t know he’d do all that.”

Lando raised an eyebrow over his glass of champagne.

His large hand was still resting on your thigh.

“What are you apologizing for? I thought it was funny.”

“They should be talking about you.”

He scoffed.

“The less they do, the better. Gives the haters less ideas. And to be honest, I’ve got other things on my mind tonight than lame jokes.”

“Like what?”

His hand slid higher as he leaned in.

“You in that dress,” he whispered against your ear.

“Behave,” you muttered through your teeth, trying to ignore the heat that bloomed low in your belly. “People are watching.”

“Even better.”

He kissed you.

Lando’s lips tasted like champagne and euphoria, leaving you so dazed you did not see the camera focused on you from afar.

You had been naïve to think Jack Whitehall would settle for one joke. Clearly, you had underestimated the comedian, who—between flirty exchanges with Charles Leclerc—had managed to sneak over to the McLaren’s table and settle in a chair beside Lando.

His sudden proximity could only mean trouble. You kept a wary eye on the cameras—once again pointed in your direction, though focused on Lando this time (much to your delight)—and silently prayed to fade in the background

To your dismay, the mischievous glances Jack kept throwing your way made it perfectly clear that vanishing was not an option. The British host had not forgotten about you, and he intended to savor your discomfort.

A technician—at least he looked the part with his headset and walkie-talkie in hand—gave Jack a thumb up, prompting him to straighten up. A red light blinked atop the camera. “We’re live!” an imaginary director screamed in your mind. Old habits die hard.

For a second, you let your thoughts wander to your screenplay and its fifteen new pages, laying abandoned in your suitcase back at the hotel. How you longed for Odysseus.

You glanced at the giant screen and relaxed upon realizing you were out of frame.

After an entire evening trapped under the spotlight, it was now Lando’s turn to shine.

And shine he did. Sun-kissed, smiling, utterly at ease—he was radiant. A tight knot, full of love, formed in your throat. There was nothing more beautiful than seeing someone you hold dear thrive.

A fierce surge of pride swelled in your chest. This man—as talented as beautiful—was yours.

“Guys, we’ve got so many amazing celebrity guests in the house. We’ve got singers here tonight, we’ve got actors.” His head popped up over Lando’s shoulder. “Hello there, Y/N.”

The camera panned to you, and for what felt like the hundredth time that night, you smiled and waved at the roaring crowd, pushing aside the déjà-vu rising inside to lean toward Jack. Your chin brushed against Lando’s suit-clad shoulder. The scent of his cologne curled around you in a warm embrace.  

Play the part.

A charming smile spread across your crimson lips. “Good evening, Jack,” you purred back.

That single line made the comedian stammer and giggled. He fanned himself with his cue cards and rattled off a clumsy joke.

You bit back a grin.

Men really were the simplest creatures.

Beside you, Lando straightened up and shifted in his seat—just enough to place himself in between the two of you and break your eye contact.

Oh yes, so simple.

“Those eyes. Well, you sure do know how to make a grown man blush,” Jack said with mock sternness, retreating slightly. Lando could be intimidating when he wanted to be. “But enough with you, we’ll talk more later.”

You were not sure if that was a promise or a threat.

“For now,” he went on, “there is only one man I’m looking to talk to tonight and it’s this man here. Mister Lando Norris!

You did not hesitate and joined the crowd’s euphoria, clapping so hard your palms began to sting.

“Lando, last season you came so close. Is this going to be your year?”

“It wasn’t that close to be honest. Max had it. But I hope so. I’m working hard. The team is working hard.”

Behind him, you nodded instinctively. You had witnessed first-hand the sleepless nights, the hours spent studying data, memorizing circuits, rotting away in the simulator. No one deserved the championship more than Lando.

“Well, I hope you’ll bring it home,” Jack said. “And hey, if you don’t, you can always play with girlfriend’s trophy collection. She’s got enough to lend you a few!”

Without warning, Jack turned to her.

“Y/N, by now you must be used to this sort of event. Is the F1 75 as glamourous as the BAFTAs or Golden Globes? I know there’s nothing for you to win here, which must feel a bit strange, but I swear you’ll love it—we’ve even got tire-shaped hors d’oeuvres.” He turned to the camera. “Suck it, Hollywood!”

“So far, it seems much less competitive,” you quipped. “I’m a little disappointed, to be honest.”

“You’re up for Best Actress, right?”

You nodded.

“Nervous?”

“Always.”

“Don’t be coy. Seriously?!” Jack chuckled. “Everyone knows you’re going to win! You’re basically the Max Verstappen of the movie industry!”

The giant screen cut to the Dutch champion, looking thoroughly unimpressed. You sighed inwardly.

I feel you, Max.

“Oh. Looks like someone behind the camera is telling me to go back to Lando. Bo-ring,” he rolled his eyes, “but I must oblige or else the FIA won’t pay me.”

Thus, Jack left you alone and turned back to your boyfriend. Hidden from the camera’s view, you hooked your little finger around his and squeezed.

“Lando, I wanna know what happens with an F1 driver in the off-season. What you get up to… Is it hard with all those Drive to Survive cameras in your face all the time to properly chill out? Were you able to Netflix and chill?”

You snorted as a boom mic dangled awkwardly above Lando’s head. Jack swatted it away, but your own memories remained, that of endless shooting days and drowsing sound engineers.

“I did. I’ll tell you what.”

His reply barely registered over the crowd’s laughter, but you heard it loud and clear and smacked his arm, cursing Lando’s cheeky side and his constant need to toss fuel on the fire.

“I spent some time with my family, my friends.” He exhaled. “Hum. Yeah, a bit of Netflix and chill. I did it all.”

The crowd roared. Jack burst out laughing. You buried your face in your hands.

“Best of luck this season. Give it up for Lando Norris!”

As the cameras moved on, you leaned toward Lando, your cheeks still flushed.

“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?”

He just shrugged in response.

“I want people to know you’re mine.”

A flurry of notifications pulled you from a well-deserved sleep. Beside you, Lando was still out cold, completely unbothered by the constant alarms. Last night had done a number on him—be it the never-ending ceremony or your rather eventful return to the hotel.

A dazed smile crept onto your face as the memories from last night resurfaced.

Though you did not want to, you dragged yourself out of bed and reached for your phone, which was still buzzing. It had landed on the floor in the heap of last-night crumpled clothes.

The whole pile reeked of champagne—a telltale sign of a night well spent.

Stifling a yawn into the crook of your elbow, you wasted no time to unlock your phone, the flood of messages immediately drawing you in—all from your agent. As you skimmed through them, your brows shot higher with each one until, finally, you tapped on the last: a link to a gossip page.

“Fuck.”

Ignoring the dull ache in your legs and lower belly, you rushed over to Lando and shook his shoulder.

“Babe, wake up.”

No reaction.

“Come on, get up,” you tried again.

When he still did not budge, you resorted to drastic measures and shoved him clean off the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud, muffled by the thick carpet of the suite.

“What the–?” he muttered, cracking one eye open as he straightened up and peered over his shoulder.

You kneeled beside him and shoved the phone in his face, screen brightness cranked to the max. He blinked once. Twice. His eyelids fluttered against the assault of light before he smacked his lips to chase away the dryness on his tongue.

“What am I looking at?” he asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“Read.”

The liveries' new engines for the upcoming Formula 1 season were not the only things to heat up the O2 arena last night. Hollywood royalty Y/N L/N made her grand⏤and completely unexpected⏤entrance on the red carpet, instantly overtaking the event.

It is fair to say that the actress, whose face has become a permanent fixture not only in theaters but also on the cover of Vogue or at the Met Gala, was the talk of the evening⏤as she always is. Draped in a pink Dior archive gown, the Golden Globe-winning actress turned heads the second she stepped in the arena... as Lando Norris’s plus-one!

According to inside sources⏤who were quick to spill the tea⏤the driver and A-List actress have been dating for over a year, but this marks their first official public outing as a couple. Talk about a hard-launch!

McLaren's golden boy⏤who came second in last season's world championship⏤quickly faded into the background as L/N stole the spotlight. And he didn’t seem to mind one bit, instead beaming with pride and fully embracing his new role as a trophy boyfriend!

One thing is sure, while he may be chasing a world-champion title on the track⏤as he reaffirmed last night to Whitehall⏤off it, it seems that Lando Norris has already won, for there is no trophy in this world better than Y/N L/N.

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Anonymous 2 hours ago

Y/N in vintage Dior with Lando trailing behind her like a good purse holder?? Iconic.

Anonymous 5 hours ago

Wait… they’ve been dating for A YEAR?? How did we miss this?? I need a timeline, a series, a podcast—SOMETHING.

Anonymous 1 hour ago

They make so much sense together. I'm already obsessed.

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Lando handed you your phone back and flopped onto the bed, curls matted into the pillow, one arm behind his head. You remained standing, determined not to be swayed by his distractingly sculpted biceps, now on full display.

A smug smile lit up his tired face. You had to fight against the overwhelming urge to slap it off.

“I guess I am your trophy boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes as he burst out laughing and tossed a pillow square at his head. He caught it without blinking.

Those fucking reflexes.

“Shut up.”

He reached for you, arms wide open and eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Come here, sugar mommy.”

You flipped him off and walked out of the room without a second glance for him.

“Does this mean I can come to the Oscars with you?” he called after you.

[nostalgebraist]

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[nudityandnerdery]

This whole thread is good.

Some links from the thread:

The legislation announcement

Article in there:

About prosecuting librarians

[phossiii]

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter one

synopsis: you are introduced as the arkham imported member of the creature commandos. and a certain irradiated skeleton can't seem to catch a hint.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, tame chapter

"And I have this question, for all the woke feminists out there..." the man-child on the screen emphasized, turning toward the camera. "Why do only girls get such cool waterfalls?"

Flag cringed, brow raising with disappointment at the infantile argument.

The hell was the world coming to?

"All over the world, our rights as men are being denigrated—"

Having heard enough, Waller cut the feed, eyes slyly gliding over to the general for his response.

"What a bunch of clowns," Flag scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dangerous clowns," Waller corrected, standing up from her office chair and moving toward the door. "Pokolistan is a friend of the U.S."

"Countries don't have friends."

"After your decades in the military, General Flag, I think you'd understand that true friendship is built on petroleum deposits. Especially un-mined ones in a backward-ass country that's never take advantage of its natural resources."

Leading him out the room, Waller started down the hall, exiting the corporate section of Belle Reve and entering an elevator that lead to the lower levels.

"Princess Ilana Rostovic, the heir apparent to Pokolistan, is already negotiating with the U.S for that oil," she continued, the digital screen showing that they had descended well past the basement. "And if she's overthrown by some nut-job in a witch's hat, all bets are off... We need to help Rostovic."

With a soft, digital ding, the elevator doors opened, revealing a heavily bolted and locked door with the words NON-HUMAN INTERNMENT DIVISION written in bold right above it.

Flag's brow nearly shot through the roof.

"I thought Congress put a stop to all Task Force X facilities since your daughter outed you?" he asked, suspicious.

"Technically, Congress said A.R.G.U.S can't use incarcerated human beings as mission operatives any longer," Waller corrected, typing in the password on the keypad before leaning in for the retina scan. "But what about beings that aren't human?"

"Huh?"

Entering the control room, the general was met by a multitude of screens and officers, along with a five-foot thick, Plexiglas window peering into the common area.

Warily, he approached it, and what he saw on the other side forced his eyes wide.

"What in the holy hell?"

Beyond the bolts, locks, and iron walls sat five different... creatures, each one more odd-looking than the last.

"This is Bell Reve Non-Human Internment Division," Waller introduced in a monotone. "For over fifty years, only those at the uppermost levels of security clearance are aware of its existence. By using these prisoners, I think we can arguably circumvent our new restrictions."

"Arguably?" Flag scoffed. "How?"

"Congress said we can't use human prisoners. These assholes aren't human."

"She's not a human?" he asked, nodding to the large, stitched up woman leaning against the wall.

"Is a corpse human?"

"Who is she?"

"We don't know," Waller shrugged. "We call her The Bride."

Nodding, the general turned his attention to the skeleton playing Jenga.

"Who's Jason and the Argonauts?"

"A sociopath who calls himself Dr. Phosphorus," she confirmed. "He has irradiated skin he can use to burn through people and objects."

"Well, how does that radiation affect the people around him?" Flag asked, concerned.

"If you don't sleep in the same room with him, the effects should be minimal."

"Minimal?"

"Consider it a free vasectomy."

Just then, the mutant-dog-thing sitting at the center of the room began to cough, violently, hacking up what looked to be leftovers of the day's lunch before licking it right back up.

"What is that thing?" Flag asked, disgusted.

"The Weasel," Waller answered. "It's one of the few soldiers still alive from Project Starfish in Corto Maltese. So we know it has what it takes to survive."

At the comment, he hushed up, looking off to the side with guilt.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to intimate about your son, Flag. When he died in Corto Maltese, he died a hero."

"That one looks like a discontinued dishwasher," he quickly changed the subject, pointing to the metal man sitting across from Dr. Phosphorus.

"That dishwasher killed over three-hundred Nazis in World War II. I would've dismantled it, but I thought it might come in use some day," Waller nodded. "It's known as G.I Robot."

Turning her head, her eyes trained on the meek girl sitting in the corner, who looked like both a woman and a fish.

"Next one is Nina Mazursky."

"What use is she walking around in a fishbowl?"

"Get her in water it's a different story," she answered. "She's the smartest and most reasonable of the bunch. She might be able to help you keep the rest of them in line."

Wearily, she let out a sigh, turning to one of the officers and sharing a knowing nod.

"Especially with the last one."

Raising a brow, Flag glanced back through the glass, confirming that he had been briefed on all the prisoners.

All the ones present, at least...

"There's more?" he asked.

"Imported fresh from Arkham Asylum," Waller nodded, typing in another passcode on the control panel in front of her before the door let out a resounding, harsh blare. "She passed the psych eval, though Batman was vehemently against her release."

Flag watched carefully as the doors slowly opened, two officers emerging from the shadows and revealing you, bound and gagged by a straight-jacket and bite restraint muzzle.

Instantly, his eyes shot wide, and he took an instinctual step back, disbelieving of the sight before him.

"Is that a...?  She's a living, breathing—"

"Demon, for all intents an purposes," Waller finished, unbothered. "The product of a satanic sacrifice gone wrong. (y/n) (l/n) was born with the devil get-up, and an affinity for fire magic."

Below, sat you with long, (h/c) hair, bright red skin, equally bright horns, a pointed tail, and sharp, slitted, yellow eyes. 

"I figured since we're up against a witch, why not fight sorcery with sorcery."

They forced you to sit on a dolly, feet chained to its surface, clasped so tight that it rendered you unable to move or struggle.

As if there wasn't a grenade in your brain-stem preventing you from going anywhere.

'Bastards...'

Lifting your head, you surveyed the area, taking note of each face within the freak show.

A Frankenstein rip-off...

A walking beam of cancer...

A man-dog...

A scrap heap...

And the Introvert from the Black Lagoon...

'Woulda done numbers in solitary.'

As Amanda Waller and General Rick Flag surfaced from behind you, Frankenstein, Cancer, and Man-Dog of the Ghoul Gang charged forward, launching an attack.

An attack... that was quickly thwarted with a good shock to the brain.

With loud shouts of pain, all of them, including you, stopped dead in your tracks, dropping to the ground in an instant.

Though, just as quick as it came, it left, by an act of somewhat mercy from your warden.

"This is your new task force, Flag," Waller stated, tossing him the detonation switch. "Let's call it... Task Force M. M for Monster."

"You bitch..." you growled, weakly lifting your head. "I wanna talk to the Bat... This was not part of the agreement..."

"I'm afraid Batman had no say in the matter," she stated, still completely unbothered. "You want back into your padded cell? You get this job done."

Sharply, she lifted your chin, your fiery eyes meeting hers, cold and unfeeling.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"So... you're really a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean there's a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you've seen—"

"No."

"Did your mother... y'know... with a—"

"Are you fucking stupid?"

You turned to him sharply, brows furrowed and eyes blazing with annoyance and fury.

He had been at this since the goddamn helicopter took off...

"Whoa, there, doll face," Phosphorus raised his hands in defense. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just sayin' what we're all thinking."

Though, that was only half of it.

In actuality, Phosphorus hadn't been able to rid his thoughts of you since the COs rolled you into the facility.

He had never seen anyone like you before—devil-like, dripping in both beauty and danger—never felt so entranced, intrigued, or turned on, either.

Emphasis on the turn-on part.

Your battle-wear was a zip-up, black leather jumpsuit with the pant legs torn off, paired with finger-less gloves and thigh-high, multiple buckle boots.

The zipper perfectly exposed your cleavage, making your chest look large and perky while the shorts put your legs on delectable display, outlining the very grab-able flesh of your thighs.

That, along with your black aviators and the cigarette hanging out the corner of your mouth, made you something out of his best worst nightmare.

And someone he wanted to get to know significantly better.

"Keep it to yourself," you spat, sizing him up. "I'd rather listen to a stuck goat."

"'Cause of sacrifices or...?"

"Say one more word, cancer stick, I swear to God—"

"Can you even really do that? Y'know, 'cause of the whole demon thing..."

"Fucking moron!" you growled, igniting your fist with fire before sending a punch straight for his face.

"Hey! Knock it off!" Flag barked, forcing you to stop mid-way, the whole squad turning to him with slight surprise. "I know you all aren't exactly enthusiastic about this mission. But—"

With a roll of her eyes, Bride let out a groan, already checking herself out of the conversation.

"General, I believe you've read us wrong," Phosphorus corrected, acting as if your flaming hand wasn't inches away from his face. "We're delighted to be here, and delighted to serve our country."

"Okay... uh, great."

As the irradiated skeleton faced forward, you dropped your fist, sharing a confused look with the Bride.

"Are you smiling?" you asked him, raising a brow.

"Yes."

"Sarcastically?" she added.

"Mmm-hmm."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back in your seat, allowing your eyes to drift over to the man-dog.

He was harshly gnawing at his restraints, letting out whimpering noises of fear

"G.I Robot is detecting unease. Could he be, G.I Robot asks, in fear of being discovered as Nazi scum?" the scrap heap stated, retracting his hand and replacing it with a gun.

"No," Flag assured, pushing away the weapon. "Put your arm... Put your gun down. He's not a Nazi."

"Child killer, though," Phosphorus shook his head. "Not a great look."

"Supposedly, he had a bad experience the last trip he took on this Osprey, that's all."

Glancing out the window, the Bride's eyes widened slightly, before she turned to the general.

"Are we in goddamn Pokolistan?" her brows furrowed, arms crossed over her chest.

"You've been here before?" Nina asked with a smile.

Bride rolled her eyes with a sigh, leaning back in her seat, "Fucking hell..."

"So..." Phosphorus started up again as he turned to you, thankful his skeleton-ness hid his shit-eating grin. "Is everything red... or just what I'm looking at right now?"

SMACK!

"Ow!" he played off, his grin growing even wider as he rubbed his cheek.

Adorably, you turned away, flipping him off as your one leg crossed over the other.

Now he was really intrigued (and turned on).

You were feisty.

He liked that.

He liked that a lot.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Hot Girls Study Hard

♥ masterlist | request rules

♥ pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

♥ synopsis: school has been kicking your ass lately so you decided to attempt an all nighter, but when your beloved boyfriend oscar comes home from a long day of pr, he finds you passed out on your notes.

♥ wc: 0.7k - as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: one tiny suggestive joke and fluffy fluff !!!

♥ a/n: this is totally not inspired by my real life… haha

-07:30 AM-

A breeze of cool air hit your body as you stepped out of a steaming shower and wrapped yourself up in a white fluffy towel. The scent of a vanilla candle filled the bathroom as you scratched your head and reached for your skincare. You put on two green eye patches and walked into your bedroom, scrunching your hair with a blue microfiber cloth.

“Good morning…?” Oscar said in a groggy voice, rubbing his eyes. The fluorescent light from the bathroom illuminated his tired expression and messy brown hair.

“You’re not usually up for another hour or so…” he trailed off, watching you search your shared dresser for clothes.

“I’m trying to get a head start on school today,” you whispered, grabbing a pair of shorts and a black crewneck.

He hummed and rolled over. You could clearly tell how tired he was from the previous day of hard training.

“You can go back to sleep, love. Sorry if O woke you,” you whispered to him.

“No, no, don’t apologize,” he said sweetly. “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” he smiled.

You made a double shot of espresso to keep yourself awake for the exhausting upcoming day. Balancing school and work was no easy task, especially now that you've fallen behind due to a short trip you took to watch your boyfriend race.

Oscar walked out of your room in his McLaren gear as you sipped your coffee through the cold metal straw. His hands slithered onto your hips and he pressed you back onto the marble counter as he kissed your soft lips.

You smiled against him as he pulled away and grabbed a bottle of water from behind you.

He opened the fridge to find his meal prep, “Don’t overwork yourself, yeah? Take a few breaks, you’ve got this,” he said, encouraging you.

“You too," you nodded. "We don't want you to be too tired for the race this weekend. Or too tired for other things..." you trailed off with a smile.

Oscar shook his head and laughed, pausing from mixing his protein shake. You raised your eyebrows suggestively and laughed along while walking over towards your dining room table.

You had already set up a workspace the night before, including your laptop, textbooks, notes, and all the stationary needed for your projects (or rather the stationary you shamelessly bought to make schooling more fun).

Osc came around the kitchen island and kissed you on the top of your head, "Wishing you luck as always."

"You too," you smiled.

The minute he stepped out of the front door you let out a long sigh, mentally preparing yourself for the long day ahead.

-

-10:23 PM-

“Y/n I’m home,” Oscar said, stepping through the front door quietly. He scratched his head and walked through the hall of your apartment into the kitchen. A small light was on but there was no sight of you or your textbooks.

He made his way into the bedroom to find you passed out on your notes. Your calico cat was curled up by your feet in a deep sleep as well. Oscar tiptoed around the room, assuring he won’t make too much noise and wake you up. He gently pulled your chair out from the desk, making sure he didn’t harm your cat or wake you up in the process. It was too late though.

You yawned quietly and lifted your head off the books, “Osc?”

Your eyelashes fluttered as your retinas adjusted to the darkness of the room.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. “How was your day?”

“It was good,” you whispered back. “I think I got a lot done, but I don’t remember when I passed out, so maybe not,” you laughed softly.

Your boyfriend grabbed your hands and pulled you up into a standing position so he could hug you. He wrapped his arms around your legs and lifted you up, causing a small gasp to escape your lips.

He carried you over to your bed, one that was covered in blankets and large pillows. You watched intently as he took off his shirt and changed into some gray sweatpants before crawling onto the mattress and slipping himself under the covers next to you.

As he tried to pull you closer your cat leaped onto the bed and cuddled her way in between the two of you. You rested your head on Oscar's shoulder and closed your eyes but before you could fully drift off to sleep you heard a soft whispered, "I'm proud of you."

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Three - Deja vu

Remember when I said this was supposed to be the easy side project made of easy to consume chapters that was supposed to be easy on my brain? Oh the way life throws a wrench in things.

Apologies for the wait but thank you for the patience! A bit longer of a chapter this time (almost double the length) because if you also read my other fic you'll know I have a moderation problem :)

Trigger warnings: angst, depression

Time converted its seconds into a slow-motion camera, capturing the hectic moment as a series of shutter clicks in your mind. Rich earthy elixirs trapped like icicles in a frozen pour from heated spouts. Spare precious change suspended in mid-air spilled from jittery hands. A systolic heartbeat waiting to finish its rhythm. An overplayed Christmas jingle with the record player set to the lowest speed. 

How did you not pick up on the telltale signs sooner? It wasn’t as if this was a first occurrence for you anymore. Precious moments of escape wasted daydreaming of warm comfort when it could’ve been spent backpedaling to the safety of your vehicle. Even more insulting when you considered how perceptive you’d been not ten minutes prior, untrusting of your nose to keep you from trouble in the supermarket bakery, head on a dizzying swivel for any more unwanted surprises.

Yet here you were again, betrayed by the very caffeine that was supposed to be your savior, too slow to duck back out the shop before your scent had a chance to reach his nostrils. 

Now you were pinned in place by a complete stranger who had no business smelling that edible.

Pupils blown wide mirrored your own. Blue irises framed by full lashes contrasted against a faded tan that spoke of time spent abroad in warmer climates. Dark brown hair shorn close on the sides peaked into a mussed up mohawk, slightly damp from melted snow and tousled by the wind. Your eyes unfocused to take in the body belonging to the man - shifting lower, past slightly parted lips greedily inhaling your scent and a craggy chin scar encircled by a dusting of dark stubble. 

A deep brown leather bomber jacket stretched tight across broad shoulders only a few shades darker than his hair, upturned against the elements and protecting a tree trunk neck, accented along the trim by matching tufts of a lighter insulating sherpa. A hint of medium wash jeans caught in your periphery, unable to glance further at the lower portion of his body, too encapsulated by the cosmic force that kept you snared within his gaze.

The back of your neck prickled with the knowledge that whatever was passing between you in the charged space across the checkerboard tiles was a transient mirage at best and a dangerous amalgam of broken aspirations at most. That grim lesson had been embedded into your retinas the hard way– 

No matter how potent the connection, this man was not yours. 

You shouldn’t be here. You should not be here.

The alpha didn’t miss the way you transferred your weight onto your back leg. Predatory focus latched onto the subtle way you shifted, instincts preparing behind barely contained canines. You’d accidentally triggered something; a millennia’s worth of ingrained primality overriding the structured norms of good societal behaviour. Like an old timey saloon, it was an overstrung standoff to see whose will would break first.

Your need to run outweighing his need to possess. 

Eyes narrowed slightly, he pointed right at you with a warning look. In a rough brogue, “Don't…”

You didn't listen.

“Hey hey hey–!” 

It was all too familiar now - this choreographed dance of avoiding uncomfortable affairs instead of facing them head on, ignoring the startled clamor of bewildered customers as you darted past a group of unsuspecting teenagers through the narrowing gap of the cafe door.

Nearly bowling an elderly couple over in your haste to escape, you fumbled out a half-hearted apology as you skidded around the next corner with a high pitched squeak, losing traction on the glassy ice in your well-worn snow boots and catching yourself on a vintage lamp post that you used like a springboard to gain a few precious milliseconds of a head start. 

This was twice in two days now that you’d undergone a fateful encounter the majority of the population could only dare dream of. And here you were bolting from destiny like a frazzled rabbit scurrying helplessly through the underbrush from what should have been your savior.

What the hell kinda luck was this?! And why did it have to choose now of all times?!

The door flung open only moments after, the previously innocent bell chime now a harbinger of doom. Heavy footfalls slapped through the condensed slush of snowfall. Something feral rose up in the presence of a hunter in pursuit of his quarry. 

There was something on your tail, and it felt far more intimidating than a starving wolf leering at his lunch.

Your pulse was bellowing in your ears, weaving through the conglomerated foot traffic as best you could with a body not prepared for a long winded chase. A hot poker stitched your side and hobbled your gait. Frost coated your lungs with every ragged inhale, sapping what little breath capacity you had and crippling until you were little more than a wounded mammal, panicky and acting on pure foolish adrenaline. The rational part of your brain spoke of the futility against someone his size, the brief glimpse afforded to you of his stocky frame earlier proof that your alpha was capable; well fed, sculpted for survival, muscles made of endurance and stamina. 

Everything desired in a good mate, the back of your mind unhelpfully supplied.

Long strides ate up the distance, navigating the pavement far more sure footed than you.

“Bleedin’ Christ!” growled out the voice. “Will ye jus’– wait!”

The firm grip on your bicep rather than his frustrated words was what halted you in your tracks. The slippery slush beneath your feet gave way to an involuntary squeak as another hand snapped out to steady your skidding, keeping you from tucking ass over tea kettle. Heavy breaths turned visible in the frigid winter air as you panted from exertion, sucking in a heady mixture of espresso and chilled vapors that fogged up your mind and muddled your senses. 

Fuck, he smelled good.

A gloved hand shuffled you further out of the way from the crowds of passersby, huddling beneath a shopkeeper's veranda, muffled conversation from the building’s interior a muted buzzing compared to the ringing in your ears. He shifted so as to take the brunt of the whipping winds on his back, sheltering you from the worst of it and allowing you to blink clear the stinging snowflakes from your eyes.

Although you never really stood any substantial chance of escape, there was still something surreal to be said about standing toe to toe with an alpha outside your family circle. He beheld you with the same wide eyed stare you gawked at him with, pupils stuck in a constant state of dilation as he huffed in your shared air, just as drunk off his scent match as you were. At this proximity, even the outside breeze wasn’t enough to dampen the waves of pheromones spiking like heated tesla coils between you. Unlike you, he found it in him to scrounge together just enough self control to soften his stance and manage a relaxed smile your way.

“There now, lass.” His words weren’t winded in the slightest, something that petulantly annoyed you in your weakened state - even if the accented baritone of his vibrato was soothing the consternation from your veins. “See? No need fer misbehavin’.”

There was an obvious gentling to his tone; something placating with an edge of sternness that felt at odds with his choice of haircut. Blue orbs roamed your face as if he half expected you to collapse on him, no longer holding on to you but keeping a readied hand hovering in case your shaky legs gave way. Truthfully - with how you were still sucking in breaths - you weren’t quite sure his assistance wouldn't be needed.

“Christ, LT was right about ye. Got a scent that can skelp a man flat on his arse.”

Even in your current state he must’ve judged you steady enough to maintain balance, despite still keeping the rigid preparedness in his shoulders as his hands sought a place in denim pockets. “Got a habit fer runnin’, dontcha?”

The capability of speech was all but lost to you, tongue cemented to the roof of your mouth and dry as a wilted prune abandoned on the vineyard soil. You’d at least managed the bare minimum of appearing less like a beached guppy by snapping your jaw shut, but the snicker from his lips at whatever he found while searching your face revealed your inadequacy to mask as a functioning human.

Azure eyes sparkled with mirth. “I ken I’m a looker, hen, but I ‘ave tae say it’s been a while since I’ve left a bonnie lass like yerself truly speechless. Strokin’ my ego a bit, ye are.”

“Your coffee…”

The first words you say to the man of your dreams and all you can think of is his wasted cup left unoccupied on the counter.

“Eh, it’s only a drink.” His shoulder’s finally loosened with a shrug. “More concerned about yers. Not tae make ye feel bad, lass, but ye’re lookin’ a wee bit peckish if I can say.”

So your mirror liked reminding you every morning. 

You waved him off on instinct, not needing the alpha to start concerning himself with your health. Not like there was much either of you could do about it. “It’s fine. Shouldn't be spending the money anyways.”

He wasn’t satisfied with that answer, raising an eyebrow at your justifiably frazzled appearance, but choosing not to question it just the same.

“Gonna be honest, lass. Wasn't exactly expectin’ ta bump into ya.”

You could tell by the bite marks on another woman’s neck.

No. Stop it girl. That’s not fair to him.

You shoved back the bitter taste of jealousy, forcing a smile you both knew was awkward. “Yea… what are the odds…”

“Mind ye, when the others mentioned their wee run-in with ye at the shop the other night I ken’d there was a chance– Christ, when Cap’n finds out the…” His words carried on, but you stopped processing them beyond a certain point in his ramblings, focusing more on the melody as it slowly faded to the background. There was a lilt to his speech that didn’t quite fit the occasion - at least to you. A restrained awe; measured happiness so as not to overwhelm you right off the bat with unbridled emotion. 

Part of you was thankful for his careful insight considering the delicate nature of the situation. But even so, the squiggly edges of his personality felt forcefully crammed into an elaborate puzzle rather than fitting naturally into a predetermined space.

You should be thrilled to be having this conversation. Things should be clicking and the world should make sense and his voice should be songbirds twittering in your ear on a beautiful summer’s day without a cloud in the sky and…

All you can hear is the man in a blue camry honking at the lady jaywalking in front of his car, the squeal of halted tires and shouted insults from hot spilled coffee across his lap. The poor woman on the corner shaking a can of loose pennies in hopes of a two dollar meal from the shop down on 7th Ave. Dogs barking at strangers and high heels clacking on wet slushy pavement. 

Overstimulation hits you hard, leaving you incapable of making out anything but the shapes of his mouth without any of the feedback. His voice muffles despite only the foot distance between you, and try as you might you have no idea what’s causing that smile on his face. For all you know he could be just as easily discussing the week's snowy forecast or reciting Chaucer like those lunatics on the steps outside the performing arts college. 

The nagging presence makes itself known in the back of your mind, adding to the chaos plugging your senses and making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in a way that has nothing to do with the chill. The disgruntled alpha half a country away calls to your fraying nerves, taking advantage of your weakened mentality and twisting like a gnarled root around your windpipe. You disguise the full body trembles with a forced shiver, the restlessness of your fingers giving in to the urge to claw at your mating mark, hiding the motion by readjusting your scarf more securely and clearing your throat. A cold sweat breaks out underneath the insulating layers of warmth, adding to the already miserable conditions of the snowy bluster. There’s only so much more you can take before you split apart at the threads and reveal to the stranger just how rotted your insides were.

You needed to end the interaction.

“Look–” you interrupt his languid tirade, voice barely holding steady and as timid as a field mouse, mittened palm up to keep him from going any further and stunning him into silence. “You don’t have to do this. This kinda thing just… doesn’t happen to normal people. I’m not gonna hold anything against you when it was a one in a billion chance of us ever crossing paths. You have your life and I have mine.”

Something hard caught in your throat and gummed up your words, threatening to crawl into your lungs and make a permanent home if you focused on it for too long - gave it too much power. You hoped he didn’t see the way you forced yourself to push through. “Let’s just… be adults, acknowledge that it happened, and go about our day as if we were two strangers passing by on the street. No expectations, no mess. ‘Kay?”

Clearly not envisioning that reaction now that he’d finally gotten his paws on you, something in his look tightened at being told ‘no’. “Hardly seems fair.”

Who was he to know ‘fair��?

“And what about us?” he continued with an unexpected bite. “Ye think we can jus’ ignore the fact that our scent match is wanderin’ about somewhere in the city unguarded and at risk of bein’ hurt or– or taken?”

You could almost taste the self satisfaction flaring across the tainted bond, fighting back a wave of nausea and bristling at the emotional wound he unknowingly gut punched.

“And your omega?” You watched him flinch at the obvious retort, both hating and relishing in his discomfort at having reality thrown back in his face. At least you both knew there was an element of betrayal lingering beneath the surface. “You really want her to have to come home every day with you smelling like another woman? Your fated woman? Do you realize the damage that’ll cause not just to her but to your mating bonds?”

In a perfect world, this whole encounter would be different. He’d say hi, you’d give him your most winning smile. The two of you would go back to the cafe and he’d pay for your coffee. You'd sit across from each other with stars in your eyes, getting to know the ins and outs of their soul for however much time your schedules allowed, blowing off prior commitments in favor of lyrical words dancing sugar plums around your head. Numbers would be exchanged and you’d both part ways feeling lighter and hopeful and impatiently waiting for the start of the next exciting chapter.

God, you hated fairy tales. 

The alpha was clearly frustrated at how the conversation was playing out, scratching a rough hand through his mohawk with a groaned out hiss, eyes darting around empty space as a grimaced mouth searched for the right words. “Look, lass. The four of us–” 

Four. There were four of them. Four mates. 

“–aren’t gonna stop worryin’, not now that we ken ye’re within reach and without a pack of yer own.” Blue eyes skimmed downwards trying to peer beyond the veil of your scarf, flicking back up to your face when he failed, searching for a sign that you remain unmated as he suspects by your reactions thus far. 

Glancing off to the side, you avoid his gaze and focus on the piles of brown snow gathered along the curb, not trusting yourself to keep a straight face under his careful scrutiny. He must take your avoidance as confirmation, returning to the conversation at hand.

“Alright, yea. We’ve already bonded another. Nothin’ tae be done about it now and there’s no use bawlin’ o’er what might ‘ave been. But if ye think that's gonna stop us from tryin’ tae be a part of yer life then yer sorely mistaken.” 

There’s an endearing quality to his convictions - as misguided as you believe them to be. So sure of himself, reflected in the take-no-objections posture and firm set of his brows. All confident alpha bravado. 

A small part of you keens at his certitude, recognizing it on a primal level and wanting to bask in the commanding presence your– the alpha provides. But those same instincts that scream at you to welcome his protective nature also serve as a reminder of why that could never work.

There’s a reason packs only keep one omega. While alphas are stereotyped as being the possessive pigheaded brutes who covet your kind like unstable beasts, everyone knows there is none so fierce as a territorial omega, baring her teeth to encroaching females without a moment’s hesitation to defend. It’s not like you’re the worst sorts of overly attached pack mates though. Society wouldn't be able to function if an omega snapped every time they all came within three feet of each other. 

But to have the two coexisting within the same ecosystem fighting over the affections of the same alphas…

If the heartbreak wouldn’t kill them, the blood on their teeth will.

The fact that he’s trying to send all that flying out the window is both impressive and infuriating in its stubbornness. 

Your own voice is far more subdued as you fidget with the hem of your coat. “That’s not how this is supposed to work…”

“Oh aye? Turnin’ down gaggles of soulmates jus’ a light Saturday mornin’ fer ya then?”

Despite the dour mood, you huffed in something akin to levity at his words, feeling some of that tension unreel from your bones in the face of the small upward curve of his lips that accompanied them. “If I say yes will that convince you to throw in the towel?”

Enchanting eyes sparked with determination and something playful. “Hate to break it tae ya, lass, but we’re a right stubborn bunch o’ blokes.”

“And her?” 

Cerulean eyes hardened again. “We’ll sort that out between us.” 

A leather covered arm reaches out to guard your left side, a firm body stepping into your space to block you from a passing beta encroaching too close on your private conversation. You don’t miss the slight rumble in his chest given as a warning to the traipsing man, the subtle growl claiming this spot and two of you in it, an intimidating scowl berating him for nearly knocking into you because of it. It catches you off guard, unconsciously leaning into the alpha's safety from the unaware intruder, the heady scent of freshly ground coffee beans permeating his clothes and coating you in a fresh pot to ease your delicate nerves.

It takes the two of you a moment to separate despite both of you knowing the ‘threat’ is gone; and even then the amount of space between is kept minimal at best. It’s hard to deny the pull molecularly chaining you to this man whose pheromones are carving out spaces in the cracks between the marrow like rapids, filling the pock marked gaps and branding your existence as something completely different than it was before. 

The structural fibers in your body are being split in half like colliding atoms in a particle accelerator. It’s a molecular tug of war between listening to ancestral instincts imploring you to stay with the protective alpha and past emotional trauma begging you not to give in to complicated matters of the heart. You’ve been hurt once before by someone of his kind and the last thing you needed was to punt yourself all the way back to square one when it had taken you so long to reach this part of your healing journey. 

You know where that path leads. There’s nothing waiting for you but despair.

Unknowing or lacking regard for your internal struggle, the alpha surprises you by shifting his arm to sprawl across your shoulder, a gentle but unrelenting force ushering you back in the direction you’d originally come running from, the deceptively casual grip brokering no room for argument. “Now, what’s say we make up fer scarin’ ye earlier with that cup of caffeine ye were gantin’ after, eh?” 

Maybe if you’d possessed a stronger will you might’ve opened your mouth to protest his commanding treatment over you. Instead, nestled close to his body and tucked in tight against his shoulder, he was gentleman enough not to comment on the small whiff you snuck on your way back to the cafe.

The soft instrumentals playing festive tunes over the cafe speakers were an appreciated break from the harsh monotony of whirring kitchen equipment. Depictions of snowmen and candy canes painted artistically on the inside glass celebrated the joyous season. Evergreens and mistletoe; frozen fractals falling from white fluffy clouds. A veritable winter wonderscape - the natural frost accumulated on the outside only adding to the weathering effect. 

Red and green twinkle lights hung strewn across overhead support beams. Garlands with small plastic ornament bobbles snaked around the insides of display cases. An electric votive nestled cozily in miniature wreaths and placed at every table flickered warmly for an added ambience to the already welcoming interior.

The holiday decorations had been up since Thanksgiving, but you’d never taken a moment to really notice them, too focused on the transactional exchange and the time on your phone to give it more than a passing glance of acknowledgement. Fidgeting in your seat, it was a welcome distraction.

You’d been ushered towards one of the secluded tables upon returning to the cozy cafe, your companion either ignorant or uncaring of the odd glances tossed your way by those still inside who witnessed your previous outburst. You kept your head ducked from the initial embarrassment, blood heating your face as he helped you out of your coat and slung it over the back of your chair, making sure you were settled before sauntering off towards the register to place the drink order you’d rattled off. 

While he stood distracted at the counter amongst a sea of waiting customers, one of the older baristas with a candy cane apron discreetly tried to flag down your attention, meticulously cleaning one of the espresso machines with a soiled napkin purposefully tilted away from his view. 

The words in scribbled sharpie pointed your way: ‘You ok?’

Touched by her concern, you gave her a surprisingly genuine smile despite your jittery insides, easing her enough to pass along a thumbs up as she goes back to working on whatever festive drink concoction the lady at the drive thru has deigned to torture her with. It was kind of her to look after you given the strangeness of the day. But against what should be all rational thought you trusted the man who was for all intents a complete stranger.

Here’s to hoping life didn’t pair you with a serial killer.

Shaking your head of such nonsense (hopefully), it took you a moment to recall the last time you gave yourself permission to linger somewhere. With the exception of the hour spent every week in Dr. Miranda’s office, you avoided congregating in public spaces for more than the few minutes it took to get in, get out, and return to the safety of your abode. Crowds made you skittish; the abused animal inside burrowed deep within your rib cage voicing its objections and reflecting its displeasure in the way it made you outwardly twitch. Once upon a time even stepping foot in a place like this - enclosed, swirling with clashing aromas, a singular point of escape - seemed like such an unattainable goal. Even now the awareness of the situation caused your agoraphobia to writhe under your skin, poisoning like fire ant venom and tempting your lungs into anaphylactic shock. 

Deep breaths, girl. In… out… in… out… let it wash over you… inhale… exhale… 

You are safe. You are safe. You are– 

Like nails on a chalkboard, the scratching of wood against ceramic jostled you from your meditative process, an involuntary yelp met with a small grin of apology as the imposing alpha placed your own drink in front of you before taking up residence in the open seat across. Something about the setting exacerbated his already potent smell, mixing with the sweetness of the beverages and leaving you with a deep gnawing ache to lean across the table and drink it straight from the source.

The tide of anxiety receded back to the depths of your mind, your inner omega settling in the presence of your scent match. Even if you couldn’t escape the dark presence prowling like a half-starved panther on the other end of the bond, the natural relief that came with sitting three feet away from your opposite designation had you breathing steadier than you had since leaving therapy a short while ago. You may not be entirely comfortable with this predicament, but at least the attention came with a few built in perks. 

The fake candle in the center highlighted the limited edition designs on your respective drinks, but it’s the name scrawled in sparkly black sharpie that catches your attention on his disposable cup. “MacTavish?”

“John,” he confirms, “pleasure ta meet ya, lass. Though I s’pose tha’s how I should’ve started things out in the first place. With, ya know… manners.”

“Not like I made introductions easy for us…” you mumbled with a wince, tracing over the cafe’s symbol on your cup as a small distraction from having to make eye contact at the admission.

“Aye, ye didn’t. But I cannae fault ye fer havin’ a sense of self preservation starin’ down a big burly Scotsman, now can I?” 

It had been moreso about running from your problems than being outright intimidated by the man, but you weren’t about to question his assumption and open up a whole new can of worms in the process. “Right...”

There was a brief pause as he stared at you expectantly, hoping you’d return the favor now that he’d taken that first step with an official greeting. Something about offering up even that little part of yourself scared you though. It felt like handing over power to the fae folk; like once he knew your name he could strip the autonomy from your spirit and ensnare you forever in his enchanted domain.

Instead, you took a sip from the hot liquid in your hands, soothed by the syrupy blend like a steady palm rubbing lines down your back. Not nearly as good as the earthy bouquet your nose had been sampling with every inhale. Maybe if you’d added a pump of caramel…

You fought desperately to ignore the part of your brain that whispered comparisons to the rich espresso-y figure across the way, stopping any and all sidetracking towards scandalous thoughts of a more private taste testing. 

This was not the time for slick inducing fantasies.

Once he realized he wouldn’t receive an echoing answer, he mirrored you with his own brew, humming in approval at whatever pleasant taste he found and dropping the subject temporarily. Thankful he didn’t push, you read further down on his own drink, unable to help the small scoff of surprise after reading the incriminating label.

“A sugar cookie latte? Not the most masculine of drinks, is it?” You’re not sure where you found the courage to softly tease him over his beverage of choice. Clearly his heavy alpha pheromones were messing with your logic receptors. “Thought your kind liked to keep things dark and bitter.” 

“I'm an alpha, lass. Chasin’ after sweet smellin’ omegas is what we do fer fun.” There was a sparkle there that hinted towards your earlier predicament, a not so subtle implication combined with his cheeky grin that reassured you it was all good natured. You at least had the decency to duck your head abashedly, face heating up from more than just the warming drink. “Kinda gives us a wee proclivity fer honeyed tastes.”

Honestly, he had a point. Can’t say you’d ever thought of it that way before. I mean, seriously. Whoever said alphas needed to be gritty when they came naturally ingrained with a sweet tooth?

“Guess that’s why she smells like chocolate.”

Your lips formed the words without thought, something mean tugging at you the same time he did. Nails bite into the recycled coffee sleeve like sharpened teeth, taking out the urge to scratch on the poor item rather than call attention to the scarf still secured around your neck. Couldn’t even get through a normal outing without him adding his two cents to the mix.

A hard tap on the tabletop called your attention back to John. You’d maybe expected an affirming response, but what you don't expect is to find him staring at you from across the table with a suddenly serious expression, speaking to you in an almost chiding manner. “I'd rather ye didn’t bring up sore spots to intentionally cause yerself pain.”

He didn’t allow you to hide, his face moving in tandem with yours as you attempted to duck his gaze, the blunt observation leaving you sheepish as you worried your bottom lip. 

“...can't avoid the conversation forever.”

“Aye. But the least we can do is get ta know each other first.”

That genuinely puzzled you. “Why?”

Even through the bulk of his winter coat you could see the way the material stretched to make way for his biceps as he crossed them over his chest, leaning back in his seat as he regarded you with easy going eyes. “Yer my scent match, lass. Ye think I'm not o’er ‘ere stewin’ in a fruity cocktail wishin’ I’d ‘ave taken ye tae a juice bar instead?”

Your face heated again at the implication. Seems his own thought pattern wasn’t too terribly dissimilar to the wiley suggestions pawing at your psyche with scintillating ideas of debauchery. “Wouldn't go that far...”

“Got no shame in admittin’ yer drivin’ me up the wall.”

He really didn’t, did he? 

“Not sure you should be saying things like that.”

“Probably.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Ne’er been one fer followin’ rules though. Doesnae make sense when we're both wantin’ the same thing.”

You examined him over the rim of your cup, forearm resting on the sticky laminate as you leaned in closer, almost imploring in your tone. “Isn't that just further proof we shouldn't even be talking right now?”

Taking a sip of his own, he brushed off your concerns like a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Ye really think ye can jus’ wipe yer hands and forget about us?”

Silence laid thick in the air between you. There was no point denying when he felt every bit the earth-rattling gravity well that had the two of you touching toes beneath the table. 

He didn’t even bother trying to hide the smugness from his expression. “Exactly. I may not be takin’ ye ta my bed, lass, but yer mine nonetheless.”

You shouldn't have liked the way that sounded. For the past four years of your life you’ve been unwilling property to a man holding you confined in a secret realm of bleak oblivion. You’ve begged and pleaded through every starless sky to go back to being the woman you were before fate intervened, desperate for peace in an internal war. All you ever wanted was freedom; to bound over mountains and soar across fields. To scrape off the layers belonging to him and build castles in the clouds far beyond his reach.

Yet here you were thanking the maker of scent wicking panties that your match couldn’t detect the perfume wafting up between your legs at the thought of him staking his claim over you.

“So,” he went on, “we figure out a way tha’ we can be in yer life that doesnae cross any boundaries and ye gain four brutes that'll gladly shank a man fer ya.”

You raise an eyebrow at his choice of wording before taking a sip from your cup. “Sounds a tad extreme if you ask me.”

Canines gleaming, the look he sends you is downright carnivorous. “Oh, yer in fer a spell, lass.”

Chatter turns to small talk in an effort to distract you from the discomfort of previous conversation. Turns out he’d drawn the short straw when he and his pack mates realized over piles of paperwork and exhaustive meetings that certain individuals who would not be named - but he’d been more than happy to throw under the bus - hadn’t checked some things off their list while out doing a routine grocery run the other night. Seems like the previous two you’d met were left nearly as shaken as you after the encounter, forgoing the last few needed aisles in favor of ending things early to process tough decisions behind closed doors.

That’s all the information he offers; no further details exchanged on the matter. The internal workings of your personal lives kept private. It didn’t take a mathematician to understand why you prefer to remain guarded, but you assume on his end it had a fair bit to do with the obnoxious purple elephant in the room, trumpeting and stampeding all over the future you could’ve built had it just stayed locked in a zoo. There’s still some moments along the line where he lays a trail of tiny bread crumbs, challenging you with hungry eyes to follow the path through winding woodland and glittering caves towards whatever lay beyond. You’re tempted a few times to chance a couple steps, toeing the line of curiosity but always pulling back to the safety of the unknown. 

The less you know about their lives the better. You never even inquire as to the missing three names.

Eventually you settle on the topic of just how exactly he proposed this hairbrained… relationship?... was going to work. Fuck, there really had to be a better word for it. Not friends, not lovers. Not a situationship. Not total strangers anymore.

Companions? Counterparts? Symbiotes?

Either way, you’d both been spouting suggestions for the better part of five minutes and you weren’t any closer to a solution that would leave both parties feeling satisfied. Granted the only thing that could work for you would be as little interaction as humanly possible, but he was firm in his convictions.

“We can keep it ta texts fer right now if ye like.”

“But then she'll feel bad if she sees you writing them.”

“Then we'll jus’ ‘ave tae come visit.”

“But then I'll feel like some sleazy homewrecking call girl.”

“Now yer jus’ bein’ a numpty.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Yea, ye should stop tha’.”

“John!”

“Lass.”

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that flippant laughter off his face and pry it from his mouth with dental tools. The damn thing was unfairly infectious in the way it warmly beckoned a smile to your lips. Here you were trying to be sensible about the situation he created and so far all attempts to come to some sort of compromise were met with off handed ribbing and facetiousness.

You wouldn’t admit that some of the holdup was partially your fault - looking for desperate excuses to keep this from happening - but it hung suspended in the quiet between your words. And what’s more he knew it too.

“What about the occasional email?” you threw out for the hell of it.

John outright guffawed at the ridiculous suggestion, drawing the attention of some of the surrounding tables without a care towards who heard, brawny arms tossed upward in fond exasperation. “This ain’t a business transaction, hen! Saints, what a notion…”

“Well…” you sputtered, “then it seems like we’ve reached an impasse.” 

Please just drop it.

He just looked at you with further amusement, swirling circles on the table with the bottom edge of his now empty coffee cup. “Ye always a neurotically charged mess or is this jus’ my lucky day?”

Oh god. In your desperation to undo the upheaval he’s already causing in your life you really weren’t painting a pretty picture of yourself were you? 

You cringed backwards at the realization. “Pretty sure you’re the reason I’m making myself look like one.”

“Aye, but a bonnie one,” he agrees.

“And you’re not worried about the mental stability of the person which life has comedically deemed yours and is making a complete fool of herself?”

“Just tryin’ tae make ye smile. It's been workin’.” A fact he looked quite proud of.

And it was. You couldn't deny that. For how much havoc this was wreaking on the parts of yourself that had become so ill equipped to handle basic human interactions outside your minuscule inner circle, there was a part of you that was glad to find you still possessed the capability of laughing with a stranger.

The conversation paused as his brow knit in confusion, the faint buzzing of a cell phone rattling in his pocket barely audible over the din as he drew it from the interior lining of his coat. The way he held the device and flicked through it with his thumb implied a text message as opposed to a phone call, huffing as he read over the contents before palming it in his meaty hand.

“Och, the louses are houndin’ me fer their caffeine fix. Hang on a tic, lass.” Flashing a quick smile, his chair slid back with a sharp squeak as he stood, strolling back towards the counter and flagging down an unoccupied barista. It was impossible not to follow him with your eyes, ogling his stocky frame as he rattled off coffee orders from the conversation pulled up on his phone. Even the sweet beta girl behind the register wasn’t impervious to his roguish charms; just a little more subtle in the way she admired the casual arrogance in which he leaned against the marble. 

How long had it been since you last let your eyes wander over the shape of a man and thought of something other than a rancid dumpster and abrasive brick scraping morse code across your exposed back?

There was something uniquely disarming about the alpha. In many ways his ability to break past your bullshit reminded you of Dr. Miranda. Both refused to let you spiral to darker thoughts, spinning the world into one of muted colors rather than shades of desolate gray. But where she spent years undoubtedly locked in a study hall pouring over dissertations and cramming decades of designation theory over red bulls and ramen, John had accomplished that same level of trust in a matter of–

You checked the time on your phone. The pair of you had been sitting in this cafe for roughly fifteen minutes now. That’s all it took for this whirlwind of a man to blow away the cobwebs accumulating in your chest and deliver a shot of adrenaline to your synapses.

Too bad the monster in your veins would make sure it didn’t last.

John came back from the counter holding a cardboard coffee carrier by the handle, looking down at you expectantly from his position towering over you. “Right, lass. Need tae be droppin’ these,” he raised his arm a smidge, gesturing to the drinks, “off tae the lads. So hows about we quit the stallin’ and skip tae the part where ye stop overthinkin’ things and lemme have yer number?”

He didn’t even let you open your mouth in feeble defense of that (true) statement before serving you a warning look that dissolved the syllables from the tip of your tongue. From what little you’d gathered during your brief stint together, you didn’t doubt his potential gumption to wrangle you to the cold tile floor - even in the presence of all these people - just to fish the device out of your pocket himself if need be.

Personally, you didn’t feel up to testing his bluff. 

Working off pure muscle memory, you handed over your phone and watched as he pulled up your messaging app, inputting his name amongst the scant others on the list and shooting off a fruit emoji. If he noticed the sparse amount of contacts in your phone he didn't comment on it. Not like it was hard to miss a grand total of four separate text chains.

His phone buzzed again from the text he sent himself, handing back your device with a smile that erred on the side of slightly devious contentment. The bastard knew he won and was being unfairly smug about it. “There now. See how easy that was, lass? Perfectly painless.”

That’s when it hit you.

“What if she says no?” The sheer panic gripping your chest catches you off guard as much as the blurted out words. Trepidation crushes like a hydraulic press, the thought of this precious fleeting moment being all you ever get seizing your body like a hundred electrified shocks. The rickety tower of emotional stability you’d been working so hard to keep steady seemed to crumble beneath your feet now that there was a chance he wouldn't be around to keep it from falling. “What if this is all just some big mistake and we never should have met and I end up ruining your pack–”

Gods, this was so fucked up. A minute ago you wanted nothing more than to never hear from John again and now your inner omega was giving you whiplash trying to cling to an alpha that wasn’t hers by the skin of her blunted teeth. 

This was exactly why you didn’t want to have anything to do with them in the first place! It was a no win scenario that was only going to make things worse by confusing your already emotionally precarious omega. Delaying the inevitable. Dragging things out. Torturing her wounded soul trying to wring water from stone.

But you couldn’t give him up anymore - not now. Maybe once you’re home safe in your nest and can breathe clean air not tainted with his fragrance. When you’ve forgotten the oceanic hues that gleam at you with such open eagerness. When his brogue and his candor are replaced with flashes of doe eyed brown and thick flowing locks and the taste of chocolatey truth cuts too deep to heal. Maybe distance will make this ache inside easier to bear. 

But at this moment, despite your earlier hesitations, you weren’t ready for the clock to strike midnight on the impossible.

If he couldn’t read the distress on your face then he certainly was made aware of it by the sour smell of overripe fruit cascading off of you, bitter and tart and pungent as you began to spiral, getting lost in a torrent of what ifs and worst case scenarios. 

You never got to finish your verbal stream of consciousness. Alpha instincts snapped into action before you could begin blowing fumes, disregarding his coffee as he hoisted you up from your seat with immediate alertness. Strong arms encased your vulnerable form, one hand cradling the back of your neck with gentle pressure, engaging the bundle of nerves located there with a direct line to the body’s limbic system. An omega’s weak spot; it overrides all internal circuitry and sends calming signals to the brain, disengaging stress receptors, activating the amygdala, bringing you to a headspace of obedience and security. It was highly taboo to touch an omega there without their explicit permission; a right reserved only for close family members and chosen pack mates. 

You should be angry– you should be furious. How dare he assume that just because he was your scent match that it gave him any right to manhandle you! Robbing your ability to retake control and leaving you just as helpless as that fateful night in the alley.

But he was. And you just didn’t care. Call it biology working against you, but all you felt in that moment was a deep rooted need to sink into his grounding embrace and let your mind go blissfully blank. Trusting in fate to send you an alpha with morals and integrity. Handing over the keys to a man who knew how to drive.

Releasing more of his smooth creamy scent into the air around you, body and designation worked in tandem to soothe every aspect of your overwhelmed being. Outside influences floated away with all the cares of the world, revolving around a fixed point in space exactly where you stood. Nothing else existed in this fraction of the universe. Just two souls destined to be together by forces beyond comprehension.

This was what you were made for. This felt right.

And, god– he was purring for you.

“Hey hey– shhh shhh. Settle, omega, settle... easy now. Jus’ like tha’... There’s a good lass.”

Slowly but surely, the acrid odor of anxiety faded back into the sweet juicy scent of a fresh crisp pear. A small whine escaped your lips as he sapped your body of strength, held aloft only by the taut muscles in his forearms. Glazed over eyes reflected the haze fogging your senses, melting you down into something gooey and malleable that dripped like corn syrup, sticky and coating every inch of your skin in a clear varnish. Breathing became easier. The heavy thumping in your ears faded back to white noise. Bones turned rubbery and tendons fell limp until you could no longer remember what upset you in the first place.

No longer needing the subduing effects of gentling, his hand moved from its spot at the back of your neck to the base of your skull, thumb tenderly stroking where skin met hair, shushing soft assurances against your temple.

“Ye needn’t worry a strand on tha’ bonnie wee head of yers. Ye dunnae ken her like we do. Jus’ leave everythin’ tae me. I’ll sort things right as rain, yea?”

The rational part of your brain knew better than to believe honeyed lies, but in the cloudy serotonin you simply nodded into the dark leather of his coat, spellbound under his tranquilizing touch.

“Atta girl. C’mon, let’s get ye tae yer car.”

Helping you back into your coat, he made sure you were bundled up nice and snug before shuffling you outside into the frosty air, a hand resting over the small of your back in a way you didn’t object to in your current slothful state. The chime felt a little less abrasive this time around as you exited the cafe, moving in the direction of your car parked in its spot alongside the bustling rush hour traffic.

You knew the elderly thing was a spectacle to behold; all chipped paint and rusted metal, duct tape holding the bumper together, a dent in the passenger door from where your neighbor’s kids had kicked a ball into it last spring. There was a crack across the windshield from where a bird made friendly with it earlier in the year that sliced through your vision but didn’t impede you from driving. 

‘Character’ was the word you used to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t what everyone else usually chose. John obviously fell into the latter camp.

“Ye sure tha’ thing’s operable, lass?” He scrutinized every banged-up, well-worn inch of it, pulling a face at what he found lacking and raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Not sure I trust it ta get ya to point b without a few bumps and scrapes.”

You sighed at the familiar criticism, having heard much the same from your fathers. “It gets the job done. Still safer than walking around by myself anyways. I promise I wouldn’t drive it if I thought it’d get me killed one day.” Only a partial lie at least.

He was clearly unconvinced, but blessedly didn’t say anything further besides whatever mumbled remark he kept under his breath. Watching quietly while still keeping an eye on the surrounding area, he stayed near your side as you fumbled with the keys, grabbing the handle to hold it open as you tossed your bag on the passenger seat. “Right. In ya go then.”

You thought that would be the end of it as he closed the door behind you, buckling your fraying seat belt and hoping he was far enough away that you could safely attempt to start your car without any more judgment from him if this ended up being the one time it didn’t turn over.

You jumped slightly as his gloved hand tapped on the glass, turning your head to watch him motion for you to lower the window. Rolling the old school contraption down, you were again hit with a velvety shot of espresso as he half leaned in towards you, forearm resting against the top of your car.

“If ye think fer one minute tha’ I’m gonna jus’ up and forget about ye now tha’ we’re partin’ ways ye’ll be sorely disappointed lass. Tha’ there thing in yer purse’ll be ringin’ before ye ken it and I’m not afraid to come lookin’ if I dunnae get an answer.” 

The promise in his tone felt suspiciously like a threat, but one without any real intended consequence. His relaxed posture and sparkling irises assured you that while he’d probably still be cross if you ignored his attempts to reach out, you wouldn’t be awoken in the middle of the night to someone taking a battering ram to your flimsy front door.

At least, you hoped they wouldn’t.

Flashing you a playful wink, John took a step back from the vehicle. “Take care, omega. Be seein’ ya real soon.”

You’re shouting your name at him before you even realize what you’ve done, the small part of you that longs for a deeper connection clawing free from the part that fears having her heart shattered. From a few feet away you could still see the fireworks bursting in his eyes, the way he stands a little taller and puffs out his already broad chest with euphoria at your proffered olive branch. You can’t bring yourself to regret it when his unabashed smile conjures images you never dared hope for.

He waited until you rolled up your window and heard the telltale click of the locks on your doors engaging before finally taking off, crossing to the other side of the slippery street and walking with a hand tucked into his coat pocket until a line of cars finally blocked his retreating form from view. 

You sat there for a moment with your hands on the steering wheel, the silence in the vehicle more deafening than the wind howling outside. The past twenty minutes played like rewind on a VCR, speeding through the chain of events leading to the present to be watched again and again and again. 

After the fifth or sixth replay, all you could think of was rushing back to your apartment before fate could intervene once more and you accidentally run over your fourth scent match’s pekingese with your fucking car. 

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[divinit3a]

thing au drabble for @magspieart :o)

word count: 1513 jack-of-all trades YN, corrupted research drone Sun cw: fear, "living" circuitry/wires

PS- check out their lovely artwork&ideas >:D

The nights here are pitch black. 

Like dwelling beneath the surface of the Earth’s crust, hidden away in cave systems. The notion sounds comforting at this point. To be isolated far from mankind without a care in the world.

You blink through fatigue and sleep deprivation. Muscles strung like a bowstring, taut with stress and ready to snap apart. 

Yawning as you mix together an elixir of instant coffee and boiled water into a blackened sludge. The sludge swirls around in your thermos. You stare into it, as if a magical answer would appear from the ether within and answer your countless questions. 

The meager light of your head lamp, fastened to your snowcap, barely ignites parts of the impromptu research station. You don’t bother wasting the power reserves on your late night excursions anymore. 

You find it hard to sleep. Difficult to dispel the images from your mind. Of the injuries you saw on others. Unnatural. Unholy. 

The rest of your crew chalked it up to an unlucky streak. It was best to not let paranoia fester in close quarters like this. With a storm raging overhead, the helicopter couldn’t be called until it subsides. And after the first of your crew was picked off… well, there is only so much stress a human mind can take before–

You startle when you turn the corner.

A towering figure stands there. Your eyes travel up, and up. Blinking rapidly to accommodate the jarring dilation of your pupils, as the overhead lights burn an afterimage into your retinas.

It’s Sun. 

You relax your shoulders. It’s odd to see the research drone out this late. The night time patrols are handled by its security counterpart, Moon.

But it has been more active lately, perhaps on high alert from the emergency status of your team. The blinking of a radio in the helm that is constantly relaying out an “SOS” into an uncaring, unlistening void.

The fate of your injured coworker is still uncertain. They are resting in the infirmary. They said they were attacked by some sort of wild animal; but you cant imagine what sort of fauna around here could do such damage, yet leave them alive...

The drone stares at you for a while. Most of your crew find it unnerving. A corporate, friendly design. A model that was once considered cutting-edge and sleek is now more of a hindrance and a pack mule for the company. Almost lost to time and disrepair, until you started taking them on as a personal project to rejuvenate and remove from the chopping block of becoming obsolete.

The upgrades have landed the model a ‘new’ job: act as a wall of metal set about to do menial tasks. To monitor the station and keep the research on track. Yet you've always been endeared toward its rigid personality.

"Hi Sun," you greet it with a dip to your head.

Expecting that to be the end of the brief encounter, you try to walk past it, but the mechanical creature stands stagnant in your path. Unmoving. The hollowed-out grin seems to stretch wider in your presence. You blink, imagining two pinholes, two dots of light in its mouth, but that would be— "E-evening, researcher," the robotic hum of an automated response churns through its circuitry. You find your concern taking a backseat, enjoying its simple yet effective pleasantry procedures.

“Evening,” you return the greeting. Sun’s posture never relaxes, mechanisms stiff with weathering. Yet its face plate swivels on its neck hinge, keeping a monitor on your every movement to shuffle past the robot.

Before turning the bend of the hallway, you pause.

There's a nagging thought inside your head that just won't leave. Maybe it's the paranoia bred from lack of sleep – of feeling like someone in this station could be a murderer. A screw loose that shatters the whole facade of being somewhere safe, surrounded by well-equipped professionals. 

No, that would mean admitting that even now, your life is in danger. Leaning in to the certainty of a predictable machine, where your faith in mankind has been tested.

All that fear winds up tight until it becomes an uncomfortable knot in your chest. So, you seek to take on a task that is familiar. Reassuring. 

It will keep your mind from wandering – worse yet, spiraling, at least for the rest of the night.

"Actually, Sun—care for an early maintenance check up?" You call out to the drone.

Its face jolts on a rotation to mime a head tilt. The cracking sound it makes reminds you of a neck snapping. "Soundsounds just peachy, friend! Lead the way!" The jovial voicebank continues, a sway to its arms that is cartoonishly friendly. You admire the gusto while the world is otherwise so bleak. 

Sun marches after you. A slight drag to its left leg. The metal is torn into, panels hanging off the hinges. 

You take note of the detail for later. 

The two of you walk to a smaller offset of the lab: the mechanic’s room. You are a jack-of-all-trades, a hire put on to keep an eye on company tech. Such as the assistant drone across from you.

Sun sits down on your work bench. The mechanical being leans forward, the expanse of its back on view. You feel around the planes of curved metal, fingertips knowing where the latch is that opens up the entire panel. 

The panels open with a groan. With strong resistance. A snapping noise like vines torn apart. Far beyond what you’d mark down as a need to have hinges oiled, almost as if an opposing force was trying to hold it together. To keep them whole.

"I'm going to power you down now," You instruct. Sun's eyes flash a burning white glow. Then in a flicker, dim to their regular intensity. "Y-you got it, researcher!" The lines exalt from their circuitry. Complacent. Yet something curls into its wires, a frantic and fleeting moment of panic that suddenly expires in a supernova the moment you are reaching in and turning off their systems.

The switch is easy to access. Though it parts with difficulty.

The sounds of their internal workings still. The fans stop. The coolant ceases pumping. Electricity stuck without an outlet. Frozen.

You fall into the lull of the routine maintenance check. Dutifully testing wires, cleaning out stubborn gunk that clogs up their delicate machinery. You frown at a particularly stubborn batch of gristle. You lean closer to allow your headlamp to illuminate the situation, but find that–

"Ow," you utter. The small shock to your finger feels insignificant. A faulty wire. You hadn’t been able to check over their systems as frequently, not on this research mission. Perhaps it had put a strain on their foundation, caused a few glitches and bugs that you’d normally catch well in advance.

You move to retreat. But you freeze up. Eyes widening at the sight before you.

The wire matrix pulses. A hypnotic array of neurons sparking and activating. An expanse of circuitry interconnecting and linking. The lights flash once, twice. 

Rippling throughout the dense machinery like a wall of flesh—sentient, breathing, cascading. 

You panic. Rush to turn the assistant's system back on. To stop this horrid hallucination and ground yourself back into reality, because this can’t be real–

You find that you don't need to flip the switch.

Sun powers back on without prompting. The twisting innards interlock with the lines of electricity, completing the system. Routing electricity through like a nervous system. 

You jump back as his hull shuts close in a rapid motion.

Fast, like it had tried to snap down swift enough to decapitate you.

Sun rises to stand before you.

Moving so swift, with such fluidity, that the drone is hardly recognizable from the clunky machinery you’ve grown accustom to. 

Like it is alive, breathing, and not–

"D-don't dont do that again," ‘friend.’ Your breath catches in your throat. Its grip on your wrist is so tight that your muscles spasm and you drop the screwdriver held tight in your fists with a clatter.

“I d-don’t like being shut,” ‘off,’  Sun says. The faceplate swivels and dangles on its flimsy hinge. Within its mouth, shadows ripple and seep out. Reaching toward you. Wisps of claws and unearthly matter that caresses across your face. Cold, bitterly cold. 

Your mind stops working. 

‘so dark.’ The shadows murmur, like a chime lost on the breeze. The temperature of the room keeps plummeting until your breath is crystalizing in the air. Every panicked, hushed wheeze. As your lungs shudder, your body pumps out adrenaline, yet you are stuck in place.

"Good," 'good,' it utters. Synthetic voice blending with a whispering shush. Almost natural like breathing, an exhale that speaks alongside its record-like voice.

Alarm flashes through you. 

You need to tell the others. 

You need to check in on your coworker in the infirmary—you need to, to—

pass out — expecting a thud of your head hitting concrete, only to be caught. Enveloped in arms made of metal and unreal, wispy sinew alike.

[project-retina]

Wait combat abilities?

Agent, I hope you took a refresher course on hostile situations before coming here, I think you are going to need it!

"yea what is that abou-"

before phoenix can finish that thought, prism's speaks, a but hurriedly.

"anyways, it's much easier to replace human agents with robots if the humans are dead, anywho. Robutler. you know what to do."

with that, prism's hologram dissipates, and robutler begins to aim a laser at phoenix's head.

"Agent Phoenix, thanks for showing me how to be an amazing agent! sorry that I have to kill you, but, its alright!"

"I'll carry on your legacy as Agent Robutler!"

"That doesn't even have the same ring to it!"

the laser shoots, and phoenix is able to deflect it with the soundboard just in time.

[mlqueen89]

Six | Stakes

I want to know  Everything about you that I've had to dream about  Every single almost that we've been dancing around  I want to know  Who we are when we can stop pretending we're just friends  Let's go to those places that we've never been 

The Way I Wanna by Max McNown 

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin / ofc (top gun: maverick) 

rating: 18+ (minors dni) 

warnings/triggers: 🔥smut in overall series, p in v sex, fingering (lmk if i missed any!)    

word count: 8,518

summary: ellie realizes that she needs to swallow her pride as the stakes are upped in a significant way. 

A/N: i think i have some of the best readers on all of tumblr, if not all of the internet. so, since you’ve been so patient with me and i've been torturing you with all the sexual tension... 

my biggest apologies for leaving you guys hanging! lots of illness and #toughlifeshit going on, but all is looking up.

for those of you looking forward to the glen powell/f!writer oc fic "i can do it with a broken heart," my lovely betas and i are cooking up the launch.

there are a few tag requests that don’t have tumblr usernames attached in the tag form. If you requested a tag and you don’t see yourself tagged, let me know and I'll tag you right away and add you to the tag doc! 

allons-y! 

❥ playlist ♡ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ glossary of terms ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ❥ 

The data was in the red again.  

Angry, relentless, it seeped across Ellie’s screen in jagged lines and pulsing errors. When she closed her eyes, to sleep, to blink, under the spray of a hot shower, she could see it still, just behind the quiet in her mind, burned into her retinas. 

Error. 

Failure. 

Danger Ellie Rigby, danger. 

Was it irrational to think that numbers could taunt her? Because it sure felt like they were. 

She’d been at this for hours—no, days. It was days, now. Days that bled together with routine and numbers that didn’t act the way they were supposed to. 

A symphony of chaos orchestrated by Jake fucking Seresin. 

Pulling flight data, filtering telemetry, layering Jake’s flight logs over top of every other pilot’s log in the system, from testing and from mission training (because why stop with just Rooster and Teak) always resulted in the same findings.  

Jake’s data showed the same maneuvers. 

Same wind shear. 

Same altitude drops. 

Same variables, same route, same conditions. 

But his data didn’t bend like Rooster’s or dip like Teak’s. It broke. Every. Damn. Time. 

She muttered fuck and I'm going to murder him under her breath, dragging the cursor through the heatmaps, watching his flight path curve and zip, carve through her projections and predicted variables like a scalpel through paper. A hot knife through butter. 

It didn’t make sense. Nothing she wrote could predict him. Nothing she coded could contain him. 

No matter how often she adjusted the parameters, no matter how often she read his data and shifted her tech to catch him where he’d dodged, the same red numbers filled her screen. 

It was as if he studied her data sets during pre-flight briefings and quickly noted how they could be shattered until they were unrecognizable. She was almost certain he did, she could practically see it, his eyes, mischievous and fucking twinkling, catching hers as he strode past her toward the tarmac.  

Not even the Anti-Seresin protocol she coded after that first test flight disaster made her feel better when it popped up on her screen. Instead, it made her something that teetered between frustrated and livid.  

If the time constraints weren’t impossibly tight to present something functional, stable and reliable, she might have been impressed. Might have been. 

If it’s not ready... Mav had mentioned, again, just the other day as he dragged her out of the office to get some fresh air and a coffee, almost prying her rigid fingers from the edge of her desk ...we can defer to next quarter.  

It took every ounce of patience she had left to keep her hand from crushing the disposable cup in her grip, to keep her gait even as they walked. She responded as she had before: No, it’s ready.  

Deferring now felt like admitting that she wasn’t cut out for this, and by birth, she knew in her goddamned bones, she was. Even if she didn’t like acknowledging it, she was Rick Neven’s daughter, a top class, damn good Top Gun pilot. Raised on the shoulders of quasi-uncles like Iceman and Mav, Wolfman and Slider. That meant something. 

It had to. 

She leaned in closer to the screen, as if proximity might change what she was seeing before she leaned back in a huff, combing a hand through her hair. 

Nothing held him. 

Not her algorithms.  

Not the predictive modeling.  

Not even the black box diagnostics that she’d demanded access to from the higher ups.  

He was effectively a ghost in the system. Untouchable. Untraceable. Un-fucking-reasonable. 

And yet, all of it would have been easier to deal with if he wasn’t also (unfortunately) the last person she wanted to or should have been thinking about late at night. 

It would have been so much simpler if she didn’t remember the sound he made as he finally gave her what she was begging for and pushed inside her, a low groan against the shell of her ear. It would have been less complicated if she didn’t still dream about his fingers in her hair and the scrape of his teeth against the hard edge of her collarbone. 

She couldn’t fucking think straight anymore.  

It was as if when he was undoing her, with his mouth, with his hands, with the way he moved inside of her like he knew what would set her alight, he’d quietly rewired her brain. Remapped neural pathways until they all led back to him. His smell, his taste, the sound of his voice and the way it hit deep parts of her, so her mind thrummed like a tuning fork. 

Sometimes, more so now after the night she left him at the Hard Deck a week ago, there was very little between her and the overwhelming need to satisfy herself. In a bathroom stall, in the quiet of her office, after hours with the door locked, biting hard into her bottom lip as she came with the thought of him on her mind. 

Nothing ever quite satisfied that need for him though. The pinch of desire still lingering just out of reach, building until she next had to ease the pressure of it. 

Every time, on the come down, she pushed away the suffocating thought that she’d never remembered a time when she’d felt like this. Simultaneously smoldering and yet, burning. 

“You wanted me?” 

Her spine straightened sharply, his voice hitting her like heat. It was something she felt in her stomach. A flop. A flush of liquid warmth that pooled a little lower than her bellybutton. 

She didn’t hear the knock if there had been one. Just that familiar drawl curling through the air, low and casual, laced with something just beneath the surface.  

Ellie looked up fast, heart kicking against her ribs. Across the room, Jake stood in the doorway, tall, golden, and infuriating—his flight suit still on, the zipper tugged halfway down like if was nothing, like he didn’t know what that did to her.  

Except he did—he had to. The night they’d met, when he’d looked at her over the rim of his beer, the same easy confidence in the way he presented himself, the same suit clinging to his body like a second skin. 

She gave a curt little nod toward the chair opposite her desk. Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed hard, hoping the thick, hardwood between them would be enough of a buffer. Enough distance so he couldn’t hear the erratic beating of her traitorous heart as loudly as she could. 

When he stepped into the room, he shut the door softly behind him and moved toward the chair. He didn’t sit, instead choosing to hover near it, hands planted on his hips, a trademark smirk exposing dimples. 

“You still chasing my numbers?” he asked, eyes flickering to the screen in front of her. 

“Depends, are you still screwing mine up?” She shot back easily, second nature, but her voice didn’t quite carry the edge that she’d meant it to. 

“Told you I don’t play by the rules, Ace.” 

Admittedly, it was to be expected. Rules and Jake Seresin never did play nicely.  

If she ever had to determine who amongst them had been body snatched, the first sign she’d look for was a version of Jake that toed the line and didn’t fall back into his usual penchant for getting under her skin. No pun intended. 

He smirked, but there was something else in his eyes. Something darker. Pupils blown wide, eclipsing his beautiful green eyes with something hungry. And when his gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, she felt her stomach flip. 

“Maybe your system just can’t keep up with me.” He continued, his voice dipping lower still. 

Her pulse stuttered. She looked away—only to find herself looking down. Below the waist, his flight suit clung to the shape of him, already hard and her mind betrayed her.  

Flashes. The way he took her apart without hesitation. The filthy things he’d whispered in her ear like promises of what was to come as she writhed beneath him.  

Hands dragging her hips to the edge of the bed. His mouth tasting her like he was starving.  

The way he looked up at her as she looked down, gripping the headboard and rocking against his mouth, greedy for the next crushing, shuddering wave of orgasm he pulled from her.  

The hot weight of him stretching her open, filling her when she’d begged, desperate, for the kind of release only his cock could provide. 

It was the memory of a night she’d tried to bury in mountains of logic and equation. Tried to shrink into boxes with labels and cautions. Yet, it managed to crawl back up every day when she saw him, every moment he smirked at her with that shared knowledge. It brought back with it the feelings and the swift, intense ache of needing him, a body no grave could hold down. 

She wanted him again. God, she fucking wanted him.  

“You’ve been thinking about it too,” she said then, breaking the silence. It had meant to be a question, but it came out as a fact, low and raw. 

“Every damn night.” The gravelly sound of his voice was all she needed to hear. He never lied to her. 

Then, between them, it was as if something snapped. 

Ellie stood and stepped around the desk, and he stepped forward to meet her there, hands sliding to her hips. She didn’t stop him. Couldn’t anymore. His touch burned through the thin slip of her shirt, and he kissed her, tongue already in her mouth, like they picked up where they had left off. 

Yet, it wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was a rhythm—one she remembered just as she knew to breathe. Without instruction, he knew where she wanted him to touch her, how to make her gasp into him without guidance. Responding to her thoughts as they passed through her mind. 

His mouth moved to her neck, his hand under her shirt, deftly undoing her bra before he palmed her breast, pinched her nipple sharply until a muted moan parted her lips and her knees threatened to give way. She could feel his smirk against her skin as she clutched his shoulders, holding herself upright.  

He didn’t even need to be inside of her, she thought, she’d come just like this, gripping him as the world melted away while he nipped and sucked where the hickey he’d left that first night had been. If he wanted to mark her, reclaim her as his, she’d let him. 

She stumbled slightly as he pressed her backward until she hit the edge of the desk, breath ragged as he lifted her up onto it like she weighed nothing. She hit the desk with a soft gasp, papers fluttering to the floor, test results and calibration logs scattering like leaves as her hands swept back to brace herself. 

She wasn’t in complete control of her words when they started to come out, unedited, spilling, “You remember—” she began, already breathless, her chest heaving as she tried to find the next word. 

Jake’s voice came out rough, hazy. “I remember every sound you made. Every time you said my name, like you couldn’t help yourself. Begging me to—” 

He was working the button on her jeans now, one handed, as he reached up around the back of her neck and pulled her toward him, his lips crashing to hers like a diver surfacing for air. The button released and he dragged her pants off sharply, pulling her closer to him with the motion. 

Ellie broke the seal of their lips first, tipping her head back a gasp moving through her as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her panties and found her clit, swollen, pulsing. She instinctively clenched around nothing as his thumb brushed her, slick. She watched, entranced as he swallowed thickly, she’d come for him, as many times as he let her. 

“Jesus,” he said it like he had to hold himself back, like the part of him that wanted this to last and the part of him that wanted to fuck her, warred. “You’re still so fucking wet for me...” it came out as a growl, primal. 

“Don’t stop,” she begged, rocking against his hand as he slipped two fingers inside of her, his thumb still moving in lazy circles, just behind the first orgasm waiting to fall out of her. 

Where Jake didn’t like to follow rules, he followed instruction well.  

He didn’t stop.  

Fingers working her just right, like he knew her body better than she did. Like he owned it.  

She was already so close, and he knew it, so when she arched against his hand, the papers still beneath her crinkling and stuck to her skin, he slowed, moving up her body dragging her shirt up to pinch her hard nipple between his teeth. 

“Jake—” she breathed, her brow scrunched. 

Ellie whined as he pulled his fingers out with an obscene, slick sound. When she propped herself up on her elbows, her hand trailing down to fill to void of pleasure, Ellie watched as he pulled the flight suit down, leaving only a white undershirt and his dark blue tented boxers.  

In the light of her office, taking him in, she could see the patch of material dampened with pre-cum. Something in her spiked, her fingers picking up speed as she chased the edge of her ending. 

“Not yet,” he huffed out a breath, his eyes glazed and wild all at once, grabbing her wrist, prying it away. He bent to kiss her clit carefully, reverently, the slightest flick of his tongue and the smallest bit of suction when he came away almost sending her off the cliff face into a freefall. 

Her legs roped around his waist in response as he straightened, holding him to her.  

She was wet and needy and already so close she was shaking from the anticipation of it. It was like muscle memory—he knew her. Knew exactly how to unravel her. 

His eyes caught hers, his hand carefully pulling himself out, the tip already slick with his want. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he stepped closer and dragged the tip of his cock through the mess between her legs. The bump of him on her clit had her hips moving forward, chasing it as a moan escaped her lips. In her ears, she could hear the wetness of herself, could feel her empty cunt clenching around nothing. 

“Jake—” his name was breathy on her lips, a whispered prayer, “—please.” 

Her legs tightened around his lower back, trying to pull him forward closer as he slid himself down toward her opening and he hissed something that sounded at once close and far away. 

“Fuck, Ellie—” He breathed out her name and once it fell from his lips, she wanted to hear him say it again. He spoke her name like he was trying to center himself, trying to regain control of a situation he himself definitely didn’t have control over. 

Ash in the wind. 

“I’m never going to get enough of you,” he groaned, resting his tip just at her entrance. When he pressed forward, pushed into her, the gasp that tore from her was involuntary. She swore she saw fucking stars as her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she closed them into darkness. 

Then—nothing. 

She jolted upright. 

Ellie's skin was slick with sweat, sheets twisted around her thighs, skin flushed and pulsing with the echo of a climax that hadn’t really happened. 

Dark room. Her bed. Alone. No Jake. No desk. No hands. No mouth. Not one inch of his cock inside of her. 

She withdrew the hand between her legs, the wet heat pulsing, aching and unsatisfied. The glow of her phone on her nightstand a beacon in the still darkness: 3:41 AM. 

Her head fell back against her pillow with a loud groan. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Ellie threw off the headset, the clatter as it hit her laptop and then the floor almost inaudible over the loud groan that fell from her lips. 

Today’s test flights had been a disaster.  

Just like the test flights from Monday and Tuesday. 

Just like every test flight since the first when Hangman had dismantled her tech without a care in the world. 

When she screwed her eyes shut a headache thrummed steady, just out of the reach of the Tylenol she’d popped an hour ago. Mashing the heels of her palms into her eyelids, she pressed until starbursts of white erupted in the blackness. 

Maybe she had a tumor. 

It was the only logical explanation, right? 

Maybe her dreams about Jake in the night and the way they clung to the very corners of her thoughts in the day was her body telling her there was a foreign mass lodged in a cortex. She made a mental note to do some spotty research on where she could get a CAT scan in a half-assed attempt to troubleshoot, likely ending with one Google search before being forgotten. 

Until her brain reminded her during the night by way of a (reoccurring) fantasy where Jake, hands placed firmly on her hips, bent her over a pool table and fucked her, wet panties pushed aside haphazardly because he couldn’t waste another second not being inside of her. 

Wash, rinse, repeat. 

She was in the middle of typing “sex dreams and constant headaches correlation to brain tumors” into a new tab when a gradient of blue and white filled her phone screen and Mav’s name flashed, bold and white. 

When she answered, she was flushed, embarrassed as though he had the faintest idea of what she’d just searched, raw dogging it in a non-incognito browser. 

“Mav?” 

On the other end of the line, there was a bluster of air, a scream of a jet ripping down a runway, the unmistakable sound of it taking to the sky. “We’ve got a problem.” 

The problem, as Mav delicately explained, was “monumental”—the Mount Everest of hurdles. It was to their project what the iceberg was to the Titanic: catastrophic and unavoidable. Not enough lifeboats. Women and children first. 

Ellie only half appreciated the candor as she watched Mav pace the length of the P-51 Mustang, a WWII era relic he always seemed to be fixing up, sitting in a hangar he’d somehow managed to hijack for personal use.  

She was sure there was a metaphor mixed in there, for how it looked perfect to her but whenever she asked Mav, it always seemed to need one difficult to find piece or another. Always a work in progress. Never complete. 

“Stark is demanding answers.” He huffed, paused. Paced some more. Kicked a loose nut he came across in his path. Ellie listened to it ting and clatter off something else metallic, lost. “Didn’t say why, but it can’t be a coincidence that some of the Admirals are sitting down with the Office of Naval Research end of next week.” 

Fuck. 

How many 'fuck' moments could she have in one day? 

Her count was already up to three, before 11 AM. 

“Okay.” Ellie stepped up to the table of blueprints, drummed her fingers on top of Mav’s flight helmet sitting on a side table, absently. 

The Office of Naval Research meeting was next week. Stark sitting down with her now meant, she hoped, that the Rear Admiral hadn’t completely given up on the tech’s potential. 

The single word response earned Ellie a hands-on-hip eyebrow raised look from Mav as he stopped pacing. “Oh, you have those answers then?” 

“Depends on the questions she asks.” Ellie could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, magnifying the headache exponentially. “When?” 

When was the hour of their greatest need? When was the march to the gallows? Prayers, prayers, sorrows, sorrows. 

Mav huffed a laugh before he glanced down at his watch. “Now.” 

The conference room was colder than Ellie expected, the air conditioning hummed softly in the background, the shades drawn across the large picture window at her back.  

The ominous feel of doom did not escape her, creeping up the back of her neck as she fought back a shiver. The walls were bare except for the Navy insignia hanging behind Rear Admiral Stark, who sat at the head of the table, expression unreadable. The small, beige timer she’d wound and set on the table, front and centre, ticked away: seven minutes. 

Ellie sat across from her, back straight, hands folded in her lap to keep from fidgeting. Mav was beside her, silent—for now, his posture a bit more relaxed than Ellie’s rigid one, but she could see the seriousness in the straight line of his mouth, the hard furrow of his brow. 

When Ellie had appeared, Mav at her side, RADM Stark had granted him a seat at the table, despite the way her lips pursed as if she’d sucked on a lemon. He’d been granted permission to sit in on the firm condition he “kept his mouth shut”, a fact Ellie could tell he clearly wasn’t happy about.  

Rear Admiral Stark exhaled, fingers drumming against the table for only a moment before she broke the silence. “Let’s not waste time, Ms. Rigby.” She nodded at the ticking timer before she leaned forward, her hand waving over the spread of papers Ellie had provided. Her eyes didn’t shift down to the reports, the meticulously gathered documentation, charts and data. “With the meeting coming with Navel Research and the Secretary of Navy, the test results your tech are putting up aren’t where they need to be.” 

Ellie nodded, forcing herself to hold the woman’s gaze. “I’m aware, ma’am. But I can assure you, they are improving. We’ve been within two percent of the projected margin for the last three simulations. If we then adjust for environmental factors, the success rate is—” 

“I don’t want excuses,” Stark interrupted smoothly, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. “You’ve had weeks. You have some of the best pilots in the world at your disposal. And yet, somehow, we’re looking at numbers that still don’t meet expectations.” 

Ellie swallowed, pulse drumming at the base of her throat. “I understand, ma’am. We’re working on recalibrating the—” 

Stark cut her off with a sharp look, her long finger tapping the paper closest to her. “Ms. Rigby, woman to woman—” her gaze didn’t slip to Maverick once, “—don’t bullshit me and I won’t bullshit you. I’m not interested in projections; I’m interested in results. The results aren’t good enough. Does sixty percent truly look like progress to you? You want me to sit in front of that stuffy old bastard Quigley and tell him as much?” 

Ellie’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She could feel Mav shift beside her. She didn’t need to look at him to feel the energy rolling off him. As agreed, he hadn’t spoken outside of professional pleasantries, but she could feel the barely restrained tension pooling in his aura as he silently fought for his life to hold back the words surely backing up in his mind, just on the tip of his tongue, like a jammed printer. 

Part of her wanted to reach under the table to grip his arm, tell him to relax, that she had this under control, but she wasn’t sure she believed that herself. 

“Moreover, do you think pilots are going to be okay flying with tech that gives them a forty percent chance of being scattered over the ocean or enemy territory?” 

“No, ma’am. But—” 

Stark held up a hand again. She leaned back in her chair, assessing Ellie for a long, drawn-out moment, the silence only filled in by the ticking of the air conditioning and the timer. Ellie didn’t shift, didn’t shrink under the weight of it.  

“Do you have any idea what this project is to me, Ms. Rigby?” she sighed, voice even but tinged with the weight of her position as she glanced at the timer ticking away. “It’s my last vote for funding approval. My final act on paper before I turn in my stars in the spring. I have given the Navy everything, sacrificed and borne the weight that comes with my rank. I won’t go out on a sour note. I won’t attach my name to a failure.” 

Stark let it breathe, let it sink in, watching Ellie with a measured look. Then, as if on an afterthought, she exhaled deeply, shifting slightly in her seat. 

Of all things Ellie had expected, it was a dressing-down. But it wasn’t until the Rear Admiral’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, nostalgic, that Ellie realized she may have underestimated just how hard this meeting was going to hit. 

“I know you know what the Navy takes from a person.” Stark’s voice was even, neutral. “Your father was one hell of a pilot. Not one person can question that. But make no mistake, that doesn’t mean I’ll cut you any slack. If this doesn’t work, I back the pulling of the plug. And when I walk away, I walk away clean.” 

Ellie stiffened. Her hands slipping off the table and clenching into fists in her lap before she forced them flat again, her fingers still trembling, clammy. Of course. She should have seen it coming. 

Stark’s gaze flickered over her reaction, assessing, as if she were waiting for Ellie to break—waiting for some sign she’d struck a nerve. 

Ellie made sure to give her nothing. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to, ma’am,” Ellie said, tone steady, even if her stomach was twisting itself into knots. 

Mav shifted beside her, the first movement he’d made in minutes. Ellie didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She knew the expression he’d be wearing. The barely restrained frustration on her behalf as his mouth opened and snapped shut again just as quickly.  

Mav had always let her fight her own battles; she was sure he knew better than to step in now. 

“Then tell me, ten words or less, why I shouldn’t recommend Research pull funding and scrap this right now.” 

Ellie inhaled sharply, Stark’s words a kick to her stomach. “Because it’s not going to fail.” 

Stark sat back, skeptical. “I wanted to back a woman in the field. Thought it was time for a shift, time to show that women could lead the future of aviation tech, plant the seed for after I’m gone.” She exhaled slowly. “Maybe that was a mistake.” 

Ellie stiffened. “No, ma’am. It wasn’t.” 

“Good,” Stark said simply, then leaned forward again, folding her hands atop Ellie’s reports. “The Secretary is meeting end of next week to go over our funding. If you can’t prove to me that this program is worth the resources the Navy is putting into it, I will recommend we pull the plug. And I don’t care whose daughter you are.” 

Ellie nodded once, firm. “Understood.” 

Stark studied her for another beat, as if trying to decide whether she believed in Ellie’s resolve. 

Finally, she gave a curt nod, seemingly decided. “You have one week. If I don’t see substantial improvement by the time the Secretary marches his short ass onto this base, it’s done.” 

Ellie inhaled slowly, measured. One week wasn’t much time. Frankly, it wasn’t nearly enough. But it was better than nothing. One week was better than having her funding pulled today, here and now. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

Stark glanced at Maverick then, just for a second. “Captain Mitchell,” she acknowledged before rising from her seat, straightening out her uniform. “You’re both dismissed.” 

Ellie stood, reflecting Mav’s formality at her side, but she didn’t relax until Stark left the room, the door clicking shut behind her. 

Only then did she exhale, her shoulders sagging. 

Mav allowed a hand to scrub his face before he let out a long breath, a single word evacuating him on it. “Jesus.” 

Ellie forced her hands to stay still on the table, even though every nerve in her body was screaming at her to move. To act. To do something. Plan. 

Instead, she turned her eyes to Mav, “well, I think that went super well, don’t you?” The dry smile that pushed up the corners of her lips didn’t reach her eyes. 

Mav just shook his head. “You okay?” 

Ellie nodded, because what else was there to say? She didn’t need Stark to cut her any slack, in fact, she preferred it that way. As it was, she’d be picking the thorn of Hollywood’s legacy out of her side until the week was over. 

“What’s our next move?” Mav was already starting for the door, motioning for Ellie to follow. 

Ellie swallowed, squaring her shoulders. “We prove her wrong.” 

“Sounds like you have a plan.” 

Ellie chewed her lip for only a moment. “I might have one.” 

Ellie hadn’t told Mav exactly what her plan was, only that she had one.  

The fact that this was her only plan at the moment wasn’t something she had wanted to divulge, because this plan in particular may just come back to bite her. 

Ellie leaned against the concrete wall outside the locker rooms, hugging her tablet to her chest. When she’d reached the end of the hall, she waited, timing it just right—most of the pilots had already filtered out after mission training, and she just needed a few minutes to firmly swallow her pride and get a moment alone with Jake. 

Coyote strolled past her, chatting animatedly with Fanboy, giving her a tight nod. 

Fanboy, however, slowed as he took her in, assessing—his eyes flicking quickly to the tablet she hugged and then to the way she shifted from one foot to the other. His head tilted slightly, the beginnings of a smile curling the edges of his mouth. 

“Rigby!” Fanboy held out his fist. 

Ellie hesitated, then tapped her knuckles against his. It was enough to make him grin while Coyote rolled his eyes. “Garcia.” 

“You coming out tonight?” Fanboy shifted the flight gear bag on his shoulder, lifting it higher. 

The look of confusion on Ellie’s face must have been enough, he didn’t miss a beat. “Hard Deck. A bunch of us are going.”  

“Oh.” It took her a moment to force a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.” 

Fanboy nodded, but the look of mischief that crossed his face told her he could see past her attempt at indifference. “You should. You always look like you could use a drink.” 

Coyote scoffed. “Jesus, Fanboy. Drag her, why don’t you. Just say she looks stressed and get it over with.” 

“C’mon man,” Fanboy groaned. “What I’m saying is kick back. Relax a bit.” 

Ellie shifted her weight, her eyes flickering to the locker room door as it swung open and a few more pilots–Harvard and Fritz–slipped out.  

It would have been fair to say she wasn’t entirely focused.  

“Yeah. I mean, maybe?” 

Fanboy looked triumphant, providing a quick, almost reflexive double thumbs up as Coyote grabbed the strap of the bag slung over the Wizzo’s shoulder and tugged. 

As they walked away, Ellie could have sworn Coyote murmured something to Fanboy that sounded a lot like ‘why are you so goddamn weird, dude?’ 

Her face was already in her phone, pulling up her browser where her last search stared back at her, the results mocking her: 

Reddit – r/AmITheAsshole - Thinking about fucking my co-worker – AITA? 

Can Frequent headaches and vivid dreams be a sign of a brain tumor? - WebMD 

Tumors & Sleep Disturbances: When Should You See a Doctor? – Mayo Clinic 

Headaches and Sex: Could It Be a Neurological Disorder? – VeryWell Health 

Urban Dictionary: “Brain Tumor Horny” 

Ellie’s scoffed, but her thumb hovered over the first result. 

Thinking about fucking my co-worker – AITA? – Posted in r/AmITheAsshole 

The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. Almost. 

If it weren’t for the pounding in her skull and the realization that this was, in fact, her reality, she would have. Laughed, that is. 

Instead, she found herself very seriously debating on whether or not to tap into the rabbit hole and ask Alice. 

The sound of the locker room door swinging open and slamming shut barely registered in the background. She heard the boots on the floor moving in the opposite direction, followed by a laugh that sounded like Yale or Payback. When she glanced up, she saw them disappear around the corner at the far end of the hall. 

She returned to the glow of the phone for only the briefest of moments when a voice, too close for comfort, cut through her focus. 

“Didn’t take you for a Reddit girl.” 

Ellie jolted. The phone nearly slipped from her grip as she jammed the lock button and dragged her eyes up, stuffing the device into her pocket. 

Teak. 

Of course it was fucking Teak. 

He, like the presence of a rash of questionable origin, always showed up at the worst possible times. 

“Didn’t take you for a Reddit girl,” He repeated as if Ellie hadn’t heard him. She hated the way his eyes traveled from her hip where she tucked her phone away, back up to her eyes, slowly, measured. 

“And I didn’t take you for someone who sneaks up to read over shoulders.” 

Teak clicked his tongue, shrugged. “Didn’t have to sneak. You were pretty distracted.” 

The breath that left Ellie was sharp, fighting against the urge to let him know how annoying and pretentious and pig-headed she thought he was. 

Instead, she watched as he shifted, a hand combing through his short, still damp hair before he used it to brace against the wall beside her, head tilted like he was about to deliver the sagest of wisdom. If a tree falls in the forest. 

“You know, it must feel fucking terrible,” he mused, and Ellie didn’t miss that his tone dripped with mock sympathy. “Being just... bad at the one thing you’re telling everyone you’re good at.” 

Her grip on the tablet tightened. She didn’t blink.  

If being a prick was an Olympic event, Nathan Hughes would take the podium. Medal in every event. 10 out of a possible 10 asshole points across the board. 

It took her a half second to recover.  

“It’s funny you should mention that.” Her voice was smooth, schooled. “I was about to say the same thing to you. I’m glad you brought it up.” 

Teak’s expression, shit-eating, faltered for the briefest of moments, before he recovered. But Ellie had seen it. 

“If you want to talk about failures, we can,” she continued, her voice level. She barely restrained the sing-song lilt hanging just off stage as she tapped on the screen in her arms. “I have your individual test results right here. Won’t be able to cover it all, of course. But I’d be happy to give you the abridged version.” 

Teak’s jaw ticked. Tightened. Relaxed. When his grin returned, it was razor sharp instead of easygoing, fun. “You’re awful cute when you’re defensive, Rigby.” 

If looks could kill, Teak would have spontaneously combusted. Reduced to a cancerous ash. 

“So, what’s the deal?”  

He glanced over his shoulder at the locker room door before his gaze was back on her.  

“You lookin’ to corner Seresin? Plan to share some of those search results with him?” His blue eyes flicked toward her hip again, the shape of her phone in her pocket. She wondered if the way his tongue swiped his bottom lip was intentional, his gaze lingering longer than she would have liked. “Or were you hoping to find another pilot?” 

He let the insinuation hang between them, watching her, waiting. She felt like a fish in a tank. Teak tapping a finger against the thick walls beside a sign that told him not to. No flash photography. No tapping. 

I’d rather eat broken glass. 

I’d rather listen to Fanboy explain the plot of every single Fast & Furious movie in excruciating detail, complete with Vin Diesel impressions. 

I’d rather spend the next five years in a sensory deprivation tank. 

I’d rather let Rooster give a masterclass, step-by-step breakdown of his skincare routine, including optimal moustache grooming techniques and his thoughts on the benefits of double cleansing while properly incorporating retinol. 

She’d have to workshop her comebacks. 

“Careful, Hughes. Sounds like you’re dangerously close to the neighbourhood of jealousy.” 

Teak didn’t waver, but she saw the moment his eyes sharpened.  

“Nah,” he drawled, lazy, assured. “I think I’ll let Hangman take the ‘L’ on this one. I like my women a little more—” 

Stupid. 

Compliant. 

Broken. 

When he moved, his fingers reaching out to brush the strand of hair that had fallen across her vision, Ellie had already reflexively taken a step back. Oil to his water. If her reaction bothered him, he didn’t show it, instead, his fingers curled back before his hand dropped. 

When the locker room door squealed open, it shook Ellie out of survival mode for just long enough. When she tilted her head past Teak’s shoulder, a pilot, bag slung over his shoulder, glasses held in his grip, stepped into the hallway. 

Bob. 

Relief flooded her, flushing out the cold pit in her stomach. 

Thank fuck for Bob. She’d owe him a beer. Or twenty. She’d never been happier to see him. 

When he placed the glasses on his face, lenses wiped clean on the hem of his tan uniform shirt, Ellie watched his expression shift from easy to something more guarded when he saw her and then Teak, still braced on the wall, too close. 

The door snapped shut before he spoke. 

“Hey Rigby.” His tone was cautious, his gaze cutting to her, his eyes locked on hers as if to say, blink twice if you need help.  

He pushed the glasses up on his nose. “Everything... good?” 

Ellie didn’t hesitate. Didn’t allow Teak, who had already turned and opened his mouth, to speak for her. She imagined he’d tell Bob everything was great. Nothing for him to be concerned about. 

The scorpion ferrying across the river on a frog’s back. If Teak spoke first, he’d smooth this over. Shoo Bob away. 

“Where’s Seresin?” 

Bob blinked as her abrupt tone settled between them. If he picked up on it, he responded anyway. “Still in there. He’s always the last one out.” Bob motioned to his hair with an eyeroll. 

Perfect. 

Great. 

Private conversation. Away from Teak. 

Ellie pushed off the wall, ignoring the knowing look Teak shot her as she brushed past him and smiled at Bob. 

Right now, Teak and whatever it was that he thought of her was a backburner item. 

The heat of the locker room, thick with steam and the scent of soap hanging in the air, hit her hard as the heavy door swung shut behind her. 

The staccato rhythm of her heels clicking on the damp tiled floor was punctuated by the slam of a locker. 

When she rounded the corner, her fingers a white-knuckled grip on her tablet, it didn’t take long to spot Jake.  

Standing near his open locker, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water still clinging to his skin.  

He was rubbing another towel through his hair, oblivious to her presence, the deep cut of his muscles on full display, the ‘v’ of his abs disappearing behind the hem of the cotton at his waist. The dog tags on his bare chest caught the dim light overhead as he dried his hair, and Ellie felt the weight of her shifting thoughts before she could stop them. 

Jake, behind her.  

One hand gripped tight on her hip, fingers digging into her soft curve, bitingly painful and firm in a way that sent pulses of pleasure rippling straight to her core. 

Dog tags dragging across her bare back as he leaned forward to sink his teeth into her side, nipping and teasing as he guided himself to her aching, waiting— 

No. Nope. 

Clearing her throat, Ellie knocked on the locker closest to her.  

The last thing she needed to do was watch him take off the only thing wrapped around his waist with her standing there.  

She repeated it to herself until she was convinced it was the last thing she wanted. 

Jake turned, one brow arching as he took her in, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe. His smirk was slow, knowing. “Rigby.” 

She ignored the way her pulse kicked up at the sound of her name in his mouth. The way it rolled off his tongue, light, airy. 

“I need you,” she started, quickly adding an addendum when she noticed how his eyebrow quirked, “your... help.” 

The word weighed a metric ton. The vowels and consonants tasted bitter and acrid on the way out. 

This was her reality now: asking Jake Seresin for help. Her Hail Mary in the dying seconds of the half. Or was it quarter? 

“Well,” he paused for a moment, tossing the towel he’d been drying his hair with to the bench, “this wasn’t on my bingo card for the month.” 

“Don’t start.” She warned, her eyes reflexively rolling. 

“Start what?” Jake’s hands were in the air now, submissive, nonthreatening, but his lips were already curved into the beginnings of a smirk. “Just... I think I might be hearing things. Sometimes the Gs, they mess with your head...” 

She tried to ignore the way his muscles moved beneath his skin as he shrugged, tugging at his ear as if it were waterlogged. 

Ellie huffed out a sigh, pulled from deep in the core of her being.  

Why had she thought this was going to be easy? Why had she thought Jake would have let her get away with asking him for help without a mild ribbing?  

Working past the pride lodged in her throat, actively fighting the part of her brain urging her to turn right around and walk out of here, Ellie forced herself to stay. “I need your help.” 

Nope, saying it didn’t get easier the second time around. 

Jake blinked, hands finding his hips as he assessed her, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. 

Was he—? Did he just flex? Ellie’s eyes flicked to his chest for a fraction of a second and she knew he’d seen it. 

“Are you going to say something, or—?” Ellie’s hands flew up before they fell again. 

“Just really didn’t see this coming...” he feigned shock, sucking his lip in, biting down. 

Ellie let out a strangled groan.  

She was going to leave here and tell Mav that her plan had backfired and then she’d take it to the grave of her career as RADM Stark threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. 

Here Lies Eleanor Amelia Rigby Neven’s potential.  

Foolish enough to ask Jake “Hangman” Seresin for help in her hour of greatest need. 

The obituary would request hope and prayer for the career of other women in aviation technology in lieu of flowers. 

“Don’t make me regret this, Seresin.” 

He grinned but, to her surprise, didn’t push. Instead, he stepped in beside her in a fluid motion, his shoulder nearly brushing hers as he tilted his head to get a better look at the screen.  

From the corner of her eye, heart beating erratically at the base of her throat, Ellie watched as his expression shifted, the teasing edge in his eyes giving way to something sharper, more focused. 

“Alright,” Jake nodded once toward the tablet in her hand, “show me what you’ve got.” 

Ellie hesitated for a moment before swiping, pulling up the parameters she’d been tweaking earlier.  

She paused to flex her fingers mid-swipe, the clean, masculine scent of his soap clinging to his skin enveloping her. The awareness of him, his shoulder brushing hers, jarred her concentration, a kite whipping in the wind of a tornado. 

He smelled like that stupid candle she’d been conned into buying years ago at the Irvine Spectrum Center Yankee Candle.  

Mountain Cabin? Or maybe it was Mountain Lodge?  

Tumblr says it’s what the perfect boyfriend smells like! Like, remember that scene in the Avengers movie where Captain America just like, rips apart the log— the sales associate had slipped into a tangent as Ellie carefully placed an overpriced glass jar full of scented wax into her basket. 

Now, she wondered whether or not she still had it, packed away somewhere. 

By the time she found her way back to her winding train of thought, remembered what her voice was again, Ellie had to clear her throat. 

“The system’s good,” she admitted, nudging the data sets around on the screen. “But it’s rigid. It doesn’t account for pilot instinct, for the way you—” she stopped herself for a half beat, “—for the way some pilots push beyond textbook expectations.” 

Jake’s gaze shifted, glanced at her, lips twitching. She heard the teasing edge in his voice and didn’t need to look up to know the twinkle was back in his green eyes. “See, was that so hard to say?” 

He was enjoying this far too much. Smug jerk. 

And yet, Ellie couldn’t help but shake her head, trying to hide a smirk of her own. 

“Excruciating.” 

And yet, she didn’t want to crush up broken pieces of lightbulb and add it to her morning smoothie instead of sharing space with him.  

She didn’t want to listen to Rooster talk about niacinamide as the alternative to being in Jake’s orbit. 

The laugh that rumbled in his chest, a genuine, almost surprised sound, made Ellie’s stomach flutter. Caused her skin to prickle as she fought the shiver edging up her spine. 

She’d have to add another symptom to her ongoing research (Google search) on tumors, because she definitely didn’t want to unpack that right now. 

“Alright, let’s start here,” Jake reached across her, his finger hovering over a spike in the telemetry readings just before a telltale stream of data indicated a system overload redline. “You’re focusing too much on the failsafes—they’re throttling responsiveness.” 

He swiped up, his fingers brushing hers as he manipulated the screen and pointed out another less-than-ideal reading. “See, it’s here too.” 

Ellie frowned, but as he pointed out another, third data spike, explaining where she needed more flexibility, she saw it—saw the gaps she hadn’t considered, the places where the tech needed to adapt instead of restrict, open up instead of close down. 

How had she missed that? 

If it had been difficult for her before, to insinuate that Jake’s flying skills were above average, stellar, if she were being completely honest, her next words weren’t any easier.  

“Fine. Can you show me how you’d fix it, if you were me?” 

When she looked up from the data streams on the screen, Ellie swore she saw Jake’s focus flick up from her lips to her eyes. 

“Yeah, I could.” 

He shifted beside her and Ellie’s thoughts drifted back to the stupid candle, which she’d (embarrassingly) bought three of. Perfect boyfriend, Mountain Lodge. She hadn’t even burned the thing, just opened the lid and huffed it before squirreling it away again. 

“Hard Deck, then? Tonight?” 

At least then she could disguise meeting with him as coincidence. They’d both been invited by Fanboy, part of the “bunch of us” collective, she’d say. 

Jake was already shaking his head, even before she’d finished. 

“Nah. Got a better place in mind.” 

“Where?” She was frowning, her brow scrunched together. 

“I’ll text you the address.” 

Ellie was about to remind him that she hadn’t given him her number, but he was already moving. She felt the coolness of the air in the space he created between them and Ellie stepped forward almost reflexively, chasing the warmth of his presence. 

She watched the bands of muscle in his arms, a magpie distracted by a shiny coin, as he reached into his locker and pulled out his phone. In a moment, it was in her hand, the screen opened to a blank contact card. She punched in her contact information and handed it back. 

“See you later, Rigby.” 

As she turned to leave, Jake grabbed the hem of his towel, tugging it until it fell away, everywhere except for where his hand hovered, just over.... 

Ellie caught the movement in her periphery, but she kept her eyes forward. 

“I’m still here,” she pointed out, pausing near the corner of the bank of lockers. 

Jake hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t stop, moving behind the open door of his locker and depositing the phone on the upper shelf.  

Ellie swallowed tightly. She was certain—certain—that he could have waited until she left, but he hadn’t. He wasn’t in a rush to cover up or dismiss her. If anything, it felt deliberate. An almost wordless invitation: you can stay if you want to. 

She clenched her jaw and forced herself to look away.  

“Text me,” she waved her hand dismissive, and without waiting for a response, she strode out the door, her pulse hammering in her throat, the small, steamy room suddenly short of oxygen and far too hot. 

Behind her, as the locker room door swung shut, Ellie swore she could hear Jake chuckle. 

Hours later, back in her office, Ellie was pouring over the data sets Jake had been pointing out, making quick notes on the data spikes when her phone buzzed against the desk. A new message from an unknown number stared back at her when she flipped it over.  

Hope you’re hungry. 

Below the text was an address. She frowned as she pulled up the map app and punched it in. When the location popped up, she groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

a/n: i am pumped for the next chapter. the tides are changing for ellie/jake. anyone want to take any guesses as to where jake suggests he and ellie meet?

also, the mountain lodge candle theory is real. no, as a canadian, i have not been able to find one. 😫

if you love this series, reblog, comment, like!

tags:  @hookslove1592 @mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @jbennsquared @dempy

@obsessed-fan-alert @djs8891 @lunatygerqueen @khouse712 @alipap3

@yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96 @luckyladycreator2 @lovelylndskies @cardi-bre91

@whatislovevavy @qutequeersstuff @tgmreader @writergirl28 @literal-tv-menace

@queenslandlover-93 @fantasyfootballchampion @marrianena @dizzybee03 @justjess2025

@malindacath @b8211na

taglist if you want to be added/removed!

[hanasnx]

SENSORY DEPRIVATION — peter parker.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader | established relationship | p in v: cowgirl | “blindfold” sensory deprivation | sexual content.

“The doctor said you’ll be fine just as long as we wait it out.” you remind PETER PARKER who has to be led by your hand through your shared apartment. He shuffles through the narrow passageway of the closing door, and fumbles through the hall with his fingertips grazing the wall. He trips up on some shoes that aren’t put away, and you catch him around his bicep, propping him back up with your body. “Woah, there.” you exclaim.

“When they tell you not to look at bright lights they sure mean it. Guess I was lucky it didn’t burn permanently into my retinas.” he thinks aloud with a sheepish scoff in spite of himself, letting you lock the door behind you as you guide him to the couch. “Next time I won’t make direct eye contact with Electro as he’s powering up no matter how sparkly he is.” You chuckle at his quip through your nose, turning his body so he can feel the furniture against the backs of his calves, signaling him to sit, so he does.

“Makes sense now why prey animals fall victim to bioluminescence, huh?” you reply back, offering up some banter that stretches that amused and dimpled grin onto his handsome features. He can’t look up at you—not like usual—staring straight ahead with his palms set on his knees.

“You callin’ me a prey animal?”

“Who’s temporarily blind because of the pretty lights, Peter?”

“Touché.”

You sigh from his verbal antics, unable to stay quiet even in a situation where most people would panic. His spidey sense did alright to get him out of that fight, but it doesn’t help much when he’s about to run into a wall—that’s where you come in. You round him to get to the kitchen, collecting some tap water in a glass.

“You know, when you said you were going to take care of me…” Peter begins, twisting his spine so he can project his words to you over his shoulder. “I wasn’t imagining you taking advantage of my misfortune and abusing me in some verbal beatdown.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” you chastise, rolling your eyes. It makes sense he’d be a little sore after today, maybe you should take it easier on him. You of all people know how much he hates being put out of commission. Glass in hand, you return, picking up his wrist to fix the water against his palm. Gratefully, he takes a swig. “So, in what ways were you imagining me taking advantage of you?” you continue the conversation, though you notice how flirtatious your tone comes off only after you’ve spoken.

Peter swallows thickly, and licks the moisture off his upper lip. You watch the motion from the side, that vacant gaze of his still stuck on the direction in front of him. “Well, for starters, we wouldn’t have any clothes on.”

“Oh, Peter…” you sigh, bouncing on him mere moments later. Completely bare, and soaking wet, you were quick to grant his wish, riding him at a second’s notice. Thick fingers tightly dig into the flesh of your hips, guiding them from his position underneath you. Blank eyes stare off into the ceiling, twitching as they narrow when the pleasure gets to be too much. “Can’t believe you wanted this after a day like today. You’re supposed to be resting.” your breathless tone doesn’t convey any serious admonishment at all, and it tugs a crooked grin onto his lips.

“But I’m so relaxed, honey. Doin’ such a good job, makin’ me feel so good. Better than a prescription. ‘Doctor would be proud.” he praises, husky and rushed. The delicate space between his brows pinch as his tongue forms over his upper lip, concentrating in increasing the pace. He overpowers whatever control you had, using his strength that far surpasses your own to hasten your hips. You don’t think he’s relaxed at all, he’s certainly not resting, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to stop him. Every inch of him sheathed inside you, it’s hard to think about anything other than getting that tip to brush your spongy spot.

Your face twists, obscene sounds pouring out of you because of his actions. Showing off his taut body putting in the work for you always gets you going, dragging your nails down his pretty and flexed abdomen like a reward. A low and torturous groan cries out from deep in his throat because of it—like that’s exactly what he needed—and it sends a powerful shudder right through you. Hands slide up to your torso, squeezing your flesh as he lifts you, and fucks up into you instead. Your tits to the air bounce with each mad sheath, and you can’t help but be loud, keens echoing throughout the apartment.

He knows what you look like—he knows—every intimate and dirty detail. How you must look riding him, what expression you’re making on that cute face, what your body is doing to him right now… every secret mole and birthmark, where your hands are, how your tits jiggle, everything, he can picture it. It’s all in his head and just out of reach. When he opens his eyes, it’s completely without focus, staring up at the ceiling while he hears your pleasured cries as music to his ears.

He kneads your body in his hands, trying to release some of that base desire by molding your skin like clay. “God, I wish I could look at you right now, baby.” he confesses, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

[lilmissnatcat24]

Electric Sheep Chapter Nineteen- Scientific Pursuits

64.media.tumblr.com

Garrus is forced into an unsavory mission by Elx. Shepard and Liara concoct a plan.

pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

rating: Explicit

tags: Lovers to enemies to lovers, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, ,Violence, Blood and Gore, Torture, Disturbing Themes, Dual POV, Earthborn (Mass Effect), Ruthless (Mass Effect), Mass Effect 2, Whump, Eventual Smut, Requited Unrequited Love, Mind Control, Pining, so much fucking pining that even i'm a little disturbed, Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, OC Central, a kid show called the electromenom that teaches shepard about basic physics, yet another cliffhanger ending (sorry), second in series

cover: done by the stunning @/milkywayes!!!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58936480/chapters/168459247

lil text blurb

The headaches weren’t the worst part. It was the damn sensitivity. The second Garrus would open his eyes, it was as if one thousand LED lights were burning straight into his retinas. Footsteps were amplified so loudly that each clank against the tile floor caused his bones to vibrate. Nausea lived just underneath his tongue, ready to activate by any sudden movement. And to Garrus, sudden movement constituted blinking, or breathing, or being alive. 

It was the seventh time Saleon tried to wake him up. Garrus didn’t realize that was what was happening until the fourth, when through the pain and the confusion he heard the words doctor and coma and greatest project to date . The other three times, he was certain he was in hell. Pain so agonizing that he didn’t even know where to focus. The breathing tube shoved down his throat, scratching at his esophagus. The tubes pumping blood and nutrients and sludge into his veins. The cold, clammy skin that seemed to flinch at the slightest breeze or temperature fluctuation or barometric pressure. 

But then he could stay awake for more than five seconds at a time without agony following close behind. And he could foster what could be considered conversation, if conversation were really just one person whispering in his ears that he was stuck in this limbo where he was sort’ve dead and sort’ve alive. He figured out if he grunted in response every few seconds, he would get more information from Saleon.

At least, that’s what he said his name was. Accessing Garrus’s memories was somehow more painful than being awake and aware. Never once had he heard the name before. He didn’t even think it was a real name. It sounded ridiculous for a turian, the voice was too deep for an asari, fingers too clammy for a human, too emotional for a salarian. Except, maybe emotional wasn’t the right word. Saleon treated Garrus as if he were some resurrected king, someone who should be promoted to sainthood or lyctorhood or some other sort of - hood that ascended him beyond his body. He prayed over his body-- or, what he thought was praying. The way Saleon’s fingers traveled over his bare flesh, a whisper of a touch, the breeze tickling his ears of his words so close that he half expected a tongue to travel down his ear canal to his brain. He had half a mind to be disgusted, if he even possessed half a mind anymore. 

[rebouks]

Invictus: Author's Note

Now that we've all survived the horrors, I figured I'd do a bit of a commentary on Robin's nightmare below the cut...

I guess the central themes we were going for within Robin's dream were threefold; the fact that he feels lonely/alone with the burden of his gift, that he's worried about Alex, and that his friends (and some other's) are annoying/confusing him, so let's break that down to begin with.

Robin was always destined to be the last one alive, mostly to compound his feelings of desolation, but also because planning/executing various endings would've taken way longer than 2-3 months to plan on my own 😅 He doesn't dare tell anyone about his abilities due to the fear of being judged or ostracised and I don't blame him. Most people wouldn't believe him, and those that might would probably avoid him or at least act differently around him even if they supported him; he's also paranoid that if a medical professional found out, they'd want to study him or god knows what else, hence the scepticism from the group when he told them (in the nightmare) and his twisted view of Doctor Abbott (who's actually a perfectly lovely psychologist in the waking world).

Alex hasn't written for over six months at this point and Robin doesn't know why; it's not as if they've slowly been losing touch over time with less and less communication either, her letters stopped without warning! Half of him expects there to be a reasonable explanation, but he can't help worrying. Clearly his subconscious mind ran away with all that concern...

Robin's classmates personalities were spot on (thanks to Robin's gift) but slightly exaggerated since each one of them is a proverbial thorn in Robin's side at the moment.

Levi: Extra impulsive, standoffish and contradictory within Robin's dream, I think it's fairly obvious Robin's still pissed at his friend. I toyed with the idea of Robin being the only one to make decisions that we could vote on, but thought the loss of control he'd feel from not being able to stop bad outcomes from happening off the back of other people's choices was far more apt. Levi continues to tread a questionable path irl and Robin can't stop him.. if only he'd just apologise!

Penny: Robin strongly dislikes Penny, hence her being super annoying.. not that she's much better in the waking world! If the psychic doesn't rate someone, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet they're not such a great person.. I'm sure he wishes his friend wasn't so into her 💀

Aster: I think the fact that Aster's stood up for Robin twice now had a big impact on how he acted; he tried to keep the peace where he could and was the only one who supported Robin after he'd told the group about his gift. Robin doesn't know him very well outside of his dream though, so some of this could just be a projection based on what little evidence he has 🤷‍♀️

Jacob: Robin's a bit annoyed/put off by Jacob right now.. he barely spends any time with him and Jude anymore and as they've gotten older, their personalities appear to be veering in different directions. He's volatile, haughty and obsessed with girls, hence his distrust toward Robin after the revelation of his gift and his less-than-stellar treatment of Tess.

Tess: Tess goes where Jacob goes, simple! Though Robin feels bad for her because he knows that she's way more into Jacob than he is and he's not faithful; that's why he so obviously dismisses his own girlfriend within the dream. In the waking world he's much more convincing, but Robin knows better.

What the hell was "x" about?

The dolls - they were usually found pointing toward danger and/or bad decisions, but did we listen? NOPE! Instead we chose to vilify them 😩

The Lab - this was actually a warped version of the seed vault/hydroponic garden Robin, Wren & Oscar explored in Granite Falls. That's why the retina detection system recognised him, 'cause he has technically been there before. I'm not a professional, so don't quote me on this, but apparently our minds can't conjure up people/places/things from nothing, so what we usually see in our dreams is stuff we've seen before or an amalgamation of various things mashed together, even if we don't actively remember them.

The Asylum - Sunnyside Asylum is a real place Robin read about on a late night internet delve down a rabbit hole (don't judge him, we've all done it) he just forgot he'd read about it or seen it before 🤷‍♀️

The butterflies - they're Alex's favourite animals (along with the humble moth!) so Robin thought they were leading him to her, but they were not ;-;

"So, I suppose you know-..." - what was Aster going to say!? Aster was about to assume that Robin knows he has a crush on him, and he'd be correct! Robin never really picked up on it before, but after recent events it's pretty obvious.. to Robin at least! Does he like Aster back? Well, maybe he doesn't know yet, or maybe it's a secret, but (spoiler alert) Robin's pansexual, so there's a chance he could.

Doctor Abbott - briefly mentioned before, but let's dig deeper!

Dr. Abbott is the psychologist Oscar/Courtney sent Robin to a while back for his selective mutism after it started hindering him/his schoolwork etc since starting high school. He's terrifying simply because Robin's terrified of him-.. though I suppose not him personally. Robin's torn between a rock and a hard place when it comes to professional help; on the one hand he'd love to offload all his troubles and get some real guidance, but the other side of him worries what that'd mean. He can't tell anyone the full story, so how could anyone truly help him? Is his mutism even connected to his gift, or does he just use it as a convenient excuse? What if they didn't believe him and labelled him insane? What if he IS insane and imagining everyone else's thoughts? What if they do believe him and want to experiment on him?! 😱 If he's gonna tell anyone about his abilities, it sure as shit isn't gonna be some stranger he doesn't trust, even if it appears they mean well! He'd love to know where his gift came from though. Why him? Where'd it come from? Does anyone else have it?? He doubts anyone would be able to answer these questions but it still kinda ties into the whole theme of being experimented on etc. I think at this point he's wondering who he is (as every teen does around his age) or who he'd be without his abilities too, like another part of him is worried he'd be a mere husk of himself if science somehow explained away his world. It's just a part of who he is now and I think he's starting to accept himself as is, so the thought of someone picking it all apart after his acceptance is perhaps more scary than letting anyone in to help make sense of it. Maybe it's just one of those things, or maybe he's bonkers and has no idea? He doesn't know.. he's very confused, hence the complicated feelings around poor, well-meaning Dr. Abbott.

Mr Handy - he gets an honourable mention because it's funny to me.. like he's usually on the players side, right?! Yeah, but Robin isn't fond of technology in general so in dreamland good ol' Mr Handy is a dickhead instead lmao 😂

Some fun what if's & titbits...

I'm not gonna break down all the what if scenarios because there were a LOT but I still wanna take some time to point out some fun stuff n' share a few fun things we missed out on 🤸‍♀️

If Levi tried to scare Robin, it wouldn't have worked in the slightest which I just find amusing 🤭

If Robin n' co. chose to hide instead of run earlier on in the dream, he would've gotten stuck in a closet with Aster eheuheuheu (this is the fun thing I said y'all missed out on!!)

There were numerous ways for Levi to piss Penny off during the duration of the dream (somehow he only managed one so well done ig) that would've potentially changed their demise and one was Tess falling off the ladder and Levi helping her.. look at those mad lil fists on Penny LMAO 😂 You can also see another lovely doll pointing in the direction of the monster that was chasing them but everyone would've been like ewwww! even tho she was just trying to help.. shame on us tbh ;-;

Just Aster being cute tryna keep the peace.. IF HE'D SURVIVED! T-T

Mr Handy being absolutely demented.. love that for him.

Robin being yeeted back to the asylum.. skjsk idk I just like these screenshots lmao

Aster being a menace to both Levi and Penny ehehe

I had such fun creating this little project (I say little but it literally took months fkfjgkj) and October was kinda shitty for me so thank you to everyone for reading along, voting and generally having fun with me, it gave me something to look forward to! 🧡

I love horror and taking a break from a more realistic style of storytelling is always good fun, dreams especially 'cause they can be as wacky as you like!

I suppose my main inspo for the what if's/voting was Until Dawn but I think we can all thank games like Silent Hill, Outlast, Resident Evil, Amnesia etc etc for the general vibes I was going for 🤔

EITHER WAY! Very fun.. 10/10 would recommend trying to stretch yourselves into doing something something similar, I had a blast!

I think I covered a fair amount of questions n' stuff but feel free to ask anything else! ILY 🧡🧡

[queers-gambit]

Affirmation King

prompt: ( requested ) attending university as a full-time student is hard, but your boyfriend makes some of the stress worth it.

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

word count: 3.1k+

note: author gives unsolicited advice in the form of sharing a citation website to make college essays a little easier! this is not meant as promotion or anything, it's just your author trying to share a resource they know of.

warnings: cursing, small hurt large comfort (reader snaps a little at Carmy but he handles it like a fucking pro), author gives unsolicited college advice in the form of a recommended website, reader is in a masters program and not undergrad, fluff.

The 16 inch screen glared into your retinas, fingers feeling numb from the hours pounding away at the loose keyboard. When the screen started to warble and darken, your head ducked down slightly to try and preserve your visual; glaring up at the offender when they pressed the screen closed after forcing you to retract your hands.

"You're cute and all, but not so cute as to interrupt me like that," you deadpanned, eyes wide and burning from your lack of lubrication via blinking.

"You've been sat here for hours, it's time for a break."

"Funny when I say that to you, it's always, 'Get outta my kitchen.'"

Carmy smirked, "Come eat something."

"Let me finish this essay and - "

"No, it's time for a meal."

You felt your irritation spike, narrowing your eyes slightly, "I'm on a deadline, Carmen, so either be fucking helpful and productive or get the fuck out of my space. I've got work to do and you're just slowing me down."

He offered a patient look, asking, "Is that what you really wanted to say?"

You paused, then shook your head, "No... May I try again?"

"Of course," he nodded.

"I appreciate you trying to... Alleviate some of my stress," you spoke slowly, stringing the sentence together in realtime, "but this project isn't something I can ignore right now, so, I'd like to finish this thing before we do whatever else."

"Better," he teased, knowing you ran a short fuse when stressed out and overworked. "What's got you riled up?"

"I have this 20-page paper due."

"20 pages!?"

"It's not that bad, honestly, once you have your thesis together," you chuckled dryly. "it's just time consuming and meticulous."

He frowned and stepped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, mocking in a sarcastic tone, "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

"I'm so tired," you pouted up at him. "Do I really need this degree? This is so much stress for such a little thing such as a piece of paper that cost me $50k just to say I'm allowed to join the work force."

"Hey, hey," he laughed. "Just remember what you're working towards. You're one assignment closer to your internship turning into a full-time gig, right?"

You nodded, "You're right. I want that job so bad... I just hate how busy I feel - it's like, how can I remember to eat let alone write 6 different response posts to my classmate's work?"

Carmy nodded with empathy, "Just remember that end goal, baby. Keep grinding, keep moving. Almost at the finish line, right?"

"Right," you nodded with a smile. "Thank you, angel face."

Carmy smiled at you before softly asking, "Want me to bring you anything? Something to eat, drink, a condom?"

"Stop quoting Mean Girls at me!"

His hands shot up in defense, deflecting, "I was just trying to be a gracious host. If the missus wants anything, I'll make sure she has it."

"Pretty sure 'missus' is a term used for wives - " His groan made you laugh lightly, then covering, "No, thank you, baby, I'm okay. I should only be about another hour or so...?"

"All right, yeah, sure. I'll start dinner in 30, okay?"

"Sure," you smiled, already distracted again as you lifted your screen again to stare at the Word document that had been haunting your hard-drive for about 3 weeks now.

"Hey," he interrupted, "don't forget your glasses."

"Thank you," you mumbled, reaching for the special, blue-light filtering glasses Carmy had gifted you when you first started your Master's program. He claimed staring at a computer screen was going to cause long-term damage (he read an article) and got you a pair, which, you had to admit, made a huge difference.

Your hair was raked into a new bun as you reread the last of your essay, trying to get back in the academic mindset in order to finish the last bit of your assignment. There were textbooks spewed around your work table; laptop plugged in, highlighters and pens and notebooks within reach and a nearly-finished bottle of water was set to the side. You wrote ferociously once you got back on the right mental track, feeling your headache stir to life as you blindly reached for your water bottle.

However, when you picked it up, you blinked in mild shock when the bottle was heavier than before. Glancing over, you realized Carmy had replaced the bottle because there, under where it had sat, he left you a handwritten note:

replenish what you lost from crying!

You chuckled, knowing you were a stress cryer and when tackling big assignments like this, you were ten times as stressed as usual. Still you worked, even putting your headphones on to play soothing background noise - like rainfall. Your neck cramped, back ached, temples throbbed, and hands were cramping. Still you worked, using sticky notes to flag the important quotes you wanted to use from your textbooks and notebooks. Your stomach growled, your eyes begged for reprieve, chest felt tight, and shoulders were too tense.

Still. You. Worked.

Deadlines were important to you, and while you were a professional procrastinator, you always turned everything in on time - no matter your mental state. You could smell whatever Carmy had started cooking, focused on writing as you only used spellcheck as you went - and still you worked. You knew you surpassed the hour limit you told Carmy, but you couldn't stop, you were so close to finishing, it almost put tears back in your eyes, but this time out of relief. You only paused to look at online sources and apply chapstick, cracking your tightly-wound knuckles, and when you finished the last body paragraph of the essay, grinned to yourself.

All that was left was your conclusion, to create a bibliography, and to edit - but you were almost home free!

Suddenly, you jumped in fright when a hand planted on your shoulder; whipping around to see your boyfriend's own startled expression. "Sorry," Carmy apologized with a wince when you removed your headphones, "didn't mean to scare you, just wanted to check on you."

You nodded, 'Yeah, no, I'm almost done. Like give me 20 minutes, almost done-almost done."

He smiled softly, "Dinner's ready when you are."

"I'll be there soon, thank you, angel face."

"Can I help with anything?"

"Uh," you cocked your head, "you know what? Maaaaybe..."

"Really?" He grinned, perking up. "You never let me help!"

"It's not really work, per se," you amended, "but would you mind letting me read this out loud to you - see if it makes sense? The mark of a good writer is to act as if the audience knows nothing about the subject and make them understand, and you're exactly that."

"Lemme hear it," he nodded, taking a seat, "I might not be much help but I can still try."

You agreed and finished typing the outline of your conclusion, then scrolled to the top of your word document, and explained to him what your class was before starting to read. He listened intently, sitting on a spare stool with his elbows resting on his knees; keeping him leaned forward to provide his undivided attention. You managed to reword a few sentences, only noticing they didn't make sense when you read them out loud. Once or twice, Carmy even offered an alternative phrasing you liked - making the changes and rereading, then continuing through your assignment.

By the end, you were able to beef up the conclusion and Carmy was grinning at you in pride. "That's real good, baby," he complimented, "it all made sense and rolled nice together. I think that has to be an 'A'-worthy paper."

"You should be the one grading theses, my professor's the worst," you frowned. "It's why I got so in my head, I got a fucking 76 on my last essay and need to do really well on the next few to help average my grade."

"What about the tests?"

"We don't have any, this class is all about writing material and turning it in," you pouted.

"Hey," he spoke seriously, making you look at him in question, "I'm really proud of you."

You giggled nervously, "Oh, yeah? Why? What for?"

"For doing this," he nodded to the desk. "Look at all you're doing, baby, there's no way I'd ever be able to keep up with this kinda shit. You're doing such a great fucking job - I want you to remember that. What you're doing ain't easy, but you're handling this like a pro."

"I cry, like, everyday..."

"So what? You still get shit done while emoting - call that multitasking, baby."

"Got me there."

"Seriously, though, you're not told enough what a fantastic job you're doing; how strong and resilient you have to be to deal with this kind of stress day-in and day-out. I see the hard work you put in," he promised, "and I want you to know how fucking proud I am of you. It's all gonna be worth it one day, but until then, I love watching you grind through school. I might not take the classes with you, but I'll help however I can, whenever I can."

"Thank you," you whispered. "It's really nice to hear... I feel myself burning out and it's nice to be reminded that what I do now will influence my future. Validates me in feeling stressed out, you know? Sometimes, I feel silly 'cause, like, there's so many bigger things to be upset about and here I am, stressed out at a place that's guaranteed to stress me out..."

"It's not silly, it's normal. College ain't easy," he reminded, "and you're just trying to keep yourself afloat."

"Yeah, but there's bigger things in life than something trivial as my education."

Carmy scoffed at you, shaking his head, "Ain't no way."

"What?"

"My girl just said her feelings are trivial... Nah, she said her emotions about her education is trivial," he shook his head again. "Should wash your mouth out with soap - talkin' crazy like that. Baby, you know, first and foremost, your education is high on our priorities list, but your emotions? You think they're trivial? Nah, if anything causes you to have any emotion, it's valid - it's not something silly or redundant."

You pouted slightly, "You always know what to say."

"Hungry?"

"You're the perfect man," you laughed, looking at your document again and humming. "Okay, so, lemme just cite my sources and turn this in."

"Then you wanna have date night?" He smirked.

"No, no, I'm so tired - "

"I meant we can stay in."

"Oh, then count me in!"

"Change into something cozy when you're done, we can watch a movie with dinner. Yeah?"

You agreed, accepted his kiss of encouragement, and then took his leave to reheat the dinner that had surely cooled off. It didn't take long to cite everything when you used an online citation source website - that IS N O T plagiarizing! It's a handy-dandy tool you discovered your undergraduate freshman year by an actual professor. It was as simple as choosing which style, APA or MLA, and then to either paste the URL of the website you need sourced or you type in the book's information. Hit the generate button and BAM! A perfect citation for your bibliography every single time.

Or if you didn't like that, you could always just Google citation examples and do your best to write it out yourself. But the website, Citation Machine dot net, was a great tool. After perfecting your in-text citations and saving your work, you uploaded it to your university's assignment portal, crossed the essay off your to-do list, and stretched on your feet.

Cleaning up your space minimally, you hustled to your bedroom to get a quick hot, relieving shower, change, and then met Carmy in the kitchen. "Hey," you sighed with a soft smile.

"Hey, doll. All done?"

"For tonight," you groaned, "but tomorrow's a new day with new assignments."

"That's a future problem we'll handle at a later time," he eased, showing you your dinner plate. "Ta-daaaa!"

You grinned, "Oh, baby, this looks amazing!"

"Yeah, well, I kinda figured as a full-time student right now, nobody was gonna remind you what incredible job you're doing, so, I'm more than happy to step up to the plate. And what better treat than your favorite meal, huh?"

"Thank you," you whispered, pecking his lips.

You often thought his love language was "food", but then you realized it was technically under the acts of service and quality time. He loved cooking for you - it was like a gift. He loved cooking with you - it was time spent bonding. He loved introducing you to new dishes - it's a present! He loved when you let him give you a culinary lesson - it was time well spent.

"C'mon," Carmy lead you to the living room, both crashing on the couch you had been gifted from your grandmother's house when she was put in a nursing home. Normally, you wouldn't have splurged on something like this, but considering it was free, you and Carmy were happy to use it. Settling together on the couch, you got cozy under a shared blanket and Carmy flicked some movie on for background noise, but instead of watching, he just asked you about your coursework.

You told him what you could, shaking your head and huffing about how annoying your program was. How hectic. How jam packed and fast-paced it all seemed to be. How your head felt like it was spinning. How you couldn't nail down workable coping mechanisms and just felt totally out of control. You were spiraling.

You needed this rant session.

Carmy listened intently.

He never once tried to say, "oh, but if you had time management," or anything like, "if you do THIS instead..." or some bullshit, "my way works better." His bright and wide blue eyes watched you the entire time, sighing when you got to the end of your meal and vent session.

"It just feels like, I turn in one assignment, I get three more right after. Turn in those three, and all of a sudden, there's another 10!"

"Does the syllabus say anything about that?" He wondered.

"No, it just said what our reading schedules were and when major assignments are due. But those dates all got shuffled around that it feels like a train wreck. You know, if the original schedule was kept from the syllabus, I wouldn't feel so worked up! It's the rearrangement and added assignments without warning that's throwing me off."

"That doesn't sound easy," he validated. "Anything I can do to help?"

"No, you're doing more than enough," you whispered, pecking his lips. "Thank you for dinner."

"I made dessert, too."

"No!" You gasped with a grin.

"Mhm - wait here. I'll grab it."

"Wow, dinner, movie, and dessert?" You teased, "I'm being spoiled tonight."

"You've been working your ass off for weeks now," he smirked, standing from his seat to pick up your plates, "this is the least I could do. I know I said it, but you know how good a job you're doing, right? Damn, baby," he chuckled, "ain't no way I could ever handle shit like that on the regular."

"I could't do what you do, either."

"We all balance our crazy different. Want some tea? Wine?"

"Tea would be great."

"Comin' up."

When Carmy returned, you pulled the blanket back to let him sit again with the dessert plate between you both; two steaming mugs of tea sat on the coffee table. "What's this?" You wondered, seeing a sort of pastry.

"Marcus told me 'bout this," he chuckled. "Kinda like a poor man's version of this one thing he makes. So, look, it's Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, right? In the middle, there's raspberry preserves - or jam if you want that instead. It's baked then drizzled in melted white chocolate."

"Wow, you got all fancy on me," you beamed.

"Hardly, more like I was a little impulsive after hearing your essay. Figured you could use some dessert - you really earned it, baby. You always earn dessert," he grinned, "but tonight, you were kickass. Know that? Hear me?"

You shook your head, "This is nothing compared - "

"Hey, hey, nah," he interrupted, "nah, nah, don't do that, don't try to invalidate or downplay yourself. Look, shit is always hard in college, right? But you handle it so well, I can see the work you're putting in and the little reward you receive in return, and know that shit's gotta add up for you. But my baby just keeps cool, does her work, and does what she can to earn the grades she does. Right?"

"I mean, I try to..."

"You succeed. C'mon, lemme hear you say it. 'I kick college's ass.'"

"I kick college's ass."

"'I work hard.'"

"Carmy - "

"Saaay it!"

You huffed, "I work hard."

"'I'm an incredible hard worker.'"

"I'm an incredible hard worker."

"'I am only human.'"

Another breath in, repeating, "I am only human."

"'I am a success.'"

"I try to be a success."

"That wasn't the quote."

"Well, I don't know if I'm succeeding because grades aren't finalized yet and I have - "

"No, no, no," he smirked again, "you're still successful 'cause you're doing such a kickass job. You could get a fucking 'D' on something, and guess what? You're still successful 'cause you don't let this tear you down, you learn from mistakes and apply whatever lessons you learn to your upcoming assignments. Some people say you might even learn more from losing and failing than from undisputed success. Look, I'll be honest, I thought my job was hectic as shit, but hearing your essay tonight? Goddamn, you're not just beautiful, but so fucking intelligent, too. Baby, I was shook - that sounded like some academic paper that college kids need to defend their thesis or some shit. Something scholarly, not some assignment you gotta hand in by a deadline so you just wrote down whatever. So, give yourself credit and tell yourself you're a success."

With a long, deep breath, you answered earnestly, "I'm a success."

"Good girl," he muttered, handing you a fork finally. However, unlike Mikey all those years ago, you didn't launch your utensil at anyone and used it to cut off a corner of pastry.

You moaned when you tasted the gooey goodness. You managed through a mouthful, "Mmhhh! Mhm! Mhm! If you make this every time I have some assignment pissing me off and stressing me out, I'm afraid I'll get used to this treatment."

Carmy grinned, "You deserve whatever dessert you want, whenever you want. Huh? Yeah? Lemme hear you say it."

With another grin, you mused, "I deserve whatever I want, when I want it... And however I want it!"

"Atta girl!"

"You're so fucking corny," you laughed lightly, feeling as if you were falling in love with him again, "but thank you, my Affirmation King."

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

[definegodliness]

31-10-2024

Cute

I saw the sparkling In specks of silver, slowly fluttering Like embers lifted by a flame, And every glint projected upon my retinas Manifested inside of me a Strangely activating elation. Enthralled, I was. Fascinated. Struggling to retain reign over my own will. Emerging victor. Only a catalyzed smile escaped my restraint. I figured, if everything is made of stardust, Maybe it scatters, as such. I had seen these glints before: In the sky, above trees; places, I felt, I should be. But never were they so vehement And never before did a human Emit them.

--- 31-10-2024, M.A. Tempels ©