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theballadofharkness · 5 days ago

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She’s with the Director

Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: When Hollywood’s strangest new director begins quietly shopping her next script, Matt Remnick loses his mind trying to find her. Mysterious, brilliant, and barely reachable, she’s the kind of director that could give him his Rosemary’s Baby… if he can track her down.

Maya Mason isn’t worried.

Because the strangest woman in Hollywood that the studio is chasing? She already has her.

Word Count: 9K

Warnings: explicit smut, strap-on use, MDNI

A/N: This is just a quick little Maya fic I wrote while catching up on The Studio finally, I definitely want to write more Maya so any suggestions would be great xo

Matt Remick bursts into the conference room like he’s just come from war… or worse, a breakfast meeting with Griffin.

He’s got that look. Wide eyes, rumpled blazer, the smell of overpriced oat milk clinging to him like defeat. But he’s grinning like he just found the last golden ticket in Hollywood. “Big news,” he says. “Huge news.”

The team’s already waiting, Sal is sprawled in his usual seat with a breakfast burrito and a hangover, Quinn tapping away on her tablet with one AirPod in, and Patty Leigh sipping tea like she’s three seconds away from biting someone.

Sal doesn’t look up from his phone. “You always say that and it’s never huge man.”

“No,” Matt says, too pumped to be insulted. “No, this is real.”

Patty sighs and sets her tea down with careful grace. “What is it Matthew? You look like you’re about to wet yourself.”

Matt drops his phone on the table, screen facing up. It’s paused on a still from Wolves at the Well, that shot, the one with the lake and the antlers and the girl screaming underwater. Instantly recognizable. Instantly iconic.

“She’s looking for a studio,” Matt announces, reverent. “She’s looking for a studio.”

Quinn looks up. “Who is?”

Matt lets the silence drag just long enough to be dramatic. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

A pause.

Quinn straightens. “Wait. Seriously?”

Patty’s brows raise, skeptical but intrigued. “She’s leaving her indie? I thought she was some kind of cursed forest nymph who only works with companies run out of moss-covered cabins.”

Matt is glowing now. “Nope. Word is she’s looking for a studio. Not an indie label, not some moody investor with a fetish for Icelandic grief dramas. A studio. She wants scale. Reach. And after Wolves exploded? She’s got leverage. She wants to tell bigger stories and still keep control. We can offer that.”

Patty leans back, calculating. “How sure are you?”

“I’ve got three sources,” Matt says. “And her agent’s being cagey, which means it’s real.”

Quinn stares at him. “She’s the biggest thing in film right now. Her movie’s still breaking streaming records. If she’s even considering going big…”

“She is,” Matt says. “And I want her here.”

Silence.

Patty lifts a brow. “You really think she’s going to give up witchy obscurity for a studio boardroom?”

Matt grins. “Not for any studio. But this one? If we pitch it right? We can blow A24 out of the fucking water.”

Patty leans back, amused. “And who, pray tell, is going to convince her?”

Sal whistles low. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the plan?”

Matt points around the room like he’s handing out weapons in a war room.

“Quinn- I want everything. Press, panels, podcast interviews. Get inside her head. I want to know what she wants before she does.”

“On it.”

“Sal- find out who else is sniffing around. What they’re offering, who she’s talking to. No one moves without us knowing about it.”

Sal nods, already typing on his phone.

Matt turns to Patty. “You’re producing the pitch. She’s not a ‘take her to lunch and flatter her’ type. She’ll want vision. Integrity. Respect. Sell her on what we aren’t.”

Patty gives a slow, dangerous smile. “I do love a challenge.”

Then Matt turns to Maya.

And the energy shifts.

She hasn’t spoken. Head to toe in Louis Vuitton streetwear, tight ponytail, three rings on each finger, legs crossed like she’s not even paying attention. But her jaw tightens at the sound of your name.

She’s already read your new script. She read it in bed while you lay next to her, legs tangled with hers, chewing the end of a pencil and asking if she thought the ending was too kind. She didn’t answer. She kissed you instead.

“You marketed Wolves at the Well,” Matt says. “She loved that campaign. She said it was the only time her work didn’t feel… diluted.”

Maya says nothing.

“She trusted you,” Matt continues. “You get her tone. You get her weird, terrifying mind. If anyone can figure out how to bring her in, it’s you.”

Maya exhales slowly. “She doesn’t do meetings. She doesn’t do people.”

Matt shrugs. “Then don’t make it feel like a meeting. Make it feel like whatever the hell she needs it to be. We just need her to talk to us.”

Maya tilts her head. “You want a horror film with a ten-minute silent sequence where a woman stares into a mirror and rips her teeth out one by one, and you think I’m the key to selling it?”

Matt grins. “Exactly. And I think you’ve still got a line to her.”

Her eyes narrow. “What makes you think that?”

Matt shrugs. “Because if I were her, and I trusted anyone in this hellhole, it’d be you.”

A beat.

Maya leans back in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

The boardroom becomes a war room.

Matt’s pacing again, sleeves rolled up like that helps him think. He’s surrounded by stacks of folders, half-eaten pastries, open laptops, and a terrifying number of Post-it notes.

“We can’t find her,” he says, hands in his hair. “I mean, what the fuck, we cannot find her. Where does she go when she disappears between projects?” he demands. “Nobody just vanishes anymore.”

“She does,” Quinn says, flicking through a spreadsheet. “She doesn’t have a personal Instagram, hasn’t been seen at a public event in eight months, and there’s literally one known address on file, some cabin in Northern California that may or may not exist.”

“She’s not completely off the grid,” Sal argues, waving his phone. “She liked a tweet two weeks ago.”

Matt spins on him. “What tweet?”

“It was about practical effects in horror. But the tweet got deleted, so…”

“So she’s alive, but elusive.” Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

Sal doesn’t even look up from his screen. “No publicist, no assistant, no active socials. Her website is literally a black screen with a Latin quote and a candle that burns out if you hover over it too long.”

“That’s performance art, not contact information!” Matt snaps.

Patty sips her tea. “She’s a ghost with awards.”

Matt slams a file down. “I promised Griffin we were talking to her this week. I called her the next big thing. The anti-Marvel. The future of smart cinema. He said, and I quote, ‘We need her in the building before A24 eats our souls and pisses out another Oscar.’”

Patty doesn’t blink. “And you told him you had this in the bag didn’t you?”

“I panicked!” Matt throws his arms up. “And now we’re screwed.”

He turns, wild-eyed, to Maya, who’s lounging in her chair with one knee up, chewing on the end of a pen and looking like this is the most fun she’s had in months.

“You marketed her last movie,” Matt clings to the one link he has to you. “You got her. You understood her. You got into her head. If anyone knows where she might be, it's you.”

Maya stretches slowly, deliberately, and shrugs. “Maybe she’s just… busy. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

Quinn blinks. “Isn’t she developing something?”

“She’s always developing something,” Sal mutters. “The question is where. And with who.”

Matt’s pacing again. “We’re talking about the woman who made a horror movie about intergenerational trauma and demonic taxidermy and made it a hit. She’s brilliant. She’s unstable. She’s perfect. And she’s missing.”

Patty tilts her head. “She’s not missing. She’s choosing not to be seen.”

Matt points at her like she just unlocked the final puzzle piece. “YES. Exactly. She’s choosing. And we need to give her a reason to choose us. We need bait. Blood in the water. Something that says, ‘We get it. We’re not like the others. We won’t sand down your edges.’”

Sal sighs. “You’ve got a weird artsy cinephile boner for this woman haven’t you?”

Quinn looks toward Maya. “Seriously though… no leads at all?”

Maya shrugs again, slower this time. “Maybe I didn’t leave the door open far enough.”

Matt groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. We are so fucked.”

Maya just smiles. Calm. Knowing. Not offering anything. Not rushing. Not helping. Not yet.

Hours pass.

The conference room gets darker as the sun goes down, but no one bothers with the lights. The glow from laptops and phones and half-dead chargers is enough. A shrine to failure, if you asked Maya, which, blessedly, no one does.

Quinn ks scrolling with the intensity of someone hacking into the Pentagon. “Okay, I found a podcast she did anonymously five years ago under a fake name. I think it’s her because she mentions a childhood fear of mirrors and references a book no one else ever talks about-”

Matt cuts her off. “Is there an email?”

“No,” Quinn says, without missing a beat.

Sal’s got three tabs open: Reddit, IMDbPro, and a very messy spreadsheet titled WITCH LEADS. “Someone swears they saw her in Prague. Someone else thinks she’s living in a commune in upstate New York.”

Matt looks physically ill. “I told Griffin we had momentum.”

Patty snorts from where she’s taken up residence at the head of the table, reading over a dog-eared draft of one of your old scripts. “She is actively avoiding being found. This is artful silence. Intentional disappearance. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s playing divine to be untouched.”

“She has to want something,” Matt insists, like he’s trying to manifest you. “People don’t vanish unless they want to be chased.”

“Or left alone,” Quinn offers gently.

Matt groans and flops into a chair. “Why does she have to be like this?”

Maya, still perched like a cat on the edge of her chair, flips her pen between her fingers. “Because if she wasn’t like this, you wouldn’t want her half as much.”

The room stills for a beat.

Matt narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

Maya lifts a brow. “A little.”

“You know something,” he says, sitting up straighter. “You’re being weirdly calm.”

“I’m always calm,” she lies.

Quinn glances over. “Seriously, Maya, no old contacts? No secret email? No unlisted number?”

Maya yawns. “If I did, don’t you think I’d have used it by now?”

Patty side-eyes her. “Would you?”

Maya doesn’t answer. Because the truth is: she hasn’t even tried. Not really. She could send one message. Just one. And you’d answer. But where’s the fun in that?

Three long, caffeine-stained, sleep-deprived days since Matt declared, loud and confident, that you were in play.

You were not in play. You’re hovering above like a spectral deity, ignoring every pitch deck and soft outreach like none of it matters, which, to you, it probably doesn’t.

Griffin is starting to hover. “Any updates?” has turned into “When will I see something?” and now it’s morphing into That Tone—that sharp, glossy warning that means the countdown has started.

Matt is in executive hell.

So he does the only thing he can do to cope: gets drunk and high with Sal and spirals through someone else’s movie.

Before the film, though, they hit up a spot Sal swears will “cure all emotional disease”, a high-end Italian place in West Hollywood that’s all mood lighting, rich velvet, and wine lists the size of novellas.

They meet at a high-end Italian place with dark velvet booths, moody jazz, and wine lists thicker than a studio script rewrite.

“I can’t believe she’s ghosting us,” Matt says, sinking into the booth. “Us, Sal. She makes one demonic deer movie and suddenly we’re not worthy of her divine witch vibes?”

Sal takes a sip of red wine and shrugs. “You knew what you were getting into. This is why I date Pilates instructors.”

Matt ignores him. “You know what the worst part is? It’s not even rejection. It’s- it’s nothing. She hasn’t even acknowledged we exist. It’s like trying to cast a fucking spell and getting static.”

Sal leans back. “You’re mixing your metaphors, man. You need carbs. Or a Xanax.”

Matt raises his glass. “Or both.”

Matt waves for a martini like it’s a sedative. “She’s out there somewhere. I know it. And we’re gonna lose her. I can feel it.”

Sal shrugs, flipping open the menu. “Then let her go. Find another terrifying gay auteur.”

Matt glares. “She’s the terrifying auteur. There is no one else.”

But before Sal can mock him further, something shifts in the room.

Matt glances up and freezes. There, in a deep velvet booth lit by a golden sconce, sits Maya Mason.

All sharp cheekbones and matte lipstick, black Gucci suit jacket slung over her shoulders, wine glass in hand. Her posture says I’m relaxed, but her eyes are calculating, ever so slightly narrowed.

Matt freezes. Elbows Sal.

Sal glances over and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t peg her for this level of bougie.”

Matt perks up. “Oh my god. Maya’s here. Should we go over?”

Matt starts to stand.

And then… you appear.

A soft, sudden presence moving through the space like perfume flitting over from the bar like a dream or a hallucination or some kind of punishment designed specifically for Matt’s crumbling sanity. You’re wrapped in silk and leather, a drink in one hand, your expression easy and unhurried.

You’re glowing under the amber light, glass in hand, lips glossed. You walk toward the booth without a second of hesitation. You slide in beside Maya, lean in, and press a kiss to her cheek. She murmurs something, barely audible, but her arm wraps around your waist. You settle into her side like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.

Matt’s mouth falls open. He grabs Sal’s arm, white-knuckled. “Is that…?”

“That’s her,” Sal breathes. “That’s her.”

“She’s been in the city this whole time?”

“In Maya’s lap.”

Matt blinks rapidly. “She’s the mystery of the industry. The director no one can contact. She communicates in riddles and metaphors and one-word emails and now she’s just… she’s just- here?!”

They both duck slightly behind the wine rack like two deeply uncool spies.

“Do we go over there?” Sal whispers.

“I can’t,” Matt hisses. “I’m wearing H&M.”

He peeks again. You’re laughing now, soft and warm, gently nudging Maya’s shoulder as you sip something golden from a heavy crystal glass. Maya says something and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. You smile up at her like she built the sky.

Matt slumps back down, clutching his drink. “We’re dead. Griffin’s going to turn me into a chair.”

Sal mutters, “Holy shit.”

Maya glances up and sees them. Her smile drops a millimeter. Her eyes narrow. Fucking hell. She takes a long, slow sip of her drink. Not because she’s thirsty, but because she needs a second to breathe through the coming wave of Matt’s voice, emails, frantic walk-and-talks, and existential screeds about visionary cinema.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

Maya smiles at you, soft but thin. “Yeah. Just spotted something annoying.”

You turn, casually following her gaze, eyes landing on the two stunned men standing by the maître d’.

You clock them instantly.

Maya exhales, like this is exactly the kind of nonsense she’d been trying to avoid. She rubs your thigh under the table, gently, grounding.

“Listen…” she mutters. “Continental studio… Matt and Sal over there, they want to make your next movie.”

You blink again, surprised but not rattled. “They do?”

“They’re fucking gagging for it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is that why they look like they’re about to pass out?”

“Yup.”

You giggle softly and kiss her cheek. “How flattering.”

Maya sighs, resigned. “So much for a quiet night.” She holds Matt’s gaze for a beat. Then lifts her glass.

A quiet, unreadable toast.

Across the restaurant, Matt stares into the middle distance like he’s experiencing ego death. “I’m going to throw up,” Matt mutters.

Sal raises his wine. “To lesbian espionage.”

You’re halfway through dessert, some ridiculous tower of hazelnut praline and dark chocolate that Maya ordered “because you deserve nice things”, when the shadows shift beside your table.

You glance up.

Matt Remick is standing there, eyes wide, smile tight, like he’s just come face to face with a god and doesn’t know if he should bow or cry.

Sal’s with him. Two steps behind. A little too much wine, a little too confident.

“We’ve been trying to reach you!” Matt says, breathless.

Maya groans under her breath.

You blink. “Clearly.”

Matt laughs nervously, motioning at the booth. “Can we- uh- join you? Just for a minute. We don’t want to interrupt. Well, we are interrupting. But we don’t want to.”

You glance at Maya. She doesn’t say anything, just leans back, arms crossed, watching with the calm of a lion in tall grass.

You nod and gesture to the other side of the table. “Go on then.”

They slide in like two college freshmen sitting down with the headmistress.

Matt clears his throat. “First of all, let me just say… we’re huge fans. Everyone at the studio is. Your work is… it’s revolutionary.”

You give a polite, noncommittal nod. Maya sips her drink, unmoved.

Then Sal leans in, far too casually. “Didn’t know you were a lesbian!” he says, grinning. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that- I mean, honestly it’s my most searched porn tab.”

Matt physically recoils.

You blink. Once. Slowly.

Maya does not react. At all. Just shifts, placing her hand casually on your thigh under the table.

Sal keeps going, like a man joyfully flinging himself off a cliff. “No, seriously. I mean, it’s hot, right? You two together. Power couple. You got that dark academia meets streetwear vibe. Like if The Craft had a PR department.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head ever so slightly. “This,” you say flatly, “is who wants to make my movie?”

Matt slaps Sal’s shoulder hard enough to shake the table. “Ignore him. He’s… he’s not usually like this.”

Maya leans in then, finally. “Oh, no,” she says, voice syrupy with sarcasm. “He’s exactly like this.”

Matt’s smile stretches thinner. “We just wanted to let you know- if you’re developing something new, we would love to talk. No pressure, obviously, but our door is wide open.”

You study him for a moment, sipping your drink. You don’t answer right away. You just… let the silence grow. It stretches long enough that Matt starts to visibly sweat.

Then finally, you look at Maya. “I thought they were gonna be taller,” you say.

Maya snorts into her glass.

Maya’s been smirking the whole ride back. She kicked her heels off in the car, feet in your lap, your fingers tracing slow circles against her ankle while she casually recounted every second of Matt and Sal’s implosion over dinner like it was the highlight of her year.

��‘Didn’t know you were a lesbian!’” she says, mimicking Sal with a cartoonishly terrible voice. “‘It’s my most searched porn tab!’ Babe. Babe. I almost choked on my fuckin wine.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head against the leather seat. “You loved it.”

“Oh, I loved watching you scare the shit out of them. I could feel Matt’s soul trying to exit through his eyeballs.”

You hum, smiling to yourself. “He really looked like he was meeting the cryptid he’s been chasing for years.”

Maya grins, sharp and smug. “And she was just sitting in my lap the whole time.”

Later, at home, you’re curled up in bed together. Maya’s shirt is unbuttoned, her skin warm against yours, one arm thrown over you like she’s never letting go. The lights are low. The city hums far below the windows.

She’s scrolling idly on her phone, probably reading headlines about someone else’s PR failure, when you shift closer, pressing your cheek to her collarbone.

“Maya?”

She hums in response, not looking away.

You trace your finger along the inside of her wrist, gentle. “Want me to pick your studio?”

That gets her attention. She lowers the phone and looks down at you.

Your eyes are soft, wide, full of something quiet and real. “Give you complete control over the marketing?” you ask, voice like silk. “Let you run the campaign. Do it your way. No committee. Just you.”

Maya stares at you for a moment. “You’d do that for me, baby?”

You nod, nuzzling into her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Of course I would.”

She exhales, long and slow, like she wasn’t expecting that to hit her so hard.

“Fuck,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “I really got you, huh?”

You nod again, smiling, utterly gone for her.

She kisses your forehead, her lips lingering. Then she pulls back just enough to look down at you with a slow grin. “Yeah?” she murmurs. “Alright, baby girl. I’ll set up the meeting.”

You smile, nodding, and then lean in again, just a little, just enough to brush your lips along her collarbone.

She freezes for a second.

You press another kiss, soft and slow, just below her throat.

“Baby,” she says, voice a warning, a whisper.

You don’t answer. You just kiss higher, up the slope of her neck, the angle of her jaw, your breath warm against her pulse. You feel the way her arm tightens around you, like she’s trying to stay cool, trying not to let on that she’s already halfway gone.

Then she turns her head, catches your mouth with hers. It starts soft, slow and indulgent, her fingers slipping into your hair as your lips move against hers in lazy, exploring rhythm. You tilt into her, pressing yourself closer, one hand slipping under the open edge of her shirt to rest against her stomach.

Maya deepens the kiss like she’s claiming it, her hand sliding down your back, pulling you more fully into her lap.

She breaks away just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. “You get like this when you make big promises?” she murmurs, smiling against your mouth.

You smile back, lips brushing hers. “Only for you.”

She kisses you again, hungrier now. Less patient. You’re still curled into her lap, fingers splayed across the bare skin of her stomach under her unbuttoned shirt, your lips brushing slow, reverent kisses up her throat like you’re praying to her body with your mouth.

She lets you.

Lets you worship her like this, patient and slow, kisses trailing higher, deeper, lips barely parting, breath warm against the spot just below her jaw that always makes her shudder. And when she does, when her fingers tighten in your hair just a little, you smile against her skin.

“Fuckin’ brat,” she mutters, voice thick, but she’s already tilting her head to give you more.

You kiss her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

Then you pull back just enough to whisper, soft and saccharine, “Want you.”

Her hand slides down to your throat, not rough, just there. Just holding. “Yeah?” she murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin, tipping your face up to meet hers.

You nod, lips parted, eyes wide and open in that way that always makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Want me to take care of you, babygirl?”

“Please.”

She kisses you hard this time, no patience, no softness. Just heat and teeth and tongue. Her grip on your throat tightens a little as she pushes you back into the pillows, climbing over you, her knee parting your thighs with practiced ease.

“You offering me your film and this sweet little body in the same night?” she growls, voice low and dangerous, mouth dragging down your neck now. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You gasp as her teeth catch your collarbone. That makes her laugh, deep and warm, before her mouth returns to your skin.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, hot against your chest. “Mine to kiss, mine to fuck, mine to show off when the studio begs for your name and you’re sitting in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into her back, hips rising to meet her. “Yes, Maya…”

“You gonna be good for me?”

“Yes/ yes, I’ll be so good… ”

“You are good,” she purrs, trailing her hand down between your thighs, fingers slipping under your panties like you were made for her. “Always so fuckin’ good for me.”

And when her fingers finally slide into you, slow and deep, you cry out for her, high and sweet and already undone, and Maya grins like she just won. Because she did.

Her fingers are already inside you, deep and slow, dragging along that perfect spot that makes your thighs tremble and your breath catch in your throat. Maya’s body is draped over yours, shirt half-off, hair falling over her face as she watches you like she’s memorizing the way you fall apart.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me,” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “So sweet, baby. Can’t believe this perfect little thing belongs to me.”

Your hips rock up to meet her hand, helpless and greedy. “Maya…”

She curls her fingers just right and you gasp, eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back against the pillows. “Uh-uh,” she says, voice sharp, dominant. Her free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Eyes on me.”

You do. Because how could you not?

Her smirk softens at the edges. “Look at you,” she whispers. “So powerful out there. Untouchable. And now you’re under me, legs shaking, begging to come.”

You nod, desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, baby,” she coos. “I’ve got you.”

She fucks you with deliberate, punishing strokes that make your back arch, your nails claw at the sheets, your voice turn to broken little moans that only she gets to hear.

“Who makes you feel this good?” she demands, her mouth at your ear now, her pace unrelenting.

“You do,” you gasp. “You do, Maya!”

“That’s right.”

She doesn’t let up. Her thumb finds your clit, circling in slow, sinful rhythm as her fingers thrust deeper. You’re close. So close. And she knows it. She feels it.

“Come for me,” she commands, voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

And when you do, it crashes over you like fire, white-hot and consuming, your whole body shaking as you sob her name. She holds you through it, fingers still moving as you writhe beneath her, overstimulated and soaked.

You’re gasping, lips parted, body trembling and she still doesn’t stop.

“Again,” she says, quieter now. “I want one more.”

“M-Maya…” You’re already wrecked, legs weak, tears in your lashes.

But her hand doesn’t leave you. Her mouth kisses your throat, your cheek, your lips. Her eyes stay on yours.

“You said I had control, didn’t you?” she whispers.

You nod, crying out as she thrusts again. “Yes- yes- fuck- yes!”

“Good girl.”

You’re shaking.

Your chest is heaving, thighs soaked, voice cracked open into raw little gasps. And Maya still hasn’t let up. She hasn’t stopped touching you, hasn’t moved from where she’s curled against your body, fingers still inside you, lips still on your neck.

“Fuck, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and wrecked with praise. “You’re so good for me. So perfect like this.”

You can’t speak. Your throat is raw from moaning, your body so sensitive that even the smallest movement makes your hips twitch. But Maya isn’t finished. She licks into your mouth when you try to cry out again, muffling your moans with her kiss, letting your broken little sounds melt into her tongue as she keeps her rhythm steady.

“Come on, babygirl,” she says, voice molten. “One more for me. Just one more. You can do it. I’ve got you,” she purrs. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?”

You nod, tears spilling over as your eyes squeeze shut.

“That’s my girl,” she says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Fucking take it.”

Your climax hits harder this time, like lightning, like something primal cracking loose inside you. You sob her name, the sound helpless, wrecked, as your body arches into hers and the pleasure rips through you like fire.

Maya doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling, gasping, pleading for her mouth instead of her fingers. She finally slows, eases her hand out, kisses your cheeks, your wet lashes, your trembling lips.

“Shhh,” she whispers, wrapping herself around you. “I’ve got you, baby. You did so good for me. So fucking good.”

You collapse into her, boneless and broken and safe. She pulls you close, her hands now stroking soft and slow down your back, murmuring against your hair, “I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you.”

The room is still hazy with the aftermath, your body soft, spent, sprawled across Maya’s chest as she strokes your hair with slow, possessive fingers.

You’re trembling in that delicious, floating way. Your skin feels fever-warm, your lips swollen from her kisses, your thighs aching from being held open so long. Every inch of you is humming, fucked out and fully hers.

And Maya?

Maya looks like a goddess. Lipstick smudged, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with satisfaction.

She presses a kiss to your hairline.

You breathe out her name like a prayer. “Maya…”

She hums, low and amused, fingers still stroking your spine. “That was sweet, baby. You took it so well.”

You nod, nuzzling closer. “Wanted to be good for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You were. You always are.”

There’s a pause. Then her fingers tighten a little in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. “But I think someone forgot her manners.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs instinctively press together.

“You gonna thank me properly?” she purrs, tilting your chin up to meet her eyes. “Or you gonna make me ask again?”

You whimper. “Want to. Want to thank you.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous, and shifts onto her back, guiding you between her thighs with the smooth confidence of someone who already knows what you’ll do. Who owns what you’ll do.

“Show me, then,” she says, voice all velvet and command. “Show me how grateful you are.”

You settle between her legs, kissing her thighs reverently, softly at first, until she threads her fingers through your hair and tugs you where she wants you.

She’s soaked for you. Already aching. And when your tongue finally drags over her, slow and sweet, she lets out a low, shuddering moan that makes your heart stutter.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, voice shaking now. “My good fucking girl.”

You lick into her like she’s holy, like this is your altar, and your worship is earned. You’re gentle, focused, letting her control the rhythm, her hand guiding your mouth, her hips twitching up against your tongue as she gets louder, messier, more desperate.

You moan against her, the sound sending vibrations straight through her.

“Fuck… fuck, yes- don’t stop, don’t you dare- ”

She comes with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clenching around your head, her voice shattering into a gasp of your name like it’s the only word she knows.

You stay there.

Kiss her through it. Lick her clean. Keep your mouth soft and open on her until she’s twitching, panting, tugging your hair to pull you off with a sharp hiss.

You look up at her, eyes shining, and whisper: “Thank you, I love you.”

Maya groans. “Fuck. Come here.”

She pulls you up, kisses you filthy, tasting herself on your tongue and rolls you into her arms, both of you ruined and radiant in the glow of it.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, warm and golden, casting a soft glow over your skin as you stretch slowly beneath the sheets.

You’re still a little sore. Your thighs ache in that perfect way, your lips are swollen from kissing, and there’s a faint, delicious hum still rolling through your muscles, reminders of everything Maya did to you last night. How she took from you. How you gave her everything.

She’s already awake.

Propped against the headboard, hair mussed, one arm lazily draped around your waist as she scrolls her phone with the other hand, wearing only her open silk robe and a smirk that spells danger.

You blink up at her, sleep-heavy. “What’re you doing?”

She doesn’t look away from the screen. “Texting Matt.”

You groan and bury your face in her hip. “Poor man.”

She grins. “He’s fine. I’m giving him the gift of hope.”

You peek up. “What’d you say?”

Maya hits send with a little flourish, then turns the phone toward you.

<Maya: You’re getting your meeting. Wear something that doesn’t scream ‘desperation.’>

You burst into sleepy laughter, curling closer to her. “You’re so mean,” you mumble against her skin.

She strokes your hair. “He’ll live. Probably already printing t-shirts that say I Met Y/N Y/L/N and Survived.”

You giggle again, then go quiet.

Maya glances down. “What?”

You look up at her, eyes soft. “I’m glad it’s you.”

She pauses. Smile fading into something warmer, deeper.

“I know,” she says, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Me too.”

Then her phone buzzes. A message from Matt.

Maya sighs dramatically and locks her screen. “This is what I get for letting the masses know you’re mine.”

You hum, smug. “You love me.”

She kisses you. “I fucking do.”

The conference room is spotless. Brighter than usual. Like someone turned up the lights to overcompensate for the impending dread.

Matt Remick is pacing again.

Quinn’s at the end of the table, calm on the outside, but absolutely sweating through her blouse. Sal’s already had two coffees, half a croissant and is fidgeting so hard the table rattles.

And Maya? Maya’s lounging in her chair like this is a boredom exercise, one leg crossed over the other, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses still on even though they’re inside. Her expression is unreadable, cool and calm, the faintest smirk playing at her lips.

“She’s late,” Matt says, not for the first time.

“She’s not late,” Maya replies, not looking up. “She’s theatrical.”

Quinn eyes the door like it might explode open at any second. “Do we stand when she comes in?”

Matt actually considers it. “I don’t know, do we?!”

“She’s not the fucking Pope,” Maya mutters.

Sal’s bouncing his knee. “I think I’m gonna throw up. What if she hates the pitch? What if she says nothing and just leaves?”

“She won’t leave,” Maya says, now finally pulling off her sunglasses, revealing that infuriating glint in her eyes.

“How do you know?” Matt asks.

And that’s when they all hear it: the elevator ding.

Everyone freezes.

Maya uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. “She’s here,” she says.

Sal stands so fast he knocks his chair back.

Matt smooths his blazer, then immediately un-smooths it, then just gives up and wipes his palms on his trousers.

The footsteps echo down the hallway.

Quinn breathes out, once. “Okay. Show time.”

Maya leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee from her obnoxiously big Stanley cup like the goddess of chaos she is. “She’s gonna eat you alive,” she says, deadpan.

Matt doesn’t know if she’s joking.

And then the door opens. You enter the room like a shadow falling over water, quiet, poised, the kind of still that makes people hold their breath without realizing it. The moment you step through the door, the air shifts. Matt bolts upright. Quinn straightens her notes. Sal tries to stand but mostly fumbles his coffee.

Maya’s already sitting back in her chair, legs crossed, wearing a black Gucci hoodie layered over a YSL T-shirt, obscenely expensive sneakers up on the edge of the table like this is a meeting she couldn’t care less about. But her eyes don’t leave you. Not once.

You take the head of the table. Say nothing. Let them sweat.

Matt starts first, of course. “We are thrilled you’re here. Honestly, this… this means a lot.”

You blink.

He keeps going. “We’ve been talking internally about what kind of slate makes sense for where film is heading, where you’re heading. And your voice? We think it defines the next era.”

Quinn jumps in. “Your work doesn’t compromise, and neither do we. You’d have creative control, a team that gets the tone, the language, the darkness.”

“We’ll protect your process,” Matt adds quickly. “We want to empower you, not get in your way.”

“We’ll give you whatever you want,” Sal says, before realizing how that sounds. “I mean, not whatever, but like… most things. Within reason. Or- outside reason, if it’s, like, cool.”

You stare at him.

Maya pinches the bridge of her nose.

You sit at the head of the table, spine straight, legs crossed, eyes focused on a fixed point in the distance like you’re seeing something no one else in the room can.

The others: Matt, Sal, and Quinn, are still mid-pitch. Words flying, ideas piling up on top of each other, offers and promises and desperate energy all funneled toward you.

And you’re still.

Maya clocks it immediately. She hasn’t said a word since you walked in. Just sat quietly off to the side in her usual luxury streetwear combo, arms folded, eyes locked on you.

But when your fingers twitch on the armrest, barely, like a flicker of static, she moves. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just real. She stands, walks over, and places her hand on your back. Palm flat. Warm. Steady. Her other hand rests on your forearm. No words. No looks exchanged.

And you exhale.

Barely a sound. But Maya feels it.

Your shoulders loosen. Your eyes slip closed. Not all the way, just enough to quiet the noise. You lean into the touch. Just a little.

And that’s when Quinn sees it.

It clicks, not in some cinematic, revelatory way. Just quietly. All at once. You’re not mysterious because it’s your brand. You’re not untouchable because you’re trying to be.

You’re just… different.

Your silence isn’t curated. It’s instinct. The long pauses. The blank stares. The way you drift just slightly outside the rhythm of a room. You’re not avoiding them because you’re a diva. You’re avoiding them because you’re anxious.

Quinn glances at Maya who is now gently running her thumb along your arm, still facing forward like she doesn’t want to make a scene, and sees it for what it is.

This isn't a strategy. It’s care. Maya’s anchoring you while the others scramble to impress you. And it’s working.

Matt hasn’t noticed. He’s still going, talking fast, trying to pivot into something with buzzwords. Sal keeps jumping in with half-formed ideas.

But Quinn watches the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re finally able to breathe again.

And Maya? Maya just mutters, quiet enough for only you to hear: “You’re good, baby. They’re just noise.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Matt is mid-sentence, something about festival reach and global rights, his voice hitting that slightly manic pitch of a man dangling off the edge of a dream.

“- we’d leverage the marketing momentum of Wolves at the Well, of course, but frame this next project as your arrival. The next evolution of your vision, scaled but intact, and-”

“Matt,” Quinn says, calmly but firmly.

He falters. “What?”

She holds up a hand. “Just… give me a second.”

Sal blinks. “Wait, what-”

“No, seriously,” Quinn says, her eyes never leaving you. “Let’s stop. Right now.”

Everyone turns.

You haven’t moved. Still sitting there, Maya’s hand resting gently against your arm, your fingers now loosely curled into hers beneath the table. Your eyes are half-lidded, face soft but unreadable.

Quinn sees it again, the stillness, the disconnect, the focus. But also the touch point. Maya’s presence. The grounding.

Quinn leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s speaking across a sacred line. “We don’t want to pitch at you,” she says. “We want to work with you. However that looks.”

You blink slowly.

Matt looks confused. Sal is squinting like he’s missed half a conversation.

Maya says nothing. Just lets her thumb glide against your wrist again.

And that’s when you speak.

Quiet and measured like every word has to come out slowly, or else you’ll lose your nerve. “I want Maya to have everything she wants.”

Matt frowns. “What?”

You lift your gaze. Steady now. Direct. “I want her to have whatever she wants.”

A beat.

“I know you want me,” you continue, voice calm but unwavering. “But I only trust her.”

Silence. Not dramatic silence. Loaded silence. The kind that settles into every corner of the room and stays there.

Matt runs a hand through his hair, laughing, just once, like it escaped him. “Okay. Okay. Fine.”

Maya squeezes your hand under the table.

You sit there, spine straight, Maya’s hand still tucked gently over yours on the table. Matt looks stunned. Sal’s blinking like he missed a scene. Quinn is unreadable, but watching, always watching.

Then Maya clears her throat and stands. “Now give us the room.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

She jerks her head toward the door. “Out. Five minutes.”

Quinn nods immediately, dragging Sal by the arm. Matt hesitates, glancing at you one last time before sighing and following.

The door clicks shut.

And no one hears footsteps retreating because of course they don’t leave. They stay just outside. Pressed up against the glass wall like they’ve got a right to any of what’s about to happen.

Inside? Maya turns to you, arms crossed, eyes soft, but still sharp enough to cut.

“You were fucking incredible,” she says, quiet and sure. “You know that, right?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. You’re up before you know it, rising from the chair like you’re being pulled to her.

Maya barely gets her arms open before you’re on her, hands in her hair, mouth on hers, kissing her like you need it to live. It’s not graceful. Not curated. It’s messy. Desperate. Honest.

She catches you easily. One hand on your waist, the other fisting in the back of your shirt as your mouth moves hot and hungry over hers.

You mumble against her lips, voice cracking, “I was shaking. I was shaking, Maya.”

“I know,” she says, kissing you again. Slower this time. “But they didn’t see it. You held the room. You made the call. You were fucking brilliant, baby.”

Your hands are everywhere, cupping her face, grabbing her shirt, trying to climb into her skin. “I hate meetings,” you breathe. “I hate rooms like this.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to hide.”

“I know,” she says, grounding her palm at the small of your back. “And you still did it.”

She kisses you again, rough and claiming, and you melt into it, letting her hold your weight like she always does. Her hand slides up your spine, holding you tight, kissing you like she’s proud. Like you’re hers. Like you always have been.

Outside the door, Matt whispers, “Are they… are they making out right now?”

Sal nods, reverent. “I think she just cried on her a little.”

Quinn’s smirking. “She chose Maya, not us.”

And inside?

Maya breaks the kiss only to murmur against your lips, her voice hoarse.“You want me to tell them you’ve made your decision?”

You nod, breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Tell them I’m yours.”

Maya grins. “Oh, they know.”

The door swings open.

Maya strides out like a woman who’s just pulled off the heist of the century. She’s grinning. Smug. Unbothered. Lips a little redder than they were ten minutes ago.

Sal looks up, stunned. Quinn raises an eyebrow, already clocking the lipstick situation.

Matt shoots to his feet. “Well?”

“She said yes,” Maya says, without ceremony. “You can unclench now.”

Matt nearly wilts with relief. “Holy shit. Okay. Amazing. What do you need? What do we need to-”

“I want a proper budget,” Maya cuts in, already gathering her bag like she’s about to leave a crime scene. “None of this pretend-support bullshit. I want a full team, proper spend, launch runway, and I want control of the marketing. Not a taste. Not a ‘collaborative’ voice. Control.”

Matt nods, fast, desperate. “Yes. Fine. Whatever she needs.”

“Good,” Maya says, slinging her bag over her shoulder, grin spreading. “You can tell Griffin she’ll be in touch with a script by the end of the week.”

Sal blinks. “She’s already finished it?”

“She’s already writing a sequel,” Maya says, breezing past.

“And where are you going?” Quinn asks, voice amused, arms crossed.

Maya flashes a wicked grin as she opens the door. “I’ve got a meeting with Mackie and Ron Howard at the Sunset Tower in twenty. And then I’m taking my girl home.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “You’re- wait, what?”

But Maya’s already gone.

And behind her? You trail after her quietly, your fingers brushing hers. Head down. Lips kissed raw. You don’t say anything to the room as you leave.

You don’t need to.

Because Maya already said it all.

The SUV is silent, the tinted windows shielding you from the chaos you just left behind. The studio’s glass façade disappears behind you like a fading mirage.

Maya’s sitting beside you in the back seat, legs wide, arm slung lazily along the backrest behind your shoulders. Her other hand rests firmly on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, idle circles through the fabric of your trousers.

You haven’t said much since leaving.

You don’t need to.

She breaks the silence first. Voice low. Warm. Slightly smug. “You were a fucking machine in there.”

You laugh softly, head dropping to her shoulder. “I was shaking.”

“And still owned the room,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You didn’t just say yes to the deal, you dictated the terms. You looked Matt Remick in the face and said, ‘I trust her, not you.’ You could’ve spat in his latte and he still would’ve thanked you.”

You smile against her neck, quiet and dazed.

“I was just trying not to cry.”

Maya scoffs. “Yeah, well. You made me want to cry. Proud tears. Or maybe power-hungry tears. Still unclear.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, harder now.

“Seriously, though,” she says, glancing at you. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then her voice drops even lower. “You know what happens to good girls who hand me entire marketing budgets and creative control?”

You lift your head slowly, lips parted, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

“What?”

Maya leans in, grinning like the devil. “They get fucked stupid.”

The house is quiet when you get in.

Your shoes are off before you realize it. Your hands are a little shaky, your breathing shallow like you’ve just finished running, but it’s not fear. It’s the come-down. The crash after the biggest high of your life.

You’re going to direct your film. With a real budget. With real backing. And with Maya’s studio. You’re going to make your movie. And you didn’t cry. Not once.

You’re in the middle of the living room, fingers pressed to your lips like you’re still trying to convince yourself it’s real, when you feel her behind you.

Maya slides her arms around your waist from behind, her mouth at your neck. “You did it,” she whispers, low and sure.

You nod slowly. “I didn’t cry.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I talked. I said what I wanted. I told them to trust you.”

“You were perfect,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in it.

You turn in her arms to look at her, eyes wide and glossy. “I didn’t think I could-”

Maya cuts you off with a soft kiss. Then another. And then she pulls back, eyes dark. “You didn’t just do it,” she says. “You owned it. You handed me a whole fucking studio’s trust, like it was nothing. And you know what, baby?”

You shake your head, dizzy with her voice.

“I’m gonna make you feel everything tonight.”

She kisses you again, slower now, hands moving down your back to squeeze your ass as she walks you backward toward the bedroom.

“You trust me?” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Good. Strip.”

Your breath catches.

Maya steps back just enough to pull her gucci hoodie off. Her bra’s black, expensive, perfect. Her eyes never leave yours.

You pull your shirt off slowly, fingers fumbling slightly, body humming. By the time your clothes hit the floor, she’s already reaching into the drawer by the bed.

When she turns back, she’s got the harness on, low-slung, black leather, heavy with promise. Her eyes burn into you as she adjusts the straps, slow and practiced.

You’re already trembling.

“Get on the bed,” she says. “Hands above your head.”

You obey.

You always obey for her.

She climbs on top of you, straddling your hips, kissing you deep, one hand cupping your jaw, the other tracing down your throat. “Still with me, babygirl?”

You nod, lips parted. “Always.”

And then she takes her time. Mouth on your neck. Then your chest. Her tongue curling around each nipple, licking and sucking until you’re whining, arching up into her, begging already and she hasn’t even touched you where you need it.

“You gonna let me fuck you slow?” she whispers, kissing down your stomach.

“Yes… please… ”

“Gonna let me take care of you?”

“Yes, Maya…”

She kisses your thighs reverently. Then slips a hand between them, parting you gently. She leans down, kisses your clit once, softly. Then again. Then sucks it just hard enough to make you gasp. By the time she slides the tip of the strap into you, you’re already panting, needy, hands gripping the sheets. And still she moves slowly. Inch by inch.

“You’re so tight for me, baby,” she murmurs, watching you fall apart. “So fucking wet.”

You moan, high and desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, babygirl. I got you.”

She fucks you with long, deep strokes, no rush, no teasing. Just possession. Her hand on your stomach to hold you down, her strap dragging against every perfect spot inside you as she watches you lose yourself beneath her.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours…I’m yours, Maya- fuck!”

“That’s right,” she growls, picking up the pace just slightly, her hips rolling into you in smooth, relentless rhythm. “All fucking mine.”

And when you come, crying out her name, back arching off the bed? She doesn’t stop. She kisses you through it. Fucking you deep and slow until you’re trembling, overstimulated, wrecked. Only then does she slow down, hands soft again, kisses returning to your chest, your face, your lips.

“Breathe, baby,” she murmurs. “You did so good. My perfect girl.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you collapse beneath her.

Safe.

Home.

And completely hers.

The room is low-lit and warm, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes after. After the chaos. After the fight. After the fuck.

You’re both in bed.

You’re curled into her side, skin bare but for the threadbare Stevie Nicks tee you stole from her weeks ago and never gave back. Legs tangled under the sheets, arms wrapped around her waist like you’re anchoring yourself to something real.

Maya’s already half reclined, propped against a velvet pillow, silk YSL pyjamas buttoned down just enough to flash the edge of her collarbone. She’s got a facemask pulled up on top of her head like she forgot she meant to use it. Her phone’s on the nightstand. She hasn’t looked at it in an hour.

The only light comes from the old black-and-white horror film flickering across the flatscreen, The Haunting, or maybe Carnival of Souls, something you love with too much reverence for anyone else to touch.

You’re transfixed. Eyes wide. Body relaxed in the way it only ever is when Maya’s hand is resting between your shoulder blades, fingers moving in lazy, absent circles.

She watches the screen for a minute. Watches you watch the screen. Then she laughs softly under her breath. It’s affectionate. Disbelieving.

“Jesus,” she murmurs, lips ghosting against your hair. “I’m dating the next big name in cinema and she’s still just a little cryptid watching ghost films in my bed.”

You don’t even look at her. “I heard that.”

“I meant it.”

You hum, small and smug.

She shifts slightly, brushing her nose against the crown of your head.

You’re not talking. But your hand’s curled into the silk at her waist, absentmindedly twisting the fabric between your fingers like you’re grounding yourself there.

It makes her chest ache.

There are meetings waiting in her inbox. Contracts to finalize. An entire launch strategy to sketch out for a movie that doesn’t even exist on paper yet.

But none of it matters right now.

Because you, her strange, brilliant, batshit little artist, are asleep in her arms, breathing slowly, dreaming vividly, probably whispering storyboards in your head as you drift.

She smiles, slow and full, and tightens her arm around you.

And for a moment, just a moment, Maya Mason, queen of twenty-city press runs and million-dollar deadlines, just lies there. Holding her girl. Breathing in your soft weirdness. Letting herself be still.

And as the film plays on, grainy and echoing with ghostly screams, you mumble something into her neck. Something half-formed and sleepy.

“Fog machines…”

She stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, baby,” she whispers. “You can have fog machines.”

#maya mason x reader #maya mason #Maya Mason x fem!reader #the studio #Maya Mason smut #kathryn hahn #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #kathryn hahn x reader

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romerona · 23 days ago

Text

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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tpwrtrmnky · 2 months ago

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clinic

[ID: Multi-page comic with crudely drawn stick people. Page 1:

Four panels. Panel 1: A green stick person is talking to a receptionist in some building.

Green: "Yeah uh I've got an appointment with the transhexualism clinic? For a… routine checkup?"

Grayscale: "Hallway A13 then."

Green: "Ok thanks"

Panel 2: The green person is looking at a big hall with hallways on the side labelled "C" and "D"

Panel 3: The green person is inspecting a plaque next to a stairwell

Panel 4: The green person is looking down a hallway with a turn to the right in the far end, and a barred door on the left

Page 2: Three panels.

Panel 1: The green person is moving along a walkway overlooking some strange equipment, including a control panel of some sort, a large shelving unit, a bunch of pipes, and a table with a single chemistry flask in it.

Panel 2: The green person proceeds down a geometrically nonsensical elevated walkway in a room with a perspective illusion cube hanging from a chain. There is a box on the floor with some lines in it.

Panel 3: The green person approaches a door labelled "A" in a dark room, the glow of the sign appearing to be the only light source. Large, skull-shaped figures can barely be spotted in the darkness.

Page 3: Four panels.

Panel 1: The green person walks through a tunnel structure with three round windows, viewed from the outside. It is supported by some pillars.

Panel 2: The green person emerges from a door to another receptionist, who is leaning backwards in their chair.

Green: "Oh! Uh, hi, I'm-"

Receptionist: "Wait room for the chroma clinic's the next door on the right."

Panel 3: The wait room consists of three couches and a small table. The green person is the only one there, aside from a grayscale doctor in the foreground.

Doctor: "Your turn, this way."

Panel 4: The doctor's office contains an L-shaped table, the doctor has a typical office chair.

Doctor: "So uh, sorry about the long wait time. As you know we're very busy."

Green: "…Do I know that?"

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next

#pills that make you green

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todays-xkcd · 8 months ago

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Our lawyers were worried because it turns out the company inherits its debt from the parent universe, but luckily cosmic inflation reduced it to nearly zero.

Helium Synthesis [Explained]

Transcript

[Hairy sits on an office chair at the head of a conference table and has his hands on the table, with Cueball and Megan also at the table.] Hairy: These helium shortages every few years are such a pain. Hairy: Our company needs a reliable source of helium.

[The same situation, but now Hairbun is also seen at the table on the left side of Cueball. Cueball holds a cellphone in his left hand, which Megan looks at.] Hairbun: Where does helium come from, anyway? Cueball: Hmm, apparently most of it is from "Big Bang nucleosynthesis"? Hairy: Well, let's figure out how to do that.

[Hairy, Megan and Hairbun are working on a large machine labeled "Big Bang Nucleosynthesis," with Megan holding its wired control device in her left hand.]

[Two panels depict another Big Bang, followed by various stages of cosmic development, including galaxies and planets forming, shown in white on a black background.]

[The scene returns to the same conference room setup as before, with the characters in the same positions. Text at the top reads: "14 Billion Years Later."] Hairy: These helium shortages every few years are such a pain. Hairy: Our company needs a reliable source of helium.

#xkcd #xkcd 2972 #webcomics #helium synthesis #helium shortage

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neolithicsheep · 7 months ago

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Ok so you're looking at the aftermath of Helene and you're thinking "shit, how would I keep my phone charged? What about my neighbors?" and you have some outdoor space and some cash. Your friendly formerly off grid sheep farmer is here to help.

You need this set up right here:

To that you will need to add:

Y connectors:

The 100aH (amp Hour) deep cycle battery of your choice - lead acid AGM will be cheaper, lithium (LiFePo) is more expensive but lasts much longer.

Finally, you need a small pure sine wave inverter like this one: https://a.co/d/70vRd79

Plug the panels into the Y connectors then into the single wire to run to the charge controller. They are now connected in parallel. Take them outside to a sunny spot and face them south and prop them up at about a 45 degree angle. This isn't perfect but it will be good enough.

Connect your battery and charge controller. Connect the panels to the charge controller. All of the places to do this are labeled and all you need is a Phillips screwdriver. I recommend doing it once in a non-disaster situation so you know you can do it but you'll be fine. Boom, you are getting electricity from the sun!

The inverter draws power even when it's not running so don't leave it hooked up when you're not using it. When someone needs to charge their phone, put those alligator clips on the matching color battery posts, turn the inverter on, and plug in the phone/radio. Voilà! A single 100aH battery is not going to run a bunch of things but it will help keep cell phones charged without using up the gas in your car.

The panels are weatherproof but everything else needs to be protected by the way so you'll need to set this up in a shed or garage or in the house. Lead acid batteries can produce hydrogen gas when being charged but just having one isn't a big risk.

FAQ:

Yes, you can permanently mount the panels to your roof if you own your home etc. They're designed for that!

It is true that places sell "solar generators" - those are a charge controller, battery, and an inverter in one box at a very high price point. When a component goes bad you will be unable to replace the component and must replace the entire $1000 box. They are also not upgradeable or expandable, this is.

You do not have to buy Renogy, I recommend them because they kept me in electricity for the years I was off grid.

You do not have to buy the kit, you can buy the components of it as and when you can afford them!

Remember to keep your battery on a trickle charger.

#natural disasters #disaster preparedness #solar energy #solar power

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hyuny-bunny · 11 months ago

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rockstar bf!felix headcanons

MDNI +18: oral, afab reader, slightly possessive felix

rockstar bf! felix who calls you his muse, takes every chance to incorporate you into everything he does. whether it be song about, your name turned into an acronym for their next title track, or a collage of photos with you sprinkled amongst them working as cover art for his album.

rockstar bf! felix begging you to come tour with him. he gets so lonely on the road, all he can think about after every show is how badly he misses you. he just wants to hold you close and never let go.

rockstar bf! felix convinces you to just come out for his summer tour that lasts 2 1/2 months touring europe. he knows he's selfish to take you away from all responsibilities but he'll spoil you rotten. besides he's secure enough to take care of the both of you now.

rockstar bf! felix's band released their third album which charted them at #1 on the top 100 for 4 week. his record label throws them a huge congratulations party at their labels recording studio. felix spends only about 10% of his time kissing ass to the higher ups until he takes notice of one of them who seems to grow a little too fond of you.

rockstar bf! felix who's quick to whisk you away from prying eyes. the little lace slip dress he bought you for tonight should've been for his eyes only but how could he deny the chance to flaunt you. he sly slides his over sized leather jacket to your shoulders, it's his attempt to cover up the way his hands grope all over your body.

rockstar bf! felix who can't wait until your home to ruin you. he's dragging you to one the recording booths furthest from where the party continues. his feverish kisses have you so dazed you hadn't notice when he pushed you up against the recording booths control panel or even the glowing red light of 'RECORDING' above your head.

rockstar bf! felix who pushes you down to your knees, asking you to show him how much you love him, how much you worship his cock. his hand fisting your hair as he fucks your mouth, sloppy wet sounds of you gagging and sucking him off so beautifully.

rockstar bf! felix who fucks you up against the glass of the recording booth room, your tits flushed up against the window for anyone passing to see. dragging his cock in and out of you so sweetly, while you cry out his name. the mark of your silhouette left on the glass window along with your handprints smudged in the same spots.

rockstar bf! felix who surprises you one afternoon when he's at the studio recording a single, texting you a preview of the new song. except when you take a listen it's not when you anticipate. instead of the sound of his sweet voice, it's an audio of you crying out his name and his grunts mixed with the sound of skin slapping on skin.

#felix smut #felix x reader #felix hard thoughts #felix x you #skz smut #skz scenarios #skz imagines #skz hard thoughts #skz x you #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids imagine #stray kids fic #skz x reader #skz x reader smut #hyunybunnywrites #hyunybunnythoughts

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zarvasace · 6 months ago

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Part 5/7 I think!

Day 22: forced to watch! Tame interpretation but hey! Image description under cut.

<<prev || next>>

Page One

Panel one: This is a shot of a stable from Breath of the Wild, lit from the side by white light. Text above says: “nearly dawn…”

Panel two: Twilight and Shadow sit on a bed inside the stable. Shadow holds Twilight’s wrist and messes with the red-colored Malice there. It’s already gone off of Twilight’s other hand. Shadow’s cheeks are still shaded, indicating that he still might not be feeling well. Twilight says: “So you’re [underlined] actually a shadow? Does Four know about you?”

Panel three: A closeup of Shadow in the same position, smiling. He says: “Well, he thought I was dead. But he talked to me, and I could hear him. …hope he’s okay. I’m gonna murder something, violently, if he isn’t.”

Panel four: Same position. Twilight looks at his arm, and Shadow has all the Malice in his hands. Shadow says: “That’s all of it. Weird stuff.”

Page Two

Panel one: We see the entrance of the stable as seen from inside. Warriors is closest, holding Not-Four in his hands, who doesn't look like he’s struggling. Warriors shouts, [all caps] “WE’RE BACK!” and adds, “...with a problem…” Legend is hurrying in in the background, and Wild is talking to someone off-screen. He’s saying, “Yes, sir, we’re just fine. Good thing nobody else is here, right?”

Panel two: A speech bubble says, “what problem?” We see Not-Four’s face peeking around the back of Warriors. Not-Four has wide eyes and looks frozen. One of his eyes is black, and one is red, both highlighted in white. Red squiggles surround him, indicating magic of some kind. Warriors says, “That.”

Panel three: Warriors approaches the bed with Four in his arms. Shadow tosses the red Malice aside, pulling himself back onto the bed. Warriors says, “It’s been a few minutes. We aren’t sure what’s wrong. Maybe he’s fighting it.”

Panels four and five: A closeup of the red Malice that Shadow tossed aside. There are white rays labeled “window light” above it, and the Malice hisses in the light and begins to dissolve.

Panel six: Four is laying in Shadow’s arms on the bed while Warriors and Twilight look on in worry. Four’s eyes are still one red and one black, and there are still red squiggles. Shadow says, “This magic feels weird.” Twilight says, “Fighting is good, right?”

Page Three

Panel one: We see the real Four standing in the black-shaded mindscape, looking determined. Red arrows point to him again in threat. Illustrated in red, a Yiga mask with fins on either side looks at him from the background, and one hand reaches toward him.

Panels two, three, and four are a sequence across the page.

Panel two: Four jumps on top of the Yiga figure (who is assumed to be Yntak, the possessing entity.)

Panel three: Four punches Yntak, but Yntak dodges.

Panel four: Yntak holds a struggling Four up by the throat.

Panel five: Warriors, Twilight, and Legend speak. Twilight is rolling his sleeves down.

Warriors says: “He threw some powder at Wild, but got it on himself instead.”

Legend says: “If he meant to possess Wild, then it might have shaken his control.”

Twilight says: “Do you think we can help?”

Legend says: “Well, the mystery seeds didn’t do anything, so I’m stumped.”

Page Four

Panel one: Shadow holds Four’s head in his lap and looks incensed. He says, “Are you saying that all we can do is [all caps] WATCH?”

Panel two: Twilight holds his arm up and looks like he has an idea. He says, “Wait—you healed the Malice off of me. Could you do it again for him?”

Panel three: Shadow looks down at Four, his cheeks still shaded as Four trembles with red. Shadow says: “I’d do [underlined] anything for him. But that wasn’t healing. I don’t heal. I just break things.”

Panel four: These lines evoke a shattered mirror, and this panel is very short.

Panel five: The real Four holds his hands up against the window in the mindscape again. He shouts, [all caps] “SHADOW! You’re alive!”

Panel six: Four falls away from the window as Yntak attacks him. Four says: “ACK—”

Panel seven: Back in the real world, Shadow looks surprised as he looks down at Four. He says: “I heard that… You’re in there!”

Panel eight: Shadow smiles, and maybe he blushes a little. He says: “I can try. This time.”

#my art #linked universe #lu #lu four #lu shadow #comics #wt24 #ailesswhumptober2024 #Whumptober

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babextoken · 6 months ago

Text

⋆☀︎｡Smile Back ... At Me ⏾⋆.˚

Grumpy!Vessel x Sunshine!Reader

grumpy/sunshine, sickfic, housemates, fem!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff goes smut

a/n: there's easter eggs in here for three people 🧍🏻‍♀️

Taglist (that I decided I have now): @inv3ga

“No no no. Don’t do this. Please. Please!” Vessel was distraught. Panicked. Verging on crisis. He stared at himself in the mirror, white knuckling the vanity. “Get it together, Ves. Don’t…don’t.” His breath was ragged…”fuuuuuck...”

How many sneezes in a row was that? 5? Oh…oh they’re still going. You knock on the bathroom door softly. Vessel rips the door open with a scowl, his nose and eyes red from whatever irritant deigned to infect your intrepid workaholic housemate.

“What?” He asks, deadpan.

“I heard you sneeze like…8 times in a row. That’s concerning.”

“Yes. Thank you, doctor. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get cleaned up and go to work.” He looks you up and down. “Think you ought to do the same?”

You look down for a second at your pjs and gasp. Work? “Oh shit! I…hey… wait a minute!” Vessel just titters as he splashes some water on his face. “It’s my day off!” Again, he chuckles and pushes past you. “You know for someone so crotchety with me you sure know a lot about my schedule!” But he’s already down the hall. Of the housemates, Ves was the one you had the least positive interactions with…and yet…you saw each other the most. It just worked out that way with your schedules. Ves could go to the studio or work from home at will, and you seemed always to be home at the same time.

“You’ve done this on purpose. To torment me.” Ves said once as his phone buzzed incessantly with notifications as you input your schedule in the shared housemate calendar. And, in your endlessly witty, carefree way, you responded “Aw Ves, finally you’re noticing all I do for you!” For the record, Vessel doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t really hate anyone. No. He’s just a little brusque. And short tempered. And he just likes things done a certain way, ok? You, on the other hand, seem too happy to be here. What are you plotting, he wonders sometimes.

But today those thoughts are dulled by a throbbing pain behind his eye and the annoying feeling of his nose leaking at any moment. By 2:30, he’s ready for a 20 year long nap. He rubs his face in agony as he sits at the control panel. Usually the studio is a reprieve but one of his worst nightmares is unfolding. He’s sick. He has a cold. A sinus infection? Christ…the flu? He has to push through. He has to see this day to the end and finish this…”fuck it I’m done. I’m going home.”

“Literally just asked how the cymbals sounded, man. For fuck’s sake.” Even poor ii wasn’t safe from Vessel’s sick tirade. The two share a silent look of “the hell is wrong with you/me?”

“Sorry mate,” Vessel rubs his temples and sniffs. “Uhm…yeah…there could be more…definition or whatever. I’ll see you lot later.” Vessel sulks out of the studio and towards the bus stop. If this was a comic strip, he’d be kicking a can with little fumes over his head. Vessel hates getting sick. It throws off his groove. Makes him unproductive. He’s no stranger to powering through but it doesn’t seem worth it this time around. This makes him feel weak. Like once he gets better he’ll need to work 10x harder just to make up for his time off. Make it up for who? Well…the label, for one thing. And ii. Part of his brain says “it’s only for yourself,” but he pushes that aside. Yeah he’s proud but he still needs to prove to everyone else he’s fine. He can manage. Hasn’t he always landed on his feet? Looking out the bus window at the passing houses and buildings doesn’t provide any distraction—just more fodder for his migraine. As Vessel rests his temple against the window, his phone vibrates, but he ignores it. Whatever it is couldn’t make him feel any worse...oh but he was wrong. So very wrong.

You: I’m sure you saw this on the calendar but it’s just us for the weekend. Are you still feeling sick? Want me to get some soup? Let me know. :)

You’re not surprised Vessel doesn’t reply to you. He’s at work and, well, you’re you. As you’re about to text him again, because you reaaaaalllllly want to get a jump on ordering food, he comes through the front door. “Tsk, you look miserable.”

Vessel so badly wants to be snarky. To tell you what an astute observation you’ve made. “I am…where is everyone?” You look at him a bit quizzically and tell you texted him…and that their trip was on the calendar, etc etc. Oh the defeated sigh he lets out! The misery of being cooped up with someone so chronically pleasant might do his head in if this migraine doesn’t first. And maybe it wasn’t your best idea to follow him to his room to ask if he needed or wanted anything, if he was hungry, did he have a fever, can you do— “Have you considered leaving me alone? You’re not my mum and you’re definitely not my girlfriend! Can take care of myself just fine without you flitting about trying to fix everyone’s problems…maybe you should...” He stops himself and rubs his hand down his face with a heavy sigh. “Fuck it. It’s not worth what little energy I have. Let me know what takeaway you’re thinking.” He shuts the door and leaves you in the hall. Was he suggesting that you spend more time on others than yourself? How dare he? How dare he be right and sound mean about it. But you don’t pout long because he opens the door again, but this time his shirt is off. Your eyes trace the curve of his shoulders…down to the ridges of his chest and abs. Close enough to touch. ‘Stop…he’s sick. And your roommate.’ He sniffs hard. He’s so stopped up. “I…should not be like that. I’m sorry. Pizza?” You look away, feeling shitty after overstepping…he must be really sick if you got an immediate apology.

“Don’t you think something like soup or…you know what? We’ll do whatever you want.” That elicits a soft smile from him...with teeth no less.. Wait…”you just smiled at me. An honest to god smile...Ves…”

“Oh, sh-shut up.”

After dinner Vessel feels…weird. His head and body hurts…he can’t even think straight. And you notice. He can barely stay awake but there’s no way he’d be comfy on the couch. His long legs…you imagine him trying to curl up and get comfortable like a big dog on a tiny bed. You take a chance and put your hand on his shoulder. “Let me help you get in bed.” He sighs heavily like you asked him to give up music. “Is it really this hard to accept some kindness?” Apparently that was a shit question because he huffs and takes himself to bed. Fine. Maybe you should leave it alone but damnit he needs help…and attention. You come into his room with your arms full.

“What are you…” But you cut him off by dumping a big blue quilt on him.

“I always always always sweat shit out with this quilt.”

“I don’t have a fever.”

“Oh well, it’ll make you feel better. And…alsooooooo…” you hand him a stuffed puppy with floppy ears and a dumb, goofy look stitched on his face. “Just give him a squeeze.” Vessel looks at the stuffed dog and the quilt but can’t seem to look at you. If anything he’s looking down and past your feet.

“As persistent as my cold, you know that?”

“You deserve a break. Let me know if you need something…you know where I am.”

“H-hey…wait…” You look back at him, and it’s as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. Did he ever know in the first place? All he knows is that any breath he takes after this night is for something beyond the music. Beyond himself, even though his efforts there are questionable. “Sit with me…for a bit?”

And you did. All night. Waking up next to him hugging your stuffed dog under your “sick day” quilt was such a sight. His eyebrows knit together like he was thinking. It must have been a fever dream, you think, as he groans softly and clutches the dog closer. You want to reach out, move the hair off his brow, feel if he has a fever…caress him. But you have to at least act like you know better. When he blinks awake he gives a lazy smile.

“You shouldn’t have stayed in here. What if you get sick?”

“I could deal.”

“Hm. Maybe you’d accept some kindness in return?”

After his cold finally fucks off, Vessel looks at you differently. Not necessarily because you did something for him. No. There was something different. After he snapped at you, and then later after you two had a long conversation about nothing before he drifted off, Vessel noticed something behind your eyes. God, those eyes. His walls came down. He was defenseless. It’s not like you’re best friends now or anything, but he felt moved to treat you gently. Hell, to smile back at the very least.

Late one night, long after everyone went to bed, Ves notices your bedroom light is still on. “What am I doing?” He whispers to himself, but apparently too loudly because soon you’re opening your door.

“Oh thank fuck it’s you. Thought I was hearing things.”

“Jus’ me…I…why are you up? It’s 1:30.” You shrug. There’s that look again. He has to dig. He has to pry just a little. Just like you had with him. “Can I come in?”

You nod and let him in, motioning for him to sit on the bed. He sees your laptop out and wants to ask what you were up to, but you quickly put it away. “Better question is why you’re awake, Ves.”

He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “So no one has a good excuse, hm?”

“Hm.” You tease back, gently pinching his arm. He looks down at your fingers on him and his heart flutters. Ves lets his gaze drift slowly up your body…taking in every curve and slight movement before resting on your eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“W-w-what…? What are y-?” You try to act nonchalant.

“Can just tell…something’s off with you.”

You sigh heavily and look up at the ceiling. “This…” you put your hands out, “is actually my natural state. Tense. Not nearly as bubbly or…like”

“A sunshine girl?”

“Yeah or…a sunshine girl.”

Vessel looks at you with a sympathetic smile…he can see that blush dusting your pretty cheeks. He lets his hand rest on your shoulder, squeezing it slightly but then pausing. “You’re knotted up, love. Can I…?” Without even hearing your answer, he moves behind you and rubs your shoulders. It hurts a little, only because you’re so tense. His wide hands cover your shoulders and luxuriously knead into your muscles. “What’s made you so tight,” he rasps close to your ear, “Hm? What’s eating at you?”

You can’t help it. Your head lolls back to his chest and turns so you can look up at him. “All I do is run around taking care of business and other people. I don’t know how to care about myself.”

He can’t stop himself. Brain shutting down. Hands and lips have a mind of their own now. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you run yourself into the ground like I did. You should care about yourself…I…I could teach you…” Vessel trails his nose up your neck and kisses your ear softly before you jump up.

“Jesus, dude, you can’t just come in here and…” but fuck it he doesn’t look precious wiping his hand down his face and hiding the strain in his pants. “Oh…fuck… actually you totally can.” Immediately you’re straddling his lap, held in place by his soft hands cupping your face…pressing you desperately into his. His kisses trail hungrily down your jaw and to your neck. He finds your pulse point and claims it with his hot, open mouthed kisses. Your hips grind against him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world…but of course, he adjusted to press his strong thigh against you...you are supposed to do this. Suddenly your thoughts are poisoned with guilt as you realize how tightly you’re squeezing his thigh and how you weren’t being exactly quiet. Vessel gently guides your head down so he can whisper to you.

“I’d take you far away from here…anywhere you wanted…just to hear it…I want to hear what I can make you say…how loud I could make you…”

“V-v-es we-...“

“Shh shh shh. It’s ok. Do you want to stop?” His voice is warm and sincere, like he’s meant to take care of you.

“No.”

“Then let me do this…for you. Some comfort…” he turns slowly to lay you on your back, “would you like that…” his fingers gently trace your breasts and tummy over your shirt… “could make you feel good…safe”…your shorts and panties are thrown off the bed…”when was the last time someone did that for you, darling? Made you cum…just to cum?”…your shirt is lifted, tits exposed to the chilly room and his starving eyes.

“Never.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he murmurs as he kisses your thighs and settles on his tummy, “no pressure for me then.” But you’re moaning softly already. You’re a live wire as the hands you’ve desperately tried to avoid fantasizing about explore your inner thighs and folds. His finger glides up and down the length of your needy pussy as he looks up at you…pure bliss etched all over his face in the dim lighting. “Atta girl, love. We’re just here to feel good. Hm?” You hear and then feel a wad of his spit hit your clit, followed by his fingers pressing against either side of it. Vessel wraps his left arm around your tummy as your body chases his touch. “Found something you like, did I?”

“Vessel,” you whisper breathlessly but it’s cut off by a strangled moan. His tongue gently darts out for little kitten licks on your clit. You don’t know if your reactions or what he’s doing is making him whimper like that, but you don’t care. Your hand caresses his hair lazily until you have to grab it and keep him in place. He’s taken your clit in his mouth…something you’ve never experienced. Forgetting every wall you placed around yourself with this man, you let your hips grind shamelessly against his perfect mouth. Vessel’s moans and hot breath nearly push you over the edge multiple times.

“I…” he exhales, trying to catch his breath and contain himself, “am really going to enjoy this.” His middle and ring finger work into your wet cunt and find your g-spot quickly. “That’s it…that’s it…you feel that? Feel my fingers rubbing you from the inside, yeah?” You can’t respond directly…you’re too busy squirming and whimpering fuck fuck fuck. It feels like you’re on fire as Vessel licks and sucks at your clit, your eyes rolling as your brain tries to compute that the same spot is being stimulated from different angles. It’s too much.

“I’m yours…I’m yours….please I’m yours.”

“Mine, yeah? Good. You sound s’perfect…haven’t even had my cock.” It’s a miracle that you aren’t screaming out loud now as he sucks at your clit. Both hands tangle in his hair when he starts thrusting his hips against your bed. He moans pathetically into your clit, his hips landing soft blows into the mattress. “I…I’m sorry.” He stops and quickly pulls off his clothes…you swear you’re cumming a little just from the sight of his cock alone. “See what you do to me?” He breathes heavily, standing at your bedside with his cock throbbing without contact. “Seeing you…let yourself go… enjoying yourself… so fucking hard for you. Could cum just licking you out, babe.” You’re tempted to tell him to try it…but you feel empty.

“Make me yours…”

“How would you have me?”

You’re speechless for a second…he’s really into this. Into you feeling good. “Get on your back, angel.” Vessel does as he’s told and blushes at the pet name. He teasingly rubs his cock against your slit…tells you how tight you felt around his fingers…how good you are for him. You moan quietly…weakly…dreamily as you slide down each inch of Vessel’s cock. The stretch is beyond perfect…not uncomfortable…but still more than any stupid toy in your bedside drawer could do. You grind against him and bounce on his cock seemingly without much thought other than feeling good. And he doesn’t stop you, nor does he grab you and fuck up into your pussy. No…he just lays back like a good boy and takes it. Luxuriates in the feeling of the warm stickiness of your pussy…how it hugs his cock and threatens to drain him. You wince a little as your hips tense; still you weren’t fully relaxed despite your blissful state.

“I’ve got you.” Vessel pulls you close to his chest, pressing your hips down. “Just lay down on me. Let me feel you.” He moans softly as you lay out, your legs scissoring with his just enough to keep his cock buried deep. Your lips crash together. You taste yourself on him…his mouth…and your mind goes even fuzzier. “Sweet girl…you like being lovey, don’t you? Hm?” His hips snap up and press into your cunt. “Little lover girl??”

“I’m…fuck I’m yours Ves…I’m your girl…”

“Let’s make it real then…” his hips thrust back and forth again before pressing deep into you, holding his cock hard against the limit of your pussy…”I’ll fill you to the fucking brim with my cum…leave my handprints on your ass…and-“

“And I’ll leave…little love bites on your chest,” you add, trying to weigh in and stave off your climax. Vessel groans out in response and holds you in place like a toy as you suck and lick at his soft skin. So much for handprints on your ass, though; he can’t help but cradle your back and head. Neither of you have ever felt this before. The soft, warm middle of equal parts wholesome chemistry and earth shattering lust. What was that in the delicate in-between? You bury your face in his neck and forget the world…forget your name…it’s just him.

“So tight…” He gently lifts your head. “There she is…mmm. Need to see you…need you to see what you do to me.” Vessel tangles his hand in your hair to help fix your gaze on him. His throat bobs with each broken moan…god he wants to cry out for you so badly. For the way your body melts into his as he rolls his hips up and into you. For the way your slick runs out all over him, making a mess of you both. It’s all too much. You press your forehead to his and bear your hips down. Vessel grabs you and presses his hot, greedy lips to yours not just for a kiss, but to muffle the pornographic noises your pussy rips out of him. The feeling of his tongue on your lips pushes you over the edge. Your fluttering orgasm squeezes and milks Vessel’s cock for all it’s worth, causing him to fuck up into you like a rabid animal. He completely and unapologetically ruins you.

You wake up the next morning curled up against his back. He’s already awake and smiles brightly when he feels you pull him close.

“Guess what.” He whispers. You barely mumble “hm” back to him, still sleepy and fuzzy from your late night tryst. Vessel chuckles and rolls over, your stuffed whale shark from the aquarium clutched to his chest.

“Hey! That’s mine,” you grumble.

“Oh and suddenly you don’t share anymore…hm? Not my lover girl when the sun’s up,” he teases. “Anyways…it’s just us this weekend. We have some wasted time to make up for…don’t you think?”

#sleep token fanfiction #sleep token smut #vessel fanfiction #vessel x you #vessel x reader #vessel smut #vessel x reader smut #sleep token #vessel sleep token #vessel fanfic #sleep token fanfic #woofie's situations

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