( pick a quote + a feeling + a trope ! let’s see what fic you end up with. )
author's addition: this lil build-a-fic is inspired by @scealaiscoite ’ s adorable idea ! her prompt lists are literal perfection. go stalk her blog pls she’s the best ever 🧸 you’re welcome to tweak phrasing as needed, but please don’t add to or rewrite the original post. give credits to @fawndrip / @suprclark if using.
— QUOTE
❛ stop smiling like that. it’s distracting. ❜
❛ you make it really hard to stay just friends. ❜
❛ why does it feel like a goodbye? ❜
❛ you’re blushing. ❜ — ❛ no i’m not. ❜
❛ just friends don’t look at each other like that. ❜
❛ i missed you. that’s all. ❜
❛ you remember the little things. that’s what gets me. ❜
❛ tell me to stay. and i will. ❜
❛ my hand fits so perfectly in yours. it's like i'm made for you. ❜
❛ do you want me to leave? ❜ — ❛ no. i want you to stay forever. ❜
❛ i think i knew it was you. even back then. ❜ — ❛ then stay. ❜ — ❛ but that's the thing. i don't know if i know you anymore. ❜
❛ i don’t know how to stop wanting you. ❜
❛ this means something. don’t pretend it doesn’t. ❜
❛ you’re not just anyone. you’re you. ❜
❛ if we kiss now, everything changes. ❜ — ❛ i know but that's a risk i'm willing to take. ❜
❛ i’ve been in love with you since the night we met. ❜
❛ tell me it meant nothing. lie if you have to. ❜
❛ i was easy to leave, wasn’t i? ❜
❛ you don’t get to miss me now. you lost that right when we broke up. ❜
❛ say something. anything. please. ❜
❛ i loved you. that should’ve been enough. ❜
❛ i wish i didn’t remember everything. ❜
❛ don’t look at me like you still care. ❜
❛ i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t hurt. ❜
❛ you said forever. i believed you. ❜
❛ if you didn’t mean it, why did you say it? ❜
❛ you chose them. you always do. ❜
❛ i don’t hate you. i just wish i’d never met you. ❜
❛ you let me go like i was nothing. ❜
❛ please don’t make this harder than it already is. ❜
❛ are you sure? cause whatever this is it doesn’t feel like love. ❜
❛ it’s always been you. i just didn’t know how to say it. ❜
❛ say that again. i dare you. ❜
❛ you really don’t see it, do you? ❜
❛ i think i like you. like, like like you. ❜
❛ do you always look at people like that? ❜
❛ you make it really hard to think straight. ❜
❛ oh my god. you’re blushing. ❜
❛ this means something. don’t pretend it doesn’t. ❜
❛ i should’ve kissed you when i had the chance. ❜
❛ you’re not helping. you’re being pretty. it's distracting. ❜
❛ you make me nervous in the best way. ❜
❛ every time you look at me, i forget what i was saying. ❜
❛ just admit it. you like me. ❜
❛ if you don’t kiss me right now, i might explode. ❜
❛ you’re dangerously good at that smile. ❜
❛ only one bed ❜
❛ mutual pining ❜
❛ fake dating gone real ❜
❛ friends to lovers ❜
❛ strangers to almosts ❜
❛ found family ❜
❛ rivals with tension ❜
❛ the “oh” moment ❜
❛ confessions at 2am ❜
❛ sunshine x grump ❜
❛ forbidden ❜
❛ hurt / comfort ❜
❛ secretly in love ❜
❛ reunion after years ❜
❛ accidental domesticity ❜
❛ slow burn ❜
❛ “just friends” denial ❜
❛ second chances ❜
❛ love letters never sent ❜
❛ childhood friends ❜
❛ exes ❜
❛ soulmates who don’t believe in fate ❜
❛ enemies on the same side ❜
❛ sleep talking confessions ❜
❛ one falling first, the other falling harder ❜
❛ patching up wounds with shaky hands ❜
❛ “who did this to you?” ❜
❛ dancing in the kitchen ❜
❛ jealousy over nothing ( but also everything ) ❜
❛ late-night phone calls ❜
❛ caught in the rain ❜
❛ almost kissing but someone interrupts ❜
❛ waking up next to them ❜
❛ fixing each other’s tie / collar ❜
❛ taking care of them while they’re sick ❜
Can I get a little crumb of whatever you feel like writing? Maybe a one-shot if you’re up for it? Something NSFW but funny?
— SCORCHED *
Pairing: Ray Merriman/Reader
Word count: 4,552
An: Okie so we got reader who’s a cook, and a stoner; upset over ray not being home. He fucks the upset out of her.
The timer on my phone blared, and I reluctantly paused the episode of Chopped I'd been half-watching. Midnight. Ray was late. Again.
I stretched, joints popping as I slid off the couch and padded toward the kitchen, bare feet silent against the cool tiles. The house smelled like herbs and garlic, the short rib ragu I'd spent all day perfecting still simmering on low heat. I stirred it once, twice, three times, watching the thick sauce coat the wooden spoon before bringing it to my lips for a taste.
Perfect. Of course it was fucking perfect, and Ray wasn't even here to appreciate it.
I reached for my dab rig sitting on the counter, already loaded and ready. The torch clicked as I fired it up, the nail glowing orange-red before I touched the concentrate to it, inhaling deeply and holding the vapor in my lungs. The tension in my shoulders loosened almost immediately, replaced by a pleasant, fuzzy warmth that spread through my limbs.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Ray.
Running late. One hour.
No apology. No explanation. Just a statement of fact, as if I should automatically rearrange my night around his schedule. Again.
I typed back a single thumbs-up emoji and set my phone down harder than necessary. Eight months of this—eight months of canceled plans and cold dinners and falling asleep alone. Eight months of Ray Merriman and his crew planning whatever scores they were hitting, leaving me to piece together their activities from news reports the next day.
The high settled into my bones, and I decided I wasn't waiting for him to eat. I scooped a generous portion of the ragu over the fresh pasta I'd made earlier, grating parmesan over the top before settling at the breakfast bar, one leg tucked underneath me. The first bite melted on my tongue, rich and savory, and I closed my eyes for a moment, letting myself enjoy at least one thing about this evening.
I was halfway through my plate when I heard the garage door open. Keys jingled, footsteps approached, and then Ray's broad frame filled the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that infuriating intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness despite my annoyance.
"Started without me?" His voice was gravel and whiskey, low and rough from whatever he'd been doing for the past six hours.
I swallowed my bite before answering. "You told me an hour. It's been three." I waved my fork toward the stove. "Food's still hot if you want some."
Ray moved into the kitchen, dropping his keys on the counter with a clatter that seemed unnecessarily loud in the midnight quiet. "Smells good." His eyes tracked to my rig on the counter, one eyebrow arching slightly. "Having fun?"
I stabbed another piece of short rib with my fork. "Just living my best life while my boyfriend's out doing who-knows-what with his merry band of thieves."
"Don't start," Ray warned, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a chair. His shoulder holster came next, the gun making a heavy thud as he set it on the counter—pointedly out of my reach, as always. "Been a long night."
I rolled my eyes. "Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?"
The words came out sharper than I'd intended, but the high had loosened my filter, and honestly, I'd had enough of his cryptic bullshit for one evening.
Ray's eyes darkened, that dangerous glint appearing—the one that should have scared me if I had any sense of self-preservation. But I'd never been particularly good at backing down, especially not with him.
"You're in a mood," he observed, moving to the cabinet to grab a plate.
"Wonder why." I watched as he served himself, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his dark henley. Despite my irritation, I couldn't help but appreciate the view. Ray Merriman was a dangerous man in more ways than one, and my body hadn't gotten the memo that I was supposed to be pissed at him.
He sat across from me, our knees brushing under the breakfast bar. "This is good," he said after a few bites, a rare compliment that would usually make me smile. Tonight, I just shrugged.
"It would have been better three hours ago."
Ray set his fork down with deliberate slowness. "What do you want from me? An apology? You know how this works. You knew what you were getting into."
I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Yeah, I knew what I was getting into. Doesn't mean I have to like being an afterthought."
"Is that what you think you are?" His voice had dropped dangerously low, and I felt a shiver run down my spine despite the anger still simmering in my chest. "An afterthought?"
I met his gaze, refusing to look away first. "What would you call it?"
Ray pushed his plate aside and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "I'd call it me trying to keep my work and my home separate. Trying to keep *you* separate from the shit I deal with."
"How noble of you," I muttered, standing to take my empty plate to the sink. The high was making me reckless, words spilling out without my usual filters. "Must be nice to compartmentalize so easily."
I felt rather than heard him move, the air shifting as he came up behind me. His hands settled on the counter on either side of me, caging me in against the sink. The heat of his body pressed against my back, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel every exhale against my neck.
"You think it's easy?" His voice was at my ear now, low and dangerous. "You think I like coming home hours late to find you high and pissed off at me? You think I enjoy knowing I'm disappointing you?"
I turned in the small space he'd left me, finding myself trapped between the hard edge of the counter and the even harder planes of his chest. "Then why do it?"
"Because this is who I am." His eyes bore into mine, unblinking. "This is what I do. And until we hit the score that sets us up for good, this is how it's going to be."
"And after that magic score?" I asked, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. "You think you'll just walk away? That you won't find another reason to chase that rush?"
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. Good. At least I wasn't the only one feeling raw tonight.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, each word precise and controlled.
"Don't I?" I placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm. "I see the way you come home after a job, Ray. All that adrenaline, that focus. You love it."
His jaw tightened. "Drop it."
"Make me." The words were out before I could think better of them, a blatant challenge that hung in the air between us.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then Ray's hand was at the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulled me forward into a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it—all teeth and tongue and barely contained aggression. I responded in kind, biting at his lower lip hard enough to make him growl low in his throat.
"This what you want?" He murmured against my mouth, his free hand sliding down to grip my hip with enough force to leave marks. "You want me to take all that frustration out on you?"
"Better than you brooding silently all night," I shot back, already breathless as his lips moved to my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse point.
He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through me. "Always such a fucking brat."
"You love it," I countered, hands slipping under his shirt to rake my nails down his back.
Ray hissed, his grip tightening in my hair. "What I'd love," he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that made heat pool between my thighs, "is for you to shut that smart mouth for five minutes."
I smirked up at him, deliberately provocative. "I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over all the noise you were making."
His eyes darkened, and I knew I'd successfully pushed him past the point of restraint. In one fluid motion, he lifted me onto the counter, hands roughly shoving my legs apart as he stepped between them. The granite was cold against my bare thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressing against mine.
"You want noise?" Ray's voice was barely more than a growl as his fingers dug into my thighs. "I'll make you fucking scream."
His mouth was on mine again, hungrier this time, one hand sliding up under my oversized sleep shirt. His fingers traced the waistband of my underwear, teasing but not giving me what I wanted. I arched against him, trying to increase the pressure, but he pulled back just enough to deny me satisfaction.
"Patience," he murmured, a maddening smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Fuck patience," I gasped as his thumb finally, *finally* brushed where I needed it most, the touch so light it was almost cruel. "I've been patient all night."
Ray leaned in, his stubble scraping deliciously against my neck as he spoke directly into my ear. "And now you're going to be patient a little longer." His teeth caught my earlobe, the sharp sting making me gasp. "Unless you'd rather I stop altogether?"
"Don't you dare," I warned, hooking my legs around his waist to keep him in place.
He chuckled, the sound dark and promising. "That's what I thought."
His hands moved to the hem of my shirt, drawing it up and over my head in one smooth motion. The cool air of the kitchen raised goosebumps across my exposed skin, but I didn't have time to feel cold before Ray's mouth was on my collarbone, working its way down with deliberate slowness.
"You know what drives me crazy?" he asked against my skin, hands sliding up my sides with a gentleness that belied the tension in his frame. "Coming home to find you like this—high, half-dressed, and fucking beautiful in my kitchen."
I would have made some smart remark, but his thumb had resumed its maddening circles, more insistent now, and coherent thought was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.
"Makes me want to wreck you," he continued, gaze locked on mine as he gauged my reactions. "Ruin you for anyone else."
"Not exactly fighting you on this," I managed to get out, my hips moving unconsciously against his hand.
Ray's smile was all predator. "No, you wouldn't. Not when it comes to this." His free hand moved to my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "You can give me all the attitude you want, but we both know what you really need."
Before I could respond, he withdrew his hand from between my legs, ignoring my sound of protest. In one swift movement, he picked me up, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carried me out of the kitchen.
"What about the food?" I asked, partly because I'd spent all day on that ragu, and partly just to be difficult.
"It'll keep," Ray answered simply, his grip on my thighs tightening as he navigated through the darkened house toward our bedroom. "I've got more important things to take care of right now."
There was something incredibly erotic about being carried through the house like I weighed nothing, my body pressed against the hard planes of his chest. Ray Merriman was raw power contained in human form—dangerous in a way that should have sent me running, but instead only pulled me closer.
The bedroom was dark when we entered, just enough moonlight filtering through the windows to cast everything in silver and shadow. Ray deposited me on the bed with surprising gentleness, standing back to look at me with that intense focus that made me feel simultaneously exposed and treasured.
"Take these off," he ordered, gesturing to my underwear as he began unbuttoning his henley.
I raised an eyebrow, deliberately taking my time as I hooked my thumbs in the waistband. "What's the magic word?"
His eyes narrowed, but I caught the slight twitch of his lips—amusement fighting with exasperation. "Now.”
"That's not it," I teased, easing the fabric down my hips with deliberate slowness. "Try again."
Ray moved faster than I could react, catching my wrists and pinning them above my head with one hand. His body covered mine, warm and heavy, his free hand pushing my underwear down my legs with none of the teasing slowness I'd employed.
"How about this," he suggested, voice low and dangerous in my ear. "You do what I say, or you don't get what you want. That work for you?"
I squirmed beneath him, the friction delicious but not nearly enough. "Depends on what I want."
"Oh, I know exactly what you want." His hand slid between us, fingers finding me already embarrassingly wet. "You want me to fuck you until you can't remember why you were angry with me in the first place."
My breath hitched as he slid one finger inside, then another, the stretch and fullness making my back arch off the bed. "That... that's a start."
Ray's laugh was dark and knowing, his thumb circling my clit with maddening precision as his fingers curled inside me. "Just a start? Greedy little thing."
I would have had a sharp retort ready, but he chose that moment to press against that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids, and all that came out was a strangled moan.
"There you go," he murmured approvingly, lips brushing against my throat. "Much better than all that attitude."
The dual sensations of his fingers inside me and his thumb working circles against my clit had me climbing quickly toward release, my body tensing beneath him. Ray must have felt it because he immediately slowed his movements, drawing out the pleasure until it was almost painful.
"Ray," I gasped, tugging at my still-captured wrists. "Please."
"Please what?" he prompted, teeth grazing my collarbone. "Use your words."
"Please let me come," I managed, pride long since abandoned in favor of relief.
He hummed thoughtfully, as if considering my request. "I don't know. You've been pretty difficult tonight." His fingers continued their torturously slow pace, keeping me right on the edge without pushing me over. "Maybe you should earn it."
Before I could ask what he meant, he was releasing my wrists and moving down my body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses as he went. He settled between my thighs, looking up at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Keep your hands where I put them," he ordered, "or I stop. Understand?"
I nodded frantically, beyond caring about anything but the release he was dangling just out of reach.
"Good girl." The praise sent an unexpected thrill through me, quickly followed by the hot, wet heat of his mouth closing over my clit.
The noise that escaped me was embarrassingly loud, my hips bucking up against his face before his forearm came to rest heavily across my pelvis, holding me in place. His tongue was relentless, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that had my thighs trembling on either side of his head.
"Ray, I—" I couldn't even finish the sentence, too far gone to form coherent thoughts as the pressure built low in my abdomen.
He hummed against me, the vibration pushing me dangerously close to the edge. His fingers rejoined the effort, two sliding back inside me with ease, curling forward to hit that spot that made my vision blur.
"Come for me," he ordered against my flesh, the words as much a physical sensation as a command. "Now."
My orgasm hit like a freight train, every muscle tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me. Ray worked me through it, not relenting until I was gasping and pushing weakly at his shoulders, oversensitive and boneless.
He rose up on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down at me with undisguised satisfaction. I lay there catching my breath, watching through half-lidded eyes as he finally stripped off his shirt, revealing the muscled torso I'd spent countless hours exploring.
"Feel better?" he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice as he began working open his belt.
"Getting there," I admitted, stretching languidly across the sheets. "But I'm not done with you yet."
Ray's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with desire. "Good. Because I'm nowhere near done with you."
The rest of his clothes joined mine on the floor, and then he was over me again, all hard muscle and radiating heat. His cock pressed against my inner thigh, thick and heavy, and I reached between us to wrap my hand around him, enjoying the way his breath hitched at my touch.
"Condom?" I asked, stroking him slowly from base to tip.
"Dresser," he managed, his usual composure slipping slightly as I ran my thumb over the sensitive head.
I smirked, enjoying this rare moment of having the upper hand. "Get it yourself. I'm comfortable."
Ray's eyes narrowed at the challenge, but he leaned over to the bedside table, fumbling in the drawer for a moment before producing a foil packet. I took it from him, deliberately brushing my fingers against his as I did so.
"Let me," I insisted, tearing open the packet and rolling the condom down his length with practiced ease.
His hand caught mine as I finished, fingers wrapping around my wrist. "You trying to take control here?"
I smiled innocently up at him. "Would I do that?"
"In a heartbeat," he answered, but there was a fondness beneath the exasperation that made my chest tighten unexpectedly.
Before I could dwell on that feeling, Ray was positioning himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He paused there, watching my face as he slowly, torturously pushed inside, stretching me in the most delicious way.
"Fuck," I breathed, hands gripping his biceps as he filled me completely. "Ray..."
"What was that?" he asked, holding perfectly still inside me. "I couldn't hear you over all the noise you were making."
My eyes flew open to find him smirking down at me, clearly pleased with himself for throwing my words back at me. I narrowed my eyes, deliberately clenching around him and feeling a surge of satisfaction when his composure slipped just slightly.
"You're a bastard," I told him, but there was no heat behind the words.
"And you're a brat," he countered, beginning to move in slow, deep thrusts that had me seeing stars. "But here we are."
Here we were indeed—tangled in sheets at midnight, the taste of short rib ragu still on my tongue mingling with the taste of him, my body arching to meet every thrust as if it had been made for this purpose alone. For all my earlier anger, I couldn't deny the way Ray Merriman took me apart with the same precision and focus he applied to everything in his life.
His pace increased, one hand gripping my hip while the other tangled in my hair, pulling just enough to expose my throat to his mouth. He bit down on the sensitive juncture of my neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but definitely enough to leave a mark. The slight pain mixed with pleasure, pushing me closer to a second release.
"Touch yourself," Ray ordered against my skin, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "I want to feel you come around me."
I obeyed without argument for once, one hand sliding between our bodies to work tight circles against my already sensitive clit. The combined sensations had me climbing rapidly toward another peak, my free hand clutching at his back, nails digging into the taut muscle there.
"That's it," he encouraged, his rhythm faltering slightly as he watched me chase my pleasure. "Let go for me."
My second orgasm wasn't as intense as the first, but it rolled through me in waves that had me gasping his name, my body clenching around him in a way that finally broke his control. With a guttural groan, Ray buried himself deep inside me one last time, his body going rigid as he followed me over the edge.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, breathing heavily as our heart rates gradually slowed. Ray's weight was heavy on top of me, but not uncomfortably so—a solid, grounding presence that anchored me to the moment.
Eventually, he pulled out carefully and disposed of the condom before collapsing back onto the bed beside me. I turned to face him, taking in the satisfied exhaustion written across his features, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his chest rose and fell with each deep breath.
"We should fight more often," I murmured, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips.
Ray caught my hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss against my palm—a surprisingly tender gesture from a man who had just thoroughly wrecked me. "Or you could just say you missed me without all the attitude first."
I smiled despite myself, scooting closer until our bodies were flush against each other. "Where's the fun in that?"
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. One arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer until my head rested in the crook of his shoulder, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my bare back.
"The ragu's going to be cold," I said after a comfortable silence had stretched between us.
"I'll heat it up," Ray promised, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "In a minute."
Neither of us moved, both knowing it would be longer than a minute before we made it back to the kitchen. For now, this was enough—the quiet aftermath, the momentary peace in a life that rarely offered it.
Tomorrow, Ray would be back to planning his next score, and I'd be back to pretending I didn't worry every time he walked out the door. But tonight, in the silver moonlight of our bedroom, we had found our own kind of compromise—one made of sharp words and softer touches, of challenge and surrender.
It wasn't perfect, but then again, neither were we.
summary: "You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria." In which an artist with a knack for seeing things she shouldn't meets a suspiciously perfect stranger with glowing blue eyes and a possessive yellow Camaro. Set during ROTF.
pairing: bumblebee/original character
word count: 3.7k
a/n— okay so this chapter was supposed to be just stoned jayde and toria making fun of bee's stalking but then?? the phone call scene happened?? and suddenly we're here with possessive flirting and ominous warnings and honestly? i regret nothing! also yes, bee really said "i'm going to order you sushi and critique your plant care while watching your apartment" and we love that energy for him. homeboy's trying SO hard to be subtle and failing spectacularly.
warnings — weed use, stalking but make it romantic?, possessive behavior, symbols getting creepy, red lights being sus
I woke up groggy, last night's conversation with Brooks playing on repeat in my head like a fever dream. Still in yesterday's uniform, I grabbed my phone—no new texts. The radio silence from my cryptic stalker was almost louder than his usual messages. Maybe he was waiting for me to text first, though what I'd even say was beyond me. "Thanks for following me home and being weird about my dead dad's secrets"?
After a shower that didn't quite wash away the lingering unease, I remembered it was my day off. The Chevelle's keys caught my eye, tempting me with the promise of an escape drive. But what if it broke down again? Would Brooks materialize in his too-perfect way, ready to save the day?
"You know he would," I muttered to myself, cringing at how quickly that thought came. I started my coffee—two shots of espresso because apparently that's the kind of day this was going to be—and headed for the balcony. The familiar ritual of lighting a cigarette and settling into my hammock chair felt almost normal.
Almost.
The morning fog was rolling in from the bay, thick enough to blur the edges of buildings into something dreamlike. Kind of like Brooks' edges sometimes, I thought, then immediately took a long drag of my cigarette to shut that line of thinking down.
My sketchbook lay innocently on the little balcony table, and I pointedly didn't look at whatever I might have drawn in my sleep. Instead, I watched the street below, definitely not searching for yellow cars or impossibly perfect men.
A message from Jayde lit up my phone: yo bitch how'd last night go??? 👀 did government boyfriend show up???
I typed back one-handed, ash from my cigarette falling into my coffee: It's complicated. Like, really complicated. Also he might be stalking me but in a hot way???
Her response was immediate: GIRL WHAT
Movement caught my eye—a flash of yellow through the fog that definitely wasn't going to make me paranoid all day.
Jayde was already calling. I answered with a groan.
"Okay, spill everything right now," she demanded, the sound of her bong bubbling in the background. "What do you mean 'stalking you in a hot way'?"
"He followed me home last night," I said, watching another maybe-yellow shape disappear into the fog. "In his stupidly perfect car. Then I accidentally called him and word-vomited about Mission City and now I'm pretty sure he's still out there somewhere being all... cryptic and protective."
"That's either really romantic or really serial killer-y." A pause. "Did you draw him again?"
I finally looked down at my sketchbook, flipping it open to last night's sleep-drawings. "Not... exactly."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I apparently spent my night drawing weird symbols that I definitely saw in my dreams but somehow perfectly recreated on paper?" I stared at the angular marks, so similar to the ones Dad used to sketch. "That's normal, right? Totally normal sleep behavior?"
"Oh honey," Jayde said, "nothing about this is normal. Want me to come over? We can smoke and try to decode your weird dream symbols."
Another flash of yellow through the fog. "Yeah," I said slowly. "Yeah, that might be good."
Before I could hang up, my phone buzzed with a text.
Unknown Number: Have to leave town. Important matter to handle.
Unknown Number: Don't go anywhere I can't find you.
"Oh my god, did he just—" I switched back to Jayde. "He literally just sent me the most possessive 'don't move' text."
"READ IT TO ME," she practically screamed through the phone.
"'Don't go anywhere I can't find you,'" I quoted, watching the yellow Camaro finally emerge from the fog long enough to confirm it was him, then disappear down the street. "Like I'm his to keep track of or something."
"I'm bringing the good weed," Jayde declared. "And my conspiracy theory notebook. Be there in twenty."
I finished my cigarette, starting a new cup of coffee as I waited. The fog was thick enough now to hide anything—or anyone—watching from the street. But for the first time since yesterday, that weight of being observed lifted slightly.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Unknown Number: You're safer when I can see you.
Unknown Number: Stay close to home. Please.
"Wow," I muttered, torn between unease and something else I didn't want to examine. "Someone's got control issues."
Twenty minutes turned into thirty, but Jayde finally burst through my door in her usual chaotic glory—oversized tie-dye shirt, paint-stained jeans, and a backpack that definitely smelled like her "special occasion" weed.
"Okay bitch," she announced, dropping onto my couch and immediately pulling out her supplies. "Show me these possessive texts and weird sleep symbols. Also, why does it smell like you've been chain-smoking since dawn?"
"Because I have been," I admitted, grabbing my sketchbook and phone. "Turns out having a hot maybe-government agent send you stalker texts is kind of stressful."
"Let me see, let me see!" She made grabby hands at my phone while packing her favorite bowl—the one we'd painted with little stars during finals week. "Oh my god," she breathed, reading the texts. "'Don't go anywhere I can't find you'? 'You're safer when I can see you'? Girl, he's either going to murder you or marry you. There's no in-between."
"Thanks, that's super helpful." I sank next to her on the couch, flipping open my sketchbook to last night's symbols. "Can we focus on the fact that I'm apparently sleep-drawing classified government codes?"
Jayde lit the bowl, took a hit, and peered at my drawings. "These look like the shit you used to doodle in art history. You know, after your dad..."
"After my dad died, yeah." I accepted the bowl, taking a long hit. "He used to draw these exact same symbols in his notes. I used to think he was just... I don't know, doing engineer doodles or whatever. But then Sam—the twitchy kid from the café—he was talking about seeing symbols too."
"Okay, wait." Jayde grabbed her conspiracy notebook, the one she'd started keeping after Mission City. "So we've got: your dad drawing weird symbols, random café kid seeing same symbols, you sleep-drawing said symbols, and hot government guy who's weirdly possessive about keeping you safe." She looked up, eyes already getting red. "Also his equally hot friend who kept grinning like he knew something. What was his name again?"
"Sean," I said, taking another hit. "And yeah, when you lay it all out like that, it sounds..."
"Completely fucked?" She grinned. "Also, can we talk about how Brooks texts you like he owns you? Because that's either terrifying or really hot and I can't decide which."
I pulled out my phone, rereading his messages. "Both? Definitely both. Like, who just tells someone 'don't go anywhere I can't find you' unless they're either a serial killer or—"
"Or totally obsessed with you," Jayde finished. "Which, based on your sketches of him, might not be a bad thing. Boy looks like he walked out of a government experiment on how to make the perfect man."
"Maybe that's what he is," I mused, smoke curling around my words. "Some kind of government experiment gone too perfect. Would explain the way he moves, and those eyes, and—" My phone buzzed, making us both jump.
Unknown Number: Your friend's theories are interesting.
Unknown Number: But not as interesting as your drawings of me.
"Oh my GOD," Jayde wheezed, reading over my shoulder. "He can hear us? That's some next-level stalking."
"He can't—" Another buzz.
Unknown Number: Tell Jayde I respectfully disagree with the government experiment theory.
Unknown Number: The truth is much more complicated.
Unknown Number: And Toria? You missed some details in those sketches. My eyes glow brighter when I'm concerned about your safety.
"Okay," I said, putting my phone face-down and grabbing the bowl again. "Either we're way too high, or..."
"Or your possessive not-boyfriend has the whole place bugged," Jayde finished, looking way too delighted about this development. "Quick, say something about how hot he is again. See if he responds."
"I am not giving him the satisfaction," I said, immediately taking another hit. "He's already got enough of an ego about being impossibly perfect without us—"
My phone buzzed again. Jayde dove for it before I could stop her.
"'Your artistic attention to detail is flattering,'" she read, cackling. "'Though you seem particularly focused on my eyes.' OH MY GOD."
"Stop encouraging him!" But I was laughing too, the weed making everything feel simultaneously more ridiculous and more significant. "This is exactly why I have trust issues. Hot government guys just... listening to me talk about how hot they are."
"While protecting you from mysterious dangers," Jayde added, flipping through my sketchbook. "In a very expensive car that's probably also watching us right now."
As if on cue, an engine rumbled somewhere in the fog outside.
"That better not be—" I scrambled to the window, but the street was empty. Just fog and the distant sound of what might have been an amused engine.
My phone lit up again.
Unknown Number: I told you to stay where I could find you.
Unknown Number: I never said I'd stop watching.
"Okay," Jayde announced, grabbing the bowl again. "We need to make a list. Hot or Horrifying: The Brooks Edition."
"Okay," Jayde pulled out her conspiracy notebook again, already writing. "Column one: Hot. Column two: Horrifying. Go."
"This is ridiculous," I said, but the weed had other ideas. "Fine. Hot: literally his entire face. Horrifying: the fact that he's listening to us make this list right now."
My phone stayed suspiciously quiet.
"Hot," Jayde continued, writing furiously, "the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room. Horrifying: the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room."
"That's the same thing!"
"Exactly!" She gestured with her pen. "Everything about him is both hot and horrifying. Like how he texts you these super protective messages—"
"Possessive," I corrected.
"Same thing with him," she grinned. "Hot: he's literally engineered to be perfect. Horrifying: he's literally engineered to be perfect."
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Your analysis is entertaining.
Unknown Number: Though "engineered" isn't quite the right word.
"Oh my god, he's critiquing our list," I groaned, falling back onto the couch. "What's next, gonna correct my sketches too?"
Unknown Number: Your sketches are perfect.
Unknown Number: It's your safety measures that need work.
I snorted smoke through my nose, making Jayde cackle. "Okay seriously," she called out to my apparently bugged apartment, "how are you hearing us? Did you like, plant cameras? Got some super-secret military tech in here?"
My phone lit up almost immediately.
Unknown Number: I have my methods.
Unknown Number: Also, Toria should probably water that plant on the balcony.
We both slowly turned to look at my dying succulent.
"That's not creepy at all," I muttered, taking another hit. "Just my maybe-government-experiment crush giving me plant care advice while somehow watching us make a Hot or Horrifying list about him."
"Hot: he cares about your plants," Jayde wrote dutifully. "Horrifying: he can see your plants."
"Can you at least tell us how you're doing this?" I asked the empty air, feeling only slightly ridiculous. "Because I'm either way too high or you've got some next-level surveillance going on."
"Okay, now you're just showing off," I called out, but I was fighting a smile.
Jayde was practically vibrating with delight. "This is the best thing that's ever happened. Your hot stalker is literally fact-checking our stoned conspiracy theories in real time."
"Hot:" Jayde announced, still writing, "he knows exactly what's happening in your apartment at all times. Horrifying: he knows exactly what's happening in your apartment at all times."
"You've got to stop listing the same thing for both columns," I laughed, then immediately sobered. "Wait. If he can see us right now, that means he saw me this morning when I was—"
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Your bedhead was charming.
Unknown Number: As was the way you talk to your coffee maker.
"I DO NOT—" I started to protest, but Jayde was already howling with laughter.
"You totally do! You're always like 'come on baby, just one more cup' when it starts making weird noises!"
"I hate both of you," I muttered, sinking deeper into the couch. "This is bullying. I'm being bullied by my best friend and a surveillance expert with perfect hair."
Unknown Number: Your hair looks perfect even when you sleep-draw strange symbols.
"Okay, that's it!" I stood up, probably too quickly given how much we'd smoked. "Where are they? The cameras or bugs or whatever you're using to spy on me?"
Jayde joined in, wobbling to her feet. "Yeah! Show yourself, government boyfriend!"
The only response was the distant sound of an engine, somehow managing to sound amused.
"Okay," Jayde said, standing on my coffee table to examine the ceiling fan. "If I were a suspiciously perfect government agent, where would I hide my spy tech?"
The doorbell rang, making us both jump.
"Did you order food?" I asked, suddenly realizing how hungry I was.
"Nope." Jayde hopped down. "But I bet I know who did."
Sure enough, my phone lit up.
Unknown Number: You haven't eaten since your shift. Yesterday.
Unknown Number: Two Philadelphia rolls, two tuna maki. Your usual order.
"How does he know my sushi order?" I whispered to Jayde as I approached the door.
"Better question," she stage-whispered back, "how did he know we'd get the munchies?"
The delivery guy looked supremely unimpressed with our poorly contained giggles. "Order for Toria?"
"Let me guess," I said, accepting the bag. "Already paid for?"
"Yeah, some guy called it in. Said to tell you to 'eat something other than coffee and cigarettes.'"
My phone buzzed as I closed the door.
Unknown Number: The wasabi's spicier than you're used to.
Unknown Number: But you'll like it.
"Okay," Jayde said, already grabbing chopsticks. "Hot: he feeds you. Horrifying: he knows your exact sushi preferences."
An hour later, we'd demolished the sushi (Brooks was right about the wasabi), done several dabs, and completely failed to find any surveillance equipment despite Jayde's increasingly creative theories about nanobots in my houseplants.
"I should go," Jayde said, gathering her things. "Got that commission deadline tomorrow." She paused at the door. "Unless you want me to stay? In case your perfect stalker decides to make an appearance?"
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: She should take a Lyft.
Unknown Number: The fog's getting worse.
"See?" I showed her the text. "He's even worried about your safe travel now."
"Aww," Jayde cooed at my ceiling. "Thanks, government boyfriend! Way to look out for the best friend."
Unknown Number: The Lyft is already outside.
Unknown Number: Black Honda Civic. Driver's name is Mike.
"Okay, that's actually kind of impressive," Jayde admitted, peeking out my window. "And yeah, there's Mike in his Honda. Your boy's got style, I'll give him that."
After she left, I flopped back onto my couch, still pleasantly high and full of sushi. "You know," I said to my apparently surveilled apartment, "this would be really creepy if you weren't so..."
Unknown Number: So?
"So... you," I finished lamely, then sat up straighter. "Okay, real talk time. Now that Jayde's gone and I'm just high enough to ask - is my apartment actually bugged? Because I've been looking all day and either you've got some next-level tech or..."
My phone buzzed, but this time felt different. More serious somehow.
Unknown Number: No bugs.
Unknown Number: No cameras.
Unknown Number: Just me.
"That's not cryptic at all," I muttered, twisting my ring. "What does that even mean, 'just you'? Are you some kind of super-advanced AI? Government experiment? Alien?"
A pause, longer than usual, then:
Unknown Number: Would it scare you if I said yes?
Unknown Number: To any of those?
I stared at my phone, heart pounding. "I mean, I'm already talking to my empty apartment and drawing classified symbols in my sleep, so..." I laughed, only slightly hysterical. "Honestly? I'm more concerned about how you knew my exact sushi order."
The distant sound of an engine - familiar now - rumbled through the fog.
Unknown Number: I pay attention.
Unknown Number: To everything about you.
"I pay attention he says," I muttered, heading to the balcony with my cigarettes. "Like that's not the most ominous way to say you're stalking me."
I'd barely lit up when my phone rang. Unknown Number.
For a moment, I just stared at it, smoke curling around my fingers. Then, because I was still high enough for this to seem like a good idea, I answered.
"You know," I said before he could speak, "most guys just ask for a girl's number instead of going full surveillance state."
"Most girls don't draw what you draw," his voice came through, carrying that mechanical undertone I'd noticed before. "Don't see what you see."
I took a long drag, watching the fog swallow the street below. "And what exactly do I see, Brooks? Besides impossible blue eyes and people who move like they're not quite human?"
"You see truth," he said softly. "Like your father did."
The cigarette shook slightly in my hand. "Is that why you're watching me? Because I see too much?"
"I'm watching you," and his voice dropped lower, more possessive, "because I can't seem to stop."
I leaned against the balcony railing, suddenly very aware of how exposed I was. "That's not really an answer."
"No," he agreed, that mechanical undertone humming stronger. "But you like that about me. The mystery. You keep drawing it, trying to capture what doesn't quite make sense."
"Are you—" I took another drag to steady myself. "Are you flirting with me about my drawings of you?"
A sound that might have been a laugh, might have been an engine purring. "I'm flirting with you about the way you see me. The way you can't stop seeing me." A pause, then softer, more intense: "The way you've filled pages trying to understand what I am."
"Jesus," I breathed, cigarette forgotten. "You really know how to make stalking sound romantic."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe," I admitted, blaming the weed and wasabi for my honesty. "Though it would work better if I could actually see you right now instead of just talking to fog."
"Look down," he said, and there it was—the yellow Camaro, emerging from the mist like a dream. His silhouette was barely visible through the window, but those impossible blue eyes caught the streetlight perfectly.
"Show off," I muttered, but I was smiling.
"Been there all day?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I lit another cigarette with slightly shaky hands.
"Not all day," he said, and I could hear that almost-smile in his voice. "Just since you started drawing me again this morning. After the…job I had to do.”
"That's—" I choked slightly on smoke. "How did you even know I was—"
"I told you," his voice dropped lower, making something in my chest flutter. "I pay attention to everything about you. The way you sketch when you're nervous. How you twist your ring when you're thinking about your father. The exact moment you realize I'm watching."
"Like right now?" I tried to joke, but my voice came out breathier than intended.
"Especially right now." A pause, then: "You're wearing my favorite sketch subject. That oversized Hawaiian shirt."
I glanced down at Dad's old shirt, the one I'd thrown on this morning. "Okay, that's either really sweet or really creepy."
"Both," he said simply. "Like most things about us."
"Us," I repeated, rolling the word around. "That's a pretty presumptuous word for someone who keeps disappearing into fog."
"And yet you keep drawing me when I'm gone," he countered smoothly. "Speaking of drawings..."
I glanced at my sketchbook, the pages of symbols practically glowing in the streetlight. "Want to tell me what these mean? Since you seem to know everything else about me."
"Toria..." A warning in his voice.
"No, look—" Before I could overthink it, I tossed the sketchbook over the balcony. It landed with a soft thud on the Camaro's hood.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"That was..." His voice had that mechanical edge again. "Reckless."
"Yeah, well," I took another drag, trying to hide how my hand shook. "So is stalking an artist with impulse control issues. What do they mean, Brooks?"
Through the fog, I saw his silhouette move. The sketchbook disappeared into the car.
"They mean," he finally said, voice impossibly soft, "that I might not be the only one watching you anymore."
"What's that supposed to mean?" My voice cracked slightly, but he was already starting the engine.
"Lock your doors tonight," he said, that possessive edge creeping back in. "And Toria? Next time, just invite me up instead of throwing things at my car."
Before I could respond, the Camaro melted back into the fog, taking my sketchbook with it. The line went dead, leaving me with just the taste of smoke and too many questions.
I headed back inside, double-checking the locks like he'd said. But as I turned away from the door, something caught my eye—a shadow moving wrong in the fog outside my window. Not yellow. Not Brooks.
My phone lit up one last time.
Unknown Number: Don't look out the window.
Unknown Number: And don't answer if anyone knocks.
Unknown Number: I'm coming back.
Through the glass, red lights glowed in the darkness.
summary: "You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria." In which an artist with a knack for seeing things she shouldn't meets a suspiciously perfect stranger with glowing blue eyes and a possessive yellow Camaro. Set during ROTF.
pairing: bumblebee/original character
word count: 2.1k
a/n— look who decided to write the phone call scene that's been living in my head rent free!! also yes, i absolutely had toria bail on meeting brooks bc 1) girl's got SOME self preservation and 2) bee stalking her home is way more fun to write. speaking of our favorite stalker bot, he really said "i'm going to be cryptic and protective while literally following her home" and honestly? we love that for him. also those symbols? maybe someone should tell toria sleep-drawing isn't normal...
warnings— mental health stuff, mission city trauma, sleep-drawing shenanigans, extremely questionable coping mechanisms
Closing down the café with both Mom and Rosa was strange. They kept shooting me concerned looks, probably worried about my mental state after the whole mysterious-men-rushing-out situation, but all I could focus on was the idling sound of a certain car outside.
I should've never said yes to talking to him. But yet, here we were. I was sweeping under tables, trying not to think about impossible blue eyes and the way Sean had looked at me like he knew something I didn't. I peeked out the window again, then stopped short.
The car was gone.
"Toria, what's going on in that head of yours?" Mom asked as I dumped the swept up dust and crumbs into the garbage. Her fingers went to her necklace—Dad's ring catching the light, a tell of my mother if I'd ever seen one.
I shrugged, "Nothing, really." I gave her a tight smile. "I got to therapy today with Jayde's car. We hung out for a bit before work." Changing the subject usually worked.
This was not that time. Mom's brow rose, and her lips pursed—just slightly—as she stared me down. "Toria."
"Just stressed about the car," I told her honestly. She didn't need to know which car I meant—the Chevelle that had mysteriously repaired itself, or the yellow Camaro that kept appearing and disappearing like some kind of mechanical ghost.
She bought it. Her face broke into a soft smile as she ran a hand through my blonde hair—definitely bleached, my roots were starting to show again. "Oh, honey, you and your dad loved that car more than yourselves. It'll be okay, honey. I promise." She smiled that mom smile that almost made the truth come out. "You're on dishes tonight." She laughed at the groan I replied with, but went to the back to start loading our industrial dishwasher.
Maybe Dad was looking out for us. Not my words, but at the funeral, one of his coworkers had told us that. I hadn't believed him then.
Now? Now I wasn't so sure about anything.
The industrial dishwasher hummed like background music as I loaded plates, trying to focus on normal things like water temperature and proper soap ratios instead of Sam's panic about symbols. Instead of the way Brooks and Sean had moved in perfect sync, like they were connected by something more than military training.
"You sure you're good to lock up?" Rosa asked, gathering her things. "I can stay if—"
"I'm fine," I said too quickly. "Just tired. You know how therapy days are."
She gave me a look that said she definitely wasn't buying it, but nodded anyway. "Text me when you get home? And maybe tell me why Mr. Perfect Hair and his equally perfect friend were so interested in your dad's work?"
I nearly dropped a coffee mug. "What?"
"I overheard them talking," she said carefully. "Something about Project Veiled? The thing your dad was working on before..."
Before Mission City. Before classified accidents and military cover-ups.
"Go home, Rosa," I managed, suddenly very interested in arranging coffee cups. "I'll text you later."
The door chimed as she left, and I was alone with the industrial dishwasher's rhythm and too many questions.
I slotted the last plate into place and started the dishwasher's final cycle for the night, its reliable white noise barely covering the unease in my head. Dad had mentioned Project Veiled once—only once—after a late night at the base. He'd been distracted, muttering about energy signatures and "keeping them hidden."
My phone buzzed, making me jump.
Unknown Number: Look up.
I glanced out the small kitchen window, and there it was. The yellow Camaro sat in the alley, engine humming that not-quite-normal purr. I didn’t realize it had returned from whatever secret mission it had.
"Nope," I told the dishwasher. "We are not doing this. We are going to finish closing like a normal person and go home and definitely not meet with suspiciously perfect strangers who know about Dad's classified projects."
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Your father tried to protect you from this.
Unknown Number: Let me finish what he started.
"That's not fair," I whispered to my phone, twisting Dad's ring around my thumb. "You can't just... say things like that."
The dishwasher beeped its end-cycle alert, making me jump again. Just fifteen more minutes of closing duties. Fifteen minutes to decide if I was really going to do this.
The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of muscle memory: wiping down equipment, counting the register, double-checking the back door was locked. The whole time, I could feel that car idling outside, its presence humming through the walls like an invitation. Or a warning.
I stood in the dark café, keys in hand, staring at my reflection in the window. The girl looking back seemed simultaneously too young and too old for whatever this was—blonde roots showing, Dad's ring glinting on her thumb, dark circles under eyes that had seen too much in Mission City.
"Okay," I told my reflection. "Let's review our options. One: go home, pretend this never happened, maybe change jobs and move to Canada." I twisted the ring. "Two: meet the suspiciously perfect maybe-government agent who knows things about Dad and keeps fixing the Chevelle and probably isn't human."
The Camaro's engine rumbled softly, like it was answering.
"Great," I muttered, gathering my stuff. "Now I'm having conversations with cars. Dad would be so proud."
I flipped the last light switch, plunging the café into darkness. Through the window, those impossible blue eyes watched me from the driver's seat.
I hit the lights and locked the front door, my hand only shaking a little. The Camaro's engine purred expectantly, Brooks' silhouette visible in the driver's seat, but...
"Not tonight," I whispered, knowing he'd hear me. "I can't... I need time."
I turned toward home, pulling Dad's jacket tighter around me. The sound of an engine starting made me tense, but Brooks didn't follow. Not obviously, anyway.
But I wasn't stupid.
I caught glimpses of the Camaro in my peripheral vision the whole walk home—always just at the edge of sight, always gone when I turned to look. That distinctive engine noise echoed off buildings then faded into silence, like Brooks was trying to give me space while still keeping watch.
"You know," I said to the apparently empty street, "for a secret government whatever-you-are, you're really bad at the whole 'subtle surveillance' thing."
A distant rumble was my only answer.
By the time I reached my apartment, I was exhausted. The kind of bone-deep tired that comes from therapy, family trauma, and questioning your entire reality in one day.
My phone buzzed one last time as I unlocked my door.
Unknown Number: Sweet dreams, Toria.
Unknown Number: We'll talk soon.
"Yeah," I muttered, watching the yellow Camaro disappear into the fog, Brooks' perfect profile barely visible through the window. "I'm sure we will."
I dumped my bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off my shoes and running through the day's highlights: therapy, getting high with Jayde, Sam's freakout about symbols, Brooks and his too-perfect friend, and now this—being stalked home by the world's least subtle government agent.
I stared at my phone, at that "Unknown Number" that kept sending increasingly cryptic texts. My thumb hovered over the contact.
"Don't do it," I told myself. "Don't you dare—"
My thumb slipped.
The phone rang once before I could end the call, and my heart stopped as Brooks' voice came through, smooth and slightly amused: "Changed your mind?"
"I—" My voice caught. "That was an accident."
"Was it?" Something in his tone suggested he didn't believe in accidents.
"I should hang up."
"But you haven't." A pause, then softer: "Talk to me, Toria."
A laugh bubbled from my chest at his words. In the back of my brain, I tried to tell myself that this was fine, that this was *definitely not* the start of a manic episode.
"What am I even supposed to say? That I've filled up notebooks with doodles? Of 'things I'm not supposed to see'?" My tone got mocking as I flipped through the pages. "That I barely sleep and my therapist is probably thinking about admitting me again? Or the fact that I know you follow me, but for some reason don't say—" fuck. I wasn't supposed to say those words to him.
"That everyone seemed to forget Mission City even happened. But I didn't. I wasn't there physically, but I was on my way to pick up Dad from the base, and I—" I swallowed hard, flipping faster through my sketchbook. "I saw things. Things that shouldn't exist. Things nobody talks about."
The anger built in my chest, that familiar torch under my lungs getting hotter. "I saw some kid on a rooftop, holding this... this cube thing, waving a flare like a fucking signal. And then these eyes—not human eyes, more like lasers or searchlights but red, so fucking red—and everything went to hell." My voice cracked. "The building exploded, and I just... I knew. I knew Dad was gone. I felt it. Like something in the air changed, like the whole world shifted, and suddenly he wasn't—"
I realized I was crying, hot angry tears tracking down my face. "And why the fuck am I telling you this? Spilling classified government secrets to my maybe-stalker with the too-perfect face and impossible eyes who probably thinks I'm having another manic episode—"
The silence on the other end stretched just a beat too long—that mechanical precision in everything he did.
"The boy with the cube," he finally said, his voice carrying something ancient beneath its perfect tone. "That was Sam."
"What?" The word came out breathless, my grip tightening on my phone.
"Your father..." Another perfectly calculated pause, like he was running through acceptable responses. "He knew what he was protecting, Toria. Who he was protecting."
"That's not—you can't just—" I ran a shaky hand through my hair. "You're doing that thing again. That cryptic, 'I know everything but won't tell you' thing."
A sound that might have been a laugh, might have been static. "Some answers need to be earned slowly."
"Slowly?" I stood up, starting to pace. "My dad's been dead for two years, I'm filling sketchbooks with things that shouldn't exist, and you're telling me to take it slow?"
"I'm telling you," his voice softened in that way that made my heart stutter, "that I won't let anything happen to you. Even if that means protecting you from the truth for now."
"That's rich coming from the guy who's been following me home."
"You noticed." He sounded almost proud.
"Hard not to notice a yellow Camaro that moves like—" I stopped myself. "Wait. Sam. The kid from the café today. He was the one on the roof?"
"Toria." My name came through like a warning, like a plea. "Get some sleep. We'll talk soon."
"Brooks—"
"Lock your windows tonight." Then, softer: "I'll be close."
The line went dead, leaving me with more questions than answers and the distinct feeling that I was being watched.
Through my window, a flash of yellow disappeared into the fog.
I fell into bed still fully dressed, Dad's jacket wrapped around me like armor. Sleep came faster than it should have, dragging me under into familiar yet strange territory.
Symbols danced behind my closed eyes—angular, alien things that seemed to pulse with their own light. The same ones Sam had been muttering about, the ones Dad used to sketch in the margins of his notes. They moved like living things, writing themselves across my vision in electric blue.
A voice that wasn't quite Brooks', wasn't quite human, whispered through the symbols. "Your father knew... protect... spark..”
I jolted awake, heart racing, the ghost of mechanical whirs still echoing in my ears.
My sketchbook lay open on my bed, pages filled with perfect copies of the symbols from my dream.
Nobody talks about how damaging being a reader AND a writer is. Like I can't read a book normally without either: a) mentally criticizing every poorly constructed sentence and analyzing it or b) comparing an EDITED AND PROFESSIONALLY PROOFREAD piece of published work to my MEANT-TO-BE-BAD-FIRST DRAFT and proceeding to gaslight myself into thinking I'm shit and being thrust into a week-long writing hiatus.
summary: "You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria." In which an artist with a knack for seeing things she shouldn't meets a suspiciously perfect stranger with glowing blue eyes and a possessive yellow Camaro. Set during ROTF.
pairing: bumblebee/original character
word count: 2.5k
a/n— okay so?? this chapter really said "let's introduce sideswipe and make toria question her entire reality" and honestly? here we are. also yes, our girl is still slightly high during this whole interaction which is probably not helping her process the whole "these men move like robots" situation also dylan o'brien as sideswipe is just *chef's kiss* and you can fight me on this. like the way he and bee just radiate "we're totally normal humans nothing to see here" energy? beautiful. thank you guys so much for all the love on this fic??
warnings— weed mention, anxiety/mental health stuff, vague mission city references, sam having a Bad Time™️
By the time I looked back, the Camaro wasn't idling on the curb anymore, but something about the engine noise lingered—the pier still busy for Friday, but different somehow. More charged.
"Toria! Table 11 menus!" Mom called from the back, her eyes ever watching the front door like she'd been doing since Mission City. My head swiveled toward the table, counting heads automatically.
Three menus in hand, I headed over, forcing the fake customer service smile on my face and praying my eyes weren't still red. "Hey guys," I set the menus down before I actually looked at the people sitting in the booth.
Oh. Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
He was here. Looking exactly the same kind of beautiful as before—that engineered perfection that my high brain had definitely not been exaggerating. Even his hair was exactly the same, not a strand out of place. Those impossible blue eyes watched my movements like he was cataloging data, tracking how I wrung my hands behind my back.
I snapped back into work mode as I looked over the rest of his group. A college kid, wiry and looking slightly strung out—kind of how I probably looked an hour ago, if I was being honest. The other guy had that same level of uncanny perfection as Brooks, but with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that looked designed rather than natural. His buzzed hair somehow made his features more striking, and that grin—playful but predatory—matched the dangerous grace in his movements. His eyes were that same impossible blue as Brooks'—deeper in color, but just as bright and just as wrong for a human face.
"Can I start you guys off with waters, coffee?" My customer service voice came out steadier than I felt.
Buzzcut cut off the strung-out kid, "He'll have a water, I'll have a coffee." He gave me a grin—knowing, like we shared a secret I definitely wasn't in on.
"Whatever you recommend." I couldn't make eye contact with Brooks as I nodded, but his voice shot through me anyway. I couldn't help stealing a glance as I walked to the bar, my artist's brain already itching to capture the way light bent wrong around all of them.
I busied myself at the coffee station, trying to focus on normal things like water glasses and coffee mugs instead of the way both perfect strangers moved in sync when they'd shifted to let strung-out kid into the booth.
"You good?" Rosa appeared beside me, making me jump. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or three really hot ghosts."
"I'm fine," I said automatically, even as I poured Brooks the café's specialty roast—the one Dad used to say had 'character.' "Just... table 11. The blonde one? That's the guy who helped with my car yesterday."
Rosa peered over my shoulder, not even trying to be subtle. "Oh honey," she whistled low. "No wonder you've been weird. He looks expensive. They all do. Well, except for the twitchy one."
"They look wrong," I muttered, then caught myself. Maybe I wasn't as sober as I'd thought.
"Wrong hot though," Rosa grinned. "Want me to take the drinks over?"
"No," I said too quickly. "I mean, they're my table, so..."
I balanced the drinks carefully, definitely not thinking about how I could feel Brooks tracking my movement across the room. Buzzcut's grin widened as I approached, like he could somehow tell I was slightly high and thoroughly unsettled.
"Water for you," I said, managing not to slosh it as I set it in front of the twitchy kid. "Coffee, black," for Buzzcut, who was still grinning like he knew all my secrets. "And..." I finally met Brooks' eyes as I set down his coffee. "Our house specialty."
"Perfect choice," Brooks said softly, and something about his tone made me wonder if he wasn't just talking about the coffee.
"Ready to order, or do you need a minute?" Please say you need a minute. Please give me time to process whatever is happening here.
"We know what we want," Buzzcut leaned forward, those impossible blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Don't we, Brooks?" The way he said the name made it sound like an inside joke.
"Actually," Brooks cut in, his voice carrying an edge that made Buzzcut's grin widen, "we need a minute."
I nodded maybe too enthusiastically. "Great! I'll just... come back. Later. With... yeah." Real smooth, Toria. Real professional.
I was halfway back to the safety of the coffee station when I heard Buzzcut say something that sounded suspiciously like "So this is why you've been distracted lately" followed by what might have been a kick under the table.
I practically dove behind the coffee station, immediately busying myself with wiping down already-clean surfaces.
"Girl," Rosa sidled up next to me, pretending to restock napkins. "The sexual tension at that table could power half of North Beach. What's the deal with you and Mr. Perfect Hair?"
"There is no deal," I hissed, even as my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. "He just... helped with my car. And maybe sent some cryptic texts. And possibly had it fixed. And—"
Unknown Number: Sorry about Sean. He's protective of family.
I nearly dropped my phone when I glanced up and caught Brooks watching me, that almost-smile playing at his lips while Sean—with his sharp features and knowing smirk—elbowed him. They could have been brothers, both carrying that same dangerous grace, though Sean's buzzed hair and more relaxed posture made him seem slightly more... human? If that was even the right word.
"No deal, huh?" Rosa peered at my phone. "Because that looks like some quality flirting from a guy who definitely isn't just a mechanic."
"I don't know what he is," I muttered, then froze as Mom appeared.
"Vittoria, those men in booth 11..." She lowered her voice. "They look like they're from the base. Like the ones who worked with your father."
I nodded, trying to look normal. Whatever 'normal' was when you were slightly high and serving coffee to impossibly perfect maybe-military guys. "Yeah, they're... from the base. The blonde one helped with the Chevelle yesterday."
Mom's expression did something complicated—worry warring with curiosity. "Be careful, tesoro."
I grabbed my order pad, heading back to the table before she could say more about the base, about Dad, about any of it.
"Ready to order?" My customer service voice was back, even if my hands weren't quite steady.
"The kid'll have the carbonara," Sean said before Sam (was that his name?) could speak, that knowing grin still in place. "I'll take whatever's spiciest."
Brooks looked up at me, those impossible blue eyes somehow both intense and gentle. "Chef's choice."
I scribbled down their orders, hyperaware of how they all moved in sync, how their attention felt weighted. Like they were something else just wearing human shapes.
"I'm, uh, going on break after I put these in," I said, not sure why I was telling them this. "But Rosa will take care of you guys."
"Enjoy your break, Toria," Brooks said softly, and something about the way he said my name made me want to grab my sketchbook and try to capture it.
I ducked into the alley behind the café, fishing out my cigarettes with shaking hands. At least I'd managed to borrow a lighter from Rosa this time.
"Okay," I told the brick wall as I lit up. "Let's review. Hot maybe-military guy shows up at your work with his equally hot friend who's definitely in on... whatever this is. They both move like they learned human behavior from a manual, they've got the same impossible blue eyes, and—"
"You shouldn't smoke," Brooks' voice came from the alley entrance, making me jump so hard I nearly dropped my cigarette. "It's bad for your health."
He stood there looking like something out of a dream—or maybe a government experiment gone impossibly right—the setting sun catching his edges in ways that didn't quite make sense.
"Jesus," I pressed a hand to my chest. "Do they not teach knocking in secret agent school?"
Sean's voice carried from somewhere behind Brooks, though I couldn't see him. "Told you she was funny."
"Sean," Brooks' tone held a warning, and I heard something that sounded suspiciously like someone being shoved around the corner.
"Right, right. 'Give them space.' Got it." A laugh, followed by retreating footsteps that sounded too precise to be natural.
I took another drag, trying to calm my racing heart. "So," I gestured vaguely with my cigarette, "is this the part where you tell me to stop drawing classified things, or the part where you explain why you're really here?"
Brooks moved closer, each step measured like he was trying not to startle me. "Can't I just want coffee?"
"Sure," I laughed, only slightly hysterical. "You and your perfectly engineered friend just happened to want Italian food at my specific café. Totally normal. Nothing weird about that."
His lips twitched into that almost-smile. "You're very observant."
"Yeah, well," I stubbed out my cigarette, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. "Art school teaches you to notice details. Like how you guys move too smooth. Or how your eyes glow sometimes. Or how—"
I stopped as he stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Close enough to see that his skin really was too perfect, like something rendered rather than grown.
"Or how you both say human things like they're lines in a play," I finished quietly, my back pressed against the brick wall. Not backing away felt like the bravest thing I'd ever done. Or the stupidest.
That almost-smile widened slightly, showing perfect teeth. "Is that what we do?"
"You're doing it right now," I pointed out, artist's brain cataloging how the shadows fell wrong across his face. "Being all... cryptic and—"
"VITTORIA!" Mom's voice shattered the moment. "ORDERS UP!"
Brooks stepped back with that mechanical grace, but his eyes stayed fixed on me. "We should talk. After your shift."
It wasn't quite a question, wasn't quite a command. Like he was still learning the difference.
"Yeah, because that doesn't sound ominous at all," I muttered, pushing off the wall. "Very normal invitation from a very normal guy who definitely isn't—"
"Toria." The way he said my name made me stop. "Please."
"VITTORIA MARIE!"
"Coming!" I called back, already heading for the door. I paused with my hand on the handle, not looking back. "My shift ends at eleven."
I felt rather than saw him smile. "I know."
I burst back into the kitchen, face flushed and probably looking exactly like someone who'd just had a weird alley encounter with an impossibly perfect.
"There you are!" Mom thrust a tray at me. "Table 11's orders. And tesoro?" She caught my arm. "You look... bothered. Everything okay?"
"Fine!" My voice came out too high. "Totally fine. Just, you know, normal Friday stuff."
I balanced the tray carefully, very aware that three sets of eyes tracked my approach to their table—two impossible blue, one nervous brown.
"Carbonara," I set Sam's plate down first, noticing how the other two shifted slightly, almost protectively. "Extra spicy arrabiata," for Sean, whose grin somehow got wider. "And..." I hesitated at Brooks' plate, "Chef's special. Mom's experimenting again, so... good luck."
"Experiments can lead to interesting discoveries," Brooks said, and somehow it sounded meaningful.
Sean snorted into his pasta. "Subtle, Brooks. Real subtle."
I pretended not to hear that, or the sound of what was definitely another kick under the table.
I was stress-eating Mom's latest tiramisu creation at the counter (actually decent this time—crisis baking had its perks) when I heard the commotion from table 11.
Sam was half-standing, looking like he'd seen a ghost, while Sean and Brooks moved in perfect sync to block him from other customers' view. Their movements were too fast, too coordinated.
"Everything okay over here?" I approached cautiously, catching fragments of their whispered conversation.
"—can't just say that here—"
"—he's seeing them too—"
"—Brooks, we need to—"
Sam's eyes met mine, wild and panicked. "The symbols," he blurted out before Sean could clamp a hand over his mouth. "Do you see them too? In your dad's—"
"That's enough," Brooks cut in, his voice carrying an electrical undertone I'd never heard before. His eyes met mine, almost apologetic. "Just a caffeine reaction. He's... sensitive."
"Right," I said slowly, watching how they flanked Sam like bodyguards. "Caffeine sensitivity. Totally normal reaction to espresso. Definitely not concerning at all."
Sean's grin was strained now. "Maybe we should get the check."
"On the house," I heard myself say, not sure why. "Just... maybe get him some air?"
Brooks nodded, that perfect mask slipping just enough to show something ancient underneath. "Thank you, Toria."
"Wait, what—" Mom appeared as they practically carried Sam out, moving with that synchronized grace that definitely wasn't human. "Vittoria, you can't just comp meals without—"
"Trust me, Mom," I watched through the window as they loaded Sam into a yellow Camaro that definitely hadn't been there a minute ago. "It's better this way."
Sean caught my eye through the glass, giving me a two-fingered salute that somehow managed to look both playful and warning. Brooks... Brooks just looked at me, his impossible blue eyes promising something I couldn't quite name.
I went back to my tiramisu, but now it tasted like classified secrets and government cover-ups.
"So," Rosa slid next to me, "want to explain why the hot government boys just rushed out like a SWAT team, or should I pretend I didn't see Mr. Perfect Hair basically eye-fucking you through the window?"
"I think," I stabbed my fork into the innocent dessert, "the kid was having some kind of episode about... symbols?" The same word Dad used to mutter in his sleep after long days at the base. The same patterns I kept seeing in my dreams since Mission City.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Still meeting after your shift?
Unknown Number: Some things are easier to explain in person.
The rest of my shift passed in a blur of coffee orders and glances out the window, but no more yellow Camaros appeared. No more impossibly perfect men with glowing eyes. Just normal Friday night tourists asking if we had gluten-free pasta.
"You're distracted," Mom said as I wiped down tables for closing. "More than usual."
"Just tired," I lied, definitely not thinking about my upcoming maybe-date with a maybe-human. "Long day.”
She touched Dad's ring through her shirt—a nervous habit we shared. "Those men... they reminded me of before. Of when your father would bring his colleagues home. Always so... precise."
I paused mid-wipe. "What do you mean?"
But she just shook her head, already retreating to stress-organize the pastry case. Some things were easier not to talk about, I guess.
By 10:45, the last customers were gone and the café was as clean as it was getting. Mom had finally gone home after only three reminders to text her when I got in, and Rosa had left with a suggestive wink and a "don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Which left me, alone, watching the clock tick toward eleven and wondering if I was about to make a huge mistake.
